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Title: The World's Greatest Books, Vol IX.

Author: Edited by Arthur Mee and J.A. Hammerton

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Language: English

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THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS

JOINT EDITORS

ARTHUR MEE Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

J.A. HAMMERTON Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia

VOL. IX LIVES AND LETTERS

MCMX

       *       *       *       *       *

Table of Contents

ABÉLARD AND HÉLOÏSE
  Love-Letters

AMIEL, H.F.
  Fragments of an Intimate Diary

AUGUSTINE, SAINT
  Confessions

BOSWELL, JAMES
  Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.

BREWSTER, SIR DAVID
  Life of Sir Isaac Newton

BUNYAN, JOHN
  Grace Abounding

CARLYLE, ALEXANDER
  Autobiography

CARLYLE, THOMAS
  Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell
  Life of Schiller

CELLINI, BENVENUTO
  Autobiography

CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANÇOIS RENÉ DE
  Memoirs from Beyond the Grave

CHESTERFIELD, EARL OF
  Letters to His Son

CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS
  Letters

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR
  Biographia Literaria

COWPER, WILLIAM
  Letters

DE QUINCEY, THOMAS
  Confessions of an English Opium-Eater

DUMAS, ALEXANDRE
  Memoirs

EVELYN, JOHN
  Diary

FORSTER, JOHN
  Life of Goldsmith

FOX, GEORGE
  Journal

FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN
  Autobiography

GASKELL, MRS.
  The Life of Charlotte Brontë

GIBBON, EDWARD
  Memoirs

GOETHE, J.W. VON
  Letters to Zelter
  Poetry and Truth
  Conversations with Eckermann

GRAY, THOMAS
  Letters

HAMILTON, ANTONY
  Memoirs of the Count De Grammont

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL
  Our Old Home

A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end
of Volume XX.

       *       *       *       *       *




ABÉLARD AND HÉLOÏSE


Love-Letters


     In the Paris cemetery of Père-Lachaise, on summer Sundays,
     flowers and wreaths are still laid on the tomb of a woman who
     died nearly 750 years ago. It is the grave of Heloise and of
     her lover Abelard, the hero and heroine of one of the world's
     greatest love stories. Born in 1079, Abelard, after a
     scholastic activity of twenty-five years, reached the highest
     academic dignity in Christendom--the Chair of the Episcopal
     School in Paris. When he was 38 he first saw Heloise, then a
     beautiful girl of 17, living with her uncle, Canon Fulbert.
     Abelard became her tutor, and fell madly in love with her. The
     passion was as madly returned. The pair fled to Brittany,
     where a child was born. There was a secret marriage, but
     because she imagined it would hinder Abelard's advancement,
     Heloise denied the marriage. Fulbert was furious. With hired
     assistance, he invaded Abelard's rooms and brutally mutilated
     him. Abelard, distressed by this degradation, turned monk. But
     he must have Heloise turn nun; she agreed, and at 22 took the
     veil. Ten years later she learned that Abelard had not found
     content in his retirement, and wrote to him the first of the
     five famous letters. Abelard died in 1142, and his remains
     were given into the keeping of Heloise. Twenty years
     afterwards she died, and was buried beside him at Paraclete.
     In 1800 their remains were taken to Paris, and in 1817
     interred in Père-Lachaise Cemetery. The love-letters,
     originally written in Latin, about 1128, were first published
     in Paris in 1616.


_I.--Héloïse to Abélard_


Heloise has just seen a "consolatory" letter of Abelard's to a friend.
She had no right to open it, but in justification of the liberty she
took, she flatters herself that she may claim a privilege over
everything which comes from that hand.

"But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance did it
occasion, and how surprised I was to find the whole letter filled with a
particular and melancholy account of our misfortunes! Though length of
time ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by
you was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh. Surely all
the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them through the eyes. Upon
reading your letter I feel all mine renewed. Observe, I beseech you, to
what a wretched condition you have reduced me; sad, afflicted, without
any possible comfort unless it proceed from you. Be not then unkind, nor
deny me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. Let
me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know
everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs with
yours I may make your sufferings less, for it has been said that all
sorrows divided are made lighter.

"I shall always have this, if you please, and it will always be
agreeable to me that, when I receive a letter from you, I shall know you
still remember me. I have your picture in my room. I never pass it
without stopping to look at it. If a picture, which is but a mute
representation of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters
inspire? We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not
denied us. I shall read that you are my husband, and you shall see me
sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes, you may be what
you please in your letter. Having lost the substantial pleasures of
seeing and possessing you, I shall in some measure compensate this loss
by the satisfaction I shall find in your writing. There I shall read
your most sacred thoughts; I shall carry them always about with me; I
shall kiss them every moment. I cannot live if you will not tell me that
you still love me.

"When you write to me you will write to your wife; marriage has made
such a correspondence lawful and since you can without the least scandal
satisfy me why will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I
have the fear of my uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you
need dread. You have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you
therefore must be the instrument of my comfort. You cannot but remember
(for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure I have passed whole days
in hearing your discourse; how, when you were absent, I shut myself from
everyone to write to you; how uneasy I was till my letter had come to
your hands; what artful management it required to engage messengers.
This detail perhaps surprises you, and you are in pain for what may
follow. But I am no longer ashamed that my passion for you had no
bounds, for I have done more than all this.

"I have hated myself that I might love you; I came hither to ruin myself
in a perpetual imprisonment that I might make you live quietly and at
ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly disengaged from the
senses, could have produced such effects. Vice never inspires anything
like this; it is too much enslaved to the body. This was my cruel
uncle's notion; he measured my virtue by the frailty of my sex, and
thought it was the man and not the person I loved. But he has been
guilty to no purpose. I love you more than ever, and so revenge myself
on him. I will still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till
the last moment of my life."

Formerly, she tells him, the man was the least she valued in him. It was
his heart she desired to possess. "You cannot but be entirely persuaded
of this by the extreme unwillingness I showed to marry you, though I
knew that the name of wife was honourable in the world and holy in
religion; yet the name of your mistress had greater charms because it
was more free. The bonds of matrimony, however honourable, still bear
with them a necessary engagement, and I was very unwilling to be
necessitated to love always a man who would perhaps not always love me.
I despised the name of wife that I might live happy with that of
mistress."

And then, ecstatically recalling the old happy times, she deplores that
she has nothing left but the painful memory that they are past. Beyond
that, she has no regret except that against her will she must now be
innocent. "My misfortune was to have cruel relatives whose malice
destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they been reasonable, I had now been
happy in the enjoyment of my dear husband. Oh, how cruel were they when
their blind fury urged a villain to surprise you in your sleep! Where
was I--where was your Heloise then? What joy should I have had in
defending my lover! I would have guarded you from violence at the
expense of my life. Oh, whither does this excess of passion hurry me?
Here love is shocked, and modesty deprives me of words."

She goes on to reproach him with his neglect and silence these ten
years. When she pronounced her "sad vow," he had protested that his
whole being was hers; that he would never live but to love Heloise. But
he has proved the "unfaithful one." Though she is immured in the
convent, it was only harsh relatives and "the unhappy consequences of
our love and your disgrace" that made her put on the habit of chastity.
She is not penitent for the past. At one moment she is swayed by the
sentiment of piety, and next moment she yields up her imagination to all
that is amorous and tender. "Among those who are wedded to God I am
wedded to a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave
of a human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to
Abelard alone. Even here I love you as much as ever I did in the world.
If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means to gratify myself?
I was not more than twenty-two years old, and there were other men left
though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I buried myself in a nunnery,
and triumphed over life at an age capable of enjoying it to its full
latitude. It is to you I sacrifice these remains of a transitory beauty,
these widowed nights and tedious days."

And then she closes passionately: "Oh, think of me--do not forget
me--remember my love, and fidelity, and constancy: love me as your
mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your wife! Remember I
still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. What a terrible
saying is this! I shake with horror, and my very heart revolts against
what I say. I shall blot all my paper with tears. I end my long letter
wishing you, if you desire it (would to Heaven I could!), for ever
adieu!"


_II. Abélard to Héloïse_


Abelard's answer to this letter is almost as passionate. He tells how he
has vainly sought in philosophy and religion a remedy for his disgrace;
how with equal futility he has tried to secure himself from love by the
rigours of the monastic life. He has gained nothing by it all. "If my
passion has been put under a restraint, my thoughts yet run free. I
promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it
without loving you. After a multitude of useless endeavours I begin to
persuade myself that it is a superfluous trouble to strive to free
myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all but you how
confused and weak I am. I remove to a distance from your person with an
intention of avoiding you as an enemy; and yet I incessantly seek for
you in my mind; I recall your image in my memory, and in different
disquietudes I betray and contradict myself. I hate you! I love you! You
call me your master; it is true you were entrusted to my care. I saw
you, I was earnest to teach you; it cost you your innocence and me my
liberty. If now, having lost the power of satisfying my passion, I had
also lost that of loving you, I should have some consolation. But I find
myself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, even amidst my tears,
than in possessing you when I was in full liberty. I continually think
of you; I continually call to mind your tenderness."

He explains some of the means he has tried to make himself forget. He
has tried several fasts, and redoubled studies, and exhausted his
strength in constant exercises, but all to no purpose. "Oh, do not," he
exclaims, "add to my miseries by your constancy. Forget, if you can,
your favours and that right which they claim over me; allow me to be
indifferent. Why use your eloquence to reproach me for my flight and for
my silence? Spare the recital of our assignations and your constant
exactness to them; without calling up such disturbing thoughts I have
enough to suffer. What great advantages would philosophy give us over
other men if, by studying it, we could learn to govern our passions?
What a troublesome employment is love!"

Then he tries to excuse himself for his original betrayal. "Those
charms, that beauty, that air, which I yet behold at this instant,
occasioned my fall. Your looks were the beginning of my guilt; your
eyes, your discourse, pierced my heart; and, in spite of that ambition
and glory which tried to make a defence, love was soon the master." Even
now "my love burns fiercer amidst the happy indifference of those who
surround me. The Gospel is a language I do not understand when it
opposes my passion. Void of all relish for virtue, without concern for
my condition and without application to my studies, I am continually
present by my imagination where I ought not to be, and I find I have no
power to correct myself." He advises her to give up her mind to her holy
vocation as a means of forgetting him. "Make yourself amends by so
glorious a choice; make your virtue a spectacle worthy of men and
angels. Drink of the chalice of saints, even to the bottom, without
turning your eyes with uncertainty upon me. To forget Heloise, to see
her no more, is what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing
from Abelard, to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on
Heloise."

He acknowledges that he made her take the veil for his own selfish
reasons, but is now bound to admit that "God rejected my offering and my
prayer, and continued my punishment by suffering me to continue my love.
Thus I bear alike the guilt of your vows and of the passion that
preceded them, and must be tormented all the days of my life." Once more
he adjures her to deliver herself from the "shameful remains" of a
passion which has taken too deep root. "To love Heloise truly," he
closes, "is to leave her to that quiet which retirement and virtue
afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall be my last fault. Adieu! I
hope you will be willing, when you have finished this mortal life, to be
buried near me. Your cold ashes need then fear nothing, and my tomb
shall be more rich and renowned."


_III.--Héloïse to Abélard_


The passion of Heloise is only inflamed by this letter from Abelard. She
has got him to write, and now she wants to see him and to hear more
about him. She cynically remarks that he has made greater advances in
the way of devotion than she could wish. There, alas! she is too weak to
follow him. But she must have his advice and spiritual comfort. "Can you
have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this stabs my heart." She
reproaches him for the "fearful presages" of death he had made in his
letter. And as regards his wish that she should take care of his
remains, she says: "Heaven, severe as it has been to me, is not so
insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life without
Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most exquisite
happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If Heaven but
hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged and you will
bury me." It is his part, she says, to prepare _her_ for the great
crisis, to receive her last sighs. What could she hope for if _he_ were
taken away? "I have renounced without difficulty all the charms of life,
preserving only my love, and the secret pleasure of thinking incessantly
of you and hearing that you live. Dear Abelard, pity my despair! The
higher you raised me above other women, who envied me your love, the
more sensible am I now of the loss of your heart. I was exalted to the
top of happiness only that I might have the more terrible fall. Nothing
could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal my misery."

She blames herself entirely for Abelard's present position. "I, wretched
I, have ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How
dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our
sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart
against all our charms. I have long examined things, and have found that
death is less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a
fatal snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free."

She protests that she cannot forget. "Even into holy places before the
altar I carry the memory of our love; and, far from lamenting for having
been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them." She counts
herself more to be pitied than Abelard, because grace and misfortune
have helped him, whereas she has still her relentless passions to fight.
"Our sex is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in
defending myself, because the enemy that attacks me pleases me. I doat
on the danger which threatens. How, then, can I avoid yielding? I seek
not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me to
escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to renounce
my fatal passion for you; but, oh! my heart will never be able to
consent to it. Adieu."


_IV.--Héloïse to Abelard_


Abelard has not replied to this letter, and Heloise begins by
sarcastically thanking him for his neglect. She pretends to have subdued
her passion, and, addressing him rather as priest than lover, demands
his spiritual counsel. Thus caustically does she proclaim her
inconstancy. "At last, Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever.
Notwithstanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to
be entertained by nothing but you, I have banished you from my thoughts;
I have forgot you. Thou charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou
wilt be no more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer
follow me, no longer shall I remember thee. Oh, enchanting pleasures to
which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have been my tormentors! I
confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a blush; let my infidelity
teach the world that there is no depending on the promises of women--we
are all subject to change. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my
heart from you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to
fix it. By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise
from you."

She explains how she arrived at this decision by being brought to the
gates of death by a dangerous illness. Her passion now seemed criminal.
She has therefore torn off the bandages which blinded her, and "you are
to me no longer the loving Abelard who constantly sought private
conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers." She
enlarges on her resolution. She will "no more endeavour, by the relation
of those pleasures our passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness
you may yet feel for me. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice
and wholesome discipline. You cannot now be silent without a crime. When
I was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to
write to me, how many letters did I send you before I could obtain one
from you?"

But, alas! her woman's weakness conquers again. For the moment she
forgets her resolution, and exclaims: "My dear husband (for the last
time I use that title!), shall I never see you again? Shall I never have
the pleasure of embracing you before death? What dost thou say, wretched
Heloise? Dost thou know what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those
brilliant eyes without recalling the tender glances which have been so
fatal to thee? Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without
being jealous of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth
cannot be looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the
person of Abelard without danger. Ask no more to see Abelard; if the
memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would not
his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How will
it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a man?"

She reverts to her delightful dreams about Abelard, when "you press me
to you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same
passion, are sensible of the same pleasures." Then she recalls her
resolution, and closes with these words: "I begin to perceive that I
take too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter.
It shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the
beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of
waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have pity,
Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and make in some
measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been uneasy and
disturbed."


_V.--Abélard to Héloïse_


Abelard remains firm. "Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to
me; 'tis time to end communications which make our penances of no
avail," he says. "Let us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of
our past pleasures; we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets
of solitude. Let us make good use of our austerities, and no longer
preserve the memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance.
Let a mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual
solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God
succeed our former irregularities."

Both, he deplores, are still very far from this enviable state. "Your
heart still burns with that fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine
is full of trouble and unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a
perfect peace; I will for the last time open my heart to you; I am not
yet disengaged from you, and though I fight against my excessive
tenderness for you, in spite of all my endeavours I remain but too
sensible of your sorrows, and long to share in them. The world, which is
generally wrong in its notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that
I loved you only for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot
you. What a mistake is this!"

He exhorts her to strive, to be more firm in her resolutions, to "break
those shameful chains which bind you to the flesh." He pictures the
death of a saint and he works upon her fears by impressing upon her the
terrors of hell. His last recorded words to her are these:

"I question not, Heloise, but you will hereafter apply yourself in good
earnest to the business of your salvation; this ought to be your whole
concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from your heart--it is the best
advice I can give you, for the remembrance of a person we have loved
guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may have made in
the way of virtue. When you have extirpated your unhappy inclination
towards me, the practice of every virtue will become easy; and when at
last your life is conformable to that of Christ, death will be desirable
to you. Your soul will joyfully leave this body, and direct its flight
to heaven. Then you will appear with confidence before your Saviour; you
will not read your reprobation in the Judgement Book, but you will hear
your Saviour say: 'Come, partake of My glory, and enjoy the eternal
reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.'

"Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for
the last time let me persuade you to follow the rules of the Gospel.
Heaven grant that your heart, once so sensible of my love, may now yield
to be directed by my zeal. May the idea of your loving Abelard, always
present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard truly and
sincerely penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as
you have done for our misfortunes."

Then the silence falls for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *




HENRI FRÉDÉRIC AMIEL


Fragments of an Intimate Diary


     Henri Frédéric Amiel, born at Geneva on September 21, 1821,
     was educated there, and later at the University of Berlin; and
     held a professorship at the University of Geneva from 1849
     until his death, on March 11, 1881. The "Journal Intime," of
     which we give a summary, was published in 1882-84, and an
     English translation by Mrs. Humphrey Ward appeared in 1885.
     The book has the profound interest which attaches to all
     genuine personal confessions of the interior life; but it has
     the further claim to notice that it is the signal expression
     of the spirit of its time, though we can no longer call it the
     modern spirit. The book perfectly renders the disillusion,
     languor and sentimentality which characterise a self-centred
     scepticism. It is the record, indeed, of a morbid mind, but of
     a mind gifted with extraordinary acuteness and with the utmost
     delicacy of perception. Amiel wrote also several essays and
     poems, but it is for the "Intimate Diary" alone that his name
     will be remembered.


_Thoughts on Life and Conduct_


Only one thing is needful--to possess God. The senses, the powers of the
soul, and all outward resources are so many vistas opening upon
Divinity, so many ways of tasting and adoring God. To be detached from
all that is fugitive, and to seize only on the eternal and the absolute,
using the rest as no more than a loan, a tenancy! To worship,
understand, receive, feel, give, act--this is your law, your duty, your
heaven!

After all, there is only one object which we can study, and that is the
modes and metamorphoses of the human spirit. All other studies lead us
back to this one.

I have never felt the inward assurance of genius, nor the foretaste of
celebrity, nor of happiness, nor even the prospect of being husband,
father, or respected citizen. This indifference to the future is itself
a sign; my dreams are vague, indefinite; I must not now live, because I
am now hardly capable of living. Let me control myself; let me leave
life to the living, and betake myself to my ideas; let me write the
testament of my thoughts and of my heart.


_Heroism and Duty_


Heroism is the splendid and wonderful triumph of the soul over the
flesh; that is to say, over fear--the fear of poverty, suffering,
calumny, disease, isolation and death. There is no true piety without
this dazzling concentration of courage.

Duty has this great value--it makes us feel reality of the positive
world, while yet it detaches us from it.

How vulnerable am I! If I were a father, what a host of sorrows a child
could bring on me! As a husband, I should suffer in a thousand ways,
because a thousand conditions are necessary to my happiness. My heart is
too sensitive, my imagination anxious, and despair is easy. The "might
be" spoils for me what is, the "should be" devours me with melancholy;
and this reality, present, irreparable, inevitable, disgusts or
frightens me. So it is that I put away the happy images of family life.
Every hope is an egg which may hatch a serpent instead of a dove; every
joy that fails is a knife-wound; every seed-time entrusted to destiny
has its harvest of pain.

What is duty? Is it to obey one's nature at its best and most spiritual;
or is it to vanquish one's nature? That is the deepest question. Is life
essentially the education of the spirit and of the intelligence, or is
it the education of the will? And does will lie in power or in
resignation?

Therefore are there two worlds--Christianity affords and teaches
salvation by the conversion of the will; but humanism brings salvation
by the emancipation of the spirit. The first seizes upon the heart, and
the other upon the brain. The first aims at illumining by healing, the
other at healing by illumining. Now, moral love, the first of these two
principles, places the centre of the individual in the centre of his
being. For to love is virtually to know; but to know is not virtually to
love. Redemption by knowledge or by intellectual love is inferior to
redemption by the will or by moral love. The former is critical and
negative; the latter is life-giving, fertilising, positive. Moral force
is the vital point.


_The Era of Mediocrity_


The era of mediocrity in all things is beginning, and mediocrity freezes
desire. Equality engenders uniformity; and evil is got rid of by
sacrificing all that is excellent, remarkable, extraordinary. Everything
becomes less coarse but more vulgar. The epoch of great men is passing
away; the epoch of the ant-hill is upon us. The age of individualism is
in danger of having no real individuals. Things are certainly
progressing, but souls decline.

The point of view of Schleiermacher's "Monologues," which is also that
of Emerson, is great indeed, but proud and egotistical, since the Self
is made the centre of the universe. It is man rejoicing in himself,
taking refuge in the inaccessible sanctuary of self-consciousness, and
becoming almost a god. It is a triumph which is not far removed from
impiety; it is a superhuman point of view which does away with humility;
it is precisely the temptation to which man first succumbed when he
desired to become his own master by becoming like the gods.

We are too much encumbered with affairs, too busy, too active; we even
read too much. We must throw overboard all our cargo of anxieties,
preoccupations and pedantry to recover youth, simplicity, childhood, and
the present moment with its happy mood of gratitude. By that leisure
which is far from idleness, by an attentive and recollected inaction,
the soul loses her creases, expands, unfolds, repairs her injuries like
a bruised leaf, and becomes once more new, spontaneous, true, original
Reverie, like showers at night, refreshes the thoughts which have become
worn and discoloured by the heat of day.

I have been walking in the garden in a fine autumnal rain. All the
innumerable, wonderful symbols which the forms and colours of Nature
afford charm me and catch at my heart. There is no country scene that is
not a state of the soul, and whoever will read the two together will be
astonished by their detailed similarity. Far truer is true poetry than
science; poetry seizes at first glance in her synthetic way that
essential thing which all the sciences put together can only hope to
reach at the very end.


_Lessons from the Greeks_


How much we have to learn from our immortal forefathers, the Greeks; and
how far better than we did they solve their problem! Their type was not
ours, but how much better did they revere, cultivate and ennoble the man
they knew! Beside them we are barbarians in a thousand ways, as in
education, eloquence, public life, poetry, and the like. If the number
of its accomplished men be the measure of a civilization, ours is far
below theirs. We have not slaves beneath us, but we have them among us.
Barbarism is not at our frontiers, but at our doors. We bear within us
greater things, but we ourselves are how much smaller! Strange paradox:
that their objective civilisation should have created great men as it
were by accident, while our subjective civilisation, contrary to its
express mission, turns out paltry halflings. Things are becoming
majestic, but man is diminishing.


_The Glory of Motherhood_


A mother should be to her child as the sun in the heavens, a changeless
and ever radiant star, whither the inconstant little creature, so ready
with its tears and its daughter, so light, so passionate, so stormy, may
come to calm and to fortify itself with heat and light. A mother
represents goodness, providence, law, nay, divinity itself, under the
only form in which childhood can meet with these high things. If,
therefore, she is passionate, she teaches that God is capricious or
despotic, or even that there are several gods in conflict. The child's
religion depends on the way in which its mother and its father have
lived, and not on the way in which they have spoken. The inmost tone of
their life is precisely what reaches their child, who finds no more than
comedy or empty thunder in their maxims, remonstrances and punishments.
Their actual and central worship--that is what his instinct infallibly
perceives. A child sees what we are, through all the fictions of what we
would be.

It is curious to see, in discussions on speculative matters, how
abstract minds, who move from ideas to facts, always do battle for
concrete reality; while concrete minds, on the other hand, who move from
facts to ideas, are usually the champions of abstract notions. The more
intellectual nature trusts to an ethical theory; the more moral nature
has an intellectualist morality.

The centre of life is neither in thought, nor in feeling, nor in will;
nor even in consciousness in so far as it thinks, feels, or wills; for a
moral truth may have been penetrated and possessed in all these ways,
and yet escape us still. Far below our consciousness is our being, our
substance, our nature. Those truths alone which have entered this
profound region, and have become ourselves, and are spontaneous,
involuntary, instinctive and unconscious--only these are really our life
and more than our external possessions. Now, it is certain that we can
find our peace only in life, and, indeed, only in eternal life; and
eternal life is God. Only when the creature is one, by a unity of love,
with his Creator--only then is he what he is meant to be.


_The Secret of Perpetual Youth_


There are two degrees of pride--one, wherein a man is self-complacent;
the other, wherein he is unable to accept himself. Of these two degrees,
the second is probably the more subtle.

The whole secret of remaining young in spite of years is to keep an
enthusiasm burning within, by means of poetry, contemplation and
charity, or, more briefly, by keeping a harmony in the soul. When
everything is rightly ordered within us, we may rest in equilibrium with
the work of God. A certain grave enthusiasm for the eternal beauty and
order; a glowing mind and cloudless goodwill: these are, perhaps, the
foundation of wisdom. How inexhaustible is the theme of wisdom! A
peaceful aureole surrounds this rich conception. Wisdom includes all
treasures of moral experience, and is the ripest fruit of a well-spent
life. She never ages, for she is the very expression of order, and order
is eternal. Only the wise man tastes all the savour of life and of every
age, because only he can recognise their beauty, dignity and worth. To
see all things in God, to make of one's own life a voyage to the ideal,
to live with gratitude, recollection, kindness and courage--this was the
admirable spirit of Marcus Aurelius. Add to these a kneeling humility
and a devoted charity, and you have the wisdom of God's children, the
undying joy of true Christians.


_The Fascination of Love_


Woman would be loved without reason, without analysis; not because she
is beautiful, or good, or cultivated, or gracious, or spiritual, but
because she exists. Every analysis seems to her an attenuation and a
subordination of her personality to something which dominates and
measures it. She rejects it therefore, and rightly rejects it. For as
soon as one can say "because," one is no longer under the spell; one
appreciates or weighs, and at least in principle one is free. If the
empire of woman is to continue, love must remain a fascination, an
enchantment; once her mystery is gone, her power is gone also. So love
must appear indivisible, irreducible, superior to all analysis, if it is
to retain those aspects of infinitude, of the supernatural and the
miraculous, which constitute its beauty. Most people hold cheaply
whatever they understand, and bow down only before the inexplicable.
Woman's triumph is to demonstrate the obscurity of that male
intelligence which thinks itself so enlightened; and when women inspire
love, they are not without the proud joy of this triumph. Their vanity
is not altogether baseless; but a profound love is a light and a calm, a
religion and a revelation, which in its turn despises these lesser
triumphs of vanity. Great souls wish nothing but the great, and all
artifices seem shamefully puerile to one immersed in the infinite.


_Man's Useless Yearning_


Eternal effort is the note of modern morality. This painful restless
"becoming" has taken the place of harmony, equilibrium, joy, that is to
say, of "being." We are all fauns and satyrs aspiring to become angels,
ugly creatures labouring at our embellishment, monstrous chrysalids
trying to become butterflies. Our ideal is no longer the tranquil beauty
of the soul, it is the anguish of Laocoon fighting with the hydra of
evil. No longer are there happy and accomplished men; we are candidates,
indeed, for heaven, but on earth galley-slaves, and we row away our life
in the expectation of harbour. It seems possible that this perfecting of
which we are so proud is nothing else but a pretentious imperfection.

The "becoming" seems rather negative than positive; it is the lessening
of evil, but is not itself the good; it is a noble discontent, but is by
no means felicity. This ceaseless pursuit of an endless end is a
generous madness, but is not reason; it is the yearning for what can
never be, a touching malady, but it is not wisdom. Yet there is none who
may not achieve harmony; and when he has it, he is within the eternal
order, and represents the divine thought at least as clearly as a flower
does, or a solar system. Harmony seeks nothing that is outside herself.
She is exactly that which she should be; she expresses goodness, order,
law, truth, honour; she transcends time and reveals the eternal.


_Memories of the Golden Age_


In the world of society one must seem to live on ambrosia and to know
none but noble thoughts. Anxiety, want, passion, simply do not exist.
All realism is suppressed as brutal. It is a world which amuses itself
with the flattering illusion that it lives above the clouds and breathes
mythological air. That is why all vehemence, the cry of Nature, all
suffering, thoughtless familiarity, and every frank sign of love shock
this delicate medium like a bombshell; they shatter this collective
fabric, this palace of clouds, this enchanted architecture, just as
shrill cockcrow scatters the fairies into hiding. These fine receptions
are unconsciously a work of art, a kind of poetry, by which cultivated
society reconstructs an idyll that is age-long dead. They are confused
memories of the golden age, or aspirations after a harmony which mundane
reality has not in it to give.


_Goethe Under the Lash_


I cannot like Goethe: he has little soul. His understanding of love,
religion, duty, patriotism, is paltry and even shocking. He lacks an
ardent generosity. A central dryness, an ill-cloaked egoism show through
his supple and rich talent. True, this selfishness of his at least
respects everyone's liberty and applauds all originality; but it helps
no one, troubles itself for no one, bears no one's burden; in a word, it
lacks charity, the great Christian virtue. To his mind perfection lies
in personal nobility, and not in love. His keynote is æsthetic and not
moral. He ignores sanctity, and has never so much as reflected on the
terrible problem of evil. He believes in the opportunity of the
individual, but neither in liberty nor in responsibility. He is a
stranger to the social and political aspirations of the multitude; he
has no more thought for the disinherited, the feeble, the oppressed,
than Nature has.

The profound disquiet of our era never touches Goethe; discords do not
affect the deaf. Whoso has never heard the voice of conscience, regret
and remorse, cannot even guess at the anxiety of those who have two
masters, two laws, and belong to two worlds, the world of Nature and the
world of Liberty. His choice is already made; his only world is Nature.
But it is far otherwise with humanity. For men hear indeed the prophets
of Nature, but they hear also the voice of Religion; the joy of life
attracts them, but devotion moves them also; they no longer know whether
they hate or adore the crucifix.


_Nothing New Under the Sun_


Jealousy is a terrible thing; it resembles love, but is in every way its
contrary; the jealous man desires, not the good of the loved one, but
her dependence on him and his triumph over her. Love is the
forgetfulness of Self; but jealousy is the most passionate form of
egoism, the exaltation of the despotic, vain and greedy Self, which
cannot forget and subordinate itself. The contrast is complete.

The man of fifty years, contemplating the world, finds in it certainly
some new things; but a thousand times more does he find old things
furbished up, and plagiarisms and modifications rather than
improvements. Almost everything in the world is a copy of a copy, a
reflection of a reflection; and any real success or progress is as rare
to-day as it has ever been. Let us not complain of it, for only so can
the world last. Humanity advances at a very slow pace; that is why
history continues. It may be that progress fans the torch to burn away;
perhaps progress accelerates death. A society which should change
rapidly would only arrive the sooner at its catastrophe. Yes, progress
must be the aroma of life, and not its very substance.

To renounce happiness and think only of duty; to enthrone conscience
where the heart has been: this willing immolation is a noble thing. Our
nature jibes at it, but the better self will submit to it. To hope for
justice is the proof of a sickly sensibility; we ought to be able to do
without justice. A virile character consists in just that independence.
Let the world think of us what it will; that is its affair, not ours.
Our business is to act as if our country were grateful, as if the world
judged in equity, as if public opinion could see the truth, as if life
were just, and as if men were good.


_The Only Art of Peace and Rest_


Few people know of our physical sufferings; our nearest and dearest have
no idea of our interviews with the king of terrors. There are thoughts
for which there is no confidant, sorrows which may not be shared.
Kindness itself leads us to hide them. One suffers alone; one dies
alone; alone one hides away in the little apartment of six boards. But
we are not forbidden to open this solitude to our God. Thus the
soliloquy of anguish becomes a dialogue of peace, reluctance becomes
docility, suffocation becomes liberty.

Willing what God wills is the only art of peace and rest. It is strange
to go to bed knowing that one may not see to-morrow. I knew it well last
night; yet here I am. When one counts the future by hours, and to-night
is already the unknown, one gives up everything and just talks with
oneself. I return to my mind and to my journal, as the hare returns to
its form to die. As long as I can hold pen and have a moment of solitude
I will recollect myself before this my echo, and converse with my God.
Not an examination of conscience, not an act of contrition, not a cry of
appeal. Only an Amen of submission ... "My child, give Me your heart."

       *       *       *       *       *




ST. AUGUSTINE


Confessions


     Aurelius Augustine was born at Tagaste, a city of Numidia, on
     November 13, 354. This greatest of the Latin Christian Fathers
     was the son of a magistrate named Patricius, who was a pagan
     till near the close of his life. Augustine was sent to school
     at Madaura, and next to study at Carthage. His mother, Monica,
     early became an ardent Christian, and her saintly influence
     guided the youth towards the light; but entanglement in
     philosophic doubts constrained him to associate with the
     Manichæans, and then with the Platonists. His mental struggles
     lasted eleven years. Going to Rome to teach rhetoric, he was
     invited to Milan to lecture, and there was attracted by the
     eloquent preaching of Bishop Ambrose. His whole current of
     thought was changed, and the two became ardent friends. In
     391, Augustine was ordained priest by Valerius, Bishop of
     Hippo, whose colleague he was appointed in 395. At the age of
     41, he was designated Bishop of Hippo, and filled the office
     for 35 years, passing away in his 76th year, on August 28,
     430, during the third year of the siege of Hippo by the
     Vandals under Genseric. His numerous and remarkable works
     stamp him as one of the world's transcendent intellects. His
     two monumental treatises are the "Confessions" and "The City
     of God."


_I.--Regrets of a Mis-spent Youth_


"Great art Thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised." My faith, Lord,
should call on Thee, which Thou hast given me by the incarnation of Thy
Son, through the ministry of the preacher, Ambrose. How shall I call
upon my God? What room is there within me, wherein my God can come?
Narrow is the house of my soul; enlarge Thou it, that it may be able to
receive Thee. Thou madest us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless
until they rest in Thee.

I began, as yet a boy, to pray to Thee, that I might not be beaten at
school; but I sinned in disobeying the commands of parents and teachers
through love of play, delighting in the pride of victory in my contests.
I loved not study, and hated to be forced to it. Unless forced, I did
not learn at all. But no one does well against his will, even though
what he does is good. But what was well came to me from Thee, my God,
for Thou hast decreed that every inordinate affection should carry with
it its own punishment.

But why did I so much hate the Greek which I was taught as a boy? I do
not yet fully know. For the Latin I loved; not what my first masters,
but what the so-called grammarians taught me. For those first
lessons--reading, writing, and arithmetic--I thought as great a burden
and as vexatious as any Greek. But in the other lessons I learned the
wanderings of Æneas, forgetful of my own, and wept for the dead Dido
because she killed herself for love; while, with dry eyes, I endured my
miserable self-dying among these things, far from Thee, my God, my life.

Why, then, did I hate the Greek classics, full of like fictions to those
in Virgil? For Homer also curiously wove similar stories, and is most
pleasant, yet was disagreeable to my boyish taste. In truth, the
difficulty of a foreign tongue dashed as with gall all the sweetness of
the Greek fable. For not one word of it did I understand, and to make me
learn I was urged vehemently with cruel threats and stripes. Yet I
learned with delight the fictions in Latin concerning the wicked doings
of Jove and Juno, and for this I was pronounced a helpful boy, being
applauded above many of my own age and class.

I will now call to mind my past uncleanness and the carnal corruptions
of my soul; not because I love them, but that I may love Thee, O my God.
What was it that I delighted in, but to love and to be loved? But I kept
not the measure of love of soul to soul, friendship's bright boundary,
for I could not discern the brightness of love from the fog of lust.
Where was I, and how far was I exiled from the delights of Thy house, in
that sixteenth year of my age, when the madness of licence took the rule
over me? My friends, meanwhile, took no care by marriage to prevent my
fall; their only care was that I should learn to speak excellently, and
become a great orator. Now, for that year my studies were intermitted;
whilst, after my return from Madaura--a neighbouring city whither I had
journeyed to learn grammar and rhetoric--the expenses for a further
journey to Carthage were provided for me; and that rather by sacrifice
than by the ordinary means of my father, who was but a poor citizen of
Tagaste. But yet this same father had no concern how I grew towards
Thee; or how chaste I were; or, so that I were but eloquent, how barren
I were to Thy culture, O God.

But while in that my sixteenth year I lived with my parents, the briers
of unclean desires grew rank over my head, and there was no hand to root
them out. My father rejoiced to see me growing towards manhood, but in
my mother's breast Thou hadst already begun Thy temple, whereas my
father was as yet but a catechumen, and that but recently. I remember
how she, seized with a holy fear and trembling, in private warned me
with great anxiety against fornication. These seemed to me womanish
advices which I should blush to obey. But they were Thine, and I knew it
not. I ran headlong with such blindness that amongst my equals I was
ashamed of being less shameless than others when I heard them boast of
their wickedness. I would even say I had done what I had not done that I
might not seem contemptible exactly in proportion as I was innocent.


_II.--Monica's Prayers and Augustine's Paganism_


To Carthage I came, where there sang in my ears a cauldron of unholy
loves. I denied the spring of friendship with the filth of
concupiscence, and I beclouded its brightness with the hell of lust.

Stage plays always carried me away, full of images of my miseries and of
fuel to my fire. In the theatres I rejoiced with lovers, when they
succeeded in their criminal intrigues, imaginary only in the play; and
when they lost one another I sorrowed with them. Those studies also
which were accounted commendable, led me away, having a view of
excelling in the courts of litigation, where I should be the more
praised the craftier I became. And now I was the head scholar in the
rhetoric school, whereat I swelled with conceit. I learned books of
eloquence, wherein I desired to be eminent. In the course of study I
fell upon a certain book of Cicero which contains an exhortation to
philosophy, and is called "Hortensius." This book changed my
disposition, and turned my prayers to Thyself, O Lord. I longed with an
incredible ardour for the immortality of wisdom, and began now to arise
a wish that I might return to Thee. I resolved then to turn my mind to
the Holy Scriptures, to see what they were; but when I turned to them my
pride shrank from their humility, disdaining to be one of the little
ones.

Therefore, I fell among men proudly doting, exceeding carnal, and great
talkers, who served up to me, when hungering after Thee, the Sun and
Moon, beautiful works of Thine, but not Thyself. Yet, taking these
glittering phantasies to be Thee, I fed thereon, but was not nourished
by them, but rather became more empty. I knew not God to be a Spirit.
Nor knew I that true inward righteousness, which judgeth not according
to custom, but out of the most righteous laws of Almighty God. Under the
influence of these Manichæans I scoffed at Thy holy servants and
prophets. And Thou "sentest Thine hand from above," and deliveredst my
soul from that profound darkness. My mother, Thy faithful one, wept to
Thee for me, for she discerned the death wherein I lay, and Thou
heardest her, O Lord. Thou gavest her answers first in visions. There
passed yet nine years in which I wallowed in the mire of that deep pit
and the darkness of error. Thou gavest her meantime another answer by a
priest of Thine, a certain bishop brought up in Thy Church, and well
studied in books, whom she entreated to converse with me and to refute
my errors. He answered that I was as yet unteachable, being puffed up
with the novelty of that heresy. "But let him alone awhile," saith he;
"only pray to God for him, he will of himself, by reading, find what
that error is, and how great its impiety." He told her how he himself,
when a little one, had by his mother been consigned over to the
Manichæans, but had found out how much that sect was to be abhorred, and
had, therefore, avoided it. But he assured her that the child of such
tears as hers could not perish. Which answer she took as an oracle from
heaven.

Thus, from my nineteenth year to my twenty-eighth we lived, hunting
after popular applause and poetic prizes, and secretly following a false
religion. In those years I taught rhetoric, and in those years I had
conversation with one--not in that which is called lawful marriage--yet
with but one, remaining faithful even unto her. Those impostors whom
they style astrologers I consulted without scruple. In those years, when
I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I had made one my
friend, only too dear to me from a community of studies and pursuits, of
my own age, and, as myself, in the first bloom of youth. I had perverted
him also to those superstitions and pernicious fables for which my
mother bewailed me. With me he now erred in mind, nor could my soul be
happy without him But behold Thou wert close on the steps of Thy
fugitives, at once "God of Vengeance" and Fountain of Mercies, turning
us to Thyself by wonderful means. Thou tookest that man out of this
life, when he had scarce filled up one whole year of my friendship,
sweet to me above all sweetness of that my life. For long, sore sick of
a fever, he lay senseless in a death-sweat; so that, his recovery being
despaired of, he was baptised in that condition. He was relieved and
restored, and I essayed to jest with him, expecting him to do the same,
at that baptism which he had received when in the swoon. But he shrank
from me as from an enemy, and forbade such language. A few days
afterwards he was happily taken from my folly, that with Thee he might
be preserved for my comfort. In my absence he was attacked again by the
fever, and so died. At this grief my heart was utterly darkened. My
native country was a torment, and my father's house a strange
unhappiness to me. At length I fled out of the country, for so my eyes
missed him less where they were wont to see him. And thus from Tagaste I
came to Carthage.


_III.--The Influence of St. Ambrose on Augustine's Life_


I would lay open before my God that nine and twentieth year of my age.
There had then come to Carthage a certain Bishop of the Manichæans,
Faustus by name, a great snare of the Devil, and many were entangled by
him through the smooth lure of his language. Because he had read some of
Cicero's orations and a few of Seneca's books, some of the poets, and
such volumes of his own sect as were written in good Latin, he acquired
a certain seductive eloquence. But it soon became clear that he was
ignorant in those arts in which I thought he excelled, and I began to
despair of his solving the difficulties which perplexed me. He was
sensible of his ignorance in these things, and confessed it, and thus my
zeal for the writings of the Manichæans was blunted. Thus Faustus, to so
many a snare of death, had now, neither willing nor witting it, begun to
loosen that wherein I was taken. Thou didst deal with me that I should
be persuaded to go to Rome and to teach there rather what I was teaching
at Carthage, my chief and only reason being that I heard that young men
studied there more peacefully, and were kept under a more regular
discipline. My mother remained behind weeping and praying. And, behold,
at Rome I was received by the scourge of bodily sickness, and I was
going down to hell, carrying all the sins that I had committed. Thou
healdest me of that sickness that I might live for Thee to bestow upon
me a better and more abiding health. I began then diligently to teach
rhetoric in Rome when, lo! I found other offences committed in that
city, to which I had not been exposed in Africa, for, on a sudden, a
number of youths plot together to avoid paying their master's salary,
and remove to another school. When, therefore, they of Milan had sent to
Rome to the prefect of the city, to furnish them with a rhetoric reader
for their city, I made application that Symmachus, then prefect of the
city, would try me by setting me some subject for oration, and so send
me. Thus to Milan I came, to Ambrose the bishop, best known to the whole
world as among the best of men, Thy servant. To him I was unknowingly
led by Thee, that by him I might knowingly be led to Thee. That man of
God received me as a father, and showed me an episcopal kindness at my
coming. Thenceforth I began to love him. I was delighted with his
eloquence as he preached to the people, though I took no pains to learn
what he taught, but only to hear how he spake.

My mother had now come to me. When I had discovered to her that I was
now no longer a Manichaean, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she was
not overjoyed as at something unexpected. But she redoubled her prayers
and tears for me now that what she had begged of Thee daily with tears
was in so great part realised; and she hurried the more eagerly to the
church, and hung on the lips of Ambrose, whom she loved as "an angel of
God," because she knew that by him I had been brought to that wavering I
was now in. I heard him every Lord's Day expound the word of truth, and
was sure that all the knots of the Manichæans could be unravelled. So I
was confounded and converted. Yet I panted after honours, gains,
marriage--and in these desires I underwent most bitter crosses.

One day, when I was preparing to recite a panegyric on the Emperor
[probably the Emperor Valentinian the Younger], wherein I was to utter
many a lie, and, lying, was to be applauded by those who knew I lied,
while passing through the streets of Milan, I observed a poor beggar
joking and joyous. I sighed, and spoke to the friends around me of the
many sorrows of the phantoms we pursued--for by all our effort and toil
we yet looked to arrive only at the very joyousness whither that beggar
had arrived before us. I was racked with cares, but he, by saying "God
bless you!" had got some good wine; I, by talking lies, was hunting
after empty praise. Chiefly did I speak of such things with Alypius and
Bebridius, of whom Alypius was born in the same town with me, and had
studied under me, and loved me. But the whirlpool of Carthaginian habits
had, when he lived there, drawn him into follies of the circus. One day
as I sat teaching my scholars, he entered and listened attentively,
while I by chance had in hand a passage which, while I was explaining,
suggested to me a simile from the circensian races, not without a jibe
at those who were enthralled by that folly. Alpius took it wholly to
himself, and he returned no more to the filths of the circensian
pastimes in Carthage. But he had gone before me to Rome, and there he
was carried away with an incredible eagerness after the shows of
gladiators. Him I found at Rome, and he clave to me and went with me to
Milan, that he might be with me, and also practise something of the law
that he had studied. Bebridius also left Carthage, that with me he might
continue the search after truth.

Meantime my sins were being multiplied. Continual effort was made to
have me married, chiefly through my mother's pains, that so once
married, the health-giving baptism might cleanse me. My concubine being
torn from my side as a hindrance to my marriage, my heart, which clave
unto her, was torn and wounded; and she returned to Africa, leaving with
me my son by her. But, unhappy, I procured another, though no wife.

To Thee be praise, Fountain of Mercies! I was becoming more miserable,
and Thou drewest nearer to me in my misery!


_IV.--The Birth of a New Life_


My evil and abominable youth was now dead. I was passing into early
manhood. Meeting with certain books of the Platonists, translated from
Greek into Latin, I therein read, not in the same words, but to the same
purpose, that "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God." But that "the Word was made flesh and dwelt among
us" I read not there. That Jesus humbled Himself to the death of the
Cross, and was raised from the dead and exalted unto glory, that at His
name every knee should bow, I read not there.

Then I sought a way of obtaining strength, and found it not until I
embraced "that Mediator between God and Man, the Man Christ Jesus."
Eagerly did I seize that venerable writing of Thy Spirit, and chiefly
the Apostle Paul. Whereupon those difficulties vanished wherein he
formerly seemed to me to contradict himself and the text of his
discourse not to agree with the testimonies of the Law and the Prophets.
But now they appeared to me to contain one pure and uniform doctrine;
and I learned to "rejoice with trembling."

I had now found the goodly pearl, which, selling all I had, I ought to
have bought, and I hesitated. To Simplicianus [sent from Rome to be an
instructor and director to Ambrose], then I went, the spiritual father
of Ambrose and now a bishop, to whom I related the mazes of my
wanderings. He testified his joy that I had read certain books of the
Platonists and had not fallen on the writings of other deceitful
philosophers. And he related to me the story of the conversion of
Victorianus, the translator of those Platonist books, who was not
ashamed to become the humble little child of Thy Christ, after he had
for years with thundering eloquence inspired the people with the love of
Anubis, the barking deity, and all the monster gods who fought against
Neptune, Venus and Minerva, so that Rome now adored the deities she had
formerly conquered. But this proud worshipper of daemons suddenly and
unexpectedly said to Simplicianus, "Get us to the Church; I wish to be
made a Christian." And he was baptised to the wonder of Rome and the joy
of the Church. I was fired by this story and longed now to devote myself
entirely to God, but still did my two wills, one new and the other old,
one carnal and the other spiritual, struggle within me; and by their
discord undid my soul.

And now Thou didst deliver me out of the bonds of desire, wherewith I
was bound most straitly to carnal concupiscence, I will now declare and
confess. Upon a day there came to see me and Alpius one Pontitianus, an
African fellow-countryman, in high office at the Emperor's court, who
was a Christian and baptised. He told us how one afternoon at Trier,
when the Emperor was taken up with the circensian games, he and three
companions went to walk in gardens near the city walls and lighten on a
certain cottage, inhabited by certain of Thy servants, and there they
found a little book containing the life of Antony. This some of them
began to read and admire; and he, as he read, began to meditate on
taking up such a life. By that book he was changed inwardly, as was one
of his companions also. Both had affianced brides, who, when they heard
of this change, also dedicated their virginity to God.


_V.--God's Command to Augustine and the Death of Monica_


After much soul-sickness and torment of spirit took place an incident by
which Thou didst wholly break my chains. I was bewailing and weeping in
my heart, when, lo! I heard from a neighbouring house a voice as of a
boy or girl, I know not what, chanting, and oft repeating "Tolle, lege;
tolle, lege" ["Take up and read; take up and read"]. Instantly I rose
up, interpreting it to be no other than the voice of God, to open the
Book and read the first chapter I should find. Eagerly I seized the
volume of the apostle and opened and read that section on which my eyes
fell first: "Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and
wantonness, not in strife and envying; but put ye on the Lord Jesus
Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts
thereof." No further would I read, nor needed I, for a light as it were
of serenity diffused in my heart, and all the darkness of doubt vanished
away.

When shall I recall all that passed in those holy days? The
vintage-vacation I gave notice to the Milanese to provide their scholars
with another master to sell words to them; for I had made my choice to
serve Thee. It pleased Alypius also, when the time was come for my
baptism, to be born again with me in Thee. We joined with us the boy
Adeodatus, born of me, in my sin. Excellently hadst Thou made him. He
was not quite fifteen, and in wit surpassed many grave and learned men.
We were baptised, and anxiety for our past life vanished from us.

The time was now approaching when Thy handmaid, my mother Monica, was to
depart this life. She fell sick of a fever, and on the ninth day of that
sickness, and the fifty-sixth year of her age, and the three and
thirtieth of mine, was that religious and holy soul set free from the
body. Being thus forsaken of so great comfort in her, my soul was
wounded. Little by little the wound was healed as I recovered my former
thoughts of her holy conversation towards Thee and her holy tenderness
and observance towards us. May she rest in peace with her sometime
husband Patricius, whom she obeyed, "with patience bringing forth fruit"
unto Thee, that she might win him also unto Thee.

This is the object of my confessions now of what I am, not of what I
have been--to confess this not before Thee only, but in the ears also of
the believing sons of men. Too late I loved Thee! Thou wast with me, but
I was not with Thee. And now my whole hope is in nothing but Thy great
mercy. Since Thou gavest me continency I have observed it; but I retain
the memory of evil habits, and their images come up oft before me. And
Thou hast taught me concerning eating and drinking, that I should set
myself to take food as medicine. I strive daily against concupiscence in
eating and drinking. Thou hast disentangled me from the delights of the
ear and from the lusts of the eye. Into many snares of the senses my
mind wanders miserably, but Thou pluckest me out mercifully. By pride,
vainglory, and love of praise I am tempted, but I seek Thy mercy till
what is lacking in me by Thee be renewed and perfected. Thou knowest my
unskillfulness; teach me the wondrous things out of Thy law and heal me.

       *       *       *       *       *




JAMES BOSWELL


The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.


     James Boswell, born on October 18, 1740, was the son of
     Alexander Boswell of Auchinleck, better known as Lord
     Auchinleck, one of the senators of the College of Justice, or
     Supreme Court, of Scotland. Boswell was educated at Edinburgh
     and Utrecht universities, and was called both to the Scots and
     the English Bar. He was early interested in letters, and while
     still a student, published some poems and magazine articles.
     Boswell was introduced to Dr. Johnson on May 16, 1763. The
     friendship rapidly ripened, and from 1772 to the death of the
     illustrious moralist, was unbroken. As an introduction to "The
     Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D."--perhaps the greatest of all
     biographies--we can hardly do better than use the words of the
     biographer himself. "To write the life of him who excelled all
     mankind in writing the lives of others, and who, whether we
     consider his extraordinary endowments or his various works,
     has been equalled by few in any age, is an arduous, and may be
     reckoned in me a presumptuous, task. But as I had the honour
     and happiness of enjoying Dr. Johnson's friendship for upwards
     of twenty years; as I had the scheme of writing his life
     constantly in view; as he was well apprised of this
     circumstance, and from time to time obligingly satisfied my
     inquiries by communicating to me the incidents of his early
     years; and as I have spared no pains in obtaining materials
     concerning him, I flatter myself that few biographers have
     entered upon such a work as this with more advantages,
     independent of literary abilities, in which I am not vain
     enough to compare myself with some great names who have gone
     before me in this kind of writing." The "Life" was a signal
     success at the time of its publication, and even yet is
     unrivalled in the field of biography. Boswell latterly resided
     permanently in London, and was proprietor of, and principal
     contributor to, the "London Magazine". He died in his house in
     Great Portland Street on May 19, 1795.


_I.--Parentage and Education_


Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield, in Staffordshire, on September
18,1709, and was baptised on the day of his birth. His father was
Michael Johnson, a native of Derbyshire, of obscure extraction, who
settled in Lichfield as a bookseller and stationer. His mother was Sarah
Ford, descended of an ancient race of substantial yeomanry in
Warwickshire. They were well advanced in years when they were married,
and never had more than two children, both sons--Samuel, their first
born, whose various excellences I am to endeavour to record, and
Nathaniel, who died in his twenty-fifth year.

Mr. Michael Johnson was a man of a large and robust body, and of a
strong and active mind; yet there was in him a mixture of that disease
the nature of which eludes the most minute inquiry, though the effects
are well known to be a weariness of life, an unconcern about those
things which agitate the greater part of mankind, and a general
sensation of gloomy wretchedness. From him, then, his son inherited,
with some other qualities, "a vile melancholy," which, in his too strong
expression of any disturbance of the mind, "made him mad all his
life--at least, not sober." Old Mr. Johnson was a pretty good Latin
scholar, and a citizen so creditable as to be made one of the
magistrates of Lichfield; and, being a man of good sense and skill in
his trade, he acquired a reasonable share of wealth, of which, however,
he afterwards lost the greatest part, by engaging unsuccessfully in a
manufacture of parchment.

Young Johnson had the misfortune to be much afflicted with the scrofula,
or king's evil, which disfigured a countenance naturally well formed,
and hurt his visual nerves so much that he did not see at all with one
of his eyes, though its appearance was little different from that of the
other. Yet, when he and I were travelling in the Highlands of Scotland,
and I pointed out to him a mountain, which, I observed, resembled a
cone, he corrected my inaccuracy by showing me that it was indeed
pointed at the top, but that one side of it was larger than the other.
And the ladies with whom he was acquainted agree that no man was more
nicely and minutely critical in the elegance of female dress.

He was first taught to read English by Dame Oliver, a widow, who kept a
school for young children in Lichfield. He began to learn Latin with Mr.
Hawkins, usher, or under-master, of Lichfield School. Then he rose to be
under the care of Mr. Hunter, the head-master, who, according to his
account "was very severe, and wrong-headedly severe. He used," said he,
"to beat us unmercifully, and he did not distinguish between ignorance
and negligence." Yet Johnson was very sensible how much he owed to Mr.
Hunter. Mr. Langton one day asked him how he had acquired so accurate a
knowledge of Latin, in which, I believe, he was exceeded by no man of
his time. He said, "My master whipped me very well. Without that, sir, I
should have done nothing." Indeed, upon all occasions, he expressed his
approbation of enforcing instruction by means of the rod. "The rod,"
said he, "produces an effect which terminates in itself. A child is
afraid of being whipped, and gets his task, and there's an end on't;
whereas, by exciting emulation and comparisons of superiority, you lay
the foundation of lasting mischief."

From his earliest years Johnson's superiority was perceived and
acknowledged. He was from the beginning a king of men. His schoolfellow,
Mr. Hector, has assured me that he never knew him corrected at school
but for talking and diverting other boys from their business. He seemed
to learn by intuition; for though indolence and procrastination were
inherent in his constitution, whenever he made an exertion he did more
than anyone else. He was uncommonly inquisitive; and his memory was so
tenacious that he never forgot anything that he either heard or read.
Mr. Hector remembers having recited to him eighteen verses, which, after
a little pause, he repeated _verbatim_.

He never joined with the other boys in their ordinary diversions, for
his defective sight prevented him from enjoying them; and he once
pleasantly remarked to me "how wonderfully well he had contrived to be
idle without them." Of this inertness of disposition Johnson had all his
life too great a share.

After having resided for some time at the house of his uncle, Cornelius
Ford, Johnson was, at the age of fifteen, removed to the school of
Stourbridge, in Worcestershire, of which Mr. Wentworth was then master.
At this school he did not receive so much benefit as was expected, and
remaining there little more than a year, returned home, where he may be
said to have loitered for two years. He had no settled plan of life, and
though he read a great deal in a desultory manner, he read only as
chance and inclination directed him. "What I read," he told me, "were
not voyages and travels, but all literature, sir, all ancient writers,
all manly; though but little Greek, only some of Anacreon and Hesiod.
But in this irregular manner I had looked into many books which were not
known at the universities, where they seldom read any books but what are
put into their hands by their tutors; so that when I came to Oxford, Dr.
Adams, now Master of Pembroke College, told me I was the best qualified
for the university that he had ever known come there."


_II--Marriage and Settlement in London_


Compelled by his father's straitened circumstances, Johnson left
Pembroke College in the autumn of 1731, without taking a degree, having
been a member of it little more than three years. In December of this
year his father died.

In this forlorn state of his circumstances, he accepted an offer to be
employed as usher in the school of Market Bosworth, in Leicestershire.
But he was strongly averse to the painful drudgery of teaching, and,
having quarrelled with Sir Wolstan Dixie, the patron of the school, he
relinquished after a few months a situation which all his life
afterwards he recollected with the strongest aversion and even a degree
of horror. Among the acquaintances he made at this period was Mr.
Porter, a mercer at Birmingham, whose widow he afterwards married. In
what manner he employed his pen in 1733 I have not been able to
ascertain. He probably got a little money for occasional work, and it is
certain that he was occupied about this time in the translation of
Lobo's "Voyage to Abyssinia," which was published in 1735, and brought
him five guineas from this same bookseller. It is reasonable to suppose
that his rendering of Lobo's work was the remote occasion of his
writing, many years after, his admirable philosophical tale, "Rasselas,
Prince of Abyssinia."

Miss Porter told me that when Mr. Johnson was first introduced to her
mother his appearance was very forbidding; he was then lean and lank, so
that his immense structure of bones was hideously striking to the eye,
and the scars of the scrofula were deeply visible. He also wore his
hair, which was straight and stiff, and separated behind; and he often
had, seemingly, convulsive starts and odd gesticulations, which tended
to excite at once surprise and ridicule. Mrs. Porter was so much engaged
by his conversation that she overlooked all these external
disadvantages, and said to her daughter, "This is the most sensible man
that I ever saw in my life."

Though Mrs. Porter, now a widow, was double the age of Johnson, and her
person and manner, as described to me by the late Mr. Garrick, were by
no means pleasing to others, she must have had a superiority of
understanding and talents, as she certainly inspired him with a more
than ordinary passion. The marriage took place at Derby, on July 9,
1736.

He now set up a private academy, for which purpose he hired a large
house well situated near his native city. In the "Gentleman's Magazine"
for 1736 there is the following advertisement:

"At Edial, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, young gentlemen are boarded
and taught the Latin and Greek languages, by SAMUEL JOHNSON."

But the only pupils that were put under his care were the celebrated
David Garrick and his brother George, and a Mr. Offely, a young
gentleman of fortune, who died early.

Johnson, indeed, was not more satisfied with his situation as the master
of an academy than with that of the usher of a school; we need not
wonder, therefore, that he did not keep his academy more than a year and
a half. From Mr. Garrick's account he did not appear to have been
profoundly reverenced by his pupils. His oddities of manner and uncouth
gesticulations could not but be the subject of merriment to them; and in
particular, the young rogues used to turn into ridicule his awkward
fondness for Mrs. Johnson, whom he used to name by the familiar
appellation of Tetty or Tetsey, which, like Betty or Betsey, is
provincially used as a contraction for Elizabeth, her Christian name,
but which to us seems ludicrous when applied to a woman of her age and
appearance. Mr. Garrick described her to me as very fat, with swelled
cheeks of a florid red produced by thick painting, and increased by the
liberal use of cordials; flaring and fantastic in her dress, and
affected both in her speech and her general behaviour.

While Johnson kept his academy, I have not discovered that he wrote
anything except a great portion of his tragedy of "Irene." When he had
finished some part of it, he read what he had done to his friend, Mr.
Gilbert Walmsley, Registrar of the Prerogative Court of Lichfield, who
was so well pleased with this proof of Johnson's abilities as a dramatic
writer that he advised him to finish the tragedy and produce it on the
stage. Accordingly, Johnson and his friend and pupil, David Garrick,
went to try their fortunes in London in 1737, the former with the hopes
of getting work as a translator and of turning out a fine
tragedy-writer, the latter with the intention of completing his
education, and of following the profession of the law. How, indeed,
Johnson employed himself upon his first coming to London is not
particularly known. His tragedy, of which he had entertained such hopes,
was submitted to Mr. Fleetwood, the patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, and
rejected.


_III.--Poverty Stricken in London_


Johnson's first performance in the "Gentleman's Magazine," which for
many years was his principal source of employment and support, was a
copy of Latin verses, in March, 1738, addressed to the editor. He was
now enlisted by Mr. Cave, as a regular coadjutor in his magazine, by
which he probably obtained a tolerable livelihood. What we certainly
know to have been done by him in this way were the debates in both
Houses of Parliament, under the name of "The Senate of Lilliput."

Thus was Johnson employed during some of the best years of his life,
solely to obtain an honest support. But what first displayed his
transcendent powers, and "gave the world assurance of the Man," was his
"London, a Poem in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal," which came
out in May this year (1738), and burst forth with a splendour the rays
of which will forever encircle his name.

But though thus elevated into fame, Johnson could not expect to produce
many such works as his "London," and he felt the hardships of writing
for bread. He was therefore willing to resume the office of a
schoolmaster, and, an offer being made to him of the mastership of a
school, provided he could obtain the degree of Master of Arts, Dr. Adams
was applied to by a common friend to know whether that could be granted
to him as a favour from the university of Oxford. But it was then
thought too great a favour to be asked.

During the next five years, 1739-1743, Johnson wrote largely for the
"Gentleman's Magazine," and supplied the account of the Parliamentary
Debates from November 19, 1740, to February 23, 1743, inclusive. It does
not appear that he wrote anything of importance for the magazine in
1744. But he produced one work this year, fully sufficient to maintain
the high reputation which he had acquired. This was "The Life of Richard
Savage," a man of whom it is difficult to speak impartially without
wondering that he was for some time the intimate companion of Johnson;
for his character was marked by profligacy, insolence, and ingratitude;
yet, as he undoubtedly had a warm and vigorous, though unregulated mind,
had seen life in all its varieties, and been much in the company of the
statesmen and wits of his time, he could communicate to Johnson an
abundant supply of such materials as his philosophical curiosity most
eagerly desired; and so his visits to St. John's Gate--the office of the
"Gentleman's Magazine"--naturally brought Johnson and him together.


_IV.--Preparation of the "Dictionary"_


It is somewhat curious that Johnson's literary career appears to have
been almost totally suspended in 1745 and 1746. But the year 1747 is
distinguished as the epoch when Johnson's arduous and important work,
his "Dictionary of the English Language," was announced to the world, by
the publication of its "Plan or Prospectus."

The booksellers who contracted with Johnson, single and unaided, for the
execution of a work which in other countries has not been effected but
by the co-operating exertions of many, were Mr. Robert Dodsley, Mr.
Charles Hitch, Mr. Andrew Millar, the two Messieurs Longman, and the two
Messieurs Knapton. The price stipulated was fifteen hundred and
seventy-five pounds. The "Plan" was addressed to Philip Dormer, Earl of
Chesterfield, then one of his majesty's principal secretaries of state,
a nobleman who was very ambitious of literary distinction, and who, upon
being informed of the design, had expressed himself in terms very
favourable to its success. The plan had been put before him in
manuscript For the mechanical part of the work Johnson employed, as he
told me, six amanuenses.

In the "Gentleman's Magazine" for May, 1748, he-wrote a "Life of
Roscommon," with notes, which he afterwards much improved and inserted
amongst his "Lives of the English Poets." And this same year he formed a
club in Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row, with a view to enjoy literary
discussion.

In January, 1749, he published "Vanity of Human Wishes, being the Tenth
Satire of Juvenal Imitated"; and on February 6 Garrick brought out his
tragedy at Drury Lane. Dr. Adams was present at the first night of the
representation of "Irene," and gave me the following account. "Before
the curtain drew up, there were catcalls and whistling, which alarmed
Johnson's friends. The prologue, which was 'written by himself in a
manly strain, soothed the audience, and the play went off tolerably till
it came to the conclusion, when Mrs. Pritchard, the heroine of the
piece, was to be strangled on the stage, and was to speak two lines with
the bow-string around her neck. The audience cried out 'Murder! Murder!'
She several times attempted to speak, but in vain. At last she was
obliged to go off the stage alive." This passage was afterwards struck
out, and she was carried off to be put to death behind the scenes, as
the play now has it.

Notwithstanding all the support of such performers as Garrick, Barry,
Mrs. Pritchard, and every advantage of dress and decoration, the tragedy
of "Irene" did not please the public. Mr. Garrick's zeal carried it
through for nine nights, so that the author had his three nights'
profit; and from a receipt signed by him it appears that his friend Mr.
Robert Dodsley gave him one hundred pounds for the copy, with his usual
reservation of the right of one edition.

On occasion of his play being brought upon the stage, Johnson had a
fancy that as a dramatic author his dress should be more gay than he
ordinarily wore; he therefore appeared behind the scenes, and even in
one of the side boxes, in a scarlet waistcoat, with rich gold lace and a
gold laced hat. His necessary attendance while his play was in
rehearsal, and during its performance, brought him acquainted with many
of the performers of both sexes, which produced a more favourable
opinion of their profession than he had harshly expressed in his "Life
of Savage." With some of them he kept up an acquaintance as long as he
and they lived, and was ever ready to show them acts of kindness. He for
a considerable time used to visit the green room, and seemed to take
delight in dissipating his gloom by mixing in the sprightly chit-chat of
the motley circle then to be found there. But at last--as Mr. David Hume
related to me from Mr. Garrick--he denied himself this amusement from
considerations of rigid virtue.


_V.--"The Rambler" and New Acquaintance_


In 1750 Johnson came forth in the character for which he was eminently
qualified, a majestic teacher of moral and religious wisdom. The vehicle
he chose was that of a periodical paper, which he knew had, upon former
occasions--those of the "Tattler," "Spectator," and "Guardian"--been
employed with great success.

The first paper of "The Rambler" was published on Tuesday, March 20,
1750, and its author was enabled to continue it without interruption,
every Tuesday and Friday, till Saturday, March 17, 1752, on which day it
closed. During all this time he received assistance on four occasions
only.

Posterity will be astonished when they are told, upon the authority of
Johnson himself, that many of these discourses, which we should suppose
had been laboured with all the slow attention of literary leisure, were
written in haste as the moments pressed, without even being read over by
him before they were printed. Such was his peculiar promptitude of mind.
He was wont to say, "A man may write at any time if he will set himself
doggedly to it."

Though Johnson's circumstances were at this time--1751--far from being
easy, his humane and charitable disposition was constantly exerting
itself. Mrs. Anna Williams, daughter of a very ingenious Welsh
physician, and a woman of more than ordinary talents in literature,
having come to London in hopes of being cured of a cataract in both her
eyes, which afterwards ended in total blindness, was kindly received as
a constant visitor at his house while Mrs. Johnson lived; and after her
death, having come under his roof in order to have an operation upon her
eyes performed with more comfort to her than in lodgings, she had an
apartment from him until the rest of her life at all times when he had a
house.

In 1752 he wrote the last papers of "The Rambler," but he was now mainly
occupied with his "Dictionary." This year, soon after closing his
periodical paper, he suffered a loss which affected him with the deepest
distress. For on March 17 his wife died. That his sufferings upon her
death were severe, beyond what are commonly endured, I have no doubt,
from the information of many who were then about him.

The circle of Johnson's friends, indeed, at this time was extensive and
various, far beyond what has been generally imagined. To trace his
acquaintance with each particular person were unprofitable. But
exceptions are to be made, one of which must be a friend so eminent as
Sir Joshua Reynolds, with whom he maintained an uninterrupted intimacy
to the last hour of his life.

When Johnson lived in Castle Street, Cavendish Square, he used
frequently to visit two ladies who lived opposite to him--Miss
Cotterells, daughters of Admiral Cotterell. Reynolds used also to visit
there, and thus they met. Mr. Reynolds had, from the first reading of
his "Life of Savage," conceived a very high admiration of Johnson's
powers of writing. His conversation no less delighted him, and he
cultivated his acquaintance with the laudable zeal of one who was
ambitious of general improvement.

His acquaintance with Bennet Langton, Esq., of Langton, in Lincolnshire,
another much valued friend, commenced soon after the conclusion of the
"Rambler," which that gentleman, then a youth, had read with so much
admiration that he came to London chiefly with the view of endeavouring
to be introduced to its author. By a fortunate chance he happened to
take lodgings in a house where Mr. Levett frequently visited, who
readily obtained Johnson's permission to bring Mr. Langton to him; as
indeed, Johnson, during the whole course of his life, had no shyness,
real or affected, but was easy of access to all who were properly
recommended, and even wished to see numbers at his _levée_, as his
morning circle of company might, with strict propriety, be called, for
he received his friends when he got up from bed, which rarely happened
before noon.


_VI.--Lord Chesterfield and the "Dictionary"_


In 1753 and 1754 Johnson relieved the drudgery of his "Dictionary" by
taking an active part in the composition of "The Adventurer," a new
periodical paper which his friends Dr. Hawkesworth and Dr. Bathurst had
commenced.

Towards the end of the latter year, when the "Dictionary" was on the eve
of publication, Lord Chesterfield, who, ever since the plan of this
great work had been addressed to him, had treated its author with cold
indifference, attempted to conciliate him by writing to papers in "The
World" in recommendation of the undertaking. This courtly device failed
of its effect, and Johnson, indignant that Lord Chesterfield should, for
a moment, imagine that he could be the dupe of such an artifice, wrote
him that famous letter, dated February 7, 1755, which I have already
given to the public. I will quote one paragraph.

"Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man
struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground,
encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take
of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed
till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and
cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no
very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has
been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as
owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for
myself."

Thinking it desirable that the two letters intimating possession of the
master's degree should, for the credit both of Oxford and of Johnson,
appear after his name on the title page of his "Dictionary," his friends
obtained for him from his university this mark of distinction by diploma
dated February 20, 1755; and the "Dictionary" was published on April 15
in two volumes folio.

It won him much honour at home and abroad; the Academy of Florence sent
him their "Vocabulario," and the French Academy their "Dictionnaire."
But it had not set him above the necessity of "making provision for the
day that was passing over him," for he had spent during the progress of
the work all the money which it had brought him.

He was compelled, therefore, to contribute to the monthly periodicals,
and during 1756 he wrote a few essays for "The Universal Visitor," and
superintended and contributed largely to another publication entitled
"The Literary Magazine, or Universal Review." Among the articles he
wrote for the magazine was a review of Mr. Jonas Hanway's "Essay on
Tea," to which the author made an angry answer. Johnson, after a full
and deliberate pause, made a reply to it, the only instance, I believe,
in the whole course of his life, when he condescended to oppose anything
that was written against him.

His defence of tea was indeed made _con amore_. I suppose no person ever
enjoyed with more relish the infusion of that fragrant leaf than
Johnson. The quantities which he drank of it at all hours were so great
that his nerves must have been uncommonly strong not to have been
extremely relaxed by such an intemperate use of it.

This year Johnson resumed the scheme, first proposed eleven years
previously, of giving an edition of Shakespeare with notes. He issued
proposals of considerable length, but his indolence prevented him from
pursuing the undertaking, and nine years more elapsed before it saw the
light.

On April 15, 1758, he began a new periodical paper entitled "The Idler,"
which came out every Saturday in a weekly newspaper called "The
Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette." These essays were continued
till April 5, 1760, and of the total of one hundred and three, twelve
were contributed by his friends, including Reynolds, Langton, and Thomas
Warton. "The Idler" has less body and more spirit than "The Rambler,"
and has more variety of real life, and greater facility of language. It
was often written as hastily as it predecessor.

In 1759, in the month of January, Johnson's mother died, at the great
age of ninety, an event which deeply affected him, for his reverential
affection for her was not abated by years. Soon after, he wrote his
"Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia," in order that with the profits he might
defray the expenses of her funeral, and pay some little debts which she
had left. He told Sir Joshua Reynolds that he composed it in the
evenings of one week, and sent it to the press in portions, as it was
written. Mr. Strahan, Mr. Johnston, and Mr. Dodsley purchased it for
£100, but afterwards paid him £25 more when it came to a second edition.
Though Johnson had written nothing else this admirable performance would
have rendered his name immortal in the world of literature. None of his
writings has been so extensively diffused over Europe; for it has been
translated into most, if not all, of the modern languages. Voltaire's
"Candide," written to refute the system of optimism, which it has
accomplished with brilliant success, is wonderfully similar in its plan
and conduct to Johnson's "Rasselas."

Early in 1762, having been represented to the king as a very learned and
good person, without any certain provision, his majesty was pleased to
grant him a pension of £300 a year. The prime movers in suggesting that
Johnson ought to have a pension were Mr. Thomas Sheridan and Mr. Murphy.
Having, in his "Dictionary," defined _pension_ as "generally understood
to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country,"
Johnson at first doubted the propriety of his accepting this mark of the
royal favour. But Sir Joshua having given his opinion that there could
be no objection to his receiving from the king a reward for literary
merit, and Lord Bute having told him expressly, "It is not given you for
anything you are to do, but for what you have done," his scruples about
accepting it were soon removed.


_VII.--Boswell's First Meeting with Johnson_


Johnson, who thought slightingly of Sheridan's art, and perhaps resented
that a player should be rewarded in the same manner with him, upon
hearing that a pension of £200 a year had been given to Sheridan,
exclaimed, "What! Have they given _him_ a pension? Then it's time for me
to give up mine."

A man who disliked Johnson repeated his sarcasm to Mr. Sheridan, who
could never forgive this hasty, contemptuous expression, and ever after
positively declined Johnson's repeated offers of reconciliation.

It was Mr. Thomas Davies, the actor, turned bookseller, who introduced
me to Johnson. On Monday, May 16, 1763. I was sitting in Mr. Davies's
back parlour at 8 Russell Street, Covent Garden, after having drunk tea
with him and Mrs. Davies, when Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop.
Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to him. I
was much agitated at my long-wished-for introduction to the sage, and
recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard
much, I said to Davies, "Don't tell where I come from----" "From
Scotland!" cried Davies roguishly. "Mr. Johnson," said I, "I do, indeed,
come from Scotland, but I cannot help it"--meaning this as light
pleasantry to reconciliate him. But with that quickness of wit for which
he was so remarkable he seized the expression "come from Scotland," and
as if I had said that I had come away from it, or left it, remarked,
"That, sir, I find, is what a very great many of your countrymen cannot
help." This stroke, and another check which I subsequently received,
stunned me a good deal; but eight days later I boldly repaired to his
chambers on the first floor of No. 1, Inner Temple Lane, and he received
me very courteously. His morning dress was sufficiently uncouth; his
brown suit of clothes looked very rusty. He had on a little, old,
shrivelled, unpowdered wig, which was too small for his head; his
shirt-neck and knees of his breeches were loose; his black worsted
stockings ill-drawn up; and he had a pair of unbuckled shoes by way of
slippers. But all these slovenly particularities were forgotten the
moment that he began to talk.

In February of the following year was founded that club which existed
long without a name, but at Mr. Garrick's funeral became distinguished
by the title of "The Literary Club." Sir Joshua Reynolds had the merit
of being the first proposer of it, to which Johnson acceded, and the
original members were Sir Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, Mr. Edmund
Burke, Dr. Nugent (Mr. Burke's father-in-law), Mr. Beauclerk, Mr.
Langton, Dr. Goldsmith, Mr. Chamier, and Sir John Hawkins. They met at
the Turk's Head in Gerard Street, Soho, one evening in every week at
seven, and generally continued their conversation till a very late hour.
After about ten years, instead of supping weekly, it was resolved to
dine together once a fortnight during the meeting of parliament, and,
their original tavern having been converted into a private house, they
moved first to Prince's in Sackville Street, then to Le Telier's in
Dover Street, and now meet at Parsloe's, St. James's Street. Between the
time of its formation and the time at which the second edition of this
work is passing through the press (June 1792), its numbers have been
raised to thirty-five, and the following persons have belonged to it:
Mr. Dunning (afterwards Lord Ashburton), Mr. Garrick, Dr. Shepley
(Bishop of St. Asaph), Mr. Thomas Warton, Mr. Joseph Warton, Dr. Adam
Smith, Lord Charlemont, Sir Robert Chambers, Dr. Percy (Bishop of
Dromore), Dr. Barnard (Bishop of Killaloe), Mr. Charles James Fox, Mr.
Gibbon, Mr. R.B. Sheridan, Mr. Colman, Mr. Windham, of Norfolk, Dr.
Burney, and the writer of this account.

This year Johnson was receiving his "Shakespeare," but he published a
review of Grainger's "Sugar Cane: A Poem" in the "London Chronicle," and
also wrote in "The Critical Review" an account of Goldsmith's excellent
poem, "The Traveller." In July 1765, Trinity College, Dublin, surprised
him with a spontaneous compliment of the highest academical honours, by
creating him Doctor of Laws, and in October he at length gave to the
world his edition of Shakespeare. This year was also distinguished by
his being introduced into the family of Mr. Thrale, an eminent brewer,
who was member for Southwark. The Thrales were so much pleased with him
that his invitations to their house were more and more frequent, till at
last he became one of the family, and an apartment was appropriated to
him, both in their house in Southwark and at Streatham.


_VIII.--Tours in the Hebrides and in Wales_


His friend, the Rev. Dr. Maxwell, speaks as follows on Johnson's general
mode of life: "About twelve o'clock I commonly visited him, and
frequently found him in bed, or declaiming over his tea, which he drank
very plentifully. He generally had a _levée_ of morning visitors,
chiefly men of letters--Hawkesworth, Goldsmith, Murphy, Langton,
Stevens, Beauclerk, etc., etc., and sometimes learned ladies,
particularly I remember a French lady of wit and fashion doing him the
honour of a visit. He seemed to me to be considered as a kind of public
oracle, whom everybody thought they had a right to visit and to consult;
and doubtless they were well rewarded. I never could discover how he
found time for his compositions. He declaimed all the morning, then went
to dinner at a tavern, where he commonly stayed late, and then drank his
tea at some friend's house, over which he loitered a great while, but
seldom took supper. I fancy he must have read and wrote chiefly in the
night, for I can scarcely recollect that he ever refused going with me
to a tavern, and he often went to Ranelagh, which he deemed a place of
innocent recreation."

In 1773 Johnson's only publication was an edition of his folio
"Dictionary," with additions and corrections, and the preface to his old
amanuensis, Machean's "Dictionary of Ancient Geography." His
"Shakespeare," indeed, was republished this year by George Stevens,
Esq., a gentleman of acute discernment and elegant taste.

On April 23, 1773, I was nominated by Johnson for membership of the
Literary Club, and a week later I was elected to the society. There I
saw for the first time Mr. Edmund Burke, whose splendid talents had made
me ardently wish for his acquaintance.

This same year Johnson made, in my company, his visit to Scotland, which
lasted from August 14, on which day he arrived, till November 22, when
he set out on his return to London; and I believe one hundred days were
never passed by any men in a more vigorous exertion. His various
adventures, and the force and vivacity of his mind, as exercised during
this peregrination, upon innumerable topics, have been faithfully, and
to the best of my ability, displayed in my "Journal of a Tour to the
Hebrides."

On his return to London his humane, forgiving dispositions were put to a
pretty strong test by a liberty which Mr. Thomas Davies had taken, which
was to publish two volumes, entitled "Miscellaneous and Fugitive
Pieces," which he advertised in the newspapers, "By the Author of the
Rambler." In some of these Johnson had no concern whatever. He was at
first very angry, but, upon consideration of his poor friend's narrow
circumstances, and that he meant no harm, he soon relented.

Dr. Goldsmith died on April 4 of the following year, a year in which I
was unable to pay my usual spring visit to London, and in which Johnson
made a long autumn tour in Wales with Mr. and Mrs. Thrale. In response
to some inquiries of mine about poor Goldsmith, he wrote: "Of poor, dear
Goldsmith there is little to be told more than the papers have made
public. He died of a fever, made, I am afraid, more violent by
uneasiness of mind. His debts began to be heavy, and all his resources
were exhausted. Sir Joshua is of the opinion that he owed not less than
£2,000. Was ever poet so trusted before?"

This year, too, my great friend again came out as a politician, for
parliament having been dissolved in September, and Mr. Thrale, who was a
steady supporter of government, having again to encounter the storm of a
contested election in Southwark, Johnson published a short political
pamphlet, entitled "The Patriot," addressed to the electors of Great
Britain. It was written with energetic vivacity; and except those
passages in which it endeavours to vindicate the glaring outrage of the
House of Commons in the case of the Middlesex election and to justify
the attempt to reduce our fellow-subjects in America to unconditional
submission, it contained an admirable display of the properties of a
real patriot, in the original and genuine sense.


_IX.--Johnson's Physical Courage and Fear of Death_


The "Rambler's" own account of our tour in the Hebrides was published in
1775 under the title of "A journey to the Western Islands of Scotland,"
and soon involved its author, who had expressed his disbelief in the
authenticity of Ossian's poems, in a controversy with Mr. Macpherson.
Johnson called for the production of the old manuscripts from which Mr.
Macpherson said that he had copied the poems. He wrote to me: "I am
surprised that, knowing as you do the disposition of your countrymen to
tell lies in favour of each other, you can be at all affected by any
reports that circulate among them." And when Mr. Macpherson, exasperated
by this scepticism, replied in words that are generally said to have
been of a nature very different from the language of literary contest,
Johnson answered him in a letter that opened: "I received your foolish
and impudent letter. Any violence offered me I shall do my best to
repel, and what I cannot do for myself the law shall do for me. I hope I
shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat by the
menaces of a ruffian."

Mr. Macpherson knew little the character of Dr. Johnson if he supposed
that he could be easily intimidated, for no man was ever more remarkable
for personal courage. He had, indeed, an awful dread of death, or,
rather, "of something after death"; and he once said to me, "The fear of
death is so much natural to man that the whole of life is but keeping
away the thoughts of it," and confessed that "he had never had a moment
in which death was not terrible to him." But his fear was from
reflection, his courage natural. Many instances of his resolution may be
mentioned. One day, at Mr. Beauclerk's house in the country, when two
large dogs were fighting, he went up to them and beat them till they
separated.

At another time, when Foote threatened to _take him off_ on the stage,
he sent out for an extra large oak stick; and this mere threat, repeated
by Davies to Foote, effectually checked the wantonness of the mimic. On
yet another occasion, in the playhouse at Lichfield, as Mr. Garrick
informed me, Johnson having for a moment quitted a chair which was
placed for him between the side scenes, a gentleman took possession of
it, and when Johnson on his return civilly demanded his seat, rudely
refused to give it up; upon which Johnson laid hold of it, and tossed
him and the chair into the pit.

My revered friend had long before indulged most unfavourable sentiments
of our fellow-subjects in America. As early as 1769 he had said to them:
"Sir, they are a race of convicts, and ought to be grateful for anything
we allow them short of hanging." He had recently published, at the
desire of those in power, a pamphlet entitled "Taxation no Tyranny; an
Answer to the Resolutions and Address of the American Congress." Of this
performance I avoided to talk with him, having formed a clear and
settled opinion against the doctrine of its title.

In the autumn Dr. Johnson went to Ashbourne to France with Mr. and Mrs.
Thrale and Mr. Baretti, which lasted about two months. But he did not
get into any higher acquaintance; and Foote, who was at Paris at the
time with him, used to give a description of my friend while there and
of French astonishment at his figure, manner, and dress, which was
abundantly ludicrous. He was now a Doctor of Laws of Oxford, his
university having conferred that degree on him by diploma in the spring.


_X.--Johnson's "Seraglio"_


A circumstance which could not fail to be very pleasing to Johnson
occurred in 1777. The tragedy of "Sir Thomas Overbury," written by his
early companion in London, Richard Savage, was brought out, with
alterations, at Covent Garden Theatre, on February 1; and the prologue
to it, written by Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, introduced an elegant
compliment to Johnson on his "Dictionary." Johnson was pleased with
young Mr. Sheridan's liberality of sentiment, and willing to show that
though estranged from the father he could acknowledge the brilliant
merit of the son, he proposed him, and secured his election, as a member
of the Literary Club, observing that "he who has written the two best
comedies of his age ["The Rivals" and "The Duenna"] is surely a
considerable man."

In the autumn Dr. Johnson went to Ashbourne to stop with his friend, the
Rev. Dr. Taylor, and I joined him there. I was somewhat disappointed in
finding that the edition of the "English Poets" for which he was to
write prefaces and lives was not an undertaking directed by him, but
that he was to furnish a preface and life to any poet the booksellers
pleased. I asked him if he would do this to any dunce's works if they
should ask him. Johnson: "Yes, sir, and _say_ he was a dunce." My friend
seemed now not much to relish talking of this edition; it had been
arranged by the forty chief booksellers of London, and Johnson had named
his own terms for the "Lives," namely, two hundred guineas.

During this visit he put into my hands the whole series of his writings
in behalf of the Rev. Dr. William Dodd, who, having been
chaplain-in-ordinary to his majesty, and celebrated as a very popular
preacher, was this year convicted and executed for forging a bond on his
former pupil, the young Earl of Chesterfield. Johnson certainly made
extraordinary exertions to save Dodd. He wrote several petitions and
letters on the subject, and composed for the unhappy man not only his
"Speech to the Recorder of London," at the Old Bailey, when sentence of
death was about to be pronounced upon him, and "The Convict's Address to
his Unhappy Brethren," a sermon delivered by Dr. Dodd in the chapel of
Newgate, but also "Dr. Dodd's Last Solemn Declaration," which he left
with the sheriff at the place of execution.

In 1778, I arrived in London on March 18, and next day met Dr. Johnson
at his old friend's, in Dean's Yard, for Dr. Taylor was a prebendary of
Westminster. On Friday, March 2d, I found him at his own house, sitting
with Mrs. Williams, and was informed that the room allotted to me three
years previously was now appropriated to a charitable purpose, Mrs.
Desmoulins, daughter of Johnson's godfather Dr. Swinfen, and, I think,
her daughter, and a Miss Carmichael, being all lodged in it. Such was
his humanity, and such his generosity, that Mrs. Desmoulins herself told
me he allowed her half-a-guinea a week.

Unfortunately his "Seraglio," as he sometimes suffered me to call his
group of females, were perpetually jarring with one another. He thus
mentions them, together with honest Levett, in one of his letters to
Mrs. Thrale: "Williams hates everybody; Levett hates Desmoulins, and
does not love Williams--Desmoulins hates them both; Poll (Miss
Carmichael) loves none of them."

On January 20, 1779, Johnson lost his old friend Garrick, and this same
year he gave the world a luminous proof that the vigour of his mind in
all its faculties, whether memory, judgement, and imagination, was not
in the least abated, by publishing the first four volumes of his
"Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, to the Most Eminent of the English
Poets." The remaining volumes came out in 1781.

In 1780 the world was kept in impatience for the completion of his
"Lives of the Poets," upon which he was employed so far as his indolence
allowed him to labour.

This year--on March 11--Johnson lost another old friend in Mr. Topham
Beauclerk, of whom he said: "No man ever was so free when he was going
to say a good thing, from a _look_ that expressed that it was coming;
or, when he had said it, from a look that expressed that it had come."


_XI.--Johnson's Humanity to Children, Servants, and the Poor_


I was disappointed in my hopes of seeing Johnson in 1780, but I was able
to come to London in the spring of 1781, and on Tuesday, March 20, I met
him in Fleet Street, walking, or, rather, indeed, moving along--for his
peculiar march is thus correctly described in a short life of him
published very soon after his death: "When he walked the streets, what
with the constant roll of his head, and the concomitant motion of his
body, he appeared to make his way by that motion, independent of his
feet." That he was often much stared at while he advanced in this manner
may easily be believed, but it was not safe to make sport of one so
robust as he was.

I waited on him next evening, and he gave me a great portion of his
original manuscript of his "Lives of the Poets," which he had preserved
for me.

I found on visiting his friend, Mr. Thrale, that he was now very ill,
and had removed--I suppose by the solicitation of Mrs. Thrale--to a
house in Grosvenor Square. I was sorry to see him sadly changed in his
appearance. He died shortly after.

He told me I might now have the pleasure to see Dr. Johnson drink wine
again, for he had lately returned to it. When I mentioned this to
Johnson, he said: "I drink it now sometimes, but not socially." The
first evening that I was with him at Thrale's, I observed he poured a
large quantity of it into a glass, and swallowed it greedily. Everything
about his character and manners was forcible and violent; there never
was any moderation; many a day did he fast, many a year did he refrain
from wine; but when he did eat, it was voraciously; when he did drink
wine, it was copiously. He could practice abstinence, but not
temperance.

"I am not a severe man," Johnson once said; "as I know more of mankind I
expect less of them, and am ready now to call a man _a good man_ upon
easier terms than I was formerly."

This kind indulgence--extended towards myself when overcome by wine--had
once or twice a pretty difficult trial, but on my making an apology, I
always found Johnson behave to me with the most friendly gentleness. In
fact, Johnson was not severe, but he was pugnacious, and this pugnacity
and roughness he displayed most conspicuously in conversation. He could
not brook appearing to be worsted in argument, even when, to show the
force and dexterity of his talents, he had taken the wrong side. When,
therefore, he perceived that his opponent gained ground, he had recourse
to some sudden mode of robust sophistry. Once when I was pressing upon
him with visible advantage, he stopped me thus: "My dear Boswell, let's
have no more of this. You'll make nothing of it. I'd rather have you
whistle a Scotch tune."

Goldsmith used to say, in the witty words of one of Cibber's comedies,
"There is no arguing with Johnson, for when his pistol misses fire, he
knocks you down with the butt end of it."

In 1782 his complaints increased, and the history of his life this year
is little more than a mournful recital of the variations of his illness.
In one of his letters to Mr. Hector he says, indeed, "My health has
been, from my twentieth year, such as has seldom afforded me a single
day of ease." At a time, then, when he was less able than he had once
been to sustain a shock, he was suddenly deprived of Mr. Levett, who
died on January 17. But, although his health was tottering, the powers
of his mind were in no ways impaired, as his letters and conversation
showed. Moreover, during the last three or four years of his life he may
be said to have mellowed.

His love of little children, which he discovered upon all occasions,
calling them "pretty dears," and giving them sweetmeats, was an
undoubted proof of the real humanity and gentleness of his disposition.
His uncommon kindness to his servants, and serious concern, not only for
their comfort in this world, but their happiness in the next, was
another unquestionable evidence of what all who were intimately
acquainted with him knew to be true. Nor would it be just, under this
head, to omit the fondness that he showed for animals which he had taken
under his protection. I never shall forget the indulgence with which he
treated Hodge, his cat, for whom he himself used to go out and buy
oysters, lest the servants, having that trouble, should take a dislike
to the poor creature.


_XII.--The Last Year_


In April, 1783, Johnson had a paralytic stroke, which deprived him, for
a time, of the powers of speech. But he recovered so quickly that in
July he was able to make a visit to Mr. Langton, at Rochester, where he
passed about a fortnight, and made little excursions as easily as at any
time of his life. In August he went as far as the neighbourhood of
Salisbury, to Heale, the seat of William Bowles, Esq.; and it was while
he was here that he had a letter from his physician, Dr. Brocklesby,
acquainting him of the death of Mrs. Williams, which affected him a good
deal.

In the end of 1783, in addition to his gout and his catarrhous cough, he
was seized with a spasmodic asthma of such violence that he was confined
to the house in great pain, being sometimes obliged to sit all night in
his chair, a recumbent posture being so hurtful to his respiration that
he could not endure lying in bed; and there came upon him at the same
time that oppressive and fatal disease of dropsy. His cough he used to
cure by taking laudanum and syrup of poppies, and he was a great
believer in the advantages of being bled. But this year the very severe
winter aggravated his complaints, and the asthma confined him to the
house for more than three months; though he got almost complete relief
from the dropsy by natural evacuation in February.

On Wednesday, May 5, 1784--the last year of Dr. Johnson's life--I
arrived in London for my spring visit; and next morning I had the
pleasure to find him greatly recovered. But I was in his company
frequently and particularly remember the fine spirits he was in one
evening at our Essex Head Club. He praised Mr. Burke's constant stream
of conversation, saying, "Yes, sir; if a man were to go by chance at the
same time with Burke under a shed, to shun a shower, he would say, 'This
is an extraordinary man.'"

He had now a great desire to go to Oxford, as his first jaunt after his
illness; we talked of it for some days, and on June 3 the Oxford
post-coach took us up at Bolt Court, and we spent an agreeable fortnight
with Dr. Adams at Pembroke College.

The anxiety of his friends to preserve so estimable a life made them
plan for him a retreat from the severity of a British winter to the mild
climate of Italy; and, after consulting with Sir Joshua Reynolds, I
wrote to Lord Thurlow, the Lord Chancellor, for such an addition to
Johnson's income as would enable him to bear the expense.

Lord Thurlow, who highly valued Johnson, and whom Johnson highly valued,
at first made a very favourable reply, which being communicated to Dr.
Johnson, greatly affected him; but eventually he had to confess that his
application had been unsuccessful, and made a counter proposal, very
gratefully refused by Johnson, that he should draw upon him to the
amount of £500 or £600.

On Wednesday, June 30, I dined with him, for the last time, at Sir
Joshua Reynolds's, no other company being present; and on July 2 I left
London for Scotland.

Soon afterwards he had the mortification of being informed by Mrs.
Thrale that she was actually going to marry Signor Piozzi, a papist, and
her daughter's music-master. He endeavoured to prevent the marriage, but
in vain.

Eleven days after I myself had left town, Johnson set out on a jaunt to
Staffordshire and Derbyshire, flattering himself that he might be, in
some degree, relieved; but towards the end of October he had to confess
that his progress was slight. But there was in him an animated and lofty
spirit, and such was his love of London that he languished when absent
from it. To Dr. Brocklesby he wrote: "I am not afraid either of a
journey to London, or of a residence in it. The town is my element;
there are my friends, there are my books, to which I have not yet bid
farewell, and there are my amusements. Sir Joshua told me long ago that
my vocation was to public life, and I hope still to keep my station,
till God shall bid me 'Go in peace.'"

He arrived in London on November 16. Soon after his return both the
asthma and the dropsy became more violent and distressful, and though he
was attended by Dr. Heberden, Dr. Brocklesby, Dr. Warren, and Dr.
Butter, who all refused fees, and though he himself co-operated with
them, and made deep incisions in his body to draw off the water from it,
he gradually sank. On December 2, he sent directions for inscribing
epitaphs for his father, mother, and brother on a memorial slab in St.
Michael's Church, Lichfield. On December 8 and 9 he made his will; and
on Monday, December 13, he expired about seven o'clock in the evening,
with so little apparent pain that his attendants hardly perceived when
his dissolution took place. A week later he was buried in Westminster
Abbey, his old schoolfellow, Dr. Taylor, reading the service.

I trust I shall not be accused of affectation when I declare that I find
myself unable to express all that I felt upon the loss of such a "Guide,
Philosopher, and Friend." I shall, therefore, not say one word of my
own, but adopt those of an eminent friend, which he uttered with an
abrupt felicity: "He has made a chasm, which not only nothing can fill
up, but which nothing has a tendency to fill up. Johnson is dead. Let us
go to the next best: there is nobody; no man can be said to put you in
mind of Johnson."

       *       *       *       *       *




SIR DAVID BREWSTER


Life of Sir Isaac Newton


     Sir David Brewster, a distinguished physicist, was born at
     Jedburgh, on December 11, 1781. He was educated at Edinburgh
     University, and was licensed as a clergyman of the Church of
     Scotland by the Presbytery of Edinburgh. Nervousness in the
     pulpit compelled him to retire from clerical life and devote
     himself to scientific work, and in 1808 he became editor of
     the "Edinburgh Encyclopaedia." His chief scientific interest
     was optics, and he invented the kaleidoscope, and improved
     Wheatstone's stereoscope by introducing the divided lenses. In
     1815 he was elected a member of the Royal Society, and, later,
     was awarded the Rumford gold and silver medals for his
     discoveries in the polarisation of light. In 1831 he was
     knighted. From 1859 he held the office of Principal of
     Edinburgh University until his death on February 10, 1868. The
     "Life of Sir Isaac Newton" appeared in 1831, when it was first
     published in Murray's "Family Library." Although popularly
     written, not only does it embody the results of years of
     investigation, but it throws a unique light on the life of the
     celebrated scientist. Brewster supplemented it in 1855 with
     the much fuller "Memoirs of the Life, Writings, and
     Discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton."


_I.--The Young Scientist_


Sir Isaac Newton was born at the hamlet of Woolsthorpe on December 25,
1642. His father, a yeoman farmer, died a few months after his marriage,
and never saw his son.

When Isaac was three years old his mother married again, and he was
given over to the charge of his maternal grandmother. While still a boy
at school, his mechanical genius began to show itself, and he
constructed various mechanisms, including a windmill, a water-clock, and
a carriage put in motion by the person who sat in it. He was also fond
of drawing, and wrote verses. Even at this age he began to take an
interest in astronomy. In the yard of the house where he lived he traced
the varying movements of the sun upon the walls of the buildings, and by
means of fixed pins he marked out the hourly and half-hourly
subdivisions.

At the age of fifteen his mother took him from school, and sent him to
manage the farm and country business at Woolsthorpe, but farming and
marketing did not interest him, and he showed such a passion for study
that eventually he was sent back to school to prepare for Cambridge.

In the year 1660 Newton was admitted into Trinity College, Cambridge.
His attention was first turned to the study of mathematics by a desire
to inquire into the truth of judicial astrology, and he is said to have
discovered the folly of that study by erecting a figure with the aid of
one or two of the problems in Euclid. The propositions contained in
Euclid he regarded as self-evident; and, without any preliminary study,
he made himself master of Descartes' "Geometry" by his genius and
patient application. Dr. Wallis's "Arithmetic of Infinites," Sanderson's
"Logic," and the "Optics" of Kepler, were among the books which he
studied with care; and he is reported to have found himself more deeply
versed in some branches of knowledge than the tutor who directed his
studies.

In 1665 Newton took his Bachelor of Arts degree, and in 1666, in
consequence of the breaking out of the plague, he retired to
Woolsthorpe. In 1668 he took his Master of Arts degree, and was
appointed to a senior fellowship. And in 1669 he was made Lucasian
professor of mathematics.

During the years 1666-69, Newton was engaged in optical researches which
culminated in his invention of the first reflecting telescope. On
January 11, 1761, it was announced to the Royal Society that his
reflecting telescope had been shown to the king, and had been examined
by the president, Sir Robert Murray, Sir Paul Neale, and Sit Christopher
Wren.

In the course of his optical researches, Newton discovered the different
refrangibility of different rays of light, and in his professorial
lectures during the years 1669, 1670, and 1671 he announced his
discoveries; but not till 1672 did he communicate them to the Royal
Society. No sooner were these discoveries given to the world than they
were opposed with a degree of virulence and ignorance which have seldom
been combined in scientific controversy. The most distinguished of his
opponents were Robert Hooke and Huyghens. Both attacked his theory from
the standpoint of the undulatory theory of light which they upheld.


_II.--The Colours of Natural Bodies_


In examining the nature and origin of colours as the component parts of
white light, the attention of Newton was directed to the explanation of
the colours of natural bodies. His earliest researches on this subject
were communicated, in his "Discourse on Light and Colours," to the Royal
Society in 1675.

Dr. Hooke had succeeded in splitting a mineral substance called mica
into films of such extreme thinness as to give brilliant colours. One
plate, for example, gave a yellow colour, another a blue colour, and the
two together a deep purple, but as plates which produced this colour
were always less than the twelve-thousandth part of an inch thick it was
quite impracticable, by any contrivance yet discovered, to measure their
thickness, and determine the law according to which the colours varied
with the thickness of the film. Newton surmounted this difficulty by
laying a double convex lens, the radius of the curvature of each side of
which was fifty feet, upon the flat surface of a plano-convex
object-glass, and in the way he obtained a plate of air, or of space,
varying from the thinnest possible edge at the centre of the
object-glass where it touched the plane surface to a considerable
thickness at the circumference of the lens. When the light was allowed
to fall upon the object-glass, every different thickness of the plate of
air between the object-glasses gave different colours, so that the point
where the two object-glasses touched one another was the centre of a
number of concentric coloured rings. Now, as the curvature of the
object-glass was known, it was easy to calculate the thickness of the
plate of air at which any particular colour appeared, and thus to
determine the law of the phenomena.

By accurate measurements Newton found that the thickness of air at which
the most luminous parts of the first rings were produced were, in parts
of an inch, as 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, and 11 to 178,000.

If the medium or the substance of the thin plate is water, as in the
case of the soap-bubble, which produces beautiful colours according to
its different degrees of thinness, the thicknesses at which the most
luminous parts of the ring appear are produced at 1/1.336 the thickness
at which they are produced in air, and, in the case of glass or mica, at
1/1.525 at thickness, the numbers 1.336, 1.525 expressing the ratio of
the sines of the angles of incidence and refraction which produce the
colours.

From the phenomena thus briefly described, Newton deduced that
ingenious, though hypothetical, property of light called its "fits of
easy reflection and transmission." This property consists in supposing
that every particle of light from its first discharge from a luminous
body possesses, at equally distant intervals, dispositions to be
reflected from, and transmitted through, the surfaces of the bodies upon
which it is incident. Hence, if a particle of light reaches a reflecting
surface of glass _when in its fit of easy reflection_, or in its
disposition to be reflected, it will yield more readily to the
reflecting force of the surface; and, on the contrary, if it reaches the
same surface _while in a fit of easy transmission_, or in a disposition
to be transmitted, it will yield with more difficulty to the reflecting
force.

The application of the theory of alternate fits of transmission and
reflection to explain the colours of thin plates is very simple.

Transparency, opacity and colour were explained by Newton on the
following principles.

Bodies that have the greatest refractive powers reflect the greatest
quantity of light from their surfaces, and at the confines of equally
refracting media there is no reflection.

The least parts of almost all natural bodies are in some measure
transparent.

Between the parts of opaque and coloured bodies are many spaces, or
pores, either empty or filled with media of other densities.

The parts of bodies and their interstices or pores must not be less than
of some definite bigness to render them coloured.

The transparent parts of bodies, according to their several sizes,
reflect rays of one colour, and transmit those of another on the same
ground that thin plates do reflect or transmit these rays.

The parts of bodies on which their colour depend are denser than the
medium which pervades their interstices.

The bigness of the component parts of natural bodies may be conjectured
by their colours.

_Transparency_ he considers as arising from the particles and their
intervals, or pores, being too small to cause reflection at their common
surfaces; so that all light which enters transparent bodies passes
through them without any portion of it being turned from its path by
reflexion.

_Opacity_, he thinks, arises from an opposite cause, _viz._, when the
parts of bodies are of such a size to be capable of reflecting the light
which falls upon them, in which case the light is "stopped or stifled"
by the multitude of reflections.

The _colours_ of natural bodies have, in the Newtonian hypothesis, the
same origin as the colours of thin plates, their transparent particles,
according to their several sizes, reflecting rays of one colour and
transmitting those of another.

Among the optical discoveries of Newton those which he made on the
inflection of light hold a high place. They were first published in his
"Treatise on Optics," in 1707.


_III--The Discovery of the Law of Gravitation_


From the optical labours of Newton we now proceed to the history of his
astronomical discoveries, those transcendent deductions of human reason
by which he has secured to himself an immortal name, and vindicated the
intellectual dignity of his species.

In the year 1666, Newton was sitting in his garden at Woolsthorpe,
reflecting on the nature of gravity, that remarkable power which causes
all bodies to descend towards the centre of the earth. As this power
does not sensibly diminish at the greatest height we can reach he
conceived it possible that it might reach to the moon and affect its
motion, and even hold it in its orbit. At such a distance, however, he
considered some diminution of the force probable, and in order to
estimate the diminution, he supposed that the primary planets were
carried round the sun by the same force. On this assumption, by
comparing the periods of the different planets with their distances from
the sun, he found that the force must decrease as the squares of the
distances from the sun. In drawing this conclusion he supposed the
planets to move in circular orbits round the sun.

Having thus obtained a law, he next tried to ascertain if it applied to
the moon and the earth, to determine if the force emanating from the
earth was sufficient, if diminished in the duplicate ratio of the moon's
distance, to retain the moon in its orbit. For this purpose it was
necessary to compare the space through which heavy bodies fall in a
second at the surface of the earth with the space through which the
moon, as it were, falls to the earth in a second of time, while
revolving in a circular orbit. Owing to an erroneous estimate of the
earth's diameter, he found the facts not quite in accordance with the
supposed law; he found that the force which on this assumption would act
upon the moon would be one-sixth more than required to retain it in its
orbit.

Because of this incongruity he let the matter drop for a time. But, in
1679, his mind again reverted to the subject; and in 1682, having
obtained a correct measurement of the diameter of the earth, he repeated
his calculations of 1666. In the progress of his calculations he saw
that the result which he had formerly expected was likely to be
produced, and he was thrown into such a state of nervous irritability
that he was unable to carry on the calculation. In this state of mind he
entrusted it to one of his friends, and he had the high satisfaction of
finding his former views amply realised. The force of gravity which
regulated the fall of bodies at the earth's surface, when diminished as
the square of the moon's distance from the earth, was found to be
exactly equal to the centrifugal force of the moon as deduced from her
observed distance and velocity.

The influence of such a result upon such a mind may be more easily
conceived than described. The whole material universe was opened out
before him; the sun with all his attending planets; the planets with all
their satellites; the comets wheeling in every direction in their
eccentric orbits; and the system of the fixed stars stretching to the
remotest limits of space. All the varied and complicated movements of
the heavens, in short, must have been at once presented to his mind as
the necessary result of that law which he had established in reference
to the earth and the moon.

After extending this law to the other bodies of the system, he composed
a series of propositions on the motion of the primary planets about the
sun, which was sent to London about the end of 1683, and was soon
afterwards communicated to the Royal Society.

Newton's discovery was claimed by Hooke, who certainly aided Newton to
reach the truth, and was certainly also on the track of the same law.

Between 1686 and 1687 appeared the three books of Newton's immortal
work, known as the "Principia." The first and second book are entitled
"On the Motion of Bodies," and the third "On the System of the World."

In this great work Newton propounds the principle that "every particle
of matter in the universe is attracted by, or gravitates to, every other
particle of matter with a force inversely proportional to the squares of
their distances." From the second law of Kepler, namely, the
proportionality of the areas to the times of their description, Newton
inferred that the force which keeps a planet in its orbit is always
directed to the sun. From the first law of Kepler, that every planet
moves in an ellipse with the sun in one of its foci, he drew the still
more general inference that the force by which the planet moves round
that focus varies inversely as the square of its distance from the
focus. From the third law of Kepler, which connects the distances and
periods of the planets by a general rule, Newton deduced the equality of
gravity in them all towards the sun, modified only by their different
distances from its centre; and in the case of terrestrial bodies, he
succeeded in verifying the equality of action by numerous and accurate
experiments.

By taking a more general view of the subject, Newton showed that a conic
section was the only curve in which a body could move when acted upon by
a force varying inversely as the square of the distance; and he
established the conditions depending on the velocity and the primitive
position of the body which were requisite to make it describe a
circular, an elliptical, a parabolic, or a hyperbolic orbit.

It still remained to show whether the force resided in the centre of
planets or in their individual particles; and Newton demonstrated that
if a spherical body acts upon a distant body with a force varying as the
distance of this body from the centre of the sphere, the same effect
will be produced as if each of its particles acted upon the distant body
according to the same law.

Hence it follows that the spheres, whether they are of uniform density,
or consist of concentric layers of varying densities, will act upon each
other in the same manner as if their force resided in their centres
alone. But as the bodies of the solar system are nearly spherical, they
will all act upon one another and upon bodies placed on their surface,
as if they were so many centres of attraction; and therefore we obtain
the law of gravity, that one sphere will act upon another sphere with a
force directly proportional to the quantity of matter, and inversely as
the square of the distance between the centres of the spheres. From the
equality of action and reaction, to which no exception can be found,
Newton concluded that the sun gravitates to the planets and the planets
to their satellites, and the earth itself to the stone which falls upon
its surface, and consequently that the two mutually gravitating bodies
approach one another with velocities inversely proportional to their
quantities of matter.

Having established this universal law, Newton was able not only to
determine the weight which the same body would have at the surface of
the sun and the planets, but even to calculate the quantity of matter in
the sun and in all the planets that had satellites, and also to
determine their density or specific gravity.

With wonderful sagacity Newton traced the consequences of the law of
gravitation. He showed that the earth must be an oblate spheroid, formed
by the revolution of an ellipse round its lesser axis. He showed how the
tides were caused by the moon, and how the effect of the moon's action
upon the earth is to draw its fluid parts into the form of an oblate
spheroid, the axis of which passes through the moon. He also applied the
law of gravitation to explain irregularities in the lunar motions, the
precession of the equinoctial points, and the orbits of comets.

In the "Principia" Newton published for the first time the fundamental
principle of the fluxionary calculus which he had discovered about
twenty years before; but not till 1693 was his whole work communicated
to the mathematical world. This delay in publication led to the
historical controversy between him and Leibnitz as to priority of
discovery.

In 1676 Newton had communicated to Leibnitz the fact that he had
discovered a general method of drawing tangents, concealing the method
in two sentences of transposed characters. In the following year
Leibnitz mentioned in a letter to Oldenburg (to be communicated to
Newton) that he had been for some time in possession of a method for
drawing tangents, and explains the method, which was no other than the
differential calculus. Before Newton had published a single word upon
fluxions the differential calculus had made rapid advances on the
Continent.

In 1704 a reviewer of Newton's "Optics" insinuated that Newton had
merely improved the method of Leibnitz, and had indeed stolen Leibnitz's
discovery; and this started a controversy which raged for years.
Finally, in 1713, a committee of the Royal Society investigated the
matter, and decided that Newton was the first inventor.


_IV.--Later Years of Newton's Life_


In 1692, when Newton was attending divine service, his dog Diamond upset
a lighted taper on his desk and destroyed some papers representing the
work of years. Newton is reported merely to have exclaimed: "O Diamond,
Diamond, little do you know the mischief you have done me!" But,
nevertheless, his excessive grief is said for a time to have affected
his mind.

In 1695 Newton was appointed Warden of the Mint, and his mathematical
and chemical knowledge were of eminent use in carrying on the recoinage
of the mint. Four years later he was made Master of the Mint, and held
this office during the remainder of his life. In 1701 he was elected one
of the members of parliament for Oxford University, and in 1705 he was
knighted.

Towards the end of his life Newton began to devote special attention to
the theological questions, and in 1733 he published a work entitled
"Observations upon the Prophecies of Daniel and the Apocalypse of St.
John," which is characterised by great learning and marked with the
sagacity of its distinguished author. Besides this religious work, he
also published his "Historical Account of Two Notable Corruptions of
Scripture," and his "Lexicon Propheticum."

In addition to theology, Newton also studied chemistry; and in 1701 a
paper by him, entitled "Scala graduum caloris," was read at the Royal
Society; while the queries at the end of his "Optics" are largely
chemical, dealing with such subjects as fire, flame, vapour, heat, and
elective attractions.

He regards fire as a body heated so hot as to emit light copiously; and
flame as a vapour, fume, or exhalation, heated so hot as to shine.

In explaining the structure of solid bodies, he is of the opinion "that
the smallest particles of matter may cohere by the strongest
attractions, and compose bigger particles of weaker virtue; and many of
these may cohere and compose bigger particles whose virtue is still
weaker; and so on for diverse successions, until the progression end in
the biggest particles on which the operations in chemistry and the
colours of natural bodies depend, and which, by adhering, compose bodies
of a sensible magnitude. If the body is compact, and bends or yields
inward to pressure without any sliding of its parts, it is hard and
elastic, returning to its figure with a force arising from the mutual
attraction of its parts.

"If the parts slide upon one another the body is malleable and soft. If
they slip easily, and are of a fit size to be agitated by heat, and the
heat is big enough to keep them in agitation, the body is fluid; and if
it be apt to stick to things it is humid; and the drops of every fluid
affect a round figure by the mutual attraction of their parts, as the
globe of the earth and sea affects a round figure by the mutual
attraction of its parts by gravity."

In a letter to Mr. Boyle (1678-79) Newton explains his views respecting
the ether. He considers that the ether accounts for the refraction of
light, the cohesion of two polished pieces of metal in an exhausted
receiver, the adhesion of quick-silver to glass tubes, the cohesion of
the parts of all bodies, the phenomena of filtration and of capillary
attraction, the action of menstrua on bodies, the transmutation of gross
compact substances into aerial ones, and gravity. If a body is either
heated or loses its heat when placed in vacuo, he ascribes the
conveyance of the heat in both cases "to the vibration of a much subtler
medium than air"; and he considers this medium also the medium by which
light is refracted and reflected, and by whose vibrations light
communicates heat to bodies and is put into fits of easy reflection and
transmission. Light, Newton regards as a peculiar substance composed of
heterogeneous particles thrown off with great velocity in all directions
from luminous bodies, and he supposes that these particles while passing
through the ether excite in it vibrations, or pulses, which accelerate
or retard the particles of light, and thus throw them into alternate
"fits of easy reflection and transmission." He computes the elasticity
of the ether to be 490,000,000,000 times greater than air in proportion
to its density.

In 1722, in his eightieth year, Newton began to suffer from stone; but
by means of a strict regimen and other precautions he was enabled to
alleviate the complaint, and to procure long intervals of ease. But a
journey to London on February 28, 1727, to preside at a meeting of the
Royal Society greatly aggravated the complaint. On Wednesday, March 15,
he appeared to be somewhat better. On Saturday morning he carried on a
pretty long conversation with Dr. Mead; but at six o'clock the same
evening he became insensible, and continued in that state until Monday,
the 20th, when he expired, without pain, between one and two o'clock in
the morning, in the eighty-fifth year of his age.

       *       *       *       *       *




JOHN BUNYAN


Grace Abounding


     During his life of sixty years Bunyan wrote sixty books, and
     of all these undoubtedly the most popular are the "Pilgrim's
     Progress," "The Holy War," and "Grace Abounding." His "Grace
     Abounding to the Chief of Sinners," generally called simply
     "Grace Abounding," is a record of his own religious
     experiences. (Bunyan, biography: see FICTION.)


_I.--To the Chief of Sinners_


In this relation of the merciful working of God upon my soul I do in the
first place give you a hint of my pedigree and manner of bringing up. My
descent was, as is well-known to many, of a low and inconsiderable
generation, my father's house being of that rank that is meanest and
most despised of all the families in the land. Though my parents put me
to school, to my shame I confess I did soon lose that little I learnt.
As for my own natural life, for the time that I was without God in the
world, it was indeed according to the course of this world, and the
spirit that worketh in the children of disobedience, for from a child I
had but few equals for cursing, lying, and blaspheming. In these days
the thoughts of religion were very grievous to me. I could neither
endure it myself, nor that any other should. But God did not utterly
leave me, but followed me with judgements, yet such as were mixed with
mercy.

Once I fell into a creek of the sea and hardly escaped drowning; and
another time I fell out of a boat into Bedford river, but mercy yet
preserved me alive. When I was a soldier, I and others were drawn to
such a place to besiege it; but when I was ready to go, one of the
company desired to go in my place, to which I consented. Coming to the
siege, as he stood sentinel, he was shot in the head with a musket
bullet, and died. Here were judgement and mercy, but neither of them did
awaken my soul to righteousness.

Presently, after this I changed my condition into a married state, and
my mercy was to light upon a wife whose father was counted godly. Though
we came together so poor that we had not so much household stuff as a
dish or a spoon betwixt us both, yet she had two books which her father
left her when he died: "The Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven," and "The
Practice of Piety." In these I sometimes read with her, and in them
found some things that were pleasing to me, but met with no conviction.
Yet through these books I fell in very eagerly with the religion of the
times, to wit, to go to church twice a day, though yet retaining my
wicked life. But one day, as I was standing at a neighbour's
shop-window, cursing after my wonted manner, the woman of the house
protested that she was made to tremble to hear me, and told me I by thus
doing was able to spoil all the youth in the whole town.

At this reproof I was put to shame, and that, too, as I thought, before
the God of Heaven. Hanging down my head, I wished with all my heart that
I might be a little child again. How it came to pass I know not, but I
did from this time so leave off my swearing that it was a wonder to
myself to observe it. Soon afterwards I fell in company with one poor
man that made profession of religion. Falling into some liking to what
he said, I betook me to my Bible, especially to the historical part.
Wherefore I fell to some outward reformation, and did strive to keep the
commandments, and thus I continued about a year, all which time our
neighbours wondered at seeing such an alteration in my life. For though
I was as yet nothing but a poor painted hypocrite, I loved to be talked
of as one that was godly. Yet, as my conscience was beginning to be
tender, I after a time gave up bell-ringing and dancing, thinking I
could thus the better please God. But, poor wretch as I was, I was still
ignorant of Jesus Christ, and was going about to establish my own
righteousness.

But upon a day the good providence of God took me to Bedford, to work on
my calling, and in that town I came on three or four poor women sitting
at a door in the sun and talking about the things of God. I listened in
silence while they spoke of the new birth and the work of God on their
hearts. At this I felt my own heart began to shake, for their words
convinced me that I wanted the true tokens of a godly man. I now began
to look into my Bible with new eyes, and became conscious of my lack of
faith, and was often ready to sink with faintness in my mind, lest I
should prove not to be an elect vessel of the mercy of God. I was long
vexed with fear, until one day a sweet light broke in upon me as I came
on the words, "Yet there is room." Still I wavered many months between
hopes and fears, though as to act of sinning I never was more tender
than now. I was more loathsome in my own eyes than a toad, and I thought
I was so in God's eyes, too. I thought none but the devil could equalise
me for inward wickedness; and thus I continued a long while, even some
years together. But afterwards the Lord did more fully and graciously
discover Himself to me, and at length I was indeed put into my right
mind, even as other Christians are.

I remember that one day as I was travelling into the country, and musing
on the wickedness of my heart, that Scripture came to my mind. "He hath
made peace by the blood of His cross." I saw that the justice of God and
my sinful soul could embrace each other through this blood. This was a
good day to me. At this time I sat under the ministry of holy Mr.
Gifford, whose doctrine was, by God's grace, much for my stability. My
soul was now led from truth to truth, even from the birth and cradle of
the Son of God to His ascension and His second coming to judge the
world.

One day there fell into my hands a book of Martin Luther. It was his
"Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians," and the volume was so old
that it was ready to fall to pieces. When I had but a little way perused
it, I found that my condition was in his experience so handled as if his
book had been written out of my heart. I do here wish to set forth that
I do prefer this book of Martin Luther upon the Galatians (excepting the
Holy Bible) before all the books I have ever seen, as most fit for a
wounded conscience. About this time I was beset with tormenting fears
that I had committed the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost, and an
ancient Christian to whom I opened my mind told me he thought so, too,
which gave me cold comfort. Thus, by strange and unusual assaults of the
tempter was my soul, like a broken vessel, tossed and driven with winds.
There was now nothing that I longed for but to be put out of doubt as to
my full pardon. One morning when I was at prayer, and trembling under
fear that no word of God could help me, that piece of a sentence darted
in upon me: "My grace is sufficient." By these words I was sweetly
sustained for about eight weeks, though not without conflicts, until at
last these same words did break in with great power suddenly upon me:
"My grace is sufficient for thee," repeated three times, at which my
understanding was so enlightened that I was as though I had seen the
Lord Jesus look down from Heaven through the tiles upon me, and direct
these words to me.

One day, as I was passing in the field, with some dashes on my
conscience, fearing lest yet all was not right, suddenly this sentence
fell upon my soul: "Thy righteousness is in Heaven." I saw in a moment
that my righteousness was not my good frame of heart, but Jesus Christ
Himself, "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever." Now shall I go
forward to give you a relation of other of the Lord's dealings with me.
I shall begin with what I met when I first did join in fellowship with
the people of God in Bedford. Upon a time I was suddenly seized with
much sickness, and was inclining towards consumption. Now I began to
give myself up to fresh serious examination, and there came flocking
into my mind an innumerable company of my sins and transgressions, my
soul also being greatly tormented between these two considerations: Live
I must not, die I dare not. But as I was walking up and down in the
house, a man in a most woeful state, that word of God took hold of my
heart: "Ye are justified freely by His grace, through the redemption
that is in Jesus Christ." But oh, what a turn it made upon me! At this I
was greatly lightened in my mind, and made to understand that God could
justify a sinner at any time. And as I was thus in a muse, that
Scripture also came with great power upon my spirit: "Not by works of
righteousness that we have done, but according to His mercy He hath
saved us." Now was I got on high; I saw myself verily within the arms of
grace and mercy; and though I was before afraid to think of a dying
hour, yet now I cried with my whole heart: "Let me die."


_II.--Bunyan Becomes a Preacher_


And now I will thrust in a word or two concerning my preaching of the
Word. For, after I had been about five or six years awakened, some of
the ablest of the saints with us desired me, with much earnestness, to
take a hand sometimes in one of the meetings, and to speak a word of
exhortation unto them. I consented to their request, and did twice at
two several assemblies, though with much weakness, discover my gift to
them. At which they did solemnly protest that they were much affected
and comforted, and gave thanks to the Father of Mercies for the grace
bestowed on me. After this, when some of them did go to the country to
teach, they would also that I should go with them. To be brief, after
some solemn prayer to the Lord with fasting, I was more particularly
called forth and appointed to a more ordinary and public preaching of
the Word. Though of myself of all saints the most unworthy, yet I did
set upon the work, and did according to my gift preach the blessed
Gospel, which, when the country people understood, they came in to hear
the Word by hundreds. I had not preached long before some began to be
touched at the apprehension of their need of Jesus Christ, and to bless
God for me as God's instrument that showed the way of salvation.

In my preaching I took special notice of this one thing, that the Lord
did lead me to begin where His Word begins with sinners--that is, to
condemn all flesh, because of sin. Thus I went on for about two years,
crying out against men's sins, after which the Lord came in upon my soul
and gave me discoveries of His Blessed grace, wherefore I now altered in
my preaching, and did much labour to hold forth Christ in all His
relations, offices, and benefits unto the world. After this, God led me
into something of the mystery of union with Christ. Wherefore that I
discovered to them also. And when I had travelled through these three
chief points of the Word of God, about five years or more, I was cast
into prison, where I have lain above as long again, to confirm the truth
by way of suffering, as before in testifying of it by preaching
according to the Scriptures.

When I went first to preach the Word, the doctors and priests of the
country did open wide against me. But I was persuaded not to render
railing for railing, but to see how many of their carnal professors I
could convince of their miserable state by the law, and of the want and
worth of Christ. I never cared to meddle with things that were
controverted among the saints, especially things of the lowest nature. I
have observed that where I have had a work to do for God, I have had
first, as it were, the going of God upon my spirit to desire I might
preach there. My great desire in my fulfilling my ministry was to get
into the darkest places of the country, even amongst these people that
were furthest off of profession. But in this work, as in all other work,
I had my temptations attending me, and that of divers kinds. Sometimes
when I have been preaching I have been violently assailed with thoughts
of blasphemy, and strangely tempted to speak the words with my mouth
before the congregation. But, I thank the Lord, I have been kept from
consenting to these so horrid suggestions. I have also, while found in
this blessed work of Christ, been often tempted to pride and liftings up
of heart, and this has caused hanging down of the head under all my
gifts and attainments. I have felt this thorn in the flesh the very
mercy of God to me. But when Satan perceived that his thus tempting and
assaulting of me would not answer his design--to wit, to overthrow my
ministry--then he tried another way, which was to load me with slanders
and reproaches. It began, therefore, to be rumoured up and down the
country that I was a witch, a Jesuit, a highwayman, and the like. To all
which I shall only say, God knows that I am innocent. Now, as Satan
laboured to make me vile among my countrymen, that, if possible, my
preaching might be of none effect, so there was added thereto a tedious
imprisonment, of which I shall in my next give you a brief account.


_III.--In a Prison Cell_


Upon November 12, 1660, I was desired by some of the friends in the
country to come to teach at Samsell, by Harlington, in Bedfordshire, to
whom I made a promise to be with them. The justice, Mr. Francis Wingate,
hearing thereof, forthwith issued out his warrant to take me and bring
me before him. When the constable came in we were, with our Bibles in
our hands, just about to begin our exercise. So that I was taken and
forced to leave the room, but before I went away I spake some words of
counsel and encouragement to the people; for we might have been
apprehended as thieves or murderers. But, blessed be God, we suffer as
Christians for well-doing; and we had better be the persecuted than the
persecutors. But the constable and the justice's man would not be quiet
till they had me away. But because the justice was not at home on that
day, a friend of mine engaged to bring me to the constable next morning;
so on that day we went to him, and so to the justice. He asked the
constable what we did where we were met together, and what we had with
us? I know he meant whether we had armour or not; but when he heard that
there were only a few of us, met for preaching and hearing the Word, he
could not well tell what to say. Yet, because he had sent for me, he did
adventure to put a few proposals to me, to this effect: What did I
there? Why did I not content myself with following my calling? For it
was against the law that such as I should be admitted to do as I did. I
answered that my intent was to instruct the people to forsake their sins
and close in with Christ, lest they did perish miserably, and that I
could do both, follow my calling and also preach without confusion.

At which words he was in a chafe, for he said he would break the neck of
our meetings. I said it might be so. Then he wished me to get sureties
to be bound for me, or else he would send me to the gaol. My sureties
being ready, I called them in, and when the bond for my appearance was
made, he told them that they were bound to keep me from preaching; and
that if I did preach, their bonds would be forfeited. To which I
answered that I should break them, for I should not leave preaching the
Word of God. Whereat that my mittimus must be made, and I sent to the
gaol, there to lie till the quarter sessions.

After I had lain in the gaol for four or five days, the brethren sought
means again to get me out by bondsmen (for so runs my mittimus--that I
should lie there till I could find sureties). They went to a justice at
Elstow, one Mr. Crumpton, to desire him to take bond for my appearing at
quarter session. At first he told them he would; but afterwards he made
a demur at the business, and desired first to see my mittimus, which ran
to this purpose: That I went about to several conventicles in this
country, to the great disparagement of the government of the Church of
England, etc. When he had seen it, he said there might be something more
against me than was expressed in my mittimus; and that he was but a
young man, and, therefore, he durst not do it. This my gaoler told me;
whereat I was not at all daunted, but rather glad, and saw evidently
that the Lord had heard me; for before I went down to the justice, I
begged of God that if I might do more good by being at liberty than in
prison that then I might be set at liberty; but, if not, His will be
done. For I was not altogether without hopes that my imprisonment might
be an awakening to the saints in this country, therefore I could not
tell well which to choose; only I in that manner did commit the thing to
God. And verily, at my return, I did meet my God sweetly in the prison
again, comforting of me and satisfying of me that it was His will and
mind that I should be there.

When I came back to prison, when I was musing at the slender answer of
the justice, this word dropped in upon my heart with some life: "For He
knew that for envy they had delivered him."

Thus have I, in short, declared the manner and occasion of my being in
prison, where I lie waiting the good will of God, to do with me as he
pleaseth; knowing that not one hair of my head can fall to the ground
without the will of my Father.


_IV.--Bunyan's Story Supplemented_


The continuation by an intimate friend of Bunyan, written anonymously.

Reader--The painful and industrious author of this book has given you a
faithful and very moving relation of the beginning and middle of the
days of his pilgrimage on earth. As a true and intimate acquaintance of
Mr. Bunyan's, that his good end may be known, as well as his evil
beginning, I have taken upon me to piece this to the thread too soon
broke off.

After his being freed from his twelve years' imprisonment, wherein he
had time to furnish the world with sundry good books, etc., and by his
patience to move Dr. Barlow, the then Bishop of Lincoln, and other
churchmen, to pity his hard and unreasonable sufferings so far as to
procure his enlargement, or there perhaps he had died by the noisomeness
and ill-usage of the place. Being again at liberty, he went to visit
those who had been a comfort to him in his tribulation, giving
encouragement by his example, if they happened to fall into affliction
or trouble, then to suffer patiently for the sake of a good conscience,
so that the people found a wonderful consolation in his discourse and
admonition.

As often as opportunity would permit, he gathered them together in
convenient places, though the law was then in force against meetings,
and fed them with the sincere milk of the Word, that they might grow in
grace thereby. He sent relief to such as were anywhere taken and
imprisoned on these accounts. He took great care to visit the sick, nor
did he spare any pains or labour in travel though to the remote
counties, where any might stand in need of his assistance.

When in the late reign liberty of conscience was unexpectedly given, he
gathered his congregation at Bedford, where he mostly lived and had
spent most of his life. Here a new and larger meeting-house was built,
and when, for the first time, he appeared there to edify, the place was
so thronged that many were constrained to stay without, though the house
was very spacious.

Here he lived in much peace and quiet of mind, contenting himself with
that little God had bestowed on him, and sequestering himself from all
secular employments to follow that of his call to the ministry.

During these things there were regulators sent into all the cities and
towns corporate, to new model the government in the magistracy, etc., by
turning out some and putting in others. Against this Mr. Bunyan
expressed zeal with some weariness, and laboured with his congregation
to prevent their being imposed on in this kind. And when a great man in
those days, coming to Bedford upon such an errand, sent for him, as it
is supposed, to give him a place of public trust, he would by no means
come at him, but sent his excuse.

When he was at leisure from writing and teaching, he often came up to
London, and there went among the congregations of the Nonconformists,
and used his talent to the great good-liking of the hearers. Thus he
spent his latter years. But let me come a little nearer to particulars
of time. After he was sensibly convicted of the wicked state of his life
and converted, he was baptised into the congregation, and admitted a
member thereof in the year 1655, and became speedily a very zealous
professor. But upon the return of King Charles II. to the Crown in 1660,
he was on November 12 taken as he was edifying some good people, and
confined in Bedford Gaol for the space of six years; till the Act of
Indulgence to dissenters being allowed, he obtained his freedom by the
intercession of some in power that took pity on his sufferings; but was
again taken up, and was then confined for six years more. He was chosen
to the care of the congregation at Bedford on December 12, 1671. In this
charge he often had disputed with scholars that came to oppose him, as
thinking him an ignorant person; but he confuted, and put to silence,
one after another, all his method being to keep close to Scripture.

At length, worn out with sufferings, age, and often teaching, the day of
his dissolution drew near. Riding to Reading in order to plead with a
young man's father for reconciliation to him, he journeyed on his return
by way of London, where, through being overtaken by excessive rains and
coming to his lodgings extremely wet, he fell sick of a violent fever,
which he bore with much constancy and patience. Finding his vital
strength decay, he resigned his soul into the hands of his most merciful
Redeemer, following his Pilgrim from the City of Destruction to the New
Jerusalem. He died at the house of one Mr. Straddocks, a grocer, at the
Star on Snow Hill, in the Parish of St. Sepulchre, London, in the
sixtieth year of his age, after ten days' sickness; and was buried in
the new burying ground in Artillery Place.

       *       *       *       *       *




ALEXANDER CARLYLE


Autobiography


     Alexander Carlyle, minister of the Church of Scotland and
     author of the celebrated "Autobiography," was born at
     Cummmertrees Manse, Dumfriesshire, on January 26, 1722, and
     died at Inveresk on August 25, 1805. His commanding appearance
     won for him the sobriquet of "Jupiter Carlyle," and Sir Walter
     Scott spoke of him as "the grandest demi-god I ever saw." He
     was greatly respected in Scotland as a wise and tolerant man,
     where too many were narrow, bitter, and inquisitorial. With
     regard to freedom in religious thought he was in advance of
     his time, and brought the clerical profession into greater
     respect by showing himself a cultured man of the world as well
     as a leader of his Church. Carlyle, however, would hardly be
     remembered now but for the glimpses which his book gives of
     contemporary persons and manners. The work was first edited in
     1860 by John Hill Burton.


_I.--In the Days of Prince Charlie_


I have been too late in beginning this work, as I have entered on the
seventy-ninth year of my age, but I will endeavour, with God's blessing,
to serve posterity to the best of my ability with such a faithful
picture of times and characters as came within my view in the humble and
private sphere of life in which I have always acted.

My father, minister of Prestonpans, was of a warm and benevolent temper,
and an orthodox and eloquent orator. My mother was a person of an
elegant and reflecting mind, and was as much respected as my father was
beloved. Until 1732, when I was ten years of age, they were in very
narrow circumstances, but in that year the stipend was raised from £70
to £140 per annum. In 1735 I was sent to college.

Yielding to parental wishes, I consented, in 1738, to become a student
of divinity, and pursued my studies in Edinburgh and, from 1743, in
Glasgow, passing my trials in the presbytery of Haddington in the summer
of 1745. Early in September I was at Moffat, when I heard that the
Chevalier Prince Charles had landed in the north. I repaired to
Edinburgh, and joined a company of volunteers for the defence of the
city. Edinburgh was in great ferment, and of divided allegiance; there
was no news of the arrival of Sir John Cope with the government forces;
the Highlanders came on, no resistance was made, and the city
surrendered on the sixteenth. That night, my brother and I walked along
the sands to Prestonpans, and carried the news. Proceeding to Dunbar,
where Sir John Cope's army lay, I inquired for Colonel Gardiner, whom I
found very dejected.

"Sandie," said Colonel Gardiner, "I'll tell you in confidence that I
have not above ten men in my regiment whom I am certain will follow me.
But we must give them battle now, and God's will be done!"

Cope's small army was totally defeated at Prestonpans on the morning of
the twenty-first. I heard the first cannon that was fired, and started
to my clothes. My father had been up before daylight, and had resorted
to the steeple. I ran into the garden. Within ten minutes after firing
the first cannon the whole prospect was filled with runaways, and
Highlanders pursuing them. The next week I saw Prince Charles twice in
Edinburgh. He was a good-looking man; his hair was dark red and his eyes
black. His features were regular, his visage long, much sunburnt and
freckled, and his countenance thoughtful and melancholy.

In October of the same year I went to Leyden, to study at the university
there. Here there were twenty-two British students, among them the
Honourable Charles Townshend, afterwards a distinguished statesman, and
Mr. Doddeswell, afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer. We passed our
time very agreeably, and very profitably, too; for the conversations at
our evening meetings of young men of good knowledge could not fail to be
instructive, much more so than the lectures, which were very dull. On my
return from Holland, I was introduced by my cousin, Captain Lyon, to
some families of condition in London, and was carried to court of an
evening, for George II. at that time had evening drawing rooms, where
his majesty and Princess Amelia, who had been a lovely woman, played at
cards.

I had many agreeable parties with the officers of the Horse Guards, who
were all men of the world, and some of them of erudition and
understanding. I was introduced to Smollett at this time, and was in the
coffee-house with him when the news of the Battle of Culloden came, and
when London all over was in a perfect uproar of joy. The theatres were
not very attractive this season, as Garrick had gone over to Dublin; but
there remained Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Clive, and Macklin, who were all
excellent in their way. Of the literary people I met with I must not
forget Thomson, the poet, and Dr. Armstrong.

In June, 1746, I was licensed to preach by the Presbytery of Haddington,
and was ordained minister of Inveresk on August 2, 1748. There were many
resident families of distinction, and my situation was envied as
superior to that of most clergymen for agreeable society. As one of the
"Moderate" party, I now became much implicated in ecclesiastical
politics. Dr. Robertson, John Home, and I had an active hand in the
restoration of the authority of the General Assembly over the
Presbyteries.


_II.--Literary Lions of Edinburgh_


It was in one of these years that Smollett visited Scotland, and came
out to Musselburgh. He was a man of very agreeable conversation and of
much genuine humour, and, though not a profound scholar, possessed a
philosophical mind, and was capable of making the soundest observations
on human life, and of discerning the excellence or seeing the ridicule
of every character he met with. Fielding only excelled him in giving a
dramatic story to his novels, but was inferior to him in the true comic
vein. At this time David Hume was living in Edinburgh, and composing his
"History of Great Britain." He was a man of great knowledge, and of a
social and benevolent temper, and truly the best-natured man in the
world.

I was one of those who never believed that David Hume's sceptical
principles had laid fast hold on his mind, but thought that his books
proceeded rather from affectation of superiority and pride of
understanding. When his circumstances were narrow, he accepted the
office of librarian to the Faculty of Advocates, worth £40 per annum,
and to my certain knowledge he gave every farthing of the salary to
families in distress. For innocent mirth and agreeable raillery I never
knew his match.

Adam Smith, though perhaps only second to David in learning and
ingenuity, was far inferior to him in conversational talents. He was the
most absent man in company that I ever saw, moving his lips, and talking
to himself, and smiling, in the midst of large companies. If you awaked
him from his reverie and made him attend to the subject of conversation,
he immediately began a harangue, and never stopped till he told you all
he knew about it, with the utmost philosophical ingenuity. Though Smith
had some little jealousy in his temper, he had the most unbounded
benevolence.

Dr. Adam Ferguson was a very different kind of man. He had been chaplain
to the 42nd, adding all the decorum belonging to the clerical character
to the manners of a gentleman, the effect of which was that he was
highly respected by all the officers, and adored by his countrymen and
the common soldiers. His office turned his mind to the study of war,
which appears in his "Roman History," where many of the battles are
better described than by any historian but Polybius, who was an
eyewitness to so many. He had a boundless vein of humour, which he
indulged when none but intimates were present; but he was apt to be
jealous of his rivals and indignant against assumed superiority.

They were all honourable men in the highest degree, and John Home and I
together kept them on very good terms. With respect to taste, we held
David Hume and Adam Smith inferior to the rest, for they were both
prejudiced in favour of the French tragedies, and did not sufficiently
appreciate Shakespeare and Milton; their taste was a rational act rather
than the instantaneous effect of fine feeling. In John Home's younger
days he had much sprightliness and vivacity, so that he infused joy
wherever he came. But all his opinions of men and things were
prejudices, which, however, did not disqualify him for writing admirable
poetry.

In 1754, the Select Society was established, which improved and gave a
name to the _literati_ of this country. Of the first members were Lord
Dalmeny, elder brother of the present Lord Rosebery; the Duke of
Hamilton of that period, a man of letters could he have kept himself
sober; and Mr. Robert Alexander, wine merchant, a very worthy man but a
bad speaker, who entertained us all with warm suppers and excellent
claret. In the month of February, 1755, John Home's tragedy of "Douglas"
was completely prepared for the stage, and he set out with it for
London, attended by six or seven of us. Were I to relate all the
circumstances of this journey, I am persuaded they would not be exceeded
by any novelist who has wrote since the days of "Don Quixote." Poor Home
had no success, for Garrick, after reading the play, returned it as
totally unfit for the stage. "Douglas," however, was acted in Edinburgh
in 1756, and had unbounded success for many nights; but the
"high-flying" set in the Church were unanimous against it, as they
thought it a sin for a clergyman to write any play, let it be ever so
moral. I was summoned before the Presbytery for my conduct in attending
the play, but was exonerated by the General Assembly.

About the end of February, 1758, I went to London with my sister
Margaret to get her married with Dr. Dickson. It is to be noted that we
could get no four-wheeled chaise till we came to Durham, those
conveyances being then only in their infancy, and turnpike roads being
only in their commencement in the North. Dr. Robertson having come to
London to offer his "History of Scotland" for sale, we went to see the
lions together. Home was now very friendly with Garrick, and I was often
in company with this celebrated actor.

Garrick gave a dinner to John Home and his friends at his house at
Hampton, and told us to bring golf clubs and balls that we might play on
Molesey Hurst. Garrick had built a handsome temple with a statue of
Shakespeare in it on the banks of the Thames. The poet and the actor
were well pleased with one another, and we passed a very agreeable
afternoon.

We yielded to a request of Sir David Kinloch to accompany him on a jaunt
to Portsmouth, and were much pleased with the diversified beauty of the
country. We viewed with much pleasure the solid foundation of the naval
glory of Great Britain, in the amazing extent and richness of the
dockyards and warehouses, and in the grandeur of her fleet in the
harbour and in the Downs. There was a fine fleet of ten ships of the
line in the Downs, with the Royal George at their head, all ready for
sea.


_III.--Scottish Social Life_


The clergy of Scotland, being under apprehensions that the window tax
would be extended to them, had given me in charge to state our case to
some of the Ministers, and try to make an impression in our favour. The
day came when we were presented to Lord Bute, but our reception was cold
and dry. We soon took our leave, and no sooner were we out of hearing
than Robert Adam, the architect, who was with us, fell a-cursing and
swearing--"What! had he been most graciously received by all the princes
in Italy and France, to come and be treated with such distance and pride
by the youngest earl but one in all Scotland?" They were better friends
afterwards, and Robert found him a kind patron when his professional
merit was made known to him. Lord Bute was a worthy and virtuous man,
but he was not versatile enough for a Prime Minister; and though
personally brave, was void of that political firmness which is necessary
to stand the storms of state. We returned to Scotland by Oxford,
Warwick, and Birmingham.

In August, 1758, I rode to Inverary, being invited by the Milton family,
who always were with the Duke of Argyll. We sat down every day fifteen
or sixteen to dinner, and the duke had the talent of conversing with his
guests so as to distinguish men of knowledge and ability without
neglecting those who valued themselves on their birth and their
rent-rolls. After the ladies were withdrawn and he had drunk his bottle
of claret, he retired to an easy-chair by the fireplace; drawing a black
silk nightcap over his eyes, he slept, or seemed to sleep, for an hour
and a half.

In the meantime, the toastmaster pushed about the bottle, and a more
noisy or regardless company could hardly be. Dinner was always served at
two o'clock, and about six o'clock the toastmaster and the gentlemen
drew off, when the ladies returned, and his grace awoke and called for
his tea. Tea being over, he played two rubbers at sixpenny whist. Supper
was served soon after nine, and he drank another bottle of claret, and
could not be got to go to bed till one in the morning. I stayed over
Sunday and preached to his grace. The ladies told me that I had pleased
him, which gratified me not a little, as without him no preferment could
be obtained in Scotland.

It was after this that I wrote what was called the "Militia Pamphlet,"
which had a great and unexpected success; it hit the tone of the
country, which was irritated at the refusal to allow the establishment
of a militia in Scotland.

The year 1760 was the most important of my life, for before the end of
it I was united with the most valuable friend and companion that any
mortal ever possessed. I owed my good fortune to the friendship of John
Home, who pointed out the young lady to me as a proper object of suit,
without which I should never have attempted it, for she was then just
past seventeen, when I was thirty-eight. With a superior understanding
and great discernment for her age, she had an ease and propriety of
manners which made her much distinguished in every company. She had not
one selfish corner in her whole soul, and was willing to sacrifice her
life for those she loved.

       *       *       *       *       *




THOMAS CARLYLE


Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell


     Thomas Carlyle, the celebrated literary moralist, was born at
     Ecclefechan, Scotland, Dec. 4, 1795. He was educated at the
     village school and at the Annan Grammar School, proceeding to
     Edinburgh University in 1809. The breakdown of his dogmatic
     beliefs made it impossible for him to enter the clerical
     profession, and neither school-teaching nor the study of law
     attracted him. Supporting himself by private teaching, Carlyle
     made the beginnings of a literary connection. He fought his
     way under great difficulties; he was hard to govern; he was a
     painfully slow writer; and ignorance and rusticity mar his
     work to the very end. Yet a fiery revolt against impostures,
     an ardent sympathy for humanity, a worship of the heroic, an
     immutable confidence in the eternal verities, and occasionally
     a wonderful perception of beauty, made Carlyle one of the most
     influential English writers of the nineteenth century. His
     marriage in 1826 with Jane Baillie Welsh was an unhappy one.
     Carlyle died on February 4, 1881, having survived his wife
     fifteen years. The three volumes of "Cromwell's Letters and
     Speeches," with elucidations by Carlyle, were published in
     1845; the first work, one might say, conveying a sympathetic
     appreciation of the great Protector, all histories of the man
     and his times having been hitherto written from the point of
     view either of the Royalists or of the revolutionary Whigs. To
     neither of these was an understanding of Puritanism at all
     possible. Moreover, to the Cavaliers, Cromwell was a regicide;
     to the Whigs he was a military usurper who dissolved
     parliaments. To both he was a Puritan who applied Biblical
     phraseology to practical affairs--therefore, a canting
     hypocrite, though undoubtedly a man of great capacity and
     rugged force.


_I.--Puritan Oliver_


One wishes there were a history of English Puritanism, the last of all
our heroisms. At bottom, perhaps, no nobler heroism ever transacted
itself upon this earth; and it lies as good as lost to us in the elysium
we English have provided for our heroes! The Rushworthian elysium.
Dreariest continent of shot-rubbish the eye ever saw. Puritanism is not
of the nineteenth century, but of the seventeenth; it is grown
unintelligible, what we may call incredible. Heroes who knew in every
fibre, and with heroic daring laid to heart, that an Almighty justice
does verily rule this world; that it is good to fight on God's side, and
bad to fight on the devil's side. Well, it would seem the resuscitation
of a heroism from the past is no easy enterprise.

Of Biographies of Cromwell, there are none tolerable. Oliver's father
was a country gentleman of good estate, not a brewer; grandson of Sir
Richard Cromwell, or Williams, nephew of Thomas Cromwell "mauler of
monasteries"; his mother a Stuart (Steward), twelfth cousin or so of
King Charles. He was born in 1599, went to Cambridge in the month that
Shakespeare died. Next year his father died, and Oliver went no more to
Cambridge. He was the only son. In 1620 he married.

He sat in the Parliament of 1628-29; the Petition of Right Parliament; a
most brave and noble Parliament, ending with that scene when Holles held
the Speaker down in his chair. The last Parliament in England for above
eleven years. Notable years, what with soap-monopoly, ship-money, death
of the great Gustavus at Lûtzen, pillorying of William Prynne, Jenny
Geddes, and National Covenant, old Field-Marshal Lesley at Dunse Law and
pacification thereafter nowise lasting.

To chastise the Scots, money is not attainable save by a Parliament,
which at last the king summons. This "Short Parliament," wherein Oliver
sits for Cambridge, is dismissed, being not prompt with supplies, which
the king seeks by other methods. But the army so raised will not fight
the Scots, who march into Northumberland and Durham. Money not to be had
otherwise than by a Parliament, which is again summoned; the Long
Parliament, which did not finally vanish till 1660. In which is Oliver
again, "very much hearkened unto," despite "linen plain and not very
clean, and voice sharp and untuneable."

Protestations; execution of Strafford, "the one supremely able man the
king had"; a hope of compromise being for a time introduced by "royal
varnish." Then, in November, 1641, an Irish rebellion blazing into Irish
massacre; and in Parliament, the Grand Remonstrance carried by a small
majority. In January, the king rides over to St. Stephen's to arrest the
"five members." Then on one side Commissions of Array, on the other
Ordinance for the Militia. In July and August, Mr. Cromwell is active in
Cambridgeshire for the defence of that county, as others are elsewhere.
Then Captain Cromwell, with his troop of horse, is with Essex at
Edgehill, where he does his duty; and then back in Cambridgeshire,
organising the Eastern Association. So we are at 1643 with the war in
full swing.

Letters have been few enough so far; vestiges, traces of Cromwell's
doings in the eastern counties; a successful skirmish at Grantham, a
"notable victory" at Gainsborough. In August, Manchester takes command
of the Association, with Cromwell for one of his colonels; in September,
first battle of Newbury, and signing of the Solemn League and Covenant
at Westminster. Cromwell has written "I have a lovely company; you would
respect them did you know them"--his "Ironsides." In October, Colonel
Cromwell does stoutly at Winceby fight; has his horse shot under him.
Lincolnshire is nearly cleared.

On March 20, 1643, there is a characteristic letter to General Crawford,
concerning the dismissal of an officer, whom Cromwell would have
restored. "Ay, but the man is an Anabaptist. Are you sure of that? Admit
he be, shall that render him incapable to serve the public? Sir, the
state, in choosing men to serve it, takes no notice of their opinions.
Take heed of being too sharp against those to whom you can object little
but that they square not with you in every opinion concerning matters of
religion."

In July was fought, in Yorkshire, the battle of Marston Moor, the
bloodiest of the whole war, which gave the whole north to the
Parliamentary party. Cromwell Writes to his brother-in-law, to tell him
of his son's death. Of the battle, he says, "It had all the evidences of
an absolute victory obtained by the Lord's blessing upon the godly
party. We never charged but we routed the enemy. God made them as
stubble to our swords." Soon after he is indignant with Manchester for
being "much slow in action," especially after the second battle of
Newbury. Hence comes the self-denying ordinance, in December, and
construction of New Model Army.

From which ordinance Cromwell is virtually dispensed, being appointed
for repeated periods of forty days, and doing good work in Oxfordshire
and elsewhere; clearly indispensable, till the Lord General Fairfax gets
him appointed Lieutenant-general; and on his joining Fairfax, and
commanding the cavalry, the king's army is shattered at Naseby. "We
killed and took about 5,000," writes Cromwell to Lenthall. "Sir, this is
none other but the hand of God."

Thenceforward, this war is only completing of the victory. After the
storming of Bristol, Cromwell writes, "Presbyterians, Independents, all
have here the same spirit of faith and prayer; they agree here, have no
names of difference; pity it is it should be otherwise anywhere." No
canting here!

Cromwell captures Winchester, and Baring House, and sundry other
strongholds. Finally, this first civil war is ended with the king's
surrender of himself to the Scots.


_II.--Regicide_


Thereafter, infinite negotiations, public and private; the king hoping
"so to draw, either the Presbyterians or the Independents, to side with
me for extirpating one another that I shall be really king again."
Ending with the Scots marching home, and the king being secluded in
Holmby House. We note during this time a letter to Bridget Cromwell, now
the wife of General Ireton.

But now Parliament is busy carrying its Presbyterian uniformity
platform. London city and the Parliament are crying out to apply the
shears against sectaries and schismatics; the army is less drastic;
shows, indeed, an undue tolerance to Presbyterian alarm. With Cromwell's
approval the army is to be quartered not less than twenty-five miles
from London. This quarrel between army and Parliament waxes; the army
gains strength by securing the person of the king, finally marches onto
London, and gets its way. All is turmoil again, however, when Charles
escapes from Hampton Court, where they have lodged him, but is detained
at Carisbrooke. When 40,000 Scots are coming to liberate the king, the
army's patience breaks down. Hitherto, Cromwell has striven for an
honest settlement. Now we of the army conclude, with prayer and tears,
that these troubles are a penalty for our backslidings, conferences,
compromises, and the like; that "if the Lord bring us back in peace,"
Charles Stuart, the Man of Blood, must be called to account.

The eastern counties and Wales are up; the Scots are coming. Fairfax
goes to Colchester, Cromwell to Wales, where Pembroke keeps him a month;
thence, to cut up the Scots army in detail in the straggling battle
called Preston, of which he gives account, as also does "Dugald
Dalgetty" Turner. The clearance of the north detains him for some time,
during which he deals sternly with soldiers who plunder. In November he
is returning from Scotland, writing, too, a suitable letter to Colonel
Hammond, the king's custodian at Carisbrooke. Matters also are coming to
a head between army and the Parliament, which means to make
concessions--fatal in the judgement of the army--and to ignore the said
army; which, on the other hand, regards itself as an authority called
into being by God and having responsibilities, and purges the
Parliament, Cromwell arriving in town on the evening of the first day of
purging. Whereby the minority of the members is become majority. And
this chapter of history is grimly closed eight weeks later with a
certain death warrant.

The Rump Parliament becomes concerned with establishment of the
Commonwealth Council of State; appoints Mr. Milton Secretary for Foreign
Languages, and nominates Lieutenant-general Cromwell to quell rebellion
in Ireland. Oliver's extant letters are concerned with domestic
matters--marriage of Richard. While the army for Ireland is getting
prepared, there is trouble with the Levellers, sansculottism of a sort;
shooting of valiant but misguided mutineers having notions as to
Millennium.

On August 15, Cromwell is in Ireland. His later letters have been full
of gentle domesticities and pieties, strangely contrasted with the fiery
savagery and iron grimness of the next batch. Derry and Dublin are the
only two cities held for the Commonwealth. The Lord-lieutenant comes
offering submission with law and order, or death. The Irish have no
faith in promises; will not submit. Therefore, in the dispatches which
tell the story, we find a noteworthy phenomenon--an armed soldier,
solemnly conscious to himself that he is the soldier of God the Just,
terrible as death, relentless as doom, doing God's judgements on the
enemies of God.

Tredah, that is Drogheda, is his first objective, with its garrison of
3,000 soldiers. Drogheda is summoned to surrender on pain of storm;
refuses, is stormed, no quarter being given to the armed garrison,
mostly English. "I believe this bitterness will save much effusion of
blood through the goodness of God." The garrison of Dundalk, not liking
the precedent, evacuated it; that of Trim likewise. No resistance, in
fact, was offered till Cromwell came before Wexford. After suffering a
cannonade, the commandant proposed to evacuate Wexford on terms which
"manifested the impudency of the men." Oliver would only promise quarter
to rank and file. Before any answer came, the soldiery stormed the town,
which Cromwell had not intended; but he looked upon the outcome as "an
unexpected providence."

The rule of sending a summons to surrender before attacking was always
observed, and rarely disregarded. "I meddle not with any man's
conscience; but if liberty of conscience means liberty to exercise the
mass, that will not be allowed of." The Clonmacnoise Manifesto, inviting
the Irish "not to be deceived with any show of clemency exercised upon
them hitherto," hardly supports the diatribes against Cromwell's
"massacring" propensities. Also in Cromwell's counter-declaration is a
pregnant challenge. "Give us an instance of one man since my coming to
Ireland, not in arms, massacred, destroyed, or banished, concerning the
massacre or destruction of whom justice hath not been done or
endeavoured to be done."

That the business at Drogheda and Wexford did prevent much effusion of
blood is manifest from the surrenders which invariably followed almost
immediately upon summons. The last he reports is Kilkenny (March, 1650);
his actual last fight is the storm of Clonmel; for, at the request of
Parliament, he returns to England to attend to other matters of gravity,
Munster and Leinster being now practically under control.


_III.--Crowning Mercies_


Matters of gravity indeed; for Scotland, the prime mover in this
business of Puritanism, has for leaders Argyles, Loudons, and others of
the pedant species; no inspired Oliver. So these poor Scotch governors
have tried getting Charles II. to adopt the Covenant as best he
can--have "compelled him to sign it voluntarily." Scotland will either
invade us or be invaded by us--which we decide to be preferable.
Cromwell must go, since Fairfax will not resign his command in favour of
Cromwell; who does go, with the hundred-and-tenth psalm in the head and
heart of him.

So he marches by way of Berwick to Musselburgh, where he finds David
Lesley entrenched in impregnable lines between him and Edinburgh. He
writes to the General Assembly of the Kirk in protest against a
declaration of theirs. "Is it, therefore, infallibly agreeable to the
Word of God, all that you say? I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ,
think it possible that you may be mistaken." But shrewd Lesley lies
within his lines, will not be tempted out; provisions are failing, and
the weather breaking. We must fall back on Dunbar--where Lesley promptly
hems us in, occupying the high ground.

But presently Lesley, at whatsoever urging, moves to change ground,
which movement gives Oliver his chance. He attacks instead of awaiting
attack; the Scots army is scattered, 3,000 killed and 10,000 prisoners
taken. Such is Dunbar Battle, or Dunbar Drove. Edinburgh is ours, though
the Castle holds out; surrenders only on December 19, on most honourable
terms. But what to do with Scotland, with its covenanted king, a
solecism incarnate?

We have a most wifely letter to Cromwell from his wife, urging him to
write oftener to herself and to important persons: correspondence
concerning Dunbar medal, and Chancellorship of Oxford University; and
the lord general falls ill, with recoveries and relapses.

Active military movements, however, become imperative, so far as the
general's health permits. In spring and early summer is some successful
skirmishing; in July Cromwell's army has, for the most part, got into
Fife, thereby cutting off the supplies of the king's army at Stirling,
which suddenly marches straight for the heart of England, the way being
open. Cromwell, having just captured Perth, starts in pursuit, leaving
George Monk to look after Scotland.

The Scots march by the Lancashire route, keeping good discipline, but
failing to gather the Presbyterian allies or Royalist allies they had
looked for. On August 22, Charles erects his standard at
Worcester--ninth anniversary of the day Charles I. erected his at
Nottingham. On the anniversary of Dunbar fight his Scotch army is
crushed, battling desperately at Worcester; cut to pieces, with six or
seven thousand prisoners taken. Cromwell calls it "for aught I know, a
crowning mercy," and fears lest "the fullness of these continued mercies
may occasion pride and wantonness." Charles, however, escapes. The
general here sheaths his war-sword for good, and comes to town, to be
greeted with acclamations.

Of the next nineteen months the history becomes very dim. There are but
five letters, none notable. The Rump sits, conspicuous with red-tapery;
does not get itself dissolved nor anything else done of consequence;
leaves much that is of consequence not done. Before twelve months the
officers are petitioning the lord general that something be done for a
new Representative House; to be, let us say, a sort of Convention of
Notables. At any rate, in April, 1653, the Rump propose to solve the
problem by continuing themselves; till the lord general ejects them
summarily in a manner that need not here be retold. With this for
consequence, that Cromwell himself, "with the advice of my Council of
Officers," nominates divers persons to form the new Parliament, which
shall be hereafter known as "Bare-bones."

In this Parliament, which included not a few notable men, Cromwell made
the first speech extant, justifying his dismissal of the Rump, and the
summoning of this assembly, chosen as being godly men that have
principles. A speech intelligible to the intelligent. But this
Parliament failed of its business, which is no less than introducing the
Christian religion into real practice in the social affairs of this
nation; and dissolved itself after five months. Four days later the
Instrument of Government is issued, naming Oliver Protector of the
Commonwealth, Council of Fifteen, and other needful matters.


_IV.--Protector Oliver_


A new Reformed Parliament, elected, with Scotch and Irish
representatives, is to meet on September 3. Parliament meets. Oliver's
speech on September 3 is unreported, but we have that on September 4,
and another eight days later. "You are met for healing and settling. We
are troubled with those who would destroy liberty, and with those who
would overturn all control. This government which has called you, a Free
Parliament, together, has given you peace instead of the foreign wars
that were going on; there remains plenty for you to do." But the
Parliament, instead of doing it, sets to debating the "Form of
Government" and its sanctioning.

Hence our second speech. "I called not myself to this place. God be
judge between me and all men! I desired to be dismissed of my charge.
That was refused me. Being entreated, I did accept the place and title
of Protector. I do not bear witness to myself. My witnesses are the
officers, the soldiery, the City of London, the counties, the judges;
yea, you yourselves, who have come hither upon my writ. I was the
authority that called you, which you have recognised. I will not have
the authority questioned, nor its fundamental powers. You must sign a
declaration of fidelity to the constitution, or you shall not enter the
Parliament House."

The Parliament, however, will not devote itself to business; will turn
off on side issues, and continue constitution debating. Therefore, at
the end of five months lunar, not calendar, the Protector makes another
speech. "You have healed nothing, settled nothing; dissettlement and
division, discontent and dissatisfaction are multiplied; real dangers,
too, from Cavalier party, and Anabaptist Levellers. Go!"

First Protectorate Parliament being ended, the next is not due yet
awhile. The Lord Protector must look to matters which are threatening;
plots on all hands, issuing in Penruddock's insurrection, which is
vigorously dealt with. No easy matter to upset this Protector. He, with
his Council of State, establishes military administration under ten
major-generals; arbitrary enough, but beneficial.

For war, money is needed, and the second Protectorate Parliament is
summoned--mostly favourable to Cromwell. The Protector addresses it. "We
have enemies about us; the greatest is the Spaniard, because he is the
enemy of God, and has been ours from the time of Queen Elizabeth.
Therefore, we are at war with Spain, all Protestant interests being
therein at one with ours. Danger also there is at home, both from
Cavaliers and Levellers, which necessitates us to erect the
major-generals. For these troubles, the remedies are in the first place
to prosecute the war with Spain vigorously; and in the second, not to
make religion a pretension for arms and blood. All men who believe in
Jesus Christ are members of Jesus Christ; whoever hath this faith, let
his form be what it will, whether he be under Baptism, or of the
Independent judgement, or of the Presbyterian." With much more. A speech
rude, massive, genuine, like a block of unbeaten gold. But the speech
being spoken, members find that, after all, near a hundred of them shall
have no admittance to this Parliament, seeing that this time the nation
shall and must be settled.

For its wise temper and good practical tendency let us praise this
second Parliament; admit, nevertheless, that its history amounts to
little--that it handsomely did nothing, and left Oliver to do. But it
does propose to modify our constitution, increase the Protector's
powers--make him, in fact, a king--make also a second chamber. To the
perturbation of sundry officers. Out of confusion of documents and
speeches and conferences we extract this--that his highness is not, on
the whole, willing to be called king, because this will give offence to
many godly persons, and be a cause of stumbling.

The petition being settled, Parliament is prorogued till January, 1658;
when there will be a House of Lords (not the old Peers!), and the
excluded members will be admitted. May there not then be new troubles?
The Spanish Charles Stuart invasion plot is indeed afoot, and that union
abroad of the Protestant powers for which we crave is by no means
accomplished. Therefore, says the Protector, you must be ready to fight
on land as well as by sea. No time this for disunion, trumpery quarrels
over points of form. Yet such debate has begun and continues.

After this dissolution speech, and a letter as to Vaudois persecution,
there are no more letters or speeches. On September 3, 1658, for him
"the ugly evil is all over, and thy part in it manfully done--manfully
and fruitfully, to all eternity." Oliver is gone, and with him England's
Puritanism.

       *       *       *       *       *




The Life of Friedrich Schiller


     Carlyle was under thirty years of age, and was occupied as a
     private tutor, when he wrote the "Life of Friedrich Schiller;
     comprehending an examination of his works," which had been
     commissioned by the "London Magazine." It was his first essay
     in the study of German literature, which he did so much to
     popularise in Britain. It appeared in book form in 1825, and a
     second edition was published in 1845 in order to prevent
     piratical reprints. In his introduction to the second edition,
     Carlyle pleads for the indulgence of the reader, asking him to
     remember constantly that "it was written twenty years ago." It
     has indeed been superseded by more temperate studies of
     Schiller, but its tone of enthusiasm gives it a great value of
     its own.


_Schiller's Youth_ (1759-1784)


Distinguished alike for the splendour of his intellectual faculties, and
the elevation of his tastes and feelings, Friedrich Schiller has left
behind him in his works a noble emblem of these great qualities. Much of
his life was deformed by inquietude and disease, and it terminated at
middle age; he composed in a language then scarcely settled into form;
yet his writings are remarkable for their extent, their variety, and
their intrinsic excellence, and his own countrymen are not his only, or,
perhaps, his principal admirers.

Born on November 10, 1759, a few months later than Robert Burns, he was
a native of Marbach in Würtemberg. His father had been a surgeon in the
army, and was now in the pay of the Duke of Würtemberg; and the
benevolence, integrity and devoutness of his parents were expanded and
beautified in the character of their son. His education was irregular;
desiring at first to enter the clerical profession, he was put to the
study of law and then of medicine; but he wrenched asunder his fetters
with a force that was felt at the extremities of Europe. In his
nineteenth year he began the tragedy of the "Robbers," and its
publication forms an era in the literature of the world.

It is a work of tragic interest, bordering upon horror. A grim,
inexpiable Fate is made the ruling principle; it envelops and
overshadows the whole; and under its souring influence, the fiercest
efforts of human will appear but like flashes that illuminate the wild
scene with a brief and terrible splendour, and are lost forever in the
darkness. The unsearchable abysses of man's destiny are laid open before
us, black and profound, and appalling, as they seem to the young mind
when it first attempts to explore them.

Schiller had meanwhile become a surgeon in the Würtemberg army; and the
Duke, scandalised at the moral errors of the "Robbers," and not less at
its want of literary merit, forbade him to write more poetry. Dalberg,
superintendent of the Manheim theatre, put the play on the stage in
1781, and in October, 1782, Schiller decided his destiny by escaping
secretly from Stuttgart beyond the frontier. A generous lady, Madam von
Wollzogen, invited him to her estate of Bauerbach, near Meiningen.

Here he resumed his poetical employments, and published, within a year,
the tragedies "Verschwörung des Fiesco" and "Kabale und Liebe." This
"Conspiracy of Fiesco," the story of the political and personal
relations of the Genoese nobility, has the charm of a kind of colossal
magnitude. The chief incidents have a dazzling magnificence; the chief
characters, an aspect of majesty and force. The other play,
"Court-intriguing and Love," is a tragedy of domestic life; it shows the
conflict of cold worldly wisdom with the pure impassioned movements of
the young heart. Now, in September, 1783, Schiller went to Manheim as
poet to the theatre, a post of respectability and reasonable profit.
Here he undertook his "Thalia," a periodical work devoted to poetry and
the drama, in 1784. Naturalised by law in his new country, surrounded by
friends that honoured him, he was now exclusively a man of letters for
the rest of his days.


_From His Settlement at Manheim to His Settlement at Jena_ (1783-1790)


Schiller had his share of trials to encounter, but he was devoted with
unchanging ardour to the cause he had embarked in. Few men have been
more resolutely diligent than he, and he was warmly seconded by the
taste of the public. For the Germans consider the stage as an organ for
refining the hearts and minds of men, and the theatre of Manheim was one
of the best in Germany.

Besides composing dramatic pieces and training players, Schiller wrote
poems, the products of a mind brooding over dark and mysterious things,
and his "Philosophic Letters" unfold to us many a gloomy conflict of the
soul, surveying the dark morass of infidelity yet showing no causeway
through it. The first acts of "Don Carlos," printed in "Thalia," had
attracted the attention of the Duke of Sachsen-Weimar, who conferred on
their author the title of Counsellor. Schiller was loved and admired in
Manheim, yet he longed for a wider sphere of action, and he determined
to take up his residence at Leipzig.

Here he arrived in March, 1785, and at once made innumerable
acquaintances, but went to Dresden in the end of the summer, and here
"Don Carlos" was completed. This, the story of a royal youth condemned
to death by his father, is the first of Schiller's plays to bear the
stamp of maturity. The Spanish court in the sixteenth century; its
rigid, cold formalities; its cruel, bigoted, but proud-spirited
grandees; its inquisitors and priests; and Philip, its head, the epitome
at once of its good and bad qualities, are exhibited with wonderful
distinctness and address. Herr Schiller's genius does not thrill, but
exalts us; it is impetuous, exuberant, majestic. The tragedy was,
received with immediate and universal approbation.

He now contemplated no further undertaking connected with the stage, but
his mind was overflowing with the elements of poetry, and with these
smaller pieces he occupied himself at intervals through the remainder of
his life. "The Walk," the "Song of the Bell," contain exquisite
delineations of the fortunes of man; the "Cranes of Ibycus," and "Hero
and Leander," are among the most moving ballads in any language.
Schiller never wrote or thought with greater diligence than while at
Dresden. A novel, "The Ghostseer," was a great popular success, but
Schiller had begun to think of history. Very few of his projects in this
direction reached even partial execution; portions of a "History of the
Most Remarkable Conspiracies and Revolutions in the Middle and Later
Ages," and of a "History of the Revolt of the Netherlands," were
published.

A visit to Weimar, the Athens of Germany, was accomplished in 1787; to
Goethe he was not introduced, but was welcomed by Wieland and Herder.
Thence he went to see his early patroness at Bauerbach, and on this
journey, at Rudolstadt, he met the Fräulein Lengefeld, whose attractions
made him loath to leave and eager to return. The visit was repeated next
year, and this lady honoured him with a return of love. At this time,
too, he first met the illustrious Goethe, whom we may contrast with
Schiller as we should contrast Shakespeare with Milton. Goethe was now
in his thirty-ninth year, Schiller ten years younger, and each affected
the other with feelings of estrangement, almost of repugnance.
Ultimately they liked each other better, and became friends; there are
few things on which Goethe should look back with greater pleasure than
on his treatment of Schiller.

The "Revolt of the Netherlands," of which the first volume appeared in
1788, is accurate, vivid and coherent, and unites beauty to a calm
force. It happened that the professorship at the University of Jena was
about to be vacant, and through Goethe's solicitations Schiller was
appointed to it in 1789. In the February following he obtained the hand
of Fräulein Lengefeld. "Life is quite a different thing by the side of a
beloved wife," he wrote a few months later; "the world again clothes
itself around me in poetic forms."


_From His Settlement at Jena to His Death_ (1790-1805)


The duties of his new office called upon Schiller to devote himself with
double zeal to history. We have scarcely any notice of the plan or
success of his academical prelections; his delivery was not
distinguished by fluency or grace, but his matter, we suppose, would
make amends for these deficiencies of manner. His letters breathe a
spirit not only of diligence but of ardour, and he was now busied with
his "History of the Thirty-Years War." This work, published in 1791, is
considered his chief historical treatise, for the "Revolt of the
Netherlands" was never completed. In Schiller's view, the business of
the historian is not merely to record, but also to interpret; his
narrative should be moulded according to the science, and impregnated
with the liberal spirit of his time.

In one of his letters he says--"The problem is, to choose and arrange
your materials so that, to interest, they shall not need the aid of
decoration. We moderns have a source of interest at our disposal, which
no Greek or Roman was acquainted with, and which the _patriotic_
interest does not nearly equal. This last, in general, is chiefly of
importance to unripe nations, for the youth of the world. But we may
excite a very different sort of interest if we represent each remarkable
occurrence that happened to _men_ as of importance to _man_. It is a
poor and little aim to write for one nation; the most powerful nation is
but a fragment."

In 1791, Schiller was overtaken by a violent and threatening disorder in
the chest, and though nature overcame it in the present instance, the
blessing of entire health never returned to him. Total cessation from
intellectual effort was prescribed to him, and his prospect was a hard
one; but the hereditary Prince of Holstein-Augustenberg came to his
assistance with a pension of a thousand crowns for three years,
presented with a delicate politeness which touched Schiller even more
than the gift itself. He bore bodily pain with a strenuous determination
and with an unabated zeal in the great business of his life. No period
of his life displayed more heroism than the present one.

He now released his connection with the University; his weightiest
duties were discharged by proxy; and his historical studies were
forsaken. His mind was being attracted by the philosophy of Kant. This
transcendental system had filled Germany with violent contentions;
Herder and Wieland were opposing it vehemently; Goethe alone retained
his wonted composure, willing to allow this theory to "have its day, as
all things have." How far Schiller penetrated its arena we cannot say,
but he wrote several essays, imbued in its spirit, upon aesthetic
subjects; notably, "Grace and Dignity," "Naive and Sentimental Poetry,"
and "Letters on the Aesthetic Culture of Man."

The project of an epic poem brought Schiller back to his art; he first
thought of Gustavus Adolphus, then of Frederick the Great of Prussia,
for his hero, and intended to adopt the _ottave rime_, and in general
construction to follow the model of the "Iliad." He did not even begin
to execute this work, but devoted himself instead to the tragedy of
"Wallenstein," which occupied him for several years. Among other
engagements were, the editing of the "Thalia," which was relinquished at
the end of 1793; a new periodical, the "Horen," which began early in
1794; and another, the "Musen-Almanach," in which the collection of
epigrams known as the "Xenien" appeared. In these new publications
Schiller was supported by the co-operation of Goethe.

"Wallenstein." by far the best work he had yet produced, was given to
the world in 1799. Wallenstein is the model of a high-souled, great,
accomplished man, whose ruling passion is ambition. A shade of horror,
of fateful dreariness, hangs over the hero's death, and except in
Macbeth or Othello we know not where to match it. This tragedy is the
greatest work of its century.

Schiller now spent his winters in Weimar, and at last lived there
constantly, often staying for months with Goethe. The tragedy of "Maria
Stuart," which appeared in 1800, is a beautiful work, but compared with
"Wallenstein" its purpose is narrow and its result common. It has no
true historical delineation. The "Maid of Orleans," 1801, a tragedy on
the subject of Jeanne d'Arc, will remain one of the very finest of
modern dramas, and its reception was beyond example flattering. It was
followed, in 1803, by the "Bride of Messina," a tragedy which fails to
attain its object; there is too little action in the play and the
interest flags. But "Wilhelm Tell," 1804, exhibits some of the highest
triumphs which Schiller's genius, combined with his art, ever realised.
In Tell are combined all the attributes of a great man, without the help
of education or of great occasions to develop them. The play has a look
of nature and substantial truth, which neither of its rivals can boast
of. Its characters are a race of manly husbandmen, heroic without
ceasing to be homely, poetical without ceasing to be genuine.

This was Schiller's last work. The spring of 1805 came in cold, bleak
and stormy, and along with it the malady returned. On May 9 the end
came. Schiller died at the age of forty-five years and a few months,
leaving a widow, two sons and two daughters. The news of his death fell
cold on many a heart throughout Europe.


_Schiller's Character_


Physically, Schiller was tall and strongly boned, but unmuscular and
lean; his body wasted under the energy of a spirit too keen for it. His
face was pale, the cheeks and temples hollow, the chin projecting, the
nose aquiline, his hair inclined to auburn. Withal his countenance was
attractive, and had a certain manly beauty. To judge from his portraits,
his face expressed the features of his mind: it is mildness tempering
strength; fiery ardour shining through clouds of suffering and
disappointment; it is at once meek, tender, unpretending and heroic.

In his dress and manner, as in all things, he was plain and unaffected.
Among strangers, shy and retiring; in his own family, or among his
friends, he was kind-hearted, free and gay as a little child. His looks
as he walked were constantly bent on the ground, so that he often failed
to notice a passing acquaintance.

Schiller's mind was grand by nature, and cultivated by the assiduous
study of a life-time. It is not the predominating force of any one
faculty that impresses us, but the general force of all. His intellect
seems powerful and vast, rather than quick or keen; for he is not
notable for wit, though his fancy is ever prompt with his metaphors,
illustrations and comparisons. Perhaps his greatest faculty was a half
poetical, half philosophical imagination, a faculty teeming with
magnificence and brilliancy; now adorning a stately pyramid of
scientific speculation; now brooding over the abysses of thought and
feeling, till thoughts and feelings, else unutterable, were embodied in
expressive forms.

Combined with these intellectual faculties was that vehemence of
temperament which is necessary for their full development. Schiller's
heart was at once fiery and tender; impetuous, soft, affectionate, his
enthusiasm clothed the universe with grandeur, and sent his spirit forth
to explore its secrets and mingle warmly in its interests. Thus poetry
in Schiller was not one but many gifts. It was, what true poetry is
always, the quintessence of general mental riches, the purified result
of strong thought and conception, and of refined as well as powerful
emotion.

His works exhibit rather extraordinary strength than extraordinary
fineness or versatility. His power of dramatic imitation is perhaps
never of the highest; and in its best state, it is further limited to a
certain range of characters. It is with the grave, the earnest, the
exalted, the affectionate, the mournful that he succeeds; he is not
destitute of humour, but neither is he rich in it.

The sentiments which animated Schiller's poetry were converted into
principles of conduct; his actions were as blameless as his writings
were pure. He was unsullied by meanness, unsubdued by the difficulties
or allurements of life. With the world, in fact, he had not much to do;
without effort, he dwelt apart from it; its prizes were not the wealth
which could enrich him. Wishing not to seem, but to be, envy was a
feeling of which he knew little, even before he rose above its level. To
all men he was humane and sympathising; among his friends, open-hearted,
generous, helpful; in his family tender, kind, sportive. Schiller gives
a fine example of the German character; he has all its good qualities.

The kingdoms which Schiller conquered were not for one nation at the
expense of suffering to another; they are kingdoms conquered from the
barren realms of Darkness, to increase the happiness, and dignity, and
power, of all men; new forms of Truth, new maxims of Wisdom, new images
and scenes of Beauty, won from the "void and formless Infinite"; a
"possession for ever," to all the generations of the earth.

       *       *       *       *       *




BENVENUTO CELLINI


Autobiography


     Benvenuto Cellini was born in Florence in the year 1500, and
     died in the same city on December 13, 1569. He was the
     greatest of the craftsmen during the height of the Renaissance
     period. Kings and popes vied with each other in trying to
     secure his services. His claims to be the king of craftsmen
     were admitted by his fellow-artificers, and at the zenith of
     his career he had no rivals. Trophies of his skill and
     artistic genius remain to confirm the verdict of his own time.
     His great bronze statue of Perseus in Florence; the Nymph of
     Fontainebleau, now in the Louvre; his golden salt-cellar, made
     for Francis I., and now in Vienna--these are a few of his
     masterpieces, and any one of them is of a quality to stamp its
     maker as a master craftsman of imaginative genius and
     extraordinary manual skill. A goldsmith and sculptor, he was
     also a soldier, and did service as a fighter and engineer in
     the wars of his time. Of high personal courage, he was a
     braggart and a ruffian, who used the dagger as freely as the
     tools of his craft. His many qualities and complex personality
     are revealed in his "Autobiography"--one of the most vivid and
     remarkable records ever penned. He began the work in 1558. In
     its history his account is accurate, but his testimony
     regarding his martial exploits is untrustworthy.


_I.--The Making of a Craftsman_


It is a duty incumbent on upright and credible men of all ranks, who
have performed anything noble or praiseworthy, to record the events of
their lives. Looking back on some delightful and happy events, and on
many misfortunes so truly overwhelming that the appalling retrospect
makes me wonder how I have reached my fifty-eighth year in vigour and
prosperity, through God's goodness, I have resolved to publish an
account of my life.

My name is Benvenuto, the son of Maestro Giovanni Cellini; my mother was
Maria Lisabetta, daughter to Stefano Granacci; and both my parents were
citizens of Florence. My ancestors lived in the valley of Ambra, where
they were lords of considerable domains; they were all trained to arms,
and distinguished for military prowess. Andrea Cellini, my grandfather,
was tolerably well versed in the architecture of those days; and made it
his profession. Giovanni, my father, acquired great proficiency in the
art of designing.

I was born on All Saints' Day, in the year 1500. A girl was anticipated;
but when my father saw with his own eyes the unexpected boy, clasping
his hands together, he lifted up his eyes to Heaven, saying: "Lord, I
thank Thee from the bottom of my heart for this present, which is very
dear and welcome to me." The standers-by asked him, joyfully, how he
proposed to call the child. He made no other answer than: "He is
Welcome." And this name of Welcome (Benvenuto) he resolved to give me at
the font, and so I was christened accordingly. At the age of fifteen I
engaged myself with a goldsmith called Marcone; and so great was my
inclination to improve that in a few months I rivalled most of the
journeymen in the business. I also practised the art of jewellery at
Siena, Bologna, Lucca, and Pisa, in all of which places I executed
several fine pieces of workmanship, which inspired me with an ardent
desire to become more eminent in my profession. I produced a
basso-relievo in silver, carved with a group of foliages and several
figures of youths, and other beautiful grotesques. This coming under the
inspection of the Goldsmiths' Company of Florence, I acquired the
reputation of the most expert young man in the trade.

About this time there came to Florence a sculptor named Torrigiano, who
had just returned from England, where he had resided for several years.
Having inspected my drawings and workmanship, Torrigiano offered to take
me to England; but having abused the divine Michael Angelo, whose
exquisite manner I did my utmost to learn, far from having any
inclination to go with him to England, I could never more bear the sight
of him.

In my nineteenth year I journeyed to Rome, where I went to work under
several masters, studied the antiquities of the city, earned a great
deal of money, and constantly sent the best part of my gains to my
father. At the expiration of two years I returned to Florence, where I
engaged a shop hard by Landi's bank, and executed many works. Envy began
then to rankle in the heart of my former masters, which led to quarrels
and trials before the magistrates. I had to fly back to Rome, disguised
as a friar, on account of a stabbing affray. There I joined Lucagnolo a
goldsmith, and was employed in making plate and jewels by the Cardinals
Cibo, Cornaro, and Salviati, the Bishop of Salamanca, and Signora Porzia
Chigi, and was able to open a shop entirely on my own account. I set
about learning seal engraving, desiring to rival Lautzio, the most
eminent master of that art, the business of medallist, and the elegant
art of enamelling, with the greatest ardour, so that the difficulties
appeared delightful to me. This was through the peculiar indulgence of
the Author of Nature, who had gifted me with a genius so happy that I
could with the utmost ease learn anything to which I gave my mind.

During the plague in Rome I was seized with the disease, but to my own
great surprise survived that terrific attack. When better, I made some
vases of silver for the eminent surgeon, Giacomo Carti, who afterwards
showed them to the Duke of Ferrara and several other princes, assuring
them that they were antiques, and had been presented to him by a great
nobleman. Others were assured that there had not been a man these 3,000
years able to make such figures. Encouraged by these declarations, I
confessed that they were my performances, and by this work I made
considerable gain.


_II.--A Soldier and Goldsmith_


All Europe was now (1527) up in arms, involved in the wars between
Charles V. of Germany and Francis I. of France. Pope Clement VII.
alternately declared in favour of Charles and Francis, hoping to
preserve the balance of political power in Europe, and disbanded the
troops which had garrisoned Rome. Learning this, Charles, Duke of
Bourbon, Constable of France, advanced with a large army of Germans and
Spaniards through Italy, carrying terror and desolation, and appeared
before the walls of Rome.

I raised a company of fifty brave young men, whom I led to the Campo
Santo. When the enemy was scaling the walls I determined to perform some
manly action, and, levelling my arquebuse where I saw the thickest
crowd, I discharged it with a deliberate aim at a person who seemed to
be lifted above the rest, and he fell wounded. He was, as I understood
afterwards, the Duke of Bourbon. On another day I shot at and wounded
the Prince of Orange. Leaving the Campo Santo I made for the Castle of
St. Angelo, just as the castellan was letting down the portcullis. When
I found myself on the castle walls, the artillery was deserted by the
bombardiers, and I took direction of the fire of the artillery and
falcons, and killed a considerable number of the enemy. This made some
cardinals and others bless me, and extol my activity to the skies.
Emboldened by this, I used my utmost exertions; let it suffice that it
was I who preserved the castle that morning. I continued to direct the
artillery with such signal execution as to acquire the favour and good
graces of his holiness the Pope.

One day the Pope happened to walk upon the ramparts, when he saw me fire
a swivel at a Spanish colonel who had formerly been in his service, and
split the man into two pieces. Falling upon my knees, I entreated his
holiness to absolve me from the guilt of homicide and other crimes I had
committed in the castle in the service of the Church. The Pope, lifting
up his hands and making the Sign of the Cross over me, blessed me, and
gave his absolution for all the homicides I had ever committed, or ever
should commit, in the service of the Apostolic Church. After that I kept
up a constant fire, and scarcely once missed all the time. Later, Pope
Clement sent for me to a private apartment, and with his master of the
horse placed before me his regalia, with all the vast quantity of jewels
belonging to the apostolical chamber. I was ordered to take off the gold
in which they were set. I did as directed, and, wrapping up each jewel
in a little piece of paper, we sewed them in the skirts of the Pope's
clothes, and those of the master of the horse. The gold, which amounted
to about a hundred pounds' weight, I was ordered to melt with the utmost
secrecy, which I did, and carried to his holiness without being observed
by anyone.

A few days after, a treaty was concluded with the Imperialists, and
hostilities ceased. Worn out with my exertions during the siege, I
returned to Florence and thence to Mantua, where, on the introduction of
the excellent painter, Giulio Romano, I executed many commissions for
the duke, including a shrine in gold in which to place the relic of the
Blood of Christ, which the Mantuans boast themselves to be possessed of,
and a pontifical seal for the duke's brother, the bishop. An attack of
fever and a quarrel with the duke induced me to return to Florence, to
find that my father and all belonging to my family, except my youngest
sister and brother, were dead of the plague. I opened a shop in the New
Market, and engraved many medals, which received the highest praise from
the divine Michael Angelo.

On the invitation of Pope Clement VII. I retired from Florence, and
repaired to Rome. His holiness commissioned me to execute a button for
the pontifical cope, and to set into it the jewels which I had taken out
of the two crowns in the Castle of St. Angelo. The design was most
beautiful, and so pleased and astonished was the Pope that he employed
me to make new coinage, and appointed me stamp-master of the mint. My
gold coins were pronounced by the Pope's secretary to be superior to
those of the Roman emperors. When I finished my great work upon the
pontifical button it was looked upon as the most exquisite performance
of the kind that had ever been seen in Rome The Pope, I thought, would
never tire of praising it, and he appointed me to a post in the College
of Mace-Bearers, which brought me about 200 crowns a year. About this
time a tumult occurred in the city near the bridge of St. Angelo, in
which my soldier brother was wounded, and died the next day. I was
consumed with desire of revenge upon the musketeer who shot him. One
night I saw him standing at his door, and, with a long dagger, hit him
exactly upon the nape of the neck. The weapon penetrated so deep that,
though I made a great effort to recover it again, I found it impossible.
I took refuge in the palace of Duke Alesandro, and more than eight days
afterwards the Pope sent for me. When I came into his presence he
frowned upon me very much. However, upon viewing some work which I
submitted to him, his countenance grew serene, and he praised me highly.
Then, looking attentively at me, he said: "Now that you have recovered
your health, Benvenuto, take care of yourself." I understood his
meaning, and told him I should not neglect his advice.


_III.--Intrigues at the Papal Court_


Cardinal Salviati more than once showed himself my enemy. He had sent
from Milan, of which city he was Legate, a goldsmith named Tobbia, as a
great artist, capable, so he said, of humbling the pride of his
holiness's favourite, Benvenuto. Another of my enemies was Pompeo, a
Milanese jeweller, and near relation to his holiness's most favoured
servant. At the instigation of this Pompeo I was deprived of my place in
the mint. On another day Pompeo ran in all haste to the Pope, and said:
"Most Holy Father, Benvenuto has just murdered Tobbia; I saw it with my
own eyes." The Pope flew into a violent passion, and ordered the
governor of Rome to seize and hang me directly.

The Cardinal de Medici overheard this, and sent a Roman gentleman to
tell me it was impossible to save me, and advising me to fly from Rome.
I took horse, and bent my course instantly towards Naples. Afterwards I
found that Pope Clement had sent one of the two gentlemen of his
bed-chamber to inquire after Tobbia. That gentleman, upon finding Tobbia
at work, reported the real state of the case to the Pope. His holiness
thereupon turned to Pompeo and said: "You are a most abandoned wretch,
but one thing I can assure you of--you have stirred a snake that will
sting you, and that is what you well deserve."

Arrived in Naples I was received by the viceroy, who showed me a
thousand civilities, and asked me to enter his service. However, having
received a letter from the Cardinal de Medici to return to Rome without
loss of time, I repaired thither on horseback. On reaching my own house
I finished a medal with the head of Pope Clement, and on the reverse a
figure representing Peace, and stamped upon gold, silver, and copper.
His holiness, when presented with the medals, told me they were very
fine, that he was highly pleased with them, and asked me to make another
reverse representing Moses striking the rock, and the water issuing from
it. This I did.

Three days afterwards, Pope Clement died. I put on my sword, and
repaired to St. Peter's, where I kissed the feet of the deceased
pontiff, and could not refrain from tears. On returning, near the Campo
di Fiore, I met my adversary Pompeo, encircled with his bravoes. I
thereupon clapped my hand to a sharp dagger, forced my way through the
file of ruffians, laid hold of Pompeo by the throat, struck him under
the ear, and, upon repeating my blow, he fell down dead. I escaped, and
was protected by Cardinal Cornaro in his own palace.

A few days after, Cardinal Farnese was elected as Pope Paul III. The new
pontiff inquired after me, and declared he would employ nobody else to
stamp his coins, A gentleman said that I was obliged to abscond for
having killed one Pompeo in a fray, to which the Pope made answer: "I
never heard of the death of Pompeo, but I have often heard of
Benvenuto's provocation; so let a safe-conduct be instantly made out,
and that will secure him from all other manner of dangers." A Milanese,
who was a favourite of the pontiff, told his holiness that it might be
of dangerous consequence to grant such favours immediately on being
raised to his new dignity. The Pope instantly said: "You do not
understand these matters; I must inform you that men who are masters in
their profession, like Benvenuto, should not be subject to the laws; but
he less than any other, for I am sensible that he was in the right in
the whole affair." So I entered into the Pope's service.

However, the Pope's natural son having become my enemy, and having
employed a Corsican soldier to assassinate me, I escaped to Florence,
where I was appointed master of the mint by Duke Alessandro de Medici.
The coins which I stamped, with the duke's head on one side and a saint
on the other, his excellency declared were the finest in Christendom.
Shortly after I received from Rome an ample safe-conduct from the Pope,
directing me to repair forthwith to that city at the celebration of the
Feast of the Virgin Mary. This I did, and the Pope granted me a patent
of pardon for killing Pompeo, and caused it to be registered in the
Capitol.

About this time Charles V. returned victorious from his enterprise
against Tunis. When he made his triumphant entry into Rome he was
received with great pomp, and I was nominated by his holiness to carry
his presents of massive gold work and jewels, executed by myself, to the
emperor, who invited me to his court and ordered five hundred gold
crowns to be given me. Stories to my prejudice having been carried to
his holiness, I felt myself to be neglected, and set out for France, but
made no stay there, and returned to Rome. Here I was accused falsely by
a Perugian servant of being possessed of great treasure, the greatest
part of which was said to consist of jewels which belonged to the
Church, and whose booty I had possessed myself of in the Castle of St.
Angelo at the time of the sack of Rome. At the instigation of Pier
Luigi, the Pope's illegitimate son, I was taken as prisoner to the
Castle of St. Angelo, where I was put under examination by the governor
of Rome and other magistrates. I vindicated myself, saying that I got
nothing else in the Church's service at the melancholy sack of Rome but
wounds.

Accurate inquiry having been made, none of the Pope's jewels were found
missing; but I was left a prisoner in the castle, from which I made a
marvellous escape, only to be consigned again, at the instigation of
Luigi, to the deepest subterranean cell. I would have destroyed myself,
but I had wonderful revelations and visions of St. Peter, who pleaded my
cause with the beautiful Virgin Mary holding Christ in her arms. The
constable informed the Pope of the extraordinary things which I declared
I had seen. The pontiff, who neither believed in God nor in any other
article of religion, sent word that I was mad, and advised him to think
no more about me, but mind his own soul.


_IV.--At the French Court_


About this time the Cardinal of Ferrara came to Rome from the court of
France, and in the name of King Francis urged my release, to which he
got the Pope's consent during a convivial meeting without the knowledge
of Luigi. The Pope's order was brought to the prison at night, and I was
conducted to the palace of the Cardinal. The Cardinal was summoned by
Francis I. to Paris, and to bring me with him.

The French king received me graciously, and I presented him with a cup
and basin which I had executed for his majesty, who declared that
neither the ancients nor the greatest masters of Italy had ever worked
in so exquisite a taste. His majesty ordered me to make him twelve
silver statues. They were to be figures of six gods and six goddesses,
made exactly to his own height, which was very little less than three
cubits. I began zealously to make a model of Jupiter. Next day I showed
him in his palace the model of my great salt-cellar, which he called a
noble production, and commissioned me to make it in gold, commanding
that I should be given directly a thousand old gold crowns, good weight.

As a mark of distinction, the king granted me letters of naturalisation
and a patent of lordship of the Castle of Nesle. Later, I submitted to
the king models of the new palace gates and the great fountain for
Fontainebleau, which appeared to him to be exceedingly beautiful.
Unluckily for me, his favourite, Madame d'Estampes, conceived a deep
resentment at my neglect for not taking notice of her in any of my
designs. When the silver statue of Jupiter was finished and set up in
the corridor of Fontainebleau alongside reproductions in bronze of all
the first-rate antiques recently discovered in Rome, the king cried out:
"This is one of the finest productions of art that was ever beheld; I
could never have conceived a piece of work the hundredth part so
beautiful. From a comparison with these admirable antique figures, it is
evident that this statue of Jupiter is vastly superior to them."

Madame d'Estampes was more highly incensed than ever, but the king said
I was one of the ablest men the world had ever produced. The king
ordered me a thousand crowns, partly as a recompense for my labours, and
partly in payment of some disbursed by myself. I afterwards set about
finishing my colossal statue of Mars, which was to occupy the centre of
the fountain at Fontainebleau, and represented the king. Madame
d'Estampes continuing her spiteful artifices, I requested the Cardinal
of Ferrara to procure leave for me to make a tour to Italy, promising to
return whenever the king should think proper to signify his pleasure. I
departed in an unlucky hour, leaving under the care of my journeymen my
castle and all my effects; but all the way I could not refrain from
sighing and weeping.

At this time Cosmo, Duke of Florence, resided at Poggio Cajano, a place
ten miles from Florence. I there waited upon him to pay my respects, and
he and his duchess received me with the greatest kindness. At the duke's
request I undertook to make a great statue of Perseus delivering
Andromeda from the Medusa. A site was found for me to erect a house in
which I might set up my furnaces, and carry on a variety of works both
of clay and bronze, and of gold and silver separately. While making
progress with my great statue of Perseus, I executed my golden vases,
girdles, and other jewels for the Duchess of Florence, and also a
likeness of the duke larger than life.

For a time I discontinued working upon marble statues and went on with
Perseus, and eventually I triumphed over all the difficulties of casting
it in bronze, although the shop took fire at the critical moment, and
the sky poured in so much rain and wind that my furnace was cooled. I
was so highly pleased that my work had succeeded so well that I went to
Pisa to pay my respects to the duke, who received me in the most
gracious manner, while the duchess vied with him in kindness to me.


_V.--His Later Life in Florence_


About this time the war with Siena broke out, and at the request of the
duke I carried out the repair of the fortifications of two of the gates
of the city of Florence. At last my statue of Perseus was erected in the
great square, and was shown to the populace, who set up so loud a shout
of applause that I began to be comforted for the mortifications I had
undergone. Sonnets and Latin and Greek odes were hung upon the gates in
praise of my performance, but what gave me the highest satisfaction was
that statuaries and painters emulated each other in commending it. Two
days having passed, I paid a visit to the duke, who said to me with
great complaisance: "My friend Benvenuto, you have given me the highest
satisfaction imaginable, and I promise to reward you in such a manner as
to excite your surprise." I shed tears of joy, and kissing the hem of
his excellency's garment, addressed him thus: "My most noble lord,
liberal patron of the arts, I beg leave to retire for a week to return
thanks to the Supreme Being, for I know how hard I have worked, and I am
sensible that my faith has prevailed with God to grant me His
assistance." Permission was given, and I made the pilgrimage to
Vallombrosa and Camaldoli, incessantly singing psalms and saying prayers
to the honour and glory of God.

On my return there were great differences between the duke and myself as
to the reward to be given me for the statue of Perseus, during which the
duchess and the sculptor Bandinello interposed. Bandinello declared that
the work had proved so admirable a masterpiece, that, in his opinion, it
was worth 16,000 gold crowns and upwards. When the duke was informed of
this decision he was highly displeased, and down to the close of the
year 1566 I received no more than 3,000 gold crowns, given to me monthly
by payments of 25, 50, or 100 crowns.

Subsequently, I was employed to erect two pulpits in the choir of St.
Maria del Fiore, and adorn them with historical figures in basso-relievo
of bronze, together with varieties of other embellishments. About this
period, the great block of marble, intended for the gigantic statue of
Neptune, to be placed near the fountain on the Ducal Piazza, was brought
up the River Arno, and thence by road to Florence. A competition took
place between the model which I had made for the statue of Neptune and
that designed by Bandinello. The duchess, who had become my implacable
enemy, favoured Bandinello, and I waited upon her, carrying to her some
pretty trifles of my making, which her excellency liked very much. Then
I added that I had undertaken one of the most laborious tasks in the
world--the carving of a Christ crucified, of the whitest marble, upon a
cross of the blackest, and as large as the life. Upon her asking me what
I proposed doing with it, I said I would freely make her a present of
it; that all I desired was that she would be neutral with respect to the
model of the Neptune which the duke had ordered to be made.

When I had finished the model of Neptune, the duke came to see it. It
gave him high satisfaction, and he said I deserved the prize. Some weeks
later, Bandinello died, and it was generally thought that the grief
which he felt at losing the fine piece of marble out of which the statue
of Neptune was to be made greatly contributed to hasten his dissolution.
When I was working at my great model of Neptune, I was seized with
illness, caused by a dose of sublimate poison administered in food by a
man named Sbietta and his brother, a profligate priest, from whom I had
bought the annuity of a farm. Upon my recovery the duke and the duchess
came unexpectedly with a grand retinue to my workshop to see the image
of Christ upon the Cross, and it pleased them so greatly that they
bestowed the highest encomiums on me. Though I had undergone infinite
labour in its execution, yet with pleasure I made them a present of it,
thinking none more worthy of that fine piece of work than their
excellencies. They talked a long time in praise of my abilities, and the
duchess seemed, as it were, to ask pardon for her past treatment of me.

At this juncture the Queen Dowager of France, Catherine de Medici,
dispatched Signor Baccio del Bene on a mission to our duke. The signor
and I were intimate friends, and he told me that the queen had a strong
desire to finish the sepulchral monument to her husband, King Henry, and
if I chose to return to France and again take possession of my castle, I
should be supplied with whatever I wanted, in case I was willing to
serve her majesty. But when this was communicated to the duke, his
excellency said he meant to keep me in his own service; and the Queen of
France, who had received a loan of money from the duke, did not propose
the thing any more for fear of offending him; so I was obliged to stay,
much against my will.

The last entry in Benvenuto Cellini's manuscript is the announcement of
a journey made by Duke Cosmo with his whole court, including his
brother, the Cardinal de Medici, to Pisa, where the latter was attacked
by "a malignant fever, which in a few days put an end to his life. The
cardinal was one of the duke's chief supporters, and highly beloved by
him, being a person of great virtues and abilities. Consequently, his
loss was severely felt."

In 1554, Benvenuto had been admitted to the ranks of the Florentine
nobility. In 1560 he married Piera, the woman named in his will, who
nursed him through his illness from the poison administered by the
Sbietta family. By her he had five children, two of whom died in
infancy. In 1561, Duke Cosmo made him a grant of a house near San Croce,
in the Via Rosajo, Florence, "in consideration of his admirable talents
in casting, sculpture, and other branches of art." The patent continues:
"We look upon his productions, both in marble and bronze, as evident
proofs of his surpassing genius and incomparable skill."

Benvenuto was deputed by the sculptors of Florence to attend the
obsequies of his great master and friend, Michael Angelo Buonarroti, who
had died on February 18, 1564. Benvenuto died on December 13, 1569, and
was buried by his own direction in the Chapter House of the Church of
the Annunziata, Florence, with great pomp.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHATEAUBRIAND


Memoirs From Beyond the Grave


     The "Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe," which was partly published
     before Chateaubriand's death, represents a work spread over a
     great part of Chateaubriand's life, and reveals as no other of
     his books the innermost personality of the man.
     (Chateaubriand, biography: see FICTION.)


_I.--Youth and Its Follies_


Four years ago, on my return from the Holy Land, I purchased a little
country house, situated near the hamlet of Aulnay, in the vicinity of
Sceaux and Chatenay. The house is in a valley, encircled by thickly
wooded hills. The ground attached to this habitation is a sort of wild
orchard. These narrow confines seem to me to be fitting boundaries of my
long-protracted hopes. I have selected the trees, as far as I was able,
from the various climes I have visited. They remind me of my wanderings.

Knight-errant as I am, I have the sedentary tastes of a monk. It was
here I wrote the "Martyrs," the "Abencerrages," the "Itinéraire," and
"Moise." To what shall I devote myself in the evenings of the present
autumn? This day, October 4, being the anniversary of my entrance into
Jerusalem, tempts me to commence the history of my life.

I am of noble descent, and I have profited by the accident of my birth,
inasmuch as I have retained that firm love of liberty which
characterises the members of an aristocracy whose last hour has sounded.
Aristocracy has three successive ages--the age of superiority, the age
of privilege, and the age of vanity. Having emerged from the first age,
ft degenerates in the second age, and perishes in the third.

When I was a young man, and learned the meaning of love, I was a mystery
to myself. All my days were _adieux_. I could not see a woman without
being troubled. I blushed if one spoke to me. My timidity, already
excessive towards everyone, became so great with a woman that I would
have preferred any torment whatsoever to that of remaining alone with
one. She was no sooner gone than I would have recalled her with all my
heart. Had anyone delivered to me the most beautiful slaves of the
seraglio, I should not have known what to say to them. Accident
enlightened me.

Had I done as other men do, I should sooner have learned the pleasures
and pains of passion, the germ of which I carried in myself; but
everything in me assumed an extraordinary character. The warmth of
imagination, my bashfulness and solitude, caused me to turn back upon
myself. For want of a real object, by the power of my vague desires, I
evoked a phantom which never quitted me more. I know not whether the
history of the human heart furnishes another example of this kind.

I pictured then to myself an ideal beauty, moulded from the various
charms of all the women I had seen. I gave her the eyes of one young
village girl, and the rosy freshness of another. This invisible
enchantress constantly attended me; I communed with her as with a real
being. She varied at the will of my wandering fancy. Now she was Diana
clothed in azure, now Aphrodite unveiled, now Thalia with her laughing
mask, now Hebe bearing the cup of eternal youth.

A young queen approaches, brilliant with diamonds and flowers--this was
always my sylph. She seeks me at midnight, amidst orange groves, in the
corridors of a palace washed by the waves, on the balmy shore of Naples
or Messina; the light sound of her footsteps on the mosaic floor mingles
with the scarcely heard murmur of the waves.

Awaking from these my dreams, and finding myself a poor little obscure
Breton, who would attract the eyes of no one, despair seized upon me. I
no longer dared to raise my eyes to the brilliant phantom which I had
attached to my every step. This delirium lasted for two whole years. I
spoke little; my taste for solitude redoubled. I showed all the symptoms
of a violent passion. I was absent, sad, ardent, savage. My days passed
on in wild, extravagant, mad fashion, which nevertheless had a peculiar
charm.

I have now reached a period at which I require some strength of mind to
confess my weakness. I had a gun, the worn-out trigger of which often
went off unexpectedly. I loaded this gun with three balls, and went to a
spot at a considerable distance from the great Mall. I cocked the gun,
put the end of the barrel into my mouth, and struck the butt-end against
the ground. I repeated the attempt several times, but unsuccessfully.
The appearance of a gamekeeper interrupted me in my design. I was a
fatalist, though without my own intention or knowledge. Supposing that
my hour was not yet come, I deferred the execution of my project to
another day.

Any whose minds are troubled by these delineations should remember that
they are listening to the voice of one who has passed from this world.
Reader, whom I shall never know, of me there is nothing--nothing but
what I am in the hands of the living God.

A few weeks later I was sent for one morning. My father was waiting for
me in his cabinet.

"Sir," said he, "you must renounce your follies. Your brother has
obtained for you a commission as ensign in the regiment of Navarre. You
must presently set out for Rennes, and thence to Cambray. Here are a
hundred louis-d'or; take care of them. I am old and ill--I have no long
time to live. Behave like a good man, and never dishonour your name."

He embraced me. I felt the hard and wrinkled face pressed with emotion
against mine. This was my father's last embrace.

The mail courier brought me to my garrison. Having joined the regiment
in the garb of a citizen, twenty-four hours afterwards I assumed that of
a soldier; it appeared as if I had worn it always. I was not fifteen
days in the regiment before I became an officer. I learned with facility
both the exercise and the theory of arms. I passed through the offices
of corporal and sergeant with the approbation of my instructors. My
rooms became the rendezvous of the old captains, as well as of the young
lieutenants.

The same year in which I went through my first training in arms at
Cambray brought news of the death of Frederic II. I am now ambassador to
the nephew of this great king, and write this part of my memoirs in
Berlin. This piece of important public news was succeeded by another,
mournful to me. It was announced to me that my father had been carried
off by an attack of apoplexy.

I lamented M. de Chateaubriand. I remembered neither his severity nor
his weakness. If my father's affection for me partook of the severity of
his character, in reality it was not the less deep. My brother announced
to me that I had already obtained the rank of captain of cavalry, a rank
entitling me to honour and courtesy.

A few days later I set out to be presented at the first court in Europe.
I remember my emotion when I saw the king at Versailles. When the king's
levée was announced, the persons not presented withdrew. I felt an
emotion of vanity; I was not proud of remaining, but I should have felt
humiliated at having to retire. The royal bed-chamber door opened; I saw
the king, according to custom, finishing his toilet. He advanced, on his
way to the chapel, to hear mass. I bowed, Marshal de Duras announcing my
name--"Sire, le Chevalier de Chateaubriand."

The king graciously returned my salutation, and seemed to wish to
address me; but, more embarrassed than I, finding nothing to say to me,
he passed on. This sovereign was Louis XVI., only six years before he
was brought to the scaffold.


_II.--In the Years of Revolution_


My political education was begun by my residence, at different times, in
Brittany in the years 1787 and 1788. The states of this province
furnished the model of the States-General; and the particular troubles
which broke out in the provinces of Brittany and Dauphiny were the
forerunners of those of the nation at large.

The change which had been developing for two hundred years was then
reaching its limits. France was rapidly tending to a representative
system by means of a contest of the magistracy with the royal power.

The year 1789, famous in the history of France, found me still on the
plains of my native Brittany. I could not leave the province till late
in the year, and did not reach Paris till after the pillage of the
Maison Reveillon, the opening of the States-General, the constitution of
the Tièrs-État in the National Assembly, the oath of the Jeu-de-Paume,
the royal council of the 23rd of June, and the junction of the clergy
and nobility in the Tièrs-État. The court, now yielding, now attempting
to resist, allowed itself to be browbeaten by Mirabeau.

The counter-blow to that struck at Versailles was felt at Paris. On July
14 the Bastille was taken. I was present as a spectator at this event.
If the gates had been kept shut the fortress would never have been
taken. De Launay, dragged from his dungeon, was murdered on the steps of
the Hôtel de Ville. Flesselles, the _prevôt des marchands_, was shot
through the head. Such were the sights delighted in by heartless saintly
hypocrites. In the midst of these murders the people abandoned
themselves to orgies similar to those carried on in Rome during the
troubles under Otto and Vitellius. The monarchy was demolished as
rapidly as the Bastille in the sitting of the National Assembly on the
evening of August 4.

My regiment, quartered at Rouen, preserved its discipline for some time.
But at length insurrection broke out among the soldiers in Navarre. The
Marquis de Mortemar emigrated; the officers followed him. I had neither
adopted nor rejected the new opinions; I neither wished to emigrate nor
to continue my military career. I therefore retired, and I decided to go
to America.

I sailed for that land, and my heart beat when we sighted the American
coast, faintly traced by the tops of some maple-trees emerging, as it
were, from the sea. A pilot came on board and we sailed into the
Chesapeake and soon set foot on American soil.

At that time I had a great admiration for republics, though I did not
believe them possible in our era of the world. My idea of liberty
pictured her such as she was among the ancients, daughter of the manners
of an infant society. I knew her not as the daughter of enlightenment
and the civilisation of centuries; as the liberty whose reality the
representative republic has proved--God grant it may be durable! We are
no longer obliged to work in our own little fields, to curse arts and
sciences, if we would be free.

I met General Washington. He was tall, calm, and cold rather than noble
in mien; the engravings of him are good. We sat down, and I explained to
him as well as I could the motive of my journey. He answered me in
English and French monosyllables, and listened to me with a sort of
astonishment. I perceived this, and said to him with some warmth: "But
is it less difficult to discover the north-west passage than to create a
nation as you have done?"

"Well, well, young man!" cried he, holding out his hand to me. He
invited me to dine with him on the following day, and we parted. I took
care not to fail in my appointment. The conversation turned on the
French Revolution, and the general showed us a key of the Bastille. Such
was my meeting with the citizen soldier--the liberator of a world.


_III.--Paris in the Reign of Terror_


In 1792, when I returned to Paris, it no longer exhibited the same
appearance as in 1789 and 1790. It was no longer the new-born
Revolution, but a people intoxicated, rushing on to fulfil its destiny
across abysses and by devious ways. The appearance of the people was no
longer curious and eager, but threatening.

The king's flight on June 21, 1791, gave an immense impulse to the
Revolution. Having been brought back to Paris on June 25, he was
dethroned for the first time, in consequence of the declaration of the
National Assembly that all its decrees should have the force of law,
without the king's concurrence or assent. I visited several of the
"Clubs."

The scenes at the Cordeliers, at which I was three or four times
present, were ruled and presided over by Danton--a Hun, with the nature
of a Goth.

Faithful to my instincts, I had returned from America to offer my sword
to Louis XVI., not to involve myself in party intrigues. I therefore
decided to "emigrate." Brussels was the headquarters of the most
distinguished _émigrés_. There I found my trifling baggage, which had
arrived before me. The coxcomb _émigrés_ were hateful to me. I was eager
to see those like myself, with 600 livres income.

My brother remained at Brussels as an aide-de-camp to the Baron de
Montboissier. I set out alone for Coblentz, went up the Rhine to that
city, but the royal army was not there. Passing on, I fell in with the
Prussian army between Coblentz and Treves. My white uniform caught the
king's eye. He sent for me; he and the Duke of Brunswick took off their
hats, and in my person saluted the old French army.


_IV.--The Army of Princes_


I was almost refused admission into the army of princes, for there were
already too many gallant men ready to fight. But I said I had just come
from America to have the honour of serving with old comrades. The matter
was arranged, the ranks were opened to receive me, and the only
remaining difficulty was where to choose. I entered the 7th company of
the Bretons. We had tents, but were in want of everything else.

Our little army marched for Thionville. We went five or six leagues a
day. The weather was desperate. We began the siege of Thionville, and in
a few days were reinforced by Austrian cannon and cannoneers. The
besieged made an attack on us, and in this action we had several wounded
and some killed. We relinquished the siege of Thionville and set out for
Verdun, which had surrendered to the allies. The passage of Frederic
William was attested on all sides by garlands and flowers. In the midst
of these trophies of peace I observed the Prussian eagle displayed on
the fortifications of Verdun. It was not to remain long; as for the
flowers, they were destined to fade, like the innocent creatures who had
gathered them. One of the most atrocious murders of the reign of terror
was that of the young girls of Verdun.

"Fourteen young girls of Verdun, of rare beauty, and almost like young
virgins dressed for a public fête, were," says Riouffe, "led in a body
to the scaffold. I never saw among us any despair like that which this
infamous act excited."

I had been wounded during the siege of Thionville, and was suffering
badly. While I was asleep, a splinter from a shell struck me on the
right thigh. Roused by the stroke, but not being sensible of the pain, I
only saw that I was wounded by the appearance of the blood. I bound up
my thigh with my handkerchief. At four in the morning we thought the
town had surrendered, but the gates were not opened, and we were obliged
to think of a retreat. We returned to our positions after a harassing
march of three days. While these drops of blood were shed under the
walls of Thionville, torrents were flowing in the prisons of Paris; my
wife and sisters were in greater danger than myself.

At Verdun, fever after my wound undermined my strength, and smallpox
attacked me. Yet I began a journey on foot of two hundred leagues, with
only eighteen livres in my pocket. All for the glory of the monarchy! I
intended to try to reach Ostend, there to embark for Jersey, and thence
to join the royalists in Brittany. Breaking down on the road, I lay
insensible for two hours, swooning away with a feeling of religion. The
last noise I heard was the whistling of a bullfinch. Some drivers of the
Prince de Ligne's waggons saw me, and in pity lifted me up and carried
me to Namur. Others of the prince's people carried me to Brussels. Here
I found my brother, who brought a surgeon and a doctor to attend to me.
He told me of the events of August 10, of the massacres of September,
and other political news of which I had not heard. He approved of my
intention to go to Jersey, and lent me twenty-five louis-d'or. We were
looking on each other for the last time.

After reaching Jersey, I was four months dangerously ill in my uncle's
house, where I was tenderly nursed. Recovering, I went in 1793 to
England, landing as a poor émigré where now, in 1822, I write these
memoirs, and enjoy the dignity of ambassador.


_V.--Letters from the Dead_


Several of my family fell victims to the Revolution. I learned in July,
1783, that my mother, after having been thrown, at the age of
seventy-two, into a dungeon, where she witnessed the death of some of
her children, expired at length on a pallet, to which her misfortunes
had consigned her. The thoughts of my errors greatly embittered her last
days, and on her death-bed she charged one of my sisters to reclaim me
to the religion in which I had been educated. My sister Julie
communicated my mother's last wish to me. When this letter reached me in
my exile, my sister herself was no more; she, too, had sunk beneath the
effects of her imprisonment. These two voices, coming as it were from
the grave--the dead interpreting the dead--had a powerful effect on me.
I became a Christian. I did not, indeed, yield to any great supernatural
light; my conviction came from my heart; I wept, I believed.

       *       *       *       *       *




THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD


Letters to His Son


     A capable statesman, an accomplished diplomatist, and the
     courtliest and best-bred man of his century, Philip Dormer
     Stanhope, fourth Earl of Chesterfield, born on September 22,
     1694, and dead March 24, 1773, would have been almost
     forgotten at the present day but for the preservation of his
     letters to his natural son, Philip Stanhope. It was the
     ambition of Lord Chesterfield's life that this young man
     should be a paragon of learning and manners. In a voluminous
     series of letters, more than 400 of which are preserved, his
     father minutely directed his classical and political studies,
     and, above all, instructed him with endless insistence as to
     his bearing in society, impressed upon him the importance of
     good breeding, the "graces," and the general deportment
     required of a person of quality. The letters are a classic of
     courtliness and worldly wisdom. They were prepared for the
     press by Philip Stanhope's widow, and were published in 1774,
     under the title of "Letters Written by the Earl of
     Chesterfield, together with Several other Pieces on Various
     Subjects." Since then many editions have appeared, bearing
     such titles as "The Fine Gentleman," "The Elements of Polite
     Education," etc.


_I.--On Manners and Address_


London, _December_ 29, 1747. I have received two letters from you of the
17th and 22nd, by the last of which I find that some of mine to you must
have miscarried; for I have never been above two posts without writing
to you or to Mr. Harte, and even very long letters. I have also received
a letter from Mr. Harte, which gives me great satisfaction; it is full
of your praises.

Your German will go on, of course; and I take it for granted that your
stay at Leipsig will make you a perfect master of that language, both as
to speaking and writing; for remember, that knowing any language
imperfectly is very little better than not knowing it at all, people
being as unwilling to speak in a language which they do not possess
thoroughly as others are to hear them.

Go to the Duchess of Courland's as often as she and your leisure will
permit. The company of women of fashion will improve your manners,
though not your understanding; and that complaisance and politeness,
which are so useful in men's company, can only be acquired in women's.

Remember always what I have told you a thousand times, that all the
talents in the world will want all their lustre, and some part of their
use, too, if they are not advanced with that easy good-breeding, that
engaging manner, and those graces, which seduce and prepossess people in
your favour at first sight. A proper care of your person is by no means
to be neglected; always extremely clean; upon proper occasions, fine.
Your carriage genteel, and your motions graceful. Take particular care
of your manners and address when you present yourself in company. Let
them be respectful without meanness, easy without too much familiarity,
genteel without affectation, and insinuating without any seeming art or
design.... Adieu!


_II.--On the Art of Pleasing_


_Bath, March_ 9, 1748. I must from time to time remind you of what I
have often recommended to you, and of what you cannot attend to too
much: sacrifice to the graces. Intrinsic merit alone will not do; it
will gain you the general esteem of all, but not the particular
affection, that is the heart, of any. To engage the affections of any
particular person you must, over and above your general merit, have some
particular merit to that person; by services done, or offered; by
expressions of regard and esteem; by complaisance, attentions, etc., for
him; and the graceful manner of doing all these things opens the way to
the heart, and facilitates, or rather, insures, their effects.

A thousand little things, not separately to be described, conspire to
form these graces, this _je ne scais quoi,_ that always pleases. A
pretty person, a proper degree of dress, an harmonious voice, something
open and cheerful in the countenance, but without laughing; a distinct
and properly varied manner of speaking; all these things and many others
are necessary ingredients in the composition of the pleasing _je ne
scais quoi_, which everybody feels, though nobody can describe. Observe
carefully, then, what displeases or pleases you in others, and be
persuaded that, in general, the same things will please or displease
them in you.

Having mentioned laughing, I must particularly warn you against it; and
I would heartily wish that you may often be seen to smile, but never
heard to laugh while you live. Frequent and loud laughter is the
characteristic of folly and ill-manners; it is the manner in which the
mob express their silly joy at silly things; and they call it being
merry. In my mind there is nothing so illiberal, and so ill-bred, as
audible laughter. I am neither of a melancholy nor a cynical
disposition, and am as willing and as apt to be pleased as anybody; but
I am sure that since I have had the full use of my reason nobody has
ever heard me laugh. Many people, at first, from awkwardness and
_mauvaise honte_, have got a very disagreeable and silly trick of
laughing whenever they speak.

This, and many other very disagreeable habits, are owing to _mauvaise
honte_ at their first setting out in the world. They are ashamed in
company, and so disconcerted that they do not know what they do, and try
a thousand tricks to keep themselves in countenance; which tricks
afterwards grow habitual to them. Some put their fingers in their nose,
others scratch their heads, others twirl their hats; in short, every
awkward, ill-bred body has its tricks. But the frequency does not
justify the thing, and all these vulgar habits and awkwardness are most
carefully to be guarded against, as they are great bars in the way of
the art of pleasing.

_London, September_ 5, 1748. I have received yours, with the enclosed
German letter to Mr. Grevenkop, which he assures me is extremely well
written, considering the little time that you have applied yourself to
that language.

St. Thomas's Day now draws near, when you are to leave Saxony and go to
Berlin. Berlin will be entirely a new scene to you, and I look upon it,
in a manner, as your first step into the great world; take care that
step be not a false one, and that you do not stumble at the threshold.
You will there be in more company than you have yet been; manners and
attentions will, therefore, be more necessary.

You will best acquire these by frequenting the companies of people of
fashion; but then you must resolve to acquire them, in those companies,
by proper care and observation. When you go into good company--by good
company is meant the people of the first fashion of the place--observe
carefully their turn, their manners, their address; and conform your own
to them. But this is not all either; go deeper still; observe their
characters, and pry into both their hearts and their heads. Seek for
their particular merit, their predominant passion, or their prevailing
weakness; and you will then know what to bait your hook with to catch
them.

As women are a considerable, or, at least, a pretty numerous part of
company; and as their suffrages go a great way towards establishing a
man's character in the fashionable part of the world, which is of great
importance to the fortune and figure he proposes to make in it, it is
necessary to please them. I will, therefore, upon this subject, let you
into certain _arcana_ that will be very useful for you to know, but
which you must, with the utmost care, conceal and never seem to know.

Women, then, are only children of a larger growth; they have an
entertaining tattle, and sometimes wit; but for solid reasoning, good
sense, I never knew in my life one that had it, or who reasoned or acted
consequentially for four-and-twenty hours together. Some little passion
or humour always breaks in upon their best resolutions. Their beauty
neglected or controverted, their age increased or their supposed
understandings depreciated, instantly kindles their little passions, and
overturns any system of consequential conduct that in their most
reasonable moments they have been capable of forming. A man of sense
only trifles with them, plays with them, humours and flatters them, as
he does with a sprightly, forward child; but he neither consults them
about nor trusts them with, serious matters; though he often makes them
believe that he does both, which is the thing in the world that they are
proud of.

But these are secrets, which you must keep inviolably, if you would not,
like Orpheus, be torn to pieces by the whole sex. On the contrary, a man
who thinks of living in the great world must be gallant, polite, and
attentive to please the women. They have, from the weakness of men, more
or less influence in all courts; they absolutely stamp every man's
character in the _beau monde,_ and make it either current, or cry it
down, and stop it in payment.

It is, therefore, absolutely necessary to manage, please, and flatter
them; and never to discover the least mark of contempt, which is what
they never forgive; but in this they are not singular, for it is the
same with men, who will much sooner forgive an injustice than an insult.

These are some of the hints which my long experience in the great world
enables me to give you, and which, if you attend to them, may prove
useful to you in your journey through it. I wish it may be a prosperous
one; at least, I am sure that it must be your own fault if it is not.


_III.--The Secret of Good Breeding_


_London, November_ 3, 1749. From the time that you have had life, it has
been the principal and favourite object of mine to make you as perfect
as the imperfections of human nature will allow. In this view, I have
grudged no pains nor expense in your education, convinced that
education, more than nature, is the cause of that great difference which
you see in the characters of men. While you were a child I endeavoured
to form your heart habitually to virtue and honour, before your
understanding was capable of showing you their beauty and utility. Those
principles, which you then got, like your grammar rules, only by rote,
are now, I am persuaded, fixed and confirmed by reason.

My next object was sound and useful learning. All that remains for me
then to wish, to recommend, to inculcate, to order, and to insist upon,
is good breeding, without which all your other qualifications will be
lame, unadorned, and to a certain degree unavailing. And here I fear,
and have too much reason to believe, that you are greatly deficient. The
remainder of this letter, therefore, shall be--and it will not be the
last by a great many--upon the subject of good breeding.

A friend of yours and mine has very justly defined good breeding to be
the result of much good sense, some good nature, and a little
self-denial for the sake of others, and with a view to obtain the same
indulgence from them. Taking this for granted, as I think it cannot be
disputed, it is astonishing to me that anybody who has good sense and
good nature, and I believe you have both, can essentially fail in good
breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary according to persons
and places and circumstances, and are only to be acquired by observation
and experience; but the substance of it is everywhere and eternally the
same. Good manners are, to particular societies, what good morals are to
society in general; their cement and their security. And as laws are
enacted to enforce good morals, or, at least, to prevent the ill-effects
of bad ones, so there are certain rules of civility, universally implied
and received, to enforce good manners, and punish bad ones.

Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little conveniences,
are as natural an implied compact between civilised people as protection
and obedience are between kings and subjects; whoever, in either case,
violates that compact justly forfeits all advantages arising from it.
For my own part, I really think that, next to the consciousness of doing
a good action, that of doing a civil one is the most pleasing; and the
epithet which I should covet the most, next to that of Aristides, would
be that of well-bred.

I will conclude with these axioms:

That the deepest learning, without good breeding, is unwelcome and
tiresome pedantry, and of use nowhere but in a man's own closet; and,
consequently, of little or no use at all.

That a man who is not perfectly well-bred, is unfit for good company,
and therefore unwelcome in it; will consequently dislike it soon,
afterwards renounce it, and be reduced to solitude, or, what is
considerably worse, low and bad company.


_IV.--The Fruits of Observation_


_London, September 22_, 1752. The day after the date of my last, I
received your letter of the 8th. I approve extremely of your intended
progress. I would have you see everything with your own eyes, and hear
everything with your own ears, for I know, by very long experience, that
it is very unsafe to trust to other people's, Vanity and interest cause
many misrepresentations, and folly causes many more. Few people have
parts enough to relate exactly and judiciously; and those who have, for
some reason or other, never fail to sink or to add some circumstances.

The reception which you have met with at Hanover I look upon as an omen
of your being well-received everywhere else, for, to tell you the truth,
it was the place that I distrusted the most in that particular. But
there is a certain conduct, there are _certaines manières_, that will,
and must, get the better of all difficulties of that kind. It is to
acquire them that you still continue abroad, and go from court to court;
they are personal, local, and temporal; they are modes which vary, and
owe their existence to accidents, whim, and humour. All the sense and
reason in the world would never point them out; nothing but experience,
observation, and what is called knowledge of the world can possibly
teach them.

This knowledge is the true object of a gentleman's travelling, if he
travels as he ought to do. By frequent good company in every country he
himself becomes of every country; he is no longer an Englishman, a
Frenchman, or an Italian; but he is a European. He adopts respectively
the best manners of every country, and is a Frenchman at Paris, an
Italian at Rome, an Englishman at London.

This advantage, I must confess, very seldom accrues to my countrymen
from their travelling, as they have neither the desire nor the means of
getting into good company abroad; for, in the first place, they are
confoundedly bashful; and, in the next place, they either speak no
foreign language at all, or, if they do, it is barbarously. You possess
all the advantages that they want; you know the languages in perfection,
and have constantly kept the best company in the places where you have
been, so that you ought to be a European.

There is, in all good company, a fashionable air, countenance, manner,
and phraseology, which can only be acquired by being in good company,
and very attentive to all that passes there. There is a certain
distinguishing diction of a man of fashion; he will not content himself
with saying, like John Trott, to a new-married man, "Sir, I wish you
joy"--or to a man who lost his son, "Sir I am sorry for your loss," and
both with a countenance equally unmoved; but he will say in effect the
same thing in a more elegant and less trivial manner, and with a
countenance adapted to the occasion. He will advance with warmth,
vivacity, and a cheerful countenance to the new-married man, and,
embracing him, perhaps say to him, "If you do justice to my attachment
to you, you will judge of the joy that I feel upon this occasion better
than I can express it." To the other, in affliction, he will advance
slowly, with a grave composure of countenance, in a more deliberate
manner, and with a lower voice perhaps, say, "I hope you do me the
justice to be convinced that I feel whatever you feel, and shall ever be
affected where you are concerned."


_V.--On the Arts_


Mr. Harte tells me that he intends to give you, by means of Signor
Vincentini, a general notion of civil and military architecture; with
which I am very well pleased. They are frequent subjects of
conversation. I would also have you acquire a liberal taste of the two
liberal arts of painting and sculpture. All these sorts of things I
would have you know, to a certain degree; but remember that they must
only be the amusements, and not the business, of a man of parts.

As you are now in a musical country [Italy], where singing, fiddling,
and piping are not only the common topics of conversation but almost the
principal objects of attention, I cannot help cautioning you against
giving in to those--I will call them illiberal--pleasures, though music
is commonly reckoned one of the liberal arts, to the degree that most of
your countrymen do when they travel in Italy. If you love music, hear
it; go to operas, concerts, and pay fiddlers to play to you, but I
insist upon your neither piping nor fiddling yourself. It puts a
gentleman in a very frivolous, contemptible light, brings him into a
great deal of bad company, and takes up a great deal of time which might
be much better employed.

I confess I cannot help forming some opinion of a man's sense and
character from his dress, and I believe most people do as well as
myself. A man of sense carefully avoids any particular character in his
dress; he is accurately clean for his own sake; but all the rest is for
other people's. He dresses as well, and in the same manner, as the
people of sense and fashion of the place where he is. If he dresses
better, as he thinks, that is, more than they, he is a fop; if he
dresses worse, he is unpardonably negligent; but of the two, I would
rather have a young fellow too much than too little dressed--the excess
on that side will wear off with a little age; but if he is negligent at
twenty, he will be a sloven at forty, and stink at fifty years old.

As to the genius of poetry, I own, if Nature has not given it you, you
cannot have it, for it is a true maxim that _Poeta nascitur non fit_. It
is much otherwise with oratory, and the maxim there is _Orator fit_, for
it is certain that by study and application every man can make himself a
pretty good orator, eloquence depending upon observation and care. Every
man, if he pleases, may choose good words instead of bad ones, may speak
properly instead of improperly, may be clear and perspicuous in his
recitals instead of dark and muddy, may have grace instead of
awkwardness in his motions and gestures, and, in short, may be a very
agreeable instead of a very disagreeable speaker if he will take care
and pains. And surely it is very well worth while to take a great deal
of pains to excel other men in that particular article in which they
excel beasts.

That ready wit, which you so partially allow me, and so justly Sir
Charles Williams, may create many admirers; but, take my word for it, it
makes few friends. It shines and dazzles like the noonday sun, but, like
that, too, is very apt to scorch, and therefore is always feared. The
milder morning and evening light and heat of that planet soothe and calm
our minds. Never seek for wit; if it presents itself, well and good; but
even in that case, let your judgement interpose, and take care that it
be not at the expense of anybody.

       *       *       *       *       *




MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO


The Letters of Cicero


     Marcus Tullius Cicero was born on January 3, 106 B.C. Educated
     under the best teachers in the Greek culture of the day, he
     won a speedy reputation at the Bar and developed a keen
     interest in the various schools of Greek philosophy. His able
     and intrepid exposure of Catiline's conspiracy brought him the
     highest popularity, but he was attacked, in turn, by the
     ignoble Clodius, who obtained his banishment in 58 B.C. In the
     ensuing conflict between Cæsar and Pompey, Cicero was attached
     to the party of Pompey and the senate, as against Cæsar and
     the people. He kept clear of the conspiracy against Cæsar's
     life, but after the assassination he undertook an oratorical
     campaign against Antony, and was entrusted with the government
     of the city. But on the return of the triumvirate, Octavianus,
     Antony, and Lepidus, Cicero's name was included in the list of
     those who were to be done away, and he was murdered in the
     year 43 B.C., at 63 years of age. The correspondence of the
     great Roman advocate, statesman, and man of letters, preserved
     for us by the care of his freedman Tiro, is the richest and
     most interesting collection of its kind in the world's
     archives. The many-sided personality of their writer, his
     literary charm, the frankness with which he set down his
     opinions, hopes, and anxieties, the profound historical
     interest of this period of the fall of the republic, and the
     intimate glimpses which we get of Roman life and manners,
     combine to make Cicero's "Letters" perennially attractive. The
     series begins in B.C. 68, when Cicero was 38 years of age, and
     runs on to within a short time of his death in B.C. 43. The
     letters, of which there are 800, are addressed to several
     correspondents, of whom the most frequent and important is
     Titus Pomponius, surnamed Atticus, whose sister had married
     Cicero's brother Quintus. Atticus was a wealthy and cultivated
     man who had lived many years in Athens. He took no side in the
     perilous politics of the time, but Cicero relied always on his
     affectionate counsel, and on his ever-ready service in
     domestic matters.


_To Atticus_


There is nothing I need so much just now as someone with whom I may
discuss all my anxieties, someone with whom I may speak quite frankly
and without pretences. My brother, who is all candour and kindness, is
away. Metellus is empty as the air, barren as the desert. And you, who
have so often relieved my cares and sorrows by your conversation and
counsel, and have always been my support in politics and my confidant in
all private affairs, the partner of all my thoughts and plans--where are
you?

I am so utterly deserted that I have no other comfort but in my wife and
daughter and dear little Cicero. For those ambitious friendships with
great people are all show and tinsel, and contain nothing that satisfies
inwardly. Every morning my house swarms with visitors; I go down to the
Forum attended by troops of friends; but in the whole crowd there is no
one with whom I can freely jest, or whom I can trust with an intimate
word. It is for you that I wait; I need your presence; I even implore
you to come.

I have a load of anxieties and troubles, of which, if you could listen
to them in one of our walks together, you would go far to relieve me. I
have to keep to myself the stings and vexations of my domestic troubles;
I dare not trust them to this letter and to an unknown courier. I don't
want you to think them greater than they are, but they haunt and worry
me, and there is no friendly counsel to alleviate them. As for the
republic, though my courage and will toward it are not diminished, yet
it has again and again itself evaded remedy. If I were to tell you all
that has happened since you went away, you would certainly say that the
Roman state must be nearing its fall. The Clodian scandal was, I think,
the first episode after your departure. On that occasion, thinking that
I had an opportunity of cutting down and restraining the licentiousness
of the young men, I exerted myself with all my might, and brought into
play every power of my mind, not in hostility to an individual, but in
the hope of correcting and healing the state. But a venal and profligate
verdict in the matter has brought upon the republic the gravest injury.
And see what has taken place since.

A consul has been imposed upon us whom no one, unless a philosopher like
ourselves, can look at without a sigh. What an injury that is! Again,
although a decree of the senate with regard to bribery and corruption
has been passed, no law has been carried through; and the senate has
been harassed beyond endurance and the Roman knights have been
alienated. So, in one year, two pillars of the republic, which had been
established by me alone, have been overturned; the authority of the
senate has been destroyed and the concord of the two orders has been
violated.


_To Lucius Lucceius, the Historian_ B.C. 56


I have often intended to speak to you about the subject of this letter,
and have always been restrained by a certain awkward bashfulness. But a
letter will not blush; I can make my request at a distance. It is this:
I am incredibly eager, and, after all, there is nothing disgraceful in
my eagerness, that the history which you are writing should give
prominence to my name, and praise it frequently. You have often given me
to understand that I should receive that honour, but you must pardon my
impatience to see it actually conferred. I have always expected that
your work would be of great excellence, but the part which I have lately
seen exceeds all that I had imagined, and has inflamed me with the
keenest desire that my career should at once be celebrated in your
records. What I desire is not only that my name should go down to future
ages, but also that even while I live I may see my reputation endorsed
by your authority and illumined by your genius.

Of course, I know very well that you are sufficiently occupied with the
period on which you are engaged. But, realising that your account of the
Italian and Marian civil wars is almost completed, and that you are
already entering upon our later annals, I cannot refrain from asking you
to consider whether it would be better to weave my career into the
general texture of your work, or to mould it into a distinct episode.
Several Greek writers have given examples of the latter method; thus
Callisthenes, Timaeus, and Polybius, treating respectively of the Trojan
war, and of the wars of Pyrrhus and of Numantia, detached their
narratives of these conflicts from their main treatises; and it is open
to you, in a similar way, to treat of the Catiline conspiracy
independently of the main current of your history.

In suggesting this course, I do not suppose that it will make much
difference to my reputation; my point is rather that my desire to appear
in your work will be satisfied so much the earlier if you proceed to
deal with my affairs separately and by anticipation, instead of waiting
until they arise as elements in the general course of affairs. Besides,
by concentrating your mind on one episode and on one person, your matter
will be much more detailed and your treatment of it far more elaborate.

I am conscious, of course, that my request is not exactly a modest one.
It is to lay a task on you which your occupations may well justify you
in refusing; and, again, it is to ask you to celebrate actions which you
may not think altogether worthy of so much honour. But having already
passed beyond the bounds of modesty, I may as well show myself boldly
shameless. Well, then, I implore you repeatedly, not only to praise my
conduct more warmly than may be justified by your feeling with regard to
it, but even, if necessary, to transgress the laws of history. One of
your prefaces indicates, most acceptably and plainly, your personal
amity; but just as Hercules, according to Xenophon, was incorruptible by
pleasure, so you have made a point of resisting the influence of private
feeling. I ask you not to resist this partiality; to give to affection
somewhat more than truth can afford.

If I can prevail upon you to fall in with my proposal, I am confident
that you will find the subject not unworthy of your genius and of your
eloquence. The period from the rise of Catiline's conspiracy to my
return from banishment should furnish a memoir of moderate size, and the
story of my fortunes would supply you with a variety of incident, such
as might be made, in your hands, a work of great charm and interest. For
these reasons you will best meet my wishes if you determine to make a
separate book out of the drama of my life and fortunes.


_To Marcus Marius_ B.C. 55


If it was ill-health that kept you from coming up to town for the games,
I must set down your absence to fortune and not to your own wisdom. But
if it was because you despise these shows which the world admires so
much, then I congratulate you on your health and your good sense alike.
You were left almost alone in your charming country, and I have no doubt
that on mornings when the rest of us, half asleep, were sitting out
stale farces, you were reading in your library.

The games were magnificent, but not what you would have cared for. At
least, they were far from my taste. In honour of the occasion, certain
veteran actors returned to the stage, which they had left long ago, as I
imagined, in the interests of their own reputation. My old friend Aesop,
in particular, had failed so much that no one could be sorry he had
retired; his voice gave way altogether. AS for the rest of the festival,
it was not even so attractive as far less ambitious shows generally are;
the pageants were on such an enormous scale that light-hearted enjoyment
was out of the question. You need not mind having missed them. There is
no pleasure, for instance, in seeing six hundred mules at once in
"Clytaemnestra," or a whole army of gaily-dressed horse and foot engaged
in a theatrical battle. These spectacular effects delight the crowd, but
not you. If you were listening to your reader Protogenes, you had
greater pleasure than fell to any of us. The big-game hunts, continued
through five days, were certainly magnificent. Yet, after all, how can a
person of any refinement enjoy seeing a helpless man torn by a wild
beast of enormous strength, or a noble animal dying under a spear
thrust? If there is anything worth seeing in exhibitions of that kind,
you have often seen it; there was nothing new to me in all I saw. On the
last day the elephants were brought out, and though the populace were
mightily astonished they were not by any means pleased. On the contrary,
a wave of pity went through them, and there was a general impression
that these great creatures have something in common with man.


_To Atticus, in Rome_ Laodicea, B.C. 51


I reached Laodicea on July 31, so you may reckon the year of my
government of the province from that day. Nothing could be more eagerly
awaited or more warmly welcomed than my arrival. But you would hardly
believe how the whole affair bores me. The wide scope of my mind has no
sufficient field, and my well-known industry is wasted here. Imagine! I
administer justice at Laodicea, while A. Plotius presides in the courts
of Rome! And while our friend is at the head of so great an army, I
have, in name only, two miserable legions! But all that is nothing; what
I miss is the glamour of life, the Forum, the city, my own house,
and--you. But I will bear it as best I can, so long as it is for one
year only. If my term is extended, it is all over with me. But this may
easily be prevented, if only you will stay in Rome.

You ask about my doings. Well, I am living at enormous expense, and am
wonderfully pleased with my way of life. My strict abstinence from all
extortion, based on your counsels, is such that I shall probably have to
raise a loan to pay off what you lent me. My predecessor, Appius, has
left open wounds in the province; I refrain from irritating them. I am
writing on the eve of starting for the camp in Lycaonia, and thence I
mean to proceed to Mount Taurus to fight Maeragenes. All this is no
proper burden for me; but I will bear it. Only, as you love me, let it
not exceed the year.


_To Atticus, a Few Days Later_ Cilicia


The couriers of the tax-farmers are just going, and, though I am
actually travelling on the road, I must steal a moment to assure you
that I have not forgotten your injunctions. I am sitting by the roadside
to jot down a few notes about matters which really need a long letter. I
entered, on July 31, with a most enthusiastic reception, into a
devastated and utterly ruined province. During the three days at
Laodicea, three at Apamea, and three at Synnada, I heard of nothing but
the actual inability of the people to pay the poll-tax; everywhere they
have been sold up; the towns were filled with groans and lamentations.
They have been ravaged rather by a wild beast than by a man. They are
tired of life itself.

Well, these unfortunate towns are a good deal relieved when they find
that neither I, nor my lieutenants, nor quaestor, nor any of my suite,
is costing them a penny. I not only refuse to accept forage, which is
allowed by the Julian law, but even firewood. We take from them not a
single thing except beds and a roof to cover us; and rarely so much even
as that, for we generally camp out in tents. The result is, we are
welcomed by crowds coming out to meet us from the countryside, the
villages, the houses, everywhere. By Hercules, the mere approach of your
Cicero puts new life into them, such reports have spread of his justice
and moderation and clemency! He has exceeded every expectation. I hear
nothing of the Parthians. We are hastening to join the army, which is
two days distant.


_To Marcus Caelius Rufus_ Asia, B.C. 50


Nothing could have been more apt or judicious than your management of
the application to the senate for a public thanksgiving to me. The
arrangement of the matter has been just what I desired; not only has it
been passed through quickly, but Hirrus, your rival and mine, associated
himself with Cato's unbounded praise of my achievements. I have some
hope that this may lead to a triumph; you should be prepared for that.

I am glad to hear that you think well of Dolabella and like him; and, as
you say, my Tullia's good sense may moderate him. May they be fortunate
together! I hope that he will prove a good son-in-law, and am sure that
your friendship will help to that end.

About public affairs I am more anxious than I can say. I like Curio; I
hope Cæsar may prove himself an honourable man; for Pompey I would
willingly give my life; yet, after all, I love no man so dearly as I
love the republic. You do not seem to be taking any very prominent part
in these difficulties; but you are somewhat tied by being at once a good
patriot and a loyal friend.


_To Atticus, in Rome_ Athens, B.C. 50


I arrived in Athens two days ago on my way home from my province, and
received your letter. I have been appalled by what you tell me about
Cæsar's legions. I beg you, in the name of fortune, to apply all your
love for me and all your incomparable wisdom to the consideration of my
whole situation. I seem to see a dreadful contest coming, unless some
divinity have pity on the republic--such a contest as has never been
before. I do not ask you to think of this catastrophe; after all, it is
a calamity for all the world as well as for me.

What I want is that you should go into my personal dilemma. It was you
who advised me to secure the friendship of both parties; and much I wish
that I had attended from the first to your counsels. You persuaded me to
embrace the one, because he had done so much for me, and the other,
because he was powerful; and so I succeeded in engaging the affection of
both.

It seemed then quite clear that a friendship with Pompey need involve no
wrong to the republic, and that an allegiance to Cæsar implied no
hostility to Pompey--such, at that time, was their union. But now, as
you show and as I plainly see, there will be a duel to the death; and
each, unless one of them is feigning, regards me as his. Pompey has no
doubt of it, for he knows that I approve of his political principles.
Moreover, I have a letter from each of them, arriving at the same time
as yours, indicating that neither of them values anyone more than me.
What am I to do?

If the worst comes to the worst, I know what to do. In the case of civil
war I am clear that it is better to be conquered with the one than to
conquer with the other. But I am in doubt how to meet the questions
which will be in active discussion when I arrive--whether he may be a
candidate in his absence from Rome, whether he must not dismiss his
army, and so on. When the president calls my name in the senate--"Speak,
Marcus Tullius!" am I to say, "Please wait until I have had a talk with
Atticus"?

The time for hedging has passed. Shall it be against Cæsar? What then
becomes of our pledges to one another? Or shall I change my political
opinions? I could not face Pompey, nor men and women--you yourself would
be the first to reproach me. You may laugh at what I am going to say.
How I wish I were even now back in my province! Though nothing could be
more disagreeable. By the way, I ought to tell you that all those
virtues which adorned the early days of my government, which your
letters praised to the skies, were very superficial. How difficult a
thing is virtue!


_To L. Papirius_ Rome, B.C. 46


I am writing at dinner at the house of Volumnius; we lay down at three
o'clock; your friends Atticus and Verrius are to my right and left. Are
you surprised that we pass the time of our bondage so gaily? What else
should I do? Tell me, student of philosophy! shall I make myself
miserable? What good would it serve, or how long would it last? But you
say, "Spend your days in reading." As a matter of fact, I do nothing
else; it's my only way to keep alive. But one cannot read all day; and
when I have put away my books I don't know any better way of spending
the evening than at dinner.

I like dining out. I like to talk without restraint, saying just what
comes to my tongue, and laughing care and sorrow from my heart. You are
no more serious yourself. I heard how you mocked a grave philosopher
when he invited questions: you said that the question that haunted your
mornings was, "Where shall I dine to-day?" He thought, poor fool, that
you were going to ask whether there was one heaven or many.

I give part of the day to reading or writing; then, not to shut myself
up from my friends, I dine with them. You need not be afraid of my
coming; you will receive a guest of more humour than appetite.


_To L. Minucius Basilus_ Rome, March, B.C. 44


My congratulations! I rejoice with you! I love you! I have your
interests at heart! I pray you love me, and let me know how you are, and
what is happening. [Written to one of Cæsar's assassins; apparently,
immediately after the event.]


_To Atticus_ May, B.C. 44


I see I have been a fool to take comfort in the Ides of March. We had
indeed the courage of men, but no more wisdom than children have. The
tree was cut down, but its roots remained, and it is springing up again.
The tyrant was removed, but the tyranny is with us still. Let us
therefore return to the "Tusculan Disputations" which you often quote,
with their reasons why death is not to be feared.

       *       *       *       *       *




SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE


Biographia Literaria


     Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, in the
     county of Devon, on October 21, 1772. He was educated at
     Christ Hospital where Charles Lamb was among his friends. He
     read very widely but was without any particular ambition or
     practical bent, and had undertaken to apprentice himself to a
     shoemaker, when his head-master interfered. He entered Jesus
     College, Cambridge, in 1791. During the second year of his
     residence at the University, he left Cambridge, on account of
     an unsuccessful love affair, and enlisted in the regiment of
     dragoons under an assumed name. He soon secured his discharge
     from the army and went to Bristol where he met Southey. In
     1795 he married Miss Fricker, and removed to Nether Stowey, a
     village in Somersetshire, where he wrote the "Ancient Mariner"
     and the first part of "Christabel." While here he became a
     close friend of Wordsworth. Coleridge originally intended his
     "Biographia Literaria" to be a kind of apologia, in other
     words, to put forth his claims for public recognition; and
     although he began the book with this intention, it
     subsequently developed into a book containing some of his most
     admirable criticism. He gives voice to a crowd of
     miscellaneous reflections, suggested, as the work got under
     way, by popular events, embracing politics, religion,
     philosophy, poetry, and also finally settling the controversy
     that had arisen in respect of the "Lyrical Ballads." The
     autobiographical parts of the "Biographia" are confined solely
     to his intellectual experiences, and the influences to which
     his life was subjected. As a treatise on criticism, especially
     on Wordsworth, the book is of supreme importance. "Here," says
     Principal Shairp, "are canons of judgement, not mechanical,
     but living." Published in 1817, it was followed shortly after
     his death by a still more important edition with annotations
     and an introduction by the poet's daughter Sara.


_I.--The Nature of Poetic Diction_


Little of what I have here written concerns myself personally; the
narrative is designed chiefly to introduce my principles of politics,
religion, and poetry. But my special purpose is to decide what is the
true nature of poetic diction, and to define the real poetic character
of the works of Mr. Wordsworth, whose writings have been the subject of
so much controversy.

At school I had the advantage of a very sensible though severe master. I
learned from him that poetry, even that of the loftiest odes, had a
logic of its own as severe as that of science, and more difficult,
because more subtle. In the truly great poets, he would say, there is a
reason assignable, not only for every word, but for the position of
every word. In our English compositions he showed no mercy to phrase,
metaphor, or image, where the same sense might have been conveyed with
equal force and dignity in plainer words. In fancy, I can almost hear
him now exclaiming: "Harp? Lyre? Pen and ink, boy, you mean!" Nay,
certain introductions, similes, and examples were placed by name on a
list of interdiction.

I had just entered my seventeenth year when the sonnets of Mr. Bowles
were made known to me, and the genial influence of his poetry, so
tender, yet so manly, so natural and real, yet so dignified and
harmonious, recalled me from a premature bewilderment in metaphysics and
theology. Well were it for me, perhaps, if I had never relapsed into the
same mental disease.

The poetry of Pope and his followers, a school of French poetry
invigorated by English understanding, which had predominated from the
last century, consisted of prose thoughts translated into poetic
language. I was led to the conjecture that this style had been kept up
by, if it did not wholly arise from, the custom of writing Latin verses.
I began to defend the use of natural language, such as "I will remember
thee," instead of "Thy image on her wing, Before my fancy's eye shall
memory bring;" and adduced, as examples of simplicity, the diction of
Greek poets, and of our elder English poets, from Chaucer to Milton. I
arrived at two critical aphorisms, as the criteria of poetic style:
first, that not the poem which we have read with the greatest pleasure
but that to which we return with the greatest pleasure possesses the
genuine power; and, second, that whatever lines can be translated into
other words of the same language, without diminution of their
significance, are so far vicious in their diction.

One great distinction between even the characteristic faults of our
elder poets and the false beauties of the moderns is this. In the
former, from Donne to Cowley, we find the most fantastic out-of-the-way
thoughts, but the most pure and genuine mother English; in the latter,
the most obvious thoughts, in language the most fantastic and arbitrary.
Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion, and passionate flow of
poetry, to the subtleties of intellect and to the starts of wit; the
moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual yet broken and
heterogeneous imagery. The one sacrificed the heart to the head, the
other both heart and head to drapery.


_II.--In Praise of Southey_


Reflect on the variety and extent of his acquirements! He stands second
to no man, either as a historian or as a bibliographer; and when I
regard him as a popular essayist I look in vain for any writer who has
conveyed so much information, from so many and such recondite sources,
with as many just and original reflections, in a style so lively yet so
uniformly classical and perspicuous; no one, in short, who has combined
so much wisdom with so much wit; so much truth and knowledge with so
much life and fancy.

Still more striking to those who are familiar with the general habits of
genius will appear the poet's matchless industry and perseverance in his
pursuits, the worthiness and dignity of those pursuits, his generous
submission to tasks of transitory interest. But as Southey possesses,
and is not possessed by, his genius, even so is he the master even of
his virtues. The regular and methodical tenor of his daily labours,
which might be envied by the mere man of business, lose all semblance of
formality in the dignified simplicity of his manners, in the spring and
healthful cheerfulness of his spirit. Always employed, his friends find
him always at leisure.

No less punctual in trifles than steadfast in the performance of highest
duties, he inflicts none of those small pains and discomforts which
irregular men scatter about them, and which in the aggregate so often
become formidable obstacles both to happiness and utility. He bestows
all the pleasures, and inspires all that ease of mind on those around
him, which perfect consistency and absolute reliability cannot but
bestow. I know few men who so well deserve the character which an
ancient attributes to Marcus Cato--namely, that he was likest virtue,
inasmuch as he seemed to act aright, not in obedience to any law or
outward motive, but by the necessity of a happy nature which could not
act otherwise.

As a son, brother, husband, father, master, friend, he moves with firm
yet light steps, alike unostentatious and alike exemplary. As a writer,
he has uniformly made his talents subservient to the best interests of
humanity, of public virtue, and domestic piety; his cause has ever been
the cause of pure religion and of liberty, of national independence and
of national illumination.

When future critics shall weigh out his guerdon of praise and censure,
it will be Southey the poet only that will supply them with the scanty
materials for the latter. They will not fail to record that as no man
was ever a more constant friend, never had poet more friends and
honourers among the good of all parties, and that quacks in education,
quacks in politics, and quacks in criticism, were his only enemies.


_III.--Wordsworth's Early Poems_


During the last year of my residence at Cambridge I became acquainted
with Mr. Wordsworth's first publication, entitled "Descriptive
Sketches," and seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic
genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced. In the whole
poem there is a harshness and acerbity, combined with words and images
all aglow, which might recall gorgeous blossoms rising out of a hard and
thorny rind and shell, within which the rich fruit was elaborating. The
language was not only peculiar and strong, but at times knotty and
contorted, as by its own impatient strength. It not seldom, therefore,
justified the complaint of obscurity.

I was in my twenty-fourth year when I had the happiness of knowing Mr.
Wordsworth personally, and by that time the occasional obscurities which
had arisen from an imperfect control over the resources of his native
language had almost wholly disappeared, together with that worse defect
of arbitrary and illogical phrases, at once arbitrary and fantastic,
which alloy the earlier poems of the truest genius. There was only
evident the union of deep feeling with profound thought; and the
original gift of spreading the tone, the atmosphere, and with it the
depth and height of the ideal world, around forms, incidents, and
situations of which, for the common view, custom had bedimmed all the
lustre, had dried up the sparkle and the dewdrops.

To find no contradiction in the union of old and new, to contemplate the
Ancient of Days and all His works With feelings as fresh as if all had
then sprung forth at the first creative fiat, characterises the mind
that feels the riddle of the world, and may help to unravel it. To carry
on the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood, to combine the
child's sense of wonder and novelty with the appearances which every day
for perhaps forty years had rendered familiar--this is the character and
privilege of genius. And it is the prime merit of genius, and its most
unequivocal mode of manifestation, so to represent familiar objects as
to awaken in the minds of others that freshness of sensation which is
the constant accompaniment of mental, no less than of bodily,
convalescence.

This excellence, which constitutes the character of Mr. Wordsworth's
mind, I no sooner felt than I sought to understand. Repeated meditations
led me to suspect that fancy and imagination were two distinct and
widely different faculties, instead of being, according to the general
belief, the lower and higher degree of one and the same power. Milton
had a highly imaginative, Cowley a very fanciful, mind. The division
between fancy and imagination is no less grounded in nature than that of
delirium from mania; or of Otway's

      Lutes, laurels, seas of milk, and ships amber,

from Shakespeare's

      What! Have his daughters brought him to this pass?


_IV.--The Philosophical Critic_


As materialism has been generally taught, it is utterly unintelligible,
and owes all its proselytes to the propensity, so common among men, to
mistake distinct images for clear conceptions, and, _vice versâ_, to
reject as inconceivable whatever from its own nature is unimaginable. If
God grant health and permission, this subject will be treated of
systematically in a work which I have many years been preparing on the
Productive Logos, human and divine, with, and as an introduction to, a
full commentary on the Gospel of St. John.

To make myself intelligible, so far as my present subject, the
imagination, requires, it will be sufficient briefly to observe: (1)
That all association demands and presupposes the existence of the
thoughts and images to be associated. (2) The hypothesis of an external
world exactly correspondent to those images or modifications of our own
being, which alone--according to this system--we actually behold, is as
thorough idealism as Berkeley's, inasmuch as it equally removes all
reality and immediateness of perception, and places us in a dream-world
of phantoms and spectres, the inexplicable swarm and equivocal
generation of motion in our own brains. (3) That this hypothesis neither
involves the explanation nor precludes the necessity of a mechanism and
co-adequate forces in the percipient, which, at the more than magic
touch of the impulse from without, creates anew for himself the
correspondent object. The formation of a copy is not solved by the mere
pre-existence of an original; the copyist of Raffael's "Transfiguration"
must repeat more or less perfectly the process of Raffael.

The imagination, therefore, is essentially creative. I consider
imagination either as primary or secondary. The primary imagination I
hold to be the living power and prime agent of all human perception, and
as a repetition in the finite mind of the eternal act of creation in the
infinite I AM.

The secondary I consider as an echo of the former; it dissolves,
diffuses, dissipates, in order to re-create; or where this process is
rendered impossible, yet still, at all events, it struggles to idealise
and to unify. It is essentially vital, even as all objects are
essentially fixed and dead.

Fancy, on the contrary, has no other counters to play with but fixities
and definites. The fancy is no other than a mode of memory emancipated
from the order of time and space, and blended with, and modified by,
choice. But, equally with the ordinary memory, it must receive its
materials ready made, from the law of association.


_V.--What is a Poem?_


During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours our
conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of
poetry--the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful
adherence to the truth of Nature, and the power of giving the interest
of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm
which accidents of light and shade, moonlight or sunset, diffuse over a
familiar landscape appeared to represent the practicability of combining
both.

The thought suggested itself that a series of poems might be composed of
two sorts. In the one the incidents and agents were to be, in part at
least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the
interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as
would naturally accompany such situations. For the second class,
subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and
incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its
vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek them.

In this idea originated the plan of the "Lyrical Ballads," in which my
endeavours were to be directed to persons and characters supernatural,
or at least romantic. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to attempt
to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a
feeling analogous to the supernatural by awakening the mind's attention
from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the
wonders of the world before us--an inexhaustible treasure, but for
which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude,
we have eyes, yet see not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.

With this view I wrote the "Ancient Mariner," and was preparing, among
other poems, the "Dark Ladie" and "Christabel." But the number of Mr.
Wordsworth's poems was so much greater that my compositions appeared
rather an interpolation of heterogeneous matter.

With many parts of Mr. Wordsworth's preface to the "Lyrical Ballads," in
which he defines his poetic creed, I have never concurred, and I think
it expedient to declare in what points I coincide with his opinions, and
in what points I differ.

A poem contains the same elements as a prose composition; the
difference, therefore, must consist in a different combination of them,
in consequence of a different object proposed. The mere addition of
metre does not in itself entitle a work to the name of poem, for nothing
can permanently please which does not contain in itself the reason why
it is so and not otherwise. Our definition of a poem may be thus worded.
"A poem is that species of composition which is opposed to works of
science, by proposing for its immediate object pleasure, not truth; and
from all other species (having this object in common with it) it is
discriminated by proposing to itself such delight from the whole as is
compatible with a distinct gratification from each component part."

For, in a legitimate poem, the parts must mutually support and explain
each other; all in their proportion harmonising with, and supporting the
purpose and known influences of, metrical arrangement.


_VI.--A Criticism of Wordsworth_


Let me enumerate the prominent defects, and then the excellences, of Mr.
Wordsworth's published poems. The first characteristic, though only an
occasional defect, is the inconstancy of style; the sudden and
unprepared transitions from lines or sentences of peculiar felicity to a
style not only unimpassioned, but undistinguished. He sinks too often,
too abruptly, into the language of prose. The second defect is a certain
matter-of-factness in some of his poems, consisting in a laborious
minuteness and fidelity in the representations of objects, and in the
insertion of accidental circumstances, such as are superfluous in
poetry. Thirdly, there is in certain poems an undue predilection for the
dramatic form; and in these cases either the thoughts and diction are
different from those of the poet, so that there arises an incongruity of
style, or they are the same and indistinguishable, and then it presents
a species of ventriloquism. The fourth class includes prolixity,
repetition, and an eddying instead of progression of thought. His fifth
defect is the employment of thoughts and images too great for the
subject; an approximation to what might be called mental bombast, as
distinguished from verbal.

To these occasional defects I may oppose the following excellences.
First, an austere purity of language both grammatically and logically;
in short, a perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning.
Secondly, a correspondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and
sentiments, won not from books, but from the poet's own meditative
observation. They are fresh, and have the dew upon them. Third, the
sinewy strength and originality of single lines and paragraphs; the
frequent curious felicity of his diction. Fourth, the perfect truth of
Nature in his images and descriptions as taken immediately from Nature,
and proving a long and genial intimacy with the very spirit which gives
the expression to all the works of nature. Like a green field reflected
in a calm and perfectly transparent lake, the image is distinguished
from the reality only by its greater softness and lustre.

Fifth, a meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtle thought with
sensibility; a sympathy with man as man; the sympathy of a contemplator,
from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the
nature; no injuries of wind or weather, of toil, or even of ignorance,
wholly disguise the human face divine. The superscription and the image
of the Creator still remain legible to him under the dark lines with
which guilt or calamity had cancelled or cross-barred it. In this mild
and philosophic pathos, Wordsworth appears to me without a compeer.

Lastly, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of
imagination in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play
of fancy, Wordsworth, to my feelings, is not always graceful, and is
sometimes recondite. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all
modern writers to Shakespeare and Milton; and yet in a kind perfectly
unborrowed and his own. To employ his own words, he does indeed to all
thoughts and to all objects

            Add the gleam,
    The light that never was on sea or land,
    The consecration, and the poet's dream.

       *       *       *       *       *




WILLIAM COWPER


Letters Written in the Years 1782-1790


     William Cowper, son of a chaplain to George II., was born at
     Berkhampstead Parsonage on November 15, 1731. After being
     educated at Westminster School, he studied law for three
     years, and in 1752 took up his residence, for a further
     course, in the Middle Temple. Though called to the Bar in
     1754, he never practised, for he profoundly hated law, while
     he passionately loved literary pursuits. His friends having
     provided him with sufficient funds for subsistence, in
     addition to a small patrimony left by his father, Cowper went
     to live at Huntingdon, where he formed a deep attachment with
     the Unwin family, which proved to be a lifelong friendship.
     The latter years of his life were spent at Olney. He achieved
     wide fame by the publication of "The Task," which was
     pronounced by many critics the greatest poem of the period.
     The main characteristics of his style are its simplicity, its
     sympathy with nature and with ordinary life, and its
     unaffected devotional accent. But Cowper is now appreciated
     more for his incomparably delightful epistles to his friends
     than for his poetry. Few letters in our language can compare
     with these for incisive but kindly and gentle irony; innocent
     but genuine fun; keen and striking acumen, and tender
     melancholy. Cowper died on April 25, 1800.


_To the Rev. John Newton_


Olney, _January_ 13, 1782. I am rather pleased that you have adopted
other sentiments respecting our intended present to Dr. Johnson. I allow
him to be a man of gigantic talents and most profound learning, nor have
I any doubts about the universality of his knowledge; but, by what I
have seen of his animadversions on the poets, I feel myself much
disposed to question, in many instances, either his candour or his
taste.

He finds fault too often, like a man that, having sought it very
industriously, is at last obliged to stick it on a pin's point, and look
at it through a microscope; and I could easily convict him of having
denied many beauties, and overlooked more. Whether his judgement be in
itself defective, or whether it be warped by collateral considerations,
a writer upon such subjects as I have chosen would probably find but
little mercy at his hands.


_To the Rev. William Unwin_


I say amen, with all my heart, to your observations on religious
characters. Men who profess themselves adepts in mathematical knowledge,
in astronomy, or jurisprudence, are generally as well qualified as they
would appear. The reason may be that they are always liable to detection
should they attempt to impose upon mankind, and therefore take care to
be what they pretend. In religion alone a profession is often taken up
and slovenly carried on, because, forsooth, candour and charity require
us to hope the best, and to judge favourably of our neighbour, and
because it is easy to deceive the ignorant, who are a great majority,
upon this subject.

Let a man attach himself to a particular party, contend furiously for
what are properly called evangelical doctrines, and enlist himself under
the banner of some popular preacher, and the business is done. Behold a
Christian! a saint! a phoenix! In the meantime, perhaps, his heart and
his temper, and even his conduct, are unsanctified; possibly less
exemplary than those of some avowed infidels. No matter--he can talk--he
has the shibboleth of the true Church--the Bible in his pocket, and a
head well stored with notions.

But the quiet, humble, modest, and peaceable person, who is in his
practice what the other is only in his profession, who hates a noise,
and therefore makes none; who, knowing the snares that are in the world,
keeps himself as much out of it as he can, is the Christian that will
always stand highest in the estimation of those who bring all characters
to the test of true wisdom, and judge of the tree by its fruit.


_To the Same_


Olney, _August_ 3, 1782. It is a sort of paradox, but it is true; we are
never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in
reality more secure than when we seem to be most in danger. Both sides
of this apparent contradiction were lately verified in my experience.
Passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I saw three kittens--for we
have so many in our retinue--looking with fixed attention on something
which lay on the threshold of a door nailed up. I took but little notice
of them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to attend more closely,
when behold--a viper! the largest that I remember to have seen, rearing
itself, darting its forked tongue, and ejaculating the aforesaid hiss at
the nose of a kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran into the
hall for a hoe with a long handle, with which I intended to assail him,
and, returning in a few minutes, missed him; he was gone, and I feared
had escaped me. Still, however, the kitten sat, watching immovably, on
the same spot. I concluded, therefore, that, sliding between the door
and the threshold, he had found his way out of the garden into the yard.

I went round, and there found him in close conversation with the old
cat, whose curiosity, being excited by so novel an appearance, inclined
her to pat his head repeatedly with her fore foot, with her claws,
however, sheathed, and not in anger, but in the way of philosophic
inquiry and examination. To prevent her falling a victim to so laudable
an exercise of her talents, I interposed in a moment with the hoe, and
performed on him an act of decapitation which, though not immediately
mortal, proved so in the end.

Had he slid into the passages, where it is dark, or had he indeed, when
in the yard, met with no interruption from the cat, and secreted himself
in any of the out-houses, it is hardly possible but that some member of
the family must have been bitten.


_To the Same_


Olney, _November_ 4, 1782. You tell me that John Gilpin made you laugh
to tears, and that the ladies at court are delighted with my poems. Much
good may they do them! May they become as wise as the writer wished
them, and they will be much happier than he. I know there is in the book
that wisdom that cometh from above, because it was from above that I
received it. May they receive it too! For whether they drink it out of
the cistern, or whether it falls upon them immediately from the
clouds--as it did on me--is all one. It is the water of life, which
whosoever shall drink it shall thirst no more. As to the famous horseman
above mentioned, he and his feats are an inexhaustible source of
merriment. At least we find him so, and seldom meet without refreshing
ourselves with the recollection of them. You are at liberty to deal with
them as you please.


_To Mrs. Newton_


Olney, _November_ 23, 1782. Accept my thanks for the trouble you take in
vending my poems, and still more for the interest you take in their
success. To be approved by the great, as Horace observed many years ago,
is fame indeed.

The winter sets in with great severity. The rigour of the season, and
the advanced price of grain, are very threatening to the poor. It is
well with those that can feed upon a promise, and wrap themselves up
warm in the robe of salvation. A good fireside and a well-spread table
are but very indifferent substitutes for those better accommodations; so
very indifferent, that I would gladly exchange them both for the rags
and the unsatisfied hunger of the poorest creature that looks forward
with hope to a better world, and weeps tears of joy in the midst of
penury and distress.

What a world is this! How mysteriously governed, and in appearance left
to itself! One man, having squandered thousands at a gaming-table, finds
it convenient to travel; gives his estate to somebody to manage for him;
amuses himself a few years in France and Italy; returns, perhaps, wiser
than he went, having acquired knowledge which, but for his follies, he
would never have acquired; again makes a splendid figure at home, shines
in the senate, governs his country as its minister, is admired for his
abilities, and, if successful, adored at least by a party. When he dies,
he is praised as a demi-god, and his monument records everything but his
vices.

The exact contrary of such a picture is to be found in many cottages at
Olney. I have no need to describe them; you know the characters I mean.
They love God, they trust Him, they pray to Him in secret, and, though
He means to reward them openly, the day of recompense is delayed. In the
meantime, they suffer everything that infirmity and poverty can inflict
upon them. Who would suspect, that has not a spiritual eye to discern
it, that the fine gentleman was one whom his Maker had in abhorrence,
and the wretch last mentioned dear to Him as the apple of His eye?

It is no wonder that the world, who are not in the secret, find
themselves obliged, some of them, to doubt a Providence, and others
absolutely to deny it, when almost all the real virtue there is in it is
to be found living and dying in a state of neglected obscurity, and all
the vices of others cannot exclude them from worship and honour. But
behind the curtain the matter is explained, very little, however, to the
satisfaction of the great.


_To the Rev. John Newton_


Olney, _January_ 26, 1783. It is reported among persons of the best
intelligence at Olney--the barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of
a corps quartered at this place--that the belligerent powers are at last
reconciled, the articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at
the door.

The powers of Europe have clashed with each other to a fine purpose.
Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are not exactly of a
piece, yet I cannot think otherwise on this subject than I have always
done. England, more perhaps through the fault of her generals than her
councils, has in some instances acted with a spirit of cruel animosity
she was never chargeable with till now. But this is the worst that can
be said.

On the other hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented themselves
with a struggle for lawful liberty, would have deserved applause, seem
to me to have incurred the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their
parent, by making her ruin their favourite object, and by associating
themselves with her worst enemy for the accomplishment of their purpose.
France, and, of course, Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish
part. They have stolen America from England, and, whether they are able
to possess themselves of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless
what they intended. Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of
them. They quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led
them by the nose, and the English have thrashed them for suffering it.

My views of the contest being as they have always been, I have
consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time
since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party.

America may perhaps call her the aggressor; but, if she were so, America
has not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if
perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause to have
been a rotten one, those proofs are found on them. I think, therefore,
that, whatever scourge may be prepared for England on some future day,
her ruin is not yet to be expected.


_To the Same_


Olney, _November_ 17, 1783. Swift observes, when he is giving his
reasons why the preacher is elevated always above his hearers, that, let
the crowd be as great as it will below, there is always room enough
overhead.

If the French philosophers can carry their art of flying to the
perfection they desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will
be overhead, and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure
you, however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is
very delightful.

I dreamt a night or two since that I drove myself through the upper
regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest ease and security.
Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short turn, and with one
flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing and curvetting with
an infinite share of spirit, but without the least danger either to me
or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at hand, and seems to be
prognosticated by my dream, when these airy excursions will be
universal, when judges will fly the circuit and bishops their
visitations, and when the tour of Europe will be performed with much
greater speed and with equal advantage by all who travel merely for the
sake of saying that they have made it.


_To His Cousin, Lady Hesketh_


Olney, _November_ 9, 1785. I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My
volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, either while I was
writing it or since its publication, as I have derived from yours and my
uncle's opinion of it. But, above all, I honour John Gilpin, since it
was he who first encouraged you to write. I made him on purpose to laugh
at, and he served his purpose well.


_To the Same_


Olney, _February_ 9, 1786. Let me tell you that your kindness in
promising to visit us has charmed us both. I shall see you again. I
shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will show you my
prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the banks of the Ouse, everything I
have described. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or
the beginning of June, because, before that time my greenhouse will not
be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to
us. When the plants go out, we go in.

I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance. _Imprimis_,
as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either
side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is
the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss
at present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to
die before you can see him.

My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have
asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps
his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be
anything better than a cask to all eternity. So if the god is content
with it, we must even wonder at his taste and be so too.


_To the Same_


Olney, _March_ 6, 1786. Your opinion has more weight with me than that
of all the critics in the world. To give you a proof of it, I make you a
concession that I would hardly have made to them all united. I do not
indeed absolutely covenant that I will discard all my elisions, but I
hereby bind myself to discard as many of them as, without sacrificing
energy to sound, I can. It is incumbent on me, in the meantime, to say
something in justification of the few I shall retain, that I may not
seem a poet mounted on a mule rather than on Parnassus. In the first
place, "the" is a barbarism. We are indebted for it to the Celts, or the
Goths, or the Saxons, or perhaps to them all. In the two best languages
that ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, there is no similar
encumbrance of expression to be found. Secondly, the perpetual use of it
in our language is, to us miserable poets, attended with two great
inconveniences.

Our verse consisting of only ten syllables, it not infrequently happens
that the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, and necessarily too,
unless elision prevents it, by this abominable intruder; and, which is
worse in my account, open vowels are continually the consequence--_the_
element--_the_ air, etc. Thirdly, the French, who are equally chargeable
with the English with barbarism in this particular, dispose of their
_le_ and their _la_ without ceremony, and always take care that they
shall be absorbed, both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that
immediately follows them. Fourthly, and I believe lastly, the practice
of cutting short "the" is warranted by Milton, who of all English poets
that ever lived, had certainly the finest ear.

Thou only critic of my verse that is to be found in all the earth, whom
I love, what shall I say in answer to your own objection to that
passage--

            Softly he placed his hand
    On th' old man's hand, and pushed it gently away.

I can say neither more nor less than this, that when our dear friend the
general sent me his opinion on the specimen, quoting those very words
from it, he added, "With this part I was particularly pleased; there is
nothing in poetry more descriptive."

Taste, my dear, is various; there is nothing so various, and even
between persons of the best taste there are diversities of opinion on
the same subject, for which it is by no means possible to account.


_To John Johnson, Esq._


Weston, _June_ 7, 1790. You never pleased me more than when you told me
you had abandoned your mathematical pursuits. It grieved me to think
that you were wasting your time merely to gain a little Cambridge fame,
not worth having. I cannot be contented that your renown should thrive
nowhere but on the banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambition, and
never let your honour be circumscribed by the paltry dimensions of a
university! It is well that you have already, as you observe, acquired
sufficient information in that science to enable you to pass creditably
such examinations as, I suppose, you must hereafter undergo. Keep what
you have gotten, and be content.

You could not apply to a worse than I am to advise you concerning your
studies. I was never a regular student myself, but lost the most
valuable years of my life in an attorney's office and in the Temple. It
seems to me that your chief concern is with history, natural philosophy,
logic, and divinity. As to metaphysics, I know little about them. Life
is too short to afford time even for serious trifles. Pursue what you
know to be attainable, make truth your object, and your studies will
make you a wise man. Let your divinity, if I may advise, be the divinity
of the glorious Reformation. I mean in contradiction to Arminianism, and
all the _isms_ that were ever broached in this world of ignorance and
error.


_Obiter Dicta_


Men of lively imaginations are not often remarkable for solidity of
judgement. They have strong passions to bias it, and are led far away
from their proper road, in pursuit of petty phantoms of their own
creating.

Excellence is providentially placed beyond the reach of indolence, that
success may be the reward of industry, and that idleness may be punished
with obscurity and disgrace.

I do not think that in these costermonger days, as I have a notion
Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at all a desirable thing,
but to live comfortably while we do live is a great matter, and
comprehends in it everything that can be wished for on this side the
curtain that hangs between time and eternity.

Wherever there is war, there is misery and outrage; notwithstanding
which, it is not only lawful to wish, but even a duty to pray for the
success of one's country. And as to the neutralities, I really think the
Russian virago an impertinent puss for meddling with us, and engaging
half a score kittens of her acquaintance to scratch the poor old lion,
who, if he has been insolent in his day, has probably acted no otherwise
than they themselves would have acted in his circumstances and with his
power to embolden them.

Though a Christian is not to be quarrelsome, he is not to be crushed.
Though he is but a worm before God, he is not such a worm as every
selfish and unprincipled wretch may tread on at his pleasure.

St. Paul seems to condemn the practice of going to law. "Why do ye not
suffer wrong, etc." But if we look again we shall find that a litigious
temper prevailed among the professors of that day. Surely he did not
mean, any more than his Master, that the most harmless members of
society should receive no advantage of its laws, or should be the only
persons in the world who should derive no benefit from those
institutions without which society cannot subsist.

Tobacco was not known in the Golden Age. So much the worse for the
Golden Age. This age of iron and lead would be insupportable without it;
and therefore we may reasonably suppose that the happiness of those
better days would have been much improved by the use of it.

No man was ever scolded out of his sins. The heart, corrupt as it is,
and because it is so, grows angry if it be not treated with some
management and good manners, and scolds again. A surly mastiff will bear
perhaps to be stroked, though he will growl even under that operation,
but, if you touch him roughly, he will bite.

Simplicity is become a very rare quality in a writer. In the decline of
great kingdoms, and where refinement in all the arts is carried to an
excess, I suppose it is always so. The later Roman writers are
remarkable for false ornament; they were without doubt greatly admired
by the readers of their own day; and with respect to authors of the
present era, the popular among them appear to me to be equally
censurable on the same account. Swift and Addison were simple.

       *       *       *       *       *




THOMAS DE QUINCEY


Confessions of an English Opium-Eater


     Thomas de Quincey, scholar, essayist, critic, opium-eater, was
     born at Manchester on August 15, 1785. A singularly sensitive
     and imaginative boy, De Quincey rapidly became a brilliant
     scholar, and at fifteen years of age could speak Greek so
     fluently as to be able, as one of his masters said, "to
     harangue an Athenian mob." He wished to go early to Oxford,
     but his guardians objecting, he ran away at the age of
     seventeen, and, after wandering in Wales, found his way to
     London, where he suffered privations that injured his health.
     The first instalment of his "Confessions of an English
     Opium-Eater" appeared in the "London Magazine" for September
     1821. It attracted universal attention both by its
     subject-matter and style. De Quincey settled in Edinburgh,
     where most of his literary work was done, and where he died,
     on December 8, 1859. His collected works, edited by Professor
     Masson, fill fourteen volumes. After he had passed his
     seventieth year, De Quincey revised and extended his
     "Confessions," but in their magazine form, from which this
     epitome is made, they have much greater freshness and power
     than in their later elaboration. Many popular editions are now
     published.


_I.--The Descending Pathway_


I here present you, courteous reader, with the record of a remarkable
period in my life, and I trust that it will prove not merely an
interesting record, but in a considerable degree useful and instructive.
That must be my apology for breaking through the delicate and honourable
reserve which, for the most part, restrains us from the public exposure
of our own errors and infirmities.

If opium-eating be a sensual pleasure, and if I am bound to confess that
I have indulged in it to an excess not yet recorded of any other man, it
is no less true that I have struggled against this fascinating
enthralment with a religious zeal, and have at length accomplished what
I never yet heard attributed to any other man--have untwisted, almost to
its final links, the accursed chain which fettered me.

I have often been asked how I first came to be a regular opium-eater,
and have suffered, very unjustly, in the opinion of my acquaintances,
from being reputed to have brought upon myself all the sufferings which
I shall have to record, by a long course of indulgence in this practice
purely for the sake of creating an artificial state of pleasurable
excitement. This, however, is a misrepresentation of my case. It was not
for the purpose of creating pleasure, but of mitigating pain in the
severest degree, that I first began to use opium as an article of daily
diet.

The calamities of my novitiate in London, when, as a runaway from
school, I made acquaintance with starvation and horror, had struck root
so deeply in my bodily constitution that afterwards they shot up and
flourished afresh, and grew into a noxious umbrage that has overshadowed
and darkened my latter years.

It is so long since I first took opium that, if it had been a trifling
incident in my life, I might have forgotten its date; but, from
circumstances connected with it, I remember that it must be referred to
the autumn of 1804. During that season I was in London, having come
thither for the first time since my entrance at college. And my
introduction to opium arose in the following way. One morning I awoke
with excruciating rheumatic pains of the head and face, from which I had
hardly any respite.

On the twenty-first day, I think it was, and on a Sunday, I went out
into the streets, rather to run away, if possible, from my torments than
with any distinct purpose. By accident, I met a college acquaintance,
who recommended opium. Opium! dread agent of unimaginable pleasure and
pain! I had heard of it as I had of manna or of ambrosia, but no
further. My road homewards lay through Oxford Street; and near "the
stately Pantheon" I saw a druggist's shop, where I first became
possessed of the celestial drug.

Arrived at my lodgings, I took it, and in an hour--oh, heavens! what a
revulsion! what an unheaving, from its lowest depths, of the inner
spirit! what an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had
vanished was now a trifle in my eyes; this negative effect was swallowed
up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before
me, in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed.


_II.--Effects of the Seductive Drug_


First one word with respect to its bodily effects. It is not so much
affirmed as taken for granted that opium does, or can, produce
intoxication. Now, reader, assure yourself that no quantity of the drug
ever did, or could, intoxicate. The pleasure given by wine is always
mounting and tending to a crisis, after which it declines; that from
opium, when once generated, is stationary for eight or ten hours; the
one is a flame, the other a steady and equable glow.

Another error is that the elevation of spirits produced by opium is
necessarily followed by a proportionate depression. This I shall content
myself with simply denying; assuring my readers that for ten years,
during which I took opium at intervals, the day succeeding to that on
which I allowed myself this luxury was always a day of unusually good
spirits.

With respect to the torpor supposed to accompany the practice of
opium-eating, I deny that also. The primary effects of opium are always,
and in the highest degree, to excite and stimulate the system. But, that
the reader may judge of the degree in which opium is likely to stupefy
the faculties of an Englishman, I shall mention the way in which I
myself often passed an opium evening in London during the period between
1804 and 1812. I used to fix beforehand how often within a given time,
and when, I would commit a debauch of opium. This was seldom more than
once in three weeks, and it was usually on a Tuesday or a Saturday
night; my reason for which was this: in those days Grassini sang at the
opera, and her voice was delightful to me beyond all that I had ever
heard. The choruses were divine to hear, and when Grassini appeared in
some interlude, as she often did, and poured forth her passionate soul
as Andromache at the tomb of Hector, etc., I question whether any Turk,
of all that ever entered the paradise of opium-eaters, can have had half
the pleasure I had.

Another pleasure I had which, as it could be had only on a Saturday
night, occasionally struggled with my love of the opera. The pains of
poverty I had lately seen too much of; but the pleasures of the poor,
their consolations of spirit, and their reposes from bodily toil, can
never become oppressive to contemplate. Now, Saturday night is the
season for the chief, regular, and periodic return of rest for the poor.
For the sake, therefore, of witnessing a spectacle with which my
sympathy was so entire, I used often on Saturday nights, after I had
taken opium, to wander forth, without much regarding the direction or
the distance, to all the markets, and other parts of London to which the
poor resort of a Saturday night for laying out their wages.

Sometimes in my attempts to steer homewards by fixing my eye on the Pole
star, and seeking ambitiously for a north-west passage, instead of
circumnavigating all the capes and headlands I had doubled in my outward
voyage, I came suddenly upon such knotty problems of alleys, such
enigmatical entries, and such sphinx's riddles of streets without
thoroughfares, as must, I conceive, baffle the audacity of porters, and
confound the intellects of hackney coachmen. For all this I paid a heavy
price in distant years, when the human face tyrannised over my dreams,
and the perplexities of my steps in London came back and haunted my
sleep with the feeling of perplexities, moral and intellectual, that
brought confusion to the reason, or anguish and remorse to the
conscience.


_III.--A Fearful Nemesis_


Courteous reader, let me request you to move onwards for about eight
years, to 1812. The years of academic life are now over and gone--almost
forgotten. Am I married? Not yet. And I still take opium? On Saturday
nights. And how do I find my health after all this opium-eating? In
short, how do I do? Why, pretty well, I thank you, reader. In fact,
though, to satisfy the theories of medical men, I _ought_ to be ill, I
never was better in my life than in the spring of 1812. To moderation,
and temperate use of the article I may ascribe it, I suppose, that as
yet, at least, I am unsuspicious of the avenging terrors which opium has
in store for those who abuse its lenity.

But now comes a different era. In 1813 I was attacked by a most
appalling irritation of the stomach, and I could resist no longer. Let
me repeat, that at the time I began to take opium daily, I could not
have done otherwise. Still, I confess it as a besetting infirmity of
mine that I hanker too much after a state of happiness, both for myself
and others. From 1813, the reader is to consider me as a regular and
confirmed opium-eater. Now, reader, from 1813 please walk forward about
three years more, and you shall see me in a new character.

Now, farewell--a long farewell--to happiness, winter or summer! Farewell
to smiles and laughter! Farewell to peace of mind! Farewell to hope and
to tranquil dreams, and to the blessed consolations of sleep. For more
than three years and a half I am summoned away from these. I am now
arrived at an Iliad of woes.

It will occur to you to ask, why did I not release myself from the
horrors of opium by leaving it off or diminishing it? The reader may be
sure that I made attempts innumerable to reduce the quantity. It might
be supposed that I yielded to the fascinations of opium too easily; it
cannot be supposed that any man can be charmed by its terrors.

My studies have now been long interrupted. I cannot read to myself with
any pleasure, hardly with a moment's endurance. This intellectual torpor
applies more or less to every part of the four years during which I was
under the Circean spells of opium. But for misery and suffering, I
might, indeed, be said to have existed in a dormant state. I seldom
could prevail on myself even to write a letter. The opium-eater loses
none of his moral sensibilities or aspirations. He wishes and longs as
earnestly as ever to realise what he believes possible, and feels to be
exacted by duty; but his intellectual apprehension of what is possible
infinitely outruns his power, not of execution only, but even of power
to attempt.


_IV.--The Horrors of Dreamland_


I now pass to what is the main subject of these latter confessions, to
the history of what took place in my dreams, for these were the
immediate and proximate cause of my acutest suffering. I know not
whether my reader is aware that many children, perhaps most, have a
power of painting, as it were, upon the darkness all sorts of phantoms.

In the middle of 1817, I think it was, this faculty became positively
distressing to me. At nights, when I lay awake in bed, vast processions
passed along in mournful pomp; friezes of never-ending stories, that to
my feelings were as sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from
times before Aedipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis. And at the
same time a corresponding change took place in my dreams; a theatre
seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented
nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour.

All changes in my dreams were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and
gloomy melancholy, such as are wholly incommunicable by words. I seemed
every night to descend, not metaphorically, but literally, to descend
into chasms and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it
seemed hopeless that I should ever re-ascend. Nor did I, even by waking,
feel that I had re-ascended.

The sense of space, and, in the end, the sense of time, were both
powerfully affected. Buildings, landscapes, etc., were exhibited in
proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space
swelled, and was amplified to an extent of unutterable infinity. This,
however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of time; I
sometimes seemed to have lived far beyond the limits of any human
experience.

The minutest incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years,
were often revived. Of this, at least, I feel assured, that there is no
such thing as _forgetting_ possible to the mind. A thousand accidents
may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the
secret inscriptions of the mind; accidents of the same sort will also
rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the
inscription remains for ever; just as the stars seem to withdraw before
the common light of day, whereas, in fact, we all know that it is the
light which is drawn over them as a veil, and that they are but waiting
to be revealed when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn.

In the early stage of my malady the splendours of my dreams were indeed
chiefly architectural; and I beheld such pomp of cities and palaces as
was never yet beheld by the waking eye, unless in the clouds. To
architecture succeeded dreams of lakes and silvery expanses of water.
The waters then changed their character--from translucent lakes shining
like mirrors they now became seas and oceans.

And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a
scroll through many months, promised an abiding torment; and, in fact,
it never left me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto the human
face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically, nor with any
special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the
tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of
my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it
was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to
appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces upturned to the
heavens--faces imploring, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by
thousands, by myriads, by generations, by centuries; my agitation was
infinite, my mind tossed and surged with the ocean.


_V.--The Monster-Haunted Dreamer_


I know not whether others share in my feelings on this point; but I have
often thought that if I were compelled to forego England and to live in
China, and among Chinese manners and modes of life and scenery, I should
go mad. Southern Asia in general is the seat of awful images and
associations. As the cradle of the human race, it would alone have a dim
and reverential feeling connected with it. But there are other reasons.
No man can pretend that the wild, barbarous, and capricious
superstitions of Africa, or of savage tribes elsewhere, affect him in
the way that he is affected by the ancient, monumental, cruel, and
elaborate religions of Indostan, etc. The mere antiquity of Asiatic
things, of their institutions, histories, modes of faith, etc., is so
impressive that, to me, the vast age of the race and name overpowers the
sense of youth in the individual. A young Chinese seems to me an
antediluvian man renewed.

All this, and much more than I can say or have time to say, the reader
must enter into before he can comprehend the unimaginable horror which
these dreams of Oriental imagery and mythological tortures impressed
upon me. Under the connecting feeling of tropical heat and vertical
sunlight, I brought together all creatures, birds, beasts, reptiles, all
trees and plants, usages and appearances, that are found in all tropical
regions, and assembled them together in China or Indostan. From kindred
feelings I soon brought Egypt and all her gods under the same law. I was
stared at, hooted at, grinned at, chattered at, by monkeys, by
paroqueats, by cockatoos. I ran into pagodas, and was fixed for
centuries, at the summit, or in secret rooms; I was the idol; I was the
priest; I was worshipped; I was sacrificed. I fled from the wrath of
Brahma through all the forests of Asia; Vishnu hated me; Siva laid wait
for me. I came suddenly upon Isis and Osiris; I had done a deed, they
said, which the ibis and the crocodile trembled at I was buried for a
thousand years in stone coffins, with mummies and sphinxes, in narrow
chambers at the heart of eternal pyramids. I was kissed by crocodiles;
and laid, confounded with all unutterable slimy things, amongst reeds
and Nilotic mud.

Over every form and threat and punishment brooded a sense of eternity
and infinity that drove me into an oppression as of madness. Into these
dreams only it was, with one or two slight exceptions, that any
circumstances of physical horror entered. But here the main agents were
ugly birds, or snakes, or crocodiles; especially the last. The cursed
crocodile became to me the object of more horror than almost all the
rest. I was compelled to live with him, and--as was almost always the
case in my dreams--for centuries. And so often did this hideous reptile
haunt my dreams that many times the very same dream was broken up in the
very same way. I heard gentle voices speaking to me--I hear everything
when I am sleeping--and instantly I awoke. It was broad noon, and my
children were standing, hand in hand, at my bedside--come to show me
their coloured shoes, or new frocks, or to let me see them dressed for
going out. I protest that so awful was the transition from the
detestable crocodile, and the other unutterable monsters and abortions
of my dreams, to the sight of innocent human natures and of infancy that
in the mighty and sudden revulsion of mind I wept, and could not forbear
it, as I kissed their faces.


_VI.--The Agonies of Sleep_


As a final specimen, I cite a dream of a different character, from 1820.
The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams--a
music of preparation and of awakening suspense, a music like the opening
of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like that, gave the feeling of a
vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing off, and the tread of
innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day--a day of
crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some
mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I
knew not where--somehow, I knew not how--by some beings, I knew not
whom--a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting, was evolving like a
great drama or piece of music, with which my sympathy was the more
insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature,
and possible issue.

I, as is usual in dreams--where, of necessity, we make ourselves central
to every movement--had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide
it. I had the power, if I could raise myself to will it, and yet again
had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or
the oppression of inexpiable guilt. "Deeper than ever plummet sounded,"
I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater
interest was at stake, some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had
pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms, hurryings
to and fro, trepidations of innumerable fugitives--I knew not whether
from the good cause or the bad--darkness and lights, tempest and human
faces, and at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and
the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment
allowed--and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and
then--everlasting farewells! And with a sigh such as the caves of hell
sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of death,
the sound was reverberated--everlasting farewells! And again and yet
again reverberated--everlasting farewells! And I awoke in struggles, and
cried aloud, "I will sleep no more."

       *       *       *       *       *

It now remains that I should say something of the way in which this
conflict of horrors was finally brought to a crisis. I saw that I must
die if I continued the opium. I determined, therefore, if that should be
required, to die in throwing it off. I triumphed. But, reader, think of
me as one, even when four months had passed, still agitated, writhing,
throbbing, palpitating, shattered. During the whole period of
diminishing the opium I had the torments of a man passing out of one
mode of existence into another. The issue was not death, but a sort of
physical regeneration.

One memorial of my former condition still remains--my dreams are not yet
perfectly calm; the dread swell and agitation of the storm have not
wholly subsided; the legions that encamped in them are drawing off, but
not all departed; my sleep is still tumultuous, and, like the gates of
Paradise to our first parents when looking back from afar, it is
still--in Milton's tremendous line--"With dreadful faces throng'd and
fiery arms."

       *       *       *       *       *




ALEXANDRE DUMAS


Memoirs


     Alexandre Dumas _père_, the great French novelist and
     dramatist, who here tells the story of his youth, was born on
     July 24, 1802, and died on December 5, 1870. He was a man of
     prodigious vitality, virility, and invention; abounding in
     enjoyment, gaiety, vanity, and kindness; the richness, force,
     and celerity of his nature was amazing. In regard to this
     peculiar vivacity of his, it is interesting to remember that
     one of his grandparents was a full-blooded negress. Dumas'
     literary work is essentially romantic; his themes are courage,
     loyalty, honour, love, pageantry, and adventure; he belongs to
     the tradition of Scott and Schiller, but as a story-teller
     excels every other. His plays and novels are both very
     numerous; the "OEuvres Complètes," published between 1860 and
     1884, fill 277 volumes. Probably "Monte Cristo" and "The Three
     Musketeers" are the most famous of his stories. He was an
     untiring and exceedingly rapid worker, a great collaborator
     employing many assistants, and was also a shameless
     plagiarist; but he succeeded in impressing his own quality on
     all that he published. Besides plays and novels there are
     several books of travel. His son, Alexandre, was born in 1824.
     The "Memoirs," published in 1852, which are here followed
     through their author's struggles to his triumph, may be the
     work of the novelist as well as of the chronicler, but they
     give a most convincing impression of his courageous and
     brilliant youth, fired equally by art and by ambition.


_I.--Memories of Boyhood_


I was born on July 24, 1802, at Villers-Cotterets, a little town of the
Department of Aisne, on the road from Laon to Paris, so that, writing
now in 1847, I am forty-five years old. My father was the republican
general, Thomas-Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la Pailleterie, and I still use
this patronymic in signing official documents. It came from my
grandfather, marquis of that name, who sold his properties in France,
and settled down in 1760 on vast estates in San Domingo. There, in 1762,
my father was born; his mother, Louise-Cessette Dumas, died in 1772; and
in 1780, when my father was eighteen, the West Indian estates were
leased, and the marquis returned to his native country.

My father spent the next years among the youth of the great families of
that period. His handsome features--all the more striking for the dark
complexion of a mulatto--his prodigious physical strength, his elegant
creole figure, with hands and feet as small as a woman's, his unrivalled
skill in bodily exercises, and especially in fencing and horsemanship,
all marked him out as one born for adventures. The spirit of adventure
was there, too. Assuming the name of Dumas because his father objected
to the family name being dragged through the ranks, he enlisted as a
private in a regiment of dragoons in 1786, at the age of twenty-four.
Quartered at Villers-Cotterets in 1790, he met my mother,
Marie-Louise-Elisabeth Labouret, whom he married two years later. Their
children were one daughter, and then myself. The marquis had died in
1786.

My memory goes back to 1805, when I was three, and to the little country
house, Les Fosses, we lived in. I remember a journey to Paris in the
same year, and the death of my father in 1806. Then my mother, sister,
and I, left in poverty, went to live with grandfather and grandmother
Labouret. Here, in gardens full of shady trees and gorgeous blossoms, I
spent those happy days when hope extends hardly further than to-morrow,
and memory hardly further than yesterday; storing my mind with classical
mythology and Bible stories, the "Arabian Nights," the natural history
of Buffon, and the geography of "Robinson Crusoe."

Then came my tenth year and the age for school. It was decided that I
should go to the seminary and be educated for a priest; but I settled
that matter by running away and living for three days in the hut of a
friendly bird-catcher in the woods. So I passed instead into our little
school of the Abbé Grégoire--a just and good man, of whom I learned
little but to love him; and from another parish priest, an uncle of
mine, a few miles away, I gained a passion for shooting the hares and
partridges with which our country swarmed.

But while I was living in twelve-year-old joys and sorrows, the enemy
was marching on French soil, and all confidence in Napoleon's star had
vanished. God had forsaken him. A retreating wave of our army swept over
the countryside, followed by alien forces. We lived in the midst of
fighting and alarms, and my mother and her friends worked like sisters
of charity. There followed Bonaparte's exile in Elba, and then the
astonishing report that he had landed near Cannes, and was marching on
Paris. He reached the Tuileries on March 20, 1815; in May, his troops
were marching through our town on their way to Waterloo, glory, and the
grave. I saw him passing in his carriage, his face, pale and sickly,
leaning forward, chin on breast. He raised his head, and glanced around.

"Where are we?"

"At Villers-Cotterets, sire."

"Forward! Faster!" he cried, and fell back into his lethargy. Whips
cracked, and the gigantic vision had passed. That was June 11--Waterloo
was the 18th. On the 20th, three or four hours after the first doubtful
rumour had reached us, a carriage drew up to change horses. There was
the same inert figure, and the same question and answer. The team broke
into a gallop, and the fallen Napoleon was gone. Soon all went on in the
ordinary way, and in our little town, isolated in the midst of its
forest, one might have thought no changes had taken place; people had
had an evil dream--that was all.

My memories of this period are chiefly memories of the woods--shooting
parties, now and then a wolf or boar hunt, often a poaching adventure
with a friend. But at fifteen years of age I was placed in a notary's
office; at sixteen I learned to love, and shortly afterwards I saw
"Hamlet" played by a touring company. It made a profound impression on
me, awakening vast, aimless desires, strange gleams of mystery. A friend
of mine, Adolphe de Leuven, himself an ardent versifier, guided me to a
first sense of my vocation, and together we set to work as playwrights.

Adolphe and his father went up to live in Paris, and our plays were
submitted everywhere in vain. My ardour for the great city grew daily
until it became irresistible; and at length, in the temporary absence of
my notary, I made a three days' escape with a friend, saw Talma act, and
was even introduced to him by Adolphe. His playing opened a new world to
me, and the great man playfully foretold my destiny.

As one enchanted, I returned to the office, accepted my employers'
rebuke as a dismissal, and went home. I was without a penny, but was
immediately visited by a wonderful run of fortune. Among other strokes
of luck, I sold my rascal dog for $25 to an infatuated Englishman, and
won six hundred glasses of absinthe at a single game of billiards from
the proprietor of the Paris coach, commuting them for a dozen free
passages. I said good-bye to the dear mother and the saintly _abbé_, and
found myself early on a May morning at Adolphe's door. I had come to try
my fortune with my father's brothers-at-arms.

Of course, there were bitter disappointments, and when I called on
General Foy he was my last hope. Alas! did I know this subject, or that,
or that? My answer was always "No." But the general would at least keep
my address; and no sooner had I written it down than he cried aloud that
we were saved! It appeared that I had a good writing, and the Duke of
Orleans needed another copyist in his office. The next morning I was
engaged at a salary of twelve hundred francs. I came home for three days
with my mother, and on the advice of the bird-catcher took a ticket at
the lottery, which brought me 146 francs. And so, with a few bits of
furniture from home, I took up my lodging in a Parisian garret.


_II.--Launched in Paris_


Now began a life of daily work at the office, with agreeable companions,
and of evenings spent at the theatre or in study. On the first night I
went to the Porte-Sainte-Martin Theatre, where a melodrama, "The
Vampire," was presented, and fell into conversation with my neighbour, a
man of about forty, of fascinating discourse, who was inordinately
impatient with the piece, and was at last turned out of the theatre for
his expressions of disapproval. His talk, far more interesting than the
play, turned on rare editions of old books, on the sylphs, gnomes,
Undines of the invisible world, on microscopic creatures he had himself
discovered, and on vampires he had seen in Illyria. I learned next day
that this was the celebrated author and bibliophile, Charles Nodier,
himself one of the anonymous authors of the play he so vilified.

Lassagne, a genial colleague in the office, not only put me in the way
of doing my work, which I quickly picked up, but was good enough also to
guide my reading, for I was deplorably ignorant. In those days Scribe
was the great dramatist, producing innumerable clever plots of intrigue,
modelled on no natural society, but on a society all his own, composed
almost exclusively of colonels, young widows, old soldiers, and faithful
servants. No one had ever seen such widows and colonels, never soldiers
spoke as these did, never were servants so devoted; yet this society of
Scribe's was all the fashion.

The men most highly placed in literature at the time when I came to
Paris were MM. de Chateaubriand, Jouy, Lemercier, Arnault, Etienne,
Baour-Lormian, Béranger, Charles Nodier, Viennet Scribe, Théaulon,
Soumet, Casimir Delavigne, Lucien Arnault, Ancelot, Lamartine, Victor
Hugo, Désaugiers, and Alfred de Vigny. After them came names half
literary, half political, such as MM. Cousin, Salvandy, Yillemain,
Thiers, Augustin Thierry, Michelet, Mignet, Vitet, Cavé, Mérimée, and
Guizot. Others, who were not yet known, but were coming forward, were
Balzac, Soulié, De Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Auguste Barbier, Alphonse Karr,
Théophile Gautier. Madame Sand was not known until her "Indiana," in
1828. I knew all this constellation, some of them as friends and
supporters, others as enemies.

In December, 1823, Talma made perhaps the greatest success of his life
in Delavigne's "L'Ecole des Vieillards," in which his power of
modulating his voice to the various emotions of old age was superbly
shown. But Talma was never content with his triumphs; he awaited eagerly
the rise of a new drama; and when I confided to him my ambitions, he
would urge me to be quick and succeed within his day. Art was all that
he lived for. How wonderful a thing is art, more faithful than a friend
or lover!

On the first day of 1824 I rose to be a regular clerk at 1,500 francs,
and determined to bring up my mother from the country. It was now nine
months since I had seen her. So she sold her tobacco shop and came up to
Paris with a little furniture and a hundred louis. We were both very
glad to be united, though she was anxious about my future.

I had by this time learned my ignorance of much that was necessary to my
success as a dramatist, and began to devote every hour of my leisure to
study, attending the theatre as often as I could get a pass. A young
medical man named Thibaut helped me much in my education; he took me to
the hospital, where I picked up a knowledge of medicine and surgery
which has repeatedly done service in my novels, and I learned from him
the actions of poisons, such as I have used in "Monte Cristo."

I read also under the guidance of Lassagne, beginning with "Ivanhoe," in
which the pictures of mediæval life cleared the clouds from my vision
and gave me a far wider horizon. Next the vast forests, prairies, and
oceans of Cooper held me; and then I came to Byron, who died in Greece
at the very time when I was entering on my apprenticeship to poetry. The
romantic movement in France was beginning to invade literature and the
drama, but its expression was still most evident in the younger
painters.

My mother's little capital only lasted eighteen months, and I found
myself forced to supplement my salary by other work. I had until now
collaborated with Adolphe, but all in vain, and we now determined to
associate Ph. Rousseau with our efforts. The three of us together
quickly produced a vaudeville in twenty-one scenes, "La Chasse et
l'Amour," of which I wrote the first seven scenes, Adolphe the second
seven, and Rousseau the conclusion. The piece was rejected at the
Gymnase, but accepted at the Ambigu; and my share of the profits came to
six francs a night.

A.M. Porcher, who always had a pleasant welcome and an open purse for a
literary man, lent me 300 francs on the security of my receipts, and
with that money I printed a volume of three stories under the title of
"Nouvelles Contemporaines," of which, however, only four copies were
sold. But the next adventure was more profitable. A play, by Lassagne
and myself, "La Noce et l'Enterrement," was presented at the
Porte-Sainte-Martin in November 1826, and brought me eight francs a
night for forty nights.


_III.--Under Shakespeare's Spell_


As recently as 1822 an English theatrical company, which had opened at
the Porte-Sainte-Martin Theatre, had been hissed and pelted off the
stage for offering the dramas of the barbaric Shakespeare. But when, in
September 1827, another English company brought Shakespeare's plays to
the Odéon, this contempt for English literature had changed to ardent
admiration--so quickly had the mind of Paris broadened. Shakespeare had
been translated by Guizot, and everyone had read Scott, Cooper, and
Byron.

The English season was opened by Sheridan's "Rivals," followed by
Allingham's "Fortune's Freak." Then came "Hamlet," which infinitely
surpassed all my expectations. Kemble's Hamlet was amazing, and Miss
Smithson's Ophelia adorable. From that very night, but not before, I
knew what the theatre was. I had seen for the first time real men and
women, of flesh and blood, moved by real passions. I understood Talma's
continual lament, his incessant desire for plays which should show him,
not as a hero only, but also as a man. "Romeo and Juliet," "Othello,"
and all the other masterpieces followed. Then, in their turn, Macready
and Kean appeared in Paris.

I knew now that everything in the world of drama derives from
Shakespeare, as everything in the natural world depends on the sun; I
knew that, after God, Shakespeare was the great creator. And from the
night when I had first seen, in these English players, men on the stage
forgetful of the stage, and revealing themselves, by natural eloquence
and manner, as God's creatures, with all their good and evil, their
passions and weaknesses, from that night my vocation was irrevocable. A
new confidence was given me, and I boldly adventured on the future.
Besides observing mankind, I entered with redoubled zest upon the
dissection and study of the words of the great dramatists.

My attention had been turned to the story of Christine and the murder of
Monaldeschi by an exquisite little bas-relief in the Salon; and reading
up the history in the biographical dictionary, I saw that it held the
possibility of a tremendous drama. The subject haunted my mind
continually, and soon my "Christine" came into life and was written. But
Talma was dead; I had now no friend at the theatre; and I cast about me
in vain for the means of getting my play produced.

Baron Taylor was at this time the official charged with the acceptance
or rejection of plays, and Charles Nodier, so Lassagne informed me, was
on intimate terms with him. Lassagne suggested that I should write to
Nodier, reminding him of our chat on the night of "The Vampire," and
asking for an introduction to the Baron. I did so, and the reply came
from Baron Taylor himself, offering me an interview at seven in the
morning.

At the appointed time, my heart beating fast, I rang the bell of his
flat, and as I waited for someone to come, I wondered at a strange noise
that was going on within--a deep, monotonous recitation, interrupted by
occasional explosions of rage in a higher voice. I rang for the third
time, and as a door opened within, the mysterious sounds doubled in
volume. Then the outer door opened, and the Baron's old servant hurried
me in. "Come in, sir," she said, "come in; the Baron is longing for you
to come!" I found Baron Taylor in his bath, and beside him a playwright
reading a tragedy. The fellow had insisted on entering, had caught the
examiner of plays in his bath, and was inflicting on him a play of over
two thousand lines! Undaunted by the Baron's rage, and unmoved by my
arrival, he proceeded with his reading, while I waited in the bedroom.

When Baron Taylor at last came in and got into bed, he was shivering
with cold, and I proposed to put off my reading; but he would not hear
of it, and trembling, I began my play. At the end of each act the Baron
himself asked for the next, and when it was finished he leapt from bed
and called for his clothes that he might go and arrange for an immediate
hearing before the committee at the Français.

And so a special meeting was called, and I read "Christine" to a
gathering of the greatest actors and actresses of the time, all fully
dressed as if for a dance. I have rarely seen a play meet with so great
a success at this ordeal; I was off my head with pleasure; the play was
accepted by acclamation. I ran home to our rooms to tell my mother the
great news of this great day, April 30, 1828, and then back to the
office to copy out a heap of papers.

"Christine" was not, however, produced at this time. Another play on the
same subject, written by a M. Brault, had also been accepted by the
committee, and its author was suffering from an illness from which it
was impossible that he should recover. Under these circumstances it was
felt right to present the dying man's play while he was able to see it,
and I willingly acceded to the requests, made by his son and friends,
that my work should stand aside.


_IV.--Dumas Arrives_


But now, by a happy chance, in a book that lay open on a table in the
office, I came across the suggestions for my "Henry III."; and as soon
as the plot had grown clear in my mind, I wrote the play in a couple of
months. I was only twenty-five, and this was only my second play; yet it
is as well constructed as any of the fifty which I have since written.

Béranger, the great poet of democracy, and a man at that time of
unrivalled influence, was present at a private reading of "Henry III.,"
and foretold its great success. The official reading was on September
17, 1828, when the play was accepted by acclamation, and the parts were
cast. But my good fortune had not got into the papers, and this, as well
as my frequent absences at the theatre, had done me no good at the
office. So I was sent for one morning by M. de Broval, the
director-general, and was given, in set terms, my choice between my
situation as a clerk and my literary career. Only one choice was now
possible, and from that very day my salary ceased.

The year 1829 was that in which my position was made and my future
assured. But it opened with a great sorrow. I was one day at the theatre
when a messenger ran in to tell me that my mother had fallen ill. I sent
for a doctor, hurried to her side, and found that she was unable to
speak, and that one side of her body was totally paralysed. My sister
was soon with us, having come up to town for the first night of the
play. My state of mind during the following days may be imagined, under
the dreadful affliction of seeing my mother dying, and under the
enormous burden of producing my first play.

On the day before the presentation of "Henry III.," I went to the
palace, sent in my name to the Duke of Orleans, and boldly asked him the
favour, or, rather, the act of justice, that he would be present at the
theatre on the first night. I pointed out to him that he had given ear
to those who had charged me with vanity and willfulness, and begged him
to come and hear the verdict of the public. When his Highness told me
that he could not come, because he had over a score of princes and
princesses dining with him on that night, I suggested that he should
bring them too. And so it was arranged.

February 11, so long awaited, dawned at last, and I spent the whole day
until evening with my mother. I had given an order for the play to every
one of my old colleagues at the office; I had a tiny stage-box; my
sister had a box in which she entertained Boulanger, De Vigny, and
Victor Hugo; every other place in the theatre was sold. The circle was
gorgeous with princes decorated with their orders, and the boxes with
the nobility, the ladies all glittering with diamonds.

The curtain went up. I have never felt anything to compare with the cool
breath of air from the stage, which fanned my heated brow. The first act
was received sympathetically, and was followed by applause, and I seized
the interval to run and see my mother. The second act passed without
disapproval. The third, I knew, would mean success or disaster. It
called forth cries of fear, but also thunders of applause; never before
had they seen a dramatic situation so realistically, I had almost said
so brutally, presented. Again I visited my mother; how I wished she
could have been there! Then came the fourth and fifth acts, which were
received by a tumultuous frenzy of delight; and when the author's name
was called, the Duke of Orleans himself stood up to honour it.

The days of struggle were over, the triumph had come. Utterly unknown
that evening, I was next morning the talk of Paris. They little knew
that I had spent the night on the floor, by the bed of my dying mother.

       *       *       *       *       *




JOHN EVELYN


Diary


     John Evelyn, English country gentleman, courtier, diarist, and
     miscellaneous author, was born at Wotton, in Surrey, on
     October 31, 1620, and was educated at Lewes, and then at
     Balliol College, Oxford. He then lived at the Middle Temple,
     London; but after the death of Strafford, disliking the
     unsettled state of England, he spent three months in the Low
     Countries. Returning for a short time to England, he followed
     the Royalist army for three days; but his prudence overcame
     his loyalty, and, crossing the Channel again, he wandered for
     four years in France and Italy. His observations abroad are
     minutely recorded in the "Diary," which in its earlier part
     too often resembles a guide-book. Having married, in Paris,
     the British ambassador's daughter, Evelyn made his home, in
     1652, at Sayes Court, Deptford, until he moved, in 1694; to
     Wotton, where he died on February 27, 1706. He was honourably
     employed, after the Restoration, on many public commissions,
     and was one of the founders of the Royal Society. Like his
     friend Samuel Pepys, Evelyn was a man of very catholic tastes,
     and wrote on a multitude of subjects, including history,
     politics, education, the fine arts, gardening, and especially
     forestry, his "Sylva, or a Discourse of Forest Trees," 1664,
     being, after the "Diary," his most famous work. Evelyn's
     character is very engaging in its richness, uprightness, and
     lively interests. His "Diary," like that of Pepys, lay long
     unpublished, and first saw the light in 1818.


_I.--Early Years_


I was born at Wotton, in the county of Surrey, October 31, 1620, after
my father had been married about seven years, and my mother had borne
him two daughters and one son.

My father's countenance was clear and fresh-coloured, his eyes quick and
piercing, an ample forehead and manly aspect. He was ascetic and
sparing; his wisdom was great, his judgement acute; affable, humble, and
in nothing affected; of a thriving, silent, and methodical genius. He
was distinctly severe, yet liberal on all just occasions to his
children, strangers, and servants, a lover of hospitality; of a singular
and Christian moderation in all his actions. He was justice of the
peace, and served his country as high sheriff for Surrey and Sussex
together, and was a person of rare conversation. His estate was esteemed
about £4,000 per annum, well wooded, and full of timber.

My mother was of an ancient and honourable family in Shropshire. She was
of proper personage, of a brown complexion, her eyes and hair of a
lovely black, of constitution inclined to a religious melancholy or
pious sadness, of a rare memory and most exemplary life, for economy and
prudence esteemed one of the most conspicuous in her country.

Wotton, the mansion house of my father, is in the southern part of the
shire, three miles from Dorking, and is upon part of Leith Hill, one of
the most eminent in England for the prodigious prospect to be seen from
its summit.

From it may be discerned twelve or thirteen counties, with part of the
sea on the coast of Sussex on a serene day. The house large and ancient,
suitable to those hospitable times, and sweetly environed with delicious
streams and venerable woods.

_November_ 3, 1640. A day never to be mentioned without a curse, began
that long, foolish, and fatal Parliament, the beginning of all our
sorrows for twenty years after.

_January_ 2, 1641. We at night followed the hearse to the church at
Wotton, where my father was interred, and mingled with the ashes of our
mother, his dear wife. Thus we were bereft of both our parents in a
period when we most of all stood in need of their counsel and
assistance, especially myself, of a raw and unwary inclination.


_II.--Travels Abroad_


_May_ 12, 1641. I beheld on Tower Hill the fatal stroke which severed
the wisest head in England from the shoulders of the Earl of Strafford,
whose crime coming under the cognisance of no human law, a new one was
made to his destruction--to such exorbitancy were things arrived.

_July_ 21. Having procured a pass at the custom-house, embarked in a
Dutch frigate bound for Flushing, convoyed by five other stout vessels,
whereof one was a man-of-war.

_April_ 19, 1644. Set out from Paris for Orleans. The way, as indeed
most of the roads in France, is paved with a small square freestone, so
that there is little dirt and bad roads, as in England, only it is
somewhat hard to the poor horses' feet.

_October_ 7. We had a most delicious journey to Marseilles, through a
country full of vineyards, oliveyards, orange-trees, and the like sweet
plantations, to which belong pleasantly situated villas built all of
freestone.

We went to visit the galleys; the captain of the galley-royal gave us
most courteous entertainment in his cabin, the slaves playing loud and
soft music. Then he showed us how he commanded their motions with a nod
and his whistle, making them row out. The spectacle was to me new and
strange, to see so many hundreds of miserably naked persons, having
their heads shaven close, and having only high red bonnets, a pair of
coarse canvas drawers, their whole backs and legs naked, doubly chained
about their middles and legs in couples, and made fast to their seats,
and all commanded by a cruel seaman. Their rising forward and falling
back at their oar is a miserable spectacle, and the noise of their
chains with the roaring of the beaten waters has something of the
strange and fearful to one unaccustomed to it. They are chastised on the
least disorder, and without the least humanity; yet are they cheerful
and full of knavery.

_January_ 31, 1645. Climbing a steep hill in Naples, we came to the
monastery of the Carthusians, from whence is a most goodly prospect
towards the sea and city, the one full of galleys and ships, the other
of stately palaces, churches, castles, gardens, delicious fields and
meadows, Mount Vesuvius smoking, doubtless one of the most considerable
vistas in the world.

The inhabitants greatly affect the Spanish gravity in their habit,
delight in good horses; the streets are full of gallants on horseback,
in coaches, and sedans. The country people are so jovial and addicted to
music that the very husbandmen almost universally play on the guitar,
singing and composing songs in praise of their sweethearts, and will
commonly go to the field with their fiddle; they are merry, witty, and
genial, all which I much attribute to the excellent quality of the air.
They have a deadly hatred to the French, so that some of our company
were flouted at for wearing red cloaks, as the mode then was.

This I made the end of my travels, sufficiently sated with rolling up
and down, since, from the report of divers experienced and curious
persons, I had been assured there was little more to be seen in the rest
of the civil world, after Italy, France, Flanders, and the Low Country,
but plain and prodigious barbarism.

Thus, about February 7, we set out on our return to Rome by the same way
we came, not daring to adventure by sea, as some of our company were
inclined, for fear of Turkish pirates hovering on that coast.


_III.--Evelyn in England_


_May_ 22, 1647. I had contracted a great friendship with Sir Richard
Browne, his majesty's Resident at the Court of France, his lady and
family, and particularly set my affections on a daughter.

_June_ 10. We concluded about my marriage, and on Thursday 27, Dr. Earle
married us in Sir Richard Browne's chapel, betwixt the hours of eleven
and twelve some few select friends being present; and this being Corpus
Christi, feast was solemnly observed in this country; the streets were
sumptuously hung with tapestry and strewn with flowers.

_July_ 8, 1656. At Ipswich--one of the sweetest, most pleasant,
well-built towns in England. I had the curiosity to visit some Quakers
here in prison--a new fanatic sect, of dangerous principles, who show no
respect to any man, magistrate or other, and seem a melancholy, proud
sort of people, and exceedingly ignorant.

_November_ 2. There was now nothing practical preached in the pulpits,
or that pressed reformation of life, but high and speculative points
that few understood, which left people very ignorant and of no steady
principles, the source of all our sects and divisions, for there was
much envy and uncharity in the world--God of His mercy amend it!

_January_ 27, 1658. After six fits of an ague died my dear son Richard,
to our inexpressible grief and affliction, five years and three days
only, but at that tender age a prodigy for wit and understanding, and
for beauty of body a very angel. At two years and a half old he could
perfectly read any of the English, Latin, French, or Gothic letters,
pronouncing the three first languages perfectly. He had before the fifth
year, or in that year, not only skill to read most written hands, but to
decline all the nouns, conjugate the verbs regular, and most of the
irregular; got by heart almost the entire vocabulary of Latin and French
primitives and words, could make congruous syntax, turn English into
Latin and _vice versa_, construe and prove what he read, began himself
to write legibly, and had a strong passion for Greek. The number of
verses he could recite was prodigious, and he had a wonderful
disposition to mathematics. As to his piety, astonishing were his
applications of Scripture upon occasion, and his sense of God. He was
all life, all prettiness, far from morose, sullen or childish in
anything he said or did. Such a child I never saw; for such a child I
bless God, in whose bosom he is!

_November_ 22. Saw the superb funeral of the Protector. He was carried
from Somerset House in a velvet bed of state, drawn by six horses housed
with the same, the pall held up by his new lords; Oliver lying in effigy
in royal robes, and with a crown, sceptre and globe, like a king;
pendants carried by officers, imperial banners by the heralds; a rich
caparisoned horse, embroidered all over with gold, a knight of honour
armed _cap-à-pie_, guards, soldiers, and innumerable mourners. In this
equipage they proceeded to Westminster; but it was the joyfullest
funeral I ever saw, for there were none that cried but dogs, which the
soldiers hooted away with a barbarous noise, drinking and taking tobacco
in the streets as they went.

_May_ 29, 1660. This day his Majesty Charles II. came to London after a
sad and long exile and calamitous suffering both of the king and church,
being seventeen years. This also was his birthday, and with a triumph of
above 20,000 horse and foot, brandishing their swords and shouting with
inexpressible joy; the ways strewed with flowers, the bells ringing, the
streets hung with tapestry, fountains running with wine; the mayor,
aldermen, and all the companies in their liveries, chains of gold, and
banners; lords and nobles clad in cloth of silver, gold, and velvet; the
windows and balconies all set with ladies; trumpets, music, and myriads
of people flocking, even so far as from Rochester, so as they were seven
hours in passing the city. I stood in the Strand and beheld it, and
blessed God.

_January_ 6, 1661. This night was suppressed a bloody insurrection of
some fifth-monarchy enthusiasts.

I was now chosen a Fellow of the Philosophical Society, now meeting at
Gresham College, where was an assembly of divers learned gentlemen; this
being the first meeting since the king's return; but it had been begun
some years before at Oxford, and was continued with interruption here in
London during the Rebellion.

_January_ 16. I went to the Philosophic Club, where was examined the
Torricellian experiment. I presented my Circle of Mechanical Trades, and
had recommended to me the publishing of what I had written upon
chalcography.

_January_ 30. This day--O the stupendous and inscrutable judgements of
God!--were the carcases of those arch-rebels Cromwell, Bradshawe, and
Ireton dragged out from their superb tombs in Westminster among the
kings, to Tyburn, and hanged on the gallows there from morning till
night, and then buried under that ignominious monument in a deep pit;
thousands of people who had seen them in all their pride being
spectators. Look back at November 22, 1658, and be astonished! And fear
God and honour the king; but meddle not with them who are given to
change!

_July_ 31, 1662. I sat with the commissioners about reforming the
buildings and streets of London, and we ordered the paving of the way
from St. James's north, which was a quagmire, and also of the Haymarket
about Piqudillo [Piccadilly].

_August_ 23. I was spectator of the most magnificent triumph that ever
floated on the Thames, considering the innumerable boats and vessels,
dressed and adorned with all imaginable pomp, but above all, the
thrones, arches, pageants, and other representations, stately barges of
the Lord Mayor and Companies, with music and peals of ordnance from the
vessels and the shore, going to meet and conduct the new queen from
Hampton Court to Whitehall, at the time of her first coming to town. His
majesty and the queen came in an antique-shaped open vessel, covered
with a canopy of cloth of gold, made in the form of a cupola, supported
with high Corinthian pillars, wreathed with flowers and festoons.


_IV.--Plague and Fire_


_July_ 16, 1665. There died of the plague in London this week 1,100, and
in the week following above 2,000.

_August_ 28. The contagion still increasing, I sent my wife and whole
family to my brother's at Wotton, being resolved to stay at my house
myself and to look after my charge, trusting in the providence and
goodness of God.

_September_ 7. Came home from Chatham. Perishing near 10,000 poor
creatures weekly. However, I went all along the city and suburbs from
Kent Street to St. James's, a dismal passage, and dangers to see so many
coffins exposed in the streets, now thin of people; the shops shut up,
and all in mournful silence, as not knowing whose turn might be next. I
went to the Duke of Albemarle for a pest-ship, for our infected men.

_September_ 2, 1666. This fatal night, about ten, began that deplorable
fire near Fish Street in London.

_September_ 3. After dinner I took coach with my wife and son, and went
to the Bank Side in Southwark, where we beheld the dismal spectacle, the
whole city in dreadful flames near the water-side.

The fire having continued all this night, which was as light as day for
ten miles round, in a dreadful manner, I went on foot to the same place.
The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astonished, that
from the beginning they hardly stirred to quench it, so that there was
nothing heard or seen but crying out and lamentation, running about like
distracted creatures, without attempting to save even their goods. It
leapt after a prodigious manner from house to house, and street to
street, at great distances one from the other. Here we saw the Thames
covered with goods floating, all the barges and boats laden with what
some had time and courage to save. And the fields for many miles were
strewn with movables of all sorts, and tents erecting to shelter both
people and what goods they could get away. Oh, the miserable and
calamitous spectacle! London was, but is no more!

_October_ 17, 1671. My Lord Henry Howard would needs have me go with him
to Norwich. I was not hard to be persuaded, having a desire to see that
famous scholar and physician, Dr. T. Browne, author of the "Religio
Medici," now lately knighted. Thither, then, went my lord and I alone in
his flying chariot with six horses.

Next morning I went to see Sir Thomas Browne. His whole house and garden
were a paradise and cabinet of rarities, especially medals, books,
plants, and natural things. Sir Thomas had a collection of the eggs of
all the birds he could procure, that country being frequented by several
birds which seldom or never go farther into the land--as cranes, storks,
eagles, and variety of waterfowl. He led me to see all the remarkable
places of this ancient city, being one of the largest and noblest in
England.

_January_ 5, 1674. I saw an Italian opera in music, the first that had
been in England of this kind.

_November_ 15, 1678. The queen's birthday. I never saw the court more
brave, nor the nation in more apprehension and consternation. Titus
Oates has grown so presumptuous as to accuse the queen of intending to
poison the king, which certainly that pious and virtuous lady abhorred
the thought of. Oates probably thought to gratify some who would have
been glad his majesty should have married a fruitful lady; but the king
was too kind a husband to let any of these make impression on him.
However, divers of the Popish peers were sent to the Tower, accused by
Oates, and all the Roman Catholic lords were by a new Act for ever
excluded the Parliament, which was a mighty blow.

_May_ 5, 1681. Came to dine with me Sir Christopher Wren, his majesty's
architect and surveyor, now building the cathedral of St. Paul, and the
column in memory of the City's conflagration, and was in hand with the
building of fifty parish churches. A wonderful genius had this
incomparable person.

_January_ 24, 1684. The frost continuing more and more severe, the
Thames before London was planted with booths in formal streets, all
sorts of trades and shops furnished and full of commodities, even to a
printing press. Coaches plied from Westminster to the Temple, as in the
streets; sleds, sliding with skates, bull-baiting, horse and coach
races, puppet plays, cooks, tippling, so that it seemed to be a carnival
on the water; while it was a severe judgement on the land, the trees
splitting, men and cattle perishing, and the very seas locked up with
ice. London was so filled with the fuliginous steam of the coal that
hardly could one see across the streets, and this filling the lungs with
its gross particles, so as one could scarcely breathe.


_V.--Fall of the Stuarts_


_February_ 4, 1685. King Charles II. is dead. He was a prince of many
virtues, and many great imperfections; debonair, easy of access, not
bloody nor cruel; his countenance fierce, his voice great, proper of
person, every motion became him; a lover of the sea, and skillful in
shipping; he loved planting and building, and brought in a politer way
of living, which passed to luxury and expense. He would have been an
excellent prince had he been less addicted to women, who made him always
in want to supply their immeasurable profusion.

Certainly never had king more glorious opportunities to have made
himself, his people, and all Europe happy, had not his too easy nature
resigned him to be managed by crafty men, and some abandoned and profane
wretches who corrupted his otherwise sufficient parts.

I can never forget the inexpressible luxury and profaneness, gaming and
all dissoluteness, and, as it were, total forgetfulness of God (it being
Sunday evening) which day se'nnight I was witness of, the king sitting
and toying with his concubines, a French boy singing love-songs, in that
glorious gallery, while twenty great courtiers and other dissolute
persons were gaming at a large table, a bank of at least £2,000 in gold
before them. Six days after all was in the dust!

_November_ 5, 1688. I went to London, heard the news of the Prince of
Orange having landed at Torbay, coming with a fleet of near 700 sail,
passing through the Channel with so favourable a wind that our navy
could not intercept them. This put the king and court into great
consternation.

_November_ 13. The Prince of Orange is advanced to Windsor, and is
invited by the king to St. James's. The prince accepts the invitation,
but requires his majesty to retire to some distant place, that his own
guards may be quartered about the palace and city. This is taken
heinously, and the king goes privately to Rochester; is persuaded to
come back; comes on the Sunday, goes to mass, and dines in public, a
Jesuit saying grace. I was present.

_November_ 18. All the world go to see the prince at St. James's, where
there is a great court. He is very stately, serious, and reserved.

_November 24_. The king passes into France, whither the queen and child
were gone a few days before.

_May_ 26, 1703. This day died Mr. Sam Pepys, a very worthy, industrious,
and curious person; none in England exceeding him in knowledge of the
navy, in which he had passed through all the most considerable offices,
all of which he performed with great integrity. When King James II. went
out of England, he laid down his office, and would serve no more; but,
withdrawing himself from all public affairs, he lived at Clapham with
his partner, Mr. Hewer, formerly his clerk, in a very noble house and
sweet place, where he enjoyed the fruit of his labours in great
prosperity. He was universally beloved, hospitable, generous, learned in
many things, skilled in music, a very great cherisher of learned men.
His library and collection of other curiosities were of the most
considerable, the models of ships especially.

_October_ 31, 1705. I am this day arrived to the eighty-fifth year of my
age. Lord teach me so to number my days to come that I may apply them to
wisdom!

       *       *       *       *       *




JOHN FORSTER


Life of Goldsmith


     John Forster is best remembered as writer of the biographies
     of the statesmen of the commonwealth, of Goldsmith, Landor,
     Dickens. To his own generation he was for twenty years one of
     the ablest of London journalists. In his later days, as a
     Commissioner in Lunacy, he had time to devote himself more
     closely to historical research. He was born at Newcastle on
     April 2, 1812, was turned aside from the Bar by success in
     newspaper work, and became editor first of the "Foreign
     Quarterly Review," then of the "Daily News," on which he
     succeeded Dickens, and lastly of "The Examiner." His "Life of
     Goldsmith" was published in 1848, and enlarged in 1854.
     Forster was different from all that he looked. He seemed
     harsh, exacting, and stubborn. He was one of the most loyal of
     friends, and tender-hearted towards all good fellows, alive or
     dead. His picture of Goldsmith is an understanding defence of
     that strangely-speckled genius, written from the heart.
     Forster died on February 1, 1876, two years after his
     retirement from official life.


_I.--Misery and Ill-luck_


The marble in Westminster Abbey is correct in the place, but not in the
time, of the birth of Oliver Goldsmith. He was born at a small old
parsonage house in an almost inaccessible Irish village called Pallas,
in Longford, November 10, 1728. His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith,
was a Protestant clergyman with an uncertain stipend, which, with the
help of some fields he farmed, averaged forty pounds a year. They who
have lived, laughed, and wept with the father of the man in black in the
"Citizen of the World," the preacher of "The Deserted Village," or the
hero of "The Vicar of Wakefield," have given laughter, love, and tears
to the Rev. Charles Goldsmith.

Oliver had not completed his second year when the family moved to a
respectable house and farm on the verge of the pretty little village of
Lissoy, in West Meath. Here the schoolmistress who first put a book into
Oliver Goldsmith's hands confessed, "Never was so dull a boy; he seemed
impenetrably stupid."

Yet all the charms of Goldsmith's later style are to be traced in the
letters of his youth, and he began to scribble verses when he could
scarcely write. At the age of eight he went to the Rev. Mr. Gilpin's
superior school of Elphin, in Roscommon, where he was considered "a
stupid, heavy blockhead, little better than a fool, whom everyone made
fun of." Indeed, from his earliest youth he was made to feel an intense,
uneasy consciousness of supposed defects. Later he went to school at
Athlone and at Edgeworthstown, and was in every school trick, either as
an actor or a victim. On leaving the school at Edgeworthstown, Oliver
entered Dublin University as a sizar, "at once studying freedom and
practising servitude." Little went well with him in his student course.
He had a menial position, a savage brute for a tutor, and few
inclinations to the study exacted. But he was not without his
consolations; he could sing a song well, and, at a new insult, could
blow off excitement through his flute. The popular picture of him in
these days is of a slow, hesitating, somewhat hollow voice, a low-sized,
thick, robust, ungainly figure, lounging about the college courts on the
wait for misery and ill-luck.

In Oliver's second year at college his father died suddenly, and the
scanty sum required for his support stopped. Squalid poverty relieved by
occasional gifts was Goldsmith's lot thenceforward. He would write
street-ballads to save himself from actual starving, sell them for five
shillings a-piece, and steal out of the college at night to hear them
sung. It is said to have been a rare occurrence when the five shillings
reached home with him. It was more likely, when he was at his utmost
need, to stop with some beggar on the road who had seemed to him even
more destitute than himself.

He took his degree as bachelor of arts on February 27, 1749 and
returning to his mother's house, at Ballymahon, waited till he could
qualify himself for orders. This is the sunny time between two dismal
periods of his life--the day occupied in the village school, the winter
nights in presiding at Conway's inn, the summer evenings strolling up
the banks of the Inny to play the flute, learning French from the Irish
priests, or winning a prize for throwing a sledge-hammer at the fair.

When the time came for Goldsmith to take orders, one report says he did
not deem himself good enough for it, and another says that he presented
himself before the Bishop of Elphin in scarlet breeches; but in truth
his rejection is the only certainty.

A year's engagement as a tutor followed, and from it he returned home
with thirty pounds in his pocket, and was the undisputed owner of a good
horse. Thus furnished and mounted he set off for Cork with a vision of
going to America, but returned presently with only five shillings and a
horse he had bought for one pound seventeen.

Law was the next thing thought of, and his uncle Contarine, who had
married his father's sister, came forward with fifty pounds. With this
sum Oliver started for London, but gambled it all away in Dublin. In
bitter shame he wrote to his uncle, confessed, and was forgiven, and the
good uncle then made up a small purse to carry him to Edinburgh for the
study of medicine.

No traditions remain in Edinburgh as to the character or extent of
Goldsmith's studies there, but it may be supposed that his eighteen
months' residence was, on the whole, not unprofitable. A curious
document that has been discovered is a torn leaf of a tailor's ledger
radiant with "rich sky-blue satin, fine sky-blue shalloon, a superfine
silver-laced small hat, rich black Genoa velvet, and superfine high
claret-coloured cloth," ordered by Mr. Oliver Goldsmith, student.


_II.--Through Europe with a Flute_


From Edinburgh he sailed for Leyden, but called on the way at Newcastle
and saw enough of England to be able to say that "of all objects on this
earth an English farmer's daughter is the most charming." Little is
known of his pursuits at Leyden, where his principal means of support
were as a teacher. After staying there nearly a year, he quitted it
(1755) at the age of twenty-seven, for a travel tour through Europe,
with a guinea in his pocket, one shirt on his back, and a flute in his
hand.

Goldsmith started on his travels in February, 1755, and stepped ashore
at Dover February 1, 1756. For his route it is necessary to consult his
writings. His letters of the time have perished. In later life, Foote
tells us, "he frequently used to talk, with great pleasantry, of his
distresses on the Continent, such as living on the hospitalities of the
friars, sleeping in barns, and picking up a kind of mendicant livelihood
by the German flute." His early memoir-writers assert with confidence
that in some small portion of his travels he acted as companion to a
young man of large fortune. It is certain that the rude, strange
wandering life to which his nature for a time impelled him was an
education picked up from personal experience and by actual collision
with many varieties of men, and that it gave him on several social
questions much the advantage over the more learned of his
contemporaries. As he passed through Flanders, Louvain attracted him,
and here, according to his first biographer, he took the degree of
medical bachelor. This is likely enough. Certain it is he made some stay
at Louvain, became acquainted with its professors, and informed himself
of its modes of study. Some little time he also passed at Brussels.
Undoubtedly he visited Antwerp, and he rested a brief space in Paris. He
must have taken the lecture-rooms of Germany on his way to Switzerland.
Passing into that country he saw Schaffhausen frozen. Geneva was his
resting-place in Switzerland, but he visited Basle and Berne. Descending
into Piedmont, he saw Milan, Verona, Mantua, and Florence, and at Padua
is supposed to have stayed some six months, and, it has been asserted,
received his degree. "Sir," said Johnson to Boswell, "he _disputed_ his
passage through Europe."


_III.--Physic, Teaching, and Authorship_


Landing at Dover without a farthing in his pocket, the traveller took
ten days to reach London, where an uncertain story says he gained
subsistence for a few months as an usher, under a feigned name. At last
a chemist of the name of Jacob, at the corner of Monument Yard, engaged
him. While employed among the drugs he met an old Edinburgh
fellow-student, Owen Sleigh, who, "with a heart as warm as ever, shared
his home and friendship." Goldsmith now began to practise as a physician
in a humble way, and through one of his patients was introduced to
Richardson and appointed for a short time reader and corrector to his
press in Salisbury Court. Next we find him at Peckham Academy, acting as
assistant to Dr. Milner, whose son had been at Edinburgh.

Milner was a contributor to the "Monthly Review," published by
Griffiths, the bookseller, and at Milner's table Griffiths and Goldsmith
met, with the result that Goldsmith entered into an agreement to devote
himself to the "Monthly Review" for a year. In fulfilment of that
agreement Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths provided him with bed and board in
Paternoster Row, and, at the age of nine-and-twenty, he began his work
as an author by profession.

The twelve months' agreement was not carried out. At the end of five
months Goldsmith left the "Monthly Review." During that period he had
reviewed Professor Mallet's translations of Scandinavian poetry and
mythology; Home's tragedy of "Douglas," Burke's "Origin of our Ideas of
the Sublime and Beautiful," Smollett's "Complete History of England,"
and Gray's "Odes." Though he was no longer "a not unuseful assistant" to
Griffiths, he kept up an irregular business association with that
literary slave-driver. He also became a contributor to Newbery's
"Literary Magazine." At last, in despair, he turned again from the
miseries of Grub Street to Dr. Milner's school-room at Peckham, and,
after another brief period of teaching, Dr. Milner secured for him the
promise of an appointment as medical officer to one of the East India
Company's factories on the coast of Coromandel. Partly to utilise his
travel experiences in a more formal manner than had yet been possible,
and partly to provide funds for his equipment for foreign service, he
now wrote his "Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in
Europe," and, leaving Dr. Milner's, became a contributor to Hamilton's
"Critical Review," a rival to Griffiths's "Monthly." In these days he
lived in a garret in Green Arbour Court, Old Bailey, with a single chair
in the room, and a window seat for himself if a visitor occupied the
chair. For some unknown reason the Coromandel appointment was withdrawn,
and failure in an examination as a hospital-mate left no hope except in
literature.

The turning-point of Goldsmith's life was reached when Griffiths became
security for a new suit of clothes in which that unfortunate
hospital-mate examination might be attended. On Griffiths finding that
the new suit had been pawned to free the poet's landlady from the
bailiffs, he abused him as a sharper and a villain, and threatened to
proceed against him by law as a criminal. This attack forced from
Goldsmith the rejoinder, "Sir, I know of no misery but a jail to which
my own imprudences and your letter seem to point. I have seen it
inevitable these three or four weeks, and, by heavens! regard it as a
favour, as a favour that may prevent somewhat more fatal. I tell you
again and again I am now neither able nor willing to pay you a farthing,
but I will be punctual to any appointment you or the tailor shall make;
thus far at least I do not act the sharper, since, unable to pay my
debts one way, I would willingly give some security another. No, sir;
had I been a sharper, had I been possessed of less good nature and
native generosity, I might surely now have been in better circumstances.
My reflections are filled with repentance for my imprudence, but not
with any remorse for being a villain."

The result of this correspondence was that Goldsmith contracted to write
for Griffiths a "Life of Voltaire"; the payment being twenty pounds,
with the price of the clothes to be deducted from the sum.

In the autumn of 1759 Goldsmith commenced, for bookseller Wilkie, of St.
Paul's Churchyard, the weekly writing of "The Bee," a threepenny
magazine of essays. It ended with its eighth number, for the public
would not buy it. At the same time he was writing for Mr. Pottinger's
"Busybody," and Mr. Wilkie's "Lady's Magazine." "The Bee," though
unsuccessful, brought Goldsmith useful friends--Smollett and Garrick,
and Mr. Newbery, the publisher--and with the New Year (1760) he was
working with Smollett on "The British Magazine," and, immediately
afterwards, on Newbery's "Public Ledger," a daily newspaper, for which
he wrote two articles a week at a guinea for each article. Among the
articles were the series that still divert and instruct us--"The Citizen
of the World." This was the title given when the "Letters from a Chinese
Philosopher in London to his Friend in the East" were republished by
Newbery, at the end of the year. Goldsmith now began to know his own
value as a writer.


_IV.--Social and Literary Success_


His widening reputation brought him into association and friendship with
Johnson, to whom he was introduced by Dr. Percy, the collector of the
"Reliques of Ancient English Poetry." Goldsmith gave a supper in honour
of his visitor, and when Percy called on Johnson to accompany him to
their host's lodgings, to his great astonishment he found Johnson in a
new suit of clothes, with a new wig, nicely powdered, perfectly
dissimilar from his usual appearance. On being asked the cause of this
transformation Johnson replied, "Why, sir, I hear that Goldsmith, who is
a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of cleanliness and decency
by quoting my practice; and I am desirous this night to show him a
better example."

Johnson was perhaps the first literary man of the times who estimated
Goldsmith according to his true merits as a writer and thinker, and he
was repaid by an affectionate devotion that was never worn out during
the later years when the Dictator was too ready to make a butt of the
unready Irishman. Goldsmith now joined the group of literary friends who
gathered frequently at the shop of Tom Davies, the bookseller, where
Johnson and Boswell first met, and he was one of the famous Literary
Club which grew out of these meetings.

"Sir," said Johnson to Boswell, at one of their first meetings,
"Goldsmith is one of the first men we have as an author."

This was said at a time when all Goldsmith's best works had yet to be
written. He was still working for the booksellers, and in 1763, issued
anonymously a "History of England in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman
to his Son." To various noblemen credit for this popular work was given,
including Lord Chesterfield. Growing success was only an excuse for
growing extravagance, and in 1764 Goldsmith was placed temporarily under
arrest for debt, probably by his landlady, Mrs. Fleming, with whom he
had been living at Islington under an arrangement made by Newbery. His
withdrawal from the town had given him opportunities for congenial
labour on "The Traveller" and "The Vicar of Wakefield," and when Johnson
appeared, in answer to his urgent summons, it was the manuscript of "The
Vicar" that he carried off, and sold for sixty pounds, to relieve
immediate anxieties.

Still, it was "The Traveller" that was first published (December 19,
1764). Johnson pronounced it a poem to which it would not be easy to
find anything equal since the death of Pope. The predominant impression
of "The Traveller" is of its naturalness and facility. The serene graces
of its style, and the mellow flow of its verse, take us captive before
we feel the enchantment of its lovely images of various life reflected
from its calm, still depths of philosophic contemplation. A fourth
edition was issued by August, and a ninth appeared in the year when the
poet died. The price paid for it by Newbery was, apparently, twenty
guineas.

It was in the spring of 1766, fifteen months after it had been acquired
by Newbery, that "The Vicar of Wakefield" was published. No book upon
record has obtained a wider popularity, and none is more likely to
endure. It is our first pure example of the simple, domestic novel. As a
refuge from the compiling of books was this book undertaken. Simple to
baldness are the materials used, but Goldsmith threw into the midst of
them his own nature, his actual experience, the suffering, discipline,
and sweet emotion of his chequered life, and so made them a lesson and a
delight to all men. The book silently forced its way. No noise was made
about it, no trumpets were blown for it, but admiration gathered
steadily around it, and by August a third edition had been reached.


_V.--Poet, Dramatist, and Spendthrift_


Goldsmith had long been a constant frequenter of the theatres, and one
of the most sagacious critics of the actors of his day; and it was
natural that, having succeeded as an essayist, a poet, and a novelist,
he should try his fortune with the drama. In 1767 a comedy was in
Garrick's hands, wherein, following the method of Farquhar, he attempted
by the help of nature, humour, and character, to invoke the spirit of
laughter, happy, unrestrained, and cordial. After long, and not very
friendly, temporising by the great actor, Goldsmith withdrew the play
from Drury Lane and committed it to Colman at Covent Garden; but it was
not till January 29, 1768, that "The Good-Natur'd Man" was acted. It
proved a reasonably fair success. Johnson, who wrote the prologue, went
to see the comedy rehearsed, and showed unwavering kindness to his
friend at this trying time.

While the play was under discussion and preparation, Goldsmith was
engaged in writing for Tom Davies an easy, popular, "History of Rome,"
in the style of his anonymous "Letters from a Nobleman to His Son,"
proceeding with it at leisure in his cottage at Edgeware. The success of
"The Good-Natured Man," though far from equal to its claims of
character, wit, and humour, very sensibly affected its author's ways of
life. It put £500 in his pocket, which he at once proceeded to squander
on fine chambers in the Temple, and new suits of gay clothing followed
in quick succession.

During the next year, 1769, the "Roman History" was published, and the
first month's sale established its success so firmly that Goldsmith
received an offer of £500 for a "History of England," in four volumes,
to be "written and compiled in two years." At the same time he was under
agreement for his "Natural History," or, as it was finally termed, his
"History of Animated Nature."

These years of heavy work were among the happiest of Goldsmith's life,
for he had made the acquaintance of the Misses Horneck, girls of
nineteen and seventeen. The elder, Catherine, or "Little Comedy," was
already engaged; the younger, Mary, who had the loving nickname of the
"Jessamy Bride," exercised over him a strong fascination. Their social
as well as personal charms are uniformly spoken of by all. Mary, who did
not marry till after Goldsmith's death, lived long enough to be admired
by Hazlitt, to whom she talked of the poet with affection unabated by
age, till he "could almost fancy the shade of Goldsmith in the room,
looking round with complacency."

It was during these years of busy bookmaking, too, that the poet was
perfecting his "Deserted Village." On May 26, 1770, it appeared,
published at two shillings. Its success was instant and decisive. By
August 16, a fifth edition had appeared. When Gray heard the poem read,
he exclaimed, "This man is a poet!" The judgment has since been affirmed
by hundreds of thousands of readers, and any adverse appeal is little
likely now to be lodged against it. Within the circle of its claims and
pretensions, a more entirely satisfactory and delightful poem than "The
Deserted Village" was probably never written. It lingers in the memory
where once it has entered; and such is the softening influence on the
heart of the mild, tender, yet clear light which makes its images so
distinct and lovely, that there are few who have not wished to rate it
higher than poetry of yet higher genius. Goldsmith looked into his heart
and wrote.

The poet had now attained social distinction, and we find him passing
from town to country with titled friends, and visiting, in somewhat
failing health, fashionable resorts, such as Bath. His home remained in
the Temple. His worldly affairs continued a source of constant
embarrassment, however, and when, in 1772, he had placed the manuscript
of "She Stoops to Conquer" in the hands of Colman, not only his own
entreaties but the interference of Johnson were used to hasten its
production in order to relieve his anxieties. Colman was convinced the
comedy would be unsuccessful. It was first acted on March 15, 1773, and,
"quite the reverse to everybody's expectation," it was received with the
utmost applause.

At this time Goldsmith was sadly in arrears with work he had promised to
the booksellers; disputes were pending, and his circumstances were
verging on positive distress. The necessity of completing his "Animated
Nature"--for which all the money had been received and spent--hung like
a mill-stone upon him. His advances had been considerable on other works
not yet begun. In what leisure he could get from these tasks he was
working at a "Grecian History" to procure means to meet his daily
liabilities.

It occurred to friends at this time to agitate the question of a pension
for him, on the ground of "distinction in the literary world, and the
prospect of approaching distress," but as he had never been a political
partisan, the application was met by a firm refusal. Out of the worries
of this darkening period, with ill-health adding to his cares, the
genius of the poet flashed forth once more in his personal poem,
"Retaliation." At a club dinner at St. James's coffee-house, the
proposition was made that each member present should write an epitaph on
Goldsmith, and Garrick started with:

    Here is Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll,
    Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll.

Later, Goldsmith retaliated with epitaphs on his circle of club friends.
His list of discriminating pictures was not complete when he died.
Indeed, the picture of Reynolds breaks off with a half line.

On March 25, 1774, the poet was too ill to attend the club
gathering--how ill, his friends failed to realise. On the morning of
April 4, he died from weakness following fever. "Is your mind at ease?"
asked his doctor. "No, it is not," was the melancholy answer, and his
last recorded words. His debts amounted to not less than two thousand
pounds. "Was ever poet so trusted!" exclaimed Johnson.

His remains were committed to their final resting-place in the burial
ground of the Temple Church, and the staircase of his chambers is said
to have been filled with mourners the reverse of domestic--women without
a home, without domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had
come to weep for, outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom
he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable.

Johnson spoke his epitaph in an emphatic sentence: "He had raised money,
and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of
expense; but let not his frailties be remembered--he was a very great
man."

       *       *       *       *       *




GEORGE FOX


Journal


     George Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, or "Friends
     of the Truth," was born at Drayton, Leicestershire, in July,
     1624, and died in London on January 13, 1691. His "Journal,"
     here epitomised, was published in 1694, after being revised by
     a committee under the superintendence of William Penn, and
     prefaced for the press by Thomas Ellwood, the Quaker. Fox
     rejected all outward shows of religion, and believed in an
     inward light and leading. He claimed to be divinely directed
     as he wandered, Bible in hand, through the country, denouncing
     church-worship, a paid ministry, religious "profession," and
     advocating a spiritual affiliation with Christ as the only
     true religion. He was imprisoned often and long for "brawling"
     in churches and refusing to take oaths then required by law.
     Fox wrote in prison many books of religious exhortation, his
     style being tantalisingly involved. The one work that lives is
     the "Journal," a quaintly egotistic record of unquestioning
     faith and unconquerable endurance in pursuit of a spiritual
     ideal through a rude age.


_I.--His Youth and Divine Calling_


I was born in the month called July, 1624, at Drayton-in-the-Clay, in
Leicestershire. My father's name was Christopher Fox; he was by
profession a weaver, an honest man, and there was a seed of God in him.
In my very young years I had a gravity and staidness of mind and spirit
not usual in children. When I came to eleven years of age I knew
pureness and righteousness. The Lord taught me to be faithful in all
things, inwardly to God and outwardly to man, and to keep to "Yea" and
"Nay" in all things.

Afterwards, as I grew up, I was put to a man, a shoemaker by trade, who
dealt in wool, and was a grazier, and sold cattle, and a great deal went
through my hands. I never wronged man or woman in all that time; for the
Lord's power was with me, and over me to preserve me. While I was in
that service, it was common saying among people that knew me, "If George
says 'Verily,' there is no altering him."

At the command of God, on the ninth day of the seventh month, 1643, I
left my relations, and broke off all familiarity or fellowship with old
or young. I went to Barnet in the month called June, in 1644. Now,
during the time that I was at Barnet a strong temptation to despair came
upon me. Then I thought, because I had forsaken my relations, I had done
amiss against them. I was about twenty years of age when these exercises
came upon me, and I continued in that condition some years in great
trouble. I went to many a priest to look for comfort, but found no
comfort from them. Then the priest of Drayton, the town of my birth,
whose name was Nathaniel Stephens, came often to me, and I went often to
him. At that time he would applaud and speak highly of me to others, and
what I said in discourse to him on the week days he would preach of on
the first days, for which I did not like him. This priest afterwards
became my great persecutor.

After this I went to another ancient priest at Mancetter, in
Warwickshire, and reasoned with him about the ground of despair and
temptations; but he was ignorant of my condition, he bade me take
tobacco and sing psalms. Tobacco was a thing I did not love, and psalms
I was not in a state to sing. Then I heard of a priest living about
Tamworth, but I found him only like an empty, hollow cask. Later I went
to another, one Mackam, a priest of high account. He would needs give me
some physic, and I was to have been let blood. I thought them miserable
comforters, and saw they were all as nothing to me, for they could not
reach my condition. And this struck me, "that to be bred at Oxford or
Cambridge was not enough to make a man fit to be a minister of Christ."
So neither these, nor any of the dissenting people, could I join with,
but was a stranger to all, relying wholly upon the Lord Jesus Christ.

It was now opened in me "that God, who made the world, did not dwell in
temples made with hands," but in people's hearts, and His people were
His temple. During all this time I was never joined in profession of
religion with any, being afraid both of professor and profane. For which
reason I kept myself much a stranger, seeking heavenly wisdom and
getting knowledge from the Lord.

When all my hopes in them were gone, then--oh, then--I heard a voice
which said, "There is one, even Christ Jesus, that can speak to thy
condition." And when I heard it my heart did leap for joy, and the Lord
stayed my desires upon himself.


_II.--Preaching and Persecution_


Then came people from far and near to see me, and I was made to speak
and open things to them. And there was one Brown, who had great
prophecies and sights upon his death-bed of me. He spoke only of what I
should be made instrumental by the Lord to bring forth. And I had great
openings and prophecies, and spoke of the things of God.

And many who heard me spread the fame thereof, and the Lord's power got
ground, and many were turned from the darkness to the light within the
compass of these three years--1646, 1647, and 1648. Moreover, when the
Lord sent me forth, he forbade me to "put off my hat" to any, high or
low. And I was required to "thee" and "thou" all, men and women, without
any respect to rich or poor, great or small. But, oh, the rage that then
was in the priests, magistrates, professors, and people of all sorts;
but especially in priests and professors! Oh, the scorn, the heat and
fury that arose! Oh, the blows, punchings, beatings, and imprisonments
that we underwent!

About this time I was sorely exercised in speaking and writing to judges
and justices to do justly; in warning such as kept public-houses for
entertainment that they should not let people have more drink than would
do them good. In fairs also and in markets I was made to declare against
their deceitful merchandise, cheating, and cozening; warning all to deal
justly, to speak the truth, to let their yea be yea, and their nay be
nay. Likewise I was made to warn masters and mistresses, fathers and
mothers in private families, to take care that their children and
servants might be trained up in the fear of the Lord; and that they
themselves should be therein examples and patterns of sobriety and
virtue.

But the earthly spirit of the priests wounded my life, and when I heard
the bell toll to call people together to the steeple-house it struck at
my life; for it was just like a market-bell to gather people together,
that the priest might set forth his wares to sale.


_III.--In Perils Oft_


Now as I went towards Nottingham on a first-day, when I came on the top
of a hill in sight of the town, I espied the great steeple-house, and
the Lord said unto me, "Thou must go cry against yonder great idol, and
against the worshippers therein." When I came there all the people
looked like fallow ground, the priest (like a great lump of earth) stood
in his pulpit above. Now the Lord's power was so mighty upon me that I
could not hold, but was made to cry out.

As I spoke, the officers came and took me away, and put me into a nasty,
stinking prison, the smell whereof got so into my nose and throat that
it very much annoyed me. But that day the Lord's power sounded so in
their ears that they were amazed at the voice. At night they took me
before the mayor, aldermen, and sheriffs of the town. They examined me
at large, and I told them how the Lord had moved me to come. After some
discourse between them and me, they sent me back to prison again; but
some time after the head sheriff sent for me to his house. I lodged at
the sheriff's, and great meetings we had in his house. The Lord's power
was with this friendly sheriff, and wrought a mighty change in him; and
accordingly he went into the market, and into several streets, and
preached repentance to the people. Hereupon the magistrates grew very
angry, and sent for me from the sheriff's house, and committed me to the
common prison. Now, after I was released from Nottingham gaol, where I
had been kept prisoner for some time, I travelled as before in the work
of the Lord.

And while I was at Mansfield-Woodhouse, I was moved to go to the
steeple-house there, and declare the truth to the priest and people; but
the people fell upon me in great rage, struck me down, and almost
stifled and smothered me; and I was cruelly beaten and bruised by them
with their hands, Bibles, and sticks. Then they haled me out, though I
was hardly able to stand, and put me into the stocks, where I sat some
hours. After some time they had me before the magistrate, who, seeing
how evilly I had been used, after much threatening, set me at liberty.
But the rude people stoned me out of the town for preaching the word.


_IV.--A Willing Sufferer_


While I was in the house of correction at Derby as a blasphemer, my
relations came to see me, and being troubled for my imprisonment they
went to the justices that cast me into prison, and desired to have me
home with them, offering to be bound in one hundred pounds, and others
of Derby with them in fifty pounds each, that I should come no more
thither to declare against the priests. So I was had up before the
justices, and because I would not consent that they or any should be
bound for me--for I was innocent from any ill-behaviour, and had spoken
the word of life and truth unto them--Justice Bennett rose up in a rage;
and as I was kneeling down to pray to the Lord to forgive him, he ran
upon me, and struck me with both his hands. Whereupon I was had again to
the prison, and there kept until six months were expired.

Now the time of my commitment being nearly ended, the keeper of the
house of correction was commanded to bring me before the commissioners
and soldiers in the market-place, and there they offered me preferment,
as they called it, asking me if I would take up arms for the
commonwealth against Charles Stuart; but I told them I lived in the
virtue of that life and power that took away the occasion of all wars,
and was come into the covenant of peace which was before wars and
strifes were.

I then passed through the country, clearing myself amongst the people;
and some received me lovingly, and some slighted me. And some when I
desired lodging and meat, and would pay for it, would not lodge me
except I would go to the constable, which was the custom, they said, of
all lodgers at inns, if strangers. I told them I should not go, for that
custom was for suspicious persons, but I was an innocent man.

And I passed in the Lord's power into Yorkshire, and came to Tickhill,
where I was moved to go to the steeple-house. But when I began to speak
they fell upon me, and the clerk took up his Bible and struck me in the
face with it, so that it gushed out with blood, and I bled exceedingly
in the steeple-house. Then the people got me out and beat me
exceedingly, stoning me as they drew me along, so that I was besmeared
all over with blood and dirt. Yet when I got upon my legs again I
declared to them the word of life. Some moderate justices, hearing of
it, came to hear and examine the business, and he that shed my blood was
afraid of having his hand cut off for striking me in the church (as they
called it), but I forgave him, and would not appear against him.

Then I went to Swarthmore to Judge Fell's, and from there to Ulverstone,
where the people heard me gladly, until Justice Sawrey--the first
stirrer-up of cruel persecution in the North--incensed them against me,
to hale, beat, and bruise me, and the rude multitude, some with staves
and others with holly-bushes, beat me on the head, arms, and shoulders
till they deprived me of sense. And my body and arms were yellow, black,
and blue with the blows I received that day, and I was not able to bear
the shaking of a horse without much pain. And Judge Fell, coming home,
asked me to give him a relation of my persecution, but I made light of
it--as he told his wife--as a man that had not been concerned, for,
indeed, the Lord's power healed me again.


_V.--Encounters with Cromwell_


When I came to Leicester I was carried up a prisoner by Captain Drury,
one of the Protector's life-guards, who brought me to London and lodged
me at the Mermaid, over against the Mews at Charing Cross. And I was
moved of the Lord to write a paper to Oliver Cromwell, wherein I
declared against all violence, and that I was sent of God to bring the
people from the causes of war and fighting to a peaceable gospel. After
some time Captain Drury brought me before the Protector himself at
Whitehall, and I spoke much to him of truth and religion, wherein he
carried himself very moderately; and as I spoke he several times said it
was very good and it was truth, and he wished me no more ill than he did
his own soul.

When I went into Cornwall I was seized and brought to Launceston to be
tried, and being settled in prison upon such a commitment that we were
not likely to be soon released, we were put down into Doomsdale, a
nasty, stinking place where they put murderers after they were
condemned; and we were fain to stand all night, for we could not sit
down, the place was so filthy. We sent a copy of our sufferings to the
Protector, who sent down General Desborough to offer us liberty if we
would go home and preach no more; but we could not promise him. At last
he freely set us at liberty, and in Cornwall, Devonshire, Dorsetshire,
and Somersetshire, the truth began to spread mightily.

After a little while Edward Pyot and I were moved to speak to Oliver
Cromwell again concerning the sufferings of Friends, and we laid them
before him, and directed him to the light of Christ. Afterwards we
passed on through the counties to Wales, and by Manchester to Scotland;
but the Scots, being a dark, carnal people, gave little heed, and hardly
took notice of what was said.

And when I had returned to London I was moved to write again to Oliver
Cromwell. There was a rumour about this time of making Cromwell king,
whereupon I warned him against it, and he seemed to take well what I
said to him, and thanked me. Taking boat to Kingston, and thence to
Hampton Court, to speak with him about the sufferings of Friends, I met
him riding into Hampton Court Park before I came to him. As he rode at
the head of his life-guards, I felt a waft of death go forth against
him, and he looked like a dead man. After I had warned him, as I was
moved, he bid me come to his house. But when I came he was sick, so I
passed away, and never saw him more.

After, I was imprisoned in Lancaster, but when I had been in gaol twenty
weeks was released on King Charles being satisfied of my innocency. Then
I was tried at Leicester and found guilty, but was set at liberty
suddenly. And at Lancaster I was tried because when they tendered me the
oaths of allegiance and supremacy I would not take any oath at all, and
there I was a prisoner in the castle for Christ's sake, but was never
called to hear sentence given, but was removed by an order from the king
and council. And afterwards I lay a year in Scarborough gaol, but was
discharged by order of the king as a man of peaceable life.

And on the 2nd of the second month of the year 1674 I was brought to
trial at Worcester, and during my imprisonment there I wrote several
books for the press, and this imprisonment so much weakened me that I
was long before I recovered my natural strength again, and in later
years my body was never able to bear the closeness of cities long.

       *       *       *       *       *




BENJAMIN FRANKLIN


Autobiography


     Benjamin Franklin, a great and typical American, and one of
     the most influential founders of the young republic, was born
     at Boston, Mass., on January 17, 1706. The story of his first
     fifty years is related in the vigorous and inspiring
     "Autobiography," published in 1817. But the book does not
     carry the story further than the year 1758, which was just the
     time when he took a foremost place in world-politics, as
     official representative of the New World in the Old World. He
     came in that year to England, where he remained five years as
     agent of the colony of Pennsylvania. Again in London, as agent
     for several colonies, from 1764 to 1775, Franklin fought for
     their right not to be taxed by the home country without having
     a voice in matters which concerned themselves; and from 1776
     to 1785 he represented his country in Paris, obtaining the
     assistance of the French government in the War of
     Independence. On his return to America in 1785 Franklin was
     chosen President of the State of Pennsylvania. He died on
     April 17, 1790. Franklin's correspondence, during these
     important years in Europe, as well as the letters of the last
     five years of his life, have been ably edited by John Bigelow,
     and form, in some sort, a continuation of the "Autobiography,"
     published in 1874. The "Autobiography" is published in a
     number of inexpensive forms.


_I.--Early Education_


Our family had lived in the village of Ecton, Northamptonshire, for 300
years, the eldest son being always bred to the smith's business. I was
the youngest son of the youngest son for five generations back. My
father married young, and carried his wife and three children to New
England, about 1682, in order that they might there enjoy their
Non-conformist religion with freedom. He married a second time, and had
in all seventeen children.

I had but little schooling, being taken home at ten years to help my
father's business of tallow-chandler. I disliked the trade, and desired
to go to sea; living near the water in our home at Boston, I learned to
swim well, and to manage boats. From a child I was fond of reading, and
laid out all my little money on books, such as Bunyan's works, which I
sold to get Burton's "Historical Collections"; and in my father's little
library there were Plutarch's "Lives," De Foe's "Essays on Projects,"
and Mather's "Essays to do Good." This bookish inclination determined my
father to bind me apprentice to my brother James, a printer in Boston,
and in a little time I became very proficient. I had access to more
books, and often sat up most of the night reading. I had also a fancy to
poetry, and made some little pieces; my brother printed them, and sent
me about the town to sell them.

I now took in hand the improvement of my writing by various exercises in
prose and verse, being extremely ambitious to become a good English
writer. My time for these exercises was at night and on Sundays. At
about 16 years of age, meeting with a book on the subject, I took to a
vegetable diet, and thus not only saved an additional fund to buy books,
but also gained greater clearness of head. I now studied arithmetic,
navigation, geometry, and read Locke "On the Human Understanding," the
"Art of Thinking," by Messrs. du Port Royal, and Xenophon's "Memorable
Things of Socrates." From this last I learned to drop my abrupt
contradiction and positive argumentation, and to put on the humble
inquirer and doubter.

My brother had begun to print a newspaper, "The New England Courant,"
the second that appeared in America. Some of his friends thought it not
likely to succeed, one newspaper being enough for America; yet at this
time there are not less than five-and-twenty. To this paper I began to
contribute anonymously, disguising my hand, and putting my MSS. at night
under the door of the printing-house. These were highly approved, until
I claimed their authorship.

But I soon took upon me to assert my freedom, and determined to go to
New York. A friend of mine agreed with the captain of a sloop for my
passage; I was taken on board privately, and in three days found myself
in New York, near 300 miles from home, a boy of but seventeen, and with
very little money in my pocket. The printer there could not give me
employment, but told me of a vacancy in Philadelphia, 100 miles further.
Thither, therefore, I proceeded, partly by land, and partly by sea, and
landed with one Dutch dollar in my pocket.

There were two printers in the town, both of them poorly qualified.
Bradford was very illiterate, and Keimer, though something of a scholar,
was a mere compositor, knowing nothing of press-work. Keimer gave me
employment. He had been one of the French prophets, and could act their
enthusiastic agitations. He did not profess any particular religion, but
something of all on occasion, and had a good deal of the knave in his
composition. I began to have acquaintance among the young people that
were lovers of reading; and gaining money by industry and frugality, I
lived very agreeably, forgetting Boston as much as I could.

At length my brother-in-law, master of a sloop, heard of me, and wrote
exhorting me to return, to which I answered in a letter which came under
the eyes of Sir William Keith, governor of the province. He was
surprised when he was told my age, and said that I ought to be
encouraged; if I would set up in Philadelphia he would procure me the
public business.

Sir William promised to set me up himself. I did not know his reputation
for promises which he never meant to keep, and at his suggestion I
sailed for England to choose the types. Understanding that his letters
recommendatory to a number of friends and his letter of credit to
furnish me with the necessary money, which he had failed to give me
before the ship sailed, were with the rest of his despatches, I asked
the captain for them, and when we came into the Channel he let me
examine the bag. I found none upon which my name was put as under my
care. I began to doubt his sincerity, and a fellow passenger, on my
opening the affair to him, let me into the governor's character, and
told me that no one had the smallest dependence on him.

I immediately got work at Palmer's, a famous printing-house in
Bartholomew Close, London. I was employed in composing for the second
edition of Wollaston's "Religion of Nature," and some of his reasonings
not appearing to me well-founded, I wrote a little metaphysical piece
entitled "A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain."
This brought me the acquaintance of Dr. Mandeville, author of the "Fable
of the Bees," a most facetious, entertaining companion. I presently left
Palmer's to work at Watts, near Lincoln's Inn Fields, and here I
continued for the rest of my eighteen months in London. But I had grown
tired of that city, and when a Mr. Denham, who was returning to
Philadelphia to open a store, offered to take me as his clerk, I gladly
accepted.

We landed in Philadelphia on October 11, 1726, where I found sundry
alterations. Keith was no longer governor; and Miss Read, to whom I had
paid some courtship, had been persuaded in my absence to marry one
Rogers, a potter. With him, however, she was never happy, and soon
parted from him; he was a worthless fellow. Mr. Denham took a store, but
died next February, and I returned to Keimer's printing-house.


_II.--Making His Way_


I had now just passed my twenty-first year; and it may be well to let
you know the then state of my mind with regard to my principles and
morals. My parents had brought me through my childhood piously in the
dissenting way, but now I had become a thorough Deist. My arguments had
perverted some others, but as each of these persons had afterwards
wronged me greatly without the least compunction, and as my own conduct
towards others had given me great trouble, I began to suspect that this
doctrine, though it might be true, was not very useful. I now,
therefore, grew convinced that truth, sincerity, and integrity between
man and man were of the utmost importance to the felicity of life; and I
formed written resolutions to practice them ever while I lived.

I now set up in partnership with Meredith, one of Keimer's workmen, the
money being found by Meredith's father. In the autumn of the preceding
year, I had formed most of my ingenious acquaintance into a club of
mutual improvement, which we called the Junto; it met on Friday evenings
for essays and debates. Every one of its members exerted himself in
recommending business to our new firm.

Soon Keimer started a newspaper, "The Universal Instructor in all Arts
and Sciences and Pennsylvania Gazette," but after carrying it on for
some months with only ninety subscribers he sold it to me for a trifle,
and it proved in a few years extremely profitable. With the help of two
good friends I bought out Meredith in 1729, and continued the business
alone.

I had turned my thoughts to marriage, but soon found that, the business
of a printer being thought a poor one, I was not to expect money with a
wife. Friendly relations had continued between me and Mrs. Read's
family; I pitied poor Miss Read's unfortunate situation, and our mutual
affection revived. Though there was a report of her husband's death, and
another report that he had a preceding wife in England, neither of these
were certain, and he had left many debts, which his successor might be
called on to pay.

But we ventured over these difficulties, and I took her to wife
September 1, 1730. None of the inconveniences happened that we had
apprehended; she proved a good and faithful helpmate, assisted me much
by attending the shop; we throve together, and have ever mutually
endeavoured to make each other happy.

I now set on foot my first project of a public nature, that for a
subscription library. By the help of our club, the Junto, I procured
fifty subscribers of forty shillings each to begin with, and ten
shillings a year for fifty years. We afterwards obtained a charter, and
this was the mother of all the North American subscription libraries now
so numerous, which have made the common tradesmen and farmers as
intelligent as most gentlemen from other countries.


_III.--The Scheme of Virtues_


It was about 1733 that I conceived the bold and arduous project of
arriving at moral perfection. I wished to live without committing any
fault at any time; I would conquer all that natural inclination, custom,
or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought I knew, what was
right and wrong, I did not see why I might not always do the one and
avoid the other. But I soon found that I had undertaken a task of great
difficulty, and I therefore contrived the following method. I included
under thirteen names of virtues all that at that time occurred to me as
necessary or desirable, and annexed to each a short precept, which
expressed the extent which I gave to its meaning.

The names of virtues were: Temperance, silence, order, resolution,
frugality, industry, sincerity, justice, moderation, cleanliness,
tranquillity, chastity, and humility. My list contained at first only
twelve virtues, but a friend having informed me that I was generally
thought proud, I determined endeavouring to cure myself of this vice or
folly among the rest; and, though I cannot boast of much success in
acquiring the reality of this virtue, I had a good deal of success with
regard to the appearance of it. My intention being to acquire the
habitude of all these virtues, I determined to give a week's strict
attention to each of them successively, thus going through a complete
course in thirteen weeks, and four courses in a year. I had a little
book, in which I allotted a page for each of the virtues; the page was
ruled into days of the week, and I marked in it, by a little black spot,
every fault I found by examination to have been committed respecting
that virtue upon that day.

I was surprised to find myself much fuller of faults than I had
imagined, but I had the satisfaction of seeing them diminish. After a
while I went through one course only in a year, and afterwards only one
in several years, till at length I omitted them entirely; but I always
carried my little book with me. My scheme of order gave me most trouble.
It was as follows.

     5--8 a.m. What good shall I do this day? Rise, wash, and
     address Powerful Goodness. Contrive day's business, and take
     the resolution of the day; prosecute the present study, and
     breakfast.

     8 a.m.--12 noon. Work.

     12--1 p.m.--Read, or overlook my accounts, and dine.

     2--6 p.m. Work.

     6--10 p.m. Put things in their places. Supper. Music or
     diversion, or conversation. Examination of the day. What good
     have I done this day?

     10 p.m.--5 a.m. Sleep.

In truth, I found myself incorrigible with regard to order, yet I was,
by the endeavour, a better and a happier man than I should have been if
I had not attempted it. It may be well that my posterity should be
informed that to this little artifice, with the blessing of God, their
ancestor owed the constant felicity of his life.

I purposed publishing my scheme, writing a little comment on each
virtue, and I should have called my book "The Art of Virtue,"
distinguishing it from the mere exhortation to be good. But my intention
was never fulfilled, for it was connected in my mind with a great and
extensive project, which I have never had time to attend to. I had set
forth on paper the substance of an intended creed, containing, as I
thought, the essentials of every known religion, and I conceived the
project of raising a united party for virtue, by forming the virtuous
and good men of all nations into a regular body, to be governed by
suitable good and wise rules. I thought that the sect should be begun
and spread at first among young and single men only, that each person to
be initiated should declare his assent to my creed, and should have
exercised himself with the thirteen weeks' practice of the virtues, that
the existence of the society should be kept a secret until it was become
considerable, that the members should engage to assist one another's
interests, business, and advancement in life, and that we should be
called "The Society of the Free and Easy," as being free from the
dominion of vice and of debt. I am still of opinion that it was a
practicable scheme.

In 1732 I first published my Almanack, commonly called "Poor Richard's
Almanack," and continued it for about twenty-five years. It had a great
circulation, and I considered it a proper vehicle for conveying
instruction among the common people. Thus, I assembled the proverbs
containing the wisdom of many ages and nations into a discourse prefixed
to the Almanack of 1757, as the harangue of a wise old man to the people
attending an auction. I considered my newspaper also as a means of
instruction, and published in it extracts from moral writers and little
pieces of my own, in the form sometimes of a Socratic dialogue, tending
to prove the advantages of virtue.

I had begun in 1733 to study languages. I made myself master of French
so as to be able to read books with ease, and then Italian, and later
Spanish. Having an acquaintance with these, I found, on looking over a
Latin Testament, that I understood much of that language, which
encouraged me to study it with success.

Our secret club, the Junto, had turned out to be so useful that I now
set every member of it to form each of them a subordinate club, with the
same rules, but without informing the new clubs of their connection with
the Junto. The advantages proposed were, the improvement of so many
young citizens; our better acquaintance with the general sentiments of
the inhabitants on any occasion, as the Junto member was to report to
the Junto what passed in his separate club; the promotion of our
particular interests in business by more extensive recommendation; and
the increase of our influence in public affairs. Five or six clubs were
completed, and answered our views of influencing public opinion on
particular occasions.


_IV.--Public Life_


My first promotion was my being chosen, in 1736, clerk of the General
Assembly. In the following year I received the commission of postmaster
at Philadelphia, and found it of great advantage. I now began to turn my
thoughts a little to public affairs, beginning, however, with small
matters, and preparing the way for my reforms through the Junto and
subordinate clubs. Thus I reformed the city watch, and established a
company for the extinguishing of fires. In 1739 the Rev. Mr. Whitefield
arrived among us and preached to enormous audiences throughout the
colonies. I knew him intimately, being employed in printing his sermons
and journals; he used sometimes to pray for my conversion, but never had
the satisfaction of believing that his prayers were heard. Our
friendship lasted till his death.

My business was now continually augmenting, and my circumstances daily
growing easier. Spain having been several years at war against Great
Britain, and being at length joined by France, our situation became one
of great danger; our colony was defenceless, and our Assembly was
composed principally of Quakers. I therefore formed an association of
citizens, numbering ten thousand, into a militia; these all furnished
themselves with arms and met every week for drill, while the women
provided silk colours painted with devices and mottoes which I supplied.
With the proceeds of a lottery we built a battery below the town, and
borrowed eighteen cannon of the governor of New York.

Peace being concluded, and the association business therefore at an end,
I turned my thoughts to the establishment of an academy. I published a
pamphlet; set on foot a subscription, not as an act of mine, but of some
"public-spirited gentleman," and the schools were opened in 1749. They
were soon moved to our largest hall; the trustees were incorporated by a
charter from the governor, and thus was established the University of
Pennsylvania. The building of a hospital for the sick, and the paving,
lighting, and sweeping of the streets of the city, were among the
reforms in which I had a hand at this time. In 1753 I was appointed,
jointly with another, postmaster-general of America, and the following
year I drew up a plan for the union of all the colonies under one
government for defence and other important general purposes. Its fate
was singular; the assemblies did not adopt it, as they thought there was
too much prerogative in it, and in England it was judged to be too
democratic. The Board of Trade therefore did not approve of it, but
substituted another scheme for the same end. I believe that my plan was
really the true medium, and that it would have been happy for both sides
of the water if it had been adopted.

When war was in a manner commenced with France, the British Government,
not choosing to trust the union of the colonies with their defence, lest
they should feel their own strength, sent over General Braddock in 1755
with two regiments of regular English troops for that purpose. He landed
at Alexandria and marched to Frederictown in Maryland, where he halted
for carriages. I was sent to him by the Assembly, stayed with him for
several days, and had full opportunity of removing all his prejudices
against the colonies by informing him of what the essemblies had done
and would still do to facilitate his operations.

This general was a brave man, and might have made a figure as a good
officer in some European war. But he had too much self-confidence, too
high an opinion of regular troops, and too mean a one of both Americans
and Indians. Our Indian interpreter joined him with 100 guides and
scouts, who might have been of great use to him; but he slighted and
neglected them and they left him. He said to one of the Indians, "These
savages may indeed be a formidable enemy to your raw American militia,
but upon the king's regular and disciplined troops, sir, it is
impossible that they should make any impression." In the first
engagement his force was routed in panic, and two-thirds of them were
killed, by no more than 400 Indians and French together. This gave us
the first suspicion that our exalted ideas of the prowess of British
regulars had not been well founded. Besides, from the day of their
landing, they had plundered, insulted, and abused our inhabitants. We
wanted no such defenders.

After this the governor prevailed with me to take charge of our
north-west frontier, which was infested by the enemy, and I undertook
this military business, although I did not conceive myself well suited
for it.

My account of my electrical experiments was read before the Royal
Society of London, and afterwards printed in a pamphlet. The Count de
Buffon, a philosopher of great reputation, had the book translated into
French, and then it appeared in the Italian, German, and Latin
languages. What gave it the more sudden celebrity was the success of its
proposed experiment for drawing lightning from the clouds. I was elected
a Fellow of the Royal Society, and they presented me with the gold medal
of Sir Godfrey Copley, for 1753.

The Assembly had long had much trouble with the "proprietary," or great
hereditary landowners. Finally, finding that they persisted obstinately
in manacling their deputies with instructions inconsistent, not only
with the privileges of the people, but with the service of the crown,
the Assembly resolved to petition the king against them, and appointed
me agent in England to present and support the petition. I sailed from
New York with my son in the end of June; we dropped anchor in Falmouth
harbour, and reached London on July 27, 1757.

       *       *       *       *       *




MRS. GASKELL


The Life of Charlotte Bronte


     Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson, afterwards Mrs. Gaskell, was
     born at Chelsea on September 29, 1810. At the age of
     twenty-two she married William Gaskell, a minister of the
     Unitarian Church in Manchester. She became famous in 1848 on
     the publication of "Mary Barton," a novel treating of factory
     life. Her "Life of Charlotte Brontë," published in 1857,
     caused much controversy, which became bitter, and occasioned
     the fixed resolve on the part of its author that her own
     memoirs should never be published. This gloomily-haunting,
     vivid human "Life of Charlotte Brontë" was written at the
     request of the novelist's father, who placed all the materials
     in his possession at the disposal of the biographer. Mrs.
     Gaskell took great pains to make her work complete, and,
     though published only two years after Charlotte Brontë's
     death, it still holds the field unchallenged. Mrs. Gaskell
     died on November 12, 1865.


_I.--The Children Who Never Played_


Into the midst of the lawless yet not unkindly population of Haworth, in
the West Riding, the Rev. Patrick Brontë brought his wife and six little
children in February, 1820, seven heavily-laden carts lumbering slowly
up the long stone street bearing the "new parson's" household goods.

A native of County Down, Mr. Brontë had entered St. John's College,
Cambridge, in 1802, obtained his B.A. degree, and after serving as a
curate in Essex, had been appointed curate at Hartshead, in Yorkshire.
There he was soon captivated by Maria Branwell, a little gentle
creature, the third daughter of Mr. Thomas Branwell, merchant, of
Penzance. In 1816 he received the living of Thornton, in Bradford
Parish, and there, on April 21, Charlotte Brontë was born. She was the
third daughter, Maria and Elizabeth being her elder sisters, and fast on
her heels followed Patrick Branwell, Emily Jane and Anne.

"They kept themselves to themselves very close," in the account given by
those who remember the family coming to Haworth. From the first, the
walks of the children were directed rather towards the heathery moors
sloping upwards behind the parsonage than towards the long descending
village street. Hand in hand they used to make their way to the glorious
moors, which in after days they loved so passionately.

They were grave and silent beyond their years. "You would never have
known there was a child in the house, they were such still, noiseless,
good little creatures," said one of my informants. "Maria would often
shut herself up" (Maria of seven!) "in the children's study with a
newspaper or a periodical, and be able to tell anyone everything when
she came out, debates in parliament, and I know not what all."

Mr. Brontë wished to make the children hardy, and indifferent to the
pleasures of eating and dress. His strong passionate nature was in
general compressed down with resolute stoicism. Mrs. Brontë, whose sweet
spirit thought invariably on the bright side, would say: "Ought I not to
be thankful that he never gave me an angry word?"

In September, 1821, Mrs. Brontë died, and the lives of those quiet
children must have become quieter and lonelier still. Their father did
not require companionship, and the daughters grew out of childhood into
girlhood bereft in a singular manner of such society as would have been
natural to their age, sex and station. The children did not want
society. To small infantine gaieties they were unaccustomed. They were
all in all to each other. They had no children's books, but their eager
minds "browsed undisturbed among the wholesome pasturage of English
literature," as Charles Lamb expressed it.

Their father says of their childhood that "since they could read and
write they used to invent and act little plays of their own, in which
the Duke of Wellington, Charlotte's hero, was sure to come off
conqueror. When the argument got warm I had sometimes to come in as
arbitrator." Long before Maria Brontë died, at the age of eleven, her
father used to say he could converse with her on any topic with as much
freedom and pleasure as with any grown-up person.

In 1824, the four elder girls were admitted as pupils to Cowan Bridge
School for the daughters of clergymen, where they were half starved amid
the most insanitary surroundings. Helen Burns in "Jane Eyre" is as exact
a transcript of Maria Brontë as Charlotte's wonderful power of
representing character could give. In 1825 both Maria and Elizabeth died
of consumption, and Charlotte was suddenly called from school into the
responsibilities of the eldest sister in a motherless family.

At the end of the year, Charlotte and Emily returned home, where
Branwell was being taught by his father, and their aunt, Miss Branwell,
who acted as housekeeper, taught them what she could. An immense amount
of manuscript dating from this period is in existence--tales, dramas,
poems, romances, written principally by Charlotte, in a hand it is
almost impossible to decipher without the aid of a magnifying glass.
They make in the whole twenty-two volumes, each volume containing from
sixty to a hundred pages, and all written in about fifteen months. The
quality strikes me as of singular merit for a girl of thirteen or
fourteen.


_II.--Girlhood of Charlotte Bronte_


In 1831, Charlotte Brontë was a quiet, thoughtful girl, nearly fifteen
years of age, very small in figure--stunted was the word she applied to
herself--fragile, with soft, thick, brown hair, and peculiar eyes. They
were large and well shaped, their colour a reddish brown, and if the
iris was closely examined, it appeared to be composed of a great variety
of tints. The usual expression was of quiet, listening intelligence, but
now and then, on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome
indignation, a light would shine out as if some spiritual lamp had been
kindled which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I never saw the like
in any other human creature. The rest of her features were plain, large,
and ill-set; but you were hardly aware of the fact, for the eyes and
power of the countenance overbalanced every physical defect. The crooked
mouth and the large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the
attention, and presently attracted all those whom she would herself have
cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the smallest I ever saw; when
one of her hands was placed in mine it was like the soft touch of a bird
in the middle of my palm.

In January, 1831, Charlotte was sent to school again, this time as a
pupil of Miss Wooler, who lived at Roe Head, between Leeds and
Huddersfield, the surroundings being those described in "Shirley." The
kind motherly nature of Miss Wooler, and the small number of the girls,
made the establishment more like a private family than a school. Here
Charlotte formed friendships with Miss Wooler and girls attending the
school--particularly Ellen Nussey and Mary Taylor--which lasted through
life.

Writing of Charlotte at this time "Mary" says the other girls "thought
her very ignorant, for she had never learned grammar at all, and very
little geography, but she would confound us by knowing things that were
out of our range altogether. She said she had never played, and could
not play. She used to draw much better and more quickly than we had seen
before, and knew much about celebrated pictures and painters. She made
poetry and drawing very interesting to me, and then I got the habit I
have yet of referring mentally to her opinion all matters of that kind,
resolving to describe such and such things to her, until I start at the
recollection that I never shall."

This tribute to her influence was written eleven years after Mary had
seen Charlotte, nearly all those years having been passed by Mary at the
Antipodes.

"Her idea of self improvement," continues Mary, "was to cultivate her
tastes. She always said there was enough of useful knowledge forced on
us by necessity, and that the thing most needed was to soften and refine
our minds, and she picked up every scrap of information concerning
painting, sculpture and music, as if it were gold."

In spite of her unsociable habits, she was a favourite with her
schoolfellows, and an invaluable story-teller, frightening them almost
out of their lives as they lay in bed.


_III.--Her Life as a Governess_


After a year and a half's residence at Roe Head, beloved and respected
by all, laughed at occasionally by a few, but always to her face,
Charlotte returned home to educate her sisters, to practise household
work under the supervision of her somewhat exacting aunt, and to write
long letters to her girl friends, Mary and Ellen--Mary, the Rose Yorke,
and Ellen, the Caroline Helstone of "Shirley." Three years later she
returned to Roe Head as a teacher, in order that her brother Branwell
might be placed at the Royal Academy and her sister Emily at Roe Head.
Emily Brontë, however, only remained three months at school, her place
being taken there by her younger sister, Anne.

"My sister Emily loved the moors," wrote Charlotte, explaining the
change. "Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the
heath for her; out of a sullen hollow in the livid hillside her mind
could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many a dear delight;
and not the least and best loved was liberty. Without it she perished.
Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude. In this struggle
her health was quickly broken. I felt in my heart that she would die if
she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall."

Charlotte's own life at Miss Wooler's was a very happy one until her
health failed, and she became dispirited, and a prey to religious
despondency. During the summer holidays of 1836, all the members of the
family were occupied with thoughts of literature. Charlotte wrote to
Southey, and Branwell to Wordsworth, of their ambitions, and Southey
replied that "literature cannot be the business of a woman's life, and
ought not to be. The more she is engaged in her proper duties the less
leisure she will have for it, even as an accomplishment and recreation."
To this Charlotte meekly replied: "I trust I shall never more feel
ambitious to see my name in print."

On the school being removed to Dewsbury Moor, Charlotte, whose health
and spirits had been affected by the change, and Anne returned home. "I
stayed at Dewsbury Moor," she said in a letter to Ellen Nussey, "as long
as I was able; but at length I neither could nor dare stay any longer.
My life and spirits had utterly failed me; so home I went, and the
change at once roused and soothed me."

At this time Charlotte received an offer of marriage from a clergyman
having a resemblance to St. John Rivers in "Jane Eyre"--a brother of her
friend Ellen; but she refused him as she explains:

"I had a kindly leaning towards him as an amiable and well-disposed man.
Yet I had not and could not have that intense attachment which would
make me willing to die for him; and if ever I marry it must be in that
light of adoration that I will regard my husband."

Teaching now seemed to the three sisters to be the only way of earning
an independent livelihood, though they were not naturally fond of
children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an unknown language to
them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves;
and they were not as yet qualified to take charge of advanced pupils.
They knew but little French, and were not proficient in music. Still,
Charlotte and Anne both took posts as governesses, and eventually formed
a plan of starting a school on their own account, their housekeeping
Aunt Branwell providing the necessary capital. To fit them for this work
Charlotte and Emily entered, in February, 1842, the Héger Pensionnat,
Brussels, and meantime Anne came home to Haworth from her governess
life. The brother, Branwell, had now given up his idea of art, and was a
clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railway.

In Brussels, Emily was homesick as ever, the suffering and conflict
being heightened, in the words of Charlotte, "by the strong recoil of
her upright, heretic, and English spirit from the gentle Jesuitry of the
foreign and Romish system. She was never happy till she carried her
hard-won knowledge back to the remote English village, the old parsonage
house, and desolate Yorkshire hills." "We are completely isolated in the
midst of numbers. Yet I think I am never unhappy; my present life is so
delightful, so congenial to my own nature, compared with that of a
governess," was Charlotte's further description.

The sisters were so successful with their study of French that Madame
Héger proposed that both should stay another half year, Charlotte to
teach English, and Emily music; but from Brussels the girls were brought
hastily home by the illness and death of their aunt, who left to each of
them independently a share of her savings--enough to enable them to make
whatever alterations were needed to turn the parsonage into a school.
Emily now stayed at home, and Charlotte (January, 1843) returned to
Brussels to teach English to Belgian pupils, under a constant sense of
solitude and depression, while she learned German. A year later she
returned to Haworth, on receiving news of the distressing conduct of her
brother Branwell and the rapid failure of her father's sight. On leaving
Brussels, she took with her a diploma certifying that she was perfectly
capable of teaching the French language, and her pupils showed for her,
at parting, an affection which she observed with grateful surprise.


_IV.--The Sisters' Book of Poems_


The attempt to secure pupils at Haworth failed. At this time the conduct
of the now dissipated brother Branwell--conduct bordering on
insanity--caused the family the most terrible anxiety; their father was
nearly blind with cataract, and Charlotte herself lived under the dread
of blindness. It was now that she paid a visit to her friends the
Nusseys, at Hathersage, in Derbyshire, the scene of the later chapters
of "Jane Eyre." On her return she found her brother dismissed from his
employment, a slave to opium, and to drink whenever he could get it, and
for some time before he died he had attacks of delirium tremens of the
most frightful character.

In the course of this sad autumn of 1845 a new interest came into the
lives of the sisters through the publication, at their own expense, of
"Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell," as explained in the
biographical notice of her sisters, which Charlotte prefaced to the
edition of "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey," that was published in
1850.

"One day in the autumn of 1845 I accidentally lighted on a manuscript
volume of verses in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course I was not
surprised, knowing that she could and did write verses. I looked it
over, and then something more than surprise seized me--a deep conviction
that these were not common effusions, not at all like the poetry a woman
generally writes. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and
genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy, and
elevating. I took hours to reconcile my sister to the discovery I had
made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication.
Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her own
compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given me pleasure I
might like to look at hers. I thought that these verses too had a sweet
sincere pathos of their own. We had very early cherished the dream of
one day being authors. We agreed to arrange a small selection of our
poems, and if possible get them printed."

The "Poems" obtained no sale until the authors became otherwise known.

During the summer of 1846 the three sisters made attempts to find a
publisher for a volume that was to consist of three prose tales,
"Wuthering Heights," by Emily, "Agnes Grey" by Anne, and "The Professor"
by Charlotte. Eventually the two former were accepted for a three-volume
issue, though eighteen months passed and much happened before the book
was actually circulated. Meantime, "The Professor" was plodding its way
round London through many rejections. Under these circumstances, her
brother's brain mazed and his gifts and life lost, her father's sight
hanging on a thread, her sisters in delicate health and dependent on her
care, did the brave genius begin, with steady courage, the writing of
"Jane Eyre." While refusing to publish "The Professor," Messrs. Smith,
Elder & Co. expressed their willingness to consider favourably a new
work in three volumes which "Currer Bell" informed them he was writing;
and by October 16, 1847, the tale--"Jane Eyre"--was accepted, printed,
and published.


_V.--The Coming of Success_


The gentleman connected with the firm who first read the manuscript was
so powerfully struck by the character of the tale that he reported his
impressions in very strong terms to Mr. Smith, who appears to have been
much amused by the admiration excited. "You seem to have been so
enchanted that I do not know how to believe you," he laughingly said.
But when a second reader, in the person of a clear-headed Scotsman, not
given to enthusiasm, had taken the manuscript home in the evening, and
became so deeply interested in it as to sit up half the night to finish
it, Mr. Smith's curiosity was sufficiently excited to prompt him to read
it himself; and great as were the praises which had been bestowed upon
it he found that they did not exceed the truth. The power and
fascination of the tale itself made its merits known to the public
without the kindly fingerposts of professional criticism, and early in
December the rush for copies began.

When the demand for the work had assured success, her sisters urged
Charlotte to tell their father of its publication. She accordingly went
into his study one afternoon, carrying with her a copy of the book and
two or three reviews, taking care to include a notice adverse to it, and
the following conversation took place.

"Papa, I've been writing a book."

"Have you, my dear?"

"Yes; and I want you to read it."

"I am afraid it will try my eyes too much."

"But it is not in manuscript; it is printed."

"My dear, you've never thought of the expense it will be! It will be
almost sure to be a loss; for how can you get a book sold? No one knows
you or your name."

"But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss. No more will you if you
will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more about it."

So she sat down and read some of the reviews to her father, and then,
giving him the copy of "Jane Eyre" that she intended for him, she left
him to read it. When he came in to tea he said: "Girls, do you know
Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better than likely?"

Soon the whole reading world of England was in a ferment to discover the
unknown author. Even the publishers were ignorant whether "Currer Bell"
was a real or an assumed name till a flood of public opinion had lifted
the book from obscurity and had laid it high on the everlasting hills of
fame.

The authorship was kept a close secret in the Brontë family, and not
even the friend who was all but a sister--Ellen Nussey--knew more about
it than the rest of the world. It was indeed through an attempt at sharp
practice by another firm that Messrs. Smith & Elder became aware of the
identity of the author with Miss Brontë. In the June of 1848, "The
Tenant of Wildfell Hall," a second novel by Anne Brontë--"Acton
Bell"--was submitted for publication to the firm which had previously
published "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey," and this firm announced
the new book in America as by the author of "Jane Eyre," although
Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. had entered into an agreement with an
American house for the publication of "Currer Bell's" next tale. On
hearing of this, the sisters, Charlotte and Anne, set off instantly for
London to prove personally that they were two and not one; and women,
not men.

On reaching Mr. Smith's office, Charlotte put his own letter into his
hand as an introduction.

"Where did you get this?" said he, as if he could not believe that the
two young ladies dressed in black, of slight figures and diminutive
stature, looking pleased yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and
Acton Bell for whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain.

An explanation ensued, and the publisher at once began to form plans for
the amusement of the visitors during their three days' stay in London.

In September, 1848, her brother Branwell died. After the Sunday
succeeding Branwell's death, Emily Brontë never went out of doors, and
in less than three months she, too, was dead. To the last she adhered
tenaciously to her habits of independence. She would suffer no one to
assist her. On the day of her death she arose, dressed herself, and
tried to take up her sewing.

Anne Brontë, too, drooped and sickened from this time in a similar
consumption, and on May 28, 1849, died peacefully at Scarborough,
pathetically appealing to Charlotte with her ebbing breath: "Take
courage, Charlotte; take courage."


_VI.--Charlotte Brontë's Closing Years_


"Shirley" had been begun soon after the publication of "Jane Eyre."
Shirley herself is Charlotte's representation of Emily as she would have
been if placed in health and prosperity. It was published five months
after Anne's death. The reviews, Charlotte admitted, were "superb."

Visits to London made Miss Brontë acquainted with many of the literary
celebrities of the day, including Thackeray and Miss Martineau. In
Yorkshire her success caused great excitement. She tells herself how
"Martha came in yesterday puffing and blowing, and much excited.
'Please, ma'am, you've been and written two books--the grandest books
that ever was seen. They are going to have a meeting at the Mechanics'
Institute to settle about ordering them.' When they got the volumes at
the Mechanics' Institute, all the members wanted them. They cast lots,
and whoever got a volume was allowed to keep it two days, and was to be
fined a shilling per diem for longer detention."

In the spring of 1850, Charlotte Brontë paid another visit to London,
and later to Scotland, where she found Edinburgh "compared to London
like a vivid page of history compared to a dull treatise on political
economy; as a lyric, brief, bright, clean, and vital as a flash of
lightning, compared to a great rumbling, rambling, heavy epic."

She was in London again in 1851, and was dismayed by the attempts to
lionise her. "Villette," written in a constant fight against ill-health,
was published in 1853, and was received with one burst of acclamation.
This brought to a close the publication of Charlotte's life-time.

The personal interest of the two last years of Charlotte Brontë's life
centres on her relations with her father's curate, the Rev. A.B.
Nicholls. In 1853, he asked her hand in marriage. He was the fourth man
who had ventured on the same proposal. Her father disapproved, and Mr.
Nicholls resigned his curacy. Next year, however, her father relented.
Mr. Nicholls again took up the curacy, and the marriage was celebrated
on June 29, 1854. Henceforward the doors of home are closed upon her
married life.

On March 31, 1855, she died before she had attained to motherhood, her
last recorded words to her husband being: "We have been so happy." Her
life appeals to that large and solemn public who know how to admire
generously extraordinary genius, and how to reverence all noble virtue.

       *       *       *       *       *




EDWARD GIBBON


Memoirs


     Gibbon's autobiography was published in 1796, two years after
     his death, by his friend, Lord Sheffield, under the title
     "Miscellaneous Works of Edward Gibbon, Esq., with Memoirs of
     His Life and Writings, Composed by Himself." "After completing
     his history," says Mr. Birrell, "Gibbon had but one thing left
     him to do in order to discharge his duty to the universe. He
     had written a magnificent history of the Roman Empire; it
     remained to write the history of the historian. It is a most
     studied performance, and may be boldly pronounced perfect. It
     is our best, and best known, autobiography." That the writing
     was studied is shown by the fact that six different sketches
     were left in Gibbon's handwriting, and from all these the
     published memoirs were selected and put together. The memoir
     was briefly completed by Lord Sheffield. Bagehot described the
     book as "the most imposing of domestic narratives." Truly, it
     was impossible for Gibbon to doff his dignity, but through the
     cadenced formality of his style the reader can detect a happy
     candour, careful sincerity, complacent temper, and a loyalty
     to friendship that recommend the man as truly as the writer.
     (See also HISTORY.)


_I.--Birth and Education_


I was born at Putney, in the county of Surrey, April 27, in the year
1737, the first child of the marriage of Edward Gibbon, Esq., and Jane
Porten.

From my birth I have enjoyed the right of primogeniture; but I was
succeeded by five brothers and one sister, all of whom were snatched
away in their infancy. So feeble was my constitution, so precarious my
life, that in the baptism of each of my brothers my father's prudence
successively repeated my Christian name of Edward, that, in the case of
the departure of the eldest son, this patronymic appellation might be
still perpetuated in the family.

To preserve and to rear so frail a being the most tender assiduity was
scarcely sufficient, and my mother's attention was somewhat diverted by
an exclusive passion for her husband and by the dissipation of the
world; but the maternal office was supplied by my aunt, Mrs. Catherine
Porten, at whose name I feel a tear of gratitude trickling down my
cheek.

After this instruction at home, I was delivered at the age of seven into
the hands of Mr. John Kirkby, who exercised for about eighteen months
the office of my domestic tutor, enlarged my knowledge of arithmetic,
and left me a clear impression of the English and Latin rudiments. In my
ninth year, in a lucid interval of comparative health, I was sent to a
school of about seventy boys at Kingston-upon-Thames, and there, by the
common methods of discipline, at the expense of many tears and some
blood, purchased a knowledge of the Latin syntax. After a nominal
residence at Kingston of nearly two years, I was finally recalled by my
mother's death. My poor father was inconsolable, and he renounced the
tumult of London, and buried himself in the rustic solitude of Buriton;
but as far back as I can remember, the house of my maternal grandfather,
near Putney Bridge, appears in the light of my proper and native home,
and that excellent woman, Mrs. Catherine Porten, was the true mother of
my mind, as well as of my health.

At this time my father was too easily content with such teachers as the
different places of my residence could supply, and it might now be
apprehended that I should continue for life an illiterate cripple; but
as I approached my sixteenth year, nature displayed in my favour her
mysterious energies: my constitution was fortified and fixed, and my
disorders most wonderfully vanished.

Without preparation or delay, my father carried me to Oxford, and I was
matriculated in the university as a gentleman commoner of Magdalen
College before I had accomplished the fifteenth year of my age. As often
as I was tolerably exempt from danger and pain, reading, free desultory
reading, had been the employment and comfort of my solitary hours, and I
was allowed, without control or advice, to gratify the wanderings of an
unripe taste. My indiscriminate appetite subsided by degrees into the
historic line; and I arrived at Oxford with a stock of erudition that
might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a
schoolboy would have been ashamed.

The happiness of boyish years I have never known, and that time I have
never regretted. To the university of Oxford I acknowledge no
obligation. I spent fourteen months at Magdalen College, and they proved
the fourteen months the most idle and profitless of my whole life. The
sum of my improvement there is confined to three or four Latin plays. It
might at least be expected that an ecclesiastical school should
inculcate the orthodox principles of religion. But our venerable mother
had contrived to unite the opposite extremes of bigotry and
indifference. The blind activity of idleness urged me to advance without
armour into the dangerous mazes of controversy, and at the age of
sixteen I bewildered myself in the errors of the church of Rome.
Translations of two famous works of Bossuet achieved my conversion, and
surely I fell by a noble hand.

No sooner had I settled my new religion than I resolved to profess
myself a Catholic, and on June 8, 1753, I solemnly abjured the errors of
heresy. An elaborate controversial epistle, addressed to my father,
announced and justified the step which I had taken. My father was
neither a bigot nor a philosopher, but his affection deplored the loss
of an only son, and his good sense was astonished at my departure from
the religion of my country. In the first sally of passion, he divulged a
secret which prudence might have suppressed, and the gates of Magdalen
College were for ever shut against my return.


_II.--A Happy Exile_


It was necessary for my father to form a new plan of education, and
effect the cure of my spiritual malady. After much debate it was
determined to fix me for some years at Lausanne, in Switzerland, under
the roof and tuition of M. Pavilliard, a Calvinist minister. Suddenly
cast on a foreign land, I found myself deprived of the use of speech and
hearing, incapable of asking or answering a question in the common
intercourse of life. Such was my first introduction to Lausanne, a place
where I spent nearly five years with pleasure and profit.

This seclusion from English society was attended with the most solid
benefits. Before I was recalled home, French, in which I spontaneously
thought, was more familiar than English to my ear, my tongue, and my
pen. My awkward timidity was polished and emboldened; M. Pavilliard
gently led me from a blind and undistinguishing love of reading into the
path of instruction. He was not unmindful that his first task was to
reclaim me from the errors of popery, and I am willing to allow him a
handsome share of the honour of my conversion, though it was principally
effected by my private reflections.

It was now that I regretted the early years which had been wasted in
sickness or idleness or mere idle reading, and I determined to supply
this defect. My various reading I now digested, according to the precept
and model of Mr. Locke, into a large commonplace book--a practice,
however, which I do not strenuously recommend. I much question whether
the benefits of this laborious method are adequate to the waste of time,
and I must agree with Dr. Johnson that what is twice read is commonly
better remembered than what is transcribed.

I hesitate from the apprehension of ridicule when I approach the
delicate subject of my early love. I need not blush at recollecting the
object of my choice, and, though my love was disappointed of success, I
am rather proud that I was once capable of feeling such a pure and
exalted sentiment. The personal attractions of Mademoiselle Curchod were
embellished by the virtues and talents of the mind. Her father lived
content with a small salary and laborious duty in the obscure lot of
minister of Crassy. In the solitude of a sequestered village he bestowed
a liberal, and even learned, education on his only daughter. In her
short visit to Lausanne, the wit, the beauty, the erudition of
Mademoiselle Curchod were the theme of universal applause. The report of
such a prodigy awakened my curiosity; I saw and loved. At Crassy and
Lausanne I indulged my dream of felicity, but on my return to England I
discovered that my father would not hear of this alliance. After a
painful struggle I yielded. I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son; my
wound was insensibly healed by time, absence, and the habits of a new
life.


_III.--To England and Authorship_


In the spring of the year 1758 my father signified his permission that I
should immediately return home. The whole term of my absence from
England was four years ten months and fifteen days. The only person in
England whom I was impatient to see was my Aunt Porten, the affectionate
guardian of my tender years. It was not without some awe and
apprehension that I approached my father; but he received me as a man
and a friend. All constraint was banished at our first interview, and
afterwards we continued on the same terms of easy and equal politeness.

Of the next two years, I passed about nine months in London, and the
rest in the country. My progress in the English world was in general
left to my own efforts, and those efforts were languid and slow. But my
love of knowledge was inflamed and gratified by the command of books,
and from the slender beginning in my father's study I have gradually
formed a numerous and select library, the foundation of my works, and
the best comfort of my life both at home and abroad. In this place I may
allow myself to observe that I have never bought a book from a motive of
ostentation, and that every volume before it was deposited on the shelf
was either read or sufficiently examined.

The design of my first work, the "Essay on the Study of Literature," was
suggested by a refinement of vanity--the desire of justifying and
praising the object of a favourite pursuit. I was ambitious of proving
that all the faculties of the mind may be exercised and displayed by the
study of ancient literature.

My father fondly believed that the proof of some literary talents might
introduce me to public notice. The work was printed and published under
the title "Essai sur l'Etude de la Littérature." It is not surprising
that a work of which the style and sentiments were so totally foreign
should have been more successful abroad than at home. I was delighted by
the warm commendations and flattering predictions of the journals of
France and Holland. In England it was received with cold indifference,
little read, and speedily forgotten. A small impression was slowly
dispersed.


_IV.--Soldiering and Travel_


An active scene now follows which bears no affinity to any other period
of my studious and social life. On June 12, 1759, my father and I
received our commissions as major and captain in the Hampshire regiment
of militia, and during two and a half years were condemned to a
wandering life of military servitude. My principal obligation to the
militia was the making me an Englishman and a soldier. In this peaceful
service I imbibed the rudiments of the language and science of tactics,
which opened a new field of study and observation. The discipline and
evolutions of a modern battalion gave me a clearer notion of the phalanx
and the legion; and the captain of the Hampshire Grenadiers--the reader
may smile--has not been useless to the historian of the Roman Empire.

I was detained above four years by my rash engagement in the militia. I
eagerly grasped the first moments of freedom; and such was my diligence
that on my father consenting to a term of foreign travel, I reached
Paris only thirty-six hours after the disbanding of the militia. Between
my stay of three months and a half in Paris and a visit to Italy, I
interposed some months of tranquil simplicity at Lausanne. My old
friends of both sexes hailed my voluntary return--the most genuine proof
of my attachment. The public libraries of Lausanne and Geneva liberally
supplied me with books, from which I armed myself for my Italian
journey. On this tour I was agreeably employed for more than a year.
Turin, Milan, Genoa, Parma, Modena, and Florence were visited, and here
I first acknowledged, at the feet of the Venus of Medici, that the
chisel may dispute the preeminence with the pencil, a truth in the fine
arts which cannot on this side of the Alps be felt or understood.

After leaving Florence, I passed through Pisa, Leghorn, and Sienna to
Rome. My temper is not very susceptible to enthusiasm; and the
enthusiasm which I do not feel, I have ever scorned to affect. But, at
the distance of twenty-five years, I can neither forget nor express the
strong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached and entered
the Eternal City. After a sleepless night, I trod, with a lofty step,
the ruins of the Forum; each memorable spot, where Romulus stood, or
Tully spoke, or Cæsar fell, was at once present to my eye; and several
days of intoxication were lost, or enjoyed, before I could descend to a
cool and minute observation.

It was in Rome, on October 15, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of
the Capitol, while the bare-footed friars were singing vespers in the
Temple of Jupiter, that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the
city first started to my mind. But my original plan was circumscribed to
the decay of the city rather than the empire; and though my reading and
reflections began to point towards that object, some years elapsed, and
several avocations intervened, before I was seriously engaged in the
execution of that laborious work.


_V.--History and Politics_


The five years and a half between my return from my travels and my
father's death are the portion of my life which I passed with the least
enjoyment, and which I remember with the least satisfaction. In the
fifteen years between my "Essay on the Study of Literature" and the
first volume of the "Decline and Fall," a criticism of Warburton on
Virgil and some articles in "Mémoires Littéraires de la Grande Bretagne"
were my sole publications. In November, 1770, my father sank into the
grave in the sixty-fourth year of his age. As soon as I had paid the
last solemn duties to my father, and obtained from time and reason a
tolerable composure of mind, I began to form the plan of an independent
life most adapted to my circumstances and inclination. I had now
attained the first of earthly blessings--independence. I was absolute
master of my hours and actions; and no sooner was I settled in my house
and library than I undertook the composition of the first volume of my
history. Many experiments were made before I could hit the middle tone
between a dull chronicle and a rhetorical declamation; three times did I
compose the first chapter, and twice the second and third, before I was
tolerably satisfied with their effect. In the remainder of the way I
advanced with a more equal and easy pace.

By the friendship of Mr. (now Lord) Eliot, who had married my first
cousin, I was returned member of parliament for the borough of Liskeard.
I took my seat at the beginning of the memorable contest between Great
Britain and America, and supported, with many a sincere and silent vote,
the rights, though not, perhaps, the interest, of the Mother Country.
After a fleeting, illusive hope, prudence condemned me to acquiesce in
the humble station of a mute. But I listened to the attack and defence
of eloquence and reason; I had a near prospect of the characters, views,
and passions of the first men of the age. The eight sessions that I sat
in parliament were a school of civil prudence, the first and most
essential virtue of an historian.

The first volume of my history, which had been somewhat delayed by the
novelty and tumult of a first session, was now ready for the press.
During the awful interval of awaited publication, I was neither elated
by the ambition of fame nor depressed by the apprehension of contempt.
My diligence and accuracy were attested by my own conscience. I likewise
flattered myself that an age of light and liberty would receive without
scandal an inquiry into the human causes of progress of Christianity.

I am at a loss how to describe the success of the work without betraying
the vanity of the writer. The first impression was exhausted in a few
days; a second and third edition were scarcely adequate to the demand.
My book was on every table; nor was the general voice disturbed by the
barking of any profane critic. Let me frankly own that I was startled at
the first discharge of ecclesiastical ordnance; but I soon discovered
that this empty noise was mischievous only in intention, and every
feeling of indignation has long since subsided.

Nearly two years elapsed between the publication of my first and the
commencement of my second volume. The second and third volumes of the
"Decline and Fall" insensibly rose in sale and reputation to a level
with the first volume. So flexible is the title of my history that the
final era might be fixed at my own choice, and I long hesitated whether
I should be content with the three volumes, the "Fall of the Western
Empire." The tumult of London and attendance at parliament were now
grown irksome, and when I had finished the fourth volume, excepting the
last chapter, I sought a retreat on the banks of the Leman Lake.


_VI.--A Quiet Consummation_


My transmigration from London to Lausanne could not be effected without
interrupting the course of my historical labours, and a full twelvemonth
was lost before I could resume the thread of regular and daily industry.
In the fifth and sixth volumes the revolutions of the empire and the
world are most rapid, various, and instructive. It was not till after
many designs and many trials that I preferred the method of grouping my
picture by nations; and the seeming neglect of chronological order is
surely compensated by the superior merits of interest and perspicacity.
I was now straining for the goal, and in the last winter many evenings
were borrowed from the social pleasures of Lausanne.

I have presumed to mark the moment of conception; I shall now
commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the night of
June 27, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the
last lines of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. After laying
down my pen, I took several turns in a covered walk of acacias, which
commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air
was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was
reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not
dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and
perhaps the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and
a sober melancholy was spread over my mind by the idea that I had taken
an everlasting leave of an agreeable companion, and that whatsoever
might be the future fate of my history, the life of the historian must
be short and precarious.

The day of publication of my three last volumes coincided with the
fifty-first anniversary of my own birthday. The conclusion of my work
was generally read and variously judged. Upon the whole, the history of
"The Decline and Fall" seems to have struck root both at home and
abroad.

When I contemplate the common lot of mortality, I must acknowledge that
I have drawn a high prize in the lottery of life. I am endowed with a
cheerful temper. The love of study, a passion which derives fresh vigour
from enjoyment, supplies each day, each hour, with a perpetual source of
independent and rational pleasure; and I am not sensible of any decay of
the mental faculties. I am disgusted with the affectation of men of
letters who complain that they have renounced a substance for a shadow.
My own experience, at least, has taught me a very different lesson.
Twenty happy years have been animated by the labour of my history; and
its success has given me a name, a rank, a character in the world to
which I should not otherwise have been entitled.

The present is a fleeting moment, the past is no more; and our prospect
of futurity is dark and doubtful I shall soon enter into the period
which was selected by the judgment and experience of the sage Fontenelle
as the most agreeable of his long life. I am far more inclined to
embrace than to dispute this comfortable doctrine. I will not suppose
any premature decay of the mind or body; but I must reluctantly observe
that two causes, the abbreviation of time and the failure of hope, will
always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life.

       *       *       *       *       *




GOETHE


Letters to Zelter


     The correspondence of Goethe with his friends, especially his
     voluminous letters to his friend Zelter, will always be
     resorted to by readers who wish for intimate knowledge of the
     innermost processes of the great poet's mind. Zelter was
     himself an extraordinary man. By trade he was a stonemason,
     but he became a skilled musical amateur, and a most versatile
     and entertaining critic. To him fell the remarkable
     distinction of becoming the tutor of that musical genius,
     Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, while he also acquired the glory
     of being "the restorer of Bach to the Germans." Like
     Eckermann, the other beloved friend of Goethe, he possessed
     the power of eliciting the great poet-philosopher's dicta on
     all imaginable topics. Zelter wrote to Goethe on anything and
     everything, trivial and otherwise, but his letters never
     failed to educe strains of the most illuminating comment. The
     "Letters to Zelter" were published in Berlin in 1833, and the
     following epitome is prepared from the German text.


_I.--Art Greater than the Beauty of Art_


Lauchstadt, _September_ 1, 1805. As we are convinced that he who studies
the intellectual world, and perceives the beauty of the true intellect,
can also realise the Father of them, who is supreme above all sense, let
us therefore seek as best we may to achieve insight into the beauty of
the mind and of the world, and to express it for ourselves.

Suppose, then, two blocks of stone, side by side, one rough and
unshaped, the other artistically shaped into a statue. To you the stone
worked into a beautiful figure appears lovely not because it is stone,
but because of the form which art has given it. But the material had not
such a form, for this was in the mind of the artist before it reached
the stone. Of course, art is greater than that which it produces. Art is
greater than the beauty of art. The motive power must be greater than
the result. For as the form gains extension by advancing into the
material, yet by that very process it becomes weaker than that which
remains whole. For that which endures removal from itself steps aside
from itself--strength from strength, warmth from warmth, force from
force, so also beauty from beauty.

Should anyone disparage the arts because they imitate nature, let him
note that nature also imitates much besides; and, further, that the arts
do not precisely imitate what we see but go back to that rational
element of which nature consists, and according to which she acts.

_Carlsbad, June 22_, 1808. It is an extraordinary fact that man in
himself, so far as he avails himself of his sound mind, is the greatest
and most precise physical apparatus that can be. And it is in fact the
greatest evil of the newer physics that experiments are, as it were,
separated from man himself, so that nature is recognised only in what is
ascertained by artificial instruments. It is exactly so with
calculation. Much is true which cannot be computed, just as much can
never be experimentally demonstrated.

Man, however, stands so high that that which otherwise admits of no
representation is represented in him. What, then, is a string and all
its mechanical division compared with the ear of the musician? Indeed,
it may be said what are the elementary phenomena of nature compared with
man, who must first master and modify them all in order to assimilate
them to himself?


_II.--Music and Musicians_


_Weimar, November_ 16, 1816. I send you a few words with reference to
your proposal to write a cantata for the Reformation Jubilee. It might
best be contrived after the method of Handel's "Messiah," into which you
have so deeply penetrated.

As the main idea of Lutheranism rests on a very excellent foundation, it
affords a fine opportunity both for poetical and also for musical
treatment. Now, this basis rests on the decided contrast between the law
and the Gospel, and secondly on the accommodation of these two extremes.
And now, if in order to attain a higher standpoint we substitute for
those two words the terms "necessity" and "freedom," with their
synonyms, their remoteness and proximity, you see clearly that
everything interesting to mankind is contained in this circle.

And thus Luther perceives in the Old and New Testaments the symbol of
the great and ever-recurring world-order. On the one hand, the law,
striving after love; on the other, love, striving back towards the law,
and fulfilling it, though not of its own power and strength, but through
faith; and that, too, by exclusive faith in the all-powerful Messiah
proclaimed to all.

Thus, briefly, are we convinced that Lutheranism can never be united
with the Papacy, but that it does not contradict pure reason, so soon as
reason decides to regard the Bible as the mirror of the world; which
certainly should not be difficult. To express these ideas in a poem
adapted to music, I should begin with the thunder on Mount Sinai, with
the _Thou shalt_! and conclude with the resurrection of Christ, and the
_Thou wilt_!

This may be the place to add a few words about Catholicism. Soon after
its origin and promulgation, the Christian religion, through rational
and irrational heresies, lost its original purity. But as it was called
on to check barbarous nations, harsh methods were needed for the
service, not doctrine. The one Mediator between God and man was not
enough, as we all know. Thus arose a species of pagan Judaism, sustained
even to this day. This had to be revolutionised entirely in the minds of
men, therefore Lutheranism depends solely on the Bible. Luther's
behaviour is no secret, and now that we are going to commemorate him, we
cannot do so in the right sense unless we acknowledge his merit, and
represent what he accomplished for his own age and for posterity. This
celebration should be so arranged that every fair-minded Catholic should
be able to participate in it. The Weimar friends of art have already
prepared their designs for the monument. We make no secret of the
matter, and at all events hope to contribute our share.

_Jena, February_ 16, 1818. You know Jena too little for it to mean
anything to you when I say that on the right bank of the Saale, near the
Camsdorf bridge, above the ice-laden water rushing through the arches, I
have occupied a tower which has attracted me and my friends for years.
Here I pass the happiest hours of the day, looking out on the river,
bridge, gravel walks, meadows, gardens, and hills, famous in war, rising
beyond. At sunset I return to town.

In observing atmospheric changes I endeavour to interweave cloud-forms
and sky-tints with words and images. But as all this, except for the
noise of wind and water, runs off without a sound, I really need some
inner harmony to keep my ear in tune; and this is only possible by my
confidence in you and in what you do and value. Therefore, I send you
only a few fervent prayers as branches from my paradise. If you can but
distil them in your hot element, then the beverage can be swallowed
comfortably, and the heathen will be made whole. Apocalypse, last
chapter, and the second verse.

_Vienna, July_ 27. Pyrotechnical displays seem to me the only pleasure
in which the Austrians are willing to dispense with their music, which
here persecutes us in every direction. In Carlsbad a musician declared
to me that music as a profession was a sour crust. I replied that the
musicians were better off than the visitors. "How so?" asked he. Said I,
"Surely they can eat without music."

The good man went away ashamed, and I felt sorry for him, though my
remark was quite in place, for it is really cruel in this manner to
torture patients and convalescents. I can, indeed, endure much, but
when, after coming from the opera, I sit down to supper, and am annoyed
instantly by the strains of a harp or a singer, jarring with what I have
been hearing, it is too much; and, wretch that I am, I am forgetting
that this scribble is also too much. So farewell. God bless you!

_Vienna, July_ 29, 1819. Beethoven, whom I should have liked to see once
more in this life, lives somewhere in this country, but nobody can tell
me where. I wanted to write to him, but I am told he is almost
unapproachable, as he is almost without hearing. Perhaps it is better
that we should remain as we are, for it might make me cross to find him
cross.

Much is thought of music here, and this in contrast to Italy, which
reckons itself the "only saving Church." But the people here are really
deeply cultured in music. It is true that they are pleased with
everything, but only the best music survives. They listen gladly to a
mediocre opera which is well cast; but a first-class work, even if not
given in the best style, remains permanently with them.

Beethoven is extolled to the heavens, because he toils strenuously and
is still alive. But it is Haydn who presents to them their national
humour, like a pure fountain unmingled with any other stream, and it is
he who lives among them, because he belongs to them. They seem each day
to forget him, and each day he rises to life again among them.


_III.--"Poetry and Truth"_


_Weimar, March_ 29, 1827. The completion of a work of art in itself is
the eternal, indispensable requisite. Aristotle, who had perfection
before him, must have thought of the effect. What a pity! Were I yet, in
these peaceful times, possessed of my youthful energies, I would
surrender myself entirely to the study of Greek, in spite of all the
difficulties of which I am conscious. Nature and Aristotle would be my
aim. We can form no idea of all that this man perceived, saw, noticed,
observed; but certainly in his explanations he was over-hasty.

But is it not just the same with us to-day? Experience does not fail us,
but we lack serenity of mind, whereby alone experience becomes clear,
true, lasting, and useful. Look at the theory of light and colour as
interpreted before my very eyes by Professor Fries of Jena. It is a
series of superficial conclusions, such as expositors and theorists have
been guilty of for more than a century. I care to say nothing more in
public about this; but write it I will. Some truthful mind will one day
grasp it.

_Weimar, April_ 18, 1827. Madame Catalini has scented out a few of our
extra groschen, and I begrudge her them. Too much is too much! She makes
no preparation for leaving us, for she has still to ring the changes on
a couple of old-new transmogrified airs, which she might just as well
grind out gratis. After all, what are two thousand of our thalers, when
we get "God save the King" into the bargain?

It is truly a pity. What a voice! A golden dish with common mushrooms in
it! And we--one almost swears at oneself--to admire what is execrable!
It is incredible! An unreasoning beast would mourn at it. It is an
actually impossible state of things. An Italian turkey-hen comes to
Germany, where are academies and high schools, and old students and
young professors sit listening while she sings in English the airs of
the German Handel. What a disgrace if that is to be reckoned an honour!
In the heart of Germany, too!

_Weimar, December_ 25, 1829. Lately by accident I fell in with "The
Vicar of Wakefield" and felt constrained to read it again from beginning
to end, impelled not a little by the lively consciousness of all that I
have owed to the author for the last seventy years. It would not be
possible to estimate the influence of Goldsmith and Sterne, exercised on
me just at the chief point of my development. This high, benevolent
irony, this gentleness to all opposition, this equanimity under every
change, and whatever else all the kindred virtues may be called--such
things were a most admirable training for me, and surely these are the
sentiments which, in the end, lead us back from all the mistaken paths
of life. By the way, it is strange that Yorick should incline rather to
that which has no form, while Goldsmith is all form, as I myself aspired
to be when the worthy Germans had convinced themselves that the
peculiarity of true humour is to have no form.

_Weimar, February_ 15, 1830. As to the title, "Poetry and Truth," of my
autobiography, it is certainly somewhat paradoxical. I adopted it
because the public always cherishes doubt as to the truth of such
biographical attempts. My sincere effort was to express the genuine
truth which had prevailed throughout my life. Does not the most ordinary
chronicle necessarily embody something of the spirit of the time in
which it was written? Will not the fourteenth century hand down the
tradition of a comet more ominously than the nineteenth? Nay, in the
same town you will hear one version of an incident in the morning, and
another in the evening.

All that belongs to the narrator and the narrative I included under the
word _Dichtung_ (poetry), so that I could for my own purpose avail
myself of the truth of which I was conscious. In every history, even if
it be diplomatically written, we always see the nation, the party of the
writer, peering through. How different is the accent in which the French
describe English history from that of the English themselves!

Remember that with every breath we draw, an ethereal stream of Lethe
runs through our whole being, so that we have but a partial recollection
of our joys, and scarcely any of our sorrows. I have always known how to
value, and use, this gift of God.


_IV.--The Birth of "Iphigenia"_


_Weimar, March_ 31, 1831. I have received a delightful letter from
Mendelssohn, dated Rome, March 5, which gives the most transparent
picture of that rare young man. About him we need cherish no further
care. The fine swimming-jacket of his genius will carry him safely
through the waves and surf of the dreaded barbarism.

Now, you well remember that I have always passionately adopted the cause
of the minor third, and was angry that you theoretical cheap-jacks would
not allow it to be a _donum naturæ_. Certainly a wire or piece of
cat-gut is not so precious that nature should exclusively confide to it
her harmonies. Man is worth more, and nature has given him the minor
third, to enable him to express with cordial delight to himself that
which he cannot name, and that for which he longs.

_Weimar, November_ 23, 1831. To begin with, let me tell you that I have
retreated into my cloister cell, where the sun, which is just now
rising, shines horizontally into my room, and does not leave me till he
sets, so that he is often uncomfortably importunate--so much so that for
a time I really have to shut him out.

Further, I have to mention that a new edition of the "Iphigenia in
Aulis" of Euripides has once more turned my attention to that
incomparable Greek poet. Of course, his great and unique talent excited
my admiration as of old, but what has now mainly attracted me is the
element, as boundless as it is potent, in which he moves.

Among the Greek localities and their mass of primeval, mythological
legends, he sails and swims, like a cannon-ball on a quick-silver sea,
and cannot sink, even if he wished. Everything is ready to his
hand--subject matter, contents, circumstances, relations. He has only to
set to work in order to bring forward his subjects and characters in the
simplest way, or to render the most complicated limitations even more
complex, and then finally and symmetrically, to our complete
satisfaction, either to unravel or cut the knot.

I shall not quit him all this winter. We have translations enough which
will warrant our presumption in looking into the original. When the sun
shines into my warm room, and I am aided by the stores of knowledge
acquired in days long gone by, I shall, at any rate, fare better than I
should, at this moment, among the newly discovered ruins of Messene and
Megalopolis.

       *       *       *       *       *




Poetry and Truth from My Own Life


     As "Werther" and "Wilhelm Meister" belong to the earlier and
     to the middle periods of Goethe's literary activity, so the
     following selections fall naturally into the last division of
     his life. The death of Schiller in 1805 had given a blow to
     his affections which even his warm relationship with other
     friends could not replace, and hereafter he begins to
     concentrate more and more upon himself to the completion of
     those works which he had had in mind and preparation through
     so many years, the greatest of which was to be the "Faust." In
     "Poetry and Truth from My Own Life," which appeared in
     1811-14, he was actuated by the desire of supplying some kind
     of a key to the collected edition of his works that had been
     published in 1808; and whatever faults, or errors, it may
     contain as a history, as a piece of writing it is finely
     characteristic of the ease and simplicity of his later style.


_I.--Birth and Childhood_


On August 28, 1749, at midday, I came into the world at
Frankfort-on-Maine. Our house was situated in a street called the
Stag-Ditch. Formerly the street had been a ditch, in which stags were
kept. On the second floor of the dwelling was a room called the
garden-room, because there they had endeavoured to supply the want of a
garden by means of a few plants placed before a window. As I grew older,
it was there that I made my somewhat sentimental retreat, for from
thence might be viewed a beautiful and fertile plain.

When I became acquainted with my native city, I loved more than anything
else to promenade on the great bridge over the Maine. Its length, its
firmness, and fine aspect rendered it a notable structure. And one liked
to lose oneself in the old trading town, particularly on market days,
among the crowd collected about the church of St. Bartholomew. The
Römerberg was a most delightful place for walking.

My father had prospered in his own career tolerably according to his
wishes; I was to follow the same course, only more easily and much
further. He had passed his youth in the Coburg Gymnasium, which stood as
one of the first among German educational institutions. He had there
laid a good foundation, and had subsequently taken his degree at
Giessen. He prized my natural endowments the more because he was himself
wanting in them, for he had acquired everything simply by means of
diligence and pertinacity.

During my childhood the Frankforters passed a series of prosperous
years, but scarcely, on August 28, 1756, had I completed my seventh
year, when that world-renowned war broke out, which was also to exert
great influence upon the next seven years of my life. Frederick II. of
Prussia had fallen upon Saxony with 60,000 men. The world immediately
split into two parties, and our family was an image of the great whole.
My grandfather took the Austrian side, with some of his daughters and
sons-in-law; my father leaned towards Prussia, with the other and
smaller half of the family; and I also was a Prussian in my views, for
the personal character of the great king worked on our hearts.

As the eldest grandson and godchild, I dined every Sunday with my
grandparents, and the event was always the most delightful experience of
the week. But now I relished no morsel that I tasted, because I was
compelled to listen to the most horrible slanders of my hero. That
parties existed had never entered into my conceptions. I trace here the
germ of that disregard and even disdain of the public which clung to me
for a whole period of my life, and only in later days was brought within
bounds by insight and cultivation. We continued to tease each other till
the occupation of Frankfort by the French, some years afterwards,
brought real inconvenience to our homes.

The New Year's Day of 1759 approached, as desirable and pleasant to us
children as any preceding one, but full of import and foreboding to
older persons. To the passage of French troops the people had certainly
become accustomed; but they marched through the city in greater masses
on this day, and on January 2 the troops remained and bivouacked in the
streets till lodgings were provided for them by regular billeting.

Siding as my father did with the Prussians, he was now to find himself
besieged in his own chambers by the French. This was, according to his
way of thinking, the greatest misfortune that could happen to him. Yet,
could he have taken the matter more easily, he might have saved himself
and us many sad hours, for he spoke French well, and it was the Count
Thorane, the king's lieutenant, who was quartered on us. That officer
behaved himself in a most exemplary manner, and if it had been possible
to cheer my father, this altered state of things would have caused
little inconvenience.

During this French occupation I made great progress with the French
language. But the chief profit was that which I derived from the
theatre, for which my grandfather had given me a free ticket. I saw many
French comedies acted, and became friendly with some of the young people
connected with the stage. From the first day of the military occupation
there was no lack of diversion; plays and balls, parades and marches
constantly attracted our attention.


_II.--A Romantic Episode_


After the French occupation we children could not fail to feel as if the
house were deserted. But new lodgers came in, Chancery-Director Moritz
and his family being received in this capacity. They were quiet and
gentle, and peace and stillness reigned. About this time a long-debated
project for giving us lessons in music was carried into effect. It was
settled that we should learn the harpsichord. And as we also received
lessons from a drawing-master, the way to two arts was thus early enough
opened to me.

English was also added to my studies; and as on my own account I soon
felt that I ought to know Hebrew, my father allowed the rector of our
gymnasium to give me private lessons. I studied the Old Testament no
longer in Luther's translation, but in the literal version of Schmid. I
also paid great attention to sermons at church, and wrote out many that
I heard, doing this in a style that greatly gratified my father.

At this time my first romantic experience occurred. I fell under the
enchantment of Gretchen, a beautiful girl who waited on me and some
comrades at a restaurant. The form of that girl followed me from that
moment on every path. At church, during the long Protestant service, I
gazed my fill at her. I wrote her love-letters, which she did not
resent. The first propensities to love in an uncorrupted youth take
altogether a spiritual direction. Nature seems to desire that one sex
may by the senses perceive goodness and beauty in the other. And thus to
me, by the sight of this girl, a new world of the beautiful and
excellent had arisen. But my friendship for this maiden being discovered
by my father, a family disturbance ensued which plunged me into illness.
I had been ordered to have nothing to do with anyone but the family.

My sorrow was deepened as I slowly recovered by the addition of a
certain secret chagrin, for I plainly perceived that I was watched. It
was not long before my family gave me a special overseer. Fortunately,
it was a man whom I loved and valued. He had held the place of tutor in
the family of one of our friends, and his former pupil had gone to the
university. This friend, in skillful conversations, began to make me
acquainted with the secrets of philosophy. He had studied at Jena under
Daries, and had acutely seized the relations of that doctrine, which he
now sought to impart to me.

After a time I took to wandering about the mountain range, and thus
visited Homburg, Kronenburg, Wiesbaden, Schwalbach, and reached the
Rhine. But the time was approaching when I was to go to the university.
My mind was quite as much excited about my life as about my learning. I
grew more and more conscious of an aversion from my native city. I never
again went into Gretchen's quarter of it, and even my old walls and
towers had become disagreeable.


_III.--University Life_


I had always had my eye upon Göttingen, but my father obstinately
insisted on Leipzig. I arrived in that handsome city just at the time of
the fair, from which I derived particular pleasure, being specially
attracted by the inhabitants of eastern countries in their strange
dresses. I commenced to study under Böhme, professor of history and
public law, and Gellert, professor of literature. The reverence with
which Gellert was regarded by all young people was extraordinary.

Much has been written about the condition of German literature at that
time. I need only state how it stood towards me. The literary epoch in
which I was born was developed out of the preceding one by opposition.
Foreign influences had previously predominated, but in this epoch the
German sense of freedom and joy began to stir itself. Göttsched,
Lessing, Haller, and, above all, Wieland, had produced works of genius.
The venerable Bengel had procured a decided reception for his labours on
the Revelation of St. John, from the fact that he was known as an
intelligent, upright, God-fearing, blameless man. Deep minds are
compelled to live in the past as well as the future.

Plunging into literature on my own account, I at this period wrote the
oldest of my extant dramatic labours, "The Lover's Caprice," following
it with "The Accomplices." I had seen already many families ruined by
bankruptcies, divorces, vice, murders, burglaries, and poisonings, and,
young as I was, I had often, in such cases, lent a hand for help and
preservation. Accordingly, these pieces were written from an elevated
point of view, without my having been aware of it. But they could find
no favour on the German stage.

My health had become somewhat impaired, though I did not think I should
soon become apprehensive about my life. I had brought with me from home
a certain touch of hypochondria, and a chronic pain in my breast,
induced by a fall from horseback, perceptibly increased, and made me
dejected. By an unfortunate diet I destroyed my powers of digestion, so
that I experienced great uneasiness, yet without being able to embrace a
resolution for a more rational mode of life. Besides the epoch of the
cold-water bath, the hard bed slightly covered, and other follies
unconditionally recommended, had begun, in consequence of some
misunderstood suggestions of Rousseau, under the idea of bringing us
nearer to nature and delivering us from the corruption of morals.

One night I awoke with a violent hemorrhage, and for several days I
wavered between life and death. Recovery was slow, but nature helped me,
and I appeared to have become another man, for I had gained a greater
cheerfulness of mind than I had known for a long time, and I was
rejoiced to feel my inner self at liberty. But what particularly set me
up at this time was to see how many eminent men had undeservedly given
me their affection, among them being Dr. Hermann Groening, Horn, and,
above all, Langer, afterwards librarian at Wolfenbüttel, whose
conversation so far blinded me to the miserable state I was in that I
actually forgot it.

The confidence of new friends develops itself by degrees. The religious
sentiments, the affairs of the heart which relate to the imperishable,
are the things which both establish the foundation and adorn the summit
of friendship. The Christian religion was wavering between its own
historically positive base and a pure deism, which, grounded on
morality, was in its turn to lay the foundation of ethics. Langer was of
the class who, though learned, yet give the Bible a peculiar preeminence
over other writings. He belongs to those who cannot conceive an
immediate connection with the great God of the universe; a mediation,
therefore, was necessary for him, an analogy to which he thought he
could find everywhere, in earthly and heavenly things. Grounded as I was
in the Bible, all that I wanted was merely the faith to explain as
divine that which I had hitherto esteemed in human fashion. To a
sufferer, delicate and weak, the Gospel was therefore welcome.

I left Leipzig in September, 1768, for my native city and my home, where
my delicate appearance elicited loving sympathy. Again sickness ensued,
and my life was once more in peril, chiefly through a disturbed, I might
even say, for certain moments, destroyed digestion. But a skillful
physician helped me to convalescence. In the spring I felt so much
stronger that I longed to wander forth again from the chambers and spots
where I had suffered so much. I journeyed to beautiful Alsace and took
up lodgings on the summer-side of the fish-market in Strasburg, where I
designed to continue my studies in law. Most of my fellow-boarders were
medical students, and at table I heard nothing but medical
conversations.

I was thus easily borne along the stream, and at the beginning of the
second half-year I attended lectures on chemistry and anatomy. Yet this
dissipation and dismemberment of my studies were not enough, for a
remarkable political event secured for us a succession of holidays.
Marie Antoinette was to pass through Strasburg on her way to Paris, and
the solemnities were abundantly prepared. In the grand saloon erected on
an island in the Rhine I saw a specimen of the tapestries worked after
Raffaele's cartoons, and this sight was for me a very decided influence,
for I became acquainted with the true and the perfect on a large scale.


_IV.--Fascinating Friendship_


The most important event at this period, and one that was to have the
weightiest consequences for me, was my meeting with Herder. He
accompanied on his travels the Prince of Holstein-Eutin, who was in a
melancholy state of mind, and had come with him to Strasburg. Herder was
singular, both in his personal appearance and also in his demeanour. He
had somewhat of softness in his manner, which was very suitable and
becoming, without being exactly easy. I was of a very confiding
disposition, and with Herder especially I had no secrets; but from one
of his habits--a spirit of contradiction--I had much to endure.

Herder could be charmingly prepossessing and brilliant, but he could
just as easily turn an ill-humoured side forward. He resolved to stay in
Strasburg because of a complaint in one of his eyes of the most
irritating nature, which required a tedious and uncertain operation, the
tear-bag being closed below. Therefore he separated from the prince and
removed into lodgings of his own for the purpose of the operation. He
confided to me that he intended to compete for a prize offered at Berlin
for the best treatise on the origin of language. His work, written in a
very neat hand, was nearly completed. During the troublesome and painful
cure he lost none of his vivacity, but he became less and less amiable.
He could not write a note to ask for anything without scoffing rudely
and bitterly, generally in sardonic verse.

Herder contributed much to my culture, yet he destroyed my enjoyment of
much that I had loved before, and especially blamed me in the strongest
manner for the pleasure I took in Ovid's "Metamorphoses." I most
carefully concealed from him my interest in certain subjects which had
rooted themselves within me, and were little by little moulding
themselves into poetic form. These were "Goetz von Berlichingen" and
"Faust." Of my poetical labours, I believe I laid before him "The
Accomplices," but I do not recollect that on this account I received
from him either correction or encouragement.

At this epoch of my life took place a singular episode. During a
delightful tour in beautiful Alsace, round about the Vosges, I and two
fellow-students halted for a time at the house of a Protestant
clergyman, pastor in Sesenheim. I had visited the family previously.
Herder here joined us, and during our readings in the evenings
introduced to us an excellent work, "The Vicar of Wakefield." With the
German translation, he undertook to make us acquainted by reading it
aloud.

The pastor had two daughters and a son. The family struck me as
corresponding in the most extraordinary manner to that delineated by
Goldsmith. The elder daughter might be taken for Olivia in the story,
and Frederica, the younger, for Sophia, while, as I looked at the boy, I
could scarcely help exclaiming, "Moses, are you here, too?" A Protestant
country clergyman is, perhaps, the most beautiful subject for a modern
idyl; he appears, like Melchizedek, as priest and king in one person.

Between me and the charming Frederica a mutual affection sprang up. Her
beautiful nature attracted me irresistibly, and I was happy beyond all
bounds at her side. For her I composed many songs to well-known
melodies. They would have made a pretty book; a few of them still
remain, and may easily be found among the others. But we were destined
soon to part. Such a youthful affection, cherished at random, may be
compared to a bombshell thrown at night, which rises with a soft,
brilliant light, mingles for a moment with the stars, then, in
descending, describes a similar path in the reverse direction, and at
last brings destruction where it terminates its course.


_V.--Among the Jurists_


In 1772 I went to Wetzlar, the seat of the Reichskammergericht, or
Imperial Chamber. This was a kind of court of chancery for the whole
empire; and I went there in order to gain increased experience in
jurisprudence. Here I found myself in a large company of talented and
vivacious young men, assistants to the commissioners of the various
states, and by them was accorded a genial welcome.

To one of the legations at Wetzlar was attached a young man of good
position and abilities, named Jerusalem, whose sad suicide soon
afterwards resulted through an unhappy passion for the wife of a friend.
On this history the plan of "The Sorrows of Werther" was founded. The
effect of this little book was great, nay, immense, and chiefly because
it exactly hit the temper of the times. For as it requires but a little
match to blow up an immense mine, so the explosion which followed my
publication was mighty from the circumstances that the youthful world
had already undermined itself; and the shock was great because all
extravagant demands, unsatisfied passions, and imaginary wrongs, were
suddenly brought to an eruption.

At this period I usually combined the art of design with poetical
composition. Whenever I dictated, or listened to reading, I drew the
portraits of my friends in profile on grey paper in white and black
chalk. But feeling the insufficiency of this copying, I betook myself
once more to language and rhythm, which were much more at my command.
How briskly, how joyously, I went to work with them will appear from the
many poems which, enthusiastically proclaiming the art of nature and the
nature of art, infused, at the moment of production, new spirit into me
as well as in my friends.

At this epoch, and in the midst of these occupations, I was sitting one
evening with a struggling light in my chamber, when there entered a
well-formed, slender man, who announced himself by the name of Von
Knebel. Much to my satisfaction, I learned that he came from Weimar,
where he was the companion of Prince Constantin. Of matters there I had
already heard much that was favourable; for several strangers who had
come from Weimar assured us that the widowed Duchess Amalia had gathered
round her the best men to assist in the education of the princes, her
sons; that the arts were not only protected by this princess, but were
practised by her with great diligence and zeal.

At Weimar was also one of the best theatres of Germany, which was made
famous by its actors, as well as by the authors who wrote for it. When I
expressed a wish to become better acquainted with these persons and
things, my visitor replied, in the most friendly manner possible, that
nothing was easier, since the hereditary prince, with his brother, the
Prince Constantin, had just arrived in Frankfort, and desired to see and
know me.

I at once expressed the greatest willingness to wait upon them; and my
new friend told me that I must not delay, as their stay would not be
long. I proceeded with Von Knebel to the young princes, who received me
in a very easy and friendly manner.

As the stay of the young princes in Frankfort was necessarily short,
they made me promise to follow them to Mayence. I gave this promise
gladly enough, and visited them. The few days of my stay passed very
pleasantly, for when my new patrons, with whom I enjoyed delightful
conversations on literature, were abroad on visits and banquets, I
remained with their attendants, drew portraits, or went skating. I
returned home full of the kindness I had met with.

       *       *       *       *       *




Conversations with Eckermann


     The outstanding feature of the remarkable "Conversations with
     Eckermann" is this, that the compilation furnishes an
     altogether unique record of the working of Goethe's mature
     mind. For Goethe's age at the period when the "Conversations"
     begin is seventy-three, and eighty-two when they end. John
     Peter Eckermann published his work in 1836. In 1848 appeared
     an additional portion. Eckermann, born at Winsen, in Hanover,
     was the son of a woollen draper. He received an excellent
     education, and studied art, under Ramber, in Hanover, but soon
     became enamoured of poetry through the influence of Körner and
     of Goethe. He became the intimate friend of Goethe, and lived
     with him for several years. In describing the friendship,
     Eckermann says, "My relation to him was peculiar, and of a
     very intimate kind. It was that of the scholar to the master,
     of the son to the father, of the poor in culture to the rich
     in culture. His conversation was as varied as his works.
     Winter and summer, age and youth, seemed with him to be
     engaged in a perpetual strife and change." Goethe was one of
     the world's most brilliant conversationalists, ranking in this
     respect with Coleridge.


_I.--On Poets and Poetry_


_Weimar, June_ 10, 1823. I reached here a few days ago, but have not
seen Goethe until to-day. He gave me a most cordial reception. I esteem
this the most fortunate day of my life. Goethe was dressed in a blue
frock-coat. He is a sublime figure. His first words were concerning my
manuscript. "I have just come from _you_" said he. He meant that he had
been reading it all the morning. He commented it enthusiastically. We
talked long together. But I could say little for I could not look at him
enough, with his strong, brown face, full of wrinkles, each wrinkle
being full of expression. He spoke like some old monarch. We parted
affectionately, for every word of his breathed kindness.

_Jena, September_ 8, 1823. Yesterday morning I had the happiness of
another interview with Goethe. What he said to me was quite important,
and will have a beneficial influence on all my life. All the young poets
of Germany should have the benefit of it. "Do not," said he, "attempt to
produce a great work. It is just this mistake which has done harm to our
best minds. I have myself suffered from this error. What have I not
dropped into the well! The present must assert its rights, and so the
poet will and should give out what presses on him. But if one has a
great work in his head, it expels everything else and deprives life for
the time of all comfort. If as to the whole you err, all time and
trouble are lost. But if the poet daily grasps the present, treating
with fresh sentiment what it offers, he always makes sure of something
good. If sometimes he does not succeed, at any rate he has lost nothing.
The world is so great and rich, and life is so manifold, that occasions
for poems are never lacking. But they must all be poems for special
occasions (_Gelegenheitsgedichte_). All my poems are thus suggested by
incidents in real life. I attach no value to poems snatched out of the
air. You know Furnstein, the so-called poet of nature? He has written
the most fascinating poem possible on hop-culture. I have suggested to
him that he should write songs on handicrafts, especially a weaver's
song, for he has spent his life from youth amongst such folk, and he
understands the subject through and through."

_February_ 24, 1824. At one to-day I went to Goethe's. He showed me a
short critique he had written on Byron's "Cain," which I read with much
interest. "We see," said he, "how the defectiveness of ecclesiastical
dogmas affects such a mind as Byron's, and how by such a piece he seeks
to emancipate himself from doctrine which has been thrust on him. Truly
the English clergy will not thank him, but I shall wonder whether he
will not proceed to treat Bible subjects, not letting slip such topics
as the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah."


_II.--Philosophical Discussions_


_February_ 25, 1824. Goethe was in high spirits at table. He showed me
Frau von Spiegel's album, in which he had written some very beautiful
verses. For two years a place had been left open for him, and he was
delighted that at length he had been able to fulfil an old promise.
Noticing on another page of the album a poem by Tiedge in the style of
his "Urania," Goethe observed that he had suffered considerably from
Tiedge's "Urania," for at one time nothing else was sung and recited.
Said he, "Wherever you went, you found 'Urania' on the table, and that
poem and immortality were the subjects of every conversation. By no
means would I lose the happiness of believing in a future existence, and
indeed I would say with Lorenzo de Medici that all they are dead, even
for this life, who believe in no other.

"But such incomprehensible matters lie too far off to be a theme of
daily meditation and thought-distracting speculation. And further, let
him who believes in immortality be happy in silence; he has no reason to
hold his head high because of his conviction. Silly women, priding
themselves on believing with Tiedge in immortality, have been offended
at my declaring that in the future state I hoped I should meet none of
those who had believed in it here. For how I should be tormented! The
pious would crowd about me, saying, 'Were we not right? Did we not
predict it? Has it not turned out exactly so?' And thus even up yonder
there would be everlasting ennui."

_April_ 14, 1824. I went, about one, for a walk with Goethe. We
conversed on the style of different authors. Said he, "Philosophical
speculation is, on the whole, a hindrance to the Germans, for it tends
to induce a tendency to obscurantism. The nearer they approach to
certain philosophical schools, the worse they write. Those Germans write
best who, as business men, and men of real life, confine themselves to
the practical. Thus, Schiller's style is the noblest and most
impressive, as soon as he ceases to philosophise, as I see from his
highly interesting letters, on which I am now busy. Many of our genial
German women in their style excel even many of our famous male writers.

"The French, in their style, are consistent with their general
character. They are sociable by nature and as such never forget the
public whom they address. They take the trouble to be clear in order to
convince, and agreeable in order to please. The English, as a rule,
write well, as born orators and as practical and realistic men.
Altogether, the style of a writer is a true reflection of his mind. If
anyone would acquire a lucid style, let him first be clear in his
thoughts; if he would command a noble style, he must first possess a
noble character."

_May_ 2, 1824. During a drive over the hills through Upper Weimar we
could not look enough at the trees in blossom. We remarked that trees
full of white blossom should not be painted, because they make no
picture, just as birches with their foliage are unfit for the foreground
of a picture, because the delicate foliage does not adequately balance
the white trunk. Said Goethe, "Ruysdael never placed a foliaged birch in
the foreground, but only broken birch stems, without leaves. Such a
trunk suits the foreground admirably, for its bright form stands out
most powerfully."

After some slight discussion of other subjects, we talked of the
erroneous tendency of such artists as would make religion art, while
their art ought to be religion. Goethe observed, "Religion stands in the
same relation to art as every other higher interest of life. It is
merely to be regarded as a material, which has equal claims with all
other vital materials. Also, faith and unbelief are not those organs
with which a work of art is to be comprehended. Far otherwise; totally
different human powers and capacities are required for such
comprehension. Art must appeal to those organs with which we can
apprehend it, or it misses its aim. A religious material may be a good
subject for art, but only if it possesses general human interest. Thus,
the Virgin with the Child is a good subject that may be treated a
hundred times, and will always be seen again with pleasure."

_November_ 24, 1824. In a conversation this evening concerning Roman and
Greek history, Goethe said, "Roman history is certainly no longer suited
to our time. We have become too humane for the triumphs of Cæsar to be
anything but repellent to us. So also does Greek history offer little to
allure us. The resistance to a foreign enemy is indeed glorious, but the
constant civil wars of states against each other are intolerable.
Besides, the history of our own time is overwhelmingly important. The
battles of Leipzig and Waterloo eclipse Marathon, and such heroes as
Blücher and Wellington are rivals of those of antiquity."


_III.--Literary Dicta_


_January_ 10, 1825. In accordance with his deep interest in the English,
Goethe requested me to introduce to him the young Englishmen staying
here. I took this afternoon Mr. H., a young English officer, who, in the
course of the conversation, mentioned that he was reading "Faust," but
found it somewhat difficult.

Said Goethe, laughing, "Really, I should not have recommended you to
undertake 'Faust.' It is mad stuff, and goes beyond all usual feeling.
But as you have done it of your own accord, without asking me, you will
see how you get through. Faust is so strange an individual that only a
few persons can sympathise with his inner condition. Then the character
of Mephistopheles is also very difficult, because of his irony, and also
because he is the living result of an extensive acquaintance with the
world. But you will see what light comes to you.

"'Tasso,' on the other hand, lies far nearer to the common feeling of
mankind, and the elaboration of its form is favourable to an easier
understanding of it. What is chiefly needed for reading 'Tasso' is that
one should be no longer a child, and should not have been deprived of
good society."

_October_ 15, 1825. I found Goethe this evening in a very elevated mood,
and had the happiness of hearing from him many significant observations.
Concerning the state of the newest literature, he said, "Want of
character in individual investigators and writers is the source of all
the evils in our most recent literature. Till now the world believed in
the heroism of Lucretia and of Mucius Scævola, and allowed itself thus
to be stimulated and inspired. But now comes historical criticism, and
says that those persons never lived, but are to be regarded as fables
and fictions, imagined by the great mind of the Romans. What are we to
do with so pitiful a truth? And if the Romans were great enough to
invent such stories, we should at least be great enough to believe
them."

_December_ 25, 1825. I found Goethe alone this evening, and passed with
him some delightful hours. The conversation at one time turned on Byron,
especially on the disadvantage at which he appears when compared with
the innocent cheerfulness of Shakespeare, and on the frequent and
usually not unmerited blame which he drew on himself by his manifold
works of negation. Said Goethe, "If Byron had had the opportunity of
working off all the opposition that was in him, by delivering many
strong speeches in parliament, he would have been far purer as a poet.
But as he scarcely ever spoke in parliament, he kept in his heart all
that he felt against his nation, and no other means than poetical
expression of his sentiments remained to him. I could therefore style a
great part of his works of negation suppressed parliamentary speeches,
and I think the characterisation would suit them well."


_IV.--"Faust" and Victor Hugo_


_May_ 6, 1827. At a dinner-party at Goethe's, after conversation on
certain poems, he said, "The Germans are certainly strange people. They
make life much more burdensome to themselves than they ought by their
deep thoughts and ideas, which they seek everywhere and fix on
everything. Only have the courage to surrender yourself to your
impressions, permit yourself to be moved, instructed and inspired for
something great. But never imagine that all is vanity, if it is not
abstract thought and idea.

"Next they come and ask what idea I meant to embody in my 'Faust'? As if
I knew that myself, and could inform them. _From Heaven through the
world to hell_ would, indeed, be something; but that is no idea, only a
course of action. And further, that the devil loses the wager, and that
a man, continually struggling from difficult errors towards something
better, should be redeemed, is truly a more effective, and to many a
good, enlightening thought; but it is no idea lying at the basis of the
whole, and of each individual scene. It would have been a fine thing,
indeed, if I had strung so rich and diversified a life as I have brought
to view in 'Faust' upon the slender thread of one single, pervading
idea.

"It was altogether out of my province, as a poet, to strive to embody
anything abstract. I received in my mind impressions of an animated,
charming, hundredfold kind, just as a lively imagination presented them;
and as a poet I had nothing more to do than artistically to elaborate
these impressions, and so to present them that others might receive like
impressions. But I am somewhat of the opinion that the more
incommensurable, and the more incomprehensible to the understanding a
poetic production is, so much the better it is."

_June_ 20, 1831. At Goethe's, after dinner, the conversation fell upon
the use and misuse of terms. Said he, "The French use the word
'composition' inappropriately. The expression is degrading as applied to
genuine productions of art and poetry. It is a thoroughly contemptible
word, of which we should seek to get rid as soon as possible.

"How can one say, Mozart has _composed_ 'Don Juan'! Composition! As if
it were a piece of cake or biscuit, which had been mixed together with
eggs, flour, and sugar! It is a spiritual creation, in which the details
as well as the whole are pervaded by _one_ spirit. Consequently, the
producer did not follow his own experimental impulse, but acted under
that of his demoniac genius."

_June_ 27, 1831. We conversed about Victor Hugo. "He has a fine talent,"
said Goethe. "But he is altogether ensnared in the unhappy romantic
tendency of his time, by which he is constrained to represent, side by
side with the beautiful, the most hateful and intolerable. I have
recently read his 'Notre Dame de Paris,' and needed no little patience
to endure the horror that I felt. It is the most abominable book ever
written! And one is not even compensated by truthful representation of
human nature or character. On the contrary, his book is totally
destitute of nature and truth. The so-called acting personages whom he
brings forward are not men with living flesh and blood, but miserable
wooden puppets, moved according to his fancy and made to produce all
sorts of contortions and grimaces. But what kind of an age is this,
which not only makes such a book possible, but even finds it endurable
and delightful!"


_V.--On the Bible_


_Sunday, March_ 11, 1832. This evening for an hour Goethe talked on
various excellent topics. I had purchased an English Bible, but found to
my great regret that it did not include the Apocrypha, because these
were not considered genuine and divinely inspired. I missed the truly
noble Tobias, the wisdom of Solomon and Jesus Sirach, all writings of
such deeply spiritual value, that few others equal them. I expressed to
Goethe my regret at the narrow exclusiveness thus manifested. He
entirely agreed with me.

"Still," said he, "there are two points of view from which Biblical
subjects may be regarded. There is that of primitive religion, of pure
nature and reason, which is of divine origin. This will ever remain the
same, and will endure as long as divinely endowed beings exist. It is,
however, only for the elect, and is far too high and noble to become
universal.

"Then there is the point of view of the Church, which is of a more human
nature. This is fallible and fickle, but, though perpetually changing,
it will last as long as there are weak human beings. The light of
cloudless divine revelation is far too pure and radiant for poor, weak
man. But the Church interposes as mediator, to soften and moderate, and
all are helped. Its influence is immense, through the notion that as
successor of Christ it can relieve the burden of human sin. To secure
this power, and to consolidate ecclesiasticism is the special aim of the
Christian priesthood.

"Therefore it does not so much ask whether this or that book in the
Bible effects a great enlightenment of the mind, it much more looks to
the Mosaic and prophetic and Gospel records for allusions to the fall of
man, and the advent to earth and death of Christ, as the atonement for
sin. Thus you see that for such purposes the noble Tobias, the wisdom of
Solomon, and the sayings of Sirach have little weight.

"Still, the question as to authenticity in details of the Bible is truly
singular. What is genuine but the really excellent, which harmonises
with the purest reason and nature, and even now ministers to our highest
development? What is spurious but the absurd, hollow, and stupid, which
brings no worthy fruit? If the authenticity of a Biblical writing
depends on the question whether something true throughout has been
handed down to us, we might on some points doubt the genuineness of the
Gospels, of which Mark and Luke were not written from immediate presence
and experience, but long afterwards from oral tradition. And the last,
by the disciple John, was written in his old age.

"Yet I hold all four evangelists as thoroughly genuine, for there is in
them the reflection of a greatness which emanated from the person of
Jesus, such as only once has appeared on earth. If anyone asks whether
it is in my nature to pay Him devout reverence, I say--'Surely, yes!' I
bow before Him as the divine revelation of the highest principle of
morality. If I am asked whether it is in my nature to revere the sun,
again I say--'Surely, yes!' For the sun is also a manifestation of the
highest, and, indeed, the mightiest which we children of earth are
allowed to behold. But if I am asked whether I am inclined to bow before
a thumb-bone of the apostle Peter or Paul, I say, 'Spare me, and stand
off with your absurdities!'

"Says the apostle, 'Quench not the spirit.' The high and richly-endowed
clergy fear nothing so much as the enlightenment of the lower orders.
They withheld the Bible from them as long as possible. What can a poor
member of the Christian church think of the princely pomp of a richly
endowed bishop, when against this he sees in the Gospels the poverty of
Christ, travelling humbly on foot with His disciples, while the princely
bishop drives along in a carriage drawn by six horses!

"We do not at all know," continued Goethe, "all that we owe to Luther
and the Reformation generally. We are emancipated from the fetters of
spiritual narrowness. In consequence of our increasing culture, we have
become capable of reverting to the fountain-head, and of comprehending
Christianity in its purity. We have again the courage to stand with firm
feet upon God's earth, and to realise our divinely endowed human nature.
Let spiritual culture ever go on advancing, let the natural sciences go
on ever gaining in breadth and depth, and let the human mind expand as
it may, it will never go beyond the elevation and moral culture of
Christianity as it shines and gleams in the Gospel!

"But the more effectually we Protestants advance in our noble
development, so much the more rapidly will the Catholics follow. As soon
as they feel themselves caught in the current of enlightenment, they
must go on to the point where all is but one.

"The mischievous sectism of Protestantism will also cease, and with it
alienation between father and son, brother and sister. For as soon as
the pure teaching and love of Christ, as they really are, are
comprehended and consistently practised, we shall realise our humanity
as great and free, and cease to attach undue importance to mere outward
form.

"Furthermore, we shall all gradually advance from a Christianity of word
and faith to one of feeling and action."

The conversation next turned on the question how far God is influencing
the great natures of the present world. Said Goethe, "If we notice how
people talk, we might almost believe them to be of opinion that God had
withdrawn into silence since that old time before Christ, and that man
was now placed on his own feet, and must see how he can get on without
God. In religious and moral matters a divine influence is still
admitted, but in matters of science and art it is insisted that they are
merely earthly, and nothing more than a product of pure human powers.

"But now let anyone only attempt with human will and human capabilities
to produce something comparable with the creations that bear the names
of Mozart, Raphael, or Shakespeare. I know right well that these three
noble men are not the only ones, and that in every department of art
innumerable excellent minds have laboured, who have produced results as
perfectly good as those mentioned. But, if they were as great as those,
they transcended ordinary human nature, and were in just the same degree
divinely gifted."

Goethe was silent, but I cherished his great and good words in my heart.

       *       *       *       *       *




THOMAS GRAY


Letters


     Thomas Gray, the poet and author of the "Elegy written in a
     Country Churchyard," was born on December 26, 1716, in London,
     and was the only survivor of twelve children. At Eton he
     formed friendships with Horace Walpole, Thomas Ashton, and
     Richard West, who were later his chief correspondents. At
     Cambridge, where Gray took no degree, he began to make
     experiments in poetry. In 1739 and 1740 he travelled in
     Europe, and in 1742 he had established himself at Peterhouse,
     Cambridge, without University position or recognition of any
     kind. Here he plunged into the study of classical literature,
     and began to work on the "Elegy," which was published in 1751.
     He was a shy, sensitive man of very wide learning. Couched in
     graceful language, the letters are typical of the best in the
     best age of letter-writing, and not only are they fascinating
     for the tender and affectionate nature they reveal, but also
     for the gleam of real humour which Walpole declared was the
     poet's most natural vein. He died on July 30, 1771.


_I.--The Student's Freedom_


TO RICHARD WEST

Peterhouse, _December, 1736._ After this term I shall have nothing more
of college impertinences to undergo. I have endured lectures daily and
hourly since I came last, supported by the hopes of being shortly at
liberty to give myself up to my friends and classical companions, who,
poor souls, though I see them fallen into great contempt with most
people here, yet I cannot help sticking to them.

Indeed, what can I do else? Must I plunge into metaphysics? Alas! I
cannot see in the dark. Nature has not furnished me with the optics of a
cat. Must I pore upon mathematics? Alas! I cannot see in too much light.
I am no eagle. It is very possible that two and two make four, but I
would not give four farthings to demonstrate this ever so clearly; and
if these be the profits of life, give me the amusements of it. The
people I behold all around me, it seems, know all this, and more, and
yet I do not know one of them who inspires me with any ambition of being
like him. Surely it was of this place, now Cambridge, but formerly known
by the name of Babylon, that the prophet spoke when he said, "The wild
beasts of the desert shall dwell there, and their houses shall be full
of doleful creatures, and owls shall build there and satyrs shall dance
there." You see, here is a pretty collection of desolate animals, which
is verified in this town to a tittle.


TO HORACE WALPOLE

_Burnham, September, 1737._ I have at the distance of half a mile
through a green lane a forest all my own, 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. At the foot of one
of these squat 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 do not think he read
Virgil, as I commonly do there.


_II.--Travels with Horace Walpole_


TO HIS MOTHER

_Amiens, April, 1739._ We left Dover at noon, and with a pretty brisk
gale reached Calais by five. This is an exceeding old, but very pretty
town, and we hardly saw anything there that was not so new and so
different from England that it surprised us agreeably. We went the next
morning to the great church, and were at high mass, it being Easter
Monday. In the afternoon we took a post-chaise for Boulogne, which was
only eighteen miles further.

This chaise is a strange sort of conveyance, resembling an ill-shaped
chariot, only with the door opening before, instead of the side; three
horses draw it, one between the shafts, and the other two on each side,
on one of which the postillion rides and drives, too. This vehicle will,
upon occasion, go fourscore miles a day; but Mr. Walpole, being in no
hurry, chooses to make easy journeys of it, and we go about six miles an
hour. They are no very graceful steeds, but they go well, and through
roads which they say are bad for France, but to me they seem gravel
walks and bowling greens. In short, it would be the finest travelling in
the world were it not for the inns, which are most terrible places
indeed.

The country we have passed through hitherto has been flat, open, but
agreeably diversified with villages, fields well cultivated, and little
rivers. On every hillock is a windmill, a crucifix, or a Virgin Mary
dressed in flowers and a sarcenet robe; one sees not many people or
carriages on the road; now and then, indeed, you meet a strolling friar,
a countryman, or a woman riding astride on a little ass, with short
petticoats and a great headdress of blue wool.


TO THOMAS ASHTON

_Paris, April, 1739._ Here there are infinite swarms of inhabitants and
more coaches than men. The women in general dress in sacs, flat hoops of
five yards wide, nosegays of artificial flowers on one shoulder, and
faces dyed in scarlet up to the eyes. The men in bags, roll-ups, muffs,
and solitaires.

We had, at first arrival, an inundation of visits pouring in upon us,
for all the English are acquainted, and herd much together, and it is no
easy matter to disengage oneself from them, so that one sees but little
of the French themselves. To be introduced to people of high quality it
is absolutely necessary to be master of the language. There is not a
house where they do not play, nor is any one at all acceptable unless he
does so, too, a professed gamester being the most advantageous character
a man can have at Paris. The abbés and men of learning are of easy
access enough, but few English that travel have knowledge enough to take
any great pleasure in that company.

We are exceedingly unsettled and irresolute; don't know our own minds
for two moments together, and try to bring ourselves to a state of
perfect apathy. In short, I think the greatest evil that could have
happened to us is our liberty, for we are not at all capable to
determine our own actions.


TO HIS MOTHER

_Lyons, October 13, 1739._ We have been to see a famous monastery,
called the Grand Chartreuse, and had no reason to think our time lost.
After having travelled seven days, very slow (for we did not change
horses, it being impossible for a chaise to go post in these roads), we
arrived at a little village among the mountains of Savoy, called
Echelles; from thence we proceeded on horses, who are used to the way,
to the mountain of the Chartreuse. It is six miles to the top; the road
runs winding up it, commonly not six feet broad; on one hand is the
rock, with woods of pine-trees hanging overhead; on the other, a
monstrous precipice, almost perpendicular, at the bottom of which rolls
a torrent, that sometimes is tumbling among the fragments of stone that
have fallen from on high, and sometimes precipitating itself down vast
descents with a noise like thunder, which is made still greater by the
echo from the mountains on each side, concurs to form one of the most
solemn, the most romantic, and the most astonishing scenes I ever
beheld. Add to this the strange views made by the crags and cliffs on
the other hand, the cascades that in many places throw themselves from
the very summit down into the vale and the river below.

This place St. Bruno chose to retire to, and upon its very top founded
the convent, which is the superior of the whole order. When we came
there, the two fathers who are commissioned to entertain strangers (for
the rest must neither speak to one another nor to anyone else) received
us very kindly, and set before us a repast of dried fish, eggs, butter,
and fruits, all excellent in their kind, and extremely neat. They
pressed us to spend the night there, and to stay some days with them;
but this we could not do, so they led us about their house, which is
like a little city, for there are 100 fathers, besides 300 servants,
that make their clothes, grind their corn, press their wine, and do
everything among themselves. The whole is quite orderly and simple;
nothing of finery, but the wonderful decency and the strange situation
more than supply the place of it.


TO THE SAME

_Turin, November 7, 1739_. I am this night arrived here, and have just
set down to rest me after eight days tiresome journey. On the seventh
day we came to Lanebourg, the last town in Savoy; it lies at the foot of
the famous Mount Cenis, which is so situated as to allow no room for any
way but over the very top of it. Here the chaise was forced to be pulled
to pieces, and the baggage and that to be carried by mules. We ourselves
were wrapped up in our furs, and seated upon a sort of matted chair
without legs, which is carried upon poles in the manner of a bier, and
so began to ascend by the help of eight men.

It was six miles to the top, where a plain opens itself about as many
more in breadth, covered perpetually with very deep snow, and in the
midst of that a great lake of unfathomable depth, from whence a river
takes its rise, and tumbles over monstrous rocks quite down the other
side of the mountain. The descent is six miles more, but infinitely more
steep than the going up; and here the men perfectly fly down with you,
stepping from stone to stone with incredible swiftness, in places where
none but they could go three places without falling. The immensity of
the precipices, the roaring of the river and torrents that run into it,
the huge crags covered with ice and snow, and the clouds below you and
about you, are objects it is impossible to conceive without seeing them.
We were but five hours in performing the whole, from which you may judge
of the rapidity of the men's motion.


TO THE SAME

_Rome, April 2, 1740._ The first entrance of Rome is prodigiously
striking. It is by a noble gate, designed by Michael Angelo, and adorned
with statues; this brings you into a large square, in the midst of which
is a large block of granite, and in front you have at one view two
churches of a handsome architecture, and so much alike that they are
called the twins; with three streets, the middle-most of which is one of
the longest in Rome. As high as my expectation was raised, I confess,
the magnificence of this city infinitely surpasses it. You cannot pass
along a street but you have views of some palace, or church, or square,
or fountain, the most picturesque and noble one can imagine.


_III.--The Birth of the "Elegy"_


TO HORACE WALPOLE

_January_, 1747. I am very sorry to hear you treat philosophy and her
followers like a parcel of monks and hermits, and think myself obliged
to vindicate a profession I honour. The first man that ever bore the
name used to say that life was like the Olympic games, where some came
to show the strength and agility of their bodies; others, as the
musicians, orators, poets, and historians, to show their excellence in
those arts; the traders to get money; and the better sort, to enjoy the
spectacle and judge of all these. They did not then run away from
society for fear of its temptations; they passed their days in the midst
of it, conversation was their business; they cultivated the arts of
persuasion, on purpose to show men it was their interest, as well as
their duty, not to be foolish and false and unjust; and that, too, in
many instances with success; which is not very strange, for they showed
by their life that their lessons were not impracticable.


TO THE SAME

_Cambridge, February_ 11, 1751. As you have brought me into a little
sort of distress, you must assist me, I believe, to get out of it as
well as I can. Yesterday I had the misfortune of receiving a letter from
certain gentlemen who have taken the "Magazine of Magazines" into their
hands. They tell me that an "ingenious" poem, called "Reflections in a
Country Church-* yard," has been communicated to them, which they are
printing forthwith; that they are informed that the "excellent" author
of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his "indulgence," but the
"honour" of his correspondence, etc.

As I am not at all disposed to be either so indulgent or so
correspondent as they desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the
honour they would inflict upon me; and therefore am obliged to desire
you would make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less
than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is
most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character. He must
correct the press himself, and print it without any interval between the
stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them; and
the title must be, "Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard." If he would
add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should
like it better.


TO STONEHEWER

_Cambridge, August_ 18, 1758. I am as sorry as you seem to be that our
acquaintance harped so much on the subject of materialism when I saw him
with you in town. That we are indeed mechanical and dependent beings, I
need no other proof than my own feelings; and from the same feelings I
learn with equal conviction that we are not merely such; that there is a
power within that struggles against the force and bias of that
mechanism, commands its motion, and, by frequent practice, reduces it to
that ready obedience which we call "habit"; and all this in conformity
to a preconceived opinion, to that least material of all agents, a
thought.

I have known many in his case who, while they thought they were
conquering an old prejudice, did not perceive they were under the
influence of one far more dangerous; one that furnishes us with a ready
apology for all our worst actions, and opens to us a full licence for
doing whatever we please; and yet these very people were not at all the
more indulgent to other men, as they should have been; their indignation
to such as offended them was nothing mitigated. In short, the truth is,
they wished to be persuaded of that opinion for the sake of its
convenience, but were not so in their heart.


TO HORACE WALPOLE

1760. I am so charmed with the two specimens of Erse poetry
(Macpherson's) that I cannot help giving you the trouble to inquire a
little farther about them.

Is there anything known of the author or authors, and of what antiquity
they are supposed to be? Is there any more to be had of equal beauty, or
at all approaching to it? I have often been told that the poem called
"Hardycanute," which I always admired, and still admire, was the work of
somebody that lived a few years ago. This I do not at all believe,
though it has evidently been retouched in places by some modern hand;
but, however, I am authorised by this report to ask whether the two
poems in question are certainly antique and genuine. I make this inquiry
in quality of an antiquary, and am not otherwise concerned about it;
for, if I were sure that anyone now living in Scotland had written them
to divert himself, and laugh at the credulity of the world, I would
undertake a journey into the Highlands only for the pleasure of seeing
him.

       *       *       *       *       *




ANTONY HAMILTON


Memoirs of the Count de Grammont


     Count Antony Hamilton, soldier, courtier, and author, was born
     at Roscrea, Tipperary, in 1646. His father was George
     Hamilton, grandson of the Duke of Hamilton. At the death of
     Charles I., the Hamilton family took refuge abroad until the
     Restoration, and Antony's boyhood, until his fourteenth year,
     was spent in France. Shortly after their return with the
     Stuart dynasty, the illustrious Count de Grammont, exiled from
     France in 1662, won the affections of Elizabeth, Antony's
     sister, and then with characteristic inconstancy, chose to
     forget her; but he was caught up at Dover by the brothers
     Antony and George, and brought back to fulfil his engagement.
     After James II. had retired from England, Antony Hamilton
     frequented the court of the fallen monarch at Saint-Germain,
     where he died on April 21, 1720. In the "Memoirs of the Count
     de Grammont," first published anonymously in 1713, Hamilton,
     though of British birth, wrote one of the great classics of
     the French language. The spirited wit, the malicious and
     graceful gaiety of these adventures, are perfectly French in
     quality.


_I.--Soldier and Gamester_


Those who read only for their amusement seem to me more reasonable than
those who read only in order to discover errors; and I may say at once
that I write for the former, without troubling myself about the
erudition of the critics. What does chronological order matter, or an
exact narrative, if only this sketch succeeds in giving a perfect
impression of its original?

I write, with something of Plutarch's freedom, a life more amazing than
any which that author has left us; an inimitable character whose
radiance covers faults which it would be vain to dissemble; an
illustrious personality whose vices and virtues are inextricably
interwoven, and seem as rare in their perfect harmony as they are
brilliant in their contrast. In war, in love, at the gaming-table, and
in all the varied circumstances of a long career, Count de Grammont has
been the wonder of his age.

It is not for me to describe him as Bussy and Saint-Evremond have tried
to do; his own words shall tell the pleasant story of sieges and
battles, and of his not less glorious stratagems in love or at play.

Louis XIII. reigned, and Cardinal Richelieu governed the kingdom. Great
men were in command of little armies, and these little armies won great
achievements. The fortunes of powerful houses depended on the minister's
favour. His vast projects were establishing the formidable grandeur of
the France of to-day. But matters of police were a trifle neglected; the
highways were unsafe, and theft went unpunished. Youth, entering on
life, took what part it chose; everyone might be a knight; everyone who
could became a beneficed priest. The sacred and military callings were
not distinguished by their dress, and the Chevalier de Grammont adorned
them both at the siege of Trin.

Many deeds of daring marked this siege of Trin; there had been great
fatigues and many losses. But of boredom, after De Grammont's arrival,
there was never any throughout the army; no more weariness in the
trenches, no more dulness among the generals. Everywhere, this man
sought and carried joy.

Some vainly imitated him; others more wisely sought his friendship.
Among these was Matta, a fellow of infinite frankness, probity, and
naturalness, and of the finest discernment and delicacy. A friendship
was quickly established between the two; they agreed to live together,
sharing expenses, and began to give a series of sumptuous and elegant
banquets, at which they found the cards marvellously profitable. The
chevalier became the fashion, and it was considered bad form to
contravene his taste.

But the greatest prosperity is not always the most lasting. Lavish
expenditure such as theirs begins to be felt when the luck changes, and
the chevalier soon had to call his genius to aid him in maintaining his
honourable reputation. Rejecting Matta's suggestion of retrenchment and
reforms as contrary to the honour of France, Grammont laid before him
the better way. He proposed to invite Count de Caméran, a wealthy and
eager player, to supper on the following evening. Matta objected their
present straits.

"Have you not a grain of imagination?" continued the chevalier. "Order a
supper of the best. He will pay. But listen first to the simple
precautions which I mean to take. You command the Guards, don't you?
Well, have fifteen or twenty men, under your Sergeant Laplace, lying in
some quiet place between here and headquarters."

"Great heavens!" cried Matta. "An ambush? You mean to rob the unhappy
man? I cannot go so far as that!"

"Poor simpleton that you are!" was the reply. "Look fairly at the facts.
There is every appearance that we shall gain his money. The Piedmontese,
such as he is, are honest enough, but are by nature absurdly suspicious.
He commands the cavalry. Well, you are a man who cannot rule your
tongue, and it is ten to one that some of your jests will make him
anxious. If he were to take into his head that he was being cheated,
what might not happen? He usually has eight or ten mounted men attending
him, and we must guard against his natural resentment at losing."

"Give me your hand, dear chevalier," said Matta, "and forgive me for
having doubted you. How wonderful you are! It had never occurred to me
before that a player at the card-table should be backed by a detachment
of infantry outside."

The supper passed most agreeably, Matta drinking more than usual to
stifle some remaining scruples. The chevalier, brilliant as ever, kept
his guest in continual merriment, whom he was soon to make so serious;
and Caméran's ardour was divided between the good cheer on the table and
the play that was to follow. Meanwhile, the trusty Laplace drew up his
men in the darkness.

De Grammont, calling to mind the many deceits that had at various times
been practised upon him, steeled his heart against sentimental weakness;
and Matta, unwilling spectator of violated hospitality, went to sleep in
an easy-chair. Play began for small sums, but rose to higher stakes; and
presently Matta was awakened by the loud indignation of their
unfortunate guest to find the cards flying through the air.

"Play no more, my poor count!" cried Matta, laughing at his transports
of rage. "Don't hope for a change of luck!"

Caméran insisted, however, and Matta was again aroused by a more furious
storm. "Stop playing!" he shouted. "Don't I tell you it is impossible
that you should win? We are cheating you!"

The Chevalier de Grammont, all the more annoyed at this ill-placed jest
because it had a certain appearance of truth, rebuked Matta for his rude
gaiety; but the losing player, reassured by Matta's frankness, refused
to be offended by him, and turned again to deal the cards. Caméran lost
fifteen hundred pistoles and paid them the next morning. Matta, severely
reprimanded for his dangerous impertinence, confessed that a brush
between the opposing forces outside would have been a diverting
conclusion to the evening.


_II.--A Complete Education_


"Tell me the story of your education," said Matta one evening, as the
intimacy of the two friends advanced. "The most trifling particulars of
a life like yours must be well worth knowing. But don't begin with an
enumeration of your ancestors, for I know you are wholly ignorant of
their name and rank."

"What poor jest is that?" replied the count. "Not all the world is as
ignorant as you. It was owing to my father's own choice that he was not
son of King Henry IV. His majesty desired nothing more than to recognise
him, but my treacherous parent was obdurate to the end. Think how the De
Grammonts would have stood if he had only kept to the truth. I see you
laugh, but it's as true as the Gospel.

"But to come to facts. I was sent to college with a view to the Church,
but as I had other views, I profited little. I was so fond of gaming
that my teachers lost their Latin in trying to teach it to me. Old
Brinon, who accompanied me as servant and governor, threatened me with
my mother's anger, but I rarely listened. I left college very much as I
entered it, though they considered that I knew enough for the living
which my brother had procured for me.

"He had just married the niece of the great Richelieu, to whom he wished
to present me. I arrived in Paris, and after enjoying for a few days the
run of the town in order to lose my rusticity, I put on a cassock to
appear at court in a clerical character. But my hair was well powdered
and dressed, my white boots and gilt spurs showed below, and the
cardinal was offended at what he took to be a slight on the tonsure.

"The costume, a compromise between Rome and the army, delighted the
court, but my brother pointed out that the time had come to choose
between them. 'On the one hand,' he said, 'by declaring for the Church
you may have great possessions and a life of idleness; on the other
hand, a soldier's life offers you slender pay, broken arms and legs, the
court's ingratitude, and at length, perhaps, the rank of camp-marshal,
with a glass eye and a wooden leg. Choose.'

"'I very well know,' I replied, 'that these two careers cannot be
compared as regards the comfort and convenience of life; but since it is
our duty to seek salvation first of all, I will renounce the Church that
I may save my soul--always on the understanding that I may keep my
benefice.' Neither my brother's remonstrances nor his authority could
shake my resolution, and I had even to go without my benefice.

"My mother, who hoped that I should be a saint in the Church, but feared
that in the world I should become a devil, or be killed in battle, was
at first inconsolable. But after I had somewhat acquired the manners of
the court and of society she idolised me, and kept me with her as long
as possible. At last the time came for my departure to the war, and the
faithful Brinon undertook to be responsible for my morals and welfare,
as well as for my safety on the field.

"Brinon and I fell out very soon. He had been entrusted with four
hundred pistoles for my charges, and I naturally wanted to have them.
Brinon refused to part with the money, and I was compelled to take it by
force. He made such ado about it I might have been tearing the heart
from his breast. From this point my spirits rose exceedingly.

"At last we reached Lyons. Two soldiers stopped us at the gate to take
us to the governor, and I ordered one of them to guide me to the best
hotel, while the other should take Brinon before the governor to give an
account of my journey and purpose. There is as good entertainment in
Lyons as in Paris, but, as usual, my soldier led me to the house of one
of his friends, praising it as the haunt of the best company. We came
thither, and I was left in the hands of the landlord, who was Swiss by
race, poisoner by profession, and robber by custom.

"Presently Brinon arrived, angrier than an aged monkey, and, finding me
preparing to go down to the company below, assured me that there were
none in the house but a dozen noisy gamblers, playing cards and dice.
But I had become ungovernable since I had secured the money, and sent
him off to sup and sleep, ordering the horses for the hour before dawn.
My money began to tingle in my pocket from the moment when Brinon spoke
of the cards.

"The public room below was crowded with the most astonishing figures. I
had expected well-dressed folk, and here were German and Swiss chapmen
playing backgammon with the manners of cattle. One especially was
pointed out to me by my host as a horse-dealer from Basle, who was
willing to play high, and was always ready to pay his losses. This was
sufficient. I immediately proposed to ruin that horse-dealer. I stood
behind him and studied his play, which was inconceivably bad.

"We dined side by side, and when the worst meal I have ever taken was
finished, everyone disappeared, with the exception of my Swiss and the
landlord. After a little conversation I proposed a game, and,
apologising for the great liberty he was taking, the horse-dealer
consented. I won, and won again. Brinon entered to interrupt us, and I
turned him out of the room. The play continued in my favour until the
little Swiss, having passed over the stakes, apologised again, and would
have retired. That, however, was not what I wanted. I offered to stake
all my winnings in one throw. He made a good deal of difficulty over it,
but at last consented, and won. I was annoyed, and staked again. Again
he won. There was no more bad play now. Throw after throw, without
exception, went in his favour, until all my money was gone. Then he
rose, apologetic as ever, wished me good-night, and left the house. Thus
my education was completed."

"But what did you do then?" Matta inquired.

"Brinon hadn't given me all the money."


_III.--The Restoration Court_


The Chevalier de Grammont had visited England at the time when that
proud nation lay under Cromwell's yoke, and all was sad and serious in
the finest city of the world. But he found a very different scene the
next time he crossed the Channel. The joy of the Restoration was
everywhere. The very people who had solemnly abjured the Stuart line
were feasting and rejoicing on its return.

He arrived about two years after Charles II. had ascended the throne,
and his welcome at the English court mitigated his sorrows at leaving
France. It was indeed a happy retreat for an exile of his character.
Accustomed as he was to the grandeur of the French court, he was
surprised at the refinement and majesty of that of England. The king was
second to none in bodily or in mental graces, his temperament was
agreeable and familiar. Capable of everything when affairs of state were
urgent, he was unable to apply himself in times of ease; his heart was
often the dupe, and oftener still the slave, of his affections. The Duke
of York was of a different character. His courage was reputed
indomitable, his word inviolable, and his economy, pride, and industry
were praised by all.

The Duke of Ormonde enjoyed the confidence and esteem of his royal
master. The magnitude of his services, his high birth and personal
merit, and the sacrifices which he had made in following the fortunes of
Charles II. justified his elevation to be master of the king's
household, first gentleman of the chamber, and governor of Ireland. He
was, so to speak, the Marshal de Grammont of the English court. The Duke
of Buckingham and the Count of St. Albans were in England what they had
been in France; the former, spirited and fiery, dissipating ingloriously
his immense possessions; the other, without notable talent, having risen
from indigence to a considerable fortune, which his losses at play and
abundant hospitality seemed only to increase.

Lord Berkeley, who later became Lord Falmouth, was the king's confidant
and favourite, though a man of no great gifts, either physical or
intellectual; but the native nobility of his mind was shown in an
unprecedented disinterestedness, so that he cared for nothing but the
glory of his master. So true-hearted was he, that no one would have
taken him to be a courtier.

The eldest of the Hamiltons was the best-dressed man at court. He was
handsome, and had those happy talents which lead to fortune and to the
victories of love. He was the most assiduous and polished of courtiers;
no one danced or flirted more gracefully, and these are no small merits
in a court which lives on feasts and gallantry. The handsome Sydney,
less dangerous than he seemed, had too little vivacity to make good the
promise of his features.

Strangely enough, it was on the little Jermyn, nephew and adopted son of
the aged St. Albans, that all good fortunes showered. Backed by his
uncle's wealth, he had made a brave show at the court of the Princess of
Orange, and, as is so often the case, magnificent equipments had made a
way for love. True, he was a courageous and well-bred man, but his
personal attractions were slight; he was small, with a big head and
short legs, and though his features were not disagreeable, his gait and
manner were affected. His wit was limited to a few expressions, which he
used indiscriminately in raillery and in wooing; yet on these poor
advantages was founded a formidable success in gallantry. His reputation
was well established in England before ever he arrived. If a woman's
mind be prepared, the way is open to her heart, and Jermyn found the
ladies of the English court favourably disposed.

Such were the heroes of the court. As for the beauties, one could not
turn without seeing some of them. Those of greatest repute were Lady
Castlemaine (later Duchess of Cleveland), Lady Chesterfield, Lady
Shrewsbury, with a hundred other stars of this shining constellation;
but Miss Hamilton and Miss Stewart outshone them all. The new queen
added but little to its brilliancy, either personally or by the members
of her suite.

Into this society, then, the Chevalier de Grammont entered. He was
familiar with everyone, adapted himself readily to their customs,
enjoyed everything, praised everything, and was delighted to find the
manners of the court neither coarse nor barbarous. With his natural
complacency, instead of the impertinent fastidiousness of which other
foreigners had been guilty, he delighted the whole of England.

At first he paid court to the king, with whom he found favour. He played
high, and rarely lost. He was soon in so much request that his presence
at a dinner or reception had to be secured eight or ten days beforehand.
These unintermitted social duties wearied him, but he acceded to them as
inevitable, keeping himself free, however, for supper at home. The hour
of these exquisite little suppers was irregular, because it depended on
the course of play; the company was small, but well-chosen. The pick of
the courtiers accepted his invitations, and the celebrated
Saint-Evremond, a fellow exile, was always of the party. De Grammont was
his hero, and Saint-Evremond used to make prudent little lectures on his
friend's weakness.

"Here you are," he would say, "in the most agreeable and fortunate
circumstances which a man of your humour could find. You are the delight
of a youthful, lively and gallant court. The king makes you one of every
pleasant party. You play every night to morning, without knowing what it
is to lose. You spend lavishly, but your fortune is multiplying itself
beyond your wildest dreams. My dear Chevalier, leave well alone. Don't
renew your ancient follies. Keep to your gaming; amass money; do not
interfere with love." And De Grammont would laugh at his mentor as the
"Cato of Normandy."


_IV.--The Chevalier's Marriage_


The Hamilton family lived next to court, in a large house where the most
distinguished people in London, and among them the Chevalier de
Grammont, were to be found daily. Everyone agreed that Miss Hamilton
deserved a sincere and worthy attachment; her birth was of the highest
and her charms were universally acknowledged. Her figure was beautiful,
every movement was gracious, and the ladies of the court were led by her
taste in dress and in coiffure. Affecting neither vivacity nor
deliberation in speech, she said as much as was needed, and no more.
After seeing her, the Chevalier wasted no more time elsewhere.

The English court was at this time seething with amorous intrigues, and
the Chevalier and his friends were involved in many a risky adventure.
The days were spent in hunting, the nights in dancing and at play. One
of the most splendid masquerades was devised by the queen herself. In
this spectacle, each dancer was to represent a particular nation; and
you may imagine that the tailors and dressmakers were kept busy for many
days. During these preparations, Miss Hamilton took a fancy to ridicule
two very pushing ladies of the court.

Lady Muskerry, like most great heiresses, was without physical
endowments. She was short, stout, and lame, and her features were
disagreeable; but she was the victim of a passion for dress and for
dancing. The queen, in her kindness to the public, never omitted to make
Lady Muskerry dance at a court ball; but it was impossible to introduce
her into a superb pageant such as the projected masquerade.

To this lady, then, when the queen was sending her invitations, Miss
Hamilton addressed a fac-simile note, commanding her attendance in the
character of a Babylonian; and to another, a Miss Blague, who was
extremely blonde with a most insipid tint, she sent several yards of the
palest yellow ribbon, requesting her to wear it in her hair. The jest,
which succeeded admirably, was characteristic of Miss Hamilton's playful
disposition.

During a season at Tunbridge Wells, and another a Bath, the brilliant
Chevalier, admired by all and more successful than ever at play,
prosecuted his suit. Then, almost all the merry courtier-lovers fell at
once into the bonds of marriage. The beautiful Miss Stewart married the
Duke of Richmond; the invincible little Jermyn fell to a conceited lady
from the provinces; Lord Rochester took a melancholy heiress; George
Hamilton married the lovely Miss Jennings; and, lastly, the Chevalier de
Grammont, as the reward of a constancy which he had never shown before,
and which he has never practised since, became the possessor of the
charming Miss Hamilton.

       *       *       *       *       *




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE


Our Old Home


     On the election of Franklin Pierce as President of the United
     States, Hawthorne was appointed consul at Liverpool, whither
     he sailed in 1853, resigning in 1857 to go to Rome, and
     returning to America four years later. "Our Old Home" is the
     fruit of this period spent in England. It was written at
     Concord, and first appeared serially during 1863 in the
     "Atlantic Monthly." Although "Our Old Home" gave no little
     offence to English readers, nevertheless it exhibits the
     author as keenly observant of their characteristics and life.
     (See FICTION.)


_I.--Consular Experiences_


The Liverpool Consulate of the United States, in my day, was located in
Washington Buildings, in the neighbourhood of some of the oldest docks.
Here in a stifled and dusky chamber I spent wearily four good years of
my existence. Hither came a great variety of visitors, principally
Americans, but including almost every other nationality, especially the
distressed and downfallen ones. All sufferers, or pretended ones, in the
cause of Liberty sought the American Consulate in hopes of bread, and
perhaps to beg a passage to the blessed home of Freedom.

My countrymen seemed chiselled in sharper angles than I had imagined at
home. They often came to the Consulate in parties merely to see how
their public servant was getting on with his duties.

No people on earth have such vagabond habits as ourselves. A young
American will deliberately spend all his resources in an aesthetic
peregrination of Europe. Often their funds held out just long enough to
bring them to the doors of my Consulate. Among these stray Americans I
remember one ragged, patient old man, who soberly affirmed that he had
been wandering about England more than a quarter of a century, doing his
utmost to get home, but never rich enough to pay his passage.

I recollect another queer, stupid, fat-faced individual, a country
shopkeeper from Connecticut, who had come over to England solely to have
an interview with the queen. He had named one of his children for her
majesty, and the other for Prince Albert, and had transmitted
photographs of them to the illustrious godmother, which had been
acknowledged by her secretary. He also had a fantastic notion that he
was rightful heir to a rich English estate. The cause of this particular
insanity lies deep in the Anglo-American heart. We still have an
unspeakable yearning towards England, and I might fill many pages with
instances of this diseased American appetite for English soil. A
respectable-looking woman, exceedingly homely, but decidedly New
Englandish, came to my office with a great bundle of documents,
containing evidences of her indubitable claim to the site on which all
the principal business part of Liverpool has long been situated.

All these matters, however, were quite distinct from the real business
of that great Consulate, which is now woefully fallen off. The technical
details I left to the treatment of two faithful, competent English
subordinates. An American has never time to make himself thoroughly
qualified for a foreign post before the revolution of the political
wheel discards him from his office. For myself, I was not at all the
kind of man to grow into an ideal consul. I never desired to be burdened
with public influence, and the official business was irksome. When my
successor arrived, I drew a long, delightful breath.

These English sketches comprise a few of the things that I took note of,
in many escapes from my consular servitude. Liverpool is a most
convenient point to get away from. I hope that I do not compromise my
American patriotism by acknowledging that in visiting many famous
localities, I was often conscious of a fervent hereditary attachment to
the native soil of our forefathers, and felt it to be our Old Home.


_II.--A Sentimental Experience_


There is a small nest of a place in Leamington which I remember as one
of the cosiest nooks in England. The ordinary stream of life does not
run through this quiet little pool, and few of the inhabitants seem to
be troubled with any outside activities.

Its original nucleus lies in the fiction of a chalybeate well. I know
not if its waters are ever tasted nowadays, but it continues to be a
resort of transient visitors. It lies in pleasant Warwickshire at the
very midmost point of England, surrounded by country seats and castles,
and is the more permanent abode of genteel, unoccupied, not very wealthy
people.

My chief enjoyment there lay in rural walks to places of interest in the
neighbourhood. The high-roads are pleasant, but a fresher interest is to
be found in the footpaths which go wandering from stile to stile, along
hedges and across broad fields, and through wooded parks. These by-paths
admit the wayfarer into the very heart of rural life. Their antiquity
probably exceeds that of the Roman ways; the footsteps of the aboriginal
Britons first wore away the grass, and the natural flow of intercourse
from village to village has kept the track bare ever since. An American
farmer would plough across any such path. Old associations are sure to
be fragrant herbs in English nostrils, but we pull them up as weeds.

I remember such a path, which connects Leamington with the small village
of Lillington. The village consists chiefly of one row of dwellings,
growing together like the cells of a honeycomb, without intervening
gardens, grass-plots, orchards, or shade trees. Beyond the first row
there was another block of small, old cottages with thatched roofs. I
never saw a prettier rural scene. In front of the whole row was a
luxuriant hawthorne hedge, and belonging to each cottage was a little
square of garden ground. The gardens were chock-full of familiar,
bright-coloured flowers. The cottagers evidently loved their little
nests, and kindly nature helped their humble efforts with its flowers,
moss, and lichens.

Not far from these cottages a green lane turned aside to an ideal
country church and churchyard. The tower was low, massive, and crowned
with battlements. We looked into the windows and beheld the dim and
quiet interior, a narrow space, but venerable with the consecration of
many centuries. A well-trodden path led across the churchyard. Time
gnaws an English gravestone with wonderful appetite. And yet this, same
ungenial climate has a lovely way of dealing with certain horizontal
monuments. The unseen seeds of mosses find their way into the lettered
furrows, and are made to germinate by the watery sunshine of the English
sky; and by-and-bye, behold, the complete inscription beautifully
embossed in velvet moss on the marble slab! I found an almost illegible
stone very close to the church, and made out this forlorn verse.

    Poorly lived,
    And poorly died;
    Poorly buried,
    And no one cried.

From Leamington, the road to Warwick is straight and level till it
brings you to an arched bridge over the Avon. Casting our eyes along the
quiet stream through a vista of willows, we behold the grey magnificence
of Warwick Castle. From the bridge the road passes in front of the
Castle Gate, and enters the principal street of Warwick.

Proceeding westward through the town, we find ourselves confronted by a
huge mass of rock, penetrated by a vaulted passage, which may well have
been one of King Cymbeline's gateways; and on the top of the rock sits a
small, old church, communicating with an ancient edifice that
looks down on the street. It presents a venerable specimen of the
timber-and-plaster style of building; the front rises into many gables,
the windows mostly open on hinges; the whole affair looks very old, but
the state of repair is perfect.

On a bench, enjoying the sunshine, and looking into the street, a few
old men are generally to be seen, wrapped in old-fashioned cloaks and
wearing the identical silver badges which the Earl of Leicester gave to
the twelve original Brethren of Leicester's Hospital--a community which
exists to-day under the modes established for it in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth. This sudden cropping-up of an apparently dead and buried
state of society produces a picturesque effect.

The charm of an English scene consists in the rich verdure of the
fields, in the stately wayside trees, and in the old and high
cultivation that has humanised the very sods. To an American there is a
kind of sanctity even in an English turnip-field.

After my first visit to Leamington, I went to Lichfield to see its
beautiful cathedral, and because it was the birthplace of Dr. Johnson,
with whose sturdy English character I became acquainted through the good
offices of Mr. Boswell. As a man, a talker, and a humorist, I knew and
loved him. I might, indeed, have had a wiser friend; the atmosphere in
which he breathed was dense, and he meddled only with the surface of
life. But then, how English!

I know not what rank the cathedral of Lichfield holds among its sister
edifices. To my uninstructed vision it seemed the object best worth
gazing at in the whole world.

Seeking for Johnson's birthplace, I found a tall and thin house, with a
roof rising steep and high. In a corner-room of the basement, where old
Michael Johnson may have sold books, is now what we should call a
dry-goods store. I could get no admittance, and had to console myself
with a sight of the marble figure sitting in the middle of the Square
with his face turned towards the house. A bas-relief on the pedestal
shows Johnson doing penance in the market-place of Uttoxeter for an act
of disobedience to his father, committed fifty years before.

The next day I went to Uttoxeter on a sentimental pilgrimage to see the
very spot where Johnson had stood. How strange it is that tradition
should not have kept in mind the place! How shameful that there should
be no local memorial of this incident, as beautiful and touching a
passage as can be cited out of any human life!


_III.--The English Vanity Fair_


One summer we found a particularly delightful abode in one of the oases
that have grown up on the wide waste of Blackheath. A friend had given
us pilgrims and dusty wayfarers his suburban residence, with all its
conveniences, elegances, and snuggeries, its lawn and its cosy
garden-nooks. I already knew London well, and I found the quiet of my
temporary haven more attractive than anything that the great town could
offer. Our domain was shut in by a brick wall, softened by shrubbery,
and beyond our immediate precincts there was an abundance of foliage.
The effect was wonderfully sylvan and rural; only we could hear the
discordant screech of a railway-train as it reached Blackheath. It gave
a deeper delight to my luxurious idleness that we could contrast it with
the turmoil which I escaped.

Beyond our own gate I often went astray on the great, bare, dreary
common, with a strange and unexpected sense of desert freedom. Once,
about sunset, I had a view of immense London, four or five miles off,
with the vast dome in the midst, and the towers of the Houses of
Parliament rising up into the smoky canopy--a glorious and sombre
picture, but irresistibly attractive.

The frequent trains and steamers to Greenwich have made Blackheath a
playground and breathing-place for Londoners. Passing among these
holiday people, we come to one of the gateways of Greenwich Park; it
admits us from the bare heath into a scene of antique cultivation,
traversed by avenues of trees. On the loftiest of the gentle hills which
diversify the surface of the park is Greenwich Observatory. I used to
regulate my watch by the broad dial-plate against the Observatory wall,
and felt it pleasant to be standing at the very centre of time and
space.

The English character is by no means a lofty one, and yet an observer
has a sense of natural kindness towards them in the lump. They adhere
closer to original simplicity; they love, quarrel, laugh, cry, and turn
their actual selves inside out with greater freedom than Americans would
consider decorous. It was often so with these holiday folk in Greenwich
Park, and I fancy myself to have caught very satisfactory glimpses of
Arcadian life among the cockneys there.

After traversing the park, we come into the neighbourhood of Greenwich
Hospital, an establishment which does more honour to the heart of
England than anything else that I am acquainted with. The hospital
stands close to the town, where, on Easter Monday, it was my good
fortune to behold the festivity known as Greenwich Fair.

I remember little more of it than a confusion of unwashed and shabbily
dressed people, such as we never see in our own country. On our side of
the water every man and woman has a holiday suit. There are few sadder
spectacles than a ragged coat or a soiled gown at a festival.

The unfragrant crowd was exceedingly dense. There were oyster-stands,
stalls of oranges, and booths with gilt gingerbread and toys for the
children. The mob were quiet, civil, and remarkably good-humoured,
making allowance for the national gruffness; there was no riot. What
immensely perplexed me was a sharp, angry sort of rattle sounding in all
quarters, until I discovered that the noise was produced by a little
instrument called "the fun of the fair," which was drawn smartly against
people's backs. The ladies draw their rattles against the young men's
backs, and the young men return the compliment. There were theatrical
booths, fighting men and jugglers, and in the midst of the confusion
little boys very solicitous to brush your boots. The scene reminded me
of Bunyan's description of Vanity Fair.

These Englishmen are certainly a franker and simpler people than
ourselves, from peer to peasant; but it may be that they owe those manly
qualities to a coarser grain in their nature, and that, with a fine one
in ours, we shall ultimately acquire a marble polish of which they are
unsusceptible.

From Greenwich the steamers offer much the most agreeable mode of
getting to London. At least, it might be agreeable except for the soot
from the stove-pipe, the heavy heat of the unsheltered deck, the
spiteful little showers of rain, the inexhaustible throng of passengers,
and the possibility of getting your pocket picked.

A notable group of objects on the bank of the river is an assemblage of
walls, battlements, and turrets, out of the midst of which rises one
great, greyish, square tower, known in English history as the Tower.
Under the base of the rampart we may catch a glimpse of an arched
water-entrance; it is the Traitor's Gate, through which a multitude of
noble and illustrious personages have entered the Tower on their way to
Heaven.

Later, we have a glimpse of the holy Abbey; while that grey, ancestral
pile on the opposite side of the river is Lambeth Palace. We have passed
beneath half a dozen bridges in our course, and now we look back upon
the mass of innumerable roofs, out of which rise steeples, towers,
columns, and the great crowning Dome--look back upon that mystery of the
world's proudest city, amid which a man so longs and loves to be, not,
perhaps, because it contains much that is positively admirable and
enjoyable, but because the world has nothing better.










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