Skip to main content

Full text of "Hazlitt; selected essays"

See other formats 


HAZLITT 

SELECTED    ESSAYS 


CAMBRIDGE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

C.    F.    CLAY,    Mana(;er 

ILonfton:   FETTER  LANE,  E.G.  4 

Efiinburglj:    100  PRINCES  STREET 


ill£to  gotk:    G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

ISnmbajj,  Calrutta  ant  ilHaUras:    MACMILI.AN  AND  CO.,  Ltd. 

tToronlD-.    J.   M.   DENT  AND  SONS,   Ltd. 

Cokfio:    'IHE  MARUZICN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA 


All  rights  reserved 


HAZLITT 

SELECTED  ESSAYS 


EDITED    BY 

GEORGE    SAMPSON 


Cambridge : 

at  the  University  Press 
1917 


^5~^/  i>2- 


PREFACE 

IN  preparing  this  selection  from  Hazlitt's  many  essays  I 
have  had  in  view  the  possible  needs  of  students  in  Training 
Colleges,  candidates  for  the  Board  of  Education's  Certificate 
examination,  pupils  in  the  highest  forms  of  schools,  and  even 
those  general  readers  who  may  care  to  have  certain  fine  prose 
pieces  "extra-illustrated,"  as  it  were,  by  appropriate  anno- 
tation. My  actual  teaching  experience  with  the  second  of 
these  groups  has  shown  me  that  one  can  take  nothing  for 
granted  in  the  students'  general  knowledge.  I  have  found 
that  even  the  simplest  allusions  need  elucidation  and  the 
simplest  foreign  phrases  translation.  If  therefore  some  of 
the  notes  seem  unnecessary,  readers  should  remember  that 
what  is  unnecessary  to  them  may  be  useful  to  others. 

The  choice  of  essays  will  be  found  to  embody  a  departure 
from  the  usual  procedure  in  the  case  of  Hazlitt,  who  is 
generally  represented  in  students'  editions  by  Characters  of 
Shakespear's  Plays.  The  present  selection  ranges  through  the 
whole  of  Hazlitt's  essays  from  The  Round  Table  to  the 
posthumous  pieces.  The  first  four  essays  show  him  as  the 
Boswell  of  Lamb  and  the  candid  friend  of  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge.  The  next  three  are  an  extension  of  this  group, 
forming  a  pleasant  parallel  to  Lamb's  Detached  Thoughts 
on  Books  and  Reading  and  his  delightful  essays  on  the  old 
actors.  The  next  three  show  a  very  attractive  and  original 
Hazlitt — Hazlitt  the  enthusiastic  critic  or  "gustator"  of  fine 
pictures.  The  last  three  show  us  Hazlitt  savouring  things 
of  the  world,  rejoicing  in  the  multitude  of  sporting  crowds 
and  in  the  solitude  of  lonely  wanderings.  If  it  be  urged 
that  political  essays  have  been  excluded,  the  answer  must 
be  that  there  is  no  essay  of  Hazlitt  that  is  not  political. 
Whether  his  subject  be  Poussin  or  pugilism,  it  is  odd  if  he 
cannot  get  in  a  few  thrusts  at  apostate  poets  and  govern- 
ment tools. 


vi  Preface 

The  notes,  I  fear,  will  lie  open  to  the  charge  of  being,  like 
Falstaff's  waist,  "  out  of  all  reasonable  compass."  But  then 
Hazlitt  is  the  most  allusive  of  essayists,  and  to  extend  his 
snatches  of  quotation  and  expand  his  tantalising  allusions 
is  a  pleasure  as  well  as  a  duty.  If  the  notes,  beyond  their 
immediate  utility,  tempt  certain  adventurers  along  some  hinted 
paths  of  future  reading,  they  will  have  accomplished  the 
editor's  chief  intention.  Says  old  Fuller  in  the  preface  to 
his  History  of  the  Worthies  of  England : 

I  confess  the  subject  is  but  dull  in  itself,  to  tell  the  time  and  place  of 
men's  births,  and  deaths,  their  names,  with  the  names  and  number  of  their 
books,  and  therefore  this  bare  sceleton  of  Time,  Place,  and  Person,  must 
be  fleshed  with  some  pleasant  passages.  To  this  intent  I  have  purposely 
interlaced  (not  as  meat,  but  as  condiment)  many  delightful  stories,  that 
so  the  Reader  if  he  do  not  arise  (which  I  hope  and  desire)  Religiosor  or 
Doctior,  with  more  Piety  or  Learning,  at  least  he  may  depart  yucundior 
with  more  pleasure  and  lawful  delight. 

It  is  the  first  and  best  defence  of  the  garrulous  com- 
mentator— or  at  least  of  one  such  commentator's  intention. 

The  introduction  is  necessarily  more  than  a  recital  of 
personal  facts,  for  Hazlitt  was  the  child  of  his  time.  One 
can  read  Lamb  without  caring  what  century  he  was  born  in ; 
but  one  will  enjoy  Hazlitt  the  more  for  knowing  why  his 
vigorous  utterance  is  so  often  a  challenge  or  a  condemnation. 

Some  of  Hazlitt's  books  have  been  constantly  reprinted 
since  the  first  issue;  but  much  of  his  work  was  overlooked 
and  almost  unknown  until  the  appearance  of  the  Collected 
Works  (i2  vols.,  1902-1904,  Index  vol.  1906),  edited  by 
A.  R.  Waller  and  Arnold  Glover.  To  the  notes  of  these 
editors  I  am  indebted  for  the  identification  of  many 
quotations. 


GEORGE  SAMPSON 


Barnes 

October,  1916 


CONTENTS 
Text 

My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  . 
On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     I 

JJ  M  »  )>  ^^ 

Of  Persons  One  would  Wish  to  have  Seen 
On  Reading  Old  Books    . 
On  Actors  and  Acting.     I 

»      »      »       »       n      . 

On  a  Landscape  of  Nicholas  Poussin 
On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     I 

n 

The  Fight  .... 

The  Indian  Jugglers 
On  Going  a  Journey 

Notes 


PACE 

1-150 


99 
109 
126 

141 


[51-251 


INTRODUCTION 

A   GENERAL  SKETCH   OF  HAZLITT'S  LIFE   AND   WRITINGS 

Early  in  the  year  1778  there  hved  at  Maidstone,  in  the  county 

of    Kent,    a    very    excellent    Dissenting    minister 

and^Birtlf        named  WUliam  Hazlitt.     He  represented  a  union 

of  the  three  kingdoms,  for  he  was  born  at  Shronell, 

in  Tipperary,  educated  at  Glasgow  (where  Adam  Smith  was  then 

a  professor),  and  appointed  to  minister  in  England.     The  Pastor 

was  about  forty-one.     His  wife,  Grace  Loftus  of  Wisbech,  nine 

years  his  junior,  was  said  to  have  been  a  beauty  and  to  have 

resembled  the  younger  Pitt — we  must  reconcile  the  statements 

as  we  can.     What  is  certain  is  that  she  was  an  excellent  wife  and 

mother.     There  were  two  surviving  children,  John,  then  nearly 

eleven,  and  Margaret,  six-and-a-half.     The  little  family  lived  in 

amity,  and  in  such  happiness  as  may  be  enjoyed  by  people  of 

strict  and  lofty  principle  inhabiting  a  lax  and  Laodicean  world. 

The  times  were  troubled.  George  HI,  in  natural  intelligence 
a  very  limited  monarch,  and  in  purpose  largely  shaped  and 
directed  by  his  very  German  mother,  was  steadily  labouring  to 
substitute  for  constitutional  government  in  England  the  sort  of 
personal  rule  we  shall  find  compendiously  described  in  Macaulay's 
essay  on  Frederic.  He  had  been  partially  successful,  and  one 
consequence  of  his  personal  kingship  was  then  pursuing  its  course. 
The  war  against  the  American  colonists  was  nearly  three  years 
old,  and  what  may  be  called  its  crucial  point  was  reached  almost 
at  the  very  moment  we  are  now  considering;  for  in  February 
1778  France  signed  a  treaty  with  the  Americans  and  threw  her 
sea  power  into  the  scale  against  England.  The  war  was  popular 
in  the  worst  sense.  It  was  popular  with  the  mob,  who  like 
to  enjoy  a  cheap  and  extensive  victory,  and  have  therefore  no 
objection  to  the  bullying  of  a  small  power  by  a  greater,  when 
the  greater  is  their  own.  The  American  war  had  seemed  to 
promise  this  spectacle;  and  so  its  tragic  failure  had  made  the 
crowd  both  angry  with  disappointment  and  eager  for  reprisals. 

But  there  was  a  minority.  There  were  some,  like  Burke 
and  Chatham,  who  from  the  beginning  of  trouble  had  urged  a 
policy  of  magnanimity  upon  a  court  and  government  to  which 
magnanimity  was  a  thing  incomprehensible.     The  reverses  had 

62 


X  Introduction 

caused  some  wavering  in  this  party.  It  was  felt  by  many  that 
there  could  be  no  drawing  back  after  the  intervention  of  France  ; 
on  the  other  hand  it  was  urged  that  every  additional  moment 
of  civil  war  made  peace  more  remote  and  costly.  Among  the 
sincere  and  consistent  pro-Americans  was  the  Rev.  William 
Hazlitt  of  Maidstone ;  and  to  his  zeal  on  the  unpopular  side  we 
must  doubtless  attribute  the  disunion  that  presently  appeared  in 
his  congregation. 

At  this  moment  the  little  family  in  the  Rose  Yard  manse 
received  an  addition ;  for  on  the  loth  of  April,  1778,  into  a  world 
of  foreign  war,  colonial  revolution  and  domestic  discord,  was  born 
a  boy,  William  HazUtt,  the  future  essayist,  critic  and  revolutionist. 
Wordsworth  was  then  eight,  Scott  six,  Coleridge  five  and  Lamb 
three.  A  day  or  two  before  Hazlitt's  birth,  the  great  Chatham, 
rewarded  by  his  sovereign  for  a  life  of  patriotic  labour  with  the 
title  "trumpet  of  sedition,"  had  fallen,  a  dying  man,  on  the  floor 
of  the  House  of  Lords.  Within  a  few  weeks,  two  even  greater 
than  Chatham  passed  over — Voltaire  in  May,  Rousseau  in  July. 
The  old  heroes  were  falling,  but,  across  the  Channel,  new  champions 
were  preparing  for  the  coming  combat.  Mirabeau  was  then 
twenty-nine,  Robespierre  twenty  and  Danton  eighteen.  Far 
away  in  his  Mediterranean  island,  a  small  boy.  Napoleon  Buona- 
parte, aged  seven,  was  eagerly  looking  forward  to  the  military 
school  whither  he  was  to  go  in  the  following  year. 

The  disagreement  among  the  congregation  at  the  Earl  Street 
Meeting  House  in  Maidstone  became  acute;  and 
Ame^Hca^"**  to  avoid  Creating  a  schism,  the  Minister  resigned 
his  charge  in  1780,  and  sought  a  new  sphere  of 
labour  at  Bandon,  County  Cork,  in  the  island  of  his  birth.  Here 
he  was  even  more  unhappy,  for  his  feelings  as  well  as  his  principles 
were  outraged  by  the  ill-treatment  to  which  American  prisoners 
were  subjected.  The  indignant  Pastor  called  public  attention  to 
these  outrages,  and  so  we  shall  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  he 
soon  found  it  necessary  to  leave  not  merely  Ireland  but  the 
British  Islands.  Across  the  western  waters  lay  a  refuge  for 
sturdy  independents.  In  January  1783  preliminaries  of  peace 
were  signed,  and  a  new  republic  entered  the  assembly  of  nations. 
Three  months  later,  when  the  child  William  was  a  little  short 
of  five,  the  Hazlitt  family  set  sail  for  America.  They  reached  New 
York  on  May  26th,  and  proceeded  on  a  two  days'  waggon  journey 
to  Philadelphia. 

The  Pastor  found  no  settled  employment,  and  the  family 
migrated  often — from  Philadelphia  back  to  New  York,  thence  to 
Boston,  thence  to  Weymouth,  thence  to  New  Dorchester.  The 
Pastor  himself  travelled  further  still.  Over  a  wide  area  from  Maine 
to  Maryland  he  preached  and  lectured,  contributing  much  to  that 
spread  of  Unitarianism  in  America  for  which  his  more  famous 
acquaintance  Dr  Priestley  afterwards  got  most  of  the  credit.  There 
was  near  Weymouth  a  pleasant  old  nonagenarian  named  Gay,  who 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  ^Vritings  xi 

had  held  that  one  ministerial  charge  for  nearly  seventy  years. 
Him  it  was  thought  that  Hazlitt  might  succeed;  but  the  old 
gentleman  clung  to  life  and  pulpit  so  immovably  that  Hazlitt 
resolved  to  return  to  England.  He  set  sail  in  the  October  of 
1786,  and  arrived  in  December.  Almost  immediately  the  sempi- 
ternal Gay  died.  The  Hazlitt  family  remained  in  America  for 
nearly  another  year — till  July  1787,  in  fact,  when  they  left  Boston 
for  England,  reaching  it  the  next  month.  William  was  then 
a  little  over  nine. 

We  must  be  grateful  to  the  vital  obstinacy  of  the  Rev.  Ebenezer 
Gay.  Had  he  been  cut  off  prematurely  in  the  early  nineties  the 
Hazlitts  would  probably  have  settled  for  life  in  New  England, 
and  William  would  have  been  the  first  of  American  essayists. 
But  he  would  not  have  been  the  Hazlitt  that  we  know.  Hazlitt 
without  the  strong  stimulus  of  European  art,  literature  and 
politics  would  have  been  merely  the  pallid  simulacrum  of  our 
Hazlitt.  In  the  country  of  Jonathan  Edwards  he  would  have 
become  probably  a  theologian,  and  almost  certainly  a  meta- 
physician, unread,  and  perhaps  unreadable,  in  either  capacity. 
As  it  was,  America  did  a  little  for  him.  It  counted  for  something 
that  the  champion  of  popular  government  had  spent  his  early  im- 
pressionable years  in  the  first  of  modern  Republics,  one  of  a 
family  self-exiled  from  the  iniquities  of  European  kingdoms. 
Naturally  there  is  little  to  record  of  the  boy's  life  during  this 
transatlantic  period,  though  it  happens  that  his  earliest  surviving 
composition  is  a  letter,  in  which,  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  reaches 
the  melancholy  conclusion  that  the  discovery  of  America  was 
a  mistake,  and  that  the  country  should  have  been  left  to  the 
aboriginal  inhabitants^. 

The  first  London  lodging  of  the  family  was  in  Walworth, — 
not  the  sordid  and  swarming  Walworth  of  to-day, 
London  and  ^^^  ^j^g  semi-rural  Walworth  of  Mr  Wemmick. 
There,  the  flowers,  cates  and  cream  of  the  Mont- 
pelier  Tea  Gardens,  once  a  Paradise  of  pleasure,  and  now  utterly 
submerged  beneath  a  dingy  tide  of  brick,  so  stamped  themselves 
on  the  boy's  mind,  that  all  his  later  joy  in  these  "  suburb  delights  " 
took  their  colour  from  the  gorgeous  summer  hues  of  that  first 
garden  of  his  innocence 2.  Later  in  the  year  1787  the  Pastor  got 
a  settled  charge  at  Wem  in  Shropshire,  and  here  for  several  years 
the  growing  boy  remained,  going  to  school,  studying  with  his 
father,  and  learning  French  with  the  girls  of  a  neighbouring  family. 
These  children  he  visited  when  they  returned  to  Liverpool,  and 
there  he  first  encountered  one  abiding  love  and  pleasure  of  his 
life — the  theatre.  Kemble  and  Dignum  and  Suett,  players 
celebrated  in  many  an  essay  later,  swam  like  new  planets  into  his 
astonished  vision.     He  was  then  twelve  or  thirteen,  and  most  of 

^  The  authority  for  details  of  the  American  sojourn  is  a  diary 
kept  by  Margaret,  the  essayist's  sister. 

«  See  Table  Talk,  "Why  Distant  Objects  Please." 


xii  Introduction 

those  few  years  had  been  passed  far  from  the  pleasures  of  cities. 
The  Nonconformists  of  a  century  ago  did  not  all  anathematize 
the  theatre.  We  hear  of  theatrical  visits  at  Wem,  and  the 
reverend  Pastor  spoke  with  frequent  admiration  of  one  famous 
player — the  Mrs  Pritchard  whom  we  know  from  Boswell. 

It  seems  to  have  been  assumed  that  William  was  to  follow  his 
father  into  the  ministry,  and  so  in  1793  he  was 
Theology  and  ^j^iy  entered  as  a  student  at  the  Hackney  Theological 
College.  The  curriculum  there,  as  far  as  his  letters 
show,  was  in  the  best  sense  liberal.  The  classics  agreeably 
mitigated  the  austerities  of  theology,  and  Hazlitt  seems  to  have 
been  a  diligent  student,  though  he  managed  astutely  to  substitute 
some  cherished  speculations  on  the  political  nature  of  man  for 
the  graver  feats  of  exegesis  expected  from  him.  But  his  real 
education  was  received  outside  the  Hackney  walls.  His  brother 
John,  now  twenty-six,  was  established  in  London  as  a  painter 
and  miniaturist.  The  young  theologian  of  Hackney  of  course 
paid  many  visits  to  the  studio  in  Rathbone  Place,  and  there 
encountered  not  only  the  frank-speaking  and  free-thinking  men 
who  gather  in  the  rooms  of  young  painters,  but  visions  of  the 
world  of  art,  with  all  its  happy  industry  and  its  association  with 
beauty.  The  hands  that  should  have  been  employed  in  penning 
theses  became  busy  with  the  brushes.  It  was  canvas,  not  sermon- 
paper  that  the  boy  longed  to  be  filling,  and  so  a  crowning  dis- 
appointment was  preparing  for  the  good  old  man  in  Shropshire. 
William  heard  the  call,  not  of  Samuel,  but  of  Giotto.  A  wistful 
passage  written  many  years  later  throws  some  light  on  the  per- 
turbations of  this  period.  It  is  long,  but  it  is  so  significant  that 
it  must  be  quoted  at  length : 

The  greatest  misfortune  that  can  happen  among  relations  is  a 
different  way  of  bringing  up,  so  as  to  set  one  another's  opinions  and 
characters  in  an  entirely  new  point  of  view.  This  often  lets  in  an 
unwelcome  day-light  on  the  subject,  and  breeds  schisms,  coldness 
and  incurable  heart-burnings  in  families.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
whether  the  progress  of  society  and  march  of  knowledge  does  not  do 
harm  in  this  respect,  by  loosening  the  ties  of  domestic  attachment, 
and  preventing  those  who  are  most  interested  in,  and  anxious  to  think 
well  of  one  another,  from  feeling  a  cordial  sympathy  and  approbation 
of  each  other's  sentiments,  manners,  views,  &c.,  than  it  does  good 
by  any  real  advantage  to  the  community  at  large.  The  son,  for 
instance,  is  brought  up  to  the  church,  and  nothing  can  exceed  the 
pride  and  pleasure  the  father  takes  in  him,  while  all  goes  on  well  in 
this  favourite  direction.  His  notions  change,  and  he  imbibes  a  taste 
for  the  Fine  Arts.  From  this  moment  there  is  an  end  of  anything 
like  the  same  unreserved  communication  between  them.  The  young 
man  may  talk  with  enthusiasm  of  his  "  Rembrandts,  Correggios,  and 
stuff":  it  is  all  Hebrew  to  the  elder ;  and  whatever  satisfaction  he  may 
feel  in  hearing  of  his  son's  progress,  or  good  wishes  for  his  success, 
he  is  never  reconciled  to  the  new  pursuit,  he  still  hankers  after  the 
first  object  that  he  had  set  his  mind  upon.     Again,  the  grandfather 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  \A^ntings  xiii 

is  a  Calvinist,  who  never  gets  the  better  of  his  disappointment  at  his 
son's  going  over  to  the  Unitarian  side  of  the  question.  The  matter 
rests  here,  till  the  grandson,  some  years  after,  in  the  fashion  of  the 
day  and  "infinite  agitation  of  men's  wit,"  comes  to  doubt  certain 
points  in  the  creed  in  which  he  has  been  brought  up,  and  the  affair 
is  all  abroad  again.  Here  are  three  generations  made  uncomfortable 
and  in  a  manner  set  at  variance,  by  a  veering  point  of  theology,  and 
the  officious  meddling  biblical  critics  !  (Table  Talk,  "  On  the  Knowledge 
of  Character.) 

A  year  after  his  entry  into  the  Hackney  College,  Hazlitt 
turned  his  back  for  ever  upon  ministry  and  theology, 
Se«iinE%ime  ^^'^  retired  to  Wem,  where  he  passed  the  next  few 
years,  ostensibly  doing  nothing,  but  actually  busy 
with  reading,  painting,  walking,  brooding  and  struggling  to  express 
himself  in  words.  A  volume  entitled  An  Essay  on  the  Principles 
of  Human  Action,  etc.  (published  in  1805)  occupied  his  busy  mind 
and  tasked  his  unready  pen;  but  he  had  the  infinite  leisure  of 
youth,  and  his  slow  progress  troubled  him  little.  It  is  of  this  and 
the  succeeding  period  that  he  writes  in  the  following  passage : 

For  many  years  of  my  life  I  did  nothing  but  think.  I  had  nothing 
else  to  do  but  solve  some  knotty  point,  or  dip  in  some  abstruse  author, 
or  look  at  the  sky,  or  wander  by  the  pebbled  sea-side — • 
To  see  the  children  sporting  on  the  shore. 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 
I  cared  for  nothing,  I  wanted  nothing.  I  took  my  time  to  consider 
whatever  occurred  to  me,  and  was  in  no  hurry  to  give  a  sophistical 
answer  to  a  question — there  was  no  printer's  devil  waiting  for  me. 
I  used  to  write  a  page  or  two  perhaps  in  half  a  year ;  and  remember 
laughing  heartily  at  the  celebrated  experimentalist  Nicholson,  who  told 
me  that  in  twenty  years  he  had  written  as  much  as  would  make  three 
hundred  octavo  volumes.  If  I  was  not  a  great  author,  I  could  read 
with  ever  fresh  delight,  "never  ending,  still  beginning,"  and  had  no 
occasion  to  write  a  criticism  when  I  had  done.  If  I  could  not  paint 
like  Claude,  I  could  admire  "the  witcherj-  of  the  soft  blue  sky"  as 
I  walked  out,  and  was  satisfied  with  the  pleasure  it  gave  me.  If  I 
was  dull,  it  gave  me  little  concern :  if  I  was  lively,  I  indulged  my 
spirits.  I  wished  well  to  the  world,  and  believed  as  favourably  of  it 
as  I  could.  I  was  like  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land,  at  which  I  looked 
with  wonder,  curiosity  and  delight,  without  expecting  to  be  an  object 
of  attention  in  return.  I  had  no  relation  to  the  state,  no  duty  to 
perform,  no  ties  to  bind  me  to  others  :  I  had  neither  friend  nor  mistress, 
wife  or  child.  I  lived  in  a  world  of  contemplation,  and  not  of  action. 
{Table  Talk,  "On  Living  to  Oneself.") 

There  were  epochs  in  his  young  life  marked  by  the  days  of 
delight  when  he  first  discovered  certain  treasures  of  great  literature 
— the  sentiment  of  Rousseau,  the  grandeur  of  Burke,  the  majesty 
of  Milton.  A  sort  of  furious  intensity  characterised  all  he  did 
from  the  days  of  childhood,  when  he  fell  ill  through  the  excited 
exhaustion  of  his  first  studies  in  Latin,  to  the  later  time  of  manhood, 
when  he  drenched  his  body  \vith  the  energy  of  his  racquet- playing, 


xiv  Introduction 

and  inflamed  his  mind  with  the  fierceness  of  his  pohtical 
fervour.  Few  men  have  hated  so  vigorously ;  few  have  enjoyed 
so  gloriously ;  and  for  his  much  love  much  will  be  forgiven  him. 
As  the  man,  so  the  youth;  and  we  discern  him  dimly  in  these 
days  of  adolescence,  hot  with  pent-up  and  unknown  powers, 
eager,  yet  baffled  and  inarticulate,  lonely,  yet  happy  with  books 
and  brushes,  out  of  sympathy  with  his  excellent  father,  and  think- 
ing himself  steadily  into  a  belief  that  he  had  a  gift  for  philosophy. 
There  arc  many  melancholy  and  companionless  youths  who 
cherish  the  same  delusion.  Cheerfulness  comes  breaking  in  with 
the  responsibilities  of  manhood.  Meanwhile,  in  the  great  world 
beyond  Wem,  a  new  generation  was  springing  up.  In  1798, 
Hazlitt's  wonder-year,  when  he  himself  was  twenty,  Byron  was 
ten,  Shelley  six  and  Keats  three. 

And  now  there  came  to  Hazlitt  the  revelation  that  opened  his 
heart  and  mind  and  taught  him  to  know  himself. 
His  First  In    1798   he   met   Coleridge.     The   ever   delightful 

wu'h'poetT'^^  essay  in  which  he  describes  this  meeting  stands 
first  in  the  present  volume  and  makes  any  further 
account  worse  than  unnecessary.  The  many  who  date  an  epoch 
in  their  own  lives  from  a  first  reading  of  Biographia  and  Lyrical 
Ballads  will  always  feel  a  peculiar  affection  for  this  essay, 
which  wonderfully  recaptures  the  thrill  of  youth,  and  mingles 
with  its  rapture  so  much  mature  and  humorous  wisdom.  From 
the  extent  of  our  own  vast  debt  to  the  mere  printed  pages  of 
poetry  and  criticism  we  can  measure  the  ecstasy  with  which 
young  Hazlitt  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  poets  and  drank 
in  the  utterances  of  their  own  living  lips.  With  the  boy  in 
Comus  he  could  say: 

How  charming  is  divine  philosophy! 

Not  harsh,  and  crabbed  as  dull  fools  suppose, 

But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute. 

And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets 

Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 
It  is  Coleridge  who  is  the  hero  of  the  story,  as  he  always  will  be 
to  ardent  youth, — Coleridge  "  in  the  dayspring  of  his  fancies  with 
hope  like  a  fier^^  pillar  before  him."  At  that  date  it  was  gloriously 
apparent  that  the  head  of  Coleridge  was  in  the  heavens ;  it  was 
less  obvious  that  his  feet  were  in  the  mire  of  a  road  down  to 
ignoble  sloth  and  moral  suicide.  Coleridge  was  still  Mirandola, 
not  yet  Micawber.  Wordsworth  is  less  attractive  to  the  youthful 
mind.  He  seems  gaunt,  frigid  and  set,  as  if  he  had  never  been 
young.  We  have  to  turn  often  to  those  dehghtful  early  books 
of  The  Prelude  to  remind  ourselves  of  Wordsworth's  fiery,  volcanic, 
youth. 

To  Hazlitt  the  wisdom  of  these  poets  had  the  weight  of  those 

few  years'  seniority  that  mean  so  much  to  the  boy 

pLris'^^^  ^""^        °^  twenty.     He  kindled  his  zeal  anew  at  the  altar 

fire  of  their  genius.     He  felt  that  he  must  do  some- 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xv 

thing  instantly.  The  talk  of  Coleridge  turned  his  mind  again 
towards  philosophy,  and  made  that  unfinished  and  apparently 
interminable  Essay  on  the  Principles  of  Human  Action  a  reproach 
to  him.  This  he  began  anew,  though  as  a  sort  of  parergon,  for 
he  now  solemnly  chose  painting,  and  especially  portraiture,  as 
his  life  work.  He  went  to  his  brother  in  London  where,  in  the 
same  palpitating  year,  a  new  revelation  awaited  him, — the  glory 
of  great  art  made  manifest  in  the  Titians,  Rembrandts,  Rubens 
and  Vandycks  of  the  Orleans  collection  then  on  exhibition  in  Pall 
Mall  and  the  Lyceum.  More  than  ever  inflamed,  he  tramped  the 
country,  to  paint  if  he  could,  and  certainly  to  see  the  pictures 
in  great  collections.  Startled  flunkeys  tried  in  vain  to  check 
the  excited  young  man  who  would  insist  on  penetrating  to  the 
picture  galleries  of  noble  connoisseurs.  Hazlitt  wanted  to  see 
pictures,  and,  in  his  own  wild  way,  almost  fought  to  see  them. 
So  impressive  was  he  in  this  artistic  phase,  that  one  trusting 
merchant  in  Liverpool  was  moved  to  offer  him  a  hundred  guineas 
for  copies  of  certain  pictures  in  the  Louvre.  It  is  scarcely 
necessaiy  to  say  that  he  accepted.  To  Hazlitt  Paris  was  simply 
Paradise  writ  small.  Everything  was  propitious.  The  year  was 
1802  and  Paris  was  at  its  greatest.  The  first  phase  of  the  war 
had  been  concluded  by  the  Peace  of  Amiens.  France  was  enjoying 
the  only  real  emotions  of  tranquillity  she  had  known  since  the 
first  blows  had  fallen  on  the  gates  of  the  Bastille.  There  was  an 
air  of  liberty  new-gained  yet  well-established.  Napoleon  had  just 
been  declared  First  Consul  for  life  and  the  Louvre  was  overflowing 
with  the  spoils  of  his  Italian  triumph.  The  city  was  crowded  with 
visitors.  English  ladies  and  gentlemen  flocked  eagerly  to  see  the 
land  and  people  they  had  been  tenacious  in  fighting,  and  listened,  in 
Court  and  Salon,  to  stories  of  the  Revolution  related  by  Marshals 
of  France  who  had  been  poor  citizens  or  private  soldiers  at  the 
time  of  the  great  upheaval. 

In  Paris,  then,  from  October  1802  to  January  1803,  Hazlitt 
lived  and  worked,  poor,  cold  and  hungry,  but  intensely  happy. 
He  did  not  see  Napoleon,  nor  did  he  penetrate  to  the  distinguished 
circles  of  rank  and  fashion  ;  but  he  breathed  the  charged  electrical 
atmosphere,  and  rejoiced.  He  returned  to  England  duly  certified 
as  the  copyist  of  some  ten  or  dozen  pictures  specified  in  a  document 
sigTied  by  M.  le  Directeur  General  du  Musee  Central  des  Arts,  and 
epically  dated  "le  12  Pluviose,  an  11."  It  was  at  this  time  that 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  one  who  was  to  prove  his  truest 
friend,  one  who  spoke  well  of  him  when  many  spoke  ill,  who 
helped  him  in  material  need,  and  closed  his  eyes  when  peace 
came  at  last  to  his  tempestuous  spirit.  There  were  many  to 
whom  Charles  Lamb  in  various  ways  did  good;  there  were  few 
to  whom  his  genial  and  wholesome  influence  was  more  beneficial 
than  to  Hazlitt ;  and  Hazlitt  knew  it.  Sometime  friends  of  our 
author  are  often  enough  pilloried,  not  to  say  crucified,  in  his 
vengeful  paragraphs;    but  it  is  impossible  to  read  his  references 


xvi  Introduction 

to  Lamb  without  discerning  unaltered  admiration  and  something 
like  affection.  Hazlitt  became  one  of  the  intimates  who  met  at 
Lamb's  weekly  gatherings.  He  quarrelled,  in  time,  with  all  of 
them,  even  with  Lamb  himself,  though  in  this  instance  the 
enmity  was  neither  long  nor  bitter.  Like  most  shy  and  over- 
sensitive natures,  Hazlitt  was  easily  irritated,  and  much  that  was 
thought  ill-temper  was  often  no  more  than  anger  with  himself 
for  his  own  lack  of  social  ease  and  smoothness.  Moreover,  there 
would  sometimes  arise  in  discussion,  as  we  shall  see,  questions  of 
principle  about  which  he  could  make  no  compromise.  Extremes 
meet.  During  the  great  eruption,  both  Burke  and  Hazlitt  became 
socially  explosive  and  impossible,  the  one  with  detestation  for  the 
Revolution,  the  other  with  admiration  for  it. 

The   business   of  portrait  painting   cannot   be  said  to  have 
prospered.     What   Hazlitt   could   do   in   this   line 
PalntTn"*"         ^^7   ^^   ^^^^   ^^   ^^^   familiar   portrait   of   Lamb 
am  ing  attired  as  a  Venetian  senator,  now  in  the  National 

Portrait  Gallery  and  frequently  reproduced  as  a  frontispiece. 
Hazlitt  was  probably  as  anxious  to  make  it  like  a  Titian  as  like 
Lamb.  The  mouth  and  chin  resemble  the  strong  profile  of 
Hancock's  drawing,  but  the  whole  picture  is  rather  inexpressive 
and  might  be  anyone  but  Elia.  With  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge 
he  was  even  less  successful.  Of  the  Coleridge  Southey  writes, 
"you  look  as  if  you  were  on  your  trial,  and  had  certainly  stolen 
the  horse;  but  then  you  did  it  cleverly."  The  Wordsworth  was 
described  as  "at  the  gallows,  deeply  affected  by  his  deserved 
fate,  yet  determined  to  die  like  a  man."  The  portrait  of  his 
father,  into  the  painting  of  which  went  so  many  happy  hours — 
hours  of  reconciliation,  no  doubt — gained  the  distinction  of  a 
place  in  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  1806.  It  is  pleasantly 
mentioned  in  the  first  essay  on  The  Pleasure  of  Painting,  and  in 
a  later  piece,  On  Sitting  for  One's  Picture  {Plain  Speaker).  The 
Museum  at  Maidstone  has  four  of  his  portraits  and  copies.  The 
horrible  medium  he  used  for  his  colour  has  so  blackened  with  age 
that  the  pictures  are  almost  buried  and  might  as  well  not  exist. 
As  time  went  on,  Hazlitt  began  reluctantly  to  realise  that  painting 
was  not  his  real  work.  Titian  or  Rembrandt  he  could  not  be,  and 
less  he  disdained  to  be.  But  his  labour  had  not  been  wasted. 
Painting  cultivated  in  him  the  seeing  eye,  and  made  him  one  of 
the  soundest  among  our  early  writers  on  art.  Sir  Joshua  taught 
in  his  Discourses  the  principles  that  he  happily  forgot  in  his 
studio.  Hazlitt  did  not  write  like  a  painter;  he  painted  like 
a  critic.  He  enjoyed  certain  pictures  immensely,  and  his  enjoy- 
ment was  the  begetter  both  of  his  copies  and  his  criticisms.  There 
are  no  sublimities  of  rapture  or  flights  of  virtuosity  in  his  writings 
on  art.  To  him  a  portrait  by  Titian  was  neither  a  moral  tract 
nor  a  study  in  values;  it  was  something  to  be  relished,  like  a 
novel  by  Scott  or  a  comedy  by  Vanbrugh  or  a  good  meal  at  an 
inn  after  a  long  day's  march.     He  liked  pictures  in  a  hearty 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xvii 

cheerful  fashion  and  his  readers  catch  the  wholesome  infection. 
As  for  himself,  his  painting  gave  him,  if  not  a  livelihood,  at  least 
a  lively  joy  which  he  never  forgot.  It  was  twenty  years  after 
his  early  painting  days  that  he  wrote  this  passage : 

Yet  I  dream  sometimes ;  I  dream  of  the  Louvre — Intus  et  in  cute. 
I  dreamt  I  was  there  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  that  the  old  scene  returned 
— that  I  looked  for  my  favourite  pictures,  and  found  them  gone  or 
erased.  The  dream  of  my  youth  came  upon  me ;  a  glory  and  a  vision 
unutterable,  that  comes  no  more  but  in  darkness  and  in  sleep :  my 
heart  rose  up,  and  I  fell  on  my  knees,  and  lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept, 
and  I  awoke.     {Plain  Speaker,  "On  Dreams.") 

The  prevailing  interest  in  the  Lamb  circle   was  literature. 

Moving  among  authors,  Hazlitt  naturally  became 
Beginnings  of      eager  to  turn  certain  written  words  of  his  own  into 
ip  print.     He    managed    to    persuade    some    hopeful 

bookseller  to  publish  that  perennial  Essay  on  the  Principles  of 
Htiman  Action  in  1805,  and  he  issued  next  year,  apparently  at 
his  own  risk,  a  pamphlet,  now  very  rare,  entitled  Free  Thoughts 
on  Public  Affairs.  It  is  difficult  to  prove  that  anyone  bought  a 
copy  of  either;  but  at  least  he  had  appeared  as  a  real  printed 
author,  and  went  on  cheerfully  to  perform  two  pieces  of  hack 
work,  the  first  an  abridgement  into  one  volume  of  the  original 
seven  occupied  by  The  Light  of  Nature  Pursued,  a  leisurely  philo- 
sophical miscellany  written  by  Abraham  Tucker;  the  second  a 
compilation  called  The  Eloquence  of  the  British  Senate,  exhibiting 
the  oratory  of  famous  statesmen  in  specimens  and  their  lives  in 
brief  biographical  sketches.  With  characteristic  economy  Hazlitt 
used  certain  of  these  sketches  again  in  later  works.  One,  indeed, 
the  acidulated  Character  of  Pitt,  crops  up  with  unfailing  regularity 
in  so  many  volumes  as  almost  to  baffle  enumeration.  These  two 
works  appeared  in  1807,  the  year  that  saw  also  the  publication  of 
Hazlitt's  Reply  to  Malthus,  the  clergyman  who  had  issued  in  1798 
a  gloomy  prognostication  of  human  lot,  based  on  the  fact,  clear 
to  him,  that  population  was  increasing  in  geometrical  progression, 
while  subsistence  was  increasing  only  at  the  comparatively 
beggarly  arithmetical  rate.  The  emphatic  style  of  the  preface  to 
Tucker  and  the  bold,  penetrating  criticism  of  the  Malthusian 
theories  indicate  the  coming  of  the  real  Hazlitt,  whose  pen  was 
thereafter  busy  for  many  years  in  many  papers.  Nothing  came 
amiss  to  him,  from  parliamentary  reporting  to  operatic  criticism. 
He  became,  in  fact,  a  professional  man  of  letters,  and  was  to 
experience  very  fully  the  intermittent  joys  and  the  unfailing 
chagrins  of  that  precarious  calling. 

Soon  after  his  debut  as  an  author,  Hazlitt  married.     In  his 

early  London  days  he  had  made  the  acquaintance 
Mardag^es  °^  John   Stoddart,   an   ardent   Revolutionist  who, 

like  certain  others,  lived  to  abjure  his  first  principles 
and  to  become  a  stiff  champion  of  Legitimate  Monarchy.  A 
knighthood  and  a  colonial  judgeship  were  his  reward.     Stoddart's 


xviii  Introduction 

sister  Sarah  had  a  small  property  at  Winterslow  on  the  road  from 
Andover  to  Salisbury  across  the  Plain.  At  the  age  of  thirty-three 
she  combined  a  strong  inclination  for  matrimony  in  the  abstract 
with  an  almost  complete  indifference  to  any  bridegroom  in 
particular.  From  the  letters  of  Mary  Lamb  we  hear  of  several 
suitors,  but  in  the  end  Hazlitt  was  the  lucky  (or  unlucky)  man. 
Sarah  was  older  than  Hazlitt  who,  with  Shakespeare's  example 
and  precepts  before  him,  should  have  known  better.  The  wooing 
was  short,  and  the  ceremony  was  performed  on  Mayday  in  1808 
at  St  Andrew's,  Holborn.  The  rest  of  the  matrimonial  story  had 
better  be  told  at  once,  and  then  dismissed.  Hazlitt  married  in 
haste  and  repented  at  leisure.  The  two  were  quite  unsuited  to 
each  other.  The  lady  found  marriage  in  the  concrete  with  an 
untidy  and  all-pervading  man  much  less  agreeable  than  marriage 
in  the  contemplative  with  an  abstract  idea  of  husband.  She  had 
no  domestic  gifts,  and  no  sense  of  her  deficiency.  Hazlitt's  own 
eager  preoccupation  with  writing  and  painting  as  things-in-them- 
selves  added  nothing  to  the  household  harmony  and  very  little  to 
the  household  economy.  There  seems  to  have  been  no  violent 
disagreement," — nothing  but  a  steady  growth  of  antipathy.  By 
1819  they  were  living  apart.  There  was  no  Divorce  Court  in 
England  till  1857;  but  in  Scotland,  dissentient  parties  could 
be  separated  almost  as  expeditiously  as  eloping  couples  were 
united.  To  Scotland,  therefore,  came  the  inharmonious  but  still 
friendly  pair,  and  there  in  1823  they  were  divorced.  Hazlitt 
ventured  matrimony  a  second  time.  He  was  too  hasty  to  be 
warned  in  the  first  case  by  Shakespeare,  and  a  dozen  years  too 
early  to  be  warned  in  the  second  by  Mr  Weller.  He  married 
a  widow,  Mrs  Bridgwater,  in  1824,  and  spent  a  leisurely  honeymoon 
in  travelling  through  France,  Switzerland  and  Italy,  combining 
business  with  pleasure  by  recording  his  impressions  in  some  very 
readable  sketches  contributed  to  The  Morning  Chronicle  in  1824, 
and  collected  as  a  volume  in  1826.  This  second  marriage  was  of 
very  doubtful  validity  in  England.  Whether  this  weighed  on 
the  conscience  of  the  second  Mrs  Hazlitt,  or  whether  the  position 
of  being  married  to  a  man  whose  first  wife  was  still  living  and 
quite  friendly  with  him  was  too  embarrassing  for  her,  we  do  not 
know;  but  in  any  case  the  union  was  brief.  The  lady's  first 
husband  had  held  the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel,  and  she  appears, 
by  the  fleeting  testimony  of  Haydon  and  Leigh  Hunt,  to  have 
been  a  woman  of  much  personal  dignity,  with  whom  Hazlitt 
would  have  to  mend  his  rather  Bohemian  (not  to  say  Boeotian) 
habits.  The  usual  story  of  their  final  separation  in  Switzerland 
at  the  end  of  the  honeymoon  must  be  received  with  caution.  We 
do  not  really  know  how,  when,  or  where  they  parted.  The  second 
Mrs  Hazlitt  disappears  from  the  story  as  mysteriously  as  she 
enters  it. 

One  other  kindred  incident  may  have  its  necessary  mention  in 
this  place.     In  1820  Hazhtt  went  to  live  (apart  from  his  first 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Letters  xix 

wife)  in.  Southampton  Buildings,  Chancery  Lane,  where  a  cer- 
tain  Mr  and  Mrs  Walker  had  lodgings  to  let.  Here  he  became 
infatuated  with  their  daughter  Sarah,  and  devoted  a  disagreeable 
book,  half  dialogue,  half  correspondence,  to  the  incident. 

Now  revert.  This  digression  into  the  backwaters  of  matrimony 
left  the  main  stream  of  Hazlitt's  story  in  the  first 
Wintersiow  proud  days  of  authorship.  Almost  the  sole  benefit 
he  derived  from  his  union  with  Sarah  Stoddart  was 
the  discovery  of  Wintersiow.  Thither  he  went  after  his  marriage ; 
and  when  in  later  years  he  wanted  a  lodge  in  the  wilderness,  it 
was  to  Wintersiow  that  he  turned — not  then,  of  course,  to  the 
"small  property"  of  Sarah  Stoddart,  but  to  the  Pheasant  Inn  or 
Wintersiow  Hut  as  it  is  more  generally  known  to  us.  Here  much 
of  his  best  work  was  written  and  many  of  his  happiest  hours  were 
spent.  A  passage  from  one  essay  may  be  quoted  as  an  illustration 
of  what  may  be  called  his  Wintersiow  frame  of  mind : 

If  the  reader  is  not  already  apprised  of  it,  he  will  please  to  take 
notice  that  I  write  this  at  Wintersiow.  My  style  there  is  apt  to  be 
redundant  and  excursive.  At  other  times  it  may  be  cramped,  dry, 
abrupt;  but  here  it  flows  like  a  river  and  overspreads  its  banks.  I  have 
not  to  seek  for  thoughts  or  hunt  for  images :  they  come  of  themselves, 
I  inhale  them  with  the  breeze,  and  the  silent  groves  are  voqal  with  a 
thousand  recollections — 

And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow. 
Hang  on  each  leaf  and  cling  to  every  bough. 
Here  I  came  fifteen  years  ago,   a  willing  exile ;    and  as  I   trod  the 
lengthened  greensward  by  the  low  wood-side,  repeated  the  old  line, 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is ! 
I  found  it  so  then,  before,  and  since ;  and  shall  I  faint,  now  that  I 
have  poured  out  the  spirit  of  that  mind  to  the  world,  and  treated 
many  subjects  with  truth,  with  freedom,  and  power,  because  I  have 
been  followed  with  one  cry  of  abuse  ever  since /or  not  being  a  government- 
tool}.... 

I  look  out  of  my  window  and  see  that  a  shower  has  just  fallen : 
the  fields  look  green  after  it,  and  a  rosy  cloud  hangs  over  the  brow  of 
the  hill ;  a  lily  expands  its  petals  in  the  moisture,  dressed  in  its  lovely 
green  and  white ;  a  shepherd  boy  has  just  brought  some  pieces  of  turf 
with  daisies  and  grass  for  his  mistress  to  make  a  bed  for  her  sky-lark, 
not  doomed  to  dip  his  wings  in  the  dappled  dawn — my  cloudy  thoughts 
draw  off,  the  storm  of  angry  politics  has  blown  over — Mr  Blackwood, 
I  am  yours — Mr  Croker,  my  service  to  you — Mr  T.  Moore,  I  am  alive 
and  well — Really,  it  is  wonderful  how  little  the  worse  I  am  for  fifteen 
years'  wear  and  tear,  how  I  come  upon  my  legs  again  on  the  ground 
of  truth  and  nature,  and  "look  abroad  into  universality,"  forgetting 
that  there  is  any  such  person  as  myself  in  the  world.  (Plain  Speaker, 
"Whether  Genius  is  conscious  of  its  Powers.") 

The  allusions  in  this  passage  lead  us  naturally  to  some  con- 
sideration of  Hazlitt's  political  principles  and  the 
Haziitt  and         bitter   antagonism   in   which   they   involved   him. 
Revolution  Hazhtt  was  in  a  special  sense  the  child  of  Revolution. 


XX  Introduction 

He  was  cradled  in  strife,  and  passed  his  earliest  years  in  the 
new  transatlantic  Republic.  He  was  eleven  when  the  Bastille 
fell,  and  began  his  career  at  Hackney  College  in  the  year  of 
the  Terror.  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  the  poetical  apostles  of 
Revolution,  first  taught  him  to  know  himself,  and  so  confirmed 
him  in  his  liberal  faith  that  he  went  to  the  First  Consul's  capital 
as  ardent  for  France  and  freedom  as  any  Frenchman  of  them  all. 
Even  his  career  of  authorship  began  with  a  baptism  of  fire,  for 
upon  his  first  visible  publications  shone  "the  sun  of  Austerlitz." 
The  tragedy  of  Hazlitt  is  that  in  a  changing  world,  a  world  of 
honest  conversion  and  of  profitable  recantation,  he  kept  his  first 
principles  fiercely  unaltered.  And  really,  seen  from  the  angle  of 
the  present  time,  those  principles  are  nothing  terrible.  Let  us 
endeavour  to  view  the  whole  matter  as  he  saw  it. 

The  picturesque  reading  of  young  people  seems  to  create  in 
thein  an  impression  that  the  French  Revolution  and  the  Reign  of 
Terror  are  the  same  thing.  To  such  readers  the  French  Revolution 
is  little  more  than  the  continuous  decapitation  of  elegant  aristocrats 
amid  howls  of  execration  from  a  stage  mob  of  tricoteuses  and  sans- 
culottes. In  the  unhappy  history  of  mankind  there  have  been 
many  reigns  of  terror  with  no  compensatoiy  revolutions;  if  the 
ten  months  of  Terror  could  be  blotted  out  from  French  history, 
the  great  achievements  of  the  Revolution  would  remain  unaltered. 
The  immediate  beginning  of  that  great  upheaval  was  an  attempt 
to  erect  a  workable  constitution  in  the  place  of  a  centralised 
autocracy  that  had  hopelessly  broken  down.  That  the  con- 
stitutionalists were  able  to  extort  submission  from  what  had 
seemed  the  most  impregnable  monarchy  of  Europe  was  hailed  by 
all  free  spirits  as  a  triumph  of  liberty.  The  subsequent  troubles 
had  their  rise  in  the  secret  treachery  of  the  French  Court,  and 
especially  its  collusion  with  the  armies  of  Prussia  and  Austria, 
which  presumed  to  dictate  to  France  whether  or  not  she  should 
reform  her  government.  In  July  1791  Austria  summoned  the 
princes  of  Europe  to  unite  against  the  Revolution.  Hostile 
German  troops,  aided  both  secretly  and  openly  by  the  Court  and 
nobles,  threatened  the  frontiers.  The  September  massacres  of 
1792  were  the  answer  of  France  to  a  German  invasion;  and 
henceforward  slaughter  in  the  name  of  War  or  in  the  name  of 
Justice  was  to  be  the  history  of  some  terrible  years.  Hazlitt 
puts  the  matter  briefly: 

It  has  been  usual  (as  men  remember  their  prejudices  better  than 
the  truth)  to  hold  up  the  Coahtion  of  the  Allied  Powers  as  having 
for  its  end  and  justification  the  repressing  the  horrors  of  the  French 
Revolution;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  those  horrors  arose  out  of  the 
Coalition,  which  had  for  its  object  to  root  out  not  the  evil,  but  the 
good  of  the  Revolution  in  France.     (Life  of  Napoleon,  Chapter  v.) 

To  Hazlitt  the  struggle  from  first  to  last  and  in  every  phase 
was  simply  the  struggle  of  Freedom  against  Tyranny : 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  W^ritings  xxi 

Let  all  the  wrongs  public  and  private  produced  in  France  by 
arbitrary  power  and  exclusive  privileges  for  a  thousand  years  be 
collected  in  a  volume,  and  let  this  volume  be  read  by  all  who  have 
hearts  to  feel  or  capacity  to  understand,  and  the  strong,  stifling  sense 
of  oppression  and  kindling  burst  of  indignation  that  would  follow 
would  be  that  impulse  of  public  action  that  led  to  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. Let  all  the  victims  that  have  perished  under  the  mild,  paternal 
sway  of  the  ancient  regime,  in  dungeons,  and  in  agony,  without  a 
trial,  without  an  accusation,  without  witnesses,  be  assembled  together, 
and  their  chains  struck  off,  and  the  shout  of  jubilee  and  exultation 
they  would  make,  or  that  nature  would  make  at  the  sight,  will  be  the 
shout  that  was  heard  when  the  Bastille  fell!  The  dead  pause  that 
ensued  among  the  gods  of  the  earth,  the  rankling  malice,  the  panic- 
fear,  when  they  saw  law  and  justice  raised  to  an  equahty  with  their 
sovereign  will,  and  mankind  no  longer  doomed  to  be  their  sport,  was 
that  of  fiends  robbed  of  their  prey :  their  struggles,  their  arts,  their 
unyielding  perseverance,  and  their  final  triumph  was  that  of  fiends 
when  it  is  restored  to  them.     {Life  of  Napoleon,  Chap,  iii.) 

That  the  continental  despots,  ruHng  by  Right  Divine  over 
minions  of  subjects  bound  to  the  soil  in  a  state 
Uie^evoiution  indistinguishable  from  slavery,  should  have  viewed 
with  alarm  the  abatement  of  royal  and  noble 
prerogative  in  France  was  entirely  explicable ;  but  there  was  one 
country  that  might  have  been  expected  to  sympathise  with  the 
Revolution — the  country  in  which  serfdom  had  long  ago  dis- 
appeared, in  which  abuse  of  royal  privilege  had  led  to  a  civil  war 
and  the  execution  of  a  Idng,  and  in  which  a  drastic  revolution  had 
driven  one  ruler  from  the  throne,  diverted  the  succession  to  a 
foreign  line,  and  bound  all  kings  to  come  within  the  strictest 
confines  of  constitutional  procedure.  That  sympathy  was  not 
withheld.  The  brightest  spirits  in  England  rejoiced  at  the  down- 
fall of  autocracy  in  France.  Some,  indeed,  were  more  revolu- 
tionary than  the  Revolutionists  themselves.  Coleridge  and 
Southey,  exalted  to  the  heights  of  youthful  enthusiasm,  proposed 
to  emigrate  and  found  a  Pantisocracy  or  Hyper-Utopia  on  the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna. 

Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive. 
But  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven ! 

In  all  this  "pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy,"  Hazlitt  came  to 
share.  Younger  than  the  poets  he  admired,  he  beheved  in  them 
as  ferventiy  as  in  the  Revolution.  But  "universal  England" 
was  not  with  them.  One  mighty  voice  had  been  lifted  from  the 
first  against  the  new  regime.  Burke,  who  had  stood  for  liberty 
in  America  and  justice  in  India,  now  appeared  as  the  champion 
of  tyranny  in  France.  Prematurely  aged  by  a  life  of  struggle 
and  ill-success,  he  had  declined  to  the  state  of  political  pedantry 
that  resists  any  change  if  it  is  made  in  some  other  than  a  pre- 
scribed way,  and  presentiy  comes  to  resist  all  change  merely 


xxii  Introduction 

because  it  is  change.  Burke  in  his  latest  phase  seems  to  be  one 
of  those  described  by  Hazlitt  as 

a  set  of  men  existing  at  all  times,  who  never  can  arrive  at  a  conception 
beyond  the  still-life  of  politics,  and  in  the  most  critical  circumstances 
and  in  the  convulsion  and  agony  of  states,  see  only  the  violation  of 
forms  and  etiquette.     {Life  of  Napoleon,  Chap,  v.) 

Burke  found  many  willing  hearers.  It  is  a  sufficient  comment 
upon  the  tendency  of  his  Reflections  that  they  were  admired 
equally  in  the  Court  of  England  and  the  Court  of  Russia.  England 
had  changed.  What  France  was  rejecting,  England  was  accepting. 
The  French  Revolution  came  in  the  midst  of  George  Ill's  attempt 
to  re-erect  a  royal  autocracy  upon  the  ruins  of  parliamentary 
government.  Thirty  years  of  his  personal  rule  had  reduced 
political  life  in  England  to  a  degraded  level  of  corruption  and 
incompetence.  An  England  governed  by  servile  and  venal 
"King's  Friends"  could  have  no  sympathy  with  a  Revolution. 
A  young  Englishman,  travelling  in  1792  with  the  German  forces 
gathering  to  crush  France,  had  formulated  a  plan  for  the  govern- 
ment of  that  country.  Its  first  and  chief  point  was  that  "the 
authority  of  the  king  should  be  perfectly  re-established,  and  that 
any  liberty  the  people  may  afterwards  possess  should  be  con- 
sidered as  his  indulgence^."  It  is  difficult  to  understand  the 
frame  of  mind  that  could  ever  have  held  in  modern  times  this 
view  of  liberty  and  government ;  it  is  stUl  more  incredible  that 
such  a  proposal  should  date  from  the  summer  of  1792  when  the 
immediate  result  of  the  Duke  of  Brunswick's  atrocious  manifesto 
against  the  French  had  been  the  imprisonment  of  Louis  XVI  in 
the  Temple.  It  is  worth  noting  that  the  young  English  gentleman 
who  took  this  enlightened  view  of  national  liberty  and  royal 
indulgence  was  the  person  who,  as  Lord  Liverpool,  held  office 
here  as  Prime  Minister  from  181 2  to  1827. 

Elated  by  unexpected  success  against  the  German  invaders, 
France  became  aggressive,  and  held  that  those  who 
tinentarwar  were  not  with  her  were  against  her.  War  with 
England  began  in  1793  and  lasted  with  few  inter- 
missions for  twenty-two  years.  The  continental  powers  wavered  ; 
sometimes  they  were  leagued  against  France,  sometimes  leagued 
with  her;  but  England  remained  steadfastly  Anti-Gallican  from 
1793  to  1 8 15.  Her  pretexts  for  that  long  animosity  changed 
from  time  to  time,  but  her  undeclared  and  unwavering  purpose 
never  changed;  and  that  purpose  was  the  suppression  of  any- 
thing like  popular  government,  and  the  re-establishment  of 
unlimited  monarchy.  She  warred  not  so  much  to  suppress 
revolutionary  principles  in  France  as  to  suppress  revolutionary 
principles   in   England.     The   events   in   France   had   filled   the 

1  Lord  Granville  Leveson  Gower,  Private  Correspondence,  1781-1821 
Vol.  I,  p.  49  (1916). 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxiii 

governing  classes  of  England  with  panic.  The  excesses  of  the 
Revolution  there  were  made  the  excuse  for  excesses  of  repression 
here.  Men  of  honourable  record  were  transported  for  advocating 
the  measures  of  Parliamentary  reform  that  had  shortly  before 
been  favoured  by  Pitt  himself;  and  writers  of  liberal  tendencies 
were  shadowed  by  spies  and  dragged  before  the  courts  upon 
ridiculous  charges  of  treason.  Hazlitt  in  his  impressionable 
youth  had  met  some  of  the  sufferers.  Hatred  of  Pitt  was 
inhaled  with  his  every  breath.  Coleridge,  whom  he  revered,  had 
written  thus  of  the  detested  minister: 

Yon  dark  Scowler  view, 

Who  with  proud  words  of  dear-loved  Freedom  came — 
More  blasting  than  the  mildew  from  the  South ! 
And  kissed  his  country  with  Iscariot  mouth 

Ah !  foul  apostate  from  his  Father's  fame ! 

Wordsworth's  later  confession  records  the  horror  he  felt  when 
England  joined  in  the  hunt  against  FraJice: 

What,  then,  were  my  emotions,  when  in  arms 

Britain  put  forth  her  freeborn  strength  in  league, 

Oh,  pity  and  shame !    with  those  confederate  Powers ! 

Not  in  my  single  self  alone  I  found. 

But  in  the  minds  of  all  ingenuous  youth. 

Change  and  subversion  from  that  hour.     No  shock 

Given  to  my  moral  nature  had  I  known 

Down  to  that  very  moment;    neither  lapse 

Nor  turn  of  sentiment  that  might  be  named 

A  revolution,  save  at  this  one  time ; 

All  else  was  progress  on  the  self-same  path 

On  which,  with  a  diversity  of  pace, 

I  had  been  travelling:    this  a  stride  at  once 

Into  another  region.     As  a  light 

And  pliant  harebell,  swinging  in  the  breeze 

On  some  grey  rock — its  birthplace— so  had  I 

Wantoned,  fast  rooted  on  the  ancient  tower 

Of  my  beloved  country,  wishing  not 

A  happier  fortune  than  to  wither  there : 

Now  was  I  from  that  pleasant  station  torn 

And  tossed  about  in  whirlwind.     I  rejoiced, 

Yes,  afterwards — truth  most  painful  to  record ! 

Exulted,  in  the  triumph  of  my  soul. 

When  Englishmen  by  thousands  were  o'erthrown, 

Left  without  glory  on  the  field,  or  driven. 

Brave  hearts!  to  shameful  flight.  (Prelude,  Bk  x.) 

Sentiments  even  remotely  resembling  these  the  Government  were 
determined  to  suppress.  The  task  was  easy,  for  they  were  the 
sentiments  of  a  rapidly  dwindling  minority.  It  is  always  possible 
to  scare  the  "mutable  many"  by  assuring  them  that  they  will 
lose  the  privileges  they  do  not  possess.  That  well-tried  plan 
succeeded  thoroughly  in  1793.     The  people  of  England,  who  had 


xxiv  Introduction 

no  Parliamentary  representation,  and,  under  Pitt's  recent  statutes, 
next  to  no  liberties,  were  assured  that  the  French  would  rob  them 
of  their  rights  and  liberties ;  and  so  they  fought  tremendously. 

When  the  needs  of  France  produced  the  Man  of  Destiny 
Na    1  on         *^^  purpose  of  England  was  strengthened.     That 

apo  eon  France  should  make  a  Revolution  was  bad  enough  ; 

that  she  should  make  an  Emperor  was  worse.  England  became 
the  champion  of  Legitimacy;  and  just  as  France,  a  century 
earlier,  had  warred  half-heartedly  to  force  the  Stewarts  back  upon 
England,  so  England  fought  with  superb  and  memorable  tenacity 
to  force  the  Bourbons  back  upon  France.  That,  really,  is  the 
story  of  the  war. 

Napoleon  was  our  great  enemy  for  many  years,  yet  in  such 
a  way  that  we  have  now  almost  forgotten  the  enmity  and  re- 
member only  the  greatness.  Seen  in  contrast  to  the  aims  and 
ideals  of  the  monarchs  who  combined  to  crush  him,  he  was  a 
beneficent  influence  in  Europe.  There  was  more  real  personal 
and  political  liberty,  more  good  and  sane  administration  in  the 
France  of  Napoleon,  than  in  all  the  rest  of  Europe  put  together. 
An  appalling  count  can  be  drawn  against  him ;  but  like  Elizabeth 
or  Henry  VIII  or  any  other  great  sinner  of  history,  Napoleon  is 
entitled  to  be  judged  by  the  balance  of  his  career ;  and  no  one  now 
disputes  that  this  balance  is  on  the  side  of  good.  In  the  great  and 
ever-changing  world  of  political  doctrine,  it  is  presumptuous  for 
anyone  to  say  that  this  is  right  or  that  is  wrong ;  but  if  we  believe 
that  the  general  course  of  man  for  the  last  hundred  years  has  been 
wholesomely  progressive,  we  have  to  admit  that,  in  opposing 
France,  we  were  opposing  the  ideals  we  now  call  right.  Hazlitt 
had  no  doubt  of  it. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  significant.  After  the  triumph  of 
England  and  the  extinction  of  Napoleon,  night  settled  down 
upon  Europe.  It  became  evident  that  the  liberty  which  had 
triumphed  at  Waterloo  was  not  the  liberty  of  peoples  but 
the  liberty  of  absolute  monarchs.  For  a  short  time  Europe 
endured  the  burden  of  this  new-found  freedom,  and  then  began 
to  stir  uneasily.  The  three  days'  revolution  of  1830  was  the 
answer  of  France  to  the  liberty  imposed  upon  it  by  the  infantry 
of  Wellington  and  the  hussars  of  Bliicher.  In  England  the 
struggles  for  the  Reform  Bill  acted  as  a  safety-valve  of  popular 
discontent;  but  the  states  of  Central  Europe,  more  used  to 
unenlightened  despotism,  endured  to  1848  before  they  exploded 
in  revolt.  Italy  had  to  wait  for  half  a  century  before  the  unity 
given  it  by  Napoleon  was  again  restored. 

Napoleon !  'twas  a  high  name  lifted  high ; 

It  met  at  last  God's  thunder  sent  to  clear 

Our  compassing  and  covering  atmosphere, 

And  open  a  clear  sight,  beyond  the  sky, 

Of  supreme  empire:    this  of  earth's  was  done — 

And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the  sun. 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  ^Vntings  xxv 

The  kings  crept  out — the  peoples  sate  at  home, — 

And  finding  the  long  invocated  peace 

A  pall  embroidered  with  worn  images 

Of  rights  divine,  too  scant  to  cover  doom 

Such  as  they  suffered, — cursed  the  corn  that  grew 

Rankly,  to  bitter  bread,  on  Waterloo. 

A  deep  gloom  centred  in  the  deep  repose — 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their  dead — 
And  he  who  owned  the  Name  which  vibrated 
Through  silence, — trusting  to  his  noblest  foes. 
When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chivalry — 
Died  of  their  mercies,  'mid  the  desert  sea. 

The  words  are  Mrs  Browning's ;   the  sentiments  are  Hazlitt's. 

He  grudged  France  her  hero.  He  thought  that 
Napofeo^n"'^         inferior  nation  did  not  deserve  so  great  a  man. 

What  he  really  wanted  was  an  English  Napoleon 
who  should  cleanse  and  purify  Britain  as  the  Emperor  had 
cleansed  and  purified  France.  To  him  Napoleon  was  not  a 
tyrant,  but  a  liberator,  who  had  to  conquer  Europe  because 
Europe's  kings  had  conspired  to  conquer  France.  The  Napoleon 
whom  Hazlitt  admired  was  the  Napoleon  to  whom  Beethoven 
had  first  dedicated  his  Eroica  Symphony.  He  was  the  symbol 
of  the  French  Revolution,  the  embodiment  of  a  principle  that 
Hazlitt,  as  an  Englishman  and  the  inheritor  of  the  English 
Revolution,  held  as  dear  as  life,  the  principle  that  there  is  no 
Divine  Right  of  reigning  inherent  in  any  special  family,  and  that 
peoples,  therefore,  may  choose  their  own  form  of  government. 
Thus  he  writes: 

I  have  nowhere  in  anything  I  may  have  written  declared  myself 
to  be  a  Republican ;  nor  should  I  think  it  worth  while  to  be  a  martyr 
and  a  confessor  to  any  form  or  mode  of  government.  But  what  I 
have  staked  health  and  wealth,  name  and  fame  upon,  and  am  ready 
to  do  so  again  and  to  the  last  gasp,  is  this,  that  there  is  a  power  in 
the  people  to  change  its  government  and  its  governors.  That  is, 
I  am  a  Revolutionist:  for  otherwise,  I  must  allow  that  mankind  are 
but  a  herd  of  slaves,  the  property  of  thrones,  that  no  tyranny  or  insult 
can  lawfully  goad  them  to  a  resistance  to  a  particular  family.  {Life 
of  Napoleon,  Chap,  xxxiv.) 

A  fuller  confession  of  his  faith  appears  in  another  place  in  the 
same  work: 

Of  my  object  in  writing  the  Life  here  offered  to  the  public,  and  of 
the  general  tone  that  pervades  it,  it  may  be  proper  that  I  should 
render  some  account  (before  proceeding  farther)  in  order  to  prevent 
mistakes  and  false  applications.  It  is  true,  I  admired  the  man ;  but 
what  chiefly  attached  me  to  him,  was  his  being,  as  he  had  been  long 
ago  designated,  "the  child  and  champion  of  the  Revolution."  Of  this 
character  he  could  not  divest  himself,  even  though  he  wished  it.  He 
was  nothing,  he  could  be  nothing,  but  what  he  owed  to  himself  and  to 
his  triumphs  over  those  who  claimed  mankind  as  their  inheritance 


xxvi  Introduction 

by  a  divine  right ;  and  as  long  as  he  was  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  kings 
and  kept  them  at  bay,  his  cause  rose  out  of  the  ruins  and  defeat  of 
their  pride  and  hopes  of  revenge.  He  stood  (and  he  alone  stood) 
between  them  and  their  natural  prey.  He  kept  off  that  last  indignity 
and  wrong  offered  to  a  whole  people  (and  through  them  to  the  rest 
of  the  world)  of  being  handed  over,  like  a  herd  of  cattle,  to  a  particular 
family,  and  chained  to  the  foot  of  a  legitimate  throne.  This  was  the 
chief  point  at  issue — this  was  the  great  question,  compared  with  which 
all  others  were  tame  and  insignificant — Whether  mankind  were,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  time,  born  slaves  or  not?  As  long  as  he 
remained,  his  acts,  his  very  existence,  gave  a  proud  and  full  answer 
to  this  question.  As  long  as  he  interposed  a  barrier,  a  gauntlet,  and 
an  arm  of  steel  between  us  and  them  who  alone  could  set  up  the  plea 
of  old,  indefeasible  right  over  us,  no  increase  of  power  could  be  too 
great  that  tended  to  shatter  this  claim  to  pieces :  even  his  abuse  of 
power  and  aping  the  style  and  title  of  the  imaginary  gods  of  the  earth 
only  laughed  their  pretensions  the  more  to  scorn.  He  did  many 
things  wrong  and  foolish ;  but  they  were  individual  acts,  and  recoiled 
upon  the  head  of  the  doer.  They  stood  upon  the  ground  of  their  own 
merits,  and  could  not  urge  in  their  vindication  "the  right  divine  of 
kings  to  govern  wrong";  they  were  not  precedents;  they  were  not 
exempt  from  public  censure  or  opinion ;  they  were  not  softened  by 
prescription,  nor  screened  by  prejudice,  nor  sanctioned  by  super- 
stition, nor  rendered  formidable  by  a  principle  that  imposed  them  as 
sacred  obligations  on  all  future  generations :  either  they  were  state- 
necessities  extorted  by  the  circumstances  of  the  time,  or  violent  acts 
of  the  will,  that  carried  their  own  condemnation  in  their  bosom.  What- 
ever fault  might  be  found  with  them,  they  did  not  proceed  upon  the 
avowed  principle,  that  "millions  are  made  for  one,"  but  one  for  millions ; 
and  as  long  as  this  distinction  was  kept  in  view,  liberty  was  saved, 
and  the  Revolution  was  untouched ;  for  it  was  to  establish  it  that 
the  Revolution  was  commenced,  and  to  overturn  it  that  the  enemies 
of  liberty  waded  through  seas  of  blood  and  at  last  succeeded.  {Life 
of  Napoleon,  Chap,  xxxi.) 

If  Hazlitt  seems  to  protest  too  much,  let  us  recall  our  incipient 
Prime  Minister  of  1792  quoted  earlier,  and  his  plan  for  the  govern- 
ment of  I^rance  :  "  the  first  point  is  that  the  authority  of  the  king 
should  be  perfectly  re-established,  and  that  any  liberty  the  people 
may  afterwards  possess  should  be  considered  as  his  indulgence." 

All  these  things  are  as  Hazlitt  saw  them.  We  may  differ 
from  him  as  we  please,  but  we  must  understand  his  point  of  view 
if  we  are  going  to  read  him  intelligently.  On  the  whole,  however, 
his  beliefs  are  just  the  beliefs  of  the  average  Briton  to-day. 
Hazlitt  was  the  first  of  our  now  many  Napoleonists.  If  he  could 
return  to  this  present  world  he  might  exhibit  the  utmost  extreme 
of  his  enthusiasm  without  the  least  singularity.  He  would  see 
Englishmen  thronging  with  reverence  to  the  shrine  at  the  Invalides 
and  averting  their  eyes  with  shame  from  the  spectacle  of  St  Helena. 
Hazlitt  who  set  so  much  store  by  his  "little  image"  of  Napoleon 
would  find  the  Emperor's  portrait  a  popular  picture  in  the  most 
British  of  households.     He  would  have  to  read  ravenously  to 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxvii 

keep  abreast  of  the  Napoleonic  literature  written,  translated  and 
published  in  these  islands.  Hazlitt  was  cold  to  French  tragedy 
but  he  would  unbend  to  L'Aiglon  of  Edmond  Rostand.  The 
enthusiastic  lover  of  Scott  might  care  little  for  the  Wessex  novels 
of  Thomas  Hardy,  but  he  would  certainly  rejoice  in  The  Dynasts. 
These  are  agreeable  speculations.     The  dull  fact  is  that  Hazlitt 

held  his  views  when  they  were  highly  unpopular  and 
Mundu""*'"^     savoured  of  treason.     And  he  held  them  the  more 

tenaciously  the  more  they  were  challenged.  He 
began  to  stand  alone.  The  glorious  visions  of  his  youth  faded. 
The  Revolution  instead  of  being  the  beginning  of  a  new  life, 
seemed  no  more  than  the  end  of  an  old  song.  His  friends,  some 
revered  almost  to  adoration,  crept  over  to  the  popular  and  profit- 
able side.     The  time  was  gone  when 

Coleridge  and  Southey,  Lloyd  and  Lamb  and  Co. 
All  tuned  their  mystic  harps  to  praise  Lepaux. 

Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  once  apostles,  became  apostates,  and 
Hazlitt  hated  them,  not  only  for  what  they  were,  but  for  what 
they  had  been.  "Into  what  pit  thou  seest  from  what  height 
fall'n."  Wordsworth,  in  his  view,  had  been  bought  by  the 
Government,  and  had  left  the  cause  for  the  handful  of  silver  he 
received  as  Distributor  of  Stamps.  Southey,  the  Pantisocrat 
and  eulogist  of  Wat  Tyler,  had  become  the  Court  Laureate,  and, 
what  was  even  worse,  a  Quarterly  Reviewer.  As  for  Coleridge ! — 
Coleridge,  who  had  preached  in  the  bright  dawn  of  life  that 
memorable  sermon  against  kings,  had  now  become  a  pensioner 
of  George  IV^,  a  pillar  of  Church  and  State,  and  dallied  with  the 
doctrine  of  Divine  Right.  This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of 
all.  That  Coleridge  should  turn  traitor  was  the  crime  of  crimes. 
It  was  the  worse,  the  second,  fall  of  man.  It  was  sacrilege 
against  those  divine  and  hallowed  days  of  youth  when  Harmer 
HUl  with  all  its  pines  had  stooped  to  listen  to  a  poet  as  he  passed. 
Upon  these  false  friends  the  hand  of  Hazlitt  was  thereafter  heavy. 
He  was  impatient  even  with  Lamb,  who,  thinking  much  as 
Hazlitt  did,  nevertheless  thought  it  more  circumspectly.  Hazlitt's 
friends  certainly  had  much  to  bear.  He  stalked  the  world  wrath- 
fuUy,  holding  his  pistol  at  the  heads  of  all  he  met,  demanding  that 
they  should  stand  and  deliver  a  hymn  to  the  Revolution  and  a 
eulogy  of  the  Emperor.  Certainly  it  must  have  been  hard  to  be 
patient  with  a  furious  essayist  who  asserted  that  Trafalgar  was 
a  tragedy  and  Austerlitz  a  crowning  mercy — who,  when  Napoleon's 
flotilla  was  gathered  at  Boulogne,  insisted  that  all  his  friends 
should  regard  the  prospective  invader  of  their  country  as  a 
universal  benefactor.  The  course  of  events  was  not  favourable 
to  him.  The  side  he  took  became  more  and  more  a  lost  cause 
and  was  at  last  swallowed  up  in  total  defeat.  Hazlitt  was  not 
a  good  loser.     If  he  did  not  lose  his  hope,  he  certainly  lost  his 

^  Not,  however,  till  1824. 


xxviii  Introduction 

temper.     Indeed,  he  confesses  as  much  in  a  Httle  passage  of 
self -analysis : 

I  have  often  been  reproached  with  extravagance  for  considering 
things  only  in  their  abstract  principles,  and  with  heat  or  ill-temper, 
for  getting  into  a  passion  about  what  no  ways  concerned  me.  If  any 
one  wishes  to  see  me  quite  calm,  they  may  cheat  me  in  a  bargain, 
or  tread  upon  my  toes;  but  a  truth  repelled,  or  a  sophism  repeated, 
totally  disconcerts  me,  and  I  lose  all  patience.  I  am  not,  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  term,  a  good-natured  man ;  that  is,  many  things 
annoy  me  besides  what  interferes  with  my  own  ease  and  interest. 
I  hate  a  lie;  a  piece  of  injustice  wounds  me  to  the  quick,  though 
nothing  but  the  report  of  it  reach  me.  Therefore  I  have  made  many 
enemies  and  tew  friends ;  for  the  public  know  nothing  of  well-wishers, 
and  keep  a  wary  eye  on  those  that  would  reform  them.  Coleridge 
used  to  complain  of  my  irascibility  in  this  respect,  and  not  without 
reason.  Would  that  he  had  possessed  a  little  of  my  tenaciousness 
and  jealousy  of  temper;  and  then,  with  his  eloquence  to  paint  the 
wrong,  and  acuteness  to  detect  it,  his  country  and  the  cause  of  liberty 
might  not  have  fallen  without  a  struggle!  (Plain  Speaker,  "On 
Depth  and  Superficiality.") 

It  was  claimed  by  Coleridge  and  others  that  the  first  great 
revulsion  of  their  feelings  towards  France  dated  from  the  attack 
of  the  Directory  on  the  liberty  of  Switzerland  in  1798.  That 
invasion,  morally  indefensible,  is  difficult  to  justify  even  on  the 
lower  ground  of  military  or  political  necessity.  But,  even  here, 
we  should  know  what  we  are  condemning.  The  Swiss  Con- 
federacy overthrown  by  France  was  in  fact  nothing  like  the 
later  and  excellent  Swiss  Republic.  The  peasants  of  Vaud  and 
the  Valais,  held  in  subjection  by  the  petty  oligarchs  of  Berne, 
knew  little  of  the  "mountain  liberty"  dear  to  the  poets.  When 
such  a  man  as  Gibbon,  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  feel 
benevolent  towards  political  discontent,  permits  himself  the 
criticism  to  be  found  in  that  long  youthful  letter  by  him 
describing  the  Swiss  constitution^,  the  ordinary  observer  is 
tempted  to  believe  that  real  Swiss  liberty  began  rather  than  ended 
with  the  Helvetic  Repubhc  instituted  by  France  in  1798.  But 
the  great  fact  remains,  that  interference  with  one  independent 
nation  by  another  is  in  general  utterly  wrong,  and  specially 
suspicious  when  lofty  motives  are  urged  in  justification.  Still, 
when  we  read  with  admiration  that  splendid  sonnet  of  Words- 
worth, it  is  well  to  ask  ourselves  whether  we  ought  to  weep  for 
the  subjugation  of  the  Swiss  Republic  in  1798  and  have  no  tears 
for  the  attempted  subjugation  of  the  French  Republic  in  1793. 
It  was  this  national  hypocrisy  or  inconsistency  of  ours  that 

irritated  Hazlitt.     He  held  his  principles  without 
thl^R"vfe"wers     thought  of  compromise,  and  he  had  to  suffer  for 

his  tenacity.     It  is  difficult  for  us  to  understand 
the  power  that  was  wielded  a  century  ago  by  the  party  Reviews, 

1  Works,  1814,  Vol.  II,  Letter  ix. 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxix 

by  such  persons  as  Giflford  and  Croker  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
and  John  Wilson  (called  Christopher  North)  in  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  The  pubhc  seem  really  to  have  been  terrorised  by 
the  truculence  of  these  periodiceds,  and  afraid  to  read  or  think 
otherwise  than  the  Reviewers  permitted.  Ostensibly  critical, 
these  magazines  had  nothing  to  do  with  literature.  They 
were  purely  political  organs.  If  a  writer  was  suspected  of  any 
leaning  towards  liberal  views  in  politics,  then  the  hirelings  of 
Mr  Murray  in  London  and  of  Mr  Blackwood  in  Edinburgh  fell 
upon  him  with  their  bludgeons.  Thus,  Keats  was  friendly  with 
Leigh  Hunt ;  Leigh  Hunt  had  been  imprisoned  for  criticising  the 
Prince  Regent;  therefore  Keats  must  be  bludgeoned;  and 
bludgeoned  he  was  in  articles  that  are  among  the  ineffaceable 
shames  of  our  literary  history.  The  Edinburgh  Review,  organ  of 
the  Whigs,  must  not  be  exempted  from  general  condemnation, 
though  Jeffrey  and  his  contributors  at  their  worst  were  cleanness 
itself  in  comparison  with  Gifford  and  Wilson.  The  Edinburgh 
cannot  claim,  like  The  Quarterly,  to  have  killed  a  poet.  Its  most 
famous  feat  is  the  condemnation  of  Wordsworth's  Excursion  in  an 
article  beginning  with  the  now  historic  words,  "  This  will  never  do  !  " 
The  Tory  reviewers  hailed  Hazlitt  -with  joy  as  a  fitting  victim 
for  their  sport.  Poor  Keats  had  failed  them.  He  had  simply 
perished  without  any  visible  sign  of  anguish ;  but  Hazlitt,  though 
tough  enough  to  last,  was  more  easily  hurt,  and  (deUghtful 
quality)  shouted  when  he  was  hurt.  Let  us  glance  for  a  moment 
at  the  literary  methods  of  that  famous  time.  Perhaps  the  best 
of  all  Hazlitt's  books  is  Table  Talk.  This  was  reviewed  in  Black- 
wood for  August  1822  by  someone  who  claimed  to  be  a  scholar 
and  gentleman,  entitled  therefore  to  read  the  cockney  Hazlitt 
a  lesson  in  good  style  and  manners.     Here  are  a  few  sentences : 

The  whole  surface  of  these  volumes  is  one  gaping  sore  of  wounded 
and  festering  vanity;  and  in  short. ..our  table-talker  "is  rather  an 
ULCER  than  a  man."  Now,  it  is  one  thing  to  feel  sore,  and  a  bad 
thing  it  is  there  is  no  denying;  but  to  tell  all  the  world  the  story  of 
one's  soreness,  to  be  continually  poking  at  the  bandages,  and  dis- 
playing all  the  ugly  things  they  ought  to  cover,  is  quite  another,  and 
a  far  worse  affair. 

A  littie  of  this  is  quite  enough.  Hazhtt  was  maddened  by 
these  attacks.  He  tried  to  retaliate  in  various  periodicals;  but 
he  was  attempting  the  impossible.  The  rowdy  blackguardism 
that  fails  may  perhaps  be  corrected,  but  not  the  rowdy  black- 
guardism that  pays.  The  combination  of  vulgarity  with  success 
is  irresistible.  Wilson  and  Gifford  were  "  in " ;  Hazhtt  was 
"out" ;  and  neither  Hazlitt  nor  anyone  else  could  hurt  their  very 
hypothetical  feelings. 

The  actual  events  of  Hazlitt's  private  hfe  are  not  important, 

and  only  a  brief  recital  need  be  made  of  his  personal 

o°Authtfrshrp      ^^^  literary  doings.     He  lived  at  Winterslow  from 

1808  to   1 81 2.   when  he  moved  to  York  Street. 


XXX  Introduction 

Westminster,  the  house  once  occupied  by  Milton,  whose  noble 
spirit,  did  it  haunt  this  sublunary  world,  would  have  consorted 
rather  with  the  tenant  Hazlitt  than  with  the  landlord  Jeremy 
Bentham.  In  1812  he  delivered  at  the  Russell  Institution  ten 
lectures  on  philosophy,  some  of  which  survived  in  manuscript 
and  were  printed  in  the  Literary  Remains.  They  indicate  that 
Hazlitt's  interest  in  philosophy  was  after  all  quite  literary.  The 
first  whoUy  characteristic  work  of  his  to  appear  in  book  form  was 
The  Round  Table  (18 17)  containing  matter  from  his  contributions 
to  The  Examiner,  The  Morning  Chronicle  and  The  Champion. 
Here  we  have  the  essential  Hazlitt,  the  Hazlitt  of  flashing,  con- 
tentious sentences,  full  of  matter,  intimating  intense  enjoyment 
in  the  writer  and  inciting  to  intense  enjoyment  in  the  reader. 
The  scale  of  the  essays  hardly  allowed  him  to  wind  into  his  subject 
as  he  was  to  do  later,  but  the  imposed  brevity  gave  his  aphoristic 
genius  its  chance.  The  same  year  (1817)  saw  the  publication  of 
his  Characters  of  Shakespear's  Plays,  a  book  which  possibly  its 
own  generation  found  more  usefully  enlightening  than  we  do. 
Hazlitt's  enjoyment  of  Shakespeare  had  (hke  Lamb's)  a  singular 
completeness  ensuing  from  his  appreciation  of  poetry,  his  sense 
of  drama,  and  his  love  for  the  theatre.  He  lived  in  a  fortunate 
hour.  He  beheld  the  sunset  splendour  of  Siddons  and  hailed  the 
meridian  brightness  of  Edmund  Kean.  The  classic  dignity  of 
John  Kemble  and  the  fervent  emotionalism  of  Miss  O'Neill 
illustrated  for  him  the  extremes  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  art. 
Much  that  we  know  of  these  dead  and  gone  players  we  learn 
from  Hazlitt.  He  is,  in  a  special  sense,  the  historian  of  Kean, 
whose  first  impersonations  in  London  he  praised  in  The  Morning 
Chronicle.  A  View  of  the  English  Stage  (1818)  reprints  a  number 
of  dramatic  criticisms  from  The  Chronicle,  The  Examiner  and  The 
Champion.  Two  years  later  HazUtt  wrote  a  fine  series  of  theatrical 
essays  for  The  London  Magazine,  not  fully  reprinted  until  1903 
[Works,  Vol.  viii). 

The  years  18 19-1820  were  in  a  special  sense  Hazlitt's  "lecture 

years,"  for  at  the  Surrey  Institution  in  the  Black- 
Le^/tu"er  ^  friars  Road  he  dehvered  those  three  sets  of  discourses 

that  form  the  matter  of  three  excellent  and  always 
popular  volumes.  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (18 18),  Lectures  on 
the  English  Comic  Writers  (18 19)  and  Lectures  chiefly  on  the 
Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (1820).  Talfourd 
gives  an  interesting  description  of  Hazlitt  as  lecturer : 

Mr  Hazlitt  delivered  three  courses  of  lectures  at  the  Surrey  Institution 
...before  audiences  with  whom  he  had  but  "an  imperfect  sympathy." 
They  consisted  chiefly  of  Dissenters,  who  agreed  with  him  in  his  hatred 
of  Lord  Castlereagh,  but  who  "loved  no  plays";  of  Quakers,  who 
approved  him  as  the  opponent  of  Slavery  and  Capital  Punishment, 
but  who  "heard  no  music";  of  citizens  devoted  to  the  main  chance, 
who  had  a  hankering  after  "the  improvement  of  the  mind,"  but  to 
whom  his  favourite  doctrine  of  its  natural  disinterestedness  was  a 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxxi 

riddle ;  of  a  few  enemies  who  came  to  sneer ;  and  a  few  friends  who 
were  eager  to  learn  and  admire.  The  comparative  insensibility  of 
the  bulk  of  his  audience  to  his  finest  passages  sometimes  provoked 
him  to  awaken  their  attention  by  points  which  broke  the  train  of 
his  discourse,  after  which  he  could  make  himself  amends  by  some 
abrupt  paradox  which  might  set  their  prejudices  on  edge,  and  make 
them"  fancy  they  were  shocked.... He  once  had  an  edifying  advantage 
over  them.  He  was  enumerating  the  humanities  which  endeared 
Dr  Johnson  to  his  mind;  and  at  the  close  of  an  agreeable  catalogue 
mentioned,  as  last  and  noblest,  "his  carrying  the  poor  victim  of  disease 
and  dissipation  on  his  back  through  Fleet  Street,"  at  which  a  titter 
rose  from  some,  who  were  struck  by  the  picture  as  ludicrous,  and  a 
murmur  from  others,  who  deemed  the  allusion  unfit  for  ears  polite.  He 
paused  for  an  instant  and  then  added  in  his  sturdiest  and  most  impres- 
sive manner,  "an  act  which  realises  the  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan," 
at  which  his  moral  and  delicate  hearers  shrank  rebuked  into  deep  silence. 
He  was  not  eloquent  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term ;  for  his  thoughts 
were  too  weighty  to  be  moved  along  by  the  shallow  stream  of  feeling 
which  an  evening's  excitement  can  rouse.  He  wrote  all  his  lectures, 
and  read  them  as  they  were  written;  but  his  deep  voice  and  earnest 
manner  suited  his  matter  well.  He  seemed  to  dig  into  his  subject — 
and  not  in  vain.     {Literary  Remains.) 

But  a  greater  than  Talfourd  was  listening  to  Hazlitt.  Writing 
to  his  brother  in  February  1818,  Keats  observes: 

I  hear  Hazlitt's  lectures  regularly,  his  last  was  on  Gray,  Collins, 
Young,  etc.,  and  he  gave  a  very  fine  piece  of  discriminating  criticism 
on  Swift,  Voltaire  and  Rabelais.  I  was  very  disappointed  at  his 
treatment  of  Chatterton. 

The  poet  was  then  twenty-two  and  had  but  another  three 
years  of  hfe  before  him.  His  first  slim  volume  had  already 
appeared.  Endymion,  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  that  same 
Chatterton,  was  being  hastily  prepared  for  the  printer.  A  few 
weeks  earlier  he  had  noted  "Hazlitt's  depth  of  taste"  as  being 
one  of  three  things  to  rejoice  at  in  the  world  of  his  time.  The 
other  two  were  The  Excursion — and  the  pictures  of  Haydon. 
Upon  the  last  we  may  remark  that  much  can  be  forgiven  to 
friendship. 

Two  other  important  pubUcations  by  Hazlitt  belong  to  the 
year  1819,  A  Letter  to  William  Gifford  Esq.  and 
Gifford^"'^  Political  Essays.  The  latter  work  contains  many 
pieces  collected  from  various  periodicals  (together 
with  some  "characters"  from  his  early  compilation  The  Eloquence 
of  the  British  Senate),  and  exhibits  Hazlitt  at  his  best  and  woist. 
Some  pieces  are  little  more  than  rancorous  journalism  with  no 
permanent  interest;  but  others  are  among  his  very  finest  essays. 
The  Letter  to  Gifford  was  a  deliberate  attempt  to  get  even  with  that 
person.  The  pamphlet  has  been  highly  praised  as  a  piece  of  tremen- 
dous invective,  but,  really,  it  is  much  less  vitriolic  than  some  of 


xxxii  Introduction 

Hazlitt's  shorter  pieces — the  character  of  Gifford,  for  instance, 
in  The  Spirit  of  the  Age.  It  is  far  too  long.  Burke's  Letter  to 
a  Noble  Lord,  which  the  admiring  HazUtt  probably  had  in  mind 
as  a  model  of  scale,  is  so  different  in  scope  as  to  afford  the  reader 
an  instructive  exercise  in  the  comparison  of  effective  and  ineffective 
polemic.  Hazlitt  made  the  tactical  mistake  of  attempting  to  argue 
with  his  adversary.  With  an  insistence  that  is  almost  pathetic, 
Hazlitt  tries  to  convince  Gifford  (and  such  of  the  world  as  might 
read  the  epistle)  that  he  is  a  metaphysician  of  parts ;  and  so  the 
Letter  concludes  with  another  attempt  to  restate  his  views  on 
the  Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the  Human  Mind.  As  befits 
a  now  practised  writer,  Hazlitt  is  vastly  more  lucid  than  in  his 
efforts  of  twenty  years  earlier,  but  he  leaves  us  without  any  con- 
viction that  his  alleged  metaphysical  discovery  is  either  true  or 
useful. 

In  1 82 1  appeared  the  first  volume  of  his  Table  Talk,  the  second 
following  a  year  later.  Among  several  works  of 
Later  Works  high  excellence  it  is  hard  to  choose  one  and  call  it 
best.  Still,  most  lovers  of  Hazlitt,  restricted  to 
one,  would  probably  give  their  choice  to  this  body  of  essays,  so 
hard  to  match  for  variety  of  subject,  brilliance  of  style  and  valid 
criticism  of  life  and  letters.  The  Characteristics  of  1823  was  an 
attempt  to  imitate  the  Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld.  It  cannot 
be  called  entirely  successful.  Hazlitt's  best  aphorisms  are  to  be 
found  scattered  in  profusion  up  and  down  his  longer  essays ;  his 
deliberate  attempts  at  epigram  are  more  like  excised  paragraphs 
than  the  stamped  and  coined  utterance  of  genuine  aphorism. 

Sketches  of  the  Principal  Picture  Galleries  in  England  (1824) 
recalls  the  adventures  of  the  early  painting  days,  and  confirms 
the  view  that  Hazlitt  was,  on  the  whole,  an  excellent  critic  of 
pictures.  Nowhere  does  he  attempt  a  purely  literary  fantasia 
upon  a  theme  pictorial  such  as  we  find,  for  instance,  in  Ruskin's 
description  of  Tintoretto's  "Last  Judgment,"  where  much  of  the 
critic's  ecstasy  arises  from  imagined  beauties  that  are  simply  not 
paintable.  With  Hazlitt  a  picture  is  never  more  than  a  picture, 
and  so  we  enjoy  his  writing  as  he  enjoyed  the  picture.  Sometimes 
he  seems  to  enjoy  certain  pictures  that  later,  and  presumably 
better,  taste  prefers  to  neglect,  but  on  the  whole  his  judgment  is 
quite  remarkably  in  accord  with  modern  preferences. 

In  1825  appeared  The  Spirit  of  the  Age  or  Contemporary 
Portraits,  a  series  of  character  sketches  fuller,  rounder  and  less 
distorted  than  his  earlier  efforts  in  this  line.  Lamb  praises  it 
highly  in  a  letter  to  Bernard  Barton,  calling  the  Home  Tooke 
"  a  matchless  portrait."  It  is  indeed  one  of  Hazlitt's  best  works. 
The  essence  of  a  whole  period  is  concentrated  in  its  pungent 
pages.  It  was  followed  in  1826  by  The  Plain  Speaker,  a  collection 
of  essays  matching  the  Table  Talk,  and  only  slightly  less  excellent 
than  its  companion.  To  the  same  year  belongs  the  Notes  of  a 
Journey  mentioned  earlier. 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxxiii 

During  all  this  busy  period  Hazlitt  had  migrated  a  good  deal. 

He  lived  at  York  Street  till  1819.  We  find  him  in 
Nap^i'/on°*  Southampton  Buildings  during  1820-22,  and  later 

in  such  respectable  thoroughfares  as  Down  Street 
and  Half-Moon  Street;  after  which  Bouverie  Street  seems  a 
decline.  All  these  sojournings  must  be  understood  as  punctuated 
by  frequent  flights  to  Winterslow.  His  last  lodging  was  in  Frith 
Street,  Soho,  whither  he  went  in  1830.  He  was  now  past  his 
half-century.  His  health  had  begun  to  fail,  and  his  circumstances, 
depending  as  they  did  upon  his  immediate  efforts,  naturally 
grew  difficult.  Since  1826  he  had  been  labouring  at  his  longest, 
least  read  and  most  unprofitable  work,  the  Life  of  Napoleon. 
Upon  this  child  of  his  growing  age  he  lavished  his  tenderest  care 
and  his  fullest  exertions ;  but  it  proved  a  child  of  sorrow.  Three 
volumes  appeared  in  1828,  and  the  fourth  in  1830.  the  year  of  his 
death.  It  attracted  little  notice,  and,  the  pubhshers  failing, 
Hazlitt  got  nothing.  What  interest  it  still  retains  centres,  of 
course,  in  Hazlitt,  not  in  Napoleon.  The  life  of  Napoleon  could 
not  be  written  in  1826.  It  can  hardly  be  written  even  now.  Still, 
we  cannot  say  that  Hazlitt  made  the  best  use  of  the  material  open 
to  him.  He  was  essentially  an  essayist,  and  lost  his  touch  on  the 
large  canvas  of  a  great  historical  picture.  Its  chief  literary  fault 
is  a  lack  of  sustained  narrative  power.  Few  indeed  are  the 
Gibbons,  Macaulays  and  Carlyles,  and  Hazlitt  is  not  numbered 
among  those  who  approach  the  standard  of  these  giants.  He 
cannot  compare  even  with  less  exalted  historians.  His  account 
of  that  epic  adventure,  the  Campaign  in  Italy,  is  simply  tame; 
and  his  story  of  Brumaire,  set  by  the  side  of  Mr  Fisher's,  exhibits 
the  difference  between  forced  effort  and  genuine  impulse.  Hazlitt's 
easy  and  sweeping  generalisations  about  the  French  and  English 
national  character  will  not  do.  He  could  not  forgive  France  for 
deserting  the  Emperor  so  basely,  and  prostrating  herself  before 
the  Allied  sovereigns  so  abjectly;  and  so  he  rarely  loses  an 
opportunity  of  pouring  out  contempt.  Even  his  view  of  the 
military  operations  has  a  political  bias.  Beside  that  dazzling 
line  of  Marshals  the  English  commanders  certainly  make  very 
little  show;  but  they  were  not  all  fools.  Hazlitt's  denial  of 
talent  to  Wellington  is  as  stupid  as  Tolstoy's  denial  of  genius  to 
Napoleon. 

The  story  of  the  Emperor's  glorious  rise  and  tragic  fall  was, 
appropriately,  Hazlitt's  last  work.  One  other  book,  however, 
belongs  to  1830,  an  odd  and  attractive  volume  reprinting  various 
magazine  articles  in  which  Hazlitt  had  recorded  his  conversations 
with  the  painter  James  Northcote.  This  is  not  one  of  the  most 
generally  read  among  his  works ;  yet  it  contains  more  keen  and 
sagacious  comments  on  books,  pictures  and  life  in  general  than 
are  dreamt  of  in  the  philosophy  of  many  graver  authors.  How 
much  is  HazHtt  and  how  much  is  Northcote  it  is  impossible  to 
say;  but  all  of  it  is  delightful. 


xxxiv  Introduction 

In  August  1830  Hazlitt  became  seriously  ill.  For  a  short 
time,  during  his  early  days  as  a  Parliamentary 
Deatlf  ^^  ^"'^  reporter,  he  had  exceeded  in  the  matter  of  intoxi- 
cants, but  he  soon  abandoned  an  evil  habit  that 
was  due  more  to  his  surroundings  than  to  his  desires.  As  com- 
pensation he  took  to  tea,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  drank  that 
enchanting  liquor  not  wisely,  but  too  strong.  The  occasional 
references  in  his  work  to  indigestion  are  significant.  It  is  even 
possible  that  excess  of  tea  may  have  shortened  his  life,  for  his 
fatal  illness  arose  from  internal  inflammation.  Alone,  and  in 
poverty,  he  gradually  sank  for  several  weeks.  Material  help 
came  from  his  old  editor  Lord  Jeffrey  and  his  old  friend  Charles 
Lamb;  but  he  was  then  beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid.  He 
went  out  with  the  Bourbons.  Some  years  before,  he  had  said, 
"  I  confess  I  should  like  to  live  to  see  the  downfall  of  the  Bourbons. 
That  is  a  vital  question  with  me;  and  I  shall  like  it  the  better 
the  sooner  it  happens  "  {Table  Talk,  "On  the  Fear  of  Death"). 
He  had  his  wish.  The  last  Bourbon  king  of  France  fled  his 
country  after  the  July  Revolution  of  1830.  The  news  cheered 
Hazlitt,  but  he  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  change  was  per- 
manent. The  other  changes  he  was  not  to  see.  He  died  on  the 
1 8th  of  September  1830  at  the  age  of  fifty-two — young  for  the 
child  of  such  long-lived  parents.  Had  he  reached  the  years  of 
his  father  he  would  have  seen  the  best  days  of  Napoleon  III ; 
had  he  reached  the  years  of  his  mother  he  would  have  seen  the 
worst. 

Six  years  after  his  death  appeared  two  volumes  of  Literary 
Remains  containing,  as  preliminaries,  a  short  bio- 
graphy by  his  son,  some  Thoughts  on  the  Genius 
of  Hazlitt  by  Lytton,  and  a  valuable  personal  sketch  by  Talfourd. 
The  bulk  of  the  work  was  occupied  by  essays  and  papers  not 
republished  by  Hazlitt  in  any  of  his  books.  Included  among 
these  were  such  masterpieces  as  The  Fight  and  My  First  Acquaint- 
ance with  Poets.  Some  of  them  were  reprinted  in  a  still  later 
volume  called  Winterslow,  embodying  pieces  written  in  that  loved 
retreat.  Quite  a  mass  of  his  work,  including  sixteen  long  essays 
written  for  The  Edinburgh  Review  between  1814  to  1830,  remained 
uncollected  until  the  appearance  of  the  complete  edition  of  his 
works  a  few  years  ago. 

Hazlitt  died,  as  he  had  lived,  in  an  attitude  of  defiance ;    for 
the  last  recorded  utterance  of  one  who  had  dealt 
Adventure  ^"^  Suffered  many  a  shrewd  blow  for  the  sake  of 

a  lost  cause  was,  "Well,  I  have  had  a  happy  life." 
There  is  no  need  to  doubt  it.  The  man  who  praised  the 
English  "bruisers"  found  his  joy  in  combat.  Wliatever  else 
Hazlitt  is,  tame  he  is  never.  He  enjoyed  as  strenuously  as  he 
fought.  For  him  a  book,  a  picture,  or  a  walk  is  an  adventure. 
Adventures  are  to  the  adventurous,  Disraeli  tells  us;  and  for 
HazUtt   the   age  of   adventure   was   never   past.     According   to 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  "Writings  xxxv 

Cervantes,  adventures  should  begin  at  an  inn.  Hazlitt's  usually 
ended  there.  Think  of  such  essays  as  The  Fight  and  On  Going  a 
Journey.  Think  how  many  passages  in  his  work  can  be  typified 
by  such  a  sentence  as:  "It  was  on  the  loth  of  April,  1798,  that 
I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloise,  at  the  inn  at  Llangollen, 
over  a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  cold  chicken."  Consider  the  spirit 
of  such  a  passage  as  the  following : 

The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is  that  of  reading,  while  we  are  young. 
I  have  had  as  much  of  this  pleasure,  perhaps,  as  anyone.  As  I  grow 
older,  it  fades;  or  else  the  stronger  stimulus  of  writing  takes  off  the 
edge  of  it.  At  present,  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  for  it: 
yet  I  should  like  to  devote  a  year's  entire  leisure  to  a  course  of  the 
English  Novelists ;  and  perhaps  clap  on  that  old  sly  knave  Sir  Walter, 
to  the  end  of  the  list.  It  is  astonishing  how  I  used  formerly  to  relish 
the  style  of  certain  authors,  at  a  time  when  I  myself  despaired  of  ever 
writing  a  single  line.  Probably  this  was  the  reason.  It  is  not  in  mental 
as  in  natural  ascent — intellectual  objects  seem  higher  when  we  survey 
them  from  below,  than  when  we  look  down  from  any  given  elevation 
above  the  common  level.  My  three  favourite  writers  about  the  time 
I  speak  of  were  Burke,  Junius,  and  Rousseau.  I  was  never  weary  of 
admiring  and  wondering  at  the  felicities  of  the  stjde,  the  turns  of 
expression,  the  refinements  of  thought  and  sentiment:  I  laid  the 
book  down  to  find  out  the  secret  of  so  much  strength  and  beauty, 
and  took  it  up  again  in  despair,  to  read  on  and  admire.  So  I  passed 
whole  days,  months,  and  I  may  add,  years ;  and  have  only  this  to  say 
now,  that  as  my  life  began,  so  I  could  wish  it  may  end.  The  last  time 
I  tasted  this  luxury  in  full  perfection  was  one  day  after  a  sultry  day's 
walk  in  summer  between  Farnham  and  Alton.  I  was  fairly  tired  out; 
I  walked  into  an  inn-yard  (I  think  at  the  latter  place);  I  was  shown 
by  the  waiter  to  what  looked  at  first  like  common  out-houses  at  the 
other  end  of  it,  but  they  turned  out  to  be  a  suite  of  rooms,  probably 
a  hundred  years  old — the  one  I  entered  opened  into  an  old-fashioned 
garden,  embellished  with  beds  of  larkspur  and  a  leaden  Mercury; 
it  was  wainscoted,  and  there  was  a  grave-looking,  dark-coloured 
portrait  of  Charles  II  hanging  up  over  the  tiled  chimney-piece.  I  had 
Love  for  Love  in  my  pocket,  and  began  to  read ;  coffee  was  brought 
in  a  silver  coffee-pot;  the  cream,  the  bread  and  butter,  everything 
was  excellent,  and  the  flavour  of  Congreve's  style  prevailed  over  all. 
I  prolonged  the  entertainment  till  a  late  hour,  and  relished  this  divine 
comedy  better  even  than  when  I  used  to  see  it  played  by  Miss  Mellon, 
as  Miss  Prue ;  Bob  Palmer,  as  Tattle ;  and  Bannister,  as  honest  Ben. 
This  circumstance  happened  just  five  years  ago,  and  it  seems  like 
yesterday.  If  I  count  my  life  so  by  lustres,  it  will  soon  glide  away; 
yet  I  shall  not  have  to  repine,  if,  while  it  lasts,  it  is  enriched  with  a 
few  such  recollections!  {Plain  Speaker,  "Whether  Genius  is  conscious 
of  its  Powers.") 

Can  we  doubt  that  one  in  whom  the  will  to  adventure  was  so 
strong  had  a  happy  life?  The  sense  of  thrill  and  discovery  in 
Hazlitt  gives  to  his  essays  a  kinship  with  the  great  literature  of 
adventure  or  wayfaring,  the  literature  that  begins  for  us  with 
The  Odyssey  and  includes  in  later  times  such  different  and  de- 


xxxvi  Introduction 

lightful  books  as  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Tom  Jones,  the  writings 
of  Borrow  and  The  Pickwick  Papers.  A  fondness  for  Hazlitt  is 
a  fondness  for  health  in  literature. 

Into  any  general  criticism  of  his  writing  this  is  not  the  place 
Haziitt's  to  enter.     One  or  two  points,  however,  should  be 

Prose  noticed.    Haziitt's  frequent  epigrammatic  brilliance 

is  never  false  glitter.  Some  later  essajdsts  have  been  tempted  to 
say  brilliant  things,  not  because  they  are  true,  but  merely  because 
they  are  brilliant.  Hazlitt  is  guiltless  of  this  bid  for  applause. 
Whatever  virtues  he  may  have  lacked,  moral  and  intellectual 
honesty  he  had  in  unusual  fullness.  Forcible,  and  even  furious, 
he  may  sometimes  be  called ;  but  he  is  no  swaggering  companion, 
he  is  no  Ancient  Pistol  of  prose,  merely  blusterous  and  truculent, 
like  some  who  have  thought  to  imitate  him.  Hazlitt  wrote  from 
fierce  unshakeable  convictions,  and  his  literary  rectitude  is  as 
unimpeachable  as  his  political  consistency.  He  is  not,  like  Lamb, 
a  "quaint"  writer.  Indeed,  he  says  of  himself,  "I  hate  my  style 
to  be  known,  as  I  hate  all  idiosyncracy."  Nor  is  he  one  of  those 
whom  we  may  call  great  architects  of  prose — like  the  Burke  whose 
domed  and  pinnacled  sentences  not  all  the  sundering  rancour  of 
the  Revolution  could  prevent  Hazlitt  from  admiring.  Much  of 
his  work  is  what  we  should  call  journalism — current  criticism, 
hastily  set  down  for  waiting  periodicals ;  and  the  wonder  is  that 
its  average  is  so  high — so  high  that  Stevenson  the  fastidious  feels 
compelled  to  assure  us  that,  though  we  are  mighty  fine  fellows 
nowadays,  we  cannot  write  like  WUliam  Hazlitt.  Now  and  then 
he  cheers  our  imperfection  by  giving  us  a  bad  sentence  or  a 
breathless  paragraph,  but  not  often.  His  most  noticeable  oddity 
is  a  trick  of  separating  antecedent  and  relative  too  far,  at  times 
with  unhappy  results,  as  when  he  writes,  "On  the  contrary,  the 
celebrated  person  just  alluded  to  might  be  said  to  grind  the 
sentences  between  his  teeth,  which  he  afterwards  committed  to 
paper"  {Plain  Speaker,  "Prose  Style  of  Poets").  But  these  faults 
are  lost  in  the  general  excellence  of  his  work,  which  combines 
brilliance  with  unstudied  ease  of  manner  in  a  style  altogether  his 
own.  He  never  strains  after  "fine  writing,"  but  he  rises,  when 
he  wishes,  to  heights  of  noble  and  moving  eloquence. 

Walter  Bagehot,  who  owed  something  of  his  own  bright  style 
Hazlitt  and  to  Hazlitt,  and  might  have  learned  from  him,  with 
his  Con-  advantage,  to  relax  the  personal  reserve  that  makes 

temporaries  ^iis  Sparkling  utterance  just  a  little  frigid,  actually 
preferred  Hazlitt  to  Lamb,  thereby  incurring  the  wrath  of  his 
(and  Haziitt's)  old  acquaintance  Crabb  Robinson : 

He  nearly  quarrelled  with  me... for  urging  that  Hazlitt  was  a  much 
greater  writer  than  Charles  Lamb — a  harmless  opinion  which  I  still 
hold,  but  which  Mr  Robinson  met  with  this  outburst:  "You,  sir, 
You  prefer  the  works  of  that  scoundrel,  that  odious,  that  malignant 
writer,  to  the  exquisite  essays  of  that  angelic  creature ! "  {Literary 
Studies,  "Henry  Crabb  Robinson.") 


Hazlitt's  Life  and  Writings  xxxvii 

Bagehot  is  distinguished  enough  to  be  entitled  to  a  preference 
which  the  normal  reader  need  neither  make  nor  share.  The 
obvious  and  wholesome  thing  to  do  is  to  avoid  invidious  dis- 
tinction between  two  essayists  of  very  different  excellence  and  to 
enjoy  each  for  the  best  he  has  to  give. 

Both  Lamb  and  Hazlitt  were  on  the  side  of  the  ancients. 
They  are  safer  guides  to  us  when  they  write  of  the  poets 
and  dramatists  of  older  and  more  flavoured  times  than  on 
the  rare  occasions  when  they  touch  on  the  newer  literature. 
Hazlitt  has  occasionally  some  good  references  to  Byron,  but 
on  the  whole  his  attitude  is  one  of  suspicion.  Neither  Lamb 
nor  Hazlitt  had  a  genuine  liking  for  Keats,  and  their  mis- 
understanding of  Shelley  was  simply  abject.  On  the  other 
hand  Hazlitt's  admiration  for  the  Waverley  novels  was  as  tre- 
mendous as  Borrow's  depreciation  of  them  was  ludicrous. 
Hazlitt's  acquaintance  with  foreign  literature  (other  than  a  few 
works  by  Rousseau)  was  very  very  small,  and  his  references  to  the 
current  music  of  his  day  indicate  that  the  higher  reaches  of  that 
art  were  quite  beyond  him. 

The  portraits  of  Hazlitt  are  many,  but  so  various  as  to  leave 

.  us  with  no  such  clear  and  instantly  recognisable 

Man'**  t  e  image  of  the  man  as  we  have,  say,  of  Scott,  or 

Burns,  or  Wordsworth.     Talfourd's  pen-portrait  is 

admirable : 

In  person,  Mr  Hazlitt  was  of  the  middle  size,  with  a  handsome 
and  eager  countenance,  worn  by  sickness  and  thought,  and  dark  hair, 
which  had  curled  stiffly  over  the  temples,  and  was  only  of  late  years 
sprinkled  with  grey.  His  gait  was  slouching  and  awkward,  and  his 
dress  neglected ;  but  when  he  began  to  talk,  he  could  not  be  mistaken 
for  a  common  man.  In  the  company  of  persons  with  whom  he  was 
not  familiar  his  bashfulness  was  painful ;  but  when  he  became  entirely 
at  ease,  and  entered  on  a  favourite  topic,  no  one's  conversation  was 
ever  more  dehghtful.     {Literary  Remains.) 

So  much  for  the  outward  man.  For  the  rest  let  us  summon 
another  witness.  Thus  writes  Lamb  in  that  Letter  of  Elia  to 
Robert  Southey  which  gave  the  self-righteous  laureate  a  trouncing 
he  deserved  and  preserves  for  us  many  tributes  to  Elian  friends : 

What  hath  soured  him  [Hazlitt],  and  made  him  to  suspect  his 
friends  of  infidelity  towards  him,  when  there  was  no  such  matter, 
I  know  not.  I  stood  well  with  him  for  fifteen  years  (the  proudest 
of  my  life),  and  have  ever  spoke  my  full  mind  of  him  to  some,  to 
whom  his  panegyric  must  naturally  be  least  tasteful.  I  never  in 
thought  swerved  from  him,  I  never  betrayed  him,  I  never  slackened 
in  my  admiration  of  him,  I  was  the  same  to  him  (neither  better  nor 
worse)  though  he  could  not  see  it,  as  in  the  days  when  he  thought 
fit  to  trust  me.  At  this  instant,  he  may  be  preparing  for  me  some 
compliment,  above  my  deserts,  as  he  has  sprinkled  many  such  among 
his  admirable  books,  for  which  I  rest  his  debtor;  or,  for  anything 
I  know,  or  can  guess  to  the  contrary,  he  may  be  about  to  read  a  lecture 


xxxviii  Introduction 

on  my  weaknesses.  He  is  welcome  to  them  (as  he  was  to  my  humble 
hearth),  if  they  can  divert  a  spleen,  or  ventilate  a  fit  of  sullenness. 
I  wish  he  would  not  quarrel  with  the  world  at  the  rate  he  does ;  but 
the  reconciliation  must  be  effected  by  himself,  and  I  despair  of  living 
to  see  that  day.  But,  protesting  against  much  that  he  has  written, 
and  some  things  which  he  chooses  to  do ;  judging  him  by  his  conversa- 
tion which  I  enjoyed  so  long,  and  relished  so  deeply;  or  by  his  books, 
in  those  places  where  no  clouding  passion  intervenes — I  should  belie 
my  own  conscience,  if  I  said  less,  than  that  I  think  W.  H.  to  be,  in 
his  natural  and  healthy  state,  one  of  the  wisest  and  finest  spirits 
breathing.  So  far  from  being  ashamed  of  that  intimacy,  which  was 
betwixt  us,  it  is  my  boast  that  I  was  able  for  so  many  years  to  have 
preserved  it  entire ;  and  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  without  finding, 
or  expecting  to  find,  such  another  companion. 

To  this  it  would  be  an  offence  to  add  another  word. 


MY    FIRST    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    POETS 

My    father    was    a    Dissenting    Minister    at    W m    in 

Shropshire;  and  in  the  year  1798  (the  figures  that  compose 
that  date  are  to  me  like  the  '  dreaded  name  of  Demogorgon') 
Mr  Coleridge  came  to  Shrewsbury,  to  succeed  Mr  Rowe  in 
the  spiritual  charge  of  a  Unitarian  Congregation  there.  He 
did  not  come  till  late  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  before  he 
was  to  preach ;  and  Mr  Rowe,  who  himself  went  down  to  the 
coach  in  a  state  of  anxiety  and  expectation,  to  look  for  the 
arrival  of  his  successor,  could  find  no  one  at  all  answering 
the  description  but  a  round-faced  man  in  a  short  black  coat 
(like  a  shooting  jacket)  which  hardly  seemed  to  have  been 
made  for  him,  but  who  seemed  to  be  talking  at  a  great  rate 
to  his  fellow-passengers.  Mr  Rowe  had  scarce  returned  to 
give  an  account  of  his  disappointment,  when  the  round-faced 
man  in  black  entered,  and  dissipated  all  doubts  on  the  subject, 
by  beginning  to  talk.  He  did  not  cease  while  he  staid;  nor 
has  he  since,  that  I  know  of.  He  held  the  good  town  of 
Shrewsbury  in  delightful  suspense  for  three  weeks  that  he 
remained  there,  'fluttering  the  proud  Salopians  like  an  eagle 
in  a  dove-cote';  and  the  Welch  mountains  that  skirt  the 
horizon  with  their  tempestuous  confusion,  agree  to  have 
heard  no  such  mystic  sounds  since  the  days  of 

High-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay! 

As  we  passed  along  between  W m  and  Shrewsbury,  and 

I  eyed  their  blue  tops  seen  through  the  wintry  branches, 
or  the  red  rustling  leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak-trees  by  the 
road-side,  a  sound  was  in  my  ears  as  of  a  Siren's  song;  I  was 
stunned,  startled  with  it,  as  from  deep  sleep;  but  I  had  no 
notion  then  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  express  my  admiration 


2  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

to  others  in  motley  imagery  or  quaint  allusion,  till  the  light 
of  his  genius  shone  into  my  soul,  like  the  sun's  rays  glittering 
in  the  puddles  of  the  road.  I  was  at  that  time  dumb,  inarticu- 
late, helpless,  like  a  worm  by  the  way-side,  crushed,  bleeding, 
lifeless ;  but  now,  bursting  from  the  deadly  bands  that  bound 
them. 

With  Styx  nine  times  round  them, 

my  ideas  float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand  their 
plumes,  catch  the  golden  light  of  other  years.  My  soul  has 
indeed  remained  in  its  original  bondage,  dark,  obscure,  with 
longings  infinite  and  unsatisfied;  my  heart,  shut  up  in  the 
prison-house  of  this  rude  clay,  has  never  found,  nor  will  it 
ever  find,  a  heart  to  speak  to;  but  that  my  understanding 
also  did  not  remain  dumb  and  brutish,  or  at  length  found 
a  language  to  express  itself,  I  owe  to  Coleridge.  But  this  is 
not  to  my  purpose. 

My  father  lived  ten  miles  from  Shrewsbury,  and  was  in 
the  habit  of  exchanging  visits  with  Mr  Rowe,  and  with 
Mr  Jenkins  of  Whitchurch  (nine  miles  farther  on)  according 
to  the  custom  of  Dissenting  Ministers  in  each  other's  neighbour- 
hood. A  line  of  communication  is  thus  established,  by  which 
the  flame  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  is  kept  alive,  and 
nourishes  its  smouldering  fire  unquenchable,  like  the  fires 
in  the  Agamemnon  of  ^Eschylus,  placed  at  different  stations, 
that  waited  for  ten  long  years  to  announce  with  their  blazing 
pyramids  the  destruction  of  Troy.  Coleridge  had  agreed  to 
come  over  to  see  my  father,  according  to  the  courtesy  of  the 
country,  as  Mr  Rowe's  probable  successor;  but  in  the  mean- 
time I  had  gone  to  hear  him  preach  the  Sunday  after  his 
arrival.  A  poet  and  a  philosopher  getting  up  into  a  Unitarian 
pulpit  to  preach  the  Gospel,  was  a  romance  in  these  degenerate 
days,  a  sort  of  revival  of  the  primitive  spirit  of  Christianity, 
which  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

It  was  in  January,  1798,  that  I  rose  one  morning  before 
daylight,  to  walk  ten  miles  in  the  mud,  and  went  to  hear  this 
celebrated  person  preach.  Never,  the  longest  day  I  have  to 
live,  shall  I  have  such  another  walk  as  this  cold,  raw, 
comfortless  one,  in  the  winter  of  the  year  1798.  II  y  a  des 
impressions  que  ni  le  terns  ni  les  circonstances  peuvent  ejff'acer. 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  3 

Dusse-je  vivre  des  siecles  entiers,  le  doux  terns  de  ma  jeunesse 
ne  pent  renaitre  pour  moi,  ni  s^effacer  jamais  dans  ma  memoir e. 
When  I  got  there,  the  organ  was  playing  the  looth  psalm, 
and,  when  it  was  done,  Mr  Coleridge  rose  and  gave  out  his 
text,  'And  he  went  up  into  the  mountain  to  pray,  himself, 
ALONE.'  As  he  gave  out  this  text,  his  voice  'rose  like  a  steam 
of  rich  distilled  perfumes,'  and  when  he  came  to  the  two  last 
words,  which  he  pronounced  loud,  deep,  and  distinct,  it  seemed 
to  me,  who  was  then  young,  as  if  the  sounds  had  echoed  from  the 
bottom  of  the  human  heart,  and  as  if  that  prayer  might  have 
floated  in  solemn  silence  through  the  universe.  The  idea  of 
St  John  came  into  mind,  'of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness, 
who  had  his  loins  girt  about,  and  whose  food  was  locusts 
and  wild  honey.'  The  preacher  then  launched  into  his  subject, 
like  an  eagle  dallying  with  the  wind.  The  sermon  was  upon 
peace  and  war;  upon  church  and  state — not  their  alliance, 
but  their  separation — on  the  spirit  of  the  world  and  the  spirit 
of  Christianity,  not  as  the  same,  but  as  opposed  to  one  another. 
He  talked  of  those  who  had  'inscribed  the  cross  of  Christ 
on  banners  dripping  with  human  gore.'  He  made  a  poetical 
and  pastoral  excursion, — and  to  shew  the  fatal  effects  of  war, 
drew  a  striking  contrast  between  the  simple  shepherd  boy, 
driving  his  team  afield,  or  sitting  under  the  hawthorn,  piping 
to  his  flock,  'as  though  he  should  never  be  old,'  and  the  same 
poor  country-lad,  crimped,  kidnapped,  brought  into  town, 
made  drunk  at  an  alehouse,  turned  into  a  wretched  drummer- 
boy,  with  his  hair  sticking  on  end  with  powder  and  pomatum, 
a  long  cue  at  his  back,  and  tricked  out  in  the  loathsome  finery 
of  the  profession  of  blood. 

Such  were  the  notes  our  once-lov'd  poet  sung. 

And  for  myself,  I  could  not  have  been  more  dehghted  if  I  had 
heard  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Poetry  and  Philosophy  had 
met  together.  Truth  and  Genius  had  embraced,  under  the 
eye  and  with  the  sanction  of  Religion.  This  was  even  beyond 
my  hopes.  I  returned  home  well  satisfied.  The  sun  that 
was  still  labouring  pale  and  wan  through  the  sky,  obscured 
by  thick  mists,  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  good  cause ;  and  the 
cold  dank  drops  of  dew  that  hung  half  melted  on  the  beard 
of  the  thistle,  had  something  genial  and  refreshing  in  them; 


4  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

for  there  was  a  spirit  of  hope  and  youth  in  all  nature,  that 
turned  every  thing  into  good.  The  face  of  nature  had  not 
then  the  brand  of  Jus  Divinum  on  it: 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscrib'd  with  woe. 

On  the  Tuesday  following,  the  half-inspired  speaker  came. 
I  was  called  down  into  the  room  where  he  was,  and  went 
half-hoping,  half-afraid.  He  received  me  very  graciously, 
and  I  listened  for  a  long  time  without  uttering  a  word.  I  did 
not  suffer  in  his  opinion  by  my  silence.  '  For  those  two  hours,' 
he  afterwards  was  pleased  to  say,  'he  was  conversing  with 
W.  H.'s  forehead!'  His  appearance  was  different  from  what 
I  had  anticipated  from  seeing  him  before.  At  a  distance, 
and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  chapel,  there  was  to  me  a  strange 
wildness  in  his  aspect,  a  dusky  obscurity,  and  I  thought  him 
pitted  with  the  small-pox.  His  complexion  was  at  that  time 
clear,  and  even  bright — 

As  are  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen. 
His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  light  as  if  built  of  ivory, 
with  large  projecting  eyebrows,  and  his  eyes  rolling  beneath 
them  like  a  sea  with  darkened  lustre.  'A  certain  tender 
bloom  his  face  o'erspread,'  a  purple  tinge  as  we  see  it  in  the 
pale  thoughtful  complexions  of  the  Spanish  portrait-painters, 
Murillo  and  Velasquez.  His  mouth  was  gross,  voluptuous, 
open,  eloquent;  his  chin  good-humoured  and  round;  but  his 
nose,  the  rudder  of  the  face,  the  index  of  the  will,  was  small, 
feeble,  nothing — like  what  he  has  done.  It  might  seem  that 
the  genius  of  his  face  as  from  a  height  surveyed  and  projected 
him  (with  sufficient  capacity  and  huge  aspiration)  into  the 
world  unknown  of  thought  and  imagination,  with  nothing  to 
support  or  guide  his  veering  purpose,  as  if  Columbus  had 
launched  his  adventurous  course  for  the  New  World  in  a 
scallop,  without  oars  or  compass.  So  at  least  I  comment  on 
it  after  the  event.  Coleridge  in  his  person  was  rather  above 
the  common  size,  inclining  to  the  corpulent,  or  like  Lord 
Hamlet,  'somewhat  fat  and  pursy.'  His  hair  (now,  alas! 
grey)  was  then  black  and  glossy  as  the  raven's,  and  fell  in 
smooth  masses  over  his  forehead.  This  long  pendulous  hair 
is  peculiar  to  enthusiasts,  to  those  whose  minds  tend  heaven- 
ward;   and  is  traditionally  inseparable  (though  of  a  different 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  5 

colour)  from  the  pictures  of  Christ.  It  ought  to  belong,  as 
a  character,  to  all  who  preach  Christ  crucified,  and  Coleridge 
was  at  that  time  one  of  those! 

It  was  curious  to  observe  the  contrast  between  him  and 
my  father,  who  was  a  veteran  in  the  cause,  and  then  declining 
into  the  vale  of  years.  He  had  been  a  poor  Irish  lad,  carefully 
brought  up  by  his  parents,  and  sent  to  the  University  of 
Glasgow  (where  he  studied  under  Adam  Smith)  to  prepare 
him  for  his  future  destination.  It  was  his  mother's  proudest 
wish  to  see  her  son  a  Dissenting  Minister,  So  if  we  look  back 
to  past  generations  (as  far  as  eye  can  reach)  we  see  the  same 
hopes,  fears,  wishes,  followed  by  the  same  disappointments, 
throbbing  in  the  human  heart;  and  so  we  may  see  them  (if 
we  look  forward)  rising  up  for  ever,  and  disappearing,  like 
vapourish  bubbles,  in  the  human  breast !  After  being  tossed 
about  from  congregation  to  congregation  in  the  heats  of  the 
Unitarian  controversy,  and  squabbles  about  the  American 
war,  he  had  been  relegated  to  an  obscure  village,  where  he 
was  to  spend  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life,  far  from  the  only 
converse  that  he  loved,  the  talk  about  disputed  texts  of 
Scripture  and  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  liberty.  Here 
he  passed  his  days,  repining  but  resigned,  in  the  study  of  the 
Bible,  and  the  perusal  of  the  Commentators, — huge  folios, 
not  easily  got  through,  one  of  which  would  outlast  a  winter ! 
Why  did  he  pore  on  these  from  morn  to  night  (with  the 
exception  of  a  walk  in  the  fields  or  a  turn  in  the  garden  to 
gather  broccoli-plants  or  kidney-beans  of  his  own  rearing, 
with  no  small  degree  of  pride  and  pleasure)  ?• — Here  were 
'no  figures  nor  no  fantasies,' — neither  poetry  nor  philosophy — 
nothing  to  dazzle,  nothing  to  excite  modern  curiosity;  but 
to  his  lack-lustre  eyes  there  appeared,  within  the  pages  of 
the  ponderous,  unwieldy,  neglected  tomes,  the  sacred  name 
of  JEHOVAH  in  Hebrew  capitals  :  pressed  down  by  the  weight 
of  the  style,  worn  to  the  last  fading  thinness  of  the  understand- 
ing, there  were  glimpses,  glimmering  notions  of  the  patriarchal 
wanderings,  with  palm-trees  hovering  in  the  horizon,  and 
processions  of  camels  at  the  distance  of  three  thousand  years ; 
there  was  Moses  with  the  Burning  Bush,  the  number  of  the 
Twelve  Tribes,  types,  shadows,  glosses  on  the  law  and  the 
prophets;    there  were  discussions  (dull  enough)  on  the  age  of 


6  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

Methuselah,  a  mighty  speculation!  there  were  outlines,  rude 
guesses  at  the  shape  of  Noah's  Ark  and  of  the  riches  of 
Solomon's  Temple;  questions  as  to  the  date  of  the  creation, 
predictions  of  the  end  of  all  things;  the  great  lapses  of  time, 
the  strange  mutations  of  the  globe  were  unfolded  with  the 
voluminous  leaf,  as  it  turned  over;  and  though  the  soul 
might  slumber  with  an  hieroglyphic  veil  of  inscrutable  mysteries 
drawn  over  it,  yet  it  was  in  a  slumber  ill-exchanged  for  all  the 
sharpened  realities  of  sense,  wit,  fancy,  or  reason.  My  father's 
life  was  comparatively  a  dream ;  but  it  was  a  dream  of  infinity 
and  eternity,  of  death,  the  resurrection,  and  a  judgment  to 
come! 

No  two  individuals  were  ever  more  unlike  than  were  the 
host  and  his  guest.  A  poet  was  to  my  father  a  sort  of  non- 
descript: yet  whatever  added  grace  to  the  Unitarian  cause 
was  to  him  welcome.  He  could  hardly  have  been  more 
surprised  or  pleased,  if  our  visitor  had  worn  wings.  Indeed, 
his  thoughts  had  wings;  and  as  the  silken  sounds  rustled 
round  our  little  wainscoted  parlour,  my  father  threw  back 
his  spectacles  over  his  forehead,  his  white  hairs  mixing  with 
its  sanguine  hue;  and  a  smile  of  delight  beamed  across  his 
rugged  cordial  face,  to  think  that  Truth  had  found  a  new  ally 
in  Fancyi !  Besides,  Coleridge  seemed  to  take  considerable 
notice  of  me,  and  that  of  itself  was  enough.  He  talked  very 
familiarly,  but  agreeably,  and  glanced  over  a  variety  of 
subjects.  At  dinner-time  he  grew  more  animated,  and  dilated 
in  a  very  edifying  manner  on  Mary  Wolstonecraft  and 
Mackintosh.  The  last,  he  said,  he  considered  (on  my  father's 
speaking  of  his  Vindicice  Gallicce  as  a  capital  performance)  as 
a  clever  scholastic  man — a  master  of  the  topics, — or  as  the 
ready  warehouseman  of  letters,  who  knew  exactly  where  to 
lay  his  hand  on  what  he  wanted,  though  the  goods  were  not 
his  own.  He  thought  him  no  match  for  Burke,  either  in 
style  or  matter.  Burke  was  a  metaphysician.  Mackintosh  a 
mere  logician.     Burke  was   an  orator   (almost   a  poet)   who 

^  My  father  was  one  of  those  who  mistook  his  talent  after  all.  He  used 
to  be  very  much  dissatisfied  that  I  preferred  his  Letters  to  his  Sermons. 
The  last  were  forced  and  dry;  the  first  came  naturally  from  him.  For 
ease,  half-plays  on  words,  and  a  supine,  monkish,  indolent  pleasantry, 
1  have  never  seen  them  equalled. 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  7 

reasoned  in  figures,  because  he  had  an  eye  for  nature :  Mackin- 
tosh, on  the  other  hand,  was  a  rhetorician,  who  had  only  an 
eye  to  common-places.  On  this  I  ventured  to  say  that  I  had 
always  entertained  a  great  opinion  of  Burke,  and  that  (as  far 
as  I  could  find)  the  speaking  of  him  with  contempt  might  be 
made  the  test  of  a  vulgar  democratical  mind.  This  was  the 
first  observation  I  ever  made  to  Coleridge,  and  he  said  it  was 
a  very  just  and  striking  one.  I  remember  the  leg  of  Welsh 
mutton  and  the  turnips  on  the  table  that  day  had  the  finest 
flavour  imaginable.  Coleridge  added  that  Mackintosh  and 
Tom  Wedgwood  (of  whom,  however,  he  spoke  highly)  had 
expressed  a  very  indifferent  opinion  of  his  friend  Mr  Words- 
worth, on  which  he  remarked  to  them — 'He  strides  on  so  far 
before  you,  that  he  dwindles  in  the  distance!'  Godwin  had 
once  boasted  to  him  of  having  carried  on  an  argument  with 
Mackintosh  for  three  hours  with  dubious  success;  Coleridge 
told  him — 'If  there  had  been  a  man  of  genius  in  the  room, 
he  would  have  settled  the  question  in  five  minutes.'  He 
asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  Mary  Wolstonecraft,  and  I  said, 
I  had  once  for  a  few  moments,  and  that  she  seemed  to  me  to 
turn  off  Godwin's  objections  to  something  she  advanced  with 
quite  a  playful,  easy  air.  He  replied,  that  'this  was  only 
one  instance  of  the  ascendancy  which  people  of  imagination 
exercised  over  those  of  mere  intellect.'  He  did  not  rate 
Godwin  very  high^  (this  was  caprice  or  prejudice,  real  or 
affected)  but  he  had  a  great  idea  of  Mrs  Wolstonecraft's 
powers  of  conversation,  none  at  all  of  her  talent  for  book- 
making.  We  talked  a  little  about  Holcroft.  He  had  been 
asked  if  he  was  not  much  struck  with  him,  and  he  said,  he 
thought  himself  in  more  danger  of  being  struck  by  him. 
I  complained  that  he  would  not  let  me  get  on  at  all,  for  he 
required  a  definition  of  every  the  commonest  word,  exclaiming, 
'What  do  you  mean  by  a  sensation,  Sir?  What  do  you  mean 
by  an  idea  ? '  This,  Coleridge  said,  was  barricadoing  the  road 
to  truth : — it  was  setting  up  a  turnpike-gate  at  every  step  we 
took.     I  forget  a  great  number  of  things,  many  more  than 

^  He  complained  In  particular  of  the  presumption  of  attempting  to 
establish  the  future  immortality  of  man  'without'  (as  he  said)  'knowing 
what  Death  was  or  what  Life  was' — and  the  tone  in  which  he  pronounced 
these  two  words  seemed  to  convey  a  complete  image  of  both. 


8  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

I    remember;     but   the   day  passed   off   pleasantly,   and   the 
next  morning  Mr   Coleridge  was   to   return   to   Shrewsbury. 
When  I  came  down  to  breakfast,  I  found  that  he  had  just 
received  a  letter  from  his  friend  T,  Wedgwood,  making  him 
an  offer  of  150/.  a-year  if  he  chose  to  wave  his  present  pursuit, 
and    devote   himself    entirely    to    the    study    of    poetry    and 
philosophy.     Coleridge  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind  to  close 
with  this  proposal  in  the  act  of  tying  on  one  of  his  shoes. 
It  threw  an  additional  damp  on  his  departure.     It  took  the 
wayward  enthusiast  quite  from  us  to  cast  him  into  Deva's 
winding  vales,  or  by  the  shores  of  old  romance.     Instead  of 
living  at  ten  miles  distance,  of  being  the  pastor  of  a  Dissenting 
congregation   at   Shrewsbury,   he  was  henceforth  to  inhabit 
the  Hill  of  Parnassus,  to  be  a  Shepherd  on  the  Delectable 
Mountains.     Alas !  I  knew  not  the  way  thither,  and  felt  very 
little  gratitude  for  Mr  Wedgwood's  bounty.     I  was  presently 
relieved  from  this  dilemma;    for  Mr  Coleridge,  asking  for  a 
pen  and  ink,  and  going  to  a  table  to  write  something  on  a  bit  of 
card,  advanced  towards  me  with  undulating  step,  and  giving 
me  the  precious  document,  said  that  that  was  his  address, 
Mr  Coleridge,  Nether-Stowey,  Somersetshire ;  and  that  he  should 
be  glad  to  see  me  there  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  and,  if  I  chose, 
would  come  half-way  to  meet  me.     I  was  not  less  surprised 
than  the  shepherd-boy  (this  simile  is  to  be  found  in  Cassandra) 
when  he  sees  a  thunder-bolt  fall  close  at  his  feet.     I  stammered 
out  my  acknowledgments  and  acceptance  of  this  offer  (I  thought 
Mr  Wedgwood's  annuity  a  trifle  to  it)  as  well  as  I  could;   and 
this  mighty   business   being  settled,   the  poet-preacher   took 
leave,  and  I  accompanied  him  six  miles  on  the  road.     It  was 
a  line  morning  in  the  middle  of  winter,  and  he  talked  the  whole 
way.     The  scholar  in  Chaucer  is  described  as  going 

Sounding  on  his  way. 

So  Coleridge  went  on  his.  In  digressing,  in  dilating,  in  passing 
from  subject  to  subject,  he  appeared  to  me  to  float  in  air,  to 
slide  on  ice.  He  told  me  in  confidence  (going  along)  that  he 
should  have  preached  two  sermons  before  he  accepted  the 
situation  at  Shrewsbury,  one  on  Infant  Baptism,  the  other  on 
the  Lord's  Supper,  shewing  that  he  could  not  administer 
either,  which  would  have  effectually  disqualified  him  for  the 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  9 

object  in  view.  I  observed  that  he  continually  crossed  me 
on  the  way  by  shifting  from  one  side  of  the  foot-path  to  the 
other.  This  struck  me  as  an  odd  movement;  but  I  did  not 
at  that  time  connect  it  with  any  instability  of  purpose  or 
involuntary  change  of  principle,  as  I  have  done  since.  He 
seemed  unable  to  keep  on  in  a  strait  line.  He  spoke  shghtingly 
of  Hume  (whose  Essay  on  Miracles  he  said  was  stolen  from 
an  objection  started  in  one  of  South's  sermons — Credat  Judaus 
Apella!).  I  was  not  very  much  pleased  at  this  account  of 
Hume,  for  I  had  just  been  reading,  with  infinite  relish,  that 
completest  of  all  metaphysical  choke-fears,  his  Treatise  on 
Human  Nature,  to  which  the  Essays,  in  point  of  scholastic 
subtlety  and  close  reasoning,  are  mere  elegant  trifling,  light 
summer-reading.  Coleridge  even  denied  the  excellence  of 
Hume's  general  style,  which  I  think  betrayed  a  want  of  taste 
or  candour.  He  however  made  me  amends  by  the  manner 
in  which  he  spoke  of  Berkeley.  He  dwelt  particularly  on 
his  Essay  on  Vision  as  a  masterpiece  of  analytical  reasoning. 
So  it  undoubtedly  is.  He  was  exceedingly  angry  with 
Dr  Johnson  for  striking  the  stone  with  his  foot,  in  allusion 
to  this  author's  Theory  of  Matter  and  Spirit,  and  saying, 
'Thus  I  confute  him.  Sir.'  Coleridge  drew  a  parallel  (I  don't 
know  how  he  brought  about  the  connection)  between  Bishop 
Berkeley  and  Tom  Paine.  He  said  the  one  was  an  instance 
of  a  subtle,  the  other  of  an  acute  mind,  than  which  no  two 
things  could  be  more  distinct.  The  one  was  a  shop-boy's 
quality,  the  other  the  characteristic  of  a  philosopher.  He 
considered  Bishop  Butler  as  a  true  philosopher,  a  profound 
and  conscientious  thinker,  a  genuine  reader  of  nature  and  of 
his  own  mind.  He  did  not  speak  of  his  Analogy,  but  of  his 
Sermons  at  the  Rolls''  Chapel,  of  which  I  had  never  heard. 
Coleridge  somehow  always  contrived  to  prefer  the  unknown 
to  the  known.  In  this  instance  he  was  right.  The  Analogy 
is  a  tissue  of  sophistry,  of  wire-drawn,  theological  special- 
pleading;  the  Sermons  (with  the  Preface  to  them)  are  in  a 
fine  vein  of  deep,  matured  reflection,  a  candid  appeal  to  our 
observation  of  human  nature,  without  pedantry  and  without 
bias.  I  told  Coleridge  I  had  written  a  few  remarks,  and  was 
sometimes  foolish  enough  to  believe  that  I  had  made  a  discovery 
on  the  same  subject  (the  Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the  Human 


lo  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

Mind) — and  I  tried  to  explain  my  view  of  it  to  Coleridge, 
who  listened  with  great  willingness,  but  I  did  not  succeed  in 
making  myself  understood.  I  sat  down  to  the  task  shortly 
afterwards  for  the  twentieth  time,  got  new  pens  and  paper, 
determined  to  make  clear  work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  meagre 
sentences  in  the  skeleton-style  of  a  mathematical  demonstra- 
tion, stopped  half-way  down  the  second  page;  and,  after 
trying  in  vain  to  pump  up  any  words,  images,  notions, 
apprehensions,  facts,  or  observations,  from  that  gulph  of 
abstraction  in  which  I  had  plunged  myself  for  four  or  five 
years  preceding,  gave  up  the  attempt  as  labour  in  vain,  and 
shed  tears  of  helpless  despondency  on  the  blank  unfinished 
paper.  I  can  write  fast  enough  now.  Am  I  better  than  I 
was  then  ?  Oh  no !  One  truth  discovered,  one  pang  of 
regret  at  not  being  able  to  express  it,  is  better  than  all  the 
fluency  and  flippancy  in  the  world.  Would  that  I  could  go 
back  to  what  I  then  was !  Why  can  we  not  revive  past  times 
as  we  can  revisit  old  places?  If  I  had  the  quaint  Muse  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  to  assist  me,  I  would  write  a  Sonnet  to  the 

Road  between  W m  and  Shrewsbury^  and  immortalise  every 

step  of  it  by  some  fond  enigmatical  conceit.  I  would  swear 
that  the  very  milestones  had  ears,  and  that  Harmer-hill 
stooped  with  all  its  pines,  to  listen  to  a  poet,  as  he  passed! 
I  remember  but  one  other  topic  of  discourse  in  this  walk. 
He  mentioned  Paley,  praised  the  naturalness  and  clearness 
of  his  style,  but  condemned  his  sentiments,  thought  him  a 
mere  time-serving  casuist,  and  said  that  'the  fact  of  his  work 
on  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy  being  made  a  text-book 
in  our  Universities  was  a  disgrace  to  the  national  character.' 
We  parted  at  the  six-mile  stone;  and  I  returned  homeward 
pensive  but  much  pleased.  I  had  met  with  unexpected 
notice  from  a  person,  whom  I  believed  to  have  been  prejudiced 
against  me.  'Kind  and  affable  to  me  had  been  his  con- 
descension, and  should  be  honoured  ever  with  suitable  regard.' 
He  was  the  first  poet  I  had  known,  and  he  certainly  answered 
to  that  inspired  name.  I  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  his  powers 
of  conversation,  and  was  not  disappointed.  In  fact,  I  never 
met  with  any  thing  at  all  like  them,  either  before  or  since. 
I  could  easily  credit  the  accounts  which  were  circulated  of 
his  holding  forth  to  a  large  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  ar 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  ii 

evening  or  two  before,  on  the  Berkeleian  Theory,  when  he 
made  the  whole  material  universe  look  like  a  transparency  of 
fine  words;  and  another  story  (which  I  believe  he  has  some- 
where told  himself)  of  his  being  asked  to  a  party  at  Birmingham, 
of  his  smoking  tobacco  and  going  to  sleep  after  dinner  on  a 
sofa,  where  the  company  found  him  to  their  no  small  surprise, 
which  was  increased  to  wonder  when  he  started  up  of  a  sudden, 
and  rubbing  his  eyes,  looked  about  him,  and  launched  into  a 
three-hours'  description  of  the  third  heaven,  of  which  he  had 
had  a  dream,  very  different  from  Mr  Southey's  Vision  of 
Judgment,  and  also  from  that  other  Vision  of  Judgment, 
which  Mr  Murray,  the  Secretary  of  the  Bridge-street  Junto, 
has  taken  into  his  especial  keeping! 

On  my  way  back,  I  had  a  sound  in  my  ears,  it  was  the  voice 
of  Fancy:  I  had  a  light  before  me,  it  was  the  face  of  Poetry. 
The  one  still  lingers  there,  the  other  has  not  quitted  my  side ! 
Coleridge  in  truth  met  me  half-way  on  the  ground  of  philosophy, 
or  I  should  not  have  been  won  over  to  his  imaginative  creed. 
I  had  an  uneasy,  pleasurable  sensation  all  the  time,  till  I  was 
to  visit  him.  During  those  months  the  chill  breath  of  winter 
gave  me  a  welcoming;  the  vernal  air  was  balm  and  inspiration 
to  me.  The  golden  sunsets,  the  silver  star  of  evening,  hghted 
me  on  my  way  to  new  hopes  and  prospects.  /  was  to  visit 
Coleridge  in  the  spring.  This  circumstance  was  never  absent 
from  my  thoughts,  and  mingled  with  all  my  feelings.  I  wrote 
to  him  at  the  time  proposed,  and  received  an  answer  postponing 
my  intended  visit  for  a  week  or  two,  but  very  cordially  urging 
me  to  complete  my  promise  then.  This  delay  did  not  damp, 
but  rather  increased  my  ardour.  In  the  meantime,  I  went 
to  Llangollen  Vale,  by  way  of  initiating  myself  in  the  mysteries 
of  natural  scenery;  and  I  must  say  I  was  enchanted  with  it. 
I  had  been  reading  Coleridge's  description  of  England  in  his 
fine  Ode  on  the  Departing  Tear,  and  I  applied  it,  con  amore, 
to  the  objects  before  me.  That  valley  was  to  me  (in  a  manner) 
the  cradle  of  a  new  existence :  in  the  river  that  winds  through 
it,  my  spirit  was  baptised  in  the  waters  of  Helicon! 

I  returned  home,  and  soon  after  set  out  on  my  journey 
with  unworn  heart  and  untired  feet.  My  way  lay  through 
Worcester  and  Gloucester,  and  by  Upton,  where  I  thought  of 
Tom   Jones   and   the   adventure   of   the   muff.     I    remember 


12  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

getting  completely  wet  through  one  day,  and  stopping  at  an 
inn  (I  think  it  was  at  Tewkesbury)  where  I  sat  up  all  night 
to  read  Paul  and  Virginia.  Sweet  were  the  showers  in  early 
youth  that  drenched  my  body,  and  sweet  the  drops  of  pity 
that  fell  upon  the  books  I  read!  I  recollect  a  remark  of 
Coleridge's  upon  this  very  book,  that  nothing  could  shew  the 
gross  indelicacy  of  French  manners  and  the  entire  corruption 
of  their  imagination  more  strongly  than  the  behaviour  of  the 
heroine  in  the  last  fatal  scene,  who  turns  away  from  a  person 
on  board  the  sinking  vessel,  that  offers  to  save  her  life,  because 
he  has  thrown  off  his  clothes  to  assist  him  in  swimming.  Was 
this  a  time  to  think  of  such  a  circumstance  ?  I  once  hinted 
to  Wordsworth,  as  we  were  sailing  in  his  boat  on  Grasmere 
lake,  that  I  thought  he  had  borrowed  the  idea  of  his  Poems 
on  the  Naming  Of  Places  from  the  local  inscriptions  of  the 
same  kind  in  Paul  and  Virginia.  He  did  not  own  the  obligation, 
and  stated  some  distinction  without  a  difference,  in  defence  of 
his  claim  to  originality.  Any  the  slightest  variation  would 
be  sufficient  for  this  purpose  in  his  mind;  for  whatever  he 
added  or  omitted  would  inevitably  be  worth  all  that  any  one 
else  had  done,  and  contain  the  marrow  of  the  sentiment. 
I  was  still  two  days  before  the  time  fixed  for  my  arrival,  for 
I  had  taken  care  to  set  out  early  enough.  I  stopped  these 
two  days  at  Bridgewater,  and  when  I  was  tired  of  sauntering 
on  the  banks  of  its  muddy  river,  returned  to  the  inn,  and  read 
Camilla.  So  have  I  loitered  my  life  away,  reading  books, 
looking  at  pictures,  going  to  plays,  hearing,  thinking,  writing 
on  what  pleased  me  best.  I  have  wanted  only  one  thing  to 
make  me  happy;  but  wanting  that,  have  wanted  everything! 
I  arrived,  and  was  well  received.  The  country  about 
Nether  Stowey  is  beautiful,  green  and  hilly,  and  near  the 
sea-shore.  I  saw  it  but  the  other  day,  after  an  interval  of 
twenty  years,  from  a  hill  near  Taunton.  How  was  the  map 
of  my  life  spread  out  before  me,  as  the  map  of  the  country 
lay  at  my  feet!  In  the  afternoon,  Coleridge  took  me  over 
to  All-Foxden,  a  romantic  old  family-mansion  of  the  St  Aubins, 
where  Wordsworth  lived.  It  was  then  in  the  possession  of 
a  friend  of  the  poet's,  who  gave  him  the  free  use  of  it.  Somehow 
that  period  (the  time  just  after  the  French  Revolution)  was 
not  a  time  when  nothing  was  given  for  nothing.     The  mind 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  13 

opened,  and  a  softness  might  be  perceived  coming  over  the 
heart  of  individuals,  beneath  'the  scales  that  fence'  our  self- 
interest.  Wordsworth  himself  was  from  home,  but  his  sister 
kept  house,  and  set  before  us  a  frugal  repast;  and  we  had 
free  access  to  her  brother's  poems,  the  Lyrical  Ballads^  which 
were  still  in  manuscript,  or  in  the  form  of  Sybilline  Leaves. 
I  dipped  into  a  few  of  these  with  great  satisfaction,  and  with 
the  faith  of  a  novice.  I  slept  that  night  in  an  old  room  with 
blue  hangings,  and  covered  with  the  round-faced  family- 
portraits  of  the  age  of  George  I  and  II,  and  from  the  wooded 
declivity  of  the  adjoining  park  that  overlooked  my  window, 
at  the  dawn  of  day,  could 

hear  the  loud  stag  speak. 

In  the  outset  of  life  (and  particularly  at  this  time  I  felt  it 
so)  our  imagination  has  a  body  to  it.  We  are  in  a  state  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  have  indistinct  but  glorious  glimpses 
of  strange  shapes,  and  there  is  always  something  to  come  better 
than  what  we  see.  As  in  our  dreams  the  fulness  of  the  blood 
gives  warmth  and  reality  to  the  coinage  of  the  brain,  so  in 
youth  our  ideas  are  clothed,  and  fed,  and  pampered  with  our 
good  spirits;  we  breathe  thick  with  thoughtless  happiness, 
the  weight  of  future  years  presses  on  the  strong  pulses  of  the 
heart,  and  we  repose  with  undisturbed  faith  in  truth  and  good. 
As  we  advance,  we  exhaust  our  fund  of  enjoyment  and  of 
hope.  We  are  no  longer  wrapped  in  lamF s-zvool,  lulled  in 
Elysium.  As  we  taste  the  pleasures  of  life,  their  spirit 
evaporates,  the  sense  palls;  and  nothing  is  left  but  the 
phantoms,  the  lifeless  shadows  of  what  has  been ! 

That  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  we  strolled 
out  into  the  park,  and  seating  ourselves  on  the  trunk  of  an 
old  ash-tree  that  stretched  along  the  ground,  Coleridge  read 
aloud  with  a  sonorous  and  musical  voice,  the  ballad  of  Betty 
Foy.  I  was  not  critically  or  sceptically  inclined.  I  saw 
touches  of  truth  and  nature,  and  took  the  rest  for  granted. 
But  in  the  Thorn,  the  Mad  Mother,  and  the  Complaint  of  a 
Poor  Indian  Woman,  I  felt  that  deeper  power  and  pathos 
which  have  been  since  acknowledged. 

In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
as  the  characteristics  of  this  author:  and  the  sense  of  a  new 


14  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

style  and  a  new  spirit  in  poetry  came  over  me.  It  had  to 
me  something  of  the  effect  that  arises  from  the  turning  up 
of  the  fresh  soil,  or  of  the  first  welcome  breath  of  Spring, 

While  yet  the  trembhng  year  is  unconfirmed. 

Coleridge  and  myself  walked  back  to  Stowey  that  evening, 
and  his  voice  sounded  high 

Of  Providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate, 
Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,' 

as  we  passed  through  echoing  grove,  by  fairy  stream  or 
waterfall,  gleaming  in  the  summer  moonhght!  He  lamented 
that  Wordsworth  was  not  prone  enough  to  believe  in  the 
traditional  superstitions  of  the  place,  and  that  there  was  a 
something  corporeal,  a  matter-qf-fact-ness,  a  clinging  to  the 
palpable,  or  often  to  the  petty,  in  his  poetry,  in  consequence. 
His  genius  was  not  a  spirit  that  descended  to  him  through 
the  air ;  it  sprung  out  of  the  ground  like  a  flower,  or  unfolded 
itself  from  a  green  spray,  on  which  the  gold-finch  sang.  He 
said,  however  (if  I  remember  right)  that  this  objection  must 
be  confined  to  his  descriptive  pieces,  that  his  philosophic 
poetry  had  a  grand  and  comprehensive  spirit  in  it,  so  that 
his  soul  seemed  to  inhabit  the  universe  like  a  palace,  and  to 
discover  truth  by  intuition,  rather  than  by  deduction.  The 
next  day  Wordsworth  arrived  from  Bristol  at  Coleridge's 
cottage.  I  think  I  see  him  now.  He  answered  in  some  degree 
to  his  friend's  description  of  him,  but  was  more  gaunt  and 
Don  Quixote-like.  He  was  quaintly  dressed  (according  to 
the  costume  of  that  unconstrained  period)  in  a  brown  fustian 
jacket  and  striped  pantaloons.  There  was  something  of  a  roll, 
a  lounge  in  his  gait,  not  unlike  his  own  Peter  Bell.  There  was 
a  severe,  worn  pressure  of  thought  about  his  temples,  a  fire 
in  his  eye  (as  if  he  saw  something  in  objects  more  than  the 
outward  appearance),  an  intense  high  narrow  forehead,  a 
Roman  nose,  cheeks  furrowed  by  strong  purpose  and  feeling, 
and  a  convulsive  inclination  to  laughter  about  the  mouth,  a 
good  deal  at  variance  with  the  solemn,  stately  expression  of  the 
rest  of  his  face.  Chantry's  bust  wants  the  marking  traits ;  but 
he  was  teazed  into  making  it  regular  and  heavy:  Haydon's 
head  of  him,  introduced  into  the  Entrance  of  Christ  into 
Jerusalem^  is  the  most  like  his  drooping  weight  of  thought 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  15 

and  expression.  He  sat  down  and  talked  very  naturally 
and  freely,  with  a  mixture  of  clear  gushing  accents  in  his 
voice,  a  deep  guttural  intonation,  and  a  strong  tincture 
of  the  northern  burr,  like  the  crust  on  wine.  He  instantly 
began  to  make  havoc  of  the  half  of  a  Cheshire  cheese  on 
the  table,  and  said  triumphantly  that  'his  marriage  with 
experience  had  not  been  so  unproductive  as  Mr  Southey's  in 
teaching  him  a  knowledge  of  the  good  things  of  this  hfe.' 
He  had  been  to  see  the  Castle  Spectre  by  Monk  Lewis,  while 
at  Bristol,  and  described  it  very  well.  He  said  'it  fitted  the 
taste  of  the  audience  like  a  glove.'  This  ad  captandum  merit 
was  however  by  no  means  a  recommendation  of  it,  according 
to  the  severe  principles  of  the  new  school,  which  reject  rather 
than  court  popular  effect  Wordsworth,  looking  out  of  the 
low,  latticed  window,  said,  'How  beautifully  the  sun  sets  on 
that  yellow  bank!'  I  thought  within  myself,  'With  what 
eyes  these  poets  see  nature ! '  and  ever  after,  when  I  saw  the 
sun-set  stream  upon  the  objects  facing  it,  conceived  I  had 
made  a  discovery,  or  thanked  Mr  Wordsworth  for  having 
made  one  for  me !  We  went  over  to  All-Foxden  again  the 
day  following,  and  Wordsworth  read  us  the  story  of  Peter 
Bell  in  the  open  air;  and  the  comment  made  upon  it  by  his 
face  and  voice  was  very  different  from  that  of  some  later 
critics!  Whatever  might  be  thought  of  the  poem,  'his  face 
was  as  a  book  where  men  might  read  strange  matters,'  and 
he  announced  the  fate  of  his  hero  in  prophetic  tones.  There 
is  a  chaunt  in  the  recitation  both  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth, 
which  acts  as  a  spell  upon  the  hearer,  and  disarms  the  judgment. 
Perhaps  they  have  deceived  themselves  by  making  habitual 
use  of  this  ambiguous  accompaniment.  Coleridge's  manner 
is  more  full,  animated,  and  varied;  Wordsworth's  more 
equable,  sustained,  and  internal.  The  one  might  be  termed 
more  dramatic,  the  other  more  lyrical.  Coleridge  has  told 
me  that  he  himself  liked  to  compose  in  walking  over  uneven 
ground,  or  breaking  through  the  straggling  branches  of  a 
copse-wood ;  whereas  Wordsworth  always  wrote  (if  he  could) 
walking  up  and  down  a  straight  gravel-walk,  or  in  some  spot 
where  the  continuity  of  his  verse  met  with  no  collateral 
interruption.  Returning  that  same  evening,  I  got  into  a 
metaphysical   argument   with   Wordsworth,   while   Coleridge 


i6  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

was  explaining  the  different  notes  of  the  nightingale  to  his 
sister,  in  which  we  neither  of  us  succeeded  in  making  ourselves 
perfectly  clear  and  intelligible.  Thus  I  passed  three  weeks 
at  Nether  Stowey  and  in  the  neighbourhood,  generally  devoting 
the  afternoons  to  a  dehghtful  chat  in  an  arbour  made  of  bark 
by  the  poet's  friend  Tom  Poole,  sitting  under  two  fine  elm- 
trees,  and  Hstening  to  the  bees  humming  round  us,  while 
we  quaffed  our  flip.  It  was  agreed,  among  other  things, 
that  we  should  make  a  jaunt  down  the  Bristol-Channel,  as 
far  as  Linton.  We  set  off  together  on  foot,  Coleridge,  John 
Chester,  and  I.  This  Chester  was  a  native  of  Nether  Stowey, 
one  of  those  who  were  attracted  to  Coleridge's  discourse  as 
flies  are  to  honey,  or  bees  in  swarming-time  to  the  sound  of  a 
brass  pan.  He  'followed  in  the  chase,  like  a  dog  who  hunts, 
not  like  one  that  made  up  the  cry.'  He  had  on  a  brown 
cloth  coat,  boots,  and  corduroy  breeches,  was  low  in  stature, 
bow-legged,  had  a  drag  in  his  walk  like  a  drover,  which  he 
assisted  by  a  hazel  switch,  and  kept  on  a  sort  of  trot  by  the 
side  of  Coleridge,  like  a  running  footman  by  a  state  coach, 
that  he  might  not  lose  a  syllable  or  sound  that  fell  from 
Coleridge's  lips.  He  told  me  his  private  opinion,  that  Coleridge 
was  a  wonderful  man.  He  scarcely  opened  his  lips,  much  less 
offered  an  opinion  the  whole  way:  yet  of  the  three,  had  I  to 
chuse  during  that  journey,  I  would  be  John  Chester.  He 
afterwards  followed  Coleridge  into  Germany,  where  the 
Kantean  philosophers  were  puzzled  how  to  bring  him  under 
any  of  their  categories.  When  he  sat  down  at  table  with  his 
idol,  John's  felicity  was  complete;  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  or 
Mr  Blackwood's,  when  they  sat  down  at  the  same  table  with 
the  King,  was  not  more  so.  We  passed  Dunster  on  our  right, 
a  small  town  between  the  brow  of  a  hill  and  the  sea.  I  re- 
member eying  it  wistfully  as  it  lay  below  us :  contrasted  with 
the  woody  scene  around,  it  looked  as  clear,  as  pure,  as 
embrowned  and  ideal  as  any  landscape  I  have  seen  since,  of 
Gaspar  Poussin's  or  Domenichino's.  We  had  a  long  day's 
march — (our  feet  kept  time  to  the  echoes  of  Coleridge's 
tongue) — through  Minehead  and  by  the  Blue  Anchor,  and  on 
to  Linton,  which  we  did  not  reach  till  near  midnight,  and 
where  we  had  some  difficulty  in  making  a  lodgment.  We 
however  knocked  the  people  of  the  house  up  at  last,  and  we 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  17 

were  repaid  for  our  apprehensions  and  fatigue  by  some 
excellent  rashers  of  fried  bacon  and  eggs.  The  view  in  coming 
along  had  been  splendid.  We  walked  for  miles  and  miles 
on  dark  brown  heaths  overlooking  the  Channel,  with  the 
Welsh  hills  beyond,  and  at  times  descended  into  little  sheltered 
valleys  close  by  the  seaside,  with  a  smuggler's  face  scowling 
by  us,  and  then  had  to  ascend  conical  hills  with  a  path  winding 
up  through  a  coppice  to  a  barren  top,  like  a  monk's  shaven 
crown,  from  one  of  which  I  pointed  out  to  Coleridge's  notice 
the  bare  masts  of  a  vessel  on  the  very  edge  of  the  horizon 
and  within  the  red-orbed  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  like  his 
own  spectre-ship  in  the  Ancient  Mariner.  At  Linton  the 
character  of  the  sea-coast  becomes  more  marked  and  rugged. 
There  is  a  place  called  the  Valley  of  Rocks  (I  suspect  this  was 
only  the  poetical  name  for  it)  bedded  among  precipices 
overhanging  the  sea,  with  rocky  caverns  beneath,  into  which 
the  waves  dash,  and  where  the  sea-gull  for  ever  wheels  its 
screaming  flight.  On  the  tops  of  these  are  huge  stones 
thrown  transverse,  as  if  an  earthquake  had  tossed  them 
there,  and  behind  these  is  a  fretwork  of  perpendicular  rocks, 
something  hke  the  Gianfs  Causeway.  A  thunder-storm  came 
on  while  we  were  at  the  inn,  and  Coleridge  was  running  out 
bare-headed  to  enjoy  the  commotion  of  the  elements  in  the 
Valley  of  Rocks,  but  as  if  in  spite,  the  clouds  only  muttered 
a  few  angry  sounds,  and  let  fall  a  few  refreshing  drops. 
Coleridge  told  me  that  he  and  Wordsworth  were  to  have 
made  this  place  the  scene  of  a  prose-tale,  which  was  to  have 
been  in  the  manner  of,  but  far  superior  to,  the  Death  of  Abel, 
but  they  had  relinquished  the  design.  In  the  morning  of  the 
second  day,  we  breakfasted  luxuriously  in  an  old-fashioned 
parlour,  on  tea,  toast,  eggs,  and  honey,  in  the  very  sight  of 
the  bee-hives  from  which  it  had  been  taken,  and  a  garden 
full  of  thyme  and  wild  flowers  that  had  produced  it.  On  this 
occasion  Coleridge  spoke  of  Virgil's  Georgics,  but  not  well. 
I  do  not  think  he  had  much  feeling  for  the  classical  or  elegant. 
It  was  in  this  room  that  we  found  a  little  worn-out  copy  of 
the  Seasons,  lying  in  a  window-seat,  on  which  Coleridge 
exclaimed,  ''That  is  true  fame!'  He  said  Thomson  was  a 
great  poet,  rather  than  a  good  one;  his  style  was  as  mere- 
tricious as  his  thoughts  were  natural.     He  spoke  of  Cowper 


i8  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

as  the  best  modern  poet.  He  said  the  Lyrical  Ballads  were 
an  experiment  about  to  be  tried  by  him  and  Wordsworth, 
to  see  how  far  the  public  taste  would  endure  poetry'  written 
in  a  more  natural  and  simple  style  than  had  hitherto  been 
attempted ;  totally  discarding  the  artifices  of  poetical  diction, 
and  making  use  only  of  such  words  as  had  probably  been 
common  in  the  most  ordinary  language  since  the  days  of 
Henr)^  II.  Seme  comparison  was  introduced  between  Shake- 
spear  and  Milton.  He  said  'he  hardly  knew  which  to  prefer. 
Shakespear  appeared  to  him  a  mere  stripHng  in  the  art ;  he  was 
as  tall  and  as  strong,  with  infinitely  more  activity  than  Milton, 
but  he  never  appeared  to  have  come  to  man's  estate;  or  if 
he  had,  he  would  not  have  been  a  man,  but  a  monster.'  He 
spoke  with  contempt  of  Gray,  and  with  intolerance  of  Pope. 
He  did  not  like  the  versification  of  the  latter.  H^  observed 
that  'the  ears  of  these  couplet-writers  might  be  charged  \\-\xh. 
having  short  memories,  that  could  not  retain  the  harmony 
of  whole  passages.'  He  thought  little  of  Junius  as  a  writer; 
he  had  a  dislike  of  Dr  Johnson;  and  a  much  higher  opinion 
of  Burke  as  an  orator  and  politician,  than  of  Fox  or  Pitt. 
He  however  thought  him  ver\^  inferior  in  richness  of  style 
and  imagery-  to  some  of  our  elder  prose-writers,  particularly 
Jeremy  Taylor.  He  liked  Richardson,  but  not  Fielding;  nor 
could  I  get  him  to  enter  into  the  merits  of  Caleb  Williams'^. 
In  short,  he  was  profound  and  discriminating  with,  respect 
to  those  authors  whom  he  liked,  and  where  he  gave  his 
judgment  fair  play;  capricious,  perverse,  and  prejudiced  in 
his  antipathies  and  distastes.  We  loitered  on  the  'ribbed 
sea-sands,'  in  such  talk  as  this,  a  whole  morning,  and  I  recollect 
met  with  a  curious  sea-weed,  of  which  John  Chester  told  us 
the  country  name!  A  fisherman  gave  Coleridge  an  account 
of  a  boy  that  had  been  drowned  the  day  before,  and  that  they 
had  tried  to  save  him  at  the  risk  of  their  own  lives.     He  said 


^  He  had  no  idea  of  pictures,  of  Claude  or  Raphael,  and  at  this  time 
I  had  as  httle  as  he.  He  sometimes  gives  a  striking  account  at  present  of 
the  Cartoons  at  Pisa,  by  Buffamalco  and  others :  of  one  in  particular,  where 
Death  is  seen  in  the  air  brandishing  his  scythe,  and  the  great  and  mighty  of 
the  earth  shudder  at  his  approach,  while  the  beggars  and  the  wretched 
kneel  to  him  as  their  dehverer.  He  would  of  course  understand  so  broad 
and  fine  a  moral  as  this  at  any  time. 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  19 

'he  did  not  know  how  it  was  that  they  ventured,  but,  Sir,  we 
have  a  nature  towards  one  another,'  This  expression,  Coleridge 
remarked  to  me,  was  a  fine  illustration  of  that  theory  of 
disinterestedness  which  I  (in  common  with  Butler)  had 
adopted.  I  broached  to  him  an  argument  of  mine  to  prove 
that  likeness  was  not  mere  association  of  ideas.  I  said  that 
the  mark  in  the  sand  put  one  in  mind  of  a  man's  foot,  not 
because  it  was  part  of  a  former  impression  of  a  man's  foot 
(for  it  was  quite  new)  but  because  it  was  like  the  shape  of 
a  man's  foot.  He  assented  to  the  justness  of  this  distinction 
(which  I  have  explained  at  length  elsewhere,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  curious)  and  John  Chester  listened;  not  from  any 
interest  in  the  subject,  but  because  he  was  astonished  that 
I  should  be  able  to  suggest  any  thing  to  Coleridge  that  he  did 
not  already  know.  We  returned  on  the  third  morning,  and 
Coleridge  remarked  the  silent  cottage-smoke  curHng  up  the 
valleys  where,  a  few  evenings  before,  we  had  seen  the  lights 
gleaming  through  the  dark. 

In  a  day  or  two  after  we  arrived  at  Stowey,  we  set  out, 
I  on  my  return  home,  and  he  for  Germany.  It  was  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  he  was  to  preach  that  day  for  Dr  Toulmin  of 
Taunton.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  prepared  anything  for  the 
occasion  ?  He  said  he  had  not  even  thought  of  the  text, 
but  should  as  soon  as  we  parted.  I  did  not  go  to  hear  him, — 
this  was  a  fault, — but  we  met  in  the  evening  at  Bridgewater, 
The  next  day  we  had  a  long  day's  walk  to  Bristol,  and  sat 
down,  I  recollect,  by  a  well-side  on  the  road,  to  cool  ourselves 
and  satisfy  our  thirst,  when  Coleridge  repeated  to  me  some 
descriptive  Hnes  from  his  tragedy  of  Remorse;  which  I  must 
say  became  his  mouth  and  that  occasion  better  than  they, 
some  years  after,  did  Mr  Elliston's  and  the  Drury-lane 
boards, — 

Oh  memory!    shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife, 
And  give  those  scenes  thine  everlasting  life. 

I  saw  no  more  of  him  for  a  year  or  two,  during  which 
period  he  had  been  wandering  in  the  Hartz  Forest  in  Germany ; 
and  his  return  was  cometary,  meteorous,  unHke  his  setting 
out.  It  was  not  till  some  time  after  that  I  knew  his  friends 
Lamb  and  Southey.     The  last  always  appears  to  me  (as  I  first 


20  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets 

saw  him)  with  a  common-place  book  under  his  arm,  and  the 
first  with  a  bon-mot  in  his  mouth.  It  was  at  Godwin's  that 
I  met  him  with  Holcroft  and  Coleridge,  where  they  were 
disputing  fiercely  which  was  the  best — Man  as  he  was,  or  man 
as  he  is  to  be.  'Give  me,'  says  Lamb,  'man  as  he  is  not  to  be.' 
This  saying  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  between  us, 
which  I  believes  still  continues. — Enough  of  this  for  the 
present. 

But  there  is  matter  for  another  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  may  add  a  second  tale. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS  I 

An  author  is  bound  to  write — well  or  ill,  wisely  or  foolishly : 
it  is  his  trade.  But  I  do  not  see  that  he  is  bound  to  talk, 
any  more  than  he  is  bound  to  dance,  or  ride,  or  fence  better 
than  other  people.  Reading,  study,  silence,  thought,  are 
a  bad  introduction  to  loquacity.  It  would  be  sooner  learnt 
of  chambermaids  and  tapsters.  He  understands  the  art  and 
mystery  of  his  own  profession,  which  is  book-making:  what 
right  has  any  one  to  expect  or  require  him  to  do  more — to 
make  a  bow  gracefully  on  entering  or  leaving  a  room,  to  make 
love  charmingly,  or  to  make  a  fortune  at  all?  In  all  things 
there  is  a  division  of  labour.  A  lord  is  no  less  amorous  for 
writing  ridiculous  love-letters,  nor  a  General  less  successful 
for  wanting  wit  and  honesty.  Why  then  may  not  a  poor 
author  say  nothing,  and  yet  pass  muster?  Set  him  on  the 
top  of  a  stage-coach,  he  will  make  no  figure ;  he  is  mum-chance, 
while  the  slang-wit  flies  about  as  fast  as  the  dust,  with  the 
crack  of  the  whip  and  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  heels:  put 
him  in  a  ring  of  boxers,  he  is  a  poor  creature— 

And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is   a  maid. 

Introduce  him  to  a  tea-party  of  milhner's  girls,  and  they  are 
ready  to  split  their  sides  with  laughing  at  him :  over  his 
bottle,  he  is  dry :  in  the  drawing-room,  rude  or  awkward : 
he  is  too  refined  for  the  vulgar,  too  clownish  for  the  fashion- 
able : — 'he  is  one  that  cannot  make  a  good  leg,  one  that  cannot 
eat  a  mess  of  broth  cleanly,  one  that  cannot  ride  a  horse  without 
spur-galling,  one  that  cannot  salute  a  woman,  and  look  on 
her  directly': — in  courts,  in  camps,  in  town  and  country,  he 
is  a  cypher  or  a  butt :  he  is  good  for  nothing  but  a  laughing- 
stock or  a  scare-crow.  You  can  scarcely  get  a  word  out  of 
him  for  love  or  money.  He  knows  nothing.  He  has  no 
notion  of  pleasure  or  business,  or  of  what  is  going  on  in  the 
world;   he  does  not  understand  cookery  (unless  he  is  a  doctor 


22  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

in  divinity)  nor  surgery,  nor  chemistry  (unless  he  is  a  Quidnunc) 
nor  mechanics,  nor  husbandry  and  tillage  (unless  he  is  as  great 
an  admirer  of  Tull's  Husbandry,  and  has  profited  as  much 
by  it  as  the  philosopher  of  Botley) — no,  nor  music,  painting, 
the  Drama,  nor  the  Fine  Arts  in  general. 

'What  the  deuce  is  it  then,  my  good  sir,  that  he  does 
understand,  or  know  anything  about  ? ' 

'BOOKS,  VENUS,  BOOKS!' 

'What  books?' 

'Not  receipt-books,  Madona,  nor  account-books,  nor  books 
of  pharmacy,  or  the  veterinary  art  (they  belong  to  their 
respective  callings  and  handicrafts)  but  books  of  liberal  taste 
and  general  knowledge.' 

'What  do  you  mean  by  that  general  knowledge  which 
implies  not  a  knowledge  of  things  in  general,  but  an  ignorance 
(by  your  own  account)  of  every  one  in  particular :  or  by  that 
liberal  taste  which  scorns  the  pursuits  and  acquirements  of 
the  rest  of  the  world  in  succession,  and  is  confined  exclusively, 
and  by  way  of  excellence,  to  what  nobody  takes  an  interest 
in  but  yourself,  and  a  few  idlers  like  yourself?  Is  this  what 
the  critics  mean  by  the  belles-lettres,  and  the  study  of  humanity  ?' 

Book-knowledge,  in  a  word,  then,  is  knowledge  communi- 
cable by  books:  and  it  is  general  and  liberal  for  this  reason, 
that  it  is  intelligible  and  interesting  on  the  bare  suggestion. 
That  to  which  any  one  feels  a  romantic  attachment,  merely 
from  finding  it  in  a  book,  must  be  interesting  in  itself:  that 
which  he  instantly  forms  a  lively  and  entire  conception  of, 
from  seeing  a  few  marks  and  scratches  upon  paper,  must  be 
taken  from  common  nature:  that  which,  the  first  time  you 
meet  with  it,  seizes  upon  the  attention  as  a  curious  speculation, 
must  exercise  the  general  faculties  of  the  human  mind.  There 
are  certain  broader  aspects  of  society  and  views  of  things 
common  to  every  subject,  and  more  or  less  cognizable  to  every 
mind;  and  these  the  scholar  treats  and  founds  his  claim  to 
general  attention  upon  them,  without  being  chargeable  with 
pedantry.  The  minute  descriptions  of  fishing-tackle,  of  baits 
and  flies  in  Walton's  Complete  Angler,  make  that  work  a  great 
favourite  with  sportsmen :  the  alloy  of  an  amiable  humanity, 
and  the  modest  but  touching  descriptions  of  familiar  incidents 
and  rural  objects  scattered  through  it,  have  made  it  an  equal 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  23 

favourite  with  every  reader  of  taste  and  feeling.  Montaigne's 
Essays,  Dilworth's  Spelling  Book,  and  Fearn's  Treatise  on 
Contingent  Remainders,  are  all  equally  books,  but  not  equally 
adapted  for  all  classes  of  readers.  The  two  last  are  of  no  use 
but  to  school-masters  and  lawyers :  but  the  first  is  a  work 
we  may  recommend  to  any  one  to  read  who  has  ever  thought 
at  all,  or  who  would  learn  to  think  justly  on  any  subject. 
Persons  of  different  trades  and  professions — the  mechanic, 
the  shop-keeper,  the  medical  practitioner,  the  artist,  &c.  may 
all  have  great  knowledge  and  ingenuity  in  their  several 
vocations,  the  details  of  which  will  be  very  edifying  to  them- 
selves, and  just  as  incomprehensible  to  their  neighbours : 
but  over  and  above  this  professional  and  technical  knowledge, 
they  must  be  supposed  to  have  a  stock  of  common  sense  and 
common  feeHng  to  furnish  subjects  for  common  conversation, 
or  to  give  them  any  pleasure  in  each  other's  company.  It  is 
to  this  common  stock  of  ideas,  spread  over  the  surface,  or 
striking  its  roots  into  the  very  centre  of  society,  that  the 
popular  writer  appeals,  and  not  in  vain ;  for  he  finds  readers. 
It  is  of  this  finer  essence  of  wisdom  and  humanity,  'etherial 
mould,  sky-tinctured,'  that  books  of  the  better  sort  are  made. 
They  contain  the  language  of  thought.  It  must  happen  that, 
in  the  course  of  time  and  the  variety  of  human  capacity, 
some  persons  will  have  struck  out  finer  observations,  reflections, 
and  sentiments  than  others.  These  they  have  committed  to 
books  of  memory,  have  bequeathed  as  a  lasting  legacy  to 
posterity;  and  such  persons  have  become  standard  authors. 
We  visit  at  the  shrine,  drink  in  some  measure  of  the  inspiration, 
and  cannot  easily  'breathe  in  other  air  less  pure,  accustomed 
to  immortal  fruits.'  Are  we  to  be  blamed  for  this,  because 
the  vulgar  and  ilHterate  do  not  always  understand  us  ?  The 
fault  is  rather  in  them,  who  are  'confined  and  cabin'd  in,' 
each  in  their  own  particular  sphere  and  compartment  of  ideas, 
and  have  not  the  same  refined  medium  of  communication  or 
abstracted  topics  of  discourse.  Bring  a  number  of  literary, 
or  of  illiterate  persons  together,  perfect  strangers  to  each 
other,  and  see  which  party  will  make  the  best  company. 
'Verily,  we  have  our  reward.'  We  have  made  our  election, 
and  have  no  reason  to  repent  it,  if  we  were  wise.  But  the 
misfortune  is,  we  wish  to  have  all  the  advantages  on  one  side. 


24  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

We  grudge,  and  cannot  reconcile  it  to  ourselves,  that  any  one 
'should  go  about  to  cozen  fortune,  without  the  stamp  of 
learning!'  We  think  'because  we  are  scholars,  there  shall  be 
no  more  cakes  and  ale!'  We  don't  know  how  to  account  for 
it,  that  bar-rnaids  should  gossip,  or  ladies  whisper,  or  bullies 
roar,  or  fools  laugh,  or  knaves  thrive,  without  having  gone 
through  the  same  course  of  select  study  that  we  have !  This 
vanity  is  preposterous,  and  carries  its  own  punishment  with 
it.  Books  are  a  world  in  themselves,  it  is  true ;  but  they  are 
not  the  only  world.  The  world  itself  is  a  volume  larger  than 
all  the  libraries  in  it.  Learning  is  a  sacred  deposit  from  the 
experience  of  ages ;  but  it  has  not  put  all  future  experience 
on  the  shelf,  or  debarred  the  common  herd  of  mankind  from 
the  use  of  their  hands,  tongues,  eyes,  ears,  or  understandings. 
Taste  is  a  luxury  for  the  privileged  few:  but  it  would  be 
hard  upon  those  who  have  not  the  same  standard  of  refinement 
in  their  own  minds  that  we  suppose  ourselves  to  have,  if  this 
should  prevent  them  from  having  recourse,  as  usual,  to  their 
old  frolics,  coarse  jokes,  and  horse-play,  and  getting  through 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  world,  with  such  homely  sayings  and 
shrewd  helps  as  they  may.  Happy  is  it,  that  the  mass  of 
mankind  eat  and  drink,  and  sleep,  and  perform  their  several 
tasks,  and  do  as  they  like  without  us — caring  nothing  for  our 
scribblings,  our  carpings,  and  our  quibbles;  and  moving  on 
the  same,  in  spite  of  our  fine-spun  distinctions,  fantastic 
theories,  and  lines  of  demarcation,  which  are  like  the  chalk- 
figures  drawn  on  ball-room  floors  to  be  danced  out  before 
morning!  In  the  field  opposite  the  window  where  I  write 
this,  there  is  a  country-girl  picking  stones :  in  the  one  next  it, 
there  are  several  poor  women  weeding  the  blue  and  red 
flowers  from  the  corn:  farther  on,  are  two  boys,  tending  a 
flock  of  sheep.  What  do  they  know  or  care  about  what  I  am 
writing  about  them,  or  ever  will — or  what  would  they  be  the 
better  for  it,  if  they  did  ?     Or  why  need  we  despise 

The  wretched  slave, 
Who  like  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  the  set, 
Sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  all  night 
Sleeps  in  Elysium ;   next  day,  after  dawn, 
Doth  rise,  and  help  Hyperion  to  his  horse; 
And  follows  so  the  ever-running  year 
With  profitable  labour  to  his  grave? 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  25 

Is  not  this  life  as  sweet  as  writing  Ephemerides  ?  But  we 
put  that  which  flutters  the  brain  idly  for  a  moment,  and  then 
is  heard  no  more,  in  competition  with  nature,  which  exists 
every  where,  and  lasts  always.  We  not  only  underrate  the 
force  of  nature,  and  make  too  much  of  art — but  we  also  over- 
rate our  own  accompHshments  and  advantages  derived  from 
art.  In  the  presence  of  clownish  ignorance,  or  of  persons 
without  any  great  pretensions,  real  or  affected,  we  are  very 
much  inclined  to  take  upon  ourselves,  as  the  virtual  representa- 
tives of  science,  art,  and  literature.  We  have  a  strong  itch 
to  show  off  and  do  the  honours  of  civilization  for  all  the  great 
men  whose  works  we  have  ever  read,  and  whose  names  our 
auditors  have  never  heard  of,  as  noblemen's  lacqueys,  in  the 
absence  of  their  masters,  give  themselves  airs  of  superiority 
over  every  one  else.  But  though  we  have  read  Congreve, 
a  stage-coachman  may  be  an  over-match  for  us  in  wit :  though 
we  are  deep-versed  in  the  excellence  of  Shakspeare's  colloquial 
style,  a  village  beldam  may  outscold  us :  though  we  have 
read  Machiavel  in  the  original  Italian,  we  may  be  easily 
outwitted  by  a  clown :  and  though  we  have  cried  our  eyes 
out  over  the  New  Eloise,  a  poor  shepherd-lad,  who  hardly 
knows  how  to  spell  his  own  name,  may  'tell  his  tale,  under 
the  hawthorn  in  the  dale,'  and  prove  a  more  thriving  wooer. 
What  then  is  the  advantage  we  possess  over  the  meanest  of 
the  mean  ?  Why  this,  that  we  have  read  Congreve,  Shakspeare, 
Machiavel,  the  New  Eloise; — not  that  we  are  to  have  their 
wit,  genius,  shrewdness,  or  melting  tenderness. 

From  speculative  pursuits  we  must  be  satisfied  with 
speculative  benefits.  From  reading,  too,  we  learn  to  write. 
If  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  studying  the  highest  models 
of  perfection  in  their  kind,  and  can  hope  to  leave  any  thing 
ourselves,  however  slight,  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  model,  or 
even  a  good  copy  in  its  way,  we  may  think  ourselves  pretty 
well  off,  without  engrossing  all  the  privileges  of  learning,  and 
all  the  blessings  of  ignorance  into  the  bargain. 

It  has  been  made  a  question  whether  there  have  not  been 
individuals  in  common  life  of  greater  talents  and  powers  of 
mind  than  the  most  celebrated  writers — whether,  for  instance, 
such  or  such  a  Liverpool  merchant,  or  Manchester  manufac- 
turer, was  not  a  more  sensible  man  than  Montaigne,   of  a 


26  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

longer  reach  of  understanding  than  the  Viscount  of  St  Albans. 
There  is  no  saying,  unless  some  of  these  illustrious  obscure 
had  communicated  their  important  discoveries  to  the  world. 
But  then  they  would  have  been  authors ! — On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  a  set  of  critics  who  fall  into  the  contrary  error ;  and 
suppose  that  unless  the  proof  of  capacity  is  laid  before  all  the 
world,  the  capacity  itself  cannot  exist;  looking  upon  all 
those  who  have  not  commenced  authors,  as  literally  'stocks 
and  stones,  and  worse  than  senseless  things.'  I  remember 
trying  to  convince  a  person  of  this  class,  that  a  young  lady, 
whom  he  knew  something  of,  the  niece  of  a  celebrated  authoress, 
had  just  the  same  sort  of  fine  tact  and  ironical  turn  in  conversa- 
tion, that  her  relative  had  shown  in  her  writings  when  young. 
The  only  answer  I  could  get  was  an  incredulous  smile,  and  the 

observation  that  when  she  wrote  any  thing  as  good  as  , 

or  ,  he  might  think  her  as  clever.     I  said  all  I  meant 

was,  that  she  had  the  same  family  talents,  and  asked  whether 

he  thought  that  if  Miss  had  not  been  very  clever,  as  a 

mere  girl,  before  she  wrote  her  novels,  she  would  ever  have 
written  them  ?  It  was  all  in  vain.  He  still  stuck  to  his  text, 
and  was  convinced  that  the  niece  was  a  little  fool  compared 
to  her  aunt  at  the  same  age;  and  if  he  had  known  the  aunt 
formerly,  he  would  have  had  just  the  same  opinion  of  her. 
My  friend  was  one  of  those  who  have  a  settled  persuasion  that 
it  is  the  book  that  makes  the  author,  and  not  the  author  the 
book.  That's  a  strange  opinion  for  a  great  philosopher  to 
hold.  But  he  wilfully  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  germs  and  indistinct 
workings  of  genius,  and  treats  them  with  supercilious  indiffer- 
ence, till  they  stare  him  in  the  face  through  the  press ;  and  then 
takes  cognizance  only  of  the  overt  acts  and  pubhshed  evidence. 
This  is  neither  a  proof  of  wisdom,  nor  the  way  to  be  wise. 
It  is  partly  pedantry  and  prejudice,  and  partly  feebleness  of 
judgment  and  want  of  magnanimity.  He  dare  as  little  commit 
himself  on  the  character  of  books,  as  of  individuals,  till  they 
are  stamped  by  the  public.  If  you  show  him  any  work  for 
his  approbation,  he  asks,  'Whose  is  the  superscription?' — He 
judges  of  genius  by  its  shadow,  reputation — of  the  metal  by 
the  coin.     He  is  just  the  reverse  of  another  person  whom  I 

know — for,  as  G never  allows  a  particle  of  merit  to  any 

one  till  it  is  acknowledged  by  the  whole  world,  C withholds 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  27 

his  tribute  of  applause  from  every  person,  in  whom  any  mortal 
but  himself  can  descry  the  least  glimpse  of  understanding. 
He  would  be  thought  to  look  farther  into  a  millstone  than 
any  body  else.  He  would  have  others  see  with  his  eyes,  and 
take  their  opinions  from  him  on  trust,  in  spite  of  their  senses. 
The  more  obscure  and  defective  the  indications  of  merit,  the 
greater  his  sagacity  and  candour  in  being  the  first  to  point 
them  out.  He  looks  upon  what  he  nicknames  a  man  of  genius, 
but  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils,  and  the  clay  in  the  potter's 
hands.  If  any  such  inert,  unconscious  mass,  under  the 
fostering  care  of  the  modern  Prometheus,  is  kindled  into  life, 
— begins  to  see,  speak,  and  move,  so  as  to  attract  the  notice 
of  other  people, — our  jealous  patroniser  of  latent  worth  in 
that  case  throws  aside,  scorns,  and  hates  his  own  handy-work ; 
and  deserts  his  intellectual  offspring  from  the  moment  they 
can  go  alone  and  shift  for  themselves. — But  to  pass  on  to  our 
more  immediate  subject. 

The  conversation  of  authors  is  not  so  good  as  might  be 
imagined :  but,  such  as  it  is  (and  with  rare  exceptions),  it  is 
better  than  any  other.  The  proof  of  which  is,  that,  when  you 
are  used  to  it,  you  cannot  put  up  with  any  other.  That  of 
mixed  company  becomes  utterly  intolerable — you  cannot  sit 
out  a  common  tea  and  card  party,  at  least,  if  they  pretend 
to  talk  at  all.  You  are  obliged  in  despair  to  cut  all  your  old 
acquaintance  who  are  not  au  fait  on  the  prevailing  and  most 
smartly  contested  topics,  who  are  not  imbued  with  the  high 
gusto  of  criticism  and  virtti.  You  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  friend 
whom  you  have  not  seen  for  many  years,  tell  at  how  much  a 
yard  he  sells  his  laces  and  tapes,  when  he  means  to  move 
into  his  next  house,  when  he  heard  last  from  his  relations 
in  the  country,  whether  trade  is  alive  or  dead,  or  whether 
Mr  Such-a-one  gets  to  look  old.  This  sort  of  neighbourly 
gossip  will  not  go  down  after  the  high-raised  tone  of  literary 
conversation.  The  last  may  be  very  absurd,  very  unsatis- 
factory, and  full  of  turbulence  and  heart-burnings;  but  it 
has  a  zest  in  it  which  more  ordinary  topics  of  news  or  family- 
affairs  do  not  supply.  Neither  will  the  conversation  of  what 
we  understand  by  gentlemen  and  men  of  fashion,  do  after 
that  of  men  of  letters .  It  is  flat,  insipid,  stale,  and  unprofitable, 
in  the  comparison.     They  talk  about  much  the  same  things, 


28  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

pictures,  poetry,  politics,  plays ;  but  they  do  it  worse,  and  at 
a  sort  of  vapid  secondhand.  They,  in  fact,  talk  out  of 
newspapers  and  magazines,  what  we  write  there.  They  do 
not  feel  the  same  interest  in  the  subjects  they  affect  to  handle 
with  an  air  of  fashionable  condescension,  nor  have  they  the 
same  knowledge  of  them,  if  they  were  ever  so  much  in  earnest 
in  displaying  it.  If  it  were  not  for  the  wine  and  the  dessert, 
no  author  in  his  senses  would  accept  an  invitation  to  a  well- 
dressed  dinner-party,  except  out  of  pure  good-nature  and 
unwillingness  to  disoblige  by  his  refusal.  Persons  in  high 
life  talk  almost  entirely  by  rote.  There  are  certain  established 
modes  of  address,  and  certain  answers  to  them  expected  as 
a  matter  of  course,  as  a  point  of  etiquette.  The  studied 
forms  of  politeness  do  not  give  the  greatest  possible  scope 
to  an  exuberance  of  wit  or  fancy.  The  fear  of  giving  offence 
destroys  sincerity,  and  without  sincerity  there  can  be  no  true 
enjoyment  of  society,  nor  unfettered  exertion  of  intellectual 
activity. — Those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  live  with  the 
great  are  hardly  considered  as  conversible  persons  in  literary 
society.  They  are  not  to  be  talked  with,  any  more  than 
puppets  or  echos.  They  have  no  opinions  but  what  will 
please;  and  you  naturally  turn  away,  as  a  waste  of  time 
and  words,  from  attending  to  a  person  who  just  before  assented 
to  what  you  said,  and  whom  you  find,  the  moment  after,  from 
something  that  unexpectedly  or  perhaps  by  design  drops  from 
him,  to  be  of  a  totally  different  way  of  thinking.  This 
bush-fighting  is  not  regarded  as  fair  play  among  scientific 
men.  As  fashionable  conversation  is  a  sacrifice  to  politeness, 
so  the  conversation  of  low  life  is  nothing  but  rudeness.  They 
contradict  you  without  giving  a  reason,  or  if  they  do,  it  is 
a  very  bad  one — swear,  talk  loud,  repeat  the  same  thing 
fifty  times  over,  get  to  calling  names,  and  from  words  proceed 
to  blows.  You  cannot  make  companions  of  servants,  or  persons 
in  an  inferior  station  in  life.  You  may  talk  to  them  on  matters 
of  business,  and  what  they  have  to  do  for  you  (as  lords  talk  to 
bruisers  on  subjects  oi fancy,  or  country-squires  to  their  grooms 
on  horse-racing),  but  out  of  that  narrow  sphere,  to  any  general 
topic,  you  cannot  lead  them;  the  conversation  soon  flags, 
and  you  go  back  to  the  old  question,  or  are  obliged  to  break 
up  the  sitting  for  want  of  ideas  in  common.     The  conversation 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  29 

of  authors  is  better  than  that  of  most  professions.  It  is  better 
than  that  of  lawyers,  who  talk  nothing  but  double  entendre — 
than  that  of  physicians,  who  talk  of  the  approaching  deaths  of 
the  College,  or  the  marriage  of  some  new  practitioner  with 
some  rich  widow— than  that  of  divines,  who  talk  of  the  last 
place  they  dined  at — than  that  of  University-men,  who  make 
stale  puns,  repeat  the  refuse  of  the  London  newspapers,  and 
affect  an  ignorance  of  Greek  and  mathematics — it  is  better 
than  that  of  players,  who  talk  of  nothing  but  the  green-room, 
and  rehearse  the  scholar,  the  wit,  or  the  fine  gentleman,  like 
a  part  on  the  stage — or  than  that  of  ladies,  who,  whatever 
you  talk  of,  think  of  nothing,  and  expect  you  to  think  of 
nothing,  but  themselves.  It  is  not  easy  to  keep  up  a  con- 
versation with  women  in  company.  It  is  thought  a  piece  of 
rudeness  to  differ  from  them :  it  is  not  quite  fair  to  ask  them 
a  reason  for  what  they  say.  You  are  afraid  of  pressing  too 
hard  upon  them :  but  where  you  cannot  differ  openly  and 
unreservedly,  you  cannot  heartily  agree.  It  is  not  so  in 
France.  There  the  women  talk  of  things  in  general,  and  reason 
better  than  the  men  in  this  country.  They  are  mistresses  of 
the  intellectual  foils.  They  are  adepts  in  all  the  topics.  They 
know  what  is  to  be  said  for  and  against  all  sorts  of  questions, 
and  are  lively  and  full  of  mischief  into  the  bargain.  They 
are  very  subtle.  They  put  you  to  your  trumps  immediately. 
Your  logic  is  more  in  requisition  even  than  your  gallantry. 
You  must  argue  as  well  as  bow  yourself  into  the  good  graces 
of  these  modern  Amazons.  What  a  situation  for  an  Englishman 
to  be  placed  in^! 

The  fault  of  literary  conversation  in  general  is  its  too  great 
tenaciousness.  It  fastens  upon  a  subject,  and  will  not  let 
it  go.  It  resembles  a  battle  rather  than  a  skirmish,  and  makes 
a  toil  of  a  pleasure.  Perhaps  it  does  this  from  necessity, 
from  a  consciousness  of  wanting  the  more  familiar  graces, 
the  power  to  sport  and  trifle,  to  touch  lightly  and  adorn 
agreeably,  every  view  or  turn  of  a  question  en  -passant,  as  it 

1  The  topics  of  metaphysical  argument  having  got  into  female  society 
in  France,  is  a  proof  how  much  they  must  have  been  discussed  there  generally, 
and  how  unfounded  the  charge  is  which  we  bring  against  them  of  excessive 
thoughtlessness  and  frivolity.  The  French  (taken  all  together)  are  a  more 
sensible,  reflecting,  and  better  informed  people  than  the  English. 


3©  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

arises.  Those  who  have  a  reputation  to  lose  are  too  ambitious 
of  shining,  to  please.  'To  excel  in  conversation,'  said  an 
ingenious  man,  'one  must  not  be  always  striving  to  say  good 
things :  to  say  one  good  thing,  one  must  say  many  bad,  and 
more  indifferent  ones.'  This  desire  to  shine  without  the 
means  at  hand,  often  makes  men  silent : — 

The  fear  of  being  silent  strikes  us  dumb. 

A  writer  who  has  been  accustomed  to  take  a  connected  view 
of  a  difficult  question,  and  to  work  it  out  gradually  in  all  its 
bearings,  may  be  very  deficient  in  that  quickness  and  ease, 
which  men  of  the  world,  who  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  a 
variety  of  opinions,  who  pick  up  an  observation  on  one  subject, 
and  another  on  another,  and  who  care  about  none  any  farther 
than  the  passing  away  of  an  idle  hour,  usually  acquire.  An 
author  has  studied  a  particular  point — he  has  read,  he  has 
inquired,  he  has  thought  a  great  deal  upon  it :  he  is  not 
contented  to  take  it  up  casually  in  common  with  others, 
to  throw  out  a  hint,  to  propose  an  objection:  he  will  either 
remain  silent,  uneasy,  and  dissatisfied,  or  he  will  begin  at 
the  beginning  and  go  through  with  it  to  the  end.  He  is  for 
taking  the  whole  responsibility  upon  himself.  He  would  be 
thought  to  understand  the  subject  better  than  others,  or 
indeed  would  show  that  nobody  else  knows  any  thing  about  it. 
There  are  always  three  or  four  points  on  which  the  literary 
novice  at  his  first  outset  in  life  fancies  he  can  enlighten  every 
company,  and  bear  down  all  opposition:  but  he  is  cured  of 
this  Quixotic  and  pugnacious  spirit,  as  he  goes  more  into  the 
world,  where  he  finds  that  there  are  other  opinions  and  other 
pretensions  to  be  adjusted  besides  his  own.  When  this  asperity 
wears  off,  and  a  certain  scholastic  precocity  is  mellowed  down, 
the  conversation  of  men  of  letters  becomes  both  interesting 
and  instructive.  Men  of  the  world  have  no  fixed  principles, 
no  ground-work  of  thought:  mere  scholars  have  too  much 
an  object,  a  theory  always  in  view,  to  which  they  wrest  every 
thing,  and  not  unfrequently,  common  sense  itself.  By  mixing 
with  society,  they  rub  off  their  hardness  of  manner,  and 
impracticable,  offensive  singularity,  while  they  retain  a  greater 
depth  and  coherence  of  understanding.  There  is  more  to  be 
learnt  from  them  than  from  their  books.     This  was  a  remark 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  31 

of  Rousseau's,  and  it  is  a  very  true  one.  In  the  confidence 
and  unreserve  of  private  intercourse,  they  are  more  at  liberty 
to  say  what  they  think,  to  put  the  subject  in  different  and 
opposite  points  of  view,  to  illustrate  it  more  briefly  and  pithily 
by  familiar  expressions,  by  an  appeal  to  individual  character 
and  personal  knowledge — to  bring  in  the  limitation,  to  obviate 
misconception,  to  state  difficulties  on  their  own  side  of  the 
argument,  and  answer  them  as  well  as  they  can.  This  would 
hardly  agree  with  the  prudery,  and  somewhat  ostentatious 
claims  of  authorship.  Dr  Johnson's  conversation  in  Boswell's 
Life  is  much  better  than  his  published  works :  and  the  fragments 
of  the  opinions  of  celebrated  men,  preserved  in  their  letters 
or  in  anecdotes  of  them,  are  justly  sought  after  as  invaluable 
for  the  same  reason.  For  instance,  what  a  fund  of  sense 
there  is  in  Grimm's  Memoirs!  We  thus  get  at  the  essence 
of  what  is  contained  in  their  more  laboured  productions, 
without  the  affectation  or  formality. — Argument,  again,  is 
the  death  of  conversation,  if  carried  on  in  a  spirit  of  hostihty : 
but  discussion  is  a  pleasant  and  profitable  thing,  where  you 
advance  and  defend  your  opinions  as  far  as  you  can,  and 
admit  the  truth  of  what  is  objected  against  them  with  equal 
impartiality;  in  short,  where  you  do  not  pretend  to  set  up 
for  an  oracle,  but  freely  declare  what  you  really  know  about 
any  question,  or  suggest  what  has  struck  you  as  throwing  a 
new  light  upon  it,  and  let  it  pass  for  what  it  is  worth.  This 
tone  of  conversation  was  well  described  by  Dr  Johnson,  when 
he  said  of  some  party  at  which  he  had  been  present  the  night 
before — 'We  had  good  talk,  sir!'  As  a  general  rule,  there 
is  no  conversation  worth  any  thing  but  between  friends,  or 
those  who  agree  in  the  same  leading  views  of  a  subj  ect.  Nothing 
was  ever  learnt  by  either  side  in  a  dispute.  You  contradict 
one  another,  will  not  allow  a  grain  of  sense  in  what  your 
adversary  advances,  are  blind  to  whatever  makes  against 
yourself,  dare  not  look  the  question  fairly  in  the  face,  so  that 
you  cannot  avail  yourself  even  of  your  real  advantages,  insist 
most  on  what  you  feel  to  be  the  weakest  points  of  your  argu- 
ment, and  get  more  and  more  absurd,  dogmatical,  and  violent 
every  moment.  Disputes  for  victory  generally  end  to  the 
dissatisfaction  of  all  parties ;  and  the  one  recorded  in  Gil  Bias 
breaks  up  just  as  it  ought.     I  once  knew  a  very  ingenious 


32  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

man,  than  whom,  to  take  him  in  the  way  of  common  chit-chat 
or  fireside  gossip,  no  one  could  be  more  entertaining  or  rational. 
He  would  make  an  apt  classical  quotation,  propose  an  ex- 
planation of  a  curious  passage  in  Shakspeare's  Venus  and 
Adonis,  detect  a  metaphysical  error  in  Locke,  would  infer  the 
volatility  of  the  French  character  from  the  chapter  in  Sterne 
where  the  Count  mistakes  the  feigned  name  of  Yorick  for 
a  proof  of  his  being  the  identical  imaginary  character  in 
Hamlet  {Et  vous  Hes  Yorick f) — thus  confounding  words  with 
things  twice  over — but  let  a  difference  of  opinion  be  once 
hitched  in,  and  it  was  all  over  with  him.  His  only  object 
from  that  time  was  to  shut  out  common  sense,  and  to  be  proof 
against  conviction.  He  would  argue  the  most  ridiculous  point 
(such  as  that  there  were  two  original  languages)  for  hours 
together,  nay,  through  the  horologe.  You  would  not  suppose 
it  was  the  same  person.  He  was  like  an  obstinate  run-away 
horse,  that  takes  the  bit  in  his  mouth,  and  becomes  mischievous 
and  unmanageable.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  one  thing, 
not  to  admit  a  single  particle  of  what  any  one  else  said  for  or 
against  him.  It  was  all  the  difference  between  a  man  drunk 
or  sober,  sane  or  mad.  It  is  the  same  when  he  once  gets  the 
pen  in  his  hand.  He  has  been  trying  to  prove  a  contradiction 
in  terms  for  the  ten  last  years  of  his  life,  viz.  that  the  Bourbons 
have  the  same  right  to  the  throne  of  France  that  the  Brunswick 
family  have  to  the  throne  of  England.  Many  people  think 
there  is  a  want  of  honesty  or  a  want  of  understanding  in  this. 
There  is  neither.  But  he  will  persist  in  an  argument  to  the 
last  pinch ;   he  will  yield,  in  absurdity,  to  no  man ! 

This  litigious  humour  is  bad  enough:  but  there  is  one 
character  still  worse,  that  of  a  person  who  goes  into  company, 
not  to  contradict,  but  to  talk  at  you.  This  is  the  greatest 
nuisance  in  civilised  society.  Such  a  person  does  not  come 
armed  to  defend  himself  at  all  points,  but  to  unsettle,  if  he 
can,  and  throw  a  slur  on  all  your  favourite  opinions.  If  he 
has  a  notion  that  any  one  in  the  room  is  fond  of  poetry,  he 
immediately  volunteers  a  contemptuous  tirade  against  the 
idle  jingle  of  verse.  If  he  suspects  you  have  a  delight  in 
pictures,  he  endeavours,  not  by  fair  argument,  but  by  a 
side-wind,  to  put  you  out  of  conceit  with  so  frivolous  an  art. 
If  you  have  a  taste  for  music,  he  does  not  think  much  good 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I  33 

is  to  be  done  by  this  tickling  of  the  ears.  If  you  speak  in 
praise  of  a  comedy,  he  does  not  see  the  use  of  wit :  if  you  say 
you  have  been  to  a  tragedy,  he  shakes  his  head  at  this  mockery 
of  human  misery,  and  thinks  it  ought  to  be  prohibited.  He 
tries  to  find  out  beforehand  whatever  it  is  that  you  take  a 
particular  pride  or  pleasure  in,  that  he  may  annoy  your  self-love 
in  the  tenderest  point  (as  if  he  were  probing  a  wound)  and 
make  you  dissatisfied  with  yourself  and  your  pursuits  for 
several  days  afterwards.  A  person  might  as  well  make  a 
practice  of  throwing  out  scandalous  aspersions  against  your 
dearest  friends  or  nearest  relations,  by  way  of  ingratiating 
himself  into  your  favour.  Such  ill-timed  impertinence  is 
'villainous,  and  shews  a  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool  that 
uses  it.' 

The  soul  of  conversation  is  sympathy. — Authors  should 
converse  chiefly  with  authors,  and  their  talk  should  be  of 
books,  'When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes  the  tug  of 
war.'  There  is  nothing  so  pedantic  as  pretending  not  to  be 
pedantic.  No  man  can  get  above  his  pursuit  in  Hfe:  it  is 
getting  above  himself,  which  is  impossible.  There  is  a 
Free-masonry  in  all  things.  You  can  only  speak  to  be  under- 
stood, but  this  you  cannot  be,  except  by  those  who  are  in  the 
secret.  Hence  an  argument  has  been  drawn  to  supersede 
the  necessity  of  conversation  altogether ;  for  it  has  been  said, 
that  there  is  no  use  in  talking  to  people  of  sense,  who  know 
all  that  you  can  tell  them,  nor  to  fools,  who  will  not  be  in- 
structed. There  is,  however,  the  smallest  encouragement  to 
proceed,  when  you  are  conscious  that  the  more  you  really 
enter  into  a  subject,  the  farther  you  will  be  from  the  compre- 
hension of  your  hearers — and  that  the  more  proofs  you  give 
of  any  position,  the  more  odd  and  out-of-the-way  they  will 

think  your  notions.     C is  the  'only  person  who  can  talk 

to  all  sorts  of  people,  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  without  caring 
a  farthing  for  their  understanding  one  word  he  says — and  he 
talks  only  for  admiration  and  to  be  listened  to,  and  accordingly 
the  least  interruption  puts  him  out.  I  firmly  believe  he  would 
make  just  the  same  impression  on  half  his  audiences,  if  he 
purposely  repeated  absolute  nonsense  with  the  same  voice  and 
manner  and  inexhaustible  flow  of  undulating  speech!  In 
general,  wit  shines  only  by  reflection.     You  must  take  your 


34  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     I 

cue  from  your  company — must  rise  as  they  rise,  and  sink  as 
they  fall.  You  must  see  that  your  good  things,  your  knowing 
allusions,  are  not  flung  away,  like  the  pearls  in  the  adage. 
What  a  check  it  is  to  be  asked  a  foolish  question ;  to  find  that 
the  first  principles  are  not  understood!  You  are  thrown  on 
your  back  immediately,  the  conversation  is  stopped  like  a 
country-dance  by  those  who  do  not  know  the  figure.  But 
when  a  set  of  adepts,  of  illuminati,  get  about  a  question,  it  is 
worth  while  to  hear  them  talk.  They  may  snarl  and  quarrel 
over  it,  like  dogs;  but  they  pick  it  bare  to  the  bone,  they 
masticate  it  thoroughly. 


ON    THE    CONVERSATION    OF    AUTHORS     II 

This  was  the  case  formerly  at  L 's — where  we  used  to 

have  many  lively  skirmishes  at  their  Thursday  evening  parties. 
I  doubt  whether  the  Small-coal  man's  musical  parties  could 
exceed  them.     Oh !    for  the  pen  of  John  Buncle  to  consecrate 

a  petit  souvenir  to  their  memory ! — There  was  L himself, 

the  most  dehghtful,  the  most  provoking,  the  most  witty  and 
sensible  of  men.  He  always  made  the  best  pun,  and  the  best 
remark  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  His  serious  conversation, 
Hke  his  serious  writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever  stammered 
out  such  fine,  piquant,  deep,  eloquent  things  in  half  a  dozen 
half  sentences  as  he  does.  His  jests  scald  like  tears:  and  he 
probes  a  question  with  a  play  upon  words.  What  a  keen, 
laughing,  hair-brained  vein  of  home-felt  truth !  What  choice 
venom !  How  often  did  we  cut  into  the  haunch  of  letters, 
while  we  discussed  the  haunch  of  mutton  on  the  table !  How 
we  skimmed  the  cream  of  criticism  !  How  we  got  into  the  heart 
of  controversy!  How  we  picked  out  the  marrow  of  authors! 
'And,  in  our  flowing  cups,  many  a  good  name  and  true  was 
freshly  remembered.'  Recollect  (most  sage  and  critical  reader) 
that  in  all  this  I  was  but  a  guest !  Need  I  go  over  the  names  ? 
They  were  but  the  old  everlasting  set— Milton  and  Shakspeare, 
Pope  and  Dryden,  Steele  and  Addison,  Swift  and  Gay,  Fielding, 
Smollet,  Sterne,  Richardson,  Hogarth's  prints,  Claude's  land- 
scapes, the  Cartoons  at  Hampton-court,  and  all  those  things, 
that,  having  once  been,  must  ever  be.  The  Scotch  Novels 
had  not  then  been  heard  of:  so  we  said  nothing  about  them. 
In  general,  we  were  hard  upon  the  moderns.  The  author  of 
the  Rambler  was  only  tolerated  in  Boswell's  Life  of  him ;  and 
it  was  as  much  as  any  one  could  do  to  edge  in  a  word  for 

Junius.     L could  not  bear  Gil  Bias.     This  was  a  fault. 

I  remember  the  greatest  triumph  I  ever  had  was  in  persuading 
him,   after  some  years'   difficulty,   that   Fielding  was   better 

3—2 


36  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II 

than  Smollet.  On  one  occasion,  he  was  for  making  out  a  list 
of  persons  famous  in  history  that  one  would  wish  to  see  again 
— at  the  head  of  whom  were  Pontius  Pilate,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  Dr  Faustus — but  we  black-balled  most  of  his 
list!  But  with  what  a  gusto  would  he  describe  his  favourite 
authors,  Donne,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  call  their  most 
crabbed  passages  delicious  [  He  tried  them  on  his  palate  as 
epicures  taste  olives,  and  his  observations  had  a  smack  in 
them,  like  a  roughness  on  the  tongue.  With  what  discrimina- 
tion he  hinted  a  defect  in  what  he  admired  most — as  in  saying 
that  the  display  of  the  sumptuous  banquet  in  Paradise 
Regained  was  not  in  true  keeping,  as  the  simplest  fare  was 
all  that  was  necessary  to  tempt  the  extremity  of  hunger — and 
stating  that  Adam  and  Eve  in  Paradise  Lost  were  too  much 

like  married  people.     He  has  furnished  many  a  text  for  C 

to  preach  upon.  There  was  no  fuss  or  cant  about  him:  nor 
were  his  sweets  or  his  sours  ever  diluted  with  one  particle  of 

affectation.     I  cannot  say  that  the  party  at  L 's    were 

all  of  one  description.  There  were  honorary  members,  lay- 
brothers.  Wit  and  good  fellowship  was  the  motto  inscribed 
over  the  door.  When  a  stranger  came  in,  it  was  not  asked, 
'Has  he  written  any  thing?' — we  were  above  that  pedantry; 
but  we  waited  to  see  what  he  could  do.  If  he  could  take  a 
hand  at  piquet,  he  was  welcome  to  sit  down.  If  a  person 
liked  any  thing,  if  he  took  snuff  heartily,  it  was  sufficient. 
He  would  understand,  by  analogy,  the  pungency  of  other 
things,  besides  Irish  blackguard,  or  Scotch  rappee.  A  character 
was  good  any  where,  in  a  room  or  on  paper.  But  we  abhorred 
insipidity,  affectation,  and  fine  gentlemen.  There  was  one  of 
our  party  who  never  failed  to  mark '  two  for  his  Nob '  at  cribbage 

and  he  was  thought  no  mean  person.     This  was  Ned  P , 

and  a  better  fellow  in  his  way  breathes  not.     There  was , 

who  asserted  some  incredible  matter  of  fact  as  a  likely  paradox 
and  settled  all  controversies  by  an  ipse  dixit,  ajiat  of  his  will 
hammering  out  many  a  hard  theory  on  the  anvil  of  his  brain — 
the  Baron  Munchausen  of  politics  and  practical  philosophy : — 

there  was  Captain  ,  who  had  you  at  an  advantage  by 

never  understanding  you : — there  was  Jem  White,  the  author 
of  Falstaff's  Letters,  who  the  other  day  left  this  dull  world 
to  go  in  search  of  more  kindred  spirits,  '  turning  like  the  latter 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II  37 

end   of   a  lover's   lute': — there   was   A ,   who   sometimes 

dropped  in,  the  Will  Honeycomb  of  our  set — and  Mrs  R , 

who  being  of  a  quiet  turn,  loved  to  hear  a  noisy  debate. 
An  utterly  uninformed  person  might  have  supposed  this  a 
scene  of  vulgar  confusion  and  uproar.  While  the  most  critical 
question  was  pending,   while   the  most   difficult   problem  in 

philosophy  was  solving,  P cried  out,  'That's  game,'  and 

M.  B.  muttered  a  quotation  over  the  last  remains  of  a  veal-pie 
at  a  side-table.     Once,   and  once  only,   the  literary  interest 

overcame  the  general.     For  C was  riding  the  high  German 

horse,  and  demonstrating  the  Categories  of  the  Transcendental 
philosophy  to  the  author  of  the  Road  to  Ruin;  who  insisted 
on  his  knowledge  of  German,  and  German  metaphysics,  having 
read  the  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  in  the  original.     'My  dear 

Mr  Holcroft,'  said  C ,  in  a  tone  of  infinitely  provoking 

conciliation,  'you  really  put  me  in  mind  of  a  sweet  pretty 
German  girl,  about  fifteen,  that  I  met  with  in  the  Hartz  forest 
in  Germany — and  who  one  day,  as  I  was  reading  the  Limits 
of  the  Knowable  and  the  Unknowable,  the  profoundest  of  all 
his  works,  with  great  attention,  came  behind  my  chair,  and 
leaning  over,  said.  What,  you  read  Kant?  Why,  /  that  am 
German  born,  don't  understand  him ! '  This  was  too  much 
to  bear,  and  Holcroft,  starting  up,  called  out  in  no  measured 

tone,  'Mr  C ,  you  are  the  most  eloquent  man  I  ever  met 

with,  and  the  most  troublesome  with  your  eloquence  ! '     P 

held  the  cribbage-peg  that  was  to  mark  him  game,  suspended 
in  his  hand;  and  the  whist  table  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
I  saw  Holcroft  down  stairs,  and,  on  coming  to  the  landing-place 
in  Mitre-court,  he  stopped  me  to  observe,  that  'he  thought 

Mr  C a  very  clever  man,  with  a  great  command  of  language, 

but  that  he  feared  he  did  not  always  affix  very  precise  ideas 
to  the  words  he  used.'  After  he  was  gone,  we  had  our  laugh 
out,  and  went  on  with  the  argument  on  the  nature  of  Reason, 
the  Imagination,  and  the  Will.  I  wish  I  could  find  a  publisher 
for  it :  it  would  make  a  supplement  to  the  Biographia  Literaria 
in  a  volume  and  a  half  octavo. 

Those  days  are  over !  An  event,  the  name  of  which  I  wish 
never  to  mention,  broke  up  our  party,  like  a  bomb-shell  thrown 
into  the  room :    and  now  we  seldom  meet — 

Like  angels'  visits,  short  and  far  between. 


38  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II 

There  is  no  longer  the  same  set  of  persons,  nor  of  associations. 

L does  not  Hve  where  he  did.     By  shifting  his  abode,  his 

notions  seem  less  fixed.  He  does  not  wear  his  old  snuff-coloured 
coat  and  breeches.  It  looks  like  an  alteration  in  his  style. 
An  author  and  a  wit  should  have  a  separate  costume,  a  par- 
ticular cloth :  he  should  present  something  positive  and  singular 
to  the  mind,  like  Mr  Douce  of  the  Museum.  Our  faith  in  the 
religion  of  letters  will  not  bear  to  be  taken  to  pieces,  and  put 

together  again  by  caprice  or  accident.     L.  H goes  there 

sometimes.  He  has  a  fine  vinous  spirit  about  him,  and 
tropical  blood  in  his  veins:  but  he  is  better  at  his  own  table. 
He  has   a    great  flow  of    pleasantry   and    delightful    animal 

spirits :    but  his  hits  do  not  tell  like  L 's ;    you  cannot 

repeat  them  the  next  day.  He  requires  not  only  to  be  appre- 
ciated, but  to  have  a  select  circle  of  admirers  and  devotees, 
to  feel  himself  quite  at  home.  He  sits  at  the  head  of  a  party 
with  great  gaiety  and  grace ;  has  an  elegant  manner  and  turn 
of  features;  is  never  at  a  loss — aliquando  siifflaminandus 
erat — has  continual  sportive  sallies  of  wit  or  fancy;  tells  a 
story  capitally;  mimics  an  actor,  or  an  acquaintance,  to 
admiration;  laughs  with  great  glee  and  good  humour  at  his 
own  or  other  people's  jokes;  understands  the  point  of  an 
equivoque,  or  an  observation  immediately;  has  a  taste  and 
knowledge  of  books,  of  music,  of  medals;  manages  an 
argument  adroitly;  is  genteel  and  gallant,  and  has  a  set  of 
bye-phrases  and  quaint  allusions  always  at  hand  to  produce 
a  laugh : — if  he  has  a  fault,  it  is  that  he  does  not  listen  so  well 
as  he  speaks,  is  impatient  of  interruption,  and  is  fond  of  being 
looked  up  to,  without  considering  by  whom.  I  believe, 
however,  he  has  pretty  well  seen  the  folly  of  this.  Neither 
is  his  ready  display  of  personal  accomplishment  and  variety 
of  resources  an  advantage  to  his  writings.  They  sometimes 
present  a  desultory  and  slip-shod  appearance,  owing  to  this 
very  circumstance.  The  same  things  that  tell,  perhaps, 
best,  to  a  private  circle  round  the  fireside,  are  not  always 
intelligible  to  the  public,  nor  does  he  take  pains  to  make 
them  so.  He  is  too  confident  and  secure  of  his  audience. 
That  which  may  be  entertaining  enough  with  the  assistance 
of  a  certain  Hveliness  of  manner,  may  read  very  flat  on  paper, 
because  it  is  abstracted  from  all  the  circumstances  that  had 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II  39 

set  it  off  to  advantage.  A  writer  should  recollect  that  he  has 
only  to  trust  to  the  immediate  impression  of  words,  like  a 
musician  who  sings  without  the  accompaniment  of  an  instru- 
ment. There  is  nothing  to  help  out,  or  slubber  over,  the  defects 
of  the  voice  in  the  one  case,  nor  of  the  style  in  the  other.    The 

reader  may,  if  he  pleases,  get  a  very  good  idea  of  L.  H 's 

conversation  from  a  very  agreeable  paper  he  has  lately 
published,  called  the  Indicator,  than  which  nothing  can  be 
more  happily  conceived  or  executed. 

The  art  of  conversation  is  the  art  of  hearing  as  well  as  of 
being  heard.  Authors  in  general  are  not  good  listeners. 
Some  of  the  best  talkers  are,  on  this  account,  the  worst 
company;  and  some  who  are  very  indifferent,  but  very  great 
talkers,  are  as  bad.  It  is  sometimes  wonderful  to  see  how 
a  person,  who  has  been  entertaining  or  tiring  a  company  by 
the  hour  together,  drops  his  countenance  as  if  he  had  been 
shot,  or  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden  lock-jaw,  the  moment 
any  one  interposes  a  single  observation.  The  best  converser 
I  know  is,  however,  the  best  listener.  I  mean  Mr  Northcote, 
the  painter.  Painters  by  their  profession  are  not  bound  to 
shine  in  conversation,  and  they  shine  the  more.  He  lends 
his  ear  to  an  observation,  as  if  you  had  brought  him  a  piece 
of  news,  and  enters  into  it  with  as  much  avidity  and  earnest- 
ness, as  if  it  interested  himself  personally.  If  he  repeats  an 
old  remark  or  story,  it  is  with  the  same  freshness  and  point 
as  for  the  first  time.  It  always  arises  out  of  the  occasion, 
and  has  the  stamp  of  originality.  There  is  no  parroting  of 
himself.  His  look  is  a  continual,  ever-varying  history-piece 
of  what  passes  in  his  mind.  His  face  is  as  a  book.  There 
need  no  marks  of  interjection  or  interrogation  to  what  he  says. 
His  manner  is  quite  picturesque.  There  is  an  excess  of 
character  and  naivete  that  never  tires.  His  thoughts  bubble 
up  and  sparkle,  like  beads  on  old  wine.  The  fund  of  anecdote, 
the  collection  of  curious  particulars,  is  enough  to  set  up  any 
common  retailer  of  jests,  that  dines  out  every  day;  but  these 
are  not  strung  together  like  a  row  of  galley-slaves,  but  are 
always  introduced  to  illustrate  some  argument  or  bring  out 
some  fine  distinction  of  character.  The  mixture  of  spleen 
adds  to  the  sharpness  of  the  point,  like  poisoned  arrows. 
Mr  Northcote  enlarges  with  enthusiasm  on  the  old  painters, 


40  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II 

and  tells  good  things  of  the  new.  The  only  thing  he  ever 
vexed  me  in  was  his  liking  the  Catalogue  Raisonne.  I  had 
almost  as  soon  hear  him  talk  of  Titian's  pictures  (which  he 
does  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  looking  just  like  them)  as 
see  the  originals,  and  I  had  rather  hear  him  talk  of  Sir  Joshua's 
than  see  them.  He  is  the  last  of  that  school  who  knew 
Goldsmith  and  Johnson.  How  finely  he  describes  Pope! 
His  elegance  of  mind,  his  figure,  his  character  were  not  unlike 
his  own.  He  does  not  resemble  a  modern  Englishman,  but 
puts  one  in  mind  of  a  Roman  Cardinal  or  Spanish  Inquisitor. 
I  never  ate  or  drank  with  Mr  Northcote;  but  I  have  lived 
on  his  conversation  with  undiminished  relish  ever  since  I  can 
remember, — and  when  I  leave  it,  I  come  out  into  the  street 
with  feelings  lighter  and  more  etherial  than  I  have  at  any 
other  time. — One  of  his  tete-d-tetes  would  at  any  time  make 
an  Essay;  but  he  cannot  write  himself,  because  he  loses 
himself  in  the  connecting  passages,  is  fearful  of  the  effect, 
and  wants  the  habit  of  bringing  his  ideas  into  one  focus  or 
point  of  view.  A  lens  is  necessary  to  collect  the  diverging 
rays,  the  refracted  and  broken  angular  lights  of  conversation 
on  paper.  Contradiction  is  half  the  battle  in  talking — the 
being  startled  by  what  others  say,  and  having  to  answer  on 
the  spot.  You  have  to  defend  yourself,  paragraph  by 
paragraph,  parenthesis  within  parenthesis.  Perhaps  it  might 
be  supposed  that  a  person  who  excels  in  conversation  and 
cannot  write,  would  succeed  better  in  dialogue.  But  the 
stimulus,  the  immediate  irritation,  would  be  wanting;  and 
the  work  would  read  flatter  than  ever,  from  not  having  the 
very  thing  it  pretended  to  have. 

Lively  sallies  and  connected  discourse  are  very  different 
things.  There  are  many  persons  of  that  impatient  and  restless 
turn  of  mind,  that  they  cannot  wait  a  moment  for  a  conclusion, 
or  follow  up  the  thread  of  any  argument.  In  the  hurry  of 
conversation  their  ideas  are  somehow  huddled  into  sense; 
but  in  the  intervals  of  thought,  leave  a  great  gap  between. 
Montesquieu  said,  he  often  lost  an  idea  before  he  could  find 
words  for  it:  yet  he  dictated,  by  way  of  saving  time,  to  an 
amanuensis.  This  last  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  vile  method, 
and  a  solecism  in  authorship.  Home  Tooke,  among  other 
paradoxes,  used  to  maintain,  that  no  one  could  write  a  good 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II  41 

style  who  was  not  in  the  habit  of  talking  and  hearing  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice.  He  might  as  well  have  said  that  no  one 
could  relish  a  good  style  without  reading  it  aloud,  as  we  find 
common  people  do  to  assist  their  apprehension.  But  there 
is  a  method  of  trying  periods  on  the  ear,  or  weighing  them 
with  the  scales  of  the  breath,  without  any  articulate  sound. 
Authors,  as  .they  write,  may  be  said  to  'hear  a  sound  so  fine, 
there's  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and  silence.'  Even  musicians 
generally  compose  in  their  heads.  I  agree  that  no  style  is 
good,  that  is  not  fit  to  be  spoken  or  read  aloud  with  effect. 
This  holds  true  not  only  of  emphasis  and  cadence,  but  also 
with  regard  to  natural  idiom  and  colloquial  freedom.  Sterne's 
was  in  this  respect  the  best  style  that  ever  was  written.  You 
fancy  that  you  hear  the  people  talking.  For  a  contrary 
reason,  no  college-man  writes  a  good  style,  or  understands 
it  when  written.  Fine  writing  is  with  him  all  verbiage  and 
monotony — a  translation  into  classical  centos  or  hexameter 
lines. 

That  which  I  have  just  mentioned  is  among  many  instances 
I  could  give  of  ingenious  absurdities  advanced  by  Mr  Tooke 
in  the  heat  and  pride  of  controversy.  A  person  who  knew 
him  well,  and  greatly  admired  his  talents,  said  of  him  that  he 
never  (to  his  recollection)  heard  him  defend  an  opinion  which 
he  thought  right,  or  in  which  he  believed  him  to  be  himself 
sincere.  He  indeed  provoked  his  antagonists  into  the  toils 
by  the  very  extravagance  of  his  assertions,  and  the  teasing 
sophistry  by  which  he  rendered  them  plausible.  His  temper 
was  prompter  to  his  skill.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  man  of 
the  world,  with  great  scholastic  resources.  He  flung  every 
one  else  off  his  guard,  and  was  himself  immoveable.  I  never 
knew  any  one  who  did  not  admit  his  superiority  in  this  kind 

of  warfare.     He  put  a  full  stop  to  one  of  C 's  long-winded 

prefatory  apologies  for  his  youth  and  inexperience,  by  saying 
abruptly,  'Speak  up,  young  man!'  and,  at  another  time, 
silenced  a  learned  professor,  by  desiring  an  explanation  of 
a  word  which  the  other  frequently  used,  and  which,  he  said, 
he  had  been  many  years  trying  to  get  at  the  meaning  of, — the 
copulative  Is !  He  was  the  best  intellectual  fencer  of  his  day. 
He  made  strange  havoc  of  Fuseli's  fantastic  hieroglyphics, 
violent  humours,   and  oddity  of  dialect. — Curran,   who  was 


42  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II 

sometimes  of  the  same  party,  was  lively  and  animated  in 
convivial  conversation,  but  dull  in  argument;  nay,  averse 
to  any  thing  like  reasoning  or  serious  observation,  and  had 
the  worst  taste  I  ever  knew.  His  favourite  critical  topics 
were  to  abuse  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
Indeed,  he  confessed  a  want  of  sufficient  acquaintance  with 
books  when  he  found  himself  in  literary  society  in  London. 
He  and  Sheridan  once  dined  at  John  Kemble's  with  Mrs 
Inchbald  and  Mary  Woolstonecroft,  when  the  discourse  almost 
wholly  turned  on  Love,  'from  noon  to  dewy  eve,  a  summer's 
day!'  What  a  subject!  What  speakers,  and  what  hearers! 
What  would  I  not  give  to  have  been  there,  had  I  not  learned 
it  all  from  the  bright  eyes  of  Amaryllis,  and  may  one  day 
make  a  Table-talk  of  it ! — Peter  Pindar  was  rich  in  anecdote 
and  grotesque  humour,  and  profound  in  technical  knowledge 
both  of  music,  poetry,  and  painting,  but  he  was  gross  and 
over-bearing.  Wordsworth  sometimes  talks  like  a  man  inspired 
on  subjects  of  poetry  (his  own  out  of  the  question) — Coleridge 
well  on  every  subject,  and  G — dwin  on  none.     To  finish  this 

subject — Mrs  M 's  conversation  is  as  fine-cut  as  her  features, 

and  I  like  to  sit  in  the  room  with  that  sort  of  coronet  face. 
What  she  says  leaves  a  flavour,  like  fine  green  tea.     H — t's 

is  like  champaigne,   and  N 's  like  anchovy  sandwiches. 

H — yd — n's  is  like  a  game  at  trap-ball:  L — 's  Hke  snap- 
dragon: and  my  own  (if  I  do  not  mistake  the  matter)  is 
not  very  much  unlike  a  game  at  nine-pins!... One  source  of 
the  conversation  of  authors,  is  the  character  of  other  authors, 
and  on  that  they  are  rich  indeed.  What  things  they 
say!  What  stories  they  tell  of  one  another,  more  par- 
ticularly of  their  friends!  If  I  durst  only  give  some  of 
these  confidential  communications !... The  reader  may  perhaps 
think  the  foregoing  a  specimen  of  them : — but  indeed  he  is 
mistaken. 

I  do  not  know  of  any  greater  impertinence,  than  for  an 
obscure  individual  to  set  about  pumping  a  character  of 
celebrity.  'Bring  him  to  me,'  said  a  Doctor  Tronchin, 
speaking  of  Rousseau,  'that  I  may  see  whether  he  has  any 
thing  in  him.'  Before  you  can  take  measure  of  the  capacity 
of  others,  you  ought  to  be  sure  that  they  have  not  taken 
measure  of  yours.     They  may  think  you  a  spy  on  them,  and 


On  the  Conversation   of  Authors     II  43 

may  not  like  their  company.  If  you  really  want  to  know 
whether  another  person  can  talk  well,  begin  by  saying  a  good 
thing  yourself,  and  you  will  have  a  right  to  look  for  a  rejoinder. 
'The  best  tennis-players,'  says  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  'make  the 
best  matches.' 

For  wit  is  like  a  rest 


Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 
With  the  best  players. 

We  hear  it  often  said  of  a  great  author,  or  a  great  actress, 
that  they  are  very  stupid  people  in  private.  But  he  was 
a  fool  that  said  so.  Tell  me  your  company,  and  Fll  tell  you 
your  manners.  In  conversation,  as  in  other  things,  the  action 
and  reaction  should  bear  a  certain  proportion  to  each  other. — 
Authors  may,  in  some  sense,  be  looked  upon  as  foreigners, 

who  are  not  naturalized  even  in  their  native  soil.     L once 

came  down  into  the  country  to  see  us.  He  was  'Hke  the  most 
capricious  poet  Ovid  among  the  Goths.'  The  country  people 
thought  him  an  oddity,  and  did  not  understand  his  jokes. 
It  would  be  strange  if  they  had;  for  he  did  not  make  any, 
while  he  staid.  But  when  we  crossed  the  country  to 
Oxford,  then  he  spoke  a  little.  He  and  the  old  colleges  were 
hail-fellow  well  met;  and  in  the  quadrangles,  he  'walked 
gowned.' 

There  is  a  character  of  a  gentleman ;  so  there  is  a  character 
of  a  scholar,  which  is  no  less  easily  recognised.  The  one  has 
an  air  of  books  about  him,  as  the  other  has  of  good-breeding. 
The  one  wears  his  thoughts  as  the  other  does  his  clothes, 
gracefully;  and  even  if  they  are  a  little  old-fashioned,  they 
are  not  ridiculous  :  they  have  had  their  day.  The  gentleman 
shows,  by  his  manner,  that  he  has  been  used  to  respect  from 
others :  the  scholar  that  he  lays  claim  to  self-respect  and  to 
a  certain  independence  of  opinion.  The  one  has  been 
accustomed  to  the  best  company;  the  other  has  passed  his 
time  in  cultivating  an  intimacy  with  the  best  authors.  There 
is  nothing  forward  or  vulgar  in  the  behaviour  of  the  one; 
nothing  shrewd  or  petulant  in  the  observations  of  the  other, 
as  if  he  should  astonish  the  bye-standers,  or  was  astonished 
himself  at  his  own  discoveries.  Good  taste  and  good  sense, 
like  common  politeness,  are,  or  are  supposed  to  be,  matters 


44  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors     II 

of  course.  One  is  distinguished  by  an  appearance  of  marked 
attention  to  every  one  present ;  the  other  manifests  an  habitual 
air  of  abstraction  and  absence  of  mind.  The  one  is  not  an 
upstart  with  all  the  self-important  airs  of  the  founder  of  his 
own  fortune;  nor  the  other  a  self-taught  man,  with  the 
repulsive  self-sufhciency  which  arises  from  an  ignorance  of 
what  hundreds  have  known  before  him.  We  must  excuse 
perhaps  a  little  conscious  family-pride  in  the  one,  and  a  little 
harmless  pedantry  in  the  other. — As  there  is  a  class  of  the 
first  character  which  sinks  into  the  mere  gentleman,  that  is, 
which  has  nothing  but  this  sense  of  respectability  and  propriety 
to  support  it — so  the  character  of  a  scholar  not  unfrequently 
dwindles  down  into  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  till  nothing  is  left 
of  it  but  the  mere  book-worm.  There  is  often  something 
amiable  as  well  as  enviable  in  this  last  character.  I  know 
one  such  instance,  at  least.  The  person  I  mean  has  an  admira- 
tion for  learning,  if  he  is  only  dazzled  by  its  light.  He  lives 
among  old  authors,  if  he  does  not  enter  much  into  their  spirit. 
He  handles  the  covers,  and  turns  over  the  page,  and  is  famihar 
with  the  names  and  dates.  He  is  busy  and  self-involved. 
He  hangs  like  a  film  and  cobweb  upon  letters,  or  is  like  the 
dust  upon  the  outside  of  knowledge,  which  should  not  be 
rudely  brushed  aside.  He  follows  learning  as  its  shadow; 
but  as  such,  he  is  respectable.  He  browzes  on  the  husk  and 
leaves  of  books,  as  the  young  fawn  browzes  on  the  bark  and 
leaves  of  trees.  Such  a  one  lives  all  his  life  in  a  dream  of 
learning,  and  has  never  once  had  his  sleep  broken  by  a  real 
sense  of  things.  He  believes  implicitly  in  genius,  truth, 
virtue,  liberty,  because  he  finds  the  names  of  these  things  in 
books.  He  thinks  that  love  and  friendship  are  the  finest 
things  imaginable,  both  in  practice  and  theory.  The  legend 
of  good  women  is  to  him  no  fiction.  When  he  steals  from  the 
twilight  of  his  cell,  the  scene  breaks  upon  him  like  an  illuminated 
missal,  and  all  the  people  he  sees  are  but  so  many  figures  in 
a  camera  ohscura.  He  reads  the  world,  like  a  favourite  volume, 
only  to  find  beauties  in  it,  or  like  an  edition  of  some  old  work 
which  he  is  preparing  for  the  press,  only  to  make  emendations 
in  it,  and  correct  the  errors  that  have  inadvertently  sHpt  in. 
He  and  his  dog  Tray  are  much  the  same  honest,  simple-hearted, 
faithful,  affectionate  creatures — if  Tray  could  but  read!    His 


On  the   Conversation  of  Authors     II  45 

mind  cannot  take  the  impression  of  vice:  but  the  gentleness 
of  his  nature  turns  gall  to  milk.  He  would  not  hurt  a  fly. 
He  draws  the  picture  of  mankind  from  the  guileless  simplicity 
of  his  own  heart :  and  when  he  dies,  his  spirit  will  take  its 
smiling  leave,  without  having  ever  had  an  ill  thought  of 
others,  or  the  consciousness  of  one  in  itself! 


OF    PERSONS    ONE    WOULD    WISH    TO 
HAVE    SEEN 

Come  like  shadows — so  depart. 

B it  was,  I  think,  who  suggested  this  subject,  as  well 

as  the  defence  of  Guy  Faux,  which  I  urged  him  to  execute. 
As,  however,  he  would  undertake  neither,  I  suppose  I  must 
do  both — a  task  for  which  he  would  have  been  much  fitter, 
no  less  from  the  temerity  than  the  felicity  of  his  pen — 

Never  so  sure  our  rapture  to  create 

As  when  it  touch' d  the  brink  of  all  we  hate. 

Compared  with  him  I  shall,  I  fear,  make  but  a  common-place 
piece  of  business  of  it;  but  I  should  be  loth  the  idea  was 
entirely  lost,  and  besides  I  may  avail  myself  of  some  hints 
of  his  in  the  progress  of  it.  I  am  sometimes,  I  suspect,  a 
better  reporter  of  the  ideas  of  other  people  than  expounder  of 
my  own.  I  pursue  the  one  too  far  into  paradox  or  mysticism ; 
the  others  I  am  not  bound  to  follow  farther  than  I  like,  or 
than  seems  fair  and  reasonable. 

On  the  question  being  started,  A said,  'I  suppose  the 

two  first  persons  you  would  choose  to  see  would  be  the  two 
greatest  names  in  English  literature,  Sir  Isaac  Newton  and 

Mr  Locke?'     In  this  A ,  as  usual,  reckoned  without  his 

host.     Every  one  burst  out  a  laughing  at  the  expression  of 

B 's  face,  in  which  impatience  was  restrained  by  courtesy. 

'Yes,  the  greatest  names,'  he  stammered  out  hastily,  'but 
they  were  not  persons — not  persons.' — 'Not  persons?'  said 

A ,  looking  wise  and  foolish  at  the  same  time,  afraid  his 

triumph   might    be   premature.     'That   is,'    rejoined    B , 

'not  characters,  you  know.  By  Mr  Locke  and  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  you  mean  the  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding, 
and  the  Principia,  which  we  have  to  this  day.  Beyond  their 
contents  there  is  nothing  personally  interesting  in  the  men. 
But  what  we  want  to  see  any  one  bodily  for,  is  when  there  is 
something  peculiar,  striking  in  the  individuals,  more  than  we 
can  learn  from  their  writings,  and  yet  are  curious  to  know. 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen        47 

I  dare  say  Locke  and  Newton  were  very  like  Kneller's  portraits 
of  them.     But  who  could  paint  Shakspeare?' — 'Ay,'  retorted 

A ,  '  there  it  is ;  then  I  suppose  you  would  prefer  seeing  him 

and  Milton  instead?' — 'No,'   said   B ,   'neither.     I   have 

seen  so  much  of  Shakspeare  on  the  stage  and  on  book-stalls, 
in  frontispieces  and  on  mantle-pieces,  that  I  am  quite  tired 
of  the  everlasting  repetition:  and  as  to  Milton's  face,  the 
impressions  that  have  come  down  to  us  of  it  I  do  not  like; 
it  is  too  starched  and  puritanical;  and  I  should  be  afraid 
of  losing  some  of  the  manna  of  his  poetry  in  the  leaven  of 
his  countenance  and  the  precisian's  band  and  gown.' — 'I  shall 

guess  no  more,'  said  A .     'Who  is  it,  then,  you  would  like 

to  see  "in  his  habit  as  he  lived,"  if  you  had  your  choice  of  the 

whole    range    of    English    literature?'     B then    named 

Sir  Thomas  Brown  and  Fulke  Greville,  the  friend  of  Sir  Phihp 
Sidney,  as  the  two  worthies  whom  he  should  feel  the  greatest 
pleasure  to  encounter  on  the  floor  of  his  apartment  in  their 
night-gown  and  slippers,   and  to  exchange  friendly  greeting 

with  them.     At  this  A laughed  outright,  and  conceived 

B was  jesting  with  him;    but  as  no  one  followed  his 

example,  he  thought  there  might  be  something  in  it,  and 
waited  for  an  explanation  in  a  state  of  whimsical  suspense. 

B then  (as  well  as  I  can  remember  a  conversation  that 

passed  twenty  years  ago — how  time  slips !)  went  on  as  follows. 
'The  reason  why  I  pitch  upon  these  two  authors  is,  that  their 
writings  are  riddles,  and  they  themselves  the  most  mysterious 
of  personages.  They  resemble  the  soothsayers  of  old,  who 
dealt  in  dark  hints  and  doubtful  oracles;  and  I  should  like 
to  ask  them  the  meaning  of  what  no  mortal  but  themselves, 
I  should  suppose,  can  fathom.  There  is  Dr  Johnson,  I  have 
no  curiosity,  no  strange  uncertainty  about  him  :  he  and  Boswell 
together  have  pretty  well  let  me  into  the  secret  of  what  passed 
through  his  mind.  He  and  other  writers  like  him  are  suffi- 
ciently explicit :  my  friends,  whose  repose  I  should  be  tempted 
to  disturb,  (were  it  in  my  power)  are  imphcit,  inextricable, 
inscrutable. 

And  call  up  him  who  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold. 

'When  I  look  at  that  obscure  but  gorgeous  prose-composi- 
tion (the  Urn-burial)  I  seem  to  myself  to  look  into  a  deep  abyss, 


48        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

at  the  bottom  of  which  are  hid  pearls  and  rich  treasure ;  or  it 
is  like  a  stately  labyrinth  of  doubt  and  withering  speculation, 
and  I  would  invoke  the  spirit  of  the  author  to  lead  me  through 
it.  Besides,  who  would  not  be  curious  to  see  the  lineaments 
of  a  man  who,  having  himself  been  twice  married,  wished 
that  mankind  were  propagated  like  trees!  As  to  Fulke 
Greville,  he  is  like  nothing  but  one  of  his  own  "Prologues 
spoken  by  the  ghost  of  an  old  king  of  Ormus,"  a  truly 
formidable  and  inviting  personage :  his  style  is  apocalyptical, 
cabalistical,  a  knot  worthy  of  such  an  apparition  to  untie; 
and  for  the  unravelHng  a  passage  or  two,  I  would  stand  the 
brunt  of  an  encounter  with  so  portentous  a  commentator!' — 

'I  am  afraid  in  that  case,'  said  A ,  'that  if  the  mystery 

were  once  cleared  up,  the  merit  might  be  lost'; — and  turning 

to  me,  whispered  a  friendly  apprehension,  that  while  B 

continued  to  admire  these  old  crabbed  authors,  he  would 
never  become  a  popular  writer,  Dr  Donne  was  mentioned 
as  a  writer  of  the  same  period,  with  a  very  interesting  coun- 
tenance, whose  history  was  singular,  and  whose  meaning  was 
often  quite  as  uncomeatable,  without  a  personal  citation  from 
the  dead,  as  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  The  volume 
was  produced;  and  while  some  one  was  expatiating  on  the 
exquisite  simplicity  and  beauty  of  the  portrait  prefixed  to 

the  old  edition,  A got  hold  of  the  poetry,  and  exclaiming 

'What  have  we  here?'    read  the  following: — 

Here  lies  a  She-Sun  and  a  He-Moon  here, 
She  gives  the  best  light  to  his  sphere, 
Or  each  is  both  and  all,  and  so 
They  unto  one  another  nothing  owe. 

There  was  no  resisting  this,  till  B ,  seizing  the  volume, 

turned  to  the  beautiful  'Lines  to  his  Mistress,'  dissuading  her 
from  accompanying  him  abroad,  and  read  them  with  suffused 
features  and  a  faltering  tongue. 

By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview, 

By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue, 

By  our  long  starving  hopes,  by  that  remorse 

Which  my  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 

Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory 

Of  hurts,  which  spies  and  rivals  threaten' d  me, 

I  calmly  beg.     But  by  thy  father's  wrath, 

By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hath, 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       49 

I  conjure  thee ;    and  all  the  oaths  which  I 

And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy 

Here  I  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus, 

Thou  shalt  not  love  by  ways  so  dangerous. 

Temper,  oh  fair  Love!    love's  impetuous  rage, 

Be  my  true  mistress  still,  not  my  feign'd  Page; 

I'll  go,  and,  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind 

Thee,  only  worthy  to  nurse  in  my  mind. 

Thirst  to  come  back;    oh,  if  thou  die  before, 

My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar. 

Thy  (else  Almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 

Rage  from  the  seas,  nor  thy  love  teach  them  love, 

Nor  tame  wild  Boreas'  harshness ;    thou  hast  read 

How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shivered 

Fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  lov'd. 

Fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  prov'd 

Dangers  unurg'd:    Feed  on  this  flattery, 

That  absent  lovers  one  in  th'  other  be. 

Dissemble  nothing,  not  a  boy,  nor  change 

Thy  body's  habit,  nor  mind;    be  not  strange 

To  thyself  only.     All  will  spy  in  thy  face 

A  blushing,  womanly,  discovering  grace. 

Richly  cloth'd  apes  are  called  apes,  and  as  soon 

Eclips'd  as  bright  we  call  the  moon  the  moon. 

Men  of  France,  changeable  cameleons, 

Spittles  of  diseases,  shops  of  fashions, 

Love's  fuellers,  and  the  rightest  company 

Of  players,  which  upon  the  world's  stage  be. 

Will  quickly  know  thee....O  stay  here!    for,  for  thee 

England  is  only  a  worthy  gallery. 

To  walk  in  expectation;    till  from  thence 

Our  greatest  King  call  thee  to  his  presence. 

When  I  am  gone,  dream  me  some  happiness, 

Nor  let  thy  looks  our  long  hid  love  confess. 

Nor  praise,  nor  dispraise  me;    nor  bless,  nor  curse 

Openly  love's  force,  nor  in  bed  fright  thy  nurse 

With  midnight  startings,  crying  out,  Oh,  oh, 

Nurse,  oh,  my  love  is  slain,  I  saw  him  go 

O'er  the  white  Alps  alone;    I  saw  him,  I, 

Assail'd,  fight,  taken,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die. 

Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 

Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thy  love. 

Some  one  then  inquired  of  B if  we  could  not  see  from 

the  window  the  Temple-walk  in  which  Chaucer  used  to  take 
his  exercise;  and  on  his  name  being  put  to  the  vote,  I  was 
pleased  to  find  that  there  was  a  general  sensation  in  his  favour 
in  all  but  A ,  who  said  something  about  the  ruggedness 


50        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

of  the  metre,  and  even  objected  to  the  quaintness  of  the 
orthography.  I  was  vexed  at  this  superficial  gloss,  per- 
tinaciously reducing  every  thing  to  its  own  trite  level,  and 
asked  'if  he  did  not  think  it  would  be  worth  while  to  scan  the 
eye  that  had  first  greeted  the  Muse  in  that  dim  twilight  and 
early  dawn  of  English  literature;  to  see  the  head,  round 
which  the  visions  of  fancy  must  have  played  like  gleams  of 
inspiration  or  a  sudden  glory;  to  watch  those  lips  that 
"lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came" — as  by  a  miracle, 
or  as  if  the  dumb  should  speak  ?  Nor  was  it  alone  that  he 
had  been  the  first  to  tune  his  native  tongue  (however  imper- 
fectly to  modern  ears) ;  but  he  was  himself  a  noble,  manly 
character,  standing  before  his  age  and  striving  to  advance  it ; 
a  pleasant  humourist  withal,  who  has  not  only  handed  down 
to  us  the  living  manners  of  his  time,  but  had,  no  doubt,  store 
of  curious  and  quaint  devices,  and  would  make  as  hearty 
a  companion  as  Mine  Host  of  Tabard.  His  interview  with 
Petrarch  is  fraught  with  interest.  Yet  I  would  rather  have 
seen  Chaucer  in  company  with  the  author  of  the  Decameron, 
and  have  heard  them  exchange  their  best  stories  together, 
the  Squire's  Tale  against  the  Story  of  the  Falcon,  the  Wife  of 
Bath's  Prologue  against  the  Adventures  of  Friar  Albert.  How 
fine  to  see  the  high  mysterious  brow  which  learning  then 
wore,  relieved  by  the  gay,  familiar  tone  of  men  of  the  world, 
and  by  the  courtesies  of  genius.  Surely,  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  which  passed  through  the  minds  of  these  great  revivers 
of  learning,  these  Cadmuses  who  sowed  the  teeth  of  letters, 
must  have  stamped  an  expression  on  their  features,  as  different 
from  the  moderns  as  their  books,  and  well  worth  the  perusal. 
Dante,'  I  continued,  'is  as  interesting  a  person  as  his  own 
Ugolino,  one  whose  lineaments  curiosity  would  as  eagerly 
devour  in  order  to  penetrate  his  spirit,  and  the  only  one  of 
the  Italian  poets  I  should  care  much  to  see.  There  is  a  fine 
portrait  of  Ariosto  by  no  less  a  hand  than  Titian's;  light, 
Moorish,  spirited,  but  not  answering  our  idea.  The  same 
artist's  large  colossal  profile  of  Peter  Aretine  is  the  only 
likeness  of  the  kind  that  has  the  eflFect  of  conversing  with 
"the    mighty    dead,"    and    this    is    truly    spectral,    ghastly, 

necromantic'     B put  it  to  me  if  I   should  like  to  see 

Spenser  as  well  as  Chaucer ;  and  I  answered  without  hesitation, 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen         51 

'No;  for  that  his  beauties  were  ideal,  visionary,  not  palpable 
or  personal,  and  therefore  connected  with  less  curiosity  about 
the  man.  His  poetry  was  the  essence  of  romance,  a  very 
halo  round  the  bright  orb  of  fancy;  and  the  bringing  in  the 
individual  might  dissolve  the  charm.  No  tones  of  voice 
could  come  up  to  the  mellifluous  cadence  of  his  verse ;  no  form 
but  of  a  winged  angel  could  vie  with  the  airy  shapes  he  has 
described.  He  was  (to  our  apprehensions)  rather  "a  creature 
of  the  element,  that  lived  in  the  rainbow  and  played  in  the 
plighted  clouds,"  than  an  ordinary  mortal.  Or  if  he  did 
appear,  I  should  wish  it  to  be  as  a  mere  vision,  like  one  of 
his  own  pageants,  and  that  he  should  pass  by  unquestioned 
like  a  dream  or  sound — 

That  was  Arion  crown' d: 

So  went  he  playing  on  the  wat'ry  plain ! 

Captain  C.  muttered  something  about  Columbus,  and 
M.  C.  hinted  at  the  Wandering  Jew;  but  the  last  was  set 
aside  as  spurious,  and  the  first  made  over  to  the  New  World. 

'I  should  like,'  said  Miss  D ,  'to  have  seen  Pope  talking 

with  Patty  Blount;    and  I  have  seen  Goldsmith.'     Every  one 

turned  round  to  look  at  Miss  D ,  as  if  by  so  doing  they 

too  could  get  a  sight  of  Goldsmith. 

'Where,'  asked  a  harsh  croaking  voice,  'was  Dr  Johnson 
in  the  years  1745-6?  He  did  not  write  any  thing  that  we 
know  of,  nor  is  there  any  account  of  him  in  Boswell  during 
those  two  years.  Was  he  in  Scotland  with  the  Pretender? 
He  seems  to  have  passed  through  the  scenes  in  the  Highlands 
in  company  with  Boswell  many  years  after  "with  lack-lustre 
eye,"  yet  as  if  they  were  familiar  to  him,  or  associated  in  his 
mind  with  interests  that  he  durst  not  explain.  If  so,  it  would 
be  an  additional  reason  for  my  liking  him;  and  I  would 
give  something  to  have  seen  him  seated  in  the  tent  with  the 
youthful  Majesty  of  Britain,  and  penning  the  Proclamation 
to  all  true  subjects  and  adherents  of  the  legitimate  Govern- 
ment.' 

'I  thought,'  said  A ,  turning  short  round  upon  B , 

'that  you  of  the  Lake  School  did  not  like  Pope?'— 'Not  like 
Pope!  My  dear  sir,  you  must  be  under  a  mistake — I  can 
read   him    over   and   over   for   ever!' — *Why   certainly,    the 


52        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

"Essay  on  Man"  must  be  allowed  to  be  a  master-piece.' — 'It 
may  be  so,  but  I  seldom  look  into  it.' — '  Oh  !  then  it's  his  Satires 
you  admire?' — 'No,  not  his  Satires,  but  his  friendly  Epistles 
and  his  compliments.'— 'Compliments  !   I  did  not  know  he  ever 

made  any.' — 'The  finest,'  said  B ,  'that  were  ever  paid  by 

the  wit  of  man.  Each  of  them  is  worth  an  estate  for  life — nay, 
is  an  immortality.  There  is  that  superb  one  to  Lord  Cornbury: 

Despise  low  joys,  low  gains; 

Disdain  whatever  Cornbury  disdains ; 

Be  virtuous,  and  be  happy  for  your  pains. 

'Was  there  ever  more  artful  insinuation  of  idolatrous  praise? 
And  then  that  noble  apotheosis  of  his  friend  Lord  Mansfield 
(however  little  deserved),  when,  speaking  of  the  House  of 
Lords,  he  adds — 

Conspicuous  scene!    another  yet  is  nigh, 
(More  silent  far)  where  kings  and  poets  lie; 
Where  Murray  (long  enough  his  country's  pride) 
Shall  be  no  more  than  Tally  or  than  Hyde ! 

'And  with  what  a  fine  turn  of  indignant  fiattery  he  addresses 
Lord  Bolingbroke — 

Why  rail  they  then,  if  but  one  wreath  of  mine. 
Oh!    all  accomphsh'd  St  John,  deck  thy  shrine? 

'Or  turn,'  continued  B ,  with  a  slight  hectic  on  his  cheek 

and  his  eye  glistening,  'to  his  list  of  early  friends: 

But  why  then  publish.^     Granville  the  polite. 
And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  I  could  write; 
Well-natured  Garth  inflamed  with  early  praise. 
And  Congreve  loved  and  Swift  endured  my  lays : 
The  courtly  Talbot,  Somers,  Sheffield  read, 
Ev'n  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head; 
And  St  John's  self  (great  Dryden's  friend  before) 
Received  with  open  arms  one  poet  more. 
Happy  my  studies,  if  by  these  approved ! 
Happier  their  author,  if  by  these  beloved ! 
From  these  the  world  will  judge  of  men  and  books. 
Not  from  the  Burnets,  Oldmixons,  and  Cooks. 

Here  his  voice  totally  failed  him,  and  throwing  down  the 
book,  he  said,  'Do  you  think  I  would  not  wish  to  have  been 
friends  with  such  a  man  as  this  ? ' 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen        53 

'What  say  you  to  Dryden  ?' — 'He  rather  made  a  show 
of  himself,  and  courted  popularity  in  that  lowest  temple  of 
Fame,  a  coffee-house,  so  as  in  som^  measure  to  vulgarize 
one's  idea  of  him.  Pope,  on  the  contrary,  reached  the  very 
beau  ideal  of  what  a  poet's  life  should  be ;  and  his  fame  while 
living  seemed  to  be  an  emanation  from  that  which  was  to 
circle  his  name  after  death.  He  was  so  far  enviable  (and  one 
would  feel  proud  to  have  witnessed  the  rare  spectacle  in  him) 
that  he  was  almost  the  only  poet  and  man  of  genius  who  met 
with  his  reward  on  this  side  of  the  tomb,  who  realized  in 
friends,  fortune,  the  esteem  of  the  world,  the  most  sanguine 
hopes  of  a  youthful  ambition,  and  who  found  that  sort  of 
patronage  from  the  great  during  his  lifetime  which  they 
would  be  thought  anxious  to  bestow  upon  him  after  his  death. 
Read  Gay's  verses  to  him  on  his  supposed  return  from  Greece, 
after  his  translation  of  Homer  was  finished,  and  say  if  you 
would  not  gladly  join  the  bright  procession  that  welcomed 
him  home,  or  see  it  once  more  land  at  Whitehall-stairs.' — 

'Still,'  said  Miss  D ,  'I  would  rather  have  seen  him  talking 

with  Patty  Blount,  or  riding  by  in  a  coronet-coach  with 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu!' 

E ,  who  was  deep  in  a  game  of  piquet  at  the  other 

end  of  the  room,  whispered  to  M.  C.  to  ask  if  Junius  would 
not  be  a  fit  person  to  invoke  from  the  dead.  'Yes,'  said 
B ,  'provided  he  would  agree  to  lay  aside  his  mask.' 

We  were  now  at  a  stand  for  a  short  time,  when  Fielding 
was  mentioned  as  a  candidate:  only  one,  however,  seconded 
the  proposition.  'Richardson?' — 'By  all  means,  but  only  to 
look  at  him  through  the  glass-door  of  his  back-shop,  hard 
at  work  upon  one  of  his  novels  (the  most  extraordinary 
contrast  that  ever  was  presented  between  an  author  and  his 
works),  but  not  to  let  him  come  behind  his  counter  lest  he 
should  want  you  to  turn  customer,  nor  to  go  upstairs  with 
him,  lest  he  should  offer  to  read  the  first  manuscript  of  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  which  was  originally  written  in  eight  and 
twenty  volumes  octavo,  or  get  out  the  letters  of  his  female 
correspondents,  to  prove  that  Joseph  Andrews  was  low.' 

There  was  but  one  statesman  in  the  whole  of  English 
history  that  any  one  expressed  the  least  desire  to  see — Oliver 
Cromwell,  with  his  fine,  frank,  rough,  pimply  face,  and  wily 


54        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

policy; — and  one  enthusiast,  John  Bunyan,  the  immortal 
author  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  It  seemed  that  if  he  came 
into  the  room,  dreams  would  follow  him,  and  that  each  person 
would  nod  under  his  golden  cloud,  'nigh-sphered  in  Heaven,' 
a  canopy  as  strange  and  stately  as  any  in  Homer. 

Of  all  persons  near  our  own  time,   Garrick's  name  was 
received  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm,  who  was  proposed  by 

J.  F .     He  presently  superseded  both  Hogarth  and  Handel, 

who  had  been  talked  of,  but  then  it  was  on  condition  that 
he  should  act  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  in  the  play  and  the 
farce,  Lear  and  Wildair  and  Abel  Drugger.  What  a  sight  for 
sore  eyes  that  would  be !  Who  would  not  part  with  a  year's 
income  at  least,  almost  with  a  year  of  his  natural  life,  to  be 
present  at  it?  Besides,  as  he  could  not  act  alone,  and 
recitations  are  unsatisfactory  things,  what  a  troop  he  must 
bring  with  him — the  silver-tongued  Barry,  and  Quin,  and 
Shuter  and  Weston,  and  Mrs  Clive  and  Mrs  Pritchard,  of  whom 
I  have  heard  my  father  speak  as  so  great  a  favourite  when 
he  was  young!  This  would  indeed  be  a  revival  of  the  dead, 
the  restoring  of  art;  and  so  much  the  more  desirable,  as 
such  is  the  lurking  scepticism  mingled  with  our  overstrained 
admiration  of  past  excellence,  that  though  we  have  the  speeches 
of  Burke,  the  portraits  of  Reynolds,  the  writings  of  Goldsmith, 
and  the  conversation  of  Johnson,  to  show  what  people  could 
do  at  that  period,  and  to  confirm  the  universal  testimony 
to  the  merits  of  Garrick;  yet,  as  it  was  before  our  time,  we 
have  our  misgivings,  as  if  he  was  probably  after  all  little 
better  than  a  Bartlemy-f  air  actor,  dressed  out  to  play  Macbeth 
in  a  scarlet  coat  and  laced  cocked-hat.  For  one,  I  should 
like  to  have  seen  and  heard  with  my  own  eyes  and  ears. 
Certainly,  by  all  accounts,  if  any  one  was  ever  moved  by  the 
true  histrionic  cestus,  it  was  Garrick.  When  he  followed  the 
Ghost  in  Hamlet,  he  did  not  drop  the  sword,  as  most  actors 
do  behind  the  scenes,  but  kept  the  point  raised  the  whole 
way  round,  so  fully  was  he  possessed  with  the  idea,  or  so 
anxious  not  to  lose  sight  of  his  part  for  a  moment.     Once 

at   a   splendid   dinner-party   at   Lord  's,   they   suddenly 

missed  Garrick,  and  could  not  imagine  what  was  become  of 
him,  till  they  were  drawn  to  the  window  by  the  convulsive 
screams  and  peals  of  laughter  of  a  young  negro  boy,  who 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen        55 

was  rolling  on  the  ground  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight  to  see  Garrick 
mimicing  a  turkey-cock  in  the  court-yard,  with  his  coat-tail 
stuck  out  behind,  and  in  a  seeming  flutter  of  feathered  rage 
and  pride.  Of  our  party  only  two  persons  present  had  seen 
the  British  Roscius;  and  they  seemed  as  wilhng  as  the  rest 
to  renew  their  acquaintance  with  their  old  favourite. 

We  were  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  and  mid-career  of 
this  fanciful  speculation,  by  a  grumbler  in  a  corner,  who  declared 
it  was  a  shame  to  make  all  this  rout  about  a  mere  player  and 
farce-writer,  to  the  neglect  and  exclusion  of  the  fine  old 
dramatists,    the   contemporaries   and   rivals   of   Shakespeare. 

B said  he  had  anticipated  this  objection  when  he  had 

named  the  author  of  Mustapha  and  Alaham ;  and  out  of  caprice 
insisted  upon  keeping  him  to  represent  the  set,  in  preference 
to  the  wild  hair-brained  enthusiast  Kit  Marlowe;  to  the 
sexton  of  St  Ann's,  Webster,  with  his  melancholy  yew-trees 
and  death's-heads;  to  Deckar,  who  was  but  a  garrulous 
proser;  to  the  voluminous  Heywood;  and  even  to  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  whom  we  might  offend  by  complimenting  the 
wrong  author  on  their  joint  productions.  Lord  Brook,  on 
the  contrary,  stood  quite  by  himself,  or  in  Cowley's  words, 
was  'a  vast  species  alone.'  Some  one  hinted  at  the  circum- 
stance of  his  being  a  lord,  which  rather  startled  B ,  but 

he  said  a  ghost  would  perhaps  dispense  with  strict  etiquette, 
on  being  regularly  addressed  by  his  title.  Ben  Jonson  divided 
our  suffrages  pretty  equally.  Some  were  afraid  he  would 
begin  to  traduce  Shakspeare,  who  was  not  present  to  defend 
himself.     'If  he  grows  disagreeable,'  it  was  whispered  aloud, 

'there  is  G can  match  him.'    At  length,  his  romantic  visit 

to  Drummond  of  Hawthornden  was  mentioned,  and  turned 
the  scale  in  his  favour. 

B inquired  if  there  was  any  one  that  was  hanged 

that  I  would  choose  to  mention  ?  And  I  answered,  Eugene 
Aram^.  The  name  of  the  'Admirable  Crichton'  was  suddenly 
started  as  a  splendid  example  of  waste  talents,  so  different 
from  the  generality  of  his  countrymen.  This  choice  was 
mightily  approved  by  a  North-Briton  present,  who  declared 
himself  descended  from  that  prodigy  of  learning  and  accom- 
plishment, and  said  he  had  family-plate  in  his  possession  as 
^  See  Newgate  Calendar  for  1758. 


56        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

vouchers   for    the   fact,    with    the  initials    A.  C. — Admirable 

CrichtonI     H laughed   or   rather   roared   as   heartily  at 

this  as  I  should  think  he  has  done  for  many  years. 

The  last-named  Mitre-courtier^  then  wished  to  know 
whether  there  were  any  metaphysicians  to  whom  one  might 
be  tempted  to  apply  the  wizard  spell?  I  replied,  there  were 
only  six  in  modern  times  deserving  the  name — Hobbes, 
Berkeley,  Butler,  Hartley,  Hume,  Leibnitz;  and  perhaps 
Jonathan  Edwards,  a  Massachusets  man^.  As  to  the  French, 
who  talked  fluently  of  having  created  this  science,  there  was 
not  a  title  in  any  of  their  writings,  that  was  not  to  be  found 
literally  in  the  authors  I  had  mentioned.  [Home  Tooke,  who 
might  have  a  claim  to  come  in  under  the  head  of  Grammar, 
was  still  living.]  None  of  these  names  seemed  to  excite 
much  interest,  and  I  did  not  plead  for  the  re-appearance  of 
those  who  might  be  thought  best  fitted  by  the  abstracted 
nature  of  their  studies  for  their  present  spiritual  and  disem- 
bodied state,  and  who,  even  while  on  this  living  stage,  were 

nearly  divested  of  common  flesh  and  blood.     As  A with 

an  uneasy  fidgetty  face  was  about  to  put  some  question 
about  Mr  Locke  and  Dugald  Stewart,  he  was  prevented  by 

M.  C.  who  observed,  'If  J was  here,  he  would  undoubtedly 

be  for  having  up  those  profound  and  redoubted  scholiasts, 
Thomas  Aquinas  and  Duns  Scotus.'  I  said  this  might  be 
fair  enough  in  him  who  had  read  or  fancied  he  had  read  the 
original  works,  but  I  did  not  see  how  we  could  have  any 
right  to  call  up  these  authors  to  give  an  account  of  themselves 
in  person,  till  we  had  looked  into  their  writings. 

By  this  time  it  should  seem  that  some  rumour  of  our 
whimsical  deliberation  had  got  wind,  and  had  disturbed  the 
irritabile  genus   in    their   shadowy   abodes,    for   we   received 

^  B at  this  time  occupied  chambers  in  Mitre  Court,  Fleet  Street. 

2  Lord  Bacon  is  not  included  in  this  list,  nor  do  I  know  where  he  should 
come  in.  It  is  not  easy  to  make  room  for  him  and  his  reputation  together. 
This  great  and  celebrated  man  in  some  of  his  works  recommends  it  to  pour 
a  bottle  of  claret  into  the  ground  of  a  morning,  and  to  stand  over  it, 
inhaling  the  perfumes.  So  he  sometimes  enriched  the  dry  and  barren  soil 
of  speculation  with  the  fine  aromatic  spirit  of  his  genius.  His  '  Essays ' 
and  his  'Advancement  of  Learning'  are  works  of  vast  depth  and  scope  of 
observation.  The  last,  though  it  contains  no  positive  discoveries,  is  a  noble 
chart  of  the  human  intellect,  and  a  guide  to  all  future  inquirers. 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have   seen        57 

messages  from  several  candidates  that  we  had  just  been 
thinking  of.  Gray  dedined  our  invitation,  though  he  had  not 
yet  been  asked:  Gay  offered  to  come  and  bring  in  his  hand 
the  Duchess  of  Bolton,  the  original  Polly :  Steele  and  Addison 
left  their  cards  as  Captain  Sentry  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley: 
Swift  came  in  and  sat  down  without  speaking  a  word,  and 
quitted  the  room  as  abruptly:  Otway  and  Chatterton  were 
seen  lingering  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Styx,  but  could 
not  muster  enough  between  them  to  pay  Charon  his  fare: 
Thomson  fell  asleep  in  the  boat,  and  was  rowed  back  again — 
and  Burns  sent  a  low  fellow,  one  John  Barleycorn,  an  old 
companion  of  his  who  had  conducted  him  to  the  other  world, 
to  say  that  he  had  during  his  lifetime  been  drawn  out  of  his 
retirement  as  a  show,  only  to  be  made  an  exciseman  of,  and 
that  he  would  rather  remain  where  he  was.  He  desired, 
however,  to  shake  hands  by  his  representative — the  hand, 
thus  held  out,  was  in  a  burning  fever,  and  shook  prodigiously. 
The  room  was  hung  round  with  several  portraits  of  eminent 
painters.  While  we  were  debating  whether  we  should  demand 
speech  with  these  masters  of  mute  eloquence,  whose  features 
were  so  familiar  to  us,  it  seemed  that  all  at  once  they  glided 
from  their  frames,  and  seated  themselves  at  some  little  distance 
from  us.  There  was  Leonardo  with  his  majestic  beard  and 
watchful  eye,  having  a  bust  of  Archimedes  before  him ;  next 
him  was  Raphael's  graceful  head  turned  round  to  the  For- 
narina ;  and  on  his  other  side  was  Lucretia  Borgia,  with  calm, 
golden  locks;  Michael  Angelo  had  placed  the  model  of  St 
Peter's  on  the  table  before  him ;  Corregio  had  an  angel  at  his 
side ;  Titian  was  seated  with  his  Mistress  between  himself  and 
Giorgioni;  Guido  was  accompanied  by  his  own  Aurora,  who 
took  a  dice-box  from  him ;  Claude  held  a  mirror  in  his  hand ; 
Rubens  patted  a  beautiful  panther  (led  in  by  a  satyr)  on  the 
head;  Vandyke  appeared  as  his  own  Paris,  and  Rembrandt 
was  hid  under  furs,  gold  chains  and  jewels,  which  Sir  Joshua 
eyed  closely,  holding  his  hand  so  as  to  shade  his  forehead. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken;  and  as  we  rose  to  do  them  homage, 
they  still  presented  the  same  surface  to  the  view.  Not  being 
bond-fide  representations  of  living  people,  we  got  rid  of  the 
splendid  apparitions  by  signs  and  dumb  show.  As  soon  as 
they  had  melted  into  thin  air,  there  was  a  loud  noise  at  the 


58        Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen 

outer  door,  and  we  found  it  was  Giotto,  Cimabue,  and 
Ghirlandaio,  who  had  been  raised  from  the  dead  by  their 
earnest  desire  to  see  their  illustrious  successors — 

Whose  names  on  earth 
In  Fame's  eternal  records  live  for  ayel 
Finding  them  gone,  they  had  no  ambition  to  be  seen  after 

them,  and  mournfully  withdrew.     'Egad!'  said  B , 'those 

are  the  very  fellows  I  should  like  to  have  had  some  talk  with, 
to  know  how  they  could  see  to  paint  when  all  was  dark  around 
them  ? ' 

'But  shall  we  have  nothing  to  say,'  interrogated  G.  J , 

'to  the  Legend  of  Good  Women?' — 'Name,  name,  Mr  J ,' 

cried  H in  a  boisterous  tone  of  friendly  exultation,  'name 

as  many  as  you  please,  without  reserve  or  fear  of  molestation ! ' 

J was  perplexed  between  so  many  amiable  recollections, 

that  the  name  of  the  lady  of  his  choice  expired  in  a  pensive 

whiff  of  his  pipe;    and  B impatiently  declared  for  the 

Duchess  of  Newcastle.  Mrs  Hutchinson  was  no  sooner 
mentioned,  than  she  carried  the  day  from  the  Duchess.  We 
were  the  less  solicitous  on  this  subject  of  filling  up  the  post- 
humous lists  of  Good  Women,  as  there  was  already  one  in 
the  room  as  good,  as  sensible,  and  in  all  respects  as  exemplary, 
as  the  best  of  them  could  be  for  their  lives !  '  I  should  like 
vastly  to  have  seen  Ninon  de  I'Enclos, '  said  that  incomparable 
person;  and  this  immediately  put  us  in  mind  that  we  had 
neglected  to  pay  honour  due  to  our  friends  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel :  Voltaire,  the  patriarch  of  levity,  and  Rousseau, 
the  father  of  sentiment,  Montaigne  and  Rabelais  (great  in 
wisdom  and  in  wit),  Moliere  and  that  illustrious  group  that 
are  collected  round  him  (in  the  print  of  that  subject)  to  hear 
him  read  his  comedy  of  the  Tartuffe  at  the  house  of  Ninon; 
Racine,  La  Fontaine,  Rochefoucault,  St  Evremont,  &c. 

'There  is  one  person,'  said  a  shrill,  querulous  voice,  'I  would 
rather  see  than  all  these — Don  Quixote!' 

'Come,  come!'    said  H ;    'I  thought  we  should  have 

no   heroes,    real   or   fabulous.     What   say    you,    Mr   B ? 

Are  you  for  eking  out  your  shadowy  list  with  such  names 
as  Alexander,  Julius  Caesar,  Tamerlane,  or  Ghengis  Khan  ? ' 

— 'Excuse  me,'  said  B ,  'on  the  subject  of  characters  in 

active  life,  plotters  and  disturbers  of  the  world,  I  have  a  crotchet 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen         59 

of  my  own,  which  I  beg  leave  to  reserve.' — 'No,  no!  come, 
out  with  your  worthies!' — 'What  do  you  think  of  Guy  Faux 

and  Judas  Iscariot?'     H turned  an  eye  upon  him  like 

a  wild  Indian,  but  cordial  and  full  of  smothered  glee.     'Your 

most  exquisite  reason!'    was  echoed  on  all  sides;    and  A 

thought  that  B had  now  fairly  entangled  himself.     'Why, 

I  cannot  but  think,'  retorted  he  of  the  wistful  countenance, 
'that  Guy  Faux,  that  poor  fluttering  annual  scare-crow  of 
straw  and  rags,  is  an  ill-used  gentleman.  I  would  give  some- 
thing to  see  him  sitting  pale  and  emaciated,  surrounded  by 
his  matches  and  his  barrels  of  gunpowder,  and  expecting  the 
moment  that  was  to  transport  him  to  Paradise  for  his  heroic 
self-devotion;    but  if  I   say  any  more,   there  is  that   fellow 

G will  make  something  of  it.     And  as  to  Judas  Iscariot, 

my  reason  is  different.  I  would  fain  see  the  face  of  him, 
who,  having  dipped  his  hand  in  the  same  dish  with  the  Son 
of  Man,  could  afterwards  betray  him.  I  have  no  conception 
of  such  a  thing;  nor  have  I  ever  seen  any  picture  (not  even 
Leonardo's  very  fine  one)  that  gave  me  the  least  idea  of  it.' — 
'You  have  said  enough,  Mr  B ,  to  justify  your  choice.' 

'Oh!    ever  right,  Menenius, — ever  right!' 

'There  is  only  one  other  person  I  can  ever  think  of  after 

this,'  continued  H ;    but  without  mentioning  a  name  that 

once  put  on  a  semblance  of  mortality.  'If  Shakspeare  was 
to  come  into  the  room,  we  should  all  rise  up  to  meet  him ; 
but  if  that  person  was  to  come  into  it,  we  should  all  fall  down 
and  try  to  kiss  the  hem  of  his  garment !' 

As  a  lady  present  seemed  now  to  get  uneasy  at  the  turn 
the  conversation  had  taken,  we  rose  up  to  go.  The  morning 
broke  with  that  dim,  dubious  light  by  which  Giotto,  Cimabue, 
and  Ghirlandaio  must  have  seen  to  paint  their  earliest  works ; 
and  we  parted  to  meet  again  and  renew  similar  topics  at  night, 
the  next  night,  and  the  night  after  that,  till  that  night  over- 
spread Europe  which  saw  no  dawn.  The  same  event,  in 
truth,  broke  up  our  little  Congress  that  broke  up  the  great 
one.  But  that  was  to  meet  again :  our  deliberations  have 
never  been  resumed. 


ON    READING    OLD    BOOKS 

I  hate  to  read  new  books.  There  are  twenty  or  thirty- 
volumes  that  I  have  read  over  and  over  again,  and  these  are 
the  only  ones  that  I  have  any  desire  ever  to  read  at  all.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  sit  down  to  the 
Tales  of  My  Landlord,  but  now  that  author's  works  have  made 
a  considerable  addition  to  my  scanty  library.  I  am  told  that 
some  of  Lady  Morgan's  are  good,  and  have  been  recommended 
to  look  into  Anastasius;  but  I  have  not  yet  ventured  upon 
that  task.  A  lady,  the  other  day,  could  not  refrain  from 
expressing  her  surprise  to  a  friend,  who  said  he  had  been 
reading  Delphine :— she  asked,— If  it  had  not  been  published 
some  time  back?  Women  judge  of  books  as  they  do  of 
fashions  or  complexions,  which  are  admired  only  'in  their 
newest  gloss.'  That  is  not  my  way.  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  trouble  the  circulating  libraries  much,  or  pester  the 
booksellers  for  mail-coach  copies  of  standard  periodical 
pubHcations.  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  greatly  addicted  to 
black-letter,  but  I  profess  myself  well  versed  in  the  marble 
bindings  of  Andrew  Millar,  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century; 
nor  does  my  taste  revolt  at  Thurloe's  State  Papers,  in  Russia 
leather;  or  an  ample  impression  of  Sir  WilHam  Temple's 
Essays,  with  a  portrait  after  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  in  front. 
I  do  not  think  altogether  the  worse  of  a  book  for  having 
survived  the  author  a  generation  or  two.  I  have  more  con- 
fidence in  the  dead  than  the  living.  Contemporary  writers 
may  generally  be  divided  into  two  classes — one's  friends  or 
one's  foes.  Of  the  first  we  are  compelled  to  think. too  well, 
and  of  the  last  we  are  disposed  to  think  too  ill,  to  receive 
much  genuine  pleasure  from  the  perusal,  or  to  judge  fairly 
of  the  merits  of  either.  One  candidate  for  literary  fame, 
who  happens  to  be  of  our  acquaintance,  writes  finely,  and 
like  a  man  of  genius;    but  unfortunately  has  a  foolish  face, 


On   Reading  Old  Books  6i 

which  spoils  a  deHcate  passage : — another  inspires  us  with  the 
highest  respect  for  his  personal  talents  and  character,  but 
does  not  quite  come  up  to  our  expectations  in  print.  All 
these  contradictions  and  petty  details  interrupt  the  calm 
current  of  our  reflections.  If  you  want  to  know  what  any 
of  the  authors  were  who  lived  before  our  time,  and  are  still 
objects  of  anxious  inquiry,  you  have  only  to  look  into  their 
works.  But  the  dust  and  smoke  and  noise  of  modern  literature 
have  nothing  in  common  with  the  pure,  silent  air  of  immortality. 
When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before  (the  oftener 
the  better)  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect.  The  satisfaction 
is  not  lessened  by  being  anticipated.  When  the  entertainment 
is  altogether  new,  I  sit  down  to  it  as  I  should  to  a  strange  dish, 
— turn  and  pick  out  a  bit  here  and  there,  and  am  in  doubt 
what  to  think  of  the  composition.  There  is  a  want  of  con- 
fidence and  security  to  second  appetite.  New-fangled  books 
are  also  like  made-dishes  in  this  respect,  that  they  are  generally 
little  else  than  hashes  and  rifacimentos  of  what  has  been 
served  up  entire  and  in  a  more  natural  state  at  other  times. 
Besides,  in  thus  turning  to  a  well-known  author,  there  is  not 
only  an  assurance  that  my  time  will  not  be  thrown  away,  or 
my  palate  nauseated  with  the  most  insipid  or  vilest  trash, — 
but  I  shake  hands  with,  and  look  an  old,  tried,  and  valued 
friend  in  the  face, — compare  notes,  and  chat  the  hours  away. 
It  is  true,  we  form  dear  friendships  with  such  ideal  guests — 
dearer,  alas!  and  more  lasting,  than  those  with  our  most 
intimate  acquaintance.  In  reading  a  book  which  is  an  old 
favourite  with  me  (say  the  first  novel  I  ever  read)  I  not  only 
have  the  pleasure  of  imagination  and  of  a  critical  relish  of 
the  work,  but  the  pleasures  of  memory  added  to  it.  It  recals 
the  same  feeUngs  and  associations  which  I  had  in  first  reading 
it,  and  which  I  can  never  have  again  in  any  other  way. 
Standard  productions  of  this  kind  are  links  in  the  chain  of 
our  conscious  being.  They  bind  together  the  different 
scattered  divisions  of  our  personal  identity.  They  are 
landmarks  and  guides  in  our  journey  through  life.  They 
are  pegs  and  loops  on  which  we  can  hang  up,  or  from  which 
we  can  take  down,  at  pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral 
imagination,  the  relics  of  our  best  affections,  the  tokens  and 
records  of  our  happiest  hours.     They  are  'for  thoughts  and 


62  On   Reading  Old  Books 

for  remembrance!'  They  are  like  Fortunatus's  Wishing-Cap 
— they  give  us  the  best  riches — those  of  Fancy ;  and  transport 
us,  not  over  half  the  globe,  but  (which  is  better)  over  half 
our  lives,  at  a  word's  notice! 

My  father  Shandy  solaced  himself  with  Bruscambille. 
Give  me  for  this  purpose  a  volume  of  Peregrine  Pickle  or 
Tom  Jones.  Open  either  of  them  any  where — at  the  Memoirs 
of  Lady  Vane,  or  the  adventures  at  the  masquerade  with 
Lady  Bellaston,  or  the  disputes  between  Thwackum  and 
Square,  or  the  escape  of  Molly  Seagrim,  or  the  incident  of 
Sophia  and  her  muff,  or  the  edifying  prohxity  of  her  aunt's 
lecture — and  there  I  find  the  same  delightful,  busy,  bustling 
scene  as  ever,  and  feel  myself  the  same  as  when  I  was  first 
introduced  into  the  midst  of  it.  Nay,  sometimes  the  sight 
of  an  odd  volume  of  these  good  old  English  authors  on  a  stall, 
or  the  name  lettered  on  the  back  among  others  on  the  shelves 
of  a  library,  answers  the  purpose,  revives  the  whole  train  of 
ideas,  and  sets  'the  puppets  dallying.'  Twenty  years  are 
struck  off  the  list,  and  I  am  a  child  again.  A  sage  philosopher, 
who  was  not  a  very  wise  man,  said,  that  he  should  like  very 
well  to  be  young  again,  if  he  could  take  his  experience  along 
with  him.  This  ingenious  person  did  not  seem  to  be  aware, 
by  the  gravity  of  his  remark,  that  the  great  advantage  of 
being  young  is  to  be  without  this  weight  of  experience,  which 
he  would  fain  place  upon  the  shoulders  of  youth,  and  which 
never  comes  too  late  with  years.  Oh !  what  a  privilege  to 
be  able  to  let  this  hump,  like  Christian's  burthen,  drop'  from 
off  one's  back,  and  transport  one's  self,  by  the  help  of  a  little 
musty  duodecimo,  to  the  time  when  'ignorance  was  bliss,' 
and  when  we  first  got  a  peep  at  the  raree-show  of  the  world, 
through  the  glass  of  fiction — gazing  at  mankind,  as  we  do  at 
wild  beasts  in  a  menagerie,  through  the  bars  of  their  cages, — 
or  at  curiosities  in  a  museum,  that  we  must  not  touch !  For 
myself,  not  only  are  the  old  ideas  of  the  contents  of  the  work 
brought  back  to  my  mind  in  all  their  vividness,  but  the  old 
associations  of  the  faces  and  persons  of  those  I  then  knew, 
as  they  were  in  their  life-time — the  place  where  I  sat  to  read 
the  volume,  the  day  when  I  got  it,  the  feeling  of  the  air,  the 
fields,  the  sky — return,  and  all  my  early  impressions  with  them. 
This  is  better  to  me — those  places,  those  times,  those  persons, 


On  Reading  Old  Books  63 

and  those  feelings  that  come  across  me  as  I  retrace  the  story 
and  devour  the  page,  are  to  me  better  far  than  the  wet  sheets 
of  the  last  new  novel  from  the  Ballantyne  press,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  Minerva  press  in  Leadenhall-street.  It  is  Hke  visiting 
the  scenes  of  early  youth.  I  think  of  the  time  'when  I  was 
in  my  father's  house,  and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter  and 
honey,' — when  I  was  a  little,  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no 
other  wish  or  care  but  to  con  my  daily  task,  and  be  happy ! — 
Tom  Jones,  I  remember,  was  the  first  work  that  broke  the 
spell.  It  came  down  in  numbers  once  a  fortnight,  in  Cooke's 
pocket-edition,  embellished  with  cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read 
only  in  school-books,  and  a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history 
(with  the  exception  of  Mrs  Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest)  : 
but  this  had  a  different  rehsh  with  it, — 'sweet  in  the  mouth,' 
though  not  'bitter  in  the  belly.'  It  smacked  of  the  world 
I  lived  in,  and  in  which  I  was  to  live — and  shewed  me  groups, 
'gay  creatures'  not  'of  the  element,'  but  of  the  earth;  not 
'living  in  the  clouds,'  but  travelling  the  same  road  that  I 
did; — some  that  had  passed  on  before  me,  and  others  that 
might  soon  overtake  me.  My  heart  had  palpitated  at  the 
thoughts  of  a  boarding-school  ball,  or  gala-day  at  Midsummer 
or  Christmas :  but  the  world  I  had  found  out  in  Cooke's 
edition  of  the  British  Novelists  was  to  me  a  dance  through 
life,  a  perpetual  gala-day.  The  sixpenny  numbers  of  this 
work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off  just  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a  story,  where  Tom  Jones 
discovers  Square  behind  the  blanket ;  or  where  Parson  Adams, 
in  the  inextricable  confusion  of  events,  very  undesignedly  gets 
to  bed  to  Mrs  Slip-slop.  Let  me  caution  the  reader  against 
this  impression  of  Joseph  Andrews;  for  there  is  a  picture 
of  Fanny  in  it  which  he  should  not  set  his  heart  on,  lest  he 
should  never  meet  with  any  thing  like  it;  or  if  he  should, 
it  would,  perhaps,  be  better  for  him  that  he  had  not.     It  was 

just  like !     With  what  eagerness  I   used  to  look 

forward  to  the  next  number,  and  open  the  prints !  Ah ! 
never  again  shall  I  feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with  which 
I  gazed  at  the  figures,  and  anticipated  the  story  and  adventures 
of  Major  Bath  and  Commodore  Trunnion,  of  Trim  and  myUncle 
Toby,  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  and  Dapple,  of  Gil  Bias 
and  Dame  Lorenza  Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the  fair  Lucretia, 


64  On  Reading  Old  Books 

whose  lips  open  and  shut  like  buds  of  roses.  To  what  nameless 
ideas  did  they  give  rise, — with  what  airy  delights  I  filled  up 
the  outlines,  as  I  hung  in  silence  over  the  page ! — Let  me  still 
recal  them,  that  they  may  breathe  fresh  life  into  me,  and 
that  I  may  live  that  birthday  of  thought  and  romantic  pleasure 
over  again!  Talk  of  the  ideal\  This  is  the  only  true  ideal — 
the  heavenly  tints  of  Fancy  reflected  in  the  bubbles  that 
float  upon  the  spring-tide  of  human  life. 

Oh!    Memory!    shield  me  from  the  world's  poor  strife. 
And  give  those  scenes   tliine  everlasting  life! 

The  paradox  with  which  I  set  out  is,  I  hope,  less  startling 
than  it  was ;  the  reader  will,  by  this  time,  have  been  let  into 
my  secret.  Much  about  the  same  time,  or  I  believe  rather 
earlier,  I  took  a  particular  satisfaction  in  reading  Chubb's 
Tracts,  and  I  often  think  I  will  get  them  again  to  wade  through. 
There  is  a  high  gusto  of  polemical  divinity  in  them ;  and  you 
fancy  that  you  hear  a  club  of  shoemakers  at  Salisbury,  debating 
a  disputable  text  from  one  of  St  Paul's  Epistles  in  a  workman- 
like style,  with  equal  shrewdness  and  pertinacity.  I  cannot 
say  much  for  my  metaphysical  studies,  into  which  I  launched 
shortly  after  with  great  ardour,  so  as  to  make  a  toil  of  a 
pleasure.  I  was  presently  entangled  in  the  briars  and  thorns 
of  subtle  distinctions, — of  'fate,  free-will,  fore-knowledge 
absolute,'  though  I  cannot  add  that  'in  their  wandering  mazes 
I  found  no  end';  for  I  did  arrive  at  some  very  satisfactory 
and  potent  conclusions ;  nor  will  I  go  so  far,  however  ungrateful 
the  subject  might  seem,  as  to  exclaim  with  Marlowe's  Faustus 
— 'Would  I  had  never  seen  Wittenberg,  never  read  book' — 
that  is,  never  studied  such  authors  as  Hartley,  Hume, 
Berkeley,  &c.  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding 
is,  however,  a  work  from  which  I  never  derived  either  pleasure 
or  profit ;  and  Hobbes,  dry  and  powerful  as  he  is,  I  did  not 
read  till  long  afterwards.  I  read  a  few  poets,  which  did  not 
much  hit  my  taste, — for  I  would  have  the  reader  understand, 
I  am  deficient  in  the  faculty  of  imagination;  but  I  fell  early 
upon  French  romances  and  philosophy,  and  devoured  them 
tooth-and-nail.  Many  a  dainty  repast  have  I  made  of  the 
New  Eloise; — the  description  of  the  kiss;  the  excursion  on 
the  water;    the  letter  of  St  Preux,  recalling  the  time  of  their 


On  Reading  Old  Books  65 

first  loves;  and  the  account  of  Julia's  death;  these  I  read 
over  and  over  again  with  unspeakable  delight  and  wonder. 
Some  years  after,  when  I  met  with  this  work  again,  I  found 
I  had  lost  nearly  my  whole  relish  for  it  (except  some  few 
parts)  and  was,  I  remember,  very  mucli  mortified  with  the 
change  in  my  taste,  which  I  sought  to  attribute  to  the  smallness 
and  gilt  edges  of  the  edition  I  had  bought,  and  its  being 
perfumed  with  rose-leaves.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  gravity, 
the  solemnity  with  which  I  carried  home  and  read  the 
Dedication  to  the  Social  Contract,  with  some  other  pieces  of 
the  same  author,  which  I  had  picked  up  at  a  stall  in  a  coarse 
leathern  cover.  Of  the  Confessions  I  have  spoken  elsewhere, 
and  may  repeat  what  I  have  said — 'Sweet  is  the  dew  of  their 
memory,  and  pleasant  the  balm  of  their  recollection!'  Their 
beauties  are  not  'scattered  like  stray-gifts  o'er  the  earth,' 
but  sown  thick  on  the  page,  rich  and  rare.  I  wish  I  had  never 
read  the  Emilius,  or  read  it  with  less  implicit  faith.  I  had 
no  occasion  to  pamper  my  natural  aversion  to  affectation  or 
pretence,  by  romantic  and  artificial  means.  I  had  better 
have  formed  myself  on  the  model  of  Sir  Fopling  Flutter. 
There  is  a  class  of  persons  whose  virtues  and  most  shining 
qualities  sink  in,  and  are  concealed  by,  an  absorbent  ground 
of  modesty  and  reserve ;  and  such  a  one  I  do,  without  vanity, 
profess  myselfi.  Now  these  are  the  very  persons  who  are 
likely  to  attach  themselves  to  the  character  of  Emilius,  and 
of  whom  it  is  sure  to  be  the  bane.  This  dull,  phlegmatic, 
retiring  humour  is  not  in  a  fair  way  to  be  corrected,  but 
confirmed  and  rendered  desperate,  by  being  in  that  work 
held  up  as  an  object  of  imitation,  as  an  example  of  simplicity 
and  magnanimity — by  coming  upon  us  with  all  the  recommen- 
dations of  novelty,  surprise,  and  superiority  to  the  prejudices 
of  the  world — by  being  stuck  upon  a  pedestal,  made  amiable, 
dazzling,  a  leurre  de  dupe !  The  reliance  on  solid  worth  which 
it  inculcates,  the  preference  of  sober  truth  to  gaudy  tinsel, 
hangs  like  a  mill-stone  round  the  neck  of  the  imagination — 

^  Nearly  the  same  sentiment  was  wittily  and  happily  expressed  by  a 
friend,  who  had  some  lottery  puffs,  which  he  had  been  employed  to  write, 
returned  on  his  hands  for  their  too  great  severity  of  thought  and  classical 
terseness  of  style,  and  who  observed  on  that  occasion,  that  'Modest  merit 
never  can  succeed ! ' 


66  On  Reading  Old  Books 

'a  load  to  sink  a  navy' — impedes  our  progress,  and  blocks 
up  every  prospect  in  life.  A  man,  to  get  on,  to  be  successful, 
conspicuous,  applauded,  should  not  retire  upon  the  centre  of 
his  conscious  resources,  but  be  always  at  the  circumference 
of  appearances.  He  must  envelop  himself  in  a  halo  of  mystery 
— he  must  ride  in  an  equipage  of  opinion — he  must  walk  with 
a  train  of  self-conceit  following  him — he  must  not  strip  himself 
to  a  buff-jerkin,  to  the  doublet  and  hose  of  his  real  merits, 
but  must  surround  himself  with  a  cortege  of  prejudices,  like 
the  signs  of  the  Zodiac — he  must  seem  any  thing  but  what 
he  is,  and  then  he  may  pass  for  any  thing  he  pleases.  The 
world  love  to  be  amused  by  hollow  professions,  to  be  deceived 
by  flattering  appearances,  to  live  in  a  state  of  hallucination; 
and  can  forgive  every  thing  but  the  plain,  downright,  simple 
honest  truth — such  as  we  see  it  chalked  out  in  the  character 
of  Emilius. — To  return  from  this  digression,  which  is  a  little 
out  of  place  here. 

Books  have  in  a  great  measure  lost  their  power  over  me; 
nor  can  I  revive  the  same  interest  in  them  as  formerly. 
I  perceive  when  a  thing  is  good,  rather  than  feel  it.     It  is  true, 

Marcian  Colonna  is  a  dainty  book; 

and  the  reading  of  Mr  Keats's  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes  lately  made 
me  regret  that  I  was  not  young  again.  The  beautiful  and 
tender  images  there  conjured  up,  'come  like  shadows — so 
depart.'  The  'tiger-moth's  wings,'  which  he  has  spread  over 
his  rich  poetic  blazonry,  just  flit  across  my  fancy ;  the  gorgeous 
twilight  window  which  he  has  painted  over  again  in  his 
verse,  to  me  'blushes'  almost  in  vain  'with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings.'  I  know  how  I  should  have  felt  at  one  time  in 
reading  such  passages;  and  that  is  all.  The  sharp  luscious 
flavour,  the  fine  aroma  is  fled,  and  nothing  but  the  stalk,  the 
bran,  the  husk  of  literature  is  left.  If  any  one  were  to  ask 
me  what  I  read  now,  I  might  answer  with  my  Lord  Hamlet 
in  the  play — 'Words,  words,  words.' — 'What  is  the  matter?' 
— Nothing/^ — They  have  scarce  a  meaning.  But  it  was  not 
always  so.  There  was  a  time  when  to  my  thinking,  every 
word  was  a  flower  or  a  pearl,  like  those  which  dropped  from 
the  mouth  of  the  little  peasant-girl  in  the  Fairy  tale,  or  like 
those   that   fall   from   the  great   preacher  in  the  Caledonian 


On  Reading  Old  Books  67 

Chapel!  I  drank  of  the  stream  of  knowledge  that  tempted, 
but  did  not  mock  my  lips,  as  of  the  river  of  life,  freely.  How 
eagerly  I.  slaked  my  thirst  of  German  sentiment,  'as  the  hart 
that  panteth  for  the  water-springs';  how  I  bathed  and 
revelled,  and  added  my  floods  of  tears  to  Goethe's  Sorrows  of 
Werter,  and  to  Schiller's  Robbers — 

Giving  my  stock  of  more  to  that  which  had  too  much! 

I  read,  and  assented  with  all  my  soul  to  Coleridge's  fine 
Sonnet,  beginning — 

Schiller!    that  hour  I  would  have  wish'd  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I    had  sent, 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tow'r  time-rent, 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish' d  father's  cry! 

I  believe  I  may  date  my  insight  into  the  mysteries  of 
poetry  from  the  commencement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the 
authors  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads;  at  least,  my  discrimination 
of  the  higher  sorts — not  my  predilection  for  such  writers  as 
Goldsmith  or  Pope :  nor  do  I  imagine  they  will  say  I  got  my 
liking  for  the  Novelists,  or  the  comic  writers, — for  the  charac- 
ters of  Valentine,  Tattle,  or  Miss  Prue,  from  them.  If  so, 
I  must  have  got  from  them  what  they  never  had  themselves. 
In  points  where  poetic  diction  and  conception  are  concerned, 
I  may  be  at  a  loss,  and  liable  to  be  imposed  upon :  but  in 
forming  an  estimate  of  passages  relating  to  common  life  and 
manners,  I  cannot  think  I  am  a  plagiarist  from  any  man. 
I  there  'know  my  cue  without  a  prompter.'  I  may  say  of 
such  studies — Intus  et  in  cute.  I  am  just  able  to  admire 
those  literal  touches  of  observation  and  description,  which 
persons  of  loftier  pretensions  over-look  and  despise.  I  think 
I  comprehend  something  of  the  characteristic  part  of  Shak- 
speare;  and  in  him  indeed,  all  is  characteristic,  even  the 
nonsense  and  poetry.  I  believe  it  was  the  celebrated  Sir 
Humphrey  Davy  who  used  to  say,  that  Shakspeare  was  rather 
a  metaphysician  than  a  poet.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  ill  said. 
I  wish  that  I  had  sooner  known  the  dramatic  writers  contem- 
porary with  Shakspeare;  for  in  looking  them  over  about 
a  year  ago,  I  almost  revived  my  old  passion  for  reading,  and 
my  old  delight  in  books,  though  they  were  very  nearly  new 
to    me.     The    Periodical    Essayists    I    read    long    ago.     The 


68  On  Reading  Old   Books 

Spectator  I  liked  extremely:  but  the  Tatler  took  my  fancy 
most.  I  read  the  others  soon  after,  the  Rambler,  the  Adven- 
turer, the  World,  the  Connoisseur:  I  was  not  sorry  to  get  to 
the  end  of  them,  and  have  no  desire  to  go  regularly  through 
them  again.  I  consider  myself  a  thorough  adept  in  Richardson. 
I  like  the  longest  of  his  novels  best,  and  think  no  part  of  them 
tedious;  nor  should  I  ask  to  have  any  thing  better  to  do 
than  to  read  them  from  beginning  to  end,  to  take  them  up 
when  I  chose,  and  lay  them  down  when  I  was  tired,  in  some 
old  family  mansion  in  the  country,  till  every  word  and  syllable 
relating  to  the  bright  Clarissa,  the  divine  Clementina,  the 
beautiful  Pamela,  'with  every  trick  and  line  of  their  sweet 
favour,'  were  once  more  'graven  in  my  heart's  table^.'  I  have 
a  sneaking  kindness  for  Mackenzie's  Julia  de  Roubigne — for 
the  deserted  mansion,  and  straggling  gilli-flowers  on  the 
mouldering  garden-wall ;  and  still  more  for  his  Man  of  Feeling; 
not  that  it  is  better,  nor  so  good;  but  at  the  time  I  read  it, 
I   sometimes   thought   of  the  heroine,   Miss   Walton,   and   of 

Miss  together,  and  'that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was 

never  broken!' — One  of  the  poets  that  I  have  always  read 
with  most  pleasure,  and  can  wander  about  in  for  ever  with 
a  sort  of  voluptuous  indolence,  is  Spenser;  and  I  like  Chaucer 
even  better.  The  only  writer  among  the  Italians  I  can  pretend 
to  any  knowledge  of,  is  Boccacio,  and  of  him  I  cannot  express 
half  my  admiration.  His  story  of  the  Hawk  I  could  read  and 
think  of  from  day  to  day,  just  as  I  would  look  at  a  picture 
of  Titian's! — 

I  remember,  as  long  ago  as  the  year  1798,  going  to  a 
neighbouring  town  (Shrewsbury,  where  Farquhar  has  laid 
the  plot  of  his  Recruiting  Officer)  and  bringing  home  with  me, 
'at  one  proud  swoop,'  a  copy  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  and 
another  of  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution — both 

^  During  the  peace  of  Amiens,  a  young  English  officer,  of  the  name  of 
Lovelace,  was  presented  at  Buonaparte's  levee.  Instead  of  the  usual 
question,  'Where  have  you  served,  Sir.?'  the  First  Consul  immediately 
addressed  him,  'I  perceive  your  name,  Sir,  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  hero 
of  Richardson's  Romance!'  Here  was  a  Consul.  The  young  man's  uncle, 
who  was  called  Lovelace,  told  me  this  anecdote  while  we  were  stopping 
together  at  Calais.  I  had  also  been  thinking  that  his  was  the  same  name  as 
that  of  the  hero  of  Richardson's  Romance.  This  is  one  of  my  reasons 
for  liking  Buonaparte. 


On  Reading  Old  Books  69 

which  I  have  still ;  and  I  still  recollect,  when  I  see  the  covers, 
the  pleasure  with  which  I  dipped  into  them  as  I  returned 
with  my  double  prize.  I  was  set  up  for  one  while.  That 
time  is  past  'with  all  its  giddy  raptures':  but  I  am  still 
anxious  to  preserve  its  memory,  'embalmed  with  odours.' — 
With  respect  to  the  first  of  these  works,  I  would  be  permitted 
to  remark  here  in  passing,  that  it  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  the 
German  criticism  which  has  since  been  started  against  the 
character  of  Satan  {viz.  that  it  is  not  one  of  disgusting 
deformity,  or  pure,  defecated  malice)  to  say  that  Milton  has 
there  drawn,  not  the  abstract  principle  of  evil,  not  a  devil 
incarnate,  but  a  fallen  angel.  This  is  the  scriptural  account, 
and  the  poet  has  followed  it.  We  may  safely  retain  such 
passages  as  that  well-known  one — 

His  form  had  not  yet  lost 

All  her  original  brightness;    nor  appear'd 
Less   than  archangel  ruin'd;    and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd 

for  the  theory,  which  is  opposed  to  them,  'falls  flat  upon  the 
grunsel  edge,  and  shames  its  worshippers.'  Let  us  hear  no 
more  then  of  this  monkish  cant,  and  bigotted  outcry  for  the 
restoration  of  the  horns  and  tail  of  the  devil ! — Again,  as  to 
the  other  work,  Burke's  Reflections,  I  took  a  particular  pride 
and  pleasure  in  it,  and  read  it  to  myself  and  others  for  months 
afterwards.  I  had  reason  for  my  prejudice  in  favour  of  this 
author.  To  understand  an  adversary  is  some  praise :  to 
admire  him  is  more.  I  thought  I  did  both :  I  knew  I  did  one. 
From  the  first  time  I  ever  cast  my  eyes  on  any  thing  of  Burke's 
(which  was  an  extract  from  his  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  in 
a  three-times  a  week  paper,  The  St  James's  Chronicle,  in 
1796),  I  said  to  myself,  'This  is  true  eloquence:  this  is  a  man 
pouring  out  his  mind  on  paper.'  All  other  style  seemed  to 
me  pedantic  and  impertinent.  Dr  Johnson's  was  walking  on 
stilts;  and  even  Junius's  (who  was  at  that  time  a  favourite 
with  me)  with  all  his  terseness,  shrunk  up  into  little  antithetic 
points  and  well-trimmed  sentences.  But  Burke's  style  was 
forked  and  playful  as  the  lightning,  crested  like  the  serpent. 
He  delivered  plain  things  on  a  plain  ground;  but  when  he 
rose,  there  was  no  end  of  his  flights  and  circumgyrations — 
and  in  this   very  Letter,  'he,  like   an  eagle  in   a   dove-cot, 


^o  On   Reading  Old  Books 

fluttered  his  Volscians'  (the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl 
of  Lauderdale)  1  'in  Corioli.'  I  did  not  care  for  his  doctrines. 
I  was  then,  and  am  still,  proof  against  their  contagion;  but 
I  admired  the  author,  and  was  considered  as  not  a  very  staunch 
partisan  of  the  opposite  side,  though  I  thought  myself  that 
an  abstract  proposition  was  one  thing — a  masterly  transition, 
a  brilHant  metaphor,  another.  I  conceived  too  that  he  might 
be  wrong  in  his  main  argument,  and  yet  deliver  fifty  truths  in 
arriving  at  a  false  conclusion.  I  remember  Coleridge  assuring 
me,  as  a  poetical  and  political  set-off  to  my  sceptical  admiration, 
that  Wordsworth  had  written  an  Essay  on  Marriage,  which, 
for  manly  thought  and  nervous  expression,  he  deemed  in- 
comparably superior.  As  I  had  not,  at  that  time,  seen  any 
specimens  of  Mr  Wordsworth's  prose  style,  I  could  not  express 
my  doubts  on  the  subject.  If  there  are  greater  prose-writers 
than  Burke,  they  either  lie  out  of  my  course  of  study,  or  are 
beyond  my  sphere  of  comprehension.  I  am  too  old  to  be 
a  convert  to  a  new  mythology  of  genius.  The  niches  are 
occupied,  the  tables  are  full.  If  such  is  still  my  admiration 
of  this  man's  misapplied  powers,  what  must  it  have  been  at 
a  time  when  I  myself  was  in  vain  trying,  year  after  year, 
to  write  a  single  Essay,  nay,  a  single  page  or  sentence;  when 
I  regarded  the  wonders  of  his  pen  with  the  longing  eyes  of 
one  who  was  dumb  and  a  changeling;  and  when,  to  be  able 
to  convey  the  slightest  conception  of  my  meaning  to  others 
in  words,  was  the  height  of  an  almost  hopeless  ambition ! 
But  I  never  measured  others'  excellences  by  my  own  defects : 
though  a  sense  of  my  own  incapacity,  and  of  the  steep, 
impassable  ascent  from  me  to  them,  made  me  regard  them 
with  greater  awe  and  fondness.  I  have  thus  run  through 
most  of  my  early  studies  and  favourite  authors,  some  of  whom 
I  have  since  criticised  more  at  large.  Whether  those  obser- 
vations will  survive  me,  I  neither  know  nor  do  I  much  care: 
but  to  the  works  themselves,  'worthy  of  all  acceptation,' 
and  to  the  feelings  they  have  always  excited  in  me  since  I 
could  distinguish  a  meaning  in  language,  nothing  shall  ever 
prevent  me  from  looking  back  with  gratitude  and  triumph. 
To  have  lived  in  the  cultivation  of  an  intimacy  with  such 

1  He  is  there  called  'Citizen  Lauderdale.'     Is  this  the  present  Earl? 


On  Reading  Old  Books  71 

works,  and  to  have  familiarly  relished  such  names,  is  not  to 
have  lived  quite  in  vain. 

There  are  other  authors  whom  I  have  never  read,  and  yet 
whom  I  have  frequently  had  a  great  desire  to  read,  from 
some  circumstance  relating  to  them.  Among  these  is  Lord 
Clarendon's  History  of  the  Grand  Rebclhon,  after  which  I  have 
a  hankering,  from  hearing  it  spoken  of  by  good  judges — from 
my  interest  in  the  events,  and  knowledge  of  the  characters 
from  other  sources,  and  from  having  seen  fine  portraits  of 
most  of  them.  I  like  to  read  a  well-penned  character,  and 
Clarendon  is  said  to  have  been  a  master  in  this  way.  I  should 
like  to  read  Froissart's  Chronicles,  Hollingshed  and  Stowe, 
and  Fuller's  Worthies.  I  intend,  whenever  I  can,  to  read 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  all  through.  There  are  fifty-two  of 
their  plays,  and  I  have  only  read  a  dozen  or  fourteen  of  them. 
A  Wife  for  a  Month,  and  Thierry  and  Theodoret,  are,  I  am 
told,  delicious,  and  I  can  believe  it.  I  should  like  to  read 
the  speeches  in  Thucydides,  and  Guicciardini's  History  of 
Florence,  and  Don  Quixote  in  the  original.  I  have  often  thought 
of  reading  the  Loves  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda,  and  the 
Galatea  of  the  same  author.  But  I  somehow  reserve  them 
like  'another  Yarrow.'  I  should  also  like  to  read  the  last 
new  novel  (if  I  could  be  sure  it  was  so)  of  the  author  of 
Waverley: — no  one  would  be  more  glad  than  I  to  find  it  the 
best ! — 


ON    ACTORS    AND    ACTING     I 

Players  are  'the  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles  of  the 
time';  the  motley  representatives  of  human  nature.  They 
are  the  only  honest  hypocrites.  Their  life  is  a  voluntary 
dream;  a  studied  madness.  The  height  of  their  ambition 
is  to  be  beside  themselves.  To-day  kings,  to-morrow  beggars, 
it  is  only  when  they  are  themselves,  that  they  are  nothing. 
Made  up  of  mimic  laughter  and  tears,  passing  from  the 
extremes  of  joy  or  woe  at  the  prompter's  call,  they  wear  the 
livery  of  other  men's  fortunes;  their  very  thoughts  are  not 
their  own.  They  are,  as  it  were,  train-bearers  in  the  pageant 
of  life,  and  hold  a  glass  up  to  humanity,  frailer  than  itself. 
We  see  ourselves  at  second-hand  in  them :  they  shew  us  all 
that  we  are,  all  that  we  wish  to  be,  and  all  that  we  dread  to 
be.  The  stage  is  an  epitome,  a  bettered  likeness  of  the  world, 
with  the  dull  part  left  out:  and,  indeed,  with  this  omission, 
it  is  nearly  big  enough  to  hold  all  the  rest.  What  brings 
the  resemblance  nearer  is,  that,  as  they  imitate  us,  we,  in  our 
turn,  imitate  them.  How  many  fine  gentlemen  do  we  owe 
to  the  stage  ?  How  many  romantic  lovers  are  mere  Romeos 
in  masquerade  ?  How  many  soft  bosoms  have  heaved  with 
Juliet's  sighs  ?  They  teach  us  when  to  laugh  and  when  to 
weep,  when  to  love  and  when  to  hate,  upon  principle  and  with 
a  good  grace!  Wherever  there  is  a  play-house,  the  world 
will  go  on  not  amiss.  The  stage  not  only  refines  the  manners, 
but  it  is  the  best  teacher  of  morals,  for  it  is  the  truest  and  most 
intelligible  picture  of  life.  It  stamps  the  image  of  virtue  on 
the  mind  by  first  softening  the  rude  materials  of  which  it  is 
composed,  by  a  sense  of  pleasure.  It  regulates  the  passions 
by  giving  a  loose  to  the  imagination.  It  points  out  the  selfish 
and  depraved  to  our  detestation,  the  amiable  and  generous 
to   our   admiration;     and   if  it   clothes   the   more   seductive 


On  Actors  and  Acting     I  73 

vices  with  the  borrowed  graces  of  wit  and  fancy,  even  those 
graces  operate  as  a  diversion  to  the  coarser  poison  of  ex- 
perience and  bad  example,  and  often  prevent  or  carry  off 
the  infection  by  inoculating  the  mind  with  a  certain  taste  and 
elegance.  To  shew  how  little  we  agree  with  the  common 
declamations  against  the  immoral  tendency  of  the  stage  on 
this  score,  we  will  hazard  a  conjecture,  that  the  acting  of  the 
Beggar's  Opera  a  certain  number  of  nights  every  year  since 
it  was  first  brought  out,  has  done  more  towards  putting  down 
the  practice  of  highway  robbery,  than  all  the  gibbets  that 
ever  were  erected.  A  person,  after  seeing  this  piece,  is  too 
deeply  imbued  with  a  sense  of  humanity,  is  in  too  good  humour 
with  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  set  about  cutting 
throats  or  rifling  pockets.  Whatever  makes  a  jest  of  vice, 
leaves  it  too  much  a  matter  of  indifference  for  any  one  in  his 
senses  to  rush  desperately  on  his  ruin  for  its  sake.  We 
suspect  that  just  the  contrary  effect  must  be  produced  by  the 
representation  of  George  Barnwell,  which  is  too  much  in  the 
style  of  the  Ordinary's  sermon  to  meet  with  any  better  success. 
The  mind,  in  such  cases,  instead  of  being  deterred  by  the 
alarming  consequences  held  out  to  it,  revolts  against  the 
denunciation  of  them  as  an  insult  offered  to  its  free-will,  and, 
in  a  spirit  of  defiance,  returns  a  practical  answer  to  them,  by 
daring  the  worst  that  can  happen.  The  most  striking  lesson 
ever  read  to  levity  and  licentiousness,  is  in  the  last  act  of  the 
Inconstant,  where  young  Mirabel  is  preserved  by  the  fidelity 
of  his  mistress,  Orinda,  in  the  disguise  of  a  page,  from  the  hands 
of  assassins,  into  whose  power  he  has  been  allured  by  the 
temptations  of  vice  and  beauty.  There  never  was  a  rake 
who  did  not  become  in  imagination  a  reformed  man,  during 
the  representation  of  the  last  trying  scenes  of  this  admirable 
comedy. 

If  the  stage  is  useful  as  a  school  of  instruction,  it  is  no  less 
so  as  a  source  of  amusement.  It  is  the  source  of  the  greatest 
enjoyment  at  the  time,  and  a  never-failing  fund  of  agreeable 
reflection  afterwards.  The  merits  of  a  new  play,  or  of  a  new 
actor,  are  always  among  the  first  topics  of  polite  conversation. 
One  way  in  which  pubHc  exhibitions  contribute  to  refine  and 
humanise  mankind,  is  by  supplying  them  with  ideas  and 
subjects  of  conversation  and  interest  in  common.     The  progress 


74  On  Actors  and  Acting     I 

of  civilisation  is  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  commonplaces 
current  in  society.  For  instance,  if  we  meet  with  a  stranger 
at  an  inn  or  in  a  stage-coach,  who  knows  nothing  but  his  own 
affairs,  his  shop,  his  customers,  his  farm,  his  pigs,  his  poultry, 
we  can  carry  on  no  conversation  with  him  on  these  local  and 
personal  matters :  the  only  way  is  to  let  him  have  all  the 
talk  to  himself.  But  if  he  has  fortunately  ever  seen  Mr  Listen 
act,  this  is  an  immediate  topic  of  mutual  conversation,  and 
we  agree  together  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  discussing  the 
merits  of  that  inimitable  actor,  with  the  same  satisfaction  as 
in  talking  over  the  affairs  of  the  most  intimate  friend. 

If  the  stage  thus  introduces  us  famiUarly  to  our  contempo- 
raries, it  also  brings  us  acquainted  with  former  times.  It  is 
an  interesting  revival  of  past  ages,  manners,  opinions,  dresses, 
persons,  and  actions, — whether  it  carries  us  back  to  the  wars 
of  York  and  Lancaster,  or  half  way  back  to  the  heroic  times 
of  Greece  and  Rome,  in  some  translation  from  the  French, 
or  quite  back  to  the  age  of  Charles  II  in  the  scenes  of  Congreve 
and  of  Etherege,  (the  gay  Sir  George !) — happy  age,  when 
kings  and  nobles  led  purely  ornamental  lives ;  when  the  utmost 
stretch  of  a  morning's  study  went  no  further  than  the  choice 
of  a  sword-knot,  or  the  adjustment  of  a  side-curl;  when  the 
soul  spoke  out  in  all  the  pleasing  eloquence  of  dress;  and 
beaux  and  belles,  enamoured  of  themselves  in  one  another's 
follies,  fluttered  like  gilded  butterflies  in  giddy  mazes  through 
the  walks  of  St  James's  Park! 

A  good  company  of  comedians,  a  Theatre-Royal  judiciously 
managed,  is  your  true  Herald's  College ;  the  only  Antiquarian 
Society,  that  is  worth  a  rush.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  there 
is  such  an  air  of  romance  about  players,  and  that  it  is  pleasanter 
to  see  them,  even  in  their  own  persons,  than  any  of  the  three 
learned  professions.  We  feel  more  respect  for  John  Kemble 
in  a  plain  coat,  than  for  the  Lord  Chancellor  on  the  woolsack. 
He  is  surrounded,  to  our  eyes,  with  a  greater  number  of  im- 
posing recollections :  he  is  a  more  reverend  piece  of  formality ; 
a  more  compHcated  tissue  of  costume.  We  do  not  know 
whether  to  look  upon  this  accomphshed  actor  as  Pierre  or 
King  John  or  Coriolanus  or  Cato  or  Leontes  or  the  Stranger. 
But  we  see  in  him  a  stately  hieroglyphic  of  humanity ;  a  living 
monument  of  departed  greatness,  a  sombre  comment  on  the 


On  Actors  and  Acting     I  75 

rise  and  fall  of  kings.  We  look  after  him  till  he  is  out  of  sight, 
as  we  listen  to  a  story  of  one  of  Ossian's  heroes,  to  'a  tale  of 
other  times ! ' 

One  of  the  most  affecting  things  we  know  is  to  see  a 
favourite  actor  take  leave  of  the  stage.  We  were  present  not 
long  ago  when  Mr  Bannister  quitted  it.  We  do  not  wonder 
that  his  feelings  were  overpowered  on  the  occasion :  ours  were 
nearly  so  too.  We  remembered  him,  in  the  first  heydey  of  our 
youthful  spirits,  in  the  Prize,  in  which  he  played  so  dehghtfully 
with  that  fine  old  croaker  Suett,  and  Madame  Storace, — in 
the  farce  of  My  Grandmother,  in  the  Son-in-Law,  in  Autolycus, 
and  in  Scrub,  in  which  our  satisfaction  was  at  its  height.  At 
that  time,  King  and  Parsons,  and  Dodd,  and  Quick,  and 
Edwin  were  in  the  full  vigour  of  their  reputation,  who  are  now 
all  gone.  We  still  feel  the  vivid  delight  with  which  we  used 
to  see  their  names  in  the  play-bills,  as  we  went  along  to  the 
Theatre.  Bannister  was  one  of  the  last  of  these  that  remained ; 
and  we  parted  with  him  as  we  should  with  one  of  our  oldest 
and  best  friends.  The  most  pleasant  feature  in  the  profession 
of  a  player,  and  which,  indeed,  is  peculiar  to  it,  is  that  we  not 
only  admire  the  talents  of  those  who  adorn  it,  but  we  contract 
a  personal  intimacy  with  them.  There  is  no  class  of  society 
whom  so  many  persons  regard  with  affection  as  actors.  We 
greet  them  on  the  stage;  we  like  to  meet  them  in  the  streets; 
they  almost  always  recall  to  us  pleasant  associations ;  and  we 
feel  our  gratitude  excited,  without  the  uneasiness  of  a  sense 
of  obligation.  The  very  gaiety  and  popularity,  however, 
which  surround  the  life  of  a  favourite  performer,  make  the 
retiring  from  it  a  very  serious  business.  It  glances  a  mortifying 
reflection  on  the  shortness  of  human  life,  and  the  vanity  of 
human  pleasures.  Something  reminds  us,  that  'all  the  world  's 
a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players.' 


ON    ACTORS    AND    ACTING     II 

It  has  been  considered  as  the  misfortune  of  first-rate  talents 
for  the  stage,  that  they  leave  no  record  behind  them  except 
that  of  vague  rumour,  and  that  the  genius  of  a  great  actor 
perishes  with  him,  'leaving  the  world  no  copy.'  This  is  a 
misfortune,  or  at  least  an  unpleasant  circumstance,  to  actors; 
but  it  is,  perhaps,  an  advantage  to  the  stage.  It  leaves  an 
opening  to  originality.  The  stage  is  always  beginning  anew; 
the  candidates  for  theatrical  reputation  are  always  setting' 
out  afresh,  unencumbered  by  the  affectation  of  the  faults  or 
excellences  of  their  predecessors.  In  this  respect,  we  should 
imagine  that  the  average  quantity  of  dramatic  talent  remains 
more  nearly  the  same  than  that  in  any  other  walk  of  art. 
In  no  other  instance  do  the  complaints  of  the  degeneracy  of 
the  moderns  seem  so  unfounded  as  in  this ;  and  Colley  Gibber's 
account  of  the  regular  decline  of  the  stage,  from  the  time  of 
Shakspeare  to  that  of  Charles  II,  and  from  the  time  of 
Charles  II  to  the  beginning  of  George  II,  appears  quite 
ridiculous.  The  stage  is  a  place  where  genius  is  sure  to  come 
upon  its  legs,  in  a  generation  or  two  at  farthest.  In  the  other 
arts,  (as  painting  and  poetry),  it  has  been  contended  that 
what  has  been  well  done  already,  by  giving  rise  to  endless 
vapid  imitations,  is  an  obstacle  to  what  might  be  done  well 
hereafter :  that  the  models  or  chef-d'oeuvres  of  art,  where  they 
are  accumulated,  choke  up  the  path  to  excellence;  and  that 
the  works  of  genius,  where  they  can  be  rendered  permanent 
and  handed  down  from  age  to  age,  not  only  prevent,  but 
render  superfluous,  future  productions  of  the  same  kind. 
We  have  not,  neither  do  we  want,  two  Shakspeares,  two 
Miltons,  two  Raphaels,  any  more  than  we  require  two  suns 
in  the  same  sphere.  Even  Miss  O'Neill  stands  a  Httle  in  the 
way  of  our  recollections  of  Mrs  Siddons.  But  Mr  Kean  is 
an  excellent  substitute  for  the  memory  of  Garrick,  whom  we 
never  saw.     When  an  author  dies,  it  is  no  matter,  for  his 


On  Actors  and  Acting     II  77 

works  remain.  When  a  great  actor  dies,  there  is  a  void ' 
produced  in  society,  a  gap  which  requires  to  be  filled  up. 
Who  does  not  go  to  see  Kean  ?  Who,  if  Garrick  were  alive, 
would  go  to  see  him  ?  At  least  one  or  the  other  must  have 
quitted  the  stage.  We  have  seen  what  a  ferment  has  been 
excited  among  our  living  artists  by  the  exhibition  of  the 
works  of  the  old  Masters  at  the  British  Gallery.  What  would 
the  actors  say  to  it,  if,  by  any  spell  or  power  of  necromancy, 
all  the  celebrated  actors,  for  the  last  hundred  years,  could  be 
made  to  appear  again  on  the  boards  of  Covent  Garden  and 
Drury-Lane,  for  the  last  time,  in  all  their  most  brilliant 
parts  ?  What  a  rich  treat  to  the  town,  what  a  feast  for  the 
critics,  to  go  and  see  Betterton,  and  Booth,  and  Wilks,  and 
Sandford,  and  Nokes,  and  Leigh,  and  Penkethman,  and 
Bullock,  and  Estcourt,  and  Dogget,  and  Mrs  Barry,  and 
Mrs  Montfort,  and  Mrs  Oldfield,  and  Mrs  Bracegirdle,  and 
Mrs  Gibber,  and  Gibber  himself,  the  prince  of  coxcombs,  and 
Macklin,  and  Quin,  and  Rich,  and  Mrs  Clive,  and  Mrs  Pritchard, 
and  Mrs  Abington,  and  Weston,  and  Shuter,  and  Garrick,  and 
all  the  rest  of  those  who  'gladdened  Hfe,  and  whose  deaths 
echpsed  the  gaiety  of  nations' !  We  should  certainly  be  there. 
We  should  buy  a  ticket  for  the  season.  We  should  enjoy 
our  hundred  days  again.  We  should  not  lose  a  single  night. 
We  would  not,  for  a  great  deal,  be  absent  from  Betterton's 
Hamlet  or  his  Brutus,  or  from  Booth's  Cato,  as  it  was  first 
acted  to  the  contending  applause  of  Whigs  and  Tories.  We 
should  be  in  the  first  row  when  Mrs  Barry  (who  was  kept 
by  Lord  Rochester,  and  with  whom  Otway  was  in  love) 
played  Monimia  or  Belvidera;  and  we  suppose  we  should 
go  to  see  Mrs  Bracegirdle  (with  whom  all  the  world  was  in 
love)  in  all  her  parts.  We  should  then  know  exactly  whether 
Penkethman's  manner  of  picking  a  chicken,  and  Bullock's 
mode  of  devouring  asparagus,  answered  to  the  ingenious 
account  of  them  in  the  Tatler;  and  whether  Dogget  was 
equal  to  Dowton — whether  Mrs  Montfort^  or  Mrs  Abington 

^  The  following  lively  description  of  this  actress  is  given  by  Cibber  in 
his  Apology : — 

'What  found  most  employment  for  her  whole  various  excellence  at  once, 
was  the  part  of  Melantha,  in  Marriage-a-la-mode.  Melantha  is  as  finished 
an  impertinent  as  ever  fluttered  in  a  drawing-room,  and  seems  to  contain 
the  most  complete  system  of  female  foppery  that  could  possibly  be  crowded 


78  On  Actors  and  Acting     II 

was  the  finest  lady — whether  Wilks  or  Gibber  was  the  best 
Sir  Harry  Wildair — whether  Mackhn  was  really  'the  Jew 
that  Shakspeare  drew,'  and  whether  Garrick  was,  upon  the 
whole,  so  great  an  actor  as  the  world  have  made  him  out ! 
Many  people  have  a  strong  desire  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of 
futurity:  for  our  own  parts,  we  should  be  satisfied  if  we  had 
the  power  to  recall  the  dead,  and  live  the  past  over  again 
as  often  as  we  pleased!  Players,  after  all,  have  little  reason 
to  complain  of  their  hard-earned,  short-lived  popularity. 
One  thunder  of  applause  from  pit,  boxes,  and  gallery,  is  equal 
to  a  whole  immortality  of  posthumous  fame :  and  when  we 
hear  an  actor,  whose  modesty  is  equal  to  his  merit,  declare, 
that  he  would  like  to  see  a  dog  wag  his  tail  in  approbation, 
what  must  he  feel  when  he  sees  the  whole  house  in  a  roar! 
Besides,  Fame,  as  if  their  reputation  had  been  entrusted  to 
her  alone,  has  been  particularly  careful  of  the  renown  of  her 
theatrical  favourites:    she  forgets  one  by  one,  and  year  by 

into  the  tortured  form  of  a  fine  lady.  Her  language,  dress,  motion,  manners, 
soul,  and  body,  are  in  a  continual  hurry  to  be  something  more  than  is 
necessary  or  commendable.  And  though  I  doubt  it  will  be  a  vain  labour 
to  offer  you  a  just  likeness  of  Mrs  Montfort's  action,  yet  the  fantastic 
impression  is  still  so  strong  in  my  memory,  that  I  cannot  help  saying 
something,  though  fantastically,  about  it.  The  first  ridiculous  airs  that 
break  from  her  are  upon  a  gallant  never  seen  before,  who  delivers  her  a  letter 
from  her  father,  recommending  him  to  her  good  graces  as  an  honourable 
lover.  Here  now,  one  would  think  she  might  naturally  shew  a  little  of  the 
sex's  decent  reserve,  though  never  so  slightly  covered!  No,  sir;  not 
a  tittle  of  it;  modesty  is  the  virtue  of  a  poor-soul'd  country  gentlewoman: 
she  is  too  much  a  court-lady,  to  be  under  so  vulgar  a  confusion :  she  reads 
the  letter,  therefore,  with  a  careless,  dropping  lip,  and  an  erected  brow, 
humming  it  hastily  over,  as  if  she  were  impatient  to  outgo  her  father's 
commands,  by  making  a  complete  conquest  of  him  at  once:  and  that  the 
letter  might  not  embarrass  her  attack,  crack!  she  crumbles  it  at  once  into 
her  palm,  and  pours  upon  him  her  whole  artillery  of  airs,  eyes,  and  motion; 
down  goes  her  dainty,  diving  body  to  the  ground,  as  if  she  were  sinking 
under  the  conscious  load  of  her  own  attractions;  then  launches  into  a  flood 
of  fine  language  and  compliment,  still  playing  her  chest  forward  in  fifty 
falls  and  risings,  like  a  swan  upon  waving  water;  and,  to  complete  her 
impertinence,  she  is  so  rapidly  fond  of  her  own  wit,  that  she  will  not  give 
her  lover  leave  to  praise  it:  Silent  assenting  bows,  and  vain  endeavours  to 
speak,  are  all  the  share  of  the  conversation  he  is  admitted  to,  which  at  last 
he  is  relieved  from,  by  her  engagement  to  half  a  score  visits,  which  she 
swhns  from  him  to  make,  with  a  promise  to  return  In  a  twinkling.' — The 
Life  of  Coll ey  Cibber^  p.  138. 


On  Actors  and  Acting     II  79 

year,  those  who  have  been  great  lawyers,  great  statesmen, 
and  great  warriors  in  their  day;  but  the  name  of  Garrick 
still  survives  with  the  works  of  Reynolds  and  of  Johnson. 

Actors  have  been  accused,  as  a  profession,  of  being  extra- 
vagant and  dissipated.  While  they  are  said  to  be  so  as  a 
piece  of  common  cant,  they  are  likely  to  continue  so.  But 
there  is  a  sentence  in  Shakspeare  which  should  be  stuck  as  a 
label  in  the  mouths  of  our  beadles  and  whippers-in  of  morality : 
'The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together : 
our  virtues  would  be  proud  if  our  faults  whipped  them  not : 
and  our  vices  would  despair  if  they  were  not  cherished  by  our 
virtues.'  With  respect  to  the  extravagance  of  actors,  as  a 
traditional  character,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  They  live 
from  hand  to  mouth:  they  plunge  from  want  into  luxury; 
they  have  no  means  of  maldng  money  breed,  and  all  professions 
that  do  not  live  by  turning  money  into  money,  or  have  not 
a  certainty  of  accumulating  it  in  the  end  by  parsimony, 
spend  it.  Uncertain  of  the  future,  they  make  sure  of  the 
present  moment.  This  is  not  unwise.  Chilled  with  poverty, 
steeped  in  contempt,  they  sometimes  pass  into  the  sunshine 
of  fortune,  and  are  lifted  to  the  very  pinnacle  of  public  favour ; 
yet  even  there  cannot  calculate  on  the  continuance  of  success, 
but  are,  'like  the  giddy  sailor  on  the  mast,  ready  with  every 
blast  to  topple  down  into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep ! ' 
Besides,  if  the  young  enthusiast,  who  is  smitten  with  the  stage, 
and  with  the  public  as  a  mistress,  were  naturally  a  close  hunks, 
he  would  become  or  remain  a  city  clerk,  instead  of  turning 
player.  Again,  with  respect  to  the  habit  of  convivial  indul- 
gence, an  actor,  to  be  a  good  one,  must  have  a  great  spirit 
of  enjoyment  in  himself,  strong  impulses,  strong  passions,  and 
a  strong  sense  of  pleasure:  for  it  is  his  business  to  imitate 
the  passions,  and  to  communicate  pleasure  to  others.  A  man 
of  genius  is  not  a  machine.  The  neglected  actor  may  be 
excused  if  he  drinks  oblivion  of  his  disappointments;  the 
successful  one,  if  he  quaffs  the  applause  of  the  world,  and  enjoys 
the  friendship  of  those  who  are  the  friends  of  the  favourites 
of  fortune,  in  draughts  of  nectar.  There  is  no  path  so  steep 
as  that  of  fame :  no  labour  so  hard  as  the  pursuit  of  excellence. 
The  intellectual  excitement,  inseparable  from  those  professions 
which   call   forth   all   our   sensibility   to   pleasure   and   pain, 


8o  On  Actors  and  Acting     II 

requires  some  corresponding  physical  excitement  to  support 
our  failure,  and  not  a  little  to  allay  the  ferment  of  the  spirits 
attendant  on  success.  If  there  is  any  tendency  to  dissipation 
beyond  this  in  the  profession  of  a  player,  it  is  owing  to  the 
prejudices  entertained  against  them,  to  that  spirit  of  bigotry 
which  in  a  neighbouring  country  would  deny  actors  Christian 
burial  after  their  death,  and  to  that  cant  of  criticism,  which, 
in  our  own,  slurs  over  their  characters,  while  living,  with 
a  half-witted  jest. 

A  London  engagement  is  generally  considered  by  actors 
as  the  ne  ■plus  ultra  of  their  ambition,  as  '  a  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished,'  as  the  great  prize  in  the  lottery  of 
their  professional  life.  But  this  appears  to  us,  who  are  not 
in  the  secret,  to  be  rather  the  prose  termination  of  their 
adventurous  career:  it  is  the  provincial  commencement  that 
is  the  poetical  and  truly  enviable  part  of  it.  After  that,  they 
have  comparatively  little  to  hope  or  fear.  'The  wine  of 
life  is  drunk,  and  but  the  lees  remain.'  In  London,  they 
become  gentlemen,  and  the  King's  servants :  but  it  is  the 
romantic  mixture  of  the  hero  and  the  vagabond  that  constitutes 
the  essence  of  the  player's  life.  It  is  the  transition  from 
their  real  to  their  assumed  characters,  from  the  contempt 
of  the  world  to  the  applause  of  the  multitude,  that  gives 
its  zest  to  the  latter,  and  raises  them  as  much  above  common 
humanity  at  night,  as  in  the  daytime  they  are  depressed 
below  it.  'Hiirried  from  fierce  extremes,  by  contrast  made 
more  fierce,' — it  is  rags  and  a  flock-bed  which  give  their 
splendour  to  a  plume  of  feathers  and  a  throne.  We  should 
suppose,  that  if  the  most  admired  actor  on  the  London  stage 
were  brought  to  confession  on  this  point,  he  would  acknowledge 
that  all  the  applause  he  had  received  from  'brilHant  and 
overflowing  audiences,'  was  nothing  to  the  light-headed 
intoxication  of  unlooked-for  success  in  a  barn.  In  town, 
actors  are  criticised:  in  country-places,  they  are  wondered 
at,  or  hooted  at:  it  is  of  little  consequence  which,  so  that 
the  interval  is  not  too  long  between.  For  ourselves,  we  own 
that  the  description  of  the  strolling  player  in  Gil  Bias,  soaking 
his  dry  crusts  in  the  well  by  the  roadside,  presents  to  us  a 
perfect  picture  of  human  felicity. 


ON    A    LANDSCAPE    OF    NICOLAS    POUSSIN 

And  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 

Orion,  the  subject  of  this  landscape,  was  the  classical 
Nimrod;  and  is  called  by  Homer,  'a  hunter  of  shadows, 
himself  a  shade.'  He  was  the  son  of  Neptune;  and  having 
lost  an  eye  in  some  affray  between  the  Gods  and  men,  was 
told  that  if  he  would  go  to  meet  the  rising  sun,  he  would 
recover  his  sight.  He  is  represented  setting  out  on  his  journey, 
with  men  on  his  shoulders  to  guide  him,  a  bow  in  his  hand, 
and  Diana  in  the  clouds  greeting  him.  He  stalks  along,  a 
giant  upon  earth,  and  reels  and  falters  in  his  gait,  as  if  just 
awaked  out  of  sleep,  or  uncertain  of  his  way; — you  see  his 
blindness,  though  his  back  is  turned.  Mists  rise  around  him, 
and  veil  the  sides  of  the  green  forests;  earth  is  dank  and 
fresh  with  dews,  the  'grey  dawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him 
dance,',  and  in  the  distance  are  seen  the  blue  hills  and  sullen 
ocean.  Nothing  was  ever  more  finely  conceived  or  done. 
It  breathes  the  spirit  of  the  morning;  its  moistrre,  its  repose, 
its  obscurity,  waiting  the  miracle  of  light  to  kindle  it  into 
smiles:  the  whole  is,  like  the  principal  figure  in  it,  'a  fore- 
runner of  the  dawn.'  The  same  atmosphere  tinges  and  imbues 
every  object,  the  same  dull  light  'shadowy  sets  off'  the  face 
of  nature:  one  feeling  of  vastness,  of  strangeness,  and  of 
primeval  forms  pervades  the  painter's  canvas,  and  we  are 
thrown  back  upon  the  first  integrity  of  things.  This  great 
and  learned  man  might  be  said  to  see  nature  through  the 
glass  of  time :  he  alone  has  a  right  to  be  considered  as  th^ 
painter  of  classical  antiquity.  Sir  Joshua  has  done  him  justice 
in  this  respect.  He  could  give  to  the  scenery  of  his  heroic 
fables  that  unimpaired  look  of  original  nature,  full,  solid, 
large,  luxuriant,  teeming  with  Hfe  and  power ;  or  deck  it  with 
all  the  pomp  of  art,  with  temples  and  towers,  and  mythologic 

s.  H.  6 


82  On  a  Landscape  of   Nicolas  Poussin 

groves.  His  pictures  'denote  a  foregone  conclusion.'  He 
applies  nature  to  his  purposes,  works  out  her  images  according 
to  the  standard  of  his  thoughts,  embodies  high  fictions;  and 
the  first  conception  being  given,  all  the  rest  seems  to  grow 
out  of,  and  be  assimilated  to  it,  by  the  unfailing  process  of 
a  studious  imagination.  Like  his  own  Orion,  he  overlooks 
the  surrounding  scene,  appears  to  'take  up  the  isles  as  a  very 
little  thing,  and  to  lay  the  earth  in  a  balance.'  With  a 
laborious  and  mighty  grasp,  he  put  nature  into  the  mould  of 
the  ideal  and  antique;  and  was  among  painters  (more  than 
any  one  else)  what  Milton  was  among  poets.  There  is  in  both 
something  of  the  same  pedantry,  the  same  stiffness,  the 
same  elevation,  the  same  grandeur,  the  same  mixture  of  art 
and  nature,  the  same  richness  of  borrowed  materials,  the 
same  unity  of  character.  Neither  the  poet  nor  the  painter 
lowered  the  subjects  they  treated,  but  filled  up  the  outHne 
in  the  fancy,  and  added  strength  and  reality  to  it;  and  thus 
not  only  satisfied,  but  surpassed  the  expectations  of  the 
spectator  and  the  reader.  This  is  held  for  the  triumph  and 
the  perfection  of  works  of  art.  To  give  us  nature,  such  as 
we  see  it,  is  well  and  deserving  of  praise;  to  give  us  nature, 
such  as  we  have  never  seen,  but  have  often  wished  to  see  it, 
is  better,  and  deserving  of  higher  praise.  He  who  can  show 
the  world  in  its  first  naked  glory,  with  the  hues  of  fancy 
spread  over  it,  or  in  its  high  and  palmy  state,  with  the  gravity 
of  history  stamped  on  the  proud  monuments  of  vanished 
empire, — who,  by  his  'so  potent  art,'  can  recal  time  past, 
transport  us  to  distant  places,  and  join  the  regions  of  imagina- 
tion (a  new  conquest)  to  those  of  reality, — who  shows  us  not 
only  what  nature  is,  but  what  she  has  been,  and  is  capable 
of, — he  who  does  this,  and  does  it  with  simpHcity,  with  truth, 
and  grandeur,  is  lord  of  nature  and  her  powers;  and  his  mind 
is  universal,  and  his  art  the  master-art ! 

There  is  nothing  in  this  'more  than  natural,'  if  criticism 
could  be  persuaded  to  think  so.  The  historic  painter  does 
not  neglect  or  contravene  nature,  but  follows  her  more  closely 
up  into  her  fantastic  heights,  or  hidden  recesses.  He  demon- 
strates what  she  would  be  in  conceivable  circumstances,  and 
under  implied  conditions.  He  'gives  to  airy  nothing  a  local 
habitation,'  not  'a  name.'     At  his  touch,  words  start  up  into 


On  a  Landscape  of    Nicolas  Poussin  83 

images,  thoughts  become  things.  He  clothes  a  dream,  a 
phantom  with  form  and  colour  and  the  wholesome  attributes 
of  reality.  His  art  is  a  second  nature;  not  a  different  one. 
There  are  those,  indeed,  who  think  that  not  to  copy  nature, 
is  the  rule  for  attaining  perfection.  Because  they  cannot 
paint  the  objects  which  they  have  seen,  they  fancy  themselves 
qualified  to  paint  the  ideas  which  they  have  not  seen.  But 
it  is  possible  to  fail  in  this  latter  and  more  difficult  style 
of  imitation,  as  well  as  in  the  former  humbler  one.  The 
detection,  it  is  true,  is  not  so  easy,  because  the  objects  are  not 
so  nigh  at  hand  to  compare,  and  therefore  there  is  more  room 
both  for  false  pretension  and  for  self-deceit.  They  take  an 
epic  motto  or  subject,  and  conclude  that  the  spirit  is  implied 
as  a  thing  of  course.  They  paint  inferior  portraits,  maudlin 
lifeless  faces,  without  ordinary  expression,  or  one  look,  feature, 
or  particle  of  nature  in  them,  and  think  that  this  is  to  rise  to 
the  truth  of  history.  They  vulgarise  and  degrade  whatever 
is  interesting  or  sacred  to  the  mind,  and  suppose  that  they 
thus  add  to  the  dignity  of  their  profession.  They  represent 
a  face  that  seems  as  if  no  thought  or  feeling  of  any  kind  had 
ever  passed  through  it,  and  would  have  you  believe  that  this 
is  the  very  subHme  of  expression,  such  as  it  would  appear 
in  heroes,  or  demi-gods  of  old,  when  rapture  or  agony  was 
raised  to  its  height.  They  show  you  a  landscape  that  looks 
as  if  the  sun  never  shone  upon  it,  and  tell  you  that  it  is  not 
modern — that  so  earth  looked  when  Titan  first  kissed  it  with 
his  rays.  This  is  not  the  true  ideal.  It  is  not  to  fill  the  moulds 
of  the  imagination,  but  to  deface  and  injure  them :  it  is  not 
to  come  up  to,  but  to  fall  short  of  the  poorest  conception  in 
the  public  mind.  Such  pictures  should  not  be  hung  in  the 
same  room  with  that  of  Orion^. 

1  Every  thing  tends  to  show  the  manner  in  which  a  great  artist  is  formed. 
If  any  person  could  claim  an  exemption  from  the  careful  imitation  of  indivi- 
dual objects,  it  was  Nicolas  Poussin.  He  studied  the  antique,  but  he  also 
studied  nature.  'I  have  often  admired,'  says  Vignuel  de  Marville,  who 
knew  him  at  a  late  period  of  his  life,  'the  love  he  had  for  his  art.  Old  as 
he  was,  I  frequently  saw  him  among  the  ruins  of  ancient  Rome,  out  in  the 
Campagna,  or  along  the  banks  of  the  Tyber,  sketching  a  scene  that  had 
pleased  him;  and  I  often  met  him  with  his  handkerchief  full  of  stones, 
moss,  or  flowers,  which  he  carried  home,  that  he  might  copy  them  exactly 
from  nature.     One  day  I  asked  him  how  he  had  attained  to  such  a  degree 

6—2 


84  On  a  Landscape  of    Nicolas  Poussin 

Poussin  was,  of  all  painters,  the  most  poetical.  He  was 
the  painter  of  ideas.  No  one  ever  told  a  story  half  so  well, 
nor  so  well  knew  what  was  capable  of  being  told  by  the  pencil. 
He  seized  on,  and  struck  off  with  grace  and  precision,  just 
that  point  of  view  which  would  be  likely  to  catch  the  reader's 
fancy.  There  is  a  significance,  a  consciousness  in  whatever 
he  does  (sometimes  a  vice,  but  oftener  a  virtue)  beyond  any 
other  painter.  His  Giants  sitting  on  the  tops  of  craggy 
mountains,  as  huge  themselves,  and  playing  idly  on  their  Pan's- 
pipes,  seem  to  have  been  seated  there  these  three  thousand 
years,  and  to  know  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  their  own 
story.  An  infant  Bacchus  or  Jupiter  is  big  with  his  future 
destiny.  Even  inanimate  and  dumb  things  speak  a  language 
of  their  own.  His  snakes,  the  messengers  of  fate,  are  inspired 
with  human  intellect.  His  trees  grow  and  expand  their 
leaves  in  the  air,  glad  of  the  rain,  proud  of  the  sun,  awake 
to  the  winds  of  heaven.  In  his  Plague  of  Athens,  the  very 
buildings  seem  stiff  with  horror.  His  picture  of  the  Deluge 
is,  perhaps,  the  finest  historical  landscape  in  the  world.  You 
see  a  waste  of  waters,  wide,  interminable :  the  sun  is  labouring, 
wan  and  weary,  up  the  sky;  the  clouds,  dull  and  leaden,  lie 
like  a  load  upon  the  eye,  and  heaven  and  earth  seem  comming- 
ling into  one  confused  mass  !  His  human  figures  are  sometimes 
'o'er-informed'  with  this  kind  of  feeling.  Their  actions  have 
too  much  gesticulation,  and  the  set  expression  of  the  features 
borders  too  much  on  the  mechanical  and  caricatured  style. 
In  this  respect,  they  form  a  contrast  to  Raphael's,  whose 
figures  never  appear  to  be  sitting  for  their  pictures,  or  to  be 
conscious  of  a  spectator,  or  to  have  come  from  the  painter's 

of  perfection,  as  to  have  gained  so  high  a  rank  among  the  great  painters 
of  Italy  .-*  He  answered,  I  have  neglected  nothing.' — See  his  Life  lately 
published.  It  appears  from  this  account  that  he  had  not  fallen  into  a  recent 
error,  that  Nature  puts  the  man  of  genius  out.  As  a  contrast  to  the  foregoing 
description,  I  might  mention,  that  I  remember  an  old  gentleman  once 
asking  Mr  West  in  the  British  Gallery,  if  he  had  ever  been  at  Athens .''  To 
which  the  President  made  answer,  No ;  nor  did  he  feel  any  great  desire  to  go ; 
for  that  he  thought  he  had  as  good  an  idea  of  the  place  from  the  Catalogue, 
as  he  could  get  by  hving  there  for  any  number  of  years.  What  would  he 
have  said,  if  any  one  had  told  him,  he  could  get  as  good  an  idea  of  the 
subject  of  one  of  his  great  works  from  reading  the  Catalogue  of  it,  as  from 
seeing  the  picture  itself !  Yet  the  answer  was  characteristic  of  the  genius 
of  the  painter. 


On  a  Landscape  of    Nicolas  Poussin  85 

hand.  In  Nicolas  Poussin,  on  the  contrary,  every  thing 
seems  to  have  a  distinct  understanding  with  the  artist:  'the 
very  stones  prate  of  their  whereabout':  each  object  has  its 
part  and  place  assigned,  and  is  in  a  sort  of  compact  with  the 
rest  of  the  picture.  It  is  this  conscious  keeping,  and,  as  it 
were,  internal  design,  that  gives  their  peculiar  character  to 
the  works  of  this  artist.  There  was  a  picture  of  Aurora  in 
the  British  Gallery  a  year  or  two  ago.  It  was  a  suffusion  of 
golden  Hght.  The  Goddess  wore  her  saffron-coloured  robes, 
and  appeared  just  risen  from  the  gloomy  bed  of  old  Tithonus. 
Her  very  steeds,  milk-white,  were  tinged  with  the  yellow  dawn. 
It  was  a  personification  of  the  morning. — Poussin  succeeded 
better  in  classic  than  in  sacred  subjects.  The  latter  are 
comparatively  heavy,  forced,  full  of  violent  contrasts  of 
colour,  of  red,  blue,  and  black,  and  without  the  true  prophetic 
inspiration  of  the  characters.  But  in  his  Pagan  allegories 
and  fables  he  was  quite  at  home.  The  native  gravity  and 
native  levity  of  the  Frenchman  were  combined  with  Italian 
scenery  and  an  antique  gusto,  and  gave  even  to  his  colouring 
an  air  of  learned  indifference.  He  wants,  in  one  respect, 
grace,  form,  expression ;  but  he  has  every  where  sense  and 
meaning,  perfect  costume  and  propriety.  His  personages 
always  belong  to  the  class  and  time  represented,  and  are 
strictly  versed  in  the  business  in  hand.  His  grotesque  com- 
positions in  particular,  his  Nymphs  and  Fauns,  are  superior 
(at  least,  as  far  as  style  is  concerned)  even  to  those  of  Rubens. 
They  are  taken  more  immediately  out  of  fabulous  history. 
Rubens's  Satyrs  and  Bacchantes  have  a  more  jovial  and 
voluptuous  aspect,  are  more  drunk  with  pleasure,  more  full 
of  animal  spirits  and  riotous  impulses;  they  laugh  and  bound 
along — 

Leaping  like  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring : 

but  those  of  Poussin  have  more  of  the  intellectual  part  of  the 
character,  and  seem  vicious  on  reflection,  and  of  set  purpose. 
Rubens's  are  noble  specimens  of  a  class;  Poussin's  are 
allegorical  abstractions  of  the  same  class,  with  bodies  less 
pampered,  but  with  minds  more  secretly  depraved.  The 
Bacchanalian  groups  of  the  Flemish  painter  were,  however, 
his    masterpieces    in    composition.     Witness    those    prodigies 


86  On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin 

of  colour,  character,  and  expression,  at  Blenheim.  In  the 
more  chaste  and  refined  delineation  of  classic  fable,  Poussin 
was  without  a  rival,  Rubens,  who  was  a  match  for  him  in 
the  wild  and  picturesque,  could  not  pretend  to  vie  with  the 
elegance  and  purity  of  thought  in  his  picture  of  Apollo  giving 
a  poet  a  cup  of  water  to  drink,  nor  with  the  gracefulness  of 
design  in  the  figure  of  a  nymph  squeezing  the  juice  of  a  bunch 
of  grapes  from  her  fingers  (a  rosy  wine-press)  which  falls  into 
the  mouth  of  a  chubby  infant  below.  But,  above  all,  who 
shall  celebrate,  in  terms  of  fit  praise,  his  picture  of  the  shepherds 
in  the  Vale  of  Tempe  going  out  in  a  fine  morning  of  the  spring, 
and  coming  to  a  tomb  with  this  inscription: — Et  ego  in 
Arcadia  vixi  !  The  eager  curiosity  of  some,  the  expression 
of  others  who  start  back  with  fear  and  surprise,  the  clear 
breeze  playing  with  the  branches  of  the  shadowing  trees, 
'the  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  zephyrs  use,'  the  distant, 
uninterrupted,  sunny  prospect  speak  (and  for  ever  will  speak 
on)  of  ages  past  to  ages  yet  to  come^ ! 

Pictures  are  a  set  of  chosen  images,  a  stream  of  pleasant 
thoughts  passing  through  the  mind.  It  is  a  luxury  to  have 
the  walls  of  our  rooms  hung  round  with  them,  and  no  less  so 
to  have  such  a  gallery  in  the  mind,  to  con  over  the  relics  of 
ancient  art  bound  up  'within  the  book  and  volume  of  the 
brain,  unmixed  (if  it  were  possible)  with  baser  matter!' 
A  Hfe  passed  among  pictures,  in  the  study  and  the  love  of 
art,  is  a  happy  noiseless  dream :  or  rather,  it  is  to  dream  and 
to  be  awake  at  the  same  time ;  for  it  has  all '  the  sober  certainty 
of  waking  bliss,'  with  the  romantic  voluptuousness  of  a 
visionary  and  abstracted  being.  They  are  the  bright  consum- 
mate essences  of  things,  and  'he  who  knows  of  these  delights 
to  taste  and  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise!' — The  Orion, 
which  I  have  here  taken  occasion  to  descant  upon,  is  one  of 
a  collection  of  excellent  pictures,  as  this  collection  is  itself 
one  of  a  series  from  the  old  masters,  which  have  for  some 
years  back  embrowned  the  walls  of  the  British  Gallery,  and 

^  Poussin  has  repeated  this  subject  more  than  once,  and  appears  to 
have  revelled  in  its  witcheries.  I  have  before  alluded  to  it,  and  may  again. 
It  is  hard  that  we  should  not  be  allowed  to  dwell  as  often  as  we  please  on 
what  delights  us,  when  things  that  are  disagreeable  recur  so  often  against 
our  will. 


On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin  87 

enriched  the  public  eye.  What  hues  (those  of  nature  mellowed 
by  time)  breathe  around,  as  we  enter !  What  forms  are  there, 
woven  into  the  memory !  What  looks,  which  only  the  answer- 
ing looks  of  the  spectator  can  express !  What  intellectual 
stores  have  been  yearly  poured  forth  from  the  shrine  of 
ancient  art !  The  works  are  various,  but  the  names  the  same 
— heaps  of  Rembrandts  frowning  from  the  darkened  walls, 
Rubens's  glad  gorgeous  groups,  Titians  more  rich  and  rare, 
Claudes  always  exquisite,  sometimes  beyond  compare,  Guido's 
endless  cloying  sweetness,  the  learning  of  Poussin  and  the 
Caracci,  and  Raphael's  princely  magnificence,  crowning  all. 
We  read  certain  letters  and  syllables  in  the  catalogue,  and  at 
the  well-known  magic  sound,  a  miracle  of  skill  and  beauty 
starts  to  view.  One  might  think  that  one  year's  prodigal 
display  of  such  perfection  would  exhaust  the  labours  of  one 
man's  life;  but  the  next  year,  and  the  next  to  that,  we  find 
another  harvest  reaped  and  gathered  in  to  the  great  garner 
of  art,  by  the  same  immortal  hands — 

Old  Genius  the  porter  of  them  was; 

He  letteth  in,  he  letteth  out  to  wend. — 
Their  works  seem  endless  as  their  reputation — to  be  many  as 
they  are  complete — to  multiply  with  the  desire  of  the  mind 
to  see  more  and  more  of  them;  as  if  there  were  a  living  power 
in  the  breath  of  Fame,  and  in  the  very  names  of  the  great 
heirs  of  glory  'there  were  propagation  too!'  It  is  something 
to  have  a  collection  of  this  sort  to  count  upon  once  a  year; 
to  have  one  last,  lingering  look  yet  to  come.  Pictures  are 
scattered  like  stray  gifts  through  the  world;  and  while  they 
remain,  earth  has  yet  a  little  gilding  left,  not  quite  rubbed 
off,  dishonoured,  and  defaced.  There  are  plenty  of  standard 
works  still  to  be  found  in  this  country,  in  the  collections  at 
Blenheim,  at  Burleigh,  and  in  those  belonging  to  Mr  Angerstein, 
Lord  Grosvenor,  the  Marquis  of  Stafford,  and  others,  to  keep 
up  this  treat  to  the  lovers  of  art  for  many  years :  and  it  is 
the  more  desirable  to  reserve  a  privileged  sanctuary  of  this 
sort,  where  the  eye  may  dote,  and  the  heart  take  its  fill  of 
such  pictures  as  Poussin's  Orion,  since  the  Louvre  is  stripped 
of  its  triumphant  spoils,  and  since  he,  who  collected  it,  and 
wore  it  as  a  rich  jewel  in  his  Iron  Crown,  the  hunter  of  greatness 
and  of  glory,  is  himself  a  shade! — 


ON    THE    PLEASURE    OF    PAINTING     I 

'There  is  a  pleasure  in  painting  which  none  but  painters 
know.'  In  writing,  you  have  to  contend  with  the  world; 
in  painting,  you  have  only  to  carry  on  a  friendly  strife  with 
Nature.  You  sit  down  to  your  task,  and  are  happy.  From 
the  moment  that  you  take  up  the  pencil,  and  look  Nature  in 
the  face,  you  are  at  peace  with  your  own  heart.  No  angry 
passions  rise  to  disturb  the  silent  progress  of  the  work,  to 
shake  the  hand,  or  dim  the  brow:  no  irritable  humours  are 
set  afloat :  you  have  no  absurd  opinions  to  combat,  no  point 
to  strain,  no  adversary  to  crush,  no  fool  to  annoy — you  are 
actuated  by  fear  or  favour  to  no  man.  There  is  'no  juggling 
here,'  no  sophistry,  no  intrigue,  no  tampering  with  the  evidence, 
no  attempt  to  make  black  white,  or  white  black:  but  you 
resign  yourself  into  the  hands  of  a  greater  power,  that  of 
Nature,  with  the  simpHcity  of  a  child,  and  the  devotion  of 
an  enthusiast — 'study  with  joy  her  manner,  and  with  rapture 
taste  her  style,'  The  mind  is  calm,  and  full  at  the  same 
time.  The  hand  and  eye  are  equally  employed.  In  tracing 
the  commonest  object,  a  plant  or  the  stump  of  a  tree,  you 
learn  something  every  moment.  You  perceive  unexpected 
differences,  and  discover  likenesses  where  you  looked  for  no 
such  thing.  You  try  to  set  down  what  you  see — find  out 
your  error,  and  correct  it.  You  need  not  play  tricks,  or 
purposely  mistake :  with  all  your  pains,  you  are  still  far  short 
of  the  mark.  Patience  grows  out  of  the  endless  pursuit,  and 
turns  it  into  a  luxury,  A  streak  in  a  flower,  a  wrinkle  in 
a  leaf,  a  tinge  in  a  cloud,  a  stain  in  an  old  wall  or  ruin  grey, 
are  seized  with  avidity  as  the  s folia  opima  of  this  sort  of  mental 
warfare,  and  furnish  out  labour  for  another  half  day.  The 
hours  pass  away  untold,  without  chagrin,  and  without 
weariness;    nor  would  you  ever  wish  to  pass  them  otherwise. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I  89 

Innocence  is  joined  with  industry,  pleasure  with  business; 
and  the  mind  is  satisfied,  though  it  is  not  engaged  in  thinking 
or  in  doing  any  mischief^. 

I  have  not  much  pleasure  in  writing  these  Essays,  or  in 
reading  them  afterwards ;  though  I  own  I  now  and  then  meet 
with  a  phrase  that  I  like,  or  a  thought  that  strikes  me  as 
a  true  one.  But  after  I  begin  them,  I  am  only  anxious  to 
get  to  the  end  of  them,  which  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  do,  for 
I  seldom  see  my  way  a  page  or  even  a  sentence  beforehand; 
and  when  I  have  as  by  a  miracle  escaped,  I  trouble  myself 
little  more  about  them.  I  sometimes  have  to  write  them 
twice  over:  then  it  is  necessary  to  read  the  proof,  to  prevent 
mistakes  by  the  printer;  so  that  by  the  time  they  appear 
in  a  tangible  shape,  and  one  can  con  them  over  with  a  conscious, 
sidelong  glance  to  the  pubHc  approbation,  they  have  lost  their 
gloss  and  relish,  and  become  'more  tedious  than  a  twice-told 
tale.'  For  a  person  to  read  his  own  works  over  with  any 
great  delight,  he  ought  first  to  forget  that  he  ever  wrote  them. 
Famiharity  naturally  breeds  contempt.     It  is,  in  fact,  like 

^  There  is  a  passage  in  Werter  which  contains  a  very  pleasing  illustration 
of  this  doctrine,  and  is  as  follows. 

'About  a  league  from  the  town  is  a  place  called  Walheim.  It  is  very 
agreeably  situated  on  the  side  of  a  hill:  from  one  of  the  paths  which  leads 
out  of  the  village,  you  have  a  view  of  the  whole  country;  and  there  is  a 
good  old  woman  who  sells  wine,  coffee,  and  tea  there :  but  better  than  all 
this  are  two  Hme-trees  before  the  church,  which  spread  their  branches  over 
a  Httle  green,  surrounded  by  barns  and  cottages.  I  have  seen  few  places 
more  retired  and  peaceful.  I  send  for  a  chair  and  table  from  the  old 
woman's,  and  there  I  drink  my  coffee  and  read  Homer.  It  was  by  accident 
that  I  discovered  this  place  one  fine  afternoon:  all  was  perfect  stillness; 
every  body  was  in  the  fields,  except  a  httle  boy  about  four  years  old,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  ground,  and  holding  between  his  knees  a  child  of  about 
six  months ;  he  pressed  it  to  his  bosom  with  his  little  arms,  which  made 
a  sort  of  great  chair  for  it,  and  notwithstanding  the  vivacity  which  sparkled 
in  his  eyes,  he  sat  perfectly  still.  Quite  delighted  with  the  scene,  I  sat 
down  on  a  plough  opposite,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  drawing  this  little 
picture  of  brotherly  tenderness.  I  added  a  bit  of  the  hedge,  the  barn-door, 
and  some  broken  cart-wheels,  without  any  order,  just  as  they  happened 
to  lie ;  and  in  about  an  hour  I  found  I  had  made  a  drawing  of  great  expression 
and  very  correct  design,  without  having  put  in  any  thing  of  my  own.  This 
confirmed  me  in  the  resolution  I  had  made  before,  only  to  copy  nature  for 
the  future.  Nature  is  inexhaustible,  and  alone  forms  the  greatest  masters. 
Say  what  you  will  of  rules,  they  alter  the  true  features,  and  the  natural 
expression.'     Page  15. 


9°  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I 

poring  fondly  over  a  piece  of  blank  paper:  from  repetition, 
the  words  convey  no  distinct  meaning  to  the  mind,  are  mere 
idle  sounds,  except  that  our  vanity  claims  an  interest  and 
property  in  them.  I  have  more  satisfaction  in  my  own  thoughts 
than  in  dictating  them  to  others:  words  are  necessary  to 
explain  the  impression  of  certain  things  upon  me  to  the  reader, 
but  they  rather  weaken  and  draw  a  veil  over  than  strengthen 
it  to  myself.  However  I  might  say  with  the  poet,  'My  mind 
to  me  a  kingdom  is,'  yet  I  have  little  ambition  'to  set  a  throne 
or  chair  of  state  in  the  understandings  of  other  men.'  The 
ideas  we  cherish  most,  exist  best  in  a  kind  of  shadowy  ab- 
straction, 

Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind; 

and  derive  neither  force  nor  interest  from  being  exposed  to 
public  view.  They  are  old  familiar  acquaintance,  and  any 
change  in  them,  arising  from  the  adventitious  ornaments  of 
style  or  dress,  is  little  to  their  advantage.  After  I  have  once 
written  on  a  subject,  it  goes  out  of  my  mind:  my  feeHngs 
about  it  have  been  melted  down  into  words,  and  them  I  forget. 
I  have,  as  it  were,  discharged  my  memory  of  its  old  habitual 
reckoning,  and  rubbed  out  the  score  of  real  sentiment.  For 
the  future,  it  exists  only  for  the  sake  of  others. — But  I  cannot 
say,  from  my  own  experience,  that  the  same  process  takes 
place  in  transferring  our  ideas  to  canvas;  they  gain  more 
than  they  lose  in  the  mechanical  transformation.  One  is 
never  tired  of  painting,  because  you  have  to  set  down  not 
what  you  knew  already,  but  what  you  have  just  discovered. 
In  the  former  case,  you  translate  feelings  into  words;  in  the 
latter,  names  into  things.  There  is  a  continual  creation  out 
of  nothing  going  on.  With  every  stroke  of  the  brush,  a  new 
field  of  inquiry  is  laid  open;  new  difficulties  arise,  and  new 
triumphs  are  prepared  over  them.  By  comparing  the  imitation 
with  the  original,  you  see  what  you  have  done,  and  how  much 
you  have  still  to  do.  The  test  of  the  senses  is  severer  than  that 
of  fancy,  and  an  over-match  even  for  the  delusions  of  our 
self-love.  One  part  of  a  picture  shames  another,  and  you 
determine  to  paint  up  to  yourself,  if  you  cannot  come  up  to 
nature.  Every  object  becomes  lustrous  from  the  light  thrown 
back  upon  it  by  the  mirror  of  art :  and  by  the  aid  of  the  pencil 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I  91 

we  may  be  said  to  touch  and  handle  the  objects  of  sight. 
The  air-drawn  visions  that  hover  on  the  verge  of  existence 
have  a  bodily  presence  given  them  on  the  canvas :  the  form 
of  beauty  is  changed  into  a  substance:  the  dream  and  the 
glory  of  the  universe  is  made  'palpable  to  feeling  as  to  sight.' 
— And  see!  a  rainbow  starts  from  the  canvas,  with  all  its 
humid  train  of  glory,  as  if  it  were  drawn  from  its  cloudy  arch 
in  heaven.  The  spangled  landscape  glitters  with  drops  of 
dew  after  the  shower.  The  'fleecy  fools'  show  their  coats 
in  the  gleams  of  the  setting  sun.  The  shepherds  pipe  their 
farewell  notes  in  the  fresh  evening  air.  And  is  this  bright 
vision  made  from  a  dead  dull  blank,  like  a  bubble  reflecting 
the  mighty  fabric  of  the  universe  ?  Who  would  think  this 
miracle  of  Rubens'  pencil  possible  to  be  performed  ?  Who, 
having  seen  it,  would  not  spend  his  life  to  do  the  like  ?  See 
how  the  rich  fallows,  the  bare  stubble-field,  the  scanty  harvest- 
home,  drag  in  Rembrandt's  landscapes!  How  often  have 
I  looked  at  them  and  nature,  and  tried  to  do  the  same,  till 
the  very  'light  thickened,'  and  there  was  an  earthiness  in 
the  feeling  of  the  air!  There  is  no  end  of  the  refinements  of 
art  and  nature  in  this  respect.  One  may  look  at  the  misty 
glimmering  horizon  till  the  eye  dazzles  and  the  imagination 
is  lost,  in  hopes  to  transfer  the  whole  interminable  expanse 
at  one  blow  upon  canvas.  Wilson  said,  he  used  to  try  to  paint 
the  effect  of  the  motes  dancing  in  the  setting  sun.  At  another 
time,  a  friend  coming  into  his  painting-room  when  he  was 
sitting  on  the  ground  in  a  melancholy  posture,  observed  that 
his  picture  looked  like  a  landscape  after  a  shower :  he  started 
up  with  the  greatest  delight,  and  said,  'That  is  the  effect 
I  intended  to  produce,  but  thought  I  had  failed.'  Wilson 
was  neglected;  and,  by  degrees,  neglected  his  art  to  apply 
himself  to  brandy.  His  hand  became  unsteady,  so  that  it 
was  only  by  repeated  attempts  that  he  could  reach  the  place, 
or  produce  the  effect  he  aimed  at;  and  when  he  had  done 
a  little  to  a  picture,  he  would  say  to  any  acquaintance  who 
chanced  to  drop  in,  'I  have  painted  enough  for  one  day: 
come,  let  us  go  somewhere.'  It  was  not  so  Claude  left  his 
pictures,  or  his  studies  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  to  go  in 
search  of  other  enjoyments,  or  ceased  to  gaze  upon  the  glittering 
sunny  vales  and  distant  hills;    and  while  his  eye  drank  in 


92  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I 

the  clear  sparkling  hues  and  lovely  forms  of  nature,  his  hand 
stamped  them  on  the  lucid  canvas  to  last  there  for  ever ! — One 
of  the  most  delightful  parts  of  my  life  was  one  fine  summer, 
when  I  used  to  walk  out  of  an  evening  to  catch  the  last  light 
of  the  sun,  gemming  the  green  slopes  or  russet  lawns,  and 
gilding  tower  or  tree,  while  the  blue  sky  gradually  turning 
to  purple  and  gold,  or  skirted  with  dusky  grey,  hung  its  broad 
marble  pavement  over  all,  as  we  see  it  in  the  great  master  of 
Italian  landscape.  But  to  come  to  a  more  particular  explana- 
tion of  the  subject. 

The  first  head  I  ever  tried  to  paint  was  an  old  woman  with 
the  upper  part  of  the  face  shaded  by  her  bonnet,  and  I  certainly 
laboured  it  with  great  perseverance.  It  took  me  numberless 
sittings  to  do  it.  I  have  it  by  me  still,  and  sometimes  look 
at  it  with  surprise,  to  think  how  much  pains  were  thrown 
away  to  little  purpose, — yet  not  altogether  in  vain  if  it  taught 
me  to  see  good  in  every  thing,  and  to  know  that  there  is  nothing 
vulgar  in  nature  seen  with  the  eye  of  science  or  of  true  art. 
Refinement  creates  beauty  everywhere:  it  is  the  grossness  of 
the  spectator  that  discovers  nothing  but  grossness  in  the 
object.  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  spared  no  pains  to  do  my  best. 
If  art  was  long,  I  thought  that  life  was  so  too  at  that  moment. 
I  got  in  the  general  effect  the  first  day;  and  pleased  and 
surprised  enough  I  was  at  my  success.  The  rest  was  a  work 
of  time — of  weeks  and  months  (if  need  were)  of  patient  toil 
and  careful  finishing.  I  had  seen  an  old  head  by  Rembrandt 
at  Burleigh-House,  and  if  I  could  produce  a  head  at  all  like 
Rembrandt  in  a  year,  in  my  life-time,  it  would  be  glory  and 
felicity,  and  wealth  and  fame  enough  for  me !  The  head 
I  had  seen  at  Burleigh  was  an  exact  and  wonderful  fac-simile 
of  nature,  and  I  resolved  to  make  mine  (as  nearly  as  I  could) 
an  exact  fac-simile  of  nature.  I  did  not  then,  nor  do  I  now 
beHeve,  with  Sir  Joshua,  that  the  perfection  of  art  consists 
in  giving  general  appearances  without  individual  details,  but 
in  giving  general  appearances  with  individual  details.  Other- 
wise, I  had  done  my  work  the  first  day.  But  I  saw  something 
more  in  nature  than  general  effect,  and  I  thought  it  worth 
my  while  to  give  it  in  the  picture.  There  was  a  gorgeous 
effect  of  light  and  shade:  but  there  was  a  delicacy  as  well 
as  depth  in  the  chiaro  scuro^  which  I  was  bound  to  follow  into 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I  93 

all  its  dim  and  scarce  perceptible  variety  of  tone  and  shadow. 
Then  I  had  to  make  the  transition  from  a  strong  hght  to  as 
dark  a  shade,  preserving  the  masses,  but  gradually  softening 
off  the  intermediate  parts.  It  was  so  in  nature :  the  difficulty 
was  to  make  it  so  in  the  copy.  I  tried,  and  failed  again  and 
again;  I  strove  harder,  and  succeeded  as  I  thought.  The 
wrinkles  in  Rembrandt  were  not  hard  lines;  but  broken  and 
irregular.  I  saw  the  same  appearance  in  nature,  and  strained 
every  nerve  to  give  it.  If  I  could  hit  off  this  edgy  appearance, 
and  insert  the  reflected  light  in  the  furrows  of  old  age  in  half 
a  morning,  I  did  not  think  I  had  lost  a  day.  Beneath  the 
shrivelled  yellow  parchment  look  of  the  skin,  there  was  here 
and  there  a  streak  of  the  blood  colour  tinging  the  face;  this 
I  made  a  point  of  conveying,  and  did  not  cease  to  compare 
what  I  saw  with  what  I  did  (with  jealous  lynx-eyed  watchful- 
ness) till  I  succeeded  to  the  best  of  my  ability  and  judgment. 
How  many  revisions  were  there !  How  many  attempts  to 
catch  an  expression  which  I  had  seen  the  day  before !  How 
often  did  we  try  to  get  the  old  position,  and  wait  for  the  return 
of  the  same  light !  There  was  a  puckering  up  of  the  lips, 
a  cautious  introversion  of  the  eye  under  the  shadow  of  the 
bonnet,  indicative  of  the  feebleness  and  suspicion  of  old  age, 
which  at  last  we  managed,  after  many  trials  and  some  quarrels, 
to  a  tolerable  nicety.  The  picture  was  never  finished,  and 
1  might  have  gone  on  with  it  to  the  present  hour^.  I  used  to 
set  it  on  the  ground  when  my  day's  work  was  done,  and  saw 
revealed  to  me  with  swimming  eyes  the  birth  of  new  hopes, 
and  of  a  new  world  of  objects.  The  painter  thus  learns  to 
look  at  nature  with  different  eyes.  He  before  saw  her  'as  in 
a  glass  darkly,  but  now  face  to  face.'  He  understands  the 
texture  and  meaning  of  the  visible  universe,  and  'sees  into 
the  life  of  things,'  not  by  the  help  of  mechanical  instruments, 
but  of  the  improved  exercise  of  his  faculties,  and  an  intimate 
sympathy  with  nature.  The  meanest  thing  is  not  lost  upon 
him,  for  he  looks  at  it  with  an  eye  to  itself,  not  merely  to  his 
own  vanity  or  interest,  or  the  opinion  of  the  world.  Even 
where  there  is  neither  beauty  nor  use — if  that  ever  were — 

1  It  is  at  present  covered  with  a  thick  slough  of  oil  and  varnish  (the 
perishable  vehicle  of  the  English  school)  like  an  envelope  of  gold-beaters' 
skin,  so  as  to  be  hardly  visible. 


94  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I 

still  there  is  truth,  and  a  sufficient  source  of  gratification  in 
the  indulgence  of  curiosity  and  activity  of  mind.  The 
humblest  painter  is  a  true  scholar;  and  the  best  of  scholars — 
the  scholar  of  nature.  For  myself,  and  for  the  real  comfort 
and  satisfaction  of  the  thing,  I  had  rather  have  been  Jan 
Steen,  or  Gerard  Dow,  than  the  greatest  casuist  or  philologer 
that  ever  lived.  The  painter  does  not  view  things  in  clouds 
or  'mist,  the  common  gloss  of  theologians,'  but  applies  the 
same  standard  of  truth  and  disinterested  spirit  of  inquiry, 
that  influence  his  daily  practice,  to  other  subjects.  He  per- 
ceives form,  he  distinguishes  character.  He  reads  men  and 
books  with  an  intuitive  eye.  He  is  a  critic  as  well  as  a  con- 
noisseur. The  conclusions  he  draws  are  clear  and  convincing, 
because  they  are  taken  from  the  things  themselves.  He  is 
not  a  fanatic,  a  dupe,  or  a  slave :  for  the  habit  of  seeing  for 
himself  also  disposes  him  to  judge  for  himself.  The  most 
sensible  men  I  know  (taken  as  a  class)  are  painters;  that  is, 
they  are  the  most  lively  observers  of  what  passes  in  the  world 
about  them,  and  the  closest  observers  of  what  passes  in  their 
own  minds.  From  their  profession  they  in  general  mix  more 
with  the  world  than  authors;  and  if  they  have  not  the  same 
fund  of  acquired  knowledge,  are  obliged  to  rely  more  on 
individual  sagacity.  I  might  mention  the  names  of  Opie, 
Fuseli,  Northcote,  as  persons  distinguished  for  striking  de- 
scription and  acquaintance  with  the  subtle  traits  of  character^. 
Painters  in  ordinary  society,  or  in  obscure  situations  where 
their  value  is  not  known,  and  they  are  treated  with  neglect 
and  indifference,  have  sometimes  a  forward  self-sufficiency  of 
manner :  but  this  is  not  so  much  their  fault  as  that  of  others. 
Perhaps  their  want  of  regular  education  may  also  be  in  fault 
in  such  cases.  Richardson,  who  is  very  tenacious  of  the  respect 
in  which  the  profession  ought  to  be  held,  tells  a  story  of 
Michael  Angelo,  that  after  a  quarrel  between  him  and  Pope 
Julius  H  'upon  account  of  a  slight  the  artist  conceived  the 

^  Men  in  business,  who  are  answerable  with  their  fortunes  for  the 
consequences  of  their  opinions,  and  are  therefore  accustomed  to  ascertain 
pretty  accurately  the  grounds  on  which  they  act,  before  they  commit  them- 
selves on  the  event,  are  often  men  of  remarkably  quick  and  sound  judgments. 
Artists  in  like  manner  must  know  tolerably  well  what  they  are  about, 
before  they  can  bring  the  result  of  their  observations  to  the  test  of  ocular 
demonstration. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I  95 

pontiff  had  put  upon  him,  Michael  Angelo  was  introduced  by 
a  bishop,  who,  thinking  to  serve  the  artist  by  it,  made  it  an 
argument  that  the  Pope  should  be  reconciled  to  him,  because 
men  of  his  profession  were  commonly  ignorant,  and  of  no 
consequence  otherwise:  his  holiness,  enraged  at  the  bishop, 
struck  him  with  his  staff,  and  told  him,  it  was  he  that  was  the 
blockhead,  and  affronted  the  man  himself  would  not  offend; 
the  prelate  was  driven  out  of  the  chamber,  and  Michael 
Angelo  had  the  Pope's  benediction  accompanied  with  presents. 
This  bishop  had  fallen  into  the  vulgar  error,  and  was  rebuked 
accordingly.' 

Besides  the  exercise  of  the  mind,  painting  exercises  the 
body.  It  is  a  mechanical  as  well  as  a  liberal  art.  To  do 
any  thing,  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  ground,  to  plant  a  cabbage, 
to  hit  a  mark,  to  move  a  shuttle,  to  work  a  pattern, — in  a 
word,  to  attempt  to  produce  any  effect,  and  to  succeed,  has 
something  in  it  that  gratifies  the  love  of  power,  and  carries 
off  the  restless  activity  of  the  mind  of  man.  Indolence  is 
a  delightful  but  distressing  state :  we  must  be  doing  something 
to  be  happy.  Action  is  no  less  necessary  than  thought  to 
the  instinctive  tendencies  of  the  human  frame;  and  painting 
combines  them  both  incessantly^.  The  hand  furnishes  a 
practical  test  of  the  correctness  of  the  eye;  and  the  eye  thus 
admonished,  imposes  fresh  tasks  of  skill  and  industry  upon 
the  hand.  Every  stroke  tells,  as  the  verifying  of  a  new 
truth;  and  every  new  observation,  the  instant  it  is  made, 
passes  into  an  act  and  emanation  of  the  will.  Every  step  is 
nearer  what  we  wish,  and  yet  there  is  always  more  to  do. 
In  spite  of  the  facility,  the  fluttering  grace,  the  evanescent 
hues,  that  play  round  the  pencil  of  Rubens  and  Vandyke, 
however  I  may  admire,  I  do  not  envy  them  this  power  so 
much  as  I  do  the  slow,  patient,  laborious  execution  of 
Correggio,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  Andrea  del  Sarto,  where 
every  touch  appears  conscious  of  its  charge,  emulous  of  truth, 
and  where  the  painful  artist  has  so  distinctly  wrought. 
That  you  might  almost  say  his  picture  thought! 

In  the  one  case,  the  colours  seem  breathed  on  the  canvas 
as  by  magic,  the  work  and  the  wonder  of  a  moment:    in  the 

^  The  famous  Schiller  used  to  say,  that  he  found  the  great  happiness 
of  life,  after  all,  to  consist  in  the  discharge  of  some  mechanical  duty. 


96  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I 

other,  they  seem  inlaid  in  the  body  of  the  work,  and  as  if  it 
took  the  artist  years  of  unremitting  labour,  and  of  delightful 
never-ending  progress  to  perfection^.  Who  would  wish  ever 
to  come  to  the  close  of  such  works,— not  to  dwell  on  them, 
to  return  to  them,  to  be  wedded  to  them  to  the  last  ? 
Rubens,  with  his  florid,  rapid  style,  complained  that  when  he 
had  just  learned  his  art,  he  should  be  forced  to  die.  Leonardo, 
in  the  slow  advances  of  his,  had  lived  long  enough! 

Painting  is  not,  like  writing,  what  is  properly  understood 
by  a  sedentary  employment.  It  requires  not  indeed  a  strong, 
but  a  continued  and  steady  exertion  of  muscular  power. 
The  precision  and  delicacy  of  the  manual  operation  makes 
up  for  the  want  of  vehemence, — as  to  balance  himself  for  any 
time  in  the  same  position  the  rope-dancer  must  strain  every 
nerve.  Painting  for  a  whole  morning  gives  one  as  excellent 
an  appetite  for  one's  dinner,  as  old  Abraham  Tucker  acquired 
for  his  by  riding  over  Banstead  Downs.  It  is  related  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  that  'he  took  no  other  exercise  than 
what  he  used  in  his  painting-room,' — the  writer  means,  in 
walking  backwards  and  forwards  to  look  at  his  picture;  but 
the  act  of  painting  itself,  of  laying  on  the  colours  in  the  proper 
place,  and  proper  quantity,  was  a  much  harder  exercise  than 
this  alternate  receding  from  and  returning  to  the  picture. 
This  last  would  be  rather  a  relaxation  and  relief  than  an  effort. 
It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  an  artist  like  Sir  Joshua, 
who  delighted  so  much  in  the  sensual  and  practical  part  of 
his  art,  should  have  found  himself  at  a  considerable  loss  when 
the  decay  of  his  sight  precluded  him,  for  the  last  year  or  two 
of  his  life,  from  the  following  up  of  his  profession, — '  the  source,' 
according  to  his  own  remark,  'of  thirty  years  uninterrupted 
enjoyment  and  prosperity  to  him.'  It  is  only  those  who  never 
think  at  all,  or  else  who  have  accustomed  themselves  to  brood 
incessantly  on  abstract  ideas,  that  never  feel  ennui. 

To  give  one  instance  more,  and  then  I  will  have  done  with 
this  rambhng  discourse.  One  of  my  first  attempts  was  a 
picture  of  my  father,  who  was  then  in  a  green  old  age,  with 
strong-marked    features,    and    scarred    with    the    small-pox. 

■^  The  rich  impasting  of  Titian  and  Giorgione  combines  something  of 
the  advantages  of  both  these  styles,  the  felicity  of  the  one  with  the 
carefulness  of  the  other,  and  is  perhaps  to  be  preferred  to  either. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I  97 

I  drew  it  with  a  broad  light  crossing  the  face,  looking  down,  with 
spectacles  on,  reading.  The  book  was  Shaftesbury's  Charac- 
teristics, in  a  fine  old  binding,  with  Gribelin's  etchings.  My 
father  would  as  lieve  it  had  been  any  other  book ;  but  for  him 
to  read  was  to  be  content,  was  *  riches  fineless.'  The  sketch 
promised  well;  and  I  set  to  work  to  finish  it,  determined  to 
spare  no  time  nor  pains.  My  father  was  willing  to  sit  as  long 
as  I  pleased ;  for  there  is  a  natural  desire  in  the  mind  of  man 
to  sit  for  one's  picture,  to  be  the  object  of  continued  attention, 
to  have  one's  likeness  multiplied ;  and  besides  his  satisfaction 
in  the  picture,  he  had  some  pride  in  the  artist,  though  he  would 
rather  I  should  have  written  a  sermon  than  painted  like 
Rembrandt  or  like  Raphael.  Those  winter  days,  with  the 
gleams  of  sunshine  coming  through  the  chapel-windows,  and 
cheered  by  the  notes  of  the  robin-redbreast  in  our  garden 
(that  'ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings') — as  my  afternoon's 
work  drew  to  a  close, — were  among  the  happiest  of  my  life. 
When  I  gave  the  effect  I  intended  to  any  part  of  the  picture 
for  which  I  had  prepared  my  colours,  when  I  imitated  the 
roughness  of  the  skin  by  a  lucky  stroke  of  the  pencil,  when 
I  hit  the  clear  pearly  tone  of  a  vein,  when  I  gave  the  ruddy 
complexion  of  health,  the  blood  circulating  under  the  broad 
shadows  of  one  side  of  the  face,  I  thought  my  fortune  made; 
or  rather  it  was  already  more  than  made,  in  my  fancying 
that  I  might  one  day  be  able  to  say  with  Correggio,  '/  also 
am  a  painter!^  It  was  an  idle  thought,  a  boy's  conceit;  but 
it  did  not  make  me  less  happy  at  the  time.  I  used  regularly 
to  set  my  work  in  the  chair  to  look  at  it  through  the  long 
evenings;  and  many  a  time  did  I  return  to  take  leave  of  it 
before  I  could  go  to  bed  at  night.  I  remember  sending  it 
wdth  a  throbbing  heart  to  the  Exhibition,  and  seeing  it  hung 
up  there  by  the  side  of  one  of  the  Honourable  Mr  Skeffington 
(now  Sir  George).  There  was  nothing  in  common  between 
them,  but  that  they  were  the  portraits  of  two  very  good- 
natured  men.  I  think,  but  am  not  sure,  that  I  finished 
this  portrait  (or  another  afterwards)  on  the  same  day  that 
the  news  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  came ;  I  walked  out  in 
the  afternoon,  and,  as  I  returned,  saw  the  evening  star  set 
over  a  poor  man's  cottage  with  other  thoughts  and  feelings 
than  I  shall  ever  have  again.      Oh  for  the  revolution  of  the 


gS  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     I 

great  Platonic  year,  that  those  times  might  come  over  again ! 
I  could  sleep  out  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  thousand 
intervening  years  very  contentedly ! — The  picture  is  left : 
the  table,  the  chair,  the  window  where  I  learned  to  construe 
Livy,  the  chapel  where  my  father  preached,  remain  where 
they  were ;  but  he  himself  is  gone  to  rest,  full  of  years,  of  faith, 
of  hope,  and  charity ! 


ON    THE    PLEASURE    OF    PAINTING     II 

The  painter  not  only  takes  a  delight  in  nature,  he  has 
a  new  and  exquisite  source  of  pleasure  opened  to  him  in  the 
study  and  contemplation  of  works  of  art — 

Whate'er  Lorraine  light  touch'd  with  soft'ning  hue, 
Or  savage  Rosa  dash'd,  or  learned  Poussin  drew. 

He  turns  aside  to  view  a  country-gentleman's  seat  with  eager 
looks,  thinking  it  may  contain  some  of  the  rich  products  of 
art.  There  is  an  air  round  Lord  Radnor's  park,  for  there 
hang  the  two  Claudes,  the  Morning  and  Evening  of  the  Roman 
Empire — round  Wilton-house,  for  there  is  Vandyke's  picture 
of  the  Pembroke  family — round  Blenheim,  for  there  is  his 
picture  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  children,  and  the  most 
magnificent  collection  of  Rubenses  in  the  world — at  Knowsley, 
for  there  is  Rembrandt's  Hand-writing  on  the  Wall — and  at 
Burleigh,  for  there  are  some  of  Guide's  angelic  heads.  The 
young  artist  makes  a  pilgrimage  to  each  of  these  places,  eyes 
them  wistfully  at  a  distance,  'bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees,' 
and  feels  an  interest  in  them  of  which  the  owner  is  scarce 
conscious:  he  enters  the  well-swept  walks  and  echoing  arch- 
ways, passes  the  threshold,  is  led  through  wainscoted  rooms, 
is  shown  the  furniture,  the  rich  hangings,  the  tapestry,  the 
massy  services  of  plate — and,  at  last,  is  ushered  into  the  room 
where  his  treasure  is,  the  idol  of  his  vows — some  speaking 
face  or  bright  landscape!  It  is  stamped  on  his  brain,  and 
lives  there  thenceforward,  a  tally  for  nature,  and  a  test  of 
art.  He  furnishes  out  the  chambers  of  the  mind  from  the 
spoils  of  time,  picks  and  chooses  which  shall  have  the  best 
places — nearest  his  heart.  He  goes  away  richer  than  he  came, 
richer  than  the  possessor;  and  thinks  that  he  may  one  day 
return,  when  he  perhaps  shall  have  done  something  like  them, 
or  even  from  failure  shall  have  learned  to  admire  truth  and 
genius  more. 


100  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II 

My  first  initiation  in  the  mysteries  of  the  art  was  at  the 
Orleans  Gallery:  it  was  there  I  formed  my  taste,  such  as 
it  is ;  so  that  I  am  irreclaimably  of  the  old  school  in  painting. 
I  was  staggered  when  I  saw  the  works  there  collected,  and 
looked  at  them  with  wondering  and  with  longing  eyes.  A  mist 
passed  away  from  my  sight :  the  scales  fell  off.  A  new  sense 
came  upon  me,  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  stood  before 
me.  I  saw  the  soul  speaking  in  the  face — 'hands  that  the 
rod  of  empire  had  swayed'  in  mighty  ages  past — 'a  forked 
mountain  or  blue  promontory,' 

with  trees  upon't 

That  nod  unto  the  world,  and  mock  our  eyes  with  air. 

Old  Time  had  unlocked  his  treasures,  and  Fame  stood  portress 
at  the  door.  We  had  all  heard  of  the  names  of  Titian,  Raphael, 
Guido,  Domenichino,  the  Caracci — but  to  see  them  face  to 
face,  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  their  deathless  productions, 
was  Hke  breaking  some  mighty  spell — was  almost  an  effect  of 
necromancy!  From  that  time  I  lived  in  a  world  of  pictures. 
Battles,  sieges,  speeches  in  parhament  seemed  mere  idle  noise 
and  fury,  'signifying  nothing,'  compared  with  those  mighty 
works  and  dreaded  names  that  spoke  to  me  in  the  eternal 
silence  of  thought.  This  was  the  more  remarkable,  as  it  was 
but  a  short  time  before  that  I  was  not  only  totally  ignorant 
of,  but  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  art.  As  an  instance, 
I  remember  that  one  afternoon  I  was  reading  the  Provoked 
Husband  with  the  highest  relish,  with  a  green  woody  landscape 
of  Ruysdael  or  Hobbima  just  before  me,  at  which  I  looked 
off  the  book  now  and  then,  and  wondered  what  there  could 
be  in  that  sort  of  work  to  satisfy  or  delight  the  mind — at  the 
same  time  asking  myself,  as  a  speculative  question,  whether 
I  should  dver  feel  an  interest  in  it  like  what  I  took  in  reading 
Vanbrugh  and  Gibber? 

I  had  made  some  progress  in  painting  when  I  went  to 
the  Louvre  to  study,  and  I  never  did  any  thing  afterwards. 
I  never  shall  forget  conning  over  the  Catalogue  which  a  friend 
lent  me  just  before  I  set  out.  The  pictures,  the  names  of  the 
painters,  seemed  to  relish  in  the  mouth.  There  was  one  of 
Titian's  Mistress  at  her  toilette.  Even  the  colours  with  which 
the  painter  had  adorned  her  hair  were  not  more  golden,  more 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II  loi 

amiable  to  sight,  than  those  which  played  round  and  tantalised 
my  fancy  ere  I  saw  the  picture.  There  were  two  portraits 
by  the  same  hand — 'A  young  Nobleman  with  a  glove' — 
Another,  'a  companion  to  it' — I  read  the  description  over  and 
over  with  fond  expectancy,  and  filled  up  the  imaginary  outHne 
with  whatever  I  could  conceive  of  grace,  and  dignity,  and  an 
antique  gusto — all  but  equal  to  the  original.  There  was  the 
Transfiguration  too.  With  what  awe  I  saw  it  in  my  mind's 
eye,  and  was  overshadowed  with  the  spirit  of  the  artist ! 
Not  to  have  been  disappointed  with  these  works  afterwards, 
was  the  highest  compliment  I  can  pay  to  their  transcendant 
merits.  Indeed,  it  was  from  seeing  other  works  of  the  same 
great  masters  that  I  had  formed  a  vague,  but  no  disparaging 
idea  of  these. — The  first  day  I  got  there,  I  was  kept  for  some 
time  in  the  French  Exhibition-room,  and  thought  I  should 
not  be  able  to  get  a  sight  of  the  old  masters.  I  just  caught 
a  peep  at  them  through  the  door  (vile  hindrance !)  like  looking 
out  of  purgatory  into  paradise — from  Poussin's  noble  mellow- 
looking  landscapes  to  where  Rubens  hung  out  his  gaudy 
banner,  and  down  the  glimmering  vista  to  the  rich  jewels  of 
Titian  and  the  Italian  school.  At  last,  by  much  importunity, 
I  was  admitted,  and  lost  not  an  instant  in  making  use  of  my 
new  privilege. — It  was  un  beau  jour  to  me.  I  marched  de- 
lighted through  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  proudest  efforts 
of  the  mind  of  man,  a  whole  creation  of  genius,  a  universe  of 
art !  I  ran  the  gauntlet  of  all  the  schools  from  the  bottom 
to  the  top;  and  in  the  end  got  admitted  into  the  inner  room, 
where  they  had  been  repairing  some  of  their  greatest  works. 
Here  the  Transfiguration,  the  St  Peter  Martyr,  and  the 
St  Jerome  of  Domenichino  stood  on  the  floor,  as  if  they  had 
bent  their  knees,  like  camels  stooping,  to  unlade  their  riches 
to  the  spectator.  On  one  side,  on  an  easel, ^stood  Hippolito  de 
Medici  (a  portrait  by  Titian)  with  a  boar-spear  in  his  hand, 
looking  through  those  he  saw,  till  you  turned  away  from  the 
keen  glance:  and  thrown  together  in  heaps  were  landscapes 
of  the  same  hand,  green  pastoral  hills  and  vales,  and  shepherds 
piping  to  their  mild  mistresses  underneath  the  flowering 
shade.  Reader,  'if  thou  hast  not  seen  the  Louvre,  thou  art 
damned!' — for  thou  hast  not  seen  the  choicest  remains  of 
the  works  of  art;    or  thou  hast  not  seen  all  these  together, 


102  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II 

with  their  mutually  reflected  glories.  I  say  nothing  of  the 
statues;  for  I  know  but  Httle  of  sculpture,  and  never  liked 
any  till  I  saw  the  Elgin  marbles.... Here,  for  four  months 
together,  I  strolled  and  studied,  and  daily  heard  the  warning 
sound — 'Quatre  heures  fassees,  il  faut  fermer,  Citoyens,''  (ah! 
why  did  they  ever  change  their  style  ?)  muttered  in  coarse 
provincial  French;  and  brought  away  with  me  some  loose 
draughts  and  fragments,  which  I  have  been  forced  to  part 
with,  like  drops  of  life-blood,  for  'hard  money.'  How  often, 
thou  tenantless  mansion  of  godlike  magnificence — how  often 
has  my  heart  since  gone  a  pilgrimage  to  thee! 

It  has  been  made  a  question,  whether  the  artist,  or  the 
mere  man  of  taste  and  natural  sensibility,  receives  most 
pleasure  from  the  contemplation  of  works  of  art  ?  and  I  think 
this  question  might  be  answered  by  another  as  a  sort  of 
experimentum  cruets,  namely,  whether  any  one  out  of  that 
'number  numberless'  of  mere  gentlemen  and  amateurs,  who 
visited  Paris  at  the  period  here  spoken  of,  felt  as  much  interest, 
as  much  pride  or  pleasure  in  this  display  of  the  most  striking 
monuments  of  art  as  the  humblest  student  would  ?  The  first 
entrance  into  the  Louvre  would  be  only  one  of  the  events  of 
his  journey,  not  an  event  in  his  life,  remembered  ever  after 
with  thankfulness  and  regret.  He  would  explore  it  with  the 
same  unmeaning  curiosity  and  idle  wonder  as  he  would  the 
Regalia  in  the  Tower,  or  the  Botanic  Garden  in  the  Thuilleries, 
but  not  with  the  fond  enthusiasm  of  an  artist.  How  should 
he.?  His  is  'casual  fruition,  joyless,  unendeared.'  But  the 
painter  is  wedded  to  his  art,  the  mistress,  queen,  and  idol 
of  his  soul.  He  has  embarked  his  all  in  it,  fame,  time,  fortune, 
peace  of  mind,  his  hopes  in  youth,  his  consolation  in  age: 
and  shall  he  not  feel  a  more  intense  interest  in  whatever 
relates  to  it  than  the  mere  indolent  trifler  ?  Natural  sensibility 
alone,  without  the  entire  application  of  the  mind  to  that  one 
object,  will  not  enable  the  possessor  to  sympathise  with  all 
the  degrees  of  beauty  and  power  in  the  conception  of  a  Titian 
or  a  Correggio ;  but  it  is  he  only  who  does  this,  who  follows  them 
into  all  their  force  and  matchless  grace,  that  does  or  can  feel 
their  full  value.  Knowledge  is  pleasure  as  well  as  power. 
No  one  but  the  artist  who  has  studied  nature  and  contended 
with  the  difficulties  of  art,  can  be  aware  of  the  beauties,  or 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II  103 

intoxicated  with  a  passion  for  painting.  No  one  who  has 
not  devoted  his  life  and  soul  to  the  pursuit  of  art,  can  feel 
the  same  exultation  in  its  brightest  ornaments  and  loftiest 
triumphs  which  an  artist  does.  Where  the  treasure  is,  there 
the  heart  is  also.  It  is  now  seventeen  years  since  I  was 
studying  in  the  Louvre  (and  I  have  long  since  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  the  art  as  a  profession),  but  long  after  I  returned, 
and  even  still,  I  sometimes  dream  of  being  there  again— of 
asking  for  the  old  pictures — and  not  finding  them,  or  finding 
them  changed  or  faded  from  what  they  were,  I  cry  myself 
awake!  What  gentleman-amateur  ever  does  this  at  such 
a  distance  of  time, — that  is,  ever  received  pleasure  or  took 
interest  enough  in   them   to  produce  so  lasting  an  impres- 


sion 


But  it  is  said  that  if  a  person  had  the  same  natural  taste, 
and  the  same  acquired  knowledge  as  an  artist,  without  the 
petty  interests  and  technical  notions,  he  would  derive  a  purer 
pleasure  from  seeing  a  fine  portrait,  a  fine  landscape,  and  so 
on.  This  however  is  not  so  much  begging  the  question  as 
asking  an  impossibility:  he  cannot  have  the  same  insight 
into  the  end  without  having  studied  the  means;  nor  the 
same  love  of  art  without  the  same  habitual  and  exclusive 
attachment  to  it.  Painters  are,  no  doubt,  often  actuated  by 
jealousy,  partiality,  and  a  sordid  attention  to  that  only  which 

they  find  useful  to  themselves  in  painting.     W has  been 

seen  poring  over  the  texture  of  a  Dutch  cabinet-picture,  so 
that  he  could  not  see  the  picture  itself.  But  this  is  the  per- 
version and  pedantry  of  the  profession,  not  its  true  or  genuine 

spirit.     If  W had  never  looked  at  any  thing  but  megilps 

and  handling,  he  never  would  have  put  the  soul  of  life  and 
manners  into  his  pictures,  as  he  has  done.  Another  objection 
is,  that  the  instrumental  parts  of  the  art,  the  means,  the  first 
rudiments,  paints,  oils,  and  brushes,  are  painful  and  disgusting; 
and  that  the  consciousness  of  the  difficulty  and  anxiety  with 
which  perfection  has  been  attained,  must  take  away  from 
the  pleasure  of  the  finest  performance.  This,  however,  is  only 
an  additional  proof  of  the  greater  pleasure  derived  by  the 
artist  from  his  profession;  for  these  things  which  are  said 
to  interfere  with  and  destroy  the  common  interest  in  works 
of  art,  do  not  disturb  him;   he  never  once  thinks  of  them,  he 


104  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II 

is  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  a  higher  object;  he  is  intent, 
not  on  the  means  but  the  end;  he  is  taken  up,  not  with  the 
difficulties,  but  with  the  triumph  over  them.  As  in  the  case 
of  the  anatomist,  who  overlooks  many  things  in  the  eagerness 
of  his  search  after  abstract  truth;  or  the  alchemist  who, 
while  he  is  raking  into  his  soot  and  furnaces,  lives  in  a  golden 
dream;  a  lesser  gives  way  to  a  greater  object.  But  it  is 
pretended  that  the  painter  may  be  supposed  to  submit  to  the 
unpleasant  part  of  the  process  only  for  the  sake  of  the  fame  or 
profit  in  view.  So  far  is  this  from  being  a  true  state  of  the 
case,  that  I  will  venture  to  say,  in  the  instance  of  a  friend 
of  mine  who  has  lately  succeeded  in  an  important  undertaking 
in  his  art,  that  not  all  the  fame  he  has  acquired,  not  all  the 
money  he  has  received  from  thousands  of  admiring  spectators, 
not  all  the  newspaper  puffs, — nor  even  the  praise  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review, — not  all  these,  put  together,  ever  gave 
him  at  any  time  the  same  genuine,  undoubted  satisfaction 
as  any  one  half-hour  employed  in  the  ardent  and  propitious 
pursuit  of  his  art — in  finishing  to  his  heart's  content  a  foot, 
a  hand,  or  even  a  piece  of  drapery.  What  is  the  state  of  mind 
of  an  artist  while  he  is  at  work  ?  He  is  then  in  the  act  of 
realising  the  highest  idea  he  can  form  of  beauty  or  grandeur : 
he  conceives,  he  embodies  that  which  he  understands  and 
loves  best :  that  is,  he  is  in  full  and  perfect  possession  of  that 
which  is  to  him  the  source  of  the  highest  happiness  and 
intellectual  excitement  which  he  can  enjoy. 

In  short,  as  a  conclusion  to  this  argument,  I  will  mention 
a  circumstance  which  fell  under  my  knowledge  the  other  day. 
A  friend  had  bought  a  print  of  Titian's  Mistress,  the  same 
to  which  I  have  alluded  above.  He  was  anxious  to  shew  it 
me  on  this  account.  I  told  him  it  was  a  spirited  engraving, 
but  it  had  not  the  look  of  the  original.  I  beheve  he  thought 
this  fastidious,  till  I  offered  to  shew  him  a  rough  sketch  of  it, 
which  I  had  by  me.  Having  seen  this,  he  said  he  perceived 
exactly  what  I  meant,  and  could  not  bear  to  look  at  the  print 
afterwards.  He  had  good  sense  enough  to  see  the  difference 
in  the  individual  instance;  but  a  person  better  acquainted 
with  Titian's  manner  and  with  art  in  general,  that  is,  of  a 
more  cultivated  and  refined  taste,  would  know  that  it  was 
a  bad  print,  without  having  any  immediate  model  to  compare 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II  105 

it  with.  He  would  perceive  with  a  glance  of  the  eye,  with 
a  sort  of  instinctive  feeHng,  that  it  was  hard,  and  without 
that  bland,  expansive,  and  nameless  expression  which  always 
distinguished  Titian's  most  famous  works.  Any  one  who  is 
accustomed  to  a  head  in  a  picture  can  never  reconcile  himself 
to  a  print  from  it :  but  to  the  ignorant  they  are  both  the  same. 
To  a  vulgar  eye  there  is  no  difference  between  a  Guido  and  a 
daub,  between  a  penny-print  or  the  vilest  scrawl,  and  the 
most  finished  performance.  In  other  words,  all  that  excellence 
which  lies  between  these  two  extremes, — all,  at  least,  that 
marks  the  excess  above  mediocrity,— all  that  constitutes  true 
beauty,  harmony,  refinement,  grandeur,  is  lost  upon  the 
common  observer.  But  it  is  from  this  point  that  the  delight, 
the  glowing  raptures  of  the  true  adept  commence.  An  un- 
informed spectator  may  Hke  an  ordinary  drawing  better  than 
the  ablest  connoisseur;  but  for  that  very  reason  he  cannot 
like  the  highest  specimens  of  art  so  well.  The  refinements 
not  only  of  execution  but  of  truth  and  nature  are  inaccessible 
to  unpractised  eyes.  The  exquisite  gradations  in  a  sky  of 
Claude's  are  not  perceived  by  such  persons,  and  consequently 
the  harmony  cannot  be  felt.  Where  there  is  no  conscious 
apprehension,  there  can  be  no  conscious  pleasure.  Wonder 
at  the  first  sight  of  works  of  art  may  be  the  effect  of  ignorance 
and  novelty;  but  real  admiration  and  permanent  delight  in 
them  are  the  growth  of  taste  and  knowledge.  'I  would  not 
wish  to  have  your  eyes,'  said  a  good-natured  man  to  a  critic, 
who  was  finding  fault  with  a  picture,  in  which  the  other  saw 
no  blemish.  Why  so  ?  The  idea  which  prevented  him  from 
admiring  this  inferior  production  was  a  higher  idea  of  truth 
and  beauty  which  was  ever  present  with  him,  and  a  continual 
source  of  pleasing  and  lofty  contemplations.  It  may  be 
different  in  a  taste  for  outward  luxuries  and  the  privations 
of  mere  sense;  but  the  idea  of  perfection,  which  acts  as  an 
intellectual  foil,  is  always  an  addition,  a  support,  and  a  proud 
consolation ! 

Richardson,  in  his  Essays,  which  ought  to  be  better  known, 
has  left  some  striking  examples  of  the  felicity  and  infelicity 
of  artists,  both  as  it  relates  to  their  external  fortune,  and  to 
the  practice  of  their  art.  In  speaking  of  the  knowledge  of 
hands,  he  exclaims — 'When  one  is  considering  a  picture  or 


io6  On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II 

a  drawing,  one  at  the  same  time  thinks  this  was  done  by  him^ 
who  had  many  extraordinary  endowments  of  body  and  mind, 
but  was  withal  very  capricious;  who  was  honoured  in  Hfe 
and  death,  expiring  in  the  arms  of  one  of  the  greatest  princes 
of  that  age,  Francis  I  King  of  France,  who  loved  him  as  a 
friend.  Another  is  of  him^  who  lived  a  long  and  happy  life, 
beloved  of  Charles  V  emperour ;  and  many  others  of  the  first 
princes  of  Europe.  When  one  has  another  in  hand,  we  think 
this  was  done  by  one^  who  so  excelled  in  three  arts,  as  that 
any  of  them  in  that  degree  had  rendered  him  worthy  of 
immortality;  and  one  moreover  that  durst  contend  with  his 
sovereign  (one  of  the  haughtiest  popes  that  ever  was)  upon 
a  slight  offered  to  him,  and  extricated  himself  with  honour. 
Another  is  the  work  of  him*  who,  without  any  one  exterior 
advantage  but  mere  strength  of  genius,  had  the  most  sublime 
imaginations,  and  executed  them  accordingly,  yet  lived  and 
died  obscurely.  Another  we  shall  consider  as  the  work  of 
him^  who  restored  Painting  when  it  had  almost  sunk;  of  him 
whom  art  made  honourable,  but  who,  neglecting  and  despising 
greatness  with  a  sort  of  cynical  pride,  was  treated  suitably 
to  the  figure  he  gave  himself,  not  his  intrinsic  worth;  which, 
not  having  philosophy  enough  to  bear  it,  broke  his  heart. 
Another  is  done  by  one^  who  (on  the  contrary)  was  a  fine 
gentleman,  and  lived  in  great  magnificence,  and  was  much 
honoured  by  his  own  and  foreign  princes ;  who  was  a  courtier, 
a  statesman,  and  a  painter;  and  so  much  all  these,  that  when 
he  acted  in  either  character,  that  seemed  to  be  his  business, 
and  the  others  his  diversion.  I  say  when  one  thus  reflects, 
besides  the  pleasure  arising  from  the  beauties  and  excellences 
of  the  work,  the  fine  ideas  it  gives  us  of  natural  things,  the  noble 
way  of  thinking  it  may  suggest  to  us,  an  additional  pleasure 
results  from  the  above  considerations.  But,  oh !  the  pleasure, 
when  a  connoisseur  and  lover  of  art  has  before  him  a  picture 
or  drawing,  of  which  he  can  say  this  is  the  hand,  these  are 
the  thoughts  of  him'  who  was  one  of  the  politest,  best-natured 
gentlemen  that  ever  was;    and  beloved  and  assisted  by  the 

^  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  ^  Titian. 

^  Michael  Angelo.  *  Correggio. 

^  Annibal  Caracci.  *  Rubens. 
'  Rafaelle. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting     II  107 

greatest  wits  and  the  greatest  men  then  in  Rome:  of  him 
who  lived  in  great  fame,  honour,  and  magnificence,  and  died 
extremely  lamented;  and  missed  a  Cardinal's  hat  only  by 
dying  a  few  months  too  soon;  but  was  particularly  esteemed 
and  favoured  by  two  Popes,  the  only  ones  who  filled  the  chair 
of  St  Peter  in  his  time,  and  as  great  men  as  ever  sat  there 
since  that  apostle,  if  at  least  he  ever  did :  one,  in  short,  who 
could  have  been  a  Leonardo,  a  Michael  Angelo,  a  Titian,  a 
Correggio,  a  Parmegiano,  an  Annibal,  a  Rubens,  or  any  other 
whom  he  pleased,  but  none  of  them  could  ever  have  been  a 
Rafaelle.'     Page  251. 

The  same  writer  speaks  feelingly  of  the  change  in  the 
style  of  different  artists  from  their  change  of  fortune,  and  as 
the  circumstances  are  little  known,  I  will  quote  the  passage 
relating  to  two  of  them. 

'Guido  Reni  from  a  prince-like  affluence  of  fortune  (the 
just  reward  of  his  angelic  works)  fell  to  a  condition  like  that 
of  a  hired  servant  to  one  who  supplied  him  with  money  for 
what  he  did  at  a  fixed  rate ;  and  that  by  his  being  bewitched 
with  a  passion  for  gaming,  whereby  he  lost  vast  sums  of  money ; 
and  even  what  he  got  in  this  his  state  of  servitude  by  day,  he 
commonly  lost  at  night:  nor  could  he  ever  be  cured  of  this 
cursed  madness.  Those  of  his  works,  therefore,  which  he  did 
in  this  unhappy  part  of  his  life,  may  easily  be  conceived  to 
be  in  a  different  style  to  what  he  did  before,  which  in  some 
things,  that  is,  in  the  airs  of  his  heads  (in  the  gracious  kind), 
had  a  delicacy  in  them  peculiar  to  himself,  and  almost  more 
than  human.  But  I  must  not  multiply  instances.  Parmegiano 
is  one  that  alone  takes  in  all  the  several  kinds  of  variation,  and 
all  the  degrees  of  goodness,  from  the  lowest  of  the  indifferent 
up  to  the  sublime.  I  can  produce  evident  proofs  of  this  in 
so  easy  a  gradation,  that  one  cannot  deny  but  that  he  that 
did  this,  might  do  that,  and  very  probably  did  so;  and  thus 
one  may  ascend  and  descend,  like  the  angels  on  Jacob's  ladder, 
whose  foot  was  upon  the  earth,  but  its  top  reached  to  Heaven. 

'And  this  great  man  had  his  unlucky  circumstance:  he 
became  mad  after  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  did  but  very 
little  in  painting  or  drawing  afterwards.  Judge  what  that  was, 
and  whether  there  was  not  an  alteration  of  style  from  what 
he  had  done,  before  this  devil  possessed  him.     His  creditors 


io8  On  the   Pleasure  of  Painting     II 

endeavoured  to  exorcise  him,  and  did  him  some  good,  for  he 
set  himself  to  work  again  in  his  own  way:  but  if  a  drawing 
I  have  of  a  Lucretia  be  that  he  made  for  his  last  picture,  as 
it  probably  is  (Vasari  says  that  was  the  subject  of  it),  it  is 
an  evident  proof  of  his  decay :  it  is  good  indeed,  but  it  wants 
much  of  the  delicacy  which  is  commonly  seen  in  his  works; 
and  so  I  always  thought  before  I  knew  or  imagined  it  to  be 
done  in  this  his  ebb  of  genius.'     Page  153. 

We  have  had  two  artists  of  our  own  country,  whose  fate 
has  been  as  singular  as  it  was  hard.  Gandy  was  a  portrait- 
painter  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  whose  heads  were 
said  to  have  come  near  to  Rembrandt's,  and  he  was  the  un- 
doubted prototype  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  style.  Yet  his 
name  has  scarcely  been  heard  of;  and  his  reputation,  like  his 
works,  never  extended  beyond  his  own  county.  What  did 
he  think  of  himself  and  of  a  fame  so  bounded !  Did  he  ever 
dream  he  was  indeed  an  artist  ?  Or  how  did  this  feeling  in 
him  differ  from  the  vulgar  conceit  of  the  lowest  pretender? 
The  best  known  of  his  works  is  a  portrait  of  an  alderman  of 
Exeter,  in  some  public  building  in  that  city. 

Poor  Dan.  Stringer!  Forty  years  ago  he  had  the  finest 
hand  and  the  clearest  eye  of  any  artist  of  his  time,  and  produced 
heads  and  drawings  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a  brighter 
period  in  the  art.  But  he  fell  a  martyr  (like  Burns)  to  the 
society  of  country-gentlemen,  and  then  of  those  whom  they 
would  consider  as  more  his  equals.  I  saw  him  many  years 
ago,  when  he  treated  the  masterly  sketches  he  had  by  him 
(one  in  particular  of  the  group  of  citizens  in  Shakespear 
'swallowing  the  tailor's  news')  as  'bastards  of  his  genius, 
not  his  children';  and  seemed  to  have  given  up  all  thoughts 
of  his  art.  Whether  he  is  since  dead,  I  cannot  say:  the  world 
do  not  so  much  as  know  that  he  ever  lived ! 


THE    FIGHT 

The  fight,  the  fight's  the  thing, 

Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 

Where  there's  a  will,  there"" s  a  way. — I  said  so  to  myself, 
as  I  walked  down  Chancery-lane,  about  half-past  six  o'clock 
on  Monday  the  loth  of  December,  to  inquire  at  Jack  Randall's 
where  the  fight  the  next  day  was  to  be;  I  found  'the  proverb' 
nothing  'musty'  in  the  present  instance.  I  was  determined 
to  see  this  fight,  come  what  would,  and  see  it  I  did,  in  great 
style.  It  was  my  first  fight,  yet  it  more  than  answered  my 
expectations.  Ladies !  it  is  to  you  I  dedicate  this  description ; 
nor  let  it  seem  out  of  character  for  the  fair  to  notice  the  exploits 
of  the  brave.  Courage  and  modesty  are  the  old  English  virtues ; 
and  may  they  never  look  cold  and  askance  on  one  another! 
Think,  ye  fairest  of  the  fair,  loveliest  of  the  lovely  kind,  ye 
practisers  of  soft  enchantment,  how  many  more  ye  kill  with 
poisoned  baits  than  ever  fell  in  the  ring;  and  listen  with 
subdued  air  and  without  shuddering,  to  a  tale  tragic  only  in 
appearance,  and  sacred  to  the  Fancy! 

I  was  going  down  Chancery-lane,  thinking  to  ask  at  Jack 
Randall's  where  the  fight  was  to  be,  when  looking  through  the 
glass-door  of  the  Hole  in  the  Wall,  I  heard  a  gentleman  asking 
the  same  question  at  Mrs  Randall,  as  the  author  of  Waverley 
would  express  it.  Now  Mrs  Randall  stood  answering  the 
gentleman's  question,  with  the  authenticity  of  the  lady  of 
the  Champion  of  the  Light  Weights.  Thinks  I,  I'll  wait  till 
this  person  comes  out,  and  learn  from  him  how  it  is.  For  to 
say  a  truth,  I  was  not  fond  of  going  into  this  house  of  call  for 
heroes  and  philosophers,  ever  since  the  owner  of  it  (for  Jack 
is  no  gentleman)  threatened  once  upon  a  time  to  kick  me  out 
of  doors  for  wanting  a  mutton-chop  at  his  hospitable  board, 
when  the  conqueror  in  thirteen  battles  was  more  full  of  blue 
ruin  than  of  gond  manners.     I  was  the  more  mortified  at  this 


no  The  Fight 

repulse,  inasmuch  as  I  had  heard  Mr  James  Simpkins,  hosier 
in  the  Strand,  one  day  when  the  character  of  the  Hole  in  the 
Wall  was  brought  in  question,  observe — 'The  house  is  a  very 
good  house,  and  the  company  quite  genteel :  I  have  been  there 
myself!'  Remembering  this  unkind  treatment  of  mine  host, 
to  which  mine  hostess  was  also  a  party,  and  not  wishing  to 
put  her  in  unquiet  thoughts  at  a  time  jubilant  Hke  the  present, 
I  waited  at  the  door,  when,  who  should  issue  forth  but  my 
friend  Jo.  Toms,  and  turning  suddenly  up  Chancery-lane  with 
that  quick  jerk  and  impatient  stride  which  distinguishes  a 
lover  of  the  Fancy,  I  said,  'I'll  be  hanged  if  that  fellow  is 
not  going  to  the  fight,  and  is  on  his  way  to  get  me  to  go  with 
him.'  So  it  proved  in  effect,  and  we  agreed  to  adjourn  to  my 
lodgings  to  discuss  measures  with  that  cordiality  which  makes 
old  friends  like  new,  and  new  friends  like  old,  on  great  occasions. 
We  are  cold  to  others  only  when  we  are  dull  in  ourselves, 
and  have  neither  thoughts  nor  feelings  to  impart  to  them. 
Give  a  man  a  topic  in  his  head,  a  throb  of  pleasure  in  his 
heart,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  share  it  with  the  first  person  he 
meets.  Toms  and  I,  though  we  seldom  meet,  were  an  alter 
idem  on  this  memorable  occasion,  and  had  not  an  idea  that 
we  did  not  candidly  impart;  and  'so  carelessly  did  we  fleet 
the  time,'  that  I  wish  no  better,  when  there  is  another  fight, 
than  to  have  him  for  a  companion  on  my  journey  down,  and 
to  return  with  my  friend  Jack  Pigott,  talking  of  what  was  to 
happen  or  of  what  did  happen,  with  a  noble  subject  always 
at  hand,  and  liberty  to  digress  to  others  whenever  they 
offered.  Indeed,  on  my  repeating  the  lines  from  Spenser  in 
an  involuntary  fit  of  enthusiasm. 

What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature, 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty? 

my  last-named  ingenious  friend  stopped  me  by  saying  that 
this,  translated  into  the  vulgate,  meant  ''Going  to  see  a  fight.'' 

Jo.  Toms  and  I  could  not  settle  about  the  method  of  going 
down.  He  said  there  was  a  caravan,  he  understood,  to  start 
from  Tom  Belcher's  at  two,  which  would  go  there  right  out 
and  back  again  the  next  day.  Now  I  never  travel  all  night, 
and  said  I  should  get  a  cast  to  Newbury  by  one  of  the  mails. 
Jo.  swore  the  thing  was  impossible,  and  I  could  only  answer 


The  Fight  iii 

that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  it.  In  short,  he  seemed  to 
me  to  waver,  said  he  only  came  to  see  if  I  was  going,  had 
letters  to  write,  a  cause  coming  on  the  day  after,  and  faintly 
said  at  parting  (for  I  was  bent  on  setting  out  that  moment) — 
'Well,  we  meet  at  Philippi!'  I  made  the  best  of  my  way  to 
Piccadilly.  The  mail  coach  stand  was  bare.  'They  are  all 
gone,'  said  I — 'this  is  always  the  way  with  me — in  the  instant 
I  lose  the  future — if  I  had  not  stayed  to  pour  out  that  last 
cup  of  tea,  I  should  have  been  just  in  time' — and  cursing 
my  folly  and  ill-luck  together,  without  inquiring  at  the 
coach-office  whether  the  mails  were  gone  or  not,  I  walked  on 
in  despite,  and  to  punish  my  own  dilatoriness  and  want  of 
determination.  At  any  rate,  I  would  not  turn  back :  I  might 
get  to  Hounslow,  or  perhaps  farther,  to  be  on  my  road  the 
next  morning.  I  passed  Hyde  Park  Corner  (my  Rubicon), 
and  trusted  to  fortune.  Suddenly  I  heard  the  clattering  of 
a  Brentford  stage,  and  the  fight  rushed  full  upon  my  fancy. 
I  argued  (not  unwisely)  that  even  a  Brentford  coachman 
was  better  company  than  my  own  thoughts  (such  as  they  were 
just  then),  and  at  his  invitation  mounted  the  box  with  him. 
I  immediately  stated  my  case  to  him — namely,  my  quarrel 
with  myself  for  missing  the  Bath  or  Bristol  mail,  and  my 
determination  to  get  on  in  consequence  as  well  as  I  could, 
without  any  disparagement  or  insulting  comparison  between 
longer  or  shorter  stages.  It  is  a  maxim  with  me  that  stage- 
coaches, and  consequently  stage-coachmen,  are  respectable 
in  proportion  to  the  distance  they  have  to  travel :  so  I  said 
nothing  on  that  subject  to  my  Brentford  friend.  Any  incipient 
tendency  to  an  abstract  proposition,  or  (as  he  might  have 
construed  it)  to  a  personal  reflection  of  this  kind,  was  however 
nipped  in  the  bud;  for  I  had  no  sooner  declared  indignantly 
that  I  had  missed  the  mails,  than  he  flatly  denied  that  they 
were  gone  along,  and  lo!  at  the  instant  three  of  them  drove 
by  in  rapid,  provoking,  orderly  succession,  as  if  they  would 
devour  the  ground  before  them.  Here  again  I  seemed  in 
the  contradictory  situation  of  the  man  in  Dryden  who  exclaims, 

1  follow  Fate,  which  does  too  hard  pursue ! 

If  I  had  stopped  to  inquire  at  the  White  Horse  Cellar,  which 
would  not  have  taken  me  a  minute,  I  should  now  have  been 


112  The  Fight 

driving  down  the  road  in  all  the  dignified  unconcern  and 
ideal  perfection  of  mechanical  conveyance.  The  Bath  mail 
I  had  set  my  mind  upon,  and  I  had  missed  it,  as  I  missed  every 
thing  else,  by  my  own  absurdity,  in  putting  the  will  for  the 
deed,  and  aiming  at  ends  without  employing  means.  'Sir,' 
said  he  of  the  Brentford,  'the  Bath  mail  will  be  up  presently,  my 
brother-in-law  drives  it,  and  I  will  engage  to  stop  him  if  there 
is  a  place  empty.'  I  almost  doubted  my  good  genius;  but, 
sure  enough,  up  it  drove  like  lightning,  and  stopped  directly 
at  the  call  of  the  Brentford  Jehu.  I  would  not  have  believed 
this  possible,  but  the  brother-in-law  of  a  mail-coach  driver 
is  himself  no  mean  man.  I  was  transferred  without  loss  of 
time  from  the  top  of  one  coach  to  that  of  the  other,  desired  the 
guard  to  pay  my  fare  to  the  Brentford  coachman  for  me  as 
I  had  no  change,  was  accommodated  with  a  great  coat,  put 
up  my  umbrella  to  keep  off  a  drizzling  mist,  and  we  began 
to  cut  through  the  air  like  an  arrow.  The  mile-stones  dis- 
appeared one  after  another,  the  rain  kept  off;  Tom  Turtle, 
the  trainer,  sat  before  me  on  the  coach-box,  with  whom 
I  exchanged  civilities  as  a  gentleman  going  to  the  fight;  the 
passion  that  had  transported  me  an  hour  before  was  subdued 
to  pensive  regret  and  conjectural  musing  on  the  next  day's 
battle;  I  was  promised  a  place  inside  at  Reading,  and  upon 
the  whole,  I  thought  myself  a  lucky  fellow.  Such  is  the  force 
of  imagination !  On  the  outside  of  any  other  coach  on  the 
loth  of  December,  with  a  Scotch  mist  drizzling  through  the 
cloudy  moonlight  air,  I  should  have  been  cold,  comfortless, 
impatient,  and,  no  doubt,  wet  through;  but  seated  on  the 
Royal  mail,  I  felt  warm  and  comfortable,  the  air  did  me  good, 
the  ride  did  me  good,  I  was  pleased  with  the  progress  we  had 
made,  and  confident  that  all  would  go  well  through  the  journey. 
When  I  got  inside  at  Reading,  I  found  Turtle  and  a  stout 
valetudinarian,  whose  costume  bespoke  him  one  of  the  Fancy, 
and  who  had  risen  from  a  three  months'  sick  bed  to  get  into 
the  mail  to  see  the  fight.  They  were  intimate,  and  we  fell 
into  a  lively  discourse.  My  friend  the  trainer  was  confined 
in  his  topics  to  fighting  dogs  and  men,  to  bears  and  badgers; 
beyond  this  he  was  'quite  chap-fallen,'  had  not  a  word  to 
throw  at  a  dog,  or  indeed  very  wisely  fell  asleep,  when  any 
other  game  was  started.     The  whole  art  of  training  (I,  however, 


The  Fight  113 

learnt  from  him,)  consists  in  two  things,  exercise  and  abstinence, 
abstinence  and  exercise,  repeated  alternately  and  without  end. 
A  yolk  of  an  egg  with  a  spoonful  of  rum  in  it  is  the  first  thing 
in  a  morning,  and  then  a  walk  of  six  miles  till  breakfast. 
This  meal  consists  of  a  plentiful  supply  of  tea  and  toast  and 
beef-steaks.  Then  another  six  or  seven  miles  till  dinner-time, 
and  another  supply  of  solid  beef  or  mutton  with  a  pint  of 
porter,  and  perhaps,  at  the  utmost,  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
sherry.  Martin  trains  on  water,  but  this  increases  his  infirmity 
on  another  very  dangerous  side.  The  Gas-man  takes  now 
and  then  a  chirping  glass  (under  the  rose)  to  console  him, 
during  a  six  weeks'  probation,  for  the  absence  of  Mrs  Hickman 
— an  agreeable  woman,  with  (I  understand)  a  pretty  fortune 
of  two  hundred  pounds.  How  matter  presses  on  me !  What 
stubborn  things  are  facts !  How  inexhaustible  is  nature  and 
art!  'It  is  well,'  as  I  once  heard  Mr  Richmond  observe, 
'to  see  a  variety.'  He  was  speaking  of  cock-fighting  as  an 
edifying  spectacle.  I  cannot  deny  but  that  one  learns  more 
of  what  is  (I  do  not  say  of  what  ought  to  be)  in  this  desultory 
mode  of  practical  study,  than  from  reading  the  same  book 
twice  over,  even  though  it  should  be  a  moral  treatise.  Where 
was  I .?  I  was  sitting  at  dinner  with  the  candidate  for  the 
honours  of  the  ring,  'where  good  digestion  waits  on  appetite, 
and  health  on  both.'  Then  follows  an  hour  of  social  chat 
and  native  glee;  and  afterwards,  to  another  breathing  over 
heathy  hill  or  dale.  Back  to  supper,  and  then  to  bed,  and 
up  by  six  again — Our  hero 

Follows  so  the  ever-running  sun 
With  profitable  ardour — 

to  the  day  that  brings  him  victory  or  defeat  in  the  green 
fairy  circle.  Is  not  this  life  more  sweet  than  mine  ?  I  was 
going  to  say;  but  I  will  not  libel  any  life  by  comparing  it  to 
mine,  which  is  (at  the  date  of  these  presents)  bitter  as  colo- 
quintida  and  the  dregs  of  aconitum ! 

The  invalid  in  the  Bath  mail  soared  a  pitch  above  the 
trainer,  and  did  not  sleep  so  sound,  because  he  had  'more 
figures  and  more  fantasies.'  We  talked  the  hours  away  merrily. 
He  had  faith  in  surgery,  for  he  had  had  three  ribs  set  right, 
that  had  been  broken  in  a  turn-up  at  Belcher's,  but  thought 

s.  H.  8 


114  The  Fight 

physicians  old  women,  for  they  had  no  antidote  in  their 
catalogue  for  brandy.  An  indigestion  is  an  excellent  common- 
place for  two  people  that  never  met  before.  By  way  of 
ingratiating  myself,  I  told  him  the  story  of  my  doctor,  who, 
on  my  earnestly  representing  to  him  that  I  thought  his 
regimen  had  done  me  harm,  assured  me  that  the  whole 
pharmacopeia  contained  nothing  comparable  to  the  prescrip- 
tion he  had  given  me ;  and,  as  a  proof  of  its  undoubted  efficacy, 
said,  that,  'he  had  had  one  gentleman  with  my  complaint 
under  his  hands  for  the  last  fifteen  years.'  This  anecdote 
made  my  companion  shake  the  rough  sides  of  his  three  great 
coats  with  boisterous  laughter;  and  Turtle,  starting  out  of 
his  sleep,  swore  he  knew  how  the  fight  would  go,  for  he  had 
had  a  dream  about  it.  Sure  enough  the  rascal  told  us  how  the 
three  first  rounds  went  off,  but  'his  dream,'  Hke  others,  'denoted 
a  foregone  conclusion.'  He  knew  his  men.  The  moon  now 
rose  in  silver  state,  and  I  ventured,  with  some  hesitation, 
to  point  out  this  object  of  placid  beauty,  with  the  blue  serene 
beyond,  to  the  man  of  science,  to  which  his  ear  he  'seriously 
inclined,'  the  more  as  it  gave  promise  d''un  beau  jour  for  the 
morrow,  and  showed  the  ring  undrenched  by  envious  showers, 
arrayed  in  sunny  smiles.  Just  then,  all  going  on  well,  I 
thought  on  my  friend  Toms,  whom  I  had  left  behind,  and  said 
innocently,  'There  was  a  blockhead  of  a  fellow  I  left  in  town, 
who  said  there  was  no  possibiHty  of  getting  down  by  the  mail, 
and  talked  of  going  by  a  caravan  from  Belcher's  at  two  in 
the  morning,  after  he  had  written  some  letters.'  'Why,' 
said  he  of  the  lapells,  'I  should  not  wonder  if  that  was  the 
very  person  we  saw  running  about  like  mad  from  one  coach- 
door  to  another,  and  asking  if  any  one  had  seen  a  friend  of  his, 
a  gentleman  going  to  the  fight,  whom  he  had  missed  stupidly 
enough  by  staying  to  write  a  note.'  'Pray,  Sir,'  said  my 
fellow-traveller,  'had  he  a  plaid-cloak  on?' — 'Why,  no,' 
said  I,  'not  at  the  time  I  left  him,  but  he  very  well  might 
afterwards,  for  he  offered  to  lend  me  one.'  The  plaid-cloak 
and  the  letter  decided  the  thing.  Joe,  sure  enough,  was  in 
the  Bristol  mail,  which  preceded  us  by  about  fifty  yards. 
This  was  drollfenough.  We  had  now  but  a  few  miles  to 
our  place  of  destination,  and  the  first  thing  I  did  on  alighting 
at  Newbury,", both  coaches    stopping  at  the  same  time,  was 


The  Fight  115 

to  call  out,  'Pray,  is  there  a  gentleman  in  that  mail  of  the  name 
of  Toms?'  'No,'  said  Joe,  borrowing  something  of  the  vein 
of  Gilpin,  'for  I  have  just  got  out.'  'Well!'  says  he,  'this 
is  lucky;  but  you  don't  know  how  vexed  I  was  to  miss  you; 
for,'  added  he,  lowering  his  voice,  'do  you  know  when  I  left 
you  I  went  to  Belcher's  to  ask  about  the  caravan,  and  Mrs 
Belcher  said  very  obHgingly,  she  couldn't  tell  about  that, 
but  there  were  two  gentlemen  who  had  taken  places  by  the 
mail  and  were  gone  on  in  a  landau,  and  she  could  frank  us. 
It's  a  pity  I  didn't  meet  with  you;  we  could  then  have  got 
down  for  nothing.  But  muni's  the  word.''  It's  the  devil  for 
any  one  to  tell  me  a  secret,  for  it's  sure  to  come  out  in  print. 
I  do  not  care  so  much  to  gratify  a  friend,  but  the  public  ear 
is  too  great  a  temptation  to  m^e. 

Our  present  business  was  to  get  beds  and  a  supper  at  an 
inn ;  but  this  was  no  easy  task.  The  public-houses  were  full, 
and  where  you  saw  a  light  at  a  private  house,  and  people 
poking  their  heads  out  of  the  casement  to  see  what  was  going 
on,  they  instantly  put  them  in  and  shut  the  window,  the 
moment  you  seemed  advancing  with  a  suspicious  overture 
for  accommodation.  Our  guard  and  coachman  thundered 
away  at  the  outer  gate  of  the  Crown  for  some  time  without 
effect — such  was  the  greater  noise  within;— and  when  the 
doors  were  unbarred,  and  we  got  admittance,  we  found  a 
party  assembled  in  the  kitchen  round  a  good  hospitable  fire, 
some  sleeping,  others  drinking,  others  talking  on  poHtics  and 
on  the  fight.  A  tall  English  yeoman  (something  like  Matthews 
in  the  face,  and  quite  as  great  a  wag) — 

A  lusty  man  to  ben  an  abbot  able, — 

was  making  such  a  prodigious  noise  about  rent  and  taxes, 
and  the  price  of  corn  now  and  formerly,  that  he  had  prevented 
us  from  being  heard  at  the  gate.  The  first  thing  I  heard  him 
say  was  to  a  shuffling  fellow  who  wanted  to  be  off  a  bet  for 
a  shilHng  glass  of  brandy  and  water^ — 'Confound  it,  man, 
don't  be  insipidV  Thinks  I,  that  is  a  good  phrase.  It  was 
a  good  omen.  He  kept  it  up  so  all  night,  nor  flinched  with 
the  approach  of  morning.  He  was  a  fine  fellow,  with  sense, 
wit,  and  spirit,  a  hearty  body  and  a  joyous  mind,  free-spoken, 
frank,  convivial — one  of  that  true  English  breed  that  went 

8—2 


iiO  The  Fight 

with  Harry  the  Fifth  to  the  siege  of  Harfleur — 'standing  like 
greyhounds  in  the  sHps,'  &c.  We  ordered  tea  and  eggs  (beds 
were  soon  found  to  be  out  of  the  question)  and  this  fellow's 
conversation  was  sauce  piquante.  It  did  one's  heart  good  to 
see  him  brandish  his  oaken  towel  and  to  hear  him  talk.  He 
made  mince-meat  of  a  drunken,  stupid,  red-faced,  quarrelsome, 
frowsy  farmer,  whose  nose  'he  moralized  into  a  thousand 
similes,'  making  it  out  a  firebrand  like  Bardolph's.  'I'll  tell 
you  what  my  friend,'  says  he,  'the  landlady  has  only  to  keep 
you  here  to  save  fire  and  candle.  If  one  was  to  touch  your 
nose,  it  would  go  off  like  a  piece  of  charcoal.'  At  this  the 
other  only  grinned  Hke  an  idiot,  the  sole  variety  in  his  purple 
face  being  his  Httle  peering  grey  eyes  and  yellow  teeth;  called 
for  another  glass,  swore  he  would  not  stand  it;  and  after 
many  attempts  to  provoke  his  humourous  antagonist  to 
single  combat,  which  the  other  turned  off  (after  working  him 
up  to  a  ludicrous  pitch  of  choler)  with  great  adroitness,  he 
fell  quietly  asleep  with  a  glass  of  liquor  in  his  hand,  which 
he  could  not  lift  to  his  head.  His  laughing  persecutor  made 
a  speech  over  him,  and  turning  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room, 
where  they  were  all  sleeping  in  the  midst  of  this  'loud  and 
furious  fun,'  said,  'There's  a  scene,  by  G — d,  for  Hogarth  to 
paint.  I  think  he  and  Shakspeare  were  our  two  best  men  at 
copying  life.'  This  confirmed  me  in  my  good  opinion  of  him. 
Hogarth,  Shakspeare,  and  Nature,  were  just  enough  for  him 
(indeed  for  any  man)  to  know.  I  said,  'You  read  Cobbett, 
don't  you?  At  least,'  says  I,  'you  talk  just  as  well  as  he 
writes.'  He  seemed  to  doubt  this.  But  I  said,  'We  have  an 
hour  to  spare:  if  you'll  get  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  keep  on 
talking,  I'll  write  down  what  you  say;  and  if  it  doesn't  make 
a  capital  'PoHtical  Register,'  I'll  forfeit  my  head.  You  have 
kept  me  alive  to-night,  however.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  without  you.'  He  did  not  dislike  this  view  of  the 
thing,  nor  my  asking  if  he  was  not  about  the  size  of  Jem 
Belcher;  and  told  me  soon  afterwards,  in  the  confidence  of 
friendship,  that  '  the  circumstance  which  had  given  him  nearly 
the  greatest  concern  in  his  life,  was  Cribb's  beating  Jem  after 
he  had  lost  his  eye  by  racket-playing.' — The  morning  dawns; 
that  dim  but  yet  clear  light  appears,  which  weighs  like  solid 
bars  of  metal  on  the  sleepless  eyelids;    the  guests  drop  down 


The  Fight  117 

from  their  chambers  one  by  one — but  it  was  too  late  to  think 
of  going  to  bed  now  (the  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  seven), 
we  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  find  a  barber's  (the  pole  that 
glittered  in  the  morning  sun  lighted  us  to  his  shop),  and  then 
a  nine  miles'  march  to  Hungerford.  The  day  was  line,  the 
sky  was  blue,  the  mists  were  retiring  from  the  marshy  ground, 
the  path  was  tolerably  dry,  the  sitting-up  all  night  had  not 
done  us  much  harm — at  least  the  cause  was  good ;  we  talked 
of  this  and  that  with  amicable  difference,  roving  and  sipping 
of  many  subjects,  but  still  invariably  we  returned  to  the  fight. 
At  length,  a  mile  to  the  left  of  Hungerford,  on  a  gentle  eminence, 
we  saw  the  ring  surrounded  by  covered  carts,  gigs,  and  carriages, 
of  which  hundreds  had  passed  us  on  the  road ;  Toms  gave 
a  youthful  shout,  and  we  hastened  down  a  narrow  lane  to 
the  scene  of  action. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  a  fight  ?  If  not,  you  have 
a  pleasure  to  come,  at  least  if  it  is  a  fight  like  that  between 
the  Gas-man  and  Bill  Neate.  The  crowd  was  very  great 
when  we  arrived  on  the  spot;  open  carriages  were  coming 
up,  with  streamers  flying  and  music  playing,  and  the  country- 
people  were  pouring  in  over  hedge  and  ditch  in  all  directions, 
to  see  their  hero  beat  or  be  beaten.  The  odds  were  still  on 
Gas,  but  only  about  five  to  four.  Gully  had  been  down  to 
try  Neate,  and  had  backed  him  considerably,  which  was 
a  damper  to  the  sanguine  confidence  of  the  adverse  party. 
About  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  were  pending.  The  Gas 
says,  he  has  lost  3000/.  which  were  promised  him  by  different 
gentlemen  if  he  had  won.  He  had  presumed  too  much  on 
himself,  which  had  made  others  presume  on  him.  This  spirited 
and  formidable  young  fellow  seems  to  have  taken  for  his 
motto  the  old  maxim,  that  'there  are  three  things  necessary 
to  success  in  life — Impudence  !  Impudence  !  Impudencef  It 
is  so  in  matters  of  opinion,  but  not  in  the  Fancy,  which  is  the 
most  practical  of  all  things,  though  even  here  confidence  is 
half  the  battle,  but  only  half.  Our  friend  had  vapoured  and 
swaggered  too  much,  as  if  he  wanted  to  grin  and  bully  his 
adversary  out  of  the  fight.  'Alas!  the  Bristol  man  was  not 
so  tamed!' — 'This  is  the  grave-digger^  (would  Tom  Hickman 
exclaim  in  the  moments  of  intoxication  from  gin  and  success, 
shewing  his  tremendous  right  hand),  'this  will  send  many  of 


ii8  The  Fight 

them  to  their  long  homes;  I  haven't  done  with  them  yet!' 
Why  should  he — though  he  had  licked  four  of  the  best  men 
within  the  hour,  yet  why  should  he  threaten  to  inflict  dis- 
honourable chastisement  on  my  old  master  Richmond,  a 
veteran  going  off  the  stage,  and  who  has  borne  his  sable  honours 
meekly?  Magnanimity,  my  dear  Tom,  and  bravery,  should 
be  inseparable.  Or  why  should  he  go  up  to  his  antagonist, 
the  first  time  he  ever  saw  him  at  the  Fives  Court,  and  measuring 
him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  glance  of  contempt,  as  Achilles 
surveyed  Hector,  say  to  him,  'What,  are  you  Bill  Neate? 
I'll  knock  more  blood  out  of  that  great  carcase  of  thine,  this 
day  fortnight,  than  you  ever  knock'd  out  of  a  bullock's ! ' 
It  was  not  manly,  'twas  not  fighter-like.  If  he  was  sure  of 
the  victory  (as  he  was  not),  the  less  said  about  it  the  better. 
Modesty  should  accompany  the  Fancy  as  its  shadow.  The 
best  men  were  always  the  best  behaved.  Jem  Belcher,  the 
Game  Chicken  (before  whom  the  Gas-man  could  not  have 
lived),  were  civil,  silent  men.  So  is  Cribb,  so  is  Tom  Belcher, 
the  most  elegant  of  sparrers,  and  not  a  man  for  every  one 
to  take  by  the  nose.  I  enlarged  on  this  topic  in  the  mail 
(while  Turtle  was  asleep),  and  said  very  wisely  (as  I  thought) 
that  impertinence  was  a  part  of  no  profession.  A  boxer  was 
bound  to  beat  his  man,  but  not  to  thrust  his  fist,  either  actually 
or  by  implication,  in  every  one's  face.  Even  a  highwayman, 
in  the  way  of  trade,  may  blow  out  your  brains,  but  if  he  uses 
foul  language  at  the  same  time,  I  should  say  he  was  no 
gentleman.  A  boxer,  I  would  infer,  need  not  be  a  blackguard 
or  a  coxcomb,  more  than  another.  Perhaps  I  press  this  point 
too  much  on  a  fallen  man — Mr  Thomas  Hickman  has  by 
this  time  learnt  that  first  of  all  lessons,  'That  man  was  made 
to  mourn.'  He  has  lost  nothing  by  the  late  fight  but  his 
presumption ;  and  that  every  man  may  do  as  well  without ! 
By  an  over-display  of  this  quality,  however,  the  public  had 
been  prejudiced  against  him,  and  the  knowing-ones  were  taken 
in.  Few  but  those  who  had  bet  on  him  wished  Gas  to  win. 
With  my  own  prepossessions  on  the  subject,  the  result  of  the 
nth  of  December  appeared  to  me  as  fine  a  piece  of  poetical 
justice  as  I  had  ever  witnessed.  The  difference  of  weight 
between  the  two  combatants  (14  stone  to  12)  was  nothing  to 
the    sporting   men.     Great,  heavy,   clumsy,    long-armed    Bill 


The  Fight  119 

Neate  kicked  the  beam  in  the  scale  of  the  Gas-man's  vanity. 
The  amateurs  were  frightened  at  his  big  words,  and  thought 
that  they  would  make  up  for  the  difference  of  six  feet  and 
five  feet  nine.  Truly,  the  Fancy  are  not  men  of  imagination. 
They  judge  of  what  has  been,  and  cannot  conceive  of  any  thing 
that  is  to  be.  The  Gas-man  had  won  hitherto;  therefore  he 
must  beat  a  man  half  as  big  again  as  himself — and  that  to 
a  certainty.  Besides,  there  are  as  many  feuds,  factions, 
prejudices,  pedantic  notions  in  the  Fancy  as  in  the  state  or 
in  the  schools.  Mr  Gully  is  almost  the  only  cool,  sensible 
man  among  them,  who  exercises  an  unbiassed  discretion,  and 
is  not  a  slave  to  his  passions  in  these  matters.  But  enough 
of  reflections,  and  to  our  tale.  The  day,  as  I  have  said,  was 
fine  for  a  December  morning.  The  grass  was  wet,  and  the 
ground  miry,  and  ploughed  up  with  multitudinous  feet,  except 
that,  within  the  ring  itself,  there  was  a  spot  of  virgin-green 
closed  in  and  unprofaned  by  vulgar  tread,  that  shone  with 
dazzling  brightness  in  the  mid-day  sun.  For  it  was  now 
noon,  and  we  had  an  hour  to  wait.  This  is  the  trying  time. 
It  is  then  the  heart  sickens,  as  you  think  what  the  two  champions 
are  about,  and  how  short  a  time  will  determine  their  fate. 
After  the  first  blow  is  struck,  there  is  no  opportunity  for 
nervous  apprehensions ;  you  are  swallowed  up  in  the  immediate 
interest  of  the  scene — but 

Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream. 

I  found  it  so  as  I  felt  the  sun's  rays  clinging  to  my  back,  and 
saw  the  white  wintry  clouds  sink  below  the  verge  of  the 
horizon.  'So,  I  thought,  my  fairest  hopes  have  faded  from 
my  sight ! — so  will  the  Gas-man's  glory,  or  that  of  his  adversary, 
vanish  in  an  hour.'  The  swells  were  parading  in  their  white 
box-coats,  the  outer  ring  was  cleared  with  some  bruises  on 
the  heads  and  shins  of  the  rustic  assembly  (for  the  cockneys 
had  been  distanced  by  the  sixty-six  miles) ;  the  time  drew 
near,  I  had  got  a  good  stand;  a  bustle,  a  buzz,  ran  through 
the  crowd,  and  from  the  opposite  side  entered  Neate,  between 
his  second  and  bottle-holder.  He  rolled  along,  swathed  in 
his  loose  great  coat,  his  knock-knees  bending  under  his  huge 
bulk;   and,  with  a  modest  cheerful  air,  threw  his  hat  into  the 


120  The  Fight 

ring.  He  then  just  looked  round,  and  began  quietly  to  undress ; 
when  from  the  other  side  there  was  a  similar  rush  and  an 
opening  made,  and  the  Gas-man  came  forward  with  a  conscious 
air  of  anticipated  triumph,  too  much  like  the  cock-of-the  walk. 
He  strutted  about  more  than  became  a  hero,  sucked  oranges 
with  a  supercilious  air,  and  threw  away  the  skin  with  a  toss 
of  his  head,  and  went  up  and  looked  at  Neate,  which  was  an 
act  of  supererogation.  The  only  sensible  thing  he  did  was, 
as  he  strode  away  from  the  modern  Ajax,  to  fling  out  his 
arms,  as  if  he  wanted  to  try  whether  they  would  do  their 
work  that  day.  By  this  time  they  had  stripped,  and  presented 
a  strong  contrast  in  appearance.  If  Neate  was  Hke  Ajax, 
'with  Atlantean  shoulders,  fit  to  bear'  the  pugilistic  reputation 
of  all  Bristol,  Hickman  might  be  compared  to  Diomed,  light, 
vigorous,  elastic,  and  his  back  glistened  in  the  sun,  as  he  moved 
about,  like  a  panther's  hide.  There  was  now  a  dead  pause — 
attention  was  awe-struck.  Who  at  that  moment,  big  with 
a  great  event,  did  not  draw  his  breath  short — did  not  feel 
his  heart  throb  ?  All  was  ready.  They  tossed  up  for  the 
sun,  and  the  Gas-man  won.  They  were  led  up  to  the  scratch — 
shook  hands,  and  went  at  it. 

In  the  first  round  every  one  thought  it  was  all  over.  After 
making  play  a  short  time,  the  Gas-man  flew  at  his  adversary 
like  a  tiger,  struck  five  blows  in  as  many  seconds,  three  first, 
and  then  following  him  as  he  staggered  back,  two  more,  right 
and  left,  and  down  he  fell,  a  mighty  ruin.  There  was  a  shout, 
and  I  said,  'There  is  no  standing  this.'  Neate  seemed  like 
a  lifeless  lump  of  flesh  and  bone,  round  which  the  Gas-man's 
blows  played  with  the  rapidity  of  electricity  or  lightning,  and 
you  imagined  he  would  only  be  Hfted  up  to  be  knocked  down 
again.  It  was  as  if  Hickman  held  a  sword  or  a  fire  in  that 
right  hand  of  his,  and  directed  it  against  an  unarmed  body. 
They  met  again,  and  Neate  seemed,  not  cowed,  but  particularly 
cautious.  I  saw  his  teeth  clenched  together  and  his  brows 
knit  close  against  the  sun.  He  held  out  both  his  arms  at  full 
length  straight  before  him,  like  two  sledge-hammers,  and  raised 
his  left  an  inch  or  two  higher.  The  Gas-man  could  not  get 
over  this  guard — they  struck  mutually  and  fell,  but  without 
advantage  on  either  side.  It  was  the  same  in  the  next  round; 
but  the  balance  of  power  was  thus  restored — the  fate  of  the 


The  Fight  121 

battle  was  suspended.  No  one  could  tell  how  it  would  end. 
This  was  the  only  moment  in  which  opinion  was  divided; 
for,  in  the  next,  the  Gas-man  aiming  a  mortal  blow  at  his 
adversary's  neck,  with  his  right  hand,  and  failing  from  the 
length  he  had  to  reach,  the  other  returned  it  with  his  left  at 
full  swing,  planted  a  tremendous  blow  on  his  cheek-bone  and 
eyebrow,  and  made  a  red  ruin  of  that  side  of  his  face.  The 
Gas-man  went  down,  and  there  was  another  shout — a  roar 
of  triumph  as  the  waves  of  fortune  rolled  tumultuously  from 
side  to  side.  This  was  a  settler.  Hickman  got  up,  and 
'grinned  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,'  yet  he  was  evidently 
dashed  in  his  opinion  of  himself;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  been  so  punished;  all  one  side  of  his  face  was  perfect 
scarlet,  and  his  right  eye  was  closed  in  dingy  blackness,  as 
he  advanced  to  the  fight,  less  confident,  but  still  determined. 
After  one  or  two  rounds,  not  receiving  another  such  remem- 
brancer, he  rallied  and  went  at  it  with  his  former  impetuosity. 
But  in  vain.  His  strength  had  been  weakened, — his  blows 
could  not  tell  at  such  a  distance,— he  was  obHged  to  fling 
himself  at  his  adversary,  and  could  not  strike  from  his  feet; 
and  almost  as  regularly  as  he  flew  at  him  with  his  right  hand, 
Neate  warded  the  blow,  or  drew  back  out  of  its  reach,  and 
felled  him  with  the  return  of  his  left.  There  was  little  cautious 
sparring — no  half-hits — ho  tapping  and  trifling,  none  of  the 
petit-maitreship  of  the  art — they  were  almost  all  knock-down 
blows: — the  fight  was  a  good  stand-up  fight.  The  wonder 
was  the  half-minute  time.  If  there  had  been  a  minute  or 
more  allowed  between  each  round,  it  would  have  been 
intelligible  how  they  should  by  degrees  recover  strength  and 
resolution;  but  to  see  two  men  smashed  to  the  ground, 
smeared  with  gore,  stunned,  senseless,  the  breath  beaten  out 
of  their  bodies ;  and  then,  before  you  recover  from  the  shock, 
to  see  them  rise  up  with  new  strength  and  courage,  stand 
steady  to  inflict  or  receive  mortal  offence,  and  rush  upon  each 
other  'like  two  clouds  over  the  Caspian' — this  is  the  most 
astonishing  thing  of  all: — this  is  the  high  and  heroic  state 
of  man !  From  this  time  forward  the  event  became  more 
certain  every  round;  and  about  the  twelfth  it  seemed  as  if 
it  must  have  been  over.  Hickman  generally  stood  with  his 
back  to  me;    but  in  the  scuffle,  he  had  changed  positions,  and 


122  The  Fight 

Neate  just  then  made  a  tremendous  lunge  at  him,  and  hit 
him  full  in  the  face.  It  was  doubtful  whether  he  would  fall 
backwards  or  forwards;  he  hung  suspended  for  a  second  or 
two,  and  then  fell  back,  throwing  his  hands  in  the  air,  and 
with  his  face  lifted  up  to  the  sky.  I  never  saw  any  thing 
more  terrific  than  his  aspect  just  before  he  fell.  All  traces 
of  life,  of  natural  expression,  were  gone  from  him.  His  face 
was  like  a  human  skull,  a  death's  head,  spouting  blood.  The 
eyes  were  filled  with  blood,  the  nose  streamed  with  blood, 
the  mouth  gaped  blood.  He  was  not  like  an  actual  man, 
but  like  a  preternatural,  spectral  appearance,  or  like  one  of 
the  figures  in  Dante's  Inferno.  Yet  he  fought  on  after  this 
for  several  rounds,  still  striking  the  first  desperate  blow,  and 
Neate  standing  on  the  defensive,  and  using  the  same  cautious 
guard  to  the  last,  as  if  he  had  still  all  his  work  to  do ;  and  it 
was  not  till  the  Gas-man  was  so  stunned  in  the  seventeenth 
or  eighteenth  round,  that  his  senses  forsook  him,  and  he  could 
not  come  to  time,  that  the  battle  was  declared  over^.  Ye  who 
despise  the  Fancy,  do  something  to  shew  as  much  pluck,  or 
as  much  self-possession  as  this,  before  you  assume  a  superiority 
which  you  have  never  given  a  single  proof  of  by  any  one 
action  in  the  whole  course  of  your  lives ! — When  the  Gas-man 
came  to  himself,  the  first  words  he  uttered  were,  'Where  am  I  ? 
What  is  the  matter?'  'Nothing  is  the  matter,  Tom, — you 
have  lost  the  battle,  but  you  are  the  bravest  man  alive.' 
And  Jackson  whispered  to  him,  'I  am  collecting  a  purse  for 
you,  Tom.'— Vain  sounds,  and  unheard  at  that  moment ! 
Neate  instantly  went  up  and  shook  him  cordially  by  the  hand, 
and  seeing  some  old  acquaintance,  began  to  flourish  with  his 
fists,  calling  out,  'Ah  you  always  said  I  couldn't  fight — What 
do  you  think  now  ? '  But  all  in  good  humour,  and  without 
any  appearance  of  arrogance;  only  it  was  evident  Bill  Neate 
was  pleased  that  he  had  won  the  fight.  When  it  was  over, 
I  asked  Cribb  if  he  did  not  think  it  was  a  good  one  ?     He  said, 

^  Scroggins  said  of  the  Gas-man,  that  he  thought  he  was  a  man  of  that 
courage,  that  if  his  hands  were  cut  off,  he  would  still  fight  on  with  the 
stumps — like  that  of  Widrington, — 

In  doleful  dumps, 

Who,  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off, 
Still  fought  upon  his  stumps. 


The  Fight  123 

'  Pretty  well ! '  The  carrier-pigeons  now  mounted  into  the  air, 
and  one  of  them  flew  with  the  news  of  her  husband's  victory 
to  the  bosom  of  Mrs  Neate.     Alas,  for  Mrs  Hickman! 

Mais  au  revoir^  as  Sir  FopHng  Flutter  says.  I  went  down 
with  Toms ;  I  returned  with  Jack  Pigott,  whom  I  met  on  the 
ground.  Toms  is  a  rattle  brain;  Pigott  is  a  sentimentalist. 
Now,  under  favour,  I  am  a  sentimentalist  too— therefore  I  say 
nothing,  but  that  the  interest  of  the  excursion  did  not  flag 
as  I  came  back.  Pigott  and  I  marched  along  the  causeway 
leading  from  Hungerford  to  Newbury,  now  observing  the 
effect  of  a  brilHant  sun  on  the  tawny  meads  or  moss-coloured 
cottages,  now  exulting  in  the  fight,  now  digressing  to  some 
topic  of  general  and  elegant  literature.  My  friend  was  dressed 
in  character  for  the  occasion,  or  like  one  of  the  Fancy;  that 
is,  with  a  double  portion  of  great  coats,  clogs,  and  overhauls : 
and  just  as  we  had  agreed  with  a  couple  of  country-lads  to 
carry  his  superfluous  wearing-apparel  to  the  next  town,  we 
were  overtaken  by  a  return  post-chaise,  into  which  I  got, 
Pigott  preferring  a  seat  on  the  bar.  There  were  two  strangers 
already  in  the  chaise,  and  on  their  observing  they  supposed 
I  had  been  to  the  fight,  I  said  I  had,  and  concluded  they  had 
done  the  same.  They  appeared,  however,  a  little  shy  and  sore 
on  the  subject;  and  it  was  not  till  after  several  hints  dropped, 
and  questions  put,  that  it  turned  out  that  they  had  missed  it. 
One  of  these  friends  had  undertaken  to  drive  the  other  there 
in  his  gig :  they  had  set  out,  to  make  sure  work,  the  day  before 
at  three  in  the  afternoon.  The  owner  of  the  one-horse  vehicle 
scorned  to  ask  his  way,  and  drove  right  on  to  Bagshot,  instead 
of  turning  off  at  Hounslow:  there  they  stopped  all  night, 
and  set  off  the  next  day  across  the  country  to  Reading,  from 
whence  they  took  coach,  and  got  down  within  a  mile  or  two 
of  Hungerford,  just  half  an  hour  after  the  fight  was  over. 
This  might  be  safely  set  down  as  one  of  the  miseries  of  human 
life.  We  parted  with  these  two  gentlemen  who  had  been  to 
see  the  fight,  but  had  returned  as  they  went,  at  Wolhampton, 
where  we  were  promised  beds  (an  irresistible  temptation, 
for  Pigott  had  passed  the  preceding  night  at  Hungerford  as 
we  had  done  at  Newbury),  and  we  turned  into  an  old  bow- 
windowed  parlour  with  a  carpet  and  a  snug  fire;  and  after 
devouring  a  quantity  of  tea,   toast,   and  eggs,  sat  down  to 


124  The  Fight 

consider,  during  an  hour  of  philosophic  leisure,  what  we 
should  have  for  supper.  In  the  midst  of  an  Epicurean 
deliberation  between  a  roasted  fowl  and  mutton  chops  with 
mashed  potatoes,  we  were  interrupted  by  an  inroad  of  Goths 
and  Vandals — 0  procul  este  profani— not  real  flash-men,  but 
interlopers,  noisy  pretenders,  butchers  from  Tothill-fields, 
brokers  from  Whitechapel,  who  called  immediately  for  pipes 
and  tobacco,  hoping  it  would  not  be  disagreeable  to  the 
gentlemen,  and  began  to  insist  that  it  was  a  cross.  Pigott 
withdrew  from  the  smoke  and  noise  into  another  room,  and 
left  me  to  dispute  the  point  with  them  for  a  couple  of  hours 
sans  intermission  by  the  dial.  The  next  morning  we  rose 
refreshed;  and  on  observing  that  Jack  had  a  pocket  volume 
in  his  hand,  in  which  he  read  in  the  intervals  of  our  discourse, 
I  inquired  what  it  was,  and  learned  to  my  particular  satis- 
faction that  it  was  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloise.  Ladies, 
after  this,  will  you  contend  that  a  love  for  the  Fancy  is 
incompatible  with  the  cultivation  of  sentiment  ? — We  jogged 
on  as  before,  my  friend  setting  me  up  in  a  genteel  drab  great 
coat  and  green  silk  handkerchief  (which  I  must  say  became 
me  exceedingly),  and  after  stretching  our  legs  for  a  few  miles, 
and  seeing  Jack  Randall,  Ned  Turner,  and  Scroggins,  pass 
on  the  top  of  one  of  the  Bath  coaches,  we  engaged  with  the 
driver  of  the  second  to  take  us  to  London  for  the  usual  fee. 
I  got  inside,  and  found  three  other  passengers.  One  of  them 
was  an  old  gentleman  with  an  aquihne  nose,  powdered  hair, 
and  a  pigtail,  and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  played  many  a 
rubber  at  the  Bath  rooms.  I  said  to  myself,  he  is  very  like 
Mr  Windham ;  I  wish  he  would  enter  into  conversation,  that 
I  might  hear  what  fine  observations  would  come  from  those 
finely-turned  features.  However,  nothing  passed,  till,  stopping 
to  dine  at  Reading,  some  inquiry  was  made  by  the  company 
about  the  fight,  and  I  gave  (as  the  reader  may  beheve)  an 
eloquent  and  animated  description  of  it.  When  we  got  into 
the  coach  again,  the  old  gentleman,  after  a  graceful  exordium, 
said,  he  had,  when  a  boy,  been  to  a  fight  between  the  famous 
Broughton  and  George  Stevenson,  who  was  called  the  Fighting 
Coachman,  in  the  year  1770,  with  the  late  Mr  Windham. 
This  beginning  flattered  the  spirit  of  prophecy  within  me 
and  rivetted  my  attention.     He  went  on — 'George  Stevenson 


The  Fight  125 

was  coachman  to  a  friend  of  my  father's.  He  was  an  old 
man  when  I  saw  him  some  years  afterwards.  He  took  hold 
of  his  own  arm  and  said,  "there  was  muscle  here  once,  but 
now  it  is  no  more  than  this  young  gentleman's."  He  added, 
"well,  no  matter;  I  have  been  here  long,  I  am  willing  to  go 
hence,  and  I  hope  I  have  done  no  more  harm  than  another 
man."  Once,'  said  my  unknown  companion,  'I  asked  him  if 
he  had  ever  beat  Broughton  ?  He  said  Yes ;  that  he  had 
fought  with  him  three  times,  and  the  last  time  he  fairly  beat 
him,  though  the  world  did  not  allow  it.  "I'll  tell  you  how  it 
was,  master.  When  the  seconds  lifted  us  up  in  the  last  round, 
we  were  so  exhausted  that  neither  of  us  could  stand,  and  we 
fell  upon  one  another,  and  as  Master  Broughton  fell  uppermost, 
the  mob  gave  it  in  his  favour,  and  he  was  said  to  have  won 
the  battle.  But,"  says  he,  "the  fact  was,  that  as  his  second 
(John  Cuthbert)  lifted  him  up,  he  said  to  him,  'I'll  fight  no 
more,  I've  had  enough';  "which,"  says  Stevenson,  "you 
know  gave  me  the  victory.  And  to  prove  to  you  that  this 
was  the  case,  when  John  Cuthbert  was  on  his  death-bed,  and 
they  asked  him  if  there  was  any  thing  on  his  mind  which  he 
wished  to  confess,  he  answered,  'Yes,  that  there  was  one  thing 
he  wished  to  set  right,  for  that  certainly  Master  Stevenson 
won  that  last  fight  with  Master  Broughton;  for  he  whispered 
him  as  he  lifted  him  up  in  the  last  round  of  all,  that  he  had  had 
enough.""  'This,'  said  the  Bath  gentleman,  'was  a  bit  of 
human  nature';  and  I  have  written  this  account  of  the  fight 
on  purpose  that  it  might  not  be  lost  to  the  world.  He  also 
stated  as  a  proof  of  the  candour  of  mind  in  this  class  of  men, 
that  Stevenson  acknowledged  that  Broughton  could  have 
beat  him  in  his  best  day;  but  that  he  (Broughton)  was  getting 
old  in  their  last  rencounter.  When  we  stopped  in  Piccadilly, 
I  wanted  to  ask  the  gentleman  some  questions  about  the  late 
Mr  Windham,  but  had  not  courage.  I  got  out,  resigned  my 
coat  and  green  silk  handkerchief  to  Pigott  (loth  to  part 
with  these  ornaments  of  life),  and  walked  home  in  high  spirits. 
P.S.  Toms  called  upon  me  the  next  day,  to  ask  me  if 
I  did  not  think  the  fight  was  a  complete  thing?  I  said  I 
thought  it  was.     I  hope  he  will  relish  my  account  of  it. 


THE    INDIAN    JUGGLERS 

Coming  forward  and  seating  himself  on  the  ground  in  his 
white  dress  and  tightened  turban,  the  chief  of  the  Indian 
Jugglers  begins  with  tossing  up  two  brass  balls,  which  is 
what  any  of  us  could  do,  and  concludes  with  keeping  up 
four  at  the  same  time,  which  is  what  none  of  us  could  do  to 
save  our  lives,  nor  if  we  were  to  take  our  whole  lives  to  do 
it  in.  Is  it  then  a  trifling  power  we  see  at  work,  or  is  it  not 
something  next  to  miraculous  ?  It  is  the  utmost  stretch  of 
human  ingenuity,  which  nothing  but  the  bending  the  faculties 
of  body  and  mind  to  it  from  the  tenderest  infancy  with  incessant, 
ever-anxious  application  up  to  manhood,  can  accompHsh  or 
make  even  a  sHght  approach  to.  Man,  thou  art  a  wonderful 
animal,  and  thy  ways  past  finding  out !  Thou  canst  do  strange 
things,  but  thou  turnest  them  to  little  account  !■ — -To  conceive 
of  this  effort  of  extraordinary  dexterity  distracts  the  imagina- 
tion and  makes  admiration  breathless.  Yet  it  costs  nothing 
to  the  performer,  any  more  than  if  it  were  a  mere  mechanical 
deception  with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  watch 
and  laugh  at  the  astonishment  of  the  spectators.  A  single 
error  of  a  hair's-breadth,  of  the  smallest  conceivable  portion 
of  time,  would  be  fatal:  the  precision  of  the  movements 
must  be  like  a  mathematical  truth,  their  rapidity  is  like 
lightning.  To  catch  four  balls  in  succession  in  less  than 
a  second  of  time,  and  deliver  them  back  so  as  to  return  with 
seeming  consciousness  to  the  hand  again,  to  make  them 
revolve  round  him  at  certain  intervals,  like  the  planets  in 
their  spheres,  to  make  them  chase  one  another  like  sparkles 
of  fire,  or  shoot  up  like  flowers  or  meteors,  to  throw  them  behind 
his  back  and  twine  them  round  his  neck  like  ribbons  or  like 
serpents,  to  do  what  appears  an  impossibility,  and  to  do  it 
with  all  the  ease,  the  grace,  the  carelessness  imaginable,  to 
laugh  at,  to  play  with  the  glittering  mockeries,  to  follow  them 


The  Indian  Jugglers  127 

with  his  eye  as  if  he  could  fascinate  them  with  its  lambent 
fire,  or  as  if  he  had  only  to  see  that  they  kept  time  with  the 
music  on  the  stage — there  is  something  in  all  this  which  he 
who  does  not  admire  may  be  quite  sure  he  never  really 
admired  any  thing  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  It  is  skill 
surmounting  difficulty,  and  beauty  triumphing  over  skill. 
It  seems  as  if  the  difficulty  once  mastered  naturally  resolved 
itself  into  ease  and  grace,  and  as  if  to  be  overcome  at  all,  it 
must  be  overcome  without  an  effort.  The  smallest  awkward- 
ness or  want  of  pHancy  or  self-possession  would  stop  the  whole 
process.  It  is  the  work  of  witchcraft,  and  yet  sport  for 
children.  Some  of  the  other  feats  are  quite  as  curious  and 
wonderful,  such  as  the  balancing  the  artificial  tree  and  shooting 
a  bird  from  each  branch  through  a  quill ;  though  none  of  them 
have  the  elegance  or  facility  of  the  keeping  up  of  the  brass 
balls.  You  are  in  pain  for  the  result,  and  glad  when  the 
experiment  is  over;  they  are  not  accompanied  with  the 
same  unmixed,  unchecked  delight  as  the  former;  and  I  would 
not  give  much  to  be  merely  astonished  without  being  pleased 
at  the  same  time.  As  to  the  swallowing  of  the  sword,  the 
police  ought  to  interfere  to  prevent  it.  When  I  saw  the 
Indian  Juggler  do  the  same  things  before,  his  feet  were  bare, 
and  he  had  large  rings  on  the  toes,  which  kept  turning  round 
all  the  time  of  the  performance,  as  if  they  moved  of  themselves. 
— The  hearing  a  speech  in  Parliament,  drawled  or  stammered 
out  by  the  Honourable  Member  or  the  Noble  Lord,  the  ringing 
the  changes  on  their  common-places,  which  any  one  could 
repeat  after  them  as  well  as  they,  stirs  me  not  a  jot,  shakes 
not  my  good  opinion  of  myself:  but  the  seeing  the  Indian 
Jugglers  does.  It  makes  me  ashamed  of  myself.  I  ask  what 
there  is  that  I  can  do  as  well  as  this  ?  Nothing.  What  have 
I  been  doing  all  my  life  ?  Have  I  been  idle,  or  have  I  nothing 
to  shew  for  all  my  labour  and  pains  ?  Or  have  I  passed  my 
time  in  pouring  words  Hke  water  into  empty  sieves,  rolling 
a  stone  up  a  hill  and  then  down  again,  trying  to  prove  an 
argument  in  the  teeth  of  facts,  and  looking  for  causes  in  the 
dark,  and  not  finding  them  ?  Is  there  no  one  thing  in  which 
I  can  challenge  competition,  that  I  can  bring  as  an  instance 
of  exact  perfection,  in  which  others  cannot  find  a  flaw  ?  The 
utmost  I  can  pretend  to  is  to  write  a  description  of  what 


128  The  Indian  Jugglers 

this  fellow  can  do.  I  can  write  a  book:  so  can  many  others 
who  have  not  even  learned  to  spell.  What  abortions  are 
these  Essays!  What  errors,  what  ill-pieced  transitions,  what 
crooked  reasons,  what  lame  conclusions!  How  little  is  made 
out,  and  that  little  how  ill !  Yet  they  are  the  best  I  can  do. 
I  endeavour  to  recollect  all  I  have  ever  observed  or  thought 
upon  a  subject,  and  to  express  it  as  nearly  as  I  can.  Instead 
of  writing  on  four  subjects  at  a  time,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can 
manage  to  keep  the  thread  of  one  discourse  clear  and  un- 
entangled.  I  have  also  time  on  my  hands  to  correct  my 
opinions,  and  polish  my  periods:  but  the  one  I  cannot,  and 
the  other  I  will  not  do.  I  am  fond  of  arguing:  yet  with  a 
good  deal  of  pains  and  practice  it  is  often  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  beat  my  man;  though  he  may  be  a  very  indifferent 
hand.  A  common  fencer  would  disarm  his  adversary  in  the 
twinkhng  of  an  eye,  unless  he  were  a  professor  Hke  himself. 
A  stroke  of  wit  will  sometimes  produce  this  effect,  but  there 
is  no  such  power  or  superiority  in  sense  or  reasoning.  There 
is  no  complete  mastery  of  execution  to  be  shewn  there :  and 
you  hardly  know  the  professor  from  the  impudent  pretender 
or  the  mere  clowni. 

I  have  always  had  this  feeUng  of  the  inefficacy  and  slow 
progress  of  intellectual  compared  to  mechanical  excellence, 
and  it  has  always  made  me  somewhat  dissatisfied.  It  is  a 
great  many  years  since  I  saw  Richer,  the  famous  rope-dancer, 
perform  at  Sadler's  Wells.  He  was  matchless  in  his  art,  and 
added  to  his  extraordinary  skill  exquisite  ease,  and  unaffected 
natural  grace.  I  was  at  that  time  employed  in  copying  a 
half-length  picture  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's;  and  it  put  me 
out  of  conceit  with  it.     How  ill  this  part  was  made  out  in 

1  The  celebrated  Peter  Pindar  (Dr  Wolcot)  first  discovered  and  brought 
out  the  talents  of  the  late  Mr  Opie,  the  painter.  He  was  a  poor  Cornish 
boy,  and  was  out  at  work  in  the  fields,  when  the  poet  went  in  search  of 
him.  'Well,  my  lad,  can  you  go  and  bring  me  your  very  best  picture.?' 
The  other  flew  like  lightning,  and  soon  came  back  with  what  he  considered 
as  his  master-piece.  The  stranger  looked  at  it,  and  the  young  artist,  after 
waiting  for  some  time  without  his  giving  any  opinion,  at  length  exclaimed 
eagerly,  'Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?' — 'Think  of  it?'  said  Wolcot, 
'why  I  think  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it — that  you  who  might  do  so 
well,  do  no  better!'  The  same  answer  would  have  applied  to  this  artist's 
latest  performances,  that  had  been  suggested  by  one  of  his  earliest  efforts. 


The  Indian  Jugglers  129 

the  drawing!  How  heavy,  how  slovenly  this  other  was 
painted!  I  could  not  help  saying  to  myself,  'If  the  rope- 
dancer  had  performed  his  task  in  this  manner,  leaving  so  many 
gaps  and  botches  in  his  work,  he  would  have  broke  his  neck 
long  ago;  I  should  never  have  seen  that  vigorous  elasticity 
of  nerve  and  precision  of  movement ! ' — Is  it  then  so  easy  an 
undertaking  (comparatively)  to  dance  on  a  tight-rope?  Let 
any  one,  who  thinks  so,  get  up  and  try.  There  is  the  thing. 
It  is  that  which  at  first  we  cannot  do  at  all,  which  in  the  end 
is  done  to  such  perfection.  To  account  for  this  in  some  degree, 
I  might  observe  that  mechanical  dexterity  is  confined  to  doing 
some  one  particular  thing,  which  you  can  repeat  as  often  as 
you  please,  in  which  you  know  whether  you  succeed  or  fail, 
and  where  the  point  of  perfection  consists  in  succeeding  in 
a  given  undertaking. — In  mechanical  efforts,  you  improve 
by  perpetual  practice,  and  you  do  so  infallibly,  because  the 
object  to  be  attained  is  not  a  matter  of  taste  or  fancy  or 
opinion,  but  of  actual  experiment,  in  which  you  must  either 
do  the  thing  or  not  do  it.  If  a  man  is  put  to  aim  at  a  mark 
with  a  bow  and  arrow,  he  must  hit  it  or  miss  it,  that's  certain. 
He  cannot  deceive  himself,  and  go  on  shooting  wide  or  falling 
short,  and  still  fancy  that  he  is  making  progress.  The  distinc- 
tion between  right  and  wrong,  between  true  and  false,  is  here 
palpable;  and  he  must  either  correct  his  aim  or  persevere 
in  his  error  with  his  eyes  open,  for  which  there  is  neither 
excuse  nor  temptation.  If  a  man  is  learning  to  dance  on  a 
rope,  if  he  does  not  mind  what  he  is  about,  he  will  break  his 
neck.  After  that,  it  will  be  in  vain  for  him  to  argue  that  he 
did  not  make  a  false  step.  His  situation  is  not  like  that 
of  Goldsmith's  pedagogue. — 

In  argument  they  own'd  his  wondrous  skill, 
And  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still. 

Danger  is  a  good  teacher,  and  makes  apt  scholars.  So  are 
disgrace,  defeat,  exposure  to  immediate  scorn  and  laughter. 
There  is  no  opportunity  in  such  ca^  for  self-delusion,  no  idling 
time  away,  no  being  off  your  guard  (or  you  must  take  the 
consequences) — neither  is  there  any  room  for  humour  or  caprice 
or  prejudice.  If  the  Indian  Juggler  were  to  play  tricks  in 
throwing  up  the  three  case-knives,  which  keep  their  positions 
likes  the  leaves  of  a  crocus  in  the  air,  he  would  cut  his  fingers. 


130  The  Indian  Jugglers 

I  can  make  a  very  bad  antithesis  without  cutting  my  fingers. 
The  tact  of  style  is  more  ambiguous  than  that  of  double-edged 
instruments.  If  the  Juggler  were  told  that  by  flinging  himself 
under  the  wheels  of  the  Jaggernaut,  when  the  idol  issues  forth 
on  a  gaudy  day,  he  would  immediately  be  transported  into 
Paradise,  he  might  believe  it,  and  nobody  could  disprove  it. 
So  the  Brahmins  may  say  what  they  please  on  that  subject, 
may  build  up  dogmas  and  mysteries  without  end,  and  not 
be  detected :  but  their  ingenious  countryman  cannot  persuade 
the  frequenters  of  the  Olympic  Theatre  that  he  performs 
a  number  of  astonishing  feats  without  actually  giving  proofs 
of  what  he  says. — There  is  then  in  this  sort  of  manual  dexterity, 
first  a  gradual  aptitude  acquired  to  a  given  exertion  of  muscular 
power,  from  constant  repetition,  and  in  the  next  place,  an 
exact  knowledge  how  much  is  still  wanting  and  necessary 
to  be  supplied.  The  obvious  test  is  to  increase  the  effort 
or  nicety  of  the  operation,  and  still  to  find  it  come  true.  The 
muscles  ply  instinctively  to  the  dictates  of  habit.  Certain 
movements  and  impressions  of  the  hand  and  eye,  having 
been  repeated  together  an  infinite  number  of  times,  are 
unconsciously  but  unavoidably  cemented  into  closer  and 
closer  union;  the  hmbs  require  little  more  than  to  be  put 
in  motion  for  them  to  follow  a  regular  track  with  ease  and 
certainty;  so  that  the  mere  intention  of  the  will  acts  mathe- 
matically, like  touching  the  spring  of  a  machine,  and  you 
come  with  Locksley  in  Ivanhoe,  in  shooting  at  a  mark,  'to 
allow  for  the  wind.' 

Farther,  what  is  meant  by  perfection  in  mechanical 
exercises  is  the  performing  certain  feats  to  a  uniform  nicety, 
that  is,  in  fact,  undertaking  no  more  than  you  can  perform. 
You  task  yourself,  the  limit  you  fix  is  optional,  and  no  more 
than  human  industry  and  skill  can  attain  to:  but  you  have 
no  abstract,  independent  standard  of  difficulty  or  excellence 
(other  than  the  extent  of  your  own  powers).  Thus  he  who  can 
keep  up  four  brass  balls  does  this  to  perfection ;  but  he  cannot 
keep  up  five  at  the  same  instant,  and  would  fail  every  time 
he  attempted  it.  That  is,  the  mechanical  performer  undertakes 
to  emulate  himself,   not  to  equal  another^.     But  the  artist 

^  If  two  persons  play  against  each  other  at  any  game,  one  of  them 
necessarily  fails. 


The  Indian  Jugglers  131 

undertakes  to  imitate  another,  or  to  do  what  nature  has  done, 
and  this  it  appears  is  more  difficult,  viz.  to  copy  what  she  has 
set  before  us  in  the  face  of  nature  or  'human  face  divine,' 
entire  and  without  a  blemish,  than  to  keep  up  four  brass 
balls  at  the  same  instant;  for  the  one  is  done  by  the  power 
of  human  skill  and  industry,  and  the  other  never  was  nor  will 
be.  Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  I  have  more  respect  for 
Reynolds,  than  I  have  for  Richer;  for,  happen  how  it  will, 
there  have  been  more  people  in  the  world  who  could  dance 
on  a  rope  like  the  one  than  who  could  paint  like  Sir  Joshua 
The  latter  was  but  a  bungler  in  his  profession  to  the  other, 
it  is  true;  but  then  he  had  a  harder  task-master  to  obey, 
whose  will  was  more  wayward  and  obscure,  and  whose  instruc- 
tions it  was  more  difficult  to  practise.  You  can  put  a  child 
apprentice  to  a  tumbler  or  rope-dancer  with  a  comfortable 
prospect  of  success,  if  they  are  but  sound  of  wind  and  limb : 
but  you  cannot  do  the  same  thing  in  painting.     The  odds 

are  a  milHon  to  one.     You  may  make  indeed  as  many  H s 

and  H s,  as  you  put  into  that  sort  of  machine,  but  not  one 

Reynolds  amongst  them  all,  with  his  grace,  his  grandeur,  his 
blandness  oi gusto,  'in  tones  and  gestures  hit,'  unless  you  could 
make  the  man  over  again.  To  snatch  this  grace  beyond  the 
reach  of  art  is  then  the  height  of  art — where  fine  art  begins, 
and  where  mechanical  skill  ends.  The  soft  suffusion  of  the 
soul,  the  speechless  breathing  eloquence,  the  looks  'commercing 
with  the  skies,'  the  ever-shifting  forms  of  an  eternal  principle, 
that  which  is  seen  but  for  a  moment,  but  dwells  in  the  heart 
always,  and  is  only  seized  as  it  passes  by  strong  and  secret 
sympathy,  must  be  taught  by  nature  and  genius,  not  by  rules 
or  study.  It  is  suggested  by  feeling,  not  by  laborious  micro- 
scopic inspection:  in  seeking  for  it  without,  we  lose  the 
harmonious  clue  to  it  within:  and  in  aiming  to  grasp  the 
substance,  we  let  the  very  spirit  of  art  evaporate.  In  a  word, 
the  objects  of  fine  art  are  not  the  objects  of  sight  but  as  these 
last  are  the  objects  of  taste  and  imagination,  that  is,  as  they 
appeal  to  the  sense  of  beauty,  of  pleasure,  and  of  power  in 
the  human  breast,  and  are  explained  by  that  finer  sense,  and 
revealed  in  their  inner  structure  to  the  eye  in  return.  Nature 
is  also  a  language.  Objects,  like  words,  have  a  meaning; 
and  the  true  artist  is  the  interpreter  of  this  language,  which 

9—2 


132  The  Indian  Jugglers 

he  can  only  do  by  knowing  its  application  to  a  thousand  other 
objects  in  a  thousand  other  situations.  Thus  the  eye  is  too 
blind  a  guide  of  itself  to  distinguish  between  the  warm  or  cold 
tone  of  a  deep  blue  sky,  but  another  sense  acts  as  a  monitor 
to  it,  and  does  not  err.  The  colour  of  the  leaves  in  autumn 
would  be  nothing  without  the  feeling  that  accompanies  it; 
but  it  is  that  feeling  that  stamps  them  on  the  canvas,  faded, 
seared,  blighted,  shrinking  from  the  winter's  flaw,  and  makes 
the  sight  as  true  as  touch — 

And  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow, 

Cling  to  each  leaf  and  hang  on  every  bough. 

The  more  ethereal,  evanescent,  more  refined  and  subHme  part 
of  art  is  the  seeing  nature  through  the  medium  of  sentiment 
and  passion,  as  each  object  is  a  symbol  of  the  affections  and 
a  link  in  the  chain  of  our  endless  being.  But  the  unravelling 
this  mysterious  web  of  thought  and  feeling  is  alone  in  the 
Muse's  gift,  namely,  in  the  power  of  that  trembling  sensibility 
which  is  awake  to  every  change  and  every  modification  of 
its  ever-varying  impressions,  that 

Thrills  in  each  nerve,  and  lives  along  the  line. 

This  power  is  indifferently  called  genius,  imagination, 
feeling,  taste ;  but  the  manner  in  which  it  acts  upon  the  mind 
can  neither  be  defined  by  abstract  rules,  as  is  the  case  in  science, 
nor  verified  by  continual  unvarying  experiments,  as  is  the  case 
in  mechanical  performances.  The  mechanical  excellence  of 
the  Dutch  painters  in  colouring  and  handling  is  that  which 
comes  the  nearest  in  fine  art  to  the  perfection  of  certain  manual 
exhibitions  of  skill.  The  truth  of  the  effect  and  the  facility 
with  which  it  is  produced  are  equally  admirable.  Up  to  a 
certain  point,  every  thing  is  faultless.  The  hand  and  eye 
have  done  their  part.  There  is  only  a  want  of  taste  and 
genius.  It  is  after  we  enter  upon  that  enchanted  ground  that 
the  human  mind  begins  to  droop  and  flag  as  in  a  strange  road, 
or  in  a  thick  mist,  benighted  and  making  Httle  way  with  many 
attempts  and  many  failures,  and  that  the  best  of  us  only 
escape  with  half  a  triumph.  The  undefined  and  the  imaginary 
are  the  regions  that  we  must  pass  like  Satan,  difiicult  and 
doubtful,  'half  flying,  half  on  foot.'  The  object  in  sense  is 
a  positive  thing,  and  execution  comes  with  practice. 


The  Indian  Jugglers  133 

Cleverness  is  a  certain  knack  or  aptitude  at  doing  certain 
things,  which  depend  more  on  a  particular  adroitness  and 
off-hand  readiness  than  on  force  or  perseverance,  such  as 
making  puns,  making  epigrams,  making  extempore  verses, 
mimicking  the  company,  mimicking  a  style,  &c.  Cleverness 
is  either  liveliness  and  smartness,  or  something  answering  to 
sleight  of  hand,  like  letting  a  glass  fall  sideways  off  a  table, 
or  else  a  trick,  Hke  knowing  the  secret  spring  of  a  watch. 
Accomplishments  are  certain  external  graces,  which  are  to 
be  learnt  from  others,  and  which  are  easily  displayed  to  the 
admiration  of  the  beholder,  viz.  dancing,  riding,  fencing, 
music,  and  so  on.  These  ornamental  acquirements  are  only 
proper  to  those  who  are  at  ease  in  mind  and  fortune.  I  know 
an  individual  who  if  he  had  been  born  to  an  estate  of  five 
thousand  a  year,  would  have  been  the  most  accomphshed 
gentleman  of  the  age.  He  would  have  been  the  dehght  and 
envy  of  the  circle  in  which  he  moved — would  have  graced  by 
his  manners  the  Hberality  flowing  from  the  openness  of  his 
heart,  would  have  laughed  with  the  women,  have  argued  with 
the  men,  have  said  good  things  and  written  agreeable  ones,  have 
taken  a  hand  at  piquet  or  the  lead  at  the  harpsichord,  and  have 
set  and  sung  his  own  verses — nuga  canoree — with  tenderness 
and  spirit;  a  Rochester  without  the  vice,  a  modern  Surrey! 
As  it  is,  all  these  capabilities  of  excellence  stand  in  his  way. 
He  is  too  versatile  for  a  professional  man,  not  dull  enough 
for  a  political  drudge,  too  gay  to  be  happy,  too  thoughtless 
to  be  rich.  He  wants  the  enthusiasm  of  the  poet,  the  severity 
of  the  prose-writer,  and  the  application  of  the  man  of  business. 
— Talent  is  the  capacity  of  doing  any  thing  that  depends  on 
application  and  industry,  such  as  writing  a  criticism,  making 
a  speech,  studying  the  law.  Talent  differs  from  genius,  as 
voluntary  differs  from  involuntary  power.  Ingenuity  is  genius 
in  trifles,  greatness  is  genius  in  undertakings  of  much  pith 
and  moment.  A  clever  or  ingenious  man  is  one  who  can  do 
any  thing  well,  whether  it  is  worth  doing  or  not:  a  great 
man  is  one  who  can  do  that  which  when  done  is  of  the  highest 
importance.  Themistocles  said  he  could  not  play  on  the 
flute,  but  that  he  could  make  of  a  small  city  a  great  one. 
This  gives  one  a  pretty  good  idea  of  the  distinction  in  question. 

Greatness  is  great  power,  producing  great  effects.     It  is 


134  The  Indian  Jugglers 

not  enough  that  a  man  has  great  power  in  himself,  he  must 
shew  it  to  all  the  world,  in  a  way  that  cannot  be  hid  or  gainsaid. 
He  must  fill  up  a  certain  idea  in  the  public  mind.  I  have  no 
other  notion  of  greatness  than  this  two-fold  definition,  great 
results  springing  from  great  inherent  energy.  The  great  in 
visible  objects  has  relation  to  that  which  extends  over  space: 
the  great  in  mental  ones  has  to  do  with  space  and  time.  No 
man  is  truly  great,  who  is  great  only  in  his  life-time.  The 
test  of  greatness  is  the  page  of  history.  Nothing  can  be  said 
to  be  great  that  has  a  distinct  limit,  or  that  borders  on  something 
evidently  greater  than  itself.  Besides,  what  is  short-lived  and 
pampered  into  mere  notoriety,  is  of  a  gross  and  vulgar  quality 
in  itself.  A  Lord  Mayor  is  hardly  a  great  man.  A  city  orator 
or  patriot  of  the  day  only  shew,  by  reaching  the  height  of  their 
wishes,  the  distance  they  are  at  from  any  true  ambition. 
Popularity  is  neither  fame  nor  greatness.  A  king  (as  such) 
is  not  a  great  man.  He  has  great  power,  but  it  is  not  his  own. 
He  merely  wields  the  lever  of  the  state,  which  a  child,  an 
idiot,  or  a  madman  can  do.  It  is  the  office,  not  the  man  we 
gaze  at.  Any  one  else  in  the  same  situation  would  be  just 
as  much  an  object  of  abject  curiosity.  We  laugh  at  the  country 
girl  who  having  seen  a  king  expressed  her  disappointment 
by  saying,  'Why,  he  is  only  a  man!'  Yet,  knowing  this,  we 
run  to  see  a  king  as  if  he  was  something  more  than  a  man. — 
To  display  the  greatest  powers,  unless  they  are  applied  to 
great  purposes,  makes  nothing  for  the  character  of  greatness. 
To  throw  a  barley-corn  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  to 
multiply  nine  figures  by  nine  in  the  memory,  argues  infinite 
dexterity  of  body  and  capacity  of  mind,  but  nothing  comes 
of  either.  There  is  a  surprising  power  at  work,  but  the  effects 
are  not  proportionate,  or  such  as  take  hold  of  the  imagination. 
To  impress  the  idea  of  power  on  others,  they  must  be  made 
in  some  way  to  feel  it.  It  must  be  communicated  to  their 
understandings  in  the  shape  of  an  increase  of  knowledge,  or 
it  must  subdue  and  overawe  them  by  subjecting  their  wills. 
Admiration,  to  be  solid  and  lasting,  must  be  founded  on 
proofs  from  which  we  have  no  means  of  escaping;  it  is  neither 
a  slight  nor  a  voluntary  gift.  A  mathematician  who  solves 
a  profound  problem,  a  poet  who  creates  an  image  of  beauty 
in  the  mind  that  was  not  there  before,  imparts  knowledge 


The  Indian  Jugglers  135 

and  power  to  others,  in  which  his  greatness  and  his  fame 
consists,  and  on  which  it  reposes.  Jedediah  Buxton  will  be 
forgotten;  but  Napier's  bones  will  live.  Lawgivers,  philo- 
sophers, founders  of  religion,  conquerors  and  heroes,  inventors 
and  great  geniuses  in  arts  and  sciences,  are  great  men;  for 
they  are  great  pubHc  benefactors,  or  formidable  scourges  to 
mankind.  Among  ourselves,  Shakespear,  Newton,  Bacon, 
Milton,  Cromwell,  were  great  men;  for  they  shewed  great 
power  by  acts  and  thoughts,  which  have  not  yet  been  consigned 
to  oblivion.  They  must  needs  be  men  of  lofty  stature,  whose 
shadows  lengthen  out  to  remote  posterity.  A  great  farce- 
writer  may  be  a  great  man ;  for  Moliere  was  but  a  great 
farce-writer.  In  my  mind,  the  author  of  Don  Quixote  was 
a  great  man.  So  have  there  been  many  others.  A  great 
chess-player  is  not  a  great  man,  for  he  leaves  the  world  as  he 
found  it.  No  act  terminating  in  itself  constitutes  greatness. 
This  will  apply  to  all  displays  of  power  or  trials  of  skill,  which 
are  confined  to  the  momentary,  individual  effort,  and  construct 
no  permanent  image  or  trophy  of  themselves  without  them. 
Is  not  an  actor  then  a  great  man,  because  'he  dies  and  leaves 
the  world  no  copy'?  I  must  make  an  exception  for  Mrs 
Siddons,  or  else  give  up  my  definition  of  greatness  for  her 
sake.  A  man  at  the  top  of  his  profession  is  not  therefore 
a  great  man.  He  is  great  in  his  way,  but  that  is  all,  unless 
he  shews  the  marks  of  a  great  moving  intellect,  so  that  we 
trace  the  master-mind,  and  can  sympathise  with  the  springs 
that  urge  him  on.  The  rest  is  but  a  craft  or  mystery.  John 
Hunter  was  a  great  man — that  any  one  might  see  without  the 
smallest  skill  in  surgery.  His  style  and  manner  shewed  the 
man.  He  would  set  about  cutting  up  the  carcase  of  a  whale 
with  the  same  greatness  of  gusto  that  Michael  Angelo  would 
have  hewn  a  block  of  marble.  Lord  Nelson  was  a  great 
naval  commander;  but  for  myself,  I  have  not  much  opinion 
of  a  sea-faring  Hfe.  Sir  Humphry  Davy  is  a  great  chemist, 
but  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  a  great  man.  I  am  not  a  bit 
the  wiser  for  any  of  his  discoveries,  nor  I  never  met  with  any 
one  that  was.  But  it  is  in  the  nature  of  greatness  to  propagate 
an  idea  of  itself,  as  wave  impels  wave,  circle  without  circle. 
It  is  a  contradiction  in  terms  for  a  coxcomb  to  be  a  great  man. 
A  really  great  man  has  always  an  idea  of  something  greater 


136  The  Indian  Jugglers 

than  himself.  I  have  observed  that  certain  sectaries  and 
polemical  writers  have  no  higher  compliment  to  pay  their 
most  shining  lights  than  to  say  that  'Such  a  one  was  a  con- 
siderable man  in  his  day.'  Some  new  elucidation  of  a  text 
sets  aside  the  authority  of  the  old  interpretation,  and  a  'great 
scholar's  memory  outlives  him  half  a  century,'  at  the  utmost. 
A  rich  man  is  not  a  great  man,  except  to  his  dependants  and 
his  steward.  A  lord  is  a  great  man  in  the  idea  we  have  of 
his  ancestry,  and  probably  of  himself,  if  we  know  nothing 
of  him  but  his  title.  I  have  heard  a  story  of  two  bishops,  one 
of  whom  said  (speaking  of  St  Peter's  at  Rome)  that  when  he 
first  entered  it,  he  was  rather  awe-struck,  but  that  as  he 
walked  up  it,  his  mind  seemed  to  swell  and  dilate  with  it, 
and  at  last  to  fill  the  whole  building — the  other  said  that  as 
he  saw  more  of  it,  he  appeared  to  himself  to  grow  less  and 
less  every  step  he  took,  and  in  the  end  to  dwindle  into  nothing. 
This  was  in  some  respects  a  striking  picture  of  a  great  and 
little  mind — for  greatness  sympathises  with  greatness,  and 
littleness  shrinks  into  itself.  The  one  might  have  become 
a  Wolsey;  the  other  was  only  fit  to  become  a  Mendicant 
Friar — or  there  might  have  been  court-reasons  for  making 
him  a  bishop.  The  French  have  to  me  a  character  of  littleness 
in  all  about  them ;  but  they  have  produced  three  great  men 
that  belong  to  every  country,  Mohere,  Rabelais,  and  Montaigne. 

To  return  from  this  digression,  and  conclude  the  Essay. 
A  singular  instance  of  manual  dexterity  was  shewn  in  the 
person  of  the  late  John  Cavanagh,  whom  I  have  several  times 
seen.  His  death  was  celebrated  at  the  time  in  an  article  in 
the  Examiner  newspaper  (Feb.  7,  18 19),  written  apparently 
between  jest  and  earnest:  but  as  it  is  fat  to  our  purpose,  and 
falls  in  with  my  own  way  of  considering  such  subjects,  I  shall 
here  take  leave  to  quote  it. 

*Died  at  his  house  in  Burbage-street,  St  Giles's,  John 
Cavanagh,  the  famous  hand  fives-player.  When  a  person 
dies,  who  does  any  one  thing  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  which  so  many  others  are  trying  to  do  well,  it  leaves 
a  gap  in  society.  It  is  not  likely  that  any  one  will  now  see 
the  game  of  fives  played  in  its  perfection  for  many  years  to 
come — for  Cavanagh  is  dead,  and  has  not  left  his  peer  behind 
him.     It  may  be  said  that  there  are  things  of  more  importance 


The  Indian  Jugglers  137 

than  striking  a  ball  against  a  wall — there  are  things  indeed 
which  make  more  noise  and  do  as  little  good,  such  as  making 
war  and  peace,  making  speeches  and  answering  them,  making 
verses  and  blotting  them;  making  money  and  throwing  it 
away.  But  the  game  of  fives  is  what  no  one  despises  who  has 
ever  played  at  it.  It  is  the  finest  exercise  for  the  body,  and 
the  best  relaxation  for  the  mind.  The  Roman  poet  said  that 
"Care  mounted  behind  the  horseman  and  stuck  to  his  skirts." 
But  this  remark  would  not  have  applied  to  the  fives-player. 
He  who  takes  to  playing  at  fives  is  twice  young.  He  feels 
neither  the  past  nor  future  "  in  the  instant."  Debts, 
taxes,  "domestic  treason,  foreign  levy,  nothing  can  touch 
him  further."  He  has  no  other  wish,  no  other  thought, 
from  the  moment  the  game  begins,  but  that  of  striking  the  ball, 
of  placing  it,  of  making  it!  This  Cavanagh  was  sure  to  do. 
Whenever  he  touched  the  ball,  there  was  an  end  of  the  chase. 
His  eye  was  certain,  his  hand  fatal,  his  presence  of  mind 
complete.  He  could  do  what  he  pleased,  and  he  always 
knew  exactly  what  to  do.  He  saw  the  whole  game,  and  played 
it;  took  instant  advantage  of  his  adversary's  weakness,  and 
recovered  balls,  as  if  by  a  miracle  and  from  sudden  thought, 
that  every  one  gave  for  lost.  He  had  equal  power  and  skill, 
quickness,  and  judgment.  He  could  either  out-wit  his  an- 
tagonist by  finesse,  or  beat  him  by  main  strength.  Sometimes, 
when  he  seemed  preparing  to  send  the  ball  with  the  full 
swing  of  his  arm,  he  would  by  a  slight  turn  of  his  wrist  drop 
it  within  an  inch  of  the  line.  In  general,  the  ball  came  from 
his  hand,  as  if  from  a  racket,  in  a  straight  horizontal  line; 
so  that  it  was  in  vain  to  attempt  to  overtake  or  stop  it.  As  it 
was  said  of  a  great  orator  that  he  never  was  at  a  loss  for  a 
word,  and  for  the  properest  word,  so  Cavanagh  always  could 
tell  the  degree  of  force  necessary  to  be  given  to  a  ball,  and 
the  precise  direction  in  which  it  should  be  sent.  He  did  his 
work  with  the  greatest  ease ;  never  took  more  pains  than  was 
necessary ;  and  while  others  were  fagging  themselves  to  death, 
was  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  he  had  just  entered  the  court. 
His  style  of  play  was  as  remarkable  as  his  power  of  execution. 
He  had  no  affectation,  no  trifling.  He  did  not  throw  away 
the  game  to  show  off  an  attitude,  or  try  an  experiment.  He 
was  a  fine,  sensible,  manly  player,  who  did  what  he  could, 


138  The  Indian  Jugglers 

but  that  was  more  than  any  one  else  could  even  affect  to  do. 
His  blows  were  not  undecided  and  ineffectual — lumbering 
like  Mr  Wordsworth's  epic  poetry,  nor  wavering  like  Mr 
Coleridge's  lyric  prose,  nor  short  of  the  mark  like  Mr 
Brougham's  speeches,  nor  wide  of  it  like  Mr  Canning's  wit, 
nor  foul  like  the  Quarterly,  nor  let  balls  like  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  Cobbett  and  Junius  together  would  have  made 
a  Cavanagh.  He  was  the  best  up-hill  player  in  the  world; 
even  when  his  adversary  was  fourteen,  he  would  play  on  the 
same  or  better,  and  as  he  never  flung  away  the  game  through 
carelessness  and  conceit,  he  never  gave  it  up  through  laziness 
or  want  of  heart.  The  only  peculiarity  of  his  play  was  that 
he  never  volleyed,  but  let  the  balls  hop ;  but  if  they  rose  an 
inch  from  the  ground,  he  never  missed  having  them.  There 
was  not  only  nobody  equal,  but  nobody  second  to  him.  It  is 
supposed  that  he  could  give  any  other  player  half  the  game, 
or  beat  him  with  his  left  hand.  His  service  was  tremendous. 
He  once  played  Woodward  and  Meredith  together  (two  of 
the  best  players  in  England)  in  the  Fives-court,  St  Martin's- 
street,  and  made  seven  and  twenty  aces  following  by  services 
alone — a  thing  unheard  of.  He  another  time  played  Peru, 
who  was  considered  a  first-rate  fives-player,  a  match  of  the 
best  out  of  five  games,  and  in  the  three  first  games,  which  of 
course  decided  the  match,  Peru  got  only  one  ace.  Cavanagh 
was  an  Irishman  by  birth,  and  a  house-painter  by  profession. 
He  had  once  laid  aside  his  working-dress,  and  walked  up,  in 
his  smartest  clothes,  to  the  Rosemary  Branch  to  have  an 
afternoon's  pleasure.  A  person  accosted  him,  and  asked  him 
if  he  would  have  a  game.  So  they  agreed  to  play  for  half-a- 
crown  a  game,  and  a  bottle  of  cider.  The  first  game  begun — it 
was  seven,  eight,  ten,  thirteen,  fourteen,  all.  Cavanagh  won  it. 
The  next  was  the  same.  They  played  on,  and  each  game  was 
hardly  contested.  "There,"  said  the  unconscious  fives-player, 
"there  was  a  stroke  that  Cavanagh  could  not  take:  I  never 
played  better  in  my  life,  and  yet  I  can't  win  a  game.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is."  However,  they  played  on,  Cavanagh  winning 
every  game,  and  the  by-standers  drinking  the  cider,  and 
laughing  all  the  time.  In  the  twelfth  game,  when  Cavanagh 
was  only  four,  and  the  stranger  thirteen,  a  person  came  in, 
and  said,  "What!    are  you  here,  Cavanagh?"     The  words 


The  Indian  Jugglers  139 

were  no  sooner  pronounced  than  the  astonished  player  let 
the  ball  drop  from  his  hand,  and  saying,  "What!  have  I  been 
breaking  my  heart  all  this  time  to  beat  Cavanagh  ? "  refused 
to  make  another  effort.  "And  yet,  I  give  you  my  word," 
said  Cavanagh,  telling  the  story  with  some  triumph,  "  I  played 
all  the  while  with  my  clenched  fist." — He  used  frequently  to 
play  matches  at  Copenhagen-house  for  wagers  and  dinners. 
The  wall  against  which  they  play  is  the  same  that  supports 
the  kitchen-chimney,  and  when  the  wall  resounded  louder 
than  usual,  the  cooks  exclaimed,  "Those  are  the  Irishman's 
balls,"  and  the  joints  trembled  on  the  spit! — Goldsmith 
consoled  himself  that  there  were  places  where  he  too  was 
admired :  and  Cavanagh  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  fives- 
courts,  where  he  ever  played.  Mr  Powell,  when  he  played 
matches  in  the  Court  in  St  Martin's-street,  used  to  fill  his 
gallery  at  half  a  crown  a  head,  with  amateurs  and  admirers 
of  talent  in  whatever  department  it  is  shown.  He  could 
not  have  shown  himself  in  any  ground  in  England,  but  he 
would  have  been  immediately  surrounded  with  inquisitive 
gazers,  trying  to  find  out  in  what  part  of  his  frame  his  unrivalled 
skill  lay,  as  politicians  wonder  to  see  the  balance  of  Europe 
suspended  in  Lord  Castlereagh's  face,  and  admire  the  trophies 
of  the  British  Navy  lurking  under  Mr  Croker's  hanging  brow. 
Now  Cavanagh  was  as  good-looking  a  man  as  the  Noble 
Lord,  and  much  better  looking  than  the  Right  Hon.  Secretary. 
He  had  a  clear,  open  countenance,  and  did  not  look  sideways 
or  down,  Hke  Mr  Murray  the  bookseller.  He  was  a  young 
fellow  of  sense,  humour,  and  courage.  He  once  had  a  quarrel 
with  a  waterman  at  Hungerford-stairs,  and,  they  say,  served 
him  out  in  great  style.  In  a  word,  there  are  hundreds  at 
this  day,  who  cannot  mention  his  name  without  admiration, 
as  the  best  fives-player  that  perhaps  ever  lived  (the  greatest 
excellence  of  which  they  have  any  notion) — and  the  noisy 
shout  of  the  ring  happily  stood  him  in  stead  of  the  unheard 
voice  of  posterity! — The  only  person  who  seems  to  have 
excelled  as  much  in  another  way  as  Cavanagh  did  in  his,  was 
the  late  John  Davies,  the  racket-player.  It  was  remarked 
of  him  that  he  did  not  seem  to  follow  the  ball,  but  the  ball 
seemed  to  follow  him.  Give  him  a  foot  of  wall,  and  he  was 
sure  to  make  the  ball.     The  four  best  racket-players  of  that 


140  The  Indian  Jugglers 

day  were  Jack  Spines,  Jem.  Harding,  Armitage,  and  Church. 
Davies  could  give  any  one  of  these  two  hands  a  time,  that  is, 
half  the  game,  and  each  of  these,  at  their  best,  could  give  the 
best  player  now  in  London  the  same  odds.  Such  are  the 
gradations  in  all  exertions  of  human  skill  and  art.  He  once 
played  four  capital  players  together,  and  beat  them.  He  was 
also  a  first-rate  tennis-player,  and  an  excellent  fives-player. 
In  the  Fleet  or  King's  Bench,  he  would  have  stood  against 
Powell,  who  was  reckoned  the  best  open-ground  player  of  his 
time.  This  last-mentioned  player  is  at  present  the  keeper 
of  the  Fives-court,  and  we  might  recommend  to  him  for  a 
motto  over  his  door — "Who  enters  here,  forgets  himself,  his 
country,  and  his  friends."  And  the  best  of  it  is,  that  by  the 
calculation  of  the  odds,  none  of  the  three  are  worth  remem- 
bering!— Cavanagh  died  from  the  bursting  of  a  blood-vessel, 
which  prevented  him  from  playing  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years.  This,  he  was  often  heard  to  say,  he  thought  hard  upon 
him.  He  was  fast  recovering,  however,  when  he  was  suddenly 
carried  off,  to  the  regret  of  all  who  knew  him.  As  Mr  Peel 
made  it  a  qualification  of  the  present  Speaker,  Mr  Manners 
Sutton,  that  he  was  an  excellent  moral  character,  so  Jack 
Cavanagh  was  a  zealous  Catholic,  and  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  eat  meat  on  a  Friday,  the  day  on  which  he  died.  We  have 
paid  this  willing  tribute  to  his  memory. 

Let  no  rude  hand  deface  it, 
And  his  forlorn  ''Hie  Jacet", 


ON    GOING    A    JOURNEY 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  world  is  going  a  journey ; 
but  I  Hke  to  go  by  myself.  I  can  enjoy  society  in  a  room ;  but 
out  of  doors,  nature  is  company  enough  for  me.  I  am  then 
never  less  alone  than  when  alone. 

The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book. 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and  talking  at  the  same 
time.  When  I  am  in  the  country,  I  wish  to  vegetate  like  the 
country.  I  am  not  for  criticising  hedge-rows  and  black 
cattle.  I  go  out  of  town  in  order  to  forget  the  town  and 
all  that  is  in  it.  There  are  those  who  for  this  purpose  go  to 
watering-places,  and  carry  the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like 
more  elbow-room,  and  fewer  incumbrances.  I  like  solitude, 
when  I  give  myself  up  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  solitude;  nor 
do  I  ask  for 

a  friend  in  my  retreat, 

Whom  I  may  whisper  soHtude  is  sweet. 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  liberty,  perfect  liberty,  to  think, 
feel,  do  just  as  one  pleases.  We  go  a  journey  chiefly  to  be 
free  of  all  impediments  and  of  all  inconveniences;  to  leave 
ourselves  behind,  much  more  to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is 
because  I  want  a  little  breathing-space  to  muse  on  indifferent 
matters,  where  Contemplation 

May  plume  her  feathers  and  let  grow  her  wings, 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 

Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  Impair'd, 

that  I  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  awhile,  without  feeling 
at  a  loss  the  moment  I  am  left  by  myself.  Instead  of  a  friend 
in  a  post-chaise  or  in  a  Tilbury,  to  exchange  good  things  with, 
and  vary  the  same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once  let  me  have 
a  truce  with  impertinence.  Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over 
my  head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet,  a  winding  road 


142  On  Going  a  Journey 

before  me,  and  a  three  hours'  march  to  dinner — and  then  to 
thinking!  It  is  hard  if  I  cannot  start  some  game  on  these 
lone  heaths.  I  laugh,  I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy.  From  the 
point  of  yonder  rolling  cloud,  I  plunge  into  my  past  being, 
and  revel  there,  as  the  sun-burnt  Indian  plunges  headlong 
into  the  wave  that  wafts  him  to  his  native  shore.  Then  long- 
forgotten  things,  like  'sunken  wrack  and  sumless  treasuries,' 
burst  upon  my  eager  sight,  and  I  begin  to  feel,  think,  and  be 
myself  again.  Instead  of  an  awkward  silence,  broken  by 
attempts  at  wit  or  dull  common-places,  mine  is  that  undisturbed 
silence  of  the  heart  which  alone  is  perfect  eloquence.  No  one 
likes  puns,  alliterations,  antitheses,  argument,  and  analysis 
better  than  I  do;  but  I  sometimes  had  rather  be  without  them. 
'Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose!'  I  have  just  now  other 
business  in  hand,  which  would  seem  idle  to  you,  but  is  with  me 
'very  stuff  of  the  conscience.'  Is  not  this  wild  rose  sweet 
without  a  comment  ?  Does  not  this  daisy  leap  to  my  heart 
set  in  its  coat  of  emerald  ?  Yet  if  I  were  to  explain  to  you  the 
circumstance  that  has  so  endeared  it  to  me,  you  would  only 
smile.  Had  I  not  better  then  keep  it  to  myself,  and  let  it 
serve  me  to  brood  over,  from  here  to  yonder  craggy  point 
and  from  thence  onward  to  the  far-distant  horizon  ?  I  should 
be  but  bad  company  all  that  way,  and  therefore  prefer  being 
alone.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  you  may,  when  the  moody 
fit  comes  on,  walk  or  ride  on  by  yourself,  and  indulge  your 
reveries.  But  this  looks  like  a  breach  of  manners,  a  neglect 
of  others,  and  you  are  thinking  all  the  time  that  you  ought 
to  rejoin  your  party.  'Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellowship,' 
say  I.  I  like  to  be  either  entirely  to  myself,  or  entirely  at 
the  disposal  of  others;  to  talk  or  be  silent,  to  walk  or  sit 
still,  to  be  sociable  or  solitary.  I  was  pleased  with  an  observa- 
tion of  Mr  Cobbett's,  that  'he  thought  it  a  bad  French  custom 
to  drink  our  wine  with  our  meals,  and  that  an  Englishman 
ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a  time.'  So  I  cannot  talk  and 
think,  or  indulge  in  melancholy  musing  and  hvely  conversation 
by  fits  and  starts.  'Let  me  have  a  companion  of  my  way,' 
says  Sterne,  'were  it  but  to  remark  how  the  shadows  lengthen 
as  the  sun  decHnes.'  It  is  beautifully  said :  but  in  my  opinion, 
this  continual  comparing  of  notes  interferes  with  the  involuntary 
impression  of  things  upon  the  mind,  and  hurts  the  sentiment. 


On  Going  a  Journey  143 

If  you  only  hint  what  you  feel  in  a  kind  of  dumb  show,  it  is 
insipid:  if  you  have  to  explain  it,  it  is  making  a  toil  of  a 
pleasure.  You  cannot  read  the  book  of  nature,  without 
being  perpetually  put  to  the  trouble  of  translating  it  for  the 
benefit  of  others.  I  am  for  the  synthetical  method  on  a  journey, 
in  preference  to  the  analytical.  I  am  content  to  lay  in  a  stock 
of  ideas  then,  and  to  examine  and  anatomise  them  afterwards. 
I  want  to  see  my  vague  notions  float  Uke  the  down  of  the 
thistle  before  the  breeze,  and  not  to  have  them  entangled  in 
the  briars  and  thorns  of  controversy.  For  once,  I  Hke  to 
have  it  all  my  own  way;  and  this  is  impossible  unless  you 
are  alone,  or  in  such  company  as  I  do  not  covet.  I  have  no 
objection  to  argue  a  point  with  any  one  for  twenty  miles  of 
measured  road,  but  not  for  pleasure.  If  you  remark  the  scent 
of  a  beanfield  crossing  the  road,  perhaps  your  fellow-traveller 
has  no  smell.  If  you  point  to  a  distant  object,  perhaps  he  is 
short-sighted,  and  has  to  take  out  his  glass  to  look  at  it.  There 
is  a  feeling  in  the  air,  a  tone  in  the  colour  of  a  cloud  which 
hits  your  fancy,  but  the  effect  of  which  you  are  unable  to 
account  for.  There  is  then  no  sympathy,  but  an  uneasy 
craving  after  it,  and  a  dissatisfaction  which  pursues  you  on 
the  way,  and  in  the  end  probably  produces  ill  humour.  Now 
I  never  quarrel  with  myself,  and  take  all  my  own  conclusions 
for  granted  till  I  find  it  necessary  to  defend  them  against 
objections.  It  is  not  merely  that  you  may  not  be  of  accord 
on  the  objects  and  circumstances  that  present  themselves 
before  you — these  may  recal  a  number  of  objects,  and  lead 
to  associations  too  delicate  and  refined  to  be  possibly  com- 
municated to  others.  Yet  these  I  love  to  cherish,  and 
sometimes  still  fondly  clutch  them,  when  I  can  escape  from 
the  throng  to  do  so.  To  give  way  to  our  feelings  before 
company,  seems  extravagance  or  affectation ;  and  on  the  other 
hand,  to  have  to  unravel  this  mystery  of  our  being  at  every 
turn,  and  to  make  others  take  an  equal  interest  in  it  (otherwise 
the  end  is  not  answered)  is  a  task  to  which  few  are  competent. 
We  must  'give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue.'     My  old 

friend  C ,  however,  could  do  both.     He  could  go  on  in 

the  most  delightful  explanatory  way  over  hill  and  dale,  a 
summer's  day,  and  convert  a  landscape  into  a  didactic  poem 
or  a  Pindaric  ode.     'He  talked  far  above  singing.'     If  I  could 


144  O"^  Going  a  Journey 

so  clothe  my  ideas  in  sounding  and  flowing  words,  I  might 
perhaps  wish  to  have  some  one  with  me  to  admire  the  swelHng 
theme;  or  I  could  be  more  content,  were  it  possible  for  me 
still  to  hear  his  echoing  voice  in  the  woods  of  All-Foxden. 
They  had  'that  fine  madness  in  them  which  our  first  poets 
had';  and  if  they  could  have  been  caught  by  some  rare 
instrument,  would  have  breathed  such  strains  as  the  following. 

Here  be  woods  as  green 

As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  when  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  stream,  with  flow'rs  as  many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any; 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells, 
Arbours  o'ergrown  with  woodbine,  caves  and  dells; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  while  I  sit  by  and  sing, 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers;    tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove. 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies; 
How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep. 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 

To  kiss  her  sweetest. 

Faithful  Shepherdess. 

Had  I  words  and  images  at  command  like  these,  I  would 
attempt  to  wake  the  thoughts  that  He  slumbering  on  golden 
ridges  in  the  evening  clouds:  but  at  the  sight  of  nature  my 
fancy,  poor  as  it  is,  droops  and  closes  up  its  leaves,  like  flowers 
at  sunset.  I  can  make  nothing  out  on  the  spot: — I  must 
have  time  to  collect  myself. — 

In  general,  a  good  thing  spoils  out-of-door  prospects:  it 

should  be  reserved  for  Table-talk.     L is  for  this  reason, 

I  take  it,  the  worst  company  in  the  world  out  of  doors ;  because 
he  is  the  best  within.  I  grant,  there  is  one  subject  on  which 
it  is  pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey;  and  that  is,  what  one  shall 
have  for  supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night.  The  open 
air  improves  this  sort  of  conversation  or  friendly  altercation, 
by  setting  a  keener  edge  on  appetite.  Every  mile  of  the  road 
heightens  the  flavour  of  the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it. 
How  fine  it  is  to  enter  some  old  town,  walled  and  turreted, 
just  at  the  approach  of  night-fall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling 


On  Going  a  Journey  145 

village,  with  the  lights  streaming  through  the  surrounding 
gloom;  and  then  after  inquiring  for  the  best  entertainment 
that  the  place  affords,  to  'take  one's  ease  at  one's  inn!'  These 
eventful  moments  in  our  Hves'  history  are  too  precious,  too 
full  of  solid,  heartfelt  happiness  to  be  frittered  and  dribbled 
away  in  imperfect  sympathy.  I  would  have  them  all  to 
myself,  and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop :  they  will  do  to  talk 
of  or  to  write  about  afterwards.  What  a  delicate  speculation 
it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets  of  tea, 

The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate, 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the  brain,  to  sit  considering 
what  we  shall  have  for  supper — eggs  and  a  rasher,  a  rabbit 
smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excellent  veal-cutlet!  Sancho  in 
such  a  situation  once  fixed  upon  cow-heel;  and  his  choice, 
though  he  could  not  help  it,  is  not  to  be  disparaged.  Then  in 
the  intervals  of  pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contemplation, 
to  catch  the  preparation  and  the  stir  in  the  kitchen — Procul, 
0  procul  este  frofani  I  These  hours  are  sacred  to  silence  and 
to  musing,  to  be  treasured  up  in  the  memory,  and  to  feed 
the  source  of  smiHng  thoughts  hereafter.  I  would  not  waste 
them  in  idle  talk;  or  if  I  must  have  the  integrity  of  fancy 
broken  in  upon,  I  would  rather  it  were  by  a  stranger  than  a 
friend.  A  stranger  takes  his  hue  and  character  from  the 
time  and  place;  he  is  a  part  of  the  furniture  and  costume  of 
an  inn.  If  he  is  a  Quaker,  or  from  the  West  Riding  of  York- 
shire, so  much  the  better.  I  do  not  even  try  to  sympathise 
with  him,  and  he  breaks  no  squares.  I  associate  nothing  with 
my  travelHng  companion  but  present  objects  and  passing 
events.  In  his  ignorance  of  me  and  my  affairs,  I  in  a  manner 
forget  myself.  But  a  friend  reminds  one  of  other  things, 
rips  up  old  grievances,  and  destroys  the  abstraction  of  the 
scene.  He  comes  in  ungraciously  between  us  and  our  imagi- 
nary character.  Something  is  dropped  in  the  course  of 
conversation  that  gives  a  hint  of  your  profession  and  pursuits ; 
or  from  having  some  one  with  you  that  knows  the  less  sublime 
portions  of  your  history,  it  seems  that  other  people  do.  You 
are  no  longer  a  citizen  of  the  world:  but  yo^r  'unhoused 
free  condition  is  put  into  circumscription  and  confine.'  The 
incognito  of  an  inn  is  one  of  its  striking  privileges — 'lord  of 


146  On  Going  a  Journey 

one's-self,  uncumber'd  with  a  name.'  Oh !  it  is  great  to  shake 
off  the  trammels  of  the  world  and  of  public  opinion — to  lose 
our  importunate,  tormenting,  everlasting  personal  identity  in 
the  elements  of  nature,  and  become  the  creature  of  the  moment, 
clear  of  all  ties — to  hold  to  the  universe  only  by  a  dish  of 
sweet-breads,  and  to  owe  nothing  but  the  score  of  the  evening 
— and  no  longer  seeking  for  applause  and  meeting  with 
contempt,  to  be  known  by  no  other  title  than  the  Gentleman 
in  the  parlour  !  One  may  take  one's  choice  of  all  characters 
in  this  romantic  state  of  uncertainty  as  to  one's  real  pretensions, 
and  become  indefinitely  respectable  and  negatively  right-wor- 
shipful. We  baffle  prejudice  and  disappoint  conjecture;  and 
from  being  so  to  others,  begin  to  be  objects  of  curiosity  and 
wonder  even  to  ourselves.  We  are  no  more  those  hackneyed 
common-places  that  we  appear  in  the  world :  an  inn  restores 
us  to  the  level  of  nature,  and  quits  scores  with  society !  I  have 
certainly  spent  some  enviable  hours  at  inns — sometimes  when 
I  have  been  left  entirely  to  myself,  and  have  tried  to  solve 
some  metaphysical  problem,  as  once  at  Witham-common, 
where  I  found  out  the  proof  that  likeness  is  not  a  case  of  the 
association  of  ideas — at  other  times,  when  there  have  been 
pictures  in  the  room,  as  at  St  Neot's  (I  think  it  was),  where 
I  first  met  with  Gribelin's  engravings  of  the  Cartoons,  into 
which  I  entered  at  once,  and  at  a  little  inn  on  the  borders 
of  Wales,  where  there  happened  to  be  hanging  some  of  Westall's 
drawings,  which  I  compared  triumphantly  (for  a  theory  that 
I  had,  not  for  the  admired  artist)  with  the  figure  of  a  girl  who 
had  ferried  me  over  the  Severn,  standing  up  in  the  boat 
between  me  and  the  twiHght — at  other  times  I  might  mention 
luxuriating  in  books,  with  a  peculiar  interest  in  this  way, 
as  I  remember  sitting  up  half  the  night  to  read  Paul  and 
Virginia,  which  I  picked  up  at  an  inn  at  Bridgewater,  after 
being  drenched  in  the  rain  all  day;  and  at  the  same  place 
I  got  through  two  volumes  of  Madame  D'Arblay's  Camilla. 
It  was  on  the  tenth  of  April,  1798,  that  I  sat  down  to  a  volume 
of  the  New  Eloise,  at  the  inn  at  Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of 
sherry  and  a  cold  chicken.  The  letter  I  chose  was  that  in 
which  St  Preux  describes  his  feehngs  as  he  caught  a  glimpse 
from  the  heights  of  the  Jura  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud,  which  I 
had  brought  with  me  as  a  bonne  louche  to  crown  the  evening 


On  Going  a  Journey  147 

with.  It  was  my  birth-day,  and  I  had  for  the  first  time  come 
from  a  place  in  the  neighbourhood  to  visit  this  delightful 
spot.  The  road  to  Llangollen  turns  off  between  Chirk  and 
Wrexham;  and  on  passing  a  certain  point,  you  come  all 
at  once  upon  the  valley,  which  opens  like  an  amphitheatre, 
broad,  barren  hills  rising  in  majestic  state  on  either  side, 
with  'green  upland  swells  that  echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks' 
below,  and  the  river  Dee  babbling  over  its  stony  bed  in  the 
midst  of  them.  The  valley  at  this  time  'glittered  green  with 
sunny  showers,'  and  a  budding  ash-tree  dipped  its  tender 
branches  in  the  chiding  stream.  How  proud,  how  glad  I  was 
to  walk  along  the  high  road  that  overlooks  the  delicious 
prospect,  repeating  the  lines  which  I  have  just  quoted  from 
Mr  Coleridge's  poems  !  But  besides  the  prospect  which  opened 
beneath  my  feet,  another  also  opened  to  my  inward  sight, 
a  heavenly  vision,  on  which  were  written,  in  letters  large  as 
Hope  could  make  them,  these  four  words,  Liberty,  Genius, 
Love,  Virtue  ;  which  have  since  faded  into  the  light  of 
common  day,  or  mock  my  idle  gaze. 

The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not. 

Still  I  would  return  some  time  or  other  to  this  enchanted 
spot;  but  I  would  return  to  it  alone.  What  other  self  could 
I  find  to  share  that  influx  of  thoughts,  of  regret,  and  delight, 
the  fragments  of  which  I  could  hardly  conjure  up  to  myself, 
so  much  have  they  been  broken  and  defaced !  I  could  stand 
on  some  tall  rock,  and  overlook  the  precipice  of  years  that 
separates  me  from  what  I  then  was.  I  was  at  that  time  going 
shortly  to  visit  the  poet  whom  I  have  above  named.  Where 
is  he  now?  Not  only  I  myself  have  changed;  the  world, 
which  was  then  new  to  me,  has  become  old  and  incorrigible. 
Yet  will  I  turn  to  thee  in  thought,  O  sylvan  Dee,  in  joy, 
in  youth  and  gladness  as  thou  then  wert ;  and  thou  shalt 
always  be  to  me  the  river  of  Paradise,  where  I  will  drink  of 
the  waters  of  life  freely! 

There  is  hardly  any  thing  that  shows  the  short-sightedness 
or  capriciousness  of  the  imagination  more  than  travelling 
does.  With  change  of  place  we  change  our  ideas;  nay,  our 
opinions  and  feelings.  We  can  by  an  effort  indeed  transport 
ourselves   to   old   and   long-forgotten   scenes,    and    then   the 


148  On  Going  a  Journey 

picture  of  the  mind  revives  again;  but  we  forget  those  that 
we  have  just  left.  It  seems  that  we  can  think  but  of  one  place 
at  a  time.  The  canvas  of  the  fancy  is  but  of  a  certain  extent, 
and  if  we  paint  one  set  of  objects  upon  it,  they  immediately 
efface  every  other.  We  cannot  enlarge  our  conceptions,  we 
only  shift  our  point  of  view.  The  landscape  bares  its  bosom 
to  the  enraptured  eye,  we  take  our  fill  of  it,  and  seem  as  if 
we  could  form  no  other  image  of  beauty  or  grandeur.  We 
pass  on,  and  think  no  more  of  it :  the  horizon  that  shuts  it  from 
our  sight,  also  blots  it  from  our  memory  Hke  a  dream.  In 
travelHng  through  a  wild  barren  country,  I  can  form  no  idea 
of  a  woody  and  cultivated  one.  It  appears  to  me  that  all 
the  world  must  be  barren,  like  what  I  see  of  it.  In  the  country 
we  forget  the  town,  and  in  town  we  despise  the  country. 
'Beyond  Hyde  Park,'  says  Sir  Fophng  Flutter,  *all  is  a  desert.' 
All  that  part  of  the  map  that  we  do  not  see  before  us  is  a 
blank.  The  world  in  our  conceit  of  it  is  not  much  bigger 
than  a  nutshell.  It  is  not  one  prospect  expanded  into  another, 
county  joined  to  county,  kingdom  to  kingdom,  lands  to  seas, 
making  an  image  voluminous  and  vast; — the  mind  can  form 
no  larger  idea  of  space  than  the  eye  can  take  in  at  a  single 
glance.  The  rest  is  a  name  written  in  a  map,  a  calculation 
of  arithmetic.  For  instance,  what  is  the  true  signification 
of  that  immense  mass  of  territory  and  population,  known  by 
the  name  of  China  to  us  ?  An  inch  of  paste-board  on  a  wooden 
globe,  of  no  more  account  than  a  China  orange !  Things  near  us 
are  seen  of  the  size  of  life :  things  at  a  distance  are  diminished 
to  the  size  of  the  understanding.  We  measure  the  universe 
by  ourselves,  and  even  comprehend  the  texture  of  our  own 
being  only  piece-meal.  In  this  way,  however,  we  remember 
an  infinity  of  things  and  places.  The  mind  is  like  a  mechanical 
instrument  that  plays  a  great  variety  of  tunes,  but  it  must 
play  them  in  succession.  One  idea  recalls  another,  but  it  at 
the  same  time  excludes  all  others.  In  trying  to  renew  old 
recollections,  we  cannot  as  it  were  unfold  the  whole  web  of 
our  existence;  we  must  pick  out  the  single  threads.  So  in 
coming  to  a  place  where  we  have  formerly  lived  and  with 
which  we  have  intimate  associations,  every  one  must  have 
found  that  the  feeling  grows  more  vivid  the  nearer  we  approach 
the  spot,  from  the  mere  anticipation  of  the  actual  impression : 


On  Going  a  Journey  149 

we  remember  circumstances,  feelings,  persons,  faces,  names, 
that  we  had  not  thought  of  for  years;  but  for  the  time  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  is  forgotten ! — To  return  to  the  question 
I  have  quitted  above. 

I  have  no  objection  to  go  to  see  ruins,  aqueducts,  pictures, 
in  company  with  a  friend  or  a  party,  but  rather  the  contrary, 
for  the  former  reason  reversed.  They  are  intelligible  matters, 
and  will  bear  talking  about.  The  sentiment  here  is  not  tacit, 
but  communicable  and  overt.  Salisbury  Plain  is  barren  of 
criticism,  but  Stonehenge  will  bear  a  discussion  antiquarian, 
picturesque,  and  philosophical.  In  setting  out  on  a  party 
of  pleasure,  the  first  consideration  always  is  where  we  shall 
go  to:  in  taking  a  solitary  ramble,  the  question  is  what  we 
shall  meet  with  by  the  way.  'The  mind  is  its  own  place'; 
nor  are  we  anxious  to  arrive  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  can 
myself  do  the  honours  indifferently  well  to  works  of  art  and 
curiosity.  I  once  took  a  party  to  Oxford  with  no  mean  eclat — 
shewed  them  that  seat  of  the  Muses  at  a  distance, 

With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorn'd — 

descanted  on  the  learned  air  that  breathes  from  the  grassy 
quadrangles  and  stone  walls  of  halls  and  colleges — was  at  home 
in  the  Bodleian;  and  at  Blenheim  quite  superseded  the 
powdered  Cicerone  that  attended  us,  and  that  pointed  in 
vain  with  his  wand  to  common-place  beauties  in  matchless 
pictures. — As  another  exception  to  the  above  reasoning, 
I  should  not  feel  confident  in  venturing  on  a  journey  in  a  foreign 
country  without  a  companion.  I  should  want  at  intervals 
to  hear  the  sound  of  my  own  language.  There  is  an  involun- 
tary antipathy  in  the  mind  of  an  Englishman  to  foreign  manners 
and  notions  that  requires  the  assistance  of  social  sympathy 
to  carry  it  off.  As  the  distance  from  home  increases,  this 
relief,  which  was  at  first  a  luxury,  becomes  a  passion  and  an 
appetite.  A  person  would  almost  feel  stifled  to  find  himself 
in  the  deserts  of  Arabia  without  friends  and  countrymen: 
there  must  be  allowed  to  be  something  in  the  view  of  Athens 
or  old  Rome  that  claims  the  utterance  of  speech;  and  I  own 
that  the  Pyramids  are  too  mighty  for  any  single  contemplation. 
In  such  situations,  so  opposite  to  all  one's  ordinary  train  of 
ideas,  one  seems  a  species  by  one's-self,  a  limb  torn  off  from 
society,   unless   one   can   meet   with   instant   fellowship   and 


150  On  Going  a  Journey 

support. — Yet  I  did  not  feel  this  want  or  craving  very  pressing 
once,  when  I  first  set  my  foot  on  the  laughing  shores  of  France. 
Calais  was  peopled  with  novelty  and  delight.  The  confused, 
busy  murmur  of  the  place  was  like  oil  and  wine  poured  into 
my  ears;  nor  did  the  mariners'  hymn,  which  was  sung  from 
the  top  of  an  old  crazy  vessel  in  the  harbour,  as  the  sun  went 
down,  send  an  alien  sound  into  my  soul.  I  only  breathed 
the  air  of  general  humanity.  I  walked  over  '  the  vine-covered 
hills  and  gay  regions  of  France,'  erect  and  satisfied;  for  the 
image  of  man  was  not  cast  down  and  chained  to  the  foot 
of  arbitrary  thrones:  I  was  at  no  loss  for  language,  for  that 
of  all  the  great  schools  of  painting  was  open  to  me.  The 
whole  is  vanished  like  a  shade.  Pictures,  heroes,  glory, 
freedom,  all  are  fled:  nothing  remains  but  the  Bourbons  and 
the  French  people! — There  is  undoubtedly  a  sensation  in 
travelling  into  foreign  parts  that  is  to  be  had  nowhere  else: 
but  it  is  more  pleasing  at  the  time  than  lasting.  It  is  too 
remote  from  our  habitual  associations  to  be  a  common  topic 
of  discourse  or  reference,  and,  like  a  dream  or  another  state 
of  existence,  does  not  piece  into  our  daily  modes  of  life.  It  is 
an  animated  but  a  momentary  hallucination.  It  demands 
an  effort  to  exchange  our  actual  for  our  ideal  identity;  and 
to  feel  the  pulse  of  our  old  transports  revive  very  keenly,  we 
must  'jump'  all  our  present  comforts  and  connexions.  Our 
romantic  and  itinerant  character  is  not  to  be  domesticated. 
Dr  Johnson  remarked  how  little  foreign  travel  added  to  the 
facilities  of  conversation  in  those  who  had  been  abroad. 
In  fact,  the  time  we  have  spent  there  is  both  delightful  and 
in  one  sense  instructive;  but  it  appears  to  be  cut  out  of  our 
substantial,  downright  existence,  and  never  to  join  kindly  on 
to  it.  We  are  not  the  same,  but  another,  and  perhaps  more 
enviable  individual,  all  the  time  we  are  out  of  our  own  country. 
We  are  lost  to  ourselves,  as  well  as  our  friends.  So  the  poet 
somewhat  quaintly  sings, 

Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go. 
Those  who  wish  to  forget  painful  thoughts,  do  well  to  absent 
themselves  for  a  while  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recal 
them :  but  we  can  be  said  only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  in  the  place 
that  gave  us  birth.  I  should  on  this  account  like  well  enough 
to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travelHng  abroad,  if  I  could 
any  where  borrow  another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at  home ! — 


NOTES 


MY   FIRST   ACQUAINTANCE   WITH    POETS 

First  published  in  The  Liberal,  1823,  and  included  in  the  Literary 
Remains  and  the  Winterslow  volume.  One  paragraph,  that  beginning 
"It  was  in  January  1798"  and  ending  with  the  quotation  "Like  to 
that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe"  had  appeared  in  18 17  in  the 
form  of  a  letter  to  Leigh  Hunt's  paper  The  Examiner.  See  below  (the 
note  on  "  Jus  Divinum  ")  for  a  further  account  of  this  letter. 

p.  I,  1.  I.    W m.     Wem. 

p.  I,  1.  3.  dreaded  name  of  Demogorgon.  Paradise  Lost,  11, 
964-5 : 

With  him  enthroned 
Sat  sable-vested  Night,  eldest  of  things, 
The  consort  of  his  reign;    and  by  them  stood 
Orcus  and  Ades,  and  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon. 
Demorgorgon,  oldest  of  the  gods,   the  fabled  ruler  of  Chaos,  had  so 
"dreaded"  a  name,  that  the  world  trembled  at  its  sound.     Compare 
Spenser,  Faerie  Qiieene,  i,  i,  37 : 

A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,  prince  of  darkness  and  dead  night; 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to  flight. 
It  is  Demorgorgon  who,  in  Shelley's  Prometheus  Unbound,  dethrones 
Jupiter  and  secures  the  release  of  Prometheus. 

p.  I,  1.  ID.  a  round-faced  man.  Hazhtt's  description  of  Coleridge 
as  "a  round-faced  man  in  a  short  black  coat"  may  be  compared 
with  De  Quincey's  first  impression  nine  years  later:  "I  immediately 
took  my  leave  of  Mr  Poole,  and  went  over  to  Bridgewater.  I  had 
received  directions  for  finding  out  the  house  where  Coleridge  was 
visiting;  and,  in  riding  down  a  main  street  of  Bridgewater,  I  noticed 
a  gateway  corresponding  to  the  description  given  me.  Under  this 
was  standing,  and  gazing  about  Mm,  a  man  whom  I  will  describe. 
In  height  he  might  seem  to  be  about  five  feet  eight  (he  was,  in  reality, 
about  an  inch  and  a  half  taller,  but  his  figure  was  of  an  order  which 
drowns  the  height);  his  person  was  broad  and  full,  and  tended  even 
to  corpulence ;  his  complexion  was  fair,  though  not  what  painters 
technically  style  fair,  because  it  was  associated  with  black  hair;  his 
eyes  were  large,  and  soft  in  their  expression ;  and  it  was  from  the 
pecuUar  appearance  of  haze  or  dreaminess  which  mixed  with  their 
light  that  I  recognised  my  object.  This  was  Coleridge"  (Literary 
Reminiscences,  Works,  Vol.  11,  p.  150). 


152  Notes 

p.  I,  1.  16.  He  did  not  cease.  Hazlitt's  witty  gibe  at  Coleridge's 
power  of  monologue  matches  the  anecdote  related  of  Lamb,  to  whom 
Coleridge  said,  "Did  you  ever  hear  me  preach,  Charles?"  "I  n-never 
heard  you  d-do  anything  else,"  stuttered  Lamb,  in  reply. 

p.  I,  1.  19.  fluttering  the  proud,  etc.  An  adaptation  of  Coriolanus, 
V,  vi,  114-115 : 

If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  'tis  there 

That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dovecote,  I 

Fluttered  your  Volscians  in  Corioli; 

Alone  I  did  it. 

p.  I,  1.  23.  High-born  Heel's  harp,  etc.  Gray,  The  Bard,  1.  28. 
Hoel  and  Llewelyn  were  traditional  Welsh  bards. 

p.  2,  1.  7.     With  Styx,  etc.     Pope,  Ode  on  St  Cecilia's  Day : 
Though  fate  had  fast  bound  her 
With  Styx  nine  times  round  her. 
Yet  music  and  love  were  victorious. 
— the  reference  being  to  Eurydice,  and  the  conquest  of  the  powers  of 
the  underworld  by  "Orpheus  with  his  lute." 

p.  2,  1.  24.  the  fires  in  the  Agamemnon.  A  reference  to  the 
speech  of  Clytemnestra  in  the  Agamemnon  of  Aeschylus,  describing 
how  beacon  after  beacon  flashed  the  news  of  the  fall  oiE  Troy — just  as, 
in  Macaulay's  famihar  lines,  the  blazing  hill-tops  of  England  signalled 
the  destruction  of  the  Armada. 

p.  2,  1.  38.  II  y  a  des  impressions,  etc.,  "There  are  some 
impressions  that  neither  time  nor  circumstances  can  obliterate.  Were 
I  to  hve  whole  centuries,  the  sweet  days  of  my  youth  could  never 
return  and  never  fade  from  my  recollection."  The  passage  resembles 
several  sentences  in  Rousseau's  Confessions  and  La  Nouvelle  HMo'ise. 

p.  3,  1.  5.     And  he  went  up,  etc.     Gospel  of  St  John,  vi,  15. 

p.  3,  1.  6.     rose  like  a  steam,  etc.     Comus,  1.  556: 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose,  like  a  steam  of  rich  distilled  perfumes. 
And  stole  upon  the  air. 
For  another  impressionable  young  listener's  description  of  a  great  man 
in  the  pulpit,  see  Matthew  Arnold's  exquisite  vignette  of  Newman : 
"Who  could  resist  the  charm  of  that  spiritual  apparition,  gliding  in 
the  dim  afternoon  light  through  the  aisles  of  St  Mary's,  rising  into  the 
pulpit,  and  then,  in  the  most  entrancing  of  voices,  breaking  the  silence 
with  words  and  thoughts  which  were  a  rehgious  music — subtle,  sweet, 
mournful?     I  seem  to  hear  him  still,  sajdng:    'After  the  fever  of  life, 
after  wearinesses    and  sicknesses,  fightings  and  despondings,  languor 
and  fretfulness,  struggling  and  succeeding;    after  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  this  troubled,  unhealthy  state — at  length  comes  death,  at 
length  the  white  throne  of  God,  at  length  the  beatific  vision'." 

p.  3,  1.  12.     of  one  crying,  etc.     Gospel  of  St  Matthew,  iii,  13-14. 

p.  3,  1.  15.  The  sermon  was  upon,  etc.  See  note  below  on 
"Jus  Divinum." 

p.  3, 1.  28.  cue.  We  should  spell  it  now  in  its  French  form — "queue." 
a  pig-tail. 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  153 

p.  3,  1.  30.  Such  were  the  notes,  etc.  Pope,  Epistle  to  Robert 
Earl  of  Oxford,  etc. — the  opening  lines : 

Such  were  the  notes  thy  once-loved  Poet  sung, 
TiU  Death  untimely  stopped  his  tuneful  tongue. 

Harley's  "once-loved  poet"  was  Parnell,  author  of  The  Hermit. 

p.  4,  1.  3.  Jus  Divinura,  Divine  Right.  This  allusion  needs 
some  explanation.  As  I  have  noted  above,  the  present  paragraph  of 
this  essay  appeared  in  The  Examiner  of  12  Jan.  1817,  in  the  form  of 
a  letter  to  the  editor.  The  Examiner  of  29  December  18 16,  had 
published  from  the  pen  of  Hazhtt  a  long  anonymous  review  of 
Coleridge's  pamphlet  The  Statesman's  Manual;  or  The  Bible  the  best 
Guide  to  Political  Skill  and  Foresight,  A  Lay  Sermon  addressed  to  the 
Higher  Classes  of  Society.  Coleridge,  who  had  begun  political  life 
as  a  revolutionist  and  religious  life  as  a  unitarian,  had  come  round 
to  a  conservative  view  both  of  state  and  church.  HazUtt,  with  all 
the  fervour  of  a  consistent  revolutionist,  hated  Coleridge  for  his 
apostasy.  In  the  Statesman' s  Manual  occurs  a  sentence  which  Hazhtt 
seized  upon  as  proof  that  Coleridge  was  now  prepared  even  to  uphold 
the  Stewart  theory  of  "Divine  Right."  Hazlitt  devotes  several  passages 
of  his  article  to  comments  upon  "Jus  Divinum";  and  so  a  reference 
to  it  in  a  letter  pubUshed  a  fortnight  later  was  quite  intelligible  to 
readers  of  The  Examiner.  But  by  1823  when  this  paragraph  was 
incorporated  into  the  long  essay  as  we  now  have  it,  the  allusion  had 
become  obscure.  The  point  is  this:  the  Coleridge  of  1798  abhorred 
the  doctrine  of  "Jus  Divinum"  which  the  Coleridge  of  1816  was 
prepared  to  bless.  The  whole  description  of  the  sermon  at  Wem  is 
plainly  written  with  the  intention  of  emphasising  Coleridge's  change 
of  pohtical  faith.  In  The  Examiner  the  sentence  appears  thus:  "That 
sermon,  like  this  Sermon,  was  upon  peace  and  war;  upon  church 
and  state — not  their  alliance,  but  their  separation,"  etc.  And  at  the 
conclusion  of  his  letter  Hazlitt  writes :  "Again,  Sir,  I  ask  Mr  Coleridge, 
why,  having  preached  such  a  sermon  as  I  have  described  [i.e.  the  sermon 
of  1798  at  Wem],  he  has  published  such  a  sermon  as  you  have  described  " 
[i.e.  the  Lay  Sermon  of  1816].  The  letter  in  The  Examiner  was  signed 
"Semper  Ego  Auditor"  and  was  couched  in  such  terms  as  to  imply 
that  the  writer  was  not  the  author  of  the  article  on  Coleridge's  volume. 
See  Works,  Vol.  iii,  for  the  article  in  question. 

p.  4,  1.  4.     Like  to  that  sanguine  flower.     Lycidas,  1.  106. 

p.  4,  1.  17.  As  are  the  children,  etc.  Thomson,  The  Castle  of 
Indolence,  Canto  11,  St.  33  : 

He  came,  the  Bard,  a  little  Druid  wight 
Of  withered  aspect;    but  his  eye  was  keen, 
With  sweetness  mixed.     In  russet  brown  bedight. 
As  is  his  sister  of  the  copses  green, 
He  crept  along,  unpromising  of  mien. 
Gross  he  who  judges  so.     His  soul  was  fair. 
Bright  as  the  children  of  yon  azure  sheen! 
True  comeUness,  which  nothing  can  impair, 
Dwells  in  the  mind:    all  else  is  vanity  and  glare. 


154  Notes 

p.  4,  1.  2o.  A  certain  tender  bloom,  etc.  Thomson,  The  Castle 
of  Indolence,  Canto  i.  St.  57: 

Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place. 
There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark; 
A  certain  tender  bloom  o'erspread  his  face, 
Pensive,  not  sad. 

p.  4,  1.  23.  Murillo  and  Velasquez.  Bartolom6  Esteban  Murillo 
(1618-1682),  a  very  popular  Spanish  painter,  whose  work  falls  roughly 
into  two  main  groups, — vigorous  and  realistic  sketches  of  Spanish 
beggar  children,  and  rather  sentimental  rehgious  pictures  with  the 
Virgin  Mary  as  the  central  figure.  Murillo  is  fairly  well  represented 
at  the  National  Gallery  and  at  Dulwich.  His  portraits  are  extremely 
few  and  not  generally  known.  On  the  other  hand,  Don  Diego  de  Silva 
y  Velasquez  (1599-1660),  the  greatest  of  Spanish  painters  and  one  of 
the  supreme  artists  of  the  world,  is  specially  renowned  for  his  portraits 
of  princes,  nobles,  ladies  and  buffoons  of  the  Spanish  court.  There  are 
a  few  important  pictures  by  Velasquez  in  the  National  Gallery  and  the 
Wallace  collection ;  but  the  bulk  of  his  work  has  to  be  sought  in  Spain. 

p.  4,  1.  26.  like  what  lie  has  done.  Coleridge's  work  is,  for 
the  most  part,  fragmentary — mere  beginnings  of  things  that  he  had 
not  will  enough  to  finish. 

p.  4,  1.  34.  inclining  to  the  corpulent.  Coleridge's  own  poem 
Youth  and  Age  contains  allusions  to  his  personal  appearance,  e.g. : 

This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
and, 

I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size. 
Hazlitt's  description  should  be  compared  with  the  portraits  of  Coleridge 
by  Peter  Vandyke  (1795)  and  by  Robert  Hancock  (1796),  both  in  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery.  One  of  Coleridge's  letters  belonging  to  this 
period  contains  a  remarkable  self-portrait :  ' '  Your  portrait  of  yourself 
interested  me.  As  to  me,  my  face,  unless  when  animated  by  immediate 
eloquence,  expresses  great  sloth,  and  great,  indeed,  almost  idiotic 
good-nature.  Tis  a  mere  carcass  of  a  face ;  fat,  flabby,  and  expressive 
chiefly  of  inexpression.  Yet  I  am  told  that  my  eyes,  eyebrows  and 
forehead  are  physiognomically  good ;  but  of  this  the  deponent  knoweth 
not.  As  to  my  shape,  tis  a  good  shape  enough  if  measured,  but  my  gait 
is  awkward,  and  the  walk  of  the  whole  man  indicates  indolence  capable 
of  energies....!  cannot  breathe  through  my  nose,  so  my  mouth,  with 
sensual  thick  lips,  is  almost  always  open...  (Letter  to  John  Thelwall, 
Nov.  19,  1796). 

p.   4,  1.   35.     somewhat  fat    and  pursy.     A  confusion    of    two 
entirely  unconnected  phrases  in  Hamlet ;   first,  the  queen's  exclamation 
in  the  duel  scene  (Act  v,  Sc.  ii,  1.  298),  "He's  fat,  and  scant  of  breath," 
and  next,  Hamlet's  speech  to  his  mother  (Act  in,  Sc.  iv,  1.  153) : 
Forgive  me  this  my  virtue: 
For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pursy  times 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg. 
p.  5,  1.  8.     Adam  Smith.     Adam  Smith  (i  723-1 790),  the  author 
of  The  Wealth   of  Nations.      From  1751  to  1763  he  was  professor  of 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  155 

philosophy  at  Glasgow.     For  an  account  of  Adam  Smith  see  Bagehot's 
essay  Adam  Smith  as  a  Person. 

p.  5,  1.  29.  no  figures,  etc.  Julius  Caesar,  n,  ii,  231 : 
Enjoy  the  honey-heavy  dew  of  slumber: 
Thou  hast  no  figures  nor  no  fantasies 
Which  busy  care  draws  in  the  brains  of  men. 
p.  6,  1.  27.  Mary  Wolstonecraft  and  Mackintosh.  The  attempts 
of  the  revolutionists  to  draw  up  a  workable  constitution  for  France  were 
regarded  in  England  with  much  sympathy  by  some  and  much  contempt 
by  others.  The  first  serious  attack  on  the  reformers  came  in  1790  from 
the  famous  political  philosopher  Edmund  Burke  (i 729-1797)  who,  in 
his  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France,  ridiculed  unsparingly  the 
proposals  of  the  constitutionalists,  and  appealed  with  eloquent  and 
rhetorical  fervour  to  prejudice  and  sentiment  on  behalf  of  the  old  order. 
Burke's  pamphlet  incurred  the  admiration  of  George  III  and  the 
opposition  of  English  liberals.  Several  replies  were  written,  among 
them  being  The  Rights  of  Man  by  Tom  Paine  (for  whom  see  note  on 
p.  157),  the  Vindiciae  Gallicae  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and  the  Answer 
to  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution  by  Mary  Wollstonecraft. 
Mackintosh  (1765-1832),  a  writer  on  philosophy,  law  and  history,  was 
also  famous  as  an  Indian  judge.  See  Macaulay's  essay,  and  Hazlitt's 
sketch  in  The  Spirit  of  the  Age.  Mary  Wollstonecraft  (i  759-1 797) 
was  a  pioneer  of  the  movement  which  has  given  to  women  many  rights 
in  society,  law  and  education  formerly  denied  them.  Her  Vindication 
of  the  Rights  of  Women  (1792)  is  a  landmark  of  social  progress.  She 
married  William  Godwin,  famous  in  his  day  as  a  philosopher,  but 
remembered  now  almost  solely  for  his  connection  with  such  men  as 
Wordsworth,  Shelley  and  Lamb.  The  daughter  of  Godviin  and  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  became  the  second  wife  of  Shelley. 

p.  7, 1.  4.  a  great  opinion  of  Burke.  HazUtt  had  every  reason 
for  hating  Burke  the  apostle  of  reaction,  and  accordingly  he  says  many 
hard  things  of  the  great  politician.  But  on  the  other  hand  Hazlitt 
had  the  deepest  admiration  for  Burke's  rich  power  of  mind  and  mastery 
of  prose  eloquence.  Scattered  up  and  down  the  essays  are  many 
glowing  tributes  to  Burke,  the  more  sincere  as  coming  from  an  avowed 
opponent.  See,  for  instance,  "The  Prose  Style  of  Poets "  (Plain  Speaker), 
the  "Character  of  Mr  Burke"  {Political  Essays)  and  a  reference  on 
p.  69  of  the  present  volume. 

p.  7,  1.  II.  Tom  Wedg-wood.  Thomas  and  Josiah  Wedgwood 
were  sons  of  the  great  potter,  founder  of  the  famous  works  at  Etruria, 
and  maker  of  the  celebrated  Wedgwood  ware.  They  were  both  greatly 
interested  in  Coleridge,  and  hearing  that  he  proposed  to  accept  the 
post  of  unitarian  minister  for  a  stipend  of  ;^i50  a  year,  they  offered 
him  a  present  of  ;^  100  if  he  abandoned  his  intention  and  devoted  himself 
to  poetry  and  philosophy.  Coleridge  refused  on  the  ground  that 
;^ioo  would  soon  be  consumed  and  he  would  be  as  badly  off  as  before. 
Whereupon  Josiah  (not  Tom)  wrote  a  letter  on  behalf  of  himself  and 
his  brother  offering  Coleridge  an  annuity  of  ;^i5o  without  any  conditions. 
The  annuity  was  regularly  paid  until  18 12  when  Josiah  Wedgwood 
withdrew  his  half  of  the  contribution. 

p.  7,  1.  28.     Holcroft.     Thom.as  Holcroft  (1745-1809),  a  playwright 


156  Notes 

and  novelist  of  importance  in  his  day,  now  remembered  as  author  of 
the  comedy  The  Road  to  Ruin  and  as  the  subject  of  a  biography 
written  partly  by  Hazlitt.     See  also  the  next  note. 

p.  7,  1.  28.  He  had  been  asked,  etc.  This  is  rather  tangled. 
"He"  and  "him"  are  Coleridge  and  Holcroft  respectively,  i.e.  "He 
(Coleridge)  had  been  asked  if  he  was  not  much  struck  with  him 
(Holcroft),  and  he  (Coleridge)  said  he  thought  himself  in  more  danger 
of  being  struck  by  him  (Holcroft).  I  (Hazlitt)  complained  that  he 
(Holcroft)  would  not  let  me  get  on,"  etc.  Hazlitt  had  met  Holcroft 
and  the  Godwins  in  London  about  1798.  Holcroft  was  something  of 
a  philosopliical  politician  and  was  one  of  those  people  who  were  tried 
in  1794  for  high  treason  under  Pitt's  measures  against  free  speech  and 
public  discussion. 

p.  8,  1.  II.  the  shores  of  old  romance.  A  phrase  from  Words- 
worth's Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places — the  fourth,  that  beginning 
"A  narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones,"  etc.: 

Many  such  there  are, 
Fair  ferns  and  flowers,  and  chiefly  that  tall  fern. 
So  stately,  of  the  Queen  Osmunda  named; 
Plant  lovelier,  in  its  own  retired  abode 
On  Grasmere's  beach,  than  Naiad  by  the  side 
Of  Grecian  brook,  or  Lady  of  the  Mere 
Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance. 

p.  8, 1.14.    the  Delectable  Mountains.    See  The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

p.  8,  1.  24.  in  Cassandra.  Cassandra  is  a  romance  by  Gautier 
de  Costes,  Seigneur  de  La  Calprenfede,  who  was  born  in  Gascony  early  in 
the  seventeenth  century  and  died  in  1663.  He  wrote  lengthy  romances, 
the  chief  being  Cassandra  (10  volumes,  1642)  and  Cleopatra  (10  volumes, 
1647),  and  also  tragedies,  among  them  being  La  Mort  de  Mithridate 
(1637),  Jsanne,  Reine  d'Angleterre  (1637)  and  Le  Comte  d'Essex,  the 
last  of  which  was  very  successful.  Few  modern  readers  have  any 
direct  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  La  Calpren^de;  a  reference 
in  Boileau's  Art  of  Poetry  and  others  in  the  Letters  of  Mme  de  Sevigne 
usually  satisfy  most  people's  curiosity  about  this  once  popular  writer. 
Hazlitt  had  doubtless  read  Cassandra  in  the  translation  of  Sir  George 
Cotterill,  published  in  1676  and  several  times  reprinted.  The  exact 
allusion  is  as  follows:  "  Never  did  Thunderbolt,  falling  at  the  foot  of 
some  young  Shepherd,  strike  him  with  so  strange  a  surprise  as  that  did 
the  Prince  of  Scythia,  when  he  heard  pronounced  that  hated,  detested 
name  of  Perdiccas."     Part  2,  Book  v. 

p.  8,  1.  32.  Sounding  on  his  way.  Wliat  Chaucer  said  of  the 
Clerk  of  Oxenford  is  quite  different : 

Sownynge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche. 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 
— "sownynge in"  meaning  "tending  towards."    There  is  no  doubt  that 
Hazlitt's  memory  confused  these  hues  with  another,  and  much  later 
passage : 

By  pain  of  heart — now  checked — and  now  impelled — 
The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way! 
(Wordsworth,  The  Excursion,  Bk  iii,  11.  699-701.) 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  157 

p.  9,  1.  7.  Htune.  David  Hume  (1711-1776),  the  famous  philo- 
sopher and  historian.  His  cliief  works  are  the  Treatise  on  Human 
Nature  (1739),  Essays  Moral  and  Political  (1741-42),  Inquiry  into  the 
Principles  of   Morals  (1751)  and  Political  Discourses  (1752). 

p.  9,  1.  8.  South's  sermons.  Robert  South  (1633-1716),  a 
Restoration  divine,  is  remembered  for  the  racy  vigour  of  his  pubhshed 
sermons.  Specimens  of  South  can  be  found  in  all  the  usual  books 
containing  prose  quotations.  There  is  no  obvious  resemblance  between 
Hume's  Essay  on  Miracles  and  any  of  South's  sermons;  but  Coleridge 
was  rather  given  to  discovering  such  imagined  and  always  far-fetched 
resemblances. 

p.  9,  1.  8.     Credat,  etc.     Horace,  Satires,  I,  v,  100: 
credat  Judaeus  Apella, 
Non  ego. 
"Let  the  Jew  Apella  beheve  it;    I  don't."     The  Jews  were  regarded 
by  the  Romans  as  very  credulous,  and  ready  to  beheve  any  improbable 
story.     The  saying  is  thus  roughly  equivalent  to  our  "Tell  that  to  the 
Marines."     The  name  Apella  stands  for  any  Jew,  and  does  not  refer 
to  a  particular  individual. 

p.  9,  1.  II.  choke-pears.  Literally  a  fruit  difficult  to  swallow 
because  of  its  rough,  astringent  nature,  and  so,  metaphorically,  anything 
hard  to  understand.  Hume's  Treatise  is,  in  point  of  style  at  least, 
much  less  "hard  to  swallow"  than  Hazhtt  would  make  out.  It  may  be 
noted  here  that  Hazlitt  was  in  the  habit  of  italicising  any  of  his  words 
or  phrases  that  seemed  to  depart  from  standard  literary  English. 

p.  9,  1.  17.  Berkeley.  George  Berkeley  (1685-1753),  the  bishop 
of  Cloyne,  famous  as  a  philosophical  writer.  His  chief  works  are  A  n 
Essay  towards  a  New  Theory  of  Vision  (1709),  A  Treatise  concerning  the 
Principles  of  Human  Knowledge  (1710),  Alciphr  on  {ly^z),  and  Sms  (1744). 
His  chief  doctrine  is  that  matter  is  not  independent  of  mind — that  we  can 
know  only  what  the  mind  perceives,  and  that  what  the  mind  does  not 
perceive  has  no  existence  for  us.  The  "refutation"  by  Johnson  is 
given  in  Boswell  under  date  1763  :  "After  we  came  out  of  the  church, 
we  stood  talking  for  some  time  together  of  Bishop  Berkeley's  ingenious 
sophistry  to  prove  the  non-existence  of  matter,  and  that  everything 
in  the  universe  is  merely  ideal.  I  observed,  that  though  we  are  satisfied 
his  doctrine  is  not  true,  it  is  impossible  to  refute  it.  I  never  shall 
forget  the  alacrity  with  which  Johnson  answered,  striking  his  foot 
with  mighty  force  against  a  large  stone,  till  he  rebounded  from  it, 
"I  refute  it  thus."  Johnson's  supposed  "refutation"  is  quite  inconclu- 
sive. The  act  of  kicking  the  stone  gave  him  a  perception  (or  "idea," 
in  Berkeley's  language)  of  its  solidity,  and  its  solidity  thus  came  into 
existence  for  him. 

p.  9,  1.  24.  Tom  Paine.  Thomas  Paine  (i 737-1 809)  was  a  writer 
on  pohtics  and  reUgion.  He  went  to  America  in  1774  and  took  the  side 
of  the  rebellious  colonies  in  liis  pamphlet  Common  Sense — one  of  the 
earhest  publications  to  advocate  complete  separation  of  the  colonies 
from  England.  He  fought  on  the  American  side  and  held  a  post  in  the 
rebel  government.  He  returned  to  England  and  published  in  1791-92 
his  Rights  of  Man,  an  answer   to   Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French 


158  Notes 

Revolution.  The  book  was  prosecuted  by  the  English  government, 
and  Paine  escaped  to  France,  where  he  was  elected  to  the  Convention 
and  was  imprisoned  by  Robespierre  for  advocating  clemency  to 
Louis  XVI.  After  liis  release  he  went  to  America,  where  he  died. 
His  last  important  work  was  The  Age  of  Reason,  an  attack  on  orthodox 
religion. 

p.  9,  1.  28.  Bishop  Butler.  Joseph  Butler  (1692-1750),  Bishop 
of  Durham,  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  English  theologians.  In  1718  he 
was  appointed  preacher  at  the  Rolls  chapel  (on  the  site  of  which  the 
Record  office  now  stands)  and  delivered  there  the  Sermons  (published 
in  1726)  to  which  Coleridge  refers.  Ten  years  later  he  published  his 
most  famous  work,  The  Analogy  of  Religion,  Natural  and  Revealed,  to 
the  Constitution  and  Course  of  Nature.  The  Sermons  are  indeed  ex- 
cellent; but  it  is  difficult  to  follow  Hazhtt's  (and  Coleridge's)  very 
pronounced  preference  of  them  to  The  Analogy,  as  the  latter  is  very 
largely  an  extension  and  development  of  the  thought  expounded  in 
the  Sermons — notably  in  the  first  three,  "Upon  Human  Nature,"  and 
the  fifteenth,  "The  Ignorance  of  Man." 

p.  9,  1.  38.  I  had  ■written  a  fe^v  remarks,  etc.  A  reference 
to  Hazlitt's  metaphysical  essay  published  in  1805  aus  An  Essay  on 
the  Principles  of  Human  Action:  being  an  Argument  in  Favour  of  the 
Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the  Human  Mind.  Hazlitt's  "discovery" 
was  that  the  doctrine  of  the  innate  and  necessary  selfishness  of  the 
human  mind,  which  he  supposed  to  have  been  taught  by  philosophers 
like  Hobbes,  was  quite  untrue.  Hazlitt  alleged  that  disinterestedness 
was  innate  and  that  self-interest  arose  later  out  of  habit  and  convenience. 
The  "discovery"  is  hardly  valid,  and  in  any  case  it  is  of  no  practical 
importance.  To  speak  unphilosophically,  the  qualities  that  men  may 
be  born  with  are  much  less  important,  practically,  than  the  qualities 
that  they  undoubtedly  live  by. 

p.  10,  1.  18.     the  quaint  Muse  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.     No  doubt 

Hazhtt  had  in  mind  Sonnet  lxxxiv  in  Astrophel  and  Stella: 
Highway !    since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be. 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet. 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber  melody: 
Now,  blessed  you !    bear  onward  blessed  me 
To  her,  where  I  my  heart  safeliest  shall  meet. 
My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully. 
Be  you  still  fair !    honoured  by  public  heed ! 
By  no  encroachment  wronged !    nor  time  forgot ! 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed! 
And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 
Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bhss: 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss! 

p.  10,  1.  25.  Paley.  William  Paley  (i  743-1 805),  a  theological 
writer.  His  chief  works  are,  Principles  of  Moral  and  Political  Philosophy 
(1785),  Horae  Paulinae  (1790),  Evidences  of  Christianity  (1794)  and 
Natural  Theology  (1802). 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  159 

p.  10,  1.  33.     Kind  and  aSable,  etc.     A  reminiscence  of  Adam's 
thanks  to  the  archangel  Raphael,  Paradise  Lost,  viii,  646-650: 
Go,  Heavenly  Guest,  Ethereal  Messenger, 
Sent  from  whose  sovran  goodness  I  adore ! 
Gentle  to  me  and  affable  hath  been 
Thy  condescension  and  shall  be  honoured  ever 
With  grateful  memory. 

p.  II,  1  3.  another  story.  In  chapter  x  of  Biographia  Literaria, 
Coleridge  describes,  with  somewhat  heavy-handed  humour,  how  he 
went  to  sleep  after  being  made  ill  by  smoking;  but  his  recorded 
remarks  on  awaking  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  third  or  any  other 
heaven :  "Here  and  thus  I  lay,  my  face  like  a  wall  that  is  whitewashing, 
deathly  pale,  and  with  the  cold  drops  of  perspiration  running  down 
it  from  my  forehead,  while  one  after  another  there  dropped  in  the 
different  gentlemen  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  and  spend  the  evening 
with  me,  to  the  number  of  from  fifteen  to  twenty.  As  the  poison  of 
tobacco  acts  but  for  a  short  time,  I  at  length  awoke  from  insensibility, 
and  looked  round  on  the  party,  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  candles  which 
had  been  lighted  in  the  interim.  By  way  of  reheving  my  embarrassment, 
one  of  the  gentlemen  began  the  conversation  with,  "Have  you  seen 
a  paper  to-day,  Mr  Coleridge?"  "Sir,"  I  rephed,  rubbing  my  eyes, 
"I  am  far  from  convinced  that  a  Christian  is  permitted  to  read  either 
newspapers  or  any  other  works  of  merely  political  and  temporary 
interest."  The  humour  of  the  situation  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  purpose 
of  Coleridge's  visit  was  to  further  the  sale  of  his  own  periodical  or 
newspaper.  The  Friend. 

p.  II,  1.  10.  Vision  of  Judgment.  Southey's  Vision  of  Judg- 
ment (1821)  was  a  poem  written  in  his  capacity  as  Laureate,  praising 
George  III,  who  had  died  in  the  preceding  year.  It  is  introduced  by 
an  obsequious  preface  to  George  IV  in  which  that  monarch  is  credited 
with  all  the  success  of  British  arms  during  the  late  war.  The  poem 
is  written  in  a  sort  of  hexameter  rhythm  and  has  twelve  short  sections 
or  cantos.  It  is  a  vision  in  which  George  III  is  seen  at  the  gate  of 
Heaven  seeking  admission.  An  angel  summons  all  who  wish  to  accuse 
him  of  misdeeds;  but  only  two  appear — Wilkes  and  Junius,  and  they 
are  abashed  to  silence.  Washington  arrives  and  pleads  for  the  king, 
who  is  thereupon  admitted  to  Heaven,  where  he  sees  the  glorious  forms 
of  other  British  monarchs  surrounded  by  immortal  spirits  having  the 
forms  of  Wolfe,  Hogarth,  Wesley,  Mansfield,  Burke  and  other  famous 
persons.  This  painful  absurdity  of  plan  is  reheved  by  no  merit  of 
execution,  and  the  piece  may  be  pronounced  the  worst  of  all  Southey's 
attempts  at  the  sublime.  The  other  Vision  of  Judgment  was  Byron's, 
first  pubUshed  in  The  Liberal — the  magazine  in  which  Hazlitt's  pre- 
sent essay  appeared — and  repubUshed  in  book  form  by  John  Murray. 
"The  Bridge  Street  Junto"  was  "The  Constitutional  Association" 
founded  in  1821,  "to  support  the  laws  for  suppressing  seditious 
pubUcations,  and  for  defending  the  country  from  the  fatal  influence 
of  disloyalty  and  sedition."  It  was  commonly  known  as  "The  Bridge 
Street  Gang"  ("junto"  means  "gang")  from  the  situation  of  its  office. 
As  may  be  gathered  from  the  statement  of  its  aims,  the  Association 
was  a  thoroughly  illiberal  and  repressive  body.  The  point  of  HazUtt's 
gibe  about  the  connection  of  John  Murray  with  the  "gang"  lies  in  the 


i6o  Notes 

fact  that  Byron's  poem,  which  Murray  published,  was  not  merely  a 
savage  satire  on  Southey's  latter-day  loyalty,  but  a  violent  attack  on 
the  deceased  George  III.  Thus  Murray  the  pubhsher  had  actually 
issued  one  of  the  "disloyal  and  seditious  publications"  which  Murray 
the  "Constitutionalist"  was  solemnly  pledged  to  suppress. 

p.  II,  1.  20.  Llangollen.  See  the  essay  "On  Going  a  Journey" 
(p.  146,  1.  35)  for  the  passage  in  which  Hazlitt  describes  how  he  cele- 
brated his  birthday  in  this  year. 

p.  II,  1.  22.  Coleridge's  description  of  England.  Ode  on  the 
Departing  Year,  vii : 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  whoUy  vile, 
O  Albion !     O  my  mother  isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers. 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks; 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) 
And  Ocean  mid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  Island-child ! 

p.  II,  1.  40.  Tom  Jones.  The  adventures  of  Tom  Jones  at  the 
Upton  inn  occupy  several  chapters  in  books  ix  and  x  of  Fielding's 
novel.  In  chapter  v  of  book  x  Sophia  Western,  also  at  Upton,  sends 
Tom  Jones  her  muff,  hallowed  to  him  by  many  sentimental  associa- 
ti  'US,  to  reproach  him  for  his  supposed  infidelity  to  her. 

p.  12, 1.  2.  at  Tewkesbury.  See  the  essay  "  On  Going  a  Journey," 
where  the  reading  of  Paul  and  Virginia  is  placed  at  Bridgwater.  Paul 
and  Virginia  is  the  romance  by  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre  (1737-1814) 
whose  Rousseau-like  simplicity  of  sentiment  was  more  popular  in  the 
eighteenth  century  than  it  is  to-day. 

p.  12,  1.  13.  Wordsworth... Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places. 
A  set  of  five  poems  first  published  in  vol.  11  of  Lyrical  Ballads  (1800). 
The  inscriptions  in  Paul  and  Virginia  are  certainly  similar  in  idea,  but 
the  similarity  implies  no  borrowing.  Numbers  of  people  have  named 
familiar  spots  from  personal  and  sentimental  associations,  as  Words- 
worth did,  when  he  called  one  place  "Emma's  Dell,"  another  "  Joanna's 
Rock"  and  a  third  "Point  Rash-Judgment." 

p.  12,  1.  26.  Camilla.  Frances  Burney  (1752-1840),  daughter 
of  Dr  Johnson's  friend  the  musician  Dr  Burney,  wrote  a  very  successful 
novel  Evelina  (pubUshed  in  1778),  and,  nearly  twenty  years  after, 
a  much  less  successful  story,  Camilla.  She  held  a  court  appointment, 
and  her  letters  and  diaries  give  valuable  sketches  of  the  period.  She 
married  a  French  refugee,  general  D'Arblay.  See  also  the  essay 
"  On  Going  a  Journey." 

p.  12,  1.  36.  Alfoxden.  In  1797  Wordsworth,  who,  although  he 
had  by  then  written  some  of  his  early  pieces,  was  only  at  the  threshold 
of  his  poetic  career,  moved  from  Racedown  in  Dorset  to  Alfoxden, 
about  three  miles  from  Nether  Stowey,  where  Coleridge  was  living. 
This  was  the  richest  and  probably  the  happiest  period  of  Wordsworth's 
Ufe.  The  two  poets  met  often,  and  their  many  talks  about  the  essentials 
of  poetic  art  resulted  in  the  appearance,  not  merely  of  a  new  volume. 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  i6i 

Lyrical  Ballads  (1798),  but  also  of  a  new  and  wonderful  spirit  in 
English  poetry.  See  the  latter  part  of  Coleridge's  Biographia  Literaria, 
beginning  at  chapter  xiv.  Wordsworth  did  not  have  "free  use"  of 
Alfoxden.  It  was  tenanted  by  one  John  Bartholomew,  during  the 
minority  of  the  St  Aubin  heir,  and  sub-let  to  the  poet  for  a  rental  of 
£2^,  per  annum.  No  doubt  the  " friend  of  the  poet"  was  Thomas  Poole, 
a  tanner  and  leather  merchant  of  Nether  Stowey,  who  proved  a  most 
valuable  friend  to  both  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  Poole  was  not  in 
possession  of  the  house,  but  he  probably  facilitated  the  business  connected 
with  Wordsworth's  tenancy. 

p.  13, 1.  2.  the  scales  that  fence.  This  is  an  allusion  to  a  passage 
quoted  by  HazJitt  in  the  first  of  his  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature 
of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth:  "But  in  the  Christian  religion  'we  perceive 
a  softness  coming  over  the  heart  of  a  nation,  and  the  iron  scales  that 
fence  and  harden  it,  melt  and  drop  off.'" 

p.  13,  1.  3.  his  sister.  Dorothy,  whose  deep  creative  influence 
on  her  brother  is  gratefully  acknowledged  by  Wordsworth,  especially 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  wonderful  Tiniern  Abbey  lines. 

p.  13,  1.  6.  Sibylline  Leaves.  The  sibyl  or  prophetess  Amalthea 
of  Cumae  offered  to  sell  her  nine  books  of  wisdom  to  Tarquin  the  Proud, 
king  of  Rome.  He  refused,  whereupon  she  burned  three  and,  a  year 
later,  offered  the  rest  at  the  same  price.  He  still  refused,  and  again 
she  burned  three  and  offered  the  remainder  at  the  same  price.  The 
surviving  three  were  then  purchased  and  carefully  guarded  in  the  temple 
of  Jupiter,  where  also  were  kept  the  Sibylhne  verses  or  various  utterances 
of  the  prophetesses.  Coleridge  pubhshed  a  collection  of  his  scatteDd 
poems  under  the  title  Sibylline  Leaves.  Hazlitt  glances  at  this  title 
in  the  present  phrase,  though  what  he  actually  meant  was  that  he 
saw  the  manuscript  of  Lyrical  Ballads  in  loose  sheets. 

p.  13,  1.  13.  hear  the  loud  stag  speak.  Ben  Jonson,  The  Forest. 
Ill ;    To  Sir  Robert  Wroth : 

Or,  if  thou  list  the  night  in  watch  to  breake, 
A-bed  canst  heare  the  loud  stag  speake. 
p.  13.  1.  32.     Betty  Foy.     This  is  Wordsworth's  poem   The  Idiot 
Boy,  which,   with  the  other  poems  named,   appeared   in   the  Lyrical 
Ballads  of  1798. 

p.  13, 1.  38.     In  spite  of  pride.     Pope,  The  Essay  on  Man,  i,  293  : 
And,  spite  of  Pride,  in  erring  Reason's  spite. 
One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right. 
p.  14,  1.  4.     While  yet  the  trembling  year,  etc.     Thomson,  The 
Seasons,  Spring,  1.  18: 

As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed, 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless. 
p.  14,  1.  7.     Of  Providence,  etc.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  559-560: 
Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retired 
In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reasoned  high 
Of  Providence,  Foreknowledge,  Will  and  Fate, 
Fixed  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  absolute, 
And  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes  lost. 


i62  Notes 

p.  14,  1.  29.  Peter  Bell.  The  potter,  or  pedlar  of  crockery-ware, 
"hero"  (if  he  may  be  so  called)  of  Wordsworth's  poem  bearing  his 
name: 

He  had  a  dark  and  sidelong  walk, 
And  long  and  slouching  was  his  gait. 

p.  14,  1.  36.  Chantry's  bust.  Sir  Francis  Chantrey  (1781-1841), 
a  poor  iDoy  who  became  a  very  distinguished  sculptor.  He  left  to  the 
Royal  Academy  a  very  large  sum  of  money,  the  interest  on  which  was 
to  be  spent  in  purchasing  native  works  of  art.  The  purchases  made 
under  the  Chantrey  bequest  are  housed  in  the  Tate  gallery.  Chantrey's 
bust  of  Wordsworth  is  at  Coleorton,  formerly  the  residence  of  Words- 
worth's friend  Sir  George  Beaumont. 

p.  14,  1.  37.  Haydon's  head.  Benjamin  Haydon  (1786-1846), 
the  painter  of  historical  pictures.  The  ultimate  failure  of  his  work, 
financially,  led  him  to  commit  suicide.  His  most  certain  claim  on 
the  interest  of  posterity  is  based  on  his  friendship  and  correspondence 
with  John  Keats.  The  picture  "Christ  entering  Jerusalem,"  in  which 
Wordsworth's  head  appears,  is  now  in  the  Roman  Catholic  cathedral 
at  Cincinnati. 

p.  15,  1.  9.  Monk  Lewis.  Matthew  Gregory  Lewis  (1775-1818), 
called  "Monk"  from  his  romance,  Ambrosio,  or  the  Monk,  was  the 
writer  of  many  now  forgotten  romances  and  plays.  The  Castle  Spectre 
was  "a  dramatic  romance"  in  five  acts  interspersed  with  occasional 
songs  and  choruses. 

p.  15,  1.  24.     his  face,  etc.     Macbeth,  Act  i.  So.  v,  1.  63-64: 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters. 

p.  16, 1.  8.  flip.  A  drink  compounded  of  sugar  and  hot  cider,  wine, 
spirits  or  beer.  Sometimes  an  egg  was  added,  making  what  was 
called  "egg-flip"  or  "egg-hot."  This  compound  is  endeared  to  all 
good  readers  by  the  frequent  references  to  it  in  Lamb's  letters.  For 
instance:  "That  sonnet,  Coleridge,  brings  afresh  to  my  mind  the  time 
when  you  wrote  those  on  Bowles,  Priestley,  Burke ; — 'twas  two  Christ- 
mases  ago,  and  in  that  nice  httle  smoky  room  at  the  Salutation,  which 
is  even  now  continually  presenting  itself  to  my  recollection  with  all 
its  associated  train  of  pipes,  tobacco,  egg-hot,  welsh-rabbit,  metaphysics 
and  poetry. — Are  we  never  to  meet  again?  "  "The  Salutation  and  the 
Cat"  was  a  hostelry  in  Newgate  Street. 

p.  16,  1.  10.  John  Chester.  Very  little  can  be  discovered  of 
Chester  beyond  the  facts  that  he  was  a  very  faithful  and  good-natured 
young  man  living  at  Nether  Stowey,  that  he  was  fascinated  by  Coleridge's 
genius  and  that  he  accompanied  Coleridge  to  Germany.  Coleridge's 
references  to  him  in  the  letters  written  from  Germany  are  very  brief 
and  give  no  clue  to  the  nature  of  their  relations. 

p.  16,  1.  14.  followed,  etc.  An  inversion  of  Othello,  Act  li, 
Sc.  iii,  1.  379,  etc.:  "I  do  follow  here  in  the  chase,  not  like  a  hound 
that  hunts,  but  one  that  fills  up  the  cry."  A  "cry"  is  a  "pack."  The 
point  is  that  Chester  was  assiduous  in  following  Coleridge,  and  was 
not  content  to  be  merely  one  of  the  crowd  around  him. 

p.  16,  1.  26.  the  Kantean  philosophers.  Immamiel  Kant 
(1724-1804),   one  of  the   greatest  of  modern  philosophers,   was  first 


My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets  163 

made  known  to  English  people  by  men  like  Coleridge  and  De  Oumcey. 
To  be  familiar  with  Kant  in  1798  was  to  be  very  "  advanced  "  in  thought, 
and  there  is  not  wanting  evidence  that  certain  of  his  EngHsh  disciples 
were  incUned  to  parade  their  knowledge  of  him.  Hence  the  faint 
sneer  in  Hazlitt's  reference.  The  greatest  work  of  Kant  is  the  Critique 
of  Pure  Reason  (1781).  In  this  work  he  divides  the  fundamental 
concepts  of  the  human  understanding  into  twelve  "categories"  or 
orders — categories  of  quantity  (unity,  plurality,  totality),  categories  of 
quality  (reality,  negation,  limitation),  categories  of  relation  (substance, 
causalitv,  reciprocity),  categories  of  modality  (possibility,  actuality, 
necessity).  Hence  the  allusion  lower  down  to  the  "categories"  of  the 
Kanteans. 

p.  16,  1.  28.  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  or  Mr  Blackwood's.  William 
Blackwood  (i 776-1 834),  the  famous  Edinburgh  pubUsher.  The  refer- 
ence is  doubtless  to  the  banquet  given  to  George  IV  at  Edinburgh 
in   1822. 

p.  16,  1.  35.  Gaspar  Poussin's  or  Domenichino's.  For 
Gaspard  Poussin  see  p.  219.  Domenichino,  or  "little  Dominic,"  is  the 
popular  name  of  Domenico  Zampieri  (1581-1641),  a  painter  of  the  same 
order  as  the  Carracci,  for  whom  see  p.  223.  Domenichino,  once  over- 
praised, is  now  much  less  highly  esteemed.  He  specialised  in  dramatic 
landscapes,  and  is  represented  in  the  National  Gallery  by  four  fair 
pictures. 

p.  17,  1.  12.     the  Ancient  Mariner.     An  allusion  to  the  lines: 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  strait  the  Sun  was  fleck'd  with  bars, 

(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace) 
As  if  thro'   a  dungeon  grate  he  peer'd 

With  broad  and  burning  face. 

p.  17,  1.  14.  the  Valley  of  Rocks.  This  now  very  familiar  spot 
is  impressive  enough,  but  rather  less  awe-inspiring  than  Hazlitt's 
description  would  suggest. 

p.  17,  1.  27.  a  prose-tale.  This  is  The  Wanderings  of  Cain,  of 
which  a  fragment  exists,  usually  included  in  collections  of  Coleridge's 
verse.  Such  a  passage  as  the  following  applies  very  exactly  to  the  Valley 
of  the  Rocks:  "The  pointed  and  shattered  summits  of  the  ridges  of  the 
rocks  made  a  rude  mimicry  of  human  concerns,  and  seemed  to  prophesy 
mutely  of  things  that  then  were  not ;  steeples,  and  battlements,  and 
ships  with  naked  masts."  It  is  worth  notice  that  the  scenery  of 
Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell,  though  supposed  to  represent  the  district  of 
the  Swale  in  Yorkshire,  is  really  derived  from  Lynton,  near  and  familiar 
to  Wordsworth  at  the  time  when  he  was  writing  the  poem. 

p.  17,  1.  28.  the  Death  of  Abel.  A  sort  of  prose  poem,  once 
popular,  but  now  almost  forgotten,  written  by  Solomon  Gessner 
(1730-88)   a  native  of  Zurich. 


164  Notes 

p.  18,  1.  24.  Caleb  Williams.  A  novel  written  by  William 
Godwin.  It  is  a  study  of  social  injustice  in  the  "age  of  chivalry"  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

p.  18,  1.  28.     the  ribbed  sea-sands.     Ancient  Mariner: 
And  thou  art  long  and  lank  and  brown 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

p.  18,  1.  31.  A  fisherixiEiii,  etc.  This  sentence  as  it  stands  is 
quite  bad.  The  first  "that"  clause  is  adjectival,  qualifying  "boy," 
the  second  "that"  clause  is  noun  object  ungoverned  by  any  verb  or 
preposition.  The  insertion  of  "said"  between  "and"  and  "that"  in 
line  32  provides  the  necessary  governing  verb.  Hazlitt  did  not  reprint 
this  essay  himself  in  any  volume,  so  we  have  only  the  magazine  text 
as  our  authority. 

p.  18  note.  Buffamalco.  Buonamico  di  Cristofano,  called  Buffal- 
macco  (not  Buffamalco)  was  a  Florentine  painter  living  between  1262 
and  1 35 1.  Most  of  the  works  formerly  attributed  to  this  almost  mythical 
artist  are  now  assigned  to  other  hands.  Vasari  and  Boccaccio  are  the 
main  sources  of  anecdotes  about  Buffalmacco,  whose  very  existence 
has  been  questioned  by  modern  criticism.  It  might  be  observed  that 
Coleridge's  ability  to  appreciate  the  moral  conveyed  by  a  picture 
implies  no  abihty  to  appreciate  the  picture.  Quite  good  morals  may 
be  conveyed  by  hopelessly  bad  works  of  art.  As  Lamb  points  out, 
the  moral  of  George  Barnwell  is  much  more  obvious  than  the  moral  of 
Othello. 

p.  19,  1.  II.  explained  at  length  elsewhere.  In  the  Essay  on 
the  Principles  of  Human  Action. 

p.  ig,  1.  20.  for  Germany.  Coleridge  went  to  Germany  in 
September  1798,  and  returned  in  July  1799. 

p.  19,  1.  29.  his  tragedy.  Coleridge's  Remorse  was  performed 
at  Drury  Lane  in  1813  and  ran  for  twenty  nights, — quite  a  success 
in  those  days.  The  part  of  Don  Alvar  was  taken  by  Robert  William 
Elliston  (1774-1831),  the  egregious  and  excessive  actor  immortaUsed 
by  Lamb  in  the  Essays  of  Elia. 

p.  20,  1.  9.  But  there  is  matter,  etc.  The  last  lines  of  Words- 
worth's Hart  Leap  Well,  Pt  i : 

The  Knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time, 
And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale. — 
But  there  is  matter  for  a  second  rhyme, 
And  I  to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


i65 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  I 

Essay  in  in  The  Plain  Speaker.  First  published  in  The  London 
Magazine,  September  1820. 

p.  21,  1.  15.  mum-chance.  "Mumchance"  or  "mumbudget"  was 
a  game  in  which  strict  silence  had  to  be  kept.  "Mum's  the  word" 
is  a  very  old  phrase  for  silence,  originating  from  the  fact  that  "mum" 
is  a  rough  representation  of  all  we  can  say  when  the  lips  are  closed. 

p.  21,  1.    19.     And   of   his   port,  etc.      Chaucer,  Prologue   to   the 
Canterbury  Tales,  1.  69,  part  of  the  description  of  the  knight : 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys. 
And  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 

p.  21,  1.  24.  he  is  one  that  cannot,  etc.  From  The  Return 
from  Parnassus,  Act  11,  Sc.  6,  part  of  the  description  of  a  scholar. 
This  very  interesting  play  (1606)  was  first  publicly  acted  by  "the 
Students  in  St  John's  College  in  Cambridge,"  and  is  remarkable 
for  its  criticisms  of  many  contemporary  or  lately-  dead  writers,  such 
as  Spenser,  Daniel,  Drayton,  Marston,  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare.  It 
sketches  the  unhappiness  of  a  poor  scholar's  life  in  terms  that  recall 
Dr  Johnson's  indictment : 

There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail. 
Toil,  env5^  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
Hazlitt  gives  an  account  of  The  Return  from  Parnassus  in  the  fifth 
of  his  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth ;  but 
all  discussions  of  it  have  been  superseded  by  the  passages  devoted  to  it 
in  University  Drama  in  Tudor  Times  by  Dr  F.  S.  Boas.  The  author  of 
the  play  has  not  been  identified. 

p.  21,  1.  30.  He  knows  nothing,  etc.  This  same  charge  has 
been  brought  against  the  mere  author  in  an  essay  Shakespeare  the 
Man  by  Walter  Bagehot,  whose  work,  generally,  shows  many  signs 
of  Hazlitt's  influence :  "The  reason  why  so  few  good  books  are  written, 
is  that  so  few  people  that  can  write  know  anything.  In  general  an 
author  has  always  lived  in  a  room,  has  read  books,  has  cultivated 
science,  is  acquainted  with  the  style  and  sentiments  of  the  best  authors, 
but  he  is  out  of  the  way  of  employing  his  own  eyes  and  ears.  He  has 
nothing  to  hear  and  nothing  to  see.  His  life  is  a  vacuum. ...Now, 
what  can  any  one  think  of  such  a  hfe — except  how  clearly  it  shows 
that  the  habits  best  fitted  for  communicating  information... are  exactly 
the  habits  which  are  likely  to  afford  a  man  the  least  information  to 
communicate." 

p.  22,  1.  I.  Quidnunc.  A  quidnunc  is  a  busybody  who  makes 
it  his  business  to  hear  all  the  gossip.  The  name  comes  from  the  T.atin 
interrogative  quid,  what,  nunc,  now.  An  inveterate  gossip  named 
Quidnunc  is  the  chief  character  in  a  farce  The  Upholsterer,  or  What 
News?  by  Arthur  Murphy  (1727-1805). 

p.  22,  1.  3.  TuU's  Husbandry.  A  book  on  practical  farming 
(1733)  t>y  Jethro  TuU.  An  introduction  was  written  for  a  later  edition 
l3y  William  Cobbett,  "the  philosopher  of  Botley."  William  Cobbett 
( 1 762-1 835),  son  of  a  Hampshire  farmer,  led  a  varied  life,  first  as  a 


i66  Notes 

farmer's  boy,  then  as  a  soldier,  then  as  a  poUtical  refugee  in  America, 
and  nearly  all  the  time  as  a  bold  and  vigorous  pamphleteer,  denouncing 
fearlessly  the  social  and  political  abuses  of  the  day.  Cobbett,  ardent 
reformer  as  he  was,  belonged  in  spirit  to  an  older  time — to  a  "Merrie 
England"  of  friendly  (and  possibly  quite  imaginary)  feudalism,  when 
England  produced  its  own  necessaries,  when  there  was  plenty  in 
moderation  for  all,  when  labour  dwelt  on  its  own  land,  cultivated 
its  own  fields,  fed  its  own  beasts  on  unenclosed  commons,  and  knew 
nothing  of  industrial  slavery  in  the  factories  of  vast  and  sordid  slum- 
cities.  Cobbett  fought  very  vigorously  against  the  coming  invasion 
of  commerciahsm  with  all  its  attendant  evils  of  competitive  wages, 
factories,  huge  and  unwholesome  towns,  stock-jobbing  and  paper-money. 
His  "Tory  democracy"  resembles,  as  it  doubtless  suggested,  much  in 
the  "Young  England"  visions  of  Disraeli  as  set  forth  in  Coningsby, 
Sybil  and  Tancred.  Cobbett's  strong,  homely,  powerful  English 
is  excellent.  His  Weekly  Register  (1802-1835)  was  a  highly  popular 
organ  of  public  opinion.  His  innumerable  works  include  Advice 
to  Young  Men,  a  very  readable  English  Grammar,  a  History  of  the 
Reformation,  and  Rural  Rides,  a  most  valuable  account  of  agricultural 
England  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century — when,  indeed, 
agricultural  England  was  passing  away  before  the  new  England  of 
commerce.  Cobbett  lived  for  many  years  at  Botley  in  Hampshire, 
hence  Hazlitt's  reference  to  "the  philosopher  of  Botley."  For  Hazhtt's 
view  of  Cobbett  see  Tha  Spirit  of  the  Age,  or  Table-Talk — the  essay 
appears  in  both  books. 

p.  23,  1.  I.  Montaigne's  Essays.  Michel  de  Montaigne  (1533- 
1592),  a  French  nobleman,  immortal  as  the  author  of  essays  that  are 
delightful  in  themselves  and  important  as  being  the  original  from  which 
many  other  personal  essays  have  descended.  A  translation  of  Montaigne 
into  English  by  John  Florio  was  known  to  and  used  by  Shakespeare. 

p.  23, 1.  2.  Dilworth's  Spelling  Book.  A  well-known  eighteenth 
century  primer. 

p.  23,  1.  2.  Fearne's  Treatise.  A  law-book  (1772)  that  was 
for  a  long  while  an  authority  on  its  subject. 

p.  23,  1.  20.  etherlal  mould,  sky- tinctured.  A  reminiscence 
of  two  passages  in  Paradise  Lost : 

our  great  Enemy 
All  incorruptible,  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted,  and  the  ethereal  mould, 
Incapable  of  stain,  would  soon  expel 
Her  mischief.     (11,  139.) 

Six  wings  he  wore,  to  shade 
His  lineaments  divine:  the  pair  that  clad 
Each  shoulder  broad  came  mantling  o'er  his  breast 
With  regal  ornament;  the  middle  pair 
Girt  like  a  starry  zone  his  waist,  and  round 
Skirted  his  loins  and  thighs  with  downy  gold 
And  colours  dipt  in  Heaven;  the  third  his  feet 
Shadowed  from  either  heel  with  feathered  mail, 
Sky-tinctured  grain,     (v,  285.) 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     I  167 

p.  23,  1.  29.     breathe  in  other  air.     Paradise  Lost,  xi,  284-285  : 
How  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  fruits? 
p.  23,  1.  32.     confined  and  cabin'd  in.     Macbeth,  Act  iii,  Sc.  iv, 
I.  24: 

But  now  I  am  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fears, 
p.  24,  1.  2.      to  cozen  fortune.     Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  11,  Sc.  ix, 
37-39 : 

for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  fortune  and  be  honourable 
Without  the  stamp  of  merit? 
p.  24,  1.  3.     because  we  are  scholars,  etc.  Twelfth  Night,  Act  11, 
Sc.  iii,  123,  etc.:   "Art  any  more  than  a  steward?     Dost  thou  think, 
because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?" 
p.  24,  1.  28.   ■where  I  write  this.   Winterslow  Hut,  SaUsbury  Plain, 
p.  24,  1.  35.     The  wretched  slave.     Henry  V,  Act  iv,  Sc.  i,  11.  285- 
294.     Hazlitt  has  abbreviated  the  passage : 

The  wretched  slave 
Who,  with  a  body  filled  and  vacant  mind. 
Gets  him  to  rest,  crammed  with  distressful  bread. 
Never  sees  horrid  Night,  the  child  of  Hell, 
But,  Uke  a  lackey,  from  the  rise  to  set. 
Sweats,  etc. 
Hyperion  the  Titan  was  the  predecessor  of  Phoebus  in  driving  the  horses 
that  drew  the  sun  on  its  daily  journey. 

p.  25,  1.  I.  Ephemerides.  Plural  of  "ephemeris,"  a  diary,  and 
so  an  account  of  one's  own  life.  Possibly  Hazhtt  is  casting  a  hint  at 
Coleridge's  Biographia  Literaria. 

p.  25,  1.  15.  Congreve.  Wilham  Congreve  (1670-1729),  author 
of  The  Way  of  the  World,  Love  for  Love,  The  Double  Dealer,  etc.  The 
first  named  is  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  English  prose  comedies. 
Congreve's  verse  tragedy  The  Mourning  Bride  gives  us,  in  its  first  line, 
the  familiar  quotation : 

Music  has  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast. 

p.  25,  1.  19.  Machiavel.  Niccol6  Machiavelli  (1469-1527),  the 
Florentine  historian,  statesman  and  political  philosopher,  author  of 
The  Prince,  a  treatise  on  government,  long  supposed  (rather  stupidly) 
to  represent  the  limit  of  devilish  cunning  in  its  teaching. 

p.  25,  1.  21.  the  New  Eloise.  The  famous  novel  by  Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau  {1712-1778).  Rousseau,  who  was  born  in  Geneva,  led  a.- 
varied  and  harassed  life.  His  writings — chief  among  them  The  Social 
Contract,  ^rnile.  La  Nouvelle  Hiloise  and  the  Confessions — represent  a 
revolt  from  the  artificialities  of  civilisation  in  the  direction  of  a  simple, 
natural  scheme  of  life  and  social  relations.  Their  influence  was  very 
great ;  in  fact,  Rousseau  was  one  of  the  great  educators  of  the  generation 
that  succeeded  him,  and  the  doctrines  of  liberty,  equality,  fraternity 
and  the  rights  of  man,  dominant  in  the  Revolution,  were  derived 
mainly  from  his  teaching.     The  effect  of  Rousseau  upon  the  life  and 


i68  Notes 

thought  of  the  time  was  somewhat  similar  to  that  of  Tolstoy  upon  the 
present;  but  the  two  men  were  quite  dissimilar  in  personal  character. 

p.  26,  1.  I.  the  Viscount  of  St  Albans.  Francis  Bacon  (1561- 
1626),  the  great  lawyer,  pliilosopher  and  essay  writer. 

p.  26, 1.  8.     stocks  and  stones.     Julius  Caesar,  Act  i,  Sc.  i,  1.  40 : 
You  blocks,  you  stones,  you  worse  than  senseless  things! 
Oh  you  hard  hearts,  you  cruel  men  of  Rome! 
Probably  the  "stocks"  came  from  Milton's  sonnet  On  the  Late  Massacre 
in  Piedmont : 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of  old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks  and  stones. 
p.  26,  1.  10.     a  person  of  this  class.     Godwin, 
p.  26,  1.  II.     a  celebrated  authoress.     It  has  been  suggested  that 
this  refers  to  Fanny  Burney,  for  whom  see  p.  160.     Hazlitt  had  met 
captain  James  Burney,  brother  of  the  novelist,  at  the  Lambs',  and  his 
daughter  was,  of  course,  Fanny  Burney's  niece. 

p.  26,  1.  36.  Whose  is  the  superscription?  St  Matthew's  Gospel, 
xxii,  20. 

p.  26,  1.  39.     G .     Godwin,  as  elsewhere  in  this  and  the  following 

essay. 

p.  26, 1.  40.     C .     Coleridge.     In  the  preceding  essay  Hazhtt  has 

remarked    upon  Coleridge's  tendency  to  prefer  the  unknown  to  the 
known. 

p.  27,  1.  II.  Prometheus.  Prometheus  the  Titan  brought  fire 
from  heaven  to  mankind  and  first  taught  the  human  race  the  arts 
and  sciences.  The  angry  immortals,  fearing  that  man  would  become 
as  the  gods,  knowing  good  and  evil,  punished  Prometheus  by  chaining 
him  to  a  rock  in  the  Caucasus  where  an  eagle  preyed  upon  his  vitals. 
Prometheus  Bound  is  a  drama  by  the  Greek  poet  Aeschylus,  Prometheus 
Unbound  a  drama  by  the  Enghsh  poet  Shelley. 

p.  27,  1.  27.  virtu.  An  Itahan  word  meaning  taste  in  the  fine 
arts,  much  used  in  England  about  Hazhtt's  time  and  earlier,  but  now 
far  less  frequently  heard  than  its  derivative  "virtuoso,"  meaning  one 
possessed  of  talent  in  the  arts,  especially  great  executive  skill  in  music. 
This  last  limitation  of  its  meaning  seems  now  becoming  definite. 

p.  27,  1.  39.  flat,  insipid,  etc.  A  reminiscence  of  Hamlet,  Act  i, 
Sc.  ii,  133  etc. : 

Oh  God  !  God ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world. 

p.  28,  1.  36.     subjects  of  fancy.     Prize-fighting. 

p.  29,  1.  2.  double  entendre.  The  usual  version  in  England  of 
double  entente — double  meaning. 

p.  29,  note.  The  French... are  a  more  sensible,  etc.  Such  an 
assertion,  which  would  pass  nowadays  almost  unchallenged,  required 
considerable  courage  to  maintain  in  Hazlitt's  day,  when  France  was 
the  hereditary  enemy. 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     I  169 

p.  30,  1.  7.  The  fear  of  being  silent,  etc.  A  reminiscence  of 
Cowper,  Conversation,  352 : 

Our  sensibilities  are  so  acute, 

The  fear  of  being  silent  makes  us  mute. 

p.  30,  1.  39.  a  remark  of  Rousseau's.  That  the  proper  study 
of  mankind  is  not  only  man,  but  all  the  other  facts  of  nature,  and  that 
a  merely  bookish  knowledge  is  useless,  and  even  dangerous,  may  be 
called  the  general  theme  of  Rousseau's  £mile,  or  Education,  a  treatise 
which,  published  in  1762,  anticipates  almost  every  recent  development 
of  educational  theory. 

p.  31,  1.  15.  Grimm's  Memoirs.  Friedrich  Melchior  Grimm 
(1723-1807)  was  a  German  who  made  himself  prominent  by  attaching 
himself  to  various  French  notabilities,  thus  getting  into  the  main 
current  of  French  life  and  literature.  He  was  for  a  short  time  friendly 
with  Rousseau,  and  for  much  longer  with  Diderot,  to  whom  he  addressed 
a  voluminous  literary  and  philosophical  correspondence.  He  became 
secretarj?  to  the  duke  of  Orleans  and,  imtil  the  Revolution,  was  a 
minister  at  the  French  court.  An  English  version  of  his  Memoirs 
published  in  1S14  is  noticed  by  Hazlitt  in  his  Round  Table  essay  On 
the  literary  Character,  a  paper  that,  in  its  general  subject,  should  be  com- 
pared with  the  present  essay.  Grimm's  references  to  Rousseau  are 
quite  untrustworthy. 

p,  31  1.  28.  We  had  good  talk.  See  Boswell,  under  date  1768: 
"When  I  called  upon  Dr  Johnson  next  morning,  I  found  him  highly 
satisfied  with  his  colloquial  prowess  the  preceding  evening.  'Well 
(said  he)  we  had  good  talk.'  Boswell  'Yes,  Sir;  you  tossed  and  gored 
several  persons.'" 

p.  31,  1.  39.  Gil  Bias.  The  celebrated  novel  by  Le  Sage  (1668- 
1747).  There  is  no  one  set  dispute  in  Gil  Bias.  In  the  first  chapter 
young  Gil  is  described  as  so  fond  of  disputes  that  he  stopped  passers-by 
to  argue  with  them.  These  discussions  ended  in  grimaces,  violent 
gestures,  furious  eyes  and  foaming  mouths,  till  the  disputants  looked 
more  like  maniacs  than  philosophers.  Another  dispute,  briefly  described, 
is  that  of  the  wits  and  authors,  friends  of  Nunnez.  This  ends  in  fisti- 
cuffs, the  apostles  of  culture  having  to  be  violently  parted  by  Gil  Bias, 
Nunnez,  Scipio  and  the  lackeys.  A  third  dispute  is  again  that  among 
critics  and  authors,  friends  of  Nunnez,  who  are  found  discussing  which 
is  the  chief  character  in  the  Iphigenia  of  Euripides.  The  bachelor 
Melchior  de  Villegas  maintains  that  the  chief  character  is  the  wind. 
He  is  violently  opposed,  but  after  mutual  revilings,  the  disputants 
settle  down  to  eating  and  drinking  amicably  together. 

p.  31,  1.  40.  a  very  ingenious  man.  Sir  John  Stoddart,  brother 
of  Sarah  Stoddart  to  whom  Hazlitt  was  married.  He  was  editor  of 
The  New  Times  for  some  years,  and  was  very  strong  on  the  necessity 
for  destrojnng  Napoleon  and  restoring  the  Bourbons. 

p.  32,  1.  6.  the  chapter  in  Sterne.  See  A  Sentimental  Journey, 
second  of  the  chapters  entitled,  "The  Passport,  Versailles." 

p.  33,  1.  13.  villainous,  and  shews,  etc.  Hamlet,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii, 
1.  48:  "And  let  those  that  play  your  clowns  speak  no  more  than  is 
set  down  for  them;  for  there  be  of  them  that  will  themselves  laugh, 
to  set  on  some  quantity  of  barren  spectators  to  laugh  too;  though, 
in  the  mean  time,  some  necessary  question  of  the  play  be  then  to  be 


I70  Notes 

considered :    that's  villainous,  and  shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in 
the  fool  that  uses  it." 

p    33,  1.   17.     When  Greek  meets  Greek,  etc.     The  usual  mis- 
quotation of  a  Hne  from  the  play  The  Rival  Queens,  or  Alexander  the 
Great,  by  Nathaniel  Lee  (1653-1692).     It  occurs  in  Act  iv,  sc.  ii: 
Your  father,  Philip.     I  have  seen  him  march. 
And  fought  beneath  his  dreadful  banner,  where 
The  boldest  at  this  table  would  have  trembled. 
Nay,  frown  not,  sir,  you  cannot  look  me  dead. 
When  Greeks  joined  Greeks,  then  was  the  tug  of  war, 
The  laboured  battle  sweat,  and  conquest  bled. 
p,  34.  1.  3.     the   pearls  in  the  adage.     In  the  "text,"  HazUtt 
should  have  said,  for  the  reference  is  to  St  Matthew,  vii,  6.     No  doubt 
Hazlitt  had  in  his  mind  Lady  Macbeth's  "cat  i'  the  adage." 

p.  34,  1.  8.  of  adepts,  of  illuminati.  These  words  were  specially 
applied  to  the  initiated  members  of  secret  masonic  societies  that 
flourished  on  the  continent  during  the  eighteenth  century. 


ON  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  AUTHORS.  II 

Essay  iv  in  The  Plain  Speaker. 

p.  35,  1.  I.     L 's.     Lamb's. 

P-  35.  1-  3>  the  Small-coal  man's  musical  parties.  Thomas 
Britton  (1654-1714)  was  a  Northampton  man  who  came  up  to  London 
as  a  boy  and  learned  the  coal-trade.  He  afterwards  set  up  for  himself 
in  a  stable  which  he  divided  into  two  storeys,  the  lower  being  devoted 
to  the  sale  of  coal,  and  the  upper  to  loftier  purposes,  for  here  he  esta- 
blished in  1678  a  sort  of  musical  club  or  assembly,  and  for  thirty-six 
years  there  were  held,  every  Thursday,  concerts  of  chamber  music, 
both  vocal  and  instrumental,  attended  by  a  mixed  audience  ranging  from 
genuine  musical  amateurs  to  fashionable  people  who  came  out  of  curiosity. 
The  greatest  performers  of  the  day  could  be  heard  in  Britton's  upper 
room,  no  less  a  person  than  Handel,  for  instance,  appearing  there  as 
an  organist.  Britton  was  also  a  notable  book-collector,  and  in  his 
coal-seller's  dress  joined  such  noble  lords  as  Harley,  Sunderland, 
Pembroke  and  Devonshire  in  book-hunting  expeditions.  His  death 
was  as  remarkable  as  his  life ;  for  a  ventriloquist,  by  way  of  a  practical 
joke,  having  announced  in  a  mysterious  voice  that  he  would  shortly 
die,  Britton  received  such  a  shock  that  he  actually  died  a  few  days 
afterwards. 

p.  35,  1.  4.  John  Buncle.  Thomas  Amory  (1691-1788),  "the 
EngUsh  Rabelais,"  was  a  very  eccentric  author,  who  produced  various 
compilations,  now  forgotten,  but  wrote,  as  well,  the  Life  of  John  Buncle, 
a  kind  of  novel,  part  fact,  part  fancy,  a  curious  blend  of  autobiography, 
theology  and  rhapsodical  descriptions  of  impossible  places.  The  wild 
scenes  may  be  called  without  exaggeration  the  landscapes  of  a  madman, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Amory  was  not  quite  sane.  One  form  of 
his  eccentricity  was  a  refusal  to  go  out  by  day.  He  emerged  at  night- 
time and  crept  shyly  and  silently  about  the  streets.  For  an  enthusiastic 
account  of  John  Buncle  see  Hazlitt's  essay  on  that  subject  in  The  Round 
Table. 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     II  171 

p.  35;  1.  18.  And,  in  our  flowing  cups,  etc.  An  adaptation  of 
Henry  V,  Act  iv,  Sc.  iii,  11.  51-55: 

then  shall  our  names, 
Familiar  in  his  month  as  household  words, 
Harry  the  King,   Bedford  and  E.xeter, 
Warwick  and  Talbot,  Sahsbury  and  Gloucester, 
Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remembered. 

p.  35,  1.  21.  the  old  everlasting  set.  Most  of  the  allusions 
here  need  no  annotation.  Others  will  be  found  explained  elsewhere. 
John  Gay  (1685-1732).  a  prohfic  author  and  wit,  is  now  remembered 
mainly  by  his  Fables,  by  such  songs  as  Black-eyed  Susan,  and  by 
The  Beggar's  Opera,  a  comedy  interspersed  with  popular  songs— the 
greatest  theatrical  success  of  its  day.  William  Hogarth  (1697-1764), 
the  most  English  of  painters,  is  well  represented  in  the  national 
collections,  "Marriage  a  la  Mode"  being  at  the  National  Gallery,  "The 
Election"  and  "The  Rake's  Progress"  at  the  Soane  Museum.  His 
pictures  were  all  engraved  and  pubhshed,  hence  the  reference  to  prints. 
Lamb  has  an  excellent  essay  on  Hogarth.  Claude's  landscapes.  Claude 
Gellee  (1600-1682),  often  called  Claude  Lorrame  from  his  birthplace, 
was  a  famous  landscape  painter.  He  spent  much  of  his  time  in  Italy, 
and  was  tireless  in  drawing  and  sketching  from  nature.  The  effect 
of  this  direct  study  can  be  seen  in  his  painted  pictures,  which  show 
a  distinct  leaning  towards  the  modern,  natural  type  of  landscape. 
The  National  Gallery  has  several  good  Claudes.  The  Cartoons.  The 
famous  Raphael  (1483-1520)  drew,  as  designs  for  tapestry  to  be  hung 
in  the  Sistine  chapel  at  Rome,  ten  very  large  cartoons  upon  subjects 
from  The  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  Three  of  these  are  lost,  but  the  other 
seven  exist  and  are  now  at  South  Kensington.  In  Hazlitt's  time  they 
were  at  Hampton  Court. 

p.  35,  1.  25.  The  Scotch  Novels.  The  novels  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  pubhshed  anonymously.  The  authorship  of  these  novels  was 
not  publicly  acknowledged  by  Sir  Walter  until  1827,  though  for  some 
time  he  had  been  generally  accepted  as  the  writer. 

p.  35,  1.  27.  The  author  of  the  Rambler.  Dr  Johnson.  The 
Rambler  was  a  periodical  issue  of  little  essays  on  the  model  of  The 
Spectator.  It  ran  from  1749  to  1752.  In  the  Rambler  essays  Johnson's 
style  reaches  its  limit  of  ponderosity :  hence  the  preference  in  the  text 
for  his  spoken  words  as  recorded  in  Boswell's  ever  delightful  Life. 

p.  35,  1.  30.  Junius.  From  1769  to  1772  a  series  of  letters  signed 
"  Junius  "  appeared  in  The  Public  Advertiser  attacking  with  polished  ease 
and  deadly  skill  the  personal  rule  of  George  III  and  its  political  instru- 
ments. These  letters,  \\dth  their  command  of  facts,  their  outspoken 
directness,  and  their  calm  and  merciless  style,  were  an  altogether  new 
thing  in  English  pohtical  literature,  and  their  fame  has  therefore 
endured  to  our  time.  The  identity  of  "Junius"  has  never  been  con- 
clusively established. 

p.  36,  1.  2.  a  list  of  persons  famous  in  history.  See  in  the 
present  volume  the  essay  Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen. 

p.  36,  1.  3.  Sir  Thomas  Browne.  Sir  Thomas  Browne  (1605- 
1682),  the  Norwich  physician,  author  of  Religio  Medici,  Hydriotaphia 
{or  Urn  Burial),  The  Garden  of  Cyrus  and  other  works,  has  written 
the  richest,  most  solemn  and  organ-like  prose  in  our  language. 


172  Notes 

p.  36, 1.  4.  Dr  Faustus.  The  mythical  person  whose  bargain  with 
the  devil  forms  the  subject  of  several  medieval  legends,  and  of  two 
famous  dramas,  the  Dr  Faustus  of  Marlowe  and  the  Faust  of  Goethe. 

p.  36,  1.  6.  Donne.  John  Donne  (1573-1631),  dean  of  St  Paul's 
and  Enghsh  poet.  He  is  the  subject  of  a  delightful  httle  biography 
by  Izaak  Walton. 

p.  36,  1.  6.  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586), 
the  famous  Elizabethan  courtier,  scholar,  poet  and  soldier,  whose 
relinquishing  of  a  glass  of  water,  when  he  was  wounded,  to  the  greater 
necessity  of  a  dying  soldier,  is  an  imperishable  legend.  He  wrote  a 
romance  Arcadia  which  is  very  little  read,  an  Apology  for  Poetry  and  a 
sonnet  sequence  Astrophel  and  Stella.  One  of  these  sonnets  is  quoted 
on  page  158. 

p.  36,  1.  II.  the  sumptuous  banquet.  The  feast  with  which 
Satan  tempted  Jesus  after  the  forty  days'  fast  in  the  wilderness. 
Paradise  Regained,  11,  338-361  : 

Our  Saviour,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  beheld. 
In  ample  space  under  the  broadest  shade, 
A  table  richly  spread  in  regal  mode. 
With  dishes  piled  and  meats  of  noblest  sort 
And  savour — beasts  of  chase,  or  fowl  of  game, 
In  pastry  built,  or  from  the  spit,  or  boiled, 
Grisamber-steamed ;    all  fish,  from  sea  or  shore. 
Freshet  or  purling  brook,  of  shell  or  fin. 
And  exquisitest  name,  for  which  was  drained 
Pontus,  and  Lucrine  bay,  and  Afric  coast. 
Alas!    how  simple,  to  these  cates  compared. 
Was  that  crude  apple  that  diverted  Eve ! 
And  at  a  stately  sideboard,  by  the  wine. 
That  fragrant  smell  diffused,  in  order  stood 
Tall  stripling  youths  rich-clad,  of  fairer  hue 
Than  Ganymed  or  Hylas:    distant  more. 
Under  trees  now  tripped,  now  solemn  stood. 
Nymphs  of  Diana's  train,  and  Naiades 
With  fruits  and  flowers  from  Amalthea's  horn. 
And  ladies  of  the  Hesperides,  that  seemed 
Fairer  than  feigned  of  old,  or  fabled  since 
Of  faery  damsels  met  in  forest  wide 
By  knights  of  Logres,  or  of  Lyones, 
Lancelot,  or  Pelleas,  or  Pellenore. 
p.  36,  1.  24.     piquet.     A  once  popular  card  game. 
p.   36,  1.   27.     Irish  blackguard.     This  and  Scotch  rappee  were 
varieties  of  snuff. 

p.  36,  1.  31.  no  mean  person.  It  will  be  remembered  that, 
in  Lamb's  immortal  essay,  Mrs  Battle  would  lose  a  game  rather  than 
soil  her  lips  with  the  ungenteel  phrases  demanded  in  the  game  of 
cribbage. 

p.  36,  1.  31.     Ned  P .     Edward  Phillips,  who  cannot  be  better 

described  than  in  the  words  of  one  of  Lamb's  letters  to  Coleridge : 
"One  piece  of  news  I  know  will  give  you  pleasure — Rickman  is  made 
Clerk  to  the  House  of  Commons,  ^^2000  a  year  with  greater  expectations 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     II  173 

— but  that  is  not  the  news — it  is  that  poor  card-playing  Phillips,  that 
has  felt  himself  for  so  many  years  the  outcast  of  Fortune, . .  .has  strangely 
stepped  into  Rickman's  Secretaryship — sword,  bag,  house  and  all — 
from  a  hopeless  ,1^100  a  year  eaten  up  beforehand  with  desperate  debts, 
to  a  clear  ;^400  or  ^500— it  almost  reconciles  me  to  the  belief  of  a  moral 
government  of  the  world — the  man  stares  and  gapes  and  seems  to  be 
always  wondering  at  what  has  befallen  him — he  tries  to  be  eager  at 
Cribbage,  but  alas!  the  source  of  that  Interest  is  dried  up  for  ever, 
he  no  longer  plays  for  his  next  day's  meal,  or  to  determine  whether  he 
shall  have  a  half  dinner  or  a  whole  dinner,  whether  he  shall  buy  a 
pair  of  black  silk  stockings,  or  wax  his  old  ones  a  week  or  two  longer,  the 
poor  man's  relish  of  a  Trump,  the  Four  Honours  is  gone — and  I  do  not 
know  whether,  if  we  could  get  at  the  bottom  of  things,  poor  star-doomed 
Phillips  with  his  hair  staring  with  despair  was  not  a  happier  being  than 
the  sleek  well-combed  oily-pated  Secretary  that  has  succeeded." 

p.  36,  1.  36.  Baron  Munchausen.  Everyone  is  famiUar  with 
the  staggering  unveracity  of  Baron  Miinchhausen's  recorded  deeds. 
There  was  a  real  Baron  von  Miinchhausen  (1720-1797)  who  fought 
with  the  Russians  against  the  Turks.  A  grotesque  history  of  the 
Baron's  prowess  was  written  by  a  certain  Rudolf  Raspe.  a  clever  but 
rascally  author,  whose  dishonesty  suggested  the  character  of  the 
swindling  German  Dousterswivel  in  Scott's  dehghtful  novel  The 
Antiquary. 

p.  36, 1.37.     Captain ■.    Captain  James  Burney,  son  of  Johnson's 

old  friend  Dr  Burney,  and  brother  of  Madame  D'Arblay.  He  was 
a  distinguished  sailor  who  had  served  under  Captain  Cook. 

p.  36,  1.  38.  Jem  White.  James  White  (1775-1820)  was  a 
schoolfellow  of  Lamb  at  Christ's  Hospital,  and  is  immortalised  in 
Lamb's  essay  The  Praise  of  Chimney-Sweepers.  He  wrote,  possibly 
with  the  help  of  Lamb,  a  volume  of  what  were  alleged  to  be  Original 
Letters,  etc.,  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  His  Friends,  now  first  made 
public  by  a  Gentleman,  a  Descendant  of  Dame  Quickly  (T796).  The 
best  available  account  of  this  odd  volume  is  Lamb's  review  of  it  reprinted 
in  Vol.  I  of  Lucas's  edition  of  Lamb. 

p.  36,  1.  40.  turning  like  the  latter  end,  etc.  A  quotation  from 
Falstaff 's  Letters  referred  to  above.  It  is  from  a  letter  supposed 
to  be  written  to  Justice  Shallow  by  his  servant  Davy  (for  whom  see 
King Henvy  TV ,  Part  II) :  "Master  Abram  is  dead,  gone,  your  Worship, 
dead!  Master  Abram!  Oh!  good  your  Worship  a's  gone.  A'  never 
throve,  since  a'  came  from  Windsor — -'twas  his  death.  I  called  him 
rebel,  your  Worship — but  a'  was  all  subject — a'  was  subject  to  any 
babe,  as  much  as  a  King — a'  turned,  like  as  it  were  the  latter  end  of 
a  lover's  lute — a' was  all  peace  and  resignment — a'  took  delight  in  nothing 
but  his  Book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets — a'  would  go  to  the  Stroud  side  under 
the  large  beech  tree,  and  sing,  till  'twas  quite  pity  of  our  lives  to  mark 
him,  etc." 

p.  37,  I.  I.     A .     William  Ayrton  (1777-1858),  a  musical  friend 

of  Lamb,  director  of  the  King's  theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  where  Don 
Giovanni  had  been  produced  in  1817.  An  amusing  rimed  epistle  of 
Lamb  to  Ayrton  asking  for  orders  to  see  Don  Giovanni  is  included  in 
Lamb's  letters. 


174  Notes 

p.  37,  1.  2.  the  Will  Honeycomb.  Will  Honeycomb  is  a  character 
described  in  the  "Sir  Roger  de  Coverley"  essays  of  Steele  and  Addison. 
The  set  description  of  Will  Honeycomb  appears  in  Steele's  essay  called 
The  Spectator  Club:  "But  that  our  society  may  not  appear  a  set 
of  humorists,  unacquainted  with  the  gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the 
age,  we  have  amongst  us  the  gallant  Will  Honeycomb,  a  gentleman 
who,  according  to  his  years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  life,  but  having 
been  very  careful  of  his  person,  and  always  had  a  very  easy  fortune, 
time  has  made  but  very  little  impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his 
forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His  person  is  well-turned,  and  of  a 
good  height.  He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse  with  which 
men  usually  entertain  women.  He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well, 
and  remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  He  can  smile  when  one  speaks 
to  him,  and  laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of  every  mode..., In 
a  word,  all  his  conversation  and  knowledge  has  been  in  the  female 
world." 

p.  37,  I.  2.     Mrs  R .     Mrs  Reynolds,  who   had   been  Lamb's 

schoolmistress  in  his  earhest  days,  and  to  whom  in  later  life  he  paid, 
with  characteristic  generosity,  an  annuity  of  ;^30  or  £-^2. 

p.  37,  1.  7.     P .     Peter  George  Patmore  (1786-1855),  father  of 

Coventry  Patmore  the  poet. 

p.  37,  1.  8,  M.B.  Martin  Burney,  one  of  Lamb's  most  attached 
friends,  frequently  mentioned  in  the  letters.  He  was  a  son  of  Captain 
James  Burney, 

p.  37. 1.  12.  the  author  of  ''The  Road  to  Ruin."  Holcroft,  for 
whom  see  p.  156. 

P-  37>  1-  35-  til©  Biographia  Literaria.  Coleridge's  desultory 
and  unfinished  autobiography,   published  in   1817. 

P-  37.  1-  37-  An  event.  It  is  not  immediately  clear  what  Hazlitt 
means  by  this.  Obviously  something  more  is  implied  than  a  mere 
personal  difference  between  him  and  Lamb,  such  as  happened  in  1814. 
The  last  paragraph  of  the  essay  called  Of  Persons  One  Would  Wish  to 
Have  Seen  (p.  59  of  this  volume)  intimates  that  Hazhtt  is  referring 
to  the  downfall  of  Napoleon  as  the  event  that  destroyed  the  friendly 
intercourse  he  has  been  describing.  Hazhtt's  intense  sympathy  with 
Napoleon  is  dealt  with  in  the  introduction  and  needs  no  further 
discussion  here.  The  only  difficulty  in  this  explanation  is  one  of 
chronology.  Hazlitt  is  describing  assemblies  that  took  place  in  Mitre 
Court  Buildings  where  Lamb  lived  from  1801  to  1809,  Obviously  the 
downfall  of  Napoleon  in  1814-1815  could  hardly  break  up  a  party 
that  had  already  broken  up  in  1809.  Hazlitt,  however,  is  notoriously 
bad  in  matters  of  chronology,  and  it  is  plain  that,  writing  several  years 
later,  he  simply  forgot  how  much  time  separated  Mitre  Court  from 
Elba  and  Waterloo.  See,  too,  the  Advertisement  to  The  Round  Table, 
describing  his  association  with  Leigh  Hunt,  and  their  proposed  joint 
contribution  of  essays  to  The  Examiner  :  "  Our  plan  had  been  no  sooner 
arranged  and  entered  upon,  than  Buonaparte  landed  at  Fr4jus,  et  voild. 
la  Table  Ronde  dessoiite.  Our  little  congress  was  broken  up  as  well 
as  the  great  one." 

p.  37,  1.  40.  Like  angels'  visits,  etc.  A  blend  of  two  quotations. 
The  ultimate  origin  is  The  Grave  by  Robert  Blair  (i 699-1 746),  a  poem 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     II  175 

the  best  parts  of  which  are  those  that  do  not  immediately  recall 
Hamlet  and  Gray's  Elegy.  The  Grave  is  further  commended  to  people 
of  taste  by  the  fact  ithat  Blake  illustrated  it  with  some  striking 
designs.     Thus  writes  Blair: 

the  good  he  scorned 
Stalked  ofiE  reluctant,  Uke  an  ill-used  ghost. 
Not  to  return;    or,  if  it  did,  its  visits, 
like  those  of  angels,  short,  and  far  between. 

Thomas  Campbell  (1777-1844),  author  of  Ye  Mariners  of  England, 
The  Battle  of  the  Baltic  and  Hohenlinden,  consciously  or  unconsciously 
borrowed  Blair's  simile  for  a  passage  in  The  Pleasures  of  Hope : 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bhss  have  been 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between  ? 
Hazlitt  pointed  out  the  similarity,  and  added  that,  in  altering  Blair's 
line,  Campbell  had  spoiled  it,  as  "few"  and  "far  between"  are  the 
same  thing,  whereas  "short"  and  "far  between"  are  not. 

p.  38,  1.  7.  Mr  Douce.  Francis  Douce  (1757-1834)  was  a  very 
eccentric  antiquary  who  was,  for  a  short  time.  Keeper  of  Manuscripts 
at  the  British  Museum.  He  is  best  remembered  by  his  Illustrations  of 
Shakespeare  (2  vols.),  a  valuable  work.  He  affected  a  singularity  of 
manner  and  costume,  and  seems  to  have  been  a  "difficult"  man  to  all 
but  a  few  bibliomaniacs  like  himself. 

p.  38,  1.  9.  L.  H.  Leigh  Hunt  (i 784-1859),  the  essayist  and 
miscellaneous  writer,  friend  of  Lamb,  Keats,  Shelley  and  Byron,  had 
a  gay,  light-hearted,  companionable  disposition;  but  it  is  necessary 
to  remind  ourselves  that  he  also  had  courage  enough  to  hold 
political  opinions  unpalatable  to  a  corrupt  court  and  to  endure  two 
years'  imprisonment  for  asserting  them.  His  father  was  a  Barbadian, 
hence  the  allusion  to  tropical  blood.  Hazlitt's  criticism  is  very  sound. 
Leigh  Hunt's  work  can  scarcely  be  said  to  survive.  It  lacks  character 
and  personality.  Hunt  is  described  at  full  length  in  The  Spirit  of  the 
Age. 

p.  38,  1.  18.  aliquando  sufJlaminandus  erat.  "He  sometimes 
needed  to  be  checked."  Hazlitt  no  doubt  got  this  phrase  from  Ben 
Jonson's  Timber,  or  Discoveries  made  upon  Men  and  Matters  as  they 
have  flowed  out  of  his  Daily  Readings  or  had  their  Reflux  to  his  Peculiar 
Notions  of  the  Times — z.  collection  of  prose  miscellanies,  ranging  from 
mere  sentences  to  essays,  first  published  posthumously  in  1641.  The 
phrase  occurs  in  the  section  called  De  Shakespeare  nostrati,  where  Ben, 
in  terms  now  familiar,  speaks  of  Shakespeare's  never  having  blotted 
a  line.  "  He  was  indeed,  honest,  and  of  an  open  and  free  nature,  had 
an  excellent  fancy,  brave  notions,  and  gentle  expressions,  wherein  he 
flowed  with  that  facility  that  sometime  it  was  necessary  he  should  be 
stopped.  Sufflaminandus  erat,  as  Augustus  said  of  Haterius."  This 
last  allusion  is  to  an  anecdote  related  in  Seneca's  Excerpta  Contro- 
versiarum,  Bk  iv.  Proem,  par.  7. 

p.  39,  1.  4.  slubber  over.  A  Shakespearean  reminiscence.  See 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  11,  Sc.  viii,  1.  39 : 

Slubber  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time. 
"To  slubber"  means  "to  slur  over."     Shakespeare  uses  it  in  the  sense 


176  Notes 

of  doing  something  carelessly,  Hazlitt  rather  in  the  sense  of  concealing 
or  disguising. 

p.  39,  1.  8.  the  Indicator.  A  periodical  edited  by  Leigh  Hunt 
from  1819  to  1821.  His  editorship  ceased  a  little  before  the  paper 
came  to  an  end.  Of  the  title  Hunt  himself  says:  "It  is  to  be  called 
the  Indicator,  after  a  bird  of  that  name,  who  shows  people  where  to 
find  honey." 

p.  39, 1.  19.  Mr  Northcote,  the  painter.  James  Northcote  (1746- 
183 1 ),  a  painter  of  some  note  in  his  day,  was  a  pupil  of  Sir  Joshua, 
and  produced  portraits  and  historical  pictures;  but  he  is  remembered 
now  almost  solely  for  The  Conversations  of  John  Northcote,  Esq.  R.A. 
published  by  HazUtt  in  1826  and  1827,  six  years  after  the  date  of  the 
present  essay. 

p.  39,  1.  29.     His  face  is  as  a  book.     Macbeth,  Act  i,  Sc.  v,  1.  63 : 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters. 

p.  40,  1.  2.  the  Catalogue  Raisonn6.  The  Catalogue  RaisonnS, 
of  pictures  exhibited  at  the  British  Institution,  was  vigorously  criticised 
by  Hazlitt  in  three  essays,  two  of  which  are  included  in  The  Round 
Table.     A  catalogue  raisonnS  is  a  list  compiled  on  systematic  principles. 

p.  40,  1.  II.  I  never  ate  or  drank  with  Mr  Northcote.  Few 
people  did.  Northcote  was  very  miserly  and  not  given  to  hospitality 
that  cost  money. 

p.  40,  1.  16.  he  cannot  write  himself.  He  was,  nevertheless, 
the  author  of  certain  fables  and  criticisms,  together  with  Uves  of 
Reynolds  and  Titian. 

p.  40,  1.  36.  Montesquieu.  A  French  nobleman  (1689-1755) 
who  criticised  adversely  the  pohtical  conditions  of  his  time,  and  in  his 
most  famous  work,  De  I'Esprit  des  Lois,  discussed  a  free  constitution 
on  the  Enghsh  model.  Montesquieu's  work  was  one  of  the  under- 
currents in  the  flood  of  the  Revolution.  Hazlitt  is  rather  hard  on 
Montesquieu,  who  long  suffered  from  defective  sight  and  died  totally 
bUnd.  That  dictation  is  not  incompatible  with  supreme  Hterary  art 
is  triumphantly  proved  by  the  case  of  Milton. 

p.  40,  1.  39.  Horne  Tooke.  John  Home  (1736-1812),  who  took 
his  more  familiar  name  from  that  of  a  rich  benefactor,  Mr  Tooke  of 
Purley,  was  a  very  prominent  figure  on  the  liberal  side  of  Enghsh 
poUtics  in  the  years  of  the  French  Revolution,  when  freedom  of  thought 
and  speech  were  persecuted  as  offences.  He  suffered  considerably 
for  his  opinions.  His  once  famous  work.  The  Diversions  of  Purley, 
a  curious  blend  of  grammar,  literary  criticism  and  poUtics,  is  now 
forgotten  by  most  people.  HazUtt  gives  a  very  interesting  sketch  of 
Horne  Tooke  in  The  Siiirit  of  the  Age  and  a  long  account  of  The 
Diversions  of  Purley  in  a  lecture  pubUshed  among  his  fugitive  writings 
(Works,  Vol.  XI). 

p.  41,  1.  3.  no  one  could  relish  a  good  style,  etc.  There  is 
something  in  this  assertion,  as  Hazlitt  himself  admits  lower  down. 
Charles  Lamb  is  emphatic  on  the  point:  "Anything  high  may,  nay, 
must,  be  read  out;  you  read  it  to  yourself  with  an  imaginary  auditor." 
(Letter  to  Wordsworth.  22  Jan.  1830.)  The  French  novehst  Flaubert, 
who  aimed  at  perfection  in  his  prose,  attached  special  importance  to 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     II  177 

an  oral  test  of  his  work:  "He  had  an  excellent  method  which  can  be 
recommended  to  every  writer;  he  read  aloud  what  he  had  written, 
carefully  listening  for  any  break  in  the  rhythm,  any  dull  sounds,  or 
any  beating  of  the  words  against  each  other.  Maupassant  tells  us  that 
he  took  up  his  sheet  of  paper  and  raised  it  to  his  line  of  sight,  then, 
leaning  on  his  elbow,  declaimed  it  in  a  slow  incisive  voice... conscien- 
tiously placing  his  commas  like  halts  on  a  long  road He  himself  said: 

'A  phrase  can  only  live  when  it  corresponds  to  all  the  necessities  of 
respiration.  I  know  it  to  be  good  when  it  can  be  read  aloud  easily.'" 
(Flaubert,  by  Emile  Faguet.) 

p.  41,  1.  7.     hear  a  sound   so  fine.     From  Act  v,  So.  ii,  of   the 

tragedy  Virginius  by  James  Sheridan  Knowles  (1784-1862): 
Is  it  a  voice,  or  nothing,  answers  me? 
I  hear  a  sound  so  iine,  there's  nothing  lives 
Twixt  it  and  silence. 

p.  41,  1.  17.  classical  centos.  A  cento  is  a  sort  of  patchwork 
composition  made  by  stringing  together  words  and  phrases  borrowed 
from  the  works  of  different  writers.  An  unoriginal  person  who  tries 
to  produce  an  elaborate  composition  usually  manages  to  bring  forth 
nothing  but  scraps  from  his  remembered  reading.  A  cento  purposely 
made  up  may  be  very  amusing.  "Hamlet's  Soliloquy"  as  rendered 
by  the  rascally  barn-stormer  in  Huckleberry  Finn  is  a  deUghtful 
cento  of  Shakespearean  quotations  joined  together  with  ludicrous 
inappropriateness. 

p.  41,  1.  35.  a  learned  professor.  Dr  Samuel  Parr  (1747-1825), 
once  famous  as  a  Greek  scholar,  schoolmaster,  and  imitator  of  Dr 
Johnson's  mighty  conversational  manner.  De  Quincey  has  a  long 
essay  on  Parr. 

p.  41,  1.  39.  Fuseli's  fantastic  hieroglyphics.  Johann  Heinrich 
Fuessli  ( 1 742-1 825)  was  a  Swiss  of  very  eccentric  habits  who  settled 
in  London  and  became  famous  as  a  painter  in  the  style  of  exaggerated 
sublimity  then  fashionable.  He  ItaUanised  his  name  into  the  form 
now  familiar.  Many  of  his  works  were  painted  in  illustration  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  but,  as  in  the  case  of  Blake,  with  whom  he 
has  some  affinity,  his  conceptions  were  beyond  the  power  of  his  technique 
to  express.  His  "fantastic  hieroglyphics"  may  mean  his  illegible 
handwriting — a  fault  strangely  common  among  famous  artists;  but 
possibly  Hazlitt  is  using  the  word  metaphorically  for  Fuseli's  quaint 
forms  of  speech  and  his  bad  pronunciation.  The  excellent  character 
of  him  given  in  the  essay  On  the  Old  Age  of  Artists  {The  Plain  Speaker) 
seems  to  indicate  this.  Fuseli  was  ambidextrous  and  could  write  as 
well  (or  ill)  with  one  hand  as  with  the  other.  "Hieroglyphics"  were, 
strictly  speaking,  the  sacred  picture-writing  of  the  ancient  Egyptians, 
and  so,  writing  that  could  be  deciphered  only  by  the  learned  and 
initiated.  The  word,  by  degradation,  has  now  come  to  mean  any 
oddly  illegible  handwriting. 

p.  41,  1.  40.  Curran.  John  Philpot  Curran  (1750-1817),  the 
famous  Irish  lawyer  and  poUtical  orator.  Curran,  though  a  Protestant, 
was  a  strong  opponent  of  the  Cathohc  disabihties,  and,  after  the  rebeUion 
of  1798,  defended  most  eloquently  the  leaders  who  were  tried  for  treason. 


178  Notes 

p.  42,  1.  8.  Sheridan.  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  (1751-1816), 
the  famous  Whig  poUtician  and  orator,  friend  of  Burke  and  Fox. 
He  is,  however,  more  generally  remembered  as  the  author  of  three 
immortal  prose  comedies.  The  Rivals,  The  Critic  and  The  School  for 
Scandal. 

p.  42,  1.  8.  John  Kemble.  John  PhiUp  Kemble  (1757-1823), 
a  tragic  actor  in  the  grand  style,  the  leading  male  figure  on  the  EngUsh 
stage  of  his  time  till  his  classic  fame  was  challenged  by  the  new  intense 
realism  of  Edmund  Kean.     Kemble  was  the  brother  of  Mrs  Siddons. 

p.  42,  1.  9.  Mrs  Inchbald.  Elizabeth  Inchbald,  born  Thompson 
(1753-1821),  gained  some  fame  as  actress,  play-writer  and  novehst. 

p.  42,  1.  10.     from  noon  to  dewy  eve.     Paradise  Lost,  1,  743-4: 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece ;    and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber;    and  how  he  fell 
From  Heaven  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements :    from  morn 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day,  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropt  from  the  zenith,  hke  a  falhng  star. 
On  Lemnos,  the  Aegaean  isle. 

p.  42,  1.  14.     a  Table-talk.    Hazhtt  did  not  carry  out  this  intention. 

p.  42,  1.  14.  Peter  Pindar.  John  Wolcot  (1738-1819),  a  Devon- 
shire physician,  who,  after  some  time  in  Jamaica,  practised  his  profession 
at  Truro.  In  later  years  he  came  to  London  and  wrote  much  in  the 
form  of  topical  and  would-be  humorous  verse  under  the  name  Peter 
Pindar.  His  work  was  often  very  coarse  and  brutal  in  manner,  and 
nothing  of  it  can  be  said  to  survive,  with  the  possible  exception  of  a 
piece,  occasionally  met  with  in  some  collections,  recording  the  curiosity 
of  George  III  to  know  how  apples  got  inside  dumpHngs. 

p.  42, 1.  20.    Mrs  M .    Mrs  Montagu,  third  wife  of  Basil  Montagu, 

who  played  a  part  of  some  importance  in  the  life  of  Coleridge.  Mrs 
Montagu,  formerly  Mrs  Skepper,  was  a  woman  of  fine  character.  She  had 
known  Burns,  fascinated  the  celebrated  preacher  Edward  Irving,  who 
called  her  his  "noble  lady,"  and  attracted  Carlyle,  who  wrote  many 
letters  to  her. 

p.  42,  1.  22.  H — t's,  etc.  H — t  is  Hunt,  N,  Northcote  and  H, 
Hay  don. 

p.  42, 1.  36.  Tronchin.  Theodore  Troncliin  ( 1 709-81 ),  a  physician 
of  Geneva,  at  first  the  friend  and  afterwards  the  enemy  of  Rousseau. 
The  reference  is  no  doubt  to  Bk  xii  of  The  Confessions;  but  it  is 
not  Tronchin  who  utters  the  words.  "A  certain  village  mayor,  who 
had  been  dismissed  for  malversation,  remarked  to  the  lieutenant  of 
the  Val  de  Travers...'It  is  said  that  this  Rousseau  has  plenty  of  wit; 
bring  him  to  me,  that  1  may  see  if  it  is  true'." 

p.  43,  1.  4.  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.  A  character  in  The  Man  of 
Mode,  or  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  a  comedy  by  "the  gay  Sir  George 
Etherege"  (i634?-i69i)  who  had  lived  in  France,  and  imported  into 
England  the  spirit  of  Fi-ench  comedy  as  embodied  in  the  work  of  his 
great  contemporary  Molidre.  Etherege  may  be  called  the  father  of  English 


On  the  Conversation  of  Authors.     II  179 

prose  comedy,  as  he  represents  the  first  real  departure  from  the  formal 
verse  drama  of  the  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  period.  He  wrote 
two  other  plays,  The  Comical  Revenge,  or  Love  in  a  Tub,  and  She 
would  if  she  could.  The  sentiment  about  tennis  attributed  to  Sir 
Fopling  Flutter  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  play.  The  only  allusion 
to  the  game  is  the  following.  Sir  Fopling,  a  foolish  and  vainglorious 
beau,  has  been  boasting  of  his  success  with  the  ladies,  and  this  con- 
versation ensues : 

Medley.  For  all  this  smattering  of  the  mathematics  you  may  be 
out  in  your  judgment  at  tennis. 

Fopling.  What  a  coq-d,4'dne  is  this !  I  talk  of  women,  and  thou 
answerest  tennis. 

p.  43, 1.  6.  For  wit  is  like  a  rest,  etc.  From  Francis  Beaumont's 
Letter  to  Ben  Jonson,  written  before  he  and  Mr  Fletcher  came  to  London, 
with  two  of  the  precedent  comedies  then  not  finished,  which  deferred  their 
merry  meetings  at  the  Mermaid : 

Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had  is  lost 

Since  I  saw  you,  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 

Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 

With  the  best  gamesters :    what  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid ! 

p.  43,  1.    15.     L once  came  down.     The  Lambs  visited  the 

HazUtts  at  Winterslow  in  the  summer  of  1810.  Lamb's  visit  to  Oxford 
resulted  in  the  essay  Oxford  in  the  Vacation.  See  further  the  essay 
On  going  a  Journey  (p.  149)  and  the  notes  thereto. 

p.  43,  1.  16.  like  the  most  capricious  poet,  etc.  As  You  Like  It, 
Act  III,  Sc.  iii,  1.  8 :  "I  am  here  with  thee  and  thy  goats  as  the  most 
capricious  poet,  honest  Ovid,  was  among  the  Goths."  Ovid,  the 
famous  Latin  poet,  was  banished  to  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea.  In 
Shakespeare's  time  "goats"  and  "Goths"  were  pronounced  almost 
alike,  the  pun  (if  it  may  be  so  called)  being  emphasised  by  the  fact 
that  "capricious"  is  derived  from  the  Latin  word  for  "goat." 

p.  43,  1.  22.  walked  gowned.  From  Lamb's  sonnet.  Written 
at  Cambridge,  Aug.  15,  1819": 

I  was  not  trained  in  Academic  bowers, 

****** 
Yet  can  I  fancy,  wandering  'mid  thy  towers. 
Myself  a  nursling,  Granta,  of  thy  lap; 
My  brow  seems  tightening  with  the  Doctor's  cap. 
And  I  walk  gowned, 
p.  44,  1.   16.     one   such  instance.     This  must  be  George  Dyer, 
immortalised  in   many  passages   of   Lamb's   essays   and   letters.     See 
especially  Oxford  in  the   Vacation    and  Amicus  Redivivus  among   the 
Eha  essays. 

p.  44,  1.  31.  The  legend  of  good  women.  Chaucer  planned 
a  long  poem  to  embody  twenty  famous  instances  of  women  faithful 
in  love.  The  poem  as  we  have  it  contains  only  nine  of  the  promised 
twenty. 

p.  44,  1.  35.  camera  obscura.  Literally  "a  dark  room."  The 
"camera  obscura"  was  a  sort  of  optical  show.     A  large  lens,  fitted 


i8o  Notes 

into  one  of  the  walls  of  a  dark  room,  focussed  an  image  which  was 
then  reflected  on  a  table  or  screen  in  the  room,  so  that  those  within 
saw  a  picture  in  little  of  what  was  happening  without.  The  picture 
was  like  that  seen  on  the  focussing  screen  of  a  photographic  camera, 
but  of  course  on  a  vastly  greater  scale — and  the  right  way  up. 

p.  44,  1.  39.  dog  Tray.  An  allusion  to  the  Irish  Harper,  a  poem 
by  Campbell  describing  the  affection  of  a  poor  Irish  beggar  for  his 
faithful  true-hearted  dog.  The  sentiment  of  the  piece  is  much  better 
than  the  verse. 


OF   PERSONS   ONE   WOULD    WISH   TO   HAVE    SEEN 

First  pubUshed  in  The  New  Monthly  Magazine,  January,  1826. 
Reprinted  in  Literary  Remains  and  Winterslow.  This  essay,  like  the 
second  On  the  Conversation  of  Atithors,  seeks  to  reproduce  the  wit 
and  wisdom  of  the  Lamb  circle.  The  subject  is  mentioned  in  the  last 
essay  as  the  theme  of  an  evening's  talk  at  Mitre  Court  Buildings. 

B stands  for  Lamb  throughout  the  whole  piece.     Most  of  the  other 

speakers  hav»  been  identified  in  the  preceding  essay,  to  the  notes  on 
which  the  reader  may  be  generally  referred. 

p.  46, 1.  I.     Gome  like  shadows.     Macbeth,  Act  iv.  Sc.  i,  iio-iii : 
Show  his  eyes  and  grieve  his  heart; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart! 

p.  46,  1.  3.  Guy  Faux.  Hazhtt  defended  Guy  Fawkes  in  three 
essays  published  in  The  Examiner  during  November  1821.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  Lamb  had  touched  upon  the  topic  in  an  essay  written  ten  years 
earher  and  entitled  On  the  Probable  Effects  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason 
in  this  Country  if  the  Conspirators  had  accomplished  their  Object. 
In  1823  Lamb  returned  to  the  subject  and  contributed  to  The  London 
Magazine  a  long  essay  on  Guy  Fawkes  in  which  he  incorporates  most 
of  his  earlier  article  and  refers  humorously  to  Hazlitt's  three  papers — 
Hazhtt  himself  being  preposterously  described  as  an  ex-Jesuit,  not 
unknown  at  Douay ! 

p.  46,  1.  7.  Never  so  sure,  etc.  Pope,  Moral  Essays:  Ep.  II 
to  a  Lady,  Of  the  Character  of  Women,  51-52: 

Strange  graces  still,  and  stranger  flights  she  had. 
Was  just  not  ugly,  and  was  just  not  mad; 
Yet  ne'er  so  sure  our  passion  to  create. 
As  when  she  touched  the  brink  of  all  we  hate. 

p.  46,  1.  17.     A— — .     Ayrton.     See  p.  173. 

p.  46,  1.  19.  Sir  Isaac  Newton.  The  greatest  of  Enghsh  natural 
philosophers  (1642-1727),  discoverer  of  many  principles  upon  which 
physical  investigation  is  still  based.  His  views  on  universal  gravitation 
and  other  astronomical  phenomena  were  published  in  Philosophiae 
Naturalis  Principia  Mathematica  (1687),  generally  known  briefly  as 
"Principia." 

p.  46,  1.  20.  Locke.  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  one  of  the  chief 
English  philosophical  writers,  was  the  author  of  An  Essay  concerning 
Human  Understanding  (1690),  Thoughts  on  Education  (1693),  Of  the 
Conduct  of  the  Understanding  and  many  minor  works.     The  writings 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       i8i 

of  Locke  were  very  influential  both  in  England  and  on  the  Continent. 
Rousseau  represents  a  point  of  abrupt  departure  from  Locke  both  in 
educational  theory  and  in  poUtical  philosophy.  A  very  long  and  severely 
critical  discussion  of  Locke  in  general,  and  a  shorter  paper  on  Locke 
as  a  Plagiarist,  are  included  among  Hazlitt's  fugitive  writings  [Works, 
Vol.  XI). 

p.  47, 1. 13.  in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  Hamlet,  Act  in,  Sc.  iv,  1.  135. 
p.  47,  1.  15.  Fulke  Greville.  Lord  Brooke  (1554-1628)  was 
the  author  of  two  strange  tragedies,  Alaham  and  Mustapha, 
a  collection  of  rather  angular  and  sometimes  beautiful  poems  called 
Caelica,  and  a  very  characteristic  life  of  his  friend  and  schoolfellow 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  There  is  a  curiously  attractive  quality  in  Lord 
Brooke's  work,  quaint  and  uncouth  as  much  of  it  appears. 
p.  47,  1.  37.     And  call  up  him.     II  Penseroso,  T09-115: 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass. 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride. 
The  allusion  is  to  Chaucer's  unfinished  Squire's  Tale. 

p.  48,  1.  6.  wished  that  mankind,  etc.  "The  whole  World 
was  made  for  man,  but  the  twelfth  part  of  man  for  woman :  Man  is 
the  whole  World  and  the  Breath  of  God  ;  Woman  the  Rib  and  crooked 
piece  of  man.  I  could  be  content  that  we  might  procreate  like  trees, 
without  conjunction,  or  that  there  were  any  way  to  perpetuate  the 
World  without  this  trivial  and  vulgar  way  of  union."  {Religio  Medici, 
Part  II,  Sect,  ix.) 

p.  48,  1.  8.  old  king  of  Ormus.  Lamb  quoted  from  Alaham 
and  Mustapha  in  his  Specimens  of  the  English  Dramatic  Poets.  His 
introductory  notes  will  explain  the  allusion  in  the  text:  "Alaham, 
second  Son  to  the  King  of  Ormus,  deposes  his  Father:  whose  Eyes, 
and  the  Eyes  of  his  elder  Brother  Zophi  (acting  upon  a  maxim  of 
Oriental  Policy)  he  causes  to  be  put  out.... A  Nuntius  relates  to  Alaham 
the  manner  of  his  Father's  Brother's  and  Sister's  deaths;  and  the 
popular  discontents  which  followed.  Alaham  by  the  sudden  working 
of  Remorse  is  distracted,  and  imagines  he  sees  their  Ghosts."  Hazlitt's 
representation  of  Lamb's  talk  on  this  subject  may  be  compared  with 
the  final  passage  of  Lamb's  concluding  note  in  Specimens:  "The 
finest  movements  of  the  human  heart,  the  utmost  grandeur  of  which 
the  soul  is  capable,  are  essentially  comprised  in  the  actions  and  speeches 
of  Caelica  and  Camena.  Shakespeare,  who  seems  to  have  had  a  peculiar 
delight  in  contemplating  womanly  perfection,  whom  for  his  many 
sweet  images  of  female  excellence  all  women  in  an  especial  manner 
are  bound  to  love,  has  not  raised  the  ideal  of  the  female  character 
higher  than  Lord  Brooke  in  these  two  women  has  done.  But  it  requires 
a  study  equivalent  to  the  learning  of  a  new  language  to  understand 
their  meaning  when  they  speak.  It  is  indeed  hard  to  hit : 
Much  like  thy  riddle,  Samson,  in  one  day 
Or  seven  though  one  should  musing  sit. 


i82  Notes 

It  is  as  if  a  being  of  pure  intellect  should  take  upon  him  to  express 
the  emotions  of  our  sensitive  natures.  There  would  be  all  knowledge, 
but  sympathetic  expression  would  be  wanting." 

p.  48,  1.  9.  apocalyptical,  cabalistical.  "Apocalyptical,"  full 
of  high  mysticism  and  similitude,  like  the  Apocalypse,  or  Revelation 
of  St  John  the  Divine.  "Cabalistical,"  derived  from  "Cabbala,"  the 
secret  interpretation  of  the  Jewish  scriptures  by  rabbis  instructed 
in  the  hidden  meanings  handed  down  by  tradition,  signifies  anything 
with  a  secret  meaning  known  only  to  the  initiated. 

p.  48, 1.  17.  Dr  Donne.  The  old  edition  referred  to  is  that  of  1669. 
The  lines  beginning  "Here  lies  a  She-Sun"  are  from  his  Epithalamion 
on  the  Lady  Elizabeth  and  the  Count  Palatine— the  Lady  Elizabeth  being 
the  daughter  of  James  I,  married  to  the  Elector  Palatine,  the  choice  of 
whom  as  King  of  Bohemia  precipitated  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  The 
same  princess  is  celebrated  in  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  familiar  lines  begin- 
ning "Ye  meaner  beauties  of  the  night."  The  Elegy  to  his  Mistress 
is  quoted  in  full. 

p.  49,  1.  13.  wild  Boreas'  harshness.  Boreas,  the  North  Wind, 
carried  off  Orithyia,  daughter  of  Erechtheus,  King  of  Attica,  and  had 
as  sons,  Zetes  and  Calais,  the  winged  brothers  who  delivered  King 
Phineus  of  Salmydessa  from  the  Harpies. 

p.  49,  1.  26.     Spittles.     Hospitals — here  used  figuratively. 

p.  49,  1.  44.  the  Temple-walk.  The  connection  of  Chaucer  with 
the  Temple  is  very  doubtful.  The  tradition  derives  from  an  uncorrobo- 
rated anecdote  related  in  the  life  of  Chaucer  contained  in  the  folio 
edition  of  1602. 

p.  49,  1.  47.  ruggedness  of  the  metre.  That  the  verse  of 
Chaucer  was  rough  and  inharmonious  was  a  superstition  of  the  "polite 
and  courtly"  age  of  English  Hterature.  Thus  Dryden,  who  published 
in  1700  some  versions  of  Homer,  Ovid  and  Boccaccio,  included  transla- 
tions of  Chaucer  as  if  that  most  English  of  poets  were  a  foreign  writer. 
"The  verse  of  Chaucer,"  says  Dryden,  "is  not  harmonious  to  us... they 
who  lived  with  him,  and  some  time  after,  thought  it  musical;... there 
is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it,  which  is  natural  and 
pleasing,  though  not  perfect."  And  he  goes  on  to  assert  that  many 
of  Chaucer's  lines  are  "lame  for  want  of  half  a  foot."  The  simple 
fact  is  that  Dryden  and  his  contemporaries  could  not  read  Chaucer 
correctly.  The  final  "e,"  so  often  sounded  in  Chaucer's  verse,  was 
treated  as  a  mute,  with  the  effect  of  clippmg  many  a  line  half  a  foot 
or  more  short.  That  Chaucer,  who  was  an  English  Court  official 
twice  employed  on  foreign  diplomatic  missions,  who  had  eagerly 
studied  the  language  and  hterature  of  France  and  Italy  and  had  perhaps 
discussed  poetry  with  Petrarch,  was  a  sort  of  peasant  poet  incapable 
of  rhythm  is  altogether  too  absurd  a  proposition.  In  reality,  Chaucer's 
verse  is  much  more  smooth  and  harmonious  than  that  of  many  later 
poets.      Here,   for  instance,   are   the   opening    lines    of    the   Knight's 


Tale: 


Whilom,  as  olde  stories  tellen  us 

Ther  was  a  due  that  highte  Thesgus; 

Of  Atthenes  he  was  lord  and  governour. 

And  in  his  tym6  swich  a  conquerour 

That  gretter  was  ther  noon  under  the  sonne. 


Of  persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       183 

This  is  Dryden's  version : 

In  days  of  old,  there  lived,  of  mighty  fame 

A  valiant  Prince,  and  Theseus  was  his  name; 

A  chief  who  more  in  feats  of  arms  excelled 

The  rising  nor  the  setting  sun  beheld. 
It  can  scarcely  be  claimed  that  Dryden  has  the  advantage  in  smoothness 
or  harmony.  However,  Dryden  had  a  manly  admiration  for  Chaucer's 
humour  and  humanity,  and  his  "translations"  certainly  contributed 
to  maintain  an  interest  in  the  older  poet.  The  opinion  of  Ayrton 
(half  assented  to  by  Hazlitt)  is  therefore  no  more  than  an  echo  of  the 
patronising  and  incorrect  sentiments  about  Chaucer  that  prevailed 
in  the  elegant  seventeen-hundreds. 

p.  50,  1.  9.  lisped  in  numbers.  Pope's  Prologue  to  the  Satires^, 
Epistle  to  Dr  Arbuthnot :    1.  128  : 

Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 

p.  50,  1.  17.  Mine  Host  of  Tabard.  Chaucer's  Canterbury 
Pilgrims  assembled  at  the  Tabard  Inn  in  the  Borough,  to  the  south  of 
London  Bridge.     The  Host  is  described  by  Chaucer  as : 

Boold  of  his  speche,  and  wys  and  well  y-taught, 
And  of  manhod  hym  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  myrie  man. 
And  after  soper  pleyen  he  bigan. 
And  spak  of  myrthe  amonges  othere  thynges. 
Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekenynges. 
It  is  the  Host  who  suggests  the  telling  of  tales  on  the  journey. 

p.  50,  1.  17.     His  intervie^v  with  Petrarch.     Francesco  Petrarca 
(1304-1374),  the   great   Italian   poet,  famous   especially   for   his   love 
sonnets,  was  greatly  admired  throughout  France  and  Italy  both  for 
his    own    work    and    for    his    keen    interest    in    all    literary   studies. 
Chaucer  (i  340-1 400),  who  was  in  the  royal  service  during  the  reigns 
of  Edward  III,    Richard  II   and   Henry   IV,  was  in  Italy  on  official 
biisiness  during  several  months  of  1372  and  1373,  and  again  in  1378- 
1379.     He  became  familiar  with  the  Italian  language  and  its  current 
literature,  and  being  himself  a  poet,  would  no  doubt  endeavour  to  seek 
an  interview  with  the  admired  Petrarch,  who,  in  1373,  was  at  Arqua, 
near  Padua,  engaged  in  adapting  from  Boccaccio  the  story  of  Griselda, 
which   Chaucer   borrowed   for   the   Clerk   of   Oxenford's   tale.     Thus, 
though  there  is  no  direct  evidence  that  the  English  and  Italian  poets 
ever  met,  the  probability  is  very  strong.     The  words  put  by  Chaucer 
in  the  mouth  of  the  Oxford  scholar  strongly  support  the  supposition : 
T  wol  you  tell  a  tale  which  that  I 
Lerned  in  Padwe  of  a  worthy  clerk, 
As  preved  by  his  wordes  and  his  werk... 
Fraunceys  Petrak,  the  lauriat  poete 
Highte  this  clerk  whos  rhetorike  sweete 
Enlumyned  all  Ytaille  of  poetrie. 

p.  50,  1.  19.     the  author  of  the  Decameron.     Giovanni  Boccaccio 


i84  Notes 

(1313-1375),  next  to  Dante  the  greatest  of  Italian  writers,  famous  for 
his  stories  in  prose  and  verse,  and  above  all  for  the  Decamerone,  a 
collection  of  tales  supposed  to  be  told  in  turn  by  ten  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  have  retreated  to  a  secluded  villa  to  escape  the  plague  which 
ravaged  Florence  in  1348.  Each  person  tells  ten  stories,  and  ten  days 
are  taken  in  the  telling;  hence  the  name  "Decamerone,"  which  means 
"The  Ten  Days."  The  stories  of  the  Decameron  (the  name  is  usually 
thus  shorn  of  a  syllable  in  English)  have  been  the  source  of  many  plays, 
poems  and  narratives  in  many  languages  ever  since  its  composition. 
Chaucer  borrowed  nothing  from  the  Decameron,  and  perhaps  did  not 
know  more  of  that  collection  than  the  general  idea,  which  he  may 
have  had  in  mind  when  he  planned  The  Canterbury  Tales.  The  marked 
likeness  of  The  Reeve's  Tale  to  Novel  vi  of  the  Ninth  Day  is  due 
to  a  common  origin  rather  than  to  any  direct  borrowing.  However, 
from  Boccaccio's  other  works  Chaucer  took  materials  for  Anelida 
and  Arcyte,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  The  Parlement  of  Foules,  The 
Legend  of  Good  Women  and  The  Monk's  Tale.  Hazlitt's  desire  to 
hear  Chaucer  and  Boccaccio  exchange  stories  was  just  possible  of 
accomplishment,  for  Chaucer  was  in  Italy  during  1372 -1373  and 
Boccaccio  died  in  1375;  but  it  is  highly  improbable  that  they  ever 
met.  The  other  allusions  can  be  briefly  dismissed.  The  Squire's 
Tale  is  "the  Story  of  Cambuscan  bold"  referred  to  in  a  previous  note. 
The  Wife  of  Bath  is  a  much  married  lady  who  defends  her  matrimonial 
adventures  in  the  prologue  to  the  story  she  tells.  Boccaccio's  tale  of 
the  Hawk  (Novel  ix  of  the  Fifth  Day),  a  favourite  with  Hazlitt,  and 
often  referred  to  by  him,  will  probably  be  best  known  to  English  readers 
from  Tennyson's  play  The  Falcon  or  Longfellow's  "Falcon  of  Ser 
Federigo  "  in  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.  The  adventures  of  Friar  Albert, 
who  put  on  angel's  wings  to  deceive  an  absurdly  vain  woman,  are  related 
in  Novel  11  of  the  Fourth  Day. 

p.  50,  1.  27.  Cadinuses.  Cadmus,  a  traditional  hero  of  Greek 
legend,  wandering  to  find  his  sister  Europa,  was  told  by  an  oracle  to 
follow  a  certain  cow  and  found  a  city  where  she  should  sink  down  with 
fatigue.  When  the  beast  had  collapsed,  Cadmus  resolved  to  offer  her 
as  a  sacrifice  to  Athene,  and  sent  his  companions  to  a  neighbouring 
stream  to  find  water.  Here  they  were  slain  by  a  dragon,  the  offspring 
of  Ares  (Mars)  the  god  of  war.  After  a  great  struggle  Cadmus  killed 
the  dragon,  and,  as  directed  by  Athene,  sowed  its  teeth  over  the 
ground.  Armed  men  at  once  sprang  up,  and  fought  each  other,  leaving 
only  five  survivors.  These  five,  with  Cadmus,  built  the  stronghold 
which  developed  into  the  famous  city  of  Thebes. 

p.  50,  1.  30.  Dante.  Dante  Alighieri  (1265-1321),  the  greatest 
of  Italian  writers  and  one  of  the  world's  supreme  poets,  is  specially 
famous  for  his  Divina  Commedia,  or  Vision  of  Hell,  Purgatory  and 
Paradise.  His  "lineaments"  are,  in  fact,  among  the  most  familiar 
in  the  world ;  for  a  cast  of  his  face  was  taken  after  death,  and  a  record 
of  the  strong,  haughty,  ascetic  features  of  the  poet  have  thus  been 
authentically  transmitted  through  the  ages.  Other  portraits,  one  by 
Giotto  his  contemporary,  confirm  the  evidence  of  the  death-mask. 

The  dreadful  story  of  Ugolino  is  told  in  Cantos  xxxii  and  xxxiii 
of  the  Inferno.  Count  Ugolino,  a  desperate  and  ambitious  man 
who  aspired  to  rule  in  Pisa,  was  accused  by  another  competitor  for 
power,  the  Archbishop  Ruggieri,  of  betraying  Pisa  to  the  Florentines, 


Of  persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       185 

The  infuriated  Pisans  attacked  Ugolino  in  his  palace,  and  cast  him, 
with  two  sons  and  grandsons,  into  prison.  After  some  months,  the 
tower  was  locked  up,  the  key  was  cast  into  the  Arno,  and  the  wretched 
prisoners  were  left  to  perish  of  hunger  and  thirst  in  the  Tower  of  Famine, 
as  it  was  afterwards  called.  Chaucer  has  adapted  Dante's  story  of 
Ugolino  in  a  passage  of  the  Monk's  tale. 

p.  50,  1.  34.  fine  portrait  of  Ariosto.  Ludovico  Ariosto  (1474- 
1533),  the  Italian  poet,  famous  for  his  epic  Orlando  Furioso,  relating 
the  adventures  of  Roland  the  great  paladin  of  Charlemagne.  "Titian's 
portrait  of  Ariosto,"  to  which  Hazlitt  refers,  is  now  in  the  National 
Gallery.  It  is  almost  certainly  not  a  portrait  of  Ariosto,  and  very 
possibly  not  by  Titian.  Why  Hazlitt  calls  it  "Moorish"  is  difficult 
to  say — unless  the  luxuriant  brown  hair  and  beard  of  the  sitter  suggested 
the  epithet. 

p.  50,  1.  36.  Peter  Aretine.  Pietro  Aretino  (1492-1557)  was  an 
Italian  writer  of  light  poems  and  comedies.  He  died,  very  appropriately, 
of  laughing — so  at  least  tradition  says.  A  paroxysm  of  merriment 
caused  him  to  fall  from  his  chair,  and  he  was  instantly  killed.  Titian's 
portrait  of  Aretino  is  in  the  Pitti  Gallery  at  Florence. 

p.  50,  1.  38.  the  mighty  dead.  Thomson,  The  Seasons:  Winter, 
1.  432: 

Where  ruddy  fire  and  beammg  tapers  join 
To  cheer  the  gloom,  there  studious  let  me  sit 
And  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  Dead. 

p.  51,  1.  8.     a  creature  of  the  element.     Camus,  299-301 : 
Their  port  was  more  than  human  as  they  stood; 
I  took  it  for  a  faery  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element 
That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live. 
And  play  i'  the  plighted  clouds. 

p.  51,  1.  14.  That  was  Arion.  Faerie  Queene,  Bk  iv,  Canto  xi, 
Stanzas  xxiii  and  xxiv: 

Then  was  there  heard  a  most  celestiall  sound 
Of  dainty  musicke,  which  did  next  ensew 
Before  the  spouse:    that  was  Arion  crownd; 
Who,  playing  on  his  harpe,  unto  him  drew 
The  eares  and  hearts  of  all  that  goodly  crew, 
That  even  yet  the  Dolphin,  which  him  bore 
Through  the  Aegaean  seas  from  Pirates  vew. 
Stood  still  by  him  astonisht  at  his  lore. 
And  all  the  raging  seas  for  joy  forgot  to  rore. 

So  went  he  playing  on  the  watery  plaine,  etc. 
Arion,  according  to  the  legend,  was  a  celebrated  bard  who  went  from 
Corinth  to  Sicily  to  take  part  in  a  contest  of  song.  As  he  was  returning 
laden  with  prizes  and  gifts,  the  sailors  resolved  to  murder  him  for  the 
spoil.  Arion  sang  to  his  harp,  and  the  dolphins,  charmed  by  the  sound, 
gathered  round  the  vessel;  whereupon  Arion  cast  himself  into  the 
sea  and  was  carried  safe  to  shore  on  the  back  of  a  friendly  fish. 

p.  51,  1.  17.  the  Wandering  Jew.  The  Wandering  Jew,  in 
medieval  legend,  was  a  man  condemned  by  Jesus  to  wander  without 


i86  Notes 

rest  through  the  world  until  the  Saviour  should  come  again.  According 
to  one  story  the  Wandering  Jew  is  Khartaphilos  the  doorkeeper  of 
Pilate's  palace.  As  Jesus  was  being  dragged  to  crucifixion,  Khartaphilos 
struck  him,  saying  "Go  more  quickly!"  Jesus  replied,  "1  go,  but 
thou  shalt  tarry  in  the  world  without  peace  or  rest  until  I  come  again." 
Another  legend  makes  a  cobbler,  Ahasuerus,  the  Wandering  Jew. 
The  Saviour,  stumbling  under  the  weight  of  the  cross,  stayed  to  rest 
by  the  cobbler's  door;  but  Ahasuerus  spurned  him  away  sajdng  "You 
shall  not  rest  here";  to  which  Jesus  replied  "Neither  shalt  thou  rest 
again  until  I  return."  In  other  stories  the  Wandering  Jew  appears 
under  various  names — Salathiel  ben  Sadi,  Isaac  Laquedem  (or  Lakedion), 
Johannes  Buttadaeus,  etc.  The  Flying  Dutchman  is  another  example 
of  this  perpetual  expiatory  wandering,  and  yet  another  is  Kundry  in 
Wagner's  so-called  religious  opera  Parsifal. 

p.  51,  1.  19.     Miss  D .     Mrs  Eeynolds,  for  whom  see  p.  174. 

p.  51,  1.  20.  Patty  Blount.  Martha  Blount  (1690-1762)  ,is 
romantically  connected  with  the  hfe  of  Pope.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Roman  Catholic  gentleman  living  at  Mapledurham.  Pope  became 
acquainted  with  her  in  early  life,  and  when  her  father's  death  led  to 
a  change  of  fortunes  and  consequent  family  quarrels.  Pope  took  her 
under  his  protection.  She  was  then  living  at  Petersham  just  opposite 
Twickenham,  across  the  Thames,  where  Pope  had  his  villa.  Pope 
seems  to  have  been  greatly  attached  to  her.  He  defended  her  in  all  her 
quarrels  and  left  her  much  of  his  property. 

p.  51,  1.  23.  Dr  Johnson  in  the  years  1745-6.  The  suggestion 
is  that  Dr  Johnson  was  out  in  the  '45,  with  other  Tory  adherents  of 
the  Jacobite  cause,  and  that  he  wrote  the  Young  Pretender's  Pro- 
clamation !  Such  a  suggestion  m.ust  of  course  not  be  taken  seriously. 
Johnson  certainly  professed  Jacobitism  in  a  good-humoured  and 
exaggerated  way;  but  his  devotion  was  so  far  unreal  that  he  made 
no  scruples  about  accepting  a  pension  from  the  Hanoverian  king. 
As  to  his  occupation  during  the  years  1 745-1 746,  Boswell  says:  "It  is 
somewhat  curious  that  his  literary  career  appears  to  have  been  almost 
totally  suspended  in  the  years  1745  and  1746,  those  years  which  were 
marked  by  a  civil  war  in  Great  Britain,  when  a  rash  attempt  was  made 
to  restore  the  House  of  Stuart  to  the  throne.  That  he  had  a  tenderness 
for  that  unfortunate  House,  is  well  known;  and  some  may  fancifully 
imagine  that  a  sympathetic  anxiety  impeded  the  exertion  of  his 
intellectual  powers:  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  was,  during 
this  time,  sketching  the  outlines  of  his  great  philological  work."  To 
which  we  may  add  that  a  time  of  war  at  home  is  not  one  in  which  such 
miscellaneous  writings  as  Johnson  was  contributing  to  The  Gentleman' s 
Magazine  about  this  date  can  be  profitably  produced  or  published. 
A  reference  to  volumes  of  the  Magazine  for  1744-46  will  show  how  much 
the  Civil  War  had  lessened  the  opportunities  of  the  general  contributor. 
Johnson's  undoubted  visit  to  Scotland,  as  recorded  in  the  Journey  to 
the  Western  Islands,  took  place  much  later,  in  1773. 

p.  51,  1.  28.  with  lack-lustre  eye.  As  You  Like  It,  Act  11, 
Sc.  vii,  1.  21 : 

And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  his  poke, 
And  looking  on  it  with  lack-lustre  eye. 
Says  very  wisely,  "It  is  ten  o'clock." 


Of  persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen        187 

P-  51.  1-  37-  *li6  Lake  School.  The  term  formerly  applied  to 
Wordsworth,  Coleridge  and  Southey,  because  of  their  connection  by 

residence  with  the  Lake  district.     B ,   i.e.  Lamb,  though  a  keen 

and  discriminating  admirer  of  his  Lake  friends,  was  in  no  possible 
sense  of  the  term  himself  connected  with  the  Lake  school.  By  birth, 
residence,  sympathy  and  passionate  attachment,  Charles  Lamb  is  the 
complete  Londoner. 

p.  52,  1.  8.  Despise  low  joys,  etc.  This  passage  and  the  next 
are  taken  from  Pope's  Imitations  of  Horace,  The  Sixth  Epistle  of 
the  First  Book,  to  Mr  Murray — i.e.  William  Murray  (i 705-1 793),  the 
famous  lawyer,  successively  Solicitor-General,  Attorney-General,  Chief 
Justice  of  the  King's  Bench  and  Earl  of  Mansfield,  famous  in  a  rather 
venal  age  for  the  strict  impartiality  of  his  decisions,  and  therefore 
unpopular  with  court  and  mob  ahke.  "  Junius "  attacked  him  in 
four  of  the  famous  Letters  and  the  Gordon  rioters  burned  his  house. 
Pope's  panegyric  belongs  to  1741  when  Murray  was  on  the  threshold  of 
his  career.  Lord  Cornbury,  referred  to  in  the  first  passage,  was  a 
great-grandson  of  the  famous  Earl  of  Clarendon  (the  "Hyde"  of  the 
second  quotation).  Cornbury  {1710-1753)  was  universally  admired 
for  his  pleasant  talents  and  his  amiable  character.  Bolingbroke 
addressed  to  him  his  Letters  on  History,  and  even  the  censorious 
Horace  Walpole  speaks  of  him  with  enthusiasm  and  calls  him  "an 
exceedingly  honest  man."  Tully,  in  the  next  quotation,  is  Marcus 
Tullius  Cicero,  the  great  Roman  orator. 

p.  52,  1.  20.  Lord  Bolingbroke.  Henry  St  John,  Viscount 
Bolingbroke,  the  brilliant  statesman  and  orator  of  Queen  Anne's  reign, 
to  whom  Pope  addressed  his  Essay  on  Man,  which  is  itself  an  em- 
bodiment of  Bolingbroke's  shallow  philosophy. 

p.  52,  1.  21.  Why  rail  they...?  Pope,  Epilogue  to  the  Satires, 
Dialogue  11,  138-139. 

p.  52,  1.  25.  But  why  then  publish...?  Pope,  Prologue  to  the 
Satires,  Epistle  to  Dr  Arbuthnot,  135-146.  Arbuthnot  (1675-1735), 
doctor,  wit,  scholar  and  writer,  is  famous  for  his  friendship  with  Swift, 
Bolingbroke  and  other  great  men,  as  well  as  for  his  satire  The  History 
of  Jo/iri  Bull,  in  which  the  familiar  personification  of  England  makes 
his  first  appearance.  "Granville  the  Polite"  is  George  Granville 
(1667-1735),  afterwards  Lord  Lansdowne,  who  was  in  his  youth  a 
poet  of  good  intentions  and  slight  performance.  "Knowing  Walsh" 
was  a  critic  whom  Dryden  called  the  best  of  his  age.  "Well-natured 
Garth"  is  Sir  Samuel  Garth  (1661-1718),  a  distinguished  physician, 
author  of  The  Dispensary,  a  satirical  poem  against  rapacious  doctors. 
"If  ever  there  was  a  good  Christian  without  knowing  himself  to  be  so, 
it  was  Dr  Garth" — thus  Pope  in  a  later  tribute  to  his  friend.  Garth 
deserves  special  acknowledgment  as  the  man  who  secured  honourable 
sepulture  in  Westminster  Abbey  for  the  great  Dryden,  who,  at  the  time 
of  his  death,  had  fallen  (like  Milton)  upon  evil  days  and  evil  tongues. 
Congreve  (1669-1728)  is  the  famous  dramatist.  "Courtly  Talbot" 
was  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbuiy  (1660-1718)  who  held  many  high  offices 
in  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  made  the  coup  d'etat  which  defeated  the 
Tory- Jacobite  plots  at  the  time  of  that  monarch's  celebrated  and 
unexpected  death.  Somers  is  the  great  Whig  statesman  (1652-1716) 
who  helped  to  bring  about  the  Revolution  of  1688.     Sheffield  is  the 


i88  Notes 

Duke  of  Buckinghamshire  (1649-1722),  statesman,  and  author  of 
an  Essay  on  Poetry.  "Mitred  Rochester"  is  Francis  Atterbury 
(1663-1732),  Bishop  of  Rochester,  a  keen  Tory  and  avowed  Jacobite 
who  was  arrested  at  the  death  of  Queen  Anne  and  sentenced  to  perpetual 
banishment.  Burnet  is  Gilbert  Burnet  (1643-1715),  the  Whig  Bishop 
of  Salisbury,  author  of  the  History  of  My  Own  Times.  Oldmixon  is 
John  Oldmixon  (1673-1742),  a  bad  critic  and  worse  historian,  pilloried 
by  Pope  in  The  Dunciad.  Thomas  Cooke  (1703-56),  another  hack- 
writer, translated  Hesiod,  but  owes  his  immortality  to  Pope's  contempt. 
In  the  quoted  lines  Pope  is  referring  to  the  kind  reception  accorded 
by  all  the  best  judges  to  his  early  poems. 

p.  53,  1.  15.  Gay's  verses.  Epistle  VI,  To  Mr  Pope  on  his 
having  finished  his  translation  of  Homer's  Iliad.  An  assembly  of 
notable  English  writers  greets  the  poet  after  his  supposed  long  sojourn 
in  Greece.  The  piece  is  interesting  as  literary  history,  but  possesses 
no  merit  as  poetry. 

p.  53,  1.  21.  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu.  The  brilliant  and 
witty  daughter  (1689-1762)  of  the  Duke  of  K:ingston.  She  married 
Edward  Wortley  Montagu  and  accompanied  him  when  he  was  appointed 
ambassador  at  Constantinople,  whence  she  wrote  the  Letters  upon 
which  her  fame  depends.  She  had  been  on  friendly  terms  with  Addison, 
Pope  and  other  literary  notables  of  the  day.  Pope  was  her  neighbour 
at  Twickenham,  but  they  quarrelled  very  soon.  Lady  Mary  was  the 
first  to  introduce  into  England  the  practice  of  inoculation  for  small-pox. 

p.  53, 1.  22.    E .    Probably  Edward  Phillips  referred  to  on  p.  172. 

p.  53,  1.  28.  Richardson.  Samuel  Richardson  (1689-1761)  was 
a  little  printer  who  at  fifty  turned  novelist  almost  by  accident,  and  wrote 
Pamela.  His  next  work  Clarissa,  a  long  and  quietly  tragic  tale,  told 
(like  Pamela)  in  a  series  of  letters,  is  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  English 
fiction.  His  third  novel.  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  is  longer,  but  less 
readable.  The  immediate  success  of  Richardson  was  enormous,  and 
his  influence  on  the  European  literature  of  his  day  quite  remarkable. 
His  work,  sentimental,  yet  sincere,  struck  a  new  note,  which  so  echoed 
in  the  hearts  of  his  readers,  that  reams  of  letters  were  sent  to  the  prim 
little  author  by  love-sick  persons  who  regarded  him  as  an  oracle  of 
wisdom  in  all  that  concerned  the  passions.  Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews 
was  written,  or  at  least  begun,  with  the  intention  of  ridiculing  the  very 
politic  honesty  of  Pamela.     Hence  the  allusion  in  the  text. 

p.  54,  1.  I.  one  enthusiast.  In  older  times,  "enthusiast"  meant 
"visionary"  or  "fanatic."  The  polite  eighteenth  century  used  it 
frankly  as  a  term  of  reproach.  Hazlitt  applies  it  to  Bunyan  in  its  sense 
of  "visionary,"  but  with  admiration.  "Dreams  would  follow  him" 
because  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  hke  many  other  great  pieces,  is  narrated 
as  a  dream. 

p.  54,  1.  4.  nigh-sphered  in  heaven.  Collins,  Ode  on  the 
Poetical  Character: 

I  view  that  oak,  the  fancied  glades  among, 
By  which,  as  Milton  lay,  his  evening  ear. 
From  many  a  cloud  that  dropped  ethereal  dew 
Nigh  sphered  in  Heaven  its  native  strains  could  hear. 


Of  persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen        189 

p.  54,  1.  5.  as  any  in  Homer.  Perhaps  the  clouds  that  canopied 
Olympus,  the  abode  of  the  gods. 

p.  54,  1.  6.  Garrick's  name.  David  Garrick  (1717-1779),  the 
most  famous  of  Enghsh  actors,  was  born  at  Hereford,  but  was  educated 
at  Liclifield,  where  he  made  tl^e  acquaintance  of  his  Ufe-long  friend, 
Dr  Johnson.  His  first  London  success  was  gained  at  an  outlying 
theatre  in  the  east  of  London,  but  he  soon  moved  to  Covent  Garden 
and  Drury  Lane,  at  the  latter  of  which  he  settled  as  joint  manager. 
Garrick  wrote  many  pieces  for  the  theatre,  none  of  which  have  any 
permanent  interest.  Among  the  adaptations  which  he  made  or 
countenanced  may  be  mentioned  the  transformation  of  Wycherley's 
Country  Wife  into  the  Country  Girl,  and  the  most  reprehensible  altera- 
tion of  King  Lear  into  a  play  with  an  alleged  "happy"  ending.  See 
Lamb's  admirable  essaj^  On  the  Tragedies  of  Shakespeare  for  a  sternly 
critical  view  of  the  liberties  taken  by  Garrick  with  the  text  of  Shake- 
speare. Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson  naturally  contains  many  allusions  to 
Garrick.  The  great  Doctor  paid  a  magnificent  posthumous  compU- 
ment  to  the  actor  in  the  Lives  of  the  English  Poets  (life  of  Edward 
Smith).  Referring  to  Gilbert  Walmsley,  who  had  supphed  him  with 
facts  about  Smith,  Johnson  says:  "At  this  man's  table  I  enjoyed  many 
cheerful  and  instructive  hours,  with  companions  such  as  are  not  often 
found;  with  one  who  has  lengthened  and  one  who  has  gladdened  life; 
with  Dr  James,  whose  skill  in  physic  will  be  long  remembered ;  and  with 
David  Garrick,  whom  1  hoped  to  have  gratified  with  this  character  of 
our  common  friend :  but  what  are  the  hopes  of  man !  I  am  dis- 
appointed by  that  stroke  of  death,  which  has  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of 
nations  and  impoverished  the  public  stock  of  harmless  pleasure." 
Goldsmith's  mock  epitaph  in  Retaliation  hits  off  very  admirably  the 
excellence  and  the  failings  of  the  great  actor: 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgement  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine: 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line: 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread. 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting, 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  ofE  he  was  acting. 

******** 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please.... 
The  delightful  account  of  Partridge  at  the  play  in  Fielding's  Tom 
Jones  is  a  description  of  Garrick's  performance  as  Hamlet. 

p.  54,  1.  8.  J.  F.  Barron  Field  (1786-1846),  a  friend  of  Lamb, 
and,  for  a  time,  a  Judge  in  ISew  South  Wales,  where,  in  18 17,  he  was 
the  recipient  of  a  characteristic  letter  from  Lamb,  developed  later  into 
the  Eha  essay  entitled  Distant  Correspondents.  Field  wrote  certain 
verse  published  as  The  First  Fruits  of  Australian  Poetry,  a  volume 
of  no  great  merit,  yet  specially  interesting  as  the  first  book  printed 


igo  Notes 

and  published  in  Australia.  Lamb's  review  of  it  is  included  in  his 
miscellaneous  pieces. 

p.  54,  1.  8.  Handel.  Georg  Friedrich  Handel,  Anglicised  into 
George  Frederick  Handel  (1685-1759),  the  great  musician,  was  born 
at  Halle  in  Saxony,  but  was  naturalised  in  1726,  and  is  so  far  English 
in  spirit  as  to  have  become  almost  a  national  institution.  He  wrote 
many  successful  Italian  operas  and  chamber  pieces,  but  is  most  famous 
for  the  great  series  of  sacred  oratorios  written  to  English  words.  It  is 
a  striking  circumstance  that  many  passages  from  the  writings  of  the 
blind  poet  Milton  were  set  to  music  by  a  composer  who  was  himself,  in 
later  years,  almost  completely  blind,  the  coincidence  being  pathetically 
complete  in  the  case  of  Samson,  in  which  the  affecting  tenor  solo 
"Total  Echpse"  is  a  lament  for  loss  of  sight.  Handel  was  one  of  the 
few  musicians  whom  Lamb's  limited  ear  could  appreciate. 

p.  54,  1.  II.  Wildair.  Sir  Harry  Wildair  is  a  gay,  profligate, 
yet  good-hearted  character  in  The  Constant  Couple,  a  comedy 
written  by  George  Farquhar  (1678-1707).  The  character  proved  so 
popular,  that  Farquhar  wrote  another  play  Sir  Harry  Wildair  in 
which  the  dashing  hero  plays  again  the  chief  part. 

p.  54,  1.  II.  Abel  Drugger.  A  rather  soft  and  foolish  seller  of 
tobacco  in  Ben  Jonson's  excellent  comedy  The  Alchemist. 

p.  54,  1.  15.  what  a  troop,  etc.  Spranger  Barry  (1719-1777),  born 
in  Ireland,  was  gifted  with  a  fine  figure  and  a  perfect  voice.  He  was 
the  rival  of  Garrick  in  such  parts  as  Othello,  Macbeth  and  Romeo. 
In  parts  requiring  beauty  of  face,  iigure  and  diction,  Barry  was  held 
superior  to  Garrick;  but  Garrick  beat  him  in  parts  that  gave  scope 
for  intensity  of  genius  and  intellectual  power.  "Garrick,  Madam,  was 
no  declaimer,"  said  Johnson  to  Mrs  Siddons;  "there  was  not  one  of 
his  own  scene-schifters  who  could  not  have  spoken  To  be,  or  not  to  be 
better  than  he  did;  yet  he  was  the  only  actor  I  ever  saw  who  could 
be  called  a  master  both  in  tragedy  and  comedy."  James  Quin  (1693- 
1766)  was  the  leading  actor  of  the  day  till  Garrick  displaced  him. 
He  shone  in  such  parts  as  Othello,  Macbeth  and  Falstaff ;  his  greatest 
impersonations  being  Brutus  in  Julius  Caesar  and  Cato  in  Addison's 
tragedy.  Edward  Shuter  (1728-1776)  was  called  by  Garrick  the  greatest 
comic  genius  he  had  ever  seen.  He  was  famous  in  such  parts  as  Falstaff, 
and  the  ist  Grave-digger  in  Hamlet,  but  he  acted  chiefly  in  the  prose 
comedies  of  Wycherley  and  his  contemporaries.  Thomas  Weston 
(1737— 1776)  was  a  genuine  comedian  who  won  the  praise — rare  in 
such  cases — of  never  clowning  and  never  "  gagging."  His  Abel  Drugger 
was  thought  by  some  finer  than  Garrick's.  Kitty  Clive  (1711-1785) 
was  a  sprightly  actress  of  comedy.  "Clive,  Sir,"  said  Johnson,  "is  a 
good  thing  to  sit  by ;  she  always  understands  what  you  say."  He  added 
that  in  sprightliness  of  humour  he  had  never  seen  her  equalled.  Hannah 
Pritchard  (1711-1768)  was  specially  great  in  such  parts  as  Katherine 
and  Lady  Macbeth.  She  was  an  anticipation  of  Mrs  Siddons  in  the 
grand  manner.  "Pritchard,  in  common  life,"  said  Johnson,  "was 
a  vulgar  idiot;  she  would  talk  of  her  gownd;  but,  when  she  appeared 
on  the  stage,  seemed  to  be  inspired  by  gentihty  and  understanding." 

p.  54,  1.  28.  a  Bartlemy  Fair  actor.  On  St  Bartholomew's 
day  (Aug.  24)  a  great  fair  used  to  be  held  at  Smithfield  in  London. 
There  were,  of  course,  many  "shows,"  the  usual  accompaniment  of 


Of  persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       igi 

a  fair,  and  among  them  booths  in  which  bad  performances  of  bad 
plays  were  given  by  bad  actors.  So  a  Bartlemy  Fair  actor  was  what 
we  should  call  a  "barn-stormer."  The  Fair,  an  institution  of  London 
for  over  seven  hundred  years,  was  finally  stopped  in  1855.  One  of 
Ben  Jonson's  comedies  is  called  Bartholomew  Fair  and  gives  a  lively 
picture  of  London  and  the  Fair  in  1614. 

p.  54,  1.  28.  to  play  Macbeth  in  a  scarlet  coat.  In  Garrick's 
time,  and  earlier,  no  attempt  was  made  to  give  historical  illusion  in 
the  matter  of  costume.  The  actors  wore  garments  of  the  current  date, 
and  depended  on  their  art  for  dramatic  effect.  In  Zoffany's  picture 
of  Garrick  and  Mrs  Pritchard  in  Macbeth  the  actor  wears  elaborate 
gold-laced  and  scarlet-faced  garments  of  eighteenth  century  fashion. 
It  may  be  urged  that,  if  this  state  of  things  was  rather  undesirable,  it  is 
at  least  no  worse  than  the  modern  method  of  smothering  Shakespeare 
under  elaborately  correct  scenery  and  accurate  costumes  and  letting  the 
arts  of  diction  and  interpretation  take  care  of  themselves. 

p.  54,  1.  32.     histrionic  asstus.     Dramatic  fire  and  energy. 

P-  55. 1-  5-  Roscius.  Quintus  Roscius  was  an  actor  who  flourished  in 
Rome  during  the  first  century  B.C.  So  excellent  was  he  that  his  name  has 
ever  since  been  taken  as  the  symbol  of  histrionic  perfection.  Roscius 
taught  Cicero  elocution  and  the  orator  defended  the  actor  in  one  of 
his  extant  speeches.  He  was  honoured  by  the  dictator  Sulla  in  a  way 
that  affords  a  kind  of  precedent  for  the  modern  custom  of  conferring 
titles  upon  distinguished  actors. 

p.  55,  1.  13.     the  author  of  Mustapha.     Lord  Brooke.     See  p.  181. 

p.  55,  1.  15.  Kit  Marlowe.  Christopher  Marlowe  (1564-1593), 
Shakespeare's  famous  predecessor  and  exemplar,  had  a  short  and  wild 
life.  His  plays  include  Tamburlaine  the  Great,  The  Tragical  History 
of  Dr  Faustus,  The  Jew  of  Malta  and  Edward  II.  The  last,  the 
most  satisfying  of  his  dramas,  served  Shakespeare  as  a  model  for 
Richard  II.  Marlowe  was  stabbed  in  a  drunken  quarrel  at  a  Deptford 
tavern. 

p.  55, 1.  16.  the  sexton  of  St  Ann's.  John  Webster  the  dramatist 
was  traditionally  supposed  to  have  been  parish  clerk  at  St  Andrew's, 
Holborn.  Of  his  several  plays.  The  White  Devil  and  The  Duchess 
of  Malfy  {1623)  are  the  best  known.  The  dramatic  apparatus  of  the 
latter  includes  a  dead  man's  hand,  a  coffin  with  its  cords,  a  tolling  bell, 
madmen  who  dance  and  sing  and  waxen  images  anticipating  the 
posture  of  death !  Charles  Lamb's  admiration  for  this  play  is  expressed 
very  finely  in  his  Specimens.  The  Duchess,  he  says,  "has  lived  among 
horrors  till  she  is  become  '  native  and  endued  unto  that  element.'  She 
speaks  the  dialect  of  despair,  her  tongue  has  a  smatch  of  Tartarus 
and  the  souls  in  bale.... To  move  a  horror  skilfully,  to  touch  a  soul  to 
the  quick,  to  lay  upon  fear  as  much  as  it  can  bear,  to  wean  and  weary 
a  life  till  it  is  ready  to  drop  and  then  step  in  with  mortal  instruments 
to  take  its  last  forfeit:  this  onl}^  a  Webster  can  do...." 

p.  55,  1.  17.  Deckar.  Thomas  Dekker,  a  voluminous  dramatist, 
wrote  alone  The  Shoemaker' s  Holiday  and  Old  Fortunatus,  and  many 
other  plays  in  collaboration  with  Webster,  Middleton  and  Massinger. 
His  prose  sketch  or  essay,  The  Gull's  Hornbook  {1609),  is  a  lively 
and  valuable  sketch  of  how  the  contemporary  gallant  of  fashion  spent 
his  days.     Hazlitt  is  unnecessarily  scornful  of  Dekker. 


192  Notes 

p.  55,  1.  18.  Thomas  Heywood.  This  dramatist  is  best  remem- 
bered for  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  (1607).  His  title  to  the 
epithet  "voluminous"  is  estabUshed  by  his  own  confession  that  he 
had  "either  an  entire  hand  or  at  the  least  a  main  finger"  in  the  com- 
position of  no  less  than  220  plays !  Of  these  some  two  dozen  survive. 
Lamb  magaanimously  calls  him  "a  sort  of  prose  Shakespeare." 

p.  55, 1.  18.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Many  fine  plays,  including 
The  Maid's  Tragedy  and  Philaster,  were  written  in  collaboration  by 
Francis  Beaumont  (1584-1616)  and  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625).  It 
is  this  pair  of  dramatists  whom  Keats  addresses  in  his  lines: 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 

Have  ye  souls  in  heaven,  too, 

Double-lived  in  regions  new? 
p.  55,  1.  22.     a  vast  species  alone.     From  The  Praise  of  Pindar, 
in  Imitation   of   Horace's   Second   Ode,   Bk   IV,  by  Abraham   Cowley 
(1618-1667): 

Pindar  is  imitable  by  none; 

The  phoenix  Pindar  is  a  vast  species  alone. 
Cowley,  a  voluminous  writer,  considered  in  his  own  day  among  the 
greatest  of  poets,  is  now  unread,  save  for  a  lyric  or  two  in  the  antho- 
logies, and  for  his  Essays,  a  few  graceful  prose  compositions  with 
appended  verse  and  translations.  His  epic  The  Davideis  and  his 
alleged  Pindarique  Odes  are  quite  forgotten. 

p.  55,  1.  25.  Ben  Jonson.  This  dramatist  (i573?-i637)  is  one 
of  the  few  contemporaries  of  Shakespeare  who  approach  that  supreme 
master  in  power.  His  principal  plays  are  Every  Man  in  His  Humour, 
Cynthia's  Revels,  Sejanus,  Volpone,  Epicoene,  The  Alchemist,  Catiline 
and  Bartholomew  Fair.  He  is  the  writer  of  some  exquisite  songs  (to  be 
found  in  the  anthologies)  and  of  the  prose  Timber,  referred  to  on  p.  175. 
Jonson  died  in  poverty  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where 
the  slab  over  his  grave  is  inscribed  "O  Rare  Ben  Johnson,"  which,  says 
Aubrey,  "was  done  at  the  charge  of  Jack  Young,  afterwards  knighted, 
who,  walking  there  when  the  grave  was  covering,  gave  the  fellow 
eighteenpence  to  cut  it." 

p.  55,  1.  29.  his  romj-ntic  visit.  William  Drummond  of 
Hawthornden  (1585-1649),  a  devoted  adherent  to  the  cause  of  Charles  I, 
wrote  many  poems,  but  is  remembered  now  almost  solely  for  his  sonnet 
on  John  the  Baptist  and  his  most  interesting  notes  of  conversations 
with  Ben  Jonson,  when  that  sturdy  dramatist  visited  him  in  1618-19. 
This  slim  record  of  their  talk  is  an  invaluable  collection  of  obiter  dicta 
about  many  distinguished  figures  of  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean  times. 
Drummond  died  heart-broken  after  the  execution  of  the  king  to  whose 
cause  he  was  so  deeply  attached. 

P-  55.  1-  33-  Eugene  Aram.  This  person  (1704-1759)  was  the 
son  of  a  Yorkshire  gardener.  He  developed  his  considerable  natural 
gifts  by  study  and  became  a  schoolmaster  at  Knaresborough.  Here 
he  was  intimate  with  a  certain  Daniel  Clark  who  disappeared  in  1745 
with  mysterious  suddenness  at  a  time  when  he  was  in  the  possession 
of  much  valuable  property  dishonestly  acquired.  Aram  was  suspected 
of  being  concerned  in  Clark's  dishonesty,  but  no  evidence  could  be 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen      193 

found  against  him.  He  left  the  neighbourhood  and  continued  his 
studies  in  languages  and  his  work  as  a  teacher.  He  had  really  remark- 
able philological  gifts  and  established  the  affinity  of  the  Celtic  with 
other  European  languages  long  before  anyone  else  had  discerned  it. 
Several  years  later  a  confederate,  Houseman,  confessed  that  Clark  was 
murdered,  and  implicated  Aram.  The  bones  of  the  murdered  man 
were  found,  and  Eugene  Aram,  then  a  schoolmaster  at  Lynn  in  Norfolk, 
was  arrested,  tried  and  hanged.  Lytton  has  a  novel  with  Eugene 
Aram  as  the  chief  figure,  and  Tom  Hood's  finely  dramatic  poem  has 
made  his  name  even  more  familiar. 

P-  55.  1-  34-  tlie  Admirable  Crichton.  James  Crichton  (1560- 
1585?),  called  the  Admirable  Crichton  from  his  brilliant  gifts  of  mind 
and  person,  was  the  son  of  a  Scottish  judge.  He  was  educated  at 
St  Andrews,  served  in  the  French  army  and  spent  his  latest  years  in 
Italy,  making  a  great  figure  at  the  academies  and  universities.  He 
seems  to  have  astonished  everyone  by  his  command  of  languages,  his 
marvellous  memory  and  his  skill  with  the  rapier.  However,  in  spite 
of  his  swordsmanship  he  was  killed  in  a  brawl — so  at  least  tradition 
says.  The  extravagant  eulogies  of  his  friends  were  taken  seriously 
in  a  later  generation  and  Crichton  became  a  sort  of  mythical  epitome 
of  human  perfection.  The  first  to  write  of  him  was  Urquhart,  the 
famous  seventeenth  century  translator  of  Rabelais.  A  later  life  was 
published  in  1819  by  Patrick  Eraser  Tytler  the  Scottish  historian. 
Crichton  is  also  the  hero  of  a  very  poor  novel  by  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
It  should  be  added  that  Sir  J.  M.  Barrie's  delightful  comedy  The 
Admirable  Crichton  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject  of  this  note. 

p.  56,  1.  7.  Hobbes.  Thomas  Hobbes  (1588-1679),  a  very 
voluminous  philosophical  writer,  is  remembered  now  almost  solely  by 
his  Leviathan  (1651),  a  very  interesting  discussion  of  government 
and  social  rights.  A  striking  sketch  of  "the  Philosopher  of  Malmesbury  " 
appears  in  Shorthouse's  fine  novel  John  Inglesant.  Hazhtt  has  an  essay 
on  his  writings. 

p.  56,  1.  8.  Leibnitz.  Gottfried  Leibniz  (1646-1716),  a  famous 
German  philosopher,  with  sane  and  practical  interests  in  many  depart- 
ments of  life  and  learning.  His  optimistic  pliilosophy,  involving  the  view 
that  this  is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds,  is  ridiculed  by  Voltaire  in 
the  person  of  Dr  Pangloss,  the  arch-optimist  in  Candide.  Leibniz  is 
further  interesting  from  the  fact  that  Bolingbroke  borrowed  his  views, 
which  were  in  turn  borrowed  by  Pope  and  distilled  into  the  couplets 
of  the  Essay  on  Man. 

p.  56,  1.  9.  Jonathan  Edwards.  The  elder  of  two  writers  bearing 
this  name  is  plainly  meant.  He  was  a  Connecticut  man  (1703- 
1758)  but  spent  most  of  his  hfe  as  a  minister  in  Massachusetts  and 
died  shortly  after  being  made  President  of  Princeton  College.  His 
chief  work  is  the  Inquiry  into  the  Freedom  of  the  Will  which  competent 
critics  say  entitles  him  to  be  considered  one  of  the  greatest  thinkers 
America  has  produced.  Edwards  held  some  of  the  views  that  we 
usually  associate  with  Berkeley,  and  it  is  a  curious  coincidence 
that  the  Irish  philosopher  was  living  in  Rhode  Island  at  the  very 
period  when  Edwards  was  beginning  his  career  as  a  minister  not  far 
away.  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  has  a  very  interesting  essay  on  Jonathan 
Edwards  in  the  first  volume  of  his  Hours  in  a  Library. 

S.  H,  13 


194  Notes 

p.  56,  1.  21.  Dugald  Stewart.  This  Scottish  philosopher  (1753- 
1828)  was  the  author  of  several  works — Elements  of  the  Philosophy 
of  the  Human  Mind,  Outlines  of  Moral  Philosophy,  Philosophical  Essays, 
etc. 

p.  56,  1.  23.  scholiasts.  Hazlitt  uses  this  word  incorrectly — 
perhaps  because  his  beloved  Sir  Walter  uses  it  in  the  same  sense  in  The 
Monastery.  The  scholiasts  were  the  ancient  commentators  on  the  classics 
— unknown  students  who  wrote  "scholia"  or  marginal  notes,  often  of 
inestimable  value,  on  the  manuscripts  of  the  classical  authors,  explaining 
difficulties  of  vocabulary,  grammar  or  interpretation.  Thomas  Aquinas 
and  Duns  Scotus  were  not  "scholiasts";  they  were  "scholastic  philo- 
sophers" or  "schoolmen,"  that  is,  teachers  of  theology,  in  medieval 
times,  according  to  the  rules  of  Aristotle's  philosophy.  Thomas 
Aquinas  (1226-1274),  "the  Angelic  Doctor,"  born  at  Aquino  in  southern 
Italy,  was  the  greatest  philosopher  of  the  Middle  Ages.  He  was  a 
close  student  of  Aristotle,  and  in  his  Summa  Theologiae  codified 
all  theological  doctrine  according  to  the  rules  of  Aristotle's  logic.  It 
is  interesting  to  note  that  St  Thomas  wrote  the  famous  Latin  hymn, 
Pange,  lingua,  gloriosi 
Lauream  certaminis, 
sung  on  Good  Friday,  and  familiar  in  its  "Ancient  and  Modern" 
version. 

Sing,  my  tongue,  the  glorious  battle, 
Sing  the  last,  the  dread  affray. 
St  Thomas  stood  for  authority  and  fixity  of  doctrine.  Within  the 
limits  of  theology  as  set  by  the  Church  all  human  knowledge  was  con- 
tained, and  any  attempt  to  pass  those  bounds  was  unlawful.  His 
chief  opponent  was  "the  Subtle  Doctor,"  Duns  Scotus  (1265-1308), 
a  native  of  these  islands,  who  argued  for  greater  freedom,  urging  that 
practical  faith,  not  speculative  theory,  was  the  first  consideration  in 
theology.  The  Dominican  order  of  friars  followed  St  Thomas  Aquinas ; 
the  Franciscans  followed  Duns  Scotus.  It  might  be  mentioned  that 
the  term  "dunce"  originated  from  the  abuse  heaped  upon  Duns  Scotus 
and  his  followers  by  later  opponents. 

p.  56,  1.  31.  irritabile  genus.  "Genus  irritabile  vatum,"  a 
quotation  from  Horace,  Epistles,  Book  11,  ii,  line  102.  It  may  be 
translated  "the  cantankerous  race  of  poets," 

p.  57,  1.  2.  Gray.  Thomas  Gray  (1716-1771),  the  famous 
author  of  the  Elegy.  Gray  "declined  the  invitation"  no  doubt 
because  of  his  personal  shyness  and  his  love  of  studious  retirement. 
"  He  had  not  yet  been  asked  "  presumably  because  there  was  a  tendency 
in  the  Wordsworth-Coleridge  circle  to  depreciate  Gray.  Hazlitt 
himself  is  a  little  hesitant.  Thus  he  writes:  "Gray's  Pindaric  Odes 
[i.e.  The  Bard  and  The  Progress  of  Poetry]  are,  I  believe,  generally 
given  up  at  present :  they  are  stately  and  pedantic,  a  kind  of  methodical 
borrowed  frenzy.  But  I  cannot  so  easily  give  up,  nor  will  the  world 
be  in  any  haste  to  part  with  his  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  etc." ; 
and  then  he  goes  on  to  praise  this  poem  and  the  Letters,  and  to 
suggest  faults  in  the  Eton  College  ode.  The  whole  of  this  passage 
in  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  should  be  read  as  an  instance 
of  Hazlitt's  own  originality  struggling  against  the  influence  of  his 
surroundings.     We  may  observe  that  the  two  "Pindaric  Odes"  are 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen      195 

very  far  from  being  "generally  given  up  at  present."  Certain  ultra- 
fastidious  critics  have  tried,  and  still  try,  to  depreciate  the  Elegy. 
They  seem  to  think  that  its  outstanding  popularity  is  a  mark  of  suspicion 
against  it.  But  we  must  be  careful.  The  best  poetry  may  appeal 
only  to  a  few;  but  we  must  not  assume  that  everything  the  many 
like  is  trash.  The  final  answer  to  all  objections  is  this,  that  the  balanced 
opinion  of  all  sincere  lovers  of  poetry  during  a  hundred  and  fifty  years 
is  solidly  against  any  attempt  to  depreciate  Gray  in  general  and  to 
disparage  the  Elegy  in  particular.  It  is  this  balance  of  opinion 
over  a  long  range  of  time  that  gives  or  withholds  immortality  in  any 
art,  and  the  individual  opinions  of  isolated  critics  cannot  set  aside 
that  verdict. 

p.  57,  1.  4.  the  Duchess  of  Bolton.  Lavinia  Fenton  (1708- 
1760),  a  vivacious  actress  who  took  the  town  by  storm  in  the  character 
of  Polly  Peachum,  the  heroine  of  Gay's  musical  comedy  The  Beggar's 
Opera.  She  fascinated  the  third  Duke  of  Bolton  (1685-1754)  who 
married  her  in  175 1  and  thus  initiated  a  matrimonial  connection  between 
the  peerage  and  the  stage,  common  enough  now,  but  unheard  of  till 
then.  One  of  Hogarth's  best  portraits  is  that  of  Lavinia  Fenton  as 
Polly.     It  is  in  the  National  Gallery. 

p.  57,  1.  5.  Captain  Sentry  and  Sir  Roger  de  Goverley. 
A  pair  of  simple-hearted,  lovable  gentlemen,  members  of  the  "  Spectator 
Club,"  described  in  the  delightful  papers  of  Steele  and  Addison. 

p.  57,  1.  6.  Swift.  The  great  Dean  of  St  Patrick's  might  very 
well  behave  in  the  manner  suggested,  for  he  was  a  masterful  person, 
very  terrible  in  his  moods  of  silent  anger  and  contempt,  though  normally 
pleasant  and  even  amiable  to  his  intimates. 

p.  57, 1.  7.  Otway  and  Chatterton.  Thomas  Otway  (1652-1685), 
a  prolific  dramatist,  whose  natural  defects  of  character  joined  with 
an  unhappy  passion  for  the  beautiful  actress  Mrs  Barry  to  drive  him 
to  ruin,  want,  despair  and  a  death — like  his  life — of  abject  misery. 
One  of  his  tragedies,  Venice  Preserved,  was  long  a  favourite  on  the 
stage  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  characters  of 
Jaffier,  Pierre  and  Belvidera  being  strong  parts  in  the  repertory  of 
tragic  actors  and  actresses.  Thomas  Chatterton  (i 752-1 770)  was  a 
Bristol  lad  who  began  to  write  verses  at  a  very  early  age.  All  his 
eagerness  and  energy  centred  in  books,  and,  being  specially  attracted 
by  certain  old  volumes  and  documents,  he  began  to  imitate  the  ancient 
style  of  hand  and  phrase,  and  at  last  to  fabricate  many  manuscripts 
of  prose  arid  verse  which  he  alleged  were  written  in  the  fifteenth  century 
by  a  certain  monk,  Thomas  Rowley.  These  Rowley  poems  aroused 
much  interest;  and,  elated  with  the  hope  of  success,  Chatterton  came 
to  London  in  1770,  wrote  feverishly  all  day,  and  almost  all  night, 
only  to  find  that  London  offered  him  neither  fame  nor  fortune,  not 
even  recognition,  not  so  much  as  a  scanty  living.  A  few  weeks  of 
despair  ended  in  three  days  of  complete  starvation.  Haughtily 
refusing  food  offered  by  his  landlady,  he  shut  himself  in  his  garret 
at  Brooke  Street,  Holborn,  and,  after  destrojdng  all  his  papers,  took 
poison.  He  was  then  httle  more  than  seventeen  and  a  half  years  of 
age. 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy. 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride; 


196  Notes 

— so  wrote  Wordsworth,  both  finely  and  truly,  for  it  is  Chatterton's 
extraordinary  life  and  tragic  death,  and  not  the  poetical  value  of  his 
work  (frankly,  not  very  great),  to  which  his  immortality  of  fame  is  due. 
See  the  conclusion  of  the  sixth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  of 
Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  for  a  very  sane  discussion  of 
Chatterton's  merits.  Thus  in  Hazlitt's  assembly  of  poets,  Otway  and 
Chatterton  appear  as  types  of  destitution  so  complete  that  they  could 
not  find  the  obolus  (about  three-half-pence)  which,  according  to  legend, 
was  placed  in  the  mouth  of  the  dead  as  the  fare  of  Charon,  the  boatman 
who  ferried  the  departed  across  the  river  Styx  into  the  realm  of  shades. 

p.  57,  I.  10.  Thomson.  James  Thomson  (1700-1748),  author 
of  The  Seasons  and  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  and  specially  famous 
for  the  words  of  Rule  Britannia,  the  song  with  Arne's  music,  in 
the  Masque  of  Alfred,  is  represented  as  falling  asleep  because  he 
was  fat,  good-natured,  rather  greedy  and  somewhat  lazy.  He  must 
not  be  confused  with  a  nineteenth  century  poet  James  Thomson, 
author  of  the  gloomy  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

p.  57,  1.  II.  John  Barleycorn.  Barley  is  the  grain  from  which 
malt  liquor  is  brewed  and  whisky  distilled.  John  Barleycorn,  "the 
king's  grain,"  is  the  subject  of  one  poem  by  Burns  and  referred  to 
in  several  others.  His  praise  of  Scotland's  spirit  was  not  based  merely 
on  report,  hence  the  allusion  in  the  text.  In  1789  Burns  was  given 
an  appointment  in  the  Excise;  that  is  why  he  is  referred  to  as  an 
exciseman. 

p  57,1.23.  Leonardo.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  (1452-1519),  a  painter 
of  peculiar  attractiveness,  was  also  architect,  engineer,  anatomist, 
botanist  and  inventor  with  views  on  the  possibilities  of  flying-machines. 
That  is  why  he  is  represented  with  a  bust  of  Archimedes  (3rd  century 
B.C.),  the  most  famous  of  ancient  philosophers.  Genuine  pictures  by 
Leonardo  are  very  rare  in  England  and  far  from  plentiful  anywhere. 
The  most  famous  is  the  "  Monna  Lisa  "  or  "  La  Gioconda  "  in  the  Louvre, 
remarkable  for  the  mysterious  theft  and  restoration  of  which  it  was 
recently  the  subject.     There  is  a  valuable  cartoon  at  Burlington  House. 

p.  57,  1.  25.  Raphael.  According  to  tradition,  La  Fornarina 
("the  baker's  daughter")  was  Raphael's  lover  and  model.  A  portrait 
called  "La  Fornarina"  is  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery  at  Florence,  and  another 
in  the  Barberini  Palace  at  Rome.  Raphael  did  not  paint  a  portrait 
of  Lucrezia  Borgia;  but  loose  and  inaccurate  titles  were  often  given, 
in  Hazlitt's  time,  to  pictures  by  the  old  masters.  Hazlitt  once  saw  a 
lock  of  golden  hair  alleged  to  be  Lucrezia's,  and  refers  to  it  several 
times. 

p.  57,  1.  27.  Michael  Angelo.  This  most  masterful  of  artists 
(1475-1564)  was  one  of  the  succession  of  architects  employed  in  the 
erection  of  St  Peter's,  the  present  form  of  the  building  being  largely  his. 
Hence  the  allusion. 

p.  57,  1.  28.  Correggio.  Antonio  AUegri  (1494-1534),  called 
Correggio  from  his  birthplace,  may  not  strike  one  specially  as  "the 
painter  of  angels."  There  are  however  many  angels  in  his  paintings 
in  the  Cathedral  at  Parma  (which  Hazlitt  had  visited),  notably,  "The 
Virgin  Ascending,"  with  a  crowd  of  attendant  angels  and  saints, 
painted  in  the  cupola.  There  is  a  beautiful  angel  head  in  his  "  Madonna 
of  St  Jerome"  (Parma  Gallery)  and  two  fine  angel- musicians  in  the 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen      197 

"Madonna  and  Jesus  with  Angels"  (Uffizi  Gallery,  Florence).  Others 
occur  in  the  church  of  St  John  the  Evangelist  at  Parma,  decorated 
by  Correggio. 

p.  57,  1.  29.  Titian.  Tiziano  Vecellio  (1477-1576),  a  painter 
of  superb  power  and  range,  is  fairly  well  represented  in  England — 
the  "Bacchus  and  Ariadne"  in  the  National  Gallery  being  one  of  his 
greatest  productions.  The  picture  Hazlitt  calls  his  "Mistress"  is  in 
the  Louvre.  It  is  more  accurately  called  "Laura  de'  Dianti"  or 
"Alfonso  da  Ferrara  and  Laura  de'  Dianti." 

p.  57,  1.  30.  Giorgione.  Giorgio  Barbarelli  (1477-1510)  was  a 
fellow  student  in  Venice  with  Titian.  His  influence  in  his  own  day 
was  very  great,  but  to  us  his  fame  is  almost  legendary,  as  very  few 
existing  pictures  can  be  definitely  assigned  to  him.  Giorgione  is  the 
subject  of  a  delightful  essay  in  Walter  Pater's  volume  The  Renaissance. 

p.  57,  1.  30.  Guido.  The  sentimental  art  of  Guido  Reni  (1575- 
1642)  is  now  less  esteemed  than  formerly.  "  Aurora  and  the  Hours,"  or 
"Aurora  preceding  the  Chariot  of  Apollo,"  an  elaborate  ceiling  painting 
in  the  Rospigliosi  Palace  at  Rome,  is  considered  by  many  to  be  his 
finest  work.  Guido  was  a  spendthrift  and  gambler;  hence  Hazlitt's 
allusion  to  the  dice  box. 

p.  57, 1.  31.  Claude.  For  this  painter  see  p.  171.  He  is  represented 
here  with  a  mirror  probably  because  his  landscapes  are  faithful  reflec- 
tions of  Nature's  moods.  The  several  hundred  existing  sketches  and 
drawings,  nearly  all  direct  notes  from  nature,  prove  that  he  was  a 
diligent  observer,  eager  to  draw  nature  as  he  actually  saw  it,  and  not 
nature  rearranged  on  classical  principles. 

p.  57,  1.  32.  Rubens.  Sir  Peter  Paul  Rubens  (1577-1640),  the 
most  flamboyant  of  Flemish  painters,  produced  either  alone,  or  with 
the  help  of  assistants,  many  great  pictures  of  historical  scenes  and 
classical  legends,  together  with  some  admirable  portraits,  landscapes 
and  religious  pictures — the  Antwerp  "Descent  from  the  Cross"  being 
the  most  famous  among  the  last-named  group.  He  is  well  represented 
in  England.  His  riotous  pictures  of  mythological  scenes  abound  in 
satyrs,  panthers  and  other  accompaniments  of  Bacchanalian  revel — 
heiice  the  allusion  in  the  text.  Rubens  was  an  accomplished  man 
of  the  world  and  was  twice  sent  on  diplomatic  missions  to  the  Court 
of  Spain. 

P-  57.  1-  33-  Vandyke.  Sir  Anthony  van  Dyck  (1599 — 1641), 
the  pattern  of  courtly  painters,  was  born  in  Antwerp,  and,  after  visiting 
Italy,  spent  several  years  in  England,  where  he  was  pensioned  and 
knighted  by  Charles  I.  His  early  work  was  influenced  by  Rubens; 
but  he  is  specially  renowned  for  his  magnificent  portraits  of  noble 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  painted  during  the  later  development  of  his  art. 
"His  own  Paris"  is  doubtless  the  portrait  of  himself  as  the  shepherd 
Paris,  now  in  the  Wallace  collection,  London. 

P-  57.  1-  33-  Rembrandt.  Rembrandt  Harmensz  van  Ryn 
(1606-1669),  born  at  Leyden  in  Holland,  is  one  of  the  supreme  artists 
of  the  world.  He  has  left  almost  innumerable  portraits,  subject- 
pieces,  landscapes,  etchings,  drawings,  etc.,  all  remarkable  for  mastery 
of  line,  form  and  lighting,  and  for  power  of  expression.  Rem- 
brandt was  often  his  own  model,  and  loved  rendering  the  effect  of 


igS  Notes 

furs,  rich  costumes,  gold,  gems  and  similar  properties.  Portraits 
"richly  dressed"  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in  his  work.  That  is 
why  Hazlitt  imagines  him  as  appearing  in  the  fashion  described. 

p.  58,  1.  I.  Giotto,  Cimabue  and  Ghirlandaio .  Cimabue 
(about  1240-1301)  and  his  pupil  Giotto  (about  1266-1337),  two  Floren- 
tines, were  the  first  to  attempt  the  introduction  of  natural  touches, 
based  on  direct  observation,  into  the  art  of  painting,  which,  till  then, 
had  been  stiff,  crude  and  expressionless,  like  work  in  mosaic.  They 
may  be  regarded  as  the  founders  of  modern  painting.  Certainly 
nothing  like  the  sweet  and  appealing  "St  Francis  preaching  to  the 
Birds"  by  Giotto  had  ever  appeared  before  in  European  art.  The 
work  of  Cimabue  and  Giotto  (the  names  are  pronounced  Chee-ma- 
boo'-ay  and  Jotto)  cannot  be  seen  out  of  Italy,  as  it  takes  the  form 
chiefly  of  frescoes  on  the  walls  of  the  upper  and  lower  church  at  Assisi. 
Domenico  del  Ghirlandaio  (i  447-1 494)  is  a  painter  of  great  charm  and 
sincerity.  Very  little  of  his  work  can  be  seen  out  of  Italy,  as  it  is 
mainly  in  fresco.  He  is  a  much  later  artist,  and  it  is  not  very  critical 
of  Hazlitt  to  link  him  thus  with  painters  who  flourished  almost 
two  centuries  earlier.  But  the  mere  mention  of  their  names  at  the 
date  of  Hazlitt's  essay  is  a  point  of  interest ;  for  we  may  remark  that 
the  progress  of  taste  in  pictorial  art  for  the  last  century  has  been 
steadily  away  from  such  showy,  insincere  and  sentimental  work  as 
that  of  Guido,  once  so  popular,  and  towards  the  primitive  beauty  and 
sincerity  of  such  work  as  that  of  Giotto,  once  thought  barbarous  and 
ugly.  With  this  progress  of  taste  the  name  of  Ruskin  is  specially 
associated ;  but  that  Hazhtt  saw  something  of  the  truth  is  evident 
from  passages  in  his  Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France  and  Italy.  He 
is  quite  wrong,  however,  in  attributing  some  of  the  Assisi  frescoes  to 
Ghirlandaio.  He  probably  meant  Cimabue.  Ghirlandaio  did  paint 
scenes  from  the  life  of  St  Francis,  but  they  are  at  Florence,  and  were 
painted  not  "within  forty  months"  of  the  saint's  death  (as  Hazlitt 
says),  but  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  after.  The  remark,  attributed 
to  Lamb,  about  their  having  painted  "when  all  was  dark  around 
them"  is  rather  mysterious.  It  may  mean  that  Giotto  and  Cimabue 
were  initiators  without  the  light  of  other  men's  experience  to  guide 
them,  or  it  may  be  meant  literally  (as  a  sentence  at  the  end  of  the 
essay  seems  to  imply),  in  which  case  Lamb  was  probably  alluding  to 
the  fact  that  much  of  their  work  was  done  in  the  dim  light  of  church 
interiors. 

p.  58,  1.  4.  Whose  names,  etc.  The  history  of  this  quotation 
is  rather  interesting.  "Writing  to  Bernard  Barton  (17  Feb.  1823), 
Lamb  says :  "  I  have  quoted  G.  F.  [i.e.  George  Fox,  the  founder  of 
Quakerism]  in  my  'Quaker's  Meeting'  [Essays  of  Elia],  as  having 
said  he  was  'lifted  up  in  spirit'  (which  I  felt  at  the  time  to  be  not  a 
Quaker  phrase),  'and  the  Judge  and  Jury  were  as  dead  men  under 
his  feet.'  I  find  no  such  words  in  his  Journal,  and  I  did  not  get  them 
from  Sewell,  and  the  latter  sentence  I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to  invent. 
I  must  have  put  some  other  Quaker's  words  into  his  mouth.  Is  it  a 
fatality  in  me,  that  everything  I  touch  turns  to  a  Lie  ?  I  once  quoted 
two  Lines  from  a  translation  of  Dante,  which  Hazlitt  very  greatly 
admired,  and  quoted  in  a  Book  as  proof  of  the  stupendous  power  of 
that  poet,  but  no  such  lines  are  to  be  found  in  the  translation,  which 
has  been  searched  for  the  purpose.     I  must  have  dreamed  them,  for 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen       199 

I  am  quite  certain  I  did  not  forge  them  knowingly.  What  a  misfortune 
to  have  a  Lying  memory."  The  allusion  is  to  the  essay  "On  Posthu- 
mous Fame  "  {Round  Table)  where  Hazlitt  writes  :  "  Dante  has  conveyed 
the  finest  image  that  can  perhaps  be  conceived  of  the  power  of  this 
principle  over  the  human  mind,  when  he  describes  the  heroes  and 
celebrated  men  of  antiquity  as  'serene  and  smiling,'  though  in  the 
shades  of  death, 

"Because  on  earth  their  names 

In  Fame's  eternal  volume  .shine  for  aye." 
Much  the  same  sentence  and  quotation  occur  in  Hazlitt's  article  on 
Sismondi's    Literature   of  Southern   Europe  in    The   Edinburgh   Review 
for  June,  1815.     The  rendering  (by  Lamb's  friend  Cary)  of  a  passage 
in  Inferno,  Canto  iv,  not  unlike  the  quoted  lines,  reads  thus: 
The  renown  of  their  great  names 

That  echoes  through  your  world  above  acquires 

Favour  in  heaven. 
Probably  the  form  taken  by  the  lines  in  Lamb's  (or  HazUtt's)  memory 
was  influenced  by  the  familiar  strain  from  The  Faerie  Queene,  Bk  iv. 
Canto  ii,  Stan.  32 : 

Dan  Chaucer,  well  of  English  undifyled, 

On  Fames  eternal  beadroll  worthie  to  be  fyled. 

p.  58,  1.  18.  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle.  Margaret  Lucas 
(i624?-i674),  second  wife  of  William  Cavendish,  Duke,  Marquis  and 
Earl  of  Newcastle  (1592-1676),  wrote  a  ver}^  sincere  but  rather  "roman- 
cical"  eulogy  of  her  Cavalier  lord  (1667).  Her  almost  innumerable 
other  works,  including  plays,  poems  and  philosophical  utterances,  are 
very  scarce  and  very  little  known,  and  would  seem  to  afford  a  very 
interesting  and  practically  untouched  field  of  research  for  some  future 
scholar.  Lamb  was  never  tired  of  praising  this  most  devout  lover 
among  wives.  "That  princely  woman  the  thrice  noble  Margaret 
Newcastle,"  he  calls  her,  in  The  Two  Races  of  Men;  and  again: 
"a  dear  favourite  of  mine,  of  the  last  century  but  one — the  thrice 
noble,  chaste,  and  virtuous, — but  again,  somewhat  fantastical,  and 
original-brained,  generous  Margaret  Newcastle"  {Mackery  End);  and 
again  :  "  Such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
by  his  Duchess — no  casket  is  rich  enough,  no  casing  sufficiently  durable, 
to  honour  and  keep  safe  such  a  jewel"  [Detached  Thoughts  on  Books 
and  Reading).  Now  hear  another:  "Thence  home,  and  there,  in 
favour  to  my  eyes,  stayed  at  home,  reading  the  ridiculous  History 
of  my  Lord  Newcastle,  wrote  by  his  wife ;  which  shows  her  to  be  a 
mad,  conceited,  ridiculous  woman,  and  he  an  ass  to  suffer  her  to  write 
what  she  writes  to  him  and  of  him."     Thus  Samuel  Pepys. 

p.  58, 1.  18.  Mrs  Hutchinson.  Lucy  Apsley  (1620-died  some  time 
after  1675),  wife  of  Colonel  John  Hutchinson  (1615-1664),  wrote  for 
her  children's  sake  a  life  of  her  husband  and  their  father.  It  is  a  most 
admirable  account  of  a  Puritan  gentleman  in  the  best  sense  of  both 
terms.  The  book  forms  an  excellent  companion — and  contrast — to  the 
Duchess  of  Newcastle's  panegyric.  Mrs  Hutchinson's  book  remained 
in  manuscript  till  1806  when  it  was  first  printed. 

p.  58,  1.  21.  one  in  the  room.  Mary  Lamb  (1764-1847)  was 
eleven  years  older  than  Charles.     The  history  of  literature  offers  few 


2D0  Notes 

stories  so  tragic  yet  so  consoling  as  the  life-long  association  of  this 
famous  brother  and  sister — the  complete  bachelor  and  the  perfect  old 
maid.  Mary  wrote  verses  which  cannot  be  called  important.  Her  chief 
contribution  to  literature  is  the  larger  part  of  the  Tales  from  Shakespeare. 
Mary  wrote  the  Comedies  and  Charles  the  Tragedies. 

p.  58,  1.  24.  Ninon  de  Lenclos.  The  celebrated  courtly  beauty, 
friend  of  Moliere,  Racine  and  Boileau,  beloved  of  a  long  line  of  noble 
Frenchmen,  including  the  Due  de  La  Rochefoucauld,  author  of  the 
famous  Maxims,  and  the  great  Conde,  victor  of  Rocroy. 

p.  58,  1.  27.  Voltaire.  Franfois  Marie  Arouet  (1694-1778), 
among  the  greatest  of  French  writers,  was  a  most  prolific  author, 
producing  in  rapid  succession  histories,  tales,  poems,  tragedies, 
pamphlets  and  innumerable  letters,  written  with  perfect  ease  of  manner 
and  popular  directness  of  appeal.  He  assumed  the  name  Voltaire 
in  1 71 8.  He  spent  some  time  in  England  where  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Bolingbroke,  Pope  and  other  famous  men  of  the  time.  For 
several  years,  too,  he  lived  in  close  intimacy  with  Frederick  the  Great. 
Voltaire  assailed  the  political  and  religious  abuses  of  the  day  with  the 
utmost  fearlessness,  and  his  penetrating  satire  helped  to  prepare  the 
way  for  the  French  Revolution.  In  keenness  of  edge  and  perfection 
of  simplicity  the  prose  of  Voltaire  is  almost  unsurpassed.  If,  as  Hazlitt 
calls  him,  he  is  the  "patriarch  of  levity,"  it  should  be  added  that  his 
levity  of  manner  was  joined  with  deep  gravity  of  matter  and  purpose. 

p.  58,  1.  28.  Rabelais.  Fran9ois  Rabelais  (i 483-1 553),  born  at 
Chinon  in  Touraine,  entered  a  monastery  and  passed  his  early  years 
in  the  study  of  languages  and  science.  He  became  disgusted  with  the 
narrowness  and  ignorance  of  the  Church  and  showed  his  sympathy 
with  "the  New  Learning"  that  we  associate  with  the  names  of  Erasmus, 
Colet  and  More.  His  great  work,  detailing  the  life  and  adventures  of 
the  giant  Gargantua  and  his  son  Pantagruel,  is  a  wild  medley  of  coarse 
and  riotous  fun,  biting  satire  and  rich  wisdom.  Three  books  of  it 
were  translated  by  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart(i6ii-i66o),  a  Scottish  scholar, 
and  the  rest  by  P.  A.  Motteux  (1660-1718). 

p.  58,  1.  29.  Moliere.  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin  (1662-1673),  who 
took  the  name  of  Moliere,  was  born  in  Paris  and  studied  law;  but  in 
1643  he  formed  a  troupe  of  comedians,  and,  like  the  English  actor- 
manager  William  Shakespeare,  wrote  plays  for  his  company  to  perform. 
The  comedies  of  Moliere,  embodying,  as  they  do,  enduring  types  of 
human  weakness  and  folly,  are  an  important  contribution  to  the 
literature  of  the  world  and  hold  the  stage  as  strongly  now  as  when 
they  were  written.  In  recent  years  the  great  French  actor  Coquelin 
scored  his  chief  successes  in  the  comedies  of  Moliere,  his  Mascarille 
{Les  Pr&cieuses  Ridicules),  Tartufe  and  Monsieur  Jourdain  (Le 
Bourgeois  Gentilhomme)  being  specially  delightful  interpretations. 
Tartufe  (in  the  play  of  that  name)  mentioned  in  Hazlitt's  text  is,  like 
the  Pecksniff  of  Dickens,  an  example  of  roguery  hypocritically  masking 
itself  in  morality. 

p.  58,  1,  30.  the  print  of  that  subject.  The  picture  of  Molidre 
reading  Tavhife  at  the  house  of  Ninon  was  painted  by  Nicolas-Andre 
Monsiau  and  exhibited  at  the  Salon  of  1802.  An  engraving  of  this 
picture  was  exhibited  at  the  Salon  of  1814  by  Jean-Louis  Ansehn, 
whose  work  is  usually  signed  "Anselin,  Bourgeois  de  Calais." 


Of  Persons  one  would  wish  to  have  seen      201 

p.  58,  1.  32.  Racine.  Jean  Racine  (1639-1699),  the  great  French 
dramatist,  wrote  tragedies  that  still  hold  the  highest  rank  in  the 
theatre  of  France.  Andromaque,  Iphiginie,  Les  Plaideurs  (a  serious 
comedy),  Phedre,  Athalie  and  Bajazet  may  be  named  among  his  works. 
The  part  of  the  guilty  Phddre  was  one  of  Sarah  Bernhardt's  greatest 
impersonations. 

p.  58,  1.  32.  Lafontaine.  Jean  de  Lafontaine  (1621-1695),  the 
French  poet,  is  remembered  chiefly  for  his  dehghtful  Fables  choisies 
mises  en  Vers,  familiar  to  every  student  of  French. 

p.  58,  1.  32.  La  Rochefoucauld.  Fran9ois,  Due  de  La  Roche- 
foucauld (1613-1680),  a  French  nobleman  who  played  a  prominent 
part  at  court  in  the  days  of  Richelieu  and  Mazarin,  wrote  a  collection 
of  Reflexions,  ou  Sentences  et  Maximes  Morales — a  very  masterly  work 
both  in  matter  and  in  style.  Hazlitt's  volume  called  Characteristics 
(1823)  was  written  in  imitation  of  La  Rochefoucauld. 

p.  58,  1.  32.  Saint-Evremond.  Charles  Marguetel  Saint-Denis, 
Seigneur  de  Saint-Evremond  (1613-1703),  was  a  courtier,  scholar  and 
soldier.  He  is  remembered  now — at  least  by  Englishmen — rather  for 
his  connection  with  Ninon  and  her  brilhant  circle  than  for  any  work 
of  his  own. 

p.  58,  1.  38.  Tamerlane.  Tamerlane  or  Timour  (1336-1405).  the 
great  Mongol  chieftain,  overran  and  conquered  most  of  western  Asia. 
He  is  the  subject  of  Marlowe's  drama  Tamburlame  the  Great.  The 
most  generally  accessible  account  of  the  conquests  of  Timour  is  the 
excellent  chapter  (lxv)  in  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire. 

p.  58, 1.  38.  Genghis  Khan.  Chingiz,  Genghis,  Jenghis,  or  Zenghis 
Khan  (i  162-1227)  was  a  Mongol  chief  who  conquered  and  governed 
vast  kingdoms  and  empires  stretching  from  Poland  to  China,  from  the 
Black  Sea  to  the  Pacific  Ocean.  His  personal  name  was  Temujin. 
Chingiz  Khan  is  a  title  meaning  The  Most  Mighty  Ruler.  See  Chapter 
LXiv  of  The  Decline  and  Fall  for  an  excellent  account  of  his  hfe  and 
conquests. 

p.  59,  1.  4.  Your  most  exquisite  reason.  Twelfth  Night,  Act  11, 
Sc.  iii,  1.  155. 

p.  59,  1.  19.  Leonardo's  very  fine  one.  The  famous  "Last 
Supper"  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci  is  in  the  refectory  of  Santa  Maria  delle 
Grazie  at  Milan.  The  picture  is  painted  on  the  wall  and  has  almost 
entirely  perished.  Elaborate  restoration  has  left  very  little  of  the 
original  work. 

p.  59,  1.  21.  Oh!  ever  right,  Menenius.  Coriolanus,  Act  11, 
Sc.  i,  11.  208-9. 

p.  59,  1.  24.  If  Shakespeare,  etc.  This  remark  here  given  to 
Hunt  is  assigned  to  Lamb  by  the  report  of  other  hearers. 

P-  59,  h  33.  overspread  Europe.  HazHtt,  the  convinced 
Revolutionist  and  steady  admirer  of  Napoleon,  here  refers  to  the  break- 
up of  the  Congress  of  Vienna  caused  by  the  news  of  Napoleon's  escape 
from  Elba.  See  the  note  on  p.  174.  But  the  wonderful  adventure 
of  the  Hundred  Days  came  to  nothing.  Napoleon  was  defeated, 
and  "the  night  [of  reaction]  overspread  Europe"  once  more. 


202  Notes 


ON   READING   OLD    BOOKS 

Essay  xx  in  The  Plain  Speaker.  First  published  in  The  London 
Magazine,  Feb.  1821.  The  reader  should  compare  this  essay  with 
Charles  Lamb's  "Detached  Thoughts  on  Books  and  Reading ""  which 
appeared  in  The  Lojidon  Magazine  a  little  more  than  a  year  later. 

p.  60,  1.  5.  Tales  of  My  Landlord.  This  was  the  general  title 
under  which  certain  of  Scott's  novels  were  first  published.  There 
were  three  series  of  Tales.  The  Black  Dwarf  and  Old  Mortality 
formed  the  first ;  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  the  second ;  The  Bride  of 
Lammermoor  and  A  Legend  of  Montrose  the  third.  The  authorship 
of  the  novels,  though  an  increasingly  open  secret,  was  not  formally 
disclosed  till  1827. 

p.  60,  1.  7.  Lady  Morgan's.  Sydney  Owenson  (1780-1859), 
born  in  Dublin,  married  Thomas  Charles  Morgan.  M.D.,  afterwards 
knighted.  Lady  Morgan  wrote  novels,  poems,  memoirs  and  travels. 
Of  her  once  popular  stories,  St  Clair,  The  Wild  Irish  Girl  and  O'Donnel, 
only  the  second  can  be  said  to  survive. 

p.  60,  1.  8.  Anastasius.  By  Thomas  Hope  (1774-1831),  a 
traveller  in  the  East  and  a  writer  on  artistic  furniture,  costumes,  etc. 
His  Anastasius,  or  the  Memoirs  of  a  Modern  Greek  (1819),  was  much 
admired  in  its  day  as  a  revelation  of  the  East  to  general  readers. 

p.  60,  1.  II.  Delphine.  A  novel  by  Madame  de  Stael,  pubhshed 
in  1802.  The  writer  was  the  daughter  of  Necker,  immortal  as  the 
rather  mediocre  finance  minister  who  was  to  save  France  from  bank- 
ruptcy, and  whose  dismissal  by  the  Court  in  1789  caused  the  popular 
outburst  that  culminated  in  the  taking  of  the  Bastille.  His  only 
daughter  married  the  Swedish  ambassador  Baron  de  Stael-Holstein 
and  became  for  some  years  a  very  prominent  person  in  the  world  of 
European  politics  and  literature.  Her  novels  Corinne,  and  Delphine, 
and  her  Dix  annees  d'exil  and  De  I'Allemagne,  have  now  an  interest 
that  is  mainly  historical. 

p.  60, 1.  13.     in  their  newest  gloss.     Macbeth,  Act  i,  Sc.  vii,  1.  34 : 
And  I  have  bought 
Golden  opinions  from  aU  sorts  of  people, 
Which  should  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss. 

p.  60,  1.  18.  black-letter.  Books  of  the  fifteenth  and  early 
sixteenth  century,  printed  in  Gothic  type,  or  "black  letter"  as  it  is 
called  from  the  general  appearance  of  the  pages. 

p.  60,  1.  19.  Andrew  Millar.  An  eighteenth  century  publisher 
and  bookseller  immortalised  in  two  passages  of  Boswell.  Millar  was 
the  principal  publisher  concerned  in  the  issue  of  the  Dictionary. 
"When  the  messenger  who  carried  the  last  sheet  to  Millar  returned, 
Johnson  asked  him,  'Well,  what  did  he  say?'  'Sir'  (answered  the 
messenger),  'he  said  Thank  God  I  have  done  with  him.'  'I  am  glad,' 
(replied  Johnson  with  a  smile),  'that  he  thanks  God  for  anything.'" 
Johnson  paid  him  a  very  sincere  tribute  in  another  utterance,  unusual 
from  a  hack-author  about  a  publisher:  "I  respect  Millar,  Sir;  he  has 
raised  the  price  of  literature." 


On  Reading  Old  Books  203 

p.  60, 1.  20.  Thurloe's  State  Papers.  John  Thurloe  (1616-1668), 
a  secretary  during  the  Protectorate  of  Cromwell,  published  a  collection 
of  State  Papers  in  seven  large  volumes. 

p.  60,  1.21.  Sir  William  Temple's  Essays.  Sir  William  Temple 
(162S-1699)  was  the  statesman  and  ambassador  who  negotiated  the 
marriage  between  William  Prince  of  Orange  and  Mary  daughter  of 
James  II.  His  Essays  were  published  under  the  title  Miscellanea, 
and  one  of  them,  called  Upon  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Learning, 
gave  rise  to  a  vain  dispute  about  the  merits  of  ancient  and  modern 
literature,  now  only  memorable  from  the  fact  that  Temple's  secretary, 
young  Jonathan  Swift,  entered  the  lists  with  his  Battle  of  the  Books 
on  behalf  of  his  patron's  views.  For  Temple  generally  see  Macaulay's 
fine  essay,  and  for  his  prose  see  Lamb's  The  Genteel  Style  in  Writing. 

p.  60,  1.  22.  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller.  A  German  artist  (1646-1723) 
who  came  to  England  and  was  appointed  court  painter.  He  is  famous 
for  the  series  of  later  Stewart  portraits,  many  of  which  are  at  Hampton 
Court.  He  died  at  Twickenham,  where  his  house  is  now  a  school  of 
military   music. 

p.  61,  1.  18.  Rifacimentos.  An  Italian  word  (here  with  English 
plural)  meaning  something  made  a  second  time,  and  so,  a  recast. 

p.  61,  1.  40.  for  thoughts,  etc.  A  combination  of  passages 
from  Ophelia's  flower  scene,  Hamlet,  Activ,  Sc.  v.  1.  175,  etc. :  "There's 
rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance;  pray,  love,  remember;  and  there 
is  pansies,  that's  for  thoughts." 

p.  62,  1.  I.  Fortunatus'  Wishing  Cap.  In  the  old  story, 
Fortunatus  met  the  goddess  of  Fortune,  who  offered  him  a  choice  of 
six  blessings.  Wisdom,  Strength,  Health,  Beauty,  Long  Life  and 
Riches.  Fortunatus  chose  Riches,  and  received  a  purse  that  should 
never  be  empty.  He  went  to  Cyprus  where,  by  a  trick,  he  gained  the 
Sultan's  chief  treasure,  the  Wishing  Cap,  which  gave  instant  realisation 
to  the  wearer's  desire  to  be  transported  to  any  place  in  the  world. 
Like  most  tales  of  the  sort,  this  has  a  moral ;  for  the  wishing  cap  and 
inexhaustible  purse  brought  disaster  and  death  to  Fortunatus  and  his 
sons.  The  order  of  events  in  this  note  follows  The  Pleasant  Comedy  of 
Old  Fortunatus,  a  play  by  Thomas  Dekker  (1600). 

p.  62,  1.  5.  My  father  Shandy.  Hazlitt's  father  was  the  same 
good-hearted,  simple,  bookish  and  unworldly  sort  of  person  as  Tristram's 
father  in  Sterne's  ever  delightful  book. 

p.  62,  1.  5.  Bruscambille .  Bruscambille's  prologue  upon  long 
noses  was  a  volume  that  the  elder  Mr  Shandy  bought  for  three  half- 
crowns  and  proceeded  to  solace  himself  with  from  morning  to  night 
as  soon  as  he  had  brought  it  home.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that 
Bruscambille  and  his  prologue  are  both  imaginary. 

p.  62,  1.  6.  Peregrine  Pickle.  The  famous  novel  by  Tobias 
Smollett  (1721-1771).  Of  Smollett's  works,  the  most  enduring  are 
Roderick  Random  (1748),  Peregrine  Pickle  (1751)  and  Humphrey 
Clinker  (1771).  The  "Memoirs  of  Lady  Vane"  occur  in  Peregrine 
Pickle. 

p.  62,  1.  7.  Tom  Jones.  This,  probably  the  greatest  of  all 
English  novels,  was  written  by  Henry  Fielding  (i  707-1 754).  Fielding's 
chief  works   are  Joseph  Andrews   (1742),    Tom  Jones   (1749),   Amelia 


204  Notes 

(1752)  and  A  Jottrnal  of  a  Voyage  to  Lisbon  (1755).  It  was  at  Lisbon, 
whither  he  had  gone  in  search  of  health,  that  Fielding  died.  Lady 
Bellaston,  Thwackum,  Square,  Molly  Seagrim,  Sophia  Western  and 
her  deeply  political  aunt  are  all  characters  in  Tom.  Joyies.  This  novel 
has  received  the  most  magnificent  compliment  ever  paid  by  one  dis- 
tinguished writer  to  another.  Fielding  was  connected  with  the  family 
of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh,  and  the  Denbighs  were  supposed  (quite 
erroneously)  to  be  connected  with  the  Imperial  House  of  Habsburg. 
Thus  writes  Edward  Gibbon,  greatest  of  English  historians,  in  his 
autobiography:  "Far  different  have  been  the  fortunes  of  the  English 
and  German  divisions  of  the  House  of  Habsburg ;  the  former,  the 
knights  and  sheriffs  of  Leicestershire,  have  slowly  risen  to  the  dignity 
of  a  peerage ;  the  latter,  the  Emperors  of  Germany  and  Kings  of  Spain, 
have  threatened  the  liberty  of  the  old,  and  invaded  the  treasures  of  the 
new  world.  The  successors  of  Charles  the  Fifth  may  disdain  their 
brethren  of  England  ;  but  the  romance  of  Tom  Jones,  that  exquisite 
picture  of  human  manners,  will  outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escurial, 
and  the  imperial  eagle  of  the  house  of  Austria." 

p.  62,  1.  18.  the  puppets  dallying'.  Hamlet,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii,  1.  256 : 
"I  could  interpret  between  you  and  your  love,  if  I  could  see  the  puppets 
dallying." 

p.  62, 1.  29.  ■when  '  ignorance  -was  bliss.'  Gray,  Ode  on  a  Distant 
Prospect  of  Eton  College  : 

Yet  ah,  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late. 
And  happiness  too  quickly  flies? 
No  more  !     Where  ignorance  is  bliss 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

p.  62,  1.  30!  a  raree-show.  A  peep  show;  some  curiosity  shut 
in  a  portable  box  or  case  and  looked  at  through  a  glass  front. 

p.  63,  1.  3.  the  Ballantyne  press.  The  printing  firm  of  two 
brothers  James  and  John  Ballant^me,  famous  for  producing  certain 
of  Scott's  works.  Scott  was  afterwards  a  partner  in  the  concern, 
the  bankruptcy  of  which  was  one  of  the  great  tragedies  in  his  life. 

p.  63,  1.  4.  the  Minerva  press.  A  pubhshing  house  remarkable 
for  the  melodramatic  stories  it  issued. 

p.  63,  1.  10.  Cooke's  pocket-edition.  Tom  Jones  occupied 
Vols.  l-iv  of  Cooke's  "Select  Edition  of  British  Novels." 

p.  63,  1.  12.  a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history.  Possibly  the 
once  popular  History   of  the   Church   by   Joseph   and   Isaac  Milner. 

p.  63,  1.  13.  Mrs  Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest.  Anne 
RadcHffe  (1764-1823)  was  the  most  "thrilling"  noveUst  of  her  time. 
Her  chief  tales,  The  Romance  of  the  Forest  (1791),  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho{i794)  and  The  Italian  (1797),  are  full  of  mystery,  rums,  cloaked 
villains  and  all  the  other  apparatus  of  melodrama. 

p.  63,  1.  14.  sweet  in  the  mouth.  The  Revelation,  x,  9:  "And 
I  went  unto  the  angel,  and  said  unto  him,  Give  me  the  little  book. 
And  he  said  unto  me.  Take  it,  and  eat  it  up;  and  it  shall  make  thy 
belly  bitter,  but  it  shall  be  in  thy  mouth  sweet  as  honey." 

p.  63,  1.  17.     gay  creatures,  etc.     See  p.  185. 


On  Reading  Old  Books  205 

p.  63,  1.  27.  Parson  Adams.  Parson  Adams  and  Mrs  Slipslop 
are  characters  in  Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews. 

p.  63,  1.  34.  It  was  just  like,  etc.  Some  one  of  Hazlitt's  several 
attachments,  possibly  Sarah  Walker,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  just 
made  at  the  date  of  this  essay. 

p.  63,  1.  38.  Major  Bath  and  Commodore  Trunnion.  The  first 
in  Fielding's  Amelia,  the  second  in  Smollett's  Peregrine  Pickle.  Major 
Bath  is  an  honourable  gentleman  of  straitened  means  who,  to  deceive 
the  world,  puts  a  bold  front  on  his  bearing,  and  swaggers  like  a  man 
of  consequence.  The  Commodore,  anticipating  Dickens's  Wemmick, 
fortifies  his  house  with  moat  and  drawbridge,  sleeps  in  a  hammock 
and  sets  his  "crew"  of  servants  to  keep  naval  watches.  His  epitaph, 
expressed  in  naval  terms,  is  a  very  remarkable  document. 

p.  63,  1.  38.  Trim  and  my  Uncle  Toby.  In  Sterne's  Tristram 
Shandy — two  of  the  most  delightful  characters  in  Enghsh  fiction. 

P-  63,  1.  39.  Gil  Bias,  etc.  The  strange  love  affair  between  the 
elderly  duenna  Dame  Loren9a  Sephora  and  the  dashing  Gil  Bias  is 
related  in  Book  vii.  Chapter  i  of  Le  Sage's  famous  story. 

p.  63,  1.  40.  Laura  and  the  fair  Lucretia.  Laura,  formerly  a 
fellow  servant  with  Gil  Bias,  becomes  a  famous  actress.  In  the  latter 
part  of  the  novel  we  meet  her  youthful  daughter  Lucretia  whose  beauty 
fascinates  Philip  IV  of  Spain. 

p.  64,  1.  14.  Chubb's  Tracts.  Thomas  Chubb  (1679-1747)  wrote 
many  tracts  or  essays  on  theological  subjects,  taking  a  somewhat 
freer  view  of  religion  than  was  usual  at  the  time.  Chubb  was  born 
near  Salisbury  and  received  only  the  most  elementary  education. 
Hence  the  allusion  in  the  te.xt  to  Salisbury  and  the  club  of  shoemakers. 

p.  64,  1.  23.     fate,  free-will,  etc.     See  p.  161. 

p.  64,  1.  28.  never  seen  Wittenberg,  etc.  For  Marlowe,  see  p.  191. 
Of  his  tragedy  Dr  Faustus,  the  best  part  is  the  soliloquy  of  the 
sinful  scholar  on  the  night  when  his  compact  with  the  Evil  One 
expires  and  his  soul  must  pay  the  forfeit.  In  his  last  conversation  with 
three  scholars  who  visit  him  Faustus  exclaims:  "Faustus'  offence 
can  ne'er  be  pardoned.  The  serpent  that  tempted  Eve  may  be  saved, 
but  not  Faustus.  O  Gentlemen  hear  me  with  patience  and  tremble 
not  at  my  speeches  !  Though  my  heart  pants  and  quivers  to  remember 
that  I  have  been  a  student  here  these  thirty  years,  oh,  would  I  had 
ne'er  seen  Wittenberg,  never  read  book!" 

p  64,  1.  29.  Hartley.  David  Hartley  (i 705-1 757),  a  philosopher, 
author  of  Observations  on  Man.  Hartley's  doctrines  of  vibrations 
and  the  association  of  ideas  form  his  chief  contribution  to  thought. 
See  Biographia  Literaria,  chapters  5-7.  Hartley  was  much  admired 
by  Hazlitt's  contemporaries.  Indeed  Coleridge  named  his  eldest  son 
after  the  philosopher.  Hume,  Berkeley,  Locke  and  Hobbes  have 
been  dealt  with  in  earlier  notes. 

p.  64,  1.  38.  the  New^  Eloise.  For  Rousseau  see  p.  167.  Julie, 
ou  La  Nouvelle  Helo'ise,  is  a  long  romance,  written,  like  the  novels  of 
Richardson,  in  the  form  of  letters.  Saint-Preux  and  Julie  are  the 
hero  and  heroine  of  the  story  and  their  correspondence  forms  the  bulk 
of  the  book.  The  description  of  the  kiss  occurs  in  Part  i.  Letter  14, 
the  excursion  on  the  water  Part  iv.  Letter  17,  Saint- Preux's  description 


2o6  Notes 

of  their  early  love  at  the  end  of  the  same  letter,  and  the  account  of 
Julie's  death,  Part  vi.  Letter  ii. 

p.  65, 1.  10.  the  Dedication  to  the  Social  Contract.  Rousseau's 
famous  treatise  was  published  in  1762.  There  is  no  "Dedication" 
to  it.  Possibly  Hazlitt  means  one  of  Rousseau's  anticipatory  pieces, 
such  as  the  Discourse  on  Inequality  (1755). 

p.  65,  1.  12.  I  have  spoken  elsewhere.  The  Round  Table 
essay  On  the  Character  of  Rousseau. 

p.  65,  1.  13.  Sweet  is  the  dew,  etc.  This  sentence  occurs  in 
the  essay  referred  to  above.  However,  in  an  earlier  paper,  that  on 
Miss  O'Neill's  Juliet,  Hazlitt  writes:  "To  the  tears  formerly  shed  on 
such  occasions,  we  may  apply  the  words  of  a  modern  dashing  orator, 
'Sweet  is  the  dew  of  their  memory,  and  pleasant  the  balm  of  their 
recollection.'"  This  earliest  use  of  the  sentence  seems  to  contradict 
the  implication  in  the  present  essay  that  the  words  are  his  own. 

p.  65,  1.  15.  scattered  like  stray-gifts.  A  reminiscence  of 
Wordsworth's  Stray  Pleasures : 

They  dance  not  for  me. 
Yet  mine  is  their  glee  ! 
Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find; 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth, 
p.  65, 1.  17.     the  Emilius.     'Rousseau's  Simile,  ou  I'^ducatton.    See 
note  on  p.  169. 

p.  65,  1.  33.  leurre  de  dupe.  A  sham  or  decoy.  Hazhtt  got  the 
phrase  from  Rousseau's  Confessions:  e.g.  "et  regardant,  selon  mon 
ancienne  maxime,  les  objets  lointains  commes  des  leurres  de  dupe, 
etc."     Book  IX. 

P-  65,  1.  37,  footnote,  a  friend.  Charles  Lamb.  Hazhtt  seems 
to  be  the  only  authority  for  this  story. 

p.  66, 1. 1 .    a  load  to  sink  a  navy.    Henry  VIII,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii,  1.  382  : 
The  king  has  cured  me ; 
I  humbly  thank  his  grace;    and  from  these  shoulders, 
These  ruined   pillars,   out  of  pity,   taken 
A  load  would  sink  a  navy:    too  much  honour, 
p.  66,  1.  21.     Marcian  Colonna.      An  Itahan  tale  in  rimed  verse 
by  Barry  Cornwall,  the  pen  name  of  Bryan  Waller  Procter  (i 787-1 874). 
The  line  is  quoted  from  a  Sonnet  by  Charles  Lamb,  To  the  Author  of 
Poems  published  under  the  name  of  Barry  Cornwall. 

p.  66,  1.  22.     Mr  Keats's  Eve  of  St  Agnes.     This  poem  was  first 
published  in  the  volume  of  1820  which  contains  Keats's  greatest  pieces. 
The  allusions  in  the  text  are  drawn  from  the  famous  24th  and  25th  stanzas* 
A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was. 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damasked  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 


On  Reading  Old  Books  aoy 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 
p.  66,  1.  24.     come  like  shadow^s.     See  p.  180. 
p.  66,  1.  33.     my  Lord  Hamlet.     A  reference  to  Act  11,  Sc.  ii : 
Polonius.     I'll  speak  to  him  again.     What  do  you  read,  my  lord? 
Hamlet.     Words,  words,  words. 
Pol.     What  is  the  matter,  my  lord? 
Ham.     Between  who? 

Pol.  I  mean,  the  matter  that  you  read,  my  lord? 
p.  66,  1.  39.  the  great  preacher.  Edward  Irving  (i  792-1 834), 
a  Scottish  preacher  who  created  much  sensation  by  his  fervid  eloquence 
and  his  alleged  gift  of  prophecy.  He  was  appointed  preacher  at  the 
Caledonian  Chapel,  Hatton  Garden,  in  1822.  He  was  afterwards  accused 
of  heresy,  and,  being  dismissed  from  the  ministry,  founded  a  new 
religious  body  known  as  the  Catholic  Apostolic  Church.  See  The  Spirit 
of  the  Age. 

p.  67,  1.  3.  as  the  hart.  Psalm  xlii,  i :  "As  the  hart  panteth 
after  the  water-brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  thee,  O  God." 

p.  67,  1.  5.  Goethe's  Sorrows  of  Werter.  Johann  Wolfgang 
Goethe  (1749-1832),  the  greatest  of  German  writers.  His  tearfully 
sentimental  romance  The  Sorrows  of  Young  Werther  (1774),  the  most 
popular  book  of  its  time,  has  lost  much  of  its  interest  for  the  modern 
reader,  who  is  more  apt  to  remember  it  for  the  sake  of  Thackeray's 
delightful  verses*  about  Charlotte  and  the  bread-and-butter  than  for 
its  own. 

p.  67,  1.  6.  Schiller's  Robbers.  Johann  Christoph  Friedrich 
Schiller  (1759-1805),  the  great  German  poet,  wrote  in  his  youth  The 
Robbers,  a  play,  the  violent  and  rather  operatic  romanticism  of 
which  came  like  a  new  note  into  the  dry  German  literature  of  its  time. 
Coleridge  has  translated  two  of  his  later  and  better  plays,  Piccolomini 
and  Wallenstein's  Death. 

p.  67,1.  7.    Giving  my  stock,  etc.    As  You  Like  It,  Actii.Sc.i,  I.  ^y: 
First  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream: 
"Poor  deer,"  quoth  he,  "thou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldlings  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  hath  too  much." 
p.   67,   1.    8.     Coleridge's   fine  Sonnet.     To    the    Author    of  the 
Robbers   (1794).     The    present   day   reader   will   probably   think   this 
Sonnet  less  fine  than  Hazlitt  found  it.     The  "dark  dungeon"   and 
the  "famished  father's  cry"  are  allusions  to  scenes  in  the  play — the 
old  Count  de  Moor  having  been  imprisoned  by  his  villainous  son  Francis 
de  Moor  in  an  old  tower  in  a  forest  where  he  is  left  to  starve.     He  is 
liberated  by  his  outcast  but  noble-hearted  son,  Charles  de  Moor,  captain 
of  the  robber  band. 


2o8  Notes 

p.  67,  1.  16.  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  This  famous  little  volume 
published  by  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  in  1798  was  the  herald  of  a 
new  movement  in  English  poetry. 

p.  67,  1.  20.  Valentine,  Tattle  and  Miss  Prue.  Characters 
in  the  interesting  prose  comedy  Love  for  Love  by  William  Congreve 
(1670-1729).  Valentine,  the  hero,  feigns  madness  in  order  to  circum- 
vent his  stingy  father.  Tattle  is  a  foolish  vainglorious  fop.  Prue  is  a 
young,  silly,  country-bred  girl. 

p.  67,  1.  26.     know  my  cue.     Othello,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii,  1.  84 : 
Were  it  my  cue  to  fight,  I  should  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter. 
p.  67,  1.  27.    Intus  et  in  cute.    Persius,  Satires,  iii,  30,  "inside  and 
out";    literally,    "inwardly    and   in    the   skin."     It   is    the    motto    of 
Rousseau's  Confessions. 

p.  67,  1.  39.  The  Periodical  Essayists.  The  most  famous  of 
these  periodical  issues  of  light  essays  and  reiiections  were  The  Tatlev 
(1709-1711)  and  The  Spectator  (1711-1712)  written  mainly  by  Steele 
and  Addison.  The  Rambler  (i  749-1 752)  was  written  very  largely  by 
Johnson.  The  Adventurer  (1752-53)  was  written  chiefly  by  John 
Hawkesworth  and  partly  by  Johnson.  The  World  (1753-1756)  was 
written  by  various  hands,  none  of  great  importance;  and  the  same 
may  be  said  of  The  Connoisseur  (i  754-1 756). 

p.  68, 1.  II.  bright  Clarissa.  Clarissa,  the  heroine  of  Richardson's 
fine  novel  bearing  that  name.  Clementina  appears  in  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  and  Pamela  in  the  novel  of  that  name.  Lovelace,  mentioned 
in  the  footnote,  is  the  heartless  officer  who  causes  the  ruin  and  death 
of  Clarissa.     For  Richardson  generally,  see  p.  188. 

p.  68,  1.  12.  ■with  every  trick  and  line,  etc.  A  reminiscence  of 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Act  i,  Sc.  i,  U.  105-7: 

'Twas  pretty,  though  a  plague. 
To  see  him  every  hour;    to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls. 
In  our  heart's  table ;    heart  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favour. 

p.  68,  1.  14.  Mackenzie's  Julia.  Henry  Mackenzie  (1745-1831), 
a  once  popular  writer  of  sentimental  fiction,  but  now  little  more  than 
a  name.  His  chief  works  are  The  Man  of  Feeling  (1771),  The  Man  of 
the  World  (1773)  and  Julia  de  Roubigne  (1771). 

p.  68,  1.    19.     Miss  .     Probably  Miss    Railton   of   Liverpool, 

daughter  of  the  man  who  commissioned  Hazlitt  to  make  copies  of 
certain  pictures  in  the  Louvre. 

p.  68,  1.  19.  that  ligament.  The  conclusion  of  the  affecting 
story  of  Le  Fever  told  in  certain  chapters  of  Tristram  Shandy,  Book  vi : 
"The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fever,  which  were  waxing  cold  and  slow 
within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their  last  citadel,  the  heart — 
rallied  back, — the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a  moment — he  looked  up 
wishfully  in  my  uncle  Toby's  face, — then  cast  a  look  upon  his  boy, — 
and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was, — was  never  broken." 

p.  68, 1.  25.     His  story  of  the  Hawk.     See  p.  184. 


On  Reading  Old  Books  209 

p.  68,  1.  29.  Farquhar.  George  Farquhar  (1678-1707),  author 
of  several  comedies,  the  best  of  which  are  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  and 
The  Recruiting  Officer. 

p.  68,  1.  31.  at  one  proud  swoop.  Doubtless  a  reference  to 
Macbeth,  Act  iv,  Sc.  iii,  1.  219,  etc.: 

All  mv  pretty  ones? 
Did  you  say  all?    "O   hell-kite!      All? 
What,   all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop? 
p.  69,  1.  4.     with   all  its   giddy   raptures.     A  reminiscence  of 
Wordsworth's  Tintern  Abbey  lines,  83-5: 

That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures. 
p.  69,  1.  5.     embalmed  with  odours.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  842-3: 
thou  and  Death 
Shall  dwell  at  ease,  and  up  and  down  unseen 
Wing  silently  the  buxom  air  embalmed 
With  odours. 

p.  69.  1.  15.     His  form,  etc.     Paradise  Lost,  i,  591-594. 
p.  69,  1.  19.     falls  flat  upon  the  grunsel  edge.     Paradise  Lost,  i, 
460,  etc. : 

Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive  ark 
Maimed  his  brute  image,   head  and  hands  lopt  off 
In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel-edge 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  worshippers: 
Dagon  his  name. 
The  story  is  told  in  i  Samuel,  v,   1-4. 

p.  69,  1.  29.  his  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord.  For  his  political 
services  Burke  had  been  granted  a  pension.  This  grant  was  opposed 
by  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  Whig  peers 
pretending  to  some  sympathy  with  the  French  Revolution.  Burke 
replied  with  his  crushing  and  eloquent  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord.  It  is 
not  correct  to  say  that  Burke  calls  the  Earl  "Citizen  Lauderdale"; 
but  early  in  the  Letter  there  is  a  reference  to  "citizen  Brissot  and  his 
friend  Lauderdale." 

p.  69,  1.  40.     like  an  eagle.     Coriolanus,  Act  v,  Sc.  vi,  1.  15 : 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,   'tis  there, 
That,  like  an  eagle  in  a  dove-cote,  I 
Fluttered  your  Volscians  in  Corioli: 
Alone  I  did  it. 
p.  70,  1.  II.     an  Essay  on  Marriage.     No  such  essay  by  Words- 
worth is  known  to  exist.     Wordsworth  had  written  in   1793   a  prose 
apology  for  the  French   Revolution  entitled  A  Letter  to  the  Bishop  of 
Landaff,  and  in  1809  a  tract  called  Concerning  the  Relations  of  Great 
Britain,   Spain  and  Portugal  to  each  other,  etc. — a  tract  known  by  its 
abbreviated   title  The  Convention  of  Cintra.     This  Canning  held  to  be 
the   most  eloquent  political  pamphlet  since  Burke's  day.     Whether 
either  of  these  is  meant;    whether  HazUtt  was  confused;   or   (more 


210  Notes 

likely)  whether  Coleridge  was  dreaming,  must  remain  conjectures. 
In  any  case  the  matter  is  not  important;  for,  in  spite  of  Coleridge's 
assertion,  Wordsworth's  prose,  at  its  strongest  and  most  eloquent, 
bears  no  resemblance  whatever  to  that  of  Burke. 

p.  70,  1.  34.     worthy  of  all  acceptation,     i  Timothy,  i,  15. 

p.  71,  1.  6.  Lord  Clarendon's  History.  A  dignified  History  of 
the  Rebellion  in  England  was  written  by  Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of  Claren- 
don (1608-1674).  Among  the  "well-penned  characters"  of  Clarendon 
may  be  named  the  fine  sketches  of  Falkland  and  Hampden. 

p.  71,  1.  12.  Froissart's  Chronicles.  Jean  Froissart  (1333-1419) 
wrote  Chronicles  of  the  great  war  between  England  and  France  from 
1326  to  1400.  It  was  translated  into  picturesque  Tudor  English  by 
Lord  Berners  (1523). 

p.  71,  1.  12.  Holinshed.  Raphael  Hohnshed  (died  about  1580) 
wrote  The  Chronicles  of  England,  Scotland  and  Ireland,  famous  as  the 
source  from  which  Shakespeare  drew  the  subject  matter  of  his  historical 
plays. 

p.  71,  1.  12.  Stow.  John  Stow  (1525-1605)  wrote  Chronicles; 
but  his  most  important  work  is  the  Survey  of  London  and  Westminster 
(1598). 

p.  71,  1.  13.  Fuller's  Worthies.  Thomas  Fuller  (1608-1661)  was 
a  voluminous  author  and  one  of  the  earliest  of  national  biographers. 
His  greatest  work,  the  uncompleted  Worthies  of  England,  is  a  treasure 
of  valuable  biographical  information  expressed  in  quaint  style. 

p.  71,  1.  18.  Thucydides.  The  greatest  of  Greek  historians; 
he  flourished  about  400  b.c.  Of  the  many  speeches  in  his  history  the 
most  famous  is  that  ascribed  to  Pericles  in  Book  11. 

p.  71,  1.  18.  Guicciardini's  History  of  Florence.  Francesco 
Guicciardini  (1483-1540)  wrote  a  valuable  history  of  Italy  from  1494 
to  1532,  not  a  specific  history  of  Florence.  Perhaps  Hazlitt  was  thinking 
of  the  History  of  Florence  written  by  the  celebrated  statesman  and 
political  philosopher  Niccol6  Machiavelli  (1469-1527). 

p.  71,  1.  20.  Loves  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda.  This  was 
the  last  work  of  Cervantes  (1547-1616),  the  immortal  author  of  Don 
Quixote.  Galatea,  a  pastoral  romance,  was  his  first  work.  A  new 
EngUsh  translation  of  the  latter  was  published  in  1903.  It  must  be 
pronounced  far  less  readable  than  the  ever  delightful  Don  Quixote 
and  the  interesting  Exemplary  Novels. 

p.    71,   1.    22.     Another    Yarrow.     From  Wordsworth's    Yarrow 

Unvisited : 

Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  I 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it: 
(  We  have  a  vision  of  our  own; 

Ah!  why  should  we  undo  it? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past. 
We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow ! 


ON    ACTORS    AND    ACTING.     I 

The  Round  Table,  Essay  38.  First  published  in  The  Examiner, 
Jan.  5,  1817.  The  two  essays  should  be  compared  with  Lamb's  On 
Some  of  the  Old  Actors,  On  the  Artificial  Comedy  of  the  Last  Century, 
On  the  Acting  of  Munden,  Stage  Illusion  and  The  Tragedies  of 
Shakespeare. 

p.  72,  1.  I.  the  abstracts  and  brief  chronicles.  Hamlet, 
Act  II,  Sc.  ii,  1.  548,  etc.:  "Good  my  lord,  will  you  see  the  players 
well  bestowed  ?  Do  you  hear,  let  them  be  well  used ;  for  they  are  the 
abstract  and  brief  chronicles  of  the  time." 

p.  72,  1.  II.  hold  a  glass,  etc.  Doubtless  another  reminiscence 
of  Hamlet — the  famous  speech  to  the  players  (Act  iii,  Sc.  iii)  in  which 
it  is  said  that  the  purpose  of  playing  is  "to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror 
up  to  nature." 

p.  72,  1.  17.  we. ..imitate  them.  For  an  amusing  sketch  of  a  man 
who  loses  his  own  personal  identity  through  unconscious  imitation  of 
stage  heroes  see  H.  G.  Wells's  short  story  The  Obliterated  Man. 

p.  73,  1.  8.  the  Beggar's  Opera.  Gay's  famous  comedy 
interspersed  with  songs.  The  hero  is  a  highwayman,  the  heroine  the 
daughter  of  a  dishonest  informer  and  receiver,  and  the  rest  of  the 
personages  thieves  and  loose  characters. 

p.  73,  1.  18.  George  Barnwell.  A  play  by  George  Lillo  (1693- 
1739)  showing  the  influence  of  bad  companionship  upon  the  young 
employee  of  a  London  merchant.  He  yields  to  temptation  and  in 
the  end  is  hanged  for  robbery  and  murder.  This  piece  was  for  a  long 
time  performed  every  year  in  London  as  a  piece  of  moral  instruction 
to  young  men. 

p.  73,  1.  19.  the  Ordinary's  sermon.  By  the  "ordinary"  here 
is  meant  the  chaplain  of  Newgate.  Compare  Defoe's  Moll  Flanders : 
"All  the  while  the  poor  condemned  creatures  were  preparing  for  death, 
and  the  Ordinary,  as  they  call  him,  was  busy  with  them,  disposing  them 
to  submit  to  their  sentences." 

p.  73, 1.  26.  the  Inconstant.  The  Inconstant,  or  The  Way  to  Win 
Him,  is  a  comedy  by  George  Farquhar.  But  the  heroine's  name  is 
"  Oriana,"  not  "Orinda." 

p.  74,  1.  7.  Mr  Liston.  John  Liston  (1776-1846),  a  popular 
comedian,  whose  performance  in  the  familiar  farce  JPaul  Pry  was 
specially  famous.  One  of  Lamb's  minor  essays  is  a  mock  biography 
of  Liston. 

p.  74,  1.  19.     Etherege.     For  Sir  George  Etherege,  see  p.  178. 

p.  74,  1.  32.     John  Kemble.     See  p.  178. 

p.  74,  1.  37.  Pierre,  etc.  Pierre  in  Otway's  Venice  Preserved; 
Coriolanus  in  Shakespeare's  play;  Cato  in  Addison's  tragedy  of  that 
name;  Leontes  in  The  Winter's  Tale;  the  Stranger  in  the  play  of 
that  name  translated  from  the  German  of  Kotzebue  (1761-1819),  a 
prolific  writer  whose  works  number  about  two  hundred.  The  Stranger 
was  a  favourite  lachrymose  drama — the  East  Lynne  of  its  time — the 

14—2 


212  Notes 

part  of  Mrs  Haller  being  in  the  repertory  of  all  the  leading  emotional 
actresses  of  the  time.  Readers  of  Pendennis  will  remember  that  the 
performance  of  Miss  Fotheringay  (known  off  the  stage  as  Miss  Emily 
Costigan)  in  the  part  of  Mrs  Haller  made  havoc  in  the  susceptible 
heart  of  the  youthful  Pen.  Chapter  iv  of  Pendennis  will  give  as  much 
information  about  The  Stranger  as  anyone,  other  than  a  commentator, 
need  have. 

p.  75,  1.  2.  Ossian's  heroes.  James  Macpherson  (1736-1796) 
published  two  epic  poems,  Fingal  (1762)  and  Temora  (1763)  together 
with  some  shorter  pieces,  alleged  to  have  been  translated  from  the 
Gaelic  of  an  ancient  bard  named  Ossian.  The  appearance  of  these 
poems  divided  the  reading  world  into  two  excited  classes,  those  who 
believed  that  the  Ossianic  poems  were  genuine,  and  those  who  believed 
that  Ossian  and  his  epics  were  both  invented  by  Macpherson.  The 
vague  and  formless  rhapsodies  of  the  pseudo-Ossian  find  few  admirers 
now,  but  they  had  much  influence  in  the  dawning  days  of  a  new 
Romantic  period,  when  people  had  so  far  revolted  from  classical 
formalism  as  to  take  The  Robbers  of  Schiller  for  a  great  tragedy.  These 
are  the  opening  hnes  of  Fingal,  Book  iii :  "Pleasant  are  the  words  of 
the  song,"  said  CuthuUin,  "lovely  the  tales  of  other  times!  They  are 
like  the  calm  dew  of  the  morning  on  the  hill  of  roes  " 

p.  75,  1.  6.  Mr  Bannister.  Jack  Bannister  (i 760-1 836)  is 
immortalised  in  Lamb's  essay  On  Some  of  the  Old  Actors.  Hazlitt 
praises  his  Autolycus,  and  says  generally  of  him  that  "his  gaiety, 
good  humour,  cordial  feeling,  and  natural  spirits,  shone  through  his 
characters,  and  lighted  them  up  like  a  transparency.... Most  of  his 
characters  were  exactly  fitted  for  him... and  no  one  else  could  do  them 
so  well,  because  no  one  else  could  play  Jack  Bannister"  {Dramatic 
Essays;   Works,  Vol.  viii). 

p.  75,  1.  9.  the  Prize.  By  Prince  Hoare  ^1755-1834),  the  writer 
of  many  light  pieces  for  the  stage,  especially  the  words  of  musical 
comedies  and  operettas.  My  Grandmother,  mentioned  lower  down  in 
the  text,  is  another  of  his  pieces.  Prince  Hoare  wrote  the  words  of 
Shield's  excellent  song  The  Arethusa  which  every  lover  of  the  British 
Navy  knows  or  ought  to  know. 

p.  75,  1.  10.  Suett.  Dicky  Suett  (1755-1805),  a  famous  comedian, 
whose  memory  is  preserved  for  ever  in  Lamb's  On  Some  of  the  Old 
Actors.  Suett  had  been  a  chorister  at  Westminster  Abbey,  and  not 
(as  Lamb  says)  at  St  Paul's.  Hazlitt  calls  him  "the  delightful  old 
croaker,  the  everlasting  Dicky  Gossip  of  the  stage." 

p.  75,  1.  10.  Madame  Storace.  Anna  Storace  (1766-1817)  was 
a  popular  opera  singer.  Her  brother  Stephen  Storace  (1763-1796) 
wrote  the  music  of  No  Song  No  Supper,  a  once  popular  operetta 
with  words  by  Prince  Hoare.  The  Storaces  were  Italians,  and  Madame 
Storace  never  overcame  the  difficulties  of  pronunciation  in  her  singing. 

p.  75,  1.  II.  the  Son-in-Law.  A  comic  opera  by  John  O'Keefe 
(1747-1833),  a  prolific  dramatic  author.  His  many  pieces  include 
The  Castle  of  Andalusia  (once  very  popular),  The  Wicklow  Mountains, 
The  Poor  Soldier,  The  Young  Quaker  and  Wild  Oats,  the  last  of  which 
is  the  only  one  that  can  be  said  to  have  survived.  The  part  of  Rover 
in  it  has  been  played  by  Sir  Charles  Wyndham.  In  Conversations  of 
Northcote  O'Keefe  is  referred  to  as  the  "English  Moliere"  ! 


On  Actors  and  Acting.     I  213 

p.  75,  1.  II.  Autolycus.  The  humorous  rascally  pedlar  in 
The   Winter's  Tale. 

p.  75,  1.  12.  Scrub.  A  comic  serving  man  in  Farquhar's  comedy 
The  Beaux'  Stratagem. 

p.  75,  1.  13.  King  and  Parsons,  etc.  Thomas  King  (i 730-1805), 
an  actor  speciall}'  famous  as  being  the  original  performer  of  Sir  Peter 
Teazle  in  Sheridan's  play  The  School  for  Scandal.  Hazlitt  says  of 
his  acting  that  it  "left  a  taste  on  the  palate,  sharp  and  sweet  like 
a  quince;  with  an  old,  hard,  rough,  withered  face,  like  a  John-apple, 
puckered  up  into  a  thousand  wrinkles... the  real  amorous  wheedling, 
or  hasty,  choleric,  peremptory  old  gentleman  in  Sir  Peter  Teazle  and 
Sir  Anthony  Absolute;  and  the  true,  that  is,  the  pretended,  clown  in 
Ibuchstone,  with  wit  sprouting  from,  his  head  like  a  pair  of  ass's  ears, 
and  folly  perched  on  his  cap  like  the  horned  owl"  {Dramatic  Essay!;). 
William  Parsons  (i  736-1 795)  is  specially  praised  by  Hazlitt  for  his 
performance  of  Foresight,  the  foolish  astrologically-minded  old  man 
in  Congreve's  Love  for  Love.  James  Dodd  (1740-1796)  is  immortalised 
in  Lamb's  On  Some  of  the  Old  Actors,  in  which  the  most  beautiful 
passage  is  devoted  to  him.  Hazlitt  specially  praises  his  Bob  Acres. 
John  Quick  (1748-1831)  is  described  by  Hazhtt  as  an  actor  "who 
made  an  excellent  self-important,  busy,  strutting,  money-getting 
citizen;  or  crusty  old  guardian,  in  a  brown  suit  and  a  bob  wig." 
John  Edwin  (i 749-1 790)  is  merely  mentioned  and  not  described  in 
Hazlitt' s  Dramatic  Essays,  for  the  sufficient  reason  that  Hazlitt  was 
only  twelve  years  old  when  Edwin  died. 

p.  75,  1.  31.  all  the  world's  a  stage.  As  You  Like  It,  Act  11, 
Sc.  vii,  1.  139,  etc. 

ON   ACTORS   AND   ACTING.     II 
Essay  39  in  The  Round  Table. 

p.  76,  1.  4.  leaving  the  world  no  copy.  Twelfth  Night,  Act  1, 
Sc.  v,  1.  261,  etc. : 

'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on: 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruellest  she  alive. 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy, 
p.  76, 1.14.     CoUey  Gibber's  account.     Colley  Cibber  (1671-1757), 
famous  as  actor,   manager  and  dramatist,   and  much  less  admirable 
as  the  adapter,  that  is,  the  mangier,  of  certain  plays  of  Shakespeare. 
The  familiar  line. 

Off  with  his  head  !  So  much  for  Buckingham  ! 
occurs  in  Cibber's  version  of  Richard  III.  "  Richard's  himself 
again!"  is  another  familiar  Cibberism.  He  was  the  son  of  the 
sculptor  who  carved  the  large  rehefs  at  the  base  of  the  Monument. 
His  comedies,  such  as.  She  Would  and  She  Would  Not,  Love  Makes  the 
Man,  The  Careless  Husband  and  The  Double  Gallant,  are  of  far  less 
importance  than  his  autobiography  called  the  Apology  for  the  Life  of 
Colley  Cibber,  Comedian,"  a  very  valuable  view  of  the  English  stage 
in  his  day.     It  is  this  book  to  which  Hazlitt  refers  in  the   present 


214  Notes 

essaj'.  Gibber  was  appointed  Poet  Laureate  in  1730.  The  curious 
may  turn  to  his  Ode  for  His  Majesty's  Birthday  and  the  Ode  to  His 
Majesty  for  the  New  Year  if  they  want  dehghtf  ul  specimens  of  thoroughly 
bad  official  verse.  "Colley  Gibber,  Sir,  (says  Johnson),  was  by  no 
means  a  blockhead  ;  but  by  arrogating  to  himself  too  much,  he  was  in 
danger  of  losing  that  degree  of  estimation  to  which  he  was  entitled. 
His  friends  gave  out  that  he  intended  his  birthday  Odes  should  be 
bad:  but  that  was  not  the  case.  Sir;  for  he  kept  them  many  months 
by  him,  and  a  few  years  before  he  died,  he  showed  me  one  of  them, 
with  great  solicitude  to  render  it  as  perfect  as  might  be,  and  I  made 
some  corrections,  to  which  he  was  not  very  willing  to  submit." 
Johnson  expressed  his  opinion  of  Gibber  and  George  II  more  briefly 
in  verse: 

Augustus  still  sur\'ives  in  Maro's  strain, 
And  Spenser's  verse  prolongs  Eliza's  reign; 
Great  George's  acts  let  tuneful  Gibber  sing. 
For  Nature  formed  the  Poet  for  the   King. 
Gibber,  however,  deserves  gratitude  for  the  firmness  with  which  he 
set  his  face  against  the  disagreeable  foulness  that  passed  for  fun  on  the 
stage  in  the  days  of  Lord  Rake,  Sir  John  Brute  and  Golonel  Bully. 

p.  76,  1.  30.  Miss  O'Neill.  A  very  famous  emotional  actress 
(1791-1872)  who  retired  from  the  stage  in  1819  on  her  marriage  to 
WilUam  Wrixon  Becher.  M.P.  (afterwards  knighted).  Hazlitt  refers 
to  her  constantly,  and  nearly  always  in  praise.  One  long  essay  of 
his  is  devoted  almost  entirely  to  her.  Here  is  a  t^'pical  passage. 
"With  all  the  purity  and  simpiicit\',  Miss  O'Neill  possessed  the  utmost 
force  of  tragedy.  Her  soul  was  like  the  sea,  calm,  beautiful,  smiling, 
smooth,  and  pelding ;  but  the  storm  of  adversit}-  lashed  it  into  foam, 
laid  bare  its  centre,  heaved  its  billows  against  the  skies.  She  could 
repose  on  gentleness,  or  dissolve  in  tenderness,  and  at  the  same  time 
give  herself  up  to  all  the  agonies  of  woe.  She  could  express  fond 
affection,  pity,  rage,  despair,  madness."  Perhaps  the  tribute  of 
another  critic  might  be  quoted:  "I've  seen  the  Siddons,  sir,  and  the 
O'Nale,"  said  Captain  Costigan  of  Costiganstown,  "they  were  great, 
but  what  were  they  compared  to  Miss  Fotheringay?" 

p.  76,  1.  31.  Mrs  Siddons.  Sarah  Kemble  (1775-1831)  was  the 
daughter  of  Roger  Kemble,  the  manager  of  a  travelling  theatrical 
company.  Her  brother  John  Kemble  is  dealt  with  in  an  earlier  note. 
Like  the  "Infant  Phenomenon"  in  the  Crummies  family,  Sarah  played 
parts  in  her  father's  productions  from  her  earhest  childhood.  She 
married  a  fellow-actor,  William  Siddons.  whose  sole  title  to  fame  is 
that  he  was  the  husband  of  so  remarkable  a  woman.  Garrick  gave 
Mrs  Siddons  her  first  London  engagement,  but  she  was  not  very 
successful,  and  the  engagement  was  not  renewed.  She  continued  to 
work  hard  and  earnestly  at  her  art;  and  when,  some  years  later,  she 
appeared  again  in  London,  she  had  so  far  improved  in  the  technique 
of  interpretation,  that  her  success  was  tremendous,  and  she  reigned, 
for  the  rest  of  her  career,  the  great  tragedy  queen  of  the  English  stage. 
It  is  worth  noting  that  Mrs  Siddons,  who  had  spent  practically  all 
her  life  on  the  stage,  was  twenty-seven  before  she  was  acclaimed  as  a 
great  actress — a  sufficient  rebuke  to  those  who  imagine  that  success 
on  the  stage  is  easily  won.     All  who  have  described  the  performances 


On  Actors  and  Acting.     II  215 

of  Mrs  Siddons  speak  of  her  in  terms  of  the  highest  admiration.  Her 
striking  features  are  famiUar  to  everyone  in  Gainsborough's  portrait 
(National  Galler}')  and  in  Reynolds's  "Mrs  Siddons  as  the  Iragic  Muse " 
fDuke  of  Wesminster's  collection,  rcphca  at  the  Dulwich  Gallery). 
It  is  said  that  when  Reynolds  signed  his  name  on  a  border  of  drapery 
in  the  picture,  he  remarked,  "Madam,  I  could  not  lose  the  honour  this 
opportunity  gives  me  of  going  down  to  posterity  on  the  hem  of  3'our 
garment."  Hazlitt  has  almost  countless  references  to  her  in  the  course 
of  his  essays.  There  is  a  brief  but  very  delightful  account  of  an  inter- 
view between  Mrs  Siddons  and  Johnson  in  Boswell  under  date  1783. 
The  stern  old  moralist  records  that  she  behaved  with  great  modesty 
and  propriety,  and  that  neither  praise  nor  money,  the  two  great 
corrupters  of  mankind,  seemed  to  have  depraved  her. 

p.  77,  1.  7.  the  British  Gallery.  The  British  Institution  was 
the  precursor  of  the  "Old  Masters"  exhibitions  at  the  Burlington 
Fine  Arts  Club  and  the  Roj^al  Academy.  It  was  supported  by  numerous 
amateurs  and  collectors,  and  ceased  about  1S66. 

p.  77,  1.  13.  Betterton  and  Booth,  etc.  Some  of  these  stage 
favourites  have  been  dealt  with  in  preceding  notes.  Thomas  Betterton 
(1635-1710)  was  an  actor  highly  praised  by  such  connoisseurs  as  Pepys, 
Dryden  and  Addison.  "The  best  actor  in  the  world,"  writes  Pepys, 
a  judge  not  disposed  to  give  his  praise  easily.  "Then  straight  to  the 
Opera,"  he  records  in  another  place,  "and  there  saw  Hamlet,  Prince  of 
Denmark,  done  with  scenes  [i.e.  scenery]  very  well,  but  above  all, 
Betterton  did  the  prince's  part  beyond  imagination."  Barton  Booth 
(1681-1733)  played  with  Betterton.  His  greatest  part  was  Cato,  in 
Addison's  tragedy.  Samuel  Sandford,  James  Nokes,  Anthony  Leigh, 
William  Pinkethman,  WQham  Bullock,  Robert  Estcourt  and  Thomas 
Doggett  were  all  famous  actors  of  the  Restoration  and  Queen  Anne 
period.  Of  Sandford,  Charles  II  said  that  he  was  "the  best  villain  in 
the  world";  though  it  is  probable  that  the  reference  is  to  his  per- 
formance of  Malignii  in  The  Villain,  "a  new  play  made  by  Tom  Porter" 
which  young  Killigrew  commended  very  highly  to  Mr  Pepys,  "as  if 
there  never  had  been  any  such  play  come  upon  the  stage."  For 
Pinkethman  (or  Penkethman,  the  spelling  is  varied)  see  note  below. 
Doggett  is  best  known,  not  for  his  dramatic  performances,  but  for  his 
institution  of  the  annual  race  between  Thames  watermen,  the  prize  being 
"Doggett's  Coat  and  Badge."  Elizabeth  Barry  (1658-1713)  is  sufficiently 
described  lower  in  the  text.  Susanna  Mountfort  was  a  daughter  of  Wilham 
Mountfort  the  actor  and  dramatist  who  was  murdered  by  Captain  Hill  and 
Lord  Mohun  in  1692 — readers  of  Esmond  will  remember  the  villainous 
Mohun.  Anne  Oldfield  (1683-1730)  is  familiar  to  everybody  as  the 
"Nance  Oldfield  "  of  a  little  play  in  which  Ellen  Terry  acted  dehghtfuUy. 
Anne  Bracegirdle  (i 663-1 748)  was  a  fascinating  actress  specially  famous 
in  the  plays  of  Congreve.  Congreve  and  Rowe  both  loved  her  and 
wrote  for  her,  and  it  was  said  that  they  put  their  own  sentiments  into 
the  mouths  of  their  lovesick  characters  and  set  them  to  plead  their 
cause  to  her.  She  was  the  reigning  beauty  of  the  day,  the  tragic 
murder  of  Mountfort  by  Hill  and  INIohun  being  due  to  Hill's  passion 
for  Miss  Bracegirdle  and  his  jealousy  of  the  actor.  It  is  said  that 
she  was  married  to  Congreve,  but  there  is  no  proof  of  this.  She  played 
such  Shakespearean  parts  as  Isabella,  Portia,  Desdemona,  Ophelia  and 
Cordelia,  but  seems  to  have  been  at  her  best  in  the  prose  comedies  of 


2i6  Notes 

Congreve  and  his  contemporaries.  If  she  was  anything  like  Millamant 
she  must  have  been  a  very  dehghtful  woman.  Mrs  Cibber  (1714-1766) 
was  Susannah  Maria  Arne,  sister  of  Thomas  Augustine  Arne,  the 
celebrated  composer.  She  married  Theophilus  Cibber,  the  son  of  CoUey. 
Mrs  Cibber  was  famous  both  as  a  singer  and  as  an  actress.  Charles 
Macklin  (1697-1797),  great  alike  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  was  specially 
admired  for  his  performance  of  Shylock.  It  was  of  Macklin's  Shylock 
that  Pope  was  alleged  to  have  exclaimed  "This  is  the  Jew  that 
Shakespeare  drew."  Frances  Abington  (i 737-1815)  is  likely  to  be 
best  remembered  for  the  fine  portraits  of  her  painted  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds.  She  was  successively  iiower-seller  (hence  her  nickname 
"Nosegay  Fan"),  street-singer,  cook,  milUner  and  actress. 

p.  77,  1.  20.     gladdened,  life.     See  p.  189. 

p.  77,  1.  23.  our  hundred  days.  A  reference  to  Napoleon's 
dramatic  "hundred  days"  in  1815.  The  period  is  usually  reckoned 
from  March  20  when  Napoleon  resumed  the  crown  on  his  arrival  in 
Paris,  to  June  28th  when  Louis  XVIII  was  once  again  restored  to 
his   precarious  throne. 

p.  77,  1.  25.  Booth's  Cato.  Addison's  play  was  produced  in  1713 
wlien  the  intrigues  of  Whigs  and  Tories  at  the  end  of  Anne's  reign 
caused  political  feeling  to  run  very  high.  Addison  was  a  writer  on 
the  Whig  side,  and  his  Cato  (a  sort  of  Roman  Whig)  was  regarded  as 
a  political  manifesto.  "Some  parts  of  the  prologue,  which  were 
written  by  Mr  Pope,  a  Tor}'  and  even  a  Papist,  were  hissed,  being 
thought  to  favour  of  whiggism,  but  the  clap  got  much  the  hiss.  My 
Lord  Harley,  who  sat  in  the  next  box  to  us,  was  observed  to  clap 
as  loud  as  any  in  the  house  all  the  time  of  the  play"  (Berkeley  to 
Percival,    16   Apr.    1713). 

p.  77,  1.  29.  Monimia  and  Belvidera.  Characters  in  Otway's 
The  Orphan  and  Venice  Preserved. 

P-  77>  1-  33-  Pinkethman's  manner.  The  reference  is  to  The 
Tatler  of  June  22,  1710,  No.  188.  The  Tatler,  it  may  be  noted,  contains 
many  interesting  references  to  performances  by  the  actors  and  actresses 
described  in  a  preceding  note.  The  i88th  Tatler  thus  ends:  "I  shall 
conclude  this  paper  with  a  note  I  have  just  received  from  the  two 
ingenious  friends,  Mr  Pinkethman  and  Mr  Bullock: 

'Sir, 

'Finding  by  your  Paper,  No.  182,  that  you  are  drawing  parallels 
between  the  greatest  actors  of  the  age ;  as  you  have  already  begun 
with  Mr  Wilks  and  Mr  Cibber,  we  desire  you  would  do  the  same  justice 
to  your  humble  servants, 

'Wm.  Bullock  and  Wm.  Pinkethman.' 

For  the  information  of  posterity,  I  shall  comply  with  this  letter,  and 
set  these  two  great  men  in  such  a  light  as  Sallust  has  placed  his  Cato 
and   Caesar. 

"Mr  William  Bullock  and  Mr  William  Pinkethman  are  of  the  same 
age,  profession  and  sex.  They  both  distinguish  themselves  in  a  very 
particular  manner  under  the  discipline  of  the  crab-tree,  with  this  only 
difference,  that  Mr  Bullock  has  the  more  agreeable  squall,  and  Mr 
Pinkethman  the  more  graceful  shrug.  Pinkethman  devours  a  cold 
chick  with  great  applause;  Bullock's  talent  lies  chiefly  in  asparagus. 


On  Actors  and  Acting.     II  217 

Pinkethman  is  very  dexterous  at  conveying  himself  under  a  table; 
Bullock  is  no  less  active  at  jumping  over  a  stick.  Mr  Pinkethman  has 
a  great  deal  of  money;    but  Mr  Bullock  is  the  taller  man." 

P-  77>  1-  35-  Dowton.  A  favourite  actor  (1764-1851),  who  played 
all  sorts  of  characters  from  Shylock  to  Lockitt  in  The  Beggar's  Opera. 

p.  77,  1.  39  (note).     Marriage  a  la  Mode.     A  comedy  by  Dryden. 

p.  79,  1.  9.  The  web  of  our  life,  etc.  All's  Well  That  Ends 
Well,  Act  IV,  Sc.  iii,  11.  S3-87;  but  the  original  passage  has  "crimes" 
where   Hazlitt  puts   "vices." 

p.  79,  1.  23.  like  the  giddy  sailor.  Richard  III,  Act  in,  Sc.  iv, 
11.  101-103: 

O  momentary  grace  of  mortal  men. 
Which  we  more  hunt  for  than  the  grace  of  God  ! 
Who  builds  his  hopes  in  air  of  your  good  looks. 
Lives  like  a  drunken  sailor  on  a  mast, 
Ready,   with  every  nod,  to  tumble  down 
Into  the  fatal  bowels  of  the  deep. 

p.  79,  1.  26.  hunks.  A  miser.  The  origin  of  this  odd  word  is 
unknown. 

p.  80,  1.  6.  in  a  neighbouring  country.  Probably  Hazlitt  is 
alluding  to  Voltaire's  poem  on  the  death  of  Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  the 
famous  French  actress  (1692-1730).  The  poet  scornfully  points  out 
that,  whereas  in  England  Nance  Oldfield  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey  with  Marlborough,  Newton,  Dryden  and  Addison,  in  France 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur  was  refused  the  last  rites  of  religion  and  accorded 
the  burial  of  a  dog. 

p.  80,  1.  8.  in  our  o\wn.  It  is  perhaps  necessary  to  remind 
readers  that  the  respectably  high  position  of  actors  and  actresses  in 
contemporary  social  life  is  quite  a  recent  development.  Until  times 
not  very  long  ago  the  actor,  and  especially  the  actress,  belonged  to  a 
dubious  half-world  on  the  fringe  of  society.  The  character  of  the 
stage-player,  very  low  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration,  rose  steadily 
but  imperceptibly  to  the  days  of  Garrick.  Kemble  and  Mrs  Siddons 
were  respected.  Macready  (1793-1873)  was  perhaps  the  first  actor  who 
entered  without  question  into  good  circles.  The  Bancrofts  made  a  still 
further  advance;  and  Henry  Irving  (1838-1905)  by  his  genius  and 
personal  qualities  raised  the  status  of  the  actor  to  the  greatest  possible 
height.  In  the  public  mind  no  distinction  was  drawn  between  such 
contemporary  men  of  genius  as  Irving,  Tennyson  and  Browning,  and 
that  \iew  received  exalted  confirmation  in  the  knighthood  conferred 
upon  Irving  in  1895,  a  date  that  marks  the  first  high  official  recognition 
of  the  actor's  art  as  one  not  necessarily  disgraceful  and  socially  disabling. 

p.  80,  1.  II.  ne  plus  ultra.  The  limit  beyond  which  there  is 
nothing  to  be  desired. 

p.  80,  1.  II.     a  consunomation,  etc.     Hamlet,  Act  in,  Sc.  i,  1.  63: 
To  die,  to  sleep : 
No  more;    and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heartache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished. 


2i8  Notes 

p.  80,  1.  17.     The  "wine  of  life,  etc.     No  doubt  a  confused  recollec- 
tion of  Macbeth,  Act  11,  Sc.  iii,  1.  loo-i  : 

The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 
p.  80,  1.  20.  the  vagabond.  In  Elizabethan  times  an  actor  was 
a  rogue  and  vagabond  before  the  law,  with  the  status  of  vagrant  or 
sturdy  beggar,  unless  he  was  licensed  by  a  peer  of  the  realm  or  personage 
of  higher  degree.  It  is  frequently  said  that  our  greatest  poet,  being 
an  actor,  was  therefore  a  rogue  and  vagabond.  This  is  quite  wrong. 
Shakespeare,  like  all  the  other  actors  of  any  note  in  his  time,  was 
a  duly  licensed  player,  and  so,  a  legally  respectable  person. 

p.  80,  1.  26.     Hurried  from  fierce  extremes.     Paradise  Lost,  11, 
598,  etc. : 

Thither,  by  harpy-footed  Furies  haled, 
At  certain  revolutions,  all  the  damned 
Are  brought;    and  feel  by  turns  the  bitter  change 
Of  fierce  extremes,  extremes  by  change  more  fierce. 
From  beds  of  raging  fire  to  starve  in  ice; 
p.  80,  1.  37.     in  Gil  Bias.     The  first  meeting  of  Gil  Bias  with  the 
actor  Melchior  Zapata  is  related  in  Book  11,  Chapter  viii.     The  transitory 
life  of  the  actor's  art  is  very  beautifully  described  in  W.  E.  Henley's 
Ballade  of  Dead  Actors.     Here  are  two  of  its  stanzas: 
Where  are  the  passions  they  essayed, 
And  where  the  tears  they  made  to  flow? 
Where  the  wild  humours  they  portrayed 
For  laughing  worlds  to  see  and  know? 
Othello's  wrath  and  Juliet's  woe? 
Sir  Peter's  whims  and  Timon's  gall? 
And  Millamant  and  Romeo? 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 

****** 
The  curtain  falls,  the  play  is  played : 
The  Beggar  packs  beside  the  Beau ; 
The  Monarch  troops,   and  troops  the  Maid; 
■     The  Thunder  huddles  with  the  Snow. 
Where  are  the  revellers  high  and  low? 
The  clashing  swords?     The  lover's  call? 
The  dancers  gleaming  row  on  row? 
Into  the  night  go  one  and  all. 


ON   A   LANDSCAPE    OF   NICOLAS   POUSSIN 

Essay  xvii  in  Table  Talk.  First  published  in  The  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  August,  1821. 

Nicholas  Poussin  (i 594-1 665),  perhaps  the  most  scholarly  of 
painters,  was  born  near  Les  Andelys  in  Normandy.  After  studying 
drawing  and  painting  at  home  and  in  Paris,  he  went  to  Rome  where 
he  was  specially  attracted  by  the  art  of  classical  times,  and  where  he 
was  so  happy  and  successful,  that,  with  the  exception  of  a  three 
years'    visit   to    France    (1640-1643),    he    stayed    there    for    the    rest 


On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin  219 

of  his  life.  Poussin's  work  is  taken  chiefly  from  sacred  and 
classical  story.  He  is  well  represented  in  England,  the  National 
Gallery  having  several  fine  examples.  He  must  not  be  confused  with 
Gaspard  Dughet  who  was  a  relative  and  pupil  of  Nicholas  and  assumed 
his  master's  name.  A  little  sixpenny  volume  containing  sixty  repro- 
ductions of  Poussin's  pictures  can  be  obtained  (Gowans  and  Gray, 
publishers),  and  should  be  used  by  the  reader  in  illustration  of  this 
essay.  Unfortunately  Orion  is  not  there,  nor  is  it  reproduced  in  the 
great  work  on  Poussin  by  Emile  Magne.  The  picture  was  painted 
in  1658,  and  passed  through  several  collections  till  it  reached  the 
Sanford  family,  which  still  retains  it,  for  it  is  at  Corsham  Court,  Wilts, 
the  seat  of  Lord  Methuen.  Hazlitt  saw  it  at  the  British  Institution 
in  1821  to  which  the  Rev.  J.  Sanford  had  lent  it. 

p.  81,  1.  I.     And  blind  Orion.     Keats,  Endymion,  11,  198: 
At  this  with  maddened  stare. 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood. 
Like  old   Deucalion   mountained   o'er  the  flood. 
Or  bUnd  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 
The  Endymion  of  Keats  had  been  published  in  1817,  three  years  before 
this    essay   appeared.      Orion    was   a   magnificent   giant    and    mighty 
hunter.     He  fell  in  love  with  Merope,  daughter  of  Oenopion,  but  so 
shamefully  used  the  maiden  that  her  father  bhnded  the  giant  as  he 
lay  asleep.     It  was  told  Orion  that  his  sight  would  be  restored  if  he 
let  the  hght  of  the  rising  sun  fall  upon  his  eyes.     Eos  (Aurora),  the 
goddess  of  dawn,  was  smitten  with  instant  love  for  him  and  carried 
him  away  where  he  ranged  the  woods  as  a  hunter  with  Artemis,  the 
goddess  of  the  chase.     He  was  afterwards  placed  among  the  constella- 
tions.    See  below,  note  on  the  Pleiades. 

p.  81,  1.  2.  Nimrod.  See  Genesis  x,  8,  9:  "And  Cush  begat 
Nimrod :  he  began  to  be  a  mighty  one  in  the  earth.  He  was  a  mighty 
hunter  before  the  Lord." 

p.  81,  1.  2.  a  hunter  of  shadows.  A  reference  to  Odyssey  xi, 
in  which  Odysseus  (Ulysses)  describes  his  visit  to  the  world  of  the 
departed.  There,  among  other  wonders,  he  beheld  the  spirit  of  Orion 
driving  the  beasts  he  had  slain  in  life — the  ghostly  hunter  driving  the 
ghostly  herd. 

p.  81,  1.  14.     grey  dawn,  etc.     Paradise  Lost,  vii,  373,  etc.: 

the  grey 
Dawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danced. 
Shedding  sweet  influence. 
The  Pleiades  were  seven  sisters,  daughters  of  Atlas,  and  companions 
of  Artemis  in  the  chase.     They  were  amorously  pursued  for  .several 
years  by  Orion  till  Zeus,  hearing  their  prayers  for  protection,  placed 
them  and  their  pvirsuer  among  the  stars.     Orion  is  the  most  conspicuous 
constellation  in  the  winter  and  vernal  sky.     Near  it  is  the  huddled 
little  group  of  the  Pleiades. 

p.  81,  1.  21.     shadowy  sets  off.     Paradise  Lost,  v,  43 : 

now  reigns 
Full-orbed  the  moon,  and,  with  more  pleasing  hght, 
Shadowy  sets  ofl  the  face  of  things. 


220  Notes 

p.  8i,  1.  27.  Sir  Joshua  has  done  him  justice.  In  the  fifth  of 
the  Discourses  on  Art.     Here  is  the  passage: 

"Poussin  hved  and  conversed  with  the  ancient  statues  so  long, 
that  he  may  be  said  to  have  been  better  acquainted  with  them  than 
with  the  people  who  were  about  him.  I  have  often  thought  that  he 
carried  his  veneration  for  them  so  far  as  to  wish  to  give  his  works  the 
air  of  ancient  paintings.  It  is  certain  he  copied  some  of  the  antique 
paintings,  particularly  the  Marriage  in  the  Mdobrandini  Palace  at  Rome, 
which  I  beheve  to  be  the  best  relic  of  those  remote  ages  that  has  yet 
been  found. 

No  works  of  any  modern  have  so  much  of  the  air  of  antique  painting 
as  those  of  Poussin.  His  best  performances  have  a  remarkable  dryness 
of  manner,  which,  though  by  no  means  to  be  recommended  for  imitation, 
yet  seems  perfectly  correspondent  to  that  ancient  simplicity  which 
distinguishes  his  style.  Like  Polidoro,  he  studied  the  ancients  so 
much,  that  he  acquired  a  habit  of  thinking  in  their  way,  and  seemed 
to  know  perfectly  the  actions  and  gestures  they  would  use  on  every 
occasion. 

Poussin  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  changed  from  his  dry  manner 
to  one  much  softer  and  richer,  where  there  is  a  greater  union  between 
the  figures  and  ground ;  as  in  the  Seven  Sacraments  in  the  Duke 
of  Orleans'  collection ;  but  neither  these,  nor  any  of  his  other  pictures 
in  this  manner,  are  at  all  comparable  to  many  in  his  dry  manner  which 
we  have  in  England. 

The  favourite  subjects  of  Poussin  were  ancient  fables;  and  no 
painter  was  ever  better  qualified  to  paint  such  subjects,  not  only  from  his 
being  eminently  skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  the  ceremonies,  customs  and 
habits  of  the  ancients,  but  from  his  being  so  well  acquainted  with  the 
different  characters  which  those  who  invented  them  gave  to  their 
allegorical  figures.  Though  Rubens  has  shown  great  fancy  in  his 
Satyrs,  Silenuses,  and  Fauns,  yet  they  are  not  that  distinct  separate 
class  of  beings,  which  is  carefully  exhibited  by  the  ancients,  and  by 
Poussin.  Certainly  when  such  subjects  of  antiquity  are  represented, 
nothing  in  the  picture  ought  to  remind  us  of  modern  times.  The 
mind  is  thrown  back  into  antiquity,  and  nothing  ought  to  be  introduced 
that  may  tend  to  awaken  it  from  the  illusion. 

Poussin  seemed  to  think  that  the  style  and  the  language  in  which 
such  stories  are  told,  is  not  the  worse  for  preserving  some  relish  of  the 
old  way  of  painting,  which  seemed  to  give  a  general  uniformity  to 
the  whole,  so  that  the  mind  was  thrown  back  into  antiquity  not  only 
by  the  subject,  but  the  execution. 

If  Poussin  in  imitation  of  the  ancients  represents  Apollo  driving 
his  chariot  out  of  the  sea  by  way  of  representing  the  sun  rising,  if  he 
personifies  lakes  and  rivers,  it  is  nowise  offensive  in  him ;  but  seems 
perfectly  of  a  piece  with  the  general  air  of  the  picture.  On  the  contrary, 
if  the  figures  which  people  his  pictures  had  a  modern  air  or  countenance, 
if  they  appeared  like  our  countrymen,  if  the  draperies  were  like  cloth 
or  silk  of  our  manufacture,  if  the  landscape  had  the  appearance  of  a 
modern  view,  how  ridiculous  would  Apollo  appear  instead  of  the 
sun ;  an  old  man,  or  a  nymph  with  an  urn,  to  represent  a  river  or  a 
lake !  " 


On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin  221 

p.  82,  1.  I.  denote  a  foregone  conclusion.  Othello,  Act  iii, 
Sc.  iii,  1.  428 : 

But  this  denoted  a  foregone  conclusion, 
p.  82,  1.  7.  take  up  the  isles,  etc.  Isaiah  xl,  15:  "Behold, 
the  nations  are  as  a  drop  of  a  bucket,  and  are  counted  as  the  small 
dust  of  the  balance :  behold,  he  taketh  up  the  isles  as  a  very  little 
thing."  The  latter  part  of  Hazlitt's  quotation  is  doubtless  a  remini- 
scence of  t;.  12  in  the  same  chapter:  "and  weighed  the  mountains  in 
scales  and  the  hills  in  a  balance." 

p.  82,  1.  21.  To  give  us  nature  such  as  we  have  never  seen. 
Compare  this  passage  with  the  oft-quoted  lines  from  Wordsworth's 
Peele  Castle  stanzas : 

Ah!    then,  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand, 

To  express  what  then  I  saw,  and  add  the  gleam. 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream, 
I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this ! 
p.  82,  1.  25.     high  and  palmy  state.     Hamlet,  Act  i,  Sc.  i,  1.  113 : 
In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere   the   mightiest  Julius  fell. 
The  graves  stood  tenantless  and  the  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets, 
p   82,  1.  27.     so  potent  art.     Tempest,  Act  v,  Sc.  i,  1.  50 : 
graves  at  my  command 
Have  waked  their  sleepers,  oped,  and  let  'em  forth 
By  my  so  potent  art. 

p.  82,  1.  34.  more  than  natural.  Hamlet,  Act  11,  Sc.  ii,  1.  384: 
"There's  something  in  this  more  than  natural,  if  philosophy  could 
find  it  out." 

p.  82,  1.  39.  gives  to  airy  nothing,  etc.  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  Act  v,  Sc.  i,  1.  16: 

And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name, 
p.  83,  1.  14.     maudlin.     Tearfully  sentimental — like   exaggerated 
representations  of  the  repentant  Mary  Magdalen. 

p.  83,  1.  26.  when  Titan,  etc.  Hyperion  the  Titan  was  ruler 
of  the  sun  till  those  early  gods  were  overthrown  and  dispossessed. 
The  lordship  of  the  Sun  then  passed  to  Apollo.  See  Keats's  magnificent 
epic  fragment  Hyperion. 

p.  84,  1.  8.  His  Giants.  This  description  would  apply  to  two 
landscapes  by  Poussin  in  the  Hermitage  Gallery,   Petrograd. 

p.  84,  1.  12.  An  infant  Bacchus  or  Jupiter.  There  is  an 
"Education  of  Bacchus"  in  the  Louvre  and  another  in  the  National 
Gallery.  "The  Childhood  of  Bacchus"  is  at  the  Musee  Conde, 
Chantilly.  Poussin  painted  two  versions  of  "The  Infancy  of  Jupiter" ; 
one  is  at  Dulwich,  the  other  at  the  Royal  Gallery,  Berhn. 


222  Notes 

p.  84,  1.  14.  His  snakes.  There  is,  for  instance,  a  large  snake 
on  the  rock  to  the  left  of  his  great  picture,  "The  Deluge,"  and  another 
in  "The  Changing  of  Aaron's  Rod  into  a  Serpent" — both  in  the  Louvre, 
p.  84,  1.  17.  his  Plague  of  Athens.  The  picture  that  Hazlitt 
probably  meant  is  not  "The  Plague  of  Athens,"  but  "The  Plague  among 
the  Philistines  at  Ashdod,"  as  described  in  i  Samuel  v.  It  is  in  the 
Louvre,  and  there  is  a  replica  in  the  National  Gallery.  There  is  a 
"Plague  of  Athens"  by  Poussin  in  the  Cook  collection  at  Richmond. 

p.  84, 1.  18.  His  picture  of  the  Deluge.  Known  also  as  "  Winter." 
It  is  in  the  Louvre. 

p.  84, 1.24.  o'er-informed,  etc.  From  the  character  of  Shaftesbury 
in  Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achitophel: 

A  fiery  soul,   which  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pygmy  body  to  decay. 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 
"O'er-informed"  means  "over-filled,"  so  that  the  spirit  was  too  strong 
for  the  slight  body. 

p.  84,  1.  31,  footnote.  See  his  Life  lately  published.  Memoirs  of 
the  Life  of  Nicholas  Pous'iin  (1820)  by  Mrs  Graham,  afterwards  Lady 
Callcott,  whose  best-known  work,  at  least  by  name,  is  Little  Arthur's 
History  of  England. 

p.  84,  1,  35,  footnote.  Mr  West.  Benjamin  West  (1738-1820)  was 
born  in  Pennsylvania,  and,  after  studying  in  Italy,  settled  in  London 
where  he  succeeded  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  as  President  of  the  Royal 
Academy.  His  work  is  mostly  historical  in  subject  and  vast  in  size. 
He  is  not  now  held  in  very  great  esteem.  See  On  the  Old  Age  of  Artists 
{The  Plain  Speaker)  for  an  excellent  character  of  West. 

p.  85,  1.  3.     the  very  stones,  etc.     Macbeth,  Act  11,  Sc.  i,  1.  58 : 
Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time 
Which  now  suits  with  it. 
p.   85,   1.   7.     a    picture    of    Aurora.      Probably   "Cephalus    and 
Aurora"  now  in  the  National  Gallery.     Aurora,  or  Eos  (the  Dawn), 
loved  the  beautiful  Tithonus  and  prayed  the  gods  to  grant  him  eternal 
life.     The  prayer  was  answered ;    but  as  Aurora  had  forgotten  to  ask 
for  the  necessary  accompaniment  of  eternal  youth,  Tithonus  withered 
and  shrank  under  the  burden  of  unending  years  till,  as  one  legend 
says,  he  was  changed  into  a  cricket  or  grasshopper. 

p.  85,  1.  25.  his  Nymphs  and  Fauns,  are  superior,  etc.  It  may 
be  urged  that  if  the  Fauns  and  Bacchantes  of  Poussin  are  more 
"intellectual"  than  those  of  Rubens,  they  are,  so  far,  inferior;  as 
these  fabulous  figures  are  intended  to  be  personifications  of  the  senses, 
not  of  the  mind. 

p.  85,  I.  32.     Leaping  like  -wanton  kids.    Spenser,  Faerie  Queene, 
Bk  I,  Canto  vi.  Stanza  14.    A  troop  of  Fauns  and  Satyrs  surround  Una: 
And  all  the  way  their  merry  pipes  they  sound 
That  all  the  woods  with  doubled  echo  ring; 
And  with  their  horndd  feet  do  wear  the  ground. 
Leaping  like  wanton  Idds  in  pleasant  Spring. 


On  a  Landscape  of  Nicolas  Poussin  223 

p.  86,  1.  I.  at  Blenheim.  The  great  Duke  of  Marlborough  was 
an  admirer  of  Rubens,  and  the  grateful  cities  of  the  Netherlands  pre- 
sented him  with  many  fine  examples,  which,  with  his  own  purchases, 
went  to  form  the  best  collection  of  Rubens  in  the  possession  of  any  one 
person.  The  pictures,  some  twenty  in  number,  belonging  for  the  most 
part  to  the  master's  best  period,  were  mainly  Scriptural  in  subject, 
only  one,  or  perhaps  two,  being  "  Bacchanalian"  in  the  sense  of  Hazlitt's 
remark.  The  great  collection  was  dispersed  at  Christie's  in  1886, 
with  the  rest  of  the  Blenheim  art  treasures.  Hazlitt  refers  elsewhere 
to  these  pictures,  and  gives  them  more  detailed  notice  in  his  Sketches 
of  the  Principal  Picture  Galleries  in  England. 

p.  86, 1.  5.  his  picture  of  Apollo.  "  The  Inspiration  of  Anacreon  " 
at  Dulwich,  or  "The  Inspiration  of  the  Poet"  at  the  Louvre.  Apollo 
is  figured  in  both. 

p.  86,  1.  7.  the  figxire  of  a  nymph.  The  figure  on  the  left  of  the 
picture  "A  Bacchanalian  Dance"  in  the  National  Gallery. 

p.  86,  1.  10.  his  picture  of  the  shepherds.  "The  Shepherds 
of  Arcadia"  in  the  Louvre — the  most  popular  of  Poussin's  pictures. 

p.  86,  1.  II.  Vale  of  Tempe.  A  romantic  glen  in  Thessaly  often 
celebrated  by  the  Greek  poets.  "Et  ego,  etc." — "And  I  too  have 
dwelt  in  Arcadia." 

p.  86,  1.  16.     the  valleys  low,  etc.     Lycidas,  136,  etc. : 
Ye  valleys  low  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds  and  gushing  brooks, 
p.  86,  1.  23.     within  the  book  and  volume,  etc.     Hamlet,  Act  i, 
Sc.  V,  1.  103  : 

And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain. 
Unmixed  with  baser  matter. 
p.  86,  1.  27.     the  sober  certainty,  etc.     Comtis,  263 : 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight. 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now. 
p.  86,  1.  30.     he  who  knows  of  these  delights,  etc.     Adapted 
from  Milton's  sonnet  to  "Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son"  : 
He  who  of  these  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 
p.   86,   I.    35.      embrowned  the  walls.     "Embrowned"   because 
time  has  lent  a  sober  darkening  to  the  colours  of  many  great  pictures, 
p.    86,    1.    36.     Poussin  has   repeated  this   subject.      Another 
version  is  the  "Shepherds  of  Arcadia"  in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's 
collection. 

p.  87,  1.  6.  the  names  the  same.  Most  of  the  painters  here 
mentioned  have  been  dealt  with  in  earlier  notes,  which  need  not  be 
repeated  here.  The  Carracci.  There  were  three  painters  of  this 
name,  forming  a  school.  The  founder  was  Ludovico  (1555-1619), 
and  he  was  assisted  by  two  nephews,  Agostino  {1557-1602)  and  Anni- 
bale  (1560-1609).  Annibale  was  the  most  prolific  of  the  three.  The 
Carracci    (like   Naldo   in    George   Eliot's    Stradivarius)    were    painters 


224  Notes 

of  the  "eclectic  school,"  that  is,  they  had  no  original  vision  or  view  of 
things,  but  selected  for  imitation  all  the  most  popular  mannerisms  of 
their  famous  predecessors.  Their  elaborate  and  showy  works  (mostly 
classical  or  Scriptural  in  subject),  once  highly  praised,  are  now  but 
slightly  esteemed. 

p.  87,  1.  19.  Old  Genius  the  porter,  etc.  Spenser,  FaeneQueene, 
Bk  III,  Cant,  vi,  stan.  31  and  32: 

Old  Genius  the  porter  of  them  was, 
Old  Genius  the  which  a  double  nature  has. 
He  letteth  in,  he  letteth  out  to  wend 
All  that  to  come  into  the  world  desires. 

p.  87,  1.  27.  Pictures  are  scattered.  A  reminiscence  of  Words- 
worth's Stray  Pleasures.     See  p.  206. 

p.  87,  1.  31.  the  collections  at  Blenheim,  etc.  All  these  are 
described  in  Hazlitt's  Sketches  of  the  Principal  Picture  Galleries  in 
England.  The  collection  of  John  Julius  Angerstein  is  specially 
interesting,  because,  after  his  death,  twenty-nine  of  his  pictures  were 
bought  by  the  nation  for  /6o,ooo,  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a  National 
Gallery.  The  collection  was  opened  to  the  public  in  1824  at  Angerstein's 
house  "in  Pall  Mall. 

p.  87,  1.  37.  since  the  Louvre  is  stripped.  Napoleon,  in  the 
course  of  his  campaigns,  especially  the  Italian  campaign,  had  sedulously 
collected  works  of  art  and  sent  them  to  France.  Many  of  these  were 
restored  after  1815.  See  the  following  essays.  The  "Iron  Crown" 
is  taken  by  Hazlitt  as  a  symbol  of  Napoleon's  career  as  a  conqueror. 
The  "Iron  Crown"  is  the  ancient  regal  emblem  of  Lombardy  and  is 
preserved  at  Monza,  near  Milan.  Inside  the  gold  circlet  is  a  narrow 
band  of  iron  said  to  have  been  beaten  out  of  one  of  the  nails  used  at 
the  Crucifixion.  According  to  legend,  St  Helena,  mother  of  Constan- 
tine  the  Great,  discovered  the  buried  Cross  at  Jerusalem  in  326  and 
gave  one  of  the  nails  to  her  son.  Queen  Theudelinda,  who  converted 
the  Lombards  to  Christianity  in  600,  is  supposed  to  have  incorporated 
the  sacred  relic  into  the  Lombard  crown.  See  George  Meredith's 
fervid  poem  the  Song  of  Theodelinda.  Napoleon  was  crowned  with 
this  ancient  circlet  of  the  Lombard  Kings  in  1805.  He  died  in  1821, 
shortly  before  the  present  essay  was  written,  with  his  glory,  as  it 
seemed,  in  total  eclipse. 


ON   THE   PLEASURE   OF   PAINTING.     I 

Table   Talk,   Essay   i.     First  published   in   The  London  Magazine, 
December,  1820. 

p.  88,  1.   I.     There  is  a  pleasure,  etc.     The   original   source   of 
this  quotation  is  Dryden's  Spanish  Friar,  Act  ii,  Sc.  i: 
There  is  a  pleasure  sure 
In  being  mad,  which  none  but  madmen  know. 
But  Cowper's  variation  (The  Task,  Bk  11)  is  better  known: 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
Which  only  poets  know. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     I  225 

p.   88,   1.    II.     no  juggling  here.     This  quotation   is  possibly  a 
confused  reminiscence  of  two  passages  in  Hamlet: 
but  'tis  not  so  above; 
There  is  no  shuffling,   there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature     "  (in,  iii,  61) 

and, 

How  came  he  dead?     I'll  not  be  juggled  with! 

(IV,  V,   130). 
Possibly  a  passage  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  (11,  iii,  77)  may  have  contri- 
buted to  the  phrase : 

"Here  is  such  patchery,  such  jugghng,  and  such  knavery!" 
p.  88,  1.  16.     study  with  joy,  etc.     Cowper,   The   Task,  in,  227- 
228: 

The  mind,  indeed,  enlightened  from  above. 
Views  Him  in  all ;    ascribes  to  the  grand  cause 
The  grand  effect;     acknowledges  with  joy 
His  manner,  and  with  rapture  tastes  His  style, 
p.  88,  1.   19.     you  learn  something  every  moment.     Compare 
with  this  paragraph  a   passage  in   Browning's  Fra  Lippo  Lippi: 
For,  don't  you  mark,  we're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times,  nor  cared  to  see; 
And  so  they  are  better,   painted — better  to  us. 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that — 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now. 
Your  cuUion's  hanging  face?     A  bit  of  chalk. 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  !    How  much  more, 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 
p.  89, 1. 16.     more  tedious,  etc.    i^jMg'/oAw,  Actiii,  Sc.  iv,  11.  108-9  : 
Life  is   as   tedious  as   a   twice-told   tale 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man. 
p.  89,  1.  20.     Werther.     Goethe's  sentimental,  not  to  say  maudlin, 
story   was   published   in    1774.     The   quoted   passage   is   taken   from 
Letter  VIII. 

p.  90,  1.  8.     My  mind  to  me,  etc.     A  poem  by  Sir  Edward  Dyer 
(i530?-i607): 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find. 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have. 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave, 
p.  90, 1.  9.     to  set  a  throne,  etc.     Bacon,  Advancement  of  Learning, 
Bk  i:    "But  the  commandment  of  knowledge  is  yet  higher  than  the 
commandment  over  the  will ;   for  it  is  a  commandment  over  the  reason, 
belief,  and  understanding  of  man,  which  is  the  highest  part  of  the 
mind,  and  giveth  law  to  the  will  itself :    for  there  is  no  power  on  earth 
which  setteth  up  a  throne,  or  chair  of  state,  in  the  spirits  or  souls  of 
men,  and  in  their  cogitations,  imaginations,  opinions,  and  beliefs,  but 
knowledge  and  learning." 

S.  H.  15 


226  Notes 

p.  90,  1.  13.  Pure  in  the  last  recesses,  etc.  Dryden's  translation 
of  the  Second  Satire  of  Persius : 

A  soul,  where  laws  both  human  and  divine, 

In  practice  more  than  speculation  shine: 

A  genuine  virtue,  of  a  vigorous  kind, 

Pure  in  the  last  recesses  of  the  mind: 

When  with  such  offerings  to  the  Gods  I  come, 

A  cake,  thus  given,  is  worth  a  hecatomb. 

p.  91,  1.  5.  palpable  to  feeling.  Perhaps  from  Othello,  Act  i, 
Sc.  ii,  1.  76: 

'Tis  probable  and  palpable  to  thinking. 

p.  91,  1.  14.  this  nairacle  of  Rubens'  pencil.  The  landscapes 
of  Ilubens  are  a  specially  important  part  of  his  work.  The  National 
Gallerj'  has  two  excellent  examples.  One  famous  "Rainbow  Land- 
scape" of  Rubens  is  in  the  Pinakothek,  Munich,  and  another  in  the 
Wallace  Collection,  London;  but  Hazlitt  plainly  refers  to  the  one  in 
the  Louvre. 

p.  91,  1.  17.  Rembrandt's  landscapes.  The  landscapes  of 
Rembrandt  are  among  the  greatest  in  that  kind.  A  specially  fine 
example  is  "The  Mill,"  formerly  at  Bowood,  in  the  possession  of  the 
Marquess  of  Lansdowne,  but  recently  sold,  and  now  in  America.  Other 
good  examples  are  in  the  Northbrook  and  Westminster  collections. 
A  very  impressive  landscape  by  Rembrandt  is  the  etching  generally 
known  as   "The  Three  Trees." 

p.  91,  1.  19.     light  thickened.     Macbeth,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii,  1.  50: 

Light  thickens;  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood : 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drow.se; 
Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse, 
p.    91,    1.    24.     Wilson.     Richard    Wilson    (1714-1782),    a    great 
landscape    painter,    was    born    in    Montgomeryshire,    and    studied    in 
London.     He  began  his  career  as  a  portrait  painter,  but  during  a  visit 
to  Italy,  turned  his  attention  to  landscape.     He  was  never  successful 
in  the  worldly  sense  and  passed  most  of  his  life  in  poverty.     Circum- 
stances brightened  a  little  towards  the  end,  when  a  legacy  enabled 
him  to  retire  to  Llanberis,  where  he  died.     Wilson's  admirable  work 
has  steadily  increased  in  favour  among  capable  judges.     He  is  well 
represented  in  the  National  Gallery  and  South  Kensington. 

p.  91,  1.  37.  Claude.  See  p.  171.  Claude  was  tireless  in  sketching 
the  natural  effects  of  form  and  light  noticed  in  his  rambles. 

p.  92,  1.  II.  an  old  vroman.  This  picture  is  in  the  museum  at 
Maidstone. 

p.  92,  1.  26.  an  old  head  by  Rembrandt.  Possibly  the  portrait 
of  the  Countess  of  Desmond,  still  at  Burghley  House  in  the  possession 
of  the  Marquess  of  Exeter.  It  should  be  noted  that  modern  criticism 
does  not  accept  as  genuine  any  of  the  alleged  Rembrandts  at  Burghley. 

p.  92,  1.  33.  with  Sir  Joshua.  In  an  essay  contributed  to  The 
Idler  (No.  82),  the  third  of  three  excellent  papers  by  him  in  that 
periodical,  Reynolds  had  written  thus:  "If  it  has  been  proved  that 
the  painter,  by  attending  to  the  invariable  and  general  ideas  of  nature, 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     I  227 

produces  beauty,  he  must,  by  regarding  minute  particularities... 
deviate  from  the  universal  rule,  and  pollute  his  canvas  with  deformity." 
This  was  the  concluding  sentence,  and  it  is  said  that  the  last  six  words 
were  added  by  Johnson.  Hazlitt  criticises  the  pronouncement  very 
elaborately  in  Essay  xiv  of  Table  Talk — the  second  of  two  papers 
dealing  with  Sir  Joshua's  Discourses  on  Art,  in  which  the  Idler  essays 
were  reprinted.  The  third  and  fourth  discourses  of  Reynolds  deal 
specially  with  this  question  of  the  general  and  particular  in  art.  Thus 
in  the  fourth  he  writes:  "The  usual  and  most  dangerous  error  is  on 
the  side  of  minuteness;  and  therefore  I  think  caution  most  necessary 
where  most  have  failed.  The  general  idea  constitutes  real  excellence. 
All  smaller  things,  however  perfect  in  their  way,  are  to  be  sacrificed 
without  mercy  to  the  greater."  On  this  point  we  might  observe  that 
much  depends  on  the  painter's  aim.  An  artist  like  Turner  who,  in 
his  later  work,  sought  to  reproduce  luminosity  of  elfect  rather  than  to 
represent  objects,  would  plainly  have  no  need  to  bother  about 
"minute  particulars."  But  it  is  quite  possible  to  combine  perfection 
of  detail  with  all  the  breadth  of  a  grand  style.  The  Van  Eycks  are 
triumphant  examples  of  this.  Nothing  could  be  nobler  in  its"  general 
effect  than  the  great  Ghent  altarpiece  "The  Adoration  of  the  Lamb"; 
yet  the  elaboration  of  detail  extends  to  exquisitely  painted  little 
blossoms  almost  hidden  in  the  grass  of  the  foreground,  and  even  to  the 
exact  rendering  of  lines  and  callosities  on  the  upturned  feet  of  the 
group  of  kneeling  pilgrims.  The  head  of  the  donor  in  John  van  Eyck's 
Virgin  and  Child  (Bruges  Museum)  is  very  possibly  the  most  wonderful 
rendering  in  the  world  of  an  old  man's  face;  yet  what  the  eye  first 
sees  is  the  deeply  religious  effect  of  the  whole  picture.  The  details 
do  not  detract  from  the  breadth  of  conception  and  force  of  style; 
they  give  a  separate  and  superadded  pleasure. 

p.  92,  1.  40.  chiaro  scuro.  An  Italian  word  meaning  literally  the 
"clear-obscure"  or  the  "light-dark";  it  is  technically  used  to  mean 
the  blending  of  light  and  .shade  in  art — the  rendering  of  light  in  darkness 
and  darkness  in  light.  Rembrandt  is  the  most  obvious  master  of 
chiaroscuro. 

p.  93,  1.  30.     as  in  a  glass  darkly,      i  Corinthians,  xiii,  12. 

p.  93,  1.  32.  sees  into  the  life  of  things.  Wordsworth's,  Tiniern 
Abbey  lines,    1.    49: 

While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

P-  93.  1.  39-  the  perishable  vehicle.  The  "vehicle"  in  painting 
is  the  liquid  in  which  the  pigments  are  mixed  so  that  they  can  be  brushed 
on  the  canvas.  The  usual  vehicle  is  oil — hence  the  term  "  oil  painting." 
In  the  old  kind  of  painting  called  "tempera"  the  vehicle  was  white 
of  egg.  The  use  of  oil  as  a  vehicle  is  traditionall}?-  supposed  to  have 
been  the  invention  of  Hubert  and  John  van  Eyck  (i37o?-i426  and 
1389-1440).  How  perishable  some  of  the  English  vehicles  (and  pig- 
ments) have  been  may  be  seen  in  a  comparison  of  the  many  ruined 
pictures  by  Romney  and  Reynolds  with  the  unfaded  freshness  of  pictures 
by  Memlinc  and  the  Van  Eycks,  painted  three  hundred  and  fifty  years 
earlier. 

15—2 


228  Notes 

p.  94,  1.  5.  Jan  Steen.  Jan  Steen  (1626-1679),  son  of  a  Dutch 
brewer  and  himself  in  the  same  hne  of  business,  was  appropriately  the 
typical  painter  of  jovial  and  carousing  scenes.  The  National  Gallery 
has  several  examples.  Gerard  Dow  (1613-1675),  another  Dutch  painter, 
is  also  famous  for  his  "interiors." 

p.  94,  1.  6.  casuist.  A  casuist  is,  so  to  speak,  a  lawyer  of  the 
conscience,  one  who  determines  the  line  of  conduct  to  be  followed  in 
difficult  cases  where  the  claims  of  various  obligations  come  into  conflict. 
It  will  be  easily  understood  that  casuistry  generally  involved  a  great 
deal  of  hair-splitting. 

p.  94,  1.  8.  mist,  the  common  gloss,  etc.  Paradise  Lost,  v, 
435.  etc.: 

So  down  they  sat. 
And  to  their  viands  fell;   nor  seemingly 
The  Angel,  nor  in  mist — the  common  gloss 
Of  theologians — but  with  keen  dispatch 
Of  real  hunger. 

p.  94,  1,  23.  Opie.  John  Opie  (1761-1807),  a  poor  carpenter's 
son  at  Truro,  where  his  talents  were  discovered  by  Peter  Pindar  (see 
p.  178)  who  helped  him  to  become  a  successful  painter.  Opie's  work  is 
less  admired  than  it  was.  He  is  one  of  the  several  painters  to  whom 
is  attributed  the  famous  reply  to  the  question  what  he  mixed  his 
colours  with — "With  brains.   Sir!" 

p.  94,  1.  31.  Richardson.  Jonathan  Richardson  (1665-1745)  was 
famous  both  as  a  portrait  painter  and  as  a  writer  on  art.  His  sound 
work  as  a  portraitist  can  be  studied  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery, 
which  has  some  half  dozen  of  his  pictures,  including  portraits  of  Pope, 
Prior,  Steele  and  himself.  His  literary  works.  The  Theory  of  Painting, 
The  Connoisseur,  an  Essay  on  the  whole  Art  of  Criticism  as  it  relates 
to  Painting  and  An  Account  of  some  of  the  Statues,  Bas-Reliefs,  Drawings 
and  Paintings  in  Italy,  are  still  deserving  of  attention  by  amateurs  of 
art.  Hazlitt  quotes  from  him  in  the  next  essay.  The  original  source 
of  the  story  about  Michael  Angelo  and  Julius  H  is  the  famous  Lives 
of  the  Best  Painters,  Architects  and  Sculptors  written  by  Giorgio  Vasari 
(1511-74). 

P- 95. 1-33  Andrea  del  Sarto.  A  Florentine  painter  (1486-153 1), 
whose  "  Portrait  of  a  Sculptor"  (erroneously  called  a  portrait  of  himself) 
in  the  National  Gallery  is  a  well-known  and  popular  picture.  Hazhtt's 
choice  of  him  as  an  example  of  "slow,  patient,  laborious  execution" 
is  not  very  happy,  as  Andrea  was  in  fact  a  brilliant  and  rapid  workman, 
whose  mastery  of  technique  earned  him  the  title  of  "the  faultless 
painter." 

p.  95,  1.  36.  That  you  might  alnnost  say,  etc.  Donne,  The 
Second  Anniversary,  1.  246: 

her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 
Spoke  in  her  cheeks,  and  so  distinctly  wrought. 
That  one  might  almost  say,  her  body  thought. 

p.  96,  1.  16.  Abraham  Tucker.  Abraham  Tucker  (1705-1774), 
the  author  of  The  Light  of  Nature  Purszted,  lived  near  Dorking.  His 
book  extended  to  no  less  than  seven  volumes,  four  of  which  he  published 
in  1768  under  the  pseudonym  "  Edward  Search  "  ;  the  other  three,  edited 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     I  229 

by  his  daughter,  appeared  posthumously  in  1778.  Tucker's  book 
has  an  interest  for  students  of  HazUtt,  for  he  compiled  an  abridgement 
of  it  in  a  single  volume  (published  1807)  and  wrote  a  long  preface 
which  is  one  of  the  earliest  pieces  in  which  his  characteristic  qualities 
appear.  The  book  itself  may  be  described  as  a  rambling  philosophical 
treatise  on  things  in  general,  written  by  a  man  of  unusual  common- 
sense  and  clear-headed  understanding.  Hazlitt  says,  "  To  the  ingenuity 
and  closeness  of  the  metaphysician  he  unites  the  principal  knowledge  of 
the  man  of  the  world,  and  the  utmost  sprightliness,  and  even  levity 
of  imagination." 

p.  96,  1.  38.  rich  impasting.  "Impaste"  in  painting  is  the 
laying   on   of   colour   very   thickly. 

p.  97,  1.  2.  Shaftesbury's  Characteristics.  Anthony  Ashley 
Cooper,  third  Earl  of  Shaftesbury  (1671-1713),  a  philosophical  Whig 
peer,  wrote  several  essays  or  disquisitions  collected  under  the  general 
title  Characteristics  of  Men,  Manners,  Opinions  and  Times.  Shaftes- 
bury had  some  free-thinking  tendencies  and  drew  upon  himself  many 
attacks,  the  most  notable  being  the  Alciphron  of  Berkeley.  Lamb 
takes  him  as  an  extreme  example  of  the  "genteel  style"  in  writing. 
Shaftesbury  has  been  rather  unfairly  estimated,  most  people  being 
content  to  take  their  view  of  him  from  his  reUgious  opponents.  He 
was  before  his  time,  and,  in  fact,  there  is  much  in  Characteristics  that 
a  modern  reader  may  sincerely  admire  as  anticipative  of  contemporary 
ideas.  The  Baskerville  edition  of  Characteristics  has  a  finely  etched 
frontispiece  and  title  page  by  Gribelin,  for  whom  see  p.  249. 

P-  97.  1-  5-  riches  fineless.  "Infinite  wealth."  a  phrase  from 
Othello,  Act  III,  Sc.  iii,  1.  173: 

Poor  and  content  is  rich  and  rich  enough. 
But  riches  fineless  is  as  poor  as  winter 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor. 

p.  97,1.  16.  ever  in  the  haunch,  etc.  2  Henry  IV,  Act  iv,  Sc.  iv, 
1.  92: 

thou  art  a  summer  bird, 
Wliich  ever  in  the  haunch  of  winter  sings 
The  lifting  up  of  day. 

p.  97,  1.  25.  with  Correggio.  Many  traditional  stories  exist 
about  the  poverty,  timidity  and  modest  self-distrust  of  Correggio. 
Modern  research  has  tended  to  destroy  these  legends. 

p.  97,  1.  31.  to  the  Exhibition.  Hazlitt's  portrait  of  his  father 
was  hung  in  the  Royal  Academy  exhibition  of  1806. 

p.  97,  1.  32.  Mr  Skeffington.  Sir  Lumley  St  George  Skeffington 
( 1 771-1850),  a  "buck"  of  the  Regency  period,  wrote  several  plays  of 
no  importance.  He  was  a  well  known  and  much  caricatured  figure 
in  the  Society  of  his  time,  and  is  said  to  have  been  consulted  by  the 
Regent  in  important  matters  of  dress. 

P-  97.  1-  37-  the  battle  of  Austerlitz.  Dec.  2,  1805.  Hazlitt, 
the  ardent  Napoleonist,  was  naturally  as  uplifted  by  his  hero's  victory 
over  the  Austrians  and  Russians  as  he  was  afterwards  saddened  by 
Waterloo  and  St  Helena. 

p.  98,  1.  I.  the  great  Platonic  year.  Plato's  year  is  the 
mythical  period  in  which  the  heavenly  bodies  will  have  completed  as 


230  Notes 

many  revolutions  as  will  bring  them  all  back  to  the  same  relative  posi- 
tions that  they  held  at  the  beginning  of  time.  To  use  a  simple 
explanation,  it  is  the  "least  common  multiple"  of  all  the  different 
planetary  and  celestial  "  years,"  and  it  was  estimated  at  anything  from 
12,000  to  365,000  terrestrial  years.  The  new  era  begun  when  this 
"year  of  years"  was  completed  would  reproduce  the  past  in  every 
particular.  See  Plato's  Timaeus,  38,  for  the  passage  describing  this 
"year"  (Jowett's  translation.  Vol.  iii,  p.  457). 

p.  98,  1.  6.     full  of  years.     Hazlitt's  father  died  in  1820  aged  83. 
His  mother  was  over  yo  at  her  death. 


ON   THE   PLEASURE   OF    PAINTING.     II 

Essay  II  of  Table-Talk. 

p.  99,  1.  4.  Whate'er  Lorraine,  etc.  Thomson,  The  Castle  of 
Indolence,  Canto  i,  Stanza  38.  "Savage  Rosa"  is  Salvator  Rosa 
(1615-1673),  a  painter  whose  melodramatic  representations  of  wild 
landscapes  were  much  admired  in  the  "Romantic"  period  of  Hazlitt's 
youth.  Salvator  was  a  man  of  many  accomplishments,  and  won  fame 
as  poet  and  musician. 

p.  99,  1.  8.  Lord  Radnor's  park,  etc.  Longford  Castle,  Wiltshire, 
where  there  is  an  admirable  collection  of  paintings.  The  Radnor 
Claudes  are  a  pair.  One  represents  the  landing  of  Aeneas  in  Italy 
at  sunrise,  and  is  an  allegory  of  Rome  in  its  uprising.  The  other  shows 
a  ruined  arch  and  aqueduct  in  a  pastoral  landscape,  and  is  an  allegory 
of  Rome  decayed  and  fallen.  They  were  shown  a  few  years  ago  at 
an  "Old  Masters"  exhibition  at  the  Royal  Academy.  Van  Dyck's 
portrait  of  the  Herbert  family  hangs  in  the  Great  Room  at  Wilton  for 
which  it  was  painted  and  from  which  it  has  never  been  moved.  For 
the  Blenheim  Rubens  see  p.  223.  The  Van  Dyck  there  was  a  por- 
trait of  the  Duchess  of  Buckingham  with  her  three  children  looking 
at  a  miniature— presumably  of  the  assassinated  Duke.  Rembrandt's 
"Belshazzar's  Feasft"  is  still  in  the  possession  of  Lord  Derby  at 
Knowsley.  It  was  shown  at  the  Rembrandt  "Old  Masters"  exhibition 
of  1899.  Burghley  House,  near  Stamford,  the  famous  residence  of 
Lord  Exeter,  still  has  its  large  collection  of  Guide's  sentimental  saints. 

p.  99,  1.  17.     bosomed  high,  etc.     L' Allegro,  1.  78: 
Towers  and  battlements  he  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 

p.  100,  1.  2.  the  Orleans  Gallery.  Phihppe,  Duke  of  Orleans 
(1674-1723),  the  Regent  of  France  on  the  death  of  Louis  XIV,  amassed 
a  vast  and  wonderful  collection  of  important  pictures,  in  number 
nearly  five  hundred,  including,  for  instance,  27  assigned  to  Titian, 
19  to  Rubens,  12  to  Van  Dyck  and  7  to  Rembrandt.  Even  with  the 
deductions  made  for  too  optimistic  attributions,  the  Orleans  collection 
was  by  far  the  greatest  in  the  possession  of  any  one  person.  The 
strange  adventures  of  the  collection  began  with  the  death  of  the  founder. 
His  son  Louis  was  a  fanatic,  and,  disapproving  of  some  Correggios, 
he  cut  off  their  heads,  and  burned  them.  The  son  of  Louis  was  the 
notorious  Philippe  £galit6  oi  the  Revolution  (1747-1793).    The  Orleans 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     II  231 

collection  did  not  interest  him  and  he  sold  the  pictures  in  1792  for 
a  mere  fraction  of  their  value.  The  best  of  them  were  bought  by  a 
Belgian  banker,  and  a  large  number  by  an  English  collector,  Mr  Thomas 
Moor  Slade.  A  patriotic  Frenchman,  angry  at  seeing  the  pictures  lost 
to  France,  bought  back  the  Belgian  purchase ;  but  during  the  Terror, 
he  fled  to  England  and  carried  the  pictures  with  him.  Finding  himself 
without  means,  he  sold  his  Orleans  purchase  to  an  English  dealer.  From 
him  they  were  bought  by  three  English  noblemen  acting  in  concert,  the 
Duke  of  Bridgewater,  the  Marquis  of  Stafford  and  the  Earl  of  Carlisle. 
The  pictures  were  catalogued  and  exhibited  for  public  sale  from 
December,  1798,  to  August,  1799-  It  was  then  that  Hazlitt  saw  them. 
In  the  end,  the  best  of  the  pictures  were  kept  by  the  noble  purchasers 
who,  however,  got  for  the  rest  at  least  as  much  as  they  had  paid  for 
the  original  collection. 

p.  100,  1.  8.     hands  that  the  rod,  etc.     Gray's  Elegy. 
p.  100,  1.  9.     a  forked  mountain.     Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Act  iv, 
Sc.  xiv,  1.  5,  etc.: 

Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  that's  dragonish; 
A  vapour  sometimes  like  a  bear  or  lion. 
A  towered  citadel,  a  pendent  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  upon't,  that  nod  unto  the  world. 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air. 
p.  100,  1.  20.     signifying  nothing.     Macbeth,  Act  v,  Sc.  v,  1.  28: 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more :    it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury. 
Signifying  nothing. 
p.  100,  1.  25.     the  Provoked  Husband.     A  comedy  by  Vanbrugh 
left  incomplete,  and  finished  by  CoUey  Gibber. 

p.  100,  1.  27.     RuysC 1  und  Hobbima.     Two  admirable  Dutch 

landscape  artists.  Jacob  van  Ruisdael  (1628  or  9-1682)  is  well  repre- 
sented in  the  National  Gallery,  where  his  peaceful  landscape  scenes 
with  their  characteristic  silvery  tones  are  general  favourites.  Meindert 
Hobbema  (1638-1709)  painted  excellent  landscapes  during  a  very  short 
period  of  liis  life.  His  "Avenue  of  Middelharnis "  in  the  National 
Gallery  is  one  of  the  most  popular,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  delightful, 
among  landscape  pictures. 

p.  100,  1.  33.  when  I  went  to  the  Louvre.  In  October,  1802. 
p.  100,  1.  38.  Titian's  Mistress,  etc.  See  p.  197.  In  this  picture 
the  beautiful  Laura  is  seen  twisting  a  tress  of  golden  hair  before  a 
mirror.  Alfonso  is  dimly  descried  in  the  background.  "A  Young 
Nobleman  with  a  Glove"  is  the  familiar  and  splendid  "L'homme  au 
gant,"  one  of  Titian's  finest  portrait  pictures.  The  "companion  to  it" 
is  possibly  Titian's  "Francis  I  of  France"  which  hangs  near  it  in  the 
famous  "Salon  Carr6"  of  the  Louvre. 

p.  loi,  1.  8.  the  Transfiguration.  By  Raphael.  This  great 
picture,  Raphael's  last  work,  was  part  of  the  loot  gathered  by  Napoleon 
in  his  Italian  campaign.  It  was  brought  to  Paris  in  1797  and  returned 
to  Rome  in  1815.     It  is  now  in  the  Vatican. 


232  Notes 

p.  loi,  1.  19.  where  Rubens  hung  out,  etc.  Marie  de'  Medici, 
widow  of  Henri  IV,  ordered  eighteen  large  paintings  from  Rubens  to 
decorate  the  Luxembourg  Palace.  They  were  planned  by  the  master,  and 
largely  executed  by  his  pupils,  with  finishing  touches  from  his  own  hands. 
They  now  hang  in  a  hail  of  the  Louvre  specially  arranged  for  them. 

p.  loi,  1.  23.  un  beau  jour.  Doubtless  a  reference  to  the  famous 
description  by  Bailly  of  the  6th  October,  1789,  when,  after  what  is 
known  as  the  "insurrection  of  women,"  Louis  XVI  was  brought  by 
compulsion  from  Versailles  to  Paris  where  he  would  be  under  the  eye 
of  the  National  Assembly.  Burke  is  very  indignant  about  Bailly 's 
"beau  jour." 

p.  loi,  1.  29.  the  Transfiguration,  the  St  Peter,  etc.  For  the 
"Transfiguration"  see  note  above.  Titian's  "St  Peter  Martyr," 
another  of  Napoleon's  captures,  was  given  back  to  Venice  in  1815. 
It  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  1867.  His  portrait  of  Cardinal  Ippolito 
de'  Medici  is  now  in  Florence  whence  Napoleon  had  taken  it.  Domeni- 
cliino's  "Communion  of  St  Jerome,"  one  of  his  best  works,  was  given 
back  to  Rome  and  is  now  in  the  Vatican. 

p.  loi,  1.  38.  if  thou  hast  not  seen  the  Louvre,  etc.  A  remi- 
niscence of  As  You  Like  It,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii,  I.  35,  etc. : 

Touchstone.     Wast  ever  in  court,  shepherd? 

Covin.     No,  truly. 

T.     Then  thou  art  damned. 

C.     Nay,   I  hope. 

T.     Truly,  thou  art  damned  like  an  ill-roasted  egg,  all  on  one  side. 

p.  102,  1.  3.  the  Elgin  marbles.  Many  sculptures,  architectural 
fragments  and  casts  of  the  highest  value  from  Athens,  Mycaenae 
and  elsewhere,  brought  from  Greece  in  1812  by  Lord  Elgin  (1766-1841), 
the  British  Ambassador  to  the  Porte.  These  irreplaceable  works  of 
art  were  gradually  being  destroyed,  and,  to  save  them.  Lord  Elgin 
obtained  permission  from  the  indifferent  Turks  for  their  removal.  In 
18 16  the  British  government  bought  the  collection,  which  is  now  housed 
in  the  British  Museum.  There,  such  great  works  as  "  The  Dew  Maidens  " 
(or  "Three  Fates")  and  the  "Ilyssus,"  have  long  been  familiar  and 
admired  figures.  The  purchase  aroused  great  controversy,  in  which 
the  experts  were  utterly  in  the  wrong.  One  of  Hazlitt's  essays  deals 
with  the  Elgin  marbles. 

p.  102, 1.  5.  Quatreheures,  etc.  "  Past  four  o'clock ;  it  is  closing 
time,   citizens." 

p.  102, 1.  9.  hard  money.  Doubtless  a  reminiscence  of  Farquhar's 
The  Recruiting  Officer,  Act  iv,  Sc.  iii:  "Your  mother  has  a  hundred 
pound  in  hard  money  Ipng  at  this  minute  in  the  hands  of  a  mercer 
not  forty  yards  from  this  place."  "Hard  money"  is  cash,  as  distin- 
guished from  paper  money.     "Hard  cash"  is  a  familiar  modern  phrase. 

p.  102,  1.  10.  thou  tenantless  m£insion.  Tenantless,  through  the 
restoration  of  many  famous  pictures. 

p.  102,  1.  16.  experimentum  crucis.  A  crucial  or  decisive 
experiment. 

p.  102,  1.  17.     number  numberless.     Paradise  Regained,  iii,  310: 
He  looked,  and  saw  what  numbers  numberless 
The  city  gates  outpoured. 


On  the  Pleasure  of  Painting.     II  233 

"Numbers   numberless"    visited    France   after   the  Peace  of   Amiens 
in  1802,  the  first  real  breathing  space  since  the  outbreak  of  war  in  i793- 

p.  102,  1.  27.     casual  fruition.     Paradise  Lost,  Bk  iv,  1.  766. 

p.  102,  1.  38.  Knowledge  is  pleasure  as  well  as  power.  Hazlitt 
has  the  same  sentence  in  his  Round  Table  essay  On  Imitation.  Com- 
pare Newman,  University  Teaching,  Discourse  v,  par.  6:  "Knowledge, 
indeed,  when  thus  exalted  into  a  scientific  form,  is  also  power.... 
Poubtless;...!  only  say  that,  prior  to  its  being  a  power,  it  is  a  good; 
that  it  is,  not  only  an  instrument,  but  an  end." 

p.  103,  1.  25.     W.     Richard  Wilson,  or  possibly  Sir  David  Wilkie. 

p.  103,  1.  26.  Dutch  cabinet  picture.  A  cabinet  picture  is  so 
called  because  it  is  intended  to  be  hung  in  a  private  room,  and  not 
in  a  Church  or  public  institution.  The  Dutch  were  among  the  first 
to  produce  paintings  for  domestic  use. 

p.  104,  1.  II.  a  friend  of  mine,  Northcote,  for  whom  see  p.  176. 
The  important  work  was  no  doubt  his  Memoirs  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
published  in  181 3  and  praised  in  The  Edinburgh  Review. 

p.  104,  1.  29.  A  friend  had  bought.  It  is  suggested  that  this 
was  Haydon.     It  might  have  been  Lamb. 

p.  105.  1.  36.  Richardson.  See  p.  228.  The  instances  he  quotes 
are  drawn  mainly  from  Vasari. 

p.  106, 1.  18.  Tvho  restored  Painting.  This  high  view  of  Annibale 
Carracci  is  not  now  held.     See  p.  223. 

p.  107,  1.  3.  missed  a  Cardinal's  hat.  Vasari  is  the  authority 
for  the  statement  that  Pope  Leo  X  intended  to  bestow  a  Red  Hat 
on  Raphael. 

p.  107,  1.  c).  Parmigiano.  Francesco  Maria  Mazzola,  called 
Parmigiano  from  Parma,  his  birthplace. 

p.  108,  1.  10.  Gandy.  Wilham  Gandy,  portrait  painter,  was  born 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century.  He  was  the  son  of 
James  Gandy,  a  portrait  painter  of  Exeter,  who  was  said  to  have  been 
a  pupil  of  Van  Dyck.  William  Gandy  lived  at  Exeter  and  seems  to 
have  spent  the  whole  of  his  life  in  Devonshire.  He  died  in  171 5. 
Reynolds  was  also  a  Devon  man. 

p.  108,  1.  21.  Dcin  Stringer.  Daniel  Stringer  studied  in  the  Royal 
Academy  about  1770.  He  has  been  praised  for  his  portrait  heads  and 
comic  sketches;  but  he  lacked  application,  and  seems  gradually  to 
have  abandoned  art.  For  further  references  to  Gandy  and  Stringer 
see  Conversations  of  Northcote. 

p.  108,  1.  29.  swallowing  the  tailor's  news.  King  John,  Act  iv, 
Sc.  ii,  1.    195: 

I  saw  a  smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus. 
The  whilst  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool. 
With  open  mouth  swallowing  a  tailor's  news. 

p.  108,  1.  29.  bastEirds  of  his  genius.  Perhaps  a  reminiscence 
of  Shakespeare's  A  Lover's  Complaint,  174 — 5,  lines  descriptive  of  one 
who 

Thought  characters  and  words  merely  but  art. 
And  bastards  of  his  foul  adulterate  heart. 


234  Notes 


THE   FIGHT 

Published  in  The  New  Monthly  Magazine,  1822,  and  not  included  by 
Hazlitt  in  any  collection  of  his  essays.  It  was  republished  in  Literary 
Remains  and  Wmterslow.  So  many  heroes  of  the  Ring  are  referred  to 
in  the  piece  that  a  general  note  covering  all  of  them  may  be  given 
at  once.  Quotations  not  otherwise  described  are  taken  from  Pierce 
Egan's  Boxiana. 

Jack  Randall,  "the  Prime  Irish  Lad  otherwise  the  Nonpareil," 
was  the  best  light-weight  of  his  day.  In  one  of  his  combats,  that 
with  "West-country  Dick"  in  1817,  he  fought  twenty-nine  rounds 
and  left  the  ring  without  a  mark  on  his  face.  One  of  his  severest 
battles  was  fought  with  Ned  Turner,  another  light-weight,  a  London 
Welshman,  as  Randall  was  a  London  Irishman.  After  thirty-five 
rounds  the  Welshman  failed  to  come  up.  Randall  retired  in  the  height 
of  his  fame  and  took  "Ihe  Hole  in  the  Wall"  public  house  in  Chancery 
Lane,  which  thereafter  became  a  regular  place  of  call  for  the  Fancy. 
Ned  Turner,  though  defeated  by  Randall,  was  an  accomplished 
fighter.  His  most  terrible  "mill"  was  that  with  Curtis  in  1816,  which 
lasted  for  sixty-eight  rounds  and  terminated  fatally,  for  the  defeated 
Curtis  died  after  leaving  the  Ring.  Turner  received  many  compliments 
at  his  trial,  though  he  was  found  technically  guilty  of  manslaughter 
and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  two  months.  He  was  also  promi- 
nent in  another  light,  that  with  the  "All-conquering  Scroggins." 
Jack  Scroggins,  whose  real  name  was  John  Palmer,  had  served  in 
the  Royal  Navy,  and  apparently  had  spent  his  time  in  fighting,  not  the 
enemy,  but  his  own  shipmates.  His  success  in  these  friendly  combats  led 
him  to  the  Prize  Ring  where  "little  Scroggy,"  in  spite  of  an  unorthodox 
style,  soon  gained  much  renown  among  amateurs  of  the  Fancy.  For 
a  long  time  he  was  unbeaten;  but  a  quarrel  having  arisen  between 
him  and  Turner,  the  matter  went  to  the  Ring.  The  first  fight  (March, 
1817)  was  interrupted,  but  in  the  second,  a  few  weeks  later,  "the 
invincible  Scroggy,"  the  "little  Napoleon  of  the  Ring,"  met  his  Waterloo. 
A  third  contest  confirmed  the  supremacy  of  Turner.  Scroggins,  it 
may  be  observed,  had  taken  to  drink  and  refused  to  train.  Hence 
his  downfall.  Tom  Belcher,  brother  of  the  more  celebrated  Jem, 
was  victor  in  eight  out  of  twelve  big  contests  in  the  Ring.  "  As  a  sparrer 
Tom  is  truly  distinguished,  and  exhibits  all  the  various  traits  of  the 
art  with  the  utmost  elegance  and  perfection ;  and  who  has  turned  out 
a  number  of  very  expert  and  scientific  pupils.  In  several  of  the 
principal  towns  of  the  kingdom  Tom  has  pourtrayed  the  utility  of  the 
Science  of  Self  Defence  with  considerable  respectabihty  and  attention ; 
and  is  in  height  about  five  feet  nine  inches,  weight  near  eleven  stone 
— his  appearance  much  of  the  gentleman,  and  his  manners  and  deport- 
ment are  of  that  mild  and  inoffensive  nature  well  calculated  to  prepossess 
the  stranger  much  in  his  favour."  Jack  Martin,  "the  Baker,"  was 
an  active  fighter  of  light  to  middle  weight.  He  was  called  "The 
Master  of  the  Rolls"  in  allusion  to  his  trade.  Bill  Richmond  was  a 
"gentleman  of  colour"  born  in  America.  He  was  about  five  feet 
ten  and  fought  at  fourteen  stone.  He  was  discovered  by  General 
Earl  Percy  (afterwards  Duke  of  Northumberland)  during  the  American 


The  Fight  235 

War  of  Independence,  and  brought  to  England,  where  he  presently 
took  to  the  Ring.  Unlike  certain  other  coloured  pugihsts,  Richmond 
was  "inteUigent,  communicative  and  well-behaved."  Bill  Matthews, 
a  bookbinder,  distinguished  himself  in  a  big  drawn  fight  \vith  another 
coloured  pugiUst  "Black  George."  Tom  Cribb,  the  Champion  of 
England,  was  a  Gloucester  man.  His  fight  with  Jem  Belcher  took 
place  at  Epsom  on  Feb.  i,  1S09.  Belcher  had  been  Champion,  but  was 
defeated  after  thirt\--one  rounds,  and  "resigned  the  palm  of  Victory  to 
Cribb,  never  more  to  enter  the  field  of  honour."  Cribb  was  an  ornament 
to  the  Ring  and  was  highl\-  esteemed  by  all  noble  and  gentle  sportsmen 
of  the  day.  "He  left  the  field  of  glory  covered  with  honour  and 
renown  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  tranquilht\-  and  peace, 
by  papng  attention  to  his  business  as  a  coal- merchant " — though 
later  he  dechned  upon  that  inevitable  last  refuge  of  the  retired  pro- 
fessional, the  pubhc-house.  Tom,  it  seems,  was  "  placid,  condescending, 
and  obhging,  possessing  great  forbearance  of  temper."  Henry  Pe.\rce, 
"scientifically  denominated  the  Game  Chicken... the  Broughton  of  his 
time  and  one  of  the  most  heroic  and  humane  Champions  of  England,  who 
not  only  added  fresh  laurels  to  that  title  but  never  lost  that  distinguished 
appellation  till  it  was  wrested  from  him  b}-  that  Conqueror  of  Con- 
querors— Death !  "—thus  the  epic  strain  of  Boxiana.  The  Chicken 
gained  much  glor%'  by  his  heroic  rescue  of  a  woman  from  a  burning 
house.  John  Gulley,  Champion  of  England  in  succession  to  the 
Chicken,  was  a  tall  man  and  heavy  weight,  a  ver\-  notable  fighter  on 
scientific  lines.  "With  a  knowledge  of  the  world  he  unites  the  manners 
of  a  weU-bred  man.  Unassuming  and  inteUigent  upon  aU  occasions, 
this  conduct  has  gained  him  respect  and  attention  in  the  circles  in  which 
he  moves ;  and  which  are  by  no  means  of  an  inferior  class.  Thus 
proving,  in  himself,  a  Uvely  instance,  that  All  pugilists  are  not 
e.xcluded  from  poUte  society-."  John  Jackson,  "Gentleman  Jackson," 
"one  of  the  best  made  men  in  the  kingdom... wisely  endeavoured  to 
unite  with  the  above  expression  that  of  being  one  of  the  best  behaved 
men  also."  He  seems  to  have  made  a  great  impression,  not  only  by 
his  strength  and  science  in  the  Ring,  but  by  what  Mr  Tur\eydrop 
would  have  called  his  deportiiient.  A  cast  of  his  arm  was  taken  and 
preserved  as  a  model  of  anatomical  perfection.  Bill  Ne.\t,  "a  butcher 
by  trade  and  a  stout  hearty  blade,"  one  of  the  heroes  of  HazUtt's  first 
fight,  was  a  Bristol  man  of  very  respectable  connections.  He  stood 
half  an  inch  short  of  sLx  feet  and  turned  the  scale  at  thirteen  stone 
seven.  His  first  big  fight  was  in  iSiS  with  Oliver,  whom  he  defeated 
in  twenty-eight  rounds.  His  hits  from  the  shoulder  had  astonishing 
and  peculiar  force.  There  was  some  ill-feeling  betT\-een  Neat  and  the 
great  Cribb,  but  it  does  not  appear  that  they  ever  met  in  the  Ring. 
Tom  Hickman,  "better  known  as  the  Gas-Light  Man,"  is  described 
almost  h-rically  by  Boxiana  as  "a  second  Hotspur — impatient — fiery- 
— daring — hardy — impetuous — laughing  to  naught  all  his  opponents." 
"  This  tremendous  hero  of  the  '  Fives '  fiist  opened  his  peepers  in  search 
of  chivalrous  adventures  in  Ken  Lane,  Dudley,  in  Worcestershire,  on 
the  2Sth  of  Januan,-.  17S5."  He  seems  to  have  been  a  fighter  from 
his  cradle,  and  his  name  (like  that  of  another  fighter,  Cromwell)  was 
used  as  a  word  of  fear  to  frighten  smaU  evil-doers  into  virtue.  He 
stood  5ft.  giin.  and  fought  at  list.  11  lbs.  Many  of  Ifis  victories 
were  gained  in  extremeh-  short  times,  fifteen  minutes  being  enough  for 
some  of  his  opponents.     "The  Gas"  seems  to  have  had  a  regrettable 


236  Notes 

tendency  towards  boasting.  Boxiana  concludes  his  biography  with  a 
significant  sentence.  "No  boxer  ever  had  a  higher  opinion  of  his  own 
powers  than  Hick.  It  should  seem  that  he  almost  flatters  himself 
he  is  INVULNERABLE."  Howcver,  he  met  his  fate  at  the  hands  of 
Bill  Neat  on  December  nth,  1821,  in  the  battle  described  by  Hazlitt. 
Eighteen  rounds  settled  the  matter,  but  the  Gas  was  really  beaten  by 
the  ninth.  As  in  the  case  of  other  great  victories,  a  medal  was  struck 
to  celebrate  the  event,  but  it  is  sad  to  relate  that  numismatic  art 
failed  to  attain  the  ideal  of  pugilistic  accuracy,  for  the  combatants 
are  represented  as  fighting  on  boards  instead  of  on  the  grass,  and  are 
placed  in  attitudes  that  would  give  any  fighting  man  a  fit  of  hilarious 
contempt.  The  fourth  volume  of  Boxiana  devotes  many  pages  to  this 
fight.  The  Muse,  too,  was  not  silent.  Perhaps  we  may  quote  the  last 
stanza  of  one  song: 

In  eighteen  rounds  the  Gas  was  spent. 

His  pipes  lay  undefended. 
When  Gas-light  shares  fell  cent,  per  cent.. 

And  thus  the  battle  ended. 
The  Cockney's  tune  was  altered  soon, 

In  purse  and  spirits  undone. 
As  on  the  rack  they  toddled  back 
With  empty  dies  to  London. 

Come  Bristol  boys,  let's  claim  the  bays, 
Come  Daffies,  spruce  and  clever. 
With  loud  Huzzas  proclaim  his  praise. 
Sing  Champion  Neat  for  ever. 
Clies,  we  might  observe,  are  pockets. 

Three  other  literary  "fights"  may  be  named,  those  in  Borrow's 
Lavengro,  George  Meredith's  Amazing  Marriage  and  Conan  Doyle's 
Rodney  Stone.  Borrow's  hymn  of  praise  to  the  "bruisers  of  England" 
is  noticeably  in  the  key  of  Hazlitt's  essay.  See  Chapter  xxvi  in  Lavengro. 
p.  109, 1.  I.  the  fight's  the  thing.  Adapted  from  Hamlet,  Act  11, 
So.  ii.  11.  633-4: 

the  play's  the  thing 
Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king, 
p.  109,  1.  6.     'the  proverb'  nothing   'musty.'     Adapted  from 
Hamlet,  Act  in,   Sc.  ii,  11.  359,   etc.:    "Ay  sir,  but,   'while  the  grass 
grows' — the  proverb  is  something  musty." 

p.  109,  1.  18.  the  Fancy.  "Fancy"  means,  among  other  things, 
"preference"  or  "inclination."  Those  who  have  a  "fancy"  for  dogs 
are  called  "dog-fanciers,"  for  pigeons,  "pigeon-fanciers,"  and  so  on. 
But  chief  of  all  the  sporting  "fancies"  is  "The  Fancy,"  meaning  the 
patrons   of  pugilism. 

p.  109, 1.  22.  the  author  of  Waverley.  Not  yet  publicly  known 
as  Scott.  "  To  ask  at "  is  a  Scotticism,  that  is,  an  expression  that  might 
be  used  by  any  Scot,  including  "the  Author  of  Waverley";  but  I 
cannot  recall  an  instance  of  Sir  Walter's  actually  using  it  in  any  of 
the  novels. 

p.    109,   1.    24.     with  the  authenticity,  etc.     Randall   being   the 
champion  light-weight,  his  lady,  Mrs  Randall,  would  probably  have 
authentic   information   about   the   fight. 
p.  109,  1.  31.     blue  ruin.     Gin. 


The  Fight  237 

p.  no,  1.  9.  Jo.  Toms.  Identified  as  Hazlitt's  friend  Joseph 
Parkes,  a  lawyer,  later  well  known  as  a  Radical  politician. 

p.  no,  1.  22.  fleet  the  time.  Adapted  from  As  You  Like  It,  Act  i, 
Sc.  i:  "They  say  he  is  already  in  the  forest  of  Arden;...they  say 
many  young  gentlemen  flock  to  him  every  day,  and  fleet  the  time 
carelessly  as  they  did  in  the  golden  world" — the  golden  world- being 
the  fabled  "golden  age"  or  "age  of  Saturn,"  in  the  childhood  of  the 
world,  when  life  knew  nothing  of  sin  and  pain. 

p.  no,  1.  25.  Jack  Pigott.  Identified  as  Hazlitt's  friend 
P.  G.  Patmore,  for  whom  see  p.   174. 

p.  no,  1.  30.  What  more  felicity,  etc.  From  Spenser's  Muiopot- 
mos,  or  the  Fate  of  the  Buttevflie,  Stanza  27.  The  lines  are  famous 
through  their  appearance  as  a  sort  of  motto  on  the  title  page  of  Keats's 
first  published  volume,   the  Poems  of   1817. 

p.  in,  1.  5.  we  meet  at  Philippi.  Adapted  from  Julius  Caesar, 
Act  IV,  Sc.  iii. 

p.  in,  1.  6.  to  Piccadilly.  The  Bath  and  Bristol  mails  started 
from  the  White  Horse  Cellars,  Piccadilly — now  a  restaurant.  It  was 
from  the  White  Horse  Cellars  that  Mr  Pickwick  and  his  friends  started 
on  their  memorable  visit  to  Bath. 

p.  in,  1.  15.  my  Rubicon.  The  Rubicon  was  a  small  stream  that 
flowed  into  the  Adriatic  where  the  modern  town  of  Rimini  stands.  Its 
importance  was  that  in  the  days  of  Caesar  it  formed  part  of  the  boundary 
between  Cisalpine  Gaul  and  Italia  proper.  To  cross  the  Rubicon 
southwards  was  therefore  to  pass  from  a  province  into  the  actual  terri- 
tory of  Rome.  Julius  Caesar  governed  in  Cisalpine  Gaul,  and  when 
in  53  B.C.,  as  a  result  of  Pompey's  enmity,  the  Senate  ordered  Caesar 
to  disband  his  forces  and  resign  his  power,  the  great  leader's  reply 
was  to  cross  the  Rubicon  with  his  army  and  thus  to  become  the  in- 
vader of  his  own  country  and  the  originator  of  civil  war.  "To  cross 
the  Rubicon"  means  therefore  to  take  a  decisive,  irrevocable  step. 
Hazlitt  calls  Hyde  Park  Corner  his  Rubicon  because  to  pass  it  meant 
a  resolution  to  continue  his  journey  westwards  out  of  London.  Hyde 
Park  Corner  was  regarded  as  the  beginning  of  London,  a  popular  name 
for  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  residence,  Apsley  H  )usc,  which  stands 
just  to  the  east  of  the  Park  gate,  being  "Number  One,  London." 

p.  in,  1.  37.  I  follow  fate.  Dryden,  The  Indian  Emperor,  Activ, 
a  song  at  the  beginning  of  Sc.  iii: 

Ah,  fading  Joy,  how  quickly  art  thou  past? 

Yet  we  thy  ruin  haste. 
As  if  the  cares  of  human  life  were  few. 

We  seek  out  new. 
And  follow  Fate  which  would  too  fast  pursue. 

p.  112,  1.  10.  the  Brentford  Jehu.  Jehu,  a  slang  name  for  a 
driver;  the  reference  being  to  2  Kings  ix,  20,  "and  the  driving  is 
like  the  driving  of  Jehu  the  son  of  Nimshi,  for  he  driveth  furiously." 
p. 112, 1.18.  TomTurtle.  Identified  as  John  Thurtell  (i  794-1824), 
a  Norwich  man,  who  figured  largely  in  the  sporting  world,  and  became 
later  notorious  as  the  murderer  of  a  gambling  companion  named 
Weare.  He  was  hanged  at  Hertford.  It  was  Thurtell  who  first  taught 
boxing  to  the  author  of  The  Bible  in  Spain;    and  readers  of  Lavengro 


238  Notes 

will  remember  the  sinister  entry  of  Thurtell  into  that  story  and  the 
forecast  of  his  fate  made  in  the  storm  by  Jasper  Petulengro.  Thurtell 
arranged  many  fights  and  was  so  interested  in  his  sport  tliat  shortly 
before  his  execution  he  desired  to  read  Pierce  Egan's  account  of  the 
figlit  between  Spring  and  Langan  which  had  just  taken  place. 

p.  112,  1.  38.  quite  chap-fallen.  From  Hamlet's  speech  about 
the  skull  of  Yorick — Act  v,  Sc.  i:  "Where  be  your  gibes  now?  your 
gambols  ?  your  songs  ?  your  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont 
to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?  Not  one  now,  to  mock  your  own  grinning  ? 
quite  chap-fallen?"  "Chap-fallen"  means  "dejected,"  "dispirited," 
or  literally  "down  in  the  mouth,"  as  Yorick's  skull  was,  the  chaps 
or  cheeks  having  disappeared  and  the  lower  jaw  fallen. 

p.  113,  1.  II.  under  the  rose.  " Secretly "—famiUar,  too,  in  its 
Latin  form  "sub  rosa."  A  legend  relates  that  Cupid  gave  a  rose  to 
Harpocrates,  or  Horus,  the  god  of  Slence,  to  bribe  him  not  to  betray 
certain  inconvenient  secrets. 

p.  113,  1.  23.  where  good  digestion,  etc.  Adapted  from  Macbeth, 
Act  III,  Sc.  iv,  1.  38. 

p.  113,  1.  28.     Follows  so,  etc.     See  p.  167. 

p.  113,  1.  33.  coloquintida,  etc.  Colocynth  is  the  dried  and 
powdered  medicinal  herb  known  as  "bitter  apple."  Aconite  is  the 
poisonous  extract  derived  from  the  plant  monkshood  or  wolf's  bane. 
Compare  Othello,  Act  I,  Sc.  iii,  1.  355:  "The  food  that  to  him  now  is 
as  luscious  as  locusts,  shall  be  to  him  shortly  as  bitter  as  coloquintida." 
Hazlitt's  bitterness  has  reference,  no  doubt,  to  the  failure  of  his 
marriage.  At  the  date  of  this  essay  divorce  proceedings  were  being 
taken  against  him  in  the  Scottish  courts  by  his  wife. 

p.  113,  1.  36.     more  figures.     See  p.   155. 

p.  114,  1.  2.  an  indigestion.  In  Hazlitt's  case  the  result  of 
excessive  tea-drinking. 

p.  114,  1.  16.     a  foregone  conclusion.     See  p.  221. 
p.  114,  1.  19.     seriously  inclined.     Othello,  Act  i,  Sc.  iii,  1.  145: 
This  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline, 
p.  114,  1.  20.     un  beau  jour.     See  p.  232. 

p.  115,  1.  2.     the  vein  of  Gilpin.     There  is  nothing  in  Cowper's 
dehghtful  ballad  exactly  like  this  answer.     In  spirit  it  may  be  likened, 
perhaps,  to  the  following  stanza,  with  its  witty  equivocation: 
I  came  because  your  horse  would  come. 

And,  if  I  well  forbode. 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here. 
They  are  upon  the  road, 
p.  115,  1.  II.     mum's  the  word.     See  p.  165. 
p.  115,  1.  29.     A  lusty  man,  etc.     From  Chaucer,  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbiiry  Tales,  1.  167: 

A  monk  ther  was,  fair  for  the  maistrie. 

An  outridere  that  lovede  venerie ; 

A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 


The  Fight  239 

p.  116,  1.  5.  0£iken  towel.  An  old  slang  name  for  a  cudgel.  The 
word  "towelling"  for  a  thrashing  may  still  be  heard. 

p.  116,  1.  7.  he  moralized,  etc.  From  As  You  Like  It,  Act  11, 
Sc.  i,  1.  44 : 

Duke.     But  what  said  Jaques, 
Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle? 

Lord.     O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 

p.  1 16, 1.  8.    like  Bardolph's.     i  Henry  IV,  Act  iii,  Sc.  iii,  1.  29,  etc. : 

Bard.  Why,  you  are  so  fat.  Sir  John,  that  you  must  needs  be  out 
of  all  compass, — out  of  all  reasonable  compass,  Sir  John. 

Fal.  Do  thou  amend  thy  face,  and  I'll  amend  my  life.  Thou 
art  our  admiral,  thou  bearest  the  lantern  in  the  poop, — but  't  is  in 
the  nose  of  thee ;   thou  art  the  Knight  of  the  Burning  iLamp. 

Bard.     Why,  Sir  John,  my  face  does  you  no  harm. 

Fal.  No,  I'll  be  sworn,  I  make  as  good  use  of  it  as  many  a  man 
doth  of  a  death's-head  or  a  memento  mori.  1  never  see  thy  face  but 
I  think  upon  hell-fire,  and  Dives  that  lived  in  purple ;  for  there  he  is 
in  his  robes,  burning,  burning.  If  thou  wert  any  way  given  to  virtue, 
I  would  swear  by  thy  face;  my  oath  should  be,  "By  this  fire,  that's 
God's  angel."  But  tliou  art  altogether  given  over,  and  wert  indeed, 
but  for  the  light  in  thy  face,  the  son  of  utter  darkness.  When  thou 
rann'st  up  Gadshill  in  the  night  to  catch  my  horse,  if  I  did  not  think 
thou  hadst  been  an  ignis  fatuus  or  a  ball  of  wild-lire,  there's  no  purchase 
in  money.  O,  thou  art  a  perpetual  triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire- 
light.  Thou  hast  saved  me  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and  torches, 
walking  with  thee  in  the  night  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern :  but  the 
sack  that  thou  hast  drunk  me  would  have  bought  me  lights  as  good 
cheap  at  the  dearest  chandler's  in  Europe.  I  have  maintained  that 
salamander  of  yours  with  fire  any  time  this  two-and-thirty  years; 
God  reward  me  for  it ! 

There  is  a  further  reference  in  Henry  V,  Act  11,  Sc.  iii. 

p.  116,  I.  21.  loud  and  furious  fun.  A  reminiscence  of  Burns, 
Tarn  o'  Skanter : 

As  Tammie  glowered,  amazed  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious, 
p.  117,  1.  31.  the  old  maxim.  The  most  famous  form  of  this 
saying  is  Danton's  great  utterance  in  1792  when  the  safety  of  the  young 
Republic  of  France  was  threatened  by  powerful  Austrian  and  German 
forces:  "De  I'audace,  encore  de  I'audace,  toujours  de  I'audace,  et 
la  France  est  sauvee." 

p.  117, 1.  37.  Alas,  the  Bristol  man,  etc.  Cowper,  The  Task,  11, 
322: 

Alas  !    Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed : 
Laughed  at,  he  laughs  again;    and  stricken  hard, 
Turns  to  the  stroke  his  adamantine  scales. 
That  feel  no  discipline  of  human  hands. 

p.  118,  1.9.  Achilles  surveyed  Hector.  The  great  fight  between 
Achilles  and  Hector  is  told  in  Iliad  xxii. 

p.  118,  1.  30.  man  was  made  to  mourn.  The  title  and  refrain 
of  a  poem  by  Burns. 


240  Notes 

p.    119,  1.  25.     Between  the  acting,  etc.     Julius  Caesar,  Act  11, 
Sc.  i,  63-65. 

p.  120,  1.  9.     Ajax.     Ajax  or  Aias,  one  of  the  Greek  heroes  at  the 
siege  of  Troy,  second  only  to  Achilles  in  prowess. 

p.  120,  1.  13.     with  Atlantean  shoulders.     Paradise  Lost,  ii,  ■^ob, 
part  of  the  description  of  Beelzebub: 

sage  he  stood 
With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies 
— Atlas  being  one  of  the  Titans,  who,  as  Homer  says,  "knows  the  depth 
of  every  sea  and  himself  upholds  the  tall  pillars  which  keep  earth  and 
sky  asunder." 

p.  120,  1.  14.     Diomed.     Another  of  the  Greek  heroes  at  the  siege 
of  Troy. 

p.  121,  1.  II.     grinned  horrible.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  846: 
He  ceased,  for  both  seemed  highly  pleased,  and  Death 
Grinned  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,  to  hear 
His  famine  should   be  filled, 
p.  121,  1.  35.     like  two  clouds.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  714-6. 
As  when  two  black  clouds 
With  Heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants,  that  Hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown. 
p.  122,  1.  38.     In  doleful  dumps.     From  the  ballad  Chevy  Chase. 
p.   123,  1.  4.     Sir  Fopling  Flutter.     See  p.   178.     Sir  Fopling  is 
a  foolish   beau   fond  of  dragging  in  French  phrases  on  all  possible 
occasions. 

p.  124,  1.  5.     O  procul.    Vergil,  Aeneid,  vi,  258: 

"Procul,  O  procul  este,  profani," 
Conclamat  vates,  "totoque  absistite  luco." 
"  Away,  be  ye  gone,  ye  unhallowed   ones,"   the   prophetess  cries, 
"  and  withdraw  from  all  this  sacred  grove." 

p.  124,  I.  5.     flash-men.     Rogues — coiners,  thieves,  etc. 
p.  124,  1.  6.     Tothill  Fields.     A  part  of  Westminster, 
p.  124,  1.  9.     a  cross.     That  is,  not  a  straight  fight,  but  one  in 
which  the  beaten  man  is  bribed  to  lose. 

p.  124,  1.  12.    sans  intermission.    A  reminiscence  of  ^s  You  Like 
It,  Act  II,  Sc.  vii,  1.  32: 

And  I  did  laugh  sans  intermission 

An  hour  by  his  dial. 

p.    124,   1.   29.     Mr  Windham.     WilUam  Windham  (1750-1810), 

a  statesman,  friend  of  Burke,  Johnson,  etc.,  much  admired  in  his  day. 

p.  124, 1.  37.   Broughton  and  George  Stevenson.   Jack  Broughton 

(1704-1789),  the  father  of  English  pugilism.  Broughton  was  very  famous 

in  his  day  as  a  scientific  fighter,  and  taught  the  noble  art  in  his  ring  at 


The  Fight  241 

Hanway  Street.  Broughton  held  his  own  for  many  years,  but  was 
defeated  at  last  by  Slack,  to  the  great  disgust  of  his  noble  patron  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  hero  of  Culloden,  who  lost  heavily  over  the  fight. 
George  Stevenson,  the  Coachman,  fought  Broughton  when  the  latter  was 
out  of  condition,  Ijut  Broughton  was  nevertheless  the  victor.  Hazlitt's 
nice  old  gentleman  seems  to  have  been  the  kind  of  nice  old  gentleman 
often  found  at  race  meetings  and  similar  gatherings;  for  as  the  fight 
between  Broughton  and  "Coachee"  took  place  in  1741  and  Hazlitt 
was  writing  of  1821,  it  is  hard  to  see  how  even  the  nicest  old  gentleman 
in  the  best  state  of  preservation  could  have  any  clear  personal  recol- 
lections of  a  fight  that  had  taken  place  eighty  years  before !  The 
date  1770  is  quite  wrong.  In  that  year  Broughton  would  have  been 
sixty-six,  hardly  the  age  at  which  a  man  goes  in  the  Ring. 


THE   INDIAN   JUGGLERS 
Essay  ix  in  Table  Talk. 

p.  126,  1.  13.    past  finding  out._  A  reminiscence  of  Romans  xi,  33  : 

"O  the  depth  of  the  riches  both  of  the  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  God  ! 

how  unsearchable  are  his  judgments,  and  his  ways  past  finding  out." 

p.  128  1.  26.    Sadler's  Wells.    A  once  famous  theatre  in  the  north 

of  London,  made  fashionable  in  later  years  by  the  excellent  acting  of 

Samuel  Phelps  (i 804-1 878)  in  a  repertory  of  standard  plays.     After 

his  time  the  house  rapidly  decHned,  and  now  no  longer  exists  as  a  theatre. 

p.  128,  1.  31.     Peter  Pindar.     See  p.  178.     For  Opie,  see  p.  228. 

p.  129,  1.  31.     In  argument,  etc.     Goldsmith.  The  Deserted  Village. 

p.  130,  1.  4.     Jaggernaut.     Juggernaut  or  Jaggernaut  (Jagannath, 

meaning   "lord  of  the  world")  was  a  Hindu  god  whose  image  was 

worshipped  at  Puri  in  Orissa.     On  a  certain  day  of  the  year,  the  car 

of  the  image  made  a  triumphal  procession,  and  it  is  said  that  fanatical 

devotees  used  to  throw  themselves  under  the  vehicle  in  the  belief  that, 

dying  thus,  they  would  at  once  gain  entrance  to  paradise. 

p.  131, 1.  3.     human  face  divine.     Paradise  Lost,  Bk  iii,  1.  44,  etc., 
part  of  the  poet's  beautiful  lament  for  his  blindness: 
Thus  with  the  year 
Seasons  return;  but  not  to  me  returns 
Day,  or  the  sweet  approach  of  even  or  morn, 
Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  summer's  rose. 
Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine; 
But  cloud  instead,  and  ever-during  dark 
Surrounds  me. 

p.  131,  1.  18.     H s   and  H s.     One  of   these   is   probably 

Benjamin  Haydon,  for  whom  see  p.  162.  The  other  may  be  John 
Hoppner  (1758-1810),  a  portrait  painter  of  much  merit,  for  whom, 
however,  Hazlitt  seems  to  have  had  little  admiration. 

p.   131,  I.  21.      in  tones  and  gestures  hit.     A  reminiscence  of 
Paradise  Regained,  iv,  255 : 

There  thou  shalt  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony,  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand. 

s.  H.  16 


242  Notes 

p.  131, 1.  22.     To  snatch  this  grace.     Pope,  Essay  on  Criticism : 
Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take, 
May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track; 
From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  part. 
And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art. 
p.  131,  1.  25.     commercing  -with  the  skies.     II  Penseroso,  irora 
the  beautiful  passage  in  which  Melancholy  is  personified  as  a  "pensive 
nun,  devout  and  pure": 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait. 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies. 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes, 
p.  132,  1,   10.     And  visions,  etc.     The  immediate  source  of  this 
quotation  is  a  letter  from  Gray  to  Wal pole  (September  1737)  describing 
Burnham  Beeches — a  beauty  spot  of  which  Gray  may  be  called  the 
discoverer:   "My  comfort  amidst  all  this  is,  that  I  have  at  the  distance 
of  half-a-mile,  through  a  green  lane,  a  forest  (the  vulgar  call  it  a  common) 
all    my   own,    at   least   as   good   as   so,   for   I    spy   no   human   thing 
in  it  but  myself.     It  is  a  little  chaos  of  mountains  and  precipices; 
mountains,   it  is  true,   that  do  not  ascend  much  above  the  clouds, 
nor  are  the  declivities  quite  so  amazing  as  Dover  cliff;    but  just  such 
hills  as  people  who  love  their  necks  as  well  as  I  do  may  venture  to  climb, 
and  crags  that  give  the  eye  as  much  pleasure  as  if  they  were  more 
dangerous.     Both   vale    and   hill    are    covered    with   most   venerable 
beeches,  and  other  very  reverend  vegetables,   that,  like  most  other 
ancient  people,  are  always  dreaming  out  their  old  stories  to  the  winds. 
And  as  they  bow  their  hoary  tops  relate, 
In  murm'ring  sounds,  the  dark  decrees  of  fate; 
While  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow. 
Cling  to  each  leaf,  and  swarm  on  every  bough. 
At  the  foot  of  one  of  these,  squats  Me  I  (il  penseroso),  and  there  grow 
to  the  trunk  for  a  whole  morning.     The  timorous  hare  and  sportive 
squirrel  gambol  around  me  like  Adam  in  Paradise,  before  he  had  an 
Eve;    but  I  think  he  did  not  use  to  read  Vergil  as  I  commonly  do 
there."     The  verses  seem  to  be  adapted  by  Gray  from  Aeneid,  vi,  282- 
284  which  William  Morris  thus  translates : 

But  in  the  midst  a  mighty  elm,  dusk  as  the  night,  outspread 
Its  immemorial  boughs  and  limbs,  where  lying  dreams  there  lurk. 
As  tells  the  tale,  still  clinging  close  'neath  every  leaf-side  mirk, 
p.   132,   1.   20.     Thrills  in  each  nerve.     Possibly  a  reminiscence 
of  Addison's  poem  Milton's  Style  imitated  in  a  Translation  of  a  Story 
out  of  the  Aeneid — the  story  of  Polyphemus: 

we  stood 
Amazed,  be  sure;    a  sudden  horror  chill 
Ran  through  each  nerve,  and  thrilled  in  every  vein. 
Till,  using  all  the  force  of  winds  and  oars. 
We  sped  away. 
p.  132,  1.  38.     half  flying,  half  on  foot.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  941-2: 
nigh-foundered,  on  he  fares. 
Treading  the  rude  consistence,  half  on  foot. 
Half  flying, 
p.   133,   1.    13.     I  kno'nr  an  individual.     Leigh   Hunt. 


The  Indian  Jugglers  243 

p.  133,  1.  22.  nagsB  canorea.  "Tuneful  trifles,"  quoted  from 
Horace  On  the  Art  of  Poetry. 

p.  133,  1.  23.  Rochester.  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester  (1647- 
1680),  a  courtier  of  Charles  II's  reign.  Rochester  wrote  many  love  poems 
and  satires  in  verse,  but  possibly  his  best  remembered  piece  is  the 
witty  epitaph  on  Charles  II : 

Here  hes  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  King, 

Whose  word  no  man  reUes  on. 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing 
Nor  ever  did  a  wise  one. 
To  which  the  "  merry  "  monarch  was  said  to  have  replied  that  his  words 
were  certainly  his  own,  but  his  deeds  were  the  work  of  his  Ministers. 

p.  133,  1.  23.  Surrey.  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey  (1517-1547), 
a  brave  and  gifted  member  of  a  noble  family,  was  executed  by  Henry 
VIII  on  a  ridiculous  charge  of  high  treason.  He  wrote  many  pleasant 
poems  and  was  the  first  to  use  blank  verse  and  the  sonnet  in  English. 

p.  133,  1.  37.  Themistocles  said.  Themistocles  (525-459  B.C.), 
the  famous  statesman  and  soldier  of  Athens,  whose  belief  in  sea  power 
was  justified  by  the  great  victory  over  the  Persian  fleet  at  Salamis 
(480).  Plutarch's  life  of  Themistocles  records  that,  "when  in  company 
where  people  engaged  themselves  in  what  are  commonly  thought 
the  liberal  and  elegant  amusements,  he  was  obliged  to  defend  himself 
against  the  observations  of  those  who  considered  themselves  highly 
accomplished,  by  the  somewhat  arrogant  retort,  that  he  certainly 
could  not  make  use  of  any  stringed  instrument,  his  only  accomplish- 
ment being  the  ability  so  to  govern  a  small  and  obscure  city  as  to 
make  it  great  and  glorious." 

p.  135,  1.  2.  Jedidiah  Buxton.  Buxton  (1707-1772),  the  son 
of  a  Derbyshire  schoolmaster,  possessed  an  altogether  abnormal  power 
of  mental  calculation,  but  was  otherwise  illiterate  and  unteachable. 
He  is  said  to  have  worked  out  the  value  of  a  farthing  continuously 
doubled  for  139  times  and  then  to  have  squared  the  number  of 
pounds  in  this  product.  The  results,  tested  by  logarithms,  appeared  to 
be  correct.  He  was  taken  to  see  Garrick  in  Richard  III  and  paid  no 
attention  to  the  piece,  his  mind  being  occupied  in  counting  the  number 
of  words  spoken  by  the  actors.  See  Tahls  Talk :  On  Genius  and 
Common-sense  {II)  for  a  much  fuller  reference  to  Jedidiah  Buxton. 

p.  135,  1.  3.  Napier's  bones.  John  Napier  of  Merchiston  (1550- 
1617),  a  Scottish  baron  and  a  wise  investigator  in  many  branches  of 
human  knowledge,  is  most  famous  as  the  inventor  of  logarithms. 
"Napier's  bones"  was  a  piece  of  apparatus  for  calculations — not 
unlike  the  modern  slide-rule.  Hazlitt's  sentence  took  its  form, 
no  doubt,  as  a  reminiscence  of  Ezekiel  xxxvii,  3:  "Son  of  man,  can 
these  bones  live?" 

p.  135,  1.  14.  A  great  chess-player.  Probably  Hazlitt  was 
thinking  of  Sarratt  whom  he  describes  in  the  essay  On  Coffee-Hoiise 
Politicians  (Table  Talk). 

p.  135,  1.  20.     he  dies,  etc.     Twelfth  Night,  Act  i,  Sc.  5 : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruellest  she  alive 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 


244  Notes 

p.  135, 1.  27.  John  Hunter.  A  very  famous  surgeon  (1728-1793). 
His  great  collection  of  specimens  was  purchased  after  his  death  and 
forms  the  nucleus  of  the  museum  at  the  Royal  College  of  Surgeons  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

p.  135,  1.  34.  Sir  Humphry  Davy.  Davy  (1778-1829)  was  born 
at  Penzance  and  showed  early  his  bent  for  science.  He  became  famous 
for  his  researches  in  chemistry  and  electricity,  liis  discoveries  including 
the  isolation  of  such  important  elements  as  sodium,  potassium  and 
calcium.  He  is  most  widely  known,  however,  for  his  investigations 
into  fire-damp  in  coal  mines  and  the  consequent  invention  of  the 
Davy  safety-lamp.  Davy  was  famous  as  a  lecturer,  and  in  his  youth 
was  one  of  the  early  admirers  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  whom  he 
assisted  by  supervising  the  proof-sheets  of  Lyrical  Ballads,  Vol.  11. 
Hazlitt's  disparagement  of  Davy  sounds  rather  foolish  now. 

p.  136,  1.  5.  a  '  great  scholar's  memory,' etc.  A  reminiscence 
of  Hamlet  iii,  ii :  "O  heavens!  die  two  months  ago  and  not  forgotten 
yet?  Then  there's  hope  a  great  man's  memory  may  outlive  his  life 
half-a-year." 

p.  137,  1.  7.  The  Roman  poet  said.  Horace,  Odes  in,  i,  1.  40. 
The  original  Latin  is,  "Post  equitem  sedet  atra  cura." 

p.  137,  1.  12.     domestic  treason,  etc.    Macbeth,  Act  iii,  Sc.  ii,  1.  25. 
Duncan  is  in  his  grave; 

After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well; 

Treason  has  done  his  worst:    nor  steel,  nor  poison. 

Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 

Can  touch  him  further, 
"in  the  instant,"  a  line  above,  is  another  echo  of  Macbeth: 

Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 

This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 

The  future  in  the  instant.  (Act  i,  Sc.  v.  1.  59.) 

p.  137, 1.  30.     a  great  orator.     Possibly  Pitt. 

p.  138,  1.  5.  Mr  Brougham's  speeches.  Henry  Brougham, 
afterwards  Lord  Brougham  and  Vaux  (1778-1868),  was  once  very 
famous  as  a  Whig  statesman,  orator  and  writer.  He  undoubtedly 
did  much  good  in  advancing  the  cause  of  popular  education,  but  he 
concerned  himself  with  so  many  things  and  wrote  so  much  on  all  sorts 
of  subjects,  that  his  genuine  force  was  dissipated  rather  than  wisely 
used.  He  became  Lord  Chancellor  in  1830,  a  promotion  that  provoked 
O'Connell's  gibe,  "It's  a  pity  Brougham  doesn't  know  a  little  law, 
for  then  he  would  know  a  little  of  everything."  Brougham's  restless 
activities  are  constantly  satirised  by  Peacock,  who  calls  him  "the 
learned  friend,"  or,  more  openly,  "Sir  Guy  de  Vaux."  See  Crotchet 
Castle  and  Gryll  Grange.  A  vivacious  account  of  him  will  be  found 
in  Bagehot's  Biographical  Studies  and  another  in  Hazlitt's  The  Spirit 
of  the  Age. 

p.  138,  1.  5.  Mr  Canning's  wit.  George  Canning  (1770-1827) 
showed  his  brilUant  gifts  very  early  in  his  contributions  to  The  Micro- 
cosm, an  Eton  periodical  of  the  moment,  and  later  in  pieces  written 
for  The  Anti- Jacobin,  a  famous  sheet  that  attacked  the  French  Revolu- 
tion and  its  defenders  with  the  weapons  of  humour  and  satire.     The 


The  Indian  Jugglers  245 

delightful  Needy  Knife-Grinder  is  the  best  known  of  his  lighter 
verses,  a  more  serious  piece  being  the  address  to  Pitt  as  "The  Pilot 
who  weathered  the  Storm."  Canning  imported  his  brilliance  into 
Parliamentary  speeches.  He  supported  Pitt's  war  policy  and  served 
in  that  statesman's  ministries.  He  was  an  efficient  Minister  for 
Foreign  Affairs  during  many  critical  years  of  the  Napoleonic  wars, 
as  well  as  at  a  later  period.  He  died  shortly  after  becoming  Prime 
Minister.  A  statesman  of  this  sort  was  naturally  not  very  acceptable 
to  a  Revolutionist  Uke  HazUtt.  See  however  the  "Character  of  Can- 
ning" contributed  to  The  Examiner  and  reprinted  in  some  editions  of 
The  Spirit  of  the  Age. 

p.  138,  1.  6.  Foul  like  the  Quarterly.  The  Quarterly  Review, 
a  Tory  periodical  founded  in  1809  in  opposition  to  the  Whig  Edinburgh, 
gained  a  very  unsavoury  reputation  for  the  foulness  of  its  attacks  on 
many  famous  writers  during  the  editorship  of  William  Gifford  (1757- 
1826),  successively  cabin-boy,  shoemaker's  apprentice  and  man  of 
letters.  Keats,  Hunt,  Hazlitt  and  Lamb  were  among  the  notable 
victims  of  The  Quarterly,  the  attack  on  Keats  being  specially  disgraceful. 
See  Hazlitt's  A  Letter  to  William  Gifford,  Esq.  and  the  sketch  of  Gifford 
in  The  Spirit  of  the  Age. 

p.  138,  1.  6.  the  Edinburgh  Review.  This  famous  Whig 
periodical  was  started  in  1802  with  a  brilliant  band  of  contributors 
including  Brougham,  Sydney  Smith,  Francis  Jeffrey  and  Francis 
Horner.  Scott  was  among  the  early  contributors,  Hazlitt  and  Macaulay 
among  the  later  ones.  See  Bagehot's  essay  The  First  Edinburgh 
Reviewers.  A  "let"  ball  is  a  hindered  or  obstructed  ball — e.g.  in 
lawn  tennis,  one  that  touches  the  top  of  the  net  in  passing  over  and 
has  to  be  served  again.  Hazlitt  seems  to  imply  that  The  Edinburgh 
Review  was  not  direct  and  decided  enough.  For  Hazlitt  on  Jeffrey, 
see  The  Spirit  of  the  Age. 

p.  138,  1.  27.  the  Rosemary  Bra^ich.  Once  a  well-known  pleasure 
resort  and  music  hall  in  Southampton  'Street,  Camberwell,  and  now 
an  ordinary  public  house.  Copenhagen  House  mentioned  lower  down 
was  a  very  famous  resort  in  North  London.  It  was  pulled  down  about 
1851-55.  The  Metropolitan  Cattle  Market  (The  Caledonian  Market) 
stands  on  its  site. 

p.  139,  1.  II.  Goldsmith.  HazUtt  refers  to  this  more  explicitly 
in  his  essay  "On  Envy"  (Plain  Speaker).  "Goldsmith  was  jealous 
even  of  beauty  in  the  other  sex.  When  the  people  at  Amsterdam 
gathered  round  the  balcony  to  look  at  the  Miss  Hornecks,  he  grew 
impatient,  and  said  peevishly,  'There  are  places  where  I  also  am 
admired.'"  There  is  still  another  reference  in  the  essay  "On  Living 
to  One's-self"  (Table  Talk).  Boswell  tells  the  story  under  date  1763 
of  his  Johnson,  and  no  doubt  the  general  currency  of  the  anecdote 
derives  from  Boswell  as  its  source.  It  is  very  obvious,  however,  that 
Boswell  the  Scotsman  utterly  misunderstood  and  depreciated  the 
Irishman  Goldsmith  in  almost  every  respect,  and  certainly  in  this 
particular  instance;  for  Mrs  Gwyn,  "the  Jessamy  Bride"  herself, 
declared  that  Goldsmith's  remark  was  merely  a  playful  jest  and  that 
she  was  shocked  at  seeing  it  adduced  as  a  proof  of  his  envious 
disposition. 

16-3 


246  Notes 

p.  139,  1.22.  Lord  Castlereagh's  face.  Robert  Stewart,  Viscount 
Castlereagh  (1769-1822),  was  the  Tory  Foreign  Minister  during  part 
of  the  Napoleonic  war.  He  stood  in  the  popular  mind  for  harsh  and 
repressive  government  and  was  therefore  greatly  hated.  Lord  Castle- 
reagh was  a  man  of  handsome  appearance,  and  Hazlitt  admits  more 
than  once,  with  almost  unwilling  admiration,  the  detested  minister's 
good  looks.     Castlereagh  committed  suicide. 

p.  139,  1.  23.  Mr  Croker.  John  Wilson  Croker  (1780-1857),  Tory 
secretary  to  the  Admiralty  for  many  years,  and  prolific  writer  in  The 
Quarterly  Review.  He  is  now  familiar  as  the  object  of  Macaulay's  dislike 
and  as  the  original  of  Rigby,  the  venal  politician  in  Disraeli's  Coningsby. 

p.  139,  1.  27.  Mr  Murray.  John  Murray  (i 778-1 843),  head  of 
the  famous  publishing  house  in  Albemarle  Street,  lives  in  literary 
history  for  his  connection  with  The  Quarterly  Review  and  his  long 
association  with  Byron. 

p.  139,  1.  29.  Hungerford  Stairs.  Where  Charing  Cross  Railway 
Bridge  (north  end)  now  stands. 

p.  140,  1.  8.  the  Fleet  or  King's  Bench.  Two  famous  debtors' 
prisons,  the  King's  Bench  in  the  Borough,  Southwark,  and  the  Fleet 
in  Farringdon  Street,  where  the  Memoi-ial  Hall  now  stands.  Both 
prisons  have  been  immortalised  by  Dickens — the  King's  Bench  in 
David  Copperfield  as  the  home  of  Mr  Micawber  during  a  period  of 
financial  embarrassment  more  acute  than  usual,  and  the  Fleet  as  the 
scene  of  Mr  Pickwick's  incarceration  at  the  instance  of  Messrs  Dodson 
and  Fogg  after  the  case  of  Bardell  v.  Pickwick.  Games  like  fives  and 
racquets  were  almost  the  only  out-door  exercises  possible  for  the 
prisoners  or  "Collegians"  as  Mr  Dorrit  preferred  to  call  them. 

p.  140,  1.  20.     Mr  Manners  Sutton.     He  became  Speaker  in  1817. 

p.  140,  1.  25.  Let  no  rude  hand,  etc.  Adapted  from  Wordsworth's 
Ellen  Irwin  : 

By  Ellen's  side  the  Bruce  is  laid; 
And,  for  the  stone  upon  his  head. 
May  no  rude  hand  deface  it. 
And  its  forlorn  "Hie  jacet." 
"Hie  jacet"  means  "here  lies." 


ON   GOING   A   JOURNEY 

From  Table  Talk,  Essay  xix.  First  published  in  The  New  Monthly 
Magazine,  1822. 

p.  141,  1.  4.  never  less  alone.  Quoted  in  Cicero,  De  Officiis, 
Bk  III,  I,  as  a  saying  attributed  to  Scipio  Africanus :  "P.  Scipionem, 
...eum,  qui  primus  Africanus  appellatus  est,  dicere  solitum  scripsit 
Cato...'Nunquam  se  minus  otiosuni  esse  quam  quum  otiosus,  nee 
minus  solum  quam  quum  solus  esset'" — "It  is  related  by  Cato  that 
P.  Scipio — he  who  was  first  distinguished  by  the  title  of  Africanus — 
was  accustomed  to  say  that  he  was  never  less  at  leisure  than  in  his 
leisure  and  never  less  alone  than  when  alone."  Swift,  in  his  Essay 
on   the  Faculties  of  Mankind,  writes  "A  wise  man  is  never  less  alone 


On  going  a  Journey  247 

than  when  alone."     Compare,  too,  Byron,  Childe  Harold,  Canto  iii, 
St.  xc. : 

Then  stirs  the  feeUng  infinite,  so  felt 
In  sohtude,  when  we  are  least  alone. 
p.    141,   1.    5.     The   fields   his   study.     Bloomfield    (1766-1823), 
The  Farmer's  Boy,  Spring,  1.  31 : 

Strange  to  the  world,  he  wore  a  bashful  look. 
The  fields  his  study,  Nature  was  his  book, 
p.  141,  1.  15.     a  friend  in  my  retreat.     Cowper,  Retirement: 
I  praise  the  Frenchman — his  remark  was  shrewd — 
How  sweet,  how  passing  sweet,  is  solitude! 
But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat 
Whom  I  may  whisper  solitude  is  sweet. 
"  The  Frenchman  "  is  La  Bruyere  (1645-96),  famous  author  of  Characters. 
p.  141,  1.  23.     May  plume  her  feathers,  etc.      Milton,  Comits, 
378-80 : 

And  Wisdom's  self 
Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude ; 
Where,  with  her  best  nurse.  Contemplation, 
She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow  her  wings, 
That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were   all   to-ruffled   and   sometimes  impaired, 
p.  141,  1.  28.     a  Tilbury.     A  kind  of  gig  holding  two  persons;  like 
the  "hansom  "  it  was  named  from  the  maker  or  designer. 

p.  142,  1.  7.     sunken  wrack.     Henry  V,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii,  1.  165  : 
And  make  her  chronicle  as  rich  with  praise 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wrack  and  sumless  treasuries, 
p.  142,1.  14.     Leave,  oh,  leave  me  to  my  repose.     The  closing  line 
of  certain  stanzas  in  Gray's  Descent  of  Odin — a  conversation  between 
Odin   and   the    Earth-Spirit,    exactly   like   the   conversation   between 
Wotan   and   Erda  in   Act   iii   of  Wagner's    Siegfried.      The    goddess, 
questioned  by  Odin,  murmurs  her  answer,  and  adds : 
Unwilling  I  my  lips  unclose: 
Leave  me,  leave  me  to  repose. 
p.  142,  1.  16.     very  stuff  of  the  conscience.     Othello,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii, 
1.  2 : 

Though  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have  slain  men. 
Yet  do  I  hold  it  very  stufif  o'  the  conscience 
To  do  no  contrived  murder. 
p.  142,  1.  28.    Out  upon  such  half-faced  fellowship,    i  Henrv  IV, 
Act  I,  Sc.  iii,  1.  208. 

p.   142,  1.   32.     an  observation  of  Mr  Cobbett's.     For  Cobbett 
see  p.  165. 

p.  143,  1.  36.     give  it  an  understanding.     Hamlet,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii, 
1.  250: 

If  you  have  hitherto  concealed  the  sight 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And   whatsoever  else   shall   hap  to-night. 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue. 


248  Notes 

p.  143,  1.  37.     My  old  friend  G .     Coleridge.     See  the  essay 

My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets. 

p.  143,  1.  40.  far  above  singing.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
Phi  last  er,  Act  v,  Sc.  v  : 

You  left  a  kiss 
Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 
From  you  for  ever.     I   did  hear  you  talk 
Far  above  singing! 
p.  144,  1.  4.     Allfoxden.     See  p.  160. 

p.  14.},  1.  5.  that  fine  madness.  A  reminiscence  of  Drayton's 
Elegy  To  my  dearly  loved  friend  Henry  Reynolds,  Esqr.,  Of  Poets 
and   Poesy : 

Neat  Marlowe  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs 
Had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things 
That  the  first  poets  had ;    his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire  which  made  his  verses  clear. 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain, 
p.    144,    1.    19.     the   boy   Endymion.     The   reader   will   perhaps 
hardly  need  to  be  reminded  that  the  story  of  "pale  Phoebe's"  love 
for  the  Latmian  shepherd  Endymion  has   been   told  for  all  time  by 
Keats  in  the  first  of  his  longer  poems.     The  pictures  of  Endymion 
and  Diana  by  Watts  will  be  familiar  to  many. 

p.  144,  1.  26.  The  Faithful  Shepherdess.  A  delightful  pastoral 
play  by  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625),  the  surviving  dramatist  of  the 
famous  partnership. 

p.  144,  1.  33.     L .     Lamb. 

p.  145,  1.  3.  to  '  take  one's  ease,'  etc.  i  Henry  IV,  Act  iii,  Sc.  iii, 
1.  92,  etc. :  "What,  shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  but  I  shall 
have   my  pocket  picked  ?  " 

p.  145,  1.  10.     The  cups  that  cheer.     Cowper,  The  Task,  Bk  iv: 
Now  stir  the  fire  and  close  the  shutters  fast. 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,   wait  on  each. 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Cowper's    Task    was    published    in    1784.     Forty    years    earlier    had 
appeared   Berkeley's   Siris,    a   remarkable  little    book   recommending 
tar  water  as  a  cure  for  all  diseases.     Readers  of  Great  Expectations 
will  remember  the  famous  occasion  when  Pip  mixed  this  household 
remedy  with  the  brandy.     In  section  217  of  Siris,  Berkeley  contrasts 
the  beneficent  action  of  tar-water  with  that  of  fermented  spirits,   and 
says  that  the  nature  of  tar  is  "so  mild  and  benign  and  proportioned  to 
the  human  constitution,  as  to  warm  without  heating,  to  cheer  but  not 
inebriate,  and  to  produce  a  calm  and  steady  joy  like  the  effect  of  good 
news." 

p.  145,  1.  13.  Sancho...once  fixed  upon  cow-heel.  See  Don 
Quixote,  Part  II,  Chapter  xlix  ;    but  the  circumstances  were  not  the 


On  going  a  Journey  249 

same.  Sancho  was  not  at  an  inn ;  he  was  exercising  his  governorship 
of  Barataria,  and  had  undergone  some  trjring  disappointments  in  the 
matter  of  food. 

p.  145,  1.  16.  Shandean  contemplation.  A  reference  to  Sterne's 
ever  delightful  Tristram  Shandy ;  but  it  is  not  clear  in  what  sense 
Hazlitt  uses  the  word.  He  may  mean  "genial"  with  reference  to  the 
prevaiHng  geniality  of  the  book,  or  "informal,"  with  reference  to  the 
rapid  flitting  from  topic  to  topic  characteristic  of  Sterne's  apparently 
artless  art. 

p.  145,  1.  37.    unhoused  free  condition.    Othello,  Act  i,  Sc.  ii,  1.  26 : 
For  know,  lago. 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Desdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  free  condition 
Put  into  circumspection  and  confine 
For  the  sea's  worth. 

p.  145, 1.  39.  lord  of  one's  self.  Dryden,  Epistle  to  my  Honour'd 
Kinsman,  John  Driden  : 

Promoting  Concord,  and  composing  Strife, 
Lord  of  yourself,  uncumber'd  with  a  wife. 

p.  146,1.  19.  as  once  at  Witham  Common.  Witham  Common 
is  in  Somerset.  Hazlitt's  philosoplucal  problem  is  referred  to  more 
fully  in  the  first  essay  (p.   19). 

p.  146,  1.  23.  Gribelin's  engravings  of  the  Cartoons.  Simon 
Gribehn  (1611-1733),  a  French  engraver  who  lived  in  England  for  many 
years,  engraved  the  Cartoons  of  Raphael  (see  p.  171)  but  on  a  very 
small  scale.     The  set  of  prints  was  published  in  1707. 

p.  146,  1.  25.  Westall's  drawings.  Richard  Westall,  R.A.  (1765- 
1836),  an  artist  of  the  English  School,  was  much  admired  for  his  illus- 
trations to  the  works  of  several  poets.  The  National  Gallery,  The 
Wallace  Collection  and  South  K^ensington  Museum  all  possess  examples 
of  his  art.  There  are  many  references  to  this  once  popular  painter  in 
Hazlitt's  works,  especially  in  Conversations  of  Northcote.  Hazlitt  did 
not  admire  lum  and  posterity  has  confirmed  that  judgment. 

p.  146, 1.  32.  at  Bridgw^ater.  See  the  essay  My  First  Acquaintance 
with  Poets,  where  the  reading  of  Paul  and  Virginia  is  placed  at 
Tewkesbury. 

p.  146,  1.  34.     Madame  D'Arblay's  Camilla.     See  p.  160. 

p.  146, 1.36.  the  Ne'w  Eloise.  Seep.  167.  It  should  be  noted  that 
Rousseau  was  one  of  the  first  to  dwell  in  literature  upon  the  sublime 
beauty  of  mountain  scenery,  which,  up  to  his  time,  had  been  regarded 
by  all  polite  people  with  sentiments  of  disgust  and  horror.  The  reference 
in  the  text  is  to  one  such  passage — the  letter  describing  the  excursion 
on  the  water.  Part  iv,  Letter  17,  St  Preux  to  Milord  Edouard.  The 
loth  of  April  was  HazUtt's  birthday. 

p.  146,  1.  40.    bonne  bouche.    Hazlitt  incorrectly  wrote  bon  bouche. 

p.  147, 1.  7.    green  upland  swells,  etc.    For  this  passage  see  p.  160. 


250  Notes 

p.  147,  1.  18.     the  light  of  common  day.      Wordsworth,  Ode  on 
the  Intimations  of  Immortality ,  etc. : 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,   still  is  Nature's   Priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 
p.    147,   1.   20.     The   beautiful   is   vanished   and   returns   not. 
Coleridge,    Death    of   Wallenstein    (translated    from    Schiller),    Act   v, 
Sc.  i,  1.  68: 

The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life. 
For  O!    he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth, 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toil. 
The  beautiful  is  vanished — and  returns  not. 
p.  147,  1.  31.     O   sylvan  Dee.     A  reminiscence  of  Wordsworth's 
Tintern  Abbey  lines,  1.  56: 

How  oft  in  spirit  have  I  turned  to  thee 
O  sylvan  Wye  I  thou  wanderer  through  the  woods. 
The  rest  of  the  sentence  is,  no  doubt,  a  mingled  reminiscence  of  Revela- 
tion xxii,  I,  and  xxi,  6:  "And  he  shewed  me  a  pure  river  of  water 
of  life,  clear  as  crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the 
Lamb";  and,  "I  will  give  unto  him  that  is  athirst  of  the  fountain 
of  the  water  of  life  freely." 

p.  148,  1.  6.     The  landscape  bares  its  bosom.     A  reminiscence 
of  Wordsworth's  sonnet  The  world  is  too  much  with  11s : 
Tliis  Sea  that  bares  lier  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. 
p.  148,  1.  15.    Beyond  Hyde  Park,  etc.    For  Etherege  and  his  plays 
see  p.  178.      The  sentiment,  however,  is  not  uttered  by  Sir  Fopling 
Flutter  himself: 

Dorimant.     To  be  with  you  I  could  live  there  [i.e.  in  the  country] 
and  never  send  one  thought  to  London. 

Harriet.     Whate'er  you   say,   I   know  all  beyond   Hyde  Park's  a 
desert  to  you,  and  that  no  gallantry  can  draw  you  further. 

p.  149, 1.  14.     The  nciind  is  its  own  place.     Paradise  Lost,  i,  254 : 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven, 
p.  149,  1.  17.     I  once  took  a  party  to  Oxford.     Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb.     See  the  second  essay  On  the  Conversation  of  Authors. 
p.  149,  1.  19.     With  glistering  spires.     Paradise  Lost,  11,  550: 
or  some  renown'd  metropolis 
With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles  adorned. 


On  going  a  Journey  251 

p.  149,  1.  22.     at  Blenheim,     See  p.  223. 

p.  149,  1.  23.  powdered  Cicerone.  A  footman.  A  cicerone 
(Italian,  pronounced  in  four  syllables  with  the  c's  like  ch,  pi.  ciceroni) 
is  a  guide  who  accompanies  travellers  to  show  them  the  beauties  or 
antiquities  of  a  place. 

p.  150,  1.  2.  when  I  first  set  my  foot,  etc.  Hazlitt  first  visited 
France  in  1802  when  his  idol,  Napoleon,  was  governing  as  First  Consul. 
In  1822,  the  date  of  this  essay,  Napoleon  was  dead  in  exile,  and  the 
French  people  bore  contentedly  the  yoke  of  the  Bourbons  whom  they 
had  once  dethroned.     Hence  Hazlitt's  scornful  allusions  lower  down. 

p.  150,  1.  26.  Dr  Johnson  remarked.  See  Boswell,  under  date 
1778:  "How  little  does  travelling  supply  to  the  conversation  of  any 
man  who  has  travelled."  Modern  readers  may  possibly  dissent  from 
Johnson's  pronouncement  on  this  point.  "Travellers'  tales"  have 
now  become  proverbial  for  unveracity — and  dullness. 


CAMBRIDGE:    PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  PEACE,  M.A.     AT  THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS. 


LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS 


0  014  491  279  2 


.»:■■ 


'■-^kr^^^.^1?- 

,i:^i?-=;^