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MORAL AND HUMOROUS

ESSAYS ON IMAGINATION AND TASTE.

BY

JOSEPH ADDISON,

WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.

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MEMOIR OF ADDISON

JosepH ADDISON was born on the Ist of May 1672, at the
Rectory of Milston in Wiltshire, of which his father, the
Rey. Dr Lancelot Addison, was at that time incumbent.
He was so weakly an infant in appearance, that it was
deemed proper to christen him on the day of his birth;
but the forebodings of his parents happily proved un-
founded, and he soon attained to an ordinary degree of
health and strength. He acquired the rudiments of
education under the superintendence of his father, and
subsequently attended the schools of Ambrosebury, Salis-
bury, and Litchfield, to the deanery of which latter city the
able and learned rector of Milston was appointed in 1683.

Young Addison completed his education at Queen’s
College, Oxford ; but before being sent thither, he enj oyed
for a short time the advantage of attending the famous
school of the Chartreux, or Charter-house, and there
formed an acquaintance with Richard Steele, whose name
after-events inseparably linked with his own. At the
period of his entrance to Queen’s College, Addison was
only in his fifteenth year, yet he soon distinguished him-
self among his contemporaries, and chiefly by his skill in
the composition of Latin verse. His productions of this
description were not remarkable merely as being exe-
cuted by a very young man; they gave him a last-
ing and eminent station among the few moderns who
have successfully imitated the poets of Rome. The

“ Battle of the Pigmies,” the “ Puppet-show,” the “ Bowl-°

ing-green,” and the “ Barometer,” are the titles of his
best Latin pieces. In 1689, two years after he entered
the University, Addison was appointed a demy, or one of
those scholars who partake of the founder’s benefaction,
and are eligible in the order of succession to fellowships.
In this position, which he won by his classical displays,
he remained for several consecutive years, cultivating his
mental powers with diligence, and making himself fami-
liar with general literature.

A short copy of complimentary verses addressed to
Dryden, and dated June 2, 1693, seems to have been the
first avowed attempt of Addison in English poetry, and
it was soon afterwards followed by a translation in verse
of the Fourth Georgic of Virgil. Dryden spoke flatter-
ingly of this production, and when he gave his own
version of the Georgics to the public, he prefixed to it a
critical discourse on these poems, which was sent to him
by Addison. In 1694, the subject of our notice produced
an original poem of considerable length, inscribed to
Henry Sacheverell, and containing a critical sketch of
all the preceding poets of Britain. In the closing lines
of this piece, the author alludes to his purpose of enter-
ing the church, which his father was extremely anxious
that he should do. But he himself, though of a serious and
thoughtful temperament, was not particularly disposed
to take orders, and this is in some measure ascribable to
his having already formed views of distinction of a dif
ferent kind. Congreve, the dramatist, had introduced
him to Montague (afterwards Earl of Halifax), who was
at that time Chancellor of Exchequer, and who encou-
raged him to hope for success in the characters of
courtier and politician. Some passages in the poem to
Sacheverell show that Addison knew and could adopt
the tone necessary to obtain such success—the “ wit”
and “humour” of the “noble Montague” being there
liberally lauded, while a still larger measure of praise is
awarded to the “ godlike acts of Nassau”—to wit, King
William. That sovereign, who, fortunately for the fame
of the eulogist, possessed actual merits of no ordinary
kind, bestowed the fitting reward in time, though not
until the poet had sounded a still louder note of com-
mendation, first in an English poem addressed to William
personally, and secondly, in some excellent Latin verses
on the Peace of Ryswick. The first of these composi-
tions, published in 1695, was dedicated to the Lord
Keeper Somers; and the second, issued two years later,
was prefaced by an inscription to the Chancellor Mon-
tague. By the influence of these two distinguished states-
men and patrons of literature, Addison was honoured
with a pension from the crown of £300. He was thus
enabled to gratify a desire for travelling, which he had
long and ardently entertained.

 

AND HIS WRITINGS.

In the latter end of the year 1699, he passed over to
France, where he spent nearly twelve months, and then
proceeded to Italy. Four acts of the tragedy of Cato
(not published for many years afterwards), a poetical
letter to (Montague) Lord Halifax, and a series of
Dialogues on Medals, displaying much learning and
research, were the fruits of his Italian studies. He
returned home in 1702. Swift says that he was compelled
to do so by pecuniary straits, while Tickell asserts that
a government appointment recalled him to Britain. Ifthe
latter statement be correct, the death of King William,
before Addison reached England, produced a change in
the traveller’s prospects. Receiving no employment for
some time from his ministerial friends, he occupied him-
self in drawingup an account of his travels, which was the
first prose work of any consequence that came from his
pen. The description given of the little republic of
San Marino has been, generally thought the most enter-
taining part of this production, and in the sketch cer-
tainly, there may be found a lively foretaste of the
peculiar humour which shone so brightly in later com-
positions of the author. In 1704, the services of Addison
were at length put in requisition by the British govern-
ment, though only ina poetical, not a political, capacity.
The minister, Lord Godolphin, was anxious to have the
recent victory of Blenheim celebrated in fitting verse;
and the task was assigned, through the influence of
Halifax, to the subject of ourmemoir. The result of his
labours was the poem called the “Campaign.” In this
case, as in that of King William’s actions, the theme was
one on which a British poet and patriot might voluntarily
have enlarged with just pride, and therefore the task can
scarcely be termed a venal one, although its performance
was immediately and substantially rewarded by the ap-
pointment of the author to the post of Commissioner of
Appeals. ie

“The Campaign,” like other poetical pieces from the
pen of Mr Addison, was a correct, sensible production,
yet withal but mediocre poetry. It sufficed, however, to
increase his already rising reputation, and his political
friends conferred on him, in succession, various important
public offices. He accompanied Lord Halifax to Hanover
in 1705, in the capacity of secretary, and in the following
year was nominated under-secretary of state. His official
avocations did not prevent him from still dedicating a
portion of his time to poetry, and in 1707, a sort of lyrical
opera from his pen, entitled “ Rosamonc ,” was produced
on the London stage. Though there unfavourably re-
ceived, the piece is easily and elegantly written, and
possesses considerable humour. The next production of
Mr Addison appears to have been a prologue for the
comedy of the Tender Husband, which was inscribed to
him by his old school-fellow of the Chartreux, Richard
(afterwards Sir Richard) Steele, who also acknowledged
himself indebted to Addison for considerable assistance
in its composition. In 1709, Mr Addison went to Ireland
as secretary to the Marquis of Wharton, and received
at the same time the subsidiary office of Keeper of the
Records of Bermingham’s Tower, the salary of which was
augmented to £300, purposely for his benefit. As regarded.
integrity and attention to the duties of office, he was a
meritorious public servant, though in other respects, as
will be noticed afterwards, he formed but an incompetent
man of business. One of the official rules which he pre-
scribed +o himself has been recorded by Swift. Addison
never remitted any of his regular fees on the score of
friendship, and justified his adoption of this practice by
saying, “I may have a hundred friends, each of whom
owes me two guineas; if I relinquish my right to these
monies, I lose two hundred guineas, while no friend gains
more than two; there is therefore no proportion between
the good imparted and_the evil suffered.” During his
friend’s tenure of the Irish secretaryship, Steele com-
menced the publication of the Tatler in London. He at
first desired to write anonymously, but the authorship of
these papers was soon discovered by Addison, who was
much pleased with the idea, and became an important
contributor. His first sketeh appeared in the eighteenth

number (20th May 1709), and consisted of an ironical

 

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2 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR.

account of the great feats of the London news-venders,
who, in their reports on the continental war, took nume-
rous towns that never were taken, and slew hosts that
never were slain. This opening essay exhibits all the fine
humour of his later effusions. He continued to transmit
frequent contributions to the Tatler up nearly till the
period of its discontinuance, which occurred on the 2d of
January 1711. In the preface to the last volume, Steele
most handsomely acknowledges his obligations to the
Irish secretary, whose name, however, he seems not to
have been permitted to mention. After adverting to his
claims upon the aid of his “ nameless ” friend, Steele thus
proceeds; “ This good office he performed with such force
of genius, humour, wit, and learning, that I fared like a
distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour to his
aid; I was undone by my auxiliary ; and when I had
once called him in, I could not subsist without depen-
dence upon him.”

Sir Richard Steele had the entire merit of planning
the Tatler, and, consequently, of originating a novel and
interesting species of literature, intended and calculated
to improve the morals, tastes, and manners of general
society. Mr Addison was no party to the commencement
of the Tatler, and it was brought to a close without his
cognisance; but his share in it was well enough known
to add largely to his reputation, and the work had served
an important purpose, in permitting him to feel his
strength as a prose essayist. He did not allow the newly
discovered faculty to remain long uncultivated. On the
Ist of March 1711, he commenced a new and daily perio-
dical on the plan of the preceding one, giving to it the
now famous name of the Spectator. This sheet was
begun in concert with Steele, and, in the course of time,
the aid of several other literary men was offered and
accepted ; but Addison was the main pillar on which the
Spectator rested, and, fortunately, certain ministerial
changes had occurred in 1710, by which he was deprived
of office, and enabled to devote nearly his whole time to
the production of his exquisite essays. These are of a
varied description, and alike admirable, whether grave,
humorous, or critical. Their tone throughout is didactic,
but such minor breaches of good taste and good breeding
-—such violations of the lesser moralities of life—as the
Spectator proposed to expose and reform, called rather
for the delicate touch of ridicule and irony than for
solemn and severe reprehension; and the writings of
Addison, in his character of public teacher, displayed
precisely that rare union of seriousness and light satirical

wumour which the occasion demanded. The Spectator
was highly popular, and had a daily sale which must be
vegarded as a very large one for the period, averaging,
as it seems to have done, between 1600 and 3000. The
work extended to 555 numbers, of which the last was
published on the 6th of December 1712.

The career of Addison as an essayist, however, was not
yet concluded. The circumstances which had caused
the Spectator to be dropped, were not of a nature to
prevent him from giving his aid to Steele in the conduct
of a new periodical, to which the name of the Guardian
was given, and which was kept up during a considerable
part of the years 1713 and 1714. The subject of our
notice contributed a number of valuable and character-
istic papers to this work, though he exerted himself less
than in the case of the Spectator. In 1713, his reputa-
tion, which now stood very high in the world of letters,
received a large increase by the performance and publi-
cation of his tragedy of Cato. The Whig party, to whom
he had long been politically attached, created a strong
degree of popular excitement respecting this play, which,
previously to its production on the stage, was represented
by them as a piece that was likely to be, in all time coming,
a sort of literary palladium of liberty. When the tragedy
came to be performed, its success was most. brilliant.
Hearing the vic}ent opposition of the Tories, Steele, as he
himself relates, had made an attempt to pack the house
with a prepossessed audience, but he might have spared
himself the trouble. The Whigs applanded every line where
liberty was mentioned, as a covert satire on the Tories :
and the Tories, on the other hand, anxious to show that
they regarded such sentiments as not at all inconsistent
with their own, poured forth stili louder commendations,
‘sheir leader, Bolingbroke, gave to Booth, the personator
of Cato, a present of fifty guineas. All parties, in short,
concurred iz praising the tragedy, and did so for every
possible reason but the one which ought to have guidec

 

their decisions, namely, its qualities as a play. Though
containing many elevated sentiments, nobly and loftily
expressed, Cato is deficient in dramatic interest, and
gives more enjoyment in the closet than in the theatre.
There is in it very little of that individualisation of cha-
racter, and accompanying distinctiveness of language,
which so strongly mark the compositions of our elder
dramatists. ‘The love-scenes in the tragedy, above all,
are most insipid and unattractive. Yet, through the
circumstances alluded to, it was acted thirty-five nights
without intermission. As every rule must have the for-
tifying proof arising from a single exception, so, amid the
general applause bestowed on Cato, one voice was heard
to speak in loud condemnation. John Dennis, the critic,
vas the owner of that voice, and his employment of it
on this occasion drew down upon him the satire of Pope,
who, anxious at the time to gain the favour of Addison,
demolished his assailant in a most laughable pamphlet,
entitled a “ Narrative of the Madness of John Dennis.”

A few political papers in the Whig Examiner, and a
pamphlet ridiculing the French-Commerce Bill, came
from the pen of Addison about this period, and, in 1714,
when the publication of the Guardian ceased, the Spec-
tator was recommenced by its former supporters. The
time, however, was not a favourable one for peaceful
literature, the family of Hanover having just ascended
the throne, and the country being agitated by contending
factions. After extending to other eighty numbers, about
twenty of which were written by Addison, the periodical
was again discontinued, never afterwards to be resumed.
The same cause which drove him from his favourite task
of essay-writing, carried him again into the arena of poli-
tics. ‘The Whigs were restored to power, and he received
successively the offices of clerk to the lords justices, of
Trish secretary, and of a lord of trade. He fully repaid
these obligations, by establishing a paper called the F'ree-
holder, which continued through a series of fifty numbers,
and which materially served to maintain the credit of
the government at this most critical time. It began in
December 1715, and closed in June 1716. The latter
year was signalised by a prominent event of a private
nature in the life of Addison, which was his marriage
with the Dowager Countess of Warwick, a lady to whose
son he had formerly been tutor. Addison had long been
a suitor, it is related, for the hand of the Countess, but
the happiness which he anticipated did not result from
the union. Though by his elevation, in the year following,
to the high office of secretary of state, he was placed in
some measure on an equality of rank with her, his lady
never ceased to regard the man whom she had even
honoured with her hand, and whose intellect was~of so
noble an order, as a being of an inferior nature, and one
whom it was her privilege of birth to command and
overawe.

Addison did not distinguish himself in the post of
secretary of state. He possessed no abilities as 4 public
speaker, and was totally incompetent to the task of
defending the measures of government in the House of
Commons, where he held, of course, a ministerial seat.
Speaking of his own deficiencies, oral and oratorical, he
used to say justly and forcibly, that, with respect to
intellectual wealth, he could “draw bills for a thousand
pounds, though he had not a guinea in his pocket.” Even
the extreme polish of his style as a writer, and his nicety
in the choice and arrangement of words, detracted from
his official and public utility. We are told that when
it fell to him, as clerk to the lords justices, to announce
the death of Queen Anne to the Elector of Hanover, he
was so “ overwhelmed by the greatness of the event, and
so distracted by choice of expression,” that the impatient
lords were compelled to set a common clerk to the task,
and had the dispatch drawn up for them in a few minutes.
Through life the merely mechanical penman boasted of
having done what was too hard for Addison. The latter,
(says Pope) had too “ beautiful an imagination to make
an efficient man of business.” A depressing conscious-
ness of such disabilities caused him to resign his secretary-
ship of state, after holding the office for only one year.
Hie retired upon a pension of £1500,

His ostensible plea for seceding from public life was the
declining state of his health, and for the plea there was
unfortunately but too much countenance in truth. This
mast pleasing of English Moralists had defects in his
cnaracter, for which, at this advanced period of his life,
he began to suffer severely. Like almost all the literaryMEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 3

men of his time, he had contracted an early and strong
propensity for what may be called a tavern life. Pope,
mn alluding to this subject, says that his usual compa-
nions were “Steele, Budgell, Philips, Carey, and Davenant,
[all literary men of some note], and that he used to break-
fast with one or other of them at his lodgingsin St James’s
Place, dine at taverns with them, then to Button’s [a cele-
brated coffee-house], and then to some tavern again to
supper ; and this was the usual round of his life.” These
tavern sittings seldom endured less than “five or six
hours” at a time, and usually extended “far into the
night.” The delicately constituted Pope tells us that he
himself was of the society for about a year, but “ found
it too much” for him; the stronger physical constitution
of Addison enabled him to pass a great part of his life
in this manner, giving only the mornings to composition
and study. The consequence was, that he acquired a
tendency to frequent, if not habitual excesses in wine,
and that his latter years were rendered miserable by the
dropsical and asthmatic symptoms which had been thus
superinduced. This failing is to be ascribed in part to
the unhappy literary habits of the age, and in part to cer-
tain peculiarities in the temperament of the man. Addi-
son, in the words of Pope, loved too well to give
‘¢9, little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause.”

Wearied out by the proud stiffness of official men, or
exhausted by close morning studies, he flew for recrea-
tion to the society of his tavern associates, every one of
whom, Steele (the ablest of them) not excepted, looked
up to him with the deepest veneration. When in their
company only, did he make a full display of his colloquial
accomplishments, which Steele and Pope describe as
altogether unequalled at that day.

In his famous poetical character of Addison, Pope paints
him as one who, “too fond torule alone,” could

<¢ Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,”

‘

and relates an anecdote illustrative of this truth. Gildon,
a, literary skirmisher of the day, published some scanda-
lous falsehoods relative to Pope and his family. From
too good authority, that of Lord Warwick, the injured
poet learnt that Addison had encouraged the libeller in
his attacks, and had given him ten guineas when they
came from the press. Pope took a manful revenge by
writing the very character alluded to, and sending it to
the original, with an open avowal of the reason for its
composition. “ Addison (says Pope) used me very civilly
ever after.” Truth compels us to say that several other
anecdotes of a similar kind, hinging all on the same fail-
ing of literary jealousy, are told of the subject of this
memoir. When on his death-bed, he sent for Gay the
poet, and solemnly, though mysteriously, asked pardon
for certain great injuries which he had done to his visitor,
Gay knew of no evil caused to him by the invalid, but,
on mature after-refiection, concluded that the jealousy
of Addison must have been the secret cause why he had
been so long and so bitterly disappointed in his expec-
tations of court preferment. This was but a conjecture,
yet Pope seems to think it correct.

These were but slight specks, however, on a great
and bright character. The purity and excellence which
shine forth in the writings of Addison, were a reflex of
his own mind and heart in their worthier and better
phases. In the age immediately preceding his, wit and
humour had become the panders to licentiousness and
vice. Addison effected a change in this respect, which
revived the expiring morality of his country, and which
will redound to his honour while that country and its
language exist. He employed wit in the service of truth
and religion, “ restored virtue to its dignity, and taught
innocence not to be ashamed.” As he advanced in years,
the higher features of his character acquired greater pro-
minence ; and with the exception of some time devoted to
the production of one or two political pamphlets, he spent
the most of his latter days in preparing a work on the
Evidences of the Christian Religion. He left it unfinished.
In the commencement of 1719, his health grew more un-
settled, and he prepared himself calmly for his end.
The composure which he attained is made strikingly
apparent by one incident which occurred while he lay
on his death-bed. His step-son, Lord Warwick, was a
youth of dissipated habits. Addison sent for him, and,
on being reverently asked by the Earl what his com-
mands were, replied, “I have sent for you that you

 

may see in what peace a Christian can die.” He soon
after expired, on the 17th of June 1719. One daughter
was the fruit of his marriage, and she, who was of some-
what infirm mind, survived up till the year 1785.

The writings of Addison have been briefly adverted to
in the order of their appearance, and to the list we have
to add the comedy of “ The Drummer,” which appeared.
anonymously, but was assigned to him on the authority
of Steele. It is a piece containing many flashes of wit
and humour, though not possessed, on the whole, of
such qualities as to have secured for it a lasting place
on the stage. The general character of Addison’s com-
positions may now be the subject of a few observations,
conclusive of the memoir. He deserves no high rank,
assuredly, among the poets of his country, and posterity
has instinctively settled the point, by keeping in mind
no single line that he ever wrote, with the exception of
one or two in Cato. His verses are usually correct and
easy, and his sentiments just, but he has none of the
daring brilliancy of imagery and expression which con-
stitutes the charm of some poets, or the calm intensity
of thought and feeling which forms the still deeper
source of interest in others. Allis level and tame. He
must be ever thought respectable as a poet, but no fur-
ther praise can be accorded to him.

Very different is the estimation in which he deserves to
be held as a prose-writer. “ As a describer of life and
manners (says Dr Johnson), he must be allowed to stand
perhaps the FIRST OF THE FIRST RANK. His humour,
which is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to
give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily
occurrences. He never o’ersteps the modesty of nature,
nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth.
He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly
be said to invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much
original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely
the product of imagination. As a teacher of wisdom, he
may be confidently followed. All the enchantment of
fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed
to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care
of pleasing the author of his being. Truth is shown
sometimes as the phantom of a vision, and sometimes
appears half veiled in an allegory; she wears a thousand
dresses, and in all is pleasing. His prose is the model of
the middle style; on grave subjects not formal, on light
occasions not grovelling; always equable and always easy,
without glowing words or pointed sentences. Whoever
wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse,
and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and
nights to the volumes of Addison.” Such a eulogy from
one who stands personally in the first order of British
moralists, and ranks among the greatest masters of Eng-
lish composition, requires no addition from meaner judges.

The present republication of Addison has been under-
taken from several motives. High as his reputation as
an essayist stood during the eighteenth century, it is
unquestionable that his writings, though still to be found
in every collection deserving the name of a library, are
very little, if at all, read by the rising generation of the
present day. This circumstance is no doubt attribut-
able, ina considerable degree, to the great recent increase
of attractive reading for the middle, and indeed for all,
classes of society, but it is also a consequence, to no
slight extent, of the temporary, the merely critical, and,
in some instances, the political character, of the subjects
of many of his papets.
in which his productions are usually mixed up with those
of his various coadjutors and successors, is most vexatious
and repelling. An effort is now made, by the order and
arrangements of the present edition, to restore Addison
to his proper place in popular estimation. Rejecting his
lengthy and minute critical dissertations as not possessed
of sufficient general interest, and excluding in like manner
his disquisitions on contemporary politics and occurrences,
as things neither entertaining at this day nor instructive,
the editors have thrown together, in a commodious form,
all those moral, philosophical, and humorous essays, on
which his fame as a writer has usually been supposed to
have its main dependence; and they would fam hope
that their endeavour will be the means of carrying those
admirable lessons of virtue and religion, those exquisite
sallies of wit and humour, those refined observations on
matters of taste, which charmed our forefathers, into
even the humblest homes of the present, and perhaps of
a succeeding day.

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CONTENTS.
Page Page
Memoir of Addison and his Writings, 1 | On Zeal, - 2 < Z = 1 Hope, i ' ; : i
Arguments for being a Christian, 72 | Advice Seekers, - - - _ 135
CoNTRIBUTIONS TO THE TATLUER. Temperance in Diet, - . 73 | Method, 2 é " : 135
“On ee ee ' teathen fa bt Devotion, -— 4 pee Bee oy : ~
The Passion of Love, - = - 7 & ee aaa 9 es “4 sputation,  - Feet ‘
Scheme of Existence, - - - 7 PET Rebs “ as ae 76 M isinterpretation of Afflictions, 138
Allegory on the Scheme of Existence, 8 | yy, wridly EL ; 7 Gan10Ms 0 pes oe” : : - 139
New Distribution of Honours: a Vision, 9 |...) ON OUrs, 4 fe | Tee Ocean an Object of Grandeur, 140
The Vision continued a e 10 Viscretion, 5 = & = /8 | Affectation of Gloominess, - 140
ee bs ’ Methods of Debating, - - - 79 | Conjugal Affection - - ~
Family Losses, - - - - 1] A. Virtuous Mind a z : A i aa ois LION; 141
_ Grief, e 3 2 i . 12 roe a 7 ’ nO 1€ Married Life, i ~ se 149
“ Works of Creation, mie ae 1S eee Oe ee ek gut wie Looking into ¥ uturity, 5 + oa
Human Life: a Vision, -  - a. | ava oF Mine uence a:  <\7 ShsPrevalence of Party Lying, — - 144
Vision concluded, ce 15 | “Ove of Hame—concluded, ~ - ‘2 83 | Market for Wives, <Oh nem ee 144
Silence . a » e o 16 Marriage, = Bk vn = , 84 | Method of Giving Counsel, - 145
iA Vepory; : . f é 17 Sir Roger de Coverley’s Visit to Town, 84 | Serious Thoughts in Sickness, ~ 146
Homer’s Account of a Future Life, 18 ee 2 7 Pe ae age t Mie ate Death of Sir Roger de Coverley, 147
Virgil’s Account of a Future Life, 19 | he tadteceee nee iy 86 Vai RetIpS eae Animal Existence, 148
Political Upholsterer, rf 9] ae ea ut ee ee ain, - o/ Liter ary E recedence, ~ - 149
Tom Folio, - i 2 - x 99 ie ey Pp aed i ie 2 - - 88 Marriage of Will Honeycomb, = 149
Temper, - = S : C 23 nee as nue and Imprudence, - 8° The Supreme Being, 5 c 150)
The Tip Mania ee dee a a) BON A Obits Open, re i
Religions:~ = : x i 24 Bs x = sate Rig i a 5 a a A Necessary Quality in Conversation, 152
: Prayer of Bacon, - 4 ° = 26 Fea egi ee oe cademy, ~- ee Beneficence of the Creator, - 153
$ Pied Pade Na ohm a Retiring from Business, o Gln meet
_. CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE SPECTATOR. Oe Uae ve . wr'| Insincerity in Speaking, - | « 155
; oe : 5 Journal of a W oman of Fashion, J5 | The Mountain of Miseries, ~ 155
: ee ped ae z Hie osu Cog Visit to West- : ‘The Mountain of Miseries—concluded, 156
¥ — > = JU uQ sm, - = = ~ = i=
fee A Oo ee 29 Sir Roger de Coverley at the Theatre, 97 | The Works of Creation, -  - ra
i cting the Lion, - = = = 30 | Transmigration of Souls, - - 98 | Satir ands ; Tue
4 er dhed. Professions: dae bY) dno Dike ied Oe ‘Death. tide 5 2 is . on Heeaniolons mote of os rit- ee
Pa j#®lander, - - ~ - 31 | Unjust Reproaches, - ~ - 100 | The Over-Wise, - = = ¥ 169
iS The Valetudinarian, ” - 32 | On Cat-Calls, ss Z os E 100 | On Drunkenness ? { . 160
+: Westminster Abbey, - ; 2 33 | A Humorist,  - - ~ - 101 | Pious Dependence on the Deity 161
Characters at the Club, - ~ 34 | Love’s Bill of Mortality, - ~ 102 | Reasons for Feeling Happy pte 5 ee
‘ Leonora, ae - - - 30 | Cheerfulness as a Moral Habit of the Living for Eternity a f - 163
: Foreign Fashions, - -  - 86). Ivara: ee ie 103 | Danger in Singularity : 163
i Friends, - - - - - 3/ | Sir Roger de Coverley at Vauxhall, 104 Contemplation of the Glories f .
yi The Empire of Trade, = - 37 | Motives for Cheerfulness, - = 105 Heaven, iE Pee i oy 164
i = ao. ooo - i ~ & ee and Unreasonable Supplica- ‘a ai Itch ne Writing, - < 165
Party Patches, = . ~ = 40 | Moral Improvement from the Con- eniondeafiod eine dives * bE ce
Scattered Literary Fragments, - 4] templation of Nature, ea 10741 Goa, es y os e a
eee y: pare = = = = 2 Eloquence in Affliction, ~- - 107 | ‘‘ Be Serious,” s S a |
mpioyment or Lime, : = 42 | Varieties in Hypocrisy - = iness i j a
Employment of Time—concluded, 43 | Difference of heehee dh differen et i nee an Barbe eter: a =o
Ladies’ Head-Dress, ee 44) partsofLondon, - a : 109 CONTRIBUTIONS To THE GUARDIAN
Notionsof Honour, - - - 45 | The Poetry and Music of Holy Writ, 110 | Rewards for National Servi fe
ensure, - = - 5 - 46 | Gesture in Oratory, - - “ lll | Justice, - = oe ne D L
The Fan Mania, a 47 | On Taste, ee a ee 111 Immodesty in Female Dressing. a Z
« Pedantry, “ - 5 = - 48 | On the Imagination—First Essay, 112 | On Climate and Dress coe noe
_ Sir Roger de Coverley’s Country Resi- On the Imagination—Second Essay, 113 Acquisition of Knowledge : : ee
dence and Friends, a 48 | On the Imagination—Third Essay, 114 | Livine in the Fear of God. : a
Immortality of the Soul, = - 51 | On the Imagination—Fourth Essay, 115] A Good Conscience ie : a
j4eSunday at Sir Roger de Coverley’s, 52] On the Imagination—Fifth Essay, 116 | Foolish Pride of Ancestr as ' io
Bodily Labour, ee 52 | On the Imagination—Sixth Essay, 117 | Pride ap eeuaae gree
Nitcheraft—At Sir Roger de Co- On the Imagination—Seventh Essay, 118 Cultivation of the Female Mj 1 ie
verley’s, . - x 2 - 53 | On the Imagination—Fighth Essay, 119 | Contemplation of an A nt il, * Hee
y Good Breeding, - ~ - 54 | On the Imagination—N inth Essay, 120 | Contemplation of Ces {Hill : a
Speculations on Instinct, : : 55 | On the Imagination—Tenth Essay, 121 cluded : 8 Pe Pe
The subject of Instinct concluded, 56 | On the Imagination—Eleventh Essay, 121 | <* What have T been Boney? ae
Sir Roger de Coverley at the Assizes, 57 | The Male and Female W orld P19 | 4 Lady’s Reverses in Lif ey ‘ ee
Leontine and Eudoxus, = = 58 | The Republic of ‘Women, Ae 123 | A Sense of Honour 2 : che
ae Bn (ee 7 09.) Fantastic Female Mantierm, = 4 jor Complaisance, os ep 188
arty fiumours, _ = - 60 | Tale-Bearin - “ <i ‘ Vx Sao A eae
ir Roger de Coverley and the Gipsies, 61 Hel ilownas ot Man, - ~ - os ee Cee ae
Proposal to leave the Country, = - 62 | Influence of Custom, - - 126 eek oo
Vision of Mirza, Soe 62 | Detestableness of Defamation, - 127 | CONTRIBUTIONS To THE FREEHOLDER
Inconstancy of Character, - - 64] A Thirst for News. - 66234 128 | Love of Country, ’ ee
Consolation in Afflictions, - 64 | Gratitude to the Supreme Being 129 | Address to the eee a
Constantia and Theodosius, - - 651] False Modesty, - Z Leste 130 | On Atthosorart A eke : 187
Good Nature as an Effect of Consti- ‘Principles of Religious Faith, - 131 | On Mirthfulness Ne 2 ao
- tution, ES eee 67 | Rhe Golden Meany. <4 2). 45) ion Bemus ne eS A
ealousy, - e = > - 67 | Reasons for a fixedness i igi Nox-E x
Good Nature as a Moral Virtue, 69 Faith, - oa ie ec arse sly 132 ane ee as tir ‘ 5 191
Harshnessin Parents, - - 70 | {Conduct in Placesof Trust,- - 1: ee eee. 193
2 33 | The Fox-Hunter—concluded, 193a

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS OF ADDISON.

 

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE TATLER.*

ON IMMORTALITY.

TERE are two kinds of immortality ; that which the
soul really enjoys after this life, and that ima ginary eX-
istence by which men live in their fame and reputation.
The best and greatest actions have proceeded from the
prospect of the one or the other of these; but my de-
sign is to treat only of those who have chiefly proposed
to themselves the latter as the principal reward of their
labours. It was for this reason that I excluded from
my tables of fame all the great founders and votaries of
religion, and it is for this reason also that IJ am more
than ordinarily anxious to do justice to the persons of
whom I am now going to speak; for since fame was
the only end of all their enterprises and studies, a man
eannot be too scrupulous in allotting them their due
proportion of it. It was this consideration which made
me call the whole body of the learned to my assistance ;
to many of whom I must own my obligations for the
catalogues of illustrious persons which they have sent
me in upon this occasion. I yesterday employed the
whole afternoon in comparing them with each other,
which made so strong an impression upon my imagi-
nation, that they broke my sleep for the first part of
the following night, and at length threw me into a very
agreeable vision, which I shall beg leave to describe in
all its particulars.

I dreamed that I was conveyed into a wide and
boundless plain, that was covered with prodigious mul-
titudes of people which no man could number. In the
midst of it there stood a mountain, with its head above
the clouds. The sides were extremely steep, and of
such a particular structure, that no creature which was
not made in a human figure could possibly ascend it.
On a sudden there was heard from the top of it a sound
like that of a trumpet, but so exceeding sweet and har-
monious, that it filled the hearts of those who heard it
with raptures, and gave such high and delightful sen-
sations as seemed to animate and raise human nature
above itself. This made me very much amazed to find
so very few in that innumerable multitude who had ears
fine enough to hear or relish this music with pleasure:
but my wonder abated, when, upon looking around me,
T saw most of them attentive to three syrens, clothed
like goddesses, and distinguished by the names of Sloth,
Ignorance, and Pleasure. They were seated on three
rocks, amidst a beautiful variety of groves, meadows,
and rivulets, that lay on the borders of the mountain.
While the base and grovelling multitude of different
nations, ranks, and ages, were listening to these delu-
sive deities, those of a more erect aspect and exalted
spirit separated themselves from the rest, and marched
in great bodies towards the mountain from whence
they heard the sound, which still grew sweeter the more
they listened to it.

On a sudden, methought, this select band sprang for-
ward, with a resolution to climb the ascent, and follow
the call of that heavenly music. Every one took some-

* [The TatiER—the first series of periodical essays which
reached classical excellence in England — was commenced,
April 12, 1709, by Sir Richard Steele, and concluded, January 2,
1711. About six weeks after the work was started, Addison
began to contribute toit, and thus laid the foundation of his fame
as an essayist. |

 

 

thing with him that he thought might be of assistance
to him in his march. Several had their swords drawn,
some carried rolls of paper in their hands, some had
compasses, others quadrants, others telescopes, and
others pencils. Some had laurels on their heads, and
others buskins on their legs; in short, there was scarce
any instrument of a mechanic art or liberal science
which was not made use of on this occasion. My good
demon, who stood at my right hand during the course
of this whole vision, observing in me a burning desire
to join that glorious company, told me, he highly ap-
proved that generous ardour with which I seemed
transported ; but at the same time advised me to cover
my face with a mask all the while I was to labour on
the ascent. I took his counsel, without inquiring into
his reasons. The whole body now broke into different
parties, and began to climb the precipice by ten thousand
different paths. Several got into little alleys, which
did not reach far up the hill, before they ended, and led
no farther; and I observed, that most of the artizans,
which considerably diminished our number, fell into
these paths.

We left another considerable body of adventurers
behind us, who thought they had discovered byeways
up the hill, which proved so very intricate and per-
plexed, that, after having advanced in them a little,
they were quite lost among the several turns and wind-
ings; and though they were as active as any in their
motions, they made but little progress in the ascent.
These, as my guide informed me, were men of subile
tempers and puzzled politics, who would supply the
place of real wisdom with cunning and artifice. Among
those who were far advanced in their way, there were
some that by one false step fell backward, and lost mor
ground in a moment than they had gamed for many
hours, or could be ever able to recover. We were now
advanced very high, and observed that all the different
paths which ran about the sides of the mountain began
to meet in two great roads, which insensibly gathered
the whole multitude of travellers into two great bodies.
At a little distance from the entrance of each road there
stood a hideous phantom that opposed our farther pas-
sage. One of these apparitions had his right hand filled
with darts, which he brandished in the face of all who
came up that way. Crowds ran back at the appearance
of it, and cried out, Death! The spectre that guarded
the other road was Envy. She was not armed with
weapons of destruction like the former ; but by dread-
ful hissings, noises of reproach, anda horrid distracted
laughter, she appeared more frightful than Death itself,
insomuch, that abundance of our company were dis-
couraged from passing any farther, and some appeared
ashamed of having come so far. As for myself, I must
confess my heart shrank within me at the sight of these
ghastly appearances ; but, ona sudden, the voice of the
trumpet came more full upon us, so that we felt a new
resolution reviving in us; and in proportion as this re-
solution grew, the terrors before us seemed to vanish.
Most of the company, who had swords in their hands,
marched on with great spirit and an air of defiance,
up the road that was commanded by Death ; while others,
who had thought and contemplation in their looks, went
forward in a more composed manner up the road pos-
sessed by Envy. The way above these apparitions grewer ore Ly

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smooth and uniform, and was so delightful, that the
travellers went on with pleasure, and in a little time
arrived at the top of the mountain. They here began
to breathe a delicious kind of ether, and saw all the
fields about them covered with a kind of purple light,
that made them reflect with satisfaction on their past
toils, and diffused a secret joy through the whole as-
sembly, which showed itself in every look and feature.
In the midst of these-happy fields there stood a palace
oi a very glorious structure. It had four great folding-
doors, that faced the four several quarters of the world.
On the top of it was enthroned the goddess of the moun-
tain, who smiled upon her votaries, and sounded the
silver trumpet which had called them up, and cheered
them in their passage to her palace. ‘They had now
formed themselves into several divisions; a band of
historians taking their stations at each door, according
to the persons whom they were to introduce.

Ona sudden, the trumpet, which had hitherto sounded
only a march, or a point of war, now swelled all its
notes into triumph and exultation. The whole fabric
shook, and the doors few open. The first who stepped
forward was a beautiful and blooming hero, and, as I
heard by the murmurs round me, Alexander the Great.
He was conducted by a crowd of historians. The per-
son who immediately walked before him was remark-
able for an embroidered garment, who, not being well
acquainted with the place, was conducting him to an
apartment appointed for the reception of fabulous heroes.
The name of this false guide was Quintus Curtius. But
Arrian and Plutarch, who knew better the avenues of
this palace, conducted him into the great hall, and placed
him at the upper end of the first table. My good demon,
that I might see the whole ceremony, conveyed me to a
corner of this room, where I might perceive all that
passed, without being seen myself. ‘The next who en-
tered was a charming virgin, leading in a venerable old
man that was blind. Under her left arm slie bore a
harp, and on her head a garland. Alexander, who was
very well acquainted with Homer, stood up at his en-
trance, and placed him on his right hand. The virgin,
who it seems was one of the nine sisters that attended
on the goddess of Fame, smiled with an ineffable grace
at their meeting, and retired.

Julius Ceesar was now coming forward ; and though
most of the historians offered their service to introduce
him, he left them at the door, and would have no con-
ductor but himself.

The next who advanced was a man of a homely but
cheerful aspect, and attended by persons of greater
figure than any that appeared on this occasion. Plato
was on his right hand, and Xenophon on his left. He
bowed to Homer, and sat down by him. It was ex-
pected that Plato would himself have taken a place
next to his master Socrates; but on a sudden there
was heard a great clamour of disputants at the door,
who appeared with Aristotle at the head of them. ‘That

philosopher, with some rudeness, but great strength of

reason, convinced the whole table that a title to the
fifth place was his due, and took it accordingly.

He had searce sat down, when the same beautiful
virgin that had introduced Homer brought in another,
who hung back at the entrance, and would have ex-
cused himself, had not his modesty been overcome by
the invitation of all who sat at the table. His guide
and behaviour made me easily conclude it was Virgil.
Cicero next appeared, and took his place. He had
inquired at the door for one Lucceius to introduce
him, but not finding him there, he contented himself
with the attendance of many other writers, who all,
except Sallust, appeared highly pleased with the office.

We waited some time in expectation of the next
worthy, who came in with a great retinue of historians,
whose names I could not learn, most of them being
natives of Carthage. The person thus conducted, who
was Hannibal, seemed much disturbed, and could not
forbear complaining to the board of the affronts he had
met with among the Roman historians, “whoattempted,”
says he, “ to carry me into the subterraneous apart-

 

ment, and perhaps would have done it, had it not been
for the impartiality of this gentleman,’ pointing to
Polybius, “ who was the only person, except my own
countrymen, that was willing to conduct me hither.”

The Carthaginian took his seat,and Pompey entered
with great dignity in his own person, and preeeded by
several historians. Lucan the poet was at the head of
them, who, observing Homer and Virgil at the table,
was going to sit down himself, had not the latter whis-
pered him, that whatever pretence he might otherwise
have had, he forfeited his claim to it by coming in as
one of the historians. Lucan was so exasperated with
the repulse, that he muttered something to himself,
and was heard to say, “ That since he could not have a
seat among them himself, he would bring in one who
alone had more merit than their whole assembly :”
upon which he went to the door, and brought in Cato
of Utica. That great man approached the company
with such an air, that showed he contemned the honour
which he had laid a claim to. Observing the seat oppo-
site to Ceesar was vacant, he took possession of it, and
spoke two or three smart sentences upon the nature of
precedency, which, according to him, consisted not in
place but in intrinsie merit ; to which he added, “ That
the most virtuous man, wherever he was seated, was
always at the upper end of the table.” Socrates, who
had a great spirit of raillery with his wisdom, could not
forbear smiling at a virtue which took so little pains to
make itself agreeable. Cicero took the occasion to
make a long discourse in praise of Cato, which he uttered
with much vehemence. Czesar answered him with a
great deal of seeming temper; but, as I stood at a great
distance from them, I was not able to hear one word
of what theysaid. But I could not forbear taking notice,
that in all the discourse which passed at the table, a
word or nod from Homer decided the controversy.

After a short pause, Augustus appeared, looking
round him with a serene and affable countenance upon
all the writers of his age, who strove among themselves
which of them should show him the greatest marks of
gratitude and respect. Virgil rose from the table to
meet him; and though he was an acceptable guest to
all, he appeared more such to the learned than the
military worthies.

The next man astonished the whole table with his
appearance. He was slow, solemn, and silent in his
behaviour, and wore a raiment curiously wrought with
hieroglyphics. As he came into the middle of the room,
he threw back the skirt of it, and discovered a golden
thigh. Socrates, at the sight of it, declared against
keeping company with any who were not made of flesh
and blood; and, therefore, desired Diogenes the Laer-
tian to lead him to the apartment allotted for fabulous
heroes, and worthies of dubious existence. At his going
out, he told them, “ That they did not know whom they
dismissed; that he was now Pythagoras, the first of
philosophers, and that formerly he had been a very
brave man at the siege of Troy.” “ That may be very
true,” said Socrates; “ but you forget that you have
likewise been a very great harlot in your time.” This
exclusion made way for Archimedes, who came forward
with a scheme of mathematical figures in his hand,
among which I observed a cone and a cylinder.

Seeing this table full, I desired my guide, for variety,
to lead me to the fabulous apartment, the roof of which
was painted with gorgons, chimzeras, and centaurs, .
with many other emblematical figures, which I wanted
both time and skill to unriddle. The first table was
almost full: at the upper end sat Hercules, leaning an
arm upon his club; on his right hand were Achilles
and Ulysses, and between them Aineas; on his left
were Hector, Theseus, and Jason: the lower end had
Orpheus, Alsop, Phalaris, and Museeus. The ushers
seemed at a loss for a twelfth man, when, methought,
to my great joy and surprise, I heard some at the lower
end of the table mention Isaac Bickerstaff ; but those
of the upper end received it with disdain, and said, “ If
they must have a British worthy, they would have
Robin Hood.”; ee ee Fe

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. Z

While I was transported with the honour that was
done me, and burning with envy against my competi-
tor, 1 was awakened by the noise of the cannon which
were then fired for the taking of Mons. I should have
been very much troubled at being thrown out of so
pleasing a vision on any other occasion, but thought it
an agreeable change to have my thoughts diverted from
the greatest among the dead and fabulous heroes to
the most famous among the real and the living.

wrasse.

THE PASSION OF LOVE.

 

ae

\Tur passion of love happened to be the subject of

discourse between two or three of us at the table of the
poets this evening ; and among other observations it
wasremarked, “That the same sentiment on this passion
had run through all languages and nations.” Memmius,
who has a very good taste, fell into a little sort of dis-
sertation on this oceasion. “It is,” said he, “remarkable
that no passion has been treated, by all who have
touched upon it, with the same bent of design but this.
The poets, the moralists, the painters, in all their de-
scriptions, allegories, and pictures, have represented it
as a soft torment, a bitter sweet, a pleasing pain, or an
agreeable distress ; and have only expressed the same
thought in a different manner.”

The joining of pleasure and pain together in such
devices, seems to me the only pointed thought I ever
read which is natural; and it must have proceeded from
its being the universal sense and experience of mankind,
that they have all spoken of it in the same manner. I
have, in my own reading, remarked a hundred and three
epigrams, fifty odes, and ninety-one sentences, tending
to this sole_ purpose.

It is certain there is no other passion which does
produce such contrary effects in so great a degree. But
this may be said for love, that if you strike it out of the
soul, life would be insipid, and our being but half ani-
mated. Human nature would sink into deadness and
lethargy, if not quickened with some active principle ;
and as for all others, whether ambition, envy, or avarice,
which are apt to possess the mind in the absence of
this passion, it must be allowed that they have greater
pains, without the compensation of such exquisite plea-
sures as those we find in love. The great skill is to
heighten the satisfactions and deaden the sorrows of
it; which has been the end of many of my labours, and
shall continue to be so, for the service of the world in
general, and in particular of the fair sex, who are
always the best or the worst part of it. It is pity that
a passion which has in it a capacity of making life
happy, should not be cultivated to the utmost advantage.
Reason, prudence, and good nature, rightly applied, can
thoroughly accomplish this great end, provided they
have always a real and constant love to work upon. But
this subject I shall treat more at large im the history of
my married sister, and in the mean time shall conclude
my reflection on the pains and pleasures which attend
this passion, with one of the finest allegories which I
think I have ever read. It is invented by the divine
Plato, and, to show the opinion he himself had of it,
ascribed by him to his admired Socrates, whom he
represents as discoursing with his friends, and giving
the history of Love in the following manner :—

“ At the birth of Beauty,” says he, “there was a great
feast made, and many guestsinvited. Among the rest,
was the god Plenty, who was the son of the goddess
Prudence, and inherited many of his mother’s virtues.
After a full entertainment, he retired into the garden
of Jupiter, which was hung with a great variety of am-
brosial fruits, and seems to have been a very proper
retreat for sucha guest. In the mean time, an unhappy
female called Poverty, having heard of this great feast,
repaired to it, in hopes of finding relief. The first place
she lights upon was Jupiter’s garden, which generally
stands open to people of all conditions. Poverty enters,
and by chance finds the god Plenty asleep Lnaibs

* - 5 The world was very

 

much in suspense upon the occasion, and could not
image to themselves what would be the nature of an
infant that was to have its original from two such parents.
At the last, the child appears ; and who should it he
but Love? This infant grew up, and proved in all his
behaviour, what he really was, a compound of opposite
beings. As he is the son of Plenty, who was the off-
spring of Prudence, he is subtle, intriguing, full of
stratagems and devices ; as the son of Poverty, he is
fawning, begging, serenading, delighting to lie at a
threshold, or beneath a window. By the father, he is
audacious, full of hopes, conscious of merit, and there-
fore quick of resentment. By the mother, he is doubt-
ful, timorous, mean-spirited, fearful of offending, and
abject in submissions. In the same hour you may see
him transported with raptures, talking of immortal
pleasures, and appearing satisfied as a god ; and imme-
diately after, as the mortal mother prevails in his com-
position, you behold him pining, languishing, despairing,
dying.”

I have been always wonderfully delighted with fables,
allegories, and the like inventions, which the politest
and the best instructors of mankind have always made
use of. They take off from the severity of instruction,

nd enforce it at the same time that they conceal it.

The supposing Love to be conceived immediately after
the birth of Beauty, the parentage of Plenty, and the
inconsistency of this passion with itself so naturally
derived to it, are great master-strokes in this fable ;
and if they fell into good hands, might furnish out a
more pleasing canto than any in Spenser.

PPIOLIAOL

 

ae

SCHEME OF EXISTENCE.

Ir has cost me very much care and thought to marshal
and fix the people under their proper denominations,
and to range them according to their respective cha-
racters. These my endeavours have been received
with unexpected success in one kind, but neglected in
another: for though I have many readers, I have but
few converts. This must certainly proceed from a
false opinion, that what I write is designed rather to
amuse and entertain than convince and instruct. IL
entered upon my essays with a declaration that I should
consider mankind in quite another manner than they
had hitherto been represented to the ordinary world ;
and asserted, that none but a useful life should be,
with me, any life at all. But lest this doctrine should
have made this small progress towards the conviction
of mankind, because it may have appeared to the un-
learned light and whimsical, I must take leave to unfold
the wisdom and antiquity of my first proposition in
these my essays, to wit, that “ every worthless man is
a dead man.” ‘This notion is as old as Pythagoras, in
whose school it was a point of discipline, that if among
the akoustikoi, or probationers, there were any who
grew weary of studying to be useful, and returned to
an idle life, they were to regard them as dead; and,
upon their departing, to perform their obsequies, and
raise them tombs with inscriptions to warn others of
the like mortality, and quicken them to resolutions of
refining their souls above that wretched state, It is
upon a like supposition that young ladies, at this very
time, in Roman Catholic countries, are received into
some nunneries with their coffins, and with the pomp
of a formal funeral, to signify that henceforth they are
to be of no further use, and consequently dead. Nor
was Pythagoras himself the first author of this symbol,
with whom, and with the Hebrews, it was generally
reecived. Much more might be offered in illustration
of this doctrine from sacred authority, which I recom-
mend to my reader’s own reflection; who will easily
recollect, from places which I do not think fit to quote
here, the forcible manner of applying the words dead
and living, to men as they are good or bad.

I have, therefore, composed the following scheme of
existence for the benefit both of the living and the dead,
though chiefly for the latter, whom I must desire to

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lio enemas tags oeOE

3 ADDISON'S

read it with all possible attention. In the number of
the dead I comprehend all persons, of what title or
dignity soever, who bestow most of their time in eating
and drinking, to support that imaginary existence of
theirs which they call Life; or in dressing and adorn-
ing those shadows and apparitions which are looked
upon by the vulgar as real men and women. In short,
whoever resides in the world without having any busi-
ness in it, and passes away an age without ever think-
ing on the errand for which he was sent hither, is to
me a dead man to all intents and purposes ; and I desire
that he may be so reputed. The living are only those
that are some way or other laudably employed in the
improvement of their own minds, or for the advantage
of others ; and even amongst these, I shall only reckon
into their lives that part of their time which has been
spent in the manner above mentioned. By these means,
I am afraid, we shall find the longest lives not to con-
sist of many months, and the greatest part of the earth
to be quite unpeopled. According to this system, we
may observe that some men are born at twenty years
of age, some at thirty, some at threescore, and some
not above an hour before they die: nay, we may observe
multitudes that die without being born, as well as many
dead persons that fill up the bulk of mankind, and make
a better figure in the eyes of the ignorant, than those
who are alive and in their proper and full state of health.
However, since there may be many good subjects that
pay their taxes, and live peaceably in their habitations,
who are not yet born, or have departed this life several
years since, my design is, to encourage both to join
themselves as soon as possible to the number of the
living. For as I invite the former to break forth into
being, and become good for something, so I allow the
latter a state of resuscitation ; which I chiefly mention
for the sake of a person who has lately published an
advertisement, with several scurrilous terms in it, that
do by no means become a dead man to give: it is my
departed friend John Partridge, who concludes the
advertisement of his next year’s almanack with the
following note :—

“ Whereas it has been industriously given out by
Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire, and others, to prevent the
sale of this year’s almanack, that John Partridge is
dead ; this may inform all his loving countrymen, that
he is still living in health, and they are knaves that
reported it otherwise. J. Pe

PAAPIRAIAPAAAE PODER

ALLEGORY ON THE SCHEME OF EXISTENCE.

Havine swept away prodigious multitudes in my last
paper, and brought a great destruction upon my own
species, I must endeavour in this to raise fresh recruits,
and, if possible, to supply the places of the unborn and
the deceased. It is said of Xerxes, that when he stood
upon a hill, and saw the whole country round him
covered with his army, he burst out into tears to think
that not one of that multitude would be alive a hundred
years after. For my part, when I take a survey of this
populous city, I can scarce forbear weeping, to see how
few of its inhabitants are now living. It was with this
thought that I drew up my last bill of mortality, and en-
deavoured to set out in it the great number of persons
who have perished by a distemper commonly known by
the name of idleness, which has long raged in the world,
and destroys more in every great town than the plague
has done at Dantzick. To repair the mischief it has
done, and stock the world with a better race of mortals,
I have more hopes of bringing to life those that are
young than of reviving those that are old. For which
reason, I shall here set down that noble allegory which
was written by an old author called Prodicus, but re-
commended and embellished by Socrates. It is the
description of Virtue and Pleasure, making their court
to Hercules under the appearance of two beautiful
women.

When Hercules, says the divine moralist, was in that
part of his youth in which it was natural for him to

 

consider what course of life he ought to pursue, he one
day retired into a desert, where the silence and solitude
of the place very much favoured his meditations. As
he was musing on his present condition, and very much
perplexed in himself on the state of life he should choose,
he saw two women of a larger stature than ordinary
approaching towards him. One of them had a very
noble air and graceful deportment; her beauty was
natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her
eyes cast towards the ground with an agreeable reserve,
her motion and behaviour full of modesty, and her
raiment as white assnow. The other had a great deal
of health and floridness in her countenance, which she
had helped with an artificial white and red; and endea-
voured to appear more graceful than ordinary in her
mien, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures.
She had a wonderful confidence and assurance in her
looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress that
she thought were most proper to show her complexion
to an advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then
turned them on those that were present, tosee how they
liked her, and often looked on the figure she made in
her own shadow. Upon her nearer approach to Her-
cules, she stepped before the other lady, who came for-
ward witha regular composed carriage, and running up
to him, accosted him after the following manner :—

“ My dear Hercules,” says she, “I find you are very
much divided in your own thoughts upon the way of life
that you ought to choose. Be my friend, and follow me ;
I will lead you into the possession of pleasure, and out
of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise
and disquietude of business. The affairs of either war
or peace shall have no power to disturb you. Your
whole employment shall be to make your life easy, and
to entertain every sense with its proper gratification.
Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes,
concerts of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readi-
ness to receive you. Come along with me into this
region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid fare-
well for ever to care, to pain, to business.”

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner,
desired to know her name; to which she answered,
“My friends, and those who are well acquainted with
me, call me Happiness ; but my enemies, and those who
would injure my reputation, have given me the name of
Pleasure.”

By this time the other lady was come up, who ad-
dressed herself to the young hero ina very different
manner,

“Hercules,” says she, “I offer myself to you, because
I know you are descended from the gods, and give
proofs of that descent by your love to virtue, and appli-
cation to the studies proper for your age. This makes
me hope you will gain both for yourself and me an im-
mortal reputation. But before I invite you into my
society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with
you, and must lay down this as an established truth,
that there is nothing truly valuable, which can be pur-
chased without pains and labour. The gods have set a
price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would
gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at the pains
of worshipping him; if the friendship of good men, you
must study to oblige them; if you would be honoured
by your country, you must take care to serve it, In
short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you
must become master of all the qualifications that can
make youso. These aretheonly terms and conditions on
which I can propose happiness.” The goddess of pleasure
here broke in upon her discourse. “You see,” said she,

Hercules, by her own confession, the way to her plea-
sure is long and difficult, whereas that which I propose
is Short and easy.” “ Alas!” said the other lady, whose
visage glowed with a passion made up of scorn and pity,
“what are the pleasures you propose? ‘To eat before
you are hungry, drink before you are athirst, sleep be-
fore you are a-tired, to gratify appetites before they are
raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted.
You never heard the most delicious music, which is the
praise of one’s self ; nor saw the most beautiful object,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 9

which is the work of one’s own hands.
pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures,
while they are hoarding up anguish, torment, and re-
morse for old age.

As for me, I am the friend of the gods and of good
men, an agreeable companion to the artizan, a household
guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and pro-
tector of servants, an associate in all true and generous
friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never
costly, but always delicious; for none eat and drink at
them who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their
slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My
young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves
praised by those who are in years; and those who are
in years, of being honoured by those whoare young. In
a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, beloved
by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and
after the close of their labours honoured by posterity.”

We know by the life of this memorable hero to which
of these two ladies he gave up his heart ; and I believe
every one who reads this will do him the justice to
approve his choice.

I very much admire the speeches of these ladies, as
containing in them the chief arguments for a life of
virtue or a life of pleasure, that could enter into the
thoughts of a heathen: but am particularly pleased with
the different figures he gives the two goddesses. Our
modern authors have represented Pleasure or Vice
with an alluring face, but ending in snakes and monsters.
Here she appears in all the charms of beauty, though
they are all false and borrowed; and by that means
composes a vision entirely natural and pleasing.

I have translated this allegory for the benefit of the
youth of Great Britain, and particularly of those who
are still in the deplorable state of non-existence, and
whom I most earnestly entreat to come into the world,
Let my embryos show the least inclination to any single
virtue, and I shall allow it to be a struggling towards
birth. I do not expect of them that, like the hero in
the foregoing story, they should go about as soon as
they are born with a club in their hands, and a lion’s
skin on their shoulders, to root out monsters and de-
stroy tyrants; but, as the finest author of all antiquity
has said upon this very occasion, though a man has not
the abilities to distinguish himself in the most shining
parts of a great character, he has certainly the capa-
city of being just, faithful, modest, and temperate.

PPPPPIPIII OL IP OL LIL OP

NEW DISTRIBUTION OF HONOURS:
A. VISION.

I was last week taking a solitary walk in the garden of
Lincoln’s Inn (a favour that is indulged me by several
of the benchers, who are my intimate friends, and grown
old with me in this neighbourhood), when, according to
the nature of men in years, who have made but little
progress in the advancement of their fortune or their
fame, I was repining at the sudden rise of many per-
sons who are my juniors, and, indeed, at the unequal
distribution of wealth, honour, and all other blessings
of life. Iwas lost in this thought, when the night came
upon me, and drew my mind into a far more agreeable
contemplation. The heaven above me appeared in all
its glories, and presented me with such a hemisphere
of stars, as made the most agreeable prospect imagin-
able to one who delights in the study of Nature. It
happened to be a freezing night, which had purified the
whole body of air into such a bright transparent ether,
as made every constellation visible; and at the same
time gave such a particular glowing to the stars, that
I thought it the richest sky I had ever seen. I could
not behold a scene so wonderfully adorned and lighted
up, if I may be allowed that expression, without suit-
able meditations on the author of such illustrious and
amazing objects; for on these occasions philosophy
suggests motives to religion, and religion adds pleasure
to philosophy.

As soon as I had recovered my usual temper and

Your votaries |

 

 

serenity of soul, I retired to my lodgings, with the satis-
faction of having passed away a few hours in the proper
employments of a reasonable creature ; and promising
myself that my slumbers would be sweet, I no sooner
fell into them, but I dreamed a dream, or saw a vision,
for I know not which to call it, that seemed to rise out
of my evening meditatien, and had something in it so
solemn and serious, that I cannot forbear communicat-
ing it; though, I must confess, the wildness of imagi-
nation, which in a dream is always loose and irregular,
discovers itself too much in several parts of it.

Methought I saw the same azure sky diversified with
the same glorious luminaries which had entertained
me a little before I fell asleep. I was looking very
attentively on that sign in the heavens which is called
by the name of the Balance, when on a sudden there
appeared in it an extraordinary light, as if the sun
should rise at midnight. By its increasing in breadth
and lustre, I soon found that it approached towards the
earth; and at length could discern something like a
shadow hovering in the midst of a great glory, which
in a little time after I distinctly perceived to be the
figure of a woman. I fancied at first it might have
been the angel or intelligence that guided the constel-
lation from which it descended; but, upon a nearer
view, I saw about her all the emblems with which the
goddess of justice is usually described. Her counte-
nance was unspeakably awful and majestic, but exqui-
sitely beautiful to those whose eyes were strong enough
to behold it; her smiles transported with rapture, her
frowns terrified to despair. She held in her hand a
mirror, endowed with the same qualities as that which
the painters put into the hand of Truth.

There streamed from it a light, which distinguished
itself from all the splendours that surrounded her, more
than a flash of lightning shines in the midst of daylight.
As she moved it in her hand, it brightened the heavens,
the air, or the earth. When she had descended so low
as to be seen and heard by mortals, to make the pomp
of her appearance more supportable, she threw dark-
ness and clouds about her, that tempered the light into
a thousand beautiful shades and colours, and multiplied
that lustre, which was before too strong and dazzling,
into a variety of milder glories.

In the mean time the world was in an alarm, and
all the inhabitants of it gathered together upon a spa-
cious plain; so that I seemed to have the whole species
before my eyes. A voice was heard from the clouds,
declaring the intention of this visit, which was to restore
and appropriate to every one living what was his due.
The fear and hope, joy and sorrow, which appeared in
that great assembly, after this solemn declaration, are
not to be expressed. The first edict was then pro-
nounced, “ That all titles and claims to riches and
estates, or to any part of them, should be immediately
vested in the rightful owner.” Upon this, the inhabi-
tants of the earth held up the instruments of their tenure,
whether in parchment, paper, wax, or any other form
of conveyance; and as the goddess moved the mirror
of truth which she held in her hand, so that the light
which flowed from it fell upon the multitude, they exa-
mined the several instruments by the beams of it.
The rays of this mirror had_a particular quality of set-
ting fire to all forgery and falsehood. The blaze of
papers, the melting of seals, and crackling of parch-
ments, made a very odd scene. The fire very often
ran through two or three lines only, and then stopped.
Though I could not but observe that the flames chiefly
broke out among the interlineations and eodicils; the
light of the mirror, as it was turned up and down,
pierced into all the dark corners and recesses of the
universe, and by that means detected many writings
and records which had been hidden or buried by time,
chance, or design. ‘This occasioned a wonderful revo-~
lution among the people. At the same time, the spoils
of extortion, fraud, and robbery, with all the fruits of
bribery and corruption, were thrown together into a
prodigious pile that almost reached to the clouds, and
was called “ The mount of restitution ;” to which all

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injured persons were invited, to receive what belonged
to them.

One might see crowds of people in tattered garments
‘come up, and change clothes with others that were
dressed with lace and embroidery. Several who were
plumbs, or very near it, became men of moderate for-
tunes ; and many others, who were overgrown in wealth
and possessions, had no more left than what they usu-
ally spent. What moved my concern most, was to see
a certain street of the greatest credit in Europe, from
one end to the other, become bankrupt.

The next command was, for the whole body of man-
kind to separate themselves into their proper families ;
which was no sooner done, but an edict was issued out,
requiring all children “ to repair to their true and natu-
ral fathers.” This put a great part of the assembly in
motion; for as the mirror was moved over them, it in-
spired every one with sucha natural instinct as directed
them to their real parents. . :

= . Men were no sooner settled in
their right to their possessions and their progeny, but
there was a third order proclaimed, “ That all the posts
of dignity and honour in the universe should be con-
ferred on persons of the greatest merit, abilities, and
perfection.” The handsome, the strong, and the wealthy,
immediately pressed forward; but not being able to
bear the splendour of the mirror which played upon
their faces, they immediately fell back among the crowd:
but as the goddess tried the multitude by her glass, as
the eagle does its young ones by the lustre of the sun,
if was remarkable that every one turned away his face
from it who had not distinguished himself either by
virtue, knowledge, or capacity in business, either military
or civil. This select assembly was drawn up in the
centre of a prodigious multitude, which was diffused on
all sides, and stood observing them, as idle people use
to gather, about a regiment that are exercising their
arms. They were drawn up in three bodies; in the
first were the men of virtue; in the second men of
knowledge ; and in the third the men of business. It
was impossible to look at the first column without a secret
veneration, their aspects were so sweetened with hu-
manity, raised with contemplation, emboldened with
resolution, and adorned with the most agreeable airs,
which are those that proceed from secret habits of
virtue. I could not but take notice that there were
many faces among them which were unknown, not only
to the multitude but even to several of their own body.

In the second column, consisting of the men of know-
ledge, there had been great disputes before they fell
into the ranks, which they did not do at last without
the positive command of the goddess who presided over
the assembly. She had so ordered it, that men of the
greatest genius and strongest sense were placed at the
head of the column. Behind these were such as had
formed their minds very much on the thoughts and
writings of others. In the rear of the column were
men who had more wit than sense, or more learning
than understanding. All living authors of any value
were ranged in one of these classes; but, I must con-
fess, I was very much surprised to see a great body of
editors, critics, commentators, and grammarians, meet
with so very ill a reception. They had formed them-
selves into a body, and with a great deal of arrogance
demanded the first station in the column of knowledge ;
but the goddess, instead of complying with their re-
quest, clapped them all into liveries, and bade them know
themselves for no other but lacqueys of the learned.

The third column were men of business, and consist-
ing of persons in military and civil capacities. The
former marched out from the rest, and placed them-
selves in the front, at which the others shook their
heads at them, but did not think fit to dispute the post
with them. I could not but make several observations
upon this last column of people; but I have certain
private reasons why I do not think fit to communicate
them to the public.
honour, dignity, and profit, there was a draught made
out of each column of men, who were masters of all

In order to fill up all the posts of.

 

 

ADDISON'S

three qualifications in some degree, and were preferred
to stations of the first.rank, ‘The second draught was
made out of such as were possessed of any two of the
qualifications, who were disposed of in stations of a
second dignity. ‘hose who were left, and were endowed
only with one of them, had their suitable posts. When
this was over, there remained many places of trust and
profit unfilled, for which there were fresh draughts
made out of the surrounding multitude, who had any
appearance of these excellencies, or were recommended
by those who possessed them in reality.

All were surprised to see so many new faces in the
most eminent dignities; and, for my own part, I was
very well pleased to see that all my friends either kept
their present posts or were advanced to higher.

Having filled my paper with those particulars of my
vision which concern the male part of mankind, I must
reserve for another occasion the sequel of it, which re-
lates to the fair sex.

PASI SELES LIE LOLA

THE VISION CONTINUED.

THE male world were dismissed by the goddess of jus-
tice, and disappeared, when on a sudden the whole
plain was covered with women. So charming a mul-
titude filled my heart with unspeakable pleasure ; and
as the celestial light of the mirror shone upon their
faces, several of them seemed rather persons that de-
scended in the train of the goddess, than such who were
brought before her to their trial. The clack of tongues
and confusion of voices in this new assembly were so
very great, that the goddess was forced to command
silence several times, and with some severity, before
she could make them attentive to her edicts. They
were all sensible that the most important affair among
womankind was then to be settled, which every one
knows to be the point of place. This had raised innumer-
able disputes among them, and put the whole sex into
a tumult. Hvery one produced her claim, and pleaded
her pretensions. Birth, beauty, wit, or wealth, were
words that rang in my ears from all parts of the plain.
Some boasted of the merit of their husbands, others of
their own power in governing them. Some pleaded
their unspotted virginity, others their numerous issue.
Some valued themselves as they were the mothers, and
others as they were the daughters, of considerable per-
sons. There was not a single accomplishment unmen-
tioned or unpractised. The whole congregation was
full of singing, dancing, tossing, ogling, squeaking,
smiling, sighing, fanning, frowning, and all those irre-
sistible arts which women put in practice to captivate
the hearts of reasonable creatures. The goddess, to
end this dispute, caused it to be proclaimed, “That every
one should take place according as she was more or less
beautiful’ This declaration gave great satisfaction to
the whole assembly, which immediately bridled up, and
appeared in all its beauties. Such as believed them-
selves graceful in their motion found an occasion of
falling back, advancing forward, or making a false step,
that they might show their persons in the most becom-
ing air. Such as had fine necks and bosoms were won-
derfully curious to look over the heads of the multitude,
and observe the most distant parts of the assembly.
Several clapt their hands on their foreheads, as helping
their sight to look upon the glories that surrounded the
goddess, but in reality to show fine hands and arms.
Lhe ladies were yet better pleased when they heard
that, in the decision of this great controversy, each of
them should be her own judge, and take her place
according to her own opinion of herself, when she
consulted her looking-elass.

The goddess then let down the mirror of truth in a
golden chain, which appeared larger in proportion as
it descended and approached nearer to the eyes of the
beholders. It was the particular property of this look-
ing-glass to banish all false appearances, and show
people what they are. The whole woman was repre-
sented, without regard to the usual external features,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

which were made entirely conformable to their real
characters. In short, the most accomplished, taking
in the whole circle of female perfections, were the most
beautiful, and the most defective the most deformed.
The goddess so varied the motion of the glass, and
placed it in so many different lights, that each had an
opportunity of seeing herself in it.

It is impossible to describe the rage, the pleasure, or
astonishment, that appeared in each face upon its re-
presentation in the mirror; multitudes started at their
own form, and would have broke the glass if they could
have reached it. Many saw their blooming features
wither as they looked upon them, and their self-admira-
tion turned into a loathing and abhorrence. The lady
who was thought so agreeable in her anger, and was
so often celebrated for a woman of fire and spirit, was
frighted at her own image, and fancied she saw a Fury
in the glass. he interested mistress beheld a Harpy,
and the subtle jilta Sphinx. I was very much troubled
in my own heart to see such a destruction of fine faces ;
but at the same time had the pleasure of seeing several
improved, which I had before looked upon asthe greatest
masterpieces of nature. I observed that some few were
so humble as to be surprised at their own charms, and
that many a one who had lived in the retirement and
severity of a Vestal, shone forth in all the graces and
attractions of a Syren. I was ravished at the sight of
a particular image in the mirrer, which I think the
most beautiful object that my eyes ever beheld. There
was something more than human in her countenance ;
her eyes were so full of light that they seemed to beautify
every thing they looked upon. Her face was enlivened
with such a florid bloom, as did not so properly seem
the mark of health as of immortality. Her shape, her
stature, and her mien, were such as distinguished her
even there, where the whole fair sex was assembled.

I was impatient to see the lady represented by so
divine an image, whom I found to be the person that
stood at my right hand, and in the same point of view
with myself. This was a little old woman, who in her
prime had been about five feet high, though at present
shrunk to about three-quarters of that measure. Her
natural aspect was puckered up with wrinkles, and
her head covered with grey hairs. I had observed all
along an innocent cheerfulness in her face, which was
now heightened into rapture as she beheld herself in
the glass. It was an odd circumstance in my dream,
but I cannot forbear relating it, 1 conceived so great
an inclination towards her, that I had thoughts of dis-
coursing her upon the point of marriage, when on a
sudden she was earried from me; for the word was now
given that all who were pleased with their own images
should separate, and place themselves at the head of
their sex.

This detachment was afterwards divided into three
bodies, consisting of maids, wives, and widows; the
wives being placed in the middle, with the maids on the
right, and widows on the left, though it was with diffi-
culty that these two last bodies were hindered from
falling into the centre. This separation of those who
liked their real selves not having lessened the number
of the main body so considerably as it might have been
wished, the goddess, after having drawn up her mirror,
thought fit to make new distinctions among those who
did not like the figure which they saw in it, She made
several wholesome edicts, which are slipped out of my
mind; but there were two which dwelt upon me, as
being very extraordinary in their kind, and executed
with great severity. Their design was, to make an ex-
ample of two extremes in the female world; of those
who are very severe on the conduct of others, and of
those who are very regardless of their own. ‘The first
sentence, therefore, the goddess pronounced was, that
all females addicted to censoriousness and detraction
should lose the use of speech; a punishment which
would be the most grievous to the offender, and, what
should be the end of all punishments, effectual for root-
ing out the crime. Upon this edict, which was as soon
executed as published, the noise of the assembly very

 

li

considerably abated. It was a melancholy spectacle, to
see so many who had the reputation of rigid virtue
struck dumb. A lady who stood by me, and saw my
concern, told me “she wondered how I could be con-
cerned for such a pack of J found, by the shak-
ing of her head, she was going to give me their cha-
racters; but, by her saying no more, IJ perceived she
had lost the command of her tongue. This calamity
fell very heavy upon that part of women who are dis-
tinguished by the name of Prudes, a courtly word for
female hypocrites, who have a short way to being
virtuous, by showing that others are vicious. The
second sentence was then pronounced against the loose
part of the sex. : *

This vision lasted until my usual hour of waking,
which I did with some surprise, to find myself alone,
after having been engaged almost a whole night in so
prodigious a multitude. I could not but reflect with
wonder at the partiality and extravagance of my vision ;
which, according to my theughts, has not done justice
to the sex. If virtue in men is more venerable, it is in
women more lovely; which Milton has very finely ex-
pressed in his Paradise Lost, where Adam, speaking
to Eve, after having asserted his own pre-eminence, as
being first in creation and internal faculties, breaks out
into the following rapture :—

 

‘* Yet when I approach
Her loveliness, so absolute she seems,
And in herself complete, so well to know
Her own, that what she wills to do, or say,
Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best.
All higher knowledge in her presence falis
Degraded. Wisdom, in discourse with her
Loses, discountenanced, and like folly shows.
Authority and reason on her wait,
As one intended first, not after made
Cccasionally: and to consummate all,
Greatness of mind, and nobleness, their seat
Build in her loveliest, and create an awe
About her, asa guard angelic placed.”

POELOPIPL DOLE PL POLO ID

FAMILY LOSSES.

I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very
gay humour, when 1 saw a coach stop at my door, and
a youth about fifteen alighting out of it, whom I per-
ceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend. I felt
a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him,
my acquaintance having begun with his father when
he was just such a stripling, and about that very age.
When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and
burst out in tears. Iwas extremely moved, and imme-
diately said, “ Child, how does your father do?” He
began to reply, “ My mother ” but could not go
on for weeping. I went down with him into the coach,
and gathered out of him, that his mother was then
dying, and that, while the holy man was doing the last
offices to her, he had taken that time to come and calf
me to his father, who, he said, would certaimly break
his heart, if I did not go and comforthim. The child’s
discretion in coming to me of his own head, and the
tenderness he showed for his parents, would have quite
overpowered me, had I not resolved to fortify myself
for the seasonable performances of those duties which
I owed to my friend. As we were going, I eould not
but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman,
and the greatness of his grief for the loss ef one who
has ever been the support to him under all other afilic-
tions. How, thought I, will he be able to bear the hour
of her death, that could not, when I was lately with him,
speak of a sickness, which was then past, without sorrew?
We were now got pretty far into Westminster, and
arrived at my friend’s house. At the door of it | met
Favonius, not without a secret satisfaction to find he
had been there. I had formerly conversed with him
at this house ; andas he abounds with that sort of virtue
and knowledge which makes religion beautiful, and never
leads the conversation into the violence and rage of
party disputes, I listened to him with great pleasure.Seen

ee —_

12

Our discourse chanced to be upon the subject of death,
which he treated with such a strength of reason and
greatness of soul, that, instead of being terrible, it ap-
peared to a mind rightly cultivated altogether to be
contemned, or rather to be desired. As I met him at
the door, I saw in his face a certain glowing of grief
and humanity, heightened with an air of fortitude and
resolution, which, as I afterwards found, had such an
irresistible force as to suspend the pains of the dying,
and the lamentation of the nearest friends who attended
her, I went up directly to the room where she lay,
and was met at the entrance by my friend, who, not-
withstanding his thoughts had been composed a little
before, at the sight of me turned away his face and
wept. The little family of children renewed the ex-
pressions of their sorrow, according to their several ages
and degrees of understanding. The eldest daughter
was in tears, busied in attendance upon her mother;
others were kneeling about the bedside; and what
troubled me most was to see a little boy, who was too
young to know the reason, weeping only because his
sisters did. The only one in the room who seemed
resigned and comforted was the dying person. At my
approach to the bedside, she told me, with a low broken
voice, “ This is kindly done. Take care of your friend
—do not go from him!” She had before taken leave
of her husband and children, in a manner proper for
so solemn a parting, and with a gracefulness peculiar
to a woman of her character. My heart was torn in
pieces, to see the husband on one side suppressing and
keeping down the swellings of his grief, for fear of dis-
turbing her in her last moments; and the wife even at
that time concealing the pains she endured, for fear of
increasing his affliction. She kept her eyes upon him
for some moments after she grew speechless, and soon
after closed them for ever. In the moment of her
departure, my friend, who had thus far commanded
himself, gave a deep groan, and fell into a swoon by her
bedside. The distraction of the children, who thought
they saw both their parents expiring together, and now
lying dead before them, would have melted the hardest
heart; but they soon perceived their father recover,
whom I helped to remove into another room, with a
resolution to accompany him until the first pangs of his
afiliction were abated. I knew consolation would now
be impertinent ; and, therefore, contented myself to sit
by him, and condole with him in silence. For I shall
here use the method of an ancient author, who, in one
of his epistles, relating the virtues and death of Macri-
nus’s wife, expresses himself thus: “I shall suspend my
advice to this best of friends, until he is made capable
of receiving it by those three great remedies, the neces-
sity of submission, length of time, and satiety of grief.”
In the mean time, I cannot but consider, with much

commiseration, the melancholy state of one who has
had such a part of himself torn from him, and which
he misses in every circumstance of life. His condition
is like that of one who has lately lost his right arm, and
is every moment offering to help himself with it. He
does not appear to himself the same person in his house,
at his table, in company, or in retirement ; and loses
the relish of all the pleasures and diversions that were
before-entertaining to him by her participation of them.
The most agreeable objects recall the sorrow for her
with whom he used to enjoy them. This additional
satisfaction, from the taste of pleasures in the society
of one we love, is admirably described by Milton, who
represents Eve, though in Paradise itself, no further
pleased with the beautiful objects around her than as
She sees them in company with Adam, in that passage
so inexpressibly charming :—

** With thee conversing, I forget all time;

All seasons, and their change; all please alike.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun,

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

 

ADDISON'S

Of grateful evening mild: then, silent night, +
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train.
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds: nor rising sun

On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers ;
Nor grateful evening,mild; nor silent night,

With this her solemubira, nor walk by moon

Or glittering star-light, without thee is sweet.”

PPELIOPLIDPLE PL OLE POA

GRIEF.

Wun I look into the frame and constitution of my own
mind, there is no part of it which I observe with greater
satisfaction, than that tenderness and concern which it
bears for the good and happiness of mankind. My own
circumstances are, indeed, so narrow and scanty, that I
should taste but very little pleasure, could I receive it
only from those enjoyments which are in my own pos-
session; but by this great tincture of humanity, which
I find in all my thoughts and reflections, [ am happier
than any single person can be, with all the wealth,
strength, beauty, and success, that can be conferred
upon a mortal, if he only relishes such a proportion of
these blessings as is vested in himself, and in his own
private property. By this means, every man that does
himself any real service does me a kindness. I come in
for my share in all the good that happens to a man of
merit and virtue, and partake of many gifts of fortune
and power that I was never born to. There is nothing
in particular in which I so much rejoice as tle deliver-
ance of good and generous spirits out of dangers, diffi-
culties, and distresses. And because the world does not
supply instances of this kind to furnish out sufficient
entertainments for such a humanity and benevolence
of temper, I have ever delighted in reading the history
of ages past, which draws together into a narrow com-
pass the great occurrences and events that are but
thinly sown in those tracts of time which lie within our
own knowledge and observation. When I see the life
of a great man, who has deserved well of his country,
after having struggled through all the oppositions of
prejudice and envy, breaking out with lustre, and shin-
ing forth in all the splendour of success, I close my
book, and am a happy man for a whole evening.

But since in history events are of a mixed nature,
and often happen alike to the worthless and the deserv-
ing, insomuch that we frequently see a virtuous man
dying in the midst of disappointments and calamities,
and the vicious ending their days in prosperity and
peace, I love toamuse myself with the accounts I meet
with in fabulous histories and fictions: for in this kind
of writing we have always the pleasure of seeing vice
punished and virtue rewarded. Indeed, were we able
to view a man in the whole circle of hig existence, we
should have the satisfaction of seeing it close with hap-
piness or misery, according to his proper merit ; but
though our view of him is interrupted by death before
the finishing of his adventures, if I may so speak, we
we may be sure that the conclusion and catastrophe is
altogether suitable to his behaviour. On the contrary,
the whole being of a man, considered ag a hero or a
knight-errant, is comprehended within the limits of a
poem or romance, and, therefore, always ends to our
Satisfaction ; so that inventions of this kind are like food
and exercise to a good-natured disposition, which they
please and gratify at the same time that they nourish
and strengthen. ‘The greater the affliction is in which
we see our favourites in these relations engaged, the
greater is the pleasure we take in seeing them relieved.

Among the many feigned histories which T have met
with in my reading, there is none in which the hero’s
perplexity is greater, and the winding out of it more
difficult, than that in a French author whose name I
have forgot. It so happens, that the hero’s mistress
was the sister of his most intimate friend, who for cer-
tain reasons was given out to be dead, while he was
preparing to leave his country in quest of adventures.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

The hero ‘iaving heard of his friend’s death, immediately
repaired to his mistress, to condole with her and com-
fort her. Upon his arrival in her garden, he discovered
at a distance a man clasped in her arms, and embraced
with the most endearing tenderness, What should he
do? It did not consist with the gentleness of'a knight-
errant either to kill his mistress, or the man whom she
was pleased to favour. At the «ume time, it would have
spoiled a romance should he have laid violent hands
on himself. In short, he immediately entered upon his
adventures; and after a long series of exploits, found
out by degrees that the person he saw in his mistress’s
arms was her own brother, taking leave of her before
he left his country, and the embrace she gave him
nothing else but the affectionate farewell of a sister : so
that he had at once the two greatest satisfactions that
could enter into the heart of man, in finding his friend
alive whom he thought dead, and his mistress faithful }
whom he had believed inconstant.

I was once myself in agonies of grief that are unut-
terable, and in so great a distraction of mind, that I
thought myself even out of the possibility of receiving
comfort. The occasion was as follows:—When I was
a youth in a part of the army which was then quartered
at Dover, I fell in love with anagreeable young woman,
of a good family in those parts, and had the satisfaction
of seeing my addresses kindly received, which occasioned
the perplexity I am going to relate.

We were in a calm evening diverting ourselves upon
the top of the cliff with the prospect of the sea, and
trifling away the time in such little fondnesses as are
most ridiculous to people in business, and most agree-
able to those in love.

In the midst of these our innocent endearments, she
snatched a paper of verses out of my hand, and ran
away with them. I was following her, when on a sud-
den the ground, though at a considerable distance from
the verge of the precipice, sank under her, and threw
her down from so prodigious a height upon such a range
of rocks, as would have dashed her into ten thousand
pieces, had her body been made of adamant. It 1s
much easier for my reader to imagine my state of mind
upon such an occasion, than for me to expressit. I
said to myself, “It is not in the power of heaven to re-
lieve me!” when I awaked, equally transported and
astonished, to see myself drawn out of an affliction
which, the very moment before, appeared to me alto-
gether inextricable.

The impressions of grief and horror were so lively
on this occasion, that while they lasted, they made me
more miserable than I was at the real death of this
beloved person, which happened a few months after, at
2, time when the match between us was concluded, inas-
much as the imaginary death was untimely, and I my-
self in a sort an accessary ; whereas her real decease
had at least these alleviations of being natural and in-
eyitable.

The memory of the dream I have related still dwells
go strongly upon me, that I can never read the descrip-
tion of Dover-cliff, in Shakspeare’s tragedy of King
Lear, without a fresh sense of my escape. The pro-
spect from that place is drawn with such proper inci-
dents, that whoever can read it without growing giddy,
must have a good head or a very bad one.

«* Come on, sir, here’s the place; stand still! how fearful
And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!

The crows and choughs that wing the midway air,
Show scarce as gross as beetles. Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen that walk upon the beach

Appear like mice, and yon tall anchoring bark
Diminish’d to her boat; her boat! a buoy

Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,
That on th’ unnumber’d idle pebbles beats,

Cannot be heard so high. Jl look no more,

Lest my brain turn.”

DRL LELSO ILE DET LOLA

|

 

13

WORKS OF CREATION:

I wave lately applied myself with much satisfaction to
the curious discoveries that have been made by the
help of microscopes, as they are related by authors of
our own and other nations. There is a great deal of
pleasure in prying into this world of wonders, which
nature has laid out of sight, and seems industrious to
conceal from us. Philosophy had ranged over all the
visible creation, and began to want objects for her in-
quiries, when the present age, by the invention of
glasses, opened a new and inexhaustible magazine of
rarities, more wonderful and amazing than any of those
which astonished our forefathers. I was yesterday
amusing myself with speculations of this kind, and re-
flecting upon myriads of animals that swim in those
little seas of juices that are contained in the several
vessels of a human body. While my mind was thus
filled with that secret wonder and delight, I could not
but look upon myself as in an act of devotion, and am
very well pleased with the thought of the great heathen
anatomist, who calls his description of the parts of a
human body, “A Hymn to the Supreme Being.” The
reading of the day produced in my imagination an
agreeable morning’s dream, if I may call it such, for I
am still in doubt whether it passed in my sleeping or
waking thoughts. However it was, I fancied that my
good genius stood at my bed’s head, and entertained me
with the following discourse ; for, upon my rising, it
dwelt so strongly upon me, that I wrote down the sub-
stance of it, if not the very words.

“‘ Tf,” said he, “ you can be so transported with those
productions of nature which are discovered to you by
those artificial eyes that are the works of human inven-
tion, how great will your surprise be, when you shall
have it in your power to model your own eye as you
please, and adapt it to the bulk of objects, which, with
all these helps, are by infinite degrees too minute for
your perception. We, who are unbodied spirits, can
sharpen our sight to what degree we think fit, and
make the least work of the creation distinct and visible.
This gives us such ideas as cannot possibly enter into
your present conceptions. There is not the least par-
ticle of matter which may not furnish one of us suffi-
cient employment for a whole eternity. We can still
divide it, and still open it, and still discover new won-
ders of Providence, as we look into the different texture
of its parts, and meet with beds of vegetables, minerals,
and metallic mixtures, and several kinds of animals
that lie hid, and as it were lost, in such an endless fund
of matter. I find you are surprised at this discourse ;
but as your reason tells you there are infinite parts in
the smallest portion of matter, it will likewise convince
you, that there is as great a variety of secrets, and as
much room for discoveries, in a particle no bigger than
the point of a pin, as in the globe of the whole earth.
Your microscopes bring to sight shoals of living crea-
tures in a spoonful of vinegar; but we who can distin-
guish them in their different magnitudes, see among
them several huge leviathans that terrify the little fry
of animals about them, and take their pastime as in an
ocean, or the great deep.” I could not hut smile at
this part of his relation, and told him, I doubted not
but he could give me the history of several invisible
giants, accompanied with their respective dwarfs, in
case that any of these little beings are of a human shape.
“ You may assure yourself,” said he, “that we see in
these little animals different natures, instincts, and
modes of life, which correspond to what you observe
in creatures of bigger dimensions. We desery millions
of species subsisted on a green leaf, which your glasses
represent only in crowds and swarms. What appears
to your eye but hair and down rising on the surface of
it, we find to be woods and forests inhabited by beasts
of prey, that are as dreadful in those their little haunts,
as lions and tigers in the deserts of Lybia.” I was
much delighted with this discourse, and could not
forbear telling him, that I should be wonderfully
pleased to see a natural history of imperceptibles, con-

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14

taining a true account of such vegetables and animals
as grow and live out of sight. “Such disquisitions,”
answered he, “are very suitable to reasonable crea-
tures; and you may be sure there are many curious
spirits among us who employ themselves in such
amusements. For as our hands, and all our senses,
may be formed to what degree of strength and delicacy
we please, in the same manner as our sight, we can
make what experiments we are inclined to, how small
soever the matter be in which we make them. I have
been present at the dissection of a mite, and have seen
the skeleton of a flea. JI have been shown a forest of
numberless trees which has been picked out of an acorn.
Your microscope can show you in it a complete oak in
miniature ; and could you suit all your organs as we do,
you might pluck an acorn from this little oak, which
contains another tree ; and so proceed from tree to tree,
as long as you would think fit to continue your disqui-
sitions. It is almost impossible,” added he, “to talk of
things so remote from common life, and the ordinary
notions which mankind receive from blunt and gross
organs of sense, without appearing extravagant and
ridiculous. You have often seen a dog opened, to ob-
serve the circulation of the blood or make any other
useful inquiry; and yet would be tempted to laugh if I
should tell you, that a circle of much greater philoso-
phers than any of the Royal Society were present at
the cutting up of one of those little animals which we
find in the blue of a plumb: that it was tied down alive
before them ; and that they observed the palpitations
of the heart, the course of the blood, the working of the
muscles, and the convulsions in the several limbs, with
great accuracy and improvement.” ‘ I must confess,”
said I, “for my own part, I go along with you in all
your discoveries with great pleasure; but it is certain
they are too fine for the gross of mankind, who are
more struck with the description of every thing that
is great and bulky. Accordingly, we find the best
judge of human nature setting forth his wisdom, not in
the formation of these minute animals, though indeed
no less wonderful than the other, but in that of the
leviathan and behemoth, the horse and the crocodile.”
“Your observation,” said lhe, “is very just; and I must
acknowledge, for my own part, that although it is with
much delight that I see the traces of Providence in
these instances, I still take greater pleasure in consider-
ing the works of the creation in their immensity than
in their minuteness. For this reason, I rejoice when I
strengthen my sight so as to make it pierce into the
most remote spaces, and take a view of those heavenly
bodies which lie out of the reach of human eyes, though
assisted by telescopes. What you look upon as one
confused white in the milky way, appears to me a long
track of heavens, distinguished by stars that are ranged
in proper figures and constellations. While you are
admiring the sky in a starry night, I am entertained
with a variety of worlds and suns placed one above
another, and rising up to such an immense distance,
that no created eye can see an end of them.”

The latter part of his discourse flung me into such
an astonishment, that he had been silent for some time
before I took notice of it; when on a sudden I started
up and drew my curtains, to look if any one was near
me, but saw nobody, and cannot tell to this moment
whether it was my good genius or a dream that left me.

POOL ILI LOD ALDI IODP

HUMAN LIFE—A VISION.

InstEAD of considering any particular passion or cha-
racter in any one set of men, my thoughts were last
night employed on the contemplation of human life in
general ; and truly it appears to me, that the whole
species are hurried on by the same desires, and engaged
in the same pursuits, according to the different stages
and divisions of life. Youth is devoted to lust, middle
age to ambition, old age toavarice. These are the three
general motives and principles of action both in good
and bad men; though it must be acknowledged that

 

ADDISON’S

they change their names, and refine their natures, a¢-
cording to the temper of the person whom they direct
and animate. For with the good, lust becomes virtuous
love; ambition, true honour; and avarice, the care of
posterity. This scheme of thought amused me very
agreeably until I retired to rest, and afterwards formed
itself into a pleasing and regular vision, which I shall
deseribe in all its circumstances, as the objects pre-
sented themselves, whether in a serious or ridiculous
manner.

I dreamed that I was in a wood, of so prodigious an
extent, and cut into such a variety of walks and alleys,
that all mankind were lost and bewildered in it. After
having wandered up and down some time, I came into
the centre of it, which opened into a wide plain, filled
with multitudes of both sexes. I here discovered three
great roads very wide and long, that led into three
different parts of the forest.

On a sudden, the whole multitude broke into three
parts, according to their different ages, and marched in
their respective bodies into the three great roads that
lay before them. As I had a mind to know how each
of these roads terminated, and whither they would lead
those who passed through them, I joined myself with
the assembly that were in the flower and vigour of their
age, and called themselves “the band of lovers.” I
found to my great surprise that several old men besides
myself had intruded into this agreeable company; as [
had before observed, there were some young men who
had united themselves to “the band of misers,” and
were walking up the path of avarice; though both made
a very ridiculous figure, and were as much laughed at
by those they joined as by those they forsook. ‘The
walk which we marched up, for thickness of shades,
embroidery of flowers, and melody of birds, with the
distant purling of streams, and falls of water, was so
wonderfully delightful, that it charmed our senses, and
intoxicated our minds with pleasure. We had not been
long here, before every man singled out some woman,
to whom he offered his addresses and professed himself
a lover; when on a sudden we perceived this delicious
walk to grow more narrow as we advanced in it, until
it ended in many intrieate thickets, mazes, and laby-~
rinths, that were so mixed with roses and brambles,
brakes of thorns and beds of flowers, rocky paths and
pleasing grottoes, that it was hard to say, whether it
gave greater delight or perplexity to those who travelled
in it.

It was here that the lovers began to be eager in their
pursuits. Some of their mistresses, who only seemed
to retire for the sake of form and deceney, led them
into plantations that were disposed into regular walks :
where, after they had wheeled about in some turns and
windings, they suffered themselves to be overtaken, and
gave their hands to those who pursued them. Others
withdrew from their followers into little wildernesses,
where there were so many paths interwoven with each
other in so much confusion and irregularity, that seve-
ral of the lovers quitted the pursuit, or broke their
hearts in the chase. It was sometimes very odd to see a,
man pursuing a fine woman that was following another,
whose eye was fixed upon a fourth, that had her own
game i view in some other quarter of the wilderness,
1 could not but observe two things in this place which
i thought very particular. That several persons, who
stood only at the end of the avenues, and cast a careless
eye upon the nymphs during their whole flight, often
catched them ; when those who pressed them the most
warmly, through all their turns and doubles, were
wholly unsuccessful ; and that some of my own age, wha
were at first looked upon with aversion and contempt,
by being well acquainted with the wilderness, and by
dodging their women in the particular corners and alleys
of it, catched them in their arms, and took them from
those whom they really loved and admired. There was
a particular grove, which was ealled “the labyrinth of
coquettes,” where many were enticed to the chase, but
few returned with purchase. It was pleasant enough
to see a celebrated beauty, by smiling upon one, castingMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 15

| glance upon another, beckoning toa third, and adapt-
jag her charms and graces to the several follies of those
bat admired her, drawing into the labyrinth a whole
sack of lovers, that lost themselves in the maze, and
jiever could find their way out of it. However, it was
“ome satisfaction to me, to see many of the fair ones,
\\vho had thus deluded their followers, and left them
“mong the intricacies of the labyrinth, obliged, when
‘/hey came out of it, to surrender to the first partner
|hat offered himself. I now had crossed over all the
i lifficult and perplexed passages that seemed to bound
jar walk, when on the other side of them I saw the
jame great road running on a little way until it was
jerminated by two beautiful temples. I stood here for
‘ome time, and saw most of the multitude who had been
\lispersed amongst the thickets coming out two by two,
jind marching up in pairs towards the temples that
|itood before us. The structure on the right hand was,
118 I afterwards found, consecrated to virtuous love, and
‘sould not be entered but by such as received a ring, or
jome other token, from a person who was placed as a
guard at the gate of it. He wore a garland of roses and
i nyrtles on his head, and on his shoulders a robe like
jin imperiat mantle, white and unspotted all over, ex-
\vepting only, that where it was clasped at his breast,
\\here were two golden turtle-doves that buttoned it by
vheir bills, which were wrought in rubies. He was
‘jtalled by the name of Hymen, and was seated near the
ujmtrance of the temple, in a delicious bower, made up
if several trees, that were embraced by woodbines,
asmines, and amaranths, which were so many emblems
of marriage, and ornaments to the trunks that supported
‘hem. As I was single and unaccompanied, I was not
yermitted to enter the temple, and for that reason ain
. stranger to all the mysteries that were performed in
jt. J had, however, the curiosity to observe how the
jseveral couples that entered were disposed of, which
s|was after the following manner :—There were two great
\zates on the backside of the edifice, at which the whole
“jzrowd was let out. At one of these gates were two
»)vomen, extremely beautiful, though in a different kind;
‘she one having a very careful and composed air, the
ther a sort of smile and ineffable sweetness in her
g)tountenance. The name of the first was Discretion, and
of the other Complacency. All who came out of this
s/zate, and put themselves under the direction of these
v3wo sisters, were immediately conducted by them into
ajzardens, groves, and meadows, which abounded in
lelights, and were furnished with every thing that could
“/nake them the proper seats of happiness. ‘The second
© zate of this temple let out all the couples that were un-
saappily married, who came out linked together with
|shains, which each of them strove to break, but could
9/20t. Several of these were such as had never been
vequainted with each other before they met in the great
vjwalk, or had been too well acquainted in the thicket.
|The entrance to this gate was possessed by three sisters,
iwho joined themselves with these wretches, and occa-
jsioned most of their miseries. The youngest of the
sisters was known by the name of Levity, who, with
she innocence of a virgin, had the dress and behaviour
‘of a harlot. The name of the second was Contention,
‘who bore on her right arm a muff made of the skin of
» porcupine, and on her left carried a little lap-dog,
( jhat barked and snapped at every one that passed by her.
The eldest of the sisters, who seemed to have a
1aughty and imperious air, was always accompanied
jwith a tawny Cupid, who generally marched before her
‘with a little mace on his shoulders, the end of which
was fashioned into the horns of a stag. Her garments
were yellow, and her complexion pale. Her eyes were
i piercing, but had odd casts in them, and that particular
i listemper which makes persons who are troubled with
(tsee objects double. Upon inquiry, I was informed
(| that her name was Jealousy.

Having finished my observations upon this temple
and its votaries, I repaired to that which stood on the
aleft hand, and was called the “ Temple of Lust.” The
| “ont of it was raised on Corinthian pillars, with all the

; B

|
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meretricious ornaments that accompanied that order,
whereas that of the other was composed of the
chaste and matron-like Ionic. The sides of it were
adorned with several grotesque figures of goats, spar-
rows, heathen gods, satyrs, and monsters, made up of
half men, half beast. The gates were unguarded, and
open to all that had a mind to enter. Upon my going
in, I found the windows were blinded, and let in only a
kind of twilight, that served to discover a prodigious
number of dark corners and apartments, into which the
whole temple was divided. I was here stunned with a
mixed noise of clamour and jollity. On one side of me
I heard singing and dancing, on the other brawls and
clashing of swords. In short, I was so little pleased
with the place that I was going out of it, but found I
could not return by the gate where I entered, which
was barred against all that were come in with bolts of
iron and locks of adamant. There was no going back
from this temple through the paths of pleasure which
led to it. All who passed through the ceremonies of
the place went out at an iron wicket, which was kept
by a dreadful giant, called Remorse, that held a scourge
of scorpions in his hand, and drove them into the only
outlet from that temple. This was a passage so rugged,
so uneven, and choked with so many thorns and briars,
that it was a melancholy spectacle to behold the pains
and difficulties which both sexes suffered who walked
through it. The men, though in the prime of their
youth, appeared weak and enfeebled with old age. The
women wrung theix hands and tore their hair; and
several lost their limbs before they could extricate
themselves out of the perplexities of the path in which
they were engaged. The remaining part of this vision,
and the adventures I met with in the two great roads
of Ambition and Avarice, must be the subject of an-
other paper:

PILIP PILE PO POPP PPPD

VISION CONCLUDED.

Witu much labour and difficulty I passed through the
first part of my vision, and recovered the centre of the
wood, from whence I had a prospect of the three great
roads. JI here joined myself to the middle-aged party
of mankind, who marched behind the standard of Am-
bition. The great road lay in a direct line, and was
terminated by the “ Temple of Virtue.” It was planted
on each side with laurels, which were intermixed with
marble trophies, carved pillars, and statues of law-
givers, heroes, statesmen, philosophers, and poets.
The persons who travelled up this great path were
such whose thoughts were bent upon doing eminent
services to mankind, or promoting the good of their
country. On each side of this great road were several
paths, that were also laid out in straight lines, and ran
parallel with it.. These were most of them covered
walks, and received into them men of retired virtue,
who proposed to themselves the same end of their jour-
ney, though they chose to make it in shade and obscu-
rity. The edifices at the extremity of the walk were
so contrived, that we could not see the “ Temple of
Honour” by reason of the “ Temple of Virtue,” which
stood before it. Atthe gates of this temple we were
met by the goddess of it, who conducted us into that
of Honour, which was joined to the other edifice by a
beautiful triumphal arch, and had no other entrance
into it. When the deity of the inner structure had
received us, she presented us in a body to a figure that.
was placed over the high altar, and was the emblem of
Eternity. She sat on a globe in the midst of a golden
zodiac, holding the figure of a sun in one hand, and a
moon in the other. Her head was veiled, and her feet
covered. Our hearts glowed within us, as we stood
amidst the sphere of light which this image cast on
every side of it.

Having seen all that happened to this band of adven-
turers, I repaired to another pile of building that stood
within view of the “ Temple of Honour,” and was raised
in imitation of it, upon the very same model ; but as

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my approach to it, I found that the stones were laid
together without mortar, and that the whole fabric
stood upon so weak a foundation, that it shook with
every wind that blew. This was called the . Temple
of Vanity.’ The goddess of it sat in the midst of a
great many tapers, that burned day and night, and
made her appear much better than she would have
done in open daylight. Her whole art was to show
herself more beautiful and majestic than she really
was. For which reason she had painted her face, and
wore a cluster of false jewels upon her breast; but
what I more particularly observed was the breadth of
her petticoat, which was made altogether in the fashion
of a modern fardingal. This place was filled with
hypocrites, pedants, freethinkers, and prating politi-
cians; with a rabble of those who have only titles to
make them great men. Female votaries crowded the
temple, choked up the avenues of it, and were more in
number than the sand upon the sea-shore. I made it
my business, in my return towards that part of the wood
from whence I first set out, to observe the walk which
led to this temple; for I met in it several who had
begun their journey with the band of virtuous persons,
and travelled some time in their company: but upon
examination, | found that there were several paths
which led out of the great road into the sides of the wood,
and ran into so many crooked turns and windings, that
those who travelled through them often turned their
backs upon the “ Temple of Virtue ;” then crossed the
straight road, and sometimes marched in it for a little
space, until the crooked path which they were engaged
in again led them into the wood. The several alleys
of these wanderers had their particular ornaments.
One of them I could not but take notice of in the walk
of the mischievous pretenders to politics, which had at
every turn the figure of a person, whom, by the inscrip-
tion, I found to be Machiavel, pointing out the way with
an extended finger, like a Mercury.

I was now returned in the same manner as before,
with a design to observe carefully every thing that
passed in the region of Avarice, and the occurrences
in that assembly, which was made up of persons of my
ownage. This body of travellers had not gone far in
the third great road, before it led them insensibly into
a deep valley, in which they journeyed several days
with great toil and uneasiness, and without the neces-
sary refreshments of food and sleep. ‘The only relief
they met with, was in a river that ran through the
bottom of the valley on a bed of golden sand. They
often drank of this stream, which had such a particular
quality in it, that though it refreshed them for a time,
it rather inflamed than quenched their thirst. On each
side of the river was a range of hills full of precious
ore; for where the rains had washed off the earth, one
might see in several parts of them long veins of gold,
and rocks that looked like pure silver. We were told
that the deity of the place had forbidden any of his
votaries to dig into the bowels of these hills, or convert
the treasures they contained to any use, under pain of
starving. At the end of the valley stood the “Temple
of Avarice,” made after the manner of a fortification,
and surrounded with a thousand triple-headed dogs,
that were placed there to keep off beggars. At our
approach they all fell a-barking, and would have very
much terrified us, had not an old woman, who called
herself by the forged name of Competency, offered her-
self for our guide. She carried under her garment a
golden bough, which she no sooner held up in her hand
but the dogs lay down, and the gates flew open for our
reception. We were led through a hundred iron doors
before we entered the temple. At the upper end of it
sat the god of Avarice, with a long filthy beard, and a
meagre starved countenance; enclosed with heaps of
ingots and pyramids of money, but half-naked and
shivering with cold. On his right hand was a fiend
called Rapine, and on his left a particular favourite, to

whom he had given the title of Parsimony. The first.

was his collector, and the other his cashier.
There were several long tables placed on each side

 

ADDISON'S

of the temple, with respective officers attending behind
them. Some of these I inquiredinto. At the first table
was kept the “ Office of Corruption.” Seeing a solicitor
extremely busy, and whispering every body that passed
by, I kept my eye upon him very attentively, and saw
him often going up to a person that had a pen in his
hand with a multiplication table and an almanack before
him, which, as I afterwards heard, was all the learning
he was master of. The solicitor would often apply him-
self to his ear, and at the same time convey money into
his hand, for which the other would give him out a piece
of paper or parchment, signed and sealedinform. The
name of this dexterous and successful solicitor was
Bribery. At the next table was the “ Office of Extor-
tion.” Behind it sat a person in a bob wig, counting
over great sums of money. He gave out little purses
to several; who after a short tour brought him, in
return, sacks full of the same kind of coin. I saw at the
same time a person called Fraud, who sat behind a
counter with false scales, light weights, and scanty
measures; by the skilful application of which instru-
ments she had got together an immense heap of wealth.
It would. be endless to name the several officers, or de-
scribe the votaries that attended in thistemple. There
were many old men panting and breathless, reposing
their heads on bags of money ; nay, many of them actu-
ally dying, whose very pangs and convulsions, which
rendered their purses useless to them, only made them
grasp them the faster. There were some tearing with
one hand all things, even to the garments and flesh of
many miserable persons who stood before them; and
with the other hand throwing away what they had
seized to harlots, flatterers, and panders, that stood
behind them.

On a sudden the whole assembly fell a-trembling ;
and upon inquiry, I found that the great room we were
in was haunted with a spectre, that many times a-day
appeared to them, and terrified them to distraction.

In the midst of their terror and amazement, the
apparition entered, which I immediately knew to be
Poverty. Whether it were by my acquaintance with
this phantom, which had rendered the sight of her more
familiar to me, or however it was, she did not make so
indignant or frightful a figure in my eye as the god of
this loathsome temple. The miserable votaries of this
place were, I found, of another mind. Every one fancied
himself threatened by the apparition as she stalked
about the room, and began to lock their coffers, and tie
their bags, with the utmost fear and trembling.

I must confess, I look upon the passion which I saw
in this unhappy people, to be of the same nature with
those unaccountable antipathies which some persons are
born with, or rather as a kind of phrensy, not unlike
that which throws a man into terrors and agonies, at
the sight of so useful and innocent a thing as water.
The whole assembly was surprised, when, instead of
paying my devotions to the deity whom they all adored,
they saw me address myself to the phantom.

“Oh, Poverty!” said I, “my first petition to thee
is, that thou wouldst never appear to me hereafter ;
but if thou wilt not grant me this, that then thou
wouldst not bear a form more terrible than that in
which thou appearest to me at present. Let not thy
threats and menaces betray me to any thing that is un-
grateful or unjust. Let me not shut my ears to the
cries of the needy. Let me not forget the person that
has deserved well of me. Let me not, for any fear of
thee, desert my friend, my principles, or my honour.
If Wealth is to visit me, and to come with her usual
attendants, Vanity and Avarice, do thou, oh Poverty !
hasten to my rescue ; but bring along with thee the two
sisters, in whose company thou art always cheerful,
Liberty and Innocence.”

PIPPPPAPIO ADDR

SILENCE.

SILENCE is sometimes more significant and sublime than

the most noble and most expressive eloquence, and

. * . e Is /
on many occasions the indication of a great mind./
/MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Several authors have treated of silence as a part of
duty and discretion, but none of them have considered
it in this light. Homer compares the noise and clamour
(of the Trojans advancing towards the enemy, to the
| 'eackling of cranes, when they invade an army of pigmies.
| On the contrary, he makes his countrymen and favou-
| vites, the Greeks, move forward in a regular and deter-
‘mined march, and in the depth of silence. I:find in the
accounts which are given us of the more eastern nations,
where the inhabitants are disposed by their constitu-
tions and climates to higher strains of thought, and more
elevated raptures, than what we feel in the northern
regions of the world, that silence is a religious exercise
among them. For when their public devotions are in
the greatest fervour, and their hearts lifted up as high
as words can raise them, there are certain suspensions
of sound and motion for a time, in which the mind is
eft to itself, and supposed to swell with such secret con-
ceptions as are too big for utterance. I have myself
been wonderfully delighted with a masterpiece of music,
when, in the very tumult and ferment of their harmony,
all the voices and instruments have stopped short on a
sudden ; and after a little pause recovered themselves
again, as it were, and renewed the concert in all its
parts. This short interval of silence has had more
music in it than any the same space of time before or
after it. There are two instances of silence in the two
greatest poets that ever wrote, which have something
im them as sublime as any of the speeches in their whole
works. The first is that of Ajax, in the eleventh book
of the Odyssey. Ulysses, who had been the rival of this
great man in his life, as well as the occasion of his death,
upon meeting his shade in the region of departed heroes,
makes his submission to him with a humility next to
adoration, which the other passes over with dumb, sullen
majesty, and such a silence as, to use the words of Lon-
ginus, had more greatness in it than any thing he could
have spoken.

The next instance I shall mention is in Virgil, where
the poet doubtless imitates this silence of Ajax in that
of Dido, though I do not know that any of his commen-
tators have taken notice of it. Aineas, finding among
the shades of despairing lovers the ghost of her who had
lately died for him, with the wound still fresh upon her,
addresses himself to her with expanded arms, floods of
tears, and the most passionate professions of his own
innocence as to what had happened; all which Dido
yeceives with the dignity and disdain of a resenting
lover and an injured queen; and is so far from vouch-
safing him an answer, that she does not give him a single
look, The poet represents her as turning away her face
from him while he spoke to her; after having kept her
eyes some time upon the ground, as one that heard and
eontemned his protestations, flying from him into the
grove of myrtle, and into the arms of another, whose
fidelity had deserved her love.

I have often thought our writers of tragedy have been
very defective in this particular, and that they might
have given great beauty to their works, by certain stops
and pauses in the representation of such passages as it
is not in the power of language to express. There is
something like this in the last act of “ Venice Preserved,”
where Pierre is brought to an infamous execution, and
begs of his friend, as a reparation for past injuries, and
the only favour he could do him, to rescue him from
the ignominy of the wheel by stabbing him. As he is
going to make this dreadful request, he is not able to
communicate it, but withdraws his face from his friend’s
ear, and bursts into tears. The melancholy silence that
follows hereupon, and continues until he has recovered
himself enough to reveal his mind to his friend, raises
in the spectators a grief that is inexpressible, and an
idea of such a complicated distress in the actor as words
cannot utter. It would look as ridiculous to many
readers to give rules and directions for proper silences,
as for “penning a whisper ;” but it is certain, that in
the extremity of most passions, particularly surprise,

admiration, astonishment, nay, rage itself, there is no-
thing more graceful than to see the play stand still for

 

iy

a few moments, and the audience fixed in an agreeable
suspense, during the silence of a skilful actor.

But silence never shows itself to so great an advan-
tage, as when it is made the reply to calumny and de-
famation, provided that we give no just occasion for
them. We might produce an example of it in the be-
haviour of one, in whom it appeared in all its majesty,
and one whose silence, as well as his person, was alto-
gether divine. When one considers this subject only
in its sublimity, this great instance could not but occur
to me; and since I only make use of it to show the
highest example of it, I hope I do not offend in it. To
forbear replying to an unjust reproach, and overlook it
with a generous, or, if possible, with an entire neglect
of it, is one of the most heroic acts of a great mind:
and I must confess, when I reflect upon the behaviour
of some of the greatest men of antiquity, I do not so
much admire them that they deserved the praise of
the whole age they lived in, as because they contemned
the envy and detraction of it.

All that is incumbent on a man of worth, who suffers
under so ill a treatment, is to lie by for some time in
silence and obscurity, until the prejudice of the times
be over, and his reputation cleared. I have often read,
with a great deal of pleasure, a legacy of the famous
Lord Bacon, one of the greatest geniuses that our own
or any country has produced. After having bequeathed
his soul, body, and estate, in the usual form, he adds,
“ My name and memory I leave to foreign nations, and
to my countrymen after some time be passed. over.”

At the same time that I recommend this philosophy
to others, I must confess, I am so poor a proficient in
it myself, that if in the course of my lucubrations it
happens, as it has done more than once, that my paper
is duller than in conscience it ought to be, I think the
time an age until I have an opportunity of putting out
another, and growing famous again for two days.

I must not close my discourse upon Silence, without
informing my reader that I have by me an elaborate
treatise on the A posiopesis, called an Ht cetera, it being
a figure much used by some learned authors, and par-
ticularly the great Littleton, who, as my Lord Chief
Justice Coke observes, had a most admirable talent at
an &c.

DPLILDLIL LPL PDP DILDO DA

ALLEGORY.

Respine is to the mind what exercise is to the body.
As by one, health is preserved, strengthened, and ivi-
gorated, by the other, virtue, which is the health of the
mind, is kept alive, cherished, and confirmed. But as
the exercise becomes tedious and painful when we make
use of it only as the means of health, so reading is apt
to grow uneasy and burdensome, when we apply our-
selves to it only for our improvement in virtue. For
this reason, the virtue which we gather from a fable
or an allegory, is like the health we get by hunting; as
we are engaged in an agreeable pursuit that draws us
on with pleasure, and makes us insensible of the fatigues
that accompany it.

After this preface, I shall set down a very beautiful
allegorical fable of the great poet whom I mentioned
in my last paper, and whom it is very difficult to lay
aside when one is engaged in the reading of him. And
this I particularly design for the use of several of my
fair correspondents, who in their letters have complaimed
to me that they have lost the affections of their hus-
bands, and desire my advice how to recover them.

Juno, says Homer, seeing her Jupiter seated on the
top of Mount Ida, and knowing that he had conceived
an aversion to her, began to study how she should res
gain his affections, and make herself amiable to him.
With this thought she immediately retired into her
chamber, where she bathed herself in ambrosia, which
gave her person all its beauty, and diffused so divine
an odour as refreshed all nature, and sweetened both
heaven and earth. She let her immortal tresses flow
in the most graceful manner, and took a particular care
to dress herself in several ornaments, which the poet

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deseribes at length, and which the goddess chose out as
the most proper to set off her person to the best advan-
tage. In the next place she made a visit to Venus,
the deity who presides over love, and begged of her,
as a particular favour, that she would lend her for a
while those charms with which she subdued the hearts
both of godsand men. “For,” says the goddess, “ I
would make use of them to reconcile the two deities,
who took care of me in my infancy, and who at present
are at so great a variance that they are estranged from
each other’s bed.” Venus was proud of an opportunity
of obliging so great a goddess, and therefore made her
a present of the cestus which she used to wear about
her own waist, with advice to hide it in her bosom until
she had accomplished her intention. This cestus was
a fine party-coloured girdle, which, as Homer tells us,
had all the attractions of the sex wrought into it. The
four principal figures in the embroidery were Love,
Desire, Fondness of Speech, and Conversation, filled
with that sweetness and complacency, which, says the
poet, insensibly steal away the hearts of the wisest men.
Juno, after having made these necessary prepara-
tions, came, as by accident, into the presence of Jupiter,
who is said to have been as much inflamed with her
beauty as when he first stole to her embraces, without
the consent of their parents. Juno, to cover her real
thoughts, told him, as she had told Venus, that she was
going to make a visit to Oceanus and Tethys. He pre-
vailed upon her to stay with him, protesting to her
that she appeared more amiable in his eye than ever
any mortal, goddess, or even herself, had appeared to
him until that day. The poet then represents him in
so great an ardour, that, without going up to the house
which had been built by the hands of Vulcan according
to Juno’s direction, he threw a golden cloud over their
heads as they sat upon the top of Mount Ida, while the
earth beneath them sprang up in lotuses, saffrons, hya-
cinths, and a bed of the softest flowers for their repose.
This close translation of one of the finest passages in
Homer, may suggest abundance of instruction to a
woman who has a mind to preserve or recall the affec-
tion of her husband. The care of the person and the
dress, with the particular blandishments woven in the
cestus, are so plainly recommended by this fable, and
So indispensably necessary in every female who desires
to please, that they need no further explanation. The
discretion likewise in covering all matrimonial quarrels
from the knowledge of others, is taught in the pretended
visit to Tethys, in the speech where Juno addresses
herself to Venus ; as the chaste and prudent manage-
ment of a wife’s charms is intimated by the same
pretence for her appearing before Jupiter, and by the
concealment of the cestus in her bosom.
I shall leave this tale to the consideration of such |
good housewives who are never well dressed but when
they are abroad, and think it necessary to appear more ;
agreeable to all men living than their husbands: as}
also to those prudent ladies, who, to avoid the appear-.
ance of being over fond, entertain their husbands with |
indifference, aversion, sullen silence, or exasperating
language.

 

wrerre

 

HOMER’S ACCOUNT OF A FUTURE LIFE.

/\ man who confines his speculations to the time present, |
has but a very narrow province to employ his thoughts
in. For this reason, persons of studious and contem-
plative natures often entertain themselves with the |
history of past ages, or raise schemes and conjectures
upon futurity. For my own part, I love to range
through that half of eternity which is still to come,
rather than look on that which is already run out ;
because I know I have a real share and interest in the
one, whereas all that was transacted in the other can
be only matter of curiosity to me.

Upon this account, I have been always very much
delighted with meditating on the soul’s Immortality,
and in reading the several notions which the wisest of
meu, both ancient and modern, have entertained on

|
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ISON’S

that subject. What the opinions of the greatest philo-
sophers have been, I have several times hinted at, and
shall give an account of them, from time to time, as
occasion requires. It may likewise be worth while to
consider what men of the most exalted genius and ele-
vated imagination have thought of this matter. Among
these, Homer stands up as a prodigy of mankind, that
looks down upon the rest of human creatures as a
species beneath him. Since he is the most ancient
heathen author, we may guess from his relation what
were the common opinions in his time concerning the
state of the soul after death.

Ulysses, he tells us, made a voyage to the regions of
the dead, in order to consult Tiresias how he should
return to his own country, and recommend himself to
the favour of the gods. The poet scarce introduces a
single person who doth not suggest some useful precept
to his reader, and designs his description of the dead for
the amendment of the living.

Ulysses, after having made a very plenteous sacrifice,
sat him down by the pool of holy blood, which attracted
a prodigious assembly of ghosts of all ages and condi-
tions, that hovered about the hero, and feasted upon the
steams of his oblation. The first he knew was the shade
of Elpenor, who, to show the activity of a spirit above
: that of body, is represented as arrived there long before
Ulysses, notwithstanding the winds and seas had con-~
tributed all their force to hasten his voyage thither.
This Elpenor, to inspire the reader with a detestation
of drunkenness, and at the same time with a religious
-care of doing proper honours to the dead, describes
himself as having broken his neck in a debauch of
wine, and begs Ulysses, that for the repose of his soul
he would build a monument over him, and perform
funeral rites to his memory. Ulysses, with great sor-
row of heart, promises to fulfil his request, and is
immediately diverted to an object much more mov-
ing than the former. The ghost of his own mother
Anticlea, whom he still thought living, appears to him
among the multitude of shades that surrounded him,
and sits down at a small distance from him by the lake
of blood, without speaking to him, or knowing who he
was. Ulysses was exceedingly troubled at the sight,
and could not forbear weeping as he looked upon her ;
but being all along set forth as a pattern of consum-
mate wisdom, he makes his affection give way to pru-
dence; and, therefore, upon his seeing Tiresias, does
not reveal himself to his mother, until he had consulted
that great prophet, who was the occasion of this his

 

 

‘were all three inconsolable for his absence.

descent into the empire of the dead. ‘Tiresias having
cautioned him to keep himself and his companions free
from the guilt of sacrilege, and to pay his devotions to
all the gods, promises him a safe return to his kingdom
and family, and a happy old age in the enjoyment of
them.

The poet, having thus with great art kept the euriosity-
of his reader in suspense, represents his wise man, after
the dispatch of his business with Tiresias, as yielding
himself up to the calls of natural affection, and making
himself known to his mother. Her eyes are no sooner
opened but she cries out in tears, “ Oh, my son!” and
inquires into the occasions that brought him thither,
and the fortune that attended him.

Ulysses, on the other hand, desires to know what the
sickness was that had sent her unto those regions, and
the condition in which she had lef¢ his father, his son,
and more particularly his wife. She tells him, they
As aor
myself,” says she, “that was the sickness of which I
died. My impatience for your return, my anxiety for
your welfare, and my fondness for my dear Ulysses,
were the only distempers that preyed upon my life, and
separated my soul from my body.” Ulysses was melted
with these expressions of tenderness, and thrice endea-
voured to catch the apparition in his arms, that he
might hold his mother to his bosom, and weep over her.

This gives the poet occasion to describe the notion the
heathens at that time had of an unbodied soul, in the
excuse which the mother makes for seeming to with-MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

draw herself from her son’s embraces. “The soul,”
says she, “is composed neither of bones, flesh, nor
sinews, but leaves behind her all those encumbrances
of mortality to be consumed on the funeral pile. As
soon as she has thus cast her burden, she makes her
escape, and flies away from it like a dream.”

When this melancholy conversation is at an end, the
poet draws up to view as charming a vision as could
enter into man’s imagination. He describes the next
who appeared to Ulysses to have been the shades of
the finest women that had ever lived upon the earth,
and who had either been the daughters of kings, the
mistresses of gods, or mothers of heroes—such as
Antiope, Aleemena, Leda, Ariadne, Iphimedia, Kri-
phyle, and several others, of whom he gives a catalogue,
with a short history of their adventures. The beautitul
assembly of apparitions were all gathered together
about the blood. Each of them,” says Ulysses, as a
gentle satire upon female vanity, “ giving me an account
ef her birth and family.” This scene of extraordinary
women seems to have been designed by the poet as a
lecture of mortality to the whole sex, and to put them
fy mind of what they must expect, notwithstanding
the greatest perfections and highest honours they can
arrive at.

The circle of beauties at length disappeared, and was
succeeded by the shades of several Grecian heroes who
had been engaged with Ulysses in the siege of Troy.
The first that approached was Agamemnon, the gene-
ralissimo of that great expedition, who, at the appear-
ance of his old friend, wept very bitterly, and without
saying any thing to him, endeavoured to grasp him
by the hand. Ulysses, who was much moved at the
sight, poured out a flood of tears, and asked him the
occasion of his death, which Agamemnon related to him
at all its tragical circumstances ; how he was murdered
in a banquet by the contrivance of his own wife, in
confederacy with her adulterer ; from whence he takes
occasion to reproach the whole sex, after a manner
which would be inexcusable ina man who had not been
so great a sufferer by them. “ My wife,” says he, “has
disgraced all the women that shall ever be born into
the world, even those who hereafter shall be innocent.
Take care how you grow too fond of your wife. Never
tell her afl you know. If you reveal some things to her,
be sure you keep others concealed from her. You, in-
deed, have nothing to fear from your Penelope ; she will
not use you as my wife has treated me; however, take
care how you trust a woman.” The poet, in this and
other instances, according to the system of many
heathen as well as Christian philosophers, shows how
anger, revenge, and other habits which the soul had
contracted in the body, subsist and grow in it under its
state of separation.

I am extremely pleased with the companions which
the poet in the next description assigns to Achilles.
“ Achilles,” says the hero, “ came up to me with Patro-
clus and Antilochus.” By which we may see that it
was Homer’s opinion, and probably that of the age he
lived in, that the friendships which are made among
the living, will likewise continue among the dead.
Achilles inquires after the welfare of his son, and of
his father, with a fierceness of the same character that
Homer has every where expressed in the actions of his
life. The passage relating to his son is so extremely
beautiful, that I must not omit it. Ulysses, after hay-
ing described him as wise in council, and active in war,
and mentioned the foes whom he had slain in battle,
adds an observation that he himself had made of his
behaviour whilst he lay in the wooden horse. “ Most
of the generals,” says he, “that were with us either
wept or trembled; as for your son, I never saw him
wipe a tear from his cheeks, or change his countenance.
On the contrary, he would often lay his hand upon his
sword, or grasp his spear, as impatient to employ them
against the Trojans.” He then informs his father of
the great honour and rewards which he had purchased
before Troy, and of his return from it without a wound.
“ The shade of Achilles,” says the poet, “ was so pleased

 

19

with the account he received of his son, that he inquired
no further, but stalked away with more than ordinary
majesty over the green meadow that lay before them.”

‘This last circumstance, of a deceased father’s rejoic-
ing in the behaviour of his son, is very finely contrived
by Homer as an incentive to virtue, and made use of
by none that I know besides himself.

The description of Ajax, which follows, and his re-
fusing to speak to Ulysses, who had won the armour of
Achilles from him, and by that means occasioned his
death, is admired by every one that reads it. When
Ulysses relates the sullenness of his deportment, and
considers the greatness of the hero, he expresses himself
with generous and noble sentiments. “ Oh! that I had
never gained a prize which cost the life of so great a
man as Ajax, who, for the beauty of his person and
greatness of his actions, was inferior to none but the
divine Achilles.” The same noble condescension, which
never dwells but in truly great minds, and such as
Homer would represent that of Ulysses to have been,
discovers itself likewise in the speech which he made
to the ghost of Ajax on that occasion. “ Oh, Ajax 1”
says he, “ will you keep your resentments even after
death? What destructions hath this fatal armour
brought upon the Greeks, by robbing them of you,
who were their bulwark and defence! Achilles is not
more bitterly lamented among us than you. Impute
not, then, your death to any one but Jupiter, who, out
of his anger to the Greeks, took you away from among
them ; let me entreat you to approach me; restrain
the fierceness of your wrath, and the greatness of your
soul, and hear what I have to say to you.” Ajax, with-
out making a reply, turned his back upon him, and
retired into a crowd of ghosts.

Ulysses, after all these visions, took a view of those
impious wretches who lay in tortures for the crimes
they had committed upon the earth, whom he describes
under all the varieties of pain, as so many marks of
divine vengeance to deter others from following their
example. He then tells us, that notwithstanding he had
a great curiosity to see the heroes that lived in the
ages before him, the ghosts began to gather about him
in such prodigious multitudes, and with such a confu-
sion of voices, that his heart trembled as he saw him-
self amidst so great a scene of horrors. He adds, that
he was afraid lest some hideous spectre should appear
to him that might terrify him to distraction, and, there-
fore, withdrew in time.

I question not but my reader will be pleased with
this description of a future state, represented by such
a noble and fruitful imagination, that had nothing to
direct it besides the light of nature and the opinions of
a dark and ignorant age.

 

PLIL PDA

VIRGIL’S ACCOUNT OF A FUTURE LIFE.

We have already examined Homer’s description of a
future state, and the condition in which he hath placed
the souls of the deceased. J shall in this paper make
some observations on the account which Virgil hath
given us of the same subject, who, besides a greatness
of genius, had all the lights of philosophy and human
learning to assist and guide him in his discoveries.

/Eneas is represented as descending into the empire
of death, with a prophetess by his side, who instructs
him in the secrets of those lower regions.

Upon the confines of the dead, and before the very
gates of this infernal world, Virgil describes several
inhabitants, whose natures are wonderfully suited to
the situation of the place, as being either the occasions
or resemblances of death. Of the first kind are the
shadows of Sickness, Old Age, Fear, Famine, and
Poverty—apparitions very terrible to behold; with
several others, as Toil, War, Contention, and Discord,
which contribute all of them to people this common
receptacle of human souls. As this was likewise a very
proper residence for every thing that resembles death,
the poet tells us, that Sleep, whom he represents as a

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near relation to death, has likewise his habitation in
these quarters; and describes in them a huge gloomy
elm-tree, which seems a very proper ornament for the
place, and is possessed by an innumerable swarm of
dreams, that hang in clusters under every leaf of it.
He then gives us a list of imaginary persons, who very
naturally lie within the shadow of the dream-tree, as
being of the same kind of make in themselves, and the
materials, or, to use Shakspeare’s phrase, “ the stuff
of which dreams are made.” Such are the shades of
the giant with a hundred hands, and of his brother with
three bodies ; of the double-shaped Centaur and Scylla ;
the Gorgon with snaky hair ; the Harpy with a woman’s
face and lion’s talons; the seven-headed Hydra; and
the Chimera, which breathes forth a flame, and is a
compound of three animals. These several mixed na-
tures, the creatures of imagination, are not only intro-
duced with great art after the dreams, but, as they are
planted at the very entrance, and within the very gates
of those regions, do probably denote the wild deliriums
and extravagances of fancy which the soul usually falls
into when she is just upon the verge of death.

Thus far Aineas travels in an allegory. The rest of
the description is drawn with great exactness, accord-
ing to the religion of the heathens, and the opinions of
the Platonic philosophy. I shall not trouble my reader
with a common dull story, that gives an account why
the heathens first of all supposed a ferryman in hell,
and his name to be Charon; but must not pass over in
silence the point of doctrine which Virgil hath very
much insisted upon in this book, That the souls of those
who are unburied, are not permitted to go over into
their respective places oi rest, until they have wandered
a hundred years upon the banks of Styx. This was
probably an invention of the heathen priesthood, to
make the people extremely careful of performing proper
rites and ceremonies to the memory of the dead. I
shall not, however, with the infamous scribblers of the
age, take anoccasion, from such a circumstance, to run
into declamations against priestcraft, but rather look
upon it even in this /ight as a religious artifice, to raise
in the minds of men an esteem for the memory of their
forefathers, and a desire to recommend themselves to
that of posterity ; as also to excite in them an ambition
of imitating the virtues of the deceased, and to keep
alive in their thoughts the sense of the soul’s immorta-
lity. In a word, we may say in defence of the severe
opinions relating to the shades of unburied persons,
what hath been said by some of our divines in regard
to the rigid doctrines concerning the souls of such who
die without being initiated into our religion, that sup-
posing they should be erroneous, they can do no hurt, to
the dead, and will have a good effect upon the living, in
making them cautious of neglecting such necessary
solemnities.

Charon is no sooner appeased, and the triple-headed
dog laid asleep, but Aineas makes his entrance into the
dominions of Pluto. ‘There are three kinds of persons
described as being situated on the borders; and I can
give no reason for their being stationed there in so par-
ticular a manner, but because none of them seem to
have had a proper right to a place among the dead, as
not having run out the whole thread of their days, and
finished the term of life that had been allotted them
upon earth. ‘The first of these are the souls of infants,
who are snatched away by untimely ends. The second
are of those who are put to death wrongfully, and by
an unjust sentence ; and the third, of those who grew
weary of their lives, and laid violent hands upon them-

selves. As for the second of these, Virgil adds with
great beauty, that Minos, the judge of the dead, is em-
ployed in giving them a rehearing, and assigning them
their several quarters suitable to the parts they acted
in life. The poet, after having mentioned the souls of
those unhappy men who destroyed themselves, breaks
out into a fine exclamation: “Oh! how gladly,” says
he, “ would they now endure life with all its miseries!
but the Destinies forbid their return to earth, and the
waters of Styx surround them with nine streams that

ADDISON'S

 

are unpassable.” It is very remarkable, that Virgil,
notwithstanding self-murder was so frequent among the
heathens, and had been practised by some of the greatest
men in the very age before him, hath here represented
it as so heinous acrime. But in this particular he was
euided by the doctrines of his great master Plato; who
says on this subject, that a man is placed in his station
of life, like a soldier in his proper post, which he is not
to quit, whatever may happen, until he is called off by
his commander who planted him in it.

There is another point in the Platonic philosophy,
which Virgil has made the groundwork of the greatest
part in the piece we are now examining ; having with
wonderful art and beauty materialised, if I may so call
it, a scheme of abstracted notions, and clothed the
most nice refined conceptions of philosophy in sensible
images and poetical representations. ‘The Platonists
tell us, that the soul, during her residence in the body,
contracts many virtuous and vicious habits, so as to
become a beneficent, mild, charitable, or an angry,
malicious, revengeful being: a substance inflamed with
lust, avarice, and pride ; or, on the contrary, brightened
with pure, generous, and humble dispositions; that
these, and the like habits of virtue and vice, growing
into the very essence of the soul, survive and gather
strength in her after her dissolution: that the tor-
ments of a vicious soul in a future state arise princi-
pally from those importunate passions which are not
capable of being gratified without a body; and that, on
the contrary, the happiness of virtuous minds very
much consists in their being employed in sublime specu-
lations, innocent diversions, sociable affections, and all
the ecstacies of passion and rapture which are agreeable
to reasonable natures, and of which they gained a relish
in this life.

Upon this foundation the poet raises that beautiful
description of the secret haunts and walks, which, he
tells us, are inhabited by deceased lovers.

Not far from hence, says he, lies a great waste of
plains, that are called “ The Fields of Melancholy.” In
these there grows a forest of myrtle, divided into many
shady retirements and covered walks, and inhabited by
the souls of those who pined away with love. The
passion, says he, continues with them after death. He
then gives a list of this languishing tribe, in which his
own Dido makes the principal figure, and is described
as living in this soft romantic scene with the shade of
her first husband Sicheeus.

The poet, in the next place, mentions another plain
that was peopled with the ghosts of warriors, as still
delighting in each other’s company, and pleased with
the exercise of arms. He there represents the Grecian
generals and common soldiers who perished in the siege
of Troy, as drawn up in squadrons, and terrified at the
approach of Adneas, which renewed in them those
impressions of fear they had before received in battle
with the Trojans. He afterwards, likewise, upon the
same notions, gives a view of the Trojan heroes who
lived in former ages, amidst a visionary scene of chariots
and arms, flowery meadows, shining spears, and gene-
rous steeds, which, he tells us, were their pleasures on
earth, and now make up their happiness in Elysium.
For the same reason, also, he mentions others as sing-
ing pzeans and songs of triumph, amidst a beautiful
grove of laurel. The chief of the concert was the poet
Muszeus, who stood enclosed with a circle of admirers,
and rose by the head and shoulders above the throng
of shades that surrounded him. The habitations of
unhappy spirits, to show the duration of the torments,
and the desperate condition they are in, are represented
as guarded by a Fury, moated round-with a lake of fire,
strengthened with towers of iron, encompassed with a
triple wall, and fortified with pillars of adamant, which
all the gods together are not able to heave from their
foundations. ‘The noise of stripes, the clank of chains,
and the groans of the tortured, strike the pious Aineas
with a kind of horror. The poet afterwards divides
the criminals into two classes. The first and blackest

| catalogue consists of such as were guilty of outrages

  
 
 
  
  
  
   
  
    
  
   
  
   
 
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
    
  
  
  
   
    
   
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
   
  
  
   

 

 

 

 

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iMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

against the gods; and the next, of such as were con-
victed of injustice between man and man: the greatest
number of-whom, says the poet, are those who followed
the dictates of avarice.

It was an opinion of the Platonists, that the souls of
men having contracted in the body great stains and
pollutions of vice and ignorance, there were several pur-
gations and cleansings necessary to be passed through,
both here and hereafter, in order to refine and purify
them.

Virgil, to give this thought likewise a clothing of
poetry, describes some spirits as bleaching in the winds,
others as cleansing under great falls of water, and others
as purging in fire, to recover the primitive beauty and
purity of their natures.

It was likewise an opinion of the same sect of philo-
sophers, that the souls of all men exist in a separate
state, long before their union with their bodies; an
that, upon their immersion into flesh, they forget every
thing which passed in a state of pre-existence ; so that
what we here call knowledge is nothing else but me-
mory, or the recovery of those things which we knew
before.

In pursuance of this scheme, Virgil gives us a view
of several souls, who, to prepare themselves for living
upon the earth, flock about the banks of the river Lethe,
and swill themselves with the waters of oblivion.

The same scheme gives him an opportunity of making
a noble compliment to his countrymen, where Anchises
is represented taking a survey of the long train of
heroes that are to descend from him, and giving his son
/Aneas an account of all the glories of his race.

I need not mention the revolution of the Platonic
year, which is but just touched upon in this book; and
as I have consulted no author’s thoughts in this expli-
cation, shall be very well pleased, if it can make the
noblest piece of the most accomplished poet more agree-
able to my female readers, when they think fit to look
into Dryden’s translation of it.

DOLPIO LI POLE LLLP LOPA

POLITICAL UPHOLSTERER.

TuERs lived some years since, within my neighbourhood,
a very grave person, an upholsterer, who seemed a man
of more than ordinary application to business. He was
a, very early riser, and was often abroad two or three
hours before any of his neighbours. He had a parti-
cular carefulness in the knitting of his brows, and a
kind of impatience in all his motions, that plainly dis-
covered he was always intent on matters of importance.
Upon my inquiry into his life and conversation, I found
him to be the greatest newsmonger in our quarter ; that
he rose before day to read The Postman; and that
he would take two or three turns to the other end of
the town before his neighbours were up, to see if there
were any Dutch mails come in. He had a wife and
several children, but was much more inquisitive to
know what passed in Poland than in his own family;
and was in greater pain and anxiety of mind for king
Augustus’s welfare, than that of his nearest relations.
He looked extremely thin in a dearth of news, and never
enjoyed himself in a westerly wind. This indefatigable
kind of life was the ruin of his shop; for about the
time that his favourite prince left the crown of Poland,
he broke and disappeared.

This man and his affairs had been long out of my
mind, until about three years ago, as I was walking in
St James’s Park, I heard somebody at a distance hem-
ming after me; and who should it be but my old neigh-
bour the upholsterer? I saw he was reduced to extreme
poverty, by certain shabby superfiuities in his dress:
for notwithstanding that it was a very sultry day for
the time of the year, he wore a loose greatcoat and a
muff, with a long campaign wig out of curl; to which
he had added the ornament of a pair of black garters
buckled under the knee. Upon his coming up to me,
I was going to inquire mto his present circumstances ;

but was prevented by his asking me with a whisper, |

 

21

whether the last letters brought ony accounts that
one might rely upon from Bender? I told him, “ None
that I heard of ;” and asked him, whether he had yet
married his eldest daughter? He told me, no. “ But
pray,” says he, “tell mesincerely what are your thoughts
of the king of Sweden?” For though his wife and
children were starving, I found his chief concern at
present was for this great monarch. I told him, that
I looked upon him as one of the first heroes of the age.
“ But pray,” says he, “do you think there is any truth
in the story of his wound?” And finding me surprised
at the question ; “ Nay,” says he, “I only propose it to
you.” I answered, that I thought there was no rea-
son to doubt of it. “But why in the heel,” says he,
“more than in any other part of the body?” “Because,”
said I, “ the bullet chanced to light there.”

This extraordinary dialogue was no sooner ended,
but he began to launch out into a long dissertation upon
the affairs of the north; and after having spent some
time on them, he told me, he was in a great perplexity
how to reconcile the Supplement with the English Post,
and had been just now examining what the other papers
say upon the same subject. “ The Daily Courant,” says
he, “ has these words: * We have advices from very
good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of
great importance under consideration.’ This is very
mysterious ; but The Postboy leaves us more in the dark,
for he tells us, ‘ That there are private intimations of
measures taken by a certain prince, which time will
bring to light.?, Now, The Postman,” says he, “ who used.
to be very clear, refers to the same news in these words «
‘The late conduct of a certain prince affords great mat-
ter of speculation.’ This certain prince,” says the
upholsterer, “ whom they are all so cautious of naming,
I take to be ’? Upon which, though there was
nobody near us, he whispered something in my ear,
which I did not hear, or think worth my while to make
him repeat.

We were now got to the upper end of the Mall, where
were three or four very odd fellows sitting together upon
the bench. These I found were all of them politicians,
who used to sun themselves in that place every day
about dinner-time. Observing them to be curiosities
in their kind, and my friend’s acquaintance, I sat down
among them.

The chief politician of the bench was a great asserter
of paradoxes. He told us, with a seeming concern, that,
by some news he had lately read from Muscovy, it ap-
peared to him that there was a storm gathering in the
Black Sea, which might in time do hurt to the naval
forces of this nation. To this he added, that, for his
part, he could not wish to see the Turk driven out of
Europe, which he believed could not but be prejudical
to our woollen manufacture. He then told us, that he
looked upon those extraordinary revolutions which had
lately happened in those parts of the world to have risen
chiefly from two persons who were not much talked of ;
“and those” says he, “are Prince Menzikoff and the
Duchess of Mirandola.” He backed his assertions with
so many broken hints, and such a show of depth and
wisdom, that we gave ourselves up to his opinions.

The discourse at length fell upon a point which seldom
escapes a knot of true-born Englishmen, whether, in
case of a religious war, the Protestants would not be
too strong for the Papists? This we unanimously de-
termined on the Protestant side. One who sat on my
right hand, and, as I found by his discourse, had been
in the West Indies, assured us, that “it would be a very
easy matter for the Protestants to beat the Popeat sea ;”
and added, that “ whenever such a war does break out,
it must turn to the good of the Leeward Islands.” Upon
this, one who sat at the end of the bench, and, as I after-
wards found, was the geographer of the company, said,
that “in case the Papists should drive the Protestants
from these parts of Europe, when the worst came to the
worst, it would be impossible to beat them out of Nor-
way and Greenland, provided the northern crowns hold
together, and the Czar of Muscovy stand neuter.”

He further told us, for our comfort, that “ there were

 

 

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99 ADDISON'S

vast tracts of land about the pole, inhabited neither by
Protestants nor Papists, and of greater extent than all
the Roman Catholic dominions in Europe.”

When we had fully discussed this point, my friend the
upholsterer began to exert himself upon the present
negotiations of peace; in which he deposed princes,
settled the bounds of kingdoms, and balanced the power
of Europe, with great justice and impartiality.

I at length took my leave of the company, and was
going away; but had not gone thirty yards, before the
upholsterer hemmed again after me. Upon his advanc-
ing towards me with a whisper, I expected to hear some
secret piece of news, which he had not thought fit to
communicate to the bench, but instead of that he desired
me in my ear to lend him half-a-crown. In compassion
to so needy a statesman, and to dissipate the confusion
I found he was in, I told him, “if he pleased, I would
give him five shillings, to receive five pounds of him
when the great Turk was driven out of Constantinople ;”
which he very readily accepted, but not before he had
Jaid down to me the impossibility of such an event, as
the affairs of Europe now stand.

This paper I design for the particular benefit of those
worthy citizens who live more in a coffee-house than in
their shops, and whose thoughts are so taken up with the
affairs of their allies that they forget theix customers.

PAPA PAIL EL EL IL II EL

TOM FOLIO.

Tom For1o is a broker in learning, employed to get to-
gether good editions, and stock the libraries of great
men. ‘here is not a sale of books begins until Tom
Folio is seen at the door. There is not an auction
where his name is not heard, and that too in the very
nick of time, in the critical moment, before the last
decisive stroke of the hammer. There is not a sub-
scription goes forward in which Tom is not privy to the
first rough draught of the proposals; nor a catalogue
printed that doth not come to him wet from the press.
He is an universal scholar, so far as the title-page of
all authors ; knows the manuscripts in which they were
discovered, the editions through which they have passed,
with the praises or censures which they have received
from the several members of the learned world. He
has a greater esteem for Aldus and Elzevir than for
Virgil and Horace. If you talk of Herodotus, he breaks
out into a panegyric upon Harry Stephens. He thinks
he gives youan account of an author, when he tells you
the subject he treats of, the name of the editor, and the
year in which it was printed. Or if you draw him into
further particulars, he cries up the goodness of the
paper, extols the diligence of the corrector, and is trans-
ported with the beauty of the letter. This he looks
upon to be sound learning and substantial criticism.
As for those who talk of the fineness of style, and the
justness of thought, or describe the brightness of any
particular passages, nay, though they themselves write
in the genius and spirit of the author they admire, Tom
looks upon them as men of superficial learning and
flashy parts.

I had yesterday morning a visit from this learned
idiot, for that is the light in which I consider every
pedant, when I discovered in him some little touches of
the coxcomb, which I had not before observed. Being
very full of the figure which he makes in the republic
of letters, and wonderfully satisfied with his great stock
of knowledge, he gave me broad intimations, that he did
not believe in all points as his forefathers had done.
fie then communicated to mea thought of a certain
author upon a passage of Virgil’s account of the dead,
which I made the subject of a late paper. This thought
hath taken very much among men of Tom’s pitch and
understanding, though universally exploded by all that
know how to construe Virgil, or have any relish of
antiquity. Not to trouble my reader with it, I found
upon the whole that Tom did not believe a future state
of rewards and punishments, because Alneas, at his

 

leaving the empire of the dead, passed through the gate
of ivory, and not through that of horn. Knowing that
Tom had not sense enough to give up an opinion which
he had once received, that I might avoid wrangling I
told him, that Virgil possibly had his oversights as
well as another author. “Ah! Mr Bickerstaff,’ says
he, “you would have another opinion of him, if you
would read him in Daniel Heinsius’s edition. I have
perused him myself several times in that edition,” con-
tinued he; “and after the strictest and most malicious
examination, could find but two faults in him; one of
them is in the Atneid, where there are two commas
instead of a parenthesis; and another in the third
Georgie, where you may find a semicolon turned upside
down.” “ Perhaps,” said I, “these were not Virgil’s
faults, but those of the transcriber.” “I do not design
it,” says Tom, “asa reflection on Virgil; on the con-
trary, I know that all the manuscripts declaim against
such a punctuation. Oh! Mr Bickerstaff,’ says he,
“what would a man give to see one simile of Virgil
writ in his own hand!” I asked him which was the
simile he meant ; but was answered, any simile in Virgil.
He then told me all the secret history in the common-
wealth of learning ; of modern pieces that had the names
of ancient authors annexed to them; of all the books
that were now writing or printing in the several parts
of Europe; of many amendments which are made,
and not yet published ; and a thousand other particulars,
which I would not have my memory burdened with for
a Vatican.

At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly
admired him, and looked upon him as a prodigy of learn-
ing, he took his leave. I know several of Tom’s class,
who are professed admirers of Tasso, without under-
standing a word of Italian; and one in particular that
earriesa Pastor Fido in his pocket, in which, I am sure,
he is acquainted with no other beauty but the clearness
of the character.

There is another kind of pedant, who, with all Tom
Folio’s impertinences, hath greater superstructures and
embellishments of Greek and Latin; and is still more
insupportable than the other, in the same degree as he
is more learned. Of this kind very often are editors,
commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, and erities ; and,
in short, all men of deep learning without common sense.
These persons set a greater value on themselves for
having found out the meaning of a passage in Greek,
than upon the author for having written it; nay, will
allow the passage itself not to have any beauty in it, at
the same time that they would be considered as the
greatest men of the age for having interpreted it. They
will look with contempt on the most beautiful poems
that have been composed by any of their contemporaries ;
but will lock themselves up in their studies for a twelve-
month together, to correct, publish, and expound such
trifies of antiquity, as a modern author would be con-
temned for. Men of the strictest morals, severest lives,
and the gravest professions, will write volumes upon an
idle sonnet, that is originally in Greek or Latin; give
editions of the most immoral authors; and spin out
whole pages upon the various readings of a lewd ex-
pression. All that can be said in excuse for them is,
that their works sufficiently show they have no taste of
their authors ; and that what they do in this kind is out
of their great learning, and not out of any levity or lasci-
viousness of temper.

A pedant of this nature is wonderfully well described
in six lines of Boileau, with which I shall conclude his
character :

“* Brimful of learning see that pedant stride,
Bristling with horrid Greek, and puffed with pride!
A thousand authors he in vain has read,

And with their maxims stuff’d his empty head;
And thinks that without Aristotle’s rule,

Reason is blind, and common sense a fool.”

OF SO SEL OLE LOL ES ECOL ISLMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

TEMPER.

SomE years since I was engaged with a coachful of
friends to take a journey as faras the Land’s End. We
were very well pleased with one another the first day ;
every one endeavouring to recommend himself by his
good humour and complaisance to the rest of the com-
pany. This good correspondence did not last long ; one
of our party was soured the very first evening by a plate
of butter which had not been melted to his mind, and
which spoiled his temper to such a degree, that he con-
tinued upon the fret tothe end of our journey. A second
fell off from his good humour the next morning, for
no other reason that I could imagine, but because I
chanced to step into the coach before him, and place
myself on the shady side. This, however, was but my
own private guess; for he did not mention a word of
it, nor indeed of any thing else, for three days following.
The rest of our company held out very near half the
way, when ona sudden Mr Sprightly fell asleep; and
instead of endeavouring to divert and oblige us, as he
had hitherto done, carried himself with an unconcerned,
careless, drowsy behaviour, until we came to our last
stage. There were three of us who still held up our
heads, and did all we could to make our journey agree-
able; but, to my shame be it spoken, about three miles
on this side Exeter, I was taken with an unaccountable
fit of sullenness, that hung upon me for above three-
score miles; whether it was for want of respect, or
from an accidental tread upon my foot, or from a foolish
maid’s calling me “the old gentleman,” I cannot tell.
In short, there was but one who kept his good humour
to the Land’s End.

There was another coach that went along with us, in
which I likewise observed that there were many secret
jealousies, heart-burnings, and animosities: for when
we joined companies at night, I could not but take
notice that the passengers neglected their own company,
and studied how to make themselves esteemed by us,
who were altogether strangers to them ; until at length
they grew so well acquainted with us, that they liked us
as little as they did one another. When I reflect upon
this journey, I often fancy it to be a picture of human
life, in respect to the several friendships, contracts, and
alliances, that are made and dissolved in the several
periods of it. The most delightful and most lasting en-
gagements are generally those which pass between man
and woman; and yet upon what trifles are they weak-
ened, or entirely broken! Sometimes the parties fly
asunder even in the midst of courtship, and sometimes
grow cool in the very honey-month. Some separate
before the first child, and some after the fifth ; others
continue good until thirty, others until forty; while
some few, whose souls are of a happier make, and better
fitted to one another, travel on together to the end of
their journey, in a continual intercourse of kind offices
and mutual endearments.

When we therefore choose our companions for life,
if we hope to keep both them and ourselves in good
humour to the last stage of it, we must be extremely
careful in the choice we make as well as in the conduct
on our part. When the persons to whom we join our-
selves can stand an examination, and bear the scrutiny,
when they mend upon our acquaintance with them, and
discover new beauties the more we search into their
characters, our love will naturally rise in proportion to
their perfections.

But because there are very few possessed of such
accomplishments of body and mind, we ought to look
after those qualifications, both in ourselves and others,
which are indispensably necessary towards this happy
union, and which are in the power of every one to ac-
quire, or at least to cultivate and improve. ‘These, in
my opinion, are cheerfulness and constancy. A cheer-
ful temper joined with mnocence will make beauty

attractive, knowledge delightful, and wit good-natured.
It will lighten sickness, poverty, and affliction ; convert
ignorance into an amiable simplicity ; and render defor-
mity itself agreeable.

 

25

Constancy is natural to persons of even tempers and
uniform dispositions, and may be acquired by those of
the greatest fickleness, violence, and passion, who con-
sider seriously the terms of union upon which they come
together, the mutual interest in which they are engaged,
with all the motives that ought to meite their tender-
ness and compassion towards those who have their
dependence upon them, and are embarked with them
for life in the same state of happiness or misery. Con-
stancy, when it grows in the mind upon considerations
of this nature, becomes a moral virtue, and a kind of
good-nature, that is not subject to any change of health,
age, fortune, or any of those accidents which are apt
to unsettle the best dispositions that are founded rather
in constitution than in reason. Where such a constancy
as this is wanting, the most inflamed passion may fall
away into coldness and indifference, and the most melt-
ing tenderness degenerate into hatred andaversion. I
shall conclude this paper with a story, that is very well
known in the north of England.

About thirty years ago, a packet-boat thethad several
passengers on board was cast away upon a¥oek, and in
so great danger of sinking, that all who were in it en-
deavoured to save themselves as well as they could;
though only those who could swim well had a bare pos-
sibility of doing it. Among the passengers there were
two women of fashion, who, seeing themselves in such
a disconsolate condition, begged of their husbands not
to leave them. One of them chose rather to die with
his wife than to forsake her ; the other, though he was
moved with the utmost compassion for his wife, told
her, that “for the good of their children, it was better
one of them should live, than both perish.” Bya great
piece of good luck, next to a miracle, when one of
our good men had taken the last and long farewell in
order to save himself, and the other held in his arms
the person that was dearer to him than life, the ship was
preserved. Itis with a secret sorrow and vexation of
mind that I must tell the sequel of the story, and let my
reader know, that this faithful pair, who were ready to
have died in each other’s arms, about three years after
their escape, upon some trifling disgust grew to a cold-
ness at first, and at length fell out to such a degree, that
they left one another and parted for ever. ‘he other
couple lived together in an uninterrupted friendship and
felicity ; and, what was remarkable, the husband, whom
the shipwreck had hke to have separated from his wife,
died a few months after her, not being able to survive
the loss of her.

I must confess, there is something in the changeable-
ness and inconstancy of human nature, that very often
both dejects and terrifies me. Whatever I am at pre-
sent, I tremble to think what I may be. While I find
this principle in me, how can I assure myself that I
shall be always true to my God, my friend, or myself?
In short, without constancy there is neither love, friend-
ship, nor virtue, in the world.

PELE PPPS POPP PIPL ILIA

THE TULIP MANIA.

I cHANCED to rise very early one particular morning
this summer, and took a walk into the country to divert
myself among the fields and meadows, while the green
was new, and the flowers in their bloom. As at this
season of the year every lane is a beautiful walk, and
every hedge full of nosegays, I lost myself with a great
deal of pleasure among several thickets and bushes,
that were filled with a great variety of birds, and an
agreeable confusion of notes, which formed the plea-
santest scene in the world to one who passed a whole
winter in noise and smoke. The freshness of the dews
that lay upon every thing about me, with the cool
breath of the morning, which inspired the birds with
so many delightful instincts, created in me the same
kind of animal pleasure, and made my heart overflow
with such secret emotions of joy and satisfaction as are
not to be described or accounted for. On this oceasion

ps A SE IE LT TOE ITE24

I could not but reflect on a beautiful simile in Milton—
** As one who long in populous city pent,
Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,
Forth issuing on a summer’s morn, to breathe
Among the pleasant villages and farms
Adjoin’d, from each thing met conceives delight :
The smell of grain, or tedded grass, or kine,
Or dairy, each rural sight, each rural sound.”

Those who are conversant in the writings of polite
authors, receive an additional entertainment from the
country, as it revives in their memories those charming
descriptions, with which such authors do frequently
abound.

I was thinking of the foregoing beautiful simile in
Milton, and applying it to myself, when I observed to
the windward of me a black cloud falling to the earth
in long trails of rain, which made me betake myself for
shelter to a house I saw at a little distance from the
place where I was walking. As I sat in the porch, I
heard the voices of two or three persons, who seemed
very earnest in discourse. My curiosity was raised
when I heard the names of Alexander the Great and
Artaxerxes; and as their talk seemed to run on ancient
heroes, I concluded there could not be any secret in it ;
for which reason I thought I might very fairly listen
to what they said.

After several parallels between great men, which
appeared to me altogether groundless and chimerical,
I was surprised to hear one say, that he valued the
Black Prince more than the Duke of Vendome. How
the Duke of Vendome should become a rival of the
Black Prince, I could not conceive; and was more
startled when I heard a second affirm, with great vehe-
mence, that if the Emperor of Germany was not going
off, he should like him better than either of them. He
added, that though the season was so changeable, the
Duke of Marlborough was in blooming beauty. I was
wondering to myself from whence they had received
this odd intelligence; especially when I heard them
mention the names of several of their great generals,
as the Prince of Hesse, and the king of Sweden, who,
they said, were both running away. To which they
added, what I entirely agree with them in, that the
Crown of France was very weak, but that the Marshal
Villars still kept his colours. : :

- The shower, which had driven them as
well as myself into the house, was now over: and as
they were passing by me into the garden, I asked them
to let me be one of their company.

The gentleman of the house told me, if I delighted
in flowers, it would be worth my while; for that he
believed he could show me such a blow of tulips as was
not to be matched in the whole country.

I accepted the offer, and immediately found that they
had been talking in terms of gardening, and that the
kings and generals they had mentioned were only so
many tulips, to which the gardeners, according to their
usual custom, had given such high titles and appellations
of honour.

I was very much pleased and astonished at the glo-
rious show of these gay vegetables, that arose in great
profusion on all the banks about us. Sometimes I con-
sidered them with the eye of an ordinary spectator, as
so many beautiful objects varnished over with a natural
gloss, and stained with such a variety of colours, as are
not to be equalled in any artificial dyes or tinctures.
Sometimes I considered every leaf as an elaborate piece
of tissue, in which the threads and fibres were woven
together into different configurations, which give a dif-

ferent colouring to the light as it glanced on the several
parts of the surface. Sometimes I considered the whole
bed of tulips, according to the notion of the greatest
mathematician and philosopher that ever lived, as a
multitude of optic instruments, designed for the sepa-
rating light into all those various colours of which it is
composed.
I was awakened out of these my philosophical specu-
lations, by observing the company often seemed to laugh
at me. I accidentally praised a tulip as one of the

 

   

ADDISON'S

finest I ever saw; upon which they told me, it was 4
common Fool’s Coat. Upon that I praised a second,
which it seems was but another kind of Fool’s Coat. I
had the same fate with two or three more; for which
reason I desired the owner of the garden to let me know
which were the finest of the flowers, for that I was so
unskilful in the art, that I thought the most beautiful
were the most valuable, and that those which had the
gayest colours were the most beautiful. The gentleman
smiled at my ignorance. He seemed a very plain honest
man, and a person of good sense, had not his head been
touched with that distemper which Hippocrates calls
the Tulippomania; insomuch that he would talk very
rationally on any subject in the world but a tulip.

He told me, that “he valued the bed of flowers which
lay before us, and was not above twenty yards in length
and two in breadth, more than he would the best hun-
dred acres of land in England ;” and added, that “ it
would have been worth twice the money it is, if a
foolish cook-maid of his had not almost ruined him the
last winter, by mistaking a handful of tulip roots for
a heap of onions, and by that means,’’ says he, “made
me a dish of porridge that cost me above a thousand
pounds sterling.” He then showed me what he thought
the finest of his tulips, which I found received all their
value from their rarity and oddness, and put me in
mind of your great fortunes, which are not always the
greatest beauties.

I have often looked upon it as a piece of happiness,
that I have never fallen into any of these fantastical
tastes, nor esteemed any thing the more for its being
uncommon and hard to be met with. For this reason,
I look upon the whole country in spring-time as a spa-
cious garden; and make as many visits to a spot of
daisies, or a bank of violets, as a florist does to his
borders or parterres. There is not a bush in blossom
within a mile of me which I am not acquainted with, nor
scarce a daffodil or cowslip that withers away in my
neighbourhood without my missing it. I walked home
in this temper of mind through several fields and mea-
dows with an unspeakable pleasure, not without re-
flecting on the bounty of Providence, which has made
the most pleasing and most beautiful objects the most
ordinary and most common.

: LOPLI PLL PODDODA

\ RELIGIONS.

EveErY nation is distinguished by productions that are
peculiar to it. Great Britain is particularly fruitful in
religions, that shoot up and flourish in this climate more
than in any other. We are so famous abroad for our
great variety of sects and opinions, that an ingenious
friend of mine, who is lately returned from his travels,
assures me, there is a show at this time carried up and
down in Germany, which represents all the religions of
Great Britain in wax-work. Notwithstanding that the
pliancy of the matter in which the images are wrought
makes it capable of being moulded into all shapes and
figures, my friend tells me, that he did not think it
possible for it to be twisted and tortured into so many
screwed faces and wry features, as appeared in several
of the figures that composed the show. I was indeed
so pleased with the design of the German artist, that I
begged my friend to give me an account of it in all its
particulars, which he did after the following manner :—

“I have often,” says he, “been present at a show of
elephants, camels, dromedaries, and other strange crea-
ures, but I never saw so great an assembly of specta-
tors as were met together at the opening of this great
piece of wax-work. We were all placed ina large hall,
according to the price that we had paid for our seats.
The curtain that hung before the show was made by a
master of tapestry, who had woven it in the figure of a
monstrous hydra that had several heads, which bran-
dished out their tongues, and seemed to hiss at each
other. Some of these heads were large and entire ;
and where any of them had been lopped away, there

 

sprouted up several in the room of them ; insomuch,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 25

that for one head cut off, a man might see ten, twenty,
or a hundred, of a smaller size, creeping through the
wound. In short, the whole picture was nothing but
confusion and bloodshed. On a sudden,” says my
friend, “I was startled with a flourish of many musical
instruments that I had never heard before, which was
followed by a short tune, if it might be so called, wholly
made up of jars and discords. Among the rest, there
was an organ, a bag-pipe, a groaning board, a stento-
rophontic trumpet, with several wind instruments of a
most disagreeable sound, which I do not so much as
know the names of. After a short flourish, the curtain
was drawn up, and we were presented with the most
extraordinary assembly of figures that ever entered into
2 man’s imagination. The design of the workman was
so well expressed in the dumb show before us, that it
was not hard for an Englishman to comprehend the
meaning of it.

The principal figures were placed ina row, consisting
ef seven persons. The middle figure, which imme-
diately attracted the eyes of the whole company, and
was much bigger than the rest, was formed like a
matron, dressed in the habit of an elderly woman of
quality in Queen Elizabeth’s days. The most remark-
able parts of her dress were the beaver with the steeple
crown, the searf that was darker than sable, and the
Jawn apron that was whiter than ermine. Her gown
was of the richest black velvet ; and just upon her heart
were several large diamonds of an inestimable value,
disposed in the form of a cross. She bore an inexpres-
sible cheerfulness and dignity in her aspect; and,
though she seemed in years, appeared with so much
spirit and vivacity, as gave her at the same time an air
of old age andimmortality. I found my heart touched
with so much love and reverence at the sight of her,
that the tears ran down my face as JI looked upon her ;
and still the more I looked upon her, the more my
heart was melted with the sentiments of filial tender-
ness and duty. I discovered every moment something
so charming in this figure, that I could scarce take my
eyes off it. On its right hand there sat the figure of a
woman so covered with ornaments, that her face, her
body, and her ‘hands, were almost entirely hid under
them. The little you could see of her face was painted,
and, what I thought very odd, had something in it like
artificial wrinkles ; but I was theless surprised at it, when
I saw upon her forehead an old-fashioned tower of grey
hairs. Her head-dress rose very high by three several
stories or degrees ; her garments had a thousand colours
in them, and were embroidered with crosses in gold,
silver, and silk, She had nothing on, so much as a
glove or a slipper, which was not marked with this
figure ; nay, so superstitiously fond did she appear of
it, that she sat cross-legged. Iwas quickly sick of this
tawdry composition of ribbons, silks, and jewels, and
therefore cast my eye on a dame which was just the
reverse of it. I need not tell my reader that the lady
before described was Popery, or that she I am going to
describe is Presbytery. She saton the left hand of the
venerable matron, and so much resembled her in the
features of her countenance that she seemed her sister ;
but at the same time that one observed a likeness in
her beauty, one could not but take notice that there
was something in it sickly and splenetic. Her face had
enough to discover the relation; but it was drawn up
into a peevish figure, soured with discontent, and over-
cast with melancholy. She seemed offended at the
matron for the shape of her hat, as too much resembling
the triple coronet of the person who sat by her. One
might see, likewise, that she dissented from the white
apron and the cross; for which reasons she had made
herself a plain homely dowdy, and turned her face
towards the sectaries that sat on her left hand, as being
afraid of looking upon the matron, lest she should see
the harlot by her.

On the right hand of Popery sat Judaism, repre-
sented by an old man embroidered with phylacteries,
and distinguished by many typical figures, which I had

not skill enough to unriddle, He was placed among

 

the rubbish of a temple; but instead of weeping over
it, which I should have expected from him, he was
counting out a bag of money upon the ruins of it.

On his right hand was Deism, or Natural Religion.
This was a figure of a half-naked awkward country
wench, who, with proper ornaments and education,
would have made an agreeable and beautiful appear-
ance; but for want of those advantages, was such a
spectacle as a man would blush to look upon.

I have now,” continued my friend, “ given you an
account of those who were placed on the right hand of
the matron, and who, according to the order in which
they sat, were Deism, Judaism, and Popery. On the
left hand, as I told you, appeared Presbytery. The next
to her was a figure which somewhat puzzled me: it was
that of a man looking, with horror in his eyes, upon a
silver basin filled with water. Observing something
in his countenance that looked like lunacy, I fancied at
first that he was to express that kind of distraction
which the physicians call the hydrophobia ; but consider-
ing what the intention of the show was, I immediately
recollected myself, and concluded it to be Anabaptism.

‘he next figure was a man that sat under a most
profound composure of mind... He wore a hat whose
brims were exactly parallel with the horizon. His
garment had neither sleeve nor skirt, nor so much
as a superfluous button. What they called his cravat,
was a little piece of white linen quilled with great ex-
actness, and hanging below his chin about two inches.
Seeing a book in his hand, I asked our artist what it
was; who told me it was ‘The Quaker’s Religion ;?
upon which I desired a sight of it. Upon perusal, I
found it to be nothing but a new-fashioned grammar,
or an art of abridging ordinary discourse. The nouns
were reduced to a very small number, as the light,
Sriend, Babylon. The principal of his pronouns was
thou ; and as for you, ye, and yours, I found they were
not looked upon as parts of speech in this grammar.
All the verbs wanted the second person plural; the
participles ended all in ing or ed, which were marked
with a particular accent. There were no adverbs
besides yea and nay. The same thrift was observed
in the prepositions. The conjunctions were only hem/
and ha! and the interjections brought under the three
heads of sighing, sobbing, and groaning.

There was at the end of the grammar a little nomen-
clature, called ‘ The Christian Man’s Vocabulary,’
which gave new appellations, or, if you will, Christian
names, to almost every thing in life. I replaced the
book in the hand of the figure, not without admiring
the simplicity of its garb, speech, and behaviour.

Just opposite to this row of religions, there was a
statue dressed in a fool’s coat, with a cap of bells upon
his head, laughing, and pointing at the figures that stood
before him. This idiot is supposed to say in his heart
what David’s fool did some thousands of years ago, and
was therefore designed as a proper representative of
those among us who are called Atheists and Infidels
by others, and Freethinkers by themselves.

There were many other groups of figures which f
did not know the meaning of; but seeing a collection
of both sexes turning their backs upon the company,
and laying their heads very close together, J inquired
after their religion, and found that they called them-
selves the Philadelphians, or the family of love.

In the opposite corner, there sat another little con-
gregation of strange figures, opening their mouths as
wide as they could gape, and distinguished by the title
of the Sweet Singers of Israel.

I must not omit, that in this assembly of wax there
were several pieces that moved by clockwork, and
gave great satisfaction to the spectators. Behind the
matron there stood one of these figures, and behind
Popery another, which, as the artist told us, were each
of them the genius of the person they attended. That
behind Popery represented Persecution, and the other
Moderation. ‘The first of these moved by secret springs
towards a great heap of dead bodies that lay piled upon
one another at a considerable distance behind the prin-

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26 ADDISON'S

cipal figures. There were written on the foreheads of
these dead men several hard words, as Prae-Adamites,
Sabbatarians, Cameronians, Muggletonians, Brownists,
Independents, Masonites, Camisars, and the like. At
the approach of Persecution, it was so contrived, that,
as she held up her bloody flag, the whole assembly of
dead men, like those in the ‘ Rehearsal,’ started up and
drew their swords. This was followed by great clash-
ings and noise, when, in the midst of the tumult, the
figure of Moderation moved gently towards this new
army, which, upon her holding up a paper in her hand,
inscribed ‘ Liberty of Conscience,’ immediately fell into
a heap of carcasses, remaining in the same quiet pos-
ture in which they lay at first.”

PEPOL PLE POEL PLIOSSILO

PRAYER OF BACON.

I nave heard that it is a rule among the conventuals of
several orders in the Romish church, to shut themselves
up at a certain time of the year, not only from the world
in general, but from the members of their own frater-
nity, and to pass away several days by themselves in
settling accounts between their Maker and their own
souls, in cancelling unrepented crimes, and renewing
their contracts of obedience for the future. Such stated
times for particular acts of devotion, or the exercise of
certain religious duties, have been enjoined in all civil
governments, whatever deity they worshipped, or what-
ever religion they professed. ‘That which may be done
at all times, is often totally neglected and forgotten,
unless fixed and determined to some time more than
another ; and therefore, though several duties may be
suitable to every day of our lives, they are most likely
to be performed, if some days are more particularly set
apart for the practice of them. Our church has accord-
ingly instituted several seasons of devotion, when time,
custom, prescription, and, if I may so say, the fashion
itself, call upon a man to be serious and attentive to the
great end of his being.

I have hinted in some former papers, that the greatest
and wisest of men in allages and countries, particularly
in Rome and Greece, were renowned for their piety
and virtue. It is now my intention to show how those
in our own nation that have been unquestionably the
most eminent for learning and knowledge, were like-
wise the most eminent for their adherence to the reli-
gion of their country.

I might produce very shining examples from among
the clergy ; but because priesteraft is the common ery
of every cavilling, empty seribbler, I shall show that
all the laymen who have exerted a more than ordinary
genius in their writings, and were the glory of their
times, were men whose hopes were filled with immor-
tality and the prospect of future rewards, and men who
lived in a dutiful submission to all the doctrines of re-
vealed religion.

I shall in this paper only instance Sir Francis Bacon,
a man who, for greatness of genius, and compass of
knowledge, did honour to his age and country, I could
almost say to human nature itself. He possessed at
once all those extraordinary talents which were divided
amongst the greatest authors of antiquity. He had the
sound, distinct, comprehensive knowledge of Aristotle,
with all the beautiful lights, graces, and embellishments
of Cicero. One does not know which to admire most
in his writings, the strength of reason, force of style, or
brightness of imagination.

this author has remarked in several parts of his
works, that a thorough insight into philosophy makes
a good believer, and that a smattering in it naturally
produces such a race of despicable infidels as the little
profligate writers of the present age, whom, I must
confess, I have always accused to myself, not so much
for their want of faith as their want of learning.

I was infinitely pleased to find, among the works of
this extraordinary man, a prayer of his own composing,
which, for the elevation of thought, and greatness of

 

expression, seems rather the devotion of an angel than
aman. His principal fault seems to have been the ex-
cess of that virtue which covers a multitude of faults.
This betrayed him to so great an indulgence towards
his servants, who made a corrupt use of it, that it
stripped him of all those riches and honours which a
long series of merits had heaped upon him. But in
this prayer, at the same time that we find him pros-
trating himself before the great mercy seat,and humbled
under afflictions which at that time lay heavy upon him,
we see him supported by the sense of his integrity, his
zeal, his devotion, and his love tomankind; which give
him a much higher figure in the minds of thinking men,
than that greatness had done from which he was fallen.
I shall beg leave to write down the prayer itself, with
the title with it, as it was found amongst his lordship’s
papers, written in his own hand ; not being able to
furnish my readers with an entertainment more suit-
able to this solemn time,

“A PRAYER, OR PSALM, MADE BY MY LORD BACON,
CHANCELEOR OF ENGLAND.

Most gracious Lord Géd, my merciful Father, from
my youth up my creator, my redeemer, my comforter.
Thou, oh Lord, soundest and searchest the depths and
secrets of all hearts; thou acknowledgest the upright
of heart ; thou judgest the hypocrite ; thou ponderest
men’s thoughts and doings as in a balance; thou mea-
surest their intentions as with a line ; vanity and crooked
ways cannot be hid from thee.

Remember, oh Lord! how thy servant hath walked
before thee ; remember what I have first sought, and
what hath been principal in my intentions. I have
loved thy assemblies, I have mourned for the divisions
of thy church, I have delighted in the brightness of thy
sanctuary. ‘This vine, whichthy right hand hath planted
in this nation, I have ever prayed unto thee that it
might have the first and the latter rain, and that it
might stretch her branches to the seas and to the floods.
The state and bread of the poor and oppressed have
been precious in mine eyes; I have hated all cruelty
and hardness of heart; I have, though in a despised
weed, procured the good of all men. If any have been
my enemies, I thought not of them, neither hath the
sun almost set upon my displeasure; but I have been,
as a dove, free from superfluity of maliciousness. Thy
creatures have been my books, but thy scriptures much
more. I have sought thee in the courts, fields, and
gardens; but I have found thee in thy temples.

Thousands have been my sins, and ten thousands my
transgressions, but thy sanctifications have remained
with me, and my heart, through thy grace, hath been
an unquenched coal upon thine altar.

Oh Lord, my strength! . I have since my youth met
with thee in all my ways, by thy fatherly compassions,
by thy comfortable chastisements, and. by thy most
visible providence. As thy favours have increased upon
me, so have thy corrections; so as thou hast been al-
ways near me, oh Lord! and ever as my worldly bless-
ings were exalted, so secret darts from thee have pierced
me; and when I have ascended before men, I have
descended in humiliation before thee. And now when
I thought most of peace and honour, thy hand is heavy
upon me, and hath humbled me according to thy former
loving kindness, keeping me still in thy fatherly school,
not as a bastard, but asa child. Just are thy judg-
ments upon me for my sins, which are more in number
than the sands of the sea, but have no proportion to
thy mercies ; for what are the sands of the sea 2 Earth,
heavens, and all these, are nothing to thy mercies.
Besides my innumerable sins, I confess before thee that
I am debtor to thee for the gracious talent of thy gifts
and graces, which I have neither put into a napkin, nor
put it, as I ought, to exchangers, where it might have
been best profit, but misspent it in things for which I
was least fit: so I may truly say, my soul hath been a
stranger in the course of my pilgrimage. Be merciful
unto me, oh Lord, for my Saviour’s sake, and receive
me unto thy bosom, or guide me in thy ways.”MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS,

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE SPECTATOR.

THE SPECTATOR’S CLUB.

Tue first of our society is a gentleman of Worcester-
shire, of an ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir
Roger de Coverley. His great-grandfather was in-
ventor of that famous country-dance which is called
after him. All who know that shire are very well ac-
quainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He
is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour,
but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and
are contradictions to the manners of the world only as
he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this
humour creates him no enemies, for he does nothing
with sourness or obstinacy ; and his being unconfined
to modes and forms, makes him but the readier and
more capable to please and oblige all who know him.
When he is in town, he lives in Soho Square. It is
said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was
crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the
next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir
Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often
supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Ethe-
rege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and
kicked bully Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling
him youngster. But being ill used by the above-men-
tioned widow, he was very serious for a year anda
half ; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he
at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and
never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat
and doublet of the same cut that was in fashion at the
time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he
tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first
wore it. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful,
gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in town and
country ; a great lover of mankind; but there is such
a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather be-
loved than esteemed.

His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all
the young women profess love to him, and the young
men are glad of his company. When he comes into a
house, he calls the servants by their names, and talks
all the way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that
Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the
chair at a quarter-session with great abilities, and three
months ago gained universal applause by explaining a
passage in the game act.

The gentleman next in esteem and authority among
us is another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner
Temple, a man of great probity, wit, and undersiand-
ing; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to
obey the direction of an old hgmoursome father, than
in pursuit of his own inclinations. He was placed there
to study the laws of the land, and is the most learned
of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle
and Longinus are much better understood by him than
Littleton or Coke. ‘The father sends up every post, ques-
tions relating to marriage articles, leases, and tenures,
in the neighbourhood ; all which questions he agrees
with an attorney to answer and take care of in the
lump. He is studying the passions themselves, when
he should be inquiring into the debates among men
which arise from them. He knows the argument of
each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not
one case in the reports of our own courts. No one
ever took him for a fool, but none except his intimate
friends know he has a great deal of wit. This turn
makes him at once both disinterested and agreeable.
As few of his thoughts are drawn from business, they

* The Spectator was commenced March 1, 1711, by Addison, in
conjunction with Steele, and, exclusive of an interval extending
over 1713 and part of 1714, during which time the Guardian ap-
peared, was continued withcut interruption till Dec, 20, 1714.

 

are most of them fit for conversation. His taste of
books is a little too just for the age he lives in; he has
read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity
with the customs, manners, actions, and writings of the
ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of what
occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent
critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business;
exactly at five he passes through New-Inn, crosses
through Russel Court, and takes a turn at Will’s till
the play begins; he has his shoes rubbed, and his peri-
wig powdered at the barber’s as you go into the Rose.
It is for the good of the audience when he is at a play,
for the actors have an ambition to please him.

The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew
Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city of
London ; a person of indefatigable industry, strong
reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are
noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually
some sly way of jesting, which would make no great
figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the
British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in
all its parts, and will tell that it is a stupid and bar-
barous way to extend dominion by arms; for true power
is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue,
that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we
should gain from one nation; and if another, from an-
other. I have heard him prove, that diligence makes
more lasting acquisitions than valour, and that sloth
has ruined more nations than thesword. He abounds
in several frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest
favourite is, “ A penny saved is a penny got.” A gene-
ral trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a
general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural un-
affected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives
the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He
has made his fortunes himself; and says that England
may be richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods
as he himself is richer than other men; though at the
same time I can say this of him, that there is not a
point in the compass but blows home a ship in which
he is an owner.

Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain
Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understand-
ing, but invincible modesty. He is one of those that
deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting
their talents within the observation of such as should
take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and
behaved himself with great gallantry in several engage-
ments and at several sieges; but having a small estate
of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has
quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably
to his merit, who is not something of a courtier as well
as a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a
profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a
view, impudence should get the better of modesty.
When he has talked to this purpose, I never heard him
make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left
the world because he was not fit for it. A strict honesty,
and an even, regular behaviour, are in themselves
obstacles to him that must press through crowds, who
endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of
a commander. He will, however, in his way of talk,
excuse generals for not disposing according to men’s
desert, or inquiring into it: “for,” says he, “that great
man who has a mind to help me, has as many to brealx
through to come at me, as I have to come at him;”
therefore he will conclude, that the man who would
make a figure, especially in a military way, must get
over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the
importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance
in his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice
to be backward in asserting what you ought to expect,
as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when it

 

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28 ADDISON'S

is your duty. With this candour does the gentleman
speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs
through all his eonversation. The military part of his
life has furnished him with many adventures, in the
relation of which he is very agreeable to the company ;
for he is never overbearing, though accustomed to com-
mand men in the utmost degree below him, nor ever
too obsequious, from a habit of obeying men highly
above him.

But that our society may not appear a set of humor-
ists, unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of
the age, we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb,
a gentleman who, according to his years, should be in the
decline of his life, but having ever been very careful of
his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time
has made but very little impression, either by wrinkles
on his forehead or traces in his brain. His person is
well turned, and of a good height. He is very ready
at that sort of discourse with which men usually enter-
tain women. He has all his life dressed very well, and
remembers habits as others do men. He can smile
when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows
the history of every mode, and can inform you from
which of the French king’s wenches our wives and
daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that
way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered
by such a sort of petticoat, and whose vanity to show
her foot made that part of the dress so short in such a
year. In a word, all his conversation and knowledge
has been in the female world. As other men of his age
will take notice to you what such a minister said upon
such and such an occasion, he will tell you when the
Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman was
then smitten, another was taken with him at the head
of his troop in the Park. In all these important rela-
tions, he has ever about the same time received a kind
glance or a blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty,
mother of the present Lord Such-a-one. This way
of talking of his, very much enlivens the conversa-
tion among us of a more sedate turn; and I find
there is not one of the company but myself, who rarely
speak at all, but speaks of him as that sort of man
who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. To
conclude his character, where women are not concerned,
he is an honest worthy man.

T cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I
am next to speak of as one of our company, for he
visits us but seldom ; but when he does, it adds to every
man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is a clergy-
man, a very philosophic man, of general learning, great
sanctity of life, and the most exact good breeding. He
has the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution,
and consequently cannot accept of such cares and busi-
ness as preferments in his function would oblige him
to: he is therefore among divines what a chamber
counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind,
and the integrity of his life, create him followers, as
being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom
introduces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so
far gone in years, that he observes when he is among
us an earnestness to have him fall on some divine
topic, which he always treats with much authority, as
one who has no interests in this world, as one who is
hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives
hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my
ordinary companions.

OMENS.
Gorne yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I
had the misfortune to find his whole family very much
dejected. Upon asking him the occasion of it, he told
me that his wife had dreamed a strange dream the night
before, which they were afraid portended some misfor-
tune to themselves or to their children. At her coming
into the room, I observed a settled melancholy in her
countenance, which I should have been troubled for,
had I not heard from whence it proceeded. . We were
no sooner sat down, but after having looked upon me

 

a little while, “ My dear,” says she, turning to her hus-
band, “ you may now see the stranger that was in the
candle last night.” Soon after this, as they began to
talk of family affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the
table told her that he was to go into join-hand on Thurs-
day. “Thursday!” says she; “no, child, if it please
God, you shall not begin upon Childermas-day ; tell
your writing-master that Friday will be soon enough.”
IL was reflecting with myself on the oddness of her faney,
and wondering that any body would establish it as a
rule, to lose a day in every week. Inthe midst of these
my musings, she desired me to reach her a little salt
upon the point of my knife, which I did in such a tre-
pidation and hurry of obedience, that [ let it drop by
the way ; at which she immediately started, and said it
‘ell towards her. Upon this I looked very blank; and,
observing the concern of the whole table, began to con-
sider myself, with some confusion, as a person that had
brought a disaster upon the family. The lady, however,
recovering herself after a little space, said to her hus-
band, with a sigh, “ My dear, misfortunes never come
single.” My friend, I found, acted but an under-part
at his table, and, being a man of more good nature than
understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all
the passions and humours of his yoke-fellow. “ Do not
you remember, child,’’ says she, “ that the pigeon-house
fell that very afternoon that our careless wench spilt
the salt upon the table?” “ Yes,” says he, “my dear,
and the next post brought us an account of the battle
of Almanza.” The reader may guess at the figure I
made, after having done allthis mischief. I dispatched
my dinner as soon as I could, with my usual taciturnity 5
when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me quit-
ting my knife and fork, and laying them across one
another upon my plate, desired me that I would humour
her so far as te take them out of that figure, and place
them side by side. What the absurdity was which I
had committed, I did not know, but I suppose there was
some traditionary superstition in it; and, therefore, in
obedience to the lady of the house, I disposed of my
knife and fork in two parallel lines, which is the figure
I shall always lay them in for the future, though I do
not know any reason for it.

It is not difficult for a man to see that a person has
conceived an aversion to him. [For my own part, I
quickly found, by the lady’s looks, that she regarded
me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an unfortunate
aspect ; for which reason I took my leave immedi-
ately after dinner, and withdrew to my own lodgings.
Upon my return home, I fell into a profound contem-
plation on the evils that attend these superstitious fol-
lies of mankind; how they subject us to imaginary
afflictions and additional sorrows, that do not properly
come within our lot. As if the natural calamities of
life were not sufficient for it, we turn the most indif-
ferent circumstances into misfortunes, and suffer as
much from trifling accidents as from real evils. I have
known the shooting of a star spoil a night’s rest; and
have seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appe-
tite upon the plucking of a merry-thought. A screech-
owl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a band
of robbers ; nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more
terror than the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so
inconsiderable which may not appear dreadful to an
imagination that is filled with omens and prognostics.
A rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up into prodigies.

An old maid that is troubled with the vapours, pro-
duces infinite disturbances of this kind among her
friends and neighbours. J know a maiden aunt of a
great family, who is one of those antiquated sybils that
forebode and prophesy from one end of the year to
the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and hear-
ing death-watches; and was the other day almost
frighted out of her wits by the great house-dog, that
howled in the stable at a time when she lay ill of the
toothache. Such an extravagant cast of mind engages
multitudes of people, not only in impertinent terrors,
but in supernumerary duties of life, and arises from
that fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul ofMORAL A
man. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts
of death, or indeed of any future evil, and the uncer-
tainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with
innumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and conse-
quently dispose it to the observation of such groundless
prodigies and predictions. For asit is the chief concern
of wise men to retrench the evils of life by the reason-
ings of philosophy, it is the employment of fools to
multiply them by the sentiments of superstition.

For my own part, I should be very much troubled
were I endowed with this divining quality, though it
should inform me truly of every thing that can befall
me. I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness,
nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually
arrives.

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against
these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is,
by securing to myself the friendship and protection of
that Being who disposes of events and governs futurity.
He sees, at one view, the whole thread of my existence ;
not only that part of it which I have already passed
through, but that which runs forward into all the depths
of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recom-
mend myself to his care: when I awake, I give myself
up to his direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten
me, I will look up to him for help, and question not but
he will either avert them or turn them to my advan-
tage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner
of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about
it ; because I am sure that he knows them both, and
that he will not fail to comfort and support me under
them,

PIDPP PP LAL PLIIPILP ILI ILA

CLUBS.

Man is said to be a sociable animal, and as an instance
of it, we may observe that we take all occasions and
pretences of forming ourselves into those littlenocturnal
assemblies which are commonly known by the name of
clubs. When a set of men find themselves agree in any
particular, though never so trivial, they establish them-
selves into a kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice
a-week, upon the account of such a fantastic resem-
blance. I know a considerable market-town in which
there was aclub of fat men, that did not come together,
as you may well suppose, to entertain one another with
sprightliness and wit, but to keep one another in coun-
tenance: the room where the club met was something

of the largest, and had two entrances, the one by a door :

of a moderate size, and the other by a pair of folding
doors. If a candidate for this corpulent club could
make his entrance through the first, he was looked upon
as unqualified ; but if he stuck in the passage, and could
not force his way through it, the folding-doors were
immediately thrown open for his reception, and he was
saluted as a brother. I have heard that this club,
though it consisted but of fifteen persons, weighed above
three tons.

In opposition to this society, there sprang up another,
composed of scarecrows and skeletons, who being very
meagre and envious, did all they could to thwart the
designs of their bulky brethren, whom they represented
as men of dangerous principles; till at length they
worked them out of the favour of the people, and con-
sequently out of the magistracy. These factions tore
the corporation in pieces for several years, till at length
they came to this accommodation: that the two bailiffs
of the town should be annually chosen out of the two
clubs ; by which means the principal magistrates are at
this day coupled like rabbits, one fat and one lean.

Every one has heard of the club, or rather the con-
federacy, of the kings. This grand alliance was formed
a little after the return of King Charles II., and admitted
into it men of ali qualities and professions, provided
they agreed in the surname of King, which, as they ima-
gined, sufficiently declared the owners of it to be alto-
gether untainted with republican and anti-monarchical
principles.

A Christian name has likewise been often used as a

AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

 

29

hadge of distinction, and made the occasion of a club.
That of the George’s, which used to meet at the sign of
the George on St George’s day, and swear before George,
is still fresh in every one’s memory.

There are at present in several parts of this city what
they call Street Clubs, in which the chief inhabitants of
the street converse together everynight. I remember,
upon my inquiring after lodgings in Ormond Street, the
landlord, to recommend that quarter of the town, told
me there was at that time a very good club init; he also
told me, upon further discourse with him, that two or
three noisy country squires, who were settled there the
year before, had considerably sunk the price of house
rent; and that the club, to prevent the like ineon-
veniences for the future, had thoughts of taking every
house that became vacant into their own hands, till they
had found a tenant for it, of a sociable nature and good
conversation.

The Hum Drum Club, of which I was formerly an
unworthy member, was made up of very honest gentle-
men of peaceable dispositions, that used to sit together,
smoke their pipes, and say nothing till midnight. The
Mum Club, as I am informed, is an institution of the
same nature, and as great an enemy to noise.

After these two innocent societies, I cannot forbear
mentioning a very mischievous one that was erected
in the reign of King Charles II.; I mean the club of
Duellists, in which none was to be admitted that had
not fought his man. ‘The president of it was said to
have killed half a dozen in single combat ; and as for
the other members, they took their seats according to
the number of their slain. There was likewise a side-
table for such as had only drawn blood, and shown a
laudable ambition of taking the first opportunity to
qualify themselves for the first table. This club, con-
sisting only of men of honour, did not continue long,
most of the members of it being put to the sword, or
hanged, a little after its institution.

Our modern celebrated clubs are founded upon eat-
ing and drinking, which are points wherein most men
agree, and in which the learned and illiterate, the dull
and the airy, the philosopher and the buffoon, can all
of them bear a part. The Kit-Cat itself is said to have
taken its original from a mutton-pie. The Beef-steak,
and October clubs, are neither of them averse to eating
and drinking, if we may form a judgment of them from
their respective titles.

When men are thus knit together by a love of society,
not a spirit of faction, and do not meet to censure or
annoy those that are absent, but to enjoy one another,
when they are thus combined for their own improve-
ment, or for the good of others, or, at least, to relax
themselves from the business of the day by an innocent
and cheerful conversation, there may be something
very useful in these little institutions and establish-
ments.

I cannot forbear concluding this paper with a scheme
of laws that I met with upon a wall in a little alehouse.
How I came thither, I may inform my reader at a more
convenient time. ‘These laws were enacted by a knot
of artizans and mechanics, who used to meet every
night; and as there is something in them which gives
us a pretty picture of low life, I shall transcribe them
word for word.
Rules to be observed in ft
this place for the prese
neighbourhood.

the Twopenny Club, erected in

rvation of friendship and good

hay at his

J. Every member at his first coming in shall lay down
his twopence.

II. Every member shall fill his pipe out of his own
box.

Ill. If any member absents himself, he shall forfeit
a, penny for the use of the club, unless in ease of sick-
ness or imprisonment.

IV. If any member swears or curses, his neighbour
may give him a kick upon the shins.

VY. If any member tells stories in the club that are
not true, he shall forfeit for every third lie a halfpenny,

 

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if
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Piper ogiesd Bape ge wal

30 ADDISON'S

VI. If any member strikes another wrongfully, he
shall pay his club for him.

VII. If any member brings his wife into the club,
he shall pay for whatever she drinks or smokes.

VIII. If any member’s wife comes to fetch him home
from the club, she shall speak to him without the door.

1X. If any member calls another cuckold, he shall
be turned out of the club.

X. None shall be admitted into the club that is of
the same trade with any member of it.

XI. None of the club shall have his clothes or shoes
made or mended but by a brother member.

XII. Nonon-juror shall be capable of being a member.

The morality of this little club is guarded by such
wholesome laws and penalties, that I question not but
my reader will be as well pleased with them, as he
would have been with the Leges Convivales of Ben
Jonson, the regulations of an old Roman club cited by
Lipsius, ov the rules of a Symposium in an ancient
Greek author.

POOP EP PAPI ELIA EFIS IF

ACTING THE LION.

Ir is with much satisfaction that I hear this great city
inquiring day by day after these my papers, and receiv-
ing my morning lectures with a becoming seriousness
and attention. My publisher tells me that there are
already 3000 of them distributed every day ; so that if
I allow twenty readers to every paper, which I look
upon as a modest computation, I may reckon about
60,000 disciples in London and Westminster, who I
hope will take care to distinguish themselves from the
thoughtless herd of their ignorant and inattentive bre-
thren. Since I have raised to myself so great an audi-
ence, I shall spare no pains to make their instruction
agreeable, and their diversion useful. For which rea-
sons I shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit,
and to temper wit with morality, that my readers may,
if possible, both ways find their account in the specu-
lation of the day. And to the end that their virtue
and discretion may not be short, transient, intermitting
starts of thought, I have resolved to refresh their me-
mories from day to day, till I have recovered them out
of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the
ageis fallen. The mind that lies fallow but a single
day, sprouts up in fallows that are only to be killed by
a constant and assiduous culture. It was said of So-
crates, that he brought philosophy down from heaven,
to inhabit among men; and I shall be ambitious to have
it said of me, that I have brought philosophy out of
closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in
clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables, and in coffee-houses.

I would, therefore, in a very particular manner, re-
commend these my speculations to all well-regulated
families, that set apart an hour in every morning for
tea and bread and butter, and would earnestly advise
them for their good to order this paper to be punctually
served up, and to be looked upon as a part of the tea
equipage.

Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well-written book,
compared with its rivals and antagonists, is like Moses’s
serpent, that immediately swallowed up and devoured
those of the Egyptians. I shall not be so vain as to
think that where the Spectator appears the other public
prints will vanish, but shall leave it tomy reader’s con-
sideration whether it is not much better to be let into
the knowledge of one’s self, than to hear what passes in
Muscovy or Poland; and to amuse ourselves with such
writings as tend to the wearing out of ignorance, pas-
sion, and prejudice, than such as naturally conduce to
inflame hatreds and make enmities irreconcileable.

In the next place, I would recommend this paper to
the daily perusal of those gentlemen whom I cannot
but consider as my good brothers and allies, I mean
the fraternity of Spectators, who live in the world
without having any thing to do in it, and either by
the affluence of their fortunes, or laziness of their dis-
positions, have no other business with the rest of man-

 

kind but to look upon them. Under this class of men
are comprehended all contemplative tradesmen, titular
physicians, fellows of the Royal Society, templars that
are not given to be contentious, and statesmen that are
out of business; in short, every one that considers the
world as a theatre, and desires to form a right judg-
ment of those who are the actors in it.

Mhere is another set of men that I must likewise lay
a claim to, whom I have lately called the Blanks of
society, as being altogether unfurnished with ideas till
the business and conversation of the day has supplied
them. I have often considered these poor souls with
an eye of great commiseration when I have heard them
asking the first man they have met with whether there
was any news stirring, and by that means gathering
together materials for thinking. These needy persons
do not know what to talk of till about twelve o’clock in
the morning; for by that time they are pretty good
judges of the weather, know which way the wind sits,
and whether the Dutch mail be come in. As they lie
at the mercy of the first man they meet, and are grave
and impertinent all the day long, according to the
notions which they have imbibed in the morning, I
would earnestly entreat them not to stir out of their
chambers till they have read this paper, and do pro-
mise them that I will daily instil into them such sound
and wholesome sentiments as shall have a good efiect
on their conversation for the ensuing twelve hours.

But there are none to whom this paper will be more
useful than to the female world. I have often thought
there: has not been sufficient pains taken in finding out
proper employments and diversions for the fair ones.
Their amusements seem contrived for them rather as
they are women than as they are reasonable creatures,
and are more adapted to the sex than to the species.
The toilet is their great scene of business, and the right
adjusting of their hair the principal employment of
their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is reckoned
a very good morning’s work; and if they make an ex-
cursion to a mercer’s or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue
makes them unfit for any thing else all the day after,
Their more serious occupations are sewing and em-
broidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparation
of jellies and sweetmeats. This, I say, is the state of
ordinary women, though I know there are multitudes
of those of a more elevated life and conversation that
move in an exalted*sphere of knowledge and virtue,
that join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments
of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as
well as love, into their male beholders. I hope to in-
crease the number of these by publishing this daily
paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an
innocent, if not an improving entertainment, and by
that means at least divert the minds of my female
readers from greater trifles. At the same time, as [
would fain give some finishing touches to those which
are already the most beautiful pieces in human nature,
I shall endeavour to point out all those imperfections
that are the blemishes, as well as those virtues which
are the embellishments, of the sex. In the meanwhile,
I hope these, my gentle readers, who have so much
time on their hands, will not grudge throwing away a
quarter of an hour ina day on this paper, since they
may do it without any hindrance to business.
_ I know several of my friends and well-wishers are
in great pain for me lest I should not be able to keep
up the spirit of a paper which I shall oblige myself to
furnish every day; but to make them easy in this par-
ticular, I will promise them faithfully to give it over as
soon as I grow dull. This I know will be matter
of great raillery to the small wits, who will frequently
put me in mind of my promise, desire me to keep my
word, assure me that it is high time to give over, with
many other little pleasantries of the like nature, which
men of a little smart genius cannot forbear throwing
out against their best friends, when they have such a
handle given them of being witty. But let them re-
member that I do hereby enter my caveat against this

| piece of raillery.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 31

LEARNED PROFESSIONS.

I am sometimes very much troubled when I reflect
upon the three great professions of Divinity, Law, and
Physic ; how they are each of them overburdened with
practitioners, and filled with multitudes of ingenious
gentlemen that starve one another.

We may divide the clergy into generals, field-officers,
and subalterns. Among the first we may reckon bishops,
deans, and arch-deacons. Among the second are doctors
of divinity, prebendaries, and all that wear scarfs. The
rest are comprehended under the subalterns. As for
the first class, our constitution preserves it from any
redundancy of incumbents, notwithstanding competi-
tors are numberless. Upon a strict calculation it is
found that there has been a great exceeding of late
years in the second division, several brevets having
been granted for the converting of subalterns into
scarf-officers ; insomuch, that withm my memory the
price of lutestring is raised above twopence in a yard.
As for the subalterns, they are not. to be numbered.
Should our clergy once enter into the corrupt practice
of the laity, by the splitting of their freeholds, they
would be able to carry most of the elections in England.

The body of the law is no less encumbered with super-
fluous members, that are like Virgifs army, which he
tells us was so crowded, many of them had not room to
use their weapons. ‘This prodigious society of men may
be divided into the litigious and peaceable. Under the
first are comprehended all those who are carried down
in coachfuls to Westminster Hall every morning in
term time. Martial’s description of this species of
lawyers is full of humour: “ Jras et verba locant”—
“ Men that hire out their words and anger ;” that are
more or less passionate according as they are paid for
it, and allow their client a quantity of wrath propor-
tionable to the fee which they receive from him. [
must, however, observe to the reader, that above
three parts of those whom I reckon among the liti-
gious are such as are only quarrelsome in their hearts,
and have no opportunity of showing their passion at
the bar. Nevertheless, as they do not know what
strifes may arise, they appear at the hall every day,
that they may show themselves in a readiness to enter
the lists whenever there shall be occasion for them.

The peaceable lawyers are, in the first place, “many
of the benchers of the several Inns of Court, who seem
to be the dignitaries of the law, and are endowed with
those qualifications of mind that accomplish a man
rather for a ruler than a pleader. These men live
peaceably in their habitations, eating once a-day, and
dancing once a-year, for the honour of their respective
societies.

Another numberless branch of peaceable lawyers,
are those young men, who being placed at the Inns of
Court in order to study the laws of their country, fre-
quent the playhouse more than Westminster Hall, and
are seen in all public assemblies except in a court of
justice. I shall say nothing of those silent and busy
multitudes that are employed within doors in the
drawing up of writings and conveyances, nor of those
greater numbers that palliate their want of business
with a pretence to such chamber practice.

If, in the third place, we look into the profession of
physic, we shall find a most formidable body of men.
The sight of them is enough to make aman serious,
for we may lay it down as a maxim, that when a nation
abounds in physicians, it grows thin of people. Sir
William Temple is very much puzzled to find out a
reason why the Northern Hive, as he calls it, does
not send out so prodigious swarms, and overrun the
world with Goths and Vandals, as it did formerly; but
had that excellent author observed that there were no
students in physic among the subjects of Thor and
Woden, and that this science very much flourishes in
the north at present, he might have found a better so-
lution for this difficulty than any of those he has made
use of. This body of men in our own country may be
described like the British army in Ceesar’s time. Some

 

NTR . i . concerns aati

of them slay in chariots and some on foot. If the
infantry do less execution than the charioteers, it is
because they cannot be carried so scon into all quarters
of the town, and dispatch so much business in so short
atime. Besides this body of regular troops, there are
stragglers, who, without being duly listed and enrolled,
do infinite mischief to those who are so unlucky as to
fall into their hands.

There are, besides the above mentioned, innumerable
retainers to physic, who, for want of other patients,
amuse themselves with the stifling of cats im an air-
pump, cutting up dogs alive, or impaling of insects upon
the point of a needle for microscopical observations ;
besides those that are employed in the gathering of
weeds and the chase of butterflies; not to mention the
cockleshell merchants and spider-catchers.

When I consider how each of these professions is
crowded with multitudes that seek their livelihood in
them, and how many men of merit there are in each of
them, who may be rather said to be of the science than
the profession, I very much wonder at the humour of
parents, who will not rather choose to place their sons
in a way of life where an honest industry cannot but
thrive, than in stations where the greatest probity, learn-
ing, and good sense, may miscarry. How many men
are country curates, that might have made themselves
aldermen of London, by aright improvement of asmaller
sum of money than what is usually laid out upon a
learned education! A sober frugal person, of slender
parts and a slow apprehension, might have thriven in
trade, though he starves upon physic ; as a man would
be well enough pleased to buy silks of one, whom he
would not venture to feel his pulse. Vagellius is care-
ful, studious, and obliging, but withal a little thick-
skulled ; he has not a single client, but might have had
abundance of customers. ‘he misfortune is, that parents
take a liking to a particular profession, and therefore
desire their sons may be of it: whereas, in so great an
affair of life, they should consider the genius and abili-
ties of their children more than their own inclinations.

It is the great advantage of a trading nation, that
there are very few in it so dull and heavy, who may not
be placed in stations of life which may give them an
opportunity of making their fortunes. A well-regulated
commerce is not like law, physic, or divinity, to be over-
stocked with hands; but, on the contrary, flourishes by
multitudes, and gives employment to all its professors.
Fleets of merchantmen are so many squadrons of float-
ing shops, that vend our wares and manufactures in all
the markets of the world, and find out chapmen under
both the tropics.

 

SLANDER.

THERE is nothing that more betrays a base ungenerous
spirit than the giving of secret stabs to a man’s reputa-
tion ; lampoons and satires, that are written with wit
and spirit, are like poisoned darts, which not only inflict
a wound, but make it incurable. For this reason J am
very much troubled when T see the talents of humour
and ridicule in the possession of an ill-natured man.
There cannot be a greater gratification to a barbarous
and inhuman wit than to stir up sorrow in the heart of
a private person, to raise uneasiness among near rela-
tions, and to expose whole families to derision, at the
same time that he remains unseen and undiscovered. If,
besides the accomplishments of being witty and ill-na-
tured, a man is vicious into the bargain, he is one of
the most mischievous creatures that can enter into a
civil society. His satire will then chiefly fall upon those
who ought to be most exempt from it. Virtue, merit,
and every thing that is praiseworthy, will be made the
subject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to
enumerate the evils which arise from these arrows that
fly in the dark, and I know no other excuse that is or
can be made for them, than that the wounds they give
are only imaginary, and produce nothing more than a
secret shame or sorrow in the mind of the suffering
person. It must, indeed, be confessed that a lampoon

Pet 3

 

       

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at

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geen ncaiihertareneereneream camsiibeet
or
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*By ADDISON'S

or a satire do not carry in them robbery or murder ;
put, at the same time, how many are there that would
not rather lose a considerable sum of money, or even
life itself, than be set up as a mark of infamy and deri-
sion! and in this case a man should consider, that an
injury is not to be measured by the notions of him that
gives, but of him that receives it.

Those who can put the best countenance upon the
outrages of this nature which are offered them, are not
without their secret anguish. I have often observed a
passage in Socrates’s behaviour at his death, in a light
wherein none of the critics have considered it. That
excellent man entertaining his friends, a little before he
drank the bowl of poison, with a discourse on the im-
mortality of the soul, at his entering upon it, says that
he does not believe any the most comic genius can
censure him for talking upon such a subject at such a
time. The passage I think evidently glances upon Aris-
tophanes, who wrote a comedy on purpose to ridicule the
discourses of that divine philosopher. It has been
observed by many writers, that Socrates was so little
moved at this piece of buffoonery, that he was several
times present at its being acted upon the stage, and
never expressed the least resentment of it. But, with
submission, I think the remark I have here made shows
us, that this unworthy treatment made an impression
upon his mind, though he had been too wise to dis-
cover it.

When Julius Cesar was Jampooned by Catullus, he
invited him to a supper, and treated him with such a
generous civility, that he made the poet his friend ever
after. Cardinal Mazarin gave the same kind of treat-
ment tothe learned Quillet, who had reflected upon his
eminence ina famous Latin poem. The cardinal sent
for him, and after some kind expostulations upon what
he had written, assured him of his esteem, and dismissed
him with a promise of the next good abbey that should
fall, which he accordingly conferred upon him in a few
months after. This had so good an effect upon the
author, that he dedicated the second edition of his hook
to the cardinal, after having expunged the passages
which had given him offence.

Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and forgiving
a temper. Upon his being made pope, the statue of
Pasquin was one night dressed in a very dirty shirt,
with an excuse written under it, that he was forced
to wear foul linen, because his laundress was made a
princess. This was a reflection upon the pope’s sister,
who, before the promotion of her brother, was in those
mean circumstances that Pasquin represented her. As
this pasquinade made a great noise in Rome, the pope
offered a considerable sum of money to any person that
should discover the author of it. The author, relying
upon his holiness’s generosity, as also on some private
overtures which he had received from him, made the
discovery himself, upon which the pope gave him the
reward he had promised, but, at the same time, to dis-
able the satirist for the future, ordered his tongue to be
cut out, and both his hands to be chopped off. Aretine
5s too trite an instance. Every one knows that all the
kings of Europe were his tributaries, Nay, there is a
letter of his extant, in which he makes his boast, that
he had laid the Sophi of Persia under contribution.

Though in the various examples which I have here
drawn together, these several great men behaved them-
selves very indifferently towards the wits of the age
who had reproached them, they all of them plainly
showed that they were very sensible of their reproachies,
and consequently that they received them as very great
injuries. For my own part, I would never trust a
man that I thought was capable of giving these secret
wounds, and cannot but think, that he would hurt the
person whose reputation he thus assaults, in his body
or in his fortune, could he do it with the same security.
There is indeed something very barbarous and inhuman
in the ordinary scribblers of lampoons. An innocent
young lady shall be exposed for an unhappy feature ;
a father of a family turned to ridicule for some do-

for 2 misinterpreted word or action. Nay, a good, a
temperate,

and a just man, shall be put out of counte-
nance by the representation of those qualities that
should do him honour. So pernicious a thing is wit,
when it is not tempered with virtue and humanity.

T have indeed heard of heedless inconsiderate writers,
that without any malice have sacrificed the reputation
of their friends and acquaintance, toa a certain levity
of temper, and a silly ambition of distinguishing them-
selves by a spirit of raillery and satire; as if it were
not infinitely more honourable to be a good-natured
man than a wit. Where there is this little petulant
humour in an author, he is often very mischievous
without designing to beso. For which reason I always
lay it down as a rule, that an indiscreet man is more
hurtful than an ill-natured one; for, as the latter will
only attack his enemies, and those he wishes ill to, the
other injures indifferently both friends and foes. I
cannot forbear on this occasion transcribing a fable out
of Sir Roger l’Estrange, which accidentally lies before
me. “A couple of waggish boys were watching of frogs
at the side of a pond, and still as any of them put up
their heads, they would be pelting them down again
with stones. ‘Children,’ says one of the frogs, ‘ you
never consider, that though this may be play to you,
it is death to us.’ *?

As this week is in a manner set apart and dedicated
to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in such spe-
culations as may not be altogether unsuitable to the
season; and in the meantime, as the settling in our-
selves a charitable frame of mind is a work very pro-
per for the time, I have in this paper endeavoured to
expose that particular breach of charity, which has been
generally overlooked by divines, because they are but
few who can be guilty of it.

 

Omens:

THE VALETUDINARIAN,

Tun following letter will explain itself, and needs no
apology :—

“Tam oneof that sickly tribe who are commonly known
by the name of Valetudinarians, and do confess to you,
that 1 first contracted this ill habit of body, or rather of
mindy by the study of physic. J no sooner began to
peruse books of this nature, but I found my pulse was
irregular, and. scarce ever read the account of any
disease that I did not fancy myself afflicted with. Dr
Sydenham’s learned treatise on fevers threw me into a
lingering hectic, which hung upon me all the while I was
reading that excellent piece. I then applied myself to
the study of'several authors who have written upon
phthisical distempers, and by that means fell into a
consumption ; till at length, growing very fat, | was in
a manner shamed out of that imagination. Not long
after this I found in myself all the symptoms of the
gout, except pain, but was cured of it by a treatise upon
the gravel, written by a very ingenious author, who
(as it is usual for physicians to convert one distemper
into another) eased me of the gout by giving me the
stone. I at length studied myself into a complication
of distempers; but accidentally taking into my hand
that ingenious discourse written by Sanctorius, I was
resolved to direct myself by a scheme of rules which
I had collected from his observations. ‘The learned
world are very well acquainted with that gentleman’s
invention, who, for the better carrying on of his ex-
periments, contrived a certain mathematical chair,
which was so artificially hung upon springs, that it
would weigh any thing as well as a pair of scales. By
this means he discovered how many ounces of his food
passed by perspiration, what quantity of it was turned.
into nourishment, and how much went away by the
other channels and distributions of nature.

Having provided myself with this chair, I used to
study, eat, drink, and sleep in it; insomuch, that I may
be said, for these last three years, to have lived ina pair
of scales. I compute myself, when I am in full health,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

mestic calamity; a wife be made uneasy all her lite,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to be precisely two hundred-weight, falling short of it-

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

about a pound after a day’s fast, and exceeding it.as
much after a very full meal ; so that it is my continual
employment to trim the balance between these two
volatile pounds in my constitution. In my ordinary
meals I fetch myself up to two hundred-weight and
half a pound ; and if, after having dined, I find myself
fall short of it, I drink just so much small beer, or eat
such a quantity of bread, as is sufficient to make me
weight. In my greatest excesses I do not transgress
more than the other half pound, which, for my health’s
sake, I do the first Monday in every month. As soon
as I find myself duly poised after dinner, I walk till
I have perspired five ounces and four scruples ; and
when I discover by my chair that I am so far reduced,
I fall to my books, and study away three ounces more.
As for the remaining parts of the pound, I keep no
account of them. I do not dine and sup by the clock,
but by my chair; for when that informs me my pound
of food is exhausted, I conclude myself to be hungry,
and lay in another with all diligence. In my days of
abstinence I lose a pound and a half, and on solemn
fasts am two pounds lighter than on other days in the
year.

I allow myself, one night with another, a quarter of
a pound of sleep, within a few grains more or less; and
if upon my rising I find that I have not consumed my
whole quantity, I take out the rest in my chair. Upon
an exact calculation of what I expended and received
the last year, which I always register in a book, I find
the medium to be two hundred-weight, so that I can-
not discover that I am impaired one ounce in my health
during the whole twelvemonth. And yet, Sir, notwith-
standing this my great care to ballast myself equally
every day, and to keep my body in its proper poise, so
it is, that I find myself in a sick and languishing con-
dition. My complexion is grown very sallow, my pulse
low, and my body hydropical. Let me, therefore, beg
you, Sir, to consider me as your patient, and do give
me more certain rules to walk by than those I have
already observed, and you will very much oblige your
humble servant.”

This letter puts me in mind of an Italian epitaph
written on the monument of a valetudinarian—* Stavo
ben, ma per star meglio, sto qui,” which it is impossible
to translate.* The fear of death often proves mortal,
and sets people on methods to save their lives which
infallibly destroy them. This is a reflection made by
some historians, upon observing that there are many
more thousands killed in a flight than in a battle, and
may be applied to those multitudes of imaginary sick
persons that break their constitutions by physic, and
throw. themselves into the arms of death, by endeavour-
ing to escape it. This method is not only dangerous,
but below the practice of a reasonable creature. ‘To
consult the preservation of life as the only end of it, to
make our health our business, to engage in no action
that is not part of a regimen or course of physic, are
purposes so abject, so mean, so unworthy human nature,
that a generous soul would rather die than submit to

them. Besides, that a continual anxiety for life vitiates’

all the relishes of it, and casts a gloom over the whole
face of nature, as it is impossible we should take
delight in any thing that we are every moment afraid
of losing.

I do not mean, by what I have here said, that I
think any one to blame for taking due care of their
health. On the contrary, as cheerfulness of mind and
capacity for business are in a great measure the effects
of a well-tempered constitution, a man cannot be at too
much pains to cultivate and preserve it. But this care,
which we are prompted to, not only by common sense
but by duty and instinct, should never engage us in
groundless fears, melancholy apprehensions, and ima-
ginary distempers, which are natural to every man who
is more anxious to live than how to live. In short, the
preservation of life should be only a secondary concern,

* The following will give some idea of it to an English reader:—
§*{ was well, but by trying to be better, I am here.”

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33

and the direction of it out principal. If we have this
frame of mind, we shall take the best means to preserve
life, without being over-solicitous about the event yand
shall arrive at that point of felicity which Martial has
mentioned as the perfection of happiness—of neither
fearing nor wishing for death. |

In answer to the gentleman who tempers his health
by ounces and by scruples, and, instead of com-
plying with those natural solicitations of hunger and
thirst, drowsiness, or love of exercise, governs himself
by the prescriptions of his chair, I shall tell him a short
fable. Jupiter, says the mythologist, to reward the
piety of a certain countryman, promised to give him
whatever he would ask. The countryman desired that
he might have the management of the weather in
his own estate. He obtained his request, and imme-
diately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine, among his
several fields, as he thought the nature of the soil re-
quired. At-the end of the year, when he expected to
see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest fell infinitely
short of that of his neighbours. Upon which (says the
fable) he desired Jupiter to take the weather again into
his own hands, or that otherwise he should utterly ruin
himself,

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WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Wuen Iam in a serious humour, I very often walk by
myself in Westminster Abbey, where the gloominess
of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the
solemnity of the building, and the condition of the
people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind
of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not
disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in
the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing
myself with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met
with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them
recorded nothing else of the buried person but that he
was born upon one day and died upon another; the
whole history of his life being comprehended in those
two circumstances that are common to all mankind. I
could not but look upon these registers of existence,
whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon
the departed persons, who had left no other memorial
of them but that they were born, and that they died.
They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in
the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names
given them, for no other reason but that they may be
killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knocked
on the head.

The life of these men is finely described in holy writ
by the path of an arrow, which is immediately closed
up and lost,

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself
with the digging of a grave, and saw in every shovel~
ful of it that was thrown up the fragment of a bone or
skull, intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth,
that some time or other had a place in the composition
of a human body. Upon this I began to consider with
myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay con-
fused together under the pavement of that ancient
cathedral—how men and women, friends and enemies,
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were
crumbled amongst one another, and blended together
in the same common mass—how beauty, strength, and
youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay un-
distinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of
mortality, as it were, in the lump, I examined it more
particularly by the accounts which I found on several
of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of
that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with
such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for
the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would
blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed
upon him. There art others so excessively modest,
that they deliver the character of the person departed
in Greek or Hebrew, and, by that means, are not under-
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34 ADDISON'S

I found there were poets who had no monuments, and
monuments which had no poets. JI observed, indeed,
that the present war had filled the church with many
of these uninhabited monuments, which had _ been
erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were
perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the
bosom of the ocean.

I could not but be very much delighted with several
modern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance
of expression and justness of thought, and, therefore,
do honour to the living as well as the dead. As a
foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno-
rance or politeness of a nation from the turn of their
public monuments and inscriptions, they should be sub-
mitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius
before they are putin execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel’s
monument has very often given me great offence. In-
stead of the brave rough English admiral, which was
the distinguishing character of that plain gallant man,
he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau,
dressed in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon
velvet cushions under a canopy of state. The inscrip-
tion is answerable to the monument; for instead of
celebrating the many remarkable actions he had per-
formed in the service of his country, it acquaints us
only with the manner of his death, in which it was
impossible for him to reap any honour.’ The Dutch,
whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show
an infinitely greater taste of antiquity and politeness in
their buildings and works of this nature, than what we
meet with in those of our own country. The monuments
of their admirals, which have been erected at the public
expense, represent them like themselves, and are
adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with

eautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral.

But to return to our subject. I have left the reposi-
tory of our English kings for the contemplation of
another day, when I shall find my mind disposed for so
Serious an amusement. I know that entertainments of
this nature are apt to raise dark and. dismal thoughts
in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; but for
my own part, though I am always serious, I do not
know what it is to be melancholy, and can, therefore,
take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes,
with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delight-
ful ones. By this means I can improve myself with
those objects which others consider with terror. When
I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of
envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the
beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out ; when I meet
with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart
melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the
parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving
for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see
kings lying by those who deposed them, when I con-
sider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
that divided the world with their contests and disputes,
I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little
competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When
I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died
yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider
that great day when we shall all of us be contempo-
aries, and make our appearance together.

wrens

 

CHARACTERS AT THE CLUB.

Tae club of which I am a member is very luckily com-
posed of such persons as are engaged in different ways
of life, and deputed, as it were, out of the most conspi-
cuous classes of mankind. By this means I am fur-
nished with the greatest variety of hints and materials,
and know every thing that passes in the different quar-
ters and divisions, not only of this great city, but of the
whole kingdom. My readers, too, have the satisfaction
to find that there is no rank or degree among them who
have not their representative in this club, and that
there is always somebody present who will take care of
their respective interests, that nothing may be written

‘

 

or published to the prejudice or infringement of their
just rights and privileges,

I last night sat very late in company with this select
body of friends, who entertained me with several re-
marks which they and others had made upon these my
speculations, as also with the various success which
they had met with among their several ranks and de-
grees of readers. Will Honeycomb, told me, in the
softest manner he could, that there were some ladies
(“but for your comfort,” says Will, “they are not those
of the most wit”) that were offended at the liberties I
had taken with the opera and the puppet-show; that
some of them were likewise very much surprised that 1
should think such serious points as the dress and equi~
page of persons of quality proper subjects for raillery.

He was going on, when Sir Andrew Freeport took
him up short, and told him, that the papers he hinted
at had done great good in the city, and that all their
wives and daughters were the better for them; and
further added, that the whole city thought themselves
very much obliged to me for declaring my generous
intentions to scourge vice and folly as they appear in a
multitude, without condescending to be a publisher of
particular intrigues and cuckoldoms. “In short,” says
Sir Andrew, “if you avoid that foolish beaten road of
fallmg upon aldermen and citizens, and employ your
pen upon the vanity and luxury of courts, your paper
must needs be of general use.”

Upon this my friend the Templar told Sir Andrew,
that he wondered to hear a man of his sense talk after
that manner ; that the city had always been the pro-
vince for satire; and that the wits of King Charles’s
time jested upon nothing else during his whole reign.
He then showed, by the examples of Horace, Juvenal,
Boileau, and the best writers of every age, that the
follies of the stage and court had never been accounted
too sacred for ridicule, how great soever the persons
might be that patronised them. “ But after all,” says he,
“T think your raillery has made too great an excursion,
in attacking several persons of the Inns of Court; and
I do not believe you can show me any precedent for
your behaviour in that particular.”

Mygood friend, Sir Roger de Coverley, who had said
nothing all this while, began his speech with a “ Psha!”
and told us, that he wondered to see so many men of
sense so very serious upon fooleries. “ Let our good
friend,” says he, “attack every one that deserves it. I
would only advise you, Mr Spectator,” applying himself
to me, “to take care how you meddle with country
squires. They are the ornaments of the English na-
tion—men of good heads and sound bodies; and let
me tell you, some of them take it ill of you, that you
mention fox-hunters with so little respect.” :

Captain Sentry spoke very sparingly on this occasion.
What he said was only to commend my prudence in
not touching upon the army, and advised me to con-
tinue to act discreetly in that point.

By this time I found every subject of my speculations
was taken away from me, by one or other of the club;
and began to think myself in the condition of the good
man that had one wife who took a dislike to his grey
hairs, and another to his black, till by their picking out,
what each of them had an aversion to, they left his head
altogether bald and naked.

While I was thus musing with myself, my worthy
friend the clergyman, who, very luckily for me, was at
the club that night, undertook my cause. He told us,
that he wondered any order of persons should think
themselves too’considerable to be advised; that it was
not quality, but mnocence, which exempted men from
reproof ; that vice and folly ought to be attacked
wherever they could be met with, and especially when
they were placed in high and conspicuous stations of
life. He further added, that my paper would only serve
to aggravate the pains of poverty, if it chiefly exposed
those who are already depressed, and in some measure
turned into ridicule, by the meanness of their conditions
and circumstances. He afterwards proceeded to take
notice of the great use this paper might be of to thea

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 30

public, by reprehending those vices which are too trivial
for the chastisement of the law, and too fantastical for
the cognisance of the pulpit. He then advised me to
prosecute my undertaking with cheerfulness, and as-
sured me, that whoever might be displeased with me,
T should be approved by all those whose praises do
honour to persons on whom they are bestowed.

The whole club pays a particular deference to the
discourse of this gentleman, and are drawn into what
he says, as much by the candid ingenuous manner with
which he delivers himself, as by the strength of argu-
ment and force of reason which he makes use of. Will
Honeycomb immediately agreed that what he had said
was right; and that, for his part, he would not insist
upon the quarter which he had demanded for the ladies.
Sir Andrew gave up the city with the same frankness.
The Templar would not stand out, and was followed by
Sir Roger and the captain; who all agreed that I
should be at liberty to carry the war into what quarter
I pleased, provided I continued to combat with crimi-
nals in a body, and to assault the vice without hurting
the person.

This debate, which was held for the good of mankind,
put me in mind of that which the Roman triumvirate
were formerly engaged in for their destruction. Every
man at first stood hard for his friend, till they found
that by this means they shouldspoil their proseription ;
and, at length, making a sacrifice of all their acquaint-
ance and relations, furnished out a very decent execu-
tion.

Having thus taken my resolutions to march on boldly
in the cause of virtue and good sense, and to annoy
their adversaries in whatever degree or rank of men
they may be found, I shall be deaf for the future to
all the remonstrances that shall be made to me on this
account. -If Punch grows extravagant, I shall repri-
mand him very freely. If the stage becomes a nursery
of folly and impertinence, I shall not be afraid to ani-
madvert upon it. In short, if I meet with any thing
in city, court, or country, that shocks modesty or good
manners, I shall use my utmost endeavours to make
an example of it. I must, however, entreat every par-
ticular person, who does me the honour to be redder of
this paper, never to think himself, or any one of his
friends or enemies, aimed at in what is said; for I pro-
mise him never to draw a faulty character which does
not fit at least a thousand people, or to publish a
single paper that is not written in the spirit of benevo-
lence and with a love to mankind.

e LEONORA.

Some months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in the
country, enclosed a letter to me, directed to a certain
lady, whom I shall here call by the name of Leonora,
and, as it contained matters.of consequence, desired me
to deliver it to her with my own hand. Accordingly, I
waited upon her ladyship pretty early in the morning,
and was desired by her woman to walk into her lady’s
library, till such time as she was in readiness to receive
me. ‘The very sound of a lady’s library gave me a
great curiosity to see it; andas it was some time before
the lady came to me, I had an opportunity of turning
over a great many of her books, which were ranged
together in a very beautiful order. At the end of the
folios, which were finely bound and gilt, were great jars
of China, placed one above another ina very noble piece
of architecture. The quartos were separated from the
octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a
delightful pyramid. The octayos were bounded by tea-
dishes of all shapes, colours, and sizes, which were so
disposed on a wooden frame, that they looked like one
continued pillar indented with the finest strokes of sculp-
ture, and stained with the greatest variety of dyes.
Lhat part of the library which was designed for the
reception of plays and pamphlets, and other loose papers,
was enclosed in a kind of square consisting of one of
the prettiest grotesque works that 1 ever saw, and made

 

ta hy pcr tar tea attest it tht

up of scaramouches, lions, monkeys, mandarins, trees,
shells, and a thousand other odd figures in China ware.
In the midst of the room was:a little japan table, with
a quire of gilt paper upon it, and on the paper a silver
snuff-box made in the shape of a little book. I found
there were several other counterfeit books upon the
upper shelves, which were carved in wood, and served
only to fill up the numbers like faggots in the muster
of a regiment. I was wonderfully pleased with such a
mixed kind of furniture, as seemed very suitable both
to the lady and the scholar, and did not know at first
whether I should fancy myself ina grotto or in a library.

Upon my looking into the books, I found there were
some few which the lady had bought for her own use,
but that most of them had been got together, either
because she had heard them praised, or because she had
seen the authors of them. Among several that I exa-
mined, I very well remember those that follow :-—
Ogleby’s Virgil; Dryden’s Juvenal; Cassandra; Cleo-
patra; Astree; Sir Isaac Newton’s works; The Grand
Cyrus, with a pin stuck in one of the middle leaves ;
Pembroke’s Arcadia ; Locke of Human Understanding,
with a paper of patches in it; a Spelling Book; a Dic-
tionary for the explanation of hard words; Sherlock
upon Death ; The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony; Sir
William Temple’s Essays ; Father Malebranche’s Search
after Truth, translated into English ; a Book of Novels z
The Academy of Compliments ; Culpepper’s Midwifery;
The Ladies’ Calling; Tales in Verse by Mr Durfey,
bound in red leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down
in several places; all the classic authors, in wood ; a
set of Elzevirs, by the same hand; Clelia, which opened
of itself in the place that describes two lovers in a
bower ; Baker’s Chronicle ; Advice to a Daughter ; The
New Atalantis, with a key to it; Mr Steele’s Christian
Hero ; a Prayer-Book, with a bottle of Hungary water
by the side of it; Dr Sacheverell’s Speech ; Fielding’s
Trial ; Seneca’s Morals; Taylor’s Holy Living and
Dying; La Ferte’s Instructions for Country Dances.

I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of these,
and several other authors, when Leonora entered ; and
upon my presenting her with the letter from the knight,
told me, with an unspeakable grace, that she hoped Sir
Roger was in good health: I answered, “ Yes !” for I
hate long speeches, and after a bow or two retired.

Leonora was formerly a celebrated beauty, and is still
a very lovely woman. She has been a widow for two
or three years, and being unfortunate in her first mar-
riage, has taken a resolution never to venture upon a
second. She has no children to take care of, and leaves
the management of her estate to my good friend Sir
Roger. But as the mind naturally sinks into a kind of
lethargy, and falls asleep, that is not agitated by some
favourite pleasures and pursuits, Leonora has turned
all the passions of her sex into a love of books and
retirement. She converses chiefly with men, as she
has often said herself, but it is only in their writings ;
and admits of very few male visitants, except my friend
Sir Roger, whom she hears with great pleasure, and
without scandal. As her reading has lain very much
among romances, it has given her a very particular turn
of thinking, and discovers itself even in her house, her
gardens, and her furniture. Sir Roger has entertained
ne an hour together with a description of her country
seat, which is situated in a kind of wilderness, about a
hundred miles distant from London, and looks like a
little enchanted palace. The rocks about it are shaped
into artificial grottoes covered with woodbinesand jessa-
mines. The woods are cut into shady walks, twisted
into bowérs, and filled with cages of turtles. The
springs are made to run among pebbles, and by that
means taught to murmur very agreeably. They are
likewise collected into a beautiful lake that is inha-
bited by a couple of swans, and empties itself by a little
rivulet which runs through a green meadow, and is
known in the family by the name of the purling stream.
The knight likewise tells me, that this lady preserves
her game better than any of the gentlemen in the coun-
try; not, says Sir Roger, that she sets so great a value

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36 ADDISON'S

upon her partridges and pheasants, as upon her larks
and nightingales. For, she says, that every bird which
is killed upon her ground will spoil a concert, and that
she shall certainly miss him the next year.

When I think how oddly this lady is improved by
learning, I look upon her with a mixture of admiration
and pity. Amidst those innocent entertainments which
she has formed to herself, how much more valuable
does she appear than those of her sex, who employ them-
Selves in diversions that are less reasonable, though
more in fashion! What improvements would a woman
have made, who is so susceptible of impressions from
what she reads, had she been guided to such books as
have a tendency to enlighten the understanding and
rectify the passions, as well as to those which are of
little more use than to divert the imagination !

But the manner of a lady’s employing herself use-
fully in reading, shall be the subject of another paper,
in which I design to recommend such particular books
aS may be proper for the improvement of the sex.
And as this is a subject of a very nice nature, J shall
desire my correspondents to give me their thoughts
upon it.

PIII ICIS SOIR

FOREIGN FASHIONS.

THERE is nothing which I desire more than a safe and
honourable peace, though, at the same time, I am very
apprehensive of many ill consequences that may attend
it. J do not mean in regard to our politics, but to our
manners. Whatan inundation of ribbons and brocades
will break in upon us! What peals of laughter and
impertinence shall we be’ exposed to! For the pre-
vention of these great evils, I could heartily wish that
there was an act of parliament for prohibiting the im-
portation of French fopperies.

The female inhabitants of our island have already
received very strong impressions from this ludicrous
nation, though by the length of the war, as there is no
evil which has not some good attending it, they are
pretty well worn out and forgotten. I remember the
time when some of our well-bred countrywomen kept
their valet de chambre, because, forsooth, a man was
much more handy about them than one of their own
sex. I myself have seen one of these male Abigails
tripping about the room with a looking-glass in his
hand, and combing his lady’s hair a whole morning
together.

About the time that several of our sex were taken
into this kind of service, the ladies likewise brought up
the fashion of receiving visits in their beds. It was
then looked upon as a piece of ill-breeding for a woman
to refuse to see a man because she was not stirring,
and a porter would have been thought unfit: for his
place that could have made so awkward an excuse. As
I love to see every thing that is new, I once prevailed
upon my friend Will Honeycomb to carry me along
with him to one of these travelled ladies, desiring him,
at the same time, to present me as a foreigner who
could not speak English, that so I might not be obliged
to bear a part in the discourse. he lady, though
willing to appear undressed, had put on her best looks,
and painted herself for our reception. Her hair ap-
peared in a very nice disorder, as the night-gown, which
was thrown upon her shoulders, was ruffled with great
care. For my part, I am so shocked with every thing
which looks immodest in the fair sex, that I could not
forbear taking off my eye from her when she moved in
her bed, and was in the greatest confusion imaginable
every time she stirred a leg or an arm. As the co-
quettes who introduced this custom grew old, they left
it off by degrees, well knowing that a woman of three-
score may kick and tumble her heart out without mak-
ing any impressions.

Sempronia is at present the most professed admirer
of the French nation, but is so modest as to admit her
visitants no farther than her toilet. It is a very odd
sight that beautiful creature makes, when she is talking
politics, with her tresses flowing about her shoulders,

 

and examining that face in the glass which does such
execution upon all the male standers-by. How prettily
does she divide her discourse between her woman and
her visitants! What sprightly transitions does she
make from an opera or a sermon to an ivory-comb or
a pin-cushion! How have I been pleased to see her
interrupted in an account of her travels by a message
to her footman, and holding her tongue in the midst of
a moral reflection by applying the tip of it to a patch!

There is nothing which exposes a woman to greater
dangers than that gaiety and airiness of temper which
are natural to most of the sex. It should be therefore
the concern of every wise and virtuous woman to keep
this sprightliness from degenerating into levity. On
the contrary, the whole discourse and behaviour of the
French is to make the sex more fantastical, or, as they
are pleased to term it, more awakened, than is consis-
tent either with virtue or discretion. To speak loud
in publie assemblies, to let every one hear you talk of
things that should only be mentioned in private or in
whisper, are looked upon as parts of a refined educa-
tion. At the same time a blush is unfashionable, and
silence more ill-bred than any thing that can be spoken.
In short, discretion and modesty, which in all other ages
and countries have been regarded as the greatest orna-
ments of the fair sex, are regarded as the ingredients
of narrow conversation and family behaviour.

Some years ago I was at the tragedy of Macbeth, and
unfortunately placed myself under a woman of quality
that is since dead, who, as I found by the noise she
nade, was newly returned from France. A little before
the rising of the curtain, she broke out into a loud
soliloquy, “ When will the dear witches enter?” and
immediately upon their first appearance, asked a lady
that sat three boxes from her, on her right hand, if
those witches were not charming creatures. A little
aiter, as Betterton was in one of the finest speeches of
the play, she shook her fan at another lady, who satas
far on the left hand, and told her, with a whisper that
might be heard all over the pit, “ We must not expect
to see Balloon to-night.” Not long after, calling out to
a young baronet by his name, who sat three seats be-
fore Me, she asked him whether Macbeth’s wife was
still alive, and, before he could give an answer, fell a-
talking of the ghost of Banquo. She had by this time
formed a little audience to herself, and fixed the atten-
tion of all about her. But asI had a mind to hear the
play, I got out of the sphere of her impertinence, and
planted myself in one of the remotest corners of the pit.
. This pretty childishness of behaviour is one of the
most refined parts of coquetry, and is not to be attained
in perfection by Iadies that do not travel for their im-
provement. A natural and unconstrained behaviour
has something in it so agreeable, that it is no wonder
to see people endeavouring after it. But, at the same
time, it is so very hard to hit, when it is not born with
us, that people often make themselves ridiculous in
attempting it.

A’ very ingenious I'rench author tells us, that the
ladies of the court of France in his time thought it ill-
breeding, and a kind of female pedantry, to pronounce
a hard word right, for which reason they took frequent
occasion to use hard words, that they might show a
politeness in murdering them. He further adds, that
a lady of some quality at court, having accidentally
made use of a hard word in a proper place, and pro-
nounced it right, the whole assembly was out of coun-
tenance for her.

I must, however, be so just to own, that there are
many ladies who have travelled several thousands of
miles without being the worse for it, and haye brought
home with them all the modesty, discretion, and good
sense, that they went abroad with; as, on the contrary,
there are great numbers of travelled ladies who have
lived all their days within the smoke of London. TI
have known a woman that never was out of the parish
of St James’s, betray as many foreign fopperies in her
carriage, as she could haye gleaned up in half the
countries of Hurope,

A

eeMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

FRIENDS.

Une would think that the larger the company is in
which we are engaged, the greater variety of thoughts
and subjects would be started in discourse ; but instead
of this, we find that conversation is never so much
straitened and confined as in numerous assemblies.
When a multitude meet together on any subject of dis-
course, their debates are taken up chiefly with forms
and general positions; nay, if we come into a more con-
tracted assembly of men and women, the talk generally
runs upon the weather, fashions, news, and the like
public topics. In proportion as conversation gets into
clubs and knots of friends, it descends into particulars,
and grows more free and communicative ; but the most
open, instructive, and unreserved discourse, is that
which passes between two persons who are familiar
and intimate friends. On these occasions, a man gives
a loose to every passion and every thought that is up-
permost, discovers his most retired opinions of persons
and things, tries the beauty and strength of his senti-
ments, and exposes his whole soul to the examination
of his friend.

Tully was the first who observed that friendship im-
proves happiness and abates misery, by the doubling of
our joy, and dividing of our grief—a thought in which
he hath been followed by all the essayers upon friend-
ship that have written since his time. Sir Francis
Bacon has finely described other advantages, or, as he
calls them, fruits of friendship ; and, indeed, there is no
subject of morality which has been better handled and
more exhausted than this. Among the several fine
things which have been spoken of it, I shall beg leave
to quote some out of avery ancient author, whose book
would be regarded by our modern wits as one of the
most shining tracts of morality that are extant, if it ap-
peared under the name of a Confucius, or of any cele-
brated Grecian philosopher : I mean the little apocryphal
treatise, entitled The wisdom of the son of Sirach. How
finely has he described the art of making friends by an
obliging and affable behaviour !—and laid down that
precept which a late excellent author has delivered as
his own, That we should have many well-wishers, but
few friends. “Sweet language will multiply friends ;
anda fair-speaking tongue will increase kind greetings.
Be in peace with many, nevertheless have but one
counsellor of a thousand.” With what prudence does
he caution us in the choice of our friends! And with
what strokes of nature (I could almost say of humour)
has he described the behaviour of a treacherous and
self-interested friend! “If thou wouldest get a friend,
prove him first, and be not hasty to credit him: for
some man is a friend for his own occasion, and will not
abide in the day of thy trouble. And there is a friend,
who being turned to enmity and strife, will discover thy
reproach.” Again: “Some friend is a companion at the
table, and will not continue in the day of thy affliction ;
but in thy prosperity he will be as thyself, and will be
bold over thy servants. If thou be brought low, he will
be against thee, and hide himself from thy face.” What
can be more strong and pointed than the following
verse? “Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take
heed of thy friends.” In the next words he particu-
larises one of those fruits of friendship which is described
at length by the two famous authors above mentioned,
and falls into a general eulogium of friendship, which
is very just, as well as very sublime: “A faithful friend
is a strong defence, and he that hath found such a one,
hath found a treasure. Nothing doth countervail a
faithful friend, and his excellency is invaluable. A
faithful friend is the medicine of life; and they that
fear the Lord shall find him. Whoso feareth the Lord
shall direct his friendship aright; for as he is, so shall
his neighbour (that is, his friend) be also.” I do not
remember to have met with any saying that has pleased
me more than that of a friend’s being the medicine of
life, to express the efficacy of friendship in healing the
pains and anguish which naturally cleave to our exist-
ence in this world; and am wonderfully pleased with

 

tt

37
the turn in the last sentence, that a virtuous man shall
as a blessing meet with a friend who is as virtuous as
himself. There is another saying in the same author,
which would have been very much admired in a heathen
writer: “ Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not
comparable to him: a new friend is as new wine ; when
itis old, thou shalt drink it with pleasure.” With what
strength of allusion and force of thought has he de-
scribed the breaches and violations of friendship!
“Whoso casteth a stone at the birds frayeth them away ;
and he that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friendship.
Though thou drawest a sword at a friend, yet despair
not, for there may be a returning to favour. If thou
hast opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not, for
there may be a reconciliation; except for upbraiding,
or pride, or disclosing of secrets, or a treacherous wound;
for, for these things every friend will depart.” We may
observe in this, and several other precepts in this author,
those little familiar instances and illustrations which
are so much admired in the moral writings of Horace
and Epictetus. There are very beautiful instances of
this nature in the following passages, which are like-
wise written upon the same subject :—“ Whoso disco-
vereth secrets, looseth his credit, and shall never find
a friend to his mind. Love thy friend, and be faithful
unto him; but if thou bewrayest his secrets, follow no
more after him: for as a man hath destroyed his enemy,
so hast thou lost the love of thy friend ; as one that
letteth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let thy
friend go, and shalt not get him again; follow after
him no more, for he is too far off; he is as a roe escaped
out of the snare. As for a wound, it may be bound up,
and after reviling there may be reconciliation ; but he
that bewrayeth secrets, is without hope.”

Among the several qualifications of a good friend,
this wise man has very justly singled out constancy
and faithfulness as the principal. To these, others have
added virtue, knowledge, discretion, equality in age
and fortune, and, as Cicero calls it, morwm comitas, a
pleasantness of temper. If I were to give my opinion
upon such an exhausted subject, { should join to these
other qualifications a certain equability or evenness of
behaviour. A man often contracts a friendship with
one whom perhaps he does not find out till after a
year’s conversation, when on a sudden some latent ill
humour breaks out upon him, which he never disco-
vered or suspected at his first entering into an intimacy
vith him. There are several persons who in some cer-
tain periods of their lives are inexpressibly agreeable,
and in others as odious and detestable. Martial has
given us a very pretty picture of one of this species, in
the following epigram :—

** Jn all thy humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow ;

Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee,
There is no living with thee, or without thee.”

It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a
friendship with one, who by these changes and vicissi-
tudes of humour is sometimes amiable and sometimes
odious; and as most men are at some times in an
admirable frame and disposition of mind, it should be
one of the greatest tasks of wisdom to keep ourselves
well when we are so, and never to go out of that which
is the agreeable part of our character.

 

we

THE EMPIRE OF TRADE.

THERE is no place in the town which I so much love to
frequent as the Royal Exchange. It givesmea secret
satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my vanity,
as I am an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of
countrymen and foreigners consulting together upon
the private business of mankind, and making this me-
tropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. I must
confess I look upon High-Change to be a great council,
in which all considerable nations have their represen-
tatives. Factors in the trading world are what am-

 

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38 , ADDISON'S

bassadors are in the politic world ; they negotiate affairs,
conclude treaties, and maintain a good correspondence
between those wealthy societies of men that are divided
from one another by seas and oceans, or live on the
different extremities of a continent. I have often been
pleased to hear disputes adjusted between an inhabitant
of Japan and an alderman of London, or to see a sub-
ject of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one
of the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in
mixing with these several ministers of commerce, as
they are distinguished by their different walks and
different languages. Sometimes I am justled among a
body of. Armenians, sometimes I am lost in a crowd of
Jews, and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen ;
T am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times ;
or rather fancy myself like the old philosopher, who,
upon being asked what countryman he was, replied,
that he was “a citizen of the world.”

Though I very frequently visit this busy multitude
of people, I am known to nobody there but my friend
Sir Andrew, who often smiles upon me as he sees me
bustling in the crowd, but at the same time connives
at my presence without taking further notice of me.
There is indeed a merchant of Egypt, who just knows
me by sight, having formerly remitted me some money
te Grand Cairo; but as I am not versed in the modern
Coptic, our conferences go no further than a bow and
a grimace.

This grand scene of business gives me an infinite
variety of solid and substantial entertainment. As I
am a great lover of mankind, my heart naturally over-
flows with pleasure at the sight of a prosperous and
happy multitude, insomuch, that at many public solem-
nities I cannot forbear expressing my joy with tears
that have stolen down my cheeks. For this reason I
am wonderfully delighted to see such a body of men
thriving in their own private fortunes, and at the same
time promoting the public stock; or, in other words,
raising estates for their own families, by bringing into
their country whatever is wanting, and carrying out of
it whatever is superfluous.

Nature seems to have taken a particular care to dis-*
seminate her blessings among the different regions of
the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse and
traffic among mankind,: that the natives of the several
parts of the globe might have a kind of dependence
upon one another, and be united together by their
common interest. Almost every degree produces some-
thing peculiar to it. The food often grows in one
country, and the sauce in another. The fruits of Por-
tugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes, and
the infusion of a China plant is sweetened with the pith
of an Indian cane. The Philippic islands give a flavour
to our European bowls. ‘The single dress of a woman
of quality is often the product of a hundred climates.
The muff and the fan come together from the different
ends of the earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid
zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole., The bro-
cade petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the
diamond necklace out of thé bowels of Indostan.

If we consider our own country in its natural pro-
spect, without any of the benefits and advantages of
commerce, what a barren uncomfortable spot of earth
falls to our share! Natural historians tell us, that no
fruit grows originally among us, besides hips and haws,
acorns and pig-nuts, with other delicacies of the like
nature; that our climate of itself, and without the as-
sistance of art, can make no farther advances toward
a plum than a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater
perfection than a crab: that our melons, our peaches,
our figs, apricots, and cherries, are strangers among us,
imported in different ages, and naturalised in our Eng-
lish gardens; and that they would all degenerate and
fall away into the trash of our own country, if they
were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the
mercy of our sun and soil. Nor has traffic more en-
riched our vegetable world than it has improved the
whole face of nature among us. Our ships are laden
with the harvest of every climate. Our tables are

 

stored with spices, and oils, and wihes. Our roomsare
filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with the
workmanship of Japan. Our morning’s draught comes
to us from the remotest corners of the earth. We
repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repose
ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend Sir An-
drew calls the vineyards of France our gardens, the
spice islands our hot-beds, the Persians our silk weavers,
and the Chinese our potters. Nature indeed furnishes
us with the bare necessaries of life, but traffic gives us
a great variety of what is useful, and at the same time
supplies us with every thing that is convenient and
ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our hap-
piness, that whilst we enjoy the remotest products of
the north and south, we are free from those extremities
of weather which give them birth; that our eyes are
refreshed with the green fields of Britain, at the same
time that our palates are feasted with fruits that rise
between the tropics.

For these reasons there are not more useful members
in a commonwealth than merchants. They knit man-
kind together in a mutual intercourse of good offices,
distribute the gifts of nature, find work for the poor,
add wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great.
Our English merchant converts the tin of his own
country into gold, and exchanges its wood for rubies.
The Mahometans are clothed in our British manufac-
ture, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed
with the fleeces of our sheep.

When I have been upon the ’Change, I have often
fancied one of our old kings standing in person, where
he is represented in effigy, and looking down upon the
wealthy concourse of people with which that place is
every day filled. In this case, how would he be sur-
prised to hear all the languages of Europe spoken in
this little spot of his former dominions, and to see so
many private men, who in his time would have been
the vassals of some powerful baron, negotiating like
princes for greater sums of money than were formerly
to be met with in the royal treasury! Trade, without
enlarging the British territories, has given us a kind of
additional empire. It has multiplied the number of
the rich, made our landed estates infinitely more valu-
able than they were formerly, and added to them an
accession of other estates as valuable as the lands
themselves.

A REMARKABLE CLUB.

Fiavine already given my reader an account of several
extraordinary clubs, both ancient and modern, I did not
design to have troubled him with any more narratives
of this nature ; but I have lately received information
of a club, which I can call neither ancient nor modern,
that I dare say will be no less surprising to my readér
than it was to myself; for which reason I shall com-
municate it to the public, as one of the greatest curio-
sities in its kind.

A friend of mine complaining of a tradesman who is
related to him, after having represented him as a very
idle worthless fellow, who neglected his family, and
spent most of his time over a bottle, told me, to conclude
his character, that he was a member of the Everlasting
Club. So very odd a title raised my curiosity to inquire
into the nature of a club that had such a soundin g name ;
upon which my friend gave me the following account :—

The Lverlasting Club consists of a hundred members,
who divide the whole twenty-four hours among them,
in such a manner that the club sits day and night from
one end of the year to another ; no party presuming to
rise till they are relieved by those who are in course to
succeed them, By this means a member of the Hver-
lasting Club never wants company; for though he is
not upon duty himself, he is sure to find some who are ;
so that if he be disposed to take a whet, a nooning, an
evening’s draught, or a bottle after midnight, he goes
to the club, and finds a knot of friends to his mind.

It isa maxim in this club, That the steward never
dies ; for as they succeed one another by way of rotation,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

rio man is to quit the great elbow-chair which stands at
the upper end of the table, till his successor is in readi-
ness to fill it: insomuch, that there has not been a sede
vacante in the memory of man.

This club was instituted towards the end, or, as some
of them say, about the middle, of the civil wars, and
continued without interruption till the time of the great
jire [1666], which burned them out, and dispersed them
for several weeks. The steward, at that time, main-
tained his post till he had like to have been blown
up with a neighbouring house, which was demolished
in order to stop the fire; and would not leave the
chair at last, till he had emptied all the bottles upon the
table, and received repeated directions from the club to
withdraw himself. This steward is frequently talked
of in the club, and looked upon by every member of it
asa greater man than the famous captain mentioned in
my Lord Clarendon, who was burned in his ship because
he would not quit it without orders. It is said, that
towards the close of 1700, being the great year of jubilee,
the club had it under consideration whether they should
break up or continue their session; but, after many
speeches and debates, it was at length agreed to sit out
the other century. This resolution passed in a general
club, nemine contradicente.

Having given this short account of the institution
and continuation of the Everlasting Club, I should here
endeavour to say something of the manners and cha-
racters of its several members, which I shall do accor-
ing to the best lights I have received in this matter.

It appears by their books in general, that, since their
first institution, they have smoked fifty tons of tobacco,
drunk 30,000 butts of ale, 1000 hogsheads of red port,
200 barrels of brandy, and a kilderkin of small beer.
There has been likewise a great consumption of cards.
It is also said that they observe the law in Ben Jonson’s
Club, which orders the fire to be always kept in, focus
perennis esto, as well for the convenience of hghting
their pipes, as to cure the dampness of the club-room.
They have an old woman in the nature of a vestal, whose
business it is to cherish and perpetuate the fire, which
burns from generation to generation, and has seen the
glass-house fires in and out above a hundred times.

The Everlasting Club treats all other clubs with an
eye of contempt, and talks even of the Kit Cat and Oc-
tober as a couple of upstarts. Their ordinary discourse,
as much as I have been able to learn of it, turns alto-
gether upon such’ adventures as have passed in their
own assembly ; of members who have taken the glass
in their turns for a week together, without stirring out
of the club ; of others who have smoked a hundred pipes
at a sitting; of others who have not missed their morn-
ing’s draught for twenty years together. Sometimes
they speak in raptures of a run of ale in King Charles’s
reign; and sometimes reflect with astonishment upon
games at whist, which have been miraculously recovered
by members of the society, when in all human proba-
bility the case was desperate.

They delight in several old catches, which they sing
at all hours to encourage one another to moisten their
clay, and grow immortal by drinking ; with many other
edifying exhortations of the hike nature.

There are four general clubs held in a year, at which
times they fill up vacancies, appoint waiters, confirm
the old fire-maker, or elect a new one, settle contribu-
tions for coals, pipes, tobacco, and other necessaries.

The senior member has outlived the whole club twice
over, and has been drunk with the grandfathers of some
of the present sitting members.

 

LOLTLP

IDOLS.

Iv is very strange to consider, that a creature like man,
who is sensible of so many weaknesses and imperfections,
should be actuated by a love of fame; that vice and
ignorance, imperfection and misery, should contend for
praise, and endeavour as much as possible to make
themselves objects of admiration.

But notwithstanding man’s essential perfection is but

 

39

very little, his comparative perfection may be very
considerable. Ifhe looks upon himself in an abstracted
light, he has not much to boast of ; but if he considers
himself with regard to others, he may find occasion of
glorying, if not inhis own virtues, at least in the absence
of another’s imperfections. This gives a different turn
to the reflections of the wise man and the fool. The
first endeavours to shine in himself, and the last to out-
shine others. The first is humbled by the sense of his
own infirmities, the last is lifted up by the discovery of
those which he observes in other men. ‘The wise man
considers what he wants, and the fool what he abounds
in. ‘The wise man is happy when he gains his own ap-
probation, and the fool when he recommends himself to
the applause of those about him.

But however unreasonable and absurd this passion
for admiration may appear in such a creature as man,
it is not wholly to be discouraged; since it often pro-
duces very good effects, not only as it restrains him
from doing any thing which is mean and contemptible,
but as it pushes him to actions which are great and
glorious. ‘The principle may be defective or faulty, but
the consequences it produces are so good, that for the

‘benefit of mankind it ought not to be extinguished.

It is observed by Cicero, that men of the greatest
and the most shining parts are the most actuated by
ambition: and if we look into the two sexes, I believe
we shall find this principle of action stronger in women
than in men.

The passion for praise, which is so very vehement in
the fair sex, produces excellent effects in women of
sense, who desire to be admired for that only which
deserves admiration; and I think we may observe,
without a compliment to them, that many of them do
not only live in a more uniform course of virtue, but
with an infinitely greater regard to their honour, than
what we find in the generality of our own sex. How
many instances have we of chastity, fidelity, devotion !
How many ladies distinguish themselves by the educa-
tion of their children, care of their families, and love of
their husbands, which are the great qualities and
achievements of womankind—as the making of war,
the carrying on of traffic, the administration of justice,
are those by which men grow famous, and get them-
selves a name.

But as this passion for admiration, when it works
according to reason, improves the beautiful part of our
species in every thing that is laudable, so nothing is
more destructive to them when it is governed by vanity
and folly. What Ihave therefore here to say, only
regards the vain part of the sex, whom, for certain rea-
sons, which the reader will hereafter see at large, I
shall distinguish by the name of Jdols. An Idol is
wholly taken up in the adorning of her person. You
see in every posture of her body, air of her face, and
motion of her head, that it is her business and employ-
ment to gain adorers. For this reason your Idols
appear in all public places and assemblies, in order to
seduce men to their worship. ‘The playhouse is very
frequently filled with Idols: several of them are carried
in procession every evening about the ring, and several
of them set up their worship even in churches. They
are to be accosted in the language proper to the Deity.
Life and death are in their power: joys of heaven, and
pains of hell, are at their disposal: paradise is in their
arms, and eternity in every moment that you are pre-
sent with them. Raptures, transports, and ecstacies,
are the rewards which they confer: sighs and tears,
prayers and broken hearts, are the offerings which are
paid tothem. Their smiles make men happy; their
frowns drive them to despair. I shall only add, under
this head, that Ovid’s book of the Art of Love is a kind
of heathen ritual, which contains all the forms of wor-
ship which are made use of to an Idol.

It would be as difficult a task to reckon up these
different kinds of Idols, as Milton’s was to number
those that were known in Canaan, and the lands adjoin-
ing. Most of them are worshipped, like Moloch, in
fires and flames. Some of them, like Baal, love to seeH
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_to distinguish friends from foes.
between these two opposite bodies, were several ladies

40 ADDISON'S

their votaries cut and slashed, and shedding their blood
for them. Some of them, like the idol in the Apocrypha,
must have treats and collations prepared for them every
night. It has indeed been known, that-some of them
have been used by their incensed worshippers like the
Chinese idols, who are whipped and scourged when
they refuse to comply with the prayers that are offered
to them.

I must here observe, that those idolators who devote
themselves to the Idols I am here speaking of, differ
very much from all other kinds of idolators. For as
others fall out because they worship different Idols, these
idolators quarrel because they worship the same.

The intention therefore of the Idol is quite contrar
to the wishes of the idolators; as the one desires to
confine the Idol to himself, the whole business and am-
bition of the other is to multiply adorers. This humour
of an Idol is prettily described in a tale of Chaucer.
He represents one of them sitting at a table with three
of her votaries about her, who are all of them courting
her favours and paying their adorations. She smiled
upon one, drank to another, and trod upon the other’s
foot which was under the table. N ow, Which of these

three, says the old bard, do you think was the favourite?

In troth, says he, not one of all the three.

The behaviour of this old Idol in Chaucer puts me in
mind of the beautiful Clarinda, one of the greatest Idols
among the moderns. She is worshipped once a-week
by candle-light, in the midst of a large congregation,
generally called an assembly. Some of the gayest
youths in the nation endeavour to plant themselves in
her eye, while she sits in form with multitudes of tapers
burning about her. ‘To encourage the zeal of her idola-
tors, she bestows a mark of her fayour upon every one
of them, before they go out of her presence. She asks
a question of one, tells a story to another, glances an
ogle upon a third, takes a pinch of snuff from the fourth,
lets her fan drop by accident to give the fifth an occa-
sion of taking it up. In short, every one goes away
satisfied with his success, and encouraged to renew his
devotions on the same canonical hour that day seven-
night.

An Idol may be undeified by many accidental causes.
Marriage in particular is a kind of counter apotheosis,
or a deification inverted. When a man becomes fami-
liar with his goddess, she quickly sinks into 2 woman.

Old age is likewise a great decayer of your Idol. The
truth of it is, there is not a more unhappy being than
a superannuated Idol, especially when she has con-
tracted such airs and behaviour as are nly graceful
when her worshippers are about her.

Considering, therefore, that in these and many other
eases the Woman generally outlives the Idol, I must
return to the moral of this paper, and desire my fair
readers to give a proper direction to their passion for
being admired ; in order to which, they must endeavour
to make themselves the objects of a reasonable and
lasting admiration. This is not to be hoped for from
beauty, or dress, or fashion; but from those inward
ornaments which are not to be defaced by time or sick-
ness, and which appear most amiable to those who are
most acquainted with them.

%,

PARTY PATCHES. b ’

Axout the middle of last winter I went to seean Opera
at the Theatre in the Hay-market, where I could not

Core

 

_ but take notice of two parties of very fine women, that

had placed themselves in the opposite side-boxes, and
seemed drawn up in a kind of battle array one against
another. After a short survey of them, I found they
were patched differently ; the faces on one hand being
spotted on the right side of the forehead, and those upon
the other on the left. I quickly perceived that they cast
hostile glances upon oneanother ; and that their patches
were placed in those different situations, as party-signals
In the middle-boxes

 

who patched indifferently on both sides of their faces,
and seemed to sit there with no other intention but to
see the Opera. Upon inquiry, I found that the body
of Amazons on my right hand were Whigs, and those
on my left, Tories ; and that those who had placed them-
selves in the middle-boxes were a neutral party, whose
faces had not yet declared themselves. These last, how-
ever, as I afterwards found, diminished daily, and took
their party with one side or the other : insomuch that I
observed in several of them, the patches, which were
before dispersed equally, are now all gone over to the
Whig or ‘Tory side of the face. The censorious say,
that the men, whose hearts are aimed at, are very often
the occasions that one part of the face is thus disho-
noured, and lies under a kind of disgrace, while the other
is so much set off and adorned by the owner ; and that
the patches turn to the right or to the left, according to
the principles of the man who is most in favour. But
whatever may be the motives. of a few fantastical
coquettes, who do not patch for the public good so much
as for their own private advantage, it is certain that
there are several women of honour who patch out of
principle, and with an eye to the interest of the country.
Nay, Iam informed that some of them adhere so stead-
fastly to their party, and are so far from sacrificing
their zeal for the public to their passion for any parti-
cular person, that in a late draught of marriage-articles
a lady has stipulated with her husband, that, whatever
his opinions are, she shall be at liberty to patch on which
side she pleases.

I must here take notice, that Rosalinda, a famous
Whig partisan, has most unfortunately a very beautiful
mole on the Tory part of her forehead; which being
very conspicuous, has occasioned many mistakes, and
given a handle to her enemies to misrepresent her face,
as though it had revolted from the Whig interest. But
whatever this natural patch may seem to intimate, it is
well known that her notions of government are still the
same. This unlucky mole, however, has misled several
coxcombs; and, like-the hanging out of false colours,
made some of them converse with Rosalinda in what
they thought the spirit of her party, when on a sudden
she has given them an unexpected fire, that has sunk
them all at once. If Rosalinda is unfortunate in her
mole, Nigranilla is as unhappy ina pimple, which forces
her, against her inclinations, to patch on the Whig side.
* Iam told that many virtuous matrons, who formerly
have been taught to believe that this artificial spotting
of the face was unlawful, are now reconciled, by a zeal
for their cause, to what they could not be prompted by
a concern for their beauty. This way of declaring war
upon one another, puts me in mind of what is reported
of the tigress, that several spots rise in her skin when
she is angry.

When I was in the theatre the time above mentioned,
I had the curiosity to count the patches on both sides,
and found the Tory patches to be about twenty stronger
than the Whig ; but to make amends for this small in-
equality, I the next morning found the whole puppet-
show filled with faces spotted after the Whiggish man-
ner. Whether or no the ladies had retreated hither in
order to rally their forces, I cannot tell; but the next
night they came in so great a body to the opera, that
they outnumbered the enemy.

This account of party patches will, I am afraid, ap-
pear improbable to those who live at a distance from
the fashionable world: butas itis a distinction of a very
singular nature, and what perhaps may never meet with
a parallel, I think I should not have discharged the
office of a faithful Spectator, had not I recorded it.

I have, in former papers, endeavoured to expose this
party rage in women, as it only serves to aggravate the
hatreds and animosities that reign among men, and in
a great measure deprives the fair sex of those peculiar
charms with which nature has endowed them.

When the Romans and Sabines were at war, and just
upon the point of giving battle, the women, who were
allied to both of them, interposed with so many tears
and entreaties that they prevented the mutual slaughterMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

which threatened both parties, and united them to-
gether in a firm and lasting peace.

I would recommend this noble example to our British
ladies, at atime when their country is torn with so
many unnatural divisions, that if they continue, it will
be a misfortune to be born in it. The Greeks thought
it so improper for women to interest themselves in com-
petitions and contentions, that for this reason, among
others, they forbade them, under pain of death, to be
present at the Olympic games, ‘notwithstanding these
were the public diversions of all Greece.

As our English women excel those of all nations in
beauty, they should endeavour to outshine them in all
other accomplishments proper to the sex, and to dis-
tinguish themselves as tender mothers and faithful
wives, rather than as furious partizans. Female virtues
are of a domestic turn. The family is the proper pro-
vince for private women to shine in. If they must be
showing their zeal for the public, let it not be against
those who are perhaps of the same family, or at least
of the same religion or nation, but against those who
are the open, professed, undoubted enemies of their
faith, liberty, and country. When the Romans were
pressed with a foreign enemy, the ladies voluntarily
contributed all their rings and jewels to, assist the go-
vernment under a public exigence, which appeared so
laudable an action in the eyes of their countrymen, that
from thenceforth it was permitted by a law to pronounce
public orations at the funeral of a woman in praise of
the deceased person, which till that time was peculiar
to men. Would our English ladies, instead of sticking
on a patch against those of their own country, show
themselves so truly public-spirited as to sacrifice every
one her necklace against the common enemy, what
decrees ought not to be made in favour of them ?

Since I am recollecting upon this subject such pas-
sages as occur to my memory out of ancient authors, I
cannot omit a sentence in the celebrated funeral oration
of Pericles, which he made in honour of those brave
Athenians that were slain in a fight with the Lacede-
monians. After having addressed himself to the several
ranks and orders of his countrymen, and shown them
how they should behave themselves in the public cause,
he turns to the female part of his audience: “ And as
for you,” says he, “ I shall advise you in very few words.
Aspire only to those virtues that are peculiar to your
sex; follow your natural modesty, and think it your
greatest commendation not to be talked of one way or
other.”

DEIPPCPLP CT OPO ET IER -

SCATTERED LITERARY FRAGMENTS.

Ir is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see any
printed or written paper upon the ground, to take it up
and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may
contain some piece of their Aleoran. I must confess I
have so much.of the Mussulman in me, that [ cannot
forbear looking into every printed paper which comes
in my way, under whatsoever despicable circumstances
it may appear ; for as no mortal author, in the ordinary
fate and vicissitudes of things, knows to what use his
works may some time or other be applied, a man may
often meet with very celebrated names in a paper of
tobacco. I have lighted my pipe more than once with
the writings of a prelate; and know a friend of mine
who, for these several years, has converted the essays
of a man of quality into a kind of fringe for his candle-
sticks. I remember in particular, after having read
over a poem of an eminent author on a victory, I met
with several fragments of it upon the next rejoicing day,
which had been employed in squibs and crackers, and
by that means celebrated its subject in a double capacity.
I once met with a page of Mr Baxter under a Christmas
pie. Whether or no the pastry-cook had made use of
it through chance or waggery, for the defence of that
superstitious viand, I know not; but upon the perusal
of it, I conceived so good an idea of the author’s piety,
that I bought the whole book. I have often profited by

these accidental readings, and haye sometimes found |

 

41

very curious pieces, that are either out of print or not
to be met with in the shops of our London booksellers.
For this reason, when my friends take a survey of my
library, they are very much surprised to find upon the
shelf of folios, two long band-boxes standing upright
among my books; till I let them see that they are both
of them lined with deep erudition and abstruse literature.
I might likewise mention a paper kite, from which I
have received great improvement; and a hat-case,
which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great
Britain, This my inquisitive temper, or rather imper-
tinent humour, of prying into all sorts of writing, with
my natural aversion to loquacity, gives me a good deal
of employment when I enter any house in the country ;
for I cannot for my heart leave a room, before I have
thoroughly studied the walls of it, and examined the
several printed papers which are usually pasted upon
them. The last piece that I met with upon this occa-
sion gave me a most exquisite pleasure. My reader
will think Iam not serious, when I acquaint him that
the piece I am going to speak of was the old ballad of
The two children in the wood, which is ‘one of the dar-
ling songs of the common people, and has been the
delight of most Englishmen in some part of their age.

This song is a plain simple copy of nature, destitute of
the helps and ornaments of art. The tale of it is a pretty
tragical story, and pleases for no other reason but because
it isa copy of nature. There is even a despicable simpli-
city in the verse ; and yet because the sentiments appear
genuine and unaffected, they are able to move the mind
of the most polite reader with inward meltings of huma-
nity and compassion. The incidents grow out of the sub-
ject, and are such as are the most proper to excite pity ;
for which reason the whole narration has something in
it very moving, notwithstanding the author of it (whoever
he was) has delivered it in such an abject phrase and
poorness of expression, that the quoting any part of it
would look like a design of turning it into ridicule. But
though the language is mean, the thoughts, as I have
before said, from one end to the other are natural, and
therefore cannot fail to please those who are not judges
of language, or those who, notwithstanding they are
judges of language, have a true and unprejudiced taste
of nature. ‘I'he condition, speech, and behaviour of the
dying parents, with the age, innocence, and distress of
the children, are set forth in such tender circumstances,
that it is impossible for a reader of common humanity
not to be affected with them. As for the circumstance
of the robin red-breast, it is indeed a little poetical
ornament ; and to show the genius of the author amidst
all his simplicity, it is just the same kind of fiction which
one of the greatest of the Latin poets has made use of
upon a parallel occasion; I mean that passage in
Horace, where he describes himself when he was a child
fallen asleep in a desert wood, and covered with leaves
by the turtles that took pity on him :—

‘* Me when a child, as tired with play
Upon the Apulian hills TI lay,

In careless slumbers bound,

The gentle doves protecting found,
And cover’d me with myrtle leaves.”

I have heard that the late Lord Dorset, who had the
greatest wit tempered with the greatest candour, and
was one of the finest critics as well as the best poets of
his age, had a numerous collection of old English ballads,
and took a particular pleasure in the reading of them.
I can affirm the same of Mr Dryden, and know several
of the most refined writers of our present age who are .
of the same humour.

I might likewise refer my reader to Moliere’s thoughts
on this subject, as he has expressed them in the charac-
ter of the Misanthrope ; but those only who are endowed
with a true greatness of soul and genius, can divest
themselves of the little images of ridicule, and admire
nature in her simplicity and nakedness. As for the
little conceited wits of the age, who can only show their
judgment by finding fault, they cannot be supposed to
admire these productions, which have nothing to recom-se
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42 ADDISON'S

niend them but the beauties of nature, when they do not
know how to relish even those compositions that, with
all the beauties of nature, have also the additional
advantages of art.

DODO POPP LODO DOPO PLEA

PHYSIOGNOMY.

THERE are several arts which all men are in some mea-
sure masters of, without having been at the pains of
learning them. very one that speaks or reasons is a
grammarian and a logician, though he may be wholly
unacquainted with the rules of grammar or logic, as
they are delivered in books and systems. In the same
manner, every one is in some degree a master of that
art which is generally distinguished by the name of
Physiognomy, and naturally forms to himself the cha-
racter or fortune of a stranger, from the features and
lineaments of his face. We are no sooner presented
to any one we never saw before, but we are immediately
struck with the idea of a proud, a reserved, an affable,
or a good-natured man; and upon our first going into
a company of strangers, our benevolence or aversion,
awe or contempt, rises naturally towards several parti-
cular persons, before we have heard them speak a single
word, or so much as know who they are.

Every passion gives a particular cast to the counte-
nance, and is apt to discover itself in some feature or
other. I have seen an eye curse for half an hour to-
gether, and an eye-browcallamanascoundrel. Nothing
is more common than for lovers to complain, resent,
languish, despair, and die,indumb show. Tor my own
part, [I am so apt to frame a notion of every man’s
humour or circumstances by his looks, that I have
sometimes employed myself from Charing Cross to the
Royal Exchange in drawing the characters of those
who have passed by me. When I see a man with a sour
rivelled face, I cannot forbear pitying his wife ; and when
J meet with an open ingenuous countenance, think on
the happiness of his friends, his family, and relations.

I cannot recollect the author of a famous saying to a
stranger who stood silent in his company, “ Speak that
I may see thee.” But, with submission, I think we
may be better known by our looks than by our words,
and that a man’s speech is much more easily disguised
than his countenance. In this case, however, I think
the air of the whole face is much more expressive than
the lines of it. The truth of it is, the air is generally
nothing else but the inward disposition of the mind
made visible.

Those who have established physiognomy into an art,
and laid down rules of judging men’s tempers by their
faces, have regarded the features much more than the
air. Martial has a pretty epigram on this subject:

** Thy beard and head are of a different dye;

Short of one foot, distorted in an eye:

With all these tokens of a knave complete,
Should’st thou be honest, thou’rt a devilish cheat.”

I have seen a very ingenious author on this subject,
who founds his speculations on the supposition, that as
a man hath in the mould of his face a remote likeness
to that of an ox, a sheep, a lion, a hog, or any other
creature, he hath the same resemblance in the frame
of his mind, and is subject to those passions which are
predominant in the creature that appears in his counte-
nance. Accordingly, he gives the prints of several faces
that are of a different mould, and by a little overcharg-
ing the likeness, discovers the figures of these several
kinds of brutal faces in human features. I remember,
in the life of the famous Prince of Condé, the writer
observes, the face of that prince was like the face of an
eagle, and that the prince was very well pleased to be
told so. In this case, therefore, we may be sure that
he had in his mind some general notion of this art of
physiognomy which I have just now mentioned; and
that when his courtiers told him his face was made like
an eagle’s, he understood them in the same manner as
if they had told him, there was something in his looks
which showed him to be strong, active, piercing, and of
a royal descent. Whether or no the different motions

 

of the animal spirits, in different passions, may have
any effect on the mould of the face when the lineaments
are pliable and tender, or whether the same kind of
souls require the same kind of habitatiens, I shall leave
to the consideration of the curious. In the meantime,
I think nothing can be more glorious than for a man to
give the lie to his face, and to be an honest, just, good-
natured man, in spite of all those marks and signatures
which nature seems to have set upon him for the con-
trary. This very often happens among those, who,
instead of being exasperated by their own looks, or
enyying the looks of others, apply themselves entirely
to the cultivating of their minds, and getting those
beauties which are more lasting and more ornamental.
I have seen many an amiable piece of deformity ; and
have observed a certain cheerfulness in as bad a system
of features as ever was clapped together, which hath
appeared more lovely than all the blooming charms of
an insolent beauty. There is a double praise due to
virtue, when it is lodged in a body that seems to have
been prepared for the reception of vice ; in many such
cases the soul and the body do not seem to be fellows.

Socrates was an extraordinary instance of this nature.
There chanced to be a great physiognomist in his time
at Athens, who had made strange discoveries of men’s
tempers and inclinations by their outward appearances.
Socrates’s disciples, that they might put this artist to
the trial, carried him to their master, whom he had
never seen before, and did not know that he was then
in company with him. After a short examination of
his face, the physiognomist pronounced him the most
lewd, libidinous, drunken old fellow, that he had ever
met with in his whole life. Upon which the disciples
all burst out a-laughing, as thinking they had detected
the falsehood and vanity of his art. But Socrates told
them, that the principles of his art might be very true,
notwithstanding his present mistake; for that he him-
self was naturally inclined to those particular vices
which the physiognomist had discovered in his counte-
nance, but that he had conquered the strong disposi-
tions he was born with by the dictates of philosophy.

-We are indeed told by an ancient author, that So-
crates very much resembled Silenus in his face ; which
we find to have been very rightly observed from the
statues and busts of both that are still extant; as well
as on several antique seals and precious stones, which
are frequently enough to be met with in the cabinets of
the curious. But however observations of this nature
may sometimes hold, a wise man should be particularly
cautious how he gives credit to a man’s outward appear-
ance. Itis an irreparable injustice we are guilty of to-
wards one another, when we are prejudiced by the looks
and features of those whom we do not know. Hew
often do we conceive hatred against a person of worth,
or fancy a man to be proud or ill-natured by his aspect,
whom we think we cannot esteem too much when we
are acquainted with his real character? Dr Moore,
in his admirable System of Ethics, reckons this parti-
cular inclination to take a prejudice against a man for
his looks among the smaller vices in morality, and, if
I remember, gives it the name of a Prosopolepsia.

DOSS LOSES ODODE LOLA

EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.

Weall of us complain of the shortness of time, saith Se-
neca, and yet have much more than we know what to do
with. Our lives, says he, are spent either in doing
nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in
doing nothing that we ought todo. Weare always com-
plaining our days are few, and acting as though there
would be no end of them. That noble philosopher has
described our inconsistency with ourselves in this parti-
cular, by all those various turns of expression and
thought which are peculiar to his writings.

I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with
itself in a point that bears some affinity to the former.
Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in
general, we are wishing every period of it at an end,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 45

The minor longs to be at age, then to be a man of busi-
ness, then to make up an estate, then to arrive at
honours, then to retire. ‘Thus, although the whole life
is allowed by every one to be short, the several divisions
of it appear long and tedious. We are for lengthening
our span in general, but would fain contract the parts
of which it is composed. The usurer would be very well
satisfied to have all the time annihilated that les be-
tween the present moment and next quarter-day. The
politician would be contented to lose three years in his
life, could he place things in the posture which he
fancies they will stand in after such a revolution of time.
The lover would be glad to strike out of his existence
all the moments that are to pass away before the happy
meeting. Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should
be very glad in most parts of our lives that it ran much
faster than it does. Several hours of the day hang
upon our hands, nay, we wish away whole years; and
travel through time as through a country filled with
many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry
over, that we may arrive at those several little settle-
ments, or imaginary points of rest, which are dispersed
up and down in it.

If we divide the life of most men into twenty parts,
we shall find that at least nineteen of them are mere
gaps and chasms, which are neither filled with pleasure
nor business. J do not, however, include in this calcu-
Jation the life of those men who are in a perpetual hurry
of affairs, but of those only who are not always engaged
in scenes of action ; and I hope I shall not do an unac-
ceptable piece of service to these persons, if I point out
to them certain methods for the filling up their empty
spaces of life. The methods I shall propose to them are
as follow :—

The first is the exercise of Virtue, in the most gene-
ral acceptation of the word. That particular scheme,
which comprehends the social virtues, may give em-
ployment to the most industrious temper, and find a
man in business more than the most active station of
life. T'o advise the ignorant, relieve the needy, comfort
the afflicted, are duties that fall in our way almost every
day of our lives. A man has frequent opportunities of
mitigating the fierceness of a party; of doing justice to
the character of a deserving man; of softening the en-
vious, quieting the angry, and rectifying the prejudiced ;
which are all of them employments suited to a reason-
able nature, and bring great satisfaction to the person
who ean busy himself in them with discretion.

There is another kind of virtue that may find em-
ployment for those retired hours in which we are alto-
gether left to ourselves, and destitute of company and
conversation ; I mean that intercourse and communi-
eation which every reasonable creature ought to main-
tain with the great author of his being. The man who
lives under a habitual sense of the divine presence,
keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys
every moment the satisfaction of thinking himself in
company with his dearest and best of friends. The
time never lies heavy upon him: it is impossible for him
to be alone. His thoughts and passions are the most
busied at such hours when those of other men are the
most inactive. » He no sooner steps out of the world, but
his heart burns with devotion, swells with hope, and
triumphs in the consciousness of that presence which
every where surrounds him ; or, on the contrary, pours
out its fears, its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the great
supporter of its existence.

f have here only considered the necessity of a man’s
being virtuous, that he may have something to do ; but
if we consider further, that the exercise of virtue is not
only an amusement for the time it lasts, but that its
influence extends to those parts of our existence which
lie beyond the grave, and that our whole eternity is to
take its colour from those hours which we here employ
in virtue or in vice, the argument redoubles upon us
for putting in practice this method of passing away our
time.

When a man has but a little stock to improve, and
has opportunities of turning it all to good account, what

 

shall we think of him if he suffers nineteen parts of it
to lie dead, and perhaps employs even the twentieth to
his ruin or disadvantage? But because the mind cannot
be always in its fervours, nor strained up to a pitch of
virtue, it is necessary to find out proper employments
for it in its relaxations.

The next method, therefore, that I would propose to
fillup our time, should be useful and innocent diversions.
I must confess I think it is below reasonable creatures
to be altogether conversant in such diversions as are
merely innocent, and have nothing else to recommend
them but that there is no hurt in them. Whether any
kind of gaming has even thus much to say for itself, I
shall not determine ; but I think it is very wonderful to
see persons of the best sense passing away a dozen
hours together in shuffiing and dividing a pack of cards,
with no other conversation but what is made up of a few
game phrases, and no other ideas but those of black or
red spots ranged together in different figures. Would
not a man laugh to hear any one of this species com-
plaining that life is short?

The stage might be made a perpetual source of the
most noble and useful entertainments, were it under
proper regulations.

But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably a
in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. There is
indeed no blessing of life that is any way comparable to
the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous friend. It
eases and unloads the mind, clears and improves the
understanding, engenders thoughts and knowledge, ani-
mates virtue and good resolutions, soothes and allays the
passions, and finds employment for most of the vacant
hours of life.

Next to such an intimacy with a particular person,
one would endeavour after a more general conversation
with such are as able to entertain and improve those
with whom they converse, which are qualifications that
seldom go asunder.

Thereare many other useful amusements of life which
one would endeavour to multiply, that one might on all
occasions have recourse to something, rather than suf-
fer the mind to lie idle, or run adrift with any passion
that chances to rise in it.

A man that has a taste in music, painting, or archi-
tecture, is like one that has another sense, when com-
pared with such as have no relish of those arts. The
florist, the planter, the gardener, the husbandman, when
they are only as accomplishments to the man of fortune,
are great reliefs toa country life, and many ways useful
to those who are possessed of them.

But of all the diversions of life, there is none so pro-
per to fill up its empty spaces as the reading of useful
and entertaining authors. But this I shall only touch
upon, because it in some measure interferes with the
third method, which I shall propose in another paper,
for the employment of our dead, inactive hours, and
which I shall only mention in general to be the pursuit
of knowledge.

PI PPIS IS SP DLP OI OR

EMPLOYMENT OF TIME—CONCLUDED.

Tue last method which I proposed in my Saturday’s
paper, for filling up those empty spaces of life which
are so tedious and burdensome to idle people, is the
employing ourselves in the pursuit of knowledge. I
remember Mr Boyle, speaking of a certain mineral, tells
us that a man may consume his whole life in the study
of it, without arriving at the knowledge of all its qua-
lities. The truth of it is, there is not a single science,
or any branch of it, that might not furnish a man with
business for life, though it were much longer than it is.

I shall not here engage on those beaten subjects of
the usefulness of knowledge, nor of the pleasure and
perfection it gives the mind; nor on the methods of
attaining it, nor recommend any particular branch of
it—all which have been the topics of many other writers
—hbut shall indulge myself in a speculation that is more
uncommon, and may therefore, perhaps, be more en-
tertaining.

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I have before shown how the unemployed parts of life
appear long and tedious, and shall here endeavour to
show how those parts of life which are exercised in study,
reading, and the pursuits of knowledge, are lon g, but not
tedious, and by that means discover a method of length-
ening our lives, and at the same time of turning all the
parts of them to our advantage.

Mr Locke observes, “ That we get the idea of time,
or duration, by reflecting on that train of ideas which
succeed one another in our minds; that for this reason,
when we sleep soundly without dreaming, we have no
perception of time, or the length of it, whilst we sleep ;
and that the moment wherein we leave off to think, till
the moment we begin to think again, seems to have no
distance.” To which the author adds: “and so I doubt
not but it would be to a waking man, if it were possible
for him to keep only one idea in his mind, without va-
riation, and the succession of others ; and we see, that
one who fixes his thoughts very intently on one thing,
So as to take but little notice of the succession of ideas
that pass in his mind whilst he is taken up with that
earnest contemplation, lets slip out of his account a good
part of that duration, and thinks that time shorter than
it is.”

We might carry this thought further, and consider
a man as on one side, shortening his time by thinking
on nothing, or but a few things; so on the other, as
lengthening it, by employing his thoughts on many sub-
jects, or by entertaining a quick and constant succession
of ideas. Accordingly, Monsieur Malebranche, in his
“Inquiry after Truth,” (which was published several
years before Mr Locke’s “ Essay on the Human Under-
standing”) tells us, that it is possible some creatures
may think half an hour as long as we do a thousand
years ; or look upon that space of duration which we
call a minute, as an hour, a week, a month, or a whole
age.

This notion of Monsieur Malebranche is capable of
some little explanation from what I have quoted out of
Mr Locke ; for if our notion of time is produced by
our refiecting on the succession of ideas in our mind,
and this succession may be infinitely accelerated or
retarded, it will follow, that different beings may have
different notions of the same parts of duration, accord-
ing as their ideas, which we suppose are equally distinct
ip. each of them, follow one another in a greater or less
degree of rapidity.

There isa famous passage in the Alcoran, which looks
as if Mahomet had been possessed of the notion we are
now speaking of. Itis there said, that the angel Gabriel
took Mahomet out of his bed one morning to give him
a sight of all things in the seven heavens, in pa radise,
and in hell, which the prophet took a distinct view of ;
and after having held ninety thousand conferences with
God, was brought back again to his bed. All this, says
the Alcoran, was transacted in so small a space of time,
that Mahomet at his return found his bed still warm,
and took up an earthen pitcher (which was thrown
down at the very instant that the angel Gabriel carried
him away) before the water was all spilt.

There is a very pretty story in the Turkish tales
which relates to this passage of that famous impostor,
and bears some affinity to the subject we are now upon.
A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, used to laugh at
this circumstance in Mahomet’s life, as what was alto-
gether impossible and absurd : but conversing one day
with a great doctor in ‘the law, who had the gift of
working miracles, the doctor told him he would quickly
convince him of the truth of this passage in the history
of Mahomet, if he would consent to do what he would
desire of him. Upon this the ‘sultan was directed to
place himself by a huge tub of water, which he did
accordingly ; and as he stood by the tub amidst a circle
of his great men, the holy man bid him plunge his head

into the water, and draw it upagain. The king accord-
ingly thrust his head into the water, and at the same
time found himself at the foot of a mountain on a sea-
shore. The king immediately began to rage against
his doctor for this piece of treachery and witcheraft ;

 

but at length, knowing it was in vain to be angry, he
set himself to think on proper methods for getting a
livelihood in this strange country. Accordingly, he
applied himself to some people whom he saw at work
in a neighbouring wood: these people conducted him
to a town that stood at a little distance’from the wood,
where, after some adventures, he married a woman of
great beauty and fortune. He lived with this woman
so long that he had by her seven sons and seven daugh-
ters. He was afterwards reduced to great want, and
forced to think of plying in the streets as a porter for
his livelihood. One day as he was walking alone by
the sea-side, being seized with many melancholy reflec-
tions upon his former and his present state of life, which
had raised a fit of devotion in him, he threw off his
clothes with a design to wash himself, according to the
custom of the Mahometans, before he said his prayers.

After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised
his head above the water but he found himself standing
by the side of the tub, with the great men of his court
about him, and the holy man at his side. He immedi-
ately upbraided his teacher for having sent him on such
a course of adventures, and betrayed him into so long
a state of misery and servitude, but was wonderfully
surprised when he heard that the state he talked of
was only a dream and delusion ; that he had not stirred
from the place where he then stood; and that he had
only dipped his head into the water, and immediately
taken it out again.

The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of instruct-
ing the sultan that nothing was impossible with God;
and that Hz, with whom a thousand years are but as
one day, can, if he pleases, make a single day, nay, a
single moment, appear to any of his creatures as a
thousand years.

I shall leave my reader to compare these Eastern
fables with the notions of these two great philosophers
whom I haye quoted in this paper; and shall only, by
vay of application, desire him to consider how we may
extend life beyond its natural dimensions, by applying
ourselves diligently to the pursuits of knowledge.

The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his ideas,
as those of a fool are by his passions. The time of the
one is long, because he does not know what to do with
it; so is that of the other, because he distinguishes
every moment of it with useful or amusing thoughts;
or, in other words, because the one is always wishing
it away, and the other always enjoying it.

How different is the view of past life, in the man who
is grown old in knowledge and wisdom, from that of
him who is grown old in ignorance and folly! The
latter is like the owner of a barren country that fills his
eye with the prospect of naked hills and plains, which
produce nothing either profitable or ornamental} the
other beholds a beautiful and spacious landscape divided
into delightful gardens, green meadows, fruitful fields,
and can scarce cast his eye on a single spot of his pos-
sessions that is not covered with some beautiful plant
or flower.

DAP ODPL LLL OL PO PDP DOP LA,

LADIES’ HEAD-DRESS.

THERE is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady’s
head-dress. Within my own memory I have known it
rise and fall above thirty degrees. About ten years ago
it shot up to a very great height, insomuch that the
female part of our species were much taller than the
men. ‘I'he women were of such an enormous stature,
that “we appeared’as grasshoppers before them.” At
present the whole sex is ina manner dwarfed and shrunk
into a race of beauties that seems almost another species.
I remember several Jadies, who were once very near
seven foot high, that at present want some inches of
five. How they came to be thus curtailed I cannot
learn ; whether the whole sex be at present under any
penance which we know nothing of, or whether they
have. cast their head-dresses in order to surprise us
with something in that kind which shall be entirely

 hew; or whether some of the tallest of the sex, being

a

wena as = a
—————

RAO re

pete

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BE Re Ts CrMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

too cunning for the rest, have contrived this method to
make themselves appear sizeable, is still asecret ; though
I find most are of opinion they are at present like trees
new lopped and pruned, that will certainly sprout up
and flourish with greater heads than before. For my
own part, as I do not love to be insulted by women who
are taller than myself, I admire the sex much more in
their present humiliation, which has reduced them to
their natural dimensions, than when they had extended
their persons and lengthened themselves out into for-
midable and gigantic figures. I am not for adding to
the beautiful edifices of nature, nor for raising any
whimsical superstructure upon her plans: I must
therefore repeat it, that I am highly pleased with the
coiffure now in fashion, and think it shows the good
sense which at present very much reigns among the
valuable part of the sex. One may observe, that women
in all ages have taken more pains than men to adorn
the outside of their heads; and indeed I very much
admire, that those female architects, who raise such
wonderful structures out of ribbons, lace, and wire, have
not been recorded for their respective inventions. Itis
certain there have been as many orders in these kinds of
building, as in those which have been made of marble.
Sometimes they rise in the shape of a pyramid, some-
times like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. In
Juvenal’s time the building grew by several orders and
stories, as he has very humorously described it :—

‘¢ With curls on curls they build their head before,
And mount it with a formidable tower:

A giantess she seems; but look behind,

And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind.”

But I do not remember in any part of my reading that
the head-dress aspired to so great an extravagance as
in the fourteenth century, when it was built up in a
couple of cones or spires, which stood so excessively
high on each side of the head, that a woman who was
but a pigmy without her head-dress, appeared like a
colossus upon putting iton. Monsieur Paradin says,
that “these old-fashioned fontanges rose an ell above
the head; that they were pointed like steeples, and had
long loose pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them,
which were curiously fringed, and hung down their
backs like streamers.”

The women might possibly have carried this Gothic
building much higher, had not a famous monk, ’homas
Connecte by name, attacked it with great zeal and reso-
lution. This holy man travelled from place to place to
preach down this monstrous commode, and succeeded
so well in it, that, as the magicians sacrificed their
books to the flames upon the preaching of an apostle,
many of the women threw down their head-dresses in
the middle of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them
within sight of the pulpit. He was so renowned, as well
for the sanctity of his life as his manner of preaching,
that he had often a congregation of 20,000 people; the
men placing themselves on the one side of his pulpit,
and the women on the other, that appeared (to use the
similitude of an ingenious writer) like a forest of cedars,
with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so warmed
and animated the people against this monstrous orna-
ment, that it lay under a kind of persecution; and
whenever it appeared in public, was pelted down by the
rabble, who flung stones at the persons that wore it.
But notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while the
preacher was among them, it began to appear again
some months after his departure, or, to tell it in Mon-
sieur Paradin’s own words, “The women that, like
snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them
out again as soon as the danger was over.” This ex-
travagance of the women’s head-dresses in that age is
taken notice of by Monsieur d’Argentré in his history
of Bretagne, and by other historians, as well as the
person I have here quoted. ye

It is usually observed that a good reign is the only
proper time for making of laws against the exorbitance
of power ; in the same manner an excessive head-dress
may be : ttacked the most effectually when the fashion

 

45

is against it. I do therefore recommend this paper to
my female readers by way of prevention.

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible
it is for them to add any thing that can be ornamental
to what is already the masterpiece of nature. The
head has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the
highest station, in a human figure. Nature has laid out
all her art in beautifying the face; she has touched it
with vermilion, planted in it a double row of ivory,
made it the seat of smiles and blushes, lighted it up
and enlivened it with the brightness of the eyes, hung
it on each side with curious organs of sense, given it
airs and graces that cannot be described, and sur-
rounded it with such a flowing shade of hair as sets all
its beauties in the most agreeable light. In short, she
seems to have designed the head asa cupola to the
most glorious of her works; and when we load it with
such a pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy
the symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly con-
trive to call off the eye from great and real beauties,
to childish gewgaws, ribbons, and bone-lace.

on

 

PPLPOP PLA

NOTIONS OF HONOUR.

TE club, of which I have often declared myself a
member, were last night engaged in a discourse upon
that which passes for the chief point of honour among
men and women, and started a great many hints upon
the subject, which I thought were entirely new. I shall
therefore methodise the several reflections that arose
upon this occasion, and present my reader with them
for the speculation of this day ; after having premised,
that if there is any thing in this paper which seems to
differ with any passage of last Thursday’s, the reader
will consider this as the sentiments of the club, and the
other as my own private thoughts, or rather those of
Pharamond.

The great point of honour in men is courage, and in
women, chastity. If a man loses his honour in one
rencounter, it is not impossible for him to regain it in
another ; a slip in a woman’s honour is irrecoverable.
I can give no reason for fixing the point of honour to
these two qualities, unless it be that each sex sets the
greatest value on the qualification which renders them
the most amiable in the eyes of the contrary sex. Had
men chosen for themselves, without regard to the opi-
nions of the fair sex, I should believe the choice would
have fallen on wisdom or virtue; or had women deter-
mined their own point of honour, it is probable that
wit or good nature would have carried it against
chastity.

Nothing recommends a man more to the female sex
than courage, whether it be that they are pleased to
see one who is a terror to others fall like a slave at their
feet, or that this quality supplies their own principal
defect, in guarding them from insults, and avenging
their quarrels, or that courage is a natural indication
of a strong and sprightly constitution. On the other
side, nothing makes a woman more esteemed by the
opposite sex than chastity, whether it be that we always
prize those most who are hardest to come at, or that
nothing besides chastity, with its collateral attendants,
truth, fidelity, and constancy, gives the man a property
in the person he loves, and consequently endears her
to him above all things.

Iam very much pleased with a passage in the inserip-
tion on a monument erected in Westminster Abbey to
the late Duke and Duchess of Neweastle. “Her name
was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas
of Colchester, a noble family, for all the brothers were
valiant, and all the sisters virtuous.”

In books of chivalry, where the point of honour is
strained to madness, the whole story runs on chastity
and courage. ‘The damsel is mounted on a white pal-
frey, as an emblem of her innocence ; and, to avoid
scandal, must have a dwarf for her page. She is not
to think of a man until some misfortune has brought
a knight-errant to her relief. The knight falls in love,

= Sate ms ee assetsSe an eee rene ee

eee er Daal

  
   
   
 

  

46

and, did not gratitude restrain her from murdering her
deliverer, would die at her feet by her disdain. How-
ever, he must waste many years in the desert before
her virgin-heart can think of a surrender. The knight
goes off, attacks every thing he meets that is bigger and
stronger than himself, seeks all opportunities of being
knocked on the head; and after seven years’ rambling,
returns to his mistress, whose chastity has been attacked
in the mean time by giants and tyrants, and undergone
as many trials as her lover’s valour.

In Spain, where there are still great remains of this
romantic humour, it is a transporting favour for a lady
to cast an accidental glance on her lover from a win-
dow, though it be two or three stories high; as it is
usual for the lover to assert his passion for his mistress
in single combat with a mad bull.

The great violation of the point of honour from man
to man, is giving the lie. One may tell another he
whores, drinks, blasphemes, and it may pass unresented ;
but to say he lies, though but in jest, is an affront that
nothing but blood can expiate. The reason perhaps
may be, because no other vice implies a want of courage
so much as the making of a lie; and therefore telling a
man he lies, is touching him in the most sensible part
of honour, and indirectly calling him acoward. I can-
not omit under this head what Herodotus tells us of the
ancient Persians, that from the age of five years to
twenty they instruct their sons only in three things, to
manage the horse, to make use of the bow, and to speak
truth.

The placing the point of honour in this false kind of
courage, has given occasion to the very refuse of man-
kind, who have neither virtue nor common sense, to
set up for men of honour. An English peer, who has
not been long dead, used to tell a pleasant story of a
French gentleman that visited him early one morning
at Paris, and, after great professions of respect, let him
know that he had it in his power to oblige him; which,
in short, amounted to this, that he believed he could
tell his lordship the person’s name who justled him as
he came out from the opera; but before he would pro-
ceed, he begged his lordship that he would not deny
him the honour of making him his second. The Eng-
lish lord, to avoid being drawn into a very foolish affair,
told him, that he was under engagements for his two
next duels to a couple of particular friends. Upon
which the gentleman immediately withdrew, hoping his
lordship would rot take it ill if he meddled no farther
in an affair from whence he himself was to receive no
advantage.

The beating down this false notion of honour in so
vain and lively a people as those of France, is deservedly
looked upon as one of the most glorious parts of their
present king’s reign [Louis XIV]. It is pity but the
punishment of these mischievous notions should have
in it some particular circumstances of shame and in-
famy ; that those who are slaves to them may see, that,
instead of advancing their reputations, they lead them
to ignominy and dishonour,

Death is not sufficient to deter men who make it their
glory to despise it, but if every one that fought a duel
were to stand in the pillory, it would quickly lessen the
number of these imaginary men of honour, and put an
end to so absurd a practice.

When honour is a support to virtuous principles, and
runs parallel with the laws of God and our country, it
cannot be too much cherished and encouraged : but
when the dictates of honour are contrary, to those of
religion and equity, they are the greatest depravations
of human nature, by giving wrong ambitions and false
ideas of what is good and laudable, and should there-
fore be exploded by all governments, and driven out as
the bane and plague of human society.

 

CENSURE.
< CENSURE,” says a late ingenious author, “ is the tax a

man pays to the public for being eminent.” It isa folly
for an eminent man to think of escaping it, and a weak-

 

PLLA

ADDISON’S

 

 

  

ness to be affected with it. All the illustrious persons
of antiquity, and indeed of every age in the world, have
passed through this fiery persecution. There is no
defence against reproach but obscurity ; it is a kind of
concomitant to greatness, as satires and invectives were
an essential part of a Roman triumph.

If men of eminence are exposed to censure on one
hand, they are as much lable to flattery on the other.
If they receive reproaches which are not due to them,
they likewise receive praises which they do not deserve.
In a word, the man in a high post is never regarded
with an indifferent eye, but always considered as a
friend or an enemy.. For this reason, persons in great
stations have seldom their true character drawn till
several years after their deaths. Their personal friend-
ship and enmities must cease, and the parties they were
engaged in be at an end, before their faults or their
virtues can have justice done them. When writers
have the least opportunities of knowing the truth, they
are in the best disposition to tell it.

It is therefore the privilege of posterity to adjust
the characters of illustrious persons, and to set matters
right between those antagonists, who by their rivalry
for greatness divided a whole age into factions. We
can now allow Cesar to be a great man without dero-
gating from Pompey, and celebrate the virtues of Cato
without detracting from those of Cesar. Every one
that has been long dead has a due proportion of praise
allotted him, in which, whilst he lived, his friends were
too profuse and his enemies too sparing.

According to Sir Isaac Newton’s calculations, the
last comet that made its appearance in 1680, imbibed
so much heat by its approaches to the sun, that it
would have been two thousand times hotter than red
hot iron, had it been a globe of that metal; and that
supposing it as big as the earth, and at the same dis-
tance from the sun, it would be fifty thousand years in
cooling, before it recovered its natural temper. In
like manner, if an Englishman considers the great fer-
ment into which our political world is thrown at pre-
sent, and how intensely it is heated in all its parts, he
cannot suppose that it will cool again in less than three
hundred years. In such a tract of time, it is possible
that the heats of the present age may be extinguished,
and our several classes of great men represented under
their proper characters. Some eminent historian may
then probably arise that will not write recentibus odiis
(as Tacitus expresses it), with the passions and preju-
dices of a contemporary author, but make an impartial
distribution of fame among the great men of the present
age.

I cannot forbear entertaining myself very often with
the idea of such an imaginary historian describing the
reign of Anne the First, and introducing it with a pre-
face to his reader, that he is now entering upon the
most shining part of the English story. The great
rivals in fame will be then distinguished according to
their respective merits, and shine in their proper points
of light. Such a one (says the historian), though
variously represented by the writers of his own age,
appears to have been a man of more than ordinary
abilities, great application, and uncommon integrity ;
nor was such a one (though of an opposite party and
interest) inferior to him in any of these respects. The
several antagonists who now endeavour to depreciate
one another, and are celebrated or traduced by different
parties, will then have the same body of admirers, and
appear illustrious in the opinion of the whole British
nation. ‘The deserving man, who can now recommend
himself to the esteem of but half his countrymen, will
then receive the approbations and applauses of a whole
age.

Among the several persons that flourish in this glo-
rious reign, there is no question but such a future
historian as the person of whom I am speaking, will
make mention of the men of genius and learning who
have now any figure in the British nation. For my own
part, I often flatter myself with the honourable men-
tion which will then be made of me; and have drawnMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

up a paragraph in my own imagination, that I fancy
will not be altogether unlike what will be found in some
page or other of this imaginary historian.

It was under this reign, says he, that the Spectator
published those little diurnal essays which are still
extant. We know very little of the name or person of
this author, except only that he was a man of a very
short face, extremely addicted to silence, and so great
a lover of knowledge, that he made a voyage to Grand
Cairo for no other reason but to take the measure of
a pyramid. His chief friend was one Sir Roger de
Coverley, a whimsical country knight, and a templar,
whose name he has not transmitted tous. He lived
as a lodger at the house of a widow woman, and was a
great humorist in all parts of his life. This is all we
can affirm with any certainty of his person and cha-
racter. As for his speculations, notwithstanding the
several obsolete words and obscure phrases of the age
in which he lived, we still understand enough of them
to see the diversions and characters of the English
nation in his time ; not but that we are to make allow-
ance for the mirth and humour of the author, who has
doubtless strained many representations of things be-
yond the truth. For if we interpret his words in their
literal meaning, we must suppose that women of the
first quality used to pass away whole mornings at a
puppet-show; that they attested their principles by
their patches ; that an audience would sit out an even-
ing to hear a dramatical performance written in a lan-
guage which they did not understand; that chairs and
flower-pots were introduced as actors upon the British
stage ; that a promiscuous assembly of men and women
were allowed to meet at midnight in masks within the
verge of the court; with many improbabilities of the
like nature. We must, therefore, in these and the like
cases, Suppose that these remote hints and allusions
aimed at some certain follies which were then in vogue,
and which at present we have not any notion of. We
may guess, by several passages in the speculations, that
there were writers who endeavoured to detract from
the works of this author ; butas nothing of this nature
is come down to us, we cannot guess at any objections
that could be made to his paper. If we consider his style
with that indulgence which we must show to old Eng-
lish writers, or if we look into the variety of his subjects,
with those several critical dissertatious, moral reflec-
tions, % % * * %

* * x x %* *

The following part of the paragraph is so much to
my advantage, and beyond any thing I can pretend to,
that I hope my reader will excuse me for not insert-
ing it.

POLPPP OP IP IL DPL PP OIOP

THE FAN MANTA.

I po not know whether to call the following letter a
satire upon coquettes, or a representation of their
several fantastical accomplishments, or what other title
to give it; but as it is, 1 shall communicate it to the
publie. It will sufficiently explain its own intentions,
so that I shall give it my reader at length without either
preface or postscript.

“Women are armed with fans as men with swords,
and sometimes do more execution with them. ‘To the
end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of
the weapon which they bear, I have erected an academy
for the training up of young women in the exercise of
the fan, according to the most fashionable airs and mo-
tions that are now practised at court. The ladies who
carry fans under me are drawn up twice a-day in my
great hall, where they are instructed in the use of their
arms, and exercised by the following words of com-
mand :—Handle your fans ; unfurl your fans ; discharge
your fans ; ground your fans ; recover your faus ; flutter
your fans.

By the right observation of these few plain words of
command, a woman of a tolerable genius, who will apply
herself diligently to her exercise for the space of but

D

 

47

one half year, shall be able to give her fan all the graces
that can possibly enter into that little modish machine.

But to the end that my readers may form to them-
selves a right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to
explain it to them in all its parts. When my female
regiment is drawn up in array, with every one her
weapon in her hand, upon my giving the word to handle
their fans, each of them shakes her fan at me with a
smile, then gives her right hand woman a tap upon her
shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of
her fan, then lets her arms fall in an easy motion, and
stands in a readiness to receive the next word of eom-
mand, All this is done with a close fan, and is gene-
rally learned in the first week.

The next motion is that of unfurling the fan, in which
are comprehended several little flirts and vibrations, as
also gradual and deliberate openings, with many volun-
tary fallings asunder in the fan itself, that are seldom
learned under a month’s practice. This part of the
exercise pleases the spectators more than any other, as
it discovers on a sudden an infinite number of Cupids,
garlands, altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like
agreeable figures, that display themselves to view, whilst
every one in the regiment holds a picture in her hand.

Upon my giving the word to discharge their fans,
they give one general crack, that they may be heard at
a considerable distance when the wind sits fair. This is
one of the most difficult parts of their exercise; but I
have several ladies with me, who, at their first entrance,
could not give a pop loud enough to be heard at the
farther end of a room, who can now discharge a fan in
such a manner, that it shall make a report like a
pocket-pistol. J have likewise taken ™ order to
hinder young women from letting off their fins: in
wrong places or unsuitable occasions, to show upon
what subject the crack of a fan may come in properly :
I have likewise invented a fan, with which a girl of
sixteen, by the help of a little wind, which is enclosed
about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack
as a woman of fifty with an ordinary fan.

When the fans are thus discharged, the word of com-
mand in course is to ground their fans. This teaches
a lady to quit her fan gracefully when she throws it
aside in order to take up a pack of cards, adjust a curl
of hair, replace a falling pin, or apply herself to any
other matter of importance. This part of the exercise,
as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long
table, which stands by for that purpose, may be learned
in two days’ time as well as a twelvemonth.

When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I gene-
rally let them walk about the room for some time ; when
on a sudden, like ladies that look upon their watches
after a long visit, they all of them hasten to their arms,
catch them up in a hurry, and place themselves in their
proper stations upon my calling out ‘Recover your
fans!’ This part of the exercise is not difficult, pro-
vided a woman applies her thoughts to it.

The fluttering of the fan is the last, and, indeed, the
masterpiece of the whole exercise ; but if a lady does
not misspend her time, she may make herself mistress
of itin three months. I generally lay aside the dog-
days, and the hot time of the summer, for the teaching
this part of the exercise; for as soon as ever I pro-
nounce ‘ Flutter your fans!’ the place is filled with so
many zephyrsand gentle breezes as are very refreshing
in that season of the year, though they might be dan-
gerous to ladies of a tender constitution in any other.

There is an infinite variety of motions to be made
use of in the flutter of a fan. There is the angry flutter,
the modest flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused
flutter, the merry flutter, and the amorous flutter. Not
to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion in the mind
which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan ;
insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady,
I know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes.
I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have
been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to
have come within the wind of it; and at other times so
very languishing, that I have been glad for the lady’s

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4S ADDISON'S

sake the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need
not add, that a fan is either a prude or coquette, accord-
ing to the nature of the person who bears it. To con-
clude my letter, I must acquaint you, that I have from
my own observations compiled a little treatise for the
use of my scholars, entitled ‘The Passions of the Fan,’
which I will communicate to you, if you think it will be
of use to the public. I shall have a general review on
Thursday next, to which you shall be very welcome if
you will honour it with your presence.

P.S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gal-
lanting a fan.

N.B. I have several little plain fans made for this
use, to avoid expense.”

PAPA IPP OPEL PP DIOL ?

PEDANTRY.

My friend Will Honeycomb values himself very much
upon what he calls the knowledge of mankind, which
has cost him many disasters in his youth; for Will
reckons every misfortune that he has met with among
the women, and every rencounter among the men, as
parts of his education; and fancies he should never
have been the man he is, had not he broke windows,
knocked down constables, disturbed honest people with
his midnight serenades, and beat up a lewd woman’s
quarters, when he was a young fellow. The engaging
in adventures of this nature, Will calls the studying of
mankind ; and terms this knowledge of the town the
knowledge of the world. Will ingenuously confesses,
that for half his life his head ached every morning with
reading of aén over-night; and at present comforts
hir.seit under certain pains which he endures from time
co time, that without them he could not have been ac-
quainted with the gallantries of the age. This Will
looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, and regards
all other kinds of science as the accomplishments of
one whom he calls a scholar, a bookish man, or a philo-
sopher.

For these reasons Will shines in mixed company,
where he has the discretion not to go out of his depth,
and has often a certain way of making his real ignorance
appear a seeming one. Our club, however, has fre-
quently caught him tripping, at which times they never
spare him. For as Will often insults us with his know-
ledge of the town, we sometimes take our revenge upon
him by our knowledge of books.

He was last week producing two or three letters
which he wrote in his youth to a coquette lady. The
raillery of them was natural, and well enough for a
mere man of the town; but, very unluckily, several of
the words were wrong spelt. Will laughed this off at
first as well as he could ; but finding himself pushed
on all sides, and especially by the Templar, he told us,
with a little passion, that he never liked pedantry in
spelling, and that he spelt like a gentleman, and not
like a scholar. Upon this Will had recourse to his old
topie of showing the narrow-spiritedness, the pride and
ignorance, of pedants; which he carried so far, that,
upon my retiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear
throwing together such reflections as occurred to me
upon that subject.

A man who has been brought up among books, and is
able to talk of nothing else, is a very indifferent com-
panion, and what we call a pedant. But, methinks, we
should enlarge the title, and give it every one that does
not know how to think out of his profession and parti-
cular way of life.

What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the
town? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue of the
reigning beauties, and an account of a few fashionable
distempers that have befallen him, and you strike him
dumb. How many a pretty gentleman’s knowledge
lies all within the verge of the court ! He will tell you
the names of the principal favourites, repeat the shrewd
sayings of a man of quality, whisper an intrigue that
is not yet blown upon by common fame; or, if the
sphere of his observations is a little larger than ordi-

 

nary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, turns,
and revolutions ina game of ombre. When he has
gone thus far, he has shown you the whole circle of his
accomplishments, his parts are drained, and he is dis
abled from any further conversation. What are these
but rank pedants? and yet these are the men who value
themselves most on their exemption from the pedantry
of colleges.

I might here mention the military pedant, who al-
ways talks ina camp, and is storming towns, making
lodgments and fighting battles from one end of the year
to the other. Every thing he speaks smells of gun-
powder; if you take away his artillery from him, he
has not a word to say for himself. I might likewise
mention the law-pedant, that is perpetually putting cases,
repeating the transactions of Westminster-hall, wrang-
ling with you upon the most indifferent circumstances
of life, and not to be convinced of the distance of a place,
or in the most trivial point of conversation, but by dint
of argument. The state-pedant is wrapt up in news,
and lost in polities. If youmention either of the kings
of Spain, or Poland, he talks very notably; but if you
go out of the Gazette, you drophim. In short, a mere
courtier, a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere any
thing, is an insipid pedantic character, and equally ridi-
culous.

Of all the species of pedants which I have mentioned,
the book pedant is much the most supportable: he
has at least an exercised understanding, and a head
which is full, though confused ; so that a man who con-
verses with him may often receive from him hints of
things that are worth knowing, and what he may pos-
sibly turn to his own advantage, though they are of
little use to the owner. The worst kind of pedants
among learned men, are such as are naturally endued
with a very small share of common sense, and have
read a great number of books without taste or distine-
tion.

The truth of it is, learning, like travelling, and all
other methods of improvement, as it finishes good sense,
so it makes a silly man ten thousand times more insuf-
ferable, by supplying variety of matter to his imperti-
nence, and giving him an opportunity of abounding in
absurdities.

Shallow pedants ery up one another much more than
men of solid and useful learning. ‘To read the titles
they give an editor, or collator of a manuscript, you
would take him for the glory of the commonwealth of
letters, and the wonder of his age ; when perhaps upon
examination you find that he has only rectified a Greek
particle, or laid out a whole sentence in proper commas.

They are obliged, indeed, to be thus lavish of their
praises, that they may keep one another in countenance ;
and it is no wonder if a great deal of knowledge, which
is not capable of making a man wise, has a natural
tendency to make him vain and arrogant.

 

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S COUNTRY
RESIDENCE AND FRIENDS.

Havine often received an invitation from my friend Sir
roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in
the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and
am settled with him for some time at his country-house,
where I intend to form several of my ensuing specula-
tions, Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my
humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine
at his own table or in my chamber as I think fit, sit
still and say nothing without bidding me be merry.
When the gentlemen of the county come to see him, he
only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking
in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of
me over a hedge, and have heard the knight desiring
them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be
stared at.

J am the more at ease in Sir Roger’s family, because
it consists of sober and stayed persons ; for as the knight

| is the best master in the world, he seldom changes hisMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 49

servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his
servants never care for leaving him: by this means his
domestics are all in years, and grown old with their
master. You would take his valet-de-ehambre for his
brother, his butler is grey-headed, his groom is one of
the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coach-
man has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see the
goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and
in a grey pad that is kept in the stable with great care
and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though
he has been useless for several years.

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure
the joy that appeared in the countenances of these an-
cient domestics, upon my friend’s arrival at his country
seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the
sight of their old master; every one of them pressed
forward to do something for him, and seemed discou-
raged if they were not employed. At the same time, the
good old knight, with a mixture of the father and master
of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own af-
fairs with several kind questions relating to themselves.
This humanity and good nature engages every body to
him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all
his family are in good humour, and none so much as
the person whom he diverts himself with; on the con-
trary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age,
it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern
in the looks of all his servants.

My worthy friend has put me under the particular
eare of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as
well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully de-
sirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard
their master talk of me as of his particular friend,

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting
himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable
man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his
house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years.
This gentleman is a person of good sense and some
learning, of a very regular lifeand obliging conversation.
He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very
much in the old knight’s esteem, so that he lives nm the
family rather as a relation than a dependent.

I have observed in several of my papers, that my
friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is some-
thing of a humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as his
imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain extra-
vagance, which makes them particularly his, and dis-
tinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of
mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it
renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more
delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue
would appear in their common and ordinary colours.
As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how
I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned ?
and without staying for my answer, told me that he was
atvaid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own
table ; for which reason he desired a particular friend
of his at the university to find him out a clergyman
rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good
aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible,
a man that understood a little of backgammon. “ My
friend,” says Sir Roger, “found me out this gentleman,
who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they
tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. [
have given him the parsonage of the parish; and be-
cause I know his value, have settled upon him a good
annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he

was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks heis. He:

has now been with me thirty years ; and though he does
not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that
time asked any thing of me for himself, though he has
every day solicited me for something in behalf of one
or other of my tenants his parishioners. There has not
been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among
them ; if any dispute arises, they apply themselves to
him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his
judgment, which I think never happened above once or
twice at most, they appeal tome. At his first settling
with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons

in the Black River.

 

which have been printed in English, and only begged
of him, that every Sunday he would pronounce one of
them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them
into such a series, that they follow one another naturally,
and make a continued system of practical divinity.”

As Sir Roger was going on with his story, the gentle-
man we were talking of came up to us; and upon the
knight’s asking him who preached to-morrow (for it
was Saturday night) told us, the Bishop of St Asaph in
the morning, and Dr South in the afternoon. He then
showed us his list of preachers for the whole year,
where I saw with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop
Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr Barrow, Dr Calamy,
with several living authors, who have published dis-
courses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this
venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved
of my friend’s insisting upon the qualifications of a good
aspect and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with
the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as
with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never
passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon
repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a
poet in the mouth of a graceful actor.

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy
would follow this example, and instead of wasting their
spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would
endeavour after a handsome elocution, and all those
other talents that are proper to enforce what has been
penned by greater masters. This would not only be
more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people.

 

As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger
before his house, a country fellow brought him a huge
fish, which, he told him, Mr William Wimble had caught
that very morning ; and that he presented it, with his
service to him, and intended to come and dine with him.
At the same time he delivered a letter, which my friend
read to me as soon as the messenger left him.

“ Sir Rocur—l desire you to accept of a jack, which
is the best I have caught this season. I intend to come
and stay with you a week, and see how the perch bite
I observed with some concern,
the last time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that
your whip wanted a lash to it ; I will bring half a dozen
with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will
serve you all the time you are in the country. I have
not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having
been at Eton with Sir John’s eldest son, He takes to
his learning hugely. Iam, Sir, your humble servant,

WiLL WIMBLE,”

This extraordinary letter, and message that accom-
panied it, made me very curious to know the character
and quality of the gentleman who sent them, which I
found to be as follows:—Will Wimble is younger
brother to a baronet, and descended of the ancient
family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and
fifty, but being bred to no business, and born to no
estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as
superintendant of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs
better than any man in the country, and is very famous
for finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed in
all the little handicrafts of an idleman. He makes a
May-fly to a miracle, and furnishes the whole country
with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured officious fel-
low, and very much esteemed on account of his family,
he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a
good correspondence among all the gentlemen about
him. He carries a tulip-root in his pocket from one to
another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of
friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the
county. Will is a particular favourite of all the young
heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has
weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself, He
now and then presents a pair of garters of his own
knitting to their mothers or sisters, and raises a great
deal of mirth among them, by inquiring as often as he
meets them how they wear? These gentleman-like

 

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39 ADDISON'S

manufactures and obliging little humours make Will | ravens that call upon him. I like this retirement the

the darling of the country.

Sir Roger was proceding in the character of him,
when we saw him make up to us with two or three
hazel-twigs in his hand that he had cut in Sir Roger’s
woods, as he came through them, in his way to the
house. I was very much pleased to observe on one
side the, hearty and sincere weleome with which Sir
Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy
which his guest discovered at sight of the good old
knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired
Sir Roger to lend him one of his servants to carry 4
set of shuttlecocks he had with him in a little box, toa
lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had
promised such a present for above this half year. Sir
Roger’s back was no sooner turned but honest Will
began to tell me of a large cock-pheasant that he had
sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with two or
three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and
uncommon characters are the game that I look for, and
most delight in; for which reason I was as much pleased
with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he
could be for his life with the springing of the pheasant,
and therefore listened to him with more than ordinary
attention.

In the midst of this discourse the bell rang to dinner,
where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the
pleasure of seeing the huge jack he had caught, served
up for the first dish in a most sumptuous manner. Upon
our sitting down to it, he gave us a long account how
he had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length
drew it out upon the bank, with several other particu-
jarities that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild
fowl that came afterwards, furnished conversation for
the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late
invention of Will’s for improving the quail-pipe.

Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was
secretly touched with compassion towards the honest
gentleman that had dined with us; and could not but
consider, with a great deal of concern, how so good a
heart and such busy hands were wholly employed in
trifles, that so much humanity should be so little
beneficial to others, and so much industry so little
advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind
and application to affairs might have recommended him
to the public esteem, and have raised his fortune in
another station of life. What good to his country or
himself might not a trader or merchant have done
with such useful though ordinary qualifications !

Wil Wimble’s is the case of many a younger brother
of a great family, who had rather see their children
starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a trade or profes-
sion that is beneath their quality. This humour fills
several parts of Kurope with pride and beggary. It is
the happiness of a trading nation like ours that the
younger sons, though incapable of any liberal art or
profession, may be placed in such a way of life as may
perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family.
Accordingly, we find several citizens that were launched
into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest
industry to greater estates than those of their elder
brothers. It is not improbable but Will was formerly
tried at divinity, law, or physic ; and that, finding his
genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at
Jength to his own inventions. But certainly, however
improper he might have- been for studies of a higher
nature, he.was perfectly well turned for the occupation
of trade and commerce.

 

At alittle distance from Sir Roger’s house, among the
ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms,
which are shot up so very high, that when one passes
under them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the top
of them seem to be cawing in another region. I am
very much delighted with this sort of noise, which I
consider as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who
supplies the wants of the whole creation, and who, in
the beautiful language of the psalms, feedeth the young

 

better, because of an ill report it lies.under of being
haunted ; for which reason (as I have been told in the
family) no living creature ever walks in it besides the
chaplain. My good friend the butler desired me with
a very grave face not to venture myself in it after sun-
set, for that one of the footmen had been almost frighted
out of his wits by a spirit that appeared to him in the
shape of a black horse without his head, to which he
added, that about a month ago one of the maids coming
home late that way with a pail of milk upon her head,
heard such a rustling among the bushes that she let it
fall.

i was taking a walk in this place last night between
the hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it
one of the most proper scenes in the world for a ghost
to appear in. ‘I'he ruins of the abbey are scattered up
and down on every side, and half covered with ivy, elder
bushes, and the harbours of several solitary birds, which
seldom make their appearance till the dusk of the even-
ing. ‘The place was formerly a churchyard, and has still
several marks in it of graves and burying-places. There
is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if
you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear the
sound repeated. At the same time, the walks of elms,
with the croaking of the ravens, which, from time to
time, are heard from the tops of them, look exceedingly
solemn and venerable. These objects naturally raise
seriousness and attention; and when night heightens the
awiulness of the place, and pours out her supernume-
rary horrors upon every thing in it, I do not at all
wonder that weak minds fill it with spectres and appa-
ritions.

Mr Locke, in his chapter of the Association of Ideas,
has very curious remarks to show how by the preju-
dice of education one idea often introduces into the
mind a whole set that bear no resemblance to one
another in the nature of things. Among several ex-
amples of this kind, he produces the following instance :
—*“ The ideas of goblins and spirits have really no
more to do with darkness than light; yet let but a
foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child ;
and raise them there together, possibly he shall never
be able to separate them again so long as he lives, but
darkness shall ever afterwards bring with it those
frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can
no more bear the one than the other.”

As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of
the evening conspired with so many other occasions of
terror, I observed a cow grazing not far from me, which
an imagination that was apt to startle might easily have
construed into a black horse without a head ; and I dare
say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such
trivial occasion.

My friend Sir Roger has often told me, with a great
deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he
found three parts of his house altogether useless; that
the best room in it had the reputation of being haunted,
and by that means was locked up; that noises had
been heard in his long gallery, so that he could not
get a servant to enter it after eight o’clock at night ;
that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up,
because there went a story in the family that a butler
had formerly hanged himself in it ; and that his mother,
who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms
in the house, in which either her husband, a son, or
daughter, had died. The knight seeing his habitation
reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a man-
ner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his
mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open,
and exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room
one after another, and by that means dissipated the
fears which had so long reigned in the family.

I should not have been thus particular upon these
ridiculous horrors, did not I find them so very much
prevail in all parts of the country. At the same time,
I think a person who is thus terrified with the imagina-
tion of ghosts and spectres, much more reasonable than
one who, contrary to the reports of all historians, sacredMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. ol

and profane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions
of all nations, thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous
and groundless. Could not I give myself up to this
general testimony of mankind, I should to the relations
of particular persons who are now living, and whom I
cannot distrust in other matters of fact. I might-here
add, that not only the historians, to whom we may join
the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity,
have favoured this opinion. Lucretius himself, though
by the course of his philosophy he was obliged to main-
tain that the soul did not exist separate from the body,
makes no doubt of the reality of apparitions, and that
men have often appeared after their death. This I
think very remarkable: he was so pressed with the
matter of fact, which he could not have the confidence
to deny, that he was forced to account for it by one of
the most absurd unphilosophical notions that were ever
started. He tells us that the surfaces of all bodies are
perpetually fiying off from their respective bodies one
after another; and that these surfaces, or thin cases,
that included each other whilst they were joined in the
body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen
entire when they are separated from it; by which
means we often behold the shapes and shadows of
persons who are either dead or absent.

I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of Jose«
phus, not so much for the sake of the story itself, as
the moral reflections with which the author concludes
it, and which I shall here set down in his own words.
“ Glaphyra, the daughter of king Archelaus, after the
death of her two first husbands (being married to a
third, who was brother to her first husband, and so
passionately in love with her that he turned off his
former wife to make room for this marriage) had a
very odd kind of dream. She fancied that she saw
her first husband coming towards her, and that she
embraced him with great tenderness; when, in the
midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the sight
of him, he reproached her after the following manner :
*‘ Glaphyra,’ says he, ‘thou hast made good the old
saying, that women are not to be trusted. Was not
I the husband of thy virginity? Have I not children
by thee? How couldst thou forget our loves so far as
to enter into a second marriage, and after that into a
third, nay, to take for thy husband a man who has so
shamefully crept into the bed of his brother? However,
for the sake of our past loves, I shall free thee from thy
present reproach, and make thee mine for ever.’ Gla-
phyra told this dream to several women of her acquaint-
ance, and died soon after. I thought this story might
not be impertinent in this place, wherein I speak of
those kings; besides, that the example deserves to be
taken notice of, as it contains a most certain proof of
the immortality of the soul, and of Divine Providence.
if any man thinks these facts incredible, let him enjoy
his own opinion to himself, but let him not endeavour
to disturb the belief of others, who by instances of this
nature are excited to the study of virtue.”

GLOOLO LO PP LID OL PILE

IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

Tre course of my last speculation led me insensibly
into a subject upon which I always meditate with great
delight—I mean the immortality of the soul. I>was
yesterday walking alone in one of my friend’s woods,
and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was running
over i my mind the several arguments that established
this great point, which is the basis of morality, and the
source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys that
can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. I
considered those several proofs, drawn,

First, From the nature of the soul itself, and parti-
cularly its immateriality ; which, though not absolutely
necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I think,
been evinced to almost a demonstration.

Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as parti-
cularly from its love of existence, its horror of anni-
hilation, and its hopes of immortality, with that secret

 

satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue, and
that uneasiness which follows in it upon the commission
of vice.

Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Being,
whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all
concerned in this great point.

But among these and other excellent arguments for
the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from
the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection,
without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a
hint I do not remember to have seen opened and im-
proved by others who have written on this subject,
though it seems to me to carry a great weight with it.
How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the
soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and
of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall
away into nothing almost as soon as it is created? Are
such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives
at a point of perfection that he can never pass: in a few
years he has all the endowments he is capable of; and
were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same
thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus at a
stand in her accomplishments, were her faculties to be
full-blown, and incapable of further enlargements, I
could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop
at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe
a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of im-
provement, and travelling on from perfection to per-
fection, after having just looked abroad into the works
of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite
goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first
setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries 2

A man, considered in his present state, seems only
sent into the world to propagate his kind. He provides
himself with a successor, and immediately quits his
post to make room for him.

<s Heir crowds heir, as in a rolling flood
Waye urges wave.”

He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it
down to others. This is not surprising to consider in
animals, which are formed for our use, and can finish
their business in a short life. The silk- vorm, after
having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a
man can never have taken in his full measure of know-
ledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his
soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his
nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an
infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for
so mean a purpose? Can he delight in the production
of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived reason-
able beings? Would he give us talents that are not
to be exerted? capacities that are never to be gratified 2
How can we find that wisdom, which shines through all
his works in the formation of man, without looking on
this world as only a nursery for the next, and believing
that the several generations of rational creatures, which
rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are
only to receive their first rudiments of existence here,
and afterwards to be transplanted into a more friendly
climate, where they may spread and flourish to all
eternity 2

There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and
triumphant consideration in religion than this, of the
perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the
perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period
init. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to
strength—to consider that she is to shine for ever with
new accessions of glory, and brighten to all eternity—
that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and know-
ledge to knowledge—carries in it something wonder-
fully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the
mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to
God himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying
in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater
degrees of resemblance.

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of
a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extin-
guish all-envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in
superior, ‘That cherubim, which now appears as a‘4
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god to a human soul, knows very well that the period
will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall
be as perfect as he himself now is: nay, when she shall
look down upon that degree of perfection, as much as
she now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature
still advances, and by that means preserves his distance
and superiority in the scale of being ; but he knows that
how high soever the station is of which he stands pos-
Sessed at present, the inferior nature will at length

mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of

rlory.
With what astonishment and veneration may we look
into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores

of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of

perfection! We know not yet what we shall be, nor
will it ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the
glory that will be always in reserve for him. The soul,
considered with its Creator, is like one of those mathe-
matical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all
eternity, without a possibility of touching it: and can
there be a thought so transporting, as to consider our-
Selves in these perpetual approaches to Him who is
not only the standard of perfection but of happiness?

A SUNDAY AT SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S.
J am always very well pleased with a country Sunday,
and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only
2 human institution, it would be the best method that
could have been thought of for the polishing and civi-
lising of mankind. It is certain the country people
would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and
barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a
Stated time, in which the whole village meet together
with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to
converse with one another upon indifferent subjects,
hear their duties explained to them, and join together
in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears
away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes
in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both
the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms,
and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them
a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow
distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a
citizen does upon the ’Change, the whole parish politics
being generally discussed in that place either after
Sermon or before the bell rings.

My friend Sir Roger being a good churchman, has
beautified the inside of his church with several texts of
his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome
pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion table at
his own expense. He has often told me, that at his
coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irre-
gular ; and that in order to make them kneel and join
in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock
and a Common Prayer-Book, and at the same time em-
ployed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the
country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in
the tunes of the psalms; upon which they now very
much value themselves, and, indeed, outdo most of the
country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation,
he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer
nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance
he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon
recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him,
and if he sees any body else nodding, either wakes them
himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other
of the old knight’s particularities break out upon these
occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a
verse in the singing psalms, half a minute after the
rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes,
when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he
pronounces Amen three or four times to the same
prayer, and sometimes stands up when every body else
is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see
if any of his tenants are missing.

1 was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old

 

friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one
John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not dis-
turb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems,
is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time
was kicking his heels for his diversion. The authority
of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which
accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very
good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough
to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides
that the general good sense and worthiness of his cha-
racter make his friends observe these little singularities
as foils that rather set off than blemish his good quali-
ties.

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes
to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The
knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between
a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him
on each side; and every now and then inquires how
such a one’s wife, or mother, or son, or father, does, whom
he does not see at church; which is understood as a
secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechis-
ing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy
that answers well, he has ordered a bible to be given
him next day for his encouragement; and’ sometimes
accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother.
Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a-year to the
clerk’s place; and that he may encourage the young
fellows to make themselves perfect in the church-service,
has promised, upon the death of the present incumbent,
who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his
chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good,
is the more remarkable, because the very next village
is famous for the differences and contentions that rise
between the parson and the squire, who live in a per-
petual state of war. The parson is always preaching
at the squire; and the squire, to be revenged on the
parson, never comes to church. The squire has made
all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers; while the
parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of
his order, and insinuates to them, in almost every ser-
non, that he is a better man than his patron. In short,
matters are come to such an extremity, that the squire
has not said his prayers either in public or private this
half year ; and that the parson threatens him, if he does
not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of
the whole congregation.

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the
country, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who
are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as
much deference to the understanding of a man of an
estate as of a man of learning; and are very hardly
brought to regard any truth, how important soever it
may be, that is preached to them, when they know
there are several men of five hundred a-year who do
not believe it.

PLLEI II IL OL OS OS DIOR

BODILY LABOUR.
Bopity labour is of two kinds, either that which a man
submits to for his livelihood, or that which he under-
goes for his pleasure. The latter of them generally
changes the name of labour for that of exercise, but
differs only from ordinary labour as it rises from
another motive.

A country life abounds in both these kinds of labour,
and for that reason gives a man a greater stock of
health, and consequently a more perfect enjoyment of
himself, than any other way of life, I consider the
body as a system of tubes and glands ; or, to use a more
rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to
one another after so wonderful a manner as to make a
proper engine for the soul to work with. This descrip-
tion does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, ten-
dons, veins, nerves, and arteries, but every muscle and
every ligature, which isa composition of fibres, that are
so many imperceptible tubes or pipes, interwoven, on
all sides with invisible glands or strainers.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 53

This general idea of a human body, without consider-
ing it in the niceties of anatomy, lets‘us see how abso-
lutely necessary labour is for the right preservation of
it. ‘There must be frequent motions and agitations, to
mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as
well as to clear and cleanse that infinitude of pipes and
strainers of which it is composed, and to give their solid
parts a more firm and lasting tone. Labour or exer-
cise ferments the humours, casts them into their proper
channels, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in
those secret distributions, without which the body cannot
subsist in its vigour, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.

I might here mention the effects which this has upon
all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the understand-
ing clear, the imagination untroubled, and refining those
spirits that are necessary for the proper exertion of our
intellectual faculties, during the present laws of union
between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this par-
ticular that we must ascribe the spleen, which is so
frequent in men of studious and sedentary tempers, as
well as the vapours to which those of the other sex are
so olten subject.

Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our
well-being, nature would not have made the body so
proper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs,
and such a pliancy to every part, as necessarily produce
those compressions, extensions, contortions, dilatations,
and all other kinds of motions that are necessary for
the preservation of such a system of tubes and glands
as has been before mentioned. And that we might not
want inducements to engage us in such an exercise of
the body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered
that nothing valuable can be procured without it. Not
to mention riches and honour, even food and raiment
are not to be come at without the toil of the hands and
sweat of the brows. Providence furnishes materials,
but expects that we should work them up ourselves.
The earth must be laboured before it gives its increase ;
and when it is forced into its several products, how
many hands must they pass through before they are fit
for use! Manufactures, trade, and agriculture, natu-

rally employ more than nineteen parts of the species in
twenty ; and as for those who are not obliged to labour,
by the condition in which they are born, they are more
miserable than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge
themselves in that voluntary labour which goes by the
name of exercise.

My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable man
in business of this kind, and has hung several parts of
his house with the trophies of his former labours. The
walls of his great hall are covered with the horns of
several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chase,
which he thinks the most valuable furniture of his house,
as they afford him frequent topics of discourse, and
show that he has not been idle. At the lower end of
the hall is a large otter’s skin stuffed with hay, which
his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and
the knight looks upon it with great satisfaction, because
it seems he was but nine years old when his dog killed
him. A little room adjoining to the hall is a kind of
arsenal filled with guns of several sizes and inventions,
with which the knight has made great havoc in the
woods, and destroyed many thousands of pheasants,
partridges, and woodcocks. His stable-doors are patched
with noses that belonged to foxes of the knight’s own
hunting down. Sir Roger showed me one of them that
for distinction’s sake has a brass nail struck through it,
which cost him about fifteen hours’ riding, carried him
through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of
geldings, and lost above half his dogs. This the knight
looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of his life.
The perverse widow, whom I have given some account
of, was the death of several foxes; for Sir Roger has
told me, that, in the course of his amours, he patched
the western door of his stable. Whenever the widow
was cruel, the foxes were sure to pay for it. In pro-
portion as his passion for the widow abated, and old age
came on, he left off fox-hunting ; but a hare is not yet
safe that sits within ten miles of his house.

 

There is no kind of exercise which I would so recom-
mend to my readers of both sexes as this of riding, as
there is none which so much conduces to health, and is
every way accommodated to the body, according to the
idea which I have given Of it. Doctor Sydenham is very
lavish in its praises ; and if the English reader will see
the mechanical effects of it described at length, he may
find them in a book published not many years since,
under the title of the “ Medicina Gymnastica.” For
my own part, when I am in town, for want of these
opportunities, I exercise myself an hour every morning
upon a dumb-bell that is placed in a corner of my room,
and pleases me the more because it does every thing |
require of it in the most profound silence. My landlady
and her daughters are so’well acquainted with my hours
of exercise, that they never come into my room to
disturb me whilst I am ringing.

When I was some years younger than I am at pre-
sent, I used to employ myself in a more laborious
diversion, which I learned from a Latin treatise of
exercises that is written with great erudition; it is there
called the skiomachia, or the fighting with a man’s own
shadow, and consists in the brandishing of two short
sticks grasped in each hand, and loaded with plugs of
lead at either end. This opens the chest, exercises the
limbs, and gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, with-
out the blows. I could wish that several learned men
would lay out that time which they employ in contro-
versies and disputes about nothing, in this method of
fighting with their own shadows. It might conduce
very much to evaporate the spleen, which makes them
uneasy to the public as well as to themselves.

To conclude: as I am a compound of soul and body,
I consider myself as obliged to a double scheme of
duties ; and think I have not fulfilled the business of the
day when I do not thus employ the one in labour and
exercise, as well as the other in study and contempla-
tion.

DPOLPEDP PPE POLIO LIGA

WITCHCRAFT—AT SIR ROGER DE
COVERLEY’S.

THERE are some opinions in which a man should stand
neuter, without engaging his assent to one side or the
other. Such a hovering faith as this, which refuses to
settle upon any determination, is absolutely necessary
ina mind that is careful to avoid errors and prepos-
sessions. When the arguments press equally on both
sides in matters that are indifferent to us, the safest
method is to give up ourselves to neither.

It is with this temper of mind that I consider the
subject of Witchcraft. When I hear the relations that
are made from all parts of the world, not only from
Norway and Lapland, from the East and West Indies,
but from every particular nation in Europe, I cannot
forbear thinking that there is such an intercourse and
commerce with evil spirits, as that which we express
by the name of witchcraft. But when I consider that
the ignorant and credulous parts of the world abound
most in these relations, and that the persons among us
who are supposed to engage in such an infernal com-
merce, are people of a weak understanding and crazed
imagination, and at the same time reflect upon the many
impostures and delusions of this nature that have been
detected in all ages, I endeavour to suspend my belief
till I hear more certain accounts than any which have
yet come to my knowledge. In short, when I consider
the question, whether there are such persons in the
world as those we call witches, my mind is divided
between the two opposite opinions; or rather (to speak
my thoughts freely) I believe in general that there is,
and has been, such a thing as witcheraft ; but at the
same time can give no credit to any particular instance
of it.

J am engaged in this speculation, by some occurrences
that I met with yesterday, which I shall give my reader
anaccount of at large. As 1 was walking with my friend

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54 ADDISON'S

applied herself to me for clarity. Her dress and figure
put me in mind of the following description in Otway :
“<In a close lane, as I pursued my journey,
I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double,
Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself.
Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red;
Cold palsy shook her head: her hands seem’d wither'd ;
And on her crook’d shoulders had she wrapt
The tatter’d remnant of an old strip’d hanging,
Which served to keep her carcase from the cold;
So there was nothing of a piece about her.
Her lower weeds were all o’er coarsely patch’d
With different colour’d rags, black, red, white, yellow,
And seem’d to speak variety of wretchedness.”

As I was musing on this description, and comparing
it with the object before me, the knight told me that
this very old woman had the reputation of a witch ail
over the country; that her lips were observed to be
always in motion, and that there was not a switch about
her house which her neighbours did not believe had
carried her several hundreds of miles. If she chanced
to stumble, they always found sticks or straws, that lay
in the figure of a cross before her. If she made any
mistake at church, and cried Amen in a wrong place,
they never failed to conclude that she was saying her
prayers backwards. There was not a maid in the parish
that would take a pin of her, though she should offer a
bag of money with it. She goes by the name of Moll
White, and has made the country ring with several
imaginary exploits which are palmed upon her. If the
dairy-maid does not make her butter come so soon as
she would have it, Moll White is at the bottom of the
churn. If a horse sweats in the stable, Moll White has
been upon his back. Ifa hare makes an unexpected
escape from the hounds, the huntsman curses Moll
White. “Nay,” says Sir Roger, “I have known the
master of the pack, upon such an occasion, send one of
his servants to see if Moll White had been out that
morning.”

This account raised my curiosity so far that I begged
my friend Sir Roger to go with me into her hovel, which
stood in a solitary corner under the side of the wood.
Upon our first entermg, Sir Roger winked to me, and
pointed at something that stood behind the door, which,
upon looking that way, I found to be an old broomstaff.
At the same time he whispered me in the ear to take
notice of a tabby cat that sat in the chimney corner,
which, as the old knight told me, lay under as bad a
report as Moll White herself: for besides that Moll is
said often to accompany her in the same shape, the cat
is reported to have spoken twice or thrice in her life,
and to have played several pranks above the capacity
of an ordinary cat.

I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so
much wretchedness and disgrace, but at the same time
could not forbear smiling to hear Sir Roger, who is a
little puzzled about the old woman, advising her, as a
justice of peace, to avoid all communication with the
devil, and never to hurt any of her neighbours’ cattle.
We concluded our visit with a bounty, which was very
acceptable.

In our return home, Sir Roger told me that old Moll
had been often brought before him for making children
spit pins, and giving maids the nightmare; and that
the country people would be tossing her into a pond and
trying experiments with her every day, if it was not for
him and his chaplain.

I have since found upon inquiry that Sir Roger was
several times staggered with the reports that had been
brought him concerning this old woman, and would
frequently have bound her over to the county sessions,
had not his chaplain with much ado persuaded him to
the contrary.

I have been the more particular in this account,
because I hear there is scarce a village in England that
has not a Moll White init. When an old woman begins
to dote, and grow chargeable to a parish, she is gene-
rally turned into a witch, and fills the whole country
with extravagant fancies, imaginary distempers, and

| terrifying dreams.

 

In the mean time, the poor wretch
that is the innocent occasion of so many evils-begins to
be frighted at herself, and sometimes confesses secret
commerces and familiarities that her imagination forms
in a delirious old age. This frequently cuts off charity
from the greatest objects of compassion, and inspires
people with a malevolence towards these poor decrepid
parts of our species, in whom human nature is defaced
by infirmity and dotage.

POLLS OPED SON ODD DD

GOOD BREEDING.

Tue first and most obvious reflections which arise in a
man. who changes the city for the country, are upon the
different manners of the people whom he meets with in
those two different scenes of life. By manners I do not
mean morals, but behaviour and good breeding, as they
show themselves in the town and in the country.

And here, in the first place, I must observe a very
great revolution that has happened in this artiele of
good breeding. Several obliging deferences, conde-
scensions, and submissions, with many outward forms
and ceremonies that accompany them, were first of all
brought up among the politer part of mankind, who
lived in courts and cities, and distinguished themselves
from the rustic part of the species (who on all occasions
acted bluntly and naturally) by such a mutual complai-
sance and intercourse of civilities. These forms of con-
versation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome 3
the modish world found too great a constraint in them,
and have therefore thrown most of them aside. Con-
versation, like the Romish religion, was so encumbered
with show and ceremony, that it stood in need of a
reformation to retrench its superfluities, and restore it
to its natural good sense and beauty. At present, there-
fore, an unconstrained carriage, and a certain openness
of behaviour, are the height of good breeding. ‘The
fashionable world is grown free and easy ; our manners
sit more loose upon us. Nothing is so modish as an
agreeable negligence. In a word, good breeding shows
itself most, where to an ordinary eye it appears the
least.

If after this we look on the people of mode in the
country, we find in them the manners of the last age.
They have no sooner fetched themselves up to the
fashion of the polite world, but the town has dropped
them, and are nearer to the first state of nature than
to those refinements which formerly reigned in the court,
and still prevail in the country. One may now knowa
man that never conversed in the world, by his excess
of good breeding. A polite country esquire shall make
you as many bows in half an hour, as would serve a
courtier for a week. There is infinitely more to do
about place and precedency in a meeting of justices’
wives, than in an assembly of duchesses.

This rural politeness is very troublesome to a man
of my temper, who generally take the chair that is next
me, and walk first or last, in the front or in the rear,
as chance directs. I have known my friend Sir Roger’s
dinner almost cold before the company could adjust the
ceremonial, and be prevailed upon to sit down; and
have heartily pitied my old friend, when I have seen
him forced to pick and cull his guests, as they sat at
the several parts of his table, that he might drink their
healths according to their respective ranks and qualities.
Honest Will Wimble, who I should have thought had
been altogether uninfected with ceremony, gives me
abundance of trouble in this particular. Though he
has been fishing all the morning, he will not help him-
self at dinner until | am served. When we are going
out of the hall, he runs behind me; and last night, as
we were walking in the fields, stopped short at a stile
until I came up to it, and upon my making signs to him
to get over, told me, with a serious smile, that surely I
believed they had no manners in the country.

There has happened another revolution in the point
of good breeding, which relates to the conversation
among men of mode, and which I cannot but look uponMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 95

as veryextraordinary. It was certainly one of the first
distinetions of a well-bred man to express every thing
that had the most remote appearance of being obscene,
in modest terms and distant phrases ; whilst the clown,
who had no such delicacy of conception and expression,
clothed his ideas in those plain, homely terms, that are
the most obvious and natural. This kind of good man-
ners was perhaps carried to an excess, so as to make
conversation too stiff, formal, and precise; for which
reason (as hypocrisy in one age is generally sueceeded
by atheism in another) conversation is in a great mea-
sure relapsed into the first extreme; so that at present
several of our men of the town, and particularly those
who have been polished in France, make use of the
most coarse uncivilised words in our language, and utter
themselves often in such a manner as a clown would
blush to hear.

This infamous piece of good breeding, which reigns
among the coxcombs of the town, has not yet made its
way into the country; and as it is impossible for such
an irrational way of conversation to last long among a
people that make any profession of religion, or show of
modesty, if the country gentlemen get into it, they will
certainly be left in the lurch. Their good breeding
will come too late to them, and they will be thought a
parcel of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves
talking together like men of wit and pleasure.

As the two points of good breeding which I have
hitherto insisted upon regard behaviour and conversa-
tion, there is a third, which turns upon dress. In this,
too, the country is very much behind-hand. The
rural beaus are not yet got out of the fashion that took
place at the time of the revolution, but ride about the
country in red coats and laced hats, while the women
in many parts are still trying to outvie one another in
the height of their head-dresses.

But a friend of mine, who is now upon the western
circuit, having promised to give me an account of the
several modes and fashions that prevail in the different
parts of the nation through which he passes, I shall
defer the enlarging upon this last topic till I have
received a letter from him, which I expect every post.

POLOLEPE DOLE LS LOLOL OLD 2

~-

1. &

SPECULATIONS ON INSTINCT.

My friend Sir Roger is very often merry with me upon
my passing so much of my time among his poultry. He
has caught me twice or thrice looking after a bird’s
nest, and several times sitting an hour or two together
near a hen and chickens. He tells me he believes I
am personally acquainted with every fowl about his
house; calls such a particular cock my favourite ; and
frequently complains that his ducks and geese have
more of my company than bimself.

I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those
speculations of nature which are to be made in a coun-
try life; and as my reading has very much lain among
books of natural history, 1 cannot forbear recollecting
upon this occasion the several remarks which I have
met with in, authors, and comparing them with what
falls under my own observation; the arguments for
providence drawn from the natural history of animals
being in my opinion demonstrative.

The make of every kind of animal is different from
that of every other kind; and yet there is not the least
turn in the muscles or twist in the fibres of any one,
which does not render them more proper for that
particular animal’s way of life than any other cast or
texture of them would have been.

The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust
and hunger. The first is a perpetual call upon them
to propagate their kind; the latter to preserve them-
selves.

It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of
care that descend from the parent to the young, so far
as is absolutely necessary for the leaving a posterity.
Some creatures cast their eggs as chance directs them,
and think of them no farther ; as insects and several

 

kinds of fish. Others, of a nicer frame; find out proper
beds to deposit them in, and there leave them; as the
serpent, the crocodile, and ostrich: others hatch their
eggs and tend the birth, until it is able to shift for itself,

What can we call the principle which directs every
different kind of bird to observe a particular plan in the
structure of its nest, and directs all the same species to
work after the same model? It cannot be imitation, for
though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never let it
see any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes
shall be the same, to the laying of a stick, with all the
other nesis of the same species. It cannot be reason;
for were animals endued with it to as great a degree as
man, their buildings would be as different as ours,

| according to the different conveniences that they would
| propose to themselves.

Is itnot remarkable, that thesame temper of weather,
which raises this genial warmth in animals, should cover
the trees with leaves, and the fields with grass, for their
security and concealment, and produce such infinite
swarms of insects for the support and sustenance of
their respective broods ?

Is it not wonderful that the love of the parent should
be so violent while it lasts, and that it should last no
longer than is necessary for the preservation of the
young?

‘the violence of this natural love is exemplified by a
very barbarous experiment which I shall quote at
length, as I find it in an excellent author, and hope my
readers will pardon the mentioning such an instance of
cruelty, because there is nothing can so effectually show
the strength of that principle in animals of which I
am here speaking. “ A person who was well skilled
in dissections opened a bitch; and as she lay in the
most exquisite tortures, offered her one of her young
puppies, which she immediately fell a-licking, and, for
the time, seemed insensible of her own pain. On the
removal, she kept her eye fixed on it, and began a
wailing sort of ery, which seemed rather to proceed
from the loss of her young one than the sense of her
own torments.”

But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is
muci more violent and intense than in rational crea-
tures, Providence has taken care that it should be no
longer troublesome to the parent than it is useful to the
young ; for so soon as the wants of the latter cease, the
mother withdraws her fondness, and leaves them to
provide for themselves ; and, what is a very remarkable
circumstance in this part of instinct, we find that the
love of the parent may be lengthened out beyond its
usual time, if the preservation of the species requires it ;
as we may see in birds, that drive away their young as
soon as they are able to get their livelihood, but con-
tinue to feed them if they are tied to the nest, or con-
fined within a cage, or by any other means appear to
be out of a condition of supplying their own necessities.

This natural love is not observed in animals to ascend
from the young to the parent, which is not at all neces-
sary for the continuance of the species; nor, indeed, in
reasonable creatures does it rise in any proportion, as
it spreads itself downwards ; for in all family affection,
we find protection granted and favours bestowed, are
greater motives to.love and tenderness, than safety,
benefits, or life received.

One would wonder to hear sceptical men disputing
for the reason of animals, and telling us it is only our
pride and prejudices that will not allow them the use of
that faculty.

Reason shows itself in all oceurrences of life ; whereas
the brute makes no discovery of such a talent, but in
what immediately regards his own preservation, or the
continuance of his species. Animals in their genera-
tion are wiser than the sons of men; but their wisdom
is confined to a few particulars, and lies in a very uar-
row compass. ‘Take a brute out of his instinct, and you
find him wholly deprived of understanding. 'I'o use an
instance that comes often under observation:

With what caution does the hen provide herself a
nest in places unfrequented, and free from noise and

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‘ *56 ADDISON'S

disturbance! when she has laid her eges in such a man-
ner that she can cover them, what care does she take
in turning them frequently, that all parts may partake
of the vital warmth! when she leaves them, to provide
for her necessary sustenance, how punctually does she
return before they have time to cool, and become in-
capable of producing an animal! In the summer you
see her giving herself greater freedoms, and quitting her
care for above two hours together ; but in winter, when
the rigour of the season would chill the principles of
life, and destroy the young one, she grows more assi-
duous in her attendance, and stays away but half the
time. When the birth approaches, with how much
nicety and attention does she help the chick to break
its prison! not to take notice of her covering it from
the injuries of the weather, providing it proper nou-
rishment, and teaching it to help itself ; not to mention
her forsaking the nest, if after the usual time of reckon-
ing the young one does not make its appearance. A
chemical operation could not be followed with greater
art or diligence than is seen in the hatching of a
chick, though there are many other birds that show
an infinitely greater sagacity in all the forementioned
particulars.

But, at the same time, the hen, that has all this seem-
ing ingenuity (which is indeed absolutely necessary for
the propagation of the species), considered in other
respects, is without the least glimmerings of thought
or common sense. She mistakes a piece of chalk for
an egg, and sits upon it in the same manner. She is
insensible of any increase or diminution in the number
of those she lays. She does not distinguish between her
own and those of another species; and when the birth
appears, oi never so different a bird, will cherish it for
her own. In all those circumstances which do not
carry an immediate regard to the subsistence of herself
or her species, she is a very idiot.

There is not, in my opinion, any thing more myste-
rious in nature than this instinct in animals, which thu:
rises above reason, and falls infinitely short of it. It
cannot be accounted for byany properties in matter,and,
at the same time, works after soodda manner, that one
cannot think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For
my own part, I look upon it as upon the principle of
gravitation in bodies, which is not to be explained by
any known qualities inherent in the bodies themselves,
nor from any laws of mechanism, but, according to the
best notions of the greatest philosophers, is an imme-
diate impression from the first mover, and the divine
energy acting in the creatures.

THE SUBJECT OF INSTINCT CONCLUDED.

As I was walking this morning in the great yard that
belongs to my friend’s country house, I was wonderfully
pleased to see the different workings of instinct in a hen
followed by a brood of ducks. The young, upon the
sight of a pond, immediately ran into it; while the step-
mother, with all imaginable anxiety, hovered about the
borders of it, to call them out of an elementthat appeared
to her so dangerous and destructive. As the different
principle which acted in these different animals cannot
be termed Reason, so when we call it Instinct, we mean
something we have no knowledge of. To me, as I hinted
in my last paper, it seems the immediate direction of
Providence, and such an operation of the supreme Being
as that which determines all the portions of matter to
their proper centres, A modern philosopher, quoted
by Monsieur Bayle in his learned dissertation on the
souls of brutes, delivers the same opinion, though in a
bolder form of words, where he says “ Deus est anima
brutorum”—“ God himself is the soul of brutes.”? Who
can tell what to call that seeming sagacity in animals,
which directs them to such food as is proper for them,
and makes them naturally avoid whatever is noxious
or unwholesome? Tully has observed, that a lamb no
sooner falls from its mother, but immediately, and of

 

its own accord, it applies itself to the teat. ‘Dampier, |

in his travels, tells us, that when seamen are throwii
upon any of the unknown coasts of America, they never
venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempting soever
it may appear, unless they observe that it is marked
with the pecking of birds, but fall on without any fear
or apprehension where the birds have been before them.

But notwithstanding animals have nothing like the
use of reason, we find in them all the lower parts of our
nature, the passions and senses, in their greatest strength
and perfection, And here it is worth our observation,
that all beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully sub-
ject to anger, malice, revenge, and all the other violent
passions that may animate them in search of their
proper food; as those that are incapable of defending
themselves, or annoying others, or whose safety lies
chiefly in their flight, are suspicious, fearful, and appre-
hensive of every thing they see or hear; whilst others
that are of assistance and use to man, have their natures
softened with something mild and tractable, and by that
means are qualified for a domestic life. In this case
the passions generally correspond with the make of the
body. We do not find the fury of a lion in so weak and
defenceless an animal as a lamb, nor the meckness of
a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and assault as
the lion. In the same manner, we find that particular
animals have a more or less exquisite sharpness and
Sagacity in those particular senses which most turn to
their advantage, and in which their safety and welfare
is the most concerned.

Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms
with which nature has differently fortified the bodies
of several kinds of animals, such as claws, hoofs, horns,
teeth, and tusks ; a tail, a sting, a trunk, ora proboscis.
It is likewise observed by naturalists, that it must be
some hidden principle distinct from what we eall reason,
which instructs animals in the use of these their arms,
and teaches them to manage them to the best advantage ;
because they naturally defend themselves with that
part in which their strength lies, before the weapon be
formed in it, as is remarkable in lambs, which, though
they are bred within doors, and never saw the action of
their own species, push at those who approach them
with their foreheads, before the first budding of a horn
appears.

I shall add to these general observations an instance
which Mr Locke has given us of Providence even in
the imperfections of a creature which seems the meanest
and most despicable in the whole animal world. “We
may,” says he, “from the make of an oyster, or cockle,
conclude that it has not so many nor so quick senses
as aman, or several other animals: nor if it had, would
it, in that state and incapacity of transferring itself
from one place to another, be bettered by them. What
good would sight and hearing do to a creature that
cannot move itself to or from the object, wherein at a
distance it perceives good or evil ?—and would not quick-
ness of sensation be an inconvenience to an animal that
must be still where chance has once placed it, and there
receive the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul
water, as it happens to come to it?”

I shall add to this instance out of Mr Locke another
out of the learned Dr More, who. cites it from Cardan,
in relation to another animal which Providence has left
defective, but at the same time has shown its wisdom
in the formation of that organ in which it seems chiefly
to have failed. “ What is more obvious and ordinary
than a mole? and yet what more palpable argument of
Providence than she? The members of her body are so
exactly fitted to her nature and manner of life: for her
dwelling being under ground, where nothing is to be
seen, nature has so obscurely fitted her with eyes, that
naturalists can scarce agree whether she have any sight
at allor no. But for amends, what she is capable of
for her defence and warning of danger, she has very
eminently conferred upon her; for she is exceeding
quick of hearing. And then her short tail and short
legs, but broad fore-feet armed with sharp claws; we
see by the event to what purpose they are, she so swiftly
working herself under ground, and makin g her way soMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 57

ast in the earth, as they that behold it cannot but
admire it. Her legs therefore are short, that she need
dig no more than will serve the mere thickness of her
body ; and her fore-feet are broad, that she may scoop
away much earth at a time; and little or no tail she
has, because she courses it not on the ground, like the rat
or mouse, of whose kindred she is, but lives under the
earth, and is fain to dig herself a dwelling there. And
she making her way through so thick an element, which
will not yield easily, as the air or the water, it had been
dangerous to have drawn so long a train behind her ;
for her enemy might fall upon her rear, and fetch her
out, before she had completed or got full possession of
her works,”

[ cannot forbear mentioning Mr Boyle’s remark upon
this last creature, who, I remember, somewhere in his
works, observes, that though the mole be not totally
blind (as is commonly thought), she has not sight
enough to distinguish particular objects. Her eye is
said to have but one humour in it, which is supposed
to give her the idea of light, but of nothing else, and is
so formed that this idea is probably painful to the ani-
mal. Whenever she comes up into broad day, she might
be in danger of being taken, unless she were thus
affected by a light striking upon her eye, and immedi-
ately warning her to bury herself in her proper element.
More sight would be useless to her, as none at all might
be fatal.

I have only instanced such animals as seem the most
imperfect works of nature; and if Providence shows
itself even in the blemishes of these creatures, how
much more does it discover itself in the several endow-
ments which it has variously bestowed upon such crea-
tures as are more or less finished and completed in
their several faculties, according to the condition of
life in which they are posted.

I could wish our Royal Society would compile a body
of Natural History, the best that could be gathered
together from books and observations. If the several
writers among them took each his particular species,
and gave us a distinct account of its original birth and
education, its policies, hostilities, and alliances, with
the frame and texture of its inward and outward parts,
and particularly those that distinguish it from all other
animals, with their peculiar aptitudes for the state of
being in which Providence has placed them, it would
be one of the best services their studies could do
mankind, and not a little redound to the glory of the
All-wise Contriver.

It is sure, sucha natural history, after all the disqui-
sitions of the learned, would be infinitely short and
defective. Seas and deserts hide millions of animals
from our observation. Innumerable artifices and stra-
tagems are acted in the howling wilderness, and in the
great deep, that can never come to our knowledge.
Besides that there are infinitely more species of crea-
tures which are not to be seen without, nor indeed with
the help of the finest glasses, than of such as are bulky
enough for the naked eye to take hold of. However,
from the consideration of such animals as lie within the
compass of our knowledge, we might easily form a con-
clusion of the rest, that the same variety of wisdom and
goodness runs through the whole creation, and puts
every creature in a condition to provide for its safety
and subsistence in its proper station.

Tully has given us an admirable sketch of natural
history, in his second book concerning the Nature of
the Gods; and that in a style so raised by metaphors
and descriptions, that it lifts the subject above raillery
and ridicule, which frequently fall on such nice obser-
vations when they pass through the hands of an ordi-
nary writer.

CPLPL EPIL LP IL DI IL IP DA

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT THE ASSIZES.

A man’s first care should be to avoid the reproaches of
his own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the
world. If the last interferes with the former, it ought

to be entirely neglected ; but otherwise there cannot be }

 

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a greater satisfaction to an honest mind, than to see
those approbations which it gives itself seconded by the
applauses of the public. A man is more sure of his
conduct, when the verdict which he passes upon his own
behaviour is thus warranted and confirmed by the
opinion of all that know him.

My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who are
not only at peace within themselves, but beloved and es-
teemed by allabout them. He receives a suitable tribute
for his universal benevolence to mankind, in the returns
of affection and good-will which are paid him by every
one that lives within his neighbourhood. I lately met
with two or three odd instances of that general respect
which is shown to the good old knight. He would needs
carry Will Wimble and myself with him to the country
assizes. AS we were upon the road, Will Wimble joined
a couple of plain men who rode before us, and conversed
with them for some time, during which my friend Sir
Roger acquainted me with their characters.

“ ‘The first of them,” says he, “ that has a spaniel by his
side, is a yeoman of about a hundred pounds a-year,
an honest man. He is just within the game-act, and
qualified to killa hare or a pheasant. He knocks down
a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a-week, and by
that means lives much cheaper than those who have
not so good an estate as himself. He would be a good
neighbour, if he did not destroy so many partridges. In
short, he is a very sensible man ; shoots flying ; and has
been several times foreman of the Petty Jury.

The other that rides along with him is Tom Touchy,
a fellow famous for taking the law of every body.
There is not one in the town where he lives that he has
not sued at a quarter-sessions. The rogue had once
the impudence te go to law with the widow. His head
is full of costs, damages, and ejectments. He plagueda
couple of honest gentlemen so long for a trespass in
breaking one of his hedges, till he was forced to sell the
ground it enclosed to defray the charges of the prose-
cution ; his father left him fourscore pounds a-year, but
he has cast and been cast so often, that he is not now
worth thirty. I suppose he is going upon the old busi-
ness of the Willow Tree.” ;

As Sir Roger was giving me this account of Tom
Touchy, Will Wimble and his two companions stopped
short till we came up to them. After having paid their
respects to Sir Roger, Will toldhim that Mr Touchy and
he must appeal to him upon a dispute that arose between
them. Will, it seems, had been giving his fellow-tra-
veller an account of his angling one day in such a hole;
when Tom Touchy, instead of hearing out his story,
told him that Mr Such-a-one, if he pleased, might take
the law of him for fishing in that part of the river. My
friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon a round trot;
and after having paused some time, told them, with the
air of a man who would not give his judgment rashly,
that “ much might be said on both sides.” They were
neither of them dissatisfied with the knight’s determi-
nation, because neither of them found himself in the
wrong by it. Upon which we made the best of our way
to the assizes.

The court was met before Sir Roger came: but not-
withstanding all the justices had taken their places
upon the bench, they made room for the old knight at
the head of them; who, for his reputation in the coun-
iry, took occasion to whisper in the judge’s ear, that
“he was glad his lordship had met with so much good
weather in his circuit.” Iwas listening to the proceed-
ings of the court with much attention, and infinitely
pleased with that great appearance and solemnity which
so properly accompanies such a public administration
of our laws, when, after about an hour’s sitting, I ob-
served, to my great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that
my friend Sir Roger was getting up tospeak. I was in
some pain for him, until I found he had acquitted
himself of two or three sentences, with a look of much
business and great intrepidity.

Upon his first rising, the court was hushed, and a
general whisper ran among the country people that Sir
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58 _ ADDISON'S

the purpose, that I shall not trouble my readers with
an account of it; and I believe was not so much de-
signed by the knight himself to inform the court, as to
give him a figure in my eye, and keep up his credit in
the country.

I was highly delighted when the court rose, to see the
gentlemen of the county gathering about my old friend,
und striving who should compliment him most; at the
same time that the ordinary people gazed upon him at
a distance, not a little admiring his courage, that was
not afraid to speak to the judge.

In our return home we met with a very odd accident,
which I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how
desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him
marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon
the verge of his estate, we stopped ata little inn to rest
ourselves and our horses. The man of the house had
it seems been formerly a servant in the knight’s family ;
and to do honour to his old master, had some time
since, unknown to Sir Roger, put him up ina sign-post
before the door; so that the knight’s head had hung
out upon the road about a week before he himself knew
any thing of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger was
acquainted with it, finding that his servant’s indiscretion
proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only
told him that he had made him too high a compliment ;
and when the fellow seemed to think that could hardly
be, added, with a more decisive look, that it was too
great an honour for any man under a duke; but told
him, at the same time, that it might be altered with a
very few touches, and that he himself would be at the
charge of it. Accordingly, they got a painter by the
knight’s directions to adda pair of whiskers to the face,
and, by a little aggravation of the features, to change it
into the Saracen’s head. I should not have known this
story had not the innkeeper, upon Sir Roger’s alighting,
told him, in my hearing, that his honour’s head was
brought back last night with the alterations that he had
ordered to be made init. Upon this my friend, with
his usual cheerfulness, related the particulars above
mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into the
room. I could not forbear discovering greater expres-
sions of mirth than ordinary upon the appearance of
this monstrous face, under which, notwithstanding it was
made to frown and stare in a most extraordinary man-
ner, I could still discover a distant resemblance of my
old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired
me to tell him truly if I thought it possible for people
to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my usual
silence ; but upon the knight’s conjuring me to tell him
whether it was not still more like himself than a Sa-
racen, I composed my countenance in the best manner
I could, and replied that “ much might be said on both
sides.”

These several adventures, with the knight’s behaviour
in them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with
in any of my travels.

LEONTINE AND EUDOXUS.

As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend Sir
Roger, we were met by a fresh-coloured ruddy young
man, who rode by us full speed, with a couple of servants
behind him. Upon my inquiry who he was, Sir Roger
told me he was a young gentleman of a considerable
estate, who had been educated by a tender mother that
lived not many miles from the place where we were.
“She is a very good lady,” says my friend, “but took
so much care of her son’s health, that she has made
him good for nothing. She quickly found that reading
was bad for his eyes, and that writing made his head
ache. He was let loose among the woods as soon as
he was able to ride on horseback, or to carry a gun
upon his shoulder. To be brief, 1 found, by my friend’s
account of him, that he had got a great stock of health,
but nothing else ; and that if it were a man’s business
only to live, there would not be a more aecomplished
young fellow in the whole country.

 

 

The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts
I have seen and heard innumerable instances of young
heirs and elder brothers, who, either from their own
reflecting upon the estates theyare born to, and there-
fore thinking all other accomplishments unnecessary,
or from hearing these notions frequently inculcated to
them by the flattery of their servants and domestics,
or from the same foolish thought prevailing in those
who have the care of their education, are of no manner
of use but to keep up their families, and transmit their
lands and houses in a line to posterity.

‘his makes me often think on a story I have heard
of two friends, which I shall give my reader at large,
under feigned names. ‘The moral of it may, I hope,
be useful, though there are some circumstances which
make it rather appear like a novel than a true story.

Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with small
estates. ‘They were both of them men of good sense
and great virtue. They prosecuted their studies toge-
ther in their earlier years, and entered into such a
friendship as lasted to the end of their lives. Eudoxus,
at his first setting out in the world, threw himself into
a court, where, by his natural endowments and his
acquired abilities, he made his way from one post to
another, until at length he had raised a very consider-
able fortune. Leontine, on the contrary, sought all
opportunities of improving his mind by study, conver-
sation, and travel. He was not only acquainted with
all the sciences, but with the most eminent professors
of them throughout Europe. He knew perfectly well
the interests of its princes, with the customs and fashions
of their courts, and could scarce meet with the name
of an extraordinary person in the Gazette, whom he
had not either talked to or seen. In short, he had so
vell mixed and digested his knowledge of men and
books, that he made one of the most accomplished per-
sons of his age. During the whole course of his studies
and travels, he kept up a punctual correspondence with
Hudoxus, who often made himself acceptable to the
principal men about court by the intelligence which he
received from Leontine. When they were both turned
of forty (an age in which, according to Mr Cowley,
“there is no dallying with life’’), they determined, pur-
suant to the resolution they had taken in the beginning
of their lives, to retire and pass the remainder of their
days in the country. In order to this, they both of them
married much about the same time. Leontine, with
his own and his wife’s fortune, bought a farm of £300
a-year, which lay within the neighbourhood of his
friend Eudoxus, who had purchased an estate of as
many thousands. They were both of them fathers
about the same time, Kudoxus having a son born to
him, and Leontine a daughter; but to the unspeakable
grief of the latter, his young wife (in whom all his hap-
piness was wrapt up) died in a few days after the birth
of her daughter. His affliction would have been in-
supportable, had he not been comforted by the daily
visits and conversations of his friend. As they were
one day talking together with their usual intimacy,
Leontine, considering how incapable he was of giving’
his daughter a proper education in his own house, and
Kudoxus reflecting on the ordinary behaviour of a son
who knows himself to be the heir of a great estate, they
both agreed upon an exchange of children, namely,
that the boy should be bred up with Leontine as his
son, and that the girl should live with Eudoxus as his
daughter, until they were each of them arrived at years
of discretion. ‘The wife of Eudoxus, knowing that her
son could not be so advantageously brought up as under
the care of Leontine, and considering, at the same time,
that he would be perpetually under her own eye, was
by degrees prevailed upon to fall in with the project.
She therefore took Leonilla, for that was the name of
the girl, and educated her as her own daughter. The
two friends on each side had wrought themselves to
such a habitual tenderness for the children who were
under their direction, that each of them had the real
passion of a father, where the title was but Imaginary.
Florio, the name of the young heir that lived with Leon-MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 59

tine, though he had all the duty and affection imagi-
nable for his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at
the sight of Eudoxus, who visited hig friend very
frequently, and was dictated by his natural affection,
as well as by the rules of prudence, to make himself
esteemed and beloved by Florio. The boy was now old
enough to know his supposed father’s circumstances,
and that therefore he was to make his way in the world
by his own industry. This consideration grew stronger
in him every day, and produced so good an effect, that
he applied himself with more than ordinary attention
to the pursuit of every thing which Leontine recom-
mended to him. His natural abilities, which were very
good, assisted by the directions of so excellent a coun-
sellor, enabled him to make a quicker progress than
ordinary through all the parts of his education. Before
he was twenty years of age, having finished his studies
and exercises with great applause, he was removed
from the university to the inns of court, where there
are very few that make themselves considerable profi-
cients in the studies of the place, who know they shall
arrive at great estates without them. This was not
Florio’s case; he found that £300 a-year was but a
poor estate for Leontine and himself to live upon, so
that he studied without intermission till he gained a
very good insight into the constitution and laws of his
country.

I should have told my reader, that whilst Florio lived
at the house of his foster-father, he was always an
acceptable guest in the family of Eudoxus, where he
became acquainted with Leonilla from her infancy. His
acquaintance with her by degrees grew into love, which,
in a mind trained up in all the sentiments of honour
and virtue, became a very uneasy passion. He despaired
of gaining an heiress of so great a fortune, and would
rather have died than attempted it by any indirect
methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of the greatest
beauty joined with the greatest modesty, entertained,
at the same time, a secret passion for Florio, but con-
ducted herself with so much prudence that she never
gave him the least intimation of it. Florio was now
engaged in all those arts and improvements that are
proper to raise a man’s private fortune, and give him
a figure in his country, but secretly tormented with
that passion which burns with the greatest fury in a
virtuous and noble heart, when he received a sudden
sunimons from Leontine to repair to him in the country
the next day; for it seemed Eudoxus was so filled
with the report of his son’s reputation, that he could
no longer withhold making himself known to him. The
morning after his arrival at the house of his supposed
father, Leontine told him that Eudoxus had something
of great importance to communicate to him ; upon which
the good man embraced him, and wept. Florio was no
sooner arrived at the great house that stood in his
neighbourhood, but Eudoxus took him by the hand,
after the first salutes were over, and conducted him into
his closet. He there opened to him the whole secret of
his parentage and education, concluding after this man-
ner :—“ [ have no other way left of acknowledging my
gratitude to Leontine, than by marrying you to his
daughter.. He shall not lose the pleasure of being your
father by the discovery I have made to you. Leonilla,
too, shall be still my daughter ; her filial piety, though
misplaced, has been so exemplary that it deserves the
greatest reward I can confer upon it. You shall have
the pleasure of seeing a great estate fall to you, which you
would have lost the relish of had you known yourself
born to it. Continue only to deserve it in the same
manner you did before you were possessed of it. I have
left your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns
towards you. She is making the same discoveries to
Leonilla which I have made to yourself.” Florio was
so overwhelmed with this profusion of happiness, that
he was not able to make a reply, but threw himself
down at his father’s feet, and, amidst a flood of tears,
kissed and embraced his knees, asking his blessing, and
expressing in dumb show those sentiments of love, duty,
and gratitude, that were too big for utterance. To con-

 

clude, the happy pair were married, and half Eudoxus’s
estate settled upon them. Leontine and Eudoxus passed
the remainder of their lives together ; and received, in
the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of Florio and
Leonilla, the just recompense as well as the natural
effects of that care which they had bestowed upon them
in their education,

PP PLAALS OA OP LSD OL OE

PARTY DIVISIONS.

My worthy friend Sir Roger, when we are talking of
the malice of parties, very frequently tells us an acci-
dent that happened to him when he was a school-boy,
which was at the time when the feuds ran high between
the Roundheads and Cavaliers. This worthy knight,
being then but a stripling, had oceasion to inquire which
was the way to St Anne’s Lane, upon which the person
whom he spoke to, instead of answering his question,
called him a young popish cur, and asked him who had
made Anne a saint? The boy, being in some confusion,
inquired of the next he met which was the way to Anne’s
Lane? but was called a prick-eared cur for his pains,
and instead of being shown the way, was told that she
had been a saint before he was born, and would be one
after he was hanged. “ Upon this,” says Sir Roger, “I
did not think fit to repeat the former question, but going
into every lane of the neighbourhood, asked what they
called the name of that lane.” By which ingenious arti-
fice he found out the place he inquired after, without
giving offence to any party. Sir Roger generally closes
this narrative with reflections on the mischief that
parties do in the country, how they spoil good neigh-
bourhood, and make honest gentlemen hate one another;
besides that they manifestly tend to the prejudice of the
land-tax, and the destruction of the game.

There cannot a greater judgment befall a country
than such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a
government into two distinct people, and makes them
greater strangers, and more averse to one another, than
if they were actually two different nations. The effects
of such a division are pernicious to the last degree, not
only with regard to those advantages which they give
the common enemy, but to those private evils which
they produce in the heart of almost every particular
person. This influence is very fatal both to men’s
morals and their understandings ; it sinks the virtue of
a nation, and not only so, but destroys even common
sense.

A furious party spirit, when it rages in its full vio-
lence, exerts itself in civil war and bloodshed ; and when
it is under its greatest restraints, naturally breaks out
in falsehood, detraction, calumny, and a partial admi-
nistration of justice. In a word, it fills a nation with
spleen and rancour, and extinguishes all the seeds of
good nature, compassion, and humanity.

Plutarch says very finely that a man should not
allow himself to hate even his enemies, because, says
he, if you indulge this passion in some occasions, it will
rise of itself in others ; if you hate your enemies, you
will contract such a vicious habit of mind as by degrees
will break out upon those who are your friends, or those
who are indifferent to you.. I might here observe how
admirably this precept of morality (which derives the
malignity of hatred from the passion itself, and not
from its object) answers to that great rule which was
dictated to the world about a hundred years before this
philosopher wrote; but instead of that, I shall only
take notice, with a real grief of heart, that the minds
of many good men among us appear soured with party
principles, and alienated from one another, in such a
manner as seems to me altogether inconsistent with
the dictates either of reason or religion. Zeal for a
public cause is apt to breed passions in the hearts of
virtuous persons, to which the regard of their own
private interest would never have betrayed them.

If this party spirit has so ill an effect on our morals,
it has likewise a very great one upon our judgments.
We often hear a poor insipid paper or pamphlet cried
up, and sometimes a noble piece depreciated, by those60

who are of a different principle from the author. One
who is actuated by this spirit is almost under an inca-
pacity of discerning either real blemishes or beauties.
A man of merit in a different principle, is like an object
seen in two different mediums, that appears crooked or
broken, however straight and entire it may be in itself.
For this reason there is scarce a person of any figure
in England who does not go by two contrary charac-
ters, as opposite to one another as light and darkness.
Knowledge and learning suffer in a particular manner
from this strange prejudice, which at present prevails
amongst all ranks and degrees in the British nation.
As men formerly became eminent in learned societies
by their parts and acquisitions, they now distinguish
themselves by the warmth and violence with which
they espouse their respective parties. Books are valued
upon the like considerations. An abusive scurrilous
style passes for satire, and a dull scheme of party
notions is called fine writing.

There is one piece of sophistry practised by both
sides, and that is the taking any scandalous story that
has been ever whispered or invented of a private man
for a known undoubted truth, and raising suitable
speculations upon it. Calumnies that have been never
proved, or have been often refuted, are the ordinary
postulatums of these infamous scribblers, upon which
they proceed as upon first principles granted by all
men, though in their hearts they know they are false,
or, at best, very doubtful. When they have laid these
foundations of seurrility, it is no wonder that their
superstructure is every way answerable to them. If
this shameless practice of the present age endures
much longer, praise and reproach will cease to be
motives of action in good men.

There are certain periods of time in all governments
when this inhuman spirit prevails. Italy was long torn
in pieces by the Guelfes and Gibellines, and France by
those who were for and against the League; but it is
very unhappy for a man to be born in such a stormy
and tempestuous season. It is the restless ambition of
artful men that thus breaks a people into factions, and
draws several well-meaning persons to their interest by
a specious concern for their country. How many honest
minds are filled with uncharitable and barbarous no-
tions, out of their zeal for the public good! What
eruelties and outrages would they not commit against
men of an adverse party whom they would honour and
esteem, if, instead of considering them as they are
represented, they knew them as they are! Thus are
persons of the greatest probity seduced into shameful
errors and prejudices, and made bad men even by that
noblest of principles, the love of their country. I
cannot here forbear mentioning the famous Spanish
proverb, “If there were neither fools nor knaves in
the world, all people would be of one mind.”

For my own part, I could heartily wish that all
honest men would enter into an association for the
support of one another against the endeavours of those
whom they ought to look upon as their common enemies,
whatsoever side they may belong to. Were there such
an honest body of neutral forces, we should never see
the worst of men in great figures of life, because they
are useful to a party ; nor the best unregarded, because
they are above practising those methods which would
be grateful to their faction. We should then single
every criminal out of the herd, and hunt him down,
however formidable and overgrown he might appear;
on the contrary, we should shelter distressed innocence,
and defend virtue, however beset with contempt or
ridicule, envy or defamation. In short, we should not
any longer regard our fellow-subjects as Whigs or
Tories, but should make the man of merit our friend,
and the villain our enemy.

POPPI OLOPLL PO PO DLA

PARTY HUMOURS.
In my yesterday’s paper I proposed that the honest
men of all parties should enter into a kind of associa-
tion for the defence of one another, and the confusion
%

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2)
‘iat

ADDISON'S

of their common enemies. As itis designed this neutral
body should act with regard to nothing but truth and
equity, and divest themselves of the little heats and
prepossessions that cleave to parties of all kinds, I have
prepared for them the following form of an association,
which may express their intentions in the most plain
and simple manner :—

“ We, whose names are hereunto subscribed, do
solemnly declare that we do in our consciences believe
two and two make four, and that we shall adjudge any
man whatsoever to be our enemy who endeavours to
persuade us tothe contrary. Weare likewise ready to
maintain, with the hazard of all that is near and dear to
us, that six is less than seven in all times and all.places,
and that ten will not be more three years hence than it
is at present. We do also firmly declare that it is
our resolution as long as we live to call black black,
and white white. And we shall upon all occasions
oppose such persons that upon any day of the year
shall call black white, or white black, with the utmost
peril of our lives and fortunes.”

Were there such a combination of honest men, who,
without any regard to places, would endeavour to ex-
tirpate all such furious zealots as would sacrifice one
half of their country to the passion and interest of the
other—as also such infamous hypocrites, that are for
promoting their own advantage under colour of the
public good—with all the profligate immoral retainers
to each side, that have nothing to recommend them but
an implicit submission to their leaders—we should soon
see that furious party spirit extinguished, which may
in time expose us to the derision and contempt of all
the nations about us.

A member of this society, that would thus carefully
employ himself in making room for merit, by throwing
down the worthless and depraved part of mankind from
those conspicuous stations of life to which they have
been sometimes advanced, and all this without any
regard to his private interest, would be no small
benefactor to his country.

I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus an :
account of a very active little animal, which I think he
ealls the ichneumon, that makes it the whole business
of his life to break the eggs of the crocodile, which he
is always in search after. This instinct is the more
remarkable, because the ichneumon never feeds upon
the eggs he has broken, nor any other way finds his
account in them. Were it not for the incessant labours
of this industrious animal, Egypt, says the historian,
would be overrun with crocodiles; for the Egyptians
are so far from destroying those pernicious creatures,
that they worship them as gods.

If we look into the behaviour of ordinary partizans,
we shall find them far from resembling this disinte-
rested animal; and rather acting after the example of
the wild Tartars, who are ambitious of destroying a
man of the most extraordinary parts and accomplish-
ments, as thinking that upon his decease the same
talents, whatever post they qualified him for, enter of
course into his destroyer.

As in the whole train of my speculations I have
endeavoured, as much as I am able, to extinguish that
pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice which rages
with the same violence in all parties, I am still the
more desirous of doing some good in this particular,
because I observe that the spirit of party reigns more
in the country than in the town. It here contracts a
kind of brutality and rustie fierceness, to which men
of a politer conversation are wholly strangers. It ex-
tends itself even to the return of the bow and the hat ;
and at the same time that the heads of parties preserve
towards one another an outward show of good breed-
ing, and keep up a perpetual intercourse of civilities,
their tools that are dispersed in these outlying parts
will not so much as mingle together at a cock-match.
This humour fills the country with several periodical
meetings of Whig jockies and Tory fox-hunters ; not
to mention the innumerable curses, frowns, and whis-
pers, it produces at a quarter-sessions.i

I do not know whether I have observed in any of my
former papers, that my friends Sir Roger de Coverley
and Sir Andrew Freeport are of different principles,
the first of them inclined to the landed, and the other
to the monied interest. This humour is so moderate
in each of them, that it proceeds no further than to an
agreeable raillery, which very often diverts the rest of
the club. I find, however, that the knight is a much
stronger Tory in the country than in town, which, as
he has told me in my ear, is absolutely necessary for
the keeping up his interest. In all our journey from
London to his house we did not so much as bait ata
Whig inn ; or if by chance the coachman stopped at a
wrong place, one of Sir Roger’s servants would ride up
to his master full speed, and whisper to him that the
master of the house was against such a one in the last
election. This often betrayed us into hard beds and
bad cheer, for we were not so inquisitive about the inn
as the innkeeper; and, provided our landlord’s prin-
ciples were sound, did not take any notice of the
staleness of his provisions. This I found still the more
inconvenient, because the better the host was, the worse
generally were his accommodations ; the fellow know-
ing very well that those who were his friends would
take up with coarse diet and a hard lodging. For these
reasons, all the while I was upon the road I dreaded
entering into a house of any one that Sir Roger had
applauded for an honest man.

Since my stay at Sir Roger’s in the country, I daily
find more instances of this narrow party humour. Be-
ing upon the bowling-green at a neighbouring market
town the other day (for that is the place where the
gentlemen of one side meet once a-week), I observed a
stranger among them, of a better presence and genteeler
behaviour than ordinary ; but was much surprised, that
notwithstanding he was a very fair better, nobody
would take him up. But upon inquiry I found that
he was one who had given a disagreeable vote in a
former parliament, for which reason there was not a
man upon that bowling-green who would have so much
, Correspondence with him as to win his money off him.

Among other instances of this nature, | must not
omit one which concerns myself. Will Wimble was
the other day relating several strange stories that he
had picked up, nobody knows where, of a certain great
man; and upon my staring at him, as one that was
surprised to hear such things in the country, which had
never been so much as whispered in the town, Will
stopped short in the thread of his discourse, and after
dinner asked my friend Sir Roger in his ear if he was
sure that I was not a fanatic.

It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit of
dissension in the country, not only as it destroys virtue
and common sense, and renders us in a manner bar-
barians towards one another, but as it perpetuates our
animosities, widens our breaches, and transmits our
present passions and prejudices to our posterity. For
my own part, I am sometimes afraid that I discover
the seeds of a civil war in these our divisions, and there-
fore cannot but bewail, as in their first principles, the
miseries and calamities of our children.

PIPPISLPPPIOL POL IOIIDN

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AND THE GIPSIES.

As I was yesterday riding out in the field with my friend
Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop
of gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my friend
was in some doubt whether he should not exert the
justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants ;
but not having his clerk with him, who is a necessary
counsellor on these occasions, and fearing that his poul-
try might fare the worse for it, he let the thought drop;
but, at the same time, gave me a particular account of
the mischiefs they do in the country, in stealing people’s
goods, and spoiling theirservants. “Ifa stray piece of
linen hangs upon a hedge,” says Sir Roger, “ they are
sure to have it ; if a hog loses his way in the fields, it is
ten to one but he becomes their prey ; our geese cannot

 

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 61

live in peace for them; if a man prosecutes them with
severity, his henroost is sure to pay for it. They gene-
rally straggle into these parts about this time of the
year, and set the heads of our servant maids so agog for
husbands, that we do not expect to have any business
done as it should be, whilst they are in the country. I
have an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands
vith a piece of silver every Summer, and never fails
being promised the handsomest young fellow in the
parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been
fool enough to be seduced by them; and though he is
sure to lose a knife, a fork, ora spoon, every time hig
fortune is told him, generally shuts himself up in the
pantry with an old gipsy for above half an hour once
in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the things they
live upon, which they bestow very plentifully upon all
those that apply themselves to them. You see now and
then some handsome young jades among them; the sluts
have very often white teeth and black eyes.”

Sir Roger observing that I listened with great atten-
tion to his account of a people who were so entirely new
to me, told me, that if I would, they should tell us our
fortunes. As I was very well pleased with the knight’s
proposal, we rode up and communicated our hands to
them. A Cassandra of the crew, aiter having examined
my lines very diligently, told me some particulars which
I do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger
alighted from his horse, and exposing his palm to two
or three that stood by him, they crumpled it into all
shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle that could
be made in it, when one of them, who was older and
more sunburnt than the rest, told him, that he had a
widow in his line of life. Upon which the knight eried,
“Go, go, you are an idle baggage ;” and at the same
time smiled upon me. The gipsy, finding he was not
displeased in his heart, told him, after a further inquiry
into his hand, that his true love was constant, and that
she should dream of him to-night. My old friend cried
“Psha !’? and bade her go on. The gipsy told him that he
was a bachelor, but would not be so long; and that he
was dearer to somebody than he thought. The knight
still repeated, she was an idle baggage, and bade her go
on. “Ah, master,” says the gipsy, “that roguish leer
of yours makes a pretty woman’s heart ache; you have
not that simper about the mouth for nothing.” The
uncouth gibberish with which all this was uttered, like
the darkness of an oracle, made us the more attentive to
it. To be short, the knight left the money with her that
he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on his
horse.

As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me that he
knew several sensible people who believed these gipsies
now and then foretold very stran ge things ; and for half
an hour together appeared more jocund than ordinary.
In the height of his good humour, meeting a common
beggar upon the road, who was no conjuror, as he went
to relieve him, he found his poeket was picked—that
being a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin
are very dexterous.

I might here entertain my readers with historical
remarks on this idle profligate people, who infest all the
countries of Europe, and live in the midst of govern-
ments in a kind of commonwealth by themselves. But
instead of entering into observations of this nature, J
shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a story,
which is still fresh in Holland, and was printed in one
of our monthly accounts about twenty years ago. “ As
the trekschuyt, or hackney-boat, which carries passen-
gers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, a boy
running along the side of the canal desired to be taken
in, which the master of the boat refused, because the
lad had not money enough to pay the usual fare. An
eminent merchant being pleased with the looks of the
boy, and secretly touched with compassion towards him,
paid the money for him, and ordered him to be taken
on board. Upon talking with him afterwards, he found
that he could speak readily in three or four languages,
and learned upon further examination that he was
stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and hadaL ern

4
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bad al

Pood Saag Noho oe hod

 

Fe ie ae te ey ery Pn

62 ADDISON’S

rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up
and down several parts of Kurope. It happened that
the merchant, whose heart seems to have inclined to-
wards the boy by a secret kind of instinct, had himself
lost a child some years before. The parents, after a
long search for him, gave him up for drowned in one of
the canals with which that country abounds ; and the
mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine boy, who
was her only son, that she died for grief of it. Upon
laymg together all particulars, and examining the
several moles and marks by which the mother used to
describe the child when he was first missing, the boy
proved to be the son of the merchant whose heart had
so unaccountably melted at the sight of him. The lad
was very well pleased to find a father who was so rich,
and likely to leave him a good estate ; the father, on the
other hand, was not a little delighted to see ason return
to him whomhe had given up for lost, with sucha strength
of constitution, sharpness of understanding, and skill
in languages.” Here the printed story leaves off ; but
if I may give credit to reports, our linguist, having
received such extraordinary rudiments towards a good
education, was afterwards trained up in every thing
that becomes a gentleman ; wearing off by little and
little all the vicious habits and practices that he had
been used to in the course of his peregrinations. Nay,
it is said that he has since been employed in foreign
courts upon national business, with great reputation to
himself and honour to those who sent him, and that he
has visited several countries as a public minister in
which he formerly wandered as a gipsy.

 

LOLA

PROPOSAL TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY.

Iz is usual for a man who loves country sports to pre-
serve the game in his own grounds, and divert himself
upon those that belong to his neighbour. My friend
Sir Roger generally goes two or three miles from his
house, and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before
he beats about in search of a hare or partridge, on
purpose to spare his own fields, where he is always
sure of finding diversion, when the worst comes to the
worst. By this means the breed about his house has
time to increase and multiply, besides that the sport is
the more agreeable where the game is the harder to
come at, and does not lie so thick as to produce any
perplexity or confusion in the pursuit. For these rea-
sons, the country gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys
near his own home.

In the same manner, I have made a month’s excur-
sion out of the town, which is the great field of game
for sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the
country, where I have started several subjects, and
hunted them down, with some pleasure to myself, and

hope to others. I am here forced to use a great deal
of diligence before I-can spring any thing to my mind,
whereas in town, whilst I am following one character,
it is ten to one but I am crossed in my way by another,
and put up such a variety of old creatures in both
sexes, that they foil the scent of one another, and
puzzle the chase. My greatest difficulty in the coun-
try is to find sport, and in town to choose it. In the
meantime, as | have given a whole month’s rest to the
cities of London and Westminster, I promise myself
abundance of new game upon my return thither.

It is indeed high time for me to leave the country,
since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow
very inquisitive after my name and character : my love
of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way of life, having
raised a great curiosity in all these parts.

The notions which have been framed of me are
various ; some look upon me as very proud, some as
very modest, and some as very melancholy. Will
Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, observing
me very much alone, and extremely silent when I am
in company, is afraid I have killed a man. The coun-
try people seem to suspect me for a conjuror; and
some of them, hearing of the visit which I made to

 

Moll White, will needs have it that Sir Roger has
brought down a cunning man with him, to cure the
old woman, and free the country from her charms. So
that the character which I go under in part of the
neighbourhood, is what they here call a white witch.

A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off,
and is not of Sir Roger’s party, has, it seems, said
twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger
does not harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he
thinks the gentlemen of the country would do very
well to make me give some account of myself.

On the other side, some of Sir Roger’s friends are
afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing
fellow ; and as they have heard that he converses very
promiscuously when he is in town, do not know but he
has brought down with him some discarded Whig, that
is sullen, and says nothing because he is out of place.
Such is the variety of opinions which are here enter-
tained of me, so that I pass among some for a disaffected
person, and among others for a popish priest ; among
some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer ;
and all this for no other reason that I can imagine, but
because I do not hoot and halloo, and make a noise. It
is true my friend Sir Roger tells them that “ it is my
way, and that I am only a philosopher ;”? but this will
not satisfy them. They think there is more in me than
he discovers, and that I do not hold my tongue for
nothing.

For these and other reasons I shall set out for Lon-
don to-morrow, having found by experience that the
country is not a place for a person of my temper, who
does not love jollity, and what they call good neigh-
bourhood. A man that is out of humour when an
unexpected guest breaks in upon him, and does not care
for sacrificing an afternoon to every chance-comer,
that will be the master of his own time, and the pursuer
of his own inclinations, makes but a very unsociable
figure in this kind of life. I shall therefore retire into
the town, if I may make use of that phrase, and get
into the crowd again as fast as I can, in order to be
alone. I can there raise what speculations I please
upon others, without being observed myself, and at the
same time enjoy all the advantages of company with
all the privileges of solitude. In the mean while, to
finish the month, and conclude these my rural specu-
lations, I shall here insert a letter from my friend Will
Honeycomb, who has not lived a month for these forty
years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me after
his way upon my country life.

“ Dear Sprec.—I suppose this letter will find thee
picking of daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or pass-
ing away thy time in some innocent country diversion
of the like nature. I have, however, orders from the
club to summon thee up to town, being all of us cursedly
afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company, after
thy conversations with Moll White and Will Wimble.
Pr’ythee do not send us up any more stories of a cock
and a bull, nor frighten the town with spirits and witches.
Thy speculations begin to smell confoundedly of woods
and meadows. If thou dost not come up quickly, we
shall conclude that thou art in love with one of Sir
Roger’s dairy-maids. Service tothe knight. Sir Andrew
is grown the cock of the club since he left us, and if he
does not return quickly, will make every mother’s son
of us commonwealth’s men. Dear Sprc., thine eter-

nally, Witt Honrycomn.”

PAP LIPID PIAL L DI IO DSL LOLA

VISION OF MIRZA.

Wuen I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several ori-
ental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among
others I met with one entitled “The Visions of Mirza,”
which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend
to give it to the public when I have no other entertain-
ment for them; and shali begin with, the first vision,
which I have translated word for word as follows :—

“ On the 5th day of the moon, which, according to the
custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after
having washed myself, and offered up my morningMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 63

devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order
to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As
I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains,
I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of
human life; and passing from one thought to another,
surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream.
Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the
summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little
musical instrument inhishand. As I looked upon him,
he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The
sound of it was exceedingly sweet, and wrought into a
variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and
altogether different from any thing I had ever heard.
They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are
played to the departed souls of good men upon their
first arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of
the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of
that happy place. My heart melted away in secret
raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was
the haunt of a genius, and that several had been enter-
tained with music who had passed by it, but never heard
that the musician had before made himself visible.
When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting
airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his con-
versation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he
beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed
me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near
with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ;
and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivat-
ing strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept.
The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion
and affability that familiarised him to my imagination,
and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions
with which I approached him. He lifted me from the
ground, and taking me by the hand, ‘ Mirza,’ said he,
‘I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me.’

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the r ek,
and placing me on the top of it, ‘Cast thine eyes eastward,’
said he, ‘and tell me what thou seest.? ‘1 see,’ said I,
‘a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling
through it. ‘The valley that thou seest,’ said hes. sis
the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest
is part of the great tide of eternity.’ ‘What is the
reason,’ said I, ‘ that the tide I see rises out of a thick
mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at
the other? ‘ What thou seest; said he, ‘is that portion
of eternity which is called Time, measured out by the
sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to
its consummation. Examine now,’ said he, ‘ this sea
that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell
me what thou discoverest in it. ‘Iseea bridge,’ said I,
‘standing in the midst of the tide. ‘The bridge thou
seest,’ said he, ‘is Human Life; consider it attentively.’
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con-
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several
broken arches, which, added to those that were entire,
made up the number about a hundred. As I was count-
ing the arches, the genius told me that this bridge con-
sisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood
Swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous
condition I now beheld it. ‘ But tell me further,’ said
he, ‘ what thou discoverest on it.2 ‘I see multitudes of
people passing over it,’ said I, ‘and a black cloud hang-
ing on each end of it. As I looked more attentively,
I saw several of the passengers dropping through the
bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it;
and upon further examination, perceived there were
innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge,
which the passengers no seoner trod upon, but they fell
through them into the tide, andimmediately disappeared.
These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance
of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke
through the cloud, but many of them fell into them.
They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied
and lay closer together towards the end of the arches
that were entire.

There were indeed some persons, but their number

BE

 

was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march
on the broken aches, but fell through one after another,
being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I. passed some time in the contemplation of this
wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects
which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep
melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the
midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing
that stood by them to save themselves. Some were
looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture,
and in the midst of a speculation stumbled, and fell out
of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of
bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before
them ; but often when they thought themselves within
the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they
sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some
with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals,
who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several
persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their
way, and which they might have escaped had they not
been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself on this melan-
choly prospect, told I had dwelt long enough upon it.
‘ Take thine eyes off the bridge,’ said he, ‘ and tell me
if thou yet seest any thing thou dost not comprehend.’
Upon looking up, ‘ What mean,’ said I, ‘ those great
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the
bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see
vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many
other feathered creatures, several little winged boys,
that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches
‘These,’ said the genius, ‘are Envy, Avarice, Super-
stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions
that infest Human Lite.’

I here fetched a deep sigh. ¢ Alas,’ said I, ‘man was
made in vain !__how is he given away to misery and
mortality !—tortured in life, and swallowed up in death ??
The genius being moved with compassion towards me,
bade me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. ‘ Look no
more,’ said he, ‘on man in the first stage of his exist-
ence in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye
on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several
generations of mortals that fall into it.’ I directed my
sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good
genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or
dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for
the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the
farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean,
that had a huge rock of adamant running through the
midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The
clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I
could discover nothing in it ; but the other appeared to
me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands that
were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven
with a thousand little shining seas that ran among
them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits
with garlands upon their heads, passing among the
trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting
on beds of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony
of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and
musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the
discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the
wings of an eagle that I might fly away to those happy
seats, but the genius told me there was no passage to
them except through the Gates of Death that 1 saw
opening every moment upon the bridge. ‘ The islands,’
said he, ‘that lie so fresh and green before thee, and
with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted
as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the
sands on the sea-shore ; there are myriads of islands
behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching
farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination, can
extend itself. These are the mansions of good men
after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of
virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among
these several islands, which abound with pleasures of
different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and
pertections of those who are settled in them; every
island is a paradise accommodated to its respective

See wares64 ADDISON'S

inhabitants. Are not these, oh Mirzah! habitations
worth contending for? Does life appear miserable, that
gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is
death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy
an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who
has such an eternity reserved for him? JI gazed with
inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. § At
length,’ said I, ‘show me now, I beseech thee, the
secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover
the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.’
The genius making me no answer, I turned about to
address myself to him a second time, but I found that
he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which
I had been so long contemplating, but instead of the
rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands,
I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat,
ae oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides
of it.”

PLIEP DED POL DL IEP LIDIA

INCONSTANCY OF CHARACTER.

Noruine that is not a real crime makes a man appear
so contemptible and little in the eyes of the world as
inconstancy, especially when it regards religion or
party. In either of these cases, though aman perhaps
does but his duty in changing his side, he not only
makes himself hated by those he left, but is seldom
heartily esteemed by those he comes over to.

In these great articles of life, therefore, a man’s con-
viction ought to be very strong, and, if possible, so well
timed that worldly advantages may seem to have no
Share in it, or mankind will be ill-natured enough to
think he does not change sides out of principle, but
either out of levity of temper or prospects of interest.
Converts and renegadoes of all kinds should take parti-
cular care to let the world see they act upon honour-
able motives; or whatever approbations they may
receive from themselves, and applauses from those they
converse with, they may be very well assured that they
are the scorn of all good men, and the public marks of
infamy and derision.

Trresolution in the schemes of life which offer them-
selves to our choice, and inconstancy in pursuing them,
are the greatest and most universal causes of all our
disquiet and unhappiness. When ambition pulls one
way, interest another, inclination a third, and perhaps
reason contrary to all, a man is likely to pass his time
but ill who has so many different parties to please.
When the mind hovers among such a variety of allure-
ments, one had better settle on a way of life that is
not the very best we might have chosen, than grow old
without determining our choice, and go out of the world,
as the greatest part of mankind do, before we have
resolved how to live init. Thereis but one method of
setting ourselves at rest in this particular, and that
is by adhering steadfastly to one great end as the chief
and ultimate aim of all our pursuits. If we are firmly
resolved to live up to the dictates of reason, without any
regard to wealth, reputation, or the like considerations,
any more than as they fall in with our principal design,
we may go through life with steadiness and pleasure ;
but if we act by several broken views, and will not only
be virtuous, but wealthy, popular, and every thing that
has a value set upon it by the world, we shall live and
die in misery and repentance.

One would take more than ordinary care to guard
one’s self against this particular imperfection, because
it is that which our nature very strongly inclines us to ;
for if we examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find
that we are the most changeable beings in the universe.
In respect of our understanding, we often embrace and
reject the very same opinions; whereas beings above
and beneath us have probably no opinions at all, or at
least no wavering and uncertainties in those they have.
Our superiors are guided by intuition, and our inferiors
by instinct. In respect of our wills, we fall into crimes
and recover out of them, are amiable or odious in the
eyes of our great judge, and pass our whole life in of-
fending and asking pardon. On the contrary, the beings

|

 

underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those
above us of repenting. The one is out of the possibili-
ties of duty, and the other fixed in an eternal course of
sin, or an eternal course of virtue.

There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it, which
does not produce changes and revolutions in the mind
of man. Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost
in those of youth; these, too, take a different turn in
manhood, until old age often leads us back into our
former infancy. A new title or an unexpected success
throws us out of ourselves, and in a manner destroys
our identity. A cloudy day, or a little sunshine, have
as great an influence on many constitutions as the
most real blessings or misfortunes. A dream varies our
being, and changes our condition while it lasts; and
every passion, not to mention health and sickness, and
the greater alterations in body and mind, makes us
appear almost different creatures. Ifa man is so dis-
tinguished among other beings by this infirmity, what
can we think of such as make themselves remarkable for
it even among their own species? It is a very trifling
character to be one of the most variable beings of the
most variable kind, especially if we consider that he who
is the great standard of perfection has in him no shadow
of change, but “is the same yesterday, to-day, and for
Oven

As this mutability of temper and inconsistency with
ourselves is the greatest weakness of human nature, so
it makes the person who is remarkable for it in a very
particular manner more ridiculous than any other infir-
mity whatsoever ; it sets him in a greater variety of
foolish lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an
opposition of party-coloured characters.

POPP LI PP PI PO PLLDIPLLA

CONSOLATION IN AFFLICTIONS.

Inquiries after happiness, and rules for attaining it,
are not so necessary and useful to mankind as the arts
of consolation, and supporting one’s self under afflic-
tions. ‘The utmost we can hope for in this world is con-
tentment ; if we aim at any thing higher, we shall meet
with nothing but grief and disappointment. A man
should direct all his studies and endeavours at making
himself easy now, and happy hereafter.

The truth of it is, if all the happiness that is dispersed
through the whole race of mankind in this world were
drawn together, and put into the possession of any
single man, it would not make a very happy being ;
though, on the contrary, if the miseries of the whole
species were fixed in a single person, they would make
a very miserable one.

I am engaged in this subject by the following letter,
which, though subscribed by a fictitious name, I have
reason to believe is not imaginary :—

“‘T am one of your disciples, and endeavour to live
up to your rules, which I hope will incline you to pity
my condition : I shall open it to you in a very few words.
About three years since, a gentleman, whom, I am sure,
you yourself would have approved, made his addresses
tome. He had every thing to recommend him but an
estate, so that my friends, who all of them applauded
his person, would not for the sake of both of us favour
his passion. For my own part, I resigned myself up
entirely to the direction of those who knew the world
much better than myself, but still lived in hope that
some juncture or other would make me happy in the
man, whom, in my heart, I preferred to all the world;
being determined, if I could not have him, to have no-
body else. About three months ago I received a letter
from him, acquainting me, that by the death of an uncle
he had a considerable estate left him, which he said
was welcome to him upon no other account, but as he
hoped it would remove all difficulties that lay in the way
to our mutual happiness. You may well suppose, Sir,
with how much joy I received this letter, which was
followed by several others, filled with those expressions
of love and joy, which I verily believe nobody felt moreMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

sincerely, nor knew better how to describe, than the
gentleman I am speaking of. But Sir—how shall I be
able to tellit you ’—by the last week’s post I received a
letter from an intimate friend of this unhappy gentle-
man, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his
affairs, and was preparing for his journey, he fell sick
of a fever and died. It is impossible to express to you
the distress I am in upon this oceasion. I can only have
recourse to my devotions, and to the reading of good
books, for my consolation; and as I always take a par-
ticular delight in those frequent advices and admoni-
tions which you give the public, it would bea very great
piece of charity in you to lend me your assistance in this
conjuncture. If aiter the reading of this letter you find
yourself in a humour rather to rally and ridicule, than
to comfort me, I desire you would throw it into the fire,
and think no more of it; but if you are touched with
my misfortune, which is greater than I know how to
bear, your counsels may very much support, and will
infinitely oblige, the afflicted LEONORA,”

A disappointment in love is more hard to get over
than any other: the passion itselfso softens and subdues
the heart, that it disables it from struggling or bearing
up against the woes and distresses which befall it. The
mind meets with other misfortunes in her whole stren gth;
she stands collected within hgrself, and sustains the
shock with all the force which is natural to her, but a
heart in love has its foundation sapped, and immediately
sinks under the weight of accidents that are disagreeable
to its favourite passion.

In afflictions men generally draw their consolations
out of books of morality, which indeed are of great use
to fortify and strengthen the mind against the impres-
sions of sorrow. Monsieur St Evremont, who does not
approve of this method, recommendsauthors whoare apt
to stir up mirth in the mind of the readers, and fancies
Don Quixote can give more relief to a heavy heart than
Plutarch or Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief
than to conquer it. This doubtless may have its effects
on some tempers. I should rather have recourse to
authors of a quite contrary kind, that give us instances
of calamities and misfortunes, and show human nature
in its greatest distresses.

If the afflictions we groan under be very heavy, we
shall find some consolation in the society of as great
sufferers as ourselves, especially when we find our
companions men of virtueand merit. If our afflictions
are light, we shall be comforted by the comparison we
make between ourselves and our fellow-sufferers. A
loss at sea, a fit of sickness, or the death of a friend, are
such trifles, when we consider whole kingdoms laid in
ashes, families put to the sword, wretches shut. up in
dungeons, and the like calamities of mankind, that we
are out of countenance for our own weakness, if we sink
under such little strokes of fortune.

Let the disconsolate Leonora consider, that at the
very time in which she languishes for the loss of her
deceased lover, there are persons in several parts of
the world just perishing in shipwreck; others crying
out for mercy in the terrors of a death-bed repentance ;
others lying under the tortures of an infamous execu-
tion, or the like dreadful calamities; and she will find
her sorrows vanish at the appearance of those which
are so much greater and more astonishing.

I would further propose to the consideration of my
afilicted disciple, that possibly what she now looks upon
as the greatest misfortune, is not really such in itself.
For my own part, I question not but our souls in a
separate state will look back on their lives in quite
another view than what they had of them in the body;
and that what they now consider as misfortunes and
disappointments, will very often appear to have been
escapes and blessings.

The mind that hath any cast towards devotion, natu-
rally flies to it in its afflictions.

When I was in France, I heard a very remarkable
story of two lovers, which I shall relate at length in my
next paper, not only because the circumstances of it

|

 

are extraordinary, but because it may serve as an illus-
tration to all that can be said on this last head, and
show the power of religion in abating that particular
anguish which seems to lie so heavy on Leonora. The
story was told me by a priest, as I travelled with him
in a stage-coach. I shall give it my reader, as well as
I can remember, in his own words, after having pre-
mised, that if consolations may be drawn from a wrong
religion and a misguided devotion, they cannot but flow
much more naturally from those which are founded
upon reason and established in good sense. _

POST PODIL OPI PLIL IODA

CONSTANTIA AND THEODOSIUS.

CONSTANTIA was a woman of extraordinary wit and
beauty, but very unhappy in a father, who having
arrived at great riches by his own industry, took delight
in nothing but his money. Theodosius was the younger
son of a decayed family, of great parts and learning,
improved by a genteel and virtuous education. When
he was in the twentieth year of his age, he became
acquainted with Constantia, who had not then passed.
her fifteenth. As he lived but a few miles distant from
her father’s house, he had frequent opportunities of
seeing her; and by the advantages of a good person
and a pleasing conversation, made such an impression
on her heart as it was impossible for time to efface.
He was himself no less smitten with Constantia. A
long acquaintance made them still discover new beauties
in each other, and by degrees raised in them that mutual
passion which had an influence on their following lives.
It unfortunately happened, that in the midst of this
intercourse of love and friendship between Theodosius
and Constantia, there broke out an irreparable quarrel
between their parents, the one valuing himself too much
upon his birth, and the other upon his possessions.
The father of Constantia was so incensed at the father
of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreasonable aver-
sion towards his son, insomuch that he forbade him his
house, and charged his daughter upon her duty never
to see him more. In the meantime, to break off all
communication between the two lovers, who he knew
entertained secret hopes of some favourable opportunity
that should bring them together, he found out a young
gentleman of a good fortune and an agreeable person,
whom he pitched upon as a husband for his daughter.
He soon concerted this affair so well, that he told
Constantia it was his design to marry her to such a
gentleman, and that her wedding should be celebrated
on such a day. Constantia, who was overawed with the
authority of her father, and unable to object any thing
against so advantageous a match, received the proposal
with a profound silence, which her father commended
in her, as the most decent manner of a virgin’s giving
her consent to an overture of that kind. The noise of
this intended marriage soon reached Theodosius, who,
after a long tumult of passions, which naturally rise in
a lover’s heart on such an occasion, wrote the following
letter to Constantia :—

“The thought of my Constantia, which for some years
has been my only happiness, is now become a greater
torment to me than I am able to bear. Must I then
live to see youanother’s? The streams, the fields, and.
meadows, where we have so often talked, together, grow
painful to me; life itself is become a burden, May you
long be happy in the world, but forget there was ever
such a man in it as THEopostvs.”

This letter was conveyed to Constantia that very
evening, who fainted at the reading of it ; and the next
morning she was much more alarmed by two or three
messengers, that came to her father’s house, one after
another, to inquire if they had heard any thing of
Theodosius, who it seems had left his chamber about
midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deep
melancholy which had hung upon his mind some time
before, made them apprehend the worst that could befall
him. Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report

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‘aiN

66

of her marriage could have driven him to such extre-
mities, was not to be comforted. She now accused
herself of having so tamely given an ear to the proposal
of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as the
murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved to
suffer the utmost effects of her father’s displeasure,
rather than comply with a marriage which appeared to
her so full of guilt and horror. The father seeing him-
Self entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep a
considerable portion in his family, was not very much
concerned at the obstinate refusal of his daughter ; and
did not find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that
account to his intended son-in-law, who had all along
regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of conve-
nience than of love. Constantia had now no relief but
in her devotions and exercises of religion, to which her
afflictions had so entirely subjected her mind, that, after
some years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and
settled her thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved
to pass the remainder of her days ina convent. Her
father was not displeased with a resolution which would
save money in his family, and readily complied with
his daughter’s intentions. Accordingly, in the twenty-
fifth year of her age, while her beauty was yet in all its
height and bloom, he carried her to a neighbouring city,
in order to look out a sisterhood of nuns among whom
to place his daughter. There wasin this place a father
of a convent who was very much renowned for his piety
and exemplary life; and as it is usual in the Romish
church for those who are under any great affliction, or
trouble of mind, to apply themselves to the most emi-
nent confessors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful
votary took the opportunity of confessing herself to this
celebrated father.

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very
morning that the above-mentioned inquiries had been
made aiter him, arrived at a religious house in the city,
where now Constantia resided; and desiring that se-
erecy and concealment of the fathers of the convent,
which is very usual upon any extraordinary occasion,
he made himself one of the order, with a private vow
never to inquire after Constantia, whom he looked
upon as given away to his rival upon the day on which,
according to common fame, their marriage was to have
been solemnised. Having in his youth made a good

progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself

more entirely to religion, he entered into holy orders,
and in a few years became renowned for his sanctity of
life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired into
all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to
whom Constantia had determined to apply herself in
confession, though neither she nor any other, besides
the prior of the convent, knew any thing of his name
or family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius, had now
taken upon him the name of Father Francis, and was
So far concealed in a long beard, a shaven head, and a
religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the
man of the world in the venerable conventual.

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional,
Constantia, kneeling by him, opened the state of her soul
to him; and after having given him the history of a life
full of innocence, she burst out in tears, and entered
upon that part of her story in which he himself had so
great a share. “ My behaviour,” says she, “has I fear
been the death of a man who had no other fault but that
of loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear
he was to me whilst he lived, and how bitter the remem-
brance of him has been to me since his death.” She
here paused, and lifted up her ‘eyes that streamed with
tears towards the father, who was so moved with the
sense of her sorrows, that he could only command his
voice, which was broke with sighs and sobbings, so far
as to bid her proceed. She followed his directions, and
in a flood of tears poured out her heart before him. The
father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that
in the agonies of his grief the seat shook under him.

Constantia, who thought the good man was thus moved

by his compassion towards her, and by the horror of
her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to ac-

 

ADDISON'S

quaint him with that vow of virginity in which she was
going to engage herself, as the proper atonement for
her sins, and the only sacrifice she could make to the
memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this time
had pretty well composed himself, burst out again m
tears upon hearing that nume to which he had been so
long disused, and upon receiving this instance of an un-
paralleled fidelity from one who he thought had several
years since given herself up to the possession of another.
Amidst the interruptions of his sorrow, seeing his pen-
tent overwhelmed with grief, he was only able to bid
her from time to time be comforted—to tell her that
her sins were forgiven her—that her guilt was not so
great as she apprehended—that she should not suffer
herself to be afflicted above measure. After which he
recovered himself enough to give her the absolution in
form; directing her at the same time to repair to him
again the next day, that he might encourage her in the
pious resolutions she had taken, and give her suitable
exhortations for her behaviour in it. Constantia retired,
and the next morning renewed her applications. Theo-
dosius having manned his soul with proper thoughts
and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the
best manner he could to animate his penitent in the
course of life she was entering upon, and wear out of
her mind those groundless fears and apprehensions
which had taken pos@ession of it; concluding with a
promise to her, that he would from time to time con-
tinue his admonitions when she should have taken upon
her the holy veil. “The rules of our respective orders,”
says he, “ will not permit that I should see you, but you
may assure yourself not only of having a place in my
prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructions as
I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the
glorious course you have. undertaken, and you will
quickly find such a peace and satisfaction in your mind,
which it is not in the power of the world to give.”

Constantia’s heart was so elevated with the discourse
of Father Francis, that the very next day she entered
upon her vow. As soon as the solemnities of her
reception were over, she retired, as itis usual, with the
abbess into her own apartment.

The abbess had been informed the night before of
all that had passed between her noviciate and Father
Francis; from whom she now delivered to her the
following letter :—

“As the first fruits of those joys and consolations
which you may expect from the life you are now engaged
in, | must acquaint you that Theodosius, whose death
sits so heavy upon your thoughts, is still alive ; and that
the father to whom you have confessed yourself, was
once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The
love which we have had for one another will make us
more happy im its disappointment than it could have
done in its success. Providence has disposed of us for
our advantage, though not according to our wishes.
Consider your Theodosius still as dead, but assure your-
self of one who will not cease to pray for you in

FatHer FRANCIS.”

Constantia saw that the hand-writing agreed with
the contents of the letter ; and upon reflecting on the
voice of the person, the behaviour, and above all the
extreme sorrow of the father during her confession, she
discovered Theodosius in everyparticular. After having
wept with tears of joy, “Itis enough,” says she ; “ Theo-
dosius is still in being; I shall live with comfort, and
die in peace.”

The letters which the father sent her afterwards are
yet extant in the nunnery where she resided, and are
often read to the young religious, in order to inspire
them with good resolutions and sentiments of virtue.
It so happened, that after Constantia had lived about
ten years in the cloister, a violent fever broke out in
the place, which swept away great multitudes, and
among others Theodosius. Upon his death-bed he sent
his benediction in a very moving manner to Constantia,
who at that time was herself so far gone in the same

| fatal distemper, that she lay delirious, Upon the inter-

°MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

val which generally precedes death in’ sicknesses of this
nature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had given
her over, told her that Theodosius was just gone before
her, and that lie had sent her his benediction in his last
moments. Constantia received it with pleasure. “ And
now,’ says she, “if I do not ask any thing improper,
let me be buried by Theodosius. My vow reaches no
farther than the grave. What I ask is, I hope, no
Violation of it.” She died soon after, and was interred
according to her request.

Their tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin
inscription over them to the following purpose :—

“Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister
Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in their
death they were not divided.”

&* GOOD NATURE AS AN EFFECT OF
CONSTITUTION.

Man is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows by
the very condition of humanity, and yet, as if nature
had not sown evils enough in life, we are continually
adding grief to grief, and aggravating the common
calamity by our cruel treatment of one another. Every
man’s natural weight of afflictions is still made more
heavy by the envy, malice, tres chery, or injustice, of
his neighbour. At the same time that the storm beats
upon the whole species, we are falling foul upon one
another.

Half the misery of human life might be extinguished,
would men alleviate the general curse they lie under,
by mutual offices of compassion, benevolence, and
humanity. There is nothing, therefore, which we ought
more to encourage in ourselves and others than tha
disposition of mind which in our language goes under

the title of good nature, and which I shall choose for |

the subject of this day’s speculation.

Good nature is more agreeable in conversation than
wit, and gives a certain air to the countenance which
is more amiable than beauty. It shows virtue in the
fairest light, takes off in some measure from the defor-
mity of vice, and makes even folly and impertinence
supportable.

There is no society or conversation to be kept up in
the world without good nature, or something which
must bear its appearance and supply its place. For
this reason mankind have been forced to invent a kind
of artificial humanity, which is what we express by the
word good breeding. For if we examine thoroughly
the idea of what we call so, we shall find it to be nothing
else but an imitation and mimicry of good nature, or,
in other terms, affability, complaisance, and easiness of
temper, reduced into an art.

These exterior shows and appearances of humanity
render a man wonderfully popular and beloved when
they are founded upon a real good nature, but without
it are like hypocrisy in religion, or a bare form of
holiness, which, when it is discovered, makes a man
more detestable than professed impiety.

Good nature is generally born with us; health, pro-
sperity, and kind treatment from the world, are great
cherishers of it where they find it, but nothing is
capable of foreing it up where it does not grow of itself.
It is one of the blessings of a happy constitution, which
education may improve but not produce.

Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince, whom
he describes as a pattern for real ones, is always cele-
brating the philanthropy or good nature of his hero,
which he tells us he brought into the world with him,
and gives many remarkable instances of it in his child-
hood, as well as in all the several parts of his life. Nay,
on his death-bed, he describes him as being pleased,
that while his soul returned to him who made it, his
body should incorporate with the great mother of all
things, and by that means become beneficial to mankind.
For which reason, he gives his sons a positive order
not to enshrine it in gold or silver, but to lay it in the
earth as soon as the life was gone out of it.

 

67

An instance of such an overflowing of humanity, such
an exuberant love to mankind, could not have entered
into the imagination of a writer who had not a soul
filled with great ideas, and a general benevolence to
mankind.

In that celebrated passage of Sallust, where Czesar
and Cato are placed in such beautiful but opposite
lights, Ceesar’s character is chiefly made up of good
nature, as it showed itself in all its forms towards his
friends or his enemies, his servants or dependents, the
guilty or the distressed. As for Cato’s character, it is
rather awful than amiable. Justice seems most agree-
able to the nature of God, and mercy to that of man.
A being who has nothing to pardon in himself may
reward every man according to his works, but he whose
very best actions must be seen with grains of allowance,
cannot be too mild, moderate, and forgiving. For this
reason, among all the monstrous characters in human
nature, there is none so odious, nor indeed so exqui-
sitely ridiculous, as that of a rigid severe temper in a
worthless man.

This part of good nature, however, which consists
in the pardoning and overlooking of faults, is to be
exercised only in doing ourselves justice, and that, too,
in the ordinary commerce and occurrences of life ; for
in the public administrations of justice, mercy to one
may be cruelty to others.

It is grown almost into a maxim, that good-natured
men are not always men of the most wit. This obser-
vation, in my opinion, has no foundation in nature. The
greatest wits I have conversed with are men eminent
for their humanity. I take, therefore, this remark to
have been occasioned by two reasons. First, because
ill nature among ordinary observers passes for wit. A.
spiteful saying gratifies so many little passions in those
who hear it, that it generally meets with a good recep-
tion. ‘The laugh rises upon it, and the man who utters

| it is looked upon as a shrewd satirist, This may be one

reason why a great many pleasant companions appear
so surprisingly dull when they have endeavoured to be
merry in print, the public being more just than private
clubs or assemblies in distinguishing between what is
wit and what is ill nature.

Another reason why the good-natured man may
sometimes bring his wit in question, is, perhaps, because
he is apt to be moved with compassion for those mis-
fortunes or infirmities which another would turn into
ridicule, and by that means gain the reputation of a
wit. The ill-natured man, though but of equal parts,
gives himself a larger field to expatiate in; he exposes
those failmgs in human nature which the other would
cast a veil over, laughs at vices which the other either
excuses or conceals, gives utterance to reflections which
the other stifles, falls indifferently upon friends or
enemies, exposes the person who has obliged him—
and, in short, sticks at nothing that may establish his
character of a wit. It is no wonder, therefore, he
succeeds in it better than the man of humanity, as a
person who makes use of indirect methods is more
likely to grow rich than the fair trader.

POPP PP PILL OIL LDP PP DO

JHALOUSY.

Upon looking over the letters of my female correspon-
dents, I find several from women complaining of
jealous husbands, and at the same time protesting their
own innocence, and desiring my advice on this occasion.
I shall therefore take this subject into my consideration 5
and the more willingly, because I find that the Marquis
of Halifax, who, in his “ Advice toa Daughter,” has
instructed a wife how to behave herself towards a, false,
an intemperate, a choleric, a sullen, a covetous, or a
silly husband, has not spoken one word of a jealous
husband.

“ Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from the
apprehension that he is not equally beloved by the
person whom he entirely loves.” Now, because our
inward passions and inclinations can never make

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68

themselves visible, it is impossible for a jealous man
to be thoroughly cured of his suspicions. His thoughts
hang at best in a state of doubtfulness and uncertainty,
and are never capable of receiving any satisfaction on
the advantageous side ; so that his inquiries are most
successful when they discover nothing. His pleasure
arises from his disappointments, and his life is spent in
pursuit of a secret that destroys his happiness if he
chance to find it.

An ardent love is always a strong ingredient in this
passion ; for the same affection which stirs up the
jealous man’s desires, and gives the party beloved so
beautiful a figure in his imagination, makes him
believe she kindles the same passion in others, and
appears as amiable to all beholders. And as jealousy
thus arises from an extraordinary love, it is of so
delicate a nature that it scorns to take up ‘with any
thing less than an equal return of love. Not the
warmest expressions of affection, the softest and most
tender hypocrisy, are able to give any satisfaction,
where we are not persuaded that the affection is real
and the satisfaction mutual. For the jealous man
wishes himself a kind of deity to the person he loves.
He would be the only pleasure of her senses, the
employment of her thoughts, and is angry at every
thing she admires or takes delight in besides himself.

Pheedra’s request to his mistress, upon his leaving
her for three days, is inimitably beautiful and natural :

** Be with yon soldier present as if absent :

All night and day love me: still long for me:
Dream, ponder still on me: wish, hope for me:
Delight in me: be all in all with me:

Give your whole heart, for mine’s all yours, to me.”

The jealous man’s disease is of so malignant a nature,
that it converts all it takes into its own nourishment. A
cool behaviour sets him on the rack, and is interpreted
as an instance of aversion or indifference ; a fond one
raises his suspicions, and looks too much like dissimu-
lation and artifice. If the person he loves be cheerful,
her thoughts must be employed on another ; and if sad,
she is certainly thinking on himself. In short, there
is no word or gesture so insignificant but it gives him
new hints, feeds his suspicions, and furnishes him with
fresh matters of discovery : so that, if we consider the
effects of this passion, one would rather think it
proceeded from an inveterate hatred than an excessive
love ; for certainly none can meet with more disquietude
and uneasiness than a suspected wife, if we except the
jealous husband.

But the great unhappiness of this passion is, that it
naturally tends to alienate the affection which it is so
solicitous to engross; and that for these two reasons,
because it lays too great a constraint on the words and
actions of the suspected person, and at the same time
shows you have no honourable opinion of her ; both of
which are strong motives to aversion.

Nor is this the worst effect of jealousy, for it often
draws after it a more fatal train of consequences, and
makes the person you suspect guilty of the very crimes
you are so much afraid of. It is very natural for such
who are treated ill and upbraided falsely, to find out
an intimate friend that will hear their complaints,
condole their sufferings, and endeavour to soothe and
assuage their secret resentments. Besides, jealousy
puts 2 woman often in mind of an ill thing that she
would not otherwise perhaps have thought of, and fills
her imagination with such an unlucky idea, as in time
srows familiar, excites desire, and loses all the shame
and horror which might at first attend it. Nor is it
a wonder if she who suffers wrongfully in a man’s
opinion of her, and has therefore nothing to forfeit in
his esteem, resolves to give him reason for his suspicions,
and to enjoy the pleasure of the crime, since she must
undergo the ignominy. Such, probably, were the con-
siderations that directed the wise man in his advice to
husbands—* Be not jealous over the wife of thy bosom,
and teach her not an evil lesson against thyself.”

And here, among the other torments which this

 

ADDISON'S

passion produces, we may usually observe that none
are greater mourners than jealous men, when the
person who provoked their jealousy is taken from them.
Then it is that their wrath breaks out furiously, and
throws off all the mixtures of suspicion which choked
and smothered it before. The beautiful parts of the
character rise uppermost in the jealous husband’s
memory, and upbraid him with the ill usage of so
divine a creature as was once in his possession ; whilst
all the little imperfections that were before so uneasy
to him, wear off from his remembrance, and show
themselves no more.

We may see by what has been said that jealousy
takes the deepest root in men of amorous dispositions ;
and of these we may find three kinds who are most
overrun with it.

The first are those who are conscious to themselves
of an infirmity, whether it be weakness, old age,
deformity, ignorance, or the like. These men are so
well acquainted with the unamiable part of themselves,
that they have not the confidence to think they are
really beloved; and are so distrustful of their own
merits, that all fondness towards them puts them out of
countenance, and looks like a jest upon their persons.
They grow suspicious on their first looking in a glass,
and are stung with jealousy at the sight of a wrinkle.
A handsome fellow immediately alarms them, and every
thing that looks young or gay turns their thoughts upon
their wives.

A second sort of men, who are most liable to this
passion, are those of cunning, wary, and distrustful
tempers. It is a fault very justly found in histories
composed by politicians, that they leave nothing to
chance or humour, but are still for deriving every
action from some plot and contrivance, for drawing up
4 perpetual scheme of causes and events, and preserv-
ing a constant correspondence between the camp and
the council table. And thus it happens in the affairs of
love with men of too refined a thought. They put a
construction on a look, and find out a design in asmile 3
they give new senses and significations to words and
actions; and are ever tormenting themselves with
fancies of their own raising. They generally act in a
disguise themselves, and therefore mistake all outward
show and appearances for hypocrisy in others; so that
I believe no men see less of the truth and reality of
things, than these great refiners upon incidents, who
are so wonderful subtle and over-wise in their concep-
tions.

Now, what these men fancy they know of women by
reflection, your lewd and vicious men believe they have
learned by experience. They have seen the poor husband
so misled by tricks and artifices, and in the midst of his
inquiries so lost and bewildered in a crooked intrigue,
that they still suspect an under-plot in every female
action; and, especially where they see any resemblance
in the behaviour of two persons, are apt to fancy it
proceeds from the same design in both. These men,
therefore, bear hard upon the suspected party, pursue
her close through all her turnings and windings, and
are too well acquainted with the chase, to be flung off
by any false steps or doubles. Besides, their acquaint-
ance and conversation has lain wholly among the vicious
part of womankind, and therefore it is no wonder they
censure all alike, and look upon the whole sex as a
species of impostors. But if, notwithstanding their
private experience, they can get over these prejudices,
and entertain a favourable opinion of some women, yet
their own loose desires will stir up new suspicions from
another side, and make them believe all men subject to
the same inclinations with themselves.

Whether these or other motives are most predomi-
nant, we learn from the modern histories of America,
as well as from our own experience in this part of the
world, that jealousy is no northern passion, but rages
most in those nations that lie nearest the influence of
the sun. It is a misfortune for a woman to be born
between the tropics, for there lie the hottest regions of
jealousy, which as you come northward cools all alongMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

with the climate, till you scarce meet with any thing
ike it in the polar circle. Our own nation is very
temperately situated in this respect; and if we meet
with some few disordered with the violence of this
passion, they are not the proper growth of our country,
but are many degrees nearer the sun in their constitu-
tions than in their climate.

After this frightful account of jealousy, and the per-
Sons who are most subject to it, it will be but fair to
show by what means the passion may be best allayed,
and those who are possessed with it set at ease. Other

a

faults, indeed, are not under the wife’s jurisdiction, and

. . ° - =
should, if possible, escape her observation ; but jealousyf|

calls upon her particularly for its cure, and deserves
all her art and application in the attempt. Besides,
she has this for her encouragement, that her endeavour

will be always pleasing, and that she will still find the
aifection of her husband rising towards her, in propor-
tion as his doubts and suspicions vanish ; for, as we
have seen all along, there is so great a mixture of love
in jealousy as is well worth the separating. But this
shall be the subject of another paper.

POOL AALS

 

GOOD NATURE AS A MORAL VIRTUE.
In one of my last week’s papers I treated of good
nature, as it is the effect of constitution; I shall now
speak of it as it is a moral virtue. The first may make
a man easy to himself and agreeable to others, but
implies no merit in him that is possessed of it. A man
is no more to be praised on this account, than because
he has a regular pulse, or a good digestion. This good
nature, however, in the constitution, which Mr Dryden
somewhere calls a milkiness of blood, is an admirable
ground-work for the other. In order, therefore, to try
our good nature, whether it arises from the body or
the mind, whether it be founded in the animal or
rational part of our nature—in a word, whether it be
such as is entitled to any other reward, besides that
secret satisfaction and contentment of mind which is
essential to it, and the kind reception it procures us in
the world—we must examine it by the following rules :

First, Whether it acts with steadiness and uniformity
in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity ;
if otherwise, it is to be looked upon as nothing else but
an irradiation of the mind from some new supply of
spirits, or a more kindly circulation of the blood. Sir
Francis Bacon mentions a cunning solicitor, who would
never ask a favour of a great man before dinner, but
took care to prefer his petition at a time when the party
petitioned had his mind free from care, and his appetites
in good humour. Such a transient temporary good
nature as this, is not that philanthropy, that love of
mankind, which deserves the title of a moral virtue.

The next way of a man’s bringing his good nature to
the test, is to consider whether it operates according to
the rules of reason and duty ; for if, notwithstanding its
general benevolence to mankind, it makes no distinction
between its objects, if it exerts itself promiscuously
towards the deserving and undeserving, if it relieves
alike the idle and the indigent, if it gives itself up to
the first petitioner, and lights upon any one rather by
accident than choice, it may pass for an amiable instinct,
but must not assume the name of a moral virtue.

The third trial of good nature will be the examining
ourselves, whether or no we are able to exert it to our
own disadvantage, and employ it on proper objects,
notwithstanding any little pain, want, or inconvenience,
which may arise to ourselves from it; in a word,
whether we are willing to risk any part of our fortune,
our reputation, or health, or ease, for the benefit of
mankind. Among all these expressions of good nature,
I shall single out that which goes under the general
name of charity, as it consists in relieving the indigent ;
that being a trial of this kind which offers itself to us
almost at all times, and in every place.

I should propose it as a rule to every one who is

provided with any competency of fortune more than!

 

69

sufficient for the necessaries of life, to lay aside a certain
proportion of his income for the use of the poor. This
I would look upon as an offering to Him who has a
right to the whole, for the use of those whom, in the
passage hereafter mentioned, he has described as his
own representatives upon earth. At the same time,
we should manage our charity with such prudence and
caution, that we may not hurt our own friends or
relations, whilst we are doing good to those who are
strangers to us.

This may possibly be explained better by an example
than by rule.

EKugenius is a man of an universal good nature, and
generous beyond the extent of his fortune, but withal
so prudent in the economy of his affairs, that what goes
out in charity is made up by good management. Huge-
nius has what the world calls £200 a-year, but never
values himself above nine-score, as not thinking he has
a right to the tenth part, which he always appropriates
to charitable uses. ‘To this sum he frequently makes
other voluntary additions, insomuch, that in a good year,
for such he accounts those in which he has been able
to make greater bounties than ordinary, he has given
above twice that sum to the sickly and indigent. Huge-
nius prescribes to himself many particular days of
fasting and abstinence, in order to increase his private
bank of charity, and sets aside what would be the current
expenses of those times for the use of the poor. He
often goes a-foot where his business calls him, and at
the end of his walk has given a shilling, which, in his
ordinary methods of expense, would have gone for coach
hire, to the first necessitous person that fell in his way.
I have known him, when he has been going to a play
or an opera, divert the money which has been designed
for that purpose, upon an object of charity whom he
has met with in the street, and afterwards pass his
evening in a coffee-house, or at a friend’s fireside, with
much greater satisfaction to himself than he could have
received from the most exquisite entertainments of the
theatre. By these means he is generous without im-
poverishing himself, and enjoys his estate by making it
the property of others.

There are few men so cramped in their private
affairs, who may not be charitable after this manner,
without any disadvantage to themselves or prejudice
to their families. It is but sometimes sacrificing a
diversion or convenience to the poor, and turning the
usual course of our expenses into a better channel.
This is I think not only the most prudent and con-
venient, but the most meritorious piece of charity which
we can put in practice. By this method we in some
neasure share the necessities of the poor, at the same
time that we relieve them, and make ourselves not only
their patrons but their fellow-sufferers.

Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his Relegio
Medici, in which he describes his charity in several
heroic instances, and with a noble heat of sentiment,
mentions that verse in the Proverbs of Solomon, “ He
that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.” “There
is more rhetoric in that one sentence,” says he, “than
in a library of sermons; and, indeed, if those sentences
were understood by the reader with the same emphasis
as they are delivered by the author, we needed not
those volumes of instructions, but might be honest by
an epitome.”

This passage in scripture is, indeed, wonderfully
persuasive ; but I think the same thought is carried
much farther in the New Testament, where our Saviour
tells us, in a most pathetic manner, that he shall here-
after regard the clothing of the naked, the feeding of
the hungry, and the visiting of the imprisoned, as offices
done to himself, and reward them accordingly. Pur-
suant to those passages in holy scripture, I have some-
where met with the epitaph of a charitable man, which
has very much pleased me. I cannot recollect the
words, but the sense of it is to this purpose— What I
spent, I lost ; what I possessed, is left to others ; what I
gave away, remains with me,

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70 ADDI
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eannot forbear making an extract of several passages | my father for fear of provoking him. About a month

which I have always read with great delight, in the
book of Job. It is the account which that holy man
gives of his behaviour in the days of his prosperity, and,
if considered only as a himan conipesition, is a finer
picture of a charitable and good-natured-man than is
to be met with in any other author.

“Oh that I were as in months past, as in the dayé |
when God preserved me; when his candle shined
upon my head, and when by his light I walked through
darkness ; when the Almighty was yet with me; when
my children were about me ; when I washed my steps
with butter, and the rock poured out rivers of. oil.

When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and
when the eye saw me, it gave witness tome. Because
I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and
him that had none to help him. The blessing of him
that was ready to perish came upon me, and [ caused
the widow’s heart to sing for joy. I was eyes to the
blind, and feet was I to the lame ; I was a father to the
poor, and the cause which ‘I knew not I searched out.
Did not I weep for him that was in trouble ?—was not
my soul grieved for the poor? Let me be weighed in
an even balance, that God may know mine integrity.
If I did despise the cause of my man-servant, or of my
maid-servant, when they contended with me; what
then shall I do when God riseth up?—and when he
visiteth, what shall I answer him? Did not he that
made me in the womb, make him? and did not one
fashion us in the womb? If I have withheld the poor
from their desire, or have caused the eyes of the
widow to fail ; or have eaten my morsel myself alone,
and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof; if I have
seen any perish for want of clothing, or any poor
without covering ; if his loins have not blessed me, and
it he were not warmed with the fleece of my sheep ; if
I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I
saw my help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from
my shoulder-blade, and mine arm be broken from the
bone. If I have rejoiced at the destruction of him that
hated me, or lift up myself when evil found him.
(Neither have I suffered my mouth to sin, by wishing
a curse to his soul.) The stranger did not lodge in the
street; but I opened my doors to the traveller. If my
land cry against me, or that the furrows likewise
thereof complain; if I have eaten the fruits thereof
without money, or have caused the owners thereof to
lose their life ; let thistles grow instead of wheat, and
cockle instead of barley.”

 

GPLPLL PL PPLE LD LLL OPO LO

HARSHNESS IN PARENTS.
i am more pleased with a letter that is filled with
touches of nature than of wit. The following one is of
this kind :—

«Among all the distresses which happen in families, I do
not remember that you have touched upon the marriage
of children without the consent of their parents. I am
one of these unfortunate persons. I was about fifteen
when I took the liberty to choose for myself, and have
ever since languished under the displeasure of an
inexorable father, who, though he sees me happy in
the best of husbands, and blessed with very fine children,
can never be prevailed upon to forgive me. He was so
kind to me before this unhappy accident, that, indeed,
it makes my breach of dutyinsome measure inexcusable,
and at the same time creates in me such a tenderness
towards him, that I love him above all things, and
would die to be reconciled to him. I. have thrown
myself at his feet, and besought him with tears to
pardon me ; but he always pushes me away, and spurns
me from him. JI have written several letters to him,
but he would neither open nor receive them. About
two years ago I sent my little boy to him dressed in
a new apparel; but the child returned to me crying,
because he said his grandfather would not see him, and
had ordered him to be put out of his house. My mother
is won over to my side, but dares not mention me to

ago he lay sick upon his bed, and in great danger of
his life; I was pierced to the heart at the news, and
could not forbear going to inquire after his health. My
mother took this opportunity of speaking in my behalf ;

   
  

  

she told him, withabundance of tears, that I was come
|to see ling; that I cotthknot speak to her for weeping ;

tainly break my heart if he
refused at that to give me his blessing, and be
reconciled to me. He was so far from relenting
towards me, that he bade her speak no more of me,
unless she had a mind to disturb him in his last
moments; for, Sir, you must know that he has the
reputation of an honest and religious man, which makes
my misfortune so much the greater. God be thanked,
he has since recovered ; but his severe usage has given
me such a blow, that I shall soon sink under it, unless
I may be relieved by any impressions which the reading
of this in your paper may make upon him.”

Of all hardnesses of heart, there is none so inexcus-
able as that of parents towards their children. An
obstinate, inflexible, unforgiving temper, is odious upon
all occasions; but here it is unnatural. The love,
tenderness, and compassion, which are apt to arise in
us towards those who depend upon us, is that by which
the whole world of life is upheld. The Supreme Being,
by the transcendant excellency and goodness of his
nature, extends his mercy towards all his works; and
because his creatures have not such a spontaneous
benevolence and compassion towards those who are
under their care and protection, he has implanted in
them an instinct that supplies the place of this inherent
goodness. I have illustrated this kind of instinct in
former papers, and have shown how it runs through all
the species of brute creatures, as, indeed, the whole
animal creation subsists by it.

This instinct in man is more general and uncircum-
seribed than in brutes, as being enlarged by the dictates
of reason and duty. For if we consider ourselves atten-
tively, we shall find that we are not only inclined to love
those who descend from us, but that we bear a kind of
natural affection to every thing which relies upon us
for its good and preservation. Dependence is a per-
petual call upon humanity, and a greater incitement
to tenderness and pity than any other motive whatso-
ever.

The man, therefore, who, notwithstanding any passion
or resentment, can overcome this powerful instinct, and
extinguish natural affection, debases his mind even below
brutality, frustrates, as much as in him lies, the great
design of Providence, and strikes out of his nature one
of the most divine principles that are planted in it.

Among innumerable arguments which might be
brought against such an unreasonable proceeding, I
shall only insist on one. We make it the condition of
our forgiveness that we forgive others. In our very
prayers, we desire no more than to be treated by this
kind of retaliation. The case, therefore, before us
seems to be what they call a case in point; the relation
between the child and father being what comes nearest
to that between a creature and its Creator. If the
father is inexorable to the child who has offended, let
the offence be of never so high a nature, how will he
address himself to the Supreme Being, under the tender
appellation of a Father, and desire of him such a
forgiveness as he himself refuses to grant ?

Yo this I might add many other religious, as well as
many prudential, considerations ; but if the last men-
tioned motive does not prevail, I despair of succeeding
by any other, and shall therefore conclude my paper
with a very remarkable story, which is recorded in an
old chronicle published by Freher, among the writers
of the German history.

Eginhart, who was secretary to Charles the Great,
became exceedingly popular by his behaviour in that
post. His great abilities gained him the favour of his
master, and the esteem of the whole court. Imma, the
daughter of the emperor, was so pleased with his persona

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. “i

and conversation, that she fell in love with him. As
she was one of the greatest beauties of the age, Egin-
hart answered her with more than equal return of
passion. They stifled their flame for some time, under
apprehension of the fatal consequences that might
ensue. Eginhart at length resolving to hazard all,
‘ather than live deprived of one whom his heart was
so much set upon, conveyed himself one night into the
princess’s apartment, and knocking gently at the door,
was admitted as a person who had something to com-
municate to her from the emperor. He was with her
in private most part of the night ; but upon his prepar-
ing to go away about break of day, he observed that
there had fallen a great. snow during his stay with the
princess. This very much perplexed him, lest the
prints of his feet in the snow might make discoveries
to the king, who often used to visit his daughter in the
morning. He acquainted the princess Imma with his
fears ; who, after some consultations upon the matter,
prevailed upon him to let her carry him through the
snow upon her own shoulders. It happened, that the
emperor not being able to sleep, was at that time up
and walking in his chamber, when, upon looking through
the window, he perceived his daughter tottering under
her burden, and carrying his first minister across the
snow ; which she had no sooner done, but she returned
again with the utmost speed to her own apartment,
The emperor was extremely troubled and astonished
at this accident, but resolved to speak nothing of it
until a proper opportunity. In the meantime, Egin-
hart, knowing that what he had done could not be long
a secret, determined to retire from court; and in order
to it, begged the emperor that he would be pleased to
dismiss him, pretending a kind of discontent at his not
having been rewarded for his long services. . The
emperor would not give a direct answer to his peti-
tion, but told him he would think of it, and appointed a
certain day when he would let him know his pleasure.
He then called together the most faithful of his coun-
sellors, and acquainting them with his secretary’s crime,
asked them their advice in so delicate an affair. The
most of them gave their opinion, that the person could
not be too severely punished who had thus dishonoured
his master. Upon the whole debate, the emperor
declared it was his opinion that Eginhart’s punishment
would rather increase than diminish the shame of his
family, and that therefore he thought it the most
advisable to wear out the memory of the fact, by
marrying him to his daughter. Accordingly, Eginhart
was called in, and acquainted by the emperor that he
should no longer have any pretence of complaining his
services were not rewarded, for that the princess Imma
should be given him in marriage, with a dower suitable
to her quality ; which was soon after performed accord-
ingly.

POPOL OL OP OD IF

ON. Zen Al

THERE is nothing in which men more deceive themselves
than in what the world calls zeal. There are so many
passions which hide themselves under it, and so many
mischiefs arising from it, that some have gone so far as
to say it would have been for the benefit of mankind if
it had never been reckoned in the catalogue of virtues.
it is certain, where it is once laudable and prudential,
it is a hundred times criminal and erroneous ; nor can
it be otherwise, if we consider that it operates with
equal violence in all religions, however opposite they
may be to one another, and in all the subdivisions of
each religion in particular.

We are told by some of the Jewish rabbins, that the
first murder was occasioned by a religious controversy ;
and if we had the whole history of zeal from the days
of Cain to our own times, we should see it filled with so
many scenes of slaughter and bloodshed, as would make
a wise man very careful how he suffers himself to be
actuated by such a principle, when it only regards
matters of opinion and speculation.

I would have every zealous man examine his heart

 

thoroughly, and I believe he will often find, that what
he ealls a zeal for his religion, is either pride, interest,
or ill nature. A man who differs from another in
opinion, sets himself above him in his own judgment,
and in several particulars pretends to be the wiser per-
son. This is a great provocation to the proud man,
and gives a very keen edge to what he calls his zeal.
And that this is the case very often, we may observe
from the behaviour of sonie of the most zealous for
orthodoxy, who have often great friendships and inti-
macies with vicious immoral men, provided they do but
agree with them in the same scheme of belief. The
reason is, because the vicious believer gives the prece-
dency to the virtuous man, and allows the good Chris-
tian to be the worthier person, at the same time that
he cannot come up to his perfections. This we find
exemplified in that trite passage which we see quoted
in almost every system of ethics, though upon another
occasion :
** J see the right, and I approve it too;
Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.”

On the contrary, it is certain, if our zeal were true and
genuine, we should be much more angry with a sinner
than a heretic; since there are several cases which
may excuse the latter before his great judge, but none
which can excuse the former.

Interest is likewise a great inflamer, and sets a man
on persecution under the colour of zeal. For this rea-
son we find none are so forward to promote the true
worship by fire and sword, as those who find their pre-
sent account init. But I shall extend the word interest
to a larger meaning than what is generally given it, as
it relates to our spiritual safety and welfare, as well as
to our temporal. A man is glad to gain numbers on
his side, as they serve to strengthen him in his private
opinions. Every proselyte is like a new argument for
the establishment of his faith. It makes him believe
that his principles carry conviction with them, and are
the more likely to be true, when he finds they are con-
formable to the reason of others, as well as to his own.
And that this temper‘of mind deludes a man very often
into an opinion of his zeal, may appear from the com-
mon behaviour of the atheist, who maintains and spreads
his opinions with as much heat as those who believe
they do it only out of a passion for God’s glory.

Ill nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal. Many
a good man may have a natural rancour and malice in
his heart, which has been in some measure quelled and
subdued by religion; but if it finds any pretence of
breaking out, which does not seem to him inconsistent
with the duties of a Christian, it throws off all restraint,
and rages in full fury. Zeal is therefore a great ease
to a malicious man, by making him believe he does God
service, whilst he is gratifying the bent of a perverse,
revengeful temper. or this reason, we find that most
of the massacres and devastations which have been in
the world, have taken their rise from a furious pre-
tended zeal.

I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, and
especially when his zeal shows itself for advancing
morality, and promoting the happiness of mankind.
But when I find the instruments he works with are
racks and gibbets, galleys and dungeons; when he im-
prisons men’s persons, confiscates their estates, ruins
their families, and burns the body to save the soul, I
cannot stick to pronounce of such a one, that (whatever
he may think of his faith and religion) his faith is vain,
and his religion unprofitable.

After having treated of these false zealots in religion,
I cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous species of
men, who one would not think had any existence in
nature, were they not to be met with in ordinary con-
versation—I mean the zealots in atheism. One would
fancy that these men, though they fall short, in every
other respect, of those who make a profession of reli-
gion, would at least outshine them in this particular,
and be exempt from that single fault which seems to
grow out of the imprudent fervours of religion. Butso
it is, that infidelity is propagated with as much fierce-72

ness and contention, wrath and indignation, as if the
safety of mankind depended upon it. There is some-
thing so ridiculous and perverse in this kind of zealots,
that one does not know how to set them out in their
proper colours. They are a sort of gamesters who are
eternally upon the fret, though they play for nothing.
They are perpetually teasing their friends to come to
them, though at the same time they allow that neither
of them shall get any thing by the bargain. In short,
the zeal of spreading atheism is, if possible, more absurd
than atheism itself.

Since I have mentioned this unaccountable zeal which
appears in atheists and infidels, I must further observe
that they are likewise in a most particular manner
possessed with the spirit of bigotry. They are wedded
to opinions full of contradiction and impossibility, and
at the same time look upon the smallest difficulty in an
article of faith as a sufficient reason for rejecting it.
Notions that fall in with the common reasons of man-
kind, that are conformable to the sense of all ages and
all nations, not to mention their tendency for promoting
the happiness of societies or of particular persons, are
exploded as errors and prejudices ; and schemes erected
in their stead that are altogether monstrous and
irrational, and require the most extravagant credulity
to embracethem. I would fain ask one of these bigoted
infidels, supposing all the great points of atheism, as the
casual or eternal formation of the world, the materiality
of a thinking substance, the mortality of the soul, the
fortuitous organisation of the body, the motions and
gravitation of matter, with the like particulars,.were
laid together and formed into a kind of creed, according
to the opinions of the most celebrated atheists—I say,
Supposing such a creed as this were formed and imposed
upon any one people in the world, whether it would not
require an infinitely greater measure of faith than any
Set of articles which they so violently oppose! Letme,
therefore, advise this generation of wranglers, for their
own and for the public good, to act at least so consist-
ently with themselves, as not to burn with zeal for
irreligion, and with bigotry for nonsense.

CODING LP ODL LOLOL IGI LD

ARGUMENTS FOR A CHRISTIAN.

Upon my return to my lodgings last night, I found a
letter from my worthy friend the clergyman, whom I
have given some account of in my former papers. He
tells me in it that he was particularly pleased with the
latter part of my yesterday’s speculation; and at the
same time enclosed the following essay, which he desires
me to publish as the sequel of that discourse. It con-
sists partly of uncommon reflections, and partly of such
as have been already used, but now set in a stronger
light.

“ A believer may be excused by the most hardened
atheist for endeavouring to make him a convert, because
he does it with an eye to both their interests. The
atheist is inexcusable who tries to gain over a believer,
because he does not propose the doing himself or the
believer any good by such a conversion.

The prospect of a future state is the secret comfort
and refreshment of my soul; it is that which makes
nature look gay about me; it doubles all my pleasures,
and supports me under my afflictions. I can look at
disappointments and misfortunes, pain and sickness,
death itself, and, what is worse than death, the loss of
those who are dearest to me, with indifference, so long
as I keep in view the pleasures of eternity, and the state
of being in which there will be no fears nor apprehen-
sions, pains nor sorrows, sickness nor separation. Why
will any man be so impertinently officious as to tell me
all this is only fancy and delusion? If it isa dream, let
me enjoy it, since it makes me both the happier and
better man.

I must confess I do not know how to trust 2 man who
believes neither heaven nor hell, or, in other words, a
future state of rewards and punishments. Net only
natural self-love but reason directs us to promote our

IBTATCL
BEING

 

ADDISON'S

own interest above all things. It can never be for the
interest of a believer to do mea mischief, because he is
sure, upon the balance of accounts, to find himself a
loser by it. On the contrary, if he considers his own
welfare in his behaviour towards me, it will lead him to
do me all the good he can, and at the same time restrain
him from doing me any injury. An unbeliever does not
act like a reasonable creature, if he favours me con-
trary to his present interest, or does not distress me
when it turns to his present advantage. Honour and
good nature may indeed tie up his hands; but as these
would be very much strengthened by reason and prin-
ciple, so without them they are only instincts, or waver-
ing unsettled notions, which rest on no foundation.

Infidelity has been attacked with so good success of
late years, that it is driven out of all its outworks. The
atheist has not found his post tenable, and has there-
fore retired into deism, and a disbelief of revealed
religion only. But the truth of it is, the greatest
number of this set of men are those who, for want of a
virtuous education, or examining the grounds of religion,
know so very little of the matter in question, that their
infidelity is but another term for their ignorance.

As folly and inconsiderateness are the foundations of
infidelity, the great pillars and supports of it are either
a vanity of appearing wiser than the rest of mankind,
or an ostentation of courage in despising the terrors of
another world, which have so great an influence on
what they call weaker minds; or an aversion to a belief
that must cut them off from many of those pleasures
they propose to themselves, and fill them with remorse
for many of those they have already tasted.

The great received articles of the Christian religion
have been so clearly proved, from the authority of that
divine revelation in which they are delivered, that it is
impossible for those who have ears to hear, and eyes to
see, not to be convinced of them. But were it possible
for any thing in the Christian faith to be erroneous, I
can find no ill consequences in adhering to it. The
great points of the incarnation and sufferings of our
Saviour produce naturally such habits of virtue in the
mind of man, that, I say, supposing it were possible for
us to be mistaken in them, the infidel himself must at
least allow that no other system of religion could so
effectually contribute to the heightening of morality.
They give us great ideas of the dignity of human nature,
and of the love which the Supreme Being bears to his
creatures, and consequently engage us in the highest
acts of duty towards our Creator, our neighbour, and
ourselves. How many noble arguments has St Paul
raised from the chief articles of our religion, for the
advancing of morality in its three great branches! To
give a single example in each kind. What can be a
stronger motive to a firm trust and reliance on the
mercies of our Maker, than the giving us his Son to
suffer for us? What can make us love and esteem even
the most inconsiderable of mankind more than the
thought that Christ died for him ?—or what dispose us
to set a stricter guard upon the purity of our own hearts,
than our being members of Christ, and a part of the
society of which that immaculate person is the head 2
But these are only a specimen of those admirable
enforcements of morality, which the apostle has drawn
from the history of our blessed Saviour.

If our modern infidels considered these matters with
that candour and seriousness which they deserve, we
should not see them act with such a spirit of bitterness,
arrogance, and malice. 'They would not be raising such
insignificant cavils, doubts, and scruples, as may be
started against every thing that is not capable of mathe-
matical demonstration, in order to unsettle the minds
of the ignorant, disturb the public peace, subvert
morality, and throw all things into confusion and dis-
order. If none of these reflections can have any influ-
ence on them, there is one that perhaps may, because
it is adapted to their vanity, by which they seem to be
guided much more than their reason. I would there-
fore have them consider, that the wisest and best of
men, in all ages of the world, have been those who livedrT

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 13

up tothe religion of their country, when they saw nothing
in it opposite to morality, and to the best lights they
had of ‘the divine nature. Pytha goras’s first rule directs
us to worship the Gods “as it is ordained by law,’ for
that is the most natural interpretation of the precept.
Socrates, who was the most renowned among the
heathens both for wisdom and virtue, in his last
moments desires his friends to offer a cock to Aiscula-
plus; doubtless out of a submissive deference to the
established worship of his country. Xenophon tells us
that his prince (whom he sets forth asa pattern of per-
fection), when he found his death approaching, offered
sacrifices on the mountains to the Persian J upiter, and
the sun, ¢ according to the custom of the Persians ;
for those are the words of the historian. Nay, the
Epicureans and atomical philosophers showed a very
remarkable modesty in this particular ; for though the
being of a God was entirely repugnant to- their schemes
of natural philosophy, they contented themselves with
the denial of a providence, asserting at the same time
the existence of gods in general ; because they would not
shock the eommon belief of mankind and the religion
of their country.”

necrenacantcnrenscne
TEMPERANCE IN DIET.
THERE is a story in the Arabian Nights’ Tales, of a king
who had long languished under an ill habit of body, and
had taken abundance of remedies to no purpose. At
length, says the fable, a physician cured him by the
following method: He took a hollow ball of wood, and
filled it with several drugs ; after which he closed it up
so artificially that nothing appeared. He likewise took
a mall, and after having hollowed the handle, and that
part which strikes the ball, he enclosed in them several
drugs after the same manner asin the ball itself. He
then ordered the sultan, who was his patient, to exercise
himself early in the morning with these rightly-prepared
instruments, till such time as he should sweat 3; when,
as the story goes, the virtue of the medicaments per-
spiring through the wood, had so good an influence on
the sultan’s constitution, that they cured him of an
indisposition which all the compositions he had taken
inwardly had not been able to remove. ‘This eastern
allegory is finely contrived to show us how beneficial
bodily labour is to health, and that exercise is the most
effectual physic. I have formerly described, from the
general structure and mechanism of a human body, how
absolutely necessary exercise is for its preservation.
I shall in this place recommend another great preser-
vative of health, which in many cases produces the same
efiect as exercise, and may, in some measure, supply
its place, where opportunities of exercise are vanting.
The preservative I] am speaking of is temperance, which
has those particular advantages above all other means
of health, that it may be practised by all ranks and
conditions, at any season, or in any place. It is a kind
of regimen into which every man may put himself,
without interruption to business, expense of money, or
loss of time. If exercise throws off all superfluities,
temperance prevents them ; if exercise clears the ves-
sels, temperance neither satiates nor overstrains them ;

if exercise raises proper ferments in the humours, and .

promotes the circulation of the blood, temperance gives
nature her full play, and enables her to exert herself in
all her force and vigour ; if exercise dissipates a growing
distemper, temperance starves it.

Physic, for the most part, is nothing else but the
substitute of exercise br temperance. Medicines are
indeed absolutely necessary in acute distempers, that
cannot wait the slow operations of these two great
instruments of health; but did men live in a habitual
course of exercise and temperance, there would be but
little occasion for them. Accordingly, we find that those
parts of the world are the most healthy where they
subsist by the chase; and that men lived longest when
their lives were employed in hunting, and when they
had little food besides what they caught. Blistering,
cupping, bleeding, are seldom of use but to the idle and

 

| intemperate; as all those inward applications which

are so much in practice among us, are for the most part
nothing else but expedients to make luxury consistent
with health. The apothecary is perpetually employed
in countermining the cook and the vintner. It is said
of Diogenes, that meeting a young man who was going
to a feast, he took him up in the street, and carried him
home to his friends, as one who was running into immi-
nent danger, had he not prevented him. What would
that philosopher have said, had he been present at the
gluttony of a modern meal? Would not he have thought
the master of a family mad, and have begged his servants
to tie down his hands, had he seen him devour fowl, fish,
and fiesh ; swallow oil and Vinegar, wines and spices;
throw down salads of twenty different herbs, sauces of
a hundred ingredients, confections and fruits of number-
less sweets and flavours? What unnatural motions
and counter-ferments must such a medley of intempe-
rance produce in the body? For my part, when I bekold
a fashionable table set out in all its magnificence, I faney
that I see gouts and dropsies, fevers and lethargies, with
other innumerable distempers, lying in ambuscade
among the dishes.

Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet.

Every animal but man keeps to one dish. Herbs are
the food of this species, fish of that, and flesh of a third.
Man falls upon every thing that comes in his way, not
the smailest fruit or execrescence of the earth, scarce a
berry or mushroom, ean escape him.
: It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule for
temperance, because what is luxury in one may be tem-
perance in another; but there are few that have lived
any time in the world, who are not judges of their own
constitutions, so far as to know what kinds and what
proportions of food do best agree with them. Were I
to consider my readers as my patients, and to prescribe
such a kind of temperance as is accommodated to all
persons, and such as is particularly suitable to our cli-
mate and way of living, I would copy the following rules
of a very eminent physician. Make your whole repast
out of one dish. If you indul ge in asecond, avoid drink-
ing any thing strong, until you have finished your meal ;
at the same time abstain from all sauces, or at least such
as are not the most plain and simple. Aman could not
well be guilty of gluttony, if he stuck to these few ob-
vious and easy rules. In the first case there would be
no variety of tastes to solicit his palate, and occasion
excess ; nor in the second any artificial provocatives
to relieve satiety, and create a false appetite. Were I
to prescribe a rule for drinking, it should be formed
upon a saying quoted by Sir William Temple : “The
first glass for myself, the second for my friends, the
third for good humour, and the fourth for mine ene-
mies.” But because it is impossible for one who lives
in the world to diet himself always in so philosophical
a manner, I think every man should have his days of
abstinence, according as his constitution will permit.
These are great reliefs to nature, as they qualify her
for struggling with hunger and thirst, whenever any
distemper or duty of life may put her upon such diffi-
culties ; and at the same time give her an opportunity
of extricating herself from her oppressions, and reco-
vering the several tones and springs of her distended
vessels; besides that abstinence, well timed, often kills
a sickness in embryo, and destroys the first seeds of an
Indisposition. It is observed by two or three ancient
authors, that Socrates, notwithstanding he lived in
Athens during that great plague which has made so
much noise through all ages, and has been celebrated
at different times by such eminent hands—I Say not-
withstanding that he lived in the time of this devouring
pestilence, he never caught the least infection, which
those writers unanimously ascribe to that uninterrupted
temperance which he always observed.

And here I cannot but mention an observation which
I have often made upon reading the lives of the philo-
sophers, and comparing them with any series of kings
e preat men - the same number, If we consider

ese ancient sages, a great part of whose philosophy .3
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consisted in a temperate and abstemious course of life,
one would think the life of a philosopher and the life of
a man were of two different dates ; for we find that
the generality of these wise men were nearer a hundred
than sixty years of age at the time of their respective
deaths. But the most remarkable instance of the effi-
cacy of temperance towards the procuring of long life,
is what we meet with in a little book published by Lewis
Cornaro, the Venetian; which I the rather mention,
because it is of undoubted credit, as the late Venetian
ambassador, who was of the same family, attested more
than once in conversation, when he resided in England.
Cornaro, who was the author of the little treatise I am
mentioning, was of an infirm constitution, until about
forty, when, by obstinately persisting in an exact course
of temperance, he recovered a perfect state of health ;
insomuch that at fourscore he published his book,
which has been translated into English under the title
of “Sure and certain methods of attaining a long and
healthy life.” He lived to give a third and fourth edi-
tion of it; and after having passed his hundredth year,
died without pain or agony, and like one who falls asleep.
The treatise | mention has been taken notice of by seve-
ral eminent authors, and is written with such a spirit
of cheerfulness, religion, and good sense, as are th¢
natural concomitants of temperance and sobriety. Th
mixture of the old man in it is rather a recommenda-
tion than a discredit to it.

Having designed this paper as a sequel to that upon
exercise, I have not here considered temperance as it
is a moral virtue, which I shall make the subject of a
future speculation, but only as it is the means of health.

PP PPI OA IIOS

TRUE DEVOTION.

Ir is of the last importance to season the passions of a
child with devotion, which seldom dies in a mind that
has received an early tincture of it. Though it may
seem, extinguished for a while by the cares of the
world, the heats of youth, or the allurements of vice, it
generally breaks out and discovers itself again as soon
as discretion, consideration, age, or misfortunes, have
brought the man to himself. ‘The fire may be covered
and overlaid, but cannot be entirely quenched and
smothered.

A state of temperance, sobriety, and justice, without
devotion, is a cold, lifeless, insipid condition of virtue,
and is rather to be styled philosophy than religion.
Devotion opens the mind to great conceptions, and fills
it with more sublime ideas, than any that are to be met
with in the most exalted science, and at the same
time warms and agitates the soul more than sensual
pleasure.

It has been observed by some writers, that man is
more distinguished from the animal world by devotion
than by reason, as several brute creatures discover in
their actions something like a faint glimmering of
reason, though they betray in no single circumstance
of their behaviour any thing that bears the least affinity
to devotion. It is certain the propensity of the mind
to religious worship, the natural tendency of the soul
to fly to some superior being for succour in dangers
and distresses, the gratitude to an invisible superin-
tendant which arises in us upon receiving any extra-
ordinary and unexpected good fortune, the acts of love
and admiration with which the thoughts of men are so
wonderfully transported in meditating upon the divine
perfections, and the universal concurrence of all the
nations under heaven in the great article of adoration,
plainly show that devotion, or religious worship, must
be the effect of tradition from some first founder of
mankind, or that it is conformable to the natural light
of reason, or that it proceeds from instinct implanted
in the soul itself. For my part, I look upon all these
to be the concurrent causes; but whichever of them
shall be assigned as the principle of divine worship, it
manifestly points to a supreme Being as the first author
of it.

 

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ADDISON'S

I may take some other opportunity of considering
those particular forms and methods of devotion which
are taught us by Christianity, but shall here observe
into what errors even this divine principle may some-
times lead us, when it is not moderated by that right
reason which was given us as the guide of all our
actions.

The two great errors into which a mistaken devotion
may betray us, are enthusiasm and superstition.

There is not a more melancholy object than a man
who has his head turned with religious enthusiasm. A
person that is erazed, though with pride or malice, is a
sight very mortifying to human nature ; but when the
distemper arises from any indiscreet fervours of devo-
tion, or too intense an application of the mind to its
mistaken duties, it deserves our compassion im a more
particular manner. We may, however, learn this lesson
from it, that since devotion itself (which one would be
apt to think could not be too warm) may disorder the
mind, unless its heats are tempered with caution and
prudence, we should be particularly careful to keep our
reason as cool as possible, and to guard ourselves in all
parts of life against the influence of passion, imagina-
tion, and constitution.

Devotion, when it does not lie under the check of
reason, is very apt to degenerate into enthusiasm.
When the mind finds herself very much inflamed with
her devotions, she is too much inclined to think they
are not of her own kindling, but blown up by some-
thing divine within her. If she indulges this thought
too far, and humours the growing passion, she at last
flings herself into imaginary raptures and ecstacies ;
and when once she fancies herself under the influence
of a divine impulse, it is no wonder if she slights human
ordinances, and refuses to comply with any established
form of religion, as thinking herself directed by a much
superior guide.

As enthusiasm is a kind of excess in devotion, super-
stition is the excess not only of devotion, but of religion
in general, according to an old heathen saying quoted
by Aulus Gellius, Religentem esse oportet, religiosum
nefus—* A man should be religious, not superstitious.”
For, as the author tells us, Nigidius observed upon this
passage, that the Latin words which terminate in osus
generally imply vicious characters, and the having of
any quality to an excess.

An enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate clown,
a superstitious man likean insipid courtier. Enthusiasm
has something in it of madness, superstition of folly.

Nothing is so glorious in the eyes of mankind, and
ornamental to human nature, setting aside the infinite
advantages which arise from it, as a strong, steady,
masculine piety ; but enthusiasm and superstition are
the weaknesses of human reason, that expose us to the
scorn and derision of infidels, and sink us even below
the beasts that perish.

Tdolatry may be looked upon as another error arising
from mistaken devotion ; but because reflections on that
subject would be of no use to an English reader, I shall
not enlarge upon it,

POPP LOLI LOLOL ELIE LILO

HEATHEN IDEAS OF DEVOTION.

In my last Saturday’s paper I laid down some thoughts
upon devotion in general, and shall here show what
were the notions of the most refined heathens on this
subject, as they are represented in Plato’s dialogue
upon Prayer, entitled “ Alcibiades the Second,” which
doubtless gave occasion to Juvenal’s tenth satire, and
to the second satire of Persius; as the last of these
authors has almost transcribed the preceding dialogue,
entitled “ Alcibiades the First,” in his fourth satire.

The speakers in this dialogue upon Prayer, are
Socrates and Alcibiades; and the substance of it (when
drawn together out of the intricacies and digressions) as
follows :—

Socrates meeting his pupil Alcibiades, as he was
going to his devotions, and observing his eyes to be fixedee —

MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS 79

upon the earth with great seriousness and attention,
tells him that he had reason to be thoughtful on that
occasion, since it was possible for a man to bring down
evils upon himself by his own prayers, and that those
things which the gods send him in answer to his peti-
tions, might turn to his destruction. « This,” says he,
“may not only happen when a man prays for what he
knows is mischievous in its own nature, as Cidipus
implored the gods to sow dissension between his SONS 5
but when he prays for what he believes would be for
his good, and against what he believes would be to his
detriment.” Thisthe philosopher shows must necessarily
happen among us, since most men are blinded with
ignorance, prejudice, or passion, which hinder them
from seeing such things as are really beneficial to them.
For an instance, he asks Alcibiades whether he would
not be thoroughly pleased and satisfied if that god to
whom he was going to address himself should promise
to make him sovereign of the whole earth? Alcibiades
answers, that he should doubtless look upon such a
promise as the greatest favour that could be bestowed
upon him. Socrates then asks him, if after receiving
this great favour, he wouid be contented to lose his life,
or if he would receive it, though he was sure he should
make an ill use of it?’ To both which questions Alci-
biades answers in the negative. Socrates then shows
him, from the examples of others, how these might very
probably be the effects of sucha blessing. He then adds,
that other reputed pieces of good fortune, as that of
having a son, or procuring the highest post in a govern-
ment, are subject to the like fatal consequences ; which
nevertheless, says he, men ardently desire, and would
not fail to pray for, if they thought their prayers might
be effectual for the obtaining of them.

Having established this great point, that all the most
apparent blessings in this life are obnoxious to such
dreadful consequences, and that no man knows what
in its events would prove to him a blessing or a curse,
he teaches Alcibiades after what manner he ought to
pray.

In the first place he recommends to him, as the model
of his devotions, a short prayer, which a Greek poet
composed for the use of his friends, in the following
words :—* Oh Jupiter! give us those things which are
good for us, whether they are such things which we pray
for, or such things as we do not pray for: and remove
from us those things which are hurtful, though they are
such things as we pray for.”

In the second place, that his disciple may ask such
things as are expedient for him, he shows him, that it
is absolutely necessary to apply himself to the study of
true wisdom, and to the knowledge of that which is his
chief good, and the most suitable to the excellency of
his nature.

In the third and last place, he informs him that the
best methods he could make use of to draw down
blessings upon himself, and to render his prayers ac-
ceptable, would be to live in a constant practice of his
duty towards the gods and towards men. Under this
head he very much recommends a form of prayer the
Lacedemonians make use of, in which they petition the
gods to give them all good things so long as they
were virtuous. Under this head, likewise, he gives a
very remarkable account of an oracle to the following
purpose :—

When the Athenians in the war with the Lacedemo-
nians received many defeats both by sea and land, they
sent a message to the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, to ask
the reason why they who erected so many temples to
the gods, and adorned them with such costly offerings ;
why they who had instituted so many festivals, and
accompanied them with such pomps and ceremonies ;
in short, why they who had slain so many heeatombs at
their altars, should be less successful than the Lacede-
monians, who fell so short of them in all these parti-
culars ? ‘To this, says he, the oracle made the following
reply :—“ I am better pleased with the prayers of the
Lacedemonians, than with all the oblations of the
Greeks.” As this prayer implied and encouraged

 

virtue in those who made it, the philosopher proceeds
to show how the most vicious man might be devout, so
far as victims could make him, but that his offerings
were regarded by the gods as bribes, and his petitions
as blasphemies. He likewise quotes on this occasion
two verses out of Homer, in which the poet says, that
“the scent of the Trojan sacrifices was carried up to
heaven by the winds ; but that it was not acceptable
to the gods, who were displeased with Priam and all his
people.”

The conclusion of this dialogue is very remarkable.
Socrates having deterred Alcibiades from the prayers
and sacrifice which he was going to offer, by setting
forth the above-mentioned difficulties of performing that
duty as he ought, adds these words: “ We must, there-
fore, wait until such time as we may learn how we
ought to behave ourselves towards the gods, and to-
wards men.” “ But when will that time come 2” says
Alcibiades, “ and who is it that will instruct us? for I
would fain see this man, whoever he is.” “ It is one,”
Says Socrates, “ who takes care of you; but as Homer
tells us that Minerva removed the mist from Diomede’s
eyes that he might plainly discover both gods and men,
so the darkness that hangs upon your mind must be
removed before you are able to discern what is good
and what is evil.” “ Let him remove from my mind,”
says Alcibiades, “the darkness, and what else he pleases,
I am determined to refuse nothing he shall order me,
whoever he is, so that I may become the better man by
it.” The remaining part of this dialogue is very
obscure. There is something init that would make us
think Socrates hinted at himself, when he spoke of this
divine teacher who was to come into the world, did not
he own that he himself was in this respect as much at
a loss, and in as great distress, as the rest of mankind.

Some learned men look upon this conclusion as a pre-
diction of our Saviour, or at least that Socrates, like the
high-priest, prophesied unknowingly, and pointed at that
divine teacher who was to come into the world some
ages after him. However that may be, we find that this
great philosopher saw, by the light of reason, that it was
suitable to the goodness of the divine nature to send a
person into the world, who should instruct mankind in
the duties of religion, and, in particular, teach them how
to pray.

Whoever reads this abstract of Plato’s discourse on
prayer, will, I believe, naturally make this reflection:
“That the great founder of our religion, as well by his
own example as in the form of prayer which he taught
his disciples, did not only keep up to those rules which
the light of nature had suggested to this great philo-
sopher, but instructed his disciples in the whole extent
of this duty, as well as of all others. He directed them
to the proper object of adoration, and taught them,
acccording to the third rule above mentioned, to apply
themselves to him in their closets without show or
ostentation, and to worship him in spirit and in truth.”
As the Lacedemonians in their form of prayer implored
the gods in general to give them all good things so long
as they were virtuous, we ask in particular, “That our
offences may be forgiven, as we forgive those of others.”
If we look into the second rule which Socrates has pre-
scribed, namely, “That we should apply ourselves to
the knowledge of such things as are best for us,” this,
too, is explained at large in the doctrines of the Gospel,
where we are taught in several instances to regard those
things as curses which appear as blessings in the eye
of the world; and, on the contrary, to esteem those
things as blessings which to the generality of mankind
appear as curses. ‘Thus, in the form which is prescribed
to us, we only pray for that happiness which is our
chief good, and the great end of our existence, when we
petition the Supreme Being for the coming of his king-
dom, being solicitous for no other temporal blessings
but our daily sustenance. On the other side, we pray
against nothing but sin, and against evil in general,
leaving it with Omniscience to determine what is really
such. If we look into the first of Soerates’s rules of
prayer, in which he recommends the above-mentioned

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form of the ancient poet, we find that form not only
comprehended, but very much improved in the petition,
wherein we pray to the Supreme Being that his will
may be done ; which is of the same force with that form
which our Saviour used, when he prayed against the
most painful and most ignominious of deaths, “ Never-
theless, not my will, but thine be done.” his compre-
hensive petition is the most humble, as well as the most
prudent, that can be offered up from the creature to his
creator, as it supposes the Supreme Being wills nothing
but what is for our good, and that he knows better than
ourselves what is so.

 

Or

A GOOD INTENTION.

Ir is the great art and secret of Christianity, if I may
use that phrase, to manage our actions to the best
advantage, and direct them in such a manner that every
thing we do may turn to account at that great day when
every thing we have done will be set before us.

In order to give this consideration its full weight, we
may cast all our actions under the division of such as
are in themselves either good, evil, or indifferent. If
we divide our intentions after the same manner, and
consider them with regard to our actions, we may dis-
cover the great art and secret of religion which I have
here mentioned.

A good intention joined to a good action, gives it its
proper force and efficacy; joined to an evil action,
extenuates its malignity, and in some cases may take it
wholly away ; and joined to an indifferent action, turns
it to a virtue, and makes it meritorious as far as human
actions can be so.

tn the next place, to consider in the same manner
the influence of an evil intention upon our actions. An
evil intention perverts the best of actions, and makes
them in reality what the fathers, with a witty kind of
zeal, have termed the virtues of the heathen world, so
many shining sins. It destroys the innocence of an
indifferent action, and gives an evil action all possible
blackness and horror, or, in the.emphatical language of
sacred writ, makes “sin exceeding sinful.”

If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an
indifferent intention, we shall find that it destroys the
merit of a good action; abates, but never takes away,
the malignity of an evil action ; and leaves an indifferent
action in its natural state of indifference.

It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess our
minds with a habitual good intention, and to aim all our
thoughts, words, and actions, at some laudable end,
whether it be the glory of our maker, the good of man-
kind, or the benefit of our own souls.

This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral
ife, which does not throw away any single action, but
lakes every one go as far as it can. It multiplies the

means of salvation, increases the number of our virtues,
and diminishes that of our vices.

It is this excellent frame of mind, this holy officious-
ness (if I may be allowed to call it such), which is
recommended to us by the apostle, in that uncommon
precept wherein he directs us to propose to ourselves
the glory of our creator in all our most indifferent
actions, “whether we eat or drink, or whatsoever we
do.”

A person, therefore, who is possessed with such a
habitual good intention as that which I have been here
speaking of, enters upon no single circumstance of life,
without considering it as well pleasing to the great
author of his being, conformable to the dictates of
reason, suitable to human nature in general, or to that
particular station in which providence has placed him.
He lives in a perpetual sense of the divine presence,
regards himself as acting, in the whole course of his
existence, under the observation and the inspection of
that being who is privy to all his motions and all his
thoughts, who knows his “down-sitting and his up-rising,
who is about his path, and about his bed, and spieth out
all his ways.” Ina word, he remembers that the eye

 

of his judge is always upon him, and in every action he
reflects that he is doing what is commanded or allowed
by him who will hereafter either reward or punish it.
This was the character of those holy men of old, who,
in that beautiful phrase of scripture, are said to have
“ walked with God.”

When I employ myself upon a paper of morality, I
generally consider how I may recommend the particular
virtue which I treat of by the precepts or examples of
the ancient heathens; by that means, if possible, to
shame those who have greater advantages of knowing
their duty, and therefore greater obligations to perform
it, into a better course of life ; besides that many among
us are unreasonably disposed to give a fairer hearing to
a Pagan philosopher than to a Christian writer.

I shall, therefore, produce an instance of this excel-
lent frame of mind, ina speech of Socrates, which is
quoted by Erasmus. This great philosopher, on the day
of his execution, a little before the poison was brought
to him, entertaining his friends with a discourse on the
immortality of the soul, has these words :—* Whether
or no God will approve of my actions, 1 know not; but
this [ am sure of, that I have at all times made it my
endeavour to please him, and I have a good hope that
this my endeavour will be accepted by him.” We find
in these words of that great man the habitual good
intention which I would here inculcate, and with which
that divine philosopher always acted. I shall only add,
that Erasmus, who was an unbigoted Roman Catholic,
was so much transported with this passage of Socrates,
that he could scarce forbear looking upon him as a
saint, and desiring him to pray for him; or, as that
ingenious and learned writer has expressed himself in
a much more lively manner—“ When I reflect on such
a speech pronounced by such a person, I can scarce
forbear crying out, Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis—Oh
holy Soerates, pray for us.’

PRPPLOL IG EL IL IDI DISD

POLISHING INFLUENCES OF EDUCATION.

I consiDER a human soul without education like marble
in the quarry, which shows none of its inherent beauties
until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colours,
makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamental
cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of it.
Education, after the same manner, when it works upon
a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and
perfection, which without such helps are never able to
make their appearance.

If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion
so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance
to illustrate the force of education which Aristotle has
brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms,
when he tells us that a statue lies hidin a block of marble,
and that the art of the statuary only clears away the -
superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The
figure is in the stone, the sculptor only finds it. What
sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a
human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero—
the wise, the good, and the great man—very often lie
hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper educa-
tion might have disinterred, and have brought to light.
I am, therefore, much delighted with reading the
accounts of savage nations, and with contemplating
those virtues which are wild and uncultivated; to sec
courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in
obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness
and despair.

_Men’s passions operate variously, and appear in
different kinds of actions, according as they are more
or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one
hears of negroes, who, upon the death of their masters,
or upon changing their service, hang themselves upon
the next tree, as it frequently happens in our American
plantations, who can forbear admiring their fidelity,
though it expresses itself in so dreadful a manner 2
What might not that savage greatness of soul which
appears in these poor wretches on many occasions, beMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. T7

raised to, were it rightly cultivated? And what colour
of excuse can there be for the contempt with which we
treat this part of our species that we should not put
them upon the common foot of humanity, that we
should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who
murders them ; nay, that we should as much asin us lies
cut them off from the prospects of happiness in another
world as well as in this, and deny them that which we
look upon as the proper means for attaining it?

Since Iam engaged on this subject, I cannot forbear
mentioning a story which I have lately heard, and
which is so well attested that I have no manner of
reason to suspect the truth of it. I may call it a kind
of wild tragedy that passed about twelve years ago at
Saint Christopher’s, one of our British Leeward Islands.
The negroes, who were the persons concerned in it,
were all of them the slaves of a gentleman who is now
in England.

This gentleman among his negroes had a young
woman, who was looked upon as a most extraordinary
beauty by those of her own complexion. He had at
the same time two young fellows who were likewise
negroes and slaves, remarkable for the comeliness of
their persons, and for the friendship which they bore
to one another. It unfortunately happened that both
of them fell in love with the female negro above men-
tioned, who would have been very glad to have taken
either of them for her husband, provided they could
agree between themselves which should be the man.
But they were both so passionately in love with her,
that neither of them could think of giving her up to his
rival; and at the same time were so true to one
another, that neither of them would think of gaining
her without his friend’s consent. The torments of these
two lovers were the discourse of the family to which
they belonged, who could not forbear observing the
Strange complication of passions which perplexed the
hearts of the poor negroes, that often dropped expres-
sions of the uneasiness they underwent, and how
impossible it was for either of them ever to be happy.

After along struggle between love and friendship,
truth and jealousy, they one day took a walk together
into a wood, carrying their mistress along with them,
where, after abundance of lamentations, they stabbed
her to the heart, of which she immediately died. A
slave who was at his work not far from the place where
this astonishing piece of cruelty was committed, hearing
the shrieks of the dying person, ran to see what was
the occasion of them. He there discovered the woman
Jying dead upon the ground, with the two negroes on
each side of her, kissing the dead corpse, weeping over
it, and beating their breasts in the utmost agonies of
grief and despair. He immediately ran to the English
family with the news of what he had seen, who upon
coming to the place saw the woman dead, and the two
negrves expiring by her with wounds they had given
theraselves.

We see in this amazing instance of barbarity what

_Strange disorders are bred in the minds of those men

wnose passions are not regulated by virtue, and disci-
piined by reason. Though the action which I have
recited is in itself full of guilt and horror, it proceeded
from a temper of mind which might have produced
very noble fruits, had it been informed and guided by
a suitable education.

Itis, therefore, an unspeakable blessing to be born in
those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge
flourish, though it must be confessed there are, even in
these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are
but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which
I have been here speaking, as those who have had the
advantages of a more liberal education rise above one
another by several different degrees of perfection. For
to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it
sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough-
hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure; some-
times we see the man appearing distinctly in all his
limbs and features, sometimes we find the figure wrought
up toa great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to

 

 

which the hand of Phidias or Praxiteles could not give
several nice touches and finishings.

Discourses of morality, and reflections upon human
nature, are the best means we can make use of to
improve our minds, and gain a true knowledge of our-
selves, and consequently to recover our souls out of the
vice, ignorance, and prejudice, which naturally cleave
to them. I have all along professed myself in this paper
a promoter of these great ends; and I flatter myself
that I do, from day to day, contribute something to
the polishing of men’s minds ; at least my design is
laudable, whatever the execution may be. I must con-
fess I am not a little encouraged in it by many letters
which I receive from unknown hands in approbation of
my endeavours, and must take this opportunity of
returning my thanks to those who write them, and
excusing myself for not inserting several of them in my
papers, which I am sensible would be a very great
ornament to them. Should I publish the praises which
are so well penned, they would do honour to the
persons who write them; but my publishing of them
would, I fear, be a sufficient instance to the world that
I did not deserve them,

PPLP PPIALP LI OP IG OP IA

WORLDLY HONOURS.

Tuere are but few men who are not ambitious of
distinguishing themselves in the nation or country
where they live, and of growing considerable among
those with whom they converse. There is a kind of
grandeur and respect, which the meanest and most
insignificant part of mankind endeavour to procure in
the little circle of their friends and. acquaintance. The
poorest mechanic, nay, the man who lives upon common
alms, gets him his set of admirers, and delights in that
superiority which he enjoys over those who are in some
respects beneath him. This ambition, which is natural
to the soul of man, might, methinks, receive a very
happy turn, and, if it were rightly directed, contribute
as much to a person’s advantage as it generally does
to his uneasiness and disquiet.

I shall therefore put together some thoughts on this
subject, which I have not met with in other writers 5
and shall set them down as they have occurred to me,
without being at the pains to connect or methodise them.

All superiority and pre-eminence that one man can
have over another, may be reduced to the notion of
quality, which, considered at large, is either that of
fortune, body, or mind. The first is that which consists
in birth, title, or riches, and is the most foreign to our
natures, and what we can the least call our own of any
of the three kinds of quality. In relation to the body,
quality arises from health, strength, or beauty, which
are nearer to us, and more a part of ourselves, than the
former. Quality, as it regards the mind, has its rise
from knowledge or virtue, and is that which is more
essential to us, and more intimately united with us,
than either of the other two.

The quality of fortune, though a man has less reason
to value himself upon it than on that of the body or
mind, is, however, the kind of quality which makes the
most shining figure in the eye of the world.

As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine source
of honour, we generally find in titles an intimation of
some particular merit that should recommend men to
the high stations which they possess. Holiness is
ascribed to the pope; majesty to kings; serenity or
mildness of temper to princes; excellence or perfection
to ambassadors ; grace to archbishops ; honour to peers ;
worship or venerable behaviour to magistrates: and
reverence, which is of the same import as the former,
to the inferior clergy.

In the founders of great families, such attributes of
honour are generally correspondent with the virtues
of the person to whom they are applied; but in the
descendants, they are too often the marks rather of
grandeur than of merit. The stamp and denomination
still continues, but the intrinsic value is frequently lost.

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The death-bed shows the emptiness of titles in a true
light. A poor dispirited sinner lies trembling under
the apprehensions of the state he is entering on, and
is asked by a grave attendant how his Holiness does?
Another hears himself addressed under the titles of
Highness or Excellency, who lies under such mean
circumstances of mortality as are the disgrace of human
nature. ‘Titles at such a time look rather like insults
and mockery than respect.

The truth of it is, honours are in this world under no
regulation ; true quality is neglected, virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphant. The last day will rectify this
disorder, and assign to every one a station suitable to
the dignity of his character. Ranks will be then adjusted,
and precedency set right.

Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to
advance ourselves in another world, at least to preserve
our post in it, and outshine our inferiors in virtue here,
that they may not be put above us in a state which is
to settle the distinction for eternity.

Men in scripture are called “ strangers and sojourners
upon earth,” and life “a pilgrimage.” Several heathen,
as well as Christian authors; under the same kind of
metaphor, have represented the world as an inn, which
was only designed to furnish us with accommodations
in this our passage. It is therefore very absurd to
think of setting up our rest before we come to our
journey’s end, and not rather to take care of the recep-
tion we shall there meet, than to fix our thoughts on
the little conveniences and advantages which we enjoy
one above another in the way to it.

Epictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, which
is very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to incline us
to be satisfied with the post in which providence has
placed us. “ We are here,” says he, “as ina theatre,
where every one has a part allotted to him. The great
duty which lies upon a man is to act his part in perfec-
tion. We may, indeed, say that our part does not suit
us, and that we could act another better. But this
(says the philosopher) is not our business. All that
we are concerned in is to excel in the part which is
given us. If it be an improper one, the fault is not in
us, but in Him who has cast our several parts, and is
the great disposer of the drama.”

The part that was acted by this philosopher himself
was but a very indifferent one, for he lived and died a
slave. His motive to contentment in this particular,
receives a very great enforcement from the above-men-
tioned consideration, if we remember that our parts in
the other world will be new cast, and that mankind
will be there ranged in different stations of superiority
and pre-eminence, in proportion as they have here
excelled one another in virtue, and performed in their
several posts of life the duties which belong to them.

There are many beautiful passages in the little
apocryphal book, entitled, “ ‘The Wisdom of Solomon,”
to set forth the vanity of honour, and the like temporal
blessings which are in so great repute among men, and
to comfort those who have not the possession of them.
It represents in very warm and noble terms this
advancement of a good man in the other world, and the
great surprise which it will produce among those who
are his superiors in this. “Then shall the rigliteous
man stand in great boldness before the face of such as
have afflicted him, and made no account of his labours.
When they see it, they shall be troubled with terrible
fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his
salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for. And
they, repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit, shall
say within themselves, ‘ This was he whom we had some
time in derision, and a proverb of reproach. We fools
accounted his life madness, and his end to be without
honour. How is he numbered among the children of
God, and his lot is among the saints !’”

If the reader would see the description of a life that
is passed away in vanity, and among the shadows of
pomp and greatness, he may see it very finely drawn
in the same place. Inthe mean time, since it is neces-

 

and distinction should be kept in the world, we should
be happy, if those who enjoy the upper stations in it
would endeavour to surpass others in virtue as much
as in rank, and by their humanity and condescension
make their superiority easy and acceptable to those who
are beneath them; and if, on the contrary, those who
are in meaner posts of life would consider how they
may better their condition hereafter, and by a just
deference and submission to tifeir superiors, make them
happy in those blessings with which providence has
thought fit to distinguish them.

POLPLPL OL IP OLE IIL ISS

DISCRETION,

I nave often thought if the minds of men were laid
open, we should see but little difference between that
of the wise man and that of the fool. There are infinite
reveries, numberless extravagances, and a perpetual
train of vanities, which pass through both. The great
difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull
his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some and |
communicating others, whereas the other lets them all
indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion,
however, has no place in private conversation between
intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men
very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, the talk-
ing with a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud.

Tully has, therefore, very justly exposed a precept
delivered by some ancient writers, that a man should
live with his enemy in such a manner as might leave
him room to become his friend, and with his friend in
such a manner, that if he became his enemy, it should
not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this
rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is,
indeed, very reasonable, as well as very prudential ;
but the latter part of which regards our behaviour
towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of
diseretion, and would cut a man off from the greatest
pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversa-
tion with a bosom friend. Besides, that when a friend
is turned into an enemy, and, as the son of Sirach calls
him “a bewrayer of secrets,” the world is just enough
to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than
the indiscretion of the person who confided in him.

Discretion does not only show itself in words, but
in all the circumstances of action; and is like an
under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in
the ordinary concerns of life.

There are many more shining qualities in the mind
of man, but there is none so useful as discretion ; it 1s
this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, which
sets them at work in their proper times and places, and
turns them to the advantage of the person, who is
possessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry,
and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks like weakness ;
the best parts only qualify a man to be more spr‘ghtly
in errors, and active: to his own prejudice.

Nor does discretion only make a man the master of
his own parts, but of other men’s. The discreet man
finds out the talents of those he converses with, and
knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly,
if we look into particular communities and divisions of
men, we may observe that it is the discreet man, not the
witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides thie
conversation, and gives measures to the society. A man
with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Poly-
phemus in the fable, strong and blind, endued with an
irresistible force, which for want of sight is of no use t-o
him.

Though a man has all other perfections, and wants
discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the
world; but if he has this single talent in perfection, ancl
but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases
in his particular station of life.

At the same time that I think discretion the most
useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon
cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean,
ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest

sary, in the present constitution of things, that order

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MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable
methods of attaining them: cunning has only private,
selfish aims, and sticks at nothin g which may make them
succeed. Discretion has large and extended views, and,
like a well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon:
cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers
the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not
able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the
more it is discovered, gives: a greater authority to the
person who possesses it: cunning, when it is once
detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of
bringing about even those events which he might have
done had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is
the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the
duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that only
looks out after our immediate interest and welfare.
Diseretion is only found in men of strong sense and
good understandings: cunning is often to be met with
in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but the
fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only
the mimie of discretion, and may pass upon weak men,
in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for
wit, and gravity for wisdom.

The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man,
makes him look forward into futurity, and consider
what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as
well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery
or happiness which are reserved for him in another
world, lose nothing of their reality by being placed at
so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear
little to him, because they are remote. He considers
that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity,
approach nearer to him every moment, and will be
present with him in their full weight and measure, as
much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at
this very instant. For this reason he is careful to
secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of
his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. He
carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and
considers the most distant as well as the most immediate
effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of
gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does
not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. In
a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes
are large and glorious, and his conduct suitable to one
who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by
proper methods.

I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered it
both as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and have
therefore described it in its full extent; not only as it
is conversant about worldly affairs, but as it regards our
whole existence; not only as it is the guide of a mortal
creature, but as it is in general the director of a rea-
sonable being. It is in this light that discretion is
represented by the wise man, who sometimes men-
tions it under the name of discretion, and sometimes
under that of wisdom. It is, indeed, as described
in the latter part of this paper, the greatest wisdom,
but at the same time in the power of every one to attain,
Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition easy ; or,
to speak of her in the words of the apocryphal writer
whom I quoted in my last Saturday’s paper, “ Wisdom
is glorious, and never fadeth away; yet she is easily
seen of them that love her, and found of such as seek
her. She preventeth them that desire her, in making
herself first known unto them. He that seeketh her
early, shall have no great travel, for he shall find her
sitting at his doors. ‘To think, therefore, upon her is
perfection of wisdom, and whoso watcheth for her shall
quickly be without care. For she goeth about seeking
such as are worthy of her, showeth herself favourably
unto them in the ways, and meeteth them in every
thought.”

PALA SP LOIRE PAPA IL OL DD

METHODS OF DEBATING.

I HAVE sometimes amused myself with considering the
several methods of managing a debate which have
vbtained in the world,

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4

79

The first races of mankind used to dispute, as our
ordinary people do now-a-days, in a kind of wild logic,
uncultivated by rules of art.

Socrates introduced a catechetical method of arguing.
He would ask his adversary question upon question,
until he had convinced him out of his own mouth that
his opinions were wrong. This way of debating drives
an enemy up into a corner, seizes all the passes through
which he can make an escape, and forces him to
surrender at discretion.

Aristotle changed this method of attack, and invented
a great variety of little weapons, called syllogisms. As
in the Socratic way of dispute you agree to every thing
which your opponent advances, in the Aristotelic you
are still denying and contradicting some part or other
of what he says. Socrates conquers you by stratagem,
Aristotle by force. The one takes the town by sap, the
other sword in hand.

The universities of Europe, for many years, carried
on their debates by syllogism, insomuch, that we see
the knowledge of several centuries laid out into objec-
tions and answers, and all the good sense of the age cut
and minced into almost an infinitude of distinctions.

When our universities found that there was no end
of wrangling this way, they invented a kind of argu-
ment, which is not reducible to any mood or figure in
Aristotle. It was called the argumentum basilinum
(others write it bacilinum or baculinum), which is pretty
well expressed in our English word club-law. When
they were not able to confute their antagonist, they
knocked him down. It was their method, in these
polemical debates, first to discharge their syllogisms,
and afterwards to betake themselves to their clubs,
until such time as they had one way or other confounded
their gainsayers. There is in Oxford a narrow defile
(to make use of a military term) where the partizans
used to encounter; for which reason it still retains the
name of Logic Lane. I have heard an old gentleman,
a physician, make his boasts, that when he was a young
fellow he marched several times at the head of a troop
of Scotists, and cudgelled a body of Smiglesians, half
the length of High Street, until they had dispersed
themselves for shelter into their respective garrisons.

This humour, I find, went very far in Erasmus’s
time ; for that author tells us, that upon the revival
of Greek letters, most of the universities in Europe
were divided into Greeks and Trojans. The latter
were those who bore a mortal enmity to the language
of the Grecians, insomuch, that if they met with any
who understood it, they did not fail to treat him as a
foe. Erasmus himself had, it seems, the misfortune to
fall into the hands of a party of Trojans, who laid on
him with so many blows and buffets, that he never
forgot their hostilities to his dying day.

There is a way of managing an argument not much
unlike the former, which is made use of by states and
communities, when they draw up a hundred thousand
disputants on each side, and convince one another by
dint of sword. A certain grand monarch was so sen-
sible of his strength in this way of reasoning, that he
wrote upon his great guns fatio ultima regunm—* The
logic of kings ;” but, God be thanked, he is now pretty
well baffied at his own weapons. . When one has to do
with a philosopher of this kind, one should remember
the old gentleman’s saying, who had been engaged in
an argument with one of the Roman emperors. Upon
his friend’s tellmg him that he wondered he would
give up the question, when he had visibly the better of
the dispute, “I am never ashamed,” says he, “to be
confuted by one who is master of fifty legions.”

I shall but just mention another kind of reasoning,
which may be called arguing by poll; and another which
is of equal force, in which wagers are made use of as
arguments, according to the celebrated line in Hudibras.

But the most notable way of managing a controversy,
is that which we may call arguing by torture. This is
a method of reasoning which has been made use of
with the poor refugees, and which was so fashionable
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a passage of an author quoted by Monsieur Bayle, it is
said the price of wood was raised in England, by reason
of the executions that were made in Smithfield. These
disputants convince their adversaries with a sorites,
commonly called a pile of faggots. The rack is also a
kind of syllogism which has been used with good effect,
and has made multitudes of converts. Men were
formerly disputed out of their doubts, reconciled to
truth by force of reason, and won over to opinions by
the candour, sense, and ingenuity of those who had the
right on their side; but this method of conviction
operated too slowly. Pain was found to be much more
enlightening than reason. Every scruple was looked
upon as obstinacy, and not to be removed but by several
engines inyented for that purpose. In a word, the
application of whips, racks, gibbets, galleys, dungeons,
fire and faggot, in a dispute, may be looked upon as
popish refinements upon the old heathen logic.

There is another way of reasoning which seldom fails,
though it be of a quite different nature to that I have
last mentioned. I mean, convincing a man by ready
money, or, as it is ordinarily ealled, bribing a man to
an opinion. This method has often proved successful,
when all the others have been made use of to no pur-
pose. A man who is furnished with arguments from
the mint, will convince his antagonist much sooner than
one who draws them from reason and philosophy. Gold
is a wonderful clearer of the understanding ; it dissi-
pates every doubt and scruple in an instant; accom-
modaites itself to the meanest capacities ; silences the
loud and clamorous, and brings over the most obstinate
and inflexible. Philip of Macedon was a man of most
invincible reason this way. He refuted by it all the
wisdom of Athens, confounded their statesmen, struck
their orators dumb, and at length argued them out of

all their liberties.

PALL OL PI PRAILS EIR EPL LLDA

A VIRTUOUS MIND.

I po not remember to have read any discourse written
expressly upon the beauty and loveliness of virtue,
without considering it as a duty, and as the means of
making us happy, both now and hereafter. I design,
therefore, this speculation as an essay upon that subject,
in which I shall consider virtue no farther than as it
is in itself of an amiable nature, after having premised,
that I understand by the word virtue such a general
notion as is affixed to it by the writers of morality, and
which by devout men generally goes under the name
of religion, and by men of the world under the name
of honour.

Hypocrisy itself does great honour, or rather justice,
to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an orna-
ment to human nature. The hypocrite would not be
at so much pains to put on the appearance of virtue, if
he did not know it was the most proper and effectual
means to gain the love and esteem of mankind.

We learn from Hierocles, it was a common saying
among the heathens, that the wise man hates nobody,
but only loves the virtuous.

Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to
show how amiable virtue is. “We love a virtuous
man,” says he, “ who lives in the remotest parts of the
earth, though we are altogether out of the reach of his
virtue, aid can receive from it no manner of benefit.
Nay, one who died several ages ago, raises a secret
fondness and benevolence for him in our minds, when
we read his story. Nay, what is still more, one who
has been the enemy of our country, provided his wars
were regulated by justice and humanity, as in the
instance of Pyrrhus,” whom Tully mentions on this
occasion in opposition to Hannibal. Such is the natural
beauty and loveliness of virtue.

Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, ascribes
all good qualifications, of what kind soever, to the vir-
tuous man. Accordingly, Cato, in the character Tully
has left of him, carried matters so far, that he would
not allow any one but a virtuous man to be handsome.
This indeed looks more like a philosophical rant than

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ADDISON'S

the real opinion of a wise man $ yet this was what Cato
very seriously maintained. In short, the Stoics thought
they could not sufficiently represent the excellence of
virtue, if they did not comprehend in the notion of it
all possible perfections ; and therefore did not only
suppose that it was transcendantly beautiful in itself,
but that it made the very body amiable, and banished
every kind of deformity from the person in whom it
resided.

It is a common observation, that the most abandoned
to all sense of goodness are apt to wish those who are
related to them of a different character ; and it is very
observable, that none are more struck with the charms
of virtue in the fair sex, than those who, by their very
admiration of it, are carried to a desire of ruining it.

A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine picture
in a good light, and therefore it is no wonder that it
makes the beautiful sex all over charms.

As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely
nature, there are some particular kinds of it which are
more so than others, and these are such as dispose us
to do good to mankind. Temperance and abstinence,
faith and devotion, are in themselves perhaps as laud-~
able as any other virtues ; but those which make a man
popular and beloved are justice, charity, munificence,
and, in short, all the good qualities that render us
beneficial to each other. For which reason, even an
extravagant man, who has nothing else to recommend
him but a false generosity, is often more beloved and
esteemed than a person of a much more finished
character, who is defective in this particular.

The two great ornaments of Virtue, which show her
in the most advantageous views, and make her altoge-
ther lovely, are cheerfulness and good nature. These
generally go together, as a man cannot be agreeable to
others who is not easy within himself. They are both
very requisite in a virtuous mind, to keep out melan-
choly from the many serious thoughts it is engaged in,
and to hinder its natural hatred of vice from souring
into severity and censoriousness.

If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we think
of those who can look upon it with an eye of hatred and
ill will, or can suffer their aversion for a party to blot
out all the merit of the person who is engaged in it.
A man must be excessively stupid, as well as uncha-
ritable, who believes that there is no virtue but on his
own side, and that there are not men as honest as
himself who may differ from him in political principles.
Men may oppose one another in some particulars, but
ought not to carry their hatred to those qualities which
are of so amiable a nature in themselves, and have
nothing to do with the points in dispute. Men of virtue,
though of different interests, ought to consider them-
selves as more nearly united with one another, than
with the vicious part of mankind, who embark with
them in the same civil concerns. We should bear the
same love towards a man of honour, who is a living
antagonist, which Tully tells us in the forementioned
passage, every one naturally does to an enemy that is
dead. In short, we should esteem virtue though in a
foe, and abhor vice though in a friend.

I speak this with an eye to those cruel treatments
which men of all sides are apt to give the characters
of those who do not agree with them. How many
persons of undoubted probity, and exemplary virtue,
on either side, are blackened and defamed! How many
men of honour exposed to public obloquy and reproach !
Those, therefore, who are either the instruments or
abettors in such infernal dealings, ought to be looked
upon as persons who make use of religion to promote
their cause, not of their cause to promote religion.

PRAPPDPP LE LOPLI E LIE PODA

LOVE OF FAME.

Tue soul, considered abstractedly from its passions, is
of a remiss and sedentary nature, slow in its resolves,
and languishing in its executions. The use, therefore,
of the passions is to stir it up, and to put it upon action,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS 3l

to awaken the understanding, to enforce the will, and
to make the whole man more vigorous and attentive in
the prosecution of his designs.’ As this is the end of
the passions in general, so it is particularly of ambi-
tion, which pushes the soul to such actions as are apt
to procure honour and reputation to the actor. But
if we carry our reflections higher, we may discover

further ends of providence in implanting this passion in:

mankind,

It was necessary for the world that arts should be
invented and improved, books written and transmitted
to posterity, nations conquered and civilised. Now,
since the proper and genuine motives to these and the
like great actions would only influence virtuous minds,
there would be but small improvements in the world
were there not some common principle of action work-
ing equally with all men. And such a principle is
ambition or a desire of fame, by which great endow-
ments are not suffered to lie idle and useless to the
public, and many vicious men overreached, as it were,
and engaged, contrary to their natural inclinations, in a
glorious and laudable course of action. For we may
further observe, that men of the greatest abilities are
most fired with ambition; and that, on the contrary,
mean and narrow minds are the least actuated by it;
whether it be that a man’s sense of his own incapacities
makes him despair of coming at fame, or that he has
not enough range of thought to look out for any good
which does not more immediately relate to his interest
or convenience ; or that providence, in the very frame
of his soul, would not subject him to such a passion
as would be useless to the world, and a torment to
himself,

Were not this desire of fame very strong, the diffi-
culty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing it when
obtained, would he sufficient to deter a man from so
vain a pursuit.

How few are there who are furnished with abilities
sufficient to recommend their actions to the admiration
of the world, and to distinguish themselves from the
rest of mankind! Providence, for the most part, sets
us upon a level, and observes a kind of proportion in
its dispensations towards us. If it renders us perfect in
one accomplishment, it generally leaves us defective
in another, and seems careful rather of preserving
every person from being mean and deficient in his
qualifications, than of making any single one eminent
or extraordinary.

Among those who are the most richly endowed by
nature, and accomplished by their own industry, how
few are there whose virtues are not obscured by the
ignorance, prejudice, or envy of their beholders! Some
men cannot discern between a noble and a mean action.
Others are apt to attribute them to some false end or
intention, and others purposely misrepresent or put
a wrong interpretation on them. But the more to
enforce this consideration, we may observe that those
are generally most unsuccessful in their pursuit after
fame who are most desirous of obtaining it. It is
Sallust’s remark upon Cato, that the less he coveted
glory, the more he acquired it.

Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing our
inclinations, and disappointing us in what our hearts are
most set upon. When, therefore, they have discovered
the passionate desire of fame in the ambitious man (as
no temper of mind is more apt to show itself), they
become sparing and reserved in their commendations,
they envy him the satisfaction of an applause, and look
on their praises rather as a kindness done to his person
than as a tribute paid to his merit. Others, who are
free from this natural perverseness of temper, grow
wary in their praises of one who sets too great a value
on them, lest they should raise him too high in his own
imagination, and by consequence remove him to a
greater distance from themselves.

_ But, further, this desire of fame naturally betrays the
ambitious man into such indecencies as are a lessening
to his reputation. He is still afraid lest any of his
actions should be thrown away in private, lest his

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deserts should be concealed from the notice of the
world, or receive any disadvantage from the reports
which others make of them. This often sets him on
empty boasts and ostentations of himself, and betrays
him into vain, fantastical recitals of his own perfor-
mances. His discourse generally leans one way, and
whatever is the subject of it, tends obliquely either to
the detracting from others, or to the extolling of him-
self. Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambitious
man, which exposes him to the seeret scorn and derision
of those he converses with, and ruins the character he
iS SO industrious to advance by it. For though his
actions are never so glorious, they lose their lustre
when they are drawn at large, and set to show by his
own hand; and as the world is more apt to find fault
than to commend, the boast will probably be censured
when the great action that occasioned it is forgotten.

Besides, this very desire of fame is looked upon as a
meanness and imperfection in the greatest character. A
solid and substantial greatness of soul looks down with
a generous neglect on the censures and applauses of the
multitude, and places a man beyond the little noise and.
strife of tongues. Accordingly, we find in ourselves a
secret awe and veneration for the character of one who
moves above us in a regular and illustrious course of
virtue, without any regard to our good or ill Opinions
of him, to our reproaches or commendations ; as, on
the contrary, it is usual for us, when we would take off
irom the fame and reputation of an action, to aseribe
it to vain-glory, and a desire of fame in the actor. Nor
is this common judgment and opinion of mankind ill
founded; for certainly it denotes no great bravery of
mind to be worked up to any noble action by so selfish
a motive, and to do that out of a desire of fame which
we could not be prompted to by disinterested love to
mankind, or by a generous passion for the glory of him
who made us.

Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by all,
but particularly by those who thirst after it ; since most
men have so much either of ill nature, or of wariness,
as not to gratify or soothe the vanity of the ambitious
man; and since this very thirst after fame naturally
betrays him into such indecencies as are a lessening to
his reputation, and is itself looked upon as a weakness
in the greatest characters.

In the next place, fame is easily lost, and as difficult
to be preserved as it was at first to be acquired. But
this I shall make the subject of a following paper,

PILTPSEPIPIPPP IS LIDIA

LOVE OF FAME—CONTINUED.

THERE are many passions and tempers of mind which
naturally dispose us to depress and vilify the merit of
one rising in the esteem of mankind, All those who
made their entrance into the world with the same
advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are
apt to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their
own indeserts, and will therefore take care to reproach
him with the scandal of some past action, or derogate
from the worth of the present, that they may still keep
him on the same level with themselves, The like kind
of consideration often stirs up the envy of such as were
once his superiors, who think it a detraction from their
merit to see another get ground upon them, and over-
take them in the pursuits of glory, and will therefore
endeavour to sink his reputation, that they may the
better preserve their own. Those who were once his
equals, envy and defame him, because they now see him
their superior ; and those who were once his superiors,
because they look upon him as their equal.

But, further, a man whose extraordinary reputation
thus lifts him up to the notice and observation of man-
kind, draws a multitude of eyes upon him, that will
narrowly inspect every part of him, consider him nicely
in all views, and not be a little pleased when they have
taken him in the worst and most disadvantageous light.
There are many who find a pleasure in contradicting
the common reports of fame, and in spreading abroadPen

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the weaknesses of an exalted character. 'They publish
their ill-natured discoveries with a secret pride, and
applaud themselves for the singularity of their judg-
ment, which has searched deeper than others, detected
what the rest of the world have overlooked, and found a
flaw in what the generality of mankind admires. Others
there are who proclaim the errors and infirmities of a
great man with an inward satisfaction and complacency,
if they discover none of the like errors and infirmities
in themselves ; for while they were exposing another’s
weaknesses, they are tacitly aiming at their own com-
mendations, who are not subject to the like infirmities,
and are apt to be transported with a secret kind of
vanity, to see themselves superior, in some respects, to
one of a sublime and celebrated reputation. Nay, it
very often happens that none are more industrious in
publishing the blemishes of an extraordinary reputation,
than such as lie open to the same censures in their own
characters, as either hoping to excuse their own defects
by the authority of so high an example, or raising an
imaginary applause to themselves for resembling a
person of an exalted reputation, though in the blameable
parts of his character. If all these secret springs of
detraction fail, yet very often a vain ostentation of wit
Sets a man on attacking an established name, and
sacrificing it to the mirth and laughter of those about
him. A satire or a libel on one of the common stamp
never meets with that reception and approbation among
its readers, as what is aimed at a person whose merit
places him upon an eminence, and gives him a more
conspicuous figure among men: whether it be that
we think it shows greater art to expose and turn to
ridicule a man whose character seems so improper a
subject for it, or that we are pleased by some implicit
kind of revenge to see him taken down and humbled
in his reputation, and in some measure reduced to our
own rank, who had so far raised himself above us in
the reports and opinions of mankind.

hus we see how many dark and intricate motives
there are to detraction and defamation, and how many
malicious spies are searching into the actions of a great
man, who is not always the best prepared for so narrow
an inspection. For we may generally observe, that our
admiration of a famous man lessens upon our nearer
acquaintance with him; and that we seldom hear the
description of a celebrated person, without a catalogue
of some notorious weaknesses and infirmities. ‘I'he
reason may be, because any little slip is more conspi-
cuous and observable in his conduct than in another’s,
as it is not of a piece with the rest of his character, or
because it is impossible for a man at the same time to
be attentive to the more important part of his life, and
to keep a watchful eye over all the inconsiderable
circumstances ofthis behaviour and conversation; or
because, as we have before observed, the same temper
of mind which inclines us to a desire of fame, naturally
betrays us into such slips and unwarinesses as are not
incident to men of a contrary disposition.

After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and
triumphant merit often breaks through and dissipates
these little spots and sullies in its reputation; but if,
by a mistaken pursuit after fame, or through human
infirmity, any false step be made in the more momen-
tous concerns of life, the whole scheme of ambitious
designs is broken and disappointed. The smaller stains
aud blemishes may die away and disappear, amidst the
brightness that surrounds them ; buta blot of a deeper
nature casts a shade on all the other beauties, and
darkens the whole character. How difficult, therefore,
is it to preserve a great name, when he that has acquired
it is So obnoxious to such little weaknesses and infir-
muties as are no small diminution to it when discovered ;
especially when they are so industriously proclaimed
and aggravated by such as were once his superiors or
equals, by such as would set to show their judgment
or their wit, and by such as are guilty or innocent of
the same slips or misconducts in their own behaviour !

But were there none of these dispositions in others
to censure a famous man, nor any such miscarriages in

 

himself, yet would he meet with no small trouble in
keeping up his reputation in all its height and splendour.
There must be always a noble train of actions to pre-
serve his fame in life and motion; for when it is once
at a stand, it naturally fiags and languishes. Admira-
tion is a very short-lived passion, that immediately
decays upon growing familiar with its object, unless it
be still fed with fresh discoveries, and kept alive by a
new perpetual suecession of miracles rising up to its
view. And even the greatest actions of a celebrated
person labour under this disadvantage, that however
surprising and extraordinary they may be, they are no
more than what are expected of him; but, on the con-
trary, if they fall any thing below the opinion that is
conceived of him, though they might raise the reputa-
tion of another, they are a diminution to his.

One would think there should be something wonder-
fully pleasing in the possession of fame, that, notwith-
standing all these mortifying considerations, can engage
a man in so desperate a pursuit ; and yet, if we consider
the little happiness that attends a great character, and
the multitude of disquietudes to which the desire of it
subjects an ambitious mind, one would be still the more
surprised to seeso many restless candidates for glory.

Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul ; it inflames
the mind, and puts it into a violent hurry of thought.
It is still reaching after an empty imaginary good, that
has not in it the power to abate or satisfyit. Most
other things we long for, can allay the cravings of their
proper sense, and for a while set the appetite at rest ;
but fame is a good so wholly foreign to our natures,
that we have no faculty in the soul adapted to it, nor
any organ in the body to relish it; an object of desire,
placed out of the possibility of fruition. It may, indeed,
fill the mind for a while with a giddy kind of pleasure,
but it is such a pleasure as makes a man restless and
uneasy under it; and which does not so much satisfy
the present thirst, as it excites fresh desires, and sets
the soul on new enterprises. For how few ambitious
men are there who have got as much fame as they
desired, and whose thirst after it has not been as eager
in the very height of their reputation, as it was before
they became known and eminent among men! ‘There
is not any circumstance in Ceesar’s character which
gives me a greater idea of him, than a saying which
Cicero tells us he frequently made use of in private
conversation, “That he was satisfied with his share of
life and fame.” Many, indeed, have given over their
pursuits after fame, but that has proceeded either
from the disappointments they have met in it, or from
their experience of the little pleasure which attends it,
or from the better information or natural coldness of
oldage ; but seldom from a full satisfaction and acquies-
cence in their present enjoyments of it.

Nor is fame only unsatisfying in itself, but the desire
of it lays us open to many accidental troubles which
those are free from who have no such tender regard
for it. How often is the ambitious man cast down and
disappointed, if he receives no praise where he expected
it! Nay, how often is he mortified with the: very
praises he receives, if they do not rise so high as he
thinks they ought, which they seldom do, unless in-
creased by flattery, since few men have so good an
opinion of us as we have of ourselves! But if the
ambitious man can be so much grieved even with praise
itself, how will he be able to bear up under scandal and
defamation? for the same temper of mind which makes
him desire fame, makes him hate reproach. If he can
be transported with the extraordinary praises of men,
he will be as much dejected by their censures. How
little, therefore, is the happiness of an ambitious man,
who gives every one a dominion over it, who thus sub-
jects himself to the good or ill speeches of others, and
puts it in the power of every malicious tongue to throw
him into a fit of melancholy, and destroy his natural
rest and repose of mind !—especially when we consider
that the world is more apt to censure than applaud, and
himself fuller of imperfections than virtues.

We may further observe, that such a man will beMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. Oo

more grieved for the loss of fame than he could have
been pleased with the enjoyment of it, For though the
presence of this imaginary good cannot make us happy,
the absence of it may make us miserable ; because, in
the enjoyment of an object we only find that share of
pleasure which it is capable of giving us, but in the loss
of it we do not proportion our grief to the real value it
bears, but to the value our fancies and imaginations set
upon it.

So inconsiderable is the satisfaction that fame brings
along with it, and so great the disquietudes to which it
makes us liable. The desire of it stirs up very uneasy
motionsin the mind, and is rather inflamed than satisfied
by the presence of the thing desired. The enjoyment
of it brings but very little pleasure, though the loss or
want of it be very sensible and afflicting ; and even this
little happiness is so very precarious, that it wholly
depends on the will of others. We are not only tortured
by the reproaches which are offered us, but we are
disappointed by the silence of men when it is unex-
pected, and humbled even by their praises.

POPP PIPLOLO POPOL LE

LOVE OF FAME—CONCLUDED.

TuatT might not lose myself upon a subject of so great
extent as that of fame, I have treated it ina particular
order and method. I have first of all considered the
reasons why Providence may have implanted in our
mind such a principle of action. I have, in the next
place, shown, from many considerations, first, that fame
is a thing difficult to be obtained, and easily lost ;
secondly, that it brings the ambitious man very little
happiness, but subjects him to much uneasiness and
dissatisfaction. I shall, in the last place, show that it
hinders us from obtaining an end which we have abilities
to acquire, and which is accompanied with fulness of
satisfaction. I need not tell my reader, that I mean
by this end, that happiness which is reserved for us in
another world, which every one has abilities to procure,
and which will bring along with it “fulness of joy and
pleasures for evermore.”

How the pursuit after fame may hinder us in the
attainment of this great end, I shall leave the reader to
collect from the three following considerations :—

First, because the strong desire of fame breeds
several vicious habits in the mind.

Secondly, because many of those actions, which are
apt to procure fame, are not in their nature conducive
to this our ultimate happiness.

Thirdly, because if we should allow the same actions
to be the proper instruments, both of acquiring fame
and of procuring this happiness, they would nevertheless
fail in the attainment of this last end, if they proceeded
from a desire of the first.

These three propositions are self-evident to those
who are versed in speculations of morality ; for which
reason I shall not enlarge upon them, but proceed to a
point of the same nature, which may open to us a more
uncommon field of speculation.

From what has already been observed, I think we
may make a very natural conclusion, that it is the
greater folly to seek the praise or approbation of any
being besides the Supreme, and that for these two
reasons: because no other being can make a right
judgment of us, and esteem us according to our merits;
und because we can procure no considerable benefit or
advantage from the esteem and approbation of any other
being.

In the first place, no other being can make a right
judgment of us, and esteem us according to our merits.
Created beings see nothing but our outside, and can
therefore only frame a judgment of us from our exte-
rior actions and behaviour; but how unfit these are to
give us a right notion of each other’s perfections, may
uppear from several considerations. ‘There are many
virtues, which in their own nature are incapable of any
outward representation ; many silent perfections in the
soul of a good man, which are great ornaments to human

 

nature, but not able to discover themselves to the know-
ledge of others; they are transacted in private, without
noise or show, and are only visible to the great searcher
of hearts. What actions can express the entire purity
of thought which refines and sanctifies a virtuous man ?
—that secret rest and contentedness of mind, which
gives him a perfect enjoyment of his present condition 2
—that inward pleasure and complacency which he feels
in doing good?—that delight and satisfaction which he
takes in the prosperity and happiness of another? These
and the like virtues are the hidden beauties of a soul,
the secret graces which cannot be discovered by a mortal
eye, but make the soul lovely and precious in His sight
from whom no secrets are concealed, Again, there are
many virtues which want an opportunity of exerting
and showing themselves in actions. Every virtue
requires time and place, a proper object and a fit con-
Juncture of circumstances, for the due exercise of it,
A state of poverty obscures all the virtues of liberality
and munificence. ‘The patience and fortitude of 2
martyr or confessor lie concealed in the flourishing times
of Christianity. Some virtues are only seen in afflic-
tion, and some in prosperity; some in a private, and
others in a public capacity. But the great sovereign
of the world beholds every perfection in its obscurity,
and not only sees what we do, but what we would do.
He views our behaviour in every concurrence of affairs,
and sees us engaged in all the possibilities of action.
He discovers the martyr and confessor without the trial
of flames and tortures, and will hereafter entitle many
to the reward of actions which they had never the
opportunity of performing. Another reason why men
cannot form a right-judgment of us is, because the same
actions may be aimed at different ends, and arise from
quite contrary principles. Actions are of so mixed a
nature, and so full of cireumstances, that as men pry
into them more or less, or observe some parts more
than others, they take different hints, and put contrary
interpretations on them ; so that the same actions may
represent a man as hypocritical and designing to one,
which make him appear a saint or hero to another.
He, therefore, who looks upon the soul through its
outward actions, often sees it through a deceitful medium
which is apt to discolour and pervert the object; so that
on this account also, He is the only proper judge of our
perfections who does not guess at the sincerity of our
intentions from the goodness of our actions, but weighs
the goodness of our actions by the sincerity of our
intentions.

But, further, it is impossible for outward actions to
represent the perfections of the soul, because they can
never show the strength of those principles from whence
they proceed. They are not adequate expressions of
our virtues, and can only show us what habits are in
the soul, without discovering the degree and perfection
of such habits. They are at best but weak resemblances
of our intentions, faint and imperfect copies, that may
acquaint us with the general design, but can never
express the beauty and life of the original. But the
great judge of all the earth knows every different state
and degree of human improvement, from those weak
stirrings and tendencies of the will which have not yet
formed themselves into regular purposes and designs,
to the last entire finishing and consummation of a good
habit. He beholds the first imperfect rudiments of
a virtue in the soul, and keeps a watchful eye over it
in all its progress, until it has received every grace it
is capable of, and appears in its full beauty and perfec-
tion. Thus we see, that none but the Supreme Being
can esteem us according to our proper merits, since all
others must judge of us from our outward actions;
which can never give them a just estimate of us, since
there are many perfections of a man which are not
capable of appearing in actions; many which, allowing
no natural incapacity of showing themselves, want an
opportunity of doing it; or, should they all meet with
an opportunity of appearing by actions, yet those actions
may be misinterpreted, and applied to wrong principles ;
or, though they plainly discovered the principles from

Penal

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whence they proceeded, they could never show the
degree, strength, and perfection of those principles.

And as the Supreme Being is the only proper judge
of our perfections, so is he the only fit rewarder of
them. ‘This is a consideration that comes home to our
interest, as the other adapts itself to ourambition. And
what could the most aspiring or the most selfish man
desire more, were he to form the notion of a being to
whom he would recommend himself, than such a know-
ledge as can discover the least appearance of perfec-
tion in him, and such a goodness as will proportion a
reward to it?

Let the ambitious man, therefore, turn all his desire
of fame this way; and that he may propose to himself
a fame worthy of his ambition, let him consider, that if
he employs his abilities to the best advantage, the time
will come when the supreme governor of the world,
the great judge of mankind, who sees every degree of
pertection in others, and possesses all possible perfec-
tion in himself, shall proclaim his worth before men
and angels, and pronounce to him, in the presence of
the whole creation, that best and most significant of
applauses, “ Well done, thou good and faithful servant,
enter thou into thy master’s joy.”

CALOLO PD LO LOLOL ELA

MARRIAGE.

My father, whom I mentioned in my first speculation,
and whom I must always name with honour and grati-
tude, has very frequently talked to me upon the subject
of marriage. I was in my younger years engaged,
partly by his advice, and partly by my own inclinations,
in the courtship of a person who had a great deal of
beauty, and did not at my first approaches seem to
have any aversion to me; but as my natural taciturnity
hindered mefrom showing myself to the best advantage,
she by degrees began to look upon me as a very silly
fellow ; and being resolved to regard merit more than
any thing else in the persons who made their applica-
tions to her, she married a captain of dragoons, who
happened to be beating up for recruits in those paris.

This unlucky accident has given me an aversion to
pretty fellows ever since, and discouraged me from
trying my fortune with the fair sex. The observations
which I made in this conjuncture, and the repeated
advices which I received at that time from the good
old man above mentioned, have produced the following
essay upon love and marriage.

The pleasantest part of a man’s life is generally that
which passes in courtship, provided his passion be sin-
cere, and the party beloved, kind with discretion. Love,
desire, hope, all the pleasing emotions of the soul, rise
in the pursuit.

It is easier for an artful man who is not in love to
persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to
succeed in his pursuits, than for one who loves with
the greatest violence. True love has ten thousand
griefs, impatiences, and resentments, that render a man
unamiable in the eyes of the person whose affection he
solicits ; besides, that it sinks his figure, gives him fears,
apprehensions, and poorness of spirit, and often makes
him appear ridiculous where he has a mind to recom-
mend himself.

Those marriages generally abound most with love
and constancy, that are preceded by a long courtship.
The passion should strike root and gather strength,
before marriage be grafted on it. A long course of
hopes and expectations fixes the idea in our minds,
and habituates us to a fondness of the person beloved.

There is nothing of so great importance to us, as the
good qualities of one to whom we join ourselves for life ;
they do not only make our present state agreeable, but
oiten determine our happiness to all eternity. Where
the choice is left to friends, the chief point under con-

sideration is an estate; where the parties choose for
themselves, their thoughts turn most upon the per-
son. They have both their reasons. The first would
procure many conveniences and pleasures of life to the

RI LRT CE Sa Sh Sa

 

party whose interests they espouse; and at the samé
time may hope that the wealth of their friend will turn
to their own credit and advantage. ‘The others are
preparing for themselves a perpetual feast. A good
person does not only raise, but continue love, and breeds
a secret pleasure and complacency in the beholder, when
the first heats of desire are extinguished. It puts the
wife and husband in countenance bothamong friends and
strangers, and generally fills the family with a healthy
and beautiful race of children.

I should prefer a woman that is agreeable in my own
eye, and not deformed in that of the world, to a cele-
brated beauty. If you marry one remarkably beautiful,
you must have a violent passion for her, or you have
not the proper taste of her charms; and if you have
such a passion for her, it is odds but it would be embit-
tered with fears and jealousies.

Good nature and evenness of temper will give you
an easy companion for life; virtue and good sense, an
agreeable friend; love and constancy, a good wife, or
husband. Where we meet one person with all these
accomplishments, we find a hundred without any one
of them. The world, notwithstanding, is more intent
on trains and equipages, and all the showy parts of life ;
we love rather to dazzle the multitude than consult our
proper interests; and, as I have elsewhere observed,
it is one of the most unaccountable passions of human
nature, that we are at greater pains to appear easy and
happy to others, than really to make ourselves so. Of
all disparities, that in humour makes the most unhappy
marriages, yet scarce enters into our thoughts at the
contracting of them. Several that are in this respect
unequally yoked, and uneasy for life, with a person of
a particular character, might have been pleased and
happy with a person of a contrary one, notwithstanding
they are both perhaps equally virtuous and laudable in
their kind.

Before marriage we cannot be too inquisitive and
discerning in the faults of the person beloved, nor after
it too dim-sighted and superficial. However perfect and
accomplished the person appears to you at a distance,
you will find many blemishes and imperfections in her
humour, upon a more intimate acquaintance, which you
never discovered or perhaps suspected. Here, therefore,
discretion and good nature are to show their strength ;
the first will hinder your thoughts from dwelling on
what is disagreeable, the other will raise in you all the
tenderness of compassion and humanity, and by degrees
soften those very imperfections into beauties.

Marriage enlarges the scene of our happiness and
miseries. A marriage of love is pleasant; a marriage
of interest easy; and a marriage where both meet,
happy. A happy marriage has in it all the pleasures of
friendship, all the enjoyments of sense and reason, and,
indeed, all the sweets of life. Nothing is a greater mark
of a degenerate and vicious age, than the common ridi-
cule which passes on this state of life. It is, indeed,
only happy in those who can look down with scorn or
neglect on the impieties of the times, and tread the
paths of life together in a constant uniform course of
virtue.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S VISIT TO TOWN.
I was this morning surprised with a great knocking at
the door, when my landlady’s daughter came up to me,
and told me there was a man below desired to speak
with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told me
it was a very grave elderly person, but that she did not
know his name. I immediately went down to him, and
found him to be the coachman of my worthy friend Sir
Roger de Coverley. He told me that his master came
to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn
with me in Gray’s-Inn walks. As I was wondering
in myself what had brought Sir Roger to town, not
having lately received any letter from him, he told me
that his master was come up to get a sight of Prince
Eugene, and he desired that 1 would immediately meet

| him.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 85

I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old
knight, though I did not much wonder at it, having
heard him say more than once in private discourse, that
he looked upon Prince Eugenio (for so the knight always
calls him) to be a greater man than Scanderbeg.

I was no sooner come into Gray’s-Inn walks but I
heard my friend upon the terrace hemming twice or
thrice to himself with great vigour ; for he loves to clear
his pipes in good air (to make use of his own expres-
sion), and is not a, little pleased with any one who takes
notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morn-
ing hems.

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the
good old man, who, before he saw me, was engaged in
conversation with a beggar-man that had asked alms of
him. I could hear my friend chide him for not finding
out some work ; but at the same time saw him put his
hand in his pocket, and give him sixpence.

Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, con-
sisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and several
affectionate looks which we cast upon one another.
After which the knight told me my good friend his
chaplain was very well, and much at my service; and
that the Sunday before he had made a most incom-
parable sermon out of Dr Barrow. “TI have left,” says
he, “all my affairs in his hands; and being willing
to lay an obligation upon him, have deposited with
him thirty merks, to be distributed among his poor
parishioners.”

He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare
of Will Wimble. Upon which he put his hand into
his fob and presented me in his name with a tobacco
stopper, tellmg me that Will had been busy all the
beginning of the winter in turning great quantities of
them; and that he made a present of one to every
gentleman in the country who has good principles, and
smokes. He added, that poor Will was at present
under gréat tribulation; for that Tom Touchy had
taken the law of him for cutting some hazel sticks out
of one of his hedges.

Among other pieces of news which the knight brought
from his country-seat, he informed me that Moll White
was dead ; and that about a month after her death the
wind was so very high, that it blew down the end of
one of his barns. “ But for my own part,” says Sir
Roger, “I do not think that the old woman had any
hand in it.’

He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions
which had passed in his house during the holidays ; for
Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his ancestors,
always keeps open house at Christmas. I learned from
him that he had killed eight fat hogs for this season ;
that he had dealt about his chines very liberally amongst
his neighbours; and that in particular he had sent a
string of hogs’ puddings, with a pack of cards, to every
poor family in the parish. “I have often thought,”
says Sir Roger, “it happens very well that Christmas
should fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most
dead, uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor
people would suffer very much from their poverty and
cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and Christ-
mas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their
poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village
merry in my great hall. I allowa double quantity of
malt to my small beer, and set it a-running for twelve
days to every one that calls for it. I have always a
piece of cold beef and a mince-pie on the table, and am
wonderfully pleased to see my tenants pass away a whole
evening in playing their innocent tricks, and smutting
one another. Our friend Will Wimble is as merry as
any of them, and shows a thousand roguish tricks upon
these occasions.”

I was very much delighted with the reflection of
my old friend, which carried so much goodness in it.
He then launched out into the praise of the late act of
parliament for securing the Church of England, and
told me, with great satisfaction, that he believed it
already began to take effect ; for that a rigid dissenter
who.chanced to dine at his house on Christmas day, |

}

 

had been observed to eat very plentifully of his plum
porridge.

After having dispatched all our country matters, Sir
Roger made several inquiries concerning the club, and
particularly of his old antagonist, Sir Andrew Freeport.
He asked me, with a kind of smile, whether Sir Andrew
had not taken the advantage of his absence to vent
among them some of his republican doctrines; but
soon alter, gathering up his countenance into a more
than ordinary seriousness, “ Tell me truly,” says he,
“don’t you think Sir Andrew had a hand in the pope’s
procession?” But without giving me time to answer
him, “ Well, well,” says he, “I know you are a wary
man, and do not care to talk of public matters.”

The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince
Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand in
some convenient place, where he might have a full sight
of that extraordinary man, whose presence does so much
honour to the British nation. He dwelt very long on
the praises of this great general ; and I found that since
I was with him in the country, he had drawn many
observations together out of his reading in Baker’s
Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his hall
window, which very much redound to the honour of this
prince.

Having passed away the greatest part of the morning
in hearing the knight’s reflections, which were partly
private and partly political, he asked me if I would
smoke a pipe with him over a dish of coffee at Squire’s.
As I love the old man, I take delight in complying with
every thing that is agreeable to him, and accordingly
waited on him to the coffee-house, where his venerable
figure drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. He
had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the
high table, but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of
tobacco, a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and the Supple-
ment, with such an air of cheerfulness and good-humour,
that all the boys in the coffee-room (who seemed to take
pleasure in serving him) were at once employed on his
several errands ; isomuch that nobody else could come
at a dish of tea, until the knight had got all his conve-
niences about him.

DISSECTION OF A BEAU’S HEAD.

I was yesterday engaged in an assembly of virtuosos,
where one of them produced many curious observations
which he had lately made in the anatomy of a human
body. Another of the company communicated to us
several wonderful discoveries which he had also made
on the same subject by the help of very fine glasses.
This gave birth to a great variety of uncommon re-
marks, and furnished discourse for the remaining part
of the day.

The different opinions which were started on this
occasion, presented tomy imagination so many new ideas,
that by mixing with those which were already there,
they employed my fancy all the last night, and composed
a very wild and extravagant dream.

I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a
beau’s head and of a coquette’s heart, which were both
of them laid on a table before us. An imaginary ope-
rator opened the first with a great deal of nicety, which,
upon a cursory and superficial view, appeared like the
head of another man ; but upon applying our glasses
to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what
we looked upon as brains, were not such in reality,
but a heap of strange materials wound up in that shape
and texture, and packed together with wonderful art
in the several cavities of the skull. For, as Homer
tells us that the blood of the goat is not real blood, but
only something like it, so we found that the brain of a
beau is not a real brain, but only something like it.

The pineal gland, which many of our modern philo-
sophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very
strong of essence and orange-flower water, and was
encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut into a
thousand litile faces or mirrors which were imper-86

ceptible tothe naked eye, insomuch that the soul, if there
had been any here, must have beenalways taken up in
contemplating her own beauties.

We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinciput,
that was filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery,
wrought together in a most curious piece of network ;
the parts of which were likewise imperceptible to the
naked eye. Another of these antrums or-cavities was
stuffed with invisible billet-doux, love-letters, pricked
dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In
another we found a kind of powder, which set the
whole company a-sneezing, and by the scent discovered
itself to be right Spanish. The several other cells were
stored with commodities of the same kind, of which it
would be tedious to give the reader an exact inventory.

There was a large cavity on each side of the head,
which I must not omit. That on the right side was
filled with fictions, flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, pro-
mises, and protestations; that on the left with oaths
and imprecations. There issued out a duct from each
of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue,
where both joined together, and passed forward in
one common duct to the tip of it. We discovered
several little roads or canals running from the ear into
the brain, and took particular care to trace them out
through their several passages. One of them extended
itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instru-
ments. Others ended in several bladders, which were
filled either with wind or froth. But the large canal
entered into a great cavity of the skull, from whence
there went another canal into the tongue. This great
cavity was filled with a kind of spongy substance, which
the French anatomists call galumatias, and the English
NONSENSE.

The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and
thick, and, what very much surprised us, had not in
them any single blood-vessel that we were able to dis-
cover, either with or without our glasses ; from whence
we concluded, that the party, when alive, must have
been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing.

The os cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in
some places damaged with snuff. We could not but
take notice in particular of that small muscle which is
not often discovered in dissections, and draws the nose
upwards, when it expresses the contempt which the
owner of it has upon seeing any thing he does not like,
or hearing any thing he does not understand. I need
not tell my learned reader, this is that muscle which
performs the motion so often mentioned by the Latin
poets, when they talk of a man’s cocking his nose, or
playing the rhinoceros.

We did not find any thing very remarkable in the
eye, saving only that the muscult amatorii, or, as we may
translate it into English, the ogling muscles, were very
much worn and decayed with use ; whereas, on the con-
trary, the elevator, or the muscle which turns the eye
towards heaven, did not appear to have been used at
all.

I have only mentioned in this dissection such new
discoveries as we were able to make, and have not taken
any notice of those parts which are to be met with in
common heads. As for the skull, the face, and indeed
the whole outward shape and figure of the head, we
could not discover any difference from what we observe
in the heads of other men. We were informed that
the person to whom this head belonged had passed for
a man above five and thirty years; during which time
he ate and drank like other people, dressed well, talked
loud, laughed frequently, and on particular occasions
had acquitted himself tolerably at a ball or an assembly ;
to which one of the company added, that a certain knot
of ladies took him for a wit. He was cut off in the
flower of his age by the blow of a paring-shovel, having
been surprised by an eminent citizen as he was tender-
ing some civilities to his wife.

When we had thoroughly examined this head with
all its apartments, and its several kinds of furniture,
we put up the brain, such as it was, into its proper
place, and laid it aside under a broad piece of scarlet

 

 

ADDISON'S

cloth, in order to be prepared, and kept in a great
repository of dissections; our operator telling us that
the preparation would not be so difficult as that of
another brain, for that he had observed several of the
little pipes and tubes which ran through the brain were
already filled with a kind of mercurial substance, which
he looked upon to be true quicksilver.

He applied himself in the next place to the coquette’s
heart, which he likewise laid open with great dexterity.
There occurred to us many particularities in this dis-
section; but being unwilling to burden my reader’s
memory too much, I shall reserve this subject for the
speculation of another day.

 

PPLOL DL LL OLE

DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE’S HEART.

Havine already given an account of the dissection of a
beau’s head, with the several discoveries made on that
occasion, I shall here, according to my promise, enter
upon the dissection of a coquette’s heart, and commu-
nicate to the public such particularities as we observed
in that curious piece of anatomy.

I should perhaps have waived this undertaking, had
not I been put in mind of my promise by several of my
unknown correspondents, whoare very importunate with
me to make an example of the coquette as I have already
done of the beau. It is therefore in compliance with
the request of friends, that I have looked over the
minutes of my former dream, in order to give the public
an exact relation of it, which I shall enter upon with-
out further preface.

Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary
dissection, told us that there was nothing in his art
more difficult than to lay open the heart of a coquette,
by reason of the many labyrinths and recesses which
are to be found in it, and which do not appear in the
heart of any other animal.

He desired us, first of all, to observe the pericardium,
or outward case of the heart, which we did very atten-
tively ; and by the help of our glasses discerned in it
millions of little scars, which seemed to have been
occasioned by the points of innumerable darts and
arrows, that from time to time had glanced upon the
outward coat ; though we could not discover the smallest
orifice by which any of them had entered and pierced
the inward substance.

Every smatterer in anatomy knows that this pericar-
dium, or case of the heart, contains in it a thin reddish
liquor, supposed to be bred from the vapours which
exhale out of the heart, and being stopped here, are
condensed into this watery substance. Upon examining
this liquor, we found that it had in it all the qualities
of that spirit which is made use of in the thermometer
to show the change of weather.

Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the com-
pany assured us he himself had made with this liquor,
which he found in great quantity about the heart of a
coquette whom he had formerly dissected. He affirmed
to us that he had actually enclosed it in a small tube
made after the manner of a weather-glass ; but that
instead of acquainting him with the variations of the
atmosphere, it showed him the qualities of those per-
sons who entered the room where it stood. He affirmed,
also, that it rose at the approach of a plume of feathers,
an embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves; and
that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped periwig, a clumsy
pair of shoes, or an unfashionable coat, came into his
house. Nay, he proceeded so far as to assure us, that
upon his laughing aloud when he stood by it, the liquor
mounted very sensibly, and immediately sank again
upon his looking serious. In short, he told us that he
knew very well by this invention whenever he had a
man of sense or a coxcomb in his room.

Having cleared away the pericardium, or the case, and
liquor above mentioned, we came to the heart itself.
The outward surface of it was extremely slippery, and
the mucro, or point, so very cold withal, that unon
endeavouring to take hold of it, it glided th» ihe
fingers like a smooth piece of ice.

atMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

The fibres were turned and twisted in a more intri-
cate and perplexed manner than they are usually found
in other hearts ; insomuch that the whole heart was
wound up together in a Gordian knot, and must have
had very irregular and unequal motions, whilst it was
employed in its vital function.

One thing we thought very observable, namely, that
upon examining all the vessels that came into it or
issued out of it, we could not discover any communica-
tion that it had with the tongue.

We could not but take notice, likewise, that several
of those little nerves in the heart which are affected by
the sentiments of love, hatred, and other passions, did
not descend to this before us from the brain, but from
the muscles which lie about the eye.

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to
be extremely light, and consequently very hollow, which
I did not wonder at, when, upon looking into the inside
of it, | saw multitudes of cells and cavities running one
within another, as our historians describe the apartments
of Rosamond’s bower. Several of these little hollows
were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifies, which
I shall forbear giving any particular account of, and
shall therefore only take notice of what lay first and
uppermost, which, upon our unfolding it, and applying
our microscopes to it, appeared to be a flame-coloured
hood.

We were informed that the lady of this heart, when
living, received the addresses of several who made love
to her, and did not only give each of them encourage-
ment, but made every one she conversed with believe
that she regarded him with an eye of kindness; for
which reason we expected to have seen the impression
of multitudes of faces among the several plaits and
foldings of the heart ; but to our great surprise not a
single print of this nature discovered itself, until we
came into the very core and centre of it. We there
observed a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses
to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic manner. The
more I looked upon it, the more I thought I had seen
the face before, but could not possibly recollect either
the place or time ; when, at length, one of the company,
who had examined this figure more nicely than the
rest, showed us plainly, by the make of its face, and the
several turns of its features, that the little idol which
was thus lodged in the very middle of the heart, was
the deceased beau whose head I gave some account of
in my last paper.

As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved
to make an experiment of the heart, not being able to
determine among ourselves the nature of its substance,
which differed in so many particulars from that of the
heart in other females. Accordingly, we laid it into a
pan of burning coals, when we observed in it a certain
salamandrine quality, that made it capable of living in
the midst of fire and flame without being consumed, or
so much as singed.

As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and
standing round the heart in a circle, it gave a most
prodigious sigh, or rather crack, and dispersed all at
once insmoke and vapour. This imaginary noise, which
methought was louder than the burst of a cannon,
produced such a violent shake in my brain, that it
dissipated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an instant
broad awake.

PP LPLO PL OLS CLIP PP LO IL

THE INSTITUTIONS OF BRITAIN.

Y Look upon it as a peculiar happiness, that were I
to choose of what religion I would be, and under what
government I would live, I should most certainly give
the preference to that form of religion and government
which is established in my own country. in this point
I think I am determined by reason and conviction ; but
if I shall be told that I am actuated by prejudice, I am
sure it is an honest prejudice; it is a prejudice that
arises from the love of my country, and, therefore, such

 

87

church of England, and design this as an essay upon the
civil part of our constitution, having often entertained
myself with reflections on this subject, which I have
not met with in other writers.

That form of government appears to me the most
reasonable which is most conformable to the equality
that we find in human nature, provided it be consistent
with public peace and tranquillity. This is what may
properly be called liberty, which exempts one man from
subjection to another, so far as the order and economy
of government will permit. 5

Liberty should reach every individual of a people, as
they all share one common nature. If it only spreads
among particular branches, there had better be none
at all, since such a liberty only aggravates the misfor-
tune of those who are deprived of it, by setting before
them a disagreeable subject of comparison.

This liberty is best preserved where the legislative
power is lodged in several persons, especially if those
persons are of different ranks and interests; for where
they are of the same rank, and consequently have an
interest to manage peculiar to that rank, it differs but
little from a despotical government in a single person.
But the greatest security a people can have for their
liberty, is when the legislative power is in the hands of
persons so happily distinguished, that by providing for
the particular interests of their several ranks, they are
providing for the whole body of the people; or, in other
words, when there is no part of the people that has
not a common interest with at least one part of the
legislators.

If there be but one body of legislators, itis no better
than a tyranny. If there are only two, there will want
a casting voice, and one of them must at length be
swallowed up by disputes and contentions that will
necessarily arise between them. Four would have the
same inconvenience as two, and a greater number would
cause too much confusion. I could never read a passage
in Polybius, and another in Cicero, to this purpose,
without a secret pleasure in applying it to the English
constitution, which it suits much better than the Roman.
Both these great authors give the pre-eminence to a
mixed government, consisting of three branches, the
regal, the noble, and the popular. They had, doubt-
less, in their thoughts the constitution of the Roman
commonwealth, in which the consul represented the
king, the senate the nobles, and the tribunes the
people. This division of the three powers in the
Roman constitution was by no means so distinct and
natural as it is in the English form of government.
Among several objections that might be made to it, I
think the chief are those that affect the consular power,
which had only the ornaments without the force of the
regal authority. Their number had not a casting voice
in it; for which reason, if one did not chance to be
employed abroad while the other sat at home, the publie
business was sometimes at a stand, while the consuls
pulled two different ways in it. Besides, I do not find
that the consuls had ever a negative voice in the passing
of a law or decree of senate ; so that, indeed, they were
rather the chief body of the nobility, or the first
ministers of state, than a distinct branch of the sove-
reignty, in which none can be looked upon as a part
who are not a part of the legislature. Had the consuls
been invested with the regal authority to as great a
degree as our monarchs, there would never have been
any occasion for a dictatorship, which had in it the
power of all the three orders, and ended in the subyer-
sion of the whole constitution.

Such a history as that of Suetonius, which gives usa
succession of absolute princes, is to me an unanswerable
argument against despotic power. Where the prince
is a man of wisdom and virtue, it is, indeed, happy for
his people that he is absolute ; but since, in the common
run of mankind, for one that is wise and good you find
ten of a contrary character, it is very dangerous for a
nation to stand to its chance, or to have its publie

a one as I will always indulge. [ have in several papers ; happiness or misery depend on the virtues or vices of a
endeavoured to express my duty and esteem for the | single person. Look into the history I have mentioned,38

or into any series of absolute princes, how many fyrants
must you read through, before you come to an emperor
that is supportable! But this is not all. An honest
private man often grows cruel and abandoned, when con-
verted into an absolute prince. Give a man the power
of doing what he pleases with impunity, you extinguish
his fear, and consequently overturn in him one of the
great pillars of morality. This, too, we find confirmed
by matter of fact. How many hopeful heirs-apparent
to grand empires, when in the possession of them, have
become such monsters of lust and cruelty as are a
reproach to human nature !

Some tell us we ought to make our government on
earth like that in heaven, which, say they, is altogether
monarchical and unlimited. Were man like his Creator
in goodness and justice, I should be for following this
great model ; but where goodness and justice are not
essential to the ruler, I would by no means put myself
into his hands, to be disposed of according to his
particular will and pleasure.

It is odd to consider the connection between despotic
government and barbarity, and how the making of one
person more than man makes the rest less. Above
nine parts of the world in ten are in the lowest state of
slavery, and consequently sunk in the most gross and
brutal ignorance. European slavery is, indeed, a state
of liberty, if compared with that which prevails in the
other three divisions of the world ; and, therefore, it is
no wonder that those who grovel under it have many
tracks of light among them, of which the others are
wholly destitute.

Riches and plenty are the natural fruits of liberty;
and where these abound, learning and all the liberal
arts will immediately lift up their heads and flourish.
As a man must have no slavish fears and apprehensiong
hanging upon his mind, who will indulge the flights of

ancy or speculation, and push his researches into all
the abstruse corners of truth, so it is necessary for him
to have about him a competency of all the conveniences
of life.

The first thing every one looks after, is to provide
himself with necessaries. This point will engross our
thoughts until it be satisfied. If this is taken care of
to our hands, we look out for pleasures and amuse-
ments ; and among a great number of idle people, there
will be many whose pleasures lie in reading and con-
templation. ‘These are the two great sources of know-
ledge; and as men grow wise, they naturally love to
communicate their discoveries ; and others, seeing the
happiness of such a learned life, and improving by
their conversation, emulate, imitate, and surpass, one
another, until a nation is filled with races of wise and
understanding persons. Lase and plenty are therefore
the great cherishers of knowledge: and as most of the
despotic governments of the world have neither of them,
they are naturally overrun with ignorance and barba-
rity. In Europe, indeed, notwithstanding several of
iis princes are absolute, there are men famous for
knowledge and learning ; but the reason is, because the
subjects are many of them rich and wealthy, the prince
not thinking fit to exert himself in his full tyranny like
the princes of the eastern nations, lest his subjects
should be invited to new-mould their constitution,
having so many prospects of liberty within their view.
But in all despotic governments, though a particular
prince may favour arts and letters, there is a natural
degeneracy of mankind; as you may observe from
Augustus’s reign, how the Romans lost themselves by
degrees, until they fell to an equality with the most
barbarous nations that surrounded them. Look upon
Greece under its free states, and you would think the
inhabitants lived in different climates, and under dif-
ferent heavens, from those at present; so different are
the geniuses which are formed under Turkish slavery
and Grecian liberty.

Besides poverty and want, there are other reasons
that debase the minds of men who live under slavery,
though I look on this as the principal. This natural
tendency of despotic power te ignorance and barbarity,

SE an ea a he ES A ERIE Te aap

ADDISON'S

though not insisted upon by others, is, I think, an
unanswerable argument against that form of govern-
ment, as it shows how repugnant it is to the good of
mankind and the perfection of human nature, which
ought to be the great ends of all civil institutions.

CONTEMPLATION OF DEATH.

Upon taking my seat in a coffee-house, I often draw the
eyes of the whole room upon me, when in the hottest
seasons of news, and at a time perhaps that the Dutch
mail is just come in, they hear me ask the coffee-man
for his last week’s bill of mortality. I find that I have
been sometimes taken on this oceasion for a parish
sexton, sometimes for an undertaker, and sometimes
for a doctor of physic. In this, however, I am guided
by the spirit of a philosopher, as I take occasion from
hence to reflect upon the regular increase and dimi-
nution of mankind, and consider the several various
ways through which we pass from life to eternity. I
am very well pleased with these weekly admonitions,
that bring into my mind such thoughts as ought to be
the daily entertainment of every reasonable creature ;
and can consider with pleasure to myself, by which of
those deliverances, or, as we commonly call them, dis-
tempers, I may possibly make my escape out of this
world of sorrows into that condition of existence,
wherein I hope to be happier than it is possible for
me at present to conceive.

But this is not all the use I make of the above-men-
tioned weekly paper. A bill of mortality is, in my
opinion, an unanswerable argument for a Providence.
How can we, without supposing ourselves under the
constant care of a Supreme Being, give any possible
account for that nice proportion which we find in every
great city between the deaths and births of its inhabi-

tants, and between the number of males and that of

females who are brought into the world? What else
could adjust in so exact a manner the recruits of every
nation to its losses, and divide these new supplies of
people into such equal bodies of both sexes? Chance
could never hold the balance with so steady a hand.
Were we not counted out by an intelligent supervisor,
we should sometimes be overcharged with multitudes,
and at others waste away into a desert; we should be
sometimes a populus virorwm, as Florus elegantly
expresses it, @ generation of males, and at others a
species of women. We may extend this consideration
to every species of living creatures, and consider the
whole animal world as a huge army made up of innu-
merable corps, if I may use that term, whose quotas
have been kept entire near five thousand years, in so
wonderful a manner that there is not probably a single
species lost during this long tract of time. Could we
have general bills of mortality of every kind of animals,
or particular ones of every species in each continent
and island, I could almost say in every wood, marsh,
or mountain, what astonishing instances would they be
of that Providence which watches over all its works!

I have heard of a great man in the Romish church,
who, upon reading those words in the 5th chapter of
Genesis, “ And all the days that Adam lived were nine
hundred and thirty years, and he died; and all the days
of, Seth were nine hundred and twelve years, and he
died; and all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred
and sixty-nine years, and he died,” immediately shut
himself up in a convent, and retired from the world,
as not thinking any thing in this life worth pursuing,
which had not regard to another.

The truth of it is, there is nothing in history which
is So improving to the reader as those accounts which
we meet with of the deaths of eminent persons, and of
their behaviour in that dreadful season. I may also
add, that there are no parts in history which affect and
please the reader in so sensible a manner. The reason
I take to be this, because there is no other single
circumstance in the story of any person, which can

 

| possibly be the case of every one who reads it. A battleMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 39

or a triumph are conjunctures in which not one man in
a million is likely to be engaged. But when we see a
person at the point of death, we cannot forbear being
attentive to every thing he Says or does, because we
are sure that some time or other we shall ourselves be
in the same melancholy circumstances, The general,
the statesman, or the philosopher, are perhaps characters
which we may never act in ; but the dying man is one
whom sooner or later we shall certainly resemble.

It is, perhaps, for the same kind of reason, that few
books written in English have been so much perused
as Dr Sherlock’s discourse upon death; though, at the
same time, I must own, that he who has not perused
this excellent piece, has not perhaps read one of the
strongest persuasives to a religious life that ever was
written in any language.

The consideration with which I shall close this essay
upon death, is one of the most ancient and most beaten
morals that have been recommended to mankind. But
its being so very common and so universally received,
though it takes away from it the grace of novelty, adds
very much to the weight of it, as it shows that it falls
in with the general sense of mankind. In short, I
would have every one consider that he is in this life
nothing more than a passenger, and that he is not to
set up his rest here, but to keep an atténtive eye upon
that state of being to which he approaches every mo-
ment, and which will be for ever fixed and permanent.
This single consideration would be sufficient to extin-
guish the bitterness of hatred, the thirst of avarice, and
the cruelty of ambition.

Iam very much pleased with the passage of Anti-
phanes, a very ancient poet, who lived near a hundred
years before Socrates, which represents the life of man
under this view, as I have here translated it word for
word. “ Be not grieved,” says he, “above measure for
thy deceased friends. They are not dead, but have only
finished that journey which-it is necessary for every
one of us to take. We ourselves must go to that great
place of reception in which they are all of them
assembled, and, in this general rendezvous of mankind,
live together in another state of being.”

{think I have in a former paper taken notice of
those beautiful metaphors in Scripture, where life is
termed a pilgrimage, and those who pass through it
are called strangers and sojourners upon earth. I
shall conclude-this with a story, which I have some-
where read in the travels of Sir John Chardin. That

gentleman, after having told us that the inns which |

receive the caravans in Persia and the Eastern coun-
tries are called by the name of caravanserais, gives us
a relation to the following purpose.

A dervise, travelling through Tartary, being arrived
at the town of Balk, went into the king’s palace by
mistake, as thinking it to be a public inn, or caravan-
serail. Having looked about him for some time, he
entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his
wallet, and spread his carpet, in order to repose him-
self upon it, after the manner of the Eastern nations.
He had not been long in this posture before he wa:
discovered by some of the guards, who asked him what
was his business in that place? The dervise told them
he intended to take up his night’s lodging in that cara-
vanserai. The guards let him know, in a very angry
manner, that the house he was in was not a caravanserai,
but the king’s palace. It happened that the king him-
self passed through the gallery during this debate, and
smiling at the mistake of the dervise, asked him how
he could possibly be so dull as not to distinguish a palace
from a caravanserai? “Sir,” says the dervise, “ give
me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. Who
were the persons that lodged in this house when it was
first built?” The king replied, “ His ancestors.” “ And
who,” says the dervise, “was the last person that
lodged here?” The king replied, “ His father.” “ And
who is it,” says the dervise, “ that lodges here at pre-
sent?” The king told him, that “it was he himself.”

LE

« And who,” says the dervise, “ will be here after you?”

The king answered, “ Thé young prince his son.” * Ah, |

 

Sir !” said the dervise, “a house that changes its inha-
bitants so often, and receives such a perpetual succes-
Slon of guests, is not a palace, but a caravanserai !”

OPIPPLIP LI PPIP DIOP VA

MISFORTUNE AND IMPRUDENCE.

Tue famous Gratian, in his little book wherein he lays
down maxims for a man’s advancing himself at court,
advises his reader to associate himself with the fortunate,
and to shun the company of the unfortunate; which,
notwithstanding the baseness of the precept to an honest
mind, may have something useful in it for those who
push their interest in the world. It is certain, a great
part of what we call good or ill fortune rises out of right
or wrong measures and schemes of life. When I hear
a man complain of his being unfortunate in all his
undertakings, I shrewdly suspect him for a very weak
man in his affairs. In conformity with this way of
thinking, Cardinal Richelieu used to say that unfortunate
and imprudent were but two words for the same thing.
As the cardinal himself had a great share both of pru-
dence and good fortune, his famous antagonist the
Count d’Olivarez was disgraced at the court of Madrid,
because it was alleged against him that he had never
any success in his undertakings. This, says an eminent
author, was indirectly accusing him of imprudence.
Cicero recommended Pompey to the Romans for
their general upon three accounts; as he was a man of
courage, conduct, and good fortune. It was, perhaps,
for the reason above mentioned, namely, that a series
of good fortune supposes a prudent management in the
person whom it befalls, that not only Sylla the dictator,
but several of the Roman emperors, as is still to be
seen upon their medals, among their other titles gave
themselves that of felix, or fortunate. The heathens,
indeed, seem to have valued a man more for his good
fortune than for any other quality, which I think is
very natural for those who have not a strong belief of
another world ; for how can I conceive a man crowned
with any distinguishing blessings, that has not some
extraordinary fund of merit and perfection in him,
which lies open to the supreme eye, though perhaps it
is not discovered by my observation? What is the
reason Homer’s and Virgil’s heroes do not form a
resolution or strike a blow without the conduct and
direction of some deity? Doubtless, because the poets
esteemed it the greatest honour to be favoured by the
gods, and thought the best way of praising a man was

(to recount those favours which naturally implied an

extraordinary merit in the person on whom they
descended.

Those who believe a future state of rewards and
punishments, act very absurdly if they form their
opinions of a man’s merit from his successes. But
certainly, if I thought the whole circle of our being
was concluded between our births and deaths, I should
think a man’s good fortune the measure and standard
of his real merit, since Providence would have no
opportunity of rewarding his virtue. and perfections
but in the present life. A virtuous unbeliever, who lies
under the pressure of misfortunes, has reason to ery
out, as they say Brutus did a little before his death,
“Oh virtue! I have worshipped thee as a substantial
good; but I find thou art an empty name.”

But to return to our first point. Though prudence
does undoubtedly in a great measure produce our good
or ill fortune in the world, it is certain there are many
unforeseen accidents and occurrences which very often,
pervert the finest schemes that can be laid by human
wisdom. “ The race is not always to the swift, nor the
battle to the strong.” Nothing less than infinite wisdom
can have an absolute command over fortune ; the highest
degree of it which man can possess is by no means equal
to fortuitous events, and to such contingencies as may
arise in the prosecution of our affairs. Nay, it very
often happens, that prudence, which has always in it a
great mixture of caution, hinders a man from being se

fortunate as he might possibly haye been without it. A

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90 ADDISON’S

person who only aims at what is likely to succeed, and
follows closely the dictates of human prudence, never
meets with those great and unforeseen successes which
are often the effect of a sanguine temper, or a more
happy rashness ; and this, perhaps, may be the reason
that, according to the common observation, Fortune,
like other females, delights rather in favouring the
young than the old.

Upon the whole, since man is go short-sighted a
creature, and the accidents which may happen to him
so various, I cannot but be of Dr Tillotson’s opinion in
another case, that were there any doubt of Providence,

yet it certainly would be very desirable there should be |
such a Being of infinite wisdom and goodness, on whose |

direction we might rely in the conduct of human life.

It is a great presumption to ascribe our successes to
our owh management, and not to esteem ourselves upon
any blessing, rather as it is the bounty of Heaven than
the acquisition of our own prudence. I am very well
pleased with a medal which was struck by Queen
Blizabeth a little after the defeat of the invincible
armada, to perpetuate the memory of that extraordi-
nary event. It is well known how the King of Spain,
and others who were the enemies of that great princess,
to derogate from her glory, ascribed the ruin of their
fleet rather to the violence of storms and tempests than
to the bravery of the English. Queen Elizabeth,
instead of looking upon this as a diminution of her
honour, valued herself upon such a signal favour of
Providence, and accordingly you see, in the reverse of
the medal above mentioned, has represented a fleet
beaten by a tempest, and falling foul upon one another,
with that religious inscription, A fflavit Deus, et dissi-
pantur—“ He blew with his wind, and they were
scattered.”

It is remarked of a famous Grecian general, whose
name I cannot at present recollect, and who had been
a particular favourite of fortune, that upon recounting
his victories among his friends, he added at the end of
several great actions, “and in this fortune had no share.”
After which it is observed in history, that he never
prospered in any thing he undertook.

As arrogance and a conceitedness of our own abilities
are very shocking and offensive to men of sense and
virtue, we may be sure they are highly displeasing to
that Being who delights in a humble mind, and by
several of his dispensations seems purposely to show
us that our own schemes or prudence have no share
in our advancements.

Since on this subject I have already admitted several
quotations which have occurred to my memory upon
writing this paper, I will conclude it with a little Persian
fable. A drop of water fell out of a cloud into the sea,
and finding itself lost in such an immensity of fluid
matter, broke out into the following reflection: “ Alas!
what an inconsiderable creature am I in this prodigious
ocean of waters; my existence is of no concern to the
universe ; [ am reduced to a kind of nothing, and
am less than the least of the works of God.” It so
happened that an oyster, which lay in the neighbour-
hood of this drop, chanced to gape and swallow it up
in the midst of this its humble scliloquy. “The drop,”
says the fable, “lay a great while hardening in the
shell, until by degrees it was ripened into a pearl, which,
falling into the hands of a diver, after a long series of
adventures, is at present that famous pearl which is
fixed on the top of a Persian diadem.”

DOP OPES Oe

PIN-MONEY.

“ Mr Srectator—I am turned of my great climacteric,
and am naturally a man of a meek temper. About a
dozen years ago I was married, for my sins, to a young
woman of a good family, and of a high spirit ; but could
not bring her to close with me, before I had entered
into a treaty with her longer than that of the grand
alhance. Among other articles, it was therein stipu-
lated that she should have £400 a-year for pin-money,

= iat niinoeia so ~ : cr a

 

 

 

 

 

 

which I obliged myself to pay quarterly into the hands
of one who acted as her plenipotentiary in that affair.
I have ever since religiously observed my part in this
solemn agreement. Now, Sir, so it is that the lady has
had several children since I married her; to which, if
I should credit our malicious neighbours, her pin-money
has not a little contributed. The education of these
my children, who, contrary to my expectation, are
born to me every year, straitens me so much that I
have begged their mother to free me from the obliga-
tion of the above-mentioned pin-money, that it may go
towards making a provision for her family. ‘This pro-
posal makes her noble blood swell in her veins; in so
much that, finding me a little tardy in her last quarter’s
payment, she threatens me every day to arrest me ; and
proceeds so far as to tell me, that if I do not do her
justice, I shall die ina jail. To this she adds, when
her passion will let her argue calmly, that she has
several play-debts on her hand, which must be dis-
charged very suddenly, and that she cannot lose her
money as becomes a woman of her fashion, if she makes
me any abatement in this article. I hope, Sir, you will
take an occasion from hence to give your opinion upon
a subject which you have not yet touched, and inform
us if there are any precedents for this usage among
our ancestors; or whether you find any mention of
pin-money in Grotius, Puffendorf, or any other of the
civilians. Iam ever the humblest of your admirers,
Jostan F'RIBBLE, Esq.”

As there is no man living who is a more professed
advocate for the fair sex than myself, so there is none
that would be more unwilling to invade any of their
ancient rights and privileges; but as the doctrine of
pin-money is of a very late date, unknown to our great-
grandmothers, and not yet received by many of our
modern ladies, I think it is for the interest of both sexes
to keep it from spreading.

Mr Fribble may not, perhaps, be much mistaken
where he intimates, that the supplying of a man’s wife
with pin-money is furnishing her with arms against
himself, and in a manner becoming accessary to his own
dishonour. We may, indeed, generally observe, that in
proportion as a woman is more or less beautiful, and
her husband advanced in years, she stands in need of
a greater or less number of pins, and upon a treaty of
marriage rises or falls in her demands accordingly. It
must likewise be owned, that high quality in a mistress
does very much inflame this article in the marriage
reckoning.

But where the age and circumstances of both parties
are pretty much upon a level, I cannot but think the
insisting upon pin-money is very extraordinary ; and yet
we find several matches broken off upon this very head.
What would a foreigner, or one who isa stranger to this
practice, think of a lover that forsakes' his mistress,
because he is not willing to keep her in pins? But what
would he think of the mistress, should he be informed
that she asks five or six hundred pounds a-year for this
use? Should a man unacquainted with our customs be
told the sums which are allowed in Great Britain under
the title of pin-money, what a prodigious consumption
of pins would he think there was in thisisland! “A pin
a-day,” says our frugal proverb, “is a groat a-year ;”
so that, according to this calculation, my friend Fribble’s
wife must every year make use of eight millions six
hundred and forty thousand new pins.

I am not ignorant that our British ladies allege they
comprehend under this general term several other
conveniences of life: I could therefore wish, for the
honour of my countrywomen, that they had ealled it
needle-money, which might have implied something of
good housewifery, and not have given the malicious
world occasion to think that dress and trifles have
always the uppermost place in a woman’s thoughts.

I know several of my fair readers urge in defence of
this practice, that it is but a necessary provision they
make for themselves, in ease their husband proves a
churl or a miser; so that they consider this allowanceMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. OF

as a kind of alimony, which they may lay their claim to
without actually separating from their husbands. But,
with submission, I think a woman who will give up
herself to a man in marriage where there is the least
room for such an apprehension, and trust her person
to one whom she will not rely on for the common
necessaries of life, may very properly be aceused (in the
phrase of a homely proverb) of being “ penny wise and
pound foolish.” :

It is observed of over-cautious generals, that they
never engage in a battle without securing a retreat, in
case the event should not answer their expectations.
On the other hand, the greatest conquerors have burnt
their ships, or broke down the bridges behind them, as
being determined either to succeed or die in the
engagement. In the same manner, I should very much
Suspect a woman who takes such precautions for her
retreat, and contrives methods how she may live happily
without the affection of one to whom she joins herself
for life. Separate purses between man and wife are in
my opinion as unnatural as separate beds. A marriage
cannot be happy, where the pleasures, inclinations, and
interests of both parties, are not the same. There is no
greater incitement to love in the mind of man than the
sense of a person’s depending upon him for‘her ease
and happiness ; as a woman uses all her endeavours to
please the person whom she looks upon as her honour,
her comfort, and her support.

For this reason, I am not very much surprised at the
behaviour of a rough country squire, who, being not a
little shocked at the proceeding of a young widow that
would not recede from her demands of pin-money, was
so enraged at her mercenary temper, that he told her
in great wrath, “As muchas she thought him her slave,
he would show all the world he did not care a pin for
her.” Upon which he flew out of the room, and never
saw her more.

Socrates, in Plato’s Alcibiades, says he was informed
by one who had travelled through Persia, that as he
passed over a great tract of lands, and inquired what
the name of the place was, they told him it was the
““Queen’s Girdle ;” to which he adds, that another wide
field which lay by it, was called the “Queen’s Veil av?
and that in the same manner there was a large portion
of ground set aside for every part of her maj esty’s dress.
These lands might not improperly be called the Queen
of Persia’s pin-money.

I remember my friend Sir Roger, who I daresay
never read this passage in Plato, told me some time
since, that upon his courting the perverse widow (of
whom I have given an account in former papers), he
had disposed of a hundred acres in a diamond ring,
which he would have presented her with, had she
thought fit to accept it; and that upon her wedding-day
she should have carried on her head fifty of the tallest
oaks upon his estate. He further informed me that he
would have given her a coal-pit to keep her in clean
linen ; that he would have allowed her the profits of a
windmill for her fans, and have presented her once in
three years with the shearing of his sheep for her under
petticoats. To which the knight always adds, that
though he did not care for fine clothes himself, there
should not have been a woman in the country better
dressed than my Lady Coverley. Sir Roger, perhaps,
may in this, as well as in many other of his devices,
appear something odd and singular; but if the humour
of pin-money prevails, I think it would be very proper
for every gentleman of an estate to mark out so many
acres of it under the title of The Pins.

POLL LIP EL IOIL SDPO DP

JACK ANVIL.

Ir is observed that a man improves more by reading
the story of a person eminent for prudence and virtue,
than by the finest rules and precepts of morality. In
the same manner a representation of those calamities
and misfortunes which a weak man suffers from wrong
measures and ill-concerted schemes of life, is apt to

 

make a deeper impression upon our minds than the
Wisest maxims and instructions that can be given us
for avoiding the like follies and indiscretions in our own
private conduct. It is for this reason that I lay before
my reader the following letter, and leave it with him to
make use of it, without adding any reflections of my
own upon the subject matter :—

“ Strn—Having carefully perused a letter sent you by
Josiah Fribble, Esq., with your subsequent discourse
upon pin-money, I do presume to trouble you with an
account of my own ease, which I look upon to be no
less deplorable than that of Squire Fribble. Iam a
person of no extraction, having begun the world with a
small parcel of rusty iron, and was for some years
commonly known by the name of Jack Anvil. Thave
naturally a very happy genius for getting money ;
msomuch, that by the age of five-and-twenty I had
scraped together four thousand two’ hundred pounds,
five shillings, and a few odd pence. I then launched out
into considerable business, and became a bold trader
both by sea and land, which in a few years raised me
a very great fortune. For these my good services I
was knighted in the thirty-fifth year of my age, and
lived with great dignity among my city neighbours by
the name of Sir John Anvil. Being in my temper very
ambitious, I was now bent upon making a family ; and
accordingly resolved that my descendants should have
a dash of good blood in their veins. In order to this,
T made love to the Lady Mary Oddly, an indigent young
woman of quality. To cut short the Inarriage treaty,
I threw her a carte blanche, as our newspapers call it,
desiring her to write upon it her own terms. She was
very concise in her demands, insisting only that the
disposal of my fortune, and the regulation of my family,
should be entirely in her hands. Her father and
brothers appeared exceedingly averse to this match,
and would not see me for some time, but at present
are so well reconciled that they dine with me almost
every day, and have borrowed considerable sums of
me, which my Lady Mary very often twits me with,
when she would show me how kind her relations are to
me. She had no portion, as I told you before ; but
what she wanted in fortune, she makes up in spirit.
She at first changed my name to Sir John Enville, and
at present writes herself Mary Enville. I have had
some children by her, whom she has christened with
the surnames of her iamily, in order, as she tells me, to
wear out the homeliness of their parentage by the
father’s side. Our eldest son is the Honourable Oddly
Enville, Esq., and our eldest daughter Harriet Enville.
Upon her first coming into my family, she turned off
a parcel of very careful servants, who had been long
with me, and introduced in their stead a couple of
blackamoors, and three or four very genteel fellows in
laced liveries, besides her F'renchwoman, who is per-
petually making a noise in the house, in language which
nobody understands except my Lady Mary. She next
set herself to reform every room of my house, having
glazed all my chimney-pieces with looking-glasses, and
planted every corner with such heaps of china, that I
am obliged to move about my own house with the
greatest caution and cireumspection, for fear of hurting
some of our brittle furniture. She makes an illumina.
tion once a-week with wax candles in one of the largest
rooms, in order, as she phrases it, to see company ; at
which time she always desires me to be abroad, or to
confine myself to the cock-loft, that I may not disgrace
her among her visitants of quality. Her footmen, as I
told you before, are such beaux that I do not much care
for asking them questions; when I do, they answer
me with a saucy frown, and say that every thing which
I find fault with was done by Lady Mary’s order. She
tells me, that she intends they shall wear swords, with
their next liveries, having lately observed the footmen
of two or three persons of quality hanging behind the
coach with swords by their sides. As soon as the first
honeymoon was over, I represented to her the unrea-
sonableness of those daily innovations which she made
in my family; but she told me, I was no longer to

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consider myself as Sir John Anvil, but as her husband ;
and added, with a frown, that I did not seem to know
who she was. I was surprised to be treated thus, after
such familiarities as had passed between us. But she
has since given me to. know, that whatever freedoms
she may sometimes indulge me in, she expects, in
general, to be treated with the respect that is due to
her birth and quality. Our children have been trained
up from their infancy with so many accounts of their
mother’s family, that they know the stories of all the
great men and women it has produced. Their mother
tells them that such a one commanded in such a sea
engagement; that their grandfather had a horse shot
under him at Edgehill; that their uncle was at the
siege of Buda; and that her mother danced in a ball at
court with the Duke of Monmouth; with abundance of
fiddle-faddle of the same nature. I was the other day
a little out of countenance at a question of my little
daughter Harriet, who asked me, with a great deal of
innocence, why I never told them of the generals and
admirals that had been in my family? As for my
eldest son Oddly, he has been so spirited up by his
mother, that if he does not mend his manners, I shall
go near to disinherit him. He drew his sword upon me
before he was nine years old, and told me that he
expected to be used like a gentleman. Upon my
offering to correct him for his insolence, my Lady
Mary stept in between us, and told me that I ought to
consider there was some difference between his mother
and mine. She is perpetually finding out the features
of her own relations in every one of my children ;
though, by the way, I have a little chubfaced boy as
like meas he can stare, if I durst say so. But what
most angers me, when she sees me playing with any
of them upon my knee, she has begged me more than
once to converse with the children as little as possible,
that they may not learn any of my awkward tricks.

You must further know, since I am opening my
heart to you, that she thinks herself my superior in
sense as much as she is in quality, and, therefore, treats
me like a plain well-meaning man who does not know the
world. She dictates to me in my own business, sets me
right in point of trade; and if I disagree with her about
any of my ships at sea, wonders that I will dispute with
her, when I know very well that her great-grandfather
was a flag-officer.

To complete my sufferings, she has teased me for
this quarter of a year last past to remove into one of
the squares at the other end of the town, promising for
my encouragement that I shall have as good a cock-loft
as any gentleman in the square, to which the Honour-
able Oddly Enville, Esq., always adds, like a jackanapes
as he is, that he hopes it will be as near the court as
possible.

In short, Mr Spectator, Iam somuch out of my natural
element, that to recover my old way of life, I would be
content to begin the world again, and be plain Jack
Anvil; but, alas! I am in for life, and am bound to
subseribe myself, with great sorrow of heart, your
humble servant,

JOHN EnvitueE, Knt.”

PIEL DP PL EP EL DEIP

PROJECT OF A POLITICAL ACADEMY.

Our late newspapers being full of that project now on
foot in the court of France, for establishing a political
academy, and I myself having received letters from
several virtuosos among my foreign correspondents,
which give some light into that affair, I intend to make
it the subject of this day’s speculation. A general
account of this project may be met with in the Daily
Courant of last Friday, in the following words, translated
from the Gazette of Amsterdam :—

“ Paris, February 12.—It is confirmed that the king
has resolved to establish a new academy for polities,
of which the Marquis de Torey, minister and secretary
of state, is to be protector. Six academicians are to be

chosen, endowed with proper talents for beginning to |

2 manatee

 

|

 

I

ADDISON'S

form this academy, into which no person is to be ad-
mitted under twenty-five years of age. They must like-
wise have each an estate of two thousand livres a-year,
either in possession, or to come to them by inheritance.
The king will allow to each a pension of a thousand
livres. ‘They are likewise to have able masters to teach
them the necessary sciences, and to instruct them in all
the treaties of peace, alliance, and others, which have
been made in several ages past. These members are
to meet twice a-week atthe Louvre. From this semi-
nary are to be chosen secretaries to embassies, who by
degrees may advance to higher employments.”

Cardinal Richelieu’s politics made France the terror
of Europe. The statesmen who have appeared in that
nation of late years, have, on the contrary, rendered it
either the pity or contempt of its neighbours. The
cardinal erected that famous academy which has carried
all the parts of polite learning to the greatest height.
His chief design, in that institution, was to divert the
men of genius.from meddling with polities—a province
in which he did not care to have any one else to inter-
fere with him. On the contrary, the Marquis de Torcy
seems resolved to make severdl young men in France
as wise as himself, and is therefore taken up at present
in establishing a nursery of statesmen.

Some private letters add, that there will also be erected
a seminary of petticoat politicians, who are to he
brought up at the feet of Madame de Maintenon, and to
be dispatched into foreign courts upon any emergencies
of state. But as the news of this last project has not
been yet confirmed, I shall take no further notice of it.

Several of my readers may doubtless remember, that
upon the conclusion of the last war, which had been
carried on so successfully by the enemy, their generals
were many of them transformed into ambassadors.
But the conduct of those who have commanded in the
present war, has, it seems, brought so little honour and
advantage to their great monarch, that he is resolved
to trust his affairs no longer in the hands of those
military gentlemen.

The regulations of this new academy very mueh de-
serve our attention. The students are to have, in pos-
session or reversion, an estate of two thousand French
livres per annum, which, as the present exchange runs,
will amount to at least one hundred and twenty-six
pounds English. ‘This, with the royal allowance of a
thousand livres, will enable them to find themselves in
coffee and snuff; not to mention newspapers, pens and
ink, wax and wafers, with the like necessaries for
politicians.

A man must be at least five-and-twenty before he
can be initiated into the mysteries of this academy,
though there is no question but many grave persons,
of a much more advaneed age, who have been constant
readers of the Paris Gazette, will be glad to begin the
world anew, and enter themselves upon this list of
politicians.

The society of these hopeful young gentlemen is to
be under the direction of six professors, who, it seems,
are to be speculative statesmen, and drawn out of the
body of the royal academy. ‘These six wise masters,
according to my private letters, are to have the following
parts allotted them.

The first is to instruct the students in state leger-
demain, as how to take off the impression of a seal, to
split a wafer, to open a letter, to fold it up again, with
other the like ingenious feats of dexterity and art.
When the students have accomplished themselves in
this part of their profession, they are to be delivered into
the hands of their second instructor, who is a kind of
posture-master.

This artist is to teach them how to nod judiciously,
to shrug up their shoulders in a dubious case, to connive
with either eye, and, in a word, the whole practice of
political grimace.

The third is a sort of language master, who is to
instruct them in a style proper for a foreign minister
in his ordinary discourse. And to the end that this
college of statesmen may be thoroughly practised inMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS, 95

the political style, they are to make use of it in their
common conversation, before they are employed either
in foreign or domestic affairs. If one of them asks
another what o’clock it is, the other is to answer him
indirectly, and if possible, to turn off the question. If
he is desired to change a louis d’or, he must beg time
to consider of it. - If it be inquired of him, whether the
king is at Versailles or Marli, he must answer in a
whisper. If he be asked the news of the late gazette,
or the subject of a proclamation, he is to reply that he
has not yet read it; or if he does not eare for explaining
himself so far, he needs only draw his brow up in
wrinkles, or elevate the left shoulder.

The fourth professor is to teach the whole art of
political characters and hieroglyphies; and to the end
that they may be perfect also in this practice, they are
not to send a note to one another (though it be but to
borrow a Tacitus or a Machiavel) which is not written
in cipher.

Their fifth professor, it is thought, will be chosen
out of the society of Jesuits, and is to be well read in
the controversies of probable doctrines, mental reser-
vations, and the rights of princes. This learned man
is to instruct them in the grammar, syntax, and con-
struing part of treaty Latin ; how to distinguish between
the spirit and the letter, and likewise demonstrate how
the same form of words may lay an obligation upon
any prince in Europe different from that which it lays
upon his most Christian majesty. He is likewise to teach
them the art of finding flaws, loop-holes, and evasions,
in the most solemn compacts, and particularly a great
Rabbinical secret, revived of late by the fraternity of
Jesuits, namely, that contradictory interpretations of
the same article may both of them be true and valid.

When our statesmen are sufficiently improved by
these several instructors, they are to receive their last
polishing from one who is to act among them as
master of the ceremonies. This gentleman is to give
them lectures upon the important points of the elbow
chair and the stair-head; to instruct them in the
different situations of the right hand; and to furnish
them with bows and inclinations of all sizes, measures,
and proportions. In short, this professor is to give
the society their stiffening, and infuse into their man-
ners that beautiful political starch, which may qualify
them for levees, conferences, visits, and make them
shine in what vulgar minds are apt to look upon as
trifles.

I have not yet heard any further particulars which
are to be observed in this society of unfledged states-
men ; but I must confess, had Iason of five-and-twenty,
that should take it into his head at that age to set up
for a politician, I think I should go near to disinherit
him for a blockhead. Besides, I should be apprehensive
lest the same arts which are to enable him to negotiate
between potentates, might a little infect his ordinary
behaviour between manand man. There is no question
but these young Machiavels will in a little timeturn their
college upside down with plots and stratagems, and lay
as many schemes to circumvent one another in a frog
or salad, as they may hereafter put in practice to over-
reach a neighbouring prince or state.

We are told that the Spartans, though they punished
theft in their young men when it was discovered, looked
upon it as honourable if it succeeded. Provided the
conveyance was clean and unsuspected, a youth might
afterwards boast of it. This, say the historians, was to
keep them sharp, and to hinder them from being im-
posed upon, either in public or private negotiations.
Whether any such relaxations of morality, such little

jeux Vesprit, ought not to be allowed in this intended
seminary of politicians, I shall leave to the wisdom of
their founder.

In the meantime, we have fair warning given us by
this doughty body of statesmen: and as Sylla saw many
Mariuses in Ceesar, so I think we may discover many
Torcys in this college of academicians. Whatever we
think of ourselves, I am afraid neither our Smyrna nor
St James’s will bea match for it. Our coffee-houses

| are indeed very good institutions: but whether or no
these our British schools of politics may furnish out ag
able envoys and secretaries as an academy that is set
apart for that purpose, will deserve our serious con-
sideration, especially if we remember that our country
is more famous for producing men of integrity than
statesmen: and that, on the contrary, French truth
and British policy make a conspicuous figure in nothing ;
as the Earl of Rochester has very well observed. in hig
admirable poem upon that barren subject,

POPPLIPLIDPIPOLILIIPID

FORTUNE-HUNTERS.

“ Mr Sprecrarorn—I am amazed that among all the
variety of characters with which you have enriched your
speculations, you have never given us a picture of those
audacious young fellows among us, who commonly go by
the name of fortune-stealers. You must know, Sir, Iam
one who live in a continual apprehension of this sort of
people, that lie i wait day and night for our children,
and may be considered as a kind of kidnappers within
the law. I am the father of a young heiress, whom I
begin to look upon as marriageable, and who has looked
upon herself as such for above these six years. She is
now in the eighteenth year of her age. The fortune-
hunters have already cast their eyes upon her, and take
care to plant themselves in her view whenever she
appears in any public assembly. I have myself caught
a young jackanapes with a pair of silver-fringed gloves
in the very fact. You must know, Sir, Ihave kept her
as a prisoner of state ever since she was in her teens.
Her chamber windows are cross-barred ; she is not
permitted to go out of the house but with her keeper,
who is a stayed relation of my own: I have likewise
forbade her the use of pen and ink for this twelvemonth
last past, and do not suffer a band-box to be carried
into her room before it has been searched. Notwith-
standing these precautions, I am at my wits’ end for fear
of any sudden surprise. There were two or three nights
ago some fiddles heard in the street, which I am afraid
portend me no good; not to mention a tall Irishman
that has been seen walking before my house more than
once this winter. My kinswoman likewise informs me
that the girl has talked to her twice or thrice of a young
gentleman in a fair wig, and that she loves to go to
church more than ever she did in her life. She gave
me the slip about a week ago, upon which my whole
house was in alarm. I immediately dispatched a hue
and ery after her to the ’Change to her mantua-maker,
and to the young ladies that visit her; but after above
an hour’s search, she returned of herself, having been
taking a walk, as she told me, by Rosamond’s pond. I
have hereupon turned off her woman, doubled her
guards, and given new instructions to my relation, who,
to give her her due, keeps a watchful eye over all her
motions. This, Sir, keeps me in a perpetual anxiety,
and makes me very often watch when my daughter
sleeps, as I am afraid she is even with me in her turn.
Now, Sir, what I would desire of you is, to represent
to this fluttering tribe of young fellows who are for
making their fortunes by these indirect means, that
stealing a man’s daughter for the sake of her portion,
is but a kind of a tolerated robbery; and that they
make but a poor amends to the father whom they
plunder after this manner, by going to bed with his
child. Dear Sir, be speedy in your thoughts on this
subject, that if possible they may appear before the
disbanding of the army. Iam, Sir, your most humble
servant, Tim WatcHwetu.”

Themistocles, the great Athenian general, being asked
whether he would choose to marry his daughter to an
indigent man of merit, or to a worthless man of an
estate, replied, that he should prefer a man without an
estate, to an estate without aman. The worst of it is,
our modern fortune-hunters are those who turn their
heads that way, because they are good for nothing else.
{f a young fellow finds he can make nothing of Coke

 

IT

alii nlite Rm iSl ae eel a he oY kee re enh Lent Penne et

Paitin rete teen ae

   
 

94

and Littleton, he provides himself with a ladder of
ropes, and by that means very often enters upon the
premises.

The same art of scaling has likewise been practised
with good success by many military engineers. Strata-
gems of this nature make parts and industry super-
fluous, and cut short the way to riches.

Nor is vanity a less motive than idleness to this kind
of mercenary pursuit. A fop who admires his person
in a glass, soon enters into a resolution of making his
fortune by it, not questioning but every woman that
falls in his way will do him as much justice as he does
himself. When an heiress sees a man throwing parti-
cular graces into his ogle, or talking loud within her
hearing, she ought to look to herself ; but if withal she
observes a pair of red heels, a patch, or any other par-
ticularity in his dress, she cannot take too much care
of her person. These are baits not tobe trifled with—
charms that have done a world of execution, and made
their way into hearts which have been thought impreg-
nable. The force of a man with these qualifications is
so well known, that I am eredibly informed there are
several female undertakers about the Change, who,
upon the arrival of a likely man out of a neighbouring
kingdom, will furnish him with proper dress from head
to toot, to be paid for at a double price on the day of
marriage.

We must, however, distinguish between fortune-
hunters and fortune-stealers. The first are those
assiduous gentlemen who employ their whole lives in
the chase without ever coming at the quarry. Suffenus

has combed and powdered at the ladies for thirty years

together, and taken his stand in a side-box until he has
grown wrinkled under their eyes. He is now laying
the same snares for the present generation of beauties
which he practised on their mothers. Coitillus, after
having made his applications to more than you meet
with in Mr Cowley’s ballad of mistresses, was at last
smitten with a city lady of £20,000 sterling, but died
of old age before he could bring matters to bear. Nor
must I here omit my worthy friend Mr Honeycomb,
who has often told us in the club, that for twenty years
successively, upon the death of a childless rich man, he
immediately drew on his boots, called for his horse,
and made up to the widow. When he is rallied upon
his ill suecess, Will, with his usual gaiety, tells us that
he always found her pre-engaged.

Widows are, indeed, the great game of your fortune-
hunters. There is searce a young fellow in the town,
of six feet high, that has not passed in review before
one or other of these wealthy relicts. Hudibras’s Cupid,
who

** took his stand
Upon a widow’s jointure land,”

is daily employed in throwing darts and kindling flames.
But as for widows, they are such a subtle generation
of people, that they may be left to their own conduct ;
or if they make a false step in it, they are answerable
for it to nobody but themselves. The young innocent
creatures who have no knowledge and experience of
the world, are those whose safety I would principally
consult in this speculation. ‘The stealing of such a one
should, in my opinion, be as punishable as a rape.
Where there is no judgment, there is no choice; and
why the inveigling a woman before she has come to the
years of discretion, should not be as criminal as the
seducing of her before she is ten years old, 1 am ata
loss to comprehend.

POPP PPLE DPSS LO ISLIP DD

IDLING AWAY TIME.
Augustus, a few moments before his death, asked his
friends who stood about him if they thought he had
acted his part well; and upon receiving such an answer
as was due to his extraordinary merit, “ Let me, then,”
says he, “ go off the stage with your applause ;” using
the expression with which the Roman actors made
their exit at the conclusion of a dramatic piece. I could
wish that inen, while they are in health, would consider

  

 

 

   
   
   
  
  
    
  
   
 
    
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
   
 
   
   
  
  
   
  
 
   
   
   
   
   
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
   
   

ADDISON’S

well the nature of the part they are engaged in, and
what figure it will make in the minds of those they
leave behind them; whether it was worth coming into
the world for ; whether it be suitable to a reasonable
being ; inshort, whether it appears graceful in this life,
or will turn to an advantage in the next. Let the
sycophant, or buffoon, the satirist, or the good com-
panion, consider with himself, when his body shall be
laid in the grave, and his soul pass into another state
of existence, how much it would redound to his praise
to have it said of him, that no man in England ate
better ; that he had an admirable talent at turning his
friends into ridicule; that nobody outdid him at an ill-
natured jest ; or that he never went to bed before he
had dispatched his third bottle. These are, however,
very common funeral orations and eulogiums on deceased
persons who have acted among mankind with some figure
and reputation.

But if we look into the bulk of our species, they are
such as are not likely to be remembered a moment after
their disappearance. They leave behind them no traces
of their existence, but are forgotten as though they had
never been. They are neither wanted by the poor,
regretted by the rich, nor celebrated by the learned.
They are neither missed in the commonwealth, nor
lamented by private persons. Their actions are of no
significancy to mankind, and might have been performed
by creatures of much less dignity than those who are
distinguished by the faculty of reason. An eminent
French author speaks somewhere to the following pur-
pose :—I have often seen from my chamber window two
noble creatures, both of them of an erect countenance
and endowed with reason. These two intellectual beings
are employed from morning till night in rubbing two
smooth stones one upon another, that is, as the vulgar
phrase is, polishing marble.

My friend Sir Andrew Freeport, as we were sitting
in the club last night, gave us an account of a sober
citizen who died a few days since. This honest man
being of greater consequence in his own thoughts than
in the eye of the world, had for some years past kept a
journal of-his life. Sir Andrew showed us one week of
it. Since the occurrences set down in it mark out such
a road of action as that I have been speaking of, I shall
present my reader with a faithful copy of it, after having
first informed him, that the deceased person had in his
youth been bred to trade; but finding himself not so
well turned for business, he had for several years last
past lived altogether upon a moderate annuity.

Monpay, eight o’clock.—I put on my clothes, and
walked into the parlour.

Nine o’clock ditto.—Tied my knee-strings, and washed
my hands.

Hours ten, eleven, and twelve.—Smoked three pipes
of Virginia. Read the Supplement and Daily Courant.
Things go ill in the north. Mr Nisby’s opinion there-
upon.

One o’clock in the afternoon.—Chid Ralph for mis-
laying my tobacco-box.

Two o’clock.—Sat down to dinner.
many plums and no suet.

From three to four—Took my afternoon’s nap.

From four to six.— Walked into thefields. WindS.S.E.

From six to ten—At the club. Mr Nisby’s opinion
about the peace.

Ten o’clock— Went to bed. Slept sound.

‘Tuxspay, being holiday, eight o’clock.—Rose as usual.

Nine o’clock— Washed hands and face, shaved, put
on my double-soled shoes.

Ten, eleven, twelve.—Took a walk to Islington.

One.—Took a pot of Mother Cob’s mild.

Between two and three.—Returned. Dined on a
knuckle of veal and bacon.. Mem. Sprouts wanting.

‘Three.—Nap as usual.

From four to six.—Coffee-house.
A dish of twist.

Mem. Too

Read the news.
Grand vizier strangled.

From six to ten—At the club. Mr Nisby’s aceount
of the Great Turk.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 95

Ten.—Dream of the grand vizier. Broken sleep.

Wepnespay, eight o’clock.— Tongue of my shoe-
buckle broke. Hands, but not face.

Nine.—Paid off the butcher’s bill.
allowed for the last leg of mutton.

Ten, eleven.—At the coffee-house. More work in
the north. Stranger in a black wig asked me how
stocks went.

From twelve to one.—Walked in the fields.
to the south.

From one to two.—Smoked a pipe and a half.

T'wo.—Dined as usual. Stomach good.

Three.—Nap broke by the falling of a pewter dish.
Mem. Cook-maid in love, and grown careless.

From four to six.—At the coffee-house. Advice
from Smyrna, that the grand vizier was first of all
strangled and afterwards beheaded.

Six o’clock in the evening.— Was half an hour in the
club before any body else came. Mr Nisby of opinion
that the grand vizier was not strangled the sixth instant.

Ten at night.—Went to bed. Slept without waking
until nine next morning.

T'nurspAy, nine o’clock,—Staid within until two o’cloek
for Sir Timothy, who did not bring me my annuity
according to his promise.

Two in the afternoon.—Sat down to dinner.
appetite. Small-beer sour. Beef over-corned.

Three.—Could not take my nap.

Four and five-—Gave Ralph a box on the ear.
Turned off my cook-maid. Sent a message to Sir
Timothy. Mem. I ‘did not go to the club to-night.
Went to bed at nine o’clock.

F'r1pay.—Passed the morning in meditation upon Sir
Timothy, who was with me a quarter before twelve.

Lwelve o’clock.—Bought a new head to my cane, and
a tongue to my buckle. Drank a glass of purl to recover
appetite.

two and three.—Dined, and slept well.

From four to six.—Went to the coffee-house. Met
Mr Nisby there. Smoked several pipes. Mr Nisby of
opinion that laced coffee is bad for the head.

Six o’clock.—At the club as steward. Sat late.

Twelve o’clock—Weut to bed. Dreamed that I
drank small-beer with the grand vizier.

SATURDAY.— Waked at eleven. Walked in the fields.
Wind N.E.

One o’clock in the afternoon.—Returned home and
dried myself.

‘'wo.—Mr Nisby dined with me. First course, mar-
row bones; second, ox cheek, with a bottle of Brooks
and Hellier,

Three o’clock.—Overslept myself.

Six.— Went to the club. Like to have fallen into a
gutter. Grand vizier certainly dead.

Mem. To be

Wind

Loss of

IT question not but the reader will be surprised to find

the above-mentioned journalist taking so much care of

a life that was filled with such inconsiderable actions,

and received so very small improvements; and yet, if

we look into the behaviour of many whom we daily
converse with, we shall find that most of their hours
are taken up in those three important articles of eating,
drinking, and sleeping. Ido not suppose that a man
loses his time who is not engaged in public affairs, or
in an illustrious course of action. On the contrary, I
believe our hours may very often be more profitably
Jaid out in such transactions as make no figure in the
world, than in such as are apt to draw upon them the
attention of mankind. One may become wiser and
better by several methods of employing one’s self in
secrecy and silence, and do what is laudable without
noise or ostentation. I would, however, recommend to
every one of my readers the keeping a journal of their
lives for one week, and setting down punctually their
whole series of employments during that space of time.
This kind of self-examination would give them a true
state of themselves, and incline them to consider
seriously what they are about. One day would rectify

the omissions of another, and make a man weigh all

G

 

those indifferent actions, which, though they are easily
forgotten, must certainly be accounted for.

POPP PS POPPA LL ORIOLE

JOURNAL OF A WOMAN OF FASHION.

Tue journal with which I lately presented my reader
has brought me in several letters, with accounts of
many private lives cast into that form. Ihave “The
Rake’s Journal,” “The Sot’s Journal,” and among
several others, a very curious piece, entitled “ The
Journal of a Mohock.” By these instances, I find that
the intention of my late paper has been mistaken by
many of my readers. I did not design so much to
expose vice as idleness, and aimed at those persons who
pass away their time rather in trifles and impertinence,
than in crimes and immoralities. Offences of this latter
kind are not to be dallied with, or treated in so ludicrous
a manner. In short, my journal only holds up folly
to the light, and shows the disagreeableness of such
actions as are indifferent in themselves, and blameable
only as they proceed from creatures endowed with
reason.

My following correspondent, who calls herself Cla-
rinda, is such a journalist as I require. She seems,
by her letter, to be placed in a modish state of indif-
ference between vice and virtue, and to be susceptible
of either, were there proper pains taken with her.
Had her journal been filled with gallantries, or such
occurrences as had shown her wholly divested of her
natural innocence, notwithstanding it might have been
more pleasing to the generality of readers, I should not
have published it ; but as it is only the picture of a life
filled with a fashionable kind of gaiety and laziness, I
shall set down five days of it, as I have received it from
the hand of my fair correspondent.

“ Dear Mr Specrator—You having set your readers
an exercise in one of your last week’s papers, I have
performed mine according to your orders, and herewith
send it you enclosed. You must know, Mr Spectator,
that Iam a maiden lady of a good fortune, who have
had several matches offered me for these ten years last
past, and have at present warm applications made to
me by a very pretty fellow. As Iam at my own dis-
posal, I come up to town every winter, and pass my
time in it after the manner you will find in the follow-
ing journal, which I began to write upon the very day
alter your Spectator upon that subject.

Tuxspay night.—Could not go to sleep till one in the
morning for thinking of my journal.

Wepnespay, from eight till ten.—Drank two dishes
of chocolate in bed, and fell asleep after them.

From ten till eleven.—Ate a slice of bread and butter.
Drank a dish of bohea. Read the Spectator.

From eleven to one.—At my toilette. Tried a new
hood. Gave orders for Veny to be combed and washed.
Mem. I look best in blue.

Frorn one till half an hour after two.—Drove to the
’Change. Cheapened a couple of fans.

Tul four.—At dinner. Mem. Mr Froth passed by
in his new liveries.

From four to six.—Dressed. Paid a visit to old Lady
Blithe and her sister, having before heard they were
gone out of the town that day.

From six to eleven._—At Basset.
again upon the ace of diamonds.

THurspay, from eleven at night to eight in the
morning.—Dreamed that I punted to Mr Froth.

From eight to ten.—Chocolate. Read two acts in
Aurengzebe a-bed.

From ten till eleven.—Tea-table. Sent to borrow
Lady Faddle’s Cupid for Veny. Read the play-bills.
Received a letter trom Mr Froth. Locked it up in
my strong-box.

Rest of the morning.—Fontange. The tire-woman.
Her account of my Lady Blithe’s wash. Broke a tooth
in my little tortoise-shell comb. Sent Frank to know
how my Lady Hectick rested after her monkey’s leap-

NAT

Mem. Never set

   

__ Aenea ama Racin cane

sep aindiagmat ion Sa: 3 ay
_

OPT: TE ieisiny cslabaacaesi

ee

t

i
3ing out at the window. Looked pale. Fontange tells
me my glass is not true. Dressed by three.

From three to four—Dinner coid before I sat down.

From four to eleven.—Saw company. Mr Froth’s
opinion of Milton. His account of the Mohocks. His
fancy for a pin-cushion. Picture in the lid of his snuff-
box. Old Lady Faddle promises me her woman to eut
my hair. Lost five guineas at crimp.

Twelve o’clock at night.— Went to bed.

Fripay.—Eight in themorning. A-bed. Readover
all Mr Froth’s letters. Cupid and Veny.

Ten o’clock.—Staid within all day; not at home.

From ten to twelve.—In conference with my mantua-
maker. Sorted a suit of ribbons. Broke my blue china
cup.

From twelve to one.—Shut my self up in my chamber.
Practised Lady Betty Modley’s “skuttle.

One in the afternoon.—Called for my flowered hand-
kerchief. Worked half a violet leaf in it. Eyes ached,
and head out of order. Threw by my work, and read
over the remaining part of Aurengzebe.

From three to four.—Dined.

From four to twelve-—Changed my mind ; dressed,
went abroad, and played at crimp till midnight. Found
Mrs Spitely at home. Conversation. Mrs Brilliant’s
necklace false stones. Old Lady Loveday going to be
married to a young fellow that is not worth a groat.
Miss Prue gone into the country. Tom Townly has
red hair. Mem. Mrs Spitely whispered in my ear that
she had something to tell me about Mr Froth. Iam
sure it is not true.

Between twelve. and one.—Dreamed that Mr Froth
lay at my feet, and called me Indamora.

SaTuRDAy.—!Rase at eight o’clock in the morning.
Sat down to my toilette.

From eight to nine.—Shifted a patch for an hour
before I could determine it. Fixed it above my left
eye-brow.

From nine to twelve.«Drank my tea, and dressed.

From twelse to two.—At chapel. A great deal of

diiinyd2 Mem. The third air in the new opera.

 

 

   

Lady Bhi ‘dressed frightfully.

From* thee, to four.—Dined. Miss Kitty called
upon me ‘too to the opera before I was risen from
table.) 7s

From ‘dinner to six.—Drank tea.

man for being.rude to Veny.

Six o’clock.—Went to the opera. I did not see Mr
Froth till the beginning.of: the second ‘act. Mr Froth
talked toa gentleman i in'a-black wig: Bowed to a lady
in the front box. Mr Fvoth and “his friend clapped
Nicolini in‘ the third act. ‘Mr Froth cried ‘ Encore?’
Mr Froth led me to my chair. I think he squeezed
my hand.

Eleven at night.—Went to bed. Melancholy dreams.
Methought Nicolini said he was Mr Froth.

Sunpay. —Indisposed.

Monpay.—Hight o’clock. Walked by Miss Kitty.
Aurengzebe lay upon the chair by me. Kitty repeated
without book the eight-best lines in the play, Went in
our mobbs to the dumb man, ‘according to appointment.
Told me that my lover’s mame, be! an with aG. Mem.

Athi. wa lebter of, Mr Froth’s

Turned off a foot-

  
    

name.
ay apernal, I find that

hepner J pass my time well or
ill ; and, indeed: nt or ‘considering how I
did it before I perused’ your.’ ‘speculation upon that
subject. I scarce find @ singlé action in these five days
that I can thoroughly approve of, except the working
upon the violet-leaf, which I am resolved to finish the
first day I am at leisure. As for Mr Froth and

_- Veny, I did not think they took up so much of my time
_and thoughts, as I find they do upon my journal.
latter of fiom I will turn off, if you insist upon it ; and
if Mr Froth does not bring matters to a conclusion
““wery suddenly, I will not let my life run away in a
‘dream.

The

Your humble servant,
CLARINDA,””

 

96 ADDISON'S

To resume one of the morals of my first pape, and
to confirm Clarinda in her good inclinations, I would
have her consider what a pretty figure she would make
among posterity, were the history of her whole life
published like these five days of it. I shall conclude
my paper with an epitaph written by an uncertain
author on Sir Philip Sidney’s sister, a lady who seems
to have been of a temper very much different from
that of Clarinda. The last thought of it is so very
noble, that I dare say my reader will pardon me the
quotation.

ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE,
‘* Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:
Death, ere thou hast killed another,
Fair, and learned, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee,”

POPP DP GPL ESI LOLI DEDA

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY’S VISIT TO
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me the other night
that he had been “reading my paper upon Westminster
Ab bbey, “in which,” says he, “there are a great many
ingenious fancies. a He told me, at the same time, that he
obser ved I had promised another paper upon the tombs,
and that he should be glad to go and see them with me,
not having visited them since he had read history. I
could not at first imagine how this came into the knight’s
head, till I recollected that he had been very busy all
last summer upon Baker’s Chronicle, which he has
quoted several times in his disputes with Sir Andrew
Freeport since his last coming to town. Accordingly,
I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we
might go together to the Abbey.

I found the knight under the butler’s hands, who
always shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than
he called for a glass of the widow Truby’s water, which
he told me he always drank before he went abroad. He
recommended to me a dram of it at the same time, with
so much heartiness that I could not forbear drinking
it. As soon asI had got it down, I found it very unpa-
latable ; upon which the knight, observing that I had
made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should
not lke it at first, but that it was the best thing in the
world against the stone or gravel.

I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted
me with the virtues of it sooner; but it was too late to
complain, and I knew what he had done was out of
good will. Sir Roger told me further, that he looked
upon it to be very good for a man whilst he staid in
town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a
quantity of it upon the first news of the sickness being
at Dantzick: when of a sudden, turning short to one of
his servants, who stood behind him, he bade him call a
hackney-coach, and take care that it was an elderly
man that drove it.

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs Truby’s
water, telling me that the widow Truby was one who
did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries in
the country: that she distilled every poppy that grew
within five miles of her; that she distributed her
medicine gratis among all sorts of people ; to which the
knight added, that she had a very great jointure, and
that the whole country would fain have it a match
between him and her; “and truly,” says Sir Roger, “if
I had not been engaged, perhaps I[ could not have done
better.”

His discourse was broken off by his man’s telling him
he had called a coach. Upon our going to it, “after
having cast his eye upon the wheels, he asked the
coachman if his axletree was good. Upon the fellow’s
telling him he would warrant it, the knight turned to
me, told me he looked like an honest man, and went in
without further ceremony.

We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping outMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. oF

his head, ealled the coachman down from his box, and
upon presenting himself at the window, asked him if he
smoked, As I was considering what this would end in,
he bade him stop by the way at any good tobacconist’s,
and take in a roll of the best Virginia. Nothing
material happened in the remaining part of our journey,
till we were set down at the west end of the Abbey.

As we went up the body of the church, the knight
pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments,
and eried out, “ A brave-man, I warrant him!” Pass-
ing afterwards by Sir Cloudesley Shovel, he flung his
head that way, and cried, “ Sir Cloudesley Shovel! a
very gallant man!” As we stood before Busby’s tomb,
the knight uttered himself again after the same manner,
“Dr Busby! a great man! he whipped my grandfather ;
a very great man! I should have gone to him myself,
if I had not been a blockhead ; a very great man !”

We were immediately conducted into the little chapel
on the right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our
historian’s elbow, was very attentive to every thing he
said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord
who had cut off the king of Morocco’s head. Among
several other figures, he was very well pleased to see
the statesman Cecil upon his knees ; and concluding
them all to be great men, was conducted to the figure
which represents that martyr to good housewifery, who
died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter’s
telling us that she was a maid of honour to Queen
filizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name
and family; and after having regarded her finger for
some time, “JI wonder,” says he, “that Sir Richard
Baker has said nothing of her in his Chronicle.”

We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs,
where my old friend, after having heard that the stone
underneath the most ancient of them, which was brought

from Scotland, was called Jacob’s pillar, sat himself

down in the chair; and looking like the figure of an old
Gothic king, asked our interpreter, “ what authority
they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland 2”
The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told
him, “that he hoped his honour would pay his forfeit.”
I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon being
thus trepanned ; but our guide not insisting upon his
demand, the knight soon recovered his good humour,
and whispered in my ear, that “if Will Wimble were
with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard but
he would get a tobacco-stopper out of one or t?other of
them.’’

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon
Edward III.’s sword, and leaning upon the pommel of
it, gave us the whole history of the Black Prince; con-
cluding, thatin Sir Richard Baker’s opinion, Edward III.
was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the
English throne.

We were then shown Edward the Confessor’s tomb ;
upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that “ he was
the first who touched for the evil:” and afterwards
Henry IV.’s ; upon which he shook his head, and told
us “there was fine reading in the casualties of that
reign.”

Our conductor then pointed to that monument where
there is the figure of one of our English kings without
a head; and upon giving us to know that the head,
which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away several
years since; “Some Whig, I’ll warrant you,” says Sir
Roger ; “you ought to lock up your kings better; they
will carry off the body too, if you do not take care.”

The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth
gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of
doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, “who,” as our
knight observed with some surprise, “ had a great many
kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen in the
abbey.”

For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see
the knight show such an honest passion for the glory of
his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the
memory of its princes.

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old
friend, which flows out towards every one he converses

 

with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he
looked upon as an extraordinary man, for which reason
he shook him by the hand at parting, telling him, that
he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in
Norfolk Buildings, and talk over these matters with him
more at leisure.

PAPAPRAALAPAAARLADAARARSA

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT THE THEATRE.

My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met
together at the club, told me that he had a great mind
to see the new tragedy with me, assuring me, at the
same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty
years. “The last I saw,” said Sir Roger, “ was The
Committee, which I should not have gone to neither, had
not I been told beforehand that it was a good chureh-
of-England comedy.” He then proceeded to inquire of
me who this Distressed Mother was; and upon hearing
that she was Hector’s widow, he told me that her
husband was a brave man; and that when he was a
school-boy, he had read his life at the end of the
Dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next place, if
there would not be some danger in coming home late,
in case the Mohocks should be abroad. “I assure you,”
says he, “I thought I had fallen into their hands last
night ; for I observed two or three lusty black men that
followed me half way up Fleet Street, and mended their
pace behind me in proportion as I put cn to get away
from them. You must know,” continued the knight,
with a smile, “I fancied they hada mind to hunt me; for
I remember an honest gentleman in my neighbourhood
who was served such a trick in King Charles II.’s time,
for which reason he has not ventured himself in town
ever since. I might have shown them very good sport,
had this been their design; for as I am an old fox-
hunter, I should have turned and dogged, and have
played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in
their lives before.” Sir Roger added, that if these
gentlemen had any such intention, they did not sueceed
very wellinit; “for I threw them out,” says he, “at the
end of Norfolk Street, where I doubled the corner, and
got shelter in my lodgings before they could imagine
what was become of me. However,” says the knight, “if
Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night,
and if you will both of you call upon me about four
o’clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I
will have my coach in readiness to attend you; for John
tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended.”

The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the
appointed hour, bade Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he
had put on the same sword which he made use of at the
battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger’s servants, and among
the rest my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided
themselves with good oaken plants to attend their master
upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his
coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain before
him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the
rear, we conveyed him in safety to the playhouse, where,
atter having marched up the entry in good order, the
captain and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt
us in the pit. As soon as the house was full, and the
candles lighted, my old friend stood up and looked about
him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned with
humanity naturally feels in itself at the sight of a mul-
titude of people who seem pleased with one another,
and partake of the same ¢ommon entertainment, JT
could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up
in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper
centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of
Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not believe
the king of France himself had a better strut. I was,
indeed, very attentive to my old friend’s remarks,
because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criti-
cism, and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclu-
sion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not
imagine how the play would end, One while he appeared
much concerned for Andromache, and a little while
after as much for Hermione, and was extremely puzzled
to think what would become of Pyrrhus.

nena tht eh A ee one «.of Hyithus’s death; and at the conclusion of it, told me

98

When Sir Roger saw Andromache’s obstinate refusal
to her lover’s importunities, he whispered me in the
ear, that he was sure she would never have him ; to
which he added, witha more than ordinary vehemence,
“ ‘You can’t imagine, Sir, what it is to have to do with 4
widow.” Upon Pyrrhus threatening afterwards to
leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to
himself, “ Ay, do if you ean.” This part dwelt so much
upon my friend’s imagination, that, at the close of the
third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whis-
pered me in my ear, “ These widows, Sir, are the most
perverse creatures in the world. But pray,” says he,
* you that are a critic, is the play according to your
dramatic rules, as you call them? “Should your people
in tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there
is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know
the meaning of.”

The fourth act very luckily began before I had time

to give the old gentleman an answer, “ Well,” says
the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, “ I

suppose we are now to see Hector’s ghost.” He then
renewed his attention, and from time to time fell to
praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake
as to one of her pages, whom, at his first entering, he
took for Astyanax ; but quickly set himself, right in

~ that particular, although he admitted that he should
have been very glad to have seen the little boy ; “who,”
says he, “must needs bea very fine child, by the account
that is given of him.” Upon Hermione’s going off with
a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap,
to which Sir Roger added, “On my word, a notable
young baggage !”

As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness
in the audience during the whole action, it was natural
for them to take the opportunity of the intervals between
the acts to express their opinion of the players, and of
their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of
them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them,
that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible
man. As they were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus,
Sir, Roger put in a second time; “and Jet me tell
you,” says he,. “though he speaks but little, I like
the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.”
Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags who sat near
‘us, lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and
fearing lest they should smoke the knight, plucked him
by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear, that
lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The knight was

wonderfully attentive to the account which Orestes gives

 

it, was:such a bloody piece of work, that he was glad it
was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes
in his vaving fit, he grew more than ordinarily serious,
and tek occasion to moralise (in his way) upon an evil
conscience, adding, that Orestes in his madness looked
as if he saw something.

As we were the first that came into the house, so we
were the last that went out of it, being resolved to have
a clear passage for our old friend, whom we did not
care to venture among the justling of the crowd. Sir
Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment,
and we guarded him to his lodging in the same manner
that we brought him to the playhouse; being highly
pleased, formy own part, not only with the performance
of the excellent piece which had been presented, but
with the satisfaction it had given to the old man.

we

 

LODL LID PILE

TRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS.

Witt Honeycoms, who loves to show upon occasion all
the little learning he has picked up, told us yesterday
at the club, that he thought there might be a great
deal said for the transmigration of souls, and that the
eastern parts of the world believed in that doctrine to
this day. “Sir Paul Rycaut,” says he, “gives us an
account of several well-disposed Mahometans that pur-
chase the freedom of any little bird they see confined

ADDISON’S

should do here by ransoming any of our countrymen
from their captivity at Algiers. You must know,” says
Will, “ the reason is, because they consider every animal
as a brother or sister in disguise, and therefore think
themselves obliged to extend their charity to them,
though under such mean circumstances. They will
tell you,” says Will, “that the soul of a man when he
dies, immediately passes into the body of another man,
or of some brute which he resembled in his humour or
his fortune when he was one of us.”

As I was wondering what this profusion of learning
would end in, Will told us that Jack Freelove, who was
a fellow of whim, made love to one of those ladies who
throw away all their fondness on parrots, monkeys, and
lapdogs. Upon going to pay her a visit one morning, he
wrote a very pretty epistle on this hint. “Jack,” says
he, “ was conducted into the parlour, where he diverted
himself for some time with her favourite monkey, which
was chained in one of the windows, till at length, observ-
ing a pen and ink lie by him, he wrote the following
letter to his mistress in the person of the monkey ; and
upon her not coming down so soon as he expected, left
it in the window, and went about his business.

The lady soon after coming into the parlour, and
seeing her monkey look upon a paper with great ear-
nestness, took it up ; “and to this day is in some doubt,”
says Will, “whether it was written by Jack or the
monkey.”

“ Mapam—Not having the gift of speech, I have a

long time waited in vain for an opportunity of making
myself known to you; and having at present the con-
veniences of pen, ink, and paper, by me, I gladly take
the oceasion of giving you my history in writing, which
I could not do by word of mouth. You must know,
Madam, that about a thousand years ago I was an
Indian Brahmin, and versed in all those mysterious
seerets which your Huropean philosopher called Pytha-
goras is said to have learned from our fraternity. I
had so ingratiated myself by my great skill in the occult
sciences, with a demon whom I used to converse with,
that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask
of him. I desired that my soul might never pass into
the body of a brute creature; but this he told me was
not in his power to grant me. T then begged, that into
whatever creature I chanced to transmigrate, I might
still retain my memory, and be conscious that I was the
same person who lived in different animals. This, he
told me, was within his power, and accordin gly promised,
on the word of a demon, that he would grant me what
I desired. From that time forth I lived so very un-
blameably, that I was made president of a college of
Brahmins, an office which [ discharged with great
integrity till the day of my death.
I was then shuffled into another human body, and
acted my part so well in it, that I became first mihister
to a prince who reigned upon the banks of the Ganges.
I here lived in great honour for several years ; but by
degrees lost all the innocence of the Brahmin, being
obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my
sovereign ; till at length I became so odious, that my
master, to recover his eredit with his subjects, shot me
through the heart with an arrow, as I was one day
addressing myself to him at the head of his army.

Upon my next remove, i found m yself in the woods
under the shape of a jackal, and soon listed myself in
the service of alion. [ used to yelp near his den about
midnight, which was his time of rousing and seeking
after prey. He always followed me in the rear; and
when I had run down a fat buck, a wild goat, ora hare,
after he had feasted very plentifully on it himself, would
now and then throw me a bone that was but half picked
for my encouragement ; but upon my being unsuccessful
in two or three chases, he gave me such a confounded
gripe in his anger, that I died of it.

In my next transmigration, I was again set upon legs,
and became an Indian tax-gatherer ; but having been
guilty of great extravagances, and being married to an
expensive jade of a wife, I ran so cursedly in debt, that

 

to a cage, and think they merit as much by it as we

I durst not show my head. I could no sooner step outMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

of my house, but I was arrested by somebody or other
that lay in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one
night in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up and
hurried into a dun geon, where I died a few months after.

My soul then entered into a flying-fish, and in that
state led a most melancholy life for the space of six
years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I was
in the water ; and if I betook myself to my wings, it
was ten to one but I had a flock of birds aiming at me.
As I was one day flying amidst a fleet of English ships,
I observed a huge sea-gull whetting his bill and hovering
just over my head. Upon my dipping into the water to
avoid him, I fell into the mouth of a monstrous shark
that swallowed me down in an instant.

I was some years afterwards, to my great surprise,
an eminent banker in Lombard Street ; and remembering
how I had formerly suffered for want of money, became
SO very sordid and avaricious, that the whole town cried
shame of me. I was a miserable little old fellow to look
upon; for I had in a manner starved myself, and was
nothing but skin and bone when I died.

I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed to
find myself dwindled into an emmet. T was heartily
concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did not
know but some time or other I might be reduced to a
mite, if I did not mend my manners. I therefore
applied myself with great diligence to the offices that
were allotted me, and was generally looked upon as the
most notable ant in the whole molehill. I was at last
picked up, as I was groaning under a burden, by an
unlucky cock-sparrow that lived in the neighbourhood,
and had before made great depredations upon our
commonwealth.

I then bettered my condition a little, and lived a
whole summer in the shape of a bee ; but being tired
with the painful and penurious life I had undergone in
my two last transmigrations, I fell into the other
extreme, and turned drone. As I one day headed a

party to plunder a hive, we were received so wa emily

by the swarm which defended it, that we were most of

us left dead upon the spot.

I might tell you of many other transmigrations
which ] went through; how I was a town rake, and
afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten years 5
as also how I was a tailor, a shrimp, and a tomtit. In
the last of these my shapes, I was shot in the Christmas
holidays by a young jackanapes, who would needs try
his new gun upon me.

But I shall pass over these, and several other stages
of life, to remind you of the young beau who made
love to you about six yearssince. You may remember,
Madam, how he masked, and danced, and sang, and
played a thousand tricks to gain you ; and how he was
at last carried off by a cold that he got under your
window one night ina serenade. I was that unfortunate
young fellow to whom you were then so cruel. Not
long after. my shifting that unlucky body, I found
myself upon a hill in Avthiopia, where I lived in my
present grotesque shape, till 1 was caught by a servant
of the English factory, and sent over into Great Britain.
1 need not inform you how I came into your hands.
You see, Madam, this is not the first time that you
have had me ina chain. Iam, however, very happy
in this my captivity, as you often bestow on me those
kisses and caresses which I would have given the
world for when I was a man. I hope this discovery of
my person will not tend to my disadvantage, but that
you will still continue your accustomed favours to your
most devoted humble servant, Puce.

P.S.—I would advise your little shock-dog to keep
out of my way; for as I look upon him to be the most
formidable of my. rivals, I may chance one time or other
to give him.such.a snap as he will not like.”

snwreserecrecnane ce
THE DISREGARD OF DEATH.
I am very much pleased with a consolatory letter of

Phalaris, to one who had-lost a son that was a young
man of great merit, The thought with which he

 

99

comforts the afflicted father is, to the best of my
memory, as follows:—That he should consider death
had set a kind of seal upon his son’s character, and
placed him out of the reach of vice and infamy. That
while he lived, he was still within the possibility of
falling away from virtue, and losing the fame of which
he was possessed. Death only closes a man’s reputation,
and determines it as good or bad.

This, among other motives, may be one reason why
we are naturally averse to the launching out into a
man’s praise till his head is laid in the dust. Whilst he
is capable of changing, we may be forced to retract our
opinions. He may forfeit the ésteem we have conceived
of him, and some time or other appear to us under a
different light from what he does at present. In short,
as the life of any man cannot be called happy or
unhappy, so neither can it be pronounced vicious or
virtuous before the conclusion of it.

It was upon this consideration that Epaminondas,
being asked whether Chabrias, Iphicrates, or he himself,
deserved most to be esteemed? “ You must first see us
die,” saith he, “before that question can be answered.”

As there is nota more melancholy consideration toa
good man than his being obnoxious to such a change,
so there is nothing more glorious than to keep up a
uniformity in his actions, and preserve the beauty of
his character to the last.

The end of a man’s life is often compared to the
winding up of a well-written play, where the principal
persons still act in character, whatever the fate is which
they undergo. There is searce a great person in the
Grecian or Roman history, whose death has not been
remarked upon by some writer or other, and censured
or applauded according to the genius or principles of
the person who has deseanted on it. Monsieur de St
Evremond is very particular in setting forth the con-
stancy and courage of Petronius Arbiter during his
last moments, and thinks he discovers in them a greater
firmness of mind and resolution than in the death ot
Seneca, Cato, or Socrates. There is no question but
this polite author’s affectation of appearing singular in
his remarks, and making discoveries which had escaped
the observation of others, threw him into this course of
reflection. It was Petronius’s merit, that he died in
the same gaiety of temper in which he lived; but as
his life was altogether loose and dissolute, the indiffe-
rence which he showed at the close of it is to be looked
upon as a piece of natural carelessness and levity,
rather than fortitude. The resolution of Socrates
proceeded from very different motives—the conscious-
ness of a well-spent life, and the prospect of a happy
eternity. If the ingenious author above mentioned was
So pleased with gaiety of humour in a dying man, he
might have found a much nobler instance of it in our
countryman Sir Thomas More.

This great and learned man was famous for enlivenin g
his ordinary discourses with wit and pleasantry ; and,
as Erasmus tells him in an epistle dedicatory, acted in
all parts of life like a second Democritus,

He died upon a point of religion, and is respected as
a martyr by that side for which he suffered. That
innocent mirth, which had been so conspicuous in his
lite, did not forsake him to the last. He maintained
the same cheerfulness of heart upon the scaffold which
he used to show at his table; and upon laying his head
on the block, gave instances of that good humour with
which he had always entertained his friends in the most
ordinary occurrences. His death was of a piece with
his life. There was nothing in it new, forced, or affected,
He did not look upon the severing his head from his
body as a circumstance that ought to produce any
change in the disposition of his minds and as. he died
under a fixed and settled hope. of immortality, he
thought any unusual degree of sorrow and concern
improper on such an occasion as had nothing in it
which could deject or terrify him. 2

There is no great danger “ef imitation. from this
example. Men’s natural fears*.will he a sufficient
guard against it. I shall only obsel'¥vey..that what wasChet et bated tel eli erate) sae keke tA

100

philosophy in this extraordinary man, would be phrensy
in one who does not resemble him, as well in the cheer-
fulness of his temper as in the sanctity of his life and
manners.

I shall conclude this paper with the instance of a
person who seems to me to have shown more intrepidity
and greatness of soul in his dying moments, than what
we meet with among any of the most celebrated Greeks
and Romans. I met with this instance in the History
of the Revolutions in Portugal, written by the Abbot de
Vertot.

When Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, had invaded
the territories of Muli Molue, Emperor of Morocco, in
order to dethrone him and set his crown upon the head
of his nephew, Molue was wearing away with a dis-
temper which he himself knew wasincurable. However,
he prepared for the reception of so formidable an
enemy. He was, indeed, so far spent with his sickness,
that he did not expect to live out the whole day, when
the last decisive battle was given; but knowing the
fatal consequences that would happen to his children
and people in case he should die before he put an end
to that war, he commanded his principal officers, that
if he died during the engagement, they should conceal
his death from the army, and that they should ride up
to the litter in which his corpse was carried, under
pretence of receiving orders from him as usual. Before
the battle began, he was carried through all the ranks
of his army inan open litter, as they stood drawn up in
array, encouraging them to fight valiantly in defence of
their religion and country. Finding afterwards the
battle to go against him, though he was very near his
last agonies, he threw himself out of his litter, rallied
his army, and led them on to the charge, which after-
wards ended in a complete victory on the side of the
Moors. He had no sooner brought his men to the
engagement, but finding himself utterly spent, he was
again replaced in his litter, where, laying his finger on
his mouth to enjoin secrecy to his officers who stood
about him, he died in a few moments after in that
posture,

PE PPOP OP HO OP OLOLES OA

UNJUST REPROACHES.

I wave been very often tempted to write invectives
upon those who have detracted from my works, or
spoken in derogation of my person; but I look upon it
as a particular happiness, that I have always hindered
my resentments from proceeding to this extremity. I
once had gone through half a satire, but found so many
emotions of humanity rising in me towards the persons
whom I had severely treated, that I threw it into the
fire without ever finishing it: I have been angry enough
to make several little epigrams and lampoons; and
after having admired them a day or two, have likewise
committed them. to the flames. These I look upon
as so. many sacrifices to humanity, and have received
much greater satisfaction from the suppressing such
performances than I could have done from any reputa-
tion they might have procured me, or from any morti-
fication they might have given my enemies, in case I
had made them public. If a man has any talent in
writing, it shows a good mind to forbear answering
calumnies and reproaches in the same spirit of bitter-
ness with which they are offered. But when a man has
been at some pains in making suitable returns to an
enemy, and has the instruments of revenge in his hands,
to let drop his wrath and stifle his resentments, seems
to have something in it great and heroical. There isa
particular merit in such a way of forgiving an enemy ;
and the more violent and unprovoked the offence has
been, the greater still is the merit of him who thus

-. forgives it.

I never met with a consideration that is more finely
spun, and what has better pleased me, than one in Epic-
tetus, which places an enemy in a new light, and gives
us a view of him altogether different from that in which
we are used to regard him. The sense of it is as fol-
lows :-Does a. man reproach thee for being proud or ill

 

ADDISON'S

natured, envious or conceited, ignorant or detracting ;
consider with thyself whether his reproaches are true.
If they are not, consider that thou art not the person
whom he reproaches, but that he reviles an imaginary
being, and perhaps loves what thou really art, though
he hates what thou appearest to be. If his reproaches
are true—if thou art the envious, ill-natured man he
takes thee for, give thyself another turn—become mild,
affable, and obliging—and his reproaches of thee natu-
‘ally cease. His reproaches may indeed continue, but
thou art no longer the person whom he reproaches.

I often apply this rule to myself; and when I hear
of a satirical speech or writing that is aimed at me, I
examine my own heart whether I deserve it or not.
If I bring in a verdict against myself, I endeavour to
rectify my conduct for the future in those particulars
which have drawn the censure upon me; but if the
whole invective be grounded upon a falsehood, I trouble
myself no further about it, and look upon my name at
the head of it to signify no more than one of those ficti-
tious names made use of by an author to introduce an
imaginary character. Why should a man be sensible
of the sting of a reproach who is a stranger to the guilt
that is implied in it? or subject himself to the penalty,
when he knows he has never committed the crime ?
This is a piece of fortitude which every one owes to his
own innocence, and without which it is impossible for
aman of any merit or figure to live at peace with
himself, in a country that abounds with wit and liberty.

The famous Monsieur Balzac, in a letter to the
chancellor of France, who had prevented the publica-
tion of a book against him, has the following words,
which are a lively picture of the greatness of mind so
visible in the works of that author :—“ If it was a new

‘thing, it may be I should not be displeased with the

suppression of the first libel that shouldabuse me; but
since there are enough of them to make a small library,
I am secretly pleased to see the number increased, and
take delight in raising a heap of stones that envy has
east at me without doing me any harm.”

The author here alludes to those monuments of the
eastern nations, which were mountains of stones raised
upon the dead bodies by travellers, that used to cast
every one his stone upon it as they passed by. It is
certain that no monument is so glorious as one which
is thus raised by the hands of envy. For my part, I
admire an author for such a temper of mind as enables
him to bear an undeserved reproach without resent-
ment, more than for all the wit of any the finest satirical
reply.

Thus far I thought necessary to explain myself in
relation to those who have animadverted on this paper,
and to show the reasons why I have not thought fit to
return them any formal answer. I must further add,
that the work would have been of very little use to the
public had it been filled with personal reflections and
debates; for which reason I have never once turned
out of my way to observe those little cavils which have
been made against it by envy or ignorance. The com-
mon fry of scribblers, who have no other way of being
taken notice of but by attacking what has gained some
reputation in the world, would have furnished me with
business enough had they found me disposed to enter
the lists with them.

I shall conclude with the fable of Boccalini’s traveller,
who was so pestered with the noise of grasshoppers in
his ears, that he alighted from his horse in great wrath
to kill them all. “ This,” says the author, “ was
troubling himself to no manner of purpose. Had he
pursued his journey without taking notice of them,
the troublesome insects would have died of themselves
in a very few weeks, and he would have suffered nothing
from them.”

Con

 

PILDIA

ON CAT-CALLS.

I wave lately received the following letter from a
country gentleman :—
* Mr Sprcrator—The night before I left London, IMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

went to see a play called the ‘ Humorous Lieutenant,’
Upon the rising of the curtain, I was very much sur-
prised with the great concert of cat-calls which was
exhibited that evening, and began to think with myself
that I had madea mistake, and gone to a music meeting
instead of the playhouse. It appeared, indeed, a little odd
to me to see so many persons of quality of both sexes
assembled together at a kind of caterwauling; for I
cannot look upon that performance to have been any
thing better, whatever the musicians themselves might
think of it. As I had no acquaintance in the house to
ask questions of, and was forced to go out of town early
the next morning, I could not learn the secret of this
matter. What I would, therefore, desire of you, is to
give me some account of this strange instrument, which
I found the company called a eat-call ; and particularly,
to let me know whether it be a piece of music lately
come from Italy. For my own part, to be plain with
you, I would rather hear an English fiddle; though I
durst not show my dislike whilst I was in the play-
house, it being my chance to sit the very next man to
one of the performers. I am, Sir, your most affectionate
friend and servant, JOHN SHALLOW, Esq.”

In compliance with Squire Shallow’s request, I design
this paper as a dissertation upon the eat-call. In order
to make myself a master of the subject, I purchased
one the beginning of last week, though not without great
difficulty, being informed at two or three toyshops that
the players had lately bought them allup. I have since
consulted many learned antiquaries in relation to its
original, and find them very much divided among them-
selves upon that particular. A Fellow of the Royal
Society, who is my friend, and a great proficient in the
mathematical part of music, concludes, from the simpli-
city of its make, and the uniformity of its sound, that
the cat-call is older than any of the inventions of Jubal.

He observes very well, that musical instruments took
their first rise from the notes of birds, and other melo-
dious animals ; “ and what,’ says he, “was more natural
than for the first ages of mankind to imitate the voice
of a cat, that lived under the same roof with them?”
He added, that the cat had contributed more to har-
mony than any other animal; as we are not only be-
holden to her for this wind instrument, but for our
string-music in general.

Another virtuoso of my acquaintance will not allow
the ecat-call to be older than Thespis, and is apt to think
it appeared in the world soon after the ancient comedy ;
for which reason it has still a place in our dramatic
entertainments. Nor must I here omit what a very
curious gentleman, who is lately returned from his
travels, has more than once assured me, namely, that
there was lately dug up at Rome the statue of a Momus,
who holds an instrument in his right hand very much
resembling our modern cat-call.

There are others who ascribe this invention to
Orpheus, and look upon the cat-call to be one of those
instruments which that famous musician made use of
to draw the beasts about him. It is certain that the
roasting of a cat does not call together a greater audience
of that species than this instrument, if dexterously
played upon in proper time and place.

But notwithstanding these various and learned con-
jectures, I cannot forbear thinking that the cat-call is
originally a piece of English music. Its resemblance
to the voice of some of our British songsters, as well
as the use of it, which is peculiar to our nation, confirms
me in this opinion. It has at least received great
improvements among us, whether we consider the
instrument itself, or those several quavers and graces
which are thrown into the playing of it. Every one
might be sensible of this who heard that remarkable
overgrown cat-call which was placed in the centre of
the pit, and presided over all the rest, at the celebrated
performance lately exhibited in Drury Lane.

Having said thus much concerning the original of
the cat-call, we are in the next place to consider the
use of it, The cat-call exerts itself to most advantage

 

10k

in the British theatre. It very much improves the
sound of nonsense, and often goes along with the voice
of the actor who pronounces it, as the violin or harpsi-
chord accompanies the Italian recitativo.

It has often supplied the place of the ancient chorus,
in the words of Mr * * *, In short, a bad poet has as
great an antipathy to a cat-call as many people have to
a real cat.

Mr Collier, in his ingenious essay upon music, has
the following passage :—

“ I believe it is possible to invent an instrument that
shall have a quite contrary effect to those martial ones
now in use—an instrument that shall sink the spirits,
and shake the nerves, and curdle the blood, and inspire
despair, and cowardice, and consternation, at a sur-
prising rate. ’Tis probable the roaring of lions, the
warbling of cats and sereech-owls, together with a
mixture of the howling of dogs, judiciously imitated and
compounded, might go a great way in this invention.
Whether such anti-music as this might not be of ser-
vice in a camp, I shall leave to the military men to
consider.”

What this learned gentleman supposes in speculation,
I have known actually verified in practice. The cat-
call has struck a damp into generals, and frightened
heroes off the stage. At the first sound of it I have
Seen a crowned head tremble, and a princess fall into
fits. The humorous lieutenant himself could not stand
it. Nay, I am told that even Almanzor looked like a
mouse, and trembled at the voice of this terrifying
instrument.

As it is of a dramatic nature, and peculiarly appro-
priated to the stage, I can by no means approve the
thought of that angry lover, who, after an unsuccessful
pursuit of some years, took leave of his mistress in a
serenade of cat-calls.

I must conclude this paper with the account I have
lately received of an ingenious artist who has long
studied this instrument, and is very well versed in all
the rules of the drama. He teaches to play on it by
book, and to express by it the whole art of criticism.
He has his bass and his treble cat-call, the former for
tragedy, the latter for comedy ; only, in tragi-comedies
they may both play together in concert. He has a
particular squeak to denote the violation of each of the
unities, and has different sounds to show whether he
aims at the poet or the player. In short, he teaches
the smut note, the fustian note, the stupid note; and
has composed a kind of air that may serve as an act-
tune to an incorrigible, play, and which takes in the
whole compass of the cat-call.

 

A HUMORIST.
I sHaLL communicate to my reader the following letter
for the entertainment of this day :—

“S1r—You know very well that our nation is more
famous for that sort of men who are called whims and
humorists, than any other country in the world; for
which reason it is observed, that our English comedy
excels that of all other nations in the novelty and variety
of its characters.

Among those innumerable sets of whims which our
country produces, there are none whom I have regarded
with more curiosity than those who have invented any
particular kind of diversion for the entertainment of
themselves or their friends. My letter shall single out
those who take delight in sorting a company that has
something of burlesque and ridicule in its appearance.
I shall make myself understood by the following ex-
ample, One of the wits of the last age, who was a man
of a good estate, thought he never laid out his money
better than in a jest. As he was one year at Bath,
observing that in the great confluence of fine people
there were several among them with long chins, a part
of the visage by which he himself was very much dis-
tinguished, he invited to dinner half a score of these
remarkable persons who had their mouths in the middle

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st eioncaen ae rshof their faces. They had no sooner placed themselves
about the table, but they began to stare upon one an-
other, not being able to imagine what had brought them
together. Our English proverb says,

*°Tis merry in the hall

When beards wag all.’

It proved so in the assembly I am now speaking of,
who, seeing so many peaks of faces agitated with eating,
drinking, and discourse, and observing all the chins that
were present meeting together very often over the centre
of the table, every one grew sensible of the jest, and
gave into it with so much good humour, that they lived
in strict friendship and alliance from that day forward.

The same gentleman some time after packed together
a set of Oglers, as he called them, consisting of such as
had an unlucky cast in their eyes. His diversion on
this occasion was to see the cross bows, mistaken signs,
and wrong connivances, that passed amidst so many
broken and refracted rays of light.

The third feast which this merry gentleman exhi-
bited was to the Stammerers, whom he got together in
a sufficient body to fill his table. He had ordered one
of his servants, who was placed behind a screen, to
write down their table-talk, which was very easy to be
done without the help of short-hand. It appears by
the notes which were taken, that though their conver-
sation never fell, there were not above twenty words
spoken during the first course; that upon serving up
the second, one of the company was a quarter of an
hour in telling them that the ducklings and asparagus
were very good; and that another took up the same
time in declaring himself of the same opinion. This
jest did not, however, go off so well as the former; for
one of the guests being a brave man, and fuller of
resentment than he knew how to express, went out of
the room, and sent the facetious inviter a challenge in
writing, which, though it was afterwards dropped by the
interposition of friends, puta stop to these ludicrous
entertainments.

Now, Sir, I dare say you will agree with me, that as

there is no moral in these jests, they ought to be dis-
couraged, and looked upon rather as pieces of unlucki-
ness than wit. However, as it is natural for one man
to refine upon the thought of another, and impossible
for any single person, how great soever his parts may
be, to invent an art, and bring it to its utmost perfection,
I shall here give you an account of an honest gentlemar
of my acquaintance, who, upon hearing the character
of the wit above mentioned, has himself assumed it, and
endeavoured to convert it to the benefit of mankind. He
invited half a dozen of his friends to dinner, who were
each of them famous for inserting several redundant
phrases in their discourse, as ‘ D’ye hear me” ‘D’ye
see? “That is,’ and ‘So, Sir.’ Each of his guests making
frequent use of his particular eloquence, appeared so
ridiculous to his neighbour, that he could not but reflect
upon himself as appearing equally ridiculous to the vest
of the company. By this means, before they had sat
long together, every one talking with the greatest cir-
cumspection, and carefully avoiding his favourite exple-
tive, the conversation was cleared of its redundancies,
and had a greater quantity of sense, though less of sound
ain it.

The same well-meaning gentleman took occasion, at
another time, to bring together such of his friends as
were addicted to a foolish habitual custom of swearing.
In order to show them the absurdity of the practice, he
had recourse to the invention above mentioned, having
placed an amanuensis in a private part of the room.
After the second bottle, when men open their minds
without reserve, my honest friend began to take notice
of the many sonorous but unnecessary words that had
passed in his house since their sitting down at table,
and how much good conversation they had lost by giving
way to such superfluous phrases. ‘ What a tax,’ says
he, ‘would they have raised for the poor, had we put
the laws in execution upon one another!’ Hivery one
of them took this gentle reproof in good part. Upon

102 ADDISON'S

| would have no seerets in it, he had ordered it to be
taken down in writing, and for the humour’s sake would
read it to them, if they pleased. There were ten sheets
of it, which might have been reduced to two, had there
not been those abominable interpolations I have before
mentioned. Upon the reading of it in cold blood, it
looked rather like a conference of fiends than of men.
In short, every one trembled at himself upon hearing
calmly what he had pronounced amidst the heat and
inadvertency of discourse.

I shall only mention another occasion wherein he
made use of the same invention to cure a different kind
of men, who are the pests of all polite conversation,
and murder time as much as either of the two former,
though they do it more innocently; I mean that dull
generation of story-tellers. My friend got together
about halfa dozen of his acquaintance who were infected
with this strange malady. ‘The first day, one of them,
sitting down, entered upon the siege of Namur, which
lasted till four o’clock, their time of parting. The second
day, a North Briton took possession of the discourse,
which it was impossible to get out of his hands so long
as the company staid together. The third day was
engrossed after the same manner by a story of the same
length. They at last began to reflect upon this barba-
rous way of treating one another, and by this means
awakened out of that lethargy with which each of them
had been seized for several years.

As you have somewhere declared that extraordinary
and uncommon characters of mankind are the game
which you delight in, and as I look upon you to be the
greatest sportsman, or, if you please, the Nimrod among
this species of writers, I thought this discovery would
not be unacceptable to you. I am, Sir,” &c.

PPPPLP OP LIDS ILIA ON

LOVE’S BILL OF MORTALITY.

Love was the mother of poetry, and still produces,
among the most ignorant and barbarous, a thousand
imaginary distresses and poetical complaints. It makes
a footman talk like Oroondates, and converts a brutal
rustic into a gentle swain. The most ordinary plebeian
or mechanic in love bleeds and pines away with a certain
elegance and tenderness of sentiment which this passion
naturally inspires.

These inward languishings of a mind infected with
this softness, have given birth to a phrase which is
made use of by all the melting tribe, from the highest
to the lowest—I mean that of dying for love.

Romances, which owe their very being to this passion,
are full of these metaphorical deaths. Heroes and
heroines, knights, squires, and damsels, are all of them
in a dying condition. There is the same kind of mor-
tality in our modern tragedies, where every one gasps,
faints, bleeds, and dies. Many of the poets, to describe
the execution which is done by this passion, represent
the fair sex as basilisks that destroy with their eyes;
but I think Mr Cowley has with greater justness of
thought compared a beautiful woman to a porcupine,
that sends an arrow from every part.

I have often thought that there is no way so effectual
for the cure of this general infirmity, as a man’s
reflecting upon the motives that produce it. When
the passion proceeds from the sense of any virtue or
perfection in the person beloved, I would by no means
discourage it; but if aman considers that all his heavy
complaints of wounds and deaths arise from some little
affectation of coquetry, which are improved into charms
by his own fond imagination, the very laying before
himself the cause of his distemper may be sufficient to
effect the cure of it.

It is in this view that I have looked over the several
bundles of letters which I have received from dying
people, and composed out of them the following bill of
mortality, which J shall lay before my reader without
any further preface, as hoping that it may be useful to
him in discovering those several places where there is
most danger, and those fatal arts which are made use of

 

which he told them, that knowing their conversation

 

to destroy the heedless and unwary :—

  

  
    
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
  
    
   
  
   
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
    
  
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
 
  
  
  
 

 

pis ieeeMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Lysander, slain at a puppet-show on the 3d of Sep-
tember.

Thirsis, shot from a casement in Piceadilly.

T. 5. wounded by Zelinda’s scarlet stocking, as she
was stepping out of a coach.

Will Simple, smitten at the opera by the glance of an
eye that was aimed at one who stood by him.

Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball.

Tim Tattle, killed by the tap of a fan on his left
shoulder by Coquetilla, as he was talking carelessly with
her in a bow-window.

Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the playhouse in
Drury-Lane by a frown.

Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora as she was
adjusting her tucker.

Ralph Gapley, Esq. hit by a random shot at the ring.

F. R. caught his death upon the water April the Ist.

W. W. killed by an unknown hand that was playing
with the glove off upon the side of the front box in
Drury-Lane.

Sir Christopher Crazy, Bart., hurt by the brush of a
whalebone petticoat.

Sylvius, shot through the sticks of a fan at St James’s
church.

Damon, struck through the heart by a diamond neck-
lace.

Thomas Trusty, Francis Goosequill, William Mean-
well, Edward Callow, Esqrs. standing in a row, fell all
four at the same time by an ogle of the widow Trap-
land.

Tom Rattle, chancing to tread upon a lady’s tail as
he came out of the play-house, she turned full upon
him and laid him dead upon the spot.

Dick Tastewell, slain by a blush from the Queen’s
box in the third act of The Trip to the Jubilee.

Samuel Felt, haberdasher, wounded in his walks to
Islington by Mrs Susanna Cross-stitech, as she was
clambering over a stile.

KR. ff... 1. W., 8S. I. M. P., &c. put to: death in the
last birth-day massacre.

roger Blinko, cut off in the twenty-first year of his
age by a whitewash.

Musidorus, slain by an arrow that flew out of a dimple
in Belinda’s left cheek.

Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove (which
she had dropped on purpose), she received it, and took
away his life with a curtsey.

John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a
pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was
dispatched by a smile.

Strephon, killed by Clarinda as she looked down into
the pit.

Charles Careless, shot flying by a girl of fifteen, who
unexpectedly popped her head upon him out of a coach.

Josiah Wither, aged threescore and three, sent to his
long home by Elizabeth Jetwell, spinster.

Jack Freelove, murdered by Melissa in her hair.

William Wiseacre, gent., drowned in a flood of tears
by Moll Common.

John Pleadwell, Esq. of the Middle Temple, barrister
at law, assassinated in his chambers on the 6th instant
by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come to him for his
advice.

DPI LODP EPL P OP POLI PLD

CHEERFULNESS AS A MORAL HABIT OF
THE MIND.

I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The
jatter I consider as an act, the former as a habit, of the
mind. Mirth is short and transient ; cheerfulness fixed
and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest
transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest
depressions of melancholy. On the contrary, cheerful-
ness, though it does not give the mind such an exquisite
gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of
sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks
through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment ;
cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind,

and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

 

103

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too
wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as
filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart
that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment
obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this
complexion have observed, that the sacred person who
was the great pattern of perfection, was never seen to
laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these
exceptions. It is of a serious and composed nature. It
does not throw the mind into a condition improper for
the present state of humanity, and is very conspicuous
in the characters of those who are looked upon as the
greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as
among those who have been deservedly esteemed as
saints and holy men among Christians.

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with re-
gard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the
great author of our being, it will nota little reeommend
itself on each of these accounts. The man who is pos-
sessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy
in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers
and faculties of his soul. His imagination is always
clear, and his judgment undisturbed. His temper is
even and unruffled, whether in action or in solitude.
He comes with a relish to all those goods which nature
has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the
creation which are poured about him, and does not feel
the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall
him.

if we consider him in relation to the persons with
whom he converses, it naturally produces love and
good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only
disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same
good humour in those who come within its influence.
A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why,
with the cheerfulness of his companion. It is like a
sudden sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the
mind, without attending to it. The heart rejoices at its
own accord, and naturally flows out into friendship and
benevolence towards the person who has so kindly an
effect upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its
third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant
habitual gratitude to the great author of nature. An
inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanks-
giving to Providence under all its dispensations. It
is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are
placed, and a secret approbation of the divine will in
his conduct towards man.

There are but two things, which, in my opinion, can
reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart.
The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who
lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no
title to that evenness or tranquillity of mind which is
the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue
and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a
harder name than language can furnish us with, and is
many degrees beyond what we commonly eall folly or
madness.

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme
Being, and consequently of a future state, under what-
soever titles it shelters itself, may likewise very reason-
ably deprive a man of this cheerfulness of temper.
There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive
to human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that
I cannot but wonder, with many excellent writers, how
it is possible for a man to outlive the expectation of it.
For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little
to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are
sure of, and such a truth as we may meet with in every
object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If
we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we
generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and
cavil. It is indeed no wonder that men who are uneasy
to themselves, should be so to the rest of the world ;
and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than
uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of
losing his entire existence, and dropping into nothing 2A
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104 ADDISON'S

The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pre-
tence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably,
_ Should they endeavour after it. It is impossible for
any one to live in good humour, and enjoy his present
existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of
annihilation—of being miserable, or of not being at all.
After having mentioned these two great principles,
which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own
nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any
other that ought to banish this happy temper from a
virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach,
poverty and old age, nay, death itself, considering the
Shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may
reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A
good mind may bear up under them with fortitude and
with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest
does not diseémpose him, which he is sure will bring him
to a joyful harbour.
A man who uses his best endeavours to live according
to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two per-
petual sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of

his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has a_|

dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot but
rejoice in that existence which is so lately bestowed
upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still
new, and still in its beginning. How many self-con-
gratulations naturally rise in the mind, when it reflects
on this its entrance into eternity ; when it takes a view
of those improveable faculties, which in a few years,
and even at its first setting out, have made so consider-
able a progress, and which will still be receiving an
increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of
happiness? The consciousness of such a being spreads a
perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous
man, and makes him look upon himself every moment
as more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, is
in the consideration of that Being on whom we have
our dependence, and in whom, though we behold him
as yet butin the first faint discoveries of his perfections,
we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious,
or amiable. We find ourselves every where upheld by
his goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love
and merey. In short, we depend upon a Being, whose
power qualifies him to make us happy by an infinity of
means, whose goodness and truth engage him to make
those happy who desire it of him, and whose unchange-
ableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should per-
petually cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all
that seeret heaviness of heart which unthinking men
are subject to when they lie under no real affliction—all
that anguish which we may feel from any evil that
actually oppresses us; to which I may likewise add
those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are apter
to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us
such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing
to ourselves, to those with whom we conyerse, and to
him whom we were made to please.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT VAUXHALL.

As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a
subject for my next Spectator, I heard two or three
irregular bounces at my landlady’s door; and upon the
opening of it, a loud cheerful voice inquiring whether
the philosopher was at home. The child who went to
the door answered very innocently that he did not lodge
there. I immediately recollected that it was my good
friend Sir Roger’s voice, and that I had promised to
go with him on the water to Spring Garden, in case it
proved a goodevening. The knight put mein mind of my
promise from the bottom of the staircase ; but told me
that if I was speculating, he would stay below till I had
done. Upon my coming down, I found all the children
of the family had got about my old friend, and my land-
lady herself, who is a notable prating gossip, engaged in
a conference with him; being mightily pleased with his

 

 

| stroking her little boy on the head, and bidding him be

a good child, and mind his book.

We were no sooner come to the Temple stairs, but
we were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering
us their respective services. Sir Roger, after having
looked about him very attentively, spied one with a
wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders to get his
boat ready. As we were walking towards it, “ You
must know,” says Sir Roger, “ I never make use of any
body to row me that has not lost either a leg or an arm.
I would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than
not employ an honest man that has been wounded in the
queen’s service. If I was a lord or a bishop, and kept
a barge, I would not put a fellow in my livery that had
not a wooden leg.”

My old friend, after having seated himself, and
trimmed the boat with his coachman, who being a very
sober man, always serves for ballast on these occasions,
we made the best of our way to Vauxhall. Sir Roger
obliged the waterman to give us the history of his right
leg; and hearing that he had left it at La Hogue, with
many particulars which passed in that glorious action,
the knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several
reflections on the greatness of the British nation; as,
that one Englishman could beat three Frenchmen ; that
we could never be in danger of popery so long as we
took care of our fleet; that the Thames was the noblest
river in Europe; that London Bridge was a greater
piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the
world; with many other honest prejudices which
naturally cleave to the heart of a true Englishman.

After some short pause, the old knight turning about
his head twice or thrice, to take a survey of this great
metropolis, bade me observe how thick the city was set
with churches, and that there was scarce a single steeple
on this side Temple Bar. “ A most heathenish sight!”
says Sir Roger: “there is no religion at this end of
the town. The fifty new churches will very much mend
the prospect ; but church-work is slow, church-work is
slow !”

I do not remember I have any where mentioned, in
Sir Roger’s character, his custom of saluting every
body that passes by him with a good-morrow, or a
good-night. This the old man does out of the overflow-
ings of his humanity, though at the same time it renders
him so popular among all his country neighbours, that
it is thought to have gone a good way in making him
once or twice knight of the shire. He cannot forbear
this exercise of benevolence even in town, when he
meets with any one in his morning or evening walk. It
broke from him to several boats that passed by us on
the water; but to the knight’s great surprise, as he
gave the good-night to two or three young fellows a
little before our landing, one of them, instead of return-
ing the civility, asked us, what queer old put we had in
the boat, and whether he was not ashamed to go out at
night at his years? with a great deal of the like Thames
ribaldry. Sir Roger seemed a little shocked at first ;
but at length, assuming a face of magistracy, told us,
“that if he were a Middlesex justice, he would make
such vagrants know that her majesty’s subjects were no
more to be abused by water than by land.”

We were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is
exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year. When I
considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with
the choirs of birds that sang upon the trees, and the
loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I
could not but look upon the place as a kind of Maho-
metan paradise. Sir Roger told me, it put him in mind
of a little coppice by his house in the country, which
his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales.
“You must understand,” says the knight, “there is
nothing in the world that pleases a man in love so much
as your nightingale. Ah, Mr Spectator! the many
moonlight nights that I have walked by myself, and
thought on the widow by the musie of the nightingale !”
He here fetched a deep sigh, and was falling into a fit
of musing, when a mask, who came behind him, gave
him a gentle tap upon the shoulder, and asked him ifMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

he would drink a bottle of mead with her? But the
knight, being startled at so unexpected familiarity, and
displeased to be interrupted in his thoughts of the widow,
told her she was a wanton baggage, and bade her go
about her business.

We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale
and a slice of hung beef. When we had done eating
ourselves, the knight called a waiter to him and bade
him carry the remainder to the waterman that had but
one leg. I perceived the fellow stared upon him at the
oddness of the message, and was going to be saucy ;
upon which I ratified the knight’s commands with a
peremptory look.

As we were going out of the garden, my old friend
thinking himself obliged, as a member of the quorum,
to animadvert upon the morals of the place, told the
mistress of the house, who sat at the bar, that he should
be a better customer to her garden, if there were more
nightingales and fewer persons of an improper character.

wWrreseer

 

MOTIVES FOR CHEERFULNESS.

In one of my late papers I spoke of cheerfulness as
it is a moral habit of the mind, and accordingly men-
tioned such moral motives as are apt to cherish and
keep alive this happy temper in the soul of man. I
shall now consider cheerfulness in its natural state,
and reflect on those motives to it which are indifferent
either to virtue or vice.

Cheerfulness is, in the first place, the best promoter
of health. Repinings and secret murmurs of heart give
imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which
the vital parts are composed, and wear out the machine
insensibly: not to mention those violent ferments which
they stir up in the blood, and those ifregular disturbed
motions which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce
remember, in my own observation, to have met with
many old men, or with such who (to use our English
phrase) wear well, that had not at least a certain
indolence in their humour, if not a more than ordinary
gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The truth of it is,
health and cheerfulness mutually beget each other ;
with this difference, that we seldom meet with a great
degree of health which is not attended with a certain
cheerfulness, but very often see cheerfulness where
there is no great degree of health.

Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the

‘mind as to the body. It banishes all anxious care and
discontent, soothes and composes the passions, and
keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. But having already
touched on this last consideration, I shall here take
notice, that the world in which we are placed is filled
with innumerable objects that are proper to raise and
keep alive this happy temper of mind.

If we consider the world in its subserviency to man,
one would think it was made for our use; but if we
consider it in its natural beauty and harmony, one
would be apt to conclude it was made for our pleasure.
The sun, which is as the great soul of the universe, and
produces all the necessaries of life, has a particular
influence in cheering the mind of man, and making the
heart glad.

Those several living creatures which are made for
our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill
the woods with their music, furnish us with game, or
raise pleasing ideas in us by the delightfulness of their
appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as re-
freshing to the imagination as to the soil through which
they pass.

There are writers of great distinction who have made
it an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is
covered with green rather than with any other colour,
as being such a right mixture of light and shade, that
it comforts and strengthens the eye, instead of weaken-

ing or grieving it. For this reason, several painters
have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye
upon, after too great an application to their colouring.
A famous modern philosopher accounts for it in the

——

 

105

following manner. All colours that are more luminous
overpower and dissipate the animal spirits which are
employed in sight. On the contrary, those that are
more obscure do not give the animal spirits a sufficient
exercise ; whereas, the rays that produce in us the idea
of green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion,
that they give the animal spirits their proper play, and
by keeping up the struggle in a just balance, excite a
very pleasing and agreeable sensation. Let the cause
be what it will, the effect is certain ; for which reason
the poets ascribe to this particular colour the epithet
of cheerful.

To consider further this double end in the works of
nature, and how they are at the same time both useful
and entertaining, we find that the most important parts
in the vegetable world are those which are the most
beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several
races of plants are propagated and continued, and which
are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems
to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in
making the earth gay and delightful, while she is car-
rying on her great work, and intent upon her own
preservation. The husbandman, after the same manner,
is employed in laying out the whole country into a kind
of garden or landscape, and making every thing smile
about him, whilst in reality he thinks of nothing but of
the harvest and increase which is to arise from it.

We may further observe how Providence has taken
care to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man,
by having formed it after such a manner as to make it
capable of conceiving delight from several objects which
seem to have very little use in them; as from the wild-
ness of rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts
of nature. ‘Those who are versed in philosophy may
still carry this consideration higher, by observing, that
if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those
real qualities which it actually possesses, it would have
made but avery joyless and uncomfortable figure. And
why has Providence given it a power of producing in us
such imaginary qualities, as tastes and colours, sounds
and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is
conversant in the lower stations of nature, might have
his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensa-
tions? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre,
filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amuse-
ment, or admiration.

The reader’s own thoughts will suggest. to him the
vicissitude of day and night, the change of seasons, with
all that variety of scenes which diversify the face of
nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual succession
of beautiful and pleasing images.

I shall not here mention the several entertainments
of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conver-
sation, and other accidental diversions of life, because
I would only take notice of such incitements to a cheer-
ful temper as offer themselves to persons of all ranks
and conditions, and which may sufficiently show us that
Providence did not design this world should be filled
with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man
should be involved in gloom and melancholy.

I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as
it is a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to
be more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy
is a kind of demon that haunts our island, and often

| conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated

French novelist, in opposition to those who begin their
romances with the flowery season of the year, enters on
his story thus :—* In the gloomy month of November,
when the people of England hang and drown them-
selves, a disconsolate lover walked out into the fields,”
&c.

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his
climate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in
himself those considerations which may give him a
serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheerfully
against those little evils and misfortunes which are
common to human nature, and which, by a right im-
provement of them, will produce a satiety of joy, andan
uninterrupted happiness.166

At the same time that I would engage my reader to
consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must
own there are many evils which naturally spring up
amidst the entertainments that are provided for us;
but these, if rightly considered, should be far from
overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that
cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommend-
ing. This interspersion of evil with good, and pain
with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly
ascribed by Mr Locke, in his « Essay on Human Under-
Standing,” to a moral reason, in the following words :—

*“* Beyond all this we may find another reason why
God hath scattered up and down several degrees of
pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and
affect us, and blended them together in almost all that
our thoughts and senses have to do with ; that we, find-
ing imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete
happiness, in all the enjoyments which the creatures
can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment
of him with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose
right hand are pleasures for evermore.”

POLEL OSL LDS CORED ODDO

SELFISH AND UNREASONABLE
SUPPLICATIONS.

Wuere Homer represents Pheenix, the tutor of Achilles,
as persuading his pupil to lay aside his resentment, and
give himself up to the entreaties of his countrymen, the
poet, in order to make him speak in character, ascribes
to him a speech full of those fables and allegories which
old men take delight in relating, and which are very
proper for instruction. “The gods,” says he, “ suffer
themselves to be prevailed upon by entreaties. When
mortals have offended them by their transgressions,
they appease them by vows and sacrifices. You must
know, Achilles, that prayers are the daughters of
Jupiter. They are crippled by frequently kneeling,
have their faces full of scars and wrinkles, and their
eyes always cast towards heaven. They are constant
attendants on the goddess Ate, and march behind her.
This goddess walks forward with a bold and haughty
air; and being very light of foot, runs through the
whole earth, grieving and afflicting the sons of men.
She gets the start of prayers, who always follow her,
in order to heal those persons whom she wounds. He
who honours these daughters of J upiter when they draw
near to him, receives great honours from them ; but
as for him who rejects them, they entreat their father
to give orders to the goddess Ate to punish him for his
hardness of heart.” This noble allegory needs but
little explanation ; for whether the goddess Ate signifies
injury, as some have explained it, or guilt in general,
as others, or divine justice, as I am more apt to think,
the interpretation is obvious enough.

I shall produce another heathen fable relating to
prayers, which is of a more diverting kind. One would
think, by some passages in it, that it was composed by
Lucian, or at least by some author who has endeavoured
to imitate his way of writing ; but as dissertations of
this nature are more curious than useful, I shall give
my reader the fable without any further inquiries after
the author.

Menippus, the philosopher, was a second time taken
up into heaven by Jupiter, when for his entertainment
he lifted up a trap-door that was placed by his footstool.
At its rising, there issued through it sucha din of cries
as astonished the philosopher. Upon his asking what
they meant, Jupiter told him they were the prayers
that were sent up to him from the earth. Menippus,
amidst the confusion of voices, which was so great that
nothing less than the ear of Jove could distinguish
them, heard the words riches, honour, and tong life,
repeated in several different tones and languages.
When the first hubbub of sounds was over, the trap-
door being left open, the voices came up more separate
and distinct. The first prayer was a very odd one. It
came from Athens, and desired Jupiter to increase the
wisdom and heard of his humble supplicant. Menippus

 

 

 

 

.

ADDISON'S

knew it by the voice to be the prayer of his friend
Licander, the philosopher. This was succeeded by the
petition of one who had just Jaden a ship, and promised
Jupiter, if he took care of it, and returned it home
again full of riches, he would make him an offering of
a silver cup. Jupiter thanked him for nothing ; and
bending down his ear more attentively than ordinary,
heard a voice complaining to him of the cruelty of an
Ephesian widow, and begging him to breed compassion
in her heart. “ This,” says Jupiter, “is a very honest
fellow. I have received a great deal of incense
from him. I will not be so cruel to him as not to
hear his prayers.” He was then interrupted with a
whole volley of vows, which were made for the health
of a tyrannical prince by his subjects who prayed for
him in his presence. Menippus was surprised, after
having listened to prayers offered up with so much
ardour and devotion, to hear low whispers from the
same assembly, expostulating with Jove for suffering
such a tyrant to live, and asking him how his thunder
could lie idle? Jupiter was so offended at these pre-
varicating rascals, that he took down the first vows,
and puffed away the last. The philosopher seeing a
great cloud mounting upwards, and making its way
directly to the trap-door, inquired of Jupiter what it
meant. “This,” says Jupiter, “is the smoke of a whole
hecatomb that is offered me by the general of an army,
who is very importunate with me to let him cut off an
hundred thousand men that are drawn up im array
against him. What does the impudent wretch think
I see in him to believe that I will make a sacrifice of so
many mortals as good as himself, and all this to his
glory, forsooth? But hark,” says Jupiter, “there is a
voice I never heard but in time of danger ; ’tis a rogue
that is shipwrecked in the Ionian sea. I saved him on
a plank but three days ago, upon his promise to mend
his manners; the scoundrel is not worth a groat, and
yet has the impudence to offer me a temple if I will
keep him from sinking. But yonder,” says he, “is a
special youth for you. He desires me to take his father,
who keeps a great estate from him, out of the miseries
of human life. The old fellow shall live till he makes
his heart ache, I can tell him that for his pains.” This
was followed up by the soft voice of a pious lady,
desiring Jupiter that she might appear amiable and
charming in the sight of her emperor. As the philo-
sopher was reflecting on this extraordinary petition,
there blew a gentle wind through the trap-door, which
he at first took for a gale of zephyrs, but afterwards
found to be a breeze of sighs. They smelt strong of
flowers and imcense, and were succeeded by most
passionate complaints of wounds and torments, fires
and arrows, cruelty, despair, and death. Menippus
fancied that such lamentable cries arose from some
general execution, or from wretches lying under the
torture ; but Jupiter told him that they came up to him
from the Isle of Paphos, and that he every day received
complaints of the same nature from that whimsical
tribe of mortals who are called lovers. “I am so trifled
with,” says he, “by this generation of both sexes, and
find it so impossible to please the n, Whether I grant or
reiuse their petitions, that I shall order a western wind
for the future to intercept them on their passage, and
blow them at random upon the earth.” The last
petition I heard was from a very aged man of near an.
hundred years old, begging but for one year more of life,
and then promising to die contented. “This is the rarest
old fellow,” says Jupiter; “he has made his prayer to
me for above twenty years together. When he was
but fifty years old, he desired only that he might live
to see his son settled in the world. I granted it. He
then begged the same favour for. his daughter ; and
afterwards that he might see the education of a grand-
son. When all this was brought about, he puts up
a petition that he might live to finish a house he was
building. In short, he is an unreasonable old cur, and
never wants an excuse—I will hear no more of him.”
Upon which he flung down the trap-door in a passion,

/ and was resolved to give no more audiences that day.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Notwithstanding the levity of this fable, the moral
of it very well deserves our attention, and is the same
with that which has been ineulcated by Socrates and
Plato, not to mention Juvenal and Persius, who have
each of them made the finest satire in their whole
works upon this subject. The vanity of men’s wishes,
which are the natural prayers of the mind, as well as
many of those secret devotions which they offer to the
Supreme Being, are sufficiently exposed by it. Among
other reasons for set forms of prayer, I have often
thought it a very good one, that by this means the folly
and extravagance of men’s desires may be kept within
due bounds, and not break out in absurd and ridiculous
petitions on so great and solemn an occasion.

PLE LIL IL IOL ILS LOL

MORAL IMPROVEMENT FROM THE
CONTEMPLATION OF NATURE.
Looxine over the letters that have been sent me, I
chanced to find the following one, which I received
about two years ago from an ingenious friend who was

then in Denmark :—
“ Copenhagen, May 1, 1710.

Dear Srr—The spring with you has already taken
possession of the fields and woods. Now is the season
of solitude, and of moving complaints upon trivial
sufferings. Now the griefs of lovers begin to flow, and
their wounds to bleed afresh. I, too, at this distance
from the softer climates, am not without my discontents
at present. You may, perhaps, laugh at me for a most
romantie wretch, when I have disclosed to you the ocea-
sion of my uneasiness ; and yet I cannot help thinking
my unhappiness real, in being confined to a region
which is the very reverse of Paradise. The seasons
here are all of them unpleasant, and the country quite
destitute of rural charms. I have not heard a bird sing,
nor a brook murmur, nor a breeze whisper, neither
have I been blest with the sight of a flowery meadow,
these two years. Every wind here is a tempest, and
every water a turbulent ocean. I hope, when you reflect
a little, you will not think the grounds of my complaint
in the least frivolous and unbecoming a man of serious
thought ; since the love of woods, of fields and flowers,
of rivers and fountains, seems to be a passion implanted
in our natures the most early of any, even before the
fair sex had a being. I am, Sir,” &e.

Could I transport myself with a wish from one country
to another, I should choose to pass my winter in Spain,
my spring in Italy, my summer in England, and my
autumn in France. Of all these seasons there is none
that can vie with the spring for beauty and delightful-
ness.
the year that the morning does among the divisions of
the day, or youth among the stages of life. The English
summer is pleasanter than that of any other country in
Europe, on no other account but because it has a greater
mixture of spring init. ‘The mildness of our climate,
with those frequent refreshments of dews and rains that
fall among us, keep up a perpetual cheerfulness in our
fields, and fill the hottest months of the year with a
lively verdure.

In the opening of the spring, when all nature begins
to recover herself, the same animal pleasure which
makes the birds sing, and the whole brute creation
rejoice, rises very sensibly in the heart of man. I know
none of the poets who have observed so well as Milton
these secret overflowings of gladness which diffuse
themselves through the mind of the beholder upon
surveying the gay scenes of nature; he has touched
upon it twice or thrice in his Paradise Lost, and
describes it very beautifully under the name of “vernal
delight,”’ in that passage where he represents the devil
himself as almost sensible of it :—

‘* Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue

Appear’d with gay enamel’d colours mix’d:

On which the sun more glad impress’d his beams
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow,

When God hath shower'’d the earth—so lovely seem’d

It bears the same figure among the seasons of

otauttt....peeeet?

|

107

That landscape: and of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart Inspires
Vernal delight, and joy able to deprive

All sadness but despair,” &c.

Many authors have written on the vanity of the
creature, and represented the barrenness of every thing
in this world, and its incapacity of producing any solid
or substantial happiness. As discourses of this nature
are very useful to the sensual and voluptuous, those
speculations which show the bright side of things, and
lay forth those innocent entertainments which are to be
met with among the several objects that encompass us,
are no less beneficial to men of dark and melancholy
tempers. It was for this reason that I endeavoured to
recommend a cheerfulness of mind in two of my late
papers ; and which I would still] inculeate, not only from
the consideration of ourselves, and of that Being on
whom we depend, nor from the general survey of that
universe in which we are placed at present, but from
reflections on the particular season in which this paper
is written. The creation is a perpetual feast to the
mind of a good man; every thing he sees cheers and
delights him. Providence has imprinted so many smiles
on nature, that it is impossible for a mind which is not
sunk in more gross and sensual delights to take a survey
of them without several secret sensations of pleasure.
The Psalmist has in several of his divine poems cele-
brated those beautiful and agreeable scenes which make
the heart glad, and produce in it that vernal delight
which I have before taken notice of.

Natural philosophy quickens this taste of the creation,
and renders it not only pleasing to the imagination, but
to the understanding. It does not rest in the murmur
of brooks and the melody of birds, in the shade of groves
and woods, or in the embroidery of fields and meadows ;
but considers the several ends of Providence which are
served by them and the wonders of divine wisdom which
appear in them. It heightens the pleasures of the eye,
and raises such a rational admiration in the soul, as is
little inferior to devotion.

It is not in the power of every one to offer up this
kind of worship to the great Author of Nature, and to
indulge these more refined meditations of heart, which
are doubtless highly acceptable in his sight. I shall
therefore conclude this short essay on that pleasure
which the mind naturally conceives from the present
season of the year, by the recommending of a practice
for which every one has sufficient abilities.

I would have my readers endeavour to moralise this
natural pleasure of the soul, and to improve this vernal
delight, as Milton calls it, into a Christian virtue. When
we find ourselves inspired with this pleasing instinct,
this secret satisfaction and complacency, arising from
the beauties of the creation, let us consider to whom we
stand indebted for all these entertainments of sense,
and who it is that thus opens his hand and fills the
world with good. The apostle instructs us to take
advantage of our present temper of mind, to graft upon
! itsuch a religious exercise as is particularly conformable
to it, by that precept which advises those who are sad
{to pray, and those who are merry to sing psalms. The
cheerfulness of heart which springs up in us from the
survey of nature’s works, is an admirable preparation
for gratitude. The mind has gone a great way towards
praise and thanksgiving that is filled with such a secret
gladness. A grateful reflection on the supreme cause
who produces it, sanctifies it in the soul, and gives it its
proper value. Such a habitual disposition of mind
consecrates every field and wood, turns an ordinary
walk into a morning or evening sacrifice, and will
unprove those transient gleams of joy which naturally
brighten up and refresh the soul on such oceasions, into
an inviolable and perpetual state of bliss and happiness.

PILPLOLPLOLI PO IL IO GP

ELOQUENCE IN AFFLICTION.
As the Stoic philosophers diseard all passions in gene-
ral, they will not allow a wise man so much as to pity

 

the afflictions of another. “If thou seest thy friend in

RPT Na mS

 

Ree,

ha108

trouble,” says Epictetus, “ thou mayest put on a look
of sorrow, and condole with him; but take care that
thy sorrow be not real.” The more rigid of this sect
would not comply so far as to show even such an out-
ward appearance of grief; but when one told them of
any calamity that had befallen even the nearest of their
acquaintance, would immediately reply, “ What is that
tome?” If you aggravated the circumstances of the
affliction, and showed how one misfortune was followed
by another, the answer was still, “ All this may be true,
but what is it to me %”

For my own part, I am of opinion compassion does
not only refine and civilise human nature, but has
something in it more pleasing and agreeable than what
can be met with in such an indolent happiness, such an
indifference to mankind, as that in which the Stoics
placed their wisdom. As love is the most delightful
passion, pity is nothing else but love softened by a degree
of sorrow. In short, it is a kind of pleasing anguish,
as well as generous sympathy, that knits mankind
together, and blends them in the same common lot.

Those who have laid down rules for rhetoric or
poetry, advise the writer to work himself up, if possible,
to the pitch of sorrow which he endeavours to produce
in others. There are none, therefore, who stir up pity
so much as those who indite their own sufferings.
Grief has a natural eloquence belonging to it, and breaks
out in more moving sentiments than can be supplied by
the finest imagination. Nature, on this occasion, dic-
tates a thousand passionate things which cannot be
supplied by art.

it is for this reason that the short speeches or sen-
tences which we often meet with in histories, make a
deeper impression on the mind of the reader, than the
most laboured strokes in a well-written tragedy. Truth
and matter of fact sets the person actually before us in
the one, whom fiction places at a greater distance from
us in the other. I do not remember to have seen any
ancient or modern story more affecting than a letter of
Ann of Boleyn, wife to King Henry VIII., and mother
to Queen Elizabeth, which is still extant in the Cotton
Library, as written by her own hand.

Shakspeare himself could not have made her talk
in a strain so suitable to her condition and character.
One sees it in the expostulations of a slighted lover,
the resentments of an injured woman, and the sorrows
of an imprisoned queen. I need not acquaint my reader
that this princess was then under prosecution for dis-
loyalty to the king’s bed, and that she was afterwards
publicly beheaded upon the same account, though this
persecution was believed by many to proceed, as she
herself intimates, rather from the king’s love to Jane
Seymour, than from any actual crime of Ann of Boleyn.

QUEEN ANN BOLEYN’S LAST LETTER TO KING HENRY.

Srir—Your grace’s displeasure, and my imprison-
ment, are things so strange unto me, as what to write,
or what to excuse, I am altogetherignorant. Whereas
you send unto me (willing me to confess a truth, and
obtain your favour) by such a one, whom you know to
be mine ancient professed enemy, I no sooner received
this message by him, than I rightly conceived your
meaning; and if, as you say, confessing a truth, indeed,
may procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and
duty perform your command.

But let not your grace ever imagine that your poor
wife will ever be brought to acknowlege a fault, where
not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And to
speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all
duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found
in Ann Boleyn; with which name and place I could
willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace’s
pleasure had been.so pleased. Neither did I at any
time so far forget myself in my exaltation or received
queenship, but that I always looked for such an altera-
tion as I now find; for the ground of my preferment
being on no surer foundation than your grace’s fancy,
the least alteration I knew was fit and sufficient to draw

ADDISON'S

from a low estate to be your queen and companion, far
beyond my desert or desire. If, then, you found me
worthy of such honour, good your grace let not any
light fancy, or bad counsel of mine enemies, withdraw
your princely favour from me; neither let that stain,
that unworthy stain, of a disloyal heart towards your
good grace, ever cast so foula blot on your most dutiful
wife, and the infant princess your daughter. Try me,
good king; but let me have a lawful trial, and let not
my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges; yea,
let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no
open shame; then shall you see either my innocence
cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the
ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt
openly declared; so that whatsoever God or you may
determine of me, your grace may be freed from an open
censure: and mine offence being so lawfully proved,
your grace is at liberty, both before God and man, not
only to execute worthy punishment on me as an unlaw-
ful wife, but to follow your affection already settled on
that party for whose sake I am now as I am, whose
name I could some good while since have pointed unto,
your grace not being ignorant of my suspicion therein.

But if you have already determined of me, and that
not only my death, but an infamous slander, must bring
you the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I
desire of God that he will pardon your great sin therein,
and likewise mine enemies, the instruments thereof,
and that he will not call you to a strict account for your
unprincely and cruel usage of me, at his general judg-
ment seat, where both you and myself must shortly
appear, and in whose judgment, I doubt not (whatso-
ever the world may think of me), mine innocence shall
be openly known and sufficiently cleared.

My last and only request shall be, that myself may
only bear the burden of your grace’s displeasure, and
that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor
gentlemen, who (as I understand) are likewise in strait
imprisonment for my sake. If ever I found favour in
your sight, if ever the name of Ann Boleyn hath been
pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this request,
and I will so leave to trouble your grace any further,
with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have your
grace in good keeping, and to direct you in all your
actions. from my doleful prison in the Tower, this
6th of May. Your most loyal and ever faithful wife,

Ann Boneyn,”

PLLA PIPPLO ILD POLPIIA

VARIETIES IN HYPOCRISY.

Hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town, is very
different from hypocrisy in the city. The modish
hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he
really is—the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous,
The former is afraid of every thing that has the show
of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in many
criminal engagements which he is not guilty of. The
latter assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a multitude
of vices under a seeming religious deportment.

But there is another kind of hypocrisy which differs
from both these, and which I intend to make the
subject of this paper—I mean that hypocrisy by which
a man does not only deceive the world, but very often
imposes on himself ; that hypocrisy which conceals his
own heart from him, and makes him believe he is more
virtuous than he really is, and either not attend to his
vices, or mistake even his vices for virtues. It is this
fatal hypocrisy and self-conceit which is taken notice of
in these words: “ Who can understand his errors ?—
cleanse thou me from secret faults.”

If the open professors of impiety deserve the utmost
application and endeavours of moral writers to recover
them from vice and folly, how much more may those
lay a claim to their care and compassion, who are
walking in the paths of death, while they fancy them-
selves engaged ina course of virtue? I shall endeayour,
therefore, to lay down some rules for the discovery of

 

that fancy to some other object. You have chosen me

those vices that lurk in the secret corners of the soul,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

and to show my teader those methods by which he may
arrive at a true and impartial knowledge of himself.
The usual means prescribed for this purpose, are to
examine ourselves by the rules which are laid down for
our direction in sacred writ, and to compare our lives
with the life of that person who acted up to the perfec-
tion of human nature, and is the standing example, as
well as the great guide and instructor, of those who
receive his doctrines. Though these two heads cannot
be too much insisted upon, I shall but just mention
them, since they have been handled by many great and
eminent writers.

I would therefore propose the following methods to
the consideration of such as would find out their secret
faults, and make a true estimate of themselves :—

In the first place, let them consider well what are
the characters which they bear among their enemies.
Our friends very often flatter us as much as our own
hearts, They either do not see our faults, or conceal
them from us, or soften them by their representations,
after such a manner that we think them too trivial to
be taken notice of. An adversary, on the contrary,
makes a stricter search into us, discovers every flaw
and imperfection in our tempers ; and though his malice
may set them in too strong a light, it has generally
some ground for what it advances. A friend exagge-
rates a man’s virtues, an enemy inflames his erimes.
A wise man should give a just attention to both of them,
so far as they may tend to the improvement of the one
and the diminution of the other. Plutarch has written
an essay on the benefits which a man may receive from
his enemies; and, among the good fruits of enmity,
mentions this in particular, that by the reproaches
which it casts upon us, we see the worst side of our-
selves, and open our eyes to several blemishes and
defects in our lives and conversations, which we should
not have observed without the help of such ill-natured
monitors.

In order, likewise, to come at a true knowledge of
ourselves, we should consider, on the other hand, how
far we may deserve the praises and approbations which
the world bestow upon us; whether the actions they
celebrate proceed from laudable and worthy motives ;
and how far we are really possessed of the virtues
which gain us applause among those with whom we
converse, Such a reflection is absolutely necessary, if
we consider how apt we are either to value or condemn
ourselves by the opinions of others, and to sacrifice
the report of our own hearts to the judgment of the
world.

In the next place, that we may not deceive ourselves
in a point of so much importance, we should not lay too
great a stress on any supposed virtues we possess that
are of a doubtful nature ; and such we may esteem all
those in which multitudes of men dissent from us, who
are as good and wise as ourselves. We should always
act with great cautiousness and circumspection in points
where it is not impossible that we may be deceived.
Intemperate zeal, bigotry, and persecution, for any
party or opinion, how praiseworthy soever they may
appear to weak men of our own principles, produce
infinite calamities among mankind, and are highly
criminal in their own nature; and yet how many
persons eminent for piety suffer such monstrous and
absurd principles of action to take root in their minds
under the colour of virtues! For my own part, I must
own I never yet knew any party so just and reasonable,
that a man could follow it in its height and violence, and
at the same time be innocent.

We should likewise be very apprehensive of those
actions which proceed from natural constitution,
favourite passions, particular education, or whatever
promotes our worldly interest or advantage. In these
and the like cases, a man’s judgment is easily perverted,
and a wrong bias hung upon his mind. These are the
inlets of prejudice, the unguarded avenues of the mind,
by which a thousand errors and secret faults find
admission, without being observed or taken notice of.
A wise man will suspect those actions to which he is

 

109

directed by something besides reasov, and always
apprehend some concealed evil in every resolution that
is of a disputable nature, when it is conformable to his
particular temper, his age, or way of life, or when it
favours his pleasure or his profit.

There is nothing of greater importance to us than
thus diligently to sift our thoughts, and examine all these
dark recesses of the mind, if we would establish our
souls in such a solid and substantial virtue as will turn
to account on that great day when it must stand the test
of infinite wisdom and justice.

I shall conclude this essay with observing that the
two kinds of hypocrisy I have here spoken of, namely,
that of deceiving the world, and that of imposing on
ourselves, are touched with wonderful beauty in the
hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. The folly of the first
kind of hypocrisy is there set forth by reflections on
God’s omniscience and omnipresence, which are cele-
brated in as noble strains of poetry as any other I ever
met with, either sacred or profane. The other kind of
hypocrisy, whereby a man deceives himself, is intimated
in the two last verses, where the psalmist addresses
himself to the great searcher of hearts in that emphatical
petition—* Try me, oh God! and seek the ground of my
heart: prove me, and examine my thoughts. Look
well if there be any way of wickedness in me, and lead
93

me in the way everlasting.

PPPPPP IIL P DIDO DIP LDA

DIFFERENCE OF MANNERS IN DIFFERENT
PARTS OF LONDON.

Wuen I consider this great city in its several quarters
and divisions, I look upon it as an aggregate of various
nations, distinguished from each other by their respec-
tive customs, manners, and interests. The courts of
two countries do not so much differ from one another
as the court and city in their peculiar ways of life and
conversation. In short, the inhabitants of St James’s,
notwithstanding they live under the same laws, and
speak the same language, area distinct people from
those of Cheapside, who are likewise removed from
those of the Temple on the one side, and those of
Smithfield on the other, by several climates and degrees,
in their way of thinking and conversing together.

For this reason, when any public affair is upon the
anvil, I love to hear the reflections that arise upon
it in the several districts and parishes of London and
Westminster, and to ramble up and down a whole day
together, in order to make myself acquainted with the
opinions of my ingenious countrymen. By this means
I know the faces of all the principal politicians within
the bills of mortality; and as every coffee-house has
some particular statesman belonging to it, who is the
mouth of the street where he lives, I always take care
to place myself near him, in order to know his judgment
on the present posture of affairs. The last progress
that I made with this intention, was about three months
ago, when we had a current report of the King of
France’s death. As I foresaw this would produce a
new face of things in Europe, and many curious specu-
lations in our British coffee-houses, I was very desirous
to learn the thoughts of our most eminent politicians
on that occasion.

That I might begin as near the fountain-head as
possible, I first of all called in at St James’s, where [
found the whole outward room in a buzz of polities.
The speculations were but very indifferent towards the
door, but grew finer as you advanced to the upper end
of the room, and were so very much improved by a
knot of theorists who sat in the inner room within the
steams of the coffee-pot, that I there heard the whole
Spanish monarchy disposed of, and all the line of
Bourbon provided for, in less than a quarter of an
hour.

I afterwards called in at Giles’s, where I saw a board
of French gentlemen sitting upon the life and death of
their grand monarque. Those among them who had
espoused the Whig interest, very positively affirmed

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that he departed this life about a week since, and there-
fore proceeded without any further delay to the release
of their friends in the galleys, and to their own re-esta-
blishment; but finding they could not agree among
themselves, I proceeded on my intended progress.

Upon my arrival at Jenny Man’s, I saw an alert
young fellow that cocked his hat upon a friend of his
who entered just at the same time with myself, and
accosted him ater the following manner: —* Well, Jack,
the old prig is dead at last. Sharp’sthe word. Now
or never, boy. Up to the walls of Paris directly ;? with
several other deep refiections of the same nature.

I met with very little variation in the polities between
Charing-Cross and Covent-Garden. And upon my going
into Wills’s, I found their discourse was gone off from
the death of the French king to that of Monsicur Boi-
leau, Racine, Corneille, and several other poets, whom
they regretted, on this occasion, as persons who would
have obliged the world with very noble elegies on the
death of so great a prince, and so eminent a patron of
learning.

At a coffee-house near the Temple, I found a couple
of young gentlemen engaged very smartly in a dispute
on the succession to the Spanish monarchy. One of
them seemed to have been retained as advocate for the
Duke of Anjou, the other for his imperial majesty.
hey were both for regulating the title to that kingdom
by the statute laws of England; but finding them going
out of my depth, I passed forward to St Paul’s Church-
yard, where I listened with great attention to a learned
man who gave the company an account of the deplorable
state of France during the minority of the deceased king.

[ then turned on my right hand into Fish Street,
where the chief politician of that quarter, upon hearing
the news (after having taken a pipe of tobaceo, and
ruminated for some time), “ If,” says he, “the King of
France is certainly dead, we shall have plenty of mac-
Kkerel this season; our fishery will not be disturbed by
privateers, as it has been for these ten years past.” He
afterwards considered how the death of this great man
would affect our pilchards; and by several other
remarks infused a general joy into his whole audience.

{ afterwards entered a bye coffee-house that stood at
the upper end of a narrow lane, where I met with a
nonjuror, engaged very warmly with a laceman, who
was the great support of a neighbouring conventicle.
he matter in debate was, whether the late French
king was most like Augustus Cesar or Nero. The
controversy was carried on with great heat on both sides ;
and as each of them looked upon me very frequently
during the -course of their debate, I was under some

apprehension that they would appeal to me, and there-
fore laid down my penny at the bar, and made the best
of my way to Cheapside.

[ here gazed upon the signs for some time before I
found one to my purpose. ‘The first object I met in
the coffee-room was a person who expressed a great
grief for the death of the French king; but upon his
explaining himself, I found his sorrow did not arise
from the loss of the monarch, but for his having sold
out of the bank about three days before he heard the
news of it. Upon which a haberdasher, who was the
oracle of the coftee-house, and had his circle of admirers
about him, called several to witness that he had declared
his opinion above a week before that the French king
was certainly dead ; to which he added, that consider-
ing the late advices we had received from France, it was
impossible that it could be otherwise. As he was laying
these together, and dictating to his hearers with great
authority, there came in a gentleman from Garraway’s,
who told us that there were several letters from France
Just come in, with advice that the king was in good
health, and was gone out a-hunting the very morning
the post came away; upon which the haberdasher stole
off his hat that hung upon a wooden peg by him, and
retired to his shop with great confusion. ‘This intelli-
gence put a stop to my travels, which I had prosecuted
with so much satisfaction ; not being a little pleased to

110 ADDISON'S

and to observe how naturally, upon such a piece of news,
every one is apt to consider it with regard to his parti-
cular interest and advantage.

PPP IOS ELLIS IIE SF IOOR

THE POETRY AND MUSIC OF HOLY WRIT.
I am very sorry to find, by the opera bills for this day,
that we are likely to lose the greatest performer in
dramatic music that is now living, or that perhaps ever
appeared upon a stage. I need not acquaint my reader
that Iam speaking of Signior Nicolini. The town is
highly obliged to that excellent artist for having shown
us the Italian music in its perfection, as well as for that
generous approbation he lately gave to an opera of our
own country, in which the composer endeavoured to do
justice to the beauty of the words, by following that
noble example which has been set him by the greatest
foreign masters in that art.

I could heartily wish there was the same application
and endeavours to cultivate and improve our church
music, as have been lately bestowed on that of the stage.
Our composers have one very great incitement to it.
They are sure to meet with excellent words, and at the
Same time a wonderful variety of them. ‘here is no
passion that is not finely expressed in those parts of the
inspired writings which are proper for divine songs and
anthems.

There is a certain coldness and indifference in the
phrases of our European languages, when they are
compared with the oriental forms of speech ; and it
happens very luckily, that the Hebrew idioms run into
the English tongue with a particular grace and beauty.
Our language has received innumerable elegances and
improvements from that infusion of Hebraisms, which
are derived to it out of the poetical passages in Holy
Writ. They give a force and energy to our expression,
warm and animate our language, and convey our
thoughts in more ardent and intense phrases than any
that are to be met with in our own tongue. ‘There is
something so pathetic in this kind of diction, that it
often sets the mind in a flame, and makes our hearts
burn within us. How cold and dead does a prayer
appear, that is composed in the most elegant and polite
forms of speech which are natural to our tongue, when
it is not heightened by that solemnity of phrase which
may be drawn from the sacred writings! It has been
said by some of the ancients, that if the gods were to
talic with men, they would certainly speak in Plato’s
style; but I think we may say with justice, that when
mortals converse with their Creator, they cannot do it
in so proper a style as in that of the Holy Scriptures.

If any one would judge of the beauties of poetry that
are to be met with in the divine writings, and examine
how kindly the Hebrew manners of speech mix and
incorporate with the English language, after having
perused the book of Psalms let him read a literal trans-
lation of Horace or Pindar. ~He will find in these two
last such an absurdity and confusion of style, with such
a comparative poverty of imagination, as will make him
very sensible of what I have been here advancing.

Since we have therefore such a treasury of words, so
beautiful in themselves, and so proper for the airs of
music, I cannot but wonder that persons of distinction
should give so little attention and encouragement to that
kind of musie which would have its foundation in reason,
and which would improve our virtue in proportion as
it raised our delight. The passions that are excited by
ordinary compositions generally flow from such silly
and absurd occasions that a man is ashamed to reflect
upon them seriously ; but the fear, the love, the sorrow,
the indignation, that are awakened in the mind by hymus
and anthems, make the heart better, and proceed from
such causes as are altogether reasonable and praise-
worthy. Pleasure and duty go hand in hand ; and the
greater our satisfaction is, the greater is our religion.
Music among those who were styled the chosen people
was a religious art. The songs of Sion, which we have

 

bear so many different opinions upon so creat an event,

reason to believe were in high repute among the courtsMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

of the eastern monarchs, were nothing else but psalms
and pieces of poetry that adored or celebrated the
Supreme Being. The greatest conqueror in this holy
hation, after the manner of the old Grecian lyrics, did
not only compose the words of his divine odes, but
generally set them to music himself; after which, his
works, though they were consecrated to the tabernacle,
became the national entertainment as well as the deyo-
tion of his people.

The first original of the drama was a religious wor-
ship, consisting only of a chorus, which was nothin g else
but a hymn to adeity. As luxury and voluptuousness
prevailed over innocence and religion, this form of
worship degenerated into tragedies ; in which, however,
the chorus so far remembered its first office as to
brand every thing that was vicious, and recommend
every thing that was laudable, to intercede with Heaven
for the innocent, and to implore its vengeance on the
criminal.

Homer and Hesiod intimate to us how this art should
be applied, when they represent the muses as surround-
ing Jupiter, and warbling their hymns about his throne.
I might show, from innumerable passages in ancient
writers, not only that vocal and instrumental music
were made use of in their religious worship, but that
their most favourite diversions were filied with songs
and hymns to their respective deities. Had we frequent
entertainments of this nature among us, they would not
a little purify and exalt our passions, give our thoughts
@ proper turn, and cherish those divine impulses in the
soul, which every one feels that has not stifled them by
sensual and immoral pleasures.

Music, when thus applied, raises noble hints in the
mind of the hearer, and fills it with great conceptions.
It strengthens devotion, and advances praise into rap-
ture ; it lengthens out every act of worship, and pro-
duces more lasting and permanent impressions in the
mind, than those which accompany any transient form
of words that are uttered in the ordinary method of
religious worship.

PILPLPLI LIL PPPLO CODD

GESTURE IN ORATORY.

Most foreign writers who have given any character of
the English nation, whatever vices they ascribe to it,
allow in general that the people are naturally modest.
It proceeds, perhaps, from this our national virtue,
that our orators are observed to make use of less ges-
ture or action than those of other countries. Our
preachers stand stock-still in the pulpit, and will not
so much as move a finger to set off the best sermon
in the world. We meet with the same speaking sta-
tues at our bars, and in all public places of debate.
Our words flow from us in a smooth continued stream,
without those strainings of the voice, motions of the
body, and majesty of the hand, which are so much
celebrated in the orators of Greece and Rome. We
can talk of life and death in cold blood, and keep our
temper in a discourse which turns upon every thing
that is dear to us. Though our zeal breaks out in the
finest tropes and figures, it is not able to stir a limb
about us. I have heard it observed more than once
by those who have seen Italy, that an untravelled Eng-
lishman cannot relish all the beauties of Italian pictures,
because the postures which are expressed ‘in them are
often such as are peculiar to that country. One who
has not seen an Italian in the pulpit, will not know
what to make of that noble gesture in Raphael’s picture
of St Paul preaching at Athens, where the apostle is
represented as lifting up both his arms, and pouring
out the thunder of his rhetoric amidst an audience of
pagan philosophers.

It.is certain that proper gestures and vehement
exertions of the voice cannot be too much studied by
a public orator. They are a kind of comment to what
he utters, and enforce every thing he says with weak
hearers better than the strongest argument he can make
use of. They keep the audience awake, and fix their

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attention to what is delivered to them; at the same
time that they show the speaker is in earnest, and
affected himself with what he SO passionately recom-
mends to others. Violent gesture and vociferation
naturally shake the hearts of the ignorant, and fill them
with a kind of religious horror. Nothing is more fre-
quent than to see women weep and tremble at the sight
of a moving preacher, though he is placed quite out of
their hearing ; as in England we very frequently see
people lulled asleep with solid and elaborate discourses
of piety, who would be warmed and transported out
of themselves by the bellowings and distortions of
enthusiasm. :

If nonsense, when accompanied with such an emotion
of voice and body, has such an influence on men’s minds,
what might we not expect from many of those admir-
able discourses which are printed in our tongue, were
they delivered with a becoming fervour, and with the
most agreeable graces of voice and gesture ?

We are told that the great Latin orator very much
impaired his health by this laterwm contentio, this vehe-
mence of action, with which he used to deliver himself.
The Greek orator was likewise so very famous for this
particular in rhetoric, that one of his antagonists, whom
he had banished from Athens, reading over the oration
which had procured his banishment, and seeing his
friends admire it, could not forbear asking them, if they
were so much affected by the bare reading of it, how
much more would they have been alarmed had they

heard him actually throwing out such a storm of elo-

quence ?

How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these
two great men, does an oratur often make at the British
bar, holding up his head with the most insipid sere-
nity, and stroking the sides of a long wig that reaches
down to his middle! The truth of it is, there is often
nothing more ridiculous than the gestures of an Eng-
lish speaker: you see some of them running their hands
into their pockets as far as ever they can thrust them,
and others looking with great attention on a piece of
paper that has nothing written on it. You may see
many a smart rhetorician turning his hat in his hands,
moulding it into several different cocks, examining
sometimes the lining of it, and sometimes the button,
during the whole course of his harangue. A deaf man
would think he was cheapening a beaver, when perhaps
he is talking of the fate of the British nation. I remem-
ber, when I was a young man, and used to frequent
Westminster-hall, there was a counsellor who never
pleaded without a piece of packthread in his hand,
which he used to twist about a thumb or a finger all
the while he was speaking. The wags of those days
used to call it the thread of his discourse, for he was
unable to utter a word without it. One of his clients,
who was more merry than wise, stole it from him one
day in the midst of his pleading; but he had better
have let it alone, for he lost his cause by his jest.

I have all along acknowledged myself to be a dumb
man, and therefore may be thought a very improper
person to give rules for oratory; but I believe every
one will agree with me in this, that we ought either to
lay aside all kinds of gesture (which seems to be very
suitable to the genius of our nation), or at least to make
use of such only as are graceful and expressive,

ON TASTE.

GRATIAN very often recommends fine taste as the utmost
perfection of an accomplished man.

As this word arises very often in conversation, I
shall endeavour to give some account of it, and to lay
down rules how we may know whether we are pos-
sessed of it, and how we may acquire that fine taste of
writing which is so much talked of among the polite
world.

Most languages make use of this metaphor to express
that faculty of the mind which distinguishes all the
most concealed faults and nicest perfections in writing.‘We may be sure this metaphor would not have been so
general in all tongues, had there not been a very great
conformity between that mental taste which is the sub-
ject of this paper, and that sensitive taste which gives us
arelish of every different flavour that affects the palate.
Accordingly, we find there are as many degrees of re-
finement in the intellectual faculty, as in the sense which
is marked out by this common denomination.

I know a person who possessed the one in so great a
perfection, that after having tasted ten different kinds
of tea, he would distinguish, without seeing the colour
of it, the particular sort which was offered him; and
not only so, but any two sorts of them that were mixed
together in an equal proportion ; nay, he has carried
the experiment so far, as upon tasting the composition of
three different sorts, to name the parcels from whence
the three several ingredients were taken. A man of a
fine taste in writing will discern, after the same manner,
not only the general beauties and imperfections of an
author, but discover the several ways of thinking and
expressing himself which diversify him from all other
authors, with the several foreign infusions of thought
and language, and the particular authors from whom
they were borrowed.

After having thus far explained what is generally
meant by a fine taste in writing, and shown the pro-
priety of the metaphor which is used on this occasion,
ft think I may define it to be that faculty of the soul
which discerns the beauties of an author with pleasure,
and the imperfections with dislike. If a man would
know whether he is possessed of this faculty, I would
have him read over the celebrated works of antiquity
which have stood the test of so many different ages and
countries, or those worksamong the moderns which have
the sanction of the politer part of our contemporaries.
If upon the perusal of such writings he does not find
himself delighted in an extraordinary manner, or if,
upon reading the admired passages in such authors, he
finds a coldness and indifference in his thoughts, he
ought to conclude, not (as is too usual among tasteless
readers) that the author wants those perfections which
have been admired in him, but that he himself wants
the faculty of discovering them.

He should, in the second place, be very careful to
observe whether he tastes the distinguishing perfections,
or, if I may be allowed to call them so, the specific
qualities, of the author whom he peruses ; whether he
is particularly pleased with Livy for his manner of tell-
ing a story, with Sallust for entering into those internal
principles of action which arise from the characters and
manners of the persons he describes, or with Tacitus
for his displaying those outward motives of safety and
interest, which gave birth to the whole series of trans-
actions which he relates.

He may likewise consider how differently he is affected
by the same thought which presents itself in a great
writer, from what he is when he finds it delivered by
a person of an ordinary genius; for there is as much
difference in apprehending a thought clothed in Cicero’s
language, and that of a common author, as in seeing
an object by the light of a taper, or by the light of the
sun.

It is very difficult to lay down rules for the acquire-
ment of such taste as that I am here speaking of. The
faculty must in some degree be born with us; and it
very often happens, that those who have other qualities
in perfection are wholly void of this. One of the most
eminent mathematicians of the age has assured me, that
the greatest pleasure he took in reading Virgil was in

examining A‘neas’s voyage by the map; as I question
not but many a modern compiler of history would be
delighted with little more in that divine author than
the bare matters of fact.

But notwithstanding thisfaculty must in some measure
be born with us, there are several methods for cultivat-
ing and improving it, and without which it will be very
uncertain, and of little use to the person that possesses
it. The most natural method for this purpose is to be
conversant among the writings of the most polite

 

112 ADDISON'S

authors. A man who has any relish for fine writing,
either discovers new beauties, or receives stronger
impressions from the masterly strokes of a great author,
every time he peruses him; besides, that he naturally
wears himself into the same manner of speaking and
thinking.

Conversation with men of a polite genius is another
method for improving our natural taste. It is impos-
sible for a man of the greatest parts to consider any
thing in its whole extent, and in all its variety of lights.
Every man, besides those general observations which
are to be made upon an author, forms several reflec-
tions that are peculiar to his own manner of thinking ;
so that conversation will naturally furnish us with hints
which we did not attend to, and make us enjoy other
men’s parts and reflections as well as ourown. This
is the best reason I can give for the observation which
several have made, that men of great genius in the
same way of writing seldom rise up singly, but at cer-
tain periods of time appear together, and in a body;
as they did at Rome in the reign of Augustus, and in
Greece about the age of Socrates. I cannot think
that Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, La Fontaine,
Bruyere, Bossu, or the Daciers, would have written so
well as they have done, had they not been friends and
contemporaries.

It is likewise necessary for a man who would form
to himself a finished taste of good writing, to be well
versed in the works of the best critics both ancient and
modern. I must confess that I could wish there were
authors of this kind, who, beside the mechanical rules
which a man of very little taste may discourse upon,
would enter into the very spirit and soul of fine writing,
and show us the several sources of that pleasure which
rises in the mind upon the perusal of a noble work.
Thus, although in poetry it be absolutely necessary that
the unities of time, place, and action, with other points
of the same nature, should be thoroughly explained and
understood, there is still something more essential to the
art, something that elevates and astonishes the fancy,
and gives a greatness of mind to the reader, which few
of the critics beside Longinus have considered.

Our general taste in England is for epigram, turns
of wit, and forced conceits, which have no manner of
influence either for the bettering or enlarging the mind
of him who reads them, and have been carefully avoided
by the greatest writers both among the ancients and
moderns. I have endeavoured in several of my specu-
lations to banish this Gothic taste, which has. taken
possession among us. I shall next enter upon an
essay on the pleasures of the imagination, which, though
it shall consider the subject at large, will perhaps
suggest to the reader what it is that gives a beauty to
many passages of the finest writers both in prose and
verse. As an undertaking of this nature is entirely
new, I question not but it will be received with candour,

PIPIP LIPO LI PE IO DODD

ON THE IMAGINATION.
FIRST ESSAY.

Our sight is the most perfect and most delightful of all
our senses. It fills the mind with the largest variety
of ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest dis-
tance, and continues the longest in action, without being
tired or satiated with its proper enjoyments. The sense
of feeling can indeed give us a notion of extension, shape,
and all other ideas that enter at the eye, except colours ;
but at the same time it is very much straitened and
confined in its operations to the number, bulk, and dis-
tance of its particular objects. Our sight seems designed
to supply all these defects, and may be considered as a
more delicate and diffusive kind of touch, that spreads
itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends
the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of
the most remote parts of the universe. |

It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with
its ideas; so that by the pleasures of the imagination
or fancy (which I shall use promiscuously) I here meinMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

such as arise from visible objects, either when we have
them actually in our view, or when we call up theirideas
into our minds by paintings, statues, descriptions, or
any the like occasion. We cannot indeed have a single
image in the fancy that did not make its first entrance
through the sight ; but we have the power of retaining,
altering, and compounding those images which we have
once received, into all the variety of picture and vision
that are most agreeable to the imagination : for by this
faculty a man in a dungeon is capable of entertaining
himself with scenes and landscapes more beautiful than
any that can be found in the whole compass of nature.

There are few words in the English language which
are employed in a more loose and uncireumscribed sense
than those of the fancy and the imagination. I there-
fore thought it necessary to fix and determine the
notion of these two words, as I intend to make use of
them in the thread of my following speculations, that
the reader may conceive rightly what is the subject

which I proceed upon. I must therefore desire him to
remember, that by the pleasures of the imagination I
mean only such pleasures as arise originally from sight,
and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds: my
design being first of all to discourse of those primary
pleasures of the imagination which entirely proceed
from such objects as are before our eyes; and in the
next place, to speak of those secondary pleasures of the
imagination which flow from the ideas of visible objects,
when the objects are not actually before the eye, but
are called up into our memories, or formed into agree-
able visions of things, that are either absent or fictitious.
' The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full
extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined
as those of the understanding. The last are indeed
more preferable, because they are founded on some new
knowledge or improvement in the mind of man; yet it
must be confessed that those of the imagination are as
great and as transporting as the other.. A beautiful
prospect delights the soul as much asa demonstration ;
and a description in Homer has charmed more readers

| than a chapter in Aristotle. Besides, the pleasures of

_ the imagination have this advantage above those of the
understanding, that they are more obvious and more
easy to be acquired. It is but opening the eye, and the
scene enters. The colours paint themselves on the
fancy, with very little attention of thought or applica-
tion of mind inthe beholder. We are struck, we know
not how, with the symmetry of any thing we see, and
immediately assent to the beauty of an object, without
inquiring into the particular causes and occasions of
it.

A man of a polite imagination is led into a great many
pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of receiving.
He can converse with a picture, and find an agreeable
companion ina statue. He meets witha secret refresh-
ment in a description, and often feels a greater satisfac-
tion in the prospect of fields and meadows than another
does in the possession. It gives him indeed a kind of
property in every thing he sees, and makes the most
rude uncultivated parts of nature administer to his
pleasures ; so that he looks upon the world, as it were,
in another light, and discovers in it a multitude of
charms that conceal themselves from the generality of
mankind.

There are indeed but very few who know how to be
idle and innocent, or have a relish of any pleasures that
are not criminal; every diversion they take is at the

expense of some one virtue or another, and their very |

first step out of business is into vice or folly. A man
should endeavour, therefore, to make the sphere of his
innocent pleasures as wide as possible, that he may
retire into them with safety, and find in them such a
satisfaction as a wise man would not blush to take. Of
this nature are those of the imagination, which do not
require such a bent of thought as is necessary to our
more serious employments, nor, at the same time, suffer
the mind to sink into that negligence and remissness
which are apt to accompany our more sensual delights ;
but like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken them

 

 

 

 

113

from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon any
labour or difficulty.

We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy
are more conducive to health than those of the under-
standing, which are worked out by dint of thinking,
and attended with too violent a labour of the brain.
Delightful scenes, whetherin nature, painting, or poetry,
have a kindly influence on the body as well as the mind,
and not only serve to clear and brighten the imagination,
but are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to
set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable motions.
For this reason Sir Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon
Health, has not thought it improper to prescribe to his
reader a poem or a prospect, where he particularly
dissuades him from knotty and subtle disquisitions, and
advises him to pursue studies that fill the mind with
splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and
contemplations of nature.

I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled
the notions of those pleasures of the imagination
which are the subject of my present undertaking, and,
endeavoured by several considerations to recommend
to my reader the pursuit of those pleasures. I shall
in my next paper examine the several sources from
whence these pleasures are derived.

PPPPDPO PPDP PI PIAA

ON THE IMAGINATION.
SECOND ESSAY.

I suai first consider those pleasures of the imagination
which arise from the actual view and survey of outward
objects ; and these, I think, all proceed from the sight
of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful. There may,
indeed, be something so terrible or offensive, that the
horror or loathsomeness of an object may overbear the
pleasure which results from its greatness, novelty, or
beauty; but still there will be such a mixture of delight
in the very disgust it gives us, as any of these three
qualifications are most conspicuous and prevailing.

By greatness I do not only mean the bulk of any
single object, but the largeness of a whole view consj-
dered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of
an open champaign country, a vast uncultivated desert,
a huge heap of mountains, high rocks and precipices, or
a wide expanse of water, where we are not struck with
the novelty or beauty of the sight, but with that rude
kind of magnificence which appears in many of the
stupendous works of Nature. Our imagination loves to
be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing thatis
too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleasing
kind of astonishment at such unbounded views, and feel
a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul at the
apprehensions of them. The mind of man naturally
hates every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and
is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement when
the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened
on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or moun-
tains. On the contrary, a spacious horizon is an image
of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to
expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to
lose itself amidst the variety of objects that offer them-
selves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined
prospects are as pleasing to the fancy, as the specula-
tions of eternity or infinitude are to the understanding,
But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with
this grandeur—as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned
with stars or meteors, or a spacious landscape eut out
into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows—the pleasure
still grows upon us, as it arises from more than a single
principle.

Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a plea-
sure in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an
agreeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it
an idea of which it was not before possessed. Weare,
indeed, so often conversant with one set of objects, and
tired out with so many repeated shows of the same
things, that whatever is new or uncommon contributes a
little to vary human life, and to divert our minds for a,

   

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while with the strangeness of its appearance. It serves
us for a kind of refreshment, and takes off from that
satiety we are apt to complain of in our usual and ordi-
aary entertainments. It is this that bestows charms
on a-monster, and makes even the imperfections of
nature please us. It is this that recommends variety,
where the mind is every instant called off to something
new, and the attention not suffered to dwell too long
and waste itself on any particular object. It is this,
likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and
makes it afford the mind a double entertainment.
Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the
year pleasant to look upon; but never so much. as in
the opening of the spring, when they are all new and
fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet
too much aecustomed and familiar to the eye. For this
reason there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect
than rivers, jet d’eaus, or falls of water, where the scene
is perpetually shifting, and entertaining the sight every
moment with something that is new. We are quickly
tired with looking upon hills and valleys, where every
thing continues fixed and settled in the same place and
posture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and
relieved at the sight of such objects as are ever in
motion, and sliding away from beneath the eyes of the
beholder.

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly
to the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a
Secret satisfaction and complacency through the imagi-
nation, and gives a finishing to any thing that is great
oruncommon. ‘The very first discovery of. it strikes
the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness
and delight through all its faculties. There is not, per-
haps, any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of
matter than another, because we might have been so
made, that whatsoever now appears loathsome to us,
might have shown itself agreeable. But we find by
experience that there areseveral modifications of matter
which the mind, without any previous consideration,
pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed. Thus
we see that every different species of sensible creatures
has its different notions of beauty; and that each of
them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind.
This is nowhere more remarkable than in birds of the
same shape and proportion, where we often see the male
determined in his courtship by the single grain or
tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms
but in the colour of its species.

** The feather’d husband, to his partner true,
Preserves connubial rites inviolate.

With cold indifference every charm he sees—
‘The milky whiteness of the stately neck,

The shining down, proud crest, and purple wings;
But cautious with a searching eye explores

The female tribes, his proper mate to find,

With kindred colours mark’d. Did he not so,
The grove with painted monsters would abound,
Th’ ambiguous product of unnatural love.

The blackbird hence selects her sooty spouse ;
The nightingale her musical compeer,

Lur’d by the well-known voice: the bird of night,
Smit with his dusky wings and greenish eyes,
Woes his dun paramour. The beauteous race
Speaks the chaste loves of their progenitors ;
‘When, by the spring invited, they exult

In woods, and fields, and to the sun unfold

‘Their plumes, that with paternal colours glow.”

There is a second kind of beauty that we find in the
several products of art and nature, which does not work
in the imagination with that warmth and violence as the
beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt,
however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of
fondness for the places or objects in which we discover
it, This consists either in the gaiety or variety of
colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in
the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just
mixture and concurrence of all together. Among these
several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in
colours. We nowhere meet with a more glorious or

 

ADDISON'S

pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the
heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is
wholly made up of those different stains of light that
show themselves in clouds of a different situation. For
this reason we find the poets, who are always addressing
themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their
epithets from colours than from any other topic.

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great,
strange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more
it finds of these perfections in the same object, so it is
capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance
of another sense. Thus any continued sound, as the
music of birds, or a fall of water, awakens every moment
the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive
to the several beauties of the place that lie before him.
Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes,
they heighten the pleasures of the imagination, and
make even the colours and verdure of the landscape
appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses
recommend each other, and are pleasanter together,
than when they enter the mind separately: as the dif-
ferent colours of a picture, when they are well disposed,
set off one another, and receive an additional beauty
from the advantage of their situation.

ON THE IMAGINATION.
THIRD ESSAY,

THovGH in yesterday’s paper we considered how every
thing that is great, new, or beautiful, is apt to affect the
imagination with pleasure, we must own that it is im-
possible for us to assign the necessary cause of this
pleasure, because we know neither the nature of an
idea, nor the substance of a human soul, which might
help us to discover the conformity or disagreeableness
of the one to the other ; and, therefore, for want of such
a light, all that we can do in speculations of this kind,
is to reflect on those operations of the soul that are
most agreeable, and to range, under their proper heads,
what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, without
being able to trace out the several necessary and effi-
cient causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure
arises.

Final causes lie more bare and open to our observa-
tion, as there are often a greater variety that belong to
the same effect ; and these, though they are not alto-
gether so satisfactory, are generally more useful than
the other, as they give us greater occasion of admiring
the goodness and wisdom of the first contriver.

One of the final causes of our delight in any thing
that is great, may be this. The Supreme Author of our
being has so formed the soul of man, that nothing but
himself can be its last, adequate, and proper happiness.
Because, therefore, a great part of our happiness must
arise from the contemplation of his being, that he might
give our souls a just relish of such a contemplation, he
has made them naturally delight in the apprehension of
what is great or unlimited. Our admiration, which is
a very pleasing emotion of the mind, immediately rises
at the consideration of any object that takes up a great
deal of room in the fancy, and by consequence will
improve into the highest pitch of astonishment and de-
votion, when we contemplate His nature, that is neither
circumscribed by time or place, nor to be comprehended
by the largest capacity of a created being.

He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of any
thing that is new or wncommon, that he might encourage
us in the pursuit after knowledge, and engage us to
search into the wonders of his creation; for every new
idea brings such a pleasure along with it as rewards
any pains we have taken in its acquisition, and conse-
quently serves as a motive to put us upon fresh disco-
veries.

He has made every thing that is beautiful in our own
species pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to
multiply their kind, and fill the world with inhabitants ;
for it isvery remarkable, that wherever nature is crossed
in the production of a monster (the result of any wnne-MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

ttiral mixture), the breed is incapable of propagating
its likeness, and of founding a new order of creatures ;
so that unless all animals were allured by the beauty
of their own species, generation would be atan end, and
the earth unpeopled.

In the last place, he has made every thing that is
beautiful in all other objects pleasant, or rather has
made so many objects appear beautiful, that he might
render the whole creation more gay and delightful.
He has given almost every thing about us the power of
raising an agreeable idea in the imagination ; so that it
is impossible for us to behold his works with coldness
or indifference, and to survey so many beauties without
a secret satisfaction and complacency. Things would
make but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw them
only in their proper figures and motions; and what
reason can we assign for their exciting Im us many of
those ideas which are different from any thing that
exists in the objects themselves (for such are light and
colours), were it not to add supernumerary ornaments
to the universe, and make it more agreeable to the
imagination? We are every where entertained with
pleasing shows and apparitions ; we discover imaginary
glories in the heavens, and in the earth ; and see some
of this visionary beauty poured out upon the whole
creation ; but what a rough unsightly sketch of nature
should we be entertained with, did all her colouring
disappear, and the several distinctions of light and shade
vanish! Inshort, our souls are at present delightfully
lost and bewildered in a pleasing delusion, and we walk
about like the enchanted hero in a romance, who sees
beautiful castles, woods, and meadows, and at the same
time hears the warbling of birds, and the purling of
streams; but upon the finishing of some secret spell,
the fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate
knight finds himself on a barren heath, or in a solitary
desert. It is not improbable that something like this
may be the state of the soul after its first separation, in
respect of theimages it will receive from matter, though,
indeed, the ideas of colours are so pleasing and beautiful
in the imagination, that it is possible the soul will not
be deprived of them, but perhaps find them excited by
some other occasional cause, as they are at present by
the different impressions of the subtle matter on the
organ of sight.

I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted
with that great modern discovery, which is at present
universally acknowledged by all the inquirers into
natural philosophy: namely, that light and colours, as
apprehended by the imagination, are only ideas in the
mind, and not qualities that have any existence in
matter. As this is a truth which has been proved in-
contestible by many modern philosophers, and is indeed
one of the finest speculations in that science, if the Eng-
lish reader would see the notion explained at large, he
may find it in the eighth chapter of the second book of
Mr Locke’s Essay on the Human Understanding.

OO PPOL OP IL OL L LOOP IOI

ON THE IMAGINATION.
FOURTH ESSAY.

Ir we consider the works of nature and art, as they are
qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the
Jast very defective in comparison of the former ; for
though they may sometimes appear as beautiful or
strange, they can have nothing in them of that vastness
and immensity, which afford so great an entertainment
to the mind of the beholder. The one may be as polite
and delicate as the other, but can never show herself
so august and magnificent im the design. There is
something more bold and masterly in the rough careless
strokes of nature, than in the nice touches and embel-
lishments of art. The beauties of the most stately gar-
den or palace lie in a narrow compass ; the imagination
immediately runs them over, and requires something
else to gratify her: but in the wide fields of nature, the
sight wanders up and down without confinement, and
is fed with an infinite variety of images, without any

 

 

1]

certain stint or number. For this reason we always
find the poet in love with a country life, where nature
appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes out all
those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagina-
tion.

od

** Here easy quiet, a secure retreat,

A harmless life that knows not how to cheat,

With home-bred plenty the rich owner bless,

And rural pleasures crown his happiness.

Unvex’d with quarrels, undisturb’d with noise,

The country king his peaceful realm enjoys:

Cool grots, and living lakes, the flow’ry pride

Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide,
And shady groves that easy sleep invite;

And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night.”

But though there are several of those wild scenes that
are more delightful than any artificial shows, yet we
find the works of nature still more pleasant, the more
they resemble those of art ; for in this case our pleasure
rises from a double principle—from the agreeableness
of the objects to the eye, and from their similitude to
other objects. We are pleased as well with comparing
their beauties as with surveying them, and can repre-
sent them to our minds, either as copies or originals.
Hence it is that we take delight in a prospect which is
well laid out, and diversified with fields and meadows,
woods and rivers; in those accidental landscapes of
trees, clouds, and cities, that are sometimes found in the
veins of marble; in the curious fret-work of rocks and
grottoes ; and, in a word, in any thing that hath such a
variety or regularity as may seem the effect of design
in what we call the works of chance.

If the products of nature rise in value according as
they more or less resemble those of art, we may be sure
that artificial works receive a greater advantage from
their resemblance of such as are natural ; because here
the similitude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more
perfect. The prettiest landscape I ever saw, was one
drawn on the walls of a dark room, which stood opposite
on one side to a navigable river, and on the other to a
park. ‘The experiment is very common in optics. Here
you might discover the waves and fluctuations of the
water in strong and proper colours, with the picture of
a ship entering at one end, and sailing by degrees
through the whole piece. On another there appeared
the green shadows of trees waving to and fro with the
wind, and herds of deer among them in miniature, leap-
ing about upon the wall. I must confess, the novelty of
such a sight may be one occasion of its pleasantness to
the imagination ; but certainly the chief reason is its
near resemblance to nature, as it does not only, like
other pictures, give the colour and figure, but the motion
of the things it represents.

We have before observed, that there is generally
in nature something more grand and august than what
we meet with in the curiosities of art. When, there-
fore, we see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a
nobler and more exalted kind of pleasure than what we
receive from the nicer and more accurate productions

of art. On this account our English gardens are not so

entertaining to the fancy as those of France and Italy,
where we see a large extent of ground covered over
with an agreeable mixture of garden and forest, which
represent every where an artificial rudeness much more
charming than that neatness and elegancy which we
meet with in those of our own country. It might indeed
be of ill consequence to the public, as well as unprofit-
able to private persons, to alienate so much ground
from pasturage and the plough, m many parts of a
country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to a far
greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate
be thrown into a kind of garden by frequent planta-
tions, that may turn as much to the profit as to the
pleasure of the owner? A marsh overgrown with wil-
lows, or a mountain shaded with oaks, are not only more
beautiful, but more beneficial, than when they lie bare
and unadorned. Fields of corn make a pleasant pro-
spect ; and if the walks were a little taken care of thata
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116 ADDISON'S

lie between them, if the natural embroidery of the
meadows were helped’ and improved by some small
additions of art, and the several rows of hedges set off
by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of
receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his
Own possessions.

Writers who have given us an account of China, tell
us the inhabitants of that country laugh at the planta-
tions of our Europeans, which are laid out by the rule
and line ; because, they say, any one may place trees
in equal rows and uniform figures. They choose rather
to show a genius in works of this nature ; and therefore
always conceal the art by which they direct themselves.
They have a word, it seems, in their language, by which
they express the particular beauty of a plantation that
thus strikes the imagination at first sight, without dis-
covering what it is that has soagreeable an effect. Our
British gardeners, on the contrary, instead of humouring
nature, love to deviate from it as much as possible.
Our trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We see
the marks of the scissors upon every plant and bush.
I do not know whether I am singular in my opinion,
but for my own part I would rather look upon a tree,
in all its luxuriancy and diffusion of boughs and
branches, than when it is thus cut and trimmed into a
mathematical figure ; and cannot but fancy that an
orchard in flower looks infinitely more delightful than
all the little labyrinths of the most finished parterre.
But as our great modellers of gardens have their
magazines of plants to dispose of, it is very natural for
them to tear up all the beautiful plantations of fruit
trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to their
own profit, in taking off their evergreens, and the like
moveable plants, with which their shops are plentifully
stocked.

oe

ON THE IMAGINATION.
FIFTH ESSAY.

 

PLL

Havine already shown how the fancy is affected by the
works of nature, and afterwards considered in general
both the works of nature and of art, how they mutually
assist and complete each other in forming such scenes
and prospects as are most apt to delight the mind of
the beholder, I shall in this paper throw together some
reflections on that particular art which has a more
immediate tendency than any other to produce those
primary pleasures of the imagination, which have
hitherto been the subject of this discourse. The art I
mean is that of architecture, which I shall consider
only with regard to the light in which the foregoing
speculations have placed it, without entering into those
rules and maxims which the great masters of architec-
ture have laid down and explained at largein numberless
treatises upon that subject.

Greainess, in the works of architecture, may be
considered as relating to the bulk and body of the
structure, or to the manner in which it is built. As
for the first, we find the ancients, especially among the
eastern nations of the world, infinitely superior to the
moderns.

Not to mention the Tower of Babel, of which an old
author says there were the foundations to be seen in
his time, which looked like.a spacious mountain, what
could be more noble than the walls of Babylon, its
hanging gardens, and its temple to Jupiter Belus, that
rose a mile high by eight several stories, each story a
furlong in height, and on the top of which was the
Babylonian observatory! I might here, likewise, take

notice of the huge rock that was cut into the figure of

Semiramis, with the smaller rocks that lay by it in the
shape of tributary kings; the prodigious basin or
artificial lake which took in the whole Euphrates, till
such time as a new canal was formed for its reception,
with the several trenches through which that river was
conveyed. I know there are persons who look upon
some of these wonders of art as fabulous; but I cannot
find any ground for such a suspicion, unless it be that we
have no such works among us at present. There were,

 

indeed, many greater advantages for building in those
times, and in that part of the world, than have been
met with ever since, The earth was extremely fruitful ;
men lived generally on pasturage, which requires a
much smaller number of hands than agriculture ; there
were few trades to employ the busy part of mankind,
and fewer arts and sciences to give work to men of
speculative tempers; and what is more than all the
rest, the prince was absolute ; so that when he went to
war, he put himself at the head of the whole people,
as we find Semiramis leading her three millions to the
field, and yet overpowered by the number of her
enemies. It is no wonder, therefore, when she was at
peace, and turning her thoughts on building, that she
could accomplish such great works withsuch a prodigious
multitude of labourers; besides, that in her climate
there was small interruption of frosts and winters, which
make the northern workmen lie half the year idle. I
might mention, too, among the benefits of the climate,
what historians say of the earth, that it sweated out a
bitumen or natural kind of mortar, which is doubtless
the same with that mentioned in holy writ as con-
tributing to the structure of Babel—Slime they used
instead of mortar.

In Egypt we still see their pyramids, which answer
to the descriptions that have been made of them ; and
I question not but a traveller might find out some
remains of the labyrinth that covered a whole province,
and had a hundred temples disposed among its several
quarters and divisions.

The wall of China is one of those eastern pieces of
magnificence which make a figure even in the map
of the world, although an account of it would have
been thought fabulous, were not the wall itself still
extant.

We are obliged to devotion for the noblest buildings
that have adorned the several countries of the world.
It is this which has set men to work on temples and
public places of worship, not only that they might, by
the magnificence of the building, invite the Deity to
reside within it, but that such stupendous works might
at the same time open the mind to vast conceptions,
and fit it to converse with the divinity of the place;
for every thing that is majestic imprints an awfulness
and reverence on the mind of the beholder, and strikes
in with the natural greatness of the soul.

In the second place, we are to consider greatness of
manner in architecture, which has such force upon the
imagination, that a small building, where it appears,
shall give the mind nobler ideas than one of twenty
times the bulk, where the manner is ordinary or little.
Thus, perhaps, a man would have been more astonished
with the majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus’s
statues of Alexander, though no bigger than the life,
than he might have been with mount Athos, had it
been cut into the figure of the hero, according to the
proposal of Phidias, with a river in one hand, and a
city in the other.

Let any one reflect upon the disposition of mind he
finds in himself at his first entrance into the Pantheon
at Rome, and how the imagination is filled with some-
thing great and amazing ; and at the same time consider
how little in proportion he is affected with the inside of
a Gothic cathedral, though it be five times larger than
the other; which can arise from nothing else but the
greatness of the manner in the one, and the meanness
in the other.

I have seen an observation upon this subject ina
French author, which very much pleased me. It is in
Monsieur Freart’s parallel of the ancient and modern
architecture. Ishall give it to the reader with the
same terms of art which he has made use of. “I am
observing,” says he, “a thing which, in my opinion, is
very curious—whence it proceeds that in the same
quantity of superficies, the one manner seems great and
magnificent, and the other poor and trifling. The reason
is fine and uncommon. I say, then, that to introduce
into architecture this grandeur of manner, we ought so
to proceed, that the division of the principal membersMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

of the order may consist but of few parts; that they be
all great, and of a boldand ample relievo and swelling ;
and that the eye beholding nothing little and mean, the
imagination may be more vigorously touched and
affected with the work that stands before it. For
example: in a cornice, if the gola or cymatium of the
corona, the coping, the modillions or dentelli, make a
noble show by their graceful projections—if we see none
of that ordinary confusion which is the result of those
little cavities, quarter rounds of the astragal, and I
know not how many other intermingled particulars,
which produce no effect in great and massy works, and
which very unprofitably take up place, to the prejudice
of the principal member—it is most certain that this
manner will appear solemn and great; as, on the con-
trary, that it will have but a poor and mean effect
where there is a redundancy of those smaller ornaments
which divide and scatter the angles of the sight into
such a multitude of rays, so pressed together that the
whole will appear but a confusion.”

Among all the figures in architecture, there are none
that have a greater air than the concave and the convex;
and we find in all the ancient and modern architecture,
as well in the remote parts of China as in countries
nearer home, that round pillars and vaulted roofs make
a great part of those buildings which are designed for
pomp and magnificence. The reason I take to be,
because in these figures we generally see more of the
body than in those of other kinds. There are, indeed,
figures of bodies where the eye may take in two-thirds
of the surface; but as im such bodies the sight must
split upon several angles, it does not take in one uniform
idea, but several ideas of the same kind. Look upon
the outside of a dome, your eye half surrounds it ; look
up into the inside, and at one glance you have all the
prospect of it; the entire concavity falls into your eye
at once, the sight being as the centre that collects and
gathers into it the lines of the whole circumference: in
a square pillar the sight often takes in but a fourth part
of the surface, and in a square concave must move up
and down to the different sides before it is master of all
the inward surface. For this reason, the fancy is
infinitely more struck with the view of the open air and
skies that pass through an arch, than what comes
through a square or any other figure. The figure of
the rainbow does not contribute less to its magnificence
than the colours to its beauty, as it is very poetically
described by the son of Sirach: “ Look upon the rain-
bow, and praise him that made it; very beautiful it is
in its brightness ; it encompasses the heavens with a
glorious circle, and the hands of the Most High have
bended it.”

Having thus spoken of that greatness which affects
the mind in architecture, I might next show the
pleasure that rises in the imagination from what appears
new and beautiful in this art; but as every beholder
has naturally a greater taste of these two perfections
in every building which offers itself to his view than
of that which I have hitherto considered, I shall not
trouble my readers with any reflections upon it. It is
sufficient for my present purpose to observe, that there
is nothing in this whole art which pleases the imagina-
tion, but as it is great, uncommon, or beautiful.

 

ON THE IMAGINATION.
SIXTH ESSAY.
i at first divided the pleasures of the imagination into
such as arise from objects that are actually before our
eyes, or that once entered in at our eyes, and are alter-
wards called up into the mind, either barely by its own
operations, or on occasion of something without us, as
statues or descriptions. We have already considered
the first division, and shall therefore enter on the other,
which, for distinction’s sake, I have called the secondary
pleasures of the imagination. When I say the ideas we
receive from statues, descriptions, or such like occasions,
are the same that were once actually in our view, it

 

117
must not be understood that we had once seen the very
place, action, or person, that are carved or described.
It is sufficient that we have seen places, persons, or
actions, in general which bear a resemblance, or, at
least, some remote analogy, with what we find repre-
sented ; since it is in the power of the imagination, when
it is once stocked with particular ideas, to enlarge,
compound, and vary them at her own pleasure.

Among the different kinds of representation, statuary
is the most natural, and shows us something dikest the
object that is represented. ‘To make use of a common
instance, let one who is born blind take an image in his
hands, and trace out with his fingers the different fur-
rows and impressions of the chisel, and he will easily
conceive how the shape of a man or beast may be repre-
sented by it; but should he draw his hand over a
picture, where all is smooth and uniform, he would
never be able to imagine how the several prominences
and depressions of a human body could be shown on a
plain piece of canvass, that has in it no unevenness or
irregularity. Description runs yet farther from the
things it represents than painting; for a picture bears
a real resemblance to its original, which letters and
syllables are wholly void of. Coloursspeak all languages ;
but words are understood only by such a people or
nation. For this reason, though men’s necessities
quickly put them on finding out speech, writing is pro-
bably of a later invention than painting; particularly,
we are told that in America, when the Spaniards first
arrived there, expresses were sent to the emperor of
Mexico in paint, and the news of his country delineated
by the strokes of a pencil, which was a more natural
way than that of writing, though, at the same time,
much more imperfect, because it is impossible to draw
the little connections of speech, or to give the picture of
a conjunction or an adverb, It would be yet more
strange to represent visible objects by sounds that have
no ideas annexed to them, and to make something like
description in music. Yet it is certain there may be
confused imperfect notions of this nature raised in the
imagination by an artificial composition of notes; and
we find that great masters in the art are able sometimes
to set their hearers in the heat and hurry of a battle,
to overcast their minds with melancholy scenes, and,
the apprehensions of deaths and funerals, or to lull them
into pleasing dreams of groves and elysiums.

In all these instances, this secondary pleasure of the
imagination proceeds from that action of the mind which
compares the ideas arising from the original objects
with the ideas we receive from the statue, picture,
description, or sound, that represents them. It is
impossible for us to give the necessary reason why this
operation of the mind is attended with so much pleasure,
as I have before observed on the same occasion; but
we find a great variety of entertainments derived from
this single principle; for it is this that not only gives
us a relish of statuary, painting, and description, but
makes us delight in all the actions and arts of mimicry.
It is this that makes the several kinds of wit pleasant,
which consists, as I have formerly shown, in the affinity
of ideas; and we may add, it is this also that raises the
little satisfaction we sometimes find in the different sorts
of false wit ; whether it consists in the affinity of letters,
as an anagram, acrostic ; ‘or of syllables, as in doggrel
rhymes, echoes; or of words, as in puns, quibbles; or
of a whole sentence or poem, as wings and altars. The
jinal cause, probably, of annexing pleasure to this ope-
ration of the mind, was to quicken and encourage us in
our searches after truth, since the distinguishing one
thing from another, and the right discerning betwixt
our ideas, depends wholly upon our comparing them
together, and observing the congruity or disagreement
that appears among the several works of nature.

But I shall here confine myself to those pleasures of
the imagination which proceed from ideas raised by
words, because most of the observations that agree
with descriptions are equally applicable to painting and
statuary.

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118 ADDISON'S

them, that a deseription often gives us more lively ideas
than the sight of things themselves. The reader finds
a scene drawn in stronger colours, and painted more to
the life in his imagination, by the help of words, than
by an actual survey of the scene which they deseribe.
In this case the poet seems to get the better of nature:
he takes, indeed, the landscape after her, but gives it
more vigorous touches, heightens its beauty, and so
enlivens the whole piece, that the images which flow
from the objects themselves appear weak and faint in
comparison of those that come from the expressions.
The reason probably may be, because in the survey of
any object we have only so much of it painted on the
imagination as comes in at the eye; but in its deserip-
tion, the poet gives us as free a view of it as he pleases,
and discovers to us several parts, that either we did not
attend to, or that lay out of our sight when we first
beheld it. As we look on any object, our idea of it is,
perhaps, made up of two or three simple ideas; but
when the poet represents it, he may either give usa
more complex idea of it, or only raise in us such ideas
as are most apt to affect the imagination.

It may be here worth our while to examine how it
comes to pass that several readers who are all acquainted
with the same language, and know the meaning of the
words they read, should nevertheless have a different
relish of the same descriptions. We find one transported
with a passage which another runs over with coldness
and indifference, or finding the representation extremely
natural, where another can perceive nothin g of likeness
and conformity. This’ different taste must proceed
either from the perfection of imagination in one more
than in another, or from the different ideas that several

« readers affix to the same words. For to have a true

relish, and form a right judgment of a description, a
man should be born with a good imagination, and must
have well weighed the force and energy that lie in the
Several words of a language, so as to be able to dis-
tinguish which are most significant and expressive of
their proper ideas, and what additional strength and
beauty they are capable of receiving from conjunction
with others. The fancy must be warm, to retain the
print of those images it hath received from outward
objects, and the judgment discerning, to know what
expressions are most proper to clothe and adorn them
to the best advantage. A man who is deficient in either

_of these respects, though he may receive the general
notion of a description, can never see distinctly all its
particular beauties ; as a person with a weak sight may
have the confused prospect of a place that lies before
him, without entering into its several parts, or discern-
ing the variety of its colours in their full glory and
perfection.

ON THE IMAGINATION.
SEVENTH ESSAY.

WE may observe, that any single circumstance of what
we have formerly seen, often raises up a whole scene
of imagery, and awakens numberless ideas that before
slept in the imagination. Such a particular smell or
colour is able to fill the mind on a sudden with a pic-
ture of the fields or gardens where we first met with it,
and to bring up into view all the variety of images that
once attended it. Our imagination takes the hint, and
leads us unexpectedly into cities or theatres, plains or
meadows. We may further observe, when the fancy
thus reflects onthe scenes that have passed in it formerly,
those which were at first pleasant to behold appear
more so upon reflection, and that the memory heightens
the delightfulness of the original. A Cartesian would
account for both these instances in the following manner.

The set of ideas which we received from such a
prospect or garden, having entered the mind at the
same time, have a set of traces belonging to them in
the brain, bordering very near upon one another ; when,
therefore, any one of these ideas arises in the imagi-
nation, and consequently dispatches a flow of animal

 

spirits to its proper trace, these spirits, in the violence
of their motion, run not only into the trace to which
they were more particularly directed, but into several
of those that lie about it. By this means, they awaken
other ideas of the same set, which immediately deter-
mine a new dispatch of spirits, that in the samie manner
open their neighbouring traces, till at last the whole
set of them is blown up, and the whole prospect or
garden flourishes in the imagination. But because the
pleasure we received from these places far surmounted
and overcame the little disagreeableness we found in
them, for this reason there was at first a wider passage
worn in the pleasure traces; and, on the contrary, so
narrow a one in those which belonged to the disagree-
able ideas, that they were quickly stopt up, and rendered
incapable of receiving any animal spirits, and conse-
quently of exciting any unpleasant ideas in the memory.

It would be in vain to inquire, whether the power of
imagining things strongly proceeds from any greater
perfection in the soul, or from any nicer texture in the
brain of one man than of another. But this is certain,
that a noble writer should be born with this faculty in
its full strength and vigour, so as to be able to receive
lively ideas from outward objects, to retain them lon g,
and to range them together, upon occasion, in such
figures and representations as are most likely to hit the
fancy of the reader. A poet should take as much pains
in forming his imagination, as a philosopher in cultivat-
ing his understanding. He must gain a due relish of
the works of nature, and be thoroughly conversant in
the various scenery of a country life.

When he is stored with country images, if he would
go beyond pastoral, and the lower kinds of poetry, he
ought to acquaint himself with the pomp and magnifi-
cence of courts. He should be very well versed in
every thing that is noble and stately in the productions
of art, whether it appear in painting or statuary, in the
great works of architecture which are in their present
glory, or in the ruins of those which flourished in
former ages.

Such advantages as these help to open a man’s
thoughts, and to enlarge his imagination, and will,
therefore, have their infiuence on all kinds of writing,
if the author knows how to make right use of them.
And among those of the learned languages who excel
in this talent, the most perfect in their several kinds
are perhaps Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. The first strikes
the imagination wonderfully with what is great, the
second with what is beautiful, and the last with what
is strange. Reading the Iliad is like travelling through
a country uninhabited, where the fancy is entertained
with a thousand savage prospects of vast deserts, wide
uncultivated marshes, huge forests, misshapen rocks and
precipices. On the contrary, the Aineid is like a well-
ordered garden, where it is impossible to find out any
part unadorned, or to cast our eyes upon a single spot
that does not produce some beautiful plant or flower.
But when we are in the Metamorphoses, we are walk-
ing on enchanted ground, and see nothing but scenes
of magic lying round us.

Homer is in his province when he is describing a
battle or a multitude, a hero or a god. Virgil is never
better pleased than when he is in his elysium, or copy-
ing out an entertaining picture. Homer’s epithets
generally mark out what is great, Virgil’s what is agree-
able. Nothing can be more magnificent than the figure
Jupiter makes in the first Iliad, nor more charming
than that of Venus in the first A‘neid.

‘* He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows;
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,

The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god:

High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the centre shook.”

** Thus having said, she turned and made appear

Her neck refulgent, and dishevell’d hair,

Which flowing from her shoulders, reach’d the ground,
And widely spread ambrosial scents around :

In length of train descends her sweeping gown,

And by her graceful walk the queen of Loye is known.”MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Homevr’s persons are most of them godlike and ter-
rible; Virgil has scarce admitted any into his poem
who are not beautiful, and has taken particular care
to make his hero so ;—

‘© And gave his rolling eyes a sparkling grace,
And breathed a youthful vigour on his face.”

In a word, Homer fills his readers with sublime ideas,
and I believe has raised the imagination of all the good
poets that have come after him. I shall only instance
Horace, who immediately takes fire at the first hint of
any passage in the Iliad or Odyssey, and always rises
above himself when he has Homer in his view. Virgil
has drawn together into his Amneid all the pleasing
scenes his subject is capable of admitting, and in his
Georgics has given us a collection of the most delightful
landscapes that can be made out of fields and woods
herds of cattle, and swarms of bees.

Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, has shown us how the
Imagination may be affected by what is strange. He
describes a miracle in every story, and always gives us
the sight of some new creature at the end of it. His
art consists chiefly in well-timing his description, before
the first shape is quite worn off, and the new one per-
fectly finished; so that he every where entertains us
with something we never saw before, and shows monster
after monster to the end of the Metamorphoses.

If I were to name a poet that is a perfect master in
all these arts of working on the imagination, I think
Milton may pass for one; andif his Paradise Lost falls
short of the Aneid or Iliad in this respect, it proceeds
rather from the fault of the language in which it is
written, than from any defect of genius in the author.
So divine a poem in English, is like a stately palace
built of brick, where one may see architecture in as
great a perfection as in one of marble, though the
materials are of a coarser nature. But to consider it
only as it regards our present subject—what can be
conceived greater than the battle of angels, the majesty
of the Messiah, the stature and behaviour of Satan and
his peers?’ What more beautiful than pandemonium,
paradise, heaven, angels, Adam and Eve?) What more
strange than the creation of the world, the several
metamorphoses of the fallen angels, and the surprising
adventures their leader meets with in his search after
paradise? No other subject could have furnished a
poet with scenes so proper to strike the imagination,
as no other poet could have painted those scenes in
more strong and lively colours.

2
.

DOP OPP OL CL PE PDO OP

ON THE IMAGINATION.
EIGHTH ESSAY.

Tue pleasures of these secondary views of the imagina-
tion are of a wider and more universal nature than
those it has when joined with sight; for not only what
is great, strange, or beautiful, but any thing that is
disagreeable when looked upon, pleases us in an apt
description. Here, therefore, we must inquire after a
new principle of pleasure, which is nothing else but the
action of the mind, which compares the ideas that arise
from words with the ideas that arise from the objects
themselves ; and why this operation of the mind is
attended with so much pleasure, we have before con-
sidered. For this reason, therefore, the description of
a dunghill is pleasing to the imagination, if the image
be represented to our minds by suitable expressions ;
though, perhaps, this may be more properly called the
pleasure of the understanding than of the fancy, because
we are not so much delighted with the image that is
contained in the description, as with the aptness of the
description to excite the image.

But if the description of what is little, common, or
deformed, be acceptable to the imagination, the descrip-
tion of what is great, surprising, or beautiful, is much
more so; because here we are not only delighted with
comparing the representation with the original, but are
highly pleased with the original itself, Most readers, I

 

believe, are more charmed with Milton’s deseription of
paradise than of hell. They are both, perhaps, equally
perfect in their kind but in the one the brimstone and
sulphur are not so refresking to the imagination, as the
beds of flowers and the Wilderness of sweets in the
other. %

There is yet another cireumstan@eyhich recommends
a description more than all the rest gnd that ig, if if
represents to us such objects as are to raise a
secret ferment in the mind of the reader, to work
with violence upon his passions. For in this
are at once warmed and enlightened, so that the ple?
becomes more universal, and is several ways qualif
to entertain us. Thus, in painting it is pleasant to look
on the picture of any face where the resemblance is
hit; but the pleasure increases, if it be the picture of a
face that is beautiful ; and is still greater, if the beauty
be softened with an air of melancholy or sorrow. The
two leading passions which the more serious parts of
poetry endeavour to stir up in us, are terror and pity.
And here, by the way, one would wonder how it comes
to pass that such passions as are very unpleasant at all
other times, are very agreeable when excited by proper
descriptions. It is not strange that we should take
delight in such passages as are apt to produce hope, joy,
admiration, love, or the like emotions in us, because
they never rise in the mind without an inward pleasure
which attends them. But how comes it to pass that
we should take delight in being terrified or dejected by
a description, when we find so much uneasiness in
the fear or grief which we receive from any other
occasion.

If we consider, therefore, the nature of this pleasure,
we shall find that it does not arise so properly from the
description of what is terrible, as from the reflection
we make on ourselves at the time of reading it. When
we look on such hideous objects, we are not a little
pleased to think we are in no danger of them. We
consider them at the same time as dreadful and harm-
less ; so that the more frightful appearance they make,
the greater is the pleasure we receive from the sense
of our own safety. In short, we look upon the terrors
of a description with the same curiosity and satisfaction
that we survey a dead monster.

 
 
  
 
   
    
 
   
   
    

‘* They drag him from his den:
The wond’ring neighbourhood, with glad surprise,
Beheld his shagged breast, his giant size,
His mouth that flames no more, and his extinguish’d eyes.”

It is for the same reason that we are delighted with
reflecting upon dangers that are past, or in looking on
a precipice at a distance, which would fill us with a
different kind of horror if we saw it hanging over our
heads.

In like manner, when we read of torments, wounds,
deaths, and the like dismal accidents, our pleasure
does not flow so properly from the grief which such
melancholy descriptions give us, as from the secret
comparison which we make between ourselves and the
person who suffers. Such representations teach us to
set a just value upon our own condition, and make us
prize our good fortune, which exempts us from the like
calamities. This is, however, such a kind of pleasure
as we are not capable of receiving, when we see a
person actually lying under the tortures that we meet
with in a description ; because, in this case, the object
presses too close upon our senses, and bears so hard
upon us, that it does not give us time or leisure to
refiect on ourselves. Our thoughts are so intent upon
the miseries of the sufferer, that we cannot turn them
upon our own happiness. Whereas, on the contrary,
we consider the misfortunes we read of in history or
poetry either as past or as fictitious; so that the
reflection upon ourselves rises in us insensibly, and
overbears the sorrow we conceive for the sufferings of
the afflicted.

But because the mind of man requires something
more perfect in matter than what it finds there, and
can never meet with any sight in nature which suffi-wr

120

ciently answers its highest ideas of pleasantness—or, in

“other words, because the imagination can fancy to

itself things more great, strange, or beautiful, than the
eye ever saw, and is still sensib/e of some defect in what
it has seen ; on this ac¢ount it is the part of a poet to
humour the imaginationin our own notions, by mending
and perfecting natuy< where he describes a reality, and
by adding greatest beauties than are put together in
«nature where describes a fiction.
He is net Aiged to attend her in the slow advances
Ae makes from one season to another, or to
s#Ve her conduct in the successive production of
nts and flowers. He may draw into his descrip-

   

tion all the beauties of the spring and autumn, and

make the whole year contribute something to render it
the more agreeable. His rose-trees, woodbines, and
jessamines, may flower together,and his beds be covered
at the same time with lilies, violets, and amaranths. His
soil is not restrained to any particular set of plants, but
1s proper either for oaks or myrtles, and adapts itself
to the products of every climate. Oranges may grow
wild in it; myrrh may be met with in every hedge ;
and if he thinks it proper to have a grove of spices, he
can quickly command sun enough to raise it. If all
this will not furnish out an agreeable scene, he can
make several new species of flowers, with richer scents
and higher colours than any that grow in the gardens
of nature. His concerts of birds may be as full and
harmonious, and his woods as thick and gloomy, as he
pleases. He is at no more expense in a long vista than
a short one; and ean as easily throw his cascades
from a precipice of half a mile high, as from one of
twenty yards. He has his choice of the winds, and can
turn the course of his rivers into all the variety of
meanders that are most delightful to the reader’s
imagination. In a word, he has the modelling of nature
in his own hands, and may give her what charms he
pleases, provided he does not reform her too much, and
run into absurdities by endeavouring to excel.

POEL IP LOD IL OL IPE LOLA

ON THE IMAGINATION.
NINTH ESSAY.

TueERE is a kind of writing wherein the poet quite loses
sight of nature, and entertains his reader’s ima gination
with the characters and actions of such persons as have
many of them no existence but what he bestows on
them. Such are fairies, witches, magicians, demons,
and departed spirits. This Mr Dryden calls “the
fairy way of writing,” which is, indeed, more difficult
than any other that depends on the poet’s fancy, because
he has no pattern to follow in it, and must work alto-
gether out of his own invention.

There is a very odd turn of thought required for
this sort of writing; and it is impossible for a poet to
succeed in it who has not a particular cast of fancy,
and an imagination naturally fruitful and superstitious.
Besides this, he ought to be very well versed in legends
and fables, antiquated romances, and the traditions of
nurses and old women, that he may fall in with our
natural prejudices, and humour those notions which we
have imbibed in our infancy; for otherwise he will be
apt to make his fairies talk like people of his own species,
and not like other sets of beings, who converse with
different objects, and think in a different manner from
that of mankind.

** Let not the wood-born satyr fondly sport

With amorous verses, as if bred at court.”
I do not say with Mr Bays, in the “ Rehearsal,” that
Spirits must not be confined to speak sense; but it is
certain their sense ought to be a little discoloured, that
it may seem particular, and proper to the person and
condition of the speaker.

These descriptions raise a pleasing kind of horror in
the mind of the reader, and amuse his imagination
with the strangeness and novelty of the persons who
are represented in them. They bring up into our
memory the stories we have heard in our childhood,

 

ADDISON'S

and favour those secret terrors and apprehensions to
which the mind of man is naturally subject. We are
pleased with surveying the different habits and beha-
viours of foreign countries ; how much more must we
be delighted and surprised when we are led, as it were,
into a new creation, and see the persons and manners
of another species! Men of cold fancies and philoso-
phical dispositions object to this kind of poetry, that it
has not probability enough to affect the imagination.
But to this it may be answered, that we are sure in
general that there are many intellectual beings in the
world besides ourselves, and several species of spirits,
who are subject to different laws and economies from
those of mankind. When we see, therefore, any of
these represented naturally, we cannot look upon the
representation as altogether impossible ; nay, many are
prepossessed with such false opinions as dispose them
to believe these particular delusions; at least, we have
all heard so many pleasing relations in favour of them,
that we do not care for seeing through the falsehood,
and willingly give ourselves up to so agreeable an im-
posture.

The ancients have not much of this poetry among
them ; for, indeed, almost the whole substance of it
owes its original to the darkness and superstition of
later ages, when pious frauds were made use of to
amuse mankind, and frighten them into a sense of their
duty. Our forefathers looed upon nature with more
reverence and horror before the world was enlightened
by learning and philosophy, and loved to astonish them-
selves with apprehensions of witcheraft, prodigies,
charms, and enchantments. There was not a village
in England that had not a ghost in it ; the churchyards
were all haunted; every large common had a circle of
fairies belonging to it ; and there was scarce a shepherd
to be met with who had not seen a spirit.

Among all the poets of this kind, our English are
much the best by what I have yet seen; whether it be
that we abound with more stories of this nature, or
that the genius of our country is fitter for this sort
of poetry; for the English are naturally fanciful, and
very often disposed, by that gloominess and melancholy
of temper which is so frequent in our nation, to many
wild notions and visions to which others are not so liable.

Among the English, Shakspeare has incomparably
excelled all others. That noble extravagance of fancy
which he had in so great perfection, thoroughly qualified
him to touch this weak superstitious part of his reader’s
imagination, and made him capable of succeeding where
he had nothing to support him besides the strength of
his own genius. There is something so wild, and yet so
solemn, in the speeches of his ghosts, fairies, witches,
and the like imaginary persons, that we cannot forbear
thinking them natural, though we have no rule by
which to judge of them, and must confess, if there are
such beings in the world, it looks highly probable they
should talk and act as he has represented them.

There is another sort of imaginary beings that we
sometimes meet with among the poets, when the author
represents any passion, appetite, virtue, or vice, under
a visible shape, and makes it a person or an actor in
his poem. Of this nature are the descriptions of
Hunger and Envy in Ovid, of Fame in Virgil, and of
Sin and Death in Milton. We find a whole creation of
the like shadowy persons in Spenser, who had an admir-
able talent in representations of this kind. I have dis-
coursed of these emblematical persons in former papers,
and shall therefore only mention them in this place.
Thus we see how many ways poetry addresses itself to
the imagination; as it has not only the whole circle of
nature for its province, but makes new worlds of its
own, shows us persons who are not to be found in
being, and represents even the faculties of the soul,
with the several virtues and vices, in a sensible shape
and character.

I shall in my two following papers consider in general
how other kinds of writing are qualified to please the
imagination, with which | intend to conclude these

YER XCF
CSSa} Se ‘MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSA Y9. 12]

ON THE IMAGINATION.
TENTH ESSAY,

As the writers in poetry and fiction borrow their several
materials from outward objects, and join them together
at their own pleasure, there are others who are obliged
to follow nature more closely, and to take entire scenes
out of her. Such are historians, natural philosophers,
travellers, geographers, and, ina word, all who describe
visible objects of a real existence.

It is the most agreeable talent of a historian to be
able to draw up his armies and fight his battle in proper
expressions, to set before our eyes the divisions, cabals,
and jealousies of great men, and to lead us step by step
into the several actions and events of his history. We
love to see the subject unfolding itself by just degrees,
and breaking upon us insensibly, that so we may be
kept in a pleasing suspense, and have time given us to
raise our expectations, and to side with one of the
parties concerned in the relation. I confess this shows
more the art than the veracity of the historian; but I
am. only to speak of him as he is qualified to please the
imagination. And in this respect Livy has perhaps
excelled all who went before him, or have written since
his time. He describes every thing in so lively a man-
ner, that his whole history is an admirable picture, and
touches on such proper circumstances in every story,
that his reader becomes a kind of spectator, and feels
in himself all the variety of passions which are corre-
spondent to the several parts of the relation.

But among this set of writers, there are none who
more gratify and enlarge the imagination than the
authors of the new philosophy, whether we consider
their theories of the earth or heavens, the discoveries
they have made by glasses, or any other of their con-
templations on nature. We are nota little pleased to
find every green leaf swarm with millions of animals,
that at their largest growth are not visible to the naked
eye. There is something very engaging to the faney
as well as to our reason, in the treatises of metals,
minerals, plants, and meteors. But when we survey
the whole earth at once, and the several planets that lie
within its neighbourhood, we are filled with a pleasing
astonishment, to see so many worlds hanging one above
another, and sliding round their axlesin such an amazing
pomp and solemnity. If after this we contemplate those
wild fields of ether, that reach in height as far as from
saturn to the fixed stars, and run abroad almost to an
infinitude, our imagination finds its capacity filled with
so immense a prospect, and puts itself upon the stretch
to comprehend it. But if we yet rise higher, and con-
sider the fixed stars as so many vast oceans of flame,
that are each of them attended with a different set of
planets, and still discover new firmaments and new
lights that are sunk farther in those unfathomable
depths of ether, so as not to be seen by the strongest
of our telescopes, we are lost in such a labyrinth of
suns and worlds, and confounded with the immensity
and magnificence of nature.

Nothing is more pleasant to the fancy than to enlarge
itself by degrees in its contemplation of the various
proportions which its several objects bear to each other,
when it compares the body of man to the bulk of the
whole earth, the earth to the circle it describes round
the sun, that circle to the sphere of the fixed stars, the
sphere of the fixed stars to the circuit of the whole
creation, the whole creation itself to the infinite space
that is every where diffused about it; or when the
imagination works downward, and considers the bulk
of a human body in respect of an animal a hundred
times less than a mite, the particular limbs of such
an animal, the different springs that actuate the limbs,
the-spirits which set the springs a-going, and the pro-
portionableminuteness of these several parts before they
have arrived at their full growth and perfection: but
if, after all this, we take the least particle of these ani-
mal spirits, and consider its capacity of being wrought
into a world that shall contain within those narrow

dimensions a heaven and earth, stars and planets, and |

 

every different species of living creatures, in the same
analogy and proportion they bear to each other in our
universe—such a speculation, by reason of its nicety,
appears ridiculous to those who have not turned their
thoughts that way, though;at the same time, it is
founded on no less than the evienee of a demonstra-
tion. Nay, we may yet carry it her, and discover
in the smallest particle of this little Wee d a new unex-
hausted fund of matter, capable of being yun out into
another universe. ~*~

I have dwelt the longer on this subject, betas J
think it may show us the proper limits, as well as tha
defectiveness, of our imagination ; how it is confined to.
a very small quantity of space, and immediately stopped
in its operation when it endeavours to take in any thing
that is very great or very little. Let a man try to con-
ceive the different bulk of an animal which ig twenty,
from another which is a hundred times Jess than a
mite ; or to compare in his thoughts a length of a thou-
sand diameters of the earth with that of a million, and
he will quickly find that he has no different measures
in his mind adjusted to such extraordinary degrees of
grandeur or minuteness. The understanding, indeed,
opens an infinite space on every side of us; but the
imagination, after a few faint efforts, is immediately at
a stand, and finds itself swallowed up in the immensity
of the void that surrounds it. Our reason ean pursue
a particle of matter through an infinite variety of divi-
sions ; but the fancy soon loses sight of it, and feels in
itself a kind of chasm that wants to be filled with matter
of a more sensible bulk. We can neither widen nor
contract the faculty to the dimensions of either extreme.
The object is too big for our capacity when we would
comprehend the circumference of a world, and dwindles
into nothing when we endeavour after the idea of an
atom.

It is possible this defect of imagination may not be in
the soul itself, but as it acts in conjunction with the body.
Perhaps there may not be room in the brain for such
a variety of impressions, or the animal spirits may be
incapable of figuring them in such a manner as is
necessary to excite so very large or very minute ideas.
However it be, we may well suppose that beings of a
higher nature very much excel us in this respect, as it
is probable the soul of man will be infinitely more
perfect hereafter in this faculty, as well as in all the
rest ; insomuch, that perhaps the imagination will be
able to keep pace with the understanding, and to form
in itself distinct ideas of all the different modes and
quantities of space.

POLI LOL OLD POL OLA

ON THE IMAGINATION,
ELEVENTH ESSAY.

Tue pleasures of the imagination are not wholly confined
to such particular authors as are conversant in material
objects, but are often to be met with among the polite
masters of morality, criticism, and other speculations
abstracted from matter, who, although they do not
directly treat of the visible parts of nature, often draw
from them their similitudes, metaphors, and allegories.
By these allusions, a truth in the understanding is as it
were reflected by the imagination; we are able to see
something like colour and shape in a notion, and to
discover a scheme of thoughts traced out upon matter.
And here the mind receives a great deal of satisfaction,
and has two of its faculties gratified at the same time,
while the fancy is busy in copying after the understand-
ing, and transcribing ideas out of the intellectual world
into the material.

The great art of a writer shows itself in the choice
of pleasing allusions, which are generally to be taken
from the great or beautiful works of art or nature ; for
though whatever is new or uncommon is apt to delight
the imagination, the chief design of an allusion being to
illustrate and explain the passage of an author, it should
be always borrowed from what is more known and
common than the passages which are to be explained.

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Allegories, when well chosen, are dike So many tracks
of light in a discourse, that make every thing about them
clear and beautiful. A noble metaphor, when it is placed
to an advantage, casts a kind of glory round it, and darts
a lustre through a whol sentence. These different
kinds of illusion are 2Ut so many different manners of
similitude ; and tht they may please the imagination,
the likeness ovsit to be very exact, or very agreeable,
as we love 40 See a picture where the resemblance is
just, or “He posture and air graceful. But we often find
emir-it writers very faulty in this respect: great
sMolars are apt to fetch their comparisons and allusions
from the sciences in which they are most conversant ;
so that a man may see the compass of their learning in
a treatise on the most indifferent subject. I have read
a discourse upon love, which none but a profound
chemist could understand, and have heard many a
sermon which should only have been preached before a
congregation of Cartesians. On the contrary, your men
of business usually have recourse to such instances as
are too mean and familiar. They are for drawing the
reader into a game of chess or tennis, or for leading
him from shop to shop in the cant of particular trades
and employments. It is certain there may be found an
infinite variety of very agreeable allusions in both these
kinds; but, for the generality, the most entertaining
ones lie in the works of nature, which are obvious to all
capacities, and more delightful than what is to be found
in arts and sciences.

It is this talent of affecting the imagination that gives
an embellishment to good sense, and makes one man’s
compositions more agreeable than another’s. It sets
off all writings in general, but is the very life and
highest perfection of poetry, where it shines in an
eminent degree. It has preserved several poems for
many ages that have nothing else to recommend them ;
and where all the other beauties are present, the work
appears dry and insipid, if this single one be wanting.
Jt has something in it like creation. It bestows a kind
of existence, and draws up to the reader’s view several
objects which are not to be found in being. It makes
additions to nature, and gives greater variety to God’s
works. Ina word, it is able to beautify and adorn the
most illustrious scenes in the universe, or fill the mind
with more glorious shows and apparitions than can be
found in any part of it.

We have now discovered the several originals of those
pleasures that gratify the fancy ; and here, perhaps, it
would not be very difficult to cast under their proper
heads those contrary objects which are apt to fill it
with distaste and terror ; for the imagination is as liable
to pain as pleasure. When the brain is hurt by any
accident, or the mind disordered by dreams or sickness,
the faney is overrun with wild dismal ideas, and
terrified with a thousand hideous monsters of its own
framing.

** Like Pentheus when distracted with his fear,

He saw two sons and double Thebes appear:

Or mad Orestes, when his mother’s ghost

Full in his face infernal torches tost,

And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight,
Flies o'er the stage, surprised with mortal fright ;
The furies guard the door, and intercept his flight.”

There is not a sight in nature so mortifying as that
of a distracted person, when his imagination is troubled
and his whole soul disordered and confused: Babylon
in ruins is not so melancholy a spectacle. But to quit
so disagreeable a subject, I shall only consider, by way
of conclusion, what an infinite advantage this faculty
gives an almighty Being over the soul of man, and how
great a measure of happiness or misery we are capable
of receiving from the imagination only.

We have already seen the influence that one man
has over the fancy of another, and with what ease he
conveys into it a variety of imagery. How great a
power, then, may we suppose lodged in him who knows
all the ways of affecting the imagination—who can
infuse what ideas he pleases, and fill those ideas with
terror and delight to what degree he thinks fit! He

\

 

ADDISON'S

ean excite images in the mind without the help of
words, and make scenes rise up before us, and seem
present to the eye, without the assistance of bodies or
exterior objects. He can transport the imagination
with such beautiful and glorious visions as cannot
possibly enter into our present conceptions, or haunt
it with such ghastly spectres and apparitions as would
make us hope for annihilation, and think existence no
better than a curse. In short, he ean so exquisitely
ravish or torture the soul through this single faculty,
as might suffice to make up the whole heaven or hell
of any finite being.

PRPS LA LOLI PD OD FD LO

THE MALE AND FEMALE WORLD.

THE moral world, as consisting of males and females, is
of a mixed nature, and filled with several customs,
fashions, and ceremonies, which would have no place
in it were there but one sex. Had our species no
females in it, men would be quite different creatures
from what they are at present; their endeavours to
please the opposite sex polish and refine them out of
those manners which are most natural to them, and
often sets them upon modelling themselves not accord-
ing to the plans which they approve in their own
opinions, but according to those which they think
are most agreeable to the female world. In a word,
man would not only be an unhappy, but a rude,
unfinished creature, were he conversant with none but
those of his own make.

Women, on the other side, are apt to form them-
selves in every thing with regard to that other half of
reasonable creatures, with whom they are here blended
and .confused; their thoughts are ever turned upon
appearing amiable to the other sex; they talk, and
move, and smile, with a design upon us; every feature
of their faces, every part of their dress, is filled with
snares and allurements. ‘There would be no such
animals as prudes or coquettes in the world, were there
not such an animal as man. In short, it is the male
that gives charms to womankind, that produces an air
in their faces, a grace in their motions, a softness in
their voices, and a delicacy in their complexions.

As this mutual regard between the two sexes tends to
the improvement of each of them, we may observe that
men are apt to degenerate into rough and brutal
natures, who live as if there were no such things as
women in the world; as, on the contrary, women who
have an indifference or aversion for their counterparts
in human nature, are generally sour and unamiable,
sluttish and censorious.

I am led into this train of thoughts by a little
manuseript’ which is lately fallen into my hands, and
which I shall communicate to the reader, as I have
done some other curious pieces of the same nature,
without troubling him with any inquiries about the
author of it. It contains a summary account of two
different states which bordered upon one another. The
one was a commonwealth of Amazons, or women
without men; the other was a republic of males that
had not a woman in their whole community. As these
two states bordered upon one another, it was their way,
it seems, to meet upon their frontiers at a certain season
of the year, where those among the men who had not
made their choice at any former meeting, associated
themselves with particular women, whom they were
alterwards obliged to look upon as their wives in every
one of these yearly rencounters. The children that
sprang from this alliance, if males, were sent to their
respective fathers; if females, continued with their
mothers. By means of this anniversary carnival, which
lasted about a week, the commonwealths were recruited
from time to time, and supplied with their respective
subjects.

These two states were engaged together in a per-
petual league, offensive and defensive; so that if any
foreign potentate offered to attack either of them, both
the sexes fell upon him at once, and quickly broughtMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 123

him to reason. It was remarkable that for many ages
this agreement continued inviolable between the two
states, notwithstanding, as was said before, they were
husbands and wives; but this will not appear so
wonderful, if we consider that they did not live
together above a week in a year.

In the account which my author gives of the male
republic, there were several customs very remarkable.
The men never shaved their beards, or pared their
nails, above once in a twelvemonth, which was probably
about the time of the great annual meeting upon their
frontiers. I find the name of a minister of state in one
part of their history, who was fined for appearing too
frequently in clean linen; and of a certain great general
who was turned out of his post for effeminacy, it having
been proved upon him by several eredible witnesses
that he washed his face every morning. If any member
of the commonwealth had a soft voice, a smooth face, or
a supple behaviour, he was banished into the common-
wealth of females, where he was treated as a slave,
dressed in petticoats, and set a-spinning. They had no
titles of honour among them, but such as denoted some
bodily strength or perfection, as such a one the tall,
such a one the siocky, such a one the gruff. Their
public debates were generally managed with kicks and
cuffs ; insomuch, that they often came from the council
table with broken shins, black eyes, and bloody noses.
When they would reproach a man in the most bitter
terms, they would tell him his teeth were white, or
that he had a fair skin, and a soft hand. The greatest
man I meet with in their history, was one that could
litt five hundred-weight, and wore such a prodigious
pair of whiskers as had never been seen in the com-
monwealth before his time. These accomplishments, it
seems, had rendered him so popular, if he had not
died very seasonably, it is thought that he might have
enslaved the republic. Having made this short extract
out of the history of the male commonwealth, I shall
look into the history of the neighbouring state which
consisted of females ; and if I find any thing in it, shall

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not fail to communicate it to the public.

LHE REPUBLIC OF WOMEN.

Havine carefully perused the manuscript I mentioned

in my last paper, so far as it relates to the republic of

women, I find in it several particulars which may very
well deserve the reader’s attention.

The girls of quality, from six to twelve years old, were
put to public schools, where they learned to box and
play at cudgels, with several other accomplishments of
the same nature ; so that nothing was more usual than
to see a little miss returning home at night with a
broken pate, or two or three teeth knocked out of her
head. ‘hey were afterwards taught to ride the great
horse, to shoot, dart, or sling, and listed into several
companies, in order to perfect themselves in military
exercises. No woman was to be married till she had
killed her man. The ladies of fashion used to play with
young lions instead of lap-dogs ; and when they made any
parties of diversion, instead of entertaining themselves
at ombre and piquet, they would wrestle and pitch the
bar for a whole afternoon together. There was never
any such thing as a blush seen or a sigh heard in the
commonwealth. The women never dressed but to look
terrible ; to which end they would sometimes after a
battle paint their cheeks with the blood of their enemies.
For this reason, likewise, the face which had the most
scars was looked upon as the most beautiful. If they
found lace, jewels, ribbons, or any ornaments in silver
or gold, among the booty which they had taken, they
used to dress their horses with it, but never entertained
a thought of wearing it themselves. There were par-
ticular rights and privileges allowed to any member of
the commonwealth who was a mother of three daughters.
‘The senate was made up of old women ; for by the laws
of the country none was to be a counsellor of state that

 

 

 

was not past child-bearing. They used to boast their
republic had continued 4000 years, which is altogether
improbable, unless we may suppose, what I am very
apt to think, that they measured their time by lunar
years.

There was a great revolution brought about in this
female republic by means of a neighbouring king, who
had made war upon them several years with various
success, and at length overthrew them in a very great
battle. This defeat they ascribe to several causes.
Some say that the secretary of state having been troubled
with the vapours, had committed some fatal mistakes
in several dispatches about that time. Others pretend,
that the first minister being big with child, could not
attend the public affairs as so great an exigency of state
required ; but this I can give no manner of eredit to,
since it seems to contradict a fundamental maxim in
their government which I have before mentioned. My
author gives the most probable reason of this great
disaster ; for he affirms that the general was brought
to bed, or (as others say) miscarried the very night
before the battle. However it was, this single overthrow
obliged them to call in the male republic to their assist~
ance ; but notwithstanding their common efforts to
repulse the victorious enemy, the war continued for
many years before they could entirely bring it to a happy
conclusion.

The campaign which both sexes passed together, made
them so well acquainted with one another, that at the
end of the war they did not care for parting. In ,the
beginning of it they lodged in separate camps; _ but
atterwards, as they grew more familiar, they pitched
their tents promiscuously.

From this time thearmies being checquered with both
sexes, they polished apace. The men used to invite
their fellow-soldiers into their quarters, and would dress
their tents with flowers and boughs for their reception.
If they chanced to like one more than another, they
would be cutting her name in the table, or chalking out
her figure upon a wall, or talking of her in a kind of
rapturous language, which by degrees improved into
verse and sonnet. These were as the first rudiments
of architecture, painting, and poetry, among this savage
people. After any advantages over the enemy, both
sexes used to jump together, and make a clattering with
their swords and shields for joy, which in a few years
produced several regular tunes and set dances.

As the two armies romped together on these occa-
sions, the women complained of the thick bushy beards
and long nails of their confederates, who thereupon
took care to prune themselves into such figures as were
most pleasing to their friends and allies.

When they had taken any spoils from the enemy, the
men would make a present of every thing that was rich
and showy to the women whom they most admired, and
would frequently dress the necks, or heads, or arms, of
their mistresses, with any thing which they thought
appeared gay or pretty. The women, observing that
the men took delight in looking upon them when they
were adorned with such trappings and gewgaws, set
their heads at work to find out new inventions, and to
outshine one another in all councils of war or the like
solemn meetings. On the other hand, the men obsery-
ing how the women’s hearts were set upon finery, began
to embellish themselves, and look as agreeably as they
could in the eyes of their associates. In short, after a
few years’ conversing together, the women had learnt to
smile, and the men to ogle; the women grew soft, and
the men lively.

When they had thus insensibly formed one another,
upon the finishing of the war, which concluded with an
entire conquest of their common enemy, the colonels
in one army married the colonels in the other; the
captains in the same manner took the captains to their
wives. ‘The whole body of common soldiers were
matched, after the example of their leaders. By this
means the two republics incorporated with one another,
and became the most flourishing and polite government
in the part of the world which they inhabited.:
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124 ADDISON'S

FANTASTIC FEMALE MANNERS.

Most of the papers I give the public are written on
subjects that never vary, but are for ever fixed and
immutable. Of this kind are all my more serious
essays and discourses ; but there is another sort of spe-
culations, which I consider as occasional papers, that
take their rise from the folly, extravagance, and caprice
of the present age: for I look upon myself as one set
to watch the manners and behaviour of my countrymen
and contemporaries, and to mark down every absurd
fashion, ridiculous custom, or affected form of speech,
that makes its appearance in the world during the
course of these my speculations. The petticoat no
sooner began to swell but I observed its motions. The
party-patches had not time to muster themselves before
I detected them. I had intelligence of the coloured
hood the very first time it appeared in a public assembly.
{ might here mention several other the like contingent
subjects, upon which I have bestowed distinct papers.
By this means I have so effectually quashed those irre-
gularities which gave occasion to them, that I am afraid
posterity will scarce have a sufficient idea of them to
relish those discourses which were in no little vogue at
the time when they were written. They will be apt to
think that the fashions and customs I attacked were
some fantastic conceits of my own, and that their great-
grandmothers could not be so whimsical as I have
represented them. For this reason, when [ think on
the figure my several volumes of speculations will make
about a hundred years hence, I consider them as so
many pieces of old plate, where the weight will be
regarded, but the fashion lost.

Among the several female extravagances [I have
already taken notice of, there is one which still keeps
its ground; I mean that of the ladies who dress them-
selves in a hat and feather, a riding coat and a periwig,
or at least tie up their hair in a bag or ribbon, in imita-
tion of the smart part of the opposite sex. Asin my
yesterday’s paper I gave an account of the mixture of
two sexes In one commonwealth, I shall here take notice
of this mixture of two sexes in one person. I have
already shown my dislike of this immodest custom more
than once; but in contempt of every thing I have
hitherto said, I am informed that the highways about
this great city are still very much infested with these
female cavaliers.

I remember, when I was at my friend Sir Roger de
Coverley’s about this time twelvemonth, an equestrian
lady of this order appeared upon the plains which lay
at a distance from his house. I was at that time walk-
ing in the fields with my old friend ; and as his tenants
ran out on every side to see so strange a sight, Sir
Roger asked one of them who came by us what it was?
To which the country fellow replied, “’Tis a gentle-
woman, saving your worship’s presence, in a coat and
hat.” This produced a great deal of mirth at the
knight’s house, where we had.a story at the same time
of another of his tenants, who meeting this gentleman-
like lady on the highway, was asked by her, whether
that was Coverley-hall? The honest man seeing only the
male part of the querist, replied “ Yes, Sir ;” but upon
the second question, whether Sir Roger de Coverley
was a married man, having dropped his eye upon the
petticoat, he changed his note into “ No, Madam.”.

Had one of these hermaphrodites appeared in Juve-
nal’s days, with what an indignation should we have
seen her described by that excellent satirist! He would
have represented her in a riding habit, as a greater
monster than the centaur. He would have called for
sacrifices of purifying waters, to expiate the appearance
of such a prodigy. He would have invoked the shades
of Portia and Lucretia, to see into what the Roman
ladies had transformed themselves.

For my own part, I am for treating the sex with
greater tenderness, and have all along made use of the
most gentle methods to bring them off from any little
extravagance into which they have sometimes unwarily
fallen. I think it, however, absolutely necessary to keep

 

 

up the partition between the two sexes, and to take
notice of the smallest encroachments which the one
makes upon the other. I hope, therefore, that I shall
not hear any more complaints on this subject. I am
sure my she-disciples who peruse these my daily lec-
tures have profited but little by them, if they are capable
of giving into such an amphibious dress. This I should
not have mentioned, had I not lately met one of these
my female readers in Hyde-Park, who looked upon me
with a masculine assurance, and cocked her hat full in
my face.

For my part, I have one general key to the behaviour
of the fair sex. When I see them singular in any part
of their dress, I conclude it is not without some evil
intention ; and therefore question not but the design of
this strange fashion is to smite more effectually their
male beholders. Now, to set them right in this parti-
cular, I would fain have them consider with themselves
whether we are not more likely to be struck by a figure
entirely female, than with such a one as we may see
every day in our glasses. Or, if they please, let them
reflect upon their own hearts, and think how they would
be affected should they meet a man on horseback, in
his breeches and jack-boots, and at the same time dressed
up in a commode and a nightraile.

I must observe that this fashion was first of all
brought to us from France—a country which has
infected all the nations of Europe with its levity. I
speak not this in derogation of a whole people, having
more than once found fault with those general reflec-
tions which strike at kingdoms or commonwealths in
the gross: a piece of cruelty which an ingenious writer
of our own compares to that of Caligula, who wished
the Roman people had all but one neck, that he might
behead them ata blow. I shall therefore only remark,
that as liveliness and assurance are in.a peculiar man-
ner the qualifications of the French nation, the same
habits and customs will not give the same offence to
hat people, which they produce among those of our
own country. Modesty is our distinguishing character,
as vivacity is theirs: and when this our national virtue
appears in that female beauty for which our British
ladies are celebrated above all others in the universe,
it makes up the most amiable object that the eye of
man can possibly behold.

PP EPLROPOPLIGI LP IO IAP

TALE-BEARING.
Ovip describes the palace of Fame as situated in the
very centre of the universe, and perforated with so
many windows and avenues as gave her the sight of
every thing that was done in the heavens, in the earth,
and in the sea. The structure of it was contrived in
so admirable a manner, that it echoed every word which
was spoken in the whole compass of nature ; so that the
palace, says the poet, was always filled with a confused
hubbub of low, dying sounds, the voices being almost
spent and worn out before they arrived at this general
rendezvous of speeches and whispers.

I consider courts with the same regard to the govern-
ments which they superintend, as Ovid’s palace of Fame
with regard to the universe. The eyes of a watchful
minister run through the whole people. There is scarce
a@ murmur or complaint that does not reach his ears,
They have news-gatherers and intelligencers distributed
into their several walks and quarters, who bring in
their respective quotas, and make them acquainted
with the discourse and conversation of the whole king=
dom or commonwealth where they areemployed. ‘The
wisest of kings, alluding to those invisible and unsus-
pected spies who are planted by kings and rulers over
their fellow-citizens, as well as to those voluntary
informers that are buzzing about the ears of a great
man, and making their court by such secret methods of
intelligence, has given us a very prudent caution:
“Curse not the king, no not in thy thought, and curse
not the rich in thy bed-chamber; for a bird of the air
shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall
tell the matter,”MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS,

As it is absolutely necessary for rulers to make use
of other people’s eyes and ears, they should take parti-
cular care to do it in such a manner that it may not
bear too hard on the person whose life and conversa-
tion are inquired into. A man who is capable of so
infamous a calling as that of a spy, is not very much to
be relied upon. He can have no great ties of honour
or checks of conscience to restrain him in those covert
evidences, where the person accused has no opportunity
of vindicating himself. He will be more industrious to
carry that which is grateful than that which is true.
There will be no occasion for him if he does not hear
and see things worth discovery; so that he naturally
inflames every word and circumstance, aggravates what
is faulty, perverts what is good, and misrepresents what
is indifferent. Nor is it to be doubted but that such igno-
minious wretches let their private passions into these
their clandestine informations, and often wreak their
particular spite and malice against the person whom
they are set to watch. It is a pleasant scene enough,
which an Italian author describes between a spy and a
cardinal who employed him. The cardinal is repre-
sented as minuting down every thing that is told him.
The spy begins with a low voice: “Such a one, the advo-
cate, whispered to one of his friends within my hearing,
that your eminence was a very great poltroon;” and
after having given his patron time to take it down, adds,
that another called him a mercenary rascal in a public
conversation. The cardinal replies, “ Very well,” and
bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads him with
reports of the same nature, tillthe cardinal rises in great
wrath, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and kicks him
out of the room.

It is observed of great and heroic minds, that they
have not only shown a particular disregard to those
unmerited reproaches which have been cast upon them,
but have been altogether free from that impertinent
curiosity of inquiring after them, or the poor revenge
of resenting them. The histories of Alexander and
Ceesar are full of this kind of instances. Vulgar souls
are of a quite contrary character. Dionysius, the tyrant
of Sicily, had a dungeon which was a very curious piece
of architecture, and of which, as I am informed, there
are still to be seen some remains in that island. It was
called Dionysius’s ear, and built with several little
windings and labyrinths in the form of a realear. The
structure of it made it a kind of whispering place, but
such a one as gathered the voice of him who spoke into
a funnel, which was placed at the very top of it. The
tyrant used to lodge all his state criminals, or those
whom he supposed to be engaged together in any evil
designs upon him, in this dungeon. He hadat the same
time an apartment over it, where he used to apply him-
self to the funnel, and by that means overheard every
thing that was whispered inthe dungeon. I believe one
may venture to affirm, that a Cesar or an Alexander
would have rather died by the treason, than have used
such disingenuous means for the detecting it.

A man who in ordinary life is very inquisitive after
every thing which is spoken ill of him, passeshis time but
very indifferently. He is wounded by every arrow that
is shot at him, and puts it in the power of every insig-
nificant enemy to disquiet him. Nay, he will suffer from
what has been said of him, when it is forgotten by those
who said or heard it. For this reason, I could never
bear one of those officious friends that would be telling
every malicious report, every idle censure, that passed
upon me. ‘The tongue of man is so petulant, and his
thoughts so variable, that one should not lay too great
a stress upon any present speeches and opinions. Praise
and obloquy proceed very frequently out of the same
mouth upon the same person, and upon the same
occasion. A generous enemy will sometimes bestow
commendations ; as the dearest friend cannot some-
times refrain from speaking ill. The man who is indif-
ferent in either of these respects, gives his opinion at
random, and praises or disapproves as he finds himself
in humour.

I shall conclude this essay with part of a character,

 

IQS

which is finely drawn by the Earl of Clarendon in the
first book of his history, and which gives us the lively
picture of a great man teazing himself with an absurd
curiosity.

“ He had not that application and submission, and
reverence for the queen as might have been expected
from his wisdom and breeding, and often crossed her
pretences and desires with more rudeness than was
natural to him ; yet he was impertinently solicitous to
know what her majesty said of him in private, and what
resentments she had towards him. And when by some
confidants, who had their ends upon him from those ,
offices, he was informed of some bitter expressions fallen
from her majesty, he was so exceedingly afflicted and
tormented with the sense of it, that sometimes by pas-
sionate complaints and representations to the king,
sometimes by more dutiful addresses and expostula-
tions with the queen in bewailing his misfortune, he
frequently exposed himself, and left his condition worse
than it was before; and the eclaircissement commonly
ended in the discovery of the persons from whom he
had received his most secret intelligence.”

PRPP IP LP IS AP DODIPP PS

HELPLESSNESS OF MAN.

Mav, considered in himself, is a very helpless and a
very wretched being. He is subject every moment to
the greatest calamities and misfortunes. He is beset
with dangers on all sides, and may become unhappy by
numberless casualties which he could not foresee, nor
have prevented had he foreseen them.

It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many
accidents, that we are under the care of one who directs
contingencies, and has in his hands the management of
every thing that is capable of annoying or offending us ;
who knows the assistance we stand in need of, and is
always ready to bestow it on those who ask it of him.

The natural homage which such a creature bears to
so infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance
on him for the blessings and conveniences of life, and
a habitual trust in him for, deliverance out of all such
dangers and difficulties as may befall us.

Lhe man who always lives in this disposition of mind,
has not the same dark and melancholy views of human
nature, as he who considers himself abstractedly from
this relation to the Supreme Being. At the same time
that he reflects upon his own weakness and imperfeec-
tion, he comforts himself with the contemplation of
those divine attributes which are employed for his
safety and his welfare. He finds his want of foresight
made up by the omniscience of him who is his support.
He is not sensible of his own want of strength, when
he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, the
person who has a firm trust on the Supreme Being is
powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by
his happiness. He reaps the benefit of every divine
attribute, and loses his own insufficiency in the fulness
of infinite perfection.

To make our lives more easy to us, we are commanded
to put cur trust in him who is thus able to relieve and
succour us; the divine goodness having made such a
reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should have been
miserable had it been forbidden us.

Among several motives which might be made use of
to recommend this duty to us, I shall only take notice
of those that follow.

The first and strongest is, that we are promised he
will not fail those who put their trust in him.

But without considering the supernatural blessing
which accompanies this duty, we may observe that it
has a natural tendency to its own reward; or, in other
words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great
disposer of all things contributes very much to the
getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing it man-
fully. A person who believes he has his succour at
hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, often
exerts himself beyond his abilities, and does wonders
that are not to be matched by one who is not animateda
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126

with such a confidence of success. I could produce
instances from history of generals, who, out of a belief
that they were under the protection of some invisible
assistant, did not only encourage their soldiers to do
their utmost, but have acted themselves beyond what
they would have done had they not been inspired by
such a belief. I might in the same manner show how
such a trust in the assistance of an Almighty Being
naturally produces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all
other dispositions of mind that alleviate those calamities
which we are not able to remove.

The practice of this virtue administers great comfort
but most of all in the hour of death. When the soul
is hovering in the last moments of its separation ; when

|. is just entering on another state of existence, to con-

to the mind of man in time of poverty and affliction,

verse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that
are altogether new—what can support her under such
tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety, such
apprehensions, but the casting of all her cares upon
him who first gave her being, who has conducted her
through one stage of it, and will be always with her to
guide and comfort her in her progress through eternity !

David has very beautifully represented this steady
reliance on God Almighty in his twenty-third psalm,
which is a kind of pastoral hymn, and filled with those
allusions which are usual in that kind of writing. As
the poetry is very exquisite, I shall present my reader
with the following translation of it :—

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd’s care ;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye ;
My noon-days’ walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the sultry glebe I faint,

Or on the thirsty mountain pant,

To fertile vales and dewy meads

My weary wandering steps he leads ;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Tho’ in the paths of death I tread,

With gloomy horrors overspread,

My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,

For thou, oh Lord! art with me still ;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,

And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Tho’ in a bare and rugged way,

Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile

‘The barren wilderness shall smile,

With sudden greens and herbagé é¢rown’d,
And streams shall murmur all around.

PPLE FELIS OE LOLOL OLD

INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM.

THERE is not a common saying which has a better turn
of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of
the vulgar, that custom is a second nature. It is,
indeed, able to form the man anew, and to give him
inclinations and capacities altogether different from
those he was born with. Dr Plot, in his history of
Staffordshire, tells us of an idiot, that chancing to live
within the sound of a clock, and always amusing himself
with counting the hour of the day whenever the clock
struck, the clock being spoiled by some accident, the
idiot continued to strike and count the hour without the
help of it, in the same manner as he had done when it
was entire. Though I dare not vouch for the truth of
this story, it is very certain that custom has a mecha-
nical effect upon the body, at the same time that it has
a very extraordinary influence upon the mind.

I shall in this paper consider one very remarkable
effect which custom has upon human nature, and which,
if rightly observed, may lead us into very useful rules
of lite. What I shall here take notice of in custom, is

 

ADDISON’S

its wonderful efficacy in making every thing pleasant to
us. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though
he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees con-
tracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives him-
self up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his
being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon
a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the one or the
other, till he is utterly unqualified for relishing that
to which he has been for some time disused. Nay, a
man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable
to pass away his time without it; not to mention how
our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises
and improves in proportion to the application which we
bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise,
becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments
are changed into our diversions. The mind grows fond
of those actions she is accustomed to, and is drawn with
reluctaney from those paths in which she has been used
to walk.

Not only such actions as were at first indifferent to
us, but even such as were painful, will by custom and
practice become pleasant. Sir Francis Bacon observes,
in his Natural Philosophy, that our taste is never pleased
better than with those things which at first created a:
disgust in it. He gives particular instances of claret,
coffee, and other liquors, which the palate seldom ap-
proves upon the first taste, but when it has once got
a relish of them, generally retains it for life. The mind
is constituted after the same manner; and after having
habituated herself to any particular exercise or employ-
ment, not only loses her first aversion towards it, but
conceives a certain fondness and affection for it. I have
heard one of the greatest geniuses this age has produced,
who had been trained up in all the polite studies of
antiquity, assure me upon his being obliged to search
into several rolls and records, that notwithstanding such
an employment was at first very dry and irksome to
him, he at last took an incredible pleasure in it, and
preferred it even to the reading of Virgil or Cicero.
The reader will observe that I have not here considered
custom as it makes things easy, but as it renders them
delightful ; and though others have often made the same
reflections, it 1s possible they may not have drawn those
uses from it with which I intend to fill the remaining
part of this paper.

If we consider attentively this property of human
nature, it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In
the first place, 1 would have no man discouraged with
that kind of life or series of action in which the choice
of others or his own necessities may have engaged him.
It may perhaps be very disagreeable to him at first;
but use and application will certainly render it not only
less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory.

In the second place, I would recommend to every
one that admirable precept which Pythagoras is said
to have given to his disciples, and which that’ philoso-
pher must have drawn from the observation I have
enlarged upon, Optimum vite genus eligito, nam consue-
tudo faciet jucundissimum—< Pitch upon that course of
life which is the most excellent, and custom will render
it the most delightful.” Men whose circumstances will
permit them to choose their own way of life, are inex-
cusable if they do’ not pursue that which their judg-
ment tells them is the most laudable. The voice of
reason is more to be regarded than the bent of any
present inclination, since, by the rule above mentioned,
inclination will at length come over to reason, though
we can never force reason to comply with inclination.

In the third place, this observation may teach the
most sensual and irreligious man to overlook those
hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage
him from the prosecution of a virtuous life. “The
gods,” said Hesiod, “ have placed labour before virtue ;
the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but grows
more smooth and easy the farther you advance in it.”
The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and reso-
lution, will in a little time find that her “ ways are ways
of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.”

To enforce this consideration, we may further observe,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

that the practice of religion will not only be attended
with that pleasure which naturally accompanies those
actions to which we are habituated, but with those
supernumerary joys of heart that rise from the con-
sciousness of such a pleasure, froin the satisfaction of
acting up to the dictates of reason, and from the
prospect of a happy immortality.

In the fourth place, we may learn from this obser-
vation which we have made on the mind of man, to take
particular care when we are once settled ina regular
course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves
in any the most innocent diversions and entertainments,
since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of
virtuous actions, and by degrees exchange that pleasure
which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights
of a much more inferior and unprofitable nature.

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable
property in human nature, of being delighted with those
actions to which it is accustomed, is to show how abso-
lutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in
this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next.
The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be capable of
affecting those minds which are not thus qualified for
it; we must in this world gain a relish of truth and
virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and
pertection which are to make us happy in the next. The
seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to
rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity, must be
planted in her during this her present state of proba-
tion. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only
as the reward, but as the natural effect, of a religious
life.

On the other hand, those. evil spirits, who by long
custom have contracted in the body habits of lust and
sensuality, malice and revenge, an aversion to every
thing that is good, just, or laudable, are naturally
seasoned and prepared for pain and misery. Their
torments have already taken root in them; they cannot
be happy when divested of the body, unless we may
suppose that Providence will in a manner create them
anew, and work a miracle in the rectification of their
faculties. They may, indeed, taste a kind of malignant
pleasure in those actions to which they are accustomed
whilst in this life; but when they are removed from
all those objects which are here apt to gratify them,
they will naturally become their own tormentors, and
cherish in themselves those painful habits of mind which
are called in Scripture phrase, “ the worm which never
dies.” This notion of heaven and hell is so conformable
to the light of nature, that it was discovered by several
of the most exalted heathens. It has been finely im-
proved by many eminent divines of the last age, as in
particular by Archbishop Tillotson and Dr Sherlock ;
but there is none who have raised such noble specula-
tions upon it as Dr Scott, in the first book of his
“ Christian Life,” which is one of the finest and most
rational schemes of divinity that are written in our tongue,
or in any other. That excellent author has shown how
every particular custom and habit of virtue will in its
own nature produce the heaven or a state of happiness
in him who shall hereafter practise it; as, on the con-
trary, how every custom or habit of vice will be the
natural hell of him in whom it subsists.

POLL DP LOLE LDL LO PLL OLE DO PD

DETESTABLENESS OF DEFAMATION.

THERE is nothing so scandalous to a government, and
detestable in the eyes of all good men, as defamatory
papers and pamphlets; but, at the same time, there is
nothing so difficult to tame asa satirical author. An
angry writer who cannot appear in print, naturally
vents his spleen in libels and lampoons. “ A gay old
woman,” says the fable, “seeing all her wrinkles repre-
sented in a large looking-glass, threw it upon the ground
in a passion, and broke it into a thousand pieces : but
as she was afterwards surveying the fragments with a
spiteful kind of pleasure, she could not forbear uttering
herself in the following soliloquy: ‘ What have I got
I

 

127

by this revengeful blow of mine: I have only multiplied
my deformity, and see a hundred ugly faces, where
before I saw but one.’ ”

It has been proposed “to oblige every person that
writes a book or a paper to swear himself the author of
it, and enter down in a public register his name and
place of abode.”

This, indeed, would have effectually suppressed all
printed scandal, which generally appears under borrowed
names, or under none at all. “But it isto be feared that
such an expedient would not only destroy scandal, but
learning. It would operate promiscuously, and root up
the corn and tares together. Not to mention some of’
themost celebrated works of piety which have proceeded
from anonymous authors, who have made it their merit
to convey to us so great a charity in secret, there are
few works of genius that come out at first with the
author’s name. ‘The writer generally makes a trial of
them in the world before he owns them ; and I believe
very few who are capable of writing, would set pen to
paper, if they knew beforehand that they must not
publish their productions but on such conditions. For
my own part, I must declare, the papers I present the
public are like fairy favours, which shall last no longer
than while the author is concealed.

That which makes it particularly difficult to restrain
these sons of calumny and defamation is, that all sides
are equally guilty of it, and that every dirty scribbler
is countenanced by great names, whose interests he
propagates by such vile and infamous methods. I have
never yet heard of a ministry who have inflicted an
exemplary punishment on an author that has supported
their cause with falsehood and scandal, and treated in
a most cruel manner the names of those who have been
looked upon as their rivals and antagonists. Woulda
government set an everlasting mark of their displeasure
upon one of those infamous writers who makes his court
to them by tearing to pieces the reputation of a com-
petitor, we should quickly see an end put to this race
of vermin, that are a scandal to government, and a
reproach to human nature. Such a proceeding would
make a minister of state shine in history, and would fill
all mankind with a just abhorrence of persons who
should treat him unworthily, and employ against him
those arms which he scorned to make use of against his
enemies.

I cannot think that any one will be so unjust as to
imagine what I have here said is spoken with respect
to any party or faction. Every one who has in him the
sentiments either of a Christian or gentleman, cannot
but be highly offended at this wicked and ungenerous
practice, which is so much in use among us at present
that it is become a kind of national crime, and distin-
guishes us from all the governments that lie about us.
I cannot but look upon the finest strokes of satire which
are aimed at particular persons, and which are sup-
ported even with the appearances of truth, to be the
marks of an’evil mind, and highly criminal in them-
selves. Infamy, like other punishments, is under the
direction and distribution of the magistrate, and not of
any private person. Accordingly, we learn from a
fragment of Cicero, that though there were very few
capital punishments in the twelve tables, a libel or
lampoon, which took away the good name of another,
was to be punished by death. But this is far from being
our case, ur satire is nothing but ribaldry and Bil-
lingsgate. Scurrility passes for wit; and he who ean
call names in the greatest variety of phrases is looked
upon to have the shrewdest pen. By this means the
honour of families is ruined, the highest posts and
greatest titles are rendered cheap and vile in the sight
of the people ; the noblest virtues and most exalted parts
exposed to the contempt of the vicious and the ignorant.
Should a foreigner who knows nothing of our private
factions, or one who is to act his part in the world when
our present heats and animosities are forgot—should, I
say, such a one form to himself a notion of the greatest
men of all sides in the British nation who are now living,
from the characters which are given them in some orBey ls other of those abominable writings which are daily
Bi a published among us, what a nation of monsters must
we appear!
bs As this cruel practice tends to the utter subversion
Res of all truth and humanity among us, it deserves the
utmost detestation and discouragement of all who have
either the love of their country or the honour of their
re Oy religion at heart. I would, therefore, earnestly recom-
i mend it to the consideration of those who deal in these
pernicious arts of writing, and of those who take pleasure
in the reading of them. As for the first, | have spoken
of them in former papers, and have not stuck to rank
them with the murderer and assassin. Every honest
man sets as high a value upon a good name as upon life
. : itself; and I cannot but think that those who privily
gis. fig assault the one would destroy the other, might they do
U it with the same security and impunity.
Hh As for persons who take pleasure in the reading and
i dispersing such detestable libels, I am afraid they fall
very little short of the guilt of the first composers. By
a law of the emperors Valentinian and Valens, it was
made death for any person, not only to write a libel,
| but if he met with one by chance, not to tear or burn
WG it. But because I would not be thought singular in
my opinion of this matter, I shall conclude my paper
Bi with the words of Monsieur Bayle, who was a man of
i great freedoin of thought, as well as of exquisite learn-
Te ing and judgment.
*‘ T cannot imagine that a man who disperses a libel
) is less desirous of doing mischief than the author him-
ay self. But what shall we say of the pleasure which a
man takes in the reading of a defamatory libel? Is it
not a heinous sin in the sight of God? We must
distinguish in this point. The pleasure is either an
agreeable sensation we are affected with when we meet
/ | with a witty thought which is well expressed, or it is a
F joy which we conceive from the dishonour of the person
who is defamed. I will say nothing to the first of
these cases; for, perhaps, some would think that my
morality is not severe enough if I should affirm that a
man is not master of those agreeable sensations any
Pj more than of those occasioned by sugar and honey when
they touch his tongue. But as to the second, every one
| will own that pleasure to be a heinous sin. The pleasure
in the first case is of no continuance; it prevents our
reason and reflection, and may be immediately followed
by a secret grief to see our neighbour’s honour blasted.
If it does not cease immediately, it is a sign that we
are not displeased with the ill nature of the satirist,
but are glad to see him defame his enemy by all kinds
of stories; and then we deserve the punishment to
| which the writer of the libel is subject. I shall here
oh ed add the words of a modern author. St Gregory, upon
ee eh excommunicating those writers who had dishonoured
Castorius, does not except those who read their works,
ie ek jecause, says he, if calumnies have always been the
delight of their hearers, and a gratification of those
! persons who have no other advantage over honest men,
Leta ck We is not he who takes pleasure in reading them as guilty
a | as he who composed them? It is an uncontested
ee maxim, that they who approve an action would certainly
ee aha do it if they could; that is, if some reason of self-
| love did not hinder them. ‘There is no difference,
aCe he says Cicero, between advising a crime and approving it
ce when committed. -The Roman law confirmed this
a maxim, having subjected the approvers and authors of
this evil to the same penalty. We may therefore
Ne conclude, that those who are pleased with reading
defamatory libels, so far as to approve the authors and
| dispersers of them, are as guilty as if they had com-
My oe tt posed them; for if they do not write such libels
Mts themselves, it is because they have not the talent of
bi writing, or because they will run no hazard.”
a The author produces other authorities to confirm his
: judgment in this particular.

aN

 

ADDISON'S

A THIRST FOR NEWS.

TyERE isno humour in my countrymen which I am
more inclined to wonder at than their general thirst
after news. There are about half a dozen ingenious
men who live very plentifully upon this curiosity of
their fellow-subjects. They all of them receive the
same advices from abroad, and very often in the same
words; but their way of cooking it is so different, that
there is no citizen who has an eye to the public good,
hat can leave the coffee-house with peace of mind
before he has given every one of them areading. These
several dishes of news are so very agreeable to the
palate of my countrymen, that they are not only
pleased with them when they are served up hot, but
when they are again set cold before them, by those
penetrating politicians who oblige the publie with their
reflections and observations upon every piece of intel-
ligence that is sent us from abroad. The text is
given us by one set of writers, and the comment by
another.

But notwithstanding we have the same tale told us
in so many different papers, and, if occasion requires,
in so many articles of the same paper ; notwithstanding,
in a scarcity of foreign posts, we hear the same story
repeated by different advices from Paris, Brussels, the
Hague, and from every great town in Europe; not-
withstanding the multitude of annotations, explanations,
reflections, and various readings, which it passes through,
our time lies heavy on our hands till the arrival of a
fresh mail—we long to receive further particulars—to
hear what will be the next step, or what will be the
consequences of that whiclr we have already taken. A
westerly wind puts the whole town in suspense, and
puts a stop to conversation.

This general curiosity has been raised and inflamed
by our late wars, and, if rightly directed, might be of
good use to a person who has such a thirst awakened
in him. Why should not a man, who takes delight in
reading every thing that is new, apply himself to history,
travels, and other writings of the same kind, where he
will find perpetual fuel for his curiosity, and meet with
much more pleasure and improvement than in these
papers of the week? An honest tradesman who lan-
guishes a whole summer in expectation of a battle, and
perhaps is baulked at last, may here meet with half a
dozen in a day. He may read the news of a whole
campaign in less time than he now bestows upon the
productions of a single post. Fights, conquests, and
revolutions, lie thick together. The reader’s curiosity
is raised and satisfied every moment, and his passions
disappointed or gratified, without being detained in a
state of uncertainty from day to day, or lying at the
mercy of sea and wind; in short, the mind is not here
kept in a perpetual gape after knowledge, nor punished
with that eternal thirst which is the portion of all our
modern newsmongers and coffee-house politicians.

All matters of fact which a man did not know before,
are news to him; and I do not see how any haber-
dasher in Cheapside is more concerned in the present
quarrel of the cantons than he was in that of the league.
At least, I believe every one will allow me, it is of more
importance to an Englishman to know the history of
his ancestors, than that of his contemporaries who live
upon the banks of the Danube or the Boristhenes. As
for those who are of another mind, I shall recommend
to them the following letter from a projector, who is
willing to turn a penny by this remarkable curiosity of
his countrymen :—

“ Mr Specrator—You must have observed that men
who frequent coffee-houses, and delight in news, are
pleased with every thing that is matter of fact, so it be
what they have not heard before. A victory or a
defeat are equally agreeable to them. The shutting of
a cardinal’s mouth pleases them one post, and the
opening of it another. They are glad to hear the French
court is moved to Marli, and are afterwards as much
delighted with its return to Versailles. They read the
advertisements with the same curiosity as the articlesMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS,
|

of public news, and are as pleased to hear of a pyebald
horse that is strayed out of a field near Islington, as of

a whole troop that have been engaged in any foreign]

adventure. In short, they have a relish for every
thing that is news, let the matter of it be what it will;
or, to speak more properly, they are men of a voracious
appetite, but no taste. Now, Sir, since the great foun-
tain of news, I mean the war, is very near being dried
up, and since these gentlemen have contracted such an
inextinguishable thirst after it, I have taken their case
and my own into consideration, and have thought of
a project which may turn to the advantage of us
both. I have thoughts of publishing a daily paper,
which shall comprehend in it all the most remarkable
occurrences in every little town, village, and hamlet,
that lie within ten miles of London, or, in other words,
within the verge of the penny-post. I have pitched upon
this scene of intelligence for two reasons; first, because
the carriage of letters will be very cheap ; and, secondly,
because I may receive them every day. By this means
my readers will have their news always fresh; and
many worthy citizens who cannot sleep with any satis-
faction at present for want of being informed how the
world goes, may go to bed contentedly, it being my
design to put out my paper every night at nine o’clock
precisely. J have already established correspondences
in these several places, and received very good intel-
ligence.

By my last advices from Knightsbridge, I hear that
a horse was clapped into the pound on the 3d instant,
and that he was not released when the letters came
away.

We are informed from Pankridge, that a dozen
weddings were lately celebrated in the mother church
of that place, but are referred to their next letters for
the names of the parties concerned.

Letters from Brampton advise, that the Widow
Blight had received several visits from John Milldew,
which affords great matter of speculation in those
parts.

By a fisherman who lately touched at Hammersmith,
there is advice from Putney, that a certain person well
known in that place is like to lose his election for
ehurch-warden; but this being boat news, we cannot
give entire credit to it.

Letters from Paddington bring little more than that
William Squeak, the sow-breeder, passed through that
place the 5th instant.

They advise from Fulham, that things remained there
in the same state they were. They had intelligence,
just as the letters came away, of a tub of excellent ale
just set abroach at Parsons’ Green ; but this wanted
confirmation.

I have here, Sir, given you a specimen of the news
with which I intend to entertain the town, and which,
when drawn up regularly in the form of a newspaper,
will I doubt not be very acceptable to many of those
public-spirited readers, who take more delight in
acquainting themselves with other people’s business
than their own. I hope a paper of this kind, which lets
us know what is done near home, may be more useful
to us than those which are filled with advices from Zug
and Bender, and make some amends for that dearth of
intelligence which we may justly apprehend from times
of peace. If I find that you receive this project
favourably, I will shortly trouble you with one or two
more ; and in the meantime, I remain,” &c.

PPLPLOPP PIPPI IP LOPS

GRATITUDE TO THE SUPREME BEING.

THERE is not amore pleasing exercise of the mind than
gratitude. It is accompanied with such an inward
satisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by
the performance. It is not like the practice of many
other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with
so much pleasure, that were there no positive command
which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it
hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it for the
natural gratification that accompanies it.

 

129

If gratitude is due from man to man, how much
more from man to his Maker! The Supreme Being
does not only confer upon us those bounties which
proceed more immediately from his hand, but even
those benefits which are conveyed to us by others,
Every blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it may
be derived upon us, is the gift of him who is the great
author of good and father of mercies.

If gratitude, when exerted towards one another,
naturally produces a very pleasing sensation in the
mind of a grateful man, it exalts the soul into rapture
when it is employed on this great object of gratitude—
on this beneficent Being who has given us every thing
we already possess, and from whom we expect every
thing we yet hope for.

Most of the works of the pagan poets were either
direct hymns to their deities, or tended indirectly to the
celebration of their respective attributes and perfec-
tions. Those who are acquainted with the works of
the Greek and Latin poets which are still extant, will
upon reflection find this observation so true, that I shall
not enlarge upon it. One would wonder that more of
our Christian poets have not turned their thoughts this
way, especially if we consider that our idea of the
Supreme Being is not only infinitely more great and
noble than what could possibly enter into the heart of a
heathen, but filled with every thing that can raise the
imagination, and give an opportunity for the sublimest
thoughts and conceptions.

Plutarch tells us of a heathen who was singing a
hymn to Diana, in which he celebrated her for her
delight in human sacrifices, and other instances of
cruelty and revenge; upon which a poet who was
present at this piece of devotion, and seems to have
had a truer idea of the divine nature, told the votary,
by way of reproof, that in recompense for his hymn,
he heartily wished he might have a daughter of the
same temper with the goddess he celebrated. It was,
indeed, impossible to write the praises of one of those
false deities, according to the pagan creed, without a
mixture of impertinence and absurdity.

The Jews, who before the time of Christianity were
the only people who had the knowledge of the true God,
have set the Christian world an example how they
ought to employ this divine talent of which I am speak-
ing. As that nation produced men of great genius,
without considering them as inspired writers, they have
transmitted to us many hymns and divine odes, which
excel those that are delivered to us by the ancient
Greeks and Romans, in the poetry, as much as in the
subject to which it was consecrated. This, I think,
might be easily shown if there were occasion for it.

I have already communicated to the public some
pieces of divine poetry; and as they have met with a
very favourable reception, I shall from time to time
publish any work of the same nature which has not yet
appeared in print, and may be acceptable to my readers.

When all thy mercies, oh my Ged!
My rising soul surveys,
vy 5 a ¥, 5
Transported with the view, I’m lost
In wonder, love, and praise.

Oh how shall words with equal warmth,
The gratitude declare

That glows within my ravish’d heart?
But thou canst read it there.

Thy providence my life sustain’d,
And all my wants redrest,

When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.

To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,

Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.

Unnumber’d comforts to my soul
Thy tender care hestow’d,

Before my infant heart conceived .
From whom those comforts flow’d.

     
  

PRO RBU oaRER —ate

Ea

oa EET

=

ia

‘ae

RE caWhen in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,

Thine arm unseen convey’d me safe,
And led me up to man.

Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear’d my way,

And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear’d than they.

When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew’d my face ;

And when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.

‘hy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o’er,
And ina kind and faithful friend,
Has doubled all my store.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ ;

Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life
Thy goodness I’ll pursue ;

And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.

When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,

My ever grateful heart, oh Lord!
Thy mercy shall adore.

Through all eternity to thee
A joyful song I’ll raise ;

For oh! eternity’s too short
To utter all thy praise.

PP PP PP OL OP OL PIO PPL DA

FALSE MODESTY.

I coup not but smile at the account that was yesterday
given me of a modest young gentleman, who being
invited to an entertainment, though he was not used to
drink, had not the confidence to refuse his glass in his
turn, when on a sudden he grew so flustered that he
took all the talk of the table into his own hands, abused
every one of the company, and flung a bottle at the
head of the gentleman who treated him. This has given
me occasion to reflect upon the ill effects of a vicious
modesty, and to remember the saying of Brutus, as it
is quoted by Plutarch, that “the person has but an ill
education who has not been taught to deny any thing.”
This false kind of modesty has, perhaps, betrayed both
Sexes into as many vices as the most abandoned impu-
dence, and is the more inexcusable to reason, because
it acts to gratify others rather than itself, and is punished
with a kind of remorse, not only like other vicious habits
when the crime is over, but even at the very time that
‘it is committed.

Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and
nothing is more contemptible than the false. The one
guards virtue, the other betrays it. True modesty is
ashamed to do any thing that is repugnant to the rules
of right reason ; false modesty is ashamed to do any thing
that is opposite to the humour of the company. True
modesty avoids every thing that is criminal; false
modesty every thing that is unfashionable. The latter
is only a general undetermined instinct ; the former is
that instinct limited and circumscribed by the rules of
prudence and religion.

We may conclude that modesty to be false and
vicious which engages a man to do any thing that is ill
or indiscreet, or which restrains him from doing any
thing that is of a contrary nature. How many men, in
the common concerns of life, lend sums of money which
they are not able to spare, are bound for persons whom
they have but little friendship for, give recommendatory
characters of men whom they are not acquainted with,
bestow places on those whom they do not esteem, live
in such a manner as they themselves do not approve ;

ADDISON’S

and all this merely because they have not the confidence
to resist solicitation, importunity, or example!

Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such
actions as are indiscreet, but very often to such as are
highly criminal. When Xenophanes was called timorous
because he would not venture his money in a game at
dice, “I confess,” said he, “that I am exceedingly
timorous, for I dare not do an ill thing.” On the
contrary, aman of vicious modesty complies with every
thing, and is only fearful of doing what may look singular
in the company where he is engaged. He falls in with
the torrent, and lets himself go to every action or dis-
course, however unjustifiable in itself, so it be in vogue
among the present party. This, though one of the most
common, is one of the most ridiculous, dispositions in
human nature, that men should not be ashamed of
speaking or acting in a dissolute or irrational manner ;
but that one who is in their company should be ashamed
of governing himself by the principles of reason and
virtue.

In the second place, we are to consider false modesty
as it restrains a man from doing what is good and
laudable. My reader’s own thoughts will suggest to
him many instances and examples under this head. I
) shall only dwell upon one reflection, which I cannot
make without a secret concern. We have in England
a particular bashfulness in every thing that regards
religion. A well-bred man is obliged to conceal any
serious sentiment of this nature, and very often to
appear a greater libertine than he is, that he may keep
himself in countenance among the men of mode. Our
excess of modesty makes us shamefaced in all the
exercises of piety and devotion. ‘This humour prevails
upon us daily, insomuch that at many well-bred tables
the master of the house is so very modest a man that
he has not the confidence to say grace at his own table;
a custom which is’not only practised by all the nations
about us, but was never omitted by the heathens them-
selves. English gentlemen who travel into Roman
Catholic countries are not a little surprised to meet with
people of the best quality kneeling in their churches,
and engaged in their private devotions, though it be not
at the hours of public worship. An officer of the army,
or a man of wit and pleasure in those countries, would
be afraid of passing not only for an irreligious, but an
ill-bred man, should he be seen to go to bed or sit down
at table without offering up his devotions on such oeca-
sions. The same show of religion appears in all the
foreign reformed churches, and enters so much into
their ordinary conversation, that an Englishman is apt
to term them hypocritical and precise.

This little appearance of a religious deportment
in our nation may proceed in some measure from that
modesty which is natural to us; but the great occasion
of it is certainly this. Those swarms of sectaries that
overran the nation in the time of the great rebellion,
carried their hypocrisy so high that they had converted
our whole language into a jargon of enthusiasm; inso-
much that, upon the Restoration, men thought they
could not recede too tar from the behaviour and practice
of those persons who had made religion a cloak to so
many villanies. This led them into the other extreme
—every appearance of devotion was looked upon as
puritanical—and falling into the hands of the ridiculers
who flourished in that reign, and attacked every thing
that was serious, it has ever since been out of counte..
nance among us. By this means we are gradually
fallen into that vicious modesty, which has in some
measure worn out from among us the appearance of
christianity in ordinary life and conversation, and
which distinguishes us from all our neighbours.

Hypocrisy cannot, indeed, be too much detested, but,
at the same time, is to be preferred to open impiety.
‘They are both equally destructive to the person who is
possessed with them ; but in regard to others, hypocrisy
is not so pernicious as barefaced irreligion. The due
mean to be observed is 10 BE SINCERELY VIRTUOUS, AND
Ai THE SAME TIME TO LET THE WORLD SEE WE ARE SO. I

 

do not knew a more dreadful menace in the holyMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

writings, than that which is pronounced against those
who have this perverted modesty, to be ashamed
before men in a particular of such unspeakable im-
portance.

PEPSI POPPI PP OP ROOT OOOO

PRINCIPLES OF RELIGIOUS FAITH.

RELIGION may be considered under two general heads.
The first comprehends what we are to believe, the
other what we are to practise. By those things which
we are to believe, I mean whatever is revealed to us in
the holy writings, and which we could not have obtained
the knowledge of by the light of nature; by the things
which we are to practise, I mean all those duties to
which we are directed by reason or natural religion.
The first of these I shall distinguish by the name of
Faith, the second by that of Morality.

If we look into the more serious part of mankind,
we find many who lay so great a stress upon faith, that
they neglect morality; and many who build so much
upon morality, that they do not pay a due regard to
faith. The perfect man should be defective in neither
of these particulars, as will be very evident to those
who consider the benefits which arise from each of
them, and which I shall make the subject of this day’s
paper.

Notwithstanding this general division of Christian
duty into morality and faith, and that they have both
their peculiar excellencies, the first has the pre-
eminence in several respects.

First, because the greatest part of morality (as I
have stated the notion of it) is of a fixed eternal nature,
and will endure when faith shall fail, and be lost in
conviction,

Secondly, Because a person may be qualified to do
greater good to mankind, and become more beneficial
to the world, by morality without faith, than by faith
without morality.

Thirdly, Because morality gives a greater perfection
to human nature, by quieting the mind, moderating the
passions, and advancing the happiness of every man in
his private capacity.

Fourthly, Because the rule of morality is much more
certain than that of faith; all the civilised nations of
the world agreeing in the great points of morality, as
much as they differ in those of faith.

Pifthly, Because infidelity is not of so malignant a
nature as immorality ; or, to put the same reason in
another light, because it is generally owned there may
be salvation for a virtuous infidel (particularly in the
case of invincible ignorance), but none for a vicious
believer.

Sixthly, Because faith seems to draw its principal,
if not all its excellency, from the influence it has upon
morality ; as we shall see more at large, if we consider
wherein consists the excellency of faith, or the belief
of revealed religion ; and this, I think, is,

First, In explaining and carrying to greater heights
several points of morality.

Secondly, In furnishing new and stronger motives to
enforce the practice of morality.

Thirdly, In giving us more amiable ideas of the
Supreme Being, more endearing notions of one another,
and a truer state of ourselves, both in regard to the
grandeur and vileness of our natures.

Fourthly, By showing us the blackness and deformity
of vice, which in the Christian system is so very great,
that he who is possessed of all perfection and the
sovereign judge of it, is represented by several of our
divines as hating sin to the same degree that he loves
the sacred person who was made the propitiation for it.

Fifthly, In being the ordinary and prescribed method
of making morality effectual to salvation.

I have only touched on these several heads, which
every one who is conversant in discourses of this nature
will easily enlarge upon in his own thoughts, and draw
conclusions from them which may be useful to him in
the conduct of his life. One I am sure is so obvious,
that he cannot miss it ; namely, that a man cannot

\

 

131

in his scheme of morality, who does not
and support it with that of the Christian

be perfect
strengthen
faith,

Besides this, I shall lay down two or three other
maxims, which I think we may deduce from what has
been said.

First, That we should be particularly cautious of
making any thing an article of faith which does not
contribute’ to the confirmation or improvement of
morality.

Secondly, That no article of faith can be true and
authentic which weakens or subverts the practical
part of religion, or what I have hitherto ealled
morality.

Thirdly, that the greatest friend of morality and
natural religion cannot possibly apprehend any danger
from embracing Christianity, as it is preserved pure
and incorrupt in the doctrines of our national church,

There is likewise another maxim which I think may
be drawn from the foregoing considerations, which is
this, that we should in all dubious points consider any
ill consequences that may arise from them, supposing
they should be erroneous, before we give up our assent
to them.

For example, in that disputable point of persecuting
men for conscience sake, besides the embittering their
minds with hatred, indignation, and all the vehemence
of resentment, and ensnaring them to profess what
they do not believe, we cut them off from the pleasures
and advantages of society, afflict their bodies, distress
their fortunes, hurt their reputations, ruin their families,
make their lives painful, or put an end to them. Sure,
when I see such dreadful consequences rising from a
principle, I would be as fully convinced of the truth of
it as of a mathematical demonstration, before I would
venture to act upon it, or make it a part of my religion.

In this ease the injury done our neighbour is plain
and evident ; the principle that puts us upon doing it,
of a dubious and disputable nature. Morality seems
highly violated by the one ; and whether or no a zeal
for what a man thinks the true system of faith may
justify it, is very uncertain. I cannot but think, if our
religion produces charity as well as zeal, it will not be
for showing itself by such cruel instances. But to con-
clude with the words of an excellent author, “ We have
just enough of religion to make us hate, but not enough
to make us love, one another.”

DEPP LO DPIPPLIIP DPD POD

THE GOLDEN MEAN,

I am wonderfully pleased when I meet with any passage
in an old Greek or Latin author that is not blown upon,
and which I have never met with in a quotation. Of
this kind is a beautiful saying in Theognis—* Vice is
covered by wealth, and virtue by poverty :” or, to give
it in the verbal translation, “ Among men there are
some who have their vices concealed by wealth, and
others who have their virtues concealed by poverty.”
Every man’s observation will supply him with instances
of rich men who have several faults and defects, that
are overlooked, if not entirely hidden, by means of
their riches; and I think we cannot find a more natural
description of a poor man whose merits are lost in his
poverty, than that in the words of the wise man:—
“ There was a little city, and few men within it; and
there came a great king against it and besieged it, and
built great bulwarks against it. Now, there was found
in it a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered
the city ; yet no man remembered that same poor man.
Then, said I, wisdom is better than strength ; never-
theless, the poor man’s wisdom is despised, and his
words are not heard.”

The middle condition seems to be the most advan-
tageously situated for the gaining of wisdom. Poverty
turns our thoughts too much upon the supplying of our
wants, and riches upon enjoying our superfiuities ; and
as Cowley has said in another case, “It is hard for a
man to keep a steady eye upon truth, who is always in
a battle or a triumph.”

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ic132

If we regard poverty and tvealth as they are apt to
produce virtues or vices in the mind of man, one may
observe that there is a set of each of these growing out
of poverty quite different from that which rises out of
wealth. Humility and patience, industry and temper-
ance, are very often the good qualities of a poor man.
Humanity and good nature, magnanimity and a sense
of honour, are as often the qualifications of the rich.
On the contrary, poverty is apt to betray a man into
envy; riches into arrogance. Poverty is too often
attended with fraud, vicious compliance, repining, mur-
mur, and discontent. Riches expose a man to pride
and luxury, a foolish elation of heart, and too great a
fondness for the present world. In short, the middle
condition is most eligible to the man who would improve
himself in virtue; as I have before shown, it is the
most advantageous for the gaining of knowledge. It
was upon this consideration that Agur founded his
prayer, which for the wisdom of it is recorded in holy
writ. “Two things have I required of thee, deny me
them not before I die. Remove far from me vanity
and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches ; feed me
with food convenient for me—lest I be full and deny
thee, and say, who is the Lord?—or lest I be poor and
steal, and take the name of my God in vain.”

I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a
very pretty allegory, which is wrought into a play by
Aristophanes, the Greek comedian. It seems originally
designed as a satire upon the rich, though in some parts
of it, it is like the foregoing discourse, a kind of com-
parison between wealth and poverty.

Chremylus, who was an old and a good man, and
withal exceedingly poor, being desirous to leave some
riches to his son, consults the oracle of Apollo upon
the subject. The oracle bids him follow the first man
he should see upon his going out of the temple. ‘The
first person he chanced to see was to appearance an
old sordid blind man ; but upon his following him from
place to place, he at last found by his own confession
that he was Plutus, the god of riches, and that he was
just come out of the house of a miser. Plutus further
told him, that when he was a boy, he used to declare that
as soon as he came of age he would distribute wealth
to none but virtuous andjust men ; upon which Jupiter,
considering the pernicious consequences of such a
resolution, took his sight away from him, and left him
to stroll about the world in the blind condition wherein
Chremylus beheld him. With much ado Chremylus
prevailed upon him to go to his house, where he met
an old woman in a tattered raiment, who had been his
guest for many years, and whose name was Poverty.
The old woman refusing to turn out so easily as he
would have her, he threatened to banish her not only
from his own house, but from all Greece, if she made any
more words upon the matter. Poverty, on this occa-
sion, pleads her cause very notably, and represents to
her old landlord, that should she be driven out of the
country, all their trades, arts, and sciences, would be
driven out with her; and that if every one was rich,
they would never be supplied with those pomps, orna-
ments, and conveniences of life, which made riches
desirable. She likewise represented to him the several
advantages which she bestowed upon her votaries in
regard to their shape, their health, and their activity,
by preserving them from gouts, dropsies, unwieldiness,
and intemperance. But whatever she had to say for
herself, she was at last forced to troop off. Chremylus
immediately considered how he might restore Plutus
to his sight; and in order to it, conveyed him to the
temple of A‘sculapius, who was famous for cures and
miracles of this nature. By this means the deity re-
covered his eyes and began to make a right use of them,
by enriching every one that was distinguished by piety
towards the gods and justice towards men ; and, at the
same time, by taking away his gifts from the impious

and undeserving. This produces several merry inci-
dents ; till in the last act Mercury descends with great
complaints from the gods, that since the good men were
grown rich they had received no sacrifices,

 

ADDISON'S

eonfirmed by a priest of Jupiter, who enters with a
remonstrance, that since the late innovation he was
reduced to a starving condition, and could not live upon
his office. Chremylus, who in the beginning of the play
was religious in his poverty, concludes it with a pro-
posal which was relished by all the good men, who were
now grown rich as well as himself, that they should
carry Plutus in a solemn procession to the temple, and
install him in the place of Jupiter. This allegory
instructed the Athenians in two points; first, as it
vindicated the conduct of Providence in its ordinary
distribution of wealth; and in the next place, as it
showed the great tendency of riches to corrupt the
morals of those who possessed them.

DNF EP LP ELLE LODO EPPILIGL

REASONS FOR A FIXEDNESS IN RELIGIOUS
FAITH.

Havine endeavoured in a late paper to show the great
excellency of faith, I shall here consider what are the
proper means of strengthening and confirming it in the
mind of man. Those who delight in reading books of
controversy, which are written on both sides of the
question in points of faith, do very seldom arrive at a
fixed and settled habit of it. They are one day entirely
convinced of its important truths, and the next meet
with something that shakes and disturbs them. The
doubt which was laid revives again, and shows itself
in new difficulties, and that generally for this reason—
because the mind which is perpetually tossed in con-
troversies and disputes, is apt to forget the reasons
which had onee set it at rest, and to be disquieted with
any former perplexities, when it appears in a new shape,
or is started by a different hand. As nothing is more
laudable than an inquiry after truth, so nothing is
more irrational than to pass away our whole lives with-
out determining ourselves one way or other in those
points which are of the last importance to us. There
are indeed many things from which we may withhold
our assent ; but in cases by which we are to regulate our
lives, it is the greatest absurdity to be wavering and
unsettled, without closing with that side which appears
the most safe and the most probable. The first rule,
therefore, which I shall lay down is this, that when by
reading or discourse we find ourselves thoroughly con-
vineed of the truth of any article, and of the reason-
ableness of our belief in it, we should never after
suffer ourselves to call it into question. We may per-
haps forget the arguments which occasioned our con-
viction, but we ought to remember the strength they
had with us, and therefore still to retain the conviction
which they once produced. This is no more than what
we do in every common art and science; nor is it pos-
sible to act otherwise, considering the weakness and
limitation of our intellectual faculties. It was thus
that Latimer, one of the glorious army of martyrs who
introduced the reformation in England, behaved himself
in that great conference which was managed between
the most learned among the protestants and papists in
the reign of Queen Mary. This venerable old man,
knowing how his abilities were impaired by age, and
that it was impossible for him to recollect all those
reasons which had directed him in the choice of his
religion, left his companions, who were in the full pos-
session of their parts and learning, to baffle and confound
their antagonists by the force of reason. As for himself,
he only repeated to his adversaries the articles in which
he firmly believed, and in the possession of which he
was determined to die. It is in this manner that the
mathematician proceeds upon propositions which he
has once demonstrated ; and though the demonstration
may have slipped out of his memory, he builds upon the
truth, because he knows it was demonstrated. This
rule is absolutely necessary for weaker minds, and in
some measure for men of the greatest abilities ; but to
these last I would propose, in the second place, that
they should lay up in their memories, and always keep

which is! by them in readiness, those arguments which appear toMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

them of the greatest strength, and which cannot be got |
over by all the doubts and cavils of infidelity.

But in the third place, thereis nothing which strength-
ens faith more than morality. Faith and morality
naturally produce each other. A man is quickly con-
vineed of the truth of religion, who finds it is not against
his interest that it should be true. The pleasure he
receives at present, and the happiness which he promises
himself from it hereafter, will both dispose him very
powerfully to give credit to it, according to the ordinary
observation, that we are easy to believe what we wish.
It is very certain that a man of sound reason cannot
forbear closing with religion upon an impartial exami-
nation of it, but at the same time it is certain that faith
is kept alive in us, and gathers strength from practice
more than from speculation.

There is still another method, which is more persua-
sive than any of the former; and that is a habitual
adoration of the Supreme Being, as well in constant acts
of mental worship as in outward forms. The deveut
man. does not only believe, but feels there is a Deity.
He has actual sensations of him, his experience concurs
with his reason, he sees him more and more in all his
intercourses with him, and even in this life almost loses
his faith in conviction.

The last method which I shall mention for the giving
life to a man’s faith, is frequent retirement from the
world, accompanied with religious meditation. When
a man thinks of any thing in the darkness of the night,
whatever deep impressions it may make in his mind,
they are apt to vanish as soon as the day breaks about
him. The light and noise of the day, which are per-
petually soliciting his senses and calling off his attention,
wear out of his mind the thoughts that imprinted them-
selves in it with so much strength during the silence
and darkness of the night. A man finds the same
difference as to himself in a crowd and in a solitude.
The mind is stunned and dazzled amidst the variety of
objects which press upon her in a great city. She
cannot apply herself to the consideration of those
things which are of the utmost concern to her. The
cares or pleasures of the world strike in with every
thought, and a multitude of vicious examples gives a
kind of justification to our folly. In our retirements
every thing disposes us to be serious. In courts and
cities we are entertained with the works of men; in the
country with those of God. One is the province of art,
the other of nature. Faith and devotion naturally grow
in the mind of every reasonable man, who sees the
impressions of divine power and wisdom in every object
on which he casts his eye. The Supreme Being has
made the best arguments for his own existence in the
formation of the heavens and the earth; and these are
the arguments which a man of sense cannot forbear
attending to, who is out of the noise and hurry of human
affairs. Aristotle says, that should a man live under
ground, and there converse with works of art and
mechanism, and should afterwards be brought up into
the open day, and see the several glories of the heaven
and earth, he would immediately pronounce them the
works of such a Being as we define God to be. The
psalmist has very beautiful strokes of poetry to this
purpose in that exalted strain: “The heavens declare
the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handy-
work. One day telleth another; and one night certi-
fieth another. There is neither speech nor language ;
but their voices are heard among them. Their sound
is gone out into all lands; and their words into the
ends of the world.” As such abold and sublime man-
ner of thinking furnishes very noble matter for an ode,
the reader may see it wrought into the following one:

The spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.

Th’ unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator’s power display,

And publishes to every land

 

Lhe work of an almighty hand.

pred
QO
Qo

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wond’rous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth ;

Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball 2
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found 2

In reason’s ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice ;

For ever singing as they shine,

The hand that made us is Divine!

POP LP OP OPED OLED PL ODL,

CONDUCT IN PLACES OF TRUST.

I am persuaded there are few men of generous principles
who would seek after great places, were it not rather
to have an opportunity in their hands of obliging their
particular friends, or those whom they look upon as
men of worth, than to procure wealth and honour for
themselves. To an honest mind the best perquisites
of a place are the advantages it gives a man of doing
good.

Those who are under the great officers of state, and
are the instruments by which they act, have more
frequent opportunities for the exercise of compassion.
and benevolence than their superiors themselves. These
men know every little case that is to come before the
great man ; andif they are possessed with honest minds,
will consider poverty as a recommendation in the per-
son who applies himself to them, and make the justice
of his cause the most powerful solicitor in his behalf.
A man of this temper, when he is in a post of business,
becomes a blessing to the public. He patronises the
orphan and the widow, assists the friendless, and guides
the ignorant. He does not reject the person’s preten-
sions who does not know how to explain them, or refuse
doing a good office for a man because he cannot pay the
fee of it. In short, though. he regulates himself in
all his proceedings by justice and equity, he finds a
thousand occasions for all the good-natured offices of
generosity and compassion.

A man is unfit for such a place of trust who is of a
sour, untractable nature, or has any other passion that
makes him uneasy to those who approach him. Rough-
ness of temper is apt to discountenance the timorous
or modest. The proud man discourages those from
approaching him who are of a mean condition, and who
most want his assistance. The impatient man will not
give himself time to be informed of the matter that
lies before him. An officer, with one or more of these
unbecoming qualities, is sometimes looked upon as a
proper person to keep off impertinence and solicitation
from his superior ; and this is a kind of merit that can
never atone for the injustice which may very often
arise from it.

There are two other vicious qualities which render
a& man very unfit for such a place of trust. The first
of these is a dilatory temper, which commits innume-
rable cruelties without design. The maxim which
several have laid down for a man’s conduct in ordinary
life, should be inviolable with a man in office, never te
think of doing that to-morrow which may be done to-day.
A man who defers doing what ought to be done, is guilty
of injustice so long as he defers it. The dispatch of a
good office is very often as beneficial to the solicitor as
the good office itself. In short, if a man compared the
inconveniences which another suffers by his delays, with
the trifling motives and advantages which he himself
may reap by them, he would never be guilty of a fault
which very often does an irreparable prejudice to the
person who depends upon him, and which might be
remedied with little trouble to himself.

But in the last place, there is no man so improper

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with the abilities which are to be met with in an ordi-

134 ADDISON’S

to be employed in business as he who is in any degree
capable of corruption; and such a one is the man who
upon any pretence whatsoever receives more than what
is the stated and unquestioned fee of his office. Grati-
fications, tokens of thankfulness, dispatch money, and
the like specious terms, are the pretences under which
corruption very frequently shelters itself. An honest
man will, however, look on all these methods as unjusti-
fiable, and will enjoy himself better on a moderate
fortune that is gained with honour and reputation, than
on an overgrown estate that is cankered with the acqui-
sitions of rapine and exaction. Were all our offices
discharged with such an inflexible integrity, we should
not see men in all ages who grow up to exorbitant wealth

nary mechanic. I cannot but think that such a corrup-
tion proceeds chiefly from men’s employing the first
that offer themselves, or those who have the character
of shrewd worldly men, instead of searching out such
as have had a liberal education, and have been trained
up in the studies of knowledge and virtue.

It has been observed, that men of learning who take
to business, discharge it generally with greater honesty
than men of the world. The chief reason for it I take
to be as follows. A man that has spent his youth in
reading, has been used to find virtue extolled and vice
stigmatised. A man thathas passed his time in the world,
has often seen vice triumphant and virtue discounte-
nanced. Hxtortion, rapine, and injustice, which are
branded with infamy in books, often give aman a figure
in the world; while several qualities which are celebrated
in authors, as generosity, ingenuity, and good nature,
impoverish and ruin him. ‘This cannot but have a
proportionable effect on men whose tempers and prin-
ciples are equally good and vicious.

There would be at least this advantage of employing
men of learning and parts in business, that their pro-
sperity would sit more gracefully on them, and that we
should not see many worthless persons shot up into
the greatest figures of life.

POPOILIL SOL OL ODO POLS

HOPE.

TxE time present seldom affords sufficient employment
to the mind of man. Objects of pain or pleasure, love
or admiration, do not lie thick enough together in life
to keep the soul in constant action, and supply an
immediate exercise to its faculties. In order, therefore,
to remedy this defect, that the mind may not want
business, but always have materials for thinking, she
is endowed with certain powers that can recall what is
past, and anticipate what is to come.

That wonderful faculty which we call the memory, is!
perpetually looking back when we have nothing present
to entertain us. It is like those repositories in several
animals that are filled with stores of their former food,
on which they may ruminate when their present pasture
fails.

As the memory relieves the mind in her vacant
moments, and prevents any chasms of thought by ideas
of what is past, we have other faculties that agitate
and employ her upon what is to come. These are the
passions of hope and fear.

By these two passions we reach forward into futurity,
and bring up to our present thoughts objects that lie
hid in the remotest depths of time. We suffer misery,
and enjoy happiness, before they are in being; we can
set the sun and stars forward, or lose sight of them, by
wandering into those retired parts of eternity when the
heavens and earth shall be no more.

By the way, who can imagine that the existence of a
creature is to be circumscribed by time, whose thoughts
are not? But I shall in this paper confine myself to
that particular passion which goes by the name of Hope.

Our actual enjoyments are so few and transient, that
man would be a very miserable being were he not
endowed with this passion, which gives him a, taste of

 

those good things that may possibly come into his pos-

session. “ Weshould hope for every thing that is good,”
says the old poet Linus, “ because there is nothing which
may not be hoped for, and nothing but what the gods
are able to give us.” Hope quickens all the still parts
of life, and keeps the mind awake in her most remiss
and indolent hours. It gives habitual serenity and
good humour. It is a kind of vital heat in the soul,
that cheers and gladdens her when she does not attend
to it. It makes pain easy, and labour pleasant.

Besides these several advantages which rise from
hope, there is another, which is none of the least ; and
that is, its great efficacy in preserving us from setting
too high a value on present enjoyments. The saying
of Ceesar is very well known. When he had given away
all his estate in gratuities amongst his friends, one of
them asked what he had left for himself; to which that
great man replied “Hope!” His natural magnanimity
hindered him from prizing what he was certainly pos-
sessed of, and turned all his thoughts upon something
m@re valuable that he had in view. I question not but
every reader will draw a moral from this story, and
apply it to himself without my direction.

The old story of Pandora’s box (which many of the
learned believe was formed among the heathens upon
the tradition of the fall of man) shows us how deplorable
a state they thought the present life without hope. ‘To
set forth the utmost condition of misery, they tell us,
that our forefather, according to the pagan theology,
had a great vessel presented him by Pandora. Upon
his lifting up the lid of it, says the fable, there flew out
all the calamities and distempers incident to men, from
which to that time they had been altogether exempt.
Hope, who had been enclosed in the cup with so much
bad company, instead of flying off with the rest, stuek
so close to the lid of it that it was shut down upon her.

I shall make but two reflections upon what I have
hitherto said. First, that no kind of life is so happy as
that which is full of hope, especially when the hope is
well grounded, and when the object of it is of an exalted
kind, and in its nature proper to make that person
happy who enjoys it. This proposition must be very
evident to those who consider how few are the present
enjoyments of the most happy man, and how insufficient
to give him an entire satisfaction and acquiescence in
them.

My next observation is this, that a religious life is

‘that which most abounds in a well-grounded hope, and

such a one as is fixed on objects that are capable of
making us entirely happy. ‘his hope in a religious
man is much more sure and certain than the hope of
any temporal blessing, as it is strengthened not only by.
reason but by faith. It has at the same time its eye
perpetually fixed on that state which implies in the
very notion of it the most full and the most complete
happiness.

I have before shown how the influence of hope in
general sweetens life, aud makes our present condition
supportable, if not pleasing; but a religious hope has
still greater advantages: it does not only bear up the
mind under her sufferings, but makes her rejoice in
them, as they may be the instruments of procuring her
the great and ultimate end of all her hope.

Religious hope has likewise this advantage above any
other kind of hope, that/it is able to revive the dying
man, and to fill his mind not only with secret comfort
and refreshment, but sometimes with rapture and trans-
port. He triumphs in his agonies, whilst the soul springs
forward with delight to the great object which she has
always had in view, and leaves the body with an expec-
tation of being reunited to her in a glorious and joyful
resurrection.

I shall conclude this essay with those emblematical
expressions of a lively hope which the psalmist made
use of in the midst of those dangers and adversities
which surrounded him; for the following passage had
its present and personal, as well as its future and pro-
phetic, sense :—“ I have set the Lord always before me:
because he is at my right hand I shall not be moved.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoiceth :MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

iny flesh also shall rest in hope. For thou wilt not
leave my soul in hell, neither wilt thou suffer thine holy
one to see corruption. Thou wilt show me the path of
life; in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right
hand there are pleasures for evermore.”

POP ILPL OLE LE LOLI LODO

ADVICE SEEKERS.
Ir is an old observation which has been made of politi-
cians who would rather ingratiate themselves with their
sovereign than promote his real service, that they ac-
commodate their counsels to his inclinations, and advise
him to such actions only as his heart is naturally set
upon. The privy counsellor of one in love must observe
the same conduct, unless he would forfeit the friendship
of the person who desires his advice. I have known
several odd cases of thisnature. Hipparchus was going
to marry a common woman ; but being resolved to do
nothing without the advice of his friend Philander, he
consulted him upon the occasion. Philander told him
his mind freely, and represented his mistress to him in
such strong colours, that the next morning he received
x challenge for his pains, and before twelve o’clock was
run through the body by the man who had asked his
advice. Celia was more prudent on the like occasion.
She desired Leonilla to give her opinion freely upon a
young fellow who made his addresses to her. Leonilila,
to oblige her, told her with great frankness, that she
looked upon him to be one of the most worthless
Celia, foreseeing what a character she was to expect,
begged her not to go on, for that she had been privately
married to him above a fortnight. The truth of it is,
a woman seldom asks advice before she has bought her
wedding clothes. When she has made her own choice,
for form’s sake she sends a conge d’elire to her friends.

If we look into the secret springs and motives that
set people at work on these occasions, and put them
upon asking advices which they never intend to take, I
look upon it to be none of the least, that they are in-
capable of keeping a secret which is so very pleasing to
them. A girl longs to tell her confidante that she hopes
to be married in a little time ; and in order to talk of
the pretty fellow that dwells so much in her thoughts,
asks her very gravely what she would advise her to do
in a case of so much difficulty. Why else should Me-
lissa, who has not a thousand pounds in the world, go
into every quarter of the town to ask her acquaintance
whether they would advise her to take Tom Townly,
that made his addresses to her, with an estate of five
thousand a-year? It is very pleasant on this occasion
to hear the lady propose her doubts, and to see the
pains she is at to get over them.

I must not here omit a practice which is in use
among the vainer part of our sex, who will often ask a
friend’s advice in relation to a fortune whom they are
never like to come at. Will Honeycomb, who is now on
the verge of threescore, took me aside not long since,
and asked me, in his most serious look, whether I would
advise him to marry my Lady Betty Single, who, by the
way, is one of the greatest fortunes about town. I
stared him full in the face upon so strange a question ;
upon which he immediately gave me an inventory of
her jewels and estate, adding, that he was resolved to
do nothing in amatter of such consequence without my
approbation. Finding he would have an answer, I told
him, if he could get the lady’s consent, he had mine.
This is about the tenth match which, to my knowledge,
Will has consulted his friends upon, without ever
opening his mind to the party herself.

I have been engaged in this subject by the following
letter, which comes to me from some notable young
female scribe, who by the contents of it seems to have
carried matters so far that she is ripe for asking advice ;
but as I would not lose her good will, nor forfeit the
reputation which I have with her for wisdom, I shall
only communicate the letter to the public, without re-
turning any answer to it.

“ Mr Spectator—Now, Sir, the thing is this. Mr
Shapely is the prettiest gentleman about town. He is

 

 

’ e

very tall; but not too tall neither. He dances like an
angel. His mouth is made I do not know how, but it
is the prettiest that I ever saw in my life. He is always
laughing, for he has an infinite deal of wit. If you did
but see how he rolls his stockings! He has a thousand
pretty fancies, and I am sure if you saw him you would
like him. He is a very good scholar, and can talk
Latin as fast as English. J wish you could but see him
dance. Now, you must understand poor Mr Shapely
has no estate, but how can he help that, you know? And
yet my friends are so unreasonable as to be always
teasing me about him because he has no estate: but I
am sure he has that that is better than an estate, for
he is a good-natured, ingenuous, modest, civil, tall, well-
bred, handsome man, and I am obliged to him for his
civilities ever since I saw him. I forgot to tell you
that he has black eyes, and looks upon me now and then
as if he had tears in them; and yet my friends are so
unreasonable, that they would have me be uncivil to
him. I have a good portion which they cannot hinder
me of; and I shall be fourteen on the 29th day of
August next; and am, therefore, willing to settle in the
world as soon as I can ; and so is Mr Shapely. But
every body I advise with here is poor Mr Shapely’s
enemy. I desire, therefore, you will give me your
advice, for I know you are a wise man; and if you ad-
vise me well, I am resolved to follow it. I heartily wish
you could see him dance; and am, Sir, your most
humble servant, B. D.

He loves your Spectators mightily.”

LOPLI L IL EL OP LID

METHOD.

AmonG my daily papers which I bestow on the public,
there are some which are written with regularity and
method, and others that run out into the wildness of
those compositions which go by the name of Lssays.
As for the first, I have the whole scheme of the discourse
in my mind before I set pen to paper. In the other kind
of writing, it is sufficient that I have several thoughts
on a subject, without troubling myself to range them
in such order that they may seem to grow out of one
another and be disposed under the proper heads. Seneca
and Montaigne are patterns for writing in this last kind,
as Tully and Aristotle excel in the other. When I
read an author of genius who writes without method, I
fancy myself in a wood that abounds with a great many
noble objects, risimg one among another in the greatest
confusion and disorder. When I read a methodical
discourse, | am in a regular plantation, and can place
myself in its several centres, so as to take a view of all
the lines and walks that are struck from them. You
may ramble in the one a whole day together, and every
moment discover something or other that is new to you 3
but when you have done, you will have but a confused,
imperfect notion of the place; in the other your eye
commands the whole prospect, and gives you such an
idea of it as is not easily worn out of the memory.

Irregularity and want of method are only supportable
in men of great learning or genius, who are often too
full to be exact, and therefore choose to throw down
their pearls in heaps before the reader, rather than be
at the pains of stringing them.

Method is of advantage to a work, both in respect to
the writer and the reader. In regard to the first, it is
a great help to his invention. When a man has planned
his discourse, he finds a great many thoughts rising out
of every head that do not offer themselves upon the
general survey of a subject. His thoughts are at the
same time more intelligible, and better discover their
drift and meaning when they are placed in their proper
lights, and follow one another in a regular series, than
when they are thrown together without order and con-
nection. ‘There is always an obscurity im confusion ;
and the same sentence that would have enlightened the
reader in one part of a discourse, perplexes him in
another. For the same reason, likewise, every thought
in a methodical discourse shows itself in its greatest136

beauty; as the several figures in a piece of painting
receive new grace from their disposition in the picture.
The advantages of a reader from a methodical discourse
are correspondent with those of the writer. He com-
prehends every thing easily, takes it in with pleasure,
and retains it long.

Method is no less requisite in ordinary conversation
than in writing, provided a man would talk to make
himself understood. I, who hear a thousand coffee-
house debates every day, am very sensible of this want
of method in the thoughts of my honest countrymen.
There is not one dispute in ten which is managed in
those schools of politics, where after the three first
sentences the question is not entirely lost. Our dispu-
tants put me in mind of the scuttle-fish, that, when he
is unable to extricate himself, blackens all the water
about him until he becomes invisible. The man who
does not know how to methodise his thoughts, has
always, to borrow a phrase from the “ Dispensary,”
“a barren superfluity of words ;” the fruit is lost among
the exuberance of leaves.

Tom Puzzle is one of the most eminent immethodical
disputants of any that have fallen under my observa-
tion. Tom has read enough to make him very imper-
tinent ; his knowledge is sufficient to raise doubts, but
not to clear them. Ii is pity that he has so much
learning, or that he has not a great deal more. With
these qualifications Tom sets up for a freethinker, finds
a great many things to blame in the constitution of his
country, and gives shrewd intimations that he does not
believe another world. In short, Puzzle is an atheist
as much as his parts will give him leave. He has got
about half a dozen commonplace topics, into which he
never fails to turn the conversation, whatever was the
occasion of it. Though the matter in debate be about
Doway or Demain, it is ten to one but half his discourse
runs upon the unreasonableness of bigotry and priest-
eraft. This makes Mr Puzzle the admiration of all
those who have less sense than himself, and the con-
tempt of all those who have more. There is none in
town whom Tom dreads so much as my friend Will
Dry. Will, who is acquainted with Tom’s logic, when
he finds him running off the question, cuts him short
with a “ Whatthen? We allow all this to be true; but
what is it to our present purpose?” I have known Tom
eloquent half an hour together, and triumphing, as he
thought, in the superiority of the argument, when he
has been nonplussed on a sudden, by Mr Dry’s desiring
him totell the company what it was that he endeavoured
to prove. Inshort, Dry is a man ofa clear methodical
head, but few words, and gains the same advantages
over Puzzle that a small body of regular troops would
gain over a numberless undisciplined militia.

POP O LOL AIO LOOP IFOS

PLEASURES IN GARDENING.
«¢ Sin—Having lately read your essays on the pleasures
of the imgaination, 1 was so taken with your thoughts
upon some of our English gardens, that I cannot forbear
troubling you with a letter upon that subject. I am
one, you must know, who am looked upon as a humorist
in gardening. JI have several acres about my house,
which I call my garden, and which a skilful gardener
would not know what to call. It is a confusion of kit-
chen and parterre, orchard and flower-garden, which
lie so mixed and interwoven with one another, that if a
foreigner, who had seen nothing of our country, should
be conveyed into my garden ai his first landing, he
would look upon it as a natural wilderness, and one of
the uncultivated parts of our country. My flowers grow
up in several parts of the garden in the greatest luxu-
rianey and profusion. I am so far from being fond of
any particular one by reason of its rarity, that if I meet
with any one in a field which pleases me, I give it a
place in my garden. By this means, when a stranger
walks with me, he is surprised to see several large spots
of ground covered with ten thousand different colours,
and has often singled out flowers that he might have

 

 

ADDISON'S

met with under a common hedge, in a field, or ina
meadow, as some of the greatest beauties of the place.
The only method I observe in this particular, is to range
in the same quarter the products of the same season,
that they may make their appearance together, and
compose a picture of the greatest variety. There is the
same irregularity in my plantations, which run into as
great a wildness as their nature will permit. I take in
none that do not naturally rejoice in the soil, and am
pleased when I am walking in a labyrinth of my own
raising, not to know whether the next tree I shall meet
with is an apple or an oak, an elm ora pear tree. My
kitchen has likewise its particular quarters assigned it 5
for besides the wholesome luxury which that place
abounds with, I have always thought a kitchen garden a
more pleasing sight than the finest orangery or artificial
green-house. I love to see every thing in its perfection,
and am more pleased to survey my rows of coleworts
and cabbages, with a thousand nameless pot-herbs,
springing up in their full fragrancy and verdure, than
to see the tender plants of foreign countries kept alive
by artificial heats, or withering in an air and soil that
are not adapted to them. I must not omit that there
is a fountain rising in the upper part of my garden,
which forms a little wandering rill, and administers to
the pleasure as well as the plenty of the place. I have
so conducted it that it visits most of my plantations,
and have taken particular care to let it run in the same
manner as it would do in an open field; so that it gene-
rally passes through banks of violets and primroses,
plats of willow, or other plants that seem to be of its
own producing. There is another circumstance in
which I am very particular, or, as my neighbours call
me, very whimsical: as my garden invites into it all the
birds of the country, by offering them the conveniency
of springs and shades, solitude and shelter, I do not
suffer any one to destroy their nests in the spring, or
drive them from their usual haunts in fruit-time; I
value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than
cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their
songs. By this means I have always the music of the
season in its perfection, and am highly delighted to see
the jay or the thrush hopping about my walks, and
shooting before my eyes across the several little glades
and alleys that I pass through. I think there are as
many kinds of gardening as of poetry; your makers of
parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and
sonneteers in this art ; contrivers of bowersand grottoes,
treillages and cascades, are romance writers. Wiseand
London are our heroic poets; and if, as a critic, I may
single out any passage of their works to commend, [
shall take notice of that part in the upper garden at
Kensington, which was at first nothing but a gravel pit.
It must have been a fine genius for gardening, that
could have thought of forming such an unsightly hollow
into so beautiful an area, and to have hit the eye with
so uncommon and agreeable a scene as that which it is
now wrought into. ‘To give this particular spot of
ground the greater effect, they have made a very pleas-
ing contrast; for ason one side of the walk you see this
hollow basin, with its several little plantations, lying
so conveniently under the eye of the beholder, on the
other side of it there appears a seeming mount, made
up of trees rising one higher than another, in propor-
tion as they approach the centre. A spectator who hag
not heard this account of it, would think this circular
mount was not only a real one, but that it had been
actually scooped out of that hollow space which I have
before mentioned. J never yet met with any one who
has walked in this garden, who was not struck with that
part of it which I have here mentioned. As for myself,
you will find, by the account which I have already given
you, that my compositions in gardening are altogether
after the Pindaric manner, and run into the beautiful
wildness of nature, without affecting the nicer elegances
of art. What I am now going to mention, will perhaps
deserve the attention more than any thing I have yet
said, I find that in the discourse which I spoke of at
the beginning of my letter, you are against filling anMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSA Y&.

English garden with evergreens ; and indeed I am so
far of your opinion, that I can by no means think the
verdure of an evergreen comparable to that which
shoots out annually, and clothes our trees in the summer
season. But I have often wondered that those who are
like myself, and love to live in gardens, have never
thought of contriving a winter garden, which would
consist of such trees only as never east their leaves.
We have very often little snatches of sunshine and fair
weather in the most uncomfortable parts of the year,
and have frequently several days in November and
January that are as agreeable as any in the finest
months. At such times, therefore, I think there could
not be a greater pleasure than to walk in such a winter
garden as I have proposed. In the summer season the
whole country blooms, and is a kind of garden, for
which reason we are not so sensible of those beauties
that at this time may be every where met with 3 but
when nature is in her desolation, and presents us with
nothing but bleak and barren prospects, there is some-
thing unspeakably cheerful in a spot of ground which is
covered with trees that smile amidst all the rigour of
winter, and give us a view of the most gay season in the
midst of that which is the most dead and melancholy.
I have so far indulged myself in this thought, that I
have set apart a whole acre of ground for the executing
of it. The walls are covered with ivy instead of vines.
The laurel, the horn-beam, and the holly, with many
other trees and plants of the same nature, grow so thick
in it that you cannot imagine a more lively scene. The
glowing redness of the berries with which they are hung
at this time, vies with the verdure of their leaves, and
are apt to inspire the heart of the beholder with that
vernal delight which you have somewhere taken notice
of in your former papers. It is very pleasant, at the
same time, to see the several kinds of birds retiring into
this little green spot, and enjoying themselves among
the branches and foliage, when my great garden, which
I have before mentioned to you, does not afford a single
leaf for their shelter.

You must know, sir, that I look upon the pleasure
which we take in a garden as one of the most innocent
delights in human life. A garden was the habitation of
our first parents before the fall. It is naturally apt to
fill the mind with calmness and tranquillity, and to lay
all its turbulent passions at rest. It gives us a great
insight into the contrivance and wisdom of providence,
and suggests innumerable subjects for meditation. I
eannot but think the very complacency and satisfaction
which a man takes in these works of nature, to bea
laudable, if not a virtuous, habit of mind. For all which
reasons I hope you will pardon the length of my present
letter. Iam, sir,” &c.

oon

 

POCA

DISPUTATION. :
Ir is sometimes pleasant enough to consider the
different notions which different persons have of the
same thing. If men of low condition very often
set a value on things which are not prized by those
who are in a higher station of life, there are many
things these esteem which are of no value among
persons of an inferior rank. Common people are, in
particular, very much astonished when they hear of
those solemn contests and debates which are made
among the great upon the punctilios of a public cere-
mony, and wonder to hear that any business of conse-
quence should be retarded by those little cireumstances,
which they represent in themselves as trifling and
insignificant. I am mightily pleased with a porter’s
decision in one of Mr Southern’s plays, which is founded
upon that fine distress of a virtuous woman’s marrying
a second husband while her first was yet living. The
first husband, who was supposed to have been dead,
returning to his house after a long absence, raises a
noble perplexity for the tragic part of the play. In the
meanwhile, the nurse and the porter conferring upon
the difficulties that would ensue in such a ease, honest

 

137

Samson thinks the matter may be easily decided, and
Solves it very judiciously, by the old proverb, that if
his first master be still living, “ the man must have his
mare again.” There is nothing in my time which has so
much surprised and confounded the greatest part of
my honest countrymen, as the present controversy
between Count Rechteren and Monsieur Mesnager,
which employs the wise heads of so many nations, and
holds all the affairs of Europe in suspense.

Upon my going into a coffee-house yesterday, and
lending an ear to the next table, which was encompassed
with a circle of inferior politicians, one of them, after
having read over the news very attentively, broke out
into the following remarks:—“I am afraid,” says he,
“ this unhappy rupture between the footmen at Utrecht
will retard the peace of Christendom. I wish the pope
may not be at the bottom of it. His holiness has a very
good hand at fomenting a division, as the poor Swiss
cantons have lately experienced to their cost. ~ If
Monsieur What-d’ye-call-him’s domestics will not come
to an accommodation, I do not know how the quarrel
ean be ended but by a religious war.”

“ Why truly,” says a wiseacre that sat by him, “were
Tas the King of France, I would scorn to take part
with footmen of either side; here’s all the business of
Europe stands still, because Monsieur Mesnager’s man
has had his head broke. If Count Rectrum had given
them a pot of ale after it, all would have been well
without any of this bustle ; but they say he’s a warm
man, and does not care to be made mouths at.”

Upon this, one that had held his tongue hitherto
began to speak; declaring, that he was very well
pleased the plenipotentiaries of our Christian princes
took this matter into their serious consideration ; for
that lackeys were never so saucy and pragmatical as
they are now-a-days; and that he should be glad to
see them taken down in the treaty of peace, if it might
be done without prejudice to the public affairs.

One who sat at the other end of the table, and seemed
to be in the interests of the French king, told them
that they did not take the matter right, for that his
most Christian majesty did not resent this matter
because it was an injury done to Monsieur Mesnager’s
footmen ; “for,” says he, “what are Monsieur Mes-
nager’s footmen to him ?”” but because it was done to his
subjects. ‘“ Now,” says he, “let me tell you, it would
look very odd for a subject of France to have a bloody
nose, and his sovereign not to take notice of it. He
is obliged in honour to defend his people against hosti-
lities ; and if the Dutch will be so insolent to a crowned
head as in any wise to cuff or kick those who are under
his protection, I think he is in the right to call them to
an account for it.”

This distinction set the controversy upon a new foot,
and seemed to be very well approved by most that
heard it, until a little warm fellow, who declared
himself a friend to the house of Austria, fell most
unmercifully upon his Gallic majesty, as encouraging
his subjects to make mouths at their betters, and
atterwards screening them from the punishment that
was due to their insolence. To which he added, that
the French nation was so much addicted to grimaee,
that if there was not a stop put to it at the general
congress, there would be no walking the streets for
them in a time of peace, especially if they continued
masters of the West Indies. The little man proceeded
with a great deal of warmth; declaring, that if the
allies were of his mind, he would oblige the French
king to burn his galleys, and tolerate the Protestant
religion in his dominions, before he would sheath his
sword. He concluded with calling Monsieur Mesnager
an insignificant prig.

The dispute was now growing very warm, and one
does not know where it might have ended, had not a
young man of about one and twenty, who seems to have
been brought up with an eye to the law, taken the debate
into his hand, and given it as his opinion that neither
Count Rechteren nor Monsieur Mesnager had behaved
themselves right in this affair. “ Count Rechteren,?

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138

says he, “should have made affidavit that his servants
had been affronted, and then Monsieur Mesnager would
have done him justice by taking away their liveries from
them, or some other way that he might have thought the
most proper; for, let me tell you, if a man makes a
mouth at me, I am not to knock the teeth out of it for
his pains. Then again, as for Monsieur Mesnager,
upon his servants being beaten, why, he might have
had his action of assault and battery. But as the case
now stands, if you will have my opinion, I think they
ought to bring it to referees.”

I heard a great deal more of this conference, but, I
must confess, with little edification ; for all I could
learn at last from these honest gentlemen was, that the
matter in debate was of too high a nature for such
heads as theirs or mine to comprehend.

PO LOP OL OLE LOLOLODLD

MISINTERPRETATION OF AFFLICTIONS.

We cannot be guilty of a greater act of uncharitable-
ness than to interpret the afflictions which befall our
neighbours as punishments and judgments. It aggra-
vates the evil to him who suffers, when he looks upon
himself as the mark of divine vengeance, and abates
the compassion of those towards him who regard him
in so dreadful a light. This humour of turning every
misfortune into a judgment proceeds from wrong notions
of religion, which in its own nature produces good will
toward men, and puts the mildest construction upon
every accident that befalls them. In this case, there-
fore, it is not religion that sours a man’s temper; but
it is his temper that sours his religion. People of
gloomy, uncheerful imaginations, or of envious, malig-
nant tempers, whatever kind of life they are engaged
in, will discover their natural tincture of mind in all
their thoughts, words, and actions. As the finest wines
have often the taste of the soil, so even the most reli-
gious thoughts often draw something that is particular
from the constitution of the mind in which they arise.
When folly or superstition strikes in with this natural
depravity of temper, it is not in the power even of reli-
gion itself to preserve the character of the person who
is possessed with it from appearing highly absurd and
ridiculous.

An old maiden gentlewoman, whom IJ shall conceal
under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest discoverer
of judgments that I have met with. She can tell you
what sin it was that set such a man’s house on fire, or
blew down his barns. Talk to her of an unfortunate
young lady that lost her beauty by the small-pox, she
fetches a deep sigh, and tells you, that when she had a
fine face she was always looking on it in her glass.
Tell her of a piece of good fortune that has befallen
one of her acquaintance, and she wishes it may prosper
with her; but her mother used one of her nieces very
barbarously. Her usual remarks turn ‘upon people
who had great estates, but never enjoyed them, by
reason of some flaw in their own or their father’s beha-
viour. She can give you the reason why such a one
died childless ; why sucha one was cut off in the flower
of his youth ; why such a one was unhappy in her
marriage ; why one broke his leg on such a particular
spot of ground; and why another was killed with a
back-sword rather than with any other kind of weapon.
She has a crime for every misfortune that can befall
any of her acquaintance; and when she hears of a
robbery that hath been made, or a murder that hath
been committed, enlarges more on the guilt of the suf-
fering person than on that of the thief or assassin. In
short, she is so good a Christian, that whatever happens
to herself is a trial, and whatever happens to her neigh-
bours is a judgment.

The very description of this folly in ordinary life is
sufficient to expose it; but when it appears in a pomp
and dignity of style, it is very apt to amuse and terrify
the mind of the reader. Herodotus and Plutarch very
often apply their judgments as impertinently as the old

woman I haye before mentioned, though their manner.

 

ADDISON’S

of relating them makes the folly itself appear venerable,
Indeed, most historians, as well Christian as pagan,
have fallen into this idle superstition, and spoken of ill
success, unforeseen disasters, and terrible events, as if
they had been let into the secrets of Providence, and
made acquainted with that private conduct by which
the world is governed. One would think several of
our own historians in particular had many revelations
of this kind made to them. Our old English monks
seldom let any of their kings depart in peace, who had
endeavoured to diminish the power or wealth of which
the ecclesiastics were in those times possessed. William
the Conqueror’s race generally found their judgments
in the New Forest, where their father had pulled down
churches and monasteries. In short, read one of the
chronicles written by an author of this frame of mind,
and you would think you were reading a history of the
kings of Israel and Judah, where the historians were
actually inspired, and where, by a particular scheme
of Providence, the kings were distinguished by judg-
ments or blessings, according as they promoted idolatry
or the worship of the true God.

I cannot but look upon this manner of judging upon
misfortunes, not only to be very uncharitable in regard
to the person whom they befall, but very presumptuous
in regard to him who is supposed to inflict them. It
is a strong argument for a state of retribution here-
aiter, that in this world virtuous persons are very often
unfortunate, and vicious persons prosperous, which is
wholly repugnant to the nature of a Being who appears
infinitely wise and good in all his works, unless we may
suppose that such a promiscuous ‘and undistinguishing
distribution of good and evil, which was necessary for
carrying on the designs of Providence in this life, will
be rectified and made amends for in another. We are
not therefore to expect that fire should fall from heaven
in the ordinary course of Providence ; nor when we
see triumphant guilt or depressed virtue in particular
persons, that Omnipotence will make bare its holy arm
in the defence of the one or punishment of the other. It
is sufficient that there is a day set apart for the hearing
and requiting of both according to their respective
merits.

The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to any
particular crimes, may appear from several considera-
tions. I shall only mention two. First, that generally
speaking there is no calamity or affliction which is sup-
posed to have happened asa judgment to a vicious man,
which does not sometimes happen to men of approved
religion and virtue. When Diagoras the atheist was
on board one of the Athenian ships, there arose a very
violent tempest ; upon which the mariners told him that
it was a just judgment upon them for having taken so
impious a man on board. Diagoras begged them to
look upon the rest of the ships that were in the same
distress, and asked them whether or no Diagoras was
on board every vessel in the fleet. Weare all involved
in the same calamities, and subject to the same acvi-
dents: and when we see any one of the species under
any particular oppression, we should look upon it as
arising from the common lot of human nature, rather
than trom the guilt of the person who suffers.

Another consideration that may check our presump-
tion in putting such a construction upon a misfortune,
is this, that it is impossible for us to know what are
calamities and what are blessings. How many acci-
dents have passed for misfortunes, which have turned
to the welfare and prosperity of the person to whose lot
they have fallen! How many disappointments have in
their consequences saved a man from ruin! If we
could look into the effects of every thing, we might be
allowed to pronounce boldly upon blessings and judg-
ments; but for a man to give his opinion of what he
sees but in part and in its beginnings, is an unjusti-
fiable piece of rashness and folly. The story of Biton
and Clitobus, which was in great reputation among the
heathens (for we see it quoted by all the ancient authors,
both Greek and Latin, who have written upon the im-
mortality of the soul), may teach us a caution in thisMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

matter. These two brothers being the sons of a lady
who was priestess to Juno, drew their mother’s chariot
to the temple at the time of a great solemnity; the
persons being absent who by their office were to have
drawn her chariot on that occasion. The mother
was so transported with this instance of filial duty, that
she petitioned her goddess to bestow upon them the
greatest gift that could be given to men; upon which
they were both cast into a deep sleep, and the next
morning found dead in the temple. ‘This was such an
event as would have been construed into a judgment,
had it happened to the two brothers after an act
oi disobedience, and would doubtless have been repre-
sented as such by any ancient historian who had given
us an account of it.

DREAMS.

Txovucu there are many authors who have written on
dreams, they have generally considered them only as
revelations of what has already happened in distant
parts ot the world, or as presages of what is to happen
in future periods of time.

I shall consider this subject in another light; as
dreams may give us some idea of the great excellency
of a human soul, and some intimations of its indepen-
dency on matter.

In the first place, our dreams are great instances of
that activity which is natural to the human soul, and
which it is not in the power of sleep to deaden or abate.
When the man appears to be tired and worn out with
the labours of the day, this active part in his composi-
tion is still busied and unwearied. When the organs
of sense want their due repose and necessary repara-
tions, and the body is no longer able to keep pace with
that spiritual substance to which it is united, the soul
exerts herself in her several faculties, and continues in
action until her partner is again qualified to bear her
company. In this case, dreams look like the relaxa-
tions and amusements of the soul when she is disen-
cumbered of her machine, her sports and recreations
when she has laid her charge asleep.

In the second place, dreams are an instance of that
agility and perfection which is natural to the faculties
of the mind when they are disengaged from the body.
The soul is clogged and retarded in her operations,
when she acts in conjunction with a companion that is
so heavy and unwieldy in its motion. But in dreams
it is wonderful to observe with what a sprightliness and
alacrity she exerts herself. ‘The slow of speech make
unpremeditated harangues, or converse readily in
languages that they are but little acquainted with. The
grave abound in pleasantries ; the dull in repartees and
points of wit. There isnot a more painful action of the
mind than invention; yet in dreams it works with that
ease and activity that we are not sensible of when the
faculty is employed. For instance, I believe every one
some time or other dreams that he is reading papers,
books, or letters; in which case, the invention prompts
so readily that the mind is imposed upon, and mistakes
its own suggestions for the compositions of another.

I shall under this head quote a passage out of the
Religio Medici, in which the ingenious author gives an
account of himself in his dreaming, and also his waking
thoughts. ‘* We are somewhat more than ourselves in
our sleeps; and the slumber of the body seems to be
but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense,
but the liberty of reason ; and our waking conceptions
do not match the fancies of oursleeps. At my nativity
my ascendant was the watery sign of Scorpius: I was
born in the planetary hour of Saturn; and I think I
have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am nowise
facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardize of
company; yet in one dream I can compose a whole
comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and

laugh myself awake at the conceits thereof. Were my
memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, I would
never study but in my dreams ; and this time also would

 

139

I choose for my devotions: but our grosser memories
have then so little hold of our abstracted understand-
ings, that they forget the story, and can only relate to
our awakened souls a confused and broken tale of that
that has passed. Thus it is observed, that men some-
times, upon the hour of their departure, do speak and
reason above themselves ; for then the soul, beginning
to be freed from the hgaments of the body, begins to
reason like herself, and to discourse in a strain above
mortality.”

We may likewise observe, in the third place, that the
passions affect the mind with greater strength when we
are asleep than when we are awake. Joy and sorrow
give us more vigorous sensations of pain or pleasure
at this time than at any other, Devotion, likewise, as
the excellent author above mentioned has hinted, is
in a very particular manner heightened and inflamed
when it rises in the soul at a time that the body is thus
Jaid at rest. Every man’s experience will inform
him in this matter, though it is very probable that
this may happen differently in different constitutions.
I shall conclude this head with the two following pro-
blems, which I shall leave to the solution of my reader :
Supposing a man always happy in his dreams, and
miserable in his waking thoughts, and that his life was
equally divided between them, whether would he be
more happy or miserable? Were a mana king in his
dreams and a beggar awake, and dreamt as conse-
quentially, and in as continued unbroken schemes as
he thinks when awake, whether he would be in reality
a king or a beggar, or rather whether he would not be
both @

There is another circumstance which methinks gives
us a very high idea of the nature of the soul in regard
to what passes in dreams—I mean that innumerable
multitude and variety of ideas which then arise in her.
Were that active and watchful being only conscious of
her own existence at such a time, what a painful
solitude would her hours of sleep be! Were the soul
sensible of her being alone in her sleeping moments,
after the same manner that she is sensible of it while
awake, the time would hang very heavy on her, as it
often actually does when she dreams that she is in such
solitude.

** She seems alone
To wander in her sleep through ways unknown,
Guideless and dark.”

But this observation I only make by the way. What
I would here remark, is that wonderful power in the
soul of producing her own company on these occasions.
She converses with numberless beings of her own
creation, and is transported into ten thousand scenes
of her own raising. She is herself the theatre, the
actor, and the beholder. This puts me in mind of a
saying which I am infinitely pleased with, and which
Plutarch ascribes to Heraclitus—“ That all men whilst
they are awake are in one common world; but that
each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his
own.” The waking man is conversant in the world of
nature ; when he sleeps, he retires to a private world
that is particular to himself. There seems something
in this consideration that intimates to us a natural
grandeur and perfection in the soul, which is rather to
be admired than explained.

I must not omit that argument for the excellency of
the soul which I have seen quoted out of Tertullian,
namely, its power of divining in dreams. That several
such divinations have been made, none can question
who believes the holy writings, or who has but the least
degree of a common historical faith; there being
innumerable instances of this nature in several] authors,
both ancient and modern, sacred and profane. Whether
such dark presages, such visions of the night, proceed
from any latent power in the soul during this her state
of abstraction, or from any communication with the
Supreme Being, or from any operation of subordinate
spirits, has been a great dispute among the learned.
The matter of fact is, I think, incontestiple, and has
been looked upon as such by the greatest writers, wha140

have never been suspected either of superstition or
enthusiasm.

I do not suppose that the soul in these instances is
entirely loose and unfettered from the body. It is
sufficient if she is not so far sunk and immersed in
matter, nor entangled and perplexed in her operations
with such motions of blood and spirits, as when she
actuates the machine in its waking hours. The cor-
poreal union is slackened enough to give the mind more
play. The soul seems gathered within herself, and
recovers that spring which is broke and weakened when
she operates more in concert with the body.

The speculations I have here made, if they are not
arguments, they are at least strong intimations, not
only of the excellency of a human soul, but of its
independence on the body; and if they do not prove,
do atleast confirm, these two great points, which are
established by many other reasons which are altogether
unanswerable,

wre

THE OCEAN AN OBJECT OF GRANDEUR.

¢ Sirn—Upon reading your essays concerning the plea-
sures of the imagination, I find among the three sources
of those pleasures which you have discovered, that
greatness is one. This has suggested to me the reason
why, of all objects that I have ever seen, there is none
which affects my imagination so much as the sea or
ocean. I cannot see the heavings of this prodigious
bulk of waters, even in a calm, without a very pleasing
astonishment ; but when it is worked up in a tempest,
so that the horizon on every side is nothing but foaming
billows and floating mountains, it is impossible to
deseribe the agreeable horror that rises from such a
prospect. A troubled ocean, to a man who sails upon
it, is, 1 think, the biggest object that he can see in
motion, and consequently gives his imagination one of
the highest kinds of pleasure that can arise from great-
ness. I must confess it is impossible for me to survey
this world of fluid matter without thinking on the hand
that first poured it out, and made a proper channel for
its reception. Such an object naturally raises in my
thoughts the idea of an Almighty Being, and convinces
me of his existence as much as a metaphysical demon-
stration. The imagination prompts the understanding ;
and by the greatness of the sensible object, produces in
it the idea of a being who is neither circumscribed by
time nor space.

As I have made several voyages upon the sea, I have
often been tossed in storms, and on that occasion have
frequently reflected on the descriptions of them in
ancient poets. I remember Longinus highly recom-
mends one in Homer, because the poet has not amused
himself with little fancies upon the occasion, as authors
of an inferior genius whom he mentions had done, but
because he has gathered together those circumstances
which are the most apt to terrify the imagination, and
which really happen in the raging of a tempest. It is
for the same reason that I prefer the following descrip-
tion of a ship in a storm which the psalmist has made,
before any other I have ever met with:—‘ They that
go down tothe sea in ships, that do business in great
waters: these see the works of the Lord, and his
wonders in the deep. For he commandeth and raiseth
the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waters thereof.
They mount up to the heaven; they go down again to
the depths; their soul is melted because of trouble.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,
and are at their wits’ end. They then cry unto the
Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of
their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that
the waves thereof are still. Then they are glad because
they be quiet ; so he bringeth them unto their desired
haven.’

By the way, how much more comfortable as well as
rational is this system of the psalmist, than the pagan
scheme in Virgil and other poets, where one deity is
represented as raising a storm, and another as laying
it! Were we only to consider the sublime in this piece

 

 

ADDISON'S

of poetry, what can be more noble than the idea it
gives us of the Supreme Being thus raising a tumult
among the elements, and recovering them out of their
confusion, thus troubling and becalming nature!

Great painters do not only give us landscapes of
gardens, groves, and meadows, but very often employ
their pencils upon sea-pieces. I could wish you would
follow their example. If this small sketch may deserve
a place among your works, I shall accompany it with
a divine ode made by a gentleman upon the conclusion
of his travels.

How are thy servants blest, oh Lord!
How sure is their defence!

Eternal Wisdom is their guide ;
Their help, Omnipotence.

In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,

Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil,
Made every region please:

The hoary Alpine hills it warm’d,
And smooth’d the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, oh my soul ! devoutly think,
How with affrighted eyes

Thou saw’st the wide extended deep
In all its horrors rise!

Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart 5

When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs,
O’ercame the pilot’s art.

Yet, then, from all my griefs, oh Lord!
Thy mercy set me free,

Whilst in the confidence of prayer
My soul took hold on thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,

I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.

The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to thy will;

The sea that roar’d at thy command,
At thy command was still.

In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness [’ll adore,

And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life, if thou preserv’st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall joi my soul to thee.” .

CLIP IS IP LPL EPL EDI OL DA

AFFECTATION OF GLOOMINESS.

ABOUT an age ago it was the fashion in England for

,every one that would be thought religious to throw as

much sanctity as possible into his face, and in particular
to abstain from all appearances of mirth and pleasantry,
which were looked upon as the marks of a carnal mind.
The saint was of a sorrowful countenance, and generally
eaten up with spleen and melancholy. <A gentleman,
who was lately a great ornament to the learned world,
has diverted me more than once with an account of the
reception which he met with from a very famous inde-
pendent minister, who was head of a college in those
times. This gentleman was then a young adventurer
in the republic of letters, and just fitted out for the
university with a good cargo of Latin and Greek. His
friends were resolved that he should try his fortune at
an election which was drawing near in the college, of
which the independent minister whom I have before
mentioned was governor. ‘The youth, according to
custom, waited on him in order to be examined. He
was received at the door by a servant, who was one ofMORAL AND HUM

that gloomy generation that were then in fashion. He
conducted him with great silence and seriousness to a
long gallery which was darkened at noon-day, and had
only a single candle burning in it. After a short stay
in this melancholy apartment, he was led into a chamber
hung with black, where he entertained himself for some
time by the glimmering of a taper, until at length the
head of the college came out to him from an inner room,
with a nightcap upon his head, and religious horror
in his countenance. The young man trembled; but
his fears increased, when, instead of being asked what
progress he had made in learning, he was examined
how he abounded in grace. His Latin and Greek stood
him in little stead; he was to give an account only of
the state of his soul; whether he was of the number
of the elect; what was the occasion of his conversion ;
upon what day of the month and hour of the day it
happened ; how it was carried on, and when completed.
The whole examination was summed up with one short
question, namely, “ whether he was prepared for death?”
The boy, who had been bred up by honest parents, was
frighted out of his wits at the solemnity of the proceed-
ing, and by the last dreadful interrogatory; so that
upon making his escape out of this house of mourning,
he could never be brought a second time to the exami-
nation, as not being able to go through the terrors of it.

Notwithstanding this general form and outside of
religion is pretty well worn out among us, there are
many persons, who, by natural uncheerfulness of heart,
mistaken notions of piety, or weakness of understanding,
love to indulge this uncomfortable way of life, and give
up themselves a prey to grief and melancholy. Super-
stitious fears and groundless scruples cut them off from
the pleasures of conversation, and all those social enter-
tainments which are not only innocent but laudable: a
if mirth was made for reprobates, and cheerfulness of
heart denied those who are the only persons that have
a proper title to it.

Sombrius is one of these sons of sorrow. He thinks
himself obliged in duty to be sad and disconsolate. He
looks on a sudden fit of laughter as a breach of his
baptismal vow. An innocent jest startles him like
blasphemy. Tell him of one who is advanced to a title
of honour, he lifts up his hands and eyes; describe
a public ceremony, he shakes his head; show him a
gay equipage, he blesses himself. All the little orna-
ments of life are pomps and vanities. Mirth is wanton,
and wit profane. He is scandalised at youth for being
lively, and at childhood for being playful. He sits at
a christening or a marriage-feast as at a funeral; sighs
at the conclusion of a merry story, and grows devout
when the rest of the company grow pleasant. “After all,
Sombrius is a religious man, and would have behaved
himself very properly had he lived when Christianity
was under a general persecution.

I would by no means presume to tax such characters
with hypocrisy, as is done too frequently; that being
a vice which I think none but he who knows the secrets
of men’s hearts should pretend to discover in another,
where the proofs of it do not amount to a demonstra-
tion. On the contrary, as there are many excellent
persons who are weighed down by this habitual sorrow
of heart, they rather deserve our compassion than our
reproaches. I think, however, they would do well to
consider whether such a behaviour does not deter men
from a religious life, by representing it as an unsocial
state, that extinguishes all joy and gladness, darkens the
face of nature, and destroys the relish of being itself.

I have in former papers shown how great a tendency
there is to cheerfulness in religion, and how such a
frame of mind is not only the most lovely but the most
commendable in a virtuous person. In short, those who
represent religion in so unamiable a light, are like the
spies sent by Moses to make a discovery of the Land
of Promise, when by their reports they discouraged
the people from entering upon it. Those who show us
the joy, the cheerfulness, the good humour, that natu-
rally spring up in this happy state, are like the spies
bringing along with them the clusters of grapes and

OROUS ESSAYS.

 

141

delicious fruits, that might invite their companions into
the pleasant country which produced them.

An eminent pagan writer has made a discourse to
show that the atheist who denies a God, does him less
dishonour than the man who owns his being, but at the
same time believes him to be cruel, hard to please, and
terrible to human nature. “ For my own part,”’ says
he, “ I would rather it should be said of me that there
was never any such man as Plutarch, than that Plu-
tarch was ill natured, capricious, or inhumane.

If we may believe our logicians, man is distinguished
from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.
He has a heart capable of mirth, and naturally disposed
to it. It is not the business of virtue to extirpate the
affections of the mind, but to regulate them. It may
moderate and restrain, but was not designed to banish,
gladness from the heart of man. Religion contracts
the circle of our pleasures, but leaves it wide enough
for her votaries to expatiate in. The contemplation of
the Divine Being, and the exercise of virtue, are in
their own nature so far from excluding all gladness of
heart, that they are perpetual sources of it. Ina word,
the true spirit of religion cheers as well as composes |
the soul; it banishes, indeed, all levity of behaviour,
all vicious and dissolute mirth, but in exchange fills
the mind with a perpetual serenity, uninterrupted }
cheerfulness, and a habitual inclination to please others,!
as well as to be pleased in itself.

PILPP OL IPE PE PPIP POOP

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

My friend Will Honeycomb has told me for above this
half year, that he had a great mind to try his hand at
a Spectator, and that he would fain have one of his
writing in my works. This morning I received from
him the following letter, which, after having rectified
some little orthographical mistakes, I shall make a
present of to the public.

“Dear Spec.—I was about two nights ago in com-
pany with very agreeable young people of both sexes,
where, talking of some of your papers which are written
on conjugal love, there arose a dispute among us,
whether there were not more bad husbands in the
world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was advocate
for the ladies, took this occasion to tell us the story of
a famous siege in Germany, which I have since found
related in my Historical Dictionary after the following
manner :—When the Emperor Conrade III. had be-
sieged Guelphus, duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hers-
berg, the women finding that the town could not possibly
hold out long, petitioned the emperor that they might
depart out of it with so much as each of them could
carry. ‘The emperor, knowing they could not convey
away many of their effects, granted them their petition:
when the women, to his great surprise, came out of the
place with every one her husband upon her back. The
emperor was so moved at the sight that he burst into
tears; and after having very much extolled the women
for their conjugal affection, gave the men to their wives,
and received the duke into his favour.

The ladies did not a little triumph at this story, ask-
ing us, at the same time, whether in our consciences
we believed that the men in any town in Great Britain
would, upon the same offer, and at the same conjune-
ture, have loaded themselves with their wives; or
rather, whether they would not have been glad of such
an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my very
good friend, ‘om Dapperwit, who took upon him to be
the mouth of our sex, replied, that they would be very
much to blame if they would not do the same good
office for the women, considering that their strength
would be greater and their burdens lighter. As we
were amusing ourselves with discourses of this nature,
in order to pass away the evening, which now begins to
grow tedious, we fell into that laudable and primitive
diversion of questions and commands. I was no sooner
vested with the regal authority, but I enjoined all the
ladies, under pain of my displeasure, to tell the com-eT eee er

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142

pany ingenuously, in case they had been in the siege
above mentioned, and had the same offers made them
as the good women of that place, what every one would
have brought off with her, and have thought most
worth the saving? ‘There were several merry answers
made to my question, which entertained us until bed-
time. This filled my mind with such a huddle of ideas,
that upon my going to sleep I fell into the following
dream :—

I saw a town of this island, which shall be nameless,
invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so
straitened as to cry for quarter. The general refused
any other terms than those granted to the above-men-
tioned town of Hersberg; namely, that the married
women might come out with what they could bring
along with them. Immediately the city gates flew open,
and a female procession appeared, multitudes of the sex
following one another in a row, and staggering under
their respective burdens. I took my stand upon an
eminence in the enemy’s camp, which was appointed
for the general rendezvous of these female carriers,
being very desirous to look into their several ladings.
The first of them had a huge sack upon her shoulders,
which she set down with great care. Upon the open-
ing of it, when I expected to have seen her husband
shot out of it, I found it filled with china-ware. The
next appeared in a more decent figure, carrying a
handsome young fellow upon her back. I could not
forbear commending the young woman for her conjugal
affection, when, to my great surprise, I found that she
had left the good-man at home, and brought away her
gallant. I saw the third at some distance, with a little
withered face peeping over her shoulder, whom I could
not suspect for any but her spouse, until, upon her
setting him down, I heard her eall him ‘ Dear pug,’
and found him to be her favourite monkey. A. fourth
brought a huge bale of cards along with her, and the
fifth a Bologna lap-dog ; for her husband, it seems, being
a very burly man, she thought it would be less trouble
for her to bring away little Cupid. The next was the
wile of a rich usurer, loaded with a bag of gold: she
told us that her spouse was very old, and by the course
of nature could not expect to live long; and that to
show her tender regards for him, she had saved that
which the poor man loved better than his life. The
next came towards us with her son upon her back, who,
we were told, was the greatest rake in the place, but so
much the mother’s darling, that she left her husband
behind with a large family of hopeful sons and daughters,
for the sake of this graceless youth.

It would be endless to mention the several persons,
with their several loads, that appeared to me in this
strange vision. All the place around me was covered
with packs of ribbons, brocades, embroidery, and ten
thousand other materials, sufficient to have furnished
a whole street of toy-shops. One of the women having
a husband, who was none of the heaviest, was bringing
him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she
carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her arm ;
but finding herself so overloaded that she could not save
both of them, she dropped the good-man, and brought
away the bundle. I short, I found but one husband
among this great mountain of baggage, who wasa lively
cobbler, that kicked and spurred all the while his wife
was carrying him on; and, as it was said, he had searce
passed a day in his life without give her the discipline
of the strap.

I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec., without
telling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I
saw, methought, a dozen women employed in bringing
oif one man. I could not guess who it should be, until
upon his nearer approach I discovered thy short phiz.
The women all declared that it was for the sake of thy
works and not thy person that they brought thee off,
and that it was on condition that thou shouldst continue
the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will make
a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, dear Spec.,
thine, sleeping or waking,

Witt Honeyvcoms.”

IE a rca ern

ADDISON’S

The ladies will see by this letter what I have often
told them, that Will is one of those old-fashioned men
of wit and pleasure of the town, who show their parts by
raillery on marriage, and one who has often tried his
fortune that way without success. I cannot, however,
dismiss his letter without observing, that the true story
on which it is built does honour to the sex; and that
in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have
recourse to dream and fiction.

Seen eeeneeree

THE MARRIED LIFE.

“‘Str— You who are so well acquainted with the story
of Socrates, must have read how, upon his making a
discourse concerning love, he pressed his point with so
much success, that all the bachelors in his audience
took a resolution to marry by the first opportunity, and
that all the married men immediately took horse and
galloped home to their wives. JI am apt to think your
discourses, in which you have drawn so many agreeable
pictures of marriage, have had a very good effect this
way in England. We are obliged to you at least for
having taken off that senseless ridicule, which for many
years the witlings of the town have turned upon their
fathers and mothers, For my own part, I was born in
wedlock, and I do not care who knows it; for which
reason, among many others, I should look upon myself
as a most insufferable coxcomb, did I endeavour to
maintain that misery was inseparable from marriage,
or to make use of husband and wife as terms of
reproach. Nay. Sir, I will go one step farther, and
declare to you before the whole world that I am
a married man ; and, at the same time, I have somuch
assurance as not to be ashamed of what I have done.

Among the several pleasures that accompany this
state of life, and which you have described in your
former papers, there are two you have not taken notice
of, and which are seldom cast into the account by those
who write on this subject. You must have observed, in
your speculations on human nature, that nothing is
more gratifying to the mind of man than power or
dominion ; and this I think myself amply possessed of,
as I am the father of a family. I am perpetually taken
up in giving out orders, in prescribing duties, in hearing
parties, in administering justice, and in distributing
rewards and punishments. ‘To speak in the language
of the centurion, I say unto one, go, and he goeth; and
to another, come, and he cometh ; and to my servant,
do this, and he doth it. In short, Sir, I look upon my
family as a patriarchal sovereignty, in which I am
myself both king and priest. All great governments
are nothing else but clusters of these little private
royalties; and, therefore, I consider the masters of
families as small deputy-governors, presiding over the
several little parcels and divisions of their fellow
subjects. As I take great pleasure in the administra-
tion of my government in particular, so I look upon
myself not only as a more useful, but as a much greater
and happier man, than any bachelor in England of my
rank and condition.

There is another accidental advantage in marriage
which has likewise fallen to my share; I mean the
having a multitude of children. ‘These I cannot but
regard as very great blessings. When I see my little
troop before me, I rejoice in the additions which I have
made to my species, to my country, and to my religion,
in having produced such a number of reasonable crea-
tures, citizens, and Christians. I am pleased to see
myseli thus perpetuated ; and as there is no production
comparable to that of a human creature, I am more
proud of having been the occasion of ten such glorious
productions, than if I had built an hundred pyramids at
my own expense, or published as many volumes of the
finest wit and learning. In whata beautiful light has the
holy scripture represented Abdon, one of the judges of
Israel, who had forty sons and thirty grandsons, that
rode on threescore and ten ass-colts, according to the

 

magnificence of the eastern countries! How must theMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

heart of the old man rejoice, when he saw such a
beautifal procession of his own descendants, such a
numerous cavaleade of his own raising! For my own
part, I can sit in my parlour with great content, when
I take a review of half a dozen of my little boys
mounting upon hobby-horses, and of as many little
girls tutoring their babies, each of them endeavouring
to excel the rest, and to do something that may gain
my approbation. I cannot question but he who has
blessed me with so many children, will assist my
endeavours in providing for them. There is one thing
fam able to give each of them, which is a virtuous
education. I think it is Sir Francis Bacon’s observation,
that in a numerous family of children, the eldest is
often spoiled by the prospect of an estate, and the
youngest by being the darling of their parents; but
that some one or other in the middle, who has not
perhaps been regarded, has made his way into the
world and overtopped the rest. It is my business to
implant in every one of my children the same seeds of
industry, and the same honest principles. By this
means | think I have a fair chance that one or other
of them may grow considerable in some or other way
of life, whether it be in the army or in the fleet, in
trade, or in any of the three learned professions; for
you must inow, Sir, that from long experience and
observation, I am persuaded of what seems a paradox
to most of those with whom I converse ; namely, that a
man who has many children, and gives them a good
education, is more likely to raise a family than he who
has but one, notwithstanding he leaves him his whole
estate. Tor this reason, I cannot forbear amusing
myself with finding out a general, an admiral, or an
alderman of London, a divine, a physician, or a lawyer,
among my little people, who are now perhaps in petti-
coats ; and when I see the motherly airs of my little
daughters when they are playing with their puppets, I
cannot but flatter myself that their husbands and
children will be happy in the possession of such wives
and mothers.

If you are a father, you will not perhaps think this
letter impertinent; but if you are a single man, you
will not know the meaning of it, and probably throw it
into the fire. Whatever you determine of it, you may
assure yourself that it comes from one who is your
most humble servant and well-wisher,

PHILOGAMUS.”

LOOKING INTO FUTURITY.
THosze who have maintained that men would be more
miserable than beasts, were their hopes confined to this
life only, among other considerations take notice that
the latter are only affiicted with the anguish of the
present evil, whereas the former are very often pained
by the reflection on what is past, and the fear of what
is to come. This fear of any future difficulties or mis-
fortunes is so natural to the mind, that were a man’s
sorrows and disquietudes summed up at the end of his
life, it would generally be found that he had suffered
more from the apprehension of such evils as never
happened to him, than from those evils which had reall y
befallen him. ‘To this we may add, that among those
evils which befall us, there are many that have been
more painful to us in the prospect than by their actual
pressure.

This natural impatience to look into futurity, and
know what accidents may happen to us hereafter, has
given birth to many ridiculous arts and inventions.
Some found their prescience on the lines of a man’s
hand, others on the features of his face ; some on the
signatures which nature has impressed on his body,
and others on his own hand-writing. Some read men’s
fortunes in the stars; as others have searched after
them in the entrails of beasts, or the flight of birds.
Men of the best sense have been touched more or less
with these groundless horrors and presages of futurity,
upon surveying the most indifferent works of nature.
Can any thing be more surprising than to consider

ix

 

143

Cicero, who made the greatest figure at the bar and in
the senate of the Roman commonwealth, and at the
same time outshone all the philosophers of antiquity
in his library and in his retirements, as busying himself
in the college of augurs, and observing, with a religious
attention, after what manner the chickens pecked the
several grains of corn which were thrown to them?
Notwithstanding these follies are pretty well worn
out of the minds of the wise and learned in the present
age, multitudes of weak and ignorant persons are still
slaves to them. There are numberless arts of predic-
tion among the vulgar which are too trifling to enu-
merate ; and infinite observation of days, numbers,
voices, and figures, which are regarded by them as
portents and prodigies. In short, every thing prophe-
sies to the superstitious man: there is scarce a straw
or a rusty piece of iron that lies in his way by accident.
It is not to be conceived how many wizards, gipsies,
and cunning men, are dispersed through all the coun-
tries and market-towns of Great Britain, not to mention
the fortune-tellers and astrologers, who live very com-
fortably upon the curiosity of several well-disposed
persons in the cities of London and Westminster.
Among the many pretended arts of divination, there
is none which so universally amuses as that by dreams.
I have indeed observed in a late speculation, that there
have been sometimes, upon very extraordinary occa-
sions, supernatural revelations made to certain persons
by thts means; but as it is the chief business of this
paper to root out popular errors, I must endeavour to
expose the folly and superstition of those persons who,
in the common and ordinary course of life, lay any
stress upon things of so uncertain, shadowy, and chi-
merical a nature. This I cannot do more effectually
than by the following letter, which is dated from a
quarter of the town that has always been the habitation
of some prophetic Philomath; it having been usual,
time out of mind, for all such people as have lost their
wits to resort to the place either for their cure or for
their instruction.
“ Moorfields, Oct. 4, 1712.
Mr Sprecraron—Having long considered whether
there be any trade wanting in this great city, after
having surveyed very attentively all kinds of ranks
and professions, I do not find in any quarter of the
town an Oneiro-critic, or, in plain English, an inter-
preter of dreams. For want of so useful a person,
there are several good people who are very much
puzzled in this particular, and dream a whole year
together without being ever the wiser for it. I hope
I am pretty well qualitied for this oftice, having studied
by candle-light all the rules of art which have been
laid down upon this subject. My great-uncle by my
wite’s side was a Scotch highlander, and second-sighted.
I have four fingers and two thumbs upon one hand,
and was born on the longest night of the year. My
christian and surname begin and end with the same
letters. I am lodged in Moorfields, in a house that for
these fifty years has always been tenanted by a conjuror.
If you had been in company so much as myself, with
ordinary women of the town, you must know that there
are many of them who, every day in their lives, upon
seeing or hearing of any thing that is unexpected, ery,
‘ My dream is out!’ and cannot go to sleep in quiet
the next night, until something or other has happened
which has expounded the visions of the preceding one.
There are others, who are in very great pain for not
being able to recover the circumstances of a dream that
made strong impressions upon them while it lasted.
In short, sir, there are many whose waking thoughts
are wholly employed on their sleeping ones. For the
benefit, therefore, of this curious and inquisitive part
of my fellow-subjects, I shall, in the first place, tell
those persons what they dreamed of who fancy they
never dream at all. In the next place, I shall make
out any dream upon hearing a single circumstance of
it; and, in the last place, shall expound to them the
good or bad fortune which such dreams portend. If
they do not presage good luck, I shall desire nothing144

for my pains; not questioning, at the same time, that
those who consult me will be so reasonable as to afford
me a moderate share out of any considerable estate,
profit, or emolument, which I shall thus discover to
them. I interpret to the poor for nothing, on condition
that their names may be inserted in public advertise-
ments, to attest the truth of such my interpretations.
As for people of quality, or others who are indisposed,
and do not care to come in person, I can interpret their
dreams by seeing their water. I set aside one day in
the week for lovers ; and interpret by the great for any
gentlewoman who is turned of sixty, after the rate of
half a crown per week, with the usual allowances for
good luck. I have several rooms and apartments fitted
up at reasonable rates for such as have not conveniences
for dreaming at their own houses.
Titus TRoPHONIvS.

N. B.—I am not dumb.”

PIL ODODE LI LAL LL O ID

PREVALENCE OF PARTY LYING.
‘THERE is something very sublime, though very fanciful,
in Plato’s description of the Supreme Being, that “truth
is his body, and light his shadow.” According to this
definition, there is nothing so contradictory to his nature
as error and falsehood. ‘The Platonists have so just a
notion of the Almighty’s aversion to every thing which
is false and erroneous, that they looked upon truth as
no less necessary than virtue to qualify a human soul
for the enjoyment of a separate state. For this reason,
as they recommended moral duties to qualify and season
the soul for a future life, so they prescribed several
contemplations and sciences to rectify the understand-
ing. Thus Plato has called mathematical demonstra-
tions the cathartics or purgatives of the soul, as being
the most proper means to cleanse it from error, and to
give it a relish for truth, which is the natural food and
mourishment of the understanding, as virtue is the
perfection and happiness of the will.

There are many authors who have shown wherein
the malignity of a ie consists, and set forth in proper
colours the heinousness of the offence. I shall. here
consider one particular kind of this crime which has
not been so much spoken to, I mean that abominable
practice of party lying. ‘This vice is so very predomi-
nant among us at present, that a man is thought of no
principles who does not propagate a certain system of
lies. ‘The coffee-houses are supported by them ; the
press is choked with them; eminent authors live upon
them. Our bottle conversation is so infected with them,
that a party lie is grown as fashionable an entertain-
ment asa lively catch ora merry story. The truth of
it is, half the great talkers in the nation would be struck
dumb were this fountain of discourse dried up. ‘There
is, however, one advantage resulting from this detest-
able practice; the very appearances of truth are so
little regarded, that lies are at present discharged in
the air, and begin to hurt nobody. When we hear a
party story from a stranger, we consider whether he is
a whig or a tory that relates it, and immediately con-
elude they are words of course, in which the honest
gentleman designs to recommend his zeal, without any
concern for his veracity. A man is looked upon as
bereft of common sense that gives credit to the relations
of party writers; nay, his own friends shake their heads
at him, and consider him in no other light than an
officious tool or a well-meaning idiot. When it was
formerly the fashion to husband a lie, and trump it up
in some extraordinary emergency, it generally did
execution, and was not a little serviceable to the faction
that made use of it; but at present every man is upon
his guard—the artifice has been too often repeated to
take effect.

I have frequently wondered to see men of probity,
who would scorn to utter a falsehood for their own
particular advantage, give so readily into a he when it
becomes the voice of their faction, notwithstanding they
are thoroughly sensible of it as such. How is it possible
for those who are men of honour in their persons thus

 

ADDISON'S

to become notorious liars in their party? If we look
into the bottom of this matter, we may find, I think,
three reasons for it, and at the same time discover the
insufficiency of these reasons to justify so criminal a
practice.

In the first place, men are apt to think that the guilt
of a lie, and consequently the punishment, may be very
much diminished, if not wholly worn out, by the mul-
titudes of those who partake init. Though the weight
of a falsehood would be too heavy for one to bear, it
grows light in their imaginations when it is shared
among many. But in this case a man very much
deceives himself: guilt, when it spreads through num-
bers, is not so properly divided as multiplied. Every
one is criminal in proportion to the offence which he
commits, not to the number of those who are his com-
panions init. Both the crime and the penalty lie as
heavy upon every individual of the offending multitude,
as they would upon any single person, had none shared
with him in the offence. In a word, the division of the
guilt is like to that of matter; though it may be sepa-
rated into infinite portions, every portion shall have
the whole essence of matter in it, and consist of as
many parts as the whole did before it was divided.

But, in the second place, though multitudes who join
in a lie cannot exempt themselves from the guilt, they
may from the shame of it. The scandal of a lie is ina
manner lost and annihilated, when diffused among seve-
ral thousands; as a drop of the blackest tincture wears
away and vanishes when mixed and confused in a con-
siderable body of water ; the blot is still in it, but is not
able to discover itself. This is certainly a very great
motive to several party offenders, who avoid crimes,
not as they are prejudicial to their virtue but to their
reputation. It is enough to show the weakness of this
reason, which palliates guilt without removing it; that
every man who is influenced by it declares himself in
effect an infamous hypocrite, prefers the appearance of
virtue to its reality, and is determined in his conduct
neither by the dictates of his own conscience, the sug-
gestions of true honour, nor the principles of religion.

The third and last great motive for men’s joining in
a popular falsehood, or, as I have hitherto called it, a
party lie, notwithstanding they are convinced of it as
such, is the doing good to a cause which every party
may be supposed to look upon as the most meritorious.
The unsoundness of this principle has been so often
exposed, and is so universally acknowledged, that a man
must be an utter stranger to the principles either of
natural religion or Christianity, who suffers himself to
be guided by it. If aman might promote the supposed
good of his country by the blackest calumnies and
falsehoods, our nation abounds more in patriots than
any other of the Christian world. When Pompey was
desired not to set sail in a tempest that would hazard
his life, “It is necessary for me,” says he, “to sail;
but it is not necessary for me to live.’ Every man
should say to himself with the same spirit, “It is my
duty to speak truth, though it is not my duty to be in
an office.’ One of the fathers hath carried this point
so high as to declare, “he would not tell a lie though
he were sure to gain heaven by it.” However extra-
vagant such a protestation may appear, every one will
own that a man may say very reasonably, “he would
not tell a lie if he were sure to gain hell by it;” or, if
you have a mind to soften the expression, that he would
not lie to gain any temporal reward, when he should
run the hazard of losing much more than it was possible
for him to gain.

OFPPPI LI PL OP OPEP IG IP

MARKET FOR WIVES.

“ Dear Spec.—Finding that my last letter took, I do
intend to continue my epistolary correspondence with
thee, on those dear confounded creatures, women.
Thou knowest all the little learning I am master of is
upon that subject; I never looked in a book but for
their sakes. L have lately met with two pure storiesMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

for a Spectator, which I am sure will please mightily,
if they pass through thy hands. ‘The first of them I
found by chance in an English book called Herodotus,
that lay in my friend Dapperwit’s window as I visited
him one morning. It luckily opened in the place where
I met with the following account. He tells us that it
was the manner among the Persians to have several
fairs in the kingdom, at which all the young unmarried
women were annually exposed to sale. The men who
wanted wives came hither to provide themselves. Every
woman was given to the highest bidder, and the money
which she fetched laid aside for the public use, to be
employed as thou shalt hear by and bye. By this means
the richest people had the choice of the market, and
culled out all the most extraordinary beauties. As
soon as the fair was thus picked, the refuse was to be
distributed among the poor, and among those who could
not go to the price of a beauty. Several of these mar-
ried the agreeables without paying a farthing for them,
unless somebody chanced to think it worth his while to
bid for them ; in which case the best bidder was always
the purchaser. But now you must know, Spec., it
happened in Persia, as it does in our own country,
that there were as many ugly women as beauties or
agreeables; so that by consequence, after the magis-
trates had put off a great many, there were still a great
many that stuck upon their hands. In order, therefore,
to clear the market, the money which the beauties had
sold for was disposed of among the ugly; so that a poor
man who could not afford to have a beauty for his wife,
was forced to take up with a fortune; the greatest por-
tion being always given to the most deformed. ‘To this
the author adds, that every poor man was forced to live
kindly with his wife; or in case he repented of his
bargain, to return her portion with her to the next
public sale.

What I would recommend to thee on this occasion,
is to establish such an imaginary fair in Great Britain ;
thou couldst make it very pleasant, by matching women
of quality with cobblers and car-men, or describing
titles and garters leading off in great ceremony shop-
keepers’ and farmers’ daughters. Though, to tell the
truth, I am confoundedly afraid that as the love of money
prevails in our island more than it did in Persia, we
should find that some of our greatest men would choose
out the portions, and rival one another for the richest
piece of deformity ; and that, on the contrary, the toasts
and belles would be bought up by extravagant heirs,
gamesters, and spendthrifts. ‘Thou couldst make very
pretty reflections upon this occasion in honour of the
Persian politics, who took care, by such marriages, to
beautity the upper part of the species, and to make the
greatest persons in the government the most graceful.
But this I shall leave to thy judicious pen.

I have another story to tell thee, which I likewise
met with in a book. It seems the general of the Tar-
tars, after having laid siege to a strong town in China,
and taken it by storm, would set to sale all the women
that were found in it. Accordingly, he put each of
them into a sack, and after having thoroughly consi-
dered the value of the woman who was enclosed, marked
the price that was demanded for her upon the sack.
There was a great confluence of chapmen, that resorted
from every part with a design to purchase, which they
were to do unsight unseen. The book mentions a mer-
chant in particular, who observing one of the sacks to
be marked pretty high, bargained for it, and carried it
off with him to his house. As he was resting with it
upon a halfway bridge, he was resolved to take a survey
of his purchase. Upon opening the sack, a little old
woman popped her head out of it; at which the adven-
turer was in so great a rage, that he was going to shoot
her out into the river. The old lady, however, begged
him first of all to hear her story; by which he learned
that she was sister to a great Mandarin, who would
infallibly make the fortune of his brother-in-law as soon
as he should know to whose lot she fell. Upon which
the merchant again tied her up in his sack, and carried
her to his house, where she proved an excellent wife,

 

145

and procured him all the riches from her brother that
she had promised him.

I fancy, if I was disposed to dream a second time, I
could make a tolerable vision upon this plan.’ I would
suppose all the unmarried women in London and West-
minster brought to market in sacks, with their respec-
tive prices on each sack. The first sack that is sold is
marked with five thousand pounds. Upon the opening
of it, I find it filled with an admirable housewife, of an
agreeable countenance. The purchaser, upon hearing
her good qualities, pays down her price very cheerfully.
The second I would open, should be a five hundred
pounds sack. The lady in it, to our surprise, has
the face and person of a toast. As we are wondering
how she came to be set at so low a price, we hear that
she would have been valued at ten thousand pounds, but
that the public had made those abatements for her being
ascold. I would afterwards find some beautiful, modest,
and disereet woman, that should be the top of the
market ; and, perhaps, discover half a dozen romps tied
up together in the same sack, at one hundred pounds a
head. The prude and the coquette should be valued
at the same price, though the first should go off the
better of the two. I fancy thou wouldst like such a
vision, had I time to finish it ; because, to talk in thy
own way, thereisa moral init. Whatever thou mayost
think of it, prythee do not make any of thy queer
apologies for this letter, as thou didst for my last. The
women love a gay lively fellow, and are never angry at
the railleries of one who is their known admirer. I
am always bitter upon them, but well with them. Thine,

HonEYcoms,”?

(PILI PLPI SPPLPIO IPP ODD

METHOD OF GIVING COUNSEL.

THERE is nothing which we receive with so much relue-
tance as advice. We look upon the man who gives it
us as offering an affront to our understanding, and
treating us like children or idiots. We consider the
instruction as an implicit censure, and the zeal which
any one shows for our good on such an occasion as a
piece of presumption or impertinence. The truth of
it is, the person who pretends to advise, does in that
particular exercise a superiority over us, and can have
no other reason for it but that in comparing us with
himself, he thinks us defective either in our conduct or
our understanding. For these reasons, there is nothing
so difficult as the art of making advice agreeable; and
indeed all the writers, both ancient and modern, have
distinguished themselves among one another according
to the perfection at which they have arrived in this art.
How many advices have been made use of to render
this bitter potion palatable! Some convey their instrue-
tions to us in the best chosen words, others in the most
harmonious numbers ; some in points of wit, and others
in short proverbs.

But among all the different ways of giving counsel, I
think the finest, and that which pleases the most uni-
versally, is Fable, in whatever shape it appears. If we
consider this way of instructing or giving advice, it
excels all others, because it is the least shocking, and
the least subject to those exceptions which I have before
mentioned,

This will appear to us, if we reflect, in the first place,
that upon the reading of a fable we are made to believe
we advise ourselves. We peruse the author for the
sake of the story, and consider the precepts rather as
our own conclusions than his instructions. The moral
insinuates itself imperceptibly; we are taught by sur-
prise, and become wiser and better unawares. In short,
by this method a man is so far overreached as to think
he is directing himself, while he is following the dictates
of another; and consequently is not sensible of that
which is the most unpleasing circumstance in advice.

In the next place, if we look into human nature, we
shall find that the mind is never so much pleased as
when she exerts herself in any action that gives her an
idea of her own perfections and abilities. This natural
pride and ambition of the soul is very much gratified

4

 

er a gaena 2

146

in the reading of a fable: for in writings of this kind
the reader comes in for half of the performance ; every
thing appears to him like a discovery of his own ; he is
busied all the while in applying characters and circum-
Stances ; and is in this respect both a reader and com-
poser. It is no wonder, therefore, that on such occasions,
when the mind is thus pleased with itself, and amused
with its own discoveries, that it is highly delighted with
the writing which is the occasion of it. For this reason,
the “Absalom and Achitophel” was one of the most
popular poems that appeared in English. The poetry
is indeed very fine ; but had it been much finer, it would
not have so much pleased without a plan, which gave
the reader an opportunity of exerting his own talents.

This oblique manner of giving advice is so inoffensive,
that if we look into ancient histories, we find the wise
men of old very often choose to give counsel to their
lings in fables. ‘To omit many which will oceur to
every one’s memory, there is a pretty instance of this
nature in a ‘Turkish tale, which I do not like the worse
for that little oriental extravagance which is mixed
with it.

We are told that the Sultan Mahmoud, by his per-
petual wars abroad, and his tyranny at home, had filled
his dominions with ruin and desolation, and half un-
peopled the Persian empire. ‘he vizier to this great
sultan (whether a humorist or an enthusiast we are
not informed) pretended to have learned of a certain
dervise to understand the language of birds; so that
there was not a bird that could open his mouth but the
vizier knew what it was he said. As he was one even-
ing with the emperor, in their return from hunting they
Saw a couple of owls upon a tree that grew near an old
wall out of a heap of rubbish. “I would fain know,”
says the sultan, “ what those two owls are saying to one
another; listen to their discourse, and give me an
account of it.” The vizier approached the tree, pre-
tending to be very attentive to the two owls. Upon his
return to the sultan, “ Sir,” says he, “I have heard
part of their conversation, but dare not tell you what
it is.” The Sultan would not be satisfied with such an
answer, but forced him to repeat word for word every
thing the owls had said. “You must know, then,” said
the vizier, “that one of these owls has a sen, and the
other a daughter, between whom they are now upon a
treaty of marriage. ‘The father of the son said to the
father of the daughter in my hearing, ‘ Brother, I con-
sent to this marriage, provided you will settle upon
your daughter fifty ruined villages for her portion.’ To
which the father of the daughter replied, ‘ Instead of
fifty, I will give her five hundred, if you please. God
grant a long life to Sultan Mahmoud ; whilst he reigns
over us, we shall never want ruined villages,’ ”

The story says, the Sultan was so touched with the
fable, that he rebuilt the towns and villages which had
been destroyed, and from that time forward consulted
the good of his people.

To fill up my paper, I shall add a most ridiculous
piece of natural magic which was taught by no less a
philosopher than Democritus ; namely, that if the blood
of certain birds which he mentioned were mixed toge-
ther, it would produce a serpent of such a wonderful
virtue, that whoever did eat it should be skilled in the
language of birds, and understand every thing they said
to one another. Whether the dervise above mentioned
might not have eaten such a serpent, I shall leave to
the determination of the learned.

SERIOUS THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.

Tux following letter comes to me from that excellent
man in holy orders whom I have mentioned more than
once as one of that society who assist me in my specu-
lations. It is a thought in sickness, and of a very
serious nature; for which reason I give it a place in
the paper of this day :—

“* sir—The indisposition which has long hung upon
me is at last grown to such ahead, that it must quickly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ADDISON'S

make an end of me oy of itself.. You may imagine, that
whilst I am in this bad state of health, there are none
of your works which I read with greater pleasure than
your Saturday’s papers. I should be very glad if I
could furnish you with any hints for that day’s enter-
tamment. Were I able to dress up several thoughts
of a serious nature, which have made great impressions
on my mind during a long fit of sickness, they might not
be an improper entertainment for that occasion.

Among all the reflections which usually arise in the
mind of a sick man, who has time and inclination to
consider his approaching end, there is none more natural
than that of his going to appear naked and unbodied
before him who made him. When aman considers,
that as soon as the vital union is dissolved, he shall see
that Supreme Being whom he now contemplates at a
distance, and only in his works ; or to speak more philo-
sophically, when by some faculty in the soul he shall
apprehend the Divine Being, and be more sensible of
his presence than we are now of the presence of any
object which the eye beholds, a man must be lost in
carelessness or stupidity who is not alarmed at such a
thought. Dr Sherlock, in his excellent treatise upon
death, has represented in very strong and lively colours
the state of the soul in its first separation from the body,
with regard to that invisible world which every where
surrounds us, though we are not able to discover it
through this grosser world of matter, which is aecom-
modated to our senses in this life. His words are as
follow :—

That death, which is our leavin g this world, is
nothing else but our putting off these bodies, teaches us
that it is only our union to these bodies which inter-
cepts the sights of the other world. The other world
is not at such a distance from us as we may imagine:
the throne of God, indeed, is at a great remove from this
earth, above the third heavens, where he displays his
glory to those blessed spirits which encompass his
throne; but as soon as we step out of these bodies, we
step into the other world, which is not so properly
another world (for there is the same heaven and earth
still) as a new state of life. To live in these bodies is to
live in this world ; to live out of them is to remove into
the next: for while our souls are confined to these
bodies, and can look only through these material case-
ments, nothing but what is material can affect us ; nay,
nothing but what isso gross that it can reflect light, and
convey those shapes and colours of things with it to the
eye: so that though within this visible world there be a
more glorious scene of things than what appears to us,
we perceive nothing at all of it; for this veil of flesh
parts the visible and invisible world. But when we put
oif these bodies, there are new and surprising wonders
present themselves to our views. When these material
spectacles are taken off, the soul with its own naked
eyes sees what was invisible before ; and then we are in
the other world, when we ean see it and converse with
it. ‘Thus St Paul tells us, that “when we are at home
in the body, we are absent from the Lord; but when
we are absent from the body, we are present with the
Lord.” (2 Cor. v. 6, 8.) And methinks this is enough
to cure us of our fondness for these bodies, unless we
think it more desirable to be confined to a prison and
to look through a grate all our lives, which gives us but
very narrow prospect, and that none of the best
neither, than to be set at liberty to view all the glories
of the world. What would we give now for the least

S

| gimpse of that invisible world, which the first step we
| take out of these bodies will present us with? There arc
| Such things “as eye hath not Seen, nor ear heard

ae
neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con-
ceive.” Death opens our eyes, enlarges our prospect,
presents us witha new and more glorious world, which
Wwe can never see while we are shut up in flesh, which
should make us as willi ig to part with this veil as to
take the film off our eyes which hinders our sight.’

As a thinking man cannot but be very much affected
with the idea of his appearing in the presence of that
being whom none can see and live, he must be muclyMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

more affected when he considers that this being whom
ete cc ae .
he appears before, will examine all the actions of his
past life, and reward or punish him accordingly. I
must confess that I think there is no scheme of religion

besides that of Christianity, which can possibly support:

the most virtuous person under this thought. Let a
man’s innocence be what it will, let his virtues rise to
the highest pitch of perfection attainable in this life,
there will be still in him so many secret sins, so many
human frailties, so many offences of ignorance, passion,
and prejudice, so many unguarded words and thoughts,
and, in short, so many defects in his best actions, that,
without the advantages of such an expiation and atone-
ment as Christianity has revealed to us, it is impossible
that he should be cleared before his sovereign judge,
or that he should be able to stand in his sight. Our
holy religion suggests to us the only means whereby
our guilt may be taken away, and our imperfect obe-
dience accepted.

It is this series of thought that I have endeavoured
to express in the following hymn, which I have com-
posed during this my sickness :—

When rising from the bed of death,
©’erwhelm’d with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face,
Oh how shall I appear!

If yet, while pardon may be found,
And merey may be sought,

My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought ;

When thou, oh Lord, shall stand disclosed,
In Majesty severe,

And sit in judgment on my soul,
Oh how shall I appear !

But thou hast told the troubled mind,
Who does her sins lament,

The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.

Then see the sorrows of my heart,
Kire yet it be too late;

And hear my Saviour’s dying groans,
‘To give those sorrows weight.

For never shall my soul despair
Her pardon to procure,

Who knows thine only Son has died
To make her pardon sure.”

DO PP POLPLOP OL OLE LI PD

DEATH OF SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

We last night received a piece of ill news at our club,
which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. [ question
not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the
hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense,
sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed this life
at his house in the country, after a few weeks’ sickness.
sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his cor-
respondents in those parts, that informs him the old
man caught a cold at the county-sessions, as he was very
warmly promoting an address of his own penning, in
which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this
particular comes from a whig justice of peace, who was
always Sir Roger’s enemy and antagonist. I have letters
both from the chaplain and Captain Sentry, which men-
tion nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars
to the honour of the good old man. J have likewise a
letter from the butler, who took so much care of me
last summer when I was at the knight’s house. Asmy
friend the butler mentions, in the simplicity of his heart,
several circumstances the others have passed over in
silence, I shall give my reader a copy of his letter, with-
out any alteration or dimunition.

“ HonourRED Sir—Knowing that you was my old
master’s good friend, I could not forbear sending you
the melancholy news of his death, which has afilicted
the whole country as well as his poor servants, who
loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. 1

 

147

am afraid he caught his death at the last county-sessions,
where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow
woman and her fatherless children, that had been
wronged by a neighbouring gentleman ; for you know,
sir, my good master was always the poor man’s friend.
Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made
was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being
able to touch a sirloin which was served up according
to custom ; and you know he used to take great delight
init. From that time forward he grew worse and worse,
but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed, we were
once in great hope of his recovery, upon a kind message
that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had
made love to the forty last years of his life; but this
only proved a lightening before death. He has be-
queathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a great
pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with
Jewels, which belonged to my good old lady his mother.
He has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used
to ride a-hunting upon to his chaplain, because he
thought he would be kind to him; and has left you all
his books. He has moreover bequeathed to the chap-
lain a very pretty tenement, with good lands about it.
It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left
for mourning, to every man in the parish, a great frieze
coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. It was
a moving sight to see him take leave of his poor ser-
vants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were
not able to speak a word for weeping. As we most of
us are grown grey-headed in our dear master’s service,
he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live
very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days.
He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which
is not yet come to my knowledge; and it is peremp-
torily said in the parish that he has left money to build
a steeple to the church; for he was heard to say some
time ago, that if he lived two years longer, Coverley
church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells
every body he made a very good end, and never speaks
of him without tears. He was buried, according to his
own directions, among the family of the Coverlies, on
the left hand of.his father Sir Arthur. The coffin was
earried by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by
six of the quorum. The whole parish followed the corpse
with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits; the
men in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain
Sentry, my master’s nephew, has taken possession of
the Hall-house and the whole estate. When my old
master saw him a little before his death, he shook him
by the hand, and wished him joy of the estate which
was falling to him, desiring him only to make a good use
of it, and to pay the several legacies and the gifts of
charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents upon
the estate. ‘The captain truly seems a courteous man,
though he says but little. He makes much of those
whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the
old house-dog that you know my poor master was so
fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have
heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day
of my master’s death. He has never joyed himself
since ; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest
day for the poor people that ever happened in Worces-
tershire. ‘This is all from, honoured sir, your most
sorrowful servant, Epwarp Biscuit.

P S.—My master desired, some weeks before he died,
that a book, which comes up to you by the carrier,
should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport in his name.”

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler’s manner
of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend,
that upon the reading of it there was not a dry eye in
the club. Sir Andrew opening the book, found it to be
a collection of acts of parliament. There was in parti-
cular the act of uniformity, with some passages in it
marked by Sir Roger’s own hand. Sir Andrew found
that they related to two or three points which he had
disputed with Sir Roger the last time he appeared at
the club. Sir Andrew, who would have been merry at
such an incident on another occasion, at the sight of

0S OE aE

ile spelen

aia143

the old man’s writing burst into tears, and put the book
in his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me that the
knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the
club.

OPAPP LL OP LIS LOL EL OL DA

VARIETIES IN ANIMAL EXISTENCE.
TxoucH there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplat-
ing the material world, by which I mean that system of
bodies into which nature has so curiously wrought the
mass of dead matter, with the several relations which
those bodies bear to one another, there is still, methinks,
something more wonderful and surprising in contempla-
tions on the world of life, by which I mean all those
animals with which every part of the universe is fur-
nished. The material world is only the shell of the
universe ; the world of life are its inhabitants.

If we consider those parts of the material world which
lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our
observations and inquiries, it is amazing to consider
the infinity of animals with which it is stocked. Every
part of matter is peopled ; every green leaf swarms with
inhabitants. There is scarce a single humour in the
body of a man, or of any other animal, in which our
glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. The
surface of animals is also covered with other animals,
which are in the same manner the basis of other animals
that live upon them; nay, we find in the most solid
bodies, as in marble itself, innumerable cells and eavi-
ties that are crowded with such imperceptible inhabi-
tants as are too little for the naked eye to discover. On
the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts of
nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming with
numberless kinds of living creatures. We find every
mountain and marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully
stocked with birds and beasts, and every part of matter
affording proper necessaries and conveniences for the
livelihood of multitudes which inhabit it.

The author of the “ Plurality of Worlds” draws a
very good argument from this consideration for the
peopling of every planet; as, indeed, it seems very
probable, from the analogy of reason, that if no part of
matter which we are acquainted with, hes waste and
useless, those great bodies which are at such a distance
from us, should not be desert and unpeopled, but rather
that they should be furnished with beings adapted to
their respective situations.

Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are
endowed with perception, and is in a manner thrown
away upon dead matter, any further than as it is sub-
servient to beings which are conscious of their existence.
Accordingly, we find, from the bodies which lie under
our observation, that matter is only made as the basis
and support of animals, and that there is no more of
the one than what is necessary for the exigence of the
other.

Infinite goodness is of so communicative a nature,
that it seems to delight in the conferring of existence
upon every degree of perceptive being. As this is a
speculation which I have often pursued with great
pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge further upon it, by
considering that part of the scale of beings which comes
within our knowledge.

There are some living creatures which are raised but
just above dead matter; to mention only that species
of shell-fish which are formed in the fashion of a cone,
that grow to the surface of several rocks, and imme-
diately die upon their being severed from the place
where they grow. There are many other creatures but
one remove from these, which have no other sense
besides that of feeling and taste. Others have still an
additional one of hearing; others of smell, and others
of sight. It is wonderful to observe by what a gradual
progress the world of life advances through a prodigious
variety of species before a creature is formed that is
complete in all its senses; and even among these there
is such a different degree of perfection in the senses
which one animal enjoys beyond what appears in
another, that though the sense in different animals be

 

ADDISON'S

distinguished by the same common denomination, it
seems almost of a different nature. If after this we
look into the several inward perfections of cunning and
sagacity, or what we generally call instinct, we find them
rising after the same manner imperceptibly one above
another, and receiving additional impravements, accord-
ing to the species in which they are implanted. This
progress in nature is so very gradual, that the most
perfect of an inferior species comes very near to the
most imperfect of that which is immediately above it.

The exuberant and overflowing goodness of the
Supreme Being, whose mercy extends to all his works,
is plainly seen, as I have before hinted, from his having
made so very little matter, at least which falls within
our knowledge, that does not swarm with life. Nor is
his goodness less seen in the diversity than in the
multitude of living creatures. Had he only made one
species of animals, none of the rest would have enjoyed
the happiness of existence. He has therefore specified
in his creation every degree of life, every capacity of
being. The whole chasm in nature, from a plant to a
man, is filled up with diverse kinds of creatures, rising
one over another by such a gentle and easy ascent, that
the little transitions and deviations from one species
to another are almost insensible. This intermediate
space is so well husbanded and managed, that there is
scarce a degree of perception which does not appear in
some one part of the world of life. Is the goodness or
wisdom of the Divine Being more manifested in this
his proceeding ?

There is a consequence, besides those I have already
meutioned, which seems very naturally deducible from
the foregoing considerations. If thescale of being rises
by such a regular progress so high as man, we may by
a parity of reason suppose that it still proceeds gradually
through those beings which are of a superior nature
to him; since there is an infinitely greater space and
room for different degrees of perfection between the
Supreme Being and man than between man and the
most despicable insect. ‘The consequence of so great a
variety of beings which are superior to us, from that
variety which is inferior to us, is made by Mr Locke
in a passage which I shall here set down, after having
premised, that notwithstanding there is such infinite
room between man and his maker for the creative power
to exert itself in, it is impossible that it should ever be
filled up, since there will be still an infinite gap or dis-
tance between the highest created being and the Power
which produced him.

“That there should be more species of intelligent crea-
tures above us than there are of sensible and material
below us, is probable to me from hence: that in all the
visible corporeal world we see no chasms or no gaps.
All quite down from us, the descent is by easy steps,
and a continual series of things, that in each remove
differ very little one from the other. There are fishes
that have wings, and are not strangers to the airy
region: and there are some birds that are inhabitants
of the water, whose blood is as cold as fishes, and their
flesh so like in taste, that the scrupulous are allowed
them on fish days. There are animals so near of kin
both to birds and beasts, that they are in the middle
between both. Amphibious animals link the terrestrial
and aquatic together. Seals live at land and at sea,
and porpoises have the warm blood and entrails of a
hog; not to mention what is confidently reported of
mermaids or sea-men. ‘There are some brutes that
seem to have as much knowledge and reason as some
that are called men; and the animal and vegetable
kingdoms are so nearly joined, that if you will take the
lowest of one, and the highest of the other, there will
scarce be perceived any great difference between them:
and so on until we come to the lowest and the most inor-
ganical parts of matter, we shall find every where that
the several species are linked together, and differ but in
almost insensible degrees. And when we consider the
infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we have reason
to think that it is suitable to the magnificent harmony
of the universe, and the great design and infinite good-MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAY8.

ness of the architect, that the species of creatures should
also by gentle degrees ascend upward from us toward
his infinite perfection, as we see they gradually descend
from us downward: which, if it be probable, we have
reason then to be persuaded that there are far more
species of creatures above ‘us than there are beneath ;
we being in degrees of perfection much more remote
from the infinite being of God, than we are from the
lowest state of being, and that which approaches nearest
to nothing. And yet of all those distinct species we
have no clear distinct ideas.”

In this system of being, there is no creature so won-
derful in its nature, and which so much deserves our
particular attention, as man, who fills up the middle
Space between the animal and intellectual nature, the
visible and invisible world, and is that link in the chain
of béings which has been often termed the nexus
utriusque mundi. So that he, who in one respect being
associated with angels and arch-angels, may look upon
a Being “ of infinite perfection” as his father, and the
highest order of spirits as his brethren, may in another
respect say to corruption, “ Thou art my father ; and to
the worm, thou art my mother and my sister !”

DROPPLEPPPIIPLIE LILIA

LITERARY PRECEDENCE.

Upon the hearing of several late disputes concerning
rank and precedence, I could not forbear amusing
myself with some observations which I have made upon
the learned world as to this great particular. By the
learned world I here mean, at large, all those who are
any way concerned in works of literature, whether
in the writing, printing, or repeating part. To begin
with the writers. I have observed that the author
of a folio in all companies and conversations sets
himself above the author of a quarto; the author of a
quarto above the author of an octavo; and so on by
a gradual descent and subordination to an author in
twenty-fours. This distinction is so well observed, that
in an assembly of the learned, I have seen a folio writer
place himself in an elbow-chair, when the author of a
duodecimo has, out of a just deference to his superior
quality, seated himself upon a squab. In a word,
authors are usually ranged in company after the same
manner as their works are upon a shelf.

The most minute pocket author hath beneath him the
writer of all pamphlets, or works that are only stitched.

As for the pamphleteer, he takes place of none but of

the authors of single sheets, and of that fraternity who
publish their labours on certain days, or on every day
of the week. I do not find that the precedency among
the individuals in this latter class of writers is yet
settled.

For my own part, I have had so strict a regard to the
ceremonial which prevails in the learned world, that I
never presumed to take the place of a pamphileteer,
until my daily papers were gathered into those two first
volumes which have already appeared. After which I
naturally jumped over the heads, not only of all pam-
phleteers, but of every octavo writer in Great Britain,
that had written but one book. I am also informed by
my bookseller, that six octavos have at all times been
looked upon as an equivalent to a folio, which I take
notice of the rather, because I would not have the
learned world surprised, if after the publication of half
a dozen volumes I take my place accordingly. _When
my scattered forces are thus rallied and reduced into
regular bodies, I flatter myself that I shall make no
despicable figure at the head of them.

Whether these rules, which have been received time
out of mind in the commonwealth of letters, were not
originally established with an eye to our paper-manu-
facture, I shall leave to the discussion of others; and
shall only remark further in this place, that all printers
and booksellers take the wall of one another, according
to the above-mentioned merits of the authors to whom
they respectively belong.

I come now to that point of preced

 

149
settled among the three learned professions by the
wisdom of our laws. I need not here take notice of the
rank which is allotted to every doctor in each of these
professions, who are all of them, though not so high as
knights, yet a degree above squires; this last order of
men being the illiterate body of the nation, are conse-
quently thrown together into a class below the three
learned professions. I mention this for the sake of
several rural squires, whose reading does not rise so
high as to “ the present state of England,” and who are
oiten apt to usurp that precedency which by the laws
of their country is not due to them. Their want of
learning, which has planted them in this station, may
in some measure extenuate their misdemeanour ; and
our professors ought to pardon them when they offend
in this particular, considering that they are ina state
of ignorance, or, as we usually say, do not know their
right hand from their left.

There is another tribe of persons who are retainers
to the learned world, and who regulate themselves upon
all occasions by several laws peculiar to their body; I
mean the players or actors of both sexes, Among these
it is a standing and uncontroverted principle, that a
tragedian always takes place of a comedian; and it is
very well known the merry drolls who make us laugh,
are always placed at the lower end of the table, and in
every entertainment give way to the dignity of the
buskin. It is a stage maxim, once a king, and always @
king. Hor this reason it would be thought very absurd
in Mr Bullock, notwithstanding the height and grace-
fulness of his person, to sit at the right hand of a hero,
though he were but five feet high. The same distine-
tion is observed among the ladies of the theatre. Queens
and heroines preserve their rank in private conversa-
tion, while those who are waiting-women and maids of
honour upon the stage, keep their distance also behind
the scenes.

I shall only add, that by a parity of reason, all writers
of tragedy look upon it as their due to be seated, served,
or saluted, before comic writers; those who deal in
tragi-comedy usually taking their seats between the
authors of either side. There has been a long dispute
for precedency between the tragic and heroic poets.
Aristotle would have the latter yield the pas to the
former; but Mr Dryden and many others would never
submit to this decision. Burlesque writers pay the
same deierence to the heroic, as comic writers to their
serious brothers in the drama.

By this short table of laws, order is kept up, and
distinction preserved, in the whole republie of letters.

POPDLIL PS PEPOLO POPOL O

ViARPRTAGER OF WITT, DANTVCoONrD
MARRIAG KH OF WILL HON iu XY OUM DB.

Iv is very usual for those who have been severe upon
marriage, in some part or other of their lives to enter
into the fraternity which they have ridiculed, and to
see their raillery return upon their own heads. I
scarce ever knew a woman-hater that did not sooner
or later pay for it. Marriage, which is a blessing to
another man, falls upon such a one as a judgment.
Mr Congreve’s “ Old Bachelor” is set forth to us with
much wit and humour as an example of this kind. In
short, those who have most distinguished themselves
by railing at the sex in general, very often make an
honourable amends, by choosing one of the most
worthless persons of it for a companion and yoke-fellow.
Hymen takes his revenge in kind on those who turn
his mysteries into ridicule.

My friend Will Honeycomb, who was so unmereifully
witty upon the women in a couple of letters which I
lately communicated to the public, has given the ladies
ample satisfaction, by marrying a farmer’s daughter—
a piece of news which came to our club by the last
post. The Templar is very positive that he has married
a dairy-maid; but Will, in his letter to me on this
occasion, sets the best face upon the matter that he
can, and gives a more tolerable account of his spouse.
I must confess I suspected something more than ordi-

tei =e

 

ae i eaciaillsisae temnatileee ac,

150

nary, when upon opening the letter I found that Will
was fallen off from his former gaiety, having changed
Dear Spece., which was his usual salute at the beginning
of the letter, into My worthy friend, and subscribed
himself in the latter end at full length, William Honey-
comb. In short, the gay, the loud, the vain Will
Honeycomb, who made love to every great fortune that
has appeared in town for above thirty years together,
and boasted of favours from ladies whom he had never
seen, is at length wedded to a plain country girl.

This letter gives us the picture of a converted rake.
The sober character of the husband is dashed with the
man of the town, and enlivened with those little cant
phrases which have made my friend Will often thought
very pretty company. But Jet us hear what he says
for himself.

“My Worrny Friexp—I question not but you and
the rest of my acquaintance wonder that I, who have
lived in the smoke and gaieties of the town for thirty
years together, should all on a sudden grow fond of a
country life. Had not my dog of « steward run away
as he did, without making up his accounts, I had still
been immersed in sin and sea-coal. But since my late
forced visit to my estate, I am so pleased with it, that I
am resolved to live and die upon it. I am every day
abroad among my acres, and can scarce forbear filling
my letter with breezes, shades, flowers, meadows, and
purling streams. The simplicity of manners which I
have heard you so often speak of, and which appears
here in perfection, charms me wonderfully. As an
instance of it, I must acquaint you, and by your means
the whole club, that I have lately married one of my
tenant’s daughters. She is born of honest parents ;
and though she has no portion, she has a great deal of
virtue. ‘The natural sweetness and innocence of her
behaviour, the freshness of her complexion, the unaf-
fected turn of her shape and person, shot me through
and through every time I saw her, and did more exe-
cution upon me in grogram, than the greatest beauty
in town or court had ever done in brocade. In short,
she is such a one as promises me a good heir to my
estate ; and if by her means I cannot leave to my chil-
dren what are falsely called the gifts of birth, high
titles and alliances, I hope to convey to them the more
real and valuable gifts of birth, strong bodiesand healthy
constitutions. As for your fine women, I need not tell
thee that I know them. I have had my share in their
graces; but no more of that. It shall be my business
hereafter to live the life of an honest man, and to act as
becomes the master of a family. I question not but I
shall draw upon me the raillery of the town, and be
treated to the tune of The marriage-hater matched; but
fam prepared for it. I have been as witty upon others
in my time. To tell thee truly, 1 saw such a tribe of
fashionable young fiuttering coxcombs shoot up, that I
did not think my post of an homme de ruelle any longer
tenable. I felt a certain stiffness in my limbs which
entirely destroyed that jauntiness of air I was once
master of. Besides, for | may now confess my age to
thee, I have been eight-and-forty above these twelve
years. Since my retirement into the country will make
a vacancy in the club, I could wish you would fill up
my place with my dear friend Tom Dapperwit. He has
an infinite deal of fire, and knows the town. For my
own part, as I have said before, I shall endeavour to
live hereafter suitable to a man in my station, asa
prudent head of a family, a good husband, a careful
father (when it shall so happen), and as your most
sincere friend and humble servant,

Wiuiram Honeycomp.”

DELPIPS OL LEOP LID IO OL OF

THE SUPREME BEING.

SIMONIDES being asked by Dionysius the tyrant what
God was, desired a day’s time to consider of it before
he made his reply. When the day was expired, he
desired two days; and afterwards, instead of returning

his answer, demanded still double the time to consider |

ones ee a

of conceiving.

 

ADDISON'S

of it. This great poet and philosopher, the more he
contemplated the nature of the Deity, found that he
waded but the more out of his depth; and that he lost
himself in the thought instead of finding an end of it.

If we consider the idea which wise men, by the light
of reason, have framed of the Divine Being, it amounts
to this :—That he has in him all the perfection of a
spiritual nature ; and since we have no notion of any
kind of spiritual perfection but what we discover in our
own souls, we join infinitude to each of these perfections ;
and what is a faculty in a human soul, becomes an attri-
bute in God. We exist in place and time; the Divine
Being fills the immensity of space with his presence,
and inhabits eternity. We are possessed of a little
power and a little knowledge; the Divine Being is
almighty and omniscient. In short, by adding infinity
to any kind of perfection we enjoy, and by joining all
these different kinds of perfections in one being, we form
our idea of the Great Sovereign of Nature.

Though every one who thinks must have made this
observation, I shall produce Mr Locke’s authority to
the same pu¥pose out of his Essay on the Human Under-
standing. “If we examine the idea we have of the
incomprehensible Supreme Being, we shall find that
we come by it the same way, and that the complex
ideas we have both of God and separate spirits are made
up of the simple ideas we receive from reflection; for
example, having, from what we experience in ourselves,
got the ideas of existence and duration, of knowledge
and power, of pleasure and happiness, and of several
other qualities and powers which it is better to have
than to be without—when we would frame an idea the
most suitable we can to the Supreme Being, we enlarge
every one of these with our idea of infinity ; and so,
putting them together, make our complex idea of God.”

It is not impossible that there may be many kinds
of spiritual perfection besides those which are lodged
ina human soul; but it is impossible that we should
have the ideas of any kinds of perfection except those
of which we have some small rays and short imperfect
strokes in ourselves. It would be, therefore, very high
presumption to determine whether the Supreme Being
has not many more attributes than those which enter
our conceptions of him. ‘This is certain, that if there
be any kind of spiritual perfection which is not marked
out in a human soul, it belongs in its fulness to the
divine nature.

Several eminent philosophers have imagined that the
soul, in her separate state, may have new faculties
springing up in her, which she is not capable of exerting
during her present union with the body; and whether
these faculties may not correspond with other attri-
butes in the divine nature, and open to us hereafter
new matter of wonder and adoration, we are altogether
ignorant. This, as I have said before, we ought to
acquiesce in, that the Sovereign Being, the great author
of nature, has in him all possible perfection, as well in
kind as in degree, to speak according to our methods
T shall only add, under this head, that
when we have raised our notion of this infinite being as
high as it is possible for the mind of man to go, it will
fall infinitely short of what he really is. here is no
end of his greatness: the most exalted creature he has
made is only capable of adoring it; none but himself
can comprehend it.

The advice of the son of Sirach is very just and
sublime in this light. “ By his word all things consist.
We may speak much, and yet come short: wherefore
in sum, he is all. How shall we be able to magnify
him? For he is great above all his works. The Lord
is terrible, and very great, and marvellous in his power.
When you glorify the Lord, exalt him as much as you
can: for even yet will he far exceed. And when you
exalt him, put forth all your strength, and be not weary ;
for you can never go far enough. Who hath seen him,
that he might tell us? And who can magnify him as
he is? There axe yet hid greater things than these be;
for we have seen but a few of his works.”

I have here only considered the Supreme Being byMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

the light of reason and philosophy. Tf we would see
him in all the wonders of his merev, we must have
recourse to revelation, which represents him to us, not
only as infinitely great and glorious, but as infinitely
good and just in his dispensations towards man. But
as this is a theory which falls under every one’s consi-
deration, though, indeed, it can never be sufficiently
considered, I shall here only take notice of that habi-
tual worship and veneration which we ought to pay this
Almighty Bemg. We should often refresh our minds
with the thoughts of him, and annihilate ourselves
before him in the contemplation of our own worthless-
ness, and of his transecendant excellency and perfection.
This would imprint in our minds such a constant and
uninterrupted awe and veneration as that which I am
here recommending, and which is in reality a-kind of
incessant prayer, and reasonable humiliation of the soul
before him who made it.

This would effectually kill in us all the little seeds of
pride, vanity, and self-conceit, which are apt to shoot
up in the minds of such whose thoughts turn more on
those comparative advantages which they enjoy over
some of their fellow-creatures, than on that infinite
distance which is placed between them and the supreme
model of all perfection. It would likewise quicken our
desires and endeavours of uniting ourselves to him by
all the acts of religion and virtue.

Such a habitual homage to the Supreme Being would
in a particular manner banish from among us that
prevailing impiety of using his name on the most trivial
occasions.

I tind the following passage in an excellent sermon
preached at the funeral of a gentleman who was an
honour to his country, and a more diligent as well as
successful inquirer into the works of nature than any
other our nation has ever produced :—“He had the
profoundest veneration for the great God of heaven and
earth that [ have ever observed in any person. The
very name of God was never mentioned by him without
a pause, and a visible stop in his discourse; in which,
one that knew him most particularly above twenty
years, has told me that he was so exact, that he does
not remember to have observed him onee to fail in it.”

Every one knows the veneration that was paid by the
Jews to a name so great, wonderful, and holy. They
would not let it enter even into their religious discourses.
What can we then think of those who make use of so
tremendous a name in the ordinary expressions of their
anger, mirth, and most impertinent passions? of those
who admit it into the most familiar questions and asser-
tions, ludicrous phrases, and works of humour—not to
mention those who violate it by solemn perjuries? It
would be an affront to reason to endeavour to set forth
the horror and profaneness of such a practice. The
very mention of it exposes it sufficiently to those in
whom the light of nature, not to say religion, is not
utterly extinguished.

FRIVOLOUS HOPES.

One of my late speculations turned upon the subject of
hope in general. I design this paper as a speculation
upon that vain and foolish hope which is misemployed
on temporal objects, and produces many sorrows and
calamities in human life.

It isa precept several times inculeated by Horace,
that we should not entertain a hope of any thing in life
which lies at a great distance from us. ‘The shortness
and uncertainty of our time here makes such a kind
of hope unreasonable and absurd. The grave lies
unseen between us and the object which we reach after.
Where one man lives to enjoy the good he has in view,
ten thousand are cut off in the pursuit of it.

It happens likewise unluckily, that one hope no sooner
‘lies in us, but another rises up in its stead. We are
apt to fancy that we shall be happy ahd satisfied if we
possess ourselves of such and such particular enjoy-
ments; but either by reason of their emptiness, or the

 

 

151

natural inquietude of the mind, we have no sooner
gained one point but we extend our hopes to another.
We still find new inviting scenes and landscapes lying
behind those which at a distance terminated our view.

The natural consequences of such reflections are
these: that we should take care not to let our hopes
run out into too great a length; that we should suffi-
ciently weigh the objects of our hope, whether they
be such as we may reasonably expect from them what
we propose in their fruition, and whether they are such
as we are pretty sure of attaining, in case our life
extend itself so far. If we hope for things which are
at too great a distance from us, it is possible that we
may be intercepted by death in our progress towards
them. Ifwe hope for things of which we have not
thoroughly considered the value, our disappointment
will be greater than our pleasure in the fruition of them.
If we hope for what we are not likely to possess, we act
and think in vain, and make life a greater dream and
shadow than it really is.

Many of the miseries and misfortunes of life proceed
from our want of consideration in one or all of these
particulars. ‘They are the rocks on which the sanguine
tribe of lovers daily split, and on which the bankrupt,
the politician, the alchemist, and projector, are east
away in every age. Men of warm imaginations and
towering thoughts are apt to overlook the goods of
fortune which are near them for something that glitters
in the sight at a distance ; to neglect solid and substan-
tial happiness for what is showy and superficial; and
to contemn that good which lies within their reach for
that which they are not capable of attaining. Hope
calculates its schemes for a long and durable life, presses
forward to imaginary points of bliss, and grasps at im-
possibilities ; and consequently very often ensnares men
into beggary, ruin, and dishonour.

What I have here said may serve as a moral to an
Arabian fable, which I find translated into French by
Monsieur Galland. The fable has in it such a wild
but natural simplicity, that I question not my reader
will be as much pleased with it as I have been, and
that he will consider himself, if he will reflect on the
several amusements of hope which have sometimes
passed in his mind, as a near relation to the Persian
glassman.

- Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow, that
never would set his hand to any business during his
father’s life. When his father died, he left him to
the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian money.
Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out in
glasses, bottles, and the finest earthen ware. ‘These he
piled up in a large open basket; and having made
choice of a very little shop, placed the basket at his
feet, and leaned his back upon the wall, in expectation
of customers. As he sat in this posture, with his eyes
upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing train of
thought, and was overheard by one of his neighbours
as he talked to himself in the following manner :—
“This basket,” says he, “cost me at the wholesale
merchants 100 drachmas, which is all I have in the
world. J shall quickly make 200 of it by selling it in
retail. ‘These 200 drachmas will in a very little while
rise to 400, which of course will amount in time to
4900 ; 4000 drachmas cannot fail of making 8000.
As soon as by this means I am master of 10,000,
I will lay aside my trade of a glassman, and turn
jeweller. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all
sorts of rich stones. When I have got together as
much wealth as I can well desire, I will make a pur-
chase of the finest house I can find, with lands, slaves,
eunuchs, and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy my-
self, and make a noise in the world. I will not, however,
stop there, but still continue in my traffic until I have
got together 100,000 drachmas. When I have thusmade
myself master of 100,000 drachmas, I shall naturally
set myself on the foot of a prince, and will demand
the grand vizier’s daughter in marriage, after having
represented to that minister the information which [
have received of the beauty, wit, discretion, and other

 

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gar REL ela

aos152

high qualities, which his daughter possesses. I will let
him know, at the same time, that it is my intention to
make him a present of 1000 pieces of gold on our mar-
riage night. As soon as I have married the grand
vizier’s daughter, I will buy her ten black eunuchs, the
youngest and the best that can be got for money. I
must afterwards make my father-in-law a visit, with a
great train and equipage: and when I am placed at his
right hand, which he will do of course, if it be only to
honour his daughter, I will give him the 1000 pieces
of gold which I promised him; and afterwards, to his
great surprise, will present him with another purse of
the same value, with some short speech, as, ‘Sir, you
see IT am a man of my word; I always give more than
I promise.’

When I have brought the princess to my house, I
shall take particular care to breed her ina due re-
spect for me, before I give the reins to love and dal-
jiance. To this end I shall confine her to her own
apartment, make her a short visit, and talk but little
to her. ‘Her woman will represent to me that she is
inconsolable by reason of my unkindness, and beg me,
with tears, to caress her, and Jet her sit down by me;
but I shall still remain inexorable, and will turn my
back upon her all the first night. Her mother will
then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated
ona sofa. The daughter, with tears in her eyes, will
fling herself at my feet, and beg of me to receive her
into my favour. Then will I, to imprint in her a
thorough veneration for my person, draw up my legs
and spurn her from me with my foot, in such a manner
that she shall fall down several paces from the sofa.”

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chime-
rical vision, and could not forbear acting with his foot
what he had in his thoughts. So that, unluckily strik-
ing his basket of brittle ware, which was the foundation
of all his grandeur, he kicked his glasses to a great
distance from him into the street, and broke them into
ten thousand pieces.

QOCPPPOP OL OSLO LO OL LL

A NECESSARY QUALITY IN CONVERSATION.
SURPRISE is so much the life of stories, that every one
aims at it who endeavours to please by telling them.
Smooth delivery, an elegant choice of words, and a
sweet arrangement, are all beautifying graces, but not
the particulars in this point of conversation which either
Jong command the attention, or strike with the violence
of a sudden passion, or occasion the burst of a lau ghter
which accompanies humour. I have sometimes fancied
that the mind is in this case like a traveller who sees a
fine seat in haste; he acknowledges the delightfulness
of a walk set with regularity, but would be uneasy if
he were obliged to pace it over, when the first view had
let him into all its beauties from one end to the other,

However, a knowledge of the success which stories
will have when they are attended with a turn of sur-
prise, as it has happily made the characters of some,
so has it also been the ruin of the characters of others.
There is a set of men who outrage truth, instead of
affecting us with a manner in telling it; who overleap
the line of probability, that they may seem to move out
of the common road, and endeavour only to make their
hearers stare by imposing upon them with a kind of
nonsense against the philosophy of nature, or such a
heap of wonders, told upon their own knowledge, as it is
not likely one man should have ever met with.

I have been led into this observation by a company
into which I fell accidentally. The subject of Anti-
pathies was a proper field wherein such false surprises
might expatiate; and there were those present who
appeared very fond to show it in its full extent of tradi-
tional history. Some of them, in a learned manner,
offered to our consideration the miraculous powers
which the effluviums of cheese have over bodies whose
pores are disposed to receive them ina noxious manner ;
others gave an account of such who could indeed bear
the sight of cheese, but not the taste ; for which they

 

ADDISON'S

brought a reason from the milk of their nurses. Others
again discoursed, without endeavouring at reasons, con-
cerning an unconquerable aversion which somestomachs
have against a joint of meat when it is whole, and the
eager inclination they have for it, when, by its being
cut up, the shape which had affected them is altered.
From hence they passed to eels; thence to parsnips ;
and so from one aversion to another, until we had
worked up ourselves to such a pitch of complaisance,
that when the dinner was to come in, we inquired the
name of every dish, and hoped it would be no offence
to any in company before it was admitted. When we
had sitten down, this civility among us turned the dis-
course from eatables to other sorts of aversions ; and
the eternal cat, which plagues every conversation of
this nature, began then to engross the subject. One
had sweated at the sight of it; another had smelled it
out as it lay concealed in a very distant cupboard ; and
he who crowned the whole set of these stories reckoned
up the number of times in which it had occasioned him
to swoon away. “ At last,” says he, “ that you may all
be satisfied of my invincible aversion to a cat, I shall
give an unanswerable instance. As I was going through
a street of London, where I never had been until then,
I felt a genera! damp and faintness all over me, which
I could not tell how to account for, until I chanced to
cast my eyes upwards, and found that I was passing
under a sign-post on which the picture of a cat was
hung.”

the extravagance of this turn in the way of surprise
gave a stop to the talk we had been carrying on. Some
were silent because they doubted, and others because
they were conquered in their own way; so that the
gentleman had an opportunity to press the belief of it
upon us, and let us see that he was rather exposing
himself than ridiculing others.

I must freely own, that I did not all this while dis-
believe every thing that was said, but yet I thought
some in the company had been endeavouring who should
pitch the bar farthest ; that it had for some time been
@ measuring east; and at last my friend of the eat and
sign-post had thrown beyond them all.

I then considered the manner in which this story had
been received, and the possibility that it might have
passed for a jest upon others, if he had not laboured
against himself. From hence, thought I, there are two
ways which the well-bred world generally take to cor-
rect such a practice, when they do not think fit to
contradict it flatly.

The first of these is a general silence, which I would
not advise any one to interpret in his own behalf. It
is often the effect of prudence in avoiding a quarrel,
when they see another drive so fast that there is no
stopping him without being run against, and but very

eldom the effect of weakness in believing suddenly.
The generality of mankind are not so grossly ignorant
as some overbearing spirits would persuade themselves :
and if the authority of a character, or a caution against
danger, make us suppress our opinions, yet neither of
these are of force enough to suppress our thoughts of
them. If a man who has endeavoured to amuse his
company with improbabilities, could but look into their

ninds, he would find that they imagine he lightly
esteems of their sense, when he thinks to impose upon
them ; and that he is less esteemed by them for his
attempt in doing so. His endeavour to glory at their
expense becomes a ground of quarrel, and the scorn
and indifference with which they entertain it, begins
the immediate punishment: and, indeed (if we should
even go no further), silence, ora negligent indifference,
has a deeper way of wounding than opposition, because
opposition proceeds from an anger that has a sort of
generous sentiment for the adversary mingling along
with it, while it shows that there is some esteem in
your mind for him ; in short, that you think him worth
while to contest with. But silence, or a negligent
indifference, proceeds from anger, mixed with a scorn
that shows another he is thought by you too contemp-
tible to be regarded.MORAL AND

The other method which the world has taken for cor-
recting this practice of false surprise, is to overshoot
such talkers in their own bow, or to raise the story with
further degrees of impossibility, and set up for a voucher
to them in such a manner as must let them see they
stand detected. Thus I have heard a discourse was
once managed upon the effects of fear. One of the
company had given an account how it had turned his
friend’s hair grey in a night, when the terrors of a
shipwreck encompassed him. Another, taking the hint
from hence, began upon his own knowledge to enlarge
his instances of the like nature to such a number, that
if was not probable he could ever have met with them :
and as he still grounded these upon different causes, for
the sake of variety, it might seem at last, from his share
of the conversation, almost impossible that any one who
ean feel the passion of fear should all his life escape so
common an effect of it. By this time some of the com-
pany grew negligent, or desirous to contradict him
but one rebuked the rest with an appearance of severity,
and with the known old story in his head, assured them
they need not scruple to believe that the fear of any
thing can make a man’s hair grey, since he knew one
whose periwig had suffered so by it. Thus he stopped
the talk,and made themeasy. Thus isthe same method
taken to bring us to shame which we fondly take to
increase our character. It is indeed a kind of mimicry,
by which another puts on our air of conversation to
Show us to ourselves. He seems to look ridiculous
before you, that you may remember how near a resem-
blance you bear to him, or that you may know that he
will not lie under the imputation of believing you. Then
it is that you are struck dumb immediately with a con-
scious shame for what you have been saying, Then it
is that you are inwardly grieved at the sentiments which
you cannot but perceive others entertain concerning
you. In short, you are against yourself ; the laugh of
the company runs against you ; the censuring world is
obliged to you for that triumph which you have allowed
them at your own expense ; and truth, which you have
injured, has a near way of being revenged on you, when,
by the bare repetition of your story, you become a
frequent diversion for the public.

OPLISIOOLPLOE OP SOLO EL OD

BENEFICENCE OF THE CREATOR.

YTHOosE who were skilful in anatomy among the ancients,
concluded from the outward and inward make of a
human body, that it was the work of a being transcen-
dantly wise and powerful. As the world grew more
enlightened in this art, their discoveries gave them fresh
opportunities of admiring the conduct of providence in
the formation of a human body. Galen was converted
by his dissections, and could not but own a Supreme
Being upon a survey of this his handiwork. There
were indeed many parts of which the old anatomists
did not know the certain use ; but as they saw that most
of those which they had examined were adapted with
admirable art to their several functions, they did not
question but those whose uses they could not determine,
were contrived with the same wisdom for respective
ends and purposes. Since the circulation of the blood
has been found out, and many other great discoveries
have been made by our modern anatomists, we see
new wonders in the human frame, and discern several
important uses for those parts; which uses the ancients
knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is such
a subject as stands the utmost test of’ examination.
Though it appears formed with the nicest wisdom, upon
the most superficial survey of it, it still mends upon the
search, and produces our surprise and amazement in
proportion as we pry into it. What I have here said
of a human body may be applied to the body of every
animal which has been the subject of anatomical obser-
vations.

The body of an animal is an object adequate to our
senses. It is a particular system of providence that
lies in a narrow compass, The eye is able to command

TTT

LLU

 

[OROUS ESSAYS. ad
it, and by successive inquiries can search into all its
parts. Could the body of the whole earth, or indeed the
whole universe, be thus submitted to the examination
of our senses, were it not too big and disproportioned
for our inquiries, too unwieldy for the management of
the eye and hand, there is no question but it would
appear to us as curious and well contrived a frame as
that of the human body. We should see the same
concatenation and subserviency, the same necessity and
usefulness, the same beauty and harmony in all and
every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of
every single animal.

The more extended our reason is, and the more able
to grapple with immense objects, the greater still are
those discoveries which it makes of wisdom and provi-
dence in the works of the creation. A Sir Isaac Newton,
who stands up as the miracle of the present age, can
look through a whole planetary system ; consider it in
its weight, number, and measure; and draw from it as
many demonstrations of infinite power and wisdom as
a more confined understanding is able to deduce from
the system of a human body.

But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I shali
here consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of
animals in one particular view ; which, in my opinion,
shows the hand of a thinking and all-wise Being in their
formation, with the evidence of a thousand demonstra-
tions. I think we may lay this down as an incontested
principle, that chance never acts in a perpetual unifor-
mity and consistence with itself. If one should als rays
fling the same number with ten thousand dict, or see
every throw just five times less or five times more in
number than the throw which immediately preceded it,
who would not imagine there is some invisible power
which directs the cast? This is the proceeding which
we find in the operations of nature. Every kind of
animal is diversified by different magnitudes, each of
which gives rise to a different species. Let aman trace
the dog or lion kind, and he will observe how many of
the works of nature are published, if I may use the
expression, in a variety of editions. If we look into
the reptile world, or into those different kinds of animals
that fill the element of water, we meet with the same
repetition among several species, that differ very little
from one another in size and bulk. ‘You find the same
creature that is drawn at large copied out in the several
proportions, and ending in miniature. It would be
tedious to produce instances of this regular conduct in
Providence, as it would be superfluous to those who
are versed in the natural history of animals. The
magnificent harmony of the universe is such, that we
may observe innumerable divisions running upon the
same ground. I might also extend this speculation to
the dead parts of nature, in which we may find matter
disposed into many similar systems, as well in our sur-
vey of stars and planets, as of stones, vegetables, and
other sublunary parts of the creation. In a word,
Providence has shown the richness of its goodness and
wisdom, not only in the production of many original
species, but in the multiplicity of descents which it has
made on every original species in particular.

But to pursue this thought still further. Every
living creature considered in itself, has many very
complicated parts that are exact copies of some other
parts which it possesses, and which are complicated in
the same manner. One eye would have been sufficient
for the subsistence and preservation of an animal; but
in order to better his condition, we see another placed
with a mathematical exactness in the same most advan-
tageous situation, and in every particular of the same
size and texture. Is it possible for chance to be thus
delicate and uniform in her operations? Should a
million of dice turn up twice together the same numher,
the wonder would be nothing in comparison of this.
But when we see this similitude and resemblance in
the arm, the hand, the fingers ; when we see one half
of the body entirely correspond with the other in all
those minute strokes, without which a man might have
very well subsisted ; nay, when we often see a single

 

ee ae eee ERre mmmegee”

154

part repeated a hundred times in the same body,
notwithstanding it consists of the most intricate weaving
of numberless fibres, and these parts differing still in
magnitude, as the convenience of their particular situa-
tion requires, sure a man must have a strange east of
understanding who does not discover the finger of God
in so wonderful a work. These duplicates in those parts
of the body, without which a man might have very well
subsisted, though not so well as with them, are a plain
demonstration of an all-wise contriver, as those more
numerous copyings which are found among the vessels
of the same body, are evident demonstrations that they
could not be the work of chance. This argument
receives additional strength, if we apply it to every

animal and insect within our knowledee, as well as to |

those numberless living eréatures that are objects too
minute for a human eye: and if we consider how the
several species in this whole world of life resemble one
another in very many particulars, so far as is conve-
nient for their respective states of existence, it is much
more probable that a hundred millions of dice should
be casually thrown a hundred million of times in the
same number, than that the body of any single animal
should be produced by the fortuitous concourse of
matter. And that the like chance should arise in
innumerable instances, requires a degree of credulity
that is not under the direction of common sense. We
may carry this consideration yet further, if we reflect
on the two sexes in every living species, with their
resemblance to each other, and those particular distine-
tions which were necessary for the keeping up of this
great world of life. :

There are many more demonstrations of a Supreme
Being, and of his transcendant wisdom, power, and
goodness in the formation of a living creature, for which
{ refer my reader to other writings, particularly to the
sixth book of the poem entitled Creation, where the
anatomy of the human body is described with great
perspicuity and elegance. I have been particular on
the thought which runs through this speculation, because
I have not seen it enlarged upon by others.

LISP POPP LP IL IP PALO POLE

RETIRING FROM BUSINESS.

I BELIEVE most people begin the world witha resolution
to withdraw from it into a serious kind of solitude or
retirement, when they have made themselves easy in it.
Our happiness is, that we find out some excuse or other
for deferring such our good resolutions untilour intended
retreat is cut off by death. But among all kinds of
people there are none who are so hard to part with the
world as those who are grown old in the heaping up of
riches, Their minds are so warped with their constant
attention to gain, that it is very difficult for them to give
their souls another bend, and convert them towards
those objects which, though they are proper for every
stage of life, are so more especially for the last. Horace
describes an old usurer as so charmed with the pleasures
of a country life, that in order to make a purchase, he
called in all his money. But what was the event of it 2
Why, in a very few days after he put it out again. J
am engaged in this series of thought by a discourse
which I had last week with my worthy friend Sir
Andrew Freeport, a man of such natural eloquence,
good sense, and probity of mind, that I always hear him
with a particular pleasure. As we were sitting together,
being the sole remaining members of our club, Sir
Andrew gave me an account of the many busy scenes
of life in which he had been engaged, and at the same
time reckoned up to me abundance of those lucky hits
which at another time he would have called pieces of
good fortune ; but in the temper of mind he was then,
he termed them mercies, favours of Providence, and
blessings upon an honest industry. Now,” says he,
“you must know, my good friend, I am so used to con-
sider myself as creditor and debtor, that I often state
my accounts after the same manner with regard to
heaven and my own soul. In this case, when I look

 

ADDISON'S

upon the debtor side, I find such innumerable articles,
that | want arithmetic to cast them up; but when I
look upon the creditor side, I find little more than blank
paper. Now, though I am very well satisfied that it is
in my power to balance accounts with my Maker, I am
resolved, however, to turn all my future endeavours
that way. You must not therefore be surprised, my
friend, if you hear that I am betaking myself to a more
thoughtful kind of life, and if I meet you no more in
this place.

I could not but approve so good a resolution, notwith-
standing the loss I must suffer by it. Sir Andrew has
since explained himself to me more at large in the fol-
lowing letter, which is just come to my hands :—

“Goop Mr Specraror—Notwithstanding my friends
at the club have always rallied me when I have talked
of retiring from business, and repeated tome one of my
own sayings, ‘ That a merchant has never enough until
he has got a little more,’ I can now inform you, that
there is one in the world who thinks he has enough,
and is determined to pass the remainder of his life in
the enjoyment of what he has. You know me so well,
that I need not tell you I mean, by the enjoyments of
my possessions, the making of them useful to the public.
As the greatest part of my estate bas been hitherto of
an unsteady and volatile nature, either tossed upon seas
or fluctuating in funds, it is now fixed and settled in
substantial acres and tenements. I have removed it
from the uncertainty of stocks, winds, and waves, and
disposed of it in a considerable purchase. ‘This will give
me great opportunity of being charitable in my way ;
that is, in setting my poor neighbours to work, and
giving them a comfortable subsistence out of their own
industry. My gardens, my fish-ponds, my arable and
pasture grounds, shall be my several hospitals, or rather
workhouses, in which I propose to maintain a great
many indigent persons, who are now starving in my
neighbourhood. I have got a fine spread of improvable
lands, and in my own thoughts am already ploughing
up some of them, fencing others, planting woods, and
draining marshes. In fine, as I have my share in the
surface of this island, I am resolved to make it as
beautiful a spot as any in her majesty’s dominions; at
least, there is not an inch of it which shall not be culti-
vated to the best advantage, and do its utmost for its
owner. As in my mercantile employment I so disposed
of my affairs, that from whatever corner of the com-
pass the wind blew, it was bringing home one or other
of my ships, I hope as a husbandman, to contrive it SO,
that not a shower of rain or a glimpse of sunshine shall
fall upon my estate, without bettering some part of it,
and contributing to the products of the season. You
know it has been hitherto my opinion of life, that it is
thrown away when it is not some way useful to others.
But when I am riding out by myself in the fresh air on
the open heath that lies by my house, I find several
other thoughts growing up in me. I am now of opinion
that a man of my age may find business enough on
himself, by setting his mind in order, preparing it for
another world, and reconciling it to the thoughts of
death. I must therefore acquaint you, that besides
those usual methods of charity of which I have before
spoken, | am at this very instant finding out a conve-
nient place where I may build an alms-house, which I
intend to endow very handsomely for a dozen super-
annuated husbandmen. It will be a great pleasure to
me to say my prayers twice a-day with men of my own
years, who all of them, as well as myself, may have their
thoughts taken up how they shall die, rather than how
they shall live. J remember an excellent saying that I
learned at school, Finis coronat opus. You know best
whether it be in Virgil or in Horace: it is my business
to apply it. If your affairs will permit you to take the
country air with me sometimes, you shall find an apart-
ment fitted up for you, and shall be every day enter-
tained with beef or mutton of my own feeding, fish out
of my own ponds, and fruit out of my own gardens.
You shall have free egress and regress about my house,MORAL AND HUMOROUS Essa VS.

without having any questions asked you; and, ina

word, such a hearty weleome as you may expect from

your most sincere friend and humble servant,
ANDREW FREEPORT.”

PELILISLIDODIPOLOP LOD

INSINCERITY IN SPEAKING.

“ THERE is nothing,” says Plato, “so delightful as the
hearing or the speaking of truth.” For this reason
there is no conversation so agreeable as that of the man
of integrity, who hears without any intention to betray,
and speaks without any intention to deceive.

Among all the accounts which are given of Cato, I
do not remember one that more redounds to his honour
than the following passage related by Plutarch :—As
an advocate was pleading the cause of his client before
one of the preetors, he could only produce a single
witness in a point where the law required the testimony
of two persons ; upon which the advocate insisted on
the integrity of that person whom he had produced ;
but the preetor told him, “that where the law required
two witnesses, he would not accept of one, though it
were Cato himself.” Such a speech from a person who
sat at the head of a court of justice, while Cato was
still living, shows us, more than a thousand examples,
the high reputation that great man had gained among
his contemporaries upon the account of his sincerity.

When such an inflexible integrity is a little softened
and qualified by the rules of conversation and good
breeding, there is not a more shining virtue in the
whole catalogue of social duties. A man, however,
ought to take great care not to polish himself out of his
veracity, nor to refine his behaviour to the prejudice
of his virtue.

This subject is exquisitely treated in the most
elegant sermon of Archbishop Tillotson. I shall beg
leave to transcribe out of it two or three sentences,
as a proper introduction to a very curious letter,
which I shall make the chief entertainment of this
speculation.

“ The old English plainness and sincerity, that
generous integrity of nature and honesty of disposition,
which always urges true greatness of mind, and is
usually accompanied with undaunted courage and reso-
lution, is in a great measure lost among us.

The dialect of conversation is now-a-days so swelled
with vanity and compliment, and so surfeited (as I may
say) with expressions of kindness and respect, that if a
man who lived an age or two ago should return into
the world again, he would really want a dictionary to
help him to understand his own language, and to know
the true intrinsic value of the phrase in fashion ; and
would hardly at first believe at what a low rate the
highest strains and expréssions of kindness imaginable
do commonly pass in current payment; and when he
should come to understand it, it would be a great while
betore he could bring himself, with a good countenance
and a good conscience, to converse with men upon
equal terms, and in their own way.”

I have by me a letter which I look upon as a great
curiosity, and which may serve as an exemplification
to the foregoing passage cited out of this most excellent
prelate. It is said to have been written in dang
Charles IT.’s reign by the ambassador of Bantam a little
after his arrival in England.

“‘ Master—The people where I now am have tongues
further from their hearts than from London to Ban-
tam ; and thou knowest the inhabitants of one of these
places do not know what is done in the other. They
call thee and thy subjects barbarians because we speak
what we mean, and ac¢éount themselves a civilised
people because they speak one thing and mean another
—truth they call barbarity, and falsehood polite-
ness. Upon my first landing, one who was sent from
the king of this place to meet me, told me, ‘that he
was extremely sorry for the storm I had met with just
beiore my arrival.’ I was troubled to hear him grieve

 

and afflict himself upon my account; but in less than a
quarter of an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if
nothing had happened. Another who came with him
told me, by my interpreter, ‘he should be glad to do
me any service that lay in his power.’ Upon which I
desired him to carry one of my portmanteaus for me ;
but instead of serving me according to his promise, -he
laughed and bade another do it. I lodged the first week
at the house of one who desired me ‘to think myself at
home, and to consider his house as my own.’ Accord-
ingly, I the next morning began to knock down one of
the walls of it in order to let in the fresh air, and had
packed up some of the household goods, of which [I
intended to have made thee a present ; but the false
varlet no sooner saw me falling to work but he sent
word to desire me to give over, for that he would have
no such doings in his house. I had not been long in
this nation before I was told by one for whom I had
asked a certain favour from the chief of the king’s
servants, whom they here eall the lord treasurer, that
I had eternally obliged him. I was so surprised at
his gratitude, that I could not forbear saying, ‘ What
service is there which one man can do for another that
can oblige him to all eternity !’ However, on asking
him for a particular favour, I found that he was as
treacherous as the rest of his countrymen.

At my first going to court, one of the great men
almost put me out of countenance by asking ten thou-
sand pardons of me for only treading by accident upon
my toe. They call this kind of lie a compliment ; for
when they are civil to a great man, they tell him
untruths, for which thou wouldst order any of thy
officers of state to receive a hundred blows upon his
foot. I do not know how I shall negotiate any thing
with this people, since there is so little credit to be
given to them. When I go to see the king’s scribe, I
am generally told that he is not at home, though per-
haps I saw him go into his house almost the very moment
before. Thou wouldst fancy that the whole nation are
physicians, for the first question they always ask me
is, how I do? I have this question put to me above a
hundred times a-day. Nay, they are not only thus
inquisitive after my health, but wish it in a more
solemn manner, with a full glass in their hands, every
time I sit with them at table, though at the same time
they would persuade me to drink their liquors in such
quantities as I have found by experience will make me
sick. They often pretend to pray for thy health also
in the same manner; but I have more reason to
expect it from the goodness of thy constitution than
the sincerity of their wishes. May thy slave eseape
in safety from this double-tongued race of men, and
live to lay himself once more at thy feet in the royal
city of Bantam.”

PROP LPIPLE LIDS PS POOR

THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES.

It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the
misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock,
in order to be equally distributed among the whole
species, those who now think themselves the most un-
happy would prefer the share they are already possessed
of, before that which would fall to them by such a
division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal
further in one of his poems, which imples, that the
hardships or misfortunes we lie under are more easy
to us than those of any other person would be, in case
we could change conditions with him.

As I was ruminatin g on these two remarks, and
seated in my elbow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep ; when
on a sudden methought there was a proclamation made
by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs
and calamities, and throw them together in a heap.
There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. [
took my stand in the centre of it, and saw with a great
deal of pleasure the whole human species marchin g one
after another, and throwing down their several loads,156

which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain
that seemed to rise above the clouds.

There was a certain lady of a thin airy shape who was
very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying
glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose flow-
ing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and
spectres, that discovered themselves in a thousand
chimerical shapes as her garment hovered in the wind.
There was something wild and distracted in her looks.
Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the
appointed place, after having very officiously assisted
him in making up his pack, and laying it upon his
shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow
creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and
to consider ‘that prodigious bulk of human calamities
which lay before me.

There were, however, several persons who gave me
great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one
bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed under an
old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into
the heap, I discovered to be Poverty. Another, after
a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, which
upon examining I found to be his wife.

There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very
whimsical burdens composed of darts and flames; but
what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts
would break under these bundles of calamities, they
could not persuade themselves to cast them into the
heap when they came up to it; but after a few faint
efforts, shook their head and marched away as heavy
loaded as they came. I saw multitudes of old women
throw down their wrinkles, and several young ones who
stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very
great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth.
The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest
part of the mountain made up of bodily deformities.
Observing one advancing towards the heap with a
larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found upon
his near approach that it was only a natural hump,
which he disposed of with great joy of heart among this
collection of human miseries. There were likewise dis-
tempers of all sorts; though I could not but observe,
that there were many more imaginary thanreal. One
little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a
complication of all the diseases incident to human
nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people:
this was called the Spleen. But what most of all sur-
prised me, was a remark I made, that there was not a
single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap: at
which I was very much astonished, having concluded
within myself that every one would take this oppor-
tunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and
frailties.

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow,
who, I did not question, came loaded with his crimes;
but upon searching into his bundle, I found, that instead
of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down
his memory. He was followed by another worthless
rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his igno-
rance.

When the whole race of mankind had thus east their
burdens, the phantom-which had been so busy on this
occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what passed,
approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence,
when on a sudden she held her magnifying glass full
before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but I
was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared
to me in its utmost aggravation. ‘The immoderate
breadth of the features made me very much out of
humour with my own countenance ; upon which I threw
it from me like amask. It happened very luckily that
one who stood by me had just before thrown down his
visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was,
indeed, extended to a most shameful length; I believe
the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my
whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of
mending ourselves ; and all the contributions being
now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange
his misfortunes for those of another person. But as

 

ADDISON'S

there arose many new ineidents in the sequel of my
vision, I shall reserve them for the subject of my next
paper.

PLLI LILI GL LL OS IPIP DA
}

THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES—CONCLUDED.

In my last paper I gave my reader a sight of that
mountain of miseries which was made up of those
several calamities that afflict the minds of men. I
saw with unspeakable pleasure the whole species thus
delivered from its sorrows ; though at the same time,
as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several
materials of which it was composed, there was scarcely
a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover
what he thought pleasures and blessings of life, and
wondered how the owners of them ever came to look
upon them as burdens and grievances.

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion
of miseries, this chaos of calamities, Jupiter issued out
a second proclamation, that every one was now at
liberty to change his affliction, and to return to his
habitation with any such other bundle as should be
delivered to him,

Upon this Fancy began again to bestir herself, and
parcelling out the whole heap with incredible activity,
recommended to every one his particular packet. The
hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed.
Some observations which I made upon this occasion I
shall communicate to the public. A venerable grey-
headed man, who had laid down the cholic, and who I
found wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an
undutiful son that had been thrown into the heap by
his angry father. The graceless youth in less than a
quarter of an hour pulled the old gentleman by the
beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out; so
that meeting the true father, who came towards him
with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son
again, and give him back his cholic; but they were
incapable either of them to recede from the choice they
had made. <A. poor galley-slave, who had thrown down
his chains, took up the gout in their stead; but made
such wry faces, that one might easily perceive he was
no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough
to see the several exchanges that were made, for sick-
ness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite,
and care against pain.

The female world were very busy among themselves
in bartering for features; one was trucking a lock of
grey hairs for a carbuncle; another was making over
a short waist for a pair of round shoulders ; and a third
cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation. But on
all these occasions there was not one of them who did
not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it
into her possession, much more disagreeable than the
old one. I made the same observation on every other
misfortune or calamity which every one in the assembly
brought upon himself in lieu of what he had parted with ;
whether it be that all the evils which befall us are in
some measure suited and proportioned to our strength,
or that evil becomes more supportable by our being
accustomed to it, I shall not determine.

I could not for my heart forbear pitying the poor
hump-backed gentleman mentioned in the former paper,
who went off a very well shaped person with a stone in
his bladder; nor the fine gentleman who had struck
up this bargain with him, that limped through a whole
assembly of ladies who used to admire him, with a pair
of shoulders peeping over his head.

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My
friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon
him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure
in it, that as I looked upon him I could not forbear
laughing at myself; insomuch that I put my own face
out of countenance. ‘The poor gentleman was so sen-
sible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of
what he had done: on the other side, I found that I
myself had no great reason to triumph; for as I went
to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped
my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose wasMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky
knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and
aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other genile-
men by me who were in the same ridiculous circum-
stances. These had made a foolish swap between a
cecuple of thick bandy legs and two long trap-sticks tha
had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man

walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air.

above his ordinary height, that his head turned round
with it; while the other made such awkward circles as
he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to
move forward on his own supporters. Observing him
to be a pleasant kind of a fellow, I stuck my cane in
the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of
wine that he did not march up to it, on a line that I
drew for him, in a quarter of an hour.

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes,
who made a most piteous sight as they wandered up
and down under the pressure of their several burdens.
The whole plain was filled with murmurs and com-
plaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter at length
taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them
a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to
give every one his own again. They discharged them-
selves with a great deal of pleasure; after which the
phantom who had led them into such gross delusions
was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her
stead a goddess of a quite different figure: her motions
were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but
cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes towards
heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter. Her name was
Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the
mount of sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable,
the whole heap sank to such a degree that it did not
appear a third part so big as it was before. She after-
wards returned every man his own proper calamity ; and
teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious
manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very
well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice
as to the kind of evils which fell to his lot.

Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn
out ofthis vision, I learnt from it never to repine
at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of
another, since it is impossible for any man to form a
right judgment of his neighbour’s sufferings ; for which
reason also I have determined never to think too lightly
of another’s complaints, but to regard the sorrows of
my fellow-creatures with sentiments of humanity and
compassion.

DIPLPPIL PL IF IAN

EGOTISM.
“Tr isa hard and nice subject for a man to speak of
himself,” says Cowley ; “it grates his own heart to say
any thing of disparagement, and the reader’s ears to
hear any thing of praise from him.” Let the tenor of
his discourse be what it will upon this subject, it gene-
rally proceeds from vanity. An ostentatious man will
rather relate a blunder or an absurdity he has com-
mitted, than be debarred from talking of his own dear
person.

Some very great writers have been guilty of this
fault. It is observed of Tully, in particular, that his
works run very much in the first person, and that he
takes all occasions of doing himself justice. “ Does he
think,” says Brutus, “that his consulship deserves more
applause than my putting Cesar to death, because I am
not perpetually talking of the Ides of March, as he is
of the Nones of December?’ I need not acquaint my
learned reader, that in the Ides of March Brutus de-
stroyed Ceesar; and that Cicero quashed the conspiracy
of Catiline in the calends of December. How shocking
soever this great man’s talking of himself might have
been to his contemporaries, I must confess I am never
better pleased than when he is on this subject. Such
openings of the heart give a man a thorough insight
into his personal character, and illustrate several pas-
sages in the history of his life; besides that there is
some little pleasure in discovering the infirmity of a

 

157

great man, and seeing how the opinion he has of him-
self agree: with what the world entertains of him.

The gent!emen of Port-Royal, who were more eminent
for their learning and their humility than any other in
France, banished the way of speaking in the first per-
son out of all vheir works, as rising from vain-glory and
self-conceit. ‘Lo show their particular aversion to it,
they branded this form of writing with the name of an
egotism ; a figure not to be found among the ancient
rhetoricians.

The most violent egotism which I have met with in
the course of my reading, is that of Cardinal Wolsey,
Ego et rex meus—“I and my king ;” as perhaps the
most eminent egotist that ever appeared in the world
was Montaigne, the author of the celebrated essays.
This lively old Gascon has woven all his bodily infir-
mities into his works; and after having spoken of the
faults or virtues of any other man, immediately pub-
lishes to the world how it stands with himself.in that
particular. Had he kept his own counsel, he might
have passed for a much better man, though, perhaps,
he would not have been so diverting an author. The
title of an essay promises perhaps a discourse upon
Virgil or Julius Czesar ; but when you look into it, you
are sure to meet with more upon Monsieur Montaigne
than of either of them. The young Scaliger, who seems
to have been no great friend to this author, after having
acquainted the world that his father sold herrings, adds
these words: La grande suidaise de Montaigne qui a
ecrit qwil aimoit mieux la vin blanc. Que diable a-ont
a faire de scavior ce qwil aime? “For my part,” says
Montaigne, “I am a great lover of your white wines.”
“ What the devil signifies it to the public,” says Scaliger,
“ whether he is a lover of white wines or of red wines ?”?

I cannot here forbear mentioning a tribe of egotists
for whom I always had a mortal aversion; I mean the
authors of memoirs, who are never mentioned in any
works but their own, and who raise all their productions
out of this single figure of speech. t AEN

Most of our modern prefaces savour very strongly of }
the egotism. Every insignificant author fancies it of
importance to the world to know that he wrote his book \,
in the country ; that he did it to pass away some of his C
idle hours ; that it was published at the importunity of
his friends; or that his natural temper, studies, or
conversations, directed him to the choice of his subject. /
Such information cannot but be highly improving to the
reader,

In works of humour, especially when a man writes
under a fictitious personage, the talking of one’s self
may give some diversion to the public; but I would
advise every other writer never to speak of himself,
unless there be something very considerable in his
character; though I am sensible this rule will be of
little use in the world, because there is no man who
fancies his thoughts worth publishing, that does not
look upon himself as a considerable person.

I shall close this paper with a remark upon such as
are egotists in conversation. ‘These are generally the
vain or shallow part of mankind, people being naturally
full of themselves when they have nothing else in them.
There is one kind of egotists which is very common in
the world, though I do not remember that any writer
has taken notice of them ; I mean those empty conceited
fellows who repeat as sayings of their own, or some of
their particular friends, several jests which were made
before they were born, and which every one who has
conversed in the world has heard a hundred times over.
A forward young fellow of my acquaintance was very
guilty of this absurdity ; he would always be laying a
new scene for some old piece of wit, and telling us, that
as he and Jack such-a-one were together, one or t’?other
of them had such a conceit on such an oceasion ; upon
which he would laugh very heartily, and wonder the
company did not join with him. When his mirth was
over, I have often reprehended him out of Terence,
“ Tuumne, obsecro te, hoc dictum erat? vetus credidi.?
But finding him still incorrigible, and having a kindness
for the young coxcomb, who was otherwise a good-138

natured fellow, I recommended to his pevusal the
Oxford and Cambridge jests, with several I:ttle pieces
of pleasantry of the same nature. Upon the reading
of them, he was under no small confusion’to find that
all his jokes had passed through several ¢ditions ; and
that what he thought was a new conceit, ind had appro-
priated to his own use, had appeared in print before he
or his ingenious friends were ever heavd of. This had
so good aneffect upon him, that he is content at present
to pass for 2 man of plain sense in his ordinary conver-
sation, and is never facetious but when he knows his
company.

PLIPLPLIOPLSS DPI OLODA

THE WORKS OF CREATION.

I was yesterday about sunset walking in the open fields,
until the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first
amused myself with all the richness and variety of
colours which appeared in the western parts of heaven.
In proportion as they faded away and went out, several
stars and planets appeared one after another, until the
whole firmament was ina glow. The blueness of the
ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the
season of the year, and by the rays of all those lumi-
naries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in
its most beautiful white. ‘To complete the scene, the
full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which
Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new
picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and
disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had
before discovered to us.

As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright-
ness, and taking her progress among'the constellations,
a thought rose in me which I believe very often per-
plexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative
natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection :
“‘ When I consider the heavens the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what
is man that thouart mindful of him, and the son of man
that thou regardest him?’ In the same manner, when
I considered that infinite host of stars, or to speak more
philosophicaily, of suns, which were then shining upon
me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds
which were moving round their respective suns—when
I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven
of suns and worlds rising still above this which we
discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior
firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great
a distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of
the former as the stars do to us—in short, while I
pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that
little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst
the immensity of God’s works.

Were the sun which enlightens this part of the crea-
tion, with all the host of planetary worlds that moveabout
him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would
not be missed more than a grain of sand upon the sea
shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly little
in comparison of the whole, that it would scarce make
w blank in the creation. The chasm would be imper-
ceptible to an eye that could take in the whole compass
of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the
other; as itis possible there may be such a sense in
ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at pre-
sent more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars
by the help of glasses which we do not discover with
our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the
more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries
this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible
there may be stars whose light is not yet travelled down
to us since their first creation. ‘There is no question
but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when
we consider that it is the work of infinite power
prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space
to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any
bounds to it?

To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not
but look upon myself with seeret horror as a being that
was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so

 

ADDISON’S

great a work under his care and superintendeney. I
was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of
nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures
which in all probability swarm through all these im-
measurable regions of matter.

In order to recover myself from this mortifying
thought, I considered that it took its rise from those
narrow conceptions which we are apt to entertain of the
divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many
different objects at the same time. If we are careful to
inspect some things, we must of course neglect others.
This imperfection which we observe in ourselves, is an
imperfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures
of the highest capacities, as they are creatures; that
is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence
of every created being is confined to a certain measure
of space, and consequently his observation is stinted to
a certain number of objects. ‘The sphere in which we
move, and act, and understand, is of a wider cireum-
ference to one creature than another, according as we
rise one above another in the scale of existence. But
the widest of these our spheres has its circumference.
When, therefore, we refiect on the divine nature, we
are so used and accustomed to this imperfection in
ourselves, that we cannot forbear in some measure
ascribing it to him in whom there is no shadow of im-
periection. Our reason indeed assures us that his
attributes are infinite ; but the poorness of our concep-
tions is such that it cannot forbear setting bounds to
every thing it contemplates, until our reason comes
again to our succour, and throws down all those little
prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural
to the mind of man.

We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this melan-
choly thought of our being overlooked by our Maker, in
the multiplicity of his works and the infinity of those
objects among which he seems to be incessantly em-
ployed, if we consider, in the first place, that he is
omnipresent; and in the second, that he is omniscient.

If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being
passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame
of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of
him. There is nothing he has made that is either so
distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does
not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the
substance of every being, whether material or imma-
terial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to
itself. It would be an imperfection in him were he able
to remove out of one place into another, or to withdraw
himself from any thing he has created, or from any
part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad
to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language
of the old philosopher, he is a being whose centre is
every where, and his circumference no where.

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as
omnipresent. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and
naturally flows from his omnipresence: he cannot but
be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole
material world, which he thus essentially pervades ;
and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual
world, to every part of which he isthus intimately united.
Several moralists have considered the creation as the
temple of God, which he has built with his own hands,
and which is filled with his presence. Others have
considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather
the habitation, of the Almighty. But the noblest and
most exalted way of considering this infinite space is
that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensoriwm of
the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriala,
or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the pre-
sence and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie
contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation
turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty
cannot but perceive and know every thing in which he
resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge,
and is, aS it were, an organ to omniscience.

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one
glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the
creatign—should it for millions of years continue itsMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 159

progress through infinite space with the same activity—
it would still find itself within the embrace of its creator,
and encompassed round with the immensity of the God-
head. While we are in the body, he is not less present
with us because he is concealed from us. “Oh that I
knew where I might find him!” says Job. © Behold I
go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I
cannot perceive him: on the left hand where he does
work, but I cannot behold him: he hideth himself on
the right hand that I cannot see him.” In short, reason
as well as revelation assures us, that he cannot be absent
from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us.

In this consideration of God Almighty’s omnipresence
and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes.
He cannot but regard every thing that has being, espe-
cially such of his creatures who fear they are not
regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts,
and to that anxiety of heart in particular which is apt
to trouble them on this occasion : for as it is impossible
he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be
confident that he regards with an eye of mercy those
who endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice,
and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves
unworthy that he should be mindful of them.

DIDS LIIIOLG PPL O DTIC LD

SATIRE ON A SCANDALOUS MODE OF
WRITING.

I HAVE received private advice from some of my cor-
respondents, that if I would give my paper a general
run, I should take care to season it with seandal. I
have indeed observed of late, that few writings tell
which are not filled with great names and illustrious
titles. The reader generally casts his eye upon a new
book; and if he finds several letters separated, from
one another by a dash, he buys it up, and peruses it
with great satisfaction. An M and anh, aT and an
r, with a short line between them, has sold many insipid
pamphlets. Nay, I have known a whole edition go off
by virtue of two or three well-written &c.’s.

A sprinkling of the word faction, Frenchmen, papist,
plunderer, and the like significant terms, in an Italic
character, have also a very good effect upon the eye of
the purchaser; not to mention scribdler, liar, rogue,
rascal, knave, and villain, without which it is impossible
to carry on a modern controversy.

Our party-writers are so sensible of the secret virtue
of an inuendo to recommend their productions, that of
late they never mention the q n or p——+t at length,
though they speak of them with honour, and with that
deference which is due to them from every private
person. It gives a secret satisfaction to a peruser of
those mysterious works, that he is able to decipher them
without help, and by the strength of his own natural
parts to fill up a blank space, or make out a word that
has only the first or last letter to it.

Some of our authors, indeed, when they would be more
satirical than ordinary, omit only the vowels of a great
man’s name, and fall most unmercifully upon all the
consonants. ‘I'his way of writing was first of all intro-
duced by '‘i-m Br-—wn, of facetious memory, who, after
having gutted a proper name of all its intermediate
vowels, used to plant it in his works, and made as free
with it as he pleased without any danger of the statute.

That I may imitate these celebrated authors, and
publish a paper which shall be more taking than
ordinary, I have here drawn up a very curious libel,
in which a reader of penetration will find a great deal
of concealed satire, and if he be acquainted with the
present posture of affairs, will easily discover the mean-
ing of it.

“Tf there are four persons in the nation who endea-
vour to bring all things into confusion, and ruin their
native country, I think every honest Engl-shm-n ought
to be upon his guard. That there are such, every one
will agree with me who hears me name ***, with his
first friend and favourite ***, not to mention *** nor
***, These people may ery ch-rch, ch—rch, as long as

L

 

 

 

 

they please ; but, to make use of a lomely proverb,
‘The proof of the p-dd-ng is in the eating.” This I am
sure of, that if a certain prince should coneur with a
certain prelate (and we have Monsieur Z n’s word
for it), our posterity would be in a sweet p-ckle. Must
the British nation suffer, forsooth, because my Lady
Q-—p-t—s has been disobliged? Or is it reasonable that
our English fleet, which used to be the terror of the
ocean, should lie wind-bound for the sake of a ¢]
love to speak out and declare my mind clearly, when I
am talking for the good of my country. I will not
make my court to an ill man, though he were a B ¥
ora T t. Nay, I would not stick to call so wretehed
a politician a traitor, an enemy to his country, and a,
bl-nd-rb-ss,” &e. &e.

The remaining part of this political treatise, which
is written after the manner of the celebrated authors
in Great Britain, I may communicate to the publie at
a more convenient season. In the meanwhile, 1 shall
leave this with my curious reader, as some ingenious
writers do their enigmas ; and if any sagacious person
can fairly unriddle it, I will print his explanation, and
if he pleases, acquaint the world with his name.

I hope this short essay will convince my readers it
is not for want of abilities that I avoid state tracts ; and
that if I would apply my mind to it, I might in a little
time be as great a master of the political scratch as any
the most eminent writers of the age. I shail only add,
that in order to outshine all this modern race of synco-
pists, and thoroughly content my English reader, I /
intend shortly to publish a Spectator that shall not hi ved
a single vowel in it.

 

 

 

 

POLS LILIIIL EL OLLI A

THE OVER-WISE.

i was yesterday in a coffee-house not far from the
Royal Exchange, where I observed three persons in
close conference over a pipe of tobacco ; upon which,
having filled one for my own use, I lighted it at the
little wax-candle that stood before them; and after
having thrown in two or three whiffs among them, sat
down and made one of the company. I need not tell
my reader, that lighting a man’s pipe at the same candle,
is looked upon by brother smokers as an overture to
conversation and friendship. As we here laid our heads
together in a very amicable manner, being entrenched
under a cloud of our own raising, I took up the last
Spectator, and casting my eye over it, “ The Spectator,”
says I, “is very witty to-day ;” upon which a lusty
lethargic old gentleman, who sat at the upper end of
the table, having gradually blown out of his mouth a
great deal of smoke, which he had been collecting for
some time before, “ Ay,” says he, “more witty than
wise, Tam afraid.” His neighbour, who sat at his right
hand, immediately coloured, and being an angry politi-
cian, laid down his pipe with so much wrath that he
broke it in the middle, and by that means furnished me
with a tobaeco-stopper. I took it up very sedately, and
looking him full in the face, made use of it from time
to time all the while he was speaking. “This fellow,”
says he, “ cannot for his life keep out of polities. Do
you see how he abuses four great men here?” I fixed
my eye very attentively on the paper, and asked him if
he meant those who were represented by asterisks.
“ Asterisks,” says he, “do you call them? they are all
of them stars. He might as well have put garters to
them. ‘Then pray do but mind the two or three next
lines ; ch-rch and p—dd—ng in the same sentence! Our
clergy are very much beholden to him.” Upon this
the third gentleman, who was of a mild disposition,
and, as I found, a whig in his heart, desired him not
to be too severe upon the Spectator neither; “ for,”
says he, “ you find he is very cautious in giving offence,
and has therefore put two dashes into his pudding.”
“A fig for his dash!” says the angry politician: “in
his next sentence he gives a plain inuendo, that our
posterity will be in a sweet p-ckle. What does the
fool mean by his pickle? Why does he not write it at
length, if he means honestly? I have read over the160

whole passage,” says I; “but I look upon the paren-
thesis in the middle of it to be the most dangerous part,
and as full of insinuation as it can hold. But who,”
says I, “is my Lady Q-p-t-s?” “Ay, answer that if
you can, Sir,” says the furious statesman to the poor
whig that sat over against him. But without giving
him time to reply, “I do assure you,” says he, “ were I
my Lady Q-p-t-s, I would sue him for scandalum mag-
natum, Whatis the world cometo! Must every body
be allowed to—” He had by this time filled a new pipe,
and applying it to his lips, when we expected the last
word of his sentence, put us off with a whiff of tobacco ;
which he redoubled with so much rage and trepidation,
that he had almost stifled the whole company. After
a short pause, I owned that I thought the Spectator
had gone too far in writing so many letters of the Lady
Q-p-t—s’s name ; “but however,” says I, “he has made
a little amends for it in his next sentence, where he
leaves a blank space without so much as a consonant
to direct us. I mean,” says I, “after those words,
“the fleet that used to be the terror of the ocean should
be wind-bound for the sake of a -;? after which
ensues a chasm that in my opinion looks modest enough.”
“Sir,” says my antagonist, “you may easily know his
meaning by his gaping; I suppose he designs his chasm,
as you call it, for a hole to creep out at; but I believe
it will hardly serve his turn. Who can endure to see
the great officers of state, the B-y’s and T-t’s treated
after so scurrilous a manner?” “T can’t for my life,”
says I, “imagine who they are the Spectator means.”
“ No!” says he; “your humble servant, Sir!” Upon
which he flung himself back in his chair after a con-
temptuous manner, and smiled upon the old lethargic
gentleman on his left hand, who I found was his great
admirer. The whig, however, had begun to conceive
a good will towards me, and seeing my pipe out, very
generously offered me the use of his box; but I declined
it with great civility, being obliged to meet a friend
about that time in another quarter of the city.

At my leaving the coffee-house, I could not forbear
reflecting with myself upon that gross tribe of fools who
may be termed the over-wise, and upon the difficulty
of writing any thing in this censorious age, which a
weak head may not construe into private satire and
personal reflection.

A man who has a good nose at an inuendo, smells
treason and sedition in the most innocent words that
can be put together, and never sees a vice or folly stig-
matised, but finds out one or other of his acquaintance
pointed at by the writer. J remember an empty prag-
matical fellow in the country, who, upon reading over

 

“ The Whole Duty of Man,” had written the names of

several persons in the village at the side of every sin
which is mentioned by that excellent author; so that
he had converted one of the best books in the world
into a libel against the squire, churchwardens, over-
seers of the poor, and all other the most considerable
persons in the parish. This book, with these extraor-
dinary marginal notes, fell accidentally into the hands
of one who had never seen it before ; upon which there
arose a current report that somebody had written a
book against the squire and the whole parish. The
minister of the place having at that time a controversy
with some of his congregation upon the account of his
tithes, was under some suspicion of being the author,
until the good man set his people right, by showing
them that the satirical passages might be applied to
several others of two or three neighbouring villages,
and that the book was written against all the sinners in
England.

DEPP PPPIL IPL PLDI OLLI EA

ON DRUNKENNESS.

No vices are so incurable as those which men are apt
to glory in. One would wonder how drunkenness
should have the good luck to be of this number. Ana-
charsis being invited to a drinking-match at Corinth,
demanded the prize very humorously, because he was
drunk before any of the rest of the company; “ for,”

oe nee ST aa I

 

ADDISON'S

says he, “when we run a ace, he who arrives at the
goal first is entitled to the reward.” On the contrary,
in this thirsty generation, the honour falls upon him
who carries off the greatest quantity of liquor, and
knocks down the rest of the company. I was the other
day with honest Will Funnell, the West Saxon, who
was reckoning up how much liquor had passed through
him in the last twenty years of his life, which, according
to his computation, amounted to twenty-three hogs-
heads of October, four tons of port, half a kilderkin
of small beer, nineteen barrels of cider, and three
glasses of champaigne; besides which, he had assisted
at four hundred bowls of punch, not to mention sips,
drams, and whets, without number. I question not but
every reader’s memory will suggest to him several
ambitious young men, who are as vain in this particular
as Will Funnell, and can boast of as glorious exploits.

Our modern philosophers observe that there is a
generai decay of moisture in the globe of the earth.
This they chiefly ascribe to the growth of vegetables,
which incorporate into their own substance many fluid
bodies that never return again to their former nature ;
but, with submission, they ought to throw into their
account those innumerable rational beings which fetch
their nourishment chiefly out of liquids, especially
when we consider that men, compared with their
fellow-creatures, drink much more than comes to their
share.

But however highly this tribe of people may think of
themselves, a drunken man is a greater monster than
any that is to be found among all the creatures which
God has made; as, indeed, there is no character which
appears more despicable and deformed in the eyes of
all reasonable persons, than that of a drunkard.
Bonosus, one of our own countrymen, who was addicted
to this vice, having set up for a share in the Roman
empire, and being defeated in a great battle, hanged
himself. When he was seen by the army in this melan-
choly situation, notwithstanding he had behaved himself
very bravely, the common jest was, that the thing they
saw hanging upon the tree before them was not a man,
but a bottle.

This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the body
and fortune, of the person who is devoted to it.

In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers every
flaw init. The sober man by the strength of reason may
keep under and subdue every vice or folly to which he
is most inclined; but wine makes every latent seed
sprout up in the soul, and show itself; it gives fury to
the passions, and force to those objeets which are apt
to produce them. When a young fellow complained to
an old philosopher that his wife was not handsome,
“ Put less water in your wine,” says the philosopher,
“and you will quickly make her so.” . Wine heightens
indifference into love, love into jealousy, and jealousy
into madness. It often turns the good-natured man
into an idiot, and the choleric into an assassin. It
gives bitterness to resentment; it makes vanity insup-
portable; and displays every little spot of the soul in
its utmost deformity.

Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults of a
man, and show them in the most odious colours, but
often occasions faults to which he is not naturally
subject. There is more of turn than of truth ina saying
of Seneca, that drunkenness does not produce but dis-
cover faults. Common experience teaches the contrary.
Wine throws a man out of himself, and infuses qualities
into the mind which she is a stranger to in her sober
moments. The person you converse with, after the
third bottle, is not the same man who at first sat down
at table with you. Upon this maxim is founded one
of the prettiest sayings I ever met with, which is
ascribed to Publius Syrus, Qui ebrium ludificat, ledit
absentem —“ He who jests upon a man that is drunk,
injures the absent.”

Thus does drunkenness act in a direct contradiction
to reason, whose business it is to clear the mind of
every vice which is crept into it, and to guard it against
all the approaches of any that endeavours to make its

spi Sata ame ia Ai ahi ig a lca tatMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

entrance. But besides those ill effects which this vice
produces in the person who is actually under its domi-
nion, it has also a bad influence on the mind even in
its sober moments; as it insensibly weakens the under-
standing, impairs the memory, and makes those faults
habitual which are produced by frequent excesses.

was

 

PRPS

PIOUS DEPENDENCE ON THE DEITY.

As the work I have engaged in will not only consist of
papers of humour and learning, but of several essays
moral and divine, I shall publish the following one,
which is founded on a former Spectator, and sent me
by a particular friend, not questioning but it will please
such of my readers as think it no disparagement to
their understandings to give way sometimes to a scrious
thought :—

“S1r—In one of your late papers you had occasion
to consider the ubiquity of the Godhead, and at the same
time to show, that as he is present to every thing, he
cannot but be attentive to every thing, and privy to all
the modes and parts of its existence; or, in other
words, that his omniscience and omnipresence are co-
existent, and run together through the whole infinitude
of space. This consideration might furnish us with
many incentives to devotion, and motives to morality ;
but as this subject has been handled by several excel-
lent writers, I shall consider it ina light wherein I have
not seen it placed by others.

First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intel-
lectual being who is thus present with his maker, but
at the same time receives no extraordinary benefit or
advantage from this his presence!

Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of an intel-
lectual being who feels no other effects from this his
presence but such as proceed from divine wrath and
indignation !

Thirdly, how happy is the condition of that intellec-
tual being who is sensible of his maker’s presence from
the secret effects of his mercy and loving kindness!
First, how disconsolate is the condition of an intellectual
being who is thus present with his maker, but at the
same time receives no extraordinary benefit or advan-
tage from this his presence !—Every particle of matter
is actuated by this almighty being which passes through
it. The heavens and the earth, the stars and planets,
move and gravitate by virtue of this great principle
within them. All the dead parts of nature are invigo-
rated by the presence of their creator, and made capable
of exerting their respective qualities. The several
instincts in the brute creation do likewise operate and
work towards the several ends which are agreeable to
them by this divine energy. Man only, who does not
co-operate with this holy spirit, and is inattentive to
his presence, receives none of those advantages from
it which are perfective of his nature, and necessary
to his well-being. The divinity is with him, and in
him, and every where about him, but of no advantage
to him. It is the same thing to a man without reli-
gion, as if there were no God in the world. It is,
indeed, impossible for an infinite being to remove him-
self from any of his creatures; but though he cannot
withdraw his essence from us, which would argue an
imperfection in him, he can withdraw from us all the
joys and consolations of it. His presence may, perhaps,
be necessary to support us in our existence; but he
may leave this our existence to itself, with regard to its
happiness or misery; for in this sense he may cast
us away from his presence, and take his holy spirit from
us. This single consideration one would think sufficient
to make us open our hearts to all those infusions of joy
and gladness which are so near at hand, and ready to
be poured in upon us; especially when we consider,
secondly, the deplorable condition of an intellectual
being who feels no other effects from his maker’s
presence but such as proceed from divine wrath and
indignation.

We may assure ourselves, that the great author of

 

161

nature will not always be as one who is indifferent to
any of his creatures. Those who will not feel him in
his love, will be sure at length to feel him in his displea-
sure. And how dreadful is the condition of that creature
who is only sensible of the being of his creator by what
he suffers from him: he is as essentially present in hell
as in heaven; but the inhabitants of the former behold
him only in wrath, and shrink within the flames to
conceal themselves from him. It is not in the power
of imagination to conceive the fearful effects of omni-
potence incensed.

But I shall only consider the wretchedness of an
intellectual being who in this life lies under the dis-
pleasure of him that at all times, and in all places, is
intimately united with him. He is able to disquiet the
soul, and vex it in all its faculties. He can hinder any
of the greatest comforts of life from refreshing us, and

give an edge to every one of its slightest calamities.
Who then can bear the thought of being an outeast

from his presence—that is, from the comforts of it; or
of feeling it only in its terrors?’ How pathetic is that
expostulation of Job, when for the trial of his patience
he was made to look upon himself in this deplorable
condition !—* Why hast thou set me as a mark against
thee, so that I am become a burden to myself? But,
thirdly, how happy is the condition of that intellectual
being who is sensible of his maker’s presence from the
secret effects of his mercy and loving kindness !

The blessed in heaven behold him face to face 3 that
is, are as sensible of his presence as we are of the pre-
sence of any person whom we look upon with our eyes.
There is doubtless a faculty in spirits, by which they
apprehend one another as our senses do material objects ;
and there is no question but our souls, when they are
disembodied or placed in glorified bodies, will by this
faculty, in whatever part of space they reside, be always
sensible of the divine presence, We, who have this
veil of flesh standing between us and the world of spirits,
must be content to know that the spirit of God is
present with us, by the effects which he produces in us.
Our outward senses are too gross to apprehend him :
we may, however, taste and see how gracious he is, by
his influence upon our minds ; by those virtuous thoughts
which he awakens in us; by those secret comforts and
refreshments which he conveys into our souls; and by
those ravishing joys and inward satisfactions which are
perpetually springing upand diffusing themselves among
all the thoughts of good men. He is lodged in our very
essence, and is as a soul within the soul to irradiate its
understanding, rectify its will, purify its passions, and
enliven all the powers of man. How happy, therefore,
is an intellectual being, who, by prayer and meditation,
by virtue and good works, opens this communication
between God and his own soul! Though the whole
creation frowns upon him, and all nature looks black
about him, he has his light and support within him,
that are able to cheer his mind and bear him up in the
midst of all those horrors. which encompass him. He
knows that his helper is at hand, and is always nearer
to him than any thing else can be which is capable of
annoying or terrifying him. In the midst of calumny
or contempt, he attends to that being who whispers
better things within his soul, and whom he looks upon
as his defender, his glory, and the lifter up of his head.
In his deepest solitude and retirement. he knows that
he is in company with the greatest of beings, and per-
ceives within himself such real sensations of his presence
as are more delightful than any thing that can be met
with in the conversation of his creatures. Even in the
hour of death, he considers the pains of his dissolution
to be nothing else but the breaking down of that parti-
tion which stands betwixt his soul and the sight of that
being who is always present with him, and is about to
manifest itself to him in fulness of joy.

If we would be thus happy, and thus sensible of our
maker’s presence, from the secret effects of merey and
goodness, we must keep such a watch over all our
thoughts, that, in the language of the seripture, ‘his
soul may have pleasure in us.’ We must take care not5
f
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4
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.
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162 ADDISON'S

to grieve his holy spirit, and endeavour to make the
neditations of our hearts always acceptable in his sight,
that he may delight thus to reside and dwellin us. The
light of nature could direct Seneca to this doctrine, in
a very remarkable passage-among his epistles: * There
as a holy spirit residing in us, who watches and observes
both good and evil men, and will treat us aiter the same
manner that we treat him.? But I shall eonclude this
discourse with those more emphatical words in divine
revelation : ‘ If a man love me, he will keep my words ;
and my iather will love him, and we will come unto
him, and make our abode with him. ”

REASONS FOR FEELING HAPPY.

I was onee engaged in discourse with a Rosicrucian
about “the great seeret.”” As this kind of men (1 mean
those of them who are not professed cheats) are overrun
with enthusiasm and philosophy, it was very amusing
to hear this religious adept descanting on his pretended
discovery. He talked of the seerct as of a spirit which
lived within an emerald, and converted every thing that
was near it to the highest perfection it was capable of.
“ It gives a lustre,” says he, “to the sun, and water to
the diamond. It irradiates every metal, and enriches
lead with all the properties of gold. It heightens smoke
into flame, flame into light, and light into glory.” He
further added, that a single ray of it dissipates pain,
and care, and melancholy, from the person on whom it
falls. “In short,” says he, “its presence naturally
changes every place into a kind of heaven.” After he
had gone on for some time in this unintelligible cant, I
found that he jumbled natural and moral ideas together
in the same discourse, and that his great secret was
nothing else but content.

This virtue does indeed produce in some measure all
those effects which the alchemist usually ascribes to
what he calls the philosopher’s stone ; and if it does not
bring riches, it does the same thing by banishing the
desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes
arising out of a man’s mind, body, or fortune, it makes
him easy under them. It has, indeed, a kindly influence
on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom
he stands related. It extinguishes all murmur, repin-
ing, and ingratitude, towards that being who has allotted
him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inor-
dinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption with
regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives
sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity
to all his thoughts.

<Among the many methods which might be made use

_of for the acquiring of this virtue, I shall only mention

the two following. First of all, a man should always
consider how much he has more than he wants: and
secondly, how much more unhappy he mi ght be than he
really is.

First of all, a man should always consider how much
he has more than he wants. Iam wonderfully pleased
with the reply which Aristippus made to one who con-
doled him upon the loss of a farm :—* Why,” said he,
“I have three farms still, and you have but one ; SO
that I ought rather to be afflicted for you, than you for
me.” On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to
consider what they have lost than what they possess,
and to fix theix eyes upon those who are richer than
themselves, rather than on those who are under greater
difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniences
of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is the humour of
mankind to be always looking forward, and straining
after one who has got the start of them in wealth and
honour. For this reason, as there are none can be
properly called rich who have not more than they
want, there are few rich men in any of the politer
nations but among the middle sort of people, who keep
their wishes always within their fortunes, and have
more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons
of a higher rank live at best in a kind of splendid
poverty, and are perpetually wanting ; because, instead

 

 

of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endea-
vour to outvie one another in shadows and appearances.
Men of sense have at all times beheld with a great deal
of mirth this silly game that is continually playing over
their heads, and, by contracting their desires, enjoy all
that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest
of. ‘The truth is, this ridiculous chase after Imaginary
pleasures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the
great source of those evils which generally undo a nation.
Let a man’s estate be what it will, he is a poor man if
he does not live within it, and naturally sets himself to
sale to any one who can give him his price. When
Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left
him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money
by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness,
but told him he had already more by half than he knew
what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to
wealth, and luxury to poverty ; or, to give the thought
a mere agreeable turn, “ Content is natural wealth,”
says Socrates ; to which I shalladd, “ Luxury is artifi-
cial poverty.” TI shall therefore recommend to the
consideration of those who are always aiming after
superiluous and imaginary enjoyments, and will not be
at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent
saying of Bion, the philosopher ; namely, “ That no man
has so much care as he who endeavours after the most
happiness.”

In the second place, every one ought to reflect how
much more unhappy he might be than he really is.
The former consideration took in all those who are
sufficiently provided with the means to make themselves
asy; this regards such as actually lie under some
pressure or misfortune. These may receive great
alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy
person may make between himself and others, or
between the misfortunes which he suffers, and greater
misfortunes which might have befallen him.

I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon
breaking his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the
standers-by it was a great mercy that it was not his neck,
Lo which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave
to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after
having invited some of his friends to dine with him,
was ruiiied by his wife that came into the room in a
passion, and threw down the table that stood before
them: “ Every one,” says he, “has his calamity ; and
he is a happy man that has no greater than this? We
find an instance to the same purpose in the life of Doctor
Hammond, written by Bishop Fell. As this good man
was troubled with a complication of distempers, when
he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that
it was not the stone; and when he had the stone, that
he had not both these distempers on him at the same
time.

I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that
there never was any system besides that of Christianity
which could effectually produce in the mind of man the
virtue | have been hitherto speaking of. In order to
make us content with our present condition, many of
the ancient philosophers tell us that our discontent only
hurts ourselves, without being able to make any aitera-
tion in our circumstances ; others, that whatever evil
befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which
the gods themselves are subject; while others very
gravely tell the man who is miserable, that it is neces-
sary he should be so to keep up the harmony of the
universe ; and that the scheme of Providence would be
troubled and perverted were he otherwise. These and
the like considerations rather silence than satisfy a man.
They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable,
but are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They
rather give despair than consolation. Ina word, a man
might reply to one of these comforters as Augustus did
to his friend who advised him not to grieve for the death
of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not
fetch him again: “ It is for that very reason,” said the
emperor, “ that I grieve.” 7

On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard
to human nature. It preseribes to every miscrable

ar a ana aMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSA YS9.

man the means of bettering his condition ; nay, it shows
him that the bearing of his afflictions as he ought to do
will naturally end in the removal of them: it makes
him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter.

Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest
blessing a man can enjoy in this world; and if in the
present life his happiness arises from the subduing of
his desires, it will arise in the next from the gratifica-
tion of them.

POOP PLPL PLO EDEL IL DE

LIVING FOR ETERNITY.

A ‘LEWD young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him
barefoot, “ Father,” says he, “ you are ina very miser-
able condition if there is not another world.” “ True,
son,” said the hermit ; “ but what is thy condition if there
is?” Man is acreature designed for two different states
of being, or rather for two different lives. His first life is
short and transient; his second permanent and lasting.
The question we are all concerned in is this: in which
of these two lives is it our chief interest to make our-
selves happy? or, in other words, whether we should
endeavour to secure to ourselves the pleasures and
gratifications of a life which is uncertain and precarious,
and at its utmost length of a very ineonsiderable dura-
tion; or to secure to ourselves the pleasures of a life
which is fixed and settled, and will never end 2 Every
man, upon the first hearing of this question, knows very
well which side of it he ought to close with. But however
right we are in theory, it is plain that in practice we
adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make
provisions for this life as though it were never to have
an end, and for the other life as though it were never
to have a beginning.

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to
human nature, accidentally alight upon the earth, and
take a survey of its inhabitants, what would his notions
of us be? Would he not think that we are a species of
beings made for quite different ends and purposes than
wereally are? Must not he imagine that we were placed
in this world to get riches and honours?’ Would he not
think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and
station, and title? Nay, would he not believe we were
forbidden poverty by threats of eternal punishment, and
enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pain of damna-
tion? He would certainly imagine that we were influ-
enced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to those
which are, indeed, prescribed tous. And truly, accord-
ing to such an imagination, he must conclude that we
are a species of the most obedient creatures in the
universe ; that we are constant to our duty; and that
we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent
hither.

But how great would be his astonishment when he
learned that we were beings not designed to exist in
this world above threescore and ten years, and that
the greatest part of this busy species fall short even of
that age! How would he be lost in horror and admi-
ration, when he should know that this set of creatures,
who lay out all their endeavours for this life, which
scarce deserves the name of existence—when, I say, he
should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all
eternity in another life, for which they make no prepa-
rations? Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason
than that men who are persuaded of these two different
states of being should be perpetually employed in pro-
viding for a life of threescore and ten years, and
neglecting to make provision for that which after many
myriads of years will be still new and still beginning ;
especially when we consider that our endeavours for
making ourselves great, or rich, or honourable, or
whatever else we place our happiness in, may after all
prove unsuccessful; whereas, if we constantly and
sincerely endeavovr to make ourselves happy in the
other life, we are sure that our endeavours will succeed,
and that we shall not be disappointed of our hope.

The following question is started by one of the
schoolmen :—Supposing the whole body of the eartl

 

 

163

were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a
Single grain or particle of this sand should be annihi-
lated every thousand years; supposing then that you
had it in your choice to be happy all the while this pro-
digious mass of sand was consumin g by this slow method
until there was not a grain of it left, on condition you
were to be miserable for ever after ; or supposing that
you might be happy for ever after, on condition you
would be miserable until the whole mass of sand was
thus annihilated at the rate of one grain of sand in a
thousand years, which of these two cases would you
make your choice?

It must be confessed in this case so many thousands
of years are to the imagination as a kind of eternity,
though in reality they do not bear so great a proportion
to that duration which is to follow them, as a unit does
to the greatest number which you can put together in
figures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap.
Reason, therefore, tells us, without any manner of
hesitation, which would be the better part in this choice.
However, as I have before intimated, our reason might
in such a case be so overset by the imagination, as to
dispose some persons to sink under the consideration of
the great length of the first part of this duration, and
of the great distance of that second duration which is
to succeed it. The mind, I say, might give itself up to
that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is
So very near, and that it would last so very long. But
when the choice we actually have before us is this ;
whether we will choose to be happy for the space of only
threescore and ten—nay, perhaps of only twenty or ten
years, I might say of only a day or an hour—and
miserable to ail eternity; or, on the contrary, miser-
able for this short term of years, and happy for a whole
eternity ; what words are sufficient to express that folly
and want of consideration which in such a case makes
a wrong choice !

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing,
what seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes us
miserable in this life; but if we suppose, as it gene-
rally happens, that virtue would make us more happy,
even in this life, than a contrary course of vice, how
can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of
those persons who are capable of making so absurd a
choice!

Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only
as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and

‘cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years to those

of an eternity.

rer or nr cr ron en

DANGER IN SINGULARITY.

I REMEMBER a young man of very lively parts, and of a
sprightly turn in conversation, who had only one fault,
which was an inordinate desire of appearin g fashionable.
He never went to bed until two o’clock in the morning,
because he would not be a queer fellow ; and was every
now and then knocked down by a constable to signalise
his vivacity. He was initiated into half a dozen clubs
before he was one-and-twenty, and so improved in them
his natural gaiety of temper, that you might frequently
trace him to his lodgings by a range of broken windows,
and other such monuments of wit and gallantry. To
be short—after having fully established his reputation
of being-a very agreeable rake, he died of old age at
five-and-twenty.

There is indeed nothing which betrays a man into
so many errors and inconveniences as the desire of not
appearing singular ; for which reason it is very neces-
sary to form a right idea of singularity, that we may
know when it is laudable and whenit is vicious. In the
first place, every man of sense will agree with me that
singularity is laudable, when, in contradiction to a
multitude, it adheres to the dictates of conscience,
morality, and honour. In these cases we ought to con-
sider that it is not custom but duty which is the rule of
action, and that we should be only so far sociable as
we are reasonable creatures. Truth is never the less.Se ee
ean oe

164

actions, not the number of actors, by which we ought
to regulate our behaviour. Singularity in concerns of
this kind is to be looked upon as heroie bravery, in
which a man leaves the species only as he soars above
it. What greater instance can there be of a weak and
pusillanimous temper, than for a man to pass his whole
life in opposition to his own sentiments, or not to dare
to be what he thinks he ought to be?

Singularity, therefore, is only vicious when it makes
men act contrary to reason, or when it puts them upon
distinguishing themselves by trifles. As for the first
of these, who are singular in any thing that is irreli-
gious, immoral, or dishonourable, I believe every one
will easily give them up. TI shall, therefore, speak of
those only who are remarkable for their singularity in
things of no importance, as in dress, behaviour, conver-
sation, and all the little intercourses of life. In these
cases there is a certain deference due to custom 3; and
notwithstanding there may be a colour of reason to
deviate from the multitude in some particulars, a man
ought to sacrifice his private inclinations and opinions
to the practice of the public. It must be confessed that
good sense oftenmakes a humorist ; but then it unquali-
fies him for being of any moment in the world, and
renders him ridiculous to persons of a much inferior
understanding.

I have heard of a gentleman in the north of England,
who wasa remarkable instance of this foolish singularity.
He had laid it down as a rule within himself, to act in
the most indifferent parts of life according to the mos
abstracted notions of reason and good sense, without
any regard to fashion and example. This humour
broke out at first in many little oddnesses: he had
never any stated hours for his dinner, supper, or sleep ;
because, said he, we ought to attend the calls of nature,
and not set our appetites to our meals, but bring our
meals to our appetites. In his conversation with
country gentlemen, he would not make use of a phrase
that was not strictly true: he never told any of them
that he was his humble servant, but that he was his
well-wisher ; and would rather be thought a malcontent
than drink the king’s health when he was not dry. He
would thrust his head out of his chamber-window every
morning; and after having gaped for fresh air about
half an hour, repeat fifty verses as loud as he could
bawl them, for the benefit of his lungs: to which end
he generally took them out of Homer ; the Greek tongue,
especially in that author, being more deep and sonorous,
and more conducive to expectoration, than any other.
He had many other particularities, for which he gave
sound and philosophical reasons. As this humour still
grew upon him, he chose to wear a turban instead of
a periwig; concluding very justly, that a bandage of
clean linen about his head was much more wholesome, as
well as cleanly, than the caul of a wig, which is soiled
with frequent perspirations. He afterwards judiciously
observed, that the many ligatures in our English dress
must naturally check the circulation of the blood ; for
which reason he made his breeches and his doublet of one
continued piece of cloth, after the manner of the hussars.
In short, by following the pure dictates of reason, he at
length departed so much from the rest of his country-
men, and indeed from his whole species, that his friends
would have clapped him into Bedlam, and have begged
his estate ; but the judge being informed that he did no
harm, contented himself with issuing out a commission
of lunacy against him, and putting his estate into the
hands of proper guardians.

The fate of this philosopher puts me in mind of a
remark in Monsieur Fontenelle’s Dialogues of the Dead.
“The ambitious and the covetous,” says he, “ave mad-
men to all intents and puposes, as much as those who
are shut up in dark rooms; but they have the good luck
to have numbers on their side; whereas the phrensy of
one who is given up for a lunatic, is a phrensy hors
@euvre ;” that is, in other words, something which is
singular in its kind, and does not fall in with the mad-
ness of a multitude.

 

ADDISON’S

So for not being attended to; and it is the nature of |

CONTEMPLATION OF THE GLORIES OF
HEAVEN.

“Sir—I considered in my two last letters that awful
and tremendous subject, the ubiquity or omnipresence
of the Divine Being. I have shown that he is equally
present in all places throughout the whole extent of
infinite space. This doctrine is so agreeable to reason,
that we meet with it in the writings of the enlightened
heathens, as I might show at large, were it not already
done by other hands. But though the Deity be thus
essentially present through all the immensity of space,
there is one part of it in which he discovers himself in
a most transcendant and visible glory. This is that
place which is marked out in scripture under the dif-
ferent appellations of paradise, the third heaven, the
throne of God, and the habitation of his glory. It is
here where the glorified body of our Saviour resides,
and where all the celestial hierarchies, and the innu-
merable hosts of angels, are represented as perpetually
urrounding the seat of God with hallelujahs and hymns
of praise. This is that presence of God which some of
the divines call his glorious, and others his majestic
presence. He is indeed as essentially present in all
other places as in this; but it is here where he resides
in a sensible magnificence, and in the midst of all those
splendours which can affect the imagination of created
beings.

It is very remarkable that this opinion of God
Almighty’s presence in Heaven, whether discovered
by the light of nature or by a general tradition from
our first parents, prevails among all the nations of the
world, whatsoever different notions they entertain of
the Godhead. If you look into Homer, the most ancient
of the Greek writers, you see the Supreme Power seated
in the heavens, and encompassed with inferior deities :
among whom the muses are represented as singing
incessantly about his throne. Who does not here see
the main strokes and outlines of this great truth we are
speaking of? The same doctrine is shadowed out in
many other heathen authors, though at the same time,
like several other revealed truths, dashed and adulte-
rated with a mixture of fables and human inventions.
But to pass over the notions of the Greeks and Romans,
those more enlightened parts of the pagan world, we
find there is scarce a people among the late discovered
nations who are not trained up in an opinion that
Heaven is the habitation of the divinity whom they
worship.

As in Solomon’s temple there was the sanctum sanc-
torum, in which a visible glory appeared among the
figures of the cherubim, and into which none but the
high-priest himself was permitted to enter, after having
made an atonement for the sins of the people, so if we
consider the whole creation as one great temple, there
is in it this holy of holies, into which the high-priest of
our salvation entered, and took his place among angels
and archangels, after having made a propitiation for
the sins of mankind.

With how much skill must the throne of God be
erected !—with what glorious designs is that habitation
beautified, which is contrived and built by him who
imspired Hiram with wisdom !—how great must be the
majesty of that place, where the whole art of creation
has been employed, and where God has chosen to show
himself in the most magnificent manner! What must
be the architecture of infinite power under the direction
of infinite wisdom? A spirit cannot but be transported
after an ineffable manner with the sight of those objects
which were made to affect him by that Being who knows
the inward frame of a soul, and how to please and ravish
it in all its most secret powers and faculties. Itis to
this majestic presence of God we may apply those beau-
tiful expressions in holy writ: ‘Behold even to the
moon, and it shineth not; yea the stars are not pure in
his sight.’ The light of the sun, and all the glories of
the world in which we live, are but as weak and sickly
ghmmerings, or rather darkness itself, in comparison
of those splendours which encompass the throne of God.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS. 165

As the glory of this place is transcendant beyond
imagination, so, probably, is the extent of it. There is
light behind light, and glory within glory. How far
that space may reach, in which God thus appears in
perfect majesty, we cannot possibly conceive. Though
it is not infinite, it may be indefinite ; and though not
immeasurable in itself, it may be so with regard to any
created eye or imagination. If he has made these lower
regions of matter so inconceivably wide and magnificent
for the habitation of mortal and perishable beings, how
great may we suppose the courts of his house to be,
where hemakes his residence in a more especial manner,
and displays himself in the fulness of his glory, among
an innumerable company of angels and spirits of just
men made perfect!

This is certain, that our imaginations cannot be raised
too high, when we think on a place where omnipotence
and omniscience have so signally exerted themselves,
because that they are able to produce a scene infinitely
more great and glorious than what we are able to ima-
gine, It is not impossible but at the consummation of
all things, these outward apartments of nature, which
are now suited to those beings who inhabit them, may
be taken in and added to that glorious place of which
I am here speaking ; and, by that means, made a proper
habitation for beings who are exempt from mortality,
and cleared of their imperfections ; for so the scripture
seems to intimate when it speaks of new heavens and of
a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness.

I have only considered this glorious place with regard
to the sight and imagination, though it is highly pro-
bable that our other senses may here likewise enjoy their
highest gratifications. There is nothing which more
ravishes and transports the soul than harmony; and
we have great reason to believe, from the descriptions
of this place in holy scripture, that this is one of the
entertainments of it. And if the soul of man can be so
wonderfully affected with those strains of music which
human art is capable of producing, how much more will
it be raised and elevated by those in which is exerted
the whole power of harmony! The senses are faculties
of the human soul, though they cannot be employed
during this our vital union without proper instruments
in the body. Why, therefore, should we exclude the
satisfaction of these faculties, which we find by expe-
rience are inlets of great pleasure to the soul, from
among those entertainments which are to make up our
happiness hereafter 2 Why should we suppose that our
hearing and seeing will not be gratified with those
objects which are most agreeable to them, and which
they cannot meet with in those lower regions of nature :
‘ objects which neither eye hath seen, nor ear heard,
nor can it enter into the heart of man to conceive!’
‘I knew a man in Christ,’ says St Paul, speaking of
himself, ‘above fourteen years (whether in the body or
out of the body I cannot tell—God knoweth); such a
one caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such
a man (whether in the body or out of the body I can-
not tell—God knoweth), how that he was caught up
into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is
not possible for a man toutter.’? By this is meant, that
what he heard was so infinitely different from any thing
which he had heard in this world, that it was impossible
to express it in such words as might convey a notion of
it to his hearers.

It is very natural for us to take delight in inquiries
concerning any foreign country, where we are some
time or other to make our abode; and as we all hope
to be admitted into this glorious place, it is both a
laudable and useful curiosity to get what informa-
tion we can of it, whilst we make use of revelation
for our guide. When these everlasting doors shall be
open to us, we may be sure that the pleasures and
beauties of this place will infinitely transcend our pre-
sent hopes and expectations; and that the glorious
appearance of the throne of God will rise infinitely
beyond whatever we are able to conceive of it. We
might here entertam ourselves with many other specu-
lations on this subject, from those several hints which

 

we find of it in the holy seripture; as, whether there
may not be different mansions and apartments of glory
to beings of different natures; whether, as they excel
one another in perfection, they are not admitted nearer
to the throne of the Almighty, and enjoy greater mani-
festations of his presence ; whether there are not solemn
times and occasions, when all the multitude of heaven
celebrate the presence of their Maker in more extra-
ordinary forms of praise and adoration; as Adam,
though he had continued ina state of innocence, would,
in the opinion of our divines, have kept holy the Sabbath
day in a more particular manner than any other of the
seven. These, and the like speculations, we may very
innocently indulge, so long as we make use of them to
inspire us with a desire of becoming inhabitants of this
delightful world.

I have in this, and in two foregoing letters, treated
on the most serious subjects that can employ the mind
of man, the omnipresence of the Deity ; a subject which,
if possible, should never depart from our meditations.
We have considered the Divine Being, as he inhabits
infinitude, as he dwells among his works, as he ig pre-
sent to the mind of man, and as he discovers himself
in amore glorious manner among the regions of the
blessed. Such a consideration should be kept awake
in us at all times and in all places, and possess our
minds with a perpetual awe and reverence. It should
be interwoven with all our thoughts and perceptions,
and become one with the consciousness of our own being.
It is not to be reflected on in the coldness of philosophy,
but ought to sink us into the lowest prostration before
him who is so astonishingly great, wonderful, and holy.”

THE ITCH FOR WRITING.

THEREis acertain distemper, which is mentioned neither
by Galen nor Hippocrates, nor to be met with in the
London Dispensary. Juvenal terms it a cacotthes,
which is a hard word for a disease called in plain Eng-
lish “ the itch of writing.’ This cacodthes is as epide-
mical as the small-pox ; there being very few who are
not seized with it some time or other in thei lives.
There is, however, this difference in these two distem-
pers, that the first, after having indisposed you for a
time, never returns again ; whereas this I am speaking
of, when it is once got into the blood, seldom comes out
of it. The British nation is very much afflicted with
this malady ; and though very many remedies have been
applied to persons infected with it, few have ever proved
successful, Some have been cauterised with satires and
lampoons, but have received little or no benefit from
them ; others have had their heads fastened for an hour
together between a cleft board, which is made use of
as a cure for the disease when it appears in its greatest
malignity. There is, indeed, one kind of this malady
which has been sometimes removed like the biting of a
tarantula, with the sound of a musical instrument, which
is commonly known by the name of a cat-call. But if
you have a patient of this kind under your care, you
may assure yourself there is no other way of recovering
him effectually but by forbidding him the use of pen,
ink, and paper. *

But to drop the allegory, before I have tired it out,
there is no species of scribblers more offensive and
more incurable than your periodical writers, whose
works return upon the public on certain days and at
stated times. We have not the consolation in the
perusal of these authors which we find at the reading
of all others ; namely, that we are sure if we have but
patience, we may come to the end of their labours. I
have often admired a humorous saying of Diogenes,
who, reading a dull author to several of his friends,
when every one began to be tired, finding he was
almost come toa blank leaf at the end of it, cried,
“ Courage, lads, I see land!” On the contrary, our
progress through that kind of writers I am now speak-
ing of is never at an end. One day makes work for
another, We do not know when to promise ourselves
rest.eathaimas ial, Lephaac ieee ae

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166 ADDISON'S

It is a melancholy thing to consider that the art of
printing, which might be the greatest blessing to man-
kind, should prove detrimental to us, and that it should
be made use of to scatter prejudice and ignorance
through a people, instead of conveying to them truth
and knowledge.

I was lately reading a very whimsical treatise, entitled
“ William Ramsay’s Vindication of Astrology.” This
profound author, among many other mystical passages,
has the following one :—“ The absence of the sun is not
the cause of night ; forasmuch as his light is so great that
it may illuminate the earth all over at once as clear as
broad day: but there are tenebrificous and dark stars,
by whose influence night is brought on, and which do
‘ay out darkness and obscurity upon the earth as the
sun does light.”

 

I consider writers in the same view this sage astro- |
loger does the heavenly bodies. Some of them are stars |

that seatter light as others do darkness. I could mention
several authors who are tenebrificous stars of the first

magnitude, and point out a knot of gentlemen who have |

been dull in concert, and may be looked upon as a dark
constellation. The nation has been a great while be-
nighted ‘with several of these antiluminaries. I suffered
them to ray out their darkness as long as I was able to
endure it ; till at length I came to a resolution of rising
upon them, and hope in a little time to drive them quite
out of the British hemisphere.

PLEASURE IN OCCUPATION.
Every station of life has duties which are proper to it.
Those who are determined by choice to any particular
kind of business, are indeed more happy than those who
are determined by necessity; but both are under an
equal obligation of fixing on employments which may be
either useful to themselves or beneficial to others. No
one of the sons of Adam ought to think himself exempt
from that labour and industry which were denounced
to our first parent, and in him to all his posterity.
Those to whom birth or fortune may seem to make such

|

anapplication unnecessary, ought tofind out some ealling |
or profession for themselves, that they may not lie as |

a burden on the species, and be the only useless parts
of the creation.

Many of our country gentlemen in their busy hours |

apply themselves wholly to the chase, or to some other

diversion which they find in the fieldsand woods. This |

gave occasion to one of our most eminent English
writers to represent every one of them as lying under
a kind of curse pronounced to them in the words of
Goliah ; ** I will give thee to the fowls of the air, and to
the beasts of the field.”

Though exercises of this kind, when indulged with
moderation, may have a good influence both on the mind
and body, the country affords many other amusements
of a more noble kind.

Among these I know none more delightful in itself |

and befeficial to the public than that of planting. I

delighted with his productions than any other writer
or artist whatsoever.

Plantations have one advantage in them which is not
to be found in most other works, as they give a pleasure
of a more lasting date, and continually improve in the
eye of the planter. When you have finished a building,
or any other undertaking of the like nature, it immedi-
ately decays upon your hands; you see it brought to
the utmost point of perfection, and from that time
hastening to its ruin. On the contrary, when you have
finished your plantations, they are still arriving at
greater degrees of perfection as long as you live, and
appear more delightful in every succeeding year than
they did in the foregoing.

But I do not only recommend this art to men of
estates as a pleasing amusement, but as it is a kind of
virtuous employment, and may therefore be ineuleated
by moral motives ; particularly from the love which we
ought to have for our country, and the regard which
we ought to bear to our posterity. As for the first, I
need only mention what is frequently observed by

| others, that the inerease of forest trees does by no

means bear a proportion to the destruction of them;
insomuch that in afew ages the nation may be at a loss
to supply itself with timber sufficient for the fleets of
England. JI know, when a man talks of posterity in
matters of this nature, he is looked upon with an eye
of ridicule by the cunning and selfish part of mankind.
Most people are of the humour of an old fellow of a
college, who when he was pressed by the society to
come into something that might redound to the goed of
their successors, grew very peevish: “ We are always
doing,” says he, “ something for posterity ; but I would
fain see posterity do something for us.”

But I think men are inexcusable who fail in a duty
of this nature, since it is so easily discharged. When
«man considers that the putting a few twigs into the
ground is doing good to one who will make his appear-
ance in the world about fifty years hence, or that he is
perhaps making one of his own descendants easy or rich
by so inconsiderable an expense, if he finds himself
averse to it, he must conclude that he has a poor and
base heart, void of all generous principles and love to
mankind.

There is one consideration which may very much
enforce what I have here said. Many honest minds,
that are naturally disposed to do good in the world, and
become beneficial to mankind, complain within them-
selves that they have not talents for it. This therefore
is a good office, which is suited to the meanest capaci-
ties, and which may be performed by multitudes who
have not abilities sufficient to deserve well of their
country, and to recommend themselves to their poste-
rity by any other method. It is the phrase ofa friend

| of mine when any useful country neighbour dies, that

“you may trace him ;” which I look upon asa good
funeral oration at the death of an honest husbandman,

| who hath left the impressions of his industry behind him

|

could mention a nobleman, whose fortune has placed |

him in several parts of England, and who has always
Jeft those visible marks behif€l him which show he has
been there. He never hired a house in his life without
leaving all about it the seeds of wealth, and bestowing
legacies on the posterity of the owner. Had all the
gentlemen of England made the same improvements
upon their estates, our whole country would have been
at this time as one great garden. Nor ought such an
employment to be looked upon as too inglorious for men
of the highest rank. There have been heroes in this
art as well as in others. We are told in particular of
Cyrus the Great, that he planted all the Lesser Asia.
There is, indeed, something truly magnificentin this kind
ot amusement. It gives a nobler air to several parts
of nature; it fills the earth with a variety of beautiful
scenes, and has something in it like creation. For this
reason, the pleasure of one who plants is something like

 

in the place where he has lived.

Upon the foregoing considerations, I can scarcely
forbear representing the subject of this paper as a kind
of moral virtue ; which, as I have already shown, recom-
mends itself likewise by the pleasure that attends it.
It must be confessed that this is none of those turbu-
Jent pleasures which are apt to gratify a man in the heats
of youth: but if it be not so tumultuous, it is more last-
ing. Nothing can be more delightful than to entertain
ourselves with prospects of our own making, and to walk
under those shades which our own industry has raised.
Amusements of this nature compose the mind, and lay
at rest all those passions which are uneasy to the soul
of man; besides that they naturally engender good
thoughts, and dispose us to laudable contemplations.
Many of the old philosophers passed away the greatest
parts of their lives among their gardens. Epicurus
himself could not think sensual pleasure attainable in
any other scene. Every reader who is acquainted with
Homer, Virgil, and Horace, the greatest geniuses of all

that of a poet, who, as Aristotle observes, is more ! antiquity, knows yery well with how much rapture theyMORAL

have spoken on this subject; and that Virgil, in parti-
cular, has written a whole book on the art of planting

a

DEMONSTRATION OF THE ETERNITY
OF A GOD.
‘Tn following discourse comes from the same hand with
the essays upon infinitude :—

“ We consider infinite space as an expansion without
a circumference ; we consider eternity, or infinite dura-
tion, as a line that has neither a beginning nor an end.
In our speculations of infinite space, we consider that
particular place in which we exist as a kind of centre to
the whole expansion, In our speculations of eternity,
we consider the time which is present to us as the middle,
which divides the whole line into two equal parts. For
this reason, many witty authors compare the present
time to a narrow neck of land that rises in the midst
of an ocean immeasurably diffused on either side of it.

Philosophy, and, indeed, common sense, naturally
throws eternity under two divisions, which we may eall
in English that eternity which is past, and that eternity
which is to come. The learned terms of A@lernitas a
parte ante, and &ternitas a parte post, may be more
amusing to the reader, but can have no other idea affixed
to them than what is conveyed to us by those words,
an eternity that is past, and an eternity that is to come.
Each of these extremities is bounded at the one extreme ;
or, in other words, the former has an end, and the
latter a beginning.

Let us first of all consider that eternity which is past,
reserving that which is to come for the subject of another
paper. The nature of this eternity is utterly inconceiv-
able by the mind of man; our reason demonstrates to
us that it has been, but at the same time can frame no
idea of it but what is big with absurdity and contradic-
tion. We can have no other conception of any duration
which is past than that all of it was onee present ; and
whatever was once present is at some certain distance
from us; and whatever is at any certain distance from
us, be the distance ever so remote, cannot be eternity.
The very notion of any duration being past, implies that
it was once present, for the idea of being once present
is actually included in the idea of its being past. This,
therefore, isa depth not to be sounded by human under-
standing. Weare sure that there has been an eternity,
and yet contradict ourselves when we measure this
eternity by any notion which we can frame of it.

If we go to the bottom of this matter, we shall find
that the difficulties we meet with in our conceptions of
eternity proceed from this single reason, that we can
have no other idea of any kind of duration, than that by
which we ourselves and all other created beings do
exist ; which is a successive duration, made up of past,
present, and to come. ‘There is nothing which exists
after this manner, all the parts of whose existence were
not once actually present, and consequently may be
reached by a certain number of years applied to it.
We may ascend as high as we please, and employ our
being to that eternity which is to come, in adding mil-
lions of years to millions of years, and we can never
come up to any fountain-head of duration, to any begin-

ning in eternity ; but at thesame time we are sure, that |

whatever was once present does lie within the reach of
numbers, that perhaps we can never be able to put
enough of them together for that purpose. We may

as well say, that any thing may be actually present in |
any part of infinite space, which does not lie at a cer- |

tain distance from us, as that any part of infinite dura-
tion was once actually present, and does not also lie at
some determined distance from us. ‘he distance in
both eases may be immeasurable and indefinite as to
our faculties, but our reason tells us that it cannot be
so in itself. Here, therefore, is that difficulty which
human understanding is not capable of surmounting.
We are sure that something must have existed from
eternity, and are at the same time unable to conceive
that any thing which exists, according to our notion of
existence, cau have existed from eternity,

AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

 

 

 

167

It is hard for a reader who has not rolled this
thought in his own mind, to follow in such an abstracted
speculation ; but I have been the longer on it, because
I think it is a demonstrative argument of tlie being and
eternity of a God: and though there are many other
demonstrations which lead us to this great truth, I do
not think we ought to-lay aside any proofs in this matter
which the light of reason has suggested to us, especially
When it is such a one as has been urged by men famous
for their penetration and force of understanding, and
which appears altogether conclusive to those who will
be at the pains to examine it.

Having thus considered that eternity which is past,
according to the best idea we can frame of it, I shall
now draw up those several articles on this subject,
which are dictated to us by the light of reason, and
which may be looked upon as the creed of a philosopher
in this great point.

First, It is certain that no being could have made
itself; for, if so, it must have acted before it was, which
is a contradiction.

Secondly, That, therefore, some being must have
existed from all eternity.

Thirdly, That whatever exists after the manner of
created beings, or according to any notions which we
have of existence, could not have existed from eternity.

ourthly, That this Eternal Being must therefore be
the great author of nature, ‘the Ancient of Days,’ who
being at an infinite distance in his perfections from all
finite and created beings, exists in a quite different
manner from them, and in a manner of which they can
have no idea.

I know that several of the schoolmen, who would not
be thought ignorant of any thing, have pretended to
explain the manner of God’s existence, by telling us,
that he comprehends infinite duration in every moment;
that eternity is with him a punctwm stans, a fixed point ;
or, which is as good sense, an infinite instant; that
nothing with reference to his existence is either past or
to come: to which the ingenious Mr Cowley alludes in
his deseription of heaven. )

** Nothing is there to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal now does always last.”

lor my own part, I look upon these propositions as
words that have no ideas annexed to them; and think
men had better own their ignorance, than advance
doctrines by which they mean nothing, and which in-
deed are self-contradictory. We cannot be too modest
in our disquisitions, when we meditate on him who is
environed with so much glory and perfection, who is
the source of being, the fountain of all that existence
which we and his whole creation derive from him. Let
us, therefore, with the utmost humility acknowledge,
that as some being must necessarily have existed from
eternity, so this being does exist after an incomprehen-
sible manner, since it is impossible for a being to have
existed from eternity after our manner or notions of
existence, Revelation confirms these natural dictates
of reason, in the accounts which it gives us of the divine
existence, where it tells us that he is the same yester-
day, to-day, and for ever; that he is the Alpha and
Omega, the beginning al the ending ; that a thousand
years are with him as one day, and one day as a thou-
sand years ; by which, and the like expressions, we are
taught, that his existence with relation to time or dura-
tion is infinitely different from the existence of any of
his creatures, and consequently that it is impossible for
us to frame any adequate conceptions of it.

In the first revelation which he makes of his own
being, he entitles himself, *I am that I am;? and when
Moses desires to know what name he shall give him in
his embassy to Pharoah, he bids him say that ‘I am
hath sent you.’ Our great Creator, by this revelation
of himself, does in a manner exclude every thing else
from a real existence, and distinguishes himself from
his creatures as the only being which truly and really
exists. ‘lhe ancient Platonic notion, which was drawn
from speculations of eternity, wonderfully agrees with

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168

this revelation which God has made of himself. There
is nothing, say they, which in reality exists, whose exist-
ence, as we call it, is pieced up of past, present, and
to come. Such a flitting and successive existence is
rather a shadow of existence, and something which is
like it, than existence itself. He only properly exists
whose existence is entirely present; that is, in other
words, who exists in the most perfect manner, and in
such a manner as we have no idea of.

I shall conclude this speculation with one useful
inference. How can we sufficiently prostrate ourselves
and fall down before our Maker, when we consider that
ineffable goodness and wisdom which contrived this
existence for finite natures? What must be the over-
flowings of that good will which prompted our Creator
to adapt existence to beings in whom it is not necessary ;
especially when we consider that he himself was before
in the complete possession of existence and of happiness,
and in the full enjoyment of eternity! What man can
think of himself as called out and separated from no-
thing, of his being made a conscious, a reasonable, and
a happy creature, in short, of being taken in as a sharer
of existence, and a kind of partner in eternity, without
being swallowed up in wonder, in praise, in adoration !
It is indeed a thought too big for the mind of man, and
rather to be entertained in the secrecy of devotion,
and in the silence of his soul, than to be expressed by
words. The Supreme Being has not given us powers
or faculties sufficient to extol and magnify such unut-
terable goodness.

It is however some comfort to us, that we shall be

always doing what we shall be never able to do, and that |

a work which cannot be finished, will however be the
work of an eternity.”
“BE SERIOUS.”

Manxkinp may be divided into the merry and tlie serious,
who both of them make avery good figure in the species,
so long as they keep their respective humours from
degenerating into the neighbouring extreme; there
being a natural tendency in the one to a melancholy
moroseness, and in the other to a fantastic levity.

The merry part of the world are very amiable, while
they diffuse a cheerfulness through conversation at
proper seasons and on proper occasions; but, on the
contrary, a great grievance to society, when they infect
every discourse with insipid mirth, and turn into ridicule
such subjects as are not suited to it. For although
Jaughter is looked upon by the philosophers as the
property of reason, the excess of it has been always
considered as the mark of folly.

On the other side, seriousness has its beauties whilst

it is attended with cheerfulness and humanity, and does |

not come in unseasonably to pall the good humour of
those with whom we converse.

These two sets of men, notwithstanding they each of |

them shine in their respective characters, are
bear a natural aversion and antipathy to one another.

What is more usual than to hear men of serious
tempers and austere morals enlarging upon the vanities
and follies of the young an
while they look with a kind of horror upon such pomps
and diversions as are innocent in themselves, and only
culpable when they draw the mind too much ?

I could not but smile upon reading a passage in the
account which Mr Baxter gives of his own life ; wherein
he represents it as a great blessing, that in his youth
he very narrowly escaped getting a place at court.

It must indeed be confessed, that levity of temper
takes a man off his guard, and opens a pass to his soul
for any temptation that assaults it. It favours all the
approaches of vice, and weakens all the resistance of
virtue. For which reason, a renowned statesman in
Queen Elizabeth’s days, after having retired from court
and public business, in order to give himself up to the
duties of religion, when any of his old friends used to
visit him, had gtill this word of advice in his mouth,
* Be serious |”

apt to

gay part of the species, |

mat
3

ADDISON'S

An eminent Italian author of this cast of mind,
speaking of the great advantage of a serious and com-
posed temper, wishes very gravely, that for the benefit
of mankind he had Trophonius’s cave in his possession ;
“which,” says he, “would contribute more to the
reformation of manners than all the work-houses and
bridewells in Europe.”

We have avery particular description of this cave in
Pausanias, who tells us that it was made in the form of
a huge oven, and had many particular circumstances
which disposed the person who was in it to be more
pensive and thoughtful than ordinary ; insomuch, that
no man was ever observed to laugh all his life after
he had once made his entry into this cave. It was
usual in those times, when any one carried a more than
ordinary gloominess in his features, to tell him that he
looked like one just come out of Trophonius’s cave.

On the other hand, writers of a more merry com-
plexion have been no less severe on the opposite party ;
and have had one advantage above them, that they have
pottacked them with more turns of wit and humour.

After all, were a man’s temper at his own disposal, I
think he would not choose to be either of these parties ;
since the most perfect character is that which is formed
out of both of them. A man would neither choose to
be a hermit nor a buffoon: human nature is not so
miserable as that we should be always melancholy, nor
\so happy as that we should be always merry. In a
‘word, a man should not live as if there were no God in
the world; nor, at the same time, as if there were no
| men in it.

 

HAPPINESS IN A FUTURE STATE.

[ HAVE always taken a particular pleasure in examining
| the opinions which men of different religions, different
| ages, and different countries, have entertained concern-
ing the immortality of the soul, and the state of happi-
ness which they promise themselves in another world :
for whatever prejudices and errors human nature lies
under, we find that either reason, or tradition from our
first parents, has discovered to all people something in
these great points which bears analogy to truth, and td
the doctrines opened to us by divine revelation. I was
lately discoursing on this subject with a learned person,
who has been very much conversant among the inha-
bitants of the more western parts of Africa. Upon his
conversing with several in that country, he tells me
that their notion of heaven, or of a future state of hap-
piness, is this, that every thing we there wish for will
immediately present itself to us. We find, say they,
our souls are of such a nature that they require variety,
| and are not capable of being always delighted with the
| same objects. ‘The Supreme Being, therefore, in com-
| pliance with this taste of happiness which he has planted
| in the soul of man, will raise up from time to time, say

they, every gratification which it is in the humour to be

pleased with. Ifwe wish to be in groves or bowers,
among running streams or falls of water, we shall
immediately find ourselves in the midst of such a seene
as we desire. If we would be entertained with music
and the melody of sounds, the concert arises upon our
wish, and the whole region about us is filled with
harmony. In short, every desire will be followed by
fruition, and whatever a man’s inclination directs him
| to will be present with him. Nor is it material whether
the Supreme Power creates in conformity to our wishes,
or whether he only produces such a change in our
imagination as makes us believe ourselves conversant
among those scenes which delight us. Our happiness will
be the same, whether it proceeds from external objects,
or from the impressions of the Deity upon our own
private fancies. This is the account I have received
from my learned friend. Notwithstanding this system of
belief be in general very chimerical and visionary, there
is something sublime in its manner of considering the
influence of a Divine Being on a human soul. It has
also, like most other opinions of the heathen world upon
these important pointsit has, I say, its foundation inMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

truth ; as it supposes the souls of good men after this
life to be in a state of perfect happiness ; that in this
state there will be no barren hopes nor fruitless wishes :
and that we shall enjoy every thing we can desire. But
the particular circumstance which I am most pleased
with in this scheme, and which arises from a just
reflection on human nature, is that variety of pleasures
which it supposes the souls of good men will be pos-
sessed of in another world. This I think highly probable,
from the dictates both of reason and revelation. The
soul consists of many faculties, as the understanding
and the will, with all the senses both outward and
inward ; or, to speak more philosophically, the soul can
exert herself in many different ways of action. She can
understand, will, imagine, see and hear, love and dis- |
course, and apply herself to many other the like exer- |
cises of different kinds and natures; but what is more
to be considered, the soul is capable of receiving a most |
exquisite pleasure and satisfaction from the exercise of
any of these its powers, when they are gratified with

}

|

|
|

their proper objects ; she can be entirely happy by the
satisfaction of the memory, the sight, the hearing, or |
any other mode of perception. Every faculty is as a
distinct taste in the mind, and hath objects accommo-
dated to its proper relish. Doctor Tillotson somewhere
says, that he will not presume to determine in what
consists the happiness of the blessed, because God
Almighty is capable of making the soul happy by ten
thousand different ways. Besides those several a
to pleasure which the soul is endued with in this life, it
is not impossible, according to the opinions of many
eminent divines, but there may be new faculties in the
souls of good men made perfect, as well as new senses
in their glorified bodies. This we are sure of, that there
will be new objects offered to all those faculties whicl
are essential to us.

We are likewise to take notice th:
faculty is capable of being employ
variety of objects. The understanc
may be happy in the contemplation of moral, natural,
mathematical, and other kinds of truth. memory
likewise may turn itself to an infinite multitude of
objects, especially when the soul shall have passed
through the space of many millions of years, and shall
reflect with pleasure on the days of eternity. Every
other faculty may be considered in the same extent.

We cannot question but that the happiness of a soul
will be adequate to its nature, and that it is not endued

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ployed. The happiness is to be the happiness of the
whole man; and we may easily conceive to ourselves

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the happiness of the soul, while any one of its faculties
is in the fruition of its chief good. The happiness may
be of a more exalted nature in proportion as the faculty
employed is so; but as the whole soul acts in the ex r
tion of any of its particular powers, the whole soul is
happy in the pleasure which arises from any of its

particular acts. For, notwithstanding, as has been

before hinted, and as it has been taken notice of by one
> . ° 25 7 .

of the greatest modern philosophers, we divide the sou]

into several powers and faculties, there is no such divi-
sion in the soul itself, since it is the whole soul that
remembers, understands, wills, or imagines. Our
manner of considering the memory, understanding,
will, imagination, and the like faculties, is for the better
enabling us to express ourselves in such abstracted
subjects of speculation, not that there is any such divi-
sion in the soul itself.

Seeing, then, that thesoul has many different
or, in other words, many different ways of acting; that
it can be intensely pleased, or made happy by all these
different faculties, or ways of acting; that it may be
endued with several latent faculties, which it is not at
present in a condition to exert; that we cannot believe
the soul is endued with any faculty which is of no use
toit; that whenever any one of these faculties is trans-
cendantly pleased, the soul is in a state of happiness 5
and in the last place, considering that the happiness of
another world is to be the happiness of the whole man,
who can question but that there is an infinite variety

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169

in those pleasures we are speaking of, and that this ful-
ness of joy will be made up of all those pleasures which
the nature of the soul is capable of receiving ?

Ve shall be the more confirmed in this doctrine, if
Wwe observe the nature of variety with regard to the
mind of man. The soul does not care to be always in
the same bent. The faculties relieve one another by
turns, and receive an additional pleasure from the
novelty of those objects about which they are conversant.

Revelation likewise very much confirms this notion,
under the different views which it gives us of our future
happiness. In the description of the throne of God, it
represents to us all those objects which are able to
gratify the senses and imagination: in very many places
it intimates to us all the happiness which the under-
standing can possibly receive in that state, where all
things shall be revealed to us, and we shall know even
as we are known. The raptures of devotion, of divine
love, the pleasure of conversing with our blessed Saviour,
with an innumerable host of angels, and with the spirits
of just men made perfect, are likewise revealed to us
in several parts of the holy writings. There are also

| mentioned those hierarchies or governments in which

,
4

the blessed shall be ranged one above another, and in
which we may be sure a great part of our happiness
will likewise consist ; for it will not be there as in this
world, where every one is aiming at power and supe-
riority ; but, on the contrary, every one will find that
station the most proper for him in which he is placed,
and will probably think that he could not have been so
happy in any other station. These, and many other
particulars, are marked in divine revelation as the seve-
ral ingredients of our happiness in Heaven, which all
imply such a variety of joys, and sueh a gratification of

the soul in all its different faculties, as I have been
he re

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)

mentioning.

the rabbins tell us, that the cherubim are
a set of angels who know most, and the seraphim a set
of angels who love most. Whether this distinction be
imaginary, I shall not here examine ;
uy probable, that among the spirits of good

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men there may be some who will be more pleased with
the employment of one faculty than of another, and this
perhaps according to those innocent and virtuous habits
or inclinations which have here taken the deepest root.
[ might here apply this consideration to the spirits
of wicked men, with relation to the pain which they
shall suffer in every one of their faculties, and the
respective miseries which shall be appropriated to each
faculty in particular. But leaving this to the reflection
of my readers, I shall conclude with observing how we
ought to be thankful to our great Creator, and rejoice
in the being which he has bestowed upon us, for having

made the soul susceptible of pleasure by so many diffe-
rent ways. We see by what a variety of passages joy

and gladness may enter into the
wonderfully a human ; pirit is framed to imbibe its
proper satisfactions, and taste the goodness of its creator,
We may therefore look into ourselves with rapture and
amazement, and cannot sufficiently express our grati-
tude to him who has encompassed us with such a pro-
fusion of blessings, and opqned in us so many capacities
of enjoying them.
There cannot be a stronger argument that God has
designed us for a state of future happiness, and for that
| heaven which he has revealed to us, than that he has
thus naturally qualified the soul for it, and made. it a
veing capable of receiving so much bliss. He would
1ever have made such faculties in vain, and have
endowed us with powers that were not to be exerted
on such objects as are suited to them. Itis very mani-
fest, by the inward frame and constitution of our minds,
that he has adapted them to an infinite variety of plea-
sures and gratifications, which are not to be met with
in this life. We should therefore at all times take
rare that we do not disappoint this his gracious pur-
pose and intention towards us, and make those faculties
which he formed as so many qualifications for happi-
ness and rewards, to be the instruments of pain and

punishment,

thoughts of man; how

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170 ADDISON’S

CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE GUARDIAN?

XEWARDS FOR NATIONAL SERVICES.

Taere is no maxim in polities more indisputable than
that a nation should have many honours in reserve for
those who do national services. This raises emulation,
cherishes public merit, and inspires every one with an
ambition which promotes the good of his country. The
less expensive these honours are to the public, the more
still do they turn to its advantage.

The Romans abounded with these little honorary
rewards, that, without conferring wealth or riches,
gave only place and distinction to the person who
received them. An oaken garland, to be worn on festi-
vals and public ceremonies, was the glorious recompense
of one who had covered a citizen in battle. A soldier
would not only venture his life for a mural crown, but
think the most hazardous enterprise sufficiently repaid
by so noble a donation.

But among all honorary rewards which are neither
dangerous nor detrimental to the donor, | remember
none so remarkable as the titles which are bestowed by
the emperor of China. These are never given to any
subject, says Monsieur le Conte, till the subject is dead.
If he has pleased his emperor to the last, he is ealled
in all public memorials by the title which the emperor
confers on him after his death ; and his children take
their ranks accordingly. This keeps the ambitious
subject in a perpetual dependence, making him always
vigilant and active, and in every thing conformable to
the will of his sovereign.

There are no honorary rewards among us which are
more esteemed by the person who receives them, and
are cheaper to the prince, than the giving of medals.

3ut there is something in the modern manner of cele-
brating a great action in medals, which makes such a
reward much less valuable than it was among the
Romans. ‘There is generally but one coin stamped upon
the occasion, which is made a present to the person
who is celebrated on it. By this means his whole fame
is in his own custody. The applause that is bestowed
upon him is too much limited and confined. He is in
possession of an honour which the world perhaps knows

nothing of. He may bea great man in his own family, |

his wife and children may see the monument of an
exploit which the public in a little time is a stranger
to. The Romans took a quite different method in this
particular, Their medals were their eurrent money.
When an action deserved to be recorded in coin, it was

stamped perhaps upon an hundred thousand pieces of |
money, like our shillings or halfpence, which were issued
out of the mint and became current. This method |

published every noble action to advantage, and in a

short space of time spread through the whole Roman |

empire. The Romans were so eareful to preserve the
memory of great events upon their coins, that when
any particular piece of monéy grew very scarce, it was
often recoined by a sueceeding emperor many years
after the death of the emperor to whose honour it was
first struck.

A friend of mine drew up a project of this kind during
the late ministry, which would then have been put in
execution had it not been too busy a time for thoughts
of that nature. <As this project has been very much
talked of by the gentleman above mentioned to men of
the greatest genius as well as quality, I am informed

[* The Guardian appeared in 1713, during the interval between
the 7th and 8th volumes of the Spectator. It was, like the Tatler
and Spectator, under the charge of Steele. This work, which
ranks in merit between the Spectator and Tatler, extended to a
hundred and seventy-five papers, afterwards reprinted in. two
volumes. |

, there is now a design on foot for executing the proposal
which was then made, and that we shall have several
farthings and halfpence charged on the reverse with
many of the glorious particulars of her majesty’s reign.
This is one of those arts of peace which may very well
deserve to be cultivated, and which may be of great use
to posterity.

As I have in my possession the copy of the paper
above mentioned, which was delivered to the late Lord
Treasurer, I shall here give the public a sight of it, for
I do not question but that the curious part of my
readers will be very well pleased to see so much matter,
and so many useful hints upon this subject, laid toge-
ther in so clear and concise a manner.

“The English have not been so careful as other polite
nations to preserve the memory of their great actions
and events on medals. Their subjects are few, their
mottoes and devices mean, and the coins themselves not
numerous enough to spread among the people, or
descend to posterity.

The French have outdone us in these particulars ;
and by the establishment of a society for the invention
of proper inscriptions and designs, have the whole
history of their present king in a regular series of
medals.

They have failed, as well as the English, in coining
so small a number of each kind, and those of such costly
medals, that each species may be lost in a few ages,
and is at present nowhere to be met with but in the
cabinets of the curious.

The ancient Romans took the only effectual method
to disperse and preserve their medals, by making them
their current money.

Every thing glorious or useful, as well in peace as
war, gave occasion to a different coin. Not only an
expedition, victory, or triumph, but the exercise of a
solemn devotion, the remission of a duty or tax, a new
temple, sea-port, or highway, were transmitted to pos-
terity after this manner,

The greatest variety of devices are on their copper
money, which have most of the designs that are to be
met with on the gold and silver, and several peculiar
to that metal only, By this means they were dispersed
into the remotest corners of the empire, came into the
possession ofthe poor as well as rich, and were in no
danger of perishing in the hands of those that might
have melted down coins of a more valuable metal. —

Add to all this, that the designs were invented by
men of genius, and executed by a deeree of senate.

It is therefore proposed,

J. That the English farthings and halfpenee be
| recoined upon the union of the two nations.

II. That they bear devices and inscriptions alluding
to all the most remarkable parts of her majesty’s reign.

Ill. That there bea society established for the finding
out of proper subjects, inscriptions, and devices. .

IV. That no subject, inscription, or device, be stamped

 

without the approbation of this society ; nor, if it be
thought proper, without the authority of privy council.

By this means medals that are at present only a dead
treasure, or mere curiosities, will be of use in the ordi-
nary commerce of life, and at the same time perpetuate
the glories of her majesty’s reign, reward the labours
of her greatest subjects, keep alive in the people a gra-
titude for public services, and excite the emulation of
posterity. ‘T'o these generous purposes nothing can so
much contribute as medals of this kind, which are of
undoubted authority, of necessary use and observation,
not perishable by time, nor confined to any certain
place ; properties not to be found in books, statues,
pictures, buildings, or any other monuments of illus.
trious actions.”MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

JUSTICE.

Tere is no virtue so truly great and godlike as justice.
Most of the other virtues are the virtues of created
beings, or accommodated to our nature, as we are men.
Justice is that which is practised by God himself, and
to be practised in its perfection by none but him.
Omniscience and omnipotence are requisite for the full
exertion of it; the one to discover every degree of
uprightness or iniquity in thoughts, words, and actions ;
the other to measure out and impart suitable rewards
and punishments.

As to be perfectly just is an attribute in the divine
nature, to be so to the utmost of our abilities is the
glory of a man. Such a one who has the publie admi-
nistration in his hands, acts like the representative of
his maker, in recompensing the virtuous and punishing
the offender. By the extirpating of a criminal, he
averts the judgments of heaven when ready to fall
uponan impious people, or, as my friend Cato expresses
it much better in a sentiment conformable to his cha-
racter :—

** When by just vengeance impious mortals perish,
The gods behold their punishment with pleasure,
And lay th’ uplifted thunderbolt aside.”

When a nation once loses its regard to justice, when
they do not look upon it as something venerable, holy,
and inviolable ; when any of them dare presume to
lessen, affront, or terrify those who have the distribu-

tion of it in their hands; when a judge is capable of

being infiuenced by any thing but law, or a cause may
be recommended by any thing that is foreign to its own
merits, we may venture to pronounce that such a nation
is hastening to its ruin.

for this reason, the best law that has ever passed in

 

| suming 2

171

who thereupon applied himself to the imperial tent, as
he was ordered. The sultan went in person with his
guards to the poor man’s house, where he arrived about
midnight. As the attendants carried each of them a
flambeau in their hands, the sultan, after having ordered
all the lights to be put out, gave the word to enter the
house, find out the criminal, and put him to death.
This was immediately executed, and the corpse laid out
upon the floor by the emperor’s command. He then
bade every one light his flambeau, and stand about the
dead body. The sultan approaching it, looked upon
the face, and immediately fell upon his knees in prayer.
Upon his rising up, he ordered the peasant to set before
him whatever food he had in his house. The peasant
brought out a great deal of coarse fare, of which the
emperor ate very heartily. The peasant seeing him in
good humour, presumed to ask of him why he had
ordered the flambeaux to be put out before he had
commanded the adulterer should be slain 2 why, upon
their being lighted again, he looked upon the face of
the dead body and fell down in prayer ? and why, after
this, he had ordered meat to be set before him, of which
he now ate so heartily? The sultan, being willing to
gratify the curiosity of his host, answered him in this
manner :—** Upon hearing the greatness of the offence
which had been committed by one of the army, I had
reason to think it might have been one of my own sons,
for who else would have been so audacious and pre-
l gave orders, therefore, for the lights to be

| extinguished, that I might not be led astray by partiality

|

our days, is that which continues our judges in their |

posts during their good behaviour, without leaving them
to the merey of sych who in ill times might, by an
undue influence over them, trouble and pervert the
course of justice. I dare say the extraordinary person
have been the same had that act never passed : but it
is a great satisfaction to all honest men, that while we
see the greatest ornament of the profession in its highest
post, we are sure he cannot hurt himself by that assi-
duous, regular, and impartial administration of justice,
for which he is so universally celebrated by the whole
kingdom. Such men are to be reckoned among the
greatest national blessings, and should have that honour
paid them whilst they are yet living, which will not fail
to crown their memory when dead.

J always rejoice when I see
nan of an upright and inflexible temper, who, in the
execution of his country’s laws, can overcome all pri-
vate fear, resentment, solicitation, and even pity itself.

or compassion from doing justice on the eriminal.
Upon the lighting the flambeaux a second time, I looked
upon the face of the dead person, and to my unspeak-
able joy found it was not my son. It was for this reason
that | immediately fell upon my knees, and gave thanks
to God. As for my eating heartily of the food you have

| set before me, you will cease to wonder at it when you

| know, that the great anxiety of mind I have been in

upon this occasion, since the first complaints you brought

| me, has hindered my eating any thing from that time
who is now posted in the chief station of the law, would |

a tribunal filled with a |

Whatever passion enters into a sentence or decision, so |

far will there be in it a tincture of injustice.
justice discards party, friendship, kindred, and is there-
fore always represented as blind, that we may suppose
her thoughts are wholly intent on the equity of a cause,
without being diverted or prejudiced by objects foreign
to it.

In short, |

till this very moment.”

LMMODESTY IN FEMALE DRESSING.
THERE is a certain female ornament, by some ealled a
tucker, and by others the neck-piece, being a slip of fine
linen or muslin that used to run in a small kind of
rufile round the uppermost verge of the women’s stays,
anid by that means covered a great part of the shoulders
and bosom. Having thus given a definition, or rather
description of the tucker, [ must take notice that our
ladies have of late thrown aside this fig-leaf, and ex-
posed in its primitive nakedness that gentle swelling of
the breast which it was used to conceal. What their
design by it is, they themselves best know.

[ observed this as I was sitting the other day by a

| famous she-visitant at my Lady Lizard’s ; when acci-

. “4 : . |
[ shall conclude this paper with a Persian story which

is very suitable to my present subject. It will not a
little please the reader, if he has the same taste of it
which I myself have.

As one of the sultans lay encamped on the plains of

i

>
dentally, as I was looking upon her face, letting my
sight fall into her bosom, I was surprised with beauties
which I never before discovered; and do not know
where my eye would have run, if I had not immedi-
ately checked it. ‘I'he lady herself could not forbear

blushing, when she observed by my looks that she had

Avala, a certain great man of the army entered by force |

into a peasant’s house ; and finding his wife very hand-
some, turned the good man out of his dwelling, and
went to bed to her. The peasant complained the next
morning to the sultan, and desired redress, but was not
able to point out the criminal. The emperor, who was
very much incensed at the injury done to the poor man,
told him that probably the offender might give his wife
another visit, and if he did, commanded him immediately
to repair to his tent and acquaint him with it. Accord-
ingly, within two or three days the officer entered again
the peasant’s house, and turned the owner out of doors,

made her neck too beautiful and glaring an object even
fora man of my character and gravity. I could searce
forbear making use of my hand to cover so unseemly a
sight.

if we survey the pictures of our great-grandmothers
in Queen Elizabeth’s time, we see them clothed down
to the very wrists, and up to the very chin. The hands
and face were the only samples they gave of their
beautiful persons. ‘The following age of females made
larger discoveries of their complexion. They first of
all tucked up their garments to the elbow: and, not-
withstanding the tenderness of the sex, were content,
for the information of mankind, to expose their arms to
the coldness of the air and injuries of the weather. This
artifice hath succeeded to their wishes, and betrayed

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172 ADDISON'S

many to their arms, who might have eseaped them had
they been still concealed.

About the same time, the ladies considering that the
neck was a very modest part in the human body, they
freed it from those yokes, I mean those monstrous
linen-ruffs, in which the simplicity of their grandmothers
had enclosed it. In proportion as the age refined, the
dress still sank lower; so that when we now say a
woman has a handsome neck, we reckon into it many
of the adjacent parts. The disuse of the tucker has still
enlarged it ; insomuch that the neck of a fine woman at
present takes in almost half the body.

Since the female neck thus grows upon us, and the
ladies seem disposed to discover themselves to us more
and more, I would fain have them tell us once for all
how far they intend to go, and whether they have yet
determined among themselves where to make a stop.

For my own part, their necks, as they call them, are
no more than busts of alabaster in my eye. I can look
upon

“* The yielding.marble of a snowy breast,”
with as much coldness as this line of Mr Waller repre-
sents in the object itself. But my fair readers ought
to consider that all their beholders are not Nestors.
Every man is not sufficiently qualified with age and
philosophy to be an indifferent spectator of such allure-
ments. ‘he eyes of young men are curious and pene-
trating, their imaginations of a roving nature, and their
passions under no discipline or restraint. I am in pain
for a woman of rank, when I see her thus exposing
herself to the regards of every impudent staring fellow.
How can she expect that her quality can defend her,
when she gives such provocation! I could not but
observe last winter, that upon the disuse of the neck-
piece (the ladies will pardon me if it is not the fashion-
able term of art), the whole tribe of oglers gave their
eyes anew determination, and stared the fair sex in the
neck rather than in the face. 'I'o prevent these saucy
familiar glances, I would entreat my gentle readers to

sew on their tuckers again, to retrieve the modesty of

their characters, and not to imitate the nakedness, but
the innocence, of their mother Eve.
What most troubles, and indeed surprises me, in this

particular, I have observed that the leaders in this |

fashion were most of them married women. What
their design can be in making themselves bare, I cannot
possibly imagine. Nobody exposes wares that are
appropriated. When the bird is taken, the snare ought
to be removed. It was a remarkable circumstance in
the institution of the severe Lycurgus. As that great
lawgiver knew that the wealth and strength of a republie
consisted in the multitude of citizens, he did all he eould
to encourage marriage ; in order to it, he prescribed a
certain loose dress for the Spartan maids, in which
there were several artificial rents and openings, that,
upon their putting themselves in motion, discovered
several limbs of the body to the beholders. Such were
the baits and temptations made use of by that wise
lawgiver to incline the young men of his age to mar-
riage. But when the maid was once sped, she was not
suffered to tantalise the male part of the commonwealth.
Her garments were closed up, and stitched together
with the greatest care imaginable. The shape of her
limbs and complexion of her body had gained their ends,
and were ever after to be concealed from the notice of
the public.

I shall conelude this discourse of the tucker with a
moral which I have taught upon all occasions, and shall
still continue to inculeate into my female readers;
namely, that nothing bestows so much beauty on a
woman as modesty. This is a maxim laid down by
Ovid himself, the greatest master in the art of love.
He observes upon it, that Venus pleases most when she
appears (semi-reducta) in a figure withdrawing herself
from the eye of the beholder. It is very probable he
had in his thoughts the statue which we see in the
Venus de Medicis, where she is represented in such a
shy retiring posture, and covers her bosom with one of
her hands. In short, modesty gives the maid greater

 

 

beauty than even the bloom of youth; it bestows on the
wife the dignity of a matron, and reinstates the widow
in her virginity.

PI PP OL OS PL OL OL ODDO OD

ON CLIMATE AND DRESS.

f amalways beating about in my thoughts for something
that may turn to the benefit of my dear countrymen.
The present season of the year having put most of them
in slight summer-suits, has turned my speculations toa
subject that concerns every one who is sensible ‘of cold
or heat; which I believe takes in the greatest part of
my readers.

There is nothing in nature more inconstant than the
British climate, if we except the humour of its inha-
bitants. We have frequently in one day all the seasons
of the year. I have shivered in the dog-days, and been
forced to throw off my coat in January. I have gone
to bed in August, and risen in December. Summer has
often caught me in my drap de Berry, and winter in my
Doily suit.

IT remember avery whimsical fellow, commonly known
by the name of posture-master, in King Charles II.’s
reign, who was the plague of all the tailors about town
He would often send for one of them to take measure
of him, but would so contrive it as to have a most
immoderate rising in one of his shoulders. When the
clothes were brought home and tried upon him, the
deformity was removed into the other shoulder. Upon
which the tailor begged pardon for the mistake, and
mended it as fast as he could; but upon a third trial
found him as straight-shouldered a man as one would
desire to see, but a little unfortunate in a humped-back.
In short, this wandering tumour puzzled all the work-
men about town, who found it impossible to accom-
modate so changeable a customer. My reader will apply
this to any one who would adapt a suit to a season of
our English climate.

After this short descant on the uncertainty of our
English weather, I come to my moral.

Aman should take care that his body be not too soft
for his climate ; but rather if possible harden and season
himself beyond the degree of cold wherein he lives.
Daily experience teaches us how we may inure ourselves
by custom to bear the extremities of weather without
injury. The inhabitants of Nova Zembla go naked,
without complaining of the bleakness of the air in which
they are born; as the armies of the northern nations
keep the field all winter. The softest of our British
ladies expose their arms and necks to the open air,
which the men could not do without catehing cold, for
want of being accustomed to it. The whole body by
the same means might contract the same firmness and
temper. ‘The Scythian that was asked how it was
possible for the inhabitants of his frozen climate to go
naked, replied, “ Because we are all over face.” Mr
Locke advises parents to have their children’s feet
washed every morning in cold water, which might pro-
bably prolong multitudes of lives.

I verily believe a cold bath would be one of the most
healthful exercises in the world, were it made use of in
the education of youth. It would make their bodies
more than proof to the injuries of the air and weather.
[t would be something like what the poets tell us of
Achilles, whom his mother is said to have dipped, when
he was a child, in the river Styx. The story adds, that
this made him invulnerable all over, excepting that part
which his mother held in her hand during this immer-
sion, and which by that means lost the benefit of these
hardening waters. Our common practice runs in a
quite contrary method. We are perpetually softening
ourselves by good fires and warm clothes. The air
within our rooms has generally two or three degrees
more of heat in it than the air without doors.

Crassus is an old lethargic valetudinarian. For these
twenty years last past he has been clothed in frieze of
the same colour and of the same piece. He fancies he
should catch his death in any other kindof manufacture ;
and though his avarice would incline him to wear ittill it was threadbare, he dares not do it lest he should
take cold when the nap is off. He could no more live
without his frieze coat than without his skin. It is not,
indeed, so properly his coat, as what the anatomists call
one of the integuments of the body

How different an old man is Crassus from myself! It
is indeed the particular distinction of the Ironsides to
be robust and hardy, to defy the cold and rain, and let
the weather do its worst. My father lived to a hundred
without a cough ; and we have a tradition in the family,
that my grandfather used to throw off his hat, and go
open-breasted after fourscore. As for myself, they used
to souse me over head and ears in water when I was a
boy, so that I am now looked upon as one of the most
ease-hardened of the whole family of the Ironsides. In
short, I have been so plunged in water, and inured to
the cold, that I regard myself as a piece of true tempered
steel ; and can say, with the above-mentioned Scythian,
that I am face, or, if my enemies please, forehead all

over

2

PPPLPPPOPAAA PLD ADL DD

ACQUISITION OF KNOWLEDGE.

[ am very much concerned when I see young gentlemen
of fortune and quality so wholly set upon pleasures and
diversions that the y neglect all those improvements in
wisdom and knowledge which may make them easy to
themselves and useful to the world. The createst part
of our British youth lose their figure and grow out o!
fashion by the time they are five-and-tw« nty.
as the natural gaiety and amiableness of the young man
wears off, they have nothing left to reeommend them,
but lie by the rest of their lives among the
refuse of the species. It sometimes happens, indeed,
that for want of applying themselves in due time to the
pursuits of knowledge, they take up a book in their
declining years, and grow very hopeful scholars by the
time they are threescore. I must therefore earnestly
press my readers who are in the flower of their youth,
to labour at those accomplishments which may set ofl

AS soo!

their persons when their bloom is gone, and to lay in
timely provisions for manhood and old age. In short
[ would advise the youth of fifteen to be dre ssing UJ
every day the man of fifty, or to consider how to make

himself venerable at threeseore.

Young men who are naturally ambitious, would do | any ape
; | riches tor thyself,

well to observe how the greatest men of antiquity mad
it their ambition to exeel all their contemporaries in
knowledge. Julius Cesar and Alexander, thé
celebrated instances of human greatness, took a parti-

most

cular care to distinguish themselves by their skill in the | 4]
: T : : neither
arts and sciences. We have still extant several remains | re

MORQOTTIS Wada we
MOROUS ESSAYS, 173
| 2 public station with suitable abilities, and addsa lustre

of the former, which justify the character given of him |

by the learned men of his own age. As for the latter.
it is a known saying of his, that he was more obliged to
Aristotle who had instructed him, than to Philip who
had given him life and empire. There is a letter of his
recorded by Plutarch and Aulus Gelius, which he wrote
to Aristotle upon hearing that he had published thos«
leetures he had given him in private. This letter was
written in the following words, at a time when he was
in the height of his Persian conquests :—~

“ Alexander to Aristotle, greeting.
ks

You have not done well to publish your book
select knowledge; for what is there now in whic
can surpass others, if those things which I have b
instructed in are communicated to every body ?
my own part, I declare to you, I.would rather excel
others in knowledge than power. Farewell.”

We see by this letter, that the love of conquest was
but the second ambition in Alexander’s soul. Know-
ledge is indeed that which, next to virtue, truly and
essentially raises one man above another. It finishes
one half of the human soul. It makes being pleasant
to us, fills the mind with entertaining views, and admi-
nisters to it a perpetual series of gratifications. It gives

lumber and | U®¥vid my father great

those who are in the possession of them.

Learning, by which I mean all useful knowledge,
whether speculative or practical, is in popular and
mixed governments the natural source of wealth and
honour. If we look into most of the reigns from the
Conquest, we shall find that the favourites of each reign
have been those who have raised themselves. The
greatest men are generally the growth of that particular
age in which they flourish. A superior capacity for
business, and a more extensive knowledge, are the steps
by which a new man often mounts to favour, and out-
shines the rest of his contemporaries. But when men
are actually born to titles, it is almost impossible that
they should fail of receiving an additional creatness, if
they take care to accomplish themselves for it,

The story of Solomon’s choice does not only instruct
us in that point of history, but furnishes outa very fine
moral to us, namely, that he who applies his heart to
wisdom, does at the same time take the most proper
method for gaining long life, riches, and reputation,
which are very often not only the rewards, but the
effects, of wisdom.

As it is very

suitable to my present subject, I shall
first of (

all quote this passage in the words of sacred
writ; and afterwards mention an allegory, in which
this whole passage is represented by a famous French
poet ; not but it will be ve ry pleasing to
have a taste for fine writing.
‘In Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomonin a dream
by night: and God said, ‘ Ask what I shall give thee.’
And Solomon said, ‘ Thou hast showed unto thy servant
nerey according as he walked
before thee in truth and in righteousness, and in upright-
ness of heart with thee ; and thou hast kept for him this
great kindness, that thou hast given him a son to sit on
his throne, as it is this day. And now, oh Lord my God!
thou hast made thy servant king instead of David my
father ; and I am but a little child; I know not how to
Give, therefore, thy servant an under-
standing heart to judge thy people, that I may discern
between good and bad; for who is able to judge this
thy so great a people?” And the speech pleased the
Lord, that Solomon had asked this thing. And God
said unto him, ‘ Because thou hast asked this thing, and
iyself long life, neither hast asked
f, nor hast asked the life of thine ene-
mies, but hast asked f elf understanding to discern
judgment; behold! I have done according to thy word ;
lo! [ have given thee a wise and an understanding
heart, there was none like thee before thee ;
ufter thee shall any rise like unto thee. And
[| have also given thee that which thou hast not asked,
; So that there shall not be any
among the kings like unto thee all thy days. And if

th

thou wilt walk in my ways, to keep my statutes and my

questioning

’ 7
sucil Of My readers as

fo out or come in,

~~,
~

hast not aske

1
4

Lor tnys
:

both riches and honour

| commandments, as thy father David did walk, then [

| allegory, of which he

will lengthen thy days.’
behold it was a dream.”

The French poet has shadowed this story in an
seems to have taken the hint
from the fable of the three goddesses appearing to
Paris; or rather from the vision of Hercules, recorded

And Solomon awoke; and

| by Xenophon, where Pleasure and Virtue are repre-

sented as real persons making their court to the hero

| with all their several charms and allurements. Health,

Wealth, Victory, and Honour, are introduced succes-
2 ws 2 3

| sively in their proper emblems and characters ; each of

 

ease to solitude, and gracefulness to retirement. It fills |

them spreading her temptations, and recommending
herself to the young monarch’s choice. Wisdom enters
the last, and so captivates him with her appearance,
that he gives himself up to her. Upon which she informs
him, that those who appeared before her were nothing
else but her equipage ; and that sinee he had placed his
heart upon Wisdom—Health, Wealth, Vietory, and
Honour, should always wait on her as her handmaids,

PPLE ELLIPSE LIPIGI OTIS

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174 ADDISON'S

LIVING IN THE FEAR OF GOD.

Looxine over the late edition of Monsieur Boileau’s
works, I was very much pleased with the article which
he has added to his notes on the translation of Longinus.
He there tells us that the sublime in writing rises either
from the nobleness of the thought, the magnificence of
the words, or the harmonious and lively turn of the
phrase; and that the perfect sublime arises from all these
three in conjunction together. He produces an instance
of this perfect sublime in four verses from the Athaliah
of Monsieur Racine. When Abner, one of the chief
officers of the court, represents to Joad, the high-priest,
that the queen was incensed against him, the high-
priest, not in the least terrified at the news, returns
this answer: “ He who ruleth the raging of the sea,
knows also how to check.the designs of the ungodly. I
submit myself with reverence to his holy will. Oh
Abner, I fear my God; and I fear none but him.”

Sucha thought gives no less a sublimity to human
nature that it does to good writing. This religious fear,
when it is produced by just apprehensions of a divine
power, naturally overlooks all human greatness that
stands in competition with it, and extinguishes every
other terror that can settle itself inthe heart of man—
it lessens and contracts the figure of the most exalted
person—it disarms the tyrant and executioner, and
represents to our minds the most enraged and the most
powerful as altogether harmless and impotent.

There is no true fortitude which is not founded upon
this fear, as there is no other principle of so settled

 

and fixed a nature. Courage that grows from consti- |

tution very often forsakes a man when he has occasion

for it ; and when it is only a kind of instinct in the soul, |

breaks out on all occasions without judgment or discre-
tion. ‘That courage which proceeds from the sense of
our duty, and from the fear of offending him that made

us, acts always in a uniform manner, and according to |

the dictates of right reason.

What can the man fear who takes eare in all his
actions to please a being that is omnipotent !—a being
who is able to crush all his adversaries—a being that
can divert any misfortune from befalling him, or turn
any such misfortune to his advantage. The person who
lives with this constant and habitual regard to the great
superintendant of the world, is, indeed, sure that no
real evil can come into his lot. Blessings may appear
under the shape of pains, losses, and disappointments ;
but let him have: patience, and he will see them in their

assassinate Timoleon as he was offering up his devotions
in a certain temple. In order to it, they took their
several stands in the most convenient places for their
purpose. As they were waiting for an opportunity
to put their design im execution, a stranger having
observed one of the conspirators, fell upon him and
slew him; upon which the other two, thinking thei
plot had been discovered, threw themselves at ‘Timo-
leon’s feet, and confessed the whole matter. This
stranger, upon examination, was found to have under-
stood nothing of the intended assassination ; but having
several years before had a brother killed by the
conspirator whom he here put to death, and having till
now sought in vain for an opportunity of revenge, he
chanced to meet the murderer in the temple, who had
planted himself there for the above-mentioned purpose.
Plutarch cannot forbear on this occasion speaking with
a kind of rapture on the schemes of providence, which
in this particular had so contrived it, that the stranger
should for so great a space of time be debarred the
means of doing justice to his brother, until, by the same
blow that revenged the death of one innocent man, he
preserved the life of another.

For my own part, [ cannot wonder that a man of
Timoleon’s religion should have his intrepidity and
firmness of mind, or that he should be distinguished
by such a deliverance as I have here related.

Drones e rors ere

A GOOD CONSCIENCE.
A Goop conscience is to the soul what health is to the
body ; it preserves a constant ease and serenity within
us, and more than countervails all the calamities and

| afllictions which can possibly befall us. I know nothing

so hard for a generous mind to get over as calumny
and reproach ; and cannot find any method of quieting
the soul under them, besides this single one, of our
being conscious to ourselves that we do not deserve
them.

I have been always mightily pleased with that passage
in Don Quixote, where the fantastical knight is repre-
sented as loading a gentleman of good sense with praises
and eulogiums. Upon which the gentleman makes this

| reflection to himself: “ How grateful is praise to human

proper figures. Dangers may threaten him; but he |

may rest satisfied that they will either not reach hin, |

or that, if they do, they will be the instruments of good

to him. In short, he may look upon all crosses and |

accidents, sufierings and afflictions, as means which are
made use of to bring him to happiness. ‘This is even
the worst of that man’s condition whose mind is pos-

sessed with the habitual fear of which [am nowspeaking. |

gut it very often happens, that those which appear

evils in our own eyes, appear also as such to him who has |

human nature under his care; in which case they are
certainly averted from the person who has made hin-
self by this virtue an object of divine favour. Histories
are full of instances of this nature, where men of
virtue have had extraordinary escapes out of such
dangers as have enclosed them, and which have seemed
inevitable.

There is no example of this kind in Pagan history

which more pleases me than that which is recorded in |

the life of ‘Timoleon. This extraordinary man was
famous for referring all his successes to providence.
Cornelius Nepos acquaints us that he had in his house
a private chapel, in which he used to pay his devotions
to the goddess who represented providence among the
heathens. I think no man was ever more distinguished
by the deity whom he blindty worshipped than the great
person I am speaking of, in several occurrences of his
life ; but particularly in the following one, which I shall
relate out of Plutarch :—

Three persons had entered into a conspiracy to

nature! I cannot forbear being secretly pleased with
the commendations [ receive, though I am sensible it
is a madman that bestows them on me.” In the same
manner, though we are often sure that the censures
which are passed upon us are uttered by those who
know nothing of us, and have neither means nor abilities
to form a right judgment of us, we cannot forbear being
grieved at what they say.

In order to heal this infirmity, which is so natural
to the best and wisest of men, I have taken a particular
pleasure in observing the conduct of the old philosophers,
how they bore themselves up, against the malice and
detraction of their enemies.

* The way to silence ealumny,” says Bias, “ is to be

| always exercised in such things as are praiseworthy.”

|

 

Socrates, after having received sentence, told his friends
that he had always accustomed himself to regard truth,
and not censure; and that he was not troubled at his
condemnation, because he knew himself free from guilt.
It was in the same spirit that he heard the accusations
of his two great adversaries, who had uttered against
him the most virulent reproaches. “ Anytus and Me-
litus,” says he, “ may procure sentence against me ; but
they cannot hurt me.” This divine philosopher was so
well fortified in his own innocence, that he neglected all
the impotence of evil tongues which were engaged in his
destruction. ‘This was properly the support of a good
conscience, that contradicted the reports which had been
raised against him, and cleared him to himself.

Others of the philosophers rather choose to retort
the injury by a smart reply, than thus to disarm it with
respect to themselves. ‘They show that it stung them,
though, at the same time, they had the address to make
their aggressors suffer with them. Of this kind wasMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Aristotle’s reply to one who pursued him with long and
bitter invectives. “ You,” says he, “ who are used to
suffer reproaches, utter them with delight ; I who have
not been used to utter them, take no pleasure in hearing
them.” Diogenes was still more severe on one who
spoke ill of him; “ Nobody will believe you when you
speak ill of me, any more than they would believe me
should I speak well of you.”

In these and many other instances I could produce,
the bitterness of the answer sufficiently testifies the
uneasiness of mind the person was under who made it.
I would rather advise my reader, if he has not in this
case the secret consolation that he deserves no such
reproaches as are cast upon him, to follow the advice
of Epictetus. “If any one speaks ill of thee, consider
whether he hath truth on his side ; and if so, reform
thyself, that his censures may not affect thee.’ When
Anaximander was told that the very boys laughed at
his singing—“ Ay,” says he ; “ then I must learn to sing
better.” But of all the sayings of the philosophers
which I have gathered together for my own use on this
occasion, there are none which carry in them more

candour and good sense than the two following ones of

Plato. Being told that he had many enemies who
spoke ill of him, “’Tis no matter,” said he; “I will
live so that none shall believe them.” Hearing at
another time that an intimate friend of his had spoken
detractingly of him, “Iam sure he would not do it,”
says he, “if he had not some reason for it.” This is
the surest as well as the noblest way of drawing the
sting out of a reproach, and a true method of preparing
a man for that great and only relief against the pains
of calumny, a good conscience.

I designed in this essay to show that there is no
happiness wanting to him who is possessed of this
excellent frame of mind, and that no person can be
miserable who is in the enjoyment of it; but I find this
subject so well treated in one of Dr South’s sermons,
that I shall fill my paper with a passage of it, which
cannot but make the man’s heart burn within him who
reads it with due attention.

That admirable author having shown the virtue of a
good conscience in supporting a man under the greatest
trials and difficulties of life, concludes with representing
its force and efficacy in the hour of death.

“The third and last instance, in which, above all
others, this confidence towards God does most eminently
show and exert itself, is at the time of death: which
surely gives the grand opportunity of trying both the
strength and worth of every principle. When a man
shall be just about to quit the stage of this world, to
put off his mortality, and to deliver up his last accounts
to God; at which sad time his memory shall serve him
for little else but to terrify him with a frightful review
of his past life and his former extravagances, stripped
of all their pleasure, but retaining their gwidt—what
is it then that can promise him a fair passage into the
other world, or a comfortable appearance before his
dreadful judge when he is there? Not all the friends
and interests, all the riches and honours under heaven,
can speak so much as a word for him, or one word of
comfort /o him, in that condition. ‘They may possibly
reproach, but they cannot relieve him.

No ; at this disconsolate time, when the busy tempter
shall be more than usually apt to vex and trouble him,
and the pains of a dying body to hinder and discompose
him, and the settlement of worldly affairs to disturb and
confound him, and, in a word, all things conspire to
make his sickbed grievous and uneasy, nothing can
then stand up against all these ruins, and speak dife in
the midst of death, but a clear conscience.

And the testimony of that shall make the comforts of
heaven descend upon his weary head, like a refreshing
dew or shower upon a parched ground. It shall give
him some lively earnests and secret anticipations of his
approaching joy. It shall bid his soul go out of the
body undauntedly, and lift up his head with confidence
before saints and angels. Surely the comfort which it
conveys at this season, is something bigger than the

7
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capacities of mortality, mighty and unspeakable, and
not to be understood till it comes to be felt.

And now, who would not quit all the pleasures, and
trash, and trifies which are apt to captivate the heart
of man, and pursue the greatest rigours of piety and
austerities of a good life, to purchase to himself such a
conscience, as, at the hour of death, when all the friend-
ship of the world shall bid him adieu, and the whole
creation turns its back upon him, shall dismiss the soul,
and close his eyes with that blessed sentence, Well done,
thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy
of thy Lord!”

:

FOOLISH PRIDE OF ANCESTRY.
Horace, JUVENAL, Borieav, and, indeed, the greatest
writers in almost every age, have exposed, with all the
strength of wit and good sense, the vanity of a man’s
valuing himself upon his ancestors; and endeavoured
to show that true nobility consists in virtue, not in
birth. With submission, however, to so many great
authorities, I think they have pushed this matter a little
too far, We ought in gratitude to honour the posterity
of those who have raised either the interest or reputation
of their country; and by whose labours we ourselves
are more happy, wise, or virtuous, than we should have
been without them. Besides, naturally speaking, a man
bids fairer for greatness of soul who is the descendant
of worthy ancestors, and has good blood in his veins,
than one who is come of an ignoble and obscure parent-
age. For these reasons, I think a man of merit, who is
derived from an illustrious line, is very justly to be
regarded more than a man of equal merit, who has no
claim to hereditary honours. Nay, I think those who

e

OE OPE PRO RIES DOOD

| are indifferent in themselves, and have nothing else to

 

distinguish them but the virtues of their forefathers,
are to be looked upon with a degree of veneration even
upon that account, and to be more respected than the
common run of men who are of low and vulgar extrac-
tion.

After having thus ascribed due honours to birth and
parentage, I must, however, take notice of those who
arrogate to themselves more honours than are due to
them on this account. The first are such who are not
enough sensible that vice and ignorance taint the blood,
and that an unwortliy behaviour degrades and disen-
nobles a man in the eye of the world, as much as birth
and family aggrandise and exalt him.

The second are those who believe a new man of an
elevated merit, is not more to be honoured than an
insignificant and worthless man who is descended from
a long line of patriots and heroes: or, in other words,
behold with contempt a person who is such a man as
the first founder of their family was, upon whose repu-
tation they value themselves.

But I shall chiefly apply myself to those whose quality
sits uppermost in all their discourses and behaviour.
An empty man of a great family, is a creature that is
searce conversible. You read his ancestry in his smile,
in his air, in his eye-brow. He has, indeed, nothing
but his nobility to give employment to his thoughts.
Kank and precedency are the important points which
he is always discussing within himself. A gentleman
of this turn began a speech in one of King Charles’s
parliaments ; “Sir, [ had the honour to be born at a
time—” Upon which a rough honest gentleman took
him up short, “I would fain know what that gentleman
means. Is there any one in the house that has not had
the honour to be born as well as himself?” The good
sense which reigns in our nation has pretty well de-
stroyed this starched behaviour among men who have
seen the world, and know that every gentleman will be
treated upon a footing of equality. But there are many
who have had their education among women, depen-
dents, or flatterers, that lose all the respect which
would otherwise be paid them, by being too assiduous
in procuring it.

My Lord Froth has been so educated in punctilio,
that he governs himself by a ceremonial in all the ordi-

   

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176 ADDISON'S

hary occurences of life. He measures out his bow to
the degree of the person he converses with. ' I have
seen him in every inclination of the body, from a fami-
liar nod to the low stoop in the salutation sign. I
remember five of us who were acquainted with one
another, met together one morning at his lodgings;
when a wag of the company was saying, it would be
worth while to observe how he would distinguish us at
his first entrance. Accordingly, he no sooner came
into the room, but casting his eye about, “My Lord
such a one,” says he, “ your most humble servant; Sir
Richard, your humble servant; your servant, Mr Iron-
side ; Mr Ducker, how do you do?—ha! Frank, are you
there 2”?

There is nothing more easy than to discover a man
whose heart is full of his family. Weak minds that
have imbibed a strong tincture of the nursery, younger
brothers that have been brought up to nothing, super-
annuated retainers to a great house, have generally
their thoughts taken up with little else.

I had some years ago an aunt of my own, by name
Mrs Martha Ironside, who would never marry beneath
herself, and is supposed to have died a maid in the
eightieth year of her age. She was the chronicle of our
family, and passed away the greater part of the last
forty years of her life in recounting the antiquity, mar-
riages, exploits, and alliances of the Ironsides. Mrs
Martha conversed generally with a knot of old virgins,
who were likewise of good families, and had been very
eruel all the beginning of the last century. They were
every one of them as proud as Lucifer, but said their
prayers twice a-day ; and in all other respects were the
best women in the world. If they saw a fine petticoat at

church, they immediately took to pieces the pedigree of

her that wore it ; and would lift up their eyes to heaven
at the confidence of the saucy minx, when they found
she was an honest tradesman’s daughter. It is impos-
sible to describe the pious indignation that would rise
in them at the sight of a man who lived plentifully on
an estate of his own getting. They were transported
with zeal beyond measure, if they heard of a young
woman’s matching into a great family upon account
ouly of her beauty, her merit, or her money. In short,
there was not a female within ten miles of them that
was in possession of a gold watch, a pearl necklace, or
a piece of Mechlin lace, but they examined her title
toit. Myaunt Martha used to chide me very frequently
for not sufficiently valuing myself. She would not eat
a bit all dinner-time, if at an invitation she found she
had been seated below herself; and would frown upon
me for an hour together, if she saw me give place to
any man under a baronet. As I was once talking to
her of a wealthy citizen whom she had refused in her
youth, she declared to me, with great warmth, that she
preferred aman of quality in his shirt to the richest man
upon the *Change in a coach and six. She pretended,
that our family was nearly related by the mother’s side to
half a dozen peers; but as none of them knew any thing
of the matter, we always kept it as a secret among our-
selves. A little before her death she was reciting to
me the history of my forefathers ; but dwelling a little
longer than ordinary upon the actions of Sir Gilbert
Ironside, who had a horse shot under him at Edgehill
fight, I gavean unfortunate “Psha !”? and asked “ What
is all this to me?” Upon which she retired to her
closet, and fell a-scribbling for three hours together ; in
which time, as I afterwards found, she struck me out
of her will, and left all she had to my sister Margaret,
a wheedling baggage, that used to be asking questions
about her great-grandfather from morning till night.
She now lies buried among the family of the Ironsides,
with a stone over her, acquainting the reader that she
died at the age of eighty years, a spinster, and that she
was descended of the ancient family of the Ironsides.
After which follows the genealogy drawn up by her own
hand,

OE PEEP RA RO SO Ee

 

PRIDE.

THERE is nO passion which steals into the heart more
imperceptibly, and covers itself under more disguises,
than pride, for my own part, I think if there is any
passion or vice which I am wholly a stranger to, it is
this ; though, at the same time, perhaps, this very judg-
ment which I form of myself, proceeds in some measure
from this corrupt principle.

I have been always wonderfully delighted with that
sentence in holy writ, “ Pride was not made for man.?
‘There is not, indeed, any single view of human nature
under its present condition, which is not sufficient to
extinguish in us all the secret seeds of pride; and,-on
the contrary, to sink the soul into the lowest state of
humility, and what the schoolmen call se/f-annihilation.
Pride was not made for man, as he is, Ist, a sinful, 2d,
an ignorant, 3d, a miserable being.

There is nothing in his understanding, in his will, or
in his present condition, that can tempt any considerate
creature to pride or vanity.

These three very reasons why he should not be proud,
are notwithstanding the reasons why he isso. Were
not he a sinful creature, he would not be subject to a
passion which rises from the depravity of his nature;
were he not an ignorant creature, he would see that he
has nothing to be proud of; and were not the whole
species miserable, he would not have those wretched
objects of comparison before his eyes, which are the
occasions of his passion, and which make one man value
himself more than another.

A wiseman will be contented that his glory be deferred
till such time as he shall be truly glorified ; when his
understanding shall be cleared, his will rectified, and
his happiness assured ; or, in other words, when he shall
be neither sinful, nor ignorant, nor miserable.

If there be any thing which makes human nature
appear ridiculous to beings of superior faculties, it must
be pride. They know so well the vanity of those ima-
ginary perfections that swell the heart of man, and of
those little supernumerary advantages, whether in birth,
fortune, or title, which one man enjoys above another,
that it must certainly very much astonish, if it does not
very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed
up, and valuing himself above his neighbours on any of
these accounts, at the same time that he is obnoxious
to all the common calamities of the species.

To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if
you please, that yonder mole-hill is inhabited by reason-
able creatures, and that every pismire (his shape and
way of life only excepted) is endowed with human pas-
sions. How should we smile to hear one give us an
account of the pedigrees, distinctions, and titles, that
reign among them! Observe how the whole swarm
divide and make way for the pismire that passes through
them! You must understand he is an emmet of quality,
and has better blood in his veins than any pismire in
the mole-hill. Do not you see how sensible he is of it,
how slow he marches forward, how the whole rabble of
ants keep their distance?’ Here you may observe one
placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a
long row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this
side the hillock ; he has a walk of half a yard in length,
and a quarter of an inch in breadth ; he keeps a hundred
menial servants, and has at least fifteen barley-corns
in his'granary. He is now chiding and beslaving the
emmet that stands before him, and who, for all that we
can discover, is as good an emmet as himself.

But here comes an insect of figure! Do not you take
notice of a little white straw that he carries in his
mouth? That straw, you must understand, he would
not part with for the longest tract about the mole-hill ;
did you but know what he has undergone to purchase
it! See how the ants of all qualities and conditions
swarm about him. Should this straw drop out of his
mouth, you would see all this numerous circle of
attendants follow the next that took it up, and leave
the discarded insect, or run oyer his back to come at
his successor,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

If now you have a mind to sce all the ladies of the
mole-hill, observe first the pismire that listens to the
emmet on her left hand, at the same time that she
seems to turn away her head from him. He tells this
poor insect that she isa goddess, that her eyes are
brighter than the sun, that life and death are at her
disposal. She believes him, and gives herself a thou-
sand little airs upon it. Mark the vanity of the pismire
on your left hand.
you must know she values herself upon her birth, and,
if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her
reach. The little nimble coquette that is running along
by the side of her is a wit. She has broke many a
pismire’s heart. Do but observe what a drove of lovers
are running after her.

We will here finish this Imaginary scene ; but first

please, that death comes down upon the mole-hili in
the shape of a cock-sparrow, who picks up without
distinction the pismire of quality and his flatterers, the
pismire of substance and his day-labourers, the white-
straw officer and his sycophants, with all the goddesses,
wits, and beauties of the mole-hill.

May we not imagine, that beings of superior natures
and perfections regard all the instances of pride and
vanity among our own species in the same kind of view,
when they take a survey of those who inhabit the earth;
or, in the language of an ingenious French poet, of
those pismires that people this heap of dirt, which
human vanity has divided into climates and revions!

Corr nen ner ner ran

CULTIVATION OF THE FEMALE MIND.

T HAavE often wondered that learning is not thought a
proper ingredient in the education of a woman of
quality or fortune. Since they have the same improve-
able minds as the male part of the species, why should
they not be cultivated by the same method t_why
should reason be left to itself in one of the sexes, and
be disciplined with so much care in the other 2

There are some reasons why learning seems more
adapted to the female world than to the male. As, in
the first place, because they have more spare time upon
their hands, and lead a more sedentary life. Their
employments are of a domestic iature, and not like
those of the other sex, which are often inconsistent
with study and contemplation. The excellent lady,
the Lady Lizard, in the space of one summer, furnished
a gallery with chairs and couches of her own and her
daughters’ working, and at the same time heard all Dr
Tillotson’s sermons twice over. It is always the custom
for one of the young ladies to read while the others are
at work, so that the learning of the family is not at all
prejudicial to its manufactures. I was mightily pleased
the other day to find them all busy in preserving several
fruits of the season, with the Sparkler in the midst of
them reading over The Plurality of Worlds. It was
very entertaining to me to see them dividing their
speculations between jellies and stars, and making a
sudden transition from the sun to an apricot, or from
the Copernican system to the figure of a cheese-cake.

A second reason why women should apply themselves
to useful knowledge rather than men, is, because they
have that natural gift of speech in greater perfection.
Since they have so excellent a talent, such a copia
verborum, or plenty of words, it is pity they should not
put it to some use. If the female tongue will be in
motion, why should it not be set to go right? Could
they discourse about the spots in the sun, it might
divert them from publishing the faults of their neigh-
bours; could they talk of the different aspects and
conjunctions of the planets, they need not be at the
pains to comment upon oglings and clandestine ‘mar-
riages ; in short, were they furnished with matters of
fact out of the artsand sciences, it would now and then
be of great ease to their invention.

There is another reason why those especially who
are women of quality should apply themselves to letters,

She can scarce crawl with age ; but |

|
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177

namely, because their husbands are generally strangers
to them.

It is a great pity. there should be no knowledge in a
family. For my own part, Iam concerned when I go
into a great house, where perhaps there is not a single
person that can spell, unless it be by chance the butler,
or one of the footmen. What a figure is the young
heir likely to make, who is a dunce both by father and
mother’s side !

If we look into the histories of famous women, we
find many eminent philosophers of this sex; nay, we
find that several females have distinguished themselves
in those sects of philosophy which seem almost repug~
nant to their natures. There have been famous female

| Pythagoreans, notwithstanding most of that philosophy
| consisted in keeping a secret, and that the disciple was
of all, to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you |

to hold her tongue five years together. I need not
mention Portia, who was a Stoie in petticoats; nor
Hipparchia, the famous she-Cynic, who arrived at such
perfection in her studies, that she conversed with her

| husband or man-planter in broad daylight, and in the

 

 

 

open streets.

Learning and knowledge are perfections in us, not
as we are men, but as we are reasonable creatures ; in
which order of beings the female world is upon the
same level with the male. We ought to consider in
this particular not what is the sex, but what is the
species to which they belong. At least I believe every
one will allow me, that a female philosopher is not so
absurd a character, and so opposite to the sex, asa
female gamester ; and that it is more irrational for a
woman to pass away half-a-dozen hours at cards or dice,
than getting up stores of useful learning, This, there-
fore, is another reason why I would recommend the
studies of knowledge to the female world, that they may
not be at a loss how to employ those hours that lie
upon their hands.

I might also add this motive to my fair readers, that
several of their sex, who have improved their minds by
books and literature, have raised themselves to the
highest posts of honour and fortune. A neighbouring
nation may at this time furnish us with a very remark-
able instance of this kind; but I shall conclude this
head with the history of Athenais, which is a very
signal example to my present purpose.

The Emperor Theodosius being about the age of
one-and-twenty, and designing to take a wife, desired
his sister Pulcheria and his friend Paulinus to search
his whole empire for a woman of the most exquisite
beauty and highest accomplishments. In the midst of
this search, Athenais, a Grecian virgin, accidentally
offered herself. Her father, who was an eminent
philosopher of Athens, and had bred her up in all the
learning of that place, at his death left her but a very
small portion, in which also she suffered great hard-
ships from the injustice of her two brothers, This
forced her upon a journey to Constantinople, where
she had a relation who represented her case to Pul-
cheria, in order to obtain some redress from the
emperor. By this means that religious princess became
acquainted with Athenais, whom she found the most
beautiful woman of her age, and educated under a long
course of philosophy in the strictest virtue and most
unspotted innocence. Pulcheria was charmed with her
conversation, and immediately made her reports to the
emperor her brother Theodosius. The character she
gave made such an impression on him, that he desired
his sister to bring her away immediately to the lodgings
of his friend Paulinus, where he found her beauty and
her conversation beyond the highest idea he had framed
of them. His friend Paulinus converted her to Chris-
tianity, and gave her the name of Eudosia ; after
which the emperor publicly espoused her, and enjoyed
all the happiness in his marriage which he promised.
himself from such a virtuous and learned bride. She
not only forgave the injuries which her two brothers
had done her, but raised them to great honours ; and
by several works of learning, as well as by an exem~
plary life, made herself so dear to the whole empire,178

that she had many statues erected to her memory, and
is celebrated by the fathers of the church as the
ornament of her sex.

PL LIPS OS OSD OPILOLOP

CONTEMPLATION OF AN ANT-HILL.

In one of my late papers, I supposed a mole-hill inha-
bited by pismires, or ants, to be a lively image of the
earth peopled by human creatures. This supposition
will not appear too forced or strained to those who
are acquainted with the natural history of these little
insects ; in order to which I shall present my reader
with the extract of a letter upon this curious subject,
as it was published by the members of the French
Academy, and since translated into English. I must
confess | was never in my life better entertained than
with this narrative, which is of undoubted credit and
authority.

“ In a room next to mine, which had been empty
for a long time, there was upon a window a box full of
earth, two feet deep, and fit to keep flowers in. That
kind of parterre had been long uncultivated, and there-
fore it was covered with old plaster, and a great deal
of rubbish that fell from the top of the house, and from
the walls, which, together with the earth formerly
imbibed with water, made a kind of dry and barren
soil. That place lying to the south, and out of the
reach of the wind and rain, besides the neighbourhood
of a granary, was a most delightful spot of ground for
ants; and therefore they had made three nests there,
without doubt for the same reason that men build cities
in fruitful and convenient places, near springs and
rivers.

Having a mind to cultivate some flowers, I took a
view of that place, and removed a tulip out of the garden
into that box; but casting my eyes upon the ants,
continually taken up with a thousand cares, very
inconsiderable with respect to us, but of the greatest
importance for them, they appeared to me more worthy
of my curiosity than all the flowers in the world. I
quickly removed the tulip, to be the admirer and restorer
of that little commonwealth. This was the only thing they
wanted : for their policy, and the order observed among
them, are more perfect than those of the wisest repub-
lies ; and therefore they have nothing to fear, unless a

new legislator should attempt to change the form of

their government.

I made it my business to procure them all sorts
of conveniences. I took out of the box every thing
that might be troublesome to them; and frequently
visited my ants, and studied all their actions. Being
used to go to bed very late, I went to see them work
in a moonshiny night; and I did frequently get up in
the night, to take a view of their labours. I always
found some going up and down, and very busy. One
would think that they never sleep. Every body knows
that ants come out of their holes in the day-time, and
expose to the sun the corn which they keep under
ground in the night. Those who have seen ant-hillocks,
have easily perceived those small heaps of corn about
their nests. What surprised me at first, was, that my
ants never brought out their corn but in the night when
the moon did shine, and kept it under ground in the
day-time ; which was contrary to what I had seen, and
saw still practised by those insects in other places. I
quickly found out the reason of it. There was a pigeon-
house not far from thence. Pigeons and birds would
have eaten their corn, if they had brought it out in the
day-time. It is highly probable they knew it by expe-
rience; and I frequently found pigeons and birds in
that place, when I went to it ina morning. | I quickly
delivered them from those robbers. I frighted the
birds away with some pieces of paper tied to the end
of a string over the window. As for the pigeons, |
drove them away several times; and when they per-
ceived that the place was more frequented than before,
they never came to it again. What is most admirable,
and what I could hardly believe, if I did not know it

 

ADDISON'S

by experience, is, that those ants knew some days after
that they had nothing to fear, and began to lay out
their corn in the sun. However, I perceived they were
not fully convinced of being out of all danger: for they
durst not bring out their provisions all at once, but by
degrees; first in a small quantity, and without any
great order, that they might quickly carry them away
in case of any misfortune, watching, and looking every
way; at last, being persuaded that they had nothing
to fear, they brought out all their corn almost every
day, and in good order, and carried it in at night.

There is a straight hole in every ant’s nest, about half
an inch deep, and then it goes down sloping into a place
where they have their magazine, which I take to be a
different place from that where they rest and eat; for
it is highly improbable that an ant, which is a very
cleanly insect, and throws out of her nest all the small
remains of the corn on which she feeds, as I have
observed a thousand times, would fill up their magazine
and mix her corn with dirt and ordure.

The corn that is laid up by ants, would shoot under
ground, if those insects did not take care to prevent it.
They bite off all the buds before they lay it up, and
therefore the corn that has lain in their nests will pro-
duce nothing. Any one may easily make this experi-
ment, and even plainly see that there is no bud in their
corn. But though the bud be bitten off, there remains
another inconvenience: that corn must needs swell and
rot under ground, and therefore it could be of no use
for the nourishment of ants. Those insects prevent
that inconvenience by their labour and industry, and
contrive the matter so, that corn will keep as dry in
their nests as in our granaries.

They gather many small particles of dry earth, which
they bring every day out of their holes, and place them
round to heat them in-the sun. Every ant brings a
small particle of that earth in her pincers, lays it up
by the hole, and then goes and fetches another. Thus,
in less than a quarter of an hour one may see a vast
number of such small particles of dry earth heaped up
round the hole. ‘They lay their corn under ground
upon that earth, and cover it with the same. They
perform this work almost every day during the heat of
the sun; and though the sun went from the window
about three or four o’clock in the afternoon, they did
not remove their corn and their particles of earth,
because the ground was very hot, until the heat was
Over.

If any one should think that those animals should
use sand, or smail particles of brick or stone, rather
than take so much pains about dry earth, I answer,
that upon such an occasion nothing can be more pro-
per than earth heated in the sun. Corn does not keep
upon sand; besides, a grain of corn that is cut, being
deprived of its bud, would be filled with small sandy
particles that could not easily come out. To which I
add, that sand consists of such small particles, that an
ant could not take them up one after another, and
therefore those insects are seldom to be seen near
rivers, or in a very sandy ground.

As for the small particles of brick or stone, the least
moistness would join them together, and turn them
into a kind of mastic, which those insects could not
divide. ‘Those particles sticking: together could not
come out of an ant’s nest, and would spoil its symmetry.

When ants have brought out those particles of earth,
they bring out their corn after the same manner, and
place it round the earth. ‘Thus one may see two heaps
surrounding their hole, one of dry earth and the other
of corn; and then they fetch out a remainder of dry
earth, on which doubtless their corn was laid.

Those insects never go about this work but when the
weather is clear and the sun very hot. I observed,
that those little animals having one day brought out
their corn at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, removed
it, against their usual custom, before one in the after-
noon. ‘The sun being very hot, and the sky very clear,
I could perceive no reason for it. But, half an hour
after, the sky began to be overcast, and there fell a,MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

small rain which the ants foresaw ; whereas the Milan
Almanack had foretold there would be no rain upon
that day.

I have said before, that those ants which I did so
particularly consider, fetched their corn out of a garret.
I went very frequently into that garret. There was
some old corn in it, and because every grain was not
alike, I observed that they chose the best.

I know, by several experiments, that those little ani-
mals take great care to provide themselves with wheat
when they can find it, and always pick out the best, but
they can make shift without it. When they ean get no

wheat, they take rye, oats, millet, and even crumbs of

bread, but seldom any barley, unless it be in a time of
great scarcity, and when nothing else ean be had.
Being willing to be more particularly informed of
their forecast and industry, I put a small heap of wheat
in a corner of the room where they slept, and, to pre-
vent their fetching corn out of the garret, I shut up
the window, and stopped all the holes. Though ants
are very knowing, I do not take them to be conjurors,
and therefore they could not guess that I had put some
corn in that room. I perceived for several days that
they were very much perplexed, and went a great way
to fetch their provisions. I was not willing for some
time to make them more easy, for I had a mind to
know whether they would at last find out the treasure,
and see it at a great distance ; and whether smelling
enabled them to know what is good for their nourish-
ment. ‘hus they were some time in great trouble,
and took a great deal of pains. They went up and
down a great way, looking out for some grains of corn.
They were sometimes disappointed, and sometimes they
did not like their corn. After many long and painful
excursions, what appeared to me wonderful was, that
none of them came home without bringing something.
One brought a grain of wheat ; another a grain of rye

or oats, or a particle of dry earth, if she could get no- |

thing else.

The window upon which those ants had made their
settlement looked into a garden, and was two stories
high. Some went to the farther end of the garden,
others to the fifth story, in quest of some corn. It was
a very hard journey for them, especially when they
came home loaded with a pretty large grain of corn,
which must needs be a heavy burden for an ant, and
as much as she can bear. The bringing of that grain
from the middle of the garden to the nest, took up four
hours, whereby one may judge of the strength and
prodigious labour of those little animals. It appears
from thence, that an ant works as hard as a man who
should earry a very heavy load on his shoulders almost
every day for the space of four leagues.
those insects do not take so much pains upon a flat
ground ; but then how great is the hardship of a poor
ant, when she carries a grain of corn to the second
story, climbing up a wall with her head downwards!
None can have a true notion of it, unless they see
those little animals at work in such a situation. The
frequent stops they make in the most convenient
places, are a plain indication of their weariness.
Some of them were strangely perplexed, and could
not get to their journey’s end. In such a ease, the
strongest ants, or those that are not so weary, having
carried their corn to their nests, came down again to
help them. Some are so unfortunate as to fall down
with their load, when they are almost come home.
When this happens, they seldom lose their corn, but
carry it up again.

I saw one of the smallest carrying a large grain of
wheat with incredible pains. When she came to the
box where the nest was, she made so much haste that
she fell down with her load, after a very laborious
march. Such an unlucky accident would have vexed
a philosopher. I went down, and found her with the
same corn in her paws. She was ready to climb up
again. The same misfortune happened to her three
times. Sometimes she fell in the middle of her way,
and sometimes higher; but she never let go her hold,

It is true, |

 

 

|

 

179

and was not discouraged. At last her strength failed
her. She stopped ; and another ant helped her to carry
her load, which was one of the dJargest and finest grains
of wheat that an ant can carry. It happens sometimes
that a corn slips out of their paws when they are climb-
ing up. They take hold of it again, when they can find
it, otherwise they look for another, or take something
else, being ashamed to return to their nest without
bringing something. This I have experimented, by
taking away the grain which they looked for. All those
experiments may easily be made by any one that has
patience enough. They do not require so great a
patience as that of ants; but few people are capable
of it,”
CONTEMPLATION OF AN ANT-HILL:
CONCLUDED.

Iv has been observed by writers of morality, that in
order to quicken human industry, providence has so
contrived it, that our daily food is not to be procured
without much pains and labour. The chase of birds
and beasts, the several arts of fishing, with all the
different kinds of agriculture, are necessary scenes of
business, and give employment to the greatest part of
mankind. If we look into the brute creation, we find all
its individuals engaged in a painful and laborious way
of life, to procure a necessary subsistence for them-
selves, or those that grow up under them; the preser
vation of their being is the whole business of it. An
idle man is therefore a kind of monster in the creation.
All nature is busy about him ; every animal he sees
reproaches him. Let sucha man, who lies as a burden
or dead weight upon the species, and contributes nothing
either to the riches of the commonwealth or to the main.
tenance of himself and family, consider that instinet
with which providence has endowed the ant, and by
which is exhibited an example of industry to rational
creatures. This is set forth under many surprising
instances in my last paper, and in the conclusion of that
narrative, which is as follows :—

“Thus my ants were forced to make shift for 2 live-
lihood, when I had shut up the garret out of which they
used to fetch their provisions. At last, being sensible
that it would be a long time before they could discover
the small heap of corn which I had laid up for them, I
resolved to show it to them.

In order to know how far their industry could reach,
I contrived an expedient, which had good success. The
thing will appear incredible to those who never con-
sidered, that all animals of the same kind which form
a society, are more knowing than others. I took one
of the largest ants, and threw her upon that small heap
of wheat. She was so glad to find herself at liberty,
that she ran away to her nest, without carrying off a
grain. But she observed it: for an hour after, all my
ants had notice given them of such a provision 3 and [
saw most of them very busy in carrying away the corn
[ had laid up in the room. I leave it to you to judge,
whether it may not be said, that they have a particular
way of communicating their knowledge to one another :
for otherwise how could they know, one or two hours
after, that there was corn in that place? Itwas quickly
exhausted ; and I put in more, but in a small quantity,
to know the true extent of their appetite, or their pro-
digious avarice; for I make no doubt but they lay up
provisions against the winter. We read it in holy serip-
ture: a thousand experiments teach us the same ; and
I do not believe that any experiment has been made
that shows the contrary.

I have said before, that there were three ants’ nests
in that box or parterre, which formed, if I may say so,
three different cities, governed by the same laws, and
observing the same order and the same customs. How-
ever, there was this difference, that the inhabitants of
one of those holes seemed to be more knowing and
industrious than their neighbours. The ants of that
nest were disposed in a better order; their corn was
finer ; they had a greater plenty of provisions ; their

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nest was furnished with more inhabitants ; and they
were bigger and stronger. Jt was the principal and
the capital nest. Nay, I observed, that those ants were
distinguished from the rest, and had some pre-eminence
over them.

Though the box full of earth where the ants had made
their settlement, was generally free from rain, yet it
rained sometimes upon it when a certain wind blew.
It was a great inconvenience for those insects. Ants
are afraid of water; and when they go a great way in
quest of provisions, and are surprised by the rain, they
shelter themselves under some tile, or something else,
and do not come out until the rain is over. The ants
of the principal nest found out a wonderful expedient
to keep out the rain. ‘There was a small piece of a flat
slate which they laid over the hole of their nest in the
day-time, when they foresaw it would rain; and almost
every night above fifty of those little animals, especially
the strongest, surrounded that piece of slate, and drew
it equally in a wonderful order. They removed it in
the morning ; and nothing could be more curious than
to see those little animals about such a work. They
had made the ground uneven about their nest, inso-
much that the slate did not lie flat upon it, but left a
free passage underneath. The ants of the two other
nests did not so well succeed in keeping out the rain.
They laid over their holes several pieces of old and dry
plaster, one upon the other ; but they were still troubled
with the rain; and the next day they took a world of
pains to repair the damage. Hence it is that those insects
are so frequently found under tiles, where they settle
themselves to avoid the rain. Their nests are at all
times covered with those tiles, without any incumbrance ;
and they lay out their corn and their dry earth in the
sun about the tiles, as one may see, every day. I took
care to cover the two ants’ nests that were troubled with
the rain. As for the capital nest, there was no need of
exercising my charity towards it.

M. de la Loubere says, in his relation of Siam, that
in a certain part of that kingdom, which lies open to
great inundations, all the ants make their settlements
upon trees. No ants’ nests are to be seen any where
else. I need not insert here what that author says
about those insects. You may see his relation.

Here follows a curious experiment which I made
upon the same ground where I had three ants’ nests,
I undertook to make a fourth, and went about it in the
following manner. Ina corner of a kind of terrass, at

a considerable distance from the box, I found a hole |

swarming with ants much larger than all those I had
already seen; but they were not so well provided with
corn, nor under so good a government. I madea hole
in the box like that of an ants’ nest, and laid, as it were,
the foundation of a new city. Afterwards I got as many
ants as I could out of the nest in the terrass, and put
them into a bottle to give them a new habitation in my
box; and because I was afraid they would return to the
terrass, | destroyed their old nest, pouring boiling water
into the hole, to kill those ants that remained in it. In
the next place, I filled the new hole with the ants that
were in the bottle; but none of them would stay in it.
They went away in less than two hours; which made
me believe that it was impossible to make a fourth
settlement in my box.

Two or three days after, going accidentally over the
terrass, I was much surprised to see the ants’ nest
which I had destroyed, very artfully repaired. I
resolved then to destroy it entirely, and to settle those
ants in my box. ‘lo succeed in my design, I put some
gunpowder and brimstone into their hole, and sprang a
mine, whereby the whole nest was overthrown; and
then [ carried as many ants as [ could get into the place
which I designed for them. It happened to be a very
rainy day, and it rained all night; and therefore they
remained in the new hole all that time. In the morn-
ing, when the rain was over, most of them went away
to repair their old habitation ; but finding it impracti-
cable by reason of the smell of the powder and brim-
stone, which kills them, they came hack again, and

 

 

settled in the place I had appointed for them. They
quickly grew acquainted with their neighbours, and
received from them all manner of assistance out of their
holes. As for the inside of their nest, none but them-
selves were concerned in it, according to the inviolable
laws established among those animals.

An ant never goes into any other nest but her own;
and if she should venture to do it, she would be turned
out and severely punished. I have often taken an ant
out of one nest to put her into another ; but she quickly
came out, being warmly pursued by two or three other
ants. I tried the same experiments several times with
the same ant; but at last the other ants grew impatient,
and tore her to pieces. I have often frighted some ants
with my fingers, and pursued them as far as another
hole, stopping all the passages to prevent their going to
their own nest. It was very natural for them to fly into
the next hole. Many a man would not be so cautious,
and would throw himself out of the windows, or into a
well, if he were pursued by assassins. But the ants I
am speaking of avoided going into any other hole but
their own, and rather tried all other ways of making
their escape. They never fled into another nest but at
the last extremity ; and sometimes chose rather to be
taken, as I have often experienced. It is therefore an
inviolable custom among these insects not to go into
any other hole but their own. They do not exercise
hospitality ; but they are very ready to help one another
out of their holes. They put down their loads at the
entrance of a neighbouring nest, and those that live in
it carry them in.

‘They keep up a sort of trade among themselves.’ And
it is not true that those insects are not for lending. I
know the contrary; they lend their corn, they make
exchanges, they are always ready to serve one another,
and I can assure you, that more time and patience
would have enabled me to observe a thousand things
more curious and wonderful than what I have mentioned.
’or instance, how they lend and recover their loans,
whether it be in the same quantity, or with usury;
whether they pay the strangers that work for them, &c.
[ do not think it impossible to examine all those things ;
and it would be a great curiosity to know by what maxims
they govern themselves; perhaps such a knowledge
might be of some use to us.

They are never attacked by any enemies in a body,
as it is reported of bees. Their only fear proceeds from
birds, which sometimes eat their corn when they lay it
out inthe sun; but they keep it under ground when
they are afraid of thieves. It is said that some birds
eat them, but I never saw any instance of it. They are
also infested by small worms, but they turn them out
and kill them. J observed, that they punished those
ants which probably had been wanting to their duty.
Nay, sometimes they killed them; which they did in
the following manner. Three or four ants fell upon one,
and pulled her several ways till she was torn in pieces.
Generally speaking, they live very quietly ; from whence
I infer that they have a very severe discipline among
themselves to keep so good an order; or that they are
great lovers of peace, if they have no occasion for any
discipline.

Was there ever greater union in any commonwealth ?
Every thing is common among them, which is not to
be seen any where else. Bees, of which we are told so
many wonderful things, have each of them a hole in
their hives; their honey is their own; every bee minds
her own concerns. ‘The same may be said of all other
animals ; they frequently fight to deprive one another
of their portion. Itis not so with ants. They have
nothing of their own; a grain of corn which an ant
carries home is deposited in a common stock ; it is not
designed for her own use, but for the whole community;
there is no distinction between a private and a common
interest ; an ant never works for herself, but for the
society.

Whatever misfortune happens to them, their care
and industry find out a remedy for it—nothing dis-
courages them. If you destroy their nests, they willMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

be repaired in two days. Any body may easily see
how difficult it is to drive them out of their habitations,
without destroying the inhabitants ; for as long as there
are any left, they will maintain their ground.

I had almost forgot to tell you, Sir, that mercury
has hitherto proved a mortal poison for them, and that
it is the most effectual way of destroying those insects.
I can do something for them in this case perhaps you
will hear in a little time that I have reconciled them to
mercury.”

 

PIP PSP PRL OP ODD ORO R OR

“WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING ”

I was yesterday pursuing the hint which I mentioned
in my last paper, and comparing together the industry
of man with that of other er atures, in which I could
not but observe, that notwithstanding we are obliged by
duty to keep ourselves in constant employ, after the
same manner as inferior animals are prompted to it by
instinct, we fall very short of them in this particular.
We are here the more inexcusable, because there is a
greater variety of business to which we may apply
ourselves. Reason opens to us a large field of affairs,
which other creatures are not capable of. J]
prey, and I believe of all other kinds, in their natural
state of being, divide their time between action and
rest. They are always at work or asleep.
their waking hours are wholly taken up in seeking after
their food, or in consuming it. The human species
only, to the great reproach of our natures, are filled
with complaints that “ the day hangs heavy on them ;”
that “ they do not know what to do with themselves ;’
that “ they are at a loss how to pass away their time ;”
with many of the like shameful murmurs, which we
often find in the mouths of those who are styled reason-
able beings: How monstrous are such expressions
among creatures who have the labours of the mind, as
well as those of the body, to furnish them with proper
employments ; who, besides the business of their proper
callings and professions, can apply themselves to the
duties of religion, to meditation, to the reading of use-
ful books, to discourse: in a word, who may exercise
themselves in the unbounded pursuits of knowledge and
virtue, and every hour of their lives make themselves
wiser or better than they were before !

After having been taken up for some time in this course
of thought, I diverted myself with a book, according to
my usual custom, in order to unbend my mind before
I went to sleep. The book I made use of on this ocea-
sion was Lucian, where I amused my thoughts for
about an hour among the dialogues of the dead, which
in all probability produced the following dream :—

I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the
infernal regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus, one of
the judges of the dead, seated in his tribunal. On his
left hand stood the keeper of Erebus; on his right the
keeper of Elysium. I was told he sat upon women
that day, there being several of the sex lately arrived
who had not yet their mansions assigned them. I was
surprised to hear him ask every one of them the same
question, namely, “ What they had been doing?” Upon
this question being proposed to the whole assembly,
they stared one upon another, as not knowing what to
answer. He then interrogated each of them separately.
** Madam,” says he to the first of them, “ you have been
upon the earth about fifty years; what have you been
doing there all this while?” « Doing !” says she;
“really I do not know what I have been doing. I
desire I may have time given me to recollect.” After
about half an hour’s pause, she told him that she had
been playing at crimp, upon which Rhadamaunthus
beckoned to the keeper on his left hand to take her into
custody. “And you, Madam,” says. the judge, that
look with such a soft and languishing air, I think you
set out for this place in your nine-and-twentieth year ;
what have you been doing all this while?” “I hada
great deal of business on my hands,” says she, “ being

| taken up the first twelve years of my life in dressing a
| jointed baby, and all the remaining part of it in reading

:

Jeasts of

In short, |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

181

plays and romances.” “Very well,” says he, you
have employed your time to good purpose. Away with
her.” The next was a plain country woman. “ Well,
mistress,” says Rhadamanthus, “and what. have you
been doing?” “ An’t please your worship,” says she,
“I did not live quite forty years; and in that time
brought my husband seven daughters, made him nine
thousand cheeses, and left my eldest girl with him to
look after his house in my absence; and who, I may
venture to say, is as pretty a housewife as any in the
country.” Khadamanthus smiled at the simplicity of
the good woman, and ordered the keeper of Elysium to
take her into his care. “ And you, fair lady,” says he,
“what have you been doing these five-and-thirty years???
“I have been doing no hurt, I assure you, Sir,” said
she. “That is well,” said he ; “but what good have you
been doing?” ‘The lady was in great confusion at this
question, and not knowing what to answer, the two
keepers leaped out to seize her at the same time. The
one took her by the hand to convey her to Elysium, the
other caught hold of her to carry her away to Erebus.
But Rhadamanthus observing an ingenuous modesty in
her countenance and behaviour, bade them both let her
loose, and set her aside for a re-examination when he
was more at old woman, of a proud and
sour look, presented herself next at the bar ; and being
asked what she had been doing, “ Truly,” says she,
‘I lived threescore and ten years in a very wicked
world, and was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of
young flirts, that I passed most of my last years in
condemning the follies of the times. T was every day
blaming the silly conduct of people about me, in order
to deter those I conversed with from falling into the
like errors and mi carriages.” “Very well,” says
Rhadamanthus, “but did you keep the same watchful
eye over your own actions?” “ Why truly,” says she,
** I was so taken up with publishing the faults of others,
hat I had no time to consider my own.” Madam,”

leisure. An

that
says Rhadamanthus, “ be pleased to file off to the left,
and make room for the venerable matron that stands
behind you.” Old gentlewoman,” says he, “I think
you are foursecore. You have heard the question, what
have you been doing so long in the world?” Ah,
sir!” says she, “ I have been doing what I should not
have done; but I had made a firm resolution to have
changed my life, if I had not been snatched off by an
untimely end.” * Madam,” says he, “ you will please
to follow your leader.” And Spying another of the same
age, interrogated her in the same form. 'To which the
matron replied, “I have been the wife of a husband
who was as dear to me in his old age as in his youth. I
have been a mother, and very happy in ‘my children,
whom I endeavoured to bring 1 p in every thing that is
good. My eldest son is blessed by the poor, and beloved
by every one that knows him. lived within my own
family, and left it much more wealthy than I found it.”
Rhadamanthus, who knew the value of the old lady,
smiled upon her in such a manner that the keeper of
Elysium, who knew his office, reached out his hand to
her.. He no sooner touched her, but her wrinkles
vanished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with.

bloom and beauty. A

A

blushes, and she appeared in full
young woman observing that this officer, who con-
ducted the happy to Elysium, was so great a beautifier,
longed to be in his hands; so that passing through the
crowd, she was the next that appeared at the bar. And
being asked what she had been doing the five-and-twenty
years that she had passed in the world, “I have
endeavoured,” says she, “ever since I came to years of
discretion, to make myself lovely, and gain admirers.
In order to it, I passed my time in bottling up May-
dew, inventing white-washes, mixing colours, cutting
out patches, consulting my glass, suiting my complexion,
tearing off my tucker, sinking my Stays.” Rhadaman-
thus, without hearing her out, gave the sign to take her
off. Upon the approach of the keeper of Erebus, her
colour faded, her face was puckered-up with wrinkles,
and her whole person lost in deformity.

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182 ADDISON'S

troop of females that came forward laughing, singing,
and dancing. I was very desirous to know the recep-
tion they would meet with, and withal was very appre-
hensive that Rhadamanthus would spoil their mirth;
but at their nearer approach, the noise grew so very
great that it awakened me.

IT lay some time reflecting in myself on the oddness
of this dream, and could not forbear asking my own
heart what I was doing? I answered myself that I was
writing Guardians. If my readers make as good a use
of this work as I design they should, I hope it will
never be imputed to me as work that is vain and unpro-
fitable.

J shall conclude this paper with recommending to
them the same short self-examination. If every one of
them frequently lays his hand upon his heart, and
considers what he is doing, it will check him in all the
idle, or, what is worse, the vicious moments of life, lift
up his mind, when it is running on in a series of indif-
ferent actions, and encourage him when he is engaged
in those which are virtuous and laudable ; in a word,
it will very much alleviate that guilt which the best of
men have reason to acknowledge in their daily contes-
sions, of leaving undone those things which they ought
to have done, and of doing those things which they
ought not to have done.

DO LOLE LLP LOLO LOLS

A LADY’S REVERSES IN LIFE.

“Sr—Having read over one of your late papers, in which |

you recommend the pursuits of wisdom and knowledge
to those of the fair sex who have much time lying on
their hands—and, among other motives, make use of
this, that several women thus accomplished have raised
themselves by it to considerable posts of honour and

fortune—I shall beg leave to give you an instance of

this kind, which many now living can testify the truth
of, and which I can assure you as matter of fact.
About twelve years ago, I was familiarly acquainted
with a gentleman who was in a post that brought him
a yearly revenue sufficient to live very handsomely
upon. He had a wife, and no child but a daughter,

whom he bred up, as I thought, too high for one that |

could expect no other fortune than such a one as her
father could raise out of the income of his place, which,
as they managed it, was scarce sufficient for their ordi-
mary expenses. Miss Betty had always the best sort
of clothes, and was hardly allowed to keep company
but with those above her rank ; so that it was no wonder
she grew proud and haughty towards those she looked
upon as her inferiors. There lived by them a barber,
who had a daughter about Miss’s age, that could speak
French, had read several books at her leisure hours,
and was a perfect mistress of her needle, and in all
kinds of female manufacture. She was, at the same
time, a pretty, modest, witty girl, She was hired to
come to Miss an hour or two every day, to talk French
with her, and teach her to work; but Miss always
treated her with great contempt; and when Molly gave
her any advice, rejected it with scorn,

About the same time several young fellows made
their addresses to Miss Betty, who had, indeed, a great
deal of wit and beauty, had they not been infected with
so much yanity and self-conceit. Among the rest was
a plain, sober, young man, who loved her almost to
distraction. His passion was the common talk of the
neighbourhood, who used to be often discoursing of Mr
T——’s angel—for that was the name he always gave
her in ordinary conversation. As his circumstances
were very indifferent, he being a younger brother, Mrs
Betty rejected him with disdain, insomuch that the
young man, as is usual among those who are crossed in
love, put himself aboard the fleet, with a resolution to
seek his fortune, and forget his mistress.
very happy for him; for in a very few years, being
concerned in several captures, he brought home with

 

* him an estate of about £12,000.

Meanwhile days and years went on. Miss lived

.

This was |

| could to comfort her.

 

 

high, and learned but little, most of her time being
employed in reading plays and practising to dance,
in which she arrived at great perfection; when of a
sudden, at a change of ministry, her father lost his
place, and was forced to leave London, where he could
no longer live on the footing he had formerly done. Not
many years after, I was told the poor gentleman was
dead, and had left his widow and daughter in a very
desolate condition ; but I could not learn where to find
them, though I made what inquiry I could. And I
must own I immediately suspected their pride would
not suffer them to be seen or relieved by any of their
former acquaintance. I had left inquiring after them
for some years; when I happened, not long ago, as I
was asking at a house for a gentleman I had some
business with, to be led‘into a parlour by a handsome
young woman, who, I presently fancied, was that very
daughter I had so long sought in vain. My suspicion
increased when I observed her to blush at the sight of
me, and to avoid as much as possible looking upon or
speaking tome. “ Madam,” said I, “are not you Mrs
such a one?” At which words the tears ran down her
cheeks, and she would fain have retired without giving
me an answer; but I stopped her, and being to wait a
while for the gentleman I was to speak to, 1 resolved
not to lose this opportunity of satisfying my curiosity.
[ could not well discern by her dress, which was gen-
teel, though not fine, whether she was the mistress of
the house, or only a servant. But supposing her to be
the first, “I am glad, Madam,” said I, “after having
long inquired after you, to have so happily met with
you, and to find you mistress of so fine a place.” These
words were like to have spoiled all, and threw her into
such a disorder, that it was some time before she could
recover herself. But as soon as she was able to speak,
“ Sir,” said she, “ you are mistaken: I am but the ser-
vant.” Her voice fell in these last words, and she
burst again into tears. J was sorry to have occasioned
in her so much grief and confusion, and said what I
** Alas, Sir,” said she, “ my con-
dition is much better than I deserve ; I have the kindest
and best of women for my mistress. She is wife to the
gentleman you come to speak withal; you know her
very well, and have often seen her with me.” ‘To make
my story short, I found that my late friend’s daughter
was now a servant to the barber’s daughter whom she
had formerly treated so disdainfully. The gentleman
at whose house I now was, fell in love with Moll; and,
being master of a great fortune, married her, and lives
with her as happily, and as much to his satisfaction,
as he could desire. He treats her with all the friend-
ship and respect possible, but not with more than her
behaviour and good qualities deserve. And it was witha
great deal of pleasure I heard her maid dwell so long
upon her commendation. She informed me, that after
her father’s death, her mother and she lived for a while
together in great poverty ; but her mother’s spirit could
not bear the thoughts of asking relief of any of her own
or her husband’s acquaintance ; so that they retired from
all their friends, till they were providentially discovered
by this newly-married woman, who heaped on them
favours upon favours. Her mother died shortly after,
who, while she lived, was better pleased to see her
daughter a beggar than a servant; but being freed by
her death, she was taken into this gentlewoman’s family,
where she now lived, though much more like a friend
or a companion than like a servant.

I went home full of this strange adventure ; and about
a week after, chancing to be in company with Mr T.,
the rejected lover, whom I mentioned in the beginning
of my letter, I told him the whole story of his angel,
not questioning but he would feel on this occasion the
usual pleasures of a resenting lover, when he hears that
fortune has avenged him of the cruelty of his mistress
As I was recounting to him at large these several p*
ticulars, I observed that he covered his face wit!
hand, and that his breast heaved as though it
have burst, which I took at first to have bee’
of laughter; but upon lifting up his head, & :MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

eyes all red with weeping. We forced a smile at the
end of my story, and we parted.

About a fortnight after, I received from him the fol-
lowing letter :—

* Dear Srr—I am infinitely obliged to you for bring-
ing me news of my angel. J have since married her ;
and think the low circumstances she was reduced to a
piece of good luck to both of us, since it has quite
removed that little pride and vanity which was the
only part of her character that T disliked, and given me
an opportunity of showing her the constant and sineere
affection which I professed to her in the time of her
prosperity. Yours, 1; T.?”

 

DELP LOLI LODE IDE PON

A SENSE OF HONOUR.

Every principle that is a motive to good actions ought
to be encouraged ; since men are of so different a make,
that the same principle does not work equally upon all
minds. Whatsome men are prompted to by conscience,
duty, or religion, which are only different names for the
same thing, others are prompted to by honour.

The sense of honour is of so fine and delicate a nature,
that it is only to be met with in minds which are natu-
rally noble, or in such as have been cultivated by great
examples or a refined education. This paper, therefore

5

is chiefly designed for those who, by means of any of

 

these advantages, are, or ought to be, actuated by this |

glorious principle.

| suit of a shadow.

But as nothing is more pernicious than a principle |

of action when it is misunderstood, I shall consider
honour with respect to three sorts of men. First of
all, with regard to those who have a right notion of it;
secondly, with regard to those who have a mistaken
notion of it; and thirdly, with regard to those who treat
it as chimerieal, and turn it into ridicule.

In the first place, true honour, though it be a diffe-
rent principle from religion, is that which produces the
same effects. The lines of attion, though drawn from
different parts, terminate in the same point. [Religion
embraces virtue, as it is enjoined by the laws of God;
honour, as it is graceful and ornamental to human
nature. The religious man fears, the man of honour
scorns, to do an ill action. The one considers vice as
something that is beneath him; the other as something
that is offensive to the divine being: the one, as what
is unbecoming; the other, as what is forbidden. Thus,
Seneca speaks in the naturaland genuine language of a
man of honour, when he declares, that were there no
God to see or punish vice, he would not commit it,
because it is of so mean, so base, and so vile a nature.

I shall conelude this head with the deseription of

honour in the part of young Juba in the tragedy of Cato.
** Honour’s a sacred tie, the law of kings,
The noble mind’s distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens Virtue where it meets her,
And imitates her actions where she is not.
It ought not to be sported with.”

In the second place, we are to consider those who
have mistaken notions of honour. And these are such
as establish any thing to themselves for a point of
honour which is contrary either to the laws of God or
of their country; who think it more honourable to
revenge than to forgive an injury; who make no
scruple of telling a lie, but would put any man to death
that accuses them of it ; who are more eareful to guard
their reputation by their courage than by their virtue.
True fortitude is indeed so becoming in human nature,
that he who wants it searce deserves the name of a man :
but we find several who so much abuse this notion, that
they place the whole ideas of honour in a kind of brutal
courage ; by which means we have had many among us
who have called themselves men of honour, that would
have been a disgrace to a gibbet. In a word, the man
who sacrifices any duty of a reasonable creature to a
prevailing mode or fashion—who looks upon any thing
as honourable that is displeasing to his Maker or
destructive to society—who thinks himself obliged by

 

 

183

this principle to the practice of some virtues and not of
others—is by no means to be reckoned among true men
of honour.

Timogenes was a lively instance of one actuated by
false honour. ‘'Timogenes would smile at a man’s jest
who ridiculed his maker, and at the same time run a
man through the body that spoke ill of his friend.
Timogenes wonld have seorned to have betrayed a
secret that was entrusted with him, though the fate of
his country depended upon the discovery of it. ‘Timo-
genes took away the life of a young fellow in a duel, for
having spoken ill of Belinda, a lady whom he himself had
seduced in her youth, and betrayed into want and igno-
miny. ‘To close his character, ‘Timogenes, after having
ruined several poor tradesmen’s families who had
trusted him, sold his estate to satisfy his creditors ; but
like a man of honour, disposed of all the money he
could make of it, in the paying off his play-debts, or, to
speak in his own language, his debts of honour.

In the third place, we are to consider those persons
who treat this principle as chimerical, and turn it into
ridicule. Men who are professedly of no honour, are
of a more profligate and abandoned nature than even
those who are actuated by false notions of it; as there
is more hope of a heretic than of an atheist. These
sons of infamy consider honour, with old Syphax in the
play before mentioned, as a fine imaginary notion, that
leads astray young inexperienced men, and draws them
into real mischiefs, while they are engaged in the pur-
These are generally persons, who,
in Shakspeare’s phrase, are worn and hackneyed in the
ways of men; whose imaginations are grown callous, and
have lost all those delicate sentiments which are natural
to minds that are innocent and undepraved. Such old
battered miscreants ridicule every thing as romantie
that comes in competition with their present interest ;
and treat those persons as visionaries, who dare stand
up, In a corrupt age, for what has not its immediate
reward joined to it. The talents, interest, or experience
of such men, make them very often useful in all parties,
and at all times. But whatever wealth and dignities
they may arrive at, they ought to consider, that every
one stands as a blot in the annals of his country, who
arrives at the temple of honour by any other way than
through that of virtue.

POL OLOPELIEDO LOD ODD

COMPLAISANCE.

[ was the other day in company at my Lady Lizard’s,
when there came in among us their cousin Tom, who
is one of those country squires that set up for plain
honest gentlemen who speak their minds. Tom is, in
short, a lively, impudent clown; and has wit enough to
have made a pleasant companion, had it been polished
and rectified by good manners. Tom had not been a
quarter of an hour with us, before he set every one in
the company a-blushing, by some blunt question, or
unlucky observation. He asked the Sparkler, if her
wit had yet got her a husband; and told her eldest
sister she looked a little wan under the eyes, and that
it was time for her to look about her, if she did not
design to lead apes in the other world. The good Lady
Lizard, who suffers more than her daughters on such an
occasion, desired her cousin Thomas, with a smile, not
to be so severe on his relations. To which the booby
replied, with a rude country laugh, “If I be not mis-
taken, aunt, you were a mother at fifteen ; and why do
you expect that your daughters should be unmarried till
five-and-twenty?’ I endeavoured to divert the dis-
course ; when, without taking notice of what I said, “ Mr
Ironside,” says he, “you fill my cousins’ heads with your
fine notions as you call them. Can you teach them
to make a pudding ?”” I must confess he put me out of
countenance with his rustie raillery ; so that I made
some excuse, and left the room

This fellow’s behaviour made me reflect on the
usefulness of complaisance, to make all conversation
agreeable. This, though in itself it be scarce reckoned

 

SSS ee
ear ae

FOF ABE, ERTSSerer ner regen tee ees

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184 ADDISON'S

in the number of moral virtues, is that which gives a
lustre to every talent a man can be possessed of. It
was Plato’s advice to an unpolished writer, that he
should sacrifice to the graces. In the same manner, I
would advise every man of learning, who would not
appear in the world a mere scholar or philosopher, to
make himself master of the social virtue which I have
here mentioned.

Complaisance renders a superior amiable, an equal
agreeable, and an inferior acceptable. It smooths dis-
tinction, sweetens conversation, and makes every one
in the company pleased with himself. It produces good
nature and mutual benevolence, encourages the timor-
ous, soothes the turbulent, humanises the fierce, and dis-
tinguishes a society of civilised persons from a confusion
of savages. Ina word, complaisance is a virtue that
blends all orders of men together in a friendly inter-
course of words and actions; and is suited to that
equality in human nature which every one ought to
consider, so far as is consistent with the order and eco-
nomy of the world.

If we could look into the seeret anguish and affliction
of every man’s heart, we should often find that more
of it arises from little imaginary distresses, such as
checks, frowns, contradictions, expressions of contempt,
and what Shakspeare reckons among other evils under
the sun,

**'The poor man’s contumely,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,”
than from the more real pains and calamities of life.
The only method to remove these imaginary distresses
as much as possible out of human life, would be the
universal practice of such an ingenuous complaisance
as I have been here describing ; which, asit is a virtue,

those whom we converse with, so far as we do it inno-
cently. I shall here add, that I know nothing so effec-
tual to raise a man’s fortune as complaisance; which

 

recommends more to the favour of the great, than wit, |

knowledge, or any other talent whatsoever. I find

this consideration very prettily ulustrated by a little

wild Arabian tale, which I shall here abridge for the | :

sake of my reader; after having again warned him,
that I do not recommend to him such an impertinent
or vicious complaisance as is not consistent with honour
and integrity.

Schacabac being reduced to great poverty, and having
eaten nothing for two days together, made a visit to a
noble Barmecide in Persia, who was very hospitable,
but withal a great humorist. The Barmecide was sit-
ting at his table, that seemed ready for an entertain-
ment. Upon hearing Schacabac’s complaint, he desired
him to sit down and fall on. He then gave him an
empty plate, and asked lim how he liked his rice-soup ?
Schacabac, who was a man of wit, and resolved to
comply with the Barmecide in all his humours, told
him it was admirable; and at the same time, in imita-
tion of the other, lifted up the empty spoon to his mouth
with great pleasure. The Barmecide then asked him,
if he ever saw whiter bread? Schacabac, who saw
neither bread nor meat, “ If I did not like it, you may
be sure,” says he, “ I should not eat so heartily of it.”
“You oblige me mightily,” replied the Barmecide ;
“pray let me help you to this leg ofa goose.” Schacabae
reached out his plate, and received nothing on it with
great cheerfulness. As he was eating very heartily on
this imaginary goose, and crying up the sauce to the
skies, the Barmecide desired him to keep a corner of his
stomach for a roasted lamb fed with pistachio nuts;
and after having called for it, as though it had really
been served up, “ Here is a dish,” says he, “ that you
will see at nobody’s table but my own.” Schacabae was
wonderfully delighted with the taste of it, “ which is hike
nothing,” says he, “ I ever ate before.” Several other
nice dishes were served up in idea, which both of them
commended and feasted on after the same manner.
This was followed by an invisible dessert; no part of
which delighted Schacabacso much asa certain lozenge,

 

which the Barmecide told him was a sweetmeat of his
own invention. Schacabac at length being courteously
reproached by the Barmecide that he had no stomach,
and that he ate nothing, and at the same time being
tired with moving his jaws up and down to no purpose,
desired to be excused, for that really he was so full he
could not eat abit more. ‘ Come then,” says the Bar-
mecide, “ the cloth shall be removed, and you shall taste
of my wines, which I may say without vanity are the
best in Persia.” He then filled both their glasses out of
an empty decanter. Schacabae would have excused
himself from drinking so much at once, because he said
he was a little quarrelsome in his liquor. . However,
being pressed to it, he pretended to take it off, having
beforehand praised the colour, and afterwards the
flavour. Being plied with two or three other imaginary
bumpers of different wines equally delicious, and a little
vexed with this fantastic treat, he pretended to grow
flustered, and gave the Barmecide a good box on the ear.
But immediately recovering himself, “Sir,” says he, “ I
beg ten thousand pardons; but I told you before that
it was my misfortune to be quarrelsome in my drink.”
The Barmecide could not but smile at the humour of his
guest ; and instead of being angry at hini, “I find,” says
he, “ thouart a complaisant fellow, and deservest to be
entertained inmy house. Since thou canst accommodate
thyself to my humour, we will now eat together in good
earnest.” Upon which, calling for supper, the rice-soup,
the goose, the pistachio-lamb, the several other nice
dishes, with the dessert, the lozenges, and all the variety
of Persian wines, were served up successively one after
another; and Schacabac was feasted in reality with
those very things which he had before been entertained
with in imagination.

EXAMPLES IN HEADS OF FAMILIES.

It is a melancholy thing to see a coxcomb at the head
of afamily. He scatters infection through the whole

| house. His wife and children have always their eyes

upon him.

If they have more sense than himself, they

ire out of countenance for him; if less, they submit

ti
| their understandings to him, and make daily improve-

ments in folly and impertinence. I have been very
often secretly concerned when I have seen a circle of
pretty children cramped in their natural parts, and
prattling even below themselves, while they are talking
after a couple of silly parents. The dulness of a father
often extinguishes a genius in the son, or gives such a
wrong cast to his mind as it is hard for him ever to
wear off. In short, where the head of a family is weak,
you hear the repetitions of his insipid pleasantries,
shallow conceits, and topical points of mirth, in every
member of it. His table, his fireside, his parties of
diversion, are all of them so many standing scenes of
folly.
‘his is one reason why I would the more recommend
the improvement of the mind to my female readers,
that a family may have a double chance for it; and if
it meets with weakness in one of the heads, may have
it made up in the other. It is indeed an unhappy cir-
cumstance in a family, where the wife has more know-
ledge than the husband ; but it is better it should be so,
than that there should be no knowledge in the whole
house. It is highly expedient, that at least one of the
persons who sit at the helm of affairs should give an
example of good sense to those who are under them in
these little domestic governments.

If folly is of ill consequence in the head of a family,
vice is much more s0, as it is of a more pernicious and
of a more contagious nature. When the master isa
profligate, the rake runs through the house: you hear
the sons talking loosely, and swearing after the father ;
and see the daughters either familiarised to his dis-
course, or every moment blushing for him.

The very footman will be a fine gentleman in his
master’s way. He improves. by his table-talk, and
repeats in the kitchen what he learns in the parlour.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

invest him with the same title and ornaments, and you
would searce know him from his lord: he practises the
same oaths, the same ribaldry, the same way of joking.

It is therefore of very great concern to a family that
the ruler of it should be wise and virtuous. The first
of these qualifications does not indeed lie within his
power; but though a man cannot abstain from being
weak, he may from being vicious. It is in his power
to give a good example of modesty, of temperance, of
frugality, of religion, and of all other virtues ; which,
though the greatest ornaments of human nature, may
be put in practice by men of the most ordinary capa-
cities.

As wisdom and virtue are the proper qualifications
in the master of a house, if he is not accomplished in
both of them, it is much better that he should be defi-
cient in the former than in the latter ; since the conse-
quences of vice are of an infinitely more dangerous
nature than those of folly.

When I read the histories that are left us of Pytl
goras, I cannot but take notice of the extraordinary
influence which ‘that great philosopher, who was an
illustrious pattern of virtue and wisdom, had on his
private family. This excellent man, after having per-
fected himself in the learning of his own country,
travelled into all the known parts of the world, on pur-
pose to converse with the most learned men of
place; by which means he gleaned up all the know-
ledge of the age, and is still admired by the greatest
men of the present times as a prodigy of science. His
wife Theano wrote several books, and after his death
taught his philosophy in his publie school, which wa
frequented by numberless disciples of different countries,
There are several excellent sayings recorded of her. [|
shall only mention one, because it does honour to her
virtue as well as to her wisdom. Being asked by some
of her sex, in how longa time a woman might be allowed
to pray to the gods after having conversed with a man.
“If it were her husband
4 Stranger, never.” Pythagoras had by this wife two
sons and three daughters. His two sons. Telauges and
Mnesarchus, were both eminent phil
joined with their mother in the government of the
Pythagorean school. Arignote was one of the daughters,
whose writings were extant, and very much
in the age of Porphyrius. Damo was another of his
daughters, in whose hands Pythagoras left his works,
with a prohibition to communicate them to strangers ;
which she observed to the hazard of her life : and th
she was offered a great sum for them, rather chose to
live in poverty than not to obey the commands of her
beloved father. Myia was the third of the daughters,
whose works and history were very famous even in
Lucian’s time. She was so signally virtuous, that for
her unblemished behaviour in her Virginity she was
chosen to lead up the chorus of maids in a national
solemnity ; and for her exemplary conduct in marriage,
was placed at the head of all the matrons, in the like
public ceremony. The memory of this learned woman
was so precious among her countrymen, that her house
was after her death converted into a temple, and the
street she lived in called by the name of the Muszeum.
Nor must I omit, whilst [ am mentioning this great
philosopher under his character as the master of a
family, that two of his servants so improved themselves
under him, that they were instituted into his sect, and
make an eminent figure in the list of Pythagoreans.
The names of these two servants were Astreus and
Zamolxes. This single example sufficiently shows us
both the influence and the merit of one who discharges
as he ought the office of a good master of a family;
which, if it were well observed in every house, would
quickly put an end to that universal depravation of
manners by which the present age is so much distin-
guished, and which it is more easy to lament than to
reform.

la-

every
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Ss

osophers, and were

admired,

ough

POOIN GEES ODETTE ECR

»’ says she, “the next day; if

185

THE CHARITABLE—IN INTENTION.

Cuanity is a virtue of the heart, and not of the hands,
says an old writer. Gifts and almsare the expressions,
not the essence, of this virtue. A man may bestow great
sums on the poor and indigent without being charitable,
and may be charitable when he is not able to bestow
any thing. Charity is therefore a habit of good-will,
or benevolence in the soul, which disposes us to the
love, assistance, and relief of mankind, especially of those
who stand in need of it. The poor man who has this
excellent frame of mind, is no less entitled to the reward
of this virtue than the man who founds a college. For
my own part, I am charitable to an extravagance this
way. I never saw an indigent person in my life, with-
out reaching out to him some of this imaginary relief.
I cannot but sympathise with every one I meet that
is in affliction; and if my abilities were equal to my
wishes, there should be neither pain nor poverty in the
world.

To give my reader a right notion of myself in this
particular, I shall present him with the secret history
of one of the most remarkable parts of my life.

I was once engaged in search of the philosopher’s
stone. It is frequently observed of men who have been
busied in this pursuit, that though they have failed in
their principal design, they have however made such
discoveries in their way to it, as have sufficiently recom-
pensed their inquiries. In the same manner, though
I cannot boast of my success in that affair, I do not
repent of my engaging in it; because it produced in
my mind such an habitual exercise of charity, as made
it much better than perhaps it would have been, had I
never been lost in so pleasing a deltsfon,

As I did not question but I should soon have a new
Indies in my possession, I was perpetually taken up in
considering how to turn it to the benefit of mankind.
In order to it, [employed a whole day in walking about
this great eity, to find out proper places for the erection
of hospitals. I had likewise entertained that project,
which has since sueceeded in another place, of building

 

 

 

 

churches at the court-end of the town; with this only
difference, that, instead of fifty, | intended to have built
a hundred, and to have seen them all finished in less

than one year.

[ had with great pains and application got together
a list of all the French protestants ; and by the best
accounts I could come at, had calculated the value of
all those estates and effects which every one of them
had left in his own country for the sake of his religion,
being fully determined to make it up to him, and return
some of them the double of what they had lost.

As I was one day in my laboratory, my operator,
who was to fill my coffers for me, and used to foot it
from the other end of the town every morning, com-
plained of a sprain in his leg, that he had met with over-
against St Clement’s Church. This so affected me, that,
as a standing mark of my gratitude to him, and out of
compassion to the rest of my fellow-citizens, I resolved
to hew-pave every street within the liberties, and entered
& memorandum in my pocket-book accordingly. About
the same time I entertained some thoughts of mending
all the highways on this side the Tweed, and of making
all the rivers in England navigable.

But the project I had most at heart, was the settling
upon every man in Great Britain £3 a-year (in which
sum may be comprised, according to Sir William
Pettit’s observations, all the necessities of life), leaving
to them whatever else they could get by their own
industry to lay out on superfluities.

I was above a week debating in myself what I should
do in the matter of impropriations; but at length came
to a resolution to buy them all up, and restore them to
the church.

As I was one day walking near St Paul’s, I took some
time to survey that structure; and not being entirely
satisfied with it, though I could not tell why, I had
| Some thoughts of pulling it down, and building it up
/ anew at My own expense.ed eT Leet s ui oa

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186 ADDISON’S

For my own part, as I have no pride in me, I intended
to take up with a coach and six, half a dozen footmen,
and live like a private gentleman.

It happened about this time, that public matters
looked very gloomy ; taxes came hard, the war went on
heavily, people complained of the great burdens that
were laid upon them; this made me resolve to set aside
one morning to consider seriously the state of the
nation. I was the more ready to enter on it, because
I was obliged, whether I would or no, to sit at home
in my morning-gown; haying, after a most incredible
expense, pawned anew suit of clothes and a full-bottomed
wig fora sum of money, which my operator assured me
was the last he should want to bring all our matters to
bear. After having considered many projects, I at
length resolved to beat the common enemy at his own
weapons ; and laid a scheme which would have blown
him up in a quarter of a year, had things succeeded
to my wishes. As I was in this golden dream, some-
body knocked at my door; I opened it, and found it was
a messenger that brought me a letter from the labora-
tory. The fellow looked so miserably poor, that I was
resolved to make his fortune before he delivered his
message, But seeing he brought a letter from my
operator, I concluded I was bound to it in honour, as
much as a prince is to give a reward to one that brings

 

him the first news of a victory. I knew this was thé
long-expected hour of projection, and which I had
vaited for with great impatience, above half a year
before. Inshort, I broke open my letter in a transport
of joy, and found it as follows :—

“ Sin—After having got out of you every thing you
can conveniently spare, I scorn to trespass upon your
generous nature; and, therefore, must ingenuously
confess to you, that I know no more of the philosopher’s
stone than you do. I shall only tell you for your com-
fort, that I never yet could bubble a blockhead out of
his money. ‘They must be men of wit and parts who
are for my purpose. This made me apply myself to a
person of your wealth and ingenuity. How I have
succeeded, you yourself can best tell. Your humble
servant to command, Tuomas WHITE.

I have locked up the laboratory, and laid the key
under the door.”

I was very much shocked at the unworthy treatment
of this man, and not a little mortified at my disappoint-
ment, though not so much for what I myself as what
the public suffered by it. I think, however, I ought to
let the world know what I designed for them ; and hope,
that such of my readers who tind they had a share in
my good intentions, will accept of the will for the deed.

 

% CONTRIBUTIONS TO

LOVE OF COUNTRY.
THERE is no greater sign of a general decay of virtue
in a nation, than a want of zeal in its inhabitants for
the good of their country. This generous and public-
spirited passion has been observed of late years to lan-
guish and grow cold in this our island, where a party
of men have made it their business to represent it as
chimerical and romantic ; to destroy in the minds of the
people the sense of national glory; and to turn into
ridicule our natural and ancient allies, who are united
to us by the common interests both of religion and
poliey.
mend to this present generation the practice of that
virtue for which their ancestors were particularly
famous, and which is called “ the love of one’s
country.” This love to our country, as a moral virtue,
is a fixed disposition of mind to promote the safety,
welfare, and reputation of the community in which we
are born, and of the constitution under which we are
protected.
appear to us from several considerations.

are never given in vain. As self-love is an instinct
planted in us for the good and safety of each particular
person, the love of our country is impressed on our
minds for the happiness and preservation of the com-
munity. ‘This instinct is so remarkable, that we find
examples of it in those who are born in the most
uncomfortable climates, or the worst of governments.
We read of an inhabitant of Nova Zembla, who, after
having lived some time in Denmark, where he was
clothed and treated with the utmost indulgence, took
the first opportunity of making his escape, though with
the hazard of his life, into his native regions of cold,

*{The Freeholder was undertaken at the time when the re-
bellion of 1715 broke out in Scotland, and its papers, from their
strong political partisanship, seem to have been written with the
view of throwing odium on the cause of the Stuarts. Those which
are aboye selected are the only ones which can bé read with the
least pleasure or profit in the present day.]

It may therefore be unseasonable to recom- | f, ;
) co | of happiness, than that after death they shall be con-

Our obligation to this great duty may |_-: :
S nip eh: eloee “? ’ | violent hankerings after their home, as to pine away

aan ; | even to death, unless they have a permission to return,
In the first place, we may observe that we are | :

directed to it by one of those secret suggestions of |

nature which go under the name of instinct, and which | E : .
5 t | one’s country is natural to every man, any particular

THE FREEHOLDER.

poverty, and nakedness. We have an instance of the
same nature among the very Hottentots. One of these
savages was brought into England, taught our language,
and in a great measure polished out of his natural bar-
barity; but upon being carried back to the Cape of
Good Hope, where it was thought he might have been
of advantage to our English traders, he mixed ina
kind of transport with his countrymen, brutalised with
them in thei habits and manners, and would never
again return to his foreign acquaintance. I need not
mention the common opinion of the negroes in our
plantations, who have no other notion of a future state

veyed back to their native country. The Swiss are so
remarkable for this passion, that it often turns toa
disease among them, for which there is a particular

| name in the German language, and which the French

 

call “ the distemper of the country.” For nothing is
more usual than for several of their common soldiers,
who are listed into a foreign service, to have such

which, on such an oceasion, is generally granted them.
L shall only add, under this head, that since the love of
nation, who by false politics shall endeavour to stifle or
restrain it, will not be upon a level with others.

As this love of our country is natural to every man,
so it is likewise very reasonable ; and that in the first
place, because it inclines us to be beneficial to those
who are and ought to be dearer to us than any others.
It takes in our families, relations, friends, and acquaint-
ance; and, in short, all whose welfare and security we
are obliged to consult, more than that of those who are
strangers to us. tor this reason it isthe most sublime
and extensive of all social virtues, especially if we
consider that it does not only promote the well-being
of those who are our contemporaries, but likewise of
their children and their posterity. Hence it is that all
casuists are unanimous in determining, that when the
good of the country interferes even with the life of the
most beloved relation, dearest friend, or greatest bene-
factor, it is to be preferred without exception.MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

Oo

187

. 1 ‘ : ee Ss J ‘ 3 . ° .
Further, though there is a beney olence due to all | His followers have in many places expressed the like

mankind, none can question but a superior degree of
it is to be paid to a father, a wife, or a child. In the
same manner, though our love should reach to the
whole species, a greater p ‘oportion of it should exert
itself towards that community in which providence has
placed us. This is our proper sphere of action, the
province allotted to us for the exercise of all our civil

virtues, and in which alone we have opportunities of |

expressing our good will to mankind. I eould not but
be pleased, in the accounts of the late Persian embassy
into France, with a particular ceremony of the ambas-
sador, who every morning, before he went abroad,
religiously saluted a turf of earth dug out of his own
native soil, to remind him, that in all the transactions
of the day he was to think of his country, and pursue
its advantages. If in the several districts and divisions
of the world, men would thus study the welfare of
those respective communities to which their power of
doing good is limited, the whole race of reasonable
creatures would be happy, as far as the benefits of
society can make them so. At least, we find so many
blessings naturally flowing from this noble principle,
that in proportion as it prevails, every nation becomes
a prosperous and flourishing people.

It may be yet a further recommendation of this par-
ticular virtue, if we consider that no nation was ever
famous for its morals, which was not at the same time
remarkable for its public spirit. Patriots naturally
rise out of a Spartan or Roman virtue, and there is no
remark more common among the ancient historians,
than that when the state was corrupted with avarice
and luxury, it was in danger of being betrayed or
sold.

T'o the foregoing reasons for the love which every
good man owes to his country, we may add, that the
actions which are most celebrated in history, and which
are read with the greatest admiration, are such as
proceed from this principle. The establishing of good
Jaws, the detecting of conspiracies, the crushing of
seditions and rebellions, the falling in battle, or the
devoting of a man’s self to certain death for the safety
of fellow-citizens, are actions that always warm the
reader, and endear to him persons of the remotest ages
and the most distant countries.

And as actions that proceed from the love of one’s
country are more illustrious than any other in the
records of time, so we find that those persons who have
been eminent in other virtues, have been particularly
distinguished by this. It would be endless to produce
examples of this kind out of Greek and’Roman authors.
T'o confine myself, therefore, in so wide and beaten a
field, I shall choose some instances from holy writ,
which abounds in accounts of this nature as much as
any other history whatsoever. And this I do the more
willingly, because, in some books lately written, I find
it objected against revealed religion, that it does not
inspire the love of one’s country. Here I must premise,
that as the sacred author of our religion chiefly incul-
cated to the Jews those parts of their duty wherein they
were most defective, so there was no need of insisting
upon this ; the Jews being remarkable for an attachment
to their own country, even to the exclusion of all
common humanity to strangers. We sce in the beha-
viour of this divine person the practice of this virtue in
conjunction with all others. He deferred working a
miracle in behalf of a Syro-Phenician woman, until he
had declared his superior good will to his own nation ;
and was prevailed upon to heal the daughter of a Roman
centurion, by hearing from the Jews that he was one
who loved their nation, and had built them a synagogue.
But to look out for no other instance, what was ever
more moving than his lamentation over Jerusalem, at
his first approach to it, notwithstanding he had foretold
the cruel and unjust treatment he was to mect with in
that city! for he foresaw the destruction which in afew
years was to fall upon that people—a destruction not to
be paralleled in any nation, from the beginning of the
world to this day—and in the view of it melted into tears.

 

|
|

 

sentiments of affection for their countrymen ; among
which none is more ext ‘aordinary than that of the great
convert, who wished he himself might be made a curse,
provided it might turn to the happiness of his nation ;
or, as he words it, “of his brethren and kinsmen who
are Israelites.” This instance naturally brings to mind
the same heroic temper of soul in the great Jewish
lawgiver, who would have devoted himself in the same
manner rather than see his people perish. It would,
indéed, be difficult to find out any man of extraordinary
piety in the sacred writings, in whom this virtue is not
highly conspicuous. ‘The reader, however, will excuse
me, if I take notice of one passage, because it is a very
fine one, and wants only a place in some polite author
of Greece or Rome to have been admired and celebrated.
The king of Syria, lying sick upon his bed, sent Hazael,
one of his great officers, to the prophet Elisha, to inquire
of him whether he should recover. The prophet looked
so attentively on this messenger that it put him into
some confusion ; or, to quote this beautiful circumstance,
and the whole narrative, in the pathetic language of the
Scripture, “ Elisha settled his countenance steadfastly
upon him until he wasashamed. And Hazael said, Why
weepeth my Lord? And he said, Because I know the
evil that thou wilt do unto the children of Israel, Their
strongholds wilt thou set on fire, and their men wilt
thou slay with the sword; and wilt dash their children,
and rip up their women with child. And Hazael said,
But what! is thy servant a dog, that he should do this
great thing? And Elisha answered, The Lord hath
showed me that thou shalt be king over Syria.”

I might enforce these reasons for the love of our
country, by considerations adapted to my readers, as
they are Englishmen, and as by that means they enjoy
a purer religion and more excellent form of government
than any other nation under heaven, But being per-
suaded that every one must look upon himself as indis-
pensably obliged to the practice of a duty which is
recommended to him by so many arguinents and
examples, I shall only desire the honest, well-meaning
reader, when he turns his thoughts towards the public,
rather to consider what opportunities he has of doing
good to his native country, than to throw away his time
in deciding the rights of princes, or the like speculations,
which are so far beyond his reach. Let us leave these
great points to the wisdom of our legislature, and to the
determination of those who are the proper judges of
our constitution. We shall otherwise be liable to the
just reproach which is cast upon such Christians as
waste their lives in the subtle and intricate disputes of
religion, when they should be practising the doctrine
which it teaches,

ADDRESS TO THE FAIR SEX.
Adieu, my fair, a long adieu !—VineIL.
Iv is the ambition of the male part of the world to make
themselves esteemed, and of the female to make them-
selves beloved. As this is the last paper which I shall
address to my fair readers, I cannot perhaps oblige
them more than by leaving them, as akind of legacy, a
certain secret, which seldom fails of procuring the
affection which they are naturally formed both to desire
and to obtain. This nostrum is comprised in the follow-
ing sentence of Seneca :—“I will discover to you a
philter that has neither drug, nor simple, nor enchant-
ment init. Love, if you would raise love.” If there
be any truth in this discovery, and this be such a spe-
cific as the author pretends, there is nothing which
makes the sex more unamiable than party rage. ‘The
finest woman, in a transport of fury, loses the use of
her face. Instead of charming her beholders, she
frights both friend and foe. The latter ean never be
smitten by so bitter an enemy, nor the former apti-
vated by a nymph, who, upon occasion, can be so very
angry. ‘The most endearing of our beautiful fellow
subjects are those whose minds are the least embittered
with the passions and prejudices of either side, and

arn snes rans?

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who discover the native sweetness of these in every
part of their conversation and behaviour. <A lovely
woman who thus flourishes in her innocence and good
humour, amidst that mutual spite and rancour which
prevails among her exasperated sisterhood, appears
more amiable by the singularity of her character ; and
may be compared, with Solomon’s bride, to “a lily
among the thorns.’

A stateswoman is as ridiculous a creature as a cot-
quean. Hach of the sexes should keep within its par-
ticular bounds, and content themselves to excel within
their respective districts. When Venus complained to
Jupiter of the wound which she had received in battle,
the father of the gods smiled upon her, and put her in
mind, that instead of mixing in war, which was not her
business, she should have been officiating in her proper
ministry, and carrying on the delights of marriage. The
delicacy of several modern critics has been offended
with Homer’s Billingsgate warriors ; but a scolding
hero is at the worst a more tolerable character than a
bully in petticoats. To which we may add, that the
keenest satirist among the ancients looked upon nothing
as amore proper subject of raillery and invective, than
a female gladiator.

I am the more disposed to take into consideration
these ladies of fire and politics, because it would be very
monstrous to see feuds and animosities kept up among
the soft sex, when they are in so hopeful a way of being
composed among the men, by the septennial bill, which
is now ready for the royal assent. As this is likely to
produce a cessation of arms until the expiration of the
present parliament, among one-half of our island, it is
very reasonable that the more beautiful moiety of his
majesty’s subjects should establish a truce among them-
selves for the same term of years. Or rather, it were
to be wished that they would summon together a kind
of senate or parliament of the fairest and wisest of our
sister-subjects, in order to enact a perpetual neutrality
among the sex. They might at least appoint something
like a committee, chosen from among the ladies residing
in London and Westminster, in order to prepare a bill
to be laid before the assembly upon the first opportu-
nity of their meeting.
follow :—

* That a committee of toasts be forthwith appointed,
to consider the present state of the sex in the British
nation.

That this committee do meet at the house of every
respective member of it on her visiting day ; and that
every one who comes to it shall have a vote and a dish
of tea.

That the committee be empowered to send for billet-
doux, libels, lampoons, lists of toasts, or any other the
like papers and records.

That it be an instruction to the said committee to
consider of proper ways and methods to reclaim the
obstinately opprobrious and virulent ; and how to make
the ducking-stool more useful.”

Being always willing to contribute my assistance to
my countrywomen, I will propose a preamble, setting
forth, “That the late civil war among the sex has tended
very much to the lessening of that ancient and un-
doubted authority which they have claimed over the
male part of the island, to the ruin of good housewilery,
and to the betraying of many important secrets; that
it has produced much bitterness of speech, many sharp
and violent contests, and a great effusion of citron water ;
that it has raised animosities in their hearts, and heats
in their faces; that it has broke out in their ribbons,
and caused unspeakable confusions in their dress; and,
above all, that it has introduced a certain frown into
the features and a sourness into the air of our British
ladies, to the great damage of their charms, and visible
decay of the national beauty.”

As for the enacting part of the bill, it may consist of
many particulars, which will naturally arise from the
debates of the tea-table, and must therefore be left to
the diseretion and experience of the committee. Per-
haps it might not be amiss to enact, among other things,

my eel dee ae a fe
he regulations might be as

 

“a
.

ADDISON'S

“That the discoursing on politics shall be looked
upon as dull as talking on the weather.

That if any man troubles a female assembly with
parliament news, he shall be marked out as a blockhead
or an incendiary.

That no woman shall henceforth presume to stick a
patch upon her forehead, unless it be in the very
middle, that is, in the neutral part of it.

That all fans and snuff-boxes, of what principles
soever, shall be called in; and that orders be given to
Motteux and Matthers, to deliver out, in exchange for
them, such as have no tincture of party in them.

That when any lady bespeaks a play, she shall take
effectual care that the audience be pretty equally
chequered with whigs and tories.

That no woman of any party presume to influence
the legislature.

That there be a general amnesty and oblivion of all
former hostilities and distinctions, all public and private
failings, on either side ; and that every one who comes
into this neutrality within the space of weeks,
shall be allowed an ell extraordinary above the present
standard, in the circumference of her petticoat.

Provided always, nevertheless, that nothing herein
contained shall extend, or be construed to extend, to
any person or persons inhabiting and practising within
the hundreds of Drury, or to any other of that society
in what part soever of the nation in like manner prac-
tising and residing; who are still at liberty to rail,
calumniate, scold, frown, and pout, as in aforetimes, any
thing in this act to the contrary notwithstanding,”

ON AUTHORCRAFT.

[r requires no small degree of resolution to be an
author in a country so facetious and satirical as this of
Great Britain. Such a one raises a kind of alarm
among his fellow subjects, and by pretending to distin-
guish himself from the herd, becomes a mark of public
censure, and sometimes a standing object of raillery
and ridicule. Writing is indeed a provocation to the
envious, and an affront to the ignorant. How often do
we see a person, whose intentions are visible to do good
by the works which he publishes, treated in as scurri-
lous a manner as if he were an enemy to mankind!
All the little seramblers after fame fall upon him,
publish every blot in his life, depend upon hearsay to
defame him, and have recourse to their own invention,
rather than suffer him to erect himself into an author
with impunity. Even those who write on the most
indifferent subjects, and are conversant only in works
of taste, are looked upon as men that make a kind of
insult upon society, and ought to be humbled as dis-
turbers of the public tranquillity. Not only the dull
and the malicious, which make a formidable party in
our island, but the whole fraternity of writers, rise up in
arms against every new intruder into the world of fame ;
and a thousand to one, before they have done, prove
him not only to be a fool, but a knave. Successful
authors do what they can to exclude a competitor ;
while the unsuccessful with as much eagerness lay in
their claim to himasa brother. This natural antipathy
to a man who breaks his ranks, and endeavours to
signalise his parts in the world, has very probably
hindered many persons from making their appearance
in print, who might have enriched our country with
better productions in all kinds than any that are now
extant. The truth of it is, the active part of mankind,
as they do most for the good of their contemporaries,
very deservedly gain the greatest share in their applause ;
while men of speculative endowments, who employ their
talents in writing, as they may equally benefit or amuse
succeeding ages, have generally the greatest share in
the admiration of posterity. Both good and bad writers
may receive great satisfaction from the prospects of
futurity; as in after ages the former will be remem-
bered and the latter forgotten.

Among all sets of authors, there are none who drawMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSA Y8. 189

upon themselves more displeasure than those who deal
in political matters, which indeed is very often too justly
incurred, considering that spirit of rancour and viru-
lence with which works of this nature generally abound.
These are not only regarded as authors, but as parti-

zans, and are sure to exasperate at least one half of

their readers. Other writers offend only the stupid or
jealous among their countrymen ; but these, let their
cause be never so just, must expect to irritate a super-
numerary party of the self-interested, prejudiced, and

ambitious. They may, however, comfort themselves
with considering, that if they gain any unjust reproach

from one side, they generally acquire more praise than
they deserve from the other ; and that writings of this
kind, if conducted with eandour and impartiality, have
& more particular tendency to the good of their country,
and of the present age, than any other compositions
whatsoever.

To consider an author further, as the subject of oblo-
quy and detraction, we may observe with what pleasure
a work is received by the invid
in which a writer falls short of himself, and does not
answer the character which he has acquired by his
former productions. i i

I
It is a fine simile in one of Mr
Congreve’s prologues, which compares a writer to a
buttering gamester, that stakes all his winnings upon
every cast; so that if he loses the last throw, he is sure
to be undone. It would be well for all authors, if, like
that gentleman, they knew when to give over, and to
desist from any further pursuits after fame, while they
are in the full possession of it. On the other hand, there
is not a more melancholy object in the learned world,
than a man who has written himself down. As th
public is more disposed to censure than to praise, hi
readers will ridicule him for his last works, wh:

e
»

n they

have forgot to applaud those which receded them. In
. 5 4 . . .

this case, where a man has lost his spirit by old age

and infirmity, one could wish that his friends and

relations would keep him from the use
paper, if he is not to be reclaimed by any other method.
The author, indeed, often grows old before the man,
especially if he treats on subjects of invention,
as arise from reflection upon human nature.
this case, neither his own strength of mind,
parts of life which are commonly unobserved,
nish him with sufficient materials to be,

or such
For, in
nor those
will fur-

at the same
time, both pleasing and voluminous. We find even in
the outward dress of poetry, that men who write much
without taking breath, very often return to the
phrases and forms of expression, as well as to the same
manner of thinking. Authors, who have thus drawn
off the spirit of their thought, should lie still for some
time, till their minds have gathered fresh
and by reading, reflection, and conversation, laid in a
stock of elegances, sentiments, and images of nature.
The soil that is worn with too frequent culture, must
lie fallow for a while, until it has recruited its exhausted

same

Str neth,

salts, and again enriched itself by the ventilations of the |

air, the dews of heaven, and the kindly influences of the
sun.

For my own part, notwithstanding this general
malevolence towards those who communicate their
thoughts in print, I cannot but look with a friendly
regard on such as do it, provided there is no tendency

in their writings to vice and profaneness. If the thoughts
of such authors have nothing in them, they at least do

no harm, and show an honest industry and a good
intention in the composer. If they teach me any thing
[ did not know befare, I cannot but look upon myself
as obliged to the writer, and consider him as my parti-
cular benefactor, if he conveys to me one of the greatest
gifts that it is in the power of man to bestow, an improve-
ment of my understanding, an innocent amusement, or
an incentive to some moral virtue. Were not men of
abilities thus communicative, their wisdom would be in
a great measure useless, and their experience unin-
structive. There would be no business in solitude, nor
proper relaxations in business. By these assistances
the retired man lives in the world, if not above it;

ious part of mankind, |

of pen, ink, and |

passion is composed; thought hindered from being
barren; and the mind from preying upon itself. That
esteem, indeed, which is paid to good writers by their
posterity, sufficiently shows the merit of persons who
are thus employed. Who does not now more admire
Cicero as an author than as a consul of Rome ! and
does not oftener talk of the celebrated writers of our
own country who lived in former ages, than of any
other particular persons among their contemporaries
and fellow subjects! a

PPPISOPPLORIDI IP OAA
ON MIRTHFULNESS.

I waver lately read with much pleasure the essays upon

| Several subjects published by Sir Richard Blackmore ;

and though I agree with him in many of his excellent
observations, I cannot but take that reasonable freedom
which he himself makes use of with regard to other
writers, to dissent from him in some few particulars,
In his reflections upon works of wit and humour, he
observes how unequal they are to combat vice and
folly ; and seems to think, that the finest raillery and
satire, though directed by these generous views, never
reclaimed one vicious man, or made one fool depart
from his folly.

This is a position very hard to be contradicted,
because no author knows the number or names of his
converts. As tor the Tatlers and Spectators in par-
ticular, which are obliged to this ingenious and useful
author for the character he has given of them, they
were so generally dispersed in single sheets, and have
since been printed in so great numbers, that it is to be
] made some proselytes to the interest,

hoped they have
’ —— tT ? » ve tila i ry } \ ) win . yr Oo
1 not to the practice Of wisdom and virtue, among such

a multitude of readers,
[ need not remind this learned gentleman, that
ocrates, who was the greatest propagator of morality

in the heathen world

, and a martyr for the unity of
the godhead, was so ; 7

famous for the exercise of this
itest people of antiquity, that he

+

talent among the pol
gained the name of the Droll.

There ar very good effects which visibly arose from
the above-mentioned performances, and others of the
like nature ; as, in the first place, they diverted raillery
from improper objects, and gave a new turn to ridicule,
which for many years had been exerted on persons and
things of a sacred and serious nature. ‘They endea-
voured to make mirth instructive, and if they failed in
this great end. they must be allowed at least to have
made it innocent. If wit and humour begin again to
relapse into their former licentiousness, they can never
iope lor approbation from those who know that raillery
iS useless when it has no moral under it, and pernicious
when it attacks any thing that is either unblameable
or praiseworthy. To this we may add, what has been
commonly observed, that it is not diffienlt to be merry
on the side of vice, as serious objects are the most
capahle of ridicule; as the party, which naturally
favour such a mirth, is the most numerous, and as
there are the most standing jests and patterns for
imitation in this kind of w riting.

In the next place, such productions of wit and
humour as have a tendency to expose vice and folly,
furnish useful diversions to all kinds of readers. The
good or prudent man may by these means be diverted,
without prejudice to his diseretion or morality. Rail-
lery, under such regulations, unbends the mind from
serious studies and severer contemplations, without
throwing it off from its proper bias. It carries on the
same design that is promoted by authors of a grave
turn, and only does it in another manner. It also
awakens reflection in those who are the most indifferent
in the cause of virtue or knowledge, by setting before
them the absurdity of such practices as are gene ally
unobserved, by reason of their being common or
fashionable ; nay, it sometimes catches the dissolute
and abandoned before they are aware of it, who are
often betrayed to laugh at themselves, and upon190

reflection find that they are merry at their own ex-
pense. I might further take notice, that by entertain-
ments of this:kind a man may be cheerful in solitude,
and not be forced to seek for company every time he
has a mind to be merry.

The last advantage I shall mention from composi-
tions of this nature, when thus restrained, is, that they

, show wisdom and virtue are far from being inconsistent
with politeness and good humour. They make mora-
lity appear amiable to people of gay dispositions, and
refute the common objection against religion, which
represents it as only fit for gloomy and melancholy
tempers. It was the motto of a bishop very eminent
for his piety and good works in King Charles II.’s
reign, Jnservi Deo et letare—‘ Serve God and be
cheerful.” ‘Those therefore who supply the world with
such entertainments of mirth as are instructive, or at
least harmless, may be thought to deserve well of
mankind ; to which I shall only add, that they retrieve
the honour of polite learning, and answer those sour
enthusiasts who affect to stigmatise the finest and most
elegant authors, both ancient and modern (which they
have never read), as dangerous to religion, and de-
structive of all sound and saving knowledge.

Our nation are such lovers of mirth and humour,
that it is impossible for detached papers, which come
out on stated days, either to have a general run, or
long continuance, if they are not diversified and enli-
vened from time to time with subjects and thoughts
accommodated to this taste, which so prevails among
our countrymen. No periodical author, who always
maintains his gravity,and does not sometimes sacrifice
to the graces, must expect to keep in vogue for any
considerable time. Political speculations in particular,
however just and important, are of so dry and austere
a nature, that they will not go down with the public
without frequent seasonings of this kind. The work
may be well performed, but will never take, if it is not
set off with proper scenes and decorations. A mere
politician is but a dull companion, and if he is always
wise, is in great danger of being tiresome or ridiculous.

Besides, papers of entertainment are necessary to
increase the number of readers, especially among those
of different notions and principles, who by this means
may be betrayed to give you a fair hearing, and to
know what you have to say for yourself. 1 might hke-
wise observe, that in all political writings there is
something that grates upon the mind of the most
candid reader, in opinions which are not conformable

to his own way of thinking, and that the harshness of

reasoning is not a little softened and smoothed by the
infusions of mirth and pleasantry.

Political speculations do likely furnish us with several
objects that may very innocently be ridiculed, and
which are regarded as such by men of sense in all
parties. Of this kind are the passions of our states-
women, and the reasonings of our fox-hunters.

A writer who makes fame the chief end of his endea-

vours, and would be more desirous of pleasing than of

improving his readers, might find an inexhaustible
fund of mirth in politics. Scandal and satire are
never-failing gratifications to the public. Detraction
and obloquy are received with as much eagerness as
wit and humour. Should a writer single out particular
persons, or point his raillery at any order of men, who,
by their profession, ought to be exempt from it ; should
he slander the innocent, or satirise the miserable ; or
should he, even on the proper subjects of derision, give
the full play to his mirth, without regard to decency
and good manners, he might be sure of pleasing a great
part of his readers, but must be a very ill man, if by
such a proceeding he could please himself.
ON PERJURY.

Av a time when so many of the king’s subjects present
themselves before their respective magistrates, to take
the oaths required by law, it may not be improper to
awaken in the minds of my readers a due sense of the

 

ADDISON'S

engagements under which they lay themselves. It is
a melancholy consideration that there should be several
among us so hardened and deluded, as to think an oath
a proper subject for a jest, and to make this, which is
one of the most solemn acts of religion, an occasion of
mirth. Yet such is the depravation of our manners
at present, that nothing is more frequent than to hear
profligate men ridiculing, to the best of their abilities,
these sacred pledges of their duty and allegiance, and
endeavouring to be witty upon themselves, for daring
to prevaricate with God and man. A poor conceit of
their own, or a quotation out of Hudibras, shall make
them treat with levity an obligation wherein their
safety and welfare are concerned, both as to this world
and the next. Raillery of this nature is enough to
make the hearer tremble. As these miscreants seem
to glory in the profession of their impiety, there is no
man who has any regard to his duty, or even to his
reputation, that can appear in their defence. But if
there are others of a more serious turn, who join with
us deliberately in these religious professions of loyalty
to our sovereign, with any private salvos or evasions,
they would do well to consider those maxims in which
all casuists are agreed who have gained any esteem
for their learning, judgment, or morality. These have
unanimously determined that an oath is always to be
taken in the sense of that authority which imposes it.
And that those whose hearts do not concur with their
lips in the form of these public protestations, or who
have any mental reserves, or who take an oath against
their consciences, upon any motive whatsoever, or
with a design to break it or repent of it, are guilty of
perjury. Any of these, or the like circumstances,
instead of alleviating the crime, make it more heinous,
as they are premeditated frauds (which it is the design
of an oath to prevent), and the most flagrant instances
of insincerity to men and irreverence to their Maker.
For this reason, the perjury of a man who takes an
oath with an intention to keep it, and is afterwards
seduced to the violation of it (though a crime not to
be thought of without the greatest horror), is yet, in
some respects, not quite so black as the perjury above
mentioned. It is indeed a very unhappy token of the
great corruption of our manners, that there should be
any inconsiderate among us as to sacrifice the
standing and essential duties of morality to the views
of politics; and that, as in a late paper it was not
unseasonable to prove the love of our country to be a
virtue, so in this there should be any occasion to show
that perjury isasin. But it is our misfortune to live
in an age when such wild and unnatural doctrines have
prevailed among some of our fellow-subjects, that if
one looks into their schemes of government, they seem,
according as they are in the humour, to believe that a
sovereign is not to be restrained by his coronation
oath, or his people by their oaths of allegiance; or, to
represent them in a plainer light, in some reigns they
are both for a power and an obedience that 1s unlimited,
and in others are for retrenching within the narrowest
bounds, both the authority of the Prince and the alle-
giance of the subject.

Now, the guilt of perjury is so self-evident, that it
was always reckoned amongst the great crimes, by
those who were only governed by the light of reason.
The inviolable observing of an oath, like the other
practical duties of Christianity, is a part of natural
religion. As reason is common to all mankind, the
dictates of it are the same through the-whole species.
And since every man’s own heart will tell him that
there can be no greater affront to the Deity whom he
worships, than to appeal to him with an intention to
deceive, nor a greater injustice to men than to betray
them by false assurances, it is no wonder that pagans
and christians, infidels and believers, should concur in
a point wherein the honour of the Supreme Being, and
the welfare of society, are so highly concerned. Tor
this reason, Pythagoras, to his first precept of honour-
ing the immortal gods, immediately subjoins that of
paying veneration to an oath. We may see the rever-

SOMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

 

ence which the heathens ‘showed to these saered and
solemn engagements, from the inconveniences which
they often suffered, rather than break through them.
We have frequent instances of this kind in the Roman
commonwealth ; which, as it has been observed by
several eminent pagan writers, very much excelled all
other pagan governments in the practice of virtue.
How far they exceeded in this particular, those great
corrupters of Christianity, and indeed of natural reli-
gion, the Jesuits, may appear from their abhorrence of
every thing that looked like a fraudulent or mental
evasion. Of this I shall only produce the following
instance :—Several Romans who had been taken pri-
soners by Hannibal, were released, upon obliging
themselves by an oath to return again to his camp.
Among these there was one, who, thinking to elude the
oath, went the same day back to the camp, on pretence
of having forgot something. But this prevarication
was so shocking to the Roman senate, that they ordered
him to be apprehended, and delivered up to Hannibal.

We may further see the just sense the heathens had
of the crime of perjury, from the penalties which they
inflicted on the person guilty of it. Perjury among
the Scythians was a capital crime; and among the
Egyptians also was punished with death, as Diodorus
Siculus observes, who observes that an offender of this
kind is guilty of those two crimes (wherein the malig-
nity of perjury truly consists), a failing in his respect to
the Divinity, and in his faith towards men. It is unne-
cessary to multiply instances of this nature, which may
be found in almost every author who has written on
this subject.

If men who had no other guide but their reason,
considered an oath to be of such a tremendous nature,
and the violation of it to be so great a crime, it ought
to make a much deeper impression upon minds enlight-
ened by revealed religion, as they have more exalted
notions of the Divinity. A supposed heathen deity might
be so poor in his attributes, so stinted in his knowledge,
goodness, or power, that a pagan might hope to conceal
his perjury from his notice, or not to provoke him
should he be discovered; or should he provoke him,
not to be punished by him. Nay, he might have pro-
duced examples of falsehood and perjury in the gods
themselves, to whom he appealed. But as revealed
religion has given us a more just and clear idea of the
divine nature, he whom we appeal to is truth itself, the
great searcher of hearts, who will not let fraud and
falsehood go unpunished, or “hold him guiltless that
taketh his name in vain.” And as, with regard to the
Deity, so likewise with regard to man, the obligation of
an oath is stronger upon Christians than upon any other
part of mankind; and that because charity, truth,
mutual confidence, and all other social duties, are
carried to greater heights, and enforced with stronger
motives, by the principles of our religion.

Perjury, with relation to the oaths which are at
present required of us, has in it all the aggravating
circumstances which can attend that crime. We take
them before the magistrates of public justice; are
reminded by the ceremony that it is a part of that
obedience which we learn from the gospel; expressly
disavow all evasions and mental reservations whatso-
ever ; appeal to Almighty God for the integrity of our
hearts, and only desire him to be our helper as we fulfil
the oath we there take in his presence. I mention
these circumstances, to which several others might be
added, because it is a received doctrine among those
who have treated of the nature of an oath, that the
greater the solemnities are which attend it, the more
they aggravate the violation of it. And here, what
must be the success that a man can hope for who turns
a rebel, after having disclaimed the divine assistance,
but upon condition of being a faithful and loyal subject!
He first of all desires that God may help him as he shall
keep his oath, and afterwards hopes to prosper in an
enterprise which is the direct breach of it.

Since, therefore, perjury, by the common sense of
mankind, the popecn of the thing, and from the whole

N

 

 

191

tenor of Christianity, is a crime of so flagitious a nature,
we cannot be too careful in avoiding every approach
towards it.

The virtue of the ancient Athenians is very remark-
able in the case of Euripides. his great tragic poet,
though famous for the morality of his plays, had intro-
duced a person, who being reminded of an oath he had
taken, replied, “1 swore with my mouth, but not with
my heart.” The impiety of this sentiment set the audi-
ence in an uproar; made Socrates (though an intimate
friend of the poet) go out of the theatre with indigna-
tion; and gave so great offence, that he was publicly
accused, and brought upon his trial as one who had
suggested an evasion of what they thought the most
holy and indissoluble bond of human society. So jealous
were these virtuous heathens of any the smallest hint
that might open a way to perjury.

And here it highly imports us to consider, that we
do not only break our oath of allegiance by actual
rebellion, but by all those other methods which have a
natural and manifest tendency to it. The guilt may
lie upon a man where the penalty cannot take hold of
him. ‘Those who speak irreverently of the person to
whom they have sworn allegiance—who endeavour to
alienate from him the hearts of his subjects—or to
inspire the people with dissatisfaction to his govern-

 

ment—cannot be thought to be true to the oath they
have taken. And as to those who, by concerted false-
hoods and defamations, endeavour to blemish his

character, or weaken his authority, they incur the
complicated guilt both of slander and perjury. The
moral crime is completed in such offenders ; and there
are only accidental circumstances wanting to work it
up for the cognisance of the law.

Nor is it sufficient for a man who has given these
solemn assurances to his prince, to forbear the doing
him any evil, unless, at the same time, he do him all
the good he ean in his proper station of life.

Loyalty is of an active nature, and ought to discover
itself in all the instances of zeal and affection to our
sovereign ; and if we carefully examine the duty of that
allegiance which we pledge to his majesty by the vaths
that are tendered to us, we shall find, that “we do not
only renounce, refuse, and abjure any allegiance or
obedience to the Pretender, but swear to defend King
George to the utmost of our power against all traitorous
conspiracies and attempts whatsoever, and to disclose
and make known to his majesty all treasons and
traitorous conspiracies which we shall know to be against
him.”

To conelude. As among those who have bound
themselves by these sacred obligations, the actual
traitor or rebel is guilty of perjury in the eye of the
law, the secret promoter or well-wisher of the cause
is so before the tribunal of conscience. And though I
should be unwilling to pronounce the man who is indo-
lent or indifferent in the cause of his prince to be
absolutely perjured, 1 may venture to affirm, that he
falls very short of that allegiance to which he is obliged
by oath. Upon the whole, we may be assured, that in
a nation which is tied down by such religious and solemn
engagements, the people’s loyalty will keep pace with
their morality; and that in proportion as they are
sincere Christians, they will be faithful subjects.

eer Cre ror Cree fy

THE FOX-HUNTER.
For the honour of his majesty and the safety of his
government, we cannot but observe, that those who
have appeared the greatest enemies to both, are of that
rank of men who are commonly distinguished by the
title of fox-hunters. As several of these have had no
part of their education in cities, camps, or courts, it is
doubtful whether they are of greater ornament or use
to the nation in which they live. It would be an ever-
lasting reproach to politics, should such men be able to
overturn an establishment which has been formed by
the wisest laws, and is supported by the ablest heads,

:
iy
i

)

ome
Tara nia rte ens192

The wrong notions and prejudices which cleave to many
of these country gentlemen, who have always lived out
of the way of being better informed, are not easy to be
conceived by a person who has never conversed with
them.

That I may give my readers an image of these rural
Statesmen, | shall, without further preface, set down an
account of a discourse J chanced to have with one of
them some time ago. I was travelling towards one of
the remotest parts of England, when, about three
o’clock in the afternoon, seeing a country gentleman
trotting before me with a spaniel by his horse’s side, I
made up to him. Our conversation opened, as usual,
upon the weather; in which we were very unanimous,
having both agreed that it was too dry for the season
of the year. My fellow-traveller, upon this, observed to
me there had been no good weather since the Revolu-
tion. I was a little startled at so extraordinary a
remark, but would not interrupt him till he proceeded
to tell me of the fine weather they used to have in King
Charles II.’s reign. I only answered, that I did not
see how the badness of the weather could be the king’s
fault ; and, without waiting for his reply, asked him,
whose house it was we saw upon a rising ground at a
little distance fromus. He told me it belonged to an old
fanatical cur, Mr such-a-one. “ You must have heard
of him,” says he; “he is one of the rump.” I knew the
gentleman’s character upon hearing his name; but

>

assured him, that to my knowledge he was a good |

churchman. “Ay!” says he, with a kind of surprise,
“we are told in the country that he spoke twice in the
queen’s time against taking off the duties upon French
claret.” This naturally led us into the proceedings of
late parliaments; upon which occasion he affirmed
roundly, that there had not been one good law passed
since King William’s accession to the throne, except
the act for preserving the game. I had a mind to see
him out, and therefore did not care for contradicting
him. “Is it not hard,” says he, “that honest gentle-
men should be taken into custody of messengers to
prevent them from acting according to their consciences ?
But,” says he, “ what can we expect when a parcel of
factious rascals —” He was going on in a great passion,
but chanced to miss his dog, who was amusing himself
about a bush that grew at some distance behind us.
We stood still until he had whistled him up; when he
fell into a long panegyric upon his spaniel, who seemed,
indeed, excellent in his kind: but I found the most
remarkable adventure of his life was, that he had once
like to have worried a dissenting teacher.

The master could hardly sit on his horse for laughing
all the while he was giving me the particulars of this
story, which I found had mightily endeared his dog to
him, and, as he himself told me, had made him a great
favourite among all the honest gentlemen in the country,
We were at length diverted from this piece of mirth by

 

a post-boy, who, winding his horn at us, my companion |

gave him two or three curses, and left the way clear for
him. “I fancy,” said I, “that post brings news from
Scotland. I shall long to see the next Gazette.”
says he, “I make it a rule never to believe any of your
printed news. We never see, Sir, how things go, except
now and then in Dyer’s Letter, and I read that more
for the style than the news. The man has a clever pen,
it must be owned.
be making war upon Church-of-England men with
Dutch and Swiss soldiers, men of anti-monarchical
principles?' These foreigners will never be loved in
England, Sir; they have not that wit and good-breeding
that we have.” I must confess I did not expect to hear
my new acquaintance value himself upon these qualifi-
cations ; but finding him such a critic upon foreigners,
I asked him if he had ever travelled? He told me he
did not know what travelling was good for, but to teach a
man to ride the great horse, to jabber French, and to
talk against passive obedience ; to which he added, that
he scarce ever knew a traveller in his life who had not
forsook his principles, and lost his hunting-seat. “For
my part,” says he, “I, and my father before me, have

. . |
But is it not strange that we should |

te

ADDISON'S

always been for passive obedience, and shall be always
for opposing a prince who makes use of ministers that
are of another opinion. But where do you intend to
inn to-night ?” (for we were now come in sight of the next
town.) “TI can help you to a very good landlord, if you
will go along with me. He is a lusty, jolly fellow, that
lives well, at least three yards in the girth, and the best
Church-of-England man upon the road.” I had the
curiosity to see this high-church innkeeper, as well as
to enjoy more of the conversation of my fellow-traveller,
and therefore readily consented to set our horses together
for that night. As we rode side by side through the
town, I was let into the characters of all the principal
inhabitants whom we met in our way. One was a dog,
another a whelp, and another a cur; under which
several denominations were comprehended all that
voted on the Whig side, in the last election of burgesses.
As for those of his own party, he distinguished them
by a nod of his head, and asked them how they did by
their Christian names. Upon our arrival at the inn,
my companion fetched out the jolly landlord, who knew
him by his whistle. Many endearments and private
whispers passed between them, though it was easy to
see, by the landlord’s scratching his head, that things
did not go to their wishes. The landlord had swelled
his body to a prodigious size, and worked up his com-
plexion to such a standing crimson, by his zeal for the
prosperity of the church, which he expressed every
hour of the day, as his customers dropped in, by repeated
bumpers. He had not time to go to church himself ;
but, as my friend told me in my ear, had headed a mob
at the pulling down of two or three meeting-houses.
While supper was preparing, he enlarged upon the hap-
piness of the neighbouring shire ; “ for,” says he, “ there
is scarce a presbyterian in the whole country, except
the bishop.” In short, I found by his discourse that
he had learned a great deal of politics, but not one word
of religion, from the parson of his parish; and, indeed,
that he had searce any other notion of religion, but that
it consisted in hating presbyterians. I had a remark-
able instance of his notions in this particular. Upon*
seeing a poor decrepit old woman pass under the win-
dow where he sat, he desired me to take notice of her ;
and afterwards informed me, that she was generally
reputed a witch by the country people, but that, for
his part, he was apt to believe she was a presbyterian.
Supper was no sooner served in, than he took occa~
sion, from a shoulder of mutton that lay before us, to
cry up the plenty of England, which would be the hap-
piest country in the world, provided we would live
within ourselves. Upon which he expatiated on the
inconveniences of trade, that carried from us the com-
modities of our country, and made a parcel of upstarts
as rich as men of the most ancient families of England,
He then declared frankly, that he had always been
against all treaties and alliances with foreigners. “ Our
vooden walls,” says he, “are our security ; and we may
bid defiance to the whole world, especially if they should
attack us when the militia is out.” I ventured to reply,
that I had as great an opinion of the English fleet as

| he had; but I could not see how they could be paid,

 

and manned, and fitted out, unless we encouraged trade
and navigation. He replied, with some vehemence,
that he would undertake to prove trade would be the
ruin of the English nation. I would fain have put him
upon it, but he contented himself with affirming it
more eagerly ; to which he added two or three curses
upon the London merchants, not forgetting the directors
of the bank. After supper, he asked me if I was an
admirer of punch ; and immediately called for a sneaker.
I took this oceasion to insinuate the advantages of trade,
by observing to him, that water was the only native of
England that could be made use of on this occasion ;
but that the lemons, the brandy, the sugar, and the nut-
meg, were all foreigners. This put him into some
confusion ; but the landlord, who overheard me, brought
him off, by affirming that for constant use there was
no liquor hke a cup of English water, provided it had
malt enough in it. My squire laughed heartily at theMORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

conceit, and made the landlord sit down with us. We
sat pretty late over our punch; and amidst a great deal
of improving discourse, drank the healths of several
persons in the country whom [I had never heard of,
that they both assured me were the ablest statesmen
in the nation; and of some Londoners, whom they
extolled to the skies for their wit, and who I knew
passed in town for silly fellows. It being now midnight,
and my friend, perceiving by his almanack that the
moon was up, called for his horses, and took a sudden
resolution to go to his house, which was at three miles’
distance from the town, after having bethought himself
that he never slept well out of his own bed. He shook

 

me very heartily by the hand at parting, and discovered |

a great air of satisfaction in his looks, that he had met

with an opportunity of showing his parts, and left me a |

much wiser man than he found me,
THE FOX-HUNTER—CONTINUED.

As I was lately taking a walk in the Park, I saw a
country gentleman at the side of Rosamond’s pond,

pulling a handful of oats out of his pocket, and with a |

great deal of pleasure gathering the ducks about him.
Upon my coming up to him, who should it be but my
friend the fox-hunter, whom I gave some account of
lately !
diversion, until he had not an oat left in his pocket. We
then made the tour of the Park together, when, after
having entertained me with the description of a decoy-
pond that lay near his seat in the country, and of a
meeting-house that was going to be rebuilt in a neigh-
bouring market-town, he gave me an account of some
very odd adventures which he had met with that
morning, and which I shall lay together in a short and
faithful history, as well as my memory will give me
leave.

My friend, who has a natural aversion to London,
would never have come up, had not he been subpoenaed
to it, as he told me, in order to give his testimony for
one of the rebels, whom he knew to be a very fair
sportsman. Having travelled all night, to avoid the
inconveniences of dust and heat, he arrived with his
guide a little after break of day at Charing Cross, where,
to his great surprise, he saw a running footman carried

in a chair, followed by a waterman in the same kind of
extravagance of

vehicle. He was wondering at the

their masters, that furnished them with such dresses
and accommodations, when on a sudden he beheld a
chimney-sweeper conveyed after the same manner,
with three footmen running before him. During his
progress through the Strand, he met with several other
figures no less wonderful and surprising. Seeing a
great many in rich morning-gowns, he was amazed to
find that persons of quality were up so early, and was
no less astonished to see many lawyers in their bar-
gowns, when he knew by his almanack that term was
ended. As he was extremely puzzled and confounded
in himself what all this could mean, a hackney-coach
chancing to pass by him, four batts popped out their
heads all at once, which very much frighted both him
and his horse. My friend, who always takes care to
cure his horse of such starting fits, spurred him up to
the very side of the coach, to the no small diversion of
the batts, who, seeing him with his long whip, horse-
hair periwig, jockey-belt, and coat without sleeves,
fancied him to be one of the masqueraders on horse-
back, and received him with a loud peal of laughter.
His mind being full of idle stories, which are spread up
and down the nation by the disaffected, he immediately
concluded that all the persons he saw in these strange
habits were foreigners, and conceiveda greatindignation
against them, for pretending to laugh at an English
country gentleman. But he soon recovered out of his
error, by hearing the voices of several of them, and
particularly of a shepherdess quarrelling with her coach-
man, and threatening to break his bones in very
intelligible English, though with a masculine tone.

| touched up with the

I immediately joined him, and partook of his |

 

 

193

fis astonishment still inereased upon him, to see a
continued procession of harlequins, scaramouches,
punchinellos, and a thousand other merry dresses, by
which people of quality distinguish their wit from that
of the vulgar.

Being now advanced as far as Somerset House, and
observing it to be the great hive whence this swarm of
chimeras issued forth from time to time, my friend took
his station among a cluster of people who were making
themselves merry with their betters. The first that
came out was avery venerable matron, with a nose and
chin that were within a very little of touching one
another. My friend, at the first view, fancying her to
be an old woman of quality, out of his good-breeding
put off his hat to her, when the person pulling off his
mask, to his great surprise appeared a smock-faced
young fellow. His attention was soon taken off from
this object, and turned to another that had very hollow
eyes and a wrinkled face, which flourished in all the
bloom of fifteen. The whiteness of the lily was blended
in it with the blush of the rose. He mistook it for a
very whimsical kind of mask ; but upon a nearer view
he found that she held her vizard in her hand, and
that what he saw was only her natural countenance,
usual improvements of an aged
coquette,

The next who showed herself was a female Quaker,
so very pretty, that he could not forbear licking his
lips, and saying to the mob about him, “ It is ten thou-
sand pities she is not a church-woman.” ‘The Quaker
was followed by half a dozen nuns, who filed off one
alter another up Catharine Street, to the respective
convents in Drury Lane.

The squire, observing the preciseness of their dress,

4

began now to imagine after all that this was a nest of
sectaries, for he had often heard that the town was full
of them. He was confirmed in this opinion upon seeing
a conjuror, whom he guessed to be the holder-forth,
However, to satisfy himself, he asked a porter who
stood next him what religion these people were of 2
The porter replied, “ They are of no religion—it is a
masquerade.” “ Upon that,” says my friend, “I began
to smoke that they were a parcel of mummers ;” and
being himself one of the quorum in his own county,
could not but wonder that none of the Middlesex
justices took care to lay some of them by the heels.
He was the more provoked in the spirit of magistracy
upon discovering two very unseemly objects. The first
was a Judge, who rapped out a great oath at his foot-
man; and the other a big-bellied woman, who, upon
taking a leap into the coach, miscarried of a cushion.
What still gave him greater offence, was a drunken
bishop, who reeled from one side of the court to the
other, and was very sweet upon an Indian queen. But
his worship, in the midst of his austerity, was mollified
at the sight of a very lovely milk-maid, whom he began
to regard with an eye of mercy, and conceived a par-
ticular affection for her, until he found, to his great
amazement, that the standers-by suspected her to be
a duchess,

I must not conclude this narrative without mention-
ing one disaster which happened to my friend on this
occasion. Having for his better convenience dismounted,
and mixed among the crowd, he found, upon his arrival
at the inn, that he had lost his purse and his almanack,
And though it is no wonder such a trick should be
played him by some of the curious spectators, he can-
not beat it out of his head but that it was a cardinal
who picked his pocket, and that this eardinal was a
presbyterian in disguise.

PLISPISSL PPI PO DOBI AS

THE FOX-HUNTER—CONCLUDED.

I Question not but most of my readers will be very well
pleased to hear that my friend the fox-hunter, of
whose arrival in town I gave notice in a former paper,
is become a convert to the present establishment, and
a good subject to King George. The motives to his

4
‘A
4
4
4Se ee ey ony een ey

*
7
4
|
-

194

\< Conversion shall be the subject of this paper, as they

may be of use to other persons who labour under those
prejudices and prepossessions which hung so long upon
the mind of my worthy friend. These I had an oppor-
tunity of learning the other day, when, at his request,
we took a ramble together to see the curiosities of this
great town.

The first circumstance, as he ingenuously confessed
to me (while we were in the coach together), which
felped to disabuse him, was seeing King Charles I.
on horseback at Charing Cross, for he was sure that
prince could never have kept his seat there, had the
stories been true he heard in the country, that forty-one
was come about again.

He owned to me that he looked with horror on the
new church that is half built in the Strand, as taking it
at first sight to be half demolished ; but upon inquiring
of the workmen, was agreeably surprised to find, that
instead of pulling it down they were building it up, and
that fifty more were raising in other parts of the town.

To these I must add a third circumstance, which I
tind had no small share in my friend’s conversion.
Since his coming to town, he chanced to look into the
church of St Paul about the middle of sermon-time,
where, having first examined the dome, to see if it
stood safe (for the screw-plot still ran in his head), he
observed that the lord mayor, aldermen, and city-sword,
were a part of the congregation. This sight had the
more weight with him, as by good luck not above two
of that venerable body were fallen asleep.

This discourse held us until we came to the Tower ;
for our first visit was to the lions. My friend, who had
a great deal of talk with their keeper, inquired very
much after their health, and whether none of them had
fallen sick upon the taking of Perth, and the flight of
the Pretender? And hearing they were never better in
their lives, I found he was extremely startled. For he
had learned from his cradle that the lions in the
Tower were the best judges of the title of our British
kings, and always sympathised with our sovereigns.

After having here satiated our curiosity, we repaired
to the Monument, where my fellow-traveller, being a
well-breathed man, mounted the ascent with much
speed and activity. JI was forced to halt so often in
this perpendicular march, that upon my joining him
on the top of the pillar, I found he had counted all the
steeples and towers which were discernible from this
advantageous situation, and was endeavouring to com-
pute the number of acres they stood upon. We were
both of us very well pleased with this part of the pro-
spect, but I found he cast an evil eye upon several
warehouses and other buildings that looked like barns,
and seemed capable of receiving great multitudes of
people. His heart misgave him that these were so
many meeting-houses, but upon communicating his
suspicions to me, I soon made him easy in this par-
ticular.

We then turned our eyes upon the river, which gave
me an occasion to inspire him with some favourable
thoughts of trade and merchandise, that had filled the
Thames with such crowds of ships, and covered the
shore with such swarms of people.

We descended very leisurely, my friend being careful
to count the steps, which he registered in a blank leaf
of his new almanack. Upon our coming to the bottom,
observing an English inscription upon the basis, he
read it over several times, and told me he could scarce
believe his own eyes, for that he had often heard from
an old attorney who lived near him in the country,
that it was the presbyterians who burned down the

 

 

ADDISON'S MORAL AND HUMOROUS ESSAYS.

city ; “ whereas,” says he, “ the pillar positively affirms
in so many words, that the burning of this ancient city
was begun and carried on by the treachery and malice
of the popish faction, in order to the carrying on their
horrid plot for extirpating the protestant religion and
old English liberty, and introducing popery and slavery.”
This account, which he looked upon to be more authen-
tic than if it had been in print, I found made a very
great impression upon him.

We now took coach again, and made the best of our
way for the Royal Exchange, though I found he did
not much care to venture himself into the throng of
that place, for he told me he had heard they were,
generally speaking, republicans, and was afraid of hav-
ing his pocket picked amongst them. But he soon
conceived a better opinion of them, when he spied the
statue of King Charles II. standing up in the middle of
the crowd, and most of the kings in Baker’s Chronicle
ranged in order over their heads, from whence he very
justly concluded, that an anti-monarchical assembly
could never choose such a place to meet in once a-day.

To continue this good disposition in my friend: after
a short stay at Stocks Market, we drove away directly
for the Mews, where he was not a little edified with
the sight of those fine sets of horses which have been
brought over from Hanover, and with the care that is
taken of them. He made many good remarks upon
this occasion, and was so pleased with his company,
that I had much ado to get him out of the stable.

In our progress to St James’s Park (for that was the
end of our journey), he took notice, with great satisfac-
tion, that, contrary to his intelligence in the country,
the shops were all open and full of business; that the
soldiers walked civilly in the streets; that clergymen,
instead of being affronted, had generally the wall given
them ; and that he heard the bells ring to prayers from
morning to night, in some part of the town or another.

As he was full of these honest reflections, it happened
very luckily for us that one of the king’s coaches passed
by with the three young princesses in it, whom by an
accidental stop we had an opportunity of surveying for
some time. My friend was ravished with the beauty,
innocence, and sweetness, that appeared in all their
faces. He declared several times that they were the
finest children he had ever seen in all his life, and
assured me, that before this sight, if any one had told
him it had been possible for three such pretty children
to have been born out of England, he should never
have believed it.

We were now walking together in the Park; and as
it is usual for men who are naturally warm and heady
to be transported with the greatest flush of good nature
when they are once sweetened, he owned to me very
frankly, he had been much imposed upon by those
false accounts of things he had heard in the country,
and that he would make it his business, upon his return
thither, to set his neighbours right, and give them a
more just notion of the present state of affairs.

What confirmed my friend in this excellent temper
of mind, and gave him an inexpressible satisfaction,
was a message he received, as we were walking toge-
ther, from the prisoner for whom he had. given his
testimony in his late trial, This person having been
condemned for his part in the late rebellion, sent him
word that his majesty had been graciously pleased to
reprieve him, with several of his friends, in order, as
it was thought, to give them their lives, and that he
hoped, before he went out of town, they should have a
cheerful meeting, and drink health and prosperity to
King George.

END OF ADDISON’S ESSAYS.

W. & R. CHAMBERS, Printers, 19, Waterloo Place, Edinburgh,Se

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TO dere rd nee, asPEOPLE’S EDITION

 

THE

ADVENTURES

OF

RODERICK RANDOM.

BY

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, M.D.

WITH A

PREFATORY MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR AND HIS WRITINGS.

Et genus et virtus, nisi cum re, vilior alga est.———Hor ace.

Birth and virtue, without money, are more valueless than sea-weed.——TRANSLATION.

EDINBURGH:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS ;

WILLIAM S. ORR AND COMPANY, LONDON; W. CURRY JUN. AND COMPANY, AND

G. YOUNG, DUBLIN; JOHN MACLEOD, GLASGOW; G. PHILIP, LIVERPOOL ;
LOVE AND BARTON, MANCHESTER; W. M‘COMB, BELFAST; FRASER
AND COMPANY, EDINBURGH; L. SMITH, ABERDEEN ;

AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.

1838.

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MEMOIR OF

Tuis celebrated novelist and miscellaneous writer was
born, in the year 1721, in the mansion-house of Dal-
quhurn, on the banks of the Leven in Dumbartonshire.
His birth was of the kind which usually gives lofty pre-
tensions without the means of supporting them ; his
father, Archibald Smollett, being the fourth and young-
est son of Sir James Smollett, of Bonhill, knight, a
gentleman of ancient family, possessed of a good estate,
and a judge in the Commissary or Consistorial Court in
Edinburgh. Sir James, as representative of the burgh
of Dumbarton in the Scottish parliament, was sufii-
ciently distinguished to be appointed one of the com-
missioners for accomplishing the union between England
and Scotland. Archibald, the father of the novelist,
while young and unprovided for, married a dowerless
young lady of the name of Cunningham, without the
knowledge of his father, who nevertheless settled him
on one of his farms—that of Dalquhurn already men-
tioned—where he enjoyed an income of about 1.300 a-
year. He had two sons, the novelist being the younger,
and a daughter, and died at an early age, leaving his
family dependent on the bounty of Sir James Smollett.

The subject of this memoir grew up under the care
of his widowed mother, and of the aged judge, whose
conversations respecting the affairs of the publie world,
in which he had been engaged, are supposed to have
had some effect in turning the attention of young
smollett to the study of his fellow-men. The banks of
the Leven, and of Loch Lomond, on which he spent
his boyhood, and which rank amongst the most beau-
tiful and romantic scenes in Scotland, were at the
same time calculated to awaken any seeds of poetical
genius which might reside within his breast. He has
celebrated his enjoyments here in his Ode to Leven
Water :-—

On Leven’s banks when free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain,
That ever trod th’ Arcadian plain.

He received his education at the burgh school of Dum-
barton and the college of Glasgow, and, while still a
boy, was placed as an apprentice in the shop of Mr
John Gordon, a flourishing apothecary in the town last
mentioned—who subsequently became a physician, and
was successively the master and the partner of Dr John
Moore, another eminent British novelist. It is said
that Smollett yielded to this destination with some re-
luctance, being more inclined to a military life ; and it
must be allowed that the dispositions which he mani-
fested at this period were rather of the kind which suit
the soldier than the medical practitioner. He was full of
frolic and mischief, delighted in jests spoken and practi-
eal, and yet there was something about him which those
who knew him best could not dislike. On a winter even-

- ing, when the streets were covered with snow, Smollett

happened to be engaged in a snow-ball fight with a few
boys of his own age, amongst whom was the apprentice
of a surgeon who is supposed to be depicted in Roderick
fiandom under the appellation of Crab. The worthy
surgeon entered his shop, while his apprentice was in
the heat of the engagement ; and when the latter re-
turned to his duty, he thought it proper to scold him
for his negligence in quitting the shop. The youth ex-
cused himself by saying, that, while he was employed
in making up a prescription, some one had hit him with
a snow-ball, and that he had been in pursuit of the de-
linquent. “ A mighty probable story, truly,’’ said the
master in an ironical tone; “I wonder how long I
should stand here, before it would enter into any mor-
tal’s head, to throw a snow-ball at me.” At this mo-

a miata

 

 

 

SMOLLETT.

ment, while he was holding his head erect with a
scornful air, Smollett, from behind the pillar at the
shop-door, discharged a missile repartee in the shape of
a snow-ball, which hit him a smart blow on the face, and
proved an effectual apology for the young scapegrace.

During his apprenticeship, Smollett attended the
medical classes in the college, where he distinguished
himself chiefly by satirical verses, and the composition
of a tragedy on the murder of James I. king of Scots.
His prospects were interrupted in his eighteenth year,
by the death of his grandfather, who made no provision
for him; and he was soon after under the necessity of
proceeding to London to push his fortune. Disappointed
in an effort to get his tragedy represented on the stage,
he was glad in 1741 to obtain the situation of surgeon’s
mate in a ship of the line, which formed part of the ex-
pedition to Carthagena. If the sea scenes in Roderick
Random be at all a faithful picture of life on board a
man-of-war at that period, we cannot be surprised that
Smollett was soon disgusted with the service, and quitted
the vessel in the West Indies, though not till he had
witnessed the ill-conducted affair of Carthagena. Of
this period of his life, there is little recorded by his
biographers. Itis ascertained that, in the West Indies,
he became attached to a Miss Lascelles, a native of that
region, of great beauty, and in expectation of a fortune
of three thousand pounds. According to his biographer
Dr Anderson, he returned to London in 1746 ; but the
writer of the present memoir has seen a letter written
by him to a Scotch friend in May 1744, and dated from
the metropolis. He there expresses himself as follows :-—
“As for the particulars you expect from me, you must
wait until I shall be better informed myself ; for, to tell
you an extraordinary truth, I do not know, as yet,
whether you had better congratulate or condole with
me. I wish I were near you, that I might pour forth
my heart before you, and make you judge of its dictates,
and the several steps I have lately taken; in which
case, | am certain you and all honest men would acquit
my principles, howsoever my prudentials might be con-
demned. However, I have moved into the house where
the late John Douglas, surgeon, died, and you may
henceforth direct for Mr Smollett, surgeon, in Downing
Street, west.” These allusions are obscure; but it
would at least appear that Smollett had already com-
menced practice in London.

He was probably pursuing his profession asa surgeon
in London when the severe measures with which cer-
tain portions of his country were visited by the Duke

£ Cumberland, for the more effectual suppression of

the rebellion of 1745-6, roused him to the composition
of that fine burst of lyrical indignation, the Tears of
Scotland. It has been stated that this ode was written
one evening at a tavern, in the presence of some of his
friends who were playing at cards. When one of the
party asked if he was writing verses, he showed them
the draught of the first six stanzas of the poem. It was
remarked that the termination was expressed in terms
too severe to be agreeable to persons in power, and
might prove hurtful to the prospects of the author ;
when Smollett, instead of making any attempt to soften
the asperity of his verses, sat down once more and com-
posed the seventh stanza :—

While the warm blood bedews my veins,

And unimpaired remembrance reigns,

Resentment of my country’s fate

‘Within my filial breast shall beat.

Yes, spite of thine insulting foe,

My sympathising verse shall flow ;

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn, «

Thy banished peace, thy laurels torn oPREFATORY MEMOIR. o

What made this expression of sentiment the more re-
markable, the author had been reared. in reverence of
the principles of the Revolution, and entertained no
predilection for the house of Stuart. His heart beat
solely for the ruthless cruelties practised on his native
land.

It cannot be surprising that a son of impulse like
Smollett failed to render himself popular as a physician.
Finding little success in that profession, he wrote an
opera*—never acted—and published two satires*+ in
the manner of Juvenal. About 1747, he married Miss
Lascelles ; but, instead of realising her expected for-
tune, was only involved, on account of it, in an expen-
sive law-suit. It now became pressingly necessary that
he should seek the aid of his pen for the support of his
domestic establishment. He accordingly wrote his novel
of Roderick Random, which was published in 1748,+
without his name, and was so much liked by the public,
as to be attributed to the reigning favourite in the walk
of prose fiction, Henry Fielding.

The author professes, in this work, to have imitated
the Adventures of Gil Blas, and acknowledges that he
has not “ deviated from nature in the facts, which are
all true in the main, although the circumstances are
disguised to avoid personal satire.” There is indeed
no room to doubt that the general outline of the work
shadows forth the history of his own early life, that
many of the characters are exaggerated or disguised
portraits of his own relatives, and other persons with
whom he had been connected, and that he causes his hero
oj, togive expression to many of his own peculiar sentiments.

| The grandfather, at the beginning of the novel, is un-
» questionably the old judge, Sir James Smollett, but
i probably much less amiable than the original. Potion
4 1s said to have been Mr Gordon; but this is unlikely, as
i it has never been insinuated that that gentleman acted
‘i in a eruel or unhandsome manner to the novelist, while
) we know that Smollett has spoken of him by name in
uj the most friendly terms in Humphry Clinker. Squire
) Gawky is said to have had a prototype, well known in

| the west of Scotland, The captains Oakhum and Whiffle
i were also real persons. Strap, perhaps the most inte-
| resting figure in the book, was traced to a bookbinder
ij and also to a barber, both of whom had acquired a
ua smattering of the classical tongues in the course of the
4 cheap parochial education for which Scotland has long
J been remarkable. The story of Melopoyn’s tragedy
i Was believed to be a narrative of his own disappoint-
oj} ments with his tragedy of the Regicide, Brayer and
| Marmozet being the managers Lacy and Garrick.
‘| Narcissa was a picture of his bride, Miss Lascelles.
_] If, in some of these characters, he has added unamiable
31 features which the originals did not possess, it is equally
»} certain that, in that of Roderick Random, he has done
| less than justice to himself. He was certainly incapable
., of acting the part which that hero is described as acting
| from the forty-fifth to the sixty-first chapter—a fortune-
‘ hunter, gependent on a poor barber and valet, whom
‘ he abuses even while spending his money, and claiming

| a high place in society without the shadow of a preten-
it sion to any merit, except what is called good birth and
(a good address. The author is universally allowed to

_ have been a man of the nicest honour; yet there must

| have been some obscurity in his moral perceptions,
J for, in his preface, he speaks of his hero as “a friend-
i less orphan,” suffering from “the selfishness, envy,
“malice, and base indifference of mankind,” and as one
‘for whom he expects the sympathy of the ingenuous,
¢ on account of his birth and education, as well as his
4 misfortunes; not perceiving, apparently, that Mr Ran-
‘ dom is a pure adventurer, who scarcely shows a single
( quality calculated to secure good treatment from his
} fellow-creatures, while his birth and education only
s aggravate his offences, as they ought to have made
( him superior to mean conduct of every kind. This is

* Entitled Alceste.

+ One entitled Advice, published in 1746; the other Reproof, in
\ 1747.
cat By Osborne, the bookseller whom Johnson knocked down
in tivo volumes, price six shillings.

fy aiith oa falio ANNCAYHA

i
}
|

 

not the only work of Smollett which shows him to have
been, in some degree, insensible to the true theory of
the conduct of a gentleman, however his personal con-
duct might be in accordance with it.

For many subsequent years, the life of Smollett was
chiefly that of an author by profession, a laborious and
often-an unhappy one, and rendered more than usually
painful in his case by an irritability and a disposition to
satire, which would have embittered a much more in-
dependent mode of existence. Not having yet given up
hopes of succeeding in his profession, he obtained, in
1750, the degree of doctor in medicine from the Uni-
versity of Aberdeen, and two years after published a
treatise on the Bath waters. But these were his last
efforts of the kind. In 1751, he published his novel of
Peregrine Pickle, in which also there were some cha-
racters of real life. Here, as in Roderick Random, he
depicts a hero of many contemptible and some profli-
gate peculiarities, but triumphs over every objection
by the overpowering force of humour, and the unfailing
truth of his portraitures. Trunnion, Hatchway, Pipes,
Pallet, are all admirably drawn ; and English literature
presents no scene more thoroughly and truly comic,
than the description of the feast after the manner of
the ancients. His novel of Ferdinand Count Fathom,
a most disereditable book in the main, though not with-
out good points, appeared in 1753; and two years later,
he gave to the world his translation of Don Quixote,
which is allowed, if less elegant than other versions, to
contain a more complete transfusion of the humour of
the author.

He had been absent sixteen years from Scotland, and
from a friendless and unknown youth had become one
of the most admired of living English authors, when, in
the year last mentioned, he revisited his native coun-
try. His sister had been for many years the wife of
Mr Telfer of Symington and Scotston, and his mother
lived with her. He accordingly proceeded to Scotston,
at the head of Peeblesshire, where Mrs Telfer arranged
that he should be introduced to his mother as a stranger
from the West Indies, who was intimately acquainted
with her son. The better to preserve the assumed cha-
racter, he endeavoured to preserve a very serious coun-
tenance, approaching to a frown ; but while his mother’s
eyes were rivetted on his countenance, he could not
refrain from smiling. She immediately sprang from her
chair, and, throwing her arms around his neck, ex-
claimed, “ My son, my son! I have found you at last !”?
She afterwards told him that, if he had kept his austere
looks, and continued to gloom, he might have escaped
detection for some time longer ; “ but your old roguish
smile,” added she, “betrayed you at once.” He paid
a visit on this) occasion to Glasgow, where he revived
his acquaintance with many of his old friends.

in 1756, having returned to London, Smollett com-
menced the Critical Review, a monthly publication,
which he conducted for some years with considerable
success, though not without becoming involved by it in
several unpleasant altercations, In the same year he
published, without his name, a Collection of Voyages in
seven volumes, containing, amongst other interesting
narratives, an account of the expedition to Carthagena,
drawn up with the benefit of his own personal observa~-
tions. About'the.same time, he produced a farce en-
titled the Reprisals, the object of which was to excite
public feeling against the French nation, with which
England was then at war. It contains some sea cha~-
racters drawn with his usual success ; but the general
design—that of holding up the French nation to
obloquy—is altogether contemptible. Smollett wag
the less excusable for this servile ministration to the
grossest of all prejudices, in as far as he must have
daily witnessed and suffered from the same prejudice
against his own countrymen.

In 1758, he undertook the composition of a History
of England, in four volumes, quarto, which he com-
pleted in the surprisingly short period of fourteen
months. He afterwards added two volumes, bringing
down the history from 1748 to 1765, and it has been
stated that he realised two thousand pounds by the}
-
‘
4
a3

 

4 PREFATORY MEMOIR.

work. The portion from the Revolution to 1760 is still
commonly printed in connection with the more able,
but not more pleasing work, of Hume. It may be
mentioned, that, before this period, Smollett had in a
great measure abandoned his Whig principles, and
adopted those of the monarchical party which soon
aiter took so prominent a part in the government of
George III. His Review and History are accordingly
to be considered as Tory productions. In 1759, the
publisher of the former work was prosecuted for an
article in which Admiral Knowles was described as
“an admiral without conduct, an engineer without
knowledge, an officer without resolution, and a man
without veracity.” The admiral stated his object to
be to discover the author, with a view to demanding
from him the satisfaction of a gentleman, Smol-
lett immediately came forward, when Knowles, in-
stead of doing as he had proposed, raised a prose-
cution against the author, the result of which was a
condemnation to three months’ imprisonment, and a
fine of a hundred pounds. In this misfortune Smollett
had one consolation, that his conduct was universally
approved of. Hespent his three months of confinement
in the King’s Bench Prison, where his friends visited
him with the same frankness as at his usual residence
in Chelsea.

Being induced in 1760 to take some interest in a
miscellany entitled the British Magazine, he wrote for
it a succession of papers, which ultimately formed the
novel of Sir Launcelot Greaves—a work extravagant in
its plan, but in many parts delightfully written, and
containing two or three characters in the happiest
manner of the author. He was soon after concerned
in several publications of considerable magnitude, a
translation of Voltaire in 27 volumes, a work called the
Present State of all Nations, and an Universal Modern
JTistory, to the last of which he contributed the articles
on Germany, France, and Italy, realising by them nearly
sixteen hundred pounds. At the commencement of the
Earl of Bute’s administration in May 1762, he started
a newspaper in its support, entitled the Briton, which
was the means of provoking his old friend John Wilkes
into the field with the North Briton. Short as was the
existence of the Bute ministry, Smollett’s paper lasted
for a time still shorter, sinking beneath the weight of
its antagonist, and the hopelessness of the cause. In
the ensuing year, he had the great misfortune to lose
his daughter and only child Elizabeth, an interesting
girl of fifteen; this, joined to the severity of his late

labours, affected his health, and induced him to proceed |

to a milder climate, where he spent the ensuing three
years. ‘The result of his continental residence was his
Travels through France and Italy, in two volumes, pub-
lished in 1766, which are chiefly remarkable for his
dissent from the universal opinion regarding the Venus
de Medici and the Pantheon—a circumstance which
called forth a well-known sarcasm from Sterne in his
Sentimental Journey.

In June this year, he paid a second and last visit to his
native country. He lived with his sister Mrs Telfer, in
her house in the Canongate of Edinburgh, where he found
his mother still living, and in the enjoyment of health.
Heappeareda broken downand miserable man. Constant
rheumatism, and the pain arising from a neglected ulcer,
which had got into a bad state, kept him, according to
his own confession, in a state of unintermittent coma
vigil—a sleepless insanity—from April till November
of this year. His visit, therefore, was attended only
with pain and disgust, although he contrived to visit
Dr Moore at Glasgow, and his cousin Mr Smollett of
Bonhill at his house of Cameron on the banks of Loch
Lomond. ‘The ensuing winter he spent at Bath, and
for the two or three subsequent years he appears
to have intermitted his literary labours. At length, a
slight and transient restoration enabled him to compose

 

 

his Adventures of an Atom, a political satire in the
form of a novel. In 1770, finding it desirable that he
should once more try the effect of a southern climate,
but being unable to support the expense, he and his
friends made an effort to obtain for him the mercantile
consulship at Nice or Leghorn; but the government,
as usual, could only patronise its active friends. He,
nevertheless, was able to visit Leghorn, where he was
residing, when, in 1771, his last and perhaps his best
novel of Humphry Clinker made its appearance. He
here worked much upon materials supplied by his late
visit to Scotland and residence at Bath, himself being
Matthew Bramble, while most of the other charac-
ters, excepting Clinker, Tabitha, and Jenkins, were
described from individuals related to him. While the
world was enjoying the humours of Lesmahago and
Jenkins, in all their freshness and novelty, the unfor-
tunate author was sinking beneath his maladies. He
died on the 21st of October 1771, in the fifty-first year
of his age, and was buried in the neighbourhood of
Leghorn.

Thus passed, and thus closed, the life of the most
lively of British novelists. He died a poor man, leay-
ing the woman whom he loved—his Narcissa—to a still
poorer widowhood. His early death is the more to be
lamented, as, had he lived till the demise of his cousin
Commissary Smollett, in 1776, he would have suc-
ceeded as heir of entail to the family estate of a thou-
sand a-year, which would have relieved him from the
literary task-work which probably helped to wear out
the springs of life. This estate, with as much more of
personal property, went to his sister, and, on her death
in 1789, to her son Major Telfer Smollett, whose grand-
son now enjoys it. Commissary Smollett, who never
extended any active friendship to his distinguished re-
lative during his life, erected to him, after his death,
an elegant obelisk, which still graces the banks of the
Leven. Meanwhile the widow pined in a foreign land,
with little experience of kindness from her husband’s
relations. It appears almost incredible, yet is only too
true, that, in 1784, the wealthy surviving friends of
Smollett permitted a play to be acted for the benefit of
this forlorn woman, in the Edinburgh Theatre. On
that occasion, a Mr Houston Stewart Nicholson, son of
a Scottish baronet, anda good amateur actor, performed
the part of Pierre in Venice Preserved ; anda prologue,
alluding in most touching terms to the works of the
novelist, was contributed by Smollett’s friend and exe-
cutor, Mr Graham of Gartmore. The sum realised
was about three hundred pounds.

Smollett excels all novelists in the originality and
naturalness of his characters, and in the grotesque si-
tuations which he conceives for them. In the construc-
tion of plots, he showed nothing like the skill which
Fielding has displayed in his Jom Jones; but he has
other merits, which perhaps place him above that writer
upon the whole. As ahistorical writer, he was spirited,
entertaining, and subject to no partialities but those
which prejudice might give rise to. His poetéeal writ-
ings are few, but in general good ; and it would be dif-
ficult to point out three pieces by any writer of that
age which continue to possess the popularity of the
Tears of Scotland, the Ode to Leven Water, and the Ode
to Independence.

In the present edition of Rederick Random, a number
of passages, more suited to the taste of 1748 than to
that which now prevails, are omitted. The editors are
aware that such interferences with the writings of
deceased authors are disapproved of by many; but
they trust that the generality of readers will like the
book the better for these erasures, which Smollett
could not have now failed to make for himself, if alive.
Objectors may also be reminded that the entire book is
not necessarily banished from the world by a purified
edition,AUTHOR’S

Or all kinds of satire, there is none so entertaining and
universally improving as that which is introduced, as
it were occasionally, in the course of an interesting story,
which brings every incident home to life; and by re-
presenting familiar scenes in an uncommon and amus-
ing point of view, invests them with all the graces of
novelty, while nature is appealed to in every particular.

The reader gratifies his curiosity in
adventures of a person in whose favour

pursuing the
he is prepos-
sessed ; he espouses his cause, he sympathises with him
in distress, his indignation is heated against the authors
of his calamity ; the humane passions are inflamed; the
contrast between dejected virtue and insulting
appears with great aggravation ;

vice,
and every impression
having a double force on the imagination, the memory
retains the circumstance, and the heart improves by
the example. The attention is not tired with a bare
catalogue of characters, but agreeably diverted with all
the variety of invention ; and the vicissitudes of life
appear in their peculiar circumstances, opening
ample field for wit and humour.

an
Romance, no doubt, owes its origin to ignorance,
vanity, and superstition. In the dark ages of the world,
when a man had rendered himself famous for wisdom
or valour, his family and adherents availed themselves
of his superior qualities, magnified his virtues, and
represented his character and person as sacred and
supernatural. The vulgar easily swallowed the bait,
implored his protection, and yielded the tribute of
homage and praise, even to adoration; his exploits
were handed down to posterity, with a thousand exag-
gerations ; they were repeated as incitements to virtue ‘
divine honours were paid, and altars erected to his
memory, for the encouragement of those who attempted
to imitate his example; and hence arose the heathen
mythology, which is no other than a collection of ex-
travagant romances. As learning advanced, and genius
received cultivation, these stories were embellished with
the graces of poetry, that they might the better recom-
mend themselves to the ‘attention ; they were sung in
public, at festivals, for the instruction and delight of

the audience; and rehearsed before battle, as incentives |

to deeds of glory. Thus tragedy and the epic muse were
born, and, in the progress of taste, arrived at perfec-
tion. It is no wonder that the ancients could not relish
a fable in prose, after they had seen so many remark-
able events celebrated in verse by their best poets: we
therefore find no romance among them during the era
of their excellence, unless the Cyropzedia of Xenophon
may be so called; and it was not till arts and sciences
began to revive, after the irruption of the barbarians
into Europe, that any thing of this kind appeared. But
when the minds of men were debauched by the imposi-
tion of priestcraft to the most absurd pitch of credulity,
the authors of romance arose, and, losing sight of pro-
bability, filled their performances with the inost mon-

strous hyperboles. If they could not equal the ancient

PREFACE.

poets in point of genius, they were resolved to excel
them in fiction, and apply to the wonder rather than the
judgment of their readers, Accordingly, they brought
necromancy to their aid, and instead of supporting the
character of their heroes by dignity of sentiment and
practice, distinguished them hy their bodily strength,
activity, and ext ‘avagance of behaviour. Although
nothing could be more ludicrous and unnatural than
the figures they drew, they did not want patrons and
admirers, and the world actually began to be infected
with the spirit of knight-errantry, when Cer rantes, by
an inimitable piece of ridicule, reformed the taste of
mankind, representing chivalry in the right point of
view, and converting romance to purposes far more
useful and entertaining, by making it assume the sock,
and point out the follies of ordinary life.
| The same method has been practised by other Spanish
and French authors,

 

and by none more successfully
than by Monsieur Le Sage, who, in his adventures of
Gil Blas, has described the knavery and foibles of life,
with infinite humour and Sagacity. The following sheets
I have modelled on his plan, taking the liberty, how-
ever, to differ from him in the execution, where [
thought his particular situations were uncommon, ex-
travagant, or peculiar to the country in which the scene
is laid. The disgraces of Gil Blas are, for the most
part, such as rather excite mirth than compassion—he
himself laughs at them; and his transitions from dis-
tress to happiness, or at least ease, are so sudden, that
neither the reader has time to pity him, nor himself to
be acquainted with affliction. This conduct, in my opi-
nion, not only deviates from probability, but prevents
that generous indignation which ought to animate the
reader against the sordid and vicious disposition of the
world.
I have attempted to represent modest merit struggling
| with every difficulty to which a friendless orphan is ex-
posed, from his own want of experience, as well asfrom
| the selfishness, envy, malice, and base indifference of
| mankind. To secure a favourable prepossession, I have
| allowed him the advantages of birth and education,
| which, in the series of his misfortunes, will, I hope, en-
| gage the ingenuous more warmly in his behalf; and
| though I foresee that some people will be offended at the
mean scenes in which he is involved, I persuade myself
the judicious will not perceive the necessity of describ-
| ing those situations to which he must of course be con-
fined, in his low estate, but also find entertainment in
viewing those parts of life, where the humours and
passions are undisguised by affectation, ceremony, or
education, and the whimsical peculiarities of disposition
appear as nature has implanted them. But I believe T
need not trouble myself in vindicating a practice autho-
rised by the best writers in this way, some of whom I
have already named.
Every intelligent reader will, at first sight, perceive
I have not deviated from nature in the facts, which are

 

sat

Fee

ae Sa

—— pce ire eS ee SS ee
: ; eT ; ae , > 3 = apg oe =

Lat ape
eis

acon

ea te Son

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eo

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Wh
ilye

6 APOLOGUE.

all true in the main, although the circumstances are
altered and disguised to avoid personal satire.

It now remains to give my reasons for making the
chief personage of this work a North Briton; which
are chiefly these :—I could at a small expense bestow on
him such education as I thought the dignity of his birth
and character required, which could not possibly be
obtained in England, by such slender means as the
nature of my plan would afford. In the next place, I
could represent simplicity of manners in a remote part
of the kingdom, with more propriety than in any place
near the capital ; and lastly, the disposition of the Scots,
addicted to travelling, justifies my conduct in deriving
an. adventurer from that country.

 

That the delicate reader may not be offended at the
unmeaning oaths which proceed from the mouths*of
some persons in these memoirs, I beg leave to premise,
that I imagined nothing could more effectually expose
the absurdity of such miserable expletives, than a na-
tural and verbal representation of the discourse in which
they occur.*

 

\

* {The ** unmeaning oaths” here referred to, as well as other
improper expressions, have been excluded from the present
edition, or modified, as}far as possible, into a less objectionable
form. |

 

APOLOGUE.

A younc painter indulging a vein of pleasantry, sketched
a kind of conversation piece, representing a bear, an
owl, a monkey, and an ass: and to render it more strik-
ing, humorous, and moral, distinguished every figure
by some emblem of human life.

Bruin was exhibited in the garb and attitude of an
old, toothless, drunken soldier ; the owl, perched upon
the handle of a coffeepot, with spectacles on nose, seemed
to contemplate a newspaper; and the ass, ornamented
with a huge tie wig (which, however, could not conceal
his long ears), sat for his picture to the monkey, who ap-
peared with the implements of painting. This whimsical
group afforded some mirth, and met with general ap-
probation, until some mischievous wag hinted that the
whole was a lampoon upon the friends of the performer ;
an{insinuation which was no sooner circulated, than
those very people who applauded it before, began to be
alarmed, and even to fancy themselves signified by the
several figures of the piece.

Among others, a worthy personage in years, who had
served in the army with reputation, being incensed at
the supposed outrage, repaired to the lodgings of the
painter, and finding him at home, “ Hark ye, Mr Mon-
key,” said he, “I have a good mind to convince you
that though the bear has lost his teeth, he retains his
paws, and that he is not so drunk but he can perceive
your impertinence—’Sblood! Sir, that toothless jaw is
a scandalous libel—but don’t you imagine me so chop-
fallen as not to beable to chew the cud of resentment.”
Here he was interrupted by the arrival of a learned
physician, who, advancing to the culprit with fury in his
aspect, exclaimed, “Suppose the augmentation of the
ass’s ears should prove the diminution of the baboon’s

 

—nay, seek not to prevaricate, for, by the beard of
/Eseulapius! there is not one hair in this periwig that
will not stand up in judgment to convict thee of per-
sonal abuse. Do but observe, captain, how this pitiful
little fellow has copied the very curls—the colour, in-
deed, is different, but then the form and foretop are
quite similar.” While he thus remonstrated in a strain
of vociferation, a venerable senator entered, and, wad-
dling up to the delinquent, “Jackanapes !” cried he,
“ T will now let thee see I can read something else than
a newspaper, and that without the help of spectacles—
here is your own note of hand, sirrah, for money, which
if I had not advanced, you yourself would have re-
sembled an owl in not daring to show your face by day,
you ungrateful slanderous knave !”

In vain the astonished painter declared that he had
no intention to give offence, or to characterise particular
persons : they affirmed the resemblance was too palpable
to be overlooked ; they taxed him with insolence, malice,
and ingratitude ; and their clamours being overheard
by the public, the captain was a bear, the doctor anass,
and the senator an owl, till his dying day.

Christian reader, I beseech thee, remember this ex-
ample while thou art employed in the perusal of the
following sheets ; and seek not to appropriate to thyself
that which equally belongs to five hundred different
people. If thou shouldst meet with a character that
reflects thee in some ungracious particular, keep thy
own counsel; consider that one feature makes not a
face, and that, though thou art, perhaps, distinguished
by a bottle-nose, twenty of thy neighbours may be in
the same predicament.

AN
reADVENTURES OF RODERI Ck RANDOM.

tt sess

CHAPTER I.

BIRTH AND PARENTAGE.
I was born in the northern part of the united kingdom,
in the house of my grandfather, a gentleman of consi-
derable fortune and influence, who had on many oc¢a-
sions signalised himself on behalf of his country ; and
was remarkable for his abilities in the law, which he
exercised with great success, in the station of a judge,
particularly against beggars, for whom he had a singu-
lar aversion.

My father (his youngest son) falling i
poor relation, who lived with the old
quality of a housekeeper, espoused
I was the first fruit of that marriage. During her
pregnancy, a dream discomposed my mother so much,
that her husband, tired with her importunity, at last
consulted a highland seer, whose favourable interpre-
tation he would have secured. beforehand by a bribe,
but found him incorruptible. She dr
delivered of a tennis-ball, which the devil (who, to her
great surprise, acted the part of a midwife) struck so
forcibly with a racket, that it disappeared
and she was fo
her offspring, when, all of a sudden, she beheld it re-
turn with equal violence, and enter the earth, beneath
her feet, whence immediately sprang up a goodly tree
covered with blossoms, the scent of wl icl
strongly on her nerves that she awoke. '
sage, after some deliberation, assured my parents that
their first-born would be a great traveller; that he
would undergo many dangers and difficulties, and at
last return to his native land, where he would flourish
in happiness and reputation. How truly this was fore-
told, will appear in the sequel. It was not long before
some officious person informed my grandfather of cer-
tain familiarities that passed between his son and ]
keeper, which alarmed him so much, that, a few days
after, he told my father it was high time for him to
think of settling, and that he had provided a match
for him, to which he could in justice have no objections.
My father, finding it would be impossible to conceal his
situation much longer, frankly owned what he had done,
and excused himself for not having asked the consent
of his father, by saying, he knew it
no purpose ; and that, had his inclination been known,
my grandfather might have
would have effectually put the gratification of it out of
his power: he added, that no exceptions could be taken
to his wife’s virtue, birth, beauty, and good sense; and
as for fortune, it was beneath his care, The
man, who kep

n love with a
gentleman in

In an instant ;

}
i
,
s

The attentive

lOuUSe-

old gentle-

her privately, and |

amed she was |

r some time inconsolable for the loss of

t all his passions, except one, in excellent |

 

1 Operated go |

| they should disturb ]
would have been to |

forts of which I leave you, with a desire that you will this
night seek out another habitation for yourself and wife :
whither in a short time I wil] send you an account of
the expense I have been at in your education, with a
view of being reimbursed. Sir, you have made the
grand tour—you are a polite gentleman—a very pretty
gentleman—I wish you a great deal of joy, and am your
very humble servant.” So saying, he left my father in
a situation easily imagined. However, he did not long
hesitate ; for, being perfectly well acquainted with his
father’s disposition, he did not doubt that he was glad
of this pretence to get rid of him; and his resolves be-
ing invariable as the laws of the Medes and Persians,
he knew it would be to no purpose to attempt him by
prayers and entreaties ; so, without any further appli-
cation, he betook himself, with his disconsolate bed-fel-
low, toa farm-house, where an old servant of his mother
dwelt; there they remained some time in a situation
but ill adapted to the elegance of their desires and ten-
derness of their love, which, nevertheless, my father
chose to endure, rather than supplicate an unnatural
and inflexible parent: but my mother, foreseeing the
inconveniences to which she must have been exposed,
had she been delivered in this place (and her pregnancy
was very far advanced), without communicating her
design to her husband, went in disguise to the house of
my grandfather, hoping that her tears and condition
would move him to compassion, and reconcile him to
an event which was now irrecoverably past. She found
means to deceive the servants, and was introduced as an
unfortunate lady, who wanted to complain of some ma-
trimonial grievances, it being my grandfather’s parti-
cular province to decide in all cases of scandal. She
was accordingly admitted into his presence, where, dis-
covering herself, she fell at his feet, and in the most
affecting manner implored his forgiveness; at the same
time, representing the danger that threatened not only
her life, but that of his own grandchild, which was about
to see the light. He told her, he was sorry that the in-
discretion of her and his son had compelled him to make
a vow, which put it out of his power to give them any
assistance ; that he had already imparted his thoughts
on that subject to her husband, and was surprised that
lis peace with any further impor-

tunity. This said, he retired. The violence of my

| mother’s affliction had such an effect on her constitution,

taken such measures as |

|
|

order, heard him to an end with great temper, and then |
3 5

calmly asked, how he proposed to maintain himself and
spouse? He replied, he could be in no danger of want-

ing, while his father’s tenderness remained, which he

and his wife should always cultivate with the utmost |

veneration ; and he was persuaded his allowance would
be suitable to the dignity and circumstances of his
family, and to the provision already made for his bro-
thers and sisters, who were happily settled under his
protection. “ Your brothers and sisters,” said my grand-
father, “did not think it beneath them to consult me in
an affair of such importance as matrimony ; neither, I
suppose, would you have omitted that piece of duty,
had you not. some secret fund in reserve ; to the com-

that she was immediately seized with the pains of child-
bed; and had not an old maid-servant, to whom she
was very dear, afforded her pity and assistance, at the
hazard of incurring my grandfather’s displeasure, she
and her innocent babe must have fallen miserable vie-
tims to his rigour and inhumanity. By the friendship
of this poor woman, she was carried up to a garret, and
immediately delivered of a man-child, the story of whose
unfortunate birth he himself now relates. My father
being informed of what had happened, flew to the em-
braces of his darling spouse, and, while he loaded his

offspring with paternal embraces, could not forbear
shedding a flood of tears, on beholding the dear partner

of his heart (for whose ease he would have sacrificed
the treasures of the east) stretched upon a fiock-bed,
in a miserable apartment, unable to protect her from
the inclemencies of the weather. It is not to be sup-
posed that the old gentleman was ignorant of what
passed, though he affected to know nothing of the matter,

and pretended to be yery much surprised when one ofSe as “ :
pert et ae bP an einen Oe B

are ees

F

4
2
a
6
“a
Pe

 

& ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

his grandchildren, by his eldest son deceased, who lived
with him as his heir-apparent, acquainted him with the
affair ; he determined therefore to observe no medium,
but immediately (on the third day after her delivery)
sent her a peremptory order to be gone, and turned off
the servant who had preserved her life. This behaviour
so exasperated my father, that he had recourse to the
most dreadful imprecations, and on his bare knees im-
plored that Heaven would renounce him if ever he should
forget or forgive the barbarity of his sire. The injuries
which this unhappy mother received from her removal
in such circumstances, and the want of necessaries where
she lodged, together with her grief and anxiety of mind,
soon threw her into a languishing disorder, which put
an end to her life. My father, who loved her tenderly,
was so affected with her death, that he remained six
weeks deprived of his senses ; during which time, the
people where he lodged carried the infant to the old
man, who relented so far, on hearing the melanchol y
story of his daughter-in-law’s death, and the deplorable
condition of his son, as to send the child to nurse, and
to order my father to be carried home to his house,
where he soon recovered the use of his reason. Whether
this hard-hearted judge felt any remorse for his cruel
treatment of his son and daughter, or (which is more
probable) was afraid his character would suffer in the
neighbourhood, he professed great sorrow for his con-
duct to my father, whose delirium was succeeded by a
profound melancholy and reserve. At length he dis-
appeared, and, notwithstanding all imaginable inquiry,
could not be heard of; a circumstance which confirmed
most people in the opinion of his having made away
with himself in a fit of despair. How I understood the

particulars of my birth, will appear in the course of

these memoirs.

COAPTER. 11
THERE were not wanting some who suspected my uncles
of being concerned in my father’s fate, on the supposi-
tion that they would all share in the patrimony destined
for him: and this conjecture was strengthened by re-
fiecting, that in all calamities they never discovered the
least inclination to serve him, but, on the contrary, by
all the artifices in their power, fed his father’s resent-
ment, and supported his resolution of leaving him to
misery and want. But people of judgment treated
this insinuation as an idle chimera; because, had my
relations been so wicked as to consult their interest
by committing such an atrocious crime, the fate of my
father would have extended to me too, whose life was
another obstacle to their expectation. Meanwhile, I
grew apace, and as | strongly resembled my father,
who was the darling of the tenants, I wanted nothing
which their indigent circumstances could afford: but
their favour was a weak resource against the jealous
enmity of my cousins, who, the more my infancy pro-
mised, conceived the more implacable hatred against
me; and before I was six years of age, had so etfectu-
ally blockaded my grandfather, that [ never saw him
but by stealth, when I sometimes made up to his chair,
as he sat to view his labourers in the field—on which
occasions he would stroke my head, bid me be a good
boy, and promise to take care of me. I was soon after
sent to school at a village hard by, of which he had been
dictator time out of mind; but as he never paid for my
board, nor supplied me with clothes, books, and other

necessaries I required, my condition was very ragged -

and contemptible ; and the schoolmaster, who, through

fear of my grandfather, taught me gratis, gave himself

no concern about the progress I made under his in-
struction. In spite of all these difficulties and disgraces,
I became a good proficient in the Latin tongue ; and as
soon as I could write tolerably, pestered my grandfather
with letters to such a degree, that he sent for my master,
and chid him severely for bestowing such pains on my
education ; telling him, that if ever I should be brought
to the gallows for forgery, which he had taught me to
commit, my blood would lie on his head. The pedant,

who dreaded nothing more than the displeasure of his

Piss ae * on6 ose

 

patron, assured his honour, that the boy’s ability was
more owing to his own genius and application than to

any instruction or encouragement he received; that
although he could not divest him of the knowledge he
had already imbibed, unless he would empower him to
disable his fingers, he should endeavour, with God’s
help, to prevent his future improvement. And indeed
he punctually performed what he had undertaken ; for,
on pretence that I had writ impertinent letters to my
grandfather, he caused a board to be made with five
holes in it, through which he thrust the fingers and
thumb of my right hand, and fastened it by whip-cord
to my wrist, in such a manner as effectually debarred
me the use of my pen. But this restraint 1 was freed
from in a few days by an accident which happened in a
quarrel between me and another boy, who, taking upon
him to insult my poverty, I was so incensed at his un-
generous reproach, that with one stroke of my machine
I cut him to the skull, to the great terror of myself and
school-fellows, who left him bleeding on the ground,
and ran to inform the master of what had happened.
I was so severely punished for this trespass, that were
I to live to the age of Methusalem, the impression it
made on me would not be effaced; no more than the
antipathy and horror I conceived for the merciless
tyrant who inflicted it. The contempt which my ap-
pearance naturally produced, in all who saw me, the
continual wants to which I was exposed, and my own
haughty disposition, impatient of affronts, involved me
in a thousand troublesome adventures, by which I was
at length inured to adversity, and emboldened to under-
takings far above my years. I was often inhumanly
scourged for crimes I did not commit, because, having
the character of a vagabond in the village, every piece
of mischief whose author lay unknown was charged
upon me. J have been found guilty of robbing orchards
I never entered, of killing cats I never hurt, of stealing
gingerbread I never touched, and of abusing ald women
[never saw. Nay, a stammering carpenter had elo-
quence enough to persuade my master that I fired a
pistol loaded with small shot into his window; though
my landlady and the whole family bore witness that I
was a-bed fast asleep at the time when this outrage was
committed. I was once flogged for having narrowly
escaped drowning, by the sinking of a ferry-boat in
which I was passenger; another time for having re-
covered of a bruise occasioned by a horse and cart
running over me; a third time, for being bit by a
baker’s dog ;—in short, whether I was guilty or untor-
tunate, the correction and sympathy of this arbitrary
pedagogue were the same. Far from being subdued by
this infernal usage, my indignation triumphed over that
slavish awe which had hitherto enforced my obedience ;
and the more my years and knowledge increased, the
more I perceived the injustice and barbarity of his be-
haviour. By the help of an uncommon genius, and the
advice and direction of our usher, who had served my
father in his travels, I made a surprising progress ia
the classics, writing, and arithmetic; so that before I
was twelve years old, I was allowed by every body to
be the best scholar in the school: this qualification, to-
gether with a boldness of temper, and strength of make,
which had subjected almost all my contemporaries,
gave me such influence over them, that I began to form
cabals against my persecutor, and was in hope of being
able to bid him defiance in a very short time. Being
at the head of a faction consisting of thirty boys, most
of them of my own age, I was determined to’put their
mettle to trial, that 1 might know how far they were to
be depended upon, before I put my grand scheme in
execution: with this view we attacked a body of stout
apprentices, who had taken possession of a part of the
ground allotted to us for the scene of our diversions,
and who were then playing at nine-pins on the spot:
but I had the mortification to see my adherents routed
in an instant, and a leg of one of them broke in his
flight by the bowl, which one of our adversaries had
detached in pursuit of us. This discomfiture did not
hinder us from engaging them afterwards in frequent
skirmishes, which we maintained by throwing stoves atADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 9

a distance, wherein I received many wounds, the sears
of which still remain. Our enemios were so harassed
and interrupted by these alarms, that they at lastaban-
doned their conquest, and left us to the peaceable en-
joyment of our own territories. It would be endless to
enumerate the exploits we performed in the course of
this confederacy, which became the terror of the whole
village ; insomuch, that when different interests divided
it, one of the parties commonly courted the assistance
of Roderick Random (by which name I was known) to
cast the balance, and keep the opposite faction in awe.
Meanwhile, I took the advantage of every play-day to
present myself before my grandfather, to whom I sel-
dom found access, by reason of his being closely besieged
by a numerous family of his female grandchildren, who,
though they perpetually quarrelled among themselves,
never failed to join against me as the common enemy
of all. His heir, who was about the age of eighteen,
minded nothing but fox-hunting, and indeed was quali-
fied for nothing else, notwithstanding his erandfather’s
indulgence in entertaining a tutor for him at home,
who, at the same time, performed the office of parish-
clerk. This young Acteon, who inherited his grand-
father’s antipathy to every thing in distress, never set
eyes on me without uncoupling his beagles, and hunt-
ing me into some cottage or other, whither J generally
fled forvshelter. In this Christian amusement he was
encouraged by his preceptor, who, no doubt, took such
opportunities tosingratiate himself with the rising sun,
observing, that the old gentleman, according to the
course of nature, had not long to live, for he was already
on the verge of fourscore. The behaviour of this ras-
cally syeophant incensed me so much, that one day,
when I was beleaguered by him and his hounds in a
farmer’s house, where I had found protection, I took
aim at him (being an excellent marksman) with a large
pebble, which struck out four of his fore-teeth, and
effectually incapacitated him from doing the office of a
clerk.

err Orr Le

CHAPTER IIT.

Axnovur this time my mother’s only brother, who had
been long abroad, lieutenant of a man-of-war, arrived
in his own country : where, being informed of my con-
dition, he came to see me, and out of his slender finances
not only supplied me with what necessaries I wanted
for the present, but resolved not to leave the country
until he had prevailed on my grandfather to settle some-
thing handsome for the future. This was a task to
which he was by no means equal, being entirely ignorant
not only of the judge’s disposition, but also of the ways
of men in general, to which his education on board had
kept him an utter stranger. He was a strong-built man,
somewhat bandy-legged, with a neck like that of a bull,
and a face which (you might easily perceive) had with-
stood the most obstinate assaults of the weather. His
dress consisted of a soldier’s coat altered for him by
the ship’s tailor, a striped flannel jacket, a pair of red
breeches japanned with pitch, clean grey worsted stock-
ings, large silver buckles that covered three-fourths of
his shoes, a silver-laced hat whose crown overlooked
the brims about an inch and a half, a black bob-wig in
buckle, a cheek shirt, a silk handkerchief, a hanger
with a brass handle girded to his thigh by a tarnished
laced belt, and a good oak plant under his arm. Thus
equipped, he set out with me (who by his bounty made
a very decent appearance) for my grandfather’s house,
where we were saluted by Jowler and Cesar, whom
my cousin, young master, had let loose at our approach,
Being well acquainted with the inveteracy of these curs,
I was about to betake myself to my heels, when my
uncle seized me with one hand, brandished his cudgel
with the other, and at one blow laid Czesar sprawling
on the ground: but, finding himself attacked at the
same time in the rear by Jowler, and fearing Czesar
might recover, he drew his hanger, wheeled about, and
by a lucky stroke severed Jowler’s head from his body.
By this time, the young fox-hunter and three servants,
armed with pitch-forks and flails, were come to the as

 

 

| allow me to come along-side of shim, that’s all.”

«

sistance of the dogs, whom they found breathless upon
the field; and my cousin was so provoked at the death
of his favourites, that he ordered his attendants to ad-
vance, and take vengeance on their executioner, whom
he loaded with all the curses and reproaches his anger
could Suggest. Upon which my uncle stepped forward,
with an undaunted air, at the sight of whose bloody
weapons his antagonists fell back with ‘precipitation,
when he accosted their leader thus :—“ Lookee, brother,
your dogs having boarded me Without provocation, what
I did was in my own defence. So you had best be civil,
and let us shoot ahead clear of you.” Whether the
young squire misinterpreted my uncle’s desire of peace,
or was enraged at the fate of his hounds beyond his
usual pitch of resolution, I know not ; but he snatehed
a flail from one of his followers, and came up with a
show of assaulting the lieutenant, who, putting himself
in a posture of defence, proceeded thus :—« Lookee,
you lubber, if you come athwart me, ’ware your gin-
gerbread work. Ill be foul of your quarter, dn me.”
This declaration, followed by a flourish of his hanger,
seemed to check the progress of the young gentleman’s
choler, who, looking behind him, perceived hisattendants
had slunk into the house, shut the gate, and left him to
decide the contention by himself. Here a parley ensued,
which was introduced by my cousin’s asking “ Who
are you !—What do you mean? Some scoundrel of a
seaman, I suppose, who has deserted and turned thief.
But don’t think you shall escape, sirrah; I’ll have you
hanged, you dog, I will. Your blood shall pay for that
of my two hounds, you ragamufiin. I would not have
parted with them to save your whole generation from
the gallows, you ruffian you.” “None of your jaw,
you swab—none of your jaw,” replied my uncle, “ else
[ shall trim your laced jacket for you. TI shall rub
you down with an oaken towel, my boy—I shall.” So
saying, he sheathed his hanger, and grasped his cudgel.
Meanwhile, the people of the house being alarmed, one
of my female cousins opened a window, and asked what
was the matter? “The matter !” answered the lieute-
nant, “no great matter, young woman. I have business
with the old gentleman, and this spark, belike, won’t
After
a few minutes’ pause, we were admitted and conducted
to my grandfather’s chamber, through a lane of my re-
lations, who honoured me with very significant looks
as I passed along. When we came into the judge’s
presence, my uncle, after two or three sea-bows, ex-
pressed himself in this manner :—« Your servant, your
servant. Whatcheer, father? what cheer? ] suppose
you don’t know me— may-hap you don’t ; my name is
om Bowling—and this here boy, you look as if you
did not know him either: it is like you mayn’t. He’s
new rigged, i’faith ; his cloth don’t shake in the wind
so much as it wont to do. Tis my nephew, d’ye see,
Roderick Random—your own flesh and blood, old
gentleman. Don’t lag a-stern, you dog” (pulling me
forward). My grandfather (who was laid up with the
gout) received this relation, after his long absence, with
that coldness of civility which was peculiar to him ;
told him he was glad to see him, and desired him to sit
down. “~ Thank ye, thank ye, sir, I had as lief stand,”
said my uncle ; “ for my own part, I desire nothing of
you; but if you have any conscience at all, do some-
thing for this poor boy, who has been used at a very
unchristian rate. Unchristian do I eall it?—] am sure
the Moors in Barbary have more humanity than to
leave their little ones to want. I would fain know why
my sister’s son is more neglected than that there fair-
weather Jack” (pointing to the young squire, who, with
the rest of my cousins, had followed us into the room.)
“Is not he as near akin to you as the other? Is he
not much handsomer and better built than that great
chucklehead? Come, come, consider, old gentleman,
you are going in a short time to give an account of your
evil actions. Remember the wrongs you did his father ;
and make all the satisfaction in your power, before it be
too late. The least thing you can do is to settle his
father’s portion on him.” The young ladies, who thought
themselves too much concerned to contain themselves

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10 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK

any longer, set up their throats altogether against my
protector. “Scurvy companion, saucy tarpaulin, rude,
impertinent fellow, did he think to prescribe to grand-
papa? His sister’s brat had been too well taken care
of. Grandpapa was too just not to make a difference
between an unnatural rebellious son, and his dutiful
loving children, who took his advice in all things ;”
and such expressions were vented against him with
great violence, until the judge at length commanded si-
lence. He calmly rebuked my uncle for his unman-
nerly behaviour, which, he said, he would excuse on
account of his education: he told him he had been very
kind to the boy, whom he had kept at school seven or
eight years, although he was informed he made no
progress in his learning, but was addicted to all man-
ner of vice; which he rather believed, because he
himself was witness to a barbarous piece of mischief
he had committed on the jaws of his chaplain. But,
however, he would see what the lad was fit for, and
bind him apprentice to some honest tradesman or
other, provided he would mend his manners, and be-
haye for the future as became him. The honest tar
(whose pride and indignation boiled within him) an-
swered my grandfather, that it was true he had sent
him to school, but it had cost him nothing, for he had
never been at one shilling expense to furnish him with
food, raiment, books, or other necessaries, so that it
was not much to be wondered at if the boy made small
progress; and yet, whoever told him so was a lying
lubberly raseal, and deserved to be keel-hauled : for
though he, the lieutenant, did not understand these
matters himself, he was well informed as how Rory was
the best scholar of his age in all the country ; the truth
of which he would maintain, by laying a wager of his
whole half year’s pay on the boy’s head ;—with these
words, he pulled out his purse and challenged the com-
pany— Neither is he predicted to vice, as you affirm,

 

but rather left like a wreck, d’ye see, at the mercy of the |
wind and weather, by your neglect, old gentleman. As | Mr .
| Justice, that a day should be appointed after the funeral,
he did not knock out the scoundrel’s brains instead of his

for what happened to your chaplain, I am only sorry that

teeth.

But if ever I come up with him, he had better |
be in Greenland—that’s all. ‘Thank you for your cour- |

teous offer of binding the lad apprentice to a tradesman. |

I suppose you would make a tailor of him, would you? J
I perceive how the land lies, my boy ; let’s tack about,

Vfaith ; while I have a shilling, thou shan’t want a tester.
B’wye, old gentleman, you’re bound for the other world,

uncle muttering curses all the way against the old shark
and the young fry that surrounded him.

nee,

 

re

CHAPTER IV.
A Frew weeks after our visit, we were informed that
the old judge, at the end of a fit of thoughtfulness, which
lasted three days, had sent for a notary and made his
will; that the distemper had mounted from his legs to
his stomach, and, being conscious -of his approaching
end, he had desired to see all his descendants without
exception. In obedience to this summons, my uncle set
out with me a second time, to receive the last benedie-
tion of my grandfather ; often repeating by the road,
“ Ay, ay, we have brought up the old hulk at last ; you
shall see—you shall see—you shall see the effect of my
admonition.” When we entered his chamber, which
was crowded with his relations, we advanced to the bed-
side, where we found him in his last agonies, supported

by two of his grandaughters, who sat on each side of

him, sobbing most piteously, and wiping away the froth
and slaver as it gathered on his lips, which they fre-
quently kissed, with a show of great anguish and affec-
tion. My uncle approached him with these words—
“What! he’s not a-weigh? How fare ye—how fare ye,
old gentleman? Lord have mercy upon your poor sinful
soul !” Upon which the dying man turned his languid
eyes towards us, and Mr Bowling went ou— Here’s

SRI oe peectritats OO RGF SULLA S20 oS psi

tANDOM.

poor Rory come to see you before you die, and receive
your blessing. What, man! don’t despair, you have
been a great sinner, ’tis true—what then? There’s a
righteous judge above—an’t there? He minds me no
more than a porpuss. Yes, yes, he’s a-going—the land-
erabs will have him, I see that; his anchor’s a-peak,
Vfaith.” This homely consolation scandalised the com-
pany so much, and especially the parson, who probably
thought his province invaded, that we were obliged to
retire into another room, where in a few minutes we
were convinced of my grandfather’s decease, by a dismal
yell uttered by the young ladies in his apartment, whi-
ther we immediately hastened, and found his heir, who
had retired a little before into a closet, under pretence
of giving vent to his sorrow; asking, with a countenance
beslubbered with tears, if his grandpapa was certainly
dead? “Dead !” says my uncle, looking at the body ; “ay,
ay, 1’ll warrant him as dead as a herring. Odd’s fish!
now my dream is out for all the world. I thought I
stood upon the forecastle, and saw a parcel of carrion-
crows foul of a dead shark that floated along-side, and
the devil perching upon our sprit-sail-yard, in the like-
ness of a blue bear, who, d’ye see, jumped overboard
upon the carcase, and carried it to the bottom in his
claws.” “Out upon thee, reprobate !” cries the parson,
“out upon thee, blasphemous wretch! Dost thou think
his honour’s soul is in the possession of Satan?’? ©The
clamour immediately arose, and my poor uncle, being
shouldered from one corner of the room to the other,
was obliged to lug out in his own defence, and swear he
would turn out for no man, till such time as he knew
who had a title to send him adrift. “ None of your
tricks upon travellers,” said he; “mayhap Old Buff
has left my kinsman here his heir: if he has, it will be
the better for his miserable soul. Odd’s bob! I’d de-
sire no better news. I’d soon make him a clear ship, I
warrant you.” ‘To avoid any further disturbance, one
of my grandfather’s executors, who was present, assured
Mr Bowling that his nephew should have all manner of

for examining the papers of the deceased, in presence
of all his relations, till which time every desk and
cabinet in the house should remain close sealed ; and
that he was very welcome to be witness to this cere-

| mony, which was immediately performed to his satis-
had rather see him hanged, d’yesee. Come along, Rory, |

faction. In the mean time, orders were given to provide
mourning for all the relations, in which number I was
included ; but my uncle would not suffer me to accept

| of it, until I should be assured whether or no I had
but I believe damnably ill provided for the voyage.” |
Thus ended our visit, and we returned to the village, my

 

reason to honour his memory so far.

During this interval, the conjectures with regard to
the old gentleman’s will were various. As it was well
known he had, besides his landed estate, which was
worth £700 per annum, six or seven thousand pounds
at interest, some imagined that the whole real estate,
which he had greatly improved, would go to the young
man whom he always entertained as his heir, and that
the money would be equally divided between my female
cousins, five in number, and me. Others were of opi-
nion, that as the rest of his children had been already
provided for, he would only bequeath two or three hun-
dred pounds to each of his grandaughters, and leave
the bulk of the sum to me, to atone for his unnatural
usage of my father. At length the important hour ar-
rived, and the will was produced in the midst of the
expectants, whose looks and gestures formed a group
that would have been very entertaining to an uncon-
cerned spectator. But the reader can scarce conceive
the astonishment and mortification that appeared, when
an attorney pronounced aloud the young squire sole
heir of all his grandfather’s estate, personal and real.
My uncle, who had listened with great attention, suck-
ing the head of his eudgel all the while, accompanied
these words of the attorney with a stare and whew, that
alarmed the whole assembly. The eldest and pertest of
my female competitors, who had been always very offi-
cious about my grandfather’s person, inquired with a
faltering accent, and visage as yellow as an orange,
“if there were no legacies? and was answered, “ None
at all.” Upon which, she fainted away. The rest, whoseADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. Gt

expectations, perhaps, were not so sanguine, supported
their disappointment with more resolution, though not
without giving evident marks of indignation and grief,
at least as genuine as that which appeared in them at
the old gentleman’s death. My conductor, after having
kicked with his heel for some time against the wainscot,
began: “So there’s no legacy, friend, ha!—here’s an
old succubus; but somebody’s soul howls for it, blow
me !” The parson of the parish, who was one of the exe-
cutors, and had acted as ghostly director to the old man,
no sooner heard this exclamation, than he cried out,
* Avaunt, unchristian reviler! avaunt! wilt thou not
allow the soul of his honour to rest in peace?” But this
zealous pastor did not find himself so warmly seconded,
as formerly, by the young ladies, who now joined my
uncle against him, and accused him of having acted the
part of a busy-body with their grandpapa, whose ears
he had certainly abused by false stories to their preju-
dice, or else he would not have neglected them in such
an unnatural manner, The young squire was much
diverted with this scene, and whispered to my uncle,
that if he had not murdered his dogs, he would have
shown him glorious fun by hunting a black badger (so
he termed the clergyman).

Was not in a humour to relish this amusement, replied,
ce

find them with your old dad, in a certain latitude. Come, |
¥ a med
Rory—about ship, my lad, we must steer another course, | ‘

I think.’ And away we went.

POPOL PDD ODED OOOO bE

ON our way back to the village, my uncle spoke not a
word during the space of a whole hour, but whistled
with great vehemence the tune of Why should we
quarrel for riches, &c., his visage being contracted all
the while into a most formjdable frown, At length his
pace increased to such a degree, that I was left behind
a considerable way. Then he waited for me ; and when
[ was almost up with him, called out in a
“ Bear a hand, youngster ; must ] bring to every minute
{ lazy dog?” | |

or you, you Then laying hold of me by

the arm, hauled me along, until his good nature (of

which he had a great share) and reflection getting the

better of his passion, he said, “ Come, my boy, don’t be

cast down—the rascal’s dead—that’s some satis-
ee : he
faction—you shall go to sea with me, my lad :—A light
7 y+ ve . 7 _ ey
heart and a thin pair of breeches goes through the world.

: 1, 22?
brave boys; as the song goes—eh 2

1A
Old

Though this pro-
posal did not at all suit my inclination, I was a Tal
discovering my aversion to it, lest I should disoblj
the only friend I had in the world ; and he was go much
a seaman, that he never dreamt I could have
jection to his design ; tl}
trouble in consulting my approbation. But this reso-
lution was soon dropped, by the advice of our usher
who assured Mr Bowling it would thousand pities
to baulk my genius, which woul

] {
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7

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any ObD-

consequently gave himself no

bea
ge d certainly one day
make my fortune on shore, provided it received
cultivation. Upon which this generous tar determined,
though he could ill afford it, to give me an univer: ity
education ; and according ly settled my board and other
expenses at a town not many miles distant,
its colleges, whither we repaired in a short time. But.
before the day of our departure, the schoolmaster, who
no longer had the fear of my grandfather before his
eyes, laid aside all decency and restraint, and not only
abused me in the grossest language his rancour could
suggest as a wicked, profligate, dull, beggarly miscreant,
whom he had taught out of charity, but also inveighed
in the most bitter manner against the memory of the
judge (who, by the bye, had procured that settlement
for him), hinting, in pretty plain terms, that the old
gentleman would be suitably rewarded for his injus-
tice in neglecting to pay for my learning, This brutal
behaviour, added to the sufferings I had former! y under-
gone,,made me think it high time to be revenged of this
insolent pedagogue, Having consulted my adherents,
I found them all staunch in their promises to stand by

due

famous for |

|

 

|
The surly lieutenant, who |

You and your dogs may be hanged. I suppose you’ll |

yy , © , |
surly Lone,

me ; and our scheme was this :—In the afternoon pre-
ceding the day of our departure for the university, I
resolved to take the advantage of the usher’s going out,
which he regularly did. at four o’clock, and shut the
great door, that he might not come to the assistance of
his superior. This being done, the assault was to be
begun, by my advancing to my master and spitting in
his face, I was to be seconded by two of the strongest
boys in the school, who were devoted to me. Their
business was. to jom me in dragging the tyrant to a
bench, over which he was to be laid, and heartily flogged
with his own birch, which we proposed to wrest from
him in the struggle ; but if we should find him too many
tor us all three, we were to demand the assistance of
our companions, who should be ready to reinforce us,
or Oppose any thing that might be undertaken for the
master’s relief. One of my principal assistants was
called Jeremy Gawky, son and heir of a wealthy gen-
tleman in the neighbourhood ; and the name of the
other Hugh Strap, the cadet of a family which had
given shoemakers to the village time out of mind. T
had once saved Gawky’s life, by plunging into a river
and dragging him on shore, when he was on the point
of being drowned. T had often rescued him from the
clutches of those whom his insufferable arrogance had
provoked to a resentment he was not able to sustain,
and many times saved his reputation by performing his
xercises at school; so that it is not to be wondered at,
if he had a particular regard for me and my interests.
The attachment of Strap flowed from a voluntary dis-
interested inclination, Which had manifested itself on
many occasions in my behalf, he having once rendered
me the same service that I had rendered Gawky, by
saving my life at the risk of his own ; and often fathered
offences that I had committed, for which he suffered
severely, rather than I should feel the weight of the
punishment I deserved. These two champions were
le more willing to engage in this enterprise, because
ley intended to leave the school next day, as well as
; the first being ordered by his father to return into
the country, and the other being bound apprentice toa
barber, at a market town not far off.
in the meantime, my unele being informed of my

tl
t]
|

| master’s behaviour to me, was enraged at his insolence,

|

and vowed revenge so heartily, that I could not refrain
trom telling him the scheme [ had concerted, which he
heard with great satisfaction, at every sentence squirt-
ing out a mouthful of spittle, tinctured with tobacco,
of which he constantly chewed a large quid. At last,
pulling up his breeches, he cried, * No, no, zounds!
that won’t do neither ; howsomeyver, ’tis a bold under-
taking, my lad—that I must Say, faith! but lookee,
lookee, how do you propose to get clear off? won’t the
enemy give chase, my boy ? Ay, ay, that he will, I war-
rant, and alarm the whole coast—ah! God help thee,
more sail than ballast, Rory. Let me alone for that—
leave the whole tome. TI’ll show him the fore-top-sail,
lf so be your shipmates are jolly boys, and

flinch, you shall see, you shall see; egad, 1°]

play him a salt-water trick—T’]] bring him to the gang-
way, and anoint him with a eat and nine tails ; he shall

 

I will.

|
won't

| have a round dozen doubled, my lad, he shall—and be

 

!

left lashed to his meditations.” We were very proud
of our associate, who immediately went to work, and
prepared the instrument of his revenge, with great skill
and expedition ; after which, he ordered our baggage
to be packed up and sent off a day before our attempt,
and got horses, ready to be mounted, as soon as the
affair should be over. At length the hour arrived,
when our auxiliary, seizing the opportunity of the
usher’s absence, bolted in, secured the door, and imme-
diately laid hold of the pedant by his collar, who bawled
out, “ Murder! Thieves!” with the voice of a Stentor.
Though I trembled all over like an aspen leaf, I knew
there was no time to be lost, and accordingly got up
and summoned our associates to our assistance. Strap,
without any hesitation, obeyed the signal, and § ¢hal-
me leap upon the master’s back, ran IMMG time and
one of his legs, which pulling with all his punishing
dreadful adversary was humbled to the Steet

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12 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

which Gawky, who had hitherto remained in his place,
under the influence of an universal trepidation, hastened
to the scene of action, and insulted the fallen tyrant with
a loud huzza, in which the whole school jomed. This
noise alarmed the usher, who finding himself shut out,
endeavoured, partly by threats, and partly by entreaties,
to procure admission. My uncle bade him have a little
patience, and he would let him in presently ; but if he
pretended to stir from that place, it should fare the
worse with his superior, on whom he intended only to
bestow a little wholesome chastisement, for his barba-
rous usage of Rory, “to which,” said he, “you are no
stranger.” By this time we had dragged the criminal
to a post, to which Bowling tied him with a rope he
had provided on purpose, after having secured his hands
and stripped his back. In this ludicrous posture he
stood (to the no small entertainment of the boys, who
crowded about him, and shouted with great exultation
at the novelty of the sight), venting bitter imprecations
against the lieutenant, and reproaching his scholars
with treachery and rebellion, when the usher was ad-

mitted, whom my uncle accosted in this manner :— |

“ Harkee, Mr Syntax, I believe you are an honest man,
d’ye see—and I have a respect for you; but for all
that, we must for our own security, d’ye see, belay you
for a short time.” With these words, he pulled out
some fathoms of cord, which the honest man no sooner
saw, than he protested with great earnestness he would
allow no violence to be offered to him, at the same time
accusing me of perfidy and ingratitude. But Bowling,
representing that it was in vain to resist, and that he
did not mean to use him with violence and indecency,
but only to hinder him from raising the hue and ery
against us before we should be out of their power, he
allowed himself to be bound to his own desk, where he
sat a spectator of the punishment inflicted on his prin-
cipal. My uncle, having upbraided this arbitrary wretch
with his inhumanity to me, told him, that he proposed
to give him a little discipline for the good of his soul,
which he immediately put in practice, with great vigour
and dexterity. This smart application gave him such
exquisite pain, that he roared like a mad bull, danced,
cursed, and blasphemed, like a frantic bedlamite. When
the lieutenant thought himself sufficiently revenged, he
took his leave of him in these words :—* Now, friend,
you'll remember me the longest day you have to live—
I have given you a lesson, that will let you know what
flogging is, and teach you to have more sympathy for
the future—shout, boys, shout.” his ceremony was
no sooner over, than my uncle proposed they should
quit the school, and convoy their comrade Rory to a
public-house, about a mile from the village, where he
would treat them all. His offer being joyfully embraced,
he addressed himself to Mr Syntax, and begged him
to accompany us; but this invitation he refused with
great disdain, telling my benefactor he was not the man

 

 

he took him to be. “ Well, well, old surly,” replied |

.

my uncle, shaking his hand, “thou art an honest fellow

notwithstanding ; and if ever I have the command of

a ship, thou shalt be our schoolmaster, i’faith.” So
saying, he dismissed the boys, and, locking the door,
left the two preceptors to console one another; while
we moved forwards on our journey, attended by a nu-
merous retinue, whom he treated according to his pro-
mise. We parted with many tears, and lay that night
at an inn on the road, about ten miles short of the town
where I was to remain, at which we arrived next day ;
and [ found I had no cause to complain of the accom-
modations provided for me, in being boarded at the
house of an apothecary, who had married a distant
relation of my mother. In a few days after, my uncle
set out for his ship, having settled the necessary funds
for my maintenance and education.

aoe CHAPTER VI.

oft Bene now capable of reflection, I began to consider
= : t -‘ous situation ; that I was utterly abandoned
Yes towara ose duty it was to protect me : and that my

eae vin ca =

sole dependence was on the generosity of one man, who
was not only exposed by his profession to continual
dangers, which might one day deprive me of him for
ever ; but also (no doubt) subject to those vicissitudes
of disposition, which a change of fortune usually creates,
or which a better acquaintance with the world might
produce—for I always ascribed his benevolence to the
dictates of a heart as yet undebauched by a commerce
with mankind, Alarmed at these considerations, I re-
solved to apply myself with great care to my studies,
and enjoy the opportunity in my power: this I did with
such success, that in the space of three years I under.
stood Greek very well, was pretty far advanced in the
mathematics, and no stranger to moral and natural
philosophy—logic I made no account of; but, above
all things, I valued myself on my taste in the Belles
Lettres, and a talent for poetry, which had already pro-
duced some pieces that met with a very favourable
reception. These qualifications, added to a good face
and shape, acquired the esteem and acquaintance of
the most considerable people in town, and I had the
satisfaction to find myself in some degree of favour with
the ladies—an intoxicating piece of good fortune, which
I obtained, or at least preserved, by gratifying their
propensity to scandal, in lampooning their rivals.

‘'wo of my female cousins lived in this place, with
their mother, since the death of their father, who left his
whole fortune equally divided between them; so that,
if they were not the most beautiful, they were, at least,
the richest toasts in town, and received daily the ad-
dresses of all the beaux and cavaliers of the country.
Although I had hitherto been looked upon by them with
the most supercilious contempt, my character now at-
tracted their notice so much, that I was given to un-
derstand I might be honoured with their acquaintance
if I pleased. The reader will easily perceive, that this
condescension either flowed from the hope of making
my poetical capacity subserwient to their malice, or, a
least, of screening themselves from the lash of my re-
sentment, which they had effectually provoked. I en-

joyed this triumph with great satisfaction, and not only
rejected their offer with disdain, but in all my perform-
ances, whether satire or panegyric, industriously avoided
mentioning their names, even while I celebrated those
of their intimates: this neglect mortified their pride
exceedingly, and incensed them to such a degree, that
they were resolyed to make me repent of my indiffer-
ence. The first stroke of their revenge consisted in
their hiring a poor collegian to write verses against
me, the subject of which was my own poverty, and the
catastrophe of my unhappy parents; but besides the
badness of the composition, of which they themselves
were ashamed, they did not find their account in en-
deavouring to reproach me with those misfortunes
which they and their relations had brought upon me,
and which, consequently, reflected much more disho-
nour on themselves than on me, who was the innocent
victim of their barbarity and avarice. Finding this
plan miscarry, they found means to irritate a young
gentleman against me, by telling him I had lampooned
his mistress ; and so effectually succeeded in the qua-
lity of incendiaries, that this enraged lover determined
to seize me next night, as I returned to my lodgings

 

| from a friend’s house that I frequented : with this view,

he waited in the street, attended by two of his compa-
nions, to whom he had imparted his design of carrying
me down to the river, in which he proposed to have me
heartily ducked, notwithstanding the severity of the
weather, it being then about the middle of December.
But this stratagem did not succeed ; for, being apprised
of their ambush, I got home another way, and. by the
help of my landlord’s apprentice, discharged a volley
from the garret-window, which did great execution
upon them, and next day occasioned so much mirth at
their expense, that they found themselves under a ne-
cessity of leaving the town, until the adventure should
be entirely. forgotten. My cousins, though twice bafiled
in their expectation, did not however desist from per-
secuting me, who had now enraged them beyond a

possibility of forgiveness, by detecting their malice,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM

and preventing its effects ; neither should I have found
them more humane, had [ patiently submitted to their
rancour, and borne without murmuring the rigour of
their unreasonable hate; for I have found by experi-
ence, that though small favours may be acknowledged,
and slight injuries atoned, there is no wretch so un-
grateful as he whom you have most generously obliged,
and no enemy so implacable as those who have done
you the greatest wrong. These good-natured creatures,
therefore, had recourse to a scheme, which conspired
with a piece of bad news I soon after received, to give
them all the satisfaction they desired: this plan was to
debauch the faith of my companion and confidant, who
betrayed the trust ] reposedin him, byimparting to them
the particulars of my love affairs, which they putb-
lished with such exaggerations, that I suffered very much
in the opinion of every body, and was utterly discarded
by the dear creatures whose names had been called in
question. While I was busy in tracing out the author
of this treachery, that I might not only be revenged on
him, but also vindicate my character to my friends, I
one day perceived the looks of my landlady much altered
when I went home to dinner, and inquiring into the
cause, she screwed up her mouth, and fixing her eyes
on the ground, told me her husband had received a
letter from Mr Bowling, with one enclosed for me—
she was very sorry for what had happened, both for my
sake and his own. People should be more cautious of
their conduect—she was always afraid his brutal be-
haviour would bring him into some misfortune or other.
As for her part, she would be very ready to befriend
me, but she had a small family of her own to maintain.
The world would do nothing for her if she should come
to want—charity begins at home. She wished I had
been bound to some substantial handicraft, such asa
weaver or a shoemaker, rather than loiter away my
time in learning foolish nonsense, that would never
bring me ina penny; but some folks are wise, and some
are otherwise. I was listening to this mysterious dis-
course with great amazement, when her husband cn-
tered, and without speaking a syllable, put both the
letters into my hand. I reeeived them trembling, and
read what follows :—

To Mr Roger Potion.

“ Str—This is to let you know, that I have quitted
the Thunder man-of-war ; being obliged to sheer off for
killing my captain, which I did fairly on the beach, at
Cape Tiberoon, in the island of Hispaniola, having re-
ceived his fire and returned it, which went through his
body ; and I would serve the best man so that ever
stept between stem and stern, if so be that he struck me,
as Captain Oakhum did. I am, thank God, safe among
the French, who are very civil, tho’f I don’t understand
their lingo—and I hope to be restored in a little time,

 

for all the great friends and parliamentary interest of

the captain ; for I have sent over to my landlord in Deal
an account of the whole affair, with our bearings and
distances while we were engaged, whereby I have de-
sired him to lay it before his Majesty, who, God bless
him, will not suffer an honest tar to be wronged. My
love to your spouse, and am your loving friend and
servant to command, while THomas Bow tna.”

To Roderick Random.

“ Dear Rory—Don’t be grieved at my misfortune,
but mind your book, my lad. I have got no money to
send you; but what of that? Mr Potion will take care
of you, for the love he bears to me, and let you want
for nothing ; and it shall go hard, but I will see him
one day repaid. No more at present, but rests your
dutiful uncle and servant till death, THomas Bow ine.”

 

This letter (which with the other was dated from
Port Louis in Hispaniola) I had no sooner read, than
the apothecary, shaking his head, began :—«] have a
very great regard for Mr Bowling, that’s certain, and
could be well content—but times are very hard. There’s
no such thing as money to be got; I believe ’tis all
vanished under ground, for my part. Besides, I have
been out of pocket already, having entertained you
4

 

 

 

 

18

since the beginning of this month without receiving a
Sixpence, and God knows. if ever T shall; for I believe
it will go hard with your uncle. And more than that,
I was thinking of giving you warning, for I want your
apartment for a new ‘prentice, whom I expect from the
couniry every “hours =-so' [dase you will this week
provide yourself with another lodging.” The indigna~
tion which this harangue inspired, gave me spirits to
support my reverse of fortune, and to tell him, I de-
spised his mean selfish disposition so much, that I would
rather starve than be beholden to him for one single
meal. Upon which, out of my pocket-money, I paid
him to the last farthing of what I owed, and assured
him [ would not sleep another night under his roof.
This said, I sallied out in a transport of rage and sor-
tow, without knowing whither to fly for shelter, having
not one friend in the world capable of relieving me,
and only three shillings in my purse. After giving way
for a few minutes to the dictates of my rage, I went
and hired a small bed-room at the rate of one shilling
and sixpence per week, which I was obliged to pay per
advance, before the landlord would receive me: thither
I removed my luggage ; and next morning got up, with
a view of craving the advice and assistance of a person
who had on all occasions loaded me with caresses, and
made frequent offers of friendship, while I was under
no necessity of accepting them. He received me with
his wonted afiability, and insisted on my breakfasting
with him, a favour which I did not think fit to refuse.
But when I communicated the occasion of my visit, he
appeared so disconcerted, that I concluded him won-
derfully affected with the misery of my condition, and
looked upon him as a man of the most extensive syin-
pathy and benevolence. He did not leave me long
under this mistake; for recovering himself from his
confusion, he told me he was grieved at my misfortune,
and desired to know what had passed between my land-
lord, Mr Potion, and me. Whereupon I recounted the
conversation ; and when I repeated the answer I made
to his ungenerous remonstrance with regard to my
leaving his house, this pretended friend affeeted a stare,
and exclaimed, “ Is it possible you could behave so ill
to the man who had treated you so kindly all along?”
My surprise at hearing this was not at all affected,
whatever his might be; and I gave him to understand,
with some warmth, that I did not imagine he would so
unreasonably espouse the cause of a scoundrel, who
ought to be expelled from every social community. This
heat of mine gave him all the advantage he desired over
me, and our discourse, after much altercation, concluded
in his desiring never to see me again in that place; to
which desire I yielded my consent, assuring him, that,
had I been as well acquainted with his principles for-
merly as I was now, he never should have had an Op-
portunity of making that request. And thus we parted.

On my return, I met my comrade Squire Gawky,
whom his father had sent, some time ago, to town, for
his improvement in writing, dancing, fencing, and other
modish qualifications. As I had lived with him, since
his arrival, on the footing of our old intimacy, I made
no scruple of informing him of the lowness of my Ccir-
cumstances, and asking a small supply of money, to
answer my present expense ; upon which he pulled out
a handful of halfpence with a shilling or two among
them, and swore that was all he had to keep his pocket
till next quarter-day, he having lost the greatest part
of his allowance the night before at billiards. Though
this assertion might very well be true, I was extremely
mortified at his indifference, for he neither expressed
any sympathy for my mishap, nor desire of alleviating
my distress; and accordingly, I left him without utter.
ing one word: but when I afterwards understood that
he was the person who had formerly betrayed me to
the malice of my cousins, to whom likewise he had ear-
ried the tidings of my forlorn situation, which afforded
them great matter of triumph and exultation, I deter-
mined with myself to call him to a severe account ; for
which purpose I borrowed a sword, and wrote a chal-
lenge, desiring him to meet me at a certain time and
place, that I might have an opportunity of punishing

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14 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

his perfidy, at the expense of his blood. He accepted
the invitation, and I betook myself to the field, though
not without fecling considerable repugnance to the com-
bat, which frequently attacked me in cold sweats by the
way; but the desire of revenge, the shame of retract-
ing, and hope of conquest, conspired to repel these
unmanly symptoms of fear, and I appeared on the
plain with a good grace: there I waited an hour beyond
the time appointed, and was not ill pleased to find he
had no mind to meet me; because I should have an
opportunity of exposing his cowardice, displaying my
own courage, and of beating him soundly wheresoever
I should find him, without any dread of the conse-
quences. Elevated with these suggestions, which en-
tirely banished all thoughts of my deplorable condition,
I went directly to Gawky’s lodgings, where I was in-
formed of his precipitate retreat, he haying set out for
the country in less than an hour after he had received
my billet ; and I was vain enough to have the whole
story inserted in the news, although I was fain to sell
2 gold-laced hat to my landlord for less than half price,
to defray the expense, and contribute to my subsistence.

en rene rer nnn

CHAPTER VII.

Tur fumes of my resentment being dissipated, as well
as the vanity of my success, I found myself deserted
to all the horrors of extreme want, and avoided by man-
kind as a creature of a different species, or rather as a
solitary being, noways comprehended within the scheme
or protection of Providence. My despair had rendered
me almost quite stupified, when I was one day told that
a gentleman desired to see me at a certain public-house,
whither I immediately repaired, and was introduced to
one Mr Launcelot Crab, a surgeon in town, who was en-
gaged with two more in drinking a liquor called pop-in,
composed by mixing a quartern of brandy witha quart
of small beer. Before I relate the occasion of this mes-
sage, I believe it will not be disagreeable to the reader,
if I describe the gentleman who sent for me, and mention
some cireumstances of his character and conduct which
may illustrate what follows, and account for his be-
haviour to me.

This member of the faculty was aged fifty, about five
feet high, and ten round the belly ; his face was ecapaci-
ous as a full moon, and much of the complexion of a
mulberry; his nose, resembling a powder-horn, was
swelled to an enormous size, and studded all over with
carbuncles ; and his little grey eyes reflected the rays
in such an oblique manner, that while he looked a per-
son full in the face, one would have imagined he was
admiring the buckle of his shoe. He had long enter-
tained an implacable resentment against Potion, who,
though a young practitioner, was better employed than
he, and once had the assurance to perform a cure, where-
by he disappointed and disgraced the prognostic of the
said Crab. This quarrel, which was at one time upon
the point of being made up, by the interposition and
mediation of friends, had been lately inflamed beyond a

possibility of reconciliation by the respective wives of

the opponents, who, chancing to meet at a christening,
disagreed about precedence, proceeded from invectives
to blows, and were with great difficulty, by the gossips,
prevented from converting the occasion of joy into a
scene of lamentation.

The difference between these rivals was in the height
of rancour when I received the message of Crab, who
received me as civilly as I could have expected from one
of his disposition ; and after desiring me to sit, inquired
into the particulars of my leaving the house of Potion;
which when I had related, he said with a malicious
grin—* There’s a sneaking dog; I always thought him
a fellow without a soul. Potion’s a canting scoun-
drel, who has-crept into business by his hypocrisy and
servility.” “ Ay, ay,” says another, “one might see
with half an eye that the rascal has no honesty in him,
by his going so regularly to church.” This sentence
was confirmed by a third, who assured his companions

that Potion was never known to be disguised in liquor
<2 Sige sian ct

SS a ee Coy UE ec eta reyes 2: One iii

 

 

 

but once, at a meeting, where he had distinguished
himself by an exteynpore prayer more than an hour lon g.
After this preamble, Crab addressed himself to me in
these words—* Well, my lad, I have heard a good cha-
racter of you, and Ill do for you. You may send your
things to my house when you please—I have given
orders for your reception. Bah! what does the booby
stare at? If you have no mind to embrace my cour-
teous offer, you may let it alone.” I answered, with
a submissive bow, that I was far from rejecting his
friendly offer, which I wouldimmediately accept, as soon
as he should inform me on what footing I was to be en-
tertained. “ What footing !” cried he ; “ d’ye expect to
have a footman and a couple of horses kept for you?”
“ No, Sir,” I replied, “my expectations are not quite so
sanguine. That I may be as little burdensome as pos-
sible, 1 would willingly serve in your shop, by which
means I may save you the expense of a journeyman,
or porter at least, for I understand a little pharmacy,
having employed some of my leisure hours in the prac-
tice of that art while I lived with Mr Potion: neither
am Laltogether ignorant of surgery, which I havestudied
with great pleasure and application.” “O ho! you
did?” says Crab. “ Gentlemen, here isa complete artist !
Studied surgery ! what! in books I suppose. I shall
have you disputing with me one of these days on points
of my profession. You can already account for muscu-
lar motion, I warrant, and explain the mystery of the
brain and nerves. Ha! you are too learned for me.
But let’s hear no more of this stuff. Can you bleed and
give a clyster, spread a plaster and prepare a potion ?”
Upon my answering in the affirmative, he shook his head,
telling me he believed he should have little good of me,
for all my promises ; but, however, he would take me in
for the sake of charity. I was accordingly that very night
admitted to his house, and had an apartment assigned
to me in the garret, which I was fain to put up with,
notwithstanding the mortification my pride suffered in
this change of circumstances. I was soon convinced of
the real motives which induced Crab to receive me in
this manner : for, besidesthe gratification of his revenge
by exposing the selfishness of his antagonist, in opposi-
tion to his own generosity, which was all affectation, he
had occasion for a young man who understood some-
thing of the profession to fill up the place of his eldest
apprentice, lately dead, not without violent suspicion of
foul play from his master’s brutality. The knowledge
of this circumstance, together with his daily behaviour
to his wife and the young apprentice, did not at all con-
tribute to my enjoying my new situation with ease:
however, as I did not perceive how I could bestow
myself to better advantage, I resolved to study Crab’s
temper with all the application, and manage it with all
the address, in my power. And it was not long before
I found out a strange peculiarity of humour, which go-
verned his behaviour towards all his dependents. [I
observed, when he was pleased he was such a niggard
of his satisfaction, that, ifthis wife or servants betrayed
the least symptom of participation, he was offended to
an insupportable degree of choler and fury, the effects
of which they seldom failed to feel: and when his in-
dignation was roused, submission and soothing always
exasperated it beyond the bounds of reason and hu-
manity. I therefore pursued a contrary plan; and one
day when he honoured me with the names of ignorant
whelp and lazy ragamuffin, I boldly replied, I was
neither ignorant nor lazy, since I both understood and
periormed my business as well as he could do for his
soul; neither was it just to call me a ragamuffin, for I
had a whole coat on my back, and was descended from
a better family than any he could boast an alliance
with. He gave tokens of great amazement at this as-
surance of mine, and shook his eane over my head,
regarding me all the time with a countenance truly
diabolical. Although I was terribly startled at his me-
nacing looks and posture, I yet had reflection enouch
left to convince me J had gone to far to.retract, and that
this was the critical minute which must decide my fu-
ture lot in his service ; I therefore snatched up the
pestle of a mortar, and swore if he offered to strike,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

without a cause, I should see whethor his skull or my
weapon was hardest. He continued silent for some time,
and at last broke forth into these ejaculations :—© This
is fine usage from aservant to a master—very fine! but
no matter, you shall pay for this, you dog—you shall.
Pil do your business—yes, yes, I’ll teach you to lift your
hand against me.” So6 saying, he retired, and left me
under dreadful apprehensions, which vanished entirely
at our next meeting, when he behaved with unusual
complacency, and treated me with a glass of punch after
dinner,

By this conduct, I got the ascendancy over him
ina short time, and became so necessary to him, in
managing his business, while he was engaged at the
bottle, that fortune began to weara kinder aspect ; and
{ consoled myself for the disregard of my former ac-
quaintance, with the knowledge I daily imbibed, by a
close application to the duties of my employment, in
which I succeeded beyond my own expectation. I was
on very good terms with my master’s wife, whose esteem
{ acquired and cultivated, by representing Mrs Potion
in the most ridiculous lights my satirical talents could
invent, as well as by rendering her some Christian of-
fices when she had been too familiar with the dram
bottle, to which she had oftentimes recourse for conso-
lation, under the affliction she suffered from a barbarous

husband. In this manner I lived, without hearing the
least tidings of my uncle, for the Space of two years,

during which time I kept little or no company, being
neither in a humour to relish, nor ina capacity to main-
tain, much acquaintance ; for the Nabal, my master,
allowed me no wages, and the small perquisites of my
station searce supplied me with the common necessaries
of life. I was no longer

giddy with popular applause,
travagance of hope; my misfortunes had taught me
how little the caresses of the world, during a man’s
prosperity, are to be valued by him, and how seriously
and expeditiously he ought to set about 2
independent of them. My present appearance, there-
fore, was the least of my care, which was wholly en-
grossed in laying up a stock of instruction that might
Secure me against the caprice of fortune for the future.

a pert unthinking coxcomb,

and elevated with the ex-

making himself

I became such a sloven. and contracted such an air of

austerity, that every body pronounced me crest-fallen ;
and Gawky returned to town without running any risk
from my resentment, which was by this time pretty
much cooled, and restrained by prudential reasons so
effectually, that I never so much as thought of. obtain-
ing satisfaction for the injuries he had doneme. When
I deemed myself sufficiently master of my business, |
began to cast about for an opportunity of launching
into the world, in hope of finding some provision that
might make amends for the difficulties I had under-
gone: but as this could not be effected without a small
sum of money to equip me for the field, I was in the
utmost perplexity how to raise it, well knowing that
Crab, for his own sake, would never put me in a con-
dition to leave him, when his interest was so much con-
cerned in my stay.
began to exhibit symptoms in the highest degree alarm-
ing to both her master and myself; and he one day ad-
dressed me in the following words :—“ JT am surprised
that a young fellow like you discovers no inclination to
push his fortune in the world. Before I was of your
age, I was broiling on the coast of Guinea: what’s to
hinder you from profiting by the war which will cer-
tainly be declared in a short time against Spain? You
may easily get on board of a king’s ship in quality of
surgeon’s mate, where you will certainly see a great deal
of practice, and stand a good chance of getting prize-
money.” I assured him I would follow his advice with
pleasure, if it was in my power; but that it was impos-
sible for me to embrace an opportunity of that kind, as
I bad no friend to advance a little money, to supply me
with what necessaries I should want, and defray the
expenses of my journey to London. He told me, that
few necessaries were required; and as for the expense
of my journey, he would lend me money, sufficient not

only for that purpose, but also to maintain me comfort-

 

 

 

 

 

 

|
|
|
|
|
|

About this time, his maid-servant |

 

ST eee nearer

15

ably in London until T should procure a warrant for
my provision on board of some ship. I gave him a
thousand thanks for his obliging offer (although I was
very well apprised of his motive, which was no other than
a design to lay the injury of the girl to my charge after
my departure), and accordingly set out in a few weeks
for London—my whole fortune consisting of one suit of
clothes, half a dozen ruffied shirts, as many plain, two
pairs of worsted, and a like number of thread stockings ;
a case of pocket-instruments, a small edition of Horace,
Wiseman’s Surgery, and ten guineas in cash, for which
Crab took my bond, bearing five per cent. interest ; at
the same time giving me a letter to the member of par-
liament for our town, which he said would do my busi-
ness effectually.

CHAPTER VIIt.
THERE is no such convenience

country, and my finances were
expense of hiring a horse; I

aS & Waggon in this
too weak to support the
determined therefore to
set out with the carriers who transport goods from one
place to another on horseback ; and this scheme I ac-
cordingly put in execution, on the lst day of November
1739, sitting upon a pack-saddle between two baskets,
one of which contained my goods in a knapsack. But
by the time we arrived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I was
so fatigued with the tediousness of the carriage, and
benumbed with the coldness of the weather, that I re-
solved to travel the rest of my journey on foot, rather
than proceed in such a disagreeable manner, —

The hostler of the inn at which we put up, under-
standing I was bound for London, advised me to take
my passage ina collier, which would be both cheap and
expeditious, and withal much easier than to walk up-
vards of three hundred miles through deep roads, in
the winter time—a journey which he believed I had
not strength enough to perform. I was almost per-
suaded to take his advice, when, one day stepping into
a barber’s shop to be shaved, the young man, while he
lathered my face, accosted me thus :—_“ Sir, I presume
you are a Scotchman?’ I answered in the affirmative.
“* Pray,” continued he, “from what part of Scotland ?”
I no sooner told him, than he discovered great emotion,
and not confining his operation to my chin and upper
lip, besmeared my whole face, with great agitation. I
was so offended at this profusion, that, starting up, I
asked him what he meant by using me in such a way ?
He begged pardon, telling me his joy at meeting with
a countryman had occasioned some confusion in him ;
and craved my name. But when ] declared my name
was Random, he exclaimed in a rapture, “ How! Rory
Random?’ “ The same,” I replied, looking at him with
astonishment. “ What!” cried he, “don’t you know
your old school-fellow, Hugh Strap ?’* At that instant,
recollecting his face, I flew into his arms, and in the
transport of my joy, gave him back one-half of the suds
he had so lavishly bestowed on my countenance ; so
that we made a very ludicrous appearance, and fur-
nished a considerable deal of mirth for his master and
shopmates, who were witnesses of this scene. When
our mutual caresses were over, I sat down again to
be shaved ; but the poor fellow’s nerves were so dis-
composed by this unexpected meeting, that his hand
could scarcely hold the razor, with which, nevertheless,
he found means to cut me in three places, in as many
strokes. His master, perceiving his disorder, bade
another supply his place; and after the operation was
performed, gave Strap leave to pass the rest of the
day with me. We retired immediately to my lodgings,

* (** Mr Lewis of Chelsea, who died in 1783, used to bind books
for, and enjoy the company and conversation of, the first literary
men of his day; and was generally supposed to have been the
original of Strep in Roderick Random. Mrs Lewis often assured
the writer of this article, that her husband denied the assertion
as often as it was mentioned to him; but there is every reason
to suppose him to have keen the person that Smollett had in view,
as they came out of Scotland together ; and when Smollett lived
at Chelsea, Mr Lewis, used to dine every Sunday with him.” —
Nichol’s Literary Anecdotes. }

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16 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

where, calling for some beer, I desired to be informed
of his adventures, which contained nothing more, than
that his master dying before his time was out, he had
come to Newcastle about a year ago in expectation of
journey-work, along with three young fellows of his
acquaintance, who worked in the keels; that he had
the good fortune of being employed by a very civil
master, with whom he intended to stay till the spring,
at which time he proposed to go to London, where he
did not doubt of finding encouragement. When I com-
municated to him my situation and design, he did not
approve of my taking a passage by sea, by reason of the
danger of 2 winter voyage, which is very hazardous
along that coast, as well as the precariousness of the wind,
which might possibly detain me a great while, to the no
small detriment of my fortune: whereas, if I would
venture by land, he would bear me company, carry my
baggage all the way, and if we should be fatigued before
we could perform the journey, it would be no hard
matter for us to find on the road either return horses
or waggons, of which we might take the advantage for
avery trifling expense. I was so ravished at this pro-
posal, that I embraced him affectionately, and assured
him that he might command my purse to the last far-
thing ; but he gave me to understand, he had saved
money sufficient to answer his own occasions, and that
he had a friend in London who would soon introduce
him into business in that capital, and might possibly
have it in his power to serve me also.

Having concerted the plan, and settled our affairs that
night, we departed next morning by day-break, armed
with a good cudgel each (my companion being charged
with the furniture of us both, crammed into one knap-
sack); and our money sewed between the lining and
waistband of our breeches, except some loose silver for
our immediate expenses on the road. We travelled ali
day at a round pace, but being ignorant of the proper
stages, were benighted at a good distance from any inn,
so that we were compelled to take up our lodging at a
small hedge ale-house, that stood on a by-road, about
half a mile from the highway: there we found a pedlar
of our own country, in whose company we regaled our-
selves with bacon and eggs, and a glass of good ale,
before a comfortable fire, conversing all the while very
sociably with the landlord and his daughter, a hale
buxom lass, who entertained us with great good humour,
and in whose affection I was vain enough to believe |
had made some progress. About eight o’clock we were
all three, at our own desire, shown into an apartment
furnished with two beds, in one of which Strap and I
betook ourselves to rest, and the pedlar occupied the
other, though not before he had prayed a considerable
time extempore, searched into every corner of the room,
and fastened the door on the inside with a strong iron
screw which he carried about with him for that use.
I slept very sound till midnight, when I was disturbed
by a violent motion of the bed, which shook under me
with a continual tremor. Alarmed at this phenomenon,
I jogged my companion, whom to my no small amaze-
ment I found drenched in sweat, and quaking through
every limb. He told me, with a low faltering voice,
that we were undone ; for there was a bloody highway-
man loaded with pistols in the nextroom: then bidding
me make as little noise as possible, he directed me toa
small chink in the board partition, through which |
could see a thick-set brawny fellow, with a fierce coun-
tenance, sitting at a table with our young landlady,
having a bottle of ale and a brace of pistols before him.
i listened with great attention, and heard him say in
a terrible tone: “Curse that scoundrel, Smack the
coachman! He has served me a fine trick, indeed!
but you’ll see if I don’t make him repent it! J’ll
teach the scoundrel to give intelligence to others, while
he is. under articles with me.” Our landlady endea-
voured to appease this exasperated robber, by saying
he might be mistaken in Smack, who perhaps kept no
correspondence with the other gentleman that robbed
his coach, and that if an accident had disappointed him
to-day, he might soon find opportunities enough to atone
for his lost trouble. “I?ll tell thee what, my dear

Se iiatinitien * u "
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Bet,” replied he, “I never had, nor ever will, while
my name is Rifle, have such a glorious booty as I missed
to-day. There was upwards of £400 in cash to recruit
men for the king’s service, besides the jewels, watches,
swords, and money, belonging to the passengers: had
it been my fortune to have got clear off with so much
treasure, I would have purchased a commission in the
army, and made you an officer’s lady, you jade, I would.”
“ Well, well,” cries Betty, “we must trust to providence
for that; but did you find nothing worth taking which
escaped the other gentleman of the road?’ “ Not much,
faith,” said the lover; “I gleaned a few things, such as
a pair of pops, silver mounted (here they are)—I took
them loaded from the captain who had the charge of
the money, together with a gold watch, which he had
carefully concealed in his clothes. In addition to
these, I found ten Portugal pieces in the shoes of
a Quaker, who reviled me with great bitterness: but
what I value myself mostly for, is this here pur-
chase—a gold snuff-box, my girl, with a picture on the
inside of the lid, which I untied out of the tail of a
pretty lady’s smock.” Here the pedlar snored so loud,
that the highwayman, snatching his pistols, started up,
crying, “ [am betrayed: who’sin the next room?” Mrs
Betty told him, he need not be uneasy, there being only
three poor wearied travellers, who, missing the road,
had taken up their lodging in the house, and were asleep
long ago. “ Travellers!” says he, “spies, you jade !—
no matter—I’]l send them to their reckoning in an in-
stant.” He accordingly ran towards our door, when his
sweetheart interposing, assured him there was only a
couple of poor young Scotchmen, who were too raw and
ignorant to give him the least cause of suspicion ; and the
third was a presbyterian pedlar of the same nation, who
had often lodged in the house before. This declaration
satisfied the thief, who swore he was glad there was a
pedlar, for he wanted some linen. Then, in a joyful
manner, he put about the glass, mingling his discourse
to Betty with caresses, that spoke him very happy in
his meeting with her.

During that part of the conversation which regarded
us, Strap had crept under the bed, where he lay in the
agonies of fear; so that it was with great difficulty I
persuaded him our danger was over, and prevailed on
him to wake the pedlar, and inform him of what he had
seen and heard. This itinerant merchant no sooner
felt somebody shaking him by the shoulder, than he
started up, calling as loud as he could, “ Thieves, thieves !
Lord have mercy on us!” And Rifle, alarmed at this
exclamation, jumped up, cocked one of his pistols, and
turned towards the door, to kill the first man that should
enter—for he verily believed himself beset; when his
Dulcinea, after an immoderate fit of laughter, persuaded
him, that the poor pedlar, dreaming of thieves, had only
cried out in his sleep. Meanwhile, my comrade had
undeceived my fellow-lodger, and informed him of his
reason for disturbing him; upon which, getting up softly,
he peeped through the hole, and was so terrified with
what he saw, that falling down on his bare knees, he
put up a long petition to Heaven, to deliver him from
the hands of that ruffian, and promised never to defraud
a customer for the future of the value of a pin’s point,
provided he might be rescued from the present danger.
Whether or not his disburdening his conscience af-
forded him any ease, I know not ; but he slipped into bed
again, and lay very quiet, until the robber and his mis-
tress were asleep, and snored in concert; then, rising
softly, he untied a rope that was round his pack, which
making fast to one end of it, he opened the window with
as little noise as possible, and lowered his goods into
the yard with great dexterity ; then he moved gently to
our bed-side, and bade us farewell, telling us, that as
we ran no risk, we might take our rest with great con-
fidence, and in the morning assure the landlord that
we knew nothing of his eseape: and, lastly, shaking us
by the hands, and wishing us all manner of succes’, he
let himself drop from the window without any dunger,
for the ground was not above a yard from his, feet as
he hung on the outside. ;

Although I did not think proper to accompany him

<a aea er aig

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 17

in his flight, I was not at all free from apprehension,
when I reflected on what might be the effect of the
highwayman’s disappointment, as he certainly intended
to make free with the pedlar’s ware. Neither was my
companion at more ease in his mind, but, on the con-
trary, so possessed with the dreadful idea of Rifle, that
he solicited me strongly to follow our countryman’s ex-
ample, and so elude the fatal resentment of that terrible
adventurer, who would certainly wreak his vengeance
On Us, as accoinplices of the pedlar’s elopement. But

I represented to him the danger of giving Rifle cause

to think we knew his profession, and suggested, that if

ever he should meet us again on the road, he would
look upon us as dangerous acquaintance, and find it his
interest to put us out of the way. I told him withal,
my confidence in Betty’s good nature, in which he
acquiesced ; and during the remaining part of the night,
we concerted a proper method of behaviour, to render
us unsuspected in the morning.

It was no sooner day, than Betty, entering our cham-
ber, and perceiving our window open, cried out, “Odds
bobs! sure you Scotchmen must have hot constitutions,
to lie all night with the window open, in such cold
weather.” I feigned to start out of my sleep, and, with-
drawing the curtain, called, “What’s the matter?”
When she showed me, I affected surprise, and said,
“Bless me! the window was shut when we went to
bed.” “Tll be hanged,” said she, if Sawney Waddle,
the pedlar, has not got up in a dream and done it, for]
heard him very obstropulous in his sleep.”? With these
words, she advanced to the bed in which he lay, and
finding the sheets cold, exclaimed, “ Good lack-a-daisy !
the rogue is fled !” “ Fled ! cried I, with feiened amaze-
ment, “God forbid! Sure he has not robbed us.” Then
springing up, I laid hold of my breeches, and emptied all
my loose money into my hand, which, having reckoned,
[ said, “ Heaven be praised ! our money is all safe : Strap,
look to the knapsack !” He did so, and found all was
right.
he had stole nothing belonging to the house? « No, no,”
replied she, “ he has stole nothing but his reckoning ;”
which it seems this pious pedlar had forgot to discharge
in the midst of his devotion. Betty, after a moment’s
pause, withdrew, and immediately we could hear her
waken Rifle, who no sooner heard of Waddle’s flight,
than he jumped out of bed, and dressed, venting a thou-

sand execrations, and vowing to murder the pedlar if

ever he should set eyes on him again: “ For,” said he,
“the scoundrel has by this time raised the hue and cry
against me.” Having dressed himself in a hurry, he
mounted his horse, and for that time rid us of his com-
pany, and a thousand fears that were the consequence
of it.

While we were at br akfast, Betty endeavoured, by
all the cunning she was mistress of, to learn whether or
not we suspected our fellow-lodger, whom we saw take
horse ; but as we were on our guard, we answered her
sly questions with a simplicity she could not distrust :
when, all of a sudden, we heard the trampling of a
horse’s feet at the door. This noise alarmed Strap so
much, whose imagination was wholly engrossed by the
image of Rifle, that with a countenance as pale as milk,
he cried, “Oh! there’s the highwayman returned !”
Our landlady, staring at these words, said, “ What high-
wayman, young man? Do you think any highwaymen
harbour here ?” Though I was very much disconcerted
at this piece of indiscretion in Strap, I had presence of
mind enough to tell her, we had met a horseman the
day before, whom Strap had foolishly supposed to be a
highwayman, because he rode with pistols ; and that he
had been terrified at the sound of a horse’s feet ever
since. She forced a smile at the ignorance and timidity
of my comrade ; but I could perceive (not without great
concern) that this account was not at all satisfactory
to her.

CHAP THUR: LX.
Arrer having paid our score, and taken leave of our

hostess, who embraced me tenderly at parting, we pro-

Jpon which we asked, wi 1 seeming concern, if
Uy hicl ked, witl g [

ceeded on our journey, blessing ourselves that we had
come off so well. We had not walked above five miles,
when we observed a man on horseback galloping after
us, whom we in a short time recognised to be no other
than this formidable hero who had already given us so
much vexation. He stopped hard by me, and asked if
I knew who he was? My astonishment had discon-
certed me so much, that I did not hear his question,
which he repeated with a volley of oaths and threats ;
but I remained as mute as before. Strap seeing my
discomposure, fell upon his knees in the mud, utter-
ing with a most lamentable voice these words: “ Oh!
have mercy upon us, Mr Rifle, we know you very well.”
“Oh ho!” eried the thief, “ you do? but you never
shall be evidence against me in this world, you dog !”
So saying, he drewa pistol, and fired at the unfortunate
shaver, who fell flat upon the ground without speaking
one word. My comrade’s fate, and my own situation,
rivetted me to the place where I stood; deprived of all
sense and reflection, so that I did not make the least
attempt either to run away or deprecate the wrath of
this barbarian, who snapped a second pistol at me ; but
before he had time to prime again, perceiving a com-
pany of horsemen coming up, he rode off, and left me
standing motionless as a statue, in which posture I was
found by those whose appearance had saved my life.

This company consisted of three men in livery, well
armed, with an officer, who, as I afterwards learned,
was the person from whom Rifle had taken the pocket
pistols the day before ; and who, making known his mis-
fortune to a nobleman he met on the road, and assuring
him his non-resistance was altogether owing to his con-
sideration for the ladies in the coach, procured the
assistance of his lordship’s servants to go in quest of the
plunderer. This holiday captain scampered up to me
with great address, and asked who fired the pistol which
he had heard. As I had not yet recovered my reason,
he, before I could answer, observed a body lying on the
ground ; at which sight his colour changed, and he pro-
nounced with a faltering tongue, “ Gentlemen, here’s
murder committed—let us alight.” “ No, no,” said one
of his followers, “let us rather pursue the murderer—
which way went he, young man ?”? By this time I had
recollected myself so far as to tell them he could not
be a quarter of a mile before; and to beg one of them
to assist me in conveying the corpse of my friend to the
next house, in order to its being interred. The captain,
foreseeing that in case he should pursue, he must soon
come to action, began to curb his horse, and gave him
the spur at the same time, which treatment making the
creature rear up and snort, he called out, his horse was
frightened and would not proceed ; at the same time,
wheeling him round and round, stroking his neck,
whistling and wheedling him with Sirrah, sirrah—
gently, gently,” &c.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 
 
  
   
 
   
 
  
  

“Tush !” cried one of the ser-
vants, “sure my lord’s Sorrel is not resty!” With
these words, he bestowed a lash on his buttocks, and
Sorrel, disdaining the rein, sprang forward with the
captain at a pace that would have soon brought him up
with the robber, had not the girth, happily for him,
given way, by which means he landed in the dirt; and
two of his attendants continued their pursuit, without
minding his situation.

Meanwhile, one of the three who remained at my de-
sire, turning the body of Strap, in order to see the
wound which had killed him, found him still warm and
breathing, upon which ] immediately let him blood, and
saw him, with inexpressible Joy, recover; he having
received no other wound than what his fear had inflicted.
Having raised him upon his legs, we walked together ta
an inn, about half a mile from the place, where Strap,
who was not quite recovered, went to bed; and in a
little time the third servant returned with the captain’s
horse and furniture, leaving him to crawl after as well
as he could. This gentleman of the sword, upon his
arrival, complained grievously of the bruise occasioned
by his fall; and on the recommendation of the servant,
who warranted my ability, I was employed to bleed
him; for which service he rewarded me with half-a-
crown,

 

 

 

 

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The time between this event and dinner, I passed in
observing a game at cards between two farmers, an
exciseman, and a young fellow in a rusty gown and
cassock, who, as I afterwards understood, was curate of
a neighbouring parish: It was easy to perceive that
the match was not equal ; and that the two farmers, who
were partners, had to do with a couple of sharpers, who
stript them of all their cash in a very short time. But
what surprised me very much, was to hear this clergy-
man reply to one of the countrymen who seemed to
suspect foul play, in these words : ** Holloa, friend,
d’ye question my honour ?’ I did not at all wonder to
find a cheat in canonicals, this being a character fre-
quent in my own country ; but I was scandalised at the
indecency of his behaviour; which appeared in the oaths
he swore, and the songs which he sang. At last, to
make amends, in some sort, for the damage he had done
to the unwary boors, he pulled out a fiddle from the
lining of his gown, and, promising to treat them at dinner,
began to play most melodiously, singing in concert all the
while. This good humour of the parson inspired the com-
pany with so much glee, that the farmers soon forgot
their losses, and all present went to dancing in the yard.
While we were agreeably amused in this manner, our
musician, spying a horseman riding towards the inn,
stopt all of a sudden, crying out, “ Gentlemen, I beg
your pardon, there’s our dog of a doctor coming
into the inn.” He immediately concealed his instru-
ment, and ran towards the gate, where he took hold of
the vicar’s bridle; and helped him off, inquiring very
cordially into the state of his health.

This rosy sou of the church, who might be about the
age of fifty, having alighted, and intrusted the curate
with his horse, stalked with great solemnity into the
kitchen, where, sitting down by the fire, he called for a
bottle of ale and a pipe; scarce deignitig an answer to
the submissive questions of those who inquired about
the welfare of his family. While he indulged himself
in this state, amidst a profound silence, the curate, ap-
proaching him with great reverence, asked if he would
not be pleased to honour us with his company at dinner ?
To which interrogation he answered in the negative,
saying, he had been to visit squire Bumpkin, who had
drunk himself into a high fever at the last assizes; and
that he had, on leaving his own house, told Betty he
should dine at home. Accordingly, when he had made
an end of his bottle and pipe, he rose and moved with
prelatical dignity to the door, where his journeyman
stood ready with his nag. He had no sooner mounted,
than the facetious curate, coming into the kitchen, held
forth in this manner :—* There the old raseal goes, and
the devil go with him—you see how the world wags,
gentlemen. This rogue of a vicar does not deserve
to live; and yet he has two livings worth fully £400
per annuni, while poor I am fain to do all his drudgery,
and ride twenty miles every Sunday to preach, for
what ?—whiy truly, for £20 a-year.
my own qualifications, but—comparisons are odious. |
should be glad to know how this swag-bellied doctor
deserves to be more at ease than me. He can loll in
his elbow-chair at home, indulge himself in the best of
victuals and wine, and enjoy the services of Betty, his
house-keeper. My service t’ye, gentlemen.”

By this time dinner being ready, I waked my com-
panion, and we ate altogether with great cheerfulness.
When our meal was ended, and every man’s share of
the reckoning adjusted, the curate went out on some
pretence, and, mounting his horse, left the two farmers
to satisfy the host in the best manner they could. We
were no sooner informed of this piece of finesse, than
the exciseman, who had been silent hitherto, began to
open with a malicious grin: “ Ay, ay, this is an old trick
of Shuffle ; I could not help smiling when he talked of

treating. You must know, this is a very curious fellow.
He picked up some scraps of learning while he served
young Lord Trifle at the university ; but what he most
excels in is pimping. No man knows his talents better
than I, for | was valet de chambre to squire Tattle, an
intimate companion of Shufile’s lord. He got himself
into a scrape, by pawning some of his lordship’s clothes,

I seorn to boast of |

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

on which account he was turned away; but as he was
acquainted with some particular circumstances of my
lord’s conduct, he did not care to exasperate him too
much, and so made interest for his receiving orders,
and afterwards recommended him to the curacy which
he now enjoys. However, the fellow cannot be too
much admired for his dexterity in making a comfort-
able livelihood, in spite of such a small allowance. You
hear he plays a good stick, and is really diverting com-
pany ; those qualifications make him agreeable wherever
he goes ; and as for playing at cards, there is nota man
within three counties a match for him: the truth is, he
is a confounded cheat, and can shift a card with such
address, that it is impossible to discover him.” Here he
was interrupted by one of the farmers, who asked, why
he had not justice enough to acquaint them with these
particulars before they engaged in play? The excise-
man replied, without any hesitation, that it was none of
his business to intermeddle between man and man;
besides, he did not know they were ignorant of Shuffle’s
character, which was notorious to the whole country.
This did not satisfy the other, who taxed him with abet-
ting and assisting the curate’s knavery, and insisted on
having his share of the winnings returned ; this demand
the exciseman as positively refused, affirming, that
whatever sleights Shuffle might practise on other occa-
sions, he was very certain that he had played on the
square with them, and would answer it before any bench
in Christendom: so saying, he got up, and, having paid
his reckoning, sneaked off. The landlord, thrusting his
neck into the passage, to see if he was gone, shook his
head, saying, “Ah! Heaven help us, if ev ery sinner was
to have his deserts! Well, we victuallers must not dis-
oblige the excisemien. But I know what: if parson
Shuffle and he were weighed together, a straw thrown
into either scale would make the balance kick the beam.
But, masters, this is under the rose,” continued Boniface
with a whisper.

or
5)
sy”

POPS L OLED OOD OOO OL

CHAPTER X,

when
we perceived a crowd on the road, coming towards us,
shouting and hallooing all the way. As it approached,
we could discern a man on horseback in the middle,
with his hands tied behind him, whom we soon knew to
be Rifle. This highwayman not being so well mounted
as the two servants who went in pursuit of him, was
soon overtaken, and after having discharged his pistols,
made prisoner without any further opposition. They
were Carrying him in triumph, amidst the acclamations
of the country people, to a justice of peace in a neigh-
bouring village, but stopt at our inn to join their com-
panion and take refreshment.

When Rifle was dismounted, and placed in the yard,
within a circle of peasants armed with pitchforks, I was
amazed to see what a pitiful dejected fellow he now
appeared, who had but a few hours before filled me
with such terror and confusion. My companion was so
much encouraged by this alteration in his appearance,
that, going up to the thief, he presented his clenched
fists to his nose, and deelared he would either cudgel or
box with the prisoner for a guinea; which he immedi-
ately produced, and began to strip, but was dissuaded
from this adventure by me, who represented to him the
folly of the undertaking, as Rifle was now in the hands
of justice, which would, no doubt, give us all satisfae-
tion enough. But what made me repent of our imper-
tinent curiosity, was our being detained by the captors
as evidence agaiiist him, when we were just going to set
forward. However, there was no remedy—we were
obliged to comply, and accordingly joined in the caval-
cade, which luckily took the same road that we had
proposed to follow. About the twilight, we arrived at
the place of our destination ; but as the justice was
gone to visit a gentleman in the country, with whom, we
understood, he would probably stay all night, the rob-
ber was confined in an empty garret three stories high,
from wiich it seemed impossible for him to escape : this
nevertheless, was the case

Stkar and I were about to depart on our journey,

3
«for next morying, whenADVENTURES OF RODERICK

they went up stairs to bring him
bird was flow n, havine got out of
roof, from whenee he continu 1ed |
of the adjoining houses, and entered another garret-
window, where he sk ulke d until the family were ‘asle ep,
at which time he ventured down st: uirs, and let himself
out by the street door, which was found open. This
event was a great dis: appointment to those that appre-
hended him, who were fi lushed with hopes of the reward ;
but gave me great Joy; as I was permitt ed now to con-
tinue my journey without any further molestation.
Resolving to make up for the small progress we had
hitherto made, we this day travelled with great vigour,

the window upon the

and before nu ight ‘Yenelisd a market town twenty milés
ae the place from whenee we set out in the mornimeg
vithout meeting any adventure worth notice. Here.

Eavies taken up our lodging at an inn; I found myself
so fatigued, that I began to despair df performing our
Journey on foot, ard desired Str: ip to inquire if wie
were d hy waggon, return horses, or othe ap carriage
in this place, to depart for London next «
inf that the wageon from
had h: ited here two nights avo, and that it
easy matter to overtake it, if not the next day, at farthest
the day after the next. This piece of gave us
some satisfaction, and after a hearty sup-

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rmed, Neweastle to London

hews

having inade

per on hashed intitton, we were shown to oiir room,
which contained two beds, the one allotted for 7 and
the other for a very honest gentleman, who, we were
told, was then drin] king b below. Though we ec sald have
very well dispensed w ith | his ecompatiy, we were glad to
submit to this disposition, as there was not another ped
empty in the house; and dcco1 ingly went to rest; after

having secured ott baggage under the bolster. Abi rut

two or three o’¢lock itt the morning. ]
of a very profound slee p by a dreadf

7
was wa k ed ou
the
POnRnY

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lful noise ts
chamber, which did not fai Bt to throw me into a

of consternation, when I he: it
with a terrible voice: ea and wounds! run tl
halbert into the euts him that’ xt you, and ]
blow the other’s braitis out presently.” Thi 138 dreat ifu
Salutation had no sooner reached the ears of | are
than starting out of bed, he rah against soniel body in th
dark, and overturned him in an instant: at the same

of lat’s m

before the j jus stice, the ance,

tANDOM. 19
t our entrance, the landlord, who seemed to he

a vene table old man, with long grey hair, rose from a

his route alone the tops | | table, placed by a large fire ina “very neat paved kitchen,

| and, w ‘ith 1a cheerful countenance, accosted us in these
words : “ Salvete puer i—ingredimini”) Twas not a little
pleased to hear our host speak Latin, because I was in

|
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would be an

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time bawling out, “Fire! murder ! fire !” a ery which
in a moment alarmed the whole house, and filled our
chamber with a crowd of naked people

When lights were brought, the occasion of all this
disturbance soon appeared ; ; which was no other than
our fellow-lodger, whom we forind lying on the floor, |
scratching his head, with a look testifymg the utmost |
astonishment, at the concourse of apparitions that sur- |

rounded him. This honest gentleman was, it se ve :
recruiting serjeant, who, having listed two country fe
lows ni ight, dreamed they had mutinied, and
threatened to sated er him and the drummer who was
along with him. This made such an impression on hi
imagination, that he got up in his sleep and express
himself When our apprehension of

vanished, the comparty behe ay one another with

7
Over :

|
6!

f as above. danrer

PTeal

surprise and mirth. But what attracted the notice of
every one, was our landlady witl nothing on but her
shift and a large pair of buckskin breeches, whith
she had slipt on in the hurry, and her husband with
her petticoat about his shoulders: one lad wrapt
himself in a blanket, another was covered with a

ee
drummer, who had given his only :
appeared in cuerpo with the bolster
yolled about his middle. When this affair dis-
cussed, every body retired to his own apartment, the
serjeant slipt i into bed, and my companion and I slept
without any further disturbance till morning, when we
got up, went to breakfast, paid our reckoning,
jorward in expectation of overtaking the wa :
which hope, however, we were disappointed for that
day.

©

and the shirt

1 }
washed,

sheet ;
to be

was

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] SPO!
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As we exerted ourselves more than usual, I found
myself quite spent with fatigue, when we red
small village in the twilight. We inquired for a public
ho juse, aud, Ww

CULL

cle

coi : ced 9 one of a a very sorry appear-

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| fire for supper, for he was resolved this nigh it to regale
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| such an ide

| partly of Str: ip’s opinion ;

hope of recom nending myself to him by my knowledge
In that language ; J theref fore answered without hesita-
tion, “Dissolve frigus, lignasuper foco—large reponens.”2
I had no sooner pronounced these w ords, than the old
gentleman r unning towards me, shook me by the hand,

er ying, Ee ‘ili mi dele ctissime ! under enis ?—a superis, ne
fallor?3 Tp short, finding we were both read in the
classics, he did not know how to testify his regard

enough ; but ordered his d: vughter, a jolly rosy- -cheeked

| damsel, who was his sole domestic, to bring us a bottle of

his quadrimum—re peating
* De prome qua lrimum
dotas* Th

from Horace at the Same time,
Sabina, O Thaliarche, merum
quadrimum was excellent ale of his own
rewing, of hie -h he told us he had always an amphora
ur years old, for the use of himself and fri ends. In
le course of our coliversation,; which was interlarded
with scraps of Latin, we understodd that this facetious
person was a sc hoolm: aster, whose income being small,
vas fain to keep a glass of good liquor for the enter-
tainment of passenger: 8, by which he made shift to make
the two ends of the year meet. “I am this day,” said
he, “the happiest old fellow in his Majesty’s dominions.
My wife, rest her soul, is in heaven. My daughter i is to
be married next week; but the two chief pleasures of
my life are these ’—pointi ing to the bottle, and a large
edition of Horace that la Ly on the t: tble :-—“T am old, *tis
true—what then ? the more FeAS0T { should enj joy the
| Small share of life that rem: ns; as my friend Flaccus
Tu ne quesieris scire > (nefas) quem mihi, quem

tibi finem dii dede j rint. Carpe diem quam minimum ere-
dula postero. s he was very inquis ‘itive about our
we made no scruple of acquainting him with our

afk: sine
situation, which, when he had lear ned, he enriched us
telling us that

with advices haw to behave in the w orld,
1e Was no stranger to the deceits of miitkind. In the
ered his daughter to lay a fowl to the

1
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U

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advise 7 3

J

neantime, he ord

us friends—permittens divis cetera While our enter-
ainme nt was preparing, our host recounted the: adven-
ures of his own life, which, as they contained nothing
remarkable, I for bear to re shearse,

When we had fared sumptuously, and drunk several
| bottles of his guadrimum, I expressed a desire of going
which was with some difficulty complied w ith,

us that we should overtake this

waggon by noon next d: iy, and that there was room
enough in it for half a doze n, for there were only four

| passenge Ts as yet in that convenience. Before my con-
rade lI fell asleep, we had some conversation about
the ceed humour of our landlord, which gave Strap
ea of his benevolence, th: at he positively be-
lieved we should pay no thing for our lodging and enter-

tainment, Von’t you observe,’ said he, ce, that he has
conceived a particular affection for us, n: ay, even treated
S at supper with e xtraordinary fare, which, to be sure,
should not of ourselves have called fox ?” I was

but the experience I had of
world made me suspend my belief till the morning,
when getting up betimes, we breakfasted with our host
his daughter on h: isty- pudding and ale, and desired
to know what we had to pay. “ Biddy will let you know,
gentlemen,” said he, “ for I never mind these matters :
money-matters are beneath the concern of one who
lives upon the Horatian plan: Crescentem sequitur cura

the

]
and

| pecuniam.’’’ Meanwhile, Biddy having consulted a slate

' {Good day, lads—enter. }
“ (Banish the cold, by throwi ing fresh logs on the fire. ]
’[ My beloved son! whence comest thou ?—from heaven, if I
misti uk e not. ]
4 Bring the quadrimum, Thali: irchus, with the Sabine mark.’ |
’ [Enquire not when the gods may be pleased to end our days.
injoy the passing hour, &e. |
6 ene the rest to the gods. ]
(Care increases as w ealth increases i}

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20 ADVENTURES OF

RODERICK RANDOM.

that hung in the corner, told us our reckoning came to | Having walked all day at a great pace, without halti ing

8s. 7d. “ Eight shillings cand sevenpence !|” dried Strap,
“itis impossible ; 3 you must be mistake en, young woman.”
“Reckon again, child,” says her cher very deliberately,
“ perhaps you have miscounted.” “No, indeed, father,”
replied she, “I know my business bette ra, © epula
contain my indignation no longer, but said, it was an
unconscionable bill, and demanded to know the eee
culars ; upon which t the old man got up, muttering, “ Ay,
ay, let us see the pi articulars—th at’s but reasonable.”
And taking pen, ink, and paper, wrote the following

 

4tems :-— Sa tak
To bread and beer : : : 0 6
To a fowl and sausages : : 2 6
To four bottles guadrim. : : 2.6
‘'o fire and tobacco . : ; Q<7
To lodging : : : 2.0
To breakfast : : : 1-0
Bi]

As he had not the appearance of a common publican,
and had raised a sort of veneration in me by his de-
meanour the preceding night, it was not in my power
to upbraid him as he deserved; therefore [ contented
myself with saying, I was sure he did not learn to ee
an extortioner from Horace. He answered, “I wa
but a young pen, and did not know the world, or I
would not tax him with extor tion, whose only aim was
to live conte ntus parvo, and keep off importuna pau-
peries.” My fellow-traveller could not so easily put
up with this imposition ; but swore he should either
take one-third of the money, or go without.

While we were engaged in this dispute, I perceived
the daughter go out, and, conjecturing the occasion, im-
mediately paid the exorbitant demand, which was no
sooner done, than Biddy returned with two stout fel-
lows, who came in on pretence of taking their morning-
draught, but in reality to frighte n us into compliance.
dust as we departed, Strap, who was half-distracted on
account of this piece of expense, went up to the school-
master and, grinning in his face, pronounced with great
emphasis, “Semper avarus eget,” to which the pedant
replied with a malicious smile,
paret, imperat.”+

“Animum rege, qui, nisi

Y DWM hyp 7
CHAE TER AL.

Weitravelled half a mile without exchanging one w
my thoughts being engrossed by the knavery of 1
world, to “which I must be ¢ laily exposed, and the e n-
templation on my finances, which began sensibly to d
minish. At length, Strap, who could hold no Toi:
addressed me thus :—“ We Il, fools and their money are
soon parted. If my advice had been taken, that old
skin-fimt should have been damned before he had got
more than the third of hisdemand. ’Tis a sure sign you
came easily by your money, when you squander it a vay
in this manner. Ah! God help you, how m: any bris tly
beards must I have mowed before I earned four shil-
lings and threepence halfpenny, which is all thrown to
the dogs! How many days have I sat weaving hair till
my toes were numbed by the cold, my fingers cramped,
and my nose as blue as the sign of the periwig that
hung over the door! What were youafraid of? I would
have engaged to box with any one of those fellows who
came in for a guinea. I’m sure I have beat stouter
men than either of them.” And, indeed, my companion
would have fought any body, when his life was in no
danger ; but he had a mortal aversion to fire -arms, and
all instruments of death. In order to appease him, I
assured him no part of this e xtraordinary expense
should fall upon his shoulders ; at which declaration he
was affronted, and told me, he would have me to know,
that although he was a poor barber’s boy, yet he had a
soul to spend his money with the best squire in the land.

! (Contented with little. ] “ [Importunate poverty. ]

3 [The avaricious man is always in want. ]

4 [Govern your temper, my sou, which, if not
ruler. ]

ruled, becomes a

~ Sena ete eet re 38 e — .
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for a refr eshment, we descried, towards the evening, to
our inexpressible joy, the waggon aie a quarter of
a mile before us ; and by the time we reached it, were
both of us so wee ary, that I verily believe it would have

been impracticable for us to have walked one mile far-

ther. We therefore bargained with the driver, whose
name was Joey, to give us a cast to the next st age for
a shilling ; at which place e we should meet the master
of the waggon, with whom we might agree for the rest
of the journey.

Accordingly, the convenience stopt, and Joey hav ing
placed the ladder, Strap, being loaded with our baggage,
mounted first ; but just as he vas getting in, a tre1 men-
dous voice assailed his ears in these words: “ ‘ury !
there shall no passengers come here!” The poor
Suaver was so disconcerted at this exclamation, which
both he and I imagined proceeded from the mouth of
a giant, that he descended w ith great velocity, and
countenance as white as paper. Joey, perceiving our
astonishment, called with an arch sneer, “ W aunds,
cones whay woan’t yau soofer the poor w age mneek to

meake a penny 2 Coom, coom, young man, get oop, get
oop, ne ver moind the coptain. T’se not afear? *d of the
coptain.” This was not encouragement sufficient to
Strap, oe could not be prevaile d upon to venture up
again ; upon which I attempted, thoug rh not without a
qué king heart, when I heard the same voice muttering
like distant thunder, “The devil confound me if [
“o) mt make you sm: rt for this!” However, I crept

1, and by accident got an empty place in the straw,
vies I immediate ly took possession of, without being
able to discern the faces of my fellow-tr: wellers in the

dark. Strap, following with the k napsack on his back,
chanced to take the other § side, and bya thes of the car-
riage, pitched directly upon the stomach of the cap-
tain, who bellowed out in the most dreadful manner,
“ Blood and thunder! where’s my sword?” At these
words, my frighted comrade started up, and at one
spring bounced against me with such force, that I
thought he was the supposed son of Anak, who intended
to press me to death. In the meantime, a feria voice
‘cried, “Bless me! what is the matter, my. dear?”
“The matter!” replied the captain, “ I dec are to you,
aye guis are squee zed into a pancake by that Seotch-
man’s hump.”: Strap, trembling eg the while at my
back, aske d him pardon, and 1: aid the blame of what had
happened upon the jolting of the wag gon; and the
woman who spoke before went on: ‘ Ay, ay, my dear,
itis our own fault— we may thank oursely es for all the
inconveniences we meet with. I thank God, I never
travelled so before: I am sure, if my lady or Sir John
was to know where we are, they would not sleep this
night for vexation. I wish to God we had Wath for the
chariot: I know we shall never be forgiven. “Come,
come, my dear,” replied the cay ptain, “it don’t signify
fretting now, we shall laugh it oF eras airclic. I hope
you will not ‘puffer in your health. I shail meh Ly
lord very merry with our adventures in the d liligence.”

This discourse gave me such a high notion of the
captain and his lady, that I durst not venture to join in
the conversation ; butimmediately after, another female
voice began :—“ Some people give themselves a great
many needless airs; better folks than any here have
travelled in waggons before now. Some of us have
rode in coaches and chariots, with three footmen be-
hind them, without making so much fuss about it. What
then! we are now all upon a footing, therefore let us
be sociable and merry. What do you say, Isaac? Is
not this a good motion, you doating rogue ? Speak, old
cent. per cent. What de ssperate debt are you thinking
off What mortgage are you planning? Well, Isa: MC,
positively you sh: all never gain my favour till you turn
over a new leaf ; grow honest, and live like a gentleman.
In the mean litae. give me akiss, you old fool.” Ti hese

words, accompanied with a hear ty smack, enlivened the
person to whom they weve addresse d, to such a degree

that he cried in transport, though | with a falteri ing
voice, * Ah ! you wanton baggage—upon my credit you
are a waggish girl; he—he—he 199, wD soo neh intro
eee ar een as. 2 fk

se trees $e esADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

duced a fit of coughing, which almost suffocated the
poor usurer (such we afterwards found was the profes-
sion of this our fellow-traveller), About this time |
fell asleep, and enjoyed a comfortable nap till such time
aS we arrived at the inn where we put up. Here, hav-
ing alighted from the waggon,
viewing the passengers, in order, as they entered.

The first who appeared was a brisk airy girl, about
twenty years old, with a silver-laced hat on her head
instead of a cap, a blue stuff riding suit trimmed with
silver, very much tarnished, and a whip in her hand.
After her, came limping an old man with a worsted
nighteap buttoned under his chin, and a broad-brimmed
hat slouched over it, an old rusty blue cloak tied about
his neck, under which appeared a brown surtout, that
covered a threadbare coat and waistcoat, and, as we
aiterwards discerned, a dirty fiannel jacket. His eyes
were hollow, bleared, and gummy ; his face was shri-
velled into a thousand wrinkles, his gums were destitute
of teeth, his nose sharp and drooping, his chin peaked
and prominent, so that when he mumped or spoke, they
approached one another like a pair of nut-crackers ;
he supported himself on an ivory-headed cane, and his
whole figure was a just emblem of winter, famine, and
avarice. But how was I surprised, when I beheld the
formidable captain in the shape of a little thin creature,
about the age of forty, witha long withered visage, very
much resembling that of a baboon, through the upper
part of which two little grey eyes peeped.
liis own hair in a queue that reached t
immoderate length, I suppose,

He wore
o his rump, which
the occasion of a
aldness that appeared on the crown of his head. when

Was

|
he deigned to take off his hat, which was very much of

he size and cock of Pistol’s. Having laid aside his
greatcoat, I could not help admiring the extraordinary
nake of this man of war: he was about five feet and
inches high, sixteen inches of which went to his
ace and long scraggy neck; his thighs were about

inches in length, his legs, resembling spindles or
drumsticks, two feet and a half, and his body, which
put me in mind of extension without substance, en-
grossed the remainder—so that, on the whole, he ap-
peared like a spider or grasshopper erect—and was
almost a vox ef preterea mihil.
a frock of what is called bear-skin, the skirts of which
were about half a foot long, an Hussar waistcoat, scarlet
breeches reaching half way down his thigh, worsted
stockings rolled up almost to his groin, and shoes with
wooden heels at least two inches high: he carried a
sword very near as long as himself in one hand, and
with the other:conducted his lady, who seemed to be a
woman of his own age, and still retained some remains
ot an agreeable person, but so ridiculously affected,
that, had I not been a novice in the world, I might
have easily perceived in her the deplorable vanity and
second-hand airs of a lady’s woman.

We were all assembled in the kitchen, when Captain
Weazel (for that was his name) desired a room with a
fire for himself and spouse, and told the landlord they
would sup by themselves. The innkeeper replied, that
he could not afford them a room by themselves ; and
as for supping, he had prepared victuals for the pas-
sengers in the waggon, without respect of persons ; but
if he could prevail on the rest to let him have his choice
in a separate manner, he should be very well pleased.
This was no sooner said, than all of us declared against
the proposal, and Miss Jenny (our other female pas-
senger) observed, that if Captain Weazel and his lady
had a mind to sup by themselves, they might wait
until we should have done. At this hint the captain
puton a martial frown, and looked very big, without
speaking ; while his yokefellow, with a disdainful toss
of her nose, muttered something about “ Creature ;”
which Miss Jenny overhearing, stept up to her, saying,
“None of your names, good Mrs Abigail—creature,
quotha! I’ll assure you, no such creature as you
neither—no ten-pound sneaker—no quality coupler.”

]
three
Lf,

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Here the captain interposed, with a “ Holloa, madam,
ys NT Rae fin 59 7.
what d’ye mean by that?” “Who are yon, Sir?” re-

I had an opportunity of

His dress consisted of

 

:

aiied Miss Jonny : “1 wonder who made you a captain, |

|

21

you pitiful trencher-seraper! ?Sdeath! the army is
Come to a fine pass, when such fellows as you get com-
missions. What! [ suppose you think I don’t know
yout You and your helpmate are well met—a
“ast-off mistress and a bald valet de chambre are well
yoked together.” © Blood and wounds !” eried Weazel,
“ d’ye question the honour of my wife, madam? No
man in England durst say so much, I would flea him,
meee him! Fury and destruction! I would have
aa er us my Supper !” So saying, he drew his sword
while Miss Sonny) epoca ‘ ae
sa ny apping gers, told him she
aS not bop oe resentment louse. In the midst of
this quarrel, the master of the waeevon ali
understandiap the cause of the disteshaniee a eee
the captain and his lady would take umbrage and leave
his carriage, was at great pains to have every thing
J

made up, which he at last accomplished, and we sat
down to supper all together,

At bed-time we were shown to
old usurer, Strap and I, to one room; the captain, his
wife, and Miss Jenny, to another. About midnight, my
companion’s bowels being disordered, he got up, in
order to go backward ; but, in his return, mistaking
one door for another, entered W eazel’s chamber, and,
without any hesitation, went to bed to his wife, who
was fast asleep, the captain being at that moment at
another end of the room. As he did not perceive
Strap coming in, he went towards his own bed; but no
sooner did he feel a rough head, covered with a cotton
nightcap, than it came into his mind, that he had mis-
taken Miss Jenny’s bed instead of his own, and that
the head he felt was that of some gallant, with whom
she had made an assignation. Full of this conjecture,
he snatched up a vessel, and emptied it at once on the
astonished barber and his own wife, who waking at
that instant, broke forth into lamentable cries, which
not only alarmed the husband beyond measure, but
frightened poor Strap almost out of his senses ; for he
verily believed himself bewitched : especially when the
incensed captain seized him by the throat, with a volley
of oaths, asking him how he durst have the presump-
tion to go into that bed. Poor Strap was so amazed and
confounded, that he could say nothing. Mrs Weazel,
enraged to find herself in such a pickle, through the
precipitation of her husband, arose in her shift, and,
with the heel of her shoe, which she found by the bed-
side, belaboured the captain’s bald pate, till he roared
“Murder!” “Tl teach you to empty your pots on
me,” cried she, “ you pitiful hop-o’-my thumb eoxcomb.
What! I warrant you’re jealous, you man of lath.
Was it for this I condescended to marry you, you poor,
withered, sapless twig?”

The noise occasioned by this adventure had brought
the master of and me to the door, where
we overheard all that passed, with great satisfaction.
Some servants of the inn came running up stairs with
lights, and such weapons as chance afforded, when we
beheld a very diverting scene. We advanced to the
captain, who told us, “Gentlemen, here has been a
mistake; but I’ll be revenged on him who was the
occasion of it. That Scotchman, who carries the knap-
sack, shall not breathe this vital air one day, if my
name be Weazel. My dear, I ask you ten thousand
pardons ; you are sensible I could mean no harm to
you.” “I know not what you meant,” replied she,
sighing, “but I know I have got enough to send me to
my grave.” At length they were reconciled ; the wife
was complimented with a share of Miss Jenny’s bed
(her own being overflowed), and the master of the
waggon invited Weazel to sleep the remaining part of
the night in his. I retired to mine, where 1 found
Strap mortally afraid, he having stole away in the dark
while the captain and his lady were at loggerheads,

our apartments: the

Thy tre rcp
the waggon

CHAPTER XII.
Next morning I agreed to give the master of the wag-
gon ten shillings for my passage to London, provided
Strap should be allowed to take my place when I shanld

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a2 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

be disposed to walk. At the same time, I desired him
to appease the incensed captain, who had entered the
jutehen with a drawn sword in his hand, and threatened
with many oaths to sacrifice the villain who attempted
to violate his bed ; but it was to no purpose for the mas-
ter to explain the mistake, and assure him of the poor
lad’s innocence, who stood trembling behind me all the
while: the more submission that appeared in Strap, the
more implacable seemed the resentment of Weazel, who
swore he must either fight him, or he would instantly
put him to death. I was extremely provoked at this
insolence, and told him, it could not be supposed that
a poor barber lad would engage a man of the sword at
his own weapon, but I was persuaded he would wrestle
or box with him: to which proposal Strap immedia ely
gaye his assent, by saying he would box with him for
a guinea. Weazel replied, with a look of disdain, that
it was beneath any gentleman of his character to fight
ike a porter, or even to put himself on a footing, in
any respect, with such a fellow as Strap. “ Odds bo-
dikins!” cries Joey, “sure, coptain, yaw would not
coomit moorder! Here’s a poor lad that is willing to
make atoonement for his offence; and an that woan’t
satisfy yaw, offers to fight yaw fairly. An yaw woan’t
box, I dare say he will coodgel with yaw: woan’t yaw,
my lad?’ Strap, after some hesitation, answered,
“ Ye—yes, ll cudgel with him.” But this expedient
being also rejected by the captain, I began to smell his
character, and tipping Strap the wink, told the company
that I had always heard it said, the person who receives
a challenge should have the choice of the weapons;
this, therefore, being the rule in point of honour, I
would yenture to promise, on the head of my eompa-
nion, that he should even fight Captain Weazel at
sharps; but it should be with such sharps as Strap was
best acquainted with, namely, razors. At my mention-
ing razors, I could perceive the captain’s colour change,
while Strap, pulling me by the sleeve, whispered, with
great eagerness, “ No, no, no! for the love of God.
don’t make any such bargain.” At length Weazel, re-
covering himself, turned towards me, and, with a fero-
cious countenance, asked, “ Who the devil are you?
will you fight me?” With these words, putting himself
in a posture, I was grievously alarmed at seeing the
point of a sword within half a foot of my breast; and,
springing to one side, snatched up a spit that stood in
the chimney-corner, with which | kept my formidable
adversary at bay, who made a great many half-lounges,
skippingjbackward at every push, tillat last I pinned him
up in a corner, to the no small diversion of the eom-
pany. While he was in this situation, his wife entered,
and, seeing her husband in these dangerous cireum-
stances, uttered a dreadful scream. In this emergency
Weazel demanded a cessation, which was immediately
granted ; and at last was contented with the submission
of Strap, who, falling on his knees before him, protested
the innocence of his intention, and asked pardon for the
mistake he had committed.

This affair being ended without bloodshed, we set for-
ward in great tranquillity, Strap being accommodated
with Joey’s horse, the driver himself desiring to walk.
This morning and forenoon we were entertained with
an account of the valour of Captain Weazel, who told us
he had once knocked down a soldier that made game of
him ; tweaked a drawer by the nose, who found fault
with his picking his teeth with a fork, at another time ;
and that he had moreover challenged a cheesemonger,
who had the presumption to be his rival: for the truth
of which exploits he appealed to his wife. She confirmed
whatever he said, and observed, “ The last affair hap-
pened that very day on which I received a love-letter
from squire Gobble ; and don’t you remember, my dear,
I was prodigiously sick that very night with eating or-
tolans, when my Lord Diddle took notice of my com-
plexion’s being altered, and my lady was so alarmed,
that she had well-nigh fainted.” « Yes, my dear,” re-
plied the captain, “ you know my Lord said to me,
with a sneer, ‘ Billy, Mistress Weazel is certainly
breeding.’ And I answered cayalierly,‘ My Lord, I wish
I couldreturn the compliment.’ Upon which, the whole

ee ees a

 

So ermine: Siti

company broke out into an immoderate fit of laughter ;
and my Lord, who loves a repartee dearly, came round
and bussed me.”

Wetravelled in this manner five days, without inter-
ruption, or meeting anything worth notice ; Miss Jenny
entertaining us every day with diverting songs, of which
she could sing a great number. On the sixth day, while
we wereabout to sit down to dinner, the innkeeper came
and told us that three gentlemen, just arrived, had or-
dered the victuals to be carried to their apartment, al-
though he had informed them that they were bespoke
by the passengers in the waggon. 'o which information
they had replied, “ The passengers in the waggon might
be damn’d ; their betters must be served before them—
they supposed it would be no hardship for such trayel-
lers to dine upon bread and cheese for one day.” This
was a terrible disappointment to us all, and we laid our
heads together how to remedy it; when Miss Jenny
observed, that Captain;Weazel, being by profession a
soldier, ought in this case to protect and prevent us
from being insulted. But the captain excused himself,
saying he would not for all the world be known to have
travelled in a waggon ; swearing, at the same time, that
could he appear with honour, they should eat his sword
sooner than his provision, Upon this declaration,.Miss
Jenny, snatching his weapon, drew it, and ran imme-
diately into the kitchen, where she threatened to put
the cook to death, if he did not send the victuals into
our chamber immediately. The noise she made brought
the three strangers down, one of whom no sooner per-
ceived her than he cried, “ Ha! Jenny Ramper! what
the devil brought thee hither ?”’ “My dear Jack Rattle,”
replied she, running into his arms, “is it you? Then
Weazel may do what he pleases for a dinner—lI shall
dine with you.” 'They consented to this proposal with
a great deal of joy; and we were on the point of being
reduced to a very uncomfortable meal, when Joey, un-
derstanding the whole affair, entered the kitchen with
a pitchfork in his hand, and swore he would be the
death of any man who should pretend to seize the vic-
tuals prepared for the waggon. This menace had like to
have produced fatal consequences—the three strangers
drawing their swords, and being joined by their servants,
and we ranging ourselves on the side of Joey ; when the
landlord interposing, offered to part with his own dinner
to keep the peace, which was accepted by the strangers,
and we sat down at table without any further molesta-
tion. Inthe afternoon,I chose to walk along with Joey,
and Strap took my place. Having entered into a con-
versation with this driver, I soon found him to be a
merry, facetious, good-natured fellow, and withal very
arch. He informed me that one of the gentleman’s ser-
yants, whom we left at the inn, having accidentally seen
Weazel, immediately knew him, and acquainted Joey
with some particulars of his character. That he had
served my Lord Frizzle in quality of valet de chambre
many years, while he lived separate from his lady ; but
upon their reconciliation, she expressly insisted upon
W eazel’s being turned off, as well as the woman he kept ;
when his lordship, to get rid of them both with a good
grace, proposed that he should marry his mistress, and
he would procure a commission for him in the army.
This expedient was agreed to, and Weazel is now, by
his lordship’s ‘interest, ensign in ——’s regiment. I
found he and I had the same sentiments with regard to
Weazel’s courage, which we resolved to put to the trial,
by alarming the passengers with the cry of “A high-
Wayman !” as soon as a horseman should appear.

This scheme we put in practice towards the dusk,
when we deseried a man on horseback approaching us,
Joey had no sooner intimated to the peopie in the
waggon, that he was afraid we should be all robbed,
than a general consternation arose. Strap jumped out
of the waggon, and hid himself behind a hedge. The
usurer put forth ejaculations, and made a rustling
among the straw, which made us conjecture he had hid
something under it. Mrs Weazel. wringing her hands,
uttered lamentable cries ; and the captain, to our great
amazement, began to snore: but this artifice did not
succeed, for Miss Jenny, shaking him by the shoulders

rADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

bawled out, “ ’Sdeath, captain! is this a time to snore,
when we are going to be robbed? Get up, for shame,
and behave like a soldier and a man of honour.’
Weazel pretended to be in a great passion for being
disturbed, and swore he would have his nap out if all
the highwaymen in England surrounded him. “’Sblood!
what are you afraid of?” continued he, at the same time
trembling with such agitation, that the whole carriage
shook. This sineular piece of behaviour incensed Miss
Ramper so much, that she eried, * Oh pitiful soul, you
are as arrant a poltroon as ever was drummed out of
a regiment! Stop the waggon, Joey—let me get out,
and, if I have rhetoric enough, the thief shall not only
take your purse, but your skin also.” So saying, she
leapt.out with great agility. By this time the horseman
came up with us, and happened to be a gentleman’s
servant well known to Joey, who communicated the
scheme, and desired him to carry it on a little further,
Dy gong up to the waggon, and questioning those within.
The stranger, consenting for the sake of diversion, ap-
proached it, and, in a terrible tone, demanded, “ Who
have we got here?” Isaac replied, with a lamentable
voice, “ Here’s a poor miserable sinner, who has got a
small family to maintain, and nothine
wherewithal but these fifteen shillings, ich, if you
rob me of, we must all starve together.” “ Who’s that
sobbing in the other corner?” said the supposed high-
wayman. “A poor unfortunate woman,” answered Mrs
Weazel, “upon whom I beg you to have compassion.’
“ Are you maid or wife?” said he. “ Wife. to my sor-
row,” cried she. “ Who, or where is your husband ?”
continued he. “My husband,” replied Mrs Weazel, “is
an officer of the army, and was left sick at the last inn
where we dined.” “ You must be mistak n, madam,’
said he, “for I myself saw him get into the waggon this
afternoon. But pray, what that? let me catch
hold of the nasty cur—I’]] teach him better manners.”
Here he laid hold of one of Weazel’s legs, and pulled
him out from under his wife’s petticoats, where he had
concealed himself. The poor trembling captain being
detected in this inglorious situation, rubbed his eyes,
and, affecting to wake out of sleep, cried, “ What’s the
matter ’—what’s the matter?” “The matter is not
much,” answered the horseman; “I only called in to
inquire after your health, and so adieu, most noble cap-
tain!” So saying, he clapped spurs to his horse, and
was out of sight in a moment.

It was some time before Weazel could recollect him-
self; but at length, re-assuming the big look, he said,
“ Hang the fellow! why did he ride away before I had
time to ask him how his lord and lady do? Don’t you
remember ‘om, my dear?’ addressing himself to his
wife. Yes,” replied she, “I think I do remember
something of the fellow, but you know I seldom con-
verse with people of his station.” “ Hey day!” cried
Joey, * do yaw knaw the young mon, coptain?? “Know
him !” said Weazel ; “
of Burgundy for me, at my Lord Trippet’s table.” “And
what. may his name be, coptain?” said Joey. “ His
ame ? his name,” replied Weazel, “is Tom Rinfer.”
“ Waunds !” cried Joey, “a has changed his own nea
then! for I’se lay any wager he was christened John
trotter.” This observation raised a laugh against the
captain, who seemed very much disconcerted ;
Isaac broke silence, and said, “

in the world

] ]
whiel

smell is

many a time has he filled a glass

me

when
It is no matter who or
what he was, since he has not proved the robber we
suspected. And we ought to bless God for our narrow
escape.” Bless God!” said Weazel, “bless the devil !
for what? had he been a highwayman, I should have
ate his blood, body, and guts, before he had robbed me,
or any one in this diligence.” “Ha, ha, ha!” cried
Miss Jenny, “{ believe you will eat all you kill indeed,
captain.” The usurer was so well pleased at the event
of this adventure, that he could not refrain from being
severe, and took notice that Captain Weazel seemed to
be a good Christian, for he had armed himself with
patience and resignation, instead of carnal weapons;
and worked out his salvation with fear and trembling.
This piece of satire occasioned a great deal of mirth at
Besos expense who muttered a great many oaths

 

 

 

 

 

23

and threatened to cut Isaac’s throat. The usurer tak-
mg hold of his menace, said, “Gentlemen and ladies, I
take you all to: witness, that my life is in danger from
this bloody-minded officer. I'll have him bound over
to the peace.” This second sneer procured another
‘2ugh against him, and he remained crest-fallen during
the remaining part of our journey.

CHAPTER XITT.

We arrived at our inn, supped, and went to bed; but
Strap’s distemper continuing, he was obliged to rise in
the middle of the night, and, taking the candle in his
hand, which he had left burning for the purpose, he
went down to the yard, whence in a short time he re-
turned in a great hurry, with his hair standing on end,
and a look betokening horror and astonishment. With-
out speaking a word, he set down the light and jumped
into bed behind me, where he lay and trembled with
great violence. When I asked him what was the mat-
ter, he replied, with a broken accent, “ God have merey
on us! I have seen the devil !” Though my prejudice
was not quite so strong as his, I was nota little alarmed
at this exclamation, and much more so, when I heard
the sound of bells approaching our chamber, and felt
my bed-fellow cling close to me, uttering these words,
“ Mercy on us! there he comes—there he comes !” At
that instant, a monstrous overgrown raven entered our
chamber, with bells at his feet, and made directly to-
wards our bed. As this creature is reckoned in-our
country a common vehicle for the devil and witches to
play their pranks in, I verily believed we were haunted,
and, in a violent fright, shrank under the bed-clothes.
his terrible apparition leapt upon the bed, and,after
giving us several severe dabs with its beak through the
blankets, hopped away and vanished. Strap and I re-
commended ourselves to the protection of Heayen with
great devotion, and when we no longer heard the noise,
ventured to peep up and take breath. But we had not
been long freed from this phantom, when another ap-
peared that had well-nigh deprived us both of our senses.
We perceived an old man enter the room, with a long
white beard that reached to his middle: there was a
certain wild peculiarity in his eyes and countenance
that did not savour of this world; and his dress con-
sisted of a brown stuff coat, buttoned behind and at the
wrists, with an odd-fashioned cap of the same stuff
upon his head. I was so amazed, that I had not power
to move my eyes from such a ghastly object, but lay
motionless, and saw him come straight up tome: when
he reached the bed, he wrung his hands, and eried
with a voice that did not seem to belong to a human
creature, “ Where is Ralph?” I made no reply; upon
which he repeated in an accent still more preternatural,
“Where is Ralpho?? He had no sooner pronounced
these words, than I heard the sound of the bells at a
distance ; which the apparition having listened to, tript
away, and left me almost petrified with fear. It was a
good while before I could recover myself so far as to
speak ; and when at length I turned to Strap, I found
him in a fit, which, however, did not last long.

When he came to himself, I asked his opinion of what
had happened ; and he assured me that the first must
certainly be the soul of some person damned, which
appeared by the chains about its legs (for his fears had
magnified the creature to the-bigness of a horse, and
the sound of small morrice bells to the clanking of
massy chains). As for the old man, he took it to be
the spirit of somebody murdered long ago in this place,
which had power granted it to torment the assassin,
and that Ralpho was the name of the said murderer.
Although I had not much faith in this interpretation,
I was too much troubled to enjoy any sleep; and in
all my future adventures never passed a night so ill.
In the morning, Strap imparted the whole affair to
Joey, who, after an immoderate fit of laughter, ex-
plained the matter, by telling him the old man was the
landlord’s father, who had been an idiot some years,
and diverted himself with atameraxen_which_it seomsono

   

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24

had hopped away from his apartment in the night, and
induced him to follow it to our chamber, where he had
inquired after it, under the name of Ralpho.

Nothing remarkable happened during the remaining
part of our journey, which continued six or seven days
longer: at length we entered the great city, and lodged
all night at the inn where the waggon put up. Next
morning, all the passengers parted different ways ; while
my companion and I sallied out to inquire for the mem-
ber of parliament to whom I had a letter of recom-
mendation from Mr Crab. As we had discharged our
lodging at the inn, Strap took up our baggage, and
marched behind me in the street with the knapsack on
his back, as usual, so that we made a very whimsical
appearance. I had dressed myself to the greatest ad-
vantage, that is, put on a clean ruffled shirt, and my
best thread stockings ; my hair (which was of the deep-
est red) hung down upon my shoulders, as lank and
straight as a pound of candles; and the skirts of my
coat reached to the middle of my leg; my waistcoat
and breeches were of the same piece, and cut in the
same taste ; and my hat very much resembled a barber’s
basin, in the shallowness of the crown and narrowness
of the brims. Strap was habited in a much less awk-
ward manner; but a short crop-eared wig that very

much resembled Scrub’s in the play, and the knapsack |

on his back, added to whattis called a queer phiz, occa-
sioned by a long chin, and hook-nose and high cheek-
bones, rendered him, on the whole, a very fit subject of
mirth and pleasantry.

As we walked along, Strap, at my desire, inquired of

a carman whom we met whereabout Mr Cringer lived, |

and was answered by a stare, accompanied with the word
“Anan!” Upon which I came up, in order to explain
the question, but had the misfortune to be unintelligible
likewise, the carman calling us lousy Scotchmen, and
whipping his horses with a “Gee ho !” which nettled me
to the quick, and roused the indignation of Strap so far,
that after the fellow was gone a good way, he told me he
would fight him for a farthing. While we were delibe-
rating upon what was to be done, a hackney-coachman
driving softly along, and perceiving us standing by the
kennel, came up close to us, and calling “A coach, mas-
ter !” by a dexterous management of the reins, made his
horses stumble in the wet, and bedaub us all over with
mud. After which exploit he drove on, applauding
himself with a hearty laugh, in which several people

joined, to my great mortification ; but one more com- |

passionate than the rest, seeing us strangers, advised
me to go into an ale-house, and dry myself. 1 thanked
him for his advice, which I immediately complied with ;

.

and going into the house he pointed out, called for a |

pot of beer, and sat down by a fire in the public room,
where we cleaned ourselves as well as we could. In
the meantime, a wag, who sat in a box smoking his
pipe, understanding by our dialect that we were from
Scotland, came up to me, and, with a grave countenance,
asked how long I had been caught? As I did not know
the meaning of this question, | made no answer: and
he went on, saying, it could not bea great while, for my
tail was not yet cut; at the same time taking hold of
my hair, and tipping the wink to the rest of the com-
pany, who seemed highly entertained with his wit. 1]
was incensed at this usage, but afraid of resenting it,
because I happened to be in a strange place, and per-
ceived the person who spoke to me was a brawny fellow,
for whom I thought myself by no meansa match. How-

ever, Strap, having either more courage or less caution, |

could not put up with the insults I suffered, but told
him ina peremptory tone, “ He was an uncivil fellow
for making so free with his betters.” Then the wit
going toward him, asked him what he had got in his
knapsack? “Is it oatmeal or brimstone, Sawney ?”’ said
he, seizing him by the chin, which he shook, to the in-
expressible diversion of all present.
feeling himself assaulted in such anopprobrious manner,
disengaged himself in a trice, and lent his antagonist
such a box on the ear as made him stagger to the other
side of the room ;
for the combatants. Seeing Strap beginning to strip,

i ee <, 4 7
ee = Se ee ae es ee

Sy

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK, RANDOM.

and my blood being heated with indignation, which ba-
nished all other thoughts, I undressed myself to the skin
in an instant, and declared, that as the affront that oc-
casioned the quarrel was offered to me, I would fight
it out myself ; upon which one or two eried out, “ That’s
a brave Scotch boy; you shall have fair play.” This
assurance gave me fresh spirits, and, going up to my
adversary, who by his pale countenance did not seem
much inclined to the battle, I struck him so hard on
the stomach, that he reeled over a bench and fell to the
ground. ‘Then [ attempted to keep him down, in order
to improve my success, according to the manner of my
own country, but was restrained by the spectators, one
of whom endeavoured to raise up my opponent, but in
vain ; for he protested he would not fight, for he was
not quite recovered of a late illness. I was very well
| pleased with this excuse, and immediately dressed my-
self, having acquired the good opinion of the company
for my bravery, as well as of my comrade Strap, who
shook me by the hand, and wished me joy of the victory.

After having drunk our pot and dried our clothes, we
inquired of the landlord if he knew Mr Cringer, the
member of parliament, and were amazed at his reply-
ing in the negative; for we imagined he must be alto-
gether as conspicuous here as in the borough he repre-
| sented: but he told us we might possibly hear of him
as we passed along. We betook ourselves therefore to
| the street, where, seeing a footman standing at the door,
| we made up to him, and asked if he knew where our
patron lived? This member of the party-coloured
| fraternity, surveying us both very minutely, said he
knew Mr Cringer very well, and bade us turn down the
| first street on our left, then turn to the right, and then

j
|

| to the left again, after which perambulation we would
observe a lane, through which we must pass, and at the
| other end we should find an alley that leads to another
street, where we should see the sign of the Thistle and
three Pedlars, and there he lodged. We thanked him
| for his information, and went forwards, Strap telling
| me, that he knew this person to be an honest friendly
| man by his countenance, before he opened his mouth ;

 

in which opinion I acquiesced, ascribing his good man-
ners to the company he daily saw in the house where
he served.

We followed his directions punctually, in turning to
the left and to the right, and to the left again; but in-
stead of seeing a lane before us, found ourselves at the
side of the river, a circumstance that perplexed us not
| a little ; and my fellow-traveller ventured to pronounce,

that we had certainly missed our way. By this time
we were pretty much fatigued with our walk, and not
knowing how to proceed, I went into a small snufi-shop
| hard by, encouraged by the sign of the Highlander,
where I found, to my inexpressible satisfaction, the shop-
keeper was my countryman. He was no sooner in-
formed of our peregrination, and the directions we had
received from the footman, than he informed us we had
been imposed upon, telling us, Mr Cringer lived in the
other end of the town; and that it would be to no pur-
pose for us to go thither to-day, for by that time he was
gone to the House. I then asked if he could recom-
mend us to a lodging. He readily gave us a line to
| one of his acquaintance who kept a chandler’s shop not
| far from St Martin’s Lane: there we hireda bed-room,
| up two pair of stairs, at the rate of two shillings per
| week, so very small, that when the bed was let down,
| we were obliged to carry out every other piece of fur-
| mture that belonged to the apartment, and use the
| bed-stead by way of chairs.

|
|
|

About dinner-time our
| landlord asked how we proposed to live ’—to which in-
| terrogation we answered that we would

be directed by
| him,

“ Well then,” says he, “there are two ways of
j 2 . . . 2 . a . . . .

| eating in this town for people of your condition—the
one more creditable and expensive than the other: the

My companion | first is to dine at an eating-house frequented by well-

dressed people only; and the other is called diving,
practised by those who are either obliged or inclined to
live frugally.” I gave him to understand that, provided

and, in a moment, a ring was formed | the last was not infamous, it would suit much better

with our circumstances than the other, “ Infamous!”ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 25

eried he, “not at all ; there are many creditable people,
rich people, ay and fine people, that dive every day. I
have seen many a pretty gentleman with a laced waist-
coat, dine in that manner very comfortably for three-
pence halfpenny, and go afterwards to the coffeehouse,
where he made a figure with the best lord in the land ;
but your own eyes shall bear witness—I will go along
with you to-day and introduce you.”

He accordingly conducted us to a certain lane, where
stopping, he bade us observe him, and do as he did, and,
walking a few paces, dived into a cellar and disappeared
in an instant. I followed his example, and, descending
very successfully, found myself in the middle of a eook’s
shop, almost suffocated with the steams of boiled beef,
and surrounded by a company of hackney-coachmen,
chairmen, draymen, and a few footmen out of place or
on board-wages ; who sat eating shin of beef, tripe, cow-
heel, or Sausages, at separate boards, covered with
cloths which turned my stomach. While I stood in
amaze, undetermined whether to sit down or walk up-
wards again, Strap, in his descent, missing one of the
steps, tumbled headlong into this infernal ordinary, and
overturned the cook as she carried a porringer of soup
to one of the guests. In her fall, she dashed the whole
mess against the legs of a drummer belonging to the
foot-guards, who happened to be in her way, and scalded
him so miserably, that he started up and danced up and
down, uttering a volley of execrations that made my
hair stand on end.

While he entertained the company in this manner,
with an eloquence peculiar to himself, the eook got up,
and after a hearty curse on the poor author of this mis-
chance, who lay under the table with a wotful counte-
nance, emptied a salt-cellar in her hand, and. stripping
down the patient’s stocking, which brought the skin
along with it, applied the contents to the sore. This
poultice was scarce laid on when the drummer, who
had begun to abate of his exclamations, broke forth
into such a hideous yell as made the whole company
tremble ; then, seizing a pewter pint-pot that stood by
him, squeezed the sides of it together as if it had been
made of pliant leather, grinding his teeth at the same

time with a most horrible grin. Guessing the cause of

this violent transport, I bade the woman wash off the
salt and bathe the part with oil, which she did, and pro-
cured him immediate ease. But here another difficulty
occurred, which was no other than the landlady’s insist-
ing on his paying for the pot he had rendered useless.
He said he would pay for nothing but what he had eaten,
and bade her be thankful for his moderation, or else he
would prosecute her for damages. Strap, foreseeing the
whole affair would lie at his door, promised to satisfy
the cook, and called for a dram of gin to treat the drum-
mer, which entirely appeased him, and composed all
animosities. After this accommodation, our landlord
and we sat down at a board. and dined upon shin of beef
most deliciously ; our reckoning amounting to twopence
halfpenny each, bread and small beer included.

CHAPTIR XIV.
In the afternoon, my companion proposed to call at his
friend’s house, which, we were informed, was in the
neighbourhood, whither we accordingly went, and were
so lucky as to find him at home. This gentleman, who
had come from Seotland three or four years before, kept
a school in town, where he taught the Latin, French, and
italian languages; but what he chiefly professed was
the pronunciation of the English tongue, after a method
more speedy and uncommon than any practised hereto-
fore ; and, indeed, if his scholars spoke like their mas-
ter, the latter part of his undertaking was certainly per-
formed toa tittle: for although I could easily understand
every word of what I had heard hitherto since I entered
England, three parts in four of his dialect were as unin-
telligible to me as if he had spoken in Arabic or Irish.
He was a middle-sized man, and stooped very much,
ti) ,gxxh not above the age of forty ; his face was fright-
fi, yted with the small-pox, and his mouth extended

from ear to car. He was dressed in & nightgown of
plaid, fastened about his middle with a serjeant’s old
sash, and a tie-periwig with a foretop three inches high,
in the fashion of King Charles the Second’s reign.
After he had received Strap, who was related to him,
very courteously, he inquired of him who I was ; and
being informed, he took me by the hand, telling me he
was at school with my father. When he understood
my situation, he assured me that he would do me all the
service in his power, both by his advice and otherwise ;
and while he spoke these words, eyed me with great
attention, walking round me several times, and mutter-
ing, “Oh dear! Oh dear ! fata saight is here !” I soon
guessed the reason of his ejaculation, and said, “ I sup-
pose, Sir, you are not pleased with my dress.” “Dress |”
answered he, “you may caal it fat you please in your
country, but I vow to Gad ’tis a masquerade here. No
Christian will admit such a figure into his hoose. Upon
my conscience, I wonder the dogs did not hunt you.
Did you pass through St James’s market? Bless my
eye saight ! you look like a cousin-german of an ourang-
outang.” I began to be a little serious at this discourse,
and asked him, if he thought I should obtain entrance

 

to-morrow at the house of Mr Cringer, on whom I
chiefly depended for an introduction. into business ?
|“ Mr Cringer, Mr Cringer,” replied he, scratching his
cheek, “may be a very honest gentleman—I know no-
thing to the contrary ; but is your sole dependence upon
him? Who recommended you to him?” T pulled out
Mr Crab’s letter, and told him the foundation of my
| hopes; at which he stared at me, and repeated, “Oh
dear! oh dear!” I began to conceive bad omens from
this behaviour of his, and begged he would assist me
with his advice, which he promised to give very frankly ;
and, as a specimen, directed us toa periwig warehouse
in the neighbourhood, in order to be accommodated ;
laying strong injunctions on me not to appear before Mr
Cringer till I had parted with my carroty locks, which,
he said, were sufficient to beget an antipathy against me
in all mankind. And as we were going to pursue this
advice, he called me back, and bade me be sure to de-
liver my letter into Mr Cringer’s own hand.

As we walked along, Strap triumphed greatly in our
reception with his friend, who, it seems, had assured
him he would in a day or two provide for him, with
some good master ; “ and now,” says he, “ you will see
how I will fit you with a wig. There’s ne’er a barber
in London (and that’s a bold word) can palm a rotten
caul, or a penny-weight of dead hair, upon me.” And,
indeed, this zealous adherent did wrangle so long with

the merchant, that he was desired twenty times to leave
| the shop, and see if he could get one cheaper elsewhere,

At length I made choice of a good handsome bob, for

which I paid ten shillings; and returned to our lodging,

where Strap, in a moment, rid me of that hair whieh
| had given the schoolmaster so much offence.

We got up next day betimes, having been informed
that Mr Cringer gave audience by candle-light to all
his dependents, he himself being obliged to attend the
levee of my Lord Terrier at break of day, because his
lordship made one at the minister’s between eight and
nine o’clock. When we came to Mr Cringer’s door,
Strap, to give me an instance of his politeness, ran to
the knocker, which he employed so loud and so long
that he alarmed the whole street ; and a window open-
ing in the second story of the next house, a vessel was
discharged upon him so successfully, that the poor
barber was wet to the skin; while I, being luckily at
some distance, escaped the unsavoury deluge. In the
meantime, a footman opening the door, and seeing no-
body in the street but us, asked, with a stern counte-
nance, if it was I who made such a noise, and what I
wanted. I told him I had business with his master,
whom I desired to see. Upon which he slapped the
door in my face, telling me, I must learn better man-
ners before I could have access to his master. Vexed
at this disappointment, I turned my resentment against
Strap, whom I sharply reprimanded for his presump-
tion; but he, not in the least regarding what I said,
wrung the wet out of his periwig, and, lifting una.larce

 

 

 

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stone, flung it with such force against the street-door
‘of that haise from whence he had been bedewed, that
the lock giving way, it flew wide open, and he re to
his heels, leaving me to follow him as [ could. Indeed,
there was no time for delibex ration; | therefore pursued
him with all the speed I could exert, until we found
ourselves about the dawn in a street we did not know.
Here, as we wandered along, gaping about, a very de-
cent sort of a man, passing by me, stopped ef a sudden
and took up something, which having examined, he
turned and presented it to me with these words: “ Sir,
you have dropt half a crown,” I was not a little sur-
prised at this instance of honesty, and told him it did

not belong to me; but he bade me recollect, and see if

all my money was safe : upon which | pulled out my
puree, for I had bought one since I came to town, and,
reckoning my money in my hand, which was now re-

duced to five guineas, seven shillings and twopence,

assured him I had lost nothing, “ Weil then,” says he,
‘so much the better; this is a godsend, and as you two
were present when I picked it up, your are entitled to
equal shares with me.” I was astonished at these words,
and looked upon this person to be a prodigy of integrity,
but absolutely refused to take any part of the sum.
‘Come, gentlemen,” said he, “ you are too modest—
I see you are strangers; but you shall give me leave to
treat you with a whe t this cold raw morning.”” I would
have declined this invitation, but Strap whispered to
me that the gentleman would be affronted, and I com-
plied. “ Where shall we go?” said the stranger; “ I
am quite ignorant of this part of the town.” I informed
him that we were in the same situation: upon which he
proposed to go into the first public house we should find
open; and as we walked together, he began in this
manner :—‘ I find by your tongues you are from Scot-
land, gentlemen: my grandmother by the father’s side
was of your country, and I am so prepossessed in its
favour, that | never meet a Seotchman but my heart
warms. The Scots are a very brave people. There is
searce a great family in the kingdom that cannot boast
of some exploits performed by its ancestors many hun-
dred years ago. ‘There’s your Douglasses, Gordons,
Campbells, Hamiltons, We have no such ancient fami-
lies here in England. Then you are all very well edu-
cated. I have knowna pedlar talk in Greek cand Hebrew,
as well as if they had be ‘en his mother-tongue. And for
honesty—I once had a servant, his name was Gregor
Macgregor, I would have trusted him with untold gold.”

This eulogium on my native country gained my affee-

 

tion so strongly, that I believe I could have gone to

death to serv
tears. At sei as we passed through a dark narrow
lane, we perceived a public house, which we entered,
and found a man sitting by the fire, smoking a pipe

with a pint of purl before him, Our new acquaintance
asked us, if eyer we had drunk egg-tlip! To which

question we answering in the negative, he assured us of

to be prepared, calling
We found this

a regale, and ordered a quart
for pipes and tobacco at the same time.
composition very palatable, and drank heartily; the
conversation, which was introduced by the gentleman,
turning upon the snares that young inexperienced
people are exposed to in this metropolis. He described
a thousand cheats that are daily practised upon the
ignorant and unwary, and warned us of them with so
much good-nature and concern, that we blessed the op-
portunity which threw us in his way. After we had put
the can about for some time, our new friend beg: m to

yawn, telling us he had been up all night with a sick
person ; and proposed we should have recourse to some
diversion to keep him awake :— “Suppose,” said he, “ we
should take a hand at whist for pastime. But let me
see ; that won't do, there’s only three of us; and I ean-
not play at any other game. The truth i is, 3 seldom or
never play, but out of complaisanee, or at such a time

s this, when [ am in danger of falling asleep.”

DF itanah I was not much inclined to gaming, I felt
no aversion to pass an hour or two at cards with a
friend; and knowing that Strap understood as much of

= en a a wa ot

the matter as I, made no serup he of s say ying, * 1 wish we

e the author; and Strap’s eyes swam in |

 

26 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

could find a fourth hand.” While we were in this per-
plexity, the person whom we found in the house at our
entrance, overhearing our discourse, took the pipe
from his mouth very gravely, and accosted us thus :—
“ Gentlemen, my pipe is out, you see,” shaking the
ashes into the fire, “and rather than you should be
baulked, I don’t care if [ take a hand with you for a
trifle—but remember I won’t play for any thing of con-
sequence.” We accepted his proffer with pleasure.
Having cut for partners, it fell to my lot to play with
him against our friend and Strap, for thr sepence a game.
We were so successful, that in a short time I was half
a crown gainer ; when the gentleman whom we had met
in the street observing he had no luck to-day, proposed
to leave off, or change partners. By this time I was
inflamed with my good fortune and the expectation of
improving it, as I perceived the two stre angers played
but indiffere ntly ; ; therefore I voted for giving him his
revenge : and cutting again, Strap and I, to our mutual
satisfaction, meee te to 0 be partners. My good fortune
attended me still, and in less than an hom we had got
thirty shillings of their iter t for as they lost they
grew the keene “xr, and doubled stakes every time. At
last the inconstant goddess began to veer about, and we
were very soon stript of all our gains, and about forty
shillings of our own money. This loss mortified me
extremely, and had a visible effect on the muscles of
Strap’s face, which lengthened apace ; but our antago-
nists perceiving our condition, kindly permitted us to
retrieve our loss, and console ourselves with a new ac-
quisiiig n. Then my companion wisely suggested it was
ime to be gone ; upon which the person who had joined
us in the hous se began to curse the ecards, and muttered
that we were indebted to fortune only for what we had
got, no part of our success heing owing to our good play.
This insinuation nettled me so much that I challenged
him to a game at p iquet for a crown: and he was with
difficulty persuaded to acce pt the invitation. ‘This con-
test ended in less than an hour to my inexpressible
afiliction, who lost every shilling of my own money,
strap absolutely refusing to supply me with a sixpence.
The gentleman at whose request we had come in,
perceiving by my disconsolate looks the situation of my
heart, which well nigh burst with grief and resentment,
when the other stranger got up, and went away with
my gts began in this manner :—“ | am truly afflicted
at your bad luck, and would willingly repair it, were it
in my power, But what in the name of goodness could
provoke you totempt your fate so long? It is always
& maxim with gamesters to
will go, and to stop whenever fortune shifts about. You
are a young man, and your passions are too impetuous ;
you must learn to govern them better. However, there
is no experience like that which is bought; you will be
the better for thi lis the longest day you have tolive. As
for the fellow who has got your money, I don’t half like
him. Did not you observe me tip you the wink to leave
off in time?’ J bh anawerad, * No.” * No,” continued he;
‘you was to eager to mind any thing but the game.
But, een Si said he, ina . Wale S r, “are you satisfied
of that young man’s honesty? his looks are a little sus-
picious—but ‘ may be mintken ; he made a great many
grimaces while he stood behind you: this is a ver)
wicked town.” I told him I was very well convinced
of my comrade’s integrity, and that the grimaces he
mentioned were doubtless owing to his anxiety at my
loss. Oh ho! if that be the ease, I ask his pardon.
Landlord, see what’s to pay.” The reckoning amounted
to eighteenpence, whic] h, having discharged, the gentle-
man shook us both by the hand, and, saying he should
be very glad to see us again, departed.

ursue success as far as it

HAPTER XV.

In our way to our lodging, after a profound silence on
both sides, Strap, with a hick ous groan, observed, that
ve had brought our pigs to a fine market.

To this op:

servation I made no reply, and he wenton: “ Gogys 1? !

us well out of this lace : : we have not been ip

_ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RAN (DOM. \

\

eight and forty hours, and I believe we have met with pass and repass, with an airwf familia rity, in their way
eight and forty thousand misfortunes. We have been | to and from the a audience-chamber ; while I was fain to
jeered, reproached, buffeted, and at last stript of our | stand shivering in the Seals und turn my back to them
money ; and I suppose by and bye we shall be s stript of | that they might not perceive the lowness of my annie
our skins. Indeed, as to tl 1e money part of it, that was | tion. At len; rth, Mr Cc ringer came out to see a youne
owing to our own folly: Solomon says, ‘ Bray a fool in gentleman to the door, who was no other than Squire
© mortar, andjhe will never be wise. Ah! God help Gawky, dressed in a very ]

us, an Ounce of prudence is worth a pound of gold.” | ing

hes

L gay suit of clothes: at part-
S iger shook him by the hand, and told him
This was no time for him to tamper with my disposition, he hope

one to have the pleasure of his company at din-
ready mad with my * loss, and inflamed with resent- | ner. Then, tu rning about tow: ards me, asked what were
ment against him for haying refused me a little money my commands? When he understood I was the person
to attempt to retrieve it. IT therefore turned towards | who had broucht the Lenten from Mr Crab, he affected
him; with a stern count enance, and asked, who he | to recollect my name, which, however, he pretended he

letter again ; Y

called fool? Being altogether unaccustomed to such could not do till he had conaulte od the
save h um the trouble, I told him my name was Rai

ce irom me, he stood still and stn wed In my face for
dom. Upon which he went on, ‘ * Ay ay, Random, ioe

some time ; the n, with some confusion, uttered, Fool !
1 called nobody fool but myself; I am sure I am the | dom. Random—tI think I remember the name :? and
very well he might, for this very individual, Mr Crin-

   

Min (¢ -
Wit & Yi
}

t

|
|

 

reatest fool of the two, for being so much concerned
at other people’s misfortunes ; but Nemo omnibus horis ger, had many a a rode before my g andfather’ Ss
sapit—that’s all—that’s all.” Upon which a silence en- clo ak-bag, in qu: of a footman. “¥V Fell,” Says he,
sued that brought us to our lodging, where |] aie ‘you propose to 20 01 1 board a man-of-war as surgeon’s
myself upon the bed in an agony of dc spair, resolved to | mate.” I replied by a low bow. “I believe it will be
perish rather than apply to my companion, gene a difficult matter,” canhaiind he, * to procure a war-
body, for relief; but Strap, who knew my temper, and | rant, there being : ready such a swarm of Scotch sur-
whose heart bled within him at my distress, after some | geons at the Nav y Office, in expectation of the next va-

pause came to the bed-side, and, puttinga bs =i rn purse | cancy, that the commissioners are afraid of being torn
into my pan burst into tears, erying, “I know what | to pieces, and have actually y applied for a guard to pro-
you think ut I scorn your thoughts. The eae all I | tect them. However, some ships will soon be put in

have in the ain l, take it, and I’ll perhaps get more for | commission.- and then we shall see what’s to be done.
you before that be done. If not, I’ll beg for you, steal | So saying, he left me, exceedingly mortified at the dif-
for you, go saraug! 1 the wide world with you, and starve | ferent reception Mr Gawky and I had met with from

ith you; for though [ be a poor cobbler’s son, I am | this upstart, proud, mean member, who, [ imagined,
no scout.” I was so touched with the generous passion | would have been glad of an opportunity to be grateful
of this poor ereature, that I could not refrain from wi ep- | for the obligations hi > owed to my farnift:

ing also, and we mingled our tears together for some At my return, | was surprised with the agreeable
time, Upon examining the purse, | found in it two half | news of S trap’s being employed, % n the recommendation
guineas and half a crown, whicl n 1 would have returned | of his friend the schoolmaster, by a periwig-maker in
to him, saying, he knew better than I how to manage it, | the neighbourhood, who allowed him five shillings S per
but he absolutely refused my proposal, and told me, it | week, besides bed and board. 1 continued to dance
was more reasonable and decent that he should d pend | attendance every other morning at the levee of Mr
upon me, who was a gentleman, than that I should be | Cringer, during a fortnight; in which time I became

 

li

controlled by him. acquainted with a young fellow of m ly own country and
After this friendly contest was over, and our minds profession, who also depended on the member’s inte-
more at ease, we informed our landlord of what h; Ee rest, but was treated with much more pei than J,
happened to us, taking care to conceal the extre mity to | both by the servants and master, and often admitted
which we were “reduc ed, He no sooner heard the sce y | into a parlour, where there was a fire for the conve-
than he assured us we had been grievous ly impose d | nience of the better sort of those who waited for him.
upon by a couple of sharpers, who were associates ;and| Thither I was never permitted to peer on ac-
that this palite, honest, friendly, humane person, who | count of my appearance, which was not at all fashion-
had treated us so civilly, \ was no other than a raseally | able; but was ob] iged to stand blowing my fingers in a
money-dropper, who made it his business to decoy | eald lobby, an id take the first opportunity of Mr Crin-
strangers in that manner to one of his own haunts, | ger’s going to the door to spea vk with him.
where an ace omp lice or two were always waiting to as- One day while I enjoyed this occasion, a person was
sist in pillaging the prey he had run down. Here the eRe whom Mr Cringer no sooner saw, than,
good man recounted a great many stories of people who | running towards him, he saluted him with a bow to the
h; ud been seduced, cheated, pilfered, beat, nay, even | ve ry ground, and afterwards shaking him by the hand
murdered, by such villains. { was confounded at the | with great heartiness and LAE called bim_ his
artifice and wickedness’of mankind: and strap, lifting | good friend, and asked very kindly after Mrs Staytape
ap his eyes and hands to heaven, prayed that God would | and the young ladies ; then, after a whisper, which con-
tinued some minutes, wherein I overheard the word

deliver him from such scenes of iniquity, for surely the
devil had set up his throne in London. Our landlord | honour repeated several times with great emphasis,

 

a in SSS See

being curious to know what rec ption we had met with | Mr Cringer introduced me to this gentleman, as to a oat
at Mr C ringer’s, we acquainted him with the particulars person whose advice and assistance I might depend i
at which he shook his be ad, and told us we had not gone | upon; and having:given me his dire ction, followe -d me F
the right way to work : that there was nothing to be done | to the door, where he told me I need not give myself 4 \
with a member of parliament without a bribe: ee the | the trouble to call at his house any more, for Mr Stay- f i‘
servant was commonly infected with the master’s dis- | tape would do my business. At that instant my fel- fi

=:

ease, and expected to be paid for his work, as well as | low-dependent, coming out after me, overheard the dis-

his betters, He therefore advised me to give the foot- | course of Mr ( ringer, and, making up to me in the
man a shilling the next time I should desire admittance | street, accosted me very civilly: 3 this address I Jooked
to my patron, or else I should searce find an opportu- | upon as no small honour considering the figure he
nity to deliver my letter. apeneital y, next m¢ orning, | made ; for he was dressed in a blue frock with a gold
when the door was opened, I slipt a shilling into his | button, a green silk waistcoat trimmed with gold, black
hand, and told him I had a letter for his master, ] | velvet br ae white silk stockings, silver ‘buckles, a
found the good effects of my liberality ; ; for hay fellow gold-laced hat, a spencer-wig, and a ail¥er. hilted han-
let me in immediately, and, taking the letter out of my \ er, with a fine clouded canein his hand. * I perceive,”
hand, desired me to waitin a kind of passage for | 8: says he, “ you are but lately come from’ Scotland :—
an answer, In this place I continued s standing for three | pray what may your business with Mr Cringer be? J
(cegzters of an hour, during which time I saw a great | suppose it is no secret, and I may possibly give you
1) ny young fellows whom L formerly kuew in Scotland some advice that will hé serviceable 5 for £ have been28

surgeon’s second mate on board of a seventy-gun ship,
and consequently know a good deal of the world.”

I made no scruple to disclose my situation, which,
when he had learned, he shook his head, and told me
he had been pretty much in the same circumstances
about a year ago; that he had relied on Cringer’s pro-
mises, until his money (which was considerable) as well
as his credit, was quite exhausted ; and when he wrote
to his relations for a fresh supply, instead of money
he received nothing but reproaches, and the epithets
of idle, debauched fellow. That after he had waited
at the Navy Office many months for a warrant to no
purpose, he was fain to pawn some of his clothes, which
raised a small sum wherewith he bribed the secretary,
who soon procured a warrant for him, notwithstand-
ing he had affirmed the same day that there was not
one vacancy. That he had gone on board, where he
remained nine months, at the end of which the ship
was put out of commission ; and he said the company
were to be paid off in Broad Street the very next day.
That his relations being reconciled to him, had charged
him to pay his devoirs regularly to Mr Cringer, who
had informed them by letter that his interest alone had
procured the warrant ; in obedience to which command,
he came to his levee every morning, as I saw, though he
looked upon him to be a yery pitiful scoundrel. In con-
clusion, he asked me if I had yet passed at Surgeons’
Hal]l? To which question I answered, I did not so much
as know it was necessary. “ Necessary!’ cried he,
* Oh then I find I must instruct you ;—come along
with me, and [’ll give you some information about that
matter.” So saying, he carried me into an ale-house,
where he called for some beer, and bread and cheese,
on which we breakfasted. While we sat in this place,
he told me I must first go to the Navy Office, and write
to the Board, desiring them to order a letter for me to
Surgeons’ Hall, that I might be examined touching my
skill in surgery. That the surgeons, after having ex-
amined me, would give me my qualification sealed up in
form of a letter directed to the commissioners, which

qualification I must deliver to the secretary of the |

Board, who would open it in my presence, and read the
contents ; after which I must employ my interest to be
provided for as soon as possible. That the expense
of his qualification for second mate of a third-rate
amounted to thirteen shillings, exclusive of the war-
rant, which cost him half a guinea and half a crown,
besides a present to the secretary, which consisted of
a three-pound-twelve piece. This calculation was like
a thunderbolt to me, whose whole fortune did not
amount to twelve shillings. I accordingly made him
acquainted with this part of my distress, after hav-
ing thanked him for his information and advice. He
condoled me on this occasion ; but bade me be of good

 

cheer, for he had conceived a friendship for me, and |

would make all things easy. He was run out at present, |

but to-morrow or next day he was certain of receiy ing

a considerable sum; of which he would lend me what |

would be sufficient to answer my exigencies. This frank

declaration pleased me so much, that I pulled out my |

purse and emptied it before him, begging him to take |
what he pleased for pocket-expense, until he should re- |

ceive his own money. With a good deal of pressing, he
was prevailed upon to take five shillings, telling me that
he might have what money he wanted at any time for
the trouble of going into the city; but as he had met
with me, he would defer his going thither till to-morrow,
when I should go along with him, and he would put me
in a way of acting for myself, without a servile depend-
ence on that rascal Cringer, much, less on the tailor
to whom he heard him turn me over. “ How!” cried I,
“is Mr Staytape a tailor?’ “ No less, I assure you,”
answered he, “and, I confess, more likely to serve you
than the member ; for, provided you can entertain him
with politics and conundrums, you may have credit
with him for as many and as rich clothes as you please.”
I told him, I was utterly ignorant of both, and so in-
censed at Cringer’s usage, that I would never set foot
within his door again.
Aftera good deal more conversatio

noe.

n, my new acquaint-

Sat a ————— " -

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

ance and I parted, having made an appointment to meet
next day at the same place, in order to set out for the
city. I went immediately to Strap, and related every
thing which had happened, but he did not at all approve
of my being so forward to lend money to a stranger,
especially as we had already been so much imposed
upon by appearances. “ However,” said he, “ if you
are sure he is a Scotchman, I believe you are safe.”

Here rererererere

CHAPTER XVI.

In the morning I rose and went to the place of ren-
dezvous, where I waited two hours in vain ; and was so
exasperated against him for breaking his appointment,
that I set out for the city by myself, in hope of finding
the villain, and being revenged on him for his breach
of promise. At length I found myself at the Navy
Office, which I entered, and saw crowds of young fellows
walking below, many of whom made no better appear-
ance than myself. I consulted the physiognomy of
each, and at last made up to one whose countenance
I liked, and asked, if he could instruct me in the form
of the letter which was to be sent to the Board to
obtain an order for examination? He answered me in
broad Scotch, that he would show me the copy of what
he had writ for himself, by the direction of another who
knew the form, and accordingly pulled it out of his
pocket for my perusal ; and told me, that if I was expe-
ditious, 1 might send it in to the Board before dinner,
for they did no business in the afternoon. He then
went with me toa coffeehouse hard by, where I wrote
the letter, which was immediately delivered to the mes-
senger, who told me, I might expect an order to-morrow
about the same time.

Having transacted this piece of business, my mind
was a good deal composed ; and as I had met with so
much civility from the stranger, I desired further ac-
quaintance with him, fully resolved, however, not to be
deceived by him so much to my prejudice as I had been
by the beau. He agreed to dine with me at the cook’s
shop which I frequented ; and on our way thither ear-
ried me to Change, where I was in hopes of finding Mr
Jackson (for that was the name of the person who had
broke his appointment). I sought him there to no pur-
pose, and on our way towards the other end of the town
imparted to my companion his behaviour towards me ;
upon which, he gave me to understand, that he was no
stranger to the name of beau Jackson (so he was called
at the Navy Office), although he did not know him per-
sonally ; that he had the character of a good-natured
careless fellow, who made no scruple of borrowing from

| any that would lend; that most people who knew him

believed he had a good principle at bottom, but his ex-
travagance was such, he would probably never have it
in his power to manifest the honesty of his intention.
This account made me sweat for my five shillings, which
I nevertheless did not altogether despair of recovering,
provided I could find out the debtor.

This young man likewise added another circumstance
of Squire Jackson’s history, which was, that being des-
titute of all means to equip himself for sea when he re-
ceived his last warrant, he had been recommended to a
person who lent him a little money, after he had signed
a will, entitling that person to lift his wages when they
should become due, as also to inherit his effects in case
of his death. That he was still under the tutorage and
direction of that gentleman, who advanced him small
sums from time to time upon this security, at the rate
of fifty per cent. But at present his credit was very
low, because his funds would do little more than pay
what he had already received, this moderate interest
included, Atter the stranger (whose name was Thomson)
had entertamed me with this account of Jackson, he in-
formed me that he himself had passed for third mate
ofa third-rate, about four months ago; since which time
he had constantly attended at the Navy Office, in hope
of a warrant, having been assured from the beginning,
both by a Scotch member and one of the commissi AHH? |

to whom the member reeommended him, that he showheat 9

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

be put into the first vacancy ; notwithstanding which
promise, he had the mortification to see six or seven
appointed in the same station almost every week—that
now, being utterly impoverished, his sole hope consisted
in the promise of a friend lately come to town, to lend
him a small matter, for a present to the secretary ;
without which he was persuaded he might wait a thou-
sand years to no purpose. I conceived a mighty liking
for this young fellow, which (I believe) proceeded from
the similitude of our fortunes. We spent the whole day
together ; and as he lived at Wapping, I desired him to
take a share of my bed.

Next day we returned to the Navy Office, where, after
being called before the Board, and questioned about the
place of my nativity and education, they ordereda letter
to be made out for me, which, upon paying half a crown
to the clerk, I received, and delivered into the hands of
the clerk at Surgeons’ Hall, together with a shilling
for his trouble in registering my name. By this time
my whole stock was diminished to two shillings, and I
saw not the least prospect of relief, even for present
subsistence, much less to enable me to pay the fees at
Surgeons’ Hall for my examination, which would come
on ina fortnight. In this state of perplexity, I consulted

Strap, who assured me he would pawn every thing

he had in the world, even to his razors, before I should |

want : but this expedient I absolutely rejected, telling
him, I would a thousand times rather list for a soldier,
ot which I had some thoughts, than be any longer a
burden to him. At the word soldier, he grew pale as
death, and begged on his knees I would think no more
of that scheme. “God preserve us all in our right
wits !” cried he, “ would you turn soldier, and perhaps
be sent abroad against the Spaniards, where you must
stand and be shot at like a woodecock? Heaven keep
cold lead out of my carease, and let me die in a bed like
a Christian, as all my forefathers have done! What sig-
nifies all earthly riches and honours, if one enjoys not
content? and, hereafter, there is no respect of persons.
Better be a poor honest barber with a good conscience,
and time to repent of my sins upon my death-bed, than
be cut off (God bless us!) by a musket-shot, as it were
in the very flower of one’s age, in the pursuit of riches
and fame. What signify riches, my dear friend? do
they not make unto themselves wings and fly away?
as the wise man saith. I could also mention many
other sayings in contempt of riches, both from the
Bible and other good books; but as I know you are
not very fond of those things, I shall only assure you,
that if you take on to be a soldier, I will do the same ;
and then if we should both be slain, you will not only
have your own blood to answer for, but mine also: and
peradventure the lives of all those whom we shall kill
in battle. Therefore I pray you, consider whether you
will sit down contented with small things, and share
the fruits of my industry in peace, till Providence shall
send better tidings; or by your despair, plunge both
our souls and bodies into everlasting perdition, which
God of his infinite mercy forbid!” I could not help
smiling at this harangue, which was delivered with
great earnestness, the tears standing in his eyes all the
time, and promised to do nothing of that sort without
his consent and concurrence. He was much comforted
with this declaration; and told me ina few days he
should receive a week’s wages, which should be at my
service, but advised me in the meantime to go in quest
of Jackson, and recover, if possible, what he had bor-
rowed of me. I accordingly trudged about from one
end of the town to the other, for several days, without
being able to learn any thing certain concerning him:
and, one day, being extremely hungry, and allured by
the steams that regaled my nostrils from a boiling cel-
lar, | went down with an intention to gratify my appe-
tite with a twopennyworth of beef ; when, to my no small
surprise, | found Mr Jackson sitting at dinner with a
footman. He no sooner perceived me than he got up
and shook me by the hand, saying, “ He was glad to
see me, for he intended to have called at my lodgings
in the afternoon.” I was so well pleased with this ren-
counter, and the ei he made for not keeping his

 

 

 

 

29

appointment, that I forgot my resentment, and sat down
to dinner, with the happy expectation of not only re-
covering My own money before we should part, but
aiso of reaping the benefit of his promise to lend me
wherewithal to pass examination ; and this hope my
ea omuplexon Suggested, though the account

1 gave me of him ought to have moderated my
expectation.

W hen we had feasted sumptuously, he took his leave
of the footman, and adjourned with me toan ale-house
hard by, where, alter shaking me by the hand again,
i: nepal thus :—< Suppose you think me a sad dog,
Mr tandom, and I do confess that appearances are
against me. But I dare say you will forgive me when
I tell you, my not coming at the time appointed was
owing to a peremptory message I received from a cer-
tain lady, whom, harkee ! (but this is a great secret) I
am to marry very soon. You think this strange per-
haps, but it is not less true for all that—a five thousand
pounder, I’ll assure you, besides expectations. For
my own part, devil take me if I know what any woman
can see engaging about me—hbut a whim, you know—
and then one would not baulk one’s good fortune. You
saw that footman who dined with us—he’s one of the

| honestest fellows thatever wore livery. You must know

it was by his means I was introduced to her, for he
made me first acquainted with her woman, who is his
mistress—ay, many a crown has he and his sweetheart
had of my money—but what of that! things are now
brought toa bearing. I have—(come a little this way )—
| have proposed marriage, and the day is fixed—she’s
a charming creature, and writes like an angel! She
can repeat all the English tragedies as well as e’er a
player in Drury Lane !—and indeed is so fond of plays,
that to be near the stage, she has taken lodgings in a
court hard by the theatre ; but you shall see—you shall
see—here’s the last letter she sent me.” With these
words, he put it into my hand, and I read to the best
of my remembrance) as follows :—

“ Dieer CrerreR—<As you are the animable hopjack
of my contemplayshins, your aydear is infernally skim-
ming before my keymerycal fansee, when Murfy sends
his puppies to the heys of slipping mortals ; and when
Febus shines from his merry dying throne: where-
upon, I shall canseeif old time has lost his pmners,
as also cubit his harrows, until thou enjoy sweet pro-
pose in the loafseek harms of thy very faithfool to eom-
mend, CLAYRENDER.

Wingar-Yeard, Droory-Lane, January 12th.”

While I was reading, he seemed to be in an ecstacy,
rubbing his hands, and bursting out into fits of laughter ;
at last he caught hold of my hand, and squeezing it,
cried, “There is a style for you! what do you think of
this billetdoux?” I answered, “ It might be sublime for
ought I knew, for it was altogether above my compre-
hension.” “Oh ho!” said he, “I believe it is—both ten-
der and sublime ; she’s a divine creature! and so doats
upon me! Let me see—what shall I do with this money,
when I have once got it into my hands? In the first
place, I shall do for you. I’m a man of few words—
but, say no more—that’s determined: whether would
you advise me to purchase some post, by which I may
rise in the state, or lay out my wife’s fortune in land,
and retire to the country at once?” I gave my opinion
without hesitation, that he could not do better than buy
an estate and improve ; especially since he had already
seen so much of the world. Then I launched out into
the praises of a country life, as described by the poets
whose works I had read. He seemed to relish my ad-
vice, but withal told me, that although he had seen a
great deal of the world, both at land and sea, having
cruised three whole months in the Channel, yet he should
not be satisfied until he had visited France, which he
proposed to do before he should settle; and to carry
his wife along with him. I had nothing to object to his
proposal ; and asked how soon he hoped to be happy.
“As to that,” he replied, “nothing obstructs my happi-
ness but the want of a little ready cash; for you must
know, my iriend in the city has gone out of town for a

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30 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

week or two, and I unfortunately missed my pay at
Broad Street, by being detained too long by the dear
charmer—but there will be a recal at Chatham next
week, whither the ship’s books are sent, and I have
commissioned a friend in that place to receive the
money. 2 “Tf that be all,” said I, “ there’s no great
harm in deferring your mar lage a “few diys;”’ .* Ve 1S,
faith! but there is,’’ said he; ¢ ue don’t know ae
many rivals i have, who would ¢ take all advantages
against me. I would not baulk the impatience of her
passion for the world—the least appearance of coldness
and indifference would ruin all; and such offers don’t
occur every day.”

I acquiesced in this observation, and inquired how
he intended to proceed. At this question he rubbed
his chin, and said, “ Why, truly, I must be obliged to
some friend or other—do you know nobody that would
lend me a small sum for a day or two?” I assured him,
I was such an utter stranger in London, that I did not
believe I could borrow a guinea if my life depended
upon it. “No!” said he, “that’s har d—that’s hard! I
wish I had any thing to pawn—upon my soul, you have
got excellent linen (feel ling the sleeve of my shirt) ; how
many shirts of th: ut kint Uh ive you got?’ I answere 4;
“ Six rut fied, and six plain.” Atw hich he testified gre:
surprise, and declared t that no gentleman ought to have
more than four.» “ How many Ww ye think I have got”
continued he ; “ but this and another, as I hoped to be
saved! and I dare say we shall be able to raise a good
sum out of your superfluity: let me see—let mie see—
each of these shirts is worth sixteen shillings at a mo-
derate comput: ition—now, suppose we pawn them for
half price—eight times eight is sixty-four, that’s three
poundsfour : that will do—give me your ha nd, ” “Softly,
softly, Mr Jackson,” said i; “don’t dispose of my linen
without my consent : first pay me a crown you Owe me,
and then we shall talk of other matters.” He protested
he had not above one shilling in his poe seh t, but that he
would pay me out of the first of the money raised from
the shirts. This piece of assurance incensed me so
much that I swore I would not part with him until J
had received satisfaction for what I had lent him: and
as for the shirts, I would not pawn one of them tosaye
him from the gallows.

At this expression he laughed aloud, and then com-
plained it was very hard that I should refuse him a
trifle that would infallibly enable him not only to make
his own fortune but mine also. “ You talk of pawning
my shirts,” said I ; “suppose you should sell this hanger,
Mr Jac fan ] believe it would fetch a good round
sum.” “ No, hing it!” said he, “1 can’t appear decently
without ny hanger, otlicrwise it should 20.” However,
seeing mé inflexible with regard to my linen, he at
length unbuckled his hanger, and, showing me the sign
of the three blue balls, desired me to carry it thither
and pawn it for two euine as. [ would by no
means have performed, had I seen
having my money otherwise ; but not
piece of false delicacy, to neglect the only opportunity
[ should perhaps ever have, I ventured into a pawn-
broker’s shop, where I demanded two cuinea
pledge, in the name of Thotias Williams. “Two
guineas !” said the pawnbroker, looking at

ny: oe
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villin 7, out of a

7
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t the hanger :
“this piece of goods has been here several times before
for thirty shillings: however, since [ belie
tleman to whom it belongs will redeem it, he shall hays
what he wants ;” and aecapainily h he * pala me the motiey,
which I carried to the house whee I had left .
and, calling for change, counted out to him seven and
thirty shillings, reserving the other five for myself.
After looking at the money some time, he said, “Well!
it don’t signify—this won’t do my business; so you m: y
as well take half a guinea, or a whole one, as the five
shillings you have kept.” I thanked him kindly, but
refused to accept of any more than was n 1y due, because
t had no prospect of repaying it. Upon which decla-
ration, he stared in my fac e, and told me, I was exce
sively raw, or I would not talk in thatmanner. “ U po on
my word, 2 cried he, “I have a very bad opinion of :
young fellow who won’t borrow of his friend when he

Jackson :

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‘likelihood of

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j

is in want—’tis the sign of a sneaking spirit. Come,
come, Random, give me back the five shillings, and age
this half guinea ; and if ever you are able to pay mie, I
believe you will; if not, I shall never ask it.”

When I reflected upon my present necessity, I suf-
fered myself to be persuaded, and after making oa
acknowledgments to Mr Jackson, who offered to tre:
me with a play, I returned to my lodgings with a much
better opinion of this gentleman than 1 had j in the morn-
En and at night imparted my day’s adventure to Strap,

who rejoiced at my good luck, saying, “I told you if
# was @ Scotchman, you was safe endugh—and who
knows but this marriage may make us all. Y ou have
heard, I suppose, as how a countryman of ours, a jour-
neyman baker, ran away with a great lady of this town,
and now keeps his coach. I say nothing ; but yesterday
morning as I wass shaving a gentleman at his own house,
there was a young lady in the room, and she threw so
many sheep’s eyes at a certain person whom I shall
not name, that heart went knock, krioek, knotk, like
a ae mill, and my hand sh—sh—shook so much
that I sliced : piece of skin off the gentleman’s nose ;
whereby aie uttered a deadly oath, and was going to
pe me, when she prevented him, arid iniade my
on is not @ journeyman barber as good asa jour-
eyman baker? The only difference i is, t the baker uses
we rfor the belly and the barber uses it fo¥ the head:
and as the head is a more noble member than the be lly,
so is a barber more noble than a baker—for what’s the
yor: without the head? Besides, I am told, he could
ither read nor write ; now you know I ean do both,
nai moreover, speak Latin—but I will say no mote, fo
I de espise Vanity qitliiitie is more vain thati vanity
With these words, he pulled out of his pocket a wax
candle’s end, which he applied to his forehead; and,
upon examination, I fourid he had combed his own hair
over the toupee of his wig, and was, indeed, in his whole
dress, become a very smart shaver, 1] courratulated
him on his et oe a satirical smile; which he un-
derstood very well; and, shaking his head, observed |
had very little faith, but the truth would eome to light
in spite of my incredulity.

OM RTO Re rer onie

CHAPTER XVIl.

Wiru the assistance of this faithful adherent. who gave
me almost all the money he earned, [| preserved miy
half guinea eritire till the day of examination, when i
welt with a quaking heart to surgeons’ Hall, in orde
to undergo that cere mony. Among a crowd of young
fellows who walked in the outward hall; I perceived Mr
Jackson, to whom I immediately went up, and, Inq uir-
ing into ‘the state of his love affair, understood it was
still undetermined, by reason of his friend’s absence,
i the delay of the reeal at Chatham, which put it out
f his ae to bring it to a conclusion. I then asked
w wit at his business was in this pla ce ; he replied, he was
nears | to have two strings to his bow, that in case the
one failed, he might use the other ; and, with this \ iew,
he was to pass that night for a higher qualification. At
that instant, a young fellow came out from the place of
<amination, with a pale countenance, his lip quivering,
aie his looks # wild as if he had seen a ghost. Heno
sooner ap Pe wed, than we all flocked about him with the
utmost eagerness to know what reception he had met
with ; whie ch, alter some pause, he i scribed, recountin
all the questions they had asked, with the answers he
made, fut this manner we oblige is no less than twelve to
recapitulate , Which, now the danger was past, they did
ith pleasure, before it fell to my lot: at leneth the
betidle called my name, with a voice that made me
tremble. However, there was no rethedy. I was con-
ducted into a large hall, where I saw a
grim faces sitting at a long table; one of whom bade
me come forward, in such an imperious tone that I was
actually for a minute or two bereft of my senses. ‘The
first question he put to me was, “ Where was you born 2”
To which I answered, “ Ii Scotland?“ In Scotland,”

said he; “1 know that very w ell e have searce any;

bout a dozen ofADVENTURES OF RODE tICK RANDOM.

other countrymen to examine here—you Seotchmen

have overspread us of late as the locusts did Egypt. I
ask you in what part of Scotland was you born?? I

named the place of my nativity, which he had never
before heard of; he then proceeded to interrogate me
about my age, the town where [| served my time, with
the term of my apprenticeship: and when I informed
him that I served three years only, he fell into a violent
passion, swore it was‘a shame and a scandal to send
such raw boys into the world as surgeons ; that it was
sreat presumption in me, and an affront upon the Eng-
lish, to pretend sufficient skill in my business, having
served so short a time, when every apprentice in Eng-
land was boutid seven years at least: that my friends
would have done better if they had made me a weaver
or shoemaker ; but their pride would have me a gentle-
man, he supposed, at any rate, and their poverty could
not afford the necessary education. This exordium did
not at all contribute to the recovery of my spirits, but,
on the contrary, reduced me to such a situation that I
was scarcely able to stand: which being perceived by
a plump gentleman who sat opposite to me with a skull
betore him, he said, Mr Snarler was too severe upon
the young man; and, turning towards me, told me ]
need not be afraid, for nobody would do me any harm :
then, bidding me take time to recollect myself, he exa-
mined me touching th operation of the trepan, and was
very well satisfied with Iny answers. ‘The next person
who questioned me was a
| had ever seen amputation performed ; and
in the affirmative, he shook his head:
upon a dead subject, I suppose? If,” continued he,
“during an engagement at sea, a man should be brought
to you with his head shot off, how would you behave 2?”
Aiter some hesitation, I owned such a case had never
come under my observation, neither did ] remember
to have seen any method of cure proposed for such
an accident, in any of the systems of surgery [ had per-
used,

L replying
uid; “ What !

ind bi

Whether it was owing to the s implicity of my answer,
the archness of the question, I know not, but every
member at the board deigned to smile. except Mr Snar-
ler, who seemed to have very little of the animal risibile
in his constitution. The facetious member, encouraged
by the success of his last joke, went on thus: “ Suppose
you was called to.a patient of a plethoric habit, who
had been bruised by a fall, what would you do?” T an-
swered, “I would bleed him imthediately.” “ What!’
said he, “ before you had tied up his arm?’ But this
stroke of wit not answering his expectation, he desired
me to advance to the gentleman who sat next him : and
who, with a pert air, asked what method of cure I would

followin wounds of the intestines. l repeated the method

goa A
of cure as it is prescribed by tl

or

lI
ie best chirurgical writers,
which he heard to an end, and then said, with a supercili-
ous smile, “So, you think with such treatment the patient
might recover?’ [ told him I saw nothing to make me
think otherwise. “ That may be,” resumed he ; “ I won’t
answer for your foresight: but did you ever know a case
of this kind succeed?” ] acknowledged I did not, and
was about to tell him I had never seen a wounded
testine ; but he stopt me, by saying, with some precipi-
tation, “‘ Nor never will! I affirm that all wounds of the
intestines, whether great or small, are mortal.” “ Par-
don me, brother,” says the fat gentleman, “there is
very good authority ——” Here he was interrupted by
the other, with “ Sir, excuse me, I despise all authority
—Nullius in verba—t stand upon my own bottom.”
“ But, Sir, Sir,” replied his antagonist, “the reason of
the thing shows ” “ A fig for reason,” cried this
sufficient member; “I laugh at reason ; give me ocular
demonstration.” The eorpulent gentleman began to
wax warm, and observed, that no man acquainted with
the anatomy of the parts would advance such an extra-
vagant assertion. ‘This inuendo enraged the other
much that he started up, and in a furious tone ex-
qaimed: “ What, Sir! do you question my knowledge
ij anatomy ?”
By this time ali the examiners had espoused the
inion of one or other of the disputants, and raised

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their voices altogether, when the chairman commanded
Silence, and ordered me to withdraw. In less than a
quarter of an hour I was ealled in again, received m
qualification sealed up, atid was ordered to pay five
shillings. TI laid down my half guinea upon the table,
and stood some time until one of them bade me begone ;
to this ] replied, “Twill, when I have got my change :”
upon which another threw me five shillings and six-
pence, Saying, I should not be a true Scotchman if I
went away without my change. I was afterwards ob-
liged to give three shillings and sixpence to the beadles,
and a shilling to an old woman who swept the hall: this
disbursement sank my finances to thirteen-penée half-
penny, with which I was Sneaking off, when Jackson,
perceiving it, came up to me, and begged I would tarry
for him, and he would accompany me to the other end
of the town, as soon as his examination should be over.
[ could not refuse this to a person that was so much
my friend ; but I was astonished at the change of his
dress, which was varied in half ah hour from what I
have already described to a very grotesque fashion.
His head was covered with an old smoked tie-wie that
did not boast one erooked hair, and a slouched hat over
it, which would have very well become a chimney-
Sweeper or a dustman; his neck was adorned with a
black crape, the ends of which he had twisted, and fixed
in the button-hole of a shabby greatcoat that wrapped
up his whole body ; his white silk stockings were con-
verted into black worsted hose ; and his countenance
was rendered venerable by wrinkles and a beard of his
own painting. When ] expressed my surprise at this
metamorphosis, he laughed, and told ine it was done b
the advice and assistance of a friend, who lived over the
“Way, and would certainly produce something very much
to his advantage; for it gave him the appearance of
age, which never fails of attracting respect. I applauded
his sagacity, and waited with impatience for the effects
of it. At length he was called in; but whether the odd-
ness of his appearance excited a curiosity more than
usual in the Board, or his behaviotir was not suitable to
his figure, I know not, he was diséovered to be an im-
postor, and put into the hands of the beadle in order to
be sent to Bridewell. So that, instead of seeing him
come out with a cheerful countenance, and a surgeon’s
qualification in his hand, I peréeived him led through
the outward hall as a prisoner; and was very much
alarmed and anxious to know the oc sasion : when he
called with a lamentable voice, and a piteous aspect to
me, and some others who knew him, “ For God’s sake,
gentlemen, bear witness that I am the same individual
Jolin Jackson who served ag Surgeon’s second mate
on board the Elizabeth, or else I shall go to Bridewell !??
lt would have been impossible for the most austere
hermit that ever lived to have refrained from laughing
at his appearance and addréss: we therefore indulged
ourselves a good while at his expense, and afterwards
pleaded his cause so effectually with the beadle, who
was gratified with half a crown, that the prisoner was
dismissed, and in a few moments tehewed his former
gaiety—swearing, since the Board had refused his
money, he would spend every shilling before he went to
bed, in treating his friends; at the same time inviting
us all to favour him with our company. It was now
ten o’elock at night, and, as I had a great way to walk
through streets that were utterly unknown to me, I was
prevailed on to be of their party, in hopes he would
afterwards accompany me to my lodgings, according to
his promise. He conducted us to his friend’s house,
who kept a tavern over the way, where we continued
drinking punch, until the liquor mounted up to our
heads, and made us all extremely frolicsome. I, in
particular, was so much elevated, that nothing would
serve me but a wench; at which demand Jackson ex-
pressed much joy, and assured me I should have my
desire before we parted. Accordingly, when he had
paid the reckoning, we sallied out, roaring and singing ;
and were conducted by our leader to a place of nocturnal
entertainment, where Mr Jackson’s dress attracted the
assiduities of two or three nymphs, who loaded him with
caresses, in return for the arrack punch with which heaPerrerrit ry nie ol iat oe

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32 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

treated them, tillat length sleep began to exert his power
over us all, and our conductor called, “To pay.” When
the bill was brought, which amounted to twelve shillings,
he put his hand in his pocket, but might have saved
himself the trouble, for his purse was gone. ‘This acci-
dent disconcerted him a good deal at first; but, after
some recollection, he seized the two ladies who sat by
him, one in each hand, and swore if they did not imme-
diately restore his money, he would charge a constable
with them. The good lady at the bar, seeing what
passed, whispered something to the drawer, who went
out ; and then, with great composure, asked what was
the matter? Jackson told her he was robbed, and swore
if she refused him satisfaction, he would have her and
her female friends committed to Bridewell. “Robbed!”
cried she, “robbed in my house! Gentlemen and ladies,
I take you all to witness, this person has scandalised my
reputation.” At that instant, seeing the constable and
watch enter, she proceeded, “ What ! you must not only
endeavour by your false aspersions to ruin my character,
but even commit an assault upon my family! Mr Con-
Stable, I charge you with this uncivil person, who has
been guilty of a riot here; I shall take care and bring
an action against him for defamation.”

While I was reflecting on this melancholy event,
which had made me quite sober, one of the ladies, being
piqued at some repartee that passed between us, cried,
“They are all concerned!” and desired the constable
to take us all into custody ; an arrest which was per-
formed instantly, to the utter astonishment and despair
of us all, except Jackson, who having been often in such
scrapes, was very little concerned, and charged the con-
stable, im his turn, with the landlady and her whole
bevy: upon which we were carried altogether prisoners

to the Round-house; where Jackson, after a word of
> 3

comfort to us, informed the constable of his being robbed,
to which he said he would swear next morning before
the justice. Ina little time the constable, calling Jack-
son into another room, spoke to him thus :—* I perceive

that you and your company are strangers, and am very |
=f . . = . r ° eT
sorry for your being involved in such an ugly business.

I have known this woman a great while; she has kept
a notorious house in the neighbourhood this many years ;
and although often complained of as a nuisance, still
escapes through her interest with the justices, to whom
she and all of her employment pay contribution quar-
terly for protection. As she charged me with you first,
her complaint will have the preference, and she can
procure evidence to swear whatsoever she shall please
to desire of them: so that, unless you can make it up
before morning, you and your companions may think
yourselves happily quit for a month’s hard labour in
Bridewell. Nay, if she should swear a robbery or an
assault against you, you will be committed to Newgate,
and tried at the next session at the Old-Bailey for your
life.’ This last piece of information had such an effect
upon Jackson, that he agreed to make it up, provided
his money might be restored. The constable told him,
that, instead of retrieving what he had lost, he was
pretty certain it would cost him some more before they
could come to any composition. But, however, he had
compassion on him, and would, if he pleased, sound them
abouta mutual release. The unfortunate beau thanked
him for his friendship, and returning to us, acquainted
us with the substance of this dialogue; while the con-
stable, desiring to speak in private with our adversary,

 

carried her into the next room, and pleaded our cause |

so effectually, that she condescended to make him um-
pire: he accordingly proposed an arbitration, to which
we gave our assent; and he fined each party in three
shillings, to be laid out in a bowl of punch, wherein we
drowned all animosities, to the inexpressible joy of my
two late acquaintances and me, who had been extremely
uneasy ever since Jackson mentioned Bridewell and
Newgate. By the time we had finished our bowl—to
which, by the bye, I had contributed my last shilling—it
was morning, and I proposed to move homeward, when
the constable gave me to understand, he could discharge
no prisoners but by order of the justice, before whom

ar. This renewed my chagrin, and I

cursed the hour in which I had yielded to Jackson’s in-
Vitation.

About nine o’clock we were escorted to the house of
a certain justice not many miles distant from Covent
Garden, who no sooner saw the constable enter with
a train of prisoners at his heels, than he saluted him
as follows :—“ So, Mr Constable, you area diligent man.
What den of rogues have you been scouring?’ Then
looking at us, who appeared very much dejected, he
continued :—“ Ay, ay, thieves, I see—old offenders ; oh,
your humble servant, Mrs Harridan! I suppose these
fellows have been taken robbing your house. Yes, yes,
here’s anold acquaintance of mine. You have used ex-
pedition,” said he to me, “in returning from transpor-
tation ; but we shall save you that trouble for the future
—the surgeons will fetch you from your next transpor-
tation at their expense.” J assured his worship he was
mistaken in me, for he had never seen me in his life
before. To this declaration he replied, “How! you
impudent rascal, dare you say so to my face? Do you
think I am to be imposed upon by that northern accent
which you have assumed? But it shan’t avail you—you
shall find me too far north for you. Here, clerk, write
this fellow’s mittimus. His name is Patrick Gaghagan.”
Here Mr Jackson interposed, and told him I was a
Scotchman lately come to town, descended of a good
family, and that my name was Random. ‘The justice
looked upon this assertion as an outrage upon his
memory, on which he valued himself exceedingly ; and
strutting up to Jackson, with a fierce countenance, put
his hands in his side, and said, “ Who are you, Sir? Do
you give me the lie? Take notice, gentlemen, here’s a
fellow who affronts me upon the bench; but I’ll lay you
fast, sirrah, I will—for notwithstanding your laced

jacket, I believe you are a notorious felon.” My friend

was so much abashed at this menace, which was thun-
dered out with great vociferation, that he changed
colour and remained speechless. This confusion his
worship took for a symptom of guilt, and, to complete
the discovery, continued his threats. “ Now, Iam con-
vinced you are a thief—your face discovers it, you
tremble all over, your conscience won’t lie still—you’ll
be hanged, sirrah,” raising his voice, “ you’ll be hanged ;
and happy had it been for the world, as well as for your
own miserable soul, if you had been detected and cut off
in the beginning of your career. Come hither, clerk,
and take this man’s confession.” I was in an agony of
consternation, when the constable, going: into another
room with his worship, acquainted him with the truth
of the story; which having learned, he returned with
a smiling countenance, and, addressing himself to us all,
said, it was always his way to terrify young people when
they came before him, that his threats might make a
strong impression on their minds, and deter them from
engaging in scenes of riot and debauchery, which com-
monly ended before the judge. Thus, having cloaked
his own want of discernment under the disguise of
paternal care, we were dismissed, and I found myself
as much lightened as if.a mountain had been lifted off
my breast.

CHAPTER 2AVIiTI.
I wovutp most willingly have gone home to sle¢ p, but
was told by my companions that we must deliver our
letters of qualification at the Navy Office before one
o'clock. Accordingly, we went thither, and gave them
to the secretary, who opened and read them, and I was
mightily pleased to find myself qualified for second mate
of a third-rate. When he had stuck them altogether
on a file, one of our company asked if there were any
vacancies ; to which interrogation he answered, “No!”
‘Then I ventured td inquire if any ships were to be put
in commission soon. At which question he surveyed
me with a look of ineffable contempt, and pushing us
out of his office, locked the door without deigning us
another word. We went down stairs, and conferred
together on our expectations, when I understood th:t
each of them had been recommended to one or other
of the commissioners, and each of them promised the‘
\

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 33

first vacancy that should fall ; but that none of them
relied solely upon that interest, without a present to
the secretary, with whom some of the commissioners
went snacks. For which reason, each of them had pro-
vided a small purse 3 and I was asked what I proposed
to give? This was a vexatious question to me who (far
from being in a capacity to gratify a ravenous secre-
tary) had not wherewithal to purchase a dinner. JI
therefore answered, I had not yet determined what to
give: and sneaked off toward my own lodging, lamenting
my fate all the way, and inveighing with much bitter-
ness against the barbarity of my grandfather, and the
sordid avarice of my relations, who left me a prey to
contempt and indigence.

Full of these disagreeable ‘reflections, I arrived at
the house where I lodged, and relieved my landlord
from great anxiety on my account ; for this honest man
believed I had met with Some dismal accident, and
that he never should see me again. Strap, who had
come to visit me in the morning, understanding I had
been abroad all night, was almost distracted, and after
having obtained leave of his master, had gone in quest

, Of me, though he was even more ignorant of the town
than I. Not being willing to inform the landlord of my
adventure, I told him, I had met an acquaintance at
Surgeons’ Hall, with whom I spent the evening and
night ; but being very much infested by bugs, I had not
slept much, and therefore intended to take a little re-
pose: so saying, I went to bed, and desired to be awak-
ened if Strap should happen to come while I should be
asleep. I was accordingly roused by my friend himself,
who entered my chamber about three o’elock in the
afternoon, and presented a figure to my eyes that I
could scarce believe real. In short, this affectionate
shaver setting out towards Surgeons’ Hall, had inquired
for me there to no purpose ; from thence he found his
way to the Navy Office, where he could hear no tidings
of me, because [ was unknown to every body then pre-
sent ; he afterwards went upon ’Change, in hopes of see-
ing me upon the Scotch walk, but without success. At
last, being almost in despair of finding me, he resolved
to ask every body he met in the street, if perchance
any one could give him information about me; and
aci ially put his resolution in practice, in spite of the

. . . |
Scofis, curses, and reproaches with which he was an- |
seeing him stop |

swered ; until a blacksmith’s *prentice
ap -rter with a burden on his back, and hearing his
question, for which he received a hearty curse, called
to him, and asked if the person he inquired after was
not a Scotchman? Strap replied with great eagerness,
* Yes, and had on a brown coat with long skirts.” “The
same,” said the blacksmith ; “I saw him pass by an hour
ago? * § Did you so 2” cried Strap, rubbing his hands,
“Odd! I am very glad of that—which way went he ??
“ Towards Tyburn in a eart,” said he; “if you make
good ‘speed, you may get thither time enough to see him
hanged.” This piece of wit incensed my friend to such
a degree, that he called the blacksmith scoundrel, and
protested he would fight him for half a farthing. “ No,
no!” said the other, stripping, “ I’ll have none of your
money—you Seotchmen seldom carry any about you ;
but I'll fight you for love.” There was a ring immedi-
ately formed by the mob; and Strap, finding he could
not get off honourably without fighting, at the same
time burning with resentment against his adversary,
quitted his clothes to the care of the multitude, and the
battle began with great violence on the side of Strap,
who in a few minutes exhausted his breath and spirits
on his patient antagonist, who sustained the assault
with great coolness, till finding the barber quite spent,
he returned the blows he had lent him, with such in-
terest, that Strap, after having received three falls on
the hard stones, gave out, and allowed the blacksmith
to be the better man.

The victory being thus decided, it was proposed to
adjourn to a cellar hard by and drink friends. But
when my friend began to gather up his clothes, he per-

rived that some honest person or other had made free
th his shirt, neckeloth, hat, and wig, which were car-
fed off; and probably his coat and waistcoat would

¥

have Met with the same fate, had they been worth
stealing, It was in vain for him to make 2 noise, which
only yielded mirth to the spectators: he was fain to get
off mm this manner, which he accomplished with much
difficulty, and appeared before me al] besmeared with
blood and dirt. N otwithstanding this misfortune, such
Was is transport at finding me safe and sound, that he
had almost stifled and stunk me to death with his em-
braces. After he had cleaned himself, and put on one
of my shirts, and a woollen nighteap, I recounted to
him the particulars of my night’s campaign, which filled
him with admiration, and made him repeat with great
cnergy an observation which was often in his mouth,
namely, “that Surely London ig the devil’s drawing.
room.” As neither of us had dined, he desired me to
get up, and the milk-woman coming round at that in-
stant, he went down stairs and brought up a quart, with
a penny loaf, on which we made «a comfortable meal.
He then shared his money with me, which amounted
to eighteen-pence, and left me with an intention to
borrow an old wig and hat of his friend the school-
master.

_ He was no sooner gone than I began to consider my
situation with great uneasiness, and revolved all the
schemes my imagination could suggest, in order to
choose and pursue some one that would procure me
bread ; for it is impossible to express the pangs I felt,
wien I reflected on the miserable dependence in which
I lived at the expense of a poor barber’s boy. My
pride took the alarm, and having no hopes of sueceed-
ing at the Navy Office, I came toa resolution of enlist-
ing in the foot-cuards next day, be the event what it
would. This extravagant design, by flattering my dis-
position, gave great satisfaction; and I was charging
the enemy at the head of my own regiment, when
Strap’s return interrupted my reverie, The school-
master had made him a present of the tie-wig which he
wore when I was introduced to him, together with an
old hat, whose brims would have overshadowed a
Colossus. Though Strap had ventured to wear them in
the dusk, he did not choose to entertain the mob by
day ; therefore went to work immediately, and reduced
them both to a moderate size. While he was employed
in this office, he addressed me thus: “To be sure, Mr
Random, you are born a gentleman, and have a great
deal of learning—and, indeed, lock like a gentleman ;
for, as to person, you may hold up your head with the
best of them. On the other hand, [am a poor but honest
cobbler’s son: my mother was as industrious a woman
as ever broke bread, till such time as she took to drink-
ing, which you very well know; but every body has
failngs—humanum est errare. Now, for myself, I am
& poor journeyman barber, tolerably well made, and
understand some Latin, and havea smattering of Gree cs
but what of that? Perhaps I might also say that I
know a little of the world ; but that is to no purpose—
though you be gentle, and ] simple, it does not follow,
but that I who am simple may do a good office to you
who are gentle. Now, this is the case. My kinsman,
the schoolmaster—perhaps you did not know how nearly
he is related to me—I’ll satisfy you in that presently ;
his mother and my gerandmother’s sister’s nephew—no,
that’s not it!—my grandfather’s brother’s daughter—
rabbit it! I have forgot the degree ; but this I know,
he and I are cousins seven times removed.” My im-
patience to know the good office he had done me got
the better of my temper, and I interrupted him at this
place with the exclamation, “If the schoolmaster or
you can be of any advantage to me, why don’t you tell
me without all this preamble?” When I pronounced
these words with some vehemence, Strap looked at me
for some time with a grave countenance, and then went
on: “Tam very sorry to see such an alteration in your
temper of late; you was always fiery, but now you are
grown as crabbed as old Periwinkle the drunken tinker,
on whom you and I (God forgive us!) played so many
unlucky tricks while we were at school—but I will no
longer detain you in suspense, because (doubtless) no-
thing is more uneasy than doubt—dudbio procul dubis
nil dubius. My friend or relation, or which you will,fa
f
“4
Be
.
eS
:
3
i
.
rc
c
:
=:

 

 

o4 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

or both, the schoolmaster, being informed of the regard
I have for you; for you may be sure I did not fail to
let him know of your good qualities—by the bye, he
has undertaken to teach you the pronunciation of the
English tongue, without which, he says, you will be
unfit for business in this country—I say my relation
has spoke in your behalf toa French apothecary who
wants a journeyman ; and on his recommendation you
may have fifteen pounds a-year, bed and board, when-
ever you please.” I was too much interested in this
piece of news to entertain it with indifference ; but,
jumping up, insisted on Strap’s immediately accom-
panying me to the house of his friend, that I might not
lose this opportunity through the least delay or neglect
on my part.

We were informed that the schoolmaster was in com-
pany at a public-house in the neighbourhood, whither
we repaired, and found him drinking with the very in-
dividual apothecary in question. When he was called
to the door at our desire, and observed my impatience,
he broke out into his usual term of admiration :—
“Oh! I suppose when you heard of this offer, you did
not take leisure enough to come down stairs, but leapt
out of the window: did you overturn no porter nor
oyster woman in your way? It was a mercy of God
you did not knock your brains out against some post in
your career. Oh, my conscience! I believe had | been
in the inmost recesses of my habitation—the very pene-
tralia—your eagerness would have surmounted bolts,
bars, decency, and every thing. The den of Cacus or
sanctum sanctorum could not have hid me from you.
But come along—the gentleman of whom I spoke is in
the house ; I will present you to him forthwith.” When
I entered the room, I perceived four or five people
smoking, one of whom the schoolmaster accosted thus:
“ Mr Lavement, here’s the young man of whom I spoke
to you.” The apothecary, who was a little old withered
man, with a forehead about an inch high, a nose turned
up at the end, large cheek-bones that helped to form :
pit for his little grey eyes, a great bag of loose skin
hanging down on each side in w rinkles like the alforjos
of a baboon, and a mouth so much accustomed to that
contraction which produces grinning, that he could not
pronounce a syllable without discovering the remains
of his teeth, which consisted of four yellow fangs, not
improperly, by anatomists, called canine. This person,
I say, after having eyed me some time, said, “ ( ho, tis
ver well, Monsieur Concordance ; young man, you are
ver welcome, take one coup of bierre—and come to mine
house to-morrow morning; Monsieur Concordance vil
show you de way.” Upon this I made my bow, and as
I went out of the room could hear him say, “ Wa foi !
ce’st un beau garcon ; ce’st un gaillard.”

As I had by my own application, while I served Crab,

 

 

acquired the french tongue well enough to read authors |

written in that language, and understand any thing tha

occurred in conversation, I determined to pretend igno-
rance to my new master, that he and his family, whom
I supposed to be of the same country, not being on the

 

 

reserve before me, I might possibly discover something |

in discourse, which would either yield me amusement
or adyantage.
me to the apothecary’s house, where the bargain was
made, and orders given to provide an apartment for
me immediately. But before I entered upon business,
the schoolmaster recommended me to his tailor, who

gave me credit for a suit of clothes, to be paid out of

the first moiety of my wages, and they were begun upon
that very day; he afterwards accommodated me with
a new hat on the same terms: so that in a few days I
hoped to make a very fashionable appearance. Jn the
meantime, Strap conveyed my baggage to the place

allotted for me, which was a back room up two pair of

stairs, furnished with a pallet for me to lie upon, a chair
without a back, a bottle by way of candlestick, and a
triangular piece of glass instead of a mirror; the rest

of its ornaments having been lately removed to one of

the garrets, for the convenience of the servant of an
Irish captain, who lodged in the first floor,

Next morning Mr Concordance carried |

jealousy.

 

CHAPTER XIX.

Next day, while I was at work in the shop, a bouncing
damsel well dressed came in, on pretence of finding a
vial for some use or other; and taking an opportunity,
when she thought I did not mind her, of observing me
narrowly, went away with a silent look of disdain. I
asily guessed her sentiments, and my pride took the
resolution of entertaining the same indifference and
neglect towards her. At dinner, the maids, with whom
[ dined in the kitchen, gave me to understand that this
was my master’s only daughter, who would have a very
handsome fortune, on account of which, and her beauty,
a great many young gentlemen made their addresses
to her—that she had been twice on the brink of mar-
riage, but disappointed by the stinginess of her father,
who refused to part with a shilling to promote the
match ; for which reason the young lady did not behave
to her father with all the filial veneration that might
be expected. In particular, she harboured the most
perfect hatred for his countrymen ; in which dispositien
she resembled her mother, who was an Englishwoman ;
and by the hints they dropped, I learned the grey mare #
was the better horse—that she was a matron of a high
spirit, which was often manifested at the expense of her
dependents ; that she loved diversions, and looked upon
miss as her rival in all parties—which was indeed the
true cause of her disappointments ; for had the mother
been hearty in her interest, the father would not have
ured to refuse her demands. Over and above this
ligence, I, of myself, soon made more discoveries.
Mr Lavement’s significant grins at his wife, while she
looked another way, convinced me that he was not.at
all content with his lot ; and his behaviour im presence of
the captain, made me believe his chief torment was
As for my own part, I was considered in no
other light than that of a menial servant, and had been

£

already six days in the house without being honoured
with one word from either mother or daughter ; the
latter (as I understood from the maids) having at table
one day expressed some surprise that her papa should
entertain such an awkward mean-looking journeyman.
I was nettled at this piece of information, and next
Sunday (it being my turn to.take my diversion), dressed
myself in my new clothes to the greatest advantage,
and, vanity apart, made no contemptible figure.

After having spent most part of the day in company
with Strap and some of his acquaintance, I came home
in the afternoon, and was let in by miss, who not know-
ing me, dropt a low curtsey as I advanced, which I re-
turned with a profound bow, and shut the door. By
the time I had turned about, she had perceived her
mistake, and changed colour, but did not withdraw.
The passage being narrow, I could not get away with-
out jolting her; so I was forced to remain where > was
with my eyes fixed on the ground, and my face glowing
with blushes. At length, her vanity coming to her as-
sistance, she went away tittering, and I could hear her
pronounce the word “creature !” From this day for-
ward, she came into the shop fifty times every day upon

| various pretences, and put in practice so many ridicu-

lous airs, that I could easily perceive her opinion of
me was changed, and that she did not think me alto-
gether an unworthy conquest. But my heart was so
steeled against her charms by pride and resentment,
which were two chief ingredients in my disposition, that
I remained insensible to all her arts ; and notwithstand-
ing some advances she made, could not be prevailed
upon to yield her the least attention. ‘This neglect
soon banished all the favourable impressions she felt
for me, and the rage of a slighted woman took place
in her heart: this she manifested not only in all the
suggestions her malice could invent to my prejudice
with her father, but also in procuring for me such ser-
vile employments as she hoped would sufficiently humble
my spirit. One day in particular, she ordered me tq
brush my master’s coat; but 1 refusing, a smart dia,
logue ensued, which ended in her bursting into tear
of rage; when her mother interposing, and examinin,
into the merits of the cause, determiped it ipmy favour,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

and this good office I owed not to any esteem or con-
sideration she had for me, but solely to the desire of
mortifying her daughter, who on this occasion observed,
that let people be never so much in the right, there
were some folks who would never do them justice, but,
to be sure, they had their reasons for it, which some
people were not ignorant of, although they despised
their little arts. This insinuation of some people and
some folks, put me upon observing the behaviour of
my mistress more narrowly for the future: and it was
not long before I had reason to believe that she looked
upon her daughter as a rival in the affections of Captain
O’Donnell, who lodged in the house.

In the meantime my industry and knowledge gained
me the good will of my master, who would often say in
French, “ Mardy! ce’st un bon garcon.” He had a
great deal of business; but as he was mostly employed
among his fellow refugees, his profits were small. How-
ever, his expense for medicines was not great ; for he
was the most expert man at a succedaneum of any
apothecary in London, so that I have been sometimes
amazed to see him, without the least hesitation, make
up a physician’s prescription, though he had not in his
shop one medicine mentioned in it. Oyster-shells he

could convert into crabs’ eyes; common oil into oil of

sweet almonds; syrup of sugar into balsamic Syrup ;
Thames water into agua cinnamoni; anda hundred more
ri

costly preparations were produced in an instant, from |
“ r

the cheapest and coarsest drugs of the materia medica:
and when any common thing was ordered for a patient,
he always took care to disguise it in colour or taste, or
both, in such a manner as that it could not possibly be

1 Se eee ees Sa ae at Ae
Known ; for which purpose cochineal and oil of cloves |
were of great service. Mr Layement had attempted |

more than once to introduce a vegetable diet into his
family, by launching / ut into the praise of roots and

greens, and decrying the use of flesh, both as a physi-
cian and philosoplfr; but all his rhetorie could not

make one proselyte to his opinion, and even the wife of

his bosom declared against the proposal.

One afternoon, when her husband was abroad, and
her daughter gone to visit, this lady ordered me to call
a hackney-coach, in whicl
towards Covent Garden. Miss came home in the even-
ing, and, supping at her usual hour, went to bed. About
eleven o’clock my master entered, and asked if his wifi
was gone to sleep: upon which I told him, my mistress
went out in the afternoon, and was not yet returned.
This was like a clap of thunder to the poor apothecary,
who starting back, cried, “Mort de ma vie! vat you tell
ame? My vife not at home!” At that instant a pa-
tient’s servant arrived with a prescription for a draught,
which my master taking, went into the shop to make it
up with his own hand. While he rubbed the ingredi-
ents in a glass mortar, he inquired of me whether or
no his wife went out alone; and no sooner heard that
she was in company with tl
blow he split the mortar into a thousand pieces, and
grinning like the head of a bass viol, exclaimed, “ Ah
traitresse ? It would have been impossible for me to
have preserved my gravity a minute longer, when I
was happily relieved by a rap at the door, which I
opened, and perceived my mistress coming out of the
coach. She flounced immediately into the shop, and
addressed her husband thus :—“I suppose you thought
I was lost, my dear. Captain O’Donnell has been so
good as to treat me with a play.” The reply, it may be
supposed, was any thing but courteous; but the cap-
tain, who had been all the time at the door disc larging
the coach, entered, and Mr Lavement, changing his tone,
saluted him with all the usual politesse of a French-
man.

Shortly after this event, by the knowledge which I
acquired of the family secrets, my life became much
more agreeable; and as I every day improved in my
knowledge of the town, I shook off my awkward air by
degrees, and acquired the character of a polite journey-
man apothecary.

1e captain, than with one

 

1 she and the captain drove |

30

CHAPTER XX
ONE night, about twelve o’clock, as I returned from
peal rant a Chel Zeca how ny
é : : hand, that stretched me senseless
on the ground; and was left for dead with three stabs
of a sword in my body. The groans I uttered when I
recovered the use of my reason alarmed the people of
a solitary alehouse that Stood near the spot where I lay ;
and they were humane enough to take me in, and send
for a surgeon, who dressed my wounds, and assured me
they were not mortal. One of them pe
the skin and muscles of one side of

netrated through
manner, that doubtless the

my belly in such a
assassin imagined he had
run me through the entrails.

The second slanted along
one of My ribs; and the last, which was intended for
the finishing stroke, having been directed to my heart,
the sword snapt upon my breast-bone, and the

apt Uy point
remained sticking in the skin.

When I reflected upon
this event, I could not persuade myself that I had been.
assaulted by a common footpad, because it is not usual
for such people to murder those they rob, especially
when they meet with no resistance; and I found my
money, and every thing else about me but my carease,
sate. I concluded, therefore, that I must either have
been mistaken for another, or obliged to the private re-
| Sentment of some secret enemy for what had happened ;
and as I could remember nobody who had the least
cause of complaint against me, “xcept Captain O’Donnell
and my master’s daughter, my suspicion settled upon
| them, though I took care to conceal it, that I might the
sooner arrive at confirmation.

With this view, I went home in a chair about ten
o’clock in the morning; and as the chairman supported
me into the house, met the captain in the passage, who
no sooner saw me than he started back and gave evi-
dent signs of guilty confusion, which he would have
accounted for from surprise occasioned by the seeing
| me in such a condition. My master having heard my
| Story, condoled me with a good deal of sympathy, and
| when he understood my wounds were not dangerous,
| ordered me to be carried up stairs to bed; though not

without some opposition from his wife, who was of opi-
| nion it would be better for me to go to an hospital,
| where [ should be more carefully attended. My medi-
| tation was employed in concerting with myself some
method of revenge against Squire O’Donnell and his
inamorata, whom I looked upon as the authors of my mis-
fortune ; when miss, who was not at home at my arrival,
entered my chamber, and saying she was sorry for the
accident that had befallen me, asked if I suspected any
body to be the assassin: upon which I fixed my eyes
steadfastly upon her, and answered, “ Yes.” She dis-
covered no symptom of confusion, but replied hastily,
“If that be the case, why don’t you take out a warrant
to have him apprehended? It will cost but a trifle—if
you have no money, I’Il lend you.” - This frankness not
only cured me of my suspicion with respect to her, but
even staggered my belief with regard to the captain, of
whose guilt I resolved to have further proof before I
should enterprise any thing in the way of revenge. [
thanked her kindly for her generous offer, which, how-
ever, I had no occasion to accept, being determined to
do nothing rashly: for though I could plainly perceive
the person who attacked me to be a soldier, whose
face I thought was familiar to me, I could not swear
with a safe conscience to any particular man; and,
granting I could, my prosecution of him would not
much avail. This uncertainty I pretended, lest the
captain, hearing from her that I knew the person who
wounded me, might think proper to withdraw before I
could be in a condition to requite him. In two days I
was up and able to do a little business, so that Mr Laye-
ment made shift to carry on his practice without hir-
ing another journeyman in my room. ee

The first thing I attempted towards a certain dis-
covery of my secret enemy, was to get into O’Donnell’s
apartment, while he was abroad in an undress, and
examine his sword, the point of which being broke off,
{| L applied the fragment that was fomnd cticlinea

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36 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

body, and found it answered the fractured part exactly.
There was no room left for doubt; and all that re-
mained was to fix upon a scheme of revenge, which
almost solely engrossed my thoughts during the space
of eight nights and days. Sometimes I was tempted to
fall upon him im the same manuer as he had practised
upon me, and dill him outright. But this assault my
honour opposed as a piece of barbarous cowardice, in
which he was not to be imitated. At other times I
entertained thoughts of demanding satisfaction in an
honourable way; but was diverted from this under-
taking by considering the uncertainty of the event, and
the nature of the injury he had done me, which did
not entitle him to such easy terms. - At last I deter-
mined to pursue a middle course, and actually put my
design in execution after this manner. Having secured
the assistance of Strap and two of his acquaintance
whom he could depend upon, we provided ourselves
with disguises, and I caused the following letter to be
delivered to him by one of our associates in livery one
Sunday evening :

“Smr—lIf I may be allowed to judge from appearance,
it will not be disagreeable for you to hear that my hus-
band is gone to Bagshot to visit a patient, and will not
return till to-morrow night; so that if you have any
thing to propose to me (as your behaviour on many
occasions has seemed to insinuate), you will do well to
embrace the present opportunity of seeing, Yours, &c.”

 

 

This letter was signed with the name of an apothe-
cary’s wife who lived in Chelsea, of whom I had heard
O’Donnell was an admirer. Every thing succeeded to
our wish.
appointment, and was encountered by us in the very
place where he had assaulted me. We rushed upon
him all at once, secured his sword, stript off his clothes
even to the skin, which we scourged with nettles till he
was blistered from head to foot, notwithstanding all the
eloquence of his tears and supplications. When I was

satisfied with the stripes I had bestowed, we carried off

his clothes, which we hid in a hedge near the place,
and left him stark naked to find his way home in the
best manner he could, while I took care to be there
before him. I afterwards understood that in his way

to the lodgings of a friend, who lived in the skirts of

the town, he was picked up by the watch, who carried
him to the Round-house, from whence he sent for
clothes to his lodgings, and next morning arrived a
the door in a chair, wrapt up in a blanket he had _ bor-
rowed ; for his body was so sore and swelled, that he
could not bear to be confined in his wearing apparel.
He was treated with the utmost tenderness by my mis-
tress and her daughter, who vied with each other in
their care and attendance of him; but Lavement him-
self could not forbear expressing his joy, by several
malicious grins, while he ordered me to prepare an
unguent for his sores. As to myself, nobody can doubt
my gratification, when I had every day an opportunity
of seeing my revenge protracted on the body of my
adversary, by the ulcers of which I had been the eause ;
and, indeed, I not only enjoyed the satisfaction of hay-
ing flea’d him alive, but another also which I had not
foreseen. The story of his being attacked and stript
in such a place having been inserted in the news, gave

The hero hastened towards the place of

information to those who found his clothes next day, ;

whither to bring them; and accordingly he retrieved
every thing he had lost except a few letters, among
which was that which I had writ to him in the name
of the apothecary’s wife. This, and the others, which
were all on the subject of love (for this Hibernian hero
was one of those people who are called fortune-hunters),
fell into the hands of a certain female author, famous
for the scandal she has published; who, after having
embellished them with some ornaments of her own in-
vention, gave them to the town in print. I was very
much shocked on reflection, that ] might possibly be
the oecasion of a whole family’s unhappiness on account
of the letter I had written; but was eased of that ap-
prehension, when I understood that the Chelsea apothe-
cary had commenced a lawsuit against the printer for
AYVISU Capucany wow ap --- _

 

“| nto the Merits OF The Cause, ucveriay,

defamation, and looked upon the whole as a piece of
forgery committed by the author, who had disappeared.
But whatever might be his opinion of the matter, our
two ladies seemed to entertain a different idea of it:
for as soon as the pamphlet appeared, I could perceive
their care of their patient considerably diminish, till at
last it ended in a total neglect. It was impossible for
him to be ignorant of "this change, any more than of
the occasion of it; but as he was conscious to himself
of having deserved worse than contempt at their hands,
he was glad to come off so cheaply, and contented him-
self with muttering curses and threats against the apo-
thecary, who, as he imagined, having got an inkling of
the appointment with his wife, had taken revenge of
himsin the manner described. By the time he had
got a new scarf skin, his character was become so noto-
rious, that he thought it high time for him to de ap 5
and his retreat he performed in one night, without beat
of drum, after having robbed his own servant of every
thing that belonged to him except the clothes he had
on his back.

A few days after he disappeared, Mr Lave nent, for
his own security, took into custody a large old trunk
which he had left ; and as it was very heavy, made no
question that the contents were sufficient to indemnify
him for what O’Donnell owed in lodging. But amonth
being elapsed without hearing any tidings of this ad-
venturer, and my master being impatient to know what
the trunk contained, he ordered me to break it open in
his presence, which task I performed with the pestle
of our great mortar, and discovered, to his inexpres-
sible astonishment and mortification, a heap of stones.

About this time, my friend Strap informed me of an
offer he had to go abroad with a gentleman in quality
of valet de chambre, and at the same time assured me,
that, whatever advantage he might propose to himself
from this prospect, he could not bear the thoughts of
parting from me, so much was he attached to my for-
tune. In spite of all the obligations I owed to this
poor honest fellow, ingratitude is so natural to the heart
of man that I began to be tired of his acquaintance ;
and now that I had contracted other friendships which
appeared more creditable, was even ashamed to see a
journeyman barber inquiring after me with the fami-
liarity of a companion. I therefore, on pretence of
consulting his welfare, insisted upon his accepting the
proposal, which he at last determined to embrace, with
great reluctance ; and in a few days took his leave of
me, shedding a fiood of tears, which I could not behold
without emotion. I now began to look upon myself as
a gentleman in reality ; learned to dance; frequented
plays during the holidays; became the oracle of an
ale-house, where every dispute was referred to my de-
cision ; and at length contracted an acquaintance with
a young lady, who found means to make a conquest of
my heart, and upon whom I prevailed, after much at-
tendance and solicitation, to give me a promise of mar-
riage. As this beautiful creature passed for a rich
heiress, [ blessed my good fortune, and was actually on
the point of crowning all my wishes by matrimony,
when I made such a discovery as effectually turned me
from my design, and I abandoned all thoughts of mar-
riage for the future,

MORI RRR re

CHAPTER XXL
WueEn I enjoyed myself at large in this temper of mind,
My Lavement let his first floor to my countryman and
acquaintance Squire Gawky, who by this time had got
a lieutenancy in the army, and such a martial ferocity
in his appearance, that I was afraid he would remember
what happened between us in Scotland, and atone for
his breach of appointment then by his punetuality now :
but whether he had actually forgot me, or was willing
to make me believe so, he betrayed not the least symp-
tom of recognition at sight of me, and I remained quite
cured of my apprehension ; though I had oceasion not
long after to be convinced, that, howsoever his exter-
nals might be altered, he was at bottom the same, indi-

Stk 3ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

vidual Gawky whom I have
coming home late one night fr
I heard a noise in the street, and as I approached, per-
ceived two gentlemen in custody of three watchmen.
The prisoners, who were miserably disfigured with dirt
complained bitterly of the loss of’ their hats and wigs ;
and one of them, whom by his tongue I knew to be a
Scotchman, lamented most piteously, offering a guinea
for his liberty, which the watchman refused, alleging
that one of his companions was wounded grievously,
and that he must stand to the consequence. My pre-
Judice in favour of my native country was so strong,
that I could not bear to see any body belonging to it in
distress, and therefore, with one blow of my faithful

already deseribed. For,
om the house of a patient,

cudgel, knocked down the watchman who had hold of

the person for whom I was chiefly concerned. He was
no sooner disengaged than he betook himself to his
heels, and left me to maintain the dispute as I should
think proper ; and, indeed, I came off but scurvily, for,
before I could avail myself of my speed, I received a
blow on the eye, from one of the other two, that had
well nigh deprived me of the use of that organ. How-
ever, 1 made shift to get home, where I was informed
of Captain Gawky’s being robbed and abused by a com-
pany of footpads ; and was ordered by my master to
prepare an emollient glyster and paregoric draught, in
order to allay and compose the ferment of his spirits,
occasioned by the barbarous treatment he had under-
gone, while he took twelve ounces of blood from him
immediately.

When I inquired into the particulars of this adven-
ture, and understood by the servant that he came in
just before me, without hat and wig, I made no scruple
of believing him to be the person | had released, and
was confirmed in my belief upon hearing his voice, to
which (before that event) I had been so long a stranger.
My eye being considerably swelled and inflamed, I could
not refiect upon my enterprise without cursing my own
folly, and even resolving to declare the truth of the
whole story, in order to be revenged on the cowardly
wretch for whom I had suffered: accordingly, next
day after he had told, in presence of my master, his
wife and daughter, who came to visit him, a thousand
lies concerning the prowess he had shown in making
his escape, I ventured to explain the mystery, and, call-
ing in the evidence of my contused eye, upbraided him
with cowardice and ingratitude. Gawky was so asto-
nished at this discourse, that he could not answer one
word, and the rest of the company stared at one another ;
till at length my mistress reprimanded me for my inso-
lent behaviour, and threatened to turn me away for my
presumption. Upon which, Gawky (having recollected
himself) observed, as the young man might have mis-
taken another person for him, he could forgive his in-
sinuations, more especially as he seemed to have suf-

fered for his civility ; but advised me to be more certain |

in my conjectures for the future, before I ventured to
publish them to the prejudice of any man.
plauded the captain’s generosity in pardoning one who
had so villanously aspersed him, and I began to imagine
her praise was not at all disinterested. But the apo-
thecary, who perhaps had more penetration or less
partiality than his wife and daughter, differed from
them in his sentiments of the matter, and expressed
himself to me in the shop in this manner :—* Ah mon
pauvre Roderique! you have more of de veracité dan
of de prudence—hot mine vife and dater be diablement
sage, and Monsieur le Capitaine un fanfaron, pardieu |”

This eulogium on his wife and daughter, though spoken
ironically by him, was nevertheless literally just: by
espousing the cause of Gawky, the one obliged a valu-
able lodger, and the other acquired a husband at a
juncture when one was absolutely necessary. The
young lady insinuated herself so artfully into the af-
fection of this new lodger, that in less than a fortnight,
on pretence of going to the play, they drove away toge-
ther to the Fleet, where they were married ; and in
the morning came home, where they asked her father’s
and mother’s blessing. The prudent parents, notwith-
standing the precipitation with which the match was

 

Miss ap- |

 

37
carried on, did not think fit to refuse their approbation ;
= the apothecary was not ill pleased to find his daughter
sa mae ene ae of a good prospect, who had
aad eo eae =o SyHable on the article of her dowry ;
ae as Tejoiced at being rid of a rival and a
SPY deers aud ga face Gawky put on the matter,
Peopiacheg | i ao eee before related, and oe
Bt aca meeaes ae nim, had stung him to the
oe es ae te e seeds or enmity so strongly in
Pee ae iparted his indignation to his wife,

pial teatnotooe sme ee to compass the ruin of
at n J sugnted her caresses, but was able on

any occasion to discover particulars not at all advan-
tageous to her character, readily joined ina conspiracy
against me, which (had it taken etfect as they expected)
would infallibly have broughtmetoan ignominious death.
¢ My master having several times missed large quan-
tities of medicines, of which I could give no account, at
last lost all patience, and in plain terms taxed me with
having embezzled them for my own use. As I could
only oppose my single asseveration to his suspicion,
he told me one day, “ Your vord not be give me de
satisfaction—me find necessaire to chercher for my
medicine; pardonnez moi—il faut chercher—me de-
mand le clef of your coffre a cette heure.’ Then
raising his voice to conceal the fright he was in, lest I
should make any opposition, he went on, “Oui! I charge
you rendez le clef of your coffre—moi—si, moi qui yous
parle.’ I was fired with so much resentment and dis-
dain at this accusation, that I burst into tears, which
he took for a sign of guilt ; and pulling out my key,
told him he might satisfy himself immediately, though
he would not find it so easy to satisfy me for the injury
my reputation had suffered from his unjust suspicion.
He took the key and mounted up to my chamber, at-
tended by the whole family, saying, “He bien, nous
verrons—nous verrons.”” But what was my horror and
amazement, when, opening my chest, he pulled out a
handful of the very things that were missing, and pro-
nounced, “ Ah ha! vous etes bienvenu mardy, Mons.
Roderique, you be fort innocent!”? I had not power
to utter one word in my own vindication, but stood mo-
tionless and silent, while every body present made their
respective remarks on what appeared against me. The
servants said they were sorry for my misfortune, and
went away repeating, “ Who would have thought it ?””
My mistress took occasion from this detection to rail
against the practice of employing strangers in general ;
and Mrs Gawky, after having observed that she never
had a good opinion of my fidelity, proposed to have me
carried before the justice, and committed to Newgate
immediately. Her husband was actually upon the stairs
in his way for a constable, when Mr Lavement, knowing

 

| the cost and trouble of a prosecution to which he must

bind himself, and at the same time dreading lest some
particulars of my confession might affect his practice,
called out, “ Restez, mon fils! restez, it be veritable-
ment one grand crime which dis pauvre diable have
committed—bot puetetre de good God give him de peni-
tence, and me vill not have upon mine head de blood of
one sinner.” The captain and his lady used all the
Christian arguments their zeal could suggest to prevail
upon the apothecary to pursue me to destruction, and
represented the injustice he did to the community of
which he was a member, in letting a villain escape,
who would not fail of doing more mischief in the world.
when he should reflect on his coming off so easily now;
but their eloquence made no impression on my master,
who turning to me said, “ Go, miserable, go from mine
house, quick, quick!—and make reparation for your
mauvaise actions.” By this time my indignation had
roused me from the stupefaction in which I had hitherto
remained, and I began in this manner :—“ Sir, appear-
ances I own condemn me; but you are imposed upon
as much as I am abused: I have fallen a sacrifice to
the rancour of that scoundrel (pointing to Gawky), who
has found means to convey your goods hither, that the
detection of them might blast my reputation, and ac-
complish my destruction. His hatred to me is owing to
a consciousness of his haying wronged me in my own4
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country—for which injury he in a cowardly manner
refused me the satisfaction of a gentleman; he knows,
moreover, that [ am no stranger to his dastardly be-
haviour in this town, which I have recounted before,
and he is unwilling that such a testimony of his ingra-
titude and pusillanimity should live upon the earth ; for
this reason he is guilty of the most infernal malice to
bring about my ruin. And I am afraid, madam (turn-
ing to Mrs Gawky), you have too easily entered into
the sentiments of your husband. I have often found
you my enemy, and am well acquainted with the occa-
sion of your being so, which I don’t at present think
proper to declare; but I would advise you, for your
own sake, not to drive me to extremity.”’ This address
enraged her so much, that, with a face as red as scar-
Jet, and the eyes of a fury, she strutted up to me, and
putting her hands in her sides, spat in my face, saying,
{ was a scandalous villain, but she defied my malice ;
and that unless her papa would prosecute me like a
thief as I was, she would not stay another night under
his roof. At the same time, Gawky assuming a big
look, told me, he scorned what lies I could invent
against him; but that, if I pretended to asperse his
wiie, he would put me to death. To this threat I an-
swered, “TI wish I could meet with thee in a desert,
that I might have an opportunity of punishing thee for
thy perfidy towards me, and rid the world of such a
rascal. What hinders me this moment,” said I, seizing
an old bottle that stood by, “from doing myself that
justice?” I had no sooner armed myself in this man-
ner, than Gawky and his father-in-law retired in such
a hurry, that the one overturned the other, and they
rolled together down stairs, while my mistress swooned
away with fear, and her daughter asked if I intended
to murder her. I gave her to understand that nothing
was farther from my intention, that I would leave her
to the stings of her own conscience ; but was firmly

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resolved to slit her husband’s nose, whenever fortune |

Should offer a convenient opportunity. Then going

oO

down stairs, I met Lavement coming up trembling with |

the pestle in his hand, and Gawky behind armed with

and having assured him of my pacific disposition, |
| and to whose fate I had almost been inseparably joined !

Gawky exclaimed, “ Ah, villain! you have killed my
dear wife.” And the apothecary cried, “ Ah, eoquin!
vere 1s my shild?” “The lady,” said I, “is above
stairs, unhurt by me, and will a few months henee, I
believe, reward your concern.” Here she ealled to
them, and desired they would let the wretch go, and

? » . i . ¥
trouble themselves no further about him. To which

request her father consented, observing, nevertheless, |
| upon your person—suffer me to expiate that and all
| my other crimes by a miserable death, which will not

that my conversation was “ very mysterious.”

Finding it impossible to vindicate my innocence, J
left the house immediately, and went to the school-
master, with an intention of clearing myself to him,
and asking his advice with regard to my future conduct ;
but, to my inexpressible vexation, he was gone to the
country, where he would stay two or three days. J]
returned with a design of consulting some acquaintance
I had acquired in the neighbourhood ; but my story
had taken air through the officiousness of the servants,
and not one of my friends would vouchsafe me a hear-
ing. Thus I found myself, by the iniquity of mankind,
in a much more deplorable condition than ever: for
though I had been formerly as poor, my reputation was
without blemish, and my health unimpared till now;
but at present my good name was lost, my money gone,
my friends were alienated, my body was infected by an
odious distemper; and my faithful Strap, who alone
could yield me pity and assistance, absent I knew not
where.

The first resolution I could take in this melancholy
conjuncture was to remove my clothes to the house of
the person with whom I had formerly lodged, where I
remained two days in hopes of getting another place by
the interest of Mr Concordance, to whom I made no
doubt of being able to vindicate my character; but in
this supposition I reckoned without my host, for Lave-
ment took care to be beforehand with me: and when I

attempted to explain the whole affair to the schogl- |

LY ISU Umypremsesy ree n mem a

8 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

master, I found him so prepossessed against me, that he
would scarce hear me to an end ; but when I had finishe
my justification, shook his head, and beginning with h
usual exclamation, said, “ That won’t go down with m

I am very sorry I should have the misfortune of be’ £
concerned in the affair, but, however, shall be ra 2c
cautious for the future—I will trust no man from}. ice-
forward—no, not my father who begat me, nox ‘the
brother who lay with me in my mother’s womb: should
Daniel rise from the dead, I would think him an im-
postor ; and were the genius of truth to appear, would
question its veracity !” I told him, that one day it was
possible he might be convinced of the injury I had suf-
fered, and repent of his premature determination. To
which remark he answered, the proof of my innocence
would make his bowels vibrate with joy ; “ but till that
shall happen,” continued he, “I must beg to have no
manner of connection with you—my reputation is a
stake. I shall be looked upon as your accomplice and
abettor—people will say Jonathan “Wyld was but a
type of me—hboys will hoot at me as I pass along; and
the cinder-wenches belch forth reproaches wafted in a
gale impregnated with gin: I shall be notorious—the
very butt of slander, and sink of infamy!” I was not
in 2 humour to relish the climax of expressions upon
which this gentleman valued himself in all his dis-
courses ; but, without any ceremony, took my leave,
cursed with every sentiment of horror which my sitta-
tion could suggest. I considered, however, in the in-
L

g
ervals of my despondence, that I must in some shape
suit my expense to my calamitous circumstances, and
with that view hired an apartment in a garret near St
Giles’s, at the rate of ninepence per week.

One day when I sat in this solitary retreat, musing
upon the unhappiness of my fate, I was alarmed by a
groan that issued from a chamber contiguous to mine,
into which I immediately ran, and found a woman
stretched on a miserable truckle bed, without any visible
signs of life. Having applied a smelling bottle to her
nose, the blood began to revisit her cheeks, and she

| opened her eyes; but, good heaven! what were the
his sword pushing him forward. 1 demanded a parley ; |

emotions of my soul, when I discovered her to be the

same individual lady who had triumphed over my heart,

Her deplorable situation filled my breast with eompas-

sion. She knew me immediately; and, straining me

gently in her arms, shed a torrent of tears, which I could

not help increasing. At length, casting a languishing

look at me, she pronounced with a feeble voice, “ Dear

Mr Random, I do not deserve this concern at your
I

hands. I am a vile creature, who had a base desion

fail to overtake me in a few hours.” I encouraged her
as muchas I could, told her I forgave all her intentions
with regard to me; and that, although my circum-
stances were extremely low, I would share my last far-

| thing with her. I begged in the meantime to know the

od"
immediate cause of that fit from which she had just
recovered, and said, 1 would endeavour by my skill
to prevent any more such attacks. She seemed very
much affected with this expression, took my hand and
pressed it to her lips, saying, “ You are too generous!
I wish I could live to express my gratitude—but alas!
I perish for want.” Then shutting her eyes, she relapsed
into another swoon. Such extremity of distress must
have waked the most obdurate heart to sympathy and
compassion ; what effect then must it have had on mine,
that was naturally prone to every tender passion? |
ran down stairs, and sent my landlady to a chemist’s
shop for some cinnamon-water, while I returning to this
unfortunate ereature’s chamber, used all the means in
my power to bring her to herself: this aim with mueh
difficulty I accomplished, and made her drink a glass of
the cordial to reeruit her spirits ; then I prepared a
little mulled red wine and a toast, which having taken,

 

| she found herself thoroughly revived, and informed me

that she had not tasted food for eight and forty hours
before, As I was impatient to know the occasion and
nature of her calamity, she gaye me to understand that

PUNO THe MVCTIIS OF WME CAUSE, UCC es nsADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 3

she was a woman of the town by profession; that in the
course of her adventures she found herself dangerously
infected with a distemper to which all of her class are
particularly subject; that her malady gaining ground
every day, she became loathsome to herself, and offen-
sive to others; when she resolved to retire to some
obscure corner, where she might be cured with as little
noise and expense as possible; that she had accordingly
chosen this place of retreat, and put herself into the
hands of an advertising doctor, who having fleeced her
of all the money she had, or could procure, left her
three days ago in a worse condition than that in which
he found her ; that except the clothes on her back, she
had pawned or sold every thing that belonged to her
to satisfy that rapacious quack, and quiet the clamour
of her landlady, who still persisted in her threats to
turn her out into the street. After having moralised
upon these particulars, I proposed that she should lodge
in the same room with me, an expedient that would
Save some money; and assured her I would undertake
her cure as well as my own, during which she should
partake of all the conveniences that I could afford to
myself. She embraced my offer with unfeigned acknow-
ledgment, and I began to put it in practice immediately.
[ found in her not only an agreeable companion, whose
conversation greatly alleviated my chagrin, but also a
careful nurse, who served me with the utmostefidelity
and affection. One
that a woman of her

day, while I testified my surprise
beauty, good sense, and educatior

to such an infamous and
answered with a sigh, “These very advantages were
the cause of my undoing.” This remarkabl i
flamed my curiosity to such a degree, that I begged she

’ 55

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ior sne had @ large portion oF eacn ), could be reduced

in i | wie soe. be }
miseranie way oO ilfe, sne

> reply in-

would favour me with the particulars of her story, and
she complied in these words.

PLP LPP LIS ALL ALO LOE

‘My father was an eminent merchant in the city, who
with his wife to a
small estate in the country, which he had purchased
with the remains of his fortune. At that time, I being
} +

WUT

able losses, retired in his old age

nience of education, boarded with an aunt, who was a
rigid presbyterian, and who confined me so closely to
what she called the duties of religion, that in time I
grew weary of her doctrines, and by degrees conceived
an aversion for the good books she daily recommended
to my perusal. As I increased in age,
with a person not disagreeable, I contracted a good deal
of acquaintance among my own sex ; one of whom, after
having lamented the restraint | was under from the
narrowness of my aunt’s sentiments, told me I must
now throw off the prejudices of opinion imbibed under
her influence and example, and learn to think for my-
self; for which purpose she advised me to read Shafts-
bury, Tindal, Hobbes, and all the authors that are
remarkable for their deviation from tl

thinking, and by comparing one with the other, I should
soon be able to form a system of my own. I followed
her advice ; and whether it was owing to my preposses-
sion against what I had formerly read, or the clearness
of argument in these my new instructors, I know not;
but I studied them with pleasure, and in a short time
became a professed freethinker. Proud of my new
improvement, I argued in all companies, and that with
such success, that 1 soon acquired the reputation of a
philosopher, and few people durst undertake me im a
dispute. JI grew vain upon my good fortune, and at
length pretended to make ray aunt a proselyte to my
opinion; but she no sooner perceived my drift, than,
taking the alarm, she wrote to my father an account of
my heresy, and conjured him, as he tendered the good
of my soul, to remove me immediately from the dange-
rous place where I had contracted such sinful prin-
ciples. Accordingly, my father ordered me into the
country, where I arrived in the fifteenth year of my

 

eight years of age, was left in town for the conve- |

1e old way of

39

age, ees by his command, gave him a detail of all the
- ~ es of my faith, which he did not find so unreason-
codieny deere gs represented, Finding myself
aig P + ot the ‘company and pleasures of the
“pias grew melancholy, and it was some time before
could relish my situation. But solitude became every
day more and more familiar to me, and I consoled
myself in my retreat with the enjoyment of a good
library, at such times as were not employed in the ma-
gers ee soy Ge my mother had been dead
diversion. Havin ¢ more ae ti one dene
I addicted myself too much co ee . ce ee
ys poetry and romance;
and, in short, was looked upon as a very extraordinary
person by every body in the country where I resided.
_ I had one evening strayed, with a book in my hand
into a wood that bordered on the high road, at a little
distance from my father’s house, when a certain drunken
squire, riding by, perceived me, and erying, ‘ Holloa
there’s a charming creature!’ alighted in a moment,
caught me in his arms, and treated me so rudely that
[ shrieked as loud as I could, and in the meantimé
opposed his violence with all the strength that rage and
resentment could inspire. During this struggle, another
horseman came up, who, seeing a lady so unworthily
used, dismounted, and flew to my assistance. The squire,
mad with disappointment, or provoked with the re-
proaches of the other gentleman, quitted me, and, run-
ning to his horse, drew a pistol from the saddle, and fired
it at my protector, who happily receiving no damage,

| went up, and, with the butt-end of his whip, laid him

| for his cowardice and treachery.

| ing that night at our house.

| prostrate on the ground before he could use the other,

which his antagonist immediately seized, and, clapping
to the squire’s breast, threatened to put him to death
In this dilemma I
interposed and begged his life, which was granted to
my request, after he had asked pardon, and swore his
intention was only to obtain a kiss. However, my de-
fender thought proper to unload the other pistol, and
throw away the flints, before he gave him his liberty.

c rm: 7
| This courteous stranger conducted me home, where my
having, in the course of trade, suffered very consider- |

father having learned the signal service he had done
me, loaded him with caresses, and insisted on his lodg-
If the obligation he had
conferred upon me justly inspired me with sentiments
of gratitude, his appearance and conversation seemed

| to entitle him to somewhat more. He was about the

age of two and twenty, among the tallest of the middle
size ; had chesnut-coloured hair, which he wore tied up
in a ribbon; a high polished forehead, a nose inclining

1
| to the aquiline, lively blue eyes, red pouting lips, teeth

and appeared |

 

as white as snow, and a certain openness of countenance
—but what need I describe any more particulars of his
person? I hope you will do me the justice to believe
I do not flatter, when I say he was the exact resem-
blance of you; and if J had not been well acquainted
with his family and pedigree, I should have made no
scruple of concluding that you was his brother. He
spoke little, and seemed to have no reserve; for what
he said was ingenuous, sensible, and uncommon. In
short,” said she, bursting into tears, “he was formed
for the ruin of our sex. His behaviour was modest
and respectful, but his looks were so significant, that I
could easily observe he secretly blessed the occasion
that introduced him to my acquaintance. We learned
from his discourse that he was the eldest son of a wealthy
gentleman in the neighbourhood, to whose name we
were no strangers—that he had been to visit an ac-
quaintance in the country, from whose house he was

| returning home, when my shrieks brought him to my

rescue.

All night long my imagination formed a, thousand
ridiculous expectations: there was so much of knight-
errantry in this gentleman’s coming to the relief of a
damsel in distress, with whom he immediately became
enamoured, that all I had read of love and chivalry
recurred to my fancy; and I looked upon myself as a
princess in some region of romance, who being delivered
from the power of some brutal giant, or satyr, by a
generous Oroondates, was bound in gratitude, as well

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i
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AO ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

as led by inclination, to yield up my affections to him
without reserve. In vain did I endeavour to chastise
these foolish conceits by reflections more reasonable
and severe: the amusing images took full possession
of my mind, and my dreams represented my hero sigh-
ing at my feet, in the language of a despairing lover.
Next morning after breakfast he took his leave, when
my father begged the favour of further acquaintance
with him; to which request he replied by a compliment
to him, and a look to me so full of eloquence and ten-
derness, that my whole soul received the soft impres-
sion. Ina short time he repeated his visit; and asa
recital of the particular steps he pursued to ruin me
would be too tedious and impertinent, let it suffice to
say, he made it his business to insinuate himself into
my esteem, by convincing me of his own good sense,
and at the same time flattering my understanding.
This task he performed in the most artful manner, by
seeming to contradict me often through misapprehen-
sion, that I might have an opportunity of clearing my-
self the more to my own honour. Having thus secured
my good opinion, he began to give me some tokens of
a particular passion, founded on a veneration for the
qualities of my mind, and, as an accidental ornament,
admired the beauties of my person; tillat length, being
fully persuaded of his conquest, he chose a proper sea-
son for the theme, and disclosed his love in terms so
ardent and sincere, that it was impossible for me to dis-
guise the sentiments of my heart, and he received my
approbation with the most lively transport. After this
mutual declaration, we contrived to meet more fre-
quently in private interviews, where we enjoyed the
conversation of one another, in all the elevation of fancy
and impatience of hope that reciprocal adoration can
inspire. He professed his honourable intentions, of
which I made no question; lamented the avaricious
disposition of his father, who had destined him for the
arms of another ; and vowed eternal fidelity with such
an appearance of candour and devotion, that 1 became
a dupe to his deceit. Cursed be the day on which |
gave away my innocence and peace! Cursed be my
beauty that first attracted the attention of the seducer !
Cursed be my education, that by refining my sentiments,
made my heart the more susceptible! Cursed be my
good sense, that fixed me to one object, and taught me
the preference I enjoyed was but my due! Had I been
ugly, nobody would have tempted me; had I been
ignorant, the charms of my person would not have
atoned for the coarseness of my conversation; had I
been giddy, my vanity would have divided my inclina-
tions, and my ideas would have been so diffused, that
I should never have listened to the enchantments of
one alone.

But to return to my unfortunate story. After some
months, the visits of my lover became less frequent,
and his behaviour less warm: I perceived his coldness,
my heart took the alarm, my tears reproached him,
and I insisted upon the performance of his promise to
espouse me, that, whatever should happen, my repu-
tation might be safe. He seemed to acquiesce in my
proposal, and left me on pretence of finding a proper
clergyman to unite us in the bands of wedlock. But,
alas! the inconstant had no intention to return. I
waited a whole week with the utmost impatience ; some-
times doubting his honour, at other times inventing
excuses for him, and condemning myself for harbour-
ing the least suspicion of his faith. At length I under-
stood from a gentleman who dined at our house, that
this perfidious wretch was on the point of setting out
for London with his bride, to buy clothes for their ap-
proaching nuptials. his information distracted me!
Rage took possession of my soul; I denounced a thou-
sand imprecations, and formed as many schemes of
revenge, against the traitor who had undone me! Then
my resentment would subside to silent sorrow: I re-
called the tranquillity [ had lost, I wept over my infa-
tuation, and sometimes a ray of hope would intervene,
and for a moment cheer my drooping heart; I would
revolve all the favourable circumstances of his charac-
ter, repeat the yows he made, ascribe his absence to

 

the vigilance of a*suspicious father who compelled him
to a match his soul abhorred, and comfort myself with
the expectation of seeing him before the thing should
be brought to any terms of agreement. But how vain
vas my imagination! ‘The villain left me without re-
morse, and in a few days the news of his marriage were
spread all over the country. My horror was then in-
conceivable ; and had not the desire of revenge diverted
the resolution, I should infallibly have put an end to
my miserable life. My father observed the symptoms
of my despair ; and though I have good reason to be-
lieve he guessed the cause, was at a great deal of pains
to seem ignorant of my affliction, while he endeavoured
with paternal fondness to alleviate my distress. I saw
his cencern, which increased my anguish, and raised
my fury against the author of my calamity to an im-
placable degree. ~

Having furnished myself with a little money, I made
an elopement from this unhappy parent in the night-
time, and about break of day arrived at a small town,
from whence astage-coach set out for London, in which
[ embarked, and next day alighted in town ; the spirit
of revenge having supported me all the way against
every other reflection. My first care was to hire a
lodging, in which I kept myself very retired, having
assumed a feigned name, that my character and situa-
tion might be the better concealed. It was not long
before I found out the house of my lover, whither I
immediately repaired in a transpert of rage, determined
to act some desperate deed for the satisfaction of my
despair, though the hurry of my spirits would not per-
mit me to concert or resolve upon a particular plan.
When I demanded admission to Lothario (so let me
call him), I was desired to send up my name and busi-
ness; but this I refused, telling the porter I had busi-
ness for his master’s private ear: upon which I was
conducted into a parlour until he should be informed
of my request. ‘There I remained about a quarter of
an hour, when a servant entered, and told me his
master was engaged with company, and begged to be
excused at that time. My temper could hold out no
longer: I pulled out a poniard from my bosom, where
I had concealed it, and rushing out, flew up stairs like
a fury, exclaiming ‘ Where’s this perfidious villain ?
could I once plunge this dagger into his false heart, 1
should then die satisfied!’ The noise I made alarmed
not only the servants, but the company also, who hear-
ing my threats, came forward to the stairease to see
what was the matter. I was seized, disarmed, and with-
held by two footmen ; and in this situation felt the most
exquisite torture, in beholding my undoer approach
with his young wife. I could not endure the sight,
was deprived of my senses, and fell into a severe fit,
during which I know not how I was treated ; but when
I recovered the use of reflection, found myself on a bed
in a paltry apartment, where I was attended by an old
woman, who asked a thousand impertinent questions
relating to my condition, and informed me that my be-
haviour had thrown the whole family into confusion ;
that Lothario affirmed I was mad, and proposed to
have me sent to Bedlam; but my lady persuaded her-
self there was more in my conduct than he cared should
be known, and had taken to her bed on bare suspicion,
having first ordered that I should be narrowly looked
to. I heard all she said without making any other re-
ply than desiring she would do me the favour to call a
chair; but this she told me could not be done without
her master’s consent, which, however, was easily pro-
cured, and I was conveyed to my own lodgings in a
state of mind that bafiles all description. The agitation
of my thoughts produced a fever, which brought on a
miscarriage ; and I believe it is well for my conscience
that heaven thus disposed of my burden; for, let me
own to you with penitence and horror, if I had brought
a living child into the world, my frenzy would have
prompted me to sacrifice the little innocent to my re-
sentment of the father’s infidelity.

After this event my rage abated, and my hate be-
came more deliberate and calm: when one day my s:and-
lady informed me,that there was a gentleman below

ne ee RA NN gw ~ eADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM, 4]

who desired to see me, he having something of conse- ) shall find it no difficult matter to acquit myself in point

quence to impart, which he was sure would contribute
to my peace of mind. I was exceedingly alarmed
at this declaration, which I attempted to interpret a
thousand ways; and before I came to any determination
he entered my room, with an apology for intruding upon
me against my knowledge or consent. I surveyed him
some time, and not being able to recollect his face, de-
manded, with a faltering accent, what his business was
with me? Upon which he desired I would give him a
particular audience, and he did not doubt of communi-
cating something that would conduce to my satisfaction
and repose. As I thought myself sufficiently guarded
against any violence, I granted his request, and bade the
woman withdraw. The stranger then advancing, gave
me to understand that he was well acquainted with the
particulars of my story, having been informed of them
from Lothario’s own mouth—that from the time he knew
my misfortunes, he had entertained a detestation for the
author of them, which had of late been increased and
inflamed to a desire of revenge, by a piece of dishonour-
able conduct towards him—that hearing of my melan-
choly situation, he had come with an intention of offering
his assistance and comfort, and was ready to espouse my
quarrel, and forthwith take vengeance on my seducer,
provided J would grant him one consideration, which,
he hoped, I should see no reason to refuse. Had all
the artifice of hell been employed in composing a per-

suasive, it could not have had a more instantaneous or |

favourable effect than this discourse had upon me. I
was transported with a delirium of gloomy joy. The
contract was made ; he devoted himself to my revenge,
undertook to murder Lothario that very night, and to
bring me an account of his death before morning. Ac-
cordingly, about two of the clock, he was introduced to
my chamber, and assured me that my perfidious lover
Was no more ; that although he was not entitled to such
an honourable proceeding, he had fairly challenged him
to the field, where he upbraided him with his treachery
towards me, for whom, he told me, his sword was drawn,
and after a few passes left him weltering in his blood.
I was so savaged by my wrongs, that I delighted in the
recital of this adventure, made him repeat the particu-
lars, and feasted my eyes with the blood that remained
on his clothes and sword. My imagination was so en-
grossed by these ideas, that in my sleep I dreamed Lo-
thario appeared before me, pale, mangled, and bloody ;
blamed my rashness, protested his innocence, and
pleaded his cause so pathetically, that I was convinced
of his fidelity, and waked in a fit of horror and remorse.
1 dropt asleep again, and the same apparition recurred
to my fancy. In short, I passed the night in great
misery, and looked upon my avenger with such abhor-
rence, that in the morning, perceiving my aversion, he
insinuated there was still a possibility of Lothario’s re-
covery : it was true, he left him wounded on the ground,
but not quite dead, and perhaps his hurts might not be
mortal. At these words I started up, bade him fly for
intelligence, and if he could not bring me tidings of
Lothariv’s safety, at least consult his own, and never
return’; for I was resolved to surrender myself to jus-
tice, and declare all that I knew of the affair, that, if
possible, I might expiate my own guilt, by incurring the
rigours of a sincere repentance and ignominious death.
He very coolly represented the unreasonableness of my
prejudice against him, who had done nothing but what
his love of me inspired, and honour justified: that now
he had, at the risk of his life, been subservient to my
revenge, I was about to discard him as an infamous
agent, occasionally necessary; and that, even if he
should be so lucky as to bring news of Lothario’s safety,
it was probable my former resentment might revive,
and J would upbraid him with having failed in his un-
dertaking. I assured him, that on the contrary he should
be dearer to me than ever, as I then should be convinced
he acted more on the principles of a man of honour
than on those of a mercenary assassin, and scorned to
take away the life of an adversary, how inveterate so-
ever, which fortune had put in his power. ‘ Well, then,
madam,’ said he, ‘ whatever may haye happened, J

 

 

 

 

of honour ;’—and took his leave in order to inquire into
the consequences of his duel. I was now more sensible
than ever of the degrees of guilt and misery ; all the
aifliction I had suffered hitherto was owing to my own
credulity and weakness, and my conscience could only
accuse me of venial crimes; but now that I looked
upon myself as a murderer, it is impossible to express
the terrors of my imagination, which was incessantly
haunted by the image of the deceased, and my bosom
stung with the most exquisite agonies, of which I saw
no end. At length, Horatio (for so I shall call my new
friend) returned, and telling me I had nothing to fear,
delivered into my hands a billet containing these words :

‘Mapvam—As I understand it is of consequence to
your peace, I take this liberty to inform you, that the
wounds I received from Horatio are not mortal. This
satisfaction my humanity could not deny, even to a per-
son who has endeavoured to disturb the repose as well
as destroy the life of Lormario,’

Being well acquainted with his hand, I had no reason
to suspect an imposition in this letter, which I read
over and over with a transport of joy, and caressed
Horatio so much that he appeared the happiest man
alive. ‘Thus was I won from despair by the menaces
of a greater misfortune than that which depressed me.
Griefs are like usurpers—the most powerful deposes all
the rest. But my raptures were not lasting : that very
letter whiclt in a manner re-established my tranquil-
lity, in a little time banished my peace. His unjust
reproaches, while they waked my resentment, recalled
my former happiness, and filled my soul with rage and
sorrow. Horatio, perceiving the situation of my mind,
endeavoured to divert my chagrin, by treating me with
all the amusements and entertainments of the town.
I was gratified with every indulgence I could desire;
introduced into the company of women in my own situ-
ation, by whom an uncommon deference was paid to
me; and I began to lose all remembrance of my for-
mer condition, when an accident brought it back to my
view with all its interesting cireumstances. Diverting
myself one day with some newspapers, which I had not
before perused, the following advertisement attracted
my attention :—

‘Whereas a young gentlewoman disappeared from
her father’s house, in the county of ———, about the
end of September, on account (as is supposed) of some
uneasiness of mind, and has not been as yet heard of.
Whoever will give any information about her to Mr

>

of Gray’s-Inn, shall be handsomely rewarded ;
or if she will return to the arms of her disconsolate
parent, she will be received with the utmost tenderness,
whatever reason she may have to think otherwise, and
may be the means of prolonging the life of a father
already weighed down almost to the grave with age and
sorrow.’

This pathetic remonstrance had such an effect on me,
that I was fully resolved to return, like the prodigal
son, and implore the forgiveness of him who gave me
life; but, alas! upon inquiry, I found he had paid his
debt to nature a month before, lamenting my absence
to his last hour, having left his fortune to a stranger,
as a mark of his resentment of my unkind and unduti-
ful behaviour. Penetrated with remorse on this occa-
sion, I sank into the most profound melancholy, and
considered myself as the immediate cause of his death.
I lost all relish for company; and, indeed, most of my
acquaintances no sooner perceived my change of tem-
per than they abandoned me. Horatio, disgusted at
my insensibility, or from some other cause, became
colder and colder every day, till at last he left me alto-
gether, without making any apology for his conduct,
or securing me against the miseries of want, as a man
of honour ought to have done, considering the share
he had in my ruin; for I afterwards learned, that the
quarrel between Lothario and him was a story trumped
up to rid the one of my importunities, and give the
other a recommendation to me, which, it seems, he

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42 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

desired, upon seeing me at the house of my seducer.
Reduced to this extremity, I cursed my own simplicity,
uttered horrid imprecations against the treachery of
Horatio; and as I became every day more and more
familiarised to the loss of innocence, resolved to be re-
venged on the sex in general, by practising their own
arts upon themselves. Nor was an opportunity long
wanting: an old gentlewoman, under pretence of sym-
pathising, visited me, and after having condoled me on
my misfortunes, and professed a disinterested friend-
ship, began to display the art of her occupation, in
encomiums on my beauty, and invectives against the
wretch who had forsaken me; insinuating withal, that
it would be my own fault if I did not still make my
fortune by the extraordinary qualifications with which
nature had endowed me. I soon understood her drift,
and gave her such encouragement to explain herself,
that we came to an agreement immediately to divide
whatever profits might accrue from such gallants as she
should introduce to my acquaintance. ‘The first stroke
of my dissimulation was practised upon a certain judge,
to whom I was recommended by this matron as an

innocent creature just arrived from the country.”

Rr

CHAPTER XXIII.
Har story was here interrupted by a rap at the door,
which I no sconer opened, than three or four terrible
fellows rished in, one of whom accosted my fellow-
lodger thus: “ Madam, your servant—you must do me
the favour to come along with me; I have got a writ
against you.” While the bailiff (for so he was) spoke
thus, his followers surrounded the prisoner, and began
to handle her very roughly. This treatment incensed
me so much, that I snatched up the poker, and would
certainly have used it in defence of the lady, without
any regard to the strength and number of her adver-
saries, had she not begged me, with a composure of
countenance for which I could not account, to use no
violence in her behalf, which could be of no service to
her, but might be very detrimental to myself. Then
turning to the leader of this formidable troop, she de-
sired to see the writ, and having perused it, said with
a faltering voice, “I am not the person whose name
is here mentioned ; arrest me at your peril.” “ Ay, ay,
madam,” replied the catchpole, “ we shall prove your
identity. In the meantime, whether will you be pleased
to be carried to my house or to jail?’ “If f must be
confined,” said she, “I would rather be in your house
than in a common jail.’? “ Well, well,” answered he, “if
you have money enough in your pocket, you shall be en-
tertained like a princess.” But when she acquainted
him with her poverty, he swore he never gave credit,
and ordered one of his myrmidons to call a coach to
earry her to the Marshalsea at once. While they
waited for the convenience, she took me aside, and bade
me be under no concern on her account, for she knew
how to extricate herself from this difficulty very soon,
and perhaps gain something by the occasion. Although
her discourse was a mystery to me, I was very well
pleased with her assurance; and when the coach came
to the door, offered to accompany her to prison, to which
proposal, after much entreaty, she consented.

When we arrived at the gate of the Marshalsea, our
conductor alighted, and having demanded entrance,
presented the writ to the turnkey, who no sooner per-
ceived the name of Elizabeth Cary than he eried, “ Ah
ha! my old acquaintance Bett! I’m glad to see thee
with all my heart.’ So saying, he opened the coach
door, and helped her to dismount; but when he ob-
served her face, he started back, saying, “ Who have
we got here?” The bailiff, alarmed at this interroga-

tion, cried with some emotion, “ Who should it be but | this harvest lasted not long,

the prisoner Elizabeth Cary?” ‘The turnkey replied,
“That Elizabeth Cary ! I’ll be hanged if that’s Elizabeth
Cary more than my grandmother.” Here the lady

so,” answered he, “but ll have further evidence that
youare not the person, before you and [ part.” “Yes,
yes,” said she, “you shall have further evidence to
your cost.” .Then we adjourned into the lodge, and
called for a bottle of wine, where my companion wrote
a direction to two of her acquaintance, and begged the
favour of me to go to their lodgings, and request them
to come to her immediately. I found them together
at a house in Bridges Street, Drury Lane, and as they
were luckily unengaged, they set out with me in a
hackney-coach without hesitation, after I had related
the circumstances of the affair, which flattered them
with hopes of seeing a bailiff trounced ; for there is an
antipathy as natural between women of that class and
bailiffs, as that subsisting between mice and cats. Ac-
cordingly, when they entered the lodge, they embraced
the prisoner very affectionately by the name of Nancy
Williams, and asked how long she had been nabbed,
and for what? On hearing the particulars of her ad-
venture repeated, they offered to swear before a justice
of peace that she was not the person mentioned in the
writ, whom, it seems, they all knew; but the bailiff,
who was by this time convinced of his mistake, told
them he would not put them te that trouble. “Ladies,”
said he, “there’s no harm done—you shall give me
leave to treat you with another bottle, and then we’ll
part friends.” ‘This proposal was not atall relished by
the sisterhood; and Miss Williams told him, sure he
did not imagine her such a fool as to be satisfied with
a paltry glass of sour wine? Here the turnkey inter-
rupted her by affirming with an oath, that the wine was
as good as ever was tipped over tongue. “Well,” con-
tinued she, “that may be; but were it the best of
champaign, it is no recompense for the damage I have
suffered both in character and health, by being wrong-
fully dragged to jail: at this rate no innocent person is
safe, since an officer of justice, out of malice, private
pique, or mistake, may injure and oppress the subject
with impunity; but, thank heaven, I live under the
protection of laws that will not suffer such insults to
pass unpunished, and I know very well how to procure
redress.” Mr Vulture, for that was the bailiffs name,
finding he had to deal with one who would not be im-
posed upon, began to look very sullen and perplexed,
and, leaning his forehead on his hand, entered into a
deliberation with himself, which lasted a few minutes,
and then broke out in a volley of dreadful curses against
the old jade our landlady, as he called her, for having
misinformed him. After much wrangling and swear-
ing, the matter was referred to the decision of the turn-
key, who calling for the other bottle, mulcted the bailiff
in all the liquor that had been drunk, coach hire, and
a couple of guineas for the use of the. plaintiff. The
money was immediately deposited ; Miss Williams gra-
tified the two evidences with one half, and putting the
other in her pocket, drove home with me, leaving the
catchpole grumbling over his loss, yet pleased in the
main, for having so cheaply got clear of a business that
might have cost him ten times the sum, and his place
to boot. This guinea was a very seasonable relief to us,
who were reduced to great necessity, six of my* shirts,
and almost all my clothes, except those on my back,
having been either pawned or sold for our maintenance
before this happened. As we resented the behaviour
of our landlady, our first care was to provide ourselves
with another lodging, whither we removed next day,
with an intention to keep ourselves as retired as pos-
sible, until our cure should be completed. When we
were fixed in our new habitation, I entreated her to
finish the story of her life, which she pursued in this
manner :—

“The success of our experiment on the judge en-
couraged us to practise the same deceit on others ; but
my character taking air,
and my directress deserting me for some new game.

Then I took lodgings near Charing-cross, at'two guineas
1 a-week, and began to entertain company in a publie
thought fit to interpose, and tell the catchpole, if he manner ; but my income being too small to defr
had taken her word for it at first, he might have saved expenses, I was obliged to retrench, and ente

ay my
Y into

 

 

7

i

   

  

articles with the porters of certain taverns,

who under-

   

yintook to find employment enough for me, provided I
would share my profits with them. Accordingly, [ was
nlmost every night engaged with company, among whom
1 was exposed to every mortification, danger, and abuse,
that flow from drunkenness and brutality. Asmy spirit
was not sufficiently humbled to the will, nor my temper
calculated for the conversation of my gallants, it was
impossible for me to overcome an aversion I felt for my
profession, which manifested itself in a settled gloom on
my countenance, and disgusted those sons of mirth and
riot so much, that I was frequently used im a shocking
manner, and kicked down stairs with disgrace. ‘The
messengers, seeing me disagreeable to their benefactors
and-employers, seldom troubled me with a call, and I
began to find myself almost totally neglected.

To contribute towards my support, I was fain to sell
my watch, rings, trinkets, with the best part of my
clothes; and I was one evening musing by myself on
the misery before me, when I received a message from
a tavern, whither I repaired in a chair, and was intro-
duced to a gentleman dressed like an officer, with whom
I supped in a sumptuous manner. In the morning
when Lawoke, I found my gallant had got up, and, draw-
ing aside the curtain, could not perceive him in the
room. I waited a full hour for his return, and then
in the greatest perplexity rose up and rang the bell.
When the waiter came to the door, he found it locked,
and desired admittance, which I granted, after obsery-
ing, with great surprise, that the key remained on the
inside, as when we went to bed. I no sooner inquired
for the captain than the fellow, staring with a distracted
look, eried, ‘ How, madam! is he not a-bed? And
when he was satisfied as to that particular, ran into a
closet adjoining to the chamber, the window of which
he found open. Through this the adventurer had got
upon a wall, from whence he dropped down into a court
and escaped, leaving me to be answerable not only tor
the reckoning, but also for a large silver tankard and
posset-bowl, which he had carried off with him.

It is impossible to describe the consternation I was
under, when I saw myself detained as a thief’s accom-
plice ; for I was looked upon in that light, and carried
before a justice, who mistaking my confusion for a sign
of guilt, committed me after a short examination to
Bridewell, having advised me, as the only means to save
my life, to turn evidence, and impeach my confederate.
I now concluded the vengeance of Heaven hadoyertaken
me, and that I must soon finish my career by an igno-
minious death. This reflection sank so deep into my
soul, that I was some days deprived of my reason, and
actually believed myself in hell tormented by fiends.
Indeed, there needs not a very extravagant imagination
to form that idea; for of all the scenes on earth, that of
Bridewell approaches nearest the notion I had always
entertained of the infernal regions. Here I saw nothing
but rage, anguish, and impiety, and heard nothing but
groans, curses, and blasphemy. In the midst of this
hellish crew, I was subjected to the tyranny of a bar-
barian, who imposed upon me tasks that I could not
possibly perform, and then punished my incapacity with
the utmost rigour and inhumanity. 1 was often whipt
into a swoon, and lashed out of it, during which miser-
able intervals I was robbed by my fellow-prisoners of
every thing about me, even to my cap, shoes, and stock-
ings: I was not only destitute of necessaries, but even
of food, so that my wretchedness was extreme. Not
one of my acquaintance to whom I imparted my situa-
tion, would grant me the least succour or regard, on
pretence of my being committed for theft ; and my land-
jord refused to part with some of my own clothes which
I sent for, because I was indebted to him for a weel’s
lodging.

Overwhelmed with calamity, I grew desperate, and
resolved to put an end to my grievances and life to-
gether ; for this purpose I got up in the middle of the
night, when I thought every body round me asleep, and
fixing one end of my handkerchief to a large hook in
the ceiling, that supported the scales on which the hemp
is weighed, I stood upon a chair, and making a noose

on the other end, put my neck into it, with an intennon

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 4

 

 
  
  
   
   
  
 
   
 
  
  
   
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
     
 
  
 
 
  
        
  
  
 

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to hang myself; but before I could adjust the knot, |
was surprised and prevented by two women, who had
been awake all the while, and suspected my design. In
the morning, my attempt was published among the pri-
soners and punished with thirty stripes, the pain of
which, co-operating with my disappointment and dis-
grace, bereft me of my senses, and threw me into an
ecstacy of madness, during which I tore the flesh from
my bones with my teeth, and dashed my head against
the pavement ; so that they were obliged to set a watch
over me, to restrain me from doing further mischief to
myself and others. This fit of frenzy continued three
days, at the end of which I grew calm and sullen ; but
as the desire of making away with myself still remained
I came to a determination of starving myself to death,
and with that view refused all sustenance. ;
Whether it was owing to the want of opposition, or
to the weakness of nature, I know not ; but on the secon
day of my fast, I found my resolution considerably im-
paired, and the calls of hunger almost insupportable.
At this critical conjuncture a lady was brought into the
prison with whom I had contracted an acquaintance
while I lived with Horatio; she was then on the same
footing as I was, but afterwards quarrelling with her
gallant, and not finding another to her mind, altered
her scheme of life, and set up a coffee-house among the
hundreds of Drury, where she entertained gentlemen
with claret, arrack, and the choice of half a dozen of
damsels who lived in her house. This serviceable ma-
tron having neglected to gratify a certain justice for
he enjoyed, was indicted at the quar-

4

the connivance s
ter-sessions, in consequence of which her bevy was
dispersed, and herself committed to Bridewell. She
had not been long there, before she learned my disas-
ter, and coming up to me, after a compliment of condo-
lence, inquired into the particulars of my fate. While
ve were engaged in discourse together, the master came
and told me that the fellow on whose account I had
sufiered was taken, that he had confessed the theft, and
cleared me of any concern in the affair ; for which rea-
son he, the master, had orders to discharge me, and
that I was frorn that moment free.

This piece of news soon banished all thoughts of death,
and had such an instantaneous effect on my countenance,
that Mrs Coupler (the lady then present) hoping to find
her account In me, very generously offered to furnish
me with what necessaries I wanted, and take me into
her own house, as soon as she could compromise matters
with the justices. The conditions of her offer were,
that I should pay three guineas weekly for my board,
and a reasonable consideration besides for the use of
such clothes and ornaments as she should supply me
with, to be deducted from the first profits of my oceu-
pation. These were hard terms, but not to be rejected
by one who was turned out helpless and naked into the
wide world, without a friend to pity or assist her. [
therefore embraced her proposal, and she being bailed
in a few hours, took me home with her ina coach. As
I was by this time conscious of having formerly dis-
gusted my admirers by my reserved and haughty beha-
viour, I now endeavoured to conquer that disposition,
and the sudden change of my fortune giving me a flow
of spirits, I appeared in the most winning and gay
manner | could assume. Having the advantage of a
good voice and education, I exerted my talents to the
uttermost, and soon became the favourite with all com-
pany. This success alarmed the pride and jealousy of
Mrs Coupler, who could not bear the thoughts of being
eclipsed: she therefore made a merit of her envy, and
whispered among the customers that I was unsound.
There needed no more to ruin my reputation and blast
my prosperity ; every body shunned me with marks of
aversion and disdain, and in a very short time I was as
solitary as ever. Want of gallants was attended with
want of money to satisfy my malicious landlady, who
having purposely given me credit to the amount of
eleven pounds, took out a writ against me, and I was
arrested in her own house. Though the room was
crowded with people when the bailiff entered, not one

of them had compassion enough to mollity my prosecu-

   

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44 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

trix, far less to pay the debt; they even laughed at my
tears, and one of them bade me be of good cheer, for
I should not want admirers in Newgate.

At that instant, a sea-lieutenant came in, and seeing
my plight, began to inquire into the circumstances of
my misfortune. ‘ Harkee, my girl,’ he inquired, ‘ how
far have you overrun the constable?’ I told him that
the debt amounted to eleven pounds, besides the ex-
pense of the writ. ‘An that be all,’ said he, ‘ you
shan’t go to the bilboes this bout.’ And taking out his
purse, paid the money, discharged the bailiff, and telling
me I had got into the wrong port, advised me to seek
out a more convenient harbour, where I could be safely
hove down; for which purpose he made me a present
of five guineas more. I was so touched with this sin-
gular piece of generosity, that for some time I had not
power to thank him. However, as soon as I had re-
collected myself, I begged the favour of him to go with
me to the next tavern, where I explained the nature of
my disaster, and convinced him of the falsehood of
what was reported to my prejudice so effectually, that
he from that moment attached himself to me, and we
lived in great harmony together, until he was obliged
to go to sea, where he perished in a storm.

Having lost my benefactor, and almost consumed the
remains of his bounty, I saw myself in danger of re-
Japsing into my former necessity, and began to be very
uneasy at the prospect of bailiffs and jails; when one
of the sisterhood advised me to take lodgings in a part
of the town where I was unknown, and pass for an
heiress, by which artifice I might entrap somebody to
be my husband, who would possibly be able to allow
me a handsome maintenance, or at worst screen me
from the dread and danger of a prison, by becoming
liable for whatever debts I should contract. I approved
of this scheme, towards the execution of which my
companion clubbed her wardrobe, and undertook to
live with me in quality of my maid, with the proviso
that she should be reimbursed, and handsomely con-
sidered out of the profits of my success. She was im-
mediately detached to look out for a convenient place,
and that very day hired a genteel apartment in Park
Street, whither | moved in a coach loaded with her
baggage and my own. I made my first appearance in
a blue riding habit trimmed with silver ; and my maid
acted her part so artfully, that in a day or two my fame
was spread all over the neighbourhood, and I was said
to be a rich heiress just arrived from the country.
This report brought a swarm of gay young fellows
about me ; but I soon found them out to be all indigent
adventurers like myself, who crowded to me like crows
to a carrion, with a view of preying upon my fortune.
I maintained, however, the appearance of wealth as
long as possible, in hopes of gaining some admirer more
for my purpose, and at length attracted the regard of
one who would have satisfied my wishes, and managed
matters so well that a day was actually fixed for our
nuptials. In the interim, he begged leave to introduce
an intimate friend to me, which request, as I could not
refuse, I had the extreme mortification and surprise to
see, next night, in that friend, my old keeper Horatio,
who no sooner beheld me than he changed colour, but
had presence of mind to advance and salute me, bidding
me (with a low voice) be under no apprehension, for
he would not expose me. In spite of his assurance, |
could not recover myself so far as to entertain them,
but withdrew to my chamber on pretence of a severe
headache, to the no small concern of my adorer, who
took his leave in the tenderest manner, and went off
with his friend.

Having imparted my situation to my companion, she
found it high time for us to decamp, and that without
any noise, because we were not only indebted to our
landlady, but also to several tradesmen in the neigh-
bourhood. Our retreat, therefore, was concerted and
executed in this manner :—Having packed up all our
clothes and moveables in small parcels, she (on pretence
of fetching cordials for me) carried them at several
times to the house of an acquaintance, where she like-

 

middle of the night, when every other body in the house
was asleep. I was now obliged to aim at lower game,
and accordingly spread my nets among trades-people,
but found them all too phlegmatie or cautious for my
art and attractions, till at last I became acquainted with
you, on whom I practised all my dexterity ; not that
I believed you had any fortune, or expectation of one,
but that I might transfer the burden of such debts as I
had incurred orshould contract, from myself to another,
and at the same time avenge myself of your sex, by ren-
dering miserable one who bore such resemblance to the
wretch who ruined me ; but Heaven preserved you from
my snares by the discovery you made, whioh was owing
to the negligence of my maid in leaving the chamber-
door unlocked when she went to buy sugar for break-
fast. When I found myself detected and forsaken by
you, I was fain to move my lodging, and dwell two pair
of stairs higher than before. My companion, being dis-
appointed in her expectations, left me, and I had no
other resource than to venture forth, like the owls in
the dark, to pick up a precarious and uncomfortable
subsistence. I have often sauntered between Ludgate-
hill and Charing-cross a whole winter night, exposed
not only to the inclemency of the weather, but likewise
to the rage of hunger and thirst, without being so happy
as to meet with one dupe; then creep up to my garret,
in a deplorable draggled condition, sneak to bed, and
try to bury my appetite and sorrows in sleep. When
I lighted on some rake or tradesman reeling home
drunk, I frequently suffered the most brutal treatment,
in spite of which I was obliged toaffect gaiety and good
humour, though my soul was stung with resentment
and disdain, and my heart loaded with grief and afflic-
tion. In the course of these nocturnal adventures, I
was infected with the disease, that in a short time
rendered me the object of my own abhorrence, and
drove me to the retreat where your benevolence rescued
me from the jaws of death.”

So much candour and good sense appeared in this
lady’s narration, that I made no seruple of believing
every syllable of what she said, and expressed my
astonishment at the variety of miseries she had under-
gone in so little time, for all her misfortunes had hap-
pened within the compass of two years; I compared
her situation with my own, and found it a thousand
times more wretched. I had endured hardships, ’tis
true—my whole life had been a series of such; and
when I looked forward, the prospect was not much
bettered, but then they were become habitual to me,
and consequently I could bear them with less difficulty.
If one scheme of life should not succeed, I could have
recourse to another, and so to a third, veering about
to a thousand different shifts according to the emer-
gencies of my fate, without forfeiting the dignity of my
character beyond a power of retrieving it, or subject-
ing myself wholly to the caprice and barbarity of the
world. On the other hand, she had known and relished
the sweets of prosperity, she had been brought up
under the wings of an indulgent parent, in all the de-
licacies to which her sex and rank entitled her; and
without any extravagance of hope, entertained herself
with the view of uninterrupted happiness through the
whole seene of life. How fatal then, how tormenting,
how intolerable, must her reverse of fortune be !—a re-
verse, that not only robs her of these external comforts,
and plunges her into all the miseries of want, but also
murders her peace of mind, and entails upon her the
curse of eternal infamy! Of all professions I pro-
nounced that of a courtesan the most deplorable, and
her of all courtesans the most unhappy. She allowed
my observation to be just in the main, but at the same
time affirmed, that notwithstanding the disgraces which
had fallen to her share, she had not been so unlucky
in the condition of a prostitute as many others of the
same community. “ [ have often seen,” said she, “while
I strolled about the streets at midnight, a number of
naked wretches reduced to rags and filth, huddled to-
gether like swine, in the corner of a dark alley, some
of whom, but eighteen months before, I had known the
favourites of the town, rolling in affluence, and glitter-

eee "z=

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

ing in all the pomp of equipage and dress. Miserable
wretch that I am! perhaps the same horrors are de-
ereed forme! No!” cried she after some pause, “ I shall
never live to such extremity of distress ; my own hand
shall open a way for my deliverance, before I arrive
at that forlorn period !”” Her condition filled me with
sympathy and compassion ; [ revered her qualifications,
looked upon her as unfortunate, not criminal; and at-
tended her with such care and success, that in less than
two months her health, as well as my Own, was per-
fectly re-established. Ags we often conferred upon our
mutual affairs, and interchanged advice, a thousand
different projects were formed, which, upon further
canvassing, appeared impracticable. We would have
gladly gone to service, but who would take us in with-
out recommendation? At length an expedient occurred
to her, of which she intended to lay hold; and this was,
to procure with the first money she should earn, the
homely garb of a country wench, go to some village at
a good distance from town, and come up in a waggon,
as a fresh girl for service: by which means she might
be provided for, im a manner much more suitable to
her inclination than her present way of life.
CHAPTER XXTYV.

I appLaupep the resolution of Miss Williams, who, a
few days after, was hired in quality of bar-keeper, by
one of the ladies who had witnessed in her behalf at the
Marshalsea, and who since that time had got credit
with a wine-merchant, whose favourite she was, to set
up a convenient house of her own. Thither my fellow-
lodger repaired, after having taken leave of me, with a
torrent of tears, and a thousand protestations of eternal
gratitude ; assuring me, she would remain in this situa-
tion no longer than she should pick up money sufticient
to put her other design in execution.

As for my own part, I saw no resource but the army
or navy, between which I hesitated so long that I found
myself reduced to a starving condition. My spirit be-
gan to accommodate itself to my beggarly fate, and I
became so mean as to go down towards Wapping, with
an intention to inquire for an old school-fellow, who, I
understood, had got the command of a small coasting
vessel then in the river, and implore his assistance.
But my destiny prevented this abject piece of behaviour ;
for as I crossed Tower-wharf, a squat tawny fellow with
a hanger by his side, and a cudgel in his hand, came
up to me, calling, “ Yo ho! brother, you must come
along with me.” As I did not like his appearance, in-
stead of answering his salutation, I quickened my pace,
in hope of ridding myself of his company ; upon which
he whistled aloud, and immediately another sailor ap-
peared before me, who laid hold of me by the collar,
and began to drag me along. Not being of a humour
to relish such treatment, | disengaged myself of the
assailant, and, with one blow of my cudgel, laid him
motionless on the ground; and perceiving myself sur-
rounded in a trice by ten or a dozen more, exerted
myself with such dexterity and success, that some of my
opponents were fain to attack me with drawn cutlasses :
and after an obstinate engagement, in which I received
a large wound on my head, and another on my left
cheek, I was disarmed, taken prisoner, and carried on
board a pressing tender, where, after being pinioned
like a malefactor, I was thrust down into the hold
among a parcel of miserable wretches, the sight of whom
well nigh distracted me. As the commanding officer
had not humanity enough to order my wounds to be
dressed, and I could not use my own hands, I desired
one of my fellow-captives who was unfettered, to take
a handkerchief out of my pocket and tie it round my
head, to stop the bleeding. He pulled out my hand-
kerchief, *tis true, but instead of applying it to the use
for which I designed it, went to the grating of the
hatchway, and, with astonishing composure, sold it be-
fore my face to a bum-boat-woman* then on board,

* A bum-boat-woman is one who sells bread, cheese, greens,
liquor, and fresh provisions to the sailors, in a small boat that
dies alongside of the ship.

 

 

45

for 2 quart of gin, with which he treated his eom-
panions, regardless of m y circumstances and entreaties.

I complained bitterly of this robbery to the midship-
man on deck, telling him at the same time, that unless
my hurts were dressed, I should bleed to death. But
;2mpassion was a weakness of which no man could
justly accuse this person, who, squirting a mouthful of
dissolved tobacco upon me through the gratings, told
me IT was a mutinous dog, and that I might die for
any thing he cared!” Finding there was no other
remedy, I appealed to patience, and laid up this usage
ui my memory, to be recalled at a more fitting oppor-
tunity. In the meantime, loss of blood, vexation, and
want of food, contributed, with the noisome stench
of the place, to throw me into a Swoon, out of which
I was recovered by a tweak of the nose, adminis-
tered by the tar who stood sentinel over us, who
at the same time regaled me with draught of flip,
and comforted me with the hopes of being put on
board of the Thunder next day, where I should be
freed of my handcuffs, and eured of my wounds by the
doctor. I no sooner heard him name the Thunder,
than I asked if he had belonged to that ship long; and
he giving me to understand he had belonged to her five
years, | inquired if he knew Lieutenant Bowling?
* Know Lieutenant Bowling !” said he, “ odds my life!
and that I do; nda good seaman he is as ever stept
upon forecastle, and a brave fellow as ever cracked
biscuit—none of your Guinea pigs, nor your fresh-water,
wish-washy, fair-weather fowls, Many a taught gale of
wind has honest Tom Bowling and I weathered together.
Here’s his health, with all my heart: wherever he
is, a-loft or a-low, the lieutenant needs not be ashamed
to show himself.” I was so much affected with this
eulogium, that I could not refrain telling him that I
was Lieutenant Bowling’s kinsman ; in consequence of
which connection, he expressed an inclination to serve
me, and when he was relieved, brought some cold boiled
beef in a platter, and biscuit, on which we supped plen-
tifully, and afterwards drank another can of flip toge-
ther. While we were thus engaged, he recounted a
great many exploits of my uncle, who, I found, was very
much beloved by the ship’s company, and pitied for the
misfortune that happened to him in Hispaniola, which
I was very glad to be informed was not so great as I
imagined ; for Captain Oakhum had recovered of his
wounds, and actually at that time commanded the ship.
Having by accident, in my pocket, my uncle’s letter,
written from Port Louis, I gave it my benefactor (whose
name was Jack Rattlin) for his perusal; but honest
Jack told me frankly he could not read, and desired to
know the contents, which I immediately communicated.
When he heard that part of it in which he says he had
written to his landlord in Deal, he cried, “ Body 0’? me !
that was old Ben Block; he was dead before the letter
came to hand. Ey, ey, had Ben been alive, Lieutenant
Bowling would have had no occasion to skulk so long.
Honest Ben was the first man that taught him to hand,
reef, and steer. Well, well, we must all die, that’s cer-
tain—we must all come to port sooner or later, at sea
or on shore—we must be fast moored one day: death’s
like the best bower anchor, as the saying is—it will
bring us all up.” I could not but signify my approba-~
tion of the justness of Jack’s reflections, and inquired
into the occasion of the quarrel between Captain Oak-
hum and my uncle, which he explained in this manner:
“Captain Oakhum, to be sure, is a good man enough,
besides, he’s my commander; but what’s that to me?
I do my duty, and value no man’s anger of a rope’s
end. Now the report goes, as how he’s a lord’s or
baron knight’s brother, whereby (d’ye see me) he car-
ries a straight arm, and keeps aloof from his officers,
thof, may-hap, they may be as good men in the mail
as he. Now we lying at anchor in Tuberoon bay, Lieu-
tenant Bowling had the middle watch, and as he always
kept a good look-out, he made (d’ye see) three lights in
the offing, whereby he ran down to the great cabin for
orders, and found the captain asleep ; whereupon he
waked him, which put him in a main high passion, and
he swore woundily at the lieutenant, and called him

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46 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

lousy Scotchman (for I being then sentinel in the steer-
age, heard all), and swab and lubber ; wherehy the
lieutenant returned the salute, and they jawed together
fore and aft a good spell, till at last the captain turned
out, and laying hold of a rattan, came athwart Mr Bow-
ling’s quarter ; whereby he told the captain, that if he
was not his commander, he would heave him overboard,
and demanded satisfaction ashore; whereby, in the
morning watch, the captain went ashore in the pinnace,
and afterwards the lieutenant carried the cutter ashore ;
and so they, leaving the boats’ crews on their oars, went
away together; and so (d’ye see) in less thana quarter
of an hour we heard firing, whereby we made for the
place, and found the captain lying wounded on the
beach, and so brought him on board to the doctor, who
cured him in less than six weeks. But the lieutenant
clapt on all the sail he could bear, and had got far
enough ahead before we knew any thing of the matter,
so that we could never after get sight of him ; for which
we were not sorry, because the captain was mainly wroth,
and would certainly have done him a mischief; for he
aiterwards caused him to be run on the ship’s books,
whereby he lost all his pay, and if he should be taken,
would be tried as a deserter.”

This account of the captain’s behaviour gave me no
advantageous idea of his character; and I could not
help lamenting my own fate, that had subjected me to
such a commander. However, making a virtue of ne-
cessity, I put a good face on the matter, and next day
was with the other pressed men put on board of the
Thunder, lying at the Nore. When we came along-
side, the mate who guarded us thither orderéd my hand-
cuffs to be taken off, that I might get on board the

 

 

easier; this circumstance being perceived by some of |

the company who stood upon the gangboards to see us
enter, one of them called to Jack Rattlin, wl

sied in doing this friendly office for me, “ Hey, Jack,
what Newgate galley have you boarded on the river, as
you came along ? Have we not got thieves enough among
us already? Another observing my wounds, which re-
mained exposed to the air, told me my seams were un-
caulked, and that I must be new payed : a third, seeing
my hair clotted together with blood, as it were into dis-
tinct cords, took notice, that my bows were manned
with the red ropes instead of my side: a fourth asked
me if J could not keep my yards square without iron
braces ?—and, in short, a thousand witticisms of the
Same nature were passed upon me before I could get
up the ship’s side. After we had been all entered upon
the ship’s books, I inquired of one of my shipmates where
the surgeon was, that I might have my wounds dressed,
and had actually got as far as the middle deck (for our
ship carried eighty guns) in my way to the cockpit, when
I was met by the same midshipman who had used me
so barbarously in the tender: he seeing me free from
my chains, asked with an insolent air, who had released
me? ‘To this question I foolishly answered, with a
countenance that too plainly declared the state of my
thoughts, “ Whoever did it, I am persuaded did not
consult you in the affair,”
these words than he cried, “ You saucy scoundrel, [’ll
teach you to talk so to your officer.” So saying, he be-
stowed on me several severe stripes with a supple jack
he had in his hand; and, going to the commanding offi-
cer, made such a report of me that I was immediately
put in irons by the master-at-arms, and a sentinel placed
overme. Honest Rattlin, as soon as he heard of my
condition, came to me, and administered all the con-
solation he could, and then went to the surgeon in my
behalf, who sent one of his mates to dress my wounds.
This mate was no other than my old friend Thomson,
with whom I became acquainted at the Navy Office, as
before mentioned. If I knew him at first sight, it was
not easy for him to recognise me, disfigured with blood
and dirt, and altered by the misery I had undergone.
Unknown as I was to him, he surveyed me with looks

10 was bu-

of compassion, and handled my sores with creat tender-
ness. When he had applied what he thought proper,

Bein on 9m Ds en pains ce ol fa al setae

I had no sooner uttered |

 

and was about to leave me, I asked him if my misfor- | made out in his na

collect my face? Upon this address, he observed me with
great earnestness for some time, and at length protested
he could not recollect one feature of my countenance.
To keep him no longer in suspense, I told him my name ;
which when he heard, he embraced me with affection,
and professed his sorrow in seeing me in such a dis-
agreeable situation. I made him acquainted with my
story, and when he heard how inhumanely I had been
used in the tender, he left me abruptly, assuring me I
should see him again soon.

I had scarce time to wonder at his sudden departure,
when the master-at-arms came to the place of my con-
finement, and bade me follow him to the quarter-deck,
where I was examined by the first lieutenant, who com-
manded the ship in the absence of the captain, touching
the treatment I had received in the tender from my
friend the midshipman, who was present to confront
me. I recounted the particulars of his behaviour to me
in the tender, and since my being on board the ship, part
of which being proved by the evidence of Jack Rattlin
and others, who had no great devotion for my oppres-
sor, I was discharged from confinement to make way
for him, who was delivered to the master-at-arms to
take his turn in the bilboes. And this was not the only
satisfaction I enjoyed ; for I was, at the request of the
surgeon, exempted from all other duty than that of as-
sisting his mates in making and administering medi-
cines to the sick. This good office I owed to the friend-
ship of Mr Thomson, who had represented me in such
a favourable light to the surgeon, that he demanded me
of the lieutenant to supply the place of his third mate,
who was lately dead. When I had obtained this fa-
vour, my friend Thomson carried me down to the cock-
pit, which is the place allotted for the habitation of the
surgeon’s mates; and when he had shown me their
berth (as he called it), I was filled with astonishment
and horror. We descended by divers ladders to a
space as dark asa dungeon, which I understood was
immersed several feet under water, being immediately
above the hold: I had no sooner approached this dis-
mal gulf, than my nose was saluted with an intolerable
stench of putrified cheese and rancid butter, that issued
from an apartment at the foot of the ladder resembling
a chandler’s shop, where, by the faint glimmering of a
candle, I could perceive a man witha pale meagre coun-
tenance, sitting by a kind of desk, having spectacles on
his nose and a pen in his hand. This (I learned of Mr
Thomson) was the ship’s steward, who sat there to dis-
tribute provisions to the several messes, and to mark
what each received. He therefore presented my name
to him, and desired I might be entered in his mess;
then taking a light in his hand, conducted me to the
place of his residence, which was a square of about six
feet, surrounded with the medicine chest, that of the
first mate, his own, and a board by way of table fas-
tened to the after powder-room ; it @vas also enclosed
with canvass nailed round to the beams of the ship, to
sereen us from the cold, as well as from the view of the
midshipmen and quartermasters, who lodged within
the cable tiers on each side of us: in this gloomy man-
sion he entertained me with some cold salt pork, which
he brought from a sort of locker, fixed above the table ;
and calling for the boy of the mess, sent for a can of
beer, of which he made excellent flip to crown the ban-
quet.

By this time I began to recover my spirits, which
had been exceedingly depressed with the appearance of
every thing about me, and could no longer refrain from
asking the particulars of Mr Thomson’s fortune since
{ hadseenhimin London. He toldme, that being dis-
appointed in his expectations of borrowing money to
gratify the rapacious secretary at the Navy Office, he
found himself utterly unable to subsist any lorger in
town, and had actually offered his service in quality of
mate, to the surgeon of a merchant’s ship bound to
Guinea on the slaving trade, when one morning a young
fellow, of whom he had some acquaintance, came to his
lodgings, and informed him that he had seen a warrant
me at the Navy Office for surgeon’s

eceiesacmsarmmecnttintinns tend ctaviaiie aiiate ta = .

cy

ESADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

Sood news he could scarcely believe to be true, more
especially, as he had been found qualified at Surgeons’
Hall for third mate only; but that he might not be
wanting to himself, he went thither to be assured, and
actually found it so: whereupon, demanding his war-
rant, it was delivered to him, and the oaths adminis-
tered immediately. That very afternoon he went to
Gravesend in the tilt boat, from whence he took a place
in the tide coach for Rochester ; next morning got on
board the Thunder, for which he was appointed, then
lying in the harbour at Chatham, and the same day
was mustered by the clerk of the cheque’ and well it
was for him that such expedition was used, for in less
than twelve hours after his arrival, another William
Thomson came on board, affirming that he was the per-
son for whom the warrant was expedited, and that the
other was an impostor. My friend was grievously
alarmed at this accident, the more so as his namesake
had very much the advantage over him, both in assu-
rance and dress. However, to acquit himself of the
Suspicion of imposture, he produced several letters writ-
ten from Scotland to him in that name, and recollecting
that his indentures were ina box on board, he brought
them up, and convinced all present that he had not as-
sumed a name which did not belong to him. His com-
petitor, enraged that they should hesitate in doing him
justice (for, to be sure, the warrant had been designed
for him), behaved with so much indecent heat. that the
commanding officer (who was the same gentleman |
had seen) and the surgeon were offended at his pre-
sumption, and making a point of it with their friends in
town, in less than a week got the first confirmed in his
station. “TI have been on board,” said he, “ever since °
and as this way of life is become familiar to me. h
no cause to complain of my situation. The surgeon is
a good-natured indolent man; the first mate (who is
now on shore on duty) is indeed alittle proud and cho-
leric, as all Welshmen are, but, in the main, a friendly
honest fellow. The lieutenants I have no concern with :
and as for the captain, he is too much of a gentleman
to know a surgeon’s mate even by sight.”

ave

Pre nrrrre rer crnrerce

17 ie ey
Jk. th ¥ 0

CHAPTER
Wuuite he was thus discoursing to me, we heard a voice
on the cockpit-ladder pronounce with creat vehemence,
in a strange dialect, “The devil and his dam blow me
from the top of Mounchdenny, if I go to him before
there is something in my pelly ;—let his nose be as
yellow as saffron, or as plue asa pell (look you), or green
as a leek, ’tis all one.” ‘To this declaration somebody
answered, “So it seems my poor messmate must part
his cable for want of a little assistance. His fore-top-
sail is loose already ; and, besides, the doctor ordered
you to overhaul him ;—but I see you don’t mind what
your master says.” Here he was interrupted with,
cs Splutter and oons! you lousy tog, who do call my
master ?—get you gone to the doctor, and tell him my
birth, and education, and my abilities ; and, moreover,
my behaviour is as good as his, or any shentleman’s
(no disparagement to him) in the whole world. Got
pless my soul! does he think, or conceive, or imagine,
that I ani a horse, or an ass, or a goat, to trudge back-
wards and forwards, and upwards and downwards, and
by sea, and by land, at his will and pleasure? Go your
ways, you rapscallion, and tell Doctor Atkins that I
desire and request that he will give a look upon the
tying man, and order something for him if he be dead
or alive, and | will see him take it by and bye, when
my craving stomach is satisfied, look you.” At this
the other went away, saying, that if they would serve
him so when he was dying, he would be foul of them in
the other world. Here Mr Thomson let me know that
the person we heard was Mr Morgan, the first mate,
who was just come on board from the hospital, whither
he had attended some of the sick in the morning. At
the same time I saw him come into the berth. He was
a short thick man, with a face garnished with pimples,
a snub nose tured wp at the end, an excessive wide

 

 

 

47

mouth, and little fiery eyes, surrounded with skin
puckered up in innumerable wrinkles. My friend im-
mediately made him acquainted with my case, when
he regarded me with a very lofty look; but without
speaking, set down a bundle he had in his hand, and
approached the cupboard, which when he had opened,
he exclaimed in a great passion, “Got is my life! all
the pork 1S gone, as I am a Christian ! Thomson then
gave him to understand, that as I had been brought on
board half famished, he could do no less than entertain
me with what was in the locker, and the rather as he
had bid the steward enter me in the mess. Whether
this disappointment made Mr Morgan more peevish than
usual, or he really thought himself too little regarded
by his fellow-mate, I know not, but after some pause he
went on in this manner :—“ Mr Thomson, perhaps you
do not use me with all the good manners, and complai-
Sance, and respect, look you, that becomes you, because
you have not vouchsafed to advise with me in this affair.
I have, in my time, look you, been a man of some weight,
and substance, and consideration, and have kept house
and home, and paid scot and lot, and the king’s taxes ;
ay, and maintained a family to boot. And, moreover,
also, [am your senior, and your elder, and your petter,
Mr Thomson.” « My elder I’ll allow you to be, but
not my better,” cried Thomson with some heat. “ Got
is My saviour, and witness too,” said Morgan, with great
vehemence, “ that Iam more elder, and therefore more
petter, by many years, than you.”

Fearing this dispute might be attended with
consequence,

. some bad

i interposed, and told Mr Morgan I was
very sorry for having been the occasion of any difference
between him and the second mate ; and that rather than
cause the least breach in their good understanding, I
would eat my allowance by myself, or seek admission
into some other company. But Thomson, with more
spirit than discretion, as ] thought, insisted upon my
remaining where he had appointed me, and observed,
that no man possessed of generosity and compassion
would have any objection to it, considering my birth
and talents, and the misfortunes I had of late so un-
justly undergone. This was touching Mr Morgan on
the right key, who protested with great earnestness that
he had no objection to my being received into the mess,
but only complained that the ceremony of asking his
consent was not observed. “ As for a shentleman in
distress,” said he, shaking me by the hand, “TI lofe
him as I lofe my own bowels ; for, Got help me! I have
had vexations enough upon my own pack.” And, asI
afterwards learned, in so saying he spoke no more than
what was true; for he had been once settled in a very
good situation in Glamorganshire, and was ruined by
being security for an acquaintance. All differences
being composed, he untied his bundle, which consisted
of three bunches of onions, and a great lump of Che-
shire cheese wrapped up in a handkerchief ; and taking
some biscuit from the cupboard, fell to with a keen ap-
petite, inviting us to a share of the repast. When he
had fed heartily on his homely fare, he filled a large
cup, made of a cocoa-nut shell, with brandy, and drink-
ing it off, told us, “ Prandy was the pest menstruum for
onion and sheese.” His hunger being appeased, he be-
gan to be in better humour ; and being inquisitive about
my birth, no sooner understood that I was descended
of a good family, than he discovered a particular good
will to me on that account, deducing his own pedigree
in a direct line from the famous Caractacus, king of the
Britons, who was first the prisoner and afterwards the
friend of Claudius Cesar. Perceiving how much I was
reduced in point of linen, he made me a present of two
good ruffled shirts, which with two more of check which
I received from Mr Thomson, enabled me to appear
with decency. Meanwhile, the sailor whom Mr Morgan
had sent to the doctor, brought a prescription for his
messmate, which, when the Welshman had read, he
got up to prepare it, and asked if the man was “ tead
or alive?” “Dead!” replied Jack ; “if he was dead, he
would have no occasion for doctors’ stuff. No, thank
God, death han’t as yet boarded him, but they have
been yard-arm and yard-arm these three ol acon 7) aeSS ee

 

ne ninretiis
eee
——— — SSS

48

his eyes open?” continued the mate. “ Mis starboard
eye,” said the sailor, “is open, but fast jammed in his
head, and the haulyards of his under jaw haye given
way.” “ Passion of my heart!” cried Morgan, “the
man is as pad as one would desire tobe! Did you feel
his pulses?” ‘To this the other replied with “Anan !”
Upon which this Cambro-Briton, with great earnestness
and humanity, ordered the tar to run to his messmate
and keep him alive till he should come with the medi-
cine; “and then,” said he, “ you shall peradventure pe-
hold what you shall see.” The poor fellow, with great
simplicity, ran to the place where the sick man lay,
but in less than a minute returned with a woful coun-
tenance, and told us his comrade had struck. Morgan
hearing this exclaimed, “Mercy upon my salvation!
why did you not stop him till I came?” Stop him!’
said the other, “ I hailed him several times, but he was
too far on his way, and the enemy had got possession
of his close quarters, so that he did not mind me.”
* Well, well,” said he, “ we all owe heaven a teath. Go
your ways, you ragamuffin, and take an example and
a warning, look you, and repent of your misteets.” So
saying, he pushed the seaman out of the berth.

While he entertained us with reflections suitable to
this event, we heard the boatswain pipe to dinner ; and
immiediately the boy belonging to our mess ran to the
locker, from whence he carried off a large wooden plat-
ter, and in a few minutes returned with it full of boiled
peas, crying, “ Scaldings,” all the way as he came.
The cloth, consisting of a piece of an old sail, was in-
stantly laid, covered with three plates, which by the
colour I could with difficulty discern to be metal, and
as many spoons of the same composition, two of which
were curtailed in the handles, and the other abridged
in the lip. Mr Morgan himself enriched this mess with
a lump of salt butter, scooped from an old gallipot, and
a handful of onions shorn, with some pounded pepper.
I was not very much tempted with the appearance of
this dish, of which, nevertheless, my messmates ate
heartily, advising me to follow their example, as it was
banyan-day, and we could have no meat till next noon.
But I had already laid in sufficient for the occasion,
and therefore desired to be excused, expressing a
curiosity to know the meaning of banyan-day. They
told me, that on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,
the ship’s company had no allowance of meat, and that
these meagre days were called banyan-days, the reason
of which they did not know; but I have since learned
they take their denomination from a sect of devotees in
some parts of the Kast Indies who never taste flesh.

After dinner, Thomson led me round the ship, showed
me the different parts, described their uses, and, as far
as he could, made me acquainted with the particulars
of the discipline and economy practised on board. He
then demanded of the boatswain a hammock for me,
which was slung in a very neat manner by my friend
Jack Rattlin; and as I had no bed-clothes, procured
credit for me with the purser for a mattrass and two
blankets. At seven o’clock in the evening Morgan
visited the sick, and having ordered what was proper
for each, I assisted Thomson in making up his prescrip-
tions: but when I followed him with the medicines into
the sick berth or hospital, and observed the situations
of the patients, [ was much less surprised that people
should die on board, than that any sick person should
recover. Here I saw about fifty miserable distempered
wretches suspended in rows, so huddled one upon an-
other, that not more than fourteen inches space was
allotted for each with his bed and bedding, and de-
prived of the light of the day, as well as of fresh air,
breathing a noisome atmosphere, and destitute of every
ee necessary for people in that helpless con-
dition,

CHAPTER XXVI
I coutp not comprehend how it was possible for the
attendants to come near those who hung on the inside

towards the sides of the ship, in order to assist them,
as they seemed barricadoed by those who lay on the

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

outside, and entirely out of the reach of all visitation.
Much less could I conceive how my friend Thomson
would be able to administer clysters, that were ordered
for some in that situation ; when I saw him thrust his
wig in his pocket, and strip himself to his waistcoat in
a moment, then creep on all fours under the hammocks
of the sick, and, forcing up his bare pate between two,
keep them asunder with one shoulder until he had done
his duty. Eager to learn the service, I desired he
would give me leave to perform the next operation of
that kind ; and he consenting, I undressed myself after
his example, and, crawling along, the ship happened to
roll; this motion alarming me, I laid hold of the first
thing that came within my grasp, with such violence
that I overturned it, and soon found, by the smell that
issued upon me, I had not unlocked a box of the most
delicious perfume: it was well for me that my nose was
none of the most delicate, else I know not how I might
have been affected by this vapour, which diffused itself
all over the ship, to the utter discomposure of every
body who tarried on the same deck ; neither was the
consequence of this disgrace confined to my sense of
smelling only, for I felt my misfortune more ways than
one. That I might not, however, appear altogether
disconcerted in this my first essay, I got up, and push-
ing my head with great force between two hammocks,
towards the middle, where the greatest resistance was,
I made an opening indeed, but not understanding the
knack of dexterously turning my shoulder to maintain
my advantage, had the mortification to find myself stuck
up as it were on a pillory, and the weight of three or
four people bearing on each side of my neck, so that
I was in danger of strangulation. While I remained in
this defenceless posture, one of the sick men, rendered
peevish by his distemper, was so enraged at the smell
I had oeeasioned, and the rude shock he had received
from me in my elevation, that with many bitter re-
proaches he seized me by the nose, which he tweaked
so unmercifully that I roared with anguish. Thomson
perceiving my condition, ordered one of the waiters to
my assistance, who with much difficulty disengaged me
from this situation, and hindered me from taking ven-
geance on the sick man, whose indisposition would not
have sereened him from the effects of my indignation.

After having made an end of our ministry for that
time, we descended to the cockpit, my friend comfort-
ing me for what had happened with a homely proverh,
which I do not choose to repeat. When we had de-
scended half way down the ladder, Mr Morgan, before
he saw us, having intelligence by his nose of the ap-
proach of something extraordinary, cried, “ Got have
mercy upon my senses! I believe the enemy has poarded
us in a ————!” Then directing his discourse to the
steward, from whom he imagined the odour proceeded,
he reprimanded him severely, and threatened to smoke
him like a padger with sulphur, if he ever should pre-
sume to offend his neighbours with such smells for the
future. This introduceda smart dialogue, in which the
Welshman undertook to prove the steward was the
author of it, by serving out damaged provisions to the
ship’s company, and in particular putrified cheese, from
the use of which only, he affirmed, such unsavoury
steams could arise. Then he launched out into the
praise of good cheese, of which he gaye the analysis: he
explained the different kinds of that commodity, with
the methods practised to make and preserve it; and
concluded with observing, that in yielding good cheese,
the county of Glamorgan might vie with Cheshire itself,
and was much superior to it in the produce of goats
and putter. I gathered from this conversation, that if
[entered in my present pickle, I should be no welcome
guest, and therefore desired Mr Thomson to go before
and represent my calamity ; at which the first mate ex-
pressing some concern, went upon deck immediately,
taking his way through the cable tier, and by the main
hatchway, to avoid encountering me; desiring me to
clean myself as soon as possible, for he intended to.
regale himself with a dish of salmagundy and a pipe.
Accordingly, I set about this disagreeable business, and.
soon found I had more causes of complaint than 1 atADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 49

firstimagined, for I perceived some guests had honoured
me with their company, whose visit I did not at all think
seasonable ; neither did they seem inclined to leave me
in a hurry, for they were in possession of my chief
quarters, where they fed without reserve at the expense
of my blood. But considering it would be much easier
to extirpate this ferocious colony in the infancy of their
settlement, than after they should be multiplied and
naturalised to the soil, I took the advice of my friend,
who, to prevent such misfortunes, went always close
shaved, and made the boy of our mess cut off my hair,
which had been growing since I left the service of
Lavement; and the second mate lent me an old bob-wig
to supply the loss of that covering. This affair being
ended, and every thing adjusted in the best manner my
circumstances would permit, the descendant of Carac-
tacus returned, and ordering the boy to bring a piece
of salt beef from the brine, cut off a slice, and mixed it
with an equal quantity of onions, which, seasoning with
a moderate proportion of pepper and salt, he brought
it into a consistence with oil and vinegar. Then tasting
the dish, assured us it was the best salmagundy that
ever he made, and recommended it to our palate with
such heartiness that I could not help doing honour to
his preparation. But I had no sooner swallowed a
mouthful than I thought my entrails were scorched,
and endeavoured, with a deluge of small beer, to allay
the heat it occasioned.

Supper being over, Mr Morgan having smoked a
couple of pipes, and supplied the moisture he had ex-
pended with as many cans of flip, of which we all par-
took, a certain yawning began to admonish me that it
was high time to repair by sleep the injury I had suf-
fered from want of rest the preceding night; which
being perceived by my companions, whose time of re-
pose was now arrived, they proposed we should turn
in, or, in other words, go to bed. Our hammocks, which
hung parallel to one another, on the outside of the berth,
were immediately unlashed, and I beheld my messmates
spring with great agility into their respective nests,
where they seemed to lie concealed very much at their
ease. But it was some time before I could prevail upon
myself to trust my carcase at such a distance from the
ground, in a narrow bag, out of which [ imagined [|
should be apt, on the least motion in my sleep, to tumble

down at the hazard of breaking my bones. I suffered |

myself, however, to be persuaded, and taking a leap to
get in, threw myself quite over with such violence, that
had I not luckily got hold of Thomson’s hammock, I
should have pitched upon my head on the other side,
and in all likelihood fractured my skull. After some
fruitless efforts, 1 succeeded at last, but the apprehen-
sion of the jeopardy in which I believed myself withstood
all the attacks of sleep till towards the morning-watch,
when, in spite of my fears, | was overpowered with

slumber ; though I did not long enjoy this comfortable |

situation, being aroused with a noise so loud and so
shrill, that I thought the drums of my ears were burst
by it; this was followed by a dreadful summons pro-
nounced by a hoarse voice, which I could not under-
stand. While I was debating with myself whether or
not I should wake my companion and inquire into the

occasion of this disturbance, I was informed by one of |

the quarter-masters, who passed by me with a lanthorn
in his hand, that the noise which alarmed me was occa-
sioned by the boatswain’s mates who called up the lar-
board watch, and that I must lay my account with such
interruption every morning at the same hour. Being
now more assured of my safety, I addressed myself
again to rest, and slept till eight o’clock, when rising,
and breakfasting with my comrades on biscuit and
brandy, the sick were visited and assisted as before ;
after which visitation my good friend Thomson explained
-and performed another piece of duty, to which I was
a stranger. Ata certain hour in the morning, the boy
of the mess went round all the decks, ringing a small
hand-bell, and, in rhymes composed for the occasion,
invited all those who had sores to repair before the
mast, where one of the doctor’s mates attended, with
applications to dress them.

 

CHAPTER RH. ox ¥ Iie

Wuitx I was busied with my friend in this practice, the
doctor chanced to pass by the place where we were,
and, stopping to observe me, appeared very well satis-
fied with my method of application; and afterwards
sent for me to his cabin, where, having examined me
touching my skill in surgery, and the particulars of my
fortune, he interested himself so far in my behalf as
to promise his assistance in procuring a warrant for
me, seeing I had been already found qualified at Sur-
geons’ Hall for the station I filled on board ; and this
good office he the more cordially engaged in, when he
understood I was nephew to Lieutenant Bowling, for
whom he expressed a particular regard. In the mean-
time, [ could learn from his discourse that he did not
intend to go to sea again with Captain Oakhum, having,
as he thought, been indifferently used by him during
the last voyage. 7

While I lived tolerably easy, in expectation of pre-
ferment, I was not altogether without mortifications,
which I not only suffered from the rude insults of the
sailors and petty officers, among whom I was known
by the name of Loblolly Boy, but also from the disposi-

| tion of Morgan, who, though friendly in the main, was

often very troublesome with his pride, which expected
a good deal of submission from me, and delighted in
recapitulating the favours I had received at his hands.

About six weeks after my arrival on board, the sur-
geon, bidding me follow him into his cabin, presented a
warrant to me, by which I was appointed surgeon’s
third mate on board the Thunder. This he had pro-
cured by his interest at the Navy Office ; as also another
for himself, by virtue of which he was removed into a
second rate. I acknowledged his kindness in the strong-
est terms my gratitude could suggest, and professed my
sorrow at the prospect of losing so valuable a friend,
to whom J hoped to have recommended myself still
further by my respectful and diligent behaviour. But
his generosity rested not here; for before he left the
ship, he made me a present of a chest and some clothes,
that enabled me to support the rank to which he had
raised me. I found my spirit revive with my good
fortune ; and now I was an officer, resolved to maintain

| the dignity of my station against all opposition or af-

 

fronts. Nor was it long before [ had occasion to exert
my resolution. My old enemy, the midshipman, whose
name was Crampley, entertaining an implacable ani-
mosity against me for the disgrace he had suffered on
my account, had since that time taken all opportunities
of reviling and ridiculmg me, when | was not entitled
to retort his bad usage; and even after I had been
rated on the books, and mustered as surgeon’s mate,
did not think fit to restrain his insolence. In particu-
lar, being one day present while I dressed a wound in
a sailor’s leg, he began to sing a song which I thought
highly injurious to the honour of my country, and
therefore signified my resentment, by observing, that
the Scotch always laid their account with finding ene-
mies among the ignorant, insignificant, and malicious.
This unexpected piece of assurance enraged him to

| such a degree that he lent me a blow on the face, which

I verily thought had demolished my cheek-bone ; I was

‘not slow in returning the obligation, and the affair be-

 

gan to be very serious, when by accident Mr Morgan,
and one of the master’s mates, coming that way, inter-
posed, and, inquiring into the cause, endeavoured to
promote a reconciliation ; but finding us both exaspe-
rated to the uttermost, and bent against accommodation,
they advised us either to leave our difference undecided
till we should have an opportunity of terminating it on
shore, like gentlemen, or else choose a proper place on
board, and bring it to an issue by boxing. This last
expedient was greedily embraced by us both ; and being
forthwith conducted to the ground proposed, we stripped
in 2 moment, and began a very furious contest, in which
I soon found myself inferior to my antagonist, not so
much in strength and agility as in skill, which he ac-
quired in the school of Hockley in the Hole and Tot-
tenham Court. Many cross-buttocks did [ sustain, and

oo ares: ~

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ae i rR EEL INO ite eer . ;

—

50 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

pegs on the stomach without number, till at last, my
breath being quite gone, as well as my vigour wasted,
I grew desperate, and collecting all my strength in one
effort, threw in at once, head, hands, and feet, with such
violence, that I drove my antagonist three paces back-
ward into the main hatchway, down which he fell, and
pitching upon his head and right shoulder, remained
without sense and motion. Morgan looking down, and
seeing him lie in that condition, cried, “ Upon my con-
science, as | am a Christian sinner, look you, I believe
his pattles are all ofer; but I take you all to witness
that there was no treachery in the case, and that he
has suffered by the chance of war.” So saying, he de-
scended to the deck below to examine into the situation
of my adversary ; and left me very little pleased with
my victory, as 1 found myself not only terribly bruised,
but likewise in danger of being called to account for the
death of Crampley: but this fear vanished, when my
fellow-mate, having by bleeding him in the jugular
brought him to himself, and, inquiring into the state of
his body, called up to me to be under no concern, for
the midshipman had received no other damage than as
pretty a luxation of the os humeri as one would desire
to see on a summer’s day. Upon this information I
crawled down to the cockpit, and acquainted Thomson
with the affair, who, providing himself with bandages,
&c., necessary for the occasion, went up to assist Mr
Morgan in the reduction of the dislocation. When this
was successfully performed, they wished me joy of the
event of the combat ; and the Welshman, after observ-
ing, that in all likelihood the ancient Scots and Britons
were the same people, bade me “praise Got for putting
mettle in my pelly, and strength in my limbs, to support
it.” T acquired such reputation by this rencounter, which
lasted twenty minutes, that every body became more
cautious in behaviour towards me; though Crampley,
with his arm in a sling, talked very high, and threat-
ened to seize the first opportunity of retrieving on shore
the honour he had lost by an accident, from which I
could justly claim no merit.

About this time, Captain Oakhum, having received
sailing orders, came on board, and brought along with
him a surgeon of his own country, who soon made us
sensible of the loss we suffered in the departure of Doe-
tor Atkins ; for he was grossly ignorant, and intolerably
assuming, false, vindictive, and unforgiving—a merci-
less tyrant to his inferiors, an abject sycophant to those
aboye him. In the morning after the captain came on
board, our first mate, according to custom, went to wait
on him with the sick list, which when this grim com-
mander had perused, he cried with a stern countenance,
* Blood and oons! sixty-one sick people on board of
my ship! Harkee you, Sir! I’ll have no sick in my
ship.” The Welshman replied, he should be very glad
to find no sick people on board; but while it was other-

wise, he did no more than his duty in presenting him |

 

vith alist. “I care for neither you nor your list,” said |
the captain, throwing it at him; “I say there shall be |
| next day during his cold fit. The third complained of

no sick in my ship while I have the command of her.”

Mr Morgan being nettled at this treatment, told him, |

his indignation ought to be directed to Got Almighty,
who visited his people with distempers, and not to him,

teeth. He was, however, appeased at length, and came
down to the berth, where finding Thomson and me a
work preparing medicines, he bade us leave off our
lapour and go to play, for the captain, by his sole word
and power, and command, had driven sickness a-pegg-
ing to the tevil, and there was no more malady on board.
So saying, he drank off a gill of brandy, sighed grie-
vously three times, poured forth an ejaculation of “ Got
pless my heart, liver, and lungs!” and then began to
sing a Welsh song with great earnestness of visage,
voice, and gesture. I could not conceive the meaning
of this singular phenomenon, and saw by the looks of
Thomson, who at the same time shook his head, that
he suspected poor Cadwallader’s brains were unsettled.
He perceiving our amazement, told us he would explain
the mystery ; but at the same time bade us take notice,
that he had lived poy, patchelor, married man, and
widower, almost forty years, and in all that time there
was no man or mother’s son in the whole world who
durst use him so ill as Captain Oakhum had done. Then
he acquainted us with the dialogue that passed between
them, as I have already related it; and had no sooner
finished this narration, than he received a message from
the surgeon to bring the sick list to the quarter-deck,
for the captain had ordered all the patients thither to
be reviewed. This inhuman order shocked us extremely,
as we knew it would be impossible to carry some of
them on the deck, without imminent danger of their
lives; but as we likewise knew it would be to no pur-
pose for us to remonstrate against it, we repaired to the
quarter-deck in a body, to see this extraordinary muster ;
Morgan observing by the way, that the captain was going
to send to the other world a great many evidences to tes-
tify against himself. When he appeared upon deck, the
captain bade the doctor, who stood bowing at his right
hand, look at these lazy lubberly scoundrels, who were
good for nothing on board but to eat the king’s pro-
vision, and encourage idleness in the skulkers. The
surgeon grinned approbation, and taking the list, began
to examine the complaints of each as they could crawl
to the place appointed.

The first who came under his cognisance was a poor
fellow just freed of a fever, which had weakened him
so much that he could hardly stand. Mr Mackshane
(for that was the doctor’s name) having felt his pulse,
protested that he was as well as any man in the world ;
and the captain delivered him over to the boatswain’s
mate, with orders that he should receive a round dozen
at the gangway immediately, for counterfeiting himself
sick ; but before the discipline could be executed, the
man dropt down on the deck, and had well nigh perished
under the hands of the executioner. The next patient
to be considered laboured under a guartan ague, and
being then in his interval of health, discovered no other
symptoms of distemper than a pale meagre countenance
and emaciated body, upon which he was declared fit for
duty, and turned over to the boatswain; but being re-
solved to disgrace the doctor, died upon the forecastle

a pleuritice stitch and spitting of blood, for which Doc-
tor Mackshane prescribed exercise at the pump to pro-

|mote expectoration ; but whether this was improper for

who contributed all in his power towards their cure. |

The bashaw, not being used to such behaviour in any of |

his officers, was enraged to fury at this satirical insinua-
tion, and, stamping with his foot, called him insolent
scoundrel, threatening to have him pinioned to the deck,
if he should presume to utter another syllable. But
the blood of Caractacus being thoroughly heated, dis-
dained to be restricted by such a command, and began
to manifest itself in “ Captain Oagum, I am a shentle-
man of birth and parentage, look you, and peradventure
I am moreover——’
by the captain’s steward, who, being Morgan’s country-
man, hurried him out of the cabin before he had time to
exasperate his master to a greater degree: and this
would certainly have been the case, for the indignant
Welshman could hardly be hindered, by his friend’s
arguments and entreaties, from re-entering the pre-

. sence-chamber, and defying Captain Oakhum to his

Here his harangue was broke off

 

one in his situation, or that it was used to excess, |
know not, but in less than half an hour he was suffo-
eated with a deluge of blood that issued from his lungs.
A fourth, with much difficulty, climbed to the quarter-
deck, being loaded with a monstrous ascites, or dropsy,
that invaded his chest so much he could searce fetch
his breath ; but his disease being interpreted into fat,
oceasioned by idleness and excess of eating, he was or-
dered, with a view to promote perspiration and enlarge
his chest, to go aloft immediately. It was in vain for
this unwieldy wretch to allege his utter incapacity ; the
boatswain’s driver was commanded to whip him up with
the cat and nine tails. The smart of this application
made him exert himself so much, that he actually ar-
rived at the futtoe shrouds; but when the enormous
weight of his body had nothing else to support it than
his weakened arms, either out of spite or necessity he
quitted his hold, and plumped into the sea, where heADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 5]

’ ~ 40 } jvo } LAY 1 . WwW 7, | zy Tt S. ‘ee + g , ry . 7
must bar e been drowned, had not as allor, who was in | to be k cept in irons till he could be brought to a court:
a boat alongside, saved his lif fe, by k eeping him afloat | marti

ll he ‘was hoisted on board 1 se artial, which, no doubt, would sift the affair to the

ae - 1 ce d On board by a fal _ : bottom (by which means important discoveries might
uid be tedious and d TPE deseribe the @ made nN se

fate of ey ery mist Ve able obj eT ah Ce he the in- oo Ds A Bene ree the . iminal - s death

Nat | ete vO Ms demerits. This suggestion, improbable

humanity and ignorance of the ca ptain and BUReeO’, as it was, had the desired effect upon the captain, being

Dp ¢

 

who so w antonly sacrificed the lives of their fellow xactly caleulated { for the meridian of his intellects ;
creatures. Many were brought up in the height or more especial] y as Doctor Ma wekshane espoused this opi-

_~

e injuries 3 they re- | nion, in consequence of his previous declaration that

the ghioat in the | the man was not mad. Morgan, fin ding there was no
presence of their inspectors, and others, who were or | more damage done, eould not. help discovering by his
dered to their duty, languished a few days at work | countenance the pleasure he enjoyed on this oceasion ;
ithed the doctor’s face with an embro-

fevers, and rendered delirious by ¢]
celved in the way. Some gave

ALLE =

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i

bond
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g their fellows, and then departed without any | and while he be

"o 7 ony ( > » eh ) + ‘ cial w9ea 1+ TEY a

ceremony. On the whole, the number of the sick was | cation, ventured to ask him, whether he thought there
reduced to less than a doze nj; and the authors of this | were more fools or madmen on board? But he would
reduction were applauding themselves for the services | have been wis er

in containing this sally y, which his
1en the patient carefully laid up in his memory, to be taken
lere was | notice of at a more fit season.. Meanwhile W bile

t ivection of | anchor; and on our way to ae Downs, the madman,
the doctor’s mate, and that he begged bi

d re- | who was treated as a prisoner, took an opportunity,
leased ; affirming he had been so aieated Hip ior a | while the sentinel ¢
Tt .

¢

they had done to their king and country, w]
yoatswain’s mate informed his honour - at 4]
«man below lashed to his hammock by

 

‘ a | ittended him at the head, to leap

erudge Mr Morgan bore him, and that he w iS aS mM ch | overboard, and frustrate the revenge of Beg captain.

in his senses as any man abo ard. The captain hearing | We staid not long at the Downs, but took the benefit of

this, darted a severe look at the Welshman, : and ordered | the fir: st easterly ‘wind to go rol ai to Spithe ead, where
8

4 4 J 1} ee =i < .
the man to be brought up in
7 ae 7 f

Ned s}xr e ]
mediately ; upon whic
as
Morgan protested, with great
:

1 | having received on board provisions for six months , we
sailed from St Helens in the grand fleet bound for. the

 

In question Was as mad as a March hare. and : c West Indies, on the ever-memorable expedition of Car-
c ‘ } . 1 7 4 ss . |
tor the love of Got, they would at least keep his arms | thae rena,

 

pinioned during his examination. to prevent him from | lt 7 was not without gr eat mortification I saw myself

doing mischief. This request the commander cranted on the point of being trai isported to such a distant

for his own sake, aod the patient was produced, who | and unhealth y climate, destitute of every convenience

insisted upon his being in his right wits with such | that could render such a voyage supportable, and

calmness and strength of argument, that every body} under the dominion of an arbitr ary tyrant, whose

present was inclined to believe him bere ars | command was almost intolerable ; however, as these
|

who aftirmed por was no trusting to appe: ‘$3 for | con iplaints were common to a great many on board, I

he 2 self had been so much imposed upon bs his beha- | resolved to su ibmit pale to my fate, and contrive

ur two days before, that he had actually unbound him | to make myself as easy as the nature of the case would
os

 

 

with his own hands, and had well nigh been murdered | allow. We got out oft the Channel with a prosperous
for his pains. This was confirmed by the evidence of breeze, which died away, leaving us becalmed about
one of the waiters, who declared he had pulled this | fifty leagues to the westward of the Lizard; but this
patient from the doctor’s mate, whom he ha d gotten | state of inaction did not last long; for next night our
down and almost strangled. To this the man answer d, | main-topsail was sphit by the wind, which in the morn-
that the witness was a creature of Morgan’s, and was | ing increased to a hurricane. JI was wakened by a most
uborned to giv e his testimony against him by the malice | horrible din, occasioned by the ple vy of the gun-carriages
of the sete, whom the defendant had aifronted, by dis- | upon the decks above, the ¢ racking of cabins, the howk
covering to the people on board that Mr Morgan’s wife | ing of the wind _ rough the shrouds, the confused noise
kept a ginsh« BP 3 in Rag-Fair. This anecdote produced | of the shi ip’s erew, the Pp ipes of the boatswain and his
augh at th | l

ul xpense of the Welshman, who shaking | s of the lieutenat its, and the clanking
his head with some emotion, said, “ Ay, ay, ’tis no mat- | of the one ere s. Morgan, who had never been at
Got | vs it is an arrant falsehood.” I , turned out in a great hurry, crying, “ Got

snOWS 10 15 an ayrant iaisenooa. Captain | sea
lered the | have merey and ec pasion upon us!”—while poor

4
t

. 7 7 > *
Oakhum, without any further hesitation, or
]

favour of the madman, than he got up the mizen shrouds ith brandy) I went above ; but if my sense of he aring

fellow to be unfettered, at the same time threatening | Chomson lay quaking in his hamm« ek, putting up pom
to make Morg gan excha ige situations with him for his | tions to heaven for our safety. J rose and j joined the
spite: but the Briton no sooner heard the d cision in | Welshman, with whom ( (after having for tified ourselves
Pit 5 |

|

rT
i

erying to Tl

nson and me to get out of his reac as st
we should see him pla vy the devil with a vengeance We | pall di
fj ‘

101 tartled before, how must my sight have been ap-
the effects of the storm! The sea was

nto billows mountain-high, on the top of which
ingly got up on the poop, whence we beheld the maniac, | our ship sometimes hung, as if it was about to be preci-

soon as he was released, fiy at the captain like a fury, | pitated to the abyss below ; sometimes we sank between
;

®

ee Bee re eat ee.
it to disr« Farad his « LUTION, and a scord-

 

did not think
|
i

 

  

crying, “ 77ll let you kn WwW, you scounars l, that am | two waves that rose on each side his gher than our top-
commander of this vessel !’—and pummel him without | mast-hea Awad U ireatened, by dashing together, to over- a
mercy. The surgeon, who went to the assistance of | whelm usin a moment! Of all our ‘fleet, consisting of i
his patron, shared the same fate; and it was with the | a hundr d and fifty sail, scarce twelve appeared, and if
fost difficulty that he was mastered at last, after these driving under their bare poles at the mercy of i
having done creat execution among those who oppo sed the te} pe est, At length the mast of one of them gave | :
him. a | way, and tumbled overboard with a hideous crash! ‘Nor ue
contin tihaetlosi | w: i the prospect in our own ship much more agreeable ; 4

| 2 number of officers and sailors ran backward and for-

‘ITAPMTERR XYXVTT!I | ward, with distraction in their looks, hallooing to one

ae Se another, and undetermined what they should attend to

"au captain was carried into his cabin, so enraged with | first. Some clung to ule set ds, endeavouring to unbend

the treatment he had received that he ordered the fel- | the sails, that were split into a thousand pieces, flapping

low to be brought before him, that he might have the | in the w wind ; ; others tried to furl those which were yet

pleasure of pistoling him with his own hand ; and would | whole, Ww hile the masts, at every. pitch, Sahat and quivered

certainly have satisfied his revenge in this ma nner, had | igs, as if they would have shivered into innume-

not the first lieutenant remonstrated against it, by ob- | rable s Sidi:

 

serving, /that to all appearance the fellow was not mad While I considered this scene with equal terror and
cry ng, ‘ iF a a} arance t i ¥ i , : is er fot as ES
but despyrat te. —that he Sad been hired by some enemy astonishment, one of the main-braces broke, by the

. 7 4 3 +o 11 « ware flnna fram the rec:
f the ealtain to accaccinate him, and there ‘fore ought | shock whercof two sailors were flung from +ae

52

arm into the sea, where they perished, and poor Jack
Rattlin thrown down upon the deck, at the expense of
a broken leg. Morgan and I ran immediately to his
assistance, and found a splinter of the shinbone thrust
by the violence of the fall through the skin. As this
was a case of too great consequence to be treated with-
out the authority of the doctor, I went down to his
cabin to inform him of the accident, as well as to bring
up dressings, which we always kept r sady prepared.
After making an apology for my intrusion, I acquaint-
ed him with the situation of Rattlin, but could by
no means prevail upon him to visit him on deck, where
he lay: he bade me desire the boatswain to order some
of the men to carry him down to the cockpit ; “and in
the meantime,” said he, “ I will direct Thomson to get
ready the dressings.” When I signified to the boat-
swain the doctor’s desire, he swore aterrible oath, that
he would not spare one man from the deck, because he
expected the mast would go by the board every minute.
This piece of information did not at all contribute tomy
peace of mind; however, as my friend Raitlin com-
plained very much, with the assistance of Morgan |
supported him to the lower deck, whither Dr Mack-
shane, after much entreaty, ventured to come, attended
by Thomson with a box full of dressings, and his own
servant, who carried a whole set of capital instruments.
He examined the fracture and the wound, and conelud-
ing, from a livid colour extending itself upon the limb,
that a mortification would ensue, resolved to amputate
the leg immediately. This was a dreadful sentence to
the patient, who, recruiting himself with a quid of to-
bacco, pronounced with a woful countenance, “ What !
is there no remedy, doctor?—must I be docked? can’t
you splice it!” “ Assuredly, Doctor Mackshane,” said
the first mate, “with submission, and deference, and
veneration to your superior abilities, and opportunities,
and stations, look you, | do apprehend, and conjecture,
and aver, that there is no occasion nor necessity to smite
off this poor man’s leg.” ‘ God Almighty bless you,
dear Welshman!” cried Rattlin ; “ may you have fair
wind and weather wheresoever you’re bound, and come
to an anchor in the road of heaven at last.” Mack-
shane, very much incensed at his mate’s differing in
opinion from him so openly, answered that he was not
bound to give an account of his practice to him; and
in a peremptory tone ordered him to apply the tourni-
quet ; at the sight of which, Jack, starting up, cried,
* Avast, avast! you’ll not clap your nippers on me, till
I know wherefore. Mr Random, won’t you lend a
hand towards saving my precious limb? Odd’s heart !
if Lieutenant Bowling was here, he would not suffer

Jack Rattlin’s leg to be chopped off like a piece of old
junk.”

This pathetic address to me, joined to my inclination
to serve my honest friend, and the reasons | had to be-
lieve there was no danger in delaying the amputation,
induced me to declare myself of the first mate’s opinion,
and affirm that the preternatural colour of the skin was
owing to an inflammation occasioned by a contusion, and
common in all such cases, without any indication of an
approaching gangrene. Morgan, who had a great opi-
nion of my skill, manifestly exulted in my fellowship,
and asked Thomson’s sentiments of the matter, in hopes
of strengthening our association with him too ; but he
being of a meek disposition, and either dreading the
enmity of the surgeon, or speaking the dictates of his
own judgment, in a modest manner espoused the opi-
nion of Mackshane, who by this time, having consulted
with himself, determined to act in such a manner as to
sereen himself from censure, and at the same time re-
venge himself on us for our arrogance in contradicting
him. With this view, he asked if we would undertake
to cure the leg at our peril; that is, be answerable for
the consequence. ‘To this question Morgan replied,
that the lives of his creatures are in the hands of Got
alone; and it would be great presumption in him to
undertake for an event that was in the power of his
Maker, no more than the doctor could promise to cure
all the sick to whom he administered his assistance ;
--bnt.if the patient would nut himself under our direction

 

| hima, in order to trent bina i .

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

we would do our endeavour to bring his distemper toa
favourable issue, to which, at present, we saw no ob-
struction. I signified my concurrence; and Rattlin
was so overjoyed, that, shaking us both by the hands,
he swore nobody else should touch him, and if he died,
his blood should be upon his own head. Mr Mack-
shane, flattering himself with the prospect of our mis-
carriage, went away, and left us to manage it as we
should think proper: accordingly, having sawed off part
of the splinter that stuck through the skin, we reduced
the fracture, dressed the wound, applied the eighteen-
tailed bandage, and put the leg in a box, secundum artem.
Every thing succeeded according to our wish, and we
had the satisfaction of not only preserving the poor fel-
low’s leg, but likewise of rendering the doctor con-
temptible among the ship’s company, who had all their
eyes on us during the course of this cure, which was
completed in six weeks.

POPP LOLI PLLS LL DPI SDD

CHAPTER XXIX.

In the meantime, the storm subsided into a brisk gale,
that carried us into the warm latitudes, where the
weather became intolerable, and the crew very sickly.
The doctor left nothing unattempted towards the com-
pletion of his vengeance against the Welshman and me.
He went among the sick, under pretence of inquiring
into their grievances, with a view of picking up com-
plaints to our prejudice ; but finding himself frustrated
in that expectation by the good will we had procured
from the patients by our diligence and humanity, he
took the resolution of listening to our conversation, by
hiding himself behind the canvass that surrounded our
berth. Here too he was detected by the boy of our
mess, who acquainted us with this piece of behaviour ;
and one night, while we were picking a large bone of
salt beef, Morgan discerned something stir on the
outside of our hangings, which immediately interpret-
ing to be the doctor, he tipt me the wink, and pointed
to the place, where I could perceive somebody stand-
ing; upon which I snatched up the bone, and levelled
it with all my force at him, saying, “ Whoever you are,
take that for your curiosity.” It had the desired effect,
for we heard the listener tumble down, and afterwards
crawl to his own cabin. I applauded myself much for
this feat, which turned out one of the most unlucky
exploits of my life, Mackshane from that time marking
me for destruction.

About a week after this exploit, as I was going my
rounds among the sick, I was taken prisoner, and car-
ried to the poop by the master-at-arms, where I was
loaded with irons, and stapled to the deck, on pretence
that I was a spy on board, and had conspired against
the captain’s life. How ridiculous soever this imputa-
tion was, I did not fail to suffer by it all the rigour
that could be shown to the worst of criminals, being
exposed in this miserable condition to the scorching
heat of the sun by day, and the unwholesome damps
by night, during the space of six days, in which I
was neither brought to trial, nor examined touching
the probability of my charge. I had no sooner re-
covered the use of my reflection, which had been quite
overthrown by this accident, than I sent for Thomson,
who, after condoling me on the occasion, hinted, that I
owed this misfortune to the hatred of the doctor, who
had given an information against me to the captain, in
consequence of which I was arrested, and all my papers
seized. While I was cursing my capricious fate, I saw
Morgan ascend the poop, guarded by two corporals, who
made him sit down by me, that he might be pinioned
in the same machine. Notwithstanding my situation,
[ could searcely refrain from laughing at the counte-
nance of my fellow-prisoner, who, without speaking one
word, allowed his feet to be inclosed in the rings pro-
vided for that purpose; but when they pretended to
fasten him on his back, he grew outrageous, ard draw-
ing a large knife from his side-pocket, threatened to
rip up the belly of the first man that should approach
tebe s,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 53

ner. They were preparing to use him very roughly,
when the lieutenant on the quarter-deck called up. to
them to let-him remain as he was. He then crept to-
wards me, and taking me by the hand, bade me “ put
my trust in Got:” and looking at Thomson, who sat
by us, trembling with a pale visage, told him there
were two more rings for his feet, and he should be glad
to find him in such good company; but it was not the
intention of our adversary to include the second mate
in our fate—him he excepted, to be his drudge in at-
tending the sick, and, if possible, his evidence against
us. _ With this view he sounded him afar off, but find-
ing his integrity incorruptible, harassed him so much
out of spite, that in a short time this mild creature
grew weary of his life.

While I and my fellow-prisoner comforted each other
in our tribulation, the admiral discovered four sail to
leeward, and made signal for our ship and four more to
chase: hereupon every thing was cleared for an engage-
ment, and Mackshane, foreseeing he should have occa-
sion for more assistants than one, obtained Morgan’s
liberty ; while I was left in this deplorable posture to
the chance of battle. It was almost dark when we came
up with the sternmost chase, which we hailed, and en-
quired who they were? They gave us to understand
they were French men-of-war ; upon which Captain
Oakhum commanded them to send their boat on board
of him; but they refused, telling him, if he had any
business with them, to come on board of their ship: he
then threatened to pour in a broadside upon them,
which they promised to return. Both sides were as
good as their word, and the engagement began with
great fury. The reader may guess how I passed my
time, lying in this helpless situation, amidst the terrors
of a sea fight, expecting every moment to be cut asun-
der or dashed in pieces by the enemy’s shot! I endea-
voured to compose myself as much as possible, by
reflecting that [ was not a whit more exposed than
those who were stationed about me; but when I beheld
them employed without intermission in annoying the

foe, and encouraged by the society and behaviour of

one another, I could easily perceive a wide difference
between their condition and mine; however, I concealed
my agitation as well as I could, till the head of the offi-
eer who stood near me, being shot off, bounced from
the deck athwart my face, leaving me well nigh blinded
with brains. I could contain myself no longer, but be-
gan to bellow with all the strength of my lungs: when
a drummer coming towards me, asked if 1 was wounded,
and before I could answer, received a great shot in his
belly, which tore out his entrails, and he fell flat on my
breast. This accident entirely bereft me of all discre-
tion: I redoubled my cries, which were drowned in the
noise of the battle, and finding myself disregarded,
lost all patience, and became frantic: I vented my

rage in oaths and execrations, till my spirits being |
ner of parting with us, which did not fail to make an

quite exhausted, I remained quiet and insensible of the
load that oppressed me.

The engagement lasted till broad day, when Captain
Oakhum, finding he was like to gain neither honour
nor advantage by the affair, pretended to be undeceived
by seeing their colours, and, hailing the ship with whom
he had fought all night, protested he believed them
Spaniards, and the guns being silenced on cach side,
ordered the barge to be hoisted out, and went on board
of the French commodore. Our loss amounted to ten
killed, and eighteen wounded, most part of whom after-
wards died, My fellow-mates had no sooner dispatched
their business in the cockpit, than, full of friendly con-
cern, they came to visit me: Morgan ascending first,
and seeing my face almost covered with brains and

blood, concluded I was no longer a man for this world ; |

and calling to Thomson with great emotion, bade him
come up and take his last farewell of his comrade and
countryman, who was posting to a petter place, where
there were no Mackshanes nor Oakhums to asperse
and torment him. “ No,” said he, taking me by the
hand ; “ you are going toa country where there is more
respect shown to unfortunate shentlemen, and where

 

 

9)

“aries tossing upon pillows of purning primstone.’——
Thomson, alarmed at this apostrophe, made haste to the
place where I lay, and, sitting down by me with tears in
his eyes, Inquired into the nature of my calamity. By
this time I had recollected myself so far as to be able to
converse rationally with my friends, whom, to their great
satisfaction, | immediately undeceived with regard to
their apprehension of my being mortally wounded.

_ After I had got myself disengaged from the carnage
in which 1 wallowed, and partaken of a refreshment
which my friends brought along with them, we entered
into discourse upon the hardships we sustained, and
spoke very freely of the authors of our misery ; but our
discourse being overheard by the sentinel who guarded
me, he was no sooner relieved, than he reported to the
captain every syllable of our conversation, according to
the orders he had received: the effect of this informa-
tion soon appeared in the arrival of the master-at-arms,
who replaced Morgan in his former station, and gave
the second mate a caution to keep a strict guard over
his tongue, if he did not choose to accompany us in our
confinement. Thomson, foreseeing that the whole
slavery of attending the sick and wounded, as well as
the cruelty of Mackshane, must now fall upon his
shoulders, grew desperate at the prospect, and though
I never heard him swear before, imprecated dreadful
curses on the heads of his oppressors, declaring that he
would rather quit life altogether than be much longer
under the power of such barbarians. I was not alittle
startled at his vivacity, and endeavoured to alleviate his
complaints, by representing the subject of my own with
as much aggravation as it would bear, by which com-
parison he might see the balance of misfortune lay on
my side, and take an example from me of fortitude and
submission, till such time as we could procure redress,
which, I hoped, was not far off, considering that we
should probably be in a harbour in less than three days,
where we should have an opportunity of preferring our
complaints to the admiral. The Welshman joined in
my remonstrances, and was at great pains to demon-
strate that it was every man’s duty as well as interest
to resign himself to the divine will, and look upon him-
self as a sentinel upon duty, who is by no means at
liberty to leave his post before he is relieved. Thomson
listened attentively to what we said, and at last shedding
a flood of tears, shook his head, and left us without
making any reply. About eleven at night he came to
see us again with a settled gloom on his countenance,
and gave us to understand, that he had undergone ex-
cessive toil since he saw us, and in recompense had
been grossly abused by the doctor, who taxed him with
being confederate with us, in a design of taking away his
life and that of the captain. After some time spent in
mutual exhortation, he got up, and squeezing me by
the hand with an uncommon fervour, cried, “God bless
you both !” and left us to wonder at his singular man-

impression on us both.

Next morning when the hour of visitation came
round, this unhappy young man was missing, and after
strict search, supposed to have gone overboard in the
night ; and this was certainly the case.

Dees prone rece

CHAPTER” XXX
THE news of this event affected my fellow-prisoner and
me extremely, as our unfortunate companion had justly
acquired, by his amiable disposition, the love and esteem
of us both; and the more we regretted his untimely
fate, the greater horror we conceived for the villain who
was undoubtedly the occasion of it. This abandoned
miscreant did not discover the least symptom of concern
for Thomson’s death, although he must have been con-
scious to himself of having driven him by ill usage to that
fatal resolution, but desired the captain to set Morgan
at liberty again to look at the patients. Accordingly,
one of the corporals was sent up to unfetter him; and
he protested he would not be released until he should

you will have the satisfaction of peholding your adver- | know for what he was confined ; nor would he bea ten-

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54 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

nis-ball, nor a shittle-cock, nor a trudge, nor a scullion,
to any captain under the sun.

Oakhum finding him obstinate, and fearing it would
not be in his power to exercise his tyranny much longer
with impunity, was willing to show some appearance of
justice, and therefore ordered us both to be brought be-
fore him on the quarter-deck, where he sat in state, with
his clerk on one side, and his counsellor Mackshane on
the other. When we approached, he honoured us with
this salutation: “So, gentlemen—many a captain in the
navy would have ordered you both to be tucked up to
the yard’s-arm, without either judge or jury, for the
crimes you have been guilty of; but I have too much
good nature, in allowing such dogs as you to make your
defence.” “Captain Oakhum,” said my fellow sufferer,
“certainly it is in your power (Got help the while) to tuck
us all up at your will, and desire, and pleasures ; and
perhaps it would be petter for some of us to be tucked
up than undergo the miseries to which we have been
exposed. So may the farmer hang his lids for his di-
version, and amusement, and mirth ; but there is such
a thing as justice, if not upon earth, surely in heaven,
that will punish with fire and primstone all those who
take away the lives of innocent people’ out of wanton-
ness and parparity, look you. Inthe meantime, I shall
be glad to know the crimes laid to my charge, and see
the person who accuses me.” “ That you shall,” said
the captain: “here, doctor, what have you to say?’
Mackshane stepping forward, hemmed a good while,
in order to clear his throat, and before he began, Mor-
ganaccosted him'thus : “ Doctor Mackshane, look inmy
face—look in the face of an honest man, who abhors a
false witness as he abhors the tevil, and Got be judge
between you and me.” ‘The doctor, not minding this
conjuration, made the following speech, as near as I can
remember :—“ I’l] tell you what, Mr Morgan, to be sure,
what you say is just, in regard to an honest man; and
if so be it appears as how you are an honest man, then
it is my opinion that you deserve to be acquitted, in
relation to that there affair; for I tell you what, Cap-
tain Oakhum is resolved for to do every body justice.
As for my own part, all that I have to allege is, that I
have been informed you have spoken disrespectful words
against your captain; who, to be sure, is the most honour-
able and generous commander in the king’s service,
without asparagement or acceptation of man, woman,
or child.” Having uttered this elegant harangue, on
which he seemed to plume himself, Morgan replied—* I
do partly guess, and conceive, and understand your
meaning, which I wish could be more explicit; but,
however, I do suppose I am not to be condemned upon
bare hearsay ; or if I am convicted of speaking disre-
spectfully of Captain Oakhum, I hope there is no trea-
son in my words.” “ But there’s mutiny, and that’s
death by the articles of war,” cried Oakhum: “in the
meantime, let the witnesses be called.” Uereupon
Mackshane’s servant appeared, and the boy of our mess,
whom they had seduced and tutored for the purpose.
They first declared that Morgan, as he descended the
cockpit-ladder one day, cursed the captain, and called
him a savage beast, saying, he ought to be hunted down
as an enemy to mankind. “ This,” said the clerk, “ is
a strong presumption of a design formed against the
vaptain’s life. Tor why ? It presupposes malice afore-
thought, and a criminal intention a prior.” “ Right,”
said the captain to this miserable grub, who had been
an attorney’s boy—“ you shall have law enough ; here’s
Cook and Littlejohn for it.”

This evidence was confirmed by the boy, who afirmed
he heard the first mate say that the captain had no
more bowels than a bear, and the surgeon had no more
brains than an ass. Then the sentinel who heard our
discourse on the poop was examined, and informed the
court that the Welshman assured mé, Captain Oakhum
and Doctor Mackshane would toss upon billows of burn-
ing brimstone in hell for their barbarity. The clerk
observed, that there was an evident prejudication, which
confirmed the former suspicion of a conspiracy against

the life of Captain Oakhum ; for, because, how could

Ahern mono nositixely DEOL .o.that the captain and

 

surgeon would be damned, unless he had intention to
make away with them before they could have time to
repent? This sage explanation liad great weight with
our noble commander, who exclaimed, “ What have
you to say to this, Taffy?—you seem to be taken all a-
back, brother, hah!” Morgan was too much of a gen-
tleman to disown the text, although he absolutely denied
the truth of the comment: upon which the captain,
strutting up to him, with a ferocious countenance, said,
“So, Mr Welshman, you confess you honoured me with
the names of bear and beast, and pronounced my dam-
nation! JI have a good mind to have you brought to a
court-martial and hanged, you dog.”” Here Mackshane,
having occasion for an assistant, interposed, and begged
the captain to pardon Mr Morgan, with his wonted
goodness, upon condition that the delinquent should
make such submissions as the nature of his misdemea-
nour demanded. Upon which the Cambro-Briton, who
on this occasion would have made no submission to the
Great Mogul surrounded with his guards, thanked the
doctor for his mediation, and acknowledged himself in
the wrong for calling the image of Got a peast: © but,””
said he, “ I spoke by metaphor, and parable, and com-
parison, and types; as we signify meekness by’a lamb,
and craftiness by a fox, so we liken ignorance to an
ass, and brutality to a bear, and fury to a tiger; there-
fore I made use of these similes to express my senti-
ments, look you—and what I said before Got, I will not
unsay before man or peast neither.”

Oakhum was so provoked at this insolence, as he
termed it, that he ordered him forthwith to be carried
to the place of his confinement, and his clerk to proceed
on the examination of me. The first question put to
me was touching the place of my nativity, which I de-
clared to be the north of Scotland. “The north of
Iveland more like,” cried the captain; “ but we shall
bring you up presently.” He then asked what religion
I professed ; and when I answered, “the Protestant,”
swore I was as arrant a Roman as ever went to mass.
“ Come, come, clerk,” continued he, “ catechise him a
little on this subject.” But before I relate the parti-
rk’s inquiries, it would not be amiss to
our commander himself was a

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culars of the cle

inform the reader tha
Hibernian, and if not shrewdly belied, a Roman Catholic
to boot. “ You say you are a Protestant,” said the
clerk ; “make the sign of the cross with your fingers,
it to that affirmation.” When ]
1 this ceremony, the captain cried
‘No, no! I’ll have no profanation

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tl

so, and swear upon
was about to perforn
with some emotion, *
neither. But go on with your interrogations.” “ Well
then,” proceeded my examiner, “how many sacraments
are there?” To which I replied, “ Two.” “ What are
they?’ saidhe. I answered, “ Baptism and the Lord’s
Supper.” “And so you would explode confirmation and
marriage altogether?” said Oakhum; “I thought this
fellow was a rank Roman.” ‘The clerk, though he was
bred under an attorney, could not refrain from blush-
ing at this blunder, which he endeavoured to concea!,
by observing that these decoys would not do with me,
who seemed to be an old offender. He went on with
asking if I believed in transubstantiation ; but I treated
the notion of a real presence with such disrespect, that
his patron was scandalised at my impiety, and com-
manded him to proceed to the plot. Whereupon this
miserable pettifogger told me, there was great reason to
suspect me of being a spy on board; and that I had
entered into a conspiracy with Thomson and others not
yet detected, against the life of Captain Oakhum—which
accusation they pretended to support by the evidence
of our boy, who declared he had often heard the de
ceased Thomson and me whispering together, and could
distinguish the words “ Oakhum, rascal, poison, pistol.”
By which expressions it appeared we did intend to use
sinister means to accomplish his destruction. That
the death of Thomson seemed to confirm his conjecture,
who, either feeling the stings of remorse, for being en-
gaged in such a horrid confederacy, or fearing a disco-
very by which he must have infallibly suffered an
ignominious death, had put a fatal period to -his own
existence. Butiwhat established the truth ¢ the hole

omaADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 5

‘a

was a book in cypher found among my papers, which
exactly tallied with one found in his chest, after his
disappearance. This, he observed, was a presumption
very near proof positive, and would determine any jury
in Christendom to find me guilty. In my own defence,
I alleged that I had been dragged on board first very
much against my inclinations, as I could prove by the
evidence of some people now in the ship, consequently
eould have no design of becoming spy at thattime ; and
ever since had been entirely out of the reach of any
correspondence that could justly entail that suspicion
upon me: as for conspiring against my captain’s life,
it could not be supposed that any man in his right wits
would harbour the least thought of such an undertak-
ing, which he eould not possibly perform without cer-
tain infamy and ruin to himself, even if he had all the
inclination in the world. That allowing the boy’s evi-
dence to be true, which I affirmed was false and mali-
cious, nothing conclusive could be gathered from afew
incoherent words: neither was the fate of Mr Thomson
&. circumstance more favourable for the charge, for I
had in my pocket a letter which too well explained that
mystery, in a very different manner from that which
was supposed. With these words I produced the fol-
lowing letter, which Jack Rattlin brought to me the
very day after Thomson disappeared, and told me it
was committed to his care by the deceased, who made
him promise not to deliver it sooner. The clerk, tak-

ing it out of my hand, read aloud the contents, which
were these :—

“ Drak Frienp—I am so much oppressed with the
fatigue I daily and nightly undergo, and the barbarous
usage of Doctor Mackshane, who is bent on your de-
struction as well as mine, that I am resolved to free
myself from this miserable life ; and before you receive
this shall be no more. I could have wished to die in
your good opinion, which I am afraid I shall forfeit by
the last act of my life; but if you cannot acquit me, |
know you will at least preserve some regard for the
memory of an unfortunate young man who loved you.
l recommend it to you to beware of Mackshane, whose
revenge is implacable. I wish all prosperity to you
and Mr Morgan, to whom, pray, offer my last respects ;
and beg to be remembered as your unhappy friend and

countryman, Wim ‘T'Homson.”

This letter was no sooner read than Mackshane, in
a transport of rage, snatched it out of the clerk’s hands,
and tore it into a thousand pieces, saying it was a vil-
lanous forgery, contrived and executed by myself. The
captain and clerk declared themselves of the same opl-
nion, although I insisted on having the remains of it
compared with other writings of Thomson, which they
had in their possession ; and I was ordered to answer

the last article of my accusation, namely, the book of

cyphers found among my papers. “ That is easily
done,” said I: “what you are pleased to call cyphers
are no other than the Greek characters, in which, for
my amusement, [ kept a diary of every thing remark-
able that has oceurred to my observation since the
beginning of the voyage, till the day on which I was
put in irons; and the same method was practised by
Mr Thomson, who copied mine.” “© A very likely
story!” cried Mackshane; “ what occasion was there
1-

for using Greek characters, if you were not afraid of

discovering what you had wrote ?
of Greek characters!

!
'
i

But what d’ye talk

1e Greek language, as not to distinguish its letters
rom these, which are.no more Greek than Chinese ?
No, no; I will not give up my knowledge of the Greek
for you, nor none that ever came from your country.”
So saying, with an unparalleled effrontery he repeated
some gibberish, which by the sound seemed to be Irish,
and made it pass for Greek with the captain, who, look-
ing at me with a contemptuous sneer, exclaimed, “ Ah
ha! have you caught a Tartar?” I could not help
smiling at the consummate assurance of this Hibernian,
and offered to refer the dispute to any body on board
who understood the Greek alphabet: upon which Mor-
back. and being made acquainted with

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D’ye think I am so ignorant of

 

 

5

the affair, took the book and read a whole page in Eng-
lish, without hesitation, deciding the controversy in my
favour. The doctor was so far from being out of coun-
tenance at this detection, that he affirmed Morgan was
m the secret, and repeated from his own invention.
Oakhum said, “ Ay, ay, I see they are both in a story ;”
and dismissed my fellow-mate to his cock-loft, although
I proposed that he and I should read and translate
separately any chapter or verse in the Greek Tes-
tament in his possession, by which it would appear
whether we or the surgeon spoke truth. ‘Not being
endued with eloquence enough to convince the eaptain
that there could be no juggle nor confederacy in this
expedient, I begged to be examined by some uncon-
cerned person on board, who understood Greek: ac-
cordingly, the whole ship’s company, officers and all,
were called upon deck, among whom it was proclaimed,
that if any of them could speak Greek, he or they so
qualified should ascend the quarter-deck immediately.

After some pause, two foremast-men came up, and
professed their skill in that language, which, they said,
they acquired during several voyages to the Levant,
among the Greeks of the Morea. The captain exulted
much in this declaration, and put my journal-book
into the hands of one of them, who candidly owned he
could neither read nor write: the other acknowledged
the same degree of ignorance, but pretended to speak
the Greek lingo with any man on board ; and, address-
ing himself to me, pronounced some sentences of a bar-
barous corrupted language which I did not understand.
[ asserted that the modern Greek was as different from
that spoken and written by the ancients, as the English
used now from the old Saxon spoken in the time of
Hengist ; and as I had only learned the true original
tongue, in which Homer, Pindar, the Evangelists, and
other great men of antiquity, wrote, it could not be
supposed that I should know any thing of an imperfect
Gothic dialect that rose on the ruins of the former, and.
scarce retained any traces of the old expression. But
if Doctor Mackshane, who pretended to be master of
the Greek language, could maintain a conversation with
these seamen, I would retract what I had said, and be
content to suffer any punishment he should think proper
to inflict.

I had no sooner uttered these words, than the sur-
geon, knowing one of these fellows to be his country-
man, accosted him in Irish, and was answered in the
same brogue; then a dialect ensued between them,
which they affirmed to be in Greek, after having se-
cured the secrecy of the other tar, who had his cue in
the language of the Morea from his companion, before
they would venture to assert such an intrepid falsehood.
“JT thought,” said Oakhum, “ we should discover the
imposture at last. Let the rascal be earried back to
his confinement. I find he must dangle.” Having
nothing further to urge in my own behalf, before a
court so prejudiced with spite, and fortified with igno-
rance against truth, I suffered myself to be recondueted
peaceably to my fellow-prisoner, who hearing the par-
ticulars of my trial, lifted up his hands and eyes to
heaven, and uttered a dreadful groan; and not daring
to disburden his thoughts to me by speech, lest he
might be overheard by the sentinel, burst forth into a
Welsh song, which he accompanied with a thousand
contortions of face and violent gestures of body.

LESLIE LOLS ODDIE

CHAPTER XXXI.

MeANWHILE a quarrel happening between the two
modern Greeks, the one, to be reyenged of the other,
came and discovered to us the mystery of Mackshane’s
dialogue, as I have explained it above. This detection
coming to the ears of the doctor, who was sensible that
(now we were in sight of Jamaica) we should have an
opportunity of clearing ourselves before a court-martial,
and, at the same time, of making his malice and igno-
rance conspicuous, he interceded for us with the captain
so effectually, that in a few hours we were set at liberty,
and ordered to retur iw dut Tie

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56 ;

event for me, my whole body being blistered with the
sun, and my limbs benumbed by want of motion ; but I
could scarce persuade the Welshman to accept of this
indulgence, he persisting in his obstinacy to remain in
irons until he should be discharged by a court-martial,
which he believed would also do him justice on his
enemies. At length I represented to him the precarious
issue of a trial, the power and interest of his adver-
saries, and flattered his revenge with the hope of wreak-
ing his resentment with his own hands upon Mackshane
after our return to England. ‘This last argument had
more weight with him than all the rest, and prevailed
upon him to repair with me to the :cock-pit, which I no
sooner entered than the idea of my departed friend
presented itself to my remembrance, and filled my eyes
with tears. We discharged from our mess the boy who
had acted so perfidiously, notwithstanding his tears, en-
treaties, and professions of penitence, for what he had
done ; but not before he had confessed that the surgeon
had bribed him to give evidence against us, with a pair
of stockings and a couple of old check-shirts, of which
his servant had since plundered him.

The keys of our chests and lockers being sent to us
by the doctor, we detained the messenger until we had
examined the contents ; and my fellow-mate, finding all
his Cheshire cheese consumed to a crust, his brandy
exhausted, and his onions gone, was seized with a fit of
choler, which he discharged on Mackshane’s man in
oaths and exeerations, threatening to prosecute him as
a thief. The fellow swore in his turn, that he never had
the keys in his possession till that time, when he re-
ceived them from his master, with orders to deliver
them to us. “As Got is my judge,” cried Morgan,
“and my salfation, and my witness, whosoever has pil-
fered my provisions is a lousy, peggarly, rascally
knave ; and by the soul of my grandsire, | will impeach,
and accuse, and indict him of a roppery, if I did put
know who he is.” Had this misfortune happened at sea,
where we could not repair the loss, in all probability
this descendant of Caractacus would have lost his wits
entirely ; but when I observed how easy it would be to
remedy this paltry mischance, he became more calm,
and reconciled himself to the oceasion. <A little while
after this transport, the surgeon came into the berth,

 

arte a

PO See SI

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

isle of Vache, with an intention, as was said, to attack
the French fleet, then supposed to be lying near that
place ; but before we arrived they had sailed directly
for Europe, having first dispatched an advice-boat to
Carthagena, with an account of our being in those
seas, as also of our particular strength and destination.
We loitered here some days longer, taking in wood,
and brackish water, in the use whereof, however, our
admiral seemed to consult the health of the men, by
restricting each to a quart a-day. At length we set
sail, and arrived in a bay to the windward of Cariha-
gena, where we came to an anchor, and lay at our ease
ten days longer. Here again certain malicious people
take occasion to blame the conduct of their superiors,
by saying, that in so doing they not only unprofitably
wasted time, which was very precious, considering the
approach of the rainy season, but also allowed the
Spaniards to recollect themselves from the terror oc-
casioned by the approach of the English fleet, at least
three times as numerous as ever appeared in that part
of the world before. But if I might be allowed to give
my opinion of the-matter, I would ascribe this delay to
the generosity of our chiefs, who scorned to take any
advantage that fortune might give them, even over an
enemy. At last, however, we weighed, and anchored
again somewhat nearer the harbour’s mouth, where we
made shift to land our marines, who encamped on the
beach, in despite of the enemy’s shot, which knocked a
good many of them on the head. This piece of conduct,
in choosing a camp under the walls of an enemy’s for-
tification, which I believe never happened before, was
practised, I presume, with a view of accustoming the
soldiers to stand fire, who were not as yet much used
to discipline, most of them having been taken from the
plough-tail a few months before. This expedient again
has furnished matter for censure against the ministry,
for sending a few raw recruits on such an important
enterprise, while so many veteran regiments lay inac-
tive at home. But surely our governors had their
reasons for so doing, which possibly may be disclosed
with other secrets of the deep. Perhaps they were loath
to risk their best troops on such desperate service ; or
the colonels and field-officers of the old corps, who,

| generally speaking, enjoyed their commissions as sine-

under pretence of taking something out of the medicine- |
chest, and, with a smiling aspect, wished us joy of our |

deliverance, which, he said, he
to obtain of the captain, who was very justly incensed
at our behaviour; but he (the doctor) had passed his
word for our future conduct, and he hoped we should
give him no cause to repent of his kindness. He ex-
pected, no doubt, an acknowledgment from us for this

pretended piece of service, as well asa general amnesty |

of what was past; but he had to do with people who
were not quite so apt to forgive injuries as he imagined,
or to forget, that, if our deliverance was owing to his
mediation, our calamity was occasioned by his malice.
I therefore sat silent, while my companion answered,
Ay, ay, *tis no matter—Got knows the heart; there
is a time for all things, as the wise man saith—there is
a time for throwing away stones, and a time to gather
them up again.” He seemed to be disconcerted at this
reply, and went away in a pet, muttering something
about “ ingratitude,’ and “ fellows,” of which we did
not think fit to take any notice.

Our fleet, having joined another that waited for us,
Jay at anchor about a month in the harbour of Port-
Royal, in Jamaica, during which time something of con-
sequence was certainly transacted ; notwithstanding the
insinuations of some who afiirmed we had no business

 

at all in that place—that in order to take advantage of

the season proper for our enterprise, the West India
squadron, which had previous notice of our coming,
ought to have joined us at the west end of Hispaniola,
with necessary stores and refreshments, from whence
we could have sailed directly for Carthagena before the
enemy could put themselves in a good posture of de-
fence, or, indeed, have an inkling of our design, Be
this as it will, we sailed from Jamaica, and in ten days
ona fortnight beat up against the wind as far as the

had been at great pains |

 

 

cures or pensions for some domestic services tendered
to the court, refused to embark in such a dangerous
and precarious undertaking; for which refusal, no
doubt, they are to be much commended.

wenn nro srrrce

CHAPTER Ax Atl.

Ovr forces being landed and stationed as I have already
mentioned, set about erecting a fascine battery to can-
nonade the principal fort of the enemy, and in some-
thing more «than three weeks it was ready to open.
That we might do the Spaniards as much honour as
possible, it was determined, in a council of war, that
tive of our largest ships should attack the fort on one
side, while the battery, strengthened by two mortars
and twenty-four cohorns, should ply it on the other.

Accordingly, the signal for our ship to engage, among
others, was hoisted, we being advertised the night be-
fore to make every thing clear for that purpose ; and
in so doing, a difference happened between Captain
Oakhum and his well-beloved cousin and counsellor
Mackshane, which had well nigh terminated in an open
rupture. The doctor, who had imagined there was no
more danger of being hurt by the enemy’s shot in the
cockpit than in the centre of the earth, was lately in-
formed that a surgeon’s mate had been killed in that
part of the ship by a cannon-ball from two small re-
doubts that were destroyed before the disembarkation
of our soldiers, and therefore insisted upon having a
platform raised for the convenience of the sick and
wounded, in the after-hold, where he deemed himself
more secure than on the deck above. The captain,
offended at this extraordinary proposal, aceused him of
pusillanimity, and told him there was no room in the
hold for such an occasion, or if there was, he could notADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

expect to be indulged more than the rest of the sur-
geons of the navy, who used the cockpit for that pur-
pose. Fear rendering Mackshane obstinate, he persisted
in his demand, and showed his instructions, by which it
was authorised. The captain swore these instructions
were dictated by a parcel of lazy poltroons who were
never at sea; nevertheless, he was obliged to comply,
and sent for the carpenter to give him orders about it:
but before any such measure could be taken, our sig-
nal was thrown out, and the doctor compelled to trust
his carcase in the cockpit, where Morgan and I were
busy in putting our instruments and dressings in order.
Our ship, with others destined for this service, im-
mediately weighed, and in less than half an hour came
to an anchor before the eastle of Boca Chiea, with a
spring upon our cable—and the cannonading (which
indeed was terrible) began. The surgeon, after having
crossed himself, fell flat on the deck: and t]
and purser, who were stationed with
assistants, followed his example, while
and I sat upon a chest, looking at
great discomposure, scarce able to refrain from the
like prostration. And that the reader may know it was
not a common occasion that alarmed us thus, I must
inform him of the particulars of this dreadful din that
astonished us. ‘The fire of the Spaniards proceeded
from eighty-four great guns, besides a mortar and smal]
arms in Boea Chica, thirty-six in Fort St J oseph, twenty
in two fascine batteries, and four men-of-war, mounting
sixty-four guns each. This was answered by our land
battery, mounted with twenty-one cannon, two mortars,
and twenty-four cohorns, and five great ships of seventy
or eighty guns, that fired without intermission. We
had not been many minutes engaged, when one of the
sailors brought another on his back to the cockpit,
where he tossed him down like a bag of oats, and pull-
ing out his pouch, put a large chew of tobacco in his
mouth, without speaking a word. Morgan immediately
examined the condition of the wounded man, and eried
out, “ As I shall answer now, the man is as tead as my
great-grandfather !” “ Dead!” said his comrade ; “ he
may be dead now for aught I know, but I am cer-
tain he was aliye when 1 took him up.” So saying,
he was about to return to his quarters, when I bade
him carry the body along with him, and throw it over-
board. ** Confound the body !” saidhe; “ I think it fair

enough if I take care of my own.”

1e chaplain

the Welshman
one another with

My fellow-mate.

snatching up the amputation knife, pursued him half

way up the cockpit ladder, erying, “ You lousy rascal,
is this the church-yard, or the charnel-house, or the
sepulchre, or the Golgotha, of the ship ?’—but was stopt
in his career by one calling, “ Yo ho! avast there—
scaldings.” Sealdings!” answered Morgan, “ Got
knows ’tis hot enough indeed :—who are you?” “ Here’s
one,” replied the voice; and I] immediately knew it to
be that of my honest friend Jack Rattlin, who coming
towards me, told me, with great deliberation, he was
come to be docked at last, and discovered the remains
of one hand, which had been shattered to pieces with a
grape shot. I lamented with unfeigned sorrow his mis-
fortune, which he bore with heroic courage, observing,
that every shot had its commission: it was well it did
not take him in the head, or if it had, what then? he
should have died bravely, fighting for his king and
country: death was a debt which every man owed, and
must pay, and that now was as well as another time. 4
was much pleased and edified at the maxims of this
sea-philosopher, who endured the amputation of his
left hand without shrinking—the operation being per-
formed (at his request) by me, after Mackshane, who
was with difficulty prevailed to lift his head from the
deck, had declared there was a necessity for his losing
the limb.

W hile I was employed in dressing the stump, I asked
Jack’s opinion of the battle, who, shaking his head,
frankly told me he believed we should do no good:
“ For why, because instead of dropping anchor close
under shore, where we should have had to deal with
one corner of Boca Chica only, we had opened the
harbour, and exposed ourselves to the whole five of the

,

us in quality of

 

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57

enemy from their shipping and Fort St J oseph, as well
as from the castle we intended to cannonade—that, be-
sides, we lay at too great a distance to damage the
walls, and three parts in four of our shot did not take
Place, for there was searce any body on board who un-
derstood the pointing of a gun. Ah! God help us!”
continued he, “ if your kinsman, Lieutenant Bowling,
had been here, we should have had other guess-work.”
By this time our patients had increased to such a num-
ber that we did not know which to begin with; and
the first mate plainly told the surgeon, that if he did
not get up immediately, and perform his duty, he would
complain of his behaviour to the admiral, and make
application for his warrant. This remonstranee effec-
tually roused Mackshane, who was never deaf to an
argument in which he thought his interest was con-
cerned : he therefore rose up, and in order to strengthen
his resolution, had recourse more than once to a ease-
bottle of rum, which he freely communicated to the
chaplain and purser, who had ‘as much need of such
extraordinary inspiration as himself. Being thus sup-
ported, he went to work, and arms and legs were hewed
down without mercy. The fumes of the liquor mount-
ing into the parson’s brain, conspired, with his former
agitation of spirits, to make him quite delirious ; he
stript himself to the skin, and besmearing his body with
blood, could searce be withheld from running upon
deck in that condition. Jack Rattlin, seandalised at
this deportment, endeavoured to allay his transports
with reason; but finding all he said ineffectual, and
great confusion occasioned by his frolics, he knocked
him down with his right hand, and by threats kept him
quiet in that state of humiliation. But it was not in
the power of rum to elevate the purser, who sat on the
floor wringing his hands, and cursing the hour in which
he left his peaceable profession of a brewer in Rochester
to engage in such a life of terror and disquiet.

While we diverted ourselves at the expense of this
poor devil, a shot happened to take us between wind
and water, and (its course being through the purser’s
store-room) made a terrible havoe and noise among
the jars and bottles in its way, and disconcerted Mack-
shane so much, that he dropt his scalpel, and falling
down on his knees, pronouneed his Paternoster aloud ;
the purser fell backward, and lay without sense or mo-
tion; and the chaplain grew so outrageous, that Rattlin
with one hand could not keep him under; so that we
were obliged to confine him in the surgeon’s cabin,
where he was no doubt guilty of a thousand extrava.
gances. Much about this time, my old antagonist
Crampley came down with express orders, as he said,
to bring me up to the quarter-deck to dress a slight
wound the captain had received by a splinter: his
reason for honouring me in particular with this piece
of service being, that in ease I should be killed or dis-
abled by the way, my death or mutilation would be of
less consequence to the ship’s company than that of
the doctor or his first mate. At another time, perhaps,
[ might have disputed this order, to which I was not
bound to pay the least regard; but as I thought my
reputation depended upon my compliance, I was resolved
to convince my rival that I was no more afraid than he
of exposing myself to danger. With this view I pro-
vided myself with dressings, and followed him immedi-
ately to the quarter-deck, through a most infernal scene
of slaughter, fire, smoke, and uproar! Captain Oak-
hum, who leaned against the mizen-mast, no sooner saw
me approach in my shirt, with the sleeves tucked up
to my arm-pits, and my hands dyed with blood, than
he signified his displeasure by a frown, and asked why
the doctor himself did not come? I told him Cram-
pley had singled me out, as if by express command ; at
which reply he seemed surprised, and threatened to
punish the midshipman for his presumption, after the
engagement. In the meantime I was sent back to my
station, and ordered to tell Mackshane that the captain
expected him immediately. J got safe back, and de-
livered my commission to the doctor, who flatly refused
to quit the post assigned to him by his instructions :
whereupon, Morgan, who (I believe) was jealous of me£
‘
.
a
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A
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be

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reputation for courage, undertook the affair, and as-
cended with great intrepidity, The captain, finding the
surgeon obstinate, suffered himself to be dressed, and
swore he would confine Mackshane as soon as the
service should be over.

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Havine cannonaded the fort during the space of four
hours, we were all ordered to slip our cables, and sheer
off; but next day the engagement was renewed, and
continued from the morning till the afternoon, when
the enemy’s fire from Boca Chica slackened, and to-
wards evening was quite silenced. A breach being
made on the other side by our land battery, large
enough to admit a middle-sized baboon, providing he
could find means to climb up to it, our general proposed
to give the assault that very night, and actually ordered
a detachment on that duty, Providence stood our friend
upon this occasion, and put it into the hearts of the
Spaniards to abandon the fort, which might have been
maintained by resolute men to the day of judgment,
against all the force we could exert in the attack ;—and
when our soldiers took possession of the enemy’s ram-
parts'without resistance, the same good luck attended a
body of sailors, who made themselves masters of Fort
St Joseph, the fascine batteries, and one Spanish man-
of-war ; the other three being burnt or sunk by the foe,
that they might not fall into our hands. The taking
of these forts, in the strength of which the Spaniards
chiefly confided, made us masters of the outward har-
bour, and occasioned great joy among us, as we laid
our accounts with finding little or no opposition from
the town : and, indeed, if a few great ships had sailed up
immediately, before they had recovered from the con-
fusion and despair that our unexpected success had
produced among them, it is not impossible that we
might have finished the affair to our satisfaction, with-
out any more bloodshed ; but this step our heroes dis-
dained, as a barbarous insult over the enemy’s distress,

 

aa eee

 

and gave them all the respite they could desire in order |

to recollect themselves.

In the mean time, Mackshane, taking the advantage
of this general exultation, waited on our captain, and
pleaded his own cause so effectually, that he was re-
established in his good graces; and as for Crampley,
there was no more notice taken of his behaviour towards
me during the action. But of all the consequences of
the victory, none was more grateful than plenty of fresh
water, after we had languished five weeks on the allow-
ance of a purser’s quart per day for each man, in the
Torrid Zone, where the sun was vertical, and the ex-
pense of bodily fluid so great that a gallon of liquor
could searce supply the waste of twenty-four hours ;
especially as our provision consisted of putrid salt beef,
to which the sailors gave the name of Irish horse ; salt
pork of New-England, which, though neither fish nor
flesh, savoured of both; bread from the same country,
every biscuit whereof, like a piece of clock-work, moved
by its own internal impulse, oceasioned by the myriads
of insects that dwelt within it; and, butter served out
by the gill, that tasted like train-oil thickened with salt.
Instead of small beer, each man was allowed three half
quarterns of brandy or rum, which were distributed
every morning, diluted with a certain quantity of his
water, without either sugar or fruit to render it palat-
able; for which reason, this composition was by the
sailors not inaptly styled necessity. Nor was this limi-
tation of simple element owing to a scarcity of it on
board, for there was at this time water enough in the
ship for a voyage of six months, at the rate of half a
gallon per day to each man: but this fast must, 1 sup-
pose, have been enjoined by way of penance on the
ship’s company for their sins ; or rather with a view to
mortify them into a contempt of life, that they might
thereby become more resolute and regardless of dan-
ger. How simply then do those people argue, who as-

.

eribe the great mortality among us to our bad provision

and want of water, and afiirm, that a great many

 

it a stroke of police

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

valuable lives might have been saved, if the useless
transports had been employed in fetching fresh stock,
turtle, fruit, and other refreshments, from Jamaica
and other adjacent islands, for the use of the army a id.
fleet ; seeing, it is to be hoped, that those who died went
to a better place, and those who survived were the more
easily maintained. After all, a sufficient number re-
mained to fall before the walls of St Lazar, where they
behaved like their own country mastiffs, which shut
their eyes, run into the jaws of a bear, and have their
heads crushed for their valour.

But to return to my narration. After haying put
garrisons into the forts we had taken, and re-embarked
our soldiers and artillery, a piece of service that detained
us more than a week, we ventured up to the mouth of
the inner harbour, guarded by a large fortification on
one side, and a small redoubt on the other, both of
which were deserted before our approach, and the en-
tranee of the harbour blocked up by several old galleons,
and two men-of-war, that the enemy had sunk in the
channel. We made shift, however, to open a passage
for some ships that favoured a second landing of our
troops ata place called La Quinta, not far from the
town, where, after a faint resistance from a body of
Spaniards, who opposed their disembarkation, they en-
camped, with a design of besieging the castle of St Lazar,
which overlooked and commanded the city. Whether
our renowned general had nobody in his army who
knew how to approach it in form, or that he trusted en-
tirely to the fame of his arms, I shall not determine ;

| but certain it is, a resolution was taken in a council of

war to attack the place with musketry only: this was
put in execution, and succeeded accordingly ; the enemy
giving them such a hearty reception, that the greatest
part of the detachment took up their everlasting resi-
dence onthe spot. Our chief, not relishing this kind of
complaisance in the Spaniards, was wise enough to re

treat on board with the remains of his army, which, from
eight thousand able men landed on the beach near Boca
Chica, was now reduced to fifteen hundred fit for ser-
vice. The sick and wounded were squeezed into cer-
tain vessels, which thence obtained the name of hospital-
ships, though methinks they searce deserved such a
creditable title, seeing few of them could boast of their
surgeon, nurse, or cook ; and the space between decks
was so confined, that the miserable patients had not
room to sit upright in their beds. Their wounds and
stumps being neglected, contracted filth and putrefac

tion. and millions of maggots were hatched amidst the
corruption of their sores. This inhuman disregard
was imputed to the scarcity of surgeons, though it is
well known that every great ship in the fleet eould have
spared one at least for this duty ; an expedient which
would have been more than sufficient to remove this
shocking inconvenience. But perhaps the general was
too much of a gentleman to ask a favour of this kind
from his fellow-chief, who, on the other hand, would not
derogate so much from his own dignity as to offer such
assistance unasked ; for I may venture to affirm, that
by this time the Demon of Discord, with her sooty
wings, had breathed her influence upon our counsels ;
and it might be said of these great men (1 hope they
will pardon the comparison) as of Ceesar and Pompey ;
the one could not brook a superior, and the other was
impatient of an equal: so that between the pride of one
and insolence of another, the enterprise miscarried.

A day or two after the attempt ot St Lazar, the ad-
miral ordered one of the Spanish men-of-war we had
taken to be mounted with sixteen guns, and manned
with detachments from our great ships, in order to bat-
ter the town: accordingly, she was towed into the inner
harbour in the night, and moored within half a mile of
the walls, against which she began to fire at day-break,
and continued about six hours exposed to the opposi-
tion of at least thirty pieces of cannon, which at length
obliged our men to set her on fire, and get off as well
as they could in their boats. This piece of conduct af-
forded matter of speculation to all the wits either in
the army or navy, who were at last fain to acknowledge
y above their comprehension, Some
fom re pegADVENTURES (¢

entertained such an irreverent opinion of the admiral’s
understanding, as to think =e € xpected the town would
surrender to his floati ing battery of sixteen guns: ethers
imagined his sole intention oe to try the enemy’s
strength, by which he should be able to ¢ mpute t
number of great ships that would be necessary Gr fives
the town to a capitulation. But this last conjecture

son appear ed groun » INMasmuch aS NO § ships of any
kind wh: ute ver were afterwards employed on that ser-
vice, A thirc d

the

idless

  

sort swore, that no other’ cause could
be Be iied ior this ‘undertaking than that which in-
duced Don Quixote to attaek the windmill. A fourth
class, and that the most numerous, though, without

; composed of the sal guine and malicious, ple Linly

doubt }
l this ith want of hone sty as wel

bas a
taxed

commander w |
as sense, and alleged that he ought to have sacrificed
private pique to the interest of his country id that where
obs 16 lives of so many brave fellow-citizens were con-

cerned, he ought to have concurred with
without being so Gia d or even desired, towards their
preservation and advantage; that if his arguments
could not dissuade him from a de Sperate enterprise, it
was his duty to have rendered it as practicable a ;

sible, without running extreme hazard’; that this could
have been done witha good prospect of succe ss, by order-
ing five or six large ship s to batter the town, while the
land-forees storm ed the castle : by these means a con-
siderable diversion would have been made in favour of
those troops, who, in their march to the assault, and in
retreat, suffered much more from the town than
from the castle ; that the inhabitants. seeing themselves
V igorously attacked on all hands, would hi ive been di-
vided, « listracted, and confused, and, in all probabil lity,
unable to resist the assailant:

But all these
ignorance and malevolence, admiral would
not have found it such an easy matter, at his return to
England, to justify his conduct to a ministry at once so
upright and discerning. True it that those who
lertook to vindicate him on the spot, asserted the Le

unas
yreat oe neé

the genera,

S pos-

the

suggestions surely proceeded from

> ale h
or eise the

1S,

was not water enough for our

town; though this was a little unfortunat ely urged, be-
cause there happened to be pilots in erfectly

the fleet ;
» soundings of the harbot
water enough for five eighty-gun
ships to lie abreast, almost up at the alls. The

appointments we suffered occasion: d an universal
dejection, which was not at all allevi: fea by the objects
that daily and hourly entertained our eyes, nor by the
vhat inevitably have hay
we remained much longer in this place. Such was the
economy in some ships, that rather tl at the

than
Ps 77797 ad +1 “\y oY y*Cy \+>
trouble of interring ud, theis commanders or-

well acquainted with the
affirmed there was
very Ww:

1;
LLis

prospect OL Vv ypened had

Ac

must

the de:

 

dered their men to throw hate bodies overboard, mai
without either ballast or winding-she t, so that num
bers of human eareasses floated ie the Barbour, until |
they were devoured |} ry sharks and carrion-crows ; which
afforded no agree able spectacle to those w wh 10 survived.
At the same time the wet season began, duri ing wh ch
a deluge of rain falls from the rising till the settiy is of
the sig without intermission 5 and that no sooner
ceases, than it begins to thunder and lighten with such
contintal flashing, that one ean see to read a very small

T 4

print by the illumination.

LOLOL RIO SOL EL OSE ILO

17 A Dmnn bp YW ar ar T. XT
CHAPTER 4: te dm bY 0

yy this phe-
surrounded

Tne change of the atmosphere, occasioned ]

nomenon, conspired, with the stench that :
us, the heat of the climate, our own constitutions im- |
poverished by bad provisions, and our
troduce the bilious fever among us, which raged with
such viol 1

4. ,
despa ir, tO i

mee that three-fourths ¢ those whom it
vaded died in a de plorable mann es the colour of their
skin being, by the extreme putrefaction of the juices,
changed into that of spot.

f

Our conductors, finding things in this situation, per-
high
afi

]
ceived it was time to relinquish our conquests ;
_2 fe optillory
and this we did Wing rendered theix artille Ly
a

ter’
tt

7s

 

 

 

|

RAN J VDOM. 59

usetess, and blown up their walls with gunpowder. Just
S we sailed from Boca Chica on our return to Jamaica,
I exible myself threatened with the symptoms of this
distemper ; and knowing very well that I stood
chance for my life, if I [should be obliged to lie in the
c slept which, by this tix » Was grown intolerable even
to > people e in health, by rea: on of the } heat and unwhole-
some smell of deea yed p rovisions, | wrote a petition to
the Ca ap tain, x ré “presentir is my case
ing his permission to lie among the soldiers on the

oO
Ss
S

   

 

: 7 k, awa ET Rhee ee

iP deck, for the benefit of the air ; but I might

have spared mys elf the trouble, for this humane com-
ander refused m y request, and or

dered me to continue
altowacs for the surgeon’s mates, or else be
to lie in the hospital, hil, by ike bye, was
es more offensive ne ore suffocating than
below. Another in 1 my condition per-
ees to this fate, and died ina
10t brook the thought of perishing so
I bi id weathered so many gales of ica
I, therefore, without minding Oakhum’s in-

in the place
contented
three desi

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aps wouk
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junction, prevailed upon the soldiers (whose good will
I had a quired) to admit my hammock among them,
and actually congratulated myself upon my comfortable
situation, which Grampley 2 no sooner understood than
he signified to my contempt of his orders,

mes was invested wi power to turn me down again (6

y proper hab ‘tation:

arous piece of revenge incensed me so
inst the author, that I vowed, with bitter im-
precations, to call him to a severe ee if ever it
should be in my power; and the agi ents of my spirits
increased my fever to a violent degre While J lay
gasping for breath in this infernal abode », | was visited
by ant, the bones of whose nose I had reduced
and set to rights after they had been demolished by a
splinter during our last engagement. He being informed
of my condition, offered me the use of his berth j i the
middle deck, which was enclosed with cai ivas, and weil
port-hole that remained open within it. I
embraced this p roposal with joy, and was immediately
conducted to the where I was tre ated, while my
illnes with the utmost tenderness and care by
this grateful halberdier, who had no other bed for ee
self than a henco op during bis whole passage. Here

1 lay and enjoyed. the breeze, notwi ithstanding whist

ined ground, and ‘at length my life was de-
Lough t ne Wie r lost hopes of recove ry, evell
the mortification to see, from my cabin.
Six Or S even ate wn overboard every day, who
1e same dist cmpe

 

a ser] é

DY a Pp
v

plac e, V

7
iiness lasted,

LV Inal: 7 r cra
iy TUAIAGY Fa
Y C }
spaired of; tl

had

Le

his confidence, . am persu: aded, conduced a great
to the preservation of my life , especially when
d to another res soh ition I took at the beginning,

 

ely, to refuse all medi icine, which I could not help
with the », and, instead of
putrefaction, promoted a total degeneracy of

& J

co-operated disease

  

the vital fluid. When my friend Mo therefore,
a his diaphoretic boluses, I put them in my
mouth, ’tis true, but without an y intention of swallow-
ie the m ; and when he we nt away, spat them out, and

washed my mouth with water- erue ‘1. [ seemingly com-:
lied in this manner, tha t I might not affront the blood
of Caractacus by a refusal, w hich might have intimated
a diffidence of his chi sical capacity ; for he acted as
my physician, Voctor Mack: shane never onee inquiring

or even knowing where I was. When my
he height,

wh i}
Morgan ‘oti my case
> having applied a blister to the na pe
1y neck, squeezed my hand, bidding me, with a woe-
ful countenance, 1 scommend myse if to Got and my
Fines then taking his leave, desired the chaplain
to come and administer some spiritual consolation to
me ; ane vefore he arrived, I made shift to rid myself
of the troubles application the Welshman had be-
wowed on my hag The parson having felt my pulse,
inquired into the nature of my complaints, hemmed a
little, and began thus :—“ Mr Random, God out of his
hath been pleased to visit you with a
tel mper r, the issue of which no man k

7
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cistern pet WAS at 1
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dreadful dis

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60 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

You may be permitted to recover, and live many days
on the face of the earth; and, which is more probable,
you may be taken away and cut off in the flower of
your youth. It is incumbent on you, therefore, to pre-
pare for the great change, by repenting sincerely of
your sins; of this there cannot be a greater sign than
an ingenuous confession, which I conjure you to make,
without hesitation or mental reservation ; and when I
am convinced of your sincerity, I will then give you
such comfort as the situation of your soul will admit of.
Without doubt, you have been guilty of numberless
transgressions to which youth is subject, as swearing,
drunkenness, and other vices. ‘Tell me, therefore,
without reserve, the particulars of each, that I may be
acquainted with the true state of your conscience ; for
no physician will prescribe for his patient until he
knows the circumstances of his disease.”

As I was not under any apprehensions of death, I
could not help smiling at the doctor’s inquisitive re-
monstrance, which I told him sayoured more of the
Roman than of the Protestant church, in recommend-
ing auricular confession ; a thing, in my opinion, not
at all necessary to salvation, and which, for that reason,
I declined. This reply disconcerted him a little ; how-
ever, he explained away his meaning, in making learned
distinctions between what was absolutely necessary and
what was only convenient; then proceeded to ask what
religion I professed. I answered, that I had not as yet
considered the difference of religions, consequently had
not fixed on any one in particular, but that I was bred
a presbyterian. At this werd the chaplain expressed
great astonishment, and said he could not comprehend
how a presbyterian was entitled to any post under the
English government. Then heasked if I had ever re-
ceived the sacrament, or taken the oaths; to which
questions I replying in the negative, he held up his
hands, assured me he could do me no service, wished
I might not be ina state of reprobation ; and returned
to his messmates, who were making merry in the ward-
room, round a table well stored with bumbo* and wine.
This insinuation, terrible as it was, had not such an
effect upon me as the fever, which, soon after he had
left me, grew outrageous; I began to see strange chi-
meras, and concluded myself on the point of becoming
delirious.

In the meantime, being in great danger of suffocation,
I started up in a kind of frantic fit, with an intention
of plunging myself into the sea; and as my friend the
serjeant was not present, would have certainly cooled
myself to some purpose, had I not perceived a moisture
upon my thigh as I endeavoured to get out of my ham-
mock. The appearance of this revived my hopes, and
I had reflection and resolution enough to take the ad-
vantage of this favourable symptom, by tearing the
shirt from my body, and the sheets from my bed, and
wrapping myself in a thick blanket, in which enclosure,
for about a quarter of an hour, I felt the greatest pain ;
but it was not long before I was recompensed for my
suffering by a profuse sweat, that, bursting from the
whole surface of my skin, in less than two hours re-
lieved me from all my complaints, except that of weak-
ness, and left me as hungry as a kite. I enjoyed avery
comfortable nap, after which I was regaling myself
with the agreeable reverie of my future happiness, when
1 heard Morgan, on the outside of the curtain, ask the
serjeant if I was alive still. “ Alive!” cried the other,
“ God forbid he should be otherwise! he has lain quiet
these five hours, and I do not choose to disturb him, for
sleep will do him great service.” “ Ay,” said my fel-
low-mate, “he sleeps so sound, look you, that he will
never waken till the great trumpet plows. Got be mer-
ciful to his soul. He has paid his debt like an honest
man. Ay, and moreover, he is at rest from all perse-
cutions, and troubles, and afflictions, of which Got knows,
and I know, he had his own share. Ochree! Ochree!
he was a promising youth indeed!” So saying, he
groaned grievously, and began to whine in such a man-
ner as persuaded me he had a real friendship for me.

* Bumbo is a liquor composed of rum, sugar, water, and nut-
meg.

The serjeant, alarmed at his words, came into the berth,
and while he looked upon me, I smiled, and tipt him
the wink. He immediately guessed my meaning, and
remaining silent, Morgan was confirmed in his opinion
of my being dead. Whereupon he approached with
tears in his eyes, in order to indulge his grief with a
sight of the object; and I counterfeited death so well
by fixing my eyes, and dropping my under jaw, that
he said, “ There he lies, no petter than a lump of clay,
Got help me ;”—and observed, by the distortion of my
face, that I must have had a strong struggle. I should
not have been able to contain myself much longer, when
he began to perform the last duty of a friend, in closing
my eyes and my mouth; upon which I suddenly snap-
ped at his fingers, which discomposed him so much
that he started back, turned pale as ashes, and stared
like the picture of horror.

Although I could not help laughing at his appearance,
I was concerned for his situation, and stretched out my
hand, telling him, I hoped to live and eat some salma-
gundy of his making in England. It was some time
before he could recollect himself so far as to feel my
pulse, and inquire into the particulars of my disease.
But when he found I had enjoyed a favourable crisis, he
congratulated me upon my good fortune ; not failing to
ascribe it, under Got, to the blister he had applied to
my pack at his last visit ; “ which, by the bye,” said he,
“must now be removed and dressed.” He was actually
going to fetch dressings, when I, feigning astonishment,
said, “ Bless me! sure you never applied a blister to
me—there is nothing on my back, I assure you.” But
he could not be convinced till he had examined it, and
then endeavoured to conceal his confusion, by express-
ing his surprise in finding the skin untouched, and the
plaster missing. In order to excuse myself for paying
so little regard to his prescription, I pretended to have
been insensible when it was put on, and to have pulled
it off afterwards in a fit of delirium. This apology sa-
tisfied my friend, who on this occasion abated a good
deal of his stiffness in regard to punctilio ; and as we
were now safely arrived at Jamaica, where I had the
benefit of fresh provisions, and other refreshments, I
recovered strength every day, and in a short time my
health and vigour were perfectly re-established. When
I got up at first, and was just able to crawl about the
deck with a staff in my hand, I met Doctor Mackshane,
who passed by me with a disdainful look, and did not
vouchsafe to honour me with one word. After him
came Crampley, who strutting up to me, with a fierce
countenance, pronounced, “ Here’s fine discipline on
board our ship, when such lazy skulking fellows as you
are allowed, on pretence of sickness, to lollop at your
ease, while your betters are kept to hard duty.” The
sight and behaviour of this malicious scoundrel enraged
me so much that I could scarce refrain from laying
my cudgel across his pate; but when I considered my
present feebleness, and the enemies I had in the ship,
who wanted only a pretence to ruin me, I restrained
my passion, and contented myself with telling him, I
had not forgot his insolence and malice, and that I hoped
we should meet one day on shore. At this declaration
he grinned, shook his fist, and swore he longed for no-
thing more than such an opportunity.

Meanwhile our ship was ordered to be heaved down,
victualled, and watered, for her return to England ; and
our captain, for some reason or other, not thinking it
convenient for him to revisit his native country at this
time, exchanged with a gentleman, who on the other
hand wished for nothing so much as to be safe without
the tropic—all his care and tenderness of himself be-
ing insufficient to preserve his complexion from the
injuries of the sun and weather.

Our tyrant having left the ship, and carried his fa-
yourite Mackshane along with him, to my inexpressible
satisfaction, our new commander came on board in a
ten-oared barge, overshadowed with a vast umbrella,
and appeared in every thing the reverse of Oakhum,
being a tall, thin, young man, dressed in this manner :—
a white hat, garnished with a red feather, adorned his
head, from whence his hair flowed upon his shouldersADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

in ringlets tied behind with a ribbon. His coat, consist-
ing of pink-coloured silk, lined with white, by the ele-
gance of the cut retired backward, as it were, to discover
a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, unbut-
toned at the upper part to display a brooch set with
garnets, that glittered in the breast of his shirt, which
was of the finest cambric, edged with right Mechlin ;
the knees of his crimson velvet breeches scarce de-
scended so lowas to meet his silk stockings, which rose
without spot or wrinkle on his meagre legs, from shoes
of blue Meroquin, studded with diamond buckles that
flamed forth rivals to the sun. A steel-hilted sword,
inlaid with gold, and decked with a knot of ribbon, which
fell down in a rich tassel, equipped his side, and an
amber-headed cane hung dangling from his wrist. But
the most remarkable parts of his furniture were a
mask on his face, and white gloves on his hands, which
did not seem to be put on with an intention to be pulled
off occasionally, but were fixed with a curious ring on
the little finger of each hand.

In this garb Captain Whiftle, for that was his name,
took possession of the ship, surrounded with a crowd of
attendants, all of whom, in their different degrees,
seemed to be of their patron’s disposition ; and the air
Was so impregnated with perfumes, that one may ven-
ture to affirm the clime of Arabia Felix was not half
so sweet scented. My fellow-mate, observing no sur-
geon among his train, thought he had found an oceasion
too favourable for himself to be neglected ; and remem-
bering the old proverb, “Spare to speak, and spare to
speed,” resolved to solicit the new captain’s interest
immediately, before any other surgeon could be ap-
pointed for the ship. With this view he repaired to the
cabin in his ordinary dress, consisting of a check shirt
and trousers, a brown linen waistcoat, and a night-cap
of the same, neither of them very clean, which, for his
further misfortune, happened fo smell strong of tobacco,
Entering without any ceremony into this secret place,
he found Captain Whiffle reposing upon a couch, with
a wrapper of fine chintz about his body, and a muslin
cap bordered with lace about his head ; and after several
long congees, began in this manner :—“ Sur, I hope you
will forgive, and excuse, and pardon, the presumption
of one who has not the honour of being known unto
you, but who is nevertheless a shentleman porn and
pred, and, moreover, has had misfortunes, Got help me,
in the world.” Here he was interrupted by the captain,
who, on seeing him, had started up with great amaze-
ment at the novelty of the apparition; and having re-
collected himself, pronounced with a look and tone
signifying disdain, curiosity, and surprise, “ Zauns!
who art thou?” “JT am surgeon’s first mate on board
of this ship,” replied Morgan, “and I most vehemently
desire and beseech you, with all submission, to be pleased
to condescend and vouchsafe to inquire into my cha-
racter, and my pehaviour, and my deserts, which,

under Got, I hope will entitle me to the vacancy of

surgeon.” As he proceeded in his speech, he continued
advancing towards the captain, whose nostrils were no
sooner saluted with the aromatic flavour that exhaled
from him, than he cried with great emotion, “ Heaven
preserve me! | am suffocated !—Fellow, fellow, away
with thee! Get thee gone! I shall be stunk to death!”
At the noise of his outcries, his servants ran into his
apartment, and he aceosted them thus :—* Villains!
cut-throats ! traitors! Iam betrayed! Iam sacrificed !
Will you not carry that monster away? or must I be
stifled with the stench of him ?—oh! oh!” With these
interjections, he sank down upon his settee in a fit ; his
valet de chambre plied him with a smelling bottle ; one
footman chafed his temples with Hungary water, an-
other sprinkled the floor with spirits of lavender, a
third pushed Morgan out of the cabin ; who coming to
the place where I was, sat down with a demure counte-
nance, and, according to his custom, when he received
any indignity which he durst not revenge, began to sing
a Welsh ditty. I guessed he was under some agitation
of spirits, and desired to know the cause; but instead
of answering me directly, he asked me, with great emo-
tion, if 1 thought hin a monster and a stinkard? “A
a ¢

 

61

aa ao a stinkard ie said I with some surprise,
uid any body call you so? Got is my judge,” re-
plied he, “ Captain Fifle did call me both 3 ay, and all
the water in the Tawy will not wash it out of my re-
membrance—I do affirm, and avouch, and maintain
with my soul, and my pody, and my plood, look you,
that I have no smells about me but such asa Chris-
tan ought to have, except the effluvia of tobacco, which
1S a cephalie, odoriferous, aromatic herb, and he isa
son of a mountain-goat who says otherwise. As for my
being a monster, let that be as itis: I am as Got was
pleased to create me, which, perady
I shall aver of him who gave me that title ; for I will
proclaim it before the world that he is tiscuised and
transfigured, and transmogrified with affectation and
whimsies ; and that he is more like & papoon than one

of the human race.”
PIII DINO IOC COR

CHAPTER XXX:

He was going on with an eulogium upon the captain,
when I received a message to clean myself and go up
to the great cabin: and with this command I instantly
complied, sweetening myself with rose-water from the
medicine-chest. When I entered the room, I was
ordered to stand by the door until Captain Whiffle had
reconnoitered me at a distance with a spy-glass. He,
having consulted one sense in this manner, bade me
advance gradually, that his nose might have intelligence,
before it could be much offended. I therefore ap-
proached with great caution and success, and he was
pleased to say, “ Ay, this creature is tolerable.” I found
him lolling on his couch with a languishing air, his head
supported by his valet de chambre, who from time to
time applied a handsome smelling bottle to his nose.
“ Vergette,” said he, in a squeaking tone, “ dost thou
think this wretch ” (meaning me) “ will do me any in-
jury? may I venture to submit my arm to him?” “Pon
my vord,” replied the valet, “I'do tink dat dere be
great occasion for your honour losing one small quan-
tite of blodt ; and the young man ave quelque chose of
de bonne mien.” Well then,” said his master, “J
think I must venture.” Then addressing himself to me,
“‘ Hast thou ever blooded any body but brutes? Bat
[ need not ask thee, for thou wilt tell me a most con-
founded lie.” “ Brutes, Sir,” answered I, pulling down
his glove, in order to feel his pulse, “TI never meddle
with brutes.” “What art thou about?” cried he;
“dost thou intend to twist off my hand? Gad’s curse!
my arm is benumbed up to the very shoulder. Heaven
have merey upon me! must I perish under the hands
of savages? What an unfortunate dog was I to come
on board without my own surgeon, Mr Simper!” [
craved pardon for having handled him so roughly, and
with the utmost care and tenderness tied up his arm
with a fillet of silk. While I was feeling for the vein,
he desired to know how much blood I intended to take
from him; and when I answered, “ Not above twelve
ounces,” started up with a look full of horror, and bade
me begone, swearing I had a design upon his life. Ver-
gette appeased him with difficulty, and opening a bureau,
took out a pair of scales, in one of which was placed a
small cup, and putting them into my hand, told me that
the captain never lost above an ounce and three drachms
at one time. While I prepared for this important eva-
cuation, there came into the cabin a young man gaily
dressed, of a very delicate complexion, with a kind of
languid smile on his face, which seemed to have been
rendered habitual by a long course of affectation. The
captain no sooner perceived him, than, rising hastily, he
flew into his arms, crying, “Oh, my dear Simper! I
am excessively disordered. I have been betrayed, fright-
ened, murdered, by the negligence of my servants, who
suffered a beast, a mule, a bear, to surprise me, and
stink me into convulsions with the fumes of tobacco !”
Simper, who by this time I found was obliged to art for
the clearness of his complexion, assumed an air of soft-
ness and sympathy, and lamented, with many tender
expressions of sorrow, the sad accident that h: asain

enture, is more than *

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62 ADVENTURES OF
him into that condition ; then, feeling his patient’s pulse
on the outside of his gl ove, gave it a his opinion, that
his disorder was entirely nervous, and that some drops
of tincture of castor and liquid Rana would be of
more service to him than bleeding, by bridling the in-
ordinate sallies of his spirits, and composing a
mentation of his bile. I was therefore sent to prepare
this prescriptio ym, which was administered in a glass of
sack-posset, after the captain had been put to bed, and
orders sent to the officers on the guprier- deck to let
nobody walk on that side under which he lay.
While the captain enjoyed his repose, t
watched over him, and, indeed, became so necessary,
that a cabin was made for him contiguous to the staie-
room, where Whiffle slepi, that he might be at hand
in case of accident in the night. Next aay, our com-
nander being happily recover ted, § gave orders that none
of the lieutens unts should appear upon Ae without a
wig, sword, and ruffle S53 nor any mids hipm a] he!
petty officer, be seen with a check-shirt, or dirty
> also prohibited any person whatever, excc et , ‘Simy
a his own servants, from comit ig into the great cabi
without first sending in to obtain leave.
In a few weeks our ship being under sailing order
{ was in hopes of re risiting my native cowatry in a ver,
short time, when the adm ral’ s surgeon came on boart
and sending for Morgan and me to the quarter-
eave us to understé und there was a great sca

1, loaetor
ne daocuor

 

 

 

 

surgeons in the West Indies—that he was comma led
to detain one mate out of every great ship that wa
bound for England; and desired us to agree between
ourselves, before the next day at that hour, which

us should stay behind. We were thunderst uck at thi
proposal, and stared at one another som: time without
speaking; at length the Welshman b ‘oke silence, a
offered to remain in the West Indies, provided the ad- |
miral would give him a surgeon’s warrant immediately : |
but he was told there was no want of chief surgeons

cee

and that he must be contented with the station of mat
till he should be further provided for in due cou!
Whereupon Morgan flatly refused to quit the ship tor
which the commissioners of the navy had appointed

him ; and the other told him as plainly, that 11 we cou! | | the

not determine the affair by ourselves before to-morrow

morning, he must cast lots, and abide by | chan
When I recalled to my sermembrance the miseries I had
undergone in England, where | had not one friend to |

promote my interest, or iavour my advancement

navy, and at the same time reflected on the present
dearth of surgeons in the West Indies, and the un-

healthiness of the climate, which every day almost re-
duced the number, I could not help thinking my success

would be much more certain and expeditious by mj

staying where I was than by returning to Europe. |
therefore resolved to ety with a good grace; and
next day, whe nm we w € ordered to throw cice, told

Morgan he need at “trouble himself, for 1 would }

I ilies wieAe — . hi

voluntarily submit to the admiral’s pleasure.
frank declaration was commended by the gent!
who assured me it should not fare the worse with m
for my resignation. idee: he was as good as his word,
and that very afternoon procur d a warrant, appoint-

ing mec surgeon’s mate of the Lizzard sloop-o ~-War,

which put me on a footing with every first mate in the |

service.
My ticket be ‘ing made out, | put my chest and bed-

ks a :
ding on boar‘ da canoe that lay alongside, ana Daving |
1

i é

shook hands with my trusty friend the serjeant, and
honest Jack Rattlin, who was bound for Greenwich

4

‘ Bie ate 1 cous a3 }
Elospital, L took my leave of Morgan with many tears, |

after we had exchanged our

brances of each other. Having presented my new wa
sant to the captain of the Lizzard, | inquired for the

j

sleeve-buttons as remem-

+
[-

doctor, whom I no sooner saw, than IL reeolleeted pol

to be one of those young fellows w ith whom I had bee
committed to the round-house during our frolic wit h
Jackson, as | have related before. He received me
with a good deal of courtesy ; and when I put him in
mind of our former acquaintance, expressed great joy

ot cooing me again, and ecouianniind me to an exceed-

 

:
him [ was sent to attend ti

ROVDERICK RANDOM.

ing good mess, composed of the gunner ¢ and aoe
matic, As there was not one sick person in. the ship, I

got leave to go ashore next day with the guuner, who
recommended me to a Jew, that bought my ticket at
the rate of forty per cent. discount ; and having fur-

nished mys elf with what necessaries I wanted, returned
on board in the evening, see to my surprise , found my
old antagonist Crampley walking upon deck. Though
{ did not fear his enmit ys i was shocked at his appear-
ance, and communicated my sentiments on that sub ject
to Mr Lomlins, the surgeon, who told me that Crampley,
by dint of some friends about the admiral, had pro-
cured a commiss ion, constituting him lieutenant on
board the Lizzard, and advised me, now he was my
superior officer, to behave with some respect towards
him, or else te would find a thousand opportunities of
using me ill. This advice Was a bitter potion tO me,
whom pee and resentment had rendered utterly inca-

pable of the least submission to, or even of a reconci-

liation with, the wretch who had, on many occasions,

eated me soinhumanly. However, I resolved to have

little connection as possible with him, and to ingra-

e saphan e as much as I coul l with the rest of the

rs, whose friendship might be a bulwark to defend
from 4] e attempts of his m wilde

!
In less than a week we sailed on a cruise, and having
‘the island, had the good for
1

to take a Spanish barcolongo, with her prize, which
n English ship bound for Bristol, that sailed from
amaica a fortnight before, without convoy. All the
prisoners who were well we put on shore on the nort}

. of the island; the prizes were manned with Eng-
lishmen, and the command of the barcolongo given to
ny friend, the mast r’s mate, with orders to carry them
into Port Morant, and there to remain until the Liz-
d be ended, at which time she would
ay to Port-Royal. With
1e wounded Spaniards as well

touch at the same place Wher w
ee

as Englishmen, who amounted to sixteen, and to take

are of them on shore, in a house that was to be hired

as an hospital. This destination gave me a great dea!
| of pleasure, as [ should, for some time, be treed from
th ( rampley, whose inveteracy against
me had already broken out on two or three oeccasious

since he was become a lieutenant. My messmate, who

very much resembled my uncle, both in figure and dis-
, ; } } ~~ , hy oF ae ‘1. as
position, treated Ine on boi rd or the prize with tne ut
most civility and confidence ; and among other favoul
} on ~ win ry P . six » hil? Ilha a A « arty
made me a present oO! a sliiver-hilted nanger, anaga pall
of pistols mounted ya the same metal, which fell to
his share in plundering the enemy. V oe safely
| at Morant, and | oing on shore, pitched upon an empty
o Q ee. i sé
tore-house. which we hired for the recepti ion ol the
fo eo cen hemnioht £0 st Dest Gi 1 hy
woundecd, wio wert roug LO 1b NEAL ¢ LV, Witn Db
} } “ig! » Al w °
and other necessaries, and four of the ship’s company
es nH thas i Ahad = :
ppomrea ro attend them ana ovpey me
a4 ee 45
Ler vo
| y . 1? + a f 17° re ° r
HEN my patients were all in a lair Way, My compa-
| . i } }
inion and commander, whose name was Brayl, carried

me up to the country to the house of a rich planter

ith whom he was acquainted, where we were sumptt-
| ously entertained, and in the evening set out on our re-
| turn to the ship. When we Kall walked about a mile
by moonlight, we perceived a horseman behind us, who
| coming up wished us good evening, and asked which way
| we went: his voice, which was quit » familiar to me, no
sooner struck my ear, than, in spite of all my resolution
and reflection, my hair bri tled up, and I was seized
vi io a violent fit of trembling, which Brayl misinter-
pre , bade me be ur ‘dak no concern. I told him he
was mistaken in the cause of my disorder ; and address-
}

myself to the person on horseback, said, “I could

|
|
|
\ «
i }
:

ing
have sworn by your voice that you were a dear friend
af vit if I had not been certain of his death.” To

this address, after some pause, he replied, “ There are
many voices ‘ak well as faces, that resemble one another ;
| but pray what was your friend’s name?” I satished himADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

in that particular, and gave a short detail of the melan-
choly fate of Thomson, not without many sighs and some
tears. A silence ensued, which lasted some minutes,
and then the conversation turned on different subjects,
till we arrived at a house on the road, where the horse-
man alighted, and begged with so much earnestness that
we would go in and drink a bowl of punch with him,
that we could not resist. But if I was alarmed at his
voice, what must my amazement be when I discovered
by the light the very person of my lamented friend!
Perceis ing my confusion, which was extreme, heclasped
me i tis arms, and bedewed my face with tears. It
«vas some time ere I recovered the use of my reason,
overpowered with this event, and longer still before I
could speak ; so that all I was capable of was to return
his embraces, and to mingle the overflowings of my joy
with his ; whilst honest Brayl, affected with the scene,
vept as fast as either of us, and signified his participa-
t1on of our happiness by hugging us both, and capering
nadman. At length I

about the room like a 1
1
bo

I retrieved
e use of my tongue, and cried, “Is it possible? can
you be my friend Thomson? No, certainly. Alas! he
was drowned ; and I am now under the deception of a
dream !? He was at great pains to convince me of his
being the individual person whom [ regretted, and, bid-
ding me sit down and compose myself, promised to ex-
plain his sudden disappearance from the Thunder, and

a
ve

to account for his being at present in the land of the
liwine
LIVIN.
revi. Ss 4 e . . , > e r ' ;
his task he acquitted himself of, after I had drunk
a glass of punch and recollected myself, by informing

}
us, tl tion to rid himself of a miser-

Py ie ‘ ‘ i 3 ;
able existence, he had gone inthe night-time to the head,

iat, with a determina
while the ship was on her way, from whence he slipped
down, as softly as he could, by the bows, into the sea,
where, after he was heartily ducked, he began to repent
of his precipitation, and as he could swim very well, kept
himself above water, in hopes of being taken up by some
of the ships astern; that in this situation, he hailed a
large vessel, and begged to be taken in, but was answered
1

that-she was a heavy sailer, and therefore they did not
choose to lose time by bringing to: however, they threw

an old chest overboard, for his convenience, and told
him, that some of the ships astern would certainly save

OT

him ;—that no other vessel came within sieht or ery
hich time he

him for the space of three hours, during ¥

had the mortification to find himself in the middle of
the ocean alone, without other support or resting-place
but what a few crazy boards afforded, till at last he
discerned a small sloop steering towards him, upon

s throat, and had the good fortune

rescued from the dreary waste by

which he set up hi
to 1

4]
ul

an
1eir boat, which was hoisted out on purpose
> i i

ha.

1
WC

no sooner brought on board,’ continued “ than. |

fainted, and when I recovered my senses. found myself |

m bed, regaled with a most noisome smell of
and cheese, which made me think at first that
my own hammock, alongside of honest Morgany and
that all which had passed was no more than a dream.

Upon inquiry, I understood that I was
OT iquiry, maerstood that 1 was

On1ONnsS

[ was in

ry 1 2
On vpoara Or a

schooner belonging to Rhode Island, bound for Jamaica.
with a cargo of geese, pigs, onions, and cheese, and that
the master’s name was Robertson, by birth a North

Briton, whom I knew at first sight to be ar
fellow of mine. When I discovered myself to him, hx
was transported with surprise and joy,

know the occasion of my misfortune, which
think fit to disclose, because I kiew his notions with
regard to religion were very severe and confined ; there-
ore contented myself with telling him, I fell overboard
yy accident: but made no scruple of explaining the
nature of my disagreeable station, and of acquainting
him with my determined purpose never to return to
the Thunder man-of-war. Although he was not of my
opinion in that particular, knowing that I must lose my
clothes, and what pay was due to me, unless I went
back to my duty, yet, when I described the circum-
stances of the hellish life I led, under the tyrannic sway
of Oakhum and Mackshane; and among other griev-
unces, hinted a dissatisfaction at the irreligious deport-

e

1 old school-

ana

}
i
}

 

“< T was |

 

ogee ) T
| her, where 1

63

ment of my shipmates, and the want of the true pres-
byterian gospel doctrine, he changed his sentiments
and conjured me with great vehemence and zeal to lay
aside all thought of rising in the navy; and that he
might show how much he had my interest at heart, un-
dertook to provide for me in some shape or other, before
he should leave Jamaica. This promise he performed
to my heart’s desire, by recommending me to a gentle-

man of fortune, with whom I have lived ever since, in
quality of surgeon

é In 1G a 7 7

es and overseer to his plantations. He
and bis lady are now at Kine

ante fue dy ate elon at Kingston, so that I am, for

une present, master of this house, to which, from my

soul, I bid you welcome, and hope you will favour me

with your company during the remaining part of the

a Second invitation ; but Mr Brayl,

a
Oy

night.” I néeded not
who was a diligent and excellent officer, could not be
persuaded to sleep out of the ship: however, he supped
with us, and after having drunk a cheerful glass set
out for the vessel, which was not above three miles
from the place, escorted by a couple of stout negroes,
whom Mr Thomson ordered to conduct him.

_ Never were two friends more happy in the conversa-
tion of each other than we, for the time it lasted. T
related to him the particulars of our attempt upon Car-
thagena, of which he had heard but an imperfect ac-
count, and he gratified me with a narration of every
little incident of his life since we parted. He assured
me it was with the utmost difficulty he could resist his
inclination of coming down to Port-Royal to see Mor-
gan and me, of whom he had heard no tidings since the
day of our separation ; but that he was restrained by

,
u
}
4

the fear of being detained as a deserter. He told me,
that when he heard my voice in the dark, he was almost

as much surprised as I was at seeing him afterwards ;
and in the confidence of friendship, disclosed a passion
he entertained for the only daughter of the gentleman
with whom he lived, who, by his description, was a very
amiable young lady, and did not disdain his addresses ;
that he was very much favoured by her parents, and
did not despair of obtaining their consent to the match,
which would at once render him independent of the
world. I congratulated him on his good fortune, which
he protested should never make him forget his friends ;
and towards morning we betook ourselves to rest.

Next day he accompanied me to the ship, where Mr
ray! entertained him at dinner, and we having spent
the afternoon together, he took his leave of us in the

g, after he had foreed upon me ten pistoles, as a

token of his affection. In short, while we staid
iere, we Saw one another every day, and generally ate
at the same table, which was plentifully supplied by
him with all kinds of poultry, butcher’s meat, oranges,
limes, lemons, pine-apples, Madeira wine, and excellent
rum ; so that this small interval of ten days was by far
the most agreeable period of my life.

At length the Lizzard arrived ; and my patients being
all fit for duty, they and I were ordered on board of
understood from Mr Tomlins that there
was a dryness between the lieutenant and him on my
account ; that rancorous villain having taken the oppor-
inity of my absence to fill the captain’s ears with a
thousand scandalous stories to my prejudice—among
other things affirming, that I had been once transported
for theft, and that, when I was in the Thunder man-of-

Dp
DD

evenin:
small a
*")
aL

 

ome
war, I had been whipt for the same crime. The surgeon,
on the other hand, having heard my whole story from
my own mouth, defended me strenuously, and, in the
course of that good-natured office, recounted all the in-
stances of Crampley’s malice against me, while I re-
mained on board that ship ; which declaration, while it

| satisfied the captain of my innocence, made the lien-

tenant as much my defender’s enemy as mine. This
infernal behaviour of Crampley with regard to me, added
such fuel to my former resentment, that at certain
times I was quite beside myself with the desire of re-
venge, and was even tempted to pistol him on the quar-
ter-deck, though an infamous death must mevitably
have been my reward. But the surgeon, who was my
confidant, argued against such a desperate action so
effectually, that I stifled the flame which consumed$

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64 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

me for. the present, and resolved to wait for a more
convenient opportunity. In the meantime, that Mr
Tomlins might be the more convinced of the wrongs I
suffered by this fellow’s slander, I begged he would go
and visit Mr Thomson, whose wonderful escape I had
made him acquainted with, and inquire of him into the
particulars of my conduct, while he was my fellow-mate.
This request the surgeon complied with, more through
curiosity to see a person whose fate had been so extra-
ordinary than to confirm his good opinion of me, which
he assured me was already firmly established. He
therefore set out for the dwelling-place of my friend,
with a letter of introduction from me; and being re-
ceived with all the civility and kindness I expected, re-
turned to the ship, not only satisfied with my character
beyond the power of doubt or insinuation, but also
charmed with the affability and conversation of Thomson,
who leaded him and me with presents of fresh stock,
liquors, and fruit. As he would not venture to come
and see us on board, lest Crampley should know and
detaiti him, when the time of our departure approached,
I obtained leave to go and bid him farewell. After we
had vowed an everlasting friendship, he pressed upon
me a purse with four doubloons, which I refused as
long as I could without giving umbrage ; and having
cordially embraced each other, [ returned on board,
where I found asmall box with a letter directed for me,
to the care of Mr Tomlins. Knowing the superscription
to be of Thomson’s handwriting, I opened it with some
surprise, and learned that this generous friend, not con-
tented with loading me with the presents already men-
tioned, had sent for my use and acceptance half a dozen
fine shirts, and as many linen waistcoats and caps, with
twelve pair of new thread stockings. Being thus pro-
vided with money, and all necessaries for the comfort
of life, I began to look upon myself as a gentleman of
some consequence, and felt my pride dilate apace.

Next day we sailed for Port-Royal, where we arrived
safely with our prizes; and as there was nothing to do
on board, I went ashore, and having purchased a laced
waistcoat, with some other clothes, at a sale, made a
swaggering figure for some days among the taverns,
where I ventured to play a little at hazard, and came
off with fifty pistoles in my pocket. Meanwhile our
captain was promoted to a. ship of twenty guns, and the
command of the Lizzard given to a man turned of four
score, who had been lieutenant since the reign of King
William ; and notwithstanding his long service, would
have probably died in that station, had he not applied
some prize-money he had lately received to make in-
terest with his superiors. My friend Brayl was also
made an officer about the same time, after he had
served in quality of a midshipman and mate five and
twenty years. Soon after these alterations, the admiral
pitched upon our ship to carry home dispatches for the
ministry ; and we set sail for England, having first
scrubbed her bottom, and taken in provisions and water
for the occasion.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Now that I could return to my native country in a
creditable way, I felt excessive pleasure in finding my-
self out of sight of that fatal island, which has been the
grave of so many Europeans ; and as I was accommo-
dated with every thing to render the passage agreeable,
I resolved to enjoy myself as much as the insolence of
Crampley would permit. This insidious slanderer had
found means already to cause a misundefstanding be-
tween the surgeon and captain, who by his age and in-
firmities was rendered intolerably peevish, his disposition
having also been soured bya long course of disappoint-
ments, and had a particular aversion to all young men,
especially to surgeons, whom he considered as unneces-

sary animals on board of a ship. In consequence of

these sentiments, he never consulted the doctor, notwith-
standing his being seized with a violent fit of the gout
and gravel, but applied to a cask of Holland gin, which
was his sovereign prescription against all distempers.

 

But whether he was at this time too sparing, or took an
overdose of his cordial, certain it is, he departed in the
night without any ceremony, which indeed was a thing
he always despised, and was found stiff next morning,
to the no small satisfaction of Crampley, who succeeded
to the command of the vessel. For that very reason,
Mr Tomlins and I had no cause to rejoice at this event,
fearing that the tyranny of our new commander would
be now as unlimited as his power. The first day of his
command justified our apprehensions ; for, on pretence
that the decks were too much crowded, he ordered the
surgeon’s hencoops with all his fowls to be thrown over-
board, and at the same time prohibited him and me
from appearing on the quarter-deck. Mr Tomlins could
not help complaining of these injuries, and in the course
of his expostulation dropped some hasty words, of which
Crampley taking hold, confined him to his cabin, where
in a few days, for want of air, he was attacked by a
fever, which soon put an end to his life, after having
made his will, by which he bequeathed all his estate,
personal and real, to his sister, and left to me his watch
and instruments as remembrances of his friendship. I
was penetrated with grief on this melancholy occasion ;
the more, because there was nobody on board to whom
I could communicate my grief, or of whom I could re-
ceive the least consolation or advice. Crampley was so
far from discovering the least remorse for his barbarity,
at the news of the surgeon’s death, that he insulted his
memory in the most abusive manner, and affirmed he
had poisoned himself out of pure fear, dreading to be
brought to a court-martial for mutiny; for which rea-
son he would not suffer the service of the dead to be
read over his body before it was thrown overboard.

Nothing but a speedy deliverance could have sup-
ported me under the brutal sway of this bashaw, who,
to render my life the more irksome, signified to my mess-
mates a desire that I should be expelled from their
society. This was no sooner hinted than they granted
his request ; and I was fain to eat in a solitary manner
by myself during the rest of the passage, which, however,
soon drew to a period.

We had been seven weeks at sea, when the gunner
told the captain, that by his reckoning we must be in
soundings, and desired he would order the lead to be
heaved. Crampley swore he did not know how to keep
the ship’s way, for we were not within a hundred leagues
of soundings, and therefore he would not give himself
the trouble to cast the lead. Accordingly, we continued
our course all that afternoon and night, without short-
ening sail, though the gunner pretended to discover
Scilly light, and next morning protested in form against
the captain’s conduct, for which he was put in confine-
ment. We discovered no land all that day, and Cramp-
ley was still so infatuated as to neglect sounding; but
at three o’clock in the morning the ship struck, and
remained fast on a sand-bank. This accident alarmed
the whole crew ; the boat was immediately hoisted out,
but as we could not discern which way the shore lay,
we Were obliged to wait for daylight. In the mean-
time the wind inereased, and the waves beat against
the sloop with such violence, that we expected she would
have gone to pieces. The gunner was released and
consulted: he advised the captain to cut away the mast,
in order to lighten her; this was performed without
success. The sailors, seeing things in a desperate situa-
tion, according to custom, broke up the chests belong-
ing to the officers, dressed themselves in their clothes,
drank their liquors without ceremony; and drunken-
ness, tumult, and confusion, ensued.

In the midst of this uproar, I went below to secure
my own effects, and found the carpenter’s mate hewing
down the purser’s cabin with his hatchet, whistling all
the while with great composure. When I asked his
intention in so doing, he replied very calmly, “ I want
only to taste the purser’s rum; that’s all, master.” At
that instant the purser coming down, and seeing his
effects going to wreck, complained bitterly of the injus-
tice done to him, and asked the fellow what occasion he
had for liquor, when in all likelihoed he would be ta
eternity in a few minutes? “ All’s one for, that,” said

iespaeslnbinnesincetsintens yp hms ae.ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

the plunderer ; “let us live while we can”? “ Miserable
wretch that thou art!” cried the purser, “ what must
be thy lot in the other world, if thou diest in the com-
mission of robbery?” “ Why, hell, I suppose,” replied
the other with great deliberation ; while the purser fell
on his knees, and begged of Heaven that we might not
all perish for the sake of one Jonas. During this dia-
logue, I clothed myself in my best apparel, girded on
my hanger, stuck my pistols loaded in my belt, disposed
of all my valuable moveables about my person, and came
upon deck with a resolution of taking the first oppor-
tunity to get upon shore, which, when the day broke,
appeared to be at the distance of three miles ahead.
Crampley, finding his efforts to get the ship off ineffec-
tual, determined to consult his own safety by going into
the boat, which he had no sooner done, than the ship’s
company followed so fast, that she would have sunk
alongside, had not some one wiser than the rest cut the
rope and put off. But before this happened, I had made
several attempts to get in, and was always baulked by
the captain, who was so eager for excluding me that
he did not mind the endeavours of any other body.
Enraged at this inhuman partiality, and seeing the
rope cut, I pulled one of my pistols from my belt, and
cocking it, swore I would shoot any man who would
presume to obstruct my entrance. So saying, I leaped
with my full exertion, and got on board the boat with
the loss of the skin of one of my shins. I chanced in
my descent to overturn Crampley, who no sooner got
up than he struck at me several times with a cutlass,
and ordered the men to throw me overboard ; but they
were too anxious about their own safety to mind what
he said. Though the boat was very deeply laden, and
the sea terribly high, we made shift to get upon dry land
in less than an hour after we parted from the sloop.

As soon as I set foot on terra firma, my indignation,
which had boiled so long within me, broke out against
Crampley, whom I immediately challenged to single
combat, presenting my pistols, that he might take his
choice: he took one without hesitation, and, before I
could cock the other, fired in my face, throwing the
pistol after the shot. I felt myself stunned, and ima-
gining the bullet had entered my brain, discharged mine
as quick as possible, that I might not die unrevenged ;
then flying upon my antagonist, I knocked out several
of his foreteeth with the butt-end of the piece, and
would certainly have made an end of him with that in-
strument had he not disengaged himself, and seized
his cutlass, which he had given to his servant when he
received the pistol. Seeing him armed in this manner,
I drew my hanger, and having flung my pistol at his
head, closed with him in a transport of fury, and thrust
my weapon into his mouth, which it enlarged on one
side to his ear. Whether the smart of this wound dis-
concerted him, or the unevenness of the ground made
him reel, I know not, but he staggered some paces
back: I followed close, and with one stroke cut the
tendons of the back of his hand, upon which his cutlass
dropt, and he remained defenceless. I know not with
what cruelty my rage might have inspired me, if I had
not at that instant been felled to the ground by a blow
on the back part of my head, which deprived me of all
sensation. When I recovered the use of my under-
standing, I found myself alone in a desolate place, stript
of my clothes, money, watch, buckles, and every thing
but my shoes, stockings, breeches, and shirt. What a
discovery must this be to me, who but an hour before
was worth sixty guineas in cash! JI cursed the hour
of my birth, the parents that gave me being, the sea
that did not swallow me up, the poignard of the enemy,
which could not find the way to my heart, the villany
of those who had left me in that miserable condition,
and, in the ecstacy of despair, resolved to lie still where
I was, and perish.

 

ner nnn

CHAPTER XXXVILI.

3ur as I lay ruminating, my passion insensibly abated ;
considered my situation in quite another light from
iat in which ‘ appeared to me at first; and the result

« 7

.

 

65

of my deliberation was to get up if I could, and crawl
to the next inhabited place for assistance. With some
difficulty I got upon my legs, and having examined my
Bory, found I had received no other injury than two
-arge contused wounds, one on the fore, another on the
hinder part of my head, which seemed to be occasioned

y the same weapon, namely, the butt-end of a pistol.
I looked towards the sea, but could discern no remains
of the ship, which made me conclude she had gone to
pieces, and that those who remained in her had perished :
but, as I afterwards learned, the gunner, who had more
sagacity than Crampley, observing that it was flood when
we left her, and that she would possibly float at high
water, made no noise about getting on shore, but conti-
nued on deck, in hopes of bringing her safe into some har-
bour, after the commander had deserted her, for which
he expected, no doubt, to be handsomely rewarded.
This he accordingly performed, and was promised great
things by the Admiralty for saving his Majesty’s ship,
but I never heard he reaped the fruits of his expecta-
tion.

As for my own part, I directed my course towards a
small cottage I perceived, and in the road picked up
a Seaman’s old jacket, which I suppose the thief who
dressed himself in my clothes had thrown away ; this
was a very comfortable acquisition to me, who was
almost stiff with cold: I therefore put it on, and as my
natural heat revived, my wounds, which had left off
bleeding, burst out afresh ; so that, finding myself ex-
cessively exhausted, I was about to lie down in the fields,
when I discovered a barn on my left hand, within a few
yards of me: thither I made shift to stagger, and find-
ing the door open went in, but saw nobody, upon which
I threw myself down upon a truss of straw, hoping to
be soon relieved by some person or other. I had not
lain here many minutes, when I saw a countryman
come in with a pitchfork in his hand, which he was
upon the point of thrusting into the straw that concealed
me, and in all probability would have done my business,
had I not uttered a dreadful groan, after having essayed
in vain to speak. This melancholy note alarmed the
clown, who started back, and discovering a body all be-
smeared with blood, stood trembling, with the pitchfork
extended before him, his hair erect, his eyes staring,
his nostrils dilated, and his mouth wide open. At an-
other time I should have been much diverted with this
figure, which preserved the same attitude very near a
quarter of an hour, during which time I made many
unsuccessful efforts to implore his compassion and assist-
ance ; but my tongue failed me, and my language was
only a repetition of groans. At length an old man ar-
rived, who, seeing the other in such a posture, eried,
“ Mercy upon en! the leaad’s bewitched !—-Why, Dick,
beest thou besayed thyself?” Dick, without moving
his eyes from the object that terrified him, replied,
“Oh vather! vather! here be either the devil or a dead
mon: I doant know which o’en, but a groans woundily.”
The father, whose eyesight was none of the best, pulled
out his spectacles, and having applied them to his nose,
reconnoitered me over his son’s shoulder ; but no sooner
did he behold me, than he was seized witha fit of shak-
ing even more violent than Dick’s, and with a broken
accent addressed me thus: “ In thename of the Vather,
Zun, and Holy Ghost, I charge you, an you be Satan,
to be gone to the Red Zea; but an you be a moordered
mon, speak, that you may have a Christom burial.’
As I was not in a condition to satisfy him in this par-
ticular, he repeated his conjuration to no purpose ; and
they continued a long time in the agonies of fear. At
length the father proposed that the son should draw
nearer and take a more distinct view of the apparition :
but Dick was of opinion that his father should advance
first, as being an old man past his labour, and if he re-
ceived any mischief, the loss would be the smaller :
whereas he himself might escape, and be useful in his
generation. :

This prudential reason had no effect upon the senior,
who still kept Dick between me and him. Inthe mean-
time, I endeavoured to raise one hand as a signal of dis-
tress, but had only strength sufficient to cause a rustlinga

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66 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

among the straw, which discomposed the young peasant
so much that he sprang out at the door, and overthrew
his father in his flight. The old gentleman would not
Spend time in getting up, but crawled backwards like a
erab, with great speed, till he had got over the threshold,
mumbling exorcisms all the way. I was exceedingly
mortified to find myself in danger of perishing through
the ignorance and cowardice of these clowns, and felt
my spirits decay apace, when an old woman entered the
barn, followed by the two fugitives, and with great in-
trepidity advanced to the place where I lay, saying,
“If it be the devil, I fearn not, and for a dead mon, a
can dous no harm.” When she saw my condition, she
cried, “Here be no devil but in youren fool’s head,
Here bea poor miserable wretch, bleeding to death, and
if he dies, we must be at the charge of burying him ;
therefore, Dick, go and vetch the old wheelbarrow and
puten im, and carry him to good-man Hodge’s back

 

] , 190 7 ; 4 =
door—he is more eable than we to lay out money upon |

vd

poor vagrants.” Her advice was taken, and imme- |

diately put in execution: I was rolled to the other
farmer’s door, where I was tumbled out like a heap of
litter, and would certainly have falien a prey to the
hogs, if my groans had not disturbed the family, and
brought some of them out to view my situation. But

Hodge resembled the Jew more than the good Samari- |

tan, and ordered me to be carried to the house of the
parson, whose business it was to practise as well as to
preach charity ; observing, that it was sufficient for him
to pay his quota towards the maintenance of the poor
Delonging to his own parish. When I was set down at
the vicar’s gate, he fell into a mighty passion, and
threatened to excommunicate him who sent as well as
those who brought me, unless they would move me im-
mediately to another place. About this time I fainted
with the fatigue I had undergone, and afterwards un-
derstood that I was bandied about from door to door
through a whole villag

to administer the least relief to me, until an old woman,

e, nobody having humanity enough
+1

who was Suspected of witcheraft by the neighbourhood,

hearing of my distress, received me into her house, and

having dressed my wounds, brought me to myself with

cordials of her own preparing.

I was treated with great care and tenderness by this
grave matron, who, after I had recovered some strength,
desired to know the particulars of my last di
his piece of satisfaction I could not refuse to one who
had saved my life ; therefore I related all my adventures
without exaggeration or reserve. She seemed surprised
at the vicissitudes I had undergone, and drew a happy

y
isaster

presage of my future life from my past sufferings ; then |

launched out into the praise of adversity with so much
ardour and good sense, that I concluded she was a per-
son who had seen better days, and conceived a longing
desire to hear her story. She perceived my drift by
some words I dropped, and smiling, told me, there was
hothing either entertaining or extraordinary in the
course of her fortune ; but, however, she would commu-
nicate it to me, in consideration of the confidence I had
reposed in her.

“ Jit is of little consequence,” said she, “ to te
names of my parents, who are dead many years ago:
let it suffice to assure you they were wealthy, and had
no other child than me, so that I was looked upon as
heiress to a considerable estate, and teased with ad-
dresses on that account. Among a number of my ad-
mirers, there was a young gentleman of no fortune,
whose sole dependence was on his promotion in the
army, in which at that time he bore a lieutenant’s com-
mission. I conceived an affection for this amiable offi-
cer, which in ashort time increased to a violent passion,
and, without entering into minute circumstances, mar-
ried him privately. We had not enjoyed one another
long in stolen interviews, when he was ordered with his
regiment into Flanders ; but before he set out, it was
agreed between us that he should declare our marriage
to my father by letter, and implore his pardon for the
step we had taken without his approbation. This was
done while I was abroad visiting ; and just as I was about
to return home, I receiyed a letter from my, father, im-

porting, that since I had acted so undutifully and meanly
as to marry a beggar, without his privity or consent,
to the disgrace of his family, as well as the disappoint-
ment of his hopes, he renounced me to the miserable
fate I had entailed upon myself, and charged me never
to set foot within his doors again. This rigid sentence
was confirmed by my mother, who, in apostscript, gave
me to understand that her sentiments were exactly
conformable to those of my father, and that I might
save myself the trouble of making any applications, for
her resolutions were unalterable. Thunderstruck with
my evil fortune, I called a coach and drove to my hus-
band’s lodgings, where I found him waiting the event
of his letter. Though he could easily divine by my
looks the issue of his declaration, he read with great
steadiness the epistle I had received ; and with asmile
full of tenderness, which I shall‘never forget, embraced
me, saying, ‘ I believe the good lady your mother might
have spared herself the trouble of the last part of her
postscript. Well,my dear Betty, you must lay aside all
thoughts of a coach, till I can procure the command of
a regiment.’

This unconcerned behaviour, while it enabled me to
support my reverse of fortune, at the same time en-
deared him to me the more, by convincing me of his
disinterested views in espousing me. I was next day
boarded in company with the wife of another officer, who
had long been a confidant of my husband, ata village
not far from London, where they parted with us in the
most melting manner, went to Flanders, and were killed
in sight of one another at the battle of the wood. Why
should I tire you with a description of our unutterable
sorrow at the fatal news of this event, the remembrance
of which now fills my aged eyes with tears? When

~
+

| our grief subsided a little, and reflection came to our

aid, we found ourselves deserted by the whole world,
and in danger of perishing for want: whereupon we
made application for the pension, and were put upon the
list; then vowing eternal friendship, sold our jewels
and superfluous clothes, retired to this place (which is
in the county of Sussex), bought this little house, where
we lived many years ina solitary manner, indulging
our mutual sorrow, till it pleased Heaven to call away
my companion two years ago; since which time I have
lingered out an unhappy being, in hopes of a speedy
dissolution, when I promise myself the eternal reward
of all my cares. In the meantime,” continued she, “ I
must inform you of the character I bear among my
neighbours. My conversation being different from
that of the inhabitants of the village, my recluse way
of life, my skill in curing distempers, which I acquired
from books since I settled here, and, lastly, my age,

| have made the common people look upon me as some-
| thing preternatural, and I am actually at this hour be-

| Opinion,

lieved to be a witch. The parson of the parish, whose
acquaintance I have not been at much pains to cultivate,
taking umbrage at my supposed disrespect, has con-
tributed not a little towards the confirmation of this

by dropping certain hints to my prejudice

| among the vulgar, who are also very much seandalised

 

greenest a mY Nee NCR A

at my entertaining this poor tabby cat with the collar
about her neck, which was a favourite of my deceased
companion.”

‘The whole behaviour of this venerable person was so
primitive, innocent, sensible, and humane, that I con-
tracted a filial respect for her, and begged her advice
with regard to my future conduct, as soon as I was in
a condition to act for myself. She dissuaded me from
a design I had formed of travelling to London in hopes
of retrieving my clothes and pay, by returning to my
ship (which by this time, I read in a newspaper, was
safely arrived in the river Thames) :—* because,” said
she, “ you run the hazard of being treated not only as
a deserter in quitting the sloop, but also as a mutineer
in assaulting your commanding officer, to the malice of
whose revenge you will be moreover exposed.” She
then promised to recommend me as a servant toa single
lady of her acquaintance, who lived in the neighbourhood
with her nephew, who was a young fox-hunter of great
fortune, where 1 might be very happy, provided I couldADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

bear with the disposition and manners of my mistress,
which were somewhat whimsical and particular. But,
above all things, she counselled me to conceal my story,
the knowledge of which would effectually poison my en-
tertainment: for it was a maxim amongst most people
of condition, that no gentleman in distress ought to be
admitted into a family asa domestic, lest he become
proud, lazy, and insolent. I was fain to embrace this
humble proposal, because my affairs were desperate ;
and ina few days was hired by this lady, to serve in
quality of her footman ; being represented by my hos-
tess as a young man, who having been sent to sea by
his relations against his inclinations, was shipwrecked
and robbed, which had increased his disgust to that
way of life so much, that he rather chese to go to ser-

vice on shore than enter himself on board of any other |

ship.

Before I took possession of my new place, she gave
me a sketch of my mistress’s character, that ] might
know better how to regulate my conduct. “Your lady,”

 

said she, “isa maiden of forty years, not so remarkable |

for her beauty as her learning and taste, which is famous
all over the country. Indeed, she is a perfect female
virtuoso, and so eager after the pursuit of knowledge,
that she neglects her person even to a degree of slut-
tishness ; this negligence, together with her contempt
for the male part of the creation, gives her nephew no

great concern, as by that means he will probably keep |

her fortune, which is considerable, in the family. He
therefore permits her to live in her own way, which is

something extraordinary, and gratifies her in all her
whimsical desires. Her apartment is at some distance

from the other inhabited parts of the house, and consists
of a dining-room, bed-chamber, and study:
cook-maid, waiting-woman, and footman of her own, and

1 }
she Keeps a
A

seldom eats or converses with any of the family but her |

niece, who is a very lovely creature, and humours her
aunt often to the prejudice of her own health, by sitting
up with her whole nights together ; for your mi
too much of a philosoplrer tO be swayed by the customs

iStress 1s

of the world, and never sleeps or eats as other people |

do. Among other odd notions, she professes the prin-
ciples of Rosicrucius, and believes the earth, air, and
sea, are inhabited by invisible beings, with whom it is
possible for the human species to entertain correspon-
dence and intimacy, on the easy condition of living

chaste.

67

loose about her witha negligence truly poetic. Around
her lay heaps of books, globes, quadrants, telescopes,
and other learned apparatus ; her snuff-box stood at her
right hand, at her left lay her handkerchief sufficiently
used, and a convenience to spit in appeared on one
side of her chair. Being in a reverie when we entered,
the maid did not think proper to disturb her; so that
we waited some minutes unobserved, during which time
she bit the quill several times, altered her position,
made many wry faces, and at length, with an air of
triumph, repeated aloud, “ Nor dare th? immortal gods
my rage oppose !”

Having committed her success to paper, she turned
towards the door, and peceiving us, cried, “ What’s the
matter?’ “ Here’s the young man,” replied my con-
ductress, “whom Mrs Sagely recommended as a foot-
man to your ladyship.” On this information she stared
in my face a considerable time, and then asked my
name, which [ thought proper to conceal under that 6f
John Brown. After having surveyed me with a curi-
ous eye, she broke out into, “Oh, ay! thou wert ship-
wrecked, | remember. Whether didst thou come on
shore on the back of a whale ora dolphin?” To this I
answered, I had swum ashore without any assistance.
Then she demanded to know if I had ever been at the
Hellespont, and swum from Sestos to Abydos. [ re-
plied ia the negative ; upon which she bade the maid
order a suit of new livery for me, and instruct me in
the articles of my duty ; so saying, she spat in her snuff-
box, and wiped her nose with her cap, which lay on the
We returned to the
sitchen, where I was regaled by the maids, who seemed
to vie with one another in expressing their regard for
me. From them I understood that my business con-
sisted in cleaning knives and forks, laying the cloth,
waiting at table, carrying messages, and attending my
lady when she went abroad. There being a very good
suit of livery in the house, which had belonged to my
predecessor, di I dressed myself in it, and found

that there was no occasion for
employing a tailor on that account.

i had not been long equipped in this manner, when
my lady’s bell rung, upon which I ran up stairs, and
tound her stalking about the room in her shift and

table instead of a handkerchief.

‘ a 7
-CCaSeCG,

it fitted me exactly. so

| under-petticoat only; I would have immediately re-

As she hopes one day to be admitted into an |

acquaintance of this kind, she no sooner heard of me |
and my cat than she paid me a visit, with a view, as

she has since owned, to be introduced to my familiar,
and was greatly mortified to find herself disappointed
in her expectation. Being, by this visionary turn of
mind, abstracted as it were from the world, she cannot

advert to the common occurrences of life: and there-

fore is frequently so absent as to commit very strange

mistakes and extravagances, which you will do well to |

rectify and repair, as your prudence will suggest.”

PP POPP ILOILO IO SISTA

CHAPTER AXXIX.

Fraucur with these useful instructions, I repaired to
the place of her habitation, and was introduced by the
waiting-woman to the presence of my lady, who had
not before seen me. She sat in her study, with one
foot upon the ground, and the other upon a high stool
at some distance from her seat; her sandy locks hung
down in a disorder I cannot
head, which was deprived of its coif, for the benefit of
scratching with one hand, while she held the stump of
a peninthe other. Her forehead was high and wrinkled,
her eyes large, grey, and prominent; her nose long,
sharp, and aquiline; her mouth of vast capacity ; her
visage meagre and freckled, and her chin peaked like
a shoemaker’s paring knife: her upper-lip contained a
large quantity of plain Spanish, which by continual
falling had embroidered her neck, that was not natu-

Yc
a 5

tired, as became me, but she bade me come in, and air
a clean shift for her, which having done with some
backwardness, she put it on before me without any ce-
remony, and | verily believe was ignorant of my sex
all the time, being quite absorbed in contemplation.
(bout four o’clock in the afternoon, I was ordered to
lay the cloth and place two covers, which I understood
were for my mistress and her niece, whom I had not
as yet Though I was not very dexterous at this
operation, I performed it pretty well for a beginner ;
and when dinner was upon the table, saw my mistress

g lady, whose name
for the present shall be Narcissa. So much sweetness
appeared in the countenance and carriage of this ami-
able apparition, that my heart was captivated at first
sight, and while dinner lasted I gazed upon her without
intermission. Her age seemed to be seventeen, her
stature tall, her shape unexceptionable, her hair, that
fell down upon her ivory neck in ringlets, black as jet,

seen.

approach, accompanied by the young

| her arched eyebrows of the same colour, her eyes piere-

-all beautiful from her |

, Aaa , seed we eat Tt ae Annee
ryery white and the breast of her gown, that flowed | ing observed me, said to her aunt, “1 see

ing yet tender, her lips of the consistence and hue of
cherries, her complexion clear, delicate, and healthy,
her aspect noble, ingenuous, and humane—and the
whole so ravishingly delightful, that it was impossible
for any creature endued with sensibility to see without
admiring, and admire without loving her to excess!
How often did I curse the servile station that placed
me so infinitely beneath the regard of this idol of my
admiration ; and how often did I bless my fate, that
enabled me to enjoy daily the sight of so much perfec-
tion! When she spoke, I listened with pleasure; but
when she spoke to me, my soul was thrilled with an
ecstacy of tumultuous joy. I was even so happy as to
be the subject of their conversation: for Narcissa hav-
Our Ne

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68 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

footman is come.” Then addressing herself to me,
asked, with ineffable complacency, if I was the person
who had been so cruelly used by robbers? When I had
satisfied her in this, she expressed a desire of knowing
the particulars of my fortune both before and since my
being shipwrecked : hereupon (as Mrs Sagely had coun-
selled me) I told her, that I had been bound ’prentice
to the master of a ship, contrary to my inclination,
which ship had foundered at sea, and I and four more,
who chanced to be on deck when she went down, made
shift to swim to the shore, where my companions, after
having overpowered me, stript me to the shirt, and left
me, as they imagined, dead of the wounds I received
in my own defence; then I related the circumstances
of my being found in a barn, with the inhuman treat-
ment I met with from the country people and parson,
which I perceived drew tears from the charming crea-
ture’s eyes. When I had finished my recital, my mis-
tress said, “ Ma foi, le garcon est bien fait’? To which
opinion Narcissa assented, with a compliment to my
understanding in the same language, that flattered my
vanity extremely.

The conversation, among other subjects, turned upon
the young squire, whom my lady inquired after under
the title of the Savage, and was informed by her niece
that he was still in bed, repairing the fatigue of last
night’s debauch, and recruiting his strength and spirits
to undergo a fox-chase to-morrow morning, in company
with Sir Timothy Thicket, Squire Bumper, anda great
many other gentlemen of the same stamp, whom he had
invited on that occasion, so that by daybreak the whole
house would be in an uproar. This was a very dis-
agreeable piece of news to the virtuoso, who protested
she would stuff her ears with cotton when she went to
bed, and take a dose of opium to make her sleep the
more’sound, that she might not be disturbed and dis-
tracted by the clamour of the brutes.

When their dinner was over, I and my fellow-servants
sat down to ours in the kitchen, where I understood that
sir Timothy Thicket was a wealthy knight in the neigh-
bourhood, between whom and Narcissa a match had
been projected by her brother, who proposed at the
Same time to espouse Sir Timothy’s sister; by which
means, as their fortunes were pretty equal, the young
ladies would be provided for, and their brothers be
never the poorer: but the ladies did not concur in the
scheme, each of them entertaining a hearty contempt
for the person allotted to her for a husband by this
agreement. ‘This information begot in me a mortal
aversion to Sir Timothy, whom I looked upon as my
rival, and cursed in my heart for his presumption.
Next morning by daybreak, being awaked by the noise
of the hunters and hounds, I got up to view the cayal-
cade, and had a sight of my competitor, whose accom-
plishments (the estate excluded) did not seem brilliant
enough to give me much uneasiness with respect to
Nareissa, who, I flattered myself, was not to be won
by such qualifications as he was master of, either as to
person or mind. My mistress, notwithstanding her
precaution, was so much disturbed by her nephew’s
company that she did not rise till five o’clock in the
afternoon; so that I had an opportunity of examining
her study at leisure, to which I was strongly prompted
by my curiosity. Here I found a thousand scraps of
her own poetry, consisting of three, four, ten, twelve,
and twenty lines, on an infinity of subjects, which, as
whim inspired, she had begun, without constancy or
capacity to bring to any degree of composition; but
what was very extraordinary in a female poet, there
was not the least mention made of love in any of her
performances. I counted fragments of five tragedies,
the titles of which were, The Stern Philosopher, The
Double Murder, The Sacrilegious Traitor, The Fall of
Lucifer, and The Last Day—from whence I gathered,
that her disposition was gloomy, and her imagination
delighted with objects of horror. Her library was com-
posed of the best English historians, poets, and philoso-
phers, of all the French critics and poets, and of a few
books in Italian, chiefly poetry, at the head of which were
Tasso and Ariosto, pretty much used. Besides these,

fireeritieeniieenscmas al “* ee ssostiansttilibilenernanjileckea ios

aes ner roe MY ee TE PN Ram creciemneguamnteticdiecmtarserah

 

translations of the classics into French, but not one
book in Greek or Latin—a circumstance that discovered
her ignorance of these languages. After having taken
a full view of this collection, I retired, and at the usual
time was preparing to lay the cloth, when I was told
by the maid that her mistress was still in bed, and had
been so affected with the notes of the hounds in the
morning, that she actually believed herself a hare beset
with the hunters, and begged a few greens to munch
for her breakfast. When I testified my surprise at this
unaccountable imagination, she let me know that my
lady was very much subject to whims of this nature—
sometimes fancying herself an animal, sometimes a
piece of furniture—during which conceited transfor-
mations, it was very dangerous to come near her, espe-
cially when she represented a beast ; for that lately, in
the character of a cat, she had flown at her, and scratched
her face in a terrible manner—that, some months ago,
she prophesied the general conflagration was at hand,
and nothing would be able to quench it but her water,
which therefore she kept so long that her life was in
danger ; and she must needs have died of the retention,
had they not found an expedient to make her evacuate,
by kindling a bonfire under her chamber window, and
persuading her that the house was in flames; upon
which, with great deiiberation, she bade them bring all
the tubs and vessels they could find, to be filled, for the
preservation of the house, into one of which she imme-
diately discharged the cause of her distemper. I was
also informed, that nothing contributed so much to the
recovery of her reason as music, which was also admi-
nistered on these occasions by Narcissa, who played
perfectly well on the harpsichord, and to whom she (the
maid) was just then going to intimate her aunt’s disor-
der. She was no sooner gone than I was summoned
by the bell to my lady’s chamber, where I found her
sitting squat on her hams, on the floor, in the manner
of puss when she listens to the cries of her pursuers.
When I appeared, she started up with an alarmed look,
and sprang to the other side of the room to avoid me,
whom, without doubt, she mistook for a beagle thirst-
ing after her life. Perceiving her extreme confusion,
[ retired, and on the staircase met the adorable Nar-
cissa coming up, to whom I imparted the situation of
my mistress: she said not a word, but smiling with un-
speakable grace, went into her aunt’s apartment, and,
in a little time, my ears were ravished with the effects
of her skill. She accompanied the instrument with a
voice so sweet and melodious, that I did not wonder at
the surprising change it produced on the spirits of my
mistress, which were soon composed to peace and sober
reflection.

About seven o’clock the hunters arrived, with the
skins of two foxes and one badger, carried before them
as trophies of their success ; and when they were about
to sit down to dinner (or supper), Sir Timothy Thicket
desired that Narcissa would honour the table with her
presence; but this, notwithstanding her brother’s threats
and entreaties, she refused, on pretence of attending on
her aunt, who was indisposed, so that I enjoyed the
satisfaction of seeing my rival mortified: but this dis-
appointment made no great impression on him, who
consoled himself with the bottle, of which the whole
company became so much enamoured, that after a most
horrid uproar of laughing, singing, swearing, dancing,
and fighting, they were all carried to bed in a state of
utter oblivion. My duty being altogether detached
from the squire and his family, I led a pretty easy and
comfortable life, drinking daily intoxicating draughts
of love from the charms of Narcissa, which brightened
on my contemplation every day more and more. In-
glorious as my station was, I became blind to my own
unworthiness, and even conceived hopes of one day en-
joying this amiable creature, whose affability greatly
encouraged these presumptuous thoughts.

CHAPTER XL.

During this season of love and tranquillity, my muse,
which had lain dormant so long, awoke, and produced

 

ie nS een aceite Ane eamammtaaas i.ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

several small performances on the subject of my flame:
but as it concerned me nearly to remain undiscovered
in my real character and Sentiments, I was under a
necessity of mortifying my desire of praise, by confining
my works to my own perusal and applause. In the
meantime I strove to insinuate myself into the good
opinion of both ladies; and succeeded so well, by my
diligence and dutiful behaviour, that in a little time [
was at least a favourite servant, and frequently enjoyed
the pleasure of hearing myself mentioned in French
and Italian, with some degree of warmth and surprise,
by the dearest object of all my wishes, as a person who
had so much of the gentleman in my appearance and
discourse, that she could not for her soul treat me like
# common lacquey. My prudence and modesty were
not long proof against these bewitching compliments.
One day, while I waited at dinner, the conversation
turned upon a knotty passage of T'asso’s Ger
which it seems had puzzled them both.
many unsatisfactory conjectures, my mistress, taking
the book out of her pocket, turned up tl
tion, and read the sentence overand over without success;
at length, despairing of finding the author’s meaning,
she turned to me saying, “ Come hither, Bruno, let us
see what fortune will do for us; I will interpret to thee
what goes before and what follows in this obseure para-
graph, the particular words of which I will also explain,
that thou may’st, by comparing one with the other,
guess the sense of that which perplexes us.” JI was
too vain to let slip this opportunity of displaying my
talents ; therefore, without hesitation, read and explained
the whole of that which had disconcerted them, to the
utter astonishment of both. Narcissa’s face and lovely
neck were overspread with blushes, from whence I drew
a favourable omen, while her aunt, after having stared
at me a good while with a look of amazement, exclaimed,
“In the name of Heaven, who art thou?” I told her
I had picked up a smattering of Italian during a voyage
up the Straits. At this she shook her head, and observed
that no smatterer could read as I had done. She then
desired to know if I understood French, to which I
answered in the affirmative. She asked if I was ac-
quainted with the Latin and Greek; | replied, “ A
little.’ “Oho!” continued she, “and with philosophy
and mathematics, I suppose?” I owned I knew some-
thing of each. Whereupon she repeated her stare and
interrogation. I began to repent my vanity ; and, in
order to repair the fault I had committed, said, it was
not to be wondered at if I had a tolerable education,
because learning was so cheap in my country that
every peasant was a scholar ; but I hoped her ladyship
would think my understanding no exception to my
character. She was pleased to answer, “ No, no, God

usalemme,
After a great

forbid!” But during the rest of the time they sat at
table, they behaved with remarkable reserve.
This alteration gave me much uneasiness; and J

passed the night without sleep, in melancholy reflec-
tions on the vanity of young men, which prompts them
to commit so many foolish actions, contrary to their
own sober judgment. Next day, however, instead of
profiting by this self-econdemnation, I yielded still more
to the dictates of the principle I had endeavoured to
chastise ; and if fortune had not befriended me more
than prudence could expect, I should have been treated
with the contempt I deserved. After breakfast, my
lady, who was a true author, bade me follow her into
the study, where she expressed herself thus :—“ Since
you are so learned, you cannot be void of taste; there-
fore I am to desire your opinion of a small performance
in poetry, which I lately composed. You must know,
I have planned a tragedy, the subject of which shall be
the murder of a prince before the altar, where he is
busy at his devotions. After the deed is perpetrated,
the regicide will harangue the people, with the bloody
dagger in his hand; and I have already composed a
speech, which I think will suit the character extremely.
Here it is.” Then taking up a scrap of paper, she read,
with violent emphasis and gesture, as follows :—
“ Thus have I sent the simple king to hell,
Without or coffin, shroud, or passing-bell:
a

1e place in ques- |

 

 

 

  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 

To me, what are divine and human laws?
I court no sanction but my own applause!
Rapes, robb’ries, treason, yield my soul delight,
And human carnage gratitfies my sight.
I drag the parent by the hoary hair,
And toss the sprawling infant on my spear,
W hile the fond mother’s cries regale mine ear.
I fight, I vanquish, murder friends and foes;
Nor dare th’ immortal gods my rage oppose.”

Though I did great violence to my understanding in

praising this unnatural rhapsody, I nevertheless extolled
it as a production that of itself deserved immortal fame ;
and beseeched her ladyship to bless the world with the
fruits of those uncommon talents Heaven had bestowed
upon her. She smiled with a look of self-complacency,
and, encouraged by the incense I had offered, commu-
nicated all her poetical works, which I applauded one
by one, with as little candour as I had shown at first.
Satiated with my flattery, which [I hope my situation
justified, she could not in conscience refuse me an op-
portunity of shining in my turn; and therefore, after
a compliment to my nice discernment and taste, ob-
served, that doubtless I must have produced something
in that way myself, which she desired to see. This was
a temptation I could byno means resist. | owned, that
while I was at college I wrote some small detached
pieces, at the desire of a friend who was in love ; andat
herrequest I repeated the following verses, which indeed
my love for Narcissa had inspired :—

ON CELIA PLAYING ON THE HARPSICHORD AND SINGING.
“ When Sappho struck the quiv’ring wire,
The throbbing breast was all on fire ;
And when she rais’d the vocal] lay,
The captive soul was charm’d away !
But had the nymph possess’d with these
Thy softer, chaster power to please—
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth—
The worm of grief had neyer prey’d
On the forsaken loye-sick maid ;

Nor had she mourn’d a hapless flame,
Nor dash’d on rocks her tender frame,’

My mistress made me a cold compliment on the ver-
sification, which, she said, was elegant enough, but the
subject beneath the pen of a true poet. I was extremely
nettled at her indifference, and looked at Narcissa, who
by this time had joined us, for her approbation, but she
declined giving her opinion, protesting she was no judge
of these matters, so that I was forced to retire, very
much baulked in my expectation, which was generally
a little too sanguine. In the afternoon, however, the
waiting-maid assured me that Narcissa had expressed
her approbation of my performance with great warmth,
and desired her to procure a copy of it, as for herself,
that she (Narcissa) might have an opportunity to per-
use it at leisure. I[ was elated to an extravagant pitch
with this intelligence, and immediately transcribed a
fair copy of my ode, which was carried to the dear
charmer, together with another on the same subject, as
follows :—

“Thy fatal shafts unerring move,

I bow before thine altar, Love!

I feel thy soft resistless flame

Glide swift through all my vital frame!
For while I gaze, my bosom glows,

My blood in tides impetuous flows,
Hope, fear, and joy, alternate roll,

And floods of transport *whelm my soul !
My faltering tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain ;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs!
Condemn’d to nurse eternal care,’
And ever drop the silent tear ;
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die!”

Whether or not Narcissa discovered my passion, I
could not learn from her behaviour, which, though
always benevolent to me, was henceforth more reces
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70 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

and less cheerful. While my thoughts aspired to a
sphere so far above me, I had unwittingly made a con-
quest of the cook-wench and the dairy-maid, who be-
came so jealous of one another, that if their sentiments
had been refined by education, it is probable one or
other of them would have had recourse to poison or
steel, to be revenged of her rival ; but as their minds
were happily adapted to their humble station, their
mutual enmity was confined to scolding and fisty-cuffs,
in which exercise they were both well skilled. My good
fortune did not long remain a secret, being disclosed by
the frequent broils of these heroines, who kept no de-
corum in their encounters. The coachman and gardener,
who paid their devoirs to my admirers, each to his re-
spective choice, alarmed at my success, laid their heads
together, in order to concert a plan of revenge; and
the former having been educated at the academy of
Tottenham-court, undertook to challenge me to single
combat ; he accordingly, with many opprobrious invec-
tives, bade me defiance, and offered to box with me for
twenty guineas. I told him, that although I believed
myself a match for him, even at that work, I would not
descend so far below the dignity of a gentleman as to
fight like a porter ; but if he had any thing to say to me,
I was his man at blunderbuss, musket, pistol, sword,
hatchet, spit, cleaver, fork, or needle—nay more, that
if he gave his tongue any more saucy liberties at my
expense, I would crop his ears without any ceremony.
This rhodomontade, delivered with a stern countenance
and resolute tone, had the desired effect upon my anta-
gonist, who, with some confusion, sneaked off, and gave
his friend an account of his reception. The story taking
air among the servants, procured for me the title of
Gentleman John, with which I was sometimes honoured,
even by my mistress and Narcissa, who had been in-
formed of the whole affair by the chamber-maid. In
the meantime, the rival queens expressed their passion
by all the ways in their power; the cook entertained
me with choice bits, the dairy-maid with strokings: the
first would often encourage me to declare myself, by

 

quitted his prey, and drew his hanger to chastise my
presumption. My indignation was too high to admit
one thought of fear, so that, rushing upon him, I struck
his weapon out of his hand, and used my cudgel so suc-
cessfully that he fell to the ground, and lay to all ap-
pearance without sense. Then I turned to Narcissa,
who had swooned, and sitting down by her, gently raised
her head, and supported it on my bosom, while with
one hand around her waist I kept her in that position.
My soul was thrilled with tumultuous joy at feeling the
object of my dearest wishes within my arms; and while
she lay insensible, I could not refrain from applying
my cheek to hers, and ravishing a kiss. In a little
time the blood began to revisit her face ; she opened her
enchanting eyes, and having recollected her late situa-
tion, said, with a look full of tender acknowledgment,
“ Dear John, I am entirely obliged to you!” So saying,
she made an effort to rise, in which I assisted her, and
she proceeded to the house, leaning upon me all the
way. Iwasa thousand times tempted by this opportu-
nity to declare my passion, but the dread of disobliging
her restrained my tongue. We had not got a hundred
paces from the scene of her distress, when I perceived
Sir Timothy get up and move homeward; a circum-
stance which, though it gave me some satisfaction, in-
asmuch as I thereby knew I had not killed him, filled
me with just apprehension of his resentment, which I
found myself in no condition to withstand ; especially
when I considered his intimacy with our squire, to whom
I knew he would easily justify himself for what he had
done, by imputing it to his love, and desiring his brother
Bruin to take the same liberty with his sister, without
any fear of offence.

When we arrived at the house, Narcissa assured me

| she would exert all her influence in protecting me from

the revenge of Thicket, and likewise engage her aunt
in my favour; at the same time pulling out her purse,
offered it as a small consideration for the service I had

| done her. But I stood too much upon the punctilios
| of love to incur the least suspicion of being mercenary,

complimenting me upon my courage and learning, and |
by barely doing my duty. She seemed astonished at

observing, that if she had a husband like me, to main-
tain order and keep accounts, she could make a great
deal of money by setting up an eating-house in London,
for gentlemen’s servants on board-wages. The other
courted my afiection, by showing her own importance,
and telling me, that many a substantial farmer in the
neighbourhood would be glad to marry her; but she
was resolved to please her eye, if she should plague her
heart.

DAELD IS EPP AOL OOS OS

CeAPTER XLII.
Av certain intervals my ambition would revive; I
would despise myself for my tame resignation to my
sordid fate, and revolve a hundred schemes for as-
suming the character of a gentleman, to which I was
entitled by birth and education. In these fruitless
suggestions, time stole away unperceived ; and |] had
already remained eight months in the station of a foot-

7

man, when an accident happened that put an end to |

my servitude, and, for the present, banished all hopes |

of succeeding in my love.

Narcissa went one day to visit Miss Thicket, who |

lived with her brother, within less than a mile of our
house, and was persuaded to walk home in the cool of
the evening, accompanied by Sir Timothy, who having
a good deal of the brute in him, was instigated to use
some unbecoming familiarities with her, encouraged by
the solitariness of a field through which they passed.
The lovely creature was incensed at his rude behaviour,
for which she reproached him in such a manner that
he lost all regard to decency, and actually offered vio-
Jence to this pattern of innocence and beauty. But
Heaven would not suffer so much goodness to be vio-
lated, and sent me, who passing by accident near the
place, was alarmed with her cries, to her suececour. What
were the emotions of my soul, when I beheld *Narcissa
almost sinking beneath the brutal force of this satyr !
I flew like lightning to her rescue, which he perceiying,

patos acecevttnetegnipnessmemteptct opis idrcspet sae Megat AaB . lili

 

and refused the present, saying, I had merited nothing

my disinterestedness, and blushed; I felt the same
suffusion, and, with a downcast eye and broken accent,
told her I had one request to make, which if her gene-
rosity would grant, I would think myself fully recom-
pensed for an age of misery. She changed colour at
this preamble, and with great confusion replied, she
hoped my good sense would hinder me from asking any
thing she was bound in honour to refuse, and therefore
bade me signify my desire. Upon which I kneeled, and
begged to kiss her hand. She immediately, with an
averted look, stretched it out; I imprinted on it an
ardent kiss, and, bathing it with my tears, cried, “ Dear
Madam, I am an unfortunate gentleman who loves you
to distraction, but would have died a thousand deaths,
rather than make this declaration under such a servile
appearance, were he not determined to yield to the
rigour of his fate, to fly from your bewitching presence,
and bury his presumptuous passion in eternal silence.”
With these words I rose and went away, before she
could recover spirits so far as to make any reply.

My first care was to go and consult Mrs Sagely, with
whom I had maintained a friendly correspondence ever
since I left her house. When she understood my situa-
tion, the good woman, with real concern, condoled me
on my unhappy fate, and approved of my resolution to
leave the country, being perfectly well acquainted with
the barbarous disposition of my rival; “who by this
time,” said she, “ has no doubt meditated-a scheme of
revenge. Indeed, I cannot see how you will be able to
elude his vengeance. Being himself in the commission,
he will immediately grant warrants for apprehending
you; and as almost all the people in this county are
dependent on him or his friend, it will be impossible
for you to find shelter among them: if you be appre-
hended, he will commit you to jail, where you may
possibly languish in great misery till the next assizes,
and then be transported for assaulting a magistrate.”
While she thus warned me of my danger, we heard a

ha al ts i gma anneADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

knocking at the door, which threw us both into great
consternation, as in all probability it was occasioned by
my pursuers ; whereupon this generous old lady, put-
ting two guineas into my hand, with tears in her eyes,
bade me for God’s sake get out at the back-door, and
consult my safety as providence should direct me.
There was no time for deliberation.

I followed her advice, and escaped by the benefit of
a dark night, to the sea-side, where, while I ruminated
on my next excursion, I was all of a sudden surrounded
by armed men, who, having bound my hands and feet,
bade me make no noise on pain of being shot, and ear-
ried me on board of a vessel, which I soon perceived
to be a smuggling cutter. This discovery gave me
Some satisfaction at first, because I concluded myself
Safe from the resentment of Sir Timothy ; but when I
found myself in the hands of ruffians, who threatened

to execute me for a spy, I would have thought myself

happily quit for a year’s imprisonment, or even trans-
portation. It was in vain for me to protest my inno-
cence: I could not persuade them that I had taken a
solitary walk to their haunt, at such an hour, merely
for my own amusement; and I did not think it my in-
terest to disclose the true cause of my retreat, because
I was afraid they would have made their

peace with
Justice by surrendering

me to the penalty of the law.
What confirmed their suspicion, was the appearance
of a custom-house yacht, which gave them chase, and
had well nigh made a prize of the vessel, when they
were delivered from their fears by a thick fog, which
actually screened them, and favoured their arrival at
Boulogne. But before they got out of sight of their
pursuer, they held a council of war about me, whom
some of the most ferocious among them would have
thrown overboard, as a traitor who had be trayed them
to their enemies: but others, more considerate, alleged,
that if they put me to death, and should aiterwards be
taken, they could expect islature,
which would never pardon outlawry aggravated by
murder. It was therefore determined. by a plurality
of votes, that I should be set on shore in France, and
left to find my passage back to Eneland as I should
think proper, which would be punishment sufficient for
the bare suspicion of a crime in itself not capital. Al-
though this favourable determination gave me great
pleasure, the apprehension of being robbed would not
suffer me to be periectly at ease.

> r £ + ]
no mercy from the le;

+

e

To prevent this cala-
mity, as soon as I was untied in consequence of the
aforesaid decision, I tore a small hole in one of my stock-

ings, into which | dropped six guineas, reserving half

ig some-

2 piece and some silver in my pocket, that findiz

 

| after having looked at

|

“1

Perseverance and satisfaction, At some distanee from
them I perceived another person in the same garb, sit-
ting ma pensive, solitary manner, entertaining himself
with a Whiff of tobacco from the stump of a pipe as
black as jet. The appearance of distress never failed to
attract my regard and compassion: I approached this
forlorn tar with a view to offer him my assistance, and,
notwithstanding the alteration of dress, and disguise of
a long beard, I discovered in him my long-lost and
eas aes a benefactor, Lieutenant “Bowling!
x00G heaven! what were citations 7
between the joy of Riding duels eae eae
| yO: ang again s a valuable friend,
and the sorrow of Seeimg him in such low condition {_
the tears gushed down my cheeks, I stood motionless
and silent for some time ; at length, recovering the use
of speech, exclaimed, “ Gracious God! Mr Bowling !”
My uncle no sooner heard his name mentioned than he
started up, crying, with some surprise, “ Holloa!” and
9 me steadfastly, without being able
to recollect me, said, “Did you call me, brother?” J
told him I had somethi 1g extraordinary to communi-
cate, and desired him to give me a few minutes? hearing
in another room; but he would by no means consent
to this proposal, saying, “ Avast there, friend ; none of
your tricks upon travellers; if you have any thing to
say to me, do it above-board—you need not be afraid
of being overheard ; here are none who understand our
lingo.” Though I was loath to discover myself before
company, I could no longer refrain telling I was his
own nephew, Roderick Random. On this information,
he considered me with great earnestness and astonish-
ment, andrecalling my features, which, though enlarged,
were not entirely altered, since he had seen me, came
up and shook me by the hand very cordially, protesting
he was glad to see me well. After some pause, he went
on thus :—* see you
not in my

 

And yet, my lad, I am sorry to
under such colours; the more SO, as it is
power at present to change them for the better, times
being very hard with me.” With these words I could
perceive a tear trickle down his furrowed cheeks, which
ailected me so much that I wept bitterly. Imagining

| My sorrow was the effect of my misfortunes, he’ com-

| Stronger the more labour they undergo.

thing, they might not be tempted to make any further |

inquiry.
when we came within sight of the French shore,

the smugglers told me | must pay for my passage. To
this ] replied, that my passage was none of my
seeking, therefore they could not expect a reward from
me for transporting me into a strange country by force.
“Come !” said the outlaw, “none of your palaver, but
let me see what money you have got.” So
thrust his hand into my. pocket without any ceremony,
and emptied it of the contents; then casting an eye at
my hat and wig, which captivated his fancy, he took
them off, and clapping his own on my head, declared
that a fair exchange was no robbery. I was fain to
put up with the bargain, which was by no means favour-
able to me, and a little while after we went all on shore
together.

I was resolved to take my leave of these desperadoes
without much ceremony, when one of them éautioned
me against appearing to their prejudice, if ever I re-
turned to England, unless I had a mind to be murdered,
for which service, he assured me, the gang never wanted
agents. I promised to observe his advice, and departed
for the Upper Town, where I inquired for a cabaret,

yf own

saying, he

or public-house, into which I went with an intention of

taking some refreshment. In the kitchen five Dutch
sailors sat at breakfast, with a large loaf, a firkin of
butter, and a cag of brandy on the table, the bung-hole
of which they often applied to their mouths with great

- -

one ot

This was a very nec ssary precaution, for

forted me, by observing that life was a voyage in which
we must expect to meet with all weathers ; sometimes
it was calm, sometimes rough; that a fair gale often
succeeded a storm; that the wind did not always sit
one way, and that despair signified nothing: but reso-
lution and skill were better than a stout vessel. For
why *—because they require no carpenter, and grow
I dried up
my tears, which I assured him were not shed for my
own distress but for his, and begged leave to accom-
pany him into another room, where we could converse
more at our ease. . ‘here I recounted to him the un-
generous usage I had met with from Potion, at which
he started up, stalked across the room three or four
times in a great hurry, and grasping his endgel, cried,
“* T would I were alongside of him, that’s all! { would
I were alongside of him!” TI then gave him a detail
of all my adventures and sufferings, which affected him
more than I could have imagined ; and concluded with
telling him that Captain Oakhumwas still alive, and that
he might return to England when he would, to solicit

| his affairs, without danger or molestation. He was

 

wonderfully pleased at this piece of information, of which,
however, he said he could not at present ayail himself,
for want of money to pay for his passage to London.
This objection I soon removed, by putting five guineas
into his hand, and telling him I thought myself ex-
tremely happy in having an opportunity of manifesting
my gratitude to him in this necessity. But it was with
the utmost difficulty I could prevail on him to accept
of two, which, he affirmed, were more than sufficient to
pay the necessary expense. After this friendly contest
was over, he proposed we should have a mess of some-
thing: “for,” said he, “it has been banyan day with
me a great while. You must know I was shipwrecked,
five days ago near a place called Lusieux, in company
with those Dutchmen who are now drinking below, and
haying hut little money when Toa shove

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72 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

soon spent, because I let them have share and share
while it lasted. Howsomever, I should have remem-
bered the old saying, Hvery hog his own apple ; for when
they found my hold unstowed, they went all hands to
shooling and begging ; and because I would not take a
spell at the same duty, refused to give me the least as-
sistance, so that I have not broke bread these two days.”

4, I was shocked at the extremity of this distress, and or-

, dered some bread, cheese, and wine to be brought imme-
' diately, to allay his hunger, until a fricassee of chickens
could be prepared. When he had recruited his spirits
with this homely fare, I desired to know the particulars
of his peregrination, since the accident at Gape Tiberoon,
which were briefly these:—The money he had about
him being all spent at Port-Louis, the civility and hos-
pitality of the French cooled to such a degree, that he
was obliged to list on board of one of their king’s ships,
as a common foremast-man, to prevent himself from
starving on shore. In this situation he continued two
years, during which time he had acquired some know-
ledge of their language, and the reputation of a good
seaman: the ship he belonged to was ordered home to old
France, where she was laid up as unfit for service, and
he was received on board one of Monsieur d’Antin’s
squadron, in quality of quarter-master, which office he
performed in a voyage to the West Indies, where they
engaged with our ship as before related; but his con-
science upbraiding him for serving the enemies of his
country, he quitted the ship at the same place where he
first listed, and got to Curasoa in a Dutch vessel ; there
he bargained with another skipper bound to Europe, to
work for his passage to Holland, from whence he was
in hopes of hearing from his friends in England, but
was cast away, as he mentioned before, on the French
coast, and must have been reduced to the necessity of
travelling on foot to Holland, and begging for his sub-
sistence on the road, or of entering on board of another
French man-of-war, at the hazard of being treated asa
deserter, if Providence had not sent me to his succour.
“ And now, my lad,” continued he, “I think I shall
steer my course directly to London, where I do not

 

doubt of being replaced, and of having the R taken off

me by the Lords of the Admiralty, to whom I intend
writing a petition setting forth my case. If I succeed,
I will have wherewithal to give you some assistance,
because when I left the ship | had two years’ pay due
to me—therefore I desire to know whither you are
bound—and besides, perhaps I may have interest
enough to procure a warrant appointing you surgeon’s
mate of the ship to which I shall belong. For the
beagle of the Admiralty is my good friend, and he and
one of the under-clerks are sworn brothers, and that
under-clerk has a great deal to say with one of the
upper-clerks, who is very well known to the under-
secretary, who, upon his recommendation, I hope will
recommend my affair to the first secretary, and he
again will speak to one of the lords in my behalf; so
that you see'I do not want friends to assist me on occa-
sion. As for the fellow, Crampley, tho’f I know him
not, I am sure he is neither seaman nor officer, by
what you have told me, or else he could never be so
much mistaken in his reckoning as to run the ship
ashore on the coast of Sussex, before he believed him-
self in soundings ; neither, when that accident hap-
pened, would he have left the ship until she had been
stove to pieces, especially when the tide was making,
wherefore by this time I do suppose he has been tried
by a court-martial, and executed for his cowardice and
misconduct.”

I could not help smiling at the description of my
uncle’s ladder, by which he proposed to climb to the
attention of the Board of Admiralty; and though I
knew the world too well to confide in such dependence
myself, 1 would not discourage him with doubts, but
asked if he had no friend in London who would advance
a small sum of money to enable him to appear as he
ought, and make a small present to the under secretary,
who might possibly dispatch his business the sooner on
that account. Hescratched his head, and after some re-
collection replied, “ Why, yes, I believe Daniel Whi

 

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Sa PY mer candle tpat amen en mgm thea scm eta tce eters dnt pooner niga

 

et ct i GE i ecmretag te nat at i

cord, the ship-chandler in Wapping, would not refuse
me such a small matter—I know | can have what credit I
would for lodging, liquor, and clothes ; but as to money,
I won’t be positive. Had honest Block been living, I
should not have been at a loss.” I was heartily sorry
to find a worthy man so destitute of friends when he
had such need of them, and looked upon my own situa-
tion as less miserable than his, because I was better
acquainted with the selfishness and roguery of man-
kind, consequently less liable to disappointment and
imposition.

Pereresesr eters perce

CHAPTER XLII.

WHEN our repast was ended, we walked down to the
harbour, where we found a cutter that was to sail for
Deal in the evening, and Mr Bowling agreed for his
passage. In the meantime, we sauntered about the
town to satisfy our curiosity, our conversation turning
on the subject of my designs, which were not as yet
fixed ; neither can it be supposed that my mind was at
ease, when I found myself reduced almost to extreme
poverty, in the midst of foreigners, among whom I had
not one acquaintance to advise or befriend me. My
uncle was sensible of my forlorn condition, and pressed
me to accompany him to England, where he did not
doubt of finding some sort of provision for me ; but be-
sides the other reasons I had for avoiding that king-
dom, I looked upon it, at this time, as the worst country
in the universe for a poor honest man to live in, and
therefore determined to remain in France, coute que
coute. I was confirmed in this resolution by a reverend
priest, who, passing by at this time, and overhearing
us speak English, accosted us in the same language,
telling us he was our countryman, and wishing it might
be in his power to do us any service. We thanked this
grave person for his courteous offer, and invited him to
drink a glass with us, which he did not think proper to
refuse, and we went all together into a tavern of his re-
commending. After having drunk to our healths in a
bumper of good Burgundy, he began to inquire into our
situation, and asked particularly the place of our nati-
vity, which we no sooner named than he started up,
and, wringing our hands with great fervour, shed a
flood of tears, erying, “ I came from the same part of
the country; perhaps you are my own relations.” I
was on my guard against his caresses, which I suspected
very much, when | remembered the adventure of the
money-dropper; but without any appearance of diffi-
dence, observed, that as he was born in that part of the
country, he must certainly know our families, which
(howsoever mean our present appearance might be)
were none of the most obscure and inconsiderable.
Then I discovered our names, to which I found he was
no stranger—he had known my grandfather personally
and notwithstanding an absence of fifty years from
Seotland, recounted so many particulars of the families
in the neighbourhood, that my scruples were entirely
removed, and I thought myself happy in his aequaint-
ance. In the course of our conversation, I disclosed
my condition without reserve, and displayed my talents
to such advantage, that the old father looked upon me
with admiration, and assured me, that if I staid in
France and listened to reason, I could not fail of mak-
ing my fortune, to which he would contribute in all his
power.

My uncle began to be jealous of the priest’s insinua-
tion, and very abruptly declared, that if ever I should
renounce my religion, he would break off all connec-
tion and correspondence with me ; for it was his opinion
that no honest man could swerye from the principles
in which he was bred, whether Turkish, Protestant, or
Roman. The father, affronted at this declaration, with
great vehemence began a long discourse, setting forth
the danger of obstinacy, and shutting one’s eyes against
the light: he said, that ignorance would be no plea
towards justification, when he had opportunities of
being better informed; and that if the minds of the
people had not been opened to conviction, the Chris-
tian religion would not have been propagated in the

Pie!ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

world, and we should now be in a state of Pagan dark-
ness and barbarity. He endeavoured to prove, by
some texts of Scripture, and many quotations from the
fathers, that the Pope was the suecessor of St Peter,
and vicar of Jesus Christ; that the church of Rome
was the true, holy, Catholic church ; and that the Pro-
testant faith was an impious heresy and damnable
schism, by which many millions of souls would suffer
everlasting perdition. When he had finished his sermon,
which I thought he pronounced with more zeal than
discretion, he addressed himself to my uncle, and de-
sired to know his objections to what had been said. The
lieutenant, whose attention had been wholly engrossed
by his own affairs, took the pipe out of his mouth and
replied, “ As for me, friend, d’ye see, I have no objec-
tion to what you Say ; it may be either true or false for
what I know; I meddle with nobody’s affairs but my
own—the gunner to his linstock, and the steersman to
his helm, as the saying is; I trust to no creed but the
compass, and do unto every man as I would be done
by—so that I defy the pope, the devil, and the preten-
der, and hope to be saved as well as another.” This
association of persons gave great offence to the friar,
who protested, in a mighty passion, that if Mr Bowling
had not been his countryman, he would have caused
him to be imprisoned for his insolence. I ventured to
disapprove of my uncle’s rashness, and appeased the
old gentleman, by assuring him there was no offence
intended by my kinsman, who by this time, sensible of
his error, shook the injured party by the hand, and
asked pardon for the freedom he had taken. Matters
being amicably compromised, he invited us to come and
see him in the afternoon at the convent to which he
belonged, and took his leave for the present, when my
uncle recommended it strongly to me to persevere in
the religion of my forefathers, whatever advantages I
might propose to myself by a change, which could not
fail of disgracing myself and dishonouring my family.
I assured him no consideration should induce me to
forfeit his friendship and good opinion on that score,
at which he discovered great satisfaction, and put me
in mind of dinner, which we immediately bespoke, and
when it was ready ate together.

T imagined my acquaintance with the Scottish priest,

if properly managed, might turn out to my advantage, |

and therefore resolved to cultivate it as much as I could.
With this view we visited him at his convent, according
to his invitation, where he treated us with wine and
sweetmeats, and showed us every thing that was re-
markable in the monastery. Having been thus enter-
tained, we took our leave, though not before I had
promised to see him next day; and the time fixed for
my uncle’s embarking being come, I accompanied him
to the harbour, and saw him on board. We parted not
without tears, after we had embraced and wished one
another all manner of prosperity ; and he entreated me
to write to him often, directing to Lieutenant Thomas
Bowling, at the sign of the Union Flag, near the Her-
mitage, London.

I returned to the house in which we had met, where
I passed the night in a very solitary manner, reflecting
on the severity of my fate, and endeavouring to project
some likely scheme of life for the future; but my in-
vention failed me—lI saw nothing but insurmountable
difficulties in my way, and was ready to despair at the
miserable prospect. That I might not, however, ne-
glect any probable means, I got up in the morning, and
went directly to the father, whose advice and assistance
Iimplored. He received me very kindly, and gave me
to understand that there was one way of life in which
a person of my talents could not fail of making a figure.
I guessed his meaning, and told him once fo ‘all 1 was
fully determined against any alteration in point of re-
ligion, therefore if his proposal regarded the church,
he might save himself the trouble of explaining it. He
shook his head and sighed, saying, “ Ah! son, son, what
a glorious prospect is here spoiled by your stubborn
prejudice! Suffer yourself to be persuaded by reason,
and consult your temporal welfare, as well as the con-
cerns of your immortal soul. I can, by my interest,

F

 

}

 

73

procure your admission as a noviciate into this convent
where TI will superintend and direct you with a truly
paternal affection.” Then he launched out into the
praises of a monastic life, which no noise disturbs, no
eee aa no danger invades—where the heart
S rom carnal attachments, the grosser appe-
tites subdued and chastised, and the soul wafted to the
divine regions of philosophy and truth, on the wings of
studious contemplation. But his eloquence was lost
open, eines suo considerations enabled to withstand
ee ee Y> my promise to my uncle, and
_» “version to an ecclesiastical life; for as to the dif-
ference of religion, I looked upon it as a thing of too
small moment to come into competition with a man’s
fortune. Finding me immoveable on this head, he told
me he was more sorry than offended at my non-com-
pliance, and still ready to employ his good offices in my
behalf. “The same erroneous maxims,” said he, “that
obstruct your promotion in the church, will infallibly
prevent your advancement in the army ; but if you can
brook the condition of a servant, I am acquainted with
some people of rank at Versailles, to whom I can give
you letters of recommendation, that you may be en-
tertained by some one of them in quality of steward
and I do not doubt that your qualifications will soon
entitle you to a better provision.” I embraced his
offer with great eagerness ; and he appointed me to
come back in the afternoon, when he would not only
give me the letters, but likewise introduce me to a ca-
puchin of his acquaintance, who intended to set out for
Paris next morning, in whose company I might travel,
without being at the expense of one livre during the
whole journey. This piece of good news gave me in-
finite pleasure—I acknowledged my obligations to the
benevolent father in the most grateful expressions ;
and he performed his promise to a tittle, in delivering
the letters, and making me acquainted with the eapu-
chin, with whom I departed next morning by break of
day.

It was not long before I discovered my fellow-tra-
veller to be a merry facetious fellow, who, notwith-
standing his profession and appearance of mortification,
loved good eating and drinking better than his rosary.
He was a thick brawny young man, with red eyebrows,
a hook-nose, a face covered with freckles, and his name
was Frere Balthazar. His order did not permit him
to wear linen, so that, having little occasion to undress
himself, he was none of the cleanliest animals in the
world; and his constitution was naturally so strong
scented, that I always thought it convenient to keep to
the windward of him in our march. As he was per-
fectly well known on the road, we fared sumptuously
without any cost, and the fatigue of our journey was
much alleviated by the good humour of my companion,
who sang an infinite number of catches on the subjects
of love and wine. We took up our lodgings the first
night at a peasant’s house, not far from ‘Abbé Ville,
where we were entertained with an excellent ragout,
cooked by our landlord’s daughters.

 

CHAPTER XLLEMM-

Tue third night of our pilgrimage we passed at a house
near Amiens, where, Balthazar being unknown, we
supped upon indifferent fare and sour wine, and were
fain to lie in a garret upon an old mattrass, which, I
believe, had been in the possession of ten thousand my-
riads of fleas, time out of mind. We did not invade
their territory with impunity; in less than a minute
we were attacked with stings innumerable, in spite of
which, however, I fell fast asleep, being excessively
fatigued with our day’s march, and did not wake till
nine next morning ; when seeing myself alone, I started
up ina terrible fright, and examining my pockets, found
that my companion had made free with my cash, and
left me to seek my way to Paris by myself. I ran down
stairs immediately ; and with a look full of grief and
amazement, inquired for the mendicant, who, they gave
me to understand, had set out four hours before, afteaoa Ba

 

74 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

having told them I was a little indisposed, and desired
I might not be disturbed, but be informed when I should
wake he had taken the road to Noyons, where he would
wait for my coming at the Coq D’Or. I spoke not a
word, but with a heavy heart directed my course to
that place, at which I arrived in the afternoon, fainting
with weariness and hunger ; but learned, to my utter
confusion, that no such person had been there. It was
happy for me that I had a good deal of resentment in
my constitution, which animated me on such oceasions
against the villany of mankind, and enabled me to bear
misfortunes otherwise intolerable. Boiling with indig-
nation, I discovered to my host my deplorable condition,
and inveighed with great bitterness against the trea-
chery of Balthazar ; at which he shrugged up his shoul-
ders, and, with a peculiar grimace on his countenance,
said he was sorry for my misfortune, but there was no
remedy like patience. At that instant, some guests
arrived, to whom he hastened to offer his service, leav-
ing me mortified at his indifference, and fully persuaded
that an innkeeper is the same sordid animal all over
the world. While I stood in the porch, forlorn and
undetermined, venting ejaculations of curses against
the thief who had robbed me, and the old priest who
recommended him to my friendship, a young gentle-
man, richly attended by a valet de chambre and two ser-
vants in livery, arrived at the inn. I thought I perceived
a good deal of sweetness and good-nature in his coun-
tenance; therefore he had no sooner alighted than I
accosted him, and in a few words explained my situa-
tion. He listened with great politeness, and when |]
had made an end of my story, said, “ Well, Monsieur,
what would you have me do?” I was effectually abashed
at this interrogation, which I believed no man of com-
mon sense or generosity could make, and made no other
reply than a low bow: he returned the compliment still
lower, and tript into an apartment, while the landlord
let me know, that my standing there to interrupt com-
pany gave offence, and might do him infinite prejudice.
He had no oceasion to repeat his insinuation ; I moved
from the place immediately, and was so much trans-
ported with grief, anger, and disdain, that a torrent of
blood gushed from my nostrils. In this eestacy I quit-
ted Noyons, and betook myself to the fields, where I
wandered about like one distracted, till my spirits were
quite exhausted, and I was obliged to throw myself
down at the root of a tree, to rest my wearied limbs.
Here my rage forsook me; I began to feel the impor-
tunate cravings of nature, and relapsed into silent sor-
row and melancholy reflection. I revolved all the crimes
I had been guilty of, and found them so few and venial,
that I could not comprehend the justice of that Provi-
denee, which, after having exposed me to so much
wretchedness and danger, left me a prey to famine at
last in a foreign country, where I had not one friend
or acquaintance to close my eyes, and do the last offices
of humanity to my miserable carcase. A thousand times
I wished myself a bear, that I might retreat to woods
and deserts, far from the inhospitable haunts of man,
where I could live by my own talons, independent of
treacherous friends and supercilious scorn.

As I lay in this manner, groaning over my hapless
fate, I heard the sound of a violin, and, raising my head,
perceived a company of men and women dancing on
the grass at some distance from me. I looked upon
this to be a favourable seasom for distress to attract
compassion, when every selfish thought is banished,
and the heart dilated with mirth and social joy ; where-
fore | got up and approached those people, whom I]
soon discovered to be a party of soldiers, with their
wives and children, unbending and diverting themselves
at this rate, after the fatigue of a march. I had never
before seen such a parcel of scarecrows together,
neither could I reconcile their meagre gaunt looks,
their squalid and ragged attire, and every other external
symptom of extreme woe, with this appearance of fes-
tivity. I saluted them, however, and was received with
great politesse; after which they formed a ring and
danced round me, ‘This jollity had a wonderful effect

 

 

 

 

in spite of my dismal situation, forgot my cares, and
joined in their extravagance. When we had recreated
ourselves a good while at this diversion, the ladies
spread their mantuas on the ground, upon which they
emptied their knapsacks of some onions, coarse bread,
and a few flasks of poor wine: being invited to a share
of the banquet, I sat down with the rest, and in the
whole course of my life never made a more comfortable
meal. When our repast was ended, we got up again to
dance ; and now that I found myself refreshed, I be-
haved to the admiration of every body—I was loaded
with a thousand compliments and professions of friend-
ship; the men commended my person and agility, and
the women were loud in the praise of my bonne grace.
The serjeant, in particular, expressed so much regard
for me, and described the agreeableness of a soldier’s
life with so much art, that I began to listen to his pro-
posal of enlisting me into the service; and the more I
considered my own condition, the more I was convinced
of the necessity I was under of coming to a speedy de-
termination. Having therefore maturely weighed the
circumstances pro and con, I signified my consent, and
was admitted into the regiment of Picardy, said to be
the oldest corps in Europe.

Phe company to which this command belonged was
quartered at a village not far off, whither we marched
next day, and I was presented to my captain, who seemed
very well pleased with my appearance, gave me a crown
to drink, and ordered me to be accommodated with
clothes, arms, and accoutrements. Whereupon I sold
my livery suit, purchased linen, and as I was at great
pains to learn the exercise, in a very short time became
a complete soldier. It was not long before we received
orders to join several more regiments, and march with
all expedition into Germany, in order to reinforce Ma-
reschal Due de Noailles, who was then encamped with
his army on the side of the river Maine, to watch the
motions of the English, Austrians, and Hessians, under
the command of the Earl of Stair. We began our march
accordingly, and I then became acquainted with that
part of a soldier’s life to which I had been a stranger
hitherto, It is impossible to describe the hunger and
thirst I sustained, and the fatigue I underwent, ina
march of so many hundred miles ; during which I was
so much chafed with the heat and motion of my limbs,
that in a very short time the inside.of my thighs and
legs were deprived of skin, and I proceeded in the ut-
most torture. This misfortune I owed to the plumpness
of my constitution, which .I cursed, and envied the
withered condition of my comrades. The continual
pain I felt made me fretful, and my peevishness was
increased by the mortification of my pride, in seeing
these miserable wretches, whom a hard gale of wind
would have scattered through the air like chaff, bear
those toils with aiaerity under which I was ready to
sink.

One day while we enjoyed a halt, and the soldiers
with their wives had gone out to dance, according to
custom, my comrade staid at home with me on pretence
of friendship, and insulted me with his pity and conso-
lation. He told me though I was young and tender at
present, I would soon be seasoned to the service; and
he did not doubt but I should have the honour to eon-
tribute in some measure to the glory of the king. “Have
courage, therefore, my child,” said he, “and pray to the
good God that you may be as happy as I am, who have
had the honour of serving Louis the Great, and of re-
ceiving many wounds in helping to establish his glory.”
When I looked upon the contemptible object that pro-
nounced these words, I was amazed at the infatuation
that possessed him; and could not help expressing my
astonishment at the absurdity of a rational being, who
thinks himself highly honoured in being permitted to
encounter abject poverty, oppression, famine, disease,
mutilation, and evident death, merely to gratify the
vicious ambition of a prince, by whom his sufferings
were disregarded, and his name utterly unknown. 1
observed, that if his situation was the consequence of
compulsion, as having been pressed into the service, I

npon my spirits, J was infected with their gaiety, and | would praise his patience and fortitude in bearing hisADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM, _ @

lot; if he had taken up arms in defence of his injured
country, he was to be applauded for his patriotism ; or
if he had fled to this way of life as a refuge from a
greater evil, he was justifiable in his own conscience,
though I could have no notion of misery more extreme
than that he suffered; but to. put his condition on the
foot of conducing to the glory of his prince, was no more
than professing himself a desperate slave, who volun-
tarily underwent the utmost wretchedness and peru,
and committed the most flagrant crimes, to soothe the
barbarous pride of a fellow-creature, his superior in
nothing but the power he derived from the submission
of such wretches as he. The soldier was very much
affronted at the liberty I took with his king, which, he
said, nothing but my ignorance could excuse. He af-
firmed, that the characters of princes were sacred, and
ought not to be profaned by the censure of their sub-
jects, who are bound by their allegiance to obey their
commands, of what nature soever, without seruple or
repining; and advised me to correct the rebellious
principles I had imbibed among the English, who, for
their insolence to their kings, were notorious all over
the world, even to a proverb :—
Le roy d’Angleterre
Est le roy de l’enfer.

In vindication of my countrymen, I repeated all the
arguments commonly used to prove that every man has
a natural right to liberty; that allegiance and protee-
tion are reciprocal ; that when the mutual tiesare broken
by the tyranny of the king, he is accountable to the
people ior his breach of contract, and subject to the
penalty of the law, and that those insurrections of the
English which are branded with the name of rebel-
lion by the slaves of arbitrary power, were no other
than glorious efforts to rescue that independence which
was their birthright, from the ravenous claws of usurp-
ing ambition. The Frenchman, provoked at the little
deference I paid to the kingly name, lost all patience,
and reproached me in such a manner that my temper
forsook me, and I clenched my fist, with an intention
to give him a hearty box on the ear. Perceiving my
design, he started back, and demanded a parley, upon
which I checked my indignation, and he gaye me to
understand that a Frenchman never forgave a blow ;
therefore, if I was not weary of my life, I would
well to spare him that mortification, and do him t
honour of measuring his sword with mine, like a gen-
tleman. I took his advice, and followed him to a field
hard by, where, indeed, I was ashamed at the pitiful
figure of my antagonist, who was a poor, little, shiver-
ing creature, decrepid with age, and blind of one eye.
But I soon found the folly of judging from appearance,
being at the second pass wounded in the sword-arm,
and immediately disarmed with such a jerk, that |
thought the joint was dislocated, I was no less con-
founded than enraged at this event, especially as my
adversary did not bear his success with all the mode-
ration that might have been expected, for he insisted
upon my asking pardon for my presumption in affront-
ing his king and him. This I would by no means com-
ply with, but told him it was a mean condescension,
which no gentleman in his circumstances ought to
propose, and none in my situation perform; and if he
persisted in his ungenerous demand, I would in my turn
claim satisfaction with my musket, at which weapon we
should be more upon a par than with the sword, of
which he seemed so much master,

LO

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{
1
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nore nnn seer ere

CHAPTER XLIYV.
He was disconcerted at this declaration, to which he
made no reply, but repaired to the dancers, among
whom he recounted his victory with many exaggera-
tions and gasconades, while I, taking up my sword, went
to my quarters and examined my wound, which I found
was of no consequence. ‘The same day, an Irish drum-
mer, having heard my misfortune, visited me, and after
. having condoled with me on the chance of war, gave
~ me to understand that he was master of the sword, and

-

 

would in a very short time instruct me so thoroughly
in that noble science that I should be able to chastise
the old Gascon for his insolent boasting at my expense.
This friendly office he proffered on pretence of the re-
gard he had for his countrymen; but I- afterwards
learned the true motive was no other than a jealousy
he entertained of a correspondence between the French-
man and his wife, which he did not think proper to re-
sent in person. Be this as it will, I accepted his offer,
and practised his lessons with such application, that I
soon believed myself a match for my conqueror. In
the meantime we continued our march, and arrived at
the camp of Mareschal Noailles the night before the
battle of Dettingen. Notwithstanding the fatigue we
had undergone, our regiment was one of those who were
ordered next day to cross the river under the command
of the Due de Gramont, to take possession of a narrow
defile, through which the allies must of necessity have
passed at a great disadvantage, or remain where they
were, and perish for want of provision, if they would
not condescend to surrender at discretion. How they
suffered themselves to be pent up in this manner, it is
not my province to relate; I shall only observe, that
when we had taken possession of our ground, I heard
an old officer, in conversation with another, profess a
surprise at the conduct of Lord Stair, who had the re-
putation of a good general. But it seems, at this time,
that nobleman was oy erruled, and only acted in an in-
ferior character, so that no part of the blame could be
imputed to him, who declared his disapprobation of the
step, in consequence of which the whole army was in
the utmost danger; but Providence or destiny acted
miracles in their behalf, by disposing the Due de Gra-
mont to quit his advantageous post, pass the defile, and
attack the English, who were drawn up in order of
battle on the plain, and who handled us so roughly,
that after having lost a great number of men, we turned
our backs without ceremony, and fled with such preci-
pitation, that many hundreds perished in the river,
through pure fear and confusion—for the enemy was
so generous, that they did not pursue us one inch of
ground ; and if our consternation would have permitted,
we might have retreated with great order and delibera-
tion. But notwithstanding the royal clemency of the
King of Great Britain, who headed the allies in per-
son, and, no doubt, put a stop to the carnage, our loss
amounted to five thousand men, among whom were
many officers of distinction.

Our miscarriage opened a passage for the foe to Ha-
nau, whither they immediately marched, leaving their
sick and wounded to the care of the French, who next
day took possession of the field of battle, buried the dead,
and treated the living with humanity. This was a great
consolation to us, who thence took oceasion to claim
the victory: and the genius of the French nation never
appeared more conspicuous than now, in the rhodo-
montades they uttered on the subject of their generosity
and courage. Every man, by his own account, performed
feats that would have shamed all the heroes of antiquity.
One compared himself to a lion retiring at leisure from
his cowardly pursuers, who kept at a wary distance and
galled him with their darts, Another likened himself
to a bear that retreats with his face to the enemy, who
dare not assail him ; and a third assumed the character
of a desperate stag, that turns upon the hounds and
keeps them at bay. ‘There was not a private soldier
engaged, who had not, by the prowess of his single arm,
demolished a whole platoon, or put a squadron of horse
to flight ; and above others, the meagre Gascon extolled
his exploits above those of Hercules or Charlemagne.
As I still retamed my resentment for the disgrace I
suffered in my last rencontre with him, and now that
I thought myself qualified, I longed for an opportunity
to retrieve my honour; I magnified the valour of the
English with all the hyperboles I could imagine, and
decried the pusillanimity of the French in the same
style, comparing them to hares flying before greyhounds,
or mice pursued by cats; and passed an ironical com-
pliment on the speed he exerted in his flight, which,

 

considering his age and infirmities, I said was surpris+

q
4
i
is

CERES Ce TTSI nS mR arena

76

ing. He was stung to the quick by this sarcasm, and,
with an air of threatening disdain, bade me know myself
better, and remember the correction I had already
received from him for my insolence—for he might not
be always in the humour of sparing a wretch who abused
his goodness. ‘To this inuendo I made no reply but by
a kick on the breech, which overturned him in an in-
stant. He started up with wonderful agility, and, draw-
ing his sword, attacked me with great fury; several
people interposed ; but when he informed them of its
being an affair of honour, they retired, and left us to
decide the battle by ourselves. I sustained his onset
with little damage, having only received a small scratch
on my right shoulder ; and seeing his breath and vigour
almost exhausted, assaulted him in my turn, closed with
him, and wrested the sword out of his hand in the
struggle. Having thus acquired the victory, I desired
him to beg his life ; to which he made no answer, but
shrugged up his shoulders to his ears, expanded his
hands, elevated the skin of his forehead and eye-brows,
and depressed the corner of his mouth, in such a man-
ner that I could scarce refrain from laughing aloud at
his grotesque appearance. That I might, however,
mortify his vanity, which had triumphed without bounds
over my misfortune, I thrust his sword up to the hilt
in the plain, and joined the rest of the soldiers with an
air of tranquillity and indifference.

There was nothing more of moment attempted by
either of the armies during the remaining part of the
campaign, which being ended, the English marched
back to the Netherlands; part of our army was de-
tached to French Flanders, and our regiment ordered
to winter quarters in Champaigne. It was the fate of
the grenadier company, to which I now belonged, to lie
at Rheims, where I found myself in the utmost want of
every thing. My pay, which amounted to five sols a-
day, far from supplying me with necessaries, was scarce
sufficient to procure a wretched subsistence, to keep
soul and body together ; so that I was, by hunger and
hard duty, brought down to the meagre condition of my
fellow soldiers, and my linen reduced from three tolerable
shirts to two pair of sleeves and necks, the bodies hav-
ing been long ago converted into spatterdashes ; and,
after all, I was better provided than any other man in
the regiment. In this urgency of my affairs, I wrote
to my uncle in England, though my hopes from that
quarter were not at all sanguine, for the reasons I have
already explained, and, in the meantime, had recourse
to my old remedy, patience, consoling myself with the
flattering suggestions of a lively imagination, that never
abandoned me in my distress.

One day when I stood sentinel at the gate of a gene-
ral officer, a certain nobleman came to the door, fol-
lowed bya gentleman in mourning, to whom at parting
I heard him say, “ You may depend upon my good
offices.” This assurance was answered by a low bow
of the person in black, who, turning to go away, dis-
covered to me the individual countenance of my old
friend and adherent Strap. I was so much astonished
at the sight, that I lost the power of utterance, and,
before I could recollect myself, he was gone, without
taking any notice of me. Indeed, had he staid, I scarce
would have ventured to accost him ; because though I
was perfectly well acquainted with the features of his
face, I could not be positively certain as to the rest of
his person, which was very much altered for the better,
since he left me at London; neither could I conjecture
by what means he was enabled to appear in the sphere
of a gentleman, to which, while I knew him, he had not
even the ambition to aspire. But I was too much con-
cerned in the affair to neglect further information, and
therefore took the first opportunity of asking the porter
if he knew the gentleman to whom the Marquis spoke ?
The Swiss told me his name was Monsieur d’Estrapes,
that he had been valet de chambre to an English gentle-
man lately deceased, and that he was very much re-
garded by the Marquis for his fidelity to his master,
between whom and that nobleman a very intimate
friendship had subsisted. Nothing could be more agree-
able to me than this piece of intelligence, which banished

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ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

all doubt of its being my friend, who had found means
to frenchify his name as well as his behaviour since we
parted. As soon, therefore, as I was relieved, I went
to his lodging, according to a direction given me by the
Swiss, and had the good fortune to find him at home.
That I might surprise him the more, I concealed my
name and business, and only desired the servant of the
house to tell Monsieur d’Estrapes that I begged the
honour of half an hour’s conversation with him. He
was confounded and dismayed at this message, when
he understood it was sent by a soldier, though he was
conscious to himself of no crime : all that he had heard
of the Bastile appeared to his imagination with aggra-
vated horror, and it was not before I had waited a con-
siderable time that he had resolution enough to bid the
servant showme upstairs. When I entered his chamber,
he returned my bow with great civility, and endeayoured
with forced complaisance to disguise his fear, which
appeared in the paleness of his face, the wildness of his
looks, and the shaking of his limbs. I was diverted at
his consternation, which redoubled when I told him, in
French, I had business for his private ear,and demanded
a particular audience. The valet being withdrawn, I
asked, in the same language, if his name was d’Estrapes ?
to which he answered, with a faltering tongue, “The
same, at your service.” “Are you a Frenchman?”
saidI. “J have not the honour of being a Frenchman
born,” replied he, “but I have an infinite veneration
for the country.” I then desired he would do me the
honour to look at me, which he no sooner did, than,
struck with my appearance, he started back, and cried
in English, “Sure it can’t! No, ’tis impossible!” I
smiled at his interjections, saying, “I suppose you are
too much of a gentleman to own your friend in adver-
sity.” When he heard me pronounce these words in
our own language, he leaped upon me in a transport of
joy, hung about my neck, kissed me from ear to ear,
and blubbered like a great school-boy who had been
whipt. Then observing my dress, he set up his throat,
crying, “Oh! that ever I should live to see my dearest
friend reduced to the condition of a foot-soldier in the
French service! Why did you consent to my leaving
you? But I knew the reason—you thought you had
got more creditable friends, and grew ashamed of my
acquaintance. Ah! Lord help us! though I wasa little
short-sighted, I was not altogether blind ; and though
I did not complain, I was not the less sensible of your
unkindness, which was indeed the only thing that in-
duced me to ramble abroad, the Lord knows whither ;
but I must own it has been a lucky ramble for me, and
so I forgive you, and may God forgive you.” I was
nettled at the charge, which, though just, I could not
help thinking unseasonable, and told him, with some
tartness, that whether his suspicions were well or ill
grounded, he might have chosen a more convenient
opportunity of introducing them ; and that the question
now was, whether or no he found himself disposed to
lend me any assistance. “ Disposed!” replied he with
great emotion ; “I thought you had known me so well
as to assure yourself, without asking, that I and all that
belongs to me are at your command. In the meantime,
you shall dine with me, and I will tell you something
that perhaps will not be displeasing to you.” Then
wringing my hand, he said, “ It makes my heart bleed
to see you in that garb!” I thanked him for his invi-
tation, which, I observed, could not be unwelcome to a
person who had not eaten a comfortable meal these
seven months; but I had another request to make,
which I begged he would grant before dinner, and that
was the loan of a shirt: for although my back had
been-a stranger to any comfort of this kind, my skin
was not yet quite familiarised to the want of it. He
stared in my face with a woeful countenance at this
declaration, which he could scarce believe until I ex-
plained it, by unbuttoning my coat, and disclosing my
naked body—a circumstance that shocked the tender-
hearted Strap, who, with tears in his eyes, ran to a chest
of drawers, and taking out some linen, presented to me
a very fine ruffled Holland shirt, and cambrie nevk-
cloth, assuring me he had three dozen of the same kindADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 77/1

at my service. I was delighted at this piece of good
news, and having accommodated myself in a moment,
hugged my benefactor for his generous offer, saying, I
was overjoyed to find him undebauched by prosperity,
which seldom fails of corrupting the heart. He be-
spoke for dinner some soup and bouilli, a couple of
pullets roasted, and a dish of asparagus, and in the in-
term entertained me with biscuit and Burgundy ; after
which he entreated me to gratify his longing desire of
knowing every circumstance of my fortune since his
departure from London. This I complied with, be-
ginning at the adventure of Gawky, and relating every
particular event in which I had been concerned from
that day to the present hour, During the recital, my
friend was strongly affected, according to the various
situations described; he started with surprise, glowed
with indignation, gaped with curiosity, smiled with
pleasure, trembled with fear, and wept with SOrrow, as
the Vicissitudes of my life inspired these different pas-
Slons ; and when my story was ended, signified his
amazement on the whole, by lifting up his eyes and
hands, and protesting, that though I was a young man,
I had suffered more than all the blessed martyrs.
After dinner I desired, in my turn, to know the par-
ticulars of his peregrination ; and he satisfied me in a
few words, by giving me to understand that he had
lived a year at Paris with his master, who in that time,
having acquired the language as well as the fashionable
exercises, to perfection, made the tour of France and
Holland, during which excursion he was so unfortunate
as to meet with three of his own countrymen on their
travels, in whose company he committed such excesses,
that his constitution failed, and he fell into a consump-
tion; that by the advice of physicians he went to Mont-
pelier for the benefit of the good air, and recovered so
well in six weeks that he returned to Rheims, seem-
ingly in good health, where he had not continued above
a month, when he was seized with a complaint that
carried him off in ten days, to the unspeakable sorrow
of all who knew him, and especially of Strap, who had
been very happy in his service, and given such satis-
faction, that his master on his deathbed recommended
him to several persons of distinction for his diligence,
sobriety, and affection, and left him by will his wear-
ing apparel, gold watch, swords, rings, ready money, and
all the moveables he had in France to the value of three
hundred pounds ; “which I now,” said he, “ in the sight
of God and man, surrender to your absolute disposal :
here are my keys ; take them, I beseech you, and God
give you joy of the possession.” My brain was almost
turned with this sudden change of fortune, which |
could scarce believe real; howeyer, I positively refused
this extravagant proffer of my friend, and put him in
mind of my being a soldier; at which he started, cry-
ing “QOdso! that’s true—we must procure your dis-
charge ; I have some interest with a nobleman who is
able to do me that favour.” We consulted about this
affair, and it was determined that Monsieur d’Estrapes
should wait upon the Marquis in the morning, and tell
him he had by accident found his brother, whom he had
not seen for many years before, a private soldier in the
regiment of Picardy, and implore that nobleman’s in-
terest for his discharge. In the meantime we enjoyed
ourselves over a bottle of good Burgundy, and spent
the evening in concerting schemes for our future con-
duct, in case I should be so lucky as to get rid of the
army. ‘The business was to make ourselves asy for
life by means of his legacy, a task very difficult, and,
in the usual methods of laying out money, altogether
impracticable ; so that, after much anvassing, we could
come to no resolution that night, but when we parted,
recommended the matter to the serious attention of each
other.. As for my own part, I puzzled my imagination
to no purpose: when I thought of turning merchant,
the smallness of our stock, and the risk of seas, enemies,
and markets, deterred me from that scheme. If I should
settle as a surgeon in my own country, I would find the
business already overstocked ; or if I pretended to set
up in England, must labour under want of friends, and
powerful epposition, obstacles insurmountable by the

-

| that a duke need not be ashamed to wear.

 

most shining merit; neither would I succeed in my
endeavours to rise in the state, Inasmuch as I could
neither flatter courtiers nor prostitute my pen in de-
ence of a wicked and contemptible administration.
Before I could form one feasible project, I fell asleep,
and my faney was blessed with the image of the dear
Narcissa, who seemed to smile upon my passion, and
offer her hand as the reward for all my toils.

arly in the morning, I went to the lodgings of my
friend, whom I found exulting over his happy invention ;
for I no sooner entered his apartment, than he addressed
me In these words, with a smile of self-applause: “ Well
Mr Random, a lucky thought may come into a fool’s
head sometimes ; I have hit it—Tl] hold you a butten
my plan is better than yours, for all your learning. But
you shall have the preference in this as in all other
things ; therefore proceed, and let us know the effects
of your meditation, and then I will impart my own
sunple excogitations.” I told him, that not one thought
occurred to me which deserved the least notice, and
signified my impatience to be acquainted with the fruits
of his reflection. “ As we have not,” said he, “money
sufficient to maintain us during a tedious expectation,
It 1s My opinion that a bold push must be made, and.
I see none so likely to sueceed as your appearing in the
character of a gentleman, which is your due, and mak-
ing your addresses to some lady of fortune who can
render you independent at once. Nay, don’t stare—I
affirm that this scheme is both prudent and honourable ;
for I would not have you throw yourself away upon an
old toothless wheezing dame, who would throw you into
a consumption in less than three months ; neither would
I advise you to assume the character of a wealthy squire,
as your common fortune-hunters do, by which means
many a poor lady is cheated into matrimony, and in-
stead of enjoying the pomp and grandeur that was pro-
mised, sees her dowry seized by her husband’s rapacious
creditors, and herself reduced to misery and despair.
No, I know you have a soul that disdains such imposi-
tion, and are master of qualifications both of mind and
body, which alone entitle you to a match that will set
you above the world. I have clothes in my possession,
I believe
they will fit you as they are—if not, there are plenty of
tailors in France. Let us take a short trip to Paris,
and provide ourselves in all other necessaries, then set
out for England, where I intend to do myself the honour
of attending you in quality of valet. This will save
you the expense of a servant, shaving, and dressing ; and
[ doubt not but, by the blessing of God, we shall bring
matters to a speedy and fortunate issue.” Extravagant
as this proposal was, I listened to it with pleasure, be-
cause it flattered my vanity, and indulged a ridiculous
hope I began to entertain of inspiring Narcissa with a
mutual flame.

After breakfast, Monsieur d’Estrapes went to pay
his devoirs to the Marquis, and was so successful in his
application, that I obtained a discharge in a few days,
upon which we set out for Paris. Here I had time to
reflect and congratulate myself upon this sudden tran-
sition of fate, which, to bear with moderation, required
some degree of philosophy and self-denial. This will
be more obvious, if I give a detail of the particulars,
to the quiet possession of which I was raised in an in-
stant, from the most abject misery and contempt. My
wardrobe consisted of five fashionable coats full mounted,
two of which were plain, one of cut velvet, one trimmed
with gold, and another with silver lace ; two frocks, one
a white drab with large plate buttons, and the other of
blue, with gold binding ; one waistcoat of gold brocade ;
one of blue satin embroidered with silver ; one of green
silk, trimmed with broad-figured gold lace ; one of black
silk with figures ; one of white satin ; one of black cloth,
and one of scarlet ; six pair of cloth breeches ; one pair
of crimson, and another of black velvet ; twelve pair of
white silk stockings, as many of black silk, and the same
number of fine cotton; one hat, laced with gold point
@ Espagne, another with silver lace scolloped, a third
with gold binding, and a fourth plain: three dozen of

fine ruffled shirts; as many neckeloths; one dozen of

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MET Loe78

eambric handkerchiefs, and the like number of silk.
The other moveables which I possessed by the genero-
sity and friendship of Strap, were, a gold watch with a
chased case, two valuable diamond rings, two mourning
swords, one with a silver handle, and a fourth cut steel
inlaid with gold; a diamond stock-buckle, and a set of
stone buckles for the knees and shoes; a pair of silver-
mounted pistols with rich housings, a gold-headed
eane, and a snuff-box of tortoise-shell mounted with
gold, having the picture of a lady in the lid.. The
gentleman left many other things of value, which my
friend had converted into cash before I met with him :
so that, over and above these particulars, our stock in
ready money amounted to something more than two
hundred pounds.

Thus equipped, I put on the gentleman of figure, and
attended by my honest friend, who was contented with
the station of my valet, I visited the Louvre, examined
the gallery of Luxembourg, and appeared at Versailles,
where I had the honour to see his Most Christian Ma-
jesty eat a considerable quantity of olives. During the
month I spent at Paris, I went several times to court,
the Italian opera, and play-house, danced at the mas-
querade, and, in short, saw every thing remarkable in
and about the capital. After which we set out for Eng-
Jand by the way of Flanders, passed through Brussels,
Ghent, and Bruges, and took shipping at Ostend, from
whence in fourteen hours we arrived at Deal, hired a
post-chaise, and in twelve hours more got safe to Lon-
don—having disposed of our heavy baggage in the
waggon.

CHAPTER XLV.

AS scon as we alighted at the inn, I dispatched Strap
to inquire about my uncle, at the Sampson and Lion
in Wapping, and he returned in a little time with an
account of Mr Bowling’s having gone to sea, mate of a
merchant ship, after a long and unsuccessful applica-
tion and attendance at the Admiralty ; where, it seems,
the interest he depended upon was not sufficient to re-
instate him, or recover the pay that was due to him
when he quitted the Thunder.

Next day I hired very handsome lodgings not far from
Charing-cross, and in the evening dressed myself in a
plain suit of the true Paris cut, and appeared ina front
box at the play, where I saw a good deal of company,
and had vanity enough to make me believe that I was
observed with an uncommon degree of attention and ap-
plause. This silly conceit intoxicated me so much that
I was guilty of a thousand ridiculous coquetries, and |
dare say, how favourable soever the thoughts of the com-
pany might be at my first appearance, they were soon
changed by my absurd behaviour into pity or contempt.
I got up and sat down, covered and uncovered my head
twenty times between the acts; pulled out my watch,
clapped it to my ear, wound it up, set it, gave it the
hearing again ; displayed my snuff-box, affected to take
snuff, that I might have an opportunity of showing my
brilliant ; wiped my nose with a perfumed handkerchief ;
then dangled my cane, and adjusted my sword-kuot ;
and acted many more fooleries of the same kind, in
hopes of obtaining the character of a pretty fellow, in
the acquiring of which, I found two considerable ob-
structions in my disposition ; namely, a natural reserve,
and jealous sensibility. Fain would I have entered into
conversation with the people around me, but was re-
strained by the fear of being censured for my assurance,
as well as by reflecting that I was more entitled to a
compliment of this kind from them than they to such
condescension from astranger likeme. How often did
I redden at the frequent whispers and loud laughter of
my fellow beaux, which I imagined were excited by me!
and how often did I envy the happy indifference of those
choice spirits who beheld the distress of the scene, with-
out discovering the least symptom of approbation or
concern! My attention was engaged in spite of myself,
and I could not help weeping with the heroine of the
stage, though I practised a great many shifts to con-

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ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

was ended, I sat waiting for an opportunity of handing
some lady to her coach; but every one was attended
by such a number of officious gallants, that for a long
time I was baulked in my expectation. At length, how-
ever, I perceived a very handsome creature, genteelly
dressed, sitting by herself in a box, at some distance
from me; upon which I went up to her, and offered
my service, She seemed to be in some confusion,
thanked me for my complaisance, and, with a tender
look, declined givine me the trouble ; looking at her
watch, and testifying her surprise at the negligence of
her footman, whom she had ordered to have a chair
ready for her at that hour. I repeated my entreaty
with all the eloquence and compliment I was master of ;
and, in the event, she was prevailed upon to accept of a
proposal I made to send my servant for a chair or coach.
Accordingly, Strap was detached for that purpose, and
returned without success, there being none to be found ;
by this time the play-house was quite empty, and we
were obliged to retire. As I led her through the pas-
sage, 1 observed five or six young fellows of fashion
standing ina corner, ene of whom, as I thought, tipt my
charmer the wink, and when we were past, I heard them
setup the loud laugh. This aroused my attention, and
I was resolved to be fully satisfied of this lady’s charac-
ter before I should have any nearer connection with her.
AS no convenience appeared, I proposed that I should
conduct her to a tavern, where we might stay a few
minutes, until my servant could fetch a coach from the
Strand. She seemed particularly shy of trusting her-
self in a tavern with a stranger; but at last yielded to
my pathetic remonstrances, rather than endanger her
health by remaining in a cold damp thoroughfare.
Having thus far succeeded, I begged to know what
wine she would be pleased to drink a glass of; but she
proiessed the greatest aversion to all sorts of strong
liquors, and it was with much difficulty that I could
persuade her to eat a jelly. In the meantime I en-
deavoured to alleviate the uneasiness she discovered, by
saying all the agreeable things I could think of ; at which

{

she would often sigh, and regard me with a languishing

look, that seemed too near akin to the lewd leer of a

courtesan. This discovery, added to my former suspi-

cion, while it put me upon my guard against her arts,

divested me of reserve, and enabled me to entertain her
with more gaiety and freedom. In the course of our
conversation, I pressed her to allow me the honour of
waiting upon her next day at her lodgings, which she,
with many apologies, refused, lest it should give umbrage
to Sir John, who was of a disposition apt to be fretted
with trifles. This information, by which I was to under-
stand that her husband was a knight, did not check my
addresses, which became more and more importunate,
and I was even hardy enough to snatch a kiss. But, oh
heavens! instead of banqueting on the ambrosial fla-
vour that her delicacy and complexion promised, I was
almost suffocated with the steams of Geneva! An
exhalation of this kind from a mouth which had just
before declared an utter abhorrence of all spirituous
liquors, not only changed my doubts into certainty, but
my raptures into loathing ; and it would have been im-
possible for me to have preserved common complaisance
five minutes longer, when my servant returned with a
coach. I took the advantage of this occasion, and pre-
sented my hand to the lady, who put in practice against
me the whole artillery of her charms, ogling, languish-
ing, sighing, and squeezing, with so little reserve, that
Strap perceived her tenderness, and rubbed his hands
with joy as he followed us to the door ; but I was proof
against all her endearments, and handed her into the
coach with an intention to take my leave immediately.
She guessed my design, and invited me to her house,
whispering that now Sir John was gone to bed, she could
have the pleasure of my conversation for half an hour
Without interruption. I told her there was no mortifi-
cation I would not undergo rather than endanger the
repose of her ladyship ; and, bidding the coachman drive
on, wished her good night. She lost all temper at my
indifference, and stopping the coach at the distance of

—ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

bawled with the lungs of a fish-woman, “ You shabby
scoundrel, won’t you pay the coach hire?? I made no
answer: upon which she held forth against me with an
eloquence peculiar to herself—ealling me pitiful fellow,
and a hundred such appellations ; and concluded, with
an oath, that for all my appearance, she believed I had
got no money in my pocket.

Having thus vented her indignation, she ordered the
coachman to proceed, and T returned tothe tavern, where
I bespoke something for supper, very well pleased at
the issue of this adventure. | dispensed with the at-
tendance of the waiter at table, on pretence that my
Owf servant was present, and when we were alone said
to Strap, “ Well, Monsieur d’Estrapes, what d’ye think
of this lady ?” My friend, who had not opened his mouth
since her departure, could make no other reply than
the monosyllable, “think !” which he pronounced with
“ note of fear and astonishment. Surprised at this em-
phasis, I surveyed my valet, and, perceiving a wildness
in his looks, asked if he had seen his grandfather’s
ghost? “ Ghost!” said he: “| am sure | have seen
devil incarnate ; who would have thought that so much
devilish malice and Billingsgate could lurk under such
Sweetness of countenance and modesty of behaviour ?
Ah, God help us !—we ought to fall down on our knees
and bless God for delivering us from the jaws of that
painted sepulchre.” I was pretty much of Strap’s
opinion, and though I did not believe myself in any
danger from the allurements of that sisterhood,
mined to act with great circumspection for the

My next care was to introduce myself into
good acquaintance ; for which purpose J
certain cofiee-house,
pany, English as well as foreigner:
ance procured all the civilities

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and
desire. There being an ordinary
went up stairs to dinner with the ot]
myself at table with thirteen
oi whom were better dressed than myself. The conver
sation, which was mostly carried on in |
chiefly on politics: and I soon found the whole company
was in the French interest

old gentleman, wl
advanced in favour of his Most Christian Majesty, with
a surliness truly English. But this trusty patriot, who
had never been out of his own country, and drew all his
maxims and notions from ]

me house, |

ler cuests, and found

] ] ss " a Pa
people, the greatest part

t
t

rejudice and hearsay, was

very unequal to his antagonists, who were superior to |

him in learning and experience, and often took the li-
berty of travellers, in asserting things which were not
strictly true, because they thought themselves in no
danger of being detected by him, |
of Spain to the Austrian dominions in Italy,

explained and vindicated by a person who sat
to me, who by the solemnity of his manner, and the
richness of his apparel, seemed to be a foreign ambas-
sador. This dissertation introduced another on the
Pragmatic Sanction, handled with great warmth by a
young gentleman at my right hand, dressed in a green
frock trimmed with gold, who justified the French king
for his breach of that contract, and affirmed that he
could not have observed it without injuring his own
glory. Although I was not at all convinced by this
ventleman’s arguments, I could not help admiring his
vivacity, which I imagined must be the effect of his
Jlustrious birth and noble education, and accordingly
rated him in my conjecture as a young prince on his
ravels, The discourse was afterwards shifted by an
id gentleman of a very martial appearance to the last
‘ampaign, when the battle of Dettingen was fought over

was fully

Opposite

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| by saying, the ]
| happiest subjects in the world
noted for the resort of good com- |

could |

79

Severe terms, to the no small entertainment of the true
English politician, who rejoiced at my defence of a cause
ne had too often espoused without success. My opponent,
pleased With the victory he had gained, affected a great
deal of candour, and told me he would not have been so
Positive, if he had not been at great pains to inform him-
self of each particular, « Indeed,” says he, * I am eon-
vineed that, the previous steps considered, things could
not happen otherwise ; for we generals who have seen
ieee ae we may not be on the spot ourselves,
cy r r 7 Nand ee a pe site
he the event.” He then conse atom what must
; 5 great freedom,
every circumstance of the conduct of those who com-
manded the allies ; from thence made a transition to the
ministry, whom he honoured with many invectives, for
employing people who had neither experience nor ca-
pacity, to the prejudice of old officers who had been
distinguished for both ; dropt many hints of his own
importance ; and concluded with observing, that the
French and Spaniards knew better how to value gene-
rals of merit ; the good effects of which are seen in the
conquests they gain, and the admirable discipline of
their troops, which are at the same time better clothed
and paid than any soldiers in the universe. These re-
marks furnished the green knight with an opportunity
of launching out in the praise of French government in
general, civil as well as military ; on which occasion
he made many odious comparisons to the disadvantage
of the English. Almost every body assented to the
observations he made, and the doctor gave his sanetion,
eople in France were undoubtedly the
astonished and confounded at their in-
effrontery, that I had not power to utter
one word in opposition to their assertions ; but my mo-

l was so much
fatuation and

rose associate could not put up with the indignity that
| was offered to Old England, and therefore, with a sati-

| rical grin, addressed himself

‘rench, turned |
those ]
» myself excepted, and a testy |
ho contradicted every thing that was |

The elaim of the king |

}

|

gain, with so many circumstances to the honour of the |

‘rench, and disadvantage of the allies, that I began to
ntertain some doubts of my having been there in per-
on, and took the liberty to mention some objections to
rhat he advanced. This introduced a dispute which
usted a good while, to the mortification of all present ;

nd was at last referred to the determination of a grave |

ersqn whom they styled Doctor, and who, under a show
i great moderation, decided it against me, with so little
egaid to truth, that I taxed him with partiality in pretty

|

to the general in these
“Sir, Sir, I have oftén heard it said, She’s a vil-
lanous bird that befouls her own nest. As for what
eople who are foreigners say, I don’t mind it—
they know no better ; but you who were bred and born,
and have got your bread, under the English govern-
ment, should have more regard to gratitude, as well as
truth, in censuring your native country. If the minis-
try have thought fit to lay you aside, I suppose they
have their own reasons for so doing ; and you ought to
remember that you still live on the bounty of the nation.
As for these gentlemen (meaning the prince and ambas-
sador) who make so free with our constitution, laws,
and genius of our people, I think they might show a
little more respect for their benefactors, who,*I must
own, are to blame in harbouring, protecting, and en-
couraging such ungrateful vagrants as they are.” At
these words, the chevalier in green started up ina great
passion, and, laying his hand on the hilt of his hanger,
exclaimed, “ Ha! foutre!? The Englishman, on the
other hand, grasping his cane, cried, “ Don’t Joutre me,
sirrah, or I’! knock you down.” The company inter-
posed, the Frenchman sat down again, and his antago-
nist proceeded : “ Lookee, Monsieur, you know very well
that had you dared to speak so freely of the administra-
tion of your own country in Paris, as you have of ours
in London, you would have been sent to the Bastile
without ceremony, where you might have rotted in a
dungeon, and never seen the light of the sun again
Now, Sir, take my word for it, although our constitu-
tion screens us from oppression, we want not laws to
chastise the authors of seditious discourse; and if I
hear another syllable out of your mouth, in contempt
or prejudice of this kingdom, I will give you a con-
vincing proof of what I advance, and have you laid by
the heels for your presumption.”

This declaration had an effect on the company as
sudden as surprising. The young prince became sup-
ple as a spaniel, the ambassador trembled, the general
sat silent and abashed, and the doctor, who, it-seems,
had felt the rod of power, grew pale as death, and as-
sured us all that he had no intention to affront any per-

words:

sonorpeople. Your principles, doctor,’ resumed the5
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80

old gentleman, “are no secret—I have nothing to say
upon that head; but am very much surprised that a
man who despises us so much, should notwithstanding
live among us, when he has no visible motive for so
doing. Why don’t you take up your habitation in your
beloved France, where you may rail at England with-
out censure?” To this the doctor thought fit to make
no reply, and an unsocial silence ensued; which I per-
ceiving, took notice, that it was pity such idle disputes,
maintained very often for whim or diversion, should
create any misunderstanding among gentlemen of good
sense, and proposed to drink down all animosity in an-
other bottle. This motion was applauded by the whole
company: the wine was brought, and the English cham-
pion declaring he had no spleen against any man for dif-
fering in opinion from him any more than for difference
of complexion, drank to the good health of all present ;
the compliment was returned, and the conversation
once more became unreserved, though more general
than before.

Among other topics, the subject of war was introduced,
on which the general declaimed with great eloquence,
recounting many of his own exploits by way of illustra-
tion. In the course of this harangue he happened to
mention the word epaulment, upon which the testy gen-
tleman asked the meaning of that term. “1’ll tell you
what an epaulment is,” replied he: “I never saw an
epaulment but once, and that was at the siege of Namur.
In the council of war, Monsieur Cohorn, the famous
engineer, affirmed that the place could not be taken.
* Yes,’ said the Prince of Vaudemont, ‘it may be taken
by anepaulment.’ This was immediately put in execu-
tion, and in twenty-four hours Marshal Boufflers capi-
tulated.” Here he made a full stop, and the old gen-
tleman repeated the question, “But, pray, what is an
epaulment?” To this the officer made no immediate re-
ply, but rang the bell and called for a bill, which being
brought, he threw down his proportion of the reckoning,
and telling the company he should show them what an
epaulment is, when his Majesty thought fit to entrust
him with the command of our army abroad, strutted
away with great dignity. I could not imagine why he
was so shy of explaining one of the most simple terms
of fortification, which I forthwith described as a side-
work composed of earth, gabions, or fascines ; but I was
very much surprised when I afterwards understood that
his reserve proceeded from his ignorance.

Having paid our bill, we adjourned to the coffee-room,
where my fellow-labourer insisted on treating me with
a dish, giving me to understand, at the same time, that
I had acquired his good opinion, both with respect to
my principles and intellects. I thanked him for his
compliment, and, professing myself an utter stranger in
this part of the world, begged he would have the good-
ness to inform me of the quality and characters of the
people who dined above. This request was a real favour
to one of his disposition, which was no less communica-
tive than curious; he therefore complied with great
satisfaction, and let me know, to my extreme astonish-
ment, that the supposed young prince was a dancer at
one of the theatres, and the ambassador no other than
a fiddler belonging to the opera. “The doctor,’ said
he, “is a Roman Catholic priest, who sometimes ap-
pears in the character of an officer, and assumes the
name of captain; but more generally takes the garb,
title, and behaviour of a physician, in which capacity he
wheedles himself into the confidence of weak-minded
people, and by arguments no less specious than false,
converts them from their religion and allegiance. He
has been in the hands of justice more than once for such
practices; but he is a sly dog, and manages matters
with such craft, that hitherto he has escaped for a short
imprisonment. As for the general, you may see he has
owed his promotion more to his interest than to his
capacity ; and now that the eyes of the ministry are
opened, his friends dead, or become inconsiderable, he
is struck off the list, and obliged to put up witha yearly
pension. In consequence of this reduction, he is become
malecontent, and inveighs against the government in all
companies with so little discretion, that I am surprised

 

Pome sa Fi OI Ts I SS RE RES ELECT IT

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

at the lenity of the administration in overlooking his
insolence ; but the truth of the matter is, he owes his
safety to his weakness and want of importance. He has
seen a little, and but a little service ; and yet if you will
take his word for it, there has not been a great action
performed in the field since the Revolution, in which he
was not principally concerned.- When a story is told
of any great general, he immediately matches it with
one of himself, though he is often unhappy in his inven-
tion, and commits such gross blunders in the detail, that
every body is in pain for him. Cesar, Pompey, and
Alexander the Great, are continually in his mouth ; and
as he reads a good deal without any judgment to digest
it, hisideas are confused, and his harangues as unintel-
ligible as infinite ; for once he begins, there is no chance
of his leaving off speaking, while one person remains to
yield attention: therefore the only expedient I know
of putting a stop to his loquacity, is to lay hold of some
incongruity he has uttered, and demand an explana-
tion, or ask the meaning of some difficult term that he
knows by name only; this will effectually put him to
silence, if not to flight, as it happened when I inquired
about an epaulment. Had he been acquainted with the
signification of that word, his triumph would have been
intolerable, and we must have quitted the field first, or
been worried with impertinence.”

Having thus gratified my curiosity, the old gentleman
began to discover his own, in questions relating to my-
self, to which I thought proper to return ambiguous
answers. “ I presume, Sir,” said he, “ you have tra-
velled.” I answered, “ Yes.” “I dare say you would
find it very expensive,” said he. I replied, “To be
sure—one cannot travel without money.” “ That I
know by experience,” said he, “for I myself take a trip
to Bath or Tunbridge every season: and one must pay
sauce for what he has upon the road as well in other
countries asin this. That’s avery pretty stone in your
ring—give me leave, Sir—the French have attained
to a wonderful skill in making compositions of that kind.
Why, now, this looks almost as well as a diamond.”
“* Almost as well, Sir?” said 1; “ why not altogether? I
am sure if you understand any thing of jewels, you
must perceive, at first sight, that this stone is a real
diamond, and that of a very fine water. Take it in your
hand and examine it.” He did so, with some confusion,
and returned it, saying, “ I ask your pardon; I see it is
a true brilliant of immense value.” I imagined his re-
spect for me increased after this inquiry ; therefore, to
captivate his esteem the more, I told him I would show
him a seal of composition, engraved after a very valu-
able antique ; upon which I pulled out my watch with
a rich gold chain, adorned with three seals set in gold,
and an opal ring. He viewed each of them with great
eagerness, handled the chain, admired the chased case,
and observed, that the whole must have cost me a vast
sum of money. I affected indifference, and replied, in
a careless manner, “Some trifle of sixty or seventy
guineas.” Upon which he stared in my face for some
time, and then asked if I was an Englishman? I answered
in the negative. “ You are from Ireland, then, Sir, I
presume?’ said he. I made the same reply. “ Oh,
perhaps,” said he, “ you were born in one of our settle-
ments abroad.” I still answered, “ No.” He seemed
very much surprised, and said he was sure I was not
a foreigner. I made no reply, but left him upon the
tenter-hooks of impatient uncertainty. He could not
contain his anxiety, but asked pardon for the liberty
he had taken, and to encourage me the more to disclose
my situation, displayed his own without reserve. “ I
am,” said he, “a single man, have a considerable an-
nuity, on which I live according to my own inclination ;
and make the ends of the year meet very comfortably.
As I have no estate to leave behind me, I am not
troubled with the importunate officiousness of relations
or legacy hunters; and I consider the world as made
for me, not me for the world: it is my maxim, there-
fore, to enjoy it while I can and let futurity shift for
itself.” ‘

While he thus indulged his own talkative vein, and
at the same time, no doubt, expected a retaliation fromADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

me, a young man entered, dressed in black velvet and
am enormous tie-wig, with an air in which natural
levity and affected solemnity were so jumbled together,
that, on the whole, he appeared a burlesque on all de-
corum. ‘This ridiculous oddity danced up to the table
at which we sat, and, after a thousand grimaces, asked
my friend, by the name of Mr Medlar, if we were not
engaged upon business, My companion put on a surly
countenance, and replied, “No great business, doctor,
but however ” “Oh then,” cried the physician, “ I
must beg your indulgence a. little; pray pardon me,
gentlemen; Sir,” said he, addressing himself to me,
* your most humble servant, I hope you will forgive me,
Sir, I must beg the favour to sit—Sir—Sir, I have some-
thing of consequence to impart to my friend Mr Medlar,
Sir; I hope you will exéuse my freedom in whispering,
Sir.” Before I had time to give this complaisant per-
son my permission, Mr Medlar cried, “I’ll have no
whispering ; if you have any thing to say to me, speak
with an audible voice.” The doctor seemed a little dis-
concerted at this exclamation, and turning again to me,
made a thousand apologies for pretending to make a
mystery of any thing, which he said was owing to his
ignorance of my connection with Mr Medlar ; but now
he understood I was a friend, he would communicate
what he had to say in my hearing. He then began,
after two or three hems, in this manner :—“ You must
know, Sir, I am just come from dinner at my Lady
Flareit’s”
quality, Sir, at whose table I have the honour of dining
Sometimes. ‘There was my Lady Stately, and my Lady
Larum, and Mrs Dainty, and Miss Biddy Gigler, upon
my word a very good-natured young lady, with a very
pretty fortune, Sir. There was also my Lord Straddle,
Sir John Shrug, and Master Billy Chatter, who is actu-
ally a very facetious young gentleman. So, Sir, her
ladyship seeing me excessively fatigued—for she was
the last of fifteen patients (people of distinction, Sir)
whom [ had visited this forenoon—insisted upon my
staying dinner, though, upon my word, I protest I had
no appetite ; however, in compliance with her ladyship’s
request, Sir, I sat down, and the conversation turning
on different subjects, among other things, Mr Chatter
asked very earnestly when I saw Mr Medlar? I told
him I had not had the pleasure of seeing you these
nineteen hours and a half; for you may remember, Sir,
it was nearly about that time, I won’t be positive as to
aminute. ‘No! says he; ‘then I desire you will go
to his lodgings immediately after dinner, and see what
is the matter with him, for he must certainly be very

 

bad from having ate last night such a vast quantity of

raw oysters.’”? The crusty gentleman, who from the
solemnity of his delivery expected something extraor-
dinary, no sooner heard his conclusion, than he started
up in a testy humour, crying, “ Pshaw, pshaw! non-
sense !”
*“ Your servant, Sir,’ tome. The doctor got up also,
saying, “ i vow and protest, upon my word, I am actu-
ally amazed ;’—and followed Mr Medlar to the bar,
which was hard by, where he was paying for the coffee ;
there he whispered so loud that I couid overhear, “ Pray
who is this gentleman?’ His friend replied hastily, “J
might have known that before now, if it had not been
for your impertinent intrusion ;” and walked away very
much disappointed.

The ceremonious physician returned immediately and
sat down by me, asking a thousand pardons for leaving
me alone ; and giving me to understand, that what he
had communicated to Mr Medlar at the bar was an
affair of the last importance, that would admit of no
delay. He then called for some coffee, and launched
out into the virtues of that berry, which, he said, in
cold phlegmatice constitutions like his, dried up the
superfiuous moisture, and braced the relaxed nerves.
He let me know, that it was utterly unknown to the
ancients, and derived its name from an Arabian word,
which | might easily perceive by the sound and termi-
nation. Irom this topic he transferred his disquisitions
to the verb drink, which, he affirmed, was improperly
applied to the taking of coffee, inasmuch as people did

nl
+

|

(then addressing himself to me)—* a lady of

and walked away, after a short compliment of

 

81

not drink but sip, or sipple, that liquor; that the genu-
me Meaning of drinking is to quench one’s thirst, or
commit a debauch by swallowing wine; that the Latin
word which conveyed the same idea, was bibere or po-
tare, and that of the Greeks pinein or poteein, though
he Was apt to believe they were indifferently used on
different occasions ; for example, to drink a vast quan-
tity, or, as the vulgar express it, to drink an ocean of
oe be: in Latin potare, and in Greek poteem; and,
on nS cape hand, to use it moderately, was bibere and
pimem—that this was only a conjecture of his own
which, however, seemed to be supported by the word
bibulous, which is particularly applied to the pores of
the skin, that can only drink a very small quantity of
the cireumambient moisture, by reason of the smallness
of their diameters ; whereas, from the verb poteein is
derived the substantive potamos, which signifies a river
or vast quantity of liquor. I could not help smiling at
this learned and important investigation; and to re-
commend myself the more to my new acquaintance,
Whose disposition by this time I was well informed of,
I observed, that what he alleged did not, to the best
of my remembrance, appear in the writings of the an-
cients, for Horace uses the words poto and bibo indif-
ferently for the same purpose, as in the twentieth Ode
of his first Book.

Vile potabis modicis Sabinum cantharis

—— Kt pralo domitam calena tu bibes uvam.

 

That I had never heard of the verb poteein, but that po-
tamos, potema, and potos, were derived from pino, poso,
pepord ; m consequence of which the Greek poets never
use any other word for festal drinking. Homer de-
scribes Nestor at his cups in these words :-—

Nestora d’ouk elathan jache pinonta perempes.

And Anacreon mentions it on the same occasion, almost
in every page,

Pionti a’ oinon hedun

Otan pino ton oinon.

Opilz’ ego de pino;—
and in a thousand other places.

The doctor, who, doubtless, intended by his eriticism
to give me a high idea of his erudition, was infinitely
surprised to find himself schooled by one of my appear-
ance ; and after a considerable pause, cried, “ Upon my
word, you are in the right, Sir; I find I have not con-
sidered this affair with my usual accuracy.” Then ac-
costing me in Latin, which he spoke very well, the con-
versation was maintained full two hours, on a variety
of subjects, in that language; and, indeed, he spoke so
judiciously, that I was convinced, notwithstanding his
whimsical appearance, and attention to trifles, of his
being a man of extensive knowledge, especially in books :
he looked upon me, as I afterwards understood from
Mr Medlar, as a prodigy in learning, and proposed that
very night, if I was not engaged, to introduce me to
several young gentlemen of fortune and fashion, with
whom he had an appointment at the Bedford coffee-
house.

POPS PPL LIPO ODI ODOT OO

JHAPTER XLVI.
I accurten his offer with pleasure, and we went thither
ina hackney coach, where I sawa great number of gay
figures fluttering about, most of whom spoke to the
doctor with great familiarity. Among the rest stood
a group of them around the fire, whom I immediately
knew to be the very persons who had the night before,
by their laughing, alarmed my suspicions of the lady
who had put herself under my protection. They no
sooner perceived me enter with Dr Wagtail (for that
was my companion’s name), than they tittered and whis-
pered to one another, and I was not a little surprised
to find that these were the gentlemen to whose acquaint-
ance he designed to recommend me; for when he ob-
served them together, he told me who they were, and
desired to know by what name he should introduce me.
I satisfied him in that particular, and he advanced with
great gravity, saying, “Gentlemen, your most obedient.
Give me leave to introduce my friend Mr Random toak

82

your society.” Then turning to me: “Mr Random,
this is Mr Bragwell—Mr Banter, Sir—Mr Chatter—
my friend, Mr Slyboot, and Mr Ranter, Sir.” I saluted
each of them in order, and when I came to take Mr
Slyboot by the hand, I perceived him thrust his tongue
in his cheek, to the no small entertainment of the com-
pany, but I did not think proper to take any notice of
it on this occasion. Mr Ranter, too, who I afterwards
learned was a player, displayed his talents by mimic-
ing my air, features, and voice, while he returned my
compliment: this I should not have been so sensible of,
had I not seen him behave in the same manner to my
friend Wagtail, when he made up to themat first. But
for once I let him enjoy the fruits of his dexterity with-
out question or control, resolved, however, to chastise
his insolence at a more convenient opportunity. Mr
Slyboot, guessing I was a stranger, asked if I had lately
been in France ; and when I answered in the affirma-
tive, inquired if I had seen the Luxembourg gallery?
I told him I had considered it more than once with
great attention. Upon this a conversation ensued, in
which I discovered him to be a painter. While we
were discoursing upon the particular pieces of this
famous collection, I overheard Banter ask Dr Wagtail,
where he had picked up this Mr Random? To which
question the physician answered: “ Upon my word, a
mighty pretty sort of a gentleman—a man of fortune,
Sir—he has made the grand tour, and seen the best
company in Europe, Sir.” “ What, he told you so, |
suppose?” said the other ; “I take him to be neither
more nor less than a French valet de chambre.” “Ob!
barbarous, barbarous !” cried the doctor ; “ this is actu-
ally, upon my word, altogether unaccountable. I know
all his family perfectly well, Sir—he’s of the Randoms
in the north—a very ancient house, Sir, and a distant
relation of mine.”

I was extremely nettled at the conjecture of Mr

d

Banter, and began to entertain a very indifferent opi-
nion of my company in general; but as J might possibly,
by their means, acquire a more extensive and agreeable
acquaintance, I determined to bear these little mortifi-
cations as long as I could, without injuring the dignity
of my character. Afier having talked for some time
upon the weather, plays, politics, and other coffee-house
subjects, it was proposed that we should spend the
evening at a noted tavern in the neighbourhood, whither
we repaired ina body. Having taken possession of a
room, called for French wine, and bespoke supper, the
glass went about pretty freely, and the characters of
my associates opened upon me more andmore. It soon
appeared that the doctor was entertained as a butt for
the painter and player to exercise their wit upon, for
the diversion of the company. Myr Ranter began the

game by asking him what was good for hoarseness,

lowness of spirits, and indigestion, he being troubled |

with all these complaints to a very great degree. Wag-

 

tail immediately undertook to explain the nature of his |

ease, and, in a very prolix manner, harangued upon |

prognostics, diagnostics, symptomatics, therapeutics,
inanition, and repletion; then calculated the force of
the stomach and lungs in their respective operations ;
ascribed the player’s malady to a disorder in these
organs proceeding from hard drinking and vociferation,
and prescribed a course of stomachics, with abstinence
from wine, loud speaking, laughing, singing, coughing,
sneezing, or hallooing. “ Pah, pah !” cried Ranter, in-
terrupting him ; “ the remedy is worse than the disease
—I wish I knew where to find some tinder-water.”
“ Tinder-water!” said the doctor; “upon my word, I
don’t apprehend you, Mr Ranter.” “ Water extracted
from tinder,” replied the other; “a universal specific
for all distempers incident to man. It was invented by
a learned German monk, who, for a valuable considera-
tion, imparted the secret to Paracelsus.” “ Pardon
me,” cried the painter ; “it was first used by Solomon,
as appears from a Greek manuscript, in his own hand-
writing, lately found at the foot of mount Lebanon by
a peasant who was digging for potatoes.” “ Well,”
said Wagtail, “in all my vast reading, I never met
with such a preparation; neither did I know till this

ee

Dac ana Say i SR = aap si

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

minute that Solomon understood Greek, or that pota-
toes grewin Palestine.” Here Banter interposed, say-
ing, he was surprised Doctor Wagtail should make the
least doubt of Solomon’s understanding Greek, when he
is represented to us as the wisest and best educated
prince in the world; and as for potatoes, they were
transplanted thither from Ireland, in the time of the
Crusades, by some knights of that country. “I pro-
fess,’ said the doctor, “there is nothing more likely.
I would actually give a vast sum for a sight of that
manuscript, which must be inestimable ; and if I under-
stood the process, would set about it immediately.”
The player positively assured him that the process
was exceedingly simple—that he must cram a hundred
weight of dry tinder in a glass retort, and distilling it
by the force of animal heat, it would yield half a scruple:
of insipid water, one drop of which is a full dose.
“Upon my integrity!” exclaimed the credulous doc-
tor, “this is amazing and extraordinary. I must own I
have always been an enemy to specifies, which I thought
inconsistent with the nature of the animal economy ;
but certainly the authority of Solomon is not to be ques-
tioned. I wonder where [ shall find’a glass retort large
enough to contain such a vast quantity of tinder, the
consumption of which must undoubtedly raise the price
of paper—or where shall I find animal heat sufficient
even to warm such a mass?’ Slyboot informed him
that he might have a retort blown for him as big as a
church, and that the easiest method for raising the
vapour by animal heat, would be to place it in the
middle of an infirmary for fever patients, who might
lie upon mattrasses around and in contact with it. He
had no sooner pronounced these words than Wagtail
exclaimed, in a rapture, “An admirable expedient, as
I hope to be saved! I will positively put it in prac-

y of the physician furnished ex-

L

in
t]

tice.” This simplicit;
cellent diversion for the whole company, who in their
turns sneered at him in ironical compliments, which
his vanity swallowed as the true sentiments of their
hearts.

Mr Chatter, impatient of so long a silence, now broke
out, and entertained us with a catalogue of all the
people who danced at the last Hampstead assembly,
with a most circumstantial account of the dress and
ornamerts of each, from the lappets of the ladies to the
shoe-buckles of the men, concluding with telling Brag-
well that his mistress Melinda was there, and seemed
to miss him, and soliciting his company at the next oc-
easion of that kind. “ No, no !” said Bragwell ; “ I have
something else to mind than dangling after a parcel of
giddy-headed girls—besides, you know my temper is
so unruly, that I am apt to involve myself in scrapes
when a woman isconcerned. ‘The last time I was there,
1 had an affair with Tom Trippet.” “Oh! I remember
that,” cried Banter; “you lugged out your sword be-
fore the ladies—and I commend you for so doing, be-
cause you had an opportunity of showing your courage,
without running any risk.” “ Risk! said the other
with a fierce countenance, “I fear no risks. I an’t
afraid of lugging out against any man that wearsa head!
"Tis well known I have drawn blood more than once,
and lost some too; but what does that signify?” The
player begged this champion to employ him as his se-
cond the next time he intended to kill, for he wanted to
see a man die of a stab, that he might know how to act
such a part the more naturally on the stage. “Die!”
replied the hero; “no, thankee, I know better things
than to incur the verdict of a Middlesex jury. I should
look upon my fencing-master to be an ignorant rascal,
if he had not taught me to prick any part of my anta-
gonist’s body that I please to disable.’ “Oh ho!”
cried Slyboot, “if that be the case, I have a favour to
ask. I should be glad you would, in my presence, pink
some impertinent fellow into convulsions, without en-
dangering his life, that I may have an opportunity of
taking a good clever agony from nature: the doctor will
direct you where to enter, and how far to go; but pray
let it be as near the left side as possible.” Wagtail,
who took this proposal seriously, observed, that it would
be a very difficult matter to penetrate into the left side

——— - ay a ‘ADVENTURES OF RODERIOK

of the thorax without hurting the he
sequence, killing the patient :
possible for a man of a very nice hand, and exact know-
ledge of anatomy, to wound the diap Shr: agm somewhere

about the skirts, which might induce a singultus, w ithout
being attended with deat h—that he was ready to de-
mo nstrate the insertion of that muscle to Mr Bragwell,
but desired to have no concern with the experiment
which might essentially prejudice his reputation in
of a miscarri: uve.

eart, and, of con-
but he belicwod it was

3
pase
Bragw all was as much im posed upon
by the painter’ S waggery as the doctor, and declined
engaging in the aff: ur, saying he had a very great re-
gard for Mr Slyboot, but had laid it down as a maxim
never to fight except when his honour was engaged. A
thousand jokes of this kind were passed ; the wine cir-
culated, sup per was served up, we ate heartily, returned
to the bottle ; Bragwell became noisy and troul rlesome,
Banter grew ain and more severe, Ranter rehearsed,
Slyboot made faces at the whole co1 npany, I sang French
catch les, and Chatter kissed me with great affection,

while the doctor, with a woeful counten: unce, sat silent
like a disciple of Pythagoras. At length it. was pro-
posed by Bragwell that we should scour the hundreds,
sweat the constable, maul the watch, and then ree
soberly to bed.

While we deliberated upon mf expedition, the wa
came into the room, and :

Liter
ked for Doctor Wactail.

=

 

When he understood he was , present, he told him there |

below

started

vat

Was a lady

to inquire for him ;
physician

from his melancholy
extreme confusic
e could not possibly be

at which the
r contemy] pli ition
and, with yn, Lanueadk t]
company h the person wanted,
for he had no connection with any lady
bade the drawer tell her so. “For s
Banter, “would you beso iz npolite as to
a hearing? Perhaps she comes for a
it must be some extraordi nary a at bring
to a tavern at this time o’ night. Mr Ranter, pray
the doctor’s compliments to the lady, and squire her
hither.” The player immedia
returned, leading in, with much eeremo ny, a tall, strap-
ping young woman. We received her with the ut
Si

look of 1e

shame!” eried
refuse the lady
consultation—
Hair th 7s a lady
vive

tely sta reread out, and

most

solemnity, and, with a good deal of ntreaty, she was

rersuaded to sit, when a Brorqund silence ensue od, dur-
? } :

ing which she fixed her eyes with a disconsolate look

upon the doctor, who was utterly otal uid at her be-
haviour, and returned her melancholy fourfold. At
length, after a good many piteous sighs, she viped her
eyes, and accosted him thus :—* W hat! 1 not one word
of comfort? will nothing soften that stony heart of thine ?
Not all my tears !—not all iny afflictions !—not the inevi-
table ruin thou hast brought upon me! Where are thy
vows, thou faithless, per jured man ?

nour, no conscience, no remorse for th
duct towards me? Answer me,

4 ] l,
~ ist thou no ho-
perfidic

wilt tho u at las

us CoNn-
t do me

justice, or must I have recourse to heaven and hell for
my revenge?’ If poor Wagtail was amazed before sh
spoke, what must his confusion be on hearing this ad-

dress! His natural paleness changed into a gha
clay colour, his eyes rolled, his lip trembled, and he
answered, in an accent not to be described, “ Upon
my honour, Madam, you are actually mistaken in my
person. J he we a most particular veneration for your
sex, Madam, and am actually i ineapable of injuring any
lady in the smallest degree, “Mad: um; besides, Madam,
to the best of my recollection, I never had the honour
of seeing you before.” “ How, traitor !” cried she, “ dost
thou disown me, then ? Mistal cen! no, too well i know
that fair bewitching face !—too well I know that false
enchanting tongue! Alas! gentlemen, since the villain
compels me, by his unkindness, to expose myself and
him, know, that this betrayer, under the specious pre-
tence of honourable addresses, won my heart, and taking
advantage of his conquest, afterwards abandoned me
to my fate. Iam now turned out of doors by my re-
lations, and left a prey to misery and want. Y s, thou
barbarian,” said she, turning to W agtail, “ thou tiger,
too well thou naweak my situation ; ; but i will tear out
thy faithless heart, and deliver the world from such a
monster,” So saying, she sprang forward at the doctor,

stly

-

| piness of being persecuted with t]
| Ady

he }
whatever, and |

 

 

RANDOM 33

who, with incredible agility, jumped over the table, and
got behind Bragwell, while the rest of us endeavour ced
to appease the furious heroine. Although every body
in the company affected the utmost surprise, I could
easily perceive e it was a scheme concerted among them,
to produce diversion at the doctor’s expense ; and being
under no concern about the consequence, I entered into
the confede Tracy, and enjoyed the distress of Wagtail,
who, with tears in. his a res, begged the protection OL
the com] pany, declaring himse fas innocent of the crime
laid to his charge as the child unborn. “ Gentlemen,”
cried the anys “he abused me by the help of charms
and spells, els how 1s it possible that any woman could
have 2 listened to the addresses of such a scarecrow 2
Were those omkh eyes made for ogling? that carrion
complexion to be admired? or that 1 mouth, like a horse-
shoe, to be kissed 2 No, no! you owe your success to
your philty es, to your drugs and incantations, and not
to your natural tale nts, which are in every respect mean
and e mntemptib le 1”?

The doctor now thought he had got an opportunity
of vindicating himself effectu lally ia desired the com~
plainant to com pose herself but for half an hour, in
which he undertook to prove thea soa of be clieving

5 al
£
2

in the power of ineantatio1 ade were only idle dreams
of ignorance and superstition. He accordingly pro-

nouneed a very laste discourse upon the nature of
ideas, the powers and independence of the mind, and
the properties of stimul: iting medicines, and concluded
with a pathetic rem lonstrance, setting forth his unhap-
. resentment of a

1A
iv

ladxr

whom he had never injured. d, nor even seen before
that occasion, and whose faculties were, in all likeli-
hood, so much impaired by her misfortunes, that an

innocent person was in danger of being ruined 1 by her

He had no sooner finished his haz ‘angue than
orlorn princess began her lamentations afre esh, and.
cautioned the company agains t his eloquence, which,
l, was abl t impartial bench in

a< a
aisoraer,
{
f

b3s
vile

she said, was able to bias the most

Christendom. Banter ady — him to espouse her im-
mediately, as the only means to salve his reputation,
ane offered to accom 1par Ly Sal the Fleet for tha

purpose.
f I
Dbragrw

her

—

thia
LILLD

at ie as y |xiss.

trail
Valic

her a Dé irting’

old
1
ne

The ] lady also insi td on matrimony; but
‘Il took up the cudgels for the > doctor, and under-
took to rid him of importunity for half a guinea;
upon which Wagtail, with great eagerness, pulled out
his purse, and put it into the hand of his ‘friend, who
taking half a piece out of it, gave it tothe plaintiff, and
bade he T" thank God for her aoe fortune. When she
bounty, she affected to weep, and
begged, since the physician had renounced her, he would
t vouchsafe This he was pre-
d upon to gral it, with great reluctance, and went
up, with his usual J edibaaney to salute her; when she
laid h of his cheek with her teeth, and held fast,
while he roared with aupeteh to the e unspeaka ible diver-
sion of all present. When she thought proper to release
him, she dropped a low curtsey to the company, and
quitted the room; leaving the doctor in the utmost
horror, not so much on account of the pain as the ap-
prehension of the consequence of the bite, for by this
time he was convinced of her being mad. Bai nter pre-
scribed the actual cautery, and put the poker in the
fire to be heated, in order to sear the place. Th e player
was of opinion that Bragwell should s seqop out the part
affected with the point of his sword; but the painter
prevented both hee e dreadful operations, by recom-
mending a balsam he had in his pocket, which never
failed to cure the bite of a mad dog. With these words
he pulled out a small bladder full of black paint, with
which he instantly ¢ unointed not only the sore, but the
greatest part of the patient’s face, and left it iis most
frightful condition. In short, the poor creature was so
harassed with fear and vexation, that I pitied him
extremely, and sent him home in ‘a chair, contrary to
the inclination of every body present.

This freedom of mine gave umbrage to Bragwell, who
testified his displeasure by swearmg a few threats,
without making any a pple yon : whic +h was no sooner

perecived by Mr S 7 hoot, who Sat i by me, than, with aFl
fa

*

bs

+

ES
H

Py

t

rs

Ae
¥

iC

*

 

84 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

view of promoting a quarrel, he whispered to me that
he thought Bragwell used me very ill, but every man
was the best judge of his own affairs, I answered
aloud, that I would neither suffer Mr Bragwell nor him
to use me ill with impunity, and that I stood-in no
need of his counsel in regard to the regulation of my
conduct. He thought proper to ask a thousand pardons,
and assured me he meant no offence; while Bragwell
feigned himself asleep, that he might not be obliged to
take notice of what passed. But the player, who had
more animal spirits and less prudence than Slyboot,
unwilling to let the affair rest where he had dropt it,
jogged Mr Bragwell, and told him softly, that I called
him names, and threatened to cudgel him. ‘This I un-
derstood by his starting up and crying, “ You lie—no
man durst treat me so ignominiously: Mr Random, did
you call me names, and threaten to drub me?” I de-
nied the imputation, and proposed to punish the scoun-
drel who endeavoured to foment disturbance in the
company. Bragwell signified his approbation, and drew
his sword; I did the same, and accosted the actor in
these words: “ Lookee, Mr Ranter, I know you possess
all the mimicry and mischievous qualities of an ape,
because I have observed you put them all in practice
more than once to-night, on me and others ; now I want
to see you resemble one in nimbleness also—therefore
I desire you to leap over this sword without hesitation :”
so saying, I held it parallel to the horizon, at the dis-
tance of about three feet from the floor, and called, “Once
—twice—thrice, and away !” but instead of complying
with my commands, he snatehed his hat and hanger,
and assuming the look, swagger, and phrase of Pistol,
burst out into the following exclamation :—“* Ha! must
I then perform inglorious prank of sylvan ape in moun-
tain forest caught? Death rock me asleep, abridge
my doleful days, and lay my head in fury’s lap! Have
we not Hieren here?’ This buffoonery did not answer
his expectation, for by this time the company was bent
in seeing him in a new character. Mr Banter desired
me to hold my sword a foot or two higher, that he might
have the better opportunity of exerting himself. The
painter told him, if he performed well, he would re-
commend him as a vaulter to the proprietor of Sadler’s
Wells; and Bragwell crying, “ Leap for the king !” ap-
plied the point of his sword to the player’s person,
with such success, that he sprang over in a trice, and
finding the door unguarded, vanished in a twinkling ;
glad, no doubt, of having paid his share of the reckon-
ing so easily.

It being now near two o’clock in the morning, we dis-
charged the bill, and sallied out into the street. The
painter slunk away without taking his leave. Billy
Chatter, being unable to speak or stand, was sent to a
bagnio; and Banter and I accompanied Bragwell to Moll
King’s coffee-house, where we left him asleep ona bench,
and directed our course towards Charing-cross, near
which place both he and I lodged.

The natural dryness of my companion being over-
come by liquor, he honoured me by the way with many
compliments and professions of friendship, for which |
made suitable acknowledgments, and told him, I thought
myself happy in having, by my behaviour, removed the
unfavourable opinion he entertained of me at first sight.
He was surprised at this declaration, and begged me to
explain myself ;—upon which I mentioned what I had
overheard him say of me to Wagtail, in the coffee-house.
He laughed, and made an apology for his freedom, as-
suring me that my appearance had very much prepos-
sessed him in my favour, and what he said was only
intended as a joke on the doctor’s solemnity. I was
highly pleased at being undeceived in this particular,
and not a little proud of the good opinion of this wit,
who shook me by the hand at parting, and promised to
meet me next day at the ordinary.

CHAPTER XLYVII.

In the morning before | got up, Strap came into my

chamber, and finding me awake, hemmed several times,

AE he aS te

RET a LC ae cae 4 herman commen och geen nar en - ee
. 5 ees Shan Seto Sg

 

scratched his head, cast his eyes upon the ground, and,
with a very foolish kind of a simper, let me know he had
something to communicate. By your countenance,”
said I, “ l:expect to hear good tidings.’ “ Indifferent,”
replied he, tittering ; “ that is, thereafter as it shall be.
You must know, I have some thoughts of altermg my
condition.” “ What!” cried I, astonished, “a matri-
monial scheme? Oh rare Strap! thou hast got the heels
of me at last.” “ N—no less, I’ll assure you,” said he,
bursting into a laugh of self-approbation; “ a tallow-
chandler’s widow, that lives hard by, has taken a liking
to me ;—a fine jolly dame, as plump as a partridge.
She has a well-furnished house, a brisk trade, and a
good deal of the ready. I may have her for the asking.
She told a friend of mine, a brother footman, that she
would take me out of a stinking clout: but I refused
to give my final answer, till I knew your opinion of the
matter.” I congratulated Monsieur d’Estrapes upon
his conquest, and approved of the scheme, provided he
could be assured of these circumstances of her fortune 5
but advised him to do nothing rashly, and give me an
opportunity of seeing the lady before matters should be
brought to a conclusion. He assured me he would do
nothing without my consent and approbation ; and that
very morning, while I was at breakfast, introduced his
inamorata to my acquaintance. She was a short thick
woman, about the age of thirty-six, and had a particular
prominence of belly, which I perceived at first sight,
not without some suspicion of foul play. I desired her,
however, to sit, and treated her with a dish of tea—the
discourse turning on the good qualities of Strap, whom
I represented as a prodigy of sobriety, industry, and
virtue. When she took her leave, he followed her to
the door, and returned licking his lips, and asking if I
did not think her a luscious creature. I made no
mystery of my apprehension, but declared my senti-
ments of her without reserve: at which he was not
surprised, telling me he had observed the same symp-
tom, but was informed by his friend that she was only
liver-grown, and would in a few months be as small in
the waist as ever. “ Yes,” said I, “a few weeks, I
believe, will do the business. In short, Strap, it is my
opinion that you are egregiously imposed upon, and
that this friend is no other than a rascal who wants
to palm her upon you for a wife, that he may at once
deliver himself from the importunities of the mother
and the expense of her bantling; for which reason I
would not have you trust implicitly to the report he
makes of her wealth, which is inconsistent with his be-
haviour, nor run your head precipitately into a noose,
that you may afterwards wish exchanged for the hang-
man’s.” He seemed very much startled at my in-
sinuations, and promised to look twice before he leaped ;
saying with some heat, “ Odd, if I find his intention is
to betray me, we shall see which of us is the better
man.” My prediction was verified in less than a fort-
night, to the unspeakable amazement of Strap, who was,
before this happened, inclined to believe I had refined
a little too much in my penetration. His false friend
disappeared ; and in a few days after, an execution was
issued against her goods and household furniture, which
were seized by the creditors.

Meanwhile I met with my friend Banter at the ordi-
nary, and in the evening went to the opera, with him
and Mr Chatter, who pointed out Melinda in one of the
boxes, and offered to introduce me to her, observing, at
the same time, that she was a reigning toast worth ten
thousand pounds. ‘This piece of information made my
heart bound with joy, and I discovered great eagerness
to accept the proposal: upon which he assured me I
should dance with her at the next assembly, if he had
any influence in that quarter ; so saying, he went round,
spoke to her some minutes, and, as 1 imagined, pointed
at me; then returning, told me, to my inexpressible
pleasure, that I might depend upon what he had pro-
mised, for she was now engaged as my partner. Ban-
ter, in a whisper, gave me to understand that she was
an incorrigible coquette, who would grant the same fa-
vour to any young fellow in England, of a tolerable ap-
pearance, merely to engage him among the herd of her

Paes bs 3 beADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 89

admirers, that she might have the pleasure of seeing
them mcrease daily ; that she was of a cold insensible
disposition, dead to every passion but vanity, and so
blind to merit, that he would lay any wager the
wealthiest fool would carry her at last. JI attributed a
good deal of this intelligence to the satirical turn of my
friend, or resentment for having himself suffered a re-
buff from the lady in question ; and at any rate trusted
so much to my own accomplishments, as to believe no
woman could resist the ardour of my addresses.

Full of this confidence, I repaired to Hampstead, in
company with Billy Chatter, my Lord Hobble, and Doc-
tor Wagtail. Here I saw a very brilliant assembly,
before whom I had the honour to walk a minuet with
Melinda, who charmed me with her frank manner of
receiving me, and easiness of behaviour. Before the
country dances began, I received a message by a per-
son I did not know, from ] sragwell, who was present,
importing, that nobody who knew him presumed to
dance with Melinda, while he was there in person; and
that I would do well to relinquish her without noise,
because he had a mind to lead up a country dance
with her. This extraordinary intimation, which was
delivered in the lady’s hearing, did not at all discom-
pose me, who by this time was pré tty well acquainted
with the character of my rival. I, ther fore, without
the least symptom of concern, bade the gentleman tell
Mr Bragwell, that while I was so happy as to obtain
the lady’s consent, I should not be solicitous about his ;
and desired the bearer himself to bring me no such im-
pertinent messages for the future. Melinda affected a
sort of confusion, and pretended to wonder that Mr
Bragwell should give himself such liberties with regard
to her, who had no manner of connection with the fel-
low.

I laid hold of this opportunity to display my valour,
and offered to call him to an account for his insolenee,
which she absolutely refused, under pretence of con-
sulting my safety ; though I could perceive, by the spark-
ling of her eyes, that she would not have thought her-
self affronted in being the subject of a duel. JT was by
no means pleased with this discovery of her thoughts,
which not only argued the most unjustifiable vanity, but
likewise the most barbarous indifference : however, |

was allured by her fortune, and resolved to gratify her

pride, in making her the occasion of a public quarrel be-
tween me and Bragwell, who, I was pretty certain, would
never drive matters to a dangerous extremity.

While we danced together, I observed this formidable

rival at one end of the room, encircled with a cluster of

beaux, to whom he talked with great vehemence, cast-
ing many big looks at me from time to time. 1] guessed
the subject of his discourse, and as soon as I had handed
my partner to her seat, strutted up to the place where
he stood, and, cocking my hat in his face, demanded
aloud, if he had any thing to say tome. He answered
with asullen tone, “ Nothing at present, Sir,” and turned
about uponhisheel. “ Well,” said I, * you know where
I am to be found atany time.” His companions stared
at one another, and I returned to the lady, whose fea-
tures brightened at my approach, and immediately a
whisper ran through the whole room; after which, so
many eyes were turned upon me that I was ready to
sink with confusion. When the ball broke up, I led
her to her coach, and, like a true French gallant, would
have got up behind it, in order to protect her from
violence on the road; but she absolutely refused my
offer, and expressed her concern that there was not an
empty seat for me within it.

Next day, in the afternoon, I waited on her at her
lodgings, by permission, in company with Chatter, and
was very civilly received by her mother, with whom she
lived. There werea good many fashionable people pre-
sent, chiefly young fellows ; and immediately after tea,
a couple of card tables were set, at one of which I had
the honour to play with Melinda, who in less than
three hours made shift to plunder me of eight guineas.
I was well enough content to lose a little money with a
good grace, that I might have an opportunity to say
soft things in the meantime, which are still more wel-

-

 

J

come when attended with good luck; but I was by no
Means satisfied with her fair play, a circumstanee that
shocked mie not a little, and greatly impaired my opi-
non of her disinterestedness and delicacy. However, I
Was resolved to profit by this behaviour, and treat her in
my turn with lesg ceremony ; accordingly, I laid close
Siege to her, and, finding her not at all disgusted with
the gross incense J offered, that very night made a de-
claration of love in plain terms. She received my ad-
dresses with great gaiety, and pretended to laugh them
off, but at the same time treated me with such particu-
lar complacency, that I was persuaded I had made a
conquest of her h art, and concluded myself the hap-
piest man alive. Elevated with these flattering ideas,
I sat down again to cards after Supper, and with great
cheerfulness suffered myself to be cheated of ten gul-
neas more.

It was late before I took my leave, after being fa-
voured with a general invitation ; and when I got into
bed, the adventures of the day hindered me from sleep-
Ing. Sometimes I pleased myself with the hopes of pos-
sessing a fine woman with ten thousand pounds ; then
I would ruminate on the character I had heard of Her
from Banter, and compare it with the circumstances of
her conduct towards me, which seemed to bear too great
a resemblance to the picture he had drawn, This intro-
duced a melancholy refiection on the expense [I had un-
dergone, and the smallness of my funds to support it,
which, by the bye, were none of my own. In short, I
found myself involved in doubts and perplexities, that
kept me awake the greatest part of the night.

In the morning, Strap, with whom I had not con-
versed these two days, presented himself with the uten-
sils for shaving me, upon which I asked his opinion
of the lady whom he had seen me conduct to her coach
at Hampstead. “Odd! she’sa delicious creature,” cried
he, “and, as I am informed, a great fortune. I am
sorry you did not insist on going home with her. TI
dare say she would not have refused your company ;
for she seems to be a good-humoured soul.” “ There’s
a time for all things,” said I: « you must know, Strap,
I was in company with her till one o’clock this morn.
ing.” I had no sooner pronounced these words than
he began to caper about the room, and snap his fingers,
crying in a transport, “The day’s our own !—the day’s
our own!” I gave him to understand that his triumph
was a little premature, and that I had more difficulties
to surmount than he was aware of; then I recounted
to him the intelligence I had received from Banter: at
which he changed colour, shook his head, and observed
there was no faithin woman. I told him, I was resolved
to make a bold push notwithstanding, though I foresaw
it would lead me into great expense ; and bade him guess
the sum I had lost last night at cards. He scratched
his chin, and professed his abhorrence of cards, the
very name of which being mentioned made him sweat
with vexation, as it recalled the money-dropper to his
remembrance: “ But however,” said he, “you have to
do with other guess-people now. Why, I suppose, if
you had a bad run last night, you would searce come off
for less then ten or twelve shillings.” I was mortified
at this piece of simplicity, which I imagined, at that time,
was all affected, by way of reprimand for my folly ; and
asked, with some heat, if he thought I had spent the
evening in a cellar with chairmen ; giving him to know,
at the same time, that my expense amounted to eighteen
guineas. It would require the pencil of Hogarth to
express the astonishment and concern of Strap, on
hearing this piece of news; the basin in which he was
preparing the lather for my chin dropt out of his hands,
and ke remained some time immoveable in that ludi-
crous attitude, with his mouth open, and his eyes thrust
forward considerably beyond their station ; but remem-
bering my disposition, which was touchy and impatient
of control, he smothered his chagrin, and attempied to
recollect himself. With this view he endeavoured to
laugh, but, in spite of his teeth, broke out into a whim-
per, took up his wash-ball and pewter-pot, serubhed my
beard with the one, and discharged the other upon my
face. I took no notice of his confusion, but after he

s

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bs
Ed
iSPE Taare efor nate Pe ate

 

es
=
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6 ADY

had fully recovered himself, put him in mind of his right,
and Betired him of my readiness to surrender his ef-
fects whenever he should think proper to demand them.
He was nettled at my insinuation, which he thought pro-
ceeded from my distrust of his friendship, and begged
1 would never talk to him in that strain again, unless I
had a mind to break his heart.

This good creature’s unalterable friendship for me
affected me with the most grateful sentiments, and acted
as a spur to my resolution of acquiring a fortune, that
I might have it in my power to manifest my generosity
in my turn. For this purpose, I determined to bring

natters to a speedy conclusion with Melinda; well
knowing that a few such nights as the last would effec-
tually incapacitate me from prosecuting that, or any
other advantageous scheme.

While my meditation was busied in planning out my
future conduct, Mr Banter favoured me with a visit ;
and, after bre: vkfa ust, asked me how I had passed the pre-
ceding evening? I answered, I was ve ry agreeably en-
tertained at a private house. “ Yes,” said he, with a
sarcastic smile, “ you deserved something extraordin: ry
for the price you paid.” I was surprised at his remark,
and pretended ignorance of his meaning. “ Come, come,
Random,” continued he, “ you need not pines A i ae,
tery of it to me—the whole town Bas it; I wi
foolish affair between you and Bragwell : . Hampstead
had been less public. It has set all the busy- bodies at
work to find out your real character and situation, and
you cannot imagine what conjectures have already cir-
culated here at your expense: one suspects you to be
a Jesuit in disguise; another thinks you to be an agent
for the Pretender; a third believes you to be an up-
start gamester, because no}
family or fortune; a fourth 1s of opinion that you are

” This last hypothesis touched

et ct
poe
na
oh

an Irish fortune-hunter.”
meso near, that, to conceal my eget I was fain to
interrupt him in his detail, and curse the world for
an envious meddling community, that would not suffer
a gentleman to live without molestation. He took no
notice of this apostrophe, but went on :—“ For my own
part, I neither know, nor desire to know, who or what
you are: this I am certain of, that few people make a

mystery of their origin and situation, who can boast of

any thing advantageous in either ; and my own opinion
of the matter is, that you have raised yourself by your
industry from nothing to the appearance you now main-
tain, and which you endeavour to support by some
matrimonial scheme.”
Here he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon me, and, per-
eeiving my face covered with blushes, told me, now he
vas confirmed in his opinion :—“ Look ye, Random,”
said he, “I have divined your plan, and am confident
it will never succeed. You are too honest and too
ignorant of the town, to practise the necessary cheats
of your profession, and detect the conspiracies that will
be formed against you. JBesides, you are downright
bashful ;—what the devil! se t up for a fortune-hunter,
before you have conquered the sense of shame! Per-
haps you are entitled by your merit, aud I believe you
are, toa richer and better wife than Melinda; but, take
my word for it, she is not to be won at that rate, or, if
you are so luc ky as to carry her, between you and me
you may say, as Teague did, J By my soul, I have gained
She would take care to spend her own fortune
in a twinkling, and soon make you sick of her extrava-
ganee.” I was alarmed by his discourse, while I re-
sented the freedom of it, and expressed my disgust by
telling him he was mistaken in my intentions, and de-
inived he would give me leave to regulate my conduct
highrding 1 to the die bate s of my own reason. He made
and hology for the liberty he had taken, and ascribed it
who shwarmth of his friendship for me; as an uncom-
meet Nstance of which, he borrowed five guineas, assur-
, there were very few people in the world whom
ud so far favour with his confidence. I gaye him
ney, and professed myself so well convinced of
serity that he had no occasion to put it to such
In theyaina ary proofs for the future, “I thought,” said
ou namlig haye asked five pieces more but hear wing you

 

a loss!

 

Fae “2 RIE secu soe

TENTURES OF RODERiI

ody knows any thing of your |

 

 

CK RANDOM.

were bubbled of eighteen last night, I presumed you
might be out of cash, and resolved to model my demand
accordingly.” I could not help admiring the cavalier
behaviour of this spark, of whom I desired to know his
reason for saying I was bubbled. Whereupon he gave
me to understand, that before he came to my lodgings
he had beat up Tom Tossle, who having been present,
informed him of the part ticulars, rehearsed all the fine
things I said to Melinda, with ‘which he proposed to
entertain the town; and, among other circumstances,
assured him my mistress chez ated with so little art, that
nobody but a mere novice could have been imposed
upon.
The thoughts of becoming a subject of raillery for
OO eee and losi ing my money to boot, stung me to
the aay k; but I m: ide a virtue of my indignation, and
swore that no man should, with impunity, either asperse
the character of Melinda, or turn my behaviour into
ridicule. He replied, in a dry manner, that I would
find it a Herculean task to chastise every body who
should laugh at my expense ; and as for the character
of Melinda, he did not see how it could suffer by what
was laid to her charge; for that cheating at cards, so
far from being reckoned a blemish among people of
fashion, was looked upon as an honourable indication of
superior genius and address. “ But let us waive this
neg ” said he, “and go to the coffee-house, in order
to make a party for dinner.”

PPPS OP PL OL OLODD ILA

CHAPTER XLVITII.
BrrncG as willing to drop the theme as he to propose it,
[ accompanied him thithe ‘Yr, where we found Mr Medlar
and Doctor Wagtail disputing upon the word custard.
which the physician affirmed should be spelled with a

, because it was derived from the Latin verb gustare,
But Medlar pleade -d custom in behalf of ec,
observing, that by the doctor’s rule, we ought t to change re
pudding into budding, because it is derived from the
French word Joudin; and, in that case, why not retain
the original orthography and pronunciation of all the
foreign words we have adopted, by which means our
language would become a dissonant jargon, without
standard or propriety? The controversy was referred
and Banter, notwithstanding his real opinion to
the contrary, decided _ favour of Wagtail: upon which
the pee .yish annuitant arose , and, uttering the mono-
syllable, “ Pshaw !” with great emphasis, removed to
another table.

We then inquired of the doctor what progress he
had made in the exp veriment of distilling tinder-water ,
and he told us, he had been at all the glass-houses about
town, but could find nobody who would undertake to
blow a glass retort large enough to hold the third part
of the quantity prescribed ; but he intended to try the
process on as much as would produce five drops, which
would be sufficient to prove the specific, and then he
would make it a parliamentary affair: that he had al-
ready purchased a considerable weight of rags, in re
ducing of which to tinder he had met with a misfortune
which had obliged him to change his lodgings ; for he
had gathered them on a heap on the floor, and set fire
to them with a candle, on the supposition that the board
would sustain no damage, because it is the nature of
flame to ascend ; but by some very extraordinary acci-
dent ‘the wood was invaded, and began to blaze with
great violence, which disordered him so much, that he
had not presence of mind enough to call for assistance,
and the whole house must have been consumed, with
him in the midst of it, had not the smoke, that rolled
out of the windows in clouds, alarmed the neighbour-
hood, and brought people to his succour. That he
had lost a pair of black velvet breeches and a tie- wig
in the hurry, besides the expense of the rags, which
were rendered useless by the water used to quench the
flame, and the damage of the floor, which he was com-
pelled to repair. That his landlord, believing him dis-
tracted, had insisted on his quitting his apartment at

th taste.

tO US 5

 

4 minute’s warning, which put him to incredible incon.ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

venience ; but now he was settled ina very comfortable
house, and had the use of a large paved yard for pre-
paring his tinder, so that he hoped in a very short time
to reap the fruits of his labour. :

After having congratulated the doctor on his prospect,
and read the papers, we repaired to an auction of pic-
tures, where we entertained ourselves an hour or two;
from thence we adjourned to the Mall, and after two
or three turns, went back to dinner, Banter assuring
us, that he intended to roast Medlar at the ordinary ;
and, indeed, we were no sooner set than this eynic be-
gan to execute his purpose, by telling the old gentleman
he looked extremely well, considering the little sleep
he had enjoyed last night. To this compliment Medlar
made no reply but by a stare, accompanied with a sig-
nificant grin; and Banter went on thus :—_<« I don’t
know whether most to admire the charity of your mind,
or the vigour of your body. Upon my soul, Mr Medlar,
you do generous things with the best taste of any man
I know. You extend your compassion to real objects,
and exact only such returns as they are capable of
making. You must know, gentlemen,” said he, turning
to the company, “ I had been up most part of the night
with a friend who is bad of a fever, and on my return
home this morning, I chanced to pass by a gin-shop,
still open, whence issued a confused noise of mirth and
jollity ; upon which I popped in my head, and perceived
My Medlar dancing bare-headed in the midst of ten or
twenty ragged girls, who rejoiced at his expense. But,
indeed, Mr Medlar, you ought not to sacrifice your
constitution to your benevolence. Consider you grow
old apace, and therefore ought to have a reverent care
of your health, which must certainly be very much im-

paired by these nocturnal expeditions.” The testy senior |

could no longer contain himself, but eried hastily, “ Tis
well known that your tongue is no slander.” “© | think,”
said the other, “ you might spare that observation, as
you are very sensible that my tongue has done you signal
service on many occasions. You may remember, that
when you made your addresses to the fat widow who
kept a public-house at Islington, there was a report
spread very much to the prejudice of your character,
which, coming to the ears of your mistress, you were
discarded, till I related some particulars of you, which
brought matters toa reconciliation: how you ruined your
own affairs afterwards, it is neither my business nor in-
clination to relate.” This anecdote, which had no other
foundation than in Banter’s own invention, afforded a
good deal of mirth to every body present, and provoked
Mr Medlar beyond all sufferance, so that-he started up
in a mighty passion, and forgetting that his mouth was
full, bespattered those who sat next him, while he dis-
charged his indignation in a volley of oaths, and called
Banter insignificant puppy, impertinent jackanapes,
and a hundred such appellations, telling the company
he had invented tliese false malicious aspersions, be-
cause he would not lend him money. “ A very likely
story,”
money of a man who is obliged to practise a thousand
shifts to make his weekly allowance hold out till Satur-
day’s night. Sometimes he sleeps four-and-twenty
hours at a stretch, by which means he saves three
meals, besides coffee-house expense. Sometimes he is
fain to put up with bread and cheese and small beer for
dinner, and sometimes he regales on twopenny-worth
of ox-cheek ina cellar.”
cried Medlar, in an eestacy of rage; “I can always
command money enough to pay your tailor’s bill, which
| am sure is no trifle; and [ have a good mind to give
you a convincing proof of my circumstances, by prose-
cuting you for defamation, sirrah.’ By this time the
violence of his wrath had deprived him of his appetite,
and he sat silent, unable to swallow one mouthful, while
his tormentor enjoyed his mortification, and increased
his chagrin, by advising him to lay in plentifully for
his next day’s fast.

Dinner being ended, we came down stairs to the
coffee-room, and Banter went away to keep an appoint-
ment, saying, he supposed he should see Wagtail and
me in the evening at the Bedford coffee-house, He

©

 

"s . . . |
“ You are a lying miscreant,” |

said Banter, “that I should attempt to borrow |

| fortune but retained his appetites,

87

was no sooner gone than the old gentleman took me
aside, and said he was sorry to see me so intimate with
that fellow, who was one of the most graceless rakes
about town, and had already wasted a good estate and
constitution upon harlots ; that he had been the ruin
of many a young man, by introducing them into de-
bauched company, and setting an example of all man-
ner of wickedness ; and that, unless I was on my guard,
he would strip me in a short time both of my money
and reputation. I thanked him for his information,
and promised to conduct myself accordingly, wishing,
however, his caution had been a few hours more early,
by which means I might have saved five guineas. Not-
withstanding this intelligence, I was inclined to impute
some part of the charge to Medlar’s revenge for the
liberties taken with him at dinner, and, therefore, as
soon as I could disengage myself, applied to Wagtail
for his opinion of the character in question ; resolved
to compare their accounts, allowing for the prejudice
of each, and form my judgment upon both, without ad-
hering strictly to either. The doctor assured me that
he was a very pretty gentleman, of family and fortune
—a scholar, a wit, a critic, and perfectly well acquainted
with the town; that his honour and courage were un-
questionable, though some extravagances he had been
guilty of, and his talent for satire, had’ procured him
enemies, and made some people shy of his acquaintance.
i'rom these different sketches, I concluded that Banter
was a young fellow of some parts, who had spent his
and fallen out with
the world because he could not enjoy it to his wish.

[ went to the Bedford coffee-house in the evening,
where I met my friends, from thence proceeded to the
play, and afterwards carried them home to my lodg-
ings, where we supped with great harmony and satis-
faction.

Preece

CHAPTER: Sihi x.
WHEN I was ready to go abroad next day, Strap brought
me a letter, directed Zo Mr Random, Esq., these-—which
upon opening, I found contained a challenge, couched
in these very extraordinary terms :—
** SIR

 

Whereas I am informed that you make love
to Miss Melinda Goosetrap, this is to let you know, that
she is under promise of marriage to me; and that
| am at this present writing at the back of Montague
House, with a pair of good pistols in my hand—and if
you will keep your appointment, I will make your
tongue confess (after the breath is out of your body)
that you do not deserve her as well as, yours, &e.
Rourk O'REGAN.”

 

IT guessed, from the style and subscription of this
billet, that my rival was a true Milesian, and was not
a little uneasy at the contents, especially that part
where he asserts his right to my mistress by promise,
a circumstance J did not know how to reconcile to her
penetration. However, this was no time for me to
decline the invitation, because the success of my ad-
dresses might, in a great measure, depend upon my
behaviour in that affair. I therefore immediately loaded
my pistols, and betook myself in a hackney coach to
the place appointed, where I found a tall raw-boned

|man, with a hard-featured countenance, and black

bushy beard, walking by himself, wrapped up in a
shabby greateoat, over which his hair descended in a
leathern queue from his head, that was covered with
a greasy hat trimmed with a tarnished point d’ Espagne.
He no sooner perceived me advancing, than, without
any preamble, he pulled a pistol from his bosom, and,
presenting at me, snapt it. Alarmed at this rude salu-
tation, [ made a stand, and, before he could adjust his
other piece, fired one of mine at him, without doing
any damage. By this time he was ready to fire with
his second, that flashed in the pan without going off;
upon which he ecailed, with a true Tipperary cadence,
“Fire away, honey,” and began to hammer his fiint
with great deliberation, But I was resoived to make
use of the advantage fortune had given me, and there-

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88 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

fore stept up, without throwing away my fire, desiring
him to ask his life, or prepare for another world; but
this stout Hibernian refused to condescend, and com-
plained bitterly of my having quitted my ground be-
fore he could return my shot, saying, I ought to go
back to my station, and let him have an equal chance
with me. J endeavoured to persuade him that I had
given him a double chance already, and it was my
business to prevent him from enjoying a third; but
now, since I had an opportunity, I demanded a parley,
and desired to know his condition, and reason for call-
ing me to the field, who, to the best of my remembrance,
so far from having done him an injury, had never be-
fore seen him. He told me that he was a gentleman
of fortune, who had spent all he had, and hearing that
Melinda had got ten thousand pounds, he intended to
make himself master of that sum by espousing her,
and was determined, in an honourable way, to cut the
throats of all those that stood between him and his hopes.
I then demanded to know the foundation of his hopes ;
and now that I had seen him, being more and more
astonished at the circumstance of the promise, desired
he would explain that mystery. He gave me to under-
stand, that he trusted entirely to his birth and personal
merit ; that he had frequently wrote to Melinda, set-
ting forth his claim and pretensions, but she was never
kind enough to send an answer, or even to admit him
into her presence ; and that the promise he mentioned
in his letter was made by his friend Mr Gaghagan, who
assured him that no woman could resist a man of his
appearance. I could not forbear laughing to excess at
the simplicity of my rival, who did not seem to relish
my mirth, but began to be very serious; upon which
I endeavoured to appease him by giving him my word
and honour, that so far from prejudicing his addresses
to the lady, I would represent him to her in the most
favourable light I could, with any regard to truth; but
he must not be surprised if she should remain blind to
his deserts, for nothing was more capricious than a
woman’s mind, and the affection of that sex was seldom
purchased with virtue alone. That my declaration might
have the better effect, I took notice of his dishabille,
and, professing sorrow at seeing a gentleman reduced,
slipped two guineas into his hand, at the sight of which
he threw away his pistols, and hugging me-in his arms,
cried, “ Arrah, now, you are the best friend I have met
with these seven long years.” When I had suffered
some minutes in his embrace, he quitted me, and pick-
ing up his rusty arms, wished the devil might burn him
if ever he should give me any further trouble about
womankind.

The quarrel being thus amicably composed, I begged
leave to look at his pistols, which I found so greasy and
so foul that I believe it was happy for him neither of
them was discharged, for one of them would certainly
have split in the going off, and he would in all proba-
bility have lost his hand in the explosion ; but what gave
me a lively idea of the man’s character, was to find, upon
examination, that one of them had been loaded without
being primed, and. the other primed without a charge.

While we walked homeward together, I expressed a
desire of knowing my new friend’s history ; and he in-
formed me of his having served in the German army
as a volunteer against the Turks; that for his beha-
viour at the siege of Belgrade, he had been honoured
with an ensign’s commission, and afterwards promoted
to the rank of lieutenant, in which station it was his
misfortune to affront his captain, who challenged him
to the field, and was killed in the duel, upon which he
was obliged to retreat; that he had been in England
some years soliciting his friends for provision in the
British army, but being hitherto unsuccessful, he was
desired by Mr Gaghagan to turn his thoughts to matri-
mony, and make his fortune by an advantageous match:
in consequence of which advice he had made up to Me-
linda ; and having heard, by means of an Irish footman
in the family, that I was her chief favourite, had called
me out, in hopes of removing, by my death, the greatest
obstruction to his desires; but now he was convinced
of my honour and generosity, he said he would think

nee

 

of her no more, if there was not another woman in the
world. Asa further proof of his veracity, which I did
not at all doubt, he opened an old iron snuff-box, and
pulled out his commission in the imperial army, and
his captain’s challenge, which he preserved as testimo-
nials of his character. I was so well convinced of this
poor man’s honesty and courage, that I determined to
speak in his behalf to some of my acquaintance, who
might recommend his case to the consideration of those
who could provide for him; and, in the meantime, to
accommodate him with a few clothes, by which his ap- ~
pearance would be much mended, and himself enabled
to renew his solicitations in person.

As we walked along, conversing sociably together, we
were met by a file of musketeers, and Strap at their
head, who no sooner approached, than with a frantic
look he eried, “ Seize them!—in the name of God,
seize them!” We were accordingly surrounded, and I
put in arrest by the corporal, who was commanding
officer ; but Captain O’Regan disengaged himself, and
ran with such speed towards Tottenham-court Road,
that he was’out of sight in a moment. When my arms
were delivered up, and myself secured, Strap became a
little more composed, and asked pardon for the liberty
he had taken, which he hoped I would excuse, as it
proceeded from his affection. He then told me that,
suspecting the letter (which, by the bye, was brought by
the author himself) contained something extraordinary,
he had peeped through the key-hole, and seen me load
my pistols, upon which he ran down to Whitehall, and
applied to the officer on guard for a party to put me in
arrest ; but before he returned, I was gone in a coach
—that he had inquired which way I went, and having
heard that duels were commonly fought at the back of
Montague House, he conducted the guard to this place,
where he thanked God for having found me safe and
sound. I let him know, that I forgave his officious
concern for once, but cautioned him, in pretty severe
terms, for making me the subject of idle conversation
for the future ; then, turning to the corporal, I thanked
him for his care, and gave him a crown to drink with
his men, assuring him that the rencontre was over long
before he came up, and every thing compromised, as he
might have observed by our behaviour; as a further
proof of which he would find, upon examination, that
one of my pistols had been discharged: but this civil
person, without giving himself or me any further
trouble, received the bounty with a-thousand bows and
acknowledgments, and, returning the pistols, released
me immediately.

He was not gone a hundred yards when my friend
O’ Regan came up, in order to rescue me, with two tatter-
demalions whom he had engaged for that purpose about
the purlieus of St Giles’s: one of them was armed with
a musket that wanted a lock, and another with a rusty
broad-sword ; but their dress surpassed all description.
When he understood I was already free, he made an
apology for his abrupt departure, and introduced me
to his two companions ; first, to counsellor Fitzclabber,
who he told me was then employed in compiling a his-
tory of the kings of Munster, from Irish manuscripts ;
and then to his friend Mr Gaghagan, who was a pro-
found philosopher and politician, and had projected
many excellent schemes for the good of his country.
But, it seems, these literati had been very ill rewarded
for their ingenious labours; for between them both,
there was but one shirt and half a pair of breeches. I
thanked them very kindly for their readiness to assist
me ; and having offered my service in my turn, wished
them a good morrow, desiring O’Regan to accompany
me to my lodgings, where he was fitted with decent
clothes from my wardrobe, so much to his satisfaction,
that he swore eternal gratitude and friendship to me,
and, at my request, recounted all the particulars of his
life.

In the afternoon I waited on Melinda, who received
me with great kindness and familiarity, and laughed
excessively at my adventure with the Irishman, to
whose wishes she was no stranger, having more than a
dozen letters in her possession, which he had written to

 

—
aADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

her on the subject of love, and which, for my enter-
tainment, she submitted to my perusal. Having made
ourselves merry at the ©xpense of this poor admirer, I
seized the opportunity of her mother’s going out of the
room, and introduced my own passion, which I recom-
mended to her with all the ardour and eloquence I was
master of. [ flattered, sighed, swore, entreated, and
acted a thousand extravagances, in hopes of making
Some unpression on her heart; but she heard every
thing I said without discovering the least emotion, and
other company came in before she would vouchsafe one
Serious reply. After tea, the cards were brought in,
according to custom, and it was my good fortune to
have Melinda for my partner, by which means, instead
of losing, I came off with five guineas clear gain.

_ I soon became acquainted with a good many people of
fashion, and spent my time in the modish diversions of
the town, such as plays, operas, masquerades, drums,
assemblies, and puppet-shows, chiefiy in company with
Melinda, whom I cultivated with all the eagerness and
address that my prospect could inspire, and my education
afford. I spared neither my person nor my purse, to gra-
tify her vanity and pride—my rivals were intimidated,
and indeed outshone ; but, after all, I began to fear that
the dear creature had not a heart to lose. At last,
finding myself unable to support the expense of this
affair much longer, I was determined to bring the mat-
ter to a crisis; and one evening, while we were alone,
complained of her indifference, described the tortures of
suspense to a love-sick mind, and pressed her to dis-
close her sentiments of matrimony and me, with such
earnestness that she could not, with all her art, shift the
subject, but was obliged to come to an eclaircissement.
She let me know, with a careless air, that she had no
objection to my person, and if I could satisfy her mother
in other particulars, I should not find her averse to the
match ; but she was resolved to do nothing in an affair
of such momentous concern, without the advice and
consent of her parent. This was not a very agreeable
declaration to me, whose aim had been to win her in-
clination first, and then secure my conquest by a pri-
vate marriage, to which I flattered myself she would
express no reluctance. That [I might not, however,
desert my cause before it was desperate, I waited on
the mother, and, with great formality, demanded the
daughter in marriage. he good lady, who was a very
notable woman, behaved with great state and civility ;
thanked me for the honour I intended her family, and
said, she did not doubt that I was in all respects
qualified to make a woman happy ; but it concerned
her as a parent, anxious about the welfare of her
child, to inquire into the particulars of my fortune,
and know what settlement I proposed to make. ‘To
this intimation, which would have utterly disconcerted
me if I had not expected it, I replied, without hesita-
tion, that though my fortune was very small, I was a
gentleman by birth and education, would maintain her
daughter in the sphere of a gentlewoman, and settle
her own dowry on her and her heirs for ever. This
careful matron did not seem to relish my proposal, but
observed, with a demure countenance, that there was no
necessity for settling that upon her child which was
her own already: however, if ] pleased, her lawyer
should confer with mine upon the matter; and, in the
meantime, she desired I would favour her with the
perusal of my rent-roll. Notwithstanding the vexation
{ was under, I could scarce forbear laughing in her
face at the mention of my rent-roll, which was indeed
a severe piece of satire upon my pretensions. |] frankly
owned I had no landed estate; and told her, that J
could not exactly specify the sum I was master of until
I had regulated my affairs, which were at present in
some disorder, but that I would take an opportunity
of satisfying her on that head very soon.

It was not long before I took my leave ; and returned
to my lodgings in a very melancholy mood, persuaded
that I had nothing more to expect from that quarter.
I was confirmed in this opinion next day, when I went
back with a view of explaining myself more fully to the
old gentlewoman, and was told by the footman that

Ps

 

 

&9

his ladies were not at home, although T had seen Me.
linda through the blinds at a parlour window, as J
went up to the door. Incensed at this affront, I quitted
the door without Saying one word, and, as I repassed
the parlour, bowed to Miss, who still remained im the
same situation, securely screened, as she thought, from
my view.

This disappointment gave me more uneasiness on
Strap’s account than my own, for I was in no danger
of dying for love of Melinda: on the contrary, the re-
membrance of my charming Narcissa was a continual
check upon my conscience during the whole course of
my addresses, and perhaps contributed to the bad sue-
cess of my scheme, by controlling my raptures, and
condemning my design. f

There was a necessity for acquainting my companion
with every thing that happened to me, and I performed
this piece of duty in an affected passion, swearing |
would be his pack-horse no longer, and desiring him to
take the management of his affairs into his own hand.
This finesse had the desired effect, for instead of grum-
bling over my miscarriage, Strap was frightened at the
passion I feigned, and begged me, for the love of God,
to be appeased ; observing, that although we had suf-
fered a great loss, it was not irreparable, and if fortune
frowned to-day, she might perhaps smile to-morrow. 1
pretended to acquiesce in his remarks, praised his equa-
nimity, and promised to improve by misfortune, He,
on the other hand, pretended to be perfectly well satis-
fied with my conduct, and conjured me to follow the
dictates of my own reflection ; but in spite of all his
affectation, I could perceive his inward affliction, and
his visage sensibly increased in longitude from that
day.

POPOL ALISON OROS

CHAPTER: i.

Ix the meantime my attention was wholly engrossed
in search of another mistress, and the desire of being
revenged on Melinda, in both which schemes I was very
much assisted by Billy Chatter, who was such a neces-
Sary creature among the ladies, that in all private
dances he engaged the men. To him, therefore, I ap-
plied, desiring he would introduce me to a partner of
some figure, at the next private assembly, for the sake
of a frolic, the intention of which I would afterwards
communicate. Billy, who had heard something of a
difference between Melinda and me, immediately smoked
part of my design, and thinking I only wanted to alarm
her jealousy a little, promised to gratify my desire, by
matching me with a partner worth thirty thousand
pounds, whom the ladies of this end of the town had
lately taken into their management and protection.
Upon further inquiry, I found this person’s name was
Miss Biddy Gripewell ; that her father, who had beena
pawnbroker, died intestate, by which means all his
substance descended to this daughter, who was so little
a favourite, that could the old man have prevailed with
his own rapacious disposition to part with as much
money as would have paid the expense of a will, she
would not have inherited the sixth part of his fortune ;
that during his life, so far from being educated in a way
suitable to such great expectations, she was obliged to
live like a servant wench, and do the most menial off-
ces in the family. But his funeral was no sooner per-
formed than she assumed the fine lady, and found so
many people of both sexes to flatter, caress, and instruct
her, that, for want of discretion and experience, she was
grown insufferably vain and arrogant, and pretended to
no less than a duke, or earl at least, for a husband ;
that she had the misfortune to be neglected by the Eng-
lish quality, but a certain poor Scottish lord was then
making interest to be introduced to her acquaintance.
In the meantime she was fallen into the hands of a
notable lady, who had already disposed of her to a
lieutenant of foot, a distant relation of her ladyship’s,
though Miss, as yet, knew nothing of the affair s—and
lastly, that if I proposed to dance with her, I must give
him leave to represent me as a knight, or foreign
count at least. I was delighted at this piece of

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90 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

mation, and cotisented, for one night, to personate a
French marquis, that I might the easier fulfil my re-
venge.

Having made the appointment with Chatter, I went
to Banter’s lodging, having by this time conceived a
great opinion of his penetration and knowledge; and
after I had enjoined secrecy, told him eyery circum-
stance of my disgrace with Melinda, and imparted the
plan I had projected to mortify that proud coquette,
desiring his advice in improving, and assistance in ex-
ecuting, the scheme. Nothing could be more agreeable
to his misanthropical temper than an account of her
behaviour and my resentment. He applauded my re-
solution, and proposed that I should not only provide
myself in a proper partner, but also procure such a
one for Miss Goosetrap, as would infallibly entail upon
her the ridicule of all her acquaintance. For this pur-
pose he mentioned his barber, who, he said, was an
exceeding coxcomb, lately come from Paris, whose
absurd affectation and grimace would easily pass upon
her for the sprightly politesse of a gentleman improved
by travel. I hugged him for this hint, and he assured
me, it would be no difficult matter to make him believe
that Melinda, having seen him by accident, was capti-
vated by his appearance, and longed for his acquaint-
ance. He actually engaged him on this pretence, and
painted his good fortune in such colours, that the poor
shaver was quite beside himself with joy. He was
immediately fitted with a tawdry suit of clothes be-
longing to Banter, and by him recommended to Chatter
as a very pretty fellow, just returned from his travels.
Master Billy, who acted as a gentleman usher to a great
many of the fair sex in and about town, undertook, at
once, to bespeak Melinda in his behalf ; and every thing
happened according to my wish.

At the time appointed I appeared, dressed to the
best advantage ; and in the character of marquis, had
the honour of opening the ball with the rich heiress,
who attracted the cyes of the whole company, by
the prodigious number of jewels with which she was
adorned. Among others I perceived Melinda, who
could no more conceal her envy than astonishment at
my suecess. Her curiosity was still more flagrant and
tormenting, for she had never seen Miss Gripewell be-
fore: and Chatter, who alone could give her any sa-
tisfaction on that head, was engaged in conversation at
the other end of the room. I observed her impatience,
and exulted in her chagrin: and after my partner was
set, took the opportunity of passing by her to make a
slight bow without stopping—which completed my
triumph and her indignation. She changed colour,
bridled up, assumed an air of disdain, and flirted her
fan with such fury that it went to pieces in a moment,
to the no small entertainment of those who sat near and
observed her.

At length the metamorphosed barber took her out,
and acted his part with such ridiculous extravagance,
that the mirth of the whole company was excited at his
expense ; and his partner so much ashamed, that be-
fore the country dances began, she retired in great
confusion, under pretence of being taken suddenly ill,
and was followed by her gallant, who, no doubt, ima-
gined her indisposition was nothing but love ; and laid
hold of the occasion for conducting her home, to comfort
her with an assurance of his entertaining a reciprocal
passion. They were no sooner gone than an inquisi-
tive whisper of “ Who is he?’ ran round the room, and
Chatter could give no other intelligence about him than
that he was a man of fortune, just returned from his
travels. I, who alone was acquainted with his r al
quality, affected ignorance, well knowing that female
curiosity would not rest satisfied with such a general
account, and that the discovery would proceed with a
better grace from any body than me.

Meanwhile I was tempted by the richness of the prize
to practise on Miss Gripewell’s heart, but soon found
it too well fortified with pride and indifference to yield
to any effi rts in my own character, and I neither would
nor could preserye the title 1 had borrowed longer than

 

‘ As I expected, every thing came to light next day.
The barber, in pure simplicity of heart, detected him-
self to Melinda, and discovered the foundation of his
hopes ; she sickened at the affront, and was ashamed to
show her face in publie for many weeks after this acci-
dent. Poor Chatter found it impossible to justify him-
self to her satisfaction ; was in utter disgrace with Miss
Gripewell, for having imposed me upon her as a noble-
man; and suffered very much in his character and in-
fluence among the ladies in general.

Finding my finances diminished more than one half,
and my project as little advanced as on the first day of
my arrival in town, I began to despair of my success,
and grew melancholy at the prospect of approaching
want. To dispel the horrors of this fiend, [ had re-
course to the bottle, and kept more company than ever.
I became particularly attached to the play-house, con-
versed with the actors behind the scenes, got acquainted
with a body of Templars, and in a short time com-
menced a professed wit and critic. Indeed, I may say,
without vanity, that I was much better qualified than
any one of my companions, who were, generally speak-
ing, of all the creatures I ever conversed with, the
most ignorant and assuming. By means of these avo-
cations I got the better of care, and learned to separate
my ideas in such a manner, that, whenever I was at-
tacked by a gloomy reflection, I could shove it aside,
and callin some agreeable reverie to my assistance.
This was not the case with Strap, who practised a thou-
sand shifts to conceal the sorrow that preyed upon his
carcase, and reduced him to the resemblance of a mere
skeleton.

While I thus posted, in a thoughtless manner, to-
wards poverty, I one day received, by the penny-post,
a letter written in a woman’s hand, containing a great
many high-flown compliments, warm protestations of
love, couched in a very poetical style—an earnest de-
sire of knowing whether or not my heart was engaged,
by leaving an answer at a certain place, directed to
R. B., and the whole subscribed, “ Your incognita.”
| was transported with joy on reading the contents of
this billet-doux, which 1 admired as a masterpiece of
tenderness and elegance, and was already up to the
ears in love with the author, whom my imagination re-
presented as a lady of fortune in the bloom of youth
and beauty. Elevated with this conjecture, I went to
work, and exhausted my invention in composing an
answer suitable to the sublimity of her style, and the
ardour of her sentiments. I expressed my admiration
of her wit, in terms the most hyperbolical ; and while
I acknowledged myself unworthy of her regard, de-
elared myself enamoured of her understanding, and,
in the most pathetic manner, implored the honour of
an interview. Having finished this performance, and
communicated it to Strap, who skipped about for joy, I
dispatched him with it to the place appointed, which
was the house of a milliner not far from Bond Street,
and desired him to keep watch near the door for some
time, that he might discover the person who would
eall for it. In less than an hour he returned with a
joyful countenance, and told me, that soon after he had
delivered the letter a chairman was called, to whom it
was given, with directions to carry it to the house of
a rich gentleman in the neighbourhood, whither he
(Strap) followed him, and saw it put into the hands of
a waiting-woman, who paid the messenger and shut the
door—that upon inquiry at an ale-house hard by, where
he called for a pint of beer, he understood that the
gentleman to whom the house belonged had an only
daughter, very handsome, who would inherit his whole
estate, and who certainly was the author of the billet
I had received. I was of the same opinion, and hug-
ging myself in the happy prospect, dressed immediately,
and passed in great state by the house that contained my
unknown admirer. Nor was my vanity disappointed ;
for I perceived a beautiful young creature standing at
one of the windows of the dining-room, who, I ima-
gined, observed me with more than common curiosity.
That I might indulge her view, and at the same time
feast my own, I affected to stop, and give orders to

 

 

3 A a ? as Re. : < xADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

Strap in the street, just opposite to her station, by
which means I had an opportunity of seeing her nuch
more distinctly, and of congratulating myself on having
made a conquest of so much perfection. In a few mo-
ments she retired, and I betook myself to the ordinary
im a rapture of hope, which deprived me of my appe-
tite for that meal, and sent me home in the evening to
indulge my contemplation.

Karly next day I was favoured with another epistle
from my unknown charmer, signifying her unutterable
joy at the receipt of mine, which, while it made a ten-
der of my heart, convinced her of the value of it.
Above all things, she professed extreme pleasure in
finding me so much attached to her understanding—a
circumstance that not only flattered her in the most
sensible part, but at the same time a rgued my own sa-
gacity. As for the interview I desired, she assured
me that I could not be more eager for such an occasion
than she; but she must not only sacrifice a little more
to decorum, but be satisfied of my honourable inten-
tions, before she could grant that request. Meanwhile,
she gave me to understand, that although she might
owe some deference to the opinion of certain persons,
she was resolved, in an affair that so nearly concerned
her happiness, to consult her own inclination in prefer-
ence to the advice of the whole world, especially as she
was urged to such condescension by no consideration
of fortune, what she depended upon being her own
without restriction or control. Struck with admiration
at the philosophy and self-denial of my mistress, who
seemed insensible of the beauty she possessed, and, in
particular, ravished with that piece of intelligence by
which I learned her fortune was independent, I re-
sumed the pen, launched out into encomiums on the
dignity of her sentiments, affected to undervalue the
charms of external beauty, pretended to ground my
passion on the qualities of her mind, complained of her
rigour in sacrificing my repose to an over-scrupulous
regard to decorum, and declared the purity of my de-
signs in the most solemn and pathetic vows. This per-
formance being sealed and directed, was sent to the
place appointed by Strap, who, that we might be still
the more confirmed in our belief, renewed his watch,
and in a little time brought back the same information
as before, with this addition, that Miss Sparkle (the
name of my supposed corresponde nt), looking out at
the window, no sooner saw the messenger arrive, than
she shut the casement in a sort of beautiful confusion,
and disappeared, eager, no doubt, to hear from the dear
object of her love.

My doubts now vanished: the long-expected port ap-
peared, and I looked upon myself as perfectly secure of
that happiness I had been in quest of so long. After

 

 

dinner, I sauntered in company with Doctor Wagtail |

to that part of the town in which my inamorata lived ;
and as he was a mere register, inquired of him into the
name, character, and fortune, of every body who pos-
sessed a good house in the streets through which we
passed. When it came to his turn to mention Sir John
Sparkle, he represented him as a man of an immense
estate and narrow disposition, who mewed up his only
child, a fine young lady, from the conversation of man-
kind, under the strict watch and inspection of an old
governante, who was either so honest, envious, or in-
satiable, that nobody had been as yet able to
her a friend, or get access to her charge, though num-
bers attempted it every day ; not so much on account of
her expectations from her father, who being a widower,
might marry again, and have sons, as for a fortune of
twelve thousand pounds left her by an uncle, of which
she could not be deprived. ‘This piece of news exactly
tallying with the last part of the letter I had been
honoured with in the morning, had such an effect on
me, that any man except Wagtail might have observed
my emotion; but his attention was too much engrossed
on the contemplation of his own importance to be af-
fected with the deportment of any other body, unless it
happened to be so particular that he could not help
taking notice of it.

When I had disengaged myself from him, whose con-

is

91

versation grew insipid to me, I went home, and made
pura tequainted with the fruits of my researches. This
faitutul squire was almost choked with transport, and
even wept tor joy ; but whether on account of himself
os mee! I shall not pretend to determine. Next day a
third billet-doux was brought to me, containing many
expressions of tenderness, mingled with some affecting
doubts about the artifice of man, the inconstaney of
youth, and the jealousy often attending the most sincere
passion ; withal, desiring I would excuse her, if she
should try me a little longer, before she declared her-
self beyond the power of retracting. These interesting
scruples added Tuel to fame, and impatience to my
hope ; I redoubled my complaints of her indifference,
and pressed her to an assignation with such fervid en-
treaties, that, in a few days, she consented to meet me
at the house of that milliner who had forwarded all my
letters. During the interval between the date of her
promise and the hour of appointment, my pride soared
beyond all reason and description; I lost all remem-
brance of the gentle Narcissa, and my thoughts were
wholly employed in planning triumphs over the malice
and contempt of the world.

At length the happy hour arrived ; I flew to the place
of rendezvous, and was conducted into an apartment,
where I had not waited ten minutes when I heard the
rustling of silk, and the sound of feet ascending the
stairs: my heart took the alarm and beat quick, my
cheeks glowed, my nerves thrilled, and my knees shook
with eestacy. I perceived the door opening, saw a gold
broeade petticoat advance, and sprang forward to em-
brace my charmer. Heaven and earth! how shall I
paint my situation, when I found Miss Sparkle converted
into a wrinkled hag turned of seventy! I was struck
dumb with amazement, and petrified with horror! This
ancient Urganda perceived my disorder, and approach-
ing with a languishing air, seized my hand, asking, in a
squeaking tone, if 1 was indisposed. Her monstrous
affectation completed the disgust I had conceived for
her at her first appearance, and it was a long time be-
fore I could command myself so much as to behave
with common civility : at length, however, I recollected
myself, and pronounced an apology for my behaviour,
which, I said, proceeded from a dizziness that seized
me all ona sudden. My hoary Dulcinea, who, no doubt,
had been alarmed at my confusion, no sooner learned
the cause to which I now ascribed it, than she discovered
her joy ina thousand amorous coquetries, and assumed
the sprightly arts of a girl of sixteen. One while she
ogled me with her dim eyes quenched in rheum ; then,
as if she was ashamed of that freedom, she affected to
look down, blush, and play with her fan, then toss her
head, that I might not perceive a palsy that shook it,
ask some childish questions with a lisping accent, giggle
and grin with her mouth shut, to conceal the ravages
of time upon her teeth, leer upon me again, sigh pi-
teously, fling herself about in her chair to show her
agility, and act a great many more absurdities that
youth and beauty can only excuse.

Shocked as I was at my disappointment, my disposi-
tion was incapable of affronting any person who loved
me ; I therefore endeavoured to put a good face on the
matter for the present, resolving to drop the whole

| affair as soonas I could get clear of her company. With
make |

this view, I uttered some civil things, and, in particular,

| desired to know the name and condition of the lady who

 

had honoured me somuch. She told me her name wa

Withers; that she lived with Sir John Sparkle, in
quality of governess to his only daughter, in which si-
tuation she had picked up a comfortable sufficiency to
make her easy for life; that she had the pleasure of
seeing me at church, where my appearance and deport-
ment made such an impression upon her heart, that
she could enjoy no ease until she had inquired into my
character, which she found so amiable in all respects,
that she yielded to the violence of her inclination, and
ventured to declare her passion, with too little regard,
perhaps, to the decorum of her sex; but she hoped J
would forgive a trespass, of which I myself was, in some

measure, the cause, and impute her intrusion to the

reer

cerrrrrra

4
4
.

GEXUT oeas =

92

irresistible dictates of love. No decayed rake ever
swallowed a bolus with more reluctance then I felt in
making a reply suitable to the compliment, when, in-
stead of the jewel, I found the crazy casket only in my
power ; and yet my hopes began to revive a little, when
I considered, that, by carrying on the appearance of an
intrigue with the duenna, I might possibly get access
to her charge. Encouraged by this suggestion, my tem-
per grew more serene, my reserve wore off. I talked
eavalierly, and even made love to this antiquated co-
quette, who seemed extremely happy in her adorer,
and spread all her allurements to make her imagined
conquest more secure. The good woman of the house
treated us with tea and sweetmeats, and afterwards
withdrew, like a civil experienced matron as she was.
Left thus to our mutual endearments, Miss Withers
(for she was still a maiden) began to talk of matrimony,
and expressed impatience in all her behaviour. It was
my business to defer the ceremony as long as possible,
under the most specious pretences, with a view of be-
coming acquainted with Miss Sparkle, in the mean-
time ; and J did not despair of success, when I considered
that in the course of our correspondence I should, in
all probability, be invited to visit my mistress in her
own apartment, and by that means have an opportunity
of conversing with her charming ward. Pleased with
this prospect, my heart dilated with joy; I talked in
raptures to the stale governante, and kissed her shri-
velled hand with great devotion. She was so much
transported with her good fortune, that she could not
contain her ecstacy, but flew upon me like a tigress,
and pressed her skinny lips to mine; when (as it was
no doubt concerted by her evil genius) a dose of garlic
she had swallowed that morning to dispel wind, I sup-
pose, began to operate with such a sudden explosion,
that human nature, circumstanced as I was, could not
endure the shock with any degree of temper. I lost all
patience and reflection, flung away from her in an in-
stant, snatched my hat and cane, and ran down stairs
as if the devil had me in pursuit, and could searce
restrain the convulsions of my bowels, which were most
grievously offended by the perfume that assaulted me.
Strap, who waited my return with impatience, seeing me
arrive in the utmost disorder, stood motionless with
apprehension, and durst not inquire into the cause.

After I had washed my mouth more than once, and
recruited my spirits with a glass of wine, I recounted
to him every particular of what had happened ; to which
he made no other reply for some time than iifting up
his eyes, clasping his hands, and uttering a hollow groan.
At length he observed, in a melancholy tone, that it was
a thousand pities my organs were so delicate as to be
offended with the smell of garlic :—* Ah! God help us,”
said he, “ tis not the steams of garlic that would give
me the least uneasiness—see what it is to be a cobbler’s
son.” J replied hastily, “ I-wish then you would go
and retrieve my miscarriage.” At this he started,
forced a smile, and left the room, shaking his head.
Whether the old gentlewoman resented my abrupt de-
parture so much that her love changed into disdain,
or was ashamed to see me on account of her infirmity,
1 knew not, but I was never troubled again with her
passion.

Dr eer rerrc cy

CHAPTER LI.

Barriep hitherto in my matrimonial schemes, I began
to question my talents for the science of fortune-hunt-
ing, and to bend my thoughts towards some employ-
ment under the government ; with the view of procuring
which I cultivated the acquaintance of Lords Straddle
and Swillpot, whose fathers were men of interest at
court. 1 found these young noblemen as open to my
advances as I could desire: I accompanied them in
their midnight rambles, and often dined with them at
taverns, where I had the honour of paying the reckoning.

I one day took the opportunity, while I was loaded
with protestations of friendship, to disclose my desire
of being settled in some sinecure, and to solicit their
influence in my behalf, Swillpot, squeezing my hand,

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

said I might depend upon his service. The other swore
that no man would be more proud than he to run of
my errands. Encouraged by these declarations, I ven-
tured to express an inclination to be introduced to their
fathers, who were able to do my business at once Swill-
pot frankly owned he had not spoken to his father these
three years ; and Straddle assured me his father having
lately disobliged the minister by subscribing his name
to a protest in the House of Peers, was thereby ren-
dered incapable of serving his friends at present; but
he undertook to make me acquainted with Earl Strut-
well, who was hand and glove with a certain person
who ruled the roast. This offer I embraced with many
acknowledgments, and plied him so closely, in. spite of
a thousand evasions, that he found himself under a ne-
cessity of keeping his word, and actually carried me to
the levee of this great man, where he left me in a crowd
of fellow-dependents, and was ushered to a particular
closet audience ; from whence, ina few minutes, he re-
turned with his lordship, who took me by the hand,
assured me he would do me all the service he could,
and desired to see me often. I was charmed with my
reception ; and although I had heard that a courtier’s
promise was not to be depended upon, I thought I dis-
covered so much sweetness of temper in this Earl’s
countenance, that I did not doubt of profiting by his
protection. I resolved, therefore, to avail myself of
his permission, and waited on him next audience-day,
when I was favoured with a particular smile, squeeze
of the hand, and a whisper, signifying that he wanted
half an hour’s conversation with me alone, when he
should be disengaged, and for that purpose desired me
to come and drink a dish of chocolate with him to-mor-
row morning.

The invitation, which did not a little flatter my vanity
and expectation, I took care to observe, and went to
his lordship’s house at the time appointed. Having
rapped at the gate, the porter unbolted and kept it half
open, placing himself in the gap, like soldiers in a breach,
to dispute my passage. I demanded to know if his lord
was stirring? He answered, witha surly aspect, “No.”
“At what hour does he commonly rise?” said I. “Some-
times sooner, sometimes later,” said he, closing the door
upon me by degrees. I then told him I was come by
his lordship’s own appointment; to which this Cerbe-
rus replied, “ IT have received no orders about the mat-
ter ;” and was upon the point of shutting me out, when
| recollected myself all of a sudden, and slipping a crown
into his hand, begged as a fayour that he would inquire
and let me know whether or not the Earl was up. The
grim janitor relented at the touch of my money, which
he took with all the indifference of a tax-gatherer, and
showed me into a parlour, where, he said, | might amuse
myself till such time as his lordship would be awake.
I had not sat ten minutes in this place when a footman
entered, and, without speaking, stared at me. I inter-
preted this piece of his behaviour into “ Pray, Sir, what
is your business?’ and asked the same question I had
put to the porter, when I accosted him first. The laequey
made the same reply, and disappeared before I could
get any further intelligence. In a little time he re-
turned, on pretence of poking the fire, and looked at me
again with great earnestness; upon which I began to
perceive his meaning, and tipping him with half-a-crown,
desired he would be so good as to fail upon some me-
thod of letting the Earl knowthat I was in the house. He
made a low bow, and said “ Yes, Sir,” and vanished.
This bounty was not thrown away, for in an instant he
came back, and conducted me to a chamber, where I
was received with great kindness and familiarity by his
lordship, whom I found just risen, in his morning gown
and slippers. After breakfast, he entered into a parti-
cular conversation with me about my travels, the re-
marks I had made abroad, and examined me to the full
extent of my understanding. My answers seemed to
please him very much ; he frequently squeezed my hand,
and, looking at me with a singular complacency in his
countenance, bade me depend upon his good offices with
the ministry in my behalf. “ Young men of your quali-
fications,” said he, “ ought to be cherished by every ad-

 

sic wating has

iia : ITE * 2ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

ministration. For my own part, I see so little merit in
the world, that I have laid it down as a maxim to en-
courage the least appearance of genius and virtue, to
the utmost of my power. You have a great deal of
both, and will not fail of making a figure one day, if I
am not mustaken ; but you must lay your account with
mounting by gradual steps to the summit of your for-
tune. tome was not built in a day. As you under-
stand the languages perfectly well, how would you like
to cross the sea as secretary to an embassy?’ I assured
his lordship, with great eagerness, that nothing could
be more agreeable to my inclination; upon which he
bade me make myself easy—my business was done, for
he had a place of’ that kind in his view. This piece of
generosity affected me so much, that I was unable for
some time to express my gratitude, which at length broke
out in acknowledgments of my own unworthiness, and
encomiums on his benevolence. I could not help even
shedding tears at the goodness of this noble lord, who
no sooner perceived them than he caught me in his
arms, hugged and kissed me with a seemingly paternal
affection. Confounded at this uncommon instance of
fondness for a stranger, I remained a few moments
silent and ashamed, then got up and took my leave, after
he had assured me that he would speak to the minister
in my favour that very day; and desired that I would
not for the future give myself the trouble of attending
at his levee, but come at the same hour every day, when
he was at letsure, which was three times a-week.
Though my hopes were now very sanguine, I deter-
mined to conceal my prospect from every body, even

from Strap, until I should be more certain of SUCCESS 5

and in the meantime give my patron no respite from
my solicitations. When I renewed my visit, I found the
street door opened to me as if by enchantment. The
Earl saluted me at entrance with a tender embrace, and
wished me joy of his success with the premier, who, he
said, had preferred his recommendation to that of two
other noblemen very urgent in behalf of their respec-
tive friends, and absolutely promised that I should 20
to a certain foreign court in quality of secretary to
an ambassador and plenipotentiary, who would set out
in a few weeks, on some affair of vast importance to the
nation. I was thunderstruck with my good fortune,
and could make no other reply than kneel and attempt
to kiss my benefactor’s hand, which he would not per-
mit, but raising me up, told me he had now taken upon
himself the care of making my fortune.

After I had enjoyed a long audience, I happened to
look at my watch, in order to regulate my motions by
it; and his lordship observing the chased ease, desired
to see the device, and examine the execution, which he
approved with some expressions of admiration. Consi-
dering the obligations I lay under to his lordship, I
thought there could not be a fitter opportunity than the
present to manifest in some shape my gratitude; I
therefore begged he would do me the honour to accept
of the watch as a small testimony of the sense I had of
his lordship’s generosity ; but he refused it ina peremp-
tory manner, and said he was sorry I should entertain
such a mercenary opinion of him, observing, at the same
time, that it was the most beautiful piece of workman-
ship he had ever seen, and desiring to know where he
could have such another. I begged a thousand pardons
for the freedom I had taken, which I hoped he would
impute to nothing else than the highest veneration for
his person—let him know that as it came to my hand
by accident in France, I could give him no information
about the maker, for there was no name on the inside;
and once more humbly entreated that he would indulge
me so far as to use it for my sake. He was still posi-
tive in refusing it, but was pleased to thank me for my
generous offer, saying, it was a present that no noble-
man need be ashamed of receiving ; though he was re-
solved to show his disinterestedness with regard to me,
for whom he had conceived a particular friendship ;
and insisted, if I was willing to part with the watch,
upon knowing what it cost, that he might at least in-
demnify me by refunding the money. On the other
hand, I assured his lordship that I would look upon it

 

 

93

as an uncommon mark of distinction, if he would take
it without further question ; and rather than disoblige
me, he was at last persuaded to put it in his pocket, to
My no small satisfaction, who took my leave immediately,
ater having received a kind squeeze, and an injunction
to depend upon his promise.

Buoyed up with my reception, my heart opened; I
Save away a guinea among the lacqueys who escorted
me to the door, flewto the lodgings of my Lord Straddle,
upon whom I forced my diamond ring, as an acknow-
ledgment for the great service he had done me, and
from thence hied myself home, with an intent of shar-
ing my happiness with honest Strap. I determined,
however, to heighten his pleasure by depressing his
spirits at first, and then bringing in the good news with
double relish. or this purpose, I affected the appear-
ance of disappointment and chagrin, and told him, in an
abrupt manner, that I had lost the watch and diamond.
Poor Hugh, who had been already harassed into a con-
sumption by intelligence of this sort, no sooner heard
these words, than, unable to contain himself, he cried,
with distraction in his looks, “ God in heaven forbid
[ could carry on the farce no longer, but, laughing in
his face, told him every thing that had befallen, as be-
fore recited. His features were immediately unbended,
and the transition was so affecting that he wept with
joy, calling my Lord Strutwell by the appellations of
jewel, phoenix, rara avis, and praising God that there
was still some virtue among our nobility. Our metual
congratulations being over, we gave way to our imagi-
nation, and anticipated our happiness by prosecuting
our success through the different steps of promotion,
till I arrived at the rank of a prime minister, and he to
that of my first secretary.

Intoxicated with these ideas, I went to the ordinary,
where, meeting with Banter, I communicated the whole
affair in confidence to him, concluding with an assur-
ance that I would do him all the service in my power,
He heard me to an end with great patience, then, re-
garding me a good while with a look of disdain, pro-
nounced, “So your business is done, you think?” “ Ag
good as done, I believe,” said I. “I'll tell you,” replied
he, “what willdoit more effectually—ahalter. ’Sdeath!
if I had been such a gull to two such scoundrels as
Strutwell and Straddle, I would without any more ado
tuck myself up.” Shocked at this exclamation, I de-
sired him, with some contusion, to explain himself. Upon
which he gave me to understand, that Straddle was a
poor contemptible wretch, who lived by borrowing and
pimping to his fellow peers; that Strutwell, so far from
being able to obtain for me the post he had promised,
had so little interest at court, that he could scarce pro-
vide for a superannuated footman once a-year in Chel-
sea Hospital—that it was a common thing for him to
amuse strangers whom his jackalls run down, with such
assurances and caresses as he had bestowed on me,
until he had stript them of their cash, and every thing
valuable about them, and then leave them a prey to
want and infamy—that he allowed his servants no other
wages than that part of the spoil which they could gain
by their industry ; and that the whole of his conduct
towards me was so glaring, that nobody who knew any
thing of mankind could have been imposed upon by his
insinuations.

I leave the reader to judge how I relished this piece
of information, which precipitated me from the most
exalted pinnacle of hope to the lowest abyss of despon-
dency, and well nigh determined me to take Banter’s
advice, and finish my chagrin with a halter.

 

 

seen,

CHAPTER Uff.
I was so confounded that I could make no reply to
Banter, who reproached me with great indignation, for
having thrown away upon rascals that which, had it
been converted into ready money, would have supported
the rank of a gentleman for some months, and enabled
me at the same time to oblige my friends. Stupified as
I was, I could easily divine the source of his concern,

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94 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

but sneaked away in a solitary manner, without yield-
ing the least answer to his expostulations; and began
to deliberate with myself in what manner I should at-
tempt to retrieve the moveables I had so foolishly lost.
I would have thought it no robbery to take them again

by force, could I have done it without any danger of

being detected; but as I could have no such opportu-
nity, I resolved to work by finesse, and go immediately
to the lodgings of Straddle, where I was so fortunate as
to find him. “ My lord,’ said I, “I have just now re-
collected that the diamond I had the honour of pre-
senting to you, is loosened a little in the socket, and
there is a young fellow just arrived from Paris, who is
reckoned the best jeweller in Europe; I knew him in
France, and if your lordship will give me leave, will
carry the ring to him to be set to rights.” His lord-
ship was not to be caught in this snare—he thanked me
for my offer, and let me know, that having himself ob-
Served the defect, he had already sent it to his own
jeweller to be mended. And indeed, by this time, I
believe it Was in the jeweller’s hands, though not in
order to be mended, for it stood in need of no alteration.

Baulked in this piece of politics, I cursed my sim-
plicity, but resolved to play a surer game with the Earl,
which I thus devised. I did not doubt of being admit-
ted into familiar conversation with him as before, and
hoped by some means to get the watch into my hand,
then, on pretence of winding or playing with it, drop it
on the floor, which in all probability would disorder
the work so as to stop its motion. This event would
furnish me with an opportunity of insisting upon car-
rying it away in order to be repaired; and had this
happened, I should have been in no hurry to bring it
back. What pity it was I could not find an occasion
of putting this fine scheme in execution! When I went
to renew my visit to his lordship, my access to the par-
lour was as free as ever; but after I had waited some
time, the valet de chambre came in with his lord’s com-

 

pliments, and a desire to see me to-morrow at his levee, |

being at present so much indisposed that he could see
no company. I interpreted his message into a bad
omen, and came away, muttering curses against his
lordship’s politeness, and ready to go to log
with myself for being so egregiously duped.

I might have some satisfaction for the loss I ha
taimed, I besieged him closely at his levee, and perse-
cuted him with my solicitations, not without faint hopes,

ideed, of reaping something more from my industry |

than the bare pleasure of making him uneasy,
the whole course of my attendance ; neither had I reso-
lution enough to undeceive Strap, whose looks, in a

little time, were so whetted with impatience, that when-
? 3

7 ;
thougn |

1 could never obtain another private hearing during |

so near. And now, indeed, it was nearer than I ima-
gined ; for my landlord having occasion for money, put
me in mind of my being indebted to him five guineas
in lodging; and, telling me that he had a sum to make
up, begged I would exeuse his importunity, and dis-
charge the debt. Though I could ill spare so much
cash, my pride took the resolution of disbursing it,
which I did in a cavalier manner, after he had written
a discharge, telling him, with an air of scorn and re-
sentment, I saw he was resolved that I should not be
long in his books, while Strap, who stood by, and knew
my circumstances, wrung his hands in secret, gnawed
his nether lip, and turned yellow with despair. What-
ever appearance of indifference my vanity enabled me
to put on, I was thunderstruck with this demand, which
I had no sooner satisfied than I hastened into company,
with a view of beguiling my cares with conversation, or
drowning them in wine.

After dinner, a party was accordingly made in the
coffee-house, from whence we adjourned to the tavern,
where, instead of sharing the mirth of the company, I
was chagrined at their good humour. In vain did I
swallow bumper after bumper; the wine had lost its
effect upon me, and, so far from raising my dejected
spirits, could not even lay measleep. Banter, who was
the only intimate I had (Strap excepted), perceived my
anxiety, and when we broke up, reproached me with
pusillanimity, for being cast down at any disappoint-
ment that such a rascal as Strutwell could be the ocea-
sion of. I told him I did not see at all how Strutwell’s
being a rascal alleviated my misfortune, and gaye him
to understand that my present grief did not so much
proceed from that disappointment, as from the low ebb
of my fortune, which was sunk to something less than
two guineas. At this declaration he eried, “* Pshaw!
is that all?” and assured me there were a thousand
ways of living in town without fortune, he himself hay-

| ing subsisted many years entirely by his wit. I ex-
pressed my eager desire of being acquainted with some

of these methods, and he, without further expostulation,
bade me follow him. He conducted me to a house under
the piazzas in Covent Garden, which we entered, and,
having delivered our swords to a grim fellow, who de-

| manded them at the foot of the staircase, ascended to

the second story, where I saw multitudes of people

| standing round two gaming tables, loaded in-a manner

ever 1 came home his eyes deyoured me, as it were, |

with eagerness of attention.

At length, however, finding myself reduced to my last
guinea, I was compelled to disclose my necessity, though
1 endeavoured to sweeten the diseovery by rehearsing
to him the daily assurances I received from my patron.
But these promises were not of efficacy sufficient to sup-
port the spirits of my friend, who no sooner understood
the lowness of my finances, than, uttering a dreadful
groan, he exclaimed, “ In the name of God, what shall
we do!” In order to comfort him, I said that many
of my acquaintance, who were in a worse condition than
we, supported, notwithstanding, the character and ap-
pearance of gentlemen ; and, advising him to thank God
that we had as yet incurred no debt, proposed he should
pawn my sword of steel inlaid with gold, and trust to
my discretion for the rest. This expedient was worm-
wood and gall to poor Strap, who, in spite of his invin-
cible affection for me, still retained notions of economy
and expense suitable to the narrowness of his educa-
tion; nevertheless, he complied with my request, and
raised seven pieces on the sword in a twinkling. This
supply, inconsiderable as it was, made me as happy for
the present as if I had had five hundred pounds in
bank ; for by this time I was so well skilled in procras-

tinating every troublesome reflection, that the prospeet
of want seldom affected me very much, let it he never

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with gold and silver. My conductor let me know that

this was the house of a worthy Scotch lord, who, using

the privilege of his peerage, had set up a public gaming

table, from the profits of which he drew a comfortable

livelihood. He then explained the difference between

the sitters and the betters—characterised the first as old
]

(
| rooks, and the last as bubbles; and advised me to try

my fortune at the silver table, by betting a crown at a
time. Before I would venture any thing, I considered
the company more particularly, and there appeared
such a group of villanous faces, that I was struck with
horror and astonishment at the sight. I signified my
surprise to Banter, who whispered in my ear that the
bulk of those present were sharpers, highwaymen, and
apprentices, who having embezzled their masters’ cash,
made a desperate push in this place to make up their
deficiencies. ‘This account did not encourage me to
hazard any part of my small pittance; but at length,
being teazed by the importunities of my friend, who
assured me there was no danger of being ill used, people
being hired by the owner to see justice done to every
body, I began by risking one shilling, and in less than
an hour my winning amounted to thirty. Convinced
by this time of the fairness of the game, and animated
with suecess, there was no need for any further per-
suasion to continue the play. I lent Banter (who sel-
dom had any money in his pocket) a guinea, which he
carmied to the gold table and lost in a moment. He
would have borrowed another, but finding me deaf to
his arguments, went away in a pet. Meanwhile my
gain advanced to six pieces, and my desire of more in-
creased in proportion, so that I moved to the higher
table, where I laid half a guinea on every throw,. and
fortune still favouring me, I became a sitter, in which

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ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

capacity IT remained until it was broad day, when I found
myself, after many vicissitudes, one hundred and fitty
guineas in pocket.
Thinking it now high time to retire with my booty,
I asked if any body would take my place, and made "a
motion to rise; upon which an old Gascon, who sat op-
ee and " whom I had won a little money, started
up ‘with fury in his looks, ervinc. “Stav. sir: ctaw 4
aru give 3 i ee ee 2 — @ cea az
you g ge” At the same time a Jew,
who sat near the other, insinuated that I was more be-
holden to art than fortune for what I had got—that he
had observed me wipe the table very often, and that
some of the divisions seemed to be greasy. This inti-
mation produced a great deal ef clamour against me,
especially among the losers, who threatened, with many
aths and imprecations, to take me up by a warrant as
a sharper, unless I would compromise the affair by
refunding the greatest part'of my winning. Though I
was tar from being easy under this accusation, I relied
upon my innocence, threatened in my turn to prosecute
the Jew for defamation, and boldly offered to submit
my cause to the examination of any justice in West-
minster ; but they knew themselves too well to put their
characters on that issue, and finding I was not to be
intimidated into any concession, dropped their plea, and
made way for me to withdraw. I would not, however,
stir from the table until the Israelite had retracted
what he had said to my disadvantage, and asked par-
don before the whole assembly.

As I marched out with my prize, I happened to tread

 

upon the toes of a tall raw-boned fellow, with a hooked |

nose, fierce eyes, black, thick eye-brows, a pig-tail wig
of the same colour, and a formidable hat puiled over

his forehead, who stood gnawing his fingers in

crowd, and no’sooner felt the application of my shoe- |

1 * ° t 1
neel than he roared out, in a tremendous voice, “ Halloo! |

fellow, what’s that for?’ I asked pardon with a great

deal of submission, and protested I had no intention of

hurting him ; but the more I humbled myself, the more |

he stormed, and insisted upon gentlemanly satisfaction,
at the same time provoking me with scandalous names
that I could not put up with ; so that I gave a loose to
my passion, returned his Billingsgate, and challenged
him to follow me down to the piazzas. His indignation
cooling as mine warmed, he refused my invitation, say-

or
>

ing, he would choose his own time, and returned towards |
the table muttering threats, which I neither dreaded |

nor distinctly heard ; but descending with great delibe-
ration, received my sword from the door-keeper, whon
1 eratified with a guinea, according to the custom of the
place, and went home in a rapture of joy.

My faithful valet, who had sat up all night in t
most uneasiness on my account, let me in with his face
beslubbered with tears, and followed me to my chamber,

he ut-

where he stood silent like a condemned criminal, in ex-
pectation of hearing’ that every shilling was spent. I
guessed the situation of his thoughts, and, assuming a
sullen look, bade him fetch me some water to wash. He
replied, without lifting his eyes from the ground, “ In
my simple conjecture, you have more oceasion for rest,
not having, I supppose, slept these four-and-twenty
hours.” “ Bring me some water,” said I, in a peremp-
tory tone ; upon which he sneaked away shrugging his
shoulders. Before he returned, I had spread my whole
stock on the table in a most ostentatious manner, so
that when it first saluted his view, he stood like one
entranced ; and having rubbed his eyes more than once,
to assure himself of his being awake, broke into, “ Lord
have mercy upon us, what a vast treasure is here!
“>is all our own Strap,” said I; “ take what is neces-
sary, and redeem the sword immediately.” He advanced
towards the table, stopt short by the way, looked at the
money and me by turns, and, with a wildness in his
countenance, produced from joy checked by distrust,
cried, “ I dare say it is honestly eome by.” ‘lo remove
his scruples, I made him acquainted with the whole
story of my success, on hearing of which, he danced
about the room in an ecstacy, crying, “God be praisea,
a white stone ! God be praised, a white stone !”—so that
I was afraid the sudden change of fortune had dis-

-

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| itself; therefore stipulated with Mrs Gawky, that before

|

 

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O5

ordered his intellects, and that he was run mad with
joy. Extremely concerned at this event, I attempted
to reason him out of his phrenzy, but to no purpose ;
for without regarding what I said, he continued to frisk
up and down, and repeat his rhapsody of “God be
praised, a white stone!” At last I rose in the utmost
consternation, and, laying violent hands upon him, put
shies thst waa inthe tie Yen ee

vubee ‘that we ) m. ‘This constraint banished
his delirium 3 he started, as if just awoke, and terrified
at my behaviour, cried, “ What is the matter?” When
he learned the cause of my apprehension, he was
ashamed of his transports, and told me that, in men-
tionmeg the white stone, he alluded to the Dies Sasti of
the Romans, albo lapide notati.

Having no inclination to sleep, I secured my cash,
dressed, and was just going abroad, when the servant
of the house told me there was a sentlewoman at the
door who wanted to speak with me. Surprised at this
information, I bade Strap show her up, and in less than
a minute saw a young woman of a shabby decayed ap-
pearance enter my room. After half a dozen curtsies
she began to sob, and told me her name was Gawky,
upon which I immediately recollected the features of
iiss Lavement, who had been the first occasion of my
misfortunes, ‘Though I had all the reason in the world
to resent her treacherous usage of me, I was moved at
her distress, and, professing my sorrow at seeing her so
reduced, desired her to sit, and inquired into the par-
ticulars of her situation. She fell upon her knees, and
implored my forgiveness for the injuries she had done
me, protesting before God, that she was forced, against

| her inclination, into that hellish conspiracy which had
the

simosi deprived me of my life, by the entreaties of her
husband, who having been afterwards renounced by his
father on account of his marriage with her, and unable
to support a family on his pay, left his wife at her
father’s house, and went with the regiment to Germany,
where he was broke for misbehaviour at the battle of
Dettingen, since which time she had heard no tidings
She then gave me to understand, with many
Symptoms of penitence, that it was her misfortune to
bear a child four months after marriage, by which her
parents were so incensed, that she was turned out of
doors with the infant, that died soon after, and had

hitherto subsisted in a miserable indigent manner, on
+}

the extorted charity of a few friends, who were now
quite tired of giving; that not knowing where or how

| to support herself one day longer, she had fied for sue-

cour even to me, who of all mankind had the least cause
to assist her, relying upon the generosity of my dispo-
sition, which, she hoped, would be pleased with this
opportunity of avenging itself in the noblest manner
on the wretch who had wronged me. I was very much
affected with her discourse, and, having no cause to sus-
pect the sincerity of her repentance, raised her up,
freely pardoned all she had done against me, and pro-
mised to befriend her as much as lay in my power.
Since my last arrival in London, I had made no ad-
vances to the apothecary, imagining it would be impos-
sible for me to make my innocence appear, so unhappily
was my accusation circumstanced. Strap, indeed, had
laboured to justify me to the schoolmaster ; but so far
from succeeding in his attempt, Mr Concordance dropt
all correspondence with him, because he refused to quit
his connection with me. Things being in this situation,
[ thought a fairer opportunity of vindicating my cha-
racter could not offer than that which now presented

I yielded her the least assistance, she should do me the
justice to clear my reputation, by explaining upon oath
before a magistrate, the whole of the conspiracy, as it
had been executed against me. When she had given
me this satisfaction, I presented her with five guineas—
a sum so much above her expectation, that she could
scarce believe the evidence of her senses, and was ready
to worship me for-my benevolence. The declaration,
signed with her own hand, I sent to her father, who,
upon recollecting and comparing the circumstances of
iy charge, was convinced of my integrity, and waited

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SUELO TE Taal ec aaa ai 96

: on me next day, in company with his friend the school-
H) master, to whom he had communicated my vindication.
ts After mutual salutations, Monsieur Lavement began a

long apology for the unjust treatment I received; but
I saved him a good deal of breath by interrupting his
harangue, and assuring him, that so far from entertain-
ing any resentment against him, I thought myself obliged
i | to his lenity, which allowed me to escape, after such

i strong presumptions of guilt appeared against me. Mr
Uf! Concordance, thinking it now his turnto speak, observed,

iN that Mr Random had too much candour and sagacity to
he disobliged at their conduct, which, all things consi-
dered, could not have been otherwise, with any honesty

bi of intention. “ Indeed,” said he, “if the plot had been

unravelled to us by any supernatural intelligence ; if it
a had been whispered by a genie, communicated by a
bi dream, or revealed by an angel from on high, we should
have been to blame in crediting ocular demonstration ;

but as we were left in the mist of mortality, it cannot
be expected ‘we should be incapable of imposition. I as-
sure you, Mr Random, no man on earth is more pleased
than Lam at the triumph of your character ; and as the
f news of your misfortune panged me to the very entrails,
this manifestation of your innocence makes my midriff
quiver with joy.” I thanked him for his concern, desired
them to undeceive those of their acquaintance who judged
harshly of me, and having treated them with a glass of
wine, represented to Lavement the deplorable condition
of his daughter, and pleaded her cause so effectually,
: that he consented to settle a small annuity on her for
life; but could not be persuaded to take her home, be-
» cause her mother was so much incensed that she would

never see her.

Derren erences

CHAPTER Litt.

Havine finished this affair to my satisfaction, I found

myself perfectly at ease, and, looking upon the gaming-

table as a certain resource for a gentleman in want,

became more gay than ever. Although my clothes

were almost as good as new, I grew ashamed of wear-

ing them, because I thought every body by this time

had got an inventory of my wardrobe; for which rea-

son I disposed of a good part of my apparel to a sales-

manin Monmouth Street, for half the value, and bought

two new suits with the money. I likewise purchased a

plain gold watch, despairing of recovering that which

I had so foolishly given to Strutwell, whom, notwith-

standing, I still continued to visit at his levee, until the

ambassador he had mentioned set out with a secretary

of his own choosing. I thought myself then at liberty

to expostulate with his lordship, whom I treated with

great freedom, in a letter, for amusing me with vain

" hopes, when he neither had the power nor the ineli-

wild nation to provide for me. Nor was I less reserved

with Straddle, whom I in person reproached for misre-

presenting to me the character of Strutwell, which I

did not seruple to aver was infamous in every respect.

He seemed very much enraged at my freedom ; talked

a great deal about his quality and honour, and began

to make some comparisons, which I thought so inju-

rious to mine, that I demanded an explanation with

great warmth, and he was mean enough to equivocate

and condescend in such a manner, that I left him with
a hearty contempt of his behaviour.

About this time, Banter, who had observed a sur-
prising and sudden alteration in my appearance and
disposition, began to inquire very minutely into the
cause; and as [ did not think fit to let him know the
true state of the affair, lest he might make free with
my purse, on the strength of having proposed the
scheme that filled it, I told him that I had received a
small supply from a relation in the country, who at the
same time had promised to use all his interest (which
was not small) in soliciting some post for me that would
make me easy for life. “1f that be the ease,” said Ban-
ter, “ perhaps you won’t care to mortify yourself a little
in making your fortune another way. I have a rela-
tion who is to set out for Bath next week, with an only

i 1 Sa tr i ‘. >) NBS

 

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

daughter, who, being sickly and decrepid, intends to
drink the waters for the recovery of her health. Her
father, who was a rich Turkey merchant, died about a
year ago, and left her with a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, under the sole management of her mother, who
is my kinswoman. I would have put in for the plate
myself, but there is a breach at present between the old
woman and me. You must know that some time ago
I borrowed a small sum of her, and promised, it seems,
to pay it before a certain time; but being disappointed
in my expectation of money from the country, the day
elapsed without my being able to take up my note ; upon
which she wrote a peremptory letter, threatening to
arrest me if [ did not pay the debt immediately. Nettled
at this precise behaviour, I sent a severe answer, which
enraged her so much, that she actually took out a writ
against me. Whereupon, finding the thing grow serious,
I got a friend to advance the money forme, discharged
the debt, went to her house, and abused her for her
unfriendly dealing. She was much provoked by my re-
proaches, and scolded in her turn. The little deformed
urchin joined her mother with such virulence and
volubility of tongue, that I was fain to make my re-
treat, after having been honoured with a great many
scandalous epithets, which gave me plainly to under-
stand, that I had nothing to hope from the esteem of
the one or the affection of the other. As‘they are both
utter strangers to life, it is a thousand to one but the
girl will be picked up by some scoundrel or other at
Bath, if I don’t provide for her otherwise. You are a
well-looking fellow, Random, and can behave as de-
murely as a Quaker. Now, if you will give me an obli-
gation for five hundred pounds, to be paid six months
after your marriage, I will put you in a method of car-
rying her in spite of all opposition.”

This proposal was too advantageous for me to be re-
fused ; the writing was immediately drawn and executed
—and Banter giving me notice of the time when, and
the stage-coach in which, they were to set out, I bespoke
a place in the same convenience ; and having hired a
horse for Strap, who was charmed with the project, set
out accordingly.

As we embarked before day, I had not the pleasure
for some time of seeing Miss Snapper (that was the
name of my mistress), nor eyen of perceiving the num-
ber and sex of my fellow-trayellers, although I guessed
that the coach was full, by the difficulty I found in seat-
ing myself. The first five minutes passed im a general
silence, when all of a sudden, the coach heeling to one
side, a boisterous voice pronounced, “ To the right and
left, cover your flanks, d—me! whiz!” I easily dis-
covered, by the tone and manner of this exclamation,
that it was uttered by a son of Mars; neither was it
hard to conceive the profession of another person, who
sat opposite to me, and obseryed, that we ought to have
been well satisfied of the security, before we entered
upon the premises. ‘These two sallies had not the de-
sired effect. We continued a good while as mute as
before, till at length the gentleman of the sword, im-
patient of longer silence, made a second effort, by
swearing he had got into a meeting of Quakers. “ [
believe so too,” said a shrill female voice, at my left
hand, “ for the spirit of folly begins to move.” “ Out
with it then, madam,’ replied the soldier. “ You seem
to have no occasion for a midwife,’ cried the lady.
“ J)— my blood !” exclaimed the other; “aman can’t
talk to a woman but she immediately thinks of a mid-
wife.” “ True, sir,” said she, “ I long to be delivered.”
* What! of a mouse, madam?” said he. “ No, sir,” said
she, “of a fool.’ “ Are you far gone with fool?” said
he. ‘ Little more than two miles,” said she. “ By
Gad, you’re a wit, madam,” cried the officer. “ I wish
{ could with any justice return the compliment,” said
the lady. “ Zounds! I have done,” said he. “ Your bolt
is soon shot, according to the proverb,” said she. The
warrior’s powder was quite spent; the lawyer advised
him to drop the prosecution ; and a grave matron, who
sat on the left hand of the victorious wit, told her she
must not let her tongue run so fast among strangers.
This reprimand, softened with the appellation of child,

eaeADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

convineed me that the satirical lady was no other than
Miss:Snapper, and I resolved to regulate my conduct
accordingly. 'The champion, finding himself so smartly
handled, changed his battery, and began to expatiate
on his own exploits. “ You talk of shot, madam,” said
he, “ d—me! I have both given and received some shot
in my time. I was wounded in the shoulder by a pistol-
ball at Dettingen, where—I say nothing ; but by G—!
if it had not been for me—all’s one for that—I despise
boasting, d—me! whiz!” So saying, he whistled one
part and hummed another of the Black Joke ; then, ad-
dressing himself to the lawyer, went on thus : “ Wouldnt
you think it devilish hard after having, at the risk of
your life, recovered the standard of a regiment that had
been lost, to receive no preferment for your pains? I
don’t choose to name no names, sink me! but, howsom-
ever, I will refer this:—A musketeer of the French
guards, having taken a standard from a certain cornet
of a certain regiment, d—me ! was retreating with his
prize as fast as his horse’s heels could carry him, sink
me 1—upon which I snatched up a firelock that belonged
to a dead man, d—me! whiz! and shot his horse under
him, d— my blood! The fellow got upon his feet and
began to attack me, upon which 1] charged my bayonet
breast-high, and ran him through the body, by G—!
One of his comrades coming to his assistance, shot me
in the shoulder, as I told you before ; and another gave
me a contusion on the head with the butt-end of his
carbine ; but, d—me, that did not signify. I killed one,
put the other to flight, and, taking up the standard,
carried it off very deliberately. But the best joke of

 

all was, the poltroon of a cornet who had surren-
dered it in a cowardly manner, seeing it in my posses-
sion, demanded it from me in the front of the line.
* D— my blood,’ says he, ‘ where did you find my
standard? says he. ‘D—. my blood, said I, ‘ where,’
said [, ‘did you lose it? ‘That?s nothing to you,’ says
he, ‘’tis my standard,’ says he; ‘and by G— I’ll have
it,” says he. * D——tion seize me,’ says I, ‘if you
shall, says I, ‘ till I have first delivered it to the gene-
ral, says I; ‘and accordingly I went to the head-
quarters after the battle, and delivered it to my Lord
Stair, who promised to do for me; but I am no more
than a poor lieutenant still, d— my blood.”

Having vented this repetition of expletives, the lawyer
owned he had not been requited according to his de-
serts ; observed, that the labourer is always worthy of
his hire, and asked if the promise was made before
witnesses, because in that case the law would compel
the general to perform it; but understanding that the
promise was simply made over a bottle, without any
restriction as to time or terms, he pronounced it not
valid in law, proceeded to inquire into the particulars
of the battle, and affirmed, that although the English
had drawn themselves into a premunire at first, the
French managed their cause so lamely in the course of
their dispute, that they would have been utterly non-
suited, had they not obtained a noli prosequi. In spite
of these enlivening touches, the conversation was like
to suffer another long interruption, when the lieutenant,
unwilling to conceal any of his accomplishments that

97

are above my comprehension.” “ [ an’t obliged to find
you comprehension, Madam, curse me !” cried he. “ No,
nor to speak sense neither,” said she. “ D— my heart,’
said he, “ 1’ll speak what I please.” Here the lawyer
imterposed, by telling him there were some things he
must not speak ; and upon being defied to give an in-
stance, mentioned treason and defamation. “As for
the king,” cried the soldier, “ God bless him, I eat his
bread, and have lost blood in his cause, therefore [
have nothing to say to him, but I dare say any thing
to any other man.” “No,” said the lawyer, “ you dare
not call me a rogue.” “ D__ me, for what?? said the
other. “ Because,” replied the counsellor, “TI should
have a good action against you, and recover.” Well,
well,” cried the officer, “if I dare not call you rogue, I
dare think you one.” This stroke of wit he accompanied
with a loud laugh of self-approbation, which unluckily
did not affect the audience, but effectually silenced his
antagonist, who did not open his mouth for the space
ofan hour thereafter, except to clear his pipe with three
hems, which, however, produced nothing.

DOLLS O LODO ODI ELE

CHAPTER LILY.

In the meantime, day breaking in upon us, discovered
to one another the faces of their fellow-travellers ; and
I had the good fortune to find my mistress not quite so
deformed nor disagreeable as she had been represented
tome. Her head, indeed, bore some resemblance to a
hatchet, the edge being represented by her face ; but
she had a certain delicacy in her complexion, and a
great deal of vivacity in her eyes, which were very large
and black ; and though the protuberance of her breast,
when considered alone, seemed to drag her forwards,
it was easy to perceive an equivalent on her back which
balanced the other, and kept her body in equilibrio.
On the whole, I thought I should have great reason to
congratulate myself, if it should be my fate to possess
twenty thousand pounds encumbered with such a wife.
| began, therefore, to deliberate about the most pro-
bable means of acquiring the conquest, and was so much
engrossed by this idea, that I scarce took any notice of
the rest of the people in the coach, but revolved my pro-
spect in silence ; while the conversation was maintained
as before by the object of my hopes, the son of Mars,
and the barrister, who by this time had recollected him-
self, and talked in terms as much as ever. At length
a dispute happened, which ended in a wager, to be de-
termined by me, who was so much absorbed in contem-
plation that I neither heard the reference nor the ques-
tion, which was put to me by each in histurn. Affronted
at Iny supposed contempt, the soldier, with great voci-
feration, swore I was either dumb or deaf, if not both,
and that I looked as if I could not say “boh to a goose.”
Aroused at this observation, I fixed my eyes upon him,
and pronounced with emphasis the interjection “boh !”
Upon which he cocked his hat in a fierce manner, and
cried “ D—me, Sir, what d’ye mean by that?”

Had I intended to answer him, which by the bye was
not my design, I should have been anticipated by Miss,
who told him my meaning was to show that I could

» could be displayed in his present situation, offered to

; ; cry “boh to a goose ;” and laughed very heartily at my
regale the company with a song; and interpreting our

laconic reproof. Her explanation and mirth did not
help to appease his wrath, which broke out in several
martial insinuations, such as, “ I do not understand such

oH 7

silence into a desire of hearing, began to warble a

‘ fashionable air, the first stanza of which he pronounced
i thus:—

>
*

a
*§
4

ro

ry

“ Would you task the moon-tied hair,

To yon flagrant beau repair;

Where waving with the poppling vow,

The bantling fine will shelter you,” &c.

_ The sense of the rest he perverted as he went on, with
: such surprising facility, that I could not help thinking

 

 

freedoms, d—me! D— my blood! I’m a gentleman,
and bear the king’s commission. ’Sblood ! some people
deserve to have their noses pulled for their imperti-
nence.” I thought to have checked these ejaculations
by a frown, because he had talked so much of his
valour, that I had long ago rated him an ass im a lion’s
skin; but so far from answering my expectation, he

oC

took umbrage at the contraction of my brows, swore
he did not value my sulky look a fig’s end, and protested
he feared no man breathing. Miss Snapper said, she
was very glad to find herself in company with a man
of so much courage, which she did not doubt would
protect us all from the attempts of highwaymen during
our journey. “ Make yourself perfectly easy on that
head, Madam,” replied the officer ; “ I have got a pair

| he had been at some pains to burlesque the perform-
'ance. Miss Snapper ascribed it to the true cause,
| namely, ignorance ; and when he asked her how she
| relished the music, answered, in her opinion the music
and the words were much of a piece. “Oh! d— my
| blood!” said he; “I take that as a high compliment ;
| for eyery body allows the words are fine.” “ They may
| be so,” replied the lady, “for aught I know, but they

 

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4
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98 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

of pistols, here they are, which I took from a horse
officer at the battle of Dettingen; they are double
loaded, and no highwaymen in Kngland dare rob you
of the value of a pin while I have the honour of being
in your company.” When he had expressed himself
in this manner, a prim gentlewoman, who had sat silent
hitherto, opened her mouth, and said, she wondered how
any man could be so rude as to pull out sueh weapons
before ladies. “ Madam,” cried the champion, “if you
are-so much afraid at sight of a pistol, how d’ye pro-
pose to stand fire if there should be occasion?” She
let him know, that if she thought he could be so un-
mannerly as to use fire-arms m her presence, whatever
might be the occasion, she should get out of the coach
immediately, and walk to the next village, where she
might procure a convenience to herself.

Before he could make any answer, my Dulcinea in-
terposed, and observed, that so far from being offended
at a gentleman’s using his arms in his own defence, she
thought herself very tucky in being along with one by
whose valour she stood a good chance of saving herself
from being rifled. The prude cast a disdainful look at
Miss, and said, that people who have but little to lose
are sometimes the most solicitous about preserving it.
The old lady was affronted at this nuendo, and took
notice, that people ought to be very well informed be-
fore they speak slightly of other people’s fortune, lest
they discover their own envy, and make themselves
ridiculous. The daughter declared, that she did not
pretend to vie with any body in point of riches; and if
the lady who insisted on non-resistance would promise
to indemnify us all for the loss we should sustain, she

would be one of the first to persuade the captain to sub- |

mission, in case we should be attacked. To this pro-

 

|

posal, reasonable as it was, the reserved lady made no |

other reply than a scornful glance and a toss of her
head.
Iwasvery well pleased with the spirit of my mistress ;

and even wished for an opportunity of distinguishing |

my courage under her eye, which I believed could not
fail of prepossessing her in my favour; when, all of a
sudden, Strap rode up to the coach door, and told us,
in a great fright, that two men on horseback were
erossing the heath (for by this time we had passed
Hounslow), and made directly towards us. This piece
of information was no sooner delivered than Mrs Snap-
per began to scream, her daughter grew pale, the other
lady pulled out her purse to be im readiness, the law-
yer’s teeth chattered, while he pronounced, “ ’Tis no
matter—we'll sue the county and reeover.’ The eap-
tain gave evident signs of confusion; and I, after hay-
ing commanded the coachman to stop, opened the door,
jun.ped out, and invited the warrior to follow me. But
finding him backward and astonished, I took his pistols,
and giving them to Strap, who by this time had alighted,
and trembled very much, | mounted on horseback ; and
taking my own, which J could better depend upon, from
the holsters, eocked them both, and faced the robbers,
who were now very near us. Seeing me ready to op-
pose them on horseback, and another man armed a-foot,
they made a halt at some distance to reconnoitre us;
and after having rode round us twice, myself still facing
about as they rode, went off the same way they came,
ata hand gallop. A gentleman’s servant coming up
with a horse at the same time, I offered him a crown
to assist me in pursuing them, which he no sooner ae-
cepted than I armed him with the officer’s pistols, and
we galloped after the thieves, who, trusting to the swift-
ness of their horses, stopped till we came within shot of
them, and then firing at us, put their nags to the full
speed.

We followed them as far as our beasts could carry
us; but not being so well mounted as they, our efforts
would have been to little purpose, had not the horse of
one of them stumbled, and thrown his rider with such
violence over his head, that he lay senseless when we
came up, and was taken without the least opposition,
while his comrade consulted his own safety in flight,
without regarding the distress of his friend. We searce
had time to make ourselves masters of his-arms, and

 

a ial

 

 

tie his hands together, before he recovered his senses ;
when, learning his situation, he affected surprise, de-
manded to know by what authority we used a gentle-
man in that manner, and had the impudence to threaten
us with a prosecution for robbery. In the meantime,
we perceived Strap coming up with a crowd of people
armed with different kinds of weapons; and among the
rest a farmer, who no sooner perceived the thief whom
we had secured, than he eried with great emotion,
“ There’s the fellow who robbed me an hour ago, of
twenty pounds in a canvass bag.” He was immediately
searched, and the money found exactly as it had been
described : upon which, we committed him to the charge
of the countryman, who earried him to the town of
Hounslow, which, it seems, the farmer had alarmed ;
and having satisfied the footman for his trouble, accord-
ing to promise, 1 returned with Strap to the coach,
where | found the captain and lawyer busy in adminis-
tering smelling bottles and eordials to the grave lady,
who had gone into a fit at the noise of the firing.

When I had taken my seat, Miss Snapper, who from
the coach had seen every thing that happened, made
me a compliment on my behaviour, and said she was
glad to see me returned without having received any
injury; her mother, too, owned herselt obliged to my
resolution ; and the lawyer told me that I was entitled,
by aet of parliament, to a reward of forty pounds, for
having apprehended a highwayman. ‘The soldier ob-
served, with a countenance in which impudence and
shame struggling produced some disorder, that if I had
not been in such a hurry to get out of the coach, he
would have secured the rogues effectually, without all
this bustle and loss of time, by a scheme which my heat
and precipitation ruined. “ For my own part,” con-
tinued he, “ I am always extremely cool on these occa-
“ So it appeared by your trembling,” “said the
young lady. “’S’death !” cried he ; “ your sex protects
you, madam ; if any man on earth durst teil me so much,
[’d send him to his grave in an instant.” So saying,
he fixed his eyes upon me, and asked if I had seen
him tremble. I answered without hesitation, “ Yes.”
“ D—me, sir,” said he, “ d’ye doubt my courage?” I
replied, “ Very much.” This declaration quite discon-

;
certed | He looked blank, and pronounced, with a
faltering voice, “Oh! ’tis very well; I shall find a
time.” I signified my contempt of him by thrusting
my tongue into my cheek, which humbled him so much,
that he searce swore another oath aloud during the
whole journey.

The precise lady having recruited her spirits by the
help of some strong waters, began a soliloquy, in which
she wondered that any man that pretended to maintain
the character of a gentleman, could, for the sake of a
little paltry coin, throw persons of honour into such
quandaries as might endanger their lives, and professed
her surprise that women were not ashamed to commend
such brutality; at the same time vowing, that for the
future she would never set foot in a stage-coach, if a
private convenience could be had for love or money.

Nettled at her remarks, I took the same method of
eonveying my sentiments, and wondered, m my turn,
that any woman of common sense should be so unrea-
sonable as to expect that people who had neither ac-
quaintance nor connection with her, would tamely allow
themselves to be robbed and maltreated, merely to in-
dulge her capricious humour. 1 likewise professed my
astonishment at her insolence and ingratitude, in taxing
a person with brutality who deserved her approbation
and acknowledgment, and vowed, that if ever we should
be assaulted again, 1 would leave her to the mercy of
the spoiler, that she might know the value of my pro-
tection.

This person of honour did not think fit to carry on
the altercation any further, but seemed to chew the cud
of her resentment with the erest-fallen captain, while I
entered into discourse with my charmer, who was the
more pleased with my conversation, as she had con-
ceived a very different opinion of my intellects from
my former silence. I should have had cause to be
equally satisfied with the sprightliness of her genius,”

sions.”

im.

 

s Se eee - " el : ad a >ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. og

could she have curbed her imagination with judgment ;
but she laboured under such a profusion of talk, that I
dreaded her unruly tongue, and felt by anticipation the
horrors of an eternal clack! However, when I con-
sidered, on the other hand, the joys attending the
possession of twenty thousand pounds, I forgot her im-
perfections, seized occasion by the forelock, and en-
deavoured to insinuate myself into her affection. The
careful mother kept a strict watch over her ; and though
she could not help behaving civilly to me, took frequent
opportunities of discouraging our communication, by
reprimanding her for being so free with strangers, and
telling her she must learn to speak less and think more.
Abridged of the use of speech, we conversed with our
eyes, and I found the young lady very eloquent in this
kind of discourse. In short, I had reason to believe
that she was sick of the old gentlewoman’s tuition, and
that I should find it no difficult matter to supersede her
authority.

When we arrived at the place where we were to

breakfast, I alighted, and helped my mistress out of

the coach, as well as her mother, who called for a pri-
vate room, to which they withdrew, in order to eat by

themselves. As they retired together, I perceived that
th : 5 I

t
Miss had got more twists from nature than I had be-
fore observed, being bent sideways into the figure of an
8, so that her progression very much resembled that
ofacrab. The prude also chose the captain for her
messmate, and ordered breakfast for two only to be
brought into another separate room, while the lawyer
and I, deserted by the rest of the company, were fain

to put up with one another. I was a good deal cha-
grined at the stately reserve of Mrs Snapper, who I
thought did not use me with all the complaisance I de-
served, and my companion declared that he had heen
a traveller these twenty years, and never knew the

stage-coach rules so much infringed before. He enter-
tained me during breakfast with a good deal of wit at
the expense of our fellow-travellers ; and, among other
things, said he was sorry to find the young lady sad-
dled with suc]
When we ha

incumbrances.
1 made an end of our repast, and paid
} our reckoning, we went into the coach, took our places,
and bribed the driver with sixpence, to revenge us on
| the rest of his fare, by hurrying them aw ay in the midst
of their meal. This he performed to our satisfaction.
‘after he had disturbed their enjoyment with his im-
| portunate clamour. The mother and daughter obeyed
| the summons first, and coming to the coach-door, were
obliged to desire the coachman’s assistance to get in,
because the lawyer and I had agreed to show our re-
: sentment by our neglect. They were no sooner seated
| than the captain appeared, as much heated as if he had
| been pursued a dozen miles by an enemy, and imme-
diately after him came the lady. Having helped her
up, he entered himself, growling a few oaths against the
- coachman for his impertinent interruption.

| My pride and interest now maintained a severe conflict
(on the subject of Miss Snapper, whom the one repre-
isented as unworthy of my notice; and the other pro-
( posed as the object of my whole attention: the advantages
jand disadvantages attending such a match were opposed

to one another by my imagination, and at length my
judgment gave it so much in favour of the first, that |
‘resolved to prosecute my scheme, with all the address
tin my power. I thought |] perceived some concern in
iher countenance, occasioned by my silence, which she
ino doubt imputed to my disgust at her mother’s beha-
‘yiour; and as I believed the old woman could not fail
jof ascribing my muteness to the same motive, I deter-
imined to continue that sullen conduct towards her, and
' fall upon some other method of manifesting my esteem
ifor the daughter: nor was it diffieult for me to make
iher acquainted with my sentiments by the expression
sof my looks, which I modelled into the characters of
i humility and love, and which were answered by her

ld

 

with all the Sympathy and approbation I could desire.
But When I began to consider, that, without further
vbportunities of improving my success, all the progress
Thad hitherto made could not much avail, and that
such opportunities could not be enjoyed without the
mother 8 permission, I concluded it would be requisite
to vanquish her coldness and suspicion by my assiduities
and respectiul behaviour on the road; and she would
in all likelihood invite nie to visit her at Bath, where I
did not fear of being able to cultivate her acquaintance
as much as would be necessary to the accomplishment
of my purpose. And, indeed, accident furnished me
with an opportunity of obliging her go much, that she
could not, with any appearance of good manners, for-
bear to gratify my inelination,

When we arrived at our dining place, we found all
the eatables in the inn bespoke by a certain nobleman
who had got the start of us; and in all likelihood my
mistress and her mother must have dined with Duke
Humphrey, had I not exerted myself in their behalf,
and bribed the landlord with a glass of wine, to eurtail
his lordship’s entertainment of a couple of fowls and
some bacon, which I sent with my compliments to the
ladies : they accepted my treat witha great many thanks,
and desired I would favour them with my company at
dinner, where I amused the old gentlewoman so sue-
cessfully, by maintaining a seemingly disinterested ease
in the midst of my civility, that she signified a desire of
being better acquainted, and hoped I would be so kind
as to see her sometimes at Bath. While I enjoyed my-
self in this manner, the precise lady had the good for-
tune to meet with her husband, who was no other than
gentleman, or in other words, valet de chambre, to the
very nobleman whose coach stood at the door. Proud
of the interest she had in the house, she affected to
show her power by introducing the captain to her
spouse, aS a person who had treated her with great
civility, upon which he was invited to a share of their
dinner; while the poor lawyer, finding himself utterly
abandoned, made application to me, and was, through
my intercession, admitted into our company. Having
satisfied our appetites, and made ourselves very merry
at the expense of the person of honour, the civil captain
and complaisant husband, I did myself the pleasure of
discharging the bill by stealth, for which I received a
great many apologies and acknowledgments from my
guests, and we re-embarked at the first warning. The
oificer was obliged at last to appease his hunger with a
luncheon of bread and cheese, and a pint bottle of
brandy, which he dispatched in the coach, cursing the
inappetence of his lordship, who had ordered dinner to
be put back a whole hour.

Nothing remarkable happened during the remaining
part of our journey, which was ended about twelve
o’clock, when I waited on the ladies to the house of a
relation, in which they intended to lodge, and, passing
that, night in the inn, took lodgings next morning for
myself,

The forenoon was spent in visiting every thing that
was worth seeing in the place, which I did in company
with a gentleman to whom Banter had given me a letter
of introduction ; and in the afternoon I waited on the
ladies, and found Miss a good deal indisposed with the
fatigues of the journey. As they foresaw they would
have occasion for a male acquaintance to squire them
at all public places, I was received with great cordiality,
and had the mother’s permission to conduct them next
day to the Long-room, where we no sooner entered, than
the eyes of every body present were turned upon us;
and when we had suffered the martyrdom of their looks
for some time, a whisper circulated at our expense, which
was accompanied with many contemptuous smiles and
tittering observations, to my utter shame and confusion.
[ did not so much conduct, as follow, my charge to-a
place where she seated her mother and herself, with
astonishing composure, notwithstanding the unmannerly
behaviour of the whole company, which seemed to be
assumed merely to put her out of countenance. The
celebrated Mr Nash, who commonly attends in this
place as master of the ceremonies, perceiving the dic.

2

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4
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100

position of the assembly, took upon himself the task of
gratifying their ill nature still farther, by exposing my
mistress to the edge of his wit. With this view, he ap-
proached us with many bows and grimaces, and, after
having welcomed Miss Snapper to the place, asked her,
in the hearing of all present, if she could inform him of
the name of 'Tobit’s dog. I was so much incensed at
his insolence, that I should certainly have kicked him
where he stood, without ceremony, had not the young
lady prevented the effects of my indignation by reply-
ing, with the utmost vivacity, “His name was Nash,
and an impudent dog he was.” This repartee, so un-
expected and just, raised such a universal laugh at the
aggressor, that all his assurance was insufficient to sup-
port him under their derision; so that, after he had
endeavoured to compose himself by taking snuff, and
forcing a smile, he was obliged to sneak off in a very
ludicrous attitude, while my Dulcinea was applauded
to the skies for the brilliancy of her wit, and her ac-
quaintance immediately courted by the best people of
both sexes in the room.

This event, with which I was infinitely pleased at
first, did not fail of alarming me, upon further reflec-
tion, when I considered, that the more she was caressed
by persons of distinction, the more her pride would be
inflamed, and consequently the obstacles to my success
multiplied and enlarged. Nor were my presaging fears
untrue. That very night I perceived her a little intoxi-
cated with the incense she had received, and though
she still behaved with a particular civility to me, I fore-
saw that as soon as her fortune should be known, she
would be surrounded with a swarm of admirers, some
one of whom might possibly, by excelling me in point of
wealth, or in the arts of flattery and scandal, supplant
me in her esteem, and find means to make the mother of
his party. I resolved, therefore, to lose no time, and be-
ing invited to spend the evening with them, found an
opportunity, in spite of the old gentlewoman’s vigilance,
to explainthe meaning of my glances in the coach, by pay-
ing homage to her wit, and professing myself enamoured
of her person. She blushed at my declaration, and in
a favourable manner disapproved of the liberty I had
taken, putting me in mind of our being strangers to
one another, and desiring I would not be the means of
interrupting our acquaintance, by any such unseason-
able strokes of gallantry for the future. My ardour
was effectually checked by this reprimand, which was,
however, delivered in such a gentle manner, that I had
no cause to be disobliged ; and the arrival of her mother
believed me from a dilemma, in which T should not have
known how to demean myself a minute longer. Neither
could I resume the easiness of carriage with which I
came in; my mistress acted onthe reserve; and the
conversation beginning to flag, the old lady introduced
her kinswoman of the house, and proposed a hand at
whist.

While we amused ourselves at this diversion, IT un-
derstood from the gentlewoman that there was to be
an assembly next night, at which I begged to have the
honour of dancing with Miss. She thanked me for the
favour I intended her, assured me she never did dance,
but signified a desire of seeing the company; upon
which I offered my service, and was accepted, not a
little proud of being exempted from appearing with
her in a situation, that, notwithstanding my profession
to the contrary, was not at all agreeable to my incli-
nation,

Having supped, and continued the game till such
time as the successive yawns of the mother warned me
to be gone, I took my leave, and went home, where |
made Strap very happy with an account of my progress.
Next day I put on my gayest apparel, and went to drink
tea at Mrs Snapper’s, according to appointment, when
I found, to my inexpressible satisfaction, that she was
laid up with the toothache, and that Miss was to be
entrusted to my care. Accordingly, we sct out for the
ballroom pretty carly in the evening, and took posses-
sion of a commodious place, where we had not sat longer
than a quarter of an hour, when a gentleman dresse:

ave . y ops y « r y r)

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

I immediately discovered to be the adorable Narcisga !
Good Heavens! what were the thrillings of my soul at
that instant !—my reflection was overwhelmed with a
torrent of agitation—my heart throbbed with surpris-
ing violence—a sudden mist overspread my eyes—my
ears were invaded with a dreadful sound—lI panted for
want of breath—and in short, was for some moments
entranced! ‘This first tumult subsiding, a crowd of
flattering ideas rushed upon my imagination: every
thing that was soft, sensible, and engaging in the cha-
racter of that dear creature, recurred to my remem-
brance; and every favourable circumstance of my own
qualifications appeared in all the aggravation of seif-
conceit, to heighten my expectation. Neither was this
transport of long duration: the dread of her being al-
ready disposed of intervened, and overcast my enchant-
ing reverie. My presaging apprehension represented
her encircled in the arms of some happy rival, and of
consequence for ever lost to me. I was stung with this
suggestion, and, believing the person who conducted her
to be the husband of this amiable young lady, already
devoted him to my fury, and stood up to mark him for
my vengeance, when J recollected, to my unspeakable
joy, her brother, the fox-hunter, in the person of her
gallant. Undeceived so much to my satisfaction in this
particular, I gazed in a frenzy of delight on the irresis-
tible charms of his sister, who no sooner distinguished
me in the crowd, than her evident confusion afforded a
happy omen to my flame. At sight of me she started,
the roses instantly vanished from her polished cheeks,
and returned in a moment with a double glow, that
overspread her lovely neck, while her enchanting bosom
heaved with strong emotion. I hailed these favourable
symptoms, and lying in wait for her looks, did homage
with my eyes. She seemed to approve my declaration
by the complacency of her aspect, and I was so trans-
ported with the discovery, that, more than once, I was
on the point of making up to her, and disclosing the
throbbings of my heart in person, had not that profound
veneration which her presence always inspired,. re-
strained the unseasonable impulse.

My whole powers being engrossed in this manner, it
may be easily imagined how ill I entertained Miss
Snapper, on whom | could not now turn my eyes with-
out making comparisons very little to her advantage.
It was not evenin my power to return distinct answers
to the questions she asked from time to time, so that
she could not help observing my absence of behaviour ;
and, having a turn for observation, watched my glances,
and, tracing them to the divine object, discovered the
cause of my disorder. That she might, however, be
convinced of the truth of her conjecture, she began to
interrogate me with regard to Narcissa, and, notwith-
standing all my endeavours to disengage my sentiments,
perceived my attachment by my confusion ; upon which
she assumed a stateliness of behaviour, and sat silent
during the remaining part of the entertainment. At
any other time I should have been prodigiously alarmed
at her suspicion, but at that instant I was elevated by
my passion above every other consideration. The mis-
tress of my soul having retired with her brother, I dis-
covered so much uneasiness at my situation, that Miss
Snapper proposed to go home; and while I conducted
her to her chair, told me she had too great a regard for
me to keep me any longer in torment. I feigned igno-
rance of her meaning ; and having seen her safely at her
lodgings, took my leave, and went home in an eestacy,
where [ disclosed every thing that had happened to
my confidant and humble servant Strap, who did not
relish the aeeident so well as I expected, and observed,
“That a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. But,
however,” said he, “ you know best, you know best.??
Next day as I went to the bath, in hopes of seeing or
hearing some tidings of my fair enslaver, I was met by
a gentlewoman, who, having looked hard at me, loudly
pronounced my name. Surprised at this exclamation,
[ examined the countenance of the person who spoke,
and immediately recognised my old sweetheart and fel-
low-sufferer, Miss Williams.

OO. te : pd =
pee eed ae

 

sADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

under such a decent appearance, professed my joy at
seeing her so well, and desired to know where I should
have the pleasure of her conversation. She was as
heartily rejoiced at the apparent easiness of my fortune,
and gave me to know, that she, as yet, had no habita-
tion that she could properly call her own, but would
wait on me at any place I would please to appoint.
U nderstanding that she was disengaged for the present,
I showed her the way to my own lodgings, where, after
a very affectionate salutation, she informed me of her
being very happy in the service of a young lady, to
whom she was reéeommended by a former mistress de-
ceased, into whose family she had introduced herself by
the honest deceit she had concerted, while she lived
With me in the garret at London. She then expressed
« vehement desire to be acquainted with the vicissitudes
of my life sinee we parted, and ascribed her curiosity
to the concern she had for my interest. I forthwith
gratified her request, and when I deseribed my situa-
tion in Sussex, perceived her to attend to my story with
particular eagerness. She interrupted me when'I had
finished that period, with “Good God! is it possible 2”
and then begged I would be so good as to continue my
relation, which I did as briefly as I could, burning with
impatience to know the cause of her surprise, about

which I had already formed a very interesting conjec- |

ture,

Having brought my adventures down to the present
day, she seemed very much affected with the different
circumstances of my fortune ; and saying, with a smile,
she believed my distresses were now at a period, pro-

 

ceeded to inform me, that the lady whom she served

was no other than the charming Narcissa, who had
honoured her with her confidence for some time _—
that in consequence of that trust, she had often re-
peated the story of John Brown, with great admira-
tion and regard—that she loved to dwell upon the par-
ticulars of his character, and did not seruple to own a
tender approbation of his flame. I became delirious
with this piece of intelligence, strained Miss Williams
in my embrace, called her the angel of my happiness,
and acted such extravagances, that she would have been
convinced of my sincerity, had she not been satisfied of
my honour before. As soon as I was in a condition to
yield attention, she described the present situation of
her mistress, who had no sooner come home the night
before than she closeted her, and, in a rapture of joy,
gave her to know that she had seen me at the ball,
where I appeared in the character which she always
thought my due, with such advantage of transforma-
tion, that, unless my image had been engraven on her
heart, it would have been impossible to know me for
the person who had worn her aunt’s livery—that by
the language of my eyes, she was assured of the con-
tinuance of my passion for her, and consequently of my
being unengaged to any other ; and that, though she did
not doubt 1 would speedily fall upon some method of
being introduced, she was impatient to hear of me—
that she (Miss Williams) had been sent abroad this
very morning, on purpose to learn the name and cha-
racter I at present bore. My bosom had been hitherto
a stranger to such a flood of joy as now rushed upon
it: my faculties were overborne by the tide—it was
some time before I could open my mouth—and much
longer ere I could utter a coherent sentence. At length,
I fervently requested her to lead me immediately to
the object of my adoration; but she resisted my im-
portunity, and explained the danger of such premature
conduct. “How favourable soever,” said she, “my
lady’s inclination towards you may be, this you may
depend upon, that she will not commit the smallest
trespass upon decorum, either in disclosing her own, or
in receiving a declaration of your passion ; and although
the great veneration I have for you has prompted me
to reveal what she communicated to me in confidence,
I know so well the severity of her sentiments with re-
spect to the punctilios of her sex, that, if she should
learn the least surmise of it, she would not only dismiss
me as a wretch unworthy of her benevolence, but also
for ever shun the efforts of your love.”

 

dl

 

 

 

101

1 assented to the justness of her remonstrance, and
desired she would assist me with her advice and direc-
tion; upon which it was concerted between us, that,
for the present, [ should be contented with her telling
Narcissa, that in the course of her inquiries she could
only learn my name; and tha , if in a day or two I
could fall upon no other method of being made ac-
quainted, she would deliver a letter from me, on pre-

and say, that I met

tence of consulting her happiness,
her in the street, and bribed her to that piece of ser-
adjusted, I kept my old

vice. Matters being thus

acquaintance to breakfast, and learned from her con-
versation that my rival Sir Timothy had drunk himself
into an apoplexy, of which he died five months ago:
that the Savage was still unmarried, and that his aunt
had been seized with a whim which he little expected

and chosen the schoolmaster of the parish for her lord
and husband; but she had been hectic and dropsieal a
good while, and was now at Bath in order to drink the
waters for the recovery of her health : that her niece had
accompanied her thither at her request, and attended
her with the same affection as before her marriage ; and
that her nephew, who had been exasperated at the loss
of her fortune, did not give his attendance out of good
will, but purely to have an eye on his sister, lest she
should likewise throw herself away, without his consent

| or approbation. Having enjoyed ourselves in this man-

ner, and made an assignation to meet next day at a
certain place, Miss Williams took her leave ; and Strap’s
looks being very inquisitive about the nature of the
communication subsisting between us, I made him ac-
quainted with the whole affair, to his great astonish-
ment and satisfaction.
CHAPTER ‘LVI.

In the afternoon I drank tea at the house of Mr Free-
man, to whom I had been recommended by Banter,
where I had not sat five minutes till the fox-hunter
came in, and, by his familiar behaviour, appeared to be
intimate with my friend. I was, at first, under some
concern, lest he should recollect my features ; but when
I found myself introduced to him as a gentleman from
London, without being discovered, I blessed the oppor-
tunity that brought me into his company, hoping that,
in the course of our acquaintance, he would invite me
to his house. Nor were my hopes frustrated ; for as we
spent the evening together, he grew extremely fond of
my conversation, asked a great many childish questions
about France and foreign parts, and seemed so highly
entertained with my answers, that, in his cups, he shook
me often by the hand, pronounced me an honest fellow,
and, in fine, desired our company at dinner the next
day at his own house. My imagination was so much
employed in anticipating the happiness I was to enjoy
the next day, that I slept very little that night; but
getting up early in the morning, went to the place ap-
pointed, where I met Miss Williams, and imparted to
her my success with the squire. She was very much
pleased at the occasion, which (she said) could not fail
of being agreeable to Narcissa, who, in spite of her
passion for me, had mentioned some scruples relating
to my true situation and character, which the delicacy
of her sentiments suggested, and which she believed [
would find it necessary to remove, though she did not
know how. I was a good deal startled at this insinua-
tion, because I foresaw the difficulty I should find in
barely doing myself justice ; for although it never was
my intention to impose myself upon any woman, much
less upon Narcissa, as a man of fortune, I laid claim to
the character of a gentleman, by birth, education, and
behaviour ; and yet (so unluckily had the circumstances
of my life fallen out) I should find it a very hard matter
to make good my pretensions even to these, especially
to the last, which was the most essential.

Miss Williams was as sensible as I of this my disad-
vantage, but comforted me with observing, that when
once a woman has bestowed her affections on a man,
she cannot help judging of him in all respeeta, with a

eer rsy

A
e

ro

ry

aati errcr et eass

 

104

v—— value no man!’’—then dropping his jaw, and.fix-
ing his eyes, he hickup’d aloud, and fell upon the floor
as mute as a flounder. Mr Freeman, heartily rejoiced
at his defeat, assisted me in carrying him to bed, where
we left him to the care of his servants, and went home
to our respective habitations, congratulating one an-
other on our good fortune.

we

CHAPTER LVII.

I was met next morning, at the usual place, by Miss
Williams, who gave me joy at the progress I had made
in the affection of her mistress, and blessed me with an
account of that dear creature’s conversation with her,
after she had retired the night before from our com-
pany. I could scarce believe her information, when
she recounted her expressions in my favour, so much
more warm and passionate were, they than my most
sanguine hopes had presaged, and was particularly
pleased to hear that she approved of my behaviour to
her brother, after she withdrew. Transported with the
news of my happiness, I presented my ring to the mes-
senger, asa testimony of my gratitude and satisfaction ;
but she was above such mercenary-considerations, and
anes my compliment with some:resentment, saying,
she was not a little mortified to see my opinion of her
so low and contemptible. I did myself a piece of justice
by explaining my behaviour on this head, and, to con-
vinee her of my esteem, promised to be ruled by her
directions in the prosecution of the whole affair, which
I had so much at heart, that the repose of my life
depended upon the consequence.

AsI fervently wished for another interview, where I
might pour out the effusions of my love without danger
of being interrupted, and perhaps reap some endearing
return from the queen of my desires, I implored her
advice and assistance in promoting this event; but she
gave me to understand, that Narcissa would make no
precipitate compliances of this kind, and that I would do
well to cultivate her brother’s acquaintance, in the
course of which I would not want opportunities of re-
moving that reserve, which my mistress thought her-
self obliged to maintain during the infancy of our cor-
respondence. In the meantime, she promised to tell
her lady, that I had endeavoured, by presents and per-
suasions, to prevail upon her (Miss Williams) to deliver
a letter from me, which she had refused to charge her-
self with, until she should know Narcissa’s sentiments
of the matter; and said, by these means, she did not
doubt of being able to open a literary communication
between us, which could not fail of introducing more
intimate connections.

I approved of her counsel; and our appointment
being renewed for next day, left her with an intent of
falling upon some method of being reconciled to the
squire, who, I supposed, would be offended with the
trick we had put upon him. With this view I consulted
Freeman, who, from his knowledge of the fox-hunter’s
disposition, assured me there was no other method of
pacifying him than that of sacrificing ourselves for one
night, to an equal match with him im drinking: this I
found myself necessitated to comply with for the in-
terest of my passion, and therefore determined to com-
mit the debauch at my own lodgings, that I might run
no risk of being discovered by Narcissa ina state of
brutal degeneracy. Mr Freeman, who was to be of the
party, wentsat my desire to the squire, in order to en-
gage him, while I took care to furnish myself for his
reception. My invitation was accepted; my guests
honoured me with their company in the evening, when
Bruin gave me to understand that he had drunk many
tuns of wine in his life, but was never served such a
trick as I had played upon him the night before. I
promised to atone for my trespass ; and having ordered
to every man his bottle, began the contest with a
bumper to the health of Narcissa. The toasts circulated
with great devotion, the liquor began to operate, our
mirth grew noisy; and as Freeman and I had the ad-
vantage of drinking small French claret, the Savage was

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

effectually tamed before our senses were in the least
affected, and carried home in a kind of apoplexy of
drunkenness.

I was next morning, as usual, favoured with a visit
from my kind and punctual confidante, who telling me
she was permitted to receive my letters for her mistress,
I took up the pen immediately, and, following the first
dictates of my passion, wrote as follows :—

“ Dear Mapam,—Were it possible for the powers of
utterance to reveal the soft emotions of my soul, the
fond anxiety, the glowing hopes and chilling fears that
rule my breast by turns, I should need no other witness
than this paper, to evince the purity and ardour of that
flame your charms have kindled in my heart. But,
alas! expression wrongs my love; I am inspired with
conceptions that no language can convey! Your beauty
fills me with wonder, your understanding with ravish-
ment, and your goodness with adoration! I am trans-
ported with desire, distracted with doubts, and tortured
with impatience! Suffer me then, lovely arbitress of my
fate, to approach your person, to breathe in soft mur-
murs my passion to your ear, to offer the sacrifice of a
heart overflowing with the most genuine and disinte-
rested love, to gaze with eestacy on the divine object of
my wishes, to hear the music of her enchanting tongue,
to rejoice in her smiles of approbation, and banish the
most intolerable suspense from the bosom of

Your enraptured R R—.”

Having finished this effusion, | committed it to the
care of my faithful friend, with an injunction to second
my entreaty with all her eloquence and influence ; and
in the meantime went to dress, with an intention ofs
visiting Mrs Snapper and Miss, whom I had utterly
neglected, and indeed almost forgot, since my dear
Narcissa had resumed the empire of my soul. The
old gentlewoman received me very kindly, and Miss
affected a frankness and gaiety, which, however, I could
easily perceive was forced and dissembled ; among other
things, she pretended to joke me upon my passion for
Narcissa, which she averred was no secret, and asked,
if I intended to dance with her at the next assembly ?
I was a good deal concerned to find myself become the
town-talk on this subject, lest the squire, having notice
of my inclinations, should disapprove of them, and by
breaking off all correspondence with me, deprive me of
the opportunities I now enjoyed. But I resolved to
use the interest I had with him, while it lasted; and
that very night, meeting him occasionally, asked his per-
mission to solicit her company at the ball, which he
very readily granted, to my inexpressible satisfaction.

Having been kept awake the greatest part of the
night, by a thousand delightful reveries that took pos-
session of my fancy, I got up betimes, and flying to the
place of rendezvous, had in a little time the pleasure of
seeing Miss Williams approach, with a smile on her
countenance, which I interpreted into a good omen.
Neither was I mistaken in my presage: she presented
me-with a letter from the idol of my soul, which, after
having kissed it with great devotion, I opened with the
utmostreagerness, and was blessed with her approbation,
in these terms :—

 

Srr,—To say I look upon you with indifference
would be a piece of dissimulation, which, I think, no
decorum requires, and no custom can justify. As my
heart never felt an impression that my tongue was
ashamed to declare, I will not scruple to own myself
pleased with your passion, confident of your integrity,
and so well convinced of my own discretion, that I
should not hesitate in granting you the interview you
desire, were I not overawed by the prying curiosity of
a malicious world, the censure of which might be fatally
prejudicial to the reputation of Your Narctssa.”

No anchorite, in the ecstacy of devotion, ever adored
a relic with more fervour than that with which I kissed
this inimitable proof of my charmer’s candour, genero-
sity, and affection. I read it over an hundred times,
was delighted with her confession in the beginning ; but
the subscription of Your Narcissa, yielded me suchdelight as I had never felt before. My happiness was
still increased by Miss Williams, who blessed me with
a repetition of her lady’s tender expressions in my
* favour, when she received and read my letter. In short,
I had all the reason in the world to believe that this
gentle creature’s bosom was possessed by a passion for
me, as warm, though perhaps not so impetuous, as mine
for her.

I informed my friend of the squire’s consent, with
regard to my dancing with Narcissa at the ball, and de-
sired her to tell her mistress, that I would do myself
the honour of visiting her in the afternoon, in conse-
quence of his permission, when I hoped to find her as
indulgent as her brother had been complaisant in that
particular. Miss Williams expressed a good deal of
joy at hearing I was so much in favour with the fox-
hunter, and ventured to assure me, that my visit would
be very agreeable to my mistress, the rather because
Bruin was engaged to dine abroad. This was a circum-
stance which, I scarce need say, pleased me. I went
immediately to the Long-room, where I found him, and
aifecting to know nothing of his engagement, told him,
I would do myself the pleasure to wait upon him in the
afternoon, and to present his sister with a ticket for
the ball. He shook me by the hand, according to cus-
tom, and giving me to understand that he was to dine
abroad, desired me to go and drink tea with Narcissa
notwithstanding, and promised to prepare her for my
visit in the meantime.

Every thing succeeding thus to my wish, I waited
with incredible patience for the time, which no sooner
arrived than I hastened to the scene, which my fancy
had preoccupied long before. I was introduced accord-
ingly, to the dear enchantress, whom I found accom-
panied by Miss Williams, who, on pretence of ordering
tea, retired at my approach. ‘his favourable accident,
which alarmed my whole soul, disordered her also. I
I found myself actuated by an irresistible impulse—I
advanced to her with eagerness and awe ; and profiting
by the confusion that prevailed over her, clasped the
fair angel in my arms, and imprinted a glowing kiss
upon her lips, more soft and fragrant than the dewy
rosebud just bursting from the stem. Her face was in
an instant covered with blushes, her eyes sparkled with
resentment ; I threw myself at her feet, and implored
her pardon. Her love became advocate in my cause,
her look softened into forgiveness; she raised me up,
and chid me with so much sweetness of displeasure, that
I was tempted to repeat the offence, had not the coming
of a servant with the tea-board prevented my presump-
tion. While we were subject to be interrupted or over-
heard, we conversed about the appraaching ball, at which
she promised to grace me as a partner; but when the
equipage was remoyed, and we were left alone, I re-
sumed the more interesting theme, and expressed my-
self with such transport and agitation, that my mistress,
fearing I would commit some extravagance, rang the
bell for her maid, whom she detained in the room, as a
check upon my vivacity. I was not sorry for this pre-
caution, because I could unbosom myself without re-
serve before Miss Williams, who was the confidante of
us both. I therefore gave a loose to the inspirations
of my passion, which operated so successfully on the
tender affections of Narcissa, that she laid aside the re-
straint she had hitherto wore, and blessed me with the
most melting declaration of her mutual flame. We
spent the afternoon in all the ecstacy of hope that the
most fervent love, exchanged by mutual vows, could
inspire; and Miss Williams was so much affected with
our caresses, which recalled the sad remembrance of
what she was, that her eyes were filled with tears.

The evening being pretty far advanced, I forced my-
self from the dear object of my flame, who indulged me
in a tender embrace at parting; and, repairing to my
lodgings, communicated to my friend Strap every cir-
cumstance of my happiness, which filled him with so
much pleasure that it ran over at his eyes; and he
prayed heartily, that no envious devil might, as for-
merly, dash the cup of blessing from my lip. When I
refiected on what had happened, and especiaily cn the

  

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

 

   

105

unreserved protestations of Narcissa’s love, I could not
help being amazed at her omitting to inquire into the
particular circumstances of the life and fortune of one
whom she had favoured with her affection, and I began
to be a little anxious about the situation of her finances,
well knowing that I should do an irreparable injury to
the person my soul held most dear, if I should espouse
her, without being able to support her in the rank
which was certainly her due. I had heard, indeed,
while I served her aunt, that her father had left her a
considerable sum, and that every body believed she
would inherit the greatest part of her kinswoman’s
dowry ; but I did not know how far she might be re-
stricted by the old gentleman’s will, in the enjoyment
of what he left her ; and I was too well informed of the
virtuoso’s late conduct, to think my mistress could have
any expectations from that quarter. I confided, how-
ever, in the good sense and delicacy of my charmer,
who, I was sure, would not consent to unite her fate
with mine, before she had fully considered and provided
for the consequence.

The ball-night being arrived, I dressed myself in a
suit I had reserved for some grand occasion ; and hay-
ing drunk tea with Narcissa and her brother, conducted
my angel to the scene, where she in a moment eclipsed
all her female competitors for beauty, and attracted the
admiration of the whole assembly. My heart dilated
with pride on this occasion, and my triumph rejected
all bounds, when, after we had danced together, a cer-
tain nobleman, remarkable for his figure and influence
in the fashionable world, came up, and, in the hearing
of all present, honoured us with a very particular com-
pliment upon our accomplishments and appearance ; but
this transport was soon checked, when I perceived his
lordship attach himself with great assiduity to my mis-
tress, and say some warm things, which | thought sa-
voured too much of passion. It was then I began to feel
the pangs of jealousy. I dreaded the power and address of
my rival—I sickened at his discourse. When she opened
her lips to answer, my heart died within me—when she
smiled, I felt the most excruciating pain! I was en-
raged at his presumption—I cursed her complaisance.
At length he quitted her, and went to the other side of
the room. Narcissa, suspecting nothing of the rage
that inflamed me, put some questions to me as soon as
he was gone, to which I made no other reply than a
grim look, which too well denoted the agitation of my
breast, and surprised her not a little. She no sooner
observed my emotion than she changed colour, and
asked what ailed me; but before I could make an
answer, her brother, pulling me by the sleeve, bade me
take notice of a lady who sat fronting us, whom I im-
mediately, to my vast astonishment, distinguished to be
Melinda, accompanied by her mother and an elderly
gentleman, whom I did not know. “ Wounds! Mr
Randan,” cried the squire, “ is she not a delicate piece
of stuff? ’Sdeath! I have a good mind—if I thought
she was a single person.”

Notwithstanding the perplexity I was in, I had re-
flection enough to foresee that my passion might suffer
greatly by the presence of this lady, who, in all proba-
bility, would revenge herself upon me, for having for-
merly disgraced her, by spreading reports to my pre-
judice. 1 was therefore alarmed at these symptoms of
the squire’s admiration, and for some time did not
know what reply to make, when he asked my opinion
of her beauty. At length I came to a determination,
and told him that her name was Melinda, that she had
a fortune of ten thousand pounds, and was said to be
under promise of marriage to a certain lord, who de-
ferred his nuptials until he should be of age, which would
happen in a fewmonths. I thought this piece of intel-
ligence, which I had myself invented, would have hin-
dered him effectually from entertaining any further
thoughts of her ; but I was egregiously mistaken—the
fox-hunter had too much self-sufficiency to despair of
success with any competitor on earth. He therefore
made light of her engagement, saying, with a smile of
self-approbation, “ Mayhap she will change her mind.
What signifies his being a lord? I think myself as

 

— aeearepaponeseenssy ie

  
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
 
  
   
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
   
  
   
   
 
  

popes ncn ieee arrasmencam an ia Nee
rs r atid

dn abe
he yg
* aaa

 

Tie gerne Steer

ae tet te
da

Farrage elon ee
Gee ~

 
 
  
   
  
 

hae Langers

 

104

v—— value no man!’’—then dropping his jaw, and.fix-
ing his eyes, he hickup’d aloud, and fell upon the floor
as mute as a flounder. Mr Freeman, heartily rejoiced
at his defeat, assisted me in carrying him to bed, where
we left him to the care of his servants, and went home
to our respective habitations, congratulating one an-
other on our good fortune.

we

CHAPTER LVII.

I was met next morning, at the usual place, by Miss
Williams, who gave me joy at the progress I had made
in the affection of her mistress, and blessed me with an
account of that dear creature’s conversation with her,
after she had retired the night before from our com-
pany. I could scarce believe her information, when
she recounted her expressions in my favour, so much
more warm and passionate were, they than my most
sanguine hopes had presaged, and was particularly
pleased to hear that she approved of my behaviour to
her brother, after she withdrew. Transported with the
news of my happiness, I presented my ring to the mes-
senger, asa testimony of my gratitude and satisfaction ;
but she was above such mercenary-considerations, and
anes my compliment with some:resentment, saying,
she was not a little mortified to see my opinion of her
so low and contemptible. I did myself a piece of justice
by explaining my behaviour on this head, and, to con-
vinee her of my esteem, promised to be ruled by her
directions in the prosecution of the whole affair, which
I had so much at heart, that the repose of my life
depended upon the consequence.

AsI fervently wished for another interview, where I
might pour out the effusions of my love without danger
of being interrupted, and perhaps reap some endearing
return from the queen of my desires, I implored her
advice and assistance in promoting this event; but she
gave me to understand, that Narcissa would make no
precipitate compliances of this kind, and that I would do
well to cultivate her brother’s acquaintance, in the
course of which I would not want opportunities of re-
moving that reserve, which my mistress thought her-
self obliged to maintain during the infancy of our cor-
respondence. In the meantime, she promised to tell
her lady, that I had endeavoured, by presents and per-
suasions, to prevail upon her (Miss Williams) to deliver
a letter from me, which she had refused to charge her-
self with, until she should know Narcissa’s sentiments
of the matter; and said, by these means, she did not
doubt of being able to open a literary communication
between us, which could not fail of introducing more
intimate connections.

I approved of her counsel; and our appointment
being renewed for next day, left her with an intent of
falling upon some method of being reconciled to the
squire, who, I supposed, would be offended with the
trick we had put upon him. With this view I consulted
Freeman, who, from his knowledge of the fox-hunter’s
disposition, assured me there was no other method of
pacifying him than that of sacrificing ourselves for one
night, to an equal match with him im drinking: this I
found myself necessitated to comply with for the in-
terest of my passion, and therefore determined to com-
mit the debauch at my own lodgings, that I might run
no risk of being discovered by Narcissa ina state of
brutal degeneracy. Mr Freeman, who was to be of the
party, wentsat my desire to the squire, in order to en-
gage him, while I took care to furnish myself for his
reception. My invitation was accepted; my guests
honoured me with their company in the evening, when
Bruin gave me to understand that he had drunk many
tuns of wine in his life, but was never served such a
trick as I had played upon him the night before. I
promised to atone for my trespass ; and having ordered
to every man his bottle, began the contest with a
bumper to the health of Narcissa. The toasts circulated
with great devotion, the liquor began to operate, our
mirth grew noisy; and as Freeman and I had the ad-
vantage of drinking small French claret, the Savage was

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

effectually tamed before our senses were in the least
affected, and carried home in a kind of apoplexy of
drunkenness.

I was next morning, as usual, favoured with a visit
from my kind and punctual confidante, who telling me
she was permitted to receive my letters for her mistress,
I took up the pen immediately, and, following the first
dictates of my passion, wrote as follows :—

“ Dear Mapam,—Were it possible for the powers of
utterance to reveal the soft emotions of my soul, the
fond anxiety, the glowing hopes and chilling fears that
rule my breast by turns, I should need no other witness
than this paper, to evince the purity and ardour of that
flame your charms have kindled in my heart. But,
alas! expression wrongs my love; I am inspired with
conceptions that no language can convey! Your beauty
fills me with wonder, your understanding with ravish-
ment, and your goodness with adoration! I am trans-
ported with desire, distracted with doubts, and tortured
with impatience! Suffer me then, lovely arbitress of my
fate, to approach your person, to breathe in soft mur-
murs my passion to your ear, to offer the sacrifice of a
heart overflowing with the most genuine and disinte-
rested love, to gaze with eestacy on the divine object of
my wishes, to hear the music of her enchanting tongue,
to rejoice in her smiles of approbation, and banish the
most intolerable suspense from the bosom of

Your enraptured R R—.”

Having finished this effusion, | committed it to the
care of my faithful friend, with an injunction to second
my entreaty with all her eloquence and influence ; and
in the meantime went to dress, with an intention ofs
visiting Mrs Snapper and Miss, whom I had utterly
neglected, and indeed almost forgot, since my dear
Narcissa had resumed the empire of my soul. The
old gentlewoman received me very kindly, and Miss
affected a frankness and gaiety, which, however, I could
easily perceive was forced and dissembled ; among other
things, she pretended to joke me upon my passion for
Narcissa, which she averred was no secret, and asked,
if I intended to dance with her at the next assembly ?
I was a good deal concerned to find myself become the
town-talk on this subject, lest the squire, having notice
of my inclinations, should disapprove of them, and by
breaking off all correspondence with me, deprive me of
the opportunities I now enjoyed. But I resolved to
use the interest I had with him, while it lasted; and
that very night, meeting him occasionally, asked his per-
mission to solicit her company at the ball, which he
very readily granted, to my inexpressible satisfaction.

Having been kept awake the greatest part of the
night, by a thousand delightful reveries that took pos-
session of my fancy, I got up betimes, and flying to the
place of rendezvous, had in a little time the pleasure of
seeing Miss Williams approach, with a smile on her
countenance, which I interpreted into a good omen.
Neither was I mistaken in my presage: she presented
me-with a letter from the idol of my soul, which, after
having kissed it with great devotion, I opened with the
utmostreagerness, and was blessed with her approbation,
in these terms :—

 

Srr,—To say I look upon you with indifference
would be a piece of dissimulation, which, I think, no
decorum requires, and no custom can justify. As my
heart never felt an impression that my tongue was
ashamed to declare, I will not scruple to own myself
pleased with your passion, confident of your integrity,
and so well convinced of my own discretion, that I
should not hesitate in granting you the interview you
desire, were I not overawed by the prying curiosity of
a malicious world, the censure of which might be fatally
prejudicial to the reputation of Your Narctssa.”

No anchorite, in the ecstacy of devotion, ever adored
a relic with more fervour than that with which I kissed
this inimitable proof of my charmer’s candour, genero-
sity, and affection. I read it over an hundred times,
was delighted with her confession in the beginning ; but
the subscription of Your Narcissa, yielded me suchdelight as I had never felt before. My happiness was
still increased by Miss Williams, who blessed me with
a repetition of her lady’s tender expressions in my
* favour, when she received and read my letter. In short,
I had all the reason in the world to believe that this
gentle creature’s bosom was possessed by a passion for
me, as warm, though perhaps not so impetuous, as mine
for her.

I informed my friend of the squire’s consent, with
regard to my dancing with Narcissa at the ball, and de-
sired her to tell her mistress, that I would do myself
the honour of visiting her in the afternoon, in conse-
quence of his permission, when I hoped to find her as
indulgent as her brother had been complaisant in that
particular. Miss Williams expressed a good deal of
joy at hearing I was so much in favour with the fox-
hunter, and ventured to assure me, that my visit would
be very agreeable to my mistress, the rather because
Bruin was engaged to dine abroad. This was a circum-
stance which, I scarce need say, pleased me. I went
immediately to the Long-room, where I found him, and
aifecting to know nothing of his engagement, told him,
I would do myself the pleasure to wait upon him in the
afternoon, and to present his sister with a ticket for
the ball. He shook me by the hand, according to cus-
tom, and giving me to understand that he was to dine
abroad, desired me to go and drink tea with Narcissa
notwithstanding, and promised to prepare her for my
visit in the meantime.

Every thing succeeding thus to my wish, I waited
with incredible patience for the time, which no sooner
arrived than I hastened to the scene, which my fancy
had preoccupied long before. I was introduced accord-
ingly, to the dear enchantress, whom I found accom-
panied by Miss Williams, who, on pretence of ordering
tea, retired at my approach. ‘his favourable accident,
which alarmed my whole soul, disordered her also. I
I found myself actuated by an irresistible impulse—I
advanced to her with eagerness and awe ; and profiting
by the confusion that prevailed over her, clasped the
fair angel in my arms, and imprinted a glowing kiss
upon her lips, more soft and fragrant than the dewy
rosebud just bursting from the stem. Her face was in
an instant covered with blushes, her eyes sparkled with
resentment ; I threw myself at her feet, and implored
her pardon. Her love became advocate in my cause,
her look softened into forgiveness; she raised me up,
and chid me with so much sweetness of displeasure, that
I was tempted to repeat the offence, had not the coming
of a servant with the tea-board prevented my presump-
tion. While we were subject to be interrupted or over-
heard, we conversed about the appraaching ball, at which
she promised to grace me as a partner; but when the
equipage was remoyed, and we were left alone, I re-
sumed the more interesting theme, and expressed my-
self with such transport and agitation, that my mistress,
fearing I would commit some extravagance, rang the
bell for her maid, whom she detained in the room, as a
check upon my vivacity. I was not sorry for this pre-
caution, because I could unbosom myself without re-
serve before Miss Williams, who was the confidante of
us both. I therefore gave a loose to the inspirations
of my passion, which operated so successfully on the
tender affections of Narcissa, that she laid aside the re-
straint she had hitherto wore, and blessed me with the
most melting declaration of her mutual flame. We
spent the afternoon in all the ecstacy of hope that the
most fervent love, exchanged by mutual vows, could
inspire; and Miss Williams was so much affected with
our caresses, which recalled the sad remembrance of
what she was, that her eyes were filled with tears.

The evening being pretty far advanced, I forced my-
self from the dear object of my flame, who indulged me
in a tender embrace at parting; and, repairing to my
lodgings, communicated to my friend Strap every cir-
cumstance of my happiness, which filled him with so
much pleasure that it ran over at his eyes; and he
prayed heartily, that no envious devil might, as for-
merly, dash the cup of blessing from my lip. When I
refiected on what had happened, and especiaily cn the

  

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

 

   

105

unreserved protestations of Narcissa’s love, I could not
help being amazed at her omitting to inquire into the
particular circumstances of the life and fortune of one
whom she had favoured with her affection, and I began
to be a little anxious about the situation of her finances,
well knowing that I should do an irreparable injury to
the person my soul held most dear, if I should espouse
her, without being able to support her in the rank
which was certainly her due. I had heard, indeed,
while I served her aunt, that her father had left her a
considerable sum, and that every body believed she
would inherit the greatest part of her kinswoman’s
dowry ; but I did not know how far she might be re-
stricted by the old gentleman’s will, in the enjoyment
of what he left her ; and I was too well informed of the
virtuoso’s late conduct, to think my mistress could have
any expectations from that quarter. I confided, how-
ever, in the good sense and delicacy of my charmer,
who, I was sure, would not consent to unite her fate
with mine, before she had fully considered and provided
for the consequence.

The ball-night being arrived, I dressed myself in a
suit I had reserved for some grand occasion ; and hay-
ing drunk tea with Narcissa and her brother, conducted
my angel to the scene, where she in a moment eclipsed
all her female competitors for beauty, and attracted the
admiration of the whole assembly. My heart dilated
with pride on this occasion, and my triumph rejected
all bounds, when, after we had danced together, a cer-
tain nobleman, remarkable for his figure and influence
in the fashionable world, came up, and, in the hearing
of all present, honoured us with a very particular com-
pliment upon our accomplishments and appearance ; but
this transport was soon checked, when I perceived his
lordship attach himself with great assiduity to my mis-
tress, and say some warm things, which | thought sa-
voured too much of passion. It was then I began to feel
the pangs of jealousy. I dreaded the power and address of
my rival—I sickened at his discourse. When she opened
her lips to answer, my heart died within me—when she
smiled, I felt the most excruciating pain! I was en-
raged at his presumption—I cursed her complaisance.
At length he quitted her, and went to the other side of
the room. Narcissa, suspecting nothing of the rage
that inflamed me, put some questions to me as soon as
he was gone, to which I made no other reply than a
grim look, which too well denoted the agitation of my
breast, and surprised her not a little. She no sooner
observed my emotion than she changed colour, and
asked what ailed me; but before I could make an
answer, her brother, pulling me by the sleeve, bade me
take notice of a lady who sat fronting us, whom I im-
mediately, to my vast astonishment, distinguished to be
Melinda, accompanied by her mother and an elderly
gentleman, whom I did not know. “ Wounds! Mr
Randan,” cried the squire, “ is she not a delicate piece
of stuff? ’Sdeath! I have a good mind—if I thought
she was a single person.”

Notwithstanding the perplexity I was in, I had re-
flection enough to foresee that my passion might suffer
greatly by the presence of this lady, who, in all proba-
bility, would revenge herself upon me, for having for-
merly disgraced her, by spreading reports to my pre-
judice. 1 was therefore alarmed at these symptoms of
the squire’s admiration, and for some time did not
know what reply to make, when he asked my opinion
of her beauty. At length I came to a determination,
and told him that her name was Melinda, that she had
a fortune of ten thousand pounds, and was said to be
under promise of marriage to a certain lord, who de-
ferred his nuptials until he should be of age, which would
happen in a fewmonths. I thought this piece of intel-
ligence, which I had myself invented, would have hin-
dered him effectually from entertaining any further
thoughts of her ; but I was egregiously mistaken—the
fox-hunter had too much self-sufficiency to despair of
success with any competitor on earth. He therefore
made light of her engagement, saying, with a smile of
self-approbation, “ Mayhap she will change her mind.
What signifies his being a lord? I think myself as

 

— aeearepaponeseenssy ie

  
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
   
   
   
   
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
   
 
  
   
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
  
   
   
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
   
  
   
   
 
  

popes ncn ieee arrasmencam an ia Nee
rs r atid

dn abe
he yg
* aaa

 

Tie gerne Steer

ae tet te
da

Farrage elon ee
Gee ~

 
 
  
   
  
 

hae Langer106

good a man as e’er a lord in Christendom, and I’ll see
if 2 commoner worth three thousand a-year won’t serve
her turn.” This determination startled me not a little ;
I knew he would soon discover the contrary of what I
advanced, and as I believed he would find her ear open
to his addresses, did not doubt of meeting with every
obstacle in my passion for Narcissa that her malice
could invent, and her influence with him execute. This
reflection increased my chagrin—my vexation was evi-
dent. Narcissa insisted on going home immediately ;
and as I led her to the door, her noble admirer, with
a look full of languishment, directed to her a profound
bow, which stung me to the soul. Before she went
into the chair, she asked, with an appearance of concern,
what was the matter with me? and I could pronounce
no more than, © By Heaven! I’m distracted !”?

 

CHAPTER LVIII.

Havine uttered this exclamation, at which she sighed,
I went home in the condition of a frantic bedlamite ;
and, finding the fire in my apartment almost extin-
guished, vented my fury upon poor Strap, whose ear I
pinched with such violence that he roared hideously
with pain, and when I quitted my hold, looked so
foolishly aghast, that no unconcerned spectator could
have seen him without being seized with an immoderate
fit of laughter. It is true I was soon sensible of the in-
jury I had done, and asked pardon for the outrage I
had committed ; upon which my faithful valet, shaking
his head, said, “I forgive you, and may God forgive
you.” But he could not help shedding some tears at
my unkindness. I felt unspeakable remorse for what
I had done, cursed my own ingratitude, and considered
his tears as a reproach that my soul, in her present
disturbance, could not bear. It set all my passions
into a new ferment; I swore horrible oaths without
meaning or application ; I foamed at the mouth, kicked

the chairs about the room, and played abundance of-

mad pranks, that frightened my friend almost out of
his senses. At length my transport subsided, I be-
came melancholy, and wept insensibly.

' During this state of dejection, I was surprised with
the appearance of Miss Williams, whom Strap, blub-
bering all the while, had conducted into the chamber,
without giving me previous notice of her approach.
she was extremely affected with my condition, which
she had learned from him, begged me to moderate my
passion, suspend my conjectures, and follow her to Nar-
cissa, who desired to see me forthwith. That dear name
operated upon me like a charm. I started up, and
without opening my lips, was conducted into her apart-
ment through the garden, which we entered by a pri-
vate door. I found the adorable creature in tears. I
was melted at the sight. We continued silent for some
time—amy heart was too full to speak—her snowy bosom
heaved with fond resentment ; at last she sobbing, cried,
* What have I done to disoblige you?” My heart was
pierced with the tender question. I drew near with
the utmost reverence and affection. I fell upon my
Imees before her, and, kissing her hand, exclaimed,
“Oh! thou art all goodness and perfection! Iam un-
done by my want of merit! Jam unworthy to possess
one whom Heaven hath destined for the arms of some
more favoured being!” She guessed the cause of my
disquiet, upbraided me gently for my suspicion, and
gave me such flattering assurances of her eternal fide-
lity, that all my doubts and fears forsook me, and peace
and satisfaction reigned within my breast.

At midnight I left the kind nymph to her repose, and
being let out by Miss Williams at the garden gate by
which I entered, began to explore my way homeward
in the dark, when I heard at my back a noise like that
of a baboon when he chatters. I turned instantly, and
perceiving something black, concluded I was discovered
by some spy employed to watch for that purpose.
Aroused at this conjecture, by which the reputation of
Narcissa appeared in jeopardy, I drew my sword, and
would have sacrificed him to her fame, had not the voice

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

of Strap restrained my arm. It was with great diffi-
culty he could pronounce, “ D—d—d—do mum—um
—um—murder me, if you please!” Such an effect had
the cold on his jaws, that his teeth rattled like a pair
of castanets. Pleased to be thus undeceived, I laughed
at his consternation, and asked what brought him
thither.'. Upon which he gave me to understand, that
his concern for me had induced him to dodge me to
that place, where the same reason had detained him
till now; and he frankly owned, that in spite of the
esteem he had for Miss Williams, he began to be very
uneasy about me, considering the disposition in which
T went abroad; and if I had staid much longer, would
have certainly alarmed the neighbourhood in my behalf.
The knowledge of this his intention confounded me. I
represented to him the mischievous consequences that
would have attended such a rash action, and cautioning
him severely against any such design for the future,
concluded my admonition with an assurance, that in
case he should ever act so madly, I would, without hesi-
tation, put him to death. “Have a little patience,”
cried he, in a lamentable tone; “ your displeasure will
do the business without your committing murder.” I
was touched with this reproach ; and as soon as we got
home, made it my business to appease him, by explain-
ing the cause of that transport, during which I had
used him so unworthily.

Next day, whea I went into the Long-room, I observed
several whispers circulate all of a sudden, and did not
doubt but Melinda had been busy with my character ;
but I consoled myself with the love of Narcissa, upon
which I.rested with the most perfect confidence—and
going up to the rowly-powly table, won a few pieces from
my suspected rival, who with an easy politeness entered
into conversation with me, and desiring my company
to the coffee-house, treated me with tea and choco-
late. I remembered Strutwell, and guarded against his
insinuating behaviour: nor was my suspicion wrong
placed ; he artfully turned the discourse upon Narcissa,
and endeavoured, by hinting at an intrigue he pretended.
to be engaged in elsewhere, to learn what connection
there was between her and me. But all his finesse was
ineffectual ; I was convinced of his dissimulation, and
gave such general answers to his inquiries, that he was
forced to drop the subject, and talk of something else.

While we conversed in this manner, the Savage came
in, with another gentleman, who introduced him to his
lordship : and he was received with such peculiar marks
of distinction, that I was persuaded that the courtier
intended to use him in some shape or another; and
thence I conceived an unlucky omen. But I had more
cause to be dismayed the following day, when I saw the
squire in company with Melinda and her mother, who
honoured me with several disdainful glances: and when
I afterwards threw myself in his way, instead of the
cordial shake of the hand, returned my salute with the
cold reception of “Servant, servant ;” which he pro-
nounced with such indifference, or rather contempt,
that if he had not been Narcissa’s brother, I should
have affronted him in public.

These occurrences disturbed me not a little—I fore-
saw the brooding storm, and armed myself with resolu-
tion for the occasion; but Narcissa being at stake, I
was far from being resigned. I could have renounced
every other comfort of life with some degree of forti-.
tude, but the prospect of losing her disabled all my
philosophy, and tortured my soul into madness.

Miss Williams found me next morning full of anxious
tumult, which did not abate, when she told me that my
Lord Quiverwit, having professed honourable intentions,
had been introduced to my lovely mistress by her bro-
ther, who had at the same time, from the information
of Melinda, spoken of me as an Irish fortune-Hunter,
without either birth or estate to recommend me—who
supported myself in the appearance of a gentleman by
sharping, and other infamous practices—and who was
of such an obscure origin, that I did not even know my
own extraction. ‘Though I expected all this, I could
not hear it with temper, especially as truth was so
blended with falsehood in the assertion, that it wouldADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

be almost impossible to Separate the one from the other
inmy vindication. But I said nothing on this head, be-
ing impatient to know how Narcissa had been affected
with the discovery. The generous creature, far from
believing these imputations, was no sooner withdrawn
with her confidante than she inveighed with great warmth
against the malevolence of the world, to which only she
ascribed the whole of what had been said to my disad-
vantage ; and calling every circumstance of my behavi-
our to her into review before her, found every thing so
polite, honourable, and disinterested, that she could not
harbour the least doubt of my being the gentleman I
appeared to be. “I have indeed,” said she, “ pur-
posely forebore to ask the particulars of his life, lest
the recapitulation of some misfortunes which he has
undergone should give him pain: and as to the article
of his fortune, I own myself equally afraid of inquiring
into it, and of discovering the situation of my own, lest
we should find ourselves both unhappy in the explana-
tion ; for, alas! my provision is conditional, and depends
entirely on my marrying with my brother’s consent.”
Thunderstruck with this intelligence, the light forsook
my eyes, the colour vanished from my cheeks, and I re-
mained in a state of universal trepidation. My female
friend perceiving my disorder, encouraged me with as-
surances of Narcissa’s constancy, and the hope of some
accident favourable to our love; and, as a further con-
solation, let me know, that she had acquainted my mis-
tress with the outlines of my life; and that although
She was no stranger to the present low state of my
finances, her love and esteem were rather increased
than diminished by the knowledge of my circumstances.
I was greatly comforted by this assurance, which saved
me a world of confusion and anxiety, for I must have
imparted my situation one day to Narcissa; and this I
could not have done without shame and disorder.

As I did not doubt that, by this time, the scandalous
aspersions of Melinda were diffused all over the town,
I resolved to recollect my whole strength of assurance,
to browbeat the efforts of her malice, and to publish
her adventure with the Frenchified barber, by way of
reprisal, In the meantime, having promised to be at
the garden-gate about midnight, Miss Williams took
her leave, bidding me repose myself entirely on the
affection of my dear Narcissa, which was as perfect as
inviolable. Before I went abroad, I was visited by
Freeman, who came on purpose to acquaint me with
the infamous stories that were raised at my expense.
I heard them with great temper, and in my turn in-
formed him of every thing that had happened between
Melinda and me; and, among other things, entertained
him with the story of the barber, letting him know what
share his friend Banter had in that affair. He was con-
vinced of the injury my reputation had suffered, and
no longer doubting the source from whence this deluge
of slander flowed upon me, undertook to undeceive the
town im my behalf, and roll the stream back upon its
origin; but in the meantime cautioned me from ap-
pearing in public, while the prepossession was strong
against me, lest I should meet with some affront that
might have bad consequences.

~~

CHAPTER LIX.

I THANKED him for his advice, which, however, my pride
and resentment would not permit me to follow ;-for he
no sooner left me, in order to do justice to my charac-
ter among his friends and acquaintance, than I sallied
out, and went directly to the Long-room. I was met
at the door by a servant, who presented to me a billet,
without a subscription, importing that my presence was
disagreeable to the company, and desiring I would take
the hint without further disturbance, and bestow myself
elsewhere for the future. Thisperemptory message filled
me with indignation.” I followed the fellow who deli-
vered it, and seizing him by the collar, in presence of
all the company, threatened to put him instantly to
death if he did not discover the scoundrel who had
charged him with such an impudent commission, that

 

LAOS

 

(107

I might punish him as he deserved. The messenger,
affrighted at my menaces and furious looks, fell upon
his knees, and told me, that the gentleman who ordered
a to deliver the letter was no other than Narcissa’s
brother, Who at that time stood at the other end of the
room talking to Melinda, I went up to him immedi-
ately, and in the hearing of his inamorata, accosted him
in these words— Lookee, Squire, were it not for one
consideration that protects you from my resentment, I
would cane you where you stand, for having had the
presumption to send me this scurrilous intimation?
which i tore to pieces and threw in his face; at the
Same time darting an angry regard at his mistress, and
telling her; I was sorry she had put it out of my power
to compliment her upon her invention, but at the ex-
pense of her good nature and veracity. Her admirer,
whose courage never rose but in proportion to the wine
he had swallowed, instead of resenting my address in
what is called an honourable way, threatened to prose-
cute me for an assault, and took witnesses accordingly ;
while she, piqued at his pusillanimous behaviour, and
enraged at the sarcasm I had uttered against her, en-
deavoured to make her quarrel a public cause, and wept
aloud with spite and vexation. The tears of a lady could
not fail of attracting the notice and concern of the spec-
tators, to whom she complained of my rudeness with
great bitterness, saying, if she was a man I durst not
use her so. The greatest part of the gentlemen, already
prejudiced against me, were offended at the liberty I
had taken, as appeared from their looks, though none
of them signified their disgust any other way, except
my Lord Quiverwit, who ventured +o say, with a sneer,
that I was in the right to establish my own character,
of which he had now no longer any doubt. Nettled at
this severe equivoque, which raised a laugh at my ex-
pense, I replied with some warmth, “I am proud of
having, in that particular, got the start of your lord-
ship.” He made no answer to my repartee, but, with
a contemptuous smile, walked off, leaving me in a very
disagreeable situation. In vain did I make up to several
people of my acquaintance, whose conversation, I hoped,
would banish my confusion ; every body shunned me
like a person infected, and I should not have been able
to bear my disgrace, had not the idea of the ever-faith-
ful and fond Narcissa come to my relief. I quitted the
scene of my mortification, and sauntering about the
town, happened to wake from my contemplation, when
I found myself just opposite to a toy-shop, which I en-
tered, and purchased a ring, set with a ruby in the
form of a heart, surrounded by diamond sparks, for
which I paid ten guineas, intending it for a present to
the charmer of my soul.

I was introduced, at the hour appointed, to this di-
vie creature, who, notwithstanding what she had heard
to my disadvantage, received me with the utmost con-
fidence and tenderness; and having been informed of
the general sketches of my life by Miss Williams, ex-
pressed a desire of knowing the particular cireum-
stances, which I related with great candour. As my
story was little else than a recital of misfortunes, the
tear of sympathy ceased not to trickle from her en-
chanting eyes during the whole of the narration, which
when I had finished, she recompensed me for my trouble
with the most endearing protestations of eternal love.
She bewailed her restricted condition, as it was the
means of retarding my happiness: told me that Lord
Quiverwit, by her brother’s permission, had been to
drink tea with her that very afternoon, and actually
proposed marriage ; and, seeing me extremely affected
with this piece of information, offered to give me a con-
vincing proof of her affections by espousing me in
private, and leaving the rest to fate. I was penetrated
with this instance of her regard; but that I might not
be outdone in generosity, resisted the bewitching temp-
tation, in consideration of her honour and interest ; at
the same time presented my ring as a pledge of my in-
violable attachment, and on my knees implored Heaven
to shower its curses on my head, if ever my heart should
entertain one thought unworthy of the passion I then

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108

picture in miniature, exquisitely drawn, and set in gold,
and, in the same posture, called Heaven to witness and
to judge herflame. Our vows thus reciprocally breathed,
a confidence of hope ensued; I grew insensible of the
progress of: time, and it was morning before I could
tear myself from this darling of my soul.

I went to bed immediately on my return to my lodg-
ing, and having slept about two hours, was waked by
Strap, who, in great confusion, told me there was a
footman below with a letter for me, which he would de-
liver to nobody but myself. Alarmed at this piece of
news, I desired my friend to show him up to my cham-
ber, and received a letter from him, which he said re-
quired an immediate answer ; upon which I opened it,
and. read :—

« Srr,—When any man injures my honour, let the
difference of rank between us be ever so great, I am
contented to waive the privilege of my quality, and seek
reparation from him on equal terms. The insolence
of your reply to me yesterday in the Long-room I might
have overlooked, had not your presumptive emulation
in a much more interesting affair, and a discovery,
which I made this morning, concurred in persuading
me to chastise your audacity with my sword. If you
therefore have spirit enough to support the character
you assume, you will not fail to follow the bearer im-
mediately to a convenient place, where you shall be met
by QUIVERWIT.”

Whether I was enervated by the love and favour of
Narcissa, or awed by the superior station of my anta-
gonist, I know not, but I never had less inclination
to fight than at this time: however, finding there was
a necessity for vindicating the reputation of my mis-
tress, as well as for asserting my own honour, [ forth-
with rose, and dressing in a hurry, put on my sword,
bade Strap attend me, and set out with my conductor,
cursing my bad fortune all the way, for having been
observed in my return from my angel, for so I inter-
preted his lordship’s discovery. When I came within
sight of my rival, his lacquey told me he had orders to
stop; upon which, I commanded Strap to halt also,
while I walked forward—resolved, if possible, to come
to an explanation with my challenger, before we should
come to battle. Nor was an opportunity wanting ; for
I no sooner approached, than he asked, with a stern
countenance, what business I had in Mr Tophall’s gar-
den so early in the morning? “ I don’t know, my Lord,”
said I, “ how to answer a question put to me with such
a magisterial haughtiness. If your lordship will please
to expostulate calmly, you will have no cause to repent
of your condescension. Otherwise, I am not to be in-
timidated into any confession.”’ “ There’s no room for
denial,” answered he; “I saw you come out with my
own eyes.” “ Did any other person see me?” said I.
< T neither know nor care,” said he; “ I want no other
evidence than that of my own senses.” Pleased to hear
that the suspicion was confined to him alone, I endea-
voured to appease his jealousy, by owning an intrigue
with the waiting-maid; but he had too much discern-
ment to be so easily imposed upon, and told me there
was only one way to convince him of the truth of what
I alleged, which was no other than renouncing all claim
to Narcissa upon oath, and promising, upon honour,
never to speak to her for the future. Exasperated at
this proposal, I unsheathed my sword, saying, “ Hea-
vens! what title have you, or any man on earth, to im-
pose such terms on me?” He did the same, and making
towards me, with a contracted brow, said I was a vil-
Jain, and had dishonoured Narcissa. “ He’s a scandal-
ous Villain,” I replied ina transport of fury, “who brands
me with that imputation. She is a thousand times more
chaste than the mother who bore you; and { will assert
her honour with my heart’s blood!” So saying, I rushed
upon him with more eagerness than address, and endea-
vouring to get within his point, received a wound in my
neck, which redoubled my rage. He excelled me in
temper as well as in skill, by which means he parried

my thrusts with great calmness, until 1 had almost ex-
hausted my spirits; and when he perceived me begin-

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

ning to flag, attacked me fiercely in his turn. Finding
himself, however, better opposed than he expected, he
resolved to follow his lounge, and close with me; ac-
cordingly, his sword entered my waistcoat, on the side
of the breast-bone, and, running up between my shirt
and skin, appeared above my left shoulder. I imagined
that his weapon had perforated my lungs, and, of con-
sequence, that the wound was mortal; therefore deter-
mined not to die unrevenged, I seized his shell, which
was close to my breast, before he could disentangle his
point, and keeping it fast with my left hand, shortened
my own sword with my right, intending to run him
through the heart ; but he received the thrust in his left
arm, which penetrated up to the shoulder blade. Dis-
appointed in this expectation, and afraid still that death,
would frustrate my revenge, I grappled with him, and
being much the stronger, threw him upon the ground,
where I wrested the sword out of his hand; and so
great was my confusion, instead of turning the point
upon him, struck out three of his fore-teeth with the
hilt. In the meantime, our servants seeing us fall,
ran up to separate and assist us; but before their ap-
proach, I was upon my feet, and had discovered that
my supposed mortal wound was only a slight scratch.
The knowledge of my own safety disarmed me of a good
deal of my resentment, and I began to inquire with
some concern into the situation of my antagonist, who .
remained on the ground, bleeding plentifully at his
mouth and arm. I helped his footman to raise him,
and having bound up his wound with my handkerchief,
assured him it was not dangerous; I likewise restored
his sword, and offered to support him to his own house.
He thanked me with an air of sullen dignity ; and, whis-
pering to me that I should hear from him soon, went
away, leaning on his servant’s shoulder.

I was surprised at this promise, which I construed
into a threat, and resolved, if ever he should call me
out again, to use whatever advantage fortune might
give me over him in another manner. In the mean-
time, I had leisure to take notice of Strap, who seemed
quite stupified with horror, and (after having recovered
him from his eestacy, with an assurance that I had re-
ceived no damage) to explain the nature of this affair
as we walked homeward. By the time I had got into
my apartment, I found the wound in my neck stiff and
uneasy, and a good deal of clotted blood run down upon
my shirt: upon which I pulled off my coat and waist-
eoat, and unbuttoned my collar, that I might dress it
with more ease. My friend no sooner perceived my
shirt quite dyed with blood, than, imagining I had got
at least twenty dreadful wounds, he cried, “ Oh Jesus !”
and fell flat on the floor. I stopped the bleeding with
a little dry lint, and applying a plaster over it, cleansed
myself from the gore, shifted and dressed, while he lay
senseless at my feet; so that when he recovered and
saw me perfectly well, he could scarce believe his own
eyes. Now that the danger was past, I was very well
pleased with what had happened, which I did not doubt
would soon become known, and, consequently, dignify
my character not a little in this place. I was also proud
of having shown myself, in some shape, worthy of the
love of Narcissa, who, I was persuaded, would not think
the worse of me for what I had done.

 

en

CHAPTER LX.

Wuite I entertained myself with these reflections, the
news of this duel being communicated by some unknown
channel, spread all over the town. I was visited by
Freeman, who expressed his surprise at finding me,
having been told, that Lord Quiverwit being dead of
his wounds, I had absconded, in order to avoid the cog-
nisance of the law. I asked if people guessed the occa-
sion of the quarrel ; and understanding it was attributed
to his lordship’s resentment of my reply in the Long-
room, confirmed that conjecture, glad to find Narcissa
unsuspected. My friend, after I had assured him that
my antagonist was in no danger, wished me joy of the _
event, than which, he said, nothing could happen more.ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

opportunely to support the idea he had given of my
character to his friends, among whom he had been very
assiduous in my behalf,

On the strength of this assurance, I went with him to
the coffee-house, where I was saluted by a great many
of those very persons who shunned me the preceding
day ; and I found every body making merry with the
story of Melinda’s French gallant. While I remained
In this place, I received a message from Lord Quiver-
wit, desiring, if I was not engaged, to see him at his
house.

Thither I immediately repaired, and was conducted
to an apartment, where I was received by his lordship
inbed. Being left by ourselves, he thanked me, in very
polite terms, for having used the advantage fortune had
given me over him with such moderation; and asked
pardon for any offence his resentment might have
prompted him to commit. “I would willingly,” said he,
“make you my friend ; but as it is impossible for me
to divest myself of my passion for Narcissa, I am too
well convinced of your sentiments to think we shall
ever agree on that subject. I took the liberty, there-
fore, of sending for you, in order to own candidly, that
I cannot help opposing your success with that young
lady ; though, at the same time, I promise to regulate
my opposition by the dictates of justice and honour;
this, however, I think proper to advertise you of, that
she has no independent fortune, and if you should even
succeed in your addresses, you would have the mortifi-
cation to see her reduced to indigence, unless you have
wherewithal to support her—and Lam credibly informed
of your incapacity that way. N ay, I will confess, that,
urged by this consideration, I have-actually sent notice
to her brother of the progress I suspect you have made
in her affection, and desired him to take his precautions
accordingly.” Alarmed and provoked at this informa-
tion, I told his lordship, that I did not see how he could
reconcile that piece of conduct with his profession, of
open dealing, and flung away from him in a passion.

As I walked homeward, in hopes of hearing from my
mistress as usual, by means of Miss Williams, I was
surprised with the waving of a handkerchief, from the
window of a coach and six that passed by me at full
speed ; and upon further observation, I saw-a servant
on horseback riding after it, who, I knew by his livery,
belonged to the squire. Thunderstruck with this dis-
covery, the knowledge of my misfortune rushed all at
once upon my reflection. I guessed immediately that
the signal was made by the dear hand of Narcissa, who
being hurried away in consequence of Lord Quiverwit’s
message to her brother, had no other method of relat-
ing her distress, and imploring my assistance. Frantic
with this conjecture, I ran to my lodgings, snatched my
pistols, and ordered Strap to get post-horses, with such
incoherence of speech and disorder, that the poor valet,
terrified with the suspicion of another duel, instead of
providing what I desired, went forthwith to Freeman,
who, being informed of my behaviour, came straight to
my apartment, and conjured me so pathetically to ac-
quaint him with the cause of my uneasiness, that I
could not refuse to tell him that my happiness was fled
with Narcissa, and that I must retrieve her or perish.
He represented the madness of such an undertaking,
and endeavoured to divert me from it, with greatstrength
of friendship and reason: but all his arguments would
have been ineffectual, had he not put me in mind of the
dependence I ought to have on the love of Narcissa, and
attachment of her maid, which could not fail of finding
opportunities enough to advertise me of their situation ;
and at the same time, demonstrated the injury my
charmer’s reputation must suffer from my precipitate
retreat. J was convinced and composed by these con-
siderations.

I appeared in public with an air of tranquillity, was
well received by the best company in town, and my mis-
fortune taking air, condoled accordingly ; while I had
the satisfaction of seeing Melinda so universally dis-
ecountenanced, that she was fain to return to London,
in order to avoid the scoffs and censure of the ladies at
Bath. But though the hope of hearing from the darling

 

109

of my soul Supported my spirits a little while, I began
to be very uneasy, when, at the end of several weeks, E
found that expectation disappointed. In short, melan-
choly and despondence took possession of my soul; and
repining at that providence, which, by acting the step-
mother towards me, kept me from the fruition of my
wishes, I determined, in a fit of despair, to risk all I
had at the gaming table, with a view of acquiring a for-
tune sufficient to render me independent for life ; or of
plunging myself into such a state of misery, as would
effectually crush every ambitious hope that now tortured
my imagination.

Actuated by this fatal resolution,
and, after some turns of fortune,
end of three days worth a thousand pounds ; but it was
not my intention to stop there, for which cause I kept
Strap ignorant of my success, and continued my career
until I was reduced to five guineas, which I would have
hazarded also, had I not been ashamed to fall from a
bet of two hundred pounds to such a petty sum.

Having. thus executed my scheme, I went home,
amazed to find myself so much at ease, and informed
my friend Strap of my mischance, with such calmness,
that he, imagining I joked, affected to receive the
tidings with great equanimity, But both he and I found
ourselves mistaken very soon. I had misinterpreted
my own stupidity into deliberate resignation, and he had
reason to believe me in earnest, when he saw me next
morning agitated with the most violent despair, which
he endeavoured to alleviate with all the consolation in
his power.

In one of my lucid intervals, however, I charged him
to take a place in the stage-coach for London; and in
the meantime paid my debts in Bath, which amounted
to thirty shillings only. Without taking leave of my
friends, I embarked, Strap having the good fortune to
find a return horse, and arrived in town without hay-
ing met with any thing remarkable on the road, save
that, while we crossed Bagshot heath, I was seized with
a sort of an inclination to retrieve my fortune by laying
passengers under contribution, in some such place. My
thoughts were so circumstanced at this time that I
should have digested the crime of robbery, so righteously
had I concerted my plan, and ventured my life in the
exeeution, had I not been deterred by reflection upon
the infamy that attends detection.

The apartment I formerly lived in being unengaged,
I took possession of it, and next day went in quest of
Banter, who received me with open arms, in expecta-
tion of having his bond discharged to his liking; but
when he understood what had happened, his counte-
nance changed of a sudden, and he told me, with a dry-
ness of displeasure peculiar to himself, that if he was
in my place he would put it out of fortune’s power to
play him such another trick, and be avenged of his own
indiscretion at once. When I desired him to explain
his meaning, he pointed to his neck, raised himself on
his tiptoes, and was going away without further cere-
mony, when I put him in mind of my indigenee, and
demanded the five guineas I had formerly lent him.
“Five guineas !” cried he; “zounds! had you acted with
common prudence, you might have had twenty thousand
in your pocket by this time. I depended upon five
hundred from you, as much as if I had had notes for it
in the bank; and by all the rules of equity you are in-
debted to me for that sum.” I was neither pleased nor
convinced by this computation, and insisted on my right
with such determined obstinacy, that he was fain to
alter his tone, and appease my clamour, by assuring me
that he was not master of five shillings. Society in
distress generally promotes good understanding among
people: from being a dun, I descended to be a client,
and asked his advice about repairing my losses. He
counselled me to have recourse again to the gaming
table, where I had succeeded so well before, and to put
myself in a condition by selling my watch. I followed
his directions, and haying accommodated him with a
few pieces, went to the place, where I lost every shilling.

I returned to my lodgings full of desperate resolutions,
and having made Strap acquainted with my fate, ordered

I engaged in play,
found myself at the

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110 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

him to pawn my sword immediately, that I might be
enabled to make another effort. This affectionate crea-
ture no sooner understood my purpose, than, seized
with insuppressible sorrow at the prospect of my misery,
he burst into tears, and asked what I proposed to do
after the small sum he could raise on the sword should
be spent. “On my account,” said he, “ I am quite un-
concerned ; for while God spares me health and these
ten fingers, | can earn a comfortable peeagence any
where; but what must become of you, who have less
humility to stoop, and more appetites to gratify?” Here
I interrupted him by saying, with a gloo my aspect, I
could never want & resource while I had a loaded pistol
in my possession. Stupified with horror at this dread-
ful insinuation, he stood mute for some time, then broke
into—* God of his infinite mercy enable you 40 withstand
that temptation of the devil! Consider your immortal
soul—there’s no repentance in the grave! Oh Lord,
that ever it should come to this!’ Are we not énjoined
to resign ourselves to the will of Heaven? Whereis your
patience? durum patientia frangit. You are buta young
man, there may be many good things im store for you;
accidit in puncto quod non speratur in anno. Remember
your uncle, Mr Bowling: perhaps he is now on his
voyage homeward, pleasing himself with
finding and relieving you, nay, peradventure he is al-
ready ‘arrived—the s! 1ip was expected about t his time.”
A ray of hope shot athwart the darkness of my soul at
this suggestion ; I thanked my friend for his seasonable
recollection, and after having premised to take
lution till his return, dismissed him to Wapping for in-
telligence.
In his absence I was visited by Banter, who, being

“

 

no reso-

4

informed of my bad luck at play, told me, t
would probably be one day weary of persecuting me.
“* In the meantime,” said he, “here’s a letter for you,
which I received just now, enclosed in one from Free-
man.” I snatched it with eagerness, and knowing the
superscription to be of Narc issa’s handwriting, kissed
it with transport ; and having opened it, read—

“Tt is with great difficulty that I have stolen, from the
observation of those spies who are set over me, this
opportunity of telling you, that I was suddenly carried

away from Bath by my brother, who was informed of

our correspondence by Lord Quiverwit, whom, I since
understand, you have wounded in a duel on my account.

£

As I am fully convinced of your honour and love, I

hope I shall never hear of such desperate proofs of

either for the future. [ am so strictly watched, that it
will be impossible for you to see me until my brother’s
Suspicion shall abate, or Heaven contrive some other
unforeseen event in our behalf. In the meantime, you
may depend on the constancy and affection of your own

NARCTsSA.”

“P.S. Miss Williams, who is my fellow-prisoner, «
sires to be remembered to you. We are both in good
health, and only in pain for you, especially as it will be
impracticable for you to convey any message or letter
to the place of our confinement, for which reason, pray
desist from the attempt, that by misearrying must pro-

long our captivity. N——..””

This kind letter afforded me great consolation. I com-
municated it to Banter, and at the.same time showed
him her picture. He approved her beauty and good
sense, and could not he Ip owning that my neglect of
Miss Snapper was excusable, when such a fine creature
engrossed my attention.

I began to be reconciled to my fate, and imagined,
that if I could contrive means of subsisting until my
uncle should arrive, in case he was not already at home,
that he would enable me to do something effectual in
behalf of my love and fortune. I therefore consulted
Banter about a present supply, who no sooner under-
stood I had credit with a tailor, than he advised me to
take off two or three suits of ri¢éh clothes, and convert
them into cash, by selling them at half price to a sales-
man in Monmouth Street. [I was a little startled at his
proposal, which I thought savoured a little of fraud;

but he rendered it palatable by obser ‘ving, that in a few

we “ r=

the hopes of

 

months I might be in a condition to do every body jus-
tice, and, in the meantime, I was. acquitted by t the
honesty of my intention. I suffered myself to be per-
suaded by his salyo, by which my necessity, rather than
my judgment, was convinced ; and when - found there
were no accounts of the ship in which my uncle em-
barked, actually put the scheme in practice, and raised
by it five-and-twenty guineas, paying him for his:advice
with the odd five.
CHAPTER LXI.

But this expedient was in a few weeks attended with
a opneeed nce I did not foresee—a player having pur-
chased one of the suits which were exposed to sale, ap-

peared in it on the stage one night, while my t tailor
unfortunately happened to be present, He knew it

mmediately, and, inquiring minutely into the affair,
decane my W hole contriv ance ; upon which he came
to my lodgings, and telling me that he w as very much
straitened for want of money, presented his bill, which
amounted to fifty pounds. Surprised at this unexpected
addr: ss, I affected to treat him cavalierly, swore some
oaths, asked if he doubted my honour, and telling him

[ should take care whom I dealt with for the future,
bade him come again in three days. He obeyed me pune-
tually, demanded his mone y, and findi ing himself amused
with bare promises, arreste : me that very day in the
street. I was not much shocked at this adv enture,
which, indee od, rescued me from’a horrible suspense in
which I had lived since his first visit. I refused to go
to @ spunging-house, where I had heard there was

 

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| no other than a

being ealle <1, I was carried to the Marshalsea, attended
by a bailiff and his follower, who were very much dis-
pointed and chagrined at my resolution.

The turnkey, guessing from my appearance that I
had got money in my pocket, received me with the re-
petition of the Latin word depone, and gave me to un-
derstand that I must pay beforehand for the apartment
I should choose to dwell in. I desired to see his con-
veniences, and hired a small paltry bed-chamber for a
crown a-week, which, in any other place, would not
have let at eighteen-pence. Having taken possession of
this dismal habitation, I sent for Strap, and my thoughts
were busied in collecting matter of consolation to that
faithful squire, when somebody knocked at my door,
which I no sooner opened than a young fellow entered,
in very shabby clothes, and marvellously foul linen.
After a low bow, he called me by my name, and asked
if I had forgot him. His voice assisted me in recol-
lecting his person, which I soon recognised to be my
old acquaintance beau Jackson, of whom mention is
made in the first part of my memoirs. I saluted him,
expressed my satisfaction at finding him alive, and con-
doled with him on his present situation, which, how-
ever, did not seem to affect him much, for he laughed
very heartily at the occasion of our meeting so unex-
pectedly in this place.

After our mutual compliments were over, I inquired

£7

about his love affair with the lady of fortune, which

ap

| seemed to be so near a happy conclusion when I had

the pleasure of seeing him last; and, after an immode-

rate fit of laughter, he gave me to understand that he
had been egregiously bit in that affair. “ You must
know,” said he, “ that a few days after our nocturnal
adventure, I found means to be married to that same
fine lady you speak of, who, early in the morning, after
a good deal of snivelling and sobbing, owned that, so
far from being an heiress of a great fortune, she was
woman of the town, who had decoyed
me ‘into matrimony, in order to enjoy the privilege
of a femme couverte, and that unless [ made my escape
unmediately, [ should, be arrested for a debt of her
contracting, by bailiffs employed and instructed for that
purpose. Startled at this intimation, I took leave of
my spouse with several hearty oaths, and got safe into
the ve rge of the court, where I kept snag until I was
appointed surgeon’s mate of a man- of-war at Ports-

| mouth ; for which place I set out ona} Sunday, went on
ee ‘

yore a

 

 

 

|
|
}
;
|
|ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

board of my ship, in which I sailed to the Straits, where
I had the good fortune to be made surgeon of a sloop
that came home in a few months after, and was put out
of commission ; whereupon I came to London, imagin-
ing myself forgotten and freed from my wife and her
creditors, but had not been in towna week before I was
arrested for a debt of hers, amounting to £20, and
brought to this place, where I
action since that time.
tion ; I defy care

have been fixed by another
However, you know my disposi-
and anxiety ; and being on the halt-pay
list, make shift to live here tolerably easy.” I congratu-
Jated him on his philosophy, and remembering that I
was in his debt, repaid the money he formerly lent me,
which, I believe, was far from being unseasonable. I
then inquired about the economy of the place, which
he explained to my satisfaction ; and after we had agreed
to mess together, he was just going to give orders for
dinner when Strap arrived.

I never in my life saw sorrow so extravagantly ex-
pressed in any countenance as in that of my honest
friend, which was, indeed, particularly adapted by na-
ture for such impressions. Being left by ourselves, I
communicated to him my disaster, and endeavoured to
console him with the same arguments he had formerly
used to me, withal representing the fair chance I had
of being relieved ina short time by Mr Bowling. But
his grief was unutterable; he seemed to give attention
without listening, and wrung his hands in silence, so
that I was in a fair way of being infected with his be-
haviour, when Jackson returned, and perceiving the
deference I paid to Strap, although in a footman’s habit.
distributed his erumbs of comfort with such mirth, jol-
lity, and unconcern, that the features of the distressed
squire relaxed by degrees, he rec
and began to be a little
lamentable event. W

vere d

more reconciled to

speecl . this
and greens, brought from a cook’s shop in the neigh-
bourhood; and although this meal was served up na
manner little corresponding with the sphere of life in
which I had lately lived, I made a virtue of ;
ate with good appetite, and treated my friends with a
bottle of wine, which had the desired effect of increas-
ing the good humour of my fellow-prisoner, and exhila-
rating the spiri
my misfortune

“After dinner, Jackson left us to our private affairs,
when I desired my friend te pack up all our things, and
carry them to some cheap lodging he should choose for
himself in the neighbourhood of the Marshalsea, after
he had discharged my lodging,
money. I likewise recommended to him the keeping
my misfortune secret, and saying to my landlord, or
any other that should inquire for me, that I was gone
into the country for a few weeks; at the same time I
laid strong injunctions upon him to call every second
day upon Banter, in case he should receive any letters
for me from Nareissa through Freeman, and by all
means to leave a direction for himself at my uncle’s
lodgings in Wapping, by which I might be found when
my kinsman should arrive.

‘When he departed to execute these orders (which, by
the bye, were punctually performed that very night), [
found myself so little seasoned to my situation, that ]
dreaded reflection, and sought shelter from it in the
eompany of the beau, who, promising to regale me with
a lecture upon taste, conducted me to the common side,
where I saw a number of naked miserable wretches
assembled together. We had not been there many
minutes, when a figure appeared, wrapped in a dirty
rug, tied about his loins with two pieces of list, of diffe-
rent colours, knotted together; having a black bushy
beard, and his head covered with a huge mass of brown
periwig, which seemed to have once pertained to the
crown of some scarecrow. This apparition stalked in
with great solemnity, made a protound bow to the
audience, who signified their approbation by a general
response of “ How dy’e do, doctor?” He then turned
towards us, and honoured Jackson with a particular
salutation, upon which my friend, in a formal manner,

necessity

for which I gave him

 

the use of

e dined together on boiled beef

spirits of Strap, who now talked lightly of

 

i

|

 

lil

This ceremony being over, he advanced into the middle
of the congregation, which crowded around him, and
hemming three times, to my utter astonishment pro-
nounced, with great significance of voice and gesture,
a very elegant and ingenious discourse upon the diffe-
rence between genius and taste, illustrating his asser-
tions with apt quotations from the best authors, ancient
as well asmodern. When he had finished his harangue,
which lasted a full hour, he bowed again to the specta-
tors, not one of whom, I was informed, understood so
much as a sentence of what he uttered. They mani-
tested, however, their admiration and esteem by volun-
tary contribution, which, Jackson told me, one week
with another, amounted to eighteenpence, This mo-
derate stipend, together with some small presents which
he received for making up differences and deciding
Causes amongst the prisoners, just enabled him to
breathe and walk about in the grotesque figure I have
described. I understood also that he was an excellent
poet, and had composed a tragedy, which was allowed,
by every body who had seen it, to be a performance of
great merit; that his learning was infinite, his morals
unexceptionable, and his modesty invincible. Such a
character could not fail of attracting my regard; I
longed impatiently to be better acquainted with him,
and desired Jackson would engage him to spend the
evening in my apartment. My request was granted, he
favoured us with his company ; and in the course of our
conversation, perceiving that I had a strong passion for
the Belles Lettres, acquitted himself so well on that
subject, that I expressed a fervent desire of seeing his
productions. In this, too, he gratified my inclination :
he promised to bring his tragedy to my room Wext day,
and, in the meantime, entertained me with some de-
tached pieces, which gave me a very advantageous idea
of his poetical talent. Among other things, I was par-
ticularly pleased with some elegies, in imitation of
Tibullus, one of which I beg leave to submit to the
reader, as a specimen of his complexion and capacity.

“ Where now are all my flatt’ring dreams of joy ?
Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest !

Since first thy beauty fix’d my roving eye,
Fleart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.
Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,

With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;
Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball,

Or press her wanton in love’s roseate bow’r.

For me, no more I'll range the empurpled mead,
Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around ;
Nor wander thro’ the woodbine’s fragrant shade,
To hear the music of the groyes resound.

I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall,
Where fancy paints the glimm’ring taper blue,
Where damps hang mould’ring on the ivied wall,
And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew.
There, leagu’d with hopeless anguish and despair,
A while in silence o’er my fate repine;

Then, with a long farewell to love and eare,

To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.

Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear

On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest ?
Wilt thou strew flow’rs, applaud my love:sincere,
And bid the turf lie light upon my breast 2”

[ was wonderfully affected with this pathetic com:
plaint, which seemed so well calculated for my own
disappointment in love, that I could not help attaching
the idea of Narcissa to the name of Monimia, and of
forming such melancholy presages of my passion, that
[ could not recover my tranquillity, and was fain to
have recourse to the bottle, which prepared me for a pro-
found sleep, that I could not otherwise have enjoyed.
Whether these impressions invited and introduced a
train of other melancholy reflections, or my fortitude was
all exhausted in the effort I made against despondence,
the first day of my imprisonment, I cannot determine ;
but I awaked in the horrors, and found my imagination
haunted with such dismal apparitions, that I was ready
to despair. And I believe the reader will own, that I

introduced him to me by the name of Mr Melopoyn. | had no great cause to congratulate myself, when I con-

F

- Ss ‘in =

SIT Da La

;
i
3
B112

sidered my situation. I was interrupted in the midst
of these gloomy apprehensions by the arrival of Strap,
who contributed not a little to the re-establishment
of my peace, by letting me know he had hired himself
as a journeyman barber, by which means he would not
only save me a considerable expense, but even make
shift to lay up something for my subsistence after my
money should be spent, in case I should not be relieved
before.

 

CHAPTER LXII.

WHILE we ate our breakfast together, I acquainted him
with the character and condition of the poet, who came
in with his play at that instant, and imagining we were
engaged about business, could not be prevailed upon to
sit, but leaving his performance, went away. My friend’s
tender heart was melted at the sight of a gentleman and
Christian (for he had a great veneration for both these
epithets) in such misery ; and assented with great cheer-
fulness to a proposal I made of clothing him with our
superfluities—a task with which he charged himself,
and departed immediately to perform it.

He was no sooner gone than I locked my door, and
sat down to the tragedy, which I read to the end with
vast pleasure, not a little amazed at the conduct of the
managers who had rejected it. The fable, in my opinion,
was well chosen, and naturally conducted ; the inci-
dents interesting, the characters beautifully contrasted,
strongly marked, and well supported ; the diction poeti-
cal, spirited, and correct; the unities of the drama
maintained with the most scrupulous exactness; the
opening@gradual and engaging, and the catastrophe
affecting : in short, I judged it by the laws of Aristotle
and Horace, and could find nothing in it exceptionable,
but a little too much embellishment in some few places ;
which objection he removed to my satisfaction, by a
quotation from Aristotle’s Poetics, importing that the
least interesting parts of a poem ought to be raised
and dignified by the charms and energy of diction.

I revered his genius, and was seized with an eager
curiosity to know the particular events of a fortune so
unworthy of his merit. At that instant Strap returned
with a bundle of clothes, which I sent with my com-
pliments to Mr Melopoyn, as a small token of my re-
gard, and desired the favour of his company to dinner.
He accepted my present and invitation, and in less than
half an hour made his appearnce in a decent dress,
which altered his figure very much to his advantage.
I perceived by his countenance that his heart was big
with gratitude, and endeavoured to prevent his acknow-
ledgments, by asking pardon for the liberty I had taken.
He made no reply, but with an aspect full of admiration
and esteem, bowed to the ground, while the tears gushed
from his eyes. Affected with these symptoms of an in-
genuous mind, I shifted the conversation from this sub-
ject, and complimented him on his performance, which,
I assured him, afforded me infinite pleasure. My ap-
probation made him happy ; dinner being served, and
Jackson arrived, I begged their permission for Strap
to sit at table with us, after having informed them that
he was a person to whom I was extremely obliged;
they were kind enough to grant that favour, and we ate
together with great harmony and satisfaction.

Our meal being ended, I expressed my wonder at the
little regard Mr Melopoyn had met with from the world,
and signified a desire of hearing how he had been treated
by the managers of the play-houses, to whom I under-
stood from Jackson he had offered his tragedy without
success. “There is so little entertaining in the inci-
dents of my life,” said he, “that I am sure the recital
will not recompense your attention ; but since you dis-
cover an inclination to know them, I understand my
duty too well to disappoint your desires.”

‘My father, who was a curate in the country, being,
by the narrowness of his circumstances, hindered from
maintaining me at the university, took the charge of
my education upon himself, and laboured with such in-
dustry and concern in the undertaking, that I had little

saan hain se

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

cause to regret the want of public masters. Being at
great pains to consult my natural bias, he discovered in
me betimes an inclination for poetry, upon which he
recommended to me an intimate acquaintance with the
classics, in the cultivation of which he assisted me with
paternal zeal and uncommon erudition. When he
thought me sufficiently acquainted with the ancients,
he directed my studies to the best modern authors,
French and Italian, as well as English, and laid a par-
ticular injunction upon me to make myself master of
my mother tongue.

About the age of eighteen, I grew ambitious of un-
dertaking a work of some consequence, and, with my
father’s approbation, actually planned the tragedy you
have read; but before I had finished four acts, that in-
dulgent parent died, and left my mother and me in very
indigent circumstances. A near relation compassionat-
ing our distress, took us into his family, where I brought
my fable to a conclusion ; and soon after, my mother
quitted this life. When my sorrow for this melancholy
event had subsided, I told my kinsman, who was a
farmer, that having paid my last duty to my parent, I
had now no attachment to detain me in the country,
and therefore was resolved to set out for London, and
offer my play to the stage, where I did not doubt of
acquiring a large share of fame as well as fortune; in
which case I should not be unmindful of my friends
and benefactors. My cousin was delighted with the
prospect of my felicity, and willingly contributed to-
wards the expense of fitting me out for my expedition.

Accordingly, I took a place in the waggon, and ar-
rived in town, where I hired an apartment in a garret,
willing to live as frugally as possible, until I should
know what I had to expect from the manager to whom
I intended to offer my play. For though I looked upon
myself as perfectly secure of a good reception, imagin-
ing that a patentee would be as eager to receive as L
to present my production, I did not know whether or
not he might be pre-engaged in favour of another author,
which would certainly retard my success. On this con-
sideration, too, | determined to be speedy in my appli-
cation, and even to wait upon one of the managers the
very next day. [or this purpose I inquired of my land-
lord if he knew where either or both of them lived;
and he being curious to know my business, and, at the
same time, appearing to be a very honest friendly man
(a tallow-chandler), I made him acquainted with my
design, upon which he told me, that 1 went the wrong
way to work—that I would not find such easy access to
a manager as I imagined—and that, if I delivered my
performance without proper recommendation, it would
be as one to a thousand if ever it should be minded.
“Take my advice,” said he, “and your business is done.
One of the patentees is a good Catholic, as I am, and
uses the same father who confesses me. I will make
you acquainted with this good priest, who is an excellent
scholar ; and if he shall approve of your play, his re-
commendation will go a great way in determining Mr
Supple to bring it on the stage.” I applauded his ex-
pedient, and was introduced to the friar, who, having
perused the tragedy, was pleased to give it his appro-
bation, and commended me, in particular, for having
avoided all reflections upon religion. He promised to
use all his influence with his son Supple in my behalf,
and to inform himself that very day when it would be
proper for me to wait upon him with the piece. He
was punctual in performing his engagement, and next
morning gave me to understand, that he had mentioned
my affair to the manager, and that I had no more to do
than to go to his house any time in the forenoon, and
make use of his name, upon which I would find imme-
diate admittance. I took his advice, put my performance
in my bosom ; and having received directions, went im-
mediately to the house of Mr Supple, and knocked at
the door, that had a wicket in the middle, faced with a
net-work of iron, through whieh a servant, having
viewed me some time, demanded to know my business.
I told him my business was with Mr Supple ; and that
1 came from Mr O’Varnish. He examined my appear-

 

ance once more, then went away, returned in a few

tee

 

th tn tha ot eeADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

minutes, and said his master was busy, and could not
be seen. Although [ was a little mortified at my dis-
appointment, I was persuaded that my reception was
owing to Mr Supple’s ignorance of my errand ; and that
I might meet with no more obstructions of the same
kind, I desired Mr O’Varnish to be my introductor the
next time. He complied with my request, and obtained
immediate admittance to the manager, who received me
with the utmost civility, and promised to read my play
with the first convenience. By his own appointment I
called again in a fortnight, but he was gone out; I re-
turned in a week after, and the poor gentleman was
extremely ill; I renewed my visit in a fortnight after
that, and he assured me he had been so much fatigued
with business, that he had not been able as yet to read
it to an end, but he would take the first opportunity ;
and, in the meantime, observed, that what he had yet
seen of it was very entertaining. I comforted myself
with this declaration a few weeks longer, at the end of
which I appeared again before the vicket, was let in,
and found him laid up with the gout. I no sooner
entered his chamber, than, looking at me with a lan-
guishing eye, he pronounced“ Mr Melopoyn, I’m
heartily sorry for an accident that has happened dur-
ing my illness. You must know, that my eldest boy,
finding your manuseript upon the table in the dining-
room where [ used to read it, carried it into the kitchen,
and leaving it there, a negligent wench of a cook-maid,
mistaking it for waste-paper, has expended it all but a
few leaves in singeing fowls upon the spit ; but I hope
the misfortune is not irreparable, since, no doubt, you
have several copies.”

I protest to you, my good friend Mr Random, I was
extremely shocked at this information: but the good-
natured gentleman seemed to be so much affected with
my misfortune, that I suppressed my concern, and told
him, that although I had not another copy, I should be
able to retrieve the loss by writing another from my
memory, which was very tenacious. You cannot ima-
gine how well pleased Mr Supple was at this assurance :
he begged I would set about it immediately, and care-
fully revolve and recollect every circumstance, before
I pretended to commit it to paper, that it might be the
same individual play that he had perused. Encouraged
by this injunction, which plainly demonstrated how
much he interested himself in the affair, I tasked my
remembrance and industry, and in three weeks pro-
duced the exact image of the former, which was con-
veyed to him by my good friend Father O’Varnish, who
let me know, next day, that Mr Supple would revise it
superficially, in order to judge of its sameness with the
other, and then give his final answer. For this exami-
nation I allotted a week; and in full confidence of see-

ing it acted in a little while, demanded an audience of

the manager, when that term was expired. But alas!
the season had slipt away insensibly ; he convinced me,
that if my play had been put into rehearsal at that
time, it could not have been ready for performing until
the end of March, when the benefit nights come on;
consequently it would have interfered with the interest
of the players, whom it was my business not to disoblige,

I was fain to acquiesce in these reasons, which, to be
sure, were extremely just, and to reserve my perform-
ance to the next season, when he hoped I would not
be so unlucky ; although it was a grievous disappoint-
ment to me, who by this time began to want both money
and necessaries—having on the strength of my expec-
tation from the theatre, launched out into some extra-
vagances, by which the sum I had brought to town
was already almost consumed. Indeed, I ought to be
ashamed at this circumstance of my conduct: for my
finances were sufficient, with good economy, to have
maintained me comfortably for a whole year. You will,
perhaps, be amazed when I tell you, that in six months
I expended not a farthing less than ten guineas ; but
when one considers the temptations to which a young
man is exposed in this great city, especially if he is ad-
dicted to pleasure as I am, the wonder will vanish, or at
least abate. Nor was the cause of my concern limited

 

tomy own situation entirely: I had written an account

 

113

of my good reception to my kinsman the farmer, and
desixed him to depend upon me for the money he had
kindly accommodated me with about the end of Febru-
ary: which promise I now found myself unable to per-
form. However, there was no remedy but patience: I
applied to my landlord, who was a very good-natured
man, candidly owned my distress, and begged his ad-
vice in laying down some plan for my subsistence. He
readily promised to consult his confessor on this sub-
ject, and in the meantime told me I was welcome to
lodge and board with him, until fortune should put it
in my power to make restitution.

Mr O’Varnish being informed of my necessity, offered
to introduce me to the author of a weekly paper, who,
he did not doubt, would employ me in that way, provided
he should find me duly qualified; but upon inquiry, I
understood that this journal was calculated to foment
divisions in the commonwealth, and therefore I desired
to be excused from engaging in it. He then proposed
that I should write something in the poetieal way, which
I might dispose of to a bookseller for a pretty sum of
ready money, and perhaps establish my own character
into the bargain. This event would infallibly procure
friends ; and my tragedy would appear next season to
the best advantage, by being supported both by interest
and reputation. I was charmed by this prospect; and
having heard what friends Mr Pope acquired by his
Pastorals, set about a work of that kind, and in less
than six weeks composed as many eclogues, which I
forthwith offered to an eminent bookseller, who desired
[ would leave them for his perusal, and he would give
me an answer in two days. At the end of that time, I
went to him, when he returned the poems, telling me
they would not answer his purpose, and sweetened his
refusal by saying there were some good clever lines in
them. Nota little dejected at this rebuff, which, I
learned from Mr O’Varnish, was owing to the opinion
of anotherauthor whom this bookseller always consulted
on these occasions, I applied to another person of the
same profession, who told me that the town was cloyed
with pastorals, and advised me, if I intended to profit
by my talents, to write something satirical, or luscious,
such as the Button Hole, Shocky and Towzer, the Leaky
Vessel, &c: and yet this was a man in years, who
wore a reverend periwig, looked like a senator, and
went regularly to church. Be that as it will, I scorned
to prostitute my pen in the manner he proposed, and
carried my papers to a third, who assured me that
poetry was entirely out of his way ; and asked, if I had
got never a piece of secret history, thrown into a series
of letters or a volume of adventures, such as those of
Robinson Crusoe and Colonel Jack, or a collection of
conundrums, wherewith to entertain the plantations.
Being quite unfurnished for this dealer, I had recourse
to another with as little success, and I verily believe
was rejeeted by the whole trade.

I was afterwards persuaded to offer myself as a trans-
lator, and accordingly repaired to a person who was
said to entertain numbers of that class in his pay. He
assured me he had already a great deal of that work on
his hands, which he did not know what to do with—ob-
served that translation was a mere drug, that branch
of literature being overstocked by an inundation from
North Britain; and asked what I would expect per
sheet for rendering the Latin classics into English,
That I might not make myself too cheap, I determined
to set a high price upon my qualification, and demanded
half a guinea for every translated sheet. .“ Half a
guinea!” cried he, staring at me—then paused a little,
and said he had no occasion for my service at present.
I found my error, and resolving to make amends, fell
one half in my demand, upon which he stared at me
again, and told me his hands were full. I attempted
others without finding employment, and was actually
reduced to a very uncomfortable prospect, when I be-
thought myself of offering my talents to the printers of
halfpenny ballads, and other such occasional essays as
are hawked about the streets. With this view I ap-
plied to one of the most noted and vociferous of this
iribe, who directed me te a person whom I found en-114

tertaining a whole crowd of them with gin, bread, and
cheese. He carried me into a little back parlour, very
neatly furnished, where [ signified my desire of being
enrolled among his writers, and was asked what kind
of composition I professed. Understanding that my
inclination leaned towards poetry, he expressed his sa-
tisfaction, telling me one of his poets had lost his senses,
and was confined in Bedlam, and the other was become
dozed with drinking drams, so that he had not done
any thing tolerable these many weeks. When [ pro-
posed that he should enter into terms of agreement, he
gave me to understand that his bargains were always
conditional, and his authors paid in proportion to the
sale of their works.

Having therefore settled these conditions, which, [
do assure you, were not very advantageous to me, he
assigned me a subject for a ballad which was to be
finished in two hours, and I retired to my garret in
order to perform his injunction. As the theme hap-
pened to suit my fancy, I completed a pretty sort of an
ode within the time prescribed, and brought it to him,
big with hope of profit and pleasure. He read it in a
twinkling, and, to my utter astonishment, told me it
would not do, though, indeed, he owned I wrote a good
hand, and spelled very well; but my language was too
high flown, and, of consequence, not at all adapted to
the capacity and taste of his customers. I promised to
rectify that mistake, and in half an hour humbled my
style to the comprehension of vulgar readers ; he ap-

proved of the alteration, and gave me some hopes of

succeeding in time, though he observed that my per-
formance was very deficient in that quaintness of ex-
pression that pleases the multitude: however, to en-
courage me, he ventured the expense of printing and
paper, and, if | remember aright, my share of the sale
amounted to fourpence-halfpenny.

From that day I studied the Grub Street manner with
great diligence, and at length became such a proficient,
that my works were in great request among the most
polite of the chairmen, draymen, hackney-coachmen,
footmen, and serving maids; nay, I have enjoyed the
pleasure of seeing my productions adorned with cuts,
pasted upon the wall as ornaments in beer-cellars and
cobblers’ stalls, and have actually heard them sung in
clubs of substantial tradesmen. But empty praise, you

know, my dear friend, will not supply the cravings of

I found myself in danger of starving in the
midst of all my fame; for of ten songs I composed, it
was well if two had the good fortune to please. For
this reason I turned my thoughts to prose, and during
a tract of gloomy weather, published an apparition, on
the substance of which I subsisted very comfortably a
whole month. I have made many a good meal upon a
monster ; but a murder, well timed, was my never-fail-
ing resource. What then? I was a most miserable slave
to my employers, who expected to be furnished at a
minute’s warning with prose and verse, just as they
thought the circumstances of the times required, whe-
ther the inclination was absent or present. Upon my
sincerity, Mr Random, I have been so much pestered
and besieged by these children of clamour, that my life
became a burden to me.

nature.

 

CHAPTER LXIII.

I MADE shift, notwithstanding, to maintain myself til
the beginning of next winter, when I renewed my ad-
dresses to my friend Mr Supple, and was most graciously
received. “I have been thinking of your affair, Mr
Melopoyn,” said he, “ and am determined to show how
far I have your interest at heart, by introducing you
to a young nobleman of my acquaintance, who is re-
markable for his fine taste in dramatic writings, and
is, besides, a man of such influence, that if once he should
approve your play, his patronage will support it against
all the efforts of envy and ignorance ; for I do assure
you, that merit alone will not bring success. I have
already spoken of your performance to Lord Rattle,
and if you will call at my house in a day or two, you
ee Mire x t ‘ 1 - . sf

as

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

shall have a letter of introduction to his lordship.” J
was sensibly touched with this mark of Mr Supple’s
friendship, and, looking upon my affair as already done,
went home and imparted my good fortune to my land-
lord, who, to render my appearance more acceptable
to my patron, procured a suit of new clothes for me on
his own credit.

Not to trouble you with idle particulars, I carried
my tragedy to his lordship’s lodgings, and sent it up,
along with Mr Supple’s letter, by one of his servants,
whe desired me, by his lordship’s order, to return in
a week. I did so, and was admitted to his lordship,
who received me very courteously, told me he had per-
used my play, which he thought, on the whole, was the
best coup d’essai he had ever seen; but that he had
marked some places in the margin, which he imagined
might be altered for the better. I was transported with
this reception, and promised (with many acknowledge-
ments of his lordship’s generosity) to be governed solely
by his advice and direction. “ Well, then,” said he,
“ write another fair copy with the alterations I have pro-
posed, and bring it to me as soon as possible, for | am
resolved to have it brought on the stage this winter.”
You may be sure I set about this task with alacrity ;
and although [ found his lordship’s remarks much more
numerous and of less importance than I expected, I
thought it was not my interest to dispute upon trifles
with my patron, therefore new-modelled it according
to his desire, in Jess than a month.

When I waited upon him with the manuscript, I found
one of the actors at breakfast with his lordship, who
immediately introduced him to my acquaintance, and
desired him to read a scene of my play. This he per-
formed very much to my satisfaction with regard to
emphasis and pronunciation ; but he signified his dis-
gust at several words in every page, which I presuming
to defend, Lord Rattle told me, with a peremptory look,
[ must not pretend to dispute with him, who had been
a player these twenty years, and understood the eco-
nomy of the stage better than any man living. I was
forced to submit, and his lordship proposed the same
actor should read the whole play, in the evening, before
some gentlemen of his acquaintance, whom he would
convene at his lodgings for that purpose.

[ was present at the reading; and I protest to you,
my dear friend, 1 never underwent such a severe trial
in the whole course of my life as at that juncture ; for
although the player might be a very honest man and
a good performer, he was excessively illiterate and as-
suming, and made a thousand frivolous objections, which
I was not permitted to answer: however, the piece was
very much applauded on the whole—the gentlemen pre-
sent, who I understood were men of fortune, promised
to countenance and support it as much as they could ;
and Lord Rattle, assuring me that he would act the part
of a careful nurse to it, desired me to earry it home,
and alter it immediately according to their remarks,
| was fain to acquiesce in his determination, and ful-
filled his injunctions with all the expedition in my
power; but before I could present the new copy; my
good friend My Supple had disposed of ‘his property and
patent to one Mr Brayer, so that fresh interest was to
be made with the new manager. This task Lord Rattle
undertook, haying some acquaintance with him, and re-
commended ‘my performance so strongly that it was
received. ;

[ looked upon myself now as upon the eve of reaping
the fruits of all my labour: I waited a few days in ex-
pectation of its being put into rehearsal, and wondering
at the delay, applied to my worthy patron, who excused
Mr Brayer on account of the multiplicity of business
in, which he was involved, and bade me beware of teas-
ing the patentee. I treasured up this caution, and ex-
erted my patience three weeks longer; at the end of
which his lordship gave me to understand, that Mr
Brayer had read my play, and owned it had indubitable
merit; but as he had long been pre-engaged to another
author, he could not possibly represent it that season ;
though, if I would reserve it for the next, and in the
interim make such alterations as he had proposed by

WOVAAY Aaa Ne Wee eter ceADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

observations in the margin, I might depend upon his
compliance.

Thunderstruck at this disappointment, I could not,
for some minutes, utter one syllable: at length, how-
ever, I complained bitterly of the manager’s insincerity
in amusing me so lone, when he knew from the begin-
ning that he could not gratify my desire. But his
lordship reprimanded me for my ‘freedom ; said Mr
Brayer was a man of honour, and imputed his behayi-
our with respect to me to nothing else but forgetful-
ness. And, indeed, I have had some reason, since that
time, to be convinced of his bad memory ; for, in spite
of appearances, I will not allow myself to interpret his
conduct any other way. Lord Rattle observing me
very much affected with my disappointment, offered his
interest to bring on my playin the other house, which

a

| eagerly accepting, he forthwith wrote a letter of re-
commendation to Mr Bellower, actor and prime mini-
ster to Mr Vandal, proprietor. of that theatre: and
desired me to deliver it with my tragedy, without loss
of time. Accordingly, L hastened to his house, where
after having waited a whole hour in a lobby, I was ad-
mitted to his presence, and my performance received
with great state. He told me he was extremely busy
at present, but he would peruse it as soon as possible,
and bade me call again in a week. I took my leave, not
a little astonished at the port and supercilious behavi-
our of this stage-player, who had not treated me with
good manners, and began to think the dignity of a poet
greatly impaired since the days of Euripides and So-
phocles; butall this was nothing in comparison of what
l have since observed.

Well, Mr Random, I went back at the appointed
time, and was told that Mr Bellower was engaged, and
could not see me. |] repeated my visit a few days after,
and h

aving waited a considerable time,
with an audience, during which he

yet read my play. Nettled at this usage,

was favoured
said he had not as

l could con-
tain myself no longer, but t ling him, I imagined he
would have had more d ference to Lord Rattle’s recom-
mendation, demanded my manuscript with some ex-
pressions of resentment. “Ay,” said he, ina theatrical
tone, “ with all my heart.” Then pulling out a drawer
of the bureau at which he sat, he took outa bundle, and
threw it upon a table that was near him, pronouncing
the word “ There!” with great disdain, [ took it up,
and perceiving, with some surprise, that it was a comedy,
told him it did not belong to me; upon which he of-
fered me another, which | A. third
was produced, and rejected for the same reason. At
leneth he pulled out a whole handful, and spread them
before me, saying, “There are seven ; take which you
please—or take them all.” J] singled out my own, and
went away struck dumb with admiration at what I had
seen—not so much on account of his insolenee, as of the
number of new plays, which, from this circumstance. ]
concluded were yearly offered to the Stage. You may
be sure I did not fail to carry my complaint to my pa-
tron, who did not receive it with all the indignation |
expected ; but taxed me with precipitation, and told me,

also disclaim d,

| must lay my account with bearing the humours of the |

players, if I intended to write for the stage. There is
now no other remedy,” said he, “but to keep it tillthe
next season for Mr Brayer, and alter it at your leisure
in the summer time, according to his directions.” I was
now reduced to a terrible alternative, either to quit all
hopes of my tragedy, from which I had all along pro-
mised myself a large share of fortune and reputation,
or to encounter eight long months of adversity, in pre-
paring for and expecting its appearance. ‘This iast
penance, painful as it was, seemed most eligible to my
reflection at that time, and therefore I resolved to un-
dergo it.

Why should I tire youavith particulars of no conse-
quence? JI wrestled with extreme poverty, until the
time of my probation was expired, and went to my Lord
Rattle, in order to remind him of my afiair, when I
understood, to my great concern, that his lordship was
on the point of going abroad, and, which was still more
unfortunate for me, Mr Brayer had gone into the coun-

 

 

 

115

try; so that my senerous patron had it not in his power
to introduce me personally, as he intended: however,
he wrote a very strong letter to the manager in my
favour, and put him in mind of the promise he had made
in behalf of my play,

As soon as I was certified of Mr Brayer’s return, I
went to his house with this letter, but was told he was
gone out. I called again next day early in the morn-
mg, received the same answer, and was desired to leave
my name and business, I did so, and returned the day
after, when the servant still affirmed that his master
was gone abroad, though I perceived him, as I retired,
ere me ERD a window. Incensed at this dis-
covery, 4 went to a coffee-house harc rg :
his lordship’s letter in one from. myedit ae a

. : ? a &
a categorical answer, I sent it to his house bya porter,
who returned in a few minutes, and told me Mr Brayex
would be glad to see me at that instant, J obeyed the
summons, and was received with such profusion of com-
pliments and apologies that my resentment immediately
subsided, and I was even in pain for the concern which
this honest man showed at the mistake of his servant,
who, it seems, had been ordered to deny him to every
body but me. He expressed the utmost veneration for
his good and noble friend Lord Rattle, whom he should
always be proud to serve ; promised to peruse the play
with all dispatch, and give me a meeting upon it; and,
as a testimony of his esteem, made me a present of a
general order for the season, by which I should be ad-
mitted to any part of the theatre. This was a very
agreeable compliment to me, whose greatest pleasure
consisted in seeing dramatic performances, and you need
not doubt that I often availed myself of my privilege.
As I had an opportunity of being behind the scenes
when I pleased, | frequently conversed with Mr Brayer
about my play, and asked when he intended to put it
into rehearsal; but he had always so much business
upon his hands, that it remained with him unopened a
considerable while: and I became very uneasy about
the season, that wasted apace, when I saw in the papers
another new play advertised, which had been written,
offered, accepted, and rehearsed, in the compass of three
months, without my knowledge or suspicion. You may
easily guess how much I was confounded at this event.
l own to you that, in the first transports of my anger,
[ suspected Mr Brayer of having acted towards me in
the most pitiful, perfidious manner; and was actually
glad at his disappointment in the success of his favourite
piece, which, by the strength of art, lingered till the
third night, and then died in a deplorable manner. But
now that passion has no share in my reflection, I am
willing to ascribe his behaviour to his want of memory,
or want of judgment, which, you know, are natural de-
tects, that ave more worthy of compassion than reproach.

About this time I happened to be in company with
a gentlewoman, who having heard of my tragedy, told
me she was acquainted with the wife of a gentleman,
who was very well known to a lady, who had great in-
terest with a person who was intimate with Earl Sheer-
wit, and that, if I pleased, she would use her influence
in my behalf. As this nobleman had the character of
a Meecenas in the nation, and could stamp a value upon
any work by his sole countenance and approbation, I
accepted her offer with eagerness, in full confidence of
seeing my reputation established, and my wishes ful-
filled in a very short time, provided that I should have
the good fortune to please his lordship’s taste. I with-
drew the manuscript from the hands of Mr Brayer, and
committed it to the care of this gentlewoman, who la-
boured so effectually in my interest, that in less than a
month it was conveyed to the earl; and in a few weeks
alter, i had the satisfaction to hear he had read and
approved it very much. Transported with this piece
of intelligence, I flattered myself with the hopes of his
interesting himself in its favour ; but hearing no more
of the matter in three whole months, I began (God for-
give me!) to suspect the veracity of the person who
brought me the good tidings ; for I thought it impos-
sible that a man of his rank and character, who knew

the diliculty of writing a good tragedy, and understood.

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the dignity of the work, should read and applaud an
essay of this kind, without feeling an inclination to be-
friend the author, whom his countenance alone could
raise above dependence. But it was not long before I
found my friends very much wronged by my opinion.
You must know that the civilities I had received from
Lord Rattle, and the desire he manifested to promote
- the success of my play, encouraged me to write an ac-
count of my bad fortune to his lordship, who conde-
scended so far as to desire, by letter, a young squire
of a great estate, with whom he was intimate, to espouse
my cause, and, in particular, make me acquainted with
one Mr Marmozet, a celebrated player, who had lately
appeared on the stage with great eclat, and bore such
Sway in the house where he acted, that the managers
durst not refuse any thing he recommended. The young
gentleman whom Lord Rattle had employed for this
purpose, being diffident of his own interest with Mr
Marmozet, had recourse to a nobleman of his acquaint-
ance, who, at his solicitation, was so good as to intro-
duce me to hirn; and the conversation turning upon
my performance, I was not a little surprised, as well as
pleased, to hear that Earl Sheerwit had spoken very
much in its praise, and even sent Mr Marmozet the
copy, with a message, expressing a desire that he would
act it next season. Nor was the favourite actor back-
ward in commending the piece, which he mentioned
with some expressions of regard that I do not choose
to repeat ; assuring me that he would appear in it, pro-
vided he should be engaged to play at all during the
ensuing season. In the meantime, he desired I would
give him leave to peruse it in the country, whither he
intended to remove next day, that he might have leisure
to consider and point out such alterations as might, per-
haps, be necessary for the jew de theatre: and took my
direction, that he might communicate, by letter, the ob-
servations he should make. Trusting to these assur-
ances, and the interest which had been made in my be-
half, I hugged myself in the expectation of seeing it not
only acted, but acted to the greatest advantage, which
I thought could not fail of recompensing me in an ample
manner for the anxiety and aftliction | had undergone.
But six weeks being elapsed, I did not know how to
reconcile Mr Marmozet’s silence with his promise of
writing to me in ten days after he set out for the coun-
try ; however, I was at last favoured with a letter, im-
porting that he had made some remarks on my tragedy,
which he would freely impart at meeting, and advising
me to put it, without loss of time, into the hands of that

manager who had the best company; for he himself |

was quite uncertain whether or not he should be en-
gaged that winter. I was a good deal alarmed at this
last part of his letter, and advised about it with a friend,
who told me it was a plain indication of Mr Marmozet’s
desire to be rid of his promise: that his pretended un-
certainty about acting next winter, was no other than
a scandalous evasion; for, to his certain knowledge,
he was already engaged, or at least in terms, with Mr
Vandal; and that his design was to disappoint me, in
favour of a new comedy, which he had purchased of the
author, and was intending to bring upon the stage for
his own advantage. In short, my dear sir, this person,
who, I must own, is of a very sanguine complexion,
handled the moral character of Mr Marmozet with such
severity, that I began to stspect him of some particular
prejudice, and put myself upon my guard against his
Insinuations. I ought to crave pardon for this tedious
narration of trivial circumstances, which, however in-
teresting they may be to me, must certainly be very
dry and insipid to the ear of one unconcerned in the
affair. But I understand the meaning of your looks,
and will proceed.—Well, Sir, Mr Marmozet, upon his
return to town, treated me with uncommon complais-
ance, and invited me to his lodgings, where he proposed
to communicate his remarks, which, I confess, were
more unfayourable than I expected; but I answered
his objections, and, as I thought, brought him over to
my opinion ; for, on the whole, he signified the highest
approbation of the performance, In the course of our
dispute, { was not a little surprised to find this poor

. ek

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

gentleman’s memory so treacherous as to let him forget
what he had said to me, before he went out of town, in
regard to Karl Sheerwit’s opinion of my play, which he
now professed himself ignorant of: and I was extremely
mortified at hearing from his own mouth, that his inte-
rest with Mr Vandal was so very low as to be insuffi-
cient of itself to bring a new piece upon the stage. I
then begged his advice, and he counselled me to apply
to Karl Sheerwit for a message in my favour to the
manager, who would not presume to refuse any thing
recommended by so great a man; and he was so kind as
to promise to second this message with all his power. [
had immediate recourse to the worthy gentlewoman, my
friend already mentioned, who opened the channels of
her conveyance with such expedition, that in a few days
I had the promise of the message, provided I could en-
sure myself of Mr Vandal’s being unengaged to any
other ; for his lordship did not choose to condescend so
far, until he should understand that there was a proba-
bility, at least, of succeeding. At the same time in
which I was blessed with this piece of news, I was
startled at another, by the same canal of communica-
tion—which was, that Mr Marmozet, before he advised
me to this application, had informed the earl that he
had read my play, and found it altogether unfit for the
stage. Though I could not doubt the certainty of this
intelligence, 1 believed there was some misapprehen-
sion in the case; and, without taking any notice of it,
told Mr Marmozet the answer I had been favoured
with, upon which he testified much joy, and promised
to ask Mr Vandal the question proposed. I waited upon
him in a day or two, when he gave me to understand,
that Mr Vandal having professed himself free of all
engagements, he had put my play into his hands, and
represented it as a piece strongly recommended by Earl
Sheerwit, who, he assured him, would honour him with
& Message in its favour; and he desired me to call for
an answer at Mr Vandal’s house in three days. I fol-
lowed his directions, and found the manager, who, being
made acquainted with my business, owned, that Mr
Marmozet had given him a manuscript play, but denied
that he had mentioned Earl Sheerwit’s name. When I
informed him of the circumstances of the affair, he said
he had no engagement with any author—that he would

| read my tragedy forthwith—and did not believe he

should venture to reject it in contradiction to his lord-
ship’s opinion, for which he had the utmost veneration,
but put it into rehearsal without loss of time. I was so
much intoxicated with this encouragement, that I over-
looked the mysterious conduct of Mr Marmozet, and
attended the manager at the time appointed, when, to
my infinite confusion, he pronounced my play improper
for the stage, and rejected it accordingly. As soon as
I could recollect myself from the disorder into which
this unexpected refusal had thrown me, I expressed a
desire of hearing his objections, which were so ground-
less, indistinct, and unintelligible, that I persuaded my-
self he had not at all perused the piece, but had been
prompted by somebody whose lessons he had not rightly
retained. However, I have been since informed, that
the poor man’s head, which was not naturally very
clear, had been disordered with superstition, and that
he Jaboured under the tyranny of a wife and the ter-
rors of hell-fire at the same time. Precipitated in this
manner from the highest pinnacle of hope to the abyss
of despondence, I was ready to sink under the burden
of my afHliction; and, in the bitterness of my anguish,
could not help entertaining some doubts of Mr Mar-
mozet’s integrity, when I recollected and compared the
circumstances of his conduct towards me. J was en-
couraged in this suspicion by being told, that my Lord
Sheerwit had spoken of his character with great con-
tempt, and, in particular, resented his insolence in op-
posing his own taste to that of his lordship, concerning
my tragedy. While I hesitated between different opi-
mons of the matter, that friend, who, as I told you be-
fore, was a little hot-headed, favoured me with a visit ;
and, having heard a circumstantial account of the whole

affair, could not contain his indignation, but affirmed,

without ceremony, that Marmozct was the sole occasiony

Vo Vea Bee SRN ee ee Sete eee

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a
,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

of my disappointment—that he had acted from first to
last with the most perfidious dissimulation, cajoling
with insinuating civilities, while he underhand employed
all his art and influence to prejudice the ignorant ma-
hager against my performance —that nothing could
equal his hypocrisy but his avarice, which engrossed
the faculties of his soul so muc 1, that he scrupled not
to be guilty of the meanest practices to gratify that sor-
did appetite—that, in consequence of this disposition,
he had prostituted his honour in betraying my inexpe-
rience, and in undermining the interest of another
author of established reputation, who had also offered
a tragedy to the stage, which he thought would inter-
fere with the success of the comedy he had bought, and
determined to bring on at all events.

I was shocked at the description of such a monster,
which I could not believe existed in the world, bad as
it is, and argued against the asseverations of my friend,
by demonstrating the bad policy of such behaviour,
which could not fail of entailing infamy upon the au-
thor ; and the small temptation that a man of Mr Mar-
mozet’s figure and success could have to consult his
interest in such a grovelling manner, which must create
contempt and abhorrence of him in his patrons, and
effectually deprive him of the countenance and protee-
tion he now enjoys in such an eminent degree. He pre-
tended to laugh at my simplicity, and asked if I knew
for which of his virtues he was so much earessed by the
people of fashion. “It is not,” said he, “ for the qualities
of his heart, that this little parasite is invited to the
tables of dukes and lords, who hire extraordinary cooks
for his entertainment—his avarice they see not, his in-
gratitude they feel not, his hypocrisy accommodates
itself to their humours, and is of consequence pleasing ;
but he is chiefly courted for his buffoonery, and will be
admitted into the choicest parties of the quality for his
talent of mimicking Punch and his wife Joan, when a
poet, of the most exquisite genius, is not able to attract
the least regard.” God forbid, Mr Random, that I
should credit assertions that degrade the dignity of our
superiors so much, and represent that poor man as the
most abject of all beings! No. I looked upon them as
the hyperboles of
which he spoke did actually appear, I dare not doubt
the innocence of Mr Marmozet, who, I am told, is as
much as ever in favour with the earl—a circumstance
that surely could not happen, unless he had vindicated
his character to the satisfaction of his lordship. Pray
forgive this long digression, and give me the hearing a
little longer; for, thank Heaven, I am now near the

goal.

Baffled in all my attempts, I despaired of seeing my |

play acted, and bethought myself of choosing some em-
ployment, that might afford a sure, though mean sub-
sistence ; but my landlord, to whom I was by this time
considerably indebted, and who had laid his account
with having his money paid all ina heap, from the pro-
fits of my third night, could not brook his disappoint-
ment, therefore made another effort in my behalf, and,
by dint of interest, procured a message from a lady of
fashion to Mr Brayer, who had always professed a
great veneration for her, desiring that he would set up
my play forthwith, and assuring him that she and all
her friends would support it in the performance. To
strengthen my interest, she engaged-his best actors in
my cause—and, in short, exerted herself so much, that
it was again received, and my hopes began to revive.
But Mr Brayer, honest man, was so much engrossed
by business of vast consequence, though to appearance
he had nothing at all to do, that he could not find time
to read it till the season was pretty far advanced; and
read it he must, for, notwithstanding his having per-
used it before, his memory did not retain one cireum-
stance of the matter.

At length he favoured it with his attention, and, hav-
ing proposed certain alterations, sent his duty to the
lady who patronised it, and promised on his honour to
bring it on next winter, provided these alterations
should be made, and the copy delivered to him before
the end of April. With an aching heart, I submitted

 

 

passion ; and though that comedy of

Dae

|

 

ITZ

to those conditions, and performed them accordingly ;
but fortune owed me another unforeseen mortification
Mr Marmozet, during the summer, became joint-paten-
tee with Mr Brayer, so, when I claimed performance
of articles, I was told he could do nothing without the
sre of his partner, who was pre-engaged to another

My condition was rendered desperate by the death of
my good friend and landlord, whose executors obtained
judgment against my effects, which they seized, turned
me out into the streets naked, friendless, and forlorn.
There I was arrested at the suit of my tailor, and thrown
into this prison, where ] have made shift to live these
five weeks on the bounty of my fellow-prisoners, who,
I hope, are not the worse for the instruction and good.
offices by which I manifest my gratitude; but in spite
of all their charitable endeavours, my life was scarce
tolerable until your uncommon benevolence enabled me
to enjoy it with comfort.’

Perr rere rrce

CHAPTER LXIY.
I satu not make any reflections on this story, in the
course of which the reader must perceive how egregi-
ously the simplicity and milky disposition of this worthy
man had been duped and abused by a set of scoundrels,
who were so habituated to falsehood and equivocation,
that I verily believe they could not utter one syllable
of truth, though their lives depended upon their sin-
cerity. Notwithstanding all I had suffered from the
knavery and selfishness of mankind, I was amazed and
incensed at the base indifference which suffered such
uncommon merit as he possessed to languish in obseu-
rity, and struggle with all the miseries of a loathsome
jail, and should have blessed the occasion that secluded
me from such a perfidious world, had not the remem-
brance of the amiable Narcissa preserved my attach-
ment to that society of which she constituted a part.
The picture of that lovely creature was the constant
companion of my solitude. How often did I contemplate
the resemblance of those enchanting features that first
captivated my heart! how often did I weep over those
endearing scenes which her image recalled; and how
often did I curse my perfidious fate for having deprived
me of the fair original! In vain did my imagination
flatter me with schemes of future happiness ; surely
reason always interposed, and in a moment overthrew
the unsubstantial fabric, by chastising the extravagance
of my hope, and representing my unhappy situation in
the right point of view. In vain did I fly for refuge to
the amusements of the place, and engage in the parties
of Jackson at cards, billiards, nine-pins, and fives; a
train of melancholy thoughts took possession of my soul,
which eyen the conversation of Melopoyn could not
divert. I ordered Strap every day to inquire at Ban-
ter’s lodgings, in expectation of hearing again from my
charmer, and my disappointment considerably aug~
mented my chagrin. My affectionate valet was infected
with my sorrow, and often sat with me whole hours:
without speaking, uttering sigh for sigh, and shedding
tear for tear. This fellowship increased our distemper =
he became incapable of business, and was discarded by
his master ; while I, seeing my money melt away without
any certainty of deliverance, and, in short, all my hopes
frustrated, grew negligent of life, lost all appetite, and
degenerated into such a sloven, that during the space
of two months I was neither washed, shifted, nor shaved,
so that my face, rendered meagre with abstinence, was
obscured with dirt and overshadowed with hair, and
my whole appearance squalid, and even frightful, when
one day Strap brought me notice that there was a man
below who wanted to speak with me. Roused at this
intelligence, and in full hopes of receiving a letter from:
the dear object of my love, I ran down stairs with the
utmost precipitation, and found, to my infinite surprise,
my generous uncle, Mr Bowling. Transported at the
sight, I sprang forward to embrace him, upon which
he started aside with great agility, drew his hanger, and
put himself upon his guard, crying, “ Avast, brother, _toes

Soe

 

|

i418

avast! sheer off. Yoho! you turnkey, why don’t you
keep a better look-out? here’s one of your crazy pri-
soners broke from his lashings, I do suppose.” TI could
not help laughing heartily at his mistake, which I soon
rectified by my voice, that he instantly recollected, and
shook me by the hand with great affection, testifying
his concern at seeing me in such a miserable condition.

I conducted him to my apartment, where, in presence
of Strap, whom I introduced to him as one of my best
friends, he let me know that he was just arrived from
the coast of Guinea, after he had made a pretty suc-
cessful voyage, in which he acted as mate, until the ship
was. attacked by a French privateer; that the captain
being -killed during the engagement, he had taken the
command, and was so fortunate as to sink the enemy ;
after which he fell in with a merchant ship from Mar-
tinico, laden with sugar, indigo, and some silver, and,
by virtue of his letter of marque, attacked, took, and
brought her safe into Kinsale in Ireland, where she was
condemned as a lawful prize, by which means he had
mot only got a pretty sum of money, but also ac-
quired the favour of his owners, who had already con-
ferred upon him the command of a large ship, mounted
with twenty nine-pounders, ready to sail upon a very
advantageous voyage, which he was not at liberty to
discover; and he assured me it was with the greatest
difficulty he had found me, in consequence of a direc-
tion left for him at his lodgings in Wapping.

I was rejoiced beyond measure at this account of his
good fortune, and at his desire recounted all the adven-
tures that had happened to me since we parted. When
he understood the particulars of Strap’s attachment to
me, he squeezed his hand very cordially, and promised
to make a man of him: and giving me ten guineas for
my present occasion, took a direction for the tailor who
arrested me, and went away in order to discharge the
debt, telling me at parting, that he would soon fetch up

all my lee-way with a wet sail.

I was utterly confounded at this sudden transition,
which affected me more than any reverse I had for-
merly felt ; and a crowd of incoherent ideas rushed so
impetuously upon my imagination, that my reason could
neither separate nor connect them; when Strap, whose
joy had manifested itself in a thousand fooleries, came
into my room with his shaving utensils, and, without
any previous intimation, began to lather my beard,
whistling with great emotion all the while. 1 started
from my reverie; and being too well acquainted with
Strap to trust myself in his hands while he was under
such agitation, desired to be excused, sent for another
barber, and suffered myself to be trimmed. Having
performed the ceremony of ablution, I shifted; and
dressing in my gayest apparel, waited for the return of
my uncle, who was agreeably surprised at my sudden
transformation.

This beneficent kinsman had satisfied my creditor,
and obtained an order for my discharge, so that I was
no longer a prisoner; but as I had some reluctance to
part with my friends and fellows in distress, I prevailed
upon Mr Bowling to favour us with his company, and
imvited Mr Melopoyn and Jackson to spend the even-
ing at my apartment, where I regaled them with a sup-
per, good wine, and the news of my release, on which
they heartily congratulated me, notwithstanding the
loss of my company, which, they were pleased to say,
they would severely feel. As for Jackson, his misfor-
tune made so little impression on himself, and he was
altogether so loose, indifferent, and indiscreet, that I
could scarce pity his situation; but I had conceived a
veneration and friendship for the poet, who was, in all
respects, an object much more worthy of compassion
and regard. When our guests withdrew, and my uncle
retired, with an intention to visit me next morning, |
made up a bundle of some linen, and other necessaries,
and bidding Strap carry them to Mr Melopoyn’s lodg-
ing, went thither myself, and pressed it upon his ac-
ceptance with five guineas, which with much difficulty
he received, assuring me, atthe same time, that he should
never have it in his power to make satisfaction. I then

o bade

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

he answered, “ You have already done too much ;” and,
unable to contain the emotions of his soul any longer,
burst into tears and wept aloud. Moved at the spec-
tacle, I left him to his repose; and when my uncle re-~
turned in the morning, represented his character in
such a favourable light, that the honest seaman was
affected with his distress, and determined to follow my
example, in presenting him with five pieces more: upon
which, that [ might save him some confusion, I advised
Mr Bowling to enclose it in a letter, to be delivered by
Strap, after we should be gone.

This was accordingly done. TI took a formal leave of
all my acquaintance in the jail ; and just as I was about
to step into a hackney-coach at the gate, Jackson eall-
ing me, I returned, and he asked me in a whisper, if I
could lend him a, shilling? His demand being so mo-
derate, and in ail likelihood the last he would make upon
me, [ slipped a guinea into his hands, which he no sooner
perceived than he eried, “Oh Jesus! a guinea!” then
laying hold of a button of my coat, he broke out into an
iunmoderate fit of laughter; and when his convulsion
was ended, told me, I was an honest fellow, and let me
go. ‘The coachman was ordered to drive to Mr Bowl-
ing’s lodging, where, when we arrived, he entered into
@ serious discourse with me on the subject of my situa-
tion, and proposed that I should sail with him in qua-
lity of his surgeon ; in which case he would put me on
a method of getting a fortune in a few years, by my own
industry, and assured me, that I might expect to in-
herit all that he should die possessed of, provided I
should survive him. Though I was penetrated with a
sense of his generosity, I was startled at a proposal that
offered violence to my love, and signified my sentiments
on that head, which he did not seem to relish, but ob-
served, that love was the fruit of idleness—that when
once I should be employed in business and my mind
engaged in making money, I would be no more troubled
with these silly notions, whichnone but your fair-weather
Jacks, who have nothing but their pleasure to mind,
ought to entertain. I was piqued at this insinuation,
which I looked upon as a reproach, and, without giving
myself time to deliberate, accepted his offer. He was
overjoyed at my compliance, carried me immediately
to his chief owner, with whom a bargain was struck,
so that I could not retract with honour, should I be
ever so much disposed thereto, That I might not have
time to cool, he bade me draw outa list of medicines for
a complement of five hundred men, adapted to the dis-
tempers of hot climates, and sufficient for a voyage of
eighteen months, and carry it to a certain wholesale
apothecary, who would also provide me in two well
qualified mates. While I was thus er ployed, Strap
came in, and looked very blank, when he understood
my resolution: however, after a pause of some minutes,
he insisted on going along with me ; and, at my desire,
was made ship’s steward by Captain Bowling, who pro-
mised to be at the expense of fitting him out, and to
lend him two hundred pounds to purchase an adven-
ture,

When I had delivered my list of medicines, chosen
a couple of my own countrymen for mates, bespoke a
set of chirurgical instruments, my uncle told me, that
by his last voyage he had cleared almost three thousand
pounds, one thousand of which he would immediately
make over, and put it into my hands; that he would
procure me credit to the value of as much more, in such
goods as would turn to best account in the country to
which we were bound: and that. although he looked
upon my interest as his own, he would keep the re-
maining part of his fortune in his own disposal, with a
view of preserving his independence, and the power of
punishing me, in case I should not make a good use of
what he had already bestowed upon me.

Without troubling the reader with an account of the
effect which this surprising generosity had upon my
mind, I shall only say, that his promises were instantly
performed, and an invoice of merchandise, proper for
the voyage, presented to me, that I might purchase the
goods, and ship them with all expedition. In the midst

ate — og

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1
J

eats Sen “ann Serer we vseSine

ne

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

cissa often interposed, and made me the most miserable

119

Strap and me to stay on shore till the wind should be-

mse

of all mortals. I was distracted with the thought of
being torn from her, perhaps for ever ; and though the
hope of seeing her again might have supported me un-
der the torments of separation, I could not reflect upon
the anguish she must feel at parting with me, and the
incessant sorrows to which her tender bosom would be
exposed during my absence, without being pierced with
the deepest atiliction. As my imagination was daily
and nightly upon the rack to invent some method of
mitigating this cruel stroke, or, at least, of acquitting my
love and honour, in the opinion of that gentle creature,
I at length stumbled upon an expedient, with which the
reader will be made acquainted in due time ; and, in
consequence of my determination, became less uneasy
and disturbed.

My business being finished, and the ship ready to
sail, I resolved to make my last appearance among my
acquaintance at the other end of the town, where I had
not been since my imprisonment ; and as I had, by the
advice of my uncle, taken off some very rich clothes for
sale, I put on the gayest suit in my possession, and went
in achair to the coffee-house I used to frequent, where
1 found my friend Banter so confounded at the magni-
ficence of my dress, that when I made up to him he
gazed at me with a look of astonishment, without being
able for some minutes to open his lips ; then pulling me
aside by the sleeve, and fixing his eyes on mine, accosted
me in this manner :—* Random, where have you been ?
eh? What is the meaning of all this finery? Oho! I
understand you. You are just arrived from thecountry!
what, the roads are good, eh? Well, Random, you are
a bold fellow, and a lucky fellow; but take care, the
pitcher goes often to the well, but is broken at last.”
So saying, he pointed to his collar: by which gesture,
and the broken hints he had ejaculated, I found he
suspected me of having robbed on the highway, and I]
Without ex-
plaining myself any further, I told him he was mistaken

laughed very heartily at his supposition.

come favourable, my request was granted, because he
had orders to remain in the Downs until he should re-
celve some dispatches from London, which he did not
expect in less than a week. Having imparted my re-
solution to my trusty valet, who (though he endeavoured.
to dissuade me from such a rash undertaking) would
not quit me in the enterprise, I hired horses, and set
out immediately for that part of Sussex where my
charmer was confined, which was not above thirty miles
distant from Deal, where we mounted. Ags I was per-
fectly wellacquainted with the extent of the squire’s estate
and influence, I halted within five miles of his house,
where we remained till the twilight, at which time we
set forward, and, by the favour of a dark night, gained.
a copse about half a mile from the village where Mrs
Sagely lived. Here we left our horses tied to a tree,
and went directly to the house of my old benefactress,

| Strap trembling all the way, and venting ejaculatory

petitions to heaven for our safety. Her habitation
being quite solitary, we arrived at the door without
being observed, when I ordered my companion to enter
by himself, and, in case there should be company with
her, deliver a letter which I had written for the pur-
pose, and say, that a friend of hers in London, under-
standing that he intended to travel this road, had com-
mitted it to his care. He rapped at the door, to which
the good old matron coming, told him, that she being
a lone woman, he must excuse her if she did not open
it until he had declared his name and business. He
answered, that his name was unknown to her, and that
his business was to deliver a letter, which (to free her
from all manner of apprehension) he would convey to
her through the space between the door and the thres-~
hold. This he instantly performed; and she no sooner
read the contents, which specified my being present,
than she cried, “ If the person who wrote this letter be
at hand, let him speak, that I may be assured by his
voice whether or not I may safely admit him.” I forth-

Ss :

 

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with applied my mouth to the key-hole, and pronounced,
“ Dear mother, you need not be afraid ; it is I, so much
indebted to your goodness, who now crave admittance.”
She knew my voice, and opening the door immediately,
received me with a truly maternal affection, manifest-

in his conjecture ; that I had been for some time past
with the relation of whom he had frequently heard me
speak ; and that being to set out next day upon my
travels, | had come thither to take my leave of my
friends, and to receive of him the money he had bor-

 

ee eee

rowed from me, which, now that I was going abroad,
{ should have oceasion for. He wasa little disconcerted
at this demand; but recollecting himself in a moment,
swore, in an affected passion, that I had used him ex-
tremely ill, and he would never forgive me, for having
by this short warning put it out of his power to free
himself of an obligation he could no longer bear. J
could not help smiling at this pretended delicacy, which
I commended highly, telling him, he needed not be un-
easy on that score, for I would give him a direction to
«a merchant in the city, with whom I would leave a dis-
charge for the sum, to be delivered upon payment. He
professed much joy at this expedient, and with great
eagerness asked the person’s name and place of abode,
which he forthwith wrote in his pocket-book, assuring
me that he would not be long in my debt. This affair,
which I knew he would never after think of, being set-
tled to his satisfaction, I sent cards to all my friends,
desiring the favour of their company at a tavern in the
evening, when they honoured my invitation, and I had

ing, by the tears she let fall, her concern lest I should
be discovered, for she had been informed of every thing
that had happened between Narcissa and me, from the
dear captive’s own mouth.

When I explained the motive of my journey, which
was no other than a desire of seeing the object of my
love before I should quit the kingdom, that I might m ~
person convince her of the necessity | was under to
leave her, reconcile her to that event, by describing the
advantages that in all probability would attend it, repeat
my vows of eternal constancy, and enjoy the melancholy
pleasure of a tender embrace at parting—I say, when
[ had thus signified my intention, Mrs Sagely told me,
that Narcissa, upon her return from Bath, had been so
strictly watched, that nobody but one or two of the ser-
vants devoted to her brother were admitted to her
presence ; that afterwards she had been a little enlarged,
and permitted to see company, during which indulgence
she had been several times at her cottage; but of late
she had been betrayed by one of the servants, who dis-

ee.

 

ee

covered to the squire that he had once carried a letter
from her to the post-house directed to me; upon whieh
information, she was now more confined than ever,
and that I could have no chance of seeing her, unless
| would run the risk of getting into the garden, where
she and her maid were allowed every day to take the

SE a?

the pleasure of treating them in a very elegant manner,
at which they expressed as much admiration as applause.
Having enjoyed ourselves till midnight, I took my leave
of them all, being well nigh stifled with caresses; and
next day I set out with Strap in a post-chaise for Graves-

ek See
Se es oe eases

7

Se ag TR ae
aes

end, where we went on board, and the wind serving,
weighed anchor in less than twelve hours. Without
meeting with any accident, we got as far as the Downs,
where we were obliged to come to an anchor, and wait
for an easterly wind to carry us out of the Channel.

 

CHAPTER LXV.

iv was now I put in execution the scheme I had pro-
jected at Loudon: and asking leave of the captain for

A

 

air, and lie hid until I should have an opportunity of
speaking to them—an adventure which wotld be at-
tended with such danger, that no man in his right wits
would attempt it.

This enterprise, hazardous as it was, I resolved to
perform, in spite of all the arguments of Mrs Sagely,
who reasoned, chid, and entreated by turns, and the
tears and prayers of Strap, who conjured me on his
knees to have more regard to myself as well as to him,
than to tempt my own destruction in such a precipitate120

manner. Iwas deaf to every thing but the suggestions
of my love, and ordered him to return immediately to
the inn with the horses from whence we set out, and
wait for my coming in that place. He at first peremp-
torily refused to leave me, until I persuaded him, that
if our horses should remain where they were till day-
light, they would certainly be discovered, and the whole
country alarmed. On this consideration, he took leave
of me in a sorrowful plight, kissed my hand, and weep-
ing, cried, “ God knows if ever I shall see you again.”
My kind landlady finding me obstinate, gave me her
best advice how to behave in the execution of my pro-
ject; and after having persuaded me to take a little re-
freshment, accommodated me with a bed, and left me to
my repose.

Early in the morning I got up, and, armed with a
couple of loaded pistols and a hanger, went to the back
of the squire’s garden, climbed over the wall, and, ac-
cording to Mrs Sagely’s direction, concealed myself in
a thicket, hard by an alcove which terminated a walk
at a good distance from the house, which, I was told,
my mistress chiefly frequented. Here I absconded from
five o’clock in the morning till six in the evening, with-
out seeing a human creature; at last I perceived two
women approaching, whom, by my throbbing heart, I
soon recognised to be the adorable Narcissa and Miss
Williams. I felt the strongest agitation of soul at the
sight ; and guessing that they would repose themselves
in the alcove, I stept into it unperceived, and laid upon
the stone table a picture of myself in miniature, for
which I had sat in London, purposing to leave it with
Narcissa before I should go abroad. I exposed it in
this manner as an introduction to my own appearance,
which, without some previous intimation, I was afraid
might have an unlucky effect upon the delicate nerves
of my fair enslaver ; and then withdrew into the thicket,
where I could hear their discourse, and suit myself to
the circumstances of the occasion. As they advanced,
I observed an air of melancholy in the countenance of
Narcissa, blended with such unspeakable sweetness that
I could scarce refrain from flying into her arms, and
Kissing away the pearly drop that stood collected in
each bewitching eye. According to my expectation,
she entered the alcove, and perceiving something on
the table, took it up. No sooner did she cast her eye
upon the features, than, startled at the resemblance,
she cried, “ Gracious God !” and the roses instantly va-
nished from her cheeks. Her confidante, alarmed at this
exclamation, looked at the picture, and, struck with the
likeness, exclaimed, “The very features of Mr Ran-
dom!” Narcissa, having recollected herself a little,
said, “ Whatever angel brought it hither as a comfort
to me in my aifliction, | am thankful for the benefit,
and will preserve it as the dearest object of my care.”
So saying, she kissed it with surprising ardour, shed a
flood of tears, and then deposited the lifeless image in
her lovely bosom. ‘Transported at these symptoms of
her unaltered affection, I was about to throw myself at
her feet, when Miss Williams, whose reflection was less
engaged than that of her mistress, observed, that the
picture could not transport itself hither, and that she
could not help thinking I was not far off. The gentle
Narcissa, starting at this conjecture, answered, “ Hea-
yen forbid! for although nothing in the universe could
yield me satisfaction equal to that of his presence for
one poor moment, in a proper place, 1 would rather
forfeit his company almost for ever, than see him here,
where his life would be exposed to so much danger.”
I eould no longer restrain the impulse of my passion,
but breaking from my concealment, stood before her,
when she uttered a fearful shriek, and fainted away in
the arms of her companion. I flew towards the trea-
sure of my soul, clasped her in my embrace, and with
the warmth of my kisses brought her again to life. Oh!
that I were endowed with the expression of a Raphael,
the graces of a Guido, the magic touches of a ‘Titian, that
I might represent the fond concern, the chastened rap-
ture, and ingenuous blush that mingled on her beauteous
face when she opened her eyes upon me, and pronounced,
“Qh Heavens! is it you ?”

ae

 

 

a

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

fT am afraid I have already encroached upon the
reader’s patience with the particulars of this adven-
ture, on which, [ own, J cannot help being imperti-
nently circumstantial. I shall therefore omit the less
material passages of this interview, during which I con
vinced her reason, though I could not appease the sad
presages of her love, with regard to the long voyage,
and dangers I must undergo. When we had spent an
hour (which was all she could spare from the bar-
barity of her brother’s vigilance) in lamenting over
our hard fate, and in repeating our reciprocal vows,
Miss Williams reminded us of the necessity there was
for our immediate parting; and sure, lovers never
parted with such sorrow and reluctanée as we. But
because my words are incapable of doing justice to that
affecting circumstance, I am obliged to draw a veil over
it, and observe, that I returned in the dark to the house
of Mrs Sagely, who was overjoyed to hear of my suc-
cess, and opposed the tumults of my grief with such
strength of reason, that my mind regained, in some
measure, its tranquillity ; and that very night, after
having forced upon this good gentlewoman a purse of
twenty guineas, as a token of my gratitude and esteem,
I took leave of her, set out on foot for the inn, where
my arrival freed honest Strap from the horrors of un-
utterable dread.

We took horse immediately, and alighted early next
morning at Deal, where I found my uncle in great con-
cern on account of my absence, because he had received
his dispatches, and must have weighed with the first
fair wind, whether I had been on board or not. Next
day, a brisk easterly gale springing up, we set sail, and
in eight-and-forty hours got clear of the Channel.

When we were about two hundred leagues from the
Land’s End, the captain, taking me apart into his cabin,
told me, that now he was permitted by his instructions,
he would disclose the intent and destination of our voy-
age :—“ The ship,” said he, “ which has been fitted out
at a great expense, is bound for the coast of Guinea,
where we shall exchange part of our cargo for slaves
and gold-dust ; from thence we will transport our ne-
groes to Buenos-Ayres in New Spain, where (by virtue of
passports obtained from our own court, and that of Ma-
drid) we will dispose of them and the goods that remain
on board for silver, by means of our supercargo, who
is perfectly well acquainted with the coast, the lingo,
and inhabitants.”? Being thus let into the seeret of our
expedition, 1 borrowed of the superecargo a Spanish
grammar, dictionary, and some other books of the same
language, which I studied with such application, that,
before we arrived in New Spain, I could maintain a
conversation with him in that tongue. Being arrived
in the warm latitudes, I ordered, with the captain’s
consent, the whole, ship’s company to be blooded and
purged, myself undergoing the same evacuation, in
order to prevent those dangerous fevers, to which north-
ern constitutions are subject in hot climates; and J]
have reason to believe that this precaution was not un-
serviceable, for we lost but one sailor during our whole
passage to the coast.

One day, when we had been about five weeks at sea,
we deseried to windward a large ship bearing down
upon us with all the sail she could carry ; upon which
my uncle ordered the studding-sails to be hoisted, and
the ship to be cleared for engaging; but finding that
(to use the seamen’s phrase) we were very much
wronged by the ship that had us in chase, and which
by this time had hoisted French colours, he commanded
the studding-sails to be taken in, the courses to be
clewed up, the main-top-sail to be backed, the tompions
to be taken out of the guns, and every man to repair to
his quarters, While every body was busied in the per-
formance of these orders, Strap came upon the quarter-
deck, trembling and looking aghast, and with a voice
half suppressed by fear, asked if I thought we were a
match for the vessel in pursuit of us. Observing his
consternation, I said, “ What! are you afraid, Strap ?”
“ Afraid!” he replied ; “n—n—no, what should I be
afraid of ? I thank God I have a clear conscience ; but
I believe it will be a bloody battle, and L wish you may

ven eee eee et em = eeeADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

not have occasion for another hand to assist you in the
cockpit.” | immediately perceived his drift, and mak-
ing the captain acquainted with his situation, desired
he might be stationed below with me and my mates.
My uncle, incensed at his pusillanimity, bade me send
him down instantly, that his fear might not infect the
ship’s company ; whereupon I told the poor steward
that I had begged him for an assistant, and desired him
to go down and help my mates to get ready the instru-
ments and dressings. Notwithstanding the satisfaction
he must have felt at these tidings, he affected a shyness
of quitting the upper-deck, and said, he hoped I did not
imagine he was afraid to do his duty above-board, for
he believed himself as well prepared for death as any
man in the ship, no disparagement to me or the captain.
I was disgusted at this affectation, and, in order to
punish his hypocrisy, assured him he might take his
choice either of going down to the cockpit with me or
of staying upon deck during the engagement. Alarmed
at this indifference, he replied, “ Well, to oblige you,
Pll go down, but remember it is more for your sake
than my own.” So saying, he disappeared in a twink-
ling, without waiting for an answer.

By this time we could observe two tier of guns in the
ship that pursued us, and which was now but two short
miles astern. This discovery had an evident effect upon
the sailors, who did not scruple to say that we should
be torn in pieces, and blown out of the water, and that
if in case any of them should lose their precious limbs,
they must go a-begging for life, for there was no pro-
vision made by the merchants for those poor souls who
are maimed in their service. The captain, understand-
ing this backwardness, ordered the crew abaft, and
spoke to them thus :—« My lads, I have gone io sea
thirty years, man and boy, and never saw English
sailors afraid before. Mayhap you think I want to ex-
pose you for the lucre of gain: whosoever thinks so,
thinks a lie, for my whole cargo is insured—so that, in
case I should be taken. my loss will not be great. The
enemy is stronger than we, to be sure. What then?
Have we not a chance of carrying away one of her
masts, and so get clear of her? If we find her too hard
for us, ’tis but striking at last. If any man is hurt in
the engagement, I promise, on the word of an honest
seaman, to make him a recompense according to his
loss. So now, you that are lazy, lubberly, cowardly
dogs, get away and skulk in the hold and bread-room ;
and you that are jolly boys, stand by me, and let us
give one broadside for the honour of Old England.”

This eloquent harangue was so well adapted to the dis-
position of his hearers, that one and all of them pulling
off their hats, waved them over their heads, and saluted
him with three cheers : upon which he sent his boy for
two large case-bottles of brandy, and having treated
every man with a dram, they repaired to their quarters,
and waited impatiently for the word of command. «I
must do my uncle the justice to say, that in the whole
of his disposition he behaved with the utmost intrepi-
dity, conduct, and deliberation. The enemy being very
near, he ordered me to my station, and was just going |
to give the word for hoisting the colours, and firing,
when the supposed Frenchman hauling down his white
pennant, jack, and ensign, hoisted English ones, and
fired a gun ahead of us. This was a joyful event to
Captain Bowling, who immediately showed his colours,
and fired a gun to leeward ; upon which the other ship
ran alongside of him, hailed him, and giving him to know
that she was an English man-of-war of forty guns, |
ordered him to hoist out his boat, and come on board.
This he performed with the more alacrity, because,
upon inquiry, he found that she was commanded by an
old messmate of his, who was overjoyed to see him,
detained him to dinner, and sent his barge for the su-
percargo and me, who were very much caressed on his
account. As this commander was destined to cruise
upon the French, in the latitude of Martinico, his stem
and quarters were adorned with white fleur-de-lis,
and the whole shell of the ship so much disguised, for
a decoy to the enemy, that it was no wonder my uncle
did not know her, although he had sailed on board of

 

 

12]

her many years. We kept company with her four days,
during which time the captains were never asunder,
and then parted, our course lying different from hers,
_ In less than a fortnight after, we made the land of
Guinea, near the mouth of the River Gambia, and trad-
ing along the coast as far to the southward of the Line
as Angola and Bengola, in less than six months dis-
posed of the greatest part of our cargo, and purchased
four hundred negroes, my adventure having been laid
out chiefly in gold-dust, ae
Our complement heing made up, we took our depar-
ture from Cape Negro, and arrived in the Rio de la Plata
In six weeks, having met with nothing remarkable in
our voyage, except an epidemic fever, not unlike the
Jail distemper, which broke out among our slaves, and
carried off a good many of the ship’s company ; among
whom I Jost one of my mates, and poor Strap had well
nigh given up the ghost. Having produced our pass-
port to the Spanish governor, we were received with
great courtesy, sold our slaves in a very few days, and
could have put off five times the number at our own
price ; being obliged to snuggle the rest of our mer-
chandise, consisting of European _bale-goods, which,
however, we made shift to dispose of at a great advan-

lage,

CHAPTER ‘LX Va:

Our ship being freed from the disagreeable lading of ne-
groes, to whom, indeed, I had been a miserable slave
since our leaving the coast of Guinea, I began to enjoy
myself, and breathe with pleasure the air of Paraguay ;
this part of which is reckoned the Montpelier of South
America, and has obtained, on account of its climate,
the name of Buenos-Ayres. It was in this delicious
place that I gave myself entirely up to the thoughts of
my dear Narcissa, whose image still kept full possession
of my breast, and whose charms, enhanced by absence,
appeared tomy imagination, if possible, more engaging
than ever. I caleulated the profits of my voyage, which
even exceeded my expectation; resolved to purchase a
handsome sinecure upon my arrival in England, and if
| should find the squire as averse to me as ever, marry
his sister by stealth ; and, in case our family should in-
crease, rely upon the generosity of my uncle, who was
by this time worth a considerable sum.

While I amused myself with these agreeable projects,
and the transporting hopes of enjoying Narcissa, we
were very much caressed by the Spanish gentlemen,
who frequently formed parties of pleasure for our en-
tertainment, in which we made excursions a good way
into the country. Among those who signalised them-
selves by their civility to us, there was one Don Anto-
nio de Ribera, a very polite young gentleman, with
whom I had contracted an intimate friendship, who in-
vited us one day to his country-house, and, as a further
inducement to our compliance, promised to procure for
us the company of an English signor, who had been set-
tled in those parts many years, and acquired the love
and esteem of the whole province, by his affability, good
sense, and honourable behaviour.

We accepted his invitation, and set out for his villa,
where we had not been longer than an hour, when the
person arrived in whose favour I had been so much
prepossessed. He was a tall man, remarkably well
shaped, of a fine mien and appearance, commanding re-
spect, and seemed to be turned of forty; the features
of his face were saddened with a reserve and gravity,
which in other countries would have been thought the
effect of melancholy, but here, appeared to have been
contracted by his commerce with the Spaniards, who
are remarkable for that severity of countenance. Un-
derstanding from Don Antonio that we were his coun-
trymen, he saluted us all round very complaisantly, and
fixing his eyes attentively on me, uttered a deep sigh.
I had been struck with a profound veneration for him
at his first coming into the room, and no sooner ob-
served this expression of his sorrow, directed as it were
in a particular manner to me, than my heart took part_NaS SR RE

Bet as ec

2 SSeS

 

122

of his grief—I sympathised involuntarily, and sighedin
my turn, Having asked leave of our entertainer, he
accosted us in English, professed his satisfaction at see-
ing so many of his countrymen in such a remote place,
and asked the captain, who went by the name of Signor
Thomo, from what part of Britain he sailed, and whi-
ther he was bound. My uncle told him'that we had
sailed from the river Thames, and was bound for the
same place, by the way of Jamaica, where he intended
to take in a lading of sugar.

Having satisfied himself in these and other particu-
lars about the state of the war, he gave us to understand
that he had a longing desire to revisit his native country,
in consequence of which he had alr sady transmitted to
Europe the greatest partof his fortune in neutral ves-
sels,.and would willingly embark the rest of it with
himself in our ship, provided the saptain had no objec-
tion to such a passenger. My uncle very prudently re-
plied, that for ‘his part he should be very glad of his
company, if he could procure the consent of the gover-
nor, without which he durst not admit him on board,
whatever inclination he had to oblige him. The gen-
tleman approved of his discretion, and telling him that
there would be no difficulty in obtaining the connivance
of the governor, who was his good friend, shifted the
conversation to another subject.

I was overjoyed to hear his intention, and already
interested myself so much in his favour, that, had he
been disappointed, I should have been very unhappy.
In the course of our entertainment, he eyed me with an
uncommon attachment; I felt a surprising attraction
towards him ; when he spoke, I listened with attention
and reverence ; the dignity of his deportment filled me

with affection and awe: and, in short, the emotions of

my soul, in presence of this stranger, were strong and
unaccountable.

Having spent the best part of the day with us, he took
his leave, telling Captain Thomo that he should hear
from him in a short time. He was no sooner gone, than
Tasked a thousand questions about him of Don Antonio,
who could give me no other satisfaction, than that his
name was Don Rodriguez, that he lived fifteen or six-
teen years in these parts, was reputed rich, and sup-
posed to have been unfortunate in his younger years,
because«he was observed to nourish a pensive melan-
choly, even from the time of his first settlement among
them ; but that nobody had ventured to inquire into the
-cause of his sorrow, in consideration of his peace, which
might suffer4an the recapitulation of his misfortunes.

I was seized with an irresistible desire of knowing
the particulars of his fate, and enjoyed no repose during
the night, by reason of the eager conceptions that in-
spired me with regard to his story, which I resolved, if
possible, to learn. Next morning, while we were at
breakfast, three mules, richly caparisoned, arrived with
a message from Don Rodriguez, desiring our company,
and that of Don Antonio, at his house, which was situ-
ated about ten miles farther up in the country. I was
pleased with this invitation, in consequence of which we
mounted the mules which he had provided for us, and
alighted at his house before noon. Here we were
splendidly entertained by the generous stranger, who
still seemed to show a particular regard for me, and
after dinner made me a present of a ring set with a
beautiful amethyst, the production of that country, say-
ing, at the same time, that he was once .blessed with a
son, who, had he lived, would have been nearly of my
age. ‘This observation, delivered with a profound sigh,
made my heart throb with violence; a crowd of con-
fused ideas rushed upon my imagination ; which, while
I endeavoured to unravel, my uncle, perceiving my ab-
sence of thought, and tapping me on the shoulder, said,
“Qons! are you asleep, Rory ?” Before I had time to

reply, Don Rodriguez, with an uncommon eagerness of

voice and look, pronounced, “ Pray, captain, what is the
young gentleman’s name?” “ His name,” said my uncle,
“is Roderick Random.” “ Gracious powers!” eried
the stranger, starting up ; “and his mother’s?” “ His
mother,” answered the captain, amazed, “was called
Charlotte Rowling? & Ol. bounteous Heaveu ! 22.6

a ble

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

claimed Don Rodriguez, springing across the table, and
clasping me in his arms, “my son! my son! have T
found thee again? Do I hold thee inmy embrace, after
having lost and despaired of seeing thee so long?” So
saying, he fell upon my neck, and wept aloud for joy ;
while the power of nature operating strongly in my
breast, I was lost in rapture, and while he pressed me to
his heart, let fall a shower of teats in his bosom. His
utterance was choked up a good while by the agitation
of his soul; at length he broke out into—“ Mysterious

Providence! Oh, my dear Charlotte ! there yet remains

a pledge of our love ; and sucha pledge !—so found ! Oh,

infinite goodness! let me adore thy all-wise decrees !’

Having thus expressed himself, he kneeled upon the

floor, lifted up his eyes and hands to Heaven, and re-

mained some minutes in a silent ecstacy of devotion. ]

put myself in the same posture, adored the All-good

Disposer in a prayer of mental thanksgiving ; and when

his ejaculation was ended, did homage to my father,

and craved his paternal blessing. He hugged me again

with unutterable fondness ; and having implored the

protection of Heaven upon my head, raised me from

the ground, and presented me as hisson to the company,

who wept in concert over this affecting scene. Among

the rest, my uncle did not fail of discovering the good-

ness and joy of his heart. “ Albeit unused to the melting

mood,” he blubbered with great tenderness, and wring-

ing my father’s hand, cried, “ Brother Random, I am

rejoiced to see you—God be praised for this happy

meeting.” Don Rodriguez, understanding that he was

his brother-in-law, embraced him affectionately, saying,

“ Are you my Charlotte’s brother? Alas! unhappy

Charlotte !—but why should I repine? we shall meet

again, never more to part! Brother, you are truly

welcome—dear son, I am transported with unspeakable

joy! This day is a jubilee—my friends and servants

shall share my satisfaction.”

While he dispatched messengers to the gentlemen in
the neighbourhood to announce this event, and gave
orders for a grand entertainment, I was so much
affected with the tumults of passion which assailed me
on this great, sudden, and unexpected oceasion, that I
fell sick, fevered, and in less than three hours became
quite delirious ; so that the preparations were counter-
manded, and the joy of the family converted into grief
and despair. Physicians were instantly called—I was
plentitully blooded in the foot, my lower extremities
were bathed in a decoction of salutiferous herbs: in ten
hours after I was taken ill, I enjoyed a critical sweat,
and next day felt no remains of the distemper, but an
agreeable lassitude, which did not hinder me from get-
ting up. During the progress of this fever, which, from
the term of its duration, is called ephemera, my father *
never once quitted my bed-side, but administered the
prescriptions of the physicians with the most pious
care ; while Captain Bowling manifested his concern by
the like attendance. I no sooner found myself delivered
from the disease, than I bethought myself of my honest
friend Strap; and resolving to make him happy forth-
with in the knowledge of my good fortune, told my
father, in general, that I had been infinitely obliged to
this faithful adherent, and begged he would indulge
me so far asto send for him, without letting him know
my happiness, until he could receive an account of it
from my own mouth.

My request was instantly complied with, and a mes-
senger, with a spare mule, detached to the ship, carry-
ing orders from the captain to the mate to send the
steward by the bearer. My health being in the mean-
time re-established, and my mind composed, I began to
relish this important turn of my fortune, in reflecting
upon the advantages with which it must be attended ;
and as the idea of my lovely Narcissa always joined
itself to every scene of happiness I could imagine, I
entertained myself now with the prospect of possessing
her in that distinguished sphere to which she was en-
titled by her birth and qualifications. Having often
mentioned her name while I was deprived of my senses,

 

my father guessed that there was an intimate connection

L between us. and discayaring pba,ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

my bosom by a ribband, did not doubt that it was the
resemblance of my amiable mistress. In this belief he
was confirmed by my uncle, who told him it was the
picture of a young woman to whom I was under pro-
mise of marriage. Alarmed at this piece of information,
Don Rodriguez took the first opportunity of question-
ing me about the circumstances of this affair, which,
when I had candidly recounted, he approved of my
passion, and promised to contribute all in his power
towards its success: though I never doubted his gene-
rosity, I was transported on this occasion, and, throwing
myself at his feet, told him, he had now completed my
happiness, for, without possessing Narcissa, I should
be miserable among’ all the pleasures of life. He raised
me with a,smile of paternal fondness—said he knew
what it was to be in love; and observed, that if he had
been as tenderly beloved by his father as I was by mine,
he would not now perhaps have cause—— Here he was
interrupted by a sigh, the tears stood collected in his
eyes, he suppressed the dictates of his grief: and the
time being opportune, desired me to relate the passages
of my life, which my uncle had told him were manifold
and surprising. I recounted the most material cir-
cumstances of my fortune, to which he listened with
wonder and attention, manifesting, from time to time,
those different emotions which my different situations
inay be supposed to have raised'in a parent’s breast :
and when my detail was ended, blessed God for the ad-
versity I had undergone, which, he said, enlarged the

 

understanding, improved the heart, steeled the consti- |

tution, and qualified a young man for all the duties and
enjoyments of life, much better than any education
aitiuence could bestow.

When I had thus satisfied his curiosity, I discovered
an inclination to hear the particulars of his story, which
he gratified, by beginning with his marriage, and pro-
ceeded to the day of his disappearing, as I have related
in the first. part of my memoirs. “ Carel
continued he, “and unable to live ina place where every
object recall le memory of my dear ¢
{ had lost through the barbarity of an unnatural parent,
[ took my leave of you, my child, then an infant, with
a heart full of unutterable woe, but little suspecting
thatsmy father’s’ unkindness would have descended to
my innocent orphan ; and setting out alone, at midnight,
for the nearest sea-port, early next morning got
board a ship, bound, as I heard, for France, and bar-
gaining with the master for a passage, bade a long adieu
to my native country, and put to sea with the first
wind. ‘The place of our destination was Granville, but
we had the misfortune to run upon a ridge
near the island of Alderney, called the Caskets, where
the sea running high, the ship went to pieces, the boat
sank alongside, and every soul on board perished except
myself, who, by the assistance of a grating, got ashore
on the coast of Normandy. I went directly to Caen,
where I was so lucky as to meet with a Count whom |]
had formerly known in my travels: with this gentle-
man I set out for Paris, where I was recommended by
him and other friends, as tutor to a young nobleman,
whom I accompanied to the court of Spain. There we
remained a whole year, at the end of which, my pupil
being recalled by his father, I quitted my office, and
staid behind, by the advice of a certain Spanish gran-
dee, who took me into his protection, and introduced
me to another nobleman, who was afterwards created
Viceroy of Peru. He insisted on my attending him to
his government in the Indies, where, however, by rea-
son of my religion, it was not in his power to make my
fortune any other way than by encouraging me to trade,
which I had not long prosecuted when my patron died,
and I found myself in the midst of strangers, without
one friend to support or protect me. Urged by this
consideration, I sold yy effects and removed to this
country, the governor +: which having been appointed
by the Viceroy, was mstintimate acquaintance. Here
has Heaven prospered ray endeavours, during a resi-
dence of sixteen years, in which my tranquillity was
never invaded but by thearemembrance of your mother,

r IPAS os

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123

and the refleetion of you, whose fate I could never learn
notwithstanding all my Inquiries by means of my friends
in France, who, after the most strict examination, could
sive me no other account than that you went abroad
six years ago, and was never after heard of. T could
hot rest satisfied with this imperfect information, and
though the hope of finding you was but languid, re-
solved to go in quest of you in person; for which pur-
pose, I have remitted to Holland the value of twenty
thousand pounds, and am in possession of fifteen thou-
sand more, with which I intended to embark myself on
board of Captain Bowling, before I discovered this
amazing stroke of Providence, which, you may be sure,
has not altered my intention.”

My father having entertained us with this agreeable
sketch of his life, withdrew, in order to relieve Don An-
tonio, who, in his absence, had done the honours of his
house ; and I was just dressed for my appearance among
the guests, when Strap arrived from the ship. "

He no sooner entered the grand apartment in which
I was, and saw the magnificence of my apparel, than
his speech was lost in amazement, and he gaped in
silence at the objects that surrounded him. 1 took
him by the hand, observed that I had sent for him to
)e a witness and sharer of my happiness, and told him
[ had found a father. At these words he started ; and
after having continued some minutes with his mouth
and eyes wide open, cried, “ Aha !—odd, I know what!

go thy ways, poor Narcissa, and go thy ways, some-
body else, Well—Lord, what a thing is love! ‘God help
us, are all our mad pranks and protestations come to
What! and you have fixed your habitation in this

i
“

listant land! God prosper you—I find we must part at
ast, for I would not leave my poor carcase so far from
my native home for the wealth of the universe!” With
these ejaculations, he began to sob and make wry faces,
upon which I assured him of his mistake, both in re-
gard of Narcissa and my staying at Paraguay, and in-
ormed him, as briefly as I could, of the great event
which had happened. Never was rapture more Iudi-
crousiy expressed than in the behaviour of this worthy
creature, who cried, laughed, whistled, sang, and danced,
all in a breath ; his transport was scarce over, when
my father entered, who no sooner understood that this
was Strap, than he took him by the hand, saying, “ Is
this the honest man who befriended you so much in
your distress ?—you are welcome to my house, and I

{
7
I

h
sha
r

‘or your good offices in his behalf. In the meantime,
go with us, and partake of the repast that is provided.”
Strap, wild as he was with joy, would by no means ae-
cept of the proffered honour, crying, “ God forbid! I
know my distance—your worship shall excuse me.”
And Don Rodriguez, finding his:modesty invincible, re-
commended him to his major-domo to be treated with
the utmost respect, while he carried me into a large
saloon, where I was presented to a numerous company,
who loaded me with compliments and caresses, and
congratulated my father in terms not proper for me to
repeat.

Without specifying the particulars of our entertain-
ment, let it suffice to say that it was at the same time
elegant and sumptuous, and the rejoicings lasted two
days. After which, Don Rodriguez settled his affairs,
converted his effects into silver and gold, visited and
took leave of all his friends, who were grieved at his
departure, and honoured me with considerable presents;
and, coming on board of my uncle’s ship, with the first
favourable wind we sailed from the Rio de Plata, and
in two months came safe to an anchor in the harbour
of Kingston, in the island of Jamaiea.

POLIO IS ESOL DESO

CHAPTER LXVII.
IT INQUIRED, as soon as I got ashore, about my generous
friend, Mz Thomson; and hearing that he lived, in a
flourishing condition, upon the estate left to him by his
wife’s father, who had been dead some years, I took
wrse immedi:

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124 ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

who had heard me mention him with great regard, and
in a few hours reached the place of his habitation.

I should much wrong the delicacy of Mr Thomson’s
sentiments, to say barely he was glad to seeme. He
felt all that the most sensible and “disintere ested friend-
ship could feel on this occasion, introduced me to his
wife, a very amiable young lady, who had already blessed
him with two fine children ; and being as yet ignorant
of my- circumstances, frankly offered me the assistance
of his purse and interest. I thanked him for his gene-
rous intention, and made him acquainted with my situa-
tion, on which he congratulated me with great joy, and
after I had staid with him a whole day and night, ac-
companied me back to Kingston, to wait upon my father,
whom he invited to his house. Don Rodriguez complied
with his request, and having been handsomely enter-
tained during the space of a week, returned extremely
well satisfied with the behaviour of my friend and his
lady, to whom, at parting, he presented a valuable dia-
mond ring, asa token of his esteem. During the course
of my conversation with Mr Thomson, he let me know
that his and my old commander, Captain Oakhum, was
dead some months, and that immediately after his death
a discovery had been made of some valuable effects that
he had feloniously secreted out of a prize, by the assist-
ance of Dr Mackshane, who was now actually in prison
on that account, and being destitute of fi ‘iends, subsisted
solely on the charity of my friend, whose bounty he had
implored in the most abject manner, after having been
the barbarous oceasion of driving him to that terrible
extremity on board the Thunder, which I have for-
merly related. Whatsoever this wretch might have been
guilty of, I applauded Mr Thomson's generosity towards
him in his distress, which wrought so much upon me
also, that I sent him ten pistoles, in such a private man-
ner that he could never know his benefactor.

While my father and I were caressed among the
gentlemen on shore, Captain Bowling had written to his
owners, by the packe t, which sailed a few days after
our arrival, signifying his prosperous voyage hitherto,
and desiring them to insure his ship and cargo home-
ward bound ; after which he applied himself so heartily
to the loading his ship, that, with the assistance of Mr
Thomson, she was full in less than six weeks. This
kind gentleman likewise procured for Don Rodriguez
bills upon London for the greatest part of his gold and
silver, by which means it was secured against ‘the risk
of the seas and the enemy; and, before we sailed, sup-
plied us with such large quantities of all kinds of stock,
that not only we, but the whole ship’s company, fared
sumptuously during the voyage.

Every thing being ready, we took our leave of our
kind entertainers, and | going on board at Port Royal,
set sail for England on ‘the Ist of June. We beat up
to windward, with fine easy weather; and one night,
believing ourselves near Cape Tiberoon, lay to, with an
intention to wood and water next morning in the bay.
While we remained in this situation, a sailor having
drunk more new rum than he could carry, staggered
overboard, and notwithstanding all the means that could
be used to preserve him, went to the bottom and dis-
appeared. About two hours after this melancholy ac-
cident happened, as I enjoyed the cool air on the quarter
deck, I heard a voice rising, as it were, out of the sea,
and calling, “ Ho! the ship, a hoy!” Upon which, one
of the men upon the forecastle cried, “ Hang me if that
an’t Jack Marlinspike, who went overboard!” Not a
little surprised at this event, I jumped into the boat
that lay alongside, with the second mate and four men,
and rowing towards the place from whence the voice
(which repeated the hail) seemed to proceed, we per-
ceived something floating upon the water; when we
had rowed a little farther, we discerned it to be a man
riding upon a hen-coop, who, seeing us approach, pro-
nounced with a hoarse voice, “ Confound you! why
did you not answer when I hailed?’ Our mate, who
was a veritable seaman, hearing this salute, said, “ My
lads, this is none of our messmates. This is the devil;
pull away for the ship.” ‘The fellows obeyed his com-
mand without question, and were already some fathoms

 

on our return, when I insisted on their taking up the
poor creature, and prevailed on them.to go back to the
wreck, which, when we came near the second time, and
signified our intention, we received an answer of “ Avast,
avast ! what ship, brother?’ Being satisfied in this par-
ticular, he cried, “ Curse the ship ; I wasin hopes it had
been my ow n—where are you bound vy =6We gratified
his curiosity in this too, upon which he suffered him-
self to be taken on board, and after being comforted
with a dram, told us he belonged to the Vesuvio man-
of-war, upon a cruize off the island of Hispaniola; that he
had fallen overboard about four-and-twenty hours ago,
and the ship being under sail, they did not choose to bring
to, but tossed a hen-coop overboard for his convenience,
upon which he was in good hopes of reaching the Cape
next morning: howsomever, he was as well content to
be aboard us, because he did not doubt but that we
should meet his ship; and if he had gone ashore in the
bay, he might have been taken prisoner by the French.
My uncle and father were very much diverted with the
account of this fellow’s unconcerned behaviour ; and in
two days, meeting with the Vesuvio, as he expected, sent
him on board of her according to his desire.

Having beat up successfully the windward passage,
we stretched to the northward, and, falling in with a
westerly wind, in eight weeks arrived in soundings, and
in two days after made the Lizard. It is impossible to
express the joy I felt at sight of English ground. Don
Rodriguez was not unmoved, and Strap shed tears of
gladness. The sailors profited by our satisfaction ; the
shoe that was nailed to the mast being quite filled with
our liberality. My uncle resolved to run into the Downs
at once ; but the wind shifting when we were abreast of
the Isle of Wight, he was obliged to turn into St Helen’s,
and come to an anchor at Spithead, to the great morti-
fication of the erew, thirty of whom were immediately
pressed on board of a man-of-war.

My father and I went ashore immediately at Ports-
mouth, leaving Strap with the captain to go round with
the ship and take care of our effects; and I discovered
so much impatience to see my charming Narcissa, that
my father permitted me to ride across the country to
her brother’s house, while he should hire a post-chaise
for London, where he should wait for me at a place to
which I directed him.

Fired with all the eagerness of passion, I took post
that very night, and in the morning reached an inn,
about three miles from the squire’s habitation. Here
I remained till next evening, allaying the torture of my
impatience with the rapturous hope of seeing that divine
creature, after an absence of eighteen months, which,
so far from impairing, had raised my love to the most
exalted pitch. Neither were my reflections free from
apprehension, that sometimes intervened in spite of all’
my hope, and represented her as having yielded to the
importunity of her brother, and blessed the arms of a
happy rival. My thoughts were even maddened with
the fear of her death; and when I arrived in the dark
at the house of Mrs Sagely, I had not for some time the
courage to desire admittance, lest my soul should be
shocked with dismal tidings. At length, however, I
knocked, and no sooner certified the good gentlewoman
of my voice, than she opened the door and received me
with a most affectionate embrace, that brought tears
into heraged eyes. “ For Heaven’s sake, dear mother !”
eried I, “ tell me, how is Narcissa? is she the same that
I left her?” She blessed my ears with saying, “ She is
as beautiful, in as good health, and as much yours as
ever.” Transported at this assurance, I begged to know
if I could see her that very night, when this sage matron
gave me to understand that my mistress was in London,
and that things were strangely altered in the squire’s
house since my departure—th iat he had been married
a whole year to Melinda, who at first found means to
wean his attention so much from. Narcissa, that he be-
came quite careless of that lovely? sister, comforting him-
self with the clause in his fat} ¢’s will, by which she
would forfeit her fortune if she should marry without
his consent—that my mistress being but indifferently
treated by her sister -in- laws, had made use of her free-

Se ow meee eres merce te oe NT te aADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 125

dom some months ago, and gone to town, where she was

lodged with Miss Williams, in expectation of my arrival, |

and had been pestered with the addresses of Lord Qui-
verwit, who, finding her heart engaged, had fallen upon
a great many shifts to persuade her that I was dead ;
but finding all his artifices unsuccessful, and despairing
of gaining her affection, he had consoled himself tor her
indifference by marrying another lady some weeks ago,
who had already left him on account of some family
uneasiness. Besides this interesting information, she
told me that there was not a great deal of harmony be-
tween Melinda and the squire, who was so much dis-
gusted at the number of gallants who continued to hover
about her even after marriage, that he hurried her down
into the country much against her inclination, where
their mutual animosities had risen to such a height,
that they preserved no decency before company or ser-
vants, but abused one another in the grossest terms.
This good old gentlewoman, to give me a convincing
proof of my dear Narcissa’s unalterable love, gratified
me with a sight of the last letter she had favoured her
with, in which I was mentioned with so much honour,
tenderness, and concern, that my soul was fired with
impatience, and I determined to ride all night, that I

might have it the sooner in my power to make her |

happy. Mrs Sagely, perceiving my eagerness, and her
maternal affection being equally divided between Nar-
cissa and me, begged leave to remind me of the senti-
ments with which | went abroad, that would not permit
me, for any selfish gratification, to prejudice the fortune
of that amiable young lady, who must entir« ly depend
upon me after having-bestowed herself in marriage. |
thanked her for her kind concern, and as briefiy as pos-
sible described my flourishing situation, which afforded
this humane person infinite wonder and satisfaction.
told her that now I had an opportunity to manifest my
gratitude for the obligation I owed, I would endeavour
to make her old age comfortable and easy, as a step to
which I proposed she should come and live with Nar-
cissa and me. This venerable gentlewoman was so
much affected with my words, that the tears ran down
her ancient cheeks ; she thanked heaven that I had
not belied the presages she had made on her first ac-
quaintance with me, acknowledged my generosity, as
she called it, in the most elegant and pathetic expres-
sions, but declined my proposal, on account of her at-
tachment to the dear melancholy cottage, where she
had so peacefully consumed her solitary widowhood.
Finding her immoveable on this subject, I insisted on
her accepting a present of thirty guineas, and took my
leave, resolving to accommodate her with that sum an-
nually, for the more comfortable support of the infir-
mities of age.

Having rode all night, I found myself at Canterbury
in the morning, where IL alighted to procure fresh horses ;
and as I walked into the inn, perceived an apothecary’s

shop on the other side of the street, with the name of

Morgan over the door, Alarmed at this discovery, |
could not help thinking that my old messmate had settled
in this place, and, upon inquiry, found my conjecture
true, and that he was married lately to a widow of that
city, by whom he had got three thousand pounds. Re-
joiced at this intelligence, I went to his shop as soon as
it was open, and found my friend behind the counter
busy in preparing a clyster. I saluted him at entrance,
with “ Your servant, Mr Morgan.” Upon which he
looked at me, and replying, “ Your most humble ser-
vant, goot sir’”—rubbed his ingredients in the mortar
without any emotion. “ What!” said I, “ Morgan, have
you forgot your old messmate?” At these words he
looked up again, and starting, cried, “ As Cot is my—
sure it cannot—yes, I pelieve it is my tear friend Mr
Rantom.” He was no sooner convinced of my iden-
tity than he threw down the pestle, overset the mortar,
and, jumping ove\the board, swept up the contents with
his clothes, flew ;bout my neck, hugged me. affection-
ately, and daubed me all over with turpentine and the
yolks of eggs, which he had been mixing when I came
in, Our mutu:l congratulations being over, he told
me that he foun* himself a widower upon his return

| from the West Indies—that he had got interest to be

appointed surgeon of a man-of-war, in which capacity
| he had served some years, until he married an apothe-
cary’s widow, with whom he now enjoyed a pretty good
sum of money, peace and quiet, and an indifferent good
trade, He was very desirous of hearing my adventures,
which I assured him I had not time to relate, but told
him in general my circumstances were very good, and
that I hoped to see him when I should not be in such
a hurry as at present. He insisted, however, on my
staying breakfast, and introduced mé to his wife, who
seemed to be a decent. sensible woman, pretty well
stricken in years. In the course of our conversation
he showed the sleeve-buttons I had exchanged with
him at our parting in the West Indies, and was not a
little proud to see that I had preserved his with the
same care. When I informed him of Mackshane’s con-
dition, he seemed at first to exult over his distress ; but,
after a little recollection, he said, “ Well, he has paid
for his malice; | forgife him, and may Cot forgife
him likewise.” He expressed great concern for the soul
of Captain Oakhum, which he believed was now gnash-
ing its teeth; but it was some time before I could con-
vince him of Thomson’s being alive, at whose good
fortune, nevertheless, he was extremely glad.

Having renewed our protestations of friendship, I
bade the honest Welshman and his spouse farewell, and
taking post horses, arrived in London that same night,
where {| found my father in good health, to whom I
imparted what I had learned of Narcissa. This indul-
gent parent approved of my intention of marrying her,
even without a fortune, provided her brother’s consent
could not be obtained; promised to make over to me,
in a few days, a sufficiency to maintain her in a fashion-
able manner, and expressed a desire of seeing this ami-
able creature who had captivated me so much. As I
had not slept the night before, and was besides fatigued
with my journey, I found myself under a necessity of
taking some repose, and went to bed accordingly: next
morning, about ten o’clock, I took a chair, and, accord-
ing to Mrs Sagely’s directions, went to my charmer’s
lodgings, and inquired for Miss Williams. I had not
waited in the parlour longer than a minute, when’ this
young woman entered, and no sooner perceived me,
than she shrieked, and ran backward; I got between
her and the door, and, clasping her in my arms, brought
her to herself by an embrace. “ Good Heaven!” eried
she, “ Mr Random, is it you, indeed? my mistress will
run distracted with joy.” I told her, it was from an
apprehension that my sudden appearance would have
some bad effect on my dear Narcissa, that I desired to
see her first, in order to concert some method of ac-
quainting her mistress gradually with my arrival. She
approved of my conduct; and after having yielded to
the suggestions of her own friendship, in asking if my
voyage had been successful, charged herself with that
office, and left me glowing with the desire of seeing and
embracing the object of my love. In avery little time
| heard something coming down stairs in haste, and the
voice of an angel pronounce with an eager tone, “ Oh
Heaven! is it possible ’—where is he?” How were my
faculties aroused at this well-known sound! and how
was my soul transported, when she broke in upon my
view, in all the bloom of ripened beauty !

 

Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love!

You whose souls are susceptible of the most delicate
impressions, whose tender bosoms have felt the affect-
ing vicissitudes of love, who have suffered an absence
of eighteen long months from the dear object of your
hope, and found at your return the melting fair as kind
and constant as your heart could wish, do me justice
on this occasion, and conceive what unutterable rapture
possessed us both, while we flew into one another’s arms.
This was no time for speech: locked in a mutual em-
brace, we continued some minutes in a silent trance of
joy! When I thus encircled all that my soul held dear,
while [ hung over her beauties—helield her eyes sparkle,
and every feature flush with virtuous fondness—when I

 

 

 

 

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126

saw her enchanting bosom heave with undissembled rap-
ture, and knew myself the happy cause—Heaven! what
was my situation! Iam tempted to commit my paper
to the flames, and to renounce my pen for ever, because
its most ardent and lucky expression so poorly deseribes
the emotions of my soul. “Oh, adorable Narcissa !”
cried 1; “oh, miracle of beauty, love, and truth! T at
last fold thee in my arms! I at last can call thee minc !
No jealous brother shall thwart our happiness again ;
fortune hath at length recompensed me for all my suf-
ferings, and enabled me to do justice to my love.” The
dear creature smiled ineffably charming, and with a
look of bewitching tenderness, said, “And shall we
never part again?” “Never!” I replied, “thou won-
drous pattern of all earthly perfection !—never, until
death shall divide us! By this ambrosial kiss, athousand
times more fragrant than the breeze that sweeps the
orange grove, I never more will leave thee !”
Narcissa, with eager expressions of interested curi-
osity, desired to know the particulars of my voyage. In
this I gratified her inclination, bringing my story down
to the present hour. She was infinitely surprised at the
circumstance of my finding my father, which brought
tears into her lovely eyes. She was transported at hear-
ing that he approved my flame, discovered a longing de-
sire of being introduced to him, congratulated herself
and me upon my good fortune, and observed, that this
great and unexpected stroke of fate seemed to have
been brought about by the immediate direction of Pro-
vidence. Having entertained ourselves some hours with
the genuine effusions of our souls, I obtained her con-
sent to complete my happiness as soon as my father
should judge it proper, and applying with my own hands
a valuable necklace composed of diamonds and ame-
thysts set alternately, which an old Spanish lady at
Paraguay presented me with, I took my leave, promis-
ing to return in the afternoon with Don Rodriguez.
When I went home, this generous parent inquired very
affectionately about the health of my dear Nareissa, to
whom, that I might be the more agreeable, he put into
my hands a deed, by which I found myself in posses-
sion of fifteen hundred pounds, exclusive of the profits
of my own merchandise, which amounted to three
thousand more. After dinner, I accompanied him to
the lodging of my mistress, who, being dressed for the
occasion, made a most dazzling appearance. I could
perceive him struck with her figure, which I really think
was the most beautiful under the sun. He embraced
her tenderly, and told her he w as proud of hay ing a son
who had spirit to attempt, and qualifications to engage,
the affections of such a fine lady. She blushed at this
compliment, and with eyes full languish-
ment, turned upon me, and said, she would have been
unworthy of Mr Random’s attention, had she been blind
to his extraordinary merit. I made no other answer
than alow bow. My father, sighing, pronounced, “Such
once was my Charlotte!” while the tear rushed into

|
if

- 4
of the softest
7
I

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

than with a low curtsey, she replied, “ Dear Sir, though
I have not the least occasion for this supply, I have too
great a veneration for you to refuse this proof of your
generosity and esteem, which I the more freely receive,
because I already look upon Mr Random’s interest as
inseparably connected with mine.” He was extremely
well pleased at her frank and ingenuous reply, upon
which we saluted, and wished her good night. ‘lhe letter,
at my request, was dispatched to Sussex by an express,
and, in the meantime, Don Rodriguez, to grace my
nuptials, hired a ready furnished house, and set up a
very handsome equipage.

Though I passed the greatest part of the day with the
darling of my soul, I found leisure sometimes to be
among my former acquaintance, who were astonished
at the magnificence of my appearance. Banter, in par-
ticular, was confounded at the strange vicissitudes of
my fortune, the causes of which he endeavoured in vain
to discover, until I thought fit to disclose the whole
secret of my last voyage, partly on consideration of our
former intimacy, and partly to prevent unfavourable
conjectures which he and others, in all probability, would
have made in regard to my circumstances. He pro-
fessed great satisfaction at this piece of news, and I had
no cause to believe him insincere, when I considered
that he would now look upon himself as acquitted of the
debt he owed me, and at the same time flatter himself
with hopes of borrowing more. I carried him home
to dinner with me, and my father liked his conversa-
tion so much, that, upon hearing his difficulties, he de-
sired me to accommodate him for the present, and in-
quire if he would accept of a commission in the army,
towards the purchase of which he would willingly lend
him money. Accordingly, he gave my friend an oppor-

I expected, he

tunity of being alone wit
told me that he was just on the point of being recon-

h me, when, as
ciled to an old rich uncle, whose heir he was, but wanted
a few pieces for immediate expense, which he desired
! would lend him, and take his bond for the whole.
{lis demand was limited to ten guineas; and when 1]
put twenty into his hands, he stared at me for some
moments ; then putting it into his purse, said, Ay, tis
you'll have the whole in a very short time.”
When I had taken his note, to save the expense of a
fellow of his
spirit should loiter away his time in idleness, and asked
why he did not choose to make his fortune in the army ?
“ What!” said he; “ throw away money upon a subal-

|

] , ©
all one §

bond, I expressed some surprise that a

| tern’s commission, to be under the command of a parce]

}

of scoundrels, who have raised themselves above me
by the most infamous practices? No! I love indepen-
dence too well to sacrifice my life, health, and pleasur y

ul consideration.”

for such a pitiful Finding him averse
fe

| to this way of life, I changed the subject, and returned’
| to Don Rodriguez, who had just received the following

his eye, and the tender heart of Narcissa manifested |

itself in two precious drops of sympathy, which, but for
his presence, I would have kissed away. Without re-
peating the particulars of our conversation, I shall only
observe, that Don Rodriguez was as much charmed with
her good sense as with her appearance ; and she was
no less pleased with his understanding and polite ad-
dress. It was determined that he should write to the

squire, signifying his approbation of my passion for his |
sister, and offering a settlement which he should have |

no reason to reject; and that, if he should refuse the
proposal, he should crown our mutual wishes without
any further regard.

CHAPTER LXVILI.

Avtrer having spent the evening 1
all present, my father addressed himself thus to Nar-
cissa :-—“ Madam, give me leave to consider you here-
alter as my daughter, in which capacity I insist upon
your accepting this first instance of my paternal duty
and affection.” With these words he put into hex band
a bank note for £500, which she no sooner examined,

c bt

to the satisfaction of |

ew Ree ere ee TT ae =

epistle from the squire :—

received, sub
As for you, |
Your son, or pretended son, |
he marries my sister, at his peril be it.
| do declare, that he shall not have one farthing of her
fortune, which becomes my property if she takes a hus-
band without my consent. Your settlement I do believe
isallasham, and yourself no better than you should be ;
but if you had all the wealth of the Indies. your son
shall never match in our family with the consent of
Orson TorEHALL.”

letter which
2) pod . Seay a
Nandom, this 18 the answer.

‘ nothing of

]

* Sir,—Concerning a

you.

lave seen ;

My father was not much surprised at this polite
letter, after having heard the character of the author:
and as for me, I was even pleased at his nefusal, because
L now had an opportunity of showing my disinterested
love. By his permission I waited on ny charmer; and
having imparted to her the ‘contents of her brother’s
letter, at which she wept bitterly, in sf¢te of all my con-
solation and caresses, the time of our rarriage was fixed
at the distance of two days. Durinw this interval, in
which my soul was wound up to the last stretch, Nar-
cissa endeavoured to reconcile some of ‘her relations in
town to her marriage with me; but/ -eling them all4

 

\h
|

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM. 197

deaf to her remonstrances, either out of envy or pre-
judice, she told me, with the most enchanting sweetness,
while the tears bedewed her lovely cheeks, “ Sure the
world will no longer question your generosity, when
you take a poor forlorn beggar to your arms.” <Af-
fected with her sorrow, I pressed the fair mourner to
my breast, and swore that she was more dear and wel-
come on that account, because she had sacrificed her
friends and fortune to her love for me, My uncle, for
whose character she had a great veneration, being by
this time come to town, I introduced him to my bride ;
and although he was not very much subject to refined
sensations, he was struck dumb with admiration at
her beauty. After having kissed and gazed at her for
sometime, he turned to me, saying, “Odds bobs,
Rory! here’s a notable prize indeed—tinely built and
gloriously rigged. I’ faith! if she an’t well manned
when you have the command of her, sirrah, you de-
serve to go to sea in a cockle-shell. No offence, I hope,
Miece ; you must not mind what I say, being (as the
Saying 1s) a plain seafaring man, thof, mayhap, I have
quite as much regard for you as another.” She received
him with great civility; told him, she had longed a
great wlule to see a person to whom she was so much
indebted for his generosity to Mr Random; that she
Ricked upon him as her uncle, by which name she
begged leave to call him for the future, and that she
was very sure he could say nothing that would give her
the least offence. The honest captain was transported
at. her courteous behaviour, and insisted upon giving
her away at the ceremony, swearing that he loved her
as well as if she was his own child, and that he would
give two thousand guineas to the first fruit of our love,
as soon as it could squeak. Every thing being pre-
pared for the solemnization of our nuptials, which were
to be performed privately at my father’s house, the
auspicious hour arrived, when Don Rodriguez and my
uncle went in the coach to fetch the bride and Miss
Williams ; leaving me with a parson, Banter, and Strap,
neither of whom had as yet seen my charming mistress.
My faithful valet, who was on the rack of unpatience
to behold a lady of whom he had heard so much, no
sooner understood that the coach was returned, than
he placed himself at a window to havea peep at her
as she alighted; and when he saw her, he clapped
his hands together, turned up tl! ;
and, with his mouth wide open, remained in a sort of
ecstacy, which broke out into, “ O Dea certe !~ qualis
in Lurote ripis, aut per juga Cynthi exercet Diana
The doctor and Banter were surprised to
hear my man speak Latin; but when my father led
Narecissa into the room, the object of their admira-

1e white of his eyes

choros !

tion was soon changed, as appeared in the counte-
nance of both. Indeed, they must have been the most
insensible of all beings, could they have beheld without

—<

 

emotion the divine creature that approached. She was |

dressed in a sack of white satin, embroidered on the
breast with gold; the crown of her head was covered
with a small French cap, from whence descended her
beautiful hair in ringlets, that waved upon her snowy
neck, which dignified the necklace I bad given her:
her looks glowed with modesty and love.
this inestimable gift of Providence as became me: and
in a little time the clergyman did his office, my uncle,
at his own earnest request, acting the part of a father
to my dear Narcissa, who trembled very much, and had
scarce spirits sufficient to support her under this great
change of situation. Soon as she was mine by the laws
of heaven and earth, I printed a burning kiss upon her
lips, my father embraced her tenderly, my uncle hugged
her with great affection, and I presented her to my
friend Banter, who saluted her in a very polite manner.
Miss Williams hung round her neck, and wept. plenti-
fully, while Strap fell upon his knees, and begged to
kiss his lady’s hand, which she presented with great

affability. 1 shall not pretend to describe my own feel-

» * [‘‘ Oh, a goddess surely !—such as Diana when she leads her
Dyuphs by the banks of Lurotas, or upon the heights of Cyn-
thus !;

L received }

 

Ings at this juncture—let it suffice to say, that I was
the happiest of men. ¢
In the morning I was awaked by three or four drums
which Banter had placed under ¢he window. I got up,
and sent Miss Williams to her mistress, myself receiy-
ing the congratulations of Captain Bowling, who rallied
aoe his mai Bb ‘ase, with great suecess. In less than
an hour, Don Rodriguez led my wife into br
where she received the compliments of tho
She behaved with dignity, unaffected modesty, and ease ;
and as a testimony of my affection and esteem, I pre-
sented her, in presence of them all, with a deed, by
which I settled the whole fortune I was possessed of
on her and her heirs for ever. She accepted it with a
glance of most tender acknowledgment, observed that
she could not be surprised at any thing of this kind I
should do, and desired my father to take the trouble of
keeping it, saying, “ Next to my own Mr Random, you
are the person in whom I ought to have the greatest
confidence.” Charmed with her prudent and ingenuous
manner of proceeding, he took the paper, and assured
her, that it should not lose its value while in his custody.
_ As we had not many visits to give and receive, the
little time we staid in town was spent in going to pub-
lic diversions, where, I have the vanity to think, Nar-
cissa seldom was eclipsed. One night, in particular, we
had sent our footman to keep one of the stage-boxes,
which we no sooner entered, than we perceived, in the
opposite box, the squire and his lady, who seemed not
a little surprised at seeing us. I was pleased at this
opportunity of confronting them; the more, because
Melinda was robbed of all her admirers by my wife,
who happened that night to outshine her sister both in
beauty and dress. She was piqued at Narcissa’s victory,
tossed her head a thousand different ways, flirted her
fan, looked at us with disdain, then whispered to her
husband, and broke out into an affected giggle; but all
her arts proved ineffectual, either to discompose Mrs
Random, or to conceal her own mortification, which at
length forced her away long before the play was done.
The news of our marriage being spread, with many cir-
cumstances to our disadvantage, by the industry of this
malignant creature, a certain set of persons fond of
scandal began to inquire into the particulars of my for-
tune, which they no sooner understood to be indepen-
dent than the tables were turned, and our acquaintance
was courted as much as it had been despised before ;
but Narcissa had too much dignity of pride to encour-
age this change of conduct, especially in her relations,
whom she could never be prevailed upon to see, after
the malicious reports they had raised to her prejudice.

Cerner nrnnrece

CHAPTER LXIX.

My father intending to revisit his native country, and
pay the tribute of a few tears at my mother’s gTave,
Narcissa and I resolved to accompany him in the exe~
cution of this pious office, and accordingly prepared for
the journey: in which, however, my uncle would not
engage, being resolved to try his fortune once more at
sea. in the meantime, he renewed his will in favour
of my wife and me, and deposited it in the hands of his
brother-in-law: while I (that I might not be wanting
to my own interest) summoned the squire to produce
ltis father’s will at Doctor’s Commons, and employed a
proctor to manage the affair in my absence.

Kivery thing being thus settled, we took leave of all
our friends in London, and set out for Scotland, Don
Rodriguez, Narcissa, Miss Williams, and I, in the coach,
and Strap with two men in livery on horseback. As we
made easy stages, my charmer held it out very well till
we arrived at Edinburgh, where we proposed to rest
ourselves some weeks. People of our figure could not
fail of attracting the notice of such a small place, where,
as soon as our family was known, we were loaded with
caresses, and Narcissa was so much pleased with the
civilities she received, that she protested she would
never desire to live in any other part of the world.

Here Don Rodriguez having intelligence that his

nephew the fox-hunter had spent his estate, which was __—

 

 

 

 

 

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to be exposed to sale by public auction, he determined
to make a purchase of the spot where he was born, and
actually bought the whole of his father’s lands.

In a few days after the bargain was made, we left
Edinburgh, in order to go and take possession, and by
the way, halted one night in the town where I was edu-
cated. Uponinquiry, I found that Mr Crab was dead ;
whereupon I sent for his executor, paid the sum I
owéd, with interest, and took up my bond. Mr Potion
and his wife, hearing of our arrival, had the assurance
to come to the inn where we lodged, and send up their
names, with a desire of being permitted to pay their re-
spects to my father and me: but their sordid behaviour
towards me, when I was an orphan, had made too deep
an impression on my mind to be effaced by this mean
mercenary piece of condescension ; I therefore rejected
their message with disdain, and bade Strap tell them
that my father and I desired to have no communication
with such low-minded wretches as they were.

They had not been gone half an hour when a woman,
without any ceremony, opened the door where we sat,
and making towards my father, accosted him with, “Un-
cle, your servant—I am glad to see you.” ‘This was no
other than one of my female cousins mentioned in the
first part of my memoirs, to whom Don Rodriguez re-
plied, “ Pray, who are you, Madam?’ “ Oh!” cried she,
“my cousin Rory, there, knows me very well. Don’t
you remember me, Rory?” “ Yes Madam,” said I ; “ for
my own part, I shall never forget you. Sir, this is one
‘of the young ladies, who (as I have formerly told you)
treated me so humanely in my childhood.” When I
pronounced these words, my father’s resentment glowed
in his visage, and he ordered her to begone, with such
a commanding aspect that she retired in a fright, mut-
tering curses as she went down stairs. We afterwards
learned that she was married to an ensign, who had al-
ready spent all her fortune; and that her sister had
bore a child to her mother’s footman, who is now her
husband, and keeps a petty ale-house in that country.

The fame of our flourishing condition having arrived
at this place before us, we got notice that the magis-
trates intended next day to compliment us with the free-
dom of their town, upon which my father, considering
their complaisance in the right point of view, ordered
the horses to the coach early in the morning, when we
proceeded to our estate, which lay about a dozen miles
from this place.

When we came within half a league of the house, we
were met by a prodigious number of poor tenants, men,
women, and children, who testified their joy by loud ac-
clamations, and accompanied our coach to the gate.
As there is no part in the world in which the peasants
are more attached to their lords than in Scotland, we
were almost devoured by their affection, in getting out
of the coach: my father had always been their favour-
ite, and now that he appeared their master, after being
thought dead so long, their joy broke out into a thou-
sand extravagances. When we got into the court-yard,
we were surrounded by a vast number, who crowded
together so closely to see us, that several were in danger
of being squeezed to death. Those who were near Don
Rodriguez fell upon their knees, and kissed his hand,
or the hem ef his garment, praying aloud for long life
and prosperity to him; others approached Narcissa and
me in the same manner; while the rest clapped their
hands at a distance, and invoked Heaven to shower its
choicest blessings on our heads. In short, the whole
scene, though rude, was so affecting, that the gentle
partner of my heart wept over it, and my father him-
self could not refrain from dropping a tear.

 

|

 

 

ADVENTURES OF RODERICK RANDOM.

Having welcomed his daughter‘an1 me to his house,
he ordered some bullocks to be kilé., and some hogs-
heads of ale to be brought from theneighbouring vil-
lage, to regale those honest people, who had not enjoyed
such a holiday for many years before.

Next day we were visited by the gentlemen in the
neighbourhood, most of them our relations, one of whom
brought along with him my cousin, the fox-hunter, who
had staid at his house since he was obliged to leave his
own. My father was generous enough to receive him
kindly, and even promised to purchase for him a com-
mission in the army, at which he expressed great thank-
fulness and joy.

My charming Narcissa was universally admired and
loved for her beauty, affability, and good sense, and so
well pleased with the situation of the place, and the
company around, that she has not discovered the least
desire of changing her habitation.

We had not been many days settled, when I prevaile —
upon my father to pay a visit to the village where I ha
been at school. Here we were received by the prin-
cipal inhabitants, who entertained us in the church,
where Mr Syntax, the schoolmaster (my tyrant being
dead), pronounced a Latin speech in honour of our
family ; and none exerted themselves more than Strap’g
father and relations, who looked upon the honest valent
as the first gentleman of their race, and honoured his
benefactors accordingly. Having received the homage
of this place, we retired, leaving forty pounds for the
benefit of the poor of the parish; and that very nigh
Strap, being a little elevated with the regard that b
been shown to him, and to me on his account, ventu
to tell me that he had a sneaking kindness for M
Williams, and that if his lady and [ would use our in-
terest in his behalf, he did not doubt that she would
listen to his addresses. Surprised at this proposal, I
asked if he knew the story of that unfortunate young
gentlewoman ; upon which he replied, “ Yes, yes, I
know what you mean; she has been unhappy, I grant
you—but what of that? I am convinced of her refor-
mation, or else you and my good Jady would not treat
her with such respect. As for the censure of the world,
I value it not a fig’s end; besides, the world knows no-
thing of the matter.” I commended his philosophy,
and interested Narcissa in his cause, who interceded so
effectually, that in a little time Miss Willams yielded
her consent, and they were married, with the appro-
bation of Don Rodriguez, who gave him five hundre¢
pounds to stock a farm, and made him overseer of his
estate. My generous bed-fellow gave her maid the
same sum, so that they live in great peace and plenty
within half a mile of us, and daily put up prayers for
our preservation.

If there be such a thing as true happiness on earth,
L enjoy it. The impetuous transports of my passion
are now settled and mellowed into endearing fondness
and tranquillity of love, rooted by that intimate con-
nection and interchange of hearts which nought but
virtuous wedlock can produce. Fortune seems deter-
mined to make ample amends for her former cruelty ;
for my proctor writes, that, notwithstanding the clause
in my father-in-law’s will, on which the squire founds
his claim, I shall certainly recover my wife’s fortune,
in consequence of a codicil annexed, which explains
that clause, and limits her restriction to the age of nine-
teen, after which she was at her own disposal. I would
have set out for London immediately after receiving
this piece of intelligence ; but I cannot leave my dear
angel in her present interesting situation, which pro-
mises to produce something to crown my felicity.

END OF RODERICK RANDOM.

EpinzurcH: Printed by W. & R, Cuampers, 19, Waterloo Place.

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LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

BY:

THE REV. LAURENCE STERNE, M.A.

 

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THE

LIFE

OF

AND OPINIONS

TRISERAM’ SHANDY, GENT,

 

CHAPTER I.

I wisu either my fath or my mother, or in-
deed both of them, as sey were in duty both
equally bound to it, had minded what they were
about when they begot me; had they duly con-
sidered how much depended upon what they were

then doing ;—that not only the production of a

rational being was concerned in it, but that pos-
sibly the happy formation and temperature of his
body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his
mind ; and, for aught they knew to the contrary,
even the fortunes of his whole house, might take
their turn from the humours and dispositions
which were then uppermost. Had they duly
weighed and considered all this, and proceeded
accordingly, —I am verily persuaded I should
have made a quite different figure in the world
from that in which the reader is likely to see me.
Believe me, good folks, this is not so inconsider-
able a thing as many of you may think it :—you
have all, I dare say, heard of the animal spirits,
as how they are transfused from father to son,
&c. &c.—and a great deal to that purpose :—Well
you may take my word that nine parts in ten of a
man’s sense or his nonsense, his successes and
miscarriages in this world, depend upon their
motions and activity, and the different tracks and
trains you put them into, so that when they are
once set a-going, whether right or wrong, ’tis not a
halfpenny matter,—away they go cluttering like
hey-go mad; and by treading the same steps over
and over again, they presently make a road of it,
as plain and as smooth as a garden walk, which,
when they are once used to, the devil himself
sometimes shall not be able to drive them off it.
Pray, my dear, quoth my mother, have you
not forgot to wind up the clock 2 Good G— !
cried my father, making an exclamation, but
taking care to moderate his voice at the same
time,— Did ever woman, since the creation of the
world, interrupt aman with such a silly question?
Pray what was your father saying !—Nothing.

 

 

CHAPTER II.
——TuEN, positively, there is nothing in the
question, that I can see, either good or bad.
Then, let me tell you, sir, it was a very unseason-

 

 

|

 

able question at least,—because it scattered and |

dispersed the animal spirits whose business it was

to have escorted and gone hand in hand with the
Hlomuncvutus, and conducted him safe to the
place destined for his reception.

The Homuncutvs, sir, in however low and ludi-
erous a light he may appear, in this age of levity,
to the eye of folly or prejudice ;—to the eye of
reason, in scientific research, he stands confessed
—a Berne guarded and circumscribed with rights.
——The minutest philosophers, who, by the bye,
have the most enlarged understandings (their souls
being inversely as their inquiries), show us, incon-
testably, that the Homuncutus is created by the
same hand,—engendered in the same course of
nature, — endowed with the same loco-motive
powers and faculties with us :—That he consists,
as we do, of skin, hair, fat, flesh, veins, arteries,

ligaments, nerves, cartilages, bones, marrow,
brains, glands, genitals, humours, and articula-

tions ;—is a Being of as much activity, — and,
in all senses of the word, as much and as
truly our fellow-creature as my Lord Chancellor
of England. He may be benefited,—he may be
injured,—he may obtain redress ; in a word, he
has all the claims and rights of humanity, which
Tully, Puffendorf, or the best ethic writers, allow
to arise out of that state and relation.

Now, dear sir, what if any accident had befallen
him in his way alone ! or that, through terror of
it, natural to so young a traveller, my little
gentleman had got to his journey’s end miserably
spent ;—his muscular strength and virility worn
down to a thread ; his own animal spirits ruffled
beyond description,—and that, in this sad dis-
ordered state of nerves, he had lain down a prey
to sudden starts, ora series of melancholy dreams
and fancies, for nine long, long months together.
—TI tremble to think what a foundation had been
laid for a thousand weaknesses both of body and
mind, which no skill of the physician or the philo-
sopher could ever afterwards have set thoroughly
to rights.

 

CHAPTER II.

To my uncle Mr. Toby Shandy, do I stand
indebted for the preceding anecdote, to whom my
father, who was an excellent natural philosopher,
and much given to close reasoning upon the
smallest matters, had oft and heavily complained
of the injury ; but once more particularly, as my
uncle Toby well remembered, upon his observing

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2 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

a most unaccountable obliquity (as he called it)
in my manner of setting up my top, and justifying
the principles upon w hich I had done it,—the old
gentleman shook his head, and in a tone more
expressive by half of sorrow than reproach,—he
said his heart all along foreboded, and he saw it
verified in this, and from a thousand other obser-
vations he had made upon me, that I should
neither think nor act like any other man’s child :
—But alas! continued he, shaki ing his head a
second time, and wiping away a tear which was
trickling down his cheeks, my Tristram’s misfor-
tunes began nine months before ever he came into
the world,

—My mother, who was sitting by, looked up, but
she knew no more than her backside what my
father meant,—but my uncle, Mr. Toby Shandy,
who had been often informed of the affair, under-
stood him very well,

CHAPTER IV.

I KNow there are readers in the world, as well
as:many other good people in it, who are no
readers at all,—who find themselv es ill at ea
unless they are let into the whole secret from first
to last, of everything which concerns you.

It is in pure compliance with this humour of
theirs, and from a backwardness in my nature
to disappoint any one soul living, that I have
been so very particular already. As my life and
opinions are likely to make some noise in the
world, and, if I conjecture right, will take in all
ranks, professions, and denominations of men
whatever,—be no less read than the Pilgrim’s
Progress itself—and, in the end, prove the very
thing which Montaigne dreaded his Essays should
turn out, that is, a book for a parlour window ;—
I find it necessary to consult every one a little in
his turn; and therefore must beg parce for
going on a little farther in the same way: for
which cause right glad I am ea I hae ta
the history of myself in the way I have done ;
and that Iam able to go. on, tr acing every ything
in it, as Horace says, ab ovo.

Horace, I know, does not recommend this
fashion altogether : ‘But that gentleman is speak-
ing only of an epic poem or a bragedy--( forget
which) ; ;—hbesides, if it was not so, I should beg
Mr. Horace’s pardon ;—for, in writing what I
have set about, [ shall confine myself neither to
his rules, nor to any man’s rules that ever lived.

To such, however, as do not choose to go so
far back into these th ings, I can give no better
advice than that ae skip over the remaining
part of this chapter ; for I declare, beforehar 1d,
‘tis wrote only for the curious and inquisitive.
———. Shut the door.-————
I was begot in the night betwixt the first S Sunday
and the first Monday in the month of March, in
the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred
and eighteen. I am positive I was.—But how
came I to be so very particular In my account of
a thing which happened before I was born, is
owing to another small anecdote known only in
our family, but now made public for the better
clearing up this point.

My father, you must know, who was originally
a Turkey merchant, but had left off business for
some years, in order to retire to, and die upon,
his paternal estate in the county of. » was, I

 

 

 

 

 

believe, one of the most regular men in every
thing he did, whether “twas matter of business, or
matter of amusement, that ever lived. As a small
specimen of this extreme exactness of his.
which he was in truth a slave, he had made
rule for many years of his life—on the first Sun
night of every month crqusnant the whole yea.

—as certain as ever the Sunday night came,——
to wind up a large house-clock, \ which we had
standing on the back stairs’ head, with his own
hands : and b ane somewhere between fifty and
sixty years of age at the time I have been speak-
ing of,—he had likewise gradually brought some
ther little family concernments to the same
period, | in order, as ne would often say to my
uncle Toby, to get them all out of the way at one
time, and be no more plagued and pestered
with them the rest of the month.

It was attended but with one misfortune, which,
in a great measure, fell upon myself, and th
effects of which, I fear, I shall carry with me to
my grave; namely, that, from an unhappy associa-
tion of ideas, which have no connexion in zature,
it so fell out, at length, that my poor mother could
never hear ‘the said clock wound up but the
thoughts of some other things unavoidably popped
into her head—and vice versd: rich strange
combination of ideas, the sagacious Locke, who
certainly understood the nature of these things
better than most men, affirms to have produced
more wry actions than all other sources of preju-
dice whatsoever.

But this by the bye.

Now it appears by a memorandum in my father’s
pocket-book, which now lies upon the table,
“That on Lady -day, which was on the 25th of
the same month i in which I date my geniture,
my father set out upon his journey to London,
with my eldest brother Bobby, to fix him at
Westminster school;” and, as it appears from
the same authority, “ That he did not get down to
his wife and family till the second week in May

 

     

 

following,’ — it brings the thing almost to a cer-
tainty. However, what follows in the beginning

of the next chapter puts it beyond all possibility
of doubt.

—But pray, sir, what was your father
doing all December, January, and February!——
Why, madam,—he was all that time afflicted with
a sciatica.

CHAPTER V.

On the fifth day of November, 1718, which, to
the era fixed on, was aS near nine calendar
months as any husband could in reason have
expected,—was I, Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,
brought forth into this seurvy and disastrous world
of ours. I wish I had been born in the moon,
or in any of the planets (except Jupiter or Saturn,
because I never could bear cold weather), for it
could not well have fared worse with me in any
of them (though I will not answer for Venus) than
it has in this vile, dirty planet of ours,—which
0’ my conscience, with reverence be it spoken,
I take to be made up of the shreds and clip-
pings the rest ;—_—not but the planet is well
enough, provided a man could be born in it to a
great title or to a great estate ; or could anyhow
contrive to be called up to public charges, and
employments of dignity or power ,—but that is
not my case ; and, therefore, every man willTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF RISTRAM SHANDY. 3
|

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| pees k of the fair as his own market has gone in | over, of few words, and withal an object of
ME oes ta San for which cause I affirm it over again | compassion, whose di stress, and silence under it,

|

|

to be one of the vilest worlds that ever was made ; :
:—for I can truly say that, from the fet hour I

2w my breath in it to this s, that I can now searce
raw it at all,_——for an asthma I got in skating

‘against the wind in Flanders :—I have been ine

continual epOW of what the world calls Fortune ;
and, though I will not wrong her by saying she

has ever made me feel the w eight of any great or
signal evil, yet, with all the good t temper in the
world, I affirm it of her that, in every stage of
my life , and at every turn and corner where she
could get fairly at me, the ungracious duchess
has pelte ed me with a set of as pitiful misadven-
tures and cross accidents as ever small HxEro
sustained.

CHAPTER VI.

In the beginning of the last ch iapter, I informed
you exactly when I was born; but I did not
inform you how. No; that pa ticular w as reserved
entirely for a chapter by itself; besides, sir, as
you and I are in a manner perfect strangers
to each other, it would not have been proper to
have let you ito too many circumstances ee
to myself all at once.—You must have a litt]
patience. I have undertaken, you see, to finite
not only my life, but my opinions also ; hoping

and expecting that your knowledge of my charac-
ter, and of what kind of amortal I am, by the one,
would give you a better relish for the other. As
you proceed farther with me, the slight acquaint-

ance, which is now beginning betwixt us, will
grow into familiarity ; az nd that, unless one of us
is in fault, will terminate in friendship.—O diem
preclarum 2—then nothing which has touched me
will be thought trifling in its nature , or tedious in
its telling. ‘Therefore, my dear fri end and com-
panion, if you should think me somewhat sparing
of my narrablve on my first setting out—bear with
m , and tell my story my own
way baie if I on seem now and then to trifle
upon the ae should sometimes put on a
fool’s cap with a bell to it, for a moment or two
as we pass ie ae fiy off,—but, rather,
courteously give me credit for a little more wisdom
than appears upon my outside ;—and as we jog on
either laugh with me, or at me, or in short do any
thing,—only keep your temper.

                   

 

CHAPTER VII.

In the same village where my father and my
mother dwelt, dwelt also a thin, upright, motherly,
notable, good old body of a midwife, who with the
help of a little plain good sense, and some years’
full employment in her business, in which she had
all along trusted little to her own efforts, and a
great deal to those of dame Nature, had acquired,
in her way, no small degree of re putation in the
world : by which word world, need I in this
place inform your worship that I would be under-
stood to mean no more of it than a small circle

 

described upon the circle of the great world, of
or thereabouts, of

four English miles’ diameter,
which the cottage where the good old’ woman lived
is supposed to be the centre? She had been left,
it seems, a widow in great Oars with three or
four small children, in her forty-seyenth year ;

and as she was at that time a person of decent

carriage, — grave deportment,—a woman, more-

 

‘alled out the louder for a friendly lift, the wife of
the parson of the parish was touch
and, having often lamented an inconvenience to
which her eee ae flock had for many years
been exp osed, inasmuch as there was no such
thing as a mi dite, of any kind or degree, to be
got at, let the case have been ever so urgent,
within less than six or seven long miles’ riding ;
which said seven long mik 2S, in dark nights and
dismal roads, the country thereabouts being
nothing but a deep clay, was almost equal to
fourteen ; and that in ef pect was sometimes next
to having no midwife at all ;—it came into her
head that it w ould be doing as seasonable a kind-
ness to the whole parish as to the poor creature
herself, to get her a little instructed in some of
the plait 1 principles of the business, in order to
set her up in it. As no woman thereabouts was
better qualified to execute the plan she had formed
than herself » the gentlewoman very charitably
undertook it; and, having great influence over
the female part of ‘the parish, s she found no diffi-
culty in effecting it to the utmost of her wishes.
In truth, the parson joined his pean with his
wife’s in the whole affair; and in order to do
things as they should be, and give the eps soul
as good a title by law to practise as his wife had
given by institution,—he cheerfully paid the fees
for the ordinary’s license himself, amounting in
the whole to the sum of eighteen shillings ‘and
fourpence ; so that, betwixt them both, the good
woman was fully invested ir ‘the real and corporal
possession of her office, toge th er with all its rights,
members, and appurtendanoes whatsoever.

These last words, you must know, were not
according to the old ‘for n in which such licenses,
faculties, and powers usually ran, which in like

ases had heretofore d to the sister-
hood. But it was according to a neat formula of
Didius his own devising, who, having a particular
turn for taking to pieces, and new- framing, over
again, all kind of instruments in that way, not
only hit upon this dainty amend: nent, but coaxed
many of the old licensed matrons in the neigh-
bourhood to open their faculties afresh, in order
to have this whimwham of his inserted.

I own I never could envy Didius in these kinds
of fancies of his: but every man to his own taste.
Did not. Dr. Kunastrokius, that great man, at his
leisure hours, take the greatest delight imaginable
in combing of asses’ tails, and plucking the
dead hairs out with his teeth, though he had
tweezers always in his pocket? Nay, if you come
to that, sir, have not the wisest of men in all ages,
not excepting Solomon himself,—have they not
had their EOS Horses ;—their running-horses,
—their coins and their cockle-shells, their drums
and their trumpets, their fiddles, their pallets,—
their maggots and their butterflies —And so long
as aman rides his Hopspy-Horse peaceably and
quietly along the King’s highway, and neither
compels you or me to get up behind him,—pray,
sir, what have either you or I to do with it?

ed with pity ;

yye 4
been grantec

CHAPTER VIII.

—De gustibus non est disputandum ;—that is,
there is no disputing against Hoppy-Horszs ; and,
for my part, I seldom do; nor could I, with

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| 4 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. a)

pie Mab SS ee ee pe

—$——————————_—— Neen eee axe EEREnEGan Tl 2

 

any sort of grace, had I been an enemy to them at |
the bottom ; for happening, at certain intervals | CHAPTER IX. 4
and changes of the moon, to be both fiddler and | I SOLEMNLY declare, to all mankind that the
4 : z ? 3 z : 9 3 ;
painter, according as the fly stings,—be it known above dedication was made for no one Prince, |
to you that I keep a couple of pads myself, upon Prelate, Pope, or Potentate,— Duke, Marquis,
which, in their turns (nor do I care who knows | Earl, Viscount, or Baron, of this, or any other
’ > 9 ’ 9 a

 

 

 

 

 

it), I frequently ride out and take the air ;— | realm in Christendom ;—— nor has it yet been
though sometimes, to my shame be it spoken, I | hawked about, or offered publicly or privately, | |

 

take somewhat longer journeys than what a wise | directly, or indirectly, to any one person or person-
man would think altogether right. But the truth | age, great or small ; but is honestly a true virgin |
is,—I am not a wise man -—and besides am a | dedication untried on upon any soul living.
mortal of so little consequence in the world, it is | I labour this point so particularly merely to | |
not much matter what I do: so 1 seldom fret or | remove any offence or objection which might arise
fume at all about it: nor does +t much disturb | against it from the manner in which I propose to

oe

‘ my rest when I see such great lords and tall per- | make the most of it ;—which is the putting it

4 sonages as hereafter follow ;—such, for instance, | Up fairly to public sale ; which I now do. |

\ as my Lord A, B,C, D, B, B5:G, H, 1; K,"h, M, | ——Every author has a way of his own in | \
A N, 0, P, Q, and so on, all of a row, mounted upon bringing his points to bear - for my own part, as

their several horses ;—some with large stirrups, | I hate chaffering and higgling for a few guineas
getting on in a more grave and sober pace 3 | in a dark entry -I resolved within myself, from
others, on the contrary, tucked up to their very the very beginning, to deal squarely and openly |
chins, with whips across their mouths, scouring | with your Great Folks in this affair, and try

 

ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i and scampering it away like so many little party- whether I should not come off the better by it.
| . ed : waa . . . : °
ie coloured devils astride a mortgage,—and as If | If, therefore, there 1s any one Duke, Marquis,

SS eS

some of them were resolved to break their necks. | Earl, Viscount, or Baron, in these his Majesty’s
So much the better—say I to myself ;—for, dominions, who stands in need of a tight, genteel |
in case the worst should happen, the world will | dedication, and whom the above will suit (for, by
make a shift to do excellently well without them ; | the bye, unless it suits, in some degree, I will not

|
\

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and for the rest, why God speed them part with it) ‘+ is much at his service, for

e’en let them ride on without opposition from me; fifty guineas ; which I am positive 1s twenty i

| for, were their lordships unhorsed this very night guineas less than it ought to be afforded for, by |}~ j]

| #35 ten to one but that many of them would | any man of genius.
be worse mounted, by one-half, before to-morrow | My Lord, if you examine it over again, it is far
morning. | from being a gross piece of daubing, as some dedi-

Not one of these instances therefore can be | cations are. The design, your Lordship sees, 1s
said to break in upon my rest. But there is an | good,—the colouring transparent, —the drawing
instance which I own puts me off my euard, and | not amiss ; or, to speak more like aman of science,
that is when I see one born for great actions, and | —and measure my piece in the painter’s scale,
what is still more for his honour, whose nature divided into 20,—1I believe, my Lord, the outlines
ever inclines him to good ones ; when I behold | will turn out as 12,—the composition as 9,—the
such a one, my Lord, like yourself, whose princi- colouring as 6,—the expression 13 and a half,—
ples and conduct are as generous and noble as his | and the design,—if I may be allowed, my Lord, to
blood, and whom, for that{reason, a corrupt world understand my own design, and supposing absolute
cannot spare one moment , when I see such a perfection in designing, to be as 2(,—I think it
one, my Lord, mounted, though it is but for a cannot well fall short of 19. Besides all this,—
minute beyond the time which my love to my there is keeping in it; and the dark strokes in
country has prescribed to him, and my zeal for the Hospy-Horsr (which is a secondary figure,
his glory wishes, then, my Lord, J cease to be and a kind of back-ground to the whole) give
a philosopher, and, in the first transport of an. great force to the principal lights in your own

 

 

| honest impatience, I wish the Hoppy-HorRsE with figure, and make it come off wonderfully ne |
| : i : : ? i : ‘ oes as
all his fraternity, at the devil. | besides there 1s an alr of originality in the toué
ensemble.
' | «“ My Lord, se pleased, my good Lord, to order the sum to

Ce maintain this to be a dedication, notwith- be paid into the hands of “ Dodsley, for the
| standing its singularity in the three great essen- benefit of the author 5 and in the next edition care
tials of matter, form, and place: I beg, therefore, shall be taken that this chapter be expunged, and
you will accept it as such, and that you will per- your Lordship’s titles, distinctions, arms, and good
mit me to lay it, with the most respectful humility, actions, be placed a the front of the preceding
chapter: all which, from the words De gustibus

non est disputandum, and whatever else in this

at your Lordship’s feet, — when you are upon
| them,—which you can be when you please ; and |
| : c ser . : x relates - 2sEs, but no more, Sh¢
that 1s, my Lord, whenever there 1s occasion for ee gs u0 roe se th ms Th > a
. . sta dicate ‘our Lordship.—The res
it, and I will add, to the best purposes roe tee ede to YOUR = eee
| dedicate to the Moon, who, by the bye, of all the

have the honour to be, in
patrons or matrons I can think of, has most

 

 

My Lord, power to set my book a-going, and make the world
Your Lordship’s most obedient, run: mad after it.
and most devoted, Bright Goddess !
and most humble servant, | If thou art not too busy with Canprp and Miss

 

 

| Cunnaunn’s affairs,—take Tristram Shandy’sunder
thy protection also!

TRIsTRAM SHANDY.”

 
   
   

cae ee  —————————————ee ee er aTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY: o
all points as it should be.——But not caring to

CHAPTER X.

_Wuatever degree of small merit the act of benig-
nity in favour of the midwife might justly claim,
or in whom that claim truly rested,—at first sight
seems not very material to this history ;—certain,
however, it was that the gentlewoman, the parson’s
wife, did run away at that time with the whole of
it: and yet, for my life, I cannot help thinking but
that the parson himself, though he had not the
good fortune to hit upon the design first,—yet, as
he heartily concurred in it the moment it was laid
before him, and as heartily parted with his money
to carry it into execution, had a claim to some share
of it,—if not to a full half of whatever honour was
due to it.

The world at that time was pleased to determine
the matter otherwise.
Lay down the book, and I will allow you half a

 

 

day to give a probable guess at the grounds of this
procedure.

Be it known then that, for about five years
before the date of the midwife’s license, of which
you have had so circumstantial an account,—the
parson we have to do with had made himself a coun-
try talk by a breach of all decorum, which he had
committed against himself, his station, and his
office ; and that was in never appearing better, or
otherwise, mounted, than upon a lean, sorry, jack-
ass of a horse, value about one pound fifteen shil-
lings; who, to shorten all description of him, was
full brother to Rosinante, as far as similitude con-
genial could make him; for he answered his de-
scription to a hair’s breadth in everything—except
that I do not remember ’tis anywhere said that
Rosinante was broken-winded; and that, moreover,
Rosinante, as is the happiness of most Spanish
horses, fat or lean,—was undoubtedly a horse at
all points.

I know very well that the Hero’s horse was a
horse of chaste deportment, which may have given
grounds for the contrary opinion; butit is as certain,
at the same time, that Rosinante’s contingency (as
may be demonstrated from the adventure of the
Yanguesian carriers) proceeded from no bodily
defect or cause whatsoever, but from the temper-
ance and orderly current of his blood.—And let
me tell you, madam, there is a great deal of very
good chastity in the world, in behalf of which you
could not say more for your life.

Let that be as it may, as my purpose is to do
exact justice to every creature brought upon the
stage of this dramatic work,—I could not stifle
this distinction in favour of Don Quixote’s horse ;
in all other points, the parson’s horse, I say,
was just such another, for he was as lean, and as
lank, and as sorry a jade as Humility herself could
have bestrided.

In the estimation of here and there a man of
weak judgment, it was greatly in the parson’s
power to have helped the figure of this horse of
his,—for he was master of a very handsome demi-
peak’d saddle, quilted on the seat with green plush,
garnished with a double row of silverheaded studs,
and a noble pair of shining brass stirrups, with a
housing altogether suitable, of grey superfine cloth,
with an edging of black lace, terminating in a deep
black, silk fringe, poudre-d’or :—all which he had
purchased in the pride and prime of his life, toge-
ther with a grand embossed bridle, ornamented at

 

 

 

t

 

banter his beast, he had hung all these up behind
his study door: and, in lieu of them, had seriously
befitted him with just such a bridle and such a
saddle as the figure and value of such a steed might
well and truly deserve.
In the several sallies about his parish, and in
the neighbouring visits to the gentry who lived
around him,——you will easily comprehend that
the parson so appointed, would both hear and see
enough to keep his philosophy from rusting. To
speak the truth, he never could enter a village but
he caught the attention of both old and young.——
Labour stood still as he passed—the bueket hung
suspended in the middle of the well,—the spinning-
wheel forgot its round,—even chuck-farthing and
shufile-cap themselves stood gaping till he had got
out of sight; and, as his movement was not of the
quickest, he had generally time enough upon his
hands to make his observations,—to hear the
groans of the serious and the laughter of the light-
hearted : all which he bore with excellent tranquil-
lity. His character was—he loved a jest in his
heart—and, as he saw himself in the true point of
ridicule, he would say he could not be angry with
others for seeing him in a light in which he so
strongly saw himself; so that to his friends, who
knew his foible was not the love of money, and
who therefore made the less seruple in bantering
the extravagance of his humour,—instead of giving
the true cause, he chose rather to join in the laugh
against himself; and, as he never carried one
single ounce of flesh upon his own bones, being
altogether as spare a figure as his beast,—he would
sometimes insist upon it that the horse was as good
as the rider deserved ;—that they were centaur-
like—both of a piece. At other times, and in other
moods, when his spirits were above the temp-

 

tation of false wit,—he would say he found himself

going off fast in a consumption; and, with great
gravity, would pretend he could not bear the sight
of a fat horse, without a dejection of heart, and a
sensible alteration in his pulse; and that he had
made choice of the lean one he rode upon, not
only to keep himself in countenance, but in
spirits.

At different times he would give fifty humorous
and apposite reasons for riding a meck-spirited
jade of a broken-winded horse, preferably to one
of mettle ;—for on such a one he could sit mecha-
nically, and meditate as delightfully de vanitute
mundi et fuga seculi as with the advantage of a
death’s-head before him :—that, in all other exer-
citations he could spend his time, as he rode slowly
along, to as much account as in his study; - that
he could draw up an argument in his sermon, or
a hole in his breeches, as steadily on the one as in
the other ;—that brisk trotting and slow argumen-
tation, like wit and judgment, were two incompa-
tible movements,—but that upon his steed—he
could unite and reconcile everything; he could
compose his sermon—he could compose his cough
——and, in case nature gave a call that way, he
could likewise compose himself to sleep.—In short,
the parson, upon such encounters, would assign
anv cause but the true cause,—and he withheld

 

the true one only out of anicety of temper, because
he thought it did honour to him.

But the truth of the story was as follows :—in
the first years of this gentleman’s life, and about

 

 

 

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6 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

the time when the superb saddle and bridle were
purchased by him, it had been his manner, or
vanity, or call it what you will,—to run into the
opposite extreme. In the language of the country
where he dwelt, he was said to have loved a good
horse, and generally had one of the best in the
whole parish standing in his stable always ready
for saddling ; and as the nearest midwife, as I told
you, did not live nearer to the village than seven
miles, and in a vile country, it so fell out that the
poor gentleman was scarce a week together with-
out some piteous application for his beast ; and as
he was not an unkind-hearted man, and every case
was more pressing and more distressful than the
last,—as much as he loved his beast, he had never a
heart to refuse him; the upshot of which was
generally this, that his horse was either clapped,
or spavined, or greased; or he was twitter-boned,
or broken-winded, or something, in short, or other
had befallen him which would let him carry no
flesh ;—so that he had, every nine or ten months,
a bad horse to get rid of,—and a good horse to
purchase in his stead.

What the loss in such a balance might amount
to, communibus annis, I-would leave to a special
jury of sufferers in the same traffic to determine ;
but, let it be what it would, the honest gentleman
bore it for many years without a murmur; till, at
length, by repeated ill accidents of the kind, he
found it necessary to take the thing under consi-
deration ; and, upon weighing the whole, and sum-
ming it up in his mind, he found it not only dis-
proportioned to his other expenses, but withal so
heavy an article in itself as to disable him from
any other act of generosity in his parish: besides
this, he considered that, with half the sum thus
galloped away, he could do ten times as much
good ;—and what still weighed more with him than
all other considerations put together was this, that
it confined all his charity into one particular chan-
nel, and where, as he fancied, it was the least
wanted, namely, to the child-bearing and _ child-
getting part of his parish; reserving nothing for
the impotent,—nothing for the aged,—nothing for
the many comfortless scenes he was hourly called
forth to visit, where poverty and sickness and
affliction dwelt together.

For these reasons he resolved to discontinue
the expense ; and there appeared but two possible
ways to extricate him clearly out of it ;—and these
were, either to make it an irrevocable law never
more to lend his steed upon any application what-
ever,—or else be content to ride the last poor
devil, such as they had made him, with all his
aches and infirmities, to the very end of the
chapter.

As he dreaded his own constancy in the first—
he very cheerfully betook himself to the second ;
and though he could very well have explained it,
as I said, to his honour,—yet, for that very reason
he had a spirit above it; choosing rather to bear
the contempt of his enemies, and the laughter of his
friends, than undergo the pain of telling a story
which might seem a panegyric upon himself.

I have the highest idea of the spiritual and re-
fined sentiments of this reverend gentleman, from
this single stroke in his character, which I think
comes up to any of the honest refinements of the
peerless knight of La Mancha, whom, by the bye,
with all his follies, I love more, and would actually

 

 

 

P

ynoon-day he would pocket

 

have gone farther to have paid a visit to, than the
greatest hero of antiquity.

But this is not the moral of my story; the thing
I had in view was to show the temper of the world
in the whole of this affair—For you must know
that, so long as this explanation would have done
the parson credit—the devil a soul could find it
out. I suppose that his enemies would not, and
that his friends could not. But no sooner did
he bestir himself in behalf of the midwife, and pay
the expenses of the ordinary’s license to set her up,
—but the whole secret came out: every horse he
had lost, and two horses more than ever he had
lost, with ail the circumstances of their destruction,
were known and distinctly remembered.—The
story ran like wildfire—“ The parson had a return-

 

 

\ing fit of pride which had just seized him ; and he
hwas going to be well mounted once again in his

plain as the sun at
the expense of the
license ten times told, the very first year :—so
that everybody was left to judge what were his
views in this act of charity.”

What were his views in this, and in every other
action of his life, or rather what were the
opinions which floated in the brains of other
people concerning it, was a thought which too
much floated in his own, and too often broke in
upon his rest, when he should have been sound
asleep.

About ten years ago this gentleman had the good
fortune to be made entirely easy upon that score,
—it being just so long since he left his parish,—
and the whole world at the same time behind him ;—
and stands accountable toa Judge of whom he will
have no cause to complain.

But there is a fatality attends the actions of
some men:—order them as they will, they pass
through a certain medium which so twists and

-efracts them from their true directions that,
with all the titles to praise which a rectitude of
heart can give, the doers of them are nevertheless
forced to live and die without it.

Of the truth of which, this gentleman was a pain-
fulexample. .... But to know by what means
this came to pass,—and to make that knowledge
of use to you, I insist upon it that you read the
two following chapters, which contain such a sketch
of his life and conversation as will carry its moral
along with it. When this is done, if nothing
stops us in our way, we will go on with the mid-
wite.

life; and, if 1t was so, *twas

 

CHAPTER XI.

Yorick was this parson’s name, and, what is very
remarkable in it (as appears from a most ancient
account of the family, wrote upon strong vellum,
and now in perfect preservation), it had been
exactly so spelt for near I was within an ace
of saying nine hundred years ; but I would not
shake my eredit in telling an improbable truth
however indisputable in itself ; and, there-
fore, I shall content myself with only saying
It had been exactly so spelt, without the least
variation or transposition of a single letter, for I
do not know how long; which-is more than I
would venture to say of one half of the best sur-
names in the kingdom ; which, ina course of years,
have generally undergone as many chops and
changes as their owners.—Has this been owing tone a ee se

TT

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eng es
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‘THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 7

 

 

 

 

seis ee 2 z the shame, of the respective pro- | of Danish blood in his whole erasis—in nine hun-
eon and sols he metas | dyes might poly havo all xan oa
temptation has wrought But a villanous affair it | about it: -f : I 2 eth ae . es
mn has ought. 10uUS atic t | ab > lor happen how it would, the fact was
is, and will one day so blend and confound us all this,—that, instead of that cold phlegm and exact
together that no one shall be able to stand up and | regularity of sense and humours you would have
swear “ Phat his own great-grandfather was the | looked for in one so extracted—he was, on the con-
man who did either this or that.” trary, as mercurial and sublimated a composition

[his evil had been sufficiently fenced against | —as heteroclite a creature in all his declensions
by the prudent care of the Yorick family, and with as much life and whim, and gatté de ceur
their religious preservation of these records I | about him, as the kindliest climate could have en-
quote ; which do farther inform us that the family | gendered and put together. With all this sail,
was originally of Danish extraction, and had been | poor Yorick carried not one ounce of ballast; he
transplanted into England as early as in the reign | was utterly unpractised in the world; and, at the
of Horw endillus, king of Denmark, iin whose | age of twenty-six, knew just about as well how to
court, 1t seems, an ancestor of this Mr. Yorick, | steer his course in it as a romping, unsuspicious
and from whom he was lineally descended, held a girl of thirteen: so that, upon his first setting out,
considerable post to the day of his death. Of | the brisk gale of his spirits, as you. will imagine,
what nature this considerable post was this record | ran him foul ten times ina dav of somehody’s tack-
saith not—it only adds, that for near two centu- ling ; and, as the grave and more slow-paced were
ries, it had been totally abolished, as altogether | oftenest in his way,—you may likewise imagine it
unnecessary, not only in that court, but in every | was with such he had generally the ill-luck to get
other court of the Christian world. ,| the most entangled. For aught I know, there

It has often come into my head that this post} might be some mixture of unlucky wit at the
could be no other than that of the king’s chief{| bottom of such fracas: for, to speak the truth,
jester ;—and that Hamlet’s Yorick, in our Shaks-\ Yorick had an invincible dislike and opposition in
peare, many of whose plays you know are founded | his nature to gravity ;—not to gravity as such ;—
upon authenticated facts, was certainly the oy for, where gravity was wanted, he would be the
man, most grave or serious of mortal men for days and

I have not the time to look into Saxo-Gramma- | weeks together ;—but he was an enemy to the
ticus’s Danish history, to know the certainty of | affectation of it, and declared open war against it
this ;—but, if you have leisure, and can easily get | onlyas it appeareda cloak for'ignorance or for folly :
at the book, you may do it full as well yourself. and then, whenever it fell in his way, however

{ had just time, in my travels through Denmark | sheltered and protected, he seldom gave it much

re

 

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| with Mr. Noddy’s eldest son, whom, in the year | quarter.

| 1741, I accompanied as governor, riding along Sometimes, in his wild way of talking, he would
| with him at a prodigious rate through most parts | say that Gravity was ar arrant scoundrel, and he
{

of Europe, and of which original journey, per- | would add—of the most dangerous kind too,—
formed by us two,a most delectable narrative will | because a sly one; and that, he verily believed,
be given in the progress of this work; I had just | more honest, well-meaning people were bubbled
time, I say, and that was all, to prove the truth | out of their goods and money by it in one twelve-
of an observation made by a long sojourner in that | month than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in
country namely, “That nature was neither | seven. In the naked temper which a merry heart
very lavish, nor was she very stingy, in her gifts | discovered, be would say there was no danger
of genius and capacity to its inhabitants ;—but, | but to itself:—whereas the very essence of gravity
like a discreet parent, was moderately kind to them | was design, and consequently deceit :—it was a
all; observing such an equal tenour in the distri- | taught trick to gain credit of the world for more
bution of her favours as to bring them, in those | sense and knowledge than a man was worth; and
points, pretty near to a level with each other; so | that, with all its pretensions,—it was no better,
that you will meet with few instances in that king- | but often worse, than what a French wit had long
dom of refined parts, but a great deal of good plain | ago defined it,—viz., A mysterious carriage of the
household understanding, amongst all ranks of | body to cover the defects of the mind; —which defi-
people, of which everybody has a share 37” nition of gravity, Yorick, with great imprudence,

 

 

 

 

|
|

|

| which is, I think, very right. would say deserved to be wrote in letters of

| With us, you see, the case is quite different :— | gold. \ |
| we are all ups and downs in this matter ;—you are But, in plain truth, he was a man unhackneyed }

a great genius ;—or, ’tis fifty to one, sir, you are a | and unpractised in the world, and was altogether |
great dunce and a blockhead ;—not that there isa | as indiscreet and foolish on every other subject of |
total want of intermediate steps ;—no,—we are not | discourse where policy 1s wont to impress restraint.
so irregular as that comes to ;—but the two ex- | Yorick had no impression but one, and that was|
tremes are more common, and in a greater degree, | what arose from the nature of the deed spoken of ;
in this unsettled island, where nature in her gifts | which impression he would usually translate into
and dispositions of this kind, is most whimsical | plain English, without any periphrasis ; and too
and capricious; fortune herself not being more | oft without much distinction of either person, time,
so in the bequest of her goods and chattels than | or place ;—so that when mention was made of a
she. pitiful or.an ungenerous proceeding he never
This is all that ever staggered my faith in regard | gave himself a moment's time to reflect who was
to Yorick’s extraction, who, by what I can remem- | the hero of the piece, what his station, or
ber of him, and by all the accounts I could ever how far he had power to hurt him hereafter ;
get of him, seemed not to have had one single drop | but if it was a dirty action,—without more ado,— |

 

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ae. “ i z

see

 

 

 

 

 

Ft I orn

 

 

 

 

 

—— ees ee — —_ " iO ae8 THE LIFE
‘The man was a dirty fellow,—and so on. And as
‘his comments had usually the ill fate to be termi-
nated either in a bon mot, or to be enlivened
throughout with some drollery or humour of ex-
pression, it gave wings to Yorick’s indiscretion.
In a word, though he never sought, yet, at the

same time, as he seldom shunned, occasions of |

saying what came upperraost, and without much
ceremony he had but too many temptations in
life of scattering his wit and his humour, his gibes
and his jests, about him. They were not lost for
want of gathering.

What were the consequences, and what was
Yorick’s catastrophe thereupon, you will read in
the next chapter.

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

Tue mortgager and mortgagee differ, the one
from the other, not more in length of purse, than
the jester and jestee do in that of memory. But
in this the comparison between them runs, as the
scholiasts call it, upon all-four ;—which, by the
bye, is upon one or two legs more than some of
the best of Homer’s can pretend to ;—nameély,
That the one raises a sum, and the other a laugh,
at your expense, and thinks no more about it.
Interest, however, still runs on in both cases ;—
the periodical or accidental payments of it just
serving to keep the memory of the affair alive ;
till, at length, in some evil hour—pop comes the
ereditor upon each, and by demanding principal
upon the spot, together with full interest. to the
very day, makes them both feel the full extent of
their obligations.

As the reader (for I hate your ifs) has a thorough
knowledge of human nature, I need not say more
to satisfy him that my hero could not go on at this
rate without some slight experience of these inci-
dental mementos. ‘T'o speak the truth, he had
wantonly involved himself in a multitude of small
book-debts of this stamp, which, notwithstanding
Eugenius’s frequent advice, he too much disre-
garded ; thinking that, as not one of them was
contracted through any malignancy—but, on the
contrary, from an honesty of mind, and a mere
jocundity of humour, they would all of them ‘be
crossed out in course.

Eugenius would never admit this ; and would
often tell him that, one day or other, he would
certainly be reckoned with ;—and he would often
add—in an accent of sorrowful apprehension—to
the uttermost mite. To which Yorick, with his
usual carelessness of heart, would as often answer
with a pshaw !—and if the subject was started in
the fields,—with a hop, skip, and a jump at the end
of it ; but, if close pent up in the social chimney-
corner, where the culprit was barricadoed in with
a table and a couple of arm-chairs, and could not
so readily fly off in a tangent,—Kugenius would
then go on with his lecture upon discretion in
words to this purpose, though somewhat better put
ogether :—

“Trust me, dear Yorick, this unwary plea-
santry of thine will sooner or later bring thee into
serapes and difficulties, which no after-wit can
extricate thee out of. In these sallies, too
oft, I see it happens that a person laughed
at considers himself in the light of a person
injured, with all the rights of such a situation
belonging to him; and when thou viewest him in

 

 

 

AND OPINIONS Of

 

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- ecg ncomen EN—e~
% oo ~v

 

ee mg eee

 

 

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

Fae

 

that light too, and reckonest up his friends, his
family, his kindred and allies—and musterest up,
with them, the many recruits which will list under
him from a sense of common danger—’tis no
extravagant arithmetic to say that, for every
ten jokes, thou hast got a hundred enemies ;
and till thou hast gone on and raised a swarm
of wasps about thine ears, and art half stung
to death by them, thou wilt never be convinced
it 1S SO.

“JT cannot suspect it in the man whom I esteem |
that there is the least spur from spleen or male- |
volence of intent in these sallies. T believe and |
know them to be truly honest and sportive—but
consider, my dear lad, that fools cannot distinguish
this, and that knaves will not; and that thou
knowest not what it is either to provoke the one,
or to make merry with the other ; whenever
they associate for mutual defence, depend upon it
they will carry on the war in such a manner against
thee, my dear friend, as to make thee heartily sick
of it, and of thy life too.

“Revenge, from some baneful corner, shall level
a tale of dishonour at thee, which no innocence of
heart, or integrity of conduct, shall set right.
The fortunes of thy house shall totter,—thy cha-
racter, which led the way to them, shall bleed on
every side of it,—thy faith questioned,—thy works
belied,—thy wit forgotten,—thy learning trampled
on. Towind up the last scene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY
and CowaRDICce, twin ruffians, hired and set on by
Maurice in the dark, shall strike together at all
thy infirmities and mistakes : the best of us,
my dear lad, lie open there ; and trust me—
trust me, Yorick, when, to gratify a private
appetite, it is once resolved upon that an innocent
and a helpless creature shall be sacrificed, ’tis an
easy matter to pick up sticks enough from any
thicket where it has strayed to make a fire to offer
it up with.”

Yorick scarce ever heard this sad vaticination
of his destiny read over to him but with a tear
stealing from his eye, and a promissory look
attending it that he was resolved, for the time to
come, to ride his tit with more sobriety.—But,
alas, too late !——-a grand confederacy, with *****
and ***** at the head of it, was formed before the
first prediction of it. The whole plan of attack,
just as Eugenius had foreboded, was put im execu-
tion all at once,—with so little merey on the side
of the allies,—and so little suspicion in Yorick of
what was carrying on against him—that, when he
thought, good easy man !—full surely, preferment
was a-ripening,—they had smote his root,—and
then he fell, as many a worthy man had fallen
before him.

Yorick, however, fought it out, with all ima-
ginable gallantry, for some time ; till overpowered
by numbers, and worn out at length by the
calamities of the war—but more so by the unge-
nerous manner in which it was carried on,—he
threw down the sword ; and though he kept up his
spirits in appearance to the last—he died neverthe-
less,as was generally thought, quite broken-hearted.
What inclined Eugenius to the same opinion, was
as follows :—

A.few hours before Yorick breathed his last,
Eugenius stepped in with an intent to take his last
sight and last farewell of him. Upon his drawing
Yorick’s curtain, and asking how he felt himself,THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. a

Yorick, looking up in his face, took hold of his
hand and, after thanking him for the many
tokens of his friendship to him, for which, he said,
if it was their fate to meet hereafter, he would
thank him again and again,—he told him he was
within a few hours of giving his enemies the slip
for ever: . . .I hope not, answered Eugenius, with
tears trickling down his cheeks, and with the ten-
derest tone that ever man spoke,—I hope not,
Monick, said he... Womek replied, with a look

| up, and a gentle squeeze of Eugenius’s hand, and
that was all ;—but it cut Eugenius to hisheart.
Come, come, Yorick, quoth Eugenius, wiping his
eyes, and summoning up the man within him, my
dear lad, be comforted,—let not all thy spirits and
fortitude forsake thee at this crisis, when thou
most wantest them ; who knows what re-
sources are in store, and what the power of Gop
may yet do for thee ?....Yorick laid his hand upon
his heart, and gently shook his head..... For my
part, continued Eugenius, crying bitterly as he
uttered the words,—I declare I know not, Yorick,
how to part with thee,—and would gladly fiatter
my hopes, added Kugenius, cheering up his voice,
that there is still enough left of thee to make a
bishop, and that I may live to see it. I beseech
thee, Eugenius, quoth Yorick, taking off his night-
cap as well as he could with his left hand,—his
right being still grasped close in that of Eugenius,
—I beseech thee to take a view of my head.
I see nothing that ails it, replied Eugenius. Then,
alas! my friend, said Yorick, let me tell you, that
it is so bruised and mis-shapened with the blows
which ***** and *****, and some others, have so
unhandsomely given me in the dark, that I might
Say, with Sancho Panza, that should I recover,
and “ mitres thereupon be suffered to rain down
from heaven as thick as hail, not one of them
would fit it.”—Yorick’s last breath was hanging
upon his trembling lips, ready to depart as he
uttered this ;—yet still it was uttered with some-
thing of a Cervantie tone ; and, as he spoke it,
Eugenius could perceive a stream of lambent fire
lighted up for a moment in his eyes faint
picture of those flashes of his spirit which (as
Shakspeare said of his ancestor) were wont to set
the table ina roar!

Kugenius was convinced from this that the heart
of his friend was broken ; he squeezed his hand—
and then walked softly out of the room, weeping as
he walked. Yorick followed Eugenius with his
eyes to the door ; he then closed them,—and

| never opened them more.

He lies buried in a corner of his church-yard,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in the parish of , under a plain marble slab,
which his friend Eugenius, by leave of his execu-
tors, laid upon his grave, with no more than these
three words of inscription, serving both for his
epitaph and elegy :

 

Alas, poor orick!

 

 

 

Ten times in a day has Yorick’s ghost the con-
solation to hear his monumental inscription read
over, with such avariety of plaintive tones as denote
a general pity and esteem for him——a foot-way
crossing the church-yard close by the side of his
grave,—not a passenger goes by without stop-

 

SS arrears entrse piscine ioe

| Pg to cast a look upon it,—and

 

 

 

eee

 

sighing, as he

walks on,

Alas, poor YORICK !

 

CHAPTER XIII. |

Ir is so long since the reader of this rhapsodical
work has been parted from the midwife that it is
high time to mention her again to him, merely to
put him in mind that there is such a body still in
the world, and whom, upon the best judgment I
can form upon my own plan at present, Lam going
to introduce to him for good and all: but as fresh
matter may be started, and much unexpected
business fall out betwixt the reader and myself,
which may require immediate despatch,—’twas
right to take care that the poor woman should not
be lost in the mean time ; because, when she is
wanted, we can no way do without her.

I think I told you that this good woman was a
person of no small note and consequence through-
out our whole village and township ; — that her
fame had spread itself to the very out-edge and
circumference of that circle of importance, of
which kind every soul living, whether he has a
shirt to his back or no—has one surrounding him ;
which said circle, by the way, whenever ’tis
said that such a one is of great weight and impor-
tance in the world, I desire may be enlarged or
contracted in your worship’s faney, in a compound
ratio of the station, profession, knowledge, abilities,
height and depth (measuring both ways), of the
personage brought before you.

In the present case, if I remember, I fixed it at
about four or five miles, which not only compre-
hended the whole parish, but extended itself to two
or three of the adjacent hamlets in the skirts of
the next parish; which made a considerable
thing of it. I must add that she was, moreover, |
very well looked on at one large grange-house, and
some other odd houses and farms within two or
three miles, as I said, from the smoke of her own
chimney :__-but I must here, once for all, inform
you that all this will be more exactly delineated
and explained in a map now in the hands of the
engraver, which with many other pieces and
developments of this work, will be added to the
end of the twentieth volume : not to swell the
work,—I detest the thought of such a thing,—but
by way of commentary, scholium, illustration, and
key, to such passages, incidents, or innuendoes, as
shall be thought to be either of private interpreta-
tion or of dark or doubtful meaning, after my life
and my opinions shall have been read over (now
don’t forget the meaning of the word) by all the
world ; which betwixt you and me, and in spite
of all the gentlemen reviewers in Great Britain,
and of all that their worships shall undertake to
write or say to the contrary,—I am determined
shall be the case.......I1 need not tell your
worship that all this is spoken in confidence.

|
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HN TON IS BM St FERRE EIT

 

* SER a GT PSE AR a OTshire

: ne
vit

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aie Sera

 

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a anes “ a EE SEES ses

 

 

 

 

 

THE

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

Upon looking into my mother’s marriage-settle-
ment, in order to satisfy myself and reader in a
point necessary to be cleared up, before we could
proceed any further in this history,—I had the
good fortune te pop upon the very thing I wanted,
before I had read a day and a half straight
forwards 3 it might have taken meup a
month ; which shows plainly that when a
man sits down to write a history, though it be but
the history of Jack Hickathrift, or Tom Thumb,
he knows no more than his heels what lets and
confounded hindrances he is to meet with in his
way,—or what a dance he may be led, by one
excursion or another, before all is over. Could a
historiographer drive on his history, as a muleteer
drives on his mule—straight forward,—for in-
stance, from Rome all the way to Loretto, without
ever once turning his head aside, either to the
right hand or to the left,—he might venture to
foretell you to an hour when he should get to
his journey’s end: but the thing is, morally
speaking, impossible ; for, if he is a man of the
least spirit, he will have fifty deviations from a
straight line to make with this or that party as he
goes along, which he can no ways avoid : he will
have views and prospects to himself perpetually
soliciting his eye, which he can no more help
standing still to look at than he can fly ; he will
moreover have various

 

 

Accounts to reconcile ;

Aneedotes to pick up 5

Inseriptions to make out 3;

Stories to weave in 5

Traditions to sift :

Personages to call upon:

Panegyries to paste up at this door ;
Pasquinades at that : all which both the
man and tlre mule are exempt from. ‘To sum up
all ; there are archives at every stage to be looked
into, and rolls, records, documents, and endless
genealogies, which justice ever and anon ¢alls him
back to stay the reading of :——in short, there is
no end of it. For my own part, I declare I
have been at it these six weeks, making all the
speed I possibly could, -and am not yet born ;
I have just been able, and that’s all, to tell you
when it happened, but not how ;——so that you
see the thing is yet far from being accomplished.
These unforeseen stoppages, which I own I had
no conception of when I first set out,—but which,
I am convinced, now, will rather increase than
diminish as I advance,—have struck out a hint
which I am resolved to follow 5 and that is,—
not to be in a hurry,—but to go on leisurely,
writing and publishing two volumes of my life every
year,—which if I am suffered to go on quietly,
and can make a tolerable bargain with my book-
seller, I shall continue to do as long as I live.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XV.
TE article in my mother’s marriage-settlement,
which I told the reader I was at the pains to
search for, and which, now that L have found it, I
think proper to lay before him,—is so much more
fully expressed in the deed itself, than ever l can
pretend to do it, that it would be barbarity to take
it out of the lawyer’s hand. It is as follows:

 

 

 

 

 

i aa RR 5 ET ti

 

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eee ena

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

oo

“Any this Lnventure further CU ttnesseth,
That the said Walter Shandy, merchant, in
consideration of the said intended marriage to
be had, and by God’s blessing to be well and truly
solemnized and consummated between the said
Walter Shandy and Elizabeth Mollineux afore-
said, and divers other good and valuable causes
and considerations him thereunto specially moving,
—doth grant, covenant, condeseend, consent,
conclude, bargain, and fully agree to and with

oa

John Dixon and James Turner, Esqrs. the above
named trustees, &c. &¢. Ca Cutt,
That in ease it should hereafter so fall-out, chance
happen, or otherwise come to pass, that the
said Walter Shandy, merchant, shall have left
said Elizabeth Mollineux shall, according to th
off business before the time or times that the
course of nature, or otherwise, have left off bear-
ing and bringing forth children and that in
consequence of the said Walter Shandy having so
left off business, he shall, in despite, and against
the free-will, consent and good liking of the said
Elizabeth Mollineux,—make a departure from
the city of London, in order to retire to, and dwell
upon his estate at, Shandy Hall, in the county of
—., or at any other country-seat, castle, hall,
mansion-house, messuage, or grange house, now
purchased or hereafter to be purchased, or upon
any part or parcel thereof :—That, then, andas often
as the said Elizabeth Mollineux shall happen to be
enceinte with child or children, severally and
lawfully begot, or to. be begotten, upon the body
of the said Elizabeth Mollineux during her said
coverture,—he ‘the said Walter Shandy shall, at
his own proper cost and charges, and out of his own
proper monies, upon vood and reasonable notice,
which is hereby agreed to be within six weeks
of her the said Elizabeth Mollineux’s full reckoning
or time of supposed and computed delivery—pay,
or cause to be paid, the sum of one hundred and
twenty pounds of good and lawful money, to John
Dixon and James Turner, Esquires, or assigns,
upon TRUST and confidence, and for and
unto the use and uses, intent, end and purpose
following : @hat ts to gay, ——— That
the said sum of one hundred and twenty pounds
shall be paid into the hands of the said Elizabeth
Mollineux, or to be otherwise applied by them
the said trustees, for the well and truly hiring
of one coach, with able and sufficient horses, to
‘arry and convey the body of the said. Elizabeth
Mollineux, and the child or children which she
shall be then and there enceinte and pregnant
with —unto the city of London; and for the
further paying and defraying of all other incidental
costs, charges, and expenses whatsoever,—in and
about, and for, and relating to her said intended
delivery and lying-in, in the said city or suburbs
thereof. And that the said Elizabeth Mollineux
shall and may, from time to time, and at all such
time and times as are here covenanted and agreed
upon,—peaceably and quietly hire the said coach
and horses, and have free ingress, egress, and
reeress, throughout her journey, in and from the
said coach, according to the tenor, true intent,
and meaning of these presents, without any let,
suit, trouble, disturbance, molestation, discharge,
hinderance, forfeiture, eviction, vexation, inter-
ruption, or incumbrance whatsoever. And
that it shall moreover be lawful to and for theaetna

ee ee nh ee reese emanations ia

 

| opened a door to,

it ee

said Elizabeth Mollineux, from time to time, and
as oit or often as she shall well and truly be
advanced in her said pregnancy, to the time here-
tofore stipulated and agreed upon,—to live and
reside in such place or places, and in such family
or families, and with such relations, friends, and
other persons within the said city of London, as
she, at her own will and pleasure, notwithstanding
her present coverture, and as if she were a femme
sole and unmarried,—shall think fit. ang
this Lnenture further CUitnesseth, That,
for the more effectually carrying of the said

covenant into execution, the said Walter Shandy,

 

merchant, doth hereby grant, bargain, sell, re-
lease, and confirm unto the said John Dixon
and James Turner, Esquires, their heirs, exe-

cutors, and assigns, in their actual possession,
now being, by virtue of an indenture of bargain
and sale, for a year, to them the said John Dixon
and James Turner, Ksquires, by him the said
Walter Shandy, merchant, thereof made; which
said bargain and sale for a year bears date the
day next before the date of these presents, and by
force and virtue of the statute for transferring of
uses into possession, All that the manor
and lordship of Shandy, in the county of
with all the rights, members, and appurtenances
thereof ; and all and every the messuages, houses,
buildings, barns, stables, orchards, gardens, back-
sides, tofts, crofts, garths, cottages, lands, meadows,
feedings, pastures, marshes, commons, woods, un-
derwoods, drains, fisheries, waters, and water-
courses, together with all rents, reversions,
Services, annuities, fee-farms, knights’ fees, views
of frank-pledge, escheats, reliefs, mines, quarries,
goods and chattels of felons and fugitives, felons of
themselves, and put in exigent, deodands, fee-
warrens, and all other royalties and seignories,
rights and jurisdictions, privileges and heredita-
ments whatsoever, An alga, the advowson,
donation, presentation and free disposition of the
rectory or parsonage of Shandy aforesaid, and all
and every the tenths, tithes, glebe-lands.”—___T,
three words——my mother was to lie-in Gf she
chose it) in London.

But in order to puta stop to the practice of
unfair play on the part of my mother,
marriage article of this

 

 

 

 

any
which a
nature too manifestly
and which indeed had never
been thought of at all but for my uncle Toby
Shandy ; a clause was added in security of my
father, which was this: “That in case my
mother hereafter should, at any time, put my
father to the trouble and expense of a London
journey, upon false cries and tokens 3—that for
every such instance she should forfeit all the right
and title which the covenant gave her to the next
turn ;—but no more,—and so on—‘ofies quoties
—in as effectual a manner as if such a covenant
betwixt them had not been made.” This, by
the way, was no more than what was reasonable ;
and yet, as reasonable as it was, I have ever
thought it hard that the whole weight of the article
should have fallen entirely, as it did, upon myself,

But I was begot and born to misfortunes ;——
for my poor mother, whether it was wind, or
water, or a compound of both,—or neither ; or
whether it was simply the mere swell of imagina-
tion and fancy in her ;—or how far a strong wish
and desire to have it so might mislead her judg-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. il

ment ;—in short, whether she was deceived, or
deceiving, in this matter, it no way becomes me
to decide. The fact was this, that in the latter
end of September 1717, which was the year before
I was born, my mother having carried my father
up to town, much against the grain,—he peremp-
torily insisted upon the clause ; so that I was
doomed, by marriage articles, to have my nose
Squeezed as flat to my face as if the destinies had
actually spun me without one.

How this event came about,—and what a train
of vexatious disappointments, in one stage or other
of my life, have pursued me, from the mere loss
or rather compression of this one single member,
—shall be laid before the reader all in due time.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

My father, as anybody may naturally imagine,
came down with my mother into the country, in
but a pettish kind of a humour. The first twenty
or five-and-twenty miles he did nothing in the
world but fret and teaze himself, and, indeed, my
mother too, about the cursed expense, which, he
said, might every shilling of it have been saved 3
—then, what vexed him more than everything
else was the provoking time of the year,—which,
as I told you, was towards the end of September,
when his wall-fruit, and green-gages especially, in
which he was very curious, were just ready for
pulling :——-“ Had_he been whistled up to London
upona Tom Fool’s errand in any other month of
the whole year, he should not have said three
words about it. ”

lor the next two whole stages, no subject would
go down but the heavy blow he had sustained from
the loss of a son, whom it seems he had fully
reckoned upon in his mind, and registered down
in his pocket-book, as a second staff for his old
age, in case Bobby should fail him... . « The
disappointment of this,” he said, “was ten times
more to a wise man than all the money which the
journey, &c., had cost him, put together Rot
the hundred and twenty pounds,—he did not
mind it a rush.”

From Stilton, all the way to Grantham, nothing
in the whole affair provoked him so much as the
condolences of his friends, and the foolish figure
they should both make at church the first Sunday
——of which, in the satirical vehemence of his
wit, now sharpened a little by vexation, he would
give so many humorous and provoking descriptions,
—and place his rib and self in so many tormenting
lights and attitudes, in the face of the whole con-
gregation,—that my mother declared these two
stages were so truly tragi-comical that she did
nothing but laugh and cry, in a breath, from one
end to the other of them all the way.

From Grantham, till they had crossed the Trent,
my father was out of all kind of patience at the vile
trick and imposition which he fancied my mother
had put upon him in this affair——_« Certainly,”
he would say to himself, over and over again, “the
woman could not be deceived herself if she
could, what weakness !”—Tormenting word ! which
led his imagination a thorny dance, and, before all
was over, played the deuce and all with him;
for, sure as ever the word weakness was uttered,
and struck full upon his brain, so sure it set him
upon running divisions upon how many kinds of
weaknesses there were ;—that there was such a

 

 

 

 

 

 

a

ay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ee fe a ee a ee neSeeks Sapien SESS neath,

 

aaa

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Se Rce =e

i ee cs
eae See st

 

ep

—————

 

 

ee

i ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a earn ne
nt re

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPIN

1

ey

 

thing as weakness of the body, as well as weakness
of the mind ;—and then he would do nothing but
syllogise within himself for a stage or two together,
how far the cause of all these vexations might, or
might not, have arisen out of himself.

In short, he had so many little subjects of dis-
quietude springing out of this one affair, all fretting
successively in his mind as they rose up in it, that
my mother, whatever was her journey up, had but
an uneasy journey of it down.—In a word, as she
complained to my uncle Toby, he would have tired
out the patience of any flesh alive.

CHAPTER XVII.

Taoven my father travelled homewards, as I
told you in none of the best of moods,—pshawing
and pishing all the way down,—yet he had the
complaisance to keep the worst part of the story
still to himself ; which was the resolution he had
taken of doing himself the justice, which my uncle
Toby’s clause in the marriage-settlement em-
powered him: nor was it till the very night in
which I was begot, which was thirteen months after,
that she had the least intimation of his design:
when my father happening, as you remember, to
be a little chagrined and out of temper,—took oc-
easion, as they lay chatting gravely in bed after-
wards, talking over what was to come,—to let her
know that she must accommodate herself as well as
she could to the bargain made between them in
their marriage-deeds ; which was to lie-in of her
next child in the country, to balance the last year’s
journey.

My father was a gentleman of many virtues,—
but he had a strong spice of that in his temper
which might, or might not, add to the number.
"Tis known by the name of perseverance in a
good cause, and of obstinacy in a bad one: of this
my mother had so much knowledge that she knew
*twas to no purpose to make any remonstrance ;—
so she e’en resolved to sit down quietly and make
the most of it.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

As the point was that night agreed, or rather
determined, that my mother should lie-in of me in
the country, she took her measures accordingly ;
for which purpose, when she was three days, or
thereabouts, gone with child, she began to cast her
eyes upon the midwife whom you have so often
heard me mention ; and before the week was well
got round, as the famous Dr. Maniugham was not
to be had, she had come to a final determination in
her mind, notwithstanding there was a scientific ope-
rator within so near a call as eight miles of us, and
who, moreover, had expressly written a five-shilling
book upon the subject of midwifery, in which he
had exposed, not only the blunders of the sisterhood
itself,—but had likewise superadded many curious
improvements for the quicker extraction of the
foetus in cross births, and some other cases
danger which delay us from getting into the world ;
—notwithstanding all this, my mother, I say,
was absolutely determined to trust her life, and
mine with it, into no soul’s hand but this old woman’s
only.—Now this I like when we cannot get at
the very thing we wish, never to take up with the
next best in degree to it; no! that is pitiful beyond
deseription. It is no more than a week from this
very day in which I am now writing this book—tor

of

IONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the edification of the world,——which is March 9,
1759,—that my dear, dear Jenny, observing I
looked a little grave, as she stood cheapening a silk
of five-and-twenty shillingsa yard,—told the mercer
she was sorry she had given him so much trouble ;
and immediately went and bought herself a yard-
wide stuff of ten-pencea yard. ’Tis the duplication
of one and the same greatness of soul ; only, what
lessened the honour of it somewhat, in my mother’s
case, was that she could not heroine it into so
violent and hazardous an extreme as one in her
situation might have wished, because the old mid-
wife had really some little claim to be depended
upon,as much at least as success could give her ;
having, in the course of her practice of near
twenty years in the parish, brought every mother’s
son of them into the world without any one slip
or accident which could fairly be laid to her
account.

These facts, though they had their weight, yet
did not altogether satisfy some few scruples and
uneasinesses which hung upon my father’s spirits in

relation to this choice........ 10 say nothing of |

the natural workings of humanity and justice, or
of the yearnings of parental and connubial love,
all which prompted him to leave as little to hazard
as possible in
concerned, in a particular manner, that all should
co right in the present case,—from the aécumu-
lated sorrow he lay open to, should any evil betide
his wife and child, by her lying-in at Shandy-hall.
— He knew the world judged by events, and would
add to his afflictions, in such a misfortune, by
loading him with the whole blame of it.. * Alas
o’day !—had Mrs. Shandy, poor gentlewoman ! had
but her wish in going up to town just to lie-in and
come down again,— which they say she begged and
prayed for upon her bare knees,—and which, in
my opinion, considering the fortune which Mr.
Shandy got with her,—was no such mighty matter
to have complied with, the lady and her babe might
both of them have been alive at this hour.”

This exclamation, my father knew, was un-
answerable ;—-and yet, it was not merely to
shelter himself,—nor was it altogether for the care
of his offspring and wife, that he seemed so ex-
tremely anxious about this pot; my father had
extensive views of things,—and stood, moreover,
as he thought, deeply concerned in it for the publie
good, from the dread he entertained of the bad uses
an ill-fated instance might be put to.

He was very sensible that all political writers
upon the subject had unanimously agreed and
lamented, from the beginning of Queen Elizabeth’s
reign down to his own time, that the current of
men and money towards the metropolis, upon one
frivolous errand or another, set in so strong—as

 

to become dangerous to our civil rights ;—_—though,
by the bye, a current was not the image he took

most delight imn,—a
favourite metaphor :

distemper Was here his
and he would run it down into

a case of this kind, he felt himself |

 

 

a perfect allegory, by maintaining it was identically |
the same in the body national as in the body natu- |

ral: where the blood and spirits were driven up
into the head faster than they could find their ways
down,—a stoppage of circulation must ensue, which
was death in both eases.

There waslittle danger, he wouldsay, of losing our
liberties by French polities or French invasions ;
nor was he so much in pain of a consumptionTHE

 

from the mass of corrupted matter and ulcerated
humours in our constitution,—which he hoped was
not so bad as it was imagined,—but he verily feared
that, insome violent push, we should go off, all at
once, in a state of apoplexy ; and then he would
say, The Lord have mercy upon us all.

My father was never able to give the history of
this distemper without the remedy along with it.

** Was I an absolute prince,’ he would say, pulling
up his breeches with both his hands, as he rose
from his arm-chair, “ I would appoint able judges
at every avenue of my metropolis, who should take
cognizance of every fool’s business who came there ;
and if, upon a fair and candid hearing, it appeared
not of weight sufficient to leave his own home, and
come up bag and baggage, with his wife and children,
farmer’s sons, &ec. &c., at his backside, they should
be al! sent back from constable to constable, like
vagrants, as they were, to the place of their legal
settlements. By this means, I should take care
that my metropolis tottered not through its own
weight ;—that the head be no longer too big for the
body ; that the extremes, now wasted and pinned
in, be restored to their due share of nourishment,
and regain, with it, their natural strength and
beauty.——I would effectually provide that the
meadows and corn-fields of my dominions should
laugh and sing ; that good cheer and hospitality
flourish once more; and that such weight and
influence be put thereby into the hands of the
’squirality of my kingdom as should counterpoise
what I perceive my nobility are now taking from
them.

«Why are there so few palaces and gentlemen’s
seats,” he would ask, with some emotion, as he
walked across the room, “throughout so many
delicious provinces in France? Whence is it that
the few remaining chateaux amongst them are so
dismantled, so unfurnished, and in so ruinous and
desolate a condition?—Because, Sir (he would
say), in that kingdom no man has any country
interest to support 5 the little interest of any
kind which any man has anywhere in it, is con-
centrated in the court, and the looks of the Grand
Monarque ; by the sunshine of whose countenance,
or the clouds which pass across it, every French-
man lives or dies.”

Another political reason which prompted my
father so strongly to guard against the least evil
accident in my mother’s lying-in in the country—
was, That any such instance would infallibly throw
a balance of power, too great already, into the
weaker vessels of the gentry, in his own, or higher,
stations 3 which, with the many other usurped
rights which that part of the constitution was
hourly establishing,—would, in the end, prove fatal
to the monarchical system of domestic government
established in the first creation of things by God.

In this point he was entirely of Sir Robert
Filmer’s opinion :—that the plans and institutions
of the greatest monarchies in the eastern parts of
the world were originally all stolen from that ad-
mirable pattern and prototype of this household
and paternal power; which for a century, he said,
and more, had gradually been degenerating away
into a mixed government 5 the form of which,
however desirable in great combinations of the
species,—was very troublesome in small ones,—
and seldom produced any thing, that he saw, but
sorrow and confusion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

For all these reasons, private and public, put to-
gether,—my father was for having the man-mid-wife,
by all means,—my mother by no means. My father
begged and entreated she would for once recede
from her prerogative in this matter, and suffer him
to choose for her; my mother, on the contrary,
insisted upon her privilege in this matter, to choose
for herself,;—and have no mortal’s help but the
old woman’s What could my father do?
He was almost at his wits’ end; talked it over with
her in all moods ; placed his arguments in all
lights—argued the matter with her like a Christian,
—likea heathen,—like a husband,—like a father,—
like a patriot,—like a man My mother answered
everything only like a woman; which wasalittle hard
upon her ;—for as she could not assume and fight
it out behind such a variety of characters—twas
no fair match ;—’twas seven to one What
could my mother do? She had the advan-
tage (otherwise she had been certainly over-
powered) of a small reinforcement of chagrin per-
sonal at the bottom, which bore her up, and en-
abled her to dispute the affair with my father with
so equal an advantage—that both sides sang Te
Deum. In a word, my mother was to have the
old woman,—and the operator was to have license
to drink a bottle of wine with my father and my
uncle Toby Shandy in the back parlour,—for which
he was to be paid five guineas.

I must beg leave, before I finish this chapter, to
enter a caveat in the breast of my fair reader ;
and it is this: Not to take it absolutely for
granted, from an unguarded word or two which I
have dropped in it,—that I am “a married man.”
I own the tender appellation of my dear, dear
Jenny, with some other strokes of conjugal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

| knowledge interspersed here and there, might, natu-

rally enough, have misled the most candid judge
in the world into such a determination against me.
—AIl I plead for in this case, Madam, is strict
justice, and that you do so much of it to me, as
well as to yourself—as not to prejudge or receive
such an impression of me till you have better evi-
dence than, I am positive, at present can be pro-
duced against me—Not that I can be so vain or
unreasonable, Madam, as to desire you should
therefore think that my dear, dear Jenny is my
kept-mistress ;—no,—that would be flattermg my
character in the other extreme, and giving it an air
of freedom which, perhaps, it has no kind of right
to. All I contend for is the utter impossibility,
for some volumes, that you, or the most penetrating
spirit upon earth, should know how this matter
really stands——It is not impossible but that
my dear, dear Jenny ! tender as the appellation is,
may be my child.—Consider, I was born in the
year eighteen Nor is there anything un-
natural or extravagant in the supposition that my
dear Jenny may be my friend! Friend !
_____My friend Surely, Madam, a friend-
ship between the two sexes may subsist, and
be supported, without————Fe ! Mr. Shandy
without anything, Madam, but that tender
and delicious sentiment which ever mixes in friend-
ship where there is a difference of sex. Let me
entreat you to study the pure and sentimental parts
of the best French romances ;—it will really,
madam, astonish you to see with what a variety
of chaste expressions this delicious sentiment
which I have the honour to speak of is dressed out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ste aE

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SO Ly:

= a wp ase Aes Li pan osm pac acas mace ae1

 

 

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14 THE

LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

CHAPTER XIX.

I wou.p sooner undertake to explain the hardest
problem in geometry, than pretend to account for
it that a gentleman of my father’s great good sense,
—knowing as the reader must have observed him,
and curious too in philosophy,—wise also in poli-
tical reasoning,—and in polemical (as he will find)
no way ignorant,—could be capable of entertaining
a notion in his head, so out of the common track,
—that I fear the reader, when I come to mention
it to him, if he is the least of a choleric temper,
will immediately throw the book by ; if mercu-
rial, he will laugh most heartily at it ; and if he
is of a grave and saturnine east, he will, at first
sight, absolutely condemn it as fanciful and extra-
vagant ; and that was in respect to the choice and
imposition of Christian names, on which he thought
a great deal more depended than what superficial
minds were capable of conceiving.

His opinion in this matter was, That there
was a strange kind of magic bias, which good
or bad names, as he called them, irresistibly im-
pressed upon our characters and conduct.

The hero of Cervantes argued not the point with
more seriousness,—nor had he more faith—or
more to say—on the powers of necromancy in dis-
honouring his deeds,—or on DunctNEa’s name in
shedding lustre upon them, than my father had on
those of TRIsMEGISTUS or ARCHIMEDES, on the one
hand,—or of Nyky and Simpxin on the other.
How many Cmsars and Pompeys, he would say, by
mere inspiration of the names, have been rendered
worthy of them! And how many, he would add,
are there, who might have done exceeding well in
the world, had not their characters and spirits been
totally depressed and Nicopemus’p into nothing !

I see plainly, Sir, by your looks (or as the case
happened), my father would say,—that you do not
heartily subseribe to this opinion of mine,—which
to those, he would add, who have not carefullly
sifted it to the bottom,—I own has an air more of
fancy than of solid reasoning in it; and yet, my
dear Sir, if I may presume to know your character,
Tam morally assured I should hazard little in stating
a case to—you not asa party inthe dispute,—but as
a judge, and trusting my appeal upon it to your own
good sense and candid disquisition in this matter.
—You are a person free from as many narrow
prejudices of education as most men ; andif I may
presume to penetrate farther into you,—of a libe-
rality of genius above bearing down an opinion,
merely because it wants friends. Your son !—
your dear son, from whose sweet and open
temper you have so much to expect,—your Bitty,
Sir, would you for the world have called him
Jupas?....Would you, my dear Sir, he would say,
laying his hand upon your breast with the genteelest
address,—and in that soft and irresistible piano of
voice, which the nature of the argumentum ad
hominem absolutely requires,———W ould you,
Sir, if a Jew of a godfather proposed the name
of your child and offered you his purse along
with it, would you have consented to such a dese-
eration of him?————O my God! he would say
looking up, if I know your temper right, Sir,
you are incapable of it; you would have trampled
upon the offer ; you would have thrown the temp-
tation at the tempter’s head with abhorrence.

Your greatness of mind in this action, which I

 

 

 

 

 

 

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admire, with that generous contempt of money
which you show me in the whole transaction, is
really noble ; and, what renders it more, so is
the principle of it ; the workings of a parent’s
love upon the truth and conviction of this very
hypothesis, namely, that was your son called Jupas,
—the sordid and treacherous idea so inseparable
from thename would have accompanied him through
life like his shadow, and, in the end, made a miser
and a rascal of him in spite, Sir, of your example.

I never knew a man able to answer this argu-
ment—— — But indeed to speak: of my father as
he was ; he was certainly irresistible, both in his
orations and disputations ; he was born an orator ;
——- Ocodtdaxtos Persuasion hung upon his
lips, and the elements of logic and rhetoric were
so blended up in him,—and, withal, he had so
shrewd a guess at the weaknesses and passions of
his respondent—that Nature might have stood up
and said,—“ This man is eloquent.” In short,
whether he was on the weak or the strong side of
the question, ’twas hazardousin either case toattack
him-——And yet, ’tis strange, he had never read
Cicero, nor Quintilian de Oratore, nor Isocrates,
nor Aristotle, nor Longinus, amongst the ancients ;
nor Vossius, nor Scioppius, nor Ramus, nor
Farnaby, amongst the moderns ;.... and, what is
more astonishing, he had never in his whole life
the least light or spark of subtlety struck into his
mind, by one single lecture upon Crackenthorp or
Burgersdicius, or any Dutch logician or commen-
tator ; he knewnotso much as in what the difference
of an argument ad ignorantium and an argument
ad hominem consisted ; so that I well remember,
when he went up along with me to enter my name
at Jesus’ College in ****,—it was a matter of
just wonder with my worthy tutor, and two or
three fellows of that learned society, that a man
who knew not so much as the names of his tools
should be able to work after that fashion with
them.

To work with them in the best manner he could
was what my father was, however, perpetually forced
upon ; for he had a thousand little sceptical
notions of the comic kind to defend,—most of which
notions, { verily believe, at first entered upon the
footing of mere whims, and of a vive la bagatelle ;
and, as such, he would make merry with them for
half an hour or so, and, having sharpened Jhis wit
upon them, ‘dismiss them till another day.

I mention this, not only as matter of. hypo-
thesis or conjecture upon the progress and estab-
lishment of my father’s many odd opinions, but as
a warning to the learned reader against the
indisereet reception of such guests, who, after a
free and undisturbed entrance for some years into
our brains, at length claim a kind of settlement
there,—working sometimes like yeast, but more
generally after the manner cf the gentle passion,
beginning in jest but ending in downright earnest.

Whether this was the case of the singularity of
my father’s notions, or that his judgment at length
became the dupe of his wit ; or how far, in many
of his notions, he might, though odd, be absolutely
right the reader,as he comes at them, shall
decide. All that I maintain here is that, in this
one, of the influence of Christian names, however
it gained footing, he was serious; he was all
uniformity ; he was systematical, and, like all
systematic reasoners, he would move both heavenTHE LIF

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTI

 

 

 

RAM SHANDY, 15

 

and heaiilt ptaiieiuareltonk ure every
to support his hypothesis, Inaw a I repeat it
over again,—he was serious ! and in conse-
quence of it, he would lose all kind of patience

whenever he saw people, especially of condition,
who should have known better, as careless and as
indifferent about the name they imposed upon their
child, or more so than in the choice of Ponto or
Cupid for their puppy-dog.

oe in nature

 

 

This, he would say, looked ill;——and ha ad,
moreover, this particular aggra ration in it, viz.—

 

That, when once a vile name was w rongfully or
inj iudiel ously given, it was not like the case of a
man’s aheeoe pr, Which when wronged, might here-
after be cleared,—and, possibly, some time o or other,
if not in the man’s life, at least after his death, be,
somehow or other, set to rights with the world :—But
the i injury of this, he w enid say, could never be un-
done ;—nay, he doubted even whether an act of
parliament could reach it: He knew, as well

iS you, that the legislature assumed a power over
surn ames ; but, for very strong reasons which

 

 

 

he could give, it had never yet adventui red, he
would say, to go a step farther.

It was “obser vable that, though my father, in
consequence of this opinion, had, as I have told you,
the strongest likings and dislikings towards certain
names ,—that there were still numbers of names
which ‘hung so equally in the balance before him
that they were absolutely indifferent to him: Jack,
Dick, and Tom, were of ‘this class : these my father

called neutral names ;—affirming of them, without
a satire, that there had been as many knaves and
fools, at least as wise and good men, since the world
began, who had indifferently borne them: SO
that, like equal forces acting against each other in
contrary directions, he thousht they mutually de-
stroyed each other’s effects ; for which r ason, he
would often declare he would not giveacherry-stone
to choose amongst them. Bob, which was my
brother’s name, was another of these neutral kinds
of Christian names, which operated very little either
way ; and as my father happened to be at E psom
when it was given him, he would oft-times tha unk
Heaven it was no worse. Andrew was something
like a negative quantity in algebra with him
twas worse, he said, than nothing. —— William
stood pretty high: Numps again was low with
him—and Nick, he said, was the Devi.

But, of all the names in the universe, he had
the most unconquerable aversion for TRIsTRAM ;
he had the lowest and most conte1 nptible
opinion of it of anything in the world, thinking it
could possibly produce nothing, in rerwm natura,
but what was extremely mean and pitiful : so that
in the midst of a dispute on the subject, in which,
by the bye, he was frequently involved—he would
sometimes break off in a sudden and spirited Epr-
PHONEMA, or rather ErRotesis, raised a third, and
sometimes a full fifth, above the key of the dis-
course,—and demand it categorically of his an-
tagonist, whether he would take upon him to say

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he had ever remembered,—whether he had ever

read,—or even whether he had ever heard tell of

a man, called Tristram, performing anything
great, or worth recording !—— No,—he would say
—Tristram !——The thing i is impossible.

What could be wanting in my father but to have
wrote a book, to publish this notion of his to the
world! Little boots it to the subtle speculatist to

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Stand single in his opinions,—unless he gives them
proper ve ih it was the identical thing which my
father did ;——for in the year sixteen, which was
two years before I was born, he was at the pains
of writing an express Dissertation simply upon
the word Tristram »—Showing the world, with great

candour and modesty, the erounds of his ereat
abhorrence to the name.

When this story is compared with the title-page
—will not the gentle reader pity my father from
his soul 2—to see an o rderly and well -dispo sed
gentleman, who, though singular—y et inoffensive
—in his notions,—so played upon in them by
cross-purposes ei look down upon the stage,
and see him baffled and overthrown in all his little
systems and wishes ; to behold a train of events
perpetually falling out against him, and in so criti-
cal and cruel a way as if they had purposely been
planned and pointed against him, me rely to insult
his speculations. _—iIn a word, to behold such a
one, in lis old age, ill-fitted for troubles, ten times
in a day suffering sorrow ;——ten times in a day
calling the child of his prayers Tristram !|——
Melancholy dissyllable of sound! which, to his

ears, was unison to Nincompoop, and every name
vituperative under heaven. By his ashes ! I
swear it,—if ever malignant spirit took pleasure,
or busied itself, in tray ersing the purposes of
mortal man,—it must have been here ; and if
it was not necessary I should be born before I
was christened, I would this moment give the
reader an account of it.

 

 

CHAPTER XX.

How could you, madam, be so inattentive
in reading the last chapter? I told you in it That
my mother was not a Papist. Papist ! you
told. me .no such . thing, Sir Madam, I
beg leave to repeat it over again, that I told you
as plain, at least, as words, by direct inference,
could tell you such a thing. Then, Six, I
must have missed a page. No, madam,—
you have not missed a word. ‘Then I was
asleep, Sir.—My pride, madam, cannot allow
you that refuge-——Then, I declare, I know
nothing at allabout the matter. That,madam,
is the very fault I lay to your charge ; and, as a
punishment for it, do insist upon it that you
immediately turn back, that is, as soon as you get
to the next full stop, and read the whole chapter
over again.

I have imposed this penance upon the lady,
neither out of wantonness nor cruelty, but from the
best of motives ; and, therefore, s sh all make her
no apology for it when she returns back :——It is
to rebuke a vicious taste which has crept into
thousands besides herself;—of reading straightfor-

wards, more in quest of the adventures than of the
deep erudition and knowledge which a book of this

cast, if read over as it should be, would infal libly
impart with them. The mind should be
accustomed to make wise reflections, and draw
curious conclusions, as it goes along ; the habitude
of which made Pliny the younger affirm “ That he
never read a book so bad but he drew some profit
from it.” The stories of Greece and Rome, run
over without this turn and application,—do less
service, I affirm it, than the history of Parismus
and Parismenus, or of the Seven Champions of
Fngland, read with it.

 

 

 

 

Cie scene ae

Mr

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Peele a ater ee

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Sater =

Sagres:
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Some a thee

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Sane pn saa eee

 

 

 

16

 

But here comes my fairlady. Have you
read over again the chapter, madam, as I desired
you ? You have: And did you not observe
the passage, upon the second reading, which admits
the inference ? Not a word like it.—_—_—
Then, madam, be pleased to ponder well the last
line but two of the chapter, where I take upon me
to say “ It was necessary I should be born before
I was christened.” Had my mother, madam, been
a Papist, that consequence did not follow.

 

The Romish Rituals direct the baptizing of the child, in
cases of danger, before it is born ;—but upon this proviso,
that some part or other of the child’s body be seen by the
baptizer. But the doctors of the Sorbonne, by a de-
liberation held amongst them, April 10, 1733,—have en-
larged the powers of the midwives, by determining that,
though no part of the child’s body should appear,—baptism
shall, nevertheless, be administered to it by injection,—
par le moyen @une petite canule,—Anglice, a squirt.
"Tis very strange that St. Thomas Aquinas, who had so
good a mechanical head, both for tying and untying the
knots of school-divinity, should, after so much pains be-
stowed upon this,—give up the point at last, as a second
La chose impossible. ‘* Infantes in maternis uteris exis-
tentes (quoth St. Thomas !) baptizari possunt nwllo modo.”
—O Thomas! Thomas!

If the reader has the curiosity to see the question upon
baptism, by injection, as presented to the doctors of the
Sorbonne, with their consultations thereupon, it is as
follows :

 

 

MEMOIRE PRESENTE A MESSIEURS LES DOCTEURS
DE SORBONNE.*

Un Chirurgien Accoucheur represente 4 Messieurs les
Docteurs de Sorbonne qu’il y a des cas, quoique trés-rares,
ou une mere ne scauroit accoucher, et méme ot l’enfant
est tellement renfermé dans le sein de sa mére qu’il ne fait
paroitre aucune partie de son corps, ce qui seroit un cas,
suivant les Rituels, de lui conférer, du moins sous condi-
tion, le baptéme. Le Chirurgien qui consulte prétend,
par le moyen d’une petite canule, de pouvoir baptiser im-
médiatement Venfant, sans faire aucun tort a la mére,
Il demande sice moyen, qu’il vient de proposer, est
permis et légitime, et s’il peut s’en servir dans les cas qu'il
vient d’exposer,

 

REPONSE.

Le Conseil estime, que la question proposée souffre de
grandes difficultés. Les Théologiens posent d’un cdté,
pour principe, que le baptéme, qui est une naissance spiri-
tuelle, suppose une premiére naissance; il faut étre né
dans le monde pour renoitre en Jésus Christ, comme ils
Venseignent. S. Thomas, 3 part. quest. 88, artic. 11, suit
cette doctrine comme une vérité constante; l’on ne peut,
dit ce S. Docteur, baptiser les enfants qui sont renfermés
dans le sein de leurs méres, et S. Thomas est fondé sur ce,
queles enfantsnesont point nés, et ne peuvent étre comptés
parmi les autres hommes; d’ot il conclut, quwils ne
peuvent étre l’objet d’une action extérieure pour recevoir
par leur ministére les sacremens nécessaires au salut :—
Pueri in maternis uteris existentes nondum prodierunt in
lucem, ut cum aliishominibus vitam ducant ; unde non pos-
sunt subjict actioni humane, ut per eorwm ministerium sa-
cramenta recipiantad salutem. Les rituels ordonnent dans
la pratique ce que les théologiens ont etabli sur les mémes
matieres, et ils défendent tous d’une maniére uniforme, de
baptiser les enfants qui sont renfermés dans le sein de
leurs meres, s’ils ne font paroitre quelque partie de leurs
corps. Le concours des théologiens, et des rituels, quisont
les regles des dioceses, parvit former une autorité qui ter-
mine la question présente ; cependant le Conseil de Con-
science, considérant, d’un cété. que le raisonnement des
théologiens est uniquement fondé sur une raison de con-
venance, et que la défense des rituels suppose que l’on ne
peut baptiser immédiatement les enfants ainsi renfermés
dans le sein de leurs méres, ce qui est contre la supposi-

 

* Vide Deventer. Paris edit. 4to. 1734, page 366.

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

tion présente; et d’un autre cdté, considérant que les
mémes théologiens enseignent, que l’on peut risquer les
sacremens que Jésus Christ a établis comme des moyens
faciles, mais nécessaires pour sanctifier les hommes; et
d’ailleurs estimant que les enfants renfermés dans le sein
de leurs meres pourroient étre capables de salut, parce-
qu’ils sont capables de damnation ;—pour ces considéra-
tions, et en égard a l’exposé, suivant lequel on assure avoir
trouvé un moyen certain de baptiser ces enfants ainsi ren-
fermés, sans faire aucun tort a la mére, le Conseil estime
que l’on pourroit se servir du moyen proposé, dans la con-
fiance qu'il a que Dieu n’a poiné laissé ces sortes d’enfants
sans aucun secours, et supposant, comme il est exposé, que
le moyen dont il s’agit est propre 4 leur procurer le bap-
teme ; cependant comme il s’agiroit, en autorisant la pra-
tique proposée, de changer une régle universellement
établie, le Conseil croit que celui qui consulte doit s’a-
dresser & son évéque, et a qui il appartient de juger de
Putilité, et du danger du moyen proposé, et comme, sous
le bon plaisir de l’évéque, le Conseil estime qwil faudroit
recourir au Pape, qui a le droit d’expliquer les regles de
l‘eglise, et d’y déroger dans le cas ot la loi ne scauroit
obliger, quelque sage et quelque utile que paroisse la
maniére de baptiser dont il s’agit, le Conseil ne pourroit
Vapprouver sans le concours de ces deux autorités. On
conseille, au moins a celui quiconsulte, de s’adresser A son
évéque, et de lui faire part de la présente décision, afin
que, si le prélat entre dans les raisons sur lesquelles les
docteurs soussignés s’appuyent, il puisse étre autorisé,
dans le cas de nécessité, ot il risqueroit trop d’attendre
que la permission fit demandée et accordée, d’employer le
moyen qu’il propose, si avantageux au salut de l’enfant.
Au reste, le Conseil, en estimant que l’on pourroit s’en
servir, croit cependant, que si les enfants dont il s’agit,
venoient au monde, contre l’espérance de ceux qui se
seroient servis du méme moyen, il seroit nécessaire de les
baptiser sows condition ; et en cela le Conseil se conforme
a tous les rituels, qui en autorisant le baptéme d’un
enfant qui fait paroitre quelque partie de son corps, en-
joignent néantmoins, et ordonnent de le baptiser sous
condition, Silvient heureusement au monde.
Délibéré en Sorbonne, le 10 Avril, 1733.

A. LE MOYNE.

L. DE ROMIGNY,

DE MARCILLY,

Mr. Tristram Shandy’s compliments to Messrs.
Le Moyne, De Romigny, and De Marcilly, hopes
they all rested well the night after so tiresome a
consultation. He begs to know whether,
after the ceremony of marriage, and before that
of consummation, the baptizing all the Homuncutt
at once, slap-dash, by injection, would not be a
shorter and safer cut still ; on condition, as above,
that if the Homuncutr do well, and come safe into
the world after this, that each and every of them
shall be baptized again (sows condition) and
provided, in the second place, that the thing can
be done, which Mr. Shandy apprehends it may,
par le moyen @une petite canule, and sans faire
aucun tort au pére 2

 

 

It is a terrible misfortune for this same book of
mine, but more so to the Republic of Letters,—so
that my own is quite swallowed up in the consider-
ation of it,—that this self-same vile prurieney for
fresh adventures in all things has got so strongly
into our habit and humour,—and so wholly intent
are we upon satisfying the impatience of our con-
cupiscence that way—that nothing but the gross
and more carnal parts of a composition will go
down :—the subtle hints and sly communications
of science fly off, like spirits, upwards the heavy
moral escapes downwards ; and both the one and
the other are as much lost to the world as if they
were still left in the bottom of the ink-horn.— ——

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

I wish the male reader has not passed by ] ture od the advances of these last seven years, |

many a one, as quaint and curious as this one, in
which the female reader has been detected. I
wish it may have its effects : ;—and that all good
people, both male and female, from example, may
be taught to think as well as read.

CHAPTER XX.

I wonpDEr what’s all that noise and
running backwards and forwards for, above stairs,
quoth my father, addressing himself, after an hour
and a half’s silence, to my ainele Toby,—whao, you
must know, was sitting on the o opposite side of the
fire, smoking his social pipe all the time, in mute
contemplation of a new pair of black plush breeches
which he had got on..... What can they be doing,
brother 2 quoth my father,—we can scarce hear
ourselves talk.

I think, replied my uncle Toby, taking his pipe
from his mouth, and striking the head of it two or
three times upon the nail of his left thumb, as he
began his sentenee,—I think, s: ays:he....... out
to enter rightly into my uncle Toby’ Ss Bertin cntc
upon this matter, you must be made to enter first
a little into his character, the outlines of which I
shall just give you, and then the dialogue between
him and my father will go on as well again,

Pr ‘ay what was that man’s name, for I
ae in such a hurry I have no time to re ole
r look for it,—who first made the observation,
. “That there was great inconstaney in our air and
climate?” Whoever he was, it was a just and
good observation in him. But the corollary
drawn from it, namely, “ That it is this which has
furnished us with shah 1 a variety of odd and whim-
sical characters ;” that was not his :—it was
found out by another man, at least a centur y and
a half after him. Then again,—that this
copious storehouse of original materials is the true
and natural cause that our comedies are so much
better than those of France, or any others that
either have or can be wrote upon the Continent :
—that discovery was not fully made till about the
middle of King William’s reign,—when the great
Dryden, in writing one of his long prefaces (if I
mistake not), most fortunately hit uponit. Indeed
towards the latter end of Queen Anne, the great
Addison began to patronise the noti: on, and more
fully explained it to the world in one or two of his
Spect ators ; but the discovery was not his.
Then, fourthly and lastly, that this strange
irregularity in our climate, producing so strange
an irregularity in our character ‘S,—doth the ereby,
in some sort, make us amends, by giving us some-
what to make us merry with when the weather
will not suffer us to go out of doors,—that observ-
ation is my own ; and was struck out by me this
very rainy day, March 26, 1759, and betwixt the
hours of nine pall ten in the morning.

Thus,—thus, my fellow-labourers and associates
in this great harvest of our learning, now ripening
before ov eyes ; thus it is, by slow steps of casual
increase that our knowledge, physical, metaphysi-
cal, physiological, polemical, nautical ,mathematic: al,
enigmatical, technical, biographies al romantical,
che mical, a obstetrical, with fifty on br anches
of it (most of ’em ending, as these do, in ical), have,
for these two last centuries and more. gradually
been creeping upwards towards that’Axul of their
perfections, from which, if we may form a conjec-

 

 

 

 

 

 

{

 

 

M SHAN NDY. 17

OF TRISTRA

 

 

we cannot possibly be far off.

When that happens, it is to be hoped it will put
an end to all kind of writ tings whatsoever :—the
want of all kind of w riting will put an end to all
kind of reading ; and that, i in time, as war begets
poverty, poverty, peace—must, in course, put an
end to all kind of knowledge,—and theme Uwe
shall have all to begin over again ; or, in other
words, be ex xactly where we started.
eon ! thrice happy times ! I only
wish that the era of my begetting, as well as the
mode and manner of it, had been a little altered,
or that it could have been put off with an y con-
venience to my father or mother, for some tw enty |
or five-and- twenty years longer, when a man
in the literary world might Have stood some
chance.

But I forget my uncle Toby y, whom all this
while we have left knocking the ashes out of his
tobacco-pipe.

His humour was of that particular species which
does honour to our atmosphere : aad I should
have made no seruple of ranking him amongst one
of the first-rate productions of it, had where not
appeared too many strong lines in it of a family
likeness, which showed that he derived the sin-
gularity of his temper more from blood than either
wind or water, or any modifications or combina-
tions of them whatever. And I have , therefore,
oft-times wondered that my father, though I ie
lieve he had his reasons for it, upon his obser ving
some tokens of 2ccentricity in my course when
I was a boy,—should never once endeav our to
account for them in this way; for all the SHanpy
Famity were of an original character throughout,
—I mean the males the females had no charac:
ter at all,—except, indeed, my great-aunt Dinan,
who, about sixty years ago, was married and got
with child by the co: aliman: for which my father,
according to his hypothesis of Christian names,
would often say she might thank her godfathers
and godmothers.

It will seem very strange,—and I would as soon
think of dropping a riddle in the reader’s way,
which is not my interest to do, as set him upon
guessing how it could come to pass that an event
of this kind, so many years after it had happened,
should be reserved for the interruption of the
peace and unity which otherwise so cordi: lly sub-.
sisted between my father and my uncle T oby. One
would have thought that the whole force of the
misfortune should have spent and wasted itself in
the family at first, as is generally the case. But
nothing ever wrought “with, our family after the |
ordinary way. Possibly, at the very time this |
happene -d, it might have son r1ething else to afflict
it ; and as¢ fictions are sent down for our good,
and as this had never done the SHanpy Famt.y any
good at all, it might lie waiting till apt times and
circumstances should give it an opportunity to
discharge its office. Observe, I determine
nothing upon this. My way is ever to point
out to the curious different tracks of investization, |
to come at the first springs of the events I tell: |
not with a pedantic Fescue,—or in the decisive
manner of Tacitus, who outwits himself and his
reader ; but ae the officious humility of a
heart aera to the assistance merely of the |
inquisitive ; to them I write,—and by them I

 

 

 

 

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par epg aga RS Epes ea ee eh

roan oat nial see -sen

ni a a

aaa

ea mnora

Ae

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SSS

Sp

pete

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NEE se nut

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OO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

shall be read,—if any such reading as this could
be supposed to hold out so long,—to the very end
of the world.

Why this cause of sorrow, therefore, was thus
reserved for my father and ancient is undetermined
byme. But ho w, and in what direction it exerted
itself, so as to become the cause of dissatisfaction
between them, after it began to operate, is what
Iam able to explain with great exactness, and is
as follows :

My uncle Tosy SHanpy, madam, was a gentle-
man, who, with the virtues w hich usually constitut
the character of aman of honour and A hinds.
possessed one, in a very eminent degree, which
seldom or never put into the catalog ‘ue ; and that
was a most extreme and unparalleled modesty of
nature : though I correct the word Nature,
for this reason, that I may not prejudge a point

is

 

which must shortly come to a hearing ; and that
is, whether this modesty of his was parane or
acquired._———Whichever way my. uncle Toby
came by it, it was nevertheless modes sty in the
truest sense of it: and that is, madam, not in

regard to words, for he was so unhappy as to have
very little choice in them,—but to thi UuNngs 5 —and
this kind of ee so possessed him, and i it arose
to such a height in him, as almost to equal, if such
a thing could. be, even the modesty of a woman,—
that female nicety, madam, and inward cleanliness
of mind and fancy, in your sex, which makes
so much the awe of ours.

You will imagine, madam, that my uncle Toby
had contracted all this from this ver y source $
that he had spent a great part of his time in con-
verse with your sex ; and that, from a thorough
knowledge of you, and the force of imitation which
such fair examples render irresistible,—he had
acquired this amiable turn of mind.

I wish I could say so ; for unless it was with
his sister-in-law, my father’s wife, and my mother,
—my uncle Toby scarce exchanged three words
with the sex in as many years 5 no, he got it,
madam, by a blow. A blow !—Yes, madam,
it was owing to a blow from a stone, broke off by
a ball from the parapet of a horn-work at the siege
of Namur, which struck full upon my uncle Toby’s
POI. fo. .o.~: Which way could that effect it? The
story of that, madam, is long and interesting ;—
but it would be running my history all upon heaps
to give it you here. — "Tis for an episode
hereafter ; and every circumstance relating to it,
in its proper place, shall be faithfully laid before
you : Till then, it is not in my power to give
further light into thismatter, or say more than what
I have said already,—that my uncle Toby was a
gentleman ofunpar: ulleled mode esty, which happening
to be somewhat subtilized and panefied by the con-
stant heat of a little family pride, they both so
wrought together within him that he could never
bear to hear the affair of my aunt Dinan touched
upon but with the greatest emotion———The
least hint of it was enough to make the blood fly
into his face ; but when my father enlarged
upon the story in mixed companies, which the
illustration of his hypothesis frequently obliged
him to do,—the unfortunate blight of one of the
fairest branches of the family would set my uncle
Toby’s honour and modesty a-bleeding ; and he
would often take my father aside, in the greatest
concern imaginable, to expostulate, and tell him

you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he would give him anything in the world only to
let the story rest.

My father, I believe, had the truest love and
tenderness for my anole Toby that ever one brother
bore towards another, and would have done any-
thing in nature, which one brother in reason could
have desired of another, to have made my uncle
Toby’s heart easy in this or any other point. But
this lay out of his power.

My father, as I told you, was a philoso-
pnee in grain,—speculative,—systematical ;—and
my aunt Dinah’ s affair was matter of as much
consequence to him as the retrogradation of the
planets to Copernicus :—The backslidings of Venus
in her orbit fortified the Copernican system, called
so after his name ; and the backslidings of my
aunt Dinah, in her orbit, did the same service in
establishing my father’s system, which, I trust,

 

 

will for ever hereafter be called the SHANDEAN
System, after his.
In any other family dishonour, father, I

my
believe, had as nice a sense of shame a
whatever 5- and neither he, nor, I dare say,
Peapcrstens, would have divulged the affair in
e ike xr case, or have taken the least notice of it to
the aid. jut for the obligations they owed, as
they thought, to truth. Amicus Plato, my
father would say, construing the words to my uncle
Toby, as he went along, Amicus Plato ; that is,
Dina was my aunt ;—sed magis amica Veritas ;
but TRuTH is my sister.

This contrariety of humours, betwixt my father
and my une le, was the source of many a fraternal
squé tbble. The one could not bear to hear the
tale of family disgrace recorded,—and the other

vould searce ever let a day pass to an end without
some hint at it.

For God’s sake, my uncle Toby would ery,—and
for my sake, and for all our sakes, my dear ‘brother
Shandy ,—do let this story of our aunt’s and =p
ashes sleep in peace ; how can you,— how ca
you have so little feeling and comp yassion for iiie
character of our family !... What is the character
of a family to an hypothesis? my father would
reply. Nay, if you come to that,—what is the
life of a family Be .. The life of a family ! my
uncle Toby would say, throwing himself back in
his arm-chair, and lifting up his hands, his eyes,
and one leg...... Yes, the life, my father would
say, Maintaining his point. How many thousands
of em are there, every year that comes, cast away
(in all civilised countries, at least)—and considered
as nothing but common air, in competition of an
hypothesis 2,... . In my plain sense of things, my
uncle Toby would answer,—every such instance
is downright MuRDER, let who will commit it.

_ There lies your mistake, my father would
reply ; ; for, in Foro Scientia there is no such
thing as MurpEer,—’tis only DEaTH, brother.

My uncle Toby would never offer to answer
this by any other kind of argument than that of
whistling half-a-dozen bars of Lillibullero*.

Ss capes man

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* MY UNCLE TOBY’S WHISTLE,

LILLIBULLERO.

The balladt to this tune was written in the year 1686,
on account of King James II. nominating to the Lieute-
nancy of Ireland General Talbot, nevaly created Earl of

+ See Percy's Relics of Avidiene ‘Bnglish r wet vol. ii, page 358,Le oe

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

19

 

You must know it was the usual channel through
which his passions got vent, when anything shocked
or surprised him ; but especially when any-
thing which he deemed very absurd was offered.

As not one of our logical writers, nor any of the
commentators upon them, that I remember, have
thought proper to give a name to this particular
species of argument, I here take the liberty to do
it myself, for two reasons: First, That, in order
to prevent all confusion in disputes, it may stand
as much distinguished, for ever, from every cther
Species of argument
Verecundiam, ex Absurdo, ex Fortiori, or any
other argument whatsoever : and, secondly,
That it may be said, by my children’s children,
when my head is laid to rest,—that their learned
grandfather’s head had been busied to as much
purpose once as other people’s : that he had
invented a name,—and generously thrown it into
the Treasury of the Ars Logica, for one of the
most unanswerable arguments in the whole science.
And, if the end of disputation is more to silence
than convince,—they may add, if they please, to
one of the best arguments, too.

I do, therefore, by these presents, strictly order
and command, That it be known and distinguished
by the name and title of the Argumentum Fistu-
latorium, and no other ; and that it rank
hereafter with the Argumentum Baculinum and
the Argumenium ad Crumenam, and for ever
hereafter be treated of in the same chapter.

 

 

 

 

 

as the Argumentum ad.

 

 

As for the Argumentum Tripodium, which is
never used but by the woman against the man ;
——and the Argumentum ad Rem, which, con-
trariwise, is made use of by the man only against
the woman, as these two are enough in con-
Science for one lecture, and, moreover, as the
one is the best answer to the other—let them like-
wise be kept apart, and be treated of in a place by
themselves.

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.

Tux learned Bishop Hall, I mean the famous Dr.
Joseph Hali, who was bishop of Exeter in King
James the First’s reign, tells us, in one of his
Decades, at the end of his Divine Art of Medita-
tion, imprinted at London in the year 1610, by
John Beal, dwelling in Aldersgate-street, “That |
it is an abominable thing for a man to commend |

himself ;”-—— and I really think it is so.

And yet, on the other hand, when a thing is
executed in a masterly kind of a fashion, which
thing is not likely to be found out ;——T think it
is full as abominable that a man should lose the
honour of it, and go out of the world with the
conceit of it rotting in his head.

This is precisely my situation.

For in this long digression, which I was acci-
dentally led into, as in all my disgressions (one
only excepted) there is a master-stroke of digres-
sive skill, the merit ¢f which has, all along, I fear,
been overlooked by my reader, not for want of
penetration in him, but because it is an exceilence

 

 

Tyrconnel, a furious Papist, who had recommended himself to his bigoted master by his arbitrary treatment of the
Protestants in the preceding year, when only Lieutenant-General; and whose subsequent conduct fully justified his

expectations and their fears.

This foolish ballad, treating the Papists, and chiefly the Irish, in a very ridiculous manner, had a burden, said to be
Irish words, ‘* Lero, lero, lillibullero,” and made an impression on the (king’s) army more powerful than either the
philippics of Demosthenes or Cicero. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and country, were singing it
perpetually. Perhaps never had so slight a thing sogreat an effect, for it contributed not a little towards the Revolution

of 1688.*

LILLIBULLERO, and BULLEN-A-LAH, are said to have been the watch-words used among the Irish Papists, in their

massacre of the Protestants in 1641.

LILLIBULLERO.

Lively.

Lil-li bul-le-ro bul-len a la

Le-ro le-ro, bul-len a Ja, Le - ro. le - ro,

In eos

 

LiJ-li bulle-ro,

Le -ro le-ro,lil-li bul - le-ro,

Le - ro le-ro, bullen

bul - Je - TO,

 

i i i z ting’s S 5 sin Ireland, 1691, 4to.
* See Bishop Burnet’s History of his own Times; and King’s State of the Protestants in ; .

c 2

 

 

 

spat sespbliciinone~ aie

aan

Fi I in ME

oo Se ae

o aap. st

   

owed

RT ea ee eos melon Sma iatSe a

 

 

da seldom looked for, or expected, indeed, in a

 

digression ;——and it is this: That though my
digressions are all fair, as you observe,—and that
I fly off from what lam about, as far, and as often
Kt too, as any writer in Great Britain; yet I. con-
stantly take care to order affairs so that my main
business does not stand still in my absence.

I was just going, for example, to have given
you the great outlines of my uncle Toby’s most
whimsical character ;——when my aunt Dinah
and the coachman came across us, and led usa
ragary some millions of miles into the very heart
of the planetary system. Notwithstanding all
this, you perceive that the drawing of my uncle
Toby’s character went on gently all the time ;
not the great contours of it—that was impossible
—but some familiar strokes and faint designations
of it were here and there touched on, as we went
i along, so that you are much better acquainted
with my uncle Toby now than you were betore.

‘ By this contrivance, the machinery of my work
Hilt is of a species by itself ; two contrary motions are
hel introduced into it, and reconciled, which were
Hil thought to be at variance with each other. In a
word, my work is digressive, and it is progressive
Hit too—and at the same time.
ae This, sir, is a very different story from that of
the earth’s moving round her axis, im her diurnal
rotation, with her progress in her elliptic orbit,
. which brings about the year, and constitutes that
rariety and vicissitude of seasons we enjoy ;——
though I own it suggested the thought,—as I
yt believe the greatest of our boasted improvements
and discoveries have come from such trifling hints.
—Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine,—

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wiel they are the life, the soul of reading: take
| them out of this book, for instance, you might as
well take the book along with them ; one cold

eternal winter would reign in every page of it:
restore them to the writer,—he steps forth like a
Wi bridegroom,—bids All hail; brings in variety, and
‘ forbids the appetite to fail.

All the dexterity is in the good cookery and
at management of them, so as to be not only for the
| advantage of the reader, but also of the author,
whose distress in this matter is truly pitiable:
for, if he begins a digression,—from that mo-
ment, I observe, his whole work stand stock-still ;
| and, if he goes on with his main work, then
| there is an end of his digression.

| Mt] ree ees is wee = 41s

' This is vile work. For which
| reason, from the beginning of this, you see, I have
constructed the main work and the adventitious
It | _ parts of it with such intersections, and have so
| | complicated and involved the digressive and pro-
ily gressive movements, one wheel within another,
ttl that the whole machine, in general, has been kept
a-going ;———and, what’s more, it shall be kept
a-going these forty years, if it pleases the Foun-
tain of health to bless me so long with life and
good spirits.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.

I wavea strong propensity in me to begin this
chapter very nonsensically, and I will-not balk my
fancy ———Accordingly I set off thus.

If the fixture of Momus’s glass in the human
breast, according to the proposed emendation of
that arch-critic, had taken place,—frst, this foolish
consequence would certainly have followed,—That

 

 

 

I ca log enrages

 

yi 20 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |

 

ae

the very wisest and very gravest of us all, in one
coin or other, must have paid window-money every
day of our lives.

And, secondly, That had the said glass been
there set up, nothing more would have been want-
ing, in order to have taken a man’s character, but
to have taken a chair and gone softly, as you would
to a dioptrical bee-hive, and looked in,—viewed
the soul stark-naked 3 observed ali her motions,

her machinations ;——traced all her maggots,
from the first engendering to their crawling forth ;
watched her loose in her frisks, her gambols,
her capriccios ; and, after some notice of her more
solemn deportment, consequent upon such frisks,
&e.——then taken your pen and ink, and set
down nothing but what you had seen, and could
have sworn to: But this is an advantage not
to be had by the biographer in this planet; in the
planet Mereury—(belike) it may beso; if not, bet- |
ter still for him: for there the intense heat of the
country, Which is proved by computators, from its
vicinity to the cun, to be more than equal to that of
red-hot iron,—must, I think, long ago have vitrified
the bodies of the inhabitants (as the efficient
cause), to suit them for the climate (which is the
final cause) ; so that, betwixt them both, all the
tenements of their souls, from top to bottom, may
be nothing else, for aught the soundest philosophy
can show to the contrary, but one fine transparent
body of clear glass (bating the umbilical knot) ;
so thai, till the inhabitants grow old, and
tolerably wrinkled, whereby the rays of light, in
passing through them, become so monstrously
refracted, or return reflected from their surfaces
in such transverse lines to the eye that a man
cannot be seen through ;—his soul might as well,
unless for mere ceremony,—or the trifling advan-
tage which the umbilical point gave her,—might,
upon all other accounts, I say, as well play the
fool out o’doors as in her own house.

But this, as I said above, is not the case of
the inhabitants of this earth ;—our minds shine
not through the body, but are wrapt up here in
a dark covering of uncrystallised flesh and blood ;
so that, if we would come to the specific cha-
-acters of them, we must go seme other way to
work.

Many, in good truth, are the ways which human
wit has been forced to take to do this thing with
exactness.

Some, for instance, draw all their characters
with wind instruments. Virgil takes notice of
that way in the affair of Dido and Aineas ;—but
it is as fallacious as the breath of fame,—and,
moreover, bespeaks a narrow genius. I am not
ignorant that the Italians pretend to a mathema-
tical exactness in their designations of one parti-
cular sort of character among them, from the

forte or piano of a certain wind instrument they
use,—which they say is infallible-——HTI dare
not mention the name of the instrument in this
place ;——it is sufficient we have it amongst us—
but never think of making a drawing by it ;
this is enigmatical, and intended to be so, at least
ad populum: and therefore, I beg, madam,
when you come here, that you read on as fast as
you can, and never stop to make any inquiry
about it.

There are others again who will draw a man’s
character from no other helps in the world butTHE LIFE AND

 

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

2]

 

 

 

merely from his evacuations ; but this often
gives a very incorrect outline, unless, indeed, you
take a sketch of his repletions too ; and, by cor-
recting one drawing from the other, compound
one good figure out of them both.

I should have no objection to this method, but
that I think it must smell too strong of the lamp,
and be rendered still more operose by forcing
you to have an eye to the rest of his Non-Naturals
Why the most natural actions of a man’s
life should be called his Non-Naturals—is another
question.

There are others, fourthly, who disdain every
one of these expedients ; not from any fertility
of their own, but from the various ways of doing
it which they have borrowed from the honourable
devices which the P sntagraphie Brethren * of the
brush have shown in taking copies. These,
you must know, are your great historians.

One of these you will see drawing a full-length
character against the light ; that’s illiberal —
dishonest,—and_ hard upon the character of the
man who sits.

Others, to mend the matter, will make a draw-
ing of you in the camera ;——+that is most unfair
of all, because there you are sure to be represented
in some of your most ridiculous attitudes.

To avoid all and every one of these errors, in
giving you my uncle Toby’s character, I am deter-
mined to draw it by no mechanical help whatever ;
nor shall my pencil be guided by any one
wind instrument which ever was blown upon,
either on this or the other side of the Alps ;——
nor will I consider either his repletions or his
discharges, —or touch upon his Non-Naturals ;
but, in a word, I will draw my uncle Toby’s
character from his Hoppy-Horsz.

 

 

 

 

 

Is’;

 

WR
A EX

CHAPT XXIV.

IF I was not morally sure that the reader must
be out of all patience for my uncle Toby’s cha-
racter,—I would here previously have convinced
him that there is no instrument so fit to draw
such a thing with as that which I have pitched
upon.

A man and his Hoppy-Horss, though I cannot
say that they act and re-act exactly after the same
manner in which the soul and body do upon each
other, yet, doubtless, there is a communication
between them of some kind ; and my opinion
rather is that there is something in it more of the
manner of electrified bodies ; and that, by
means of the heated parts of the rider, which come
immediately into contact with the back of the
Hoppy-Horse,—by long journeys, and much frie-
tion, it so happens that the body of the rider is
at length filled as full of Hopsy-Horsrcat matter
as it can hold ;——-so that, if you are able to give
but a clear description of the nature of the one,
you may form a pretty exact notion of the genius
and character of the other.

Now, the Hoppy-Horse which my uncle Toby
always rode upon was, in my opinion, a Hopsy-
Horsz well worth giving a description of, if it was
only upon the score of his great singularity ;—for
you might have travelled from York to Dover,—
from Dover to Penzance in Cornwall,—and from

* Pentagraph, an instrument to copy prints and pic-
tures mechanically, and in any proportion,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Penzance to York back again, and not have seen
such another upon the road ; or if you had seen
such a one, whatever haste you had been in,
you must infallibly have stopped to have taken a
view of him. Indeed, the gait and figure of him
was so strange, and so utterly unlike was he, from
his head to his tail, to any one of the whole species,
that it was now and then made a matter of dispute
—whether he was really a Hospy-Horss or no:
——but as the Philosopher would use no other
argument to the sceptic, who disputed with him
against the reality of motion, save that of rising
up upon his legs, and walking across the room—
so would my uncle Toby use no other argument
to prove his Hossy-Horsr was a Hopsy-Horse
indeed, but by getting upon his back and riding
him about ; leaving the world, after that, to deter-
mine the point as it thought fit.

In good truth, my uncle Toby mounted him
with so much pleasure, and he carried my uncle
Toby so well—that he troubled his head very
little with what the world either said or thought
about it.

It is now high time, however, that I give you a
description of him: But, to go on regularly, I
only beg you will give me leave to acquaint you,
first, how my uncle Toby came by him.

 

CHAPTER XXYV.

THE wound in my uncle Toby’s groin, which he
received at the siege of Namur, rendering him
unfit for the service, it was thought expedient he
should return to England, in order, if possible, to
be set to rights.

He was four years totally confined,—part of it
to his bed, and all of it to his room ; and, in the
course of his eure, which was all that time in
hand, suffered unspeakable miseries,—owing to a
succession of exfoliations from the os puhis, and
the outward edge of that part of the covendix called
the os ilium,—both which bones were dismally
crushed, as much by the irregularity of the stone,
which I told you was broke off the parap
by its size—(though it was pretty large) ; which
inclined the surgeon all along to think that the
great injury which it had done my uncle Toby’s

ot the stone

eT

et,—as

groi was more owing to the gravity
itself than to the projectile force of it,—which, he
would often tell him, was a great happiness.

My father, at that time, was just beginning
business in London, and had taken a house ;——
and as the truest friendship and cordiality sub-
sisted between the two brothers,—and that my
father thought my uncle Toby could no where be
so well nursed and taken care of as in his own
house,—he assigned him the very best apartment

 

in it,— And, what was a much more sineer
a : ; = ‘ 7 chs Oe eee
mark of his affection still, he would never suffer a

friend or an acquaintance to step into the house, on
any occasion, but he would take him by the hand,
and lead him up stairs to see his brother Toby,
and ehat an hour by his bed-side.

The history of a soldier’s wound beguiles the
pain of it—my uncle’s visitors, at jeast, thought
so, and, in their daily calls upon him, from the
courtesy arising out of that belief, they would
frequently turn the discourse to that subject,—
and from that subject the discourse would gene-
rally roll on to the siege itself.

These conversations were infinitely kind;

|
}

{

and my |[aS

SSeS

 

Z eS
Sa

ea

See

See

 

| What rendered the account of this affair the
| more intricate to my uncle Toby was this,—that |

 

22 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

uncle Toby received great relief from them, and
would have received much more, but that they
brought him into some unforeseen perplexities,
which, for three months together, retarded his |
cure greatly ; and, if he had not hit upon an |
expedient to extricate himself out of them, I |
verily believe they would have laid him in his |
grave. |

What these perplexities of my uncle Toby were |
’tis impossible for you to guess ; if you could, |

 

—I should blush ; not as a relation, not as a man,
—nor even as a woman,—but I should blush as
an author ; inasmuch as I set no small store by

myself, upon this very account, that my reader

has never yet been able to guess at anything.
And in this, sir, I am of so nice and singular a
humour, that if I thought you was able to form
the least judgment or probable conjecture to your-
self of what was to come in the next page—I
would tear it out of my book.

 

VOLUME

CHAPTER I. |

I HAVE begun a new book, on purpose that I
might have room enough to explain the nature of |
the perplexities in which my uncle Toby was
involved from the many discourses and interroga-
tions about the siege of Namur, where he received
his wound.

I must remind the reader, in case he has read
the history of King William’s wars ;—but if he
has not—I then inform him that one of the most
memorable attacks in that siege was that which
was made by the English and Dutch upon the
point of the advanced counterscarp, before the
gate of St. Nicholas, which inclosed the great
sluice or waterstop, where the English were terri-
bly exposed to the shot of the counter-guard and |
demi-bastion of St. Roch: the issue of which hot
dispute, in three words, was this,—That the Dutch
lodged themselves upon the counter-guard,—and
that the English made themselves masters of the
covered-way before St. Nicholas’s gate, notwith-
standing the gallantry of the French officers, who
exposed themselves upon the glacis sword in hand.

As this was the principal attack of which my
uncle Toby was an eye-witness at Namur,—the
army of the besiegers being cut off, by the con-
fluence of the Maes and Sambre, from seeing
much of each other’s operations,—my uncle Toby
was generally more eloquent and particular in his |
account of it ; and the many perplexities he was |
In arose out of the almost insurmountable diffieul- |
ties he found in telling his story intelligibly, and |
giving such clear ideas of the differences and dis- |
tinctions between the scarp and counterscarp,— |
the glacis and covered-way,—the half-moon and |
ravelin,—as to make his company fully comprehend |
where and what he was about.

Writers themselves are too apt to confound
these terms ; so that you will the less wonder, if
in his endeavours to,.explain them, and in opposi-
tion to many misconceptions, that my uncle Toby
did oft-times puzzle his visitors, and sometimes
himself too.

To speak the truth, unless the company my
father led up stairs were tolerably clear-headed,
or my uncle Toby was in one of his explanatory
moods, it was a difficult thing, do what he could,
| to keep the discourse free from obscurity.

 

 

 

 

in the attack of the counterscarp before the gate
of St. Nicholas, extending itself from the bank of

 

 

LE

[KEK SECOND.

the Maes, quite up the great water-stop, —the
ground was cut and cross-cut with such a multi-
tude of dykes, drains, rivulets, and sluices, on all
sides,—and he would get so sadly bewildered and
set fast amongst them, that frequently he could
neither get backwards nor forwards, to save his
life ; and was oft-times obliged to give up the
attack upon that very account only.

These perplexing rebuffs gave my uncle Toby
Shandy more perturbations than you would ima-
gine ; and, as my father’s kindness to him was
continually dragging up fresh friends, and fresh
inquiries,—he had but a very uneasy task of it.

No doubt, my uncle Toby had great command
of himself, — and could guard appearances, I
believe, as well as most men; yet any one may
imagine that, when he could not retreat out of
the ravelin without getting into the half-moon, or
get out of the covered-way without fallmg down
the counterscarp, nor cross the dyke without
danger of slipping into the ditch, but that he must
have fretted and fumed inwardly He did so
and the little and hourly vexations, which may
seem trifling and of no account to the man who
has not read Hippocrates, yet, whoever has read
Hippocrates or Dr. James M‘Kenzie, and has con-
sidered well the effects which the passions and
affections of the mind have upon the digestion—
(why not of a wound, as well as of a dinner pus
may easily conceive what sharp paroxysms and
exacerbations of his wound my uncle Toby must
have undergone upon that score only.

——My uncle Toby could not philosophise
upon it—it was enough he felt it was so—and,
having sustained the pain and sorrows of it for
three months together, he was resolved, some way
or other, to extricate himself,

He was one morning lying upon his back in his
bed, the anguish and nature of the wound upon
his groin suffering him to lie in no other position,
when a thought came into his head, that if he
could purchase such a thing, and have it pasted
down upon a board, as a large map of the fortifi-
cations of the town and citadel of Namur, with
its environs, it might be a means of giving him
ease, I take notice of his desire to have the
environs, along with the town and citadel, for this
reason, because my uncle Toby’s wound was got
in one of the traverses, about thirty toises from
the returning angle of the trench, opposite to the
salient angle of the demi-bastion of St. Roch ;...
so that he was pretty confident he could stick a———_—_ | —

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

23

 

pin upon the identical spot of ground where he was
standing when the stone struck him.

All this succeeded to his wishes, and not only
freed him from a world of sad explanations, but,
in the end, it proved the happy means, as you
will read, of procuring my uncle Toby his Hopsy-
Horsz.

CHAPTER II.

THERE is nothing so foolish, when you are at
the expense of making an entertainment of this
kind, as to order things so badly as to let your
critics and gentry of refined taste run it down:
nor is there anything so likely to make them do it
as that of leaving them out of the party, or, what
is full as offensive, of bestowing your attention
upon the rest of your guests in so particular a
way as if there was no such thing asa critic (by
occupation) at table.

I guard against both; for, in the first place,
I have left half-a-dozen places purposely open
for them ; and, in the next place, I pay them
all court...... Gentlemen, I kiss your hands,—I
protest no company could give me half the pleasure,
—hby my soul I am glad to see you,—I beg only
you will make no strangers of yourselves, but sit
down without any ceremony, and fall on heartily.

I said I had left six places, and I was upon the
point of carrying my complaisance so far as to
have left a seventh open for them,—and in this
very spot I stand on; but being told by a
critic (though not by occupation—but by nature)
that I had acquitted myself well enough, I shall
fill it up directly, hoping, in the mean time, that I
shall be able to make a great deal of more room
next year.

 

 

—~ How, in the name of wonder!
could your uncle Toby, who, it seems, was a
military man, and whom you have represented as
no fool, be at the same time such a confused,
pudding-headed, muddle-headed fellow, as

Go look.

So, Sir Critic, I could have replied ; but I scorn
it. It is language unurbane,—and only befitting
the man who cannot give clear and satisfactory
accounts of things, or dive deep enough into the
first causes of human ignorance and confusion.
It is, moreover, the reply valiant,—and therefore
I reject it ; for though it might have suited my
uncle Toby’s character as a soldier excellently
well,—and had he not accustomed himself, in such
attacks, to whistle the Lillibullero,—as he wanted
no courage, ’tis the very answer he would have
given ; yet it would by no means have done for
me. You see, as plain as ean be, that I write as
a man of erudition ;——that even my similes, my
allusions, my illustrations, my metaphors, are
erudite, _——and that I must sustain my character
properly, and contrast it properly, too—else what
would become of me ? Why, Sir, I should be
undone ;—at this very moment that I am going
here to fill up one place against a critic,—I should
have made an opening for a couple.

——Therefore I answer thus :—

Pray, sir, in all the reading which you have
ever read, did you ever read such a book as Locke’s
Essay upon the Human Understanding ?—
Don’t answer me rashly,—because many, I know,
quote the book who have not read it,—and many
have read it who understand it not...... If either
of these is your case, as I write to instruct, I will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tell you, in three words, what the book is, —————
It is a history......A history! of whom? what?
where? when?.... Don’t hurry yourself —It
is a history-book, sir, (which may possibly recom-
mend it to the world) of what passes in a man’s
own mind ; and if you will say so much of the
book, and no more, believe me, you will cut no
contemptible figure in a metaphysie circle.

But this by the way.

Now, if you will venture to go along with me,
and look down into the bottom of this matter, it
will be found that the cause of obscurity and con-
fusion in the mind of a man is threefold.

Dull organs, dear sir, in the first place.
Secondly, slight and transient impressions made
by the objects, when the said organs are not dull.
And, thirdly, a memory like unto a sieve, not able
to retain what it has received. Call down
Dolly, your chambermaid, and I will give you my
cap, and bell along with it, if I make not this
matter so plain that Dolly herself shall understand
it as well as Malebranche———— When Dolly has
indited her epistle to Robin, and has thrust her
hand into the bottom of her pocket, hanging by
her right side —— take that opportunity to recollect
that the organs and faculties of perception can,
by nothing in this world, be so aptly typified and
explained as by that one thing which Dolly’s hand
is in search of Your organs are not so dull
that I should inform you—it is an inch, sir, of red
seal-wax.

When this is melted and dropped upon the
letter, if Dolly fumbles too long for her thimble,
till the wax is over-hardened, it will not receive
the mark of her thimble from the usual impulse
which was wont to imprintit. Very well. If
Dolly’s wax, for want of better, is bees-wax, or of
a temper too soft,—though it may receive, it will
not hold the impression, how hard soever Dolly
thrusts against it ; and last of all, supposing the
wax good, and eke the thimble, but applied thereto
in careless haste, as her mistress rings the bell ;—
in any of these three cases, the print, left by the
thimble, will be as unlike the prototype as a brass
jack.

Now you must understand that not one of these
was the true cause of the confusion in my uncle
Toby’s discourse ; and it is for that very reason I
enlarge upon them so long, after the manner of
great physiologists—to show the world what itdid
not arise from.

What it did arise from I have hinted above;
and a fertile source of obscurity it is,;—and ever
will be,—and that is the unsteady uses of words,
which have perplexed the clearest and most exalted
understandings.

It is ten to one (at Arthur’s) whether you have
ever read the literary histories of past ages 5
if you have,—what terrible battles, yclept logo-
machies, have they occasioned and perpetuated
with much gall and ink-shed—that a good-natured
man cannot read the accounts of them without
tears in his eyes.

Gentle critic ! when thou hast weighed all this,
and considered within thyself how much of thy
own knowledge, discourse, and conversation has
been pestered and disordered, at one time or other,
by this, and this only: what a pudder and
racket in CouNncILs about odcta and imdcracts 3 and
in the schools of the learned about power and

 

 

 

 

 

flSoaecs—~

A roe gama
eS

4

Bee -

 

“—

 

 

 

 

 

spirit 5 about essences, and about quintes-
Ssences 3 about substances, and about space :—
what confusion in greater THEATRES, from words
of little meaning, and as indeterminate a sense 5
——when thou considerest this, thou wilt not
wonder at my uncle Toby’s perplexities ; thou
wilt drop a tear of pity upon his scarp and his
counterscarp,—his glacis and his covered-way,—
his ravelin and his half-moon : ’twas not by ideas
—by Heaven !—his life was put in jeopardy by
words.

 

 

CHAPTER III.

Wuen my uncle Toby got his map of Namur to
his mind, he began immediately to apply himself,
and with the utmost diligence, to the study of it ;
for nothing being of more importance to him than
his recovery, and his recovery depending, as you
nave read, upon the passions and affections of his
mind, it behoved him to take the nicest care to
make himself so far master of his subject as to be
able to talk upon it without emotion.

In a fortnight’s close and painful application,
which, by the bye, did my uncle Toby’s wound
upon his groin no good,—he was enabled, by the
help of some marginal documents at the feet of
the elephant, together with Gobesius’s military
architecture and pyroballogy, translated from the
Flemish, to form his discourse with passable per-
spicuity ; and, before he was two full months gone,
he was right eloquent upon it, and could make not
only the attack of the advanced countersearp with
great order ; but having, by that time, gone
much deeper into the art than what his first motive
made necessary,—my uncle Toby was able to cross
the Maes and Sambre ; make diversions as far as
Vauban’s line, the abbey of Salsines, &c., and
give his visitors as distinct a history of each of
their attacks as of that of the gate of St. Nicholas,
where he had the honour to receive his wound.

But desire of knowledge, like the thirst of riches,
increases ever with the acquisition of it. The
more my uncle Toby pored over his map, the
more he took a liking to it ;——-—by the same
process and electrical assimilation, as I told you,
through which, I ween, the souls of connoisseurs
themselves, by long friction and incumbition, have
the happiness, at length, to get all be-vertu’d, be-
pictured, be-butterflied, and befiddled.

The more my uncle Toby drank of this sweet
fountain of science, the greater was the heat and
impatience of his thirst ; so that, before the first
year of his confinement had well gone round, there
was scarce a fortified town in Italy or Flanders of
which, by one means or other, he had not procured
a plan, reading over, as he got them, and care-
fully collating therewith, the histories of their
sieges; their demolitions, their improvements and
new works; all which he would read with that
intense application and delight that he would forget
himself, his wound, his confinement, his dinner.

In the second year, my uncle Toby purchased
Ramelli and Cataneo, translated from the Italian ;
likewise Stevinus Moralis, the Chevalier de
Ville, Lorini, Coechorn, Sheeter, the Count de
Pagan, the Marshal Vauban, Mons. Blondel, with
almost as many more books of military architecture
as Don Quixote was found to have of chivalry,
when the curate and barber invaded his library.

Towards the beginning of the third year, which

 

| was in August ninety-nme, my uncle Toby found

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

it necessary to understand a little of projectiles.
And, having judged it best to draw his
knowledge from the fountain-head, he began with
N. Tartaglia, who, it seems, was the first man who
detected the imposition of a cannon-ball’s doing all
that mischief under the notion of a right line.—
This, N. Tartaglia proved to my uncle Toby to be
an impossible thing.

_______ Endless is the search of Truth!

No sooner was my uncle Toby satisfied which
road. the cannon-ball did not go, but he was in-
sensibly led on, and resolved in his mind to inquire
and find out which road the ball did go. For
which purpose, he was obliged to set off afresh
with old Maltus, and studied him devoutly. He
proceeded next to Galileoand Torricellius, wherein,
by certain geometrical rules, infallibly laid down,

 

 

he found the precise path to be a PARABOLA,—or |

else an Hyprerpota,—and that the parameter, or

latus rectum, of the conic section of the said part |

was, to the quantity and amplitude in a direct
ratio, as the whole line to the sine of double the

angle of incidence, formed by the breach upon a |

horizontal plane 5 and that the semi-parameter
—Stop !—my dear uncle Toby, stop go not one
foot further into this thorny and bewildered track :
intricate are the steps! intricate are the
mazes of this labyrinth ! intricate are the troubles
which the pursuit of this bewitching phantom,
KNowWLEDGE, will bring upon thee. O, my
uncle ! fly—fly—fly from it as from a serpent.
—_____Is it fit, good-natured man ! thou shouldst
sit up, with the wound upon thy groin, whole
nights, baking thy blood with hectic watchings ?
—Alas! it will exasperate thy symptoms,
—check thy perspirations, evaporate thy spirits,
—waste thy animal strength,—dry up thy radical
moisture,—bring thee into a costive habit of body,
—impair thy health,—and hasten all the imfir-
mities of thy old age. O my uncle! my
uncle Toby.

 

 

 

 

 

NIAPTER IV.

I wou.p not give a groat for that man’s know-
ledge in pen-craft who does not understand this,
—That the best plain narrative in the world,
tacked very close to the last spirited apostrophe
to my uncle Toby,—would have felt both cold and
vapid upon the reader’s palate ; therefore, | forth-
with put an end to the chapter, though | was in
the middle of my story.

—Writers of my stamp have one principle in
common with painters. Where an exact
copying makes our pictures less striking, we choose
the less evil; deeming it more pardonable to
trespass against truth than beauty. —This is
to be understood cwm grano salis ; but be it as it
will,—as the parallel ismade more for the sake of
letting the apostrophe cool, than anything else,—
it is not very material whether, upon any other
score, the reader approves of it or not.

In the latter end of the third year, my uncle
Toby, perceiving that the parameter and semi-
parameter of the conic section angered bis wound,
he left off the study of projectiles in a kind of a huff,
and betook himself to the practical part of fortifi-
cation only ; the pleasure of which, like a spring
held back, returned upon him with redoubled
force.

It was in this year that my uncle began to breakLe
SE eR en

—

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM

 

in upon the daily regularity of a clean shirt,—to
dismiss his barber unshaven,—and to allow his
surgeon scarce time sufficient to dress his wound,
concerning himself so little about it as not to ask
him once in seven times’ dressing how it went on.
When, lo! all of a sudden, for the change was
as quick as lightning, he began to sigh heavily for
his recovery,—complained to my father, grew
Impatient with the surgeon ; and one morning,
as he heard his foot coming up stairs, he shut up
his books, and thrust aside his instruments, in
order to expostulate with him upon the protraction
of the cure, which, he told him, might surely have
been accomplished, at least by that time. — He
dwelt long upon the miseries he had undergone,
and the sorrows of his four years’ melancholy
imprisonment ; adding that, had it not been
for the kind looks and fraternal cheerings of the
best of brothers,—he had long since sunk under
his misfortunes. My father was by: my uncle
Toby’s eloquence brought tears into his eyes,—
twas unexpected. My uncle Toby, by nature,
was not eloquent ; it had the greater effect.
The surgeon was confounded ; not that
there wanted grounds for such, or greater, marks
of impatience,—but ’twas unexpected too: in the
four years he had attended him, he had never seen
anything like it in my uncle Toby’s carriage ; he
had never once dropped one fretful or discontented
word ;——he had been all patience,—all sub-
mission.

—We lose the right of complaining sometimes
by forbearing it ; but we often treble the force:
—The surgeon was astonished ; but much more
so when he heard my uncle Toby go on, and
peremptorily insist upon his healing up the wound
directly,—or sending for Monsieur Ronjat, the
King’s Serjeant-Surgeon, to do it for him.

The desire of life and health is implanted in
man’s nature ; the love of liberty and enlarge-
ment is a sister passion to it: these my uncle
Toby had in common with his species ;—and either
of them had been sufficient to account for his
earnest desire to get well, and out of doors ;
but I have told you before that nothing wrought
with our family after the common way ; and
from the time and manner in which this eager
desire showed itself, in the present case, the pene-
trating reader will suspect there was some other
cause or crotchet for it in my uncle Toby’s head.
There was so: and ’tis the subject of the
next chapter to set forth what that cause and
crotchet was. I own, when that’s done, ’twill be
time to return back to the parlour fire-side, where
we left my uncle Toby in the middle of his sentence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.

WHEN a man gives himself up to the govern-
ment of a ruling passion, or in other words, when his
HoBBY-HORSE grows head-strong, farewell cool
reason and fair discretion.

My uncle Toby’s wound was near well ; and as
soon as the surgeon recovered his surprise, and
could get leave to say as much—he told him ’twas
just beginning to incarnate ; and that if no fresh
exfoliation happened, which there was no sign of,
—it would be dried up in five or six weeks. The
sound of as many Olympiads, twelve hours before,
would have conveyed an idea of a shorter duration
to my uncle Toby’s mind. The succession of

 

 

SHANDY. 26

 

 

his ideas was now rapid; he broiled with im-
patience to put his design in execution ; and
so, without consulting farther with any soul living,
—which, by the bye, I think is right, when you
are predetermined to take no one soul’s advice,
he privately ordered Trim, his man, to pack up a
bundle of lint and dressings, and hire a chariot-
and-four, to be at the door exactly at twelve
o’clock that day, when he knew my father would
be upon ’Change-———-So, leaving a bank-note
upon the table, for the surgeon’s care of him, and
a letter of tender thanks for his brother’s,—he
packed up his maps, his books of fortification, his
instruments, &¢., and, by the help of a crutch on
one side, and Trim on the other, my uncle
Toby embarked for Shandy-hall.

The reason, or rather the rise, of this sudden
emigration, was as follows :—

The table in my uncle Toby’s room, and at
which, the night before this change happened, he
vas sitting, with his maps, &e¢., about him,—being
somewhat of the smallest, for that infinity of great
and small instruments of knowledge which usually
lay crowded upon it ;—he had the accident, in
reaching over for his tobacco-box, to throw down
his compasses, and, in stooping to take the com-
passes up with his sleeve he threw down his case
of instruments and snuffers ; and as the
dice took a run against him, in his endeavouring
to catch the snuffers in falling, he thrust
Monsieur Blondel off the table, and Count de
Pagan o’top of him.

It was to no purpose for a man, lame as my
uncle Toby was, to think of redressing allthese evils
by himself: he rung his bell for his man Trim !
Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, pri’thee see what
confusion I have here been making.—I must have
some better contrivance,—Trim. Canst not
thou take my rule, and measure the length and
breadth of this table, and then go and bespeak me
one as big again ? Yes, an’ please your
Honour, replied Trim, making a bow ; but I
hope your Honour will be soon well enough to get
down to your country seat, where,—as your Honour
takes so much pleasure in fortification,—we could
manage this matter to a T.

I must here inform you that this servant of
my uncle Toby’s, who went by the name of Trim,
had been a corporal in my uncle’s own company :
his real name was James Butler ; but
having got the nick-name of Trim in the regi-
ment, my uncle Toby, unless when he happened
to be very angry with him, would never call him
by any other name.

The poor fellow had been disabled for the
service by a wound on his left knee by a musket-
bullet, at the battle of Landen, which was two
years before the affair of Namur ; and as
the fellow was well beloved in the regiment, and
a handy fellow into the bargain, my uncle Toby
took him for his servant ; and of an excellent use
was he, attending my uncle Toby in the camp
and in his quarters, as a valet, groom, barber,
cook, sempster, and nurse; and, indeed, from
first to last, waited upon him and served him
with great fidelity and affection.

My uncle Toby loved the man in return ; and
what attached him more to him still was the
similitude of their knowledge. For Corporal
Trim (for so, for the future, I shall call him), byre

| 26 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

“oe ome *
i gt oe

four years’ occasional attention to his master’s | are done in Flanders, with sods,—and as your

 

 

 

 

 

 

k
i‘ 14 " discourse upon fortified towns, and the advantage | Honour knows they should be,—and I would
M Hitt of prying and peeping continually into his master’s | make the walls and parapets with sods too.
ay. plans, &c., exclusive and besides what he gained | The best engineers call them gazons, Trim, said
iw HoBBy-HORSICALLY as a body-servant (non Hobby- | my uncle Toby. Whether they are gazons
Bt horsical per se), had become no mean proficient | or sods, is not much matter, replied Trim ; your
my is i in the science ; and was thought, by the cook and | Honour knows they are ten times beyond a facing
pee hii chambermaid, to know as much of the nature of | either of brick or stone. I know they are,
: qh Hi strongholds as my uncle Toby himself. | Trim, in some respects,—quoth my uncle Toby,
Ke I have but one more stroke to give to finish | nodding his head ; for a cannon-ball enters
: i Corporal Trim’s character,—and it is the only | into the gazon right onwards, without bringing
ae). dark line in it. The fellow loved to advise,—or | any rubbish down with it, which might fill the
fe ) rather to hear himself talk ; his carriage, however, fossé (as was the case at St. Nicholas’s Gate), and
ae was so perfectly respectful, ’twas easy to keep him | facilitate the passage over it.
ee i silent when you had him so; but set his tongue Your Honour understands these matters, replied
ie i! a-going,—you had no hold of him ; he was voluble; | Corporal Trim, better than any officer in his
a ai —the eternal interlardings of your Honour, with | Majesty’s service : but would your Honour
a 4 the respectfulness of Corporal Trim’s manner, | please to let the bespeaking of the table alone,
i f interceding so strongly in behalf of his elocution | and let us but go into the country, I would work,
ie hi —that, though you might have been incommoded, | under your Honour’s directions, like a horse, and
is Fal —you could not well be angry. My uncle Toby | make fortifications for you something like a tansy,
‘ itl was seldom either the one or the other with him, | with all their batteries, saps, ditches, and pali-
ei —or, at least, this fault in Trim broke no squares | sadoes, that it should be worth all the world’s
Pm tn with ’em.. My uncle Toby, as I said, loved the | riding twenty miles to go and see it.
mae ih man ;—and, besides, as he ever looked upon a My uncle Toby blushed as red as scarlet as
h} i faithful servant—but as an humble friend,—he | Trim went on ; but it was not a blush of guilt,
Bae il, could not bear to stop his mouth. Such was | —of modesty, or of anger ;—it was a blush of joy;
ie ; Corporal Trim. —he was fired with Corporal Trim’s project

 

i] Wit If I durst presume, continued Trim, to give | and description. Trim ! said my uncle Toby,

 

 

i i! your Honour my advice, and speak my opinion in

this matter.——Thou art welcome, Trim, quoth
my uncle Toby ; speak,—speak what thou
thinkest upon the subject, man, without fear——
Why, then, replied Trim (not hanging his ears,
and scratching his head, like a country lout, but)
stroking his hair back

 

from his forehead, and
standing erect as before his division.——I think,
quoth Trim, advancing his left, which was his
lame leg, a little forwards,—and pointing with
his right hand open towards a map of Dunkirk,
which was pinned against the hangings,—I think,
quoth Corporal Trim, with humble submission to
your Honour’s better judgment, that these ravelins,
bastions, curtains, and hornworks, make but a
poor, contemptible, fiddle-faddle piece of work of
it here upon paper, compared to what your
Honour and I could make of it were we in the
country by ourselves, and had but a rood, or a
rood and a half of ground to do what we pleased
with. As summer is coming on, continued Trim,
your Honour might sit out of doors, and give
me the nography (Call it ichnography,
quoth my uncle) of the town or citadel, your
Honour was pleased to sit down before,—and I
will be shot by your Honour upon the glacis of it,
if I do not fortify it to your Honour’s mind.
I dare say thou wouldst, Trim, quoth my uncle.
For if your Honour, continued the Corporal,
could but mark me the polygon, with its exact
lines and angles. That I could do very well,
quoth my uncle. I would begin with the fossé,
and if your Honour could tell me the proper
depth and breadth. -—-— I can toa hair’s breadth,
Trim, replied my uncle. i would throw out
the earth upon this hand towards the town for
the scarp,—and on that hand towards the cam-
paign for the counterscarp. Very right, Trim,
quoth my uncle Toby. And when I had sloped

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

thou hast said enough. We might begin the
campaign, continued Trim, on the very day that
his Majesty and the allies take the field, and
demolish ’em, town by town, as fast as

Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, say no more.—
Your Honour, continued Trim, might sit in your
arm-chair (pointing to it) this fine weather, giving

 

me your orders, and I would Say no
more, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby. Be-

sides, your Honour would get not only pleasure
and good pastime, but good air, and good exercise,
and good health, and your honour’s wound would
be well m a month. Thou hast said
enough, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby (putting his
hand into his breeches-pocket)—TI like thy project
mightily. ———- And if your Honour pleases,
I'll this moment go and buy a pioneer’s spade to
take down with us, and I’ll bespeak a shovel, and
a pick-axe, and a couple of Say no more,
Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, leaping up upon one
leg, quite overcome with rapture,—and thrusting
a guinea into Trim’s hand. Trim, said my
uncle Toby, say no more 5 but go down, Trim,
this moment, my lad, and brmg up my supper
this instant.

Trim ran down and brought up his master’s
supper, — to no purpose ;—— Trim’s plan of
operation ran so in my uncle Toby’s head, he
could not taste it. Trim, quoth my uncle
Toby, get me to bed: twas all one. —-——
Corporal Trim’s description had fired his ima-
gination ;—my uncle Toby could not shut his
eyes.———The more he considered it, the more
bewitching the scene appeared to him ;——so
that, two full hours before day-light, he had come
to a final determination, and had concerted the
whole plan of hisand Corporal Trim’s decampment.

My uncle Toby had a little neat country-house
of his own, in the village where my father’s estate

 

 

 

 

them to your mind, an’ please your Honour, I

lay at Shandy, which had been left him by an old
hip would face the glacis, as the finest fortifications

uncle, with a small estate of about one hundred

 

 

 

 

}

5

f

he \!. ee
t |

°THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

pounds a year. Behind this house, and contiguous
to it, was a kitchen-garden of about half an acre ;
—-—and at the bottom of the garden, and eut off
from it by a tall yew-hedge, was a bowling-green,
containing just about as much ground as Corporal
Trim wished for :——so that as Trim uttered the
words, “a rood and a half of ground to do what
they would with,”’—this identical bowling-green
instantly presented itself, and became curiously
painted, ail at once, upon the retina of my unele
Toby’s fancy,—which was the physical cause of
making him change colour, or, at least, of height-
ening his blush to that immoderate degree I
spoke of.

Never did lover post down to a beloved mistress
with more heat and expectation, than my uncle
Toby did to enjoy this self-same thing in private.
I say in private. for it was
sheltered from the house, as I told you, by a tall
yew-hedge, and was covered on the other three
sides from mortal sight, by rough holly, and
thick-set flowering shrubs ; so that the
idea of not being seen did not a little contribute
to the idea of pleasure preconceived in my uncle
Toby’s mind......... Vain thought! however
thick it was planted about,—or private soever it
mightseem,—to think, dear uncle Toby, of enjoying
a thing which took up a whole rood and a half of
ground,—and not have it known!

How my uncle Toby and Corporal Trim managed
this matter,—with the history of their campaigns,
which were no way barren of events,—may make
no uninteresting under-plot in the epitasis and
working up of this drama. At present the
scene must drop,—and change for the parlour
fire-side.

 

CHAPTER VI.
Wuat can they be doing, brother? said
my father.———_I think, replied my uncle Toby,
taking, as I told you, his pipe from his mouth,
and striking the ashes out of it as he began his
sentence ;——I think, replied he, it would not
be amiss, brother, if we rung the bell.

Pray, what’s all that racket over our heads,
Obadiah ? quoth my father ;——my brother
and I can scarce hear ourselves speak.

Sir, answered Obadiah, makmg a bow towards

his left shoulder, my mistress is taken very badly.
And where’s Susan running down the garden
there, as if they were going to ravish her?
Sir, she is running the shortest cut into the town,
replied Obadiah, to fetch the old midwife.
Then saddle a horse, quoth my father, and do
you go directly for Dr. Slop, the man-midwife,
with all our services,—and let him know your
mistress is fallen into labour,—and that I desire
he will return with you with all speed.

It is very strange, says my father, addressing
himself to my uncle Toby, as Obadiah shut the
door,—as there is so expert an operator as Dr.
Slop so near, that my wife should persist to the
very last in this obstinate humour of hers, in
trusting the life of my child, who has had one
misfortune already, to the ignorance of an old
woman } and not only the life of my child,
brother,—but her own life, and with it the lives
of all the children I might, peradventure, have
begot out of her hereafter.

Mayhap, brother, replied my uncle Toby, my
sister does it to save the expense. A

——,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

|
}

27

pudding’s-end,—replied my father;—the Doctor
must be paid the same for inaction as action,—if
not better,—to keep him in temper.

Then it can be out of nothing in the
whole world, quoth my uncle Toby, in the sim-
plicity of his heart,—but Moprsry : —— My sister,
I dare say, added he, does not care to let a man
come so near her,**** I will not say whether
my uncle Toby had completed the sentence or
not;...... tis for his advantage to suppose he
had,—as, I think, he could have added no OnE
Worp which would have improved it.

it; on the contrary, my uncle Toby had not

fully arrived at the period’s end,—then the world
stands indebted to the sudden snapping of my
father’s tobacco-pipe for one of the neatest
examples of that ornamental figure in oratory
which rhetoricians style the Aposiopesis.
Just heaven! how does the poco pid and the
poco meno of the Italian artists ;—the insensible
MORE or Less, determine the precise line of beauty
in the sentence, as well as in the statue! How
do the slight touches of the chisel, the pencil, the
pen, the fiddlestick, e¢ cetera, give the true swell
which gives the true pleasure !——O, my country-
men !—be nice ; be cautious of your language ; ——
and never, O! never let it be forgotten upon what
small particles your eloquence and your fame
depend.

——“ My sister, mayhap,” quoth my uncle
Toby, “ does not choose to let a man come so
near her ****,” Make this dash tis an Apo-
pesi —Take the dash away, and write Back-
side,—’tis bawdy. - Seratch Backside out,
and put covered-way in,—’tis a metaphor ; and,
I dare say, as fortification ran so much in my
uncle Toby’s head, that if he had been left to have
added one word to the sentence, that word was it.

But whether that was the case or not the case ;

r whether the snapping of my father’s
tobacco-pipe so critically, happened through acci-
dent or anger—will be seen in due time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

TxoucH my father was a good natural philo-
sopher—yet he was something of a moral philo-
sopher too ; for which reason, when his tobacco-
pipe snapped short in the middle,—he had nothing
to do—as such—but to have taken hold of the
two pieces, and thrown them gently upon the back
of the fire. ———— He did no such thing ;——
he threw them with all the violence in the world ;
and, to give the action still more emphasis,—
he started up on both his legs to do it.

This looked something like heat ; ———and the
manner of his reply to what my uncle Toby was
Saying proved it was so.

“ Not choose,’ quoth my father
(repeating my uncle Toby’s words), “ to let a man
come so near her ! By Heaven, brother
Toby ! you would try the patience of Job; and I
think I have the plagues of one already without

 

-
L

 

 

 

 

th? Why ?— Where !— Wherein ?— Where-
fore ? Upon what account? replied my uncle

Toby, in the utmost astonishment. ——— To
think, said my father, of a man living to your
age, brother, and knowing so little about women !
——I know nothing at all about them—replied
my uncle Toby ; and I think, continued he, that
the shock I received the year after the demolition

 

 

 

RET «retro
ee

|
tr

\
j
i

Og PE

Diy Rare are28 THE LIFE AND OPINI ONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

of Dunkirk, in my afters with w iow Wenge: |
which shock, you know, I should not have received
but from my total ignorance of the s en
me just cause to say, That I neither know nor
do pretend to know anything about ’em, or their
concerns either. ————— Methinks, brother, re-
plied my father, you might, at least, know so
much as the right end of a woman from the
wrong. It is said, in Aristotle’s Master-Piece,
« That when a man doth think of anything which

is past—he looketh down upon the eround s—but
that when he thinketh of something th at is to
come, he looketh up towards the heavens.”

My uncle Toby, I suppose, thought of neither ;
for he looked horizontally. Right
end,—quoth my uncle Toby, muttering the two
words low to himself, and fixing his two eyes
insensibly, as he muttered them, upon a small
crevice, formed by a bad joint in the chimney-
piece ; right end of a woman ! I declare,
quoth my uncle, I know no more which it is than
the man in the moon ; and if I was to think,
continued my uncle Toby (keeping his eye still
fixed upon the bad joint), this month together, I
am sure I should not be able to find it out.

Then, brother Toby, replied my father, I will
tell you.

Everything in this world, continued my father,
(filling a fresh pipe)—everything in this world,
my dear brother Toby, has two handles ——— Not
always, quoth my uncle Toby. At least, replied
my father, every one has two hands,—which
comes to the same thing. Now, if a man was
to sit down coolly, and consider within himself
the make, the shape, the construction, come-at-
ability, and convenience of all the parts which
constitute the whole of that animal, called Woman,
and compare them analogically. T never rightly
understood the meaning of that w ord, quoth my
uncle Toby.— ANALOGY, replied my father, is
the certain relation and agreement, which different
——Here a devil of a rap at the door snapped
my father’s definition (like his tobaceo-pipe) in
two,—and, at the same time, crushed the head of
as notable and curious a dissertation as ever was
engendered in the womb of speculation ; -it
was some months before my father could get oe
opportunity to be safely delivered of it: and,
this hour, it is a thing full as problematical as ‘ihe
subject of the dissertation itself—(considering the
confusion and distresses of our domestic misad-
ventures, which are now coming thick one upon
the back of another), whether I shall be able to
find a place for it in the third volume or not.

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

It is about an hour and a half’s tolerable good
reading since my uncle Toby rung the bell, when
Obadiah was ordered to saddle a horse, and go
for Dr. Slop, the man-midwife ;—so that no one
can say, with reason, that I have not allowed
Obadiah time enough, poetically speaking, and
considering the emergency too, both to go and
come ;—though morally and truly speaking, the
man, perhaps, has scarce had time to get on his
boots.

If the hypercritic will go upon this, and is
resolved after all to take a pendulum, and measure
the true distance betwixt the ringing of the bell
and the rap at the door ;—and, after ‘finding it to

 

 

be no more én two minutes, thirteen seconds,
and three-fifths,—should take upon him to insult
over me for such a breach in the unity, or rather
probability of time ;—I would remind him that
the idea of duration, and of its simple modes, is
got merely from the train and succession of our
ideas,—and is the true scholastic pendulum,—and
by which, as a scholar, I will be tried in this
matter,—abjuring and detesting the jurisdiction
of all other pendulums whatever.

I would therefore desire him to consider that
it is but poor eight miles from Shandy-hall to
Dr. Slop, the man-midwife’s house ;—and that,
whilst Obadiah has been going those said miles
and back, I have brought my uncle Toby from
Namur, quite across all Flanders into England ;

that I have had him ill upon my hands
near four years ;—and have since travelled him
and Corporal Trim, in a chariot-and-four, a
journey of near two hundred miles down into
Yorkshire ;—all which put together must have
prepared the reader’s imagination for the entrance
of Dr. Slop upon the stage,—as much, at least (I
hope), as a dance, a song, or a concerto between
the acts.

If my hypercritic is intractable, at
two minutes and thirteen seconds are no more
than two minutes and thirteen seconds—when I
have said all I can about them ;—and that this
plea, though it might save me dramatically, will
damn me biographically, rendering my book, from
this very moment, a professed Romance, which
before was a book apocryphal : If I am thus
pressed—I then put an end to the whole objection
and controversy about it, all at once,—by ac-
quainting him that Obadiah had not got above
threescore yards from the stable-yard ‘before he
met with Dr. Slop ; and indeed he gave
a dirty proof that he had met with him,—and was
within an ace of giving a tragical one too.

Imagine to yourself.———But this had better
begin a new chapter.

 

 

 

 

 

             

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

ImacinE to yourself a little, squat, uncourtly
figure of a Dr. Slop, of about four feet and a half
perpendicular height, with a breadth of back, and
a sesquipedality of belly, which might have done
honour to a serjeant in the Horse Guards.

Such were the outlines of Dr. Slop’s figure,
which if you have read Hogarth’s Analysis
of Beauty, and if you have not, I wish you would,
—you must know may as certainly be caricatured,
and conveyed to the mind, by three strokes, as
three hundred.

Imagine such an one,—for, such I say, were
the outlines of Dr. Slop’s figure, coming slowly
along, foot by foot, waddling through the dirt
upon ‘the vertebrae of a little diminutive Pou
of a pretty colour,—but of strength alack !—
searce able to have made an amble of it, under
such a fardel, had the roads been in an ambling
condition. They were not. Imagine to
yourself Obadiah mounted upon a strong monster
of a coach-horse, pricked into a full gallop, and
making all practicable speed the adverse way.

Pray, sir, let me interest you a moment in this
description.

Had Dr. Slop beheld Obadiah a mile off posting
in a narrow lane directly towards him, at that

 

 

 

 

Sa ——| THE LIFE AND OPINIONS
ee es ee aa

 

monstrous rate,—splashing and plunging like a
devil through thick and thin, as he approached,
would not such a phenomenon, with such a vortex
of mud and water moving along with it round its
axis—have been a subject of juster apprehension
to Doctor Slop, in his situation, than the worst of
Whiston’s comets ? to say nothing of the
Nucleus, that is, of Obadiah and the coach-horse.
In my idea the vortex alone of ’em was
enough to have involved and carried, if not the
Doctor, at least the Doctor’s pony, quite away
with it. What then do you think must the terror
and hydrophobia of Dr. Slop have been, when
you read (which you are just going to do) that he
was advancing thus warily towards Shandy-
hall, and had approached to within sixty yards of
it, and within five yards of a sudden turn made
by an acute angle of the garden-wall,—and in the
dirtiest part of a dirty lane, when Obadiah and
his coach-horse turned the corner, rapid, furious,
—pop—full upon him !—Nothing, I think, in
nature, can be supposed more terrible than such
a rencounter,—so imprompt! so ill prepared to
stand the shock of it as Dr. Slop was.

What could Dr. Slop do?———He crossed
himself ++ Pugh !———But the doctor, sir,
was a Papist. No matter ; he had better
have kept hold of the pommel. He had so;
nay, as it happened, he had better have done
nothing at all ;—for, in crossing himself, he let
go his whip ;—and in attempting to save his whip
betwixt his knee and his saddle’s skirt, as it
slipped, he lost his stirrup,—in losing which, he
lost his seat :—and in the multitude of all these
losses (which, by the bye, shows what little
advantage there is in crossing), the unfortunate
Doctor lost his presence of mind. So that, without
waiting for Obadiah’s onset, he left his pony to its
destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in
the style and manner of a pack of wool, and
without any other consequence from the fall, save
that of being left (as it would have been) with
the broadest part of him sunk about twelve inches
deep in the mire.

Obadiah pulled off his cap twice to Dr. Slop ;
—once as he was falling ;—and then again when
he saw him seated. ———— IIl-timed complai-
sance !had not the fellow better have stopped
his horse, and got off and helped him ?

Sir, he did all that his situation would allow :—
but the Momentum of the coach-horse was so
great that Obadiah could not do it all at once;
he rode in a circle three times round Dr.
Slop, before he could fully accomplish it anyhow ;
and at last, when he did stop his beast, it
was done with such an explosion of mud that
Obadiah had better been a league off. In short,
never was a Doctor Slop so beluted, and so tran-
substantiated, since that affair came into fashion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X,

WueEn Dr. Slop entered the back-parlour, where
my father and my uncle Toby were discoursing
upon the nature of Women,—it was hard to deter-
mine whether Dr. Slop’s figure, or Dr. Slop’s
presence, occasioned more surprise to them ; for,
as the accident happened so near the house as not
to make it worth while for Obadiah to remount
him,—Obadiah had led him in as he was, wnwiped,
unanointed, unnanealed, with all his stains and

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

29

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

blotches on him.——He stood, like Hamlet’s ghost,
motionless and speechless, for a full minute and a
half, at the parlour door
hand), with all the majesty of mud. His hinder
parts, upon which he had received his fall, totally
besmeared—and, in every other part of him,
blotched over in such a manner with Obadiah’s
explosion, that you would have sworn (without
mental reservation) that every grain of it had
taken effect.

Here was a fair opportunity for my uncle Toby
to have triumphed over my father in his turn ;
for no mortal, who had beheld Dr. Slop in that
pickle, could have dissented from so much, at
least, of my uncle Toby’s opinion, “ That mayhap
his sister might not care to let such a Dr. Slop
come so near her * ***,”’ But it was the Argu-
mentum ad hominem ; and if my uncle Toby was
not very expert at it, you may think he might not
care to use it. No; the reason was—it was
not his nature to insult.

Dr. Slop’s presence, at that time, was no less
problematical than the mode of it, though it is
certain one moment’s reflection in my father might
have solved it ; for he had apprised Dr. Slop, but
the week before, that my mother was at her full
reckoning ; and, as the Doctor had heard nothing
since, it was natural and very political too in him
to have a taken ride to Shandy-hall, as he did,
merely to see how matters went on.

But my father’s mind took unfortunately a
wrong turn in the investigation ; running, like the
hypercritic’s, altogether upon the ringing of the
bell, and the rap upon the door, measuring their
distance, and keeping his mind so intent upon the
operation as to have power to think of nothing
Common-place infirmity of the greatest
mathematicians ! working with might and main at
the demonstration, and so wasting all their strength
upon it that they have none left in them to draw
the corollary, to do good with.

The ringing of the bell, and the rap upon the
door, struck likewise strong upon the sensorium of
my uncle Toby,—but it excited a very different train
of thoughts ; the two irreconcilable pul-
Sations instantly brought Stevinus, the great
engineer, along with them, into my uncle Toby’s
mind. What business Stevinus had in this
affair is the greatest problem of all ; ——— it shall
be solved,—but not in the next chapter.

 

 

else.

 

CHAPTER XI.

Waritrine, when properly managed (as you may
be sure I think mine is), is but a different name
for conversation. As no one, who knows what he
is about, in good company, would venture to talk
all ; so no author, who understands the just
boundaries of decorum and good-breeding, would
presume to think all. The truest respect which
you can pay to the reader’s understanding is to
halve this matter amicably, and leave him some-
thing to imagine in his turn, as well as yourself.

For my own part, I am eternally paying him
compliments of this kind, and do all that lies in
my power to keep his imagination as busy as my
own.

It is his turn now.————I have given an
ample description of Dr. Slop’s sad overthrow, and
of his sad appearance in the back parlour ;
his imagination must now go on with it for awhile.

 

(Obadiah still holding his |30

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

Let the reader imagine, then, that Dr. Slop has
told his tale ;—and in what w ords, and with what
aggravations his fancy chooses. Let him
suppose that Obadiah has told his tale also, and
with such rueful looks of affected concern as he
thinks will best contrast the two figures as they
stand by each. other. Let him i imagine that
my father had stepped up stairs to see my “mother :
and, to conclude this work of imagination—let
him imagine the doctor washed ,—rubbed down
and condoled »—felicitated,—__got into a pair of
Obadiah’s pumps, stepping forward towards the
door, upon the very point of entering upon action.

Truce ! truce, good Dr. Slop !—Stay thy
obstetric hand ; return it safe into thy bosom
to keep it warm ; little dost thou know
what obstacles. little dost thou think what
hidden causes, retard its operation !———Hast
thou, Dr. Slop,—hast thou been entrusted with
the secret articles of the solemn treaty which has
brought thee into this place ?—Art thou aware
that, at this instant, a daughter of Lucina is put
obstetrically over thy head? Alas !—’tis too true.
— Besides, great son of Pilumnus! what canst thou
do ?—Thou hast come forth unarmed ;—thou hast
left thy ¢ire-téte,—thy new-invented forceps,—thy
erotchet,—thy squirt,—and all thy instruments
of salvation and deliverance, behind thee.—By
Heaven ! at this moment they are hanging up in
a green baize bag, betwixt thy two pistols, at the
bec d’s head! Ring ;—eall!—send Obadiah
back upon the coach-horse to bring them with all
speed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Make great haste, Obadiah, quoth my
father, and I’ll give thee a crown ;—and, quoth my
uncle Toby, I’ll give him another.

 

CHAPTER XII.

Your sudden and unexpected arrival, quoth my
uncle Toby, addressing himself to Dr. Slop, (all
three of them sitting down to the fire together, as
my uncle Toby began to speak)—instantly brought
the great Stevinus into my head, who, you must
know, is a favourite author with me.—Then, added
my father, making use of the argumentum ad crume-
nam,—I will lay twenty guineas to a single crown-
piece (which will serve to give away to Obadiah
when he gets back) that this same Stevinus was
some engineer or other, or has wrote something
or other, either directly or indirectly, upon the
science of fortification.

He has so,—replied my uncle Toby,—I knew it,
said my father, though, for the soul of me, I cannot
see what kind of connexion there can be betwixt
Dr. Slop’s sudden coming and a discourse upon
fortification ;—yet I fear’d it.—Talk of what we
will, brother, or let the occasion be never so
foreign or unfit for the subject—you are sure to
bring it in. I would not, brother Toby, continued
my father, —TI declare I would not have my
head so full of curtains and horn-works.

That, I dare say, you would not, quoth Dr. Slop,
interrupting him, and laughing most immoderately
at his pun.

Dennis, the critic, could not detest and abhor a
pun, or the insinuation of a pun, more cordially
than my father ;—he would grow testy upon it at
any time ;—but to be broke in upon by one, in a
serious discourse, was as bad, he would say, as a
fillip upon the nose ; he saw no difference.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

- z = 1
Sir, quoth my uncle Toby, addressing himself §

to Dr. Slop—the curtains my brother Shandy

71)
mentions here have nothing to do with bedsteaas : oa

—though, I know, Du Cange says “ That hed-
curtains, in all probability, have taken their na,
from them ;”—nor have the horn-works, he speak:
of, anything in the world to do with the horn-works
of cuckoldom. But the curtain, sir, is the wo ‘
we use in fortification, for that part of the wall ¢

rampart which lies between the two bastions, and 4

| joins them.—Besiegers seldom offer to carry on

 

their attacks directly against the curtain, for this

reason, because they are so well flanked : (Tis
the case of other curtains, quoth Dr. Slop, ee
ing.)—However, continued, my uncle Toby,

generally choose to ta
ravelins before them, taking care only to extend
them beyond the CORE: or ditch. The common
men, who know very little of fortification, confound
the ravelin and the half-moon together,—though
they are very different things ;—not in their figure
or construction, for we make them exactly alike
in all points ; for they always consist of two faces,
making a salient angle, with the gorges, not straight,
but in form of a crescent...-.. Where then lies
the difference ? (quoth my father, a little testily.)
. In their situations, answered my uncle
Toby :—for when a ravelin, brother, stands before
the curtain, it is a ravelin ; and when a ravelin
stands before a bastion, then the ravelin is not a
ravelin;—it is a half-moon :—a half-moon likewise
is a half-moon, and no more, so long as it stands
before its bastion ;——but was it to change place,
and get before the curtain,—’twould be no longer
a half-moon ; a half-moon, in that case, is not a
half-moon ;—’tis no more than a ravelin.....I
think, quoth my father, that the noble science of
defence has its weak sides as well as others.
—As for the horn-work (heigh ! ho! sighed my

nake them sure, we

 

 

 

 

father), which, continued my uncle Toby, my
brother was speaking of, they are a very con-
siderable part of an outwork ; they are called

by the French engineers, Ouvrage a-corne, and we
generally make them to cover such places as we
suspect to be weaker than the rest ; ’tis formed
by two epaulements or demi- bastions, —they are
very pretty, and, if you will take a walk, I'll
engage to show you one well worth your trouble :
—I own, continued my uncle Toby, when we
crown them,—they are much stronger, but then
they are very expensive, and take up a great deal
of ground ; so that, in my opinion, they are of
most use to cover or defend the head of a camp 5
otherwise the double tenaille By the mother
who bore us !—brother Toby, quoth my father,
not able to hold out any longer,—you would pro-
voke a saint ; here have. you got us, | know
not how, not only souse into the middle of the old
subject again,—but so full is your head of these
confounded works that, though my wife is this
moment in the pains of labour, and you hear her
ery out, yet nothing will serve you but to carry
off the man-midwife. Accoucheur,—if you
please, quoth Dr. Slop—wW ith all my heart,
replied my father, I don’t care what they call you,
—but I wish the whole science of fortification, Ww ith
all its inventors, at the devil :—it has been the
death of thousands,—and it will be mine, in the
end.—I would not, I would not, brother Toby,
have my brains so full of saps, mines, blinds,

 

 

i
|
|
|
|THE

abions, palisadoes, ravelins, half-moons, and such
eampery, to be proprietor of Namur, and of all
+e “owns in Flanders with it.
| My uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries ;
no from want of courage ;—I have told you, in
© ormer chapter, “ that he wasa man of courage 3”
—)j—and will add here that, where just occasions
presented, or called it forth,—I know no man
UL ter whose arm I would have sooner taken
i © zlter ;—nor did this arise from any insensibility
) or obtuseness of his intellectual parts ;—for he felt
this insult of my father’s as feelingly as a man
could do ;_but he was of a peaceful, placid nature,
. —no jarring element in it all was mixed up so
| kindly with him, my uncle Toby had scarce a heart
| to retaliate upon a fly.
—Go—says he, one day at dinner, to an over-
) grown one which had buzzed about his nose, and
) tormented him cruelly all dinner-time,—and which,
after infinite attempts, he had caught at last, as it
‘| Hew by him ;—T’ll not hurt thee, says my uncle
| Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the
| room, with the fly in his hand,- I’li not hurt a
| hair of thy head :—Go, says he, lifting up the
ash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it
escape ; go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should
i hurt thee ? This world surely is wide enough
‘0 hold both thee and me.
I was but ten years old when this happened :
it whether it was that the action itself was more
: unison with my nerves at that age of pity, which
astantly set my whole frame into one vibration
,of most pleasurable sensation ;—or how far the
manner and expression of it might go towards it ;
+—or in what degree, or by what secret magic—
a tone of voice, and harmony of movement, attuned
by mercy, might find a passage to my heart, I
: know not ;—this I know, that the lesson of uni-
i versal good-will, then taught and imprinted by my
uncle Toby, has never since been worn out of my
“mind: and though I would not depreciate what
the study of the Jitere humaniores, at the uni-
versity, have done for me in that respect, or dis-
1 eredit the other helps of an expensive education
bestowed upon me, both at home and abroad since ;
+—yet, I often think that I owe one half of my
‘philanthropy to that one accidental impression.
This is to serve for parents and governors,
instead of a whole volume upon the subject.
I could not give the reader this stroke in my
“uncle Toby’s picture, by the instrument with
‘which I drew the other parts of it,—that taking in
(no more than the mere Hoppy-Horsicat ikeness ;
-———this is a part of his moral character. My
: father, in this patient endurance of wrongs, which
I mention, was very different, as the reader must
' long ago have noted ; he had a much more acute
jand quick sensibility of nature, attended with a
little sourness of temper ; though this never trans-
‘ported him to anything which looked like malig-
‘(nancy ; yet, in the little rubs and vexations of life,
it was apt to show itself in a drollish and witty
‘ikind of peevishness. He was, however, frank
sand generous in his nature,—at all times open to
‘conviction ; and in the little ebullitions of this
#subacid humour towards others, but particularly
towards my uncle Toby, whom he truly loved :—
he would feel more pain ten times told (except in
the affair of my aunt Dinah, or where an hypothesis
‘was concerned) than what he ever gave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

es

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 31

 

The characters of the two brothers, in this view
of them, reflected light upon each other, and ap-
peared with great advantage in this affair which
arose about Stevinus.

I need not tell the reader, if he keeps a Hopsy-
Horse that a man’s Hossy-Horsnis as tender
apart as he has about him; and that these un-
provoked strokes at my uncle Toby’s could not be
unfelt by him. No :—_—as I said above, my
uncle Toby did feel them, and very sensibly too.

Pray, sir, what said he ?—How did he behave ?

. . Oh, sir !_it was great, for as soon as my father
had done insulting his Hospspy-Horsr ———he
turned his head, without the least emotion, from
Dr. Slop, to whom he was addressing his discourse,
and looking up into my father’s face, with a coun-
tenance spread over with so much good-nature
so placid, —— so fraternal,- so inexpressibly
tender towards him ;—it penetrated my father to
his heart. He rose up hastily from his chair, and
seizing hold of both my uncle Toby’s hands as he
spoke :—Brother Toby, said he,—I beg thy par-
don ;—_-forgive, I pray thee, this rash humour
which my mother gave me.... My dear, dear
brother, answered my uncle Toby, rising up by
my father’s help, say no more about it ;—you are
heartily welcome, had it been ten times as much,
brother.... But it is ungenerous, replied my
father, to hurt any man; a brother, worse ;
~-— but to hurt a brother of such gentle manners
—so unprovoking—and so unresenting, ——’tis
base ; by Heaven ! ’tis cowardly.——You are
heartily welcome, brother, quoth my uncle Toby,
—had it been fifty times as much. Besides,
what have I to do, my dear Toby, cried my father,
either with your amusements or your pleasures,
unless it was in my power (which it is not) to
increase their measure ?
Brother Shandy, answered my uncle Toby,
looking wistfully in his face, — you are much
mistaken in this point ;—for you do inerease my
pleasure very much, in begetting children for the
Shandy family at your time of life. ———_ But, by
that, Sir, quoth Dr. Slop, Mr. Shandy increases
his own. Not a jot, quoth my father.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII,

My brother does it, quoth my uncle Toby, out
of principle. In a family-way, I suppose,
quoth Dr. Slop.— Pshaw !—said my father,—
‘tis not worth talking of.

 

CHAPTER. XIV.

At the end of the last chapter, my father and
my uncle Toby were both left standing, like Brutus
and Cassius at the close of the scene, making up
their accounts.

As my father spoke the three last words,—
he sat down; my uncle Toby followed his
example, only that, before he took his chair, he
rang the bell, to order Corporal Trim, who was in
waiting, to step home for Stevinus ;——my uncle
Toby’s house being no further off than the opposite
side of the way.

Some men would have dropped the subject of
Stevinus ; but my uncle Toby had no resent-
ment in his heart, and he went on with the subject,
to show my father that he had none.

Your sudden appearance, Dr. Slop, quoth my
uncle, resuming the discourse, instantly brought

 

 

 

 

 

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Stevinus into my head. [My father, you may be
sure, did not offer to lay any more wagers upon
Stevinus’s head]—Because, continued my uncle
Toby,the celebrated sailing-chariot, which belonged
to Prince Maurice, and was of such wonderful
contrivance and velocity as to carry half-a-dozen
people thirty German miles, in I don’t know how
few minutes,——was invented by Stevinus, that
great mathematician and engineer.

You might have spared your servant the trouble,
quoth Dr. Slop (as the fellow is lame), of going
for Stevinus’s account of it, because in my return
from Leyden, through the Hague, I walked as far
as Scheveling, which is two long miles, on purpose
to take a view of it.

That’s nothing, replied my uncle Toby, to what
the learned Peireskius did, who walked a matter
of five hundred miles, reckoning from Paris to
Scheyeling, and from Scheveling to Paris back
again, in order to see it—and nothing else.

Some men cannot bear to be out-gone. The
more fool Peireskius, replied Dr. Slop. But mark,
*twas out of no contempt of Pereskius at all
but that Peireskius’s indefatigable labour, in
trudging so far on foot out of love for the sciences,
reduced the exploit of Dr. Slop, in that affair, to
nothing.—The more fool Peireskius, said he again.
—__Why so? replied my father, taking his
brother’s part, not only to make reparation as fast
as he could for the insult he had given him, which
sat still upon my father’s mind ; but partly
that my father began really to interest himself in
the discourse : Why so? said he. Why is
Peireskius, or any man else, to be abused for an
appetite for that, or any other morsel of sound
knowledge ; for, notwithstanding I know nothing
of the chariot in question, continued he, the in-
ventor of it must have had a very mechanical
head ; and though I cannot guess upon what
principles of philosophy he has achieved it—yet
certainly his machine has been constructed upon
solid ones, be they what they will, or it could not
have answered at the rate my brother mentions.

It answered, replied my uncle Toby, as well, if
not better ; for, as Peireskius elegantly expresses
it, speaking of the velocity of its motion, Tam citus
erat quam erat ventus; which, unless I have
forgot my Latin, is, that it was as swift as the
wind itself.

But pray, Dr. Slop, quoth my father, inter-
rupting my uncle (though not without begging
pardon for it at the same time), upon what prin-
ciples was this self-same chariot set a-going ?

Upon very pretty principles, to be sure,
replied Dr. Slop ;-—-and I have often wondered,
continued he, evading the question, why none of
our gentry, who live upon large plains like this of
ours—(especially those whose wives are not past
child-bearing), attempt nothing of this kind ; for
it would not only be infinitely expeditious upon
sudden ealls, to which the sex is subject,—if the
wind only served,—but would be excellent good
husbandry to make use of the winds, which cost
nothing, and which eat nothing, rather than horses,
which (the devil take ’em) both cost and eat a
great deal.

For that very reason, replied my father, “ Be-
cause they cost nothing, and because they eat
nothing,”—the scheme is bad ;—it is the con-
sumption of our products, as well as the manu-

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

factures of them, which gives bread to the hungry,
—circulates trade, brings in money, and supports
the value of our lands :——and though, I own, if
I was a prince, I would generously recompense
the scientific head which brought forth such con-
trivances ;———yet I would as peremptorily sup-
press the use of them.

My father here had got into his element,—~
and was going on as prosperously with his disser-
tation upon trade as my uncle Toby had before
upon his of fortification ;—but, to the loss of much
sound knowledge, the destinies in the morning had
decreed that no dissertation of any kind should be
spun by my father that day ;.... for, as he opened
his mouth to begin the next sentence,

CHAPTER XV.

In popped Corporal Trim with Stevinus :—but it
was too late ;—all the discourse had been exhausted
without him, and was running into a new channel.

—You may take the book home again, Trim,
said my uncle Toby, nodding to him.

But pri’thee, Corporal, quoth my father, drolling,
—look first into it, and see if thou canst spy
aught of a sailing-chariot in it.

Corporal Trim, by being in the service, had
learned to obey—and not to remonstrate ;—so
taking the book to a side table, and running over

 

the leaves :— An’ please your Honour, said

 

Trim, I can see no such thing ;—However, con- }j\))’-
tinued the Corporal, drolling a little in his turn, {j/

I’ll make sure work of it, an’ please your Honour;
so taking hold of the two covers of the book,
one in each hand, and letting the leaves fall down,
as he bent the covers back, he gave the book a
good sound shake.

There is something fallen out, however, said
Trim, an’ please your Honour ;—but it is not a
chariot, or anything like one.———— Pri’thee, Cor-
poral, said my father, smiling, what is it then!

I think, answered Trim, stooping to take it
up,—~’tis more like a sermon, -——— for it
begins with a text of Scripture, and the chapter
and verse ;—and then goes on, not as a chariot,—
but like a sermon directly.

The company smiled.

I cannot conceive how it is possible, quoth my
uncle Toby, for such a thing as a sermon to have
got into my Stevinus.

I think ’tis a sermon, replied Trim ;—but if it
please your Honours, as it is a fair hand, I will

 

 

read you a page ;—for Trim, you must know, loved }} |

to hear himself read, almost as well as talk.
I have ever a stroag propensity, said my father,

to look into things which cross my way by such }}|

strange fatalities as these;—and, as we have
nothing better to do, at least till Obadiah gets
back, I shall be obliged to you, brother, if Dr.
Slop has no objection to it, to order the Corporal
to give us a page or two of it—if he is as able to
do it as he seems willing.

Honour, quoth Trim, I officiated two whole cam=}
paigns in Flanders, as clerk to the chaplain of the},

regiment. He can read it, quoth my uncle
Toby, as well as I can.—Trim, I assure you, was"
the best scholar in my company, and should have
had the next halbert, but for the poor fellow’s
misfortune. Corporal Trim laid his hand upon
his heart, and made a humble bow to his master 3
and then, laying down his hat upon the floor,

 

An’ please your |

SS. SS

 

 

 

= =

v

= =|

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

33 |

 

 

and taking up the sermon in his left hand, in order |

to have his right at liberty,—he advanced, nothing
doubting, into the middle of the room, where he
could best see, and be best seen by, his audience.

CHAPTER XVI.

—Ir you have any objection—said my father,
addressing himself to Dr. Slop. Not in the least,
replied Dr. Slop ;—for it does not appear on which
side of the question it is wrote ; it may be a com-
position of a divine of our church, as well as yours,
—so that we run equal risks. "Tis wrote
upon neither side, quoth Trim, for ’tis only upon
Conscience, an’ please your Honours.

‘Trim’s reason put his audience into good humour
—all but Dr. Slop, who turning his head about
towards Trim, looked a little angry.

Begin, Trim,—and read distinctly, quoth my
father. I will, an’ please your Honour, re-
plied the Corporal, making a bow, and bespeaking
attention with a slight movement of his right
hand,

 

CHAPTER XVII.
But, before the Corporal begins, I must
first give you a deseription of his attitude ;——
otherwise he will naturally stand represented by
your imagination in an uneasy posture — stiff—
perpendicular—dividing the weight of his body
equally upon both legs ; his eye fixed, as if on
duty; — his look determined,—clenching the sermon
in his left hand, like his fireloek. In a word,
you would be apt to paint Trim, as if he was
standing in his platoon, ready for action. His
attitude was as unlike all this as you can conceive.

He stood before them with his body swayed and
bent forwards, just so far as to make an angle of
eighty-five degrees and a half upon the plane of
the horizon ;—which sound orators, to whom I
address this, know very well to be the true per-
suasive angle of incidence ;—in any other angle
you may talk and preach—’tis certain—and it is
done every day ;—but with what effect I leave the
world to judge.

The necessity of this precise angle of eighty-five
degrees and a half, to a mathematical exactness,

does it not show us, by the way, how the
arts and sciences mutually befriend each other ?

How the deuce Corporal Trim, who knew not so
much as an acute angle from an obtuse one, came
to hit it so exactly ; or whether it was chance,
or nature, or good sense, or imitation, &c., shall
be commented upon in that part of the cyclopedia
of arts and sciences where the instrumental parts
of the eloquence of the senate, the pulpit, the bar,
the coffee-house, the bed-chamber, and fire-side,
fall under consideration.

He stood—for I repeat it, to take the picture of
him inat one view—with his body swayed, and some-
what bent forwards—his right leg from under
him, sustaining seven-eighths of his whole weight—
the foot of his left leg, the defect of which was no
disadvantage to his attitude, advanced a little, not
laterally, nor forwards, but ina line betwixt them;
—his knee bent, but that not violently—but so as
to fall within the hmits of the line of beauty ; and,
I add, of the line of science too ;—for, consider, it
had one-eighth part of his body to bear up; so that,
in this case, the position of the leg is determined
—because the foot could be no farther advanced
or the knee more bent, than what would allow

 

 

 

 

 

 

him, mechanically, to receive an eighth part of
his whole weight under it, and to carry it too.
te This I recommend to painters; need I

 

add, to orators ?—I think not; for, unless
they practise it, they must fall upon their
noses. .

 

So much for Corporal Trim’s body and legs.
He held the sermon loosely,—not carelessly, in his
left hand, raised something above his stomach, and
detached a little from his breast ; his right
arm falling negligently by his side, as nature and
the laws of gravity ordered it but with the
palm of it open and turned towards his audience,
ready to aid the sentiment in case it stood in
need.

Corporal Trim’s eyes, and the muscles of his
face, were in full harmony with the other parts
of him; he looked frank—unconstrained—
something assured—but not bordering upon as-
surance,

Let not the eritie ask how Corporal Trim could
come by all this ; I have told him it should
be explained ;—but so he stood before my father,
my uncle Toby and Dr. Slop,—so swayed his body,
so contrasted his limbs, and with such an oratori-
cal sweep throughout the whole figure, a statuary
might have modelled from it ; nay, I doubt
whether the oldest Fellow of a College,—or the
Hebrew Professor himself, could have much
mended it.

Trim made a bow, and read as follows :—

 

 

THE SERMON.
For we trust we have a good Conscience.
HEBREWS xiii. 18.
Trust we have a good Con-

 

“ Trust !
science |”

[Certainly, Trim, quoth my father, interrupting
him, you give that sentence a very improper
accent ; for you curl up your nose, man, and read
it with such a sneering tone as if the Parson was
going to abuse the Apostle.

He is, an’ please your Honour, replied Trim.

Pugh ! said my father, smiling.

Sir, quoth Dr. Slop, Trim is certainly in the
right ; for the writer (who I perceive is a Pro-
testant), by the snappish manner in which he takes
up the Apostle, is certainly going to abuse him,—
if this treatment of him has not done it already.
—But whence, replied my father, have you con-
cluded so soon, Dr. Slop, that the writer is of our
Church ?—for aught I can see yet—he may be of
any church. Because, answered Dr. Slop, if
he was of ours, he durst no more take such a
license—than a bear by his beard :—If, in our
communion, Sir, a man was to insult an apostle,
a saint, or even the paring of a saint’s
nail—he would have his eyes scratched out.—
What, by the saint? quoth my uncle Toby.
No; replied Dr. Slop,—he would have an old
house over his head. Pray is the Inquisi-
tion an ancient building, answered my uncle Toby,
or is it a modern one ? I know nothing of
architecture, replied Dr, Slop——Aw’ please your
Honours, quoth Trim, the Inquisition is the vilest

Prithee spare thy description, Trim: I
hate the very name of it, said my father. No
matter for that, answered Dr. Slop,—it has its
uses ; for, though I am no great advocate for it,
yet, in such a case as this, he would soon be taught

DTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

better manners and, I can tell him, if he went on
at that rate, would be flung into the Inquisition for
his pains.——God help him then! quoth my uncle
Toby. Amen, added Trim ; for, Heaven above
knows, I have a poor brother who has been four-
teen years a captive in it. I never heard one
word of it before, said my uncle Toby, hastily :—
how came he there, Trim ? O, Sir, the story
will make your heart bleed,—as it has made mine
a thousand times ; but itis too long to be told now;
—your Honour shall hear it, from first to last,
some day when I am working beside you in our
fortifications ;—but the short of the story is this :
—that my brother Tom went over a servant to
Lisbon,—and then married a Jew’s widow, who
kept a small shop, and sold sausages, which, some-
how or other, was the cause of his being taken in
the middle of the night out of his bed, where he
was lying with his wife and two small children,
and carried directly to the Inquisition ; where,
God help him, continued Trim, fetching a sigh
from the bottom of his heart,—the poor honest lad
lies confined at this hour ; he was,as honest a soul,
added Trim (pulling out his handkerchief), as
ever blood warmed.

The tears trickled down Trim’s cheeks faster
than he could well wipe them away :—A dead
silence in the room ensued for some minutes.—
Certain proof of pity !

Come, Trim, quoth my father, after he saw the
poor fellow’s grief had got a little vent,—read on,
—and put this melancholy story out of thy head :
—I grieve that I interrupted thee; but prithee
begin the sermon again ;—for if the first sentence
in it is matter of abuse, as thou sayest, I have a
great desire to know what kind of provocation the
Apostle has given.

Corporal Trim wiped his face, and returned his
handkerchief into his pocket, and, making a bow
as he did it,—he began again. ]

 

 

 

 

 

THE SERMON.
for we trust we have a good Conscience.
HEBREWS xiii. 18.

“ Trust !—trust we have a good conscience !
Surely if there is anything in this life which a man
may depend upon, and to the knowledge of which
he is capable of arriving upon the most indisput-
able evidence, it must be this very thing, whether
he has a good conscience or no.

[I am positive I am right, quoth Dr. Slop.]

“ Tf a man thinks at all, he cannot well bea
stranger to the true state of this account ;-——he
must be privy to his own thoughts and desires ;
he must remember his past pursuits, and
know certainly the true springs and motives
which, in general, have governed the actions of
his life.

[i defy him, without an assistant, quoth Dr.
Slop. ]

“In other matters, we may be deceived by false
appearances ; and, as the wise man complains,
hardly do we guess aright at the things that are
upon the earth, and with labour do we find the
things thut are before us. But here the mind has
all the evidence and facts within herself ;- is
conscious of the web she has wove ; knows its
texture and fineness, and the exact share which
every passion has had in working upon the several
designs which virtue or vice has planned before her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[The language is good, and I declare Trim reads
very well, quoth my father. ]

“ Now,—as conscience is nothing else but the
knowledge which the mind has within herself of
this ; and the judgment, either of approbation or
censure, which it unavoidably makes upon the
successive actions of our lives ; it is plain, you will
say, from the very terms of the proposition,—
whenever this inward testimony goes against a
man, and he stands self-accused, that he must
necessarily be a guilty man.—And, on the contrary,
when the report is favourable on his side, and his
heart condemns him not ; that it is not a
matter of trust, as the Apostle intimates, but a
matter of certainty and fact, that the conscience
is good, and that the man must be good also.

[Then the Apostle is altogether in the wrong, I
suppose, quoth Dr. Slop, and the Protestant divine
is in the right. Sir, have patience, replied
my father, for I think it will presently appear that
St. Paul and the Protestant divine are both of an
opinion. As nearly so, quoth Dr. Slop, as
east is to west ;—but this, continued he, lifting
both hands, comes from the liberty of the press.

It is no more, at the worst, replied my uncle
Toby, than the liberty of the pulpit ; for it does
not appear that the sermon is printed, or ever
likely to be.

Go on, Trim, quoth my father. ]

“ At first sight, this may seem to be a true state
of the case ; and I make no doubt but the know-
ledge of right and wrong is so truly impressed
upon the mind of man—that, did no such thing
ever happen as that the conscience of a man, by
long habits of sin, might (as the Seripture assures
it may) insensibly become hard ;—and, like some
tender parts of his body, by much stress, and con-
tinual hard usage, lose, by degrees, that nice sense
and perception with which Godand nature endowed
it :—did this never happen :—or was it certain
that self-love could never hang the least bias upon
the judgment ;—or that the little interests below
could rise up and perplex the faculties of our
upper regions, and encompass them with clouds
and thick darkness : could no such thing as
favour and affection enter this sacred court :—did
Wit disdain to take a bribe in it ;—-or was
ashamed to show its face as an advocate for an
unwarrantable enjoyment :—or lastly, were we
assured that Interest stood always unconcerned
whilst the cause was hearing,—and that Passion
never got into the judgment-seat, and pronounced
sentence in the stead of Reason, which is supposed
always to preside and determine upon the ease :
was this truly so, as the objection must sup-
pose ; no doubt, then, the religious and moral
state of a man would be exactly what he himself
esteemed it ; and the guilt or innocence of
every man’s life could be known, in general, by no
better measure than the degrees of his own appro-
bation and censure,

“JT own, in one case, whenever a man’s con-
science does accuse him (as it seldom errs on that
side), that he is guilty ; and, unless in melancholy
or hypochondriac eases, we may safely pronounce
upon it, that there are always sufficient grounds
for the accusation.

* But the converse of the proposition will not
hold true ;—namely, that whenever there is guilt,
the conscience must accuse ; and if it does not,30

 

that a man is therefore innocent. This is not
fact : So that the common consolation, which
some good Christian or other is hourly administer-
ing to himself—that he thanks God his mind does
not misgive him ; and that, consequently, he has
a good conscience, because he has a quiet one,—is
fallacious ;—and, current as the inference is, and
infallible as the rule appears at first sight, yet,
when you look nearer to it, and try the truth of
this rule upon plain facts,—you see it liable to so
much error from a false application ;—the prin-
ciple upon which it goes so often perverted ;—the
whole force of it lost, and sometimes so vilely cast
away ; that it is painful to produce the common
examples from human life which confirm the ac-
count.

** A man shall be vicious, and utterly debauched
in his principles ;—exceptionable in his conduct to
the world :—shall live shameless, in the open com-
mission of a sin which no reason or pretence can
justify ;—a sin, by which, contrary to all the work-
ings of humanity, he shall ruin for ever the deluded
partner of his guilt ; rob her of her best dowry;
and not only cover her own head with dis-
honour,—but involve a whole virtuous family in
shame and sorrow for her sake. Surely, you
will think, conscience must lead such a man a
troublesome life : he can have no rest night
or day from its reproaches.

“ Alas! ConscieNcE had something else to do,
all this time, than break in upon him ; as Elijah
reproached the god Baal,—this domestic god was
either talking, or pursuing, or was on a journey,
or peradventure he slept, and could not be awoke.

“Perhaps he was gone out, in company with
Honour, to fight a duel ;——to pay off some debt
at play, or dirty annuity, the bargain of his
lust: Perhaps Conscrence, all this time, was
engaged at home, talking aloud against petty lar-
ceny, and executing vengeance upon some such
puny crimes as his fortune and rank of life secured
him against all temptation of committing ; so that
he lives as merrily,—[If he was of our church,
though, quoth Dr. Slop, he could not]—sleeps
as soundly in his bed,—and at last meets death as
unconcernedly,—perhaps much more so, than a
much better man.

[ All this is impossible with us, quoth Dr. Slop,
turning to my father,—the case could not happen
in our church. It happens in ours, however,
replied my father, too often. I own, quoth
Dr. Slop (struck a little with my father’s frank
acknowledgment),—that a man in the Romish
church may live as badly ;—but then he cannot
easily die so. ’Tis little matter, replied my
father with an air of indifference,—how a rascal
dies——I mean, answered Dr. Slop, he would
be denied the benefits of the last sacraments.

Pray how many have you in all, said my uncle
Toby, for I always forget ? Seven,
answered Dr. Slop.—HHumph ; said my
uncle Toby,—though not accented as a note of
acquiescence—but as an interjection of that par-
ticular species of surprise when a man, in looking
into a drawer, finds more of a thing than he ex-
pected.—Humph ! replied my uncle Toby. Dr.
Slop, who had an ear, understood my uncle Toby
as well as if he had wrote a whole volume against
the seven sacraments. Humph! replied Dr.
Slop (stating my uncle Toby’s argument over again

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to him)—Why, Sir, are there not seven cardinal
virtues ? Seven mortal sins? Seven
golden candlesticks? Seven heavens?
"Tis more than I know, replied my uncle Toby.
Are there not seven wonders of the world ?
Seven days of the creation ? Seven
planets ? Seven plagues That there
are, quoth my father, with a most affected gravity.
But prithee, continued he, go on with the rest of
thy characters, Trim. ]

“ Another is sordid, unmerciful [here Trim
waved his right hand], a strait-hearted, selfish
wretch, incapable either of private friendship or
public spirit. Take notice how he passes by the
widow and orphan in their distress, and sees all the
miseries incident to human life without a sigh or
a prayer. [An’ please your Honours, cried Trim
I think this a viler man than the other. ]

* Shall not conscience rise up and sting him on
such occasions ?————_No ; thank God, there is
no occasion : J pay every man his own ;—I have
no fornication to answer to my conscience ;—no

3

 

faithless vows or promises to make up ;—TI have

debauched no man’s wife or child :—thank God, I
am not as other men, adulterers, unjust, or even as
this libertine, who stands before me.

“* A third is crafty and designing in his nature.
View his whole life ; ’tis nothing but a cunning
contexture of dark arts and unequitable subter-
fuges, basely to defeat the true intent of all laws,
plain-dealing, and the safe enjoyment of our several
properties. You will see such a one working
out a frame of little designs upon the ignorance
and perplexities of the poor and needy man ;—
shall raise a fortune upon the mexperience of a
youth, or the unsuspecting temper of his friend,
who would have trusted him with his life.

“ When ola age comes on, and repentance calls
him to look back upon this biack account, and
state it over again with his conscience, Con-
SCIENCE looks into the STATUTES AT LARGE:
finds no express law broken by what he has done;
perceives no penalty or forfeiture of goods
and chattels incurred ;—sees no scourge waving
over his head, or prison opening its gates upon
him: Whatis there to affright his conscience?
—Conscience has got safely entrenched behind the
Letter of the Law ; sits there invulnerable, forti-
fied with @aseg and Ueparts so strongly on all

 

 

 

 

 

Maa ee ease es ee ae one ee 1

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

sides, that it is not preaching can dispossess it of |

its hold.

[Here Corporal Trim and my uncle Toby ex-

changed looks with each other.—Ay, ay, Trim!
quoth my uncle Toby, shaking his head, these
are but sorry fortifications, Trim._——O ! very
poor work, answered Trim, to what your Honour
and I make of it. The character of this last
man, said Dr. Slop, interrupting Trim, is more
detestable than all the rest ; and seems to have
been taken from some pettifogging lawyer amongst
you Amongst us, a man’s conscience could not
possibly continue so long blinded, three times
in a year, at least, he must go to confession.
Will that restore it to sight? quoth my uncle
Toby. Go on, Trim, quoth my father, or Oba-
diah will have got back before thou hast got to the
end of thy sermon. "Tis a very short one,
replied Trim, I wish it was longer, quoth my
uncle Toby, for I like it hugely—Trim went
on. |

 

 

 

 

 

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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

“ A fourth man shall want even this refuge ;
shall break through all the ceremony of slow chi-
cane ;—— scorn the doubtful workings of secret
plots and cautious trains to bring about his purpose.
——See the bare-faced villain, how he cheats, lies,
perjures, robs, murders !—Horrid !— But indeed
much better was not to be expected, in the present
case ;—the poor man was in the dark ! — his
priest had got the keeping of his conscience ; and
all he would let him know of it was, that he must
believe in the Pope ;—¢o to mass 3—cross himself ;
—tell his beads ;—be a good catholic ; and that
this, in all conscience, was enough to carry him to
heaven. What —-if he perjures ! Why, he
had a mental reservation in it. But if he is so
wicked and abandoned a wretch as you represent
him ;——if he robs,—if he stabs,—will not con-
science, on every such act, receive a wound itself 2
Ay,—but the man has carried it to confession ;
the wound digests there, and will do well
enough, and in a short time be quite healed up by
absolution. O Popery! what hast thou to answer
for !——when, not content with the too many
natural and fatal ways through which the heart of
man is every day thus treacherous to itself above
all things ;——thou hast wilfully set open the wide
gate of deceit before the face of this unwary tra-
veller, too apt, God knows, to go astray of himself,
and confidently speak peace to himself, when there
is no peace.

“Of this, the common instances. which I have
drawn out of life, are too notorious to require
much evidence. If any man doubts the reality of
them, or thinks it impossible for a man to be such
a bubble to himself,—I must refer him a moment
to his own refiections, and will then venture to
trust my appeal with his own heart.

“« Let him consider, in how different a degree of
detestation numbers of wicked actions stand there:
though equally bad and vicious in their own
natures,—he will soon find that such of them as
strong inclination and custom have prompted him
to commit are generally dressed out and painted
with all the false beauties which a soft and
flattering hand can give them ;—and that the
others, to which he feels no propensity, appear
at onee, naked and deformed, surrounded with
all the true circumstances of folly and dis-
honour.

“ When David surprised Saul sleeping in the
cave, and cut off the skirt of his robe ;—we read
that his heart smote him for what he had done:—
but in the matter of Uriah, where a faithful and
gallant servant, whom he ought to have loved and
honoured, fell to make way for his lust,—-where
conscience had so much greater reason to take the
alarm, his heart smote him not. A whole year
had almost passed, from the first commission of
that crime, to the time Nathan was sent to reprove
him ; and we read not once of the least sorrow or
compunction of heart which he testified, during all
that time, for what he had dune.

“Thus conscience, this once able monitor,—
placed on high as a judge within us, and intended
by our Maker as a just and equitable one too, by
an unhappy train of causes and impediments, takes
oiten such imperfect cognizance of what passes,—
does its office so negligently,—sometimes so cor-
ruptly,—that it is not to be trusted alone ; and,
therefore, we find there is a necessity, an absolute

 

 

 

 

necessity, of joining another principle with it, to
aid, if not govern, its determinations.

“ So that, if you would form a just judgment of
what is of infinite importance to you not to be
misled in,—namely, in what degree of real merit
you stand, either as an honest man, a_ useful
citizen, a faithful subject to your king, or a good
servant to your God,—call in religion and moral-
ity. Look: what is written in the law of God ?

How readest thou ?—Consult calm reason,
and the unchangeable obligations of justice and
truth ;—what say they ?

“ Let Conscience determine the matter upon
these reports ;—and then, if thy heart condemns
thee not, which is the case the Apostle supposes,
—the rule will be infallible ;—[Here Dr. Slop fell
asleep.] ‘thou wilt have confidence towards God ;’
—that is, have just grounds to believe the judg-
ment thou hast passed upon thyself is the judg-
ment of God ; and nothing else but an anticipa-
tion of that righteous sentence, which will be
pronounced upon thee hereafter, by that Being to
whom thou art finally to give an account of thy
actions.

“ Blessed is the man, indeed, then, as the author
of the book of Ecclesiasticus expresses it, who is
not pricked with the multitude of his sins: Blessed
is the man whose heart hath not condemned him ;
whether he be rich, or whether he be poor, if he
have a good heart (a heart thus guided and in-
formed), he shall at all times rejoice in a cheerful
countenance ; his mind shall tell him more than
seven watchmen that sit above upon a tower on
high. [A tower has no strength, quoth my uncle
Toby, unless it is flanked.] “In the darkest
doubts, it shall conduct him safer than a thousand
casuists, and give the state he lives in a better
security for his behaviour than all the causes and
restrictions put together, which law-makers are
forced to multiply: forced, I say, as things stand;
human laws not being a matter of original choice,
but of pure necessity, brought in to fence against
the mischievous effects of those consciences which
are no law unto themselves ; well intending, by
the many provisions made,—that in all such corrupt
and misguided cases, where principles and the
checks of conscience will not make us upright,—
to supply their force, and, by the terrors of jails
and halters, oblige us to it.

[I see plainly, said my father, that this ser-
mon has been composed to be preached at the
Temple,—or at some assize.—I like the reasoning,
—and am sorry that Dr. Slop has fallen asleep
before the time of his conviction ;—for it is now
clear that the parson, as I thought at first, never
insulted St. Paul in the least; nor has there been,
brother, the least difference between them. A
great matter, if they had differed! replied my uncle
Toby,—the best friends in the world may differ
sometimes True, brother Toby, quoth my
father, shaking hands with him; we'll fill our
pipes, brother, and then Trim shall go on.

Well,—what dost thoa think of it? said my
father, speaking to Corporal Trim, as he reached
his tobacco-box.

I think, answered the Corporal, that the seven
watchmen upon the tower, who, 1 suppose, are all
sentineis there, — are more, an’ please your
Honour, than were necessary ; and to go on at

AE
that rate would harass a regiment all to pieces ;(J than a corporal’s guard

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM

SHANDY.

 

which a commanding officer, who loves his men,
will never do, if he can help it ; because two
sentinels, added the Corporal, are as good as
twenty.—I have been a commanding officer my-
self, in the Corps-de-garde, a hundred times, con-
tinued Trim (rising an inch higher in his figure,
as he spoke); and all the time I had the honour
to serve his Majesty King William, in relieving
| the most considerable posts, I never left more
than two in my life——Very right, Trim, quoth my
uncle Toby,—but you do not consider, Trim, that
the towers in Solomon’s days were not such
things as our bastions, flanked and defended by
other works. This, Trim, was an invention since
Solomon’s death; nor had they horn-works, or
ravelins before the curtain, in his time ;—or such
a fossé as we make, with a cuvette in the middle
or it, and with covered-ways and counterscarps
palisadoed along it, to guard against a coup-de-
main :—so that the seven men upon the tower
were a party, I dare say, from the Corps-de-garde,
) Set there, not only to look out,but to defend it
They could be no more, an’ please your Honour,
My father smiled
| inwardly, but not outwardly ;—the subject being

 

 

s| rather too serious, considering what had happeued,
to make a jest of.—So putting his pipe into his

10uth, which he had just lighted,—he contented
himself with ordering Trim to read on. He read

¢ on as follows :]

“'T'o have the fear of God before our eyes, and,
In our mutual dealings with each other, to govern
our actions by the eternal measures of right and
| wrong :—the first of these will comprehend the

si duties of religion ;—the second, those of morality,

which are so inseparably connected together that

oy you cannot divide these two tables, even in imagi-
s{mation (though the attempt is often made in

(practice), without breaking, and mutually destroy-
3 oO? y y

ing them both.

“J said, the attempt is often made; and so it
sis ; there being nothing more common than to see
.a man, who has no sense at all of religion,—and
iindeed has so much honesty as to pretend to none,
iwho would take it as the bitterest affront should
‘you but hint at a suspicion of his moral character,
-—or imagine he was not conscientiously just and
)scrupulous to the uttermost mite.

“When there is some appearance that it is
)30, though one is unwilling even to suspect the
juppearance of so amiable a virtue as moral
/1onesty, yet were we to look into the grounds of
.|t, in the present case, I am persuaded we should
(ind little reason to envy such a one the honour
dof his motive.

* Let him declaim as pompously as he chooses
[tpon the subject, it will be found to rest upon no
jyetter foundation than either his interest, his
inride, his ease, or some such little and changeable
syassion, as will give us but small dependence upon
j1is actions in matters of great distress.

* T will illustrate this by an example.

“J know the banker I deal with, or the physi-
sian I usually call in [There is no need, cried Dr.
lop, waking, to call in any physician in this
jase]—“to be neither of them men of much
‘eligion: | hear them make a jest of it every
say, and treat all its sanctions with so much scorn
iis to put the matter past doubt. Well :—not-
ithstanding this, I put my fortune into the hands

 

 

 

 

 

of the one ;—and what is dearer still to me, I
trust my life to the honest skill of the other,

“* Now let me examine what is my reason for
this great confidence. Why, in the first place, I
believe there is no probability that either of them
will employ the power I put into their hands to
my disadvantage;—I consider that honesty serves
the purposes of this life :—I know their suecess
in the world depends upon the fairness of their
characters,—in a word, I’m persuaded that they
cannot hurt me, without hurting themselves
more,

“ But put it otherwise, namely, that interest
lay, for once, on the other side; thata case should
happen, wherein the one, without stain to his
reputation, could secrete my fortune, and leave
me naked in the world ;—or that the other could
send me out of it, and enjoy an estate, by my
death, without dishonour to himself or his art:
In this case, what hold have I of either of them ?
—Religion, the strongest of all motives, is out of
the question ;—interest, the next most powerful
motive in the world, is strongly against me :
What have I left te cast into the opposite seale,
to balance this temptation ? Alas! I have
nothing,— nothing but what is lighter than a
bubble : I must lie at the mercy of Honour,
or some such capricious principle. Strait
security for two of the most valuable blessings—
my property and my life !

“As, therefore, we can have no dependence
upon morality without religion ;—so, on the other
hand,— there is nothing better to be expected
from religion without morality ; nevertheless, it
is no prodigy to see a man whose real moral
character stands very low, who yet entertains the
highest notion of himself, in the light of a reli-
gious man.

“He shall not only be covetous, revengeful,
implacable,—but even wanting in points of com-
mon honesty ; yet, inasmuch as he talks loudly
against the infidelity of the age,—is zealous for
some points of religion,—goes twice a-day to
church,—attends the sacraments,—and amuses
himself with a few instrumental parts of religion,
—shall cheat his conscience into a judgment that,
for this, he is a religious man, and has discharged
truly his duty to God: and you will find that
such a man, through force of this delusion, gene-
rally looks down with spiritual pride upon every
other man who has less affectation of piety,—
though, perhaps, ten times more real honesty than
himself.

“ This likewise is a sore evil under the sun ;
and I believe there is no one mistaken principle
which, for its time, has wrought more serious
mischiefs. For a general proof of this,—
examine the history of the Romish church ;”—
[ Well, what can you make of that? cried Dr.
Slop] —“See what scenes of cruelty, murder,
rapine, bloodshed,”—[They may thank their own
obstinacy, cried Dr. Slop] — “ have all been
sanctified by a religion not strictly governed by
morality.

“In how many kingdoms of the world—[Here
Trim kept waving his right hand, from the ser-
mon to the extent of his arm, returning it bask-
wards and forwards to the conclusion of the
paragraph. ]

“ In how many kingdoms of the world has the———————————

 

 

 

 

. b. i 38 THE LIFE AND OPIN TONS: oe a Bis Pied SHANDY.
ore eas ge i ee

> +e)

: crusading sword of the misguided saint-errant Trim, stamping. 186s Elite convulsions it has
mh spared neither age, nor merit, nor sex, nor con- | thrown him into !——Consider the nature of the
a oe | dition ?—and, as he fought under the banners of a | posture in which he now lies stretched,—what

i | religion which set him loose from justice and | exquisite tortures he endures by it !—[I hope ’tis

: “4 humanity, he showed none ; mercilessly trampled | not in Portugal.]—’Tis all nature can bear !

a i upon both, heard neither the cries of the | Good God! see how it keeps his weary soul hang-
el unfortunate, nor pitied their distresses ! ing upon his trembling lips !—[I would not read
et wi [I have been in many a battle, an’ please your | another line of it, quoth Trim, for all this world ;

Honour, quoth Trim, sighing, but never in so
melancholy a one as this:—I would not have
drawn a trigger in it, against these poor souls,—
to have been made a general officer. W hy,
what do you understand of the affair? said Dr.

I fear an’ please your Honours, all this is in
Portugal, where my poor brother Tom is.

I tell thee , Trim, again, quoth my father, ’tis not
an historical account,—’tis a description.—’ Tis
only a description, honest man, quoth Slop ; there

 

 

 

 

. k | Slop, looking towards Trim, with something more | is not a word of truth in it, That’s another
# of contempt than the Corporal’s s honest heart | story, replied my father.—However, as Trim reads
el <i . deserved. What do you know, friend, about | it with so much concern,—’tis cruelty to force
ie i this battle you talk of ? I know, replied Trim, | him to go on with it. Give me hold of the sermon,

{ , | that I never refused quarter in my life to any | Trim ;—I’ll finish it for thee, and thou mayst go.

pe ei man who eried out for it :—but, to a woman, or a

 

I must stay and hear it too, replied Trim,

 

 

H
My i child, continued Trim, before I would level my | if your Honour will allow me ;—though I would
} ey i musket at them, I would lose my life a thousand | not read it myself for a Colonel’s pay. Poor
{ 'y nt times. Here’s a crown for thee, Trim, to | Trim! quoth my uncle Toby. —~— My father went
es drink with Obadiah to-night, quoth my uncle | on.]

 

 

Mey Toby, and I’ll give Obadiah another too. God

**__Consider the nature of the posture in which
bless your Honour, replied Trim ;—I had rather

he now lies stretched, what exquisite torture he

 

 

 

 

 

be i} these poor women and children had it. Thou | endures by it !—’Tis all nature can bear ! Good
a. ;; art an honest fellow, quoth my uncle Toby. God ! See how it keeps his weary soul hanging

Hes 1 , My father nodded his head,—as much as to say | upon his trembling lips,—willing to take its leave,
Mee § ii || —And so he is. but not suffered to depart!— Behold the un-

ee is" | But prithee, Trim, said my father, make an | happy wretch led back to his cell! [ Then,
pee end,—for I see thou hast but a leaf or two left. thank God, however, quoth Trim, they have not

ff a Corporal Trim read on. ] killed him.J—See him dragged out of it again
ek “If the testimony of past centuries in this | to meet the flames, and the insults in his last

My ui matter is not sufficient, consider, at this instant, | agonies, which this principle,—this principle, that
os how the votaries of that t religion are every day there can be religion without mercy, has prepared

ay) | thinking to do service and ‘honour to God by for him.—[Then, thank God,—he is dead,—quoth
Aer any tl. actions which are a dishonour and scandal to | Trim,—he is out of his pain—and they have done
wo” . themselves ! their worst at him.—O, Sirs! Hold your peace,
i ; “To be convinced of this, go with me, for a | Trim, said my father, going on with the sermon

ee moment, into the prisons of the Inquisition.—
4 [God help my poor brother Tom.]— Behold
Religion, with Mercy and Justice chained down
i Mi under her feet, — there sitting ghastly upon a

(lest Trim should incense Dr. Slop,) we shall never
have done at this rate. ]

“The surest way totry the merit of any disputed
notion is to trace down the consequences such a

 

black tribunal, propped up with racks and instru-
ments of torment. Hark !— hark! what a
piteous groan !—[Here Trim’s face turned as
pale as ashes. ] See the melancholy wretch
who uttered it—[Here the tears began to trickle
down ] just brought forth to undergo the
anguish of a mock trial, and endure the utmost
pains that a studied system of cruelty has been
able to invent.——[D them all, quoth Trim,

 

 

 

notion has produced, and compare them with the
spirit of Christianity ; tis the short and deci-
sive rule which our Saviour hath left us, for these
and such-like cases, and it is worth a thousand
arguments—By their fruits ye shall know them.

“J will add no further to the length of this
sermon than by two or three short and indepen-
dent rules deducible from it.

“ First, Whenever a man talks loudly against

 

 

 

Nand his colour returning into his face as red as blood.] | religion, always suspect that it is not his reason,

i —Behold this helpless victim delivered up to | but his passions, which have got the better of his

1 his tormentors, his body so wasted with sorrow | crrEp. <A bad life and a good belief are disagree-

e, and confinement! [Oh! ’tis my brother, cried | able and troublesome neighbours; and where ' “they

ale | poor Trim, in a most passionate exclamation, | separate, depend upon it, tis for no other cause

. ay dropping the sermon upon the ground, and clap- | but quietness’ sake.

We ping his hands together,—I fear ’tis poor Tom. “ Secondly, When a man thus represented tells

\ . ne Ht || —-—My father and my uncle Toby’s hearts yearned | you, in any particular instance,—That such a thing

; i wah with sympathy for the poor fellow’s distress; even | goes against his conscience,—always believe he

ee || Slop himself acknowledged pity for him. means exactly the same thing as when he tells
ie | itl Why, Trim, said my father, this is not a history, | you such a thing goes against his stomach ; a

—’tis a sermon thou art reading ;—prithee begin
the sentence again.]|————Behold this helpless
iis, | victim delivered up to his tormentors, his body so
: wasted with sorrow and confinement, you will see
every nerve and muscle as it suffers.

“ Observe the last movement of that horrid
engine !—[I would rather face a cannon, quoth

present want of appetite being generally the true
cause of both.

*¢ In a word—trust that man in nothing who has
not a ConsciENCE in everything.

“‘ And, in your own case, remember this plain
distinction 52 mistake in which hasruined thousands,
—That your conscience is not a law :—no, God and

 

 

 

ue aoe

 

e
Seg erereason made the law, and have placed conscience
within you, to determine,—not, like an Asiatic cadi,
according to the ebbs and flows of his own passions,
—but like a British judge in this land of liberty
and good sense, who makes no new law, but faith-
fully declares that law which he knows already
written.”

 

FINIS.

Tou hast read the sermon extremely: well,
I'rim, quoth my father. If he had spared his
comments, replied Dr. Slop, he would have read
it much better. I should have read it ten
times better, Sir, answered Trim, but that my
heart was so full. That was the very reason,
Trim, replied my father, which has made thee
read the sermon as well as thou hast done ;—and
if the clergy of our church, continued my father,
addressing himself to Dr. Slop, would take part in
what they deliver, as deeply as this poor fellow
has done,—as their compositions are fine—[I
deny it, quoth Dr. Slop],—I maintain it,—that
the eloquence of our pulpits, with such subjects to
inflame it, would be a model for the whole world.
—But, alas! continued my father, and I own it,
Sir, with sorrow, that, like French politicians, in
this respect, what they gain in the cabinet, they
lose in the field——’Twere a pity, quoth my
uncle, that this should be lost. I like the
sermon well, replied my father,—’tis dramatic,—
and there is something in that way of writing,
when skilfully managed, which catches the atten-
tion. We preach much in that way with us,
said Dr. Slop. I know that very well, said my
father,—but in a tone and manner which disgusted

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

| Dr. Slop, full as much as his assent, simply, could

 

have pleased him. But in this, added Dr. Slop,
a little piqued,—our sermons have greatly the
advantage, that we never introduce any character
into them below a patriarch, or a patriarch’s wife,
or a martyr, or a saint. There are some very
bad characters in this, however, said my father ;
and [ do not think the sermon a jot the worse for
em. But pray, quoth my uncle Toby,—whose
can this be ?—How could it get into my Stevinus?
A man must be as great a conjuror as
Stevinus, said my father, to resolve the second
question. ‘The first, I think, is not so difficult ;—
for, unless my judgment greatly deceives me,—I
know the author ; for ’tis wrote, certainly, by the
parson of the parish.

The similitude of the style and manner of it
with those my father constantly had heard preached
in his parish-church was the ground of his con-
jecture,—proving, it as strongly as an argument
a priori could prove such a thing to a philosophic
mind, that it was Yorick’s, and no one’s else.—It
was proved to be so @ posteriori, the day after,
when Yorick sent a servant to my uncle Toby’s
house to inquire after it.

It seems that Yorick, who was inquisitive after
all kinds of knowledge, had borrowed Stevinus of
my uncle Toby, and had carelessly popped his
sermon, as soon as he had made it, into the middle
of Stevinus; and, by an act of forgetfulness, to
which he was ever subject, he had sent Stevinus
home, and his sermon to keep him company.

Ill-fated sermon! Thou wast lost, after this re-
covery of thee, a second time dropped through an
unsuspected fissure in thy master’s pocket, down

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 39

nie
| 4 209 a} af Pia ee
into a treacherous and tattered lining,—trod deep

 

 

into the dirt by the left hind-foot of his Rosinante

inhumanly stepping upon thee as thou falledst,— |

 

buried ten days in the mire,—raised up out of it
by a beggar,—sold for a halfpenny to a parish-
clerk,—-transferred to his parson,— lost for ever to
thy own, the remainder of his days,—nor restored
to his restless manes till this very moment that I
tell the world the story.

Can the reader believe that this sermon of
Yorick’s was preached at an assize in the
cathedral of York, before a thousand witnesses,
ready to give oath of it, by a certain prebendary
of that church, and actually printed by him when
he had done !—and within so short a space as two
years and three months after Yorick’s death ?—
Yorick, indeed, was never better served in his
life ; but it was a little hard to maltreat him
after, and plunder him after he was laid in his grave.

However, as the gentleman who did it was in
perfect charity with Yorick,—and, in conscious
justice, printed but a few copies to give away ;—
and that, I am told, he could moreover have made
as good a one himself, had he thought fit,—I
declare I would not have published this anecdote
to the world ;—nor do I publish it with an intent
to hurt his character and advancement in the
church ;—I leave that to others :—but I find
myself impelled by two reasons, which I cannot
withstand.

—The first is, That, in doing justice, I may give
rest to Yorick’s ghost ;—which,—as the country-
people, and some others, believe,—still walks.

The second reason is, That, by laying open this
story to the world, I gain an opportunity of
informing it—that in case the character of Parson
Yorick, and this sample of his sermons, are liked,
—there are now in the possession of the Shandy
family as many as will make a handsome volume,
at the world’s service,—and much good may they
do it,

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

 

OBaDIAH gained the two crowns without dispute; |

for he came in jingling with all the instruments in
the green baize-bag we spoke of, slung across his
body, just as Corporal Trim went out of the
room.

It is now proper, I think, quoth Dr. Slop (clear-
ing up his looks), as we are in a condition to be of
some service to Mrs. Shandy, to send up stairs to
know how she goes on.

Ihave ordered, answered my father, the old mid-
wife to come down to us upon the least difficulty ;
—for you must know, Dr. Slop, continued my
father, with a perplexed kind of smile upon his
countenance, that, by express treaty, solemnly
ratified between me and my wife, you are no more
than an auxiliary in this affair,—and not so much
as that,—unless the lean old mother of a midwife
above stairs cannot do without you Women have
their particular fancies; and, in points of this
nature, continued my father, where they bear the
whole burden, and suffer so much acute pain for
the advantage of our families, and the good of the
species,—they claim a right of deciding, en sowve-
raine, in whose hands, and in what fashion, they
choose to undergo it.

They are in the right of it,—quoth my uncle

 

| Toby————But, Sir, replied Dr. Slop, not takingTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

notice of my uncle Toby’s opinion, but turning to
my father,—they had better govern in other points;
—and afather ofafamily, who wishesits perpetuity,
in my opinion had better exchange this prerogative
with them, and give up some other rights in lieu

tably by a mistake in the dust ofa butterfly’s wing, -
—as in the disk of the sun, the moon, and all the
stars of heaven put together.

He would often lament that it was for want of
considering this properly, and of applying it skil-

 

 

a of it. I know not, quoth my father, answering | fully to civil matters, as well as to speculative
ih | a little too testily, to be quite dispassionate in what | truths, that so many things in this world were out
|i he said,—I know not, quoth he, what we have left | of joint ;—that the political arch was giving way ;

to give up, in lieu of who shall bring our children
a | into the world,—unless that—of who shall beget
| them. One. would almost give up anything,
Cy | | replied Dr. Slop.—I beg your pardon,—answered

. my uncle Toby. Sir, replied Dr. Slop, it would

—and that the very foundations of our excellent
constitution, in church and state, were so sapped,
as estimators had reported.

You ery out, he would say, we are a ruined,
undone people. Why? he would ask, making use

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

/ ee _ astonish you to know what improvements we have | of the sorites or syllogism of Zeno and Chrysippus,
1 | | made of late years in all branches of obstetrical | without knowing it belonged to them.—Why ?—
ee i) | knowledge, but particularly in that one single point Why are we a ruined people 2?—Because we are
mr iy iil of the safe and expeditious extraction of the fetus, | corrupted.— Whence is it, dear sir, that we are
ie | | which has received such lights that, for my part | corrupted ? Because we are needy; our
mi | (holding up his hands), I declare I wonder how poverty and not our wills, consent. And where-
'y } | the world has I wish, quoth my uncle Toby, | fore, he would add, are we needy !——from the
; is I | | you had seen what prodigious armies we had in | neglect, he would answer, of our pence and our
i il | Flanders. halfpence :—our bank-notes, sir, our guineas,—
‘ "Ni | ea nay, our shillings, take care of themselves.
mt | Cer Ee ae "Tis the same, he would say, throughout the
Mth | I wave dropped the curtain over this scene for | whole circle of the sciences ;—the great, the estab-
a a minute,—to remind you of one thing—and to | lished points of them, are not to be broke in upon.

inform you of another.

u\ __ What I have to inform you comes, I own, a

x rt | | little out of its due course ;—for it should have

fie te | been told thirty-five pages ago, but that I foresaw
me “twould come in pat hereafter, and be of more

advantage here than elsewhere.— Writers had need

—The laws of nature will defend themselves ;—
but error —(he would add, looking earnestly at my
mother)—error, sir, creeps in through the minute
holes, and small crevices, which human nature
leaves unguarded.

This turn of thinking in my father is what I

 

 

look before them, to keep up the spirit and con-
nexion of what they have in hand.

When these two things are done,—the curtain
shall be drawn up again, and my uncle Toby, my
father, and Dr. Slop, shall go on with their dis-
course, without any’ more interruption.

First, then, the matter which I have to remind
you of is this, That, from the specimens. of
singularity in my father’s notions in point of
Christian names, and that other previous point
thereto,—you was led, I think, into an opinion
(and Iam sure I said as much), that my father
was a gentleman altogether as odd and whimsical
in fifty other opinions. In truth, there was not a
stage in the life of man, from the very first act of
his begetting,—down to the lean and slippered
pantaloon im his second childishness, but he had
some favourite notion to himself, springing out of
it, as sceptical, and as far out of the highway of
thinking, as these two which have been explained.
Mr. Shandy, my father, Sir, would see
nothing in the light in which others placed it ;—
he placed things in his own light :—he would weigh
nothing in common scales :—no,—he was too re-
fined a researcher to lie open to so gross an
imposition,—To come at the exact weight of things
in the scientific steel-yard, the fulerwm, he would
say, should be almost invisible, to avoid all friction
from popular tenets ;—without this the minutie of
philosophy, which would always turn the balance,
will have no weight at all—Knowledge, like
matter, he would affirm, was divisible in infinitum;
—that the grains and scruples were as much a
part of it as the gravitation of the whole world.—

 

 

had to remind you of. The point you are to be
informed of, and which I have reserved for this
place, is as follows :

Amongst the many and excellent reasons with
which my father had urged my mother to accept
of Dr. Slop’s assistance preferably to that of the
old woman,—there was one of a very singular
nature; which, when he had done arguing the
matter with her as a Christian, and came to argue
it over again with ber as’ a philosopher, he had
put his whole strength to, depending indeed upon
it as his sheet-anchor, It failed him ; though
from no defect in the argument itself ; but that,
do what he could, he was not able for his soul to
make her comprehend the drift of it. Cursed
luck! said he to himself, one afternoon, as he
walked out of the room, after he had been stating
it for an hour and a half to her, to no manner of
purpose ;—cursed luck ! said he, biting his lip, as
he shut the door,—fora man to be master of one
of the finest chains of reasoning in nature, and
have a wife, at the same time, with such a head-
piece that he cannot hang up a single inference
within-side of it, to save his soul from destruc-
tion.

This argument, though it was entirely lost upon
my mother,—had more weight with him than all
his other arguments joined together. I will,
therefore, endeavour to do it justice,—and set it
forth with all the perspicuity I am master of.

My father set out upon the strength of these
two following axioms :—

First, that an ounce of a man’s own wit was
worth a ton of other people’s ; and,

 

 

 

 

 

In a word, he would say error was error,—no
matter where it fell : whether in a fraction,—
or a pound,—’twas alike fatal to truth ; and she
was kept down at the bottom of her well as inevi-

Secondly (which by the bye, was the ground-
work of the first axiom,—though it comes last)—
That every man’s wit must come from every man’s
own soul—and no other body’s.

 

 

-
——

 

 

|—$—$—

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, 41

 

 

 

Now, as it was plain to my father that all souls
were by nature equal,—and that the great dif-
ference between the most acute and the most
obtuse understanding was from no original
sharpness or bluntness of one thinking substance
above or below another,—but arose merely from
the lucky or unlucky organization of the body, in
that part where the soul principally took up her
residence—he had made it the subject of his in-
quiry to find out the identical place.

Now, from the best accounts he had been able
to get of this matter, he was satisfied it could not
be where Des Cartes had fixed it, upon the top of
the pineal gland of the brain ; which, as he philo-
sophized, formed a cushion for her about the size
of a marrow pea ; though to speak the truth, as
So many nerves did terminate all in that one place,
—'’twas no bad conjecture :—and my father had
certainly fallen with that great philosopher plump
into the centre of the mistake, had it not been for
my uncle Toby,—who reseued him out of it by a
story he had told him of a Walloon officer at the
battle of Landen, who had one part of his brain
shot away by a musket-ball,—and another part
of it taken out after by a French surgeon ; and
after all, recovered, and did his duty very well
without it.

If death, said my father, reasoning with himself,
is nothing but the separation of the soul from the
body ; and if it is true that people can walk
about, and do their business without brains,—then
certes the soul does not inhabit there. i

As for that certain, very thin, subtle, and very
fragrant juice which Coglionissimo Borri, the great
Milanese physician, affirms, in a letter to Bartho-
line, to have discovered in the cellule of the
occipital parts of the cerebellum, and which he
likewise affirms to be the principal seat of the
reasonable soul (for you must know, in these latter
and more enlightened ages, there are two souls in
every man living,—the one according to the

 

 

great Metheglingius, being called the Animus, the
other the Anima) as for the opinion, I say, of
Borri, my father could never subscribe to it by
any means ; the very idea of so noble, so refined,
so immaterial, and so exalted a being as the Anima,
or even the Animus, taking up her residence, and
sitting dabbling, like a tadpole, all day long, both
sumer and winter, in a puddle,—or in a liquid of
any kind, how thick or thin soever, he would say
shocked his imagination ; he would scarce give
the doctrine a hearing.

What, therefore, seemed the least liable to ob-
Jections ofany was that the chief sensorium, or head
quarters of the soul, and to which place all intel-
ligences were referred, and whence all her man-
dates were issued—was in, or near, the cerebellum
—or rather somewhere about the medulla oblon-
gata, wherein, it was generally agreed by Dutch
anatomists that all the minute nerves from all the
organs of the seven senses concentred, like streets
and winding alleys, into a square,

So far there was nothing singular in my father’s
opinion ; he had the best of philosophers, of
all ages and climates, to go along with him.—But
here he took a road of his own, setting up another
Shandean hypothesis upon these corner-stones
they had laid for him ;—and which said hypo-
thesis equally stood its ground: whether the
subtlety and fineness of the soul depended upon the

 

 

 

 

 

temperature and clearness of the said liquor, or of
the finer net-work and texture in the cerebellum
itself ; which opinion he favoured.

He maintained that, next to the due care to be
taken in the act of propagation of each individual,
which required all the thought in the world, as it
laid the foundation of this incomprehensible con-
texture, in which wit, memory, fancy, eloquence,
and what is usually meant by the name of good
natural parts, do consist ;—that next to this and
his Christian name, which were the two original and
most efficacious causes of all ; that the third cause,
or rather what logicians call the Causa sine qua
non, and, without which, all that was done was of
no manner of significance,—was the preservation
of this delicate and fine-spun web, from the havoc
which was generally made in it by the violent com-
pression and crush which the head was made to
undergo by the nonsensical method of bringing us
into the world by that foremost. This re-
quires explanation.

My father, who dipped into all kinds of books, upon
looking into Lithopedus Senonesisde Portu dificili,*
published by Andrianus Smelygot, had found out
that the lax and pliable state of a child’s head in
parturition, the bones of the cranium having no
sutures at that time, was such that, by force of
the woman’s efforts, which, in strong labour pains,
was equal, upon an average, to a weight of four
hundred and Seventy pounds avoirdupois acting
perpendicularly upon it ;—— it so happenéd that
in forty-nine instances out of fifty, the said head
was compressed and moulded into the shape of an
oblong conical piece of dough, such as a pastry-
cook generally rolls up in order to make a pie of.
Good God! cried my father, what havoe
and destruction must this make in the infinitely
fine and tender texture of the cerebellum !—— Or
if there is such a Juice, as Borri pretends,—is it
not enough to make the clearest liquid in the world
both feculent and mothery ?

But how great was his apprehension when he

 

 

 

 

 

further understood that this force, acting upon
the very vertex of the head, not only injured the
brain itself, or cerebrum, but that ‘it necessarily
Squeezed and propelled the cerebrum towards the
cerebellum, which was the immediate seat of the
understanding —— Angels and ministers of grace
defend us! cried my father, can any soul with-
stand this shock 2 No wonder the intellectual
web is so rent and tattered as we sce it ; and that
so many of our best heads are no better than a
puzzled skein of silk—all perplexity—all confusion
within-side,

But when my father read on, and was let into
the secret that when the child was turned topsy-
turvy, which was easy for an operator to do, and
was extracted by the feet—that instead of the
cerebrum being propelled towards the cerebellum,
the cerebellum, on the contrary, was propelled
simply towards the cerebrum, where it could do no

 

 

 

* The author is here twice mistaken ;-—for Lithopedus
should be wrote thus, Lithopedii Senonensis tcon, The
second mistake is, that this Lithopedus is notan author
but a drawing of a petrified child. The account of this,
published by Athosius, 1580, may be seen at the end of
Cordzus’s works in Spachius, Mr. Tristram Shandy has
been led into thiserror either from seeing Lithopedus’s
name of late in a catalogue of learned writers in Dr, :
or by mistaking Lithopedus for Trinecavellius,—from
the too great similitude of their names.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

en oe ee ee ee

 

 

a agin

itiidlaciiaakanainoa eae

Asano

eee

See

ea
——ae

 

 

 

42

 

manner of hurt...... By heavens ! cried he, the
world is in a conspiracy to drive out what little wit
God has given us,—and the professors of the ob-
stetric art are listed into the same conspiracy.——
What is it to me which end of my son comes fore-
most into the world, provided all goes right after,
and his cerebellum escapes uncrushed ?

Tt is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man
has conceived it, that it assimilates everything to
itself as proper nourishment ; and from the first
moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the
stronger by everything you see, hear, read, or un-
derstand. This is of great use.

When my father was gone with this about a
month, there was scarce a phenomenon of stupid-
ity or of genius which he could not readily solve

by it ; ——— it accounted for the eldest son being
the greatest blockhead in the family.——Poor

devil ! he would say, he made way for the capacity

of his younger brothers.——It unriddled the obser- |

vations of drivellers and monstrous heads, show-
ing, a priori, it could not be otherwise—unless****
—TI don’t know what. It wonderfully explained
and accounted for the acumen of the Asiatic genius ;
and that sprightlier turn, and more penetrating
intuition of minds, in warmer climates ; not from
the loose and common-place solution of a clearer
sky, and a more perpetual sunshine, &c.—which,

 

 

for aught he knew, might as well rarefy and dilute |

the faculties of the soul into nothing by one ex-

. . |
treme, as they are condensed in colder climates |

by the other ;—but he traced the affair up to its
spring-head,—showed that in warmer climates
nature had laid a lighter tax upon the fairest part
of the creation ;—their pleasures more—the neces-
sity of their pains less, insomuch, that the pressure
and resistance upon the vertex was so slight that
the whole organization of the cerebellum was pre-
served ;—nay he did not believe, in natural births,
that so much as a single thread of the net-work
was broke or displaced,—so that the soul might
just act as she liked. :
When my father had got so far,—what a blaze
of light did the accounts of the Ceesarean section,
and of the towering geniuses who had come safe
into the world by it, cast upon this hypothesis ?
Here you see, he would say, there was no injury
done to the sensorium ;—no pressure of the head
against the pelvis ;—no propulsion of the cerebrum
towards the cerebellum, either by the os pubis on
this side, or the os coccygis on that ; —— and, pray,
what were the happy consequences ; Why, sir,
your Julius Cesar, who gave the operation a
name ; and your Hermes Trismegistus, who was
born so before ever the operation had a name ;—
your Scipio Africanus ; your Manlius Torquatus ;
our Edward the Sixth, who, had he lived, would have

 

 

done the same honour to the hypothesis ;—these, |

and many more, who figured high in the annals of |

 

fame ;—all came sideway, sir, into the world.
The incision of the abdomen and ulerus ran for
six weeks together in my father’s head ;—he had

read, and was satisfied, that wounds in the epigas- |

trium, and those in the matrix, were not mortal ;
—so that the belly of the mother might be opened

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.
extremely well to give a passage to the child.

He mentioned the thing one afternoon to my
mother,—merely as a matter of fact ; but seeing
her turn as pale as ashes at the very mention of
it, as much as the operation flattered his hopes,—
he thought it as well to say no more of it—con-
tenting himself with admiring what he thought
was to no purpose to propose.

This was my father Mr. Shandy’s hypothesis ;
concerning which I have only to add that my
brother Bobby did as great honour to it (what-
ever he did to the family) as any one of the great
heroes we spoke of.—For happening not only to
be christened, as I told you, but to be born too,
when my father was at Epsom—being, moreover,
my mother’s first child—coming into the world
with his head foremost,—and turning out after-
wards a lad of wonderful slow parts—my father
spelt all these together in his opinion ; and, as he
had failed at one end, he was determined to try
the other.

This was not to be expected from one of the
sisterhood, who are not easily to be put out of their
way,—and was, therefore, one of my father’s great
reasons in favour of a man of science, whom he
could better deal with.

Of all men in the world, Dr. Slop was the fittest
for my father’s purpose ;—for though his new-
invented forceps was the armour he had proved,
and what he maintained to be the safest imstru-
ment of deliverance,—yet it seems he had scat-
tered a word or two in his book in favour of the
very thing which ran in my father’s fancy ;—
though not with a view to the soul’s good, in
extracting by the feet, as was my father’s system,
but for reasons merely obstetrical.

This will account for the coalition betwixt my
father and Dr. Slop, in the ensuing discourse,
which went a little hard against my uncle Toby.
In what manner a plain man, with nothing but
common sense, could bear upagainst two such allies
in science, is hard to conceive. You may conjec-
ture upon it, if you please,—and whilst your
imagination is in motion, you may encourage it to
go on, and discover by what causes and effects in
nature it could come to pass that my uncle Toby
got his modesty by the wound he received upon
his groin. You may raise a system to account
for the loss of my nose by marriage articles,—and
show the world how it could happen that I should
have the misfortune to be called Tristram, in
opposition to my father’s hypothesis, and the wish
of the whole family, godfathers and godmothers
not excepted. These, with fifty other points
left yet unravelled, you may endeavour to solve,
if you have time ;—but, I tell you beforehand, it
will be in vain ;—for not the sage Alquise, the
magician in Don Belianis of Greece, nor the no
less famous Urganda, the sorceress, his wife (were
they alive), could pretend to come within a league
of the truth.

The reader will be content to wait for a full
explanation of these matters till the next year,—
when a series of things will be laid open which he
little expects.SS Eee

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF

 

VOLUME THE

 

 

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

a

 

Eat RD.

 

CHAPTER I.
= I -wiss, Dr. Slop,” quoth my uncle Toby
(repeating his wish for Dr. Slop a second time, and
with a degree of more zeal and earnestness in his
Manner of wishing than he had wished at first*)
==. WIsH,, Dr. Slop,” quoth my uncle Toby,
“you had seen what prodigious armies we had in
Flanders.”

My uncle Toby’s wish did Dr.
which his heart never intended any man.—Sir, it
confounded him—and thereby putting his ideas
first into confusion, and then’ to flight, he could
not rally them again for the soul of him.

In all disputes, male or female,
honour, for profit, or for love,—it makes no differ-
ence in the case ;—nothing is more dangerous

Slop a disservice,

 

 

whether for |

> |

madam, than a wish coming sideways in this un- |

expected manner upon a man: the safest way, in
general, to take off the force of the wish is for the
party wished at instantly to get upon his legs,—

and wish the wisher something in return, of pretty |

 

near the same value ;—so, balancing the account

upon the spot, you stand as you were,—nay, some- |

times gain the advantage of the attack by it.

This will be fully illustrated to the world in my |

chapter of wishes.—

Dr. Slop did not understand the nature of this
defence ;—he was puzzled with it, and it put an
entire stop to the dispute for four minutes and a
half ;—five had been fatal to it :—-my father saw

the danger :—the dispute was one of the most |

interesting disputes in the world, “ Whether the
child of his prayers and endeavours should

be born without a head or with one.*——__He |
waited to the last moment, to allow Dr. Slop, in |

whose behalf the wish was made, his
returning it ; but perceiving, I say, that he was
confounded, and continued looking with that per-
plexed vacuity of eye which puzzled souls generally
stare with,—first in my uncle Toby’s face—then
in his—then up—then down—then east—east-and-
by-east, and so on,—coasting it along by the plinth
of the wainscot, till he had got to the opposite
point of the compass,—and that he had actually
begun to count the brass nails upon the arm of his
chair,—my father thought there was no time to be
lost with my uncle Toby, so took up the discourse
as follows :—

CHAPTER II.

“—Wuat prodigious armies you had in Flan-
ders !”

Brother Toby, replied my father, taking his wig
from off his head with his right hand, and with
his deft pulling out a striped India handkerchief
from his right coat-pocket, in order to rub his
head, as he argued the point with my uncle
Toby.
——Now, in this, I think my father was much

 

* Vide page 40.

right of |

to blame ; and I will give you my reasons for it.
Matters of no more seeming consequence in
themselves than “ Whether my father should have
taken off his wig with his right hand or with his
left ’-_-have divided the greatest kingdoms, and
made the crowns of the monarchs who governed
them to totter upon their heads——But need I
tell you, sir, that the circumstances with which
everything in this world is begirt give everything
in this world its size and shape !—and by tight-
ening it, or relaxing it, this way or that, make

 

bad,—indifferent or not indifferent—just as the
case happens ?

As my father’s India handkerchief was in his
right coat-pocket, he should by no means have
suffered his right hand to have got engaged : on
the contrary, instead of taking off his wig with
it, as he did, he ought to have committed that
entirely to the left ; and then, when the natural
exigency my father was under of rubbing his head,
called out for his handkerchief, he would have had
nothing in the world to have done but to put his
right hand into his right coat-pocket and take it
out ;—which he might have done without any
violence, or the least ungraceful twist in any one
tendon or muscle of his whole body.

In this case (unless, indeed, my father had been
resolved to make a fool of himself by holding the
wig stiff in his left hand,—or by making some
nonsensical angle or other at his elbow-joint, or
arm-pit)—his whole attitude
natural—unforced. Reynolds himself, great and
graceful as he paints, might have painted him as
he sat.

Now, as my father managed this matter, con-
sider what a devil of a figure my father made of
himself.

In the latter end of Queen Anne’s reign, and in
the beginning of the reign of King George the First,
—* coat-pockets were cut very low down in the
skirt.”—I need say no more ;—the father of
mischief, had he been hammering at it a month,
could not have contrived a worse fashion for one
in my father’s situation.

CHAPTER III.

Ir was not an easy matter in any king’s reign
(unless you were as lean a subject as myself) to
have forced your hand diagonally, quite across
your whole body, so as to gain the bottom of your
opposite coat-pocket. In the year one thousand
seven hundred and eighteen, when this happened,
it was extremely difficult ; so that when my uncle
Toby discovered the transverse zig-zaggery of my
father’s approaches towards it, it instantly brought
into his mind those he had done duty in, before
the gate of St. Nicholas :—the idea of which drew
off his attention so entirely from the subject in
debate, that he had got his right hand to the bell

 

the |
thing to be, what it is,—great,—little,—good,—

had been easy— |

to ring up Trim, to go and fetch his map ‘ll
|ea

Sear ee

\ ak
‘
i
We

oon
a
me

}
if
ue

Tee

 

————

i en

 

 

 

44 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

Gyre eae

Paes

 

 

Namur, and his compasses and sector along
with it, to measure the returning angles of the
traverses of that attack— but particularly of
that one where he received his wound upon his
groin.

My father knit his brows, and as he knit
them all the blood in his body seemed to rush up
into his face—my uncle Toby dismounted imme-
dediately.

—TI did not apprehend your uncle Toby was 0’
horseback——_—_..

CHAPTER IV.

A man’s body, and his mind, with the utmost
reverence to both I speak it, are exactly like a
jerkin, and a jerkin’s lining ;—rumple the one, you
rumple the other. There is one certain excep-
tion, however, in this case, and that is, when you
are so fortunate a fellow as to have had your
jerkin made of gum-taffeta, and the body-lining to
it of a sarsenet or thin persian.

Zeno, Cleanthes, Diogenes Babylonius, Dionysius,
Heraclitus, Antipater, Panzetius, and Possidonius,
amongst the Greeks;—Cato, and Varro,and Seneca,
amongst the Romans; Pantenus, and Clemens
Alexandrinus, and Montaigne, amongst the Chris-
tians ; and a score and a half of good, honest,
unthinking Shandean people as ever lived, whose
names 1 ean’t recollect,—all pretend that their
jerkins were made after this fashion; you might have
rumpled and crumpled, and doubled and ereased,
and fretted and fringed the outside of them all to
pieces ; in short, you might have played the very
devil with them, and at the same time not one of
the insides of ’em would have been one button the
worse, for all you had done to them.

I believe, in my conscience, that mine is made
up somewhat after this sort ;—for never poor
jerkin has been tickled off at such a rate as it has
been these last nine months together ;—and yet,
I declare, the lining to it,—as far as I am a judge
of the matter, is not a three-penny piece the
worse ;—pell-mell, helter-shelter, ding-dong, cut
and thrust, back stroke and fore stroke, side way
and long way, have they been trimming it for me:
—had there been the least gumminess in my lining,
by Heaven ! it had all of it, long ago, been frayed
and fretted to a thread.

You, Messrs. the Monthly Reviewers!
how could you cut and slash my jerkin as you
did ;—how did you know but you would cut my
lining too ?

Heartily, and from my soul, to the protection
of that Being who will injure none of us, do I
recommend you and your affairs ;—so, God bless
you :—only next month, if any one of you should
gnash his teeth, and storm and rage at me, as
some of you did last May (in which, I remember,
the weather was very hot)—don’t be exasperated
if I pass it by again with good temper, being
determined, as long as I live or write (which in my
case means the same thing), never to give the
honest gentleman a worse word or a worse wish
than my uncle Toby gave the fly which buzzed
about his nose all dinner-time : “ Go,— go,
poor devil,” quoth he,—“get thee gone s—why
should I hurt thee !—This world is surely wide
enough to hold both thee and me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.
Anyman,madam,reasoning upwards, and observ-
ing the prodigious suffusion of blood im my father’s
countenance,—by means of which (as all the blood
in his body seemed to rush into his face, as I told
you) he must have reddened, pictorically and
scientifically speaking, six whole tints and a half,
if not a full octave above his natural colour ;—
any man, madam, but my uncle Toby, who had
observed this,—together with the violent knitting
of my father’s brows, and the extravagant contor-
tion of his body, during the whole affair,—would
have concluded my father in a rage 5 and, taking
that for granted,—had he been a lover of such
kind of concord asarises from two such instruments
being put in exact tune,—he would instantly have
screwed up his to the same pitch ;—and then the
devil and all had broke loose—the whole piece,
madam, must have been played off, like the sixth
of Avison Searlatti—con furia—like mad.—Grant
me patience !—What has con furia,—con strepilo
—or any other hurly-burly whatever, to do with
harmony ?

Any man, I say, madam, but my unele Toby,
the benignity of whose heart interpreted every
motion of the body, in the kindest sense the
motion would admit of, would have concluded my
father angry, and blamed him too. My unele
Toby blamed nothing but the tailor who cut the
pocket-hole ;—so sitting still, till my father had
got his handkerchief out of it, and looking all the
time up in his face, with inexpressible good-will—
my father, at length, went on as follows :

 

 

 

CHAPTER YI.

« War prodigious armies you had in Flanders!”
Brother Toby, quoth my father, I do believe
thee to be as honest a man, and with as good and
as upright a heart, as ever God created ;—nor is
it thy fault if all the children which have been,
may, can, shall, will, or ought to be, begotten,
come with their heads foremost into the world ;—
but, believe me, dear Toby, the accidents which
unavoidably waylay them, not only in the article
of our begetting ’em,—though these, in my opinion,
are well worth considering, but the dangers and
difficulties our children are beset with after they
are got forth into the world, are enow ;—little
need is there to expose them to unnecessary ones
in their passage to it. Are these dangers, quoth
my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon my father’s
knee, and looking up seriously in his face, for an
answer,—are these dangers greater now-a-days,
brother, than in times past? Brother Toby,
answered my father, if a child was but fairly begot,
and born alive, and healthy, and the mother did
well after it—our forefathers never looked farther.
—My uncle Toby instantly withdrew his hand
from off my father’s knee, reclined his body gently
back in his chair, raised his head, till he could
just see the cornice of the room, and then, direct-
ing the buecinatory muscles along his cheeks, and
the orbicular muscles around his lips to do their
duty,—he whistled Lillibullero.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VII.
Wuuitstmy uncle Toby was whistling Lillibullero
to my father,—Dr. Slop was stamping, and cursing
and damning at Obadiah at a most dreadful rate.It would have done your heart good, and cured
you, sir, for ever, of the vile sin of Swearing, to
have heard him—I am determined, therefore, to
relate the whole affair to you.

When Dr. Slop’s maid delivered the green
baize-bag, with her master’s instruments in it,
to Obadiah, she very sensibly exhorted him to
put his head and one arm through the strings,
and ride with it slung across his body. - So;
undoing the bow-knot, to lengthen the strings for
him, without any more ado, she helped him on
with it. However, as this, in some measure,
unguarded the mouth of the bag ; lest anything
should bolt out, in galloping back at the speed
Obadiah threatened, they consulted to take it off
again ; and, in the great care and caution of their
hearts, they had taken the two strings, and tied
them close (pursing up the mouth of the bag first)
with half-a-dozen hard knots, each of which
Obadiah, to make all safe, had twitched and drawn
together with all the strength of his body.

This answered all that Obadiah and the maid
intended ; but was no remedy against some evils
which neither he nor she foresaw. The instru-
ments, it seems, as tight as the bag was tied above,
had so much room to play in it, towards the
bottom (the shape of the bag being conical) that
Obadiah could not make a trot of it, but with such
a terrible jingle, what with the lire-léle, forceps,
and squirt,as would have been enough, had Hymen
been taking a jaunt that way, to have frightened
him out of the country ; but when Obadiah acce-
lerated his motion, and from a plain trot essayed
to prick his coach-horse into a full gallop,—by
Heaven ! sir, the jingle was incredible.

As Obadiah had a wife and three children,—the
turpitude of fornication, and the many other poli-
tical ill consequences of this jingling, never once
entered his brain ;—he had, however, his objec-
tion, which came home to himself, and weighed
with him as it has oftentimes done with the greatest
patriots “The poor fellow, sir, was not able
to hear himself whistle.”

 

CHAPTER VIII.

As Obadiah loved wind-musie preferably toallthe
instrumental music he carried with him,—he very
considerately set his imagination to work to cor,-
trive and to invent by what means he should put
himself in a condition of enjoying it.

In all distresses (except musical) where small
cords are wanted, nothing is so apt to enter a
man’s head as his hat-band: the philosophy
of this is so near the surface,—I scorn to enter
into it.

As Obadiah’s was a mixed case ; mark, Sirs,
—I say, a mixed case; for it was obstetrica]—
serip-tical, squirtical, papistical and, as far as the
coach-horse was concerned in it,—cabalistical, and
only partly musical ;—Obadiah made no seruple
of availing himself of the first expedient which
offered ; so taking hold of the bag and instru-
ments, and griping them hard together with one
hand, and, with the finger and thumb of the other,
putting the end of the hat-band betwixt his teeth,
and then slipping his hand down to the middle of
it,—he tied and cross-tied them all fast together
from one end to the other (as you would cord a
trunk) with such a multiplicity of round-abouts
and intricate cross turns, with a hard knot at

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF

|

nr ce a

 

TRIS

TRAM SHANDY. 45
every intersection or point where the strings met,
—that Dr. Slop must have had three-fifths of Job’s
patience, at least, to have unloosed them.—I think,
in My conscience, that, had Nature been in one of
her nimble moods, and in humour for such a con-
test,—and she and Dr. Slop both fairly started
together,—there is no man living who had seen
the bag with all that Obadiah had done to it,—
and known likewise the great speed the Goddess
can make, when she thinks proper, who would
have had the least doubt remaining in his mind
which of the two would have carried off the prize.

|

 

|

|

My mother, madam, had been delivered sooner |

than the green bag infallibly
knots.
Shandy !
that trial been made for thee, and it was
one but it had,—thy affairs had not been so
depressed (at least by the depression of thy nose)
as they have been; nor had the fortunes of thy
house and the oceasions of making them, which
have so often presented themselves in the course
of thy life, to thee been so often, so yexatiously,
So tamely, so irrecoverably, abandoned—as thou
hast been forced to leave them !—but tis over,—
all but the account of ‘em, which cannot be given
to the curious till I am got out into the world.

 

 

Sport of small accidents, Tristram

 

CHAPTER IX.

GREAT wits jump :—for the moment Dr.
his eyes upon his bag (which he had not done till
the dispute with my uncle Toby about midwifery
put him in mind of it), the very same thought
occurred.—’Tis God’s mercy, quoth he (to him-
self), that Mrs. Shandy
it, else she might have been brought to bed, seven
times told, before one-half of these knots could
have been got untied—But here you must dis-
tinguish :—the thought floated only in Dr. Slop’s
mind, without sail or ballast to it, as a simple
proposition ; millions of which, as your worship
knows, are every day swimming quietly in the
middle of the thin juice of a man’s understanding,
without being carried backwards or forwards, till
some little gust of passion or interest drive them
to one side.

A sudden trampling in the room above, near
my mother’s bed, did the proposition the very
service I am speaking of. By all that’s unfortu-
nate, quoth Dr. Slop, unless I make haste, the
thing will actually befal me as it is.

Slop cast

CHAPTER X.

In the case of knots ; by which, in the first place,
I would not be understood to mean slip-knots,—
because, in the course of my life and opinions—
my opinions concerning them will come in more
properly when IT mention the catastrophe of my
great-uncle Mr. Hammond Shandy,—a little man,
—but of high fancy :—he rushed into the Duke
of Monmouth’s affair: —nor, secondly, in this
place, do I mean that particular species of knots
called bow-knots ;—there is so little address, or
skill, or patience, required in the unloosing of
them, that they are below my giving any opinion
at ail about them.—But, by the knots I am speak-
ing of, may it please your reverences to believe
that I mean good, honest, devilish tight, hard
knots, made bona fide, as Obadiah made his —in
which there is no quibbling provision made by the

 

 

at least by twenty

that thou art, and ever wilt be! had |
fifty to |

has had so bad a time of |——

—

 

 

 

 

 

 

46

duplication and return of the two ends of the
strings through the annulus or noose made by the
second implication of them—to get them slipped
and undone by.—I hope you apprehend me.

In the case of these knots, then, and .of the
several obstructions which, may it please your
reverences, such knots cast in our way in getting
through life—every hasty man can whip out his
pen-knife and cut through them. —’Tis wrong.
Believe me, sirs, the most virtuous way, and
which both reason and conscience dictate—is to
take our teeth or our fingers to them.—Dr. Slop
had lost his teeth,—his favourite instrument, by
extracting in a wrong direction, or by some mis-
application of it, unfortunately slipping, he had
formerly, in a hard labour, knocked out three of
the best of them with the handle of it :—he tried
his fingers—alas! the nails of his fingers and
thumbs were cut close.—The deuce take it! I
can make nothing of it either way, cried Dr. Slop.
——The trampling over head near my mother’s
bed-side increased.—Pox take the fellow! I shall
never get the knots untied as long as I live-—My
mother gave a groan...... Lend me your pen-
knife—I must e’en cut the knots at last.—Pugh !
—psha!—Lord! I have cut my thumb quite
across to the very bone,—curse the fellow—if there
was not another man-midwife within fifty miles
—T am undone for this bout—I wish the scoundrel
hanged—I wish he was shot—I wish all the devils
in hell had him for a blockhead !

My father had a great respect for Obadiah, and
could not bear to hear him disposed of in sucha
manner :—he had, moreover, some little respect
for himself,—and could as ill bear with the indig-
nity offered to himself in it.

Had Dr. Slop cut any part about him but his
thumb, my father had passed it by—his prudence
had triumphed :—as it was, he was determined to
have his revenge.

Small curses, Dr. Slop, upon great occasions,
quoth my father (condoling with him first upon
the accident), are but so much waste of our
strength and soul’s health to no manner of pur-
pose. _ I own it, replied Dr. Slop... . They
are like sparrow-shot, quoth my uncle Toby (sus-
pending his whistling), fired against a bastion. ...
They serve, continued my father, to stir the
humours—but carry off none of their acrimony ;
for my own part, I seldom swear or curse at all—
I hold it bad ;—but if I fall into it by surprise, 1
generally retain so much presence of mind [ Right,
quoth my uncle Toby] as to make it answer my
purpose ;—that is, I swear on till I find myself
easy. A wise and a just man, however, would
always endeavour to proportion the vent given to
these humours, not only to the degree of them
stirring within himself, but to the size and ill
intent of the offence upon which they are to fall.
Injuries come only from the heart, quoth
my uncle Toby. For this reason, continued
my father, with the most Cervantic gravity, I
have the greatest veneration in the world for
that gentleman who, in distrust of his own discre-
tion in this point, sat down and composed (that is,
at his leisure) fit forms of swearing suitable to all
cases, from the lowest to the highest provocation
which could possibly happen to him :—which forms,
being well considered by him, and such, moreover,
as he could stand to, he kept them ever by him on

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the chimney-piece, within his reach, ready for use.
I never apprehended, replied Dr. Slop, that
such a thing was ever thought of—much less
executed..__——I beg your pardon, answered my
father, I was reading, though not using, one of
them to my brother Toby this morning, whilst
he poured out the tea :—’tis here upon the shelf
over my head ; but if I remember right, ’tis
too violent for a cut of the thumb. Not at
all, quoth Dr. Slop—the devil take the fellow.

hen, answered my father, ’tis much at
your service, Dr. Slop,—on condition you read it

So—rising up and reaching down a form

 

 

aloud.
of excommunication of the church of Rome, a
copy of which my father (who was curious in his
collections) had procured out of the ledger-book
of the Church of Rochester, writ byERNULPHUs the
bishop—with a most affected seriousness of look
and voice, which might have cajoled ERNULPHUS
himself,—he put it into Dr. Slop’s hands. Dr.
Slop wrapped his thumb up in the corner of his
handkerchief, and, with a wry face, though with-
out any suspicion, read aloud, as follows ;—my
uncle Toby whistling Lillibullero, as loud as he
could, all the time.

 

CHAPTER XI.

[As the genuineness of the consultation of the Sorbonne
upon the question of baptism was doubted by some, and
denied by others,—it was thought proper to print the
original of this excommunication : for the copy of which
Mr. Shandy returns thanks to the Chapter-clerk of the
Dean and Chapter of Rochester.]

EXCOMMUNICATIO
TEXTUS DE ECCLESIA ROFFENSI, PER ERNULFUM
EPISCOPUM,

Ex auctoritate Dei Omni- << By the authority of God
potentis, Patris, et Filii, et Almighty, the Father, Son,
Spiritus Sancti, et sancto- and Holy Ghost, and of the
rum canonum, sancteque holy canons, and of the un-
et intemerate Virginis Dei defiled Virgin Mary, mother
genetricis Mariz,— and patronessof our Saviour,

_T think there is no necessity, quoth Dr. Slop,
dropping the paper down to his knee, and ad-
dressing himself to my father,—as you have read
it over, sir, so lately, to read it aloud ;—and, as
Captain Shandy seems to have no great inclination
to hear it,—I may as well read it to myself.
That’s contrary to treaty, replied my father.—
Besides, there is something so whimsical, especially
in the latter part of it, I should grieve to lose the
pleasure of a second reading —Dr. Slop did not
altogether like it ;—but my uncle Toby offering at
that instant to give over whistling and read it
himself to them,—Dr. Slop thought he mightas
well read it, under the cover of my uncle Toby’s
whistling,—as suffer my uncle Toby to read it
alone ;—so, raising up the paper to his face, and
holding it quite parallel to it, in order to hide his
chagrin,—he read it aloud, as follows :—my uncle
Toby whistling Dilhbullera, though not quite so
loud as before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

«« By theauthority of God
Almighty, the Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost, and of
the undefiled Virgin Mary,
mother and patroness of our
Saviour, and of all the celes-
tial virtues, angels, arch-
angels, thrones, dominions,

Atque omnium cceles-
tium virtutum, angelorum,
archangelorum, thronorum,
dominationum, potestatu-
um, cherubin ac seraphin,
et sanctorum, patriarcha-
rum, prophetarum, et om-
nium apostolorum et evan-

 

 

|

||

{|
THE LIFE AND OPIN

ee ee eae LY

sanctorum
qui in con-
spectu Agni Sancti soli digni
inventi sunt canticum can-

| et
|
|
|
| tare novum, et sanctorum
|
|
|
|
{
|

gelistarum,
innocentum,

martyrum et sanctorum con-
fessorum, et sanctarum vir-
ginum, atque omnium simul
sanctorum et electorum Dei,
—Excommunicamus, et an-
vel Os s
athematizamus hune furem,
vel os Ss
| vel hune malefactorem, N.
| N. et a liminibus sancte
Dei ecclesiz sequestramus,
et xternis suppliciis excru-
vel i n
ciandus, mancipetur, cum
athan et Abiram, et cum
his qui dixerunt Domino
Deo, Recede a nobis, scien-
tiam viarum tuarum nolu-
mus: et sicut aqua ignis ex-
tinguitur, sic extinguatur,
vel eorum
lucerna ejus in secula secu-
| n
| lorum, nisi respuerit et ad
n
satisfactionem venerit.
men.

An

os

Maledicat illum Deus Pa-

ter qui hominem creavit!
os

Maledicat illum Dei Filius

qui pro homine passus est !

| OS
; Maledicat illum Spiritus
Sanctus qui in baptismo ef-
Os

fusus est! Maledicat illum
sancta crux, quam Christus
pro nostra salute hostem tri-
umphans ascendit!
Os
Maledicat illum sancta
Dei genetrix et perpetua
Virgo Maria! Maledicat
os
illum sanctus Michael, ani-
marum susceptor sacrarum !
Os
Maledicant illum omnes an-
geli et archangeli, principa-
tus et potestates, omnisque
Militia celestis !

0s
Maledicat illum patri-
archarum et prophetarum
laudabilis numerus!
os
Maledicant illum sanctus
Johannes Precursor et Bap-
tista Christi, et sanctus Pe-
trus, et sanctus Paulus, at-
que sanctus Andreas, omnes-
que Christi apostoli, simul
et ceteri discipuli, quatuor
quoque evangeliste, qui sua
predicatione mundum uni-
versum converterunt! Ma-
08
ledicat illum cuneus mar-
tyrum et confessorum miri-
ficus, qui Deo bonis operibus
placitus inventus est !

 

powers, cherubins and sera-
phins, and of all the holy
patriarchs, prophets, and of
all the apostles and evange-
lists, and of the holy inno-
cents, who, in the sight of
the Holy Lamb, are found
worthy to sing the new song
of the holy martyrsand holy
confessors, and of the holy
virgins, and of all the saints
together, with the holy and
elect of God,—May he [Oba-
diah] be damned | for tying
these knots]— We excom-
municate, and anathematise
him, and from the thresholds
of the holy church of God
Almighty we sequester him,
that he may be tormented,
disposed, and delivered over
with Dathan and Abiram,
and with those who say unto
the Lord God, Depart from
us, We desire none of thy
ways. Andas fireis quenched
with water, so let the light
of him be put out for ever-
more, unless it shall repent
him (Obadiah, of the knots
which he has tied] and make
satisfaction [for them]!
Amen.

‘* May the Father, who
created man, curse him !—
May the Son, who suffered
for us, curse him !—_May
the Holy Ghost, who was
given to usin baptism, curse
him ! [Obadiah] May the
holy cross, which Christ, for
our salvation, triumphing
over his enemies, ascended,
curse him!

 

** May the holy and eter-
nal Virgin Mary, mother of

God, curse him !___May St.
Michael,the advocate of holy
suuls, curse him !——May all

the angels and archangels,
principalities and powers,
and all the heavenly armies,
curse him. [Our armies
swore terribly in Flanders,
cried my uncle Toby,—but
nothing to this. For my
ownpart, [could not havethe
heart to curse my dog so. ]

** May the praiseworthy
multitude of patriarchs and
prophets curse him !

‘‘May St. John the Pre-
cursor, and St. John the
Baptist, and St. Peter and
St. Paul, and St. Andrew,
and all other Christ’s Apos-
tles together, curse him! and
may the rest of his disciples,
and four evangelists, who by
their preaching converted
the universal world, and
may the holyand wonderful
company of martyrs and
confessors, who by their holy
works are found pleasing to
God Almighty, curse him
[Obadiah]!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

os

Maledicant illum sacra-
rum virginum chori, qua
mundi vana causa honoris
Christi respuenda contemp-

os
serunt! Maledicant illum
omnes sancti qui ab initio
mundi usque in finem seculi
Deo dilecti inveniuntur!
os

Maledicant illum celi et
terra, et omnia sancta in
eis manentia !

ion
Maledictus sit ubicunque,
n
fuerit, sive in domo, sive
in agro, sive in vid, sive in
semita, sive in silva, sive in
aqua, sive in ecclesia!
i n

Maledictus sit vivendo,

moriendo,—

 

hl etal ta
Pel TL
Pipe

Ly lll 4

 

manducando, bibendo, esu-
riendo, sitiendo, jejunando,
dormitando, dormiendo, vi-
gilando, ambulando, stando,
sedendo, jacendo, operando,
quiescendo, mingendo, ca-
cando, flebotomando !
i n
Maledictus sit in totis
viribus corporis !
i nh
Maledictus sit
exterius !

intus et

1 <u
Maledictus sit in capillis!
i n
Maledictus sit in cerebro!

ion
Maledictus sit in vertice, in
temporibus, in fronte, in
auriculis, in superciliis, in
oculis, in genis, in maxillis,
in naribus, in dentibus, mor-
dacibus, in labris sive molari-
bus, in labiis, in gutture, in
humeris, in carpis, in bra-
chiis, in manibus, in digitis,
in pectore, in corde, et in
omnibus interioribus stoma-
cho tenus, in renibus, in in-
guine, in femore, in geni-
talibus, in coxis, in genibus,
in cruribus, in pedibus, et
in unguibus!

1 n
Maledictus sit in totis
compagibus membrorum, 4
vertice capitis, usque ad
plantam pedis!—Non sit in
eo sanitas !

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

47
a
** May the holy choirs of
the holy virgins, who for the
honour of Christ have de-
spised the things of the
world, damn him !—May all
the saints who from the be-
ginning of the world to ever-
lasting ages are found to be
beloved of God, damn him!

 

 

 

 

“ May the heavens and
earth,and all the holy things
remaining therein, damn
him [Obadiah]! or her Lor
whoever else had a hand in
tying these knots]!

‘** May he [Obadiah] be
damned wherever he be,
whether in the house or the
stables, the garden or the
field, orin the highway,orin
the path, or in the wood, or
in the water, or in the
church!____May he be
cursed in living, in dying!
[Heremy uncle Toby, taking
advantage of a minim inthe
second bar of his tune, kept
whistling one continued note
to the end of the sentence,—
Dr. Slop, with his division
of curses moving under him,
like a running bass all the
Way.] May he be cursed in
eating and drinking ; in be-
ing hungry, in being thirsty,
in fasting, in sleeping, in
slumbering, in waking, in
walking, in standing, in sit:
ting, in lying, in working, in
resting, in pissing, in shit-
ting, and in blood-letting !

‘““May he [Obadiah] be
cursed in all the faculties of
his body,

*‘May he be cursed in-
wardly and outwardly !——
May he be cursed in the hair
of his head! May he be
cursed in his brains, and in
his vertex, [that is a sad
curse, quoth my father] in
his temples, in his forehead,
in his ears, in his eyebrows,
in his cheeks, in his jaw-
bones, in his nostrils, in his
fore-teeth and grinders, in
his lips, in his throat, in his
shoulders, in his wrists, in
his arms, in his hands, in
his fingers !

** May he be damn’d in his
mouth, in his breast, in his
heart and purtenance, down
to the very stomach !

** May he be cursed in his
reins, and in his groin [God
in Heaven forbid ! quoth my
uncle Toby}, in his thighs,
in his genitals [my father
shook his head], and in his
hips, and in his knees, his
legs, and feet, and toe-nails!

‘* May he be cursed in all
the joints and articulations
of his members, from the
top of his head to the sole
of his foot! May there be
no sounndess in him !te =
Remon sages

=

as

en

elec

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

0s

Maledicat illum Christus «May the Son of the
Filius Dei vivi toto sue ma- living God, with all the
jestatis imperio—— glory of his majesty,——

—Here my uncle Toby, throwing back his head,
gave a monstrous, long, loud Whew—w—w—,
something betwixt the interjectional whistle of
Hey-day! and the word itself.

 

 

 

 

 

' man in the world, except to a connoisseur ;

By the golden beard of Jupiter,—and of
Juno (if her majesty wore one), and by the beards
of the rest of your heathen worships, which, by
the bye, was no small number, since what with the
beards of your celestial gods, and gods aérial and
aquatic,—to say nothing of the beards of town gods
and country gods, or of the celestial goddesses your
wives, or of the infernal goddesses your whores
and concubines (that is, in case they wore them)
all which beards, as Varro tells me upon his
word and honour, when mustered up together,
| made no less than thirty thousand effective beards
upon the Pagan establishment ;—every beard of
which claimed the rights and privileges of being
stroked gand sworn by :—by all these beards to-
gether, then,—I vow and protest that, of the two
| bad cassocks Iam worth in the world, I would
| have given the better of them, as freely as ever
| Cid Hamet offered his,—only to have stood by, and
heard my uncle Toby’s accompaniment.

 

 

—et insurgat adversus ——*‘‘ curse him! ’’— con-
iTlum celum cum omnibus tinued Dr. Slop,—and ‘may
virtutibus que in eo moven- Heaven, with all the powers
tur ad damnandum eum, which move therein, rise up
nisi peenituerit et ad satis- against him,curse and damn
factionem venerit! Amen. him [Obadiah] unless he re-
Fiat, fiat! Amen. pent and make satisfaction !

Amen. So be it,—so be it.
Amen.”

I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, my heart would
not let me curse the Devil himself with so much
bitterness. He is the father of curses, replied
Dr. Slop. So am not I, replied my uncle.
But he is cursed and damned already, to all eter-
nity, replied Dr. Slop.

I am sorry for it, quoth my uncle Toby.

Dr. Slop drew up his mouth, and was just
| beginning to return my uncle Toby the com-
| pliment of his Whu—u—u, or interjectional whis-
| tle, when the door hastily opening, in the next
chapter but one,—put an end to the affair.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIL
Now don’t let us give ourselves a parcel of airs,
and pretend that the oaths we make free with in
this land of liberty of ours are our own; and,

| because we have the spirit to swear them,—
| imagine that we have had the wit to invent them
| to

0.
I’ll undertake this moment to prove it to any

 

though I declare I object only to a connoisseur in
swearing ;—as I would do to a connoisseur in
painting, &e. &e., the whole set of ’em are so hung
round and befetish’d with the bobs and trinkets of
criticism,—or, to drop my metaphor, which by the
bye is a pity,—for I have fetch’d it as far as from
the coast of Guinea,—their heads, sir, are stuck
so full of rules and compasses, and have that
eternal propensity to apply them upon all occasions,
that a work of genius had better go to the Devil

 

 

 

48 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

eee ne a

at once than stand to be pricked and tortured ‘to
death by ’em.

__And how did Garrick speak the sohloquy last
night ? Oh, against all rule, my lord—most
ungrammatically !—Betwixt the substantive and
the adjective, which should agree together in
number, case and gender, he made a breach thus,
—stopping, as if the point wanted settling :—and
betwixt the nominative case, which your lordship
knows should govern the verb, he suspended his
voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds
and three fifths, by a stop-watch, my lord, each
time. Admirable grammarian !—But in sus-
pending his voice—was the sense suspended like-
wise? Did no expression of attitude or coun-
tenance fill up the chasm !—Was the eye silent ?
Did you narrowly look ? I looked only at the
stop-watch, my lord. Excellent observer !

And what of this new book the whole world
makes such a rout about ? Oh! it is out of
all plumb, my lord—quite an irregular thing !—
not one of the angles at the four corners was a
right angle. I had my rule and. compasses,
&e., my lord, in my pocket. Excellent critic !

—And for the epic poem, your lordship bade
me look at ;—upon taking the length, breadth,
height, and depth of it, and trying them at home
upon an exact scale of Bossuw’s—'tis out, my
lord, in every one of its dimensions. Admi-
rable connoisseur !

And did you step_in, to take a look at the
grand picture, in your way back? It is a
melancholy daub! my lord ; not one principle of
the pyramid in any one group !—and what a
price !—for there is nothing of the colouring of
Titian,—the expression of Rubens,—the grace of
Raphael,—the purity of Dominichino,—the corre-
givscilty of Corregio,—the learning of Poussin,—
the airs of Guido,—the taste of the Carraccis—or
the grand contour of Angelo. Grant me
patience, just heaven ! Of all the cants which
are eanted in this canting world,—though the
cant of hypocrites may be the worst,—the cant of
criticism is the most tormenting !

I would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a
horse worth riding on, to kiss the hand of that
man whose generous heart will give the reins
of his imagination into his author’s hands,—be
pleased he knows not why, and cares not wherefore.

Great Apollo! if thou art ina giving humour,—
give me—lI ask no more, but one stroke of native
humour, with a single spark of thy own fire along
with it—and send Mercury, with the rules and
compasses, if he can be spared, with my compli-
ments to—no matter.

Now, to any one else, I will undertake to prove
that all the oaths and imprecations which we
have been puffing off upon the world for these
two hundred and fifty years last past, as originals,
except St. Paul’s thumb,—God’s flesh, and
ish, which were oaths monarchical, and,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God’s fi
considering who made them, not much amiss ;
and as kings’ oaths, it is not much matter whether
they were fish or flesh ; else, I say, there is
not an oath, or at least a curse amongst them,
which has not been copied over and over again
out of -Ernulphus, a thousand times ; but like all
other copies, how infinitely short of the force and
spirit of the original !—it is thought to be no bad
oath,—and by itself passes very well,—* G-d damn

 

|
|
|
|
|

|
|
|

|
|

|
|
|

}

 

 

|
|
|
|
|

 

|
|

|

|

|
|THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TR

ISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

you.” Set it beside Ernulphus’s, — “ God

Almighty the Father damn you,—God the Son

damn you,—God the Holy Ghost damn you,’”—

you see ‘tis nothing. There is an orientality in
| his,.we cannot rise up to: besides, he is more
copious in his invention,—possessed more of the
excellences of a swearer,—had such a thorough
knowledge of the human frame, its membranes,
nerves, ligaments, knittings of the joints, and
articulations,—that when Exnulphus cursed—no
part escaped him. Tis true, there is something
of a hardness in his manner,—and, as in Michael
Angelo, a want of grace :—but then there is such
a greatness of gusto!

My father, who generally looked upon every-
thing in a light very different from all mankind,
would, after all, never allow this to be an original,
—He considered rather Ernulphus’s anathema as
| an institute of Swearing, in which, as he suspected,
| upon the decline of swearing in some milder pon-

tificate, Ernulphus, by order of the succeeding
| pope, had, with great learning and diligence,
collected together all the laws of it ;—for the
Same reason that Justinian, in the decline of the

empire, had ordered his chancellor Tribonian to
| collect the Roman or civil laws all together into
| one code or digest—lest, through the rust of
time,—and the fatality of all things committed to
| oral tradition—they should be lost to the world
| for ever.
| For this reason, my father would oftentimes
affirm there was not an oath, from the great and
tremendous oath of William the Conqueror (* By
the splendour of God !”) down to the lowest oath
of a scavenger (“ Damn your eyes !”) which was
not to be found in Ernulphus. In short, he
would add,—I defy a man to swear out of it.
The hypothesis is, like most of my father’s,
singular and ingenious too ;—nor have I any
objection to it but that it overturns my own.

 

 

 

|
|
|
|

 

||

I
|

|
|

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII.

 

Biess my soul!—my poor mistress is
ready to faint—and her pains are gone—and the
drops are done—and the bottle of julep is broke
and the nurse has cut her arm—(and I my
thumb, cried Dr. Slop ;) and the child is where it
was, continued Susannah,—and the midwife has
fallen backwards upon the edge of the fender, and
bruised her hip as black as your hat. I’ll look
at it, quoth Dr. Slop.—There is no need of
that, replied Susannah,—you had better look at
my mistress—but the midwife would gladly first
give you an account how things are; so desires
you would go up stairs and speak to her this
moment.
Human nature is the same in all professions.
The midwife had just before been put over Dr.
| Slop’s head ;—he had not digested it.—No, replied
Dr. Slop, ’twould be full as proper if the midwife
» came down to me. I like subordination, quoth
( my uncle Toby,—and but for it, after the reduction
) of Lille, I know not what might have become of
| the garrison of Ghent, in the mutiny for bread, in
fj the year Ten. Nor, replied Dr. Slop, (paro-
{) dying my uncle Toby’s hobby-horsical reflection ;
‘}though full as hobby-horsical himself) — do I
| know, Captain Shandy, what might have become
}of the garrison above stairs, in the mutiny and

 

 

 

 

 

 

confusion I find all things ave in
for the subordination of fingers and thumbs to
eH 3_the application of which, Sir, under
this accident of mine, comes in so a-propos that,
without it, the eut upon my thumb might have
been felt by the Shandy family as long as the
Shandy family had a name.

CHAPTER: XIV.

Ler us go back to the ******_in the last
chapter.

It is a singular stroke of eloquence (at least it
was so when eloquence flourished at Athens and
Rome ; and would be so now, did orators wear
mantles) not to mention the name of a thing,
when you had the thing about you in petto, ready
to produce, pop, in the place you want it. A
Scar, an axe, a sword, a pinked doublet, a rusty
helmet, a pound and a half of pot-ashes in an
urn, or a three-halfpenny pickle-pot ;—but, above
all, a tender infant royally accoutred.—Though if
it was too young, and the oration as long as
Tully’s second Philippie—it must certainly have
beshit the orator’s mantle—And then, again, if
too old,—it must have been unwieldy and incom-
modious to his action—so as to make him lose by
his child almost as much as he could gain by it,—
Otherwise, when a state-orator has hit the precise
age to a minute—hid his BamBino in his mantle
so cunningly that no mortal could smell it—and
produced it so eritically, that no soul could say it
came in by head and shoulders—Oh, sirs ! it has
done wonders !—it has opened the sluices, and
turned the brains, and shook the principles, and
unhinged the polities, of half a nation !

These feats, however, are not to be done,
except in those states and times, I say, where
orators wore mantles—and pretty large ones too,
my brethren, with some twenty, or five-and-
twenty, yards of good purple, superfine, marketable
cloth in them——with large flowing folds and
doubles, and in a great style of design.—All which
plainly shows, may it please your worships, that
the decay of eloquence, and the little good service
it does at present, both within and without doors,
is owing to nothing else in the world but short
coats and the disuse of trunk-hose.-—-We can
conceal nothing under ours,madam, worth showing.

 

CHAPTER XY.

Dr. Stop was within an ace of being an excep-
tion to all this argumentation: for happening to
have his green baize-bag upon his knees when he
began to parody my uncle Toby—twas as good
as the best mantle in the world to him: for which
purpose, when he foresaw the sentence would end
in his new-invented forceps, he thrust his hand
into the bag, in order to have them ready to clap
in, when your reverences took so much notice of
the ***K**, which, had he managed,—my uncle
Toby had certainly been overthrown: the sentence
and the argument in that case jumping closely in
one point, so like the two lines which form the
salient angle of a ravelin—Dr. Slop would never
have given them up ;—and my uncle Toby would
as soon have thought of flying, as taking them by
force ; but Dr. Slop fumbled so vilely in pulling
them out, it took off the whole effect, and, what

E

 

at present, butgg ore eae
Seances

|
U
;
yl
: ¥

Sa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

59 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

was a ten-times worse evil (for they seldom come
alone in this life), in pulling out his forceps, his
forceps unfortunately drew out the squirt along
with it.

When a proposition can be taken in two senses
—tis a law in disputation that the respondent
may reply to which of the two he pleases, or finds
most convenient for him.—This threw the advan-
tage of the argument quite on my uncle Toby’s
side. “ Good God!” cried my uncle Toby;
“ are children brought into the world with a squirt 2”

 

CHAPTER XVI.

—Urpon my honour, Sir, you have torn every
bit of skin quite off the back of both my hands
with your forceps, cried my uncle Toby ;—and
you have crushed all my knuckles into the bargain
with them to a jelly———Tis your own fault,
said Dr. Slop ;—you should have clenched your
two fists together into the form of a child’s head, as
I told you, and sat firm. I did so, answered
my uncle Toby———Then the points of my
forceps have not been sufficiently armed, or the
rivet wants closing,—or else the cut on my thumb
has made me a little awkward,—or possibly. . . .
Tis well, quoth my father, interrupting the detail
of possibilities—that the experiment was not first
made upon my child’s head-piece. It would
not have been a cherry-stone the worse, answered
Dr. Slop. I maintain it, said my uncle Toby,
it would have broken the cerebellum (unless indeed
the skull had been as hard as a granado) and
turned it all into a perfect posset. Pshaw !
replied Dr. Slop, a child’s head is naturally as
soft as the pap of an apple ;—the sutures give
way :—and, besides, I could have extracted by
the feet after. Not you, said she. I rather
wish you would begin that way, quoth my father.

Pray do, added my uncle Toby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.
AND pray, good woman, after all, will you
take upon you to say it may not be the child’s
hip, as well as the child’s head?—(Tis most
certainly the head, replied the midwife.) Because,
continued Dr. Slop (turning to my father), as
positive as these old ladies generally are,—'tis a
point very difficult to know,—and yet of the
greatest consequence to be known ; because,

 

 

?

Sir, if the hip is mistaken for the head,—there
is a possibility (if it is a boy) that the forceps
* * *k *£ * *

What the possibility was, Dr. Slop whispered
very low to my father, and then to my uncle
Toby. There is no such danger, continued he,
with the head.....No, in truth, quoth my
father ;—but when your possibility has taken place
at the hip,—you may as well take off the head
too.

 

 

 

It is morally impossible that the reader
should understand this—’tis enough Dr. Slop
understood it ;—so, taking the green baize-bag in
his hand, with the help of Obadiah’s pumps, he
tripped pretty nimbly, for a man of his size,
across the room to the door ;—and from the door
was shown the way, by the good old midwife, to
my mother’s apartments.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Ir is two hours and ten minutes,—and no more, |
—cried my father, looking at his watch, since Dr. |
Slop and Obadiah arrived ;—and I] know not how |
it happens, brother Toby,—but, to my imagination,
it seems almost an age.
Here, pray, sir, take hold of my cap :— |
nay, take the bell along with it, and my pantoufles
too.

Now, sir, they are all at your service ; and I
freely make you a present of ’em, on condition
you give me all your attention to this chapter.

Though my father said, “ he knew not how it
happened,’—yet he knew very well how it hap-
pened ;—and, at the instant he spoke it, was pre-
determined in his mind to give my uncle Toby a
clear account of the matter, by a metaphysical
dissertation upon the subject of duration, and iis
simple modes, in order to show my uncle Toby by
what mechanism and mensuration in the brain it
‘ame to pass that the rapid succession of their
ideas, and the eternal seampering of the discourse
from one thing to another, since Dr. Slop had |
come into the room, had lengthened out so short |
a period to so inconceivable an extent. ik
know not how it happens,”—cried my father,—
“ but it seems an age.”
It is owing entirely, quoth my uncle Toby, |
to the succession of our ideas.

My father, who had an itch, in common with
all philosophers, of reasoning upon everything
which happened, and accounting for it too,—pro-
posed infinite pleasure to himself in this, of the
succession of ideas ; and had not the least appre- |
hension of haying it snatched out of his hands by
my uncle Toby, who (honest man!) generally
took everything as it happened ;—and who, of all
things in the world, troubled his brain the least
with abstruse thinking ;—the ideas of time and | |
space,—or how we ‘came by those ideas,—or of
what stuff they were made,—or whether they | |
were born with us, or we picked them up after-
wards as we went along,—or whether we did it in
frocks—or not till we had got into breeches ;—
with a thousand other inquiries and disputes
about INFINITY, PRESCIENCE, LIBERTY, NECESSITY,
and so forth, upon whose desperate and uncon-
querable theories so many fine heads have been
turned and cracked,—never did my uncle Toby’s
the least injury at all; my father knew it,—and
was no less surprised than he was disappointed
with my uncle’s fortuitous solution,

Do you understand the theory of that affair ? |
replied my father. |

Not I, quoth my uncle.

But you have some ideas, said my father, of |
what you talk about ? |
|
|

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No more than my horse, replied my uncle Toby.
Gracious Heaven! cried my father, looking
upwards, and clasping his two hands together,— |
there is a worth in thy honest ignorance, brother |
Toby ;—’twere almost a pity to exchange it for a |
knowledge.—But I'll tell thee |
To understand what Time is aright, without |
which we never can comprehend Infinity, imso-
much as one is a portion of the other,—we ought |
|

|

|

|

 

|
|
|
|
|

seriously to sit down and consider what idea it is
we have of duration, so as to give a satisfactory
What is that to

|

account how we came by it.|

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

anybody? quoth my uncle Toby.
will turn your eyes inwards upon your mind*
(continued my father), and observe attentively,
you will perceive, brother, that whilst you and I
are talking together, and thinking, and smoking
our pipes, or whilst we receive successively ideas
in our minds, we know that we do exist ; and so
we estimate the existence, or the continuation of
the existence, of ourselves, or anything else, com-
mensurate with the succession of any ideas in our
minds, the duration of ourselves, or any such
other thing co-existing with our thinking ;—and
So, according to that pre-conceived You puzzle
me to death, cried my uncle Toby.

‘Tis owing to this, replied my father, that
in our computations of time we are so used to
minutes, hours, weeks, and months—and of clocks
(I wish there was not a clock in the kingdom) to
measure out their several portions to us, and to
those who belong to us,—that ’twill be well if, in
time to come, the succession of our ideas be of
any use or service to us at all.

Now, whether we observe it or no, continued
my father, in every sound man’s head there is a
regular succession of ideas, of one sort or other,
which follow each other in train just like———A
train of artillery? said my uncle Toby.——A train
of a fiddle-stick !—quoth my father—which follow
and succeed one another in our minds at certain
distances, just like the images in the inside of a
lantern turned round by the heat of a candle.
I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, mine are
more like a smoke-jack. Then, brother Toby,
I have nothing more to say to you upon the sub-
ject, said my father.

For if you

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX,

Waar a conjuncture was here lost! My
father in one of his best explanatory moods—in
eager pursuit of a metaphysical point, into the
very regions where clouds and thick darkness
would soon have encompassed it about ;— my
uncle Toby, in one of the finest dispositions for it
in the world ;—his head like a smoke-jack : the
funnel unswept, and the ideas whirling round and
round about in it, all obfuseated and darkened
over with fuliginous matter! By the tombstone
of Lucian, if it is in being ;—if not, why then
by his ashes! by the ashes of my dear Rabelais,
and dearer Cervantes '——my father and my
uncle Toby’s discourse upon TIME and ETERNITY——
was a discourse devoutly to be wished for! and
the petulaney of my father’s humour, in putting
a stop to it as he did, was a robbery of the Onto-
logic Treasury of such a jewel as no coalition of
great occasions and great men are ever likely to
restore to it again.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XX.

THovcH my father persisted in not going on
with the discourse, yet he could not get my uncle
Toby’s smoke-jack out of his head—piqued as he
was at first with it ;—there was something in the
comparison at the bottom which hit his fancy ; for
which purpose, resting his elbow upon the table,
and reclining the right side of his head upon the
palm of his hand,—but looking first steadfastly in
the fire—he began to commune with himself, and

 

* Vide Locke.

|

 

 

 

 

 

ol

philosophize about it: but his spirits being worn
out with the fatigues of investigating new tracts,
and the constant exertion of his faculties upon
that variety of subjects which had taken their
turn in the discourse,—the idea of the smoke-jack
soon turned all his ideas upside down, so that he
fell asleep almost before he knew what he was
about.

As for my uncle Toby, his smoke-jack had not
made a dozen revolutions before he fell asleep
also. Peace be with them both !——-Dr. Slop
S engaged with the midwife and my mother,
above stairs. Trim is busy in turning an old
pair of jack-boots into a couple of mortars, to be
employed in the siege of Messina next summer ;
—and is this instant boring the touch-holes with
the point of a hot poker. All my heroes are off
my hands ;—’tis the first time I have had a
moment to spare,—and I will make use of it and
write my preface.

 

bee

 

THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE.

No, Vl not say a word about it s—here it is.—
In publishing it, I have appealed to the world,—
and to the world I leave it ;—it must speak for
liself,

All I know of the matter is, when I sat down
my intent was to write a good book ; and as far as
the tenuity of my understanding would hold out,
—a wise, ay, and a discreet ; taking care only,
as I went along, to put into it all the wit and the
judgment (be it more or less) which the great
Author and Bestower of them had thought fit
originally to give me ;—so that, as your worships
see, ‘tis just as God pleases.

Now, Agalastes (speaking dispraisingly) sayeth
that there may be some wit in it, for aught he
knows—but no judgment at all. And Triptolemus
and Phutatorius, agreeing thereto, ask, How is it
possible there should ? for that wit and judg-
ment in this world never go together ; inasmuch
as they are two operations, differing from each
other as wide as east from west.—So says Locke:
—so are farting and hiccupping, say I. But,
in answer to this, Didius the great Church-lawyer,
in his code De fariandi et illustrandi fallaciis,
doth maintain, and make fully appear, that an
illustration is no argument,—nor do I maintain
the wiping of a looking-glass clean to be a syllo-
gism ; but you all, may it please your worships,
see the better for it ;—so that the main good
these things do is only to clarify the understand-
ing, previous to the application of the argument
itself, in order to free it from any little motes or
specks of opacular matter, which, if left swimming
therein, might hinder a conception and spoil all.

Now, my dear A nti-Shandeans, and thrice-able
critics and fellow-labourers (for to you I write
this Preface),—and to you, most subtle statesmen
and disereet doctors (do pull off your beards)
renowned for gravity and wisdom ;—Monopolus,
my politician ;—Didius, my counsel 3—Kysarcius,
my friend ; Phutatorius, my guide ;—Gastripheres,
the preserver of my life ;—Somnolentius, the balm
and repose of it ;—not forgetting all others, as
vell sleeping as waking,—ecclesiastical as civil,
whom, for brevity, but out of no resentment to
you, I lump all together Believe me, right
worthy—

My most zealous wi:

 

 

ype

4

 

 

 

 

h and fervent prayer in
Ee 2

“a

|Se

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

52 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

your behalf, and in my own too, in case the thing | directly under the arctic and antarctic circles—
is not done already for us,—is that the great gifts where the whole province of a man’s concernments
and endowments, both of wit and judgment, with | lies, for near nine months together, within the
everything which usually goes along with them | narrow compass of his ecave,—where the spirits
_such as memory, fancy, genius, eloquence, quick | are compressed almost to nothing,—and where
parts, and what not, may this precious moment, the passions of a man, with everything which
without stint or measure, let or hindrance, be belongs to them, are as frigid as the zone itself;
poured down, warm as each of us could bear it,— there, the least quantity of judgment imagina-
scum and sediment and all (for I would not have | ble does the business;—and of wif—there is a
a drop losi), into the several receptacles, cells, | total andan absolute saving ; for, as not one spark
cellules, domiciles, dormitories, refectories, and | is wanted,—so not one spark is given. ——— Angels
spare places of our brains in such sort that | and ministers of grace defend us !— What a dismal
they might continue to be injected and tunned | thing would it have been to have governed a king-

 

 

 

 

into, according to the true intent and meaning of | dom, to have fought a battle, or made a treaty, or |

my wish, until every vessel of them, both great | run a match, or wrote a book, or* got a child, or
and small, be so replenished, saturated, and filled | held a provincial chapter there with so plentiful a
up therewith, that no more, would it save a man’s | dack of wit and judgment about us! For mercy’s
life, could possibly be got either in or out. sake, let us think no more about it, but travel on,
Bless us !—what noble work we should make! | as fast as we can, southwards into Norway—cross-
how should I tickle it off !—and what spirits should | ing over Swedeland, if you please, through the
I find myself in, to be writing away for such small triangular province of Angermania, to the
readers!—and you—just Heaven!
raptures would you sit and read!—but oh!—’tis | and West Bothnia, down to Carelia; and so on,
too much!—I am sick,—I faint away deliciously | through all those states and provinces which
at the thoughts of it!—’tis more than nature can | border upon the far side of the Gulf of Finland,
bear !—lay hold of me,—I am giddy—I am stone- and the north-east of the Baltic up to Petersburg,
blind,—I am dying,—I am gone, Help! help! | and just stepping into Ingria;—then stretching
help !—But hold,—I grow something better again, | over, directly thence, through the north parts of
for lam beginning to foresee, when this is over, that, | the Russian empire——leaving Siberia a little upon
as we shall all of us continue to be great wits, we the left hand, till we get into the very heart of
should never agree amongst ourselves one day to | Russia and Asiatic Tartary.
an end: there would be so much satire and Now, through this long tour which I have led
sarcasm,—scoffing and flouting, with rallying and | you, you observe the good people are better off by
reparteeing of it,—thrusting and parrying in one | far than in the polar countries which we have just
corner or another—there would be nothing but | left :——-for, if you hold your hand over your eyes
mischief among us.———Chaste stars! what and look very attentively, you may perceive some
biting and seratching, and what a racket and a | small glimmerings (as it were) of wit, with a com-
clatter we should make, what with breaking of | fortable provision of good plain household judg-
heads, rapping of knuckles, and hitting of sore | ment, which taking the quality and quantity of it
places,—there would be no such thing as living | together, they make a very good shift with ;—and
for us. had they more of either the one or the other, it
But then, again, as we should all of us be men | would destroy the proper balance betwixt them ;
of great judgment, we should make up matters as | and I am satisfied, moreover, they would want
fast as ever they went wrong: and though we | occasions to put them to use.
should abominate each other ten times worse than Now, sir, if I conduct you home again into this
so many devils or devilesses, we should never- | warmer and more luxuriant island, where you
theless, my dear creatures, be all courtesy and | perceive the spring-tide of our blood and humours
kindness, milk and honey—’twould be a second | runs high ;—where we have more ambition, and
land of promise—a paradise upon earth, if there | pride, and envy, and lechery, and other whoreson
was such a thing to be had;—so that, upon the | passions upon our hands to govern and subject to
whole, we should have done well enough. reason,—the height of our wit, and the depth of
All I fret and fume at, and what most distresses | our judgment, you see, are exactly proportioned
my invention at present, is how to bring the point | to the length and breadth of our necessities :—
itself to bear; for as your worships well know, | and accordingly we have them sent down amongst
that of these heavenly emanations of wit and judg- | us in such a flowing kind of decent and creditable
ment, which I have so bountifully wished both for | plenty, that no one thinks he has any cause to
your worships and myself—there is but a certain | complain. ‘
quantum stored up for us all, for the use and be- It must, however be confessed, on this head,
hoof of the whole race of mankind; and such | that as our air blows hot and cold, wet and dry,
small modicums of ’em are only sent forth into | ten times in a day, we have them in no regular
this wide world, circulating here and there in | and settled way;—so that sometimes, for near
one by-corner or another —and in such narrow half a century together, there shall be very little
streams, and at such prodigious intervals from | wit or judgment either to be seen or heard of
each other, that one would wonder how it holds | amongst us:—the small channels of them shall
out, or could be sufficient for the wants and emer- | seem quite dried up;—then all of a sudden the
gencies of so many great states and populous | sluices shall break out, and take a fit of running
empires. again like fury,—you would think they would
Indeed there is one thing to be considered: that | never stop: and then it is that, in writing, and
in Nova Zembla, North Lapland, and in all those | fighting, and twenty other gallant things, we drive
cold and dreary tracts of the globe which lie more | all the world before us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

with what | lake of Bothnia; coasting along it through East |Seneca

Ta i

 

 

 

_ It is by these observations, and a wary reason-
ing by analogy in that kind of argumentative pro-
cess which Suidas calls dialectic induction—that I
draw and set up this position as most true and
veritable :—

_ That, of these two luminaries, so much of their
irradiations are suffered, from time to time, to
shine down upon us as He, whose infinite wisdom
which dispenses everything in exact weight and
measure, knows will just serve to light us on our
way in this night of our obscurity ; so that your
reverences and worships now find out, nor is it
4 moment longer in my power to conceal it from
you, that the fervent wish in your behalf with
which I set out was no more than the first insinu-
ating How a’ye of a caressing prefacer, stifling his
reader, as a lover sometimes does a coy mistress,
into silence, For, alas! could this effusion of light
have been as easily procured, as the exordium
wished it—I tremble to think how many thousands
for it, of benighted travellers (in the learned
sciences at least), must have groped and blundered
on in the dark, all the nights of their lives—run-
ning their heads against posts, and knocking out
their brains, without ever getting to their journey’s
end; —some falling with their noses perpendicularly
into sinks ;— others horizontally with their tails
into kennels: here one half of a learned profession
tilting full but against the other half of it 3 and then
tumbling and rolling one over the other in the dirt
like hogs ;—herethe brethren of another profession,
who should have run in opposition to each other,
flying, on the contrary, like a flock of wild geese,
all ina row, the same way.— What confusion !—
what mistakes! fiddlers and painters judging by
their eyes and ears—admirable !—trusting to the
passions excited, in an air sung, or a story painted
to the heart—instead of measuring them by a
quadrant !

In the fore-ground of this picture, a statesman
turning the political wheel, like a brute, the wrong
way round—against the stream of corruption—by
Heaven !—instead of with it!

In this corner ‘a son of the divine Esculapius,
writing a book against predestination ; perhaps
worse, feeling his patient’s pulse, instead of his
apothecary’s:—a brother of the Faculty in the
back-ground upon his knees, in tears 3—drawing
the curtains of a mangled victim, to beg his for-
giveness ;—offering a fee, instead of taking one.

In that spacious HALL, a coalition of the gown, from
all the bars of it, driving a damn’d dirty, vexatious
cause before them, with all their might and main,
the wrong way '—kicking it owt of the great doors,
instead of in / and with such fury in their looks,
and such a degree of inveteracy in their manner
of kicking it, as if the laws had been originally
made for the peace and preservation of mankind ;
—— perhaps a more enormous mistake committed
by them still—a litigated point fairly hung up ;—

{ for instance, Whether John o’ Nokes his nose

could stand in Tom o’ Stiles his face, without a

' trespass, or not?—rashly determined by them in

inva

ee rma)

five-and-twenty minutes, which, with the cautious
pro’s and con’s required in so intricate a proceed-
ing, might have taken up as many months and, if
carried on upon a military plan, as your honours
knows an action should be, with all the stratagems
practicable therein—such as feints—forced mar-
ches—surprises—ambuscades—masked batteries,

 

IFE AND OPINIONS

SHANDY.

OF TRISTRAM 53

 

 

; ‘
| —andathousand otherstrokesof generalship, which

{

consist in catching at all advantages on both sides,
—might reasonably have lasted them as many
years, finding food and raiment all that term for a
centumvirate of the profession.

As for the Clergy—No ;—if I Say a word against
them, T’ll be shot. I have no desire ; and
besides, if } had—I durst not for my soul touch
upon the subject. With such weak nerves and
spirits, and in the condition I am in at present,
*twould be as muchvuse as my life was worth, to
deject and contrist myself with so bad and melan-
choly an account ;—and therefore it is safer to
draw a curtain across, and hasten from it, as fast
as I can, to the main and principal point I have
undertaken to clear up :—and that is, How it comes
to pass that your men of least wit are reported to
be men of most judgment ?—But mark—I say
reported to be; for it is no more, my dear sirs,
than a report, and which, like twenty others taken
up every day upon trust, I maintain to be a vile
and a malicious report into the bargain.

This, by the help of the observation already pre-
mised, and I hope already weighed and perpended
by your reverences and worships, I shall forth-
with inake appear.

I hate set dissertations ;—and, above all things
in the world, it is one of the silliest things in one
of them to darken your hypothesis by placing a
number of tall, opaque words, one before another,
in aright line betwixt your own and your reader’s
conception, when in all likelihood, if you had
looked about, you might have seen something
standing or hanging up, which would have cleared
the point at once,—tor what hindrance, hurt or
harm doth the laudable desire of knowledge bring
to any man, if even from a sot, a pot, a fool, a
stool, a winter-mittain, a truckle for a pulley, the
lid of a goldsmith’s crucible, an oil-bottle, an old
slipper, or a cane-chair!—I am this moment sitting
upon one. Will you give me leave to illustrate
this affair of wit and judgement by the two knobs
on the top of the back of it !—they are fastened
on, you see, with two pegs stuck slightly into two
gimlet-holes, and will place what I have to say in
so clear a light as to let you see through the drift
and meaning of my whole preface as plainly as
if every point and particle of it was made up of
sun-beams.

I enter now directly upon the point.

—Here stands wi/,—and there stands judgment,
close beside it just like the two knobs I am speak-
ing of, upon the back of this self-same chair on
which I am sitting.

—You see, they are the highest and most orna-
mental parts of its frame,—as wit and judgment
are of owrs,—and, like them too, indubitably both
made and fitted to go together, in order, as we say
in all such cases of duplicated embellishments,—¢o
answer one another.

Now, for the sake of an experiment, and for the
clearer illustrating this matter,—let us for a
moment take off one of these two curious orna-

nents (I care not which) from the point or pinnacle
of the chair it now stands on ;—nay, don’t laugh
at it,—but did you ever see in the whole course of
your lives such a ridiculous business as this has
made of it?—Why, ’tis as miserable a sight as a
sow with one ear; and there is justas much sense
and symmetry in the one as in the other: -— Do,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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o4

—pray get off your seats, only to take a view of it.
—Now, would any man who valued his character
a straw have turned a piece of work out of his
hand in such a condition ?—Nay, lay your hands
upon your hearts, and answer this plain question,
Whether this one single knob, which now stands
here like a blockhead by itself, can serve any pur-
pose upon earth but to put one in mind of the want
of the other 2—and let me further ask, in case the
chair was your own, if youwould not in your con-
sciences think, rather than be as it is, that it
would be ten times better without any knob at
all ?

Now, these two knobs—or top ornaments of the
mind of man, which crown the whole entablature,
—being, as I said, wit and judgment, which, of all
others, as I have proved it, are the most needful,
—the most prized,—the most calamitous to be
without, and consequently the hardest to come at ;
—for all these reasons put together, there is not a
mortal among us so destitute of a love of good fame
or fecling,—or so ignorant of what will do him
good therein,—who does not wish and steadfastly
resolve in his own mind to be, or to be thought,
at least, master of the one or the other, and, indeed,

 

of both of them, if the thing seems any way feasible
or likely to be brought to pass.

Now, your graver gentry having little or no kind
of chance in aiming at the one,—unless they laid
hold of the other,—pray what do you think would
become of them?—-—Why, sirs, in spite of all
their gravities, they must e’en have been contented
to have gone with their insides naked: —this was
not to be borne, but by an effort of philosophy not
to be supposed in the case we are upon ;—Sso that
no one could well have been angry with them, had
they been satisfied with what little they could have
snatched up and secreted under their cloaks and
great periwigs, had they not raised a hue and cry
at the same time against the lawful owners.

I need not tell your worships that this was’done
with so much cunning and artifice—that the great
Locke, who was seldom outwitted by false sounds,
was nevertheless bubbled here. -——'The ‘ery, it
seems, was so deep and solemn a one, and, what
with the help of great wigs, grave faces, and other
implements of deceit, was rendered so general a
one against the poor wifs in this matter, that the
philosopher himself was deceived by it:—it was
his glory to free the world from the lumber of a
thousand vulgar errors,—but this was not of the
number ; so that, instead of sitting down coolly,
as such a philosopher should have done, to have
examined the matter of fact before he philoso-
phised upon it,—on the contrary he took the fact
for granted, and so joined in with the ery, and
halloo’d it as boisterously as the rest.

This has been made the Magna Charta of stu-
pidity ever since ; —-but your reverences plainly
see it has been obtained in such a manner that
the title to it is not worth a groat: which, by
the bye, is one of the many and vile impositions
which gravity and grave folks have to answer. for
hereafter.

As for great wigs, upon which I may be thought
to have spoken my mind too freely,—I beg leave to
qualify whatever has been unguardedly said to
their dispraise or prejudice, by one general decla-
-ation,—That I have no abhorrence whatever, nor
do I detest and abjure either great wigs or long

 

 

 

 

 

a Oe n  ne Ee ceca neta oe

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |

 

 

 

 

 

beards, any farther than when I see they are
bespoke and let grow on purpose to carry on this
self-same imposture, for any purpose. Peace be
with them!—é3 Mark only,—I write not for
them.

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CHAPTER XXI.

Every day for at least ten years together, did my
father resolve to have it mended ;—’tis not mended
yet. No family but ours would have borne with
it an hour ;—and, what is most astonishing, there
was not a subject inthe world upon which my father
was so eloquent as upon that of door-hinges ; ——-
and yet, at the same time, he was certainly one of
the greatest bubbles to them, I think, that history
can produce; his rhetoric and conduct were at
perpetual handy-cufis. Never did the parlour-
door open,—but his philosophy or his principles
fell a victim to it.—Three drops of oil with a fea-
ther, and a smart stroke of a hammer, had saved
his honour for ever.

Inconsistent soul that man is !—languish-
ing under wounds which he has the power to heal ;
—his whole life a contradiction to his knowledge!
his reason, that precious gift of God to him
(instead of pouring in oil) serving but to sharpen
his sensibilities, to multiply his pains, and render |
him melancholy and more uneasy under them ?—
Poor unhappy creature, that he should do so!—
Are not the necessary causes of misery in this
life enough, but he must add voluntary ones to his
stock of sorrow!—struggle against evils which
cannot be avoided! and submit to others, which a |
tenth part of the trouble they create him would |
remove from his heart for ever!

By all that is good and virtuous, if there are |
three drops of oil to be got, and a hammer to be
found within ten miles of Shandy-hall, the par-
lour-door hinge shall be mended this reign.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII. |
Wuen Corporal Trim had brought his two mor- |
tars to bear, he was delighted with his handy-work |
above measure; and knowing what a pleasure it |
would be to his master to see them, he was not |
able to resist the desire he had of carrying them
directly into his parlour.
Now, next to the moral lesson I had in view, in |
mentioning the affair of hinges, I had a speculative
consideration arising out of it, and it is this :— |
Had the parlour door opened and turned upon
its hinges, as a door should do,— |
Or, for example, as cleverly as our government |
has been turning upon its hinges,—(that is, in case |
things have allalong gone well with your Worships, |
__otherwise I give up my simile)—in this case f |
say, there had been no danger either to master or
man, in Corporal Trim’s peeping in: the moment
he had beheld my father and my uncle Toby fast |
asleep—the respectfulness of his carriage was such
he would have retired as silent as death, and left
them both in their arm-chairs dreaming, as happy
as he had found them :—but the thing was, morally
speaking, so very impracticable that, for the many
years in which this hinge was suffered to be out of
order, and amongst the hourly grievances my
father submitted to upon its account—this was
one—that he never folded his arms to take a nap |
after dinner, but the thought of being unavoid-
ably awakened by the first person who should open

 

 

 

 

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|ee ie a
THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 55

aa

 

 

 

the door was always uppermost in his imagina-

 

tion, and so incessantly stepped in betwixt him
and the first balmy presage of his repose, as to
rob him, as he often declared, of the whole sweets
of it.

“ When things move upon bad hinges, an’ please
your worships, how can it be otherwise?”

Pray what’s the matter?) Who is there? cried
my father, waking, the moment the door began to
creak. I wish the smith would give a peep at
that confounded hinge -—’Tis nothing, an’ please
your honour, said Trim, but two mortars I am
bringing in——They shan’t make a clatter with
them here, cried my father hastily, If Dr. Slop
has any drugs to pound, let him do it in the kitchen
May it please your honour, cried Trim, they
are two mortar-pieces for a siege next summer,
which I have been making out of a pair of jack-
boots, which Obadiah told me your Honour had
left off wearing By Heaven! cried my father,
springing oat of his chair, as he swore——I have
not one appointment belonging to me which I set so
much store by, as I do by these jack -boots :—they
were our great-grandfather’s, brother Toby:—they
were hereditary Then I fear, quoth my uncle

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.

ALL is quiet and hush, cried my father, at least
above stairs I hear not one foot stirring. —
Prithee, Trim, who’s in the kitchen ?——_There is
no one soul in the kitchen, answered Trim, making
a low bow as he spoke, except Dr. Slop.——Con-
fusion! cried my father (getting up upon his legs
a second time)—not one single thing has gone right
this day! Had I faith in astrology, brother (which,
by the bye, my father had), I would have sworn
some retrograde planet was hanging over this un-
fortunate house of mine, and turning every indi-
vidual thing in it out of its place Why, I
thought Dr. Slop had been above stairs with my
wife, and so said you. What can the fellow be
puzzling about in the kitchen?~——— He is busy,
an’ please your Honour, replied Trim, in making
a bridge "Tis very obliging in him, quoth my
uncle Toby ; pray give my humble service to
Dr. Slop, Trim, and tell him I thank him heartily.

You must know, my uncle Toby mistook the
bridge as widely as my father mistook the mortars ;
—but, to understand how my uncle Toby could
mistake the bridge,—I fear I must give you an

 

 

 

 

 

 

exact account of the road which led to it ;—or, to
drop my metaphor (for there is nothing more dis-
honest in an historian than the use of one) in
order to conceive the probability of this error in
my uncle Toby aright, 1 must give you some account
of an adventure of Trim’s, though much against
my will, I say much against my will, only because
the story, in one sense, is certainly out of its place
here ; for, by right, it should come in, either
amongst the anecdotes of my uncle Toby’s amours

|

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Toby, Trim has cut off the entail I have only |
cut off the tops, an’ please your honour, cried |
Trim I hate perpetuwities as much as any man |
|

|

 

 

 

 

 

alive, cried my father,—but these jack-boots, con-
tinued he (smiling, though very angry at the same
time), have been in the family, brother, ever since
the civil wars ;—Sir Roger Shandy wore them at
the battle of Marston-Moor. I declare I would
not have taken ten pounds for them T’ll pay you
the money, brother Shandy, quoth my uncle Toby, |

 

looking at the two mortars with infinite pleasure, |

and putting his hand into his breeches-pocket as
he viewed them—I’ll pay you the ten pounds this
moment with all my heart and soul.—

Brother Toby, replied my father, altering his
tone, you care not what money you dissipate and
throw away, provided, continued he, ’tis but upon
a SIEGE Have I not one hundred and twenty
pounds a year, besides my half-pay? cried my
uncle Toby. What is that—replied my father
hastily—to ten pounds for a pair of jack-boots ?—
twelve guineas for your pontoons?—half as much
for your Dutch draw-bridge ?—to say nothing of the
train of little brass artillery you bespoke last week,
with twenty other preparations for the siege of
Messina! Believe me, dear brother Toby, continued
my father, taking him kindly by the hand,—these
military operations of yours are above your
strength—you mean well, brother—but they carry
you into greater expenses than you were at first
aware of ;—and take my word, dear Toby, they
will in the end quite ruin your fortune, and make
a beggar of you What signifies it if they do,
brother, replied my uncle Toby, so long as we
know ’tis for the good of the nation?

My father could not help smiling, for his soul;
—his anger, at the worst, was never more than a
spark ;—and the zeal and simplicity of Trim—and
the generous (though HOBBY-HORSICAL) gallantry of
my uncle Toby, brought him into perfect good-
humour with them in an instant.

Generous souls!—God_ prosper you both, and
your mortar-pieces too, quoth my father to him-
self.

 

 

 

with Widow Wadman, in which Corporal Trim was
no mean actor—or else in the middle of his and
my uncle Toby’s campaigns on the bowling-green
—for it will do very well in either place :—but
then if I reserve it for either of those parts of my
story—I ruin the story I’m upon :—and if I tell it
here,—TI anticipate matters and ruin it there.

—What would your worships have me to do in
this case?

—Tell it,Mr. Shandy, by all means
are a fool, Tristram, if you do.

O ye Powrrs! (for powers ye are, and great ones
too)—which enable mortal man to tell a story
worth the hearing—that kindly show him where
he is to begin it, and where he is to end it,—what
he is to put into it, and what he is to leave out,
—how much of it he is to east into a shade, and
whereabouts he is to throw his light :—Ye, who
preside over this vast empire of biographical free-
booters, and see how many scrapes and plunges
yoursubjects hourly fall into—will you do one thing?

I beg and beseech you (in case you will do
nothing better for us) that wherever, in any part
of your dominions, it so falls out that three several
roads meet in one point, as they have done just
here,—that at least you set up a guide-post, in the
centre of them, in mere charity, to direct an un-
certain devil which of the three he is to take.

You

 

CHAPTER XXIV.

Tuoven the shock my uncle Toby received the
year after the demolition of Dunkirk, in his affair
with Widow Wadman, had fixed him in a resolu-
tion never more to think of the sex,—or of aught

 

 

which belonged to it ;—yet corporal Trim had madeiD

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terse

 

 

 

———

 

56 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

no such bargain with himself. Indeed, in my
uncle Toby’s case, there was a strange and un-
accountable concurrence of circumstances which
insensibly drew him in to lay siege to that fair and
strong citadel.—In Trim’s case, there was a con-
currence of nothing in the world, but of him and
Bridget in the kitchen ;—though, in truth, the
love and veneration he bore his master was such,
and so fond was he of imitating him in all he did,
that had my uncle Toby employed his time and
genius in tagging of points,—I am persuaded the
honest Corporal would have laid down his arms,
and followed his example with pleasure. When,
therefore, my uncle Toby sat down before the
mistress, Corporal Trim incontinently took ground
before the maid.

Now, my dear friend Garrick, whom I have so
much cause to esteem and honour,—(why or
wherefore it is no matter)—can it escape your
penetration, —I defy it,—that so many play-
wrights, and opificers of chit-chat, have ever since
been working upon Trim’s and my uncle Toby’s
pattern ?—I care not what Aristotle, or Pacuvius,
or Bossu, or Ricaboni, say—(though I never read
one of them)—there is not a greater difference
between a single horse-chair and Madame Pompa-
dour’s vis-d-v/s, than betwixt a single amour and
an amour thus nobly doubled, and going upon all-
four, prancing throughout a grand drama.—sir, a
simple, single, silly affair of that kind—is quite lost
in five acts ;—but that is neither here nor there.

After a series of attacks and repulses in a course
of nine months on my uncle Toby’s quarter, a most
minute account of every particular of which shall
be given in its proper place, my uncle Toby, honest
man! foundit necessary to draw off his forces, and
raise the siege somewhat indignantly.

Corporal Trim, as I said, had made no such
bargain either with himself or with any one else ;
—the fidelity, however, of his heart not suffering

 

| him to go into a house which his master had for-

saken with disgust,—he contented himself with
turning his part of the siege into a blockade,—that
is, he kept others off; for though he never after
went to the house, yet he never met Bridget in the
village but he would either nod or wink, or smile,
or look kindly at her;—or (as circumstances
directed) he would shake her by the hand—or ask
her lovingly how she did-——-or would give hera
riband ; and now and then, though never but when
it could be done with decorum, would give Bridget
a

 

Precisely in this situation did these things stand
for five years: that is, from the demolition of
Dunkirk, in the year Thirteen, to the latter end of
my uncle Toby’s campaign in the year Kighteen,
which was about six or seven weeks before the time
I’m speaking of,—when Trim, as his custom was,
after he had put my uncle Toby to bed, going down
one moon-shiny night to see that everything was
right at his fortifications,—in the lane separated
from the bowling-green with flowering shrubs and
holly—he espied his Bridget.

As the Corporal thought there was nothing in the
world so well worth showing as the glorious works
which he and my uncle Toby had made, Trim
courteously and gallantly took her by the hand and
led her in: this was not done so privately but that
the foul-mouthed trumpet of fame carried it from
ear to ear, till at length it reached my father’s,

 

 

 

 

 

with this untoward circumstance along with it, that
my uncle Toby’s curious draw-bridge, constructed
and painted after the Dutch fashion, and which went
quite across the ditch, was broke down, and, some-
how or other, crushed all to pieces that very night.

My father, as you have observed, had no great
esteem for my uncle Toby’s HOBBY-HORSE, he
thought it the most ridiculous horse that ever
gentleman mounted ; and, indeed, unless my uncle
Toby vexed him about it, could never think of it
once without smiling at it:-——so that it couldnever
get lame, or happen any mischance, but it tickled
my father’s imagination beyond measure ; but this
being an accident much more to his humour than
any one which had yet befallen it, it proved an
inexhaustible fund of entertainment to him.—
Well,—but dear Toby, my father would say, do
tell me seriously how this affair of the bridge
happened.— How can you teaze me so much
about it ? my uncle Toby would reply:—I have told
it you twenty times, word for word as Trim told it
me.— Prithee, how was it then, Corporal? my
father would ery, turning to Trim. It was a
mere misfortune, an’ please your honour ;—— I
was showing Mrs. Bridget our fortifications, and,
in going too near the edge of the fossé, 1 unfortu-
nately slipped in— Very well, Trim, my father
would ery—(smiling mysteriously, and givinganod,
—but without interrupting him)—and being linked
fast,an’ please your honour, arm in arm with Mrs.
Bridget, I dragged her after me, by means of which
she fell backwards soss against the bridge ;—and
Trim’s foot (my uncle Toby would ery, taking the
story out of his mouth) getting into the cuvette,
he tumbled full against the bridge too. It was
a thousand to one, my uncle Toby would add, that
the poor fellow did not break his leg. Ay,
truly, my father would say,—a limb is soon broken,
brother Toby, in such encounters. And so,
an’ please your honour, the bridge, which your
honour knows was a very slight one, was broke
down betwixt us and splintered all to pieces.

At other times, but especially when my uncle
Toby was so unfortunate as to say asyllable about
cannons, bombs, or petards,—my father would
exhaust all the stores of his eloquence (which in-
deed were very great) in a panegyric upon the
battering-rams of the ancients—the vinea which
Alexander made use of at the siege of Tyre.—He
would tell my uncle Toby of the catapulte of the
Syrians, which threw such monstrous stones so
many hundred feet, and shook the strongest bul-
warks to. their very foundations:—lhe would
go onand describe the wonderful mechanism
of the dullista, which Marcellinus makes so much
rout about !—the terrible effects of the pyraboli,
which cast fire;—the danger of the terebra and
scorpio, which cast javelins.—But what are these,
would he say, to the destructive machinery of
Corporal Trim ? Believe me, brother Toby,
no bridge, or bastion, or sallyport, that ever was
constructed in this world, can hold out against such
artillery.

My uncle Toby would never attempt any defence
against the force of this ridicule, but that of re-
doubling the vehemence of smoking his pipe: in
doing which, he raised so dense a vapour one night
after supper that it set my father, who was a little
phthisical, into a suffocating fit of violent cough-
ing : my uncle Toby leaped up without feeling theTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 5

 

pain upon his groin,—and, with infinite pity stood
beside his brother’s chair, tapping his back with one
hand, and holding his head with the other, and from
time to time wiping his eyes with a clean cambric
handkerchief, which he pulled out of his pocket.—
The affectionate and endearing manner in whichmy
uncle Toby did these little offices—eut my father
through hisreins, for the pain he had just been giving
him.—May my brainsbe knocked out with a batter-
ing-ram or a catapulta, I care not which, quoth my
father to himself,—if ever I insult this worthy soul
more!

 

CHAPTER XXYV.

Tue draw-bridge being held irreparable, Trim
was ordered directly to set about another, but
not upon the same model ; for Cardinal Alberoni’s
intrigues at that time being discovered, and my
uncle Toby rightly foreseeing that a flame would
inevitably break out betwixt Spain and the Empire,
and.that the operations of the ensuing campaign
must, in all likelihood, be either in Naples or
Sicily,—he determined upon an Italian bridge—
(my uncle Toby, by the bye, was not far out in his
conjectures), but my father, who was infinitely the
better politician, and took the lead as far of my uncle

 

Toby, in the cabinet, as my uncle Toby took it of |

him in the field,—convineed him that, if the King
of Spain and the Emperor went together by the
ears, England, France, and Holland, must, by force
of their pre-engagements, all enter the lists too _—
and, if so, he would say, the combatants, brother
Toby, assureas we are alive, will fall to it again pell-
mell, upon the old prize-fighting stage of Flanders ;
—then what will you do with your Italian bridge ?
We will go on with it then upon the old model,
eried my uncle Toby.

When Corporal Trim had about half finished it
im that style—my uncle Toby found out a sapital
defect in it, which he had never thoroughly con-
sidered before. It turned, it seems, upon hinges,
at both ends of it, opening in the middle, one half
of which turning to one side of the fossé, and the
other to the other; the advantage of which was
this, that, by dividing the weight of the bridge
into two equal portions, it empowered my uncle
Toby to raise it up or let it down with the end of
his crutch, and with one hand, which ashis garrison
was weak, was as much as he could well spare ;
but the disadvantages of such a construction were
insurmountable ;—for by this means, he would say,
I leave one half of my bridge in the enemy’s pos-
session—and pray of what use is the other 2

The natural remedy for this was, no doubt, to
have his bridge fastened only at one end with hinges,
so that the whole might be lifted up together and
stand bolt upright ;—but that was rejected, for the
reason given above.

For a whole week after, he was determined in
his mind to have one of that particular construction
which is made to draw back horizontally, to hinder
a passage ; and to thrust forwards again to gain a
passage,—of which sorts your worships mighthave
seen three famous ones at Spires before its de-
struction,—and one now at Brisac, if I mistake not:
—but my father advising my uncle Toby, with
great earnestness, to have nothing more to do with
thrusting bridges ;—and my uncleforeseeing, more-
over, that it would but perpetuate the memory of
the Corporal’s misfortune, he changed his mind for

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

that of the Marquis d’H6pital’s invention, which
the younger Bernouilli has so well and learnedly
described, as your worships may see, dct. Erud.
Lips. an. 1695:—to these a lead weight is an
eternal balance, and keeps watch, as well as a
couple of sentinels, inasmuch as the construction
of them wasacurve line approximating to a cycloid,
if not a eycloid itself.

My uncle Toby understood the nature of a para-
bola as well as any man in England ;—but was not
quite such a master of the cycloid :—he talked,
however about it every day the bridge went
not forwards. We'll ask somebody about it, cried
my uncle Toby to Trim.

 

 

CHAPTER XXVI,

Wuen Trim came in, and told my father that
Dr. Slop was in the kitchen, and busy in making
a bridge,—my uncle Toby, the affair of the jack-
boots having just then raised a train of military
ideas in his brain, took it instantly for granted
that Dr. Slop was making a model of the Marquis
d’Hopital’s bridge—’Tis very obliging in him, quoth
my uncle Toby ;—pray give my humble service to
Dr. Slop, Trim, and tell iim I thank him heartily.

Had my uncle Toby’s head been a Savoyard’s
box, and my father peeping in all the time at
one end of it,—it could not have given hima more
distinct conception of the operations in my uncle
Toby’s imagination than what he had; so not-
withstanding the catapulta and battering-ram, and
his bitter imprecation about them, he was just be-
ginning to triumph,—

When Trim’s answer, in an instant, tore the
laurel from his brows, and twisted it to pieces,

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVH.

—Tuis unfortunate drawbridge of yours, quoth
my father—God bless your honour, cried Trim,
tis a bridge for master’s nose.—In bringing him
into the world with his vile instruments, he has
crushed his nose, Susannah says, as flat as a pan-
cake to his face, and he is making a false bridge,
with a piece of cotton, and a thin piece of whale-
bone, out of Susannah’s stays, to raise it up.

—Lead me, brother Toby, cried my father, to my
room this instant.

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.

From the first moment I sat down to write my
life for the amusement of the world, and my opi-
nions for its instruction, has a cloud insensibly
been gathering over my father. A tide of little
epils and distresses has been setting in against him.

Not one thing, as he observed himself, has gone
right: and now is the storm thickened, and going
to break, and pour down full upon his head.

I enter upon this part of my story in the most
pensive and melancholy frame of mind that ever
sympathetic breast was touched with.—My nerves
relax as I tell it—Every line I write, I feel an
abatement of the quickness of my pulse, and of
that careless alacrity with it, which every day of
my life prompts me to say and write a thousand
things I should not :—and this moment that I last
dipped my pen into my ink, I could not help taking
notice what a cautious air of sad composure and
solemnity there appeared in my manner of doing
it.—Lord, how different from the rash jerks, and
hare-brained squirts thou art wont, Tristram, to

 

 

 

——— -

Sst

Seee

SS

ee

gf reer
a areata

f

if
i

 

 

 

 

 

 

transact it with, in other humours, dropping thy
pen —spirting thy ink about thy table and thy
books,—as if thy pen and thy ink, thy books and
thy furniture, cost thee nothing !

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
I won’r go about to argue the point with
you:—’Tis so, and I am persuaded of it, madam,
as much as can be, “ That both man and woman
bear pain or sorrow (and, foraught I know, pleasure
too) best in a horizontal position.”

The moment my father got up into his chamber,
he threw himself prostrate across his bed, in the
wildest disorder imaginable, but at the same time
in the most lamentable attitude of a man borne
down with sorrows, that ever the eye of pity
dropped a tear for. The palm of his right hand,
as he fell upon the bed, receiving his forehead,
and covering the greatest part of both his eyes,
gently sunk down with his head (his elbow giving
way backwards) till his nose touched the quilt ;—
his left arm hung insensibly over the side of the
bed, his knuckles reclining upon the handle of the
chamber-pot, which peeped out beyond the valance,
—his right leg (his left being drawn up towards
his body) hung half over the side of the bed, the
edge of it pressing upon his shin-bone. He felt it
not. <A fixed inflexible sorrow took possession of
every line of his face. He sighed once, heaved
his breast often, but uttered not a word.

An old set-stitched chair, valanced and fringed
around with parti-coloured worsted bobs, stood
at the bed’s head, opposite to the side where my
father’s head reclined—My uncle Toby sat him
down in it.

Before an affliction is digested, consolation ever
comes too soon ;—and after it is digested,—it comes
too late: so that you see, madam, there is but a
mark between these two, as fine almost as a hair,
for a comforter to take aim at. My uncle Toby
was always either on this side or on that of it, and
would often say he believed in his heart he could
as soon hit the longitude ; for this reason, when he
sat down in the chair, he drew the curtain a little
forwards, and having a tear at every one’s service,
he pulled out a cambric handkerchief,—gave a
low sigh, but held his peace.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXX.

——*“ Arz is not gain that is got into the purse.”
—So that notwithstanding my father had the hap-
piness of reading the oddest books in the universe,
and had, moreover, in himself, the oddest way of
thinking that ever man in it was blessed with, yet
it had this drawback upon him after all, that
it laid him open to some of the oddest and most
whimsical distresses ; of which this particular one,
which he sunk under at present, is as strong an
example as can be given.

No doubt, the breaking down of the bridge of a
child’s nose, by the edge of a pair of forceps,—
however scientifically applied—would vex any man
in the world who was at so much pains in begetting
a child as my father was; yet it will not account
for the extravagance of his affliction, nor will it
justify the unchristian manner he abandoned and
surrendered himself up to.

T'o explain this I must leave him upon the bed
for half an hour,—and my uncle Toby, in his old
fringed chair, sitting beside him.

 

 

58 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

CHAPTER XAXI,_
I THINK it a very unreasonable demand,—
cried my great-grandfather, twisting up the paper,
and throwing it upon thé table. By this account,
madam, you have but two thousand pounds fortune,
and not a shilling more; and you insist upon
having three hundred pounds a year jointure for
1.

 

 

 

—“ Because,” replied my great-grandmother,
“ you have little or no nose, sir.”

Now before I venture to make use of the word
nose a second time,—to avoid all confusion in what
will be said upon it, in this interesting part of my
story, it may not be amiss to explain my own
meaning, and define with all possible exactness and
precision, what I would willingly be understood to
mean by the term ; being of opinion that ’tis owing
to the negligence and perverseness of writers in
despising this precaution, and to nothing else,—
that ail the polemical writings in divinity are not
as clear and demonstrative as those upon a Will
0 the Wisp, or any other sound part of philosophy
and natural pursuit ; in order to which, what have
you to do, before you set out, unless you intend to
go puzzling on to the day of judgment,—but to
give the world a good definition, and stand to it,
of the main word you have most oceasion for,—
changing it, sir, as you would a guinea, into small
coin?—W hich done,—let the father of confusion puz-
zle youif he can; or puta different idea either into
your head, or your reader’s head, if he knows how.

In books of strict morality and close reasoning,
such as this 1 am engaged in,—the negleet is in-
excusable; and Heaven is witness how the world
has revenged itself upon me for leaving so many
openings to equivocal strictures,—and for depend-
ing so much as I have done, all along, upon the
cleanliness of my reader’s imaginations.

—Here are two senses, cried Eugenius, as we
walked along, pointing with the forefinger of his
right hand to the word crevice,in the twenty-eighth
page of this book of books, here are two senses,
quoth he.—And here are two roads, replied I,
turning short upon him, a dirty and a clean one,
—which shall we take ?—The clean, by all means,
replied Eugenius.—Eugenius, said I, stepping be-
fore him, and laying my hand upon his breast,—
to define—is to distrust.—Thus, I triumphed over
Eugenius; but I trimmphed over him, as I always
do, like a fool. "Tis my comfort, however, I am
not an obstinate one; therefore,

I define a nose as follows,—intreating only
beforehand, and beseeching my readers, both male
and female, of what age, complexion and condition,
soever, for the love of God and their own souls, to
guard against the temptations and suggestions of
the devil, and suffer him, by no art or wile, to put
any other ideas into their minds than what I put
into my definition.—For by the word nose,
throughout all this long chapter of Noses, and in
every other part of my work where the word Nose
oceurs,—I declare, by that word I mean a nose,
and nothing more, nor less.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
“ Brcause,” quoth my great-grandmother,
repeating the words again, “ you have little or no
nose, sir.”
S’death! cried my great-grandfather, clapping

 

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I aspera lee apeTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

59

 

his hi mn hi ti
us hand upon his nose,—’tis not so small as that

comes to ;—’tis a full inch longer than my father’s.
—Now my great-grandfather’s nose was for all
the world like unto the noses of all the men, women,
and children, whom Pantagruel found dwelling
upon the island of Ennasin.—By the way, if you
vould know the strange way of getting a-kin
amongst so flat-nosed a people, you must read the
book :—find it out yourself you never can.
—Tis shaped, sir, like an ace of clubs.
—'Tisafullinch,continued my great-grandfather,
oressing up the ridge of his nose with his finger and
thumb ;—and repeating his assertion,—’tis a full
inch longer, madam, than my father’s. Youmust
mean your uncle’s, replied my great-grandmother.
My great-grandfather was convinced.—
He untwisted the paper and siened the article.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

—— Waar an unconscionable jointure, my dear,
do we pay out of this small estate of ours! quoth
my grandmother to my grandfather,——

My father, replied my grandfather, had no more
nose, my dear, saving the mark, than there is upon
the back of my hand.

Now, you must know that my great-grand-
mother outlived my grandfather twelve years 3 so
that my father had the jointure to pay, a hundred
and fifty pounds half-yea ‘ly—(on Michaelmas and
Lady-day) during all that time.

No man discharged pecuniary obligations with a
better grace than my father;—and as far as a hun-
dred pounds went, he would fling it upon the table,
guinea by guinea, with that spirited jerk of anhonest
welcome, which generous souls, and generous souls
only, are able to fling down money: but as soon as
ever he entered upon the odd fifty,—he generally
gave a loud hem! rubbed the side of his nose
leisurely with the flat part of his fore-finger—in-
serted his hand cautiously betwixt his head and the
cawl of his wig,—looked at both sides of every
guinea as he parted with it,—and seldom eould get
to the end of the fifty pounds, without pulling
out his handkerchief, and wiping his temples.

Defend me, gracious Heaven! from those per-
secuting spirits who make no allowances for these
workings within us.—Never, O never, may I lie
down in their tents who cannot relax the engine,
and feel pity for the force of education, and the
prevalence of opinions long derived from ancestors.

For three generations, at least, this tenet in
favour of long noses had gradually been taking
root in our family. TRADITION was all along
on its side, and InTEREST was every half year
stepping in to strengthen it; so that the whim-
sicality of my father’s brain was far from having
the whole honour of this, as it had of almost
all his other strange notions. For, in a great
measure, he might be said to have sucked this
in with his mother’s milk. He did his part,
however. —— If education planted the mistake (in
case it was one), my father watered it, and ripened
it to perfection.

He would often declare, in speaking his thoughts
upon the subject, that he did not conceive how the
greatest family in England could stand it out against
an uninterrupted succession of six or seven short
noses. And for the contrary reason, he would
generally add that it must be one of the greatest
problems in civil life, where the samenumber of long

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

line, did not raise and hoist it up into the best
vacancies in the kingdom.—He would often boast
that the Shandy family ranked very high in king
Harry the VIIIth’s time, but owed its rise to no |
state engine—he would say—but to that only ;—— |
but that, like other families, he would add—it had
felt the turn of the wheel, and had never re-
covered the blow of my great-grandfather’s nose.
——It was an ace of clubs indeed, he would Cry, |
shaking his head—and as vile a one for an unfor- |
tunate family as ever turned up trumps. |

Fair and softly, gentle reader !—where is |
thy fancy carrying thee ?—If there is truth in
man, by my great-grandfather’s nose, I mean the
external organ of smelling, or that part of man
which stands prominent in his face,—and which
painters say, in good jolly noses and well-propor-
tioned faces, should comprehend a full third;—
that is, measured downwards from the setting on
of the hair.
What a life of it has an author, at this

and jolly noses, following one another in a direct
|
{
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pass !
CHAPTER XXXIV,

It is a singular blessing that nature has formed
the mind of man with the same happy back-
wardness and renitency against conviction which
is observed in old dogs,—“of not learning new
tricks.”

What a shuttlecock of a fellow would the
greatest philosopher that ever existed be whisked
into at once, did he read such books, and observe
such facts, and think such thoughts, as would
eternally be making him change sides !

Now, my father, as I told you last year, de-
tested all this :—He picked up an opinion, Sir, as
aman in a state of nature picks up an apple ;—it
becomes his own ;—and if he is a man of spirit,
he would lose his life rather than give it up.

I am aware that Didius, the great civilian, will
contest this point, and cry out against me, Whence |
comes this man’s right to this apple ? ex confesso, |
he will say,—were things ina state of nature,—
the apple is as much Frank’s apple as John’s.—
Pray, Mr. Shandy, what patent has he to show
for it and how did it begin to be his? was it when
he set his heart upon it? or when he gathered it?
or when he chewed it? or when he roasted it? |
or when he peeled it? or when he brought it
home? or when he digested !—or when he—— ?—
For ’tis plain, sir, if the first picking up of the
apple made it not his—that no subsequent act
could.

Brother Didius, Tribonius will answer—(now
Tribonius the civilian and church lawyer’s beard |
being three inches and a half and three eighths |
longer than Didius his beard, I’m glad he takes up
the cudgels for me; so I give myself no farther
trouble about the answer.)—Brother Didius, Tri-
bonius will say, it is a decreed case, as you may
find it in the fragments of Gregorius and Her-
mogines’s codes, and in all the codes from Jus-
tinian’s down to the codes of Louis and Des Eaux,
—that the sweat of a man’s brows, and the exu-
dations of a man’s brains, are as much a man’s
own property as the breeches upon his backside ;
—which said exudations, &c., being dropped
upon the said apple by the labour of finding it, and
picking it up; and being moreover indissolubly
wasted, and as indissolubly annexed, by the picker

 

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69 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

Gea

 

 

na ego wae

ates

eh

up to the thing picked up, carried home, roasted,
peeled, eaten, digested, and so on,—’tis evident
that the gatherer of the apple, in so doing, has
mixed up something which was his own with the
| apple which was not his own ; by which means he
| has acquired property ;—or, in other words, the
| apple is John’s apple.

| By the same learned chain of reasoning, my
|

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|

|

|

CHAPTER XXXV.

My father’s collection was not great, but to make
amends, it was curious; and consequently he was
some time in making it: he had the great good for-
tune, however, to set off well in getting Bruscam-
bille’s prologue upon long noses, almost for nothing;
for he gave no more for Bruscambille than three
half-crowns ; owing indeed to the strong fancy
which the stall-man saw my father had for the
book the moment he laid his hands upon it.—_—
There are not three Bruscambilles in Christendom,
said the stall-man, except what are chained up in
the libraries of the curious. My father flung down

==

ee

eS
te let

father stood up for all his opinions: he had spared
no pains in picking them up, and the more they lay
out of the common way the better still was his title.
—No mortal claimed them; they had cost him,more-
over, as much labour in cooking and digesting as
in the case above ; so that they might well and

| : : the money as quick as lightning—took Bruscam-
| truly be said to be of his own goods and chattels. : Delt ta Ss 5 Re eee

| eres ; : : bille into his bobsom—hied home from Piccadilly
| Accordingly, he held fast by ’em, both by teeth

to Coleman-street with it, as he would have hied
home with a treasure, without taking
once off from Bruscambille all the way.

To those who do not yet know of which gender
Bruseambille is—inasmuch as a prologue upon
long noses might easily be done by either—’twill
be no objection against the simile—to say that,
when my father got home, he solaced himself with
Bruseambille after the manner in which, ’tis ten
to one, your worship solaced yourself with your
first mistress ;—that is from morning even unto
night: which by the bye, how delightful soever it
| may prove to the innamorato, is of little or no
entertainment at all to by-standers.—Take notice,
I go no farther with the simile ;—my father’s eye
was greater than his appetite—his zeal greater
than his knowledge ;—he cooled—his affections

and claws,—would fly to whatever he could lay
| his hands on,—and in a word, would intrench and
_ fortify them round with as many circumvallations
and breast-works as my uncle Toby would a
citadel.
There was one plaguy rub in the way of this,
| —the scarcity of materials to make anything of a
| defence with, in case of a smart attack; inasmuch
as few men of great genius had exercised their
| parts in writing books upon the subject of great
noses. By the trotting of my lean horse, the thing
is incredible! and I am quite lost in my under-
standing, when I am considering what a treasure
of precious time and talents together has been
wasted upon worse subjects, and how many millions
of books in all languages, and in all possible types

=

his hand

aaa
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ae

it
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i

and bindings, have been fabricated on points not
| half so much tending to the unity and peace-
| making of the world ! What was to be had, how-
| ever, he set the greater store by;—and though
my father would ofttimes sport with my uncle
| Toby’s library,—which, by the bye, was ridiculous
enough, yet, at the very same time he did it, he
collected every book and treatise which had been
systematically wrote upon noses with as much
| care as my honest uncle Toby had done those
| upon military architecture.—’Tis true, a much
| less table would have held them ; —but that was
| not thy transgression, my dear uncle.—
| Here,—but why here — rather than in any other
| part of my story?——_I am not able to tell:
but here it is my heart stops me to pay to
thee, my dear uncle Toby, once for all, the tribute I
owe thy goodness.—Here let me thrust my chair
aside, and kneel down upon the ground, whilst I
am pouring forth the warmest sentiments of love
for thee, and veneration for the excellency of thy
character, that ever virtue and nature kindled in
a nephew’s bosom.—Peace and comfort rest for
evermore upon thy head ;— thou enviedst no man’s
comforts,—insultedst no man’s opinions, — thou
blackenedst no man’s character,—devouredst no
man’s bread! Gently, with faithful Trim behind
| thee, didst thou ramble round the little circle of thy
pleasures, jostling no creature in thy way: for

 

 

o
each one’s sorrows thou hadst a tear,—for each
man’s need thou hadst a shilling.
| Whilst I am worth one, to pay a weeder—thy
path from thy door to thy bowling-green shall
never be grown up.—Whilst there is a rood and a
half of land in the Shandy family, thy fortifications,
my dear uncle Toby, shall never be demolished.

 

 

 

became divided ; he got hold of Prignitz—
purchased Scroderus, Andrea Parzeus, Bouchet’s
Evening Conferences, and, above all, the great
and learned Hafen Slawkenbergius; of which as
I shall have much to say by and bye—I will
say nothing now.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Or all the tracts my father was at the pains to
procure and study in support of his hypothesis,
there was not any one wherein he felt amore cruel
disappointment at first than in the celebrated dia-
logue between Pamphagusand Cocles, written by the
chaste pen of the great and venerable Erasmus,
upon the varioususes and seasonable applications of
long noses. Now don’t let Satan, my dear girl,
in this chapter, take advantage of any one spot of
rising ground to get astride of your imagination,
if you can any ways help it; or, if he is so nimble
as to slip on,—let me beg of you like an un-
back’d filly, to frisk it, squirt it, to jump tt, to rear
it, to bound it—and to kick it, with long kicks and
short kicks, till, like Tickletoby’s mare, you break
a strap or a crupper, and throw his worship into
the dirt You need not kill him.—

And pray who was Tickletoby’s mare ?
Tis just as discreditableand unscholar-like a ques-
tion, sir, as to have asked what year (a6 urb. con.)
the second Punie war broke out.—Who was Tic-
kletoby’s mare ?—Read, read, read, read, my un-
learned reader ! read,—or by the knowledge of the
great Saint Paraleipomenon, I tell you beforehand
you had better throw down the book at once ; for
without mach reading, by which your reverence
knows I mean much knowledge, you will no more
be able to penetrate the moral of the next marbled
page (motley emblem of my work), than the world
with all its sagacity has been able to unravelee ee ee ree eee) a

 

Be : : ]
the many opinions, transactions and truths, which |

still lie mystically hid under the dark veil of the |
black one.*

|
ee
|

|
CHAPTER XX Xovin: |
“ Nrwit me penitet hujus nasi,” quoth Pampha- |
gus ;—that is,—“ My nose has been the making of |
me.”—_© Nec est cur peniteat,” replies Cocles ;
that is, “How the deuce should such a nose fail 2 |
The doctrine, you see, was laid down by Eras- |
mus, as my father wished it, with the utmost |
plainness ; but my father’s disappointment was in
finding nothing more from so able a pen but the bare
fact itself ; without any of that speculative subtlety
or ambidexterity of argumentation upon it which
Heaven had bestowed upon man on purpose to
investigate truth, and fight for her on all sides,
—My father pish’d and pugh’d at first most terrj-
bly. ‘Tis worth something to have a good
name, As the dialogue was of Erasmus, my
father soon came to himself, and read it over and
over again, with great application, studying every
word and every syllable of it through and through
in its most strict and literal interpretation.— He
) could still make nothing of it that way. Mayhap
there is more meant than is said in it, quoth my
father.—Learned men, brother Toby, don’t write
dialogues upon long noses for nothing.—I’ll study
the mystic and the allegorie sense.—Here is some
{ room to turn a man’s self in, brother.
My father read on,——
Now, I find it needful to inform your rever-
} ences and worships that, besides the many nau-
| tical uses of long noses enumerated by Erasmus,
ithe dialogist affirmeth that a long nose is not
| without its domestic conveniences also; for that,
in a case of distress, and for want of a pair of
bellows, it will do excellently well ad excitandum
focum (to stir up the fire).
Nature had been prodigal in her gifts to my
father beyond measure, and had sown the seeds
(of verbal criticism as deep within him as she had
!done the seeds of all other knowledge ;—so that
ihe had got out his penknife, and was trying expe-
ciments upon the sentence, tosee if he could not
scratch some better sense into it.—I’ve got within
11 single letter, brother Toby, cried my father, of
‘Erasmus his mystic meaning. ——You are near
ough, brother, replied my unele, in all con-
jsclence.— Pshaw! cried my father, scratch- |
qng on, I might as well be seven miles off.—I’ve
lone it, said my father, snapping his fingers, ——
See, my dear brother Toby, how I have mended
(he sense————But you have marred a word,
vreplied my uncle Toby.—My father put on his
qipectacles—bit his lip, and tore out the leaf in a
#assion.

 

 

CHAPTER: XXX VIE:

O Stawkensercius! thou faithful analyser of |
tny Disgrazias, thou sad foreteller of so many of
‘he whips and short turns which in one stage or

dj ther of my life have come slap upon me from the
‘hortness of my nose, and no other cause that Iam
(onscious of—tell me, Slawkenbergius, what secret
ja@mpulse was it? what intonation of voice? whence
jame it? how did it sound in thy ears?—artthousure

 

 

 

* It was the whim of the eccentric author to introduce

t this place two pages, the one marbled, the other black,

idhich he there inserted for his readers to exercise their

}1igenuity upon, to as much effect as Mr. Shandy in his
judy of Erasmus’s essay, detailed in the next chapter.

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 61

 

+

thou heardst it?—which first cried out to thee,—
Go,—go, Slawkenbergius! dedicate the labours of
thy life—neglect thy pastimes—call forth all the
powers and faculties of thy nature—macerate thy-
self in the service of mankind, and write a grand
FOLIO for them, upon the subject of their noses.

How the communication’ was conveyed into
Slawkenbergius’ sensorium,—so that Slawkenber-
gius should know whose finger touched the key,
—and whose hand it was that blew the bellows—
as Hafen Slawkenbergius has been dead and laid
in his grave above fourscore and ten years,—we
‘an only raise conjectures.

Slawkenbergius was played upon, for aught I
know, like one of Whitfield’s disciples :—that is,
with such a distinct intelligence, sir, of which of
the two masters it was that had been practising
upon his instrument—as to make all reasoning
upon it needless.

—-— For in the account which Hafen Slawken-
bergius gives the world of his motives and occa-

sions for writing and spending so many years of |
his life upon this one work—towards the end of |

his prolegomena (which, by the bye, should have
come first—but the bookbinder has most injudi-
ciously placed it between the analytical contents
of the book and the book itself)— he informs his
reader that ever since he had arrived at the age
of discernment, and was able to sit down coolly,
and consider within himself the true state and
condition of man—and distinguish the main end
and design of his being ;—or—to shorten my
translation, for Slawkenbergius’s book isin Latin,
and not a little prolix in this passage ;—ever since
I understood, quoth Slawkenbergius, anything—
or rather what was what,—and could perceive
that the point of long noses had been too loosely
handled by all who had gone before—have I,
Slawkenbergius, felt a strong impulse, with a
mighty and unresistible call within me, to gird up
myself to this undertaking.

And, to do justice to Slawkenbergius, he has
entered the list with a stronger lance, and taken
a much larger career in it, than any one man who
had ever entered it before him ;—and, indeed, in
many respects, deserves to be enniched as a proto-
type for all writers of voluminous works, at least
to model their books by; for he has taken in, Sir,
the whole subject—examined every part of it
dialectically ;—then brought it into full day; dilu-
cidating it with all the light which either the
collision of his own natural parts could strike—or
the profoundest knowledge of the sciences had
empowered him to cast upon it,—collating, col-
lecting and compiling ;—begging, borrowing, and
stealing, as he went along, all that had been
written or wrangled thereupon in the schools and
porticoes of the learned; so that Slawkenbergius
his book may be properly considered, not only as
a model—but as a thorough-stitched piexsr, and
regular institute of noses ; comprehending in it all
that is, or can be, needful to be known about them.

For this cause it is that I forbear to speak of so
many (otherwise) valuable books and treatises of
my father’s collecting, wrote either plump upon
noses,—or collaterally touching them ;—such, for
instance, as Prignitz, now lying upon the table
before me, who with infinite learning, and from
the most candid and scholar-like examination of
above four thousand different skulls in upwards

 

 

 

 

 

—enenens

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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

of twenty charnel-houses in Silesia, which he had
rummaged, has informed us that the mensuration
and configuration of the osseous or bony parts of
human noses, in any given tract of country except
Crim Tartary, where they are all crushed down by
the thumb, so that no judgment can be formed
upon them—are much nearer alike than the
world imagines ;—the difference amongst them
being, he says,a mere trifle, not worth taking
notice of ;—but that the size and jollity of every
individual nose, and by which one nose ranks
above another, and bears a higher price, is owing
to the cartilaginous and muscular parts of it, into
whose ducts and sinuses the blood and animal
spirits being impelled and driven bythe warmth and
force of the imagination, which is but a step from it
(bating the case of idiots, whom Prignitz, who had
lived many years in Turkey, supposes under the
more immediate tutelage of Heaven)—it so hap-
pens, and ever must, says Prignitz, that the ex-
cellency of the nose is in a direct arithmetical
proportion to the excellency of the wearer’s fancy.

It is for the same reason, that is, because ’tis
all comprehended in Slawkenbergius, that I say
nothing likewise of Scroderus (Andrea), who, all
the world knows, set himself up to oppugn
Prignitz with great violence,—proving it in his
own way, first logically, and then by a series of
stubborn facts, “That so far was Prignitz from the
truth, in affirming that the fancy begat the nose,
that on the contrary—the nose begat the fancy.”

The learned suspected Scroderus of an indecent
sophism in this ; and Prignitz cried out aloud in the
dispute, that Scroderus had shifted the idea upon
him_but Scroderus went on, maintaining his thesis.

My father was just balancing within himself
which of the two sides he should take in this affair,
when Ambrose Parzeus decided it in a moment,
and, by overthrowing the systems both of Prignitz
and Scroderus, drove my father out of both sides
of the controversy at once.

Be witness,

I don’t acquaint the learned reader ;—in saying
it—I mention it only to show the learned I know
the fact myself -——

That this Ambrose Parzeus was chief surgeon
and nose-mender to Charles the Ninth of France ;
andinhigh credit with him and thetwo preceding or
succeeding kings (I know not which)—and that,
except in the slip he made in his story of Taliaco-
tius’s noses, and his manner of setting them on,—
he was esteemed by the whole college of physicians,
at that time, as more knowing in matters of noses,
than any one who had ever taken them in hand.

Now, Ambrose Pareus convinced my father
that the true and efficient cause of what had en-
gaged so much the attention of the world, and
upon which Prignitz and Scroderus had wasted so
much learning and fine parts,—was neither this
nor that;—but that the length and goodness of
the nose was owing simply to the softness and
flaccidity in the nurse’s breast, as the flatness and
shortness of puisne noses was to the firmness and
elastic repulsion of the same organ of nutrition in
the hale and lively ;—which though happy for the
woman, was the undoing of the child, imasmuch
as his nose was so snubbed, so rebuffed, so rebated,
and so refrigerated thereby, as never to arrive ad
mensuram suam legitimam;—but that in case of
the flaccidity and softness of the nurse or mother’s

 

 

 

 

 

 

breast, by sinking into it, quoth Parzeus, as into so
much butter, the nose was comforted, nourished,
plumped up, refreshed, refocillated, and set
a-growing for ever.

I have but two things to observe of Pareeus ;
first, that he proves and explains all this with
the utmost chastity and decorum of expression ;—
for which, may his soul for ever rest in peace !

And, secondly, that, besides the systems of Pri-
enitz and Scroderus, which Ambrose Parzeus his
hypothesis effectually overthrew, it overthrew at
the same time the system of peace and harmony of
our family ; and, for three days together, not only
embroiled matters between my father and my mo-
ther, but turned likewise the whole house,and every-
thing init, except my uncle Toby, quite upside down.

Such a ridiculous tale of a dispute between a man
and his wife, never surely, in any age or country,
got vent through the keyhole of a street-door !

My mother, you must know but I have fifty
things more necessary to let you know first ;—I
have a hundred difficulties which I have promised
to clear up, and a thousand distresses and domestic
misadventures crowding in upon me thick and
three-fold, one upon the neck of another. A cow
broke in (to-morrow morning) to my uncle Toby’s
fortifications, and ate up two rations and a half of
dried grass, tearing up the sods with it, which
faced his horn-work and covered-way. Trim
insists upon its being tried by a court-martial,—
the cow to be shot,—Slop to be crucifired,—my-
self to be tristram’d, and, at my very baptism,
made a martyr of ;—poor unhappy devils that we
all are!—I want swaddling ;—but there is no
time to be lost in exclamations.—I have left my
father lying across his bed, and uncle Toby in his
old frineed chair, sitting beside him, and promised
I would go back to them in half an hour ; and
five-and-thirty minutes are lapsed already. Of
all the perplexities a mortal author was ever seen
in,—this certainly is the: greatest; for 1 have

Jafen Slawkenbergius’s folio, sir, to finish ;—a
dialogue between my father and my uncle Toby,
upon the solution of Prignitz, Scroderus, Ambrose
Parzeus, Panocrates, and Grangousier, to relate 5
—a tale out of Slawkenbergius to translate ;—
and all this in five minutes less than no time at
all.—Such a head !—would to Heaven my enemies
only saw the inside of it.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THERE was not any one scene more entertaining
in our family ;—and to do it justice in this point,
I here put off my cap, and lay it upon the table,
close beside my inkhorn, on purpose to make my
declaration to the world concerning this one article
the mov solemn,—that I believe in my soul
(unless my love and partiality to my understand-
ing blinds me) the hand of the Supreme Maker
and First Designer of all things never made or
put a family together (in that period at least of it
which I have sat down to write the’story of) —
where the characters of it were cast or contrasted
with so dramatic a felicity as ours was, for this
end ; or in which the capacities of affording such
exquisite scenes, and the powers of shifting them
perpetually from morning to night, were lodged
and intrusted with so unlimited a confidence, as
in the Shandy Family.

Not any one of these was more diverting, I say,

 

|

|

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|
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|THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY,

 

in this whimsical theatre of ours—than what fre-
quently arose out of this self-same chapter of long
noses, —especially when my father’s imagination
was heated with the inquiry, and nothing would
serve him but to heat my uncle Toby’s too.

My uncle Toby would give my father all pos-
sible fair play in this attempt ; and with infinite
patience would sit smoking his pipe for whole
hours together, whilst my father was practising
upon his head, and trying every accessible avenue
to drive Prignitz and Seroderus’ solutions into it.

Whether they were above my uncle Toby’s rea-
son,—or contrary to it,—or that his brain was like
damp tinder,and no spark could possibly take hold,—
or that it was so full of saps, mines, blinds, curtains,
and such military disqualifications to his seeing
clearly into Prignitz and Seroderus’s doctrines,—I
Say not ;—let schoolmen,—scv Hions,—anatomists,
and engineers, fight for it among themselves.

‘Twas some misfortune, I make no doubt, in
this affair, that my father had every word of it to
translate for the benefit of my uncle Toby, and
render out of Slawkenbergius’s Latin, of which,
as he was no great master, his translation was not
always of the purest,—and generally least so
where it was most wanted :—this naturally opened
a door to a second misfortune, that, in the warmer
paroxysms of his zeal to open my uncle Toby’s
eyes—my father’s ideas ran on as much faster
than the translation as the translation out-moved
my uncle Toby’s ;—neither the one nor the other
added much to the perspicuity of my father’s
lecture.

CHAPTER XL.

Tue gift of ratiocinationand making syllogisms,—

I mean in man,—for in superior classes of beings,

/ Such as angels and spirits,—’tis all doné, may it

{ please your worships, as they tell me, by intui-

) tion ;

-——and beings inferior, as your worships

: all know, syllogize by their noses ; though there is

an island swimming in the sea, though not alto-
gether at its ease, whose inhabitants, if my intelli-

gence deceives me not, are so wonderfully gifted

as to syllogize after the same fashion, and ofttimes
to make very well out too:—but that’s neither
here nor there.—

The gift of doing it as it should be, amongst us, or

the great and principal act of ratiocination in man,

as logicians tell us, is, the finding out the agree-
ment or disagreement of two ideas one with another
by the intervention of a third (called the medium
terminus) ; just as a man, as Locke well observes,
bya yard, finds two men’snine-pin-alleys to be of the
same length, which could not be brought together,
to measure their equality, by juxta-position.

Had the same great reasoner looked on, as my
father illustrated his system of noses, and observed
my uncle Toby’s deportment,—what great attention
he gave to every word ;—and as oft as he took his
pipe from his mouth, with what wonderful serious-
ness he contemplated the length of it !—surveying
it transversely as he held it betwixt his finger and
his thumb ;—then fore-right,—then this way,—
then that, in all its possible directions and
fore-shortenings,—he would have concluded my
uncle Toby had got hold of the medius terminus,
and was syllogizing and measuring with it the
truth of each hypothesis of long noses in order as
my father laid them before him. ‘This, by the
bye, was more than my father wanted :—his aim,

 

 

 

 

 

in all the pains he was
lectures—was to enable my uncle Toby not to
discuss, but comprehend ;—to hold the grains and
scruples of learning, not to weigh them.—My
uncle Toby, as you will read in the next chapter,
did neither the one nor the other.

CHAPTER XLI.

*Trs a pity, cried my father, one winter’s night,
after a three hours’ painful translation of Slaw-.
kenbergius,—’tis a pity, cried my father, putting
my mother’s thread-paper into the book for a,
mark as he spoke,—that Truth, brother Toby,
should shut herself up in such impregnable fast-
nesses,
herself sometimes upon the closest siege.

Now it happened then,

as indeed it had often
done before, that my uncle Toby’s faney, during
the time of my father’s explanation of Prignitz to
him,—having nothing to stay it there, had taken a
short flight to the bowling-green :—his body might
as well have taken a turn there too 3 so that with
all the semblance of a deep schoolman intent upon
the medius terminus,—my uncle Toby was in fact
as ignorant of the whole lecture, and all its pro’s
and con’s, as if my father had been translating
Hafen Slawkenbergius from the Latin tongue into
the Cherokee. But the word siege, like a talis-
manic power, in my father’s metaphor, wafting
back my uncle Toby’s fancy, quick as a note could
follow the touch,—he opened his ears ;—and my
father observing that he took his pipe out of his
mouth, and shuffled his chair nearer the table, as
with a desire to profit,—my father with great
pleasure began his sentence again,—changing only
the plan, and dropping the metaphor of the siege
in it, to keep clear of some dangers my father
apprehended:from it.

‘Tis a pity, said my father, that truth can only |

beon oneside, brother Toby, considering what inge-
nuity these learned men have all shown in their
eebaats . , “vce Y 1
solutions of noses. Can noses be dissolved 2
replied my uncle Toby.

— My father thrust back his chair—rose up—

at in these philosophic

and be so obstinate as not to surrender |

put on his hat—took four long strides to the door |

—Jjerked it open, thrust his head half-way out—
shut the door again—took no notice of the bad
hinge—returned to the table—plucked my mother’s

 

thread-paper out of Slawkenbergius’s book, went |

hastily to his bureau—walked slowly back, twist-
ing my mother’s thread-paper about his thumb—
unbuttoned his waistcoat—threw my mother’s
thread-paper into the fire—pit her satin pincushion
in two—filled his mouth with bran—confounded
it; but, mark, the oath of confusion was levelled
at my uncle Toby’s brain ;—which was even con-
fused enough already ; the curse éame charge
only with the bran ;—the bran, may it please your
honours, was no more than powder to the ball.
"Twas well my father’s passions lasted not long ;
for so long as they did last they led him a busy

 

life on’t ; and it is one of the most unaccountable |

problems that ever I met with in my observations
of human nature, that nothing should prove my
father’s mettle so much, or make his passions go
off so like gunpowder, as the unexpected strokes

his science met with from the quaint simplicity of
my uncle Toby’s questions. Had ten dozen of
hornets stung him behind in so many different
places all at one time, he could not have exerted64

 

more mechanical functions in fewer seconds, or
started half so much, as with one single query of
three words unseasonably popping in full upon him
in his hobby-horsical career.

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

"Twas all one to my uncle Toby :—he smoked |

his pipe on with unvaried composure ;—his heart
never intended offence to his brother
head could seldom find out where the sting of it
lay—he always gave my father the credit of cool-
ing by himself.—He was five minutes and thirty-
five seconds about it in the present case.

By all that’s good! said my father, swearing as

 

and as his |

he came to himself, and taking the oath out of |
Ernulphus’s digest of curses—(though to do my
father justice, it was a fault, as he told Dr. Slop in |
the affair of Ernulphus, which he as seldom com-
mitted as any man upon earth)—By all that’s |

good and great, brother Toby, said my father, if it
was not for the aids of philosophy, which befriend
one so much as they do, you would put a man
beside all temper.—Why, by the solutions of noses,
of which I was telling you, I meant, as you might
have known, had you favoured me with one grain
of attention, the various accounts which learned
men of different kinds of knowledge have given
the world of the causes of short and long noses.
There is no cause but one, replied my

uncle Toby, why one man’s nose is longer than
another’s, but because that God pleases to have it
so.-———That is Grangousier’s solution, said
my father————It is He, continued my uncle
Toby, looking up, and not regarding my father’s
interruption, who makes us all, and frames and
puts us together in such forms and proportions,
and for such ends, as is agreeable to his infinite
wisdom. "Tis a pious account, cried my
father, but not philosophical ;—there is more reli-
gion in it than sound science. It was no incon-
sistent part of my uncle Toby’s character—that
he feared God and reverenced religion, So the
moment my father finished his remark, my uncle
Toby fell a whistling Lillibullero, with more zeal
(though more out of tune) than usual
What is become of my wife’s thread-paper ?

 

 

CHAPTER XLII.
No matter—as an appendage to seamstressy, the

thread-paper might be of some consequence to |

my mother—of none to my father, as a mark in
Slawkenbergius. Slawkenbergius, in every page
of him, was a rich treasury of inexhaustible know-
ledge to my father ;—he could not open him amiss 5
and he would often say, in closing the book, that,
if all the arts and sciences in the world, with the
books which treated of them, were lost should
the wisdom and policies of government, he would
say, through disuse, ever happen to be forgot, and
all that statesmen had wrote, or caused to be

 

written, upon the strong or the weak sides of |

courts and kingdoms, should they be forgot also—
and Slawkenbergius only left—there would be
enough in him, in all conscience, he would say, to
set the world a-going again. A treasure, there-
fore, was he indeed ! an institute of all that was
necessary to be known of noses, and everything
else.—At matin, noon, and vespers, was Hafen
Slawkenbergius his recreation and delight ;—’twas
for ever in his hands ;—you would have sworn,
sir, it had been a canon’s prayer-book, so worn,
so glazed, so contrited and attrited was it with
fingers and with thumbs, in all its parts, from one
end even unto the other.

I am not such a bigot to Slawkenbergius as my
father :—there is a fund in him, no doubt ; but,
in my opinion, the best, I don’t say the most pro-
fitable, but the most amusing, part of Hafen Slaw-
kenbergius is his Tales ;—and, considering he was
a German, many of them told not without fancy.—
These take up his second book, containing nearly
one half of his folio, and are comprehended in ten
decades ; each decade containing ten tales.—Phi-
losophy is not built upon tales ; and, therefore,
‘twas certainly wrong in Slawkenbergius to send
them into the world by that name !—there are a
few of them in his eighth, ninth, and tenth decades,
which, I own, seem rather playful and sportive
than speculative ;—but, in general, they are to be
looked upon by the learned as a detail of so many
independent facts, all of them turning round,
somehow or other, upon the main hinges of his
subject, and collected by him with great fidelity,
and added to his work as so many illustrations
upon the doctrines of noses.

As we have leisure enough upon our hands, if
you give me leave, madam, I’ll tell you the ninth
tale of his tenth decade.

 

 

 

VOLUME

THE

POU RTH.

 

 

A PRET GTS

 

rogo, parcant opusculis—in quibus fuit propositi semper,a jocis ad seria, in seriis

Multitudinis imperite non formido judicia, meis tamen, bu
issi SARESBERIENSIS, Episcopus Lugdun.

vicissim ad jocos transire.—JO0AN.

 

 

SLAWKENBERGII FABELLA *.

VesperaA quadam frigi-
dula, posteriori in parte
mensis Augusti, peregrinus,
mulo fuseo colore incidens,
mantica a tergo, paucis in-
dusiis, binis calceis, braccis-

SLAWKENBERGIUS’S TALE.

It was one cool refreshing
evening, at the close of a
very sultry day, in the latter
end of the month of August,
when a stranger, mounted
upon a dark mule, with a

* As Hafen Slawkenbergius de Nasis is extremely scarce,
it may not be unacceptable to the learned r xader to see
the specimen of a few pages of his original. I will make
no reflection upon it, but that his story-telling Latin is |
much more concise than his philosophic—and, I think,

has more of Latinity in it.

quesericis coccineis repleta,
Argentoratum ingressus est.

Militi eum percontanti,
quum portus intraret, dixit,
se apud Nasorum Promon-
torium fuisse, Francofur-
tum proficisci, et Argento-
ratum, transitu ad _ fines
Sarmatie mensis intervallo,
reversurum,

 

small cloak-bag behind him,
containing a few shirts, a
pair of shoes, and a crimson-
satin pair of breeches, en-
tered the town of Strasburg.

He told the sentinel, who
questioned him as he entered
the gates, that he had been
at the Promontory of Noses
—was going on to Frankfort
—and should be back again
atStrasburg that day month,
in his way to the borders of
Crim Tartary.

 

 

ree LOMiles peregrini in faciem
suspexit : Di boni, nova
forma nasi!

 

At multum mihi profuit,
inquit peregrinus, carpum
amento extrahens, @ quo
pependit acinaces: Loculo
manum inseruit; et magna
cum urbanitate, pilei parte
anteriore tacté manu sinis-
tra, ut extendit dextram,
militi florinum dedit, et
processit.

Dolet mihi, ait miles, tym-
panistam nanum et valeum
alloquens, virum adeo urba-
num vaginam perdidisse :
itinerari haud poterit nuda
acinaci: neque vaginam toto
Argentorato, habilem inve-
niet. Nullam unquam
habui, respondit peregrinus
respiciens seque comiter
inclinans—hoe more gesto,
nudam acinacem eleyans,
mulo lenté progrediente, ut
nasum tueri possim.

 

 

Non immerito, benigne
peregrine, respondit miles.

Nihili estimo, ait ille
tympanista, @ pergamena
factitius est.

Prout christianus sum,
inquit miles, nasus ille, ni
sexties major sit, meo esset
conformis.

Crepitare audivi, ait tym-
panista.

Meherecule! sanguinem
emisit, respondit miles.

Miseret me, inquit tym-

panista, qui non ambo teti-
? gimus!
Eodem temporis puncto,
‘quo hee res argumentata
' fuit inter militem et tympa-
-nistam, disceptabatur ibi-
{ dem tubicine et uxore sua,
{qui tune accesserunt, et,
(peregrino pretereunte, re-
i stiterunt.

Quantus nasus! — eque
» longus est, ait tubicina, ac

vu tuba.

Et ex eodem metallo, ait

isp tubicen, velut sternutamen-
0 to audias.

Tantum abest, respondit
ililla, quod fistulam dulce-
i} dine vincit.
fAineus est, ait tubicen.
Nequaquam, respondit
}1xXor.

Rursum affirmo, ait tu-
“)icen, quod zneus est.

 

THE LIFE AND

The sentinel looked up in-
to the stranger’s face ;——_—.
he never saw such a nose in
his life !

—I have made a very good
venture of it, quoth the
stranger ;—so slipping his
wrist out of the loop of a
black ribbon, to which a
short scymetar was hung,
he put his hand into his
pocket, and with great
courtesy touching the fore-
part of his cap with his left
hand, as he extended his
right—he put a florin into
the sentinel’s hand, and
passed on.

It grieves me, said the
sentinel, speaking to a little
dwarfishbandy-legged drum-
mer, that so courteous a soul
should have lost his scab-
bard—he cannot travel with-
out one to his scymitar;
and will not be able to get
a scabbard to fit it in all
Strasburg. I never had
one, replied the stranger,
looking back to the sentinel,
and putting his hand up to
his cap as he spoke.—I carry
it, continued he, thus,—
holding up his naked scy-
metar, his mule moving on
slowly all the time,—on pur-
pose to defend my nose,

It is well worth it, gentle
stranger, replied the sentinel.
Tis not worth a Single
Stiver, said the bandy-leg-
ged drummer,—’tis a nose of
parchment.

Aslam 4 true Catholic—
except that it is six times as
big—’tis a said the
sentinel, like my own.

—I heard it crackle, said
the drummer.

By Dunder, said the senti-
nel, I saw it bleed.

What a pity, cried the
bandy-leggea drummer, we
did not both touch it!

At the very time that this
dispute was maintaining by
the sentinel and the drum-
mer—was the same point
debating betwixt a trum-
peter and a trumpeter’s wife,
who were just then coming
up, and had stopped to see
the stranger pass by.

Benedicity ! What a
nose !—’tis as long, said the
trumpeter’s wife, as a trum-
pet.

And of the same metal,
said the trumpeter, as you
hear by its sneezing.

‘Tis as soft as a flute, said
she.

 

 

nose,

 

Tis brass, said the trum-
peter.

‘Tis a pudding’s end, said
his wife,

I tell thee again, said the
trumpeter, ’tisa brazen nose,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rem penitus explorabo ;
prius, enim digito tangam,
ait uxor, quam dormivero.

Mulus_peregrini gradu
lento progressus est, ut u-
numquodque yerbum con-
troversiz, non tantum inter
militem et tympanistam,
verum etiam inter tubici-
nem et uxorem ejus, audiret.

Nequaquam, ait ille, in
muli colum frena demit-
tens, et manibus ambabus
in pectus positis, (mulo
lenté progrediente) nequa-
quam, ait ille respiciens,
non necesse est ut res isthee
dilucidata foret. Minime
gentium ! meus nasus nun-
quem tangetur, dum spiritus
hos reget artus——Ad quid
agendum ? ait uxor burgo-
magistri.

Peregrinus illinon respon-
dit. Votum faciebat tune
temporis Sancto Nicolao;
quo facto, in sinum dex-
trum inserens, e qua negli-
genter pependit acinaces,
lento gradu processit per
plateam Argentorati latam
que ad diversorium templo
ex adversum ducit.

Peregrinus mulo descen-
dens stabulo includi, et
manticam inferri jussit:
qua aperta et coccineis seri-
cis femoralibus extractig
cum argenteo  laciniato
TlepiCéuare,his sese induit,
statimque, acinaci in manu,
ad forum deambulayit.

Quod ubi peregrinus esset
ingressus, uxorem tubicinis
obviam euntem aspicit; il-
lico cursum flectit, metuens
ne nasus suus exploraretur,
atque ad diversorium regres-
sus est—exuit se vestibus;
braceas coccineas  sericas
mantice imposuit mulum-
que educi jussit.

Francofurtum proficiscor,
ait ille, et Argentoratum
quatuor abhine hebdomadis
revertar.

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 65

I'll know the bottom of it,
said the trumpeter’s wife,
for I will touch it with my
finger before I sleep.

The stranger’s mulemoved
on at so slow a rate that he
heard every word of the dis-
pute, not only betwixt the
sentinel and the drummer,
but betwixt the trumpeter
and the trumpeter’s wife.

No! said he, dropping his
reins upon his mule’s neck,
and laying both his hands
upon his breast, the one
over the other in a saint-
like position (his mule going
on easily all the time),—No!
said he looking up,—I am
not such a debtor to the
world.—slandered and dis-
appointed as I have been,—
as to give it that conviction :
no! said he, my nose shall
never be touched whilst
Heaven gives me strength
To do what? said a
burgomaster’s wife.

Thestranger tooknonotice
of the burgomaster’s wife ;
he was making a vow to
Saint Nicholas ; which done
having uncrossed his arms
with the same solemnity
with which he crossed them,
he took up the reins of his
bridle with his left hand,
and putting his right hand
into his bosom, with his
scymetar hanging loosely to
the wrist of it, he rode on as
slowly as one foot of the
mule could follow another,
through the principal streets
of Strasburg, till chance
brought him to the great inn
in the market-place, over-
against the church.

The moment the stranger
alighted, he ordered his
mule to be led into the
stable, and his cloak-bag to
be brought in ; then opening,
and taking out of it his
crimson-satin breeches, with
a silver-fringed — (appen-
dage to them which I dare
not translate)—he put his
breeches, with his fringed
cod-piece on, and forthwith,
with his short seymetar in
his hand, walked out to the
grand parade.

The stranger had just
taken three turns upon the
parade, when he perceived
the trumpeter’s wife at the
opposite side of it; so, turn-
ing short, in pain lest his
nose should be attempted,
he instantly went back to
his inn,—undressed himself,
packed up his crimson-satin
breeches, &c., in his cloak-
bag, and called for hismule.

Tam going forwards, said
the stranger, for Frankfort,
—and shall be back at Stras-
burg this day month.

Fr| ee

 

66 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

Bene curasti hoc jumen-
tum? (ait) muli faciem
manu demulcens—me, man-
ticamque meam, plus sex-
centis mille passibus porta-
vit.

Longa via est! respondit
hospes, nisi plurimum esset
negotii.—Enimyvero, ait pe-
regrinus, a Nasorum Pro-
montorio redivi, et nasum
speciosissimum, egregiosis-
simumque quem unquam
quisquam sortitus est, ac-
quisivi.

Dum peregrinus hance mi-
ram rationem de seipso red-
dit, hospes et uxor ejus,
oculis intentis, peregrini
nasum contemplantur——
Per sanctos sanctasque 0m-
nes, ait hospitis uxor, nasis
duodecim maximis in toto
Argentorato major est!—
estne, ait illa mariti in
aurem insusurrans, nonne
est nasus pregrandis ?

Dolus inest, anime mi, ait
hospes—nasus est falsus.

Verus est, respondit uxor.

Ex abiete factus est, ait
ille, terebinthinum olet.—

Carbunculus ait
uxor,

Mortuus est masus, re-
spondit hospes.

Vivus est ait illa,—et si
ipsa vivam, tangaln.

inest,

Votum feci Sancto Nico-
lao, ait peregrinus, nasum
meum intactum fore usque
ad —— Quodnam tempus?
illico respondit illa.

Minimé tangetur, inquit
ille, (manibus in pectus
compositis) usque ad illam
horam Quam horam? ait
illa..—Nullam, respondit
peregrinus, donee pervenio
ad Quem locum,—obse-
cro? ait illa.Peregrinus
nil respondens mulo con-
scenso discessit.

 

 

The stranger had not

I hope, continued the
stranger, stroking down the
face of his mule with his
left hand as he was going to
mount it, that you have
been kind to this faithful
slave of mine,—it has carried
me and my cloak-bag, conti-
nued he, tapping the mule’s
back, above six hundred
leagues.

Sis alone joumey,
sir, replied the master of the
inn—unless a man has great
business. Tut! tut! said

he stranger, I have been at
the Promontory of Noses ;
and have got me one of the
goodliest and jolliest, thank
Heaven, that ever fell to a
single man’s lot.

Whilst the stranger was
giving this odd account of
himself, the master of the
inn and his wife kept both
their eyes fixed full upon
the stranger’s nose. By
Saint Radagunda, said the
inn-keeper’s wife to herself,
there is more of it than in
any dozen of the largest
noses put together in all
Strasburg! Is it not, said
she, whispering her husband
in his ear, is it not a noble
nose?

’Tis an imposture, my
dear, said the master of the
inn ;—'tis a false nose.

’Tis a true nose, said his
wife.

Tis made of fir-tree, said
he; I smell the turpen-
tine.

There’s a pimple on it,
said she.

’Tis a dead nose, replied
the inn-keeper.

’Tis a live nose, and, if I
am alive myself, said the
wife, I will

 

 

 

inn-keeper’s
touch it.

I have made a vow to
Saint Nicholas this day,
said the stranger, that my
nose shall be touched
till —Here the stranger,
suspending his voice, looked
up. Till when, said she,
hastily.

It never shall be touched,
said he, clasping his hands

not

 

and bringing them close
to his breast, till that
hour What hour? cried

 

the inn-keeper’s wife.
Never !—never! said the
stranger, never, till I am
got———or Heaven’s sake,
into what place? said she.
—The stranger rode away
without saying a word.

got half a league on his

way towards Frankfort before all the city of Stras-

burg was in an uproar about his nose.
pline bells were justringing to call the
to their devotions, and shut up the

The com-

duties of the

|
|
|

Strasburgers |

day in prayer ;—no soul in all Strasburg heard
’em—the city was like a swarm of bees—men,
women, and children (the compline bells tinkling
all the time) flying here and there—in at one door,
and out at another—this way and that way—long
ways and cross ways—up one Street, down another
street—in at this alley, out at that.—Did you see
it? did you see it? did you see it? O! did you
see it? who saw it? who did see it !—for
mercy’s sake, who saw it !

Alack-a-day ! I was at vespers !—I was wash-
ing, I was starching, I was scouring, I was quilt-
ing God help me! I never saw it—I never
touched it !—would I had been a sentinel, a bandy-
legged drummer, a trumpeter, a trumpeter’s wife,
was the general ery and lamentation in every
street and corner of Strasburg.

Whilst all this confusion and disorder triumplied
throughout the great city of Strasburg, was the
courteous stranger going on as gently upon his
mule, in his way to Frankfort, as if he had had no
concern at all in the affair talking all the way
he rode, in broken sentences, sometimes to his
mule—sometimes to himself—sometimes to his
Julia.

O Julia, my lovely Julia ! nay, I cannot stop
to let thee bite that thistle—that ever the suspected
tongue of a rival should have robbed me of enjoy-
ment when I was upon the point of tasting it !—

——Pugh !—’tis nothing but a thistle,—never
mind it ;—thou shalt have a better supper at
night.

 

 

 

 

 

Banished from my country,—my friends,
—from thee
—Poor devil, thou art sadly tired with thy
journey ! Come,—get on a little faster,—
there’s nothing in my cloak-bag but two shirts,—
a crimson-satin pair of breeches,—and a fringed
, dear Julia—
But why to Frankfort ?—is it that there is
a hand unfelt, which secretly is conducting me
through these meanders and unsuspected tracks ?
Stumbling ! by St. Nicholas! every step !
—Why, at this rate we shall be all night in get-
ting in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To happiness ;—or am I to be the sport of
fortune and slander ?—destined to be driven forth
unconvicted, unheard, untouched ;—if so,
why did I not stay at Strasburg, where justice
but I had sworn! Come, thou shalt drink to
Saint Nicholas—O, Julia!——-What dost thou
prick up thy ears at ?—'tis nothing but a man, &e.

The stranger rode on communing in this manner
with his mule and Julia,—till he arrived at his
inn, where, as soon as he arrived, he alighted ;—
saw his mule, as he had promised, taken good
eare of, took off his cloak-bag, with his crimson-
satin breeches, &c., in it,—called for an omelet
to his supper, went to his bed about twelve
o’clock, and in five minutes fell fast asleep.

It was about the same hour when the tumult in
Strasburg being abated for that night,—the Stras-
burgers had all got quietly into their beds,—but
not like the stranger, for the rest either of their
minds or bodies ; Queen Mab, like an elf as she
was, had taken the stranger’s nose, and, without
reduction of its bulk, had that night been at the
pains of slitting and dividing it into as many noses
of different cuts and fashions as there were heads

The abbess of Qued-

 

 

 

 

 

| in Strasburg to hold them.

|

 

 

a maa mae ae RS
a eee pemeraerent oe

 

 

FFTHE LIFE AND

 

lingberg, who with the four great dignitaries of
her chapter, the prioress, the deaness, the sub-
ehantress, and senior canoness, had that week
come to Strasburg to consult the university upon
a case of conscience relating to their placket-holes,
—was ill all the night.

The courteous stranger’s nose had got perched
| upon the top of the pineal gland of her brain, and
| made such rousing work in the fancies of the four
| great dignitaries of her chapter, they could not get
a wink of sleep the whole night through for it ;—
there was no keeping a limb still amongst them :—
in short, they got up like so many ghosts.
| _ The penitentiaries of the third order of Saint
| Francis,—the nuns of Mount Calvary,—the Pree-
| monstratenses,—the Clunienses,*—the Carthu-

sians,—and all the severer orders of nuns, who
| lay that night in blankets or hair-cloth, were still
in a worse condition than the abbess of Quedling-
berg,—by tossing and tumbling, and tumbling and
tossing, from one side of their beds to the other
the whole night long ;—the several sisterhoods
had seratched and mauled themselves all to death ;
they got out of their beds almost flayed alive :
everybody thought St. Anthony had visited them
for probation with his fire ; they had never once,
in short, shut their eyes the whole night long from
vespers to matins.

The nuns of Saint Ursula acted the wisest ;—
they had never attempted to go to bed at all.

The dean of Strasburg, the prebendaries, the
eapitulars and domiciliars (capitularly assembled
in the morning to consider the case of buttered
buns) ; all wished they had followed the nuns of
Saint Ursula’s example.

In the hurry and confusion everything had
been in the night before, the bakers had all forgot
to lay their leaven,—there were no buttered buns
to be had for breakfast in all Strasburg :—the
whole close of the cathedral was in one eternal
commotion ;—such a cause of restlessness and
disquietude, and such a zealous inquiry into the
cause of that restlessness, had never happened in
Strasburg, since Martin Luther, with his doctrines,
had turned the city upside down.

If the stranger’s nose took this liberty of thrust-
ing itself thus into the dishes of religious orders,
&ec., what a carnival did his nose make of it in
those of the laity !—’tis more than my pen, worn
to the stump as it is, has power to describe ;
though I acknowledge (cries Slawkenbergius, with
more gaiety of thought than I could have expected

\, from him) that there is many a good simile now
subsisting in the world which might give my coun-
trymen some idea of it ; but at the close of such a
folio as this, wrote for their sakes, and in which
I have spent the greatest part of my life—though
I own to them the simile is in being, yet would it
not be unreasonable in them to expect I should
have either time or inclination to search for it?
Let it suffice to say, that the riot and disorder it
occasioned in the Strasburgers’ fantasies was so
general—such an overpowering mastership had it

|
|

 

 

* Hafen Slawkenbergius means the Benedictine nuns of
Cluny, founded in the year 940, by Odo, Abbé de Cluny.

{ Mr. Shandy’s compliments to orators,—is very sensible
that Slawkenbergius has here changed his metaphor,—
which he is very guilty of:—that as a translator, Mr.
Shandy has all along done what he could to make him
stick to it,—but that here ’twas impossible.

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

—————,

|
67 |

got of all the faculties of the Strasburgers’ minds
S80 many strange things, with equal confidence
on all sides, and with equal eloquence in all places,
were spoken and sworn to concerning it, that it
turned the whole stream of all discourse and wonder
towards it—every soul, good and bad—rich and
poor—learned and unlearned—doctor and student
—mistress and maid—gentle and simple—nun’s
flesh and woman’s fiesh—in Strasburg—spent
their time in hearing tidings about it—every eye
in Strasburg languished to see it—every finger—
every thumb in Strasburg burned to touch it,

Now what might add, if anything may be thought
necessary to add, to so vehement a desire—was
this, that the sentinel, the bandy-legged drummer,
the trumpeter, the trumpeter’s wife, the burgo-
master’s widow, the master of the inn, and the
master of the inn’s wife, how widely soever they
all differed every one from another in their testi-
monies and descriptions of the stranger’s nose—
they all agreed together in two points—namely,
that he was gone to F rankfort, and would not
return to Strasburg till that day month ; and,
secondly, whether his nose was true or false, that
the stranger himself was one of the most perfect
paragons of beauty—the finest-made man !—the
most genteel !_the most generous of his purse—
the most courteous in his carriage, that had ever
entered the gates of Strasburg ;—that as he rode
with his seymetar slung loosely to his wrist, through
the streets—and walked with his erimson-satin
breeches across the parade—’twas with so sweet
an air of careless modesty, and so manly withal—
as would have put the heart in jeopardy (had his
nose not stood in his way) of every virgin who had
cast her eyes upon him.

I call not upon that heart which is a stranger
to the throbs and yearnings of curiosity, so excited,
to justify the abbess of Quedlingberg, the prioress,
the deaness, the sub-chantress, for sending at noon-
day for the trumpeter’s wife: she went through
the streets of Strasburg with her husband’s trumpet
in her hand—the best apparatus the straitness of
the time would allow her for the illustration of her
theory—she staid no longer than three days.

The sentinel and the bandy-legged drummer !—
nothing on this side of old Athens could equal
them! they read their lectures under the city
gates, to comers and goers, with all the pomp of a
Chrysippus and a Crantor in their porticoes.

The master of the inn, with his ostler on his
left hand, read his also in the same style—under
the portico or gateway of his stable-yard ;—his
wife, hers more privately in a back-room: all
flocked to their lectures ; not promiscuously— but
to this or that, as is ever the way, as faith and
credulity marshalled them—in a word, each Stras-
burger came crowding for intelligence—and every

trasburger had the intelligence he wanted.

‘Tis worth remarking, for the benefit of all
demonstrators in natural philosophy, &c., that, as
soon as the trumpeter’s wife had finished the
abbess of Quedlingberg’s private lecture, and had
begun to read in public, which she did upon a
stool in the middle of the great parade—she in-
commoded the other demonstrators mainly by
gaining incontinently the most fashionable part of
the city of Strasburg for her auditory.— But when
a demonstrator in philosophy (cries Slawkenber-
gius) has a trumpet for an apparatus, pray what

F 2SEE

 

ma

Sy Tere
Resa neonate

 

 

 

 

 

rival in science can pretend to be heard besides
him ?

Whilst the unlearned, through these conduits of
intelligence, were all busied in getting down to the
bottom of the well, where Trurs keeps her little
court—were the learned in their way as busy in
pumping her up through the conduits of dialectic
induction—they concerned themselves not with
facts—they reasoned.—

No one profession had thrown more light upon
this subject than the faculty—had not all their
disputes about it run into the affair of wens and
cedematous swellings; they could not keep clear
of them, for their bloods and souls ;—the stranger’s
nose had nothing to do either with wens or oede-
matous swellings.

It was demonstrated, however, very satisfac-
torily, that a ponderous mass of heterogeneous
matter could not be congested and conglo-
merated to the nose, whilst the infant was in
utero, without destroying the statical balance of
the fetus, and throwing it plump upon its head
nine months before the time.

—The opponents granted the theory—they de-
nied the consequences.
| And if a suitable provision of veins, arteries,
&¢e., said they. was not laid in, for the due nou-
rishment of such a nose, in the very first stamina
and rudiments of its formation before it came into
the world (bating the case of wens), it could not
regularly grow and be sustained afterwards.

This was all answered by a dissertation upon
nutriment, and the effect which nutriment had in
extending the vessels, and in the increase and pro-
longation of the muscular parts to the greatest |
growth and expansion imaginable——In the tri- |
umph of which theory, they went so far as to
affirm that there was no cause in nature why a
nose might not grow to the size of the man himself.

The respondents satisfied the world this event
could never happen to them, so long as a man had
but one stomach and one pair of lungs.—For the
stomach, said they, being the only organ destined
for the reception of food, and turning it into chyle,
—and the lungs the only engine of sanguification
—it could possibly work off no more than what
the appetite brought it: or, admitting the possi-
bility of a man’s overloading his stomach, nature
had set bounds, however, to his lungs—the engine
was of a determined size and strength, and could
elaborate but a certain quantity in a given time——
that is, it could produce just as much blood as was
sufficient for one single man, and no more ; so that,
if there was as much nose as man—they proved,
a mortification must necessarily ensue ; and, for-
asmuch as there could not be a support for both,
that the nose must either fall off from the man, or
the man inevitably fall off from his nose.

Nature accommodates herself to these emer-
gencies, cried the opponents——else what do you
say to the case of a whole stomach,—a whole pair
of lungs, and but ha/f a man, when both his legs
have been unfortunately shot off ? |

He dies of a plethora, said they—or must spit |
| blood, and in a fortnight or three weeks go off in |
a consumption.
|
|

——It happens otherwise——replied the oppo-
nents.

It ought not, said they.

The more curious and intimate inquirers after |

 

68 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTR

So

AM SHANDY.

 

nature and her doings, though they went hand in
hand a good way together, yet they all divided
about the nose, at last, almost as much as the
faculty itself.

They amicably laid it down that there was a
just and geometrical arrangement and proportion
of the several parts of the human frame to its
several destinations, offices, and functions, which
could not be transgressed but within certain limits ;
that Nature, though she sported—she sported
within a certain circle ; and they could not agree
about the diameter of it.

The logicians stuck much closer to the point
before them than any of the classes of the literati ;
—they began and ended with the word Nose ;
and had it not been for a pedilio principti, which
one of the ablest of them ran his head against in
the beginning of the combat, the whole controversy
had been settled at once.

A nose, argued the logician, cannot bleed without
plood—and not only blood—but blood circulating
in it to supply the phenomenon with a succession
of drops—(a stream being but a quicker succession
of drops, that is included, said he)—Now death,
continued the logician, being nothing but the stag-
nation of the blood—

I deny the definition—death is the separation
of the soul from the body, said his antagonist.——
Then we don’t agree about our weapons, said the
logician.———Then there is an end of the dispute,
replied the antagonist.

The civilians were still more concise ; what they
offered being more in the nature of a decree —than
a dispute.

—Such a monstrous nose, said they, had it been
a true nose, could not possibly have been suffered
in civil society :—and if false—to impose upon
society with such false signs and tokens was a still
ereater violation of its rights, and must have had
still less merey shown it.

The only objection to this was that, if it proved
anything, it proved the stranger’s nose was neither
true nor false.

This left room for the controversy to goon. It
was maintained by the advocates of the Ecclesi-
astic Court that there was nothing to inhibit a
decree, since the stranger, ev mero motu, had
confessed he had been at the Promontory of
Noses, and had got one of the goodliest, &¢. &e.—To
this it was answered it was impossible that there
should be such a place as the Promontory of
Noses, and the learned be ignorant where it lay.
The commissary of the Bishop of Strasburg
undertook the advocates’ part, explained this
matter in a treatise upon proverbial phrases,
showing them that the Promontory of Noses was
a mere allegoric expression, importing no more
than that nature had given him a long nose: in
proof of which, with great learning, he cited the
under-written authorities,* which had decided the

 

 

 

 

* Nonnulliex nostratibus eadem ioquendi formula utun.
Quinimo et Logiste et Canoniste. Vid. Parce Barne
Jas. in d. L. Provincial. Constitut. de Conjec. vid. vol.
lib. 4. titul. 1. N. 7. qua etiam in re econspir. Om. de Pro-
montorio Nas. Tichmak. ff. d. tit. 3. fol. 189 passim. Vid.
Glos. de contrahend. empt. ete., necnon J. Serudr. in
cap. § refut. per totum. Cum his cons. Rever. J. Tubal,
Sentent. et Prov. cap. 9. ff. 11, 12. obiter. V. et librum, cui
tit. de Terris et Phras. Belg. ad finem, cum Comment. N.
Bardy Belg. Vid. Scrip. Argentoratens. de Antiq. Ecc, in
Episc. Archiv. fid. coll. per Von Jacobum IXoinshoven,

 

||

 

 

 

 

— eeTHE LIFE

point incontestably, had it not appeared that a
dispute about some franchises of dean and chapter
lands had been determined by it nineteen years
before.

It happened—I must not say unluckily for
Truth (because they were giving her a lift another

 

way Im so doing),—that the two universities of

Strasburg—the Lutheran, founded in the year
1538, by Jacobus Sturmius, counsellor of the

Senate,—and the Popish, founded by Leopold,
archduke of Austria, were, during all this time,
employing the whole depth of their knowledge
(except just what the affair of the abbess of Qued-
lingberg’s placket-holes required )—in determining
the point of Martin Luther’s damnation.

The Popish doctors had undertaken to demon-
Strate, a priori, that from the necessary influence

f the planets on the twenty-second day of October,
1483 ;—when the Moon was in the twelfth house—
Jupiter, Mars, and Venus, in the third_.the Sun,
Saturn, and Mercury, all got together in the fourth
—that he must, in course, and unavoidably, be a
damned man—and that his doctrines, by a direct
corollary, must be damned doctrines too.

By inspection into his horoscope, where five
planets were in coition all at once with Scorpio *
(in reading this, my father would always shake
his head), in the ninth house which the Arabians
allotted to religion—it appeared that Martin Luther
did not care one stiver about the matter s—and
that, from the horoscope directed to the conjunc-
tion of Mars—they made it plain, likewise, he must
die cursing and blaspheming ;—with the blast of
which his soul (being steeped in guilt) sailed before
the wind in the lake of Hell-fire.

The little objection of the Lutheran doctors to
this was, that it must certainly be the soul of
another man, born October 22, 83, which was
forced to sail down before the wind in that manner
—inasmuch as it appeared, from the register of
Islaben in the county of Mansfelt, that Luther was
not born in the year 1483, but in 84 ; and not on
the 22d day of October, but on the 10th of Novem-
ber, the eve of Martinmas-day, from whence he
had the name of Martin.

[ I must break off my translation for a

 

( moment ; for, if I did not, I know I should no

i Folio. A

more be able to shut my eyes in bed than the
abbess of Quedlingberg.—It is to tell the reader
that my father never read this passage of Slaw-
kenbergius to my uncle Toby but with triumph—
not over my uncle Toby, for he never opposed him
in it—but over the whole world.

—Now, you see, brother Toby, he would say,
looking up, that “ Christian names aré not such
rgent 1583, precip. ad finem. Quibus add. Rebuff.
in L. obvenire de Signif. Nom. ff. fol. et de Jure Gent. et

_ Civil. de protib. alienafeud. per federa, test. Joha. Luxius

in prolegom. quem velim videas, de Analy. Cap. 1, 2, 3.
Vid. Idea.

* Hac mira, satisque horrenda. Planetarum coitio sub

‘Scorpio Asterismo in nona ceeli statione, quam Arabes
‘religioni deputabant efficit Martinum Lutherum sacrile-
;gium heraticum, Christiane religionis hostem acerrimum

atque prophanum, ex horoscopi directione ad Martis
coitum, religiosissimus obiit, ejus Anima scelestissima ad
infernos navigavyit——ab Alecto, Tisiphone et Megara fla-

' Zellis igneis cruciata perenniter.

—Lucas Gaurieus in Tractatu astrologico de preteritis
multorum hominum accidentibus per genituras
examinatis.

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHAND

Y.

 

 

 

indifferent things :’—had Luther here been called
by any other name but Martin, he would have
been damned to all eternity ;—not that I look
upon Martin, he would add, as a good name—far
from it— tis something better than a neutral, and
but a little ;
some service to him.

My father knew the weakness of this prop to
his hypothesis, as well as the best logician could
show him—yet so strange is the weakness of man,
at the same time, as it fell in his way, he could
not for his life but make use of it; and it was
certainly for this reason that, though there are
many stories in Hafen Slawkenbergius’s Decades
full as entertaining as this I am translating, yet
there is not one amongst them which my father
read over with half the delight ;—it flattered two
of his strangest hypotheses together—his Names
and his Moses.—I will be bold to say he might
have read all the books in the Alexandrian Library,
had not fate taken other care of them, and not
have met with a book or a passage in one which
hit two such nails as these upon the head at one
stroke. ]

The two universities of Strasburg were hard
tugging at this affair of Luther’s navigation. The
Protestant doctors had demonstrated that he had
not sailed right before the wind, as the Popish
doctors had pretended ; and as every one knew
there was no sailing full in the teeth of it—they
Were going to settle, in case he had sailed, how
many points he was off; whether Martin had
doubled the Cape, or had fallen upon a lee-shore :
and, no doubt, as it was an inquiry of much edifi-
cation, at least to those who understood this sort
of navigation, they had gone on with it, in spite of
the size of the stranger’s nose, had not the size of
the stranger’s nose drawn off the attention of the
world from what they were about: —it was their
business to follow,

The abbess of Quedlingberg and her four dig-
nitaries were no stop ; for the enormity of the
stranger’s nose running full as much in their
fancies as their case of conscience—the affair of
their placket-holes kept cold :—in a word, the
printers were ordered to distribute their types :—
all controversies dropped.

‘Iwas a square cap with a silver tassel upon
the crown of it—to a nut-shell—to have guessed
on which side of the nose the two universities
would split.

"Tis above reason, cried the doctors on one side.

Tis below reason, cried the others.

’Tis faith, cried one.

"Tis a fiddlestick, said the other.

’Tis possible, cried the one.

"Tis impossible, said the other.

God’s power is infinite, cried the Nosarians ; he
ean do anything.

He can do nothing, replied the Antinosarians,
which implies contradictions.

He can make matter think, said the Nosarians.

As certainly as you can make a velvet cap out
of a sow’s ear, replied the Antinosarians.

 

He cannot make two and two five, replied the

Popish doctors..... :
Tis false, said their other opponents.
Infinite power is infinite power, said the doctors,
who maintained the reality of the nose.—It extends
only to all possible things, replied the Lutherans.

69

yet, little as it is, you see it was of |THE

LIFE AND OPINION

~I
QS

S

 

By God in heaven, cried the Popish doctors,
he can make a nose, if he thinks fit, as big as the
steeple of Strasburg.

Now the steeple of Strasburg being the biggest
and the tallest church-steeple to be seen in the
whole world, the Antinosarians denied that a nose
of five hundred and seventy-five geometrical feet
in length could be worn, at least by a middle-sized
man. The Popish doctors swore it could.
The Lutheran doctors said no ;—it could not.

This at once started a new dispute, which they
pursued a great way, upon the extent and limita-
tion of the moral and natural attributes of God.—
That controversy led them naturally into Thomas
Aquinas ; and Thomas Aquinas to the Devil.

The stranger’s nose was no more heard of in
the dispute ;—it just served as a frigate to launch
them into the gulf of school-divinity—and then
they all sailed before the wind.

Heat is in proportion to the want of true know-
ledge.

The controversy about the attributes, &c., instead

| of cooling, on the contrary, had inflamed the
Strasburgers’ imaginations, to a most inordinate
degree.—The less they understood of the matter
the greater was their wonder about it ;—they were
left in all the distresses of desire unsatisfied—saw
their doctors, the Parchmentarians, the Brassa-
rians, the Turpentarians, on one side—the Popish
doctors on the other, like Pantagruel and his
companions in quest of the oracle of the Bottle, all
embarked out of sight.
The poor Strasburgers left upon the beach!
What was to be done ?—No delay ;—the
uproar increased—every in disorder — the
city-gates set open.

Unfortunate Strasburgers !—was there in the
storehouse of nature—was there in the lumber-
rooms of learning—was there in the great arsenal
of chance, one single engine left undrawn forth to
torture your curiosities and stretch your desires,
which was not pointed by the hand of Fate to play
upon your hearts ?—I dip not my pen into my ink
to excuse the surrender of yourselves—’tis to
write your panegyric. Show me a city so mace-

‘ated with expectation—who neither eat, nor drank,
nor slept, nor prayed, nor hearkened to the calls
either of religion or nature, for seven-and-twenty
days together, who could have held out one day
longer.

On the twenty-eighth the courteous stranger
had promised to return to Strasburg.

Seven thousand coaches (Slawkenbergius must
certainly have made some mistake in his numerical
characters)—7000 coaches—15,000  single-horse
chairs—20,000 waggons, crowded as full as they
could all hold with senators, counsellors, syndics
—beguines, widows, wives, virgins, canons, con-
cubines, all in their coaches :—The abbess of
Quedlingberg, with the prioress, the deaness, and
subchantress, leading the procession in one coach,
and the dean of Strasburg, with the four great dig-
nitaries of his chapter, on her left hand—the rest
following higglety-pigglety as they could; some on
horseback—some on foot—some led—some driven
—some downe the Rhine—some this way—some
that—all set out at sunrise to meet the courteous
stranger on the road.

Haste we now towards the catastrophe of my
tale—I say catastrophe (cries Slawkenbergius)

——————————

 

 

 

 

 

 

one

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

inasmuch as a tale, with parts rightly disposed,
not only rejoiceth (gaudet) in the Catastrophe or
Peripetia of a Drama, but rejoiceth moreover in
all the essential and integrant parts of it;—it has
its Protasis, Epitasis, Catastasis, its Catastrophe,
or Peripetia, growing one out of the other in it,
in the order Aristotle first planted them—without
which a tale had better never be told at all, says
Slawkenbergius, but be kept to a man’s self.

In all my ten tales, in all my ten decades, have
I, Slawkenbergius, tied down every tale of them
as tightly to this rule as I have done this of the
stranger and his nose.

—From his first parley with the sentinel, to his
leaving the city of Strasburg, after pulling off his
erimson-satin pair of breeches, is the Protasis, or
first entrance,—where the characters of the Per-
sone Dramatis are just touched in, and the subject
slightly begun.

The Epitasis, wherein the action is more fully
entered upon and heightened till it arrives at its
state or height, called the Catastasis, and which
usually takes up the second and third act, is in-
cluded within that busy period of my tale, betwixt
the first night’s uproar about the nose, to the
conclusion of the trumpeter’s wife’s lectures upon
it in the middle of the grand parade ; and from
the first embarking of the learned in the dispute
—to the doctors’ finally sailing away, and Jeaving
the Strasburgers upon the beach in distress, is the
Catastasis or the ripening of the incidents and
passions for their bursting forth in the fifth act.

This commences with the setting out of the
Strasburgers on the Frankfort road, and terminates
in unwinding the labyrinth, and bringing the hero
out of a state of agitation (as Aristotle calls it) to
a state of rest and quietness.

This, says Hafen Slawkenbergius, constitutes
the Catastrophe or Peripetia of my tale—and that
is the part of it I am going to relate.

—We left the stranger behind the curtain asleep,
—he enters now upon the stage.

—What dost thou prick up thy ears at ?—'tis
nothing but a man upon a horse,—was the last
word the stranger uttered to his mule. It was
not proper then to tell the reader that the mule
took his master’s word for it ; and, without any
more ifs or ands, let the traveller and his horse
pass by.

The traveller was hastening with all diligence to
get to Strasburg that night. What a fool am I,
said the traveller to himself, when he had rode
about a league farther, to think of getting into
Strasburg this night !—Strasburg!—the great
Strasburg !—Strasburg, the capital of all Alsatia !
Strasburg, an imperial city ! Strasburg, a sove-
reign state ! Strasburg, garrisoned with five thou-
sand of the best troops in all the world !—Alas!
if I was at the gates of Strasburg this moment, |
could not gain admittance into it for a ducat

 

 

 

 

nay
a dueat and a half:—’tis too much—betier go

 

5S

r

back to the last inn I have passed—than lie i
know not where, or give I know not what. The
traveller, as he made these reflections in his mind,
turned his horse’s head about, and three minutes
after the stranger had been conducted into his
chamber,—he arrived at the same inn.

We have bacon in the house, said the host,
and bread ; and till eleven o’clock this night had
three eggs in it ;—but a stranger, who arrived an

 

|
|

 

|

 

. ————$—<_—____———_THE LIFE AND. OP

INIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

hour ago, has had them dressed into an omelet,
and we have nothing.—

Alas! said the traveller, harassed as I am, I
want nothing but a bed. I have one as soft as
is in Alsatia, said the host.

—The stranger, continued he, should have slept
in it, for *tis my best bed, but upon the score of
his nose. He has got a defluxion, said the
traveller—Not that I know, cried the host—but
it is a camp-bed, and Jacinta, said he, looking
towards the maid, imagined there was not room in
it to turn his nose in.— Why so? cried the traveller,
starting back.—It is so long a nose, replied the
host. The traveller fixed his eyes upon Jacinta,
then upon the ground—Ineeled upon his right
knee—had just got his hand laid upon his breast
—Trifle not with my anxiety, said he, rising up
again.—’Tis no trifle, said Jacinta, tis the most
glorious nose ! The traveller fell upon his knee
again—laid his hand upon his breast—Then, said
he, looking up to heaven, thou hast conducted me
to the end of my pilgrimage—’tis Diego.

The traveller was the brother of the Julia, so
often invoked that night by the stranger as he rode
from Strasburg upon his mule ; and was come, on
her part, in quest of him. He had accompanied
his sister from Valladolid across the Pyrenean
mountains through France, and had many an en-
tangled skein to wind off in pursuit of him, through
the many meanders and abrupt turnings of a
lover’s thorny tracks.

—-Julia had sunk under it,—and had not been
able to get a step farther than to Lyons, where,
with the many disquietudes of a tender heart,
which all talk of—but few feel—she sickened, but
had just strength to write a letter to Diego ; and,
having conjured her brother never to see her face
till he had found him out, and put the letter into
his hands, Julia took to her bed.

Fernandez (for that was her brother’s name)—
though the camp-bed was as soft as any one in
Alsace, yet he could not shut his eyes in it.—As
soon as it was day he rose ; and hearing Diego was
risen too, he entered his chamber, and discharged
his sister’s commission.

The letter was as follows :—

 

 

 

 

 

 

* Seig. Dixco,

“ Whether my suspicions of your nose were
justly excited or not,—’tis not now to inquire ;—
it is enough I have not had firmness to put them
to farther trial.

“ How could I know so little of myself, when I
sent my duenna to forbid your coming more under
my lattice ? or how could I know so little of you,
Diego, as to imagine that you would not have staid

one day in Valladolid to have given ease to my |
oOo

doubts ’—Was I to be abandoned, Diego, because
I was deceived? or was it kind to take me at my
word, whether my suspicions were just or no, and
leave me, as you did, a prey to much uncertainty
and sorrow ?

“ In what manner Julia has resented this,—my
brother, when he puts this letter into your hands,
will tell you: he will tell you in how few moments
she repented of the rash message she had sent
you,—in what frantic haste she flew to her lattice,
and how many days and nights together she leaned
immoveably upon her elbow, looking through it
towards the way which Diego was wont to come.

 

“He will tell you, when she heard of your
departure—how her spirits deserted her—how her
heart sickened,—how piteously she mourned,—
how low she hung her head. O Diego ! how many
weary steps has my brother’s pity led me by the
hand languishing to trace out yours! how far has
desire carried me beyond strength !—and how oft
have I fainted by the way, and sunk into his arms,
with only power to cry out,—O my Diego !

“If the gentleness of your carriage has not
belied your heart, you will fly to me almost as fast
| as you fled from me :—haste as you will—you will
arrive but to see me expire.——’Tis a bitter
draught, Diego ; but oh ! ’tis embittered still more
by dying wn a

.

 

She could proceed no farther.

Slawkenbergius supposes the word intended was
unconvinced ; but her strength would not enable
her to finish her letter.

The heart of the courteous Diego overflowed as
he read the letter ;—he ordered his mule forthwith,
| and Fernandez’s horse, to be saddled ; and as no
vent in prose is equal to that of poetry in such
conflicts—chance, which as often directs us to
remedies as to diseases, haying thrown a piece of
charcoal into the window,—Diego availed himself
of it ; and, whilst the ostler was getting ready his
mule, he eased his mind against the wall as
follows :—

 

ODE.

Harsh and untuneful are the notes of love,

Unless my Julia strikes the key,

Her hand alone ean touch the part

Whose dulcet movement charms the heart,

And governs all the man with sympathetic sway.
2d.

O Julia!

The lines were very natural,—for they were
nothing at all to the purpose, says Slawkenbergius,
and ’tis a pity there were no more of them; but
whether it was that Seig. Diego was slow in com-
posing verses—or the ostler quick in saddling
| mules—is not averred ; certain it was that Diego’s
| mule and Fernandez’s horse were ready at the
door of the inn before Diego was ready for his
second stanza; so, without staying to finish his
ode, they both mounted, sallied forth, passed the
Rhine, traversed Alsace, shaped their course
towards Lyons ; and, before the Strasburgers and
the abbess of Quedlingberg had set out on their
savaleade, had Fernandez, Diego, and his Julia,
crossed the Pyrenean mountains, and got safe to
Valladolid.

"Tis needless to inform the geographical reader
that, when Diego was in Spain, it was not possible
to meet the courteous stranger in the Frankfort
road; it is enough to say that, of all restless
desires, curiosity being the strongest—the Stras-
burgers felt the full force of it ; and that for three
days and nights they were tossed to and fro in the
Frankfort road, with the tempestuous fury of this
passion, before they could submit to return home
—when, alas! an event was prepared for them, of
all others the most grievous that could befal a free
people.

As this revolution of the Strasburgers’ affairs
is often spoken of, and little understood, I will, in
ten words, says Slawkenbergius, give the world an
explanation of it, and with it put an end to my
tale.

 

>Everybody knows of the grand system of Uni-
versal Monarchy, wrote by order of Mons. Colbert,
and put in manuscript into the hands of Lewis the
Fourteenth, in the year 1664.

Tis as well known that one branch, out of many

Strasburg, to favour an entrance at all times into
Suabia, in order to disturb the quiet of Germany
and that, in consequence of this plan, Stras-
burg unhappily fell at length into their hands.

It is the lot of few to trace out the true springs
of this and such-like revolutions——The vulgar
look too high for them——Statesmen look too low
— Truth (for once) lies in the middle.

What a fatal thing is the popular pride of a free
city! cries one historian——The Strasburgers
deemed it a diminution of their freedom to receive
an imperial garrison—and so fell a prey to a
French one.

The fate, says another, of the Strasburgers
may be a warning to all free people to save their
money.——They anticipated their revenues—
brought themselves under taxes, exhausted their
strength, and, in the end, became so weak a people
they had not strength to keep their gates shut, and
so the French pushed them open.

Alas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, ’twas not
the French twas CURIOSITY pushed them open
—The French, indeed, who are ever upon the
eatch, when they saw the Strasburgers, men,
women, and children, all marched out to follow
the stranger’s nose—each man followed his own,
and marched in.

Trade and manufactures have decayed and
gradually grown down ever since—but not from
any cause which commercial heads have assigned ;
for it is owing to this only, that noses have ever
so run in their heads that the Strasburgers could
not follow their business.

Alas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, making an
exclamation—it is not the first—and 1 fear will
not be the last—fortress that has been either won
—or lost—by Noses.

 

 

 

 

THE END OF SLAWKENBERGIUS’S TALE.

CHAPTER I.

Wirn all this learning upon Noses running

perpetuaily in my father’s fancy,—with so many
family prejudices—and ten decades of such tales
running on for ever along with them—how was it
possible, with such exquisite— Was it a true nose?
——that a man with such exquisite feelings as my
father had, could bear the shock at all below stairs,
or indeed above stairs, in any other posture but
the very posture I have described ?
Throw yourself down upon the bed, a dozen
times—taking care only to place a looking-glass
first in a chair on one side of it, before you do it—
But was the stranger’s nose a true nose—or was
it a false one ?

To tell that, beforehand, madam, would be to
do injury to one of the best tales in the Christian
world ; and that is the tenth of the tenth decade,
which immediately follows this.

This tale, cried Slawkenbergius, somewhat ex-
ultingly, has been reserved by me for the con-
cluding tale of my whole work !—knowing right

 

 

 

of that system, was the getting possession of

|

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

well that, when I shall have told it, and my reader
shall have read it through—’twould be even high
time for both of us to shut up the book ; inas-
much, continues Slawkenbergius, as I know of
no tale which could possibly ever go down after it.
—’Tis a tale indeed !

This sets out with the first interview in the inn
at Lyons, when Fernandez left the courteous
stranger and his sister Julia alone in her chamber,
and is overwritten,

THE INTRICACIES OF DIEGO AND JULIA.

Heavens! thou art a strange creature, Slawken-
bergius ! what a whimsical view of the involutions
of the heart of woman hast thou opened ! how this
can ever be translated ! and yet, if this specimen
of Slawkenbergius’s tales and the exquisiteness of
his morals should please the world—translated
shall a couple of volumes be. Else, how this
can ever be translated into good English, I have
no sort of conception——There seems, in some
passages, to want a sixth sense to do it rightly ——
What can he mean by the lambent pupilability of
slow, low, dry chat, five notes below the natural
tone,—which you know, madam, is little more
than a whisper? The moment I pronounced the
words, I could perceive an attempt towards a
vibration in the strings about the region of the
heart.—The brain made no acknowledgment.—
There’s often no good understanding betwixt ’em:
-—I felt as if I understood it.—I had no ideas.—
The movement could not be without cause.—T’m
lost. I can make nothing of it,—unless, may it
please your worships, the voice, in that case, being
little more than a whisper, unavoidably forces the
eyes to approach not only within six inches of each
other,—but to look into the pupils.—Is not that
dangerous !—But it can’t be avoided ;—for to look
up to the ceiling—in that case the two chins un-
avoidably meet,—and to look down into each
other’s lap, the foreheads come into immediate
contact, which at once puts an end to the confer-
ence.—I mean to the sentimental part of it.— W hat
is left, madam, is not worth stooping for.

 

 

CHAPTER II.

My father lay stretched across the bed, as still
as if the hand of death had pushed him down, for
a full hour and a half, before he began to play upon
the floor with the toe of that foot which hung over
the bed-side. My uncle Toby’s heart was a pound
lighter for it—In a few moments his left hand,
the knuckles of which had all the time reclined
upon the handle of the chamber-pot, came to its
feeling ;—he thrust it a little more within the
valance
into his bosom, gave a hem! My good uncle Toby,
with infinite pleasure, answered it, and full gladly
would have ingrafted a sentence of consolation
upon the opening it afforded ; but having no

 

talents, as I,said, that way, and fearing, moreover, |

that he might set out with something which might
make a bad matter worse, he contented himself
with resting his chin placidly upon the cross of his
crutch.

Now, whether the compression shortened my
uncle Toby’s face into a more pleasurable oval—
or that the philanthropy of his heart, in seeing his
brother beginning to emerge out of the sea of his
afflictions, had braced up his muscles, so that the

drew up his hand, when he had done, |THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

73

 

) compression upon his chin only doubled the benig-
(1 nity which was there before, is not hard to decide.
My father, in turning his eyes, was struck
/ with such a gleam of sunshine in his face, as melted
') down the sullenness of his grief in a moment.

He broke silence as follows :—

 

CHAPTER III.

Dip ever man, brother Toby, cried my father,
raising himself upon his elbow, and turning him-
: Self round to the opposite side of the bed where my
} uncle Toby was sitting in his old fringed chair, with
| his chin resting upon his eruteh—did ever a poor
| unfortunate man, brother Toby, cried my father,
| receive so many lashes 2——-The most I ever saw
. given, quoth my uncle Toby (ringing the bell at
_the bed’s head for Trim), was to a grenadier, I
. think, in Mackay’s regiment.

—Had my uncle Toby shot a bullet through
“my father’s heart, he could not have fallen down
i with his nose upon the quilt more suddenly.

Bless me ! said my uncle Toby.

CHAPTER IV.

Was it Mackay’s regiment, quoth my uncle
‘| Toby, where the poor grenadier was so unmerci-
fully whipped at Bruges about the ducats 4_—___
.O Christ ! he was innocent ! cried Trim, with a
[deep sigh.— And he was whipped, may it please
‘your honour, almost to death’s door.—They had
‘better have shot him outright, as he begged, and

he had gone directly to heaven ; for he was as
(innocent as your honour. I thank thee,
!Trim, quoth my uncle Toby. I never think
‘of his, continued Trim, and my poor brother
}Tom’s misfortunes, for we were all three school-
4 fellows, but I ery like a coward. Tears are no
« proof of cowardice, Trim.—I drop them ofttimes my-
43elf, cried my uncle Toby.——1I know your honour
0 loes, replied Trim, and so am not ashamed of it

nyself.—But to think, may it please your honour,
o2ontinued Trim, a tear stealing into the corner of

us eye as he spoke,—to think of two virtuous lads
\vith hearts as warm in their bodies and as honest
ius God could make them—the children of honest
Heople, going forth with gallant spirits to seek
jheir fortunes in the world—and fall into such
i:vils !—poor Tom ! to be tortured upon the rack
«(or nothing—but marrying a Jew’s widow who sold
if ausages !———Honest Dick Johnson’s soul to be
‘courged out of his body for the ducats another
jnan put into his knapsack !—O! these are mis-
“ortunes, cried Trim, pulling out his handkerchief
;—these are misfortunes, may it please your honour,
vorth lying down and erying over.

— My father could not help blushing.

“Twould be a pity, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby,
(hou shouldst ever feel sorrow of thy own ;—thou
seelest it so tenderly for others. Alack-a-day,
: eplied the Corporal, brightening up his facee—your
g.onour knows I have neither wife nor child ;—I
(an have no sorrows in this worldt——My father
i ould not help smiling. As few as any man,
‘ ‘rim, replied my uncle Toby ; nor can I see how

fellow of thy light heart can suffer but from the
4 istress of poverty in thy old age—when thou art
fast all services, Trim—and hast outlived thy
*ciends. An’ please your honour, never fear,
(feplied Trim, cheerily. But I would have
jaee never fear, Trim, replied my uncle Toby, and

 

 

 

 

 

therefore, continued my uncle Toby, throwing
down his crutch, and getting up upon his legs as
he uttered the word therefore—in recompense,
Trim, of thy long fidelity to me, and that goodness
of thy heart I have had such proofs of—whilst thy
master is worth a shilling thou shalt never ask
elsewhere, Trim, for a penny.—Trim attempted
to thank my uncle Toby—but had not power ;—
tears trickled down his cheeks faster than he could
wipe them off. He laid his hands upon his
breast—made a bow to the ground, and shut the
door.

——I have left Trim my bowling-green, cried
my uncle Toby.—My father smiled. I have
left him, moreover, a pension, continued my uncle
Toby. My father looked grave.

 

 

CHAPTER V.
Is this a fit time, said my father to himself, to
talk of pensions and grenadiers ?

CHAPTER VI.

WHEN my uncle Toby first mentioned the grena-
dier, my father, I said, fell down with his nose flat
to the quilt, and as suddenly as if my uncle Toby
had shot him; but it was not added that every other
limband member of my fatherinstantly relapsed with
his nose into the same precise attitude in which he
lay first described ; so that when Corporal Trim
left the room, and my father found himself dis-
posed to rise off the bed, he had all the little pre-
paratory movements to run over again, before he
could do it. Attitudes are nothing, madam,—’tis
the transition from one attitude to another,—like
the preparation and resolution of the discord into
harmony, which is all in all.

For which reason, my father played the same
jig over again with his toe upon the floor,—pushed
the chamberpot still a little farther within the
valance,—gave a hem,—raised himself up on his

 

 

elbow, and was just beginning to address himself

to my uncle Toby—when recollecting the unsuc-
cessfulness of his first effort in that attitude—he
got upon his legs, and in making the third turn
across the room, he stopped short before my uncle
Toby ; and, laying the three first fingers of his
right hand in the palm of his left, and stooping a
little, he addressed himself to my uncle Toby as
follows :
CHAPTER VIL.

WuEN I reflect, brother Toby, upon Man; and
take a view of that dark side of him which repre-
sents his life as open to so many causes of trouble;
—when I consider, brother Toby, how oft we eat
the bread of affliction, and that we are born to it
as to the portion of our inheritance. I was
born to nothing, quoth my uncle Toby, interrupt-
ing my father—but my commission. Zooks !
said my father, did not my uncle leave you a hun-
dred and twenty pounds a year 2 What could
I have done without it? replied my uncle Toby.
That’s another concern, said my father,
testily ;—but, I say, Toby, when one runs over the
catalogue of all the cross-reckonings and sorrowful
items with which tle heart of man is overcharged,
’tis wonderful by what hidden resources the mind
is enabled to stand it out and bear itself up, as it
does, against the impositions laid upon our nature.

‘Tis by the assistance of Almighty God,
cried my uncle Toby, looking up, and pressing the74

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

palms of his hands close together,—’tis not from
our own strength, brother Shandy ;—a sentinel,
in a wooden sentry-box, might as well pretend to
stand it out against a detachment of fifty men.—
We are upheld by the grace and the assistance of
the Best of beings.

That is cutting the knot, said my father,
instead of untying it—But give me leave to lead
you, brother Toby, a little deeper into the mystery.

With all my heart, replied my uncle Toby.

My father instantly exchanged the attitude he
was in for that in which Socrates is so finely
painted by Raphael in his School of Athens; which
your Connoisseurship knows is so exquisitely
imagined that even the particular manner of the
reasoning of Socrates is expressed by it,—for he
holds the fore-finger of his left hand between the
fore-finger and thumb of his right ; and seems
as if he was saying to the libertine he is reclaim-
ing,—“ You grant me this—and this: and this,
and this, I don’t ask of you: they follow of them-
selves in course.”

So stood my father, holding fast his fore-finger
betwixt his finger and his thumb, and reasoning
with my uncle Toby as he sat in his old fringed
chair, valanced around with parti-coloured worsted
bobs. O, Garrick ! what a rich scene of this
would thy exquisite powers make! and how
gladly would I write such another to avail myself
of thy immortality, and secure my own behind it.

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

THovucH man is of all others the most curious
vehicle, said my father, yet, at the same time, ’tis
of so slighta frame, and so totteringly put together,
that the sudden jerks and hard jostlings it un-
avoidably meets with in this rugged journey, would
overset and tear it to pieces a dozen times a-day
—was it not, brother Toby, that there is a secret
spring within us. Which spring, said my uncle
Toby, I take to be religion. Will that set my
child’s nose on? cried my father, letting go his
finger, and striking one hand against the other.
It makes everything straight for us, answered
my uncle Toby. Figuratively speaking, dear
Toby, it may, for aught I know, said my father ;
but the spring J am speaking of is that great and
elastic power within us of counterbalancing evil,
which, likea secret springina well-ordered machine,
though it can’t prevent the shock,—at least, it im-
poses upon our sense of it.

Now, my dear brother, said my father, replacing
his fore-finger, as he was coming closer to the
point,—had my child arrived safe into the world,
unmartyred in that precious part of him,—fanciful
and extravagant as I may appear to the world in
my opinion of Christian names, and of that magic
bias which good or bad names irresistibly impress
upon our characters and conducts,—Heaven is
witness that, in the warmest transports of my
wishes for the prosperity of my child, I never
once wished to crown his head with more glory
and honour than what George or Edward would
have spread around it.

But alas ! continued my father, as the greatest
evil has befallen him,—I must counteract and undo
it with the greatest good.

He shall be christened Trismegistus, brother.

_I wish it may answer—replied my uncle Toby,
rising up.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

Wuat a chapter of chances! said my father,
turning himself about upon the first landing, as
he and my uncle Toby were going down stairs—
what a long chapter of chances do the events of
this world lay open to us! Take pen and ink in
hand, brother Toby, and calculate it fairly. I
know no more of calculations than this balustrade,
said my uncle Toby (striking short of it with his
crutch, and hitting my father a desperate blow
souse upon his shin-bone)—’Twas a hundred to
one—cried my uncle Toby. I thought, quoth
my father (rubbing his shin), you had known

 

 

 

 

nothing of calculations, brother Toby. "T'was
a mere chance, said my uncle Toby. Then it

adds one to the chapter,—replied my father.

The double success of my father’s repartees
tickled off the pain of his shin at once—it was well
it so fell out—(chance, again !)—or the world to
this day had never known the subject of my father’s
‘aleulation 3 to guess it—there was no chance.
—Whata lucky chapter of chances has this turned
out! for it has saved me the trouble of writing
one express, and, in truth, I have enough already
upon my hands without it——Have not 1 promised
the world a chapter of knots? two chapters upon
the right and wrong end of a woman ? a chapter
upon whiskers ? a chapter upon wishes ?—a chap-
ter of noses ?—No, I have done that ;—a chapter
upon my uncle Toby’s modesty ? to say nothing
of a chapter upon chapters, which I will finish
before I sleep—By my great-grandfather’s whis-
kers, I shall never get half of ’em through this
year.

Take pen and ink in hand, and calculate it fairly,
brother Toby, said my father, and it will turn out
a million to one that, of all the parts of the body,
the edge of the forceps should have the ill luck
just to fall upon, and break down, that one part,
which should break down the fortunes of our house
with it.

It might have been worse, replied my uncle
Toby. I don’t comprehend, said my father.
Suppose the hip had presented, replied my uncle
Toby, as Dr. Slop foreboded ?

My father reflected half a minute—looked down
—touched the middle of his forehead slightly with
his finger-——

—True, said he.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X.

Is it not a shame to make two chapters of what
passed in going down one pair of stairs? for we
are got no further yet than the first landing, and
there are fifteen more steps down to the bottom ;
and, for aught I know, as my father and my uncle
Toby are in a talking humour, there may be as
many chapters as steps.—-Let that be as it will,
sir, I can no more help it than my destiny: a
sudden impulse comes across me Drop the
curtain, Shandy I drop it—Strike a line here
across the paper, Tristram :—I strike it—and hey
for a new chapter !

The deuce of any other rule have I to govern
myself by in this affair ; and if I had one
as I doall things out of all rule—I would twist it
and tear it to pieces, and throw it into the fire when
I had done—Am I warm? I am, and the causeTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 75

 

 

demands it A pretty story ! is a man to follow

: rules—or rules to follow him 2?
Now this, you must know, being my chapter
qi upon chapters, which I promised to write before
{I went to sleep, I thought it meet to ease my
o¢ conscience entirely before I lay down, by telling
, the world all I knew about the matter at once. Is
‘ not this ten times better than to set out dogmati-
cally with a sententious parade of wisdom, and
9: telling the world a story of a roasted horse—that
chapters relieve the mind—that they assist—or
impose upon the imagination—and that, in a work
of this dramatic cast, they are as necessary as the
shifting of scenes—with fifty other cold conceits,
-enough to extinguish the fire which roasted him
— QO! but to understand this, which is a puff at
(lj the fire of Diana’s Temple—you must read Lon-
. ginus—read away :——If you are not a jot the
| wiser by reading him the first time over—never
| fear—read him again. Avicennaand Licetus read
4 Aristotle’s metaphysics forty times through, a
(] plece, and never understood a single word !—But
ii mark the consequence——Avicenna turned out
. a desperate writer at all kinds of writing ;—for he
wrote books de omni scribili; and for Licetus
| (Fortunio), though all the world knows he was born

 

 

 

a foetus,* of no more than five inches and a half
‘ a

in length, yet he grew to that astonishing height

in literature as to write a book with a title as long
‘as himself. The learned know I mean his Gono-
| psychanthropologia, upon the Origin of the Human
¢ Soul.

So much for my chapter upon chapters, which
| I hold to be the best chapter in my whole work ;
‘and take my word, whoever reads it is full as well

u¢ employed as in picking straws,

CHAPTER XI.
We shall bring ali things to rights, said my
‘father, setting his foot upon the first step from the
d o i
is landing. —— This Trismegistus, continued my
6 - . o) ? . .
father, drawing his leg back, and turning to my

 

* Ce foetus n’étoit pas plus grand que la paume de la
m main; mais son pere l’ayant examiné en qualité de méde-
‘ cin, et ayant trouvé que c’étoit quelque chose de plus qu’un
‘embryon, le fit transporter tout vivant 4 Rapalio, ot il le
fit voir 4 JerOme Bardi et a d’autres médecins du lieu.
_ On trouva qu’il ne lui manquoit rien d’essentiel 4 la vie;
© et son pére, pour faire voir un essai de son expérience, en-
‘ treprit d’achever l’ouvrage de la nature, et de travailler a
la formation de Venfant avec le méme artifice que celui
‘ dont on se sert pour faire éclore les poulets en Egypte. I
instruisit une nourrice de tout ce qu’elle avoit a faire, et
“yf ayant fait mettre son fils dans un four proprement accom-
> modé, il réussit a l'élever et 4 lui faire prendre ses accrois-
é semens nécessaires, par l’uniformité d’une chaleur étran-
; gere mesurée exactement sur les dégrés d’un thermomé¢étre,
ou d’un autre instrument équivalent. (Vide Mich. Gius-
| tinian, ne gli Scritt. Liguri a Cart. 223. 418).
On auroit toujours été tres-satisfait de Vindustrie d’un
| pere si expérimenté dans l’art de la génération, quand il
4 mn’auroit pu prolonger la vie a son fils que pour quelques
a mois, ou pour peu d’années. Mais quand on se représente
) que l’enfant a vécu pres de quatre-vingts ans, et qu'il a
) composé quatre-vingts ouvrages différents, tous fruits d’une
[ longue lecture—il faut convenir que tout ce qui est incroy-
} able n’est pas toujours faux, et que ‘* la vraisemblance
1 n’est pas toujours du cété de la vérité.”
{] n’avoit que dix-neuf ans lorsqu’il composa Gonopsy-
) chanthropologia, De Origine Anime Humane.
(Les Enfans Célebres, revas et corrigés par M. de la
& Monnoye, de l’ Académie Francoise.)

 

 

uncle 'Toby—was the greatest (Toby) of all earthly
beimgs—he was the greatest king—the greatest

| law-giver—the greatest philosopher—and the

 

greatest priest.
uncle Toby.
——In course, said my father.

And engineer — said my

CHAPTER XII,

— Anp how does your mistress? cried my father,
taking the same step over again from the landing,
and calling to Susannah, whom he saw passing by
the foot of the stairs, with a huge pincushion in
her hand—how does your mistress ?—— As well,
said Susannah, tripping by but without looking up,
as can be expected.— What a fool am I! said
my father, drawing his leg back again—let things
be as they will, brother Toby, ’tis ever the precise
answer——And how is the child, pray ?--—No
answer. And where is Dr. Slop ? added my father,
raising his voice aloud, and looking over the
balustrades——Susannah was out of hearing.

Of all the riddles of a married life, said my
father, crossing the landing, in order to set his back
against the wall, whilst he propounded it to my
uncle Toby ——of all the puzzling riddles, said he,
in the marriage state,—of which, you may trust me,
brother; Toby, there are more asses’ loads than all
Job’s stock of asses could have carried——€there
is not one that has more intricacies in it than this,
—that, from the very moment the mistress of the
house is brought to bed, every female in it, from
my lady’s gentlewoman down to the cinder-wench,
becomes an inch taller for it ; and gives herself
more airs upon that single inch than all her other
inches put together.

I think, rather, replied my uncle Toby, that it
is we who sink an inch lower—if I meet but a
woman with child—I do it—’tis a heavy tax upon
that half of our fellow-creatures, brother Shandy,
—said my uncle Toby—it is a piteous burden upon
em, continued he, shaking his head. Yes, yes,
tis a painful thing—said my father, shaking his
head too—but certainly, since shaking of heads
vame into fashion, never did two heads shake
together, in concert, from two such different
springs.

God bless

Deuce take
my father, each to himself.

 

k em all—said my uncle Toby and

CHAPTER XIII.

Hoiia !——you chairman !——here’s sixpence :
do step into that bookseller’s shop, and call me a
day-tall eritic. Jam very willing to give any one
of ’em a crown to help me with his tackling, to get
my father and my uncle Toby off the stairs, and
to put them to bed.

"Tis even high time; for, except a short nap
which they both got whilst Trim was boring the
jack boots —— and which, by the bye, did my
father no sort of good, upon the score of the bad
hinge——they have not else shut their eyes since
nine hours before the time that Dr. Slop was led
into the back parlour in that dirty pickle by
Obadiah.

Was every day of my life to be as busy a day
as this, —and to take up——_Truce

I will not finish that sentence till I have made
an observation upon the strange state of affairs
between the reader and myself, just as thingsI v6 THE LIFE AND ee OF TRISTRAM SH

 

 

 

 

 

 

stand at present an observation never applica-
ble before to any one biographical writer since
the creation of the world, but to myself——and I
believe will never hold “good to any other, until
its final destruction——and, therefore, for the
very novelty of it alone, it must be worth your
worships’ attending to.

I am this month one whole year older than I
was this time twelvemonth ; and having got, as
you perceive, almost into the middle of my fourth
volume *__and no further than to my first day’s
life—’tis demonstrative that I have three hundred
and sixty-four days’ more life to write just now,
than when I first set out; so that, instead of
advancing, as a common writer, in my work, with
what I have been doing at it,—on the contrary, I
am just thrown so many volumes back— Was
every day of my life to be as busy a day as this, —
and ‘why not ?——and the transactions and opinions
of it to take up as much description,—and for
what reason should they be cut short, as at this
rate I should just live 364 times faster than I should
write,—it must follow, an’ please your worships,
that the more I write the more I shall have to
write,—and, consequently, the more your wor-
ships read the more your worships wi ill have to

read.

Will this be good for your worships’ eyes ?

It will do well for mine ; and, was it not that
my opinions will be the death of me, I perceive |
I shall lead a fine life of it out of this self-same
Life of mine ; or, in other words, shall lead
couple of fine lives together.

As for the proposal of twelve volumes a year,
or a volume a month, it no way alters my pro-
spect :— write as I will, and rush as I may into |
the middle of things, as Horace advises,—I shall |
never overtake myself — whipped and driven to
the last pinch, at the worst, | shall have one day
the start of my pen—and one day is enough for
two volumes ;—and two volumes will be enough
for one year.

Heaven prosper the manufacturers of paper
under this propitious reign, which is now opened
to us !_as I trust its providence will prosper every-
thing else in it that is taken in hand.

As for the propagation of geese,—I give myself
no concern,—Nature all-bountiful ;—I shall
never want tools to work with.

—So then, friend, you have
my uncle Toby off the stairs,
bed ?— And how did you manage it ?— You
dropped a curtain at the stair-foot.—I thought
you had no other way for it.—Here’s a crown for
your trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

is

got my father and
and seen them to

CHAPTER XIV.

—TueEN reach me my breeches off the chair, said
my father to Susannah.——There is not a moment’s
time to dress you, sir, cried Susannah,—the child
is as black in the face as my——As your what ?
said my father ; for, like all orators, he was a
dear searcher into comparisons. —— Bless me,
sir, said Susannah, the child’s in a fit—-—And
where’s Mr. Yorick ?——Never where he should
be, said Susannah; but his curate’s in the
dressing-room, with the child upon his arm, wait-
ing for the name ;—and my mistress bid me run
as fast i 1S I could to know, as Captain Shandy is

 

+ ihacordine to the original editions.

 

 

NDY.

 

| | th e apa ither, whether it should not be called

after him ?

Were one sure. said my father to himself,
scratching his eyebrow, that the child was expir-
ing, one might as well compliment my brother
Toby as not,—and it would be a pity, in such a
case, to throw away so great a name as Trisme-
gistus upon him :—but he may recover.

No, no,—said my father to Susannah, I’ll get
up. —— There’s no time, cried Susannah, the
child’s as black as my shoe. —Trismegistus, said
my father.—But stay,—thou art a leaky vessel,
Susannah, added my father; canst thou carry
Trismegistus in thy head the length of the gallery
without. scattering ?——Can I? eried Susannah,
shutting the door in a huff.—lIf she can, I’ll be
shot, said my father, bouncing out of bed in the
dark, and groping for his breeches.

Susannah ran with all speed along the gallery.

My father made all possible speed to find his
breeches.

Susannah got the start and kept it.—’Tis Tris

 

 

| —something, cried Susannah. —— There is no
Christian name in the world, said the curate,
beginning with Tris—, but Tristram.——Then

|
|
|

 

‘tis Tristram-gistus, quoth Susannah.

There is no gistus to it, noodle !—’tis my own
name, replied the curate, dipping his hand, as he
spoke, into the bason ; Tristram ; said he, &c. &e.
&e. &e. :—so Tristram was I called, and Tristram
shall I be to the day of my death.

My father followed Susannah, with his night-
gown across his arm, with nothing more than his
breeches on: fastened, through haste, with but <
single button ; and that button, through haste,
thrust only half into the button- hole.

——She has not forgot the name? cried my

father, half-opening the door. ae no, said the
curate, with a tone of intelligence. 4 And the
child is better, eried ot eG how does
your mistress /——As well, said Susannah, as can

be expected. ~-—Pish ! said my father, the button
of his breeches slipping out of the button-hole ;
so that whether the interjection was levelled at
Susannah or the button-hole ;—whether Pish was
an interjection of contempt, or
modesty, is a doubt ; and must be a doubt till
I shall have time to write the three following
favourite chapters ; that is, my chapter of cham-
ber-maids, my chapter of pishes, and my chapter
of button-holes.

All the light I am able to give the reader at
present is this, that the moment my father cried
Pish ! he whisked himself about, and with his
breeches held up by one hand, and his night-gown
thrown across the arm of the other, he returned
along the gallery to bed, something slower than
he came.

 

CHAPTER XY.

I wisn I could write a chapter upon sleep.

A fitter occasion could never have presented
itself than what this moment offers, when all the
curtains of the family are drawn,—the candles
put out,—and no creature’s eyes are open but a
single one; for the other has been shut these
twenty years, of my mother’s nurse.

It is a fine subject.

And yet, as fine as it is, I would undertake to
write a dozen chapters upon button-holes both

an interjection of |THE Li

 

 

 

quicker, and with more fame, than a single chap-
ter upon this.

Button-holes ! there is something lively in the
very idea of ’em; and trust me, when I get
amongst ’em,—you gentry with great beards,—
look as grave as you will,—T’ll make merry work
with my button-holes,—I shall have ’em' all to
myself,—’tis a maiden subject, I shall run foul of
no man’s wisdom or fine sayings in it.

But for sleep,—I_ know I shall make nothing of
it, before I begin: I am no dab at your fine say-

‘{ ings, in the first place 5; and, in the next, I cannot,
for my soul, set a grave face upon a bad matter,
—and tell the world ’tis the refuge of the unfor-
tunate,—the enfranchisement of the prisoner,—
the downy lap of the hopeless, the weary, and the

‘d broken-hearted ; nor could I set out, with a lie in

(a my mouth, by affirming that, of all the soft and

) delicious functions of our nature, by which the
| great Author of it, in his bounty, has been pleased
oi to recompense the sufferings wherewith his jus-
| tice and his good pleasure has wearied us—that
i this is the chiefest (I know pleasures worth ten

0 of it) ;—or what a happiness it is to man, when the

§ anxieties and passions of the day are over, and he

il lies down upon his back, that his soul shall be so

‘ Seated within him that, whichever way she turns

d her eyes, the heavens shall look calm and sweet
above her,—no desire, or fear,—or doubt that

| troubles the air ; nor any difficulty past, present,
© or to come, that the imagination may not pass over
/ without offence, in that sweet secession.

“ God's blessing,” said Sancho Panga, “be upon
}the man who first invented this self-same thing

3 called sleep ;—it covers a man all over like a cloak.”

Now there is more to me in this, and it speaks

‘warmer to my heart and affections, than all the dis-

9! Sertations squeezed out of the heads of the learned

together upon the subject.

—Not that I altogether disapprove of what Mon-

ig taigne advances upon it ;—’tis admirable in its way

-—(I quote by memory).

The world enjoys other pleasures, says he, as

they do that of sleep, without tasting or feeling it

.as it slips and passes by.—We should study and
‘ruminate upon it, in order to render proper thanks
gto Him who grants it to us.——For this end, I
)cause myself to be disturbed in my sleep, that I

“may the better and more sensibly relish it :——

jand yet I see few, says he again, who live with
ess sleep, when need requires : my body is capa-
sole of a firm, but not of a violent and sudden,

4 witation,—I evade of late all violent exercises, —
[ am never weary with walking ;—but, from my

»youth, I never liked to ride upon pavements. I
ove to lie hard and alone, and even without my
iwife.—— This last word may stagger the faith of
ihe world: but remember, “La vraisemblance
i; as Bayle says in the affair of Liceti) “n’est pas
oujours du cété de la vérité.’’ And so much
jor sleep.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

Ir my wife will but venture him, brother Toby,
‘[rismegistus shall be dressed and brought down
gio us, whilst you and I are getting our breakfasts
)iogether.

Go, tell Susannah, Obadiah, to step here.

She is run up stairs, answered Obadiah, this
‘very instant, sobbing and er ing, and wringing
j1er hands as if her heart would break.

 

 

FE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY: 77

 

 

We shall have a rare month of it, said my
father, turning his head from Obadiah, and look-
ing wistfully in my uncle Toby's face, for some
time,— we shall have a devilish month of 4
brother Toby, said my father, setting his arms
a-kimbo, and shaking his head : fire, water, women,
wind, brother Toby ! —— ’Tis some misfortune,
quoth my uncle Toby.——That it is, cried my
father, to have so many jarring elements break-
ing loose, and riding triumph in every corner of
a gentleman’s house.—Little boots it to the peace
of a family, brother Toby, that you and I possess
ourselves, and sit here silent and unmoved,—
whilst such a storm is whistling over our heads.

 

And what's the matter, Susannah {——They
have called the child Tristram ;~ and my mistress
is just got out of an hysteric fit about it——No !

—tis not my fault, said Susannah,—I told him it
was Tristram-gistus.
Make tea for yourself, brother Toby, said
my father, taking down his hat:—but how dif-
ferent from the sallies and agitations of voice and
members which a common reader would imagine !

—For he spake in the sweetest modulation,—
and took down his hat with the genteelest move-
ment of limbs that ever affliction harmonised and
attuned together.

——Go to the bowling-green for Corporal Trim,
said my uncle Toby, speaking to Obadiah, as soon
as my father left the room.

a

 

CHAPTER XVII.

Wuen the misfortune of my Nost fell so heavily
upon my father’s head,—the reader remembers
that he walked instantly up stairs, and cast himself
down upon his bed; and from hence, unless he has
a great insight into human nature, he will be apt
to expect a rotation of the same ascending and
descending movements from him, upon this mis-
fortune of my Namre.—No.

The different weight, dear sir,—nay, even the
different package of two vexations of the same
weight,—makes a very wide difference in our
manners of bearing and getting through with
them. It is not half an hour ago, when (in the
great hurry and precipitation of a poor deyil’s
writing for daily bread) I threw a fair sheet,
which I had just finished, and carefully wrote
out, slap into the fire, instead of the foul one.

Instantly I snatched off my wig, and threw it

perpendicularly, with all imaginable violence, up
to the top of the room :—indeed I caught it as it
fell ;—but there was an end of the matter ; nor do
I think anything else in nature would have given
such immediate ease. She, dear goddess, by an
instantaneous impulse, in all provoking cases
determines us to a sally of this or that member,—
or else she thrusts us into this or that place, or
posture of body, we know not why :—but mark,
madam, we live amongst riddles and mysteries :
—the most obvious things which come in our
way have dark sides, which the quickest sight
cannot penetrate into ; and even the clearest and
most exalted understandings amongst us find
ourselves puzzled and at a loss in almost every
cranny of nature’s works: so that this, like a
thousand other things, falls out for us in a way
which, though we cannot reason upon it, yet we
find the good of it, may it please your reverences
and your worships,—and that’s enough for us.

 

Sage gera

 

 

 

 

THE

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

1
| Now, my father could not lie down with this
affliction for his life,

nor could he carry it up
stairs like the other. He walked composedly out
with it to the fish-pond.

Had my father leaned his head upon his hand,
and reasoned an hour which way to have gone,—
Reason, with all her force, could not have directed
him to anything like it: there is something, sir,
in fish-ponds ;—but what it is, I leave to system-
builders and fish-pond diggers betwixt ’em to find
out; but there is something, under the first dis-
orderly transport of the humours, so unaccount-
ably becalming in an orderly and a sober walk
towards one of them, that I have often wondered
that neither Pythagoras, nor Plato, nor Solon, nor
Lycurgus, nor Mahomet, nor any one of your noted
lawgivers, ever gave order about them.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Your honour, said Trim, shutting the parlour
door before he began to speak, has heard, I ima-
gine, of this unlucky accident. O yes, Trim,
said my uncle Toby, and it gives me great con-
cern.——lI am heartily concerned too ; but I hope,
your honour, replied Trim, will do me the justice
to believe that it was not in the least owing to me.
To thee, Trim? cried my uncle Toby, looking
kindly in his face,—’twas Susannah’s and the
curate’s folly betwixt them.—-—What business
could they have together, an’ please your honour,
in the garden ?——In the gallery, thou meanest,
replied my uncle Toby.

Trim found he was upon a wrong scent, and
stopped short with a low bow.—T'wo misfortunes,
quoth the Corporal to himself, are twice as many,
at least, as are needful to be called over at one
time—the mischief the cow has done in breaking
into the fortifications may be told his honour
hereafter. Trim’s casuistry and address, under
the cover of his low bow, prevented all suspicion
in my uncle Toby ; so he went on with what he
had to say to Trim as follows :

For my own part, Trim, though I can see
little or no difference betwixt my nephew’s being
called Tristram or Trismegistus ;— yet as the
thing sits so near my brother’s heart, Trim, I
would freely have given a hundred pounds rather

 

 

 

than it should have happened. —— A hundred
pounds, an’ please your honour! replied Trim,
—I would not give a cherry-stone to boot.—— Nor

would I, Trim upon my own account, quoth my
uncle Toby ;—but my brother, whom there is no
arguing with in this case,—maintains that a great
deal more depends, Trim, upon Christian names
that what ignorant people imagine ;—for he says
there never was a great or heroic action per-
formed, since the world began, by one called
Tristram. Nay, he will have it, Trim, that a
man can neither be learned, nor wise, nor brave.
—— Tis all fancy, an’ please your honour :—I
fought just as well, replied the Corporal, when
the regiment called me Trim, as when they called
me James Butler.——And for my own part, said
my uncle Toby, though I should blush to boast of
myself, Trim ;—yet, had my name been Alexander,
I could have done no more at Namur than my
duty.——Bless your honour ! cried Trim, advanc-
ing three steps as he spoke, does a man think of
his Christian name when he goes upon the attack ?
——Or when he stands in the trench, Trim? cried

 

my uncle Toby, looking firm. Or when he
enters a breach ? said Trim, pushing in between
two chairs. Or forces the lines? cried my
uncle, rising up, and pushing his crutch like a
pike-——Or facing a platoon? cried Trim, pre-
senting his stick like a firelock. Or when he
marches up the glacis? cried my uncle Toby,
looking warm, and setting his foot upon his
stool.

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.

My father was returned from his walk to the fish-
pond—and opened the parlour door in the very
height of the attack, just as my uncle Toby was
marching up the glacis. Trim recovered his
arms. Never was my uncle Toby caught riding
at such a desperate rate in his life. Alas! my
uncle Toby! had not a weighter matter called
forth all the ready eloquence of my father—how
hadst thou then, and thy poor hobby-horse too,
been insulted !

My father hung up his hat with the same air
he took it down ; and, after giving a slight look at
the disorder of the room, he took hold of one of
the chairs which had formed the Corporal’s breach,
and placing it over-against my uncle Toby, he sat
down in it; and as soon as the tea-things were
taken away, and the door shut, he broke out into a
lamentation as follows :

 

 

Ir is in vain longer, said my father, (addressing
himself as much to Ernulphus’s curse, which was
laid upon the corner of the chimney-piece—as to
my uncle Toby, who sat under it ;)—it is in vain
longer, said my father, in the most querulous
monotony imaginable, to struggle, as I have done,
against this most uncomfortable of human persua-
sions. I see it plainly that, either for my own
sins, brother Toby, or the sins and follies of the
Shandy family, Heaven has thought fit to draw
forth the heaviest of its artillery against me ; and
that the prosperity of my child is the point upon
which the whole force of it is directed to play.
Such a thing would batter the whole universe
about our ears, brother Shandy, said my uncle
Toby, if it was so. Unhappy Tristram ! child
of wrath! child of decrepitude! interruption !
mistake ! and discontent! What one misfortune
or disaster in the book of embryotic evils, that
could unmechanise thy frame, or entangle thy
filaments, which has not fallen upon thy head, or
ever thou camest into the world !—what evils in
thy passage into it ! what evils since! Produced
into being in the decline of thy father’s days,—
when the powers of his imagination and of his
body were waxing feeble,—when radical heat, and
radical moisture, the elements which should have
tempered thine, were drying up; and nothing
left to found thy stamina in but negations,—'tis
pitiful,—brother Toby, at the best, and called out
forsall the little helps that care and attention on
both sides could give it.— But how were we
defeated ! You know the event, brother Toby !—
’tis too melancholy a one to be repeated now,—
when the few animal spirits I was worth in the
world, and with which memory, fancy, and quick
parts should have been conveyed,—were all dis-
persed, confused, confounded, scattered, and sent
to the devil !

Here then was the time to have put a stop to

|
|
{
| MY FATHER’S LAMENTATION.
|
|
|

 

 

eeTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

79

 

this persecution against him,—and tried an expe-
riment at least,—whether calmness and serenity of
mind in your sister, with a due attention, brother
Toby, to her evacuations and repletions,—and the
rest of her non-naturals, might not, in the course
of nine months’ gestation, have set all things to
rights.—My child was bereft of these !—What a
teasing life did she lead herself, and consequently
her foetus too, with that nonsensical anxiety of
hers about lying-in in town! I thought my
sister submitted with the greatest patience, replied
‘my uncle Toby’;—I never heard her utter one
fretful word about it. She fumed inwardly,
cried my father; and that, let me tell you,
brother, was ten times worse for the child,—and
then, what battles did she fight with me! and
/ what perpetual storms about the midwife!
There she gave vent, said my uncle Toby.
_ Vent! cried my father, looking up.

But what was all this, my dear Toby, to the
injuries done us by my child’s coming head fore-
most into the world, when all I wished, in this
general wreck of his frame, was to have saved this
little casket unbroke, unrifled !—

With all my precautions, how was my system
turned topsy-turvy in the womb with my child !
his head exposed to the hand of violence, and a
pressure of 470 pounds avoirdupois weight acting
so perpendicularly upon its apex,—that, at this

| hour, ’tis ninety per cent. insurance that the fine
sii net-work of the intellectual web be not rent and
oj torn to a thousand tatters.
Still we could have done! Fool, coxecomb,
iq puppy,—give him but a Nose ;—Cripple, dwarf,
in driveller, Goosecap,—(shape him as you will)
(ithe door of fortune stands open,—O, Licetus !
if Licetus! had I been blest with a foetus five inches
long and a half, like thee,—Fate might have done
- her worst.

Still, brother Toby, there was one east of the
‘die left for our child, after all :—O, Tristram !
‘| Tristram ! Tristram !

We will send for Mr. Yorick, said my uncle
| Toby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You may send for whom you will, replied
‘my father.
CHAPTER XX.
Wuar a rate have I gone on at, curveting and
( frisking it away, two up and two down, for three
07 volumes * together, without looking once behind, or
vé even on one side of me, to see whom I trod upon!
- —I’ll tread upon no one, quoth I to myself, when
| I mounted,—I’ll take a good rattling gallop ; but
| I’ll not hurt the poorest jack-ass upon the road.—
: So off I set,—up one lane,—down another, through
dj this turnpike,—over that, as if the arch-jockey of
| jockeys had got behind me.
Now, ride at this rate with what good intention
‘¢and resolution you may,—’tis a million to one
j you’ll do some one a mischief, if not yourself. He’s
i flung, he’s off,—he’s lost his seat,—he’s down,—
| he’ll break his neck !—see ! if he has not gallopped
vj full amongst the scaffolding of the undertaking
: erities !—he’ll knock his brains out against some of
(ii their posts !—he’s bounced out !—look,—he’s now
jriding like a mad-cap full tilt through a whole
‘crowd of painters, fiddlers, poets, biographers,
q physicians, lawyers, logicians, players, schoolmen,

 

* According to the original editions.

 

churchmen, statesmen, soldiers, casuists, connois-
seurs, prelates, popes, and engineers.—Don’t fear,
said I,—I’ll not hurt the poorest jackass upon
the king’s highway. But your horse throws
dirt ! see, you’ve splashed a bishop !—I hope in
God *twas only Ernulphus, said I.—But you have
squirted full in the faces of Messrs. Le Moyne,
De Romigny, and De Marcilly, doctors of the
Sorbonne.—That was last year, replied I.—But
you have trod this moment upon a king.—Kings
have bad times on’t, said I, to be trod upon by
such people as me.

You have done it, replied my accuser.

I deny it, quoth J,and so have got off ; and here
am I standing with my bridle in one hand, and
with my cap in the other, to tell my story.
And what is it? You shall hear in the next
chapter.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXI.

As Francis the First, of France, was one win-
terly night warming himself over the embers of a
wood-fire, and talking with his first minister of
sundry things for the good of the state,*—it would
not be amiss, said the king, stirring up the embers
with his cane, if this good understanding betwixt
ourselves and Switzerland wasa little strengthened.
There is no end, sire, replied the minister, in
giving money to these people,—they would swallow
up the treasury of France. Poo ! poo! an-
swered the king,—there are more ways, Mons. le
Premier, of bribing states besides that of giving
money !—I’ll pay Switzerland the honour of
standing godfather for my next child. Your
majesty, said the minister, in so doing would have
all the grammarians in Europe upon your back ;
—Switzerland, as a republic, being a female, can
in no construction be godfather. She may be
godmother, replied Francis, hastily :—so announce
my intentions by a courier to-morrow morning.

I am astonished, said Francis the First (that day
fortnight), speaking to his minister as he entered
the closet, that we have had no answer from
Switzerland.——Sire, I wait upon you this mo-
ment, said Mons. le Premier, to lay before you my
despatches upon that business. They take it
kindly ? said the king——They do, sire, replied
the minister, and have the highest sense of the
honour your majesty has done them—but the re-
public, as godmother, claims her right in this case,
of naming the child.

In all reason, quoth the king she will
christen him Francis, or Henry, or Lewis, or
some other name that she knows will be agreeable
to us. Your majesty is deceived, replied the
minister—I have this hour received a despatch
from our resident, with the determination of the
republic on that point also. And what name
has the republic fixed upon for the dauphin?——
Shadrach-Mesech-Abednego, replied the minister.

—By St. Peter’s girdle, 1 will have nothing to

 

 

 

 

 

do with the Swiss! cried Francis the First, pulling |
up his breeches, and walking hastily across the

floor.

Your majesty, replied the minister calmly,
cannot bring yourself off.

We'll pay them in money—said the king.

Sire, there are not sixty thousand crowns in the
treasury, answered the minister. Pll pawn

* Vide Menagiana, vol. i.the best sewalein in my crown, cucth Francis the

First.
Your honour stands pawned already in this
matter, answered Monsieur le Premier.
Then, Mons. le Premier, said the king,
we'll go to war with ’em.

 

by

CHAPTER XXII.

ALBEIT, gentle reader, I have lusted earnestly,
and endeavoured carefully (: according to the measure
of such slender skill as God has vouchsafed me,
and as convenient leisure from other occasions of
needful profit and healthful pastime have per-
mitted), that these little books, which I here put
into thy hands, might stand istead of many bigger
books —yet have I carried myself tow ards thee in
such fanciful guise of careless disport that right
sore am I ashamed now to entreat thy lenity
seriously—in beseeching thee to believe it of me
that, in ‘the story of my father and his Christian
names,—I have no thoughts of treading upon
Francis the First ;—nor, in the affair of the nose,
upon Charles the Ninth;—nor, in the character of
my uncle Toby—of characterising the militating
spirits of my country—the wound upon his groin
is a wound to every comparison of that kind :
nor, by Trim, that I meant the Duke of Gratien. :
—or that my book is wrote against predestination,

free-will, or taxes.—Ilf ’tis wrote against any
thing—’tis wrote, an’ please your worships, against
the spleen ; in order, by a more frequent and a
more convulsive elevation and depression of the
diaphragm, and the succussations of the intercostal
and abdominal muscles in laughter, to drive the
gall and other bitter juices from the gall-] ladder,
liver, and sweet-bread of his majesty’s subjects,
with all the inimicitious passions which belong to
them, down into their duodenums. :

CHAPTER XXIII,
Burt can the thing be undone, Yorick ? said
my father,—for, in my opinion, continued he, it
cannot. I am a vile canonist, replied Yorick—but,
of all evils, holding suspense e be the most tor-

 

 

menting, we shall at least know the worst of this
matter. I hate these great dinners, said my
father. The size of the dinner is not the point,

 

answered Yorick—we want, Mr. Shandy, to dive
into the bottom of this doubt, whether the name
can be changed or not—and as the beards of so
many commissaries, officials, advocates, proctors,
registrars, and of the most eminent of our school-
divines and others, are all to meet in the middle
of one table, and Didius has so pressingly invited
you —who, in your distress, would miss such an
occasion? All that is requisite, continued Yorick,
is to apprise Didius, and let him manage a conver-
sation, after dinner, so as to introduce the subject.
—Then my brother Toby, cried my father,
clapping his two hands together, shall go with us.
Let my old tie-wig, quoth my uncle Toby,
and my laced regimentals, be hung to the fire all
night, Trim.

 

 

* * * ® a % * *
% # # * Me # a *
* ® sd so * * * *
* * * * * * * *

 

|

[A chasm of ten pages is here made in the original edition. ] |

|

CHAPTER XXYV.

—No doubt, sir,—there is a whole chapter
wanting here—and a chasm made in the book by
it—but the bookbinder is neither a fool, nora
knave, nor a puppy—nor is the book a jot more
imperfect (at least upon that score)—but, on the
contrary, the book is more perfect and complete
by wanting the chapter, than having it, as I shall
demonstrate to your reverences in the manners—
I question first, by the bye, whether the same ex-
periment might not be made as successfully upon
sundry other chapters—but there is no end, an’
please your reverences, in trying experiments
upon chapters—we have had enough of it—so
there’s an end of that matter.

But before I begin my demonstration, let me
only tell you that the chapter which I have torn
out, and which otherwise you would all have been
reading just now instead of this,—was the deserip-
tion of my father’s, my uncle Toby’s, Trim’s, and
Obadiah’s setting out a journeying to the visitation
at

 

—Prithee,
It would

We'll go in the coach, said my father

have the arms been altered, Obadiah ?
have made my story much better to have begun
with telling you that, at the time my mother’s
arms were added to the Shandys’, when the coach
was repainted upon my father’s marriage, it had
so fallen out that the coach-painter, whether by
performing all his works with the left-hand, like
Turpilius the Roman, or Hans Holbein of Basil
—whether ’twas more from the blunder of his
head than hand—or whether, lastly, it was from
the sinister turn which ey erything rel: iting to our
family was apt to take—it so fell out, however, to
our reproach, that, instead of the bend-devter,
which, since Henry the Eighth’s reign was honestly
our due—a bend-sinister y by some of these fatalities,
had been drawn quite across the field of the
Shandy arms. °Tis scarce credible that the mind
of so wise a man as my father was, could be so much
incommoded with so smalla matter. The word
coach—let it be whos coachman, or
coach-horse, or eoach-hire, could never be named
in the family, but he constantly complained of
‘arrying this vile mark of illegitimacy upon the
door of his own ; he never once was able to step
into the coach, or out of it, without turning round
to take a view of the arms, and making a vow, at
the same time, that it was the last time he would
ever set his foot init again till the bend-sinister was
taken out—but, like the affair of the hinge, it was
one of the many things which the Destinies had
set down in their books—ever to be grumbled at
(and in wiser families than ours)—but never to be
mended.

—Has the bend-sinister been brushed out, I say ?
said my father. There has been nothing
brushed out, sir, answered Obadiah, but the lining.

—We'll go o’horse-back, said my father, turning
to Yorick.——Of all things in the world, except
polities, the clergy know the least of heraldry, said
Yorick. No matter for that, cried my father—
I should be sorry to appear with a blot in my es-
ecutcheon before them. Never mind the bend-
sinister, said my uncle Toby, putting on his tie-wig.

—No, indeed, said my father—y ou may go with
my aunt Dinah to a visitation with a Jend-sinister,
if you think fit—-My poor uncle Toby blushed.

 

 

 

                  

 

 

 

Sa cas |

|
|
|
|
|My father was vexed at himself—No—my dear
brother Toby, said my father, changing his tone
—but the damp of the coach-lining about my loins
may give me the sciatica again, as it did December,
January, and February, last winter—so, if you
please, you shall ride my wife’s pad ;—and as you
are to preach, Yorick, you had better make the
best of your way before—and leave me to take care
of my brother Toby, and to follow at our own rates,

Now the chapter I was obliged to tear out was
the description of this eavaleade, in which Corporal
Trim and Obadiah, upon two coach-horses abreast,
led the way as slow as a patrole — whilst my
uncle Toby, in his laced regimentals and tie-wig,
kept his rank with my father, in deep roads and
dissertations alternately upon the advantage of
learning and arms, as each could get the start.

But the painting of this journey, upon reviewing
it, appears to be so much above the style and
manner of anything else I have been able to
paint in this book, that it could not have remained
in it without depreciating every other scene, and
destroying, at the same time, that necessary equi-
poise and balance (whether of good or bad) betwixt
chapter and chapter, from whence the just propor-
tions and harmony of the whole work results. For
my own part, I am but just set up in the business,
: So know little about it,—but, in my opinion, to write
a book is, for all the world, like humming a song—
be but in tune with yourself, madam, ’tis no
matter how high or how low you take it.

—This is the reason, may it please your reve-
{ rences, that some of the lowest and flattest com-
| positions pass off very well (as Yorick told my
iu uncle Toby one night) by siege—My uncle Toby
| looked brisk at the sound of the word siege, but
: could make neither head nor tail of it.

’m to preach at Court next Sunday, said
Homenas—run over my notes—so I hummed
cover Dr. Homenas’s notes—The modulation’s very
‘ well,—It will do, Homenas, if it holds on at this
“rate—so on I hummed—and a tolerable tune I
thought it was ; and to this hour, may it please
your reverences, had never found out how low,
‘how flat, how spiritless and jejune it was, but that,
jall of a sudden, up started an air in the middle of
“it, so fine, so richyso heavenly—it carried my soul
(up with it into the other world. Now, had I (as

/ Montaigne complained in a parallel accident )—had
.1 found the declivity easy, or the ascent accessible
-—certes I had been outwitted—Your notes,
‘Homenas, I should have said, are good notes—but
lit was so perpendicular a precipice,—so wholly

cut off from the rest of the work, that, by the first
jaote [ hummed, I found myself flying into the other
(world, and from thence discovered the vale whence

[ came so deep, so low, and dismal, that I shall

jaever have the heart to descend into it again.

A dwarf who brings a standard along with
shim, to measure his own size—take my word,
4s a dwarf in more articles than one.—And so

‘imuch for tearing out of chapters.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

—SEE, if he is not cutting it all into slips, and
ixiving them about him to light their pipes !—’Tis
| bominable, answered Didius ;—it should not go

“ijannoticed, said Doctor Kysarcius—gg" He was of
ihe Kysarcii of the Low Countries.

Methinks, said Didius, half rising from his chair,

THE LIFE AND OPINION

 

 

 

in order to remove a bottle and a tall decanter
which stood in a direct line betwixt him and
Yorick—you might have spared this sarcastic
stroke, and have hit upon a more proper place,
Mr. Yorick, or at least upon a more proper occa-
sion, to have shown your contempt of what we
have been about: if the sermon is of no better
worth than to light pipes with,—’twas certainly,
sir, not good enough to be preached before so
learned a body ; and if ’twas good enough to be
preached before so learned a body—’ twas certainly,
sir, too good to light their pipes with afterwards.
——I have got him fast hung up, quoth Didius to
himself, upon one of the two horns of my dilemma
—let him get off as he ean.

I have undergone such unspeakable torments in
bringing forth this sermon, quoth Yorick, upon
this occasion—that I declare, Didius, I would
suffer martyrdom—and, if it was possible, my
horse with me, a thousand times over, before |
would sit down and make such another ; I was
delivered of itat the wrong end of me—itcamefrom
my head instead of my heart—and it is for the
pain it gave me, both in the writing and preaching
of it, that I revenge myself of it in this manner.
—To preach, to show the extent of our reading,
or the subtleties of our wit—to parade it in the
eyes of the vulgar, with the beggarly accounts of a
little learning, tinselled over with a few words
which glitter, but convey little light, and less
warmth—is a dishonest use of the poor single half
hour in a week which is put into our hands—’Tis
not preaching the gospel—but ourselves.— For my
own part, continued Yorick, I had rather direct
five words point-blank to the heart.

As Yorick pronounced the word point-blank, my
uncle Toby rose up to say something upon projec-
tiles—when a single word, and no more, uttered
from the opposite side of the table, drew every
one’s ears towards it—a word, of all others in the
dictionary, the last in that place to be expected
a word I am ashamed to write—yet must be written
—must be read ;—illegal—uncanonical :—guess
ten thousand guesses multiplied into themselyes—
rack,—torture your invention for ever, you’re
where you was.— In short, I’ll tell it in the next
chapter.

 

CHAPTER XOX iT
ZOUNDS ! ——

 

 

 

 

 

Z ds! cried Phutatorius, partly
to himself,—and yet high enough to be heard ;
and, what seemed odd, ’twas uttered in a construe-
tion of look, and in a tone of voice, somewhat
between that of a man in amazement and one in
bodily pain.

One or two who had very nice ears, and could
distinguish the expression and mixture of the two
tones as plainly as a third and a fifth, or any other
chord in music—were the most puzzled and per-
plexed withit. The concord was good in itself_—
but then ’twas quite out of the key, and no way
applicable to the subject started ; so that, with
all their knowledge, they could not tell what in the
world to make of it.

Others, who knew nothing of musical expression,
and merely lent their ears to the plain import of
the word, imagined that Phutatorius, who was
somewhat of a choleriec spirit, was just going to
snatch the cudgels out of Didius’s hands, in order
G

 

 

 

 

S OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 8]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SRE ee:

 

 

 

 

ee ee ee

oer ee

Tabitha

SS or
ae

soe neni ann

;
%

SR wat ene|

 

 

—N

 

 

 

 

 

Petersen Ga se

 

to bemaul Yorick to some purpose :—and that the
desperate monosyllable Z ds was the exordium
to an oration, which, as they judged from the
sample, presaged but a rough kind of handling of
him : so that my uncle Toby’s good-nature felt a
pang for what Yorick was about to undergo. But
seeing Phutatorius stop short, without any attempt
or desire to go on—a third party began to suppose
that it was no more than an involuntary respira-
tion, casually forming itselfinto the shape of atwelve-
penny oath, without the sin or substance of one.

Others, and especially one or two who sat next
him, looked upon it, on the contrary, as ar al and
substantial oath propensely formed against Yorick,
to whom he was known to bear no good liking ;—
which said oath, as my father philosophized upon
it, actually lay fretting and fuming at that very
time in the upper regions of Phutatorius’s purte-
nance ; and so was naturally, and according to the
due course of things, first squeezed out by the
sudden influx of blood, which was driven into the
right ventricle of Phutatorius’s heart, by the
stroke of surprise which so strange a theory of
preaching had excited.

How finely we argue upon mistaken facts !

There was not a soul busied in all these various
reasonings upon the monosyllable which Phutato-
rius uttered—who did not take this for granted,

 

 

 

———— as

proceeding upon it as from an axiom, namely, that
Phutatorius’s mind was intent upon the subject of
debate which was arising between Didius and
Yorick ; and, indeed, as he looked first towards
the one, and then towards the other, with the air
of aman listening to what was going forwards—
who would not have thought the same? But the
truth was, that Phutatorius knew not one word or
one syllable of what was passing ;—but his whole
thoughts and attention were taken up with a
transaction which was going forwards at that very
instant within the precinets of his own galligaskins,
and in a part of them where, of all others, he
stood most interested to watch accidents: so that
notwithstanding he looked with all the attention in
the world, and had gradually screwed up every
nerve and muscle in his face to the utmost pitch
the instrument would bear, in order, as it was
thought, to give a sharp reply to Yorick, who sat
over-against him—yet I say, was Yorick never
once in any one domicile of Phutatorius’s brain ;
but the true cause of his exclamation lay at least
a yard below.

This I will endeavour to explain to you with all
imaginable decency.

You must be informed, then, that Gastripheres,
who had taken a turn into the kitchen a little
before dinner, to see how things went on—observ-
ing a wicker-basket of fine chesnuts standing upon
the dresser, had ordered that a hundred or two
of them might be roasted and sent in as soon as
dinner was over—Gastripheres enforcing his
orders about them, that Didius, but Phutatorius
especially, were particularly fond of ’em.

About two minutes before the time that my
uncle Toby interrupted Yorick’s harangue — Gas-
tripheres’s chesnuts were brought in—and, as
Phutatorius’s fondness for em was uppermost in
the waiter’s head, he laid them directly before
Phutatorius, wrapt up hot in aclean damask napkin.

Now, whether it was physically impossible, with
half-a-dozen hands all thrust into the napkin at

 

|

 

 

 

Se

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

one time—but that some one chesnut, of more life
and rotundity than the rest, must be put in motion,
—it so fell out, however, that one was actually
sent rolling off the table,—and as Phutatorius sat
straddling under,—it fell perpendicularly into that
particular aperture of Phutatorius’s breeches for
which, to the shame and indelicacy of our language
be it spoke, there is no chaste word throughout all
Johnson’s Dictionary :—Let it suffice to say—it
was that particular aperture which, in all good
societies, the laws of decorum do strictly require,
like the temple of Janus (in peace at least), to be
universally shut up.

The neglect of this punctilio in Phutatorius
(which by the bye should be a warning to all
mankind) had opened a door to this accident.

Accident, I callit,in compliance to a received
mode of speaking ;—but in no opposition to the
opinion either of Acrites or Mithogeras in this
matter ; I know they were both prepossessed and
fully persuaded of it—and are so to this hour—
that there was nothing of accident in the whole
event,—but that the chesnut’s taking that parti-
cular course, and, in a manner, of its own accord,
and then falling with all its heat directly into
that one particular place, and no other,—was a
real judgment upon Phutatorius, for that filthy
and obscene treatise de Concubinis retinendis,
which Phutatorius had published about twenty
years ago, and was that identical week going to
give the world a second edition of.

It is not my business to dip my pen in this con-
troversy :—much undoubtedly may be wrote on
both sides of the question :—all that concerns me,
as an historian, is to represent the matter of fact,
and render it credible to the reader that the hiatus
in Phutatorius’s breeches was sufficiently wide to
receive the chesnut ;—and that the chesnut, some-
how or other, did fall perpendicularly and piping
hot into it, without Phutatorius’s perceiving it, or
any one else at that time.

The genial warmth which the chesnut imparted
was not undelectable for the first twenty or five-
and-twenty seconds,—and did no more than gently
solicit Phutatorius’s attention towards the part:
but the heat gradually increasing, and in a few
seconds more getting beyond the point of all sober
pleasure, and then advancing with all speed into
the regions of pain,—the soul of Phutatorius,
together with all his ideas, his thoughts, his atten-
tion, his imagination, judgment, resolution, delibe-
‘ation, ratiocination, memory, fancy, with ten

 

 

 

 

battalions of animal spirits, all tumultuously
crowded down, through different defiles and

circuits, to the place in danger, leaving all his upper
regions, as you may imagine, as empty as my purse.

With the best intelligence which all these mes-
sengers could bring him back, Phutatorius was not
able to dive into the secret of what was going for-
ward below, nor could he make any kind of con-
jecture what the devil was the matter with it.
However, as he knew not what the true cause
might turn out, he deemed it most prudent, in the
situation he was in at present,—to bear it if pos-
sible, like a Stoic ; which, with the help of some
wry faces and compursions of the mouth, he had
certainly accomplished, had his imagination con-
tinued neuter :—but the sallies of the imagination
are ungovernable in all things of this kind ;—a
thought instantly darted into his mind, that though

 

 

 

 

 

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fthe anguish had the sensation of glowing heat,—it
might, notwithstanding that, be a bite as well as a
burn ; and if so, that possibly a newt, or an asker,
or some such detested reptile, had crept up, and
was fastening his teeth ;—the horrid idea of which,
with a fresh glow of pain arising that instant
from the chesnut, seized Phutatorius with a sudden
panic,—and in the first terrifying disorder of the
passion, it threw him, as it has done the best
generals upon earth, quite off his guard : the effect
of which was this, that he leapt incontinently up,
uttering, as he rose, that interjection of surprise
so much descanted upon, with the aposiopestic
break after it, marked thus, Z ds !—which,
though not strictly canonical, was still as little as
any man could have said upon the occasion ;—and
which, by the bye, whether canonical or not,
Phutatorius could no more help than he could the
cause of it.

Though this has taken up some time in the nar-
rative, it took up little more time in the trans-
action than just to allow time for Phutatorius to
draw forth the chesnut, and throw it down with
violence upon the floor,—and for Yorick to rise
from his chair, and pick the chesnut up.

Itis curious to observe the triumph of slight
incidents over the mind ;—what incredible weight
they have in forming and governing our opinions,
both of men and things !—that trifles, light as air,
shall waft a belief into the soul, and plant it so
immoveably within it,—that Euclid’s demonstra-
tions, could they be brought to batter it in breach,
should not all have power to overthrow it!

Yorick, I said, picked up the chesnut which
Phutatorius’s wrath had flung down :—the action
was trifling ;—I am ashamed to account for it —

a

he did it—for no reason but that he thought the
chesnut not a jot worse for the adventure ;—and
that he held a good chesnut worth stooping for.
—But this incident, trifling as it was, wrought
differently in Phutatorius’s head: he considered
this act of Yorick’s, in getting off his chair and
picking up the chesnut, as a plain acknowledg-
ment in him that the chesnut was originally his;
—and, in course, that it must have been the owner
of the chesnut, and no one else, who could have
played him such a prank with it. What greatly
confirmed him in this opinion was this, that the
table being parallelogramical and very narrow,
it afforded a fair opportunity for Yorick, who sat
directly over-against Phutatorius, of slipping the
chesnut in;—and consequently that he did it.
The look of something more than suspicion, which
Phutatorius cast full upon Yorick, as these
thoughts arose, too evidently spoke his opinion ;—
and, as Phutatorius was naturally supposed to
know more of the matter than any person besides,
his opinion at once became the general one; and,
for a reason very different from any which have
been yet given—in a little time it was put out of
all manner of dispute.

 

 

When great or unexpected events fall out upon.

the stage of this sublunary world—the mind of
man, which is an inquisitive kind of substance,
naturally takes a flight behind the scenes, to see
what is the cause and first spring of them.—The
search was not long in this instance.

It was well known that Yorick had never a
good opinion of the treatise which Phutatorius had
wrote de Concubinis retinendis, as a thing which

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM

 

 

 

 

he feared had done hurt in the world ;— and
‘twas easily found out that there was a mystical
meaning in Yorick’s prank,—and that his chuck-
ing the chesnut hot into Phutatorius’s "Pe
was a sarcastical fling at his book ;—the doctrines
of which, they said, had inflamed many an honest
man in the same place.

This conceit awakened Somnolentius ; —made
Agelastes smile ;—and, if you can recollect the
precise look and air of a man’s face intent in find-
ing out a riddle,—it threw Gastripheres’s into that
form ;—and, in short, was thought by many to be

| & master-stroke of arch wit.

This, as the reader has seen from one end to
the other, was as groundless as the dreams of
philosophy. Yorick, no doubt, as Shakspeare
said of his ancestor—“ was a man of jest,” but it
was tempered with something which withheld him
from that, and many other ungracious pranks, of
which he as undeservedly bore the blame ;—but
it was his misfortune, all his life long, to bear the
imputation of saying and doing a thousand things,
of which (unless my esteem blinds me) his nature
was incapable. All I blame him for,—or rather,
all I blame and alternately like him for, was that
singularity of his temper which would never

| suffer him to take pains to set a story right with

| the world, however in his power.

In every ill

| usage of that sort, he acted precisely as in the
| affair of his lean horse.—He could have explained

it to his honour, but his spirit was above it; and,
besides, he ever looked upon the inventor, the
propagator, and believer of an illiberal report,
alike so injurious to him,—he could not stoop to
tell his story to them ;—and so: trusted to time
and truth to do it for him.

This heroic cast produced him inconveniences
in many respects ;—in the present, it was followed
by the fixed resentment of Phutatorius, who, as
Yorick had just made an end of his chesnut, rose

| up from his chair a second time, to Jet him know

it; which indeed he did witha smile; saying only,—
That he would endeavour not to forget the obligation.
But you must mark and carefully separate and
distinguish these two things in your mind :—
—The smile was for the company ;
—The threat was for Yorick.

CHAPTER XXVIII,

—Can you tell me, quoth Phutatorius, speaking
to Gastripheres, who sat next to him—for one would
not apply to a surgeon in so foolish an affair,—
Can you tell me, Gastripheres, what is best to
take out the fire ?——Ask Eugenius, said Gastri-
pheres. That greatly depends, said Eugenius,
pretending ignorance of the adventure, upon the
nature of the part.—If it is a tender part, and a
part which can conveniently be wrapt up——It is
both the one and the other, replied Phutatorius,
Jaying his hand as he spoke, with an emphatical
nod of his head, upon the part in question, and
lifting up his right leg at the same time, to ease
and ventilate it——If that is the case, said Euge-
nius, I would advise you, Phutatorius, not to
tamper with it by any means; but if you will send
to the next printer, and trust your cure to sucha
simple thing as a soft sheet of paper just come off
the press—you need do nothing more than twist
it round——The damp paper, quoth Yorick (who
sat next to his friend Eugenius), though I know it

6 2

 

 

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has a refreshing coolness in it—yet, I presume, is no
more than the vehicle ;—and that the oil and lamp-
black, with which the paper is so strongly impreg-
nated, does the business. Right, said Eugenius;
and is, of any outward application I would venture
to recommend, the most anodyne and safe.

Was it my case, said Gastripheres, as the main
thing is the oil and lamp-black, I should spread
them thick upon a rag, and clap it on directly.
That would make a very devil of it, replied
Yorick. And besides, added Eugenius, it would
not answer the intention, which is the extreme
neatness and elegance of the prescription 5 which
the faculty hold to be half in half :—for consider,
if the type is a very small one (which it should be),
the sanative particles, which come into contact
in this form, have the advantage of being spread
so infinitely thin, and with such a mathematical
equality (fresh paragraphs and large capitals ex-
cepted), as no art or management of the spatula
can come up to.——lt falls out very luckily, re-
plied Phutatorius, that the second edition of my
treatise, de Concubinis retinendis, 1s at this instant

 

 

 

in the press——You may take any leat of it, said
Eugenius ; no matter which. ——Provided, quoth

Yorick, there is no bawdry in it.—

They are just now, replied Phutatorius, printing
off the ninth chapter ;—which is the last chapter
but one in the book.
that chapter? said Yorick; making a respectful
bow to Phutatorius as he spoke.——1 think, an-
swered Phutatorius, ’tis that de Re Concubinarid.

For Heaven’s sake keep out of that chapter !
quoth Yorick.

——By all means, added Eugenius.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.

—Now, quoth Didius, rising up, and laying his
right hand,. with his fingers spread, upon his
breast,—had such a blunder about a Christian
name happened before the Reformation,——| It
happened the day before yesterday, quoth my
uncle Toby to himself]—and when baptism was
administered in Latin—[’Twas all in English, said
my uncle]—many things might have coincided with
it; and upon the authority of sundry decreed cases,
to have pronounced the baptism null, with a
power of giving the child a new name.—Had a
priest, for instance, which was no uncommon thing,
through ignorance of the Latin tongue, baptized a
child of Tom-o’Stiles, in nomine Patria et Filia et
Spiritum Sanctos—the baptism was held null.—
I beg your pardon, replied Kysarcius s—in that
case, as the mistake was only the terminations,
the baptism was valid ;—and to have rendered it
null, the blunder of the priest should have fallen
upon the first syllable of each noun ;—and not, as
in your case, upon the last.

My father delighted in subtleties of this kind,
and listened with infinite attention.

Gastripheres, for example, continued Kysarcius,
baptises a child of John Stradling’s in gomine
Gatris, &c. &c., instead of in nomine Patris, &c.—
Is this a baptism ?— No,—say the ablest canonists;
inasmuch as the radix of each word is hereby torn
up, and the sense and meaning of them removed
and changed quite to another object; for gomine
does not signify a name, nor gatris a father.
What do they signify? said my uncle Toby.——

 

 

Pray, what is the title of

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

Nothing at all—quoth Yorick.
baptism is null, said Kysarcius.

In course, answered Yorick,——in a tone two
parts jest and one part earnest.

But in the ease cited, continued Kysarcius,
where Patria is put for Patris, Filia for Filii, and
so on,—as itis a fault only in the declension, and
the roots of the words continue untouched, the
inflections of their branches, either this way or that,
does not in any sort hinder the baptism, inasmuch
as the same sense continues in the words as before.
——But then, said Didius, the intention of the
priest’s
have been proved to haye gone along with it.
Right, answered Kysarcius; and of this, bro-
ther Didius, we have an instance in a decree of
the decretals of Pope Leo the Third——But my
brother’s child, eried my uncle Toby, has nothing
to do with the Pope; ’tis the plain child of a Pro-
testant gentleman christened Tristram against the
wills and wishes both of his father and mother,
and all who are akin to it.

If the wills and wishes, said Kysarcius, inter-
rupting my uncle Toby, of those only who stand
related to Mr. Shandy’s child, were to have weight
in this matter, Mrs. Shandy, of all people, has the
least to do in it——-My uncle Toby laid down his
pipe, and my father drew his chair still closer to
the table, to hear the conclusion of so strange an
introduction. :

——It has not only been a question, Captain
Shandy, amongst the* best lawyers and civilians
in this land, continued Kysarcius, “ Whether the
mother be of kin to her child :”—but, after much
dispassionate inquiry and jactitation of the argu-
ments on all sides—it has been adjudged for the
negative ;—namely, “That the mother is not of
kin to her child.’’*+ My father instantly clapped
his hand upon my uncle Toby’s mouth, under
colour of whispering in his ear ;—the truth was, he
wasalarm’dfor Lillibullero—and, having a great de-
sire to hear more of so curious an argument—he
bege’d my uncle Toby, for Heaven’s sake, not to
disappoint him in it..——My uncle Toby gave a
nod—resumed his pipe, and contenting himself
with whistling Lillibullero inwardly, Kysarcius,
Didius, and Triptolemus, went on with the dis-
course as follows:

This determination, continued Kysarcius, how
contrary soever it may seem to run to the stream
of vulgar ideas, yet had reason strongly on its
side, and has been put out of all manner of dispute
from the famous case, known commonly by the

Ergo, such a

 

 

 

name of the Duke of Suffolk’s Case.——It is cited
in Brooke, said Triptolemus.——And taken notice
of by Lord Coke, added Didius———And you may

find it in Swinburne on Testaments, said Kysarcius.

The case, Mr. Shandy, was this :

In the reign of Edward the Sixth, Charles,
Duke of Suffolk, having issue a son by one venter,
and a daughter by another venter, made his last
will, wherein he devised goods to his son, and died;
after whose death the son died also; but without
will, without wife, and without child ;—his mother
and his sister by the father’s side (for she was
born of the former venter) then living. The
mother took the administration of her son’s goods,
according to the statute of the 2lst of Harry the

* Vide Swinburne on Testaments, Part 7, § 8.
+ Vide Brooke’s Abridg., tit. Adminstr. N. 47,

pronouncing them grammatically must |THE

Eighth ; whereby it is enacted, that, in case any
| Person die intestate, the administration of his goods
| Shall be committed to the next of kin.

| The administration being thus (surreptitiously)
granted to the mother—the sister, by the father’s
side, commenced a suit before the Ecclesiastical
Judge, alleging, Ist, That she herself was next of
kin ; and, 2dly, That the mother was not of kin at
all to the party dec eased ; and therefore prayed
the Court, that the administration granted to the
mother might be revoked, and be comuinitted unto
her, as next of kin to the deceased, by force of the
said statute.

Hereupon, as it was a great cause, and much
depending upon its issue—and many causes of
great property likely to be decided, in times to
come, by the precedent to be then made—the most
learned, as well in the laws of this realm as in the
civil law, were consulted together, Whether the
mother was of kin to her son or no ‘_Whereunto
not only the temporal lawyers—but the church
lawyers—the juris-consulti—the Juris-prudentes,
—the civilians—the advocates—the commissaries
—the judges of the consistory and prerogative
courts of Canterbury and York, with the master
of the faculties, were all unanimously of opinion,
that the mother was not of kin to her child.*—

And what said the Duchess of Suffolk to it? said
my uncle Toby.

The unexpectedness of my uncle Toby’s question
confounded Kysarcius more than the ablest advo-
cate. He stopped a full minute, looking in my
uncle Toby’s face without replying ;—and in that
single minute Triptolemus put by him, and took
the lead as follows :—

‘Tis a ground and principle in the law, said
| Triptolemus, that things do not ascend, but de-
| Scend in it; and I make no doubt ’tis for this ‘ause
that, however true it is that the child may be of
the blood and seed of its parent—that the parents,
nevertheless, are not of the blood and seed of it ;
inasmuch as the parents are not begot by the
child, but the child by the parents ;—for so they
write, Liberi sunt de sanguine patris et matris,
sed pater et mater non sunt de sanguine liberorum.
But this, Triptolemus, cried Didius, proves
too much ;—for, from this authority cited, it would
follow, not only what indeed is granted on all sides,
that the mother is not of kin to her child,—but
the father likewise. It is held, said Triptole-
mus, the better opinion; because the father, the
mother, and the child, though they be three per-
sons, yet are they but (wna caro) one flesh ; and,
consequently, no degree of kindred,—or any
method of acquiring one in nature-——There you
push the argument again too far, cried Didius,—for
there is no prohibition in nature, though there is
in the Leyitical law,—but that a man may beget a
child upon his grandmother ;—in which case, sup-
posing the issue of a daughter, she would stand in
relation both of——But who ever thought, cried
Kysarcius, of lying with his grandmother ?——The
young gentleman, replied Yorick, whom Selden
speaks of,—who not only thought of it, but justified
his intention to his father by the argument drawn
from the law of retaliation :—“ You lay, sir, with
my mother,” said the lad; « why may not I lie

 

|
|

 

 

 

* Mater non numeratur inter consanguineos. Bald. in
ult. C. de Verb. signific.
t Vide Brooke’s Abridg., tit. Administr. N. 47,

 

with yours?”

|
|
|

 

 

 

 

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY: 85

 

 

‘Tis the argumentum commune,
added Yorick. "Tis as good, replied Eugenius,
taking down his hat, as they deserve.

The company broke up.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX;

—AND pray, said my uncle Toby, leaning upon
Yorick, as he and my father were helping him lei-
surely down the stairs,—don’t be terrified, madam ;
this staircase conversation is not so long as the
last.——And pray, Yorick, said my uncle Toby,
Which way is this"sad affair of Tristram at length
settled by these learned men ?——Very satisfac-
torily, replied Yorick: no mortal, sir, has any
concern with it ;——for Mrs. Shandy, the mother,
is nothing at all akin to him ;—and as the mother’s
is the surest side,—Mr. Shandy, in course, is still
less than nothing.—In short, he is not as much
akin to him, sir, as I am.

——That may well be, said my father, shaking
his head.

——Let the learned say what they will, there
must certainly, quoth my uncle Toby, have been
some sort of consanguinity betwixt the Duchess of
Suffolk and her son.

The vulgar are of the same opinion, quoth
Yorick, to this hour.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

Tuovucu my father was hugely tickled with the
subtleties of these learned discourses,—’twas still
but like the anointing of a broken bone.—The
moment he got home, the weight of his afflictions
returned upon him but so much the heavier, as is
ever the case when the staff we lean on slips from
under us.—He became pensive,—walked frequently
forth to the fish-pond,—let down one loop of his
hat,—sighed often, forbore to snap ;—and as the
hasty sparks of temper, which occasion snapping,
so much assist perspiration and digestion, as Hip-
pocrates tells us,—he had certainly fallen ill with

 

 

the extinction of them, had not his thoughts been

critically drawn off, and his health rescued by a
fresh train of disquietudes left him, with a legacy
of a thousand pounds, by my aunt Dinah.

My father had searce read theletter, when, tak-
ing the thing by the right end, he instantly began
to plague and puzzle his head how to lay it out
mostly to the honour of his family. A hundred
and fifty odd projects took possession of his brains
by turns ;—he would do this, and that, and t?other.
—-He would go to Rome ;—he would go to law ;—
he would buy stock ;—he would buy John Hobson’s

farm ;--he would new fore-front his house, and |

add a new wing to make it even. There was a
fine water-mill on this side ; and he would build a
windmill on the other side of the river, in full view,
to answer it.——But above all things in the world,
he would englose the great Ox-moor, and send out
my brother Bobby immediately upon his trayels.

‘But as the sum was Jinite, and consequently
could not do everything—and in truth very few
of these to any purpose—of all the projects which
offered themselves upon this occasion, the two last
seemed to make the deepest impression ; and he
would infallibly have determined upon. both at
once, but for the small inconvenience hinted at
above, which absolutely put him under a necessity
of deciding in favour either of the one or the
other.

 

 

 

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|
THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |

Se,

| 86

 

 

 

 

Se ee

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This was not altogether so easy to be done ; for
though ’tis certain my father had long before set
his heart upon tliis necessary part of my brother’s
education, and, like a prudent man, had ‘actually
determined to carry it into execution, with the
first money that returned from the second creation

| of actions in the Mississippi scheme, in which he
| was an adventurer ;—yet the Ox-moor, which was
| a fine, large, whinny, undrained, unimproved com-
| mon, belongiag to the Shandy estate, had almost
| as old a claim upon him: he had long and affec-
| tionately set his heart upon turning it likewise to
| some account. But having never hitherto been
| pressed with such a conjuncture of things as made
| it necessary to settle either the priority or justice
| of their claims,—like a wise man, he had refrained
| entering into any nice or critical examination
| about them; so that, upon the dismission of every
other project at this crisis,—the two old projects,
the Ox-moor and my brother, divided him again ;
and so equal a match were they for each other, as
to become the occasion of no small contest in the
old gentleman’s mind—which of the two should be
set a-going first.

People may laugh as they will; but the
case was this:

It had ever been the custom of the family, and
by length of time was almost become a matter of
common right, that the eldest son of it should have
| free ingress, egress, and regress into foreign parts
| before marriage ;—not only for the sake of bet-
| tering his own private parts, by the benefit of

 

 

| exercise and change of so much air,—but simply
for the mere delectation of his fancy, by the feather
put into his cap of having been abroad. Tantwm
valet, my father would say, quantum sonat.

Now, as this was a reasonable, and, in
course, a most Christian indulgence,—to deprive
him of it without why or wherefore,—and thereby
make an example of him, as the first Shandy un-
whirled about Europe, in a post-chaise, and only
because he was a heavy lad,—would be using him
ten times worse than a Turk.

On the other hand, the ease of the Ox-moor was
full as hard,

Exclusive of the original purchase money, which
was eight hundred pounds,—it had cost the family
eight hundred pounds more in a lawsuit about
fifteen years before, besides the Lord knows what
trouble and vexation.

It had been moreover in possession of the
Shandy family ever since the middle of the last
century; and though it lay full in view before
the house, bounded on one extremity by the water-
mill, and on the other by the projected wind-mill
spoken of above -—and for all these reasons
seemed to have the fairest title of any part of the
estate to the care and protection of the family,—
yet by an unaccountable fatality common to men,
as well as the ground they tread on—it had all
along most shamefully been overlooked ; and,
to speak the truth of it, had suffered so much by
it, that it would have made any man’s heart bleed
(Obadiah said) who understood the value of land,
to have rode over it, and only seen the condition

it was in.

However, as neither the purchasing this tract of
ground—unor indeed the placing of it where it

|

 

 

lay, were either of them, properly speaking, of my
father’s doing,—he had never thought himself any

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

way concerned in the affair—till the fifteen years
before, when the breaking out of that cursed law-
suit mentioned above (and which had arose aboutits
boundaries)—which being altogether my father’s
own act and deed, it naturally awakened every
other argument in its favour; and upon summing |
them all up together, he saw not merely in interest, |
but in honour, he was bound to do something for
it ;—and that now or never was the time. |
I think there must certainly have been a mixture |
of ill luck in it, that the reasons on both sides |
should happen to be so equally balanced by each |
other; for though my father weighed them in all |
humours and conditions, spent many an anxious |
|
|

 

hour in the most profound and abstracted medita-
tion upon what was best to be done ;—reading
books of farming one day,—books of travelsanother,
—laying aside all passion whatever,—viewing the
arguments on both sides in all their lights and
circumstances,—communing every day with my
uncle Toby,—arguing with Yorick, and talking
over the whole affair of the Ox-moor with Obadiah,
—yet nothing in all that time appeared so strongly
in behalf of the one, which was not either strictly
applicable to the other, or at least so far counter-
balanced by some consideration of equal weight,
as to keep the scales even.
For to be sure, with proper helps, and in the |
hands of some people, though the Ox-moor would |
undoubtedly have made a different appearance in
the world from what it did, or ever could do in |
the condition it lay,—yet every tittle of this was |
true with regard to my brother Bobby,—let Oba- |
diah say what he would.

 

 

|

 

In point of interest,—the contest, I own, at first |
sight, did not appear so undecisive betwixt them ; |
for whenever my father took pen and ink in hand, |
and set about calculating the simple expense of |
paring and burning and fencing in the Ox-moor, &e. |
__with the certain profitit would bring him inreturn, |
—the latter turned out so prodigiously, in his way |
of working the account, that you would have sworn |
the Ox-moor would have carried all before it; for it
was plain he should reap a hundred lasts of rape, at |
twenty poundsa last, the very first year,—besides an
excellent crop of wheatthe year following ;—and the
year after that, to speak within bounds, a hundred;
—pbut, in all likelihood, a hundred and fifty, if not
two hundred, quarters of pease and beans,—besides
potatoes without end. But then to think he was
all this while breeding up my brother, like a hog
to eat them—knocked all on the head again, and |
generally left the old gentleman in such a state of
suspense—that, as he often declared to my uncle
Toby, he knew no more than his heels what
to do.

Nobody but he who has felt it can conceive what
a plaguing thing it isto have a man’s mind torn
asunder by two projects of equal strength, both
obstinately pulling in a contrary direction at the
same time; for, to say nothing of the havoc, which
by a certain consequence is unavoidably made by
it all over the finer system of the nerves, which
you know convey the animal spirits and more
subtle juices from the heart to the head, and so
on,—it is not to be told in what a degree such a
wayward kind of friction works upon the more
gross and solid parts, wasting the fat and impair-
ing the strength of a man every time as it goes
backwards and forwards.

 

aan———— ee aoe ae EE

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

=|

 

 

 

 

My father had certainly sunk under this evil,
as certainly as he had done under that of my
CHRISTIAN NAME, had he not been rescued out of
it,as he was out of that, by a fresh evil:—the mis-
fortune of my brother Bobby’s death.

What is the life of man? ‘Is it not to shift from
side to side ? from sorrow to sorrow ;—to
button up one cause of vexation,—and unbutton
another 2

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

From this moment I am to be considered as heir-
apparent to the Shandy family ;—and it is from this
point, properly, that the story of my Lirg and Opr-
NIoNs sets out. With all my hurry and precipita-
tion, I have been but clearing the ground to raise
the building: and such a building do I foresee it will
turn out as never was planned, and as never was
executed, since Adam. In less than five minutes
I shall have thrown my pen into the fire, and the
little drop of thick ink which is left remaining at
the bottom of my ink-horn after it:—I have
but half a score of things to do in the time ;—
I have a thing to name,—a thing to lament, —a
thing to hope,—a thing to promise,—and a thing
to threaten,—I have a thing to suppose,—a thing
to declare,—a thing to conceal,—a thing to choose,
and a thing to pray for.—This chapter, there-
fore, I name the chapter of Tarnas,—and my next
chapter to it, that is, the first chapter of my next
volume, if I live, shall be my chapter upon
WHISKERS, in order to keep up some sort of con-
nexion in my works.

The thing I lament is, that things have crowd-
ed in so thick upon me that I have not been
able to get into that part of my work towards
which I have all the way looked forwards
with so much earnest desire; and that is the
campaigns, but especially the amours, of my uncle
Toby, the events of which are of so singular a
nature, and so Cervantie a cast, that if I can so
manage it as to convey but the same impressions
to every other brain which the occurrences them-
selves excite in my own,—I will answer for it
the book shall make its way in the world much
better than its master has done before it.—Oh
Tristram! Tristram! can this but be once brought
about,—the credit which will attend thee as an
author shall counterbalance the many evils which
have befallen thee as a man:—thou wilt feast

 

 

 

 

 

 

| these four volumes,*—the thing I have to ask is,

upon the one,—when thou hast lost all sense and
remembrance of the other !—

No wonder I itch so much as I do to get at
these amours :—they are the choicest morsel of my
whole story! and when I do get at ’em,—assure
yourselves, good folks—(nor do I value whose
Squeamish stomach takes offence at it) I shall not
be at all nice in the choice of my words!—and
that’s the thing I have to declare.—I shall never
get all through in five minutes, that I fear:—and
the thing I hope is that your worships and rever-
ences are not offended :—if you are, depend upon’t
I’ll give you something, my good gentry, next year
to be offended at ;—that’s my dear Jenny’s way ;—
but who my Jenny is,—and which is the right and
which the wrong end of a woman,—is the thing to
be concealed: —it shall be told you inthe next chap-
ter but one to my chapter of Button-holes ;—and
not one chapter before.

And now that you have just got to the end of

 

 

 

 

how you feel your heads? my ownaches dismally !

As for your healths, I know they are much
better. True Shandeism, think what you will
against it, opens the heart and lungs; and, like all
those affections which partake of its nature, it
forces the blood and other vital fluids of the body
to run freely through their channels, and makes
the wheel of life run long dnd cheerfully round.

Was I left, like Sancho Panga, to choose my |
kingdom, it should not be maritime,—or a king-
dom of blacks to make a penny of ;—no, it should
be a kingdom of hearty laughing subjects: and as
the bilious and more saturnine passions, by creating
disorders in the blood and humours, have as bad
an influence, I see, upon the body politic as body
natural ;—and as nothing but a habit of virtue
can fully govern those passions, and subject them
to reason,—I should add to my prayer—that God
would give my subjects grace to be WIsE as they
were MERRY}; and then should I be the happiest
monarch, and they the happiest people, under
heaven.

And so with this moral for the present, may it
please your worships and your reyerences, I take
my leave of you, till this time twelvemonth, when
(unless this vile cough kills me in the mean time)
I’ll have another pluck at your beards, and lay
open a story to the world you little dream of,

 

 

VOLUME “THR BIT,

 

CHAPTER I,

Ir it had not been for those two mettlesome
tits, and that madcap of a -postilion who drove
them from Stilton to Stamford, the thought had
never entered my head. He flew like lightning:
—there was a slope of three miles and a half ;—
we scarcely touched the ground—the motion was
most rapid,—most impetuous ;—’twas communi-
cated to my brain, my heart partook of it,— By
the great god of day,” said I, looking towards the
sun, and thrusting my arm out of the fore-window
of the chaise, as I made my vow, “I will lock up
my study-door the moment I get home, and throw

the key of it ninety feet below the surface of
the earth, into the draw-well at the back of my
house.”

The London waggon confirmed me in my reso-
lution ; it hung tottering upon the hill, scarcely
progressive, dragged—dragged up by eight heavy
beasts,—“ by main strength !’—quoth I, nodding ;
“but your betters draw the same way,—and some-
thing of everybody’s !—O rare !’”

Tell me, ye learned, shall we for ever be adding
so much to the bu/k,—-so little to the stock 2

Shall we for ever make new books, as apothe-

 

 

 

* According to the original editions.

 

 

 

Se ee

|= a oe

 

AE.

Sa

8

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair
Of what? cried Margaret, smiling ——Of
whiskers, said La Fosseuse, with infinite modesty.

The word whiskers still stood its ground, and

|
|
|
|

caries make new mixtures, by pouring only out of
one vessel into another ?

Are we for ever to be twisting and untwisting
the same rope! for ever in the same track,—for

 

ee

ae

 

ever at the same pace?

Shall we be destined, to the days of eternity, on
holidays as well as working days, to be showing
the relics of learning, as monks do the relics of
their saints—without working one—one single
miracle with them ?

Who made Man, with powers which dart him
from earth to heaven in a moment;—that great,
that most excellent, and most noble creature of
the world, the miracle of nature, as Zoroaster m
his book rept picews, called him ;—the Shekinah of
the Divine Presence, as Chrysostom ;—the image
of God, as Moses ;—the ray of divinity, as Plato ;
—the marvel of marvels, as Aristotle,—to go sneak-
ing on at this pitiful—pimping —pettifogging rate !

I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the
occasion; but if there is no catachresis in the
wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul that
every imitator in Great Britain, France, and
Ireland, had the farcy for his pains; and that
there was a farcical house, large enough to hold,
—ay—and sublimate them, tag-rag and bob-tail,
male and female altogether: and this leads me to
the affair of Whiskers:—but, by what chain
of ideas, I leave as a legacy in mortmain to Prudes
and Tartuffes to enjoy and make the most of.

 

 

 

continued to be made use of in most of the
best companies throughout the little kingdom of
Navarre, notwithstanding the indiscreet use which
La Fosseuse had made of it: the truth was, La
Fosseuse had pronounced the word not only before
the queen, but upon sundry other occasions at
court, with an accent which always implied some-
thing ofa mystery. Andas the court of Margaret,
as allthe world knows, was at that time a mixture
of gallantry and devotion,—and whiskers being as
applicable to the one as the other, the word natu-
rally stood its ground ;—it gained full as much as
it lost; that is, the clergy were for it,—the laity
were against it,—and, for the women, they were
divided.

The excellency of the figure and mien of the
young Sieur De Croix was at that time beginning
to draw the attention of the maids of honour
towards the terrace before the palace-gate, where
the guard was mounted.—The lady De Baussiere
fell deeply in love with him—La Battarelle did
the same :—it was the finest weather for it that
eyer was remembered in Navarre.—La Guyol,
La Maronette, La Sabatiere, fell in love with the
Sieur De Croix also ;—La Rebours and La Fos-
seuse knew better.—De Croix had failed in an

 

 

 

attempt to recommend himself to La Rebours ; and

La Rebours and La Fosseuse were inseparable.
The Queen of Navarre was sitting with her

ladies in the painted bow-window, facing the gate

I’m sorry I made it,—’twas as inconsiderate a
promise as ever entered a man’s head. A chapter
upon whiskers! alas! the world will not bear it!

UPON WHISKERS. |
|
|

 

 

 

—’tis a delicate world ;—but I knew not of what
mettle it was made,—nor had I ever seen the
underwritten fragment; otherwise, as surely as
noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still
(let the world say what it will to the contrary), so
surely would I have steered clear of this dan-
gerous chapter.

THE FRAGMENT.
* * * * *
Kk * %& * *

—You are half asleep, my good lady, said the
old gentleman, taking hold of the old lady’s hand
and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he pronounced
the word whiskers.—Shall we change the subject?
——By no means, replied the old lady ;—I like
your account of those matters: so, throwing a thin
gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it
back upon the chair with her face turned towards
him, and advancing her two feet as she reclined
herself,—I desire, continued she, you will go on.

The old gentleman went on as follows :—
Whiskers! cried the Queen of Navarre, dropping
her knotting-ball, as La Fosseuse uttered the word
—— Whiskers, madam! said La Fosseuse, pin-
ning the ball to the queen’s apron, and making a
courtesy as she repeated it.

La Fosseuse’s voice was naturally soft and low,
yet ’twas an articulate voice ; and every letter of
the word whiskers fell distinctly upon the Queen of
Navarre’s ear.—— Whiskers! cried the queen, lay-
ing a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had
still distrusted her ears. —— Whiskers! replied La
Fosseuse, repeating the worda third time.—— There
is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in Navarre,
continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s

of the second court, as De Croix passed through
it—He is handsome, said the Lady Baussiere.
——He has a good mien, said La Battarelle-——
He is finely shaped, said La Guyol.—_—I never
saw an officer of the horse-guards in my life, said
La Maronette, with two such legs; Or who
stood so well upon them, said La Sabatiere.——
But he has no whiskers, cried La Fosseuse.——
Not a pile, said La Rebours.

The queen went directly to her oratory, musing
all the way, as she walked through the gallery,
upon the subject; turning it this way and that
way in her fancy.—-Ave Maria!+—what can La
Fosseuse mean? said she, kneeling down upon the
cushion.

La Guyol, La Battarelle, La Maronette, La
Sabatiere, retired instantly to their chambers.—
Whiskers! said all four of them to themselves, as
they bolted their doors on the inside.

The Lady Carnavallette was counting her beads
with both hands, unsuspected, under her farthin-
gale.—From St. Anthony down to St. Ursula, in-
clusive, not a saint passed through her fingers
without whiskers; St. Francis, St. Dominick, St.
Bene’t, St. Basil, St. Bridget, had all whiskers.

The Lady Baussiere had got into a wilderness
of conceits, with moralizing too intricately upon
La Fosseuse’s text:—she mounted her palfrey,
her page followed her—the host passed by—the
Lady Baussiere rode on.

One denier, cried the Order of Mercy—one
single denier, in behalf of a thousand patient cap-
tives, whose eyes look tovandeehbewrerrmand you
for their redemptior:

— —The Lady Baussiere rode on.

Pity the unhappy, said a devout, venerable,{

1!

0

 

7

 

 

 

 

hoary-headed man, meekly holding up a box, begirt
with iron, in his withered hands.——] beg for the
unfortunate :—good, my lady, ’tis for a prison,—
for an hospital—’tis for an old man—a poor man
undone by shipwreck, by suretyship, by fire :—I
call God and all his angels to witness,—’tis to clothe
the naked—to feed the hungry,—’tis to comfort
the sick and the broken-hearted.

The Lady Baussiere rode on.

A decayed kinsman bowed himself to the ground.

—— The Lady Baussiere rode on.

He ran begging bareheaded on one side of her
 palfrey, conjuring her by the former bonds of
| friendship, alliance, consanguinity, &¢.——Cousin,

aunt, sister, mother,—for virtue’s sake, for your
own, for mine, for Christ’s sake, remember me!
-—pity me!

—— The Lady Baussiere rode on.

Take hold of my wh iskers, said the Lady
| Baussiere.——The page took hold of her palfrey.
: She dismounted at the end of the terrace.

There are some trains of certain ideas which
leave prints of themselves about our eyes and
eye-brows ; and there is a consciousness of it,

‘somewhere about the heart, which serves but
to make these etchings the stronger.——-_We see,
spell, and put them together without a diction.
ary.

Ha, ha! he,hee! eried La Guyol and La Saba-
-tiere, looking close at each other’s prints. Ho,
iho! cried La Battarelle and Maronette, doing the
;same.—Whist! cried one 3—St, st, said a second ;
-—Hush, quotha third 3—Poo, poo, replied a fourth:
-—Gramercy! cried'the Lady Carnavallette—twas

il she who bewhiskered St. Bridget.

La Fosseuse drew her bodkin from the knot of

aer hair, and having traced the outline of a small

‘whisker, with the blunt end of it, upon one side of
)ier upper lip, put it into La Rebours’ hand.—La
:Rebours shook her head.

The Lady Baussiere coughed thrice into the
inside of her muff. La Guyol smiled.——Fie !
isaid the Lady Baussiere. The Queen of Navarre
/ouched her eye with the tip of her fore-finger—
‘us much as to say, I understand you all.

‘Twas plain to the whole court the word was

‘uined: La Fosseuse had given it a wound, and
t was not the better for passing through all
(hese defiles—It made a faint stand, however,
or a few months ; by the expiration of which, the
jieur De Croix, finding it high time to leave
Navarre for want of whiskers—the word in
(ourse became indecent, and (after a few efforts)
bsolutely unfit for use.

The best word, in the best language of the best
vorld, must have suffered under such combinations.

-——The curate of l’Estella wrote a book against
hem, setting forth the dangers of accessory ideas,
(nd warning the Navarrois against them.

Does not all the world know, said the curate of
Estella at the conclusion of his work, that Noses
an the same fate, some centuries ago, in most

tarts of Europe, which whiskers have now done
1 the kingdom of Navarre !—The evil, indeed,
pread no further then; but have not beds and
‘olsters, and night-caps, and chamber-pots, stood
(pon the brink of destruction ever since? Are
ot trouse, and placket-holes, and pump-handles
-and spigots and faucets, in danger still, from the
jame association ?—Chastity, by nature the gentlest

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

89

 

of all affections—give it but its head—'tis like a
ramping and a roaring lion.

The drift of the curate of l’Estella’s argument
was not understood.—They ran the scent the
wrong way.—The world bridled his ass at the
tail—And when the extremes of Delicacy, and the
beginnings of Concupiscence, hold their next pro-
vincial chapter together, they may decree that
bawdy also.

CHAPTER II.

Wuen my father received the letter which
brought him the melancholy account of my brother
Bobby’s death, he was busy calculating the ex-
pense of his riding post from Calais to Paris, and
so on to Lyons.

"Twas a most inauspicious journey ; my father
having had every foot of it to travel over again, and
his calculation to begin afresh, when he had almost
got to the end of it, by Obadiah’s opening the door,
to acquaint him the family was out of yeast—and
to ask whether he might not take the great coach-
horse early in the morning, and ride in search of
some.——With all my heart, Obadiah, said my
father (pursuing his journey) ;—take the coach-
horse, and weleome.——But he wants a shoe, poor
creature! said Obadiah. Poor creature! said
my uncle Toby, vibrating the note back again, like
a string in unison. Then ride the Scotch horse,
quoth my father hastily——He cannot bear a
saddle upon his back, quoth Obadiah, for the whole
world.——The devil’s in that horse; then take
Patriot, eried my father, and shut the door. —_—
Patriot is sold, said Obadiah._—Here’s for you!
cried my father, making a pause, and looking in
my uncle Toby’s face, as if the thing had not been

 

 

 

 

a matter of fact.—— Your worship ordered me to
sell him last April, said Obadiah. Then go.on |

foot, for your pains, cried my father.——I had
much rather walk than ride, said Obadiah, shutting
the door.

What plagues! cried myfather, going on with his
calculation.— But the waters are out, said Obadiah,
— opening the door again.

Till that moment, my father, who had a map of
Sanson’s, and a book of the post-roads before him,
had kept his hand upon the head of his compasses,
with one foot of them fixed upon Nevers, the last
stage he had paid for,—purposing to go on from
that point with his journey and calculation, as
soon as Obadiah quitted the room: but this second
attack of Obadiah’s, in opening the door, and lay-
ing the whole country under water, was too much.
——He let go his compasses,—or rather, with a
mixed motion between accident and anger, he
threw them upon the table: and then there was
nothing for him to do but to return back to Calais
(like many others) as wise as he had set out.

When the letter was brought into the parlour
which contained the news of my brother’s death,
my father had got forwards again upon his journey,
to within a stride of the compasses of the very
same stage of Nevers———By your leave, Mons.
Sanson, cried my father, striking the point of his
compasses through Nevers into the table,—and
nodding to my uncle Toby to see what was in the
letter,—twice in one night is too much for an
English gentleman and his son, Mons. Sanson, to
be turned back from so lousy a town as Nevers.
What think’st thou, Toby? added my father in a
sprightly tone.-—— Unless it be a garrison town,—————— — ee

—— 4 e . - : — =

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sey ee RCS Re 0 ee Re a eT

90 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |
: Ro er ee ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

said my uncle Toby, for then——I shall be a fool, Tullia, I talk with my Tullia. But as soon as he ||4|

said my father, smiling to himself, as long as I | began to look into the stores of philosophy, and |j7

live.___So giving a second nod, and keeping his | consider how many excellent things might be said ||9

compasses still upon Nevers with one hand, and | upon the occasion,—nobody upon earth can con- | i

holding his book of the post-roads in the other— | ceive, says the great orator, how happy, how | ;
|

half-caleulating and half-listening, he leaned for- | joyful it made me.
wards upon the table with both elbows, as my

uncle Toby hummed over the letter.

 

My father was as proud of his eloquence as |
Mareus Tullius Cicero could be, for his life, and,
for aught I am convinced of to the contrary, at
present, with as much reason: it was, indeed, his |
strength,—and his weakness too.—His strength,
for he was by nature eloquent 5 and his weakness,
for he was hourly a dupe to it; and, provided an
who 2—ceried my father. My nephew, said my oceasion in life would but permit him to show his
uncle Toby. What,—without leave,—without | talents, or say either a wise thing, a witty, or a |Eh
money—without governor?! cried my father in | shrewd one—(bating the case of a systematic ||

 

 

——

HI
|

pe Sh a et

 

 

 

—_———-

 

He’s gone! said my uncle Toby.—— Where ?—

 

|
|
oe |
|
|
|

 

 

amazement.——No :—he is dead, my dear brother, | misfortune)—he had all he wanted. A blessing jf)
quoth my uncle Toby. —— Without being ill? | which tied up my father’s tongue, and a misfortune
eried my father again.——I dare say not, said my | which set it loose with a good grace, were pretty

uncle Toby, in a low voice, and fetching a deep | equal: sometimes, indeed, the misfortune was the |
sich from the bottom of his heart !—he has been | better of the two ; for instance, where the pleasure
ill enough, poor lad! Ill answer for him—for he | of the harangue was as fen, and the pain of the
is dead. misfortune but as five,—my father gained half in

When Agrippina was told of her son’s death, | half; and consequently was as well again off as if
Tacitus informs us that, not being able to moderate | it had never befallen him.
the violence of her passions, she abruptly broke This clew will unravel what otherwise would
off her work.——My father stuck his compasses | 5e¢em very inconsistent in my father’s domestic
into Nevers but so much the faster.—What con- | character :—and it is this, that in the provocations
trarieties! his,indeed was matter of calculation! | arising from the neglects and blunders of servants,
Agrippina’s must have been quite a different | or other mishaps, unavoidable in a family, his
affair; who else could pretend to reason from | anger, or rather the duration of it, eternally ran
history ? counter to all conjecture.

How my father went on, in my opinion, de- My father had a favourite little mare, which he
serves a chapter to itself. had consigned over to a most beautiful Arabian
horse, in order to have a pad out of her for his

CHAPTER III. own riding. He was sanguine in all his projects 5
Awnp a chapter it shall have, and | so talked about his pad every day with as absolute
a devil of a one too ;—so look to yourselves. | a security as if it had been reared, broke,—and

‘Tis either Plato, or Plutarch, or Seneca, or pridled and saddled at his door ready for mounting.
Xenophon, or Epictetus, or Theophrastus, or | By some neglect or other in Obadiah, it so fell })
Lucian,—or, some one, perhaps, of later date, | out that my father’s expectations were answered 1}
either Cardan, or Budzeus, or Petrarch, or Stella, | with nothing better than a mule, and as ugly aj)
—or, possibly, it may be some divine or father of | beast of the kind as ever was produced. |
the church; St. Austin, or St. Cyprian, or Bernard, My mother and my uncle Toby expected my |
who affirms, that it is an irresistible and natural | father would be the death of Obadiah, and that)
passion to weep for the loss of our friends or | there would never be an end of the disaster.—
children ;—and Seneca (I’m positive) tells us See here! you rascal, cried my father, pointing to) |

 

 

|

 

 

 

 

 

 

somewhere that such griefs evacuate themselves the mule, what you have done 1——I+t was not Tg}
best by that particular channel : and, accordingly, | said Obadiah.-—How do I know that? replied}}
we find that David wept for his son Absalom, | my father. |
Adrian for his Antinous, Niobe for her children, | Triumph swam in my father’s eyes, at the |
and that Apollodorus and Crito both shed tears | repartee,—the Attic salt brought water into them } f
for Socrates before his death. | —and so Obadiah heard no more about it. |

2
and indeed differently from most men, either Philosophy has a fine saying for everything.— }
ancient or modern ; for he neither wept it away, For Death, it has an entire set: the misery was, E
as the Hebrews and the Romans,—nor slept it | they all at once rushed so into my father’s head
off, as the Laplanders,—nor hanged it, as the | that ’twas difficult to string them together, so as
dnglish,—nor drowned it, as the Germans ;—nor | to make anything of a consistent show out of |
did he curse it, or damn it, or excommunicate | them.—He took them as they came.

My father managed his affliction otherwise ;| Now let us go back to my brother’s death.
| £ ; j
|
|

 

| it, or rhyme it, or lillibullero it. “ Tis an inevitable chance, the first statute |
| —He got rid of it, however. in Magna Charta ;—it is an everlasting act of /
| <eWall) your worships give me leave to squeeze parliament, my dear brother,—All must die.
| in a story between these two pages ? « If my son could not have died, it had been |
| When Tully was bereft of his dear daughter | matter of wonder ;—not that he is dead.
| Tullia, at first he laid it to his heart,—he listened “ Monarchs and princes dance in the same ring }

to the voice of nature, and modulated his own | with us.

unto it.—O, my Tullia! my daughter ! my child! “ To die is the great debt and tribute due unto)

—Still, still, still,—it was, O, my Tullia !—my | nature: tombs and monuments, which should}
Tullia! Methinks I see my Tullia, I hear my | perpetuate our memories, pay it themselves ; and)THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 91

 

otlihe proudest pyramid of them all, which Wealth
jund Science have erected, has lost its apex, and
isistands obtruncated in the traveller’s horizon.”
———(My father found he got great ease, and
jvent on.)—“ Kinedoms and provinces, and towns
valid cities, have they not their periods? and when
hose principles and powers which at first cemented
oa@ind put them together have performed their
‘sseveral evolutions, they fall backs’ Brother
i 3handy, said my uncle Toby, laying down his
qiipe at the word evolutions,——Reyvolutions, I
‘neant, quoth my father—by Heaven! I meant
jevolutions, brother Toby ;—evolutions is nonsense.

—'Tis not nonsense,—said my uncle Popy =

u! 3ut is it not nonsense to break the thread of such

, discourse upon such an occasion? eried my
sjather ;—do not, dear Toby, continued he, taking
aiuim by the hand, do not—do not, I beseech thee,
juterrupt me at this crisis.——My uncle Toby
ijyut his pipe into his mouth.

“ Where is Troy and Mycenz, and Thebes and
Jelos, and Persepolis and Agrigentum?” conti-
jiued my father, taking up his book of post-roads,
‘vhich he had laid down.—“* What is become,
» rother Toby, of Nineveh and Babylon, of Cyzicum
‘nd Mitylenze? the fairest towns that ever the
}un rose upon are now no more ; the names only
ire left ; and those (for many of them are wrong
(pelt) are falling themselves by piece-meal to
secay, and, in length of time will be forgotten,
(nd involved with everything in a perpetual night.
‘he world itself, brother Toby, must—must come

an end.

“ Returning out of Asia, when I sailed from
sEgina towards Megara,” (when can this have

een, thought my uncle Toby,) “ I began to view
y1e country round about.— A%gina was behind me,
ilegara was before, Pyrzeus on the right hand,
(orinth on the left.—What flourishing towns,
ow prostrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! said I
» myself, that man should disturb his soul for
sie loss of a child, when so much as this lies
)vfully buried in his presence !__ Remember, said

( to myself again,— remember thou art a man.”
“ Now, my uncle Toby knew not that this last
‘fwagraph was an extract of Servius Sulpicius’s
mnsolatory letter to Tully :—he had as little skill,
(mest man, in the fragments as he had in the
lothole pieces of antiquity :—and as my father,
hilst he was concerned in the Turkey trade, had
+en three or four different times in the Levant,
one of which he had stayed a whole year and
half at Zante, my uncle Toby naturally con-
»aded that, in some one of these periods, he had
ken a trip across the Archipelago into Asia ;
‘.d that all this sailing affair, with gina behind,
(d Megara before, and Pyrzeus on the right
oe nd, &c. &¢., was nothing more than the true course
my father’s voyage and reflections.—’T was
rtainly in his manner ;—and many an under-
“<ing critic would have built two stories higher
“(on worse foundations.——And pray, brother,
(oth my uncle Toby, laying the end of his pipe
a(on my father’s hand, im a kindly way of inter-
(ption—but waiting till he finished the account,
(What year of our Lord was this ? "Twas no
ar of our Lord, replied my father.——That’s
(possible, cried my uncle Toby.——Simpleton !
'd my father,—’twas forty years before Christ

is born.

 

 

 

 

 

ent eens dia a ge oka

 

My uncle Toby had but two things for it;
either to suppose his brother to be the Wandering
Jew,——or that his misfortunes had disordered
his brain——“ May the Lord God of heaven and
earth protect and restore him,” said my uncle
Toby, praying silently for my father, and with
tears in his eyes.

My father placed the tears to a proper account,
and went on with his harangue with great
spirit.

“There is not such great odds, brother Toby,
betwixt good and eyil, as the world imagines.”
(This way of setting off, by the bye, was not
likely to cure my uncle Toby’s suspicions. )
“ Labour, sorrow, grief, sickness, want, and woe,
are the sauces of life.”——Much good may it do
them,—said my uncle Toby to himself.

“ My son is dead !—so much the better ;—’tis a
shame, in such a tempest, to have but one anchor.

“ But he is gone for ever from us! be it so.—
He is got from under the hands of his barber
before he was bald ;—he is but risen from a feast
before he was surfeited ;—from a banquet before
he had got drunken.

“ The Thracians wept when a child was born,”
——(And we were very near it, quoth my uncle
Toby)—— “ and feasted and made merry when a
man went out of the world; and with reason—
Death opens the gate of Fame, and,shuts the gate
of Envy after it ;—it unlooses the chain of the
captive, — and puts the bondsman’s task into
another man’s hands.

“ Show me the man, who knows what life 1S,
who dreads it,—and I’ll show thee a prisoner
who dreads his liberty.” ——

Is it not better, my dear brother Toby—(for
mark—our appetites are but diseases)—is it not
better not to hunger at all, than to eat ?——not
to thirst,—than to take physic to cure it 2

Is it not better to be freed from cares and
agues,— from love and melancholy, —and the
other hot and cold fits of life, than, like a galled
traveller who comes weary to his inn, to be bound
to begin his journey afresh 2

There is no terror, brother Toby, in its looks
but what it borrows from groans and convulsions
—and the blowing of noses and the wiping away
of tears with the bottoms of curtains in a dying
man’s room.—Strip it of these,—What is it 2—-—
‘Tis better in battle than in bed, said my uncle
Toby.—Take away its hearses, its mutes, and its
mourning, its plumes, escutcheons, and other
mechanic aids—What is it? Better in battle !
continued my father, smiling ; for he had abso-
lutely forgot my brother Bobby—it is terrible no
way—tor consider, brother Toby,—when we are
—death is not ;——and when death is—we are
not. My uncle Toby laid down his pipe, to
consider the proposition ; my father’s eloquence
was too rapid to stay for any man ;—away it went
and hurried my uncle Toby’s ideas along with it.—

For this reason, continued my father, ’tis
worthy to recollect how little alteration, in great
men, the approaches of death have made— Ves-
pasian died in a jest upon his close-stool—Galba
with a sentence ;—Septimus Severus in a despatch 3
—Tiberius in dissimulation ;—and Ceesar Augustus
in a compliment. I hope, ’twas a sincere one,
—quoth my uncle Toby—

*T'was to his wife,—said my father,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sie Sime ee

oo tet

pape

paces

ot| 92 THE LIFE AND

OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

CHAPTER IV.
Anp lastly—for of all the choice anecdotes
which history can produce of this matter, con-
tinued my father,—this, like the gilded dome
which covers in the fabric, crowns all.—
’Tis of Cornelius Gallus, the preetor,—which, I

 

dare say, brother Toby, you have read.——I dare
say I have not, replied my uncle-——He died,
said my father, as ® * es n .

—aAnd if it was with his wife, said my uncle

Ae ;

Toby—there could be no hurt in it. That’s
more than I know, replied my father.

 

 

CHAPTER VY.

My mother was going very gingerly in the
dark, along the passage which led to the parlour,
as my uncle Toby pronounced the word wife-——
"Tis a shrill penetrating sound of itself, and
Obadiah had helped it, by leaving the door a little
ajar, so that my mother heard enough of it to
imagine herself the subject of the conversation :
so, laying the edge of her finger across her two
lips, holding in her breath, and bending her head
a little downwards, with a twist of her neck—(not
towards the door, but from it, by which means
her ear was brought to the chink)—she listened
with all her powers :——+the Listening Slave, with
the Goddess of Silence at his back, could not have
given a finer thought for an intaglio.

In this attitude, I am determined to let her
stand for five minutes, till I bring up the affairs
of the kitchen (as Rapin does those of the church)
to the same period.

CHAPTER VI.

THOUGH, in one sense, our family was certainly
a simple machine, as it consisted of a few wheels ;
yet there was thus much to be said for it, that
these wheels were set in motion by so many
different springs, and acted one upon the other
from such a variety of strange principles and
impulses—that, though it was a simple machine,
it had all the honour and advantages of a complex
one—and a number of as odd movements within
it as ever were beheld in the inside of a Dutch
silk-mill.

Amongst these there was one, I am going to
speak of, in which, perhaps, it was not altogether
so singular as in many others; and it was this,
that whatever motion, debate, harangue, dialogue,
project, or dissertation, was going forward in the
parlour, there was generally another, at the same
time, and upon the same subject, running parallel
along with it in the kitchen.

Now, to bring this about, whenever an extra-
ordinary message or letter was delivered in the
parlour—or a discourse suspended till a servant
went out—or the lines of discontent were observed
to hang upon the brows of my father or mother—
or, in short, when anything was supposed to be
upon the tapis worth knowing or listening to,
it was the rule to leave the door, not absolutely
shut, but somewhat ajar—as it stands just now ;
which, under covert of the bad hinge (and that
possibly might be one of the many reasons why it
was never mended) it was not difficult to manage ;
by which means, in all these cases, a passage was
generally left, not indeed so wide as the Darda-

 

 

 

Nelles, but wide enough, for all that, to carry on as
much of this windward trade as was sufficient to
save mv father the trouble of governing his house:
——my mother at this moment stands profiting
by it.——Obadiah did the same thing as soon as
he had left the letter upon the table which
brought the news of my brother’s death ; so that
before my father had well got over his surprise,
and entered ypon his harangue—had Trim got
upon his legs, to speak his sentiments upon the
subject.

A curious observer of nature, had he been
worth the inventory of all Job’s stock—though,
by the bye, your curious observers are seldom
worth a groat—would have given the half of it
to have heard Corporal Trim and my father, two
orators so contrasted by nature and education,
haranguing over the same bier.

My father,—a man of deep reading—prompt
memory,—with Cato, and Seneca, and Epictetus,
at his fingers’ ends : ——

The Corporal—with nothing—to remember ;—
of no deeper reading than his muster-roll,—or
greater names at his fingers’ ends than the con-
tents of it.

The one proceeding from period to period, by
metaphor and allusion, and striking the fancy as
he went along (as men of wit and fancy do), with
the entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures
and images.

The other, without wit, or antithesis, or point,
or turn, this way or that ; but leaving the images
on one side, and the pictures on the other, going
straight forwards, as nature could lead him, to
the heart. O Trim ! would to Heaven thou hadst
a better historian !—Would thy historian had a
better pair of breeches ! O ye critics! will
nothing melt you ?

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

My young master in London is dead ! said
Obadiah.
A green satin night-gown of my mother’s,
which had been twice scoured, was the first idea
which Obadiah’s exclamation brought into Susan-
nah’s head. Well might Locke write a chapter
upon the imperfections of words. Then, quoth
Susannah, we must all go into mourning. But
note a second time: the word mourning, notwith-
standing Susannah made use of it herself,—failed
also of doing its office ; it excited not one single
idea, tinged either with grey or black,—all was
green.—The green satin night-gown hung there
still_—_—

—— Oh! ’twill be the death of my poor mistress,

 

 

 

 

 

 

cried Susannah.— My mother’s whole wardrobe :

followed.—What a procession! her red damask,
—her orange-tawny,—her white and yellow lute
strings,—her brown taffeta,—her bone-laced caps,
her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.
Not a rag was left behind No—she will
never look up again!” said Susannah.

 

We had a fat foolish scullion ;—my father, 1:

think, kept her for her simplicity ;—she had been
all autumn struggling with a dropsy.——He is
dead! said Obadiah ;—he is certainly dead !
So am not I, said the foolish scullion.

—Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah,
wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen,
—master Bobby is dead and buried—the funeral

 

 

 

 

Ske arRNR SINT

 

 

 

Ss

  

 

eee ASIR Meee tnt>

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE

Was an interpolation of Susannah’s — we shall
* aave all to go into mourning, said Susannah.
I hope not, said Trim.—__ You hope not ! eried
ui 5usannah earnestly——The mourning ran not in
,Crim’s head, whatever it did in Susannah’s. I
(o)lope,—said Trim, explaining himself,—I hope in
jx0d the news is not true. I heard the letter
gead with my own ears, answered Obadiah ; and
ive shall have a terrible piece of ,work of it in
mitubbing the Ox-moor. Oh! he’s dead, said
Susannah. As sure, said the scullion, as I’m
i ilive.

I lament for him from my heart and my soul,
aid Trim, fetching a sigh.—Poor creature |
oor boy !—poor gentleman !

He was alive last Whitsuntide! said the
« oachman.——Whitsuntide !—alas! cried Trim,
i xtending his right arm, and falling instantly into
oi he same attitude in which he read the sermon,—
dvhat is Whitsuntide, Jonathan (for that was the
(oachman’s name), or Shrovetide, or any tide or
mime past, to this! Are we not here now, con-
jinued the Corporal (striking the end of his stick
“ erpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an
jlea of health and stability) ;—and are we not
-—)dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! ina
o1oment !—’T'was infinitely striking! Susannah
furst into a flood of tears—We are not stoeks
4nd stones. Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid,
jl melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who
44'as scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was
if used with it—The whole kitchen crowded about
die Corporal.
Now, as I perceive plainly that the preservation
our constitution in church and state, and,
“a )ssibly, the preservation of the whole world,—
‘, What is the same thing, the distribution and
lulance of its property and power, may in time
come depend greatly upon the richt understand-
|g of this stroke of the Corporal’s eloquence,—I
» demand your attention :—your worships and
'verences, for any ten pages together, take
“jem where you will in any other part of the
iork, shall sleep for it at your ease.
| I said, “ We are not stocks and stones :”—’tis
ry well. I should have added, nor are we
jigels,—I wish we were ;—but men clothed with
I dies, and governed by our imaginations :—and
sat a junketing piece of work of it there is
/twixt these and our seven senses, especially
eme of them ; for my own part, I own it, I am
shamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm that,
; all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny
2 touch, tho’ most of your Barbati, I know, are
*it) has the quickest commerce with the soul,
i gives ‘a smarter stroke, and leaves something
Ire inexpressible upon the fancy than words
on either convey,—or sometimes get rid of.
-—lI’ve gone a little about ;—no matter, ’tis for
salth,—let us only carry it back in our mind, to
2. mortality of Trim’s hat—“ Are we not here
jw,—and gone in a moment?’’?—-There was
‘ulthing in the sentence ;—’twas one of your self-
(ident truths we have the advantage of hearing
t2ry day; and if Trim had not trusted more to
‘i hat than his head,—he had made nothing at
‘¢ of it.
-—— Are we not here now?” continued the
qrporal, “ and are we not”’ dropping his hat
‘cmp upon the ground,—and pausing, before he

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>

 

 

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

| pronounced the word—* gone! in a moment?”
| The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump
| of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.
| Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of
| mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner,
| like it ;—his hand seemed to vanish from under
| it;—it fell dead ;—the Corporal’s eye fixed upon
| it as upon a corpse ;

| flood of tears.

| Now,—ten thousand, and ten thousand times
ten thousand (for matter and motion are infinite)
are the ways by which a hat may be dropped
upon the ground without any effect.—Had he
flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or
squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any possible
direction under heaven,—or in the best direction
| that could be given to it :—had he dropped it like
a goose,—like a puppy,—like an ass s—or in
doing it, or even after he had done it, had he
looked like a fool,—like a ninny,—like a nincom-
poop,—it had failed, and the effect upon the heart
| had been lost.

Ye who govern this mighty world and _ its
mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence ;
| —who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and
mollify it,—and then harden it again to your
purpose ;

Ye who wind and turn the passions with this
great windlass; and having done it, lead the
owners of them whither ye think meet ;——

Ye, lastly who drive——; and why not? Ye
also who are driven, like turkeys to market, with
a stick and a red clout,—meditate,—meditate, I
beseech you, upon Trim’s hat.

and Susannah burst into a

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

Stay,—I have a small account to settle with the
reader before Trim can go on with his harangue.
| —It shall be done in two minutes.

Amongst many other book-debts, all of which I
shall discharge in due time, I own myself a debtor
to the world for two items,—a chapter upon
chamber-maids and button-holes ; which, in the
former part of my work, I promised and fully
intended to pay off this year; but some of your
worships and reverences telling me that the two
subjects, especially so connected together, might
endanger the morals of the world,—I_ pray the
chapter upon chamber-maids and button-holes may
be forgiven me, and that they will accept of the
| last chapter in lieu of it ; which is nothing, an’t

Oo
please your reverences, but a chapter of chamber-
| maids, green gowns, and old hats.
| Trim took his hat off the ground,—put_ it upon
| his head,—and then went on with his oration upon
| death, in the manner and form following :—

 

To us, Jonathan, who know not what
want or care is ;—who live here in the service of
two of the best of masters—(bating, in my own
case, his Majesty King William the Third, whom
I had the honour to serve both in Ireland and
Flanders)—I own it ; that from Whitsuntide to
within three weeks of Christmas,—'tis not long,—
‘tis like nothing ;—but to those, Jonathan, who

| know what death is, and what havoc and destruc-

tion he can make before a man can well wheel about,
| —'tis like a whole age,—O Jonathan !—’twould

CHAPTER IX.
|
|

 

 

 

 

93

|

|

|

posweet

Regt ee

ae

eh SSS ESS

 

| 94

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

make a good-natured man’s heart bleed to consider,
continued the Corporal (standing perpendicularly),
how low many a brave and upright fellow has
been laid since that time !—And trust me, Susy,
added the Corporal, turning to Susannah, whose
eyes were swimming in water,—before that time
comes round again,—many a bright eye will be
dim.——Susannah placed it to the right side of the
page ;—she wept,—but she court’sied too.—Are
we not, continued Trim, looking still at Susannah,
are we not like a flower of the field ?——-A tear
of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humili-
ation,—else no tongue could have described Susan-
nah’s affliction.——lIs not all flesh grass ?—’Tis
clay,—tis dirt——They all looked directly at the
scullion ;—the scullion had just been scouring a
fish-kettle.—It was not fair.—

—What is the finest face that ever man looked
at !__—I could hear Trim talk so for ever, cried
Susannah,——what is it !—(Susannah laid her
hand upon Trim’s shoulder) —but corruption !——
Susannah took it off.

—Now I love you for this;—and “tis this
delicious mixture within you which makes you
dear creatures what you are: and he who hates
you for it all I can say of the matter is,—that
he has either a pumpkin for his head,—or a pip-
pin for his heart ;—and whenever he is dissected
’twill be found so.

 

CHAPTER X.

Wuetapr Susannah, by taking her hand too
suddenly from off the Corporal’s shoulder—(by
the whisking about of her passions)— broke a
little the chain of his reflections ;—

Or whether the Corporal began to be suspicious
he had got into the Doctor’s quarters, and was
talking more like the chaplain than himself ;

Or whether, - - - - - -

Or whether,—for in all such cases a man of
invention and parts may, with pleasure, fill a couple
of pages with suppositions,—which of all these
was the cause, let the curious physiologist, or the
curious anybody, determine,—'tis certain, at least,
the Corporal went on thus with his harangue :—

For my own part, I declare it, that, out of doors,
{ value not death at all :-—not this... added the
Corporal, snapping his fingers,—but with an air
which no one but the Corporal could have given
to the sentiment.—In battle, I value death not
this. ..and let him not take me cowardly, like
poor Joe Gibbons, in scouring his gun.—What is
he? A pull of a trigger ;—a push of a bayonet
an inch this way or that,—makes the difference.
—Look along the line to the right,—see ! Jack’s
down! Well,—’tis worth a regiment of horse to
him.—No ;—’tis Dick.—Then Jack’s no worse.—
Never mind which ;—we pass on,—in hot pursuit :
the wound itself which brings him is not felt,—the
best way is to stand up to him ; the man who flies
is in ten times more danger than the man who
marches up into his jaws ;—I’ve looked him, added
the Corporal, a hundred times in the face,—and
know what he is.—He’s nothing, Obadiah, at all
in the field. But he’s very frightful in a house,
quoth Obadiah. I never minded it myself, said
Jonathan, upon a coach-box. It must, in my
opinion, be most natural in bed, replied Susannah.
—And could I escape him by creeping into the
worst calf’s skin that ever was made intoa knapsack,
I would do it there, said Trim ;—but that is nature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nature is nature, said Jonathan. And
that is the reason, cried Susannah, I so much pity
my mistress———She will never get the better of
it—_—Now I pity the captain the most of any one
in the family, answered Trim.—Madam will get
ease of heart in weeping—and the Squire in talk-
ing about it—but my poor master will keep it all
in silence to himself.—lI shall hear him sigh in his
bed for a whole month together, as he did for
Lieutenant Le Fevre. An’ please your honour,
do not sigh so piteously, I would say to him, as I
lay beside him.—I cannot help it, Trim, my master
would say ;—’tis so melancholy an accident—I
cannot get it off my heart. Your honour fears
not death yourself. T hope, Trim, I fear nothing,
he would say, but the doing a wrong thing.— Well,
he would add, whatever betides, I will take care
of Le Fevre’s boy.—And with that, like a quieting
draught, his honour would fall asleep.

I like to hear Trim’s stories about the Captain,
said Susannah. He is a kindly-hearted gentle-
man, said Obadiah, as ever lived. Ay, and as
brave a one too, said the Corporal, as ever stepped
before a platoon.—There never was a better officer
in the King’s army—or a better man in God’s
world ; for he would march up to the mouth of a
cannon, though he saw the lighted match at the
very touch-hole ;—and yet, for all that, he has a
heart as soft as a child for other people :—he
would not hurt a chicken. I would sooner,
quoth Jonathan, drive such a gentleman for seven
pounds a year than some for eight. Thank thee,
Jonathan! for thy twenty shillings—as much,
Jonathan, said the Corporal, shaking him by the
hand, as if thou hadst put the money into my own
pocket.—I would serve him to the day of my death
out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me}
and could I be sure my poor brother Tom was
dead—continued the Corporal, taking out his
handkerchief—was I worth ten thousand pounds,
I would leave every shilling of it to the Captain.
—Trim could not refrain from tears at this testa-
mentary proof he gave of his affection to his
master.—The whole kitchen was affected. Do
tell us the story of the poor Lieutenant, said
Susannah. With all my heart, answered the
Corporal.

Susannah, the cook, Jonathan, Obadiah, and
Corporal Trim, formed a circle about the fire $
and as soon as the scullion had shut the kitchen
door—the corporal began.—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

I am a Turk if I had not as much forgot my
mother as if Nature had plastered me up, and set
me down naked upon the banks of the river Nile
without one.— Your most obedient servant, madam
—I’ve cost you a great deal of trouble,—I wish it
may answer ;—but you have left a crack in my
back ;—and here’s a great piece fallen off here
before :—and what must I do with this foot ?—l
shall never reach England with it.

For my own part, I never wonder at anything $
and so often has my judgment deceived me in my
lite that I always suspect it, right or wrong ;—at
least, 1 am seldom hot upon cold subjects. For
all this, I reverence truth as much as anybody}
and when it has slipped us, if a man will but take
me by the hand, and go quietly and search for it,
as for a thing we have both lost, and can neither

 

 

 

 

 

——_—_———_———=
eeeSSS —— ————— ——
THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 95

 

9 of us do well without.—I’]] go to the world’s end

" with him.—But I hate disputes—and_ therefore
) (bating religious points, or such as touch society)
{ I would almost subscribe to anything which does
| not choke me in the first passage, rather than be

(h drawn into one.—But I cannot bear suffoeation ;
+—and bad smells worst of all. For which
‘I reasons, I resolved, from the beginning, that if
; ever the army of Martyrs was to be augmented—
¢ or a new one raised—I would have no hand in it,
- one way or t’other.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

—Bort to return to my mother.

My uncle Toby’s opinion, madam, “ That there
‘could be no harm in Cornelius Gallus, the Roman
(preetor’s lying with his wife ;”—or rather the last
/word of that opinion—(for it was all my mother
(heard of it) caught hold of her by the weak part
‘of the whole sex :—you shall not mistake me,—I

efmean her curiosity ;—she instantly concluded
herself the subject of the conversation, and, with
(l that prepossession upon her fancy, you will readily
) 2onceive every word my father said was accommo-
‘lated either to herself or her family-concerns.

—Pray, madam, in what street does the lady
juve who would not have done the same 2

From the strange mode of Cornelius’s death,
‘¢ ny father had made a transition to that of Socrates,
(ind was giving my uncle Toby an abstract of his
)leading before his judges ;—’twas irresistible :—
o10t the oration of Socrates—but my father’s

 

‘gemptation to it—He had wrote the * Life of

o/3ocrates himself the year before he left off trade .
divhich, I fear, was the means of hastening him out
if it ;—so that no one was able to set out with so
gull a sail, and in so swelling a tide of heroic
(oftiness upon the occasion, as my father was. Not
. period in Socrates’s oration which closed with a
of horter word than transmigration, or annihilation,
+—or a worse thought in the middle of it than fo
<'e;—or not to be,—the entering upon a new and
jintried state of things—or upon a long, a profound
ug nd peaceful sleep, without dr 2ams, without dis-
jurbance !— That we and our children were born
9 die—but neither of us born to be slaves.—No,
jhere I mistake ; that was part of Eleazer’s oration,
is recorded by Josephus, (de Bell. Judaic. )—
[ileazer owns he had it from the philosophers of
bindia. In all likelihood Alexander the Great, in
2is irruption into India, after he had overrun
<'ersia, amongst the many things he stole—stole
s1atsentiment also ; by which means it was carried,
{ not all the way by himself (for we all know he
sted at Babylon), at least by some of his marauders,
ito Greece,—from Greece it got to Rome,—from
come to France, and from France to England.—
19 things come round :—
‘| By land-carriage ; I can conceive no other
jay.—
. By water, the sentiment might easily have come
fywn the Ganges into the Sinus Gangeticus, or
jay of Bengal, and so into the Indian sea ; and,
| lowing the course of trade (the way from India
7 the Cape of Good Hope being then unknown),
ight be carried, with other drugs and spices, up
ee ee ee

 

 

* This book my father would never consent to publish ;

3 in manuscript, with some other tracts of his, in the
fnily; all, or most of which, will be printed in due
ne,

 

 

the Red Sea to Joddah, the port of Mecea, or else
to Tor, or Suez, towns at the bottom of the Gulf ;
and from thence by caravans to Coptos, but three
days’ journey distant, so down the Nile directly to
Alexandria, where the sentiment would be landed
at the very foot of the great staircase of the Alex-
andrian library ;—and from that storehouse it
would be fetched.—Bless me! what a trade was
driven by the learned in those days.

CHAPTER XIII.

Now my father had a way a little like that of
Job’s (in case there ever was such a man)—if not
there’s an end of the matter.

Though, by the bye, because your learned men
find some difficulty in fixing the precise era in
which so great a man lived ;—Wwhether, for instance,
before or after the patriarchs, &e.—to vote, there-
fore, that he never lived at all is a little cruel —
‘tis not doing as they would be done by.—Hap-
pen that as it may,—my father, I say, had a way,
when things went extremely wrong with him, espe-
cially upon the first sally of his impatience—of
wondering why he was begot ;—wishing himself
dead ;—sometimes worse :—and when the provo-
vation ran high, and grief touched his lips with
more than ordinary powers—Sir, you scarce could
have distinguished him from Socrates himself,—
Every word would breathe the sentiments of a soul
disdaining life, and careless about all its ISSUES 5
for which reason, though my mother was a woman
of no deep reading, yet the abstract of Socrates’s
oration, which my father was giving my uncle
Toby, was not altogether new to her.— She listened
to it with composed intelligence, and would have
done so to the end of the chapter, had not my
father plunged (which he had no oceasion to have
done) into that part of the pleading where the
great philosopher reckons up his connexions, his
allianees, and children ; but renounces a security
to be so won, by working upon the passions of his
judges.—“ T have friends,—I have relations,—I
have three desolate children,”—says Socrates.—
Then, cried my mother, opening the door,
—you have one more, Mr. Shandy, than I know of.
By Heaven! I have one Jess,—said my
father, getting up and walking out of the room.

2

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

Try are Socrates’s children, said my uncle
Toby. He has been dead a hundred years ago,
replied my mother.

My uncle Toby was no chronologer ;—so not
caring to advance one step but upon safe ground,
he laid down his pipe deliberately upon the table,
and rising up, and taking my mother most kindly
by the hand, without saying another word, either
good or bad, to her, he led her out after my father,
that he might finish the éclaircissement himself.

 

CHAPTER XV.

Hap this volume been a farce, which, unless
every one’s Life and Opinions are to be looked
upon as a farce as well as mine, I see no reason
to suppose—the last chapter, sir, had finished the
first act of it; and then this chapter must have
set off thus :—

Ptr..r..r..ing, — twing, — twang, — prut,—trut 3

 

 

 

—'tis a cursed bad fiddle—Do you know whether
my fiddle’s in tune or no ‘—trut..prut.—They

 

= —

 

SS ee eee i

 

SS

\
P|ee TT

 

 

 

 

 

THE

96

should be fifths.—’Tis wickedly strung,—tr. . a.e.1.
0.u.—twang.—The bridge is a mile too high, and
the sound-post absolutely down,—else,—trut. . prut.
—-Hark ! ’tis not so bad a tone.—Diddle diddle,
diddle diddle, diddle diddle, dum. There is nothing
in playing before good judges ;—but there’s a man
there,—no,—nothim with the bundle under his arm,
—the grave man in black.—’Sdeath! not the
gentleman with the sword on.—sir, I had rather
play a capriccio to Calliope herself, than draw my
bow across my fiddle before that very man ; and
yet I’ll stake my Cremona to aJ ew’s trump, which
is the greatest musical odds that ever were laid,
that I will this moment stop three hundred and
fifty leagues out of tune upon my fiddle without
punishing one single nerve that belongs to him.—
Twaddle diddle,—tweddle diddle—twiddle diddle,
—+twoddle diddle,—twuddle diddle ;—prut-trut,—
krish,—krash,—krush.—V’ve undone you, sir,—
but you see he’s no worse 5 and was Apollo to
take his fiddle after me, he can make him no better.

Diddle diddle, diddle diddle, diddle diddle,—
hum,—dum,—drum.

—Your worships and your reverences love
music,—and God has made you all with good ears,
and some of you play delightfully yourselves ;—
trut-prut,—prut-trut.

QO! there is—whom I could sit and hear whole
days,—whose talents lie in making what he fiddles
to be felt ; who inspires me with his joys and hopes,
and puts the most hidden springs of my heart into
motion,—If you would borrow five guineas of me,
sir,—which is generally ten guineas more than I
have to spare,—or you, Messrs. Apothecary and
Tailor, want your bills paying,—that’s your time.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI.

Tux first thing which entered my father’s head,
after affairs were a little settled in the family, and
Susannah had got possession of my mother’s green
satin night-gown,—was to sit down coolly, after
the example of Xenophon, and write a T'ristra-
pedia, or system of education for me : collecting
first for that purpose his own scattered thoughts,
counsels, and notions ; and binding them together
so as to form an INSTITUTE for the government of
my childhood and adolescence.—I was my father’s
last stake,—he had lost my brother Bobby entirely,
—he had lost, by his own computation, full three
fourths of me,—that is, he had been unfortunate
in his three first great casts forme :—my geniture,
nose, and name :—there was but this one left ; and
accordingly my father gave himself up to it with
as much devotion as ever my uncle Toby had done
to his doctrine of projectiles—The difference
between them was, that my uncle Toby drew his
whole knowledge of projectiles from Nicholas Tar-
taglia ;—my father spun his every thread of it out
of his own brain,—or had so reeled and cross-
twisted what all other spinners and spinsters had
spun before him, that ‘twas pretty near the same
torture to him.

In about three years, or something more, my
father had got advanced almost into the middle of
his work.—Like all other writers, he met with dis-
appointments.—He imagined he should be able to
bring whatever he had to say into so small a com-
pass that, when it was finished and bound, it might
be rolled up in my mother’s housewife Matter

 

LIFE AND OPINIONS

|

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

grows under our hands.—Let no man say,—
“ Come,—I’ll write a duodecimo.”

My father gave himself up to it, however, with
the most painful diligence, proceeding step by step
in every line with the same kind of caution and
circumspection (though I cannot say upon quite
so religious a principle) as was used by John de la
Casse, the lord archbishop of Benevento, in _com-
passing his Galatea ; in which his Grace of Bene-
vento spent near forty years of his life ; and when
the thing came out, it was not of above half the
size or the thickness of a Rider’s Almanack. How
the holy man managed the affair, unless he spent
the greatest part of his time in combing his whis-
kers, or playing at primero with his chaplain,—
would pose any mortal not let into the true secret
__and therefore, ’tis worth explaining to the world,
was it only for the encouragement of those few in
it who write, not so much to be fed—as to be
famous.

I own, had John de la Casse, the archbishop of

Senevento, for whose memory (notwithstanding
his Galatea) I retain the highest veneration,—had
he been, sir, a slender clerk, of dull wit,—slow
parts,—costive head, and so forth,—he and his
Galatea might have jogged on together to the age
of Methuselah for me ;—the phenomenon had _not
been worth a parenthesis. ‘

But the reverse of this was the truth : John de
la Casse was a genius of fine parts and fertile
fancy ; and yet with all these great advantages of
nature, which should have pricked him forwards
with his Galatea, he lay under an impuissance at
the same time, of advancing above a line and a
half in the compass of a whole summer’s day.
This disability in his Grace arose from an opinion
he was afflicted with ;—which opinion was this,—
viz._—that whenever a Christian was writing a
book (not for his private amusement, but) where
his intent and purpose was, bond fide, to print and
publish it to the world,—his first thoughts were
always the temptations of the evil one.—This was
the state of ordinary writers : but when a personage
of venerable character and high station, either in
church or state, once turned author,—he main-
tained that, from the verv moment he took pen in
hand,—all the devils in hell broke out of their
holes to cajole him.—’ T'was term-time with them}
—every thought, first and last, was cé ptious ;—
how specious and good soever—twas all one ;—in
whatever form or colour it presented itself to the
imagination—’twas still a stroke of one or other
of them levelled at him, and was to be fenced off,
—So that the life of a writer, whatever he might
fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of
composition, as a state of warfare ; and his pro-=
bation in it precisely that of any other man militant
upon earth,—both depending alike, not half so

 

 

much upon the degrees of his wit, as his resist- te

ance.

My father was hugely pleased with this theory
of John de la Casse, archbishop of Benevento}
and (had it not cramped him a little in his creed)
I believe would have given ten of the best acres

in the Shandy estate te have been the broacher off

it—How far my father actually believed in the
Devil will be seen when I come to speak of my
father’s religious notions, in the progress of this

work : ’tis enough to say here, as he could not >:

have the honour of it, in the literal sense of. the

 

 

 

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boneee ee
doctrine,—he took up with the allegory of it ; and
would often say, especially when his pen was a
little retrograde, there was as much good meaning,
truth, and knowledge, couched under the veil of
John de la Casse’s parabolical representation—as
was to be found in any one poetic fiction, or
mystic record of antiquity— Prejudice of education,
he would say, is the devil,—and the multitudes of
them which we suck in with our mother’s milk,
are the devil and all.—We are haunted with them,
brother Toby, in all our lucubrations and re-
Searches ; and, was a man fool enough to submit
tamely to what they obtruded upon him—what
would his book be? Nothing ; he would add,
| throwing his pen away witha vengeance ;—nothing
but a farrago of the clack of nurses, and of the

nonsense of the old women (of both sexes) through-
‘ out the kingdom.

This is the best account I am determined to
give of the slow progress my father made in his
Tristra-pedia ; at which (as I said) he was three
} years, and something more, indefatigably at work,
jand at last, had scarce completed, by his own

 

 

le er

 

+A

‘reckoning, one half of his undertaking : the mis-
) fortune was that I was all that time totally neg-

jlected and abandoned to my mother: and, what
was almost as bad, by the very delay, the first part
tof the work, upon which my father had spent the
¢ most of his pains, was rendered entirely useless ;
-—every day a page or two became of no con-
) sequence,—

Certainly it was ordained as a scourge upon the
(ride of human wisdom, That the wisest of us ail
) hould thus outwit ourselves, and eternally forego
Jyur purposes in the intemperate act of pursuing
(hem.

In short, my father was so long in all his acts
2 f resistance,—or, in other words,—he advanced
(0 very slow with his work, and I began to live
cnd get forwards at such a rate, that, if an event
jad not happened—which, when we get to it, if it
an be told with decency, shall not be concealed a
}10ment from my reader,—I verily believe,’ I had
jut by my father, and left him drawing a sun-dial,
‘for no better purpose than to be buried under-
‘round.

CHAPTER XVII.

—— Twas nothing ;—I did not lose two drops of
}lood by it :—’twas not worth calling in a surgeon,
jad he lived next door to us.—Thousands suffer by
0 hoice what I did by accident.—Doctor Slop made
dn timesmore of itthan there was occasion.__Some
¢ien rise by the art of hanging great weights upon
‘(mall wires :—and I am this day (August the | 0th,
) 761) paying part of the price of this man’s repu-
Gition. O, ’twould provoke a stone to see how
dings are carried on in this world !—The cham-
qormaid had left no **Fre_%* under the bed.—
(annot you contrive, master, quoth Susannah,
(‘ting up the sash with one hand, as she spoke,
j1d helping me up into the window-seat with the
( her,—cannot you manage, my dear, for a single

one, to KKEKEK HHH EH KKK KEKE KK 2

 

I I was five years old.—Susannah did not consider
fat nothing was well hung in our family ; so,
q up came the sash down like lightning upon us.
- —Nothing is left,—cried Susannah,—nothing is
4‘t—for me, but to run my country.—
if My uncle Toby’s house was a much kinder
“netuary ; and so Susannah fled to it.

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

|

|

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

Wuen Susannah told the Corporal the misad-
venture of the sash, with all the circumstances
which attended the murder of me (as she called
it)—the blood forsook his cheeks :—all accessories
in murder being principals,—Trim’s conscience
told him he was as much to blame as Susannah :
—and, if the doctrine had been true, my uncle
Toby had as much of the bloodshed to answer for
to Heaven as either of them; so that neither
reason nor instinct, separate nor together, could
possibly have guided Susannah’s steps to so proper
an asylum.—Itis in vain to leave this to the reader’s
imagination :—to form any kind of hypothesis that
will render these propositions feasible, he must
cudgel his brains sore; and to do it without—he
must have such brains as no reader ever had before
him.—Why should I put them either to trial or to
torture !—’tis my own affair : [’ll explain it myself,

 

CHAPTER XIX.

‘Tis a pity, Trim, said my uncle Toby, resting
with his hand upon the Corporal’s shoulder, as
they both stood surveying their works—that we
have not a couple of field-pieces to mount in the
gorge of that new redoubt : ’twould secure the lines
all along there, and make the attack on that side
quite complete.—Get me a couple cast, Trim,

Your honour shall have them, replied Trim,
before to-morrow morning.

It was the joy of Trim’s heart, nor was his fer-
tile head ever at a loss for expedients in doing it,
to supply my uncle Toby in his campaigns with
whatever his faney called for: had it been his last
crown, he would have sat down and hammered it
into a paderero, to have prevented a single wish
in his master. The Corporal had already,—what
with cutting off the ends of my uncle Toby’s spouts
—hacking and chiselling up the sides of his leaden
gutters, melting down his pewter shaving-
basin; andgoingatlast, like Louis the Fourteenth,
on to the top of the church for spare ends, &c., he
had that very campaign brought no less than eight
new battering cannons, besides three demi-culve-
rins, into the field. My uncle Toby’s demand for two
more pieces for the redoubt had set the Corporal
at work again; and, no better resource offering,
he had taken the two leaden weights from the
hursery-window ; and as the sash-pullies, when the
lead was gone, were of no kind of use, he had taken
them away also, to make a couple of wheels for one
of their carriages.

He had dismantled every sash-window in my

uncle Toby’s house long before, in the very same
way—though not always in the same order; for
sometimes the pullies had been wanted, and not the
lead, so then he began with the pullies ; and the
pullies being picked out, then the lead became
useless ;—and so the lead went to pot too.
A great MoRAL might be picked handsomely
out of this, but I have not time ;—’tis enough to
say, Wherever the demolition began, ’twas equally
fatal to the sash-window.

 

 

CHAPTER XX.

THE Corporal had not taken his measures so
badly in this stroke of artilleryship but that he
might have kept the matter entirely to himself,
and left Susannah to have sustained the whole

H

ST SCS Se ee

 

 

 

 

ele

SR is oe Reman

—

i
|| 98 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

| we eight of theattack asshe could: true courageis not hes ha 2 we drubbed them soundly at Steinkirk, they
| content with coming off so.—The Corporal, whether | would not have fought us at Landen. —Possibly
| as general or comptroller of the train_’twas no | not, Trim, said my uncle Toby ; though, if they
| matter had done that, without which, as he ima- ad the advantage of a wood, or you give them a
|

ge a

S55

 

gined, the misfortune Gould never have happened, | moments time to intrench ferc elyes, they are a
~_at least in Susannah’s hands. How would your | nation which will pop and pop for ever at you.
honours have behaved 2—He determined at once | There is no way but to march coolly up to them,
not to take shelter behind Susannah, but to give it; | rece ive their fire, and fallin upon them, pell-mell 5

epee ae
a So ees

 

| and, with this resolution upon his mind, hemarched | —Ding-dong, ad¢ Jed Trim ;—Horse and foot, said
| uprig ight into the parlour, to lay the whole maneuvre | My uncle Toby ; .—Helter- skelter, said Trim ; a
hetoaa my uncle Toby. Right and left, eried my uncle Toby ;—Blood an’

My uncle Toby had just then been giving ounds! shouted the Corporal -—the battle ra aged 5
Yorick an account of the battle of Steinkirk, and | Yorick drew his chair a little to one side for s afety :
of the strange conduct of Count Solmes, in order- | and, after a moment’s pause, my uncle Toby, sink-
ing the foot to halt and the horse to mar ch where | ing hisvoicea note, resumed the discourseas follows :
it could not act ; which was directly contrary to the
king’s command, and proved the loss of the day.

There are incidents in some families so pat to
the purpose of what is going to follow—they are
scarcely exceeded by the invention of of a dramatic
writer—I mean of ancient days.

Trim, by the help of his fore-finger laid flat
upon the t table, and the edge of his hand striking
across it at right angles, made a shift to tell his
story so that priests and virgins might have
listened to it ;—and the story being told, the dialogue
went on as follows : ;

aa

CHAPTER XXII.

Kine William, said my uncle Toby, addressing
himself to Yorick, was so terribly provoked at
| Count Solmes for disobeying his orders, that he
would not suffer him to come into his presence for
many months after. I fear, answered Yorick,
the Squire will beasmuch prov ‘oked at the C orporal
as the King at the Count. But ’twould be sin-
cularly hard in this case, continue od he, if Corporé al
Trim, “who has behaved so diametric: ally geo
to Count Solmes, should have the fate to be re
warded with the same disgrace :—too often, in thid
world, do things take that train. I would. spring
a mine, cried my uncle Toby rising up, and blow up
my fortific ations, and my House with them, and we
would perish under their ruins, ere I wouldstand by
and see it. Trim directed a slight but a grateful
bow towards his master, and so the chapter ends.

ers

Spee

 

—

aL

ferme,

sects

aati ee

 

 

|
|
La
|

CHAPTER XXI.
| —I woutp be picqueted to death, cried the
Corporal as he concluded Susannah’s story, before
I would suffer the woman to come to any h arm :
’*twas my fault, an’please your honour,—not ee, rs
Corporal Trim, replied my uncle Toby, (putting
on his hat, Rich lay upon the table,) if anything
ean be si aid to bea fe on when the serv ice abso-
lutely requires it shoul | be done, ’tis I certainly
who deserve the blame ; you obe eae your orders.
Had Count Solmes, Trim, done the same at the
battle of Steinkirk, s said Yorick, drolling a little |
upon the Corporal, who had been run over by a
dragoon in the retreat—he had saved thee.
Paced Trim, interrupting Yorick, and Pi oe
the sentence for him after his own fashion,
had saved five battalions, an’ please | your reverence,
every soul of them.—There was Cutts’s—continue d
the Corporal, clapping the fore-finger of his right |
hand upon the thumb of his left, and counting round
his hand—there was Cutts *s— Mackay *s__Angus’s CHAPTER XXIV.
—Graham’s—and Leven’s, all cut to pieces ;—and As many pictures as have been given of my
so had the English life-guards, too, had itnot been | father, how like him soever in different airs and
for some regiments upon the right, who mar che dup | attitudes, not one nor allof them can ever help the
boldly to their relief, and received the enemy’s fire | reader to any kind of preconception of how my }
in their faces, before any one of their own platoons | father would think, speak, or act, upon any untried
discharged a musket. | occasion or occurrence of life. There was that
They'll go to heaven for it, added Trim.—T rim | infinitude of oddities in him, and of chances along
is rl ight, said my uncle Toby, nodding to Yorick ; | with it, by which handle he would take a thing,
he’s ‘perfe etly right—_W hat signified his marching | it baf Hed, sir, all ecaleulations. The truth was, &
the horse, continued the Corpora il, where the | his road la y so very far on one side from that }
ground was so strait, that the F bang had such a | whereinmostmentray elled, that every object before }
nation of hedges, and copses, and ditches, and | him presented a face and section of itself, to his fc
felled trees laid this way and that, to cover them | eye, altogether different from the plan ¢ and eleva- &
(as they always have). Count Solmes should have | tion of it seen by the rest of mankind. In other
sent us; we would have fired muzzle to muzzle | words, ’twas a different object, and, in course, was &y
with them for their lives. There was nothing to different ly considered.
be done for the horse :—he had his foot shot off, This is the true reason that my dear Jenny and{
however, for his pains, continued the Corporal, the | I, as well as all the world besides us, have sueh §
very next campaign, at Landen.—Poor Trim gothis | eternal squabbles about nothing. She looks at her >
Ww ound there, quoth my uncle Toby.—’Twas owing, | outside ;—1, at her in—. How is it possible we #

an’ please your honour, entirely to Count Solmes Z should agree about her value ?

 

CHAPTER ‘XXIII.

—TneEn, Yorick, replied my uncle Toby, you

and I will lead the way abreast :—and do you,
Corporal, sdlow: a few paces behind us.—And
Susannah, an’ please your honour, said Trim,
shall be put in the rear. ”T'was an excellent dis-
| position; and in this order, without either drums
beating, or colours flying, they marched slowly
| from my uncle Toby’s house to Shandy-hall.
e | —___J wish, said Trim, as they entered the door,
instead of the sash-weights, [ had cut off the
church-spout, as I once thought to have done.—=
You have cut off spouts enow, replied Yorick.

       

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

rem

ran wt OCD eee

|
| no digression.
|

CHAPTER XXVI.

 

CHAPTER XXYV.

‘Tis a point settled, and I mention it for the
comfort of Confucius,* who is apt to get en-
tangled in telling a plain story, that, provided he
keeps along the line of his story, he may go back-
wards and forwards as he will, ’tis still held to be

This being premised, I take the benefit of the
act of going backwards myself.

Firty thousand pannier-loads of devils (not of
the Archbishop of Benevento’s,—I mean of Rabe-
lais’s devils) with their tails chopped off by their
rumps, could not have made so diabolical a seream
of it as I did—when the accident befel me :—it
summoned up my mother instantly into the nursery ;
so that Susannah had but just time to make her
escape down the back stairs, as my mother came
up the fore.

Now, though I was old enough to have told the
story myself,—and young enough, I hope, to have
done it without malignity,—yet Susannah, in passing
by the kitchen, for fear of accidents, had left it in
short-hand with the cook ;—the cook had told it
with a commentary to Jonathan; and Jonathan to
Obadiah ; so that, by the time my father had rung
the bell half-a-dozen times to know what was the
matter above,—was Obadiah enabled to give him
a particular account of it just as it had happened.

I thought as much, said my father, tucking up
his night-gown ;—and so walked up-stairs

One would imagine from this—(though for my
own part I somewhat question it)—that my father,
before that time, had actually wrote that remark-
able chapter in the Tvistra-pedia, which to me
is themostoriginaland entertaining one inthe whole
book,—and that is the chapter unon sash windows,
with a bitter Philippic at the end of it, upon the
forgetfulness of chamber-maids.—I have but two
reasons for thinking otherwise.

First, had the matter been taken into conside-
ration before the event happened, my father cer-
tainly would have nailed up the sash-window for
good and all; which, considering with what diffi-
culty he composed books, he might have done with
ten times less trouble than he could have wrote
the chapter. This argument, I foresee, holds good
against his writing the chapter, even after the
event ; but ’tis obviated under the second reason,
which I have the honour to offer to the world in
support of my opinion, that my father did not
write the chapter upon sash-windows and chamber-
pots at the time supposed,—and it is this :—

—That, in order to render the Tir istra-pedia

 

 

= complete, I wrote the chapter myself.

CHAPTER XXVIL.

My father put on his spectacles,—looked,—took
them off,—put them into the case,—all in less than
a, statutable minute ; and without opening his lips,
turned about and walked precipitately down stairs.

’ My mother imagined he had stepped down for lint

jand hasilicon; but, seeing him return with a couple
(of folios under his arm, and Obadiah following him
ywith a large reading-desk, she took it for granted

* Mr. Shandy issupposed tomean ** ** * *k kak

3
a Wy X
et Esq., member for * * * * *, and not the Chinese

}

4 legislator.

THE LIFE. AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

99

 

 

it was a herbal, and so drew him a chair to the
bed-side, that he might consult upon the case at
his ease.

—— If it be but right done, said, my father turn-
ing to the section—de sede vel subjecto circumci-
stonis,—for he had brought up Spenser de Legibus
Hebreorum Ritualibus, — and Maimonides, in
order to confront and examine us altogether ;—

——If it be but right done, quoth he, Only
tell us, cried my mother, interrupting him, what
herbs? For that, replied my father, you must
send for Dr. Slop.

My mother went down and my father went on,

 

 

 

-eading the section as follows:

we K * * * “ * *% Pd
st i % # * # % # *
_- * . . . Very well, said my
father . . * . . = *
j * % * # x « * %
. * . : * nay, if it has that con-
venience,—and so, without stopping a moment to

settle it first in his mind, whether the Jews hax
it from the Egyptians, or the Egyptians from the
Jews,—he rose up, and rubbing his forehead two or
three times across with the palm of his hand, in
the manner we rub out the footsteps of care, when
evil has trod lighter upon us than we foreboded,
—he shut the book, and walked down stairs.
Nay, said he, mentioning the name of a different
great nation upon every step as he set his foot upon
it,—if the Egyptians, the Syrians, the Phoenicians,
the Arabians,—the Cappadocians—if the Colchi,and
Troglodytes did it,—if Solon and Pythagoras sub-
mitted, what is Tristram?’ ——Who am I, that I
should fret or fume one moment about the matter 2

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Dear Yorick, said my father smiling (for
Yorick had broke his rank with my uncle Toby
in coming through the narrow entry, and so had
stepped first into the parlour), this Tristram of
ours, I find, comes very hardly by all his reli-
gious rites. Never was the son of Jew, Christian,
Turk, or Infidel, initiated into them in so oblique
and slovenlyamanner. But he is no worse, I trust,
said Yorick. There has been, certainly, continued
my father, the deuce and all to do in some part or
other of the ecliptic, when this offspring of mine
was formed. That you area better judge of than
I, replied Yorick. Astrologers, quoth my father,
know better than us both: the trine and sextile
aspects have jumped awry, or the opposite of
their ascendants have not hit it, as they should, or
the lords of the genitures (as they call them) have
been at bo-peep,—or something has been wrong
above or below, with us.

‘Tis possible, answered Yorick. But is the
child, cried my uncle Toby, the worse? The Tro-
glodytes say not, replied my father. And your
theologists, Yorick, tell us—Theologically, said
Yorick ; or speaking after the manner of apothe-
caries ?*—statesmen ?+—or washerwomen ? if

—l’m not sure, replied my father ;—but they
tell us, brother Toby, he’s the better for it—Pro-

* Xademis vdoou, ka) ducidtou amarAayy, iv &v-
OpaKa KarXovo.y.—PuiLo,
+ Ta rTeuvdueva trav ebvav moAvyorétara, Kal
moAvavOpwrdtara elvat.
~ Kadapidryrtos elvexey—Bocnarr.
H 2Saas

 

 

 

 

00 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

Pas ee ee

<<

a ae

 

 

 

SE ee

 

 

 

he fetched another frisking gambol as before; |
which done, he set his right hand thumb upon the
bow of the saddle, raised himself up, and sprang

aa

vided, said Yorick, you travel him into Egypt.—
Of that, answered my father, he will have the ad-
vantage, when he sees the Pyramids.

aStiset,
Sy

aS
Seo

I

os

'

meee

 

aS

2S

 

os

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—Now, every word of this, quoth my uncle
Toby, is Arabic to me.—I wish, said Yorick, ’twas
so to half the world.

—Illus,* continued my father, circumcised his
whole army one morning.—Not without a court-
martial?—cried my uncle Toby.—Though the
learned, continued he, taking no notice of my
uncle Toby’s remark, but turning to Yorick,—
are greatly divided still, who Ilus was ;—some
say Saturn; some the Supreme Being ;—others,
no more than a brigadier-general under Pha-
raoh Necho.—Let him be who he will, said my
uncle Toby, I know not by what article of war he
could justify it.

The controvertists, answered my father, assign
two-and-twenty different reasons for it ;—others,
indeed, who have drawn their pens on the opposite
side of the question, have shown the world the
futility of the greatest part of them.—But then
again, our best polemic divines,—I wish there was
not a polemic divine, said Yorick, in the kingdom :
one ounce of practical divinity—is worth a
painted ship-load of all their reverences have im-
ported these fifty years.—Pray, Mr. Yorick, quoth
my uncle Toby,—do tell me what a polemic divine
is?—The best description, Captain Shandy, I have
everread,is of a couple of ’em,replied Yorick,in the
aecount of the battle fought, single hands, betwixt
Gymnast and Captain Tripet; which | have in my
pocket.—I beg I may hear it, quoth my uncle
Toby, earnestly.— You shall, said Y orick,—and as
the Corporal is waiting for me at the door, and I
know the description of a battle will do the poor
fellow more good than his supper,—I beg, brother,
you'll give him leave to come in.—With all my
soul, said my father. Trim came in erect and
happy as an emperor ; and having shut the door,
Yorick took a book from his right-hand coat-pocket,
and read, or pretended to read, as follows:

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX.

———“ Wuicu words being heard by all the sol-
diers who were there, divers of them, being in-
wardly terrified, did shrink back, and make room
for the assailant. All this did Gymnast very well
remark and consider; and, therefore, making as
if he would have alighted from off his horse, as he
was poising himself on the mounting side, he most
nimbly (with his short sword by his thigh) shifting
his feet in the stirrup, and performing the stirrup
leather feat, whereby after the inclining of his body
downwards, he forthwith launched himself aloft
into the air, and placed both his feet together
upon the saddle, standing upright, with his back
turned towards his horse’s head.— Now (said he)
my case goes forward. Then, suddenly, in the
same posture wherein he was, he fetched a gambol
upon one foot, and turning to the left hand, failed
not to carry his body perfectly round, just into his
former position, without missing one jot.—Ha !
said Tripet, I will not do that at this time ; and not
without cause.—Well, said Gymnast, I have failed,
I will undo this leap; then with a marvellous
strength and agility, turning towardstheright hand,

v “ / a
* ‘O “IAos Ta aidota mepiréuveTar TavTd Toinogat
\ er n i
Kal Tovs du’ adT@ cummdxous KaTavayKacas.
SANCHONIATHO.

 

 

into the air, poising and upholding his whole weight |
upon the muscle and nerve of the said thumb, and |
so turned and whirled himself about three times: |
at the fourth, reversing his body, and overturning |
it, upside down, and foreside back, without touching |
any thing, he brought himself betwixt the horse's |
two ears; and then giving himself a jerking swing,
he seated himself upon the erupper.’”—

(This can’t be fighting, said my uncle Toby.— |
The Corporal shook his head atit. Have patience, |
said Yorick.) |

 

“ Then (Tripet) passed his right leg over his
saddle,and placed himself en croupe.— But, said he,
*twere better for me to get into the saddle. Then
putting the thumbs of both hands upon the crupper
before him, and thereupon leaning himself, as upon |
the only supporters of his body, he incontinently |
turned heels over head in the air, and straight
found himself betwixt the bow of the saddle, in a
tolerable seat: then springing into the air with
a summerset, he turned him about like a windmill,
and made above a hundred frisks, turns, and demi-
pommadas.”—Good God! cried Trim, losing all
patience,—one home thrust of a bayonet is worth
it all.—I think so too, replied Yorick.

I am of a contrary opinion, quoth my father.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX.

——_No: I think I have advanced nothing, re-
plied my father, making answer to a question
which Yorick had taken the liberty to put to him
—J have advanced nothing in the Tristra-pedia, |
but what is as clear as any one proposition in Euclid. |
Reach me, Trim, that book from off the scrutoire. |
It has oftentimes been in my mind, continued |
my father, to have read it over, both to you,
Yorick, and to my brother Toby ; and I think it a
little unfriendly in myself in not having done it
long ago.—Shall we have a short chapter or two
now,—and a chapter or two hereafter, as occa-
sions serve; and so on, till we get through the
whole?—My uncle Toby and Yorick made the
obeisance which was proper ; and the Corporal,
though he was not included in the compliment,
laid his hand upon his breast, and made his bow
at the same time.—The company smiled.——Trim,
quoth my father, has paid the full price for staying
out the entertainment.—He did not seem to relish
the play, replied Yorick. ’Twas a Tom-fool
battle, an’ please your reverence, of Captain Tri-
pet’s and that other officer, making so many sum-
mersets as they advanced: the French come on
capering now and then in that way,—but not quite
so much.

My uncle Toby never felt the consciousness of
his existence with more complacency than what
the Corporal’s and his own reflections made him
do at that moment :—he lighted his pipe.— Y orick
drew his chair closer to the table,—Trim snuffed
the candle,—my father stirred up the fire,—took
up the book,—coughed twice, and began.

 

 

 

|

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

Tur first thirty pages, said my father, turning
oyer the leaves,—are a little dry ; and as they
are not closely connected with the subject,—for
the present we will pass them by: ’tis a prefatory

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ooat

ee ne

See ee
eS ————————

 

 

introduction, continued my father, or an intro-
ductory preface (for I am not determined which
name to give it) upon political or civil government ;
the foundation of which being laid in the first con-
Junction betwixt male and female, for procreation
ot the species,—I was insensibly led into it.
Twas natural, said Yorick.

The original of society, continued my father,
I’m satisfied, is, what Politian tells us, @. e. merely
conjugal, and nothing more than the getting toge-
ther of one man and one woman,—to which (ac-
cording to Hesiod) the philosopher adds a servant :
—but supposing, in the first beginning, there were
no men-servants born,—he lays the foundation of
it in a man,—a woman,—and a bull. I believe
‘tis an ox, quoth Yorick, quoting the passage (olxoy
MEV TPSTiOTA, YuvatKka Te, Boty t’ aporipa)—A bull
must have given more trouble than his head was
worth. But there is a better reason still, said
my father (dipping his pen into his ink) ; for the ox
being the most patient of animals, and the most
useful withal in tilling the ground for their nou-
rishment,—was the properest instrument, and
emblem, too, for the new-joined couple, that the
creation could have associated with them. —_ And
there is a stronger reason, added my uncle Toby,
than them all for the ox.—My father had not
power to take his pen out of his inkhorn, till he
had heard my uncle Toby’s reason. For when
the ground was tilled, said my uncle Toby, and
made worth enclosing, then they began to secure it
by walls and ditches, which was the origin of fortifi-
cation.——True, true, dear Toby, eried my father,
striking out the bull, and putting the ox in his place.

My father gave Trim a nod to snuff the candle,
and resumed his discourse.

—TI enter upon this speculation, said my father,
sarelessly, and half shutting the book, as he went
on, merely to show the foundation of the natural
relation between a father and his child ; the right
and jurisdiction over whom he acquires these se-
veral ways :—

Ist, By marriage ;

2dly, By adoption ;

3dly, Ey legitimation ; and

4thly, By procreation ; all which I consider in
their order.

I lay a slight stress upon one of them, replied
Yorick,—the act, especially where it ends there,
in my opinion, lays as little obligation upon the

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘§ child as it conveys power to the father.——You
are wrong,—said my father, argutely ; and for this
plain reason ** + * * =

{J
if
4
Ji

f Yorick, equally holds good for her.
’ o

—I own, added my father, that the offspring, upon

(| this account, is not so under the power and juris-

diction of the mother.

 

But the reason, replied
She is
under authority herself, said my father :——and

 

besides, continued my father, nodding his head,
and laying his finger upon the side of his nose, as
he assigned his r -ason,—she is not the principal
agent, Y orick.——TIn what ? quoth my uncle Toby,
stopping his pipe. —Though, by all means, added

 

my father (not attending to my uncle Toby), “ The

Q

son ought to pay her respect ;” as you may read,

1Yorick, at large, in the first book of the Institutes

9 section.

a
_

—— eee

of Justinian, at the eleventh title and the tenth
I can read it as well, replied Yorick,
n the catechism.

 

 

 

 

|
|
|

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 101
=e eee eer ae
|
CHAPTER XXXI.
| TRim can repeat every word of it by heart, quoth
| my uncle Toby.——Pugh ! said my father, not
| caring to be interrupted with Trim’s saying his
Catechism. He can, upon my honour, replied

 

my uncle Toby. Ask him, Mr. Yorick, any
question you please.——

—The_ Fifth Commandment, Trim, said
Yorick, speaking mildly, and with a gentle nod, as
to a modest catechumen.—The Corporal stood
silent——You don’t ask him right, said my uncle
Toby, raising his voice, and giving it rapidly, like
the word of command:—The fifth? cried my
uncle Toby——I must begin with the first, an’
please your honour, said the Corporal.

—Yorick could not forbear smiling.— Your
reverence does not consider, said the Corporal,
shouldering his stick like a musket, and marching
into the middle of the room to illustrate his posi-
tion,—that ’tis exactly the same thing as doing
one’s exercise in the field,—

‘“‘ Join your right hand to your firelock,” cried
the Corporal, giving the word of command, and
performing the motion.—

“ Poise your firelock,” cried the Corporal ; doing
the duty still of both adjutant and private man.

“ Rest your firelock,’——One motion, an’ please
your reverence, you see leads into another.—If
his honour will begin but with the first.

The first—cried my uncle Toby, setting his
hand upon his side,— ~ * * * *

The second—cried my uncle Toby, waving
his tobacco-pipe, as he would have done his sword
at the head of a regiment.—The Corporal went
through his manual with exactness ; and having
honoured his father and mother, made a low bow,
and fell back to the side of the room.

Everything in this world, said my father, is big
with jest, and has wit in it, and instruction too,—
if we can but find it out.

—Here is the scaffold-work of instruction ; its
true point of folly, without the building behind it.

—Here is the glass for pedagogues, precep-
tors, tutors, governors, gerund-grinders, and
bear-leaders, to view themselves in, in their true
dimensions.—

Oh! there is a husk and shell, Yorick, which
grows up with learning, which their unskilfulness
knows not how to fling away !

Sciences may be learned byrote, but wisdom not.

Yorick thought my father inspired,—I__ will
enter into obligations this moment, said my father,
to lay out all my aunt Dinah’s legacy in charitable
uses (of which, by the bye, my father had no high
opinion), if the Corporal has any one determinate
idea annexed to any one word he has repeated.—
Prithee, Trim, quoth my father, turning round to
him,—What dost thou mean by “ honouring thy
Sather and mother 2”

Allowing them, an’ please your honour, three
halfpence a day out of my pay, when they grow
old. And didst thou do that, Trim? said
Yorick. He did indeed, replied my uncle Toby.
Then, Trim, said Yorick, springing out of his
chair, and taking the Corporal by the hand, thou
art the best commentator upon that part of the
Decalogue ;—and I honour thee more for it, Cor-
poral Trim, than if thou hadst had a hand in the
Talmud itself,

 

 

 

 

 

 

fae ct s = = SSCS See

 

 

SSS ee

:= eee
ima -

see aS

 

es

R=

bi

 

==

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

102 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

My father was never at a loss what to say to |
CHAPTER XXXII. any man, upon any subject 5 and had the least

O sieEssED health! cried my father, making an | 0¢ ‘asion for the exordium of any man breathing.

exclamation, as he turned over the leaves to the How he dealt with his Lordship’s opinion—you

next chapter, thou art above all gold and treasure ; shall see ;—but when—I know not: ve must

tis thou who enlargest the soul,—and openest all | first see what his Lordship’s opinion was.

its powers to receive instruction and to relish |

virtue—He that has thee has little more to wish CHAPTER XXXV.

for ;—and he that is so wretched as to want thee | “THE two great causes which conspire with

—wants everything with thee. each other to shorten life,’’ says Lord Verulam,
I have concentrated all that can be said upon | « are, first,—

 

 

 

 

 

| this important head, said my father, into very little « The internal spirit, which, like a gentle flame,

room; therefore we’ll read the chapter quite | wastes the body down to death :—and, secondly,

through. the external air, that parches the body up to ashes :
a tether 2 i Beec ave a aS —which two enemies attacking us on both sides |
The whole secret of health depending upon | of our bodies together, at leneth destroy our organs, |
the due contention for mastery betwixt the radical | and render them unfit to carry on the functions of |
heat and the radical moisture,’——You have | life.” :
proved that matter of fact, I suppose, above, said This being the state of the case, the road to |
Yorick.— Sufficiently, replied my father. longevity was plain ; nothing more being required, |
} In saying this, my father shut the book,—not a8 | says his Lordship, but to repair the waste com- |
if he resolved to read no more of it, for he kept mitted by the internal spirit, by making the sub- |
his fore-finger in the chapter :—not pettishly,—for | stance of it more thick and dense, by a regular |
he shut the book slowly: his thumb resting, when | course of opiates on one side, and by refrigerating

he had done it, upon the upper side of the cover, | the heat of it on the other, by three grains and a

as his three fingers supported the lower side of it | half of saltpetre every morning before you get
without the least compressive violence.— WD
I have demonstrated the truth of that point, Stil] this frame of ours was left exposed to the

quoth my father, nodding to } orick, most suffi- | jnimical assaults of the air without ; but this was

baad in we Pe ee fenced off again by a course of greasy unctions,
r ~. > ‘ » Y » 9 Tt . > . se % .

ow, could t ie an the moon be told that a | which so fully saturated the pores of the skin that

man in the earth had wrote a chapter sufficiently | no spicula could enter ;—nor could any one get

demonstrating that the secret of all health depended | out —This put a stop to all perspiration sensible

. » cs » < » c A 3 » as Ww ,

upon the due contention for mastery betwixt the | and insensible, which being the cause of so many

 

 

 

 

 

ee heat and the radical moisture ; “and that | scurvy distempers

> ‘ ‘ a7A > > x TO a+ hare ra a . ‘

1e hac peerage the point so well that there was | site to carry off redundant humours,
> ico rie y > re . VY « oer »é }

not one single word, wet or dry, upon radical heat | the system complete.

or radical moisture, throughout the whole chapter, What my father had to say to my Lord of Ve-

a course of clysters was requl-
and render

 

 

 

—or a single syllable in it, pro or con, directly or | yulam’s opiates, his saltpetre, and greasy unctions

indirectly, upon the contention betwixt these two | and clysters, you shall read,—but not to-day,—or

ee Oo fh A eieh Pia ey re at to-morrow :—time presses upon me—my reader
Seis Taian see ha te ; : .

thou eternal Maker of all beings! he | js impatient—I must get forwards.—You shall

would ery, striking his breast with his right hand | yead the chapter at your leisure (if you choose it)
990e ‘ © > 6 , 1p rey <« ss * << .

(in case he had one)—* Thou whose powel and | as soon as ever the J'ristra-pedia is published —

goodness can enlarge the faculties of thy creatures Suffice it at present to say—my father levelled
1a 7 nite LT peAa r ax Pe » mF wrfoeeti ! 3 ne oe . - : s

to ae aan degree of pecelvanes and perfection ! | the hypothesis with the ground ; and in doing that,

—What have we Moonites done the learned know, he built up and established his

own.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.
Wiru two strokes, the one at Hippocrates, the
other at Lord Verulam, did my father achieve it. Tur whole secret of health, said my father,
The stroke at the prince of physicians, with beginning the sentence again, depending evidently
which he began, was no more than a short insult | upon the due contention betwixt the radical heat
upon his sorrowful complaint of the ars longa— and radical moisture within us,—the least imagin-
and vita brevis.—Life short, cried my father, and able skill had been sufficient to have maintained
the art of healing tedious! And who are we to thank | it, had not the schoolmen confounded the task,
for both the one and the other, but the ignorance | merely (as Van Helmont, the famous chemist, has
|

CHAPTER XXXVI.

of quacks themselves—and the stage-loads of che- | proved) by all along mistaking the radical moisture
micalnostrums, and peripatetic lumber, withwhich, | for the tallow and fat of animal bodies.

 

in all ages, they have first flattered the world, and Now the radical moisture is not the tallow or
at last deceived it ! fat of animals, but an oily and balsamous substance 3

—O my Lord Verulam ! cried my father, turn- | for the fat, and tallow, as also the phlegm, or watery
ing from Hippocrates, and making his second | parts, are cold ; whereas the oily and balsamous
stroke at him, as the principal of nostrum-mongers, parts are of a lively heat and spirit ; which accounts
and the fittest to be made an example of to the for the observation of Aristotle, “ Quod omne ant-
rest,—What shall I say to thee, my great Lord | mal post coitum esé triste.”

Verulam ?—What shall I say to thy internal spirit Now it is certain that the radical heat lives in

—thy daily purges,—thy nightly clysters, and suc- doubt : however, when the one decays the other
cedaneums ? decays also ; and then is produced, either an un-

 

 

—thy opium,—thy saltpetre,—thy greasy unctions, | the radical moisture ; but whether vice versa, 1S & |

erent mee

_ nett

os eo. Se

D
ee

bda

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 10: |

Spat eee ee ee a ee
natural heat, which causes an unnatural dryness, | fair match for the moisture, terrible as it was.___
—or an unnatural moisture, which causes drop- | Upon my honour, added my uncle Toby, you might
sies :—so that if a child, as he grows up, can be | have heard the contention within our bedies, bro-
but taught to avoid ‘unning into fire or water, as | ther Shandy, twenty toises.——If there was no
either of ’em threaten his destruction,—’twill be | firing, said Yorick.
all that is needful to be done upon that head. Well,—-said my father, with a full aspiration,
and pausing awhile after the word—was I a judge,
and the laws of the country which made me
one permitted it, I would condemn some of the |
worst malefactors, provided they had had their
clergy,___—

——Yorick, foreseeing the sentence was likely
to end with no sort of mercy, laid his hand upon
my father’s breast, and begged he would respite
it for a few minutes, till he asked the Corporal a
question. Prithee, Trim, said Yorick, without
staying for my father’s leave,—tell us honestly—
what is thy opinion concerning this self-same
radical heat and radical moisture ?——

With humble submission to his honour’s better
aN : : judgment, quoth the Corporal, making a bow to |
The poor fellow and I, quoth my uncle Toby, my uncle Toby.—Speak thy opinion freely, Cor-
addressing himself to my father, were scarce able poral, said my uncle Toby.——The poor fellow is
to crawl out of our tents at the time the siege of | Iny seryant——not my slave, added my uncle Toby,
Limerick was raised, upon the very account you turning to my father. i
mention. Now what can have got into that The Corporal put his hat under his left arm,
precious noddle of thine, my dear brother Toby ? and with his stick hanging upon the wrist of it,
cried my father, mentally. By Heaven ! con- by a black thong split into a tassel about the knot,
tinued he, communing still with himself, it would he marched up to the ground where he had per-
puzzle an Cidipus to bring it in point. formed his catechism ; then, touching his under-

I believe, an’ please your honour, quoth the jaw with the thumb and fingers of his right hand
Corporal, that if it had not been for the quantity | before he opened his mouth,—he delivered his
of brandy we set fire to every night, and the claret
and cinnamon with which I plied your honour off,

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE description of the siege of Jericho itself
could not have engaged the attention of my uncle
Toby more powerfully than the last chapter ;—his
eyes were fixed upon my father throughout it ;—
he never mentioned radical heat, and radical
moisture, but my uncle Toby took his pipe out of
his mouth, and shook his head ; and, as soon as
the chapter was finished, he beckoned to the Cor-
peral to come close to his chair, to ask him the
following question,—aside :—* * * * > * & * * & x
Bt eX 4 It was at the siege of Lime-
rick, ’an please your honour, replied the Corporal,
making a bow.——

See ae
Speen

 

 

 

we

Peron

é
|
i

H

 

 

 

 

 

|

notion thus :—

 

——And the Geneva, Trim, added my uncle Toby, CHAPTER XXXIX.
aL ; 4 "a. Cand: the ‘ reyilw we : *
which did us more good than all, I verily be Just as the Corporal was hemming to begin,—

lieve, continued the Corporal, we had both, an’
please your honour, left our lives in the trenches,
and been buried in them too... The noblest
grave, Corporal, cried my uncle Toby, his eyes
sparkling as he spoke, that a soldier could wish to
lie down in! But a pitiful death for him ! an’
please your honour, replied the Corporal.

All this was as much Arabic to my father as the
rites of the Colchi and Troglodytes had been before
to my uncle Toby ; my father could not determine
whether he was to frown or to smile.

My uncle Toby, turning to Yorick, resumed the
case at Limerick more intelligibly than he had
begun it—and so settled the point for my father

 

in waddled Dr, Slop. "Tis not two-pence matter,
—the Corporal shall go on in the next chapter,
let who will come in——

Well, my good Doctor, cried my father, spor-
tively, for the transitions of his passions were
unaccountably sudden ;—and what has this whelp
of mine to say to the matter ?

Had my father been asking after the amputation
of the tail of a puppy dog—he could not have done
it in a more careless air: the system, which Dr.
Slop had laid down to treat the accident by, no
way allowed of such a mode of inquiry—He sat
down.

Pray, sir, quoth my uncle Toby, in a manner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

at once. which could not go unanswered,—in what condition
CHAPTER XXXVIIL. is the boy ?3’T will end in a phimosis, replied

Ir was undoubtedly, said my uncle Toby, a great | Dr. Slop.
happiness for myself and the Corporal that we had I am no wiser than I was, quoth my uncle Toby,

 

all along a burning fever, attended with a most returning his pipe into his mouth.— ‘Then let
raging thirst, during the whole five-and-twenty | the Corporal go on, said my father, with his me-
days the flux was upon us inthe camp ; otherwise, | dical lecture. The Corporal made a bow to his
what my brother calls the radical moisture must, | old friend, Dr. Slop, and then delivered his opinion
s as I conceive it, inevitably have got the better. | concerning radical heat and radical moisture, in
My father drew in his lungs top-full of air, | the following words :—
and, looking up, blew it forth again, as slowly as
he possibly could—— CHAPTER XI.
It was Heaven’s mercy to us, continued my Tue city of Limerick, the siege of which was
uncle Toby, which put it into the Corporal’s head | begun under his Majesty, King William himself,
to maintain that due contention between the radical | the year after I went into the ay eS all
( heat and the radical moisture, by reinforcing the | please your honours, in the middle of a devilish
fever, as he did all along with hot wine and spices ; | wet swampy country.— Tis quite surrounded,
whereby the Corporal kept up (as it were) a con- | said my uncle Toby, with the Shannon, and is, by
tinual firing ; so that the radical heat stood its its situation, one of the strongest fortified places
9 ground from the beginning to the end, and was a | in Ireland.—

 

 

ve

° -
Con hen,

 

ae

*i
|
i

Sa

eae
seeks

SS

Sa

ae a

 

 

 

 

104

=

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

I think this is a new fashion, quoth Dr. Slop, of
beginning a medical lecture——’Tis all true,
answered Trim.——Then I wish the faculty would
follow the cut of it, said Yorick.——’Tis all cut
through, an’ please your reverence, said the Cor-
poral, with drains and bogs; and besides, there
was such a quantity of rain fell during the siege,
the whole country was like a puddle :—’twas that,
and nothing else, which brought on the flux, and
which had like to have killed both his honour and
myself. Now there was no such thing, after the
first ten days, continued the Corporal, as for a
soldier to lie dry in his tent, without cutting a
ditch round it, to draw off the water ;—nor was
that enough for those who could afford it, as his
honour could, without setting fire every night to
a pewter dish full of brandy, which took off the
damp of the air, and made the inside of the tent
as warm as a stove.——

And what conclusion dost thou draw, Corporal
Trim, cried my father, from all these premises !——

[ infer, an’ please your worship, replied Trim,
that the radical moisture is nothing in the world

but ditch-water ;—and that the radical heat, of

those who can go to the expense of it, is burnt
brandy :—the radical heat and moisture of a pri-
vate man, an’ please your honours, is nothing but
ditch-water,—and a dram of Geneva :—and give
us but enough of it, with a pipe of tobacco, to give
us spirits, and drive away the yapours,—we know
not what it is to fear death.

I am at a loss, Captain Shandy, quoth Doctor
Slop, to determine in which branch of learning
your servant shines most, whether in physiology
or divinity——Slop had not forgot Trim’s com-
ment upon the sermon.——

It is but an hour ago, replied Yorick, since the
Corporal was examined in the latter, and passed
muster with great honour.——

The radical heat and moisture, quoth Doctor
Slop, turning to my father, you must know, is the
basis and foundation of our being,—as the root of
a tree is the source and principle of its vegetation.
—It is inherent in the seeds of all animals, and
may be preserved sundry ways ; but, principally,
in my opinion, by consubstantials, impriments and
occludents.—Now, this poor fellow, continued Dr.
Slop, pointing to the Corporal, has had the mis-
fortune to have heard some superficial empiric
discourse upon this nice point.——That he has,—
said my father. Very likely, said my uncle.
I am sure of it,—quoth Yorick.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XLI.

Doctor Slop being called out to look at a cata-
plasm he had ordered, it gave my father an oppor-
tunity of going on with another chapter in the
Tristra-pedia. Come ! cheer up, my lads; Ill
show you land ;—for when we have tugged through
that chapter, the book shall not be opened again
this twelyvemonth.—Huzza !——

 

CHAPTER XLII.
——F ive years with a bib under his chin ;
Four years in travelling from Christ-cross-row
to Malachi ;
A year and a half in learning to write his. own
name ;
Seven long years

and more rumro-ing it, at
Greek and Latin.

5

 

Four years at his probations and his negations ;
the fine statue still lying in the middle of the
marble block,—and nothing done, but his tools
sharpened to hew it out |—’Tis a piteous delay!
Was not the great Julius Scaliger within an
ace of never getting his tools sharpened at all ?—
Forty-four years old was he before he could manage
his Greek ;—and Peter Damianus, lord bishop
of Ostia, as all the world knows, could not so much
as read, when he was of man’s estate ;—and Baldus
himself, as eminent as he turned out after, entered
upon the law so late in life that everybody
imagined he intended to be an advoeate in the
other world. No wonder, when Eudamidas, the
son of Archidamas, heard Xenocrates at seventy-
five disputing about wisdom, that he asked gravely,

“ Tf the old man be yet disputing and inquiring
concerning wisdom,—what time will he have to
make use of it ?”

Yorick listened to my father with great atten-
tion ; there was a seasoning of wisdom unaecount-
ably mixed up with his strangest whims ; and he
had sometimes such illuminations in the darkest
of his eclipses as almost atoned for them. Be wary,
sir, when you imitate him.

. am convinced, Yorick, continued my father,
half reading and half discoursing, that there is a
north-west passage to the intellectual world ; and
that the soul of man has shorter ways of going to
work, in furnishing itself with knowledge and in-
struction, than we generally take with it. But,
alack ! All fields have not a river or a spring run-
ning beside them ;—every child, Yorick, has not
a parent to point it out.

The whole entirely depends, added my father, in
a low voice, upon the auxiliary verbs, Mr. Yorick.

Had Yorick trod upon Virgil’s snake, he could
not have looked more surprised. J am surprised
too, cried my father, observing it ;—and I reckon
it as one of the greatest calamities which ever befel
the republic of letters, that those who have been
intrusted with the education of our children, and
whose business it was to open their minds, and
stock them early with ideas, in order to set the
imagination loose upon them, have made so little
use of the auxiliary verbs in doing it, as they have
done ;—so that, except Raymond Lullius, and the
elder Pelegrini, the last of whom arrived to such
perfection in the use of ’em, with his topics, that,
in a few lessons, he could teach a young gentleman
to discourse with plausibility upon any subject,
pro and con, and to say and write all that could
be spoken or written concerning it, without blot-
ting a word, to the admiration of all who beheld
him. [ should be glad, said Yorick, inter-
rupting my father, to be made to comprehend
this matter. -You shall, said my father.

The highest stretch of improvement a single
word is capable of, is a high metaphor ;—for which,
in my opinion, the idea is generally the worse, and
not the better :—but be that as it may,—when the
mind has done that with it—there is an end ;—the
mind and the idea are at rest, until a second idea
enters ;—and so on.

 

 

 

Now the use of the auxiliaries is at once to set
the soul a-going by herself upon the materials as

they are brought her ; and, by the versability of

this great engine, round which they are twisted, to
open new tracks of inquiry, and make every idea
engender millions.

—

 

 

eee ee JYou excite my curiosity greatly, said Yorick.
For my own part, quoth my uncle Toby, I
have given it up. The Danes, an’ please your
honour, quoth the Corporal, who were on the left
at the siege of Limerick, were all auxiliaries.
And very good ones, said my uncle Toby. And
your honour roul’d with them—captains with
captains—very well, said the Corporal. But
the auxiliaries, Trim, my brother is talking about,
answered my uncle Toby,—I conceive to be differ-
ent things.

You do ? said my father, rising up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XLIII,

My father took a single turn across the room,
then sat down and finished the chapter.

The verbs auxiliary we are concerned in here,
continued my father, are am, was, have, had, do,
did, make, made, suffer, shall, should, will, would,
can, could, owe, ought, used, or is wont ;—and
these, varied with tenses, present, past, future,
and conjugated with the verb see,—or with these
questions added to them ;—TIs it 2 Was it2 Will it
be 2 Would it be2 May it be? Might it be2—and
these again put negatively, Is it not? Was it not?
Ought it not 2—or affiirmatively—IJ¢ is, It was, It
ought to be;—or chronologically— Has it been al-
ways? Lately? How long ago?—or hypothetically —
Ifit was? [fit was not 2——what would follow ?—
If the French should beat the English ? If the Sun
go out of the Zodiac? Now, by the right use and
application of these, continued my father, in which
a child’s memory should be exercised, there is no

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 105

one idea can enter his brain, how barren soever,
but a magazine of conceptions and conclusions may
be drawn forth from it. Didst thou ever see a
white bear? cried my father, turning his head
round to Trim, who stood at the back of his chair.
No, an’ please your honour, replied the
Corporal.—— But thou couldst discourse about
one, Trim, said my father, in case of need 2——
How is it possible, brother, quoth my uncle Toby,
if the Corporal never saw one 2 "Tis the fact I
want, replied my father ;—and the possibility of it
is as follows :

A WHITE BEAR; very well. Have I ever seen
one ? Might I ever have seen one? Am I ever
to see one? Ought I ever to have seen one? Or
can I ever see one ?

Would I had seen a white bear ! (for how can
I imagine it ?)

If I should see a white bear, what should I
say? If I should never see a white bear, what
then 2

If I never have, can, must, or shall, see a white
bear alive,—have I ever seen the skin of one?
Did I ever see one painted !—deseribed 2? Have I
never dreamed of one 2?

Did my father, mother, uncle, aunt, brothers,
or sisters, ever see a white bear? What would
they give ? How would they behave ? How would
the white bear have behaved? Is he wild? Tame?
Terrible ? Rough ? Smooth ?

—Is the white bear worth seeing 2

—-Is there no sin in it ?—

—Is it better than a black one 2

 

 

 

VOLUME

THE

Six. i.

 

CHAPTER I.
We’LL not stop two moments, my dear sir ;—
only, as we have got through these five volumes
(do, sir, sit down upon a set,—they are better

(jj than nothing), let us just look back upon the coun-
« try we have passed through.

——What'a wilderness has it been! and what

{ a mercy that we have not both of us been lost, or

devoured by wild beasts in it!
Did you think the world itself, sir, had contained

uw such a number of jack-asses ?—How they viewed
() and reviewed us as we passed over the rivulet at
i the bottom of that little valley !—and when we
it climbed over that hill, and were just getting out
( of sight,—good God! what a braying did they all

set up together !
—Prithee, shepherd, who keeps all those jack-

4), asses 2 ***

never curried ?
9 ter ?—Bray,—bray,—bray.

—Heaven be their comforter!—What! are they
Are they never taken in in win-
Bray on,—the world
is deeply your debtor ;——louder still ;—that’s

 

nothing ;—in good sooth, you are ill used.—
Was I a jack-ass, I solemnly declare I would

{(
J night.

bray in Gsol-re-ut from morning even unto

 

CHAPTER II.

Wuen my father had danced his white bear
backwards and forwards through half-a-dozen
pages, he closed the book for good and all,—and,
in a kind of triumph, re-delivered it into Trim’s
hand, with a nod to lay it upon the scrutoire, where
he found it.

Tristram, said he, shall be made to conjugate
every word in the dictionary, backwards and for-
wards the same way :—every word, Yorick, by
this means, you see, is converted into a thesis or
an hypothesis ;—every thesis and hypothesis have
an offspring of propositions ; and each proposition
has its own consequences and conclusions ;—every
one of which leads the mind on again into fresh
tracts’ of inquiries and doubtings.—The force of
this engine, added my father, is incredible, in
opening a child’s head.’ ——Tis enough, brother
Shandy, cried my uncle Toby, to burst it into a
thousand splinters.—

I presume, said Yorick, smiling, it must be
owing to this—(for, let logicians say what they
will, it is not to be accounted for sufficiently from
the bare use of the ten predicaments)—that the
famous Vincent Quirino, amongst the many other
astonishing feats of his childhood, of which the
Cardinal Bembo has given the worldsoexacta story,
—shouldbe able to paste up, in the public schools at

 

 

 

ee

pene eyTANDY. |

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SI

106

Sl
RS=ss

Sees

 

 

 

office ;—then, I think I know you, madam.
You know me, sir! cried Susannah fastidiously
and with a toss of her head, levelled evidently, not
at his profession, but at the Doctor himself ;—you
know me! cried Susannah again. Doctor Slop
clapped his finger and his thumb instantly upon
his nostrils ;——-Susannah’s spleen was ready to |}

Rome, so early as in the eighth year of his age, no
less than four thousand five hundred and sixty dif- |
ferent theses, upon the most abstruse points of the
most abstruse theology;—and to defend and main-
tain them in such sort as to cramp and dumbfound
his opponents. What is that, eried my father, to
what is told us of Alphonsus Tostatus, who, almost in

ese :

 

aes

PES

 

 

 

eee

 

 

 

 

 

 

his nurse’sarms, learned all the sciences and liberal
arts, without being taught any one of them 1—W hat
shall we say of the great Peireskius! That’s
the very man, cried my uncle Toby, I once told

 

you of, brother Shandy, who walked a matter of | and shut your eyes. -— That’s one of your Popish |} |
five hundredmiles, reckoning from Paris to Schev- shifts, cried Susannah.-—’Tis better, said Slop, ||]

ling, and from Schevling back again, merely to see
Stevinus’s flying chariot.—He was a very great
man! added my uncle Toby (meaning Stevinus).
__—He was so, brother Toby, said my father
(meaning Peireskius) -—and had multiplied his
ideas so fast, and increased his knowledge to such
a prodigious stock, that, if we may give credit to
an aneedote concerning him, which we cannot
withhold here, without shaking the authority of
all anecdotes whatever,--at seven years of age his
father committed entirely to his care the education
of his younger brother, a boy of five years old,
with the sole management of all his concerns. ——

wise as the son? quoth my

Was the father as

 

 

 

 

burst at it ;——’Tis false, said Susannah.——
Come, come, Mrs. Modesty, said Slop, not a little
elated with the success of his last thrust ;—If you
won’t hold the candle and look,—you may hold it

with a nod, than no shift at all, young woman.
I defy you, sir, cried Susannah, pulling her shift-
sleeve below her elbow.

It was almost impossible for two persons to
assist each other in a surgical case with a more
splenetie cordiality.

Slop snatched up the cataplasm : — Susannah
snatched up the candle. A little this way, said
Slop.—Susannah, looking one way, and rowing
another, instantly set fire to Slop’s wig ; which,
being somewhat bushy and unctuous withal, was
burnt out before it was well kindled. —— You
impudent whore! cried Slop,—(for what is passion
but a wild beast ?)—you impudent whore ! cried

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

|
|
uncle Toby. —I should think not, said Yorick. | Slop, getting upright, with the vataplasm in his |
But what are these, continued my father— | hand.——Ineverwas the destruction of anybody’s |
(breaking out in a kind of enthusiasm )—what are | nose, said Susannah ; which is more than you can )
these to those prodigies of childhood in Grotius, | say. Is it 2 eried Slop, throwing the cataplasm | 5
Scioppius, Heinsius, Politian, Paseal, Joseph Sca- | in her face.——Yes, it is, cried Susannah, re- lie
liger, Ferdinand de Cordoué, and others ;—some | turning the compliment with what was left in the |}
of whom left off their swbstantial forms at nine | pan. |
years old, or sooner, and went on reasoning without CHAPTER IV.
them ;—others went through their classics at seven; | Docror Slop and Susannah filed cross-bills (@
—wrote tragedies at eight.—Ferdinand de Cordoué | against each other in the parlour ; which done,as |2
was so wise at nine—’twas thought the Devil was | the cataplasm had failed, they retired into the [6
in him ;—and at Venice gave such proofs of his | kitchen to prepare a fomentation for me 5 and /f
knowledge and goodness that the monks imagined whilst that was doing, my father determined the |9
he was Antichrist, or nothing. Others were | point as you will read.
masters of fourteen languages at ten ;—finished |
the course of their rhetoric, poetry, logic, and CHAPTER. V.
ethics, at eleven ;—put forth their commentaries You see ’tis high time, said my father, address- |
upon Servius and Martianus Capella at twelve ;— | ing himself equally to my uncle Toby and Yorick, (2
and at thirteen received their degrees in philoso- | to take this young creature out of these women’s |@
phy, laws, and divinity. But you forget the | hands and put him into those of a private governor, |.4
great Lipsius, quoth Yorick,who composed a work* | Marcus Antoninus provided fourteen governors, (3
the day he was born.—— They should have wiped | all at once, to superintend his son Commodus’s a
it up, said my uncle Toby, and said no more about | education :—and in six weeks he cashiered five of fo
it. them.—I know very well, continued my father, that Hs
CHAPTER Il. Commodus’s mother wasin love with a gladiator [ix
Wuen the cataplasm was ready, a scruple of | at the time of her conception; which accounts for a &
decorum had unseasonably rose up in Susannah’s creatmany of Commodus’scruelties when he became of
conscience, about holding the candle whilst Slop | emperor -—but still I am of opinion that those $e
tied it on: Slop had not treated Susannah’s dis- | five whom Antoninus dismissed did Commodus’s ®
temper with anodynes;—and so a quarrel had | temper, in that short time, more hurt than the 6%
ensued betwixt them. other nine were able to rectify all their lives long, 5g
—Oh! oh !—said Slop, casting a glance of undue Now, as I consider the person who is to be about fp
freedom in Susannah’s face, as she declined the | my son, as the mirror in which he is to view him- +4
~ * «© Nous aurions quelque intérét,” says Baillet, ‘de self from morning to night ; and by which he is to 09
montrer qu’il n’a rien de ridicule s'il ¢toit véritable, au adjust his looks, his carriage, and, perhaps, the 2
moins dans le sens énigmatique que Nicius Erythreus a inmost sentiments of his heart,—I would have 3¥
taché de lui donner. Cet auteur dit que pour comprendre | one, Yorick, if possible, polished at all points, fit ta
comme Lipse, il a pi composer un ouvrage le premier | for my child to look into.——This 1s very good 50.
jour de sa vie ; il faut s'imaginer, que ce premier jour sense, quoth mv uncle Toby to himself. c
n est pas celui de sa naissance charnelle, mais celui Aa —There is, continued my father, a certain mien 9
quel ila commencé d’user de la raison; il veut que ¢ alt . 2 acd ; ; j
été a lage de neuf ans; et il nous veut persuader que ce and motion of the body and all its parts, both m ef
fut en cet age, que Lipse fit un poéme.—Le tour est ingé- acting and speaking, which argues a man well \st
nieux,” &c, within; and Lam not at all surprised that Gregory [me

 

 

 

ee enoneTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 197

 

of Nazianzum, upon observing the hasty and un-
toward gestures of Julian, should foretell he would
one day become an apostate ;—or that St. Ambrose
should turn his amanuensis out of doors, because
of an indecent motion of his head, which went
backwards and forwards like a flail ;—or that
Democritus should conceive Protagoras to be a
scholar, from seeing him bind up a faggot, and
thrusting, as he did it, the small twigs inwards.—
There are a thousand unnoticed openings, con-
tinued my father, which let a penetrating eye at
once into a man’s soul ; and I maintain it, added
he, that a man of sense does not lay down his hat
in coming into a room, or take it up in going out
of it, but something escapes which discovers him.

It is for these reasons, continued my father, that
the governor I make choice of shall neither* lisp,
nor squint, nor wink, nor talk loud, nor look fierce,
nor foolish ;—nor bite his lips, nor grind his teeth,
nor speak through his nose, nor pick it, nor blow
it with his fingers.

He shall neither walk fast, nor slow, nor fold
his arms,—for that is laziness ;—nor hang them
down,—for that is folly; nor hide them in his
pocket,—for that is nonsense.

He shall neither strike, nor pinch, nor tickle,—
nor bite, nor cut his nails, nor hawk, nor spit, nor
snift, nor drum with his feet or fingers in company ;

- —nor (according to Erasmus) shall he speak to

any one in making water,—nor shall he point to

{ carrion nor excrement.——~ Now thisis allnonsense

J

again, quoth my uncle Toby to himself.
I will have him, continued my father, cheerful,

| facete, jovial ; at the same time prudent, attentive

)

to business, vigilant, acute, argute, inventive, quick

{in resolving doubts and speculative questions : he
fo] >

shall be wise, and judicious, and learned._—_And

iwhy not humble, and moderate, and gentle-tem-

pered, and good? said Yorick.——And why not,

“teried my uncle Toby, free, and generous, and

 

bountiful, and brave ? He shall, my dear Toby,
replied my father, getting up and shaking him by
his hand. Then, brother Shandy, answered my
uncle Toby, raising himself off the chair, and laying
down his pipe to take hold of my father’s other hand,

 

-—I humbly beg I may recommend poor Le Fevre’s
qson to you—(a tear of joy of the first water
q sparkled in my uncle Toby’s eye—and another, the

fellow to it, in the Corporal’s, as the proposition
was made)—you will see why, when you read Le
Fevre’s story——F ool that I was! nor can I

 

9 recollect (nor perhaps you), without turning back

“

JAG

>y
s2
c

1

to the place, what it was that hindered me from
letting the Corporal tell it in his own words ?—but
the occasion is lost,—I must tell it now in my own.

CHAPTER VI.
THE STORY OF LE FEVRE.

It was some time in the summer of that year in
which Dendermond was taken by the Allies, which
was about seven years before my father came into
che country,—and about as many after the time
chat my uncle Toby and Trim had privately de-

scamped from my father’s house in town, in order

(so lay some of the finest sieges to some of the finest
(ortified cities in Europe ;—when my uncle Toby

was one evening getting his supper, with Trim

 

 

sitting behind him at a small sideboard,—I say

* Vide Pellegrina.

 

sitting,—for, in consideration of the Corporal’s
lame knee (which sometimes gave him exquisite
pain) when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone,
he would never suffer the Corporal to stand ; and
the poor fellow’s veneration for his master was
such that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby
could have taken Dendermond itself with less
trouble than he was able to gain this point over
him ; for many a time, when my uncle Toby sup-
posed the Corporal’s leg was at rest, he would look
back, and detect him standing behind him with the
most dutiful respect.— This bred more little squab-
bles betwixt them than all other sauses, for five-
and-twenty years together: but this is neither
here nor there,—why do I mention it? Ask my
pen : it governs me,—I govern not it.

fe was one evening sitting thus at his supper,
when the landlord of a little inn in the village came
into the parlour, with an empty phial in his hand,
to beg a glass or two of sack. "Tis for a poor
gentleman, I think of the army, said the landlord,
who has been taken ill at my house four days ago,
and has never held up his head since, or had a
desire to taste anything, till just now, that he has
a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast—J
think, says he, taking his hand from his forehead,
it would comfort me.

If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a

thing, added the landlord, | would almost steal it
for the poor gentleman, he is so ill. I hope in
God he will still mend, continued he ; we are all
of us concerned for him.
Thou art a good-natured soul, I willanswer
for thee, cried my uncle Toby: and thou shalt
drink the poor gentleman’s health in a glass of
sack thyself,—and take a couple of bottles with my
service, and tell him he is heartily weleome to them,
and to a dozen more, if they will do him good.

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby,
as the landlord shut the door, he is a very com-
passionate fellow, Trim, yet I cannot help enter-
taining a high opinion of his guest too. There
must be something more than common in him,
that, in so short a time, should win so much upon
the affections of his host ; And of his whole
family, added the Corporal, for they are all con-
cerned for him——Step after him, said my uncle.
Toby ; do, Trim ; and ask if he knows his name.

——I have quite forgot it truly, said the land-
lord, coming back into the parlour with the
Corporal ;—but I can ask his son again.——Has
he ason with him, then? said my uncle Toby.

—A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven
or twelve years of age ; but the poor creature has
tasted almost as little as his father: he does
nothing but mourn and lament for him night and
day. He has not stirred from the bed-side these
two days.

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork,
and thrust his plate from before him, as the land-
lord gave him the account ; and Trim, without
being ordered, took it away, without saying one
word, and in a few minutes after, brought him
his pipe and tobacco.

Stay in the room a little, said my uncle

 

 

 

 

Toby
oby.

Trim! said my uncle Toby, after he lighted his
pipe, and smoked about a dozen whifis——Trim

came in front of his master, and made his bow ;—
my uncle Toby smoked on, and said no more.——

 

 

 

——

Preis epee

ata

sme toe

SS

th ere ee
—— ee SS

z=

k=

Corporal! said my uncle Toby ;——The Corporal
made his how——-My uncle Toby proceeded no
farther, but finished his pipe.

Trim ! said my-uncle Toby, I have a project
in my head, as'‘it}is a bad night, of wrapping my-
self up.warm,in my roquelaure, and paying a
visit to-this. poor gentleman.——Your honour’s
roquelaure,: replied the Corporal, has not once
been hadson since the night before your honour
received your wound, when we mounted guard in
the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas ; and,
besides, it is so cold and rainy a night that, what
with the roqguelaure, and what with the weather,
’twill be enough to give your honour your death,
and bring on your honour’s torment in your
eroin. I fear so, replied my uncle Toby ; but
Tam not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the
account the landlord has given me.—I wish I had
not known so much of this affair, added my uncle
Toby, or.that I had known more of it. How
shall we manage it ?——Leave it, an’ please your
honour, to. me, quoth the Corporal. Ill take my
hat and stick, and go the house and reconnoitre,
and act accordingly;‘and I will bring your honour

|
|
|
\

 

 

a full account in an hour.——Thou shalt go, Trim,
said my uncle Toby, and here’s a shilling for thee
to drink with his servant——I shall get it all out

| of him, said the Corporal, shutting the door.

My uncle Toby filled his second pipe ; and had
it not been that he now and then wandered from
the point, with considering whether it was not

| full as well to have the curtain of the tenaille a
| straight line as a crooked one,—he might be said
| to have thought of nothing else but poor Le Feyre
| and his boy the whole time he smoked it.

CHAPTER VII.
THE STORY OF LE FEVRE CONTINUED.

Ir was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the
ashes out of his third pipe, that Corporal Trim
returned from the inn, and gave him the following
account :—

— —I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of
being able to bring back your honour any kind
of intelligence concerning the poor sick Lieute-
nant——Is he in the army, then? said my uncle
Toby. He is, said the Corporal. And in
| what regiment? said my uncle Toby.——I’ll tell
| your honour, replied the Corporal, everything
straight forwards, as I learnt it——Then, Trim,
| Ill fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not
| interrupt thee till thou hast done ; so sit down at

thy ease, Trim, in the window-seat, and begin thy

|
|
|

 

 

| story again.——The Corporal made his old bow,
which generally spoke as plain as a bow could

speak it, Your honour is good: —and having
done that, he sat down, as he was ordered, and
began the story to my uncle Toby, over again in
| pretty near the same words.

| I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of being
| able to bring back any intelligence to your honour,
|

|
|
}
|

about the Lieutenant and his son ;—for, when I
| asked where his servant was, from whom I made
| myself sure of knowing everything which was
| proper to be asked, —_(That’s a right distinction,
Trim, said my uncle Toby)——I was answered,
| an’ please your honour, that he had no servant
| with him ; that he had come to the inn with hired
| horses, which, upon finding himself unable to

 

108 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

proceed (to join, I suppose, the regiment) he had
dismissed the morning after he came.——lIf I get
better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to
his son to pay the man, we can hire horses from
hence.

—But alas! the poor gentleman will never go
from hence, said the landlady to me, for I heard
the death-watch all night long ; and, when he dies,
the youth, his son, will certainly die with him, for
he is broken-hearted already.

I was hearing this account, continued the Cor-
poral, when the youth came into the kitchen, to
order the thin toast the landlord spoke of :——
But I will do it for my father myself, said the
youth.—— Pray let me save you the trouble,
young gentleman, said I, taking up a fork for the
purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down
upon by the fire, whilst I did it.——I believe, sir,
said he, very modestly, I can please him best my-
self.——I am sure, said I, his honour will not
like the toast the worse for being toasted by an
old soldier.——The youth took hold of my hand,
and instantly burst into tears.——Poor youth!
said my uncle Toby ; he has been bred up from
an infant in the army; and the name of a soldier,
Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a
friend !—I wish I had him here.

I never, in the longest march, said the
Corporal, had so great a mind for my dinner, as
I had to ery with him for company. What could
be the matter with me, an’ please your honour ?

—Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle
Toby, blowing his nose, but that thou art a good-
natured fellow.

——When I gave him the toast, continued the
Corporal, I thought it was proper to tell him I
was Captain Shandy’s servant, and that your
honour (though a stranger) was extremely con-
cerned for his father ; and that if there was any-

 

 

thing in your house, or cellar——(And thou
might’st have added my purse, too, said my uncle
Toby)——he was heartily welcome to it.——He

made a very low bow (which was meant to your
honour), but no answer ;—for his heart was full ;
—so he went up-stairs with the toast——I warrant
you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen-
door, your father will be well again. Mr. Yorick’s
curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire ;
but said not a word, good or bad, to comfort the
youth.——TI thought it wrong, added the Corporal.
——I think so too, said my uncle Toby.
——When the Lieutenant had taken his glass
of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived,
and sent down into the kitchen to let me know
that, in about ten minutes, he should be’ glad if I
would step up-stairs.——TI believe, said the land-
lord, he is going to say his prayers ; for there was
a book laid upon the chair by his bed-side, and, as
I shut the door, I saw his son take up a eushion.
——I thought, said the Curate, that you gentle-
men of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your
prayers at all. I heard the poor gentleman
say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very
devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not
have believed it.——-Are you sure of it ? replied
the Curate.——A soldier, an’ please your rever-
ence, said I, prays as often (of his own accord)
as'a parson; and when he is fighting for his
king, and for his own life, and for his honour too,
he has the most reason to pray to God of any

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

cena eee

aoe Raper ste Ohne ha

 

a Sco —— J}fone in the whole world.——’Twas well said of
lj thee, Trim, said my uncle Toby.—But when a
@ soldier, said I, an’ please your reverence, has
d been standing for twelve hours together in the
1 trenches, up to his knees in cold water —or
(9 engaged, said I, for months together in long and
‘b dangerous marches ;—harassed, perhaps, in his
| rear to-day ;—harrassing others to-morrow i—
) detached here ;—countermanded there ;—resting
| this night out upon his arms 3—beat up in his
¢ shirt the next ;—benumbed in his joints ;—perhaps
i without straw in his tent to kneel on ;—must say
¢ his prayers how and when he can.——I believe,
‘said I,—for I was piqued, quoth the Corporal,
' for the reputation of the army—lI believe, an’
¢ please your reverence, said I, that when a soldier
gets time ‘to pray—he prays as heartily as a
( parson—though not with all his fuss and hypo-
it erisy.——Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim,
» said my uncle Toby—for God only knows who is
1a hypocrite,—and who is not.—At the great and
# general review of us all, Corporal, at the day of
u judgment (and not till then)—it will be seen who
siave done their duties in this world,—and who
lave not; and we shall be advanced, Trim,
» 1ecordingly.—TI hope we shall, said Trim.——
} {tis in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby ; and
{ will show it thee to-morrow. In the mean time
we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort,
ssaid my uncle Toby, that God Almighty is so good
amd just a Governor of the world that, if we have
ydut done our duties in it,—it will never be in-
jjuired into whether we have done them ina red
jcoat or a black one.-——I hope not, said the
 orporal.——But go on, Trim, said my uncle
Poby, with thy story.—

When I went up, continued the Corporal, into
che Lieutenant’s room, which I did not do till the
#°xpiration of the ten minutes,—he was lying in his
syed, with his head raised upon his hand, with his
| bow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric
fiandkerchief beside it. The youth was just
) tooping down to take up the cushion, upon which
2 supposed he had been kneeling ; the book was
i aid upon the bed ;—and, as he arose, in taking
§'p the cushion with one hand, he reached out his
i ther to take it away at the same time.——Let it
¢emain there, my dear, said the Lieutenant.—

He did not offer to speak to me till I had
svalked up close to his bed-side.——If you are

s/aptain Shandy’s servant, said he, you must
d)resent my thanks to your master, with my little
c oy’s thanks along with them, for his courtesy to
) 1e.——If he was of Leven’s?__said the Lieutenant.
-——TI told him your honour was.——Then, said
< e, [served three campaigns with him in Flanders,
snd remember him ; but ’tis most likely, as I had
cot the honour of any acquaintance with him,
saat he knows nothing of me.—You will tell him,
“owever, that the person his good-nature has
nitid under obligations to him is one Le Fevre, a
dideutenant in Angus’s ;—but he knows me not,—
iaid he, a second time, musing ; possibly he may
yy story, added he.— Pray tell the Captain I was
9ie ensign at Breda whose wife was most unfor-
a mately killed with a musket-shot, as she lay in
yviy arms in my tent.——lI remember the story,
‘ja’ please your honour, said I, very well.——Do
you so ?—said he, wiping his eyes with his hand-
@ erchief,—then well may I.——In saying this, he

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 109

 

 

drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed
tied with a black riband about his neck, and
kissed it twice. — Here, Billy, said he ;— the
boy flew across the room to the bed-side—and,
falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his
hand, and kissed it too,—then kissed his father,
and sat down upon the bed and wept.

I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh,—
I wish, Trim, I was asleep.

Your honour, replied the Corporal, is too
much concerned—Shall I pour your honour out
a glass of sack to your pipe ? Do, Trim, said
my uncle Toby.

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again,
the story of the Ensign and his wife, with a cir-
cumstance his modesty omitted ;—and particularly
well that he, as well as she, upon some account or
other (1 forget what) was universally pitied by the
whole regiment ;—but finish the story thou art
upon.——’Tis finished already, said the Corporal,
—for I could stay no longer ; so wished his
honour a good night.— Young Le Fevre rose from
off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the
stairs ; and, as we: went down together, told me
that they had come from Ireland, and were on
their route to join the regiment in Flanders.—
But alas! said the Corporal,—the Lieutenant’s
last day’s march is over !——Then what is to
become of his poor boy ? eried my uncle Toby.

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE STORY OF LE FEVRE CONTINUED.

Ir was tomy uzcle Toby’s eternal honour,—
though I tell it only for the sake of those who,
when cooped in betwixt a natural and a positive
law, know not, for their souls, which way in the
world to turn themselves,—that, notwithstanding
my uncle Toby was warmly engaged at that time
in carrying on the siege of Dendermond, parallel
with the Allies, who pressed theirs on so vigor-
ously that they scarce allowed him time to get his
dinner :—that nevertheless he gave up Dender-
mond, though he had already made a lodgment
upon the countersecarp ;—and bent his whole
thoughts towards the private distresses at the
inn ; and, except that he ordered the garden-gate
to be bolted up, by which he might be said to
have turned the siege of Dendermond into a
blockade—he left Dendermond to itself—to be
relieved or not by the French king, as the French
king thought good ; and only considered how he
himself should relieve the poor Lieutenant and
his son.

——That kind Being, who is a friend to the
friendless, shall recompense thee for this.—

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle
Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting him to
bed,—and I will tell thee in what, Trim :—In the
first place, when thou madest an offer of my
services to Le Fevre,—as sickness and travelling
are both expensive, and thou knewest he was but
a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well
as himself out of his pay, that thou didst not
make an offer to him of my purse 3 because, had
he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been
as welcome to it as myself——Your honour
knows, said the Corporal, I had no orders.——
True, quoth my uncle Toby,—-thou didst very
right, Trim, as a soldier — but certainly very
wrong as a man.

 

 

 

 

——=S

Sn
a eee

WGENER E T

RE

cy et

eo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

110

 

HE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou
hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby,
—when thou offeredst him whatever was in my
house—thou shouldst have offered him my house
too. —A sick brother officer should have the
best quarters, Trim ; and if we had him with us
—we could tend and look to him:—Thou art an
excellent nurse thyself, Trim ;—and what with
thy care of him, and the old woman’s, and his
boy’s, and mine together, we might recruit him
again at once, and set him upon his legs.

——In a fortnight or three weeks, added my
uncle Toby, smiling—he might march.——He
will never march, an’ please your honour, in this
world, said the Corporal. He will march, said
my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the
bed with one shoe off.——Aw’ please your honour,
said the Corporal, he will never march but to his
erave.——He shall march, cried my uncle Toby,
marching the foot which haa a shoe on, though
without advancing an inch,—he shall march to
his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the
Corporal. He shall be supported, said my
uncle Toby.——He’ll drop at last, said the Corpo-
ral, and what will become of his boy ?——He shall
not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly.——A well-
a-day—do what we can for him, said Trim, main-
taining his point,—the poor soul will die.——He
shall not die, by G—! cried my uncle Toby.

——The accusing spirit, which flew up to
Heaven’s chancery with the oath, blushed as he
gave it in s—and the recording angel, as he wrote
it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and
blotted it out for ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX.
My uncle Toby went to his bureau,—put
his purse into his breeches-pocket, and, having
ordered the Corporal to go early in the morning
for a physician,—he went to bed and fell asleep.

 

CHAPTER X.
THE STORY OF LE FEVRE CONTINUED.

THE sun looked bright the morning after, to
every eye in the village but Le Fevre’s and his
afflicted son’s ; the hand of death pressed heavy
upon his eye-lids ;—and hardly could the wheel
at the cistern turn round its cirele—when my
uncle Toby, who had risen up an hour before his
wonted time, entered the Lieutenant’s room, and,
without preface or apology, sat himself down upon
the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of
all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the
manner an old friend and brother-officer would
have done it ; and asked him how he did,—how
he had rested in the night—what was his com-
plaint,—where was his pain,—and what he could
do to help him ;—and, without giving him time to
answer any one of these inquiries, went on, and
told him of the little plan which he had been
concerting with the Corporal the night before
for him.

——You shall go home directly, Le Fevre, said
my uncle Toby, to my house,—and we’ll send for
a doctor to see what’s the matter ;—and we'll
have an apothecary ;—and the corporal shall be
your nurse ;—and I’ll be your servant, Le
Fevre.—

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby, not

 

 
 
 

 

the effect of familiarity, —but the cause of it,
—which let you at once into his soul, and
showed you the goodness of his nature. To this,
there was something in his looks, and voice, and
manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to
the unfortunate to come and take shelter under
him ; so that, before my uncle Toby had _ half
finished the kind offers he was making to the
father, had the son insensibly pressed up close to
his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his
coat, and was pulling it towards him.—The blood
and spirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold
and slow within him, and were retreating to their
last citadel, the heart,—rallied back,—the film
forsook his eyes for a moment ;—he looked up
wishfully in my uncle Toby’s face ;—then cast a
look upon his boy ;—and that ligament, fine as it
was—was never broken !

Nature instantly ebb’d again ;—the film returned
to its place ;—the pulse fluttered ;—stopped ;— .
went on,—throbbed,— stopped again ;—moved,
stopped.—Shall I go on 2——No.

 

CHAPTER XI.

I am so impatient to return to my own story
that what remains of young Le Fevre’s, that is,
from this turn of his fortune to the time my uncle
Toby recommended him for my preceptor, shall
be told ina very few words in the next chapter.—
All that is necessary to be added to this chapter
is as follows :—

That my uncle Toby, with young Le Fevre in
his hand, attended the poor lieutenant, as chief
mourners, to his grave.

That the governor of Dendermond paid his
obsequies all military honours ;—and that Yorick,
not to be behind-hand, paid him all ecclesiastie,—
for he buried him in his chancel.—And it appears,
likewise, he preached a funeral sermon over him.

—I say it appears,—for it was Yorick’s custom,
which I suppose a general one with those of his
profession, on the first leaf of every sermon which
he composed, to chronicle down the time, the
place, and the occasion of its being preached : to
this, he was ever wont to add some short comment
or stricture upon the sermon itself, — seldom,
indeed, much to its credit. For instance, “ This
Sermon upon the Jewish dispensation,—I don’t
like it at all ;—though I own there is a world of
water-landish knowledge in it ;—but’tis all tritieal,
and most tritically put together—This is but a
flimsy kind of a composition, What was in my
head when I made it ?”—

“—N. B. The excellency of this text is that
it will suit any sermon ;—and of this sermon,—
that it will suit any text.

—— For this sermon I shall be hanged,—for
I have stolen the greatest part of it. Doctor
Paidagunes found me out. Set a thief to
catch a thief.’’

On the back of half a dozen I find written, So,
so—and no more :—and upon a couple, Moderato;
by which, as far as one may gather from Altieri’s
Italian Dictionary, —but mostly from the authority
of a piece of green whipcord, which seemed to
have been the unravelling of Yorick’s whip-lash,
with which he has left us the two sermons marked
Moderato, and the half dozen of So so, tied fast
together in one bundle by themselves,—one may

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

=safely suppose he meant pretty nearly the same
thing.

There is but one difficulty in the way of this
conjecture, which is this, that the moderatos are
five times better than the so so’s ;—show ten times
more knowledge of the human heart ;—have
Seventy times more wit and spirit in them ;—(and
to rise properly in my climax)—discover a thou-
sand times more genius ;—and, to crown all, are
infinitely more entertaining than those tied up with
them:—for which reason, whenever Yorick’s
dramatic sermons are offered to the world, though
I shall admit but one out of the whole number of
the so so’s, I shall, nevertheless, adventure to print
the two moderatos without any sort of scruple.

What Yorick could mean by the words Jenta-
mente,—tenute,—grave, and sometimes adagio,—
as applied to theological compositions, and with
which he has characterised some of these sermons,
I dare not venture to guess.—I am more puzzled
still upon finding a‘? octava alta! upon one ;—
Con strepito upon the back of another 3—Sici-
fiana upon a third ;—Alla capella upon a fourth;
—Con l arco upon this ;—Senza I’ arco upon
that.—All I know is that they are musical terms,
and have a meaning ;—and, as he was a musical
man, I will make no doubt but that, by some
quaint application of such metaphors to the com-
positions in hand, they impressed very distinct
ideas of their several characters upon his fancy,
—whatever they may do upon that of others.

Amongst these, there is that particular sermon
which has unaccountably led me into this digres-
sion.—The funeral sermon upon poor Le Fevre,
wrote out very fairly, as if from a hasty copy.—
I take notice of it the more because it seems to
have been his favourite composition.—It is upon
mortality ; and is tied length-ways and cross-ways
with a yarn thrum, and then rolled up and
twisted round with a half-sheet of dirty blue
paper, which seems to have been once the cast
cover of a General Review, which to this day
smells horribly of horse-drugs.— Whether these
marks of humiliation were designed,—I something
doubt ;—because at the end of the sermon (and
1 not at the beginning of it)—very different from his
) way of treating the rest, he had wrote—Bravo !
-——Though not very offensively,—for it was at
; two inches, at least, and a half’s distance from

and below the concluding line of the sermon, at
d the very extremity of the page, and in that right-
s hand corner of it which, you know, is generally
» covered with your thumb ; and, to do it justice,
‘it is wrote besides with a crow’s quill, so faintly,
in a small Italian hand, as scarcely to solicit the
ceye towards the place, whether your thumb is
dthere or not ;—so that, from the manner of it, it
i stands half excused ; and being wrote, moreover,
a with very pale ink, diluted almost to nothing,—
‘tis more like a ritratto of the shadow of Vanity
than of Vanity herself—of the two ; resembling
srather a faint thought of transient appleuse,
“secretly stirring up in the heart of the composer,
than a gross mark of it, coarsely obtruded upon
the world.

With all these extenuations, I am aware that,
in publishing this, I do no service to Yorick’s
isharacter as a modest man ;—but all men have
their failings ! and what. lessens this still farther,
wud almost wipes it away, is this,—that the word

 

a eae na ieee oid

pet AD)

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

|

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 111

 

 

 

was struck through sometime afterwards (as
appears from a different tint of the ink) with a
line quite across it, in this manner, Be=o/ as if
he had retracted, or was ashamed of the opinion
he had once entertained of it.

These short characters of his sermons were
always written, excepting in this one instance,
upon the first leaf of his sermon, which served as
a cover to it ; and usually upon the inside of it,
which was turned towards the text :—but at the
end of his discourse, where, perhaps, he had five
or six pages, and sometimes, perhaps, a whole
score to turn himself in,—he took a larger cir-
cuit, and, indeed, a much more mettlesome one ;
—as if he had snatched the occasion of unlacing
himself with a few more frolicsome strokes at
vice, than the straitness of the pulpit allowed.—
These, though, hussar-like, they skirmish lightly
and out of all order, are still auxiliaries on the
side of Virtue.—Tell me, then, Mynheer Vander
Blonederdondergewedenstronke, why they should
not be printed together ?

CHAPTER XII.

Wuenmy uncle Toby had turned everything into
money, and settled all accounts betwixt the agent of
the regiment and Le Fevre, and betwixt Le Fevre
and all mankind, there remained nothing more
in my uncle Toby’s hands than an old regimental
coat and sword; so that my uncle Toby found
little or no opposition from the world in taking
administration. The coat my uncle Toby gave
the Corporal. Wear it, Trim, said my uncle
Toby, as long as it will hold together, for the sake
of the poor lieutenant. — And this — said my
uncle Toby, taking up the sword in his hand, and
drawing it out of the seabbard as he spoke,— and
this, Le Fevre, I’ll save for thee ; ’tis all the
fortune, continued my uncle Toby, hanging it up
upon a crook, and pointing to it,—~’tis all the
fortune, my dear Le Fevre, which God has left
thee ;—but if he has given thee a heart to fight
thy way with it in the world, and thou doest it
like a man of honour,—’tis enough for us.

AS soon as my uncle Toby had laid a founda- -

tion, and taught him to inscribe a regular polygon
in a circle, he sent him to a public school, where,
excepting Whitsuntide and Christmas, at which
times the Corporal was punctually despatched for
him, — he remained to the spring of the year
Seventeen ; when the stories of the Emperor’s

 

sending his army into Hungary against the
Turks, kindling a spark of fire in his bosom, he
left his Greek and Latin, without leave, and,
throwing himself upon his knees before my uncle
Toby, begged his father’s sword, and my uncle
Toby’s leave along with it, to go and try his for-
tune under Eugene. Twice did my uncle Toby
forget his wound, and ery out, Le Fevre, I will
go with thee, and thou shalt fight beside me !—
and twice he laid his hand upon his groin, and
hung down his head in sorrow and disconsola-
tion.

My uncle Toby took down the sword from the
crook, where it had hung untouched ever since
the Lieutenant’s death, and delivered it to the
Corporal to brighten up ;—and, having detained
Le Fevre a single fortnight to equip him, and
contract for his passage to Leghorn—he put the
sword into his hand.—If thou art brave, Le Fevre,

 

 

 

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said my uncle Toby, this will not fail thee ;—but
Fortune, said he (musing a little) —Fortune may ;
—and if she does,—added my uncle Toby, embrac-
ing him, come back again to me, Le Fevre, and
we will shape thee another course.

The greatest injury could not have oppressed
the heart of Le Fevre more than my uncle Toby’s
paternal kindness ;—he parted from my uncle
Toby as the best of sons from the best of fathers :
—both dropped tears; and, as my uncle Toby
gave him his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas,
tied up in an old purse of his father’s, in which
was his mother’s ring, into his hand,—and bade
God bless him.

 

 

CHAPTER XIII.

Le Frvre got up to the Imperial army just
time enough to try what metal his sword was
made of, at the defeat of the Turks before Bel-
grade ; but a series of unmerited mischances had
pursued him from that moment, and trod close
upon his heels for four years together after. He
had withstood these buffetings to the last, till
sickness overtook him at Marseilles, whence he
wrote my uncle Toby word he had lost his time,
his services, his health, and in short everything
but his sword ;—and was waiting for the first
ship to return back to him.

As this letter came to hand about six weeks
before Susannah’s accident, Le Fevre was hourly
expected ; and was uppermost in my uncle Toby’s
mind all the time my father was giving him and
Yorick a description of what kind of a person he
would choose for a preceptor to me ; but as my
uncle Toby thought my father at first somewhat
fanciful in the accomplishments he required, he
forbore mentioning Le Fevre’s name—till the
character, by Yorick’s interposition, ending unex-
pectedly, in one who should be gentle-tempered
and generous, and good, it impressed the image
of Le Fevre, and his interest, upon my uncle
Toby so forcibly, that he rose instantly off his
chair ; and, laying down his pipe, in order to take
hold of both my father’s hands,—I beg, brother

 

Db?
Shandy, said my uncle Toby, I may recom-
mend poor Le Fevre’s son to youu——I beseech
you, do ! added Yorick.——He has a good heart,
said my uncle Toby.——And a brave one too, an’
please your honour, said the Corporal.
The best hearts, Trim, are ever the bravest,
replied my uncle Toby.——And the greatest
cowards, an’ please your honour, in our regiment,
were the greatest rascals in it——There was Ser-
jeant Kumber, and Ensigna——
We'll talk of them, said my father, another time.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

Wnar a jovial and a merry world would this be,
may it please your Worships, but for that inextri-
cable labyrinth of debts, cares, woes, want, grief,
discontent, melancholy, large jointures, imposi-
tions, and lies !

Doctor Slop, like a son of a w——, as my father
called him for it,—to exalt himself,—debased me
to death,—and made ten thousand times more of
Susannah’s accident than there was any ground
for; so that in a week’s time, or less, it was in
everybody’s mouth, That poor Master Shandy
* ** * 2 x *

 

*

entirely :—and Fame, who loves

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

to double everything,—in three days more, had
sworn, positively, she saw it ;—and all the world,

 

as usual, gave credit to her evidence,—* That the
nursery window had not only * * x
* . - ; but that * a
* * ’s also.”

Could the world have been sued like a body-
corporate,—my father had brought an action upon
the case, and trounced it sufficiently : but to fall
foul of individuals about it,—as every soul who
had mentioned the affair, did it with the greatest
pity imaginable,—’twas like flying in the very
face of his best friends:—and yet to acquiesce
under the report in silence, was to acknowledge it
openly,—at least in the opinion of one half of the
world ; and to make a bustle again, in contradict-
ing it,—was to confirm it as strongly in the opi-
nion of the other half.

—Was ever poor devil of a
so hampered ? said my father.

____T would show him publicly, said my uncle
Toby, at the market-cross.

"Twill have no effect, said my father.

 

 

country-gentleman

 

CHAPTER XV.
I’Lt put him, however, into breeches, said
my father,—let the world say what it will.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

THERE 2re a thousand resolutions, sir, both in
church and state, as well as in matters, madam,
of a more private concern,—which, though they
have carried all the appearance in the world of
being taken, and entered upon in a hasty, hare-
brained, and unadvised manner, were, notwith-
standing this, (and could you or I have got into
the cabinet, or stood behind the curtain, we should
have found it was so) weighed, poised, and per-
pended,—argued upon,—canvassed through,—en-
tered into,—and examined on all sides with so
much coolness, that the Goddess of Coolness her-
self (I do not take upon me to prove her exist-
ence) could neither have wished it, or done it
better.

Of the number of these was my father’s resolu-
tion of putting me into breeches ; which, though
determined at once,—in a kind of huff, and a
defiance of all mankind,—had, nevertheless, been
pro'd and conn’d, and judicially talked over betwixt
him and my mother about a month before, in two
several beds of justice, which my father had held
for that purpose. I shall explain the nature of
these beds of justice in my next chapter ; and in
the chapter following that, you shall step with me,
madam, behind the curtain, only to hear in what
kind of manner my father and my mother debated
between themselves this affair of the breeches ;—
from which you may form an idea how they
debated all lesser matters.

 

CHAPTER XVII.

Tue ancient Goths of Germany, who (the learned
Cluverius is positive) were first seated in the
country between the Vistula and the Oder, and
who afterwards incorporated the Herculi, the
Bugians, and some other Vandalic clans to *em,—
had, allof them, a wise custom of debating every-
thing of importance to their state, twice ; that is,

|

 

|

|
|
|

 

 

 

 

}~
|
|
|
|
|

ee
—onee drunk, and once sober.—Drunk,—that
their councils might not want vigour ;—and sober,
—that they might not want discretion.

Now, my father, being entirely a water-drinker,
was a long time gravelled, almost to death, in
turning this as much to his advantage as he did
every other thing which the ancients did or said :
and it was not till the seventh year of his marriage,
after a thousand fruitless experiments and devices,
that he hit upon an expedient which answered the
purpose ;—and that was, when any difficult and
momentous point was to be settled in the family,
which required great sobriety and great spirit too,
in its determination,—he fixed and set apart the
first Sunday night in the month, and the Saturday
night which immediately preceded it, to argue it
over, in bed, with my mother: by which contriv-

; ance, if you consider, Sir, with yourself

 

+ *
* * * * *K * *
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *K *
* * * *

These my father, humorously enough, called
| his beds of justice ;—for from the two different
< counsels taken in these two different humours, a
¢ middle one was generally found out which touched

(i the point of wisdom as well, as if he had got drunk
{ and sober a hundred times.

It must not be madea secret of to the world, that
| this answers full as well in literary discussions, as
“either in military or conjugal ; butit is not every
“jauthor that can try the experiment as the Goths
and Vandals did it ;—or, if he can, may it be
|. always for his body’s health; and to do it as my
s father did it,—am I sure it would be always for his
vo soul’s,

My way is this :—

In all nice and ticklish discussions—(of which,
EHeaven knows, there are but too many in my
9 00k)—where I find I cannot take a step without
the danger of having either their worships or
)§ heir reverences upon my back,—I write one-half
» wll,—and t’other fasting ;—or write it all full,—

oGimd correct it fasting ;—or write it fasting,—and
qorrect it full; for they all come to the same

mijhing.—So that with a less variation from my
Nather’s plan, than my father’s from the Gothie,—
t) feel myself upon a par with him in his first bed
+f justice ;—and no way inferior to him in his
9} econd.—These different and almost irreconcileable
i ffects flow uniformly from the wise and wonderful
aechahism of Nature ;—of which,—be hers the
« onour.—All that we can do, is, to turn and work
9, he machine to the improvement and better manu-
9 uctory of the arts and sciences.

Now, when I write full,—I write as if I was
“ever to write fasting again as long as I live ;
& at is, I write free from the cares as well as the
“2rrors of the world.—I count not the number of
% 1y scars,—nor does my fancy go forth into dark
ijntries and bye-corners to antedate my stabs.—In
” word, my pen takes its course ; and I write on,

s much from the fullness of my heart as my
fomach.

i But when, an’ please your honours, I indite

ie sting, *tis a different story.—I pay the world all

w@ ossible attention and respect,—and have as great

(l@ share (whilst it lasts) of that under-strapping

uieirtue of discretion as the best of you.—So that

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF T

RISTR

AM SHANDY. 113

 

 

| betwixt both, I write a careless kind of a eivil,
nonsensical, good-humoured Shandean book, which
will do all your hearts good
—And all your heads too,—provided you under-
stand it.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

WE should begin, said my father, turning him-

self half round in bed, and shifting his pillow a

| little towards my mother’s, as he opened the

debate ;—we should begin to think, Mrs. Shandy,
of putting this boy into breeches.

We should so,—said my mother. We defer
it, my dear, quoth my father, shamefully.

I think we do, Mr. Shandy,—said my mother.

Not but the child looks extremely well, said my
father, in his vests and tunics,

He does look very well in them, replied my
mother.

——And for that reason it would be almost a
sin, added my father, to take him out of ’em.

——It would so, said my mother. —— But,
indeed, he is growing a very tall lad,—rejoined
my father.

—He is very tall for his age, indeed,—said
my mother.

——I can not (making two syllables of it) ima-
gine, quoth my father, who the deuce he takes
after,

——I cannot conceive, for my life, said my
mother.

Humph !—said my father.

(The dialogue ceased for a moment. )

—I am very short myself, continued my father,
gravely.

——You are very short, Mr. Shandy, said my
mother.

Humph ! quoth my father to himself, a second
time ; in muttering which, he plucked his pillow
a little further from my mother’s,—and turning
about again, there was an end of the debate for
three minutes and a half.

When he gets these breeches made, cried
my father in a higher tone, he’ll look like a beast
in ’em.

——He will be very awkward in them at first,
replied my mother.

——And ‘twill be lucky, if that’s the worst on’t,
added my father.

It will be very lucky, answered my mother.

I suppose, replied my father,—making some
pause. first,—he’ll be exactly like other people’s

| children.

Exactly, said my mother.

——Though I shall be sorry for that, added my
father ; and so the debate stopped again.

—They should be of leather, said my father,
turning him about again.

——They will last him, said my mother, the
longest. ;
But he can have no linings to ’em, replied
my father.

He cannot, said my mother.

"Twere better to have them of fustian,
quoth my father.

Nothing can be better, quoth my mother.

——KExcept dimity, replied my father. "Tis
best of all, replied my mother.

——One must not give him his death, however,
—interrupted my father.

I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

|

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re ate RTT ET

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senna sie

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——

eSTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

By no means, said my mother ;—and so
the dialogue stood still again.

Iam resolved, however, quoth my father, break-
ing silence the fourth time, he shall have no pockets
in them.

——There is no occasion for any, said my
mother.

I mean in his coat and waistcoat, cried my

 

father.

 

I mean so too, replied my mother.

Though if he gets a gig or a top,—Poor
souls! it is a crown and a sceptre to them,—they
should have where to secure it.

Order it as you please, Mr. Shandy, replied
my mother.

But don’t you think it right ? added my
father, pressing the point home to her.

Perfectly, said my mother; if it pleases
you, Mr, Shandy.

There’s for you! cried my father, losing
temper.—Pleases me!—You never will dis-
tinguish, Mrs. Shandy, nor shali I ever teach
you to do it, betwixt a point of pleasure and a
point of convenience.—This was on the Sunday
night ; and further this chapter saith not.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.

Arter my father had debated the affair of the
breeches with my mother,—he consulted Albertus
Rubenius upon it; and Albertus Rubenius used
my father ten times worse in the consultation (if
possible) than even my father had used my mother :
for, as Rubenius had wrote a quarto express, De
re Vestiaria Veterum,—it was Rubenius’s business
to have given my father some lights.—On the con-
trary, my father might as well have thought of
extracting the seven cardinal virtues out of a long
beard,—as of extracting a single word out of Rube-
nius upon the subject.

Upon every other article of ancient dress, Rube-
nius was very communicative to my father ;—he
gave him a full and satisfactory account of

The Toga, or loose gown ;

The Chlamys ;

The Ephod ;

The Tunica, or jacket ;

The Synthesis ;

The Peenula ;

The Lacerna, with its Cucullus ;

The Paludamentum ;

The Preetexta’;

The Sagum, or Soldier’s jerkin ;

The Trabea ; of which, according to
Suetonius, there were three kinds.

But what are all these to the breeches ? said my
father.

Rubenius threw him down, upon the counter,
all kinds of shoes which had been in fashion with
the Romans :—

There was The open shoe ;

The close shoe ;

The slip shoe ;

The wooden shoe;

The sock ;

The buskin; and

The military shoe, with hob-nails in it,

which Juvenal takes notice of.

There were The clogs ;

The pantoufies ;
The brogues ;
The sandals, with latchets to them.

There was The felt shoe;

The linen shoe ;

The laced shoe ;

The braided shoe ;

The calceus incisus ; and
The caleeus rostratus.

Rubenius showed my father how well they all
fitted, —in what manner they laced on,—with what
points, straps, thongs, latchets, ribands, jags, and
ends.

——But I want to be informed about the
breeches, said my father.

Albertus Rubenius informed my father that the
Romans manufactured stuffs of various fabrics ;
—some plain,—some striped,—others diapered,
throughout the whole contexture of the wool, with
silk and gold :—That linen did not begin to be in
common use till towards the declension of the
empire, when the Egyptians, coming to settle
amongst them, brought it into vogue:

—That persons of quality and fortune distin-
guished themselves by the fineness and whiteness
of their clothes ; which colour (next to purple,
which was appropriated to the great officers) they
most affected, and wore on their birth-days and
public rejoicings :—That it appeared from the
best historians of those times, that they frequently
sent their clothes to the fuller, to be cleaned and
whitened ;—but that the inferior people, to avoid
that expense, generally wore brown clothes, and
of a something coarser texture,—till towards the
beginning of Augustus’s reign, when the slave
dressed like his master, and almost every distinc-
tion of habiliment was lost, but the Latus
Clavus. :

And what was the Latus Clavus? said my
father.

Rubenius told him, that the point was still liti-
gating amongst the learned :—that Egnatius, Sigo-
nius, Bossius Ticinensis, Bayfius, Budeeus, Salma-
sius, Lipsius, Lazius, Isaac Casaubon, and Joseph
Sealiger, all differed from each other,—and he from
them :—That some took it to be the button ;—some
the coat itself ;—others only the colour of it :—
That the great Bayfius, in his Wardrobe of the
Ancients, chap. 12,—honestly said, he knew not
what it was,—whether a fibula,—a stud,—a button,
—a loop,—a buckle,—or clasps and keepers.

My father lost the horse, but not the saddle.
They are hooks and eyes, said my father ;—and
with hooks and eyes he ordered my breeches to be
made.

 

 

CHAPTER XX.

WE are now going to enter upon a new scene of
events.
Leave we then the breeches in the tailor’s hands,
with my father standing over him with his cane,
reading him as he sat at work a lecture upon the |
latus clavus, and pointing to the precise part of the
waistband where he was determined to have it
sewed on.
Leave we my mother—(truest of all the Poco-
curantes of her sex !)—careless about it, as about
everything else in the world which concerned her ;
—that is,—indifferent whether it was done this

 

The pattens ;

 

 

way or that,—provided it was but done at all.———— a eee

 

 

115

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

Leave we Slop likewise to the full profits of all { this I’m now writing is
my dishonours. finished, if I conjectu

Leave we poor Le Fevre to recover, and get | there is no guessing),
home from Marseilles as he can :—and last of all, | will take up as many books; and therefore I an-
—because the hardest of all, prehend it would be hanging too oreat a weight of

Let us leave, if possible, myself :—but ’tis | one kind of matter in so flimsy a performance as
impossible ;—I must go along with you to the end | this to rhapsodize them, as I once intended, into
of the work, the body of the work 3—surely they had better be
printed apart. We'll consider the affair; so take
the following sketch of them in the mean time :—

but a sketch, and will be
re right, in three pages (but
The campaigns themselves

CHAPTER XXI.

Ir the reader has not a clear conception of the
rood and a half of ground which lay at the bot- CHAPTER XXII.
tom of my uncle Toby’s kitchen garden, and which WHEN the town, with its works, was finished
was the ‘scene of so many of his delicious hours, my uncle Toby and the Corporal began to run
—the fault is not in me,—but in his imagination ; | their first parallel, not at random, or any how,—
—for I am sure I gave him so minute a descrip- | but from the same points and distances the Allies
| || tion, I was almost ashamed of it. had begun to run theirs; and regulating their
When Fate was looking forwards, one afternoon, approaches and attacks by the accounts my uncle
into the great transactions of future times,—and Toby received from the daily papers,—they went
recollected for what purposes this little plot, by a | on, during the whole siege, step by step, with the
decree fast bound down in iron, had been destined | Allies. ,
—she gave a nod to Nature s—’twas enough,— When the Duke of Marlborough made a lodg-
Nature threw half a spadeful of her kindliest com- ment,—my uncle Toby made a lodgment too :—and
post upon it, with just so much clay in itas to re- | when the face of a bastion was battered down, or
tain the forms of angles and indenting, and so } a defence ruined,—the Corporal took his mattock
little of it, too, as not to cling to the spade, and | and did as much,—and so on ;—gaining ground,
render works of so much glory nasty in foul wea- | and making themselves masters of the works, one
ther. after another, till the town fell into their hands.
My uncle Toby came down, as the reader has To one who took pleasure in the happy state of
been informed, with plans along with him, of others, there could not have been a greater sight
almost every fortified town in Italy and Flanders; | in the world than on a post-morning, in which a
so let the Duke of Marlborough, or the Allies, | practicable breach had been made by the Duke of
have set down before what town they pleased, my Marlborough in the main body of ‘the place, to
uncle Toby was prepared for them. have stood behind the horn-beam hedge, and ob-
His way, which was the simplest one in the | served the spirit with which my uncle Toby, with
world, was this:—as soon as ever a town was in. Trim behind him, sallied forth ;—the one with the
vested—(but sooner when the design was known) | Gazette in his hand,—the other with a Spade on
—to take the plan of it (let it be what town it | his shoulder, to execute the contents. What an
would)—and enlarge it upon a scale to the exact size | honest triumph in my uncle Toby’s looks as he
of his bowling-green ; upon the surface of which, | marched up to the ramparts ! what intense plea-
by means of a large roll of packthread, and-a num- | sure swimming in his eye as he stood over the
ber of small piquets driven into the ground, at the | Corporal, reading the paragraph ten times over
several angles and redans, he transferred the lines | to him, as he was at work, lest, peradventure, he
from his paper; then, taking the’ profile of the | should make the breach an inch too wide, or leave
place, with its works, to determine the depths and | it an inch too narrow !—But when the chamade
slopes of the ditches,—the talus of the glacis, and | was beat, and the Corporal helped my uncle up it,
the precise height of the several banquettes, para- | and followed with the colours in his hand, to fix
| pets, &c.,—he set the Corporal to work; and | them upon the ramparts,—Heaven! Earth! Sea!
| sweetly went iton. The nature of the soil,—the | —but what avail apostrophes?—with all your
nature of the work itself,—and above all, the good | elements, wet or dry, ye never compounded so
nature of my uncle Toby, sitting by from morning | intoxicating a draught. -
to night, and chatting kindly with the Corporal In this track of happiness, for many years, with-
upon past-done deeds—left labour little else but | out oneinterruption to it, except now and then when
the ceremony of the name. the wind continued to blow due west for a week
When the place was finished in this manner, | or ten days together, which detained the F landers
and put into a proper posture of defence,—it was mail, and kept them so long in torture, but still
invested ;—and my uncle Toby and the Corporal | it was the torture of the happy :—in this track,
began to run their first parallel. I beg I may not be | I say, did my uncle Toby and Trim move for
interrupted in my story, by being told That the | many years, every year of which, and con ae
\, first parallel should be at least three hundred toises | every month, from the invention of either one oa
) distant from the main body of the place,—and | the other of them, adding some new conceit ox
i that I have not left a single ineh for it ;—for my | quirk of improvement to their operations, wiih
; uncle Toby took the liberty of encroaching upon | always opened fresh springs of delight in carr ying
| his kitchen-garden, for the sake of enlarging his them on. a
/ works on the bowling-green ; and, for that reason, The first year Ss campaign was ae on, : oe
} generally ran his first and second parallels betwixt beginning to end, in the plain and simple metho
i two rows of his cabbages and his caulifiowers: the | I’ve related.
) conveniences and inconveniences of which will be In the second year in which my uncle Toby
) considered at large in the history of my uncle | took Liege and Ruremond, he thought he ae
. Toby’s and the Corporal’s campaigns, of which | afford the expense of jon handsome draw-bridges;

 

 

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of two of which I have given an exact description

in the former part of my work.

At the latter end of the same year he added a
couple of gates with portcullises :—these last were
converted afterwards into orgues, as the better
thing; and, during the winter of the same year,
my uncle Toby, instead of a new suit of clothes,
which he always had at Christmas, treated himself
with a handsome sentry-box, to stand at the cor-

| ner of the bowling-green, betwixt which point and
| the foot of the glacis, there was left a little kind of

an esplanade, for him and the Corporal to confer
and hold councils of war upon.

The sentry-box was in case of rain.

All these were painted white three times over
the ensuing spring, which enabled my uncle Toby
to take the field with great splendour.

My father would often say to Yorick that, if any
mortal in the whole universe had done such a
thing except his brother Toby, it would have been
looked upon by the world as one of the most re-
fined satires upon the parade and prancing manner
in which Louis XIV., from the beginning of the
war, but particularly that very year, had taken
the field. But ’tis not my brother Toby’s na-
ture, kind soul! my father would add, to insult
any one.

— — But let us go on.

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
I must observe that, although in the first year’s
campaign the word town is often mentioned—yet

| there was no town at that time within the polygon;

that addition was not made till the summer fol-
lowing the spring in which the bridges and sentry-
box were painted, which was the third year of my
uncle Toby’s campaigns,—when, upon his taking
Amberg, Bonn, and Rhinberg, and Huy and Lim-
bourg, one after another, a thought came into the
Corporal’s head that to talk of taking so many
towns without one town to show for it—was a very
nonsensical way of going to work ; and so proposed
to my uncle Toby that they should have a little
model of a town built for them—to be run up toge-
ther of slit deals, and then painted, and clapped
within the interior polygon to serve for all.

My uncle Toby felt the good of the project in-
stantly, and instantly agreed to it; but with the
addition of two singular improvements, of which he
was almost as proud as if he had been the original
inventor of the project itself.

The one was to have the town built exactly in
the style of those of which it was most likely to be
the representative ;—with grated windows, and the
gable-ends of the houses facing the streets, &c.,—
as those in Ghent and Bruges, and the rest of the
towns in Brabant and Flanders.

The other was not to have the houses run up
together, as the Corporal proposed, but to have
every house independent, to hook on or off, so as
to form into the plan of whatever town they pleased.
—This was put directly into hand; and many and
many a look of mutual congratulation was ex-
changed between my uncle Toby and the Corporal,
as the carpenter did the work.

—It answered prodigiously the next summer ;
—the town was a perfect Proteus. It was Landen,
and Trerebach, and Santvliet, and Drusen, and
Hagenau ;—and then it was Ostend, and Menin,
and Aeth, and Dendermond.

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

—Surely, never did any town act somany parts,
since Sodom and Gomorrah, as my uncle Toby’s
town did.

In the fourth year, my uncle Toby, thinking a
town looked foolishly without a church, added
a very fine one with a steeple. Trim was for
having bells in it——My uncle Toby said the
metal had better be cast into cannon.

This led the way, the next campaign, for half-
a-dozen brass field-pieces, to be planted three and
three on each side of my uncle Toby’s sentry-box;
and in a short time, these led the way for a train |
somewhat larger—and so on—(as must always be |
the case in hobby-horsical affairs) from pieces of |
half an inch bore, till it came at last to my father’s
jack- boots.

The next year, which was that in which Lille |
was besieged, and at the close of which both Ghent |

and Bruges fell into our hands—my uncle Toby |

 

|
{
|
|

was sadly put to it for proper ammunition,—I say |
proper ammunition—because his great artillery
would not bear powder; and ’twas well for the
Shandy family they would not. For so full were
the papers, from the beginning to the end of the
siege, of the incessant firings kept up by the be-
siegers ; and so heated was my uncle Toby’s ima-
gination with the accounts of them, that he had
infallibly shot away all his estate.

Something therefore was wanting as a succeda-
neum, especially in one or two of the more violent
paroxysms of the siege, to keep up something like
a continual firing in the imagination ;—and this
something, the Corporal, whose principal strength
lay in invention, supplied by an entire new system
of battering of his own—without which, this had

been objected to by military critics, to the end of ©

the world, as one of the great desiderata of my
uncle Toby’s apparatus.

This will not be explained the worse for setting
off, as I generally do, at a little distance from the
subject.

CHAPTER XXIV.
Wit two or three other trinkets, small in
themselves, but of great regard, which poor Tom,
the Corporal’s unfortunate brother, had sent him

over, with the account of his marriage with the
Jew’s widow,—there was

A Montero-eap, and two Turkish tobacco-pipes.

The Montero-cap I shall describe by and bye.
The Turkish tobacco-pipes had nothing particular
in them; they were fitted up and ornamented as
usual with flexible tubes of morocco leather and
gold wire, and mounted at their ends, the one of
them with ivory,—the other with black ebony,
tipped with silver.

My father, who saw all things in lights different
from the rest of the world, would say to the Corporal

that he ought to look upon these two presents more %

as tokens of his brother’s nicety than his affection.
Tom did not eare, Trim, he would say, to put on

the cap, or to smoke in the tobacco-pipe of a Jew, |

—- God bless your honour, the Corporal would
say [ giving a strong reason to the contrary ]—how
can that be?

The Montero-eap was scarlet, of a superfine
Spanish cloth, dyed in grain, and mounted all
round with fur, except about four inches in the
front, which was faced with a light blue, slightly
embroidered ;—and seemed to have been the pro-

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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

| toned the waistband, he forthwith buckled on his
| sword-belt, and had got his sword half way in—

 

 

perty of a Portuguese quarter-master, not of foot
but of horse, as the word denotes.

The Corporal was not a little proud of it, as well
for its own sake, as the sake of the giver, so sel-
dom or never put it on but upon gala-days ; and yet
never was a Montero-cap put to so many uses ; for
in all controverted points, whether military or
culinary, provided the Corporal was sure he was
in the right—it was either his oath—his wager—or
his gift.

—'Twas his gift in the present case.

Pll be bound, said the Corporal, speaking to
himself, to give away my Montero-cap to the first
beggar who comes to the door, if I do not manage
this matter to his honour’s satisfaction.

The completion was no farther off than the
very next morning; which was that of the storm
of the counter-scarp betwixt the Lower Deule, to
the right, and the gate of St. Andrew ;—and on
the lett between St. Magdalen’s and the river.

As this was the most memorable attack in the
whole war—the most gallant and obstinate on both
sides—and, I must add, the most bloody too (for
it cost the Allies themselves, that morning, above
eleven hundred men)—my uncle Toby prepared
himself for it with a more than ordinary solemnity.

The eve which preceded, as my uncle Toby went
to bed, he ordered his Ramillies wig, which had
lain, inside out, for many years, in the corner of
an old campaigning trunk, which stood by his bed-
side, to be taken out and laid upon the lid of it,
ready for the morning ;—and the very first thing
he did, in his shirt, when he had stepped out of
bed, my uncle Toby, after he had turned the
rough side outwards—put it on—This done, he
proceeded next to his breeches; and, having but-

 

when he considered he should want shaving ; and
that it would be very inconvenient doing it with
his sword on—so took it off. In essaying to put
on his regimental-coat and waistcoat, my uncle
Toby found the same objection in his wig ;—so that
went off too.—So that, what with one thing and
what with another, as it always falls out when a
man is in the most haste—’twas ten o’clock (which
was half an hour later than his usual time) before
my uncle Toby sallied out.

CHAPTER XXV.

My uncle Toby had scarce turned the corner of
his yew-hedge, which separated his kitchen-garden
from his bowling-green, when he perceived the
Corporal had beguu the attack without him.

Let me stop and give you a picture of the Cor-
poral’s apparatus, and of the Corporal himself in
the height of the attack, just as it struck my uncle
Toby, as he turned towards the sentry-box, where
the Corporal was at work,—for in nature there is
not such another ;—nor can any combination of all
that is grotesque and whimsical in her works pro-
duce its equal.

The Corporal ——

—Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius,
for he was your kinsman :—

Weed his grave clean, ye men of goodness, for
he was your brother.—Oh, Corporal! had I thee,
but 1ow,—now, that I am able to give thee a
dinner and protection, how would I cherish thee!

 

Thou shouldst wear thy Montero-cap every hour

 

SS

117
See a
of the day, and every day of the week j—and, when
it was worn out, I would purchase thee a couple
like it.—But alas! alas! alas! now that I can do
this in spite of their reverences,—the occasion is
lost,—for thou art gone; thy genius fled up to the
stars whence it came—and that warm heart of
thine, with all its generous and open vessels, com-
pressed into a clod of the valley !

But what,—what is this, to that future and
dreaded page, where I look towards the velvet
pall, decorated with the military ensigns of thy
Master,—the first,—the foremost of created
beings ;—where I shall see thee, faithful servant!
laying his sword and scabbard, with a trembling
hand, across his coffin, and then returning pale as
ashes to tlie door, to take his mourning-horse by
the bridle, to follow his hearse, as he directed
thee :—where all my father’s systems shall be
bafiled by his sorrows; and, in spite of his philo-
sophy, I shall behold him, as he inspects the
lacquered plate, twice taking his spectacles from
off his nose, to wipe away the dew which nature
has shed upon them.—When I see him cast in the
rosemary with an air of disconsolation, which cries
through my ears,—O Toby! in what corner of the
world shall I seek thy fellow?

—Gracious powers! which erst have opened
the lips of the dumb in his distress, and made the
tongue of the stammerer speak plain,—when I
shall arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with
me, then, with a stinted hand.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Tue Corporal, who the night before had re-
solved in his mind to supply the grand desideratum
of keeping up something like an incessant firing
upon the enemy during the heat of the attack,—
had no further idea in his fancy, at that time, than
a contrivance of smoking tobacco against the town,
out of one of my uncle Toby’s six field-pieces,
which were planted on each side of his sentry-box;
the means of effecting which occurring to his
fancy at the same time, though he had pledged his
cap, he thought it inno danger from the miscar-
riage of his projects. aoe

Upon turning it this way and that a little in his
mind, he soon began to find out that, by means of
his two Turkish tobacco-pipes, with the supple-
ment of three smaller tubes of wash-leather at
each of their lower ends, to be tagged by the same
number of tin-pipes fitted to the touch-holes, and
sealed with clay next the cannon, and then tied
hermetically with waxed silk at their several in-
sertions into the morocco tube,—he should be able
to fire the six field-pieces altogether, and with the
same ease as to fire one. ;

—Let no man say from what tags and jags
hints may not be cut out for the advancement of
human knowledge. Let no man, who has read
my father’s first and second beds Oa ever
rise up and say again, from collision of what kinds of
bodies light may or may not be struck out, to carry
the arts and sciences up to perfection. Heaven !
thou knowest how I love them ;—thou knowest
the secrets of my heart, and that I would this
moment give my shirt Thou arta fool, Shandy,
said Eugenius, for thou hast but a dozen in the
world :—and ’twill break thy set.

No matter for that, Eugenius; I would give
the shirt off my back to be burnt into tinder, were

 

 

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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

it only to satisfy one feverish inquirer, How many
sparks, at one good stroke, a good flint and steel
could strike into the tail of it.—Think ye not that,
in striking these in,—he might, peradventure,
strike something owt 2 as sure as a gun.

—But this project by the bye.

The Corporal sat up the best part of the night,
in bringing his to perfection; and having made a
sufficient proof of his cannon, with charging them
to the top with tobacco—he went with content-
ment to bed.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Tue Corporal had slipped out about ten minutes
before my uncle Toby, in order to fix his appa-
ratus, and just give the enemy a shot or two before
my uncle Toby came.

He had drawn the six field-pieces, for this end,
all close up together in front of my uncle Toby’s
sentry-box, leaving only an interval of about a
yard and a half betwixt the three, on the right
and left, for the convenience of charging, &e.—
and for the sake, possibly, of two batteries, which
he might think double the honour of one.

In the rear, and facing this opening, with his
back to the door of the sentry-box, for fear of
being flanked, had the Corporal wisely taken his
post. He held the ivory pipe, appertaining to the
battery on the right, betwixt the finger and thumb
of his right hand;—and the ebony pipe tipped
with silver, which appertained to the battery on
the left, betwixt the finger and thumb of the other;
and with his right knee fixed firm upon the
ground, as if in the front rank of his platoon, was
the Corporal, with his Montero-cap upon his head,
furiously playing off his two cross-batteries at the
same time against the counter-guard, which faced
the counter-scarp, where the attack was to be
made that morning. His first intention, as I said,
was no more than giving the enemy a single
puff or two ;—but the pleasure of the puffs, as well
as the puffing, had insensibly got hold of the Cor-
poral, and drawn him on from puff to puff into the
very height of the attack, by the time my uncle
Toby joined him.

‘Twas well for my father that my uncle Toby
had not his will to make that day. :

CHAPTER XXVIII.

My uncle Toby took the ivory pipe out of the
Corporal’s hand ;—looked at it for half a minute,
and returned it.

In less than two minutes, my uncle Toby took
the pipe from the Corporal again, and raised it
half-way to his mouth,—then hastily gave it back

 

 

a second time. :

The Corporal redoubled the attack ;—my uncle
Toby smiled,—then looked grave, then smiled for
a moment,—then looked serious for a long time.

—Give me hold of the ivory pipe, Trim, said
my uncle Toby. My uncle Toby put it to his
lips,—drew it back directly,—gave a peep over
the hornbeam-hedge.—Never did my uncle Toby’s
mouth water so much for a pipe in his life.—
My uncle Toby retired into the sentry-box with
the pipe in his hand.

Dear uncle Toby ! don’t go into the sentry-box
with the pipe ;—there’s no trusting a man’s self
with such a thing in such a corner.

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
I Bea the
my uncle Toby’s ordnance behind the scenes ;—to

‘eader will assist me here to wheel off |

|

remove his sentry-box, and clear the theatre, if |

possible, of horn-works and half-moons, and get the

rest of his military apparatus out of the way ;— |

that done, my dear friend Garrick, we’ll snuff the
candles bright,—sweep the stage with a new
broom,—draw up the curtain, and exhibit my uncle
Toby dressed in a new character, throughout
which the world can have no idea how he will act:
and yet, if pity be akin to love,—and bravery_no
alien to it, you have seen enough of my uncle
Toby, in these, to trace these family likenesses
betwixt the two passions (in case there is one) to
your heart’s content.

Vain science! thou assistest us in no case of
this kind,—and thou puzzlest us in everyone.

There was, madam, in my uncle Toby, a single-
ness of heart, which misled him so far out of the
little serpentine tracks in which things of this
nature usually go on,—you can have no conception of
it ; with this there was a plainness and simplicity
of thinking, with such an unmistrusting ignorance
of the plies and foldings of the heart of woman ;—
and so naked and defenceless did he stand before
you (when a siege was out of his head) that you
might have stood behind any one of your serpen-
tine walks, and shot my uncle Toby ten times in a
day, through his liver ; if nine times in a day,
madam, had not served your purpose.

With all this, madam,—and what confounded
everything as much on the other hand, my uncle
Toby had that unparalleled modesty of nature I
once told you of, and which, by the bye, stood

 

 

 

eternal sentry upon his feelings, that you might as |

soon

 

—But where am I going ? These reflections
crowd in upon me ten pages at least too soon, and
take up that time which I ought to bestow upon
facts.

CHAPTER XXX.

Or the few legitimate sons of Adam, whose
breasts never felt what the sting of love was—
(maintaining, first, all misogonists to be bastards)
—the greatest heroes of ancient and modern story
have carried off amongst them nine parts in ten
of the honour ; and I wish, for their sakes, I had
the key of my study, out of the draw-well, only for
five minutes, to tell you their names ;—recollect
them I cannot,—so be content to accept of these,
for the present, in their stead.

There was the great king Aldrovandus, and
Bosphorus, and Cappadocius, and Dardanus, and
Pontus, and Asius,—to say nothing of the iron-
hearted Charles the XIIth, whom the countess of
K***** herself could make nothing of.—There
was Babylonicus, and Mediterraneus, and Polix-
enes, and Persicus, and Prusicus ; not one of
whom (except Cappadocius and Pontus, who were
both a little suspected) ever once bowed down his
breast to the goddess.—The truth is, they had all
of them something else to do ;—and so had my
uncle Toby,—till Fate,—till Fate, I say, envying
his name the glory of being handed down to pos-
terity with Aldrovandus’s and the rest,—she basely
patched up the peace of Utrecht.

—Believe me, sirs, ’twas the
did that year.

 

 

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CHAPTER XXXI,

Amongst the many ill consequences of the treaty
of Utrecht, it was within a point of giving my uncle
Toby a surfeit of sieges ; and though he recovered
his appetite afterwards, yet Calais itself left not a
deeper scar in Mary’s heart than Utrecht upon
my uncle Toby’s. To the end of his life he never
could hear Utrecht mentioned upon any account
whatever,—nor so much as read an article of news
extracted out of the Utrecht Gazette, without
fetching a sigh, as if his heart would break in
twain.

My father, who was a great motive-monger, and
consequently a very dangerous person for a man
to sit by, either laughing or crying,—for he gene-
rally knew your motive for doing both much better
than you knew it yourself,—would always console
my uncle Toby, upon these occasions, in a way
which showed plainly he imagined my uncle Toby
grieved for nothing in the whole affair so much as
the loss of his Hopsy-Horss. Never mind,
brother Toby, he would Say,—by God’s blessing
we shall have another war break out again some
of these days, and, when it does, the belligerent
powers, if they would hang themselves, cannot
keep us out of play.—I defy ’em, my dear Toby,
he would add, to take countries without taking
towns,—or towns without sieges,

My uncle Toby never took this back-stroke of my
father’s at his Hopspy-Horsr kindly.—He thought
the stroke ungenerous ; and the more so because
in striking the’horse, he hit the rider too, and in
the most dishonourable part a blow could fall ; so
that, upon these occasions, he always laid down his
pipe upon the table with more fire to defend him-
self than common.

I told the reader, this time two years, that my
uncle Toby was not eloquent ; and in the very
same page gave an instance to the contrary.—]
repeat the observation, and a fact which’ con-
tradicts it again—He was not eloquent,—it was
not easy for my uncle Toby to make long harangues,
—and he hated florid ones ; but there were occa-
sions where the stream overflowed the man, and
Tan so counter to its usual course that, in some
parts, my uncle Toby, for a time, was at least
equal to Tertullus ;—but in others, in my own
opinion, infinitely above him.

My father was so highly pleased with one of
these apologetical orations of my uncle Toby, which
he had delivered one evening before him and
Yorick, that he wrote it down before he went to
bed.

I have had the good fortune to meet with it
amongst my father’s papers, with here and there
an insertion of his own, betwixt two crooks, thus
[ J, and it is endorsed,

 

 

My Brother Toby’s Justification of his own Principles and
Conduct in wishing to continue the War.

I may safely say I have read over this apolo-
getical oration of my uncle Toby’s a hundred times ;
and think it so fine a model of defence, and shows

| S80 sweet a temperament of gallantry and good prin-

ciples in him, that I give it the world, word for
word (interlineations and all) as I find it.

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

 

 

 

 

 

en

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. Lo

CHAPTER XXXIL
MY UNCLE TOBY’S APOLOGETICAL ORATION,

I am not insensible, brother Shandy, that when
a man, whose profession is arms, wishes, as I have
done, for war,—it has an ill aspect to the world :
—and that, how just and right soever his motives
and intentions may be,—he stands in an uneasy
posture in vindicating himself from private views
in doing it.

For this cause, if a soldier is a prudent man,
which he may be without being a jot the less brave,
he will be sure not to utter his wish in the hearing
of an enemy ; for, say what he will, an enemy
will not believe him. He will be cautious of
doing it even to a friend,—lest he may suffer in
his esteem ;—but if his heart is overcharged, and
a secret sigh for arms must have its vent, he will
reserve it for the ear of a brother, who knows his
character to the bottom, and what his true notions,
dispositions, and principles of honour are. What,
I hope, I have been in all these, brother Shandy,
would be unbecoming in me to say :—much worse,
I know, have I been than I ought,—and some-
thing worse, perhaps, than I think : but such as I
am, you, my dear brother Shandy, who have
sucked the same breasts with me,—and with whom
I have been brought up from the cradle, and from
whose knowledge, from the first hours of our
boyish pastimes, down to this, I have concealed no
one action of my life, and scarce a thought in it :
—such as.I am, brother, you must by this time
know me, with all my vices, and with all my weak-
nesses too, whether of my age, my temper, my
passions, or my understanding.

Tell me then, my dear brother Shandy, upon
which of them it is that,’when I condemned the
peace of Utrecht, and grieved the war was not
carried on with vigour a little longer, you should
think your brother did it upon unworthy views ;
or that, in wishing for war, he should be bad
enough to wish more of his fellow-creatures slain,
—more slaves made,—and more families driven
from their peaceful habitations, merely for his own
pleasure.—Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what
one deed of mine do you ground it. [ The devil
a deed do I know of, dear Toby, but one for a
hundred pounds, which I lent thee to carry on
these cursed sieges. |

If, when I was a school-boy, I could not hear a
drum beat, but my heart beat with it,—was it my
fault !_Did I plant the propensity there ?—Did I
sound the alarm within—or Nature ?

When Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Parismus
and Parismenus, and Valentine and Orson, and the
Seven Champions of England, were handed around
the school,—were they not all purchased with my
own pocket-money ?—Was that selfish, brother
Shandy !—When we read over the siege of Troy,
which lasted ten years and eight months,—though,
with such a train of artillery as we had at Namur,
the town might have been carried in a week,—was
I not as much concerned for the destruction of the
Greeks and Trojans as any boy of the whole
school !—Had I/not three strokes ofa ferula given
me, two on my right hand, and one on my left, for
calling Helena a bitch for it?—Did any one of you
shed more tears for Hector ?— And when King Priam

 

 

 

 

 

came to the camp to beg his body, and returned

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weeping back to Troy without it,—you know,
brother, I could not eat my dinner.

Did that bespeak me cruel !—Or, because,
brother Shandy, my blood flew out into the
‘amp, and my heart panted for war,—was it a
proof it could not ache for the distresses of war
| too ?

O brother! ’tis one thing for a soldier to gather
laurels, —and ’tis another to scatter cypress.—
[Who told thee, my dear Toby, that cypress was
used by the ancients on mournful occasions 2—]
’Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a soldier to
hazard his own life,—to leap first down into the
trench where he is sure to be cut in pieces ;—’Tis
one thing, from public spirit and a thirst of glory,

| to enter the breach the first man,—to stand in the
foremost rank, and march bravely on with drums
and trumpets, and colours flying about his ears :
Tis one thing, I say, brother Shandy, to do this ;

—and ’tis another thing to reflect on the miseries

of war :—to view the desolations of whole coun-

tries, and consider the intolerable fatigues and
hardships which the soldier himself, the instru-

ment who works them, is forced (for sixpence a
| day if he can get it) to undergo.

Need I be told, dear Yorick, as | was by you
in Le Fevre’s funeral sermon, T'hat so suft and
gentle a creature, born to love, to mercy, and kind-
| ness, as manis, was not shaped for this 2—But
why did you not add, Yorick, if not by nature,
that he is so by necessity 2—For what is war !
what is it, Yorick, when fought, as ours has been,
upon principles of /iserty, and upon principles of
honour—what is it, but the getting together of
quiet and harmless people, with their swords in
their hands, to keep the ambitious and the turbulent
within bounds ’%—And Heaven is my witness,
brother Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in
these things, and that infinite delight, in particular,
which has attended my sieges in my bow ling-green,

 

 

too, from the consciousness we both had that, in
sarrying them on, we were answering the great
end of our creation.

| has arose within me, and I hope, in the Corporal
|
|

CHAPTER XXXIII.

I roup the Christian Reader ;—I say Christian,
—hoping he is one; and if he is not, I am sorry
for it ;—and only beg he will consider the matter
with himself, and not lay the blame entirely upon
this book ;——-I told him, sir,—for, in good truth,
when a man is telling a story in the strange way I
do mine, he is obliged continually to be going back-
wards and forwards to keep all tight together in
the reader’s fancy ;—which, for my own part, if |
did not take heed to do more than at first, there
is so much unfixed and equivocal matter starting
up, with so many breaks and gaps in it,—and so
little service do the stars afford, which, neverthe-
less, I hang up in some of the darkest passages,
knowing that the world is apt to lose its way with
all the lights the sun itself at noon-day can give it,
and now you see I am lost myself.

But ’tis my father’s fault ; and whenever my
brains come to be dissected, you will perceive,
without spectacles, that he has left a large, uneven
thread, as you sometimes see in an unsaleable
piece of cambric, running along the whole length
of the web, and so untowardly you cannot so much
as cutout a * * (here J hang up a couple of lights

 

 

120 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

again) or a fillet, or a thumbstall, but it is seen
or felt.

Quando id diligentius in liberis procreandis
cavendum, saith Cardan.—All which being con-
sidered, and that you see ’tis morally imp racti-
‘able for me to wind this round to where I set out

—I begin the chapter over again.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

I roip the Christian reader, in the beginning of
the chapter which preceded my uncle Toby’s
apologetical oration,—though in a different trope
from what I shall make use of now, that the peace
of Utrecht was within an ace of creating the same
shyness betwixt my uncle Toby and his Hobby-
Horse as it did betwixt the Queen and the rest of
the confederating Powers.

There is an indignant way in which a man some-
times dismounts his horse, which as good as says
to him,—* I’ll go afoot, sir, all the days of my life,
before I would ride a single mile upon your back
again.” Now, my uncle Toby could not be said to
dismount his horse in this manner: for, in strict-
ness of language, he could not be said to dismount
his horse at all ;—his horse rather flung him—and
somewhat viciously, which made my uncle Toby
take it ten times more unkindly. Let this matter
he settled by state jockies as they like ;—it
created, I say, a sort of shyness betwixt my uncle
Toby and his Hobby-horse.—He had no occasion
for him from the month of March to November,
which was the summer after the articles were
signed, except it was now and then to take a short
ride out, just to see that the fortifications and
harbour of Dunkirk were demolished, according
to stipulation.

The French were so backward all that summer
in setting about that affair ; and Monsieur Tugghe,
the deputy from the magistrates of Dunkirk, pre-
sented so many affecting petitions to the Queen,
beseeching her majesty to cause only her thunder-
bolts to fall upon the martial works which might
have incurred her displeasure,—but to spare,—to
spare the mole, for the mole’s sake ; which, in its
naked situation, could be no more than an object
of pity :—and the Queen (who was but a woman)
being of a pitiful disposition, and her ministers
also, they not wishing in their hearts to have the
town dismantled for these private reasons,

 

* *k * **k ok

* * * * *

so that the whole went heavily on with my uncle
Toby ; insomuch that it was not within three full
months, after he and the Corporal had constructed
the town, and put it in a condition to be de-
stroyed, that the several commandants, commis-
saries, deputies, negociators, and intendants, would
permit him to set about: it—Fatal interval of
inactivity !

The Corporal was for beginning the demolition,
by making a breach in the ramparts, or main for-
tifications of the town._——No : that will never do,
Corporal, said my uncle Toby ; for, in going that
way to work with the town, the English garrison
will not be safe in it an hour; because, if the
French are treacherous, They are as trea
cherous as devils, an’ please your honour, said the
Corporal. It gives me concern always when I
hear it, Trim, said my uncle Toby,—for they don’t
want personal bravery ; and if a breach is made

 

 

 

—

 

 

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THE LIFE

in the ramparts, they may enter it and make
themselves masters of the place when they please.
Let them enter it, said the Corporal, lifting up his
pioneer’s spade in both his hands, as if he was
going to lay about him with it ;—let them enter,
an’ please your honour, if they dare. In cases
like this, Corporal, said my uncle Toby, slipping
his right hand down to the middle of his cane, and
holding it afterwards truncheon-wise, with his
fore-finger extended,—’tis no. part of the conside-
ration of a commandant what the enemy dare, or
what they dare not, do ; he must act with prudence.
We will begin with the outworks, both towards the
sea and the land, and particularly with Fort Louis,
the most distant of them all, and demolish it first ;
and the rest, one by one, both on our right and
left, as we retreat towards the town ;—then we’ll
demolish the mole,—next fill up the harbour,—
then retire into the citadel, and blow it up into the
air ; and having done that, Corporal, we’ll embark
for England. We are there, quoth the Corporal,
recollecting himself. Very true, said my uncle
Toby, looking at the church.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A DELUSIVE, delicious consultation or two of
this kind, betwixt my uncle Toby and Trim, upon
the demolition of Dunkirk,—for a moment rallied
back the ideas of those pleasures which were slip-
ping from under him.—Still—still all went on
heavily ; the magic left the mind the weaker ;_ S‘id/-
ness, with Silence at her back, entered the solitary
parlour, and drew their gauzy mantle over my uncle
Toby’s head ; and Lisdlessness, with her lax fibre
and undirected eye, sat quietly down beside him
in his arm-chair.—No longer Amberg and Rhin-
berg, and Limbourg, and Huy, and Bonn, in one
year ; and the prospect of Landen, and Trerebach,
and Drusen, and Dendermond, the next—hurried
on the blood :—no longer did saps, and mines, and
blinds, and gabions, and palisadoes, keep out this
fair enemy of man’s repose ;—no more could my
uncle Toby, after passing the French lines, as he
ate his egg at supper, thence break into the heart
of France, cross over the Oise, and, with all
Picardy open behind him, march up to the gates
of Paris, and fall asleep with nothing but ideas of
glory :—no more was he to dream he had fixed
the royal standard upon the tower of the Bastile,
and awake with it streaming in his head :

——Softer visions, gentler vibrations, stole
sweetly in upon his slumbers ; the trumpet of war
fell out of his hands; he took up the lute, sweet
instrument ! of all others the most delicate! the
most difficult !—How wilt thou touch it, my dear
uncle Toby ?

CHAPTER XXXYV.
Now because I have once or twice said, in my

) inconsiderate way of talking, that I was confident

the following memoirs of my uncle Toby’s court-
ship of Widow Wadman, whenever I got time to
write them, would turn out one of the most com-
plete systems, both of the elementary and practical
part of love and love-making, that ever was
addressed to the world—are you to imagine, froin

‘ thence, that I shall set out with a description of

» what love is: whether part god and part devil ?

ay
ad

as Plotinus will have it ;
—Or, bya more critical equation, and supposing

AND OPINIONS

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 121

the whole of love to be as ten, to determine with
Ficinus, “ How many parts of it the one 2 and how
many the other 2” or whether it is ad ef et one
great devil, from head to tail? as Plato has taken
upon him to pronounce ; concerning which conceit
of his I shall not offer my opinion :—but my
opinion of Plato is this—that he appears, from this
instance, to have been a man of much the same
temper and way of reasoning with Doctor Baynyard ;
who, being a great enemy to blisters, as imagining
that half a dozen of ’em on at once would draw a
man as surely to his grave as a hearse-and-six—
rashly concluded that the devil himself was nothing
tn the world but one great bouncing Cantharis.

I have nothing to say to people who allow them-
selves this monstrous liberty in arguing, but what
Nazianzen cried out (that is, polemically) to Phi-
lagrius :

“ Eoye! Orare! tis fine reasoning, sir, indeed!
— bri pirocodets év Mdbeot, and most nobly do you
aim at truth when you philosophize about it in
your moods and passions.

Nor is it to be imagined, for the same reason, I
should stop to inquire whether love is a disease—
or embroil myself with Rhasis and Dioscorides,
whether the seat of it isin the brain or liver ;—
because this would lead me on to an examination
of the two very opposite manners in which patients
have been treated—the one, of Aetius, who always
began with a cooling clyster of hemp-seed and
bruised cucumbers ; and followed on with thin
potations of water-lilies and purslane, to which he
added a pinch of snuff of the herb Hanea ; and,
where Aetius durst venture it, his—topaz-ring.

— The other, that of Gordonius, who, in his cap.
15, de Amore, directs they should be thrashed,
“ad putorem usque, ’—till they stink again.

These are the disquisitions which my father, who
had laid in a great stock of knowledge of this kind,
will be very busy with in the progress of my uncle
Toby’s affairs. I must anticipate thus much :—
that from his theories of love (with which, by the
way, he contrived to crucify my uncle Toby’s
mind almost as much as his amours themselves)
—he took a single step into practice ; and, by
means of a camphorated cere-cloth, which he found
means to impose upon the tailor for buckram,
whilst he was making my uncle Toby a new pair
of breeches, he produced Gordonius’s effect upon
my uncle Toby, without the disgrace.

What changes this produced will be read in its
proper place : all thatis needful to be added to the
anecdote is this :—that, whatever effect it had upon
my uncle Toby, it had a vile effect upon the house:;
and if my uncle Toby had not smoked it down
as he did, it might have had a vile effect upon
my father too.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

"T wILL come out of itself, by and bye.—AIl I
contend for is that I am not obliged to set out with
a definition of what love is; and so long as I can
go on with my story intelligibly, with the help of
the word itself, without any other idea to it than
what I have in common with the rest of the world,
why should I differ from it a moment before the
time ?—When I can get on no further—and find
myself entangled on all sides of this mystic laby-
rinth—my opinion will then come in, in course—
and lead me out.

 

A

|
|
|
|

|
}| 122 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

| At present, I hope, I shall be sufficiently under- My mother never did.—In short, she went out

stood in telling the reader my uncle Toby fell in | of the world, at last, without knowing whether it

love. turned round or stood still—My father had offi-
—Not that the phrase is at all to my liking: for | ciously told her, above a thousand times, which

to say a man is fallen in love—or that he is deeply | way it was ;—but she always forgot.

in love ; or up to the ears in love ; and sometimes For these reasons, a discourse seldom went on

even over head and ears in it—carries an idio- | much farther betwixt them than a proposition,—
matical kind of implication that love is a thing | a reply,—and a rejoinder ; at the end of which,
below a man.—This is recurring again to Plato’s | it generally took breath for a few minutes (as in
opinion, which, with all his divinityship—I hold to | the affair of the breeches) and then went on again.

 

 

 

 

be damnable and heretical ;—and so much for If he marries, *twill be the worse for us, quoth
that. my mother.
Let love, therefore, be what it will,—my uncle Not a cherry-stone, said my father ;—he
; | Toby fell into it. may as well batter away his means upon that as
! | —And possibly, gentle reader, with such a | anything else.
ig | temptation,—so wouldst thou ;—for never did thy ——To be sure, said my mother. So here

 

eyes behold, or thy concupiscence covet, anything | ended the proposition,—the reply,—and the re-
in this world more concupiscible than Widow | joinder, I told you of.
Wadman. It will be some amusement to him, too, said
CHAPTER XXXVIL my father.
To conceive this right,—call for pen and ink ;— A very great one, answered my mother, if
here’s paper ready to your hand.—Sit down, sir, | he should have children.
paint her to your own mind ;—as like your mistress Lord have merey upon me ! said my father
> *

Fay

Suess r=

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TEE

aa

 

 

 

ee

een aS

 

 

 

a | as you can,—as unlike your wife as your conscience | to himself: .
ih will let you,—’tis all one to me,—please but your | * - ’ . : = *
} own fancy in it.* a . . ” - *
a ae * * * ok * + *
* * mK K * * *

 

CHAPTER XL.

I am now beginning to get fairly into my work ;
and by the help of a vegetable diet, with a few of
the cold seeds, I make no doubt but I shall be able
to go on with my uncle Toby’s story, and my own,

in a tolerably straight line. Now,
—Was ever anything in nature so sweet !—so f\, rn O
exquisite ! Say AAs

—Then, dear sir, how could my uncle Toby 5 pe
. . c

resist it? ut \ ao

| Thrice happy book! thou wilt have one page, at \ /

| least, within thy covers, which Malice will not 5
| blacken, and which Ignorance cannot misrepresent. Wek we
| Cw
Ss

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.
As Susannah was informed by an express from
Mrs. Bridget, of my uncle Toby’s falling in love
with her mistress fifteen days before it happened, a aL Pa
—the contents of which express Susannah com- aN
municated to my mother the next day,—it has just
given me an opportunity of entering upon my uncle
Toby’s amours a fortnight before their existence.
I have an article of news to tell you, Mr. Shandy,
quoth my mother, which will surprise you greatly.—
Now my father was then holding one of his
second beds of justice, and was musing within
himself about the hardships of matrimony, as my > wae c Cc BOA
mother broke silence.

! | —My brother Toby, quoth she, is going to be ry YF
}

720. 2. Bs Scul. T. S.

These were the four lines I moved in through
my first, second, third, and fourth volumes.—In
the fifth volume I have been very good,—the pre-
cise line I have described in it being this :—

 

4

MR

ith it married to Mrs. Wadman !

mii Then he will never, quoth my father, be
| able to lie diagonally in his bed again, as long as
| he lives. By which it appears that, except at the curve,
It was a consuming vexation to my father that | marked A, where I took a trip to Navarre ;—and
| my mother never asked the meaning of a thing she | the indented curve B, which is the short airing

 

 

| did not understand. when I was there with the Lady Baussiere and her
| —That she is not a woman of science, my father page,—I have not taken the least frisk of a digres-
| would say, 1s her misfortune ;—but she might ask | sion, till John de la Casse’s devils led me the
) a question.—— round you see marked D ;—for as forece ec Cy
ee they are nothing but parentheses, and the common

 

»* A page is here left blank in the original.THE LIFE

 

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 123

 

 

 

 

 

ins and outs incident to the lives of the greatest | This right line,—the pathw for Christi
a : state; and when compared with what | walk in ! say Dignee Se ee
men have done,—or with my own transgressions | A i

at the letters A B D,—they ae: a ede) | peapuegare foe pane ca

In this last volume I have done better still,—
for from the end of Le Fevre’s episode, to the
beginning of my uncle Toby’s campaigns,—I have
scarce stepped a yard out of my way.

If I mend at this rate, it is not impossible,—by
the good leave of his grace of Benevento’s devils,
—but I may arrive hereafter at the excellency of
going even on thus :—

 

 

 

Cicero,

The best line!

i is ee ine ! y cabbage-planters, is the
rtest ime, says Archime rhich ¢ "aw
eens ys £ ma des,which can be drawn
ae given point to another.
rs , > ‘ ral 7 TO\Ty S
fe en y our lady snips would lay this matter to
leart, In your next birth-day suits !

—What a journey !

Pray can you tell me,—that is, without anger,
before I write my chapter upon straight lines,—
oe by what mistake,—who told them so,—or how it
w ne 1 is a line drawn as straight as I could draw | has come to pass, that your men of wit and genius
it by a writing-master’s ruler (borrowed for that | have all along confounded this line with the line of
Brose) turning neither to the right hand nor to | gravitation?
the left. |

 

 

 

 

VOLUME THE SEVENTH.

 

CHAPTER I.

No ;—I think I said I would write two volumes
every year, provided the vile cough which then
tormented me, and which to this hour I dread
worse than the devil, would but give me leave ;—
and in another place—(but where, I can’t recollect
now) speaking of my book as a machine, and laying
my pen and ruler down cross-wise upon the table,
in order to gain the greater credit to it,—I swore | field, had I not better, whilst these few scattered
it should be kept a-going at that rate these forty | spirits remain, and these two spider legs of mine
years, if it pleased but the Fountain of Life to bless | (holding one of them up to him) are able to sup-
me so long with health and good spirits. port me,—had I not better, Eugenius, fly for my

Now, as for my spirits, little have I to lay to their | life?-—.’Tis my advice, my dear Tristram, said

not which way he entered, quoth I, provided he be
not in such a hurry to take me out with him,—
for I have forty volumes to write, and forty
thousand things to say and do, which nobody in
the world will say and do for me, except thyself ;
and as thou seest he has got me by the throat (for
Eugenius could scaree hear me speak across the
table) and that I am no match for him in the open

 

 

 

 

 

———— eee

 

a a SaaS

charge,—nay, so very little (unless the mounting | Eugenius. Then, by Heaven! I will lead him
me upon a long stick and playing the fool with | a dance he little thinks of;—for I will gallop,
me nineteen hours out of the twenty-four, be | quoth I, without looking once behind me, to the
accusations)—that, on the contrary, I have much | banks of the Garonne ;—and if I hear him clatter-
—much tothank ’em for. Cheerily have ye made ing at my heels,—I’ll scamper away to Mount
me tread the path of life with all the burdens of Vesuvius ;—thence to Joppa, and from Joppa to
it (except its cares) upon my back: in no one | the world’s end; where, if he follows me, I pray
moment of my existence, that I remember, have | God he may break his neck.——
ye once deserted me, or tinged the objects which He runs more risk there, said Eugenius, than
came in my way, either with sable, or with a sickly | thou.
green: in dangers, ye gilded my horizon with Eugenius’s wit and affection brought blood into
hope ; and when Death himself knocked at my | the cheek whence it had been some months
door,—ye bade him come again: and in so gay a | banished :—twas a vile moment to bid adieu in:
tone of careless indifference did ye do it, that he | he led me to my chaise.——Allons! said I ;—the
doubted of his commission. post-boy gave a crack with his whip,—off I went
« There must certainly be some mistake in | like a cannon, and at half a dozen bounds got into

this matter,” quoth he. Dover.

Now there is nothing in this world I abominate
worse than to be interrupted in a story ;—and I
was that moment telling Eugenius a most tawdry
one, in my way, of a nun who fancied herself a
shell-fish ; and of a monk damned for eating a
muscle ; and was showing him the grounds and
justice of the procedure.

- Did ever so grave a personage get into so
vile a scrape ?”’ quoth Death. Thou hast had a
narrow escape, Tristram, said Eugenius, taking
hold of my hand as J finished my story.——

But there is no living, Eugenius, replied I, at
this rate ; for as this son of a whore has found out |
my lodgings,
You cail him rightly, said Eugenius ;—for
by Sin, we are told, he entered the world. _——I care

CHAPTER II.

Now, hang it ! quoth I, as I looked towards the
French coast,—a man should know something of
his own country, too, before he goes abroad ;—and
I never gave a peep into Rochester church, or
took notice of the dock of Chatham, or visited St.
Thomas at Canterbury, though they all three lay
in my way,

—But mine, indeed, is a particular case.

—So, without arguing the matter further with
Thomas o’ Becket, or any one else,—I skipped into
the boat, and in five minutes we got under sail,
and seudded away like the wind.

Pray, captain, quoth I, as I was going down
into the cabin, is a man never overtaken by death
in this passage ?

 

 

 

 

 

 

See

 

 

 

  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 

EONAR eae rentan matty sepeinent seein

 

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= =
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nn enolicAe 124 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |

 

 

 

 

ae i Ws Vt
es 1 |
eu His t Why, there is not time for a man to be sick in | the evening when I landed, and as dark as pitch
on Pr | it, replied he What a cursed liar! for I am | in the morning when I set out ; and yet, by merely
l i RAE sick as a horse, quoth I, already. What a brain! | knowing what is what, and by drawing this from .
\ “ SNR —upside down !—hey day!—the cells are broke that in one part of the: town, and by spelling and !
4 e ie Ni loose one into another, and the blood, and the puss this and that together in another—I would
Oa lymph, and the nervous juices, w ith the fixed and | lay any travelling odds “that I this moment write |[ |

volatile salts, are all jumbled into one mass!—good | a chapter upon Calais as long as my arm ;

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i G—-! everything turns round in it like a thou- | and with so distinct and satisfactory a a detail of
if sand whirlpools.—I’d give a shilling to know if I | every item which is worth a stranger’s curiosity
1a shan’t write the clearer for it.—Sick ! sick! sick! | in the town—that you would take me for the
His sick ! town-clerk of Calais itself;— and where, sir,
rr : When shall we get to land, captain ?—they have | w ould be the wonder? was not Democritus, who
ane hearts like stones. am ‘deadly sick !—Reach | laughed ten times more than I—town- clerk of
wk me that thing, boy :—’tis the most discomfiting Adee and was not (I forget his name) who
at sickness I wish I was at the bottom !—madam, | had more discretion than us “both, town-clerk of
Wea baled ae how is it with you? Undone! undone! un —— | Ephesus? It should be penned, moreover, Sir,
id Bi i O! undone, sir.—— What? the first time? with so much. knowledge and good sense, and
ua bea mnt No ; ’tis the second, third, sixth, tenth time, sir | truth, and precision.
ie | ii i Hey-day eae a trampling OV ets head !— —Nay,—if you don’t believe me, you may read
i Hollo ! cabin-boy ! what’s the matter ! the chapter for your pains.
a i The wind chopped about. S’death !—then I
ea ty Welt be shall meet him full in the face. CHAPTER Y.
Sy it What luck ! ’tis chopped about again, mas- Caxats, Calatium, Calusium, Calesium.
a ! HN ter. O the devil chop it ! This town, if we may trust its archives, the
aa Be ial Captain, quoth she, for Heaven’s sake, let us | authority of which I see no reason to call in
get ashore. question in this place—was once no more than a

 

 

 

CHAPTER III. small village, belonging to one of the first Counts
de Guignes ; and as it boasts at present of no less
than fourteen thousand inhabitants, exclusive of
four hundred and twenty distinct families in the jf |
basse ville, or suburbs,—it must have grown up
by little and little, 1 suppose, to its present size.
Though there are four convents, there is but
one parochial church in the whole town. I had
not an opportunity of taking its exact dimensions,
but it is pretty easy to make a tolerable conjecture
of ’em ;—for as there are fourteen thousand inha-
bitants in the town, if the church holds them all,
it must be considerably large ;—and if it will not,
*tis a very great pity they have not another.—It
is built in form of a cross, and dedicated to the
Virgin Mary ; the steeple, which has a spire to it,
is placed in the middle of the church, and stands
CHAPTER IY. upon four pillars, elegant and light enough, but
‘Now, before I quit Calais,” a travel-writer | sufficiently strong at the same time.—It is deco-
would say, “it would not be amiss to give some | rated with eleven altars, most of which are rather
account of it.”—Now I think it very much amiss | fine than beautiful. The great altar is a master-
—that a man cannot go quietly through a town | piece in its kind ; ’tis of white marble, and, as I
and let it alone, when it does not meddle with | was told, near sixty feet high :—had it been much
him, but that he must be turning about, and | higher, it had been as high as Mount Calvary
drawing his pen at every kennel he crosses over, | itself ;—therefore I suppose it must be high enough
merely, 0’ my conscience, for the sake of drawing | in all conscience.
it ; because, if we may judge from what has been There was nothing struck me more than the
wrote of these things, by all who have wrote and | Great Square ; though I cannot say ’tis either
gallopped,—or whohave galloppedand wrote,which | well paved or well built ; but tis in the heart of
is a different way still ; or who, for more expedi- | the town, and most of the streets, especially those
tion than the rest, have wrote galloping—which is | in that quarter, all terminate in it. Could there
the way I do at present — from the great Addison, | have been a fountain in all Calais, which it seems
who did it with his satchel of school-books hang- | there cannot, as such an object would have been
ing at his a—, and galling his beast’s crupper at | a great ornament, it is not to be doubted but that
every stroke, there is not a gallopper of us all, | the inhabitants would have had it in the very
who might not have gone on ambling quietly on | centre of this square ;—not that it is properly a
his own ground (in case he had any) and have | square,—because ‘tis forty feet longer from east }} |
wrote all he had to write, dry-shod, as well as | to west than from north to south; so that the jj |;
not. French in general have more reason on their side
For my own part, as Heaven is my judge, and | in calling them Places than Squares; which, strictly
to which I shall eve make my last appeal—l know | speaking, to be sure, they are not.
no more of Calais (except the little my barber told The town-house seems to be but a sorry build-
me of it as he was whetting his razor) than I do | itig, and not to be kept in the best repair ; other-
this moment of Grand Cairo ; for it was dusky in | wise it had been a second great ornament to this

Ir is a great inconvenience to a man, in a haste,
that there are three distinct roads between Calais
and Paris; in behalf of which, there is so much
to be said by the several deputies from the towns
which lie along them, that half a day is easily lost
in settling which you'll take.

First, The road by Lille and Arras, which is
the most interesting and in-
structing :

The Second, that by Amiens ; which you may
go, if you would see Chantilly.

And that by Beauvais, which you may go if you
will.

For this reason, a great many choose to go by
Beauvais.+ + + WM RR

Ke aD. Kae i pao ale

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 125

 

place: it answers, however, its destination, and
serves very well for the reception of the magis-
trates, who assemble in it from time to time ; so
that ’tis presumable justice is regularly dis-
tributed.

I had heard much of it, but there is nothing at
all curious in the Courgain : ’tis a distinct quarter
of the town, inhabited solely by sailors and fisher-
men: it consists of a number of small streets,
neatly built and mostly of brick. ’Tis extremely
populous ; but as that may be accounted for from
the principles of their diet—there is nothing
curious in that, neither.—A_ traveller may see it,
to satisfy himself:—he must not omit however
taking notice of La Tour du Guet, upon any
account ; ’tis so called from its particular destina-
tion, because in war it serves to discover and give
notice of the enemies which approach the place,
either by sea or Jand ;—but ’tis monstrous high,
and catches the eye so continually you cannot avoid
taking notice of it if you would.

It was a singular disappointment to me that I
could not have permission to take an exact survey
of the fortifications, which are the strongest in the
world ; and which, from first to last, that is, from
the time they were set about by Philip of France,
Count of Boulogne, to the present war, wherein
many reparations were made, have cost (as I
learnt afterwards from an engineer in Gascony )—
above a hundred millions of livres. It is very
remarkable that at the Téte de Gravelines, and
where the town is naturally the weakest, they
have expended the most money; so that the
outworks stretch a great way into the champain,
and consequently occupy a large tract of ground.
However, after all that is said and done, it must
be acknowledged that Calais was never upon any
account so considerable from itself, as from its
situation, and that easy entrance which it gave
our ancestors, upon all occasions, into France ; it
was not without its inconveniences also: being
no less troublesome to the English, in those times,
than Dunkirk has been to us, in ours ; so that it
was deservedly looked upon as the key to both
kingdoms ; which no doubt is the reason that
there have arisen so many contentions who should
keep it: of these, the siege of Calais, or rather
the blockade (for it was shut up both by land and
sea) was the most memorable, as it withstood the
efforts of Edward the Third a whole year, and
was not terminated, at last, but by famine and
extreme misery ; the gallantry of Eustace de St.
Pierre, who first offered himself a victim for his
fellow-citizens, has ranked his name with heroes.

As it will not take up above fifty pages, it would
be injustice to the reader not to give him a minute
account of that romantic transaction, as well as of
the siege itself, in Rapin’s own words :—

CHAPTER VI.

—— But, courage! gentle reader! I scorn it:
_’tis enough to have thee in my power ; but to
make use of the advantage which the fortune of
“the pen has now gained over thee, would be too
much.—No !—by that all-powerful fire which
warms the visionary brain, and lights the spirits
through unworldly tracks! ere I would force a
helpless creature upon this hard service, and
make thee pay, poor soul! for fifty pages which

 

 

I have no right to sell thee—naked as I am, I
would browse upon the mountains, and smile that |
the north wind brought me neither my tent nor
my supper.

So put on, my brave boy! and make the best
of thy way to Boulogne.

CHAPTER VII.

BovLoene !—ha!—so we are all got together,—
debtors and sinners before Heaven ; a jolly set of
us ;—but I can’t stay and quaff it off with you,—
I’m pursued myself like a hundred devils, and |
shall be overtaken before I can well change
horses :—for Heaven’s sake, make haste. Tis
for high-treason, quoth a very little man, whis-
pering as low as he could to a very tall man that
stood next him.——Or else for murder, quoth the
tall man.——Well thrown, Size-ace! quoth I.
No ; quoth a third, the gentleman has been com-
mitting——

Ah! ma chére fille ! said I, as she tripped by
from her matins,—you look as rosy as the morning
(for the sun was rising, and it made the compli-
ment the more gracious).——No ; it can’t be that,
quoth a fourth—(she made a court’sy to me,—I
kissed my hand) ’tis debt, continued he.——’Tis
certainly for debt, quoth a fifth——I would not
pay that gentleman’s debts, quoth Ace, for a thou-
sand pounds.——Nor would I, quoth Size, for six
times the sum. Well thrown, Size-ace, again !
quoth I ;—but I have no debt but the debt of
Nature; and I want but patience of her, and I
will pay her every farthing 1 owe her.—How can
you be so hard-hearted, madam, to arrest a poor
traveller going along, without molestation to any
one, upon his lawful occasions? Do stop that
death-looking, long-striding scoundrel of a scare-
sinner, who is posting after me. He never would
have followed me but for you,—if it be but for a
stage or two, just to give me the start of him, I
beseech you, madam.——Do, dear lady.——

Now, in troth,’tis a great pity, quoth mine Irish
host, that all this good courtship should be lost ;
for the young gentlewoman has been after going
out of hearing of it all along.

Simpleton ! quoth I.

So you have nothing e/se in Boulogne worth
seeing 2

By Jasus ! there is the finest Seminary for the
Humanities.

There cannot be a finer, quoth I.

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

Wuen the precipitancy of a man’s wishes hurries
on his ideas ninety times faster than the vehicle
he rides in,—woe be to truth! and woe be to the
vehicle and its tackling (let ’em be made of what
stuff you will) upon which he breathes forth the
disappointment of his soul !

As I never give general characters either of
men or things in choler, “the most haste the
worst speed,” was all the reflection I made upon
the affair the first time it happened ;—the second,
third, fourth, and fifth time, | confined it respec-
tively to those times, and accordingly blamed only
the second, third, fourth, and fifth post-boy for it,
without carrying my reflections further ; but the
event continuing to befal me from the fifth to the
sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth time, and

 

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126

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

 

 

without one exception, I then could not avoid
making a national reflection of it, which I do in
these words :

That something is always wrong in a French
post-chaise, upon first setting out.
Or the proposition may stand thus :

A French postilion has always to alight before
he has got three hundred yards out of town.

What’s wrong now ? —— Diable !_a rope’s
broke !—a knot has slipped !—a staple’s drawn !—
a bolt’s to whittle !—a tag, a rag, a jag, a strap, a |
buckle, or a buckle’s tongue, wants altering.

Now, true as all this is, I never think myself
empowered to excommunicate thereupon either
the post-chaise, or its driver ; nor do I take it into
my head to swear by the living G— ; I would
rather go on foot ten thousand times,—or that I
will be damned if ever I get into another ;—but I
take the matter coolly before me, and consider
that some tag, or rag, or jag, or bolt, or buckle, or
buckle’s tongue, will ever be a-wanting, or want
altering, travel where I will ;—so I never chafe,
but take the good and the bad as they fall in my
road, and get on. Do so, my lad, said I: he had
lost five minutes already in alighting, in order to
get at a luncheon of black bread, which he had
crammed into the chaise-pocket, and was re-
mounted, and going leisurely on, to relish it the
better. Get on, my lad, said I, briskly—but in
the most persuasive tone imaginable ; for I jingled
a four-and-twenty sous piece against the glass,
taking care to hold the flat side towards him as
he looked back. The dog grinned intelligence
from his right ear to his left; and behind his
sooty muzzle discovered such a pearly row of
teeth that Sovereignty would have pawned her
jewels for them.

 

 

 

 

{ What masticators !—
? What bread !—
and so, as he finished the last mouthful
entered the town of Montreuil.

Just Heaven !

of it, we

CHAPTER IX.

THERE is not a town in all France which, in my
opinion, looks better in the map than Montreuil.
—I own it does not look so well in the book of
post-roads :—but when you come to sce it,—to be
sure it looks most pitifully.

There is one thing, however, in it at present
very handsome; and that is the inn -keeper’s
daughter. She has been eighteen months at
Amiens, and six at Paris, in going through her
classes ; so knits, and sews, and dances, and does
the little eoquetries very well.

A slut! in running them over, within these five
minutes that I have stood looking at her, she has
let fall at least a dozen loops in a white thread
stocking. Yes, yes,—I See, you cunning gipsy !
-—tis long and taper,—you need not pin it to
your knee ;—and that ’tis your own—and fits
you exactly.

That Nature should have told this creature
word about a statue’s thumb!

But as this sample is worth all their thumbs,—
besides, I have her thumbs and fingers in at the
bargain, if they can be any guide to me,—and as
Jeanneton withal (for that is her name) stands so
well for a drawing,—may I never draw more . OF

a

 

 

rather, may I draw like a draught-horse, by main

 

strength, all the days of my life,—if I do not draw
her in all her proportions, and with as determined
a pencil as if I had her in the wettest drapery.

‘But your worships choose rather that I give
you the length, breadth, and perpendicular height
of the great parish-church, or a drawing of the
facade of the abbey of St. Austreberte, which has
been transported from Artois hither :—everything
is just, I suppose, as the masons and carpenters
left them ;—and, if the belief in Christ continue
so long, will be so these fifty years to come 3—SO
your worships and reverences may all measure
them at your leisures ;—but he who measures thee,
Jeanneton, must do it now ;—thou carriest the
principles of change within thy frame ; and, con-
sidering the chances of a transitory life, I would
not answer for thee a moment: ere twice twelve
months are past and gone, thou mayest grow out
like a pumpkin, and lose thy shapes ;—or thou
mayest go off like a flower, and lose thy beauty ;
—nay, thou mayest go off like a hussy,—and lose
thyself.—I would not answer for my aunt Dinah,
was she alive ;—’faith, scarce for her picture, were
it but painted by Reynolds.—

But if I go on with my drawing, after naming
that son of Apollo, I’ll be shot.

So you must e’en be content with the original ;
which, if the evening is fine in passing through
Montreuil, you will see at your chaise-door, as
you change horses ; but unless you have as bad
a reason for haste as I have,—you had better
stop.—She has a little of the dévote: but that,
Sir, is a terce toa nine in your favour.

L— help me! I could not count a single point :
so had been piqued, and repiqued, and capotted to
the devil.

 

CHAPTER X.

Aut which being considered, and that death
moreover might be much nearer me than I ima-
gined,—I wish I was at Abbeville, quoth I, were
it only to see how they card and spin :—so off we
set.

* De Montreuil a Nampont—poste et demie

de Nampont a Bernay - - poste
de Bernay a Nouvion - - poste
de Nouvion & Abbeville - - poste

—hbut the earders
bed.

and spinners were all gone to

CHAPTER XI.
Wuar a vast advantage is travelling ! only it
heats one ; but there is a remedy for that, which
you may pick out of the next chapter.

CHAPTER XII.

Was I in a condition to stipulate with death,
as I am this moment with my apothecary, how
and where I will take his clyster,—I should cer-
tainly declare against submitting to it before my
friends ; and therefore I never seriously think
upon the mode and manner of this great catastro-
phe, which generally takes up and torments my
thoughts as much as the ‘atastrophe itself—but I
constantly draw the curtain across it with this
wish, that the Disposer of all things may so order
it that it happen not to me in my own house,—
but rather in some decent inn :—at home, I know

* Vide Book of French Post-Roads, page 36, edition of
1762.ie ee rey

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 127

 

 

 

 

it—the concern of my friends, and the last services
of wiping my brows and smoothing my pillow,
which the quivering hand of pale Affection shall
pay me, will so crucify my soul that I shall die of
a distemper which my physician is not aware of ;
but in an inn, the few cold: offices I wanted would
be purchased with a few guineas, and paid me
with an undisturbed, but punctual, attention ;—
but mark,—this inn should not be the inn at
Abbeville :—if there was not another inn in the
universe, I would strike that inn out of the capi-
tulation : so

Let the horses be in the chaise exactly by four
in the morning. Yes, by four, sir, or, by
Genevieve ! [ll raise a clatter in the house shall
wake the dead.

CHAPTER XIII.

“ Make them like unto a wheel,” is a bitter
sarcasm, as all the learned know, against the
grand tour, and that restless spirit for making it
which David prophetically foresaw would haunt
the children of men in the latter days ; and there-
fore, as thinketh the great Bishop Hall, ’tis one
of the severest imprecations which David ever
uttered against the enemies of the Lord,—and, as
if he had said, “I wish them no worse luck than
always to be rolling about.” So much motion,
continues he (for he was very corpulent)—is so
much unquietness ; and so much of rest, by the
same analogy, is so much of heaven.

Now, I (being very thin) think differently ; and
that so much of motion is so much of life, and so
much of joy ;—and that to stand still, or get on
but slowly, is death and the devil.

—Hollo! Ho!—the whole world’s asleep !—
bring out the horses,—grease the wheels,—tie on
the mail,—and drive a nail into that moulding ;—
I'll not lose a moment.

Now, the wheel we are talking of, and whereinto
(but not whereonto, for that would make an Ixion’s
wheel of it) he curseth his enemies, according to
the bishop’s habit of body, should certainly be a
post-chaise wheel, whether they were set up in
Palestine at that time or not ;—and my wheel,
for the contrary reasons, must as certainly be a
cart-wheel, groaning round its revolution once in
an age; and of which sort, were I to turn com-
mentator, I should make no seruple to affirm they
had great store in that hilly country.

I love the Pythagoreans (much more than ever
I dare tell my dear Jenny) for their xwpiopoy
ams Tov odparos, els Td Kad@s diAocopety—
[their] “ getting out of the body, in order to think
well.’ No man thinks right whilst he is in it ;
blinded as he must be with his congenial humours,
and drawn differently aside, as the bishop and
myself have been, with too lax or too tense a
fibre ;—Reason is, half of it, Sense; and the
measure of Heaven itself is but the measure of
our present appetites and concoctions.

——But which of the two, in the present case,
do you think to be mostly in the wrong ?

You, certainly, quoth she, to disturb a
whole family so early.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
But she did not know I was under a vow
not to shave my beard till I got to Paris ;—yet I
hate to make mysteries of nothing ;—’tis the cold

 

 

 

cautiousness of one of those little souls from which
Lessius (lib. 13, de Moribus Divinis, cap. 24.)
hath made his estimate, wherein he setteth forth
that one Dutch mile, cubically multiplied, will
allow room enough, and to spare, for eight hun-
dred thousand millions, which he supposes to be
as great a number of souls (counting from the
fall of Adam) as can possibly be damned to the
end of the world.

From what he has made this second estimate,—
unless from the parental goodness of God, I don’t
know :—I am much more at a loss what could be
in Franciscus Ribbera’s head, who pretends that
no less a space than one of two hundred Italian
miles, multiplied into itself, will be sufficient to
hold the like number ;—he certainly must have
gone upon some of the old Roman souls, of which
he had read, without reflecting how much, by a
gradual and most tabid decline, in a course of
eighteen hundred years, they must unavoidably
have shrunk so as to have come, when he wrote,
almost to nothing.

In Lessius’s time, who seems the cooler man,
they were as little as can be imagined.—

We find them less now ;

——And, next winter, we shall find them less
again ; so that, if we go on from little to less, and
from less to nothing, I hesitate not one moment to
affirm that, in half a century, at this rate, we shall
have no souls at all; which being the period
beyond which I doubt likewise of the existence of
the Christian faith, ’twill be one advantage that
both of ’em will be exactly worn out together.

Blessed Jupiter ! and blessed every other heathen
god and goddess! for now ye will all come into
play again, and with Priapus at your tails. What
jovial times !—but where am I? and into what a
delicious riot of things am I rushing? I—I who
must be cut short in the midst of my days, and
taste no more of ’em than what I borrow from my
imagination :—-— Peace to thee, generous fool !
and let me go on.

 

 

CHAPTER XV.

——So hating, I say, “to make mysteries of
nothing,’—\I intrusted it with the post-boy, as
soon as ever I got off the stones: he gave a crack
with his whip to balance the compliment ; and
with the thill-horse trotting, and a sort of an up
and a down of the other, we danced it along to
Ailly au Clochers, famed in days of yore for the
finest chimes in the world; but we danced
through it without music, — the chimes being
greatly out of order—(as in truth they were
through all France).

And so, making all possible speed, from

Aily au Clochers, I got to Hixcourt ;
from Hixcourt, I got to Pequignay ; and
from Pequignay, I got to Amiens ;
concerning which town I have nothing to inform
you, but what I have informed you once hefore,—
and that was that Jeanneton went there to school.

 

CHAPTER XVI.

In the whole catalogue of those whiffling vexa-
tions which come puffing across a man’s canvas,
there is not one of a more teasing or tormenting
nature than this particular one which I am going
to describe,—and for which (unless you travel

 

 

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THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

with an avant-coureur, which numbers do, in
order to prevent it) there is no help; and it is
this :—

That be you in ever so kindly a propensity to

sleep,—though you are passing perhaps through
the finest country, upon the best roads, and in the
easiest carriage for doing it in the world ;—nay,
were you sure you could sleep fifty miles straight
forwards, without once opening your eyes ;—nay,
what is more, were you as demonstratively satis-
fied as you can be of any truth in Euclid that you
should, upon all accounts, be full as well asleep as
awake,—nay, perhaps, better ;—yet the incessant
returns of paying for the horses at every stage,—
with the necessity thereupon of putting your hand
into your pocket and counting out thence three
livres fifteen sous (sous by sous) puts an end to so
much of the project, that you cannot execute above
six miles of it (or, supposing it is a post and a half,
that is but nine)—were it to save your soul from
destruction.
I’ll be even with ’em, quoth I; for I’ll put
the precise sum into a piece of paper, and hold it
ready in my hand all the way: “ NowI shall have
nothing to do,” said 1 (composing myself to rest)
“but to drop this gently into the post-boy’s hat
and not say a word.”—Then there wants two sous
more to drink,—or there is a twelve-sous piece of
Louis XIV., which will not pass,—or a livre and
some odd liards to be brought over from the last
stage, which Monsieur had forgot;—which alterca-
tions (as a man cannot dispute very well asleep)
rouse him: still is sweet sleep retrievable; and
still might the flesh weigh down the spirit, and
recover itself of these blows ;—but then, by Hea-
ven! you have paid but for a single post,—whereas
tis a post and a half; and this obliges you to pull
out your book of post roads, the print of which is
so very small it forces you to open your eyes,
whether you will or no: Then Monsieur le Curé
offers you a pinch of snuff,—or a poor soldier
shows you his leg,—or a shaveling his box,—or
the priestess of the cistern will water your wheels:
—(they do not want it;—but she swears by her
priest-hood, throwing it back, that they do):—then
you have all these points to argue, or consider over
in your mind ; in doing which, the rational powers
get so thoroughly awakened,—you may get them
to sleep again as you can.

It was entirely owing to one of these misfor-
tunes, or I had passed clean by the stables of
Chantilly.

But the postilion first affirming and then
persisting in it, to my face, that there was no mark
upon the two-sous piece, I opened my eyes to be
convinced ; and seeing the mark upon it as plain
as my nose,—I leaped out of the chaise in a passion,
and so saw everything at Chantilly in spite. I
tried it but for three posts and a half, but believe
’tis the best principle in the world to travel speedily
upon ; for as few objects look very inviting in that
mood—you have little or nothing to stop you;
by which means it was that I passed through St.
Denis, without turning my head so much as on
the side towards the Abbey

Richness of their treasury ?—stuff and nonsense!

Bating their jewels, which are all false, I would
not give three sous for any one thing it it, but
Judas’s lantern; nor for that neither, only, as it
grows dark, it might be of use.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.

Crack, erack,—crack, erack,—erack, crack ;—
so this is Paris! quoth I (continuing in the same
mood) — and this is Paris!—humph !—Paris! cried
I, repeating the name the third time,—

The first, the finest, the most brilliant !

The streets, however, are nasty.

But it looks, I suppose, better than it smells.
Crack, erack,—erack, crack ;—what a fuss thou
makest !—as if it concerned the good people to be
informed that a man with a pale face, and clad in
black, had the honour to be driven into Paris at
nine o’clock at night, by a postilion in a tawny
yellow jerkin, turned up with red calamanco !—
Crack,—crack, crack,—crack, crack, crack.—I
wish thy whip—

— —But ’tis the spirit of thy nation; so crack
—crack on.

Ha!—and no one gives the wall;—but in the
School of Urbanity herself, if the walls are besh-t,
how can you do otherwise ?

And, prithee, when do they light the lamps?
What ?—never in the summer months !—Ho! ’tis
the time of salads.—O rare! salad and soup,—
soup and salad—salad and soup, encore—

"Tis too much for sinners.

Now I cannot bear the barbarity of it. How
can that unconscionable coachman talk so much
bawdy to that lean horse? don’t you see, friend,
the streets are so villanously narrow that there is
not room in all Paris to turn a wheelbarrow? In
the grandest city of the whole world it would not
have been amiss if they had been left a thought
wider ; nay, were it only so much in every single
street as that a man might know (were it only for
satisfaction) on which side of it he was walking.

One,—two,—three,—four,—five,— six,— seven,
—eight,—nine,—ten. Ten cooks’ shops! and
twice the number of barbers’: and all within
three minutes’ driving? one would think that all
the cooks in the world, on some great merry-
meeting with the barbers, by joint consent had
said—Come, let us all go live at Paris ; the French
love good eating ;—they are all gourmands ;—we
shall rank high; if their god is their belly—their
cooks must be gentlemen: and, forasmuch as the
periwig maketh the man, and the periwig-maker
maketh the periwig—ergo, would the barbers say,
we shall rank higher still,—we shall be above
you all—we shall be * Capitouls at least,—pardi!
we shall all wear swords :

—And so, one would swear (that is by candle-
light,—but there is no depending upon it) they
continue to do to this day.

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

Tue French are certainly misunderstood :—but
whether the fault is theirs, in not sufficiently ex-
plaining themselves; or speaking with that exact
limitation and precision which one would expect
on a point of such importance, and which, more-
over, is so likely to be contested by us ;—or whe-
ther the fault may not be altogether on our side,
in not understanding their language always so
critically as to know “ what they would be at,”’—
I shall not decide; but ’tis evident to me, when
they affirm “ that they who have seen Paris have

 

* Chief magistrate in Toulouse, &e.ara ee ==

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

PA en Mt pm eee

 

 

fe ek ace oe Sewle aee : ?)
. | #
seen everything,” they must mean to speak of those | 7
who have seen it by daylight. CHAPTER XIX.
As for candlelight,—I give 1t up ;—I have said In mentioning the word gay (as in the elose of

|
before, there was no depending upon it; and I | the last chapter) it puts one (Eas author) in
repeat 1t again ;—but not because the lights and | mind of the word spleen ;—especially if he has _|
shades are too sharp,—or the tints confounded— anything to say upon it. Not that by any analy- |
, « ee - ae ae eS z at e i 5 is + ve ° Ady J AHy dalic ye |
or in + he Is neither beauty no1 keeping, &c. | sis,—or that from any table of interest or genea- |
o1 ; lat’s not truth ; ; but it is an uncertain | logy, there appears much more ground of alliance |
light in this respect, that in all the five hundred betwixt them than betwixt light and darkness, or |
ee tele thie AY a r, 7 y . poe = . e i,
grand hotels, which they number up to you im | any two of the most untriendly opposites in nature; |
Paris ;—and the five hundred good things, at a | —only ’tis an undereraft of authors to keep up a |
modest computation (for ’tis only allowing one good understanding amongst words, as politicians
good thing to a hotel) which, by candle light are | do amongst men—not knowing how near they may |
|
|
|
|

 

 

best to be seen, felt, heard, and understood (which, | be under a necessity of placing them to each
by the bye, 1s a quotation fromiLilly)—the Devil | other ;—which point being now gained, and that I
a one of us, out of fifty, can get our heads fairly | may place mine exactly to my mind, I write it
thrust in amongst tliem.

This is no part of the French computation ; ’tis
simply thus:
| . That by the last survey taken in the year 1716, | This, upon leaving Chantilly, I declared to be
| Since which time there have been considerable | the best principle in the world to travel speedily

eae a Lae . : ae : . vo s 5 ae dv
Paris doth contain nine hundred | upon; but I gave it only as matter of opinion.

 

 

down here——

 

SPLEEN.

 

augmentations,

streets, (viz.) | I still continue in the same sentiments s—only [
In the quarter called the City, there are fifty-three | had not then experience enough of its working to |
Streets ; | add this, that tho’ you do get on at a tearing rate,
In St. James of the Shambles, fifty-five streets; | yet you get on but uneasily to yourself, at the |
| In St. Oportune, thirty-four streets ; | same time; for which reason, I here quit it |
| |

In the quarter of the Louvre, twenty-five streets ; entirely, and for ever; and ’tis heartily at any
In the Palace Royal, or St. Honorius, forty-nine | one’s service :—it has spoiled me the digestion of
streets ; la ‘good supper, and brought on me a bilious
In Mont Martre, forty-one streets ;1 | diarrhcea, which has brought me back again to
|

|

|

In St. Eustache, twenty-nine streets ; my first principle on which I set out; and with
In the Halles, twenty-seven streets ; which I shall now scamper it away to the banks
In St. Denis, fifty-five streets ; of the Garonne.

In St. Martin, fifty-four streets ; —No ;—I cannot stop a moment to give you
| || In St. Paul, or the Mortellerie, twenty-seven | the character of the people—their genius,—their

 

streets ; —the posts are short,—the days are long,—’tis no
And in that of St. Germain, fifty-five streets ; into | more than noon,—I shall be at Fontainebleau
any of which you may walk; and that when you | before the King.
have seen them, with all that belongs to them, —Was he going there? Not that I know.

a

: : : :
fairly by daylight,—their gates, their bridges,

|
| streets; | manners,—their customs,—their laws,—their re-
| The Gréve, thirty-eight streets ; | ligion,—their government,—their manufactures,
In St. Avoye, or the Verrerie, nineteen streets: —their commerce,—their finances, with all the
| In the Marais, or the Temple, fifty-two streets ; resources and hidden springs which sustain them ;
||; In St. Anthony, sixty-eight streets ; qualified as I may be, by spending three days and
|| In the Place Maubert, eighty-one streets ; two nights amongst them, and during all that
{| In St. Benoit, sixty streets ; time making these things the entire subject of my |
In St. Andrews-de-Ares, fifty-one streets ; inquiries and reflections.
In the quarter of the Luxembourg, sixty-two Still,—still I must away—the roads are paved,

 

their squares, their statues - - - and have crusaded CHAPTER XX.
it, moreover, thro’ all their parish-churches, by Now I hate to hear a person, especially if he be
no means omitting St. Roch and St. Sulpice; - - - | a traveller, complain that we do not get on so fast

in France as we do in England; whereas we get
on much faster, consideratis considerandis ; there-
by always meaning that, if you weigh their vehicles
Then you will have seen with the mountains of baggage which you lay both
—but ’tis what no one needeth to tell you, for | before and behind upon them and then consider
you will read of it yourself, upon the portico of | their puny horses, with the very little they give
the Louvre, in these words :— them,—’tis a wonder they get on at all. Their
suffering is most unchristian; and “tis evident
Earth no such Folks!—no Folks e’er such a Town thereupon to me, that a French post-horse would

cn a not know what in the world to do was it not for
The French have a gay way of treating every- | the two words * * * * * * and 5 * * & * In which
thing that is Great; and that is all that can be | there is as much sustenance as if you gave them a
peck of corn. Now as these words cost nothing,
I long, from my soul, to tell the reader what they

and to crown all, have taken a walk to the four
palaces, which you may see either with or without
the statues and pictures, just as you choose

 

 

 

 

said upon it.

 

 

 

 

 

* Non orbis gentem, non urbem Pies. ullam sree One Larananins question,—they ee
ee ulla parem, : : : Seg Pew ha
' him plainly, and with the most distinct articulation,
or it will answer no end ;—and yet to do it in that
K

SS a os ane te aa eee iaa

wey

 

SSeS

es ae

Be

oe Tate Ae

ORM INCE:

So a

 

 

 

 

 

 

130 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM BHANDY.

 

plain wa reverences may He

at it in ihe bed- chamber, —full well I wot they
will abuse it in the parlour ; for which cause, I
have been volving and revolving in my fancy some
time, but to no purpose, by what clean device, or
facete contrivance I might so modulate them that,
whilst I satisfy that ear which the reader chooses
to lend me—I might not dissatisfy the other which
he keeps! to himself.

: burns my finger to try; and when I
hoes ’twill have a worse consequence,—it will
burn (I fear) my paper.

—No ;—I dare not.

But if you wish to know how the
Andoiiillets and a novice of her convent got over
the difficulty (only first wishing myself all imagi-
nable success) —’ Il tell you without the least
scruple.

                 

         

 

Abbess of

CHAPTER XXI.

Tar Abbess of Andoiiillets, which, if you look
into the large set of provincial maps now publish-
ing at Paris, you will find situated amongst the
hills which divide Burgundy from Savoy, being in
danger of an anchylosis, or stiff joint (the sinovia
of her knee becoming hard by long matins) and
having tried every remedy :—First, prayers and
thanksgivings ;-—the n invocations to all the saints
in heaven, promiscuously ;—then particularly to
every saint who had ever had a stiff leg before her;
—then touching it with all the relies of the con-
vent, principally with the thigh-bone of the man of
Lystra, who had been impotent from his youth ;
then wrapping it up in her veil when she went to
bed ;—then cross-wise her rosary ;—then bringing
into her aid the secular arm, and anointing it
with oils and hot fat of animals ;—then treating it
with emollient and resolving fomentations ;—then
with poultices of marsh-mallows, bonus Henricus,
white lilies, and fenugreek ;—then taking the
woods, I mean the smoke of ’em, holding her sea-
pulary across her lap ;—then decoctions of wild
chicory, water-cresses, chervil, sweet cecily, and
cochlearia ; and nothing all this while answering,

was prevailed on at last. to ry the hot baths of

Bourbon :—so, having first obtained leave of the
visitor-peneral to take care of her existence,—
she ordered all to be got ready for her journey.
A novice of the convent, of about seventeen, who
had been troubled with a whitloe in her middle
finger, by sticking it constantly into the Abbess’s
cast poultices, &e.—had gained such an interest
that, overlooking a sci iatical old nun, who might
have been set up for ever by the hot baths of
Bourbon, Margarita, the little novice, was elected
as the companion of the journey.

An old calash, belonging to the Abbess, lined
with green frize, was ordered to be drawn out
into the sun. ‘The gardener of the convent being
chosen muleteer, led out the two old mules, to
clip the hair from the rump-ends of their tails ;
whilst a couple of lay sisters were busied, the one
in darning the lining, and the other in sewing on
the shreds of yellow-binding, which the teeth of
time had unravelled :—the under gardener dressed
the muleteer’s hat in hot wine lees ;—and a tailor
sat musically at it, in a shed over against the con-
vent, in assorting four dozen of bells for the har-
ness, whistling to each bell as he tied it on with a
thong.

 

 

 

 

1 nee arpenter and the smith of Andoiiillets
held a council of wheels; and by seven, the morn-
ing after, all looked spruce, and was ready at the

ate of the convent for the hot baths of Bourbon.

oo wo rows of the unfortunate stood ready there
an hour before.

The Abbess of Andoiiillets, supported by Mar-
garita the novice, advanced slowly to the calash,
both clad in white, with their black rosaries hang-
ing at their lecnaetae

—There was a simple solemnity in the contrast:
they entered the calash ; the nuns in the same
uniform, sweet emblem of innocence, each oceupied
a window, and, as the Abbess and Margarita looked
up,—each (the sciatical old nun exce ach
streamed out the end of her veil in the air, she on
kissed the lily hand which let it go. The good
Abbess and Margarita laid their hands saint-wise
upon their breasts,—looked up to heaven,—then
to them,—and looked, “ God bless you, dear
sisters.”’

I declare I am interested in this story, and wish
IT had been there.

The gardener, whom I now shall eall the mule-
teer, was a little, hearty, broad-set, good-natured,
chattering, toping kind ofa fellow, who troubled his
head very little with the hows and whens of life ; so
had mortgaged a month of his conventical wages in
a borrachio, or leathern eask of wine, which he had
disposed behind the calash, with a large russet-
coloured riding-coat over it, to guard it from the
sun: and as the weather was hot, and he not a
niggar 1 of his labours, walking ten times more
than he rode.—he found more occasions than those
of nature to fall back to the rear us his carriage;
till, by frequent coming and going, it so happened
that all his wine had leaked out at the legal vent
of the borrachio, before one half of the journey
was finished.

Man is a creature born to habitudes. The day
had been sultry,—the evening was delicious,— the
wine was generous,—the Burgundian hill on which
it grew was steep,—a little tempting bush, over
the door of a cool cottage, at the foot of it, hung
vibrating in full harmony with the passions,—a
gentle air rustled distinctly through the leaves,—
* Come,—come,—thirsty muleteer,—come in.”

—The muleteer was a son of Adam: I need not

say one word more. He gave the mules, each of
’em, a sound lash, and looking in the Abbess’s and
Margarita’s faces (as he did it)—as much as to
say “ Here I am,’’—he gave asecond good erack,
—as much as to say to his mules “Get on!’’
—so slinking behind, he entered the little inn at
the foot of the hill.

The muleteer, as I told you, was a little, joyous,
chirping fellow, who thought not of to-morrow,
nor of what had gone before, nor what was to
follow it, provided he got but his seantling of Bur-
gundy, and a little chit-chat along w ith it ; so enter-

         

 

ing into a long conversation, as how he was chief

garde nertothe convent of Andoiiillets, &e., &e., and
out of friendship for the Abbess and Mademoiselle
Margarita, who was only in her noviciate, he had
come along with them from the confines of § Savoy,
&c., &e., and as howshe had got a white swelling by
her devotions ;—and what a nation of herbs he
had procured to mollify her humours, &c., &ce., and,
that if the waters of Bourbon did not mend that
leg—she might as well'be lame of both, &e. &e.—

 

—lTHE

LIFE
He so contriv ed his story as abs solutely to forget
the heroine of it,—and, with her, the little novice ;
and, what was a more tek lish point to be forgotten
than hath the two mules; who being cre pS
that take advantage of the world, inasmuch as
their parents took it of them,—and they not baie
in a condition to return the obligation downwards
(as men, and women, and beasts are)—they do it
side-ways s, and long-ways, and back-ways y—and up
hill, a nd down hill, and which way they can.—
Philosophers, with all their ethics, have never
considered this rightly: how should the poor
muleteer then, in his cups, consider it at all?—He
did not in the least ;— *tis time we do. Let us
leave him then in the vortex of his element, the
happiest and most thoughtless of mortal men,—
and for a moment let us look after the mules, the
Abbess, and Margarita.

By virtue of the muleteer’s two last strokes, the
mules had gone quietly on, following their own
consciences up the hiil, till ahoy. had conquered
about one-half of it; when the elder of them, a
shrewd crafty old dey il, at the turn of an angle,
giving a side- glance, and no muleteer behind
them ay

3y my fig! said she, swearing, I’ll
ther. And if I do, replied the other, they
make a drum of my hide.

—And so, with one consent they stopped thus:—

 

 

 

 

 

go no fur-
shall

 

CHAPTER XXT.

Get on with you, said the Abbess.
Wh.-----ysh,—y sh »—ysh,—cried Margarita.

 

 

 

Sh---a,—shu -u, shu -u, —sh --aw—shaw’d
the Abbess.
Whu —yv —w, — whew —w —w, —whuv’d

Margarita, pursing up her sweet lips betwixt a

hoot and a whistle.
Thump,—thump,—thump,—obstreperated the

Abbess of Andoiiillets, with the end of her gold-

headed cane against the bottom of the calash.
—The old mule let a f—

CHAPTER XXIII.

We are ruin’d and undone, my child, said the
Abbess to Margarita ;—we shall be here. all night:
we Shall be plundered,—we shall be ravished !
We shall be ravished, said Margarita, as
sure as a gun.

-Sancta Maria! cried the Abbess (forgetting
the O!)—why wa
joint! why did I leave the convent of Andoiiillets

and why didst thou not suffer thy servant to go

 

 

 

unpolluted to her tomb ?

O my finger! my finger! cried the novice,
catching fire at the word servant,—why was I not
content to put in here, or there? anywhere rather
than be in this strait ?

Strait! said the Abbess.

—— Strait!—said the novice; for terror had
struck their understandings,—the one knew not
what she said, the other what she answered.
Omyv ‘inginity’ lv irginity! cried the Abbess.
—-—inity !—inity! said the novice, sobbing.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
My dear mother, quoth the novice, coming a
little to herself,—there are two certain words,
which [I have been told will force any horse, or ass

s I governed by this wicked sue

 

AND OPINIONS OF

 

 

 

 

 

TRISTRAM Ԥ

 

SHANDY. 131

 

or mule, to go up a hill, whether he will or not: be
he ever so obstinate or ill-w il’d, the moment he
hears them uttered he obeys.

—They are words magic ! cried the Abbess, in
the utmost horror.

—No, replied Margarita, calmly,—but they are
words sinful.

What a are they? ? quoth the Abbess, interrupting
her. are sinful in the first degree, an-
swered ean arita ;—they are mortal ; —and cs we
are ra wished and die unabsolved of them, we

shall both——But you may pronounce them to
me, quoth the Abbess of Andoiillets hey
cannot, my oe mother, said the novice, be
pronounces ed ata ll; they will make all the blood in
one’s body a up ‘into one’s face. But you may
whisper them in my ear, quoth the Abbess.

Heay en! hadst thou no guardian angel to dele-
gate to the inn at the bottom of the hill? Was
there no generous and friendly spirit unemployed ?
—no age nt in nature, by some monitory shiv ae
creeping along the artery which led to his hea
to rouse the muleteer from his banquet ’—no sw =
minstrelsy to bring back the fair idea of the Abbess
and Margarita, with their black rosaries.

Rouse ! rouse ee tis too late; the horrid

rords are pr onounce this moment, and how
a tell them, —— Ye, who can speak of everything
existing, with unpolluted lips,—instruct me,—guide
me!——.

       

CHAPTER XXyV.

ALL sins whatever, quoth the Abbess, turning
casuist in the distress they were under, are held
by the confessor of our convent to be either mortal
or venial: there is no further division. Now, a
venial sin being the slightest and least of all sins,
—being halvec d, »—by taking either only the half of
it and leaving ‘the rest,—or, by taking it all, and
amicably” halvin g it betw ixt yourself and amotio:
person, in course : becon nes diluted into no sin at all.
—Now I see no sin in say ing bou, bou, bou, bou,
bow, a hundred times together ; nor is there any
turpitude in pronouncing the syllable ger, ger, ger,
ger, ger, were it from our matins to our vespers.

Therefore, my dear daughter, continued the
Abbess of Andoiillets,—I w ‘ll say bou, and thou
shalt say ger; and then alternately, as there is no
more sin in fow than in dou ;—thou shalt say, fou,

—and I will come in ss fa, sol, la, re, mi, ut, at
our complines) with fe :—and accordingly the
Abbess, giving the pitch-note, set off thus:
Abbess, 2 Bou - bou - bou -

Margarita, § ger, - ger, - ger.

Margarita, ? Fou - fou - fou -

Abbess, ter, - ter, - ter.

The two mules acknowledged the notes by
mutual lash of their tails, but it went no further.

’*T will answer by and bye, said the novice.
Abbess, ? Bou- bou- bou~ bou- bou- bou-
Margarita, § ger, ger, ger, ger, ger, ger,

Quicker still, cried Margarita.

Fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou, fou.

Quicker still, cried Margarita.

Bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou.
Quicker still—_ God preserve me, said the Abbess.
They do not understand us, cried Margaritz

But the Devil does, said the Abbess of Andoii-

illets.132

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXYVI.

Wuar a tract of country have I run!—how
many degrees nearer to the warm sun am I ad-
vanced, and how many fair and goodly cities have
I seen during the time you have been reading and
reflecting, madam, upon this story! There’s Fon-
tainebleau, and Sens,and Joigny, and Auxerre, and
Dijon the capital of Burgundy, and Chalons, and
Macon the capital of the Maconese, and a score
more upon the road to Lyons; and now I have
run them over, I might as well talk to you of so
many market-towns in the moon as tell you one
word about them: it will be this chapter at the
least, if not both this and the next entirely lost,
do what I will.

—Why, ‘tis a strange story, Tristram.

——Alas ! madam,
had it been upon some melancholy lecture of the
cross,—the peace of meekness, or the contentment
of resignation—I had not beenincommoded; or had
I thought of writing it upon the purer abstractions
of the soul, and that food of wisdom, and _ holi-
ness, and contemplation, upon which the spirit
of man (when separated from the body) is to
subsist for ever,—you would have come witha
better appetite from it.

I wish I never had wrote it: but as I never
blot anything out,—let us use some honest means
to get it out of our heads directly.

Pray reach me my fool’s cap:—I fear you sit
upon it, madam ;—’tis under the cushion: I'll
put it on.—

Bless me! you have had it upon your head this
half hour.—There then let it stay, with a

Fa-ra diddle di

and a fa-ri diddle d
and a high-dum,—dye-dum

fiddle -- dum - ec.

And now, madam, we may venture, I hope, :
little to go on.

CHAPTER XXVIL

Aut you need say of Fontainebleau (in case you
are asked) is that it stands about forty miles (south
something) from Paris, in the middle of a large
forest :—that there is something great in it :—that
the king goes there once every two or three years,
with his whole court, for the pleasure of the chase ;
and that, during that carnival of sporting, any
English gentleman of fashion (you need not forget
yourself) may be accommodated with a nag or two,
to partake of the sport, taking care only not to out-
gallop the king.

Though there are two reasons why you need not
talk loud of this to every one:

First, Because ’twillmake the said nagsthe harder
to be got; and secondly, “Tis not a word of it true.
—Allons!

As for Sens,—you may despatch it in a word:
—“’Tis an archiepiscopal see.”

For Joigny,—the less, I think, one says of it, the
better.

But for Auxerre, I could go on for ever: for in
my grand tour through Europe, in which, after all,
my father (not caring to trust me with any one)
attended me himself, with my uncle Toby, and
Trim, and Obadiah, and indeed most of the family
except my mother, who being taken up with a
project of knitting my father a pair of large worsted

 

|

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

breeches—(the thing is common sense)—and she |
not caring to be put out of her way, she staid at |
home, at Shandy Hall, to keep things right during |
the expedition ; in which, I say, my father stopping
us two days at Auxerre, and his researches being
ever of such a nature that they would have found
fruit even in a desert,—he has left me enough to
say upon Auxerre. In short, wherever my father
went; but ’twas more remarkably so in this jour-
ney, through France and Italy, than in any other
stages of his life ;—his road seemed to lie so much
on one side of that wherein all other travellers had
gone before him,—he Saw kings and courts, and
silks of all colours, in such strange lights ;—and
his remarks and reasonings upon the characters,
the manners and customs of the countries we
passed over were so opposite to those of all other
mortal men, particularly those of my uncle Toby
and Trim—(to say nothing of myself) ;—and to
crown all—the occurrences and scrapes which
we were perpetually meeting and getting into, in
consequence of his systems and opiniatry,—they |
were of so odd, so mixed and tragi-comical a con- |
texture—that, the whole put together, it appears
of so different a shade and tint from any tour of
Europe which was ever executed,—that I will
venture to pronounce,—the fault must be mine,
and mine only,—if it be not read by all travellers
and travel-readers, till travelling is no more,— or,
which comes to the same point,—till the world,
finally, takes it into its head to stand still.

But this rich bale is not to be opened now,
except a small thread or two of it, merely to
unravel the mystery of my father’s stay at Auxerre.

—As I have mentioned it,—’tis too slight to be
kept suspended; and when ’tis wove in there is
an end of it.

We'll go, brother Toby, said my father, whilst
dinner is coddling,—-to the abbey of Saint Germain,
if it be only to see these bodies, of which Monsieur
Sequier has given such a recommendation. ——
Ill go see anybody, quoth my uncle Toby; for
he was all compliance through every step ‘of the

 

 

journey.——Defend me! said my father,—they are
all mummies.——Then one need not shave, quoth
my uncle Toby.——Shave! no,—cried my father,—

’twill be more like relations to go, with our beards
on.——So out we sallied, the Corporal lending his
master his arm, and bringing up the rear, to the
abbey of Saint Germain.

Everything is very fine, and very rich, and very
superb, and very magnificent, said my father
addressing himself to the sacristan, who was a
younger brother of the order of Benedictines ;—
but our curiosity has led us to see the bodies,
of which Monsieur Sequier has given the world so
exact a deseription.——The sacristan made a bow,
and, lighting a torch first, which he had always in
the vestry ready for the purpose, he led us into
the tomb of Saint Heribald.——This, said the
sacristan, laying his hand upon the tomb, was a re-
nowned prince of the house of Bavaria, who, under
the succesive reigns of Charlemagne, Louis le De-
bonnair, and Charles the Bald, bore a great sway
in the government, and had a principal hand in
bringing everything into order and discipline-——

Then he has been as great, said my uncle Toby,
in the field as in the cabinet—I dare say he has
been ¢

 

o
5

1 gallant soldier.——He was a monk—said
the sacristan.THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

133

 

 

My uncle Toby and Trim sought comfort in
each other’s faces,—but found it not.— My father
clapped both his hands upon his cod-piece, whieh
was a way he had when anything hugely tickled
him: for though he hated a monk, and the very
smell of a monk, worse than all the devils in hell,
—yet the shot hitting my uncle Toby and Trim so
much harder than him, ’twas a relative triumph,
and put him into the gayest humour in the world.
——And pray what do you call this gentleman ?
quoth my father, rather sportingly——This tomb,
said the young Benedictine, looking downwards,
contains the bones of St. Maxima, who came from
Ravenna on purpose to touch the body

—— Of St. Maximus, said my father, popping in
with his saint before him,—they were two of the
greatest saints in the whole martyrology, added my
father.——Excuse me, said the sacristan,—’twas to
touch the bones of St. Germain, the builder of the
Abbey.—And what did she get by it? said my
uncle Toby.—— What does any woman get by it ?
said my father—— Martyrdom, replied the young
Benedictine, making a bow down to the ground,
and uttering the word with so humble but deci-
sive a cadence, it disarmed my father for a moment.
——’Tis supposed, continued the Benedictine, that
St. Maxima has lain in this tomb four hundred
years, and two hundred before her canonization.
——’Tis but a slow rise, brother Toby, quoth my
father, in this self-same army of martyrs.——A
desperate slow one, an’ please your honour, said
Trim, unless one could purchase.-——lI should
rather sell out, quoth my uncle Toby. I am
pretty much of your opinion, brother Toby, said
my father.

—Poor St. Maxima ! said my uncle Toby, low to
himself, as we turned from her tomb.——She was
one of the fairest and most beautiful ladies either
of Italy or France (continued the sacristan),——
But who the deuce has got lain down here, beside
her? quoth my father, pointing with his cane to a
large tomb as we walked on. It is saint Optat, sir,
answered the sacristan.—— And properly is Saint
Optat placed! said my father: And what is Saint
Optat’sstory ? continued he. Saint Optat, replied
replied the sacristan, was a bishop.——

—I thought so, by Heaven! cried my father,
interrupting him ;— Saint Optat!—how should
Saint Optat fail?—So, snatching out his pocket-
book, and the young Benedictine holding him the
torch as he wrote, he set it down as a new prop
to his system of Christian names ; and I will be
bold to say, so disinterested was he in the search
of truth, that, had he found a treasnre in Saint
Optat’s tomb, it would not have made him half so
rich: *twas as successful a short visit as ever was
paid to the dead; and so highly was his fancy
pleased with all that had passed in it,—that he de-
termined at once to stay another day in Auxerre.

——-I’ll see the rest of these good gentry to-
morrow, said my father, as we crossed over the
square.—And while you are paying that visit,
brother Shandy, quoth my uncle Toby, the Corpo-
ral and I will mount the ramparts.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.

——Now this is the most puzzled skein of all ;—
for inthis last chapter,as far at least as it has helped
me through Auxerre, I have been getting forward
in two different journeys together, and with the

 

| myself into such a situation as no traveller ever

 

 

same dash of the pen ; for I have got entirely out of
Auxerre in this journey which ] am writing now,
and Iam got half way out of Auxerre in that which
I shall write hereafter.—There is but a certain
degree of perfection in everything ; and, by push-
ing at something beyond that, I have brought

 

stood before me; for I am this moment walking |
weross the market-place of Auxerre, with my
father and my uncle Toby, in our way back to
dinner ;—and I am this moment also entering
Lyons, with my post-chaise broke into a thousand |
pieces ;—and I am moreover this moment in a |
|

 

 

handsome pavilion, built by Pringello,* upon the
the banks of the Garonne, which Monsieur Slig-

niac has lent me, and where I now sit rhapsodizing

|
|
all these affairs.

_——lLet me collect myself and pursue my
journey.
CHAPTER XXIX.

I am glad of it, said I, settling the account with
myself, as 1 walked into Lyons,—my chaise being
all laid higgledy-piggledy with my baggage in a
cart, which was moving slowly before me.—I am
heartily glad, said I, that ’tis all broke to pieces ;
for now I can go directly by water to Avignon,
which will carry me on a hundred and twenty miles
of my journey, and not cost me seven livres ;—and
from thence, continued I, bringing forwards the ac-
count, I can hirea couple of mules,—or asses, if I
like (for nobody knows me), and cross the plains of
Languedoc for almost nothing :—I shall gain four
hundred livres by the misfortune clear into my
purse ; and pleasure! worth—worth double the
money by it. With what velocity, continued I,
clapping my two hands together, shall I fly down the
rapid Rhéne,with the Vivares on my right hand and
Dauphiny on my left, scarce seeing the ancient cities
of Vienne, Valence, and Viviéres! What a flame
will it rekindle in the lamp, to snatch a blushing
grape from the Hermitage and Cote-Roti, as I
shoot by the foot of them ! and what a fresh spring
in the blood ! to behold upon the banks advancing
and retiring, the castles of romance, whence cour-
teous knights have whilom rescued the distressed ;
and see, vertiginous, the rocks, the mountains, the
cataracts, and all the hurry which Nature is in
with all her great works about her !

As I went on thus, methought my chaise, the
wreck of which looked stately enough at the first,
insensibly grew less and less in its size; the fresh-

ness of the painting was no more—the gilding lost

 

its lustre—and the whole affair appeared so poor
in my eyes!—so sorry! so contemptible!—and, in a
word, so much worse than the Abbess of Andouil-
lets’ itself{—that I was going to open my mouth to
give it to the Devil—when a pert vamping chaise-
undertaker, stepping nimbly across the street,
demanded if Monsieur would have his chaise re-
fitted. No, no, said I, shaking my head sideways.
—— Would Monsieur choose to sell it? rejoined the
undertaker.—— With all my soul, said I ;—the iron-

 

 

work is worth forty livres,—and the glasses worth
forty more,—and theleather you may take toliveon.

——What a mine of wealth, quoth I, as he
counted me the money, has this post-chaise brought

 

 

 

 * The famous Don Pringello, the celebrated Spanish ar-
chitect, of whom my cousin Antony has made such
honourable mention, in a scholium to the Tale inscribed
to his name.—Vide p. 129, small edit.f

|

 

 

134 THE LIFE

 

me in! And this is my usual method of book-
keeping, at least with the disasters of life—making
a penny of every one of ’em as they happen'to me.
Do, my dear Jenny, tell the world, for me,
how I behaved under one, the most oppressive of
its kind, which could befal me as a man, proud as
he ought to be of his manhood.

*Tis enough, saidst thou, coming up close to me,
as I stood with my garters in my hand, reflecting
upon what had nof passed. Tis enough, Tristram,
and I am satisfied, said’st thou, whispering these
words in my ear, * * * * *
* ye * *—__any other man would
have sunk down to the centre.

——Everything is good for something, quoth I.

—IT’il go into Wales for six weeks, and drink
goats’ whey,—and I’ll gain seven years’ longer life
for the accident. For which reason I think my-
self inexcusable for blaming Fortune, so often as I
have done, for pelting me all my life long, like an
ungracious duchess, as I called her, with somany
small evils. Surely, if I have any cause to be
angry with her, ’tis that she has not sent me great
ones: a score of good cursed bouncing losses,
would have been as good as a pension to me.

—One of a hundred a year, or so, is all I wish:
I would not be at the plague of paying land-tax
for a larger.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX,

To those who call vexations vevations,as knowing
what they are, there could not be a greater than
to be the best part of a day in Lyons, the most
opulent and flourishing city in France, enriched
with the most fragments of antiquity—and not
be able to see it. ‘To be withheld upon any ac-
count must be a vexation ; but to be withheld dy
a vexation,—must certainly be what philosophy
justly calls

 

VEXATION
upon
VEXATION.

I had got my two dishes of milk-coffee (which,
by the bye, is excellently good for a consumption ;
but you must boil the milk and coffee together
—otherwise ’tis only coffee and milk}—and as it
was no more than eight in the morning, and the
boat did not go off till noon, I had time to see
enough of Lyons to tire the patience of all the
friends I had in the world with it. I will take
a walk to the cathedral, said I, looking at my list,
and see the wonderful mechanism of this great
clock of Lippius of Basil, in the first place.

Now, of all things in the world, | understand the
least of mechanism; I have neither genius, nor
taste, nor fancy—and have a brain so entirely un-
apt for everything of that kind, that I solemnly
declare I was never yet able to comprehend the
pringiples of motion of a squirrel-cage, or a common
knife-grinder’s wheel,—tho’ I have many an hour
of my life looked up with great devotion at the one
—and stood by with as much patience as any
Christian ever could do at the other.

I'll go See the surprising movements of this great
clock, said I, the very first thing I do: and then
I will pay a visit to the great library of the Jesuits,
and procure, if possible, a sight of the thirty volumes
of the general history of China, wrote (not in the
Tartarian), but, in the Chinese language and in
the Chinese character too.

 

AND OPINIONS

 

 

YF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

Now, I almost know as little of the Chinese lan-
guage as I do of the mechanism of Lippius’s clock-
work; so, why these should have jostled themselves
into the two first articles of my list—I leave to
the curious asa problem of nature. I own, it looks
like one of her ladyship’s obliquities; and they
who court her are interested in finding out her
humour as much as I.

When these curiosities are seen, quoth I, half
addressing myself to my valet-de-place, who stood
behind me,—’twill be no hurt if we go to the
church of St. Irenzeus, and see the pillar to which
Christ was tied ;—and after that, the house where
Pontius Pilate lived. ’T'was at the next town, said
the valei-de-place, at Vienne. Iam glad of it,
said I, rising briskly from my chair, and walking
across the room with strides twice as long as
my usual pace ;—for so much the sooner shall I be
at the J'omb of the two Lovers.

What was the cause of this movement, and why
I took such long strides in uttering this,—I might
leave to the curious too; but, as no principle of
is concerned in it—’twill be as well for
the reader if I explain myself.

] > - .
clockwork

XXXII.
THERE is a sweet era in the life of man,
when (the brain being tender and fibrillous, and
ike pap than anything else )—a story read of
lovers, separated from each other by
cruel parents and by still more cruel destiny,-

CHAPTER

{

€
two fond

 

Amandus—He,
Amanda—she,

 

each ignorant of the other’s course 5

He—east,

She—west :
Amandus taken captive by the Turks, and carried
to the Emperor of Moroecco’s court, where the
Princess of Morocco falling in love with him, keeps
him twenty years in prison for the love of his
Amanda.

She (Amanda) all the time wandering bare-
foot, and with dishevelled hair, o’er rocks and
mountains, inquiring for Amandus !—Amandus !
Amandus !—making every hill and valley to echo
back his name——

Amandus ! Amandus !

at every town and city, sitting down forlorn at

 

the gate:——Has Amandus:—has my Amandus
entered ? till,—going round, and round, and

round the world,—chance unexpectedly bringing
them at the same moment of the night, though
by different ways, to the gate of Lyons, their
native city, and each in well-known accents calling
out aloud,

Is Amandus y sitll alive 3

Ismy Amanda
they fly into each other’s arms, and both drop
down dead for joy.

There is a soft era in every gentle mortal’s life,
where such a story affords more pabu/um to the
brain than all the Frusts, and Crusts, and Rusts
of antiquity, which travellers can cook up for it.

——'T' was all that stuck on the right side of the
cullender in my own, of what Spon and others, in
their accounts of Lyons, had strained into it; and
finding, moreover, in some Itinerary, but in what
God knows—that, sacred to the fidelity of Aman-THE LIFE

 

 

 

— ae

 

 

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

135

 

{
| dus-and Amanda, a tomb was built without the
| gates, where, to this hour, lovers called upon

them to attest their truths—I never could get into
a serape of that kind in my life, but this Tomb of
the Lovers would, somehow or other, come in at
the close; nay such a kind of empire had it es-
tablished over me that I could seldom think or
speak of Lyons ;—and sometimes, not so much as
see even a Lyons-waistcoat, but this remnant of an-
tiquity would present itself to my fancy; and I have
often said in my wild way of running on—though
I fear with some irreverence— 1 thought this
shrine (neglected as it was) as valuable as that of
Mecca; and so little short, except in wealth, of the
Santa Casa itself, that sometime or other, I would
go a pilgrimage (though I had no other business
at Lyons) on purpose to pay it a visit.’

In my list, therefore, of Videnda at Lyons, this,
though /ast,—was not, you see, least ; so, taking a
dozen or two of longer strides than usual across
my room, just while it passed my brain, I walked
down calmly into the basse cour,in order to sally
forth; and, having called for my bill—as it was
uncertain whether I should return to my inn, I
had paid it,—had moreover, given the maid ten
sous, and was just receiving the derniers compli-
ments of Monsieur Le Blanc, for a pleasant voyage
down the Rhéne,—when I was stopped at the
gate——

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

"Twas by a poor ass, who had just turned in
with a couple of large panniers upon his back, to
collect eleemosynary turnip-tops and cabbage
leaves ; and stood dubious, with his two fore-feet
on the inside of the threshold, and with his two
hinder feet towards the street, as not knowing
very well whether he was to go in orno.

Now, ’tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I
cannot bear to strike ;—there is a patient endur-
ance of sufferings, wrote so unaffectedly in his
looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily for
him, that it always disarms me ; and to that degree
that I do not like to speak unkindly to him: on
the contrary meet him where I will,—whether in
town or country,—in cart, or under panniers,—
whether in liberty or bondage,—I have ever some-
thing civil to say to him on my part; and as one
word begets another (if he has as little to do as I)
—lI generally fall into conversation with him; and
surely never is my imagination so busy as in fram-
ing his responses from the etchings of his counte-
nance—and where those carry me not deep enough,
in flying from my own heart into his, and seeing
what is natural for an ass to think—as well as a
man, upon the occasion. In truth, it is the only
creature of all the classes of beings below me with
whom I can do this; for parrots, jackdaws, &c., I
never exchange a word with them,—nor with apes,
&c., for pretty near the same reason ; they act by
rote, as the others speak by it, and equally make
me silent: nay, my dog and my cat, though I value
them both—(and, for my dog, he would speak if
he could)—yet, somehow or other, they neither
of them possess the talents for conversation ;—I
can make nothing of a discourse with them beyond
the proposition, the reply, and rejoinder, which
terminated my father’s and my mother’s conversa-
tions in his beds of justice ;—and those utter’d—
there’s an end of the dialogue.

But with an ass I can commune for ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

—Come, Honesty! said I,—seeing it was imprac- |
ticable to pass betwixt him and the gate—art thou
for coming in or going out?

——The ass twisted his head round, to look up
the street.

Well, replied I, we’ll wait a minute for thy

 

driver.

 

He turned his head thoughtful about, and
looked wistfully the opposite way.

LT understand thee perfectly, answered I ;—if
thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he will
cudgel thee to death. Well, a minute is but a
minute, and, if it saves a fellow-creature a drub-
bing, it shall not be set down as ill-spent.

He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this
discourse went on, and in the little peevish con-
tentions of nature betwixt hunger and unsavouri-
ness, had dropt it out of his mouth half-a-dozen
times, and pick’d it up again. God help thee,
Jack! said I, thou hast a bitter breakfast on’t,—
and many a bitter day’s labour—and many a bitter
blow, I fear, for its wages !—’tis all—all bitterness
to thee, whatever life is to others !—And now, thy
mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter,
I dare say,as soot—(for he had east aside the
stem)—and thou hast not a friend, perhaps, in all
this world, that will give thee a macaroon. In
saying this, I pulled out a paper of em, which I
had just purchased, and gave him one—and, at this
moment that I am telling it, my heart smites me
that there was more of pleasantry in the conceit
of seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon—than
of benevolence in giving him one which presided
in the act.

When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I pressed
him to come in :—the poor beast was heavy loaded,
—his legs seem’d to tremble under him,—he hung
rather backwards; and as I pulled at his halter,
it broke short in my hand.—He looked up pensive
in my face—“ Don’t thrash me with it ;—but, if
you will, you may.” “elf i do, saidet, “iit
be d dz

The word was but one half of it pronounced,
like the Abbess of Andoiiillets,—(so there was no
sin in it)—when a person coming in, let fall a thun-
dering bastinado upon the poor devil’s crupper,
which put an end to the ceremony.

Out upon it !

cried I ;—but the interjection was equivocal, and
I think, wrong placed too,—for the end of an osier,
which had started out from the contexture of the
ass’s pannier, had caught hold of my breeches-
pocket as he rush’d by me, and rent it in the most
disastrous direction you can imagine;—so that the
—Qut upon it! in my opinion, should have come

in here ;—but this I leave to be settled by

THE

REVIEWERS |
OF |
MY BREECHES,
|
|
|
|

 

 

 

 

 

 

which I have brought over along with me for that |
purpose.
CHAPTER XXXII.

Wuen all was set to rights, I came down stairs
again in the basse cour with my valet-de-place, |
in order to sally out towards the Tomb of the two
Lovers, &e.—and was a second time stopped at the
gate:—not by the ass—but by the person who
struck him; and who, by that time, had taken

 

——ee ee pn A Ta
a er ee SA a ee

 

 

136

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

possession (as is not uncommon after a defeat) of
the very spot of ground where the ass stood.

It was a commissary sent to me from the post-
office, with a reseript in his hand, for the payment
of some six livres odd sous.

Upon what account? said I1——’Tis upon the
part of the King, replied the commissary, heaving
up both his shoulders.

My good friend, quoth I,
I and you are you,
And who are you? said he.
Don’t puzzle me, said I.

as sure as | am

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.

—Burt itis an indubitable verity, continued [,
addressing myself to the commissary, changing
only the form of my asseveration,—that I owe the
King of France nothing but my good-will; for he
is a very honest man, and I wish him all health
and pastime in the world.

Pardonnez-moi—replied the commissary ; you
are indebted to him six livres four sous for the next
post from hence to St. Fons, in your route to Avi-
gnon ;—which being a post royal, you pay double
for the horses and postilion—otherwise ’twould
have amounted to no more than three livres two
sous,

 

But I don’t go by land, said I.
You may, if you please, replied the com-
missary.
Your most obedient servant
him a low bow.

The commissary, with all the sincerity of grave
good-breeding—made me one as low again. I
never was more disconcerted with a bow in my

life.

 

 

 

said I, making

5

 

The Devil take the serious character of
these people! quoth I—(aside)—they understand
no more of irony than this

The comparison was standing close by with his
panniers,—but something sealed up my lips ;—I
could not pronounce the name.

—Sir, said I, collecting myself—it is not my in-
tention to take post.

——But you may,—said he, persisting in his
first reply ; you may take post, if you choose.
And I may take salt to my pickled herring,
said I, if I choose. But I do not choose.

But you must pay for it, whether you do

 

 

 

or no.

 

Ay ! for the salt, said I (I know).
———And for the post too, added he——Defend

me! cried I.

I travel by water ;—I am going down the

Rhéne this afternoon ;—my baggage is in the boat

—and I have actually paid nine livres for my pas-

sage.

 

C’ est tout égal,—’ tis all one, said he.

——Bon Dieu! what pay for the way I go!
and for the way I do not go!

——C’est tout égal, replied the commissary.

- ——The Devil it is! said I;—but I will go to
ten thousand Bastiles first.

O England! England! thou land of liberty, and
climate of good sense! thou tenderest of mothers,
and gentlest of nurses! cried I, kneeling upon
one knee, as I was beginning my apostrophe,—

When the director of Madame Le Blane’s con-
science coming in at that instant, and seeing a
person in black, with a face as pale as ashes, at

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

his devotions,—looking still paler by the contrast
and distress of his drapery,—asked if I stood in
want of the aids of the church?

I go by water, said 1 ;—and here’s another
will be for making me pay for going by oil!

 

 

CHAPTER XXXYV.

As I perceived the commissary of the post-
office would have his six livres four sous, [ had
nothing else for it but to say some smart thing
upon the oceasion worth the money :

And so I set off thus :—

And pray, Mr. Commissary, by what law of
courtesy is a defenceless stranger to be used just
the reverse from what you use a Frenchman in
this matter?

—— By no means, said he.

Excuse me, said I ;—or you have begun,
sir, with first tearing off my breeches,—and now
you want my pocket.

W hereas,—had you first taken my pocket, as you
do with your own people,—and then left me bare-
a—'d after, | had been a beast to have complained.

As it is,—

—’'Tis contrary to the law of nature,

—'Tis contrary to reason,

—’Tis contrary to the Gospel.

—— But not to this,—said he,—putting a printed
paper into my hand :

 

 

 

 

 

PAR LE ROY.

and

 

 

Tis a pithy prolegomenon, quoth I ;
so read on

ee

| |
HH |

 

—By all which it appears, quoth I, having read
it over a little too rapidly, that if a man sets out
in a post-chaise from Paris, he must go on travel-
ling in one all the days of his life,—or pay for it.
Excuse me, said the commissary, the spirit of
the ordinance is this:—That if you set out
with an intention of running post from Paris to
Avignon, &e., you shall not change that intention,
or mode of travelling, without first satisfying the
fermiers for two posts farther than the place you
repent at ;—and ’tis founded, continued he, upon
this, That the revenwes are not to fall short
through your jfickleness.

O by Heavens! eried I,—if fickleness is
taxable in France,—we have nothing to do but to
make the best peace with you we can.

And so the Peace was made!

—And if it is a bad one,—as Tristram Shandy
laid the corner-stone of it,—nobody but Tristram
Shandy ought to be hanged.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXA VI.

Tuoucu I was sensible I had said as many
clever things to the commissary as came to six
livres four sous, yet | was determined to note
down the imposition amongst my remarks before
[ retired from the place ; so putting my hand into
my coat-pocket for my remarks—(which, by the
bye, may be a caution to travellers to take a little
more care of ¢heir remarks for the future)—* my
remarks were stolen.”—Never did sorry traveller
make such a pother and racket about his remarks
as I did about mine upon the occasion,|

|
|

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

137

 

 

 

every thing to my aid but what I should,—my re-

marks are stolen! What shall I do ?~Mr. Com-
| missary ; pray did I drop any remarks as I stood
| beside you ?——

|
| Heaven! earth ! sea! fire! eried I, calling in
|
{
|
| Ty .
You dropped a good many very ‘singular ones,

| replied he..—~Pugh! said I, those were but a
| few, not worth above six livres two sous ;—but
| these are a large parcel——He shook his head.

 

Monsieur Le Blanc ! Madame Le Blanc! did
| you see any papers of mine !—You maid of the
| house, run up stairs—Francois, run up after her!
| I must have my remarks ;—they were the best
remarks, cried I, that ever were made—the wisest
—the wittiest. What shall I do?—Which way
shall I turn myself?

Sancho Panga, when he lost his ass’s furniture,
did not exclaim more bitterly.

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN the first transport was over, and the
registers of the brain were beginning to get a
little out of the confusion into which this jumble
of cross accidents had cast them,—it then presently
occurred to me that I had left my remarks in the
pocket of the chaise ;—and that in selling my
chaise, I had sold my remarks along with it, to
the chaise-vamper.

I leave this
|

 

void space, that the reader may swear into it any
oath that he is most accustomed to.—For my own
part, if ever I swore a whole oath into a vacancy
in my life, I think it was into that—* * * * * *
* * * said I ;—and so my remarks through France,
which were as full of wit asan egg is full of meat,
and as well worth four hundred guineas as the
said egg is worth a penny—have I been selling
here to a chaise-vamper,—for four louis-d’or ;—
and giving him a post-chaise (by Heaven !) worth
six into the bargain: had it been to Dodsley, or
Becket, or any creditable bookseller, who was
either leaving off business, and wanted a post-
chaise,—or who was beginning it--and wanted my
remarks, and two or three guineas along with
| them,—I could have borne it; but to a chaise-
ramper !—Show me to him this moment, Francois,
said I.——'The valet-de-place put on his hat, and
led the way ;—and I pulled off mine as [ passed
the commissary, and followed him.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WHEN we arrived at the chaise-vamper’s house,
| both the house and the shop were shut up ; it was
theeighth of September, the Nativity of the blessed
| Virgin Mary, mother of God.

|
|
|
|
|

Tantarra-ra-tan-tivi,— the whole world was
going out a Maypoling,—frisking here,—capering

 

there,—nobody cared a button for me or my re-
marks : so 1 sat me down upon a bench by the
door, philosophising upon my condition. By a
better fate than usually attends me, I had not
waited half-an-hour, when the mistress came in to
take the papillotes from off her hair, before she
went to the May-poles.

The French women, by the bye, love May-poles,
a-la-folie ;—that is, as much as their matins.—
Give ’em but a May-pole, whether in May, June,
July, or September,—they never count the times,
—down it goes,—’tis meat, drink, washing, and

 

 

lodging to ’em ;—and had we but the policy, an’
please your worships (as wood is a little searce in
France) to send them but plenty of May-poles
The women would set them up; and, when they
had done, they would dance round them (and the
men for company) till they were all blind.

The wife of the chaise-vamper stepped in, I told
you, to take the papillotes from off her hair,—
the toilet stands still for no man,—so she jerked
off her cap, to begin with them, as she open’d the
door; in doing which, one of them fell upon
the ground:—I instantly saw it was my own
writing.

O Seigneur! cried I, you have got all my re-
marks upon your head, madam ! J’en suis bien
mortifiée, said she. "Tis well, thinks I, they have
stuck there, for could they have gone deeper, they
would have made such confusion in a French
woman’s noddle,—she had better have gone with
it unfrizzled to the day of eternity.

Tenez, said she :—so without any idea of the
nature of my suffering, she took them from her
curls, and put them gravely, one by one, into my
hat ;—one was twisted this way,—another twisted
that. Ay! by my faith, and when they are
published, quoth I,—

They will be worse twisted still.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Anp now for Lippius’s clock, said I, with the air
of aman who had got through all his difficulties ;
nothing can prevent us seeing that and the Chinese
history &e. Except the time, said Francois ;—
for ’tis almost eleven.-——Then we must speed the
faster, said I, striding it away to the cathedral.

I cannot say, in my heart, that it gave me any
concern in being told by one of the minor canons,
as I was entering the west door,—That Lippius’s
great clock was allout of joint, and had not gone
for some years. It will give me the more time,
thought I, to peruse the Chinese history ; and be-
sides, I shall be able to give the world a better
account of the clock in its decay, than I could have
done in its flourishing condition.

—And so away I posted to the college of the
Jesuits,

Now it is with the project of getting a peep at
the History of China, in Chinese characters,—as
with many others I could mention, which strike
the fancy only at a distance ; for, as | came nearer
and nearer to the point,—my blood cooled, the
freak gradually went off, till at length I would not
have given a cherry-stone to have it gratified.
The truth was, my time was short, and my heart
was at the Tomb of the Lovers. I wish to God,
said I, as I got the rapper in my hand, that the
key of the library may be but lost. It fell out as
well,—

For ail the Jesuits had got the cholic ;—and to
that degree, as never was known in the memory
of the oldest practitioner.

 

 

CHAPTER XL.

As I knew the geography of the Tomb of the
Lovers as well as if I had lived twenty years in
Lyons ; namely, that it was upon the turning of
my right hand, just without the gate, leading to
the Fauxbourg de Vaise,—I despatched Frangois
to the boat, that I might pay the homage I so long

 

 

]

 

 

Shesowed it, without a witness of my weakness; I
walked with all imaginable joy towards the place
—When I saw the gate which intercepted the
tomb, my heart glowed within me.

—Tender and faithful spirits ! cried I, address-
ing myself to Amandus and Amanda,—long,—long
have I tarried to drop this tear upon your tomb.
—J come,—I come.—

When I came, there was no tomb to drop it
upon.

What would I have given for my uncle Toby to
have whistled Lillibullero !

 

CHAPTER XLI.

No matter how, or in what mood,—but I flew
from the Tomb of the Lovers, or rather I did not
fly from it—(for there was no such thing existing)
and just got time enough to the boat to save my
passave; and, ere I had sailed a hundred yards,
the Rhéne and the Sadne met together, and carried
me down merrily betwixt them.

But I have described this voyage down the
Xhéne before I made it.

—So now I am at Avignon; and as there is
nothing to see but the old house in which the Duke
of Ormond resided, and nothing to stop me but a
short remark upon the place, in three minutes you
will see me crossing the bridge upon a mule, with
Francois upon a horse with my portmanteau behind
him, and the owner of both striding the way before
us, with a long gun upon his shoulder, and a sword
under his arm, lest peradventure we should run
away with his cattle. Had you seen my breeches
inentering Avignon,—though you'd have seen them
better, I think, as I mounted,—you would not have
thought the precaution amiss, or found in your
heart to have taken it in dudgeon ; for my own
part, I took it most kindly ; and determined to
make him a present of them, when we got to the
end of our journey, for the trouble they had put
him to, of arming himself at all points against
them.

Before I go further, let me get rid of my remark
upon Avignon, which is this :—that I think it
wrong, merely because a man’s hat has been blown
off his head, by chance, the first night he comes to
Avignon—that he should therefore say, “ Avignon
is more subject to high winds than any town in
all Franece:” for which reason, I laid no stress
upon the accident till I had inquired of the master
of the inn about it; who telling me seriously it was
so—and hearing, moreover, the windiness of
Avignon spoken of in the country about as a pro-
verb—I set it down merely to ask the learned
what can be the cause ?—the consequence I saw,
—for they are all Dukes, Marquises, and Counts
there—the deuce a Baron in all Avignon
that there is scarce any talking to them
windy day.

Prithee, friend, said I, take hold of my
for a moment ;—for I wanted to pull off one of
my jack-boots, which hurt my heel:—the man
was standing quite idle at the door of the inn ;
and as I had taken it into my head he was some-
way concerned about the house or stable, I put
the bridle into his hand—so began with my boot.
—When I had finished the affair, I turned about
to take the mule from the man, and thank
him,—

But Monsieur le Marquis had walked in.

 

50)

on a

mule

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

YHAPTER XLII.

I wap now the whole south of France, from the
banks of the Rhone to those of the Garonne, to
traverse upon my mule at my own leisure, af my
own leisure—for I had left Death, the Lord
knows—and he onlypphow far behind me!
« | have followed many a man through France,” |
quoth he ;—“ but never at this mettlesome rate.”
——Still he followed—and still I fled} him—but I
fled him cheerfully ;—still he pursued—but, like
one who pursued his prey without hope—as he
lagged, every step he lost softened his looks.—
Vhy should I fly him at this rate ?

So, notwithstanding all the commissary of the
post-office had said, I changed the mode of my
travelling once more; and, after so precipitate
and rattling « course as I had run, I flattered my
fancy with thinking of my mule, and that I
should traverse the rich plains of Languedoc
upon his back, as slowly as foot could fall. ©

There is nothing more pleasing to a traveller,
—or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large
rich plain, especially if it is without great rivers
or bridges ; and presents nothing to the eye but
one unvaried picture of plenty: for after they
have once told you that ’tis delicious, or delightful
(as the case happens) ;—that the soil was grateful,
and that nature pours out all her abundance, &c.
they have then a large plain upon their
hands, which they know not what to do with—
and which is of little or no use to them, but to
carry them to some town ; and that town perhaps

 

 

;
of little more but a new place to start from to
the next plain—and so on.

This is most terrible work ;—judge if I don’t
manage my plains better.

 

CHAPTER XLII.

I wap not gone above two leagues and a half,
before the man with his gun began to look at his |
priming.

I hadthree several times loitered terribly behind ;
half a mile at least every time: once in deep
conference with a drum-maker, who was making
drums for the fairs of Beaucaire and Tarascon :
—I did not understand the principles.

The second time, I cannot so properly say I
stopped,—for meeting a couple of Franciscans
straitened more for time than myself, and not
being able to get to the bottom of what I was
about,—I had turned back with them.

The third was an affair of trade with a gossip,
for a hand-basket of Provence figs for four sous :
this would have been transacted at once, but for
a ease of conscience at the close of it; for when
the figs were}paid for, “it turned out that there
were two dozen of eggs covered over with vine-
leaves at the bottom of the basket :—as I had no
intention of buying eggs, —I made no sort of clain
of them :—as for the space they had oceupied,
what signified it? I had figs enow for my money.

But it was my intention to have the basket ;—
it was the gossip’s intention to keep it, without
which she could do nothing with her eggs ;—and
unless [ had the basket, I could do as little with

}

|
|
|

eors

S

my figs, which were too ripe already, and some of |

em burst at the side: this brought on a short
contention, which terminated in sundry

roposals
what we should both do.——

|
i

|
|

 

|
|
|
|
}
}
}

 

|

||
|
|

 

 

 

—,}

 

THE LIFE

AND

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

139

 

 

How we disposed of our
you or the Devil himself, had he not been there
(which I am persuaded he was), to form the least
probable conjecture.— You will read the whole of
it,—not this year, for I am hastening to the story
of my uncle Toby’s amours ;—but you will read
it in the collection of those which have arose out
of the journey across this plain ;—and which,

therefore, I ¢all my

eggs and figs, I defy

DS

PLAIN STORIES.

How far my pen has been fatigued, like those
of other travellers, in this journey of it, over so
barren a tract—the world must judge; but the
traces of it, which are now all set o’ vibrating
together this moment, tell me ’tis the most fruitful
and busy period of my life ; for as I had made no
convention with my man with the gun, as to
time,—by stopping and talking to every soul I
met, who was not in a full trot,—joining all
parties before me,
—hailing all those who were coming through
‘ross-roads, arresting all kinds of beggars, pilgrims,
fiddlers, friars,—not passing by a woman in a

 

mulberry-tree without commending her legs, and |
tempting her into conversation with a pinch of |

snuff :—In short, by seizing every handle, of what
size or shape soever, which chance held out to me
in this journey,—I turned my plain into a city.—
I was always in company, aud with great variety
too; and as my mule loved society as much as
myself, and had some proposals always on his
part to offer to every beast he met,—I am con-
fident we could have passed through Pall-mall or

T

 

 

St. James’s Street, for a month together, with
ewer adventures, and seen less of human
nature.

O! there is that sprightly frankness, which at
once unpins every plait of a Languedocian’s dress,
—that, whatever is beneath it, it looks so like the
simplicity which poets sung of in better days! I
will delude my fancy, and believe it is so.

"Twas in the road betwixt Nismes and Lunel,
where there is the best Muscatto wine in all
France, and which, by the bye, belongs to
honest canons of Montpelier ;—and foul befal the
man, who has drunk it at their table, who grudges
them a drop of it.

The sun was set ;—they had done their work ;
the nymphs had tied up their hair afresh,—and
the swains were preparing for a carousal ;—my
mule made a dead point.—’Tis the fife and
tabourin, said J.——I’m frighten’d to death, quoth
he.——They are running at the ring of pleasure,
said I, giving him a prick. By Saint Boogar
and all the saints at the backside of the door of
purgatory, said he—making the same resolution
with the Abbess of Andouillets’, ll not go a step
further.——’Tis very well, sir, said I1.—I never

 

 

 

the |

 

waiting for every soul behind, |

 

 

will argue a point with one of your family as long
as I live ; so, leaping off his back, and kicking off
one boot into this ditch, and +’ other into that—V’ll
take a dance, said I ;—so stay you here.

A sun-burnt daughter of Labour rose up from
the group to meet me, as I advanced towards
them ; her hair, which was a dark chesnut ap-
proaching rather to a black, was tied up ina
knot, all but a single tress.

We want a cayalier, said she, holding out both
her hands, as if to offer them.m—And a cavalier
ye shall have, said I, taking hold of both of them.
Hadst thou, Nannette, been arrayed like a duchesse:
But that cursed slit in thy petticoat!

Nannette cared not for it——

We could not have done without you, said she,
letting go one hand with self-taught politeness,
aud leading me up with the other.——

A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed
with a pipe, and to which he had added a tabourin
of his own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude,
as he sat upon the bank.——Tie me up this tress
instantly, said Nannette, putting a piece of strin
into my hand.—_—It taught me to forget I wa
a stranger. —The whole knot fell down.— We had
been seven years acquainted.

The youth struck the note upon the tabourin,
his pipe followed, and off we bounded ;—* the
deuce take that slit !”

The sister of the youth, who had stolen her
voice from Heaven, sung alternately with her
brother ;—’twas a Gascoigne roundelay.

 

go

y

Dm

VIVA LA JoIA!
FIDON LA TRISTESSA !

The nymphs joined in unison, and their swains an
octave below them. ——

I would have given a crown to have had it
sewed up.—Nannette would not have given a
sous.— Viva la joia was on her lips :— Viva la joia
was in her eyes.—A transient spark of amity shot
across the space betwixt us.—She looked amiable ;
—Why could I not live and end my days thus?
Just Disposer of our joys and sorrows, cried I,
why could not a man sit down in the lap of
content here,—and dance, and sing, and say his
prayers, and go to heaven with this nutbrown
maid? Capriciously did she bend her head on
one side, and dance up insidious.—Then ’tis time
to dance off, quoth I ; so, changing only partners
and tunes, J danced it away from Lunel to Mont-
pelier;—from thence to Pesenas, Beziers,—I danced
it along through Narbonne, Carcassonne, and Castle
Naudary, till at last I danced myself into Prin-
gello’s pavilion; where, pulling out a paper of
black lines, that I might go on straight forwards,
without digression or parenthesis, in my uncle
Toby’s amours,

I began thus :—140

 

VOLUME

CHAPTER I.
—But softly,—for in these sportive plains, and
under this genial sun, where at this instant all

 

fiesh is running out piping, fiddling, and dancing
to the vintage, and every step that’s taken, the
judgment is surprised by the imagination,—lI defy,
notwithstanding all that has been said upon straight

best cabbage-planter that ever existed, whether
he plants backwards or forwards, it makes little
difference in the account (except that he will
have more to answer for in the one case than in
the other)—I defy him to go on coolly, critically,
and canonically, planting his cabbages one by one,
in straight lines, and stoical distances, especially
if slits in petticoats are unsewed up,—without
ever and anon straddling out, or sidling into some
bastardly digression—In Freeze-land, Fog-land,
and some other lands I wot of,—it may be done—
But in this clear climate of fantasy and per-
spiration, where every idea, sensible and insen-
sible, gets vent, in this land, my dear Eugenius,
—in this fertile land of chivalry and romance,
where I now sit, unscrewing my inkhorn to write
my uncle Toby’s amours, and with all the meanders
of Julia’s track in quest of her Diego, in full view
of my study-window,—if thou comest not and
takest me by the hand,
What a work it is likely to turn out !
Let us begin it.

 

CHAPTER II.

It is with Love as with Cuckoldom : but
now I am talking of beginning a book, and have
long had a thing upon my mind to be imparted to
the reader, which, if not imparted now, can never
be imparted to him as long as I live (whereas the

 

 

 

comparison may be imparted to him any hour in
the day)—I’ll just mention it, and begin in good
sarnest,

The thing is this :—

That of all the several ways of beginning a
book which are now in practice throughout the

known world, I am confident my own way of

doing it is the best—I’m sure it is the most
religious, — for I begin with writing the first

a Hi

lines, in sundry pages of my book—I defy the |

 

sentence,—and trusting to Almighty God for the

second.

-'T would eure an author for ever of the fuss

and folly of opening his street-door, and calling in

his neighbours, and friends, and kinsfolk, with the |
Devil and all his imps, with their hammers, and |

engines, &c., only to observe how one sentence of

mine follows another, and how the plan follows
the whole.

I wish you saw me half starting out of my |
chair, with what confidence, as I grasp the elbow |

of it, I look up,—eatching the idea even some-
times before it half-way reaches me !

-—I believe, in my conscience, I intercept many
a thought which Heaven intended for another man.
Pope and his Portrait are fools to me :—no

|

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

HIGHT EH.

martyr is ever so full of faith or fire,—I wish I
could say of good works too -—-but I have no
Zeal or Anger, or
Anger or Zeal ;—
and, till gods and men agree together to call it by
the same name,—the arrantest 7'artufe in science,
in politics,—or in religion, shall never kindle
spark within me, or have a worse word, or a
more unkind greeting, than what he will read 1
the next chapter.

aS
~

_

CHAPTER III.

——Bon, jour !—good-morrow !—so you have
got your cloke on betimes !—but ’tis a cold morn-
ing, and you judge the matter rightly ; ’tis better
to be well mounted than go o’foot ;—and _ obstrue-
tions in the glands are dangerous.—And how goes
it with thy concubine—thy wife,—and thy little
ones o’ both sides? and when did you hear from
the old gentleman and lady,—your sister, aunt,
unele, and cousins ?—I hope they have got the
better of their colds, coughs, claps, tooth-aches,
fevers, stranguries, sciaticas, swellings, and sore
eyes.

 

 

 

What a devil of an apothecary ! to take so
much blood,—give such a vile purge,—puke,—
poultice, — plaster, — night-draught, — clyster, —
blister !——-And why so many grains of calomel !
Sanita Maria! and such a dose of opium! peri-
clitating, pardi! the whole family of ye, from
head to tail!——By my great aunt Dinah’s old
black velvet mask! I think there was no occasion
for it.

Now this being a little bald about the chin, by
frequently putting off and on, before she was got
with child by the coachman,—not one of our
family would wear it after. ‘To cover the mask
afresh was more than the mask was worth :—and
to wear a mask which was bald, or which could
be half seen through, was as bad as having no
mask at all.

———This is the reason, may it please your
reverences, that in all our numerous family, for
these four generations, we count no more than
one archbishop, a Welsh judge, some three or
four aldermen, and a single mountebank.

In the sixteenth century, we boast of no less
than a dozen alchymists.

 

CHAPTER IV.

“Tp is with Love as with Cuckoldom ;’—the
suffering party is at least the éhird, but, generally,
the last, in the house who knows anything about
the matter: this comes, as all the world knows,
from ‘haying half-a-dozen words for one thing ;
and so long as what in this vessel of the human
frame is love—may be hatred in that—senéi-
ment half a yard higher,—and nonsense,——No,
madam,—not there; I mean at the part I am
now pointing to with my fore-finger ;—how can
we help ourselves? Of all mortal and immortalTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

141

 

 

 

| and is not a little vicious into the bargain) to be
let by your worships into the secret.

But the truth is, my uncle Toby was not a
water-drinker ; he drank it neither pure nor mixed,

; men too, if you please, who ever soliloquized
upon this mystic subject, my uncle Toby was the
worst fitted to have pushed his researches through
such a contention of feelings ; and he had infallibly

 

 

let them all run on, as we do worse matters, to
see what they would turn out, — had not
Bridget’s pre-notification of them to Susannah,
and Susannah’s repeated manifestoes thereupon to
all the world, made it necessary for my uncle
Toby to look into the affair.

CHAPTER V.

Why weavers, gardeners, and gladiators,—or
a man with a pined leg (proceeding from some
ailment in the foot)—should ever have had some
tender nymph breaking her heart in secret for
them, are points well and duly settled andaccounted
for by ancient and modern physiologists. A water-
drinker, provided he is a professed one, and does
it without fraud or covin, is precisely in the same
predicament: not that, at first sight, there is any
consequence, or show of logic in it, “ That a rill of
cold water, dribbling through my inward parts,
should light up a torch in my Jenny’s—”

——The proposition does not strike one; on
the contrary, it seems to run opposite to the
natural workings of causes and effects ;—

——But it shows the weakness and imbecility
of human reason.

——* And in perfect good health with it ?”

——““ The most perfect, madam, that friendship
herself could wish me.—”

——* And drink nothing ?—nothing but water?”

—-—  Impetuous fiuid ! the moment thou pressest
against the flood-gates of the brain,—see how
they give way !—_—

—Inswims Curiosity, beckoning to her damsels
to follow ;—they dive into the centre of the
eurrent. Fancy sits musing upon the bank, and,
with her eyes following the stream, turns straws
and bulrushes into masts and bowsprits.— And
Desire, with vest held up to the knee in one
hand, snatches at them, as they swim by her,
with the other.

O ye water-drinkers! is it then by this delusive
fountain that ye have so often governed and turned
this world about like a mill-wheel,—grinding the
faces of the impotent,—bepowdering their ribs,—
bepeppering their noses, and changing sometimes
even the very frame and face of nature !

——lIf I was you, quoth Yorick, I would drink
more water, Eugenius.

——And, if I was you, Yorick, replied Eugenius,
so would I.

Which shows they had both read Longinus.

For my own part, I am resolved never to read
any book but my own as long as I live,

CHAPTER VI.

I wish my uncle Toby had been a water-
drinker ; for then the thing had been accounted
for, that the first moment Widow Wadman saw
him, she felt something stirring within her in his
favour ;—something ! something.—

—Something, perhaps, more than friendship,—
less than love :—something,—no matter what,—
no matter where ;--I would not give a single hair
of my mule’s tail, and be obliged to pluck it off
myself (indeed, the villain has not many to spare

 

nor anyhow, nor anywhere, except fortuitously
upon some advanced posts, where better liquor
was not to be had,—or during the time he was
under cure ; when, the surgeon telling him it
would extend the fibres, and bring them sooner into
contact,—my uncle Toby drankitfor quietness’sake.

Now, as all the world knows that no effect in
nature can be produced without a cause, and as
it is as well known that my uncle Toby was neither
a weaver, a gardener, nor a gladiator,—unless, as
a captain, you will needs have him one,—but then
he was only a captain of foot,—and, besides, the
whole is an equivocation,—there is nothing left
for us to suppose but that my uncle Toby’s leg,—
but that will avail us little in the present hypo-
thesis, unless it had proceeded from some ailment
in the foot,—whereas his leg was not emaciated
from any disorder in his foot,—for my uncle
Toby’s leg was not emaciated at all. It was a
little stiff and awkward, from a total disuse of it
for the three years he lay confined at my father’s
house in town ; but it was plump and muscular,
and, in all other respects, as good and promising
a leg as the other.

I declare, I do not recollect any one opinion or
passage of my life, where my understanding was
more at a loss to make ends meet, and torture
the chapter I had been writing to the service of
the chapter following it, than in the present case :
one would think I took a pleasure in running into
difficulties of this kind, merely to make fresh
experiments of getting out of °em.—Inconsiderate
soul that thou art! What! are not the unavoidable
distresses with which, as an author and a man,
thou art hemmed in on every side of thee ;—are
they, Tristram, not sufficient, but thou must
entangle thyself still more ?

Is it not enough that thou art in debt, and that
thou hast ten cart-loads of thy fifth and sixth
volumes® still,—still unsold, and art almost at
thy wits’ end how to get them off thy hands ?

To this hour art thou not tormented with the
vile asthma that thou gattest in skating against
the wind in Flanders? and it is but two months
ago that, in a fit of laughter, on seeing a cardinal
make water like a quirister (with both hands)
thou brakest a vessel in thy lungs, whereby, in
two hours, thou lost as many quarts of blood ;
and, hadst thou lost as much more, did not the
faculty tell thee it would have amounted to a
gallon ?

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

——But, for Heaven’s sake, let us not talk of
quarts or gallons,—let us take the story straight
before us ; it is so nice and intricate a one it will
scarce bear the transposition of a single tittle ;
and, somehow or other, you have got me thrust
almost into the middle of it.

—I beg we may take more care.

CHAPTER VIII.

My uncle Toby and the Corporal had posted
down, with so much heat and precipitation, to take
possession of the spot of ground we have so often
spoken of, in order to open their campaign as early

* Alluding to the first edition.THE

LIFE

as the rest of the allies, that they had forgot one

of the most necessary artic ‘les of the whole. affair ;
it was neither a pioneer’s spade, a pick-axe, nor a
shovel ;—

It was a bed to lie on: so that as Shandy-hall

was at that time unfurnished ; and the little inn,

where poor Le Fevre died, not yet built,—my
uncle Toby was constrained iG ace ept of a bed at |
Mrs. Wadman’s, for a night or two, till Corpora!
Trim (who, to the character of an excellent valet,
groom, cook, sempster, surgeon, and engineer,
superadded that of an excellent upholsterer too),
with the help of a carpenter and ac ouple of tailors,
constructed one in my uncle Toby’s house.

A daughter of Eve, for such was Widow Wad-
man, and ’tis all the characte r I intend to give of
her,—* That she was a perfect woman,’ — had
better be fifty leagues off—or in her warm bed, or
playing with a case-knife,—-or anything you please,
—than make a man the object of her attention,
when the house and all the furniture is her oe

There is nothing in it out of doors and in broad
daylight, where a woman has a power, phys ically
spez uking, of viewing a man in more lights than
one od here, for her soul, she can see him in
no light without mixing something of her own
goods and chattels along with him,—till, by
reiterated acts of such combinations, he gets foiste d
into her inventory,—

And then, good night.

But this is not matter of system—for I have
delivered that above :—nor is it matter of bre-
viary ;—for I make no man’s creed but my own:

 

|
|
|
j
}
|
of 5 |
|
|

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRA

—nor matter of fact,—at least that I know
but ’tis matter copulative, and introductory to
what follows.

CHAPTER IX.

I po not speak it with regard to the coarseness
or cleanness of them, the strength of their
gussets ;—but pray Do not night-: shifts differ from
day-shifts as mu ich in this par ticular as in anything
else in the world, That they so far exce ed the
others in length that, when you are laid down in
them, they fall almost as much below the feet as
the day-shifts fall short of them ?

Widow Wadman’s night-shifts (as was the mode,
I suppose, in King William’s and Queen Anne’s
reigns) were cut, however, after this fashion ; and,

 

or

if the fashion is changed (for in Italy they are
come to nothing)—so much the worse for the

public ; they were two Flemish ells and a half
in length ; so that, allowing a moderate woman
two ells, she had half an ell to spare, to do what
she would with. Now, from one little indul-
gence gained after another, in the many bleak
and Decemberly nights of a seven years’ widow-
hood, things had insensibly come to this pass, and,
for the two last years , had got established into one
of the ordinances ob the bed-chamber,—that as
soon as Mrs. Wadman was put to bed, and had
got her legs stretched down to the bottom of it,
of which she always gave Bridget notice, Bridget,
with all suitable decorum, having first opened the
bed-clothes at the feet, took hold of the half ell of
cloth we are speaking of, and having gently, and
with both her hands, drawn it downwards to its
furthest extension, and then contracted it again
side-long by four or five even plaits, she took a
large corking-pin out of her sleeve, and with the

 

 

M SHANDY.

point directed towards her, pinned the plaits all
fast together, a little above the hem ; which done,
she tucked all in tight at the feet, and wished her
mistress a good night

This was const nt, and without any other varia-
tion than this—that on shivering and tempestuous
nights, when Bridget untuck’d the feet of the bed,
to do this, she consulted no thermometer but
of her own passions; and so performed itstand-
ing—kneeling,—or squatting, according to the dif-
ferent degrees of faith, hope, and charity, she was
in and bore towards her mistress that night. In
every other respect, the etiquette was sacred, and
might have vied with the most mechanical one of
the most inflexible bed-chamber in Christendom.
The first night, as soon as the Corporal had con-
ducted my uncle Toby up-stairs, which was about
s. Wadman threw herself into her arm-
chair, and, crossing her left knee with her right,
which formed a resting place for her elbow, she
reclin’d her cheek upon the palm of her h: snd, and,
leaning forw: ards, ruminated till midnight upon
both sides of the question.

The second riihs she went to her bureau, and,
having ordered Bridget to bring her up a couple of
fresh candles and leave them upon the table, she
took out her marriage-settlement, and read it over
with great devotion: and the third night (which
was the last of my uncle Toby’s stay), when Bridget
had pulle .d down the night- shift, and was assaying
to stick in the corking-pin,—

With a kick of both heels at once, but
the same time the most natural kick that could be
kick’d in her ‘situation ;—tor, supponmpy * *°* *
*** * to be the sun in its meridian, it was a
north-east kick ; she kicked the pin out of her
fingers,—the etiquette which hung upon it, down,
—down it fell to the ground, and was shiv ered
into a thousand atoms.

From all which, it was plain that Widow Wad-
man was in love with my uncle Toby.

 

Qo
Cove

that

av

            

 

CHAPTER X.

My uncle Toby’s head at that time was fuil of
other matters, so that it was not till the demolition
of Dunkirk, when all the other civilities of Europe
were settled, that he found leisure to return this.

This made an armistice (that is, speaking with

regard to my uncle Toby,—but, with respect to
Mrs. Wadman, a vacaney)—of f almost eleven years.
But in all cases of this nature, as it is the second
blow, happen at what distance of time it will,
which makes the fray,—lI choose, for that reason,
to call these the amours of my uncle Toby with
Mrs. Wadman, rather than the amours of Mrs.
Wadman with my uncle Toby.

This is not a distinction without a difference.

It is not like the affair of an old hat cocked,—
and a cocked old hat, about which your reverences
have so often been at odds with one another ;—but
there is a difference here in the nature of things ;—

And, let me tell you, gentry, a wide one too.

CHAPTER XI.
Now, as Widow Wadman did love my uncle
Toby,—and my uncle Toby did not love Widow
Wadman, there was nothing for Widow Wadman
to do but to go on and love my uncle Toby,—or let
it alone.ee = a

 

 

 

HANDY. 143

 

the other.

Gracious Heaven !—but I forget I am a
little of her ear myself: for whenever it so falls
out, which it sometimes does » about oe eruees
that 1 earthly goddess is so much this, and that,
and t’other, that I cannot eat my breakfast for
her,—and that she careth not three halfpence
whether I eat my breakfast or not.—

—Curse on her! and so I send her to Tart tary
and from Tartary to Terra del Fuego, andso on tp
the Devil. In short, there is not an infernal niche
where I do not take her divinityship and stick it.

But as the heart is tender, and the passions in
tides ebb and flow ten times in a minute, I
instantly bring her back again ; and, as i do all
things in extremes, I place her in the very centre
of the milky-way.—Brightest of stars! thou wilt
shed thy influence upon some one.

The deuce take her and her influence too:
—ior, at that word I lose all patience ;—much
good wi it do him !—By all that is hirsute and

 

2
t al

the

ese

 

ghastly! I ery, taking off my furred cap, and
twisting it ind my finger, —I would not give

sixpence for a dozen such !

— But ’tis an excellent cap, too (putting it upon
my head, and pressing it close to my ears)—and
warm,—and soft ; especially if you stroke it the
right way ;—but, alas ! that will never be my luck
(so here my philosophy is shipwrecked again).
No; I shall never have a finger in the pie
(so here I break my metaphor).—

Crust and crumb,

Inside and out,

Top and bottom ;—I detest it, I hate it, I repu-
diate it ;—I am sick at the sight of it :—

 

 

’Tis all pepper,
garlic,
staragen,
wel
salt, ¢ nd
devil’s-dung.——By the great arch-
cook of cooks, who does nothing, I think, from

morning to night, but sit down by the fire-side and

 

invent inflammatory dishes for us, I would not
touch it for the world.
O Tristram ! Tristram ! cried Jenny.
QO Jenny! Jenny! replied I, and so went on
with the twelfth chapter.

CHAPTER XII.
*¢ Nor touch it for the world,” did I say ?
Lord, how I have heated my imagination with
this metaphor !

 

CHAPTER XIII.

Wuicu shows, let your reverences and wor-
ships say what you will of it (for, as for thinking,
all who’ do think—think pretty much alike both
upon it and other matters)—Love is certainly, at
least alphabetically speaking, one of the most

A gitating,

B ewitching,

C onfounded,

D evilish affairs of life ;

KE xtravagant,

EF utilitous,

G aligaskinish,

H andy-dandyish,

I racundulous (there is no K to it) and

 

the most

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM §
Widow Wadman ua do wpe: the one nor

 

 

L yrice ne of all a nan passions :—at the same

 

time, ihe most
M isgiving,
N inyhammering,

O bs stipating, y

P ragmatical,

© tridulous,

R pees sus by the bye, the R should
have gone first :—but, 3 in short, ’tis of such a
nature, as my father once told my uncle Toby,
upon the close of a long dissertation upon the
subject :—“ You can scarce,” said he, “ combine
two ideas together upon it, br other Toby, without
an hypallage.” What’s that? cried my uncle
Toby.

 

 

The cart before the horse, replied my
father.
—— And what is he to do there

Toby.

? eried my uncle

et

 

Nothing, quoth my father, but
or let it alone.

Now Widow Wadman, as I told you before,
would do neither the one nor the other.

She stood, however, ready harnessed and capa-
risoned at all points, to watch accidents,

0 get in,—

CHAPTER XIV.

Tue Fates, who certainly all foreknew of these
amours of Widow Wadman and my uncle Toby,
had from the first creation of matter and oto
(and with more courtesy than they usually do
things of this kind) established such a chain of

sauses and effects, hanging so fast to one another,
that it was scarce possible for my uncle Toby to
have dwelt in any other house in the w orld, or to
have occupied any other garden in Gaeetendan
but the very house and gi arden which joined and

a parallel to Mars. W adman’s : this, with the ad-
antage of a thickset arbour in Mrs. Wadman’s

garden, but planted in the hedge-row of my uncle
Toby’s, put all the occasions into her hands which
love-militancy wanted :—she could observe my
uncle Toby’s motions, and was mistress likewise of
his councils of war ; and as his unsuspecting heart
had given leave to the Corpor al, through the
mediation of Bridget, to make her a wicker gate
of communication ‘to enlarge her walks, it enabled
her to carry her on her approaches to the very
door of the sentry-box ; and sometimes, out of
gratitude, to make the attack, and endeavour to
blow my uncle Toby up in the very sentry-box
itself,
CHAPTER XV.

Ir is a great pity; but *tis certain, from every
day’s observation of man, that he may be set on
fire, like a candle, at either end,—provided there
is a sufficient wick standing out ; if there is not—
there’s an end of the affair ; and if there is,—by
lighting it at the bottom, as the flame in that case
has the misfortune generally to put out itself,—
there’s an end of the affair again.

For my part, could I always have the ordering
of it which way I would be burnt myself,—for I

cannot bear the thoughts of being burnt like a
beast,—I would oblige | a house- wife constantly to
light me at the top ; “for then I should burn down
decently to the socket, that is from my head to my
heart, from my heart to my liver, from my pe
to my bowels, and so on by the Tieaeneue veins
and arteries, through all the turns and later aa ae

nis CRT RSE

SEE =

ss

 

 

 

 

144

 

| ote pees te Sos

insertions of the intestines and their tunicles to the |

blind-gut.—

I beseech you, Doctor Slop, quoth my uncle
Toby, interrupting him as he mentioned the blind-
gut, in a discourse with my father the night my
mother was brought to bed of me,—I beseech you,
quoth my uncle Toby, to tell me which is the blind-
gut ; for, old as I am, I vowI do not know to this
day where it lies.

The blind-gué, answered Doctor Slop, lies
betwixt the idion and colon.

In a man? said my father.

’Tis precisely the same, cried Doctor Slop,
in a woman.

That’s more than I know, quoth my father.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI.
Anp so, to make sure of both systems, Mrs.
Wadman predetermined to light my uncle Toby
neither at this end nor that ; but, like a prodigal’s
candle, to light him, if possible, at both ends at
once.

Now, through all the lumber rooms of military
furniture, including both of horse and foot, from
the great arsenal of Venice to the Tower of London
(exclusive), if Mrs. Wadman had been rummaging
for seven years together, and with Bridget to help
her, she could not have found any one dlind or
mantelet so fit for her purpose as that which the
expediency of my uncle Toby’s affairs had fixed
up ready to her hands.

I believe I have not told you,—but I don’t know,
—possibly I have—be it as it will, ’tis one of the
number of those many things which a man had
better do over again than dispute about it,—that
whatever town or fortress the Corporal was at
work upon, during the course of their campaign,
my uncle Toby always took care, on the inside of
his sentry-box, which was towards his left hand,
to have a plan of the place, fastened up with two
or three pins at the top, but loose at the bottom,
for the conveniency of holding it up to the eye, &c.
as occasions required; so that when an
attack was resolved upon, Mrs. Wadman had
nothing more to do, when she had got advanced to
the door of the sentry-box, but to extend her right
hand ; and, edging in her left foot at the same
movement, to take hold of the map or plan, or up-
right, or whatever it was, and with outstretched
neck meeting it half way,—to advance it towards
her ; on which my uncle Toby’s passions were sure
to catch fire,—for he would instantly take hold of
the other corner of the map in his left hand, and,
with the end of his pipe in the other, begin an
explanation.

When the attack was advanced to this point,—
the world will naturally enter into the reasons of
Mrs. Wadman’s next stroke of generalship ;—
which was, to take my uncle Toby’s tobacco-pipe
out of his hand as soon as she possibly could ;
which, under one pretence or other, but generally
that of pointing more distinctly at some redoubt
or breastwork in the map, she would effect before
my uncle Toby (poor soul!) had well marched

 

 

 

 

 

 

above half-a-dozen toises with it.

—It obliged my uncle Toby to make use of his
fore-finger.

The difference it made in the attack was this:
—that in going upon it, as in the first case, with

the end of her fore-finger against the end of my | my uncle Toby’s, is absolutely clean.

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

uncle Toby’s tobacco-pipe, she mighthave travelled
with it along the lines, from Dan to Beersheba,
had my uncle Toby’s lines reached so far, without
any effect ; for, as there was no arterial or vital
heat in the end of the tobacco-pipe, it could excite
no sentiment,—it could neither give fire by pul-
sation—nor receive it bysympathy ;—’twas nothing
but smoke.

Whereas in following my uncle Toby’s fore-
finger with hers, close through all the little turns
and indentings of his works,— pressing sometimes
against the side of it,—then treading upon its
nail,—then tripping it up,—then touching it here,
—then there, and so on,—it set something at least
in motion.

This, though slight skirmishing, and at a dis-
tance from the main body, yet drew on the rest ;
for here, the map usually falling with the back of
it close to the side of the sentry-box, my uncle
Toby, in the simplicity of his soul, would lay his
hand flat upon it, in order to go on with his ex-
planation ; and Mrs. Wadman, by a manoeuvre
as quick as thought, would as certainly place hers
close beside it. This at once opened a communi-
cation, large enough for any sentiment to pass or
repass, which a person skilled in the elementary
and practical part of love-making has occasion
for.—

By bringing up her fore-finger parallel (as
before) tomy uncle Toby’s—it unavoidably brought
the thumb into action ;—and the fore-finger and
thumb being once engaged, as naturally brought
in the whole hand. Thine, dear uncle Toby ! was
never now in its right place,—Mrs. Wadman had
it ever to take up, or, with the gentlest pushings,
protrusions, and equivocal compressions, that a
hand to be removed is capable of receiving—to
get it pressed a hair-breadth of one side out of
her way.

Whilst this was doing, how could she forget to
make him sensible that it was her leg (and no
one’s else) at the bottom of the sentry-box, which
slightly pressed against the calf of his !—So that
my uncle Toby being thus attacked, and sore
pushed on both his wings,—was it a wonder, if
now and then, it put his centre into disorder?

——The deuce take it ! said my uncle Toby !

 

 

CHAPTER XVII.

TuHeEsE attacks of Mrs. Wadman you will readily
conceive to be of different kinds ; varying from
each other like the attacks which history is full of,
and from the same reasons. A general looker-on
would searce allow them to be attacks at all ;—or
if he did, would confound them altogether ;—but I
write not to them. It will be time enough to be
a little more exact in my descriptions of them as
{ come up to them, which will not be for some
chapters ; having nothing more to add in this but
that in a bundle of original papers and drawings,
which my father took care to roll up by them-
selves, there is a plan of Bouchain in perfect
preservation (and shall be kept so—whilst I have
power to preserve anything): upon the lower
corner of which, on the right-hand side, there are
still remaining the marks of a snuffy finger and
thumb ; which, there is all the reason in the world
to imagine, were Mrs. Wadman’s ; for the opposite
side of the margin, which I suppose to have been
This seemsTHE

LIFE AND OPINION

 

 

| an authenticated record of one of these attacks ;
| for there are vestigia of the two punctures partly

grown up, but still visible on the opposite corner |

of the map, which are, unquestionably, the very
holes through which it has been pricked up in the
sentry-box.

By all that is priestly ! I value this precious
relic, with its stigmata and pricks, more than all
the relics of the Romish church ;—always ex-
cepting, when I am writing upon these matters,
the pricks which entered the flesh of St. Rada-
gunda in the desert ; which, in your road from
Fesse to Cluny, the nuns of that name will show
you for love.

CHAPTER XVIII.

I THINK, an’ please your honour, quoth Trim,
the fortifications are quite destroyed ;—and the
basin is upon a level with the mole. -I think so
too,—replied my uncle Toby, with a sigh half
suppressed ;—but step into the parlour, Trim, for
the stipulation ;—it lies upon the table.

It has lain there these six weeks, replied
the Corporal ; till this very morning that the old
woman kindled the fire with it.

Then, said my uncle Toby, there is no
further occasion for our services. The more,
an’ please your honour, the pity, said the Corporal ;
in uttering which, he cast his spade into the wheel-
barrow, which was beside him, with an air the
most expressive of disconsolation that can be

 

 

 

 

 

S OF TRISTRAM

SHANDY.

145

 

deeds, or told your honour one story, good or

| bad.

}

imagined, and was heavily turning about to look |

for his pick-axe, his pioneer’s shovel, his piequets,

| and other little military stores, in order to carry
them off the field,—when an heigho! from the |

sentry-box, which, being made of thin slit deal,
reverberated the sound more sorrowfully to his
ear, forbade him.

—No, said the Corporal to himself, I’ll do it
before his honour rises to-morrow morning.—So,
taking his spade out of the wheel-barrow again,
with a little earth in it, as if to level something at
the foot of the glacis,—but with a real intent to
approach nearer to his master, in order to divert
him,—he loosened a sod or two,—pared their edges
with his spade, and, having given them a gentle
blow or two with the back of it, he sat himself
down close by my uncle Toby’s feet, and began as
follows :

 

CHAPTER XIX.

Ir was a thousand pities ;—though I believe, an’
please your honour, I am going to say but a fool-
ish kind of a thing for a soldier——

A soldier, cried my uncle Toby, interrupting
the Corperal, is no more exempt from saying a

foolish thing, Trim, than a man of letters.——_But
not so often, an’ please your honour, replied the
Corporal.—_—My uncle Toby gave a nod.

{t was a thousand pities, then, said the Corporal,
easting his eye upon Dunkirk and the mole, as
Servius Sulpicius, in returning out of Asia (when
he sailed from Aigina towards Megara), did upon
Corinth and Pyrzeus,—

“It was a thousand pities, an’ please your
honour, to destroy these works,—and a thousand
pities to have let them stand.”

Thou art right, Trim, in both cases, said my
uncle Toby. This, continued the Corporal, is
the reason, that, from the beginning of their de-
molition to the end—I have never once whistled,
or sung, or laughed, or cried, or talked of past-done

 

 

——Thou hast many excellencies, Trim, said
my uncle Toby ; and I hold it not the least. of
them, as thou happenest to be a story-teller, that
of the number thou hast told me, either to amuse
me in my painful hours, or divert me in my grave
ones,—thou hast seldom told me a bad one.

——Because, an’ please your honour, except
one of a King of Bohemia and his seven castles,—
they are all true ; for they are about myself,

-———I do not like the subject the worse, Trim,
said my uncle Toby, on that score.——But, pri-
thee, what is this story? Thou hast excited my
curiosity.

——Tll tell it your honour, quoth the Cor-
poral, directly ——Provided, said my uncle Toby,
looking earnestly towards Dunkirk and the mole
again,—provided it is not a merry one: to such,
Trim, aman should ever bring one half of the enter-
tainment along with him ; and the disposition I am
in at present—would wrong both thee, Trim, and
thy story. It is not a merry one by any means,
replied the Corporal. Nor would I have it
altogether a grave one, added my uncle Toby.
It is neither the one nor the other, replied the
Corporal ; but will suit your honour exactly.——
Then [ll thank thee for it with all my heart, cried
my uncle Toby ; so prithee begin it, Trim.

The Corporal made his reverence ; and though
it is not so easy a matter as the world imagines to
pull off a lank Montero-cap with grace,—or a whit
less difficult, in my conceptions, when a man is
sitting squat upon the ground, to make a bow so
teeming with respect as the Corporal was wont ;
yet, by suffering the palm of his right hand, which
was towards his master, to slip backwards upon
the grass, a little beyond his body, in order to
allow it the greater sweep,—and by an unforced
compression, at the same time, of his cap with the
thumb and the two fore-fingers of his left, by which
the diameter of the cap became reduced ; so that
it might be said rather to be insensibly squeezed,
than pulled off with a flatus,—the Corporal ac-
quitted himself of both in a better manner than
the posture of his affairs promised ; and having
hemmed twice, to find in what key his story would
best go, and best suit his master’s humour—he
exchanged a single look of kindness with him, and
set off thus :—

 

 

 

 

THE STORY OF THE KING OF BOHEMIA AND
HIS SEVEN CASTLES.

 

There was a certain King of Bo he——

As the Corporal was entering the confines of
Bohemia, my uncle Toby obliged him to halt for
a single moment. He had set out bareheaded ;
having, since he pulled off his Montero-cap in the
latter end of the last chapter, left it lying beside
him on the ground.

—The eye of goodness espieth all things: so
that before the Corporal had well got through the
first five words of his story, had my uncle Toby
twice touched his Montero-cap with the end of his
cane, interrogatively ;—as much as to say, Why
don’t you put it on, Trim ?——-Trim took it up
with the most respectful slowness, and casting a
glance of humiliation, as he did it, upon the em-
broidery of the fore-part, which being dismally
tarnished and frayed moreover, in some of the prin-

L

'—

146

 

cipal leaves and boldest parts of the pattern, he
laid it down again between his two feet, in order
to moralise upon the subject.

——’Tis every word of it but too true, cried my
uncle Toby, that thou art about to observe:—“Wo-
thing in this world, Trim, is made to last for ever.”

——But when tokens, dear Tom, of thy love and
remembrance wear out, said Trim, what shall we
say ?

—_—There is no occasion, Trim, quoth my uncle
Toby, to say anything else; and was a man to
puzzle his brains till Doomsday, I believe, ‘Trim,
it would be impossible.

The Corporal perceiving my uncle Toby was in
the right, and that it would be in vain for the wit of
man to think of extracting a purer moral from his
cap,—without further attempting it, he put it on ;
and passing his hand across his forehead to rub
out a pensive wrinkle which the text and doctrine
between them had engendered, he returned, with
the same look and tone of voice, to his story of the
King of Bohemia and his seven castles.

KING OF BOHEMIA AND
CONTINUED.

THE STORY OF THE
HIS SEVEN CASTLES,
There was a certain King of Bohemia ; but in
whose reign, except his own, I am not able to
inform your honour.
———I do not desire it of thee, Trim, by any
means, cried my uncle Toby.
It was a little before the time, an’ please
your honour, when giants were beginning to leave
off breeding :—but in what year of our Lord that
was —

 

 

I would not give a halfpenny to know, said
my uncle Toby.

Only, an’ please your honour, it makes a
story look the better in the face.

’Tis thy own, Trim, so ornament it after thy
own fashion; and take any date, continued my
uncle Toby, looking pleasantly upon him ;—take
any date in the whole world thou choosest, and
put it to,—thou art heartily weleome.——

The Corporal bowed ; for of every century, and
of every year of that century, from the first crea-
tion of the world down to Noah’s flood, and from
Noah’s flood to the birth of Abraham ; through
all the pilgrimages of the patriarchs, to the depart-
ure of the Israelites out of Egypt ;—and through-
out all the dynasties, olympiads, urbe-conditas,
and other memorable epochas of the different
nations of the world, down to the coming of Christ,
and from thence to the very moment in which the
Corporal was telling his story,—had my uncle Toby
subjected this vast empire of time, and all its
abysses, at his feet; butas Modesty scarce touches
with a finger what Liberality offers her with both
hands open,—the Corporal contented himself with
the very worst year of the whole bunch ; which,
to prevent your honours of the majority and
minority from tearing the very flesh off your bones
in contestation, “ Whether that year is not always
the last-cast year of the last-cast almanack ?”’—I
tell you plainly it was ; but from a different reason
than you wot of.

—It was the year next him ;—which being the
year of our Lord seventeen hundred and twelve,
when the Duke of Ormond was playing the devil
in Flanders,—the Corporal took it, and set out
with it afresh on his expedition to Bohemia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

STORY OF THE KING OF BOHEMIA AND
HIS SEVEN CASTLES, CONTINUED.

THE

In the year of our Lord one thousand seven
hundred and twelve, there was, an’ please your
honour

 

To tell thee truly, Trim, quoth my uncle
Toby, any other date would have pleased me much
better, not only on account of the sad stdin upon
our history that year, in marching off our troops,
and refusing to cover the siege of Quesnoi, though
Fagel was carrying on the works with such in-
credible vigour,—but likewise on the score, Trim,
of thy own story ; because if there are,—and
which, from what thou hast dropped, I partly sus-
pect to be the fact,—if there are giants in it——

——There is but one, an’ please your honour.

——’Tis as bad-as twenty, replied my uncle
Toby ; thou shouldst have carried him back. some
seven or eight hundred years out of harm’s way,
both of critics and other people ; and therefore,
I would advise thee, if ever thou tellest it
again——

——lIf I live, an’ please your honour, but once
to get through it, I will never tell it again, quoth
Trim, either toman, woman, or child.——Poo—poo!
said my uncle Toby ;—but with accents of such
sweet encouragement did he utter it, that the
Corporal went on with his story with more alacrity
than ever.

 

 

THE STORY OF THE KING OF BOHEMIA

HIS SEVEN CASTLES, CONTINUED.

AND

There was, an’ please your honour, said the
Corporal, raising his voice,and rubbing the palms
of his two hands cheerly together, as he began, a
certain King of Bohemia——

——Leave out the date entirely, Trim, quoth
my uncle Toby, leaning forwards, and laying his
hand gently upon the Corporal’s shoulder to tem-
per the interruption,——leave it out entirely, Trim;
a story passes very well without these niceties,
unless one is pretty sure of ’em. Sure of ’em !
said the Corporal, shaking his head.

——Right, answered my uncle Toby ; it is not
easy, Trim, for one bred up as thou and I have
been to arms, who seldom looks further forward
than to the end of his musket, or backwards beyond
his knapsack, to know much about this matter,
——God bless your honour! said the Corporal,
won by the manner of my uncle Toby’s reasoning,
as much as by the reasoning itself, he has some-
thing else to do ; if not in action, or on a march,
or upon duty in his garrison,—he has his firelock,
an’ please your honour, to furbish,—his accoutre-
nents to take care of,—his regimentals to mend,
—himself to shave and keep clean, so as to appear
always like what he is upon the parade: what
business, added the Corporal triumphantly, has a
soldier, an’ please your honour, to know anything
at all of geography 2
Thou wouldst have said chronology, Trim,
said my uncle Toby ; for as for geography, *tis of
absolute use to him ; he must be acquainted inti-
mately with every country and its boundaries where
his profession carries him ; he should know every
town and city, and village and hamlet, with the
canals, the roads, and hollow-ways, which lead up
to them. There is not a river or a rivulet he
passes, T'rim, but he should be able, at first sight,a

 

 

 

to tell thee what is its name,—in what mountains
it takes its rise,—what is its course,—how far it
is navigable,—where fordable,—where not ;—he
should know the fertility of every valley, as well
as the hind who ploughs it; and be able to de-
scribe, or, if it is required, to give thee an exact
map of all the plains and defiles, the forts, the
acclivities, the woods and morasses, throughand by
which his army is to march ; he should know their
produce, their plants, their minerals, their waters,
their animals, their seasons, their climates, their
heats and colds, their inhabitants, their customs,
their language, their policy, and even their religion.

Is it else to be conceived, Corporal, continued
my uncle Toby, rising up in his sentry-box as he
began to warm in this part of his discourse,—how
Marlborough could have marched his army from
the banks of the Maes to Belburg; from Belburg
to Kerpenord—(here the Corporal could sit no
longer )—from Kerpenord, Trim, to Kalsaken ;
from Kalsaken to Newdorf ; from Newdorf to
Landenbourg ; from Landenbourg to Mildenheim;
from Mildenheim to Elchingen ; from Elchingen
to Gingen ; from Gingen to Balmerchoffen ; from
Balmerchoffen to Skellenburg, where he broke in
upon the enemy’s works, forced his passage over
the Danube, crossed the Lech,—pushed on_ his
troops into the heart of the empire, marching at
the head of them through Fribourg, Hokenwert,
and Schénevelt, to the plains of Blenheim and
Hochstet ? Great as he was, Corporal, he could
not have advanced a step, or made one single day’s
march, without the aids of geography.—As for
chronology, I own, Trim, continued my uncle
Toby, sitting down again coolly in his sentry-box,
that, of all others, it seems a science which the
soldier might best spare, was it not for the lights
which that science must one day give him, in
determining the invention of powder; the furious

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

| yet the many interruptions he had given, dwelt
| not so strong on his fancy as to account for the

execution of which, renversing everything like |

thunder before it, has become a new era to us of
military improvements, changing so totally the
nature of attacks and defences, both by sea and
land, and awakening so much art and skill in doing
it, that the world cannot be too exact in ascertain.
ing the precise time of its discovery, or too inqui-
sitive in knowing what great man was the dis-
coverer, and what occasions gave birth to it.

Iam far from controverting, continued my uncle
Toby, what historians agree in, that in the year of
our Lord 1380, under the reign of Wencelaus, son
of Charles the Fourth—a certain priest, Whose
name was Schwartz, showed the use of powder to
the Venetians, in their wars against the Genoese; but
tis certain he was not the first; because, if we are
to believe Don Pedro, the bishop of Leon————How
came priests and bishops, an’ please your honour,
to trouble their heads so much about gunpowder ?

 

 

God knows, said my uncle Toby, his pro-
vidence brings good out of everything, and he

 

avers, in his chronicle of King Alphonsus, who
reduced Toledo, that in the year 1343, which was
full thirty-seven years before that time, the secret
of powder was well known, and employed with
success, both by Moors and Christians, not only
in their sea-combats, at that period, but in many
of their most memorable sieges in Spain and Bar-
bary ;—and all the world knows that Friar Bacon
had wrote expressly about it, and had generously
given the world a receipt to make it by, above a

 

 

 

147

 

hundred and fifty years before even Schwartz was
born :—and that the Chinese, added my uncle
Toby, embarrass us, and all accounts of it, still
more, by boasting of the invention some hundreds
of years even before him.

They are a- pack of liars,
Trim.

They are somehow or other deceived, said my
uncle Toby, in this matter, as is plain to me from
the present miserable state of military architecture
amongst them ; which consists of nothing more
than a fossé with a brick wall without flanks —
and for what they give us as a bastion at each
angle of it, ’tis so barbarously constructed that it
looks for all the world Like one of my seven
castles, an’ please your honour, quoth Trim.

My uncle Toby, though in the utmost distress
for a comparison, most courteously refused T'rim’s
offer,—till Trim, telling him he had half-a-dozen
more in Bohemia, which he knew not how to get
off his hands—my uncle Toby was so touched with
the pleasantry of heart of the Corporal—that-he
discontinued his dissertation upon gunpowder,—
and begged the Corporal forthwith to go on with
his story of the King of Bohemia and his seven
castles.

 

I believe, cried

 

 

 

 

THE STORY OF THE KING OF BOHEMIA AND
HIS SEVEN CASTLES, CONTINUED.

This wnfortunate King of Bohemia, said Trim,

Was he unfortunate, then? cried my uncle
Toby ; for he had been so wrapt up in his disser-

tation upon gunpowder, and other military affairs,

that though he had desired the Corporal to go on,

 

 

epithet. Was he unfortunate, then, Trim ? said
my uncle Toby, pathetically-———The Corporal,
wishing first the word and all its synonymas at the
devil, forthwith began to run back in his mind the
principal events in the King of Bohemia’s story ;
from every one of which, it appeared that he was
the most fortunate man that ever existed in the
world—it put the Corporal to a stand; for, not
caring to retract his epithet—and less to explain
it—and least of all to twist his tale (like men of
lore) to serve a system—he looked up in my uncle
Toby’s face for assistance ;—but seeing it was the
very thing my uncle Toby sat in expectation of
himself—after a hum and a haw, he went on——
The King of Bohemia, an’ please your honour,
replied the Corporal, was unfortunate, as thus :—
that taking great pleasure and delight in naviga-
tion and all sort of sea-affairs;—and there happen-
ing throughout the whole kingdom of Bohemia to
be no sea-port town whatever,— i
—How the deuce should there, Trim? cried my
uncle Toby ; for Bohemia being totally inland, it
could have happened no otherwise.
—It might, said Trim, if it had pleased God.
My uncle Toby never spoke of the being and
natural attributes of God, but with diffidence and
hesitation.
I believe not, replied my uncle Toby, after some
pause ;—for being inland, as I said, and having
Silesia and Moravia to the east; Lusatia and
Upper Saxony to the north; Franconia to the
west ; and Bavaria to the south,— Bohemia could
not have been propelled to the sea without ceasing
to be Bohemia ;—nor could the sea, on the other
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THE LIFE AND OPINI
hand, have come up to Bohemia without overflow-
ing a great part of Germany, and destroying
millions of unfortunate inhabitants who could make
no defence against it——Scandalous, cried Trim.
Which would bespeak, added my uncle Toby,
mildly, such a want of compassion in Him who is
the father of it,—that, I think, Trim,—the thing
could have happened no way.——

The Corporal made the bow of unfeigned con-
viction, and went on.

Now the King of Bohemia, with his queen and
courtiers, happening one fine summer’s evening
to walk out,—Ay, there the word happening 1s
right, Trim, cried my uncle Toby ; for the King
of Bohemia and his Queen might have walked out
or let it alone:—’twas a matter of contingency,
which might happen or not, just as chance ordered
it.—

King William was of an opinion, an’ please your
honour, quoth Trim, that everything was predes-
| tined for us in this world ; insomuch, that he would
often say to his soldiers, that “every ball had its

 

 

 

 

billet.” He was a great man, said my uncle
Toby. And [ believe, continued Trim, to this

day, that the shot which disabled me at the battle
of Landen, was pointed at my knee for no other
purpose than to take me out of his service, and
place me in your honour’s, where I should be taken
so much better care of in my old age. It shall
never, Trim, be construed otherwise, said my
uncle Toby.—

The hearts, both of the master and the man,
were alike subject to sudden overflowings ;—a
short silence ensued.

Besides, said the Corporal, resuming the dis-
course,—but ina gayer accent,—if it had not been
for that single shot, I had never, an’ please your
honour, been in love.-—

So thou wast once in love, Trim? said my uncle
Toby, smiling.

Souse ! replied the Corporal,—over head and
ears ! an’ please your honour.——Prithee, when !
where ?—and how came it to pass ?—I never heard
one word of it before, quoth my uncle Toby.——
I dare say, answered Trim, that every drummer
and sergeant’s son in the regiment knew of it.
’Tis high time I should,—said my uncle Toby.

Your honour remembers with coneern, said
the Corporal, the total rout and confusion of our
camp and army at the affair of Landen ; every
one was left to shift for himself ; and if it had not
been for the regiments of Wyndham, Lumley, and
Galway, which covered the retreat over the bridge
of Neerspeeken, the king himself could scarce have
gained it ;—he was pressed hard, as your honour
knows, on every side of him.

Gallant mortal! cried my uncle Toby, caught
with enthusiasm,—this moment, now that all is
lost, I see him galloping across me, Corporal, to
the left, to bring up the remains of the English
horse along with him, to support the right, and
tear the laurel from Luxembourg’s brows, if yet
tis possible :—I see him with the knot of his scarf
just shot off, infusing fresh spirits into poor Gal-
way’s regiment,—riding along the line ;— then
wheeling about, and charging Conti at the head of
it. Brave ! brave, by Heaven ! cried my uncle
Toby ; he deserves a crown.—As richly, asa thief
a halter, shouted Trim.

My uncle Toby knew the Corporal’s loyalty—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F
|

 

 

otherwise the comparison was not all to his mind
—it did not altogether strike the Corporal’s fancy
when he had made it;—but it could not be recalled;
so he had nothing to do but proceed.

As the number of wounded was prodigious, and
no one had time to think of anything but his own
safety, though Talmash, said my uncle Toby,
brought off the foot with great prudence.——But
I was left upon the field, said the Corporal.——
Thou wast so, poor fellow! replied my uncle Toby.
So that it was noon the next day, continued
the Corporal, before I was exchanged, and put into
a cart with thirteen or fourteen more, in order
to be conveyed to our hospital.

There is no part of the body, an’ please your
honour, where a wound occasions more intolerable
anguish than upon the knee.—

Except the groin, said my uncle Toby ——An’
please your honour, replied the Corporal, the knee,
in my opinion, must certainly be the most acute,
there being so many tendons and what-d’ye-call-
ems all about it.—

It is for that reason, quoth my uncle Toby, that
the groin is infinitely more sensible ;—there being
not only as many tendons and what-d’ye-call-’ems
(for I know their names as little as thou dost)—
about it,—but moreover, * * *——

Mrs. Wadman, who had been all the time in her
arbour,— instantly stopped her breath, unpinned
her mob at the chin, and stood up upon one leg.

The dispute was maintained with amicable and
equal force betwixt my uncle Toby and Trim for
some time ; till Trim at length recollecting that
he had often eried at his master’s sufferings, but
never shed a tear at his own, was for giving up
the point ; which my uncle Toby would not allow.
‘Tis a proof of nothing, Trim, said he, but the
generosity of thy temper.

So that whether the pain of a wound in the
groin (ceteris paribus) is greater than the pain of
a wound in the knee,—or

Whether the pain of a wound in the knee is not
greater than the pain of a wound in the groin,—
are points which to this day remain unsettled.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XX,

THE anguish of my knee, continued the Cor-
poral, was excessive in itself: and the uneasiness
of the cart, with the roughness of the roads, which
were terribly cut up,—making bad still worse,
every step was death to me : so that with the loss
of blood, and the want of care-taking of me, and
a fever I felt coming on besides, (Poor soul!
said my uncle Toby.) Altogether, an’ please
your honour, was more than I could sustain.

I was telling my sufferings to a young woman
ata peasant’s house, where our eart, which was
the last of the line, had halted ; they had helped
me in, and the young woman had taken a cordial
out of her pocket and dropped it upon some sugar ;
and seeing it had cheered me, she had given it
me a second and a third time... So I was telling
her, an’ please your honour, the anguish I was
in, and was saying it was so intolerable to me that
I had much rather lie down upon the bed, turning

 

 

my face towards one which was in the corner of

 

the room,—and die—than go on,—when, upon
her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted away in
her arms. She was a good soul! as your honour,
said the Corporal, wiping his eyes, will hear.

am So a oo ee
ONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

149

 

 

 

 

 

I thought Jove had been a joyous thing, quoth
my uncle Toby.

"Tis the most serious thing, an’ please your
honour (sometimes) that is in the world.

By the persuasion of the young woman, con-
tinued the Corporal, the cart with the wounded
men set off without me ; she had assured them I
should expire immediately if I was put into the
cart. So when I came to myself,—l found my-
self in a still quiet cottage, with no one but the
young woman, and the peasant and his wife. I
was laid across the bed in the corner of the room,
with my wounded leg upona chair, and the young
woman beside me, holding the corner of her hand-
kerchief dipped in vinegar to my nose with one
hand, and rubbing my temples with the other.

I took her at first for the daughter of the
peasant (for it was no inn);—so had offered her a
little purse with eighteen florins, which my poor
brother Tom (here Trim wiped his eyes) had
sent me as a token, by a recruit, just before he
set out for Lisbon.

I never told your honour that piteous story
yet. (Here Trim wiped his eyes a third time.)

The young woman called the old man and his
wife into the room to show them the money, in
order to gain me credit for a bed and what little
necessaries I should want, till I should be in a
condition to be got to the hospital. -Come then,
said she, tying up the little purse,—I’ll be your
banker ;—but as that office alone will not keep
me employed, I’ll be your nurse too.

I thought by her manner of speaking this, as
well as by her dress, which I then began to con-
sider more attentively,—that the young woman
could not be the daughter of the peasant.

She was in black down to her toes, with her
hair concealed under a cambric border, laid close
to her forehead: she was one of those kind of
nuns, an’ please your honour, of which your
honour knows there are a good many in Flanders,
which they let go loose. By thy description,
Trim, said my uncle Toby, I dare say she was a
young Beguine, of which there are none to be
found anywhere but in the Spanish Netherlands,
except at Amsterdam: they differ from nuns
in this, that they can quit their cloister if they
choose to marry ; they visit and take care of the
sick by profession. I had rather, for my own
part, they did it out of good-nature.

She often told me, quoth Trim, she did it for
the love of Christ. I did not like it. I believe,
Trim, we are both wrong, said my uncle Toby :—
we'll ask Mr. Yorick about it to-night, at my
brother Shandy’s ;—so put me in mind, added
my uncle Toby.

The young Beguine, continued the Corporal,
had scarce given herself time to tell me “she
would be my nurse,” when she hastily turned
about to begin the office of one, and prepare
something for me ;—and in a short time,—though
I thought it a long one,—she came back with
flannels, &c., &e., and, having fomented my knee
soundly for a couple of hours, &¢., and made me
a basin of thin gruel for my supper,—she wished
me rest, and promised to be with me early in the
morning. She wished me, an’ please your
honour, what was not to be had.—My fever ran
very high that night ;—her figure made sad dis-
turbance within me ;—I was every moment cut-

 

 

 

 

 

 

ting the world in two,—to give her half of it ;—
and every moment was I crying, that I had |
nothing but a knapsack and eighteen florins to |
share with her. The whole night long was the
fair Beguine, like an angel, close by my bed-side,
holding back my curtain, and offering me cordials;
and I was only awakened from my dream by
her coming there at the hour promised, and
giving them in reality. In truth, she was scarce
ever from me; and so accustomed was I to
receive life from her hands that my heart
sickened, and I lost colour when she left the
room ; and yet, continued the Corporal (making
one of the strangest reflections upon it in the
world)

“Tt was not love;”—for during the three weeks
she was almost constantly with me, fomenting

 

=

 

my knee with her hand night and day,—I can

honestly say, an’ please your Honour,—that *

* * ¥ * * x * once.
That was very odd, Trim, quoth my uncle |
|

Toby.—
I think so too,—said Mrs. Wadman.

It never did, said the Corporal. |

 

 

——But ’tis no marvel, continued the Corporal,
seeing my uncle Toby musing upon it,—for love,
an’ please your honour, is exactly like war, in |
this ; that a soldier, though he has escaped three
weeks complete o’ Saturday night,—may, never-
theless, be shot though his heart on Sunday
morning.—It happened so here, an’ please your
honour, with this difference only—that it was on
Sunday in the afternoon, when I fell in love all |
at once, with a sisserara.—It burst upon me, an’
please your honour, like a bomb,—scarce giving
me time to say, “ God bless me.”

I thought, Trim, said my uncle Toby, a man
never fell in love so very suddenly.

Yes, an’ please your honour, if he is in the |
way of it,—replied ‘Trim.

I prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how
this matter happened.

With all pleasure, said the Corporal, making a
bow.

CHAPTER XXI, |
|
{

CHAPTER XXII.

I HAD escaped, continued the Corporal, all that
time from falling in love, and had gone on to the
end of the chapter, had it not been predestined
otherwise. — There is no resisting our fate.—
It was on a Sunday, in the afternoon, as I told
your honour.

The old man and his wife had walked out.—

Every thing was still and hush as midnight
about the house.

There was not so muchas a duck or a duckling
about the yard,—

When the fair Beguine came in to see me.

My wound was then in a fair way of doing well,
the inflammation had been gone off for some time;
but it was succeeded with an itching both above
and below my knee, so insufferable that I had
not shut my eyes the whole night for it.

Let me see it, said she, kneeling down upon the
ground parallel to my knee, and laying her hand
upon the part below it.—It only wants rubbing a
little, said the Beguine ; so, covering it with the
bed-clothes, she began with the fore-finger of her
right hand to rub under my knee, guiding herTHE LIFE AND OPINIONS

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

il

|

 

fore-finger backwards and forwards by the edge
of the flannel which kept on the dressing.

In five or six minutes I felt slightly the end of
her second finger,—and presently it was laid flat
with the other, and she continued rubbing in that
way round and round for a good while; it then
came into my head that I should fall in love :—I1
blushed when I saw how white a hand she had.—
I shall never, an’ please your honour, behold
another hand so white whilst I live.

Not in that place, said my uncle Toby.

Though it was the most serious despair in
nature to the Corporal, he could not forbear
smiling

The young Beguine, continued the Corporal,
perceiving it was of great service to me—from
rubbing for some time with two fingers,—pro-
ceeded to rub at length with three,—till by little
and little she brought down the fourth, and then
rubbed with her whole hand. I will never say
another word, an’ please your honour, upon
hands again ;—but it was softer than satin.’

——Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou
wilt, said my uncle Toby ; I shall hear thy story
with the more delight.——The Corporal thanked
his master most unfeignedly ; but, having nothing
to say upon the Beguine’s hand but the same over
again, he proceeded to the effects of it.

The fair Beguine, said the Corporal, continued
rubbing with her whole hand under my knee,—
till I feared her zeal would weary her. eT
would do a thousand times more,” said she, “ for
the love of Christ.’’ In saying which, she
passed her hand across the flannel, to the part
above my knee, which I had equally complained
of, and rubbed it also.

I perceived then, I was beginning
love.—

As she continued rub-rub-rubbing, I felt it
spread from under her hand, an’ please your
honour, to every part of my frame.

The more she rubbed, and the longer strokes
she took, the more the fire kindled in my veins,
—till at length, by two or three strokes longer
than the rest, my passion rose to the highest
pitch.—I seized her hand,

And then thou clapped’st it to thy lips, Trim,
said my uncle Toby, and madest a speech.

Whether-the Corporal’s amour terminated pre-
cisely in the way my uncle Toby described it, is
not material ; it is enough that it contained in it
the essence of all the love-romances which ever
have been written since the beginning of the
world.

 

 

 

 

to be in

 

CHAPTER XXIII.

As soon as the Corporal had finished the story
of his amour,—or rather my uncle Toby for him,
—Mrs. Wadman silently sallied forth from her
arbour, replaced the pin in her mob, passed the
wicker-gate, and advanced slowly towards my
uncle Toby’s sentry-box: the disposition which
Trim had made in my uncle Toby’s mind was too
favourable a crisis to be let slipped.—

—The attack was determined upon: it was
facilitated still more by my uncle Toby’s having
ordered the Corporal to wheel off the pioneer’s
shovel, the spade, the pick-axe, the picquets, and
other military stores which lay seattered upon the
ground where Dunkirk stood.—The Corporal had
marched ;—the field was clear.

 

 

Now, consider, sir, what nonsense it is, either
in fighting, or writing, or anything else (whether
in rhyme to it, or not) which a man has occasion
to do,—to act by plan: for if ever plan, indepen-
dent of all circumstances, deserved registering in
letters of gold (I mean in the archives of Gotham)
—it. was certainly the plan of Mrs. Wadman’s
attack of my uncle Toby in his sentry-box, by
plan. Now, the plan hanging up in it at this
juncture, being the plan of Dunkirk,—and the
tale of Dunkirk a tale of relaxation, it opposed
every impression she could make: and besides,
could she have gone upon it,—the manceuvre of
fingers and hands in the attack of the sentry-box
was so outdone by that of the fair Beguine’s in
Trim’s story,—that just then, that particular
attack, however successful before—became the
most heartless attack that could be made.

O! let woman alone for this. Mrs. Wadman
had scarce opened the wicker gate, when her
genius sported with the change of circumstances.

She formed a new attack in a moment.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.

I am half distracted, Captain Shandy, said
Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric-handker-
chief to her left eye, as she approached the door of
my uncle Toby’s sentry-box ; a mote,—or sand,—
or something,—I know not what, has got into this
eye of mine ;—do look into it :—it is not in the
white.—

In saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged herself
close in beside my uncle Toby, and, squeezing
herself down upon the corner of his bench, she
gave him an opportunity of doing it without rising
up.——Do look into it, said she.

Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as
much innocency of heart as ever child looked into
ayraree show-box ; and ’twere as much a sin to
have hurt thee.

[f a man will be peeping of his own accord into
things of that nature, I’ve nothing to say to it.

My uncle Toby never did: and I will answer
for him that he would have sat quietly upon a
sofa from June to January (which, you know,
takes in both the hot and cold months) with an
eye as fine as the Thracian * Rhodope’s beside
him, without being able to tell whether it was a
black or a blue one.

The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look
at one at all.

"Tis surmounted. And

I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous in
his hand, and the ashes falling out of it,—looking,
—and looking,— then rubbing his eyes,—and
looking again, with twice the good-nature that
ever Galileo looked for a spot in the sun.

In vain! for, by all the powers which animate
the organ—Widow Wadman’s left eye shines this
moment as lucid as her right ;—there is neither
mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor chaff, nor speck,
nor particle of opaque matter, floating in it.—
There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but
one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out
from.every part of it, in all directions, into thine.
If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this
mote one moment longer,—thou art undone.

 

4
9 4V

 

 

 

 

* Rhodope Thracia tam inevitabili fascino instructa,
tam exacte oculis intuens attraxit, ut si in illam quis in-
cidisset, fierinon posset, quin caperetur.—I know not who.THE LIFE AND

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

een Ree eee

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXyV.

AN eye is, for all the world, exactly like a ean-
non, in this respect, that it is not so much the eye
or the cannon, in themselves, as it is the carriage
of the eye—and the carriage of the cannon ; by
which both the one and the other are enabled to
do so much execution. I don’t think the com-
parison a bad one: however, as ’tis made and
placed at the head of the chapter, as much for
use as ornament, all I desire in return is that,
whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman’s eyes
(except once in the next period) that you keep it
in your fancy. i

I protest, madam, said my uncle Toby, I can
see nothing whatever in your eye.

— —lt is not in the white, said Mrs. Wadman.
——My unele Toby looked with might and main
into the pupil.

Now, of all the eyes which ever were created,
from your own, madam, up to those of Venus
herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of
eyes as ever stood in a head, there never was an
eye of them all so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of
his repose as the very eye at which he was look-
ing ;—it was not, madam, a rolling eye,—a romp-
ing, or a wanton one ;—nor was it an eye sparkling,
petulant or imperious—of high claims and terrify-
ing exactions, which would have curdled at once
that milk of human nature of which my uncle
Toby was made up ;—but ’twas an eye full of
gentle salutations,—and soft responses,—speaking,
—not like the trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ,
in which many an eye I talk to holds coarse con-
verse, but whispering soft,—like the last low
accents of an expiring saint, —“ How can you
live comfortless, Captain Shandy, and alone, with-
out a bosom to lean your head on,—or trust your
cares to ?”

It was an eye

But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say
another word about it.

It did my uncle Toby’s business.

 

 

CHAPTER XXYVI.
THERE is nothing shows the characters of my

| father and my uncle Toby ina more entertaining

light than their different manner of deportment
under the same accident ;—for I call not love a
misfortune ; from a persuasion that a man’s heart
is ever the better for it.—Great God! what must
my uncle Toby’s have been, when ’twas all benig-
nity without it !

My father, as appears from many of his papers,
was very subject to this passion before he married ;
—but, from a little subacid kind of drollish im-
patience in his nature, whenever it befel him, he
would never submit to it like a Christian ; but
would pish, and huff, and bounce, and kick, and
play the devil, and write the bitterest philippics
against the eye that ever man wrote :—there is
one in verse upon somebody’s eye or other, that,
for two or three nights together, had put him by
his rest ; which, in his first transport of resent-
ment against it, he begins thus :—

 

«<A devil ’tis—and mischief such doth work
As never yet did Pagan, Jew, or Turk.” *

 

 

* This will be printed with my father’s Life of Socrates,
&c. &e.

 

 

 

 

 

In short, during the whole paroxysm, my father
was all abuse and foul language, approaching
rather towards malediction ; only he did not do it
with as much method as Ernulphus ; he was too
impetuous ; nor with Ernulphus’s policy ; — for
though my father, with the most intolerant spirit,
would curse both this and that, and everything
under heaven, which was either aiding or abet-
ting to his love,—yet he never concluded his
chapter of curses upon it without cursing at him-
self in the bargain, as one of the most egregious
fools and coxcomhbs, he would say, that ever was
let loose in the world.

My uncle Toby, on the contrary, took it like a
lamb,—sat still, and let the poison work in his
veins without resistance :—in the sharpest exacer-
bations of his wound (like that on his groin) he
never dropped one fretful nor discontented word,—
he blamed neither heaven nor earth,—nor thought,
nor spoke, an injurious thing of anybody, nor any
part of it ; he sat solitary and pensive with his
pipe,—-looking at his lame leg,—then whiffing out
a sentimental heigh-ho ! which, mixing with the
smoke, incommoded no one mortal.

He took it like a lamb, I say.

In truth, he had mistook it at first ; for, having
taken a ride with my father that very morning, to
save, if possible, a beautiful wood, which the dean
and chapter were hewing down to give to the
poor ;* which said wood being in full view of my
uncle Toby’s house, and of singular service to
him in his description of the battle of Wynnen-
dale,—by trotting on too hastily to save it, upon
an uneasy saddle, worse horse, &ec. &e. it had
so happened that the serous part of the blood
had got betwixt the two skins, in the nethermost
part of my uncle Toby,—the first shootings of

 

 

which (as my uncle Toby had no experience of |

love) he had taken for a part of the passion, till
the blister breaking in the one case, and the other
remaining, my uncle Toby was presently convinced
that his wound was not a skin-deep wound, but
that it had gone to his heart.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Tue world is ashamed of being virtuous.—My
uncle Toby knew little of the world ; and there-
fore, when he felt he was in love with Widow
Wadman, he had no conception that the thing
was any more to be made a mystery of than if
Mrs. Wadman had given him a cut with a gapped
knife across his finger. Had it been otherwise,—
yet, as he ever looked upon Trim as a humble
friend, and saw fresh reasons every day of his
life to treat him as such,—it would have made no
variation in the manner in which he informed him
of the affair.

“JT am in love, Corporal!” quoth my uncle
Toby.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

In love !—said the Corporal,—your honour
was very well the day before yesterday, when I
was telling your honour the story of the King of
Bohemia. Bohemia ! said my uncle Toby
musing a long time What became of that
story, Trim?

We lost it, an’ please your honour, some-

 

 

 

 

 

* Mr. Shandy must mean the poor in spirit; Inasmuch
as they divided the money amongst themselves.

151 |THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

how betwixt us ;—but your honour was as free
from love then as I am. "Twas just whilst thou
went’st off with the wheel-barrow, — with Mrs.
Wadman, quoth my uncle Toby.—She has left a
ball here, added my uncle Toby, pointing to his
breast.

 

 

She can no more, an’ please your honour,
stand a siege, than she could fly, cried the Cor-
poral.

But as we are neighbours, Trim, the best
way, I think, is to let her know it civilly first,
quoth my uncle Toby.

Now, if I might presume, said the Corporal,
to differ from your honour,
Why else do I talk to thee, Trim? said my
uncle Toby, mildly.

Then I would begin, an’ please your honour,
with making a good thundering attack upon her,
in return,—and telling her civilly afterwards ;—for
if she knows anything of your honour’s being in
love, beforehand——-L—d help her !—she knows
no more at present of it, Trim, said my uncle Toby,
—than the child unborn.

Precious souls !—

Mrs. Wadman had told it, with all its cir-
cumstances, to Mrs. Bridget, twenty-four hours
before ; and was at that very moment sitting in
council with her, touching some slight misgivings
with regard to the issue of the affair, which the
Devil, who never lies dead in a ditch, had put
into her head,—before he would allow half time
to get quietly through her Te Deum.

I am terribly afraid, said Widow Wadman, in
case I should marry him, Bridget,—that the poor
Captain will not enjoy his health, with the mon-
strous wound upon his groin.

It may not, madam, be so very large, replied
Bridget, as you think ;—and I believe, besides,
added she,—that ’tis dried up.

I could like to know,—merely for his sake,
said Mrs. Wadman.

-— We’ll know the long and the broad of it
in ten days, answered Mrs. Bridget; for whilst
the Captain is paying his addresses to you,—I’m
confident Mr. Trim will be for making love to
me ;—and I’ll let him as much as he will, added
Bridget, to get it all out of him.

The measures were taken at once ;—and my
uncle Toby and the Corporal went on with theirs,

Now, quoth the Corporal, setting his left hand
a-kimbo, and giving such a flourish with his right
as just promised success—and no more,—if your
honour will give me leave to lay down the plan of
this attack,

Thou wilt please me by it, Trim, said my uncle
Toby, exceedingly ;—and as I foresee thou must
act in it as my aide-de-camp, here’s a crown, Cor-
poral, to begin with, to steep tly commission.

-—Then, an’ please your honour, said the
Corporal (making a bow first for his commission)
—we will begin with getting your honour’s laced
clothes out of the great campaign-trunk, to be well
aired, and have the blue arid gold taken up at the
sleeves ;—and I[’ll put your white Ramillies-wig
fresh into pipes ;—and send for a tailor to have
your honour’s thin scarlet breeches turned. ——

[ had better take the red plush ones, quoth my
uncle 'Toby._—They will be too clumsy, said the
Corporal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—

CHAPTER XXIX.
THov wilt get a brush and a little chalk to
my sword.
’Twill be only in your honour’s way, replied
Trim.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX.

—Buvr your honour’s two razors shall be new
set—and I will get my Montero-cap furbished up,
and put on poor Lieutenant Le Fevre’s regimental
coat, which your honour gave me to wear for his
sake ;—and as soon as your honour is clean-
shaved,—and has got your clean shirt on, with
your blue and gold or your fine scarlet,—some-
times one and sometimes t’other,—and everything
is ready for the attack,—we’ll march up boldly,
as if ’twas to the face of a bastion ; and whilst
your honour engages Mrs. Wadman in the par-
lour, to the right,—I’ll attack Mrs. Bridget in the
kitchen, to the left ; and having seized that pass,
I'll answer for it, said the Corporal, snapping his
fingers over his head,—that the day is our own.

I wish I may but manage it right, said my
uncle Toby ;—but I declare, Corporal, I had
rather march up to the very edge of a trench.

A woman is quite a different thing, said
the Corporal.

I suppose so, quoth my uncle Toby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXTI.

[r anything in this world which my father said
could have provoked my uncle Toby, during the
time he was in love, it was the perverse use my
father was always making of an expression of
Hilarion, the hermit ; who, in speaking of his
abstinence, his watchings, flagellations, and other
instrumental parts of his religion,—would say,—
though with more facetiousness than became a
hermit, “ that they were the means he used to
make his ass (meaning his body) leave off kicking.”

It pleased my father well; it was not only a
laconic way of expressing—but of libelling, at the
same time, the desires and appetites of the lower
part of us ; so that for many years of my father’s
life ’twas his constant mode of expression ;—he
never used the word passions once,—but ass
always, instead of them ;—so that he might be
said truly to have been upon the bones, or the
back of his own ass, or else of some other man’s,
during all that time.

I must here observe to you the difference betwixt

My father’s ass and

My HoBBY-HORSE,—in order to keep characters as
separate as may be, in our fancies as we go along.

For my hobby-horse, if you recollect a little,
is no way a vicious beast ; he has searce one hair
or lineament of the ass about him.—’ Tis the sport-
ing little filly-folly which carries you out for the
present hour, —a maggot, a butterfly, a picture, a
fiddlestick,—an uncle Toby’s siege, or an anything
which a man makes a shift to get astride on, to

canter it away from the cares and solicitudes of |

life.-—'Tis as useful a beast as is in the whole
creation ;—nor do I really see how the world
could do without it.

—But for my father’s ass—Oh ! mount him,—
mount him,—mount him,—(that’s three times, is
it not?)—mount him not :—’tis a beast concu-
piscent ;—and foul befal the man who does not
hinder him from kicking.|
|

f

|

|

|

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

WELL, dear brother Toby, said my father, upon
his first seeing him after he fell in love,—and
how goes it with your ass 2

Now, my uncle Toby thinking more of the part
where he had had the blister than of Hilarion’s
metaphor,—and our preconceptions having (you
know) as great a power over the sounds of words

 

_ as the shapes of things, he had imagined that my

father, who was not very ceremonious in his choice
of words, had inquired after the part by its proper
name : so, notwithstanding my mother, Dr. Slop,
and Mr. Yorick, were sitting in the parlour, he
thought it rather civil to conform to the term my
father had made use of than not. When aman
is hemmed in by two indecorums, and must commit
one of ’em, I always observe—let him choose
which he will, the world will blame him ;—so I
should not be astonished if it blames my uncle

My a—, quoth my uncle Toby, is much better,
brother Shandy.—My father had formed great
expectations from his ass in this onset; and
would have brought him on again; but Doctor
Slop setting up an intemperate laugh,—and my
mother erying out, L— bless us !—it drove my
father’s ass off the field ;—and the laugh then
becoming general,—there was no bringing him
back to the charge for some time :—

And so the discourse went on without him.

Everybody, said my mother, says you are in
love, brother Toby ;—and we hope it is true.

I am as much in love, sister, I believe,
replied my uncle Toby, as any man usually is.
Humph ! said my father. And when did you
know it ? quoth my mother.

When the blister broke, replied my uncle

 

 

 

 

Toby.
. My uncle Toby’s reply put my father into good
temper—so he charged o’ foot,

CHAPTER XXXIII.

As the ancients agree, brother Toby, said my
father, that there are two different and distinct
kinds of Jove, according to the different parts
which are affected by it,—the brain or liver,—I
think when a man is in love it behoves him a little
to consider which of the two he is fallen into.

—— What signifies it, brother Shandy, replied

my uncle Toby, which of the two it is, provided
it will but make a man marry, and love his wife,
and get a few children ?
A few children! cried my father, rising
out of his chair, and looking full in my mother’s
face, as he forced his way betwixt hers and Doctor
Slop’s,—A few children ! cried my father, repeat-
ing my uncle Toby’s words, as he walked to
and fro.

Not, my dear brother Toby, cried my father,
recovering himself all at once, and coming close
up to the back of my uncle Toby’s chair,—not
that I should be sorry hadst thou a score :—on
the contrary, I should rejoice,—and be as kind,
Toby, to every one of them as a father.

My uncle Toby stole his hand, unperceived,
behind his chair, to give my father’s a squeeze.——

Nay, moreover, continued he, keeping hold of
my uncle Toby’s hand,—so much dost thou pos-

 

 

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

153 |

 

sess, my dear Toby, of the milk of human nature,
and so little of its asperities,—’tis piteous the
world is not peopled by creatures which resemble
thee ! and was I an Asiatic monarch, added my
father, heating himself with his new project,—I
would oblige thee, provided it would not impair
thy strength,—or dry up thy radical moisture too
fast,;—or weaken thy memory, or fancy, brother
Toby, which these gymnics, inordinately taken, are
apt to do,—else, dear Toby, I would procure thee
the most beautiful women in my empire, and I
would oblige thee, nolens volens, to beget for me
one subject every month.

As my father pronounced the last word of the
sentence,—my mother took a pinch of snuff.—

Now I would not, quoth my uncle Toby, get a
child, nolens volens, that is, whether I would or
no, to please the greatest prince upon. earth_—

And ’twould be cruel in me, brother Toby, to
compel thee, said my father ;—but ’tis a case put
to show thee that it is not thy begetting a cehild,—
in case thou shouldst be able, but the system of
love and marriage thou goest upon, which I
would set thee right in.

There is, at least, said Yorick, a great deal of
reason and plain sense in Captain Shandy’s opinion
of love: and ’tis among the ill-spent hours of my
life, which I have to answer for, that I have read
so many flourishing poets and rhetoricians in my
time, from whom I never could extract so
much.

I wish, Yorick, said my father, you had read
Plato ; for there you would have learnt that there
are two loves. I know there were two religions,
replied Yorick, among the ancients :—one for the
vulgar,—and another for the learned ;—but I
think one love might have served both of them
very well.

It could not, replied my father,—and for the
same reasons ; for, of these loves, according to
Ficinus’s comment upon Velasius, the one is
rational,—

The other is natural ;—
the first ancient,—without mother,—where Venus
had nothing to do ; the second begotten of Jupiter
and Dione.

Pray, brother, quoth my uncle Toby, what has
a man who believes in God to do with this?
My father could not stop to answer, for fear of
breaking the thread of his discourse.

This latter, continued he, partakes wholly of the
nature of Venus.

The first, which is the golden chain let down
from heaven, excites to love heroic, which com-
prehends in it, and excites to, the desire of philo-
sophy and truth ;—the second excites to desire
simply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think the procreation of children as beneficial |

to the world, said Yorick, as the finding out the
longitude.
To be sure, said my mother, Jove keeps peace in
the world.
In the house my dear, J own.
It replenishes the earth, said my mother.
But it keeps heaven empty,—my dear, replied
my father.
*Tis virginity, cried Slop, triumphantly, which
fills paradise.
Well pushed, nun! quoth my father.oe asa seas Ve eR ES = z = nae ee es a SES oat
| 154 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

a So

soe

 

_

Sy

ee z

=

it made the odds look more considerable.—I would
CHAPTER XXXIV. lay, an’ please your honour, my Montero-cap to a

My father had such a skirmishing, cutting kind shilling,—was it proper, continued Trim (making
| ofa slashing way ;with him in his disputations, thrust- | a bow) to offer a wager before your honours. ——
ing and ripping, and giving every one a stroke to There is nothing improper in it, said my father,
| remember him by in his turn that if there were | —’tis a mode of expression ; for in saying thou
twenty people in company, in less than half an hour | wouldst lay thy Montero-cap to a shilling,—all
he was sure to have every one of ’em against him. | thou meanest is this,—that thou helievest,
What did not a little contribute to leave him Now, What dost thou believe ?
thus without an ally was, that if there was any one That Widow Wadman, an’ please your worship,

Ns)

Re. rae:

Says aS

ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

(i post more untenable than the rest, he would be | cannot hold it out ten days.
. sure to throw himself into it ; and, to do him jus- And whence, cried Slop, jeeringly, hast thou all |
if | tice, when he was once there, he would defend it this knowledge of woman, friend 2?——
if | so gallantly that ’twould hav e been a concern, sy falling in love with a popish clergywoman,
iy | either to a brave man, or a good-natured one, to | said Trim.——
| have seen him driven out. *Twas a Beguine, said my uncle Toby.
|  Yorick, for this reason, though he would often Doctor Slop was too much in wrath to listen to
| attack him,—yet could never bear to do it with | the distinction ; and my father, taking that very
| all his force. crisis to fall in helter-skelter upon the whole order |
|

Doctor Slop’s virginity, in the close of the last | of nuns and Beguines, a set of silly, fusty bag-
chapter, had got him for once on the right side of | gages,—Slop could not stand it s—and my uncle
the rampart; and he was beginning to blow up Toby having some measures to take about his
all the convents in Christendom about Slop’s ears, | breeches,—and Yorick about his fourth general
when Corporal Trim came into the parlour to | division,—in order for their several attacks next
inform my uncle Toby that his thin scarlet | day,—the company broke up: and my father being |
breeches, in which the attack was to be made | left alone, and having half an hour upon his hands |
upon Mrs. Wadman, would not do; for that the | betwixt that and bed-time, he called for pen, ink,
tailor, in ripping them up in order to turn them, | and paper, and wrote my uncle Toby the following
had found they had been turned before. Then | letter of instructions :
turn them again, brother, said my father rapidly,

 

 

 

 

 

for there will be many a turning of ’em yet before My dear brother Toby
e é e ® Jv? }
all’s done in the affair——They are as rotten as What I am going to say to thee is upon the |

 

dirt, said the Corporal. Then by all means, | nature of women, and of love-making to them ;
said my father, bespeak a new pair, brother ;— | and perhaps it is as well for thee,—though not so
for though I know, continued my father, turning well for me,—that thou hast occasion for a letter
himself to the company, that Widow Wadman | of instructions upon that head, and that I am able
has been deeply in love with my brother Toby for | to write it to thee.

many years, and has used every art and circum- Had it been the good pleasure of Him who
vention of woman to outwit him into the same | disposes of our lots, and thou no sufferer by the
passion, yet now that she has caught him—her | knowledge, I had been well content that thou

 

fever will be past its height. shouldst have dipped the pen this moment into |
She has gained her point. the ink, instead of myself; but that not being the
In this case, continued my father, which Plato, | case——Mrs. Shandy being now close beside me,

 

I am persuaded, never thought of,—Love, you | preparing for bed,—I have thrown together, with-
see, is not so much a sentiment as a situation, | out order, and just as they have come into my
into which a man enters, as my brother Toby | mind,such hints and documents as I deem may be
would do into a corps,—no matter whether he | of use to thee, intending in this to give thee a token
loves the service or no ;—being once in it,—he | of my love; not doubting, my dear Toby, of the
acts as if he did, and takes every step to show | manner in which it will be accepted.
himself a man of prowess. In the first place, with regard to all which con-
The hypothesis, like the rest of my father’s, | cerns religion in the affair, I perceive, |
was plausible enough, and my uncle Toby had but | from a glow in my cheek, that I pik as I begin |
a single word to object to it,—in which Trim | to speak to thee upon the subject, as well knowing,
stood ready to second him ;—but my father had | notwithstanding thy unaffected secrecy, how few
not drawn his conclusion. of its offices thou neglectest,—yet I would remind
For this reason, continued my father (stating | thee of one (during the continuance of thy court-
the case over again),—notwithstanding all the | ship) in a particular manner, which J would not
world knows that Mrs. Wadman affects my bro- | have omitted ; and that is, never to go forth upon
ther Toby ;—and my brother Toby contrarywise | the enterprise, whether it be in the morning or
affects Mrs. Wadman, and no obstacle in nature | the afternoon, without first recommending thyself
to forbid the music striking up this very night, | to the protection of Almighty God, that “he may
yet will I answer for it that this self-same tune | defend thee from the evil one.
will not be played this twelyemonth.—— Shave the whole top of thy crown clean once
We have taken our measures badly, quoth my | at least every four or five days, but oftener if con-
uncle Toby, looking up interrogatively in Trim’s | venient ; lest, in taking off thy wig before her,

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

face. through absence of mind, she should be able to dis-
I would lay my Montero-cap, said Trim.—— | cover how much has been cut away by Time :—
| Now Trim’s Montero-cap, as I once told you, was | how much by Trim.
_ his constant wager ; and having furbished it up "were better to keep ideas of baldness out of
| that very night, in order to go upon the attack,— | her fancy.THE

Always carry it in thy mind, and act upon it as
a sure maxim, Toby,

“That women are timid;” and ’tis well they
are,—else there would be no dealing with them.

Let not thy breeches be too tight, nor hang too
loose about thy thighs, like the trunk-hose of our
ancestors :—

A just medium prevents all conclusions.

Whatever thou hast to say, be it more or less,

 

forget not to utter it ina low soft tone of voice a

—silence, and whatever approaches it, weaves
dreams of midnight secrecy into the brain :—for
this cause, if thou canst help it, never throw down
the tongs and poker.

Avoid all kinds of pleasantry and facetiousness
in thy discourse with her, and do whatever lies in
thy power, at the same time, to keep from her all
books and writings which tend thereto : there are
some devotional tracts, which if thou canst entice
her to read over,—it will be well; but suffer
her not to look into Rabelais, or Searron, or Don
Quixote :

They are all books which excite laughter ; and
thou knowest, dear Toby, that there is no passion
So serious as lust.

Stick a pin in the bosom of thy shirt, before
thou enterest her parlour.

And if thou art permitted to sit upon the same
sofa with her, and she give thee occasion to lay thy
hand upon hers—beware of taking it;—thou canst
not lay thy hand on hers but she will find the
temper of thine.—Leave that and as many other
things as thou canst, quite undetermined ; by so
doing thou wilt have her curiosity on thy side ;
and if she is not conquered by that, and thy ass
continues still kicking, which there is great reason
to suppose,—thou must begin with first losing a
few ounces of blood below the ears, according to
the practice of the ancient Scythians, who cured
the most intemperate fits of the appetite by that
means.

Avicenna, after this, is for having the part
anointed with the syrup of hellebore, using proper
evacuations and purges ;—and I believe rightly.
But thou must eat little or no goat’s flesh, nor red
deer ;—nor even foal’s flesh, by any means ;—
and carefully abstain,—that is, as much as thou
canst, from peacocks, cranes, coots, didappers, and
water-hens.

As for thy drink, I need not tell thee, it must
be the infusion of vervain and the herb hanea,
of which Ailian relates such effects ;—but if thy
stomach palls with it,—discontinue it from time
to time, — taking cucumbers, melons, purslaine,
water-lilies, woodbine, and lettuce, in the stead
of them.

There is nothing further for thee which occurs
to me at present,

Unless the breaking out of a fresh war.—So,
wishing everything, dear Toby, for the best,

 

 

 

I rest thy affectionate brother,
WALTER SHANDY.

CHAPTER XXXvV.

Wuuitst my father was writing his letter of
instructions, my uncle Toby and the Corporal
were busy in preparing everything for the attack.
As the turning of the thin scarlet breeches was
laid aside (at least for the present) there was

 

 

 

 

 

———————————
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

155

nothing which should put it off beyond the next
morning ; So, accordingly, it was resolved upon
for eleven o’clock,

Come, my dear, said my father to my mother,
twill be but like a brother and sister, if you and
I take a walk down to my brother Toby’s,—to
countenance him in this attack of his.

My uncle Toby and the Corporal had both been
accoutred some time, when my father and mother
entered, and the clock striking eleven, were that
moment in motion to sally forth;—but the account
of this is worth more than to be wove into the
fag-end of the eighth volume of such a work as
this.—My father had no time but to put the letter
of instructions into my uncle Toby’s coat-pocket,
and join with my mother in wishing his attack
prosperous.

I could like, said my mother, to look through
the key-hole, out of curiosity. Call it by its
right name, my dear, quoth my father,—and look
through the key-hole as long as you will,

 

A DEDICATION TO A GREAT MAN,

Havine, a priori, intended to dedicate The
amours of my Uncle Toby to Mr. * * *,_T see
more reasons, a posteriori, for doing it to Lord

I should lament, from my soul, if this exposed
me to the jealousy of their reverences ; because,
a posteriori, in Court Latin, signifies the kissing
hands for preferment, or anything else, in order to
get it.

My opinion of Lord * * * * * * ¥ jg neither |

better nor worse than it was of Mr. * * *, Ho-
nours, like impressions upon coin, may give an
ideal and local value to a bit of base metal ; but
gold and silver will pass all the world over, with-
out any other recommendation than their own
weight,

The same good-will that made me think of offer-
ing up half an hour’s amusement to Mr, * * *
when out of place,—operates more forcibly at
present, as half an hour’s amusement will be
more serviceable and refreshing after labour and
sorrow, than after a philosophical repast.

Nothing is so perfectly amusement as a total
change of ideas ; no ideas are so totally different
as those of ministers and innocent lovers: for
which reason, when I come to talk of statesmen
and patriots, and set such marks upon them as
will prevent confusion and mistakes concerning
them for the future,—I propose to dedicate that
volume to some gentle shepherd,

Whose thoughts proud science never taught to stray,
Far as the statesman’s walk or patriot-way ;

Yet simple nature to his hopes had given,

Out of a cloud-capp’d hill, a humbler heaven ;

Some untamed world in depth of woods embraced—
Some happier island in the watery waste—

And where, admitted to that equal sky,

His faithful dog shall bear him company.

In a word, by thus introducing an entire new
set of objects to his imagination, I shall unavoid-
ably give a diversion to his passionate and love-
sick contemplations. In the mean time,

Iam
Tus AvuTHorR.VOLUME THE

CHAPTER I.

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

I cat all the powers of time and chance, which |

severally check us in our careers in this world, to
bear me witness that I could never yet get fairly
to my uncle Toby’s amours, till this very moment,

that my mother’s curiosity, as she stated the affair, |

—or a different impulse in her, as my father would
have it,—wished her to take a peep at them through
the key-hole.

“Call it, my dear, by its right name,”

quoth

my father, “and look through the key-hole as long |

as you will.”

Nothing but the fermentation of that little sub-
acid humour, which I have often spoken of, in my
father’s habit, could have vented such an insinua-
tion ;—he was, however, frank and generous in
his nature, and at all times open to conviction ;
so that he had scarce got to the last word of
this ungracious retort, when his conscience smote
him.

My mother was then conjugally swinging with
her left arm twisted under his right, in such wise
that the inside of her hand rested upon the back
of his; she raised her fingers, and let them fall,
—it could scarce be called a tap ; or, if it was a

tap,—’twould have puzzled a casuist to say whether |
*twas a tap of remonstrance or a tap of confession ; |
my father, who was all sensibilities from head to |

foot, classed it right ;—Conscience redoubled her
blow,—he turned his face suddenly the other way,
and my mother, supposing his body was about to
turn with it, in order to move homewards, by a
cross-movement of her right leg, keeping her left

as its centre, brought herself so far in front that, |
as he turned his head, he met her eye :—Confusion |

again ! he saw a thousand reasons to wipe out the
reproach, and as many to reproach himself :—a
thin, blue, chill, pellucid crystal, with all its
humours so at rest, the least mote or speck of
desire might have been seen at the bottom of it,
had it existed ;—it did not :—and how I happen to
be so lewd myself, particularly a little before the
vernal and autumnal equinoxes,—Heaven above

 

 

knows ;—my mother, madam, was so at no time, |

either by nature, by institution, or example.

A temperate current of blood ran orderly |

through her veins in all months of the year, and
in all critical moments both of the day and night
alike ; nor did she superinduce the least heat into
her humours from the manual effervescences of
devotional tracts, which, having little or no mean-
ing in them, nature is oftentimes obliged to find one;
and, as for my father’s example! ’twas so far

from being either aiding or abetting thereunto, |

that ’twas the whole business of his life to keep

all fancies of that kind out of her head :—Nature

had done her part to have spared him this trouble ;
‘ ;

and, what was not a little inconsistent, my father

knew it.—And here am I, sitting, this 12th day of |

August, 1766, in a purple jerkin and yellow pair
of slippers, without either wig or cap on, a most
tragi-comical completion of his prediction, “ That

 

 

NINTH.

I should neither think nor act like any other
man’s child, upon that every account.’’

The mistake of my father was in attacking my
mother’s motive, instead of the act itself ; for cer-
tainly, key-holes were made for other purposes ;
and, considering the act as an act which interfered
with a true proposition, and denied a key-hole to
be what it was,—it became a violation of nature ;
and was so far, you see, criminal.

It is for this reason, an’ please your rever-
ences, that key-holes are the occasions of more sin
and wickedness than all the other holes in this
world put together :

Which leads me to my uncle Toby’s amours.

 

CHAPTER II.

Tuovucu the Corporal had been as good as his
word in putting my uncle Toby’s great Ramillies
wig into pipes, yet the time was too short to pro-
duce any great effects from it: it had lain many
years squeezed up in the corner of his old cam-
paign trunk ; and as bad forms are not so easy
to be got the better of, and the use of candle-ends
not so well understood, it was not so pliable a
business as one would have wished. The Cor-
poral, with cheery eye and both arms extended,
had fallen back perpendicular from it a score
times, to inspire it, if possible, with a better air :
—had Spleen given a look at it, *twould have cost
her ladyship a smile ;— it curled everywhere but
where the Corporal would have it; and where a
buckle or two, in his opinion, would have done it
honour, he could as soon have raised the dead.

Such it was,—or, rather, such would it have
seemed upon any other brow ;—but the sweet
look of goodness which sat upon my uncle Toby’s
assimilated everything around it so sovereignly to
itself, and Nature had, moreover, wrote Gentleman
with so fair a hand in every line of his counte-
nance, that even his tarnished gold-laced hat and
huge cockade of flimsy taffety became him ; and,
though not worth a button in themselves, yet the
moment my uncle Toby put them on, they became
serious objects, and, altogether, seemed to have
been picked up by the hand of Science to set him
off to advantage.

Nothing in this world could have co-operated
more powerfully towards this than my uncle
Toby’s blue and gold,—had not quantity, in some
measure, been necessary to grace. In a period
of fifteen or sixteen years since they had been
made, by a total inactivity in my uncle Toby’s
life (for he seldom went further than the bowling-
green)—his blue and gold had become so miser-
ably too strait for him that it was with the utmost
difficulty the Corporal was able to get him into
tliem ; the taking them up at the sleeves was of
no advantage ; they were laced, however, down
the back, and, at the seams of the sides, &c., in
the mode of King William’s reign ; and, to shorten
all description, they shone so bright against the
sun that morning, and had so metallic and doughtyTHE LIFE

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

157 |

 

 

an air with them, that, had my uncle Toby thought
of attacking in armour, nothing could have so well
imposed upon his imagination.

As for the thin scarlet breeches, they had been
unripped by the tailor between the legs, and left
at sizes and sevens.

—— Yes, madam ; but let us govern our fancies.
It is enough they were held impracticable the
night before ; and, as there was no alternative in
my uncle Toby’s wardrobe, he sallied forth in the
red plush.

The Corporal had arrayed himself in poor Le
Fevre’s regimental coat ; and, with his hair tucked
up under his Montero-cap, which he had furbished
up for the occasion, marched three paces distant
from his master: a whiff of military pride had
puffed out his shirt at the wrist ; and upon that,
in a black leather thong clipped into a tassel
beyond the knot, hung the Corporal’s stick.—My
uncle Toby carried his cane like a pike.

——It looks well, at least, quoth my father to
himself.

CHAPTER IIL

My uncle Toby turned his head more than once
behind him, to see how he was supported by the
Corporal ; and the Corporal, as oft as he did it,
gave a slight flourish with his stick,—but not
vapouringly ; and with the sweetest accent of
most respectful encouragement, bade his honour
“ never fear.”

Now my uncle Toby did fear, and grievously
too ; he knew not (as my father had reproached
him) so much as the right end of a woman from
the wrong, and, therefore, was never altogether
at his ease near any one of them,—unless in
sorrow or distress ; then infinite was his pity ;
nor would the most courteous knight of romance
have gone further, at least upon one leg, to have
wiped away a tear from a woman’s eye ; and yet,
excepting once that he was beguiled into it by
Mrs. Wadman, he had never looked stedfastly
into one ; and would often tell my father, in the
simplicity of his heart, that it was almost (if not
about) as bad as talking bawdy.

And suppose it is ? my father would say.

 

CHAPTER IV.

SHE cannot, quoth my uncle Toby, halting, when
they had marched up to within twenty paces of
Mrs. Wadman’s door,—she cannot, Corporal, take
it amiss.

She will take it, an’ please your honour,
said the Corporal, just as the Jew’s widow at
Lisbon took it of my brother Tom.

And how was that? quoth my uncle Toby,
facing quite about to the Corporal.

——Your honour, replied the Corporal, knows
of Tom’s misfortunes ; but this affair has nothing
to do with them any further than this, that if Tom
had not married the widow,—or had it pleased
God, after their marriage, that they had but put
pork into their sausages, the honest soul had never
been taken out of his warm bed, and dragged to the
Inquisition:—’tisacursed place, added the Corporal,
shaking his head ; when once a poor creature is in,
he is in, an’ please your honour, for ever.

——’Tis very true, said my uncle Toby, looking
gravely at Mrs. Wadman’s house as he spoke.

———Nothing, continued the Corporal, can be so

 

 

 

a ay

sad as confinement for life,—or so sweet, an’ please |
your honour, as liberty.
Nothing, Trim, said my uncle Toby, musing.

Whilst a man is free, cried the Corporal, |
giving a flourish with his stick thus :

 

 

 

 

—

A thousand of my father’s most subtle syllogisms
could not have said more for celibacy.

My uncle Toby looked earnestly towards his
cottage and his bowling-green.

The Corporal had unwarily conjured up the
Spirit of calculation with his wand ; and he had
nothing to do but to conjure him down again with
his story ; and in this form of exorcism, most un-
ecclesiastically did the Corporal do it.

CHAPTER V.

 

As Tom’s place, an’ please your honour, was

easy, and the weather warm, it put him upon

thinking seriously of settling himself in the world; |

and as it fell out about that time that a Jew, who
kept a sausage-shop in the same street, had the
ill-luck to die of a strangury, and leave his widow
in possession of a rousing trade,—Tom thought
(as everybody in Lisbon was doing the best he
could devise for himself) there could be no harm
in offering her his service to carry it on; so,
without any introduction to the widow, except
that of buying a pound of sausages at her shop,—
Tom set out,—counting the matter thus within
himself as he walked along :—that, let the worst
come of it that could, he should, at least, get a
pound of sausages for their worth ; but, if things
went well, he should be set up; inasmuch as he

should get not only a pound of sausages—but a |

wife and a sausage-shop, an’ please your honour,
into the bargain,

Every servant in the family, from high to low,
wished Tom success; and I can fancy, an’ please

your honour, I see him this moment with his |
white dimity waistcoat and breeches, and a hat a

little 0’ one side, passing jollily along the street,
swinging his stick, with a smile and a cheerful
word for everybody he met. But, alas! Tom!
thou smilest no more, cried the Corporal, looking
on one side of him upon the ground, as if he apos-
trophised him in his dungeon.
Poor fellow! said my uncle Toby, feelingly.
——He was an honest, light-hearted lad, an’
please your honour, as ever blood warmed.
Then he resembled thee, Trim, said my
uncle Toby, rapidly.
The Corporal blushed down to his fingers’ ends,
—a tear of sentimental bashfulness—another ofSS.

= pasa SS

 

SSS

ine ae

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

158

 

gratitude to my uncle Toby—and a tear of sorrow
for his brother’s misfortunes, started into his eye,
and ran sweetly down his cheek together.—My
uncle Toby’s kindled as one lamp does at another ;
and, taking hold of the breast of Trim’s coat
(which had been that of Le Fevre’s) as if to ease
his lame leg, but in reality to gratify a finer feel-
ing,—he stood silent for a minute and a half; at
the end of which he took his hand away, and the
Corporal, making a bow, went on with his story of
his brother and the Jew’s widow.

CHAPTER VI.

Wuen Tom, an’ please your honour, got to the

shop, there was nobody in it but a poor negro
girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied
to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies—
not killing them. "Tis a pretty picture ! said
my uncle Toby ;—she had suffered persecution,
Trim, and had learnt mercy.
She was good, an’ please your honour, from
nature, as well as from hardships ; and there are
circumstances in the story of that poor friendless
slut that would melt a heart of stone, said Trim ;
and some dismal winter’s evening, when your
honour is in the humour, they shall be told you
with the rest of Tom’s story, for it makes a part
of it.

 

 

 

Then do not forget, Trim, said my uncle
Toby.

——A negro hasa soul! an’ please your honour ?
said the Corporal (doubtingly).

——I am not much versed, Corporal, quoth my
uncle Toby, in things of that kind ; but I suppose
God would not leave him without one, any more
than thee or me.

It would be putting one sadly over the head
of another, quoth the Corporal.

It would so, said my uncle Toby.——Why
then, an’ please your honour, is a black wench to
be used worse than a white one 2

I can give no reason, said.-my uncle Toby.
Only, cried the Corporal, shaking his head,
because she has no one to stand up for her.

Tis that very thing, Trim, quoth my uncle
Toby—which recommends her to protection,—and
her brethren with her; ’tis the fortune of war
which has put the whip into our hands now ;
where it may be hereafter, Heaven knows !—but,
be it where it will, the brave, Trim, will not use
it unkindly.

God forbid ! said the Corporal.

Amen, responded my uncle Toby, laying
his hand upon his heart.

The Corporal returned to his story and went on
—but with an embarrassment in doing it, which
here and there a reader in this world will not
be able to comprehend ; for by the many sudden
transitions all along, from one kind and cordial
passion to another, in getting thus far on his way,
he had lost the sportable key of his voice, which
gave sense and spirit to his tale: he attempted
twice to resume it, but could not please himself ;
SO, giving a stout hem / to rally back the retreat-
ing spirits, and aiding nature at the same time
with his left arm a-kimbo on one side, and with
his right a little extended, supporting her on the
other—the Corporal got as near the note as he
could ;—and in that attitude continued his story :—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

 

CHAPTER VUL.

As Tom, an’ please your honour, had no business
at that time with the Moorish girl, he passed on
into the room beyond, to talk to the Jew’s widow
about love—and his pound of sausages ; and being,
as I have told your honour, an open cheery-hearted
lad, with his character wrote in his looks and car-
riage, he took a chair, and, without much apology,
but with great civility at the same time, placed it
close to her at the table, and sat down.

There is nothing so awkward as courting a
woman, an’ please your honour, whilst she is
making sausages. —So Tom began a discourse
upon them: first, gravely,—“ As how they were
made ;—with what meats, herbs, and spices ;”—
then, a little gaily,—as, “ With what skins,—and
if they never burst ?—Whether the largest were
not the best ?” and so on—taking care only, as he
went along, to season what he had to say upon
sausages rather under than over,—that he might
have room to act in.

It was owing to the neglect of that very precau-

tion, said my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon
Trim’s shoulder, that Count de la Motte lost the
battle of Wynnendale: he pressed too speedily into
the wood: which if he had not done, Lille had
not fallen into our hands, nor Ghent and Bruges ;
which both followed her example.—It was so late
in the year, continued my uncle Toby, and so ter-
rible a season came on, that if things had not fallen
out as they did, our troops must have perished in
the open field.
Why, therefore, may not battles, an’ please
your honour, as well as marriages, be made in
heaven 2 My uncle Toby mused. Religion
inclined him to say one thing, and his high idea
of military skill tempted him to say another ; so,
not being able to frame a reply exactly to his
mind—my uncle Toby said nothing at all; and
the Corporal finished his story.

As Tom perceived, an’ please your honour, that

he gained ground, and that all he had said upon
the subject of sausages was kindly taken, he went
on to help her a, little in making them,—first, by
taking hold of the ring of the sausage whilst she
stroked the forced-meat down with her hand ;—
then by cutting the strings into proper lengths,
and holding them in his hand, whilst she took
them out, one by one ;—then by putting them
across her mouth, that she might take them out
as she wanted them,—and so on from little to
more, till at last he adventured to tie the sausage
himself, whilst she held the snout.
Now a widow, an’ please your honour,
always chooses a second husband as unlike the
first as she can: so the affair was more than half
settled in her mind before Tom mentioned it.

She made a feint, however, of defending herself,
by snatching up a sausage. Tom instantly laid
hold of another.—

But seeing Tom’s had more gristle in it,—

She signed the capitulation—and Tom sealed it ;
and there was an end of the matter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

ALL womankind, continued Trim (commenting
upon his story) from the highest to the lowest, an’
please your honour, love jokes ; the difficulty is
to know how they choose to have them eut ; and

 

Timmacniiininesthere is no knowing that but by trying, as we do
with our artillery in the field, by raising or letting
down their breeches, till we hit the mark.—

I like the comparison, said my uncle Toby,
better than the thing itself.

——Because your honour, quoth the Corporal,

loves glory more than pleasure.
I hope, Trim, answered my uncle Toby, I
love mankind more than either ; and as the know-
ledge of arms tends so apparently to the good and
quiet of the world—and particularly that branch
of it which we have practised together in our
bowling-green, has no object but to shorten the
strides of ambition, and intrench the lives and
fortunes of the few from the plunderings of the
many ;—whenever that drum beats in our ears, I
trust, Corporal, we shall neither of us want so
much humanity and fellow-feeling as to face about
and march.

In pronouncing this, my uncle Toby faced about,
and marched firmly, as at the head of his company ;
—and the faithful Corporal, shouldering his stick,
and striking his hand upon his coat-skirt as he
took his first step—marched close behind him
down the avenue.

Now what can their two noddles be about ?
eried my father to my mother.— By all that’s
strange, they are besieging Mrs. Wadman in form,
and are marching round her house to mark out
the lines of cireumyallation !

I dare say, quoth my mother, But stop,
dear sir,—for what my mother dared to say upon
the occasion,—and what my father did say upon
it,—with her replies and his rejoinders, shall be
read, perused, paraphrased, commented, and des-
canted upon—or, to say it all in a word, shall be
thumbed over by posterity—in a chapter apart ;
I say, by posterity—and care not if I repeat the
word again,—for what has this book done more
than the Legation of Moses, or the Tale of a Tub,
that it may not swim down the gutter of time
along with them ?

I will not argue the matter: time wastes too
fast: every letter I trace tells me with what
rapidity life follows my pen ; the days and hours
of it, more precious,—my dear Jenny,—than the
rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads
like light clouds of a windy day, never to return
more ;—everything presses on,—whilst thou art
twisting that lock ;—see! it grows grey; and
every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and
every absence which follows it, are preludes to
that eternal separation which we are shortly to
make,.—

Heaven have mercy upon us both!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX.
Now, for what the world thinks of that ejacula-
tion,—I would not give a groat.

CHAPTER X.

My mother had gone with her left arm twisted
in wy father’s right, till they had got to the fatal
angle of the old garden-wall, where Doctor Slop
was overthrown by Obadiah on the coach-horse.
As this was directly opposite to the front of Mrs.
Wadman’s house, when my father came to it, he
gave a look across ; and, seeing my uncle Toby
and the Corporal within ten paces of the door, he
turned about,—“ Let us just stop a moment,”

 

 

159

 

 

quoth my father, “and see with what ceremonies
my brother Toby and his man Trim make their
first entry x—it will not detain us,” added my
father, “a single minute.”

Up re . ° .
No matter if it be ten minutes, quoth my
mother.

Tt will not detain us half a one, said my

 

 

father.

The Corporal was just then setting in with the
story of his brother Tom and the Jew’s widow :
the story went on—and on ;—it had episodes in
it,—it came back and went on,—and on again ;
there was no end of it :—the reader found it very
long.

G— help my father! he pished fifty times at
every new attitude, and gave the Corporal’s stick,
vith all its flourishings and danglings, to as many
devils as chose to accept of them.

When issues of events like these my father is
waiting for are hanging in the scales of fate, the
mind has the advantage of changing the principle
of expectation three times, without which it would
not have power to see it out.

Curiosity governs the first moment ; and the
second moment is all economy to justify the
expense of the first ;—and for the third, fourth,
fifth, and sixth moments, and so on to the day of
judgment—’tis a point of honour.

I need not be told that the ethie writers have
assigned this all to patience ; but that Virtue,
methinks, has extent of dominion sufficient of her
own, and enough to do in it, without invading the
few dismantled castles which Honour has left him
upon the earth.

My father stood it out as well as he could with
these three auxiliaries, to the end of Trim’s story ;
and from thence to the end of my uncle Toby’s
panegyric upon arms, in the chapter following it ;
when, seeing that, instead of marching up to
Mrs. Wadman’s door, they both faced about, and
marched down the avenue, diametrically opposite
to his expectation,—he broke out at once with
that little subacid soreness of humour which, in
certain situations, distinguished his character from
that of all other men,

 

CHAPTER XI,

“ Now what can their two noddles be about 2”
eried my father, &e.
I dare say, said my mother, they are making
fortifications.

Not on Mrs. Wadman’s premises ! cried
my father, stepping back.
I suppose not, quoth my mother.

 

 

 

 

 

with all its trumpery of saps, mines, blinds, gabions,
faussebrays, and cuvettes.
They are foolish things, said my mother.
Now she had a way, which, by the bye, I would
this moment give away my purple jerkin, and my
yellow slippers into the bargain, if some of your
reverences would imitate,—and that was never to
refuse her assent and consent to any proposition
my father laid before her, merely because she
did not understand it, or had no ideas of the
principal word or term of art upon which the
tenet or proposition rolled. She contented her-
self with doing all that her godfathers and god-
mothers promised for her—but no more ; and so

 

 

exe OO

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

I wish, said my father, raising his voice, |
the whole science of fortification at the devil,160 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

would go on using a hard word for twenty years
together,—and replying to it too, if it was a verb,
in all its moods and tenses, without giving herself
any trouble to inquire about it.

This was an eternal source of misery to my
father, and broke the neck, at the first setting out,
of more good dialogues between them than could
have done the most petulant contradiction ;—the

| few that survived were the better for the cwvettes.

«They are foolish things,” said my mother.
Particularly the cwvettes, replied my father.
Twas enough ;—he tasted the sweet of triumph,
—and went on
—Not that they are, properly speaking, Mrs.
Wadman’s premises, said my father, partly cor-
recting himself,—because she is but tenant for

life.

 

 

That makes a great difference, said my
mother.

In a fool’s head, replied my father.

Unless she should happen to have a child,
said my mother.

——But she must persuade my brother Toby
first to get her one.

——To be sure, Mr. Shandy, quoth my mother.
Though if it comes to persuasion,—said my
father,—Lord have mercy upon them!

Amen, said my mother, piano.

——Amen, cried my father, fortissimo.

Amen, said my mother again,—but with
such a sighing cadence of personal pity at the end
of it as discomfited every fibre about my father :
—he instantly took out his almanac ;—but, before
he could untie it, Yorick’s congregation, coming
out of church, became a full answer to one half
of his business with it,—and my mother telling
him it was a sacrament day,—left him as little in
doubt as to the other part.—He put his almanac
into his pocket.

The first Lord of the Treasury, thinking of ways
and means, could not have returned home with a
more embarrassed look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

Upon looking back from the end of the last
chapter, and surveying the texture of what has
been wrote, it is necessary that, upon this page,
and the five following, a good quantity of hetero-
geneous matter be inserted, to keep up that just
balance betwixt wisdom and folly without which
a book would not hold together a single year ; nor
is it a poor creeping digression (which, but for the
name of a man, might continue as well going on in
the King’s highway) which will do the business,—
No ; if it is to be a digression, it must be a good
frisky one, and upon a frisky subject too, where
neither the horse nor his rider are to be caught
but by rebound.

The only difficulty is, raising powers suitable to
the nature of the service: Fancy is capricious,—
Wit must not be searched for,—and Pleasaniry
(good-natured slut as she is) will not come in at a
call, was an empire to be laid at her feet.

—The best way for a man is, to say his prayers.

Only, if it puts him in mind of his infirmities
and defects, as well ghostly as bodily,—for that
purpose, he will find himself rather worse after he
has said them than before ;—for other purposes,
better.

For my own part, there is not a way, either

 

 

moral or mechanical, under heaven, that I could
think of, which I have not taken with myself in
this case : sometimes by addressing myself directly
to the soul herself, and arguing the point over and
over again with her, upon the ‘extent of her own
faculties.

—I never could make them an inch the wider.

Then by changing my system, and trying what
could be made of it upon the body, by temperance, |
soberness, and chastity. These are good, quoth I, |
in themselves,—they are good absolutely ;—they |
are good, relatively ;—they are good for health,—
they are good for happiness in this world,—they
are good for happiness in the next.

In short, they were good for everything but the
thing wanted ; and there they were good for
nothing, but to leave the soul just as Heaven made
it. As for the theological virtues of faith and
hope, they give it courage; but then, that
snivelling virtue of meekness (as my father would
always call it) takes it quite away again ; so you
are exactly where you started.

Now, in all common and ordinary cases, there
is nothing which | have found to answer so well as
this.——

Certainly, if there is any dependence upon logic,
and that I am not blinded by self-love, there
must be something of true genius about me,
merely upon this symptom of it—that I do not
know what envy is: for never do I hit upon any
invention or device which tendeth to the further-
ance of good writing, but I instantly make it
public ; willing that all mankind should write as
well as myself :

—Which they certainly will, when they think
as little.

 

CHAPTER XIII.

Now, in ordinary cases, that is, when I am only
stupid, and the thoughts rise heavily and pass
gummous through my pen,

Or that I am got, I know not how, into a cold
unmetaphorical vein of infamous writing, and
cannot take a plumb-lift out of it for my soul ; so
must be obliged to go on writing likea Dutch com-
mentator to the end of the chapter, unless some-
thing be done,—

I never stand conferring with pen and ink one
moment ; for if a pinch of snuff, or a stride or two
across the room, will not do the business for me,—I
take a razor at once ; and, having tried the edge of
it upon the palm of my hand, without further cere-
mony, except that of first lathermg my beard, I
shave it off ; taking care only, if I do leave a hair,
that it be not a grey one ; this done, I change my
shirt, put on a better coat,—send for my last wig,
—put my topazring upon my finger; and in a
word, dress myself, from one end to the other of
me, after my best fashion.

Now the devil in hell must be in it, if this does
not do: for consider, sir, as every man chooses to
be present at the shaving of his own beard (though
there is no rule without an exception), and un-
avoidably sits over-against himself the whole time
it is doing, in case he has a hand in it,—the situa-
tion, like all others, has notions of her own to put
into the brain.

I maintain it, the conceits of a rough-bearded
man are seven years more terse and juvenile for
one single operation ; and, if they did not run a
risk of being quite shaved away, might be carried

 

 

aeett

Sere entrant nn nt rane

 

 

reenter seneniomnanehannermeuinonannnanass
—— Ee e is

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS
pel Bisek ee

up, by continual shavings, to the highest pitch of
sublimity—How Homer could write with s long
a against

beard, I don’t know ; and as it makes
y hypothesis, I as little care :—but let us return
to the toilet.

Ludovicus Sorbonensis mal
affair of the body (éwrepix) mpdzis

but he is deceived ; the soul and body are joint
sharers in everything they get ; aman cannot dress,
but his ideas get clothed at the same time: and if
he dresses like a gentleman, every one of them
stands presented to his imagination genteelized
along with him ; so that he has nothing to do but
take his pen, and write like himself.

For this cause, when your honours and reve-
rences would know whether I write clean, and fit
to be read, you will be able to judge full as well by
looking into my laundress’s bill, as my book ; there
was one single month, in which I can make it
appear that I dirtied one-and-thirty shirts with
clean writing ; and after all, was more abused,
cursed, criticised, and confounded, and had more
mystic heads shaken at me, for what I had wrote
im that one month, than in all the other months of
that year put together.

But their honours
seen my bills.

ry’

itirely an

this en
; he ealls it
ly

) as

es
/
tf

as

n

 

and reverences had not

CHAPTER XTYV.

As I never had any intention of beginning the
digression I am making all this preparation for
till I come to the 15th chapter,—I have this
chapter to put to whatever use I think proper,—
I have twenty this moment ready for it,—I could
write my chapter of Button-holes in i

Or my chapter of Pishes, which should follow
them,—

Or my chapter of Knots, in case their reverences
have done with them :—they might lead me into
mischief. The safest way is to follow the track of
the learned, and raise objections against what I
have been writing, though I declare, beforehand,
I know no more than my heels how to answer
them.

And first, it may be said there isa pelting kind
of Thersitical satire, as black as the very ink ’tis
wrote with—(and, by the bye, whoever says so
is indebted to the Muster-master General of the
Grecian army, for suffering the name of so ugly
and foul-mouthed a man as Thersites to continue
upon his roll,—for it has furnished him with an
epithet )—in these productions he will urge, all the
personal washings and serubbings upon earth do
a sinking genius no sort of good,—but just the
contrary, inasmuch as the dirtier the fellow is, the
better generally he succeeds in it.

To this I have no other answer,—at least ready,
—but that the Archbishop of Benevento wrote his
nasty romance of the Galatea, as all the world
knows, ina purple coat, waistcoat, and purple pair
of breeches ; and that the penance set him of
writing a commentary upon the Book of the
Revelations, severe as it was looked upon by one
part of the world, was far from being deemed so
by the other, upon the single account of that in-
vestment.

Another objection to all this remedy is its want
of universality ; forasmuch as the shaving part of
it, upon which so much stress is laid, by an un-
alterable law of nature, excludes one half of the

pe
be

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Species entirely from its use,—all I can say is that
female writers, whether of England, or of France,
must e’en go without it.
Aa fan 2 . nich 7 ; 1
_As for the Spanish ladies,—I am in no sort of
distress.
CHAPTER XV.

|
|

| Wie. £ L 7

| fHE fifteenth chapter is come at ast ; and

au

brings nothing with it but a sad signature of “ How
our pleasures slip from under us in this world Ws
: E or, S talking of my digression, —I declare,
before Heaven, I have made it! What a strange
creature 1s mortal man! said she.
ITN: — 7

—— *Tis very true, said I ;—but ’twere better
to get these things out of our heads, and
return to my uncle Toby.

all

CHAPTER XVI.

Wuen my uncle Toby and the Corporal had
marched down to the bottom of the avenue, they
recollected their business lay the other way 3 so
they faced about, and marched up straight to Mrs.
Wadman’s door.

I warrant your honour, said the Corporal,
touching his Montero-cap with his hand as he
passed him, in order to give a knock at the door.
—— My uncle Toby, contrary to his invariable way
of treating his faithful servant, said nothing good
or bad: the truth was, he had not altogether mar-
shalled his ideas ; he wished for another conference,
and, as the Corporal was mounting up the three

steps before the door, he hem’d twice ; a portion of |

my uncle Toby’s most modest spirits fled, at each
expulsion, towards the Corporal: he stood with
the rapper of the door suspended for a full minute
in his hand, he searee knew why. Bridget stood
perdue within, with her finger and her thumb upon
the latch, benumbed with expectation ; and Mrs,
Wadman, with an eye ready to be deflowered
again, sat breathless behind the window-curtain of
her bedchamber, watching their approach.

——Trim ! said my uncle Toby ;—but, as he
articulated the word, the minute expired, and
Trim let fall the rapper.

My uncle Toby, perceiving that all hopes of a
conference were knocked on the head by~ it,
whistled Lillibullero.

CHAPTER XVII.

As Mrs. Bridget’s finger and thumb were upon
the latch, the Corporal did not knock as often as
perchance your honour’s tailor.—I might have
taken my example something nearer home ; for I
owe mine some five-and-twenty pounds at least,
and wonder at the man’s patience.

But this is nothing at all to the world:
only ’tis a cursed thing to be in debt ; and there
seems to be a fatality in the exchequers of some
poor princes, particularly those of our house,
which no economy can bind down in irons. For
my own part, I’m persuaded there is not any one
prince, prelate, pope, or potentate, great or small,
upon earth, more desirous in his heart of keeping
straight with the world than I am,—or who takes
more likely means for it. I never give above half
a guinea,
toothpicks, nor lay out a shilling upon a band-box,
the year round ; and, for the six months I’m in
the country, I’m upon so small a seale, that with
all the good temper in the world, I outdo Rousseau
a bar length !—for I keep neither man nor boy,
M

 

 

nor walk with boots,—nor cheapen’

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 161 ||

LK

 

Pee

     

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4 Hh }
if i tin |
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a ‘ h | ‘
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4% " ‘ ' it
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Pe aah

 

 

 

 

nor horse, nor cow, nor do

 

 

 

g, nor cat, nor anything
that can eat or drink, except a thin poor piece of
a vestal (to keep my fire in) and who has generally
as bad an appetite as myself :—but, if you think
this makes a philosopher of me,—I would not, my
good people, give a rush for your judgments. |
True philosophy——but there is no treating the |

|

|

subject whilst my uncle is whistling Lillibullero.
di Oo
——- Let us go into the house.

CHAPTER XVIII.

 

* 2 x * *
* *% *k * * |
* t x * * |

CHAPTER XIX.

+ * k 7 *

* % *K aK *

Fd a % * kK

% * * * a
CHAPTER XX.

ee eS x * %

cS * * ¥ *

* * *

K * + *

 

You shall see the very place, madam, said
my uncle Toby.

Mrs. Wadman blushed,—looked towards the |
door—turned pale,—blushed slightly again,—
recovered her natural colour,—blushed worse
than ever; which, for the sake of the unlearned
reader, I translate thus:

‘of—d! I cannot look at ut !—

“ What would the world say if I looked at it 2
‘‘ T should drop down if I looked at it!

“I wish I could look at tt.

«“ There can be no sin in looking at tt.

eet willivook at U2.

Whilst all this was running through Mrs. Wad-
man’s imagination, my uncle Toby had risen from
the sofa, and got to the other side of the parlour-
door, to give Trim an order about it in the

 

passage.
* = * —__] believe it is in the
garret, said my uncle Toby.——I saw it there, an’

please your honour, this morning, answered Trim.
Then, prithee, step directly for it, Trim, said
my uncle Toby, and bring it into the parlour.

The Corporal did not approve of the orders ;
but most cheerfully obeyed them. The first was
not an act of his will—the second was; so he put
on his Montero-cap, and went as fast as his lame
knee would let him. My uncle Toby returned
into the parlour, and sat himself down again upon
the sofa,

——You shall lay your finger upon the place,
said my uncle Toby.——I will not touch it, how-
ever, quoth Mrs. Wadman to herselt.

This requires a second translation :—it shows
what little knowledge is got by mere words;—we
must go up to the first springs.

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
    

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

aed

 

Now, in order to clear up the mist which hangs |
upon these three pages, I must endeavour to be as |
clear as possible myself,

Rub your hands thrice across your foreheads,—
blow your noses,—cleanse your emunctories,—
sneeze, my good people ;—God bless you !

Now, give me all the help you can.

 

CHAPTER XXI,

As there are fifty different ends (counting all
ends in—as well civil as religious) for which a
woman takes a husband, she first sets about and
carefully weighs, then separates and distinguishes
in her mind, which of all that number of ends is
hers; then, by discourse, inquiry, argumentation,
and inference, she investigates and finds out
whether she has got hold of the right one ;—and,
if she has— then, by pulling it gently this way and
that way, she further forms a judgment whether it
will not break in the drawing.

The imagery under which Slawkenbergius im-
presses this upon his reader’s fancy, in the begin-
ing of his third Decade, is so ludicrous, that the
honour I bear the sex will not suffer me to quote
it, otherwise, it is not destitute of humour.

« She first, saith Slawkenbergius, stops the ass ;
and holding his halter in her left hand (lest he
should get away) she thrusts her right hand into
the very bottom of his pannier, to search for it.
——For what?—— You'll not know the sooner,
quoth Slawkenbergius, for interrupting me.

“ T have nothing, good lady, but empty bottles,”
says the ass.

_—_—- j’m loa:led with tripes,” says the second.
And thou art little better, quoth she, to
the third; for nothing is there in thy panniers
but trunk-hose and pantofies;—and so to the
fourth and fifth, going on, one by one, through the
whole string, till coming to the ass which carries
it, she turns the pannier upside down, looks at
it— considers it,—samples it,—measures it,—
stretches it,—wets it,—dries it,-then takes her
teeth both to the warp and weft of it.

——Of what? for the love of Christ!

——I am determined, answered Slawkenber-
gius, that all the powers upon earth shall never
wring that secret from my breast.

cs = reer

 

CHAPTER XXII.

We live in a world beset on all sides with mys-
teries and riddles—and so ’tis no matter ;——-else
it seems strange that Nature, who makes every-
thing so well to answer its destination, and seldom
or never errs, unless for pastime, in giving such
forms and aptitudes to whatever passes through
her hands that, whether she designs for the plough,
the caravan, the cart,—or whatever other creature
she models, be it but an ass’s foal, you are sure to
have the thing you wanted ; and yet, at the same
time, should so eternally bungle it as she does, in
making so simple a thing as a married man.

Whether it is in the choice of the clay,—or that
it is frequently spoiled in the baking (by an excess
of which a husband may turn out too crusty, you
know, on one hand,—or not enough so, through
defect of heat, on the other);—or whether’ this
great artificer is not so attentive to the little
Platonic exigencies of that part of the species for

ladyship sometimes searce knows what sort of a

 

 

 

whose use she is fabricating this ;—or that her |AND

THE LIFE

 

| husband will do—I know not: we will discourse
about it after supper.

| It is enough that neither the observation itself,
| lor the reasoning upon it, are at all to the purpose,
| —-but. rather against it ; since, with regard to my
| unele Toby’s fitness for the marriage state, nothing
| was ever better: she had formed him of the best
and kindliest clay,—had tempered it with her own
| milk, and breathed into it the Sweetest spirit ;—
| she had made himall gentle, generous,and humane;
| —she had filled his heart with trust and confidence,
| and disposed every passage which led to it for the
| communication of the tenderest offices;—she had,
| moreover, considered the other causes for which
| matrimony was ordained ——
|

 

And, accordingly, * * *
x ne * . <
* * ae sk A
“= *k * * *
The donation was not defeated by my uncle

Toby’s wound.
Now, this last article has somewhat apocryphal;
and the devil, who is the great disturber of our
faiths in this world, had raised scruples in Mrs.
Wadman’s brain about it; and like a true devil
| as he was, had done his own work at the same time,
| by turning my uncle Toby’s virtue thereupon into

nothing but empty bottles, tripes, trunk-hose, and
pantofies.

|
| CHAPTER XXIII.
| Mrs. Bringer had pawned all the little stock of

| honour a poor chambermaid was worth in the
| world, that she would get at the bottom of the

affair in ten days; and it was built

upon one of
the most coneessible

postulata in nature, namely,

| that, whilst my uncle Toby was making love to
her mistress, the Corporal could find nothing

better to do than to make love to her 3 id Ei
let him, as much as he will,” said Bridget, “ to get
at out of him.”

Friendship has two garments, an outer and an
under one. Bridget was serving her mistress’s
| interests in the one,—and doing the thing which

most pleased herself in the other ; so had as many
stakes depending upon my uncle Toby’s wound as
| the devil himself—Mrs. Wadman had but one,
and, as it possibly might be her last (without

 

 

| discouraging Mrs. Bridget, or discrediting her

| talents) was determined to play her ecards herself.

| She wanted not encouragement: a child might
have looked into his hand; there was such a plain-
hess and simplicity in his playing out what trumps
he had,—with such an unmistrusting ignorance of
the ten-ace,—and so naked and defenceless did he
sit upon the same sofa with Widow Wadman, that
a generous heart would have wept to have won
the game of him.

Let us drop the metaphor.

CHAPTER XXIV.

——Anp the story too, if you please; for though
I have all along been hastening towards this part
of it, with so much earnest desire, as well knowing
it to be the choicest morsel of what I had to offer
to the world, yet now that I am got to it, any one
is welcome to take my pen and go on with the
story for me that will ;—I see the difficulties of the
descriptions I am going to give,—and feel my want
of powers.

 

 

163

 

It is one comfort, at least to me, that I lost
some fourscore ounces of blood this week, in a
most uncritical fever which attacked me at the

| beginning of this chapter ; so that I have still some
| hopes remaining it inay be more in the serous or
| globular parts of the blood than-in the subtle aura
of the brain :—be it which it will,—an Invocation
‘an do no hurt; and I leave the affair entirely to
the invoked, to inspire, or to inject me, according
as he sees good.

Gentle Spirit of sweetest humour, who erst didst
sit upon the easy pen of my beloved Cervantes!
Thou who glidedst daily through his lattice, and
turnedst the twilight of his prison into noon-day
brightness by thy presence,—tingedst his little urn
of water with heaven-sent nectar, and, all the time
he wrote of Sancho and his master, didst cast thy
mystic mantle over his withered stump,* and wide
extended it to all the evils of his life, —

—Turn in hither, I beseech thee !—behold these
breeches !—they are all I have in the world ;—
that piteous rent was given them at Lyons.

My shirts! see what a deadly schism has hap-
pened amongst ’em ;—for the laps are in Lom-
bardy, and the rest of ’em here.—I never had but
six, and a cunning gipsy of a laundress at Milan
cut me off the fore-laps of five.—To do her justice,
she did it with some consideration,—for I wag
returning out of Italy.

And yet, notwithstanding all this, and a pistol
tinder-box, which was, moreover, filched from me
at Sienna, and twice that I paid tive pauls for two
hard eggs, once at Radicofani, and a second time
at Capua,—I do not think a Journey through
France and Italy, provided a man ke ps his tem-
per all the way, so bad a thing as some people
would make you believe ; there must be ups and
downs, or how the deuce should we got into valleys
where Nature spreads so many tables of entertain-
ment !— "Tis nonsense to imagine they will lend
you their voitures to be shaken to pieces for
nothing; and, unless you pay twelve sous for
greasing your wheels, how should the poor peasant
get butter to his bread?—We really expect too
much,—and, for the livre or two above par for
your supper and bed,—at the most they are but
one shilling and ninepence halfpenny,—who would
embroil their philosophy for it? for Heaven’s and
for your own sake, pay it,—pay it with both hands
open, rather than leave Disappointment sitting
drooping, upon the eyes of your fair hostess and her
damsels in the gateway at your departure ;—and
besides, my dear sir, you get a sisterly kiss of each
of ’em, worth a pound:—at least I did =

—For my uncle Toby’s amours running all the
way in my head, they had the same effect upon
me as if they had been, my own,—I was in the
most perfect state of bounty and good-will, and felt
the kindliest harmony vib ‘ating within me; with
every oscillation of the chaise alike; so that,
whether the roads were rough or smooth, it made
no difference ; everything I saw or had to do with,
touched upon some secret spring, either of senti-
ment or rapture,

They were the sweetest notes I ever heard .
and I instantly let down the fore-glass to hear
them more distinetly, ‘Tis Maria, said the

|
|
THE INVOCATION.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* He lost his hand at the battle of Lepanto.

 

 

OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. |eS

 

 

f * eae

164 THE LIFE AND

OPINION

Sg

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

postilion, observing I was listening.—Poor Maria,
continued he (leaning his body on one side to let
me see her, for he was in a line betwixt us) is
sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon her
pipe, with her little goat beside her.

The young fellow uttered this with an accent
and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart,
that I instantly made a vow I would give him
a four-and-twenty sous piece. when I got to
Moulins.

 

And who is poor Maria? said I.

The love and pity of all the villages around
us, said the postilion: it is but three years ago
that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so. quick-
witted and amiable a maid; and better fate did
Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid by
the intrigues of the curate of the parish who
published them.

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a
short pause, put the pipe to her mouth and began
the air again ;—they were the same notes,—yet
were ten times sweeter. It is the evening
service to the Virgin, said the young man ;—but
who has taught her to play it, or how she came by
her pipe, no one knows: we think that Heaven
has assisted her in both; for, ever since she has
been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only con-
solation ; she has never once had the pipe out of
her hand, but plays that service upon it almost day
and night.

The postilion delivered this with so mucl
cretion and natural eloquence, that I could not
help deciphering something in his face above his
condition, and should have sifted out his history,
had not poor Maria’s taken such full possession
of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank

where Maria was sitting: she was in a thin white
jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn
up into a silk net, with a few olive leaves twisted
a little fantastically on one side ;—she was beau-
tiful ; and,if ever I felt the full force of an honest
heart-ache, it was the moment I saw her.
God help her! poor damsel; above a hun-
dred masses, said the postilion, have been said,
in the parish-churches and convents around, for
her,—but without effect: we have still hopes, as
she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin
at last will restore her to herself; but her parents,
who know her best, are hopeless upon that score,
and think her senses are lost for ever.

As the postilion spoke this, Maria made a
cadence so melancholy, so tender and querulous,
that I sprang out of the chaise to help her, and
found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat
before I relapsed from my enthusiasm.

Maria looked wistfully for some time at me,
and then at her goat,—and then at me,—and then
at her goat again, and so on, alternately.

Well, Maria, said I, softly, what resem-
blance do you find ?

I do entreat the candid reader to believe me,
that it was frora the humblest conviction of what
a beast man is—that I asked the question ; and
that I would not have let fallen an unseasonable
pleasantry in the venerable presence of misery, to
be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scat-
tered,—and yet | own my heart smote me, and
that I so smarted at the very idea of it, that I
swore I wouldset up for Wisdom, and utter grave

 

 

 

7

Gis-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a nee eee

 

 

sentences the rest of my days ;—and never,—
never attempt again to commit muth with man,
woman, or child, the longest day I had to live.

As for writing nonsense to them,—I believe
there was a reserve ;—but that I leave to the |
world. |

Adieu, Maria !—adieu, poor hapless damsel !—
some time, but not now, Il may hear thy sorrows |
from thy own lips,—but I was deeeived ; for that
moment she teok her pipe and told me such a tale
of woe with it, that I rose up, and, with broken
and irregular steps, walked softly to my chaise.

— What an excellent inn at Moulins !

 

CHAPTER XXV,

WHEN we have got to the end of this chapter
(but not before) we must all turn back to the two
blank chapters; on the account of which my
honour has lain bleeding this half hour.—I stop it,
by pulling off one of my yellow slippers, and throw-
ing it, with all my violence, to the opposite side
of my room, with a declaration at the heel of it,—

That whatever resemblance it may bear to half
the chapters which are written in the world, or,
for aught I know, may be now writing in it,—that
it was as casual asthe foam of Zeuxis his horse ;
besides, I look wpon a chapter which has only
nothing in it with respect ; and, considering what
worse things there are in the world—that it is no
way a proper subject for satire.

—Why then was it left so? And here, without
staying for my reply, shall I be called as many
blockheads, numskulls, doddy-poles, dunder-heads,
ninny-hammers, goosecaps, joltheads, nincompoops,
and sh—a-beds,—and other unsavoury appella-
ions,as ever the cake-bakers of Lerné cast in
1e teeth of ‘King Garangantan’s shepherds :-—
and I’ll let them do it, as Bridget said, as much as
they please; for how was it possible they should
foresee the necessity I was under of writing the
25th chapter of my book before the 18th ? &e.

—So I don’t take it amiss,—all I wish is, that
it may be a lesson to the world “ to let people teil
their stories their own way.”’

 

 

 

tl
7
th

 

he Eighteenth Chapter.

As Mrs. Bridget opened the door before the
Corporal had well given the rap, the interval
betwixt that and my uncle Toby’s introduction
into the parlour was so short that Mrs. Wadman
had but just time to get from behind the curtain,
# a Bible upon the table, and advance a step or
twd towards the door to receive him.

My uncle Toby saluted Mrs. Wadman, after the
manner in which women were saluted by men in
the year of our Lord God one thousand seven
hundred and thirteen:—then facing about, he
marched up abreast with her to the sofa, and in
three plain words, though not before he was sat
down,—nor after he was sat down,—but as he was
sitting down, told her, “ he was in love ;” so that
my uncle Toby strained himself more in the
declaration than he needed.

Mrs. Wadman naturally looked down upon a
slit she had been darning up in her apron, in ex~
pectation every moment that my uncle Toby would
goon; but having no talents for amplification,
and love moreover, of all others, being a subject
of which he was the least a master,—when he hadec en eer:

 

 

| much as the real presence,
| 4s making it.”

| Suppose so, said my uncle Toby.

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS

 

OF TRISTRAM SHANDY. 165

 

told Mrs. Wadman once that he loved her, he let
italone, and left the matter to workafter its own way.
My tather was always in raptures with this sys-

| tem of my uncle Toby’s, as he falsely called it,
| and would often say that could his brother Toby
to his process have added but a pipe of tobaeco,—

he had wherewithal to have found his way, if there
was faith in a Spanish proverb, towards the hearts

| of half the women upon the globe.

My uncle never understood what my father
meant ; nor will 1 presume to extract more from
it than a condemnation of an error which the bulk
of the world lie under ;—but the French, every
one of ’em to a man, who believe in it almost as
“ That talking of love

 

—I would as soon set about making a black-

| pudding by the same receipt.

Let us go on:—Mrs. Wadman sat in expecta-

| tion my uncle Toby would do so, to almost the first

pulsation of that minute wherein silence on one
side or the other generally becomes indecent: so

| edging herself a little more towards him, and rais-
| ing up her eyes, sub-blushing as she did it,—she

took up the gauntlet,—or the discourse (if you like

| it better) and communed with my uncle Toby

thus

The cares and disquietudes of the marriage-
state, quoth Mrs. Wadman, are very great. I
And therefore
when a person, continued Mrs. Wadman, is so
much at his ease as you are,—so happy, Captain

 

 

 

| Shandy, in yourself, your friends and your amuse-
| ments,—I wonder what reasons can incline you to

the state!
They are written, quoth my uncle Toby, in
the Common-Prayer Book.

Thus far my uncle Toby went on warily, and
kept within his depth, leaving Mrs. Wadman to sail
upon the gulf as she pleased.

As for children, said Mrs. Wadman, though
a principal end, perhaps, of the institution, and the
natural wish, I suppose, of every parent,—yet do

 

 

| not we all find, they are certain sorrows, and very

 

uncertain comforts ?—and what is there, dear sir,
to pay one for the heart-aches ?—what compensa-
tion for the many tender and disquieting appre-
hensions of a suffering and defenceless mother who
brings them into life ? I declare, said my uncle
Toby, smit with pity, I know of none; unless it be
the pleasure which it has pleased God——

A fiddlestick ! quoth she.

 

 

Chapter the Nineteenth.

Now there are such an infinitude of notes, tunes,
eants, chants, airs, looks, and accents, with which

| the word fiddlestick may be pronounced in all such
| cases as this, every one of ’em impressing a sense

and meaning as different from the other as dirt

| from cleanliness,—that casuists (for it is an affair
_of conscience upon that score) reckon up no less
than fourteen thousand in which you may do either

right or wrong.

Mrs. Wadman hit upon the fiddlestick which
summoned up all my uncle Toby’s modest blood
into his cheeks ;—so, feeling within himself that he
had somehow or other got beyond his depth, he
stopped short; and, without entering further either

into the pains or pleasures of matrimony, he laid |

 

 

 

 

his hand upon his heart, and made an offer to take
them as they were, and share them along with her.

When my uncle Toby had said this, he did not
care to say it again ; so, casting his eye upon the
Bible which Mrs. Wadman had laid upon the
table, he took it up; and, popping, dear soul ! upon
a passage in it, of all others the most interesting
to him,—which was the siege of Jericho,—he set
himself to read it over,—leaving his proposal of
marriage, as he had_done his declaration of love,
to work with her after its own way. Now it
wrought neither as an astringent, nor a loosener :
nor like opium, nor bark, nor mercury, nor buck-
thorn, nor any one drug which nature had bestowed
upon the worid :—in short, it worked not at all in
her ; and the cause of that was that there was
something working there before.—Babbler that I
am ! I have anticipated what it was a dozen times :
but there is fire still in the subject—Allons !

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

Ir is natural for a perfect stranger who is going
from London to Edinburgh, to inquire, before he
sets out, how many miles to York 2 which is about
the half-way :—nor does anybody wonder if he
goes on and asks about the corporation, &e.—

It was just as natural for Mrs. Wadman, whose
first husband was all his time afflicted with a
Sciatica, to wish to know how far from the hip to
the groin ; and how far she was likely to suffer
more or less, in her feelings, in the one case than
in the other.

She had accordingly read Drake’s Anatomy
from one end to the other. She had peeped into
Wharton upon the Brain, and borrowed * Graaf
upon the Bones and Muscles ; but could make
nothing of it.

She had reasoned likewise from her own powers,
—laid down theorems,—drawn consequences, and
come to no conclusion.

To clear up all, she had twice asked Doctor
Slop, “If poor Captain Shandy was ever likely to
recover of his wound e

——He is recovered, Doctor Slop would say —

—— What, quite ?

Quite, madam.
But what do you mean by a recovery?
Mrs. Wadman would say.

Doctor Slop was the worst man alive at defini-
tions; and so Mrs. Wadman could get no know-
ledge. In short, there was no way to extract it
but from my uncle Toby himself.

There is an accent of humanity, in an inquiry
of this kind, which lulls szspicion to rest ;—and I
am half persuaded the serpent got pretty near it,
in his discourse with Eve; for the propensity
in the sex to be deceived could not be so great
that she should have boldness to hold chat with the
devil without it. But there is an accent of huma-
nity ;—how shall I deseribe it ?—’tis an accent
which covers the part with a garment, and gives
the inquirer a right to be as particular with it as
your body-surgeon.

“ __Was it without remission ?

**__Was it more tolerable in bed?

** Could he lie on both sides alike with it?

“ Was he able to mount a horse?

 

 

 

 

 

 

* This must be a mistake in Mr. Shandy; for Graaf wrote
upon the pancreatic juice, and the parts of generation.166 THE LIEE

AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.

 

«“ ___Was motion bad for it ?” et cetera, were so
tenderly spoke to, and so directed towards, my
uncle Toby’s heart, that every item of them sunk
ten times deeper into it than the evils themselves !
—but when Mrs. Wadman went round about by
Namur to get at my uncle Toby’s groin; and
engaged him to attack the point of the advanced

the wound which crushed him so miserably here.
—In pronouncing which, he slightly pressed the
back of her hand towards the part he felt for,—
and let it fall.

——We thought, Mr. Trim, it had been more
in the middle, said Mrs. Bridget.
That would have undone us for ever, said

 

counterscarp, and péle-méle with the Dutch, to | the Corporal.

take the counter-guard of St. Roche sword in hand, And left my poor mistress undone too, said

—and then, with tender notes playing upon his | Bridget.

ii! sar, led him, all bleeding, by the hand, out of the The Corporal made no reply to the repartee,

trench, wiping her eyes as he was carried to his | but by giving Mrs. Bridget a kiss.

tent Heaven ! Earth ! Sea!—all was lifted up, —- Come, come, said Bridget, holding the palm
of her left hand parallel to the plane of the horizon,

Ht Lae springs of nature rose above their levels,—
an angel of mercy sat beside him on the sofa,—his | and sliding the fingers of the other over it, in a

Tilty Pee Ri cs pis Si ee 5 an x

 

 

 

 

i
\
4
5
i
j
}

 

 

Hl heart glowed with fire :—and had he been worth | way which could not have been done had there
a thousand, he had lost every heart of them to | been the least wart or protuberance, "Tis every

Mh a Mrs. Wadman.
—And whereabouts, dear sir, quoth Mrs. Wad-
man, a little categorically, did you receive this sad

syllable of it false, cried the Corporal, before she
had half finished the sentence.
t to be fact,

——I know it said Bridget, from

 

 

ny blow ?~—~-In asking this question, Mrs. Wadman | credible witnesses.
‘| gave a slight glance towards the waistband of my | ——Upon my honour, said the Corporal, laying

uncle Toby’s red plush breeches, expecting natu- | his hand upon his heart, and blushing as he spoke

 

at | rally, as the shortest reply to it, that my uncle | with honest resentment,—’tis a story, Mrs. Bridget,
Toby would lay his fore-finger upon the place.— | as false as hell!———Not, said Bridget, oe
att Miibey — * : > ; TY ‘ | °
‘i It fell out otherwise,—for my uncle Toby having | rupting him, that either I or my mistress care a
}} i ’ . . o 4 5

got his wound before the gate of St. Nicholas, in
one of the traverses of the trench opposite to the
salient angle of the demi-bastion of St. Roche,—he
could at any time stick a pin upon the identical |
spot of ground where he was standing when the
stone struck him. ‘This struck instantly upon my

halfpenny about it, whether it is so or no ;—only
that when one is married, one would choose to have
such a thing by one, at least, ——

It was somewhat unfortunate for Mrs. Bridget
that she had begun the attack with her manual
exercise ; for the Corporal instantly *

 

 

 

 

 

 

| uncle Toby’s sensorium ;—and with it struck his ¥ ye > * :
large map of the town and citadel of Namur, and
ieee 5 . . * = *
| 1ts environs, which he had purchased and pasted
Het | e z * * s

i | down upon a board, by the Corporal’s aid, during
his long illness :—it had lain, with other military
a | lumber, in the garret ever since ; and accordingly
I the Corporal was detached to the garret to fetch it.
My uncle Toby measured off thirty toises, with

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
Ir was like the momentary contest in the moist
an April morning, “ Whether Bridget

evelids of

 

" | Mrs. Wadman’s scissors, from the returning angle | should laugh or ery,’
before the gate of St. Nicholas ; and with such a | She snatched up a rolling-pin,—’twas ten to one
Ne | virgin modesty laid her finger upon the place, that | she had laughed.—

ys the goddess of Decency, if then in being,—if not,
*twas her shade,—shook her head, and, with a
finger wavering across her eyes—forbade her to
explain the mistake.

Unhappy Mrs. Wadman !

For nothing can make this chapter go off with
spirit but an apostrophe to thee ;—but my heart
tells me that in such a crisis an apostrophe is but
an insult in disguise ; and ere I would offer one to

 

She laid it down—she cried : and had one single
tear of ’em but tasted of bitterness, full sorrowful
would the Corporal’s heart have been that he had
used the argument ; but the Corporal understood
the sex, a quart major to a terce at least, better
than my uncle Toby, and accordingly he assailed
Mrs. Bridget after this manner :—

[ know, Mrs. Bridget, said the Corporal, giving
her a most respectful kiss, that thou art good and

es=

 

 

! (5

ily i : : a he ee Bey . z

i Ah a woman in distress,—let the chapter go to the | modest by nature ; and art withal so generous a

i th," | devil ; provided any damned critic in ke eeping will | girl in thyself that, if I know thee rightly, thou
au | be but at the trouble to take it with him. wouldst not wound an insect, much less the honour

of so gallant and worthy a soul as my master, wast
thou sure to be made a Countess of ; but thou
hast been set on, and deluded, dear Bridget t, as Is
often a woman’s case “ to please others more than

AA VIT,
sarried down into the

| CHAPTER
| My uncle Toby’s map is

 

tth kitchen. :
Hie OW | themselves.——”’
Hil ee eas FE Bridget’s eyes poured down at the sensations
! it | —Anp here is the Maes,—and this is the | the Corporal excited.
ait Sambre, said the Corporal, pointing with his right —Tell me,—tell me, then, my dear Bridget,
€ und extended a little towards the map, and his | continued the Corporal, taking hold of her hand,

 

|| | left upon Mrs. Bridget’s shoulder,—but not the
shoulder next him ;—and this, said he, is the town
of Namur,—and this the citadel,—and there lay
the Fre ra and here lay his honour and myself ;

and in this cursed tre nch, Mrs. Bridget, quoth
the Corporal, taking her by the hand, did he receive

which hung down dead by her side—and giving a
second kiss—whose suspicion has misled thee ?
Bridget sobbed a sob or two—then opened her }|
eyes ;—the Corporal wiped ’em with the bottom ||
of her apron ;—she then opened her heart and ||
told him all.either the one or the other
they had been separated
d

 

  

4

: 1S, e
ta U

~y . {
1 + , r a4
sug MANY oF

9
t
)

 

CHAPTER XXX.
My uncle Toby and the Corporal had gone on
separately with their operations the greatest part
of the campaign, and as « fectually cut off from all
communication of what 3
had been doing, as if
from each other by the Maes or the Sam
My uncle Toby, on his side, had present
self every afternoon in his red and silver, and blue
and gold, alternately, and ined an Lit
attacks in them, without knowing them to be
attacks ;—and so had nothing to communieate.
The Corporal, on his side, in t 12 Bridget, by
it had gained considerable advantages,—and econse-
quently had much to communicate ;—but what
vere the advantages—as well as what was the
manner by which he had seized them, required so
nice an historian, that the Corporal durst not
venture upon it ; and, as sensible as he was of glory,
would rather have been contented to have gone
bare-headed and without laurels for ever, than
torture his master’s modesty for a single moment.
—Best of honest and gallant servants !—But I
have apostrophized thee, Trim, once before ;—and
could I apotheosize thee also (that is to say) with
good company,—I would do it without ceremony
in the very next page.

CHAPTER XXXTI.

Now my uncle Toby had one evening laid down
his pipe upon the table, and was counting over to
himself, upon his fingers’ ends (beginning at his
thumb) all Mrs. Wadman’s perfections, one by one;
and happening, two or three times together, either
by omitting some, or counting others twice over,
to puzzle himself sadly before he could get beyond
his middle-finger, Prithee, Trim, said he, taking
up his pipe again, bring me a pen and ink,—_
Trim brought paper also.

—Take a full sheet, Trim ! said my uncle Toby,
making a sign with his pipe at the same time to
take a chair and sit down close by him at the table.
The Corporal obeyed,—placed the paper directly
before him—took a pen and dipped it in the ink.

—She has a thousand virtues, Trim! said my
uncle Toby.

Am I to set them down, an’ please your
honour ? quoth the Corporal.

—— But they must be taken in their ranks,
replied my uncle Toby ; for of them all, Trim, that
which wins me most, and which is a security for
all the rest, is the compassionate turn and singular
humanity of her character.—I protest, added my
uncle Toby, looking up, as he protested it, towards
the top of the ceiling,—that was I her brother,
Trim, a thousand-fold, she could not make more
constant or more tender inquiries after my suf-
ferings—though now no more.

The Corporal made no reply to my unele Toby’s
protestation, but by a short cough :—he dipped
the pen a second time into the ink-horn ; and my
uncle Toby, pointing with the end of his pipe as
close to the top of the sheet at the left-hand corner
of it as he could get it,—the Corporal wrote down
the word humanity, thus - - - - - - -

Humanity.

 

 

 

THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM

 

|

 

 

SHANDY. 167

 

—Prithee, Corporal, said my uncle Toby, as soon
as Trim had done it,— how often does Mrs. Bridget
inquire after the wound on the sap of thy knee,
vhich thou received’st at the battle of Landen 2

——She never, an’ please your honour, inquires
after it at all.

That, Corporal, said my uncle Toby, with
all the triumph the goodness of his nature would
permit—that shows the difference in the character
of the mistress and maid.—Had the fortune of war
allotted the same mischance to me, Mrs. Wadman
would have inquired into every circumstance re-
lating to it a hundred times. She would have
inquired, an’ please your honour, ten times as
often about your honour’s groin. The pain,
trim, 1s equally excruciating,—and compassion
has as much to do with the one as the other.

God bless your honour, cried the Corporal,
—what has a woman’s compassion to do with a
wound upon the cap of a man’s knee? Had your
honour’s been shot into ten thousand splinters -at
the affair of Landen, Mrs. Wadman would have
troubled her head as little about it as Bridget ;
because, added the Corporal, lowering his voice
and speaking
reason,—

“The knee is such a distance from the main
body,—whereas the groin, your honour knows, is
upon the very curtain of the place.”

My uncle Toby gave a long whistle ;—but in a
note which could searce be heard across the table.

The Corporal had advanced too far to retire :—
in three words he told the rest.

My uncle Toby laid down his pipe as gently
upon the fender as if it had been spun from the
unravellings of a spider’s web.

——Let us go to my brother Shandy’s, said he.

 

 

 

 

’

very distinctly, as he assigned his

CHAPTER XXXII.

THERE will be just time, whilst my uncle Toby
and Trim are walking to my father’s, to inform
you that Mrs. Wadman had, some moons before
this, made a confidant of my mother ; and that
Mrs. Bridget, who had the burden of her own as
well as her mistress’ secret to carry, had got
happily delivered of both to Susannah, behind the
garden-wall.,

As for my mother, she saw nothing at all in it
to make the least bustle about ;—but Susannah
was sufficient by herself for all the ends and pur-
poses you could possibly have, in exporting a
family secret ; for she instantly imparted it by
signs to Jonathan ;—and Jonathan by tokens to
the cook, as she was basting a loin of mutton ; the
cook sold it with some kitchen-fat to the postilion
fora groat ; who trucked it with the dairy-maid
for something of about the same value ;—and,
though whispered in the hay-loft, Fame caught the
notes with her brazen trumpet, and sounded them
upon the house-top.—In a word, not an old woman
in the village, or five miles round, who did not
understand the difficulties of my uncle Toby’s
siege, and what were the secret articles which had
delayed the surrender.

My father, whose way was to force every event
in nature into an hypothesis, by which means never
man crucified truth at the rate he did,—had but
just heard of the report as my uncle Toby set out ;
and catching fire suddenly at the trespass done his
brother by it, was demonstrating to Yorick, not-q
x

 

{

 

 

bata
iq | 168 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY.
1 hf | . s8
ft i i withstanding my mother was sitting by,—not only | for a better epithet ;—and Yorick was rising up
‘1 | That the devil was in w omen, and that the whole | to batter the whole hypothesis to pieces,
1 | of the affair was lust ;” but that every evil and dis- When Obadiah broke into the middle of the
: soever, | room with a complaint, which eried out for an
{ 4 from the first fall of Adam, down to my uncle | immediate hearing.

The case was this :-—
My father, whether by ancient custom of the
manor, or as impropriator of the great tithes, was
obliged to keep a bull for the service of the parish ;
and Obadiah had led his cow upon a pop-visit to him
one day or other the preceding summer :—lI say
one day or other,—because, as chance would have
it, it was the day on which he was married to my
father’s housemaid ;—so one was a reckoning to
the other. Therefore, when Obadiah’s wife was
brought to bed,—Obadiah thanked God
Now, said Obadiah, I shall have a calf:
Obadiah went daily to visit his cow.
She’ll calve on Monday,—or

aa

ea

yas owing, one way or other, |

oF

Toby’s (inclusive Bee
to the same unruly appetite.
Yorick was just bringing my father’s hypothesis |
to some temper, when my uncle Toby entering the |
room with marks of infinite benevolence and for-
giveness in his looks, my father’s eloquence
rekindled against the passion ;—and, as he was
not very nice in the choice of his words when he |
was wroth,—as soon as my uncle Toby was seated |
by the fire, and had filled his pipe, my ‘father broke
| out in this manner :—

 

Sta

28

 

 

order in the world, of what kind or nature
}
|
|
|
|
|

poses ety tee

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

—T nar provision should be made for continuing | Tuesday,—or

 

 

 

| the race of so great, so exalted, and godlike a
| being as man,—I am far from denying ;—but
| philosophy speaks freely of everything ; and there-
| fore I still think. and do maintain it to bea pity
that it should be done by means of a passion which
bends down the faculties, and turns all the
wisdom, contemplations, and operations of the soul
backwards ;—a passion, my dear, continued my
father, addressing himself to my mother, which
couples and equals wise men with fools, and makes |
us come out of our caverns and hiding-places
more like satyrs and four-footed beasts than men.

I know it will be said, continued my father
(availing himself of the pro/epsis), that, in itself,
and simply taken,—like hunger, or thirst, or sleep,

—'tis an affair neither good nor bad,—nor shame- |
ful, nor otherwise. Why then did the delicacy of
Diogenes and Plato so recalcitrate against it? and
wherefore, when we go about to mé uke and plant
aman, do we put out the candle? and for what
reason is it that all the parts thereof,—the con-
gredients,—the preparations,—the instruments,
and whatever serves thereto, are so held as to be
conveyed to a cleanly mind by no language, trans-
lation, or periphrasis whatever ?

The act of killing and destroying a man, con-
tinued my father, raising his voice,—and turning
.to my uncle Toby,—you see, is glorious, and the
weapons by which we do it are honourable ; we
march with them upon our shoulders ;—we strut
with them by our sides :—we gild them ;—we
carve them :—we inlay them ;—we enrich them ;
—nay, if it be but a scowndre/ cannon, we cast an

ornament upon the breech of it. |

—My uncle Toby laid down his pipe to intercede

 

Wednesday, at the farthest.

The cow did not calve ;—no,—she’ll not calve
till next week :—the cow put it off terribly, till, at
the end of the sixth week, Obadiah’s suspicions
(like a good man’s) fell upon the bull.

Now the parish being very large, my father’s
bull, to speak the truth of him, was no way equal
to the department ; he had, however, got himself,
somehow or other, thrust into employment,—and
as he went through the business with a grave face,
my father had a high opinion of him.

 

Most of the townsmen, an’ please your
worship, quoth Obadiah, believe that ’tis all the
bull’s fault.

 

But may not a cow be barren? replied my
father, turning to Doctor Slop.
It never happens, said Doctor Slop ; but
the man’s wife may have come before her time,
naturally enough.—Prithee, has the child hair
upon his head ? added Doctor Slop.

——It is as hairy as I am, said Obadiah.—

)badiah had not been shaved for three weeks.-——
W heu - -u-- --u------- , cried my father, be-
ginning the sentence with an exclamatory whistle ;
and so, brother Toby, this poor bull of n rine,
who is as good a bull as ever p—sed, and might
have done for Europa herself in purer times—had
he but two legs less, might have been driven into
Doctor’s Commons, and lost his character ; which,
to a town-bull, brother Toby, is the very same
thing as his life. :
L—d! said my mother,
about ?
A cock and a bull, said Yorick ; and one
of the best of its kind I ever heard.

 

 

 

 

what is all this

story

 

 

 

 

 

THE END.oth

 

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|

POETICAL WORKS |

|

ROBERT BURNS.
|ee tg

ae PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION,

pty BEARING THE IMPRINT, ‘“ KILMARNOCK, 1786.”

 

 

Tue following trifles are not the production of the poet who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps,
amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil.
Ri To the Author of this, these, and other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least, in their original language,
a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule,
he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and

their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer

passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, awakened his vanity so

oe: far as to make him think anything of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were composed with a view

' hy to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious

: | life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast ; to find some

Ane | kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind—these

; were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found Poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears

bidet in the public character of an Author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe,
v

that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as—an impertinent block-
bh iia: : head, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggrel Scotch rhymes
Hl together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence forsooth! It is an observation of that celebrated
poet, Shenstone, whose divine Elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that ‘*‘ Huminity has

ae

’ a ic depressed many & genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame!” If any critic catches at the word GEnNtus, the
area Author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise
: 4 i his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manceuyre below the worst character which, he hopes, his
' : worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate
a i Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity declares that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the
Bona most distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces ;
Bb | but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation.

To his subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks-—not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the
. heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying
vit : him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom—to be distinguished. He begs his readers, parti-
Ae | cularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for
. education and circumstances of life; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted
Le of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others—let him be condemned, without
ie mercy, to contempt and oblivion.

 

 

qi | PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

eee eee

l

Pe ees

Bite EDICATIGN TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT

a abil

: i . 4 My Lorps AND GENTLEMEN,—A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his

Pu i Country’s service—where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land ; those
ae who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors? The Poetic Genius of my country found me, as
ae the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha—at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing

the loves, the joys, the rural scenes, and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native tongue: I tuned my wild,
pe ok: artless notes as she inspired._She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs
“ i Ria. || under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates.
da | Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of
M i Ih He I dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted Learning, that honest Rusticity
& | is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation
of those favours: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country,
| that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public
| spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to
the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness.
| When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may
Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your return: when harassed in courts or camps, with
| the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your return to
your native seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May Corrup-
tion shrink at your kindling, indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People,
equally find you an inexorable foe!

 

I have the honour to be, with the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect,

| | My Lorps AND GENTLEMEN,

‘ i! i i | Your most devoted humble Servant,

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. ROBERT BURNS.

 

 

 

 

2 Se ga a at | a LA SE te 2 a ie i, Sk EN eS ih INO NN RTI Tg ING BD A ce it i AER AIO ceMEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF ROBERT BUR

Tue Author of the immortal Poems which are now pre-
sented to the public in a novel form,—poems, of which
Mr. Pitt declared that he could think of none since
Shakspeare’s that had so much the appearance of sweetly
coming from nature, was born in a clay-built cottage on
the banks of the Doon, on the 25th day of January, 1759,
under auspices which but too truly predicted the fate of him
who, amid storm and tempest, was brought into this inhos-
pitable world. Roperr Burns was the eldest son of William
Burness, and Agnes Brown his wife. William Burness,
who was born in 1721, was the son of a small Kincardine-
shire farmer, whose family had been retainers of the noble
house of Keith Marshall, attainted for having been owt
in 1715; their fortunes affected the prosperity of their
tenantry, and at the age of nineteen William Burness found
himself obliged to leave the paternal roof, and seek his for-
tune in the wide world. ‘Never shall I forget,” he often
said, ‘‘the bitter feelings with which I parted from my
younger brother on the top of a lonely hili, and turned my
steps towards the Border.” He first sought employment
at Edinburgh as a gardener, from thence he removed to
Ayrshire, and lived for two years in the service of the
Laird of Fairly, and afterwards with Crawford of Doon-
side. He was next induced to takea perpetual lease of
seven acres of land, with the intention of establishing him-
self as a nurseryman and public gardener ; he built a
house on this land with his own hands, and in December,
1757, brought home Agnes Brown to his humble dwelling.
Before he made much progress in preparing his nursery-
ground, he was engaged by Mr. Ferguson, who had lately
purchased the neighbouring estate of Doonholm, in the
double capacity of gardener and Overseer, and such was
his condition when Robert Burns was born. The storms
of winter howled around the cradle of the Poet ; the frail
walls of the clay-built hovel yielded to the blast; and at
midnight the mother and her helpless infant were borne
from their tottering house to the shelter of a neighbouring
cottage. This evil was however soon repaired, and for nine
years William Burness continued in the service of Mr.
Ferguson, whilst his wife occupied herself in the manage-
ment of her family, and of a small dairy. They lived con-
tented and happy, and comparatively prosperous. This
peaceful life was not however of long continuance, In an
evil hour, Burness, desirous of making a better provision
for his rising family than his present circumstances
allowed, resolved to become a farmer. Mr. Ferguson, to
whom he had proved a valuable and faithful servant,
granted him a lease of a farm called Mount Oliphant, on
which he entered at Whitsuntide, 1766, and lent him a
hundred pounds to assist in stocking it. This step was but
the commencement of a series of misfortunes, which pur-
sued him to the grave. The soil of Mount Oliphant was
poor, the rent was high ; his friendly landlord died, and the
estates fell into the management of ‘a stern factor,
whose threatening letters,” says Robert Burns, ‘‘set us
all in tears.” Hard labour and rigid economy were vainly
opposed to the tide of misfortune. Gilbert Burns, the
poet’s younger brother, in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, thus
feelingly describes their condition. ‘For several years
butcher’s meat was a stranger in the house, while all the
members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost
of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of
the farm, My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in
thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the princi-
pal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant,
male or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our
tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very
great.

 

 

To think of our father growing old (for he was |

Tet

ENE

now above fifty), broken down with the long-continue<
fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and
in a declining state of cireumstances,—these reflections pro-
duced in my brother’s mind and mine sensations of the
deepest distress.”

For eleven years William Burness continued to struggle
on at Mount Oliphant; at Whitsuntide, 1777, he removed
to Lochlea, a better farm, of 130 acres, in the parish of
Tarbolton, about ten miles from Mount Oliphant. Here
for four years he met with better success, but in the fifth
the sky was again overcast. The markets were unfayour-
able, and a dispute arose concerning the terms of his
lease, the conditions of which had never been reduced to
writing. The difference was at length referred to arbitra-
tion ; the result was hisruin. He lived to be acquainted
with the decision which destroyed his last hopes of worldly
prosperity, but death spared him from further suffering ;
he died of consumption on the 13th February, 1784.

William Burness was not an ordinary man. Of his
integrity, the confidence reposed in him by Mr. Ferguson
is an honourable testimony; of his care of the education
of his children, not only his illustrious first-born, but his
whole family, and especially his second son, Gilbert, were
convincing proofs, Hewas himself possessed of consider-
able information ; to the ordinary education of a Scottish
peasant, he added an extensive and shrewd knowledge
of mankind: «I have met with few,’ said his son
Robert, ‘* who understocd men, their manners, and their
ways, better than my father.” Amidst all the pressure of
hardship and misfortune, the care of his children’s minds
was ever uppermost with William Burness. His son
Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a school at Alloway
Miln, but the teacher being shortly removed to another
situation, William Burness, and five of his neighbours,
engaged John Murdoch, a student of divinity, in his stead,
lodging him by turns in their houses. The character of
William Burness is well depicted in a letter from Mr.
Murdoch to Dr. Currie, published in his life of the Poet.

** He was,” says Mr. Murdoch, ‘‘a tender and affectionate
father; he took pleasure in leading his children in the
path of virtue; notin driving them, as some-parents do,
to the performance of duties to which they themselves are
averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom; and
therefore, when he did rebuke, he was listened to with a
kind of reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was
felt ; a reproof was severely so; and astripe with the tawz,
even on the skirt of the coat, gave heartfelt pain, produced
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears... .
But I must not pretend to give you a description of all the
manly qualities, the rational and Christian virtues, of the
venerable William Burness. Time wouldfail me. I shall
only add that he carefully practised every known duty, and
avoided everything that was criminal: or, in the apostle’s
words, ‘ Herein did he exercise himself, in living a life
void of offence towards God, and towards men.’”

Both Robert and Gilbert evinced great aptitude in learn-
ing, and Murdoch was a kind and skilful master. In read-
ing, writing, and arithmetic, they made rapid progress, and
were generally at the upper end of the class, even when
ranged with boys by far their seniors.

They remained under the care of Mr. Murdoch for about
two years, when he left that part of the country; but
William Burness continued to instruct his family. In the
winter evenings he taught them arithmetic; he borrowed
Salmon’s Geographical Grammar, Derham’s Physico and
Astro Theology, and Ray’s Wisdom of God in the Creation,
and gave them to his children to read; in their walks and
at their labours he would lead the conversation to subjects

 

 

 

 

 

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iv MEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.

tending to increase their knowledge or confirm their vir-
tuous habits. For their religious instruction, he himself
compiled a manual, still existing, in which the rigid Cal-
vinism of the more orthodox presbyterians is somewhat
tempered by the milder doctrines of Arminianism.

In noticing the education which Burns received, a some-
what curious fact should not be omitted. Murdoch
attempted to teach his pupils alittle church music, but
the two Burnses were far behind their companions in this
exercise, and Robert’s ear was so dull, and his voice so un-
tuneable, that it was some time before he could distinguish
one tune from another; yet in after days his facility in
exquisitely adapting the rhythm of his verses to the melody
to which they were attached, was remarkable.

The year after the departure of Mr. Murdoch, who was
then established in the townof Ayr, our poet enjoyed the
advantage of three weeks’ further tuition from him,—one
week before the harvest, and two at its conclusion. This
short space was occupied in perfecting his knowledge of
English grammar, and in some attempts at a knowledge
of the French language ; but although he returned with a
dictionary and a Télémaque, and by dint of laborious study
made some progress in the language, yet he never mastered
it, and does not appear to have resumed the study at a later
period.

The thirst for knowledge was now, however, awakened
in him; and he perused with avidity every book he could
obtain. In his situation it was difficult to gain access to
any, and it was impossible for him to choose; yet such
circumstances have their advantages. The man limited
to one book will read it thoroughly, when, if turned loose
into a library, he would perhaps dip into many and read
none. Burns has left a list of the books he had perused
before the family left Mount Oliphant, that is to say, at
the age of eighteen. Thecollection is heterogeneous, but,
properly applied, contains a fund of veal knowledge, and
there is good evidence that Burns did® properly apply it.
‘* What I knew of ancient story,” says Burns, ‘‘ was
gathered from Salmon and Guthrie’s Geographical Gram-
mars; and the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of
literature, and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These,
with Pope’s works, some plays of Shakspeare, Tate and
Dickson on Agriculture, the Heathen Pantheon, Locke on
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse’s History of the
Bible, Justice’s British Gardener’s Dictionary, Boyle’s Lec-
tures, Allan Ramsay’s Works, Taylor’s Scripture Doctrine
of Original Sin, a Select Collection of English Songs, and
Hervey’s Meditations, had formed the whole of my read-
ing.” To these studies must be added the songsand ballads
of his country, which he delighted to listen to, and which
probably first awakened the poetic fire in his breast.

Burns’s poetical predilections had manifested themselves
long before quitting Mount Oliphant; Love and Poetry
were the twin-birth of his ardent bosom; but in his own
words must the tale be told. In a letter to his friend,
Dr. Moore, he says, ‘‘ You know our country custom of
coupling a man and woman together as partners in the
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner
was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself.
My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her
justice in that language; but you know the Scottish
idiom, ‘ she was a bonnie sweet sonsie lass.’. In short, she
altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that
delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment,
gin-horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to
be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below !
How she caught the contagionI cannot tell. You medical
people talk much of infection from breathing the same
air, the touch, &c.; but I never expressly said I loved her.
Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so much to
loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening
from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my
heart-strings thrill like an Eolian harp; and, particularly,
why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel
nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring
qualities she sang sweetly; and it was her favourite reel
to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme.
I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I could

 

a

make verses like printed ones, composed by men that had
Greek and Latin; but my girl sang a song which was said
to be composed by a country laird’s son, on one of his
father’s maids, with whom he was in love; and I saw no
reason why I might not rhyme as well as he; for, except-
ing that he could smear sheep and cast peats, his father
living in the moorlands, he had no more seholar-craft than
myself. Thus with me began love and poetry.” Does not
this give tenfold interest to
O, once I loved a bonnie lass,
Ay, and I love her still,
And whilst that virtue warms my breast,
Ill love my handsome Nell.

The fire once kindled, ceased not to burn; almost all
his earlier pieces were inspired, not by ethereal goddesses,
but substantial charms, invested by the genius of the
poet with a celestial radianee. They are the genuine feel-
ings of the heart exhibited in glowing verse.

The youthful lover, ‘‘ to give his manners a brush,” as
he expresses it, ventured on his father’s displeasure, and
went to a dancing-school. The displeasure was, however,
transient, and his father suffered the rest of his family to
attend during the second month. In his nineteenth year
Burns attended a mathematical school at Kirkoswald:
but here we must again refer to his letter to Dr. Moore.
«‘ A circumstance,” says he, ‘‘ which made some altera-
tion in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my
nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good dis-
tance from home, at a noted sehool, to learn mensura-
tion, surveying, dialling, &c., in which I made a good
progress. But I made a greater progress in mankind.
The contraband. trade was at that time very successful,
and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring
dissipation were till this time new to me; but I was no
enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass,
and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun
entered Virgo, a month which is always a carnival in my
bosom, when a charming jillette, who lived next door to
the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I however strug-
gled on with my sines and cosines for a few days more;
but stepping into the garden one charming noon to take
the sun’s altitude, there I met my angel, like

‘Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower.’

*«Tt was in vain to think of doing any moregood at school.
The remaining weeks I staid, I did nothing but craze the
faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her;
and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno-
cent girl had kept me guiltless.

‘J returned home very considerably improved. My
reading was enlarged with the very important addition
of Thomson’s and Shenstone’s works; I had seen human
nature in a new phasis; and I engaged several of my
schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspondence with
me. This improved mein composition. I had met with
a collection of letters by the wits of queen Anne’s reign,
and I pored over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any
of my own letters that pleased me; and a comparison
between them and the composition of most of my corre-
spondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far,
that though I had not three farthings’ worth of business in
the world, yet almost every post brought me as many
letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book
and ledger.

“¢ My life flowed on much in the same course till my
twenty-third year. Vive l’amour, et vive la bagatelle, were
my sole principles of action. The addition of two more
authors to my library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and
M‘Kenzie—Tristram Shandy and The Man of Feeling—
were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk
for my mind; but it was only indulged according to the
humour of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or more
pieces on hand; I took up one or the other as it suited the
momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it
bordered on fatigue. My passions, once lighted up, raged

 

 

 

 

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like so many devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and
then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all
into quiet.”

In this letter there is much of disturbed and unsatis-
factory reflection on by-gone hours. It is explained by
another passage from his letters, in which the work-
ings of his mind are forcibly displayed. ‘‘ The great
misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I saw my
father’s situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The
only two openings by which I could enter the temple
of Fortune were, the gate of niggardly economy, or the
path of little chicaning bargain-making. ‘The first is so
contracted an aperture, I could never squeeze myself into
it ;—the last I always hated—there was contamination in
the very entrance. Thus abandoned of aim or view in
life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from
native hilarity as from a pride of observation and remark:
a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriacism that
made me fly from solitude ; add to these incentives to social
life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild
logical talent, and a strength of thought, something like
the rudiments of good sense; and it will not seem sur-
prising that I was generally a welcome guest where I
visited, or any great wonder that, always when two or
three met together, there was I among them. But far
beyond all other impulses of my heart, was wn penchant
pour Vadorable moitié du genre humain. My heart was
completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by sume
goddess or other: and, as in every other warfare in this
world, my fortune was various; sometimes I was received
with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a re-
pulse. At the plough, scythe, or reaping-hook, I feared no
competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; and
as I never cared farther for my labours than while I was
in actual exercise, I spent my evenings in the way after
my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love
adventure without an assisting confidant. I possessed a
curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, that recommended
me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say
I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the
loves in the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in
knowing the intrigues of half the courts in Europe.”

Thus passed the Poet’s life till the year 1781, when he
went to Irvine to learn the trade of a flax-dresser. His
father entertained the idea of devoting the whole or great
part of his farm, to the cultivation of flax; and to keep as
much of the profits as possible in the family, he wished to
breed his eldest son up as a flax-dresser. But this scheme
fell to the ground. Ina New-year’s carousal the shop took
fire and was burnt to ashes, and Burns returned to Lochlea.

His residence at Irvine, although not of long continu-
ance, produced a very unfavourable effect upon him, and
to this period of his life may be traced the formation of
those habits of convivial intemperance which he sub-
sequently indulged. ‘‘ He contracted some acquaintance,”
says his brother Gilbert, ‘‘of afreer manner of thinking
and living, than he had been used to; whose society pre-
pared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue,
which had hitherto restrained him.” He became a Free-
mason, and was a constant attendant at the convivial
meetings of the brethren at Irvine and Tarbolton. Com-
pany was a relief to the hypochondriacal melancholy
which preyed upon him. He evidently felt his own
powers within him; he had achieved a sort of reputation
of superior ability among his neighbours, but he wanted a
field for exertion ; he had no aim in life, and, forced back
upon himself, he almost despaired. A letter to his father,
written only a few days before the accident which put an
end to his flax-dressing scheme, is extant. It exhibits a
mournful picture of his situation at Irvine, where he pos-
sessed a single room for his lodging, subsisted chiefly on
oatmeal sent him from his father’s house, and passed his
days in flax-dressing. Itis as follows :—

‘* Honoured Sir,—I have purposely delayed writing, in
the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on
New-year’s day: but work comes so hard upon us that I
do not choose to be absent on that account. My health is
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a
little sounder, and on the whole I am rather better than

 

 

 

 

 

 

otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The |
weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind, that |
I dare neither review past wants nor look forward into |
futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast |
produces most unhappy effects on my wholeframe. Some-
times indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little
lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my prin-
cipal, and indeed my only pleasurable, employment is
looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious ||
way. Lam quite transported at the thought that, ere long,
perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the
pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes, of this weary
life, for I assure you I am heartily tired of it; and if I do
not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and
gladly resign it.
‘ The soul, uneasy, and confined at home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.’

**It is for this reason that I am more pleased with the
15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revela-
tions*, than with any ten timesas many versesin the whole
Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with
which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer.
As for this world, I despair of ever making a figure in it.
I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter
of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into
such scenes ; indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the
thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity
probably await me, and Iam in some measure prepared,
and daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time
and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons
of virtue and picty you have given me, which were too
much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I
hope have been remembered ere it is yet toolate. Present
my dutiful respects to my mother, and my compliments
to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and wishing you amerry New-
year’s-day, I shall conclude.

‘*Tam, honoured Sir, your dutiful son,
‘* ROBERT BURNESS.

** P.S.—My meal is nearly out, but Iam going to borrow
tillI get more.”

Shortly before the death of their father, Robert and
Gilbert jointly took a lease of the farm of Mossgiel, near
Mauchline, consisting of 118 acres, at an annual rent of
ninety pounds. This they did to provide a shelter for
their parents from the impending storm ; but William Bur-
ness died before the family could remove. After his death,
what relics could be gathered from the wreck of their
fortunes, were carefully collected, and the family was
established at Mossgiel. ‘‘It was stocked by the pro-
perty and individual savings of the whole family,” says
Gilbert, ‘‘and was a joint concern among us. Every
member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the
labour he performed on the farm. My brother’s allowance
and mine was seven pounds per annum each. And during
the whole time this family concern lasted, which was four
years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea,
Robert’s expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his
slender income.”

Burns went to Mossgiel with the full determination of
applying all his energies to his farm, and for two seasons
he appears to have done so; but this period of his life was
marked by an event which did not testify much improve-
ment in the habits of the Poet. This was the birth of
an illegitimate child, his ‘‘ sonsie, smirking, dear-bought
Bess” the offspring of one of his mother’s servants, by no
means attractive in her person. For this misdemeanor he
was called to account by the Kirk Session, and he and the
partner of his guilt were condemned to the cuitty stool.
The poet revenged himself by witty rhymes, and it is to be
feared was not benefited by the ecclesiastical scourge.

Whilst at Tarbolton, Burns and his brother, and some
other young men of the parish, established a society,

 

 

* 15th. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him
day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall
dwell among them. : 3 ‘

16th. They shall hunger no more, nee thirst any more; neither

é s ight on them, nor any heat. .

SRE SRN: eas that is in the midst of the throne shall feed
them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God
shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.

 

 

 

 

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v1 MEMOIR OF THE LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.

 

which they called the Bachelors’ club, meeting one evening
in every month for the purposes of mutual entertainment
and improvement. The question proposed at one meeting
was debated at the next; and, to prevent all intemper-
ance, the expenditure of each party was limited to three-
pence. On their removal to Mossgiel they established a
similar society at Mauchline, but here they more wisely
devoted all fines and subscriptions to the purchase of
books, and soon obtained a pretty good stock. ‘The exer-
cise which these debating societies afforded him, and
constant practice in parties of all sorts, into which his
eager spirit led him, contributed to perfect the brilliant
conversational powers for which he was afterwards so
celebrated ; with which he fascinated not only the hard-
drinking members of a Mason’s Lodge, but gentlemen and
philosophers; not only the rustic maiden but the high-
born lady; Ranken and Dugald Stewart ; Mary Campbell
and the Duchess of Gordon *.

His best poems were produced during his residence at
Mossgiel, a period of four years: but he first attracted gene-
ral notice as a Poet, by his satires; which were called forth
by a schism at that time agitating the Kirk of Scotland,
and distinguished as the controversy between the Old and
New Lights. ‘The Holy Tuilzie, or the Twa Herds;”
<« Holy Willie’s Prayer,” and ‘‘ The Ordination,” followed
each other in rapid succession, and were universally
sought after. Even reverend clergymen, professors of the
New Light, scrupled not to praise ‘‘ Holy Willie’s Prayer ;”
which has been described by Sir Walter Scott, as ‘‘ a piece
of satire more exquisitely severe than any which Burns
ever afterwards wrote, but daringly profane.” About this
time he discarded the ancient spelling of his name, and
began to write Burns instead of Burness; no reason for
this change has been assigned, but it was probably occa-
sioned by his desire to be distinguished from others of his
own name.

His growing poetical reputation introduced him into
more extended society. With Gayin Hamilton, a writer
(attorney) of Mauchline, under whom the farm of Moss-
giel was held; Mr. Aitken, a writer in Ayr, and several
other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, he was on intimate
terms; and we have already noticed the approbation the
New Light clergy bestowed upon his works, and, in conse-
quence, upon himself.

His times and modes of composition were not regular.
Wherever he might be, if the idea presentéd itself, he pur-
sued it ; frequently he would weave the fancy which had
suggested itself into a stanza, and at a future period com-
pose the commencement or ending of the poem: so that it
not unfrequently happened that the middle portion was the
first composed. His “ Mountain Daisy,” and ‘‘ The Mouse,”
were composed while holding the plough ; and ‘‘ Death and
Dr. Hornbook,” whilst sitting ‘* easing his shanks” on the
road-side, ‘‘ by Willie’s Mill,” on his return from a Mason
meeting, where the redoubted Doctor had made himself too
conspicuous. ‘ Man was made to mourn,” ‘* The Cotter’s
Saturday Night,” ‘* Hallowe’en,” and many others of his
best productions, were the fruit of this period.

During his residence at Mossgiel, he formed an
acquaintance with Mary Campbell, a Highland lassie,
whose name is rendered immortal as his Highland Mary,
To her he addressed the lines ‘‘ Will ye go to the Indies,
my Mary?” ‘Ye banks and braes, and streams around
the castle of Montgomery,” and many others; and her
memory, years after her death, when Burns was married
and hada family, inspired those pathetic lines ‘*'To Mary in
Heaven,” which breathe the soul of tender melancholy.
She was a servant at Castle Montgomery; and Burns had
long courted her in the fashion of the country; their
marriage had been determined on, when death stepped in,
and blasted the fond hopes of the lovers.

‘« After a pretty long time of the most ardent reciprocal
feeling,” says Burns, in a note to one of his poems on Mary,
‘« we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May,
in a sequestered spot by the banks of the Ayr, where we

 

 

 

 

 

* This Jady said that Burns, in his address to the ladies, was ex-
tremely deferential, and always with a turn to the pathetic or the
humourous which won their attention; and added, with much
naiveté, that she never met with a man whose conversation carried
her so completely off her feet.—Cunninghans Life of Burns.

 

spent a day in taking a farewell before she should embark
for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her
friends for our projected change of life. At the close of
the autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at
Greenock, where she had scarce landed when she was
seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear
girl to her graye, before I could even hear of her illness.”
The love which Burns felt for Mary Campbell, appears to
haye been deeper than any he ever felt before or after;
for there is every reason to believe that he was acquainted,
nay, too intimately acquainted, with Jean Armour, his
future wife, during the life-time of Mary. He does not
appear to have entertained any idea of going to America,
till the last year of his residence at Mossgiel, and it would
seem that the unfortunate result of his intercourse with
Jean Armour was the cause of that determination; yet he
addresses ‘‘ Will ye go to the Indies,” to Mary, and her last
act is to come to meet him at Greenock, from whence the
vessel which was to transport him sailed; years after-
wards, we find the lover bewailing his lost Mary in the
most touching strains. In this digression we have some-
what anticipated our story. We must now give an account
of the Poet's connexion with Jean Armour, an eyent
which regulated the destinies of his life. This young
lady was the daughter of a respectable man, a master
mason and builder, in Mauchline, and was distinguished
by considerable personal attractions. She fell a prey to
‘Rob Mossgiel,” notwithstanding the warning he had
himself given,* and the result of their intercourse soon
became apparent, ‘The intelligence nearly drove Burns
distracted. His plighted faith given to one, and honour
calling on him to rescue another, he resolved to fly the
country. To his friend, James Smith, of Mauchline, his
confidant in this amour, he thus wrote: ‘* Against two
things I am fixed as fate—staying at home and owning
her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do!—the
last, by hell, I will never do!—A good God bless you, and
make you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of
parting friendship....If you see Jean, tell her I will
meet her, so help me God in my hour of need.”

The whole of this affair is left in obscurity, and by some
it has been believed that Mary was dead before the Poet's
acquaintance with Jean; but, for the reasons before
stated, we differ in our opinion, and are inclined to believe
that Mary’s death happened at this critical moment. The
yehemence of expression used by Burns in the letter just
quoted cannot well be accounted for, otherwise than by
his existing bonds to Mary. She died; the poet met the
unhappy Jean, and’ gave her a written acknowledgment
of marriage, sufficient, by the Scottish law, to legalise the
tie. But when a disclosure of her condition was no longer
to be avoided, her father, a man of stern disposition, an
elder adhering to the old light, and probably from that
cause the more incensed against Burns, whose character
he detested, refused to give his consent to the marriage,
obliged his daughter to give up the precious ‘‘ lines,” the sole
evidence she possessed to redeem her honour ; he destroyed
the document, and forced his child to disown him who was
her husband in the sight of both God and man. Under
these singular circumstances she became the mother of
twins.

Burns,—who had done all in his power to soften the
obdurate father ; who had declared his readiness even to
toil as a day-labourer for the support of his wife and
family, if his proposal to go to Jamaica and remit them
the proceeds of his exertions were rejected,—finding all
his efforts vain, resumed his purpose of emigration. He
procured the situation of assistant overseer on the estate
of a Dr. Douglas in Jamaica. But now a fresh difficulty
arose. He had not the means of paying his passage. For
the first time the thought suggested itself, that his poems
might be made a source of profit. His friends, especially
Hamilton and Aitken, warmly seconded his proposition.
A negotiation with a printer at Kilmarnock was opened,
and an edition of six hundred copies, three hundred and
fifty of which were subscribed for, was printed, It was
rapidly disposed of, and Burns found himself, after paying
all expenses, master of nearly twenty pounds. This suc-

,

* See “O leave novéls, ye Mauchline belles.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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cess did not cause him to change his resolution, He was
pursued by the parish officers for security against the
charge of his illegitimate children, and was driven into
hiding. He had taken leave of all his friends, and his
chest was on the road to Greenock ; he had composed the
last song he should ever measure in Caledonia, ‘“‘ The
gloomy night is gathering fast,” when he received a letter,
written by Dr. Thomas Blacklock, of Edinburgh, to Dr.
Laurie, minister of Loudon, who, unknown to Burns, had
forwarded a copy of the poems to Dr. Blacklock, whose
reputation as a critic stood high, and who was himself a
poet. This letter, which was full of kindness and encou-
ragement, raised up those hopes which had still been
drooping, although his Kilmarnock edition had intro-
duced him to the acquaintance of Dugald Stewart, Mrs.
Dunlop, and several others, who ever afterwards were his
friends. But Dr. Blacklock’s praise roused up his slum-
bering hopes; he at once gave up all idea of leaving Scot-
land, and hastened to Edinburgh.

When he reached that city, he sought out some of his
Ayrshire friends, and took up his lodgings with Mr. Rich-
mond, at that time a writer’s apprentice, or, in English
phrase, an attorney’s articled clerk: he shared the humble
accommodations of this young man, a single room anda
single bed, during the greater part of his stay in the capital.
He did not hastily seek the introduction to Dr. Blacklock,
or the publicity which he felt would be the consequence.
He had hurried to Edinburgh, but on the threshold of
fame he paused with modest trembling. There can be no
doubt, that, from the society into which his Kilmarnock

 

 

edition had introduced him, including more than one |

titled head, he in some degree anticipated the kind
of reception he was likely to meet with, and that there
was a shrinking on his part to put himself forward. He
was stimulated by a letter from Dr. Laurie. He visited
Dr. Blacklock; he was introduced to Lord Glencairn, who
proved a good friend: and in a little space found himself
the lion of Edinburgh. His society, or perhaps rather
his presence, was sought after eagerly by the highest com-
panies of Edinburgh. Lord Glencairn easily induced
Creech, the chief bookseller in the city, to undertake an
edition of the poems formerly published, to which Burns
now made many additions. The terms of his bargain with
Creech were that the poet should receive one hundred
pounds for the copyright of one edition, and the profits of
all the subscription copies. In the courseof a few months
2800 and odd copies were subscribed for by upwards of
1500 subscribers. He found admirers in all ranks, and his
name was established on a proud eminence, from which
it will never descend.

It has been made a ground of reproach to Burns, that
although welcomed by the highest, though duchesses
bowed down their heads to listen to the glowing eloquence
which had formerly entranced the peasant, yet he gradu-
ally withdrew himself from society so disproportioned to
his rank. It is true he did so ; but he who would draw an
unfavourable conclusion from the fact, does injustice both
to the poet and to human nature. We much regret that
our limits preclude our giving so much of his history, in
his own words, as would present a more lively view of his
situation and prospects, hopes and wishes, than it is pos-
sible to do in acondensed narration, The poet felt, keenly
and bitterly, that he was regarded as a wonder, almost as
a tamed wild beast: those who knew not what is the disci-
pline of a Scottish cottage; who were astonished more at
the description of the labourer’s < Saturday Night,” than
at the genius which displayed that scene in such exquisite
verses, thought that a ploughman poet was a prodigy,
which they flocked to see, with a curiosity not much more
intellectual than that which draws servant-maids and
children to stare at a dancing bear. Now (it is painful to
remember it) not one of his friends suggested to Burns any
pursuit, any course of life, which might secure for him
the independence he so much panted after, which if he had
secured, would have afforded him the leisure which alone
he required for the production of works surpassing even
the unrivalled poems he has left.

Creech’s edition appeared in March, 1787, and was
eagerly bought up; and the poet feeling himself now

 

OF ROBERT BURNS.

<
fas

authorised to draw upon the fruits of his genius, set
out on a tour through the southern parts of Scotland,
and the borders of England. On the 8th of June, 1787, he
again found himself at Mossgiel: his mother met him at
the door, and clasping him in her arms, exclaimed ‘Oh,
Robert ! »—He had left her house almost an outcast from
the world—he returned crowned with glory ; the mother’s
heart was full, and she fell on her son’s neck and wept.
That moment repaid the bard for many bitter hours,

The following summer was chiefly occupied by Burns
in some tours through the Highlands, in the course of
which he visited the Dukes of Athole and Gordon, and
many other of his friends, but nothing with regard to his
future prospects was proposed to him by any. His inter-
course with Jean he desired +o renew, but he was rudely
repulsed from her father’s door. He was still without an
aim. In the autumn he returned to Edinburgh, and he
remained there till the spring, when he effected a settle-
ment with Creech, and found himself the master of about
five hundred pounds. He now sought for the best means
of establishing himself for life. The second Winter’s
experience proved that the attractions of the lion had
vanished, and that the reputation of the bard incited none
to provide him with even a mean support. It was not
without reluctance that he addressed himself to the Earl
of Glencairn, and expressed his wish to be employed in the
Excise, a project which had, at the time of the Kilmar-
nock edition, been agitated by his old friends Hamilton and
Aitken. None of his new friends had troubled themselves
about the poet’s welfare, and even the Earl of Glencairn
waited to be asked; and it was Graham of Fintray, to whom
Burns had been introduced in his northern tour, who at
length procured him a poor appointment, worth about
thirty-five pounds a year. Mr. Miller of Dalswinton had
made him the offer of any farm on his estate a twelve-
month before; he now made choice of that of Ellisland in
Nithsdale, more with the eye of a poet than that of a
farmer, for it was about the worst on the estate, but its
situation was the most picturesque.

Having first sent two hundred pounds to his brother

Gilbert to assist him in the struggling life he maintained
at Mossgiel, he settled himself at Ellisland in May 1788,
and his first employment was to erect a house and farm-
steading, to do which he was bound by the terms of his
lease: and to this house, the first he could ever call his
own, he brought Jean Armour, whom he now publicly
proclaimed as his wife: she, at this time, probably from
her renewed intercourse with Burns, was suffering under
a fresh outbreak of paternal anger, and with her help-
less children had been absolutely turned out of doors!
3urns’s manly bosom received back again with joy the
woman whom he had ever strongly loved, and whose
renunciation of him had therefore caused him tenfold pain.
As soon as his house was ready, he brought her home; and
now he hoped that the prospect before him, though not
very cheering, would brighten, and that at least no heavy
clouds would intervene to blast the hopes he cherished.
Hight disastrous years closed the poet’s career !

Burns, though in the works of the field equal to the
best labourer ; though he could challenge the countryround
at the plough, the scythe, or the flail, yet was not a skilful
farmer : the attention necessary to his avocations in the
Excise, in which he was never deficient, materially inter-
fered with that due to his own affairs; and the temptations
of the muse were stronger than those of the plodding duties
of a farm. It is not therefore surprising that he found
Ellisland a losing concern. At the end of 1791 he gave up
his farm and took a house at Dumfries, his sole depend-
ence being his salary as an excise officer, which now
amounted to seventy pounds a-year, and which he had
every hope of soon seeing increased. In this city, and on
this humble stipend, he continued to exist, till his death.

The years he spent at Ellisland and Dumfries were not
unproductive of poetry: for the first year at least of his
residence on his farm, he enjoyed the pleasures of an inde-
pendent man, and his soul appeared to expand, relieved
from the heavy burden of care which had hitherto pressed
upon him. Before he left Edinburgh, he had contributed
some pieces to a collection of Scottish songs, published by

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Mr. Johnson, under the title of the ‘‘ Musical Museum y
and to this, and the collection published by Mr. Thomson,
he furnished a vast number of songs which, had he never
written anything else, would have established his cele-
prity. From the time of Creech’s edition he wrote scarcely
any piece of length except Tam 0’ Shanter, the work of one
day, but chiefly confined himself to the writing of songs
and ballads, and the correction and alteration of old songs,
for these two collections, to which we owe most of those
inimitable lyrics which will continue to be sung and
recited in all quarters of the globe, till the English tongue
shall cease to be spoken.

A false pride caused him to decline pecuniary recompense
for these invaluable productions, and he even made ita
ground of quarrel with Thomson, who on one occasion
forwarded him five pounds on account of his services ;
and when dying, and pressed by urgent want, he was
obliged to apply for a further sum, it cost him more
pangs than can be imagined by any mind not akin to his
own ; and although so weak that his pen trembled in his
hand, he forced himself to write the last verses he ever
composed, ‘‘ Fairest maid on Devon Banks,” and enclosed
them in this humiliating epistle.

The character and conduct of Burns have been made
the subject of much discussion, not always conducted in
the most friendly spirit. It is easy for those who have
never felt the temptations of poverty, to condemn the con-
duct of others who have writhed beneath its pangs.

Burns was by nature careless, fond of society,—for there
he felt his powers appreciated,—but of an unbending and
independent spirit. In prosperity these powers would not
improbably have produced effects very different from those
displayed by the influence of an unceasing train of misfor-
tune. In prosperity he might have chosen his society—in
poverty he had no choice, except at one period of his life ;
and was it not natural for him to become somewhat shy of
seeking company,where he was regarded more asa curiosity,
than as on an equal footing with those he met? Yet he has
been accused of shunning the better class of society, towards
the end of his first visit to Edinburgh. The occasional
roughness and vehemence of his opposition in debate has
been made a plea for the neglect he experienced. It is an
ungenerous one. His feelings of independence, and desire to
assert them, frequently carried him too far, and sometimes
assumed the character of almost morbid irritability, but
the noble cause of this was always sufficiently obvious ;
and no generous mind could have misunderstood the
man, who, brought suddenly from a lower station, exhibit-
ing powers which astonished his auditors, and seeing him-
self regarded as a wonder, instead of servilely seeking
applause, endeavoured to find opportunities of asserting
his independence, and dreaded the supposition that he
could flatter to win favour.

When Burns left Ellisland, it was not without a pang;
and he went to Dumfries with the embittered feelings of a
disappointed man. Always inclined to social life, he was
now more than ever exposed, both by the pressing invita-
tion of his near neighbours and by the unsatisfied state of
his own mind, to indulge more deeply than ever in those
dissipations and drinking bouts which were the fashion of
the day. Even in these excesses, which it must be acknow-
ledged became too habitual, he has been misrepresented ;
and by many he is to this day considered as having in his
latter years given himself up to the degrading habits of a
confirmed drunkard. Nothing can be more contrary to the
fact. He never indulged except in company; and, to the
end of his life, his conduct towards his family, and care of
his children’s education, were most exemplary ; and well
would it be for many of those who have regarded Burns
with scornful pity, if they could produce such good evidence
of the discharge of that great moral duty as he. Mr, Find-
later, his superior in the Excise, amongst others, bears
honourable testimony to his conduct. ‘*‘ My connexion with
Burns,” he says, ‘‘ commenced immediately after his admis-
sion to the Excise, and continued to the hour of his death.
In all that time, the superintendence of his behaviour, as
an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro-
vince; and I was not an inattentive observer of the general

 

 

 

 

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conduct of aman anda poet so celebrated by his country-
men. He was exemplary in his attention, and was eyen
jealous of any imputation on his vigilance. It was not till
near the latter end of his days that there was any falling
off in this respect ; and this was well accounted for by the
pressure of disease and accumulating ‘infirmities. I will
further avow that I never saw him—which was very fre-
quently while he lived at Ellisland, and still more so,
almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries—in hours
of business, but he was quite himself, and capable of dis-
charging the duties of his office ; nor was he ever known
to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor
in aforenoon. I have seen Burns in all his various phases—
in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the
bosom of his family. Indeed, I believe I saw more of him
than any other individual had occasion to see, and I never
beheld any thing like the gross enormities with which he
is now charged. That, when he sat down in the evening
with friends whom he liked, he was apt to prolong the
social hours beyond the bounds which prudence would
dictate,is unquestionable ; but in his family, I will venture
to say, he was never seen otherwise than as attentive
and affectionate in a high degree.” The times, in which
an elder of the church could, like Mr. Riddel of Friars
Carse, engage in such a contest as is related in. ‘* The
Whistle,” were more in fault than the Poet.

Burns, when he went to Dumfries, had entertained san-
guine hopes of promotion; his salary had been raised to £70
a year, and his name was on the list of supervisors ; the
latter situation was worth about £200 per ann. and was the
stepping-stone to a collectorship, which would have ren-
dered him easy; but his own imprudent conduct destroyed
these hopes. In the commencement of the French revolu-
tion, he ardently embraced the doctrines of the liberal
party of the time, and vehemently advocated the cause of
the Directory in all companies. His enthusiasm carried
him to lengths that his better judgment would have dis-
claimed, and when it was reported at head-quarters that
an exciseman had refused to stand up in the theatre when
the National anthem was played, and had sent two brass
cannon, taken from a smuggler (which he himself assisted
in capturing) with a complimentary letter to the French
Directory, they directed an inquiry to take place, and he
was reprimanded and told that his business was to act
and not to think. This somewhat absurd rebuke sunk
deep into his heart; thenceforth he despaired of advance-
ment, and grew less careful of himself and his reputation.
His health began to fail; and, in the spring of 1796, he
was attacked with violent rheumatism. He continued to
sink, and in the summer was advised to go into the
country : he went to a lonely place called the Brow, on the
shore of Solway, in Annandale, to try the effect of sea-
bathing, but all was of no avail: on the 18th of July he
returned home a dying man. He lived only to the 22d,
and died in desolation. Four helpless infants and a wife,
who, whilst her husband’s corpse was being carried down
the street, was delivered of a fifth child, were left behind
him.

A happier fate awaited his family. Public sympathy
was at last aroused, A handsome subscription was raised ;
and Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, collected and published his
poems for their benefit.

The poor child, born in so disastrous an hour, did not
long survive; but three other children yet live, and do
credit to their illustrious sire. The eldest, Robert, holds a
situation in the Stamp Office; Francis Wallace, the second,
died in 1803; William Nicoll, the third, went to Madras in
1811, and James Glencairn, the youngest, in 1812—both as
cadets in the East India Company’s service.

Mrs. Burns, who was enabled to live in comfort for the
residue of her life, and of whose exemplary conduct as a
wife and a mother we would, did our limits allow, speak
more at large, died in 1834, and was buried beside her hus-
band, but not in his original grave, his body having been
removed, in 1815, to a mausoleum raised to his memory.
May the earth lie light on them ; and may we seek rather
to profit by the example of their virtues, than to triumph
over their errors!TABLE OF CONTEN

PAG 5
WINTER, a Dirge

Death & Dying Wordsof Poor Mailic a
Poor Mailie’s Klegy ; ‘ 04
Kirst Epistle to Davie. - ab,
Address to the De’il 4 : 3
The Auld Farmer ’s New-year Morn-

ing Salutation to his Auld Mare. 6
To a Haggis 5 7
A Prayer under the Presenra of vio-

lent Anguish . 8
A Prayer in the Pr ospect of Death . ib.
Stanzas on the same occasion. + toy
A Winter Night : sD,
The Jolly Beggars, a Cantata. . 9

Death and Dr. Hornbook , 1
The Kirk’s Alarm : » 14
The Twa Herds 3 : <6 LD
Holy Willie’s Prayer, : :
Epitaph on Holy Willie,

Lament of Mar y, Queen of Scots ae
The Holy Fair : : : . ib.

The Ordination : - =) 19
The Calf - : : : AY
To James Smith, Mauchline 5 tlley,
The Vision , ; ao
Man was made to Moan ; $e OA
To Bum .:. : : : 5 Ds
Letter to John Goudie Q bbs

Epistle to J. Lapraik ., . « 20

To the Same : OT,
To William Simpson, ‘Ochiltr eo 28
To J. Lapraik : : = 2)
To the Rev. John M< Math : = = 30
Toa Mouse . : ‘ : 5 11) 0);
Scotch Drink , : : 31
The Author’s earnest Cr y and Prayer

to the Scotch See - 32
Hallowe’en , , a.
Address to the Unco Gude oe oO
fam Samson’s Elegy , : OT
Per Contra : : 5 ae

Second Epistle to Dees ; UD.
The Lament. . 4 : 2 4p;
Despondency, an Ode _ ., . » 39
The Cotter’s Saturday Night - 40
First Six Verses of Psalm XC, 5 aul

Verses left at a Friend’s House . , 42
Toa Mountain Daisy , : lb.
Hpistle to a young Friend . oe Ds
To a Louse - 43

Epistle to John Rains : ol:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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PAGE
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West

Indies > - 44
Dedication to G. Hamiltin: Bq. > 45
Elegy on Robert Ruisseaux ~ «46

Letter to J. Tait, Glenconner , aloe
On the Birth of a Posth umousChild ib.

To Miss Cruikshanks , : - 47
The First Psalm : ; He allay
To Gavin Hamilton, E Esq. : 31).
To Mr. M‘Adam, of ae” Gillan ib.
ToaTailor . . 48
A Dream . : se Ds
The Twa Dogs, a : Tale ; : . 49
Interview with Lord Daer . yea

Address to Edinburgh , : = oD

A Bard’s Epitaph . : ~. ib:
The Brigs of Ayr . . ib.
The Dean of Faculty, a Ballad se 54

To anold Sweetheart . . 55
Death of John M‘Leod, Hisq. 5 og ey
Clarinda ; ; . ib:
To Miss Logan . ; : 1D.
A Fragment : - IDs
To the Guidwife of Wauchope- House 56
Humble Petition of Br uar-Water . ib.
On Scaring some Water-fowl . A ay)
Verses written under the Portrait of

Fergusson, the Poet . “ =D:
To a Lady, with the present of a pair

of Drinking-glasses 3 58
Written with a Pencilin the Parlour

of the Inn at Kenmure : oD:
Written with a Pencil, standing by

the Fall of Fyers : 1D,
Poetical Address to Mr. William

Tytler, of Woodhouselee Til:
Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage ib,
Epistle to R. Graham, Esq... - 59
To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel - 60
A Mother’s Lament for the Death of

her Son . sl:
Verses on the Death of Sir Tenis

Hunter Blair . ‘ - ib.
Elegy on the Year 1788 ; = Woy
Address to the Tooth-ache. - 61
Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald ib.
Scots Prologue 5 A = 1D
On seeing a wounded Hare. = 3 OL
Prologue spoken at the Theatre,

Dumfries . . ; : STDs
Delia ; ; : ; Ds

 

 

 

 

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FAG&
Fragment inscribed to C. J. Fox » 62
To Dr. Blacklock . : : - 6a
Sketch—New Year ’s Day a, iD,

To a Gentleman who had sent Burns
a Newspaper, . ib.
Elegy on Capt. Matthew Hend erson 64

The Five Carlines, an Election
Ballad : : . 65
Answer to a Mandate sent ie the
Surveyor of Taxes : - 66
On the late Capt. Grose’s Porcart
nations through Scotland . - 1D:
Written in a Wr rapper enclosing a
Letter to Capt. Grose . : = 67
Tam O’Shanter ; : . -. 10,
Verses to Chloris . : ; - 69
The Whistle, a Ballad : 2 eps

Lament for James, Earlof Glencairn 70
Lines sent to Sir John W hitefoord
with‘the foregoing ; < ok
Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell = 1D:
Extempore in the Court of Session ib.
Address to the Shade of Thomson -ib,
To Robert Graham, Esq., Fintray . ib,
To the Same, on receiy ing a Favour 72

A Vision : 1.

Poetical Inser iption for; an Altar to
Independence , LD;

To John Maxwell, of Terranghity 7s

The Rightsof Woman . F - ide
Monody on a Lady famed for her

Caprice . : : AD;
On Pastoral Poetry i alloy
Sonnet on the Death of R. Riddel,

Esq., of Glen-riddel » 74
Sonnet written on the Birth- -day of

the Author ; EDs
Impromptu on Mrs. Ridder’ Ss Bir th-

day . ; : s TY
The Vowels, a Tale : : 7 ot:
Liberty, a Fragment : » (D
Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of

Monboddo ., ip.
Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle ib.
Verses to a Young Lady ; = 11s
Verses to J. Rankine, ; - 70
To Mrs. Dunlop . : 7 21Ds
To Colonel De Peyster : - 1b.

Lines sent to a Gentleman hen he
had offended : as a 5 00}
To a Young Lady : ; 7 elDe

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. :—

For the Author’s Father
Inscription tv the Memory of iene

gusson : 4 : ; «UD;

| For R. A., Esq. ‘ ‘ os UD;
On a Friend : ; ; nels
On Wee Johnny : ; sea:
On John Dove : ; sale
For Gavin Hamilton, Bs Sq. sents
On a celebrated Ruling Elder . ib.
On a Noisy Polemic . ‘i tcw ls
On a Writer in Dumfries ; aD:
On a Schoolmaster ; o 1Ds
On a Hen-pecked oe Squire 5 0),
OntheSame . o aibD:
On Wat : . (3
On Captain Francis Grose. 5 LD:
On a Wag in Mauchline > Lb:

eee

On a Country Laird . ; e278
Lines on Mrs. Kemble UD.
To Mr. Syme, in Answer to an Invi-
tation to join a Dinner Party al:
To Mr. Syme, with a Present of a
Dozen of Porter : =D:
On Hearing that there was a Halse.
hood in the Rey. Dr. B—’s looks ib.
On Elphinstone’s Translations of
Martial’s Epigrams , =D:
On being asked why God made Miss .
Davies so little, and Mrs. —— so
large - : «1D:
On Miss J. Scott, of Loa : ; ib:
Written on a Window of the Globe
Tavern, Dumfries : = iD:
On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord

Galloway . ; ; : . 78
OntheSame , pps
To the Same, on being dheerien cd

with his Resentment . A -ib
Written at Inverary . : 5 ee
A Highland Welcome , : sib,

Written in a Lady’s Pocket Book . ib.
Verses written on a Window of the
Inn at Carron . .ib
On being appointed to the Excise »ib
Written on a Window at the King’s

Arms Tavern, Dumfries $; 28D
Extempore . . : 1D:
A Grace before Dinner : a ce ioe
The Creed of Poverty . ; = 1s
Extempore Lines . 5 Sib,
The Hen-peck’d Husband 5 = ib.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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| _ TABLE OF CONTENTS.
SONGS AND BALLADS :—
PAGE PAGE raGR
Handsome Nell . ‘ ; . 80 | Young Jockey ~*, ‘ : . 94 | When wild War’s deadly Blast was
Bonnie Lesley . , . .ib. | MyHeart is a-breaking, Dear Tittie ib. blawn . : ; : » 107
| [Dream’d I lay where Flowers were The Braes 0’ Ballochmyle . » » ib. | Jessio ; : 2 + IDs
springing . > .ib. | Sweet Closes the Evening . . ib. | Meg o’ the Mill ‘ : - ib,
Tibbie, I ha’e seen ie Day . eib.| Yon Wild Mossy Mountains . .« 95 Fragment : ’ ‘ yea
Luckless Fortune . ; ; . 81 | Gane is the Day . é ‘ - ib. | Miss Lesley Baillie; . : . 108 |
Fragment : ; . .ib. | Meikle Thinks my Love - ib.| Logan Water, ° . 1D,
The Highland Lassie : ; .ib. | The Banks of Nith : « ib. | Bonnie Jean , . ° - + Ibe
John Barleycorn ‘ , . .ib. | How can I be Blithe and Glad . « ib. | Phillis the Fair . ‘ : 1s
The Rigs o’ Barley . ; . 82 | There ’ll never be Peace : + 96) HadIaCave. ° e ° 109
My Father was a Farmer ib. | Ido Confess Thou art sae Fair. . ib. | By Allan Stream ‘ ’ . 1De
Montgomerie’s Pegg ; ; .ib. | O Saw Ye my Dearie . ib. | Come, let me take Thee . re 1De
| Song . . 83| Wha is that at my Bower Door? ? . ib. | Adown Winding Nith. ‘ iDe
The Rant Dog the Daddie o’t ib. | What can a Young Lassie , - ib. | Auld Lang Syne . . , « Ds
| Nannie . ib. | The Bonnie Wee Thing . . « ib. | Dainty Davie . , . » . 110
Forlorn my Tove: no Comfort near ib. | To Chloris . : 97 | Behold the Hour ‘ : - ibe |
| There’s nought but Care . ‘ 84 | Bess and her Spinning- “wheel ib. | Thou hast left meever . ‘ iDe
| Robin i S 5 ib. | Ae Fond Kiss. . : , « Jb. | Pair Jenny . : ~ IDs
_ Bonnie Peggy Alison ; . . ib. | O Luve will yenture in : . ib. | Deluded Swain, the Pleasure - ide
My Jean . ; . . ib. | Naebody . . « 98 | Nancy. ; 4 ’ : « Ie
Her Flowing ficetas. 5 . « ib. | O for Ane-and- Twenty, Tam - ib. | Bannockburn . ~ Lit
| Oleave Novéls . ¢ ; ib. | Song of Death ; - - ib. | Husband, husband, cease your Str ife iDs
| Young Peggy . ; ‘ ‘ 85 | As I was a-Wandering . ° . ib. | On the Seas and Far Away , iDe
| On Cessnock Banks : , ib. | Sic a Wife as Williehad . . « ib. | Wilt thou be my Dearie? «106
| The Cure for all Care ib. | Country Lassie . . - 99| Ca’ the Yowes , ; : ~ 112
| Menie : ; , 86 | The Banks 0’ Doon, First Wer sion. ib. | But lately Seen ‘ > Ibi
| The Lass 0’ Ballochmyle ; . ,. ib. | The Banks 0’ Doon, Second Version ib. | O ay my Wife she dang me , « Ds
| Mary. : : ib. | Fair Eliza . » ib. | To Mary ; - ; ete
| Eliza ib. | Jockey’s ta’en the par ting Kiss .. ib. | Here is the Glen. ‘ iDe
The Far ewell E 87 | The Chevalier’s Lament : - 100 | The Lover’s Morning Salute to his
Iam my Mammy’s ae Bairn ib. | Flow gently, sweet Afton ' ib. Mistress . . ib.
The Author’s Farewell to his Native Bonnie Bell : ; . « ib. | Itisna, Jean, thy bonnie face . 113
Country . . ib. | The Gallant Weaver ; . « ib. | Lovely Davies. : + «ik
Whistle, and I’ ic come to Your, my The Bairns gatout . ° - 1b. | Sae far awa’ ‘ : : - ib.
Lad ib. | She’s Fair and Fause ‘ , = 1D. | Chioe . ibe
Bonnie Lassie, w ill ye go : 88 | The Exciseman . ‘ : « 101 | Lassie wi’ the Lint: white Locks . ide
M‘Pherson’s Farewell . ib. | A Red, Red Rose . . .» ib. | Let not Woman e’er Complain. . ibs
Stay, my Charmer . ib. | Louis, what Reck I by Thee. . ib. | Farewell, thou Stream ; . 114
Thickest Night o’erhang my Dwel- Out over the Forth . ‘ . - ib.| Canst Thou Leave Me Thus . . iD.
ling : . ib. | The Battle of Culloden ° « ib. | O Philly, happy be that Day ibe
Up in the Mor ning carly = : ib. | For the Sake of Somebody « ib. | Contented wi’ little . <a
The Young Baphiend Rover . , ib.| Polly Stewart ., : ° - ib. | Saw Ye my Phely : 5 es:
The Banks of the Devon . . 89] Anna, thy Charms . ‘ « e ib. | To General Dumourier . eT
Raving Winds around her Blowing ib. | ll ay Ca’in by yon Town . « 102 | O wha is She that Lo’esme . . ib,
How Long and Dreary isthe Night ib. | When Januar’ Wind ; - e ib. | My Nannie’s awa’ , : : iD. |
Blithe was She . : 3 ib. | O wat ye Wha’s in yon Town - ib. | Here’sa Health . > é + De
A Rose-bud by my Early Walk ib. | To Thee, loved Nith : . » ib. | Olay thy Loof in mine, Lass , . 116
Streams that Glide . ; 90 | O May, thy Morn : : . 103 | Caledonia . ib.
Tibbie Dunbar : ib. | Waeismy Heart . ‘ ~ «» 1b. |(O Tassie, art Thou sleeping yet . ib
My Harry ; ib. | Gloomy December . . ib. | Her Answer > . ib.
Musing on the Roari ing Ocean - ib. | Cassillis’ Banks ° -« - ib.| Is there, for Honest Pover . 117
Where braving Angry Winter’s My Peggy’s Face ‘ ; « ib.| On Chloris being Il . . Abel |
Storms ; . ib.| Amang the Trees . ; e « ib. | To Mr. Cunningham ‘ ; ADs |
Boones Nelly | ib. | The Winsome Wee Thing  « ib. | Caledonia . . IDs
Of a’ the Airts the Windic can Eee 91 | My Lady’s Gown, there’s Gaire Address to the Wroodlark : 7 alg
The Day returns, my Bosom burns ib. |. upon’t . ° ° « 104 | How Cruel are the Parents . . 1D |
My Bonnie Mary : . ib. | Highland Mary , ¢ « « ib. | Chloris é . De
Beware 0’ Bonnie Ann. ; ib. | Auld Rob Morris . ‘ « ib. | The Dumfries Votuniteers : < De. |
The Lazy Mist. ; ip. | Duncan Gray. « ib. | This isno my ain Lassie . ie
My Heart’s in the Pightands ib. | The Gowden Locks of Anna_ - « 105! Last May a Braw Wooer > LIS |
O were I on Parnassus’ Hill . « 92| My ain Kind Dearie, O . « ib. | 0 Bonnie was yon Rosy Brier . . ibe
| First when Maggie was my Care . ib. | To Mary Campbell , ‘ . e ib.| The tither Morn . : ; < ADE
| John Anderson my Jo. . - ib. } O Poortith Cauld ‘ ‘ « ib. | Coming through the Rye ; « ib. |
| There’s a Youth in this City . ib. | Open the Door to Me, Oh! - « ib. | ’Twas na her Bonnie Blue Een  . 120 |
| Ca’ the Ewes . ‘ i . ib. } Wandering Willie : - 106 | There was a Bonnie Lass ' ; De |
| To Mary in Heaven. - 93} She says She Lo’es me best of a’ . ib. | To Charlotte Hamilton ; peu
| Willie Brew’d a Peck 0’ Maut + » ib.| Galla Water , ° ‘ « - ib.| Altho’ Thou maun never be Mine. ib, |
| The Battle of Sheriff-Muir . ib.| Lord Gregory . ; ° . ib. | Hey for a Lass wi’ a Tocher . + Ds
| I gaed a Waefu’ Gate, Yestreen . 94| Mary Morison e ° e « 1b.) Pragments =, Q 2 ‘ ib.
|
|
|
Sa ee eee a ee eeTHE

POETICAL WORKS

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PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION,
BEARING THE IMPRINT, “ KILMARNOCK, 1786.”

Tus following trifles are not the production of the poet who, with all the advantages of learned art, and, perhaps,
amid the elegancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil.
To the Author of this, these, and other celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at least, in their original language,
a fountain shut wp, and a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet by rule,
he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in himself and his rustic compeers around him, in his and
their native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse of the softer
passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friendship, awakened his vanity so
faras to make him think anything of his worth showing ; and none of the following works were composed with a view
to the press. To amuse himself with the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of a laborious
life; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own breast; to find some
kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind—these
were his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found Poetry to be its own reward. Now that he appears
in the public character of an Author, he does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe,
that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded as—an impertinent block-
head, obtruding his nonsense on the world; and because he can make a shift to jingle a few doggrel Scotch rhymes
together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence forsooth! It is an observation of that celebrated
poet, Shenstone, whose divine Elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our species, that ‘* uMILITY has
depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame!” If any critic catches at the word GENIUs, the
Author tells him, once for all, that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, otherwise
his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manceuyre below the worst character which, he hopes, his
worst enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate
Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected sincerity declares that, even in his highest pulse of vanity, he has not the
most distant pretensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the following pieces ;
but rather with a view to kindle at their flame, than for servile imitation.

To his subscribers, the Author returns his most sincere thanks—not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the
heart-throbbing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship, for gratifying
him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom—to be distinguished. He begs his readers, parti-
cularly the learned and the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every allowance for
education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted
of dulness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that case do by others—let him be condemned, without
mercy, to contempt and oblivion.

 

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

DEDICATION TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN OF THE CALEDONIAN HUNT

My Lorps AND GENTLEMEN,—A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is to sing in his
Country’s service—where shall he so properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his native land ; thosg
who bear the honours and inherit the virtues of their ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of my country found me, as
the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha—at the plough, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing
the loves, the joys, the rural scenes, and rural pleasures of my native scil, in my native tongue: I tuned my wild,
artless notes as she inspired.—_She whispered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my Songs
under your honoured protection: I now obey her dictates.

Though much indebted to your goodness, T do not approach you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of
dedication, to thank you for past favours; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted Learning, that honest Rusticity
is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation
of those favours: I was bred to the plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common Scottish name with
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my country,
that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to
the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness.

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may
Pleasure ever be of your party ; and may Social Joy await your return: when harassed in courts or camps, with
the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your return to
your native seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, mect you at your gates ! May Corrup-
tion shrink at your kindling, indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People,
equally find you an inexorable foe !

I have the honour to be, with the sincerest gratitude, and highest respect,
My Lorps AND GENTLEMEN,
Your most devoted humible Seryant,

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. ROBERT BURNS.Poetical

THE

r

FACANY w moNs
Ge ORE

ee

OF

ROBERT BURNS.

pence

WINTER,
A DIRGE,
LPuE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw ,
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
‘he blinding sleet and snaw ;
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down
And roars frae bank to brae ;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

2

“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast*,”
The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul
My griefs it seems to join ;

The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine.

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Th y Will!

Then all I want (O, do thou grant
This one request of mine NE

Since to enjoy. Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign !

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF
POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR’S ONLY PET YOWR.

 

An unco mournfw Tale.
As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch ;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoct he came doytin by.

Wy? glowrin een, and lifted han’s,
Poor Hughoe like a statue stan’s ;
He saw her days were near-hand endit,
But, waes my heart! he cou’dna mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak’!
At length poor Mailie silence brak’:

 

 

 

 

*~ (Dr, Young, { A neighbour herd-callan.

 

 

 

“O thou, whase lamentable face,
Appears to mourn my woefu’ case |
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my Master dear:

|
|

 

“ Tell him, if e’er again he keep

| As muckle gear as buy a sheep,

| O! bid him never tie them mair

| WY’ wicked strings 0’ hemp or hair,
But ca’ them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will ;

So may his flock increase, and grow

| To scores o’ lambs and packs 0’ woo’.

| “ Tell him, he was a Master kin’,
And aye was gude to me and mine ;

| And now my dying charge I gi’e him,

My helpless lambs I trust them wi’ him.

“QO, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers’ knives!
But gi’e them gude cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel’ ;

And tent them duly, e’en and morn,

Wi’ teats o’ hay and rips o’ corn.

“ And may they never learn the gaets

Cf ither vile wanrestfu’ pets!

To slink thro’ slaps, and reave and steal

it stacks 0’ pease, or stocks o’ kail,

So may they, like their great forbears,

For mony a year come thro’ the shears:
So wives will gi’e them bits 0’ bread,
And bairns greet for them when they’re dead.

“ My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
O bid him breed him up Wi’ care!
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast ;
And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame ;
And no’ to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

“ And nieist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne’er forgather up
WY ony blastit, moorland toop!

But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi?’ sheep o’ credit like thysel.
BQ

 

 

 

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aa4 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

1 | « And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath, Ramee feo

I leave my blessin’ wi’ you baith ; FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE’,
And when you think upon your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.

ed

A BROTHER PORT.

January, 1784.

apne om

~

 

AY = cc : a . e |
« Now, honest Hughoe, dinna fail WuiILeE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
: To tell my master a’ my tale 5 And bar the doors wi’ driving snaw,

mi | And bid him burn this cursed tether 5 And hing us owre the ingle,

# i > . ; < o

Ue 1 And for thy pains thou’s get my blether.”’ I set me down to pass the time,

a Bt .

os be And spin a verse or twa o’ rhyme,

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, : )

In hamely westlin’ jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla-lug,
I grudge a wee the great folk’s gift,
2 : That live sae bien an’ snug:
POOR MAILIE’S ELEGY. I tent less, and want less,
Their roomy fire-side ;
But hanker and canker
To see their cursed pride.

And closed her een amang the dead!

ioe

ony gg

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose ;
Our bardie’s fate is at a close,

 

: © ~ ) a7 ay e °
yh fe Bast a’ remead ; It’s hardly in a body’s power
The last sad cape-stane of his ees To keep, at times, frae being sour, |
eau Poor Mailie’s dead! To see how things are shared ;
Py

How best o’ chiels are whyles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't 5
But, Devie, lad, ne’er fash your head,
Though we ha’e little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang’s we’re hale and fier:
“‘ Mair spier na, nor fear na’},’’
Auld Age ne’er mind a feg ;
The last o’t, the warst o’t,
Is only but to beg.

It’s no the loss 0’ warld’s gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak’ our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed ;
He’s lost a friend and neebor dear
In Muailie dead.

a tat
«

ee aN

Thro’ a’ the town she trotted by him ;

A lang half-mile she could desery him ;

Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi’ speed ;

A friend mair faithfw’ ne’er cam’ nigh him,

ae To lie in kilns and barns at e’en
Than Mailie dead. 3

When banes are crazed, and blude is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could mak’ us blest ;

Ey’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that’s free frae a’

I wot she was a sheep 0’ sense,
And could behave hersel’ wi’ mense ;
I’ll say’t, she never brak’ a fence

Thro’ thievish greed ;
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diy | | Gon aie s dead, Intended fraud or guile,
Fai | However Fortune kick the ba’,
Pig: Or, if he wanders up the howe, Has aye some cause to smile ;
Ply _ Her living image, in her yowe, And mind still, you'll find still,
Li : | Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, A comfort this nae sma’ ;
Wai | For bits 0’ bread ; Nae maiz then, we’ll care then,
ne | And down the briny pearls rowe Nae farther can we fa’.
iti: I ee Ni Th
A i" Et | | a What tho’ like commoners of air, |
43 a | Ne | She was nae get o’ muirland tips, We wander out, we know not where |
wig cb | Wi’ tawted ket, and hairy hips; But either house or hall? |
Re | For her forbears were brought in ships Yet Nature’s charms, the hills and woods, |
bets Frae yont the Tweed ! The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
; 1g uf A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Are free alike to all. |
¥ i i Than Mailie’s dead. In days when daisies deck the ground, |
aa iti And blackbirds whistle clear,
Baie hi | Wae worth the man wha first did shape WY honest joy our hearts will bound,
Beit! ie | That vile wanchancie thing—a rape ! To see the coming year: |
‘ He ig It maks gude fellows girn and gape, On braes, when we please, then,
eit, Wi’ chokin’ dread ; We'll sit an’ sowth a tune ; |
iE mt | An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi crape, Syne rhyme till’t, we'll time till’t, |
Bi: Me | For Maile dead. And sing’t when we hae done.
ee Ni |
Ree | O, a’ ye bards on bonny Doon! It’s no in titles nor in rank ;
Bi _ And wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
Bt, hi | Come, join the melancholious croon
Ci ty | : ; O’ Robin’s reed! * David Sillar, schoolmaster, one of the clubat Tarbolton,
Bia yes | His heart will never get aboon and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect.
WM i i] His Mailie dead. + Ramsay.
Gi i oa ee a

 

etme.

ow es ms “ .
= on . x = area c= = S SSS SSS SS
: Sa a a ea al ee i i I IG’ EPS oe sn ERE SONI pT ee a a

y

_ometeteteee| BURNS’S POEMS. 5 ||
gee

 

1 Po purchase peace and rest ; All hail
It’s no in makin’ muckle mair :
It’s no in books, its no in lair

A » ye tender feelings dear !

The smile of love, the friendly tear,
:

‘ The sympathetic glow;

|

|

Nie OR Race teaemioatarns gs
|

|

|

To make us truly blest:
If Happiness ha’e not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Long since this world’s thorny ways

Had number’d out my weary days,
Had it not been for you !

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ahs

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lan

|

| And oft a more endearing band, i
|

| The heart ay’s the part ay

|

|

A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens, |
The tenebrifie seene,
To meet with, and greet with 1
My Davie or my Jean. |

A
o>
That makes us right or wrang.

| Think ye, that sic as you and [,
|| Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry,
| WY never-ceasing toil ;
|| Think ye, are we less blest than they,
| Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while ?
| Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
|
|
|
|
|
}
|
|

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin’ rank and file,

Amaist before I ken! i
The ready measure rins as fine |
4S Phoebus and the famous Nine |

Were glowrin’ owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he’s fairly het ;

And then he’ll hilch, and stilt, and junp,

And rin an unco fit :

But lest then, the beast then, |
Should rue this hasty ride, |

Pll light now, and dight now |
His sweaty wizen’d hide.

God’s creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglectin’ a’ that’s gude,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless, and fearless
Of either heav’n or hell :
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’ an idle tale!

 

Then let us cheerfw’ acquiesce,

Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
| By pining at our state ;

|

|

|

 

 

And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, ha’e met wi’ some,
An’s thankfu’ for them yet.

ir nant merce oe

ADDRESS TO THE DE’IL.

 

 

 

1h
1 =) . 9 L | a4
rl e wit e routh ; h iy
aa oe mn ne 28 ue 208 I z O Prince! O Chief of many throned pow’rs, i gt
They let us ken oursel’ ; That led the embattled Seraphim to war. ‘i

They mak’ us see the naked truth, Muirrox, Ai
tS 5 j 1 . e i ij

The read guid and ill. O Tuov, whatever title suit thee, Hy

i
é

©
I

Auld Hornie, Satan, N ick, or Clootie, |
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, |
Closed under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To seaud poor wretches !

Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there, ye’ll get there
5 a
Ye’il find nae ither where.

 

| Tho’ losses and crosses
|
|
|

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I detest, )

| This life has joys for you and I,

| And joys that riches ne’er could ouy,
And joys the very best.

There’s a’ the pleasures 0’ the heart,
The lover and the frien’ ;

Ye ha’e your Meg, your dearest part,

| And I my darling Jean !

| It warms me, it charms me,

| To mention but her name :

| It heats me, it beets me,

| And sets me a’ on flame.

|
|| But tent me, Davie, ace o’ hearts,
|

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a we
And let poor damned bodies be-
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,

E’en to a de’il,

|

: |

|

To skelp and seaud poor dogs like me, |

“

* OT ee

And hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, and great thy fame,

Far ken’d and noted is thy name;

And tho’ yon lowan heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far ;

And faith, thou’s neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor seaur

le Se ONS Sere

O, all ye Pow’rs, who rule above !

O, Thou, whose very.self art Love !
Thou know’st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear !
- When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, all-seeing,

 

Whyles, rangin’ like a roarin’ lion,

For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin’ ;

Whyles, on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’,
Tirling the kirks ;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’,
Unseen thou lurks,

lve heard my rev’rend Grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray,
Or where auld-ruin’d castles, gray,

SP Mis MC

2 EE ee AD Raney eee = —
sce tos = ; = % Re -

 

ee

Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way
W?’ eldritch croon.

 

O hear my fervent pray’r!
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care '

ASTee

Sein i gag a ig aH

ony, Meigen =

— <<

a
*
°
th

   

 

 

 

6 BURNS’S

POEMS.

 

 

When twilight did my Grannie summon
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman,
Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin,
Wi eerie drone!
Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’
Wi heavy groan!

Ae dreary, windy, winter, night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you, mysel’, I gat a fright,
Ayont the loch ;
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,
Wi’ waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristled hair stood like a stake,

When wi’ an eldritch stoor, quaick—quaick—
Amang the springs

Awa’ ye squatter’d, like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, and wither’d hags,
Tell how wi’ you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags
Wi’ wicked speed,
And in kirkyards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi’ toil and pain,
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain;
For, oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en

By witchin’ skill;
And dawtit, twal-pint Hawhkie’s gaen

As yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak’ great abuse
On young gudeman, fond, keen, and crouse 5
When the best wark-loom 7’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
And float the jinglin’ icy boord,
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord
By your direction,
And ’nighted trav’llers are allured
To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversing Spunkies

Decoy the wight that late and drunk is:

The bleezin’, curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise

When Masons’ mystic word and grip
In storms and tempests raise ye up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest Brither ye wad whup
Aff straight to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonny yard,

When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,

And a’ the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady how’r:

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawin’ dog!
Ye cam’ to Paradise incog.,

 

 

And play’d on man a eursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’ !)
And gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.
D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reekit duds and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
And sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?

And how ye gat him ?’ your thrall,

And brak him out o’ house and hall,

While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,

And lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava!

But a’ your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares and fechtin’ fierce,

Sin’ that day Michael* did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

And now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’,

A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin’
To your black pit ;

But, faith! he’ll turn a corner, jinkin’,
And cheat you yet.

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben !
O wad ye tak’ a thought and men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—

Still ha’e a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,

Ev’n for your sake!

 

THE AULD FARMER’S NEW-YEAR MORNING

SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE,

ON GIVING BER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL

IN THE NEW-YEAR.

A Gude New-Year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there’s a ripp to thy auld baggie ;

Tho’ thou’s howe-backit now, and knaggie,
I’ve seen the day,

Thou could ha’e gaen like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.

Tho’ now thou’s dowie, stiff, and crazy,

And thy auld hide’s as white’s a daisy,

I’ve seen thee dapplet, sleek, and glaizie,
A bonnie gray:

He should been tight that daur’t to raize thee
Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i’ the foremost rank,

A filly buirdly, steeve, and swank,

And set weel down a shapely shank
As e’er trod yird ;

And could ha’e flown out-owre a stank
Like ony bird.

It’s now some nine-and-twenty year,
Sin’? thou was my guid father’s meere,
He gied me thee, o’ tocher clear,
And fifty mark :
Though it was sma’, *twas weel-won gear,
And thou was stark.

 

* Vide Milton, Book vi.1]

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When first I gaed to woo my Jeniy,
Ye then was trottin? wi’ your minnie:
Tho’ ye was trickie, slee, and funny,
Ye ne’er was donsie .
But hamely, tawie, quiet, and cannie,
And unco sonsie.

That day ye pranced wi’ muckle pride,

When ye bure hame my bonny bride:

And sweet and gracetu’ she did ride,
Wi’ maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho’ now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
And wintle like a saumont-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels and win’,
And ran them till they a’ did wauble
Far, far behin’.

When thou and I were young and skeich
g 84,

And stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, and snort, and skreigh,

And tak’ the road,
Town’s bodies ran, and stood abeigh,
And ca’t thee mad.

When thou was corn’t, and I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow :
At brooses thou had ne’er a fallow,
For pith and speed;
But every tail thou pay’t them hollow,
Whare’er thou gaed.

The sma’, droop-rumpl’t hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur’t thee for a brattle ;
But sax Scotch miles thou try’t their mettle,
And gar’t them whaizle ;
Nae whip nor spur, but Just a wattle
O’ saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan?
As e’er in tug or tow was drawn ;
Aft thee and I, in aught hours’ gaun,
In gude March weather,
Ha’e turn’d sax rood beside our nan’,
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg’t, and fech’t, and fliskit,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,

And spread abreed thy weel-fill’d brisket,
Wi pith and power,

Till spritty knowes wad rair’t and riskit,
An’ slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep,
And threaten’d labour back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer ;
I ken’d my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit ;

The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it;

Thou never lap, and sten’t, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov’t awa’.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’ ;
Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw;

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

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Forbye sax mae, I’ve sell’d awa,
That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund and twa,
The very warst.

Mony a sair darg we twa ha’e wrought,

And wi’ the weary warl’ fought!

And mony an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we’re brought,
Wr something yet.

And think na, my auld trusty servan’,
That now, perhaps, thou’s less deservin’,
And thy auld days may end in starvin’,
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We’ve worn to crazy years thegither ;
We'll toyte about wi’ ane anither ;
WY tentie care I’ll fit thy tether
To some hain’d rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
With sma’ fatigue,

 

TO A HAGGIS.

Farr fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chiefiain 0’ the puddin’-race !
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm ;
Weel are ye wordy 0’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time 0’ need}
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

And eut you up wi’ ready sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight !
Warm-reekin’, rich.

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,

De’il tak’ the hindmost ! on they drive,

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes, belyve,
Are bent like drums;

Then auld gudeman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit bums.

Is there that o’er his French ragoit,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
W? perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfw’ view,
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither’d rash,

His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

‘Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

 

 

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But mark the rustic haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak’ it whistle ;
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thristle.

Ye powers, wha mak’ mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies ;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,
Gie her a Haggis!

 

A PRAYER,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O Txuou Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to thee
Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands,
All wretched and distrest ;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,
To suit some wise design ;

Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear and not repine!

 

A PRAYER
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O TxHovu unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear,

In whose dread presence, ere an hour
Perhaps, I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths
Of life I ought to shun ;

As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong ;

And list’ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d,

No other plea I have,
But— Thou art good ; and goodness sti!1
Delighteth to forgive.

 

 

 

STANZAS
ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Wuy am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms!
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, “ Forgive my foul offence !”
Fain promise never more to disobey ;

But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue’s way ;

Again in folly’s path might go astray !
Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ;

Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran !

O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow’r assist e’en me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine ;
For all unfit I feel my pow’rs to be,
To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line ;
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

 

A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,

That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm !

How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these ?

 

SHAKSFEARS.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow’r ;
When Phebus gies a short-lived glow’r
Far south the lift—
Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift :

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro’ the mining outlet bock’d,
Down headlong hurl.

List’ning the doors and winnocks rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O’ winter war,

And thro’ the drift, deep-lay’ring, spraitle
Beneath a sear.

Ik happing bird, wee helpless thing !
That, in the merry months o’ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee ?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
And close thy e’e ?Ey’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your Savage homes exiled,
The blood-stain’d Toost, and sheep-cote spoil’d,
My heart forgets,
While pitiless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats,

Now Phebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark mufiled, view’d the dreary plain,
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,
When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole

 

“ Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust !
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ;
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows !
Not all your rage, aS now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice, unrepenting,
Than heav’n-illumined Man on brother Man bes-
See stern Oppression’s iron grip, [ tows.
Or mad Ambition’s gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,
Woe, want, and murder, o’er a land !
Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o’er proud Property extended wide,
And eyes the simple, rustic Hind,
Whose toil upholds the glittering show,
A creature of another kind,

 

 

 

 

Some coarser substance, unrefined,
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below.
Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe,

mara Fife
Rea Tees eee SSS eee ee
eeeeeattonsneiniaicae say ee oe ae

 

BURNS’S POEMS. gy

But deep this truth impress’d my mind—
Through all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles Gop,

OPIN PIII DN w

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.
A Cantata.

RECITATIVO.

WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird,
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast :
When hailstanes drive wi? bitter skyte,
An’ infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest :
Ae night, at e’en, a merry corps
O’ randie gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies :
Wi’ quafting and laughing,
They ranted and they sang ;
Wi’ jumping and thumping,
The vera girdle rang.

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,

Ane sat, weel braced wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’ in order :

His doxy lay within his arm,

WY usquebae and blankets warm,
She blinket on her sodger ;

And aye he gies the touzie drab
The tither skelpin’ kiss,

While she held up her greedy gab,
Just like an aumis-dish :

 

 

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Sa AS Rennes Seeds
eee amc nenteees

tier aseeatee seas

With lordly Honour’s lofty brow,
The powers you proudly own ?
Is there, beneath Love’s noble name,

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: 3 2
Just like a cadger’s whup,

emiinal

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Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway, |

|

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| Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, He roar’d this ditty up—__ | se

| To bless himself al 2 >. OE at
| o bless himself alone 2 | hf
|| Mark maiden-innocence a prey | fa
| To love-pretending snares ; AIR, | ee
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This boasted honour turns away, TUNE— Soldier's Joy.” | f ‘
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Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers ;
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis’ry’s squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,

And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking trench,
Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, [blast! | When welcoming the French at the sound of the |
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, drum.

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown !
[ll-satisfied keen Nature’s clam’rous call,
Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While thro’ the ragged roof and chinky wall,

Chill o’er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! Abram ;
* ° 4 a r o ‘ oC e Tas '
Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, I ser me ae my trade when the gallant game was
pair ay
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine ! Pp ’ :
Als ie Hale iow ! And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! ae

But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch already crushed low
By cruel fortune’s undeserved blow 2
Afiliction’s sons are brothers in distress ;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !”
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer

Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail’d the morning wi’ a cheer,

 

 

 

 

 

A cottage-rousing craw.

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and sears wherever I come :
This here was for a wench, and that other in a

Lal de daudle, &e.

My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d
his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of

Lal de daudle, &e.

i lastly was with Curtis,among the floating batt’ries,

And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ;

Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,

Vd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &e.

 

* The old Scottish name for a bat.

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10 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

And now, though I must beg, with a wooden arm
and leg,
And many a tattered rag hanging over my bum,
I’mashappy with my wallet, my bottle,and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum.
Lal de daudle, &e.

What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter
shocks,
Beneath the woodsand rocks, oftentimes fora home ;
When the tother bag I sell,and the tother bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &s.

RECITATIVO.

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk
Aboon the chorus’ roar ;

While frighted rattons backward leuk,
And seek the benmost bore ;

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl’d out Encore !

But up arose the Martial’s chuck,
And laid the loud uproar.

ALR
TunE—‘* Soldier Laddie.”

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men ;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie !

Sing, Lal de lal, &e.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,

So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church ;

He ventured the soul, and I risked the body :

Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.
Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got ;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

But the peace it reduced me to beg in despair,
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental they flutter’d sae gaudy,
My heart it rejoiced at a sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

And now I have lived—I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song ;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass
steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie !
Sing, Lal de lal, &e.

RECITATIVO.

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie ;
They mind’t na wha the chorus took,
Between themselves they were sae bizzy ;
At length, wi’ drink and courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up and made a face ;
Then turn’d and laid a smack on Grizzy,
Syne tuned his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

AIR.
TunE—‘* Auld Sir Symon.”

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ;

He’s there but a ’prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk,
And I held awa’ to the school ;
I fear I my talent misteuk ;
But what will ye ha’e of a fool?

For drink I wad venture my neck ;
A hizzie’s the hauf o’ my craft ;
But what could ye other expect
Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

I ance was tied up like a stirk,

For civilly swearing and quafiin’ ;

I ance was abused i’ the kirk,
For towzling a lass 7? my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,

Let naebody name wi’ a jeer ;

There’s even, I’m tauld, v the court,

A tumbler eca’d the Premier.

Observed ye, yon reverend lad
Mak’s faces to tickle the mob ;
He rails at our mountebank squad ;

It’s rivalship just i’ the job.

And now my conclusion [ll tell,
For faith I’m confoundedly dry,

The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
Gude L—4d, is far dafter than I.

RECITATIVO.

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,

Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,

For mony a pursie she had hook’d,

And had in mony a well been duck’d ;
Her dove had been a Highland laddie,

But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie !
Wi’ sighs and sabs she thus began

To wail her braw John Highlandman.

AIR.

Tune—‘* 0, an’ ye were dead, Gudeman.”

A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS.

Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman!
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman !

There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’

Was match for my John Highlandman

Wi’ his philibeg and tartan plaid,

And gude claymore down by his side,

The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,

My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay 5
For a Lalland face he feared nane,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &e.| a Se

 

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BURNS’S POEMS. 4 n

 

 

| |
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| ie es z 4

They banish’d him beyond the sea: He swoor by a’ was swearing worth, | |
| But ere the bud was on the tree, To spit him like a pliver, : | |
| Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Unless he wad from that time forth | ;
| Embracing my John Highlandman. Relinquish her for ever. |
| o Tar {|
| Sing, hey, &e. WY ghastly e’e, poor Tweedle-dee | :
| But, oh! they catch’d him at the last, Upon his hunkers bended, 1 ‘hi
| And bound him in a dungeon fast ; And pray’d for grace, wi’ rueful face, 1]

My curse upon them every one ! And sae the quarrel] ended. | q
| They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman. But tho’ his little heart did grieve | i
Sing, hey, &e. When round the tinkler press’d her,

[ie feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the Caird address’d her:

Peale See

| And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne’er return :
No comfort but a hearty can,

LT

When I think on John Highlandman. re
| Sing, hey, &e. Tune—“ Clout the Cauldron.”

My bonny lass, I work in brass,
RECITATIVO, A tinker is my station ;
Dve travell’d round all Christian ground 1

In this my occupation ; |
I’ve ta’en the gold, I’ve been enroll’d
In many a noble squadron :

A pigmy seraper wi’ his fiddle,
Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,
Her strappin’ limb and gaucy middle

(He reach’d nae higher)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
 

 

 

 

 

Had holed his heartie like a riddle, ae Ne Ey pear when off I mareh’d |
And blawn’hon fire, 0 go and clout the cauldron. | |
[ve ta’en the gold, &e.
Wy? hand on haunch, and upward e’e, Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,
He croon’d his gamut, ane, twa, three, Wi? a’ his noise and cap’rin’, ii
Then, in an Arioso key, : And tak’ a share wi’ those that bear iii
The wee Apollo The budget and the apron ;
Set aff, wi’ Allegretto glee, | And by that stowp, my faith and houp, bi
| His giga solo. ; _ And by that dear Kilbagie,* I
| | If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant ii
| ATR. May I ne’er weet my cragie. | ha
| And by that stowp, &e. | rit
| TunE—‘ Whistle o’er the Lave o’t.” | :
Let me ryke up to dight that tear, RECITATIVO. | Bee
And go wi’ me and be my dear, The Caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair i
| And then your every care and fear Indien be ce cca | yi
' 7 < a | ie
| May whistle owre the lave o’t. Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair, 1 rat
} And partly she was drunk. | | ui
} ee Sir Violino, with an air | Re
| Tama fiddler to my trade, That show’d a man o’ spunk, | hae
| And a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d, Wish’d unison between the pair, | h
| The sweetest still to wife or maid, And made the bottle clunk | f. ie
Was whistle owre the lave o’t. To their health that night, | i i"
| At kirns and weddings we’se be there, But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, I i ;
And O! sae nicely’s we will fare ; That play’d a dame a shavie, aie
We’ll bouse about, till daddie Care The fiddler raked her fore and aft, .
Sings whistle owre the lave o’t. Behint the chicken-cavie.
I am, &e. Her lord, a wight o’ Homer’s craft+,
Tho’ limping wi’ the spavie,
Sae merrily the banes we’ll pyke, He hirpled up, and lap like daft,
And sun oursel’s about the dyke, And shored them Dainty Davie
And at our leisure, when ye like, To boot that night.
We'll whistle owre the lave o’t. :
I am, &e. He was a care-defying blade |
| As ever Bacchus listed,
' But bless me wi’ your heay’n 0’ charms, Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid, |
| And while I kittle hair on thairms,,. His heart she ever miss’d it.
| Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms, He had nae wish, but—to be glad, |
| | May whistle owre the lave o’t. Nor want—but when he thirsted ; 1
| I am, &e. He hated nought but—to be sad, |
| And thus the Muse suggested |
| RECITATIVO. His Sang that night. |
Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, * A peculiar sort of whisky so called; a great favourite |
| As weel as poor Gut-seraper ; with Poosie-Nansie’s clubs. |
| He tak’s the fiddler by the beard, + Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on |
| And draws a rusty rapier— record. |
| : 2 asAIR.
TuNE— For a that, and a’ that.”
. I am a bard of no regard
eh Wi’ gentlefolks, and a’ that:
But Homer-like, the glowran byke
Frae town to town I draw that.

ee

ae

i CHORUS.
For a’ that, and a’ that ;

And twice as meikle’s a’ that ;
Mh | I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife enough for a’ that.

lg tat ag a MO

(Be hone

: I never drank the Muses’ stank,

i Castalia’s burn, and a’ that;

But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca’ that.

Lig For a’ that, &c.

meee Le

aT
<

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,

: aay Their humble slave, and a’ that ;

me ih: But lordly will, 1 hold it still,

ea i A mortal sin to thraw that.
Ue For a’ that, &c.

ste

bir. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
igs Wi’ mutual love, and a’ that ;

: But for how lang the flee may stang,
ie Let inclination law that.

t For a’ that, &c.

ew “~

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,

| They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that ;

ue te But clear your decks, and “ Here’s the sex !”’
Bike I like the jads for a’ that.

li For a’ that, and a’ that ;

a ae And twice as meikle’s a’ that,

Up jae | My dearest blude to do them gude,
ee They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.

 

iy! | | RECITATIVO.
So sung the bard-—and Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo’d from each mouth ;
| They toom’d their pocks, and pawn’d their duds,
Buns | They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,
To quench their lowan drouth.

Fine | | Then owre again, the jovial thrang

alge The poet did request,

BH) hes To lowse his pack, and wale a sang,
(ie A ballad o’ the best ;

wi es He rising, rejoicing,

eUhe he Between his twa Debdrahs,

1 | Looks round him, and found them
i | Impatient for the chorus.

Bi i AIR.

i ay TunE—‘ Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”

byt he See the smoking bowl before us,

Mark our jovial ragged ring ;

See | Round and round take up the chorus,
Petit And in raptures let us sing:

Bie! CHORUS.

i A fig for those by law protected!

Gt | Liberty’s a glorious feast !

Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

 

 

 

 

12 BURNS’S POEMS.

What is title? what is treasure ?
What is reputation’s care!

If we lead a life of pleasure,
’Tis no matter how or where !

A fig, &e.

With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day ;

And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay

A-fig, &e.

Does the train-attended carriage
Thro’ the country lighter rove ?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig, &e.

Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.
A fig, &e.

Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged brats and callets!
One and all ery out, Amen!
A fig, &e.

 

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.
A TRUE STORY.

Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies wure never penn’d 5
Ey’n ministers, they ha’e been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at tines to vend,
And nail’t wi’ Scripture :

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Ts just as true’s the Deil’s in hei,

Or Dublin city ;
That e’er he nearer comes oursel’

’S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,

I was na fou, but just had plenty ;

I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches :

And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn’d ay
Frae ghaists and witches,

The rising moon began to glow’r
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre :
To count her horns wi’ a’ my pow’r

I set mysel’ 5
But whether she had three or four,

I cou’dna tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And teddlin’ down on Willie’s-mill,
Setting my staff, wV a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker ;
Though leaward whyles against my will,
I took a bicker.I there wi’ Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither ;
An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang ;
A three-taed leister on the ither
Lay, large and lang.

Its stature seem’d lang Scoteh ells twa,
| The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
| For fient a wame it had ava !
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp, an’ sma’
As cheeks 0’ branks !

 

 

When ither folk are busy sawin ?’’ *
It seem’d to mak’ a kind o’ staun,
But naething spak’ :
|| At length says I, “Friend! whare ye gaun ?

}

|

Will ye gae back ?”’

|
|
| “Gude-een,” quo’ I ; “Friend! ha’e ye been mawin,
|
|
|
| It spak’ right howe :—« My name is Death—
| But be na fley’d.”’—Quoth I, “ Gude faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath ;
But tent me, billie,
I red ye weel, take care o’ skaith,
See, there’s a gully !”
| 6 Gudeman,’’ quo’ he, ¢ put up your whittle,
| 1m no design’d to try its mettle ;
|| But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear’d,
I wadna mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.”

“ Weel, weel,” says I, “a bargain be’t ;
Come, gie’s your hand, and Say we’re gree’t ;
We’ll ease our shanks and tak’ a seat,
Come, gie’s your news ;
This while + ye ha’e been mony a gate
ed o 3
At mony a house.”

 

 

 

“Ay, ay!’ quo’ he, and shook his head,
“It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nick the thread,
And choke the breath :
Folk maun do something for their bread,
And sae maun Death.

“Sax thousand years are near hand fled,

Sin’ I was to the butching bred,

And mony a scheme in vain’s been laid

To stap or scaur me ;

|| Till ane Hornbook’st ta’en up the trade,

| | nd faith! he’ll waur me.

“ Ye ken Jock Hornbook i? the Clachan,
| De’il mak his king’s-hood in’ a spleuchan !
| He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan §
| And ither chaps,
| The weans haud out their fingers laughin’
| And pouk my hips.
|

 

 

 

es

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

t An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.

+ This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a
brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by in-
tuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon,
and Physician.

§ Buchan’s Domestic Medicine.

| BURNS’S POEMS. 13

 

 

 

 

 

 

|

|

|
1
|

 

|
|
|

 

|

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“See, here’s a seythe, and there’s a dart,
They ha’e pierced monie‘a gallant heart :
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f—t,
Damn’d haet they’ll kill.

"Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane :
Wi less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain ;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play’d dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.

“ Hornbook was by, wi? ready art,
And had sae fortified the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t wad ha’e pierced the heart
O’ a kail-ruit.

“TJ drew my scythe in sie a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi? my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock :
I might as weel ha’e tried a quarry
O’ hard whin-rock.

“ Ev’n them he canna get attended,
Although their face he ne’er had kenn’d it,
Just in a kail-blade and send it :
As soon’s he smells’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At ance he tells’t.

 

“ And then o’ doctor’s saws and whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, and metals,
A’ kinds 0’ boxes, mugs, and bottles,
He’s sure to ha’e :
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A, BC:

“ Calces 0’ fossils, earths, and trees :
True sal-marinum 0’ the seas :
The farina 0’ beans and pease,

He has’t in plenty ;
Aqua-fontis, what you please,

He can content ye.

‘ Forbye some new uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus 0’ eapons:
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per se ;
Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,
And monie mae.”

“'Waes me for Johnny Ged’s Hole * now,”

Quoth I, “if that thae news be true !

His braw calf-ward, whare gowans grew
Sae white and bonny,

Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew :
They'll ruin Johnny 1’

The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
And says, “ Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak’ ye na fear ;
They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.

 

 

* The grave-digger.

 

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BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

 

 

“ Where I kill’d ane a fair-strae death,
By loss o’ bluid, or want 0’ breath,
This night I’m free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,

By drap and pill.

“An honest Wabster to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair ;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne’er spak’ mair.

“ A countra laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts ;
His only son for Hornbook sets,
And pays him well :
The lad for twa gude gimmer pets,
Was laird himsel’.

«“ A bonny lass, ye kenn’d her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame ;
She trusts hersel’, to hide the shame,

In Hornbook’s care ;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

To hide it there.

 That’s just a swatch 0’ Hornbook’s way ;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,

An’s weel paid for’t ;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey

Wi his d-mn’d dirt.

“ But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speaking 0’t 5
T’ll nail the self-conceited sot
As dead’s a herrin’:
Neist time we meet, I ’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin’!”

But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which raised us baith :
I took the way that pleased mysel’,
And sae did Death.

 

THE KIRK’S ALARM*,
A SATIRE.

OrtHOpOXx, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience :

There’s a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast ;
That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi’ terror ;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewin’ ;

Provost John is still deaf to the church’s relief,
And orator Bob? is its ruin.

 

This Poem was written a short time after the publica-
tion of Dr. M‘Gill’s Essay.

+ Dr. M‘Gill. + Rt A—k—n.

 

D’rymple mild}, D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s
like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.

Rumble John2, Rumble John, mount the steps wi’
a groan,
Cry the book is wi’ heresy cramm’d ;
Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle,
And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.

Simper James3, Simper James, leave the fair Killie
dames,
There’s a holier chase in your view ;
[’ll lay on your head, that the pack ye’ll soon lead,
For puppies like you there’s but few.

Singet Sawney‘, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the
Unconscious what evils await ; [ penny,

Wi’ a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the Foul Thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld’, Daddy Auld, there’s a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ;

Tho’ ye can do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster®, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do
The corps is no nice of recruits: [ muster,

Yetto worth let’s be just, royal blood yemight boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamie Goose?, Jamie Goose, ye ha’e made but toom
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; [rcose,

But the Doctor’s your mark, for the L—d’s haly ark,
He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrang pin in’t.

Poet Willie’, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi’ your liberty’s chain and your wit ;

O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid astride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Andro Gouk®, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the
book
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye!
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig,
And ye’ll ha’e a calf’s head 0’ sma’ value.

Barr Steenie!, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what
mean ye?
If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,
Ye may ha’e some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi’ people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side!, Irvine side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma’ is your share; —

Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, even your faes will allow, |

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock!? Muirland Jock, when the L—d |

makes a rock
To erush Common Sense for her sins,
If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

 

3 Mr. M‘Kinlay.
5 Mr Auld. 6 Mr. G——t of Ochiltree.
Nba NG ¢ of Cumnock. 8 Mr. Peebles of Ayr.
9 Dr. A.M ll. 10 Mr.S——n Y—g of Barr.
11 Mr. S——h of Galston. 12 Mr. S—d.

1 Mr. Dalrymple. 2 Mr. Russell

4 Mr. Moodie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i te A ae a A A at ae itn ge de! ae

Te a SeHoly Will,* Holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;

The timmer is scant when ye’re ta’en for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons, seize your sp’ritual
Ammunition ye never can need; [ guns,

Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses 0’ lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelping
Why desert ye your auld native shire? [turns,

Your muse is a gipsy,—e’en tho’ she were tipsy,
She cou’d ca’ us nae waur than we are.

 

Pe UWA PERS:
OR, THE HOLY TUILZIE7T.
O a’ ye pious, godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks
About the dykes?

The twa best Herds in a’ the wast,
That e’er gae gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
O! dool to tell,
Ha’e had a bitter, black out-cast
Atween themsel’.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,

How could you raise so vile a busile,

Ye’ll see how New-light Herds will whistle,
And think it fine!

The L—d’s cause ne’er gat sic a twistle,
Sin’ I hae min’.

O, Sirs! whae’er wad ha’e expeckit

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

Ye wha were ne’er by lairds, respeckit
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.

What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank,
Nae poison’d sour Arminian stank,
He let them taste,
Frae Calvin’s well, ay clear, they drank,
O sic a feast!

The foumart, wil’-cat, brock, and tod,
Well kenn’d his voice thro’ a’ the wood,
He smell’d their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in,
And weel he liked to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What Herd like Russell tell’d his tale ?
His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,
He kenn’d the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail
O’er a’ the height,
And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

 

* [An elder—or kind of churchwarden—in Mauchline,
and the subject of the two pieces in page 16.—ED.]

+ This piece was among the first of our Author’s produc-
tions which he submitted to the public ; and was occasioned
Ly a dispute between two Clergymen, near Kilmarnock.

BURNS’S POEMS.

He fine a mangy sheep could serub,

Or nobly fling the gospel club,

And New-light Herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin ;

Could shake them o’er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa !—O, do I live to see’t !
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An’ names, like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither, gi’en,
While New-light Herds, wi’ laughin’ spite
Say neither’s lyin’!

A’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
There’s D n deep, and Peebles shaul,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,
We trust in thee,
That thou wilt work them hot and eauld
Till they agree.

 

Consider, Sirs, how we’re beset !
There’s scarce a new Herd that we get,
But comes frae ’mang that cursed set

I winna name,
I hope frae heay’n to see them yet

‘In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,

M‘Gill has wrought us meikle wae,

And that curs’d rascal ca’d M e,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft ha’e made us black and blae,
Wi vengefu’ paws.

 

 

Auld W w lang has hatch’d mischief,
We thought ay death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to sueceed him,
A chiel wha’ll soundly buff our beef;

I meikle dread him.

And monie a ane that I could tell,
Who fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turn-coats among oursel’:
There’s Smith for ane,
I doubt he’s but a grey-nick quill,
An’ that ye’ll fin’.

O! a’ ye flocks, o’er a’ the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,

Come join your counsel and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the power themsel’s,
To choose their Herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

And Learning in a woodie dance,

And that fell cur ea’d Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banish’d o’er the sea to France :
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw’s and D’rymple’s eloquence,
M‘Gill’s close, nervous excellence,
M‘Q—e’s pathetic, manly sense,
And guid M‘Math,
WY Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,
May a’ pack aff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ats16 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

; He E
| _ L—d, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts,
i! HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. | a drinks; an’ SweHns) att plays at cartes,
a } | tet has sae monie takin’ arts,
kG || O Txov, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell, ! WY grit an’ sma’,
ay || Wha, as it pleasest best thysel’, | Frae G-d’s ain priest the people’s hearts
} | Sends ane to heav’n and ten to hell, He steals awa’.
| A’ for thy glory, | bagi
| And no for ony good or ill | And when we chasten’d him therefore,
i | They’ve done afore thee : | Thou kens how he bred sie a splore,

| | As set the warld in a roar
. || I bless and praise thy matchless might, | O’ laughin’ at us ;
it }

}
| Whan thousands thou hast left in night, Curse thou his basket and his store,
| That I am here afore thy sight, Kail an’ potatoes.
For gifts an’ grace,
A burnin’ and a shinin’ light, | L—d, hear my earnest ery an’ pray’y,
To a’ this place. | Against the presbytery 0’ Ayr ;
|

ci gg ai ap EO Be

Osten in

ey Algo

Thy strong right hand, L—d, make it bare

What was I, or my generation, Upo’ their heads,

That I should get sic exaltation 2 L—d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,

4 Lie) I, wha deserve sic just damnation For their misdeeds
aye For broken laws, :
Ph ha | Five thousand years “fore Oy creation, O L—d, my G-d, that glib-tongued Aiken :

ath Thro’ Adam’s cause. My vera heart an’ saul are quakin’,
} ff '| When frae my mither’s womb I fell, To think how we stood groanin’, shakin’,
Bhi. || Thou might ha’e plunged me in hell, : . : And swat wi dread,
ps | To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, While he wi’ hangin’ lip and sneakin
ark | | In burnin’ lake, Held up his head.
t Be) Pecos dauimed oe ae E aoe 5 L—d, in the day of vengeance try him,
Dae L—d, visit them wha did employ him,
k Yet I am here a chosen sample, And pass not in thy mercy by ’em,
To show thy grace is great and ample ; Nor hear their pray’r ;
Sat I’m here a pillar in thy temple, But, for thy people’s sake, destroy ’em,
ey Strong as a rock, And dinna spare.
* A guide, a buckler, an example
To a’ thy flock. But, L—d, remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
hy O L—d! thou kens what zeal I bear

 

That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be thine :
Amen. amen.

dh. Ne | When drinkers drink, and swearers swoar,
at \ . . . 5
| || And singin’ there, and dancin’ here,
Beg is Wi’ great an’ sma’ ;
yy | || For I am keepit by thy fear,
Hite, | Free frae them a’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

at ae | ne yet, aE See oe
hy At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust, aa
ys And sometimes too, wi’ warldly trust, EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE,
Bhs. | Vile self gets in ; a :
Hh But thou remembers we are fo Eigen 5 loly Willie's saix worn clay
ya bit i Weagled de cin. Tak’s up its last abode ;
ie His saul has ta’en some other way,
HB hed ‘ * es ui x - * I fear the left-hand road.
" ip Hes Besides, I farther maun allow, Shani thers ben os)
ay aa Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow; fe : Bat - zs ee S gun,
a let But L—d, that Friday I was fou N: ee a y he 4 ie heen
i aaet | When I came near her, ors mo ae ae ae eee
Hh Nie _ Or else, thou kens, thy servant true, Observe wha’s standin’ wi’ him.
M iy i | Wad ne’er ha’e steer’d her. Your brunstane devilship, I see,
aa iti | Maybe thou lets this feshly thorn Has got him there before ye ;
1 . - \ Beset thy servant e’en and morn, But haud your nine-tail cat a Wee,
Bi i Lest he owre high and proud should turn, Till ance you’ve heard my story.
Bie ’Cause he’s sae gifted ; : : :
til i! : If sae, thy han’ maun e’en be borne, Your pity I will not implore,
pret Until thou lift it. For pity ye hae nane ;
Bria Sy Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,
aa Me U—d, bless thy chosen in this place, And mercy’s day is gane :
By! For here thou hast a chosen race ;
U ih My But G-d confound their stubborn face, But hear me, sir, de’il as ye are,
een And blast their name, Look something to your credit ;
ee! th, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace, A coof like him would stain your name,
ae An’ public shame. If it were ken’d you did it.
mei
SaiBURNGS POrMS ia eS

 

 

 

 

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets 0’ daisies white
Out o’er the grassy lea:

Now Pheebus cheers the erystal streams,
And glads the azure skies ;

But nocht can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav’roecks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing ;

The merle, in his noontide bow’r,
Makes woodland echoes ring ;

The mavis mild, wi’ many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:

In love and freedom they rejoice,
W? care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae ;

The hawthorn ’s budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae :

The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang ;

But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o’ bonnie France,
Where happy I ha’e been;

Fu’ lightly raise I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e’en:

And I’m the Sov’reign of Scotland,
And monie a traitor there :

Yet here [I lie in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman!
My sister and my fae,

Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman’s breast
Was never known to thee ;

Nor th’ balm that drops on wounds of woe
Frae woman’s pitying e’e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine ;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne’er wad blink on mine !

God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee ;

And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friend,
Remember him for me !

Oh ! soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o’er the yellow corn !
And in the narrow house o’ death
Let winter round me rave ;
And the next flowers that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave !

 

 

THE HOLY FAIR*. |
|

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation ;
And secret hung, with poison’d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the gorget show’d
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion
HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODZ.
Upon a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature’s face was fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
And snuff the caller air :
. . 7 |
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
WY glorious light was glintin’ ;
The hares were hirpling down the furs,
The lav’rocks they were chantin’

Fw’ sweet that day.

RN IES ae OLE TR NN MO I ha aren nits psp om

 

|
As lightsomely I glowr’d abroad, |
To see a scene sae gay, |
Three hizzies, early at the road, 1
Cam’ skelpin’ up the way : |
‘'wa had manteeles 0’ dolefu’ black,
But ane wi’ lyart lining ; |
The third, that gaed a-wee aback, |
Was in the fashion shining,
Fw’ gay that day.

 

The twa appear’d like sisters twin,
In feature, form, and claes ;
Their visage wither’d, lang, and thin,
And sour as ony slaes :
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-loup,
As light as ony lambie,
And wi’ a eurchie low did stoop,
As soon as e’er she saw me,
Fw’ kind that day.

 

Wi’ bonnet aff, quoth I, “ Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me ;
I’m sure I’ve seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.”
Quo’ she, and laughing as she spak’,
An’ tak’s me by the hands,
“Ye for my sake, ha’e gi’en the feck
Of a’ the Ten Commands
A screed some day.

 

“My name is Fun—your crony dear, |
The nearest friend ye ha’e ; |
And this is Superstition here, |
And that’s Hypocrisy. |
I’m gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin’: |
Gin ye’ll gae there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughin’ |
At them this day.”

Quoth I, “ Wi’ a’ my heart I'll do’t;
I'll get my Sunday’s sark on,
And meet you on the holy spot ;
Faith, we’se ha’e fine remarkin
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
And soon J made me ready ;
For roads were clad, frae side to side, |
Wi mony a weary body, |

9499

In droves that day.

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland
for a sacramental occasion.

 

aPOEMS.

 

 

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Here farmers gash, in ridin’ graith,
Gaed hoddin by their cotters ;
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith,
Are springin’ o’er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,
In silks and scarlet glitter ;
Wi’ sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,
And farls baked wi’ butter,
Fw’ crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi’ ha’pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
And we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show :
On every side they’re gatherin’,
Some carrying dails, some chairs and stools,
And some are busy blethrin’
Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show’rs,
An’ screen our countra gentry,
There Racer Jess, an’ twa-three whores,
Are blinkin’ at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin’ jades,
Wr heaving breast and bare neck
And there a batch o’ wabster lads,
Blackguardin’ frae Kilmarnock
For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin’ on their sins,
An’ some upon their claes ;
Ane curses feet that fyl’d his shins,
Anither sighs and prays :
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi’ screwed-up grace-proud faces ;
On that a set 0’ chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin’ on the lasses
To chairs that day.

O happy is that man and blest !
Nae wonder that it pride him !
Wha’s ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin’ down beside him.
Wi’ arm reposed on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him,
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An’s loof upon her bosom,
Unkenn’d that day.

Now a’ the congregation o’er
Is silent expectation ;
For Moodie speels the holy door,
W? tidings o’ damnation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
’Mang sons 0’ God present him,
The vera sight 0’ Moodie’s face.
To ’s ain het hame had sent him
Wr fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o’ faith,
Wi? rattlin’ and wi’ thumpin’!

Now meekly calni, now wild in wrath,
He’s stampin’ and he’s jumpin’!

His lengthen’d chin, his turn’d-up snout,
His eldritch squeel and gestures,

Oh! how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day.

But hark ! the tent has changed its voice ;
There’s peace and rest nae langer ;
For a’ the real judges rise,
They canna sit for anger !
Smith opens out his cauld narangues
On practice and on morals ;
And aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars and barrels
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine
0’ moral powers and reason ?
His English style, and gesture fine,
Are a’ clean out 0’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne’er a word o’ faith in
That’s right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poisoned nostrum ;
For Peebles, frae the Water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he’s got the word 0’ God,
And meek and mim has view’d it,
While Common Sense has ta’en the road,
And aff, and up the Cowgate,*
Fast, fast that day.

Wee Miller, neist, the guard relieves,
And orthodoxy raibles,
Though in his heart he weel believes
And thinks it auld wives’ fables :
But, faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So cannily he hums them ;
Although his carnal wit and sense
Like hafflin’s-ways o’ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt and ben, the change-house fills
Wr yill-caup commentators ;
Here’s crying out for bakes and gills,
And there the pint-stoup clatters ;
While thick and thrang, and loud and lang,
Wi logic and wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gi’es us mair
Than either school or college,
It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fu’ o’ knowledge:
Be’t whiskey gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion
By night or day.

The lads and lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul and body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
And steer about the toddy.
On this ane’s dress, and that ane’s leuk,
They’re making observations ;
While some are cozie i’ the neuk,
And formin’ assignations
To meet some day.

 

 

 

 

*A street so called, which faces the tent in Mauchline.ee

 

But now the Lord’s ain Trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills are rairin,

And echoes back return the shouts,
Black Russell is nae sparin’ ;

His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints and marrow :

His talk 0’ hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow *

W? fright that day.

A vast, unbottom’d, boundless pit,
Fill’d fw’ 0’ lowin brunstane,
Whase ragin’ flame, and scorchin’ heat,
Wad melt the hardest whunstane !
The hauf asleep start up wi’ fear,
And think they hear it roarin’,
When presently it does appear
‘Twas but some neebor snorin?
_ Asleep that day.

*T wad be owre lang a tale to tell
How mony stories past,

And how they crowded to the yill
When they were a’ dismist ;

How drink gaed round, in cogs and eaups,
Amang the furms and benches,

And cheese and bread, frae women’s laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,

BURNS’S POEMS.

THE ORDINATION,
For Sense they little owe to frugal Heaven,—
To please the mob they hide the little 8iven,
Kin~mMarnock wabsters, fidge and claw.
And pour your ereeshie nations; _
And ye wha leather rax and draw,
OP a? denominations ;
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane and a’,
And there tak’ up your stations ;
Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw,
And pour divine libations
For joy this day.

2

Curst Common-Sense, that imp 0’ hell,
Cam’ in wi Maggy Lauder *,
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
And Russell sair misea’d her ;
This day M‘Kinlay taks the flail,
And he’s the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,
And set the bairns to daud her
W? dirt this day.

Mak’ haste and turn King David owre,
And lilt wi? holy clangor ;

0’ double verse come gi’e us four,
And skirl up the Bangor:

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| This day the kirk kicks up a stoure,
| Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
| For Heresy is in her power,

And gloriously she’ll whang her
| Wi’ pith this day.
|

An’ dawds that day.

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In comes a gaucie, gash gudewife,
And sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife ;
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld gudemen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
And gi’es them’t like a tether,
Fw’ lang that day.

tern Ait ve thene thees

Come, let a proper text be read,
And touch it aff wi’ vigour,

How graceless Ham > leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a niger $

Or Phineas t drove the murdering blade,
W? whore-abhorring rigour ;

Or Zipporah§, the scauldin’ jade, |
Was like a bluidy tiger

I’ th’ inn that day.

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Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that ha’e naething !
Sma’ need has he to Say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing !
O wives, be mindfu’, ance yoursel’
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day.

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There, try his mettle on the creed, |
| And bind him down wi’ caution, |
[2° Wee stipend is a carnal weed
| He tak’s but for the fashion :
| And gi’e him o’er the flock, to feed,
| And punish each transgression ;
|
|
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Pe viae ee BESS

ON init Ta oe.

Especial rams that cross the breed, |
Gi’e them sufficient threshin’,

ink 1’ rattlin’? tow
Now Clinkumbell, wi’ rattlin’ to ‘ Shorealien ane day i

Begins to jow and croon;
Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon,
At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon :
W? faith and hope, and love and drink,
They’re a’ in famous tune
For crack that day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, |
And toss thy horns fu’ canty ; | :
Nae mair thou’lt rowte out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture’s scanty ; |
For lapfu’s large 0’ gospel kail !
| Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
| And runts 0’ grace, the pick and wale,
No gi’en by way o’ dainty,
| But ilka day.
|

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How mony hearts this day converts
O’ sinners and 0’ lasses !
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh is.
There’s some are fu’ 0’ love divine ;
There’s some are fu’ 0’ brandy ;
An’ mony jobs, that day begun,
May end in houghmagandie
_ Some ither day.

a
Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep,

* < Es ers "ese —

To think upen our Zion ;

ae a eee
~~ aoe

Like baby-clouts a-dryin’ :

oR ERE an ee

 

| * Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the
admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay
to the Laigh Kirk.

a

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: t Genesis, ix. 22. + Numbers, xxy.8. § Exodus, iv. 25.
* Shakspeare’s Hamlet. She Bee

|
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, |
|

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20 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

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Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep,
And o’er the thairms be tryin’ ;
Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,
And a’ like lamb-tails flyin’
Fu’ fast this day!

Lang Patronage, wi’ rod o’ airn,
Has shored the kirk’s undoin’,
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin’ ;
And, like a godly elect bairn,
He’s waled us out a true ane,
And sound, this day.

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever ;
Or try the wicked town o’ Ayr,
For there they’ll think you clever ;
Or, nae reflection on your lair,
You may commence a shaver ;
Or to the Netherton repair,
An’ turn a carpet-weaver
Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a match,
We never had sie twa drones ;

Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin’ baudrons:

And aye he catch’d the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons ;

But now his honour maun detach,
Wi’ a’ his brimstane squadrons,

Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes,
She’s swingein’ through the city,
Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays!
I vow it’s unco pretty:
There Learning, wi’ his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty ;
And Common Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak’ to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.

But there’s Morality himsel’,
Embracing a’ opinions ;

Hear, how he gi’es the tither yell,
Between his twa companions ;

See, how she peels the skin and fell,
As ane were peeling onions!

Now there—they’re packed aff to hell,
And banish’d our dominions,

Henceforth this day.

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice !

Come, bouse about the porter!
Morality’s demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter:
M‘Kinlay, Russell, are the boys

That Heresy can torture ;
They'll gi’e her on a rape a hoyse,

And cowe her measure shorter

By th’ head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here’s, for a conclusion,

“To every New Light * mother’s son,
From this time forth, confusion!”

* Wew Light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland,
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of Norwich,
has defended so strenuously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

If mair they deave us wi’ their din,
Or patronage intrusion,
We'll light a spunk, and, ev’ry skin,
We’ll rin them aff in fusion
Like oil, some day.

ead |

THE CALF.

TO THE REY. MR. JAMES STEVEN,

ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CHAP. IV. VER. 2.

‘© And they shall go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall.”

Rieurt, Sir! your text I’ll prove it true,
Though heretics may laugh ;

For instance, there’s yoursel’ just now,
God knows, an unco’ Calf !

And should some patron be so kind
As bless you wi’ a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we’ll find
Ye’re still as great a Stirk !

But if the lover’s raptured hour
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, every heavenly power,
You e’er should be a Stot !

Tho’ when some kind, connubial dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been, that you may wear
A noble head o’ horns !

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowt,

Few men 0’ sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the Nowt!

 

And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
Wi’ justice they may mark your head—

« Here lies a famous Bullock !”

3
|

TO JAMES SMITH,

“~~

 

MAUCHLINE.

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet’ner of life, and solder of society ! |

For me, I swear by sun an’ moon,
And every star that blinks aboon,
Ye’ve cost me twenty pair o’ shoon,
Just gaun to see you 5
And every ither pair that’s done,
Mair ta’en I’m wi’ you.

|

|

Ff owe thee much, Buarr.

Dear Smith, the slee’st, pawkie thief, \
That e’er attempted stealth or rief,

Ye surely ha’e some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts ;

For ne’er a bosom yet was prief 1

Against your arts.
|

|

|

That auld capricious ecarline, Nature,
To mak’ amends for scrimpit stature,
She’s turn’d you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev’ry feature,

~ ty
She’s wrote—The Man. ||

|
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|
|

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|
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|

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|

 

 

 

 

Just now I’ve ta’en the fit 0’ rhyme,
My barmie noddle’s working prime,
My faney yerkit up sublime

W? hasty summon:
fla’e ye « leisure-moment’s time

To hear what’s comin’?

|| Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash ;

Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfw’ cash :
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

And raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash—

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
And damn’d my fortune to the groat ;
But, in requit,
Has blest me wi’ a random shot
O’ countra wit.

This while my notion’s ta’en a sklent,
To try my fate in gude black prent !
But still the mair I’m that way bent,
Something cries, “ Hoolie !
I red you, honest man, tak’ tent!
Ye’ll show your folly.

“ There’s ither poets, much your betters,

Far seen in Greek, deep men 0’ letters,

Ha’e thought they had insured their debtors
A’ future ages ;

Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages.”

Then fareweel hopes 0” laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows !

Henceforth I’ll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

And teach the lanely heights and howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, wi’ tentless heed

How never-halting moments speed,

Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ;
Then, all unknown,

Pll lay me wi’ th’ inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o’ death begin a tale?

Just now we’re living, sound and hale;

Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o’er side!

And large, before Enjoyment’s gale,
Let’s tak’ the tide.

This life, sae far’s I understand,

Is a’ enchanted fairy-land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,
That, wielded right,

Mak’s hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu’ light.

The magic wand then let us wield:
For, ance that five-and-forty’s speel’d,
See crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi wrinkled face,
Comes hoastin’, hirplin’ owre the field,
Wi’ creepin’ pace.

 

 

BURNS’S POEMS. : 2
ieee

|
|

When ance life’s day draws near the gloamin ,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamiw’ ;
And fareweel cheerfu’ tankards foamin’,
And social noise ;
And fareweel, dear deluding woman,
The joy 0’ joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,

Young Faney’s rays the hills adorning !

Cold-pausing Caution’s lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys at th’ expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near
Amang the leaves }
And tho’ the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow’ry spat,
For which they never toil’d nor Swat $
They drink the Sweet, and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And, haply, eye the barren hut
WY high disdain.

W?’ steady aim, some Fortune chase:
, J ’ : >
Keen Hope does every sinew brace:
0} Over) >
Thro’ fair, thro’ foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey :
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

And ithers, like your humble servan’,
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin’ ;
To right or left, eternal swervin’,
They zigzag on;
Till curst wi’ age, obscure and starvin’,
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil and strainin’ !-—
But truce wi’ peevish, poor complainin’? ;—
Is Fortune’s fickle Luna wanin??
E’en let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remainin’
Let’s sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, “ Ye Pow’rs!” and warm implore,
“Though I should wander terra o’er,
~ In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth 0’ rhymes.

“ Gi’e dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards ;
Gi’e fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids 0’ honour:
And yill and whisky gi’e to cairds
Until they sconner.

“A title, Dempster merits it ;
A garter gi’e to Willie Pitt ;
Gi’e wealth to some be-ledger’d cit,
In cent. per cent. ;
But gi’e me real, sterling wit,
And I’m content.

 

 

eR ——————————

 

 

 

 

f
Ri
i

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x awa! | 92 BURNS’S

 

POEMS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

;
‘ . PS Oe eens Se a ee, oe
i " | « While ye are pleased to keep me hale, A’ in this motty, misty clime, —
Be | Ill sit down owre my scanty meal, I backward mused on wasted time,
Ot || Be’t water-brose or muslin-kail, How I had spent my youthfu’ prime,
' ati | Wi’ cheerfu’ face, An’ done nae thing,
; | As lang’s the Muses dinna fail But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme,
1 To say the grace.” For fools to sing.
i :
ree tt! ie | An anxious e’e I never throws Had I to gude advice but harkit,
Poe ihe Behint my lug, Oe by my oe I might, by this, ha’e led a market,
‘ By I jouk beneath Misfortune s blows Or struttit in a bank, an’ clarkit
eu i. As weel’s I may ; My cash-account 5
Beit, | Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,
fe ay I rhyme away. Is a’ th’ amount.
| BA  O ye douce folk, that live by rul
a pall | ye douce folk, that live by rule, oe sais :
Hite | | Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, I started, mutt’ring, Blockhead ! coof !
| _ Compared wi’ you—O fool! fool! fool ! And heaved on high my waukit loof,
| | | Hew much. unlike! To swear by a’ yon starry roof, _
eis | Your hearts are just a standing pool, Or some rash aith,
the: i | Your lives, a dyke! That I, honoree oT
\ oo . Al | Nae hare-brain’d sentimental traces
Bea op | In your unletter’d, nameless faces! When, click! the string the sneck did draw ;
ae 1 In arioso trills and graces, And, jee! the door gaed to the wa’ ;
ate te 1 Ye never stray, And by my ingle-lowe I saw,
at | But, gravissimo, solemn basses Now bleezin’ bright,
ey | Ye hum away. A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,
fh} | E Come full in sight.
é Se || Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye’re wise, 5
: | - Ves ° ;
We | | Nae ferly tho’ ye do despise Fe Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht ;
ie | ee vIn ee 9 a The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht ;
Bernt. | 1e ratthin’ squad ; I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht
hte | I see you upward cast your eyes— In some wild glen ;
ae | Ye ken the road. When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,
ie {i Whilst I—but I shall haud me there— And stepped ben.
i ae || Wr you I'll scarce gang ony where—
AT (I Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
pi if : But quat my sang, Were twisted, gracefu ; round her brows;
ats | Content wi’ you to mak’ a pair, I took her for eo oe sg
Posty || Whare’er I gang. ye ame Ose
i | ! Sine And come to stop those reckless vows
HEY Wad soon been broken.
ihe a ao . .
bie A “harebrain’d, sentimental trace”
ig: | Was strongly markit in her face ;
Bs | THE VISION. A wildly-witty, rustic grace
i te) DUAN FIRST. Shone full upon her ;
Nt Thy! é Her eye, e’en turn’d on
Ae Tur sun had closed the winter day, Jes ese Le ee snout
Aye The curiers quat their roaring play, : : :
wey pe And hunger’d maukin ta’en her wa
u Wish i 8 ie kail-yards heen Down flow’d her robe, a tartan sheen,
fy ew : é : a 9 : ns ° :
Oh wat te i While faithless snaws ilk step betray Ron . ee ee See z Seon
Hie Whare she has been. BESS A SS ay Coon ee +
ee fats ould only peer it ;
eal ee? || ° ° n p 1
Sie ite The thresher’s weary flingin-tree Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,
ae tet The lee-lang day had tired me ; Nane else cam’ near it.
A st) And whan the day had closed his e’e, :
A ie Far i’ the west, Her mantle large, 0’ greenish hue,
Det ke | Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, My gazing wonder chiefly drew; _
f fide I gaed to rest. Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw
Be | A lustre grand,
Bit i There, lanely by the ingle-cheek And seem’d, to my astonish’d view,
ee nr | I sat, and e’ed the spewin’ reek, A well-known land.
Berek i. That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek,
; aha it 1 in? e e e
> Ny fi The auld clay biggin’ ; Here, rivers in the sea were lost,
mil i | And heard the restless rattons squeak There, mountains to the skies were tost ;
is ith te About the riggin’, __ | Here, tumbling billows mark’d the coast,
eid: ke * Duan, a term of Ossian’s for the different divisions of : Wi eo foam 5
uy al a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M‘Pher- There, distant shone Art’s lofty boast,
path i | s0n’s translation. The lordly dome.
aU, ees
2 “ th Ki <a SS a ES EE SRST ER CEA eT eS cepanive Soa Sonam
pent
Bah sie |
" wil rr ih
a? AN | e

ei in Se ah DS eg A a PRE PE ace a sid BOSE a SR a a
c ie —_—_|

|
|

 

 

 

 

 

|

 

 

Here, Doon pour’d down his far-fetch’d floods
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,

On to the shore ;
And mony a lesser torrent scuds,

Wi’ seemin’ roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough rear’d her head ;
Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a race,
To ev’ry nobler virtue bred,

And polish’d grace.

By stately tow’r, or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,
I could discern ;

Some seem’d to muse, some seem’d to dare,
Wi’ feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,

To see a race * heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel
In sturdy blows ;

While back recoiling seem’d to reel
Their suthron foes.

His Counrry’s Saviour, ** mark him well !
Bold Richardton’s + heroic swell ;
The chief on Sark §, who glorious fell,
In high command ;
And He, whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.

There, where a sceptred Pictish || shade
Stalk’d round his ashes lowly laid,

| I mark’d a martial race, portray’d

In colours strong ;
Bold, soldier-featured, undismay’d
They strode along.

Through many a wild romantic grove %,

Near many a hermit-fancied cove,

(Fit haunts for friendship or for love,)
In musing mood,

An aged judge, I saw him rove,
Dispensing good.

With deep-struck reverential awe **

The learned sire and son I saw,

To Nature’s God and Nature’s law
They gave their lore:

This, all its source and end to draw,
That, to adore.

 

* The Wallaces. + William Wallace.

+ Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal
preserver of Scottish independence.

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com-
mand, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle
on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious
victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and
intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of
his wounds after the action.

|| Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of
Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says,
near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coil’s-field,
where his burial-place is still shown.

@ Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice Clerk
{ Miller).

** Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor, and present Pro-
fessor Dugald Stewart.

 

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

oC a eS

PRET See i

 

 

 

Brydone’s brave ward * I well could Spy;

Beneath old Scotia’s smiling eye;

Who eall’d on Fame, low standing by,
To hand him on,

Where many a patriot-name on high,
And hero shone.

 

DUAN SECOND.
Wir musing deep, astonish’d stare,
I view’d the heav’nly-seeming fair ;
A whisp’ring throb did witness bear

Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder sister’s air

She did me greet.

“¢ All hail! my own inspired Bard
In me thy native Muse regard!
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
Thus poorly low!
I come to give thee such reward
As we bestow.

3

“ Know, the great Genius of this land

Has many a light, aérial band,

Who, all beneath his high command,
Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,
Their labours ply.

“They Scotia’s race among them share,

Some fire the soldier on to dare;

Some rouse the patriot up to bare
Corruption’s heart ;

Some teach the bard, a darling care,
The tuneful art.

“ *Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ;
Or, ’mid the venal senate’s roar,

They, sightless, stand,
To mend the honest patriot lore,

And grace the hand.

«¢ And when the bard, or hoary sage,
Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild poetic rage

In energy,
Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

“ Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ;
Hence Dempster’s zeal-inspired tongue ;
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung
His ¢ Minstrel lays ;’
Or tore, with noble ardour stung,
The sceptic’s bays.

“ To lower orders are assign’d

The humbler ranks of human-kind,

The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind,
The artisan ;

All choose, as various they’re inclined,
The various man.

“ When yellow waves the heavy grain, _
The threat’ning storm some strongly rein ;
Some teach to meliorate the plain
With tillage-skill ;
And some instruct the shepherd-train,
Blythe o’er the hill.

 

 

* Colonel Fullarton.

 

 

 

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a| 24 BURNS’S POEMS. Tl
| — |
ae il « Some hint the lover’s harmless wile ; “ Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, |
a it Some grace the maiden’s artless smile ; To paint with Thomson’s landscape-glow ;
- } . Some soothe the lab’rer’s weary toil, Or wake the sige e ees vie |
Para. For humble gains, Vith Shenstone’s art :
Bah. And make his cottage-scenes beguile Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow |
His cares and pains. Warm on the heart. |
ii |
; 1, Bei eke “ Yet, all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose,
a ee ee ee” The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; |
Pay peter wea emer iar ge ae Though large the forest’s monarch throws |
a To mark the embryotic trace ce His army shade, |
iat i x oO LEE G : e Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, |
; nd careful note each opening gt ae ae ‘Adown the glade |
a | A guide and guard. : |
‘ | | «Then never murmur nor repine 5 |
i if Ms | © Of these am I—Coila my name ; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine 5
ree ia _ And this district as mine I claim, And trust me, not Potosi’s mine,
; 1 aut | Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Nor kings’ regard,
ee iit | Held ruling pow’r: Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,
A data | I mark’d thy embryo tuneful flame, A rustic bard.
' | Thy natal hour. ;
; aA} “To give my counsels all m one,
ey hs) | “ With future hope, I oft would gaze Thy tuneful flame a a fan ;
: ea Fond, on thy little early ways, Preserve the 1S aoe ae
p | Thy rudely caroll’d chiming phrase, vars } Pl Bneeee
‘ i 1 In uncouth rhymes, And trust, the One “ aun
hag | Fired at the simple, artless lays oe |
eB ie | Of other times. «“ And wear thou this’”—-she solemn said,
Pi ie I : : ; And bound the holiy round my head ;
if | saw thee seek the sounding shore, The polish’d leaves, and berries red, |
is | Delighted with the dashing roar ; Did rustling play ; |
Bint Or when the north his fleecy store And, like a passing thought, she fled |
RRS | Drove through the sky, In light away.
rare | || I saw grim nature’s visage hoar
ihe || Struck thy young eye.
bo. t ||
een “ Or, when the deep green-mantled earth |
Newitt Warm cherish’d ev’ry floweret’s birth, MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. |
ita! And joy and music pouring forth pee |
Dales) | In ev’ry grove, |
etd |) I saw thee eye the gen’ral mirth Wuen chill November’s surly blast
ol With boundless love. Made fields and forests bare,
Botta One evening, as I wander’d forth
af : ‘i “ When ripen’d fields, and azure skies, Along the banks of Ayr,
ane Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, I spied a man, whose aged step
Bee | I saw thee leave their evening joys, Seem’d weary, worn with care ;
ny / And lonely stalk, His face was furrow’d o’er with years,
wat, ti To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise And hoary was his hair.
AW) In pensive walk. s
Ait a Young stranger, whither wanderest thou!
hy i i “ When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Began the reverend sage : ee
4 aii i Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Does thirst of wealth thy step const aly
a iat Hei Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Or youthful pleasure’s rage !
“\ i ie Th’ adored Name, Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,
cee | I taught thee how to pour in song, Too soon thou hast began
ae Ei it To soothe thy flame. To wander forth, with me, to mourn
sh a ne The miseries of man !
By) a]! : > :
fi ae, the sun that overhangs yon mons |
Pane at MgIEd Dv fens Ln y Outspreading far and wide,
mutt ea) oy a aes Bac Where hundreds labour to support /
sae | But yet the light that led astra a pe haus diy lords eee
ail y 8 ene I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
me | Was light from heaven. Twice forty times return ;
i i ay ne Pas : And every time has added proofs,
Gilg ME taught thy manners-painting strains, That man was made to mourn.
a The loves, the ways of simple swains,
i ili Mal Till now, o’er all my wide domains O man! while in thy early years,
Bien i)! Thy fame extends: How prodigal of time !
mE ty, And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, | Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Pea | | Become thy friends. Thy glerious youthful prime !
ei |_— : oes
. Sth iBURNS’S P

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alternate follies take the Sway :
Licentious passions burn ;

Which tenfold force give nature’s law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not atone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might ;

Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, ‘oh! ill-match’d pair !
Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure’s lap carest ;

Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn !

Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.

See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil ;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife,
And helpless offspring, mourn.

If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slaye—
By nature’s law design’d—

Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn ?

Or why has man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn ?

Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:

This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.

O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest.

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!

But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn !

ee eed

 

 

OEMS.

TO RUIN.

Att hail, inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word
The mightiest empires fall,
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolved, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart ;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.
Then low’ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread ;
Tho’ thickening, and blackening,
Round my devoted head.

And thou, grim power, by life abhorr’d,
While life a pleasure can afford,
O! hear a wretch’s prayer !
No more I shrink appall’d, afraid ;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life’s joyless day ;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face ;
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

PLL LP

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE,
KILMARNOCK,
ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.
O GoupiE! terror o’ the Whigs,
Dread o’ black coats and rev’rend wigs ;
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin’ looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues’
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin’ glow’rin’ Superstition,

Waes me! she’s in a sad condition ;

Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
To see her water ;

Alas! there’s ground o’ great suspicion
She’l! ne’er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,

But now she’s got an unco ripple ;

Haste, gi’e her name up i’ the chapel,
“ Nigh unto death ;”

See how she fetches at the thrapple,
An’ gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm’s past redemption,

Gane in a galloping consumption; _

Not a’ the quacks, wi’ a’ their gumption,
Will ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gi’es strong presumption,

Death soon will end her.

’Tis you and Taylor* are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief ;
But gin the Lord’s ain folks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel
An’ twa red peats wad send relief,
An’ end the quarrel.

 

 

* Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.

 

 

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BURNS’S

POEMS.

 

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,
AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.
April 1, 1785.

Wuite briers and woodbines budding green,
And paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,
And mornin’ poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien’

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e’en we had a rockin,
To ca’ the crack, and weave our stockin’ ;
And there was muckle fun and jokin’

Ye need na doubt :
At length we had a hearty yokin’

At sang about.

There was ae sang amang the rest,
Aboon them a’ it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife :
It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.

I’ve scarce heard ought described sae weel,
What gen’rous manly bosoms feel 5
Thought I, “ Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark!”
They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin’ fain to hear’t,

And sae about him there I spier’t,

Then a’ that kent him round declare’t
He had ingine,

That nane excell’d it, few cam’ near’t,
It was sae fine ;

That, set him to a pint o’ ale,

An’ either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes and sangs he’d made himsel’,
Or witty catches,

*T ween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had few matches.

Then up I gat, and swore an aith,
Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger-pownie’s death,

At some dyke-back,
A pint and gill I’d gie them baith

To hear your crack.

But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho’ rude and rough,
Yet crooning to a body’s sel’

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
And ha’e to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, “ How can you e’er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak’ a sang !”
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

 

Me , ~ € E .
Ye’re maybe wrang.

 

What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools,
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars ?
Ye’d better ta’en up spades and shools,
Or knappin’-hammers.

A set 0’ dull conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak ;

And syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint 0’ Greek.

Gi’e me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire,
That’s a’ the learning I desire ;
Then tho’ I drudge, thro’ dub and mire
At pleugh or cart,
; ;
My muse, tho’ hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be, |
If I can hit it: |
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye ha’e friends enow,
Tho’ real friends, I believe, are few,
Yet if your catalogue be fu’,
I’se no insist,
But gif you want ae friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel’ :
As ill I like my fau’ts to tell ;
But friends, and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me ;
Tho’ I maun own, as monie still
As sair abuse me.

There’s ae wee fau't they whyles lay to me, |

I like the lasses—Gude forgi’e me !

For mony a plack they wheedle frae me,
At dance or fair ;

Maybe some ither thing they gi’e me
They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair,
J should be proud to meet you there ;
We’se gi’e ae night’s discharge to care,
If we forgather,
And ha’e a swap 0’ rhymin’-ware
Wy ane anither.

|
The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, |
And kirsen him wi’ reekin’ water ; |
Syne we’ll sit down and tak our whitter, |
To cheer our heart ; |

And faith we’se be acquainted better |
Before we part. |

|

|

Awa’, ye selfish warl’y race,
Wha think that havins, sense, and grace,
Ev’n love and friendship, should give place
To catch-the-plack !
IT dinna like to see your face,
Nor hear your crack.But ye whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,

“Each aid the others,”
Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers !
But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s worn to the grissle ;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing, or whistle,

Your friend and servant.

oO OOo

TO THE SAME.

April 21, 1785.

WUILE new-ca’d kye rowte at the stake,
And pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’ening’s edge I take,

To own I’m debtor
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,

For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, wi’ weary legs,

Rattlin’ the corn out-owre the rigs,

Or dealing through amang the naigs
Their ten-hours’ bite,

My awkward Muse sair pleads and begs,
I wadna write.

| The tapetless ramfeezl’d hizzy,

She’s saft at best, and something lazy ;
: g ’ Say
Quo’ she, “ Ye ken, we’ve been sae bizzie
This month and mair,

| That, trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,

And something sair.”’

Her dowff excuses pat me mad:

| “Conscience,” says I, “ve thowless jade !
_ Pll write, and that a hearty blaud,

This vera night ;

_ Sae dinna ye affront your trade,

But rhyme it right.

“¢ Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were a pack o’ cartes,

_ Roose ye sae weel for your deserts,

In terms sae friendly,
Yet ye’ll neglect to shaw your parts,
And thank him kindly !”

| Sae I gat paper in a blink,

And down gaed stumpy i’ the ink :
Quoth I, “ Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it;
And if ye winna mak’ it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it

7?

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether

In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,

Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,
Let time mak’ proof ;

But I shall scribble down some blether,
Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne’er grudge and carp,
Tho’ fortune use you hard and sharp ;
Come, kittle up your muirland harp
Wi’ gleesome touch !
Ne’er mind how Fortune waft and warp ;
She’s but a bitch.

 

 

BURNS’S POEMS, a

 

She’s gi’en me mony a jirt and fleg,

Sin’ I could striddle owre a rig 5

But, by the L—d, tho’ I should beg
Wi lyart pow,

I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg,
As lang’s I dow!

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer
I’ve seen the bud upo’ the timmer,
Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year ;
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,
Behind a kist to lie and sklent,
Or purse-proud, big wi’ cent. per cent
And muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to represent
A bailie’s name ?

Or is’t the paughty, feudal thane,
Wr ruffled sark and glancin’ cane,
Wha thinks himsel’ nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are ta’en,
As by he walks.

“O Thou wha gi’es us each gude gift,
Gi’e me o” wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro’ Scotland wide ;
WY cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a’ their pride.”

Were this the charter of our state,

“On pain o’ hell be rich and great,”

Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead ;

But, thanks to Heay’n ! that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began :
“ The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate’er he be,
Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
And none but he!”

O mandate glorious and divine !

The ragged followers o’ the nine,

Poor thoughtless devils, yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons 0? Mammon’s line
Are dark as night

Tho’ here they scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul
May in some future carcass howl,
The forest’s fright ;
Or in some day-detesting owl
May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys
In some mild sphere,
Still closer knit in friendship’s ties,
Each passing year.

 

 

 

i cman chanel

  
    
     

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Sai ie enaAt Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood

| 98 BURNS’S POEMS. |
|

 

|
| TO WILLIAM SIMPSON, But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! |
| Oft ha’e our fearless fathers strode |
COMILIEER. By Wallace’ side |
May, 1785. ay : y 3 |
é A Still pressing onward red-wat shod, |
| I eat your letter, winsome Willie : Or glorious died.
| Wy’ gratefu’ heart, I thank you brawlie |
| Though I maun say’t, I wad be silly, O sweet are Coila’s haughs and woods, |
And unco vain, When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
| Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, And jinkin hares in amorous whids,
| Your flatterin’ strain. Their loves enjoy,
‘ : : i While through the braes the cushat croods |
| But I’se believe ye kindly meant it, Wi’ wailfw’ ery. |
| I sud be laith to think ye hinted |
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me,
On my poor musie ; When winds rave through the naked tree ; ||
| Though in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree |
| I scarce excuse ye. Are hoary gray ;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

My senses wad be in a creel, Dark’ning the day !

Should I but daur a hope to speel,
| Wr Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfiel’,
The braes o’ fame ;
| Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,

O Nature! a’ thy shows and forms,
To feeling, pensive hearts ha’e charms !
Whether the summer kindly warms

A deathless name. Wi? life and light '
(O Fergusson ! thy glorious parts Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts ; The lang dark night !

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh gentry !
The tythe o’ what ye waste at cartes

Wad stow’d his pantry !)

The Muse nae poet ever fand her, |
Till by himsel’ he learn’d to wander,
Adown some trottin’ burn’s meander,

And no think lang ;
Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, O sweet, to stray and pensive ponder |
Or lasses gi’e my heart a screed, A heart-felt sang ! |
As whyles they’re like to be my dead, |

(O sad disease !)
I kittle up my rustic reed,

It gies me ease.

The warl’y race may drudge and drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, and strive,
Let me fair Nature’s face deserive,

And I, wi’ pleasure,
Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain, Shall let the bizzy, grumbling hive |
She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, Bum o’er their treasure. |
| Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
| But tune their lays,
| Till echoes a’ resound again
Her weel-sung praise.

 

Fareweel, “my rhyme-composing brither,”
We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither :
Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal :

Nae poet thought her worth his while, May Envy wallop ina tether,
To set her name in measured style ; Black fiend, infernal !
cee Some Pat a ie ollan’, While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ;

While muirlan’ herds like gude fat braxies ;
While Terra Firma on her axis
Diurnal turns,
Ramsay and famous Fergusson Count on a friend, in faith and practice,
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; In Rosert Burns. |
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, LOST er Er.
Naebody sings. My memory’s no worth a preen ;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
By this new-light*,
A : ’Bout which our herds sae aft ha’e been
nd cock your crest,

? ; Iz

We'll gar our streams and burnies shine oe
Up wi’ the best. In days when mankind were but callants

At grammar, logic, and sic talents,

They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gi’e,

But spak’ their thoughts in plain, braid Lallans,
Like you or me.

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.

 

Th’ Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine,
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu’ line ;
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

We'll sing auld Coila’s plains and fells,
Her muirs red-brown wi’ heather-bells,
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
Frae southron billies. * See Note, page 20.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

== SOLE aN ge PE Te Tg ea sa ON ane prs ag eM i OTs sO

 

= — a >
Se eee = = SSS eee
= Ses % as > ne oesBURNS’S POEMS. 29
ii. re
|

 

 

 

 

 

 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon
Just like a sark, or pair 0’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roun’

Gaed past their viewin’,
And shortly after she was done,

They gat a new ane.

This pass’d for certain, undisputed ;

It ne’er cam’ in their heads to dou’t it,

Till chiels gat up and wad confute it,
And ¢a’ed it wrang ;

And muckle din there was aboot ib,
Baith loud and lang.

Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ;
For ’twas the auld moon turn’d a neuk,
And out 0’ sight,
And backlins-comin’, to the leuk
She grew mair bright.

This was denied—it was affirm’d—
The herds and hissels were alarm’d ;
The rev’rend greybeards raved and storm’d
That beardless laddies
Should think they better were inform’d
Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks :
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks,
And mony a fallow gat his licks,
WY hearty crunt ;
And some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang’d and brunt.

This game was play’d in mony lands,
And auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks,
Tul lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d stick and stowe,
Till now amaist on every knowe,

Ye’'ll find ane placed ;

And some their new-light fair avow, Then han’ in nieve some day we’ll knot it, F \
Just quite bare-faced. An’ witness take,
Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin’ : An’ when wi’ usqubae we've wat it | » WE
Their zealous herds are vex’d and sweatin’ : It winna break. |
Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin’ | a
Wi’ girnin spite, But if the beast and branks be spared |
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on Till kye be gaun without the herd, | ie
By word and write. An’ a’ the vittel in the ae : th
An’ theekit right | fa |
But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 4 ; oe? i
Some add light hends in neebor towns I' mean your a a tee aie | ag
Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons, | fy
To tak’ a flight, bers | a
j Then muse-inspirin’ aquavitee : ree
pd Sey ae wenth ee eee a Shall make us baith sae blithe an’ witty, i ie
ae Se Till ye forget ye’re auld an’ gatty, | ane
Gude observation they will gi’e them ; An’ be as eanty | i

And when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmost shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them,
Just i’ their pouch,
And when the new-light billies see them,
I think they’ll crouch!
Sae ye observe, that a’ this clatter
{s naething but a “moonshine matter ;”’
But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better :
Than mind sic bruilzie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO J. LAPRAIK.
Sept. 13th, 1785,

Gurp speed an’ furder to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han’s, an weather bonnie ;
Now when ye’re nickan down fw’ eannie
The staff 0’ bread,
May ye ne’er want a stoup o’ bran’y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,

Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,

Sendin’ the stuff o’er muirs an haggs
Like drivin’ wrack ;

But may the tapmost grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I’m busy too, an’ skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin’ showers ha’e wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
W? muckle wark,
An’ took my jocteleg an’ whatt it,
Like ony clerk.

Its now twa month that I’m your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter
Abusin’ me for harsh ili nature
On holy men ;
While de’il a hair yoursel’ ye’re better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let’s sing about our noble sel’s ;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,
But browster wives and whisky stills,
They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
Aw if ye mak objections at it,

As ye were nine years less than thretty,
Sweet ane an’ twenty !

But stooks are cowpet wi’ the blast,
And now the sun keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest
An’ quat my chanter ;
Sae I subscribe mysel’ in haste,
Yours, RaB THE RANTER,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“30 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

TO THE REV. JOHN M‘MATH,

@NCLOSING A COPY OF ‘‘ HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER” WHICH
HE HAD REQUESTED.
Sept. 17, 1785.
WHILE at the stook the shearers cower
To shun the bitter blaudin shower,
Or in gulravage rinnin’ scow’r
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.

My musie, tired wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’, and douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she’s done it,
Lest they should blame her,
An’ rouse their holy thunder on it
And anathem her.

T own ’twas rash, an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, kintra bardie,
Should meddle wi’ a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’ a Single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin’, cantin’, grace-proud faces,

Their three-mile prayers, an’ hauf-mile graces,
Their raxan conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an’ pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.

There’s Gaun*, misca’t waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid’s the priest
Wha sae abus’t him,
An’ may a bard no crack his jest
What way they’ve use’t him ?

See him + the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word an’ deed,
An’ shall his fame an’ honour bleed

By worthless skellums,
An’ not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums !

O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts,
To gi’e the rascals their deserts,
I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
Av’ tell aloud
Their jugglin’ hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I’m no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times I rather would be

An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be,

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an’ malice fause,
He'll still disdain,
An’ then ery zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.

 

* Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

+ The poet has introduced the two first lines of this
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton.

 

They take religion in their mouth ;
They talk o’ merey, grace, an’ truth,
For what ? to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down, o’er right an’ ruth,
To ruin straight.

All hail, Religion ! maid divine !
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line
Thus daurs to name thee ;
To stigmatize false friends of thine
Can ne’er defame thee.

Though blotcht an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,
Aw’ far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain
In spite of foes:

In spite o’ crowds, in spite 0’ mobs,
In spite 0’ undermining jobs,
In spite o’ dark banditti stabs
At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbytereal bound
A candid lib’ral band is found

Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renown’d,

An’ manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are named
Sir, in that circle you are famed 3
An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blamed
(Which gi’es you honour)
Even, Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,
An’ winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta’en ;
An’ if impertinent I’ve been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane
Whase heartne’er wraneg’d ye,
But to his utmost wonld befriend
Ought that belang’d ye.

TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,
November, 1785.
WeEgs, sleekit, cowerin’, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa’ sae hastie,
WY bickering brattle !
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi murd’rin’ patile !

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion .
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal.

 

 

SS Se ea I eee ae

 

 

 

 

   

 

a PRI ESe ee

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen-icker in a thrave
’S a sma’ request :
I'll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
And never miss’t.

 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !

It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin !

An’ naething now to big a new ane

| O’ foggage green !

| An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’,
Baith snell and keen !

 

| Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
| An’ weary winter coming fast,
| An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thow’s turn’d out, for'a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld !

 

esse So DEES TRIE

 

| Food fills the wame,

 

|
|
|
| But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
| In proving foresight may be vain :
|
|
|

The best-laid schemes 0’ mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea’e us nought but grief and pain,

| For promised joy.

_ Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me !
| The present only toucheth tiee :
|| But, och! I backward cast my e’e,
| On prospects drear !
|| And forward, though I canna see,
| I guess an’ fear.
|
|
|

 

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gi’e him strong drink until he wink,
That’s sinking in despair;

And liquor gude to fire his blude,
That’s prest wi’ grief and care:

There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,
And minds his griets no more.

 

 

 

Sonomon’s Proverss, xxxi. 6, 7.

Let other poets raise a fracas,

*Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,

}

| And grate our lug,

| Ising the juice Scotch Bear can mak’ us,

| In glass or jug.

| O thou, my Muse! guae auld Scotch drink !
| Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,
|| Or, richlv brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!

And aits set up their awnie horn,

And pease and beans at e’en or morn, .
Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

 

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
|
Thou king o’ grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale 0? food !
Or tumblin’ in the boiling flood
Wi’ kail an’ beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief,

and keeps us livin’ ;

; : 4s os

Tho’ life’s a gift no worth receivin’

When I drage’d wi’ pi levin’

ten heavy dragg’d wi’ pine and grievin’ ;

But, oil’d by thee,

: seek

The wheels o’ life gae down hill, serievin’

WY rattlin’ glee.

Thou clears the head 0’ doited Lear :
Thou cheers the heart 0’ drooping Care ;
Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour salr,
At’s weary toil ;
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massive siller weed,
Wr gentles thou erects thy head ;
Yet humbly kind, in time o’ need
The poor man’s wine ;
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o’ public haunts ;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants 2
Ev’n godly meetings o’ the saunts,

By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in !
Or reekin’ on a New-year mornin’
In cog or bicker,
Ax’ just a wee drap sp’ritual burn in,
And gusty sucker !

When Vulcan gi’es his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather with their graith,
O rare ! to see thee fizz and freath

I’ the luggit caup!
Then Burnewin* comes on like death

At ev’ry chaup.

Nae mercy then for airn or steel ;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi’ sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer
Till block and studdie ring and reel

Wi’ dinsome clamour.

When skirlin’ weanies see the light,
Thou mak’s the gossips clatter bright
How fumblin’ cuifs their dearies slight ;
Wae worth the name !
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
And just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel !
It’s aye the cheapest lawyer’s fee
To taste the barrel.

* Burnewin—Burn-the-wind—the Blacksmith,

 

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ip arpa a piannp aero aise dnnacenaarteree st Learnt eedrape.

 

 

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‘

Alake! that e’er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi’ treason ;
Put monie daily weet their weason

Wi liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter’s season,

E’er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash !
Fell source 0’ monie a pain and brash !
Twins monie a poor, doylt drucken hash
O hauf his days ;
An’ sends, beside, auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well !
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel’ !
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’ wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blether wrench,
And gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi’ a glunch
QO’ sour disdain,
Out-owre a glass 0’ whiskey-punch
Wi honest men.

O whiskey ! soul 0’ ploys and pranks !

Accept a bardie’s humble thanks !

When wantin’ thee, what tuneless cranks
| Are my poor verses !
Thou comes they rattle 7’ their ranks

At ither’s a—s !

Thee Ferintosh ! O sadly lost !
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast !
Now colic grips, and barking hoast,
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’ charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa’. !

 

Thae curst horse-leeches o’ th’ Excise,
Wha mak’ the whiskey stells their prize !
Haud up thy han’, De’il ! ance, twice, thrice !
There, seize the blinkers ;
An’ bake them up in brunstane pies,
For poor d—n’d drinkers.

Fortune ! if thou’ll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, and whiskey gill,
And routh o’ rhyme to rave at will,
Tak’ a’ the rest,
And deal’t about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

 

THE AUTHOR’S EARNEST CRY AND
PRAY ER*
TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF
COMMONS.

Dearest of Distillation! last and best—
How art thou lost ! Paropy on MILTon.

 

 

Ye Scottish lords, ye knights and squires,
Wha represent our brughs and shires,
And doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s prayers

Are humbly sent.

 

 

| * This was written before the act anent the Scottish
| Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the
| author return their most grateful thanks,

|

 

32 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse !
Your honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,
To see her sitting on her a—
Low i’ the dust,
And scriechin’ out prosaic verse,
An’ like to brust !

Tell them wha ha’e the chief direction,

Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,

E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction
On aquavitee ;

An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
An’ move their pity.

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth,
The honest, open, naked truth ;
Tell him o’ mine and Scotland’s drouth,
His servants humble :
The muckle devil blaw ye south,
If ye dissemble !

Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom !
Speak out, and never fash your thumb :
Let posts and pensions sink or soom

Wy’ them wha grant ’em
If honestly they canna come,

Far better want ’em.

we

In gatherin’ votes you were na slack ;

Now stand as tightly by your tack ;

Ne’er claw your lug, and fidge your back,
And hum and haw ;

But raise your arm, and tell your crack
Before them a’.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel,
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom’s a whistle ;
And damn’d excisemen in a bustle,
Seizin’ a stell,
Triumphant, crushin’t like a mussel,
Or lampit shell.

Then, on the tither hand present her,
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,
Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a’ kind coin.

Is there that bears the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s-blude rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither’s pot
Thus dung in staves,
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?

Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,
Trod i’ the mire clean out o’ sight!
But could I like Montgom’ry fight,
Or gab like Boswell,
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
And tie some hose well.

God bless your honours! can ye see’t,
The kind, auld, cantie carline greet,
An’ no get warmly to your feet,

An’ gar them hear it,
An’ tell them wi’ a patriot heat,

Ye winna bear it!

 

 

 

 

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wont

seas aESome 0’ you nicely ken the laws
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ wi’ rhetdric clause on clause
To mak’ harangues ;
Then echo thro’ St. Stephen’s wa’s
Auld Scotland’s wrangs.

Dempster, a true-blue Scot, I’se warraw’ :
. ? . ? re M
Thee, aith-detesting chaste Kilkerran ;*
An’ that glib-gabbet Highland baron
5 ee ?
The laird 0’ Graham + ;
An’ ane, a chap that’s d—n’d auldfar "an,
Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ;
True Campbells, Frederick an’ lay ;
An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie !
An’ monie ithers,
Wham auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle,

To get auld Scotland back her kettle ;

Or faith, Pll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
You'll see’t, or lang,

She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin’ whittle,
Anither sang.

This while she’s been in cank’rous mood,
Her lost militia fired her bluid ;
(De’il na they never mair do guid,

Play’d her that pliskie !)
And now she’s like to rin red-wud

About her whiskey.

An’, L—d, if ance they pit her till’t,
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,
Aw’ durk an’ pistol at her belt,
She’ll tak’ the streets,
An’ rin her whittle to the hilt
I’ th’ first she meets !

For God sake, sirs ! then speak her fair,
An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,
An’ to the muckle House repair,

Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear,

To get remead.

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks ;
But gi’e him’t het, my hearty cocks !

E’en cowe the caddie,
And send him to his dicing-box

And sportin’ lady.

Tell yon gude bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s,

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks,

An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s +
Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach,
Nor eruditicn,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.
* Sir Adam Ferguson.
t The Duke of Montrose.
¢ A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline,
where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude
auld Scotch drink,

 

 

 

 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ;
She’s just a deevil wi? a rung ;
An’ if she promise auld or young
To tak’ their part,
the neck she should be strung, r
She’ll no desert. |

Though by

Aw’ now, ye chosen Five-and-F orty, |
May still your Mither’s heart support ye 3 |
Then, though a minister grow dorty, |
An’ kick your place, |
fingers, poor and hearty, |

Before his face.

Ye’ll snap your

 

 

| God bless your Honours a’ your days,
| Wi’ sowps 0’ kail and brats 0’ claes,
In spite 0’ a’ the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings an’ prays

While Rab his name is.

 

|
|
|
| |
|
| |
| \
{
POSTSCRIPT.
| Let hauf-starved slaves in warmer skies,
| See future wines rich clust’ring rise ;
| Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,
| But blythe and frisky,
| She eyes her free-born martial boys l|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|

Tak’ aff their whiskey.

|
What though their Phoebus kinder warms, |
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms !
| When wretches range in famish’d swarms
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.

Their gun’s a burden on their shouther :
1 . . 9 |
| They downa bide the stink o powther ;
Their bauldest thought’s a hankering swither
To stan’ or rin,
| Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throu’ther,
To save their skin.

|

|

| But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, |
' Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, |
Say, sic is royal George’s will, |
And there’s the foe,
| He has nae thought but how to kill |
Twa at a blow. |
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; |

| Death comes !—wi’ fearless e’e he sees him . |
| WY bluidy hand a welcome gie’s him ;
? ? |
An’ when he fa’s, 1

breathin’ lea’es him |
In faint huzzas. |

| His latest draught 0’

Sages their solemn een may steek,
And raise a philosophic reek,
And physically causes seek,
In clime and season ;
But tell me Whiskey’s name in Greek,
I’ll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither !

Though whyles ye moistify your leather,

Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather,
Ye tine your dam :

| Freedom and Whisk2y gang thegither,

| Tak’ aff your dram.i RO SS es

cae

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

enough understood ; but for the sake of those who are
unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the
country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give
some account of the principal charms and spells of that
night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of

 

HALLOWEEN *.

[The following Poem will, by many readers, be well

Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a
striking part of the history of human nature in its rude
state, in all ages and nations: and it may be some enter-
tainment to a philosophic mind, if any such should honour
the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among
the more unenlightened in our own. ]

Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

The simple pleasures of the lowly train ;

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all, the gloss of art.
GOLDSMITH.

Upon that night, when fairies light,
On Cassilis Downans’t dance,

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance:

Or for Colean the route is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s pale beams ;

There up the Cove { to stray and rove,
Amang the roeks and streams

To sport that night.

Amang the bonny winding banks,

 

Where Doon rins wimplin clear,
Where Bruce § ance ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly countra folks
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, and pu’ their stocks,
And haud their Halloween,
Fu’ blithe that night.

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when they’re fine ;
Their faces blithe, fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal and warm, and kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’ wooer-babs,
Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, and some wi’ gabs
Gar lasses’ hearts gang startin’,
Whyles fast at night.

Then first and foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks || maun a’ be sought ance ;

They steek their een, and graip and wail
For muckle anes, and straught anes.

* Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other
mischief-making beings, are all abroad on their baneful
midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fai-
ries, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.

+ Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.

+ A noted cavern near Colzean, or Colean-house, called
The Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is
famed in country story for being a favourite haunt of fairies.

§ The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert
the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.

| The first ceremony of Halloween, is, pulling eacha stock,
or plant of kail, They must go out, hand in hand, with
eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or
little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape
of the grand object of all their spells—the husband or wife.
If any yird, or earth, stick to the root, that is tocher or
fortune: and the taste of the custoc, that is, the heart of
the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition.
Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appella-
tion, the runts, are placed somewhere above the head of

 

 

 

34 BURNS’S POEMS. |

Poor hay’rel Will fell aff the drift, |

 

And wander’d thro’ the bow-kail,
And pu’d, for want o’ better shift,
A runt was like a sow-tail,
Sae bow’t that night.

Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane,
They roar and ery a’ throu’ther ;
The vera wee things, todlin’, rin
Wi’ stocks out-owre their shouther ;
And gif the custoc’s sweet or sour,
Wi’ joctelegs they taste them ;
Syne cozily, aboon the door,
Wi’ cannie care they’ve placed them
To lie that night.

The lasses staw frae ’mang them a’,
To pu’ their stalks o’ corn ;*

But Rab slips out, and jinks about
Behint the muckle thorn:

He grippet Nelly hard and fast ;
Loud skirled a’ the lasses ;

But her tap-pickle maist was lost,
When kiutlin 7 the fause-house +

Wi’ him that night.

The auld gudewife’s weel-hoardit nits, ¢
Are round and round divided,
And monie lads’ and lasses’ fates
Are there that night decided :
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,
And burn thegither trimly ;
Some start awa’ wi’ saucy pride,
And jump out-owre the chimlie
Fw’ high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi’ tentie e’e ;
Wha ’twas, she wadna tell;
But this is Jock, and this is me,
She says in to hersel’:
He bleezed owre her, and she owre hin,
As they wad never mair part;
Till fuff ! he started up the lum,
And Jean had e’en a sair heart,
To see’t that night.

Poor Willie, wi’ his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’ primsie Mallie ;

And Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt,
To be compared to Willie ;

Mall’s nit lap out wi’ pridefu’ fling,
And her ain fit it brunt it ;

While Willie lap, and swoor by jing,
"Twas just the way he wanted

To be that night.

the door: and the christian names of the people whom
chance brings into the house are, according to the priority
of placing the runts, the names in question.

* They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three seve-
ral times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the
top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the staik, the
party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything
but a maid.

+ When the corn isin a doubtful state, by being too green
or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, &c.
makes a large apartment in his stack with an opening in
the side which is most exposed to the wind; this he calls
a Fause-house.

+ Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name the
lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in
the fire; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or
start from beside one another, the course and issue of the
courtship will be.BURNS’S POEMS. 35

 

 

 

Nell had the fause-house in her min’,
She pits hersel’ and Rab in ;

In loving bleeze they sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re sabbin:
Nell’s heart was dancin’ at the view .
She whisper’d Rab to leuk for’t:
Rab, stowlins, prie’d her bonny mou’,

Fw’ cozie in the neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.

But Merran sat behint their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew Bell;

She lea’es them gashin’ at their cracks,
And slips out by hersel’:

She thro’ the yard the nearest tak’s,
And to the kiln she goes then,

And darklins graipit for the bauks,
And in the blue-clew * throws then,

Right fear’t that night.

And ay she win’t, and ay she swat ;
I wat she made nae jaukin’;

Till something held within the pat,
Guid L—d! but she was quakin’!

But whether ’twas the de’il himsel’
Or whether ’twas a bauk-en’,

Or whether it was Andrew Bell,
She didna wait on talkin’

To spier that night.

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says,

“ Will ye go wi’ me, grannie?
I'll eat the apple + at the glass

I gat frae uncle Johnnie :”
She fuff’t her pipe wi’ sic a lunt,

In wrath she was sae vap’rin’,
She noticed na, an aizle brunt

Her braw new worset apron

Out thro’ that night.

“ Ye little skelpie-limmer’s face !
How daur you try sic sportin’,
As seek the foul Thief ony place,
For him to spae your fortune ?
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight!
Great cause ye ha’e to fear it ;
For monie a ane has gotten a fright,
An’ lived and died deleeret
On sic a night.

“ Ae hairst afore the Sherra-Muir,
I mind’t as weel’s yestreen,
I was a gilpey then, I’m sure
I was na past fyfteen :
The simmer had been cauld and wat,
And stuff was unco green ;
And ay a rantin’ kirn we gat,
And just on Halloween
It fell that night.

 

* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must

 

 

 

strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to |

the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot aclew of blue
yarn ; wind it in a new clew off the old one; and, towards
the latter end something will hold the thread; demand,
Wha hauds ? 7. e. who holds? an answer will be returned
from the kiln-pot, by naming the christian and sur-name
of your future spouse.

+ Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an
apple before it; and some traditions say, you should comb
your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion,
to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your
shoulder

 

“ Our stibble-rig was Rab M‘Graen,
A clever sturdy fallow ;

He’s sin’ gat Eppie Sim wi? wean,
That lived in Achmacealla ;

He gat hemp-seed *, I mind it weel,
And he made unco light 0’t ;

But monie a day was by himsel’,
He was sae sairly frighted

That vera night.”

Then up gat fechtin’ Jamie Fleck,
And he swoor by his conscience,

That he could saw hemp-seed a peck,
For it was a’ but nonsense:

The auld gudeman raught down the pock,
And out a handfw’ gied him ;

Syne bade him slip frae "mang the folk,
Some time when nae ane see’d him,

And try’t that night.

He marches thro’ amang the stacks,
Tho’ he was something sturtin ;

The graip he for a harrow tak’s,
And haurls at his curpin:

And ev’ry now and then, he says,
“‘ Hemp-seed, I saw thee,

And her that is to be my lass,
Come after me and draw thee,

As fast this night.”

He whistled up Lord Lennox’ March,
To keep his courage cheery ;
Altho’ his hair began to arch,
He was sae fley’d and cerie:
Till presently he hears a squeak,
And then a grane an’ gruntle:
He by his shouther gae a keek,
And tumbled wi’ a wintle
Out-owre that night.

He roar’d a horrid murder-shout,
In dreadfu’ desperation !

And young and auld cam’ rinnin out,
To hear the sad narration:

He swoor ’twas hilchin’ Jean M‘Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,

Till stap! she trotted thro’ them a’;
And wha was it but grumphie

Asteer that night !

Meg fain wad to the barn ha’e gane,
To win three wechts o’ naething ;+

But for to meet the de’il her lane,
She pat but little faith in:

* Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hempseed,
harrowing it with any thing you can conveniently draw
after you. Repeat, now and then, ‘‘ Hemp-seed, I saw
thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to
be my true-love, come after me and pu’ thee.” Look over
your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the
person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some
traditions say, ‘‘ Come after me and shaw thee,” that is,
show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others

 

| omit the harrowing, and say, ‘* Come after me, and

harrow thee.”

{ This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived,
and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking
them off the hinges if possible; for there is danger that
the being about'to appear may shut the doors, and do you
some mischief. Then take that instrument, used in win-
nowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a
wecht, and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn
against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third

D2

 

 

 

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BURNS’S PCEMS.

 

 

 

She gi’es the herd a pickle nits,
And twa red-cheekit apples,
To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That very night.

She turns the key wi’ cannie thraw,

An’ owre the threshold ventures ;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca’,

Syne bauldly in she enters :
A ratton rattled up the wa’,

And she cried, L—d preserve her !
And ran thre’ midden-hole and a’,

Aw’ pray’d wv’ zeal and fervour,

Fw’ fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi’ sair advice ;
They hecht him some fine braw ane!
It chanced the stack he faddom’d thrice *
Was timmer propt for thrawin :
He tak’s a swerlie auld moss-oak
For some black grewsome carlin ;
And loot a winze, and drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes cam’ haurlin
Aff’s nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,
As canty as a kitlen ;
But, och ! that night, amang the shaws,
She gat a fearfu’ settlin’ !
She thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
And owre the hill gaed scrievin,
Whare three lairds’ lands met at a burnt,
To dip her left sark sleeve in,
Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,
As thro’ the glen it wimpl’t ;

Whyles round a rocky scaur it stays,
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl’t ;

Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,
Wi bickering, dancing dazzle ;

Whyles joukit underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,

Unseen that night.

Amang the brechens, on the brae,
Between her and the moon,
The de’il, or else an outler quey,
Gat up and gae a croon :
Poor Leezie’s heart maist lap the hool ;
Near lav’rock-height she jumpit 5
But missed a fit, and in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that night.

 

time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the
windy door and out at the other, having both the figure
in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the
employment or station in life.

* Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a bean-
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom
of the last time you will catch in your arms the appear-
ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.

+ You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to
a south-running spring, or rivulet, where ‘three lairds’
lands meet,” and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in
sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry.
Lie awake; and sometime near midnight, an apparition,
having the exact figure of the grand object in question,
will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side
of it.

 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three * are ranged,
And every time great care is ta’en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heaved them on the fire,
In wrath that night.

Wi’ merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they didna weary ;
And unco tales, and funny jokes,
Their sports were cheap and cheery :
Till butter’d so’ns +, wi’ fragrant lunt,
Sets a’ their gabs a-steerin’ ;
Syne, wi’ a social glass o’ strunt,
They parted aff careerin’
Fw’ blythe that night.

ADDRESS
TO THE UNCO GUDE, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS,

My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither ;

The Rigid Righteons is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:

The cleanest corn that e’er was dight
May ha’e some piles o’ caff in ;

Sae ne’er a fellow-creature slight

For randoai fits 0’ dafin.—Sotomon. Iecles. vii. 16.

O YE wha are sae gude yoursel’,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebors’ fauts and folly !
Whase life is hke a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water,
The heapit happer’s ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable corps,
As counsel for poor mortals,

That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door
For glaikit Folly’s portals ;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Wad here propone defences,

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment’s fair regard,
What mak’s the mighty differ ?

Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
Your better art o’ hiding.

 

* Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water
in another, and leave the third empty. Blindfold a person
and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged:
he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean
water, the future husband or wife will come te the bar of
matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the
empty dish, it foretels, with equal certainty, no marriage
at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the
arrangement of the dishes is altered.

+ Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always
the Halloween supper.————$—__________

BURNS’S POEMS.

os
xj |

 

 

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gi’es now and then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop :

Wi’ wind and tide fair 7 your tail,
Right on ye seud your sea-way ;

But in the teeth 0’ baith to sail,
It mak’s an unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,

Till, quite transmogrify’d, they’re grown
Debauchery and drinking ;

O wad they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences ;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses !

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,

Before you gi’e poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change 0’ cases ;

A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination—

But, let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently sean your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman,

‘Pho’ they may gang a kennin wrang ;
To step aside is human :

One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it ;

And just as lamely can ye mark
How far, perhaps, they rue it.

Wha made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias :

Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it ;

What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.

 

TAM SAMSON’S* ELEGY.

An honest man’s the noblest work of God.—Porr.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the de’il?

Or great M‘Kinlay + thrawn his heel ?

Or Robinson { again grown weel,

To preach and read ?
>!” eries ilka chiel,
“Tam Samson’s dead.”

“ Na, waur than a

 

 

 

* When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-
fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase,
“the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to
die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author
composed his elegy and epitaph.

+ A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million.
Vide the ‘‘ Ordination,” stanza 2.

+ Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few,

who was at that time ailing. For him see also the ‘‘ Ordi-

nation,” stanza 9.

 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane,
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane,
And cleed her bairns, man, wife, and wean,
In mourning weed ;
To death she’s dearly pai c
0 death she’s dearly paid the kane,

Tam Samson’s dead.

The brethren o’ the mystic level
May hing their head in wofw’ bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel
Like ony bead ;
9 <9 ,
Death’s gi’en the lodge an unco devel—
Tam Samson’s dead !

When Winter muffles up his cloak,

And binds the mire like a rock ;

When to the lochs the curlers flock,
Wi’ gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock ?
Tam Samson’s dead !

He was the king 0’ a’ the corps,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar
In time 0’ need ;
But now he lags on death’s hog-score,
Tam Samson’s dead !

Now safe the stately saumont sail,

And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail,

And eels, weel kenn’d for souple tail,
And geds for greed,

Since dark in Death’s fish-ereel we wail
Tam Samson dead ft

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’ ;
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw ;
Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu’ braw,
Withouten dread ;
Your mortal fae is now awa’,
Tam Samson’s dead.

That wofu’? morn be ever mourn’d

Saw him in shooting-graith adorn’d,

While pointers round impatient burn’d,
Frae couples freed ;

But, och! he gaed and ne’er return’d !
Tam Samson’s dead !

In vain auld age his body batters ;

In vain the gout his ancles fetters ;

In vain the burns came down like waters,
An acre braid !

Now every auld wife, greeting, clatters,
Tam Samson’s dead !

Owre monie a wearie hagg he limpit,
And aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi’ deadly feide ;
Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet,
Tam Samson’s dead !

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi’ weel-aim’d heed ;
“Lord, five!” he cried, and owre did stagger;
Tam Samson’s dead !I a
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BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

 

lik hoary hunter mourn’d a brither ;

Ilk sportsman-youth bemoan’d a father ;

Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
Tam Samson’s dead !

There low he lies, in lasting rest :
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast
Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest,
To hatch and breed 3
Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest !
Tam Samson’s dead !

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his mem’ry crave

O’ powther and lead ;
Till Echo answers frae her cave,

Tam Samson’s dead !

Heav’n rest his saul, whare’er he be !
Is th’ wish 0’ mony mae than me ;
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,

Yet what remead ?
Ae social honest man want we—

Tam Samson’s dead !

 

THE EPITAPH.

Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies,
Ye canting zealots spare him !

If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly
Through a’ the streets and neuks o’ Killie*:
jell every social, honest billie
To cease his grievin’ $
For yet, unskaith’d by death’s gleg gullie,
Tam Samson’s livin’ !

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET fF.
AULD NEEBOUR,

I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant, frien’ly letter ;
Tho’ I maun say’t, I doubt you flatter,
Ye speak sae fair 5
For my puir, silly rhymin’ clatter
Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you thro’ the weary widdle
O’ warl’y cares,
Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I’m rede ye’re glaikit ;
I’m tauld the Muse ye ha’e negleckit ;

 

* Kilmarnock.

| This is prefixed to the poems of Dayid Sillar, published
at Kilmarnock, i789.

 

 

 

And gif it’s sae, ye sud be licket
Until ye fyke ;
Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink,

Rivin’ the words to gar them clink ;

Whyles daez’t wi’ love, whyles daez’t wi’ drink,
WY jads or masons ;

And whyles, but aye owre late, I think,
Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons 0’ man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan ;
Except it be some idle plan

O’ rhymin’ clink,
The devil haet, that I sud ban’,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’,
Nae cares to gi’e us joy or grievin’ ;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

And while ought’s there,
Then, hiltie-skiltie, we gae scrievin’,

And fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme ! it’s aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel’, at wark or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie !
Tho’ rough and raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie }
The warl’ may play you monie a shavie $
But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er sae puir,
Na, even tho’ limpin’ wi’ the spavie
Frae door to door.

 

THE LAMENT.

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S
AMOUR,

Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself!
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe:
Homr.
O tHov pale orb, that silent shines,

While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou see’st a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam :
And mourn, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream.

IT joyless view thy rays adorn
The faintly-marked distant hill :
I jvyless view thy trembling horn
Reflected in the gurgling rill ;
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace!

No idly-feign’d poetic pains
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim 5
No shepherd’s pipe—Arcadian strains ;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:

 

 

 

—- SSS
ee ee a a Sa

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SSS = Zi = 20
aaa = Tl eet ee eeThe plighted faith; the mutual flame;
The oft-attested Powers above: t é
The promised father’s tender name: DESPONDENCY,
These were the pledges of my love! AN ODE,

Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptured moments flown!
How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms,
For her dear sake, and hers alone!
And must I think it! is she gone?
My secret heart’s exulting boast!
And does she heedless hear my groan ?
And is she ever, ever lost ?

O! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost to truth
As from the fondest lover part,
The plighted husband of her youth!
Alas ! life’s path may be unsmooth !
Her way may lie through rough distress!
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe,
Her sorrows share, and make them less?

Ye winged hours that o’er us pass’d,
Enraptured more, the more enjoyed,
Your dear remembrance in my breast,
My fondly-treasured thoughts employ’d.
That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room!
Ev’n every ray of hope destroy’d,
And not a wish to gild the gloom!

The morn that warns th’ approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and woe:

I see the hours in long array,
That I must suffer, lingering, slow.

Full many a pang and many a throe,
Keen Recollection’s direful train,

Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant western main.

And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore harass’d out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,

Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
Ur, if I slumber, Fancy, chief

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright :
Even day, all bitter, brings relief

From such a horror-breathing night.

O thou bright queen, who o’er the expanse,

Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway :

Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observed us, fondly wand’ring, stray ;
The time, unheeded, sped away,

While Love’s luxurious pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,

To mark the mutual kindling eye.

O scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never to return 5
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,
Again I feel, again I burn !
From every joy and pleasure torn,
Life’s weary vale I’ll wander through ;
And hopeless, comfortless, 1’1l mourn
A faithless woman’s broken vow.

 

 

 

 

Oppress’p with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I set me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick’ning scenes appear !
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom ;
My woes here shall close ne’er,
But with the closing tomb !

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard ;
Even when the wished end’s denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
_ They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet every sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same.
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain ;
I listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary’s lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild, with tangling roots,
Sits o’er his newly-gather’d fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream :
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wand’ring, meand’ring,
He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit placed,
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part ;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art ;
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must ery here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing, thoughtless, Pleasure’s maze, |

To care, to guilt, unknown !
How ill exchang’d for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage !
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!

 

THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT.

INSCRIBED TO R. AITKEN, ESQ.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short but simple annals of the poor.—GRray.
My loved, my honour’d, much-respected friend !
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise ;
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene:
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aitken in a cottage would have been ;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there,
I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh ;
The shortening winter-day is near a close ;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;
The blackening trains 0’ craws to their repose :
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
| Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
| Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
| And weary, o’er the muir, his course does hame-
| ward bend.

 

_ At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ;

Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’, stacher through
| _ To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
_ His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnilie,

__ His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
| The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

| Does a’ his weary carkin’ cares beguile,

| And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

| Belyve the elder bairns come drappin’ in,

| At service out amang the farmers rouw’ ;

_ Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin

| _ A cannie errand to a neebor town:

| Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,

| In youthfu’ bloom, love sparklin’ in her e’e,

| Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown,
|

|

|

Or deposite her sair-won penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be

| Wv joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet,

| And each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:

| The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed fleet ;

| Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;

| The parents, partial, eye their hopefu’ years:
Anticipation forward points the view :

| The Mother, wi’ her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;

|

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

Their masters’ and their mistresses’ command
The younkers a’ are warned to obey ;
And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
And ne’er, though out 0’ sight, to jauk or play ;
«“ And O! be sure to fear the Lorn alway ! |
And mind your duty duly morn and night ! |
Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might :
They never sought in vain that sought the Lorp
aright.”

 

|
|
| But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the dvor : |
| Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, |
Tells how a neebor lad cam’ o’er the moor, |
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek ;
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, |
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak: |
Weel pleased the mother hears it’s nae wild worth- |
less rake.

Wi’ kindly weleome Jenny brings him ben: |
A strappin’ youth ! he tak’s the mother’s eye; ||
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill-ta’en ;
The father cracks o’ horses, pleughs, and kye. || |
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, ie |
But blate and laithfu’, searce can weel behave ;
The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy |
What mak’s the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave: |
Weel pleased to think her bairn’s respectit like the
lave.

O happy love ! where love like this is tound ! |
O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! |
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare — |
“If Heav’n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, ||
One cordial in this melancholy vale, |
’*Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the even-
ing gale.’’

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— |
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth !
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth ?
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth !
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o’er their child ! |
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction
wild 2

 

ae

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief 0’ Seotia’s food ;
The sowp their only Hawkie does afford,
That ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, “se
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell,
And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it gude ;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint wasi’ the bell.

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
They round the ingle form a circle wide ;_
The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace,

 

| The Father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

 

 

The big ha’ bible, ance his father’s pride ;

 

Sta <a eeBURNS’S POEMS.

His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care,

And “ Let us worship God !” he says, with solemn
air.

 

 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise :
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim :
Perhaps Dundee’s wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ;
Or noble Elgin beets the heav’nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays :
Compared wi’ these, Italian trills are tame ;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ;
Nae unison ha’e they wi’ our Creator’s praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high :
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire ;
Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing ery ;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire ;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head :
How his first followers and servants sped ;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land :
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ;
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounced by

Heaven’s command.

Then kneeling down, to HEAVEN’s Eternat Kina,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays :
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,’’*
That thus they all shall meet in future days :
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet still more dear ;
While circling time moves round in an eternal |
sphere.

Compared with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion’s every grace, except the heart !
Tne Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; |
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way :
The youngling cottagers retire to rest ;
The parent pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request—
That He, who stills the raven’s clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide ;
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.

|
|
|
|
|

 

 

 

 

* Pope’s Windsor Forest. |

 

 

 

From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur
springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad :
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

“ An honest man’s the noblest work of God :”
And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, *

The cottage leaves the palace far behind :
What 1s a lordling’s pomp ? a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined !

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ;
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent !
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be bless’d with health, and peace, and sweet
content !
And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile !
Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved
Isle,

O Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide
That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward =)
O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert !
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

 

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINE-
TIETH PSALM.

O Tuov, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race !

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling-place !

Before the mountains heaved their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this pond’rous globe itself
Arose at thy command 3

That pow’r which raised and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time
Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years
Which seem to us so vast,

Appear.no more before thy sight
Than yesterday that’s past.

Thou giv’st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought :

Again thou say’st, “ Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought !”

Thou layest them, with all their cares,
In everlasting sleep ; :

As with a flood thou tak’st them o
With overwhelming sweep,

They flourish like the morning flow’r,
In beauty’s pride array’d ;

But long ere night cut down it lies,
All wither’d and decay’d.

 

 

 

 

 

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BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

VERSES

LEFT AT A REVEREND FRIEND’S HOUSE, IN THE ROOM

WHERE THE AUTHOR SLEPT,

O Txov dread Pow’r, who reign’st above,
I know thou wilt me hear ;

When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my pray’r sincere.

The hoary sire—the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleased to spare !
To bless his filial little flock,
And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother’s joys,
But spare a mother’s tears !

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood’s dawning blush ;

Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent’s wish !

The beauteous seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know’st the snares on every hand,
Guide thou their steps alway !

When soon or late they reach that coast,
O’er life’s rough ocean driven,

May they rejoice, no wand’rer lost,
A family in heaven !

 

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH,
IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,

Thou’s met me in an evil hour ;

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem ;

To spare thee now is past my pow’,
Thou bonnie gem !

Alas ! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet !
Bending thee mang the dewy weet,
Wi spreckled breast,
When upward-springing, blythe to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth ;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear’d above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield ;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise :
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Piet ee ee ae

erage a a ae pO Sota

1

 

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade,
By love’s simplicity betray’d,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d !
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er !

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven,
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrench’d of ev’ry stay but Heaven,
He, ruin’d, sink !

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate,

That fate is thine—no distant date ;

Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom !

 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
May, 1786,

I Lana ha’e thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A something to have sent-you,

Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento :

But how the subject-theme may gang
Let time and chance determine ;

Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,

Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye.

For care and trouble set your thought,
Even when your end’s attained ;

And a’ your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strained.

T’ll no say, men are villains a’ ;
The real, harden’d wicked,

Wha ha’e nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked :

But och ! mankind are unco weak,
An’ little to be trusted ;

If self the wavering balance shake,
It’s rarely right adjusted !

Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th’ important end of life
They equally may answer ;
A man may ha’e an honest heart,
Though poortith hourly stare him $3
A man may tak’ a neebor’s part,
Yet ha’e nae cash to spare him.

ea

 

 

EF NSBURNS’S POEMS

Aye free, aff-han’ your story tell,
When wi’ a bosom crony 3

But still keep something to yoursel’
Ye scarcely tell to ony.

Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
Frae critical dissection :

But keek through every other man
Wi?’ sharpen’d, slee inspection.

The sacred lowe 0’ weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it ;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
Though naething should divulge it.
I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
The hazard of concealing ;
But och ! it hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling !

To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her ;
And gather gear by every wile
That’s justified by honour ;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant ;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip
To haud the wretch in order ;

But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border :

Its slightest touches, instant pause—
Debar a’ side pretences ;

And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature :

But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev’n the rigid feature :

Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended ;

An Atheist’s laugh’s a poor exchange
For Deity offended !

When ranting round in Pleasure’s ring,
Religion may be blinded ;

Or if she gi’e a random sting,
It may be little minded ;

But when on :ife we’re tempest-driv’n,
A conscience but a canker—

A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor !

Adieu, dear, amiable youth !
Your heart can ne’er be wanting :
May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
Erect your brow undaunting !
In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed”
Still daily to grow wiser :
And may you better reck the rede,
Than ever did th’ adviser.

 

TO A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET AT CHURCH.

Ha! wh’are ye gaun, ye crowlin’ ferlie !
Your impudence protects you fairly :
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace ;
Tho’ faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

 

 

  

. 43 |

 

 

Ye ugly, creepin’, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn’d by saunt and sinner,
How dare you set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a leddy !
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar’s haffet squattle !
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,
Wi ither kindred jumpin’ cattle,

In shoals and nations ;
Whare horn nor bane ne’er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye’re out 0’ sight,
Below the fatt’rils, snug and tight ;
Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right

Till ye’ve got on it,
The vera tapmost, tow’ring height

O’ Miss’s bonnet !

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as ony grozet ;
O for some rank mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,
I’d gi’e you sie a hearty dose o’t,
Wad dress your droddum !

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife’s flannen toy ;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On’s wyliecoat ;
But Miss’s fine Lunardi! fie,
How dare ye do’t!

 

 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An’ set your beauties a’ abread !
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie’s makin’!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin’!

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gi’e us
To see oursel’s as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
And foolish notion :
What airs in dress and gait wad lea’e us,
And ev’n Devotion !

 

 

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.
O RrovuGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o’ cocks for fun and drinkin’!
There’s mony godly folks are thinkin’
Your dreams* and tricks
Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin’
Straught to Auld Nick’s.

Ye ha’e sae mony cracks an’ cants,

And in your wicked, drucken rants,

Ye make a deevil o’ the saunts,
And fill them fou $

And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a’ seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, O dinna téar it !

Spare’t for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black !

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives’t aff their back.

*x A certain humorous ‘‘ Dream ” of his was then making

 

 

a noise in the country-side.

SK

 

 

 

 

 

 

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44 ie . -BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye’re skaithin’,
It’s just the blue-gown badge and elaithin’
O’ saunts; tak’ that, ye lea’e them naething
To ken them by,
Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.

I’ve sent you here some rhyming ware,
A’ that I bargain’d for and mair ;
Sae, when ye ha’e an hour to spare,
IT will expect
Yon sang*: ye’ll sen’t, wi’ cannie care,
And no neglect.

Though faith, sma’ heart ha’e I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I’ve play’d mysel’ a bonnie spring !

And danced my fill ;
I’d better gane and sair’t the king,

At Bunker’s Hill.

"Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi’ the gun,
And brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen,
And, as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne’er thinkin’ they would fash me for’t ;
But de’il-ma’-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.

Some auld-used hands had ta’en a note
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot ;

I scorn’d to lee ;
So gat the whistle 0’ my groat,

And pay’t the fee.

But, by my gun, o’ guns the wale,
And by my powther and my hail,
And by my hen, and by her tail,
I vow and swear,
The game shall pay, o’er muir and dale,
For this, niest year.
As soon’s the clockin’-time is by,
And the wee pouts begin to ery,
L—d, I’se ha’e sportin’ by and by,
For my gowd guinea,
Though I should herd the buckskin kye
For’t, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
‘Twas neither broken wing nor liinb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Searce through the feathers:
And baith a yellow george to claim,
And thole their blethers !

It pits me aye as mad’s a hare ;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair !
But pennyworths again is fair,
When time’s expedient :
Meanwhile I am, respected sir,
Your most obedient.

 

* A song he had promised the author.

 

ON A SCOTCH BARD,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
A’ YE wha live by sowps o’ drink,
A’ ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A’ ye wha live and never think,
Come, mourn wi’ me!
Our billie’s gi’en us a’ a jink,
An’s owre the sea.

Lament him a’ ye rantin’ corps
Wha dearly like a random splore ;
Nae mair he’ll join the merry roar,

In social key ;
For now he’s ta’en anither shore,

An’s owre the sea,

he bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him ;
The widows, wives, and a’ may bless him,
WY tearfu’ e’e ;
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That’s owre the sea !

O Fortune, they ha’e room to grummle !
Hadst thou ta’en aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke and fummle,
*T'wad been nae plea ;
But he was gleg as ony wummile,
That’s owre the sea !

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
And stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear;
’"T will make her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee ;
Ife was her laureate mony a year,
That’s owre the sea !

He saw Misfortune’s cauld nor’-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ;
A jillet brak’ his heart at last,

Ill may she be!
So, took a berth afore the mast,

An’ owre the sea!

To tremble under Fortune’s cummock,

On scarce a bellyfu’ o’ drummock,

Wi’ his proud independent stomach
Could ill agree,

So row’t his hurdies in a hammock,
And owre the sea.

He ne’er was gi’en to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ;
Wr him it ne’er was under hiding,
He dealt it free:
The Muse was a’ that he took pride in,
That’s owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies ! use him weel,
And hap him in a cozie biel ;
Ye’ll find him aye a dainty chiel
J ee
And fw’ o’ glee !
He wad na wrang’d the vera de’il
That’s owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie !
Your native soil was right ill-willie ;
But may ye ftourish like a ly,

Now bonnilie !
Pll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho’ owre the sea.

 

 

 

SSS = = =
eo ae ee fe ee er SS ee Be Pe SS

 

i —BURNS’S POEM!

 

 

ye 4D

 

A DEDICATION
TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPEcT na, sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth’rin dedication,

To roose you up, and ca’ you guid,
And sprung 0’ great and noble bluid,
Because ye’re surnamed like his Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I’m tired, and sae are ye,
WY mony a fulsome sinfw’ lie,

Set up a face, how I stop short,

For fear your modesty be hurt.

 

This may do—maun do, sir, wi’ thaim wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefw’ ;
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit! I can plough!
And when I downa yoke a naig,

Then, Lord be thankit! I can beg;

Sae I shall say, and that’s nae flatterin’,
It’s just sic poet, an’ sic patron.

 

The Poet, some guid angel help him!
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ;
He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,
But only he’s no just begun yet.

| The Patron (sir, ye maun forgi’e me,
| I winna lie, come what will o’ me),

|| On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be

He’s just—nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What’s no his ain he winna tak’ it,
What ance he says he winna break it ;
Ought he can lend he’ll no refuse’t,
Till aft his guidness is abused ;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a’ that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that ;
It’s naething but a milder feature
Of our poor sinfuw’ corrupt nature:

Ye’ll get the best of moral works
’Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he’s the poor man’s friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,

It’s no thro’ terror of damnation ;

It’s just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

 

No—stretch a point to catch a plack ;
Abuse a brother to his back ;

Steal thro’ a winnock frae a whore,

But point the rake that tak’s the door ;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane ;
Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving ;

No matter! stick to sound believing.

 

 

 

 

Learn three-mile pray’rs and half-mile graces
Wi’ weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces ;
Grunt up a solemn lengthen’d groan,

And damn a’ parties but your own ;
I'll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs 0’ Calvin,
For gumlie dubs o’ your ain delyin’!
Ye sons of heresy and error,
Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath :
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heay’n commission gi’es him,
While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
I ’maist forgat my dedication ;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, ye see, ’twas nae daft vapour ;
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a’ my works I did review,

To dedicate them, sir, to You:
Because (ye need na tak’ it ill)
I thought them something like yoursel’.

Then patronize them wi’ your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that’s a word I need na say:
For praying I ha’e little skill 0’t ;
I’m baith dead-sweer, and wretched ill o’t ;
But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r,
That kens or hears about you, sir——

“ May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark
Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the Clerk!
May ne’er his gen’rous honest heart,
For that same gen’rous spirit smart !
May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,

Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,

Are frae their nuptial labours risen :
Five bonny lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout and able
To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel !
May health and peace, wi’ mutual rays,
Shine on the ev’ning 0’ his days ;

Till his wee curly John’s ier-oe,

When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last sad, mournful rites bestow !”

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi’ complimentary effusion ;
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest wi’ Fortune’s smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow’rs above prevent !)
That iron-hearted carle, Want,
Attended in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischanecs,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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46 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

Your humble servant then no more ;
For who would humbly serve the poor !
But, by a poor man’s hopes in heaven!
While recollection’s power is given,

| If, in the vale of humble life,

| The victim sad of Fortune’s strife,
| I, through the tender gushing tear,
| Should recognize my master dear,

If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand—my friend and brother.

 

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX*,

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him ;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care

E’er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ;
Except the moment that they crusht him ;
For sune as chance or fate had husht ’em,
Though e’er sae short,
Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lasht ’em,
And thought it sport.

Though he was bred to kintra wark,
And eounted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark
To mak’ a man;
But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,
Ye roosed him then!

 

LETTER

TO JAMES TAIT, OF GLENCONNER.

AULD comrade dear and brither sinner,
How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner ?
How stan’ you this blae eastlin’ wind,
That’s like to blaw a body blind?

For me, my faculties are frozen,

My dearest member nearly dozen’d :
I’ve sent you here, by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ;
Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,

An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an’ wrangled,
An’ meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their logic-jargon tired,

An’ in the depth of science mired,

To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an’ wabsters see an’ feel;
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,
Peruse them and return them quickly ;
For now I’m grown so cursed douce,

I pray and ponder butt the house,

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ;
Till by and by, if I haud on,

Tl grunt a real Gospel groan:

Already I begin to try it,

To cast my een up like a pyet,

When by the gun she tumbles o’er,
Flutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore:

 

* Ruisseaux—a play on his own name.

|

 

Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
' A burning and a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an’ wale of honest men:
When bending down with auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An’ views beyond the grave comfért him ;
His worthy fam’ly far and near,
God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear.

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason billie,
An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy ;
If he’s a parent, lass or boy,
May he be dad, an’ Meg the mither,
Just five-an’-forty years thegither !
An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I’m tauld he offers very fairly.
An’ L—d! remember singing Sannock,
Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock.
An’ next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy ;
An’ her kind stars ha’e airted till her
A guid chiel wi’ a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen’ it,
To cousin Kate an’ sister Janet ;
Tell them frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious,
For faith, they'll aiblins fin’ them fashious :
To grant a heart is fairly civil,
But to grant a maidenhead’s the devil!
An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel’,
May guardian angels tak’ a spell,
An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:
But first, before you see heav’n’s glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
An’ ay enough o’ needfu’ clink.

Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you.—
For my sake this I beg it 0’ you,
Assist poor Simson a’ ye can,
Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man ;
Sae I conclude an’ quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,
Ros THE RanTER.

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS
CHILD,

Born in peculiar circumstances of fanvily distress.

SWEET flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love
And ward 0’ monie a pray’r,

What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair !

November hirples o’er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form ;

And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,

Protect thee frae the driving show’r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

 

 

 

—————$

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“claim Ra| BURNS’S POEMS, 47

 

 

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals: life’s various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,

And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,
Fair on the snmmer morn:

Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter’d and forlorn.

 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unseathed by ruffian hand!

And from thee many a parent stem,

| Arise to deck our land!

|

 

TO MISS CRUICKSHANKS,

 

A VERY YOUNG LADY,

| Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to
her by the Author.

Blooming in thy early May,
Never may’st thou, lovely flow’r,
Chilly shrink in sleety show’r !

| Never Boreas’ hoary path,

| Never Eurus’ pois’nous breath,
Neyer baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
| Never, never reptile thief

| Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

| BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,

May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem,
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings ;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth
The loveliest form she e’er gave birth.

wee oes

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever placed,
Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked’s way,

| Nor learns their guilty lore !

Nor from the seat of seornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,

But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow ;

The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below. ”

 

 

But he whose blossoms bud in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,

| And, like the rootless stubble, toss’d

| Before the sweeping blast.

For why ? that God the good adore
Hath given them peace and rest,

But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne’er be truly blest.

|

 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.)
Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.
I HoLp it, Sir, my bounden duty
To warn you now that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M‘Gaun,*
Was here to hire yon lad awa y
‘Bout whom ye spak’ the tither day,
And wad ha’e done’t aff-han’ :
But lest he learn the ecallan tricks,
As faith I muckle doubt him,
Like serapin’ out auld crummie’s nicks,
An’ telling lies about them ;
As lieve then I’d have then
Your clerkship he should ser’e,
If sae be, ye may be
Not fitted otherwhere. |

Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, |
An’ bout a house that’s rude an’ rough,
The boy might learn to swear ; |
But then wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught,
An’ get sic fair example straught, |
I ha’e na ony fear. |
Ye’ll catechise him every quirk, |
An’ shore him weel wi’ hell ; |
Aw’ gar him follow to the kirk |
—Ay when ye gang yoursel’,
If ye then, maun be then |
Frae hame this comin’ Friday,

Then please, Sir, to lea’e, Sir,

The orders wi’ your lady.

My word of honour I ha’e gie’n,
In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en,
To meet the Warld’s worm ;
To try to get the twa to gree,
An’ name the airles an’ the fee,
In legal mode an’ form *
I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him ;
An’ if a devil be at a’,
In faith he’s sure to get him.
To phrase you an’ praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns :
The prayer still you share still
Of grateful Minstrel Burns.

 

TO MR. MADAM

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN,
In Answer to an obliging Letter he sent ix the commencement —
of my Poetic Career.
Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud ;
“ See wha tak’s notice o’ the bard !”
I lap and cried fu’ loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million ;

I’ll cock my nose aboon them a’,
I’m roosed by Craigen-Gillan !

 

 

*« «« Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline—a dealer in
cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or
markings from the horns of cattle to disguise their age.—
He was an artful, trick-contriving character ; hence, he is
called a snick-drawer. In the Poet’s ‘Address to the De'il,’
he styles that august personage an auld, snick-drawing

 

 

 

dog !”—-RELIQUES, Pp. 397.

 

,
i
!
+

WO GE Fee

aarp tage mm

- . pA as
ig Oe cag aw,POEMS

 

*Twas noble, Sir—’twas like yoursel’,
To grant your high protection :

A great man’s smile, ye ken fu’ weel,
Is aye a blest infection:

BURNS’S

Wi’ pinch I pat a Sunday’s face on,
An’ snooved awa’ before the Session—
I made an open, fair confession,

a

I scorn’d to lee ;
An’ syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Tho’, by his banes wha in a tub Fell foul o’ me.

em

 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail
And barley-scone shall cheer me. |

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason,
But surely dreams were ne’er indicted treason ?

won

 

«

} \ Match’d Macedonian Sandy !
|i} | : eae. * * # x * % x *
: 1 On my ain legs thro’ dirt and dub,
; a | I independent stand aye.— tc
it: ii And when those legs to guid warm kail, 3
: | Wi’ welcome canna bear me ; A DREAM.
|

| (On reading in the public papers, the Laureat’s Ode, with
the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no
sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself trans-
ported to the Birth-day Levee; and, in his dreaming
fancy, made the following address. ]

| Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O’ mony flow’ry simmers !
And bless your bonnie lasses baith,

I’m tauld they’re loosome kimmers!

ae

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J My i And God bless young Dunaskin’s laird, GUDE-MORNING to your Majesty t
nih | | The blossom of our gentry ; May Heav’n panel your blisses,
By | And may he wear an auld man’s beard, On ev’ry new birth-day a. Bee,
ah | A credit to his country. A humble poet wishes !
i | My bardship here, at your levee,
Fen | On sic a day as this is,
Pat i ! ak Is sure an uncouth sight to see
Brel | Amang the birth-day dresses |
Bers te f TO A TAILOR, Sae fine this day. |
jie i || IN ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT | J gee ye’re complimented thrang,
hy a | pee Oe. By mony a lord and lady !
h | Wuat ails ye now, ye lousy b—h, “ God save the king !” ’s a cuckoo sang
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? That’s unco easy said aye ;
Bike Y Losh, man! ha’e mercy wi’ your natch, The poets too, a venal gang,
Ve Your bodkin’s bauld, Wi’ rhymes weel turn’d and ready,
a I did na suffer half sae much Wad gar ye trow ye ne’er do wrang,
f Frae Daddie Auld. But aye unerring steady,
ee On sic a day.
a if What tho’ at times, when I grow crouse, om ; ?
ied I gi’e their wames a random pouse, E or me ! before a monarch’s face,
Aish Is that enough for you to souse Ev’n there I winna flatter ; |
Pei I Voie cnt eae! For neither pension, post, nor place, |
bE Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, Am I your humble debtor ; |
a Aw jag-the-flae ! Sae nae reflection on your grace, |
eee Your kingship to bespatter ;
7 i ii King David, o’ poetic brief, There’s mony waur been o’ the race, |
D biats Wrought ’mang the lasses sic mischief And aiblins ane been better
Bey As fill’d his after life wi’ grief Than you this day.
RA:
bod th ; : An’ bloody rants, *Tis very true, my sov’reign king,
‘its ih An’ yet he’s rank’d amang the chief My skill may weel be doubted ;
aah O’ lang-syne saunts. But faets are chiels that winna ain
ae ; Nap ie 8»
Vi at And maybe, Tam, for a’ my cants, Y aa be ee :
4 batty My wicked rhymes, an’ drucken rants, Te Bee nee ae Oe?
4 tl | T’ll gi’e auld cloven Clooty’s haunts eee BONE L :
ey ba | An unco slip yet, And now the third part o’ the string,
neti . 4 And less, will gang about it
mk An’ snugly sit amang the saunts, a Sane
At Davie’s hip yet. Than did ae day.
: Far be’t frae me that I aspire
ee oe Vale gece oe s I maun To blame your legislation,
Ty oe j P ee: Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
coe ee ene Bie ea To rule this mighty nation !
Nerd coils Gu th, oe ae ee body, But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire,
See ed ange ere ee Ye’ve trusted ’ministration
Afore the howdy. To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,
, This leads me on to tell for sport, Wad better fill their station
| How I did with the Session sort— Eo ey
| Auld Clinkum at the inner port And now ye’ve gi’en auld Britain peace,
Cried three times, “ Robin ! Her broken shins to plaster ;
bie Come hither, lad, an’ answer for’t, Your sair taxation does her fleece,
met Ye’re blamed for jobbin’.” Till she has scarce a tester ;
ee lb eee
Sha)

 

——
SS a = =
) ~ SSS aPOEMS.

 

BURNS’S
For me, thank God! my life’s a lease, |
Nae bargain wearing faster, |
Or, faith! I fear that, wi’ the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture

I’ the craft some day. |

I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges
(And Will’s a true gude fallow’s get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
And lessen a’ your charges ;
But, God-sake ! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonnie barges
And boats this day.

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection ;
And may ye rax Corruption’s neck,
And gi’e her for dissection.
But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,
Tn loyal, true affection,
To pay your queen, with due respect,
My fealty and subjection
This great birth-day.
Hail, Majesty Most Excellent !
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye aecept a compliment
A simple poet gi’es ye ?
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,
For ever to release ye
Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o’ Wales,
I tell your Highness fairly,
Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,
I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely ;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
And curse your folly sairly,
That e’er ye brak’ Diana’s pales,
Or rattled dice wi’ Charlie,
By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte’s been known
To mak’ a noble aiver ;

Sae ye may doucely fill a throne,
For a’ their clishmaclaver :

There, him* at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver ;

And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John +,
He was an unco shaver

For mony a day.

For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a riband at your lug
Wad been a dress completer ;
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith ! and get a wife to hug,
Or, troth ! ye’ll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye’ve lately come athwart her,

A glorious galley stem and sterr,
Weel rigged for Venus’ barter,

 

 

sailor’s amour.

* King Henry V.
+ Sir John Falstaff. See Shakspeare’s Henry IV.
+ Alluding to the newspaper-account of a certain royal

 

 

 

 

 

 

But first hang out, that she’ll discern
Your hymeneal charter,
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn,
And, large upo’ her quarter,
Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a’,
Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav’n mak’ you gude as weel as braw,
And gi’e you lads a-plenty !

But sneer na British boys awa’,
For kings are unco scant aye :

And German gentles are but sma’,
They’re better just than want aye,

On ony day.

God bless you a’! consider now
Ye’re unco muckle dautet ;

But ere the course of life be through,
It may be bitter sautet ;

And I ha’e seen their coggie fou,
That yet ha’e tarrow’t at it ;

But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they ha’e clautet

Fu’ clean that day.

 

THE TWA DOGS.
A TALE.

*T was in that place o’ Seotland’s isle
That bears the name o’ Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Ceesar,
Was keepit for his honour’s pleasure ;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shaw’d he was nane 0’ Scotland’s dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar,
Shaw’d him the gentleman and scholar ;
But though he was o’ high degree,

The fient a pride, nae pride had he ;

But wad ha’e spent an hour caressin’

Ev’n wi’ a tinkler gipsy’s messin :

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,

Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stand as glad to see him,

And stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ hin.

The tither was a ploughman’s collie,
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him
And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,
After some dog in Highland sang *,
Was made lang syne—Gude kens how lang.

He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ;
His honest, sonsie, baws*nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black ;
His gawcie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl.

 

 

* Cuchullln’s dog in Ossian’s Fingal.
E

 

—
oSf | 80

a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> wi’ aspect humble,
While they maun stan’, wi’ asp le!
| * ? itl er \ i ‘ ’ d fear and tremb C:
hey were fain o’ ither, 1 hear it a’, and fear ¢ . :
| T but they ; And hee : ie riches
nla d thick thegither : I see how folk live that ha’e riche ae
t . 1] an 5 eae see retenes !
a i foes BECe Soe a ‘les snuff’d and snowkit ; But surely poor folk maun be wrete
aa || Wi? social nose why ieworts they howkit ;
' ice and moudiewor ve
| Whyles mice < ’ in lang excursion, ee ae
iN 1 Whyles scour d away m lang i; wretched’s ane wad think ;
| . ‘ TETS yy - . : -
‘ i worried ither in diversior ’ They re no sae : oortith’s brink,
: i fees affin weary grown, Though constantly on poor > sight
i | Until wi’ da ue at thea down, They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the a ’
: : re they sz : ley Te Pac at ittle fri ‘
1 | | Upon a knowe y lane digression The view ot gi’es them little frigh
eh || And there began Fae eee mts e are sae guided,
, Hf | About the lords o Then chance and fox ee onion:
; : e mair ;
i CESAR. - They’re aye in less gar ae employment,
1 I ath ' atioued W )
pith | ; wonder’d, honest Lua Meee And though fatig feet enjovment.
J alten : have : et enjoy :
ae! Th, t t o’ life poor dogs like you Nave ; A blink o’ rest’s a swe
vit What sor SRT cave . ’ ir lives
& | | > when the gentry’s life T saw, ine oarest COIRtOLt © their en aie
i Porn i bodies lived ava. The ¢ . ans and faithfu’ wives ;
4 Mi a poome t Then oak thee are just their pride,
é Mh | : ‘< packed rents oo ae ing things ¢ :
ite | Our laird gets in his racked ue Ba The prattling ) aoe fire-side.
Ha ae | uYr le .O j d a” his stents e That sweetens a
Hl | His coals, his kain, and a  : [ae rorth 0’ nappy
) | He rises when he likes Cae : | And, whyles, twalpenny He are
iy fh et ‘ ; t the bell: on i dies unco happy 3
aa : : swer a | ak’ the bodie
or edt | His flunkies an 5 I : horse = Can mak ‘ Wes t eares
' } 5 : he eca’s his > sid their priva 6. Ce 9
1 2s his coach : : They lay aside es
Wy oes bonnie silken purse cs na i 1 the Kirk and State affairs +
i He draws a : il, whare, through the stecks, To minc e patronage and priests,
ee ’ r tal Nare, ‘ They’ll talk o’ pat O59 :
ai As lang’s my 3 fo keeks They . - breasts
rit = s die keeks. mae oi e 1eir breasts ’
tl | The yellow-letter’d geordi WY kindling fury in anaes a
i” it | Bat ught but toiling Or tell what new taxati ;
Bi: | mn to e’en its nought |} : folk in Lon’on.
a eens ting, frying, boiling ; And ferlie at the folk
Lee | a ine roas ing, OP ; ar 1 : i 1s urns,
oe ie i Re the gentry first are coe As bleak-faced Oe ee
rie di n 5 ie Ir pecha Jovial. rantin’ k 9
et | Yet e’en the ha’ a oF tae ie hen, They get we i Sieky station,
et | : . Ss, an : When rura :
ri | WY sauce, ragou 2, sjoht wastrie. e z ereation :
; : rt o? downr 1g oS Unite in common ree ° Mirth
aa’ That’s little short it wonner 7” it slaps, and social Miz
. me ree blastit wor ’ ; inks, Wit slaps, < =
rie Our whipper-in, a ats a dinner Eos ae % ’s Care upo’ the earth.
it. | || Poor worthless eli 7 ; a Forgets there's
Ae nant ma » begins
ef pen tae ony ste ’ the lan’: : That merry day the year pee ae
{ ie ee a st folk pit their painch in, They bar the door on ee win oe
f : > COt-10 : ae Oe ae ntling ream,
And what poor 1} -eeks wi’ ma
i : prehension. n lappy r : aa :
ra I own it’s past my compre ea aha a Bee eee ae mill
4 | Parte 1 sneeshin’ mill,
Ml | ae ; h: The luntin’ pipe, ans cs ht gude-will ;
np | Czesar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh ; Are handed round wi ae pe eceifen
i a A e °K 2
Hi} | Ty ov es ina sheugh, The canty auld folks cx ak ich the house
Ne | f A cot ter biggin’ a dyke, The young anes rantin S Sasa
4 Ma deny anes a ic like ; M : art has been sae fain to see )
beh ae "ry, and si 8 y hear : V them.
rin’? a quarry, : Bee ae kit wi
ait | aa A wife, he thus sustains, That I for joy ha’e bar 4
RoE 1 St : y :
yee 3 , weans e saic
( i A smytrie 0? ee ee ie a3 fap Still it?s owre true ee eae 4 ald,
' Bs | 2 1s han’ - 55 wre 0 en °
get And not ight in thack and ray Sic ge aa ‘ock
Ae Them right and tight in the There’s mony a cree
vagy 7 aatp dj ers t-fawsont 3 :
hate 1’ sair disasters, ) , hones
Vhs i gee ai mae aatiot masters, 7 eee out baith root and DEAN eB.
APS : ’ or W oe Are FLV é enech
vanes, W o’ hea th, or a ? eed to qu ’
teat Like loss : uch langer : l’s pridefw’ gr !
vi Pent vad vbink, 2 Pais and hunger > hs eninles ent himsel’ the faster
A Api 9 un starve a la t aster
aie An’ they ma send yet i? some gentle m ’
Da aap : I never kend yet, In favour wl’ so : tin?
WU a But how it comes contented ; iblins, thrang a-parliamentin’,
ata a istly wonderfu’ contented ; Wha, aiblins, 1 indentin’—
eid: They’re mai y. e hizzies . ’ e his saul 1
bet bt | And buirdly chiels, and See er For Britan’s gud
iat mee his is.
ti | Are bred in sic a way as CRSAR.
hie | VESAR. : . xen about it 5 ;
i | c ie Haith, lad, ye little ken (itil (donmbiatl!
ge five Gi | to see how ye’re negleckit, : ‘or Britain’s gude ! gude faith, .
Ray | But then, to ’d, and disrespeckit ; For Britai Premiers lead him,
se Y Let | How huff’d, and ee ’ . er als Say rather, gaun, = Saeed Hine
pao | ! our gentry 1 saying ay orn as
‘ heh Lord, man .- ic cattle Anc Saying din
pet | rs, ditchers, and sic c ’ : id plays parading, ‘
eer ee | * delvers, ditc 9 t operas and plays d :
\ ih } eee a8 saucy by poor sols Ce cane ee ae }
'} u i | 4 . A 5 4 .
Lit v x POCK, : i a
hi t As I wad by a stinking b Or maybe, in C Boe watt,
yb +49 t-da To Hague or Ca .
” i k | a rm C 1G a .
iy tt | I’ve noticed, on our Lair z ean wae - te mak? a tour and tak’ a whirl, r
eo : ; ? *
Hi tf d mony a time my heart’s bon ton, and see the war
lp AR Sy t bodies, scant o’ cash, To learn bo ; 1
Fy n oO 9 e : 1 i)
ie yeoor Heme thole a factor’s snash ; There, at Vienna or Versailles,
How they maun tho d swear ere ; ld entails ;
sila o reaten, curse, and swez ives his father’s auld e ,
oa | He'll stamp and threate 2 Wsiwrone He rives hi
ie hE | He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 5
rhe tH tees
ee
As A, V8
ie.
eek
Soh Oe
ota) &| Or by Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars and fecht wi’

 

 

nowt ;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves 0’ myrtles ;
Then bouses drumly German water,

To mak’ himsel’ look fair and fatter,

And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of carnival signoras.

For Britain’s gude ! for her destruction !
WY dissipation, feud, and faction.

LUATH.
Hech, man! dear sirs ! is that the gate
They waste sae monie a braw estate ?
Are we sae foughten and hardss’d
For gear to gang that gate at last ?

O wad they stay aback frae courts,
And please themsel’s wi’ country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,

The laird, the tenant, and the cotter !
For thae frank, rantin’ ramblin’ billies,
Fient haet 0’ them’s ill-hearted fellows,
Except for breaking o’ their timmer,
Or speaking lightly 0’ their limmer,

Or shootin’ 0’ a hare or moor-cock,
The ne’er a bit they’re ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, Master Cesar,
Sure great folk’s life’s a life of pleasure !
Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
The very thought o’t needna fear them.

CAESAR,
L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am

2
The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em.

It’s true they need-na starve or sweat,
Through winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat,
They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
Aw fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes :

But human bodies are sie fools,

For a’ their colleges and schools,

That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themselves to vex them ;
An’ aye the less they ha’e to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh,

His acres till’d, he’s right eneugh ;

A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzens done, she’s unco weel:

But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst,

Wi’ ev’ndown want o’ wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an’ lazy ;
Though de’il haet ails them, yet uneasy :
Their days, insipid, dull, an’ tasteless ;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless ;
An’ e’en their sports, their balls an’ races,
Their galloping through public places ;
There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art,

The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

The men cast out in party matches,

Then sowther a’ in deep debauches ;

Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

As great and gracious a’ as sisters ;

But hear their absent thoughts 0’ ’ither,
They’re a’ run deils and jads thegither.
Whyles o’er the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty ;

BURNS’S POEMS. wee

 

Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks

Pore owre the devil’s pictured beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
Aw’ cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard.
There’s some exception, man an’ woman ;
But this is gentry’s life in common.

By this, the sun was out 0’ sight,
An’ darker gloaming brought the night :
The bum-clock humm/’d wi’ lazy drone ;
The kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan ;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs;
An’ each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

 

ww

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH
LORD DAER.
Tus wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.
I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests,
(WY rev’rence be it spoken 3)
I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi’ a Lord—stand out my shin,
A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son,
Up higher yet, my bonnet ;
And sie a Lord—lang Seotch ells twa,
Our Peerage, he o’erlooks them a’
As I look o’er my scnnet !

 

But oh for Hogarth’s magic pow’r !
To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r,
And how he stared and stammer’d,
When goavan as if led wi’ branks,
An’ stumpin’ on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer’d.

To meet good Stuart little pain is,
Or Scotia’s sacred Demosthenes,
Thinks I, they are but men!
But Burns, my Lord—Guid God ! I doited,
My knees on ane anither knoited,
As faultering I gaed ben !

I sidling shelter’d in a nook,
An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look
Like some portentous omen ;
Except good sense and social glee,
An’ (what surprised me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch’d the symptoms of the great,

The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming ;

The fient a pride, nae pride had he,

Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughmaa.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weel’s another ;
Nae honest, worthy man need care,
To meet with noble, youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.Og Ag ae a ap

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ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

Eprina! Scotia’s darling seat !

All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs !
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, |

As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labours plies ;
There architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise ;
Here justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod ;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarged, their lib’ral mind
Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,
Or modest merit’s silent claim ;
And never may their sources fail !
And never envy blot their name.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn !
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy !
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine ;
I see the sire of love on high,
And own his work indeed divine !

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ;
Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar :
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock ;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d the invader’s shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,

Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Famed heroes ! had their royal home :

Alas ! how changed the times to come !
Their royal name low in the dust !

Their hapless race wide-wand’ring roam !
Though rigid law cries out, ’twas just !

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore :
Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led !

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat !

All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once beneath a monarch’s feet
Sat legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs ;
From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

 

 

 

 

BURNS’S POEMS.

ee oe —

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near,

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

|
|
|
A BARD’S EPITAPH. :
|
|
|

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!
But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs. himself, life’s mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The pocr inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow
And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain’d his name !

Reader, attend—whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit,
Know, prudent, cautious, self control
Is wisdom’s root.

 

 

THE BRIGS OF AYR:
A POEM.
Inscribed to J. Ballantyne, Esq. Ayr.

Tue simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn- |
bush ; |
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, |
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o’er the |
Shall he, nurst in the peasant’s lowly shed, [hill ; |
To hardy Independence bravely bred, |
By early Poverty to hardship steel’d, |
And train’d to arms in stern Misfortune’s field, |
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, |
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? |
Or labour hard the panegyric close, |
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? |
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, |
And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the strings, |
|
|
|
|
|

 

 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,

Mame, honest Fame, his great, his dear reward
Still, if some patron’s gen’rous care he trace,
Skill’d in the secret, to bestow with grace ;
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,

With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

 

"T'was when the stacks get on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap 5
Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith

Of coming Winter’s biting frosty breath ;

 

 

SSS ee

OE oe en tans|
|

BURNS’S

The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils,
Unnumber’d buds and flow’rs, delicious spoils,
Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
= doom’d by man, that tyrant o’er the weak,
The death o devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek :
The thundering guns are heard on ev’ry side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ;
The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie :
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man’s Savage, ruthless deeds !) |
Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs ;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except, perhaps, the robin’s whistling glee,
Proud o’ the height 0’ some bit half-lang tree ; |
The hoary morns precede the Sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays.
"Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward,
Ae night, within the ancient brugh.o’ Ayr,
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi’ care,
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson’s * wheel’d the left about ;
(Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, |
To witness what I after shall narrate : |
Or whether, rapt in meditation high,
He wander’d out he knew not where nor why :)
The drowsy Dungeon-clock + had number’d two,
And Wallace Tower + had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swoln frith, with sullen sounding roar,
Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the
shore ;
All else was hush’d as Nature’s closed e’e ‘
The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree :
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently-crusting, o’er the glittering stream—

When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard,
The clanging sough of whistling winds he heard ;
Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air,
Swift as the gost drives on the wheeling hare ;
Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o’er the rising piers.

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke,

And ken the lingo o’ the sp’ritual folk :

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them,
And ev’n the very de’ils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear’d of ancient Pictish race,

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face :
He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warsl’d lang,

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.

New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,

That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams, got ;

In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead,
W7’ virls and whirlygigums at the head.

The Goth was stalking round wi’ anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ;

It chanced his new-come neighbour took his e’e,
And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he;

Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,

He, down the water, gies him this gude-e’en:—

 

AULD BRIG,
I doubt na, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank,
Ance ye were sireekit o’er frae bank to bank, |

 

 

* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end.
t The two steeples.
$ The gos-hawk, or falcon.

 

POEMS.

 

 

 

 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Tho’ faith, that day, I doubt, ye’ll never see !
There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddie,
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

NEW BRIG,
Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense,
Just much about it wi’ your scanty seuse ;
Will your poor narrow foot-path 0’ a street,
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet,
Your ruin’d, formless bulk, o’ stane and lime,
Compare wi’ bonnie Brigs 0’ modern time ?
t here Ss men 0’ taste wad tak’ the Ducat-stream *
Tho’ they should east the very sark and swim,
Ere they wad grate their feelings wi’ the view
O’ sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.

AULD BRIG.
Conceited gowk ! puff’d up wi’ windy pride !
This mony a year I’ve stood the flood and tide :
And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn,
I'll be a Brig when ye’re a shapeless cairn !
As yet ye little ken about the matter,
But twa-three winters will inform ye better.
When heavy, dark, continued a’-day rains,
Wi’ deepening deluges o’erfiow the plains ;
When from the hills, where springs the brawling
Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil, [ Coil,
Or whare the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpal + draws his feeble source,
Aroused by blust’ring winds and spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes :
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate,
Sweeps dams, and mills, and brigs, a’ to the gate ;
And from Glenbuck + down to the Ratton-key §,
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea ;
Then down ye’ll hurl—de’il nor ye never rise !
And dash the jumlie jaups up to the pouring skies.
A lesson, sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture’s noble art is lost.

NEW BRIG.
Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t 0’t;
The L—d bethankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t!
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,
Hanging, with threat’ning jut, like precipices ;
O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves ;
Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ;
Forms, like some bedlam-statuary’s dream,
The crazed creations of misguided whim ;
Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee,
And still the seecend dread command be free,
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea;
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste
Of any mason reptile, bird or beast ;
Fit only for a doited monkish race,
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ;
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ;
Fancies that our gude Brugh denies protection,
Andsoonmay they expire,unblest with resurrection!

AULD BRIG.

O ye, my dear-remember’d ancient yealin gs,
Were ye but here to share my wounded | feelings !
* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig.

+ The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in
the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings,
known by the name of Ghaists, still continue pertina-
ciously to inhabit.

* The source of the river Ayr.
§ A small landing-place above the large quay.

 

 

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~e54 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

| The Genius of the Stream in front appears,

A venerable Chief, advanced in years ;

His hoary head with water-lilies crown’d,

His manly leg with garter tangle bound.

Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,

Sweet Female Beauty, hand in hand with Spring ;

Then, crown’d with flow’ry hay, came Rural Joy,

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye :

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,

Led yellow Autumn, wreath’d with nodding corn;

Then Winter’s time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,

By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

Next follow’d Courage with his martial stride,

From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ;

Benevolence, with mild benignant air,

A female form, came from the tow’rs of Stair * 5

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode

From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode :

Last, white-robed Peace, crown’d with a hazel

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath | wreath,

The broken iron instruments of death ;

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling
wrath.

Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye:

| Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveners,

| To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ;
|| Ye godly Councils wha ha’e blest this town ;

| Ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown,

| Wha meekly ga’e your hurdies to the smiters 5

(And what wad now be strange) ye godly Writers:

A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo,

Were ye but here, what wad ye say or do?

How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,

To see each melancholy alteration ;

And, agonizing, curse the time and place

When ye begat the base degenerate race !

Nae langer Rev’rend Men, their country’s glory,

In plain braid Scots haud forth a plain braid story!

Nae langer thrifty Citizens, and douce,

Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ;

But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry,

The herryment and ruin of the country ;

Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers,

Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on d d new
Brigs and Harbours !

ll ce PEE OMG hee Tee

a lla

7
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NEW BRIG.

 

Now hand you there! for faith ye’ve said enow,
And muckle mair than ye can mak’ to through ;
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:

But, under favour o’ your langer beard,

Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spared ;

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.

A NEW BALLAD.
Tune—*‘ The Dragon of Wantley.”

Drre was the hate at old Harlaw,

 

That Scot to Scot did carry 5
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary :
But Scot with Scot ne’er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job
Who should be Faculty’s Dean, Sir.

To liken them to your auld-warl’ squad,

: | I must needs say, comparisons are odd.

hs | In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can ha’e a handle

To mouth “a Citizen,” a term o’ scandal :

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street,
In a’ the pomp of ignorant conceit 5

Vo | Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops an’ raisins,
Pai | Or gather’d liberal views in bonds and seisins.

| If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,

This Hal tor genius, wit and lore,

 

it r . . c x ? e
st | i Had shored them wi’ a glimmer o’ his lamp, B ae ne ere ae ee
tan ii And would to Common-sense for ance betray’d them, C Bue ay ) Te ee ecie . ‘ Ae
va | | Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. , COTO Ae ting ee
iliee Yet simple Bob the victory got,
in! And wan his heart’s desire,
hoe | . .
Nt : ° . . W r 4 y 1
cee! | What farther clishmaclaver might been said, Ee SLOWS Ma ee on een ae ne pot,
1. What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, S P ;
has 8 No man can tell ; but all before their sight eae p : : ;
hie Br ats accae Sree ole Dai Oe? Squire Hal, besides, had in this case,
ne c airy nae appear’d in order bright : Pretensions rather brassy,
hina own. the glittering stream they featly danced ; For talents to deserve a place
vie |! Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced: Are qualifications saucy ;

They footed o’er the wat’ry glass so neat,

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ;
i) : While arts of minstrelsy among them rung,

a And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. |
= yh ie} © had M‘Lauchlan *, thairm-inspiring Sage,

pia? Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When through his dear Strathspeys they bore with

So their worships of the Faculty,
Quite sick of merit’s rudeness,

Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.

 

As once on Pisgah purged was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fi
Sate , Highland rage, a : ; So may be, on this Pisgah height,
1) be Or when they struck old Scotia’s melting airs, Bob’s purblind, mental vision :
pee | The lover’s raptured joys or bleeding cares 5 Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be open’d yet,
ety; | How would his Hi ghland lug been nobler fired, Till for eloquence you hail him,
otf | And ev n his matchless hand with finer touch And swear he has the Angel met
gl | inspired ! : That met the ass of Balaam.—
Pepe Ht || No guess could tell what instrument appear’d, ¥ ‘ . s -
SW \ || Bué all the soul of Music’s self was heard ;
“4 it at | Harmonious concert rang in every part, * 'The poet alludes here to Mrs, Stewart of Stair.—Staix
eile 3 fl | While simple melody pour’d moving on the heart. | was then in her possession. She afterwards removed to
Bee i i Afton-Lodge, on the banks of the Afton, a stream which
AK. i * A well-known performer of Scottish music on the he afterwards celebrated in a song, entitled ‘‘ Afton
a i || violin, Water.”
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2 = Sata os : : ie EE EE OP NTI aN ME= Sa ee ee re ee sacnmnene
SEainnarnmmnnasan one ol ee ______
|

 

 

 

 

BURNS’S POEMS. 55

 

TO AN OLD SWEETHEART,

AFTER HER MARRIAGE, WITH A PRESENT OF A COPY OF

HIS POEMS.
Once fondly loved, and still remember’d dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,

Friendship !—’tis all cold duty now allows :—

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him (he asks no more),

Who distant burns in flaming, torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.

 

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,
THE DEATH OF JOHN M‘LEOD, ES

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE

AUTHOR’S,

Sap thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella’s arms.

Sweetly deckt wi’ pearly dew
The morning rose may blow ;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella’s morn
The sun propitious smiled ;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguiled.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung ;
So Isabella’s heart was form’d,

And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,
Can heal the wound he gave ;

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue’s blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast ;

There Isabella’s spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

 

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run!

The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie,

Deprived of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?

We part—but by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes !

No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day :

And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray ?

 

 

 

TO MISS LOGAN,

WITH BEATTIE’S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.
SOMA; LIST
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv’n,
And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heav’n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail ;

I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin’s simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charged, perhaps too true ;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

 

A FRAGMENT.
Tune—* Iillicrankie.”
WueEn Guildford good our pilot stood
And did our helm thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man ;
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man ;
An’ did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was nae slaw, man ;

Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca’, man:

But yet, what reck, he, at, Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa’, man ;

Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his enemies a’, man,

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage
Was kept in Boston ha’, man ;

Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man:

WY sword and gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian blood to draw, man!

But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,
Sir-loin he hacked sma’, man.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.

Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,
An’ did the buckskins claw, man ;
But Clinton’s glaive, frae rust to save,

He hung it to the wa’, man.

Then Montague, and Guildford too,
Began to fear a fa’, man ;
And Sackville doore, wha stood the stoure,
The German chief to thraw, man ;
For Paddy Burke like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a’, man ;
An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An’ lowsed his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game
Till death did on him ¢a’, man ;

When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man.

 

 

 

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Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North and Fox united stocks,
An’ bore him to the wa’, man,

Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
He swept the stakes awa’, man,
Till the diamond’s ace of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man :
The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,
On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man :
An’ Scotland drew her pipe and blew,
“Up Willie, waur them a’, man!”

Behind the throne, then Grenville’s gone,
A secret word or twa, man :

While slee Dundas aroused the class
Be-north the Roman wa’, man :

An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heavenly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man,)

Wi’ kindling eyes, cried “ Willie, rise !
Would I ha’e fear’d them a’, man 2”

But word and blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man,

Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man.

An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
And did her whittle draw, man ;

An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ blood,
To make it gude in law, man.

* * * * *

 

TO

THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE,

(Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope.)
{N ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH SHE HAD SENT
THE AUTHOR.
GUIDWIFE,

I MIND it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thresh the barn ;
Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh ;
An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn ;
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon’d was,
And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
Wearing the day awa’.

K’en then, a wish, I mind its pow’r,
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,
That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake
Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,
An’ spared the symbol dear ;
No nation, no station,
My envy e’er could raise,
A Scot still but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

 

 

SN a a ee he peel Se ee —— = <==

But still the elements o’ sang
In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,
Wild floated in my brain ;
Till on that hairst 1 said before,
My partner in the merry corps,
She roused the forming strain :
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pawky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle ;
I fired, inspired,
At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared ay to speak.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi’ merry dance in winter-days,
An’ we to share in common :
The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o’ life, the heav’n below,
Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfuw’ o’ your mither :
She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye’re connected with her.
Ye’re wae men, ye’re nae men,
That slight the lovely dears ;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn or byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware ;
’T wad please me to the nine.
I’d be mair vauntie o’ my hap,
Douce hinging o’er my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
An’ plenty be your fa’ :
May losses and crosses
Ne’er at your hallan ca’.

March, 1787. R. Burns,

 

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR
WATER*,
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My Lorp, I know your noble ear
Woe ne’er assails in vain !
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams,
In flaming summer pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glow’rin’ trouts,
That thro’ my waters play,

If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray ;

If, hapless chance ! they linger lang,
I’m scorching up so shallow,

They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

 

 

 

* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque
and beautiful ; but their effect is much impaired by the

want of trees and shrubs.Last day I grat wi’ Spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That to a bard I should be seen
Wi’ half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev’n as I was he shored me :
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin ;

There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o’er a linn :

Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,

I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Wad then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes ;
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire ;

The gowdspink, music’s gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow ;

The robin, pensive autumn cheer,
Jn all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm ;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form :
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown o’ flowers ;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat,
From prone descending show’rs.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care ;

The flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,

And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain grey ;

Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o’erspread,

And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows’ wat’ry bed !

Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn ;

And, for the little songster’s nest,
The close embow’ring thorn.

 

BURNS’S POEMS.

'

 

 

 

 

 

 

So may old Scotia’s darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour’d native land !

So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,

The grace be—“ Athole’s honest men,
And Athole’s bonnie lasses !”?

 

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL

IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS oF

OUGHTERTYRE.

Way, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your wat’ry haunt forsake ?

Tell me, fellow-creatures, why

At my presence thus you fly ?

Why disturb your social joys,

Parent, filial, kindred ties 1

Common friend to you and me,

Nature's gifts to all are free :

Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,

Busy feed, or wanton lave ;

Or, beneath the sheltering rock,

Bide the surging billow’s shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below :
Plumes himself in Freedom’s pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels ;
But man, to whom alone is giv’n
A ray direct from pitying Heay’n,
Glories in his heart humane—
And creatures for his pleasure slain !

In these savage liquid plains,
Only known to wand’ring swains,
Where the mossy riv’let strays,
Far from human haunts and Ways ;
All on Nature you depend,
And life’s poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man’s superior might,
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow’rs you scorn ;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

 

VERSES,

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET,
IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR’S WORKS, PRESENTED TO
A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787,
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure !
O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate !
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures 2

 

 

 

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58 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

TO A LADY,

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES,

Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul,
And Queen of Poetesses ;

Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.

And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind, ;

And pledge me in the generous toast—
“ The whole of human kind !”

“To those who love us !”—second fill ;
But not to those whom we love ;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third—* To thee and me love !”

 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT
KENMURE, TAYMOUTH.
ApMIRInG Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ;
O’er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th’ abodes of covey’d grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view.—
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter’d, clothe their ample sides ;
Th’ outstretching lake, embosom’d ’mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ;
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on its verdant side ;
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature’s native taste ;
The hillocks dropt in Nature’s careless haste ;
The arches striding o’er the new-born stream ;
The village glittering in the noontide beam—
* x * 2 ** 2
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit’s mossy cell :
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ;
Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
* * * ** ** 2
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire ;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half-reconciled,
Misfortune’s lighten’d steps might wander wild ;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds :
Here heart-struck Grief might heav’nward stretch
her scan,
And injured Worth forget and pardon man.
* 2 * * 2 2

 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

Amonc the heathy hills and ragged woods,

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ;

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where thro’a shapeless breach hisstream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep-recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo’s ear astonish’d rends.

Dim seen thro’ rising mists and ceaseless show’rs,
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low’rs.

Still thro’ the gap the struggling river toils,

And still below the horrid cauldron boils—

* * % * * * *

 

 

POETICAL ADDRESS
TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, OF WOODHOUSELEE,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD’S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now ’tis despised and neglected.

Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal 5

A poor friendless wand’rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more, if that wand’rer were royal.

My fathers that name have revered on a throne ;
My fathers have fallen to right it ;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, |

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry ;
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ;
Their title’s avow’d by my country.

But why of this epocha make such a fuss,

* * * * * *
2 * * * * *
* * * * 2k *

But loyalty, truce ! we’re on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter ?

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care ;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint’s dying prayer.

Now life’s chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night ;

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

 

WRITTEN IN
FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,
ON NITH-SIDE.

Tsou whom chance may hither lead,—
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deck’d in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ;
Hope not sunshine ev’ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.

As youth and love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air
May delude the thoughtless pair ;

Let prudence bless enjoyment’s cup,
Then raptur’d sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life’s meridian flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ?
Life’s proud summits wouldst thou scale $
Check thy climbing step elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait:BURNS’

 

Dangers, eagle-pinion’d, bold,
Soar around each chiffy hold,
While cheerful peace, with linnet gong,
Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev ning close,
Beck’ning thee to long repose ;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease,
There ruminate with sober thought,
On all thou’st seen, and heard, and wrought ;
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, man’s true genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not, art thou high or low ?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span ?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ?
Teli them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heaven,
To virtue or to vice is giv’n.
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies ;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways,
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.

Thus resign’d and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep ;
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne’er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heav’n be thy guide !
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side.

 

EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ,
OF FINTRAY.

Wuen Nature her great masterpiece design’d,
And framed her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,

She form’d of various parts the various man.

Then first she calls the useful many forth ;
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise’ whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,

And all mechanics’ many-apron’d kinds.

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,

The lead and buoy are needful to the net:

The caput mortuum of gross desires

Makes a material for mere knights and squires :
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, ,

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,
Then marks th’ unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines:

Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.

The order’d system fair before her stood,
Nature, well-pleased, pronounced it very good ;
But ere she gave creating labour o’er,

Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter ;

Such as the slightest breath of air might seatter ;
With arch alacrity and conscious glee

(Nature may have her whim as well as we,

 

 

 

 

59

Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it ;)
She forms the thing, and christens it—a poet.
Creature, tho’ oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow.

A being form’d t?amuse his graver friends,
Admired and praised—and there the homage ends:
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune’s strife,

Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ;

Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,

Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live:

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She laugh’d at first, then felt for her poor work,
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find;
And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attach’d him to the generous truly great,
A title, and the only one I claim,
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the tuneful Muses’ hapless train,
Weak, timid landsmen on Life’s stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives—tho’ humbly takes enough ;
The little fate allows, they share as soon,
Unlike sage, proverb’d Wisdom’s hard-wrung boon.
The world were blest did bliss on them depend,
Ah, that “ the friendly e’er should want a friend !”
Let prudence number o’er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule,
(Instinct’s a brute, and sentiment a fool !)
Who make poor “ will do” wait upon “I should” —
We own they’re prudent, but who feelsthey’re good ?
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!
God’s image rudely etch’d on base alloy!
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,’
Heaven’s attribute distinguish’d—to bestow !
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race ;
Come thou, who giv’st with all a courtier’s grace ;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times,
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid,
Backward, abash’d to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command:
But there are such who court the tuneful nine—
Heavens! should the branded character be mine!
Whose verse in manhood’s pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit!
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ;
Pity the best of words should be but wind!
So, to heaven’s gates the lark’s shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clam’rous ery of starving want,
They dun benevolence with shameless front ;
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays,
They persecute you all your future days!
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist! assume the plough again:
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more 5
On eighteen-pence a week I’ve lived before.
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift; [shift,
That placed by thee upon the wished-for height,
Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight,
Mymuse may imp her wing for somesublimer flight.

 

 

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rar errr es)BURNS’S POEMS.

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war ;
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl’d,
That like a deathful meteor gleam’d afar,
And braved the mighty monarchs of the world.—

“ My patriot son fills an untimely grave !”

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL.
(ixtempore Lines on returning a Newspaper. )
Ellisland, Monday Evening.
| Your news and review, Sir, I’ve read through and

gc 0 Re, Ei RIG ib a RE

through, Sir,
With little admiring or blaming;
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes worth the naming.

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ;
“ Low lies the hand that oft was stretch’d to save,
Low lies the heart that swell’d with honest pride !

“ A weeping country joins a widow’s tear,

 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan’s cry ;
The drooping Arts surround their patron’s bier,

And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh.—.
“I saw my sons resume their ancient fire 3

I saw fair Freedom’s blossoms richly blow ;
But ah! how hope is born but to expire!

{
3
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Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and |
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir; [hewers, |
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, |
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. |

}

Ca | My goose-quill too'rude is, to tell all your goodness

 

Oh 1 y? yr. a AXT ay e . 2 .
ih Sa d on your servant, the Poet ; Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.
phe. A ould to God I had one like a beam of the sun, <e WE - ae a
et Ree void. Sin. should know it! My patriot falls—but shall he lie unsung,
| a : While empty greatness saves a worthless name ?
Me fh ee) No, every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
rail {

And future ages hear his growing fame.

A MOTHER’S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH

* And I will join a mother’s tender cares,

' 2S Mh» . LA Ft] = 7 iy gat

Bi OF HER SON. Through future times to make his virtues last,
tf) That distant years may boast of other Blairs.”—

A i! . . be . .

tii Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.

| And pierced my darling’s heart :

: And with him all the joys are fled

mea Life can to me impart.

aH By cruel hands the sapling drops,

Aa th In dust dishonour’d laid :

So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age’s future shade.

ees"

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.
January 1, 1789.

For lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E’en let them die—for that they’re born!
But, oh! prodigious to reflect,
A towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Eighty-eight, in thy sina’ space
What dire events ha’e taken place !
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire’s tint a head,
And my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead ;
The toolzie’s teugh ’tween Pitt and Fox,
An’ our gudewife’s wee birdie cocks ;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,

 

The mother-linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravish’d young ;

So I, for my lost darling’s sake,
Lament the live-day long.

Death, oft I’ve fear’d thy fatal blow,—
Now, fond I bare my breast,

O, do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love, at rest !

 

\ re | VERSES But to the hen-birds unco civil; ae
a | ee er ea ee The tither’s something dour 0’ treadin’,
ey : brag er Bi But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden.
Reh ut Tue lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Ye ministers, come mount the pu’pit,
bate Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave ; Aw’ ery till ye be hearse an’ roupit ;
vim Th’ inconstant blast how'd thro’ the darkening air, | Foy Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel,
hai And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. And gied you a’ baith gear an’ meal ;
te ted Lone as I wander’d by each cliff and dell, B’en mony a plack, an’ mony a peck,
bogey | Once the loved haunts of Scotia’s royal train*; | Ye ken yoursel’s, for little feck !
4 RY Or mused where limpid streams once hallow’d well+, Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een,
ay At Or mould’ring ruins mark the sacred fanet. For some o’ you ha’e tint a frien’:
Ne diy : ;
i ins t | Th’ increasing blast roar’d round the beetling rocks, | 12 Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en
if

9 re? Ye 9093
The clouds, swift-wing’d, flew o’er the starry sky ; What ye’ll ne’er ha’e to gi’e again.
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,

Observe the very nowt an’ sheep,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

How dowff an’ dowie now they creep ;
Nay, ev’n the yirth itself does ery,

The paly moon rose in the livid east, For E’nbrugh wells are grutten dry.

And ’mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, O Eicl howe pane
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast, An’ 2 ee : ‘he ee 1 a
| And mix’d her wailings with the raving storm. Biot bourdicas : - 7 hee eee '
1 : : car ' a
Meg Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, Thou now hast got thy daddie’s chair ;

"T'was Caledonia’s trophied shield I view’d: Nae handeuff’d, muzzled, half-shackl’d Regent,
Her form majestic droop’d in pensive woe,

But, like himsel’, a full, free agent.
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Be sure to follow out the plan

Nae waur than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as you can,

==

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} * The King’s Park, at Holyrood House.
Ih t St. Anthony’s Well. + St. Anthony’s Chapel.

 

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EPODE.,

 

 

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.

My curse upon thy venom’d stang,
That shoots my tortured gums alang ;
And through my lugs gi’es mony a twang,
Wi’ gnawing vengeance }

Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,

Like racking engines!
When fevers burn, or ayue freezes,
Rheumaties gnaw, or colic squeezes,
Our neighbours’ Sympathy may ease us,

WY pitying moan;
But thee—thou hell 0’ a’ diseases,

Aye mocks our groan!
Adown my beard the slavers trickle !
I kick the wee stools o’er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,

To see me loup ;
While raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup.

Of a’ the num’rous human dools,

Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,

Or worthy friends raked i’ the mools,
Sad sight to see!

The tricks 0’ knaves, or fash 0’ fools,
Thou bear’st the gree.

Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell,
Whence a’ the tones o’ misery yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu’ raw,
Thou, Tooth-Ache, surely bear’st the bell
Amang them a’!
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel,
In gore a shoe-thick ;—
Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal
A towmond’s Tooth-ache.

eer

 

wT

ODE,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.

And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand ghtt’ring pounds a year 2
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here ?
O, bitter mock’ry of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital partis driv’n !
The cave-lodged beggar,witha conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heay’n.

 

SCOTS PROLOGUE,
FOR MR, SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT NIGHT, DUMFRIES.

Wuar needs this din about the town 0” Lon’on,
How this new play and that new Sang 1s comin’ ?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted 2
Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,

Will try to gi’e us sangs and plays at haine?

For comedy abroad he need na toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil ;

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece ;

There’s themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a’ her glory.—

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell ?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy 0’ the name o’ Bruce ;
How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword
’Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen !
Vain all the omnipotence of female charms
*Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman :
A woman, though the phrase may seem uncivil
As able and as cruel as the devil !
One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age ;

 

 

 

 

Snape Thao ec Megageeomae ee

DweELLER in yon dungeon dark,

And though your fathers, prodigal of life,
Hangman of creation ! mark

A Douglas followed to the martial strife,

Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour’d years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse !
STROPHE,
View the wither’d beldam’s face—
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of humanity’s sweet melting grace ?
Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows,
Pity’s flood there never rose.
See those hands, ne’er stretch’d to save,
Hands that took—but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest,
Lo ! there she goes—unpitied and unblest !
She goes—but not to realms of everlasting rest !
ANTISTROPHE.
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes
(Awhile forbear, ye tort’ring fiends), .
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ?
No fallen angel, hurl’d from upper skies ;
*Tis thy trusty guondam mate,
Doom’d to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye ha’e generous done, if a’ the land
Would take the muses’ servants by the hand ;
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks ha’e done their best !
Would a’ the land do this, then I’I] be caution
Ye’ll soon ha’e poets o’ the Scottish nation,
Will gar Fame blow until her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time an’ lay him on his back !

For us and for our stage should ony spier,
“ Whase aught thae chiels mak’ a’ this bustle here?”
My best leg foremost, 1’ll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you !
We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before you strike,—
An’ gratefu’ still I hope ye’ll ever find us,
For a’ the patronage and meikle kindness
We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets and ranks ;
God help us ! we’re but poor—ye’se get but thanks.

 

 

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G2 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

 

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP
BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man ! curse on thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart !

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little of that life remains :
No more the thickening brakes and verdant
plains,
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed !
The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hap-
less fate.

 

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW-YEAR’S-DAY
EVENING.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o’er our taste—the more’s the

= pity :
Tho’, by the by, abroad why will you roam ?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home :
But not for panegyric I appear,
IT come to wish you all a good new year !
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story :
The sage graye ancient cough’d, and bade me say,
“ You’re one year older this important day ;’’
If wiser too—he hinted some suggestion,
But ’twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word—* Think!”’

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush’d with hope and

spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,

To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way :

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattie,

That the first blow is ever half the battle ;

That tho’ some by the skirt may try to snatch
him ;

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ;

That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,

You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho’ not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven’s peculiar care !
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you’!l mind the important—now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers, bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours ;
And howsoe’er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

 

DELI A.

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op’ning rose 5
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark’s wild warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour’d busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip ;
Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse
To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip ;
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove !
O let me steal one liquid kiss,
For Oh! my soul is parch’d with love !

 

FRAGMENT,
INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX.

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ;
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white;
How genius, th’ illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction—
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle.

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose
glory,
At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ;
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere
lucky hits ; [strong,
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so
No man with the half of ’em e’er went far wrong ;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of ’em e’er went quite right ;
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses,
For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

Good L—d, what is man, for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks :
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his

evil,
All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.

Onhisone-ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,
That, like th’ old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up
its neighbours : [know him ?
Mankind are his show-box—a friend, would you
Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will
show him.
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss’d
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, [him !
Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,
And think human nature they truly describe ;
Have you found this, or t’other? there’s more in

the wind,
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find ;
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that wonderful creature call’d Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you’ve the other.

 

 

See a oT

ne re Sa oe|
| BURNS’S POEMS. 63

 

 

 

 

 

 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK,
Ellisland, Oet. 21, 1789,

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie,
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ?
I kenn’d it still your wee bit jauntie

Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you ay as weel’s I want ye,

And then ye’ll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south !
And never drink be near his drouth !
He tald mysel’, by word o’ mouth,
He’d tak’ my letter !
I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth
And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologiec care on,
And holy study ;
An’ tired 0’ sauls to waste his lear on,
E’en tried the body.

But what d’ye think, my trusty fier 2
I’m turn’d a gauger—peace be here !
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear,
Ye’ll now disdain me,
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies,
Loup, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
’Mang sons 0’ men.

I ha’e a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun ha’e brose an’ brats o’ duddies ;
Ye ken yoursel’s my heart right proud is,
I needna vaunt,
But Ill sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies

a
Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care !
I’m weary sick o’t late and ear’!
Not but I ha’e a richer share
Than mony ithers ;
But why should ae man better fare,
And a’ men brithers 2

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man !
And let us mind faint heart ne’er wan
A lady fair :
Wha does the utmost that he can
Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I’m scant o’ verse and scant 0’ time,)
To mak’ a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife,
That’s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

My compliments to Sister Beckie ;
And eke the same to honest Luckie,
I wat she is a daintie chuckie
As e’er tread clay !
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I’m yours for aye.
Rosert Burns.

 

 

 

 

 

SKETCH.—NEW YEAR’S DAY.

TO MRS, DUNLOP.

Tuts day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain,
To run the twelyemonth’s length again :
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair’d machine,

To wheel the equal, dull routine.

I'he absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer ;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major’s with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds :
Coila’s fair Rachael’s care to-day,

And blooming Keith’s engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow—
That grandchild’s cap will do to-morrow—
And join with me in moralizing,

This day’s propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver ?

“ Another year is gone for ever.’’

And what is this day’s strong suggestion ?
“ The passing moment’s all we rest on !”
Rest on !—for what ? what do we here 2
Or why regard the passing year ?

Will Time, amused with proverb’d lore,
Add to our date one minute more ?

A few days may—a few years must-—
Repose us in the silent dust.

Then is it wise to damp our bliss 2
Yes—all such reasonings are amiss !

The voice of nature loudly cries,

And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies :

That on this frail, uncertain state,

Hang niatters of eternal weight ;

That future life, in worlds unknown,
Must take its hue from this alone ;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,

Or dark as misery’s woful night.—

Since then, my honour’d, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,

Let us th’ important now employ,

And live as those that never die.

Tho’ you, with days and honours crown’d,
Witness that filial circle round,

(A sight life’s sorrows to repulse,

A sight pale envy to convulse,)

Others now claim your chief regard ;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

 

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT BURNS A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

Ellistand, 1790.
Krnp Sir, I’ve read your paper through,
And faith, to me, ’twas really new !
How guess’d ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ?
This monie a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin’ ;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doing ;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off ;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks ;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ee e

 

eS Sg Se

eam

Gare64 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

Or, if the Swede, before he halt, | At dawn, when ey’ry grassy blade

| W ould play anither Charles the Twalt ; | Droops with a diamond at its head,
If Denmark,-any body spak’ o’t! At e’en, when beans their fragrance shed,
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t ; I’ the rustling gale,

| How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin’, Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,
How libbet Italy was singin’ ; Come join my wail.

i If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
| Were sayin’ or takin’-aught amiss :
| Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain’s court, keep up the game ;
How Royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him !
pth Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum ;
i! If sleekit Chatham Will was livin’,

Mourn, ye wee songsters 0’ the wood ;
Ye grouse, that crap the heather bud ;.

3 )

Ye curlews, calling through a clud ;

Ye whistling plover ;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ;
3 5 ’

He’s gane for ever !

 

Hull | Or glaiket Charlie gat his nieve in: Mourn, sooty coots and speckled teals ; : |
mi | How daddie Burke the plea was cookin’, Ye fisher herons, watching eels 5
ay ttl | If Warren Hastings’ neck was yeukin’ ; Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels |
| | How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d, : Circling the lake ; |
a | Or if bare a—s yet were tax’d ; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
ty | The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls, Rair for his sake.
Pi | Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ; Mourn, clam’ring craiks at close o’ day,
He | | If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, "Mang fields 0’ flow’ring clover gay 3 _—

Was threshin’ still at hizzies’ tails,

| | Or if he was grown oughilins doucer,
Poe | And noa perfect kintra cooser :

| A’ this and mair I never heard of ;
And but for you I might despair’d of. :
So, gratefu’, back your news I send you, Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow’r,

|
| 4 ~ IC a ny a 2

| And pray, a’ guid things may attend you! Du somie auld eo ee POW ses |
| What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r, |
1] |

And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,

Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay
Wham we deplore.

a

 

 

 

 

 

 

bl | wee Sets up her horn,
; we | Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour |
| | ELEGY Till waukrife morn ! |
| ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON. O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! }
a a | A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS Oft have ye heard my canty strains:
| IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. But now, what else for me remains |
But now his radiant course is run Ee tales 2 eS ;
i For Matthew’s course was bright And frae my een the drapping rains
Wee | Ua pactlensshenvaly ight te Maun ever flow.
Eh ts O DeatH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!
wae i: The meikle deevil wi’ a woodie Tk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
4 , Harl thee hame to his black smiddie, Thou, simmer, while each corny spear |
Von ir O’er hurcheon hides, Shoots up its head, |
tal Ht And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie Thy gay, green, flow’ry tresses shear, 1 7
a Wi’ thy auld sides ! For him that’s dead! |
: M4 | He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn, Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
‘ Bi | The ae best fellow e’er was born! In grief thy sallow mantle tear !
ve Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the air
Ps ih ly By wood and wild, The roaring blast,
fue Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Wide o’er the naked world declare
i. Frae man exiled. The worth we’ve lost! |
‘elf Ye hills, near neebors 0’ the starns, Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! |
pet yp That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! Mourn, empress of the silent night ! |
ae ut i Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
ital | Where echo slumbers ! My Matthew mourn !
i Come join ye, Nature’s sturdiest bairns, For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,
ae My wailing numbers ! Ne’er to return.
re Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! O Henderson! the man! the brother !
f | Ye haz’ly shaws and briery dens ! And art thou gone, and gone for ever !
ye f Mi Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens, And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Pte iH Wy toddlin’ din, Life’s dreary bound!
My ip Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens, Like thee, where shall I find another,
a4 Frae linn to linn. The world around !
+H Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea ; Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great,
wel Ye stately foxgloves, fair to see ; In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, But by thy honest turf Ill wait,
r In scented bow’rs ; Thou man of worth!
we Ye roses on your thorny tree, And weep the ae best fellow’s fate
mH lat) The first of flow’rs. H’er lay in earth.
> (| oe ei

 

 

 

 

CT eS ee EETHE EPITAPH.
STOP, passenger ! my story’s brief,
And truth I shall relate, man ;
I tell nae common tale 0’ grief,
For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,
Yet spurn’d at Fortune’s door, man,
A look of pity hither cast,
For Matthew was a poor man.
If thou a noble sodger art,
That passest by this grave, man,
There moulders here a gallant heart,
For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon light, man,
Here lies wha weel had won thy praise,

For Matthew was a bright man.
If thou at friendship’s sacred ca?

Wad life itself resign, man !
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa”,

For Matthew was a kin’ man !

If thou art staunch without a stain,
Like the unchanging blue, man :
This was a kinsman 0” thy ain,
For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne’er gude wine did fear, man ;
This was thy billie, dam, and sire,
For Matthew was a queer man.
If ony whiggish whinging sot,
To blame poor Matthew dare, man,
May dool and sorrow be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare man.

 

“~~

THE FIVE CARLINES ;
AN ELECTION BALLAD.
Tune—‘* Chevy Chase.”
‘THERE were Five Carlines in the south,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to Lunnun town
To bring them tidings hame ;

Nor only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there,

And aiblins gowd and honour baith
Might be that laddie’s share.

There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith *,
A dame wi’ pride eneugh ;

And Marjory o’ the Monylochs +,
A carline auld and teugh ;

And blinkin’ Bess 0’ Annandale +,
That dwelt near Solway side ;

And whiskey Jean, that took her gill
In Galloway sae wide § ;

And black Joan frae Crichton Peel ||,
O’ gipsy kith and kin,

Five wightier carlines were na foun’
The south countrie within.

To send a lad to Lunnun town,
They met upon a day,

And mony a knight and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae.

 

* Dumfries. + Lochmaben.
§ Kirkcudbright.

~ Annan,
| Sanquhar.

Oh! mony a knight and mony a laird
This errand fain wad gae ;

But nae ane could their fancy please :
Oh ! ne’er a ane but tway.

The first ane was a belted knight *,
Bred 0’ a Border band,

And he wad gae to Lunnun town,
Might nae man him withstand :

And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say,

And ilka ane at Luanun court
Would bid to him gude day.

The niest came in a sodger youth +,
And spak’ wi’ modest grace,

And he wad gae to Lunnun toun
If sae their pleasure was :

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend,

But he wad hecht an honest heart,
Wad ne’er desert his friend,

Now, wham to choose and wham refuse,
At strife thir carlines fell,

For some had gentlefolks to please,
And some wad please themsel’.

Then out spak’ mim-mou’d Meg of Nith,
And she spak’ up wi’ pride,

And she wad send the sodger youth,
Whatever might betide ;

For the auld guidman o’? Lunnun ¢ court
She didna care a pin ;

But she wad send the sodger youth
To greet his eldest son §.

Then up sprang Bess 0’ Annandale,
And a deadly aith she’s ta’en,

That she wad vote the Border knight,
Though she should vote her lane;

For far-aff fowls ha’e feathers fair,
And fools o’ change are fain ;
But I ha’e tried the Border knight,

And Ill try him yet again.

Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel,
A carline sour and grim,

The auid guidman or the young guidman
For me may sink or swim;

For fools may prate o’ right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them to scorn ;
‘But the sodger’s friends ha’e blawn the best

}
So he shall bear the horn.

Then whiskey Jean spak’ ower her drink :
Ye weel ken, kimmers a’,

The auld guidman o’ Lunnun court,
His back’s been at the wa’;

And mony a friend that kiss’t his caup,
Is now a fremit wight,

But it’s ne’er be said 0’ whiskey Jean,
We’ll send the Border knight.

Then slow rase Marjory o’ the Lochs,
And wrinkled was her brow,

Her ancient weed was russet gray,
Her auld Scots heart was true ;

 

 

 

 

# Mr. Miller.
§ The Prince of Wales.
F

* Sir J. Johnstone.
+ George-Il,

 

 

 

 

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BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

There’s some great folks set light by me,
I set as light by them ;

But I will sen’ to Lunnun toun
Wham I like best at hame.

Sae how this weighty plea will end,
Nae mortal wight can tell,

God grant the King and ilka man
May look weel to himsel’!

~

 

PALL

ANSWER TO A MANDATE.

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF TAXES.

Mossgiel, Feb. 22nd, 1789.

Sir, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu’ list,

O’ gudes an’ gear, an’ a’ my graith,
To which I’m free to tak’ my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage eattle,—
I ha’e four brutes o’ gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle ;

My land-afore, a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfw’ a’ his days been ;
My land-ahin’s a weel-gaun filly,

Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie,
And your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime :
But ance when in my wooing pride

I like a blockhead boost to ride,

The wilfu’ creature sae I pat to,
(Lord, pardon a’ my sins an’ that too )
I play’d my filly sic a shavie,

She’s a’ bedevil’d wi’ the spavie.

My fur-ahin’, a wordy beast,

 

 

But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady,
I’ve paid enough for her already,

And if ye tax her or her mither,

B’ the Lord, ye’se get them a’ thegither !

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I’m takin’ ;
Frae this time forth, I do declare,
T’se ne’er ride horse nor hizzie mair ;
Thro’ dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ;

I’ve sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit !
And a’ my gates on foot Pll shank it.
The Kirk an’ you may tak’ you that,
It puts but little in your pat ;

Sae dinna serieve me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi? my ain hand I’ve wrote it,
The day and date as under noted ;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,
Ropert Burns.

OOOO

ON THE LATE

CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS
THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ,
If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,
I rede you tent it :
A chield’s amang you, taking notes,

 

 

And faith, he’ll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O’ stature short, but genius bright,
That’s he, mark weel—
And wow ! he has an unco sleight
O’ cauk and keel.

As e’er in tug or tow was traced :
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A d-mn’d red-wud Kilburnie blastie,
Forby a cowte, of cowtes the wale,

ee As ever ran afore a tail ;

wae | | An’ he be spared to be a beast,

 

He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.

ay | Wheel carriages I ha’e but few :

ee tt Three carts, and twa are feckly new ;
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ;
I made a poker o’ the spindle,

And my auld mither brunt the trundle.

 

By some auld, howlet-haunted biggin’*,

Or kirk deserted by its riggin’,

It’s ten to ane ye’ll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

Wi’ deils, they say, L—d save’s ! colleaguin’
At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or cham’er,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you deep-read in hell’s black grammar,
Warlocks and witches ;
Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight b

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa’n than fled ;
But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And ta’en the—Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.

He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets :
Rusty airn caps and jinglin’ jackets t,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets
A towmont gude ;
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

vi For men, I’ve three mischievous boys,
eit Run-deils for rantin’ and for noise ;

at A gaudsman ane, a thresher t’other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
TI rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And aften labour them completely ;
And aye on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the Questions tairge them tightly,
Till, faith ! wee Davoc’s grown sae gleg,
(Tho’ scarcely langer than my leg,)
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling
As fast as ony in the dwalling.

%..> ™
¥
Es

es.

 

2 - ee. 4

ve — a ol renee —
ET ET Ee

“
o~ aa
ere ay

ge
ma : ‘
Cl Phe i a Mie
a

 

 

 

+=

I’ve nane in female servan’ station,

Lord keep me aye frae a’ temptation !

I ha’e nae wife, and that my bliss is,

And ye ha’e laid nae tax on misses ;

Wi? weans I’m mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted 5
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,

oe eke. ee
nn a eee
er pes Sr
x o.

he
- -
a
ean
Pao ap

SSE

 

 

enn
te _
eee

a

it She stares the daddie in her face,
i |  Eneugh of aught ye like but grace.

 

 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.
+ Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons,

hn sO i
“i=

 

 

- RS

a A a

 

 

on
Sn 7 er Sn

Aes =
Pre

w
i
t
|

= e a ca
~ — RE = eee a one a en ci
EE a a aN ll fae A GI eas Sa a — oe SS SE a ee > = aeetiteaes
=— = ae ———~ =Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder ;
Auld Tubal-Cain’s fire-shool and fender ;
That which distinguished the gender
O’ Balaam’s ass ;
A broom-stick 0’ the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi’ brass.

Forbye, he’ll shape you aff, fu’ gleg,
The cut of Adam’s philibeg ;
The knife that nicket Abel’s craig

He’ll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Guid fellows wi’ him ;
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee,
And then ye’ll see him!

Now, by the pow’rs 0’ verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose !
Whae’er 0’ thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca’ thee ;
I’d take the rascal by the nose

Wad say, Shame fa’ thee.

eee

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER ENCLOSING A LETTER |

TO CAPT. GROSE.
TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN.

Tune—‘* Sir John Malcolm.”

Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose ?
Igo & ago,

Tf he’s amang his friends or foes ?
Tram, coram, dago.

Is he South, or is he North ?
Igo & ago,

Or drowned in the river Forth ?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies ?
igo & ago,

And eaten like a wether-haggis ?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram’s bosom gane?
Igo & ago.

Or haudin’ Sarah by the wame ?
Iram, coram, dago.

Whare’er he be, the Lord be near him?
Igo & ago,

As for the deil, he daur nae steer him.
Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit th’ enclosed letter,
Igo & ago,

Which will oblige your humble debtor.
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye ha’e auld stanes in store,
Igo & ago,

The very stanes that Adam bore.
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo & ago,

The coins 0’ Satan’s coronation !
Iram, coram, dago.

 

 

BURNS’S POEMS. GC)

 

 

ee pee ee ee ee

 

TAM O’ SHANTER,
A TALE.
Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.—Gawrw Doucras.

WueEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearin’ late,

And folk begin to tak’ the gate ;

While we sit bousin’ at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gatherin’ her brows like gatherin’ storm,
Nursin’ her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonnie lasses.)

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice !
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober ;
That ilka melder wi’ the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ;
That every naig was ca’d a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on ;
That at the L—d’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou wad be found deep drown’d in Doon ;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale :—Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right ;
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely,
Wi’ reaming swats that drank divinely,
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ;
Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither ;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growin’ better 5
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious ;
The souter tauld his queerest stories ;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus ;
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drown’d himsel’ amang the nappy !
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure :
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious !

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,

A moment white—then melts for ever ;
F2

 

 

 

 

 

i
"

i
iA murderer’s banes in gibbet-airns 5

68 BURNS’S POEMS. |
a |
|

al Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place ;

Or like the rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.—

Nae man can tether time or tide ;

The hour approaches Tam maun ride ;

That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen’d bairns ;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

W? his last gasp his gab did gape 5

Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted ;
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted ;

A garter, which a babe had strangled 5

A knife, a father’s throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son 0’ life bereft,

The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ;

Three lawyers’ tongues turn’d inside out, |
Wi lies seam’d like a beggar’s clout 5

My An’ sic a night he tak’s the road in,
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

Ba The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last ;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

oy aa The ratt’ling show’rs rose on the blast ; .
aie 6 ; blast ; ; And priests’ hearts rotten black as muck,
ti The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d ; ee tp ee a
el Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d : Lay sivlinis yeep uaer ty peu |
a a Bees eer? ee ’ Wi mair o’ horrible and awfu’, |
ue That night a child might understand, Which <w : As laaecue |
WF The de’il had business on his hand Ch Gy aon’ Hae hee
i, id’ c c .
ed 4 : As Tammie glowr’d, amazed and curious,
ie wt! Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, Te ee o nig . :
lef : © The mirth and fun grew fast and furious :
ht A better never lifted leg 1 .
A ; Fae ; The piper loud and louder blew ; |
ri Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, a, 1 s
i Deis eae een. The dancers quick and quicker flew 5
aie Spas Wi ae ee Be They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, |
re Whiles hauding fast his gude blue bonnet ; Sa a Ao : ee |
vache Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet 5 Till ilka carline swat and reekit, |
nH ; se ae ; , And coost her duddies to the wark,
il Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares, And linket at it in her sark !
. ut . c c A oe
rt Lest bogles catch him unawares ;
ey fi Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Now Tam, O Tam ! had thae been queans, |
eR Whare ghaists and howlets nightly ery. A’ plump and strappin’ in their teens 5 |
* 1 ibe 5 y * . 5 :
on! alice time | ; he ford Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen,
rR lil! eee phe tore, : Been snaw-white se’enteen-hunder linen ! |
mt ll Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d ; Thir breeks 0’ mine, my only pair,
And past the birks and meikle stane, | That ance were plush o’ gude blue hair |
I | Whare drunken Charlie brak ’s neck-b ; po! ; : |
, See Be ete I wad ha’e gi’en them aff my hurdies, |
j And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies ! |
; rae | j 7 a ‘ a 2? ai, ° .
eh aes aes fand the Se der’d bairn 5 But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, |
Weep Yh nd near the thorn, aboon t ae well, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, |
we Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel.— Louping and flinging on a cummock,
na Bat ee re Doon pours ee ee a I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
vee | ne doubling storm roars through the woods ;
i) p { ® ° 2 2 v ? 7 rE ? 7 r
rh The lightnings flash from pole to pole, But Tam kenn’d w hat was what fu’ brawne,
hay Near and more near the thunders roll ; There was ae winsome wench and walie,
uM Af When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees, That night enlisted in the Oe
AN ye Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze ; (Lang after kenn d on Carrick shore !
Via Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing ; For mone: beast to dead she shot,
yee | And loud resounded mirth and dancing. a Das ie eee a oye poms \
pine nd shook baith muckle corn and bear,
eee Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! And kept the country side in fear 3)
ur esi) What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Her cutty-sark, o’ Paisley harn
wae i Sis ; : oun 3
ee Wi’ tippenny we fear nae evil, That while a lassie she had worn,
Vhs 0 Wi’ usquebaugh we’ ll face the devil !— In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
anh 4 The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle, It was her best, and she was vauntie.—
ae i : ae 16 : ‘
he ti Fair play, he cared na de’ils a boddle. Ah ! little kenn’d thy reverend grannie,
Wi ey But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
ft AN ry Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, Wi twa pund Scots ("twas a’ her riches, )
bagel y i. Hd e ° .
et bd She ventured forward on the light ; Wad ever graced a dance of witches !
thats A ta And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ! But 1 :
i nf Warlocks and witches in a dance ; Ss 4: ae ay ae a ae ee CO
afie He “17: : . ns
Oi tb | Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, as ie kg YN a ace so ?
be Ait } ut But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, i. oe i d eee ae a oe
ai | Put life and mettle in their heels. . ae rahe © fe © a ee 5 rang») n’d
; Ma ! A winnock-bunker in the east, hed He sae 000 ee id cae
Brith! There sat auld Nick in shape 0’ beast 5 Re ee : e Cae ORE ba faj
isk i A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, Aas : ee e a Ul nee ae :
{ A Bie To give them music was his charge : Till ae Ps an oe eee ae Cg
en He screw’d the pipes and gar’t them skirl all HISE AC Caper ear ae
Pie ile : : sae , Tam tint his reason a’ thegither
1) ae Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl !— AA teow i Pate oe ki?
cae tt Coffins stood round like open presses, = d Oa ee ke hy ie ae oy Set:
Pen |, Nhat shaw’d the dead in their last dresses ; nd 1a alsa ae ee ee
Peat x, : : : And seareely had he Maggie rallied
ib Bu And by some devilish cantrip sleight, Wh ee iL Relea 88 ‘ieee
ils Male . ; ‘
He Each in its cauld hand held a light ; en Olt hee en ae

wen

As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,

iM By which heroic Tam was able
When plundering herds assail their byke ;

ia | To note upon the haly table,

_~
a rene we,

tte 5:

 

 

 

 

 

ty —~_ —_——
Se Se Se ene eee ee ee

eg
= esa a=

a

aeet ea ee Se a a

BURNS'S POEMS. a
|
|

 

 

As open pussie’s mortal foes,

When, pop ! she starts before thei ;
; ! é efore their nose ; rT .

As eager runs the market-crowd, i

When “ Catch the thief!” resounds aloud ; eee

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, [As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious,

Wi mony an eldritch sereech and hollow. I shall here give it.—In the train of Anne of Denmark,

when she came to Scotland, with our James the Sixth

: : 5 ? a ~ 9 x , vc ,

Ah, Tam ah, Tam ! thou lt get thy fairin’ ! there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic

In hell they ll roast thee like a herrin’ ! stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’ !

Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which at the
Kate soon will be a woefw’ woman ! commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, ee ae last able to blow it, everybody else being
And win the key-stane* of the brig ; area _ a ee oe ae oe z A a a 7 a one

er e : 3 é hy of victory. The Dane produced cre-
There at them thou thy tail may toss, dentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the
A running stream they darena cross.

courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and
several of the petty courts in Germany ; and challenged
the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his
prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority.—After
many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was

But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail sheshad to shake !

For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,

And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle . ee ey Sir aoe Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor |
But Gitle wisk cho Maggie’s met 1e BEcse worthy oe of that name; w ho, after |
me fe three days’ and three nights’ hard contest, left the Scandi-

Ae spring brought off her master hale -.
§ broug : : 3 navian under the table,
But left hehind her ain grey tail : oe .
ithe cance claught her by the rump, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. |
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after- |
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall 1 wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, |
NOW, Wha TUS ta © O truth snail read, who had married a sister of Sir Walter’s—On Friday, the |
Ilk man and mother’s son take heed:

16th of October, 1790, at Friar’s-Carse, the Whistle was
Whene’er to drink you are inclined, once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the
Or cutty sarks run in your mind, present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel,
Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare. of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose
family it had continued ; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq.
of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir
Robert: which last gentleman carried off the hard-won
honours of the field.]

 

VERSES TO CHLORIS,

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON A BLANK LEAF OF A COPY
OF HIS POEMS.

I sine of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,

 

*Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair friend, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. \
Nor thou the gift refuse 4
Nor with canis ear Rieck Old Loda*, still rueing the arm of Fingal, i
The moralizing muse. The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— i
: . ne : “This Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er, "i
sac THOUS in all thy youth and charms, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”? We
Must bid the world adieu, ’ i
(A world ’gainst peace in constant arms) Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, tt
To join the friendly few.

=

Be naaasoe we

What champions ventured, what champions fell ;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Since thy gay morn of life o’ercast,
Chill came the tempest’s lower ;
(And ne’er misfortune’s eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower ;) Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
cS; life? Scenics mice CHETA oi ore Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war,
Toe ee af Pear. 4 He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
pull muchas lett behind 5 No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store—

The comforts of the mind. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d ;
Thine is the self-approving glow, Which now in his house has for ages remain’d ;
On conscious honour’s part ; Till three noble chieftains and all of his blood,

And, dearest gift of heaven below, The jovial contest again have renew’d.
Thine friendship’s truest heart.

 

neers eee * mts tacts

i a Sy eS par
ep ue

sherri Tamnommeerinnies

And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines,

 

joy ith hearts clear of '
The joys refined of sense and taste, ee poy ONE good fellows, wi i
With: every oan a ae t Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; | :
And doubly were We peewee And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins 5 ine B
These joys could he improve. Hy

* It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil

 

spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, |
than the middle of the next running stream. It may be | Desiring Glenriddel to.yield up the spoil ;
proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that | Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, |
|
|
|
!

gg
SMF a

when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in | And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning

back * See Ossian’s Caric-thura.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

acm
“we

aieen nee Eee

Sapa eaeae aaa ST

70 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

| |
SN, “By the gods of theancients!” Glenriddelreplies, | He lean’d him to an ancient aik,
; | “ Before I surrender so glorious a prize, Whose trunk was mould’ring down wl’ years 5
: || I?ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More *, His locks were bleached white wi’ time,
; 1 And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”’ His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears ;
i : And as he touch’d his trembling harp,
\ | 1 Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, And as he tuned his doleful sang,
; i | But he ne’er turn dhis back onhisfoe—orhisfriend, | Phe winds, lamenting thro’ their caves,
: A ang | Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, To echo bore the notes alang.
; rh And knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield. =
‘ 4 ae : tao a “ Ye scatter’d birds, that faintly sin
| : \ : To ee Le . of Glenr ae our heroes repair, The reliques of the vernal ee r
} boat | mi a Ag a Ae a sorrow and aa ee Ye woods, that shed on a’ the winds
oe u oe : ine and for welcome not more i a ue The honours of the aged year !
aie Than the sense wit, and taste, of a sweet lovel ; | A few short months, and glad and gay,
i Pa eee ee ? y Again ye’ll charm the ear and ee 5 |
ay irl A bard was selected to witness the fray, But nought in all revolving time
ie ! And tell future ages the feats of the day 5 Can gladness bring again to me. |
mad A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, “] ee it
ee And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been. ae COINS, OEE oe ee \|
oe nl That long has stood the wind and rain 5 |
a The dinner being over, the claret they ply, But now has come a cruel blast, |
i And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy 5 And my last hold of earth is gane : |
iB ty In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, | Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring, It
a ll And the bands grew the tighter the more they Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; |
a? ! were wet. But I maun lie before the storm, 1
ie Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er ; And ithers plant them in my room. |
ee Bright Pheebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a corps, | <7, : : |
me And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, I’ve seen sae mony changefu soe? |
rh | Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn. On earth I am a stranger grown ; |
ree lel I wander in the ways of men, |
ey 8 Six bottles a-piece had well worn out the night, Alike unknowing and unknown : |
} M When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, |
et Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, I bear alane my lade o’ care, |
‘ And swore ’twas the way that their ancestors did. For silent, low, on beds of dust,
ween : Lie a’ that would my sorrows share. 1
ree Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, |
bol No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; “ And last, (the sum of a’ my griefs !)
ee A high ruling elder to wallow in wine ! My noble master lies in clay 5
Cee He left the foul business to folks less divine. The flower amang our barons bold,
ae ; ayy? nt ; ay °
1 y “i The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; nee aeeeuly ee
wa | | But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend ; For a the life of life is deat
rat | Though fate said—a hero should perish in light; | Ang hope has left my aged k ee
ant So uprose bright Pheebus—and down fell the knight. O ae a . : seat oe
lb n forward wing for ever fled.
oi} Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink:— | ;,
tee | “ Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall Awake thy last sad voice, my harp !
ea cine | The voice of woe and wild despair !
eae al | But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Awake, resound thy latest lay, |
Wak | | Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime! Then sleep in silence evermair !
Sa And thou, my last, best, only friend,
Rigel | “ Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with That fillest an untimely tomb,
iba aa Bruce, Accept this tribute from the bard
Wiican 7) Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : Thou brought from fortune’s mirkest gloom.
Aye |.) So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
aia The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!” | “ In poverty’s low barren vale,
a i Thick mists, obscure, involved me round ;
i ile f | Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,
PATA Ot Nae ray of fame was to be found :
“ fi a Thou found’st me, like the morning sun
rien || LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF That melts the fogs in limpid air,
yarn GLENCAIRN. The friendless bard and rustic song
j i hi THE wind blew hollow frae the hills, Became alike thy fostering care.
ini Bout | By : fits ie sun's departing beam “© Q! why has worth so short a date
a, hl Look’d on the fading yellow woods ee cea eae ec a ee
eat ee ml Fe OL ade REE ae. : While villains ripen grey with time ?
gt That waved o’er Lugar’s winding stream : Wick thot, Sue aRie: wenlons eroak
Uy ha fs Beneath a craigy steep a bard py a Ogi eee ore
ate ne an : Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime !
Pie ae Laden with years and meikle pain,
a a ; a bite Why did I live to see that day ?
ath n loud lament bewail’d his lord,
aie | | Whom death had all untimely ta’en A day to me so full of woe *
ue al b | eh MeaiRe Daud a Seen _ | Ohad I met the mortal shaft
ir 4 f Hi) * See Dr. Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. \ Which laid my benefactor low !
. [e 4 ty MY
re PG \y See a ee
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*,“The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen ;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been ;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ;
But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a’ that thou hast done for me !”

~~

LINES
SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD OF WHITEFOORD, BART.
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM,

Tuov, who thy honour as thy God rever’st,

Who, save thy mind’s reproach, nought earthly
To thee this votive offering I impart, [fear’st ;
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valued’st, I the patron loved ;
His worth, his honour, all the world approved.
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,

And tread the dreary path to that dark world

unknown.

 

 

POEM,
ADDRESSED TO MR, MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE,
DUMFRIES, 1796.
Frienp of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wantin’ thee, might beg or steal ;
Alake, alake! the meikle deil,
: Wi a’ his witches,
Are at it, skelpin, jig and reel,
In my poor pouches.
I modestly fu’ fain wad hint it,
That one-pound-one, I sairly want it :
If wi’ the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind ;
And, while my heart wi’ life-blood dunted,
I’d bear ’t in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi’ double plenty o’er the loanin’
To thee and thine—
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye’vE heard this while how I’ve been licket,
And by fell death was nearly nicket :
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk ;
But by gude luck I lap a wicket,

And turned a neuk.

But by that health, I’ve got a share o’t,
And by that life, I’m promis’d mair o’t,
My hale and weel I’ll take a care o’t
A tentier way :
Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o’t,
For ance and ay.

eee

 

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION.
Tune—Killicrankie.
LORD ADVOCATE.
He clench’d his pamphlets in his fist,
He quoted and he hinted,
Till in a declamation mist
His argument he tint it ;

BURNS’S POEMS. 71

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

——-——_

He gaped for’t, he graped for’t,
He fand it was awa’, man;
But what his common sense came short,
He eked it out wi’ law, man.
MR. ERSKINE,
Collected Harry stood awee,
Then open’d out his arm, man;
His lordship sat wi’ ruefw’ e’e,
And ey’d the gathering storm, man:
Like wind-driven hail it did assail,
Like a torrent owre a linn, man;
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes,
Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man.

OS eer

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST, AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE,
WITH BAYS,

Written by desire of the Poet’s friend, the Earl of Buchan.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes /Zolian strains between :

While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade :

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed :

While maniac Winter rages o’er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,

Or sweeping wild, a waste of snows :

So long, sweet Poet of the Year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Ooi

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa.

OF FINTRAY.

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg,

About to beg a pass for leave to beg ;

Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple’s rest 5)

Will generous Graham list his Poet’s wail ?

(It soothes poor misery, heark’ning to her tale.)
And hear him curse the light he first survey’d,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature I arraign ;
Of thy. caprice maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground.
Thou. giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,

Th’ envenom’d wasp, victorious, guards his cell.— |

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,

In all the omnipotence of rule and power.—
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ;

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure.

Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug.
Ev’n silly woman has her warlike arts,

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts

 

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72 BURNS’S
But oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,

To thy poor, fenceless, naked child—the Bard!

A thing unteachable in world’s skill,

And half an idiot too, more helpless still.

No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun,

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ;

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,

And those alas! not Amalthea’s horn ;

Clad in rich dulness’ comfortable fur,

In naked feeling, and in aching pride,

He bears the unbroken blast from ev’ry side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics—appall’d I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads’ daring into madness stung 5
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne’er one sprig must wear.
Foil’d, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on through life,
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired,
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead even resentment for his injured page,
He heeds or feelsno more the ruthless critic’s rage.

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,
For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast ;
By toil and famine worn to skin and hone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch’s son.

O dulness! portion of the truly blest !
Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest !
Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes
Of fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ;
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder, “some folks” do not starve.
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clew of hope,
And through disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conelude that “fools are fortune’s care.”
So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle muses’ mad-cap train,
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ;
In equanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heay’n, or vaulted hell.

 

 

 

 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet’s, husband’s father’s fear !
Already one strong hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust 5
(Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears :)
O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare !
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown :
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path,
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! |

 

nt

 

 

POEMS.

 

 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa.,
OF FINTRAY.
ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

I cau no goddess to inspire my strains,

A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns 5
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ;
If aught that giver from my mind efface ;
If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace ;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain’s years !

 

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky ;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s,

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and fa’s.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din ;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune’s favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes,
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attired as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o’ stane,
His darin’ look had daunted me ;
And on his bonnet graved was plain,
The sacred posy—* Libertie ! ”

And frae his harp sie strains did flow,

Might roused the slumbering dead to hear ;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton’s ear !

He sang wi’ joy the former day,

He weeping wail’d his latter times 5
But what he said it was nae play,

I winna venture’t in my rhymes.

 

POETICAL INSCRIPTION FOR’ AN ALTAR TO

INDEPENDENCE.

TuoseE of an independent mind,

With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d ;

Prepared Power’s proudest frown to brave,

Who will not be, nor have a slave ;

Virtue alone who dost revere,

Thy own reproach alone dost fear,

Approach this shrine, and worship here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

area regione ates OSTO JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTYs

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY,

Hratru to the Maxwells’ vet’ran Chief !
Health, ay unsour’d by care or grief :
Inspired, I turn’d Fate’s sibyl leaf

This natal morn,
I see thy life is stuff o’ prief,

Searee quite half worn.
This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka Poet)
On thee a tack o’ seven times seven

Will yet bestow it.

[f envious buckies view wi’ sorrow
Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow,
May Desolation’s lang-teeth’d harrow,

Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah

In brunstane stoure—

But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie,
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,
Wi?’ mornings blithe and e’enings funny,
Bless them and thee.

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye,
And then the de’il he daurna steer Ve:
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye:
For me, shame fa’ me,
If niest my heart I dinna wear ye
While Burns they ca’ me.

—_—eeeeeeeeeeeeOeoeees C8

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE
ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT.

Wnutte Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ;

While quacks of state must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ;

Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention,

The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First in the sexes’ intermix’d connexion,
One sacred Right of Woman is protection :
The tender flower that lifts its head elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th’ impending storm.

Our second Right—but needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate ’s the fashion,
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He’d die before he’d wrong it—’tis decorum—

‘There was, indeed, in far less polish’d days,

A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ;
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade a lady’s quiet—

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit nor manners.

 

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

For Right the third, ourlast, our best, our dearest,

 

73

 

Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration
Most humbly own—’tis dear, dear admiration !

In that blest sphere alone, we live and move ;
There taste that life of life—immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,
’Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares—
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ?

 

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions :

Let Majesty your first attention summon,

Ah! ga ira! THe Masesry or Woman!

 

MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER
CAPRICE.
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired !
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately
glistened !
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired !
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,

From friendship and dearest affection removed ;
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,—

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unloved.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear ;
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.

We'll search thro’ the garden for each silly flower,
We'll roam thro’ the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
For none e’er approached her but rued the rash
deed.

We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay,
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ;
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey,
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from
his ire.

 

THE EPITAPH.

Herz lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly gay in life’s beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.

 

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

Harn, Poesie! thou nymph reserv’d !

In chase 0’ thee what crowds hae swerved

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved
*Mang heaps o’ clavers;

And och! o’er aft thy joes ha’e starved,
*Mid a’ thy favours!

Say, lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump’s heroic clang,
And sock or buskin, skelp alang
To death or marriage ;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang,
But wi’? miscarriage ?

In Homer’s craft Jock Milton thrives ;
Eschylus’ pen Will Shakspeare drives ;

 

 

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74 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

Wee Pope, the knurlin, ’till him ’rives
Horatian fame ;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Ev’n Sappho’s flame.

But thee, Theocritus! wha matches?

They ’re no herd’s ballats, Maro’s catches:

Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O’ heathen tatters :

T pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o’ wit and lear,
Will nane the shepherd’s whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace ;
And wi’ the far-famed Grecian, share
A rival place?

 

Yes, there is ane—a Scottish callan!
There’s ane—come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk beyond the hallan,
A chiel sae clever ;
The teeth o’ time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou ’s for ever?

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,

In thy sweet Caledonian lines:

Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes,
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
Wv hawthorns grey,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd’s lays
At close o’ day.

Thy rural loves are Nature’s sel’ ;

Nae bombast spates o’ nonsense swell ;

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
©’ witchin’ love,

That charm, that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

 

SONNET
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.
OF GLEN-RIDDEL.
April, 1794.
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul :
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant
stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest
roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow’rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ?

That strain flows round th’ untimely tomb where

Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ;
The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer,

Is in his “narrow house” for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ;
Me, mem’ry of my loss will only meet.

 

SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF
THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING
IN A MORNING WALK.
Srna on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain!
See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.
So, in lone Poverty’s dominion drear,
Sits meek Content, with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments—bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day !
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies !
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
Vhat wealth could never give nor take away !
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care!
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with
thee I’ll share.

 

IMPROMPTU
ON MRS. RIDDEL’S BIRTH-DAY, 4TH NOV. 1793.

Oxp Winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr’d :
«What have I done, of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless sons no pleasure know ;
Night’s horrid car drags dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.

“ Now, Jove, for once, be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil ;
Give me, and I’ve no more to say,
Give me Maria’s natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.”
“Tis done!” says Jove ;—so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

 

 

~~

THE VOWELS.
A TALE,

°T' was where the birch and sounding thong are plied, |
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; |
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, |
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And eall the trembling vowels to account.—

 

 

First enter’d A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform’d, dishonest to the sight !

His twisted head look’d backward on his way,

And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai/

Reluctant, E stalk’d in; with piteous grace

The justling tears ran down his honest face !

That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant’s throne !

The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound

Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ;
And next the title following close behind,

He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign’d.

The cobwebb’d gothic dome resounded Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain’d reply :
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock’d the groaning vowel te the ground!

 

 

 

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In rueful apprehension enter’d O,

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ;

Th’ Inquisitor of Spain the most expert

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art;
So grim, deform’d with horrors, entering U,

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew !

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,

The pedant in his left hand clutch’d him fast,
In helpless infants’ tears he dipp’d his right,
Baptiz’d him ew, and kicked him from his sight.

 

ad

LIBERTY.

A FRAGMENT.

| Tuer, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among—
_ Thee famed for martial deed and sacred song—

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ;

| Where is that soul of freedom fled 2

Immingled with the mighty dead !
Beneath that hallow’d turf where ‘Wallace lies !

_ Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep ;
Disturb not ye the hero’s sleep,

_ Nor give the coward secret breath.—

Is this the power in freedom’s war
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot’s proudest bearing,
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation’s boldest daring !

| One quench’d in darkness like the sinking star,

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

 

eee

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET,
OF MONBODDO.

| Lire ne’er exulted in so rich a prize,

| As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ;

_ Nor envious death so triumph’d in a blow

| As that which laid the accomplish’d Burnet low.

| Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ?

| In richest ore the brightest jewel set !

| In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,

| As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer’s pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,

Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm—LEliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immix’d with reedy fens ;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored,

| Ye rugged cliffs, c’erhanging dreary glens,

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Priaces, whose cumb’rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ?

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth,
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty’s pride,
And virtue’s light, that beams beyond thespheres;
But like the sun eclipsed at morning tide,
‘Thou left’st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent’s heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care !
So deck’d the woodbine sweet yon aged tree,
So from it ravish’d, leaves it bleak and bare.

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

BERS SEE

 

75

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT,
DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,

And not less anxious, sure this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,

*T would vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better ;
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ;

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ;

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ;
And last my Prologue-business slily hinted.
**Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes,
‘I know your bent—these are no laughing times;
Can you—but Miss, I own I have my fears,—
Dissolve in pause—and sentimental tears,

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,

Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?” |

T could no more—askance the creature eyeing,
D’ye think, said I, this face was made for erying ?
T’ll laugh, that’s poz—nay more, the world shall

know it ;
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet!

Firm as my creed, sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief,
That Misery ’s another word for Grief ;
I also think—so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye 5
Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive—

‘To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy

neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap :
Would’st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf,
Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself ;
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ;
And as we’re merry may we still be wise.

aw

 

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS.

| Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join’d,
Accept the gift; tho’ humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ;

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

Or pity’s notes, in luxury of tears,
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ;
While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born piety her sanction seais.

 

 

 

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| 76 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

VERSES TO J. RANKINE. I’ve found her still,
Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
(The person to whom his Poem on shooting the Partridge ’T ween good and ill.
tt is addressed, while Rankine occupied the farm of Adam-
hill, in Ayrshire.] Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton,
Ak day, as Death, that grusome carl, Our sinfu’ saul to get a claut on
Was driving to the tither war!’ Wi? felon ire ;
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, Syne, whip ! his tail ye “Il ne’er cast saut on,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; ; He’s aff like fire.
‘ Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station, Ah Nick! ah Nick ! it is na fair,
From hin that wears the star and garter, First shewing us the tempting ware,
¥; To him that wintles in a halter ; Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
Ashamed himsel’ to see the wretches, To put us daft ;
ii He mutters, glowrin’ at the bitches, Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,
| * By God I’ll not be seen behint them, O’ hell’s damn’d waft.

Nor ’mang the spiritual corps present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,

To grace this d d infernal clan.”

By Adamhill a glance he threw,

“ Lord God !” quoth he, “I have it now,
There’s just the man I want, i’ faith!”

And quickly stoppit Rankine’s breath.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn’d elbow yeuks wi’ joy,
And hellish pleasure ;
Already in thy fancy’s eye,
Thy sicker treasure.

 

Soon heels-o’er-gowdie ! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

 

TO MRS. DUNLOP And murdering wrestle,
i As dangling in the wind he hangs
Ip" ON SENSIBILITY. A gibbet’s tassel.
F

SENSIBILITY, how charming,

if Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ;

But distress with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well!

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a’ intentions evil,

I quit my pen:

 

 

. Tairest flower, behold the lily, The Lord preserve us from the devil!
Blooming in the sunny ray: Amen ! Amen!
Let the blast sweep o’er the valley ;
| See it prostrate on the clay. oe
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, LINES

q Telling o’er his little joys :

ant: Hapless bird ! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies. Tue friend whom wild from wisdom’s way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send ;

(Not moony madness more astray 3)

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure

 

 

 

Mee toe Finer feelings can bestow ; Who but deplores that hapless friend?
lee Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
bag a Thrill the deepest notes of woe ! Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part,
VM | Ah, why should I such scenes outlive!
Hh i Scenes so abhorrent to my heart !
i | Tis thine to pity and forgive.
afta rm TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.
i 4 | t | Dumfries, 1796.
eth 7
i t My honour’d Colunel, deep I feel TO A YOUNG LADY,
i Your int’rest in the Poet’s weal ; MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES ; WITH BOOKS WHICH THE
me ee Ah! now sma’ heart ha’e I to speel BARD PRESENTED HER.
i } k | The steep Parnassus, THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
bare Surrounded thus by bolus pill And with them take the poet’s prayer
Ween Rl And potion glasses. That fate may in her fairest page,
Hf i © what a cantie warl were it, Bey Tee ae ie presage
ae BH Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it 5 With ee Pee aay af rae fs
hoa! And Fortune favour worth and merit, Be Ee Oe eee
“it As they deserve ; And wakeful caution still aware
ir d Of ill—but chief, man’s felon snare ;

 

 

ih | | (And ay a rowth roast-beef and claret,

Syne wha wad starve 2) All blameless joys on earth we find,

And all the treasures of the mind—-
i | Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her, These be thy guardian and reward:
_ And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

 

vrata ain

 

  

ES aBURNS’S POEMS. 77 |

 

EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c.

FOR THE AUTHOR’S FATHER.

O yx, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev’rence and attend!
tere lie the loving husband’s dear remains,
The tender father and the gen’rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ;

The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride ;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ;

“ For ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.”

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born September 5th, 1751.—Died 15th October, 1774.
No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay,
“No storied urn nor animated bust,”
This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way
To pour her sorrows o’er her Poet’s dust.

FOR R. A., ESQ.
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much loved, much honour’d name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.

ON A FRIEND.

Aw honest man here lies at rest

As e’er God with his image blest ;

The friend of man, the friend of truth ;
The friend of age, and guide of youth ;
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d :
Tf there’s another world, he lives in bliss ;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

ON WEE JOHNNY.
Hic jacet wee Johnny.
W HOE’ER thou art, O reader, know,
That death has murder’d Johnny!
Aw’ here his body lies fu’ low-
For saul, he ne’er had ony.

ON JOHN DOVE.
INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.

HERE lies Johnny Pigeon ;
What was his religion ?

Wha’ e’er desired to ken,
To s:me other war!’
Maun follow the carle,

For here Johnny Pigeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution—-
Small beer, persecution,
A dram was memento mori ;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial glory.

 

FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ,
THE poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps,
Whom eanting wretches blamed ;
But with such as he, where’er he be,
May I be saved, or damn’d !

 

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.
Here Souter Hood in death does sleep ;
To hell if he’s gane thither,
Satan, gi’e him thy gear to keep,
He’ll haud it weel thegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.
Brtow thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes :
O Death, it’s my opinion,
Thou ne’er took such a bleth’rin b—ch
Into thy dark dominion.

ON A WRITER IN DUMERIES.

Here lies John Bushby, honest man !
Cheat him, Devil, if you can.

ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH
FIFE-SHIRE.
Here lie Willie Michie’s banes :
O Satan, when ye tak’ him,
Gie him the schoolin’ of your weans ;
For clever de’ils he’ll mak’ ’em !

3

ON A HEN-PECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE.
As father Adam first was fool’d,
A case that’s still too commen,
Here lies a man a woman ruled,
The devil ruled the woman.

 

ON THE SAME.
O Dratu! hadst thou but spared his life,
Whom we this day lament ;
We freely wad exchanged the wife,
And a’ been weel content.

Ev’n as he is, cauld in his graff,
The swap we yet will do’t;

Tak’ thou the carline’s carease aff,
Thow’se get the saul to boot.

ON THE SAME.

OnE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,

When deprived of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he’d show’d her,
She reduced him to dust, and she drank up the

powder;

But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion,
When call’d on to order the fun’ral direction,
Would have eat her dead lord on a slender pretence,

Not to show her respect, but—to save the expenes.

 

 

 

 

 

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78 BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

ON WAT.

SucuH a reptile was Wat,
Such a miscreant slave,

That the very worms damned him
When laid in his grave.

“Tn his flesh there’s a famine,’
A starved reptile cries ;

** And his heart is rank poison,”
Another replies.

 

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE.

THE devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying ;
| But when he approach’d where poor Francis lay
| moaning,

|| And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning
|| Astonished, confounded, cry’d Satan, “ By God!
| I’ll want *im, ere I take such a damnable load.”

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

Lament him Mauchline husbands a’,

i He aften did assist ye ;

| For had ye staid whole weeks awa’,

| Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press
To school in bands thegither,

O tread ye lightly on this grass,
Perhaps he was your father.

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD,
WHO WAS NOT QUITE SO WISE AS SOLOMON.
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone,
But body too must rise :
For had he said, “ the soul alone
| From death I will deliver ;”
| Alas! alas! O Cardoness,
Then thou hadst slept for ever.

 

 

LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE.
KEMBLE, thou cur’st my unbelief
Of Moses and his rod ;
At Yarico’s sweet notes of grief
The rock with tears had flow’d.

TO MR. SYME,
IN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO JOIN A DINNER PARTY,
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cook’ry the first in the nation ;
| Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.

TO MR. SYME,
WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER,
O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
’T were drink for first of humankind,
A gift that e’en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

 

 

2

ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN
THE REY. DR. B——’S VERY LOOKS.
Tuat there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny,
They say their master is a knave—
And sure they do not lie.

| ON ELPHINSTONE’S TRANSLATIONS OF MARTIAL'3
EPIGRAMS.

O THOU, whom poesy abhors,

Whom prose has turned out of doors,

Heard’st thou that groan? proceed no farther ;
Twas laurell’d Martial roaring murder !

 

ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD MADE MISS DAVIES
SO LITTLE, AND MRS. * * * SO LARGE.
Written on a pane of glass in the inn at Moffat.
Ask why God made the gem so small,

And why so huge the granite ?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.

ON MISS J. SCOTT OF AYR.

| On! had each Scot of ancient times
Been Jeanie Scott, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.

|
|
|

|

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE

TAVERN, DUMFRIES.

| THE greybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his

treasures,

| Give me with gay Folly to live ;

I grant him, calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,
But Folly has raptures to give.

}
|
|
| a
|
|

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD
GALLOWAY.
Wuat dost thou in that mansion fair ?
Flit, Galloway ! and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind !

ON THE SAME.
No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
The Stewarts all were brave
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME.

Bricut ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro’ many a far-famed sire !
So ran the far-famed Roman way,

So ended in a mire !

 

 

TO THE SAME,
ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT.
SPARE me thy vengeance, Galloway,
In quiet let me live : i
I ask no kindness at thy hand,

 

 

 

 

For thou hast none to give.BURNS’S

 

 

 

 

 

WRITTEN AT INVERARY.
Wuoe’er he be that sojourns here.
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon
The Lord their God, his Grace.

|
|
|
There’s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland cauld and hunger ;
If Providence has sent me’ here,
"T'was surely in an anger ! |

 

 

A VERSE
Composed and repeated by Burns to the Master of the |
House, on taking leave at a place in the Highlands, where
he had been hospitably entertained.
WHEN death’s dark stream I ferry o’er,
A time that surely shall come ;
In Heaven itself I’ll ask no more
Than just a Highland welcome.

WRITTEN IN A LADY’S POCKET-BOOK.

GRanT me, indulgent Heav’n, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal Freedom’s sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things that were.

VERSES
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON,
WE came na here to view your warks,
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise:

But whan we tirl’d at your door,
Your porter dought na hear us;

Sae may, should we to hell’s yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.

SEARCHING old wives’ barrels,
Och hone ! the day !
That clarty barm should stain my laurels,
But—what’ll ye say !
These movin’ things ca’d wives and weans
Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes.

LINES
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW AT THE KING’S ARMS TAVERN,
DUMFRIES.
Y= men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
’Gainst poor Excisemen ? give the cause a hear-
ing :—
Whatare your landlords’ rent-rolls? teasing ledgers:
What premiers, what ? even monarchs’ mighty
gaugers :
Nay, what are priests? those seeming godly wise
men 5
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen ?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

POEMS. 79

 

 

 

EXTEMPORE.
WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE OF?
BURNS, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUK AT A TAVERN,
Tue King’s most humble servant, I
Can scarcely spare a minute ;
But I'll be wi’ ye by an’ by,
Or else the devil’s in it.

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.
O Txov, who kindly dost provide
For every creature’s want !
We bless thee, God of Nature wide,
For all thy goodness lent :
And if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent ;
But whether granted or denied,
Lord bless us with content !
Amen,

THE CREED OF POVERTY.

In polities if thou would’st mix,
And mean thy fortunes be,

Bear this in mind—be deaf and blind s
Let great folks hear and see.

EXTEMPORE LINES
DELIVERED AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUN-
TEERS, ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF ADM. RODNEY’S VICTORY,
APRIL 12, 1782, WHEN BURNS WAS CALLED ON FOR A SONG.
InstEaD of a song, boys, I’ll give you a toast;—
Here’s the memory of those on the twelfth that we
lost 5
That we lost, did I say? nay, by heay’n, that we
found,
For their fame it shall last while the world goes
round.
The next in succession, I’ll give you the King—
Whoe’er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here’s the grand fabric, our free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution ;
And longer with Politics not to be cramm/’d,
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damn’d;
And who would to Liberty e’er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!

 

THE HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

CursED be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife!

Who has no will but by her high permission ;
Who has no sixpence but in her possession ;
Who must to her his dear friend’s secret tell ;-
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell !
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,

I’d break her spirit, or I’d break her heart ;

I’d charm her with the magic of a switch,

I’d kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b—ch,

 

 

 

 

 

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80

BURNS’S POEMS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SONGS AND

HANDSOME NELL*. |

Tune—‘‘ 1 am a man unmarried,”

O, oncE I lov'd a bonnie lass, |
Ay, and I love her still, |
And whilst that honour warms my breast
I’ll love my handsome Nell. |

As bonnie lasses I ha’e seen,
And mony full as braw,

But for a modest gracefu’ mien
The like I never saw.

A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e’e,

But without some better qualities
She’s no a lass for me.

But Nelly’s looks are blithe and sweet ;
And SS is best of a’,

Her reputation is coer?
And fair without a flaw.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel ;

And then there’s something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,

But it’s innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

*Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
’Tis this enchants my soul ;

For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.

 

Lens

BONNIE LESLEY.
Tune—‘* The Collier’s bonnie daughter.”

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o’er the Border ?
She’s gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever ;

For Nature made her what she is,
And ne’er made sic anither !

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee :

Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.

The de’il he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee ;

He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’’

The Powers aboon will tent thee ;
Misfortune sha’na steer thee ;

Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag, we ha’e a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie.

 

 

 

 

 

* This was our Poet’s first attempt.

BALLADS.

I DREAM’D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS
WERE SPRINGING.

“‘ These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are
among the oldest of my printed pieces.”—Burns’s Reliques.

I pream’p I lay where flowers were springing,
Gaily in the sunny beam ;
List’ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling, crystal stream :
Straight the sky grew black and daring ;
Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave ;
Trees with aged arms were warring,
O’er the swelling, drumlie wave.

Such was my life’s deceitful morning,
Such the pleasure I enjoy’d ;
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,
A’ my flow’ry bliss destroy’ d.
Tho’ fickle Fortune has deceived me,
(She promised fair, and perform’d but ill ;)
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.

RAR CAN

 

TIBBIE, I HA’E SEEN THE DAY.

Tune—‘* Invercauld’s Reel,””
CHORUS.
O Tibbie, I ha’e seen the day,
Ye wad nae been sae shy ;s
For lack o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

YESTREEN I met you on the moor,

Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ;

Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,

Because ye ha’e the name o’ clink,

That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene’er ye like to try ;

But sorrow tak’ him that’s sae mean,
Although his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows onie saucy quean

That looks sae proud and high.

Although a lad were e’er sae smart,

If that he want the yellow dirt,

Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry.

But if he ha’e the name o’ gear,

Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,

Though hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

But Tibbie, lass, tak’ my advice,

Your daddie’s gear mak’s you sae nice $

The de’il a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,

I wad na gie her in her sark,

For thee, wi’ a’ thy thousan’ mark 5
Ye need na look sae high.LUCKLESS FORTUNE.
O RAGING fortune’s withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low ! O,
O raging fortune’s withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low ! 0.

My stem was fair, my bud was ereen,
My blossom sweet did blow, O ;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless fortune’s northern storms
Laid a’ my blossoms low, O,

But luckless fortune’s northern storms

Laid a’ my blossoms low, O.

* ¥ * * * *

 

~~

FRAGMENT.

Tune—‘‘ I had a horse, and I had nae main”

WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady,

Where’er I gaed, where’er I rade
A mistress still I had aye:

But when I cam’ roun’ by Mauchline town,
Not dreadin’ ony body,
My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady*.
* **

*

 

THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.
Tune—‘* The Deuks dang o’er my Daddy!”

Nak gentle dames, though e’er sae fair
Shall ever be my muse’s care ;
Their titles a’ are empty show ;
Gi’e me my highland lassie, 0.

Within the glen sae bushy, O,

Aboonthe plain sae rushy, O,

I set me down wi’ right good will

To sing my highland lassie, O.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine !
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, O.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea ;
But while my crimson currents flow
I’ll love my highland lassie, O.

Although through foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,

For her bosom burns with honour’s glow
My faithful highland lassie, O.

I

For her I’Jl dare the billows’ roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my highland lassie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour’s band !
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low
I’m thine, my highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae Vushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, 0!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my highland lassie, O!

BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS,
uO ad emp

 

 

ee

JOHN BARLEYCORN*,
A BALLAD,
THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head,

And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall :

John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all,

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm’d wi? pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter’d mild,
When he grew wan and pale ;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.

His colour sicken’d more and more,
He faded into Age 5

And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They’ve ta’en a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee ;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell’d him full sore ;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe,

And still, as signs of life appear’d
They toss’d him to and fro.

They wasted, o’er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones ;

But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crush’d him ’tween two stones.

And they ha’e ta’en his very heart’s blood,
And drank it round and round :

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,
"Twill make your courage rise.
Twill make a man forget his woe ;

"Twill heighten all his joy ;
Twill make the widow’s heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand ;
And may his great posterity
Ne’er fail in old Scotland !

 

 

 

* Miss Armour, afterwards the Poet’s wife.

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THE RIGS O’ BARLEY.
Tune—** Corn rigs are bonnie.”

Ir was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,
I held awa’ to Annie :
The time flew by wi’ tentless heed,
Till ’tween the late and early,
Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed,
To see rne thro’ the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly ;

I set her down wi’ right good will
Amang the rigs o’ barley.

I ken’d her heart was a’ my ain ;
I loved her most sincerely ;

I kiss’d her owre and owre again
Amang the rigs 0’ barley.

I lock’d her in my fond embrace ;
Her heart was beating rarely !
My blessings on that happy place
Amang the rigs 0’ barley.
But by the moon and stars sae bright,
That shone that hour sae clearly !
She aye shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs 0’ barley.
I ha’e been blithe wi’ comrades dear ;
I ha’e been merry drinking ;
I ha’e been joyfu’ gathering gear ;
I ha’e been happy thinking ;
But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw,
Though three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a’,
Amang the rigs 0’ barley.
CHORUS.
Corn rigs an’ barley rigs,
And corn rigs are bonnie s
T'll ne'er forget that happy night
Amang the rigs wv Annie.

 

 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER*.
Tune—** The Weaver and his Shuttle.”

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border,

And carefully he bred me in decency and order.

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er
a farthing,

For without an honest manly heart, no man was
worth regarding.

Then out into the world, my course I did deter-
mine, [was charming.
Though to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my
education ; [ tion.
Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situa-

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune’s
favour ;

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate
each endeavour ;

Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d ; sometimes
by friends forsaken ; [mistaken.

And when my hope was at the top I still was worst

 

* «‘ This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in
versification, but as the sentiments are the genuine feel-
ings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular plea-
sure in conning it over.”—Burns’s Reliques, p.329.

82 BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

Then sore hardss’d, and tired at last, with fortune’s
vain delusion ;

I dropt my schemes like idle dreams, and came to
this conclusion ;

The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or
ill untried ;

But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I
would enjoy it.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to
befriend me ;

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to
sustain me.

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father
bred me early ;

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for
fortune fairly.

Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, through life
I’m doom’d to wander,

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting
slumber :

No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed
me pain or sorrow 3;

I live to-day, as well’s I may, regardless of to-
morrow.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a
palace,

Though fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with
all her wonted malice 3

I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne’er can make
it farther ;

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not youch
regard her.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little
money, [me;

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-
natured folly ;

But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er
be melancholy.

All you who follow wealth and power with unre-
mitting ardour,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your
view the farther :

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to
adore you,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer
before you.

 

MONTGOMERIE’S PEGGY.
A FRAGMENT,
Tune—‘ Galla Water.”
Autio’ my bed were in yon muir,
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be
Had I my dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.

When o’er the hill beat surly storms,

And winter nights were dark and rainy ;
I’d seek some dell, and in my arms

I’d shelter dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.

Were I a baron proud and high,
And horse and servants waiting ready,
Then a’ ’twad gi’e 0’ joy to me,
The sharin’ ’t with Montgomerie’s Peggy
*” * * * * *% *ee pre ance ei er Ce RS

SONG.
COMPOSED IN AUGUST.
Tune—‘‘T hada horse, I had nae mair.”

Now westlin’ winds, and slaught’ring guns

Bring autumn’s pleasant weather :
The moorcock Springs, on whirring wings,

Amang the blooming heather :
Now Waving grain, wide o’er the plain,

Delights the weary farmer ;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night

To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ;
The plover loves the mountains ;
The woodeock haunts the lonely dells ;
The soaring hern the fountains :

Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it ;

The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender ;

Some social join, and leagues combine ;
Some solitary wander:

Avaunt, away ! the cruel sy lay,
Tyrannic man’s dominion ;

The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring ery,
The flutt’ring, gory pinion !

But Pegey dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow ;

The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow :

Come let us stray our gladsome wa Ys
And view the charms of nature :

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly ;
Pll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly :

Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

 

THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T*.

O wa my babie-clouts will buy ?

Wha will tent me when I ery ?

Wha will kiss me whare I lie ?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

Wha will own he did the fau’t 2

Wha will buy my groanin’ maut ?

Wha will tell me what to ea’t?
The rantin’ dog the daddie 0’t.

When I mount the ereepie-chair,

Wha will sit beside me there 2

Gi'e me Rob, I seek nae mair,
The rantin’ dog the daddie 0’t.

Wha will crack to me my lane ?

Wha will mak’ me fidgin’ fain ?

Wha will kiss me o’er again ?
The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

 

*«« T composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to

a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who
was at that time under a cloud.”—Burns’s Reliques, p.278.

BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS. 8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NANNIE,
Tune—* My Nannie, O.”
BeEuInD yon hills where Lugar* flows,
INT. : =
Aang moors and mosses many, Q,
7 ey % ;
The wintry sun the day has closed,

v

And I’) awa’ to Nannie, O.

The westlin’ wind blaws loud an’ shill ;
The night’s baith mirk an’ rainy, O ;

But ll get my plaid, an’ out I’1 steal,
An’ owre the hills to Nannie, O.

My Nannie’s charming, sweet, an’ young,

Nae artfw’ wiles to win ye, O:

May ill befa’ the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O

Her face is fair, her heart is true,

As spotless as she’s bonnie, O:
The op’ning gowan, wet wi? dew,

Nae purer is than Nannie, O.
A country lad is my degree,

An’ few there be that ken me, O;
But what care I how few they he?

I’m welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a’ ’s my penny fee,

An’ I maun guide it cannie, O;
But warl’s gear ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’ my Nannie, O.
Our auld guidman delights to view

His sheep an’ kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I’m as blythe that haud his pleugh,

An’ ha’e nae care but Nannie, O

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,

Pll tak’ what Heav’n will sen’ me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an’ love my Nannie, O.

ees

FORLORN MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR.
Tune—* Let me in this ae night.”

FoRLORN, my love, no comfort 16a,
Far, far from thee, I wander here ;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe
At which I most repine, love.
O wert thou, love, but near me,
Bui near, near, near me ;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,
And mingle sighs with mine, love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of hope and joy,
No shelter, shade, nor home have [|
Save in those arms of thine, love.
O wert thou, &e.

Cold, alter’d friendship’s eruel part,
To poison fortune’s ruthless dart—
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.
O wert thou, &e.

But dreary though the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet !
That only ray of solace sweet

Can on thy Chloris shine, love.

 

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AND BALLADS.

 

 

THERE’S NOUGHT BUT CARE.
Tune—‘** Green grow the rushes.”
Green grow the rashes, 0!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that eer I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!

THERE'S nought but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour that passes, O ;

What signifies the life 0’ man,
An ’twere na for the lasses, O 4

The war’ly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly them, O ;

An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

But gi’e me a cannie hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie, O ;

An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, wha sneer at this,
Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O

The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.

?

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O :
Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,
An’ then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, 0!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
% * * Xe * ve

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ROBIN.
Tune—‘* Dainty Davie.”

THERE was a lad was born at Kyle,
But what na day o’ what na style—
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantiw rovin’, rantiv roviw ;
Robin was a roviv’ boy,
Rantiw rovin’ Robin.
Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-taventy days begun,
Twas then a blast o’ Januar’ win’
Blew handsel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof:
Quo’ scho, “ Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae cuif,

I think we “ll ca’ him Robin.

‘‘ He’ll ha’e misfortunes great and sma’,
But ay a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit till us a’,

We'll a’ be proud o’ Robin.

“ But sure as three times three mak’ nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’—

So Zeeze me on thee, Robin !
“ Guid faith,” quo’ scho, “I doubt yell gar
The bonnie lasses lie aspar,
But twenty faults ye may ha’e waur,

So blessin’s on thee, Robin !”

Robin was a rovin’ boy, &c.

BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.
Tune—‘‘ Braes 0’ Balquhidder.”
Ill kiss thee yet, yet,
An’ I'll kiss thee o’er again,
Aw Ili kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
ILK care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O ;
Young kings upon their handsel throne
Are no sae blest as 1am, O!
When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O 5
I seek nae mair 0’ Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O !
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I’m thine for ever, O ;—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O !
T’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
Aw lil kiss thee o’er again,
Aw Til kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!

 

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MY JEAN.
[This beautiful Fragment is an early Composition. }
Tune—‘* The Northern Lass.”
THoucu cruel Fate should bid us part,
As far ’s the Pole and Line,
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

 

Though mountains frown and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between 5

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

 

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HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,

Adown her neck and bosom hing ;

How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her !

 

 

Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,

© what a feast her bonnie mou’!

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.

————ee—eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemem™d>»

O LEAVE NOVELS.

Tune—‘‘ Mauchline Belles.”

O LEAVE novéls, ye Mauchline belles,

Ye’re safer at your spinning-wheel ;
Such witching books are baited hooks

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,

hey make your youthful fancies reel,

They heat your brains, and fire your veins,

And then you’re prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel ;
That feeling heart but acts a part,
Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,
| Are worse than poison’d darts of steel,
The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.YOUNG PHRGEGY.

[This is one of the Poet’s earliest compositions. It

copied from a MS. book Which he had before his first

publication.—Cromek.]

 

Tune—** The last time I came owre the muir.”

Younea Pegey blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,

The rosy dawn, the Springing grass,
With pearly gems adorning.
er eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,

And glitter o’er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh’ning flower.

Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced them ;
They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them.
Her smiles are like the evening mild,
When feather’d pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.

Were fortune lovely Pegegy’s foe,
Such sweetness would relent her :
As blooming spring unbends the brow

Jf savage, surly winter.
Detraction’s eye no aim can gain

Her winning powers to lessen ;
And spiteful envy grins in vain,

The poison’d tooth to fasten.

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth
From every ill defend her ;

Inspire the highly-favour’d youth
The destinies intend ner ;

Still fan the sweet connubial flame,
Responsive in each bosom ;

| And bless the dear parental name

With many a filial blossom.

3

 

ON CESSNOCK BANKS.

first published by Cromek. ]
Tune— Tf he be a butcher neat and trim.”
On Cessnock banks there lives a lass—
Could I describe her shape and mien ;
The graces of her weel-far’d face,
And the glancin’ of her sparklin’ een.

|  She’s fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,

| When dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

| She’s stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between,

| And shoots its head above each bush :
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

She’s spotless as the flow’ring thorn

With flow’rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in-the dewy morn ;

An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

Her looks:are like the sportive lamb,
When flow’ry May adorns the scene,

That wantons round its bleating dam ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

[Recovered from the recitation of a lady in Glasgow, and

 

 

 

 

AND BALLADS.
a ee
Her hair is like the curling mist
That shades the mountain-side at e’en,
When flow’r-reviving rains are past ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

 

Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow,
When shining sunbeams intervene
And gild the distant mountain’s brow ;

Aw’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een

Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.
Her lips are like the cherries ripe
That sunny walls from Boreas screen,
They tempt the taste and charm the sight ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

Her teeth are like a flock of’sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.
Her breath is like the fragrant breeze
That gently stirs the blossom’d bean,
When Pheebus sinks behind the Seas ;
An’ she’s twa glancin’ sparklin’ een.

But it’s not her air, her form, her face,
Tho’ matching Beauty’s fabled queen,
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,

An’ chiefly in her sparklin’ een.

 

eee

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
Tune—“ Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let’s fly:

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,

No sly man of business contriving a snare,

For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.

The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;

I scorn not the peasant, though eyer so low ;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother—his horse 5
There centum per centum, the cit, with his purse ;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air,
There, a big-belly’d bottle still eases my Gare.

 

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did flys

I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly’d bottle ’s a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make ;

A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck ;—
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

“ Life’s cares they are comforts,’ *—a maxim laid
down [gown ;

By the bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black

And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair ;

lor a big-belly’d bottle’s a heay’n of care.

A Stanza added in a Masonic Lodge.
Then fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw !
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.

 

* Young’s Night Thoughts,

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MENIE.
Tune—‘ Johnny’s Grey Breeks.”’

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep’d in morning dews.

And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her ee?
For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it's like a hawk,
Aw it uinna let a body be*!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me ’s a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings ery,

The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shill,
W? wild, unequal, wand’ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark,

Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side,

And mounts and sings on flittering wings,

A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree ;

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun £ stiil on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e?
For it’s jet, jet black, aw it’s like a hawk,
Aw it winna let a body be.

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THE LASS 0’? BALLOCHMYLE.
Tune-—** Miss Forbes’s Farewell to Banff.”

*Twas even—the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang ;
The zephyr wanton’d round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the mavis sang,
All nature listening seem’d the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray’d,
My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy ;
Her look was like the morning’s eye,
Her air like nature’s vernal smile,
Perfection whisper’d, passing by,
Behold the lass 0’ Ballochmyle !

 

 

 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentle-
man in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author’s.

Menie is the common abbreviation of Marianne.

 

 

 

| * Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of
! the poet’s departure to the West Indies.

 

 

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in autumn mild ;
When roving thro’ the garden gay,

Or wandering in a lonely wild :
But woman, nature’s darling child !

There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev’n there her other works are foil’d

By the bonnie lass 0’ Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed
That ever rose in Scotland’s plain !
Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil 5
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lasso’ Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp’ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine ;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine ;
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine
With the bonnie lass 0’ Ballochmyle.

 

MARY.
Tune—‘* Blue Bonnets.”’

Powers celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,

While in distant climes I wander
Let my Mary be your care:

Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own ;

Let my Mary’s kindred spirit,
Draw your choicest influence down.
Make the gales you waft around her,
Soft and peaceful as her breast ;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Soothe her bosom into rest :

Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam 5

To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home™*.

 

ELIZA.
Tune—‘* Gilderoy.””
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean’s roar 5
But boundless oceans roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore !

A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more:

But the last throb that leaves my heart,

While Death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh.BURNS’S SONGS

AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

 

THE FAREWELL

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES’S LODGE, TARBOLTON,
Tune—* Good night, and joy be wi’ you a’! ”

Aviev ! a heart-warm, fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour’d, ye enlighten’d few,
Companions of my social joy !
Though I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing fortune’s slidd’ry ba’,
With melting heart and brimful eye,
Pll mind you still, though far awa’.

Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night ;
Oft, honoured with-:supreme command,
Presided o’er the sons of light :
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw !
Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa’.

May freedom, harmony, and love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th’ omniscient eye above,
The glorious Architect divine !
That you may keep th’ unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet’s law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my pray’r when far awa’.
And you, farewell ! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear !
Heav’n bless your honour’d, noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia dear !
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a’,
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard that’s far awa’.

a

 

—_—

I AM MY MAMMY’S AE BAIRN.
[Of this song the chorus and second stanza are old.]
Tune—‘‘ I’m owre young to marry yet.”

I aM my mammie’s ae bairn,
WY unco folk I weary, Sir;
And lying in a man’s bed,
I’m fley’d wad mak’ me eerie, Sir.

I’m owre young, I’m owre young,
I'm owre young to marry yet ;
I’m owre young, ’twad be a sin
To tak’ me frae my mammie yet.

My mammie coft me a new gown,
The kirk maun ha’e the gracing 0’t ;
Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir,
I’m fear’d ye’d spoil the lacing 0’t.
I'm owre young, &c.

Hallowmas is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, Sir ;
And you an’ I in ae bed,
In troth I dare na venture, Sir.
I’m owre young, &c.

Fw’ loud and shrill the frosty wind
Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, Sir 3
But if ye come this gate again,
I’ll aulder be gin simmer, Sir.
I’m owre young, &c.

 

 

THE AUTHOR’S FAREWELL TO HIS
NATIVE COUNTRY.

 
   
   

[Burns intended this song as a farewell dirge to his native |
land, from which he was to embark in a few days for

Jamaica.

my friends: my chest was on the road to Greenock

composed the last song I should ever measure in Cale-

donia—* The gloomy night is gathering fast.’ ”]
Tune—* Roslin Castle.”

Tue gloomy night is gath’ring fast,

Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,

Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,

I see it driving o’er the plain ;

The hunter now has left the moor,

The seatter’d coveys meet secure,

While here I wander, prest wi’ care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip’ning corn,
By early Winter’s ravage torn ;

Across her placid azure sky

She sees the scowling tempest fly ;

Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,

I think upon the stormy wave,

Vhere many a danger I must dare,

Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Tis not the surging billow’s roar,

Tis not that fatal deadly shore :

‘Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear,

The wretched have no more to fear :

But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound :
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves !
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes !
My peace with these, my love with those—
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr !

~~“

 

a

WHISTLE, AND PLE COME TO YOU;
MY LAD.

O whistle, and Pil come to you, my lad ;
0 whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and Pll come to you, ny lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were 11a comin’ to me.
And come, &e.

O whistle, &e.
At kirk, or at market, whene’er you meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie :
But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e,
Yet look as ye were na looking at me.
Yet look, &e.

O whistle, &e.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ;
But court na anither, though jokin’ ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, &c.

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&8 BURNS'’S SONGS AND BALLADS. |

 

 

 

 

BONNIE LASSIE, WILL YE GO.
Tune—‘ The Birks of Abergeldy.”

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go ;
Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of Aberfeldy ?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o’er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come let us-spend the lightsome days
In the Birks:of Aberfeldy.
Bonnie lassie, &c.

While o’er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonnie lassie, &ce.

 

The braes ascend like lofty wa’s,

The foaming stream deep roaring fa’s,

O’er-hung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws,
The Birks of Aberfeldy.

| Bonnie lassie, &e.

 

|
| The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers,
| White o’er the linns the burnie pours,
| And rising, weets wi’ misty showers
The Birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie, &e.

Let fortune’s gifts at random flee,
They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi’ love and thee,
In the Birks of Aberfeldy.
Bonnie lassie, &c.

 

M‘PHERSON’S FAREWELL.

Tune— **M‘Pherson’s Lament.”

| FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie !
M‘Pherson’s time will not be long

On yonder gallows’ tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he ;

He play'd a spring and danced it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath ?—
On many a bloody plain

I’ve dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again !

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword ;

And there’s no man in all Scotland,
But I’ll brave him at a word.

l’ve lived a life of sturt and strife ;
I die by treacherie ;

It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky !

May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die !

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he ;

 

 

He play’d a spring and danced it round,

 

Below the gallows tree.

 

Se ee car. NR ME pe ne SN eR ae ae es ee OO oe = =a

STAY, MY CHARMER.
Tune—** An Gillie dubh ciar-dhubh.”

Stray, my charmer, can you leave me ?

Cruel, cruel to deceive me !

Well you know how much you grieve me 5 |
Cruel charmer, can you go ?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited ; |
By the faith you fondly plighted ; |
By the pangs of lovers slighted ;

Do not, do not leave me so!

Do not, do not leave me so!

~—_—~ 9

THICKEST NIGHT O’ERHANG MY
DWELLING.

Tune—* Strathallan’s Lament.”

 

Tuickest night o’erhang my dwelling !
Howling tempests o’er me rave !
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave !

|
|
Crystal streamlets, gently flowing, |
Busy haunts of base mankind, |
Western breezes, softly blowing, |
Suit not my distracted mind. |

In the cause of rigut engaged, |
Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour’s war we strongly waged,

But the heavens denied success.

Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is ali before us—
But a world without a friend !

 

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
[The chorus of this song is old.]
Up in the morning’s no for me,
Up in the morning early ;
When w the hills are cover’d wv snaw,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.

CavuLp blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly ;
Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning, &e.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A’ day they fare but sparely ;
And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,
I’m sure it’s winter fairly.
Up in the morning, &c.

 

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Tune—‘* Morag.”

 

Loup blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover ;
Like winter on me:seizes,
Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over
Where’er he go, where’er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden :
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon !_———

 

BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS. |

 

 

 

 

The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging,
The birdies dowie moaning
5)
| Shall a’ be blithely singing,
| And every flower be springing.
| Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
| When by his mighty warden
My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle Gordon.

 

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.
Tune—‘** Bhannerach dhon na cri.”

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers bloom-
ing fair ;

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew!

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn!

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud rose;
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

 

XAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.
Tune—* M‘Grigor of Ruara’s Lament.”

Ravine winds around her blowing,

| Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing,

| By a river hoarsely roaring,

| Isabella strayed deploring :

“‘ Farewell, hours that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ;

| Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow—
Cheerless night that knows no morrow !

* O’er the past too fondly wandering,

On the hopeless future pondering ;

Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,

| Fell despair my fancy seizes.

| Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load, to misery most distressing,

| O how gladly I’d resign thee,

| And to dark oblivion join thee !”

 

 

HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
| Tune—‘* Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”

How long and dreary is the night,
When I am frae my dearie!
I restless he frae e’en to morn,
Tho’ I were ne’er sae weary.
For oh, her lanely nights are lang,
And oh, her dreams are eerie ;
| And oh, her widow’d heart és sair,
That's absent frae her dearie.
When I think on the lightsome days
| I spent wi’ thee, my dearie ;
And now what seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie?

 

 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ;
The joyless day how drearie!
It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi’ my dearie.
For oh, her lanely nights are lang,
And oh, her dreams are eerie ;
And oh, her widow’d heart is Sair,
That's absent frae her dearie.

~

BLITHE WAS SHE.

Tune—* Andro and his cutty gun.”
Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern,
But blither in Glenturit glen.

 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw ;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes 0’ Yarrow ever saw.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light’s a bird upon a thorn

Her bonnie face it was as meek
As ony lamb’s upon a lea,

The evening sun was ne’er sae sweer
As was the blink o’ Phemie’s e’e.

The Highland hills ’ve wander’d wide,
And o’er the Lowlands I ha’e been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.

Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben:
Blithe by the banks of Ern,
But blither in Glenturit glen,

 

A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
Tune—‘‘ The Shepherd’s Wife.”

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,

Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o’ dawn are fled,
In a’ its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest

A little linnet fondly prest,

The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood,

The pride, the pleasure o’ the wood ;

Amang the fresh green leaves bedew’d,
Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird! young Jeannie fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care,

That tents thy early morning.

So thou, sweet rose-bud! young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent’s evening ray,

That watch’d thy early morning.

 

 

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90 BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

STREAMS THAT GLIDE.
Tune—‘ Morag.”

Srreams that glide in orient plains,

Never bound by winter’s chains!

Glowing here on golden sands,

There commix’d with foulest stains

From tyranny’s empurpled bands ;

These, their richly-gleaming waves,

I leave to tyrants and their slaves ;

Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray

Hapless wretches sold to toil,

Or the ruthless native’s way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil :

W oods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave,

Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,

Nature reigns and rules the whole ;

In that sober pensive mood,

Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood ;

Life’s poor day I’ll musing rave,

And find at night a sheltering cave,

Where waters flow and wild woods wave
By bonnie Castle Gordon.

~w

 

TIBBIE DUNBAR.
Tune—< Johnny M‘Gill.”

O witt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ?
O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ?
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a ear,
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ?

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money,

I carena thy kin sae high and sae lordly:

But say thou wilt ha’e me for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar.

 

re

MY HARRY.
Tune—‘* Highlander’s Lament.”
My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu’ stately strode he on the plain:

But now he’s banish’d far away,
I’ll never see him back again.

O for him back again !
O for him back again!

I wad gve a’ Knockhaspie’s land,
For Highland Harry back again.

When a’ the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen ;

I sit me down and greet my fill,
And ay I wish him back again.

O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu’ sight,

My Highland Harry back again.

O for him back again!
O for him back again!

I wad gi’e a’ Knockhaspie’s land,
For Highland Harry back again.

 

a ke mt See

 

MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
Tune—‘* Drumion dubh.”
Musine on the roaring ocean,
Which divides my love and me ; |
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where’er he be.
Hope and fear’s alternate billow
Yielding late to nature’s law 5
Whisp’ring spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that’s far awa’.

Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy day to you is dear.
Gentle night, do thou befriend me ;
Downy sleep, the curtain draw ;
Spirits kind, again attend me,
Talk of him that’s far awa’!

 

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS

Tune—‘ Neil Gow’s Lamentation for Abercairny.”

WueErgE, braving angry winter’s storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,

Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms
First blest my wondering eyes.

As one who, by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,

Astonish’d, doubly marks its beam
With art’s most polish’d blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade,
And blest the day and hour,

Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d,
When first I felt their pow’r!

The tyrant death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath ;

But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

 

 

-

BLOOMING NELLY.

Tune—< The lady of the flowery field.”

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
For summer lightly drest, |
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, |
With love and sleep opprest : |
When Willie, wand’ring through the wood, |
Who for her favour oft had sued ; |
He gazed, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d,
And trembled where he stood. 1
|

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed,
Were seal’d in soft repose ;

Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed,
They richer dyed the rose.

The springing lilies sweetly prest, |
Wild, wanton kiss’d her rival breast ; |

He gazed, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d, i|
His bosom ill at rest. |

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, i
Her tender limbs embrace ! |

Her lovely form, her native ease, |
All harmony and grace ! |

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ;
He gazed, he wish’d, he fear’d, he blush’d,
And sigh’d his very soul !BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS. — ee 1

 

As flies the partridge from the brake,
On fear-inspired wings ;

So Nelly, starting, half awake,
Away affrighted springs :

But Willie follow’d—as he should,
He overtook her in the wood :

He vow’d, he pray’d, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.

an mA eee ew

OF A’ THE AIRTS THE'WIND CAN BLAW.
Tune—< Miss Admiral Gordon’s Strathspey.”

OF a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill between ;

But day and night my faney’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair :

I hear her in the tunefw’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:

There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green ;

There’s not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o’ my Jean.

 

eee

THE DAY RETURNS,MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune—** Seventh of November.”

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho’ winter wild in tempest toil’d,
Ne’er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a’ the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o’er the sultry Line ;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give ;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live !

When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part ;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.

 

MY BONNIE MARY *

Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine,

An’ fill it in a silver tassie ;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie ;
The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith ;

Fw’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun lea’e my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready ;
The shouts o’ war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody ;
But it’s not the roar o’ sea or shore

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ;
Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar,

It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

 

| *Thisair is Oswald’s ; the first half-stanza of the song is old.

 

 

 

BEWARE O’ BONNIE ANN*,

YE gallants bright, I rede you right,
Beware o’ bonnie Ann ;

Her comely face sae fu’ 0’ grace,
Your heart she will trepan.

Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan ;

Sae jimpy laced her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van ;

In a’ their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonnie Ann.

The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man ;

Ye gallants braw, I rede you a’,
Beware o’ bonnie Ann.

 

THE LAZY MIST.
Irish Air—* Coolun.”

Tue lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year !

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues !

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain ;

How little of life’s scanty span may remain:

What aspects, old Time, in his progress has worn ;

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn.

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gained!

And downward, how weaken’d, how darkened, how
pain’d !

This life’s not worth having with all it can give,

For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

 

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Tune—*‘ Failse na Miosg.”
[The first half-stanza of this song is old.]

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here ;
My heart’s in the Highlands a chasing the deer ;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

My heart ’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow ;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart ’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands a chasing the deer :
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

 

* **T composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann
Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton,
author of the air of Strathallan’s Lament, and two or three
others in this work.”— Burns’ Reliques, p. 266.

 

 

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92 BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

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O WERE I ON PARNASSUS’ HILL.
[This song was written in honour of Mrs, Burns. ]

Tune—* My love is lost to me.”

O weERE I on Parnassus’ hill !
Or had of Helicon my fill ;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse’s well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel’ ;
On Corsincon I’ll glow’r and spell,

And write how dear I love thee !

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a’ the lee-lang simmer’s day,
I coudna sing, I coudna say,
How much— how dear I love thee.
I see thee dancing o’er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—
By heaven and earth I love thee!
By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts 0’ thee my breast inflame ;
And ay I muse and sing thy name:
I only live to love thee.
Tho’ I were doom’d to wander on,
| Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
| Till my last weary sand was run ;
| Till then—and then I’d love thee.

 

we

FIRST WHEN MAGGIE WAS MY CARE.

Tune—‘* Whistle owre the lave 0’t.”

 

| First when Maggie was my care,

| Heaven, I thought, was in her air 5

| Now we’re married—spier nae mair—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,

Bonnie Meg was nature’s child—

Wiser men than me’s beguiled—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

How we live, my Meg and me,

How we love and how we ’gree,

I care na by how few may see—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Wha I wish were maggots’ meat,

Dish’d up in her winding sheet,

I could write—but Meg maun see’t—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

we

 

 

nw

| JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

Joun Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent ;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw ;
Yet blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither ;
And monie a cantie day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

j— eee ee ee

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.

Tune— Neil Gow’s Lament.”

THERE’S a youth in this city,
It were a great pity

That he frae our lasses should wander awa’ ;
For he’s bonnie an’ braw,
Weel-favoured an’ a’,

And his hair has a natural buckle an’ a’.
His coat is the hue
Of his bonnet sae blue 5 |

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; |
His hose they are blae,
And his shoon like the slae,

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a’.
For beauty and fortune
The laddie’s been courtin’ ;

Weel featured, weel tocher’d, weel mounted,
But chiefly the siller, [and braw ;
That gars him gang till her,

The penny’s the jewel that beautifies a’.
There’s Meg wi’ the mailen
That fain wad a haen him ;

And Susie, whose daddie was laird o’ the ha’ ;
There’s lang-tocher’d Nancy
Maist fetters his fancy ;

But the laddie’s dear sel’ he lo’es dearest of a’.

 

CA’ THE EWES.
Tune—‘‘ Ca’ the Ewes to the Knowes.”

Ca’ the ewes to the knowes, |
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Caw them whare the burinie rowes,

My bonnie dearie!

As I gaed down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,
Aw’ he ca’d me his dearie.
Ca’ the, &c.

Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide,
Beneath the hazels spreading wide ?
The moon it shines fu’ clearly.
Ca’ the, &c.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a’ the day to sit in dool,

And naebody to see me.

 

Ca’ the, &c.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep,
And ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the, &c.

If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca’ the, &ce.

While waters wimple to the sea ;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ;
Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca’ the, &c.}|
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TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
Pune—* Miss Forbes’s Farewell to Banff.”

Tuxov lingering star, with less’ning ray,

That lovest to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary, dear departed shade !

Where is thy place of blissful rest 2
See’st thou thy lover lowly laid 2

Heayr’st thou the groans that rend his breast 2

That sacred hour ean I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove
Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love !
Kternity will not efface

Those reeords dear of transports past ;
Thy image at our last embrace :

Ah ! little thought we ’twas our last !

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with wild woods, thick’ning, green ;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care !
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade !
Where is thy blissful place of rest ?
See’st thou thy lover lowly laid 2
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

 

WILLIE BREWED A PECK O’>. MAU.
[These verses were composed to celebrate a visit which the
Poet and Allan Masterton made to William Nichol, of
the High-school, Edinburgh, who happened to be at
Moffat during the autumn vacation.—The air is by Mas-
terton. ]
O Wittig brew’d a peck o’ maut,
And Rob and Allan cam’ to see ;
Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are nav’ fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e’e ;
The cock may craw, the day may daw’,
But ay we'll taste the barley-bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ;
And mony a night we’ve merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That’s blinkin’ in the lift see hie ;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa’,
A cuckold, coward loon is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the king amang us three !
We are na’ fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee ;
The cock may craw, the day may daw’,
But ay we'll taste the barley-bree.

BURNS’S SONGS
ee eee

AND BALLADS. 93

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,
BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR,
Tune—** Cameronian Rant.”

““O cam’ ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man 2?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man 2”
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin’-red ran monie a sheugh.
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
©’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man.

 

The red-coat lads wi’ black cockades
To meet them were na slaw, man,

They rush’d and push’d, and blude outgush’d,
And monie a bouk did fa’, man.

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles:

They hack’d and hash’d while broadswords celash’d,

And through they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d,
Till fey men died awa’, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,
And skyrin’ tartan trews, man,

When in the teeth they dared our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man ;

In lines extended lang and large,

When bayonets opposed the targe,

And thousands hasten’d to the charge,

Wi’ Highland wrath, they frae the sheath

Drew blades 0’ death, till, out 0’ breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

*O how de’il, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man :
I saw mysel’, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man ;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi’ a’ their might,
And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight ;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And monie a huntit, poor red coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man.”

My sister Kate cam’ up the gate
WY crowdie unto me, man ;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors’ blood to spill
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs 0’ brose ; all crying woes,
And so it goes you see, man.

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen,

Amang the Highland clans, man ;

I fear my lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man :
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ;
But monie bade the world guid-night ;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets’ knell,
Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man.

 

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BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

94
I GAED A WAEFUW’ GATE, YESTREEN.
Tune—‘* The Blue-eyed Lassie.”
I GaEep a waefu’ gate, yestreen,

A gate, I fear, Pll dearly rue ;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een 0’ bonnie blue.
*T was not her.golden ringlets bright ;
Her lips, like roses wat wi’ dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white ;—
It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk’d, she smiled, my heart she wyled,
She eharm’d my soul I wist na how ;

And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam’ frae her een sae bonnie blue.

But spare to speak, and spare to speed,
She'll aiblins listen to my vow ;

Should she refuse, I’ll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

cae

 

YOUNG JOCKEY.

Younes Jockey was the blythest lad
In a’ our town or here awa’ ;
Fw’ blythe he whistled at the gaud,*
Fw lightly danced he in the ha’!
He roosed my een sae bonnie blue,
He roosed my waist sae genty sma’ ;
And aye my heart came to my mou’,
When ne’er a body heard or saw.

My Jockey toils upon the plain,
Thro’ wind and sleet, thro’ frost and snaw ;
And o’er the lea I look fu’ fain
When Jockey’s owsen hameward ca’.
And aye the night comes round again,
When in his arms he tak’s me a’;
And aye he vows he’ll be my ain
As lang ’s he has a breath to draw.

 

MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR
TITTIE.

Tune—‘* The Muckin’ 0’ Geordie’s Byre,”

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len’,
To anger them a’ is a pity ;
But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen ?
I’m thinkin’, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak’ a fen’ ;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Gien ?

There?s Lowrie, the laird o’ Drummeller,

“‘ Guid day to you, brute !” he comes ben ;
He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ?

My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware 0’ young men:

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ;
But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen ?

My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,
He’ll gi’e me guid hunder marks ten:
But, if it’s ordain’d I maun tak’ him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

 

* The gaud—at the plough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yestreen at the Valentines’ dealing,
My heart to my mou’ gied a sten ;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. |

The last Halloween I was wauken
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ;
His likeness"cam up the house staukin’,
And the very gray breeks 0’ Tam Gien!
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry 5
I’ll gi’e you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.

 

~

 

THE BRAES 0’ BALLOCHMYLE. i
Air—‘‘ Miss Forbes.”
Tue Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, |
Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken’d on the e’e. |
Through faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while, |
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, |
Fareweel the braes of Ballochmyle. |
Low in your wint’ry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair ; i
Ye birdies dumb, in with’ring bowers,
Again ye’ll charm ‘the vocal air.
But here, alas ! for me nae mair |
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; |
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle.

~~

 

SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING.

Tune—*‘ Craigie-burn wood.”
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And 0 to be lying beyond thee,
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That’s laid in the bed beyond thee.
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood,*
And blithely awakens the morrow ;
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn wood
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.

 

I hear the wild birds singing ; |
But pleasure they ha’e nane for me

While care my heart is wringing.
I canna tell, [ maunna tell,

I dare na for your anger ;
But secret love will break my heart

|
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
If I conceal it langer. |

I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie,

But oh, what will my torments be,
If thou refuse thy Johnnie!

 

* ‘*Tt is remarkable of this place that it is the confine of
that country where the greatest part of our Lowland music
(so far as from the title, words, &c., we can localize it) has
been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one
reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air
of any antiquity.

«‘The song was composed on a passion which a Mr Gil-
lespie, a particular friend of mine, had for Miss Lorimer,
afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady was born at
Craigie-burn wood.—The chorus is part of an old foolish
ballad.”—Burns’s Reliques, p. 284.

 

 

 

ELBURNS’S

To see thee in anither’s arms,
In love to lie and languish,

*T wad be my dead, that will be seen.
My heart wad burst wi’ anguish. |

But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say, thou lo’es nane before me ;
And a’ my days o’ life to come P
I'll gratefully adore thee.
Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearte,
And 0 to be lying beyond thee,
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.

 

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.
Tune—<‘ Falkland Fair.”

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys through the
heather to feed, [his reed.
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on
Where the grouse, &e.
Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores,
To me ha’e the charms 0’ yon wild, mossy moors ;
For there, by a lanely, sequester’d, clear stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang the wild mountains shall still be my path,

lik stream foaming down its ain green, narrow
strath ;

For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove,

While o’er us, unheeded, fly the swift hours o’ love.

She is not the fairest, although she is fair ;
* nice education but sma’ is her share :
Her parentage humble as humble can be :
But I io’e the dear lassie because she lo’es me,

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ?
And when wit and refinement ha’e polished her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me sur hee

And the heart-beating love, as I’m clasp’d in her
arms,

O, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms!

 

LF

GANE IS THE DAY.
Tune—* Gudewife, count the lawin,”

Ganz is the day, and mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light,
For ale and brandy’s stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine’s the risin’ sun.
Then gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple folk maun fecht and fen’,
But here we’re a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord.
Then gudewife, &e.
My coggie is a haly pool,
That heals the wounds o’ care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,
An’ ye drink deep ye’ll find him out.
Then gudewife, &e.

SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

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MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE.
L'une—* My Tocher’s the Jewel.”
O MEIKLE thinks my luve o’ my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin ;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie
My tocher’s the jewel has charms for him
It’s a’ for the apple he’ll nourish the tree ;
It’s a’ for the hiney he’ll cherish the bee ;
My laddie’s sa meikle in luve wi? the siller,
He canna ha’e luve to spare for me,

Your proffer 0’ luve’s an airl-penny,
My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy ;
But an ye be crafty, 1am cunnin’, ~
Sae ye wi’ anither your fortune maun try.
Ye’re like to the timmer o’ yon rotten wood,
Ye’re like to the bark 0’ yon rotten tree,
Ye Il slip frae me like a knotless thread,
An’ ye ’ll crack your credit wi? mae nor me,

 

THE BANKS OF NITE.
Tune—‘* Robie Donna Gorach,”’

Tue Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand ;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummins ance had high command.
When shall I see that honour’d land,
That winding stream I love so dear?
Must wayward fortune’s adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here ?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gayly bloom ;
How’ sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton through the broom!
Though wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days !

 

HOW CAN I BE BLITHE AND GLAD.
Tune—* Over the hills an’ far awa’.”

O How can I be blithe and glad,
Or how can I gang brisk and braw,
When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best
Is o’er the hills and far awa’ ?

It’s no the frosty winter wind,
It’s no the driving drift and snaw ;
But aye the tear comes in my e’e,
To think on him that’s far awa’.

My father pat me frae his door,

My friends they ha’e disown’d me a’,
But I ha’e ane will tak my part,

The bonnie lad that’s far awa’.

A pair 0’ gloves he gave to me,
And silken snoods he gave me twa
And I will wear them for his sake,
The bonnie lad that’s far awa’.

*
>

The weary winter soon will pass,

And spring will cleed the birken-shaw ;
And my sweet babie will be born,

And he’ll come hame that’s far awa’.

 

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=BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

;
{ THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE. WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?
: Tune—Jacobite Air. Tune—** Lass, an I come near thee.”
\ By yon castle wa’, at the close o”° the day, Wua is that at my bower door ?
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey ; O wha is it but Findlay !
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came— Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be here—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Indeed maun I, quo’ Findlay.
{ The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, What mak’ ye sae like e thiet :
: Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars 5 O come and see, gue Findlay 5
: We dare na weel say’t, but we ken wha’s to blame— Before the morn ye ll work mischiet—
t There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay.
| My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, Gif I rise and let you ae
; ’ | And now! greet round their green beds in the yird : : Let me in, quo’ # indlay :
Bey | | It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfw’ auld dame Ye’ll keep me waukin’ wi’ your din—
; i | There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay.
ie _ Now life is a burden that sair bows me down In my bower if ye should stay—
fe | hea : : shnataeaaee : > Let me stay, quo’ Findlay ;
At H | Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; I fear ye’ll bide till break 0’ day—
| } But till my last moment my words are the same— Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay. :
Pee hal | There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Ses a
en wh, | Here this night if ye remain—
eee le |! I’ll remain, quo’ Findlay :
rah ie | I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR*. I dread ye’ll learn the gate again—
A. | . Indeed will I, quo’ Findlay.
Shay ai | | I po confess thou art sae fair, SV Lat cae Gace eatin ie he
ea ean || I wad been o’er the lugs in luve ; Le mayan eee ene eeee re
Ba a | : : et it pass, quo’ Findlay :
rae ), Had 1 na found the slightest’ prayer Ye maun conceal till your last hour—
i) it | That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. Tiined wall r quo’ Hiainy
Wah bi | I do confess thee sweet, but find
ea | | Thou art sae thriftless 0’ thy sweets,
mA, t : lea hy favours are the silly wind WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE.
| BER a ee ae caine ye acets: Wuar can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie,
po i | See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, What can a young lassie do wi’ an auld man 2
. | Amang its native briers sae coy, Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie
Hid How sune it tines its scent and hue To sell her poor Jenny for siller an’ lan’!
wee | When pu’d and worn a common toy ! Peace ot areas ees
, | always compleenin’ frae mornin’ to e enin ,
ee iad | Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, He hoasts and he hirples the weary day lang,
‘| E bine Though thou may gayly bloom x while ; He’s doylt and he’s dozen, his bluid it is frozen,
ee Pai || Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, O, dreary’s the night wi’ a crazy auld man !
PATS e Mh | a Re a ile
a fe keenly common ye He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers,
aR Bill | we I never can please him, do a’ that I can ;
ie nt | O SAW YE MY DEARIE. He’s peevish and jealous of a’ the young fellows:
Se Bei i - i O, dool on the day I met wi’ an auld man!
oa | BN || {Altered from the old song of Eppie Macnab, which had
i Py | more wit than decency.] My auld antie Katie upon me tak’s pity,
pipe hots Tune—“Hppie Macnab.” I’ll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; [him,
is oe © saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab ? I oe oe ee ae ie J heart-break
sieht ttl | O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab ? n en his auld brass will buy me a new pan.
Hey ) _ She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin’ the laird, ~~
ie A 1 She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. THE BONNIE WEE THING.
Paian he | O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M‘Nab!
Vat i Hit | | O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M‘Nab ! Tune—* The Lads of Saltcoats.”
} eu K, | _ Whate’er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, BonnIE wee thing, cannie wee thing,
HME te _ Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,
ins f Ni | What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab ? : ee ae a 7 ae hae
ah i | What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M‘Nab # CSU IDY JON ee ae ate ae
eA gal | | She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, Wistfully I look and languish
eh } | And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. In that bonnie face o’ thine ;
Panui ns, | O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie M‘Nab ! And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish,
me yt nf At | O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie M‘Nab Lest my wee thing be na mine.
ai tee 1 x iy 2 ir
; Hh Me | a pepe as ne the ee ee S ae a - Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty
ath iit! 1900/6 broken the ‘heats 0 Puy 2 eee In ae constellation shine ;
Sia } ii, * «© This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, To adore thee is my duty,
Be ie A | private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland.— Goddess o’ this soul 0’ mine !
Sth” fa | The poem is to be found in James Watson’s Collection of : i 4 2
Bhatt | Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotiand.— Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
: iG b I think that I have improved the simplicity of the senti- Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,
OM yi th ments, by giving them a Scots dress.” I wad wear thee in my bosom,
peek h Burns’s Reliques, p. 202. Lest my jewel I should tine.
Map | ss _ Eig ee
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" i ip itBURNS’S SONGS

 

Seen

AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

 

CHLORIS.
Tune—*‘ My lodging is on the cold ground.”

My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair:

The balmy gales awake the flowexs,
And wave thy flaxen hair.

The lav’rock shuns the palace gay,
And o’er the cottage sings :

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings,

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string
In lordly lighted ha’ :

The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw.

The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi’ scorn;

But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milk-white thorn ?

The shepherd, in the flow’ry glen,
In shepherd’s phrase will woo ;

The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true 2

These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck
That spotless breast o’ thine :

The courtiers’ gems may witness love—
But ’tis na love like mine.

 

, BESS AND HER SPINNING-WHEEI,
Tune— The sweet lass that lo’es me.”

O LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel,

O leeze me on my rock and reel ;
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me fiel and warm at e’en !
T’ll set me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal—
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot,

And meet below my theekit cot ;

The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite,

Alike to screen the birdie’s nest,

And little fishes’ caller rest ;

The sun blinks kindly in the biel’
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,

And echo cons the doolfw’ tale ;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither’s lays :

The craik amang the claver hay,
The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley,
The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel.

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and tess to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,

O wha would leave this humble state,
For a’ the pride of a’ the great ?
Amid their flaring, idle toys,

Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ?

 

AE FOND KISS.

Tune—‘* Rory Dall’s port.”
Ax fond kiss, and then we sever !
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever !
Deep in heart-wrung tears I "Il pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I ’l wage thee,
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him ?
Me, nae cheerfw’ twinkle lights me ;
Dark despair around benights me.

[ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy :
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,

We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure !

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever !

Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever !

Deep in heart-wrung-tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I ’Il wage thee.

 

O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN.
Tune—‘* The Posie.”

O LuVE will venture in where it daurna weelbeseen,
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance hasbeen ;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the woods
sae green,
And a’ to pu’ a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu’, the firstling 0’ the year,
And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem 0’ my dear,
For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms
without a peer ;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

Ill pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in
view,

For it’s like a baumy kiss 0’ her sweet bonnie mou’ ;

The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging

And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May. [blue,

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ;

The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day,
But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak’
away ;
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is
near, [ clear :
And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae
The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear,
And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I’ll tie the posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, |

And I’ll place it in her breast, and [’ll swear by a’

above, - Ss {[remuve,
Thatto my latest draughto’ life the band shall ne’er
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.
H

 

 

 

 

 

 

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NAEBODY.

I na’E a wife 0’ my ain,
I ’ll partake wi’ naebody ; |

T ’ll tak’ cuckold frae nane,
I'll gi’e cuckold to naebody.

I ha’e a penny to spend,
There—thanks to naebody ;
I ha’e naething to lend,
I ’li borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody’s lord,
I ’ll be slave to naebody ;
I ha’e a guid braid sword,
I ’ll tak dunts frae naebody.

I ’ll be merry and free,
Ill be sad for naebody ;
If naebody care for me,
I ’ll care for naebody.

 

 

O FOR ANE-AND-TWENTY, TAM!
Tune—** The Moudiewort.”
An’ 0 for ane-and-twenty, Tam!
An hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam!
Tli learn my kin a rattlin’ sang,
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

THEY snool me sair,and haud me down,
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam !

But three short years will soon wheel roun’,
And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam !

A gleib o’ lan’, a claut o’ gear,
Was left me by my aunty, Tam:

At kith or kin I need na spier,
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tam.

They'll ha’e me wed a wealthy coof,
Tho’ I mysel’ ha’e plenty, Tam :
But hear’st thou, laddie ? there’s my loof,
I’m thine at ane-and-twenty, Tam !
An’ O for ane-and-twenty, Tam!
Aw hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tam !
Til learn my kin a rattlin’ sang,
An TI saw ane-and-twenty, Tam!

 

SONG OF DEATH.
A Gaelic air.

Scenge--A field of battle ; time of the day, evening—the
wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed
tc join in the following Song.

FareweE tt, thou fair day, thou green earth, and

ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun 5
Farewell, loves, and friendships, ye dear, tender
Our race of existence is run ! [ ties,
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life’s gloomy foe,
Go, frighten the coward and slave ;
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou for the brave.

Thou strik’st the dull peasant—he sinks in the
Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name; [dark,

Thou strik’st the young hero—a glorious mark !
He falls in the blaze of his fame.

In the field of proud honour—our swords in our
Our king and our country to save—

While victory shines on life’s last ebbing sands,
O ! who would not rest with the brave !

[ hands, .

BURNS’S SONGS AND

|
|
!

i a a a ar en

BALLADS.

 

AS I WAS A-WANDERING.

[This is an old Highland air, and the title means, ** my
love did deceive me.” There is much feeling expressed in
this song. ]

Tune—* Rinn Meudial mo Mhealladh.”
As I was a-wand’ring ae midsummer e’enin’,
The pipers and youngsters were making their
game $
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover,
Which bled a’ the wounds o’ my dolour again.

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wl
him ;
I may be distress’d, but I winna complain ;
I flatter my fancy I may get anither,
My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

I couldna get sleeping till dawnin’ for greetin’,
Thetears trickled down like the hail and the ram

Had I na got greetin’, my heart would ha’e broken,
For, oh! love forsaken ’s a tormenting pain.

Although he has left me for greed o’ the siller,
I dinna envy him the gains he can win;

I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow;
Than ever lia’e acted sae faithless to him.

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’
him,
I may be distress’d, but I winna complain ;
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, :
My heart it shall never be broken for ane.

ov

 

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.
Tune—* Tibbie Fowler.”

WituiE Waste dwelt on Tweed,

The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie ;
Willie was a wabster guid,

Could stown a clue wi’ ony body :
He had a wife was dour and din,

O Tinkler Madgie was her mither ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi’e a button for her.

She has an e’e, she has but ane,

The cat has twa, the very colour ;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ;
A whiskin’ beard about her mou’,

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi’e a button for her.

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein shinn’d,
Ae limpin’ leg a hand-breed shorter 5
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter :
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o’ that upon her shouther ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gi’e a button for her.

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,

Aw’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin’ 5
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion :
Her walie nieves like midden creels,

Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water ;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gi’e a button for her.i| COUNTRY LASSIE.
| Tune—* John, come kiss me now.”
In simmer when the hay was mawn,
And corn waved green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o’er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield :
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
Says, I’ll be wed, come o’t what will.
Out spak’ a dame in wrinkled eild,
“O’ guid advisement comes nae ill.
“It’s ye ha’e wooers mony a ane,
And lassie, ye’re but young, ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale
A routhie but, a routhie ben :
| There’s Johnie 0’ the Buskie-glen,
| Fw’ is his barn, fu’ is his byre ;
Tak’ this frae me, my bonnie hen,
It’s plenty beets the luver’s fire.”’
For Johnie 0’ the Buskie-glen
I dinna care a single fie ;
He lo’es sae well his craps and kye,
He has nae luve to spare for me:
But blithe’s the blink o’ Robie’s e’e,
And weel I wat he lo’es me dear :
Ae blink 0’ him I wad nae gre
For Buskie-glen and a’ his gear.
*“O thoughtless lassie ! life’s a faught
The canniest gate the strife is sair
But aye fu’-han’t is fechtin best,
A hungry care’s an uneo eare :
But some will spend, and some will spare,
An’ wilfw’ folk maun ha’e their will :
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.”’
O, gear will buy me rigs 0’ land,

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ;
But the tender heart 0’ leesome luve,

The gowd and siller canna buy:
We may be poor—Robie and I,

Light is the burden luve lays on;
Content and luve bring peace and JOY;

What mair ha’e queens upon a throne ?

 

 

 

 

Wwe we

 

 

THE BANKS O’ DOON.
FIRST VERSION.
Tune— Catharine Ogie.”
YE flowering banks 0’ bonnie Doon,
How ean ye blume sae fairs
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ 0’ care!
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough ;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days
When my fause luve was true.

Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate ;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na 0’ my fate.

Aft ha’e I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
And sae did I o’ mine.

Wv lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree,

And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.

 

| BURNS’S SON

 

GS AND BALLAD
a eee

 

THE BANKS 0°’ DOON,
SECOND VERSION.
Tune—* Caledonian Hunt’s Delight.”
Ye banks and braes 0” bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu’ 0’ care !
Thow’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons through the flowering thorn ;
Thou minds me 0’ departed joys,
Departed never to return.
Oft ha’e I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird Sang 0’ its luve,
And fondly sae did I 0’ mine.
Wi lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Fw’ sweet upon its thorny tree :
But my false luver stole my rose,
And ah ! he left the thorn wi’ me.

 

FAIR ELIZA.
Tune—* The bonnie brucket Lassie,”
Turn again, thou fair Eliza,
Ae kind blink before we part,
Rew on thy despairing lover !
Canst thou break his faithfu’ heart ?
Turn again, thou fair Eliza :
If to love thy heart denies,
For pity hide the cruel sentence
Under friendship’s kind disguise !
Thee, dear maid, ha’e I offended 2
The offence is loving thee:
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever,
Wha for thine wad gladly die ?
While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe :
Turn again, thou lovely maiden,
Ae sweet smile on me bestow.

Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o’ sunny noon :
Not the little sporting fairy,
All beneath the simmer moon :
Not the poet in the moment
Fancy lightens in his e’e,
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gi’es to me.

 

JOCKEY’S TA’EN THE PARTING KISS.

JoOcKEY’s ta’en the parting kiss,
Owre the mountains he is gane,
And with him is a’ my bliss,
Nought but griefs with me remain.

Spare my love, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beatin’ rain !
Spare my love, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting owre the frozen plain !

When the shades of evening creep
Owre the day’s fair, gladsome ee,

Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening be !

[fe will think on her he loves,
Fondly he’ll repeat her name ;
For where’er he distant roves,
Jockey’s heart is still at hame.
H 2

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THE CHEVALIER’S LAMENT.
Tune—‘* Captain O’Kane.”

TyxE small birds rejoice in the green leaves return- |
ing, [vale; |
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro’ the |
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morn- |
ing, [dale : |
And wild scatter’d cowslips bedeck the green |

™m : : :
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number’dby care g
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly |
|
|

 

singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice, |
A king and a father to place on his throne ?
His right are these hills and his right are these
valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can
find none.
But ’tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, ’tis your ruin | mourn :
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ?

 

 

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.
Tune—“ Afton Water.”

Fiow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise ;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro’ the
glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,

I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear winding rills ;
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ;
There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary resides };

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear
wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

 

BONNIE BELL.

Tux smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly Winter grimly flies ;
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ;
Fresh o’er the mountains breaks forth the morning,
The ev’ning gilds the ocean’s swell ;
All creatures joy in the sun’s returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

 

 

 

NY’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

| But never ranging, still unchanging,

 

J ere re a ee

 

And yellow Autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,
Till smiling Spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old time and nature their changes tell,

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, |

I adore my bonnie Bell.

 

THE GALLANT WEAVER.
Tune—‘* The Weaver’s March.”

WueEnreE Cart rins rowin’ to the sea,

By mony a flow’r, and spreading tree,

There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver. |

Oh! I had wooers eight or nine,
They gi’ed me rings and ribbons fine ; |
And I was fear’d my heart wad tine, |

And I gi’ed it to the weaver. |
My daddie sign’d my tocher band, |
To give the lad that has the land ; |
But to my heart I’ll add my hand,

And gi’e it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers 5
While bees rejoice in opening flowers 5 |
While corn grows green in simmer showers,

[’ll love my gallant weaver.

 

THE BAIRNS GAT OUT.

|
Se |
|
|
Tune—‘* The deuks dang o’er my daddie.” |
Tur bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout,
The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O !
The fien’-ma-care, quo’ the feirie auld wife, |
He was but a paidlin’ body, O! |
He paidles out, an’ he paidles in,
An’ he paidies late an’ early, O! |
This seven lang years I ha’e lien by his side,
An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O !

O, haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife,
Q, haud your tongue now, Nansie, O!
I’ve seen the day, and sae ha’e ye,
Ye wadna been sae donsie, O !
T’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose,
And cuddled me late and early, O!
But downa-do’s come o’er me now,
And, oh! I feel it sairly, 0!

oe

SHE’S FAIR AND FAUSE.

Sur’s fair and fause that causes my smart,
I lo’ed her meikle and lang ;

She ’s broken her vow, she’s broken my heart,
And I may e’en gae hang.

A coof came in with routh o’ gear,

And I ha’e tint my dearest dear ;

But woman is but warld’s gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

 

Whae’er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie ’tis though fickle she prove,
A woman has ’t by kind:
O woman lovely, woman fair !
| An angel form’s faun to thy share,

Twad been owre meikle to ’ve gi’en thee mair—
I mean an angel mind.BURNS’S SONGS AND B

THE EXCISEMAN.

Tue de’il cam’ fiddling through the town,
And danced awa’ wi’ the Exciseman :
And ilka wife cried—Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o’ the prize, man !
The de’il’s awa’, the deil’s awa’,
The de’il’s awa’ wi’ the Exciseman ;
He’s danced awa’, he’s danced awa’,
He’s danced aww wi? the Exciseman.

We’ll mak’ our maut, we’ll brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;

And monie thanks to the meikle black de’il
That danced awa’ wi’ the Exciseman.

 

There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels,
There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man ;
But the ae best dance e’er cam’ to the land
Was—the de’il’s awa’ wi’ the Exciseman.
The de'il’s awa’, the deil’s awa’,
The deil’s awa? wi the Exciseman
He’s danced awa’, he’s danced awa’,
He’s danced awa wi’ the Exciseman.

 

ees

A RED, RED ROSE.
Tune—** Wishaw’s Favourite.”
|

|

O, my luve’s like a red, red rose
’ 3 z 5
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the melodie
» my ;
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the roeks melt wi’ the sun:

I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

 

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE.
Tune—‘‘ My mother’s aye glow’ring owre me.”

Louis, what reck I by thee,
Or Geordie on his ocean:
Dyvor, beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie’s bosom.

Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me:

Kings and nations swith awa’,
Rief randies, I disown ye !

 

OUT OVER THE FORTH.

Out over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east gi’e ease to my breast,
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ;
For far in the west lives he I lo’e best,

The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

 

ALLADS.

 

 

 

{

THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN.
Tue lovely lass 0’ Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ;
For e’en and morn she cries—* Alas !”
And ay the saut tear blin’s her e’e:

“Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu’ day it was to me ;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

“ Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see ;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s ee.
Now wae to thee, thou cruel Duke!
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne’er did wrong to thine or thee.”

een

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.
Tune—‘* The Highland Watch’s Farewell.”

My heart is sair, I darena tell,
My heart is sair for somebody ;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake 0’ somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody !
Oh-hey ! for somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake 0”? somebody.

 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O, sweetly smile on somebody !
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hon ! for somebody !
Oh-hey! for somebody!
IT wad do—what wad I not 2
For the sake 0’ somebody !

POLLY STEWART.

Tune—** Ye’re welcome, Charlie Stewart,”

 

O lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
There’s ne'er a flower that blooms in May
That's half so fair as theu art.
THE flower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s,
And art can ne’er renew it;
But worth and truth eternal youth
Will gi’e to Polly Stewart.

May he whase arms shall fauld thy charms
Possess a leal and true heart ;
To him be given to ken the heaven
He grasps in Polly Stewart !
O lovely Polly Stewart,
O charming Polly Stewart,
There’s ne'er a flower that blooms in May
That's half so fair as thou art.

 

ANNA, THY CHARMS.
Tune-—*‘ Bonnie Mary.”
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care ;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair !

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv’n ;

For sure ’twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of heav’n.

 

 

 

 

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102 BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

 

|

|

 

This AY CA’. TN BY YON TOWN.
Til ay ca’ in by yon town,
And by yon garden green again ;
Pll ay caw in by yon town,
And see my bonnie Jean again.
THERE’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess
What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest, faithfu’ lass ;
And stowlins we sall meet again.

She’ll wander by the aiken-tree,
When trystin’-time draws near again ;
And when her lovely form I see,
O, haith, she’s doubly dear again !
Pll ay cw in by yon town,
And by yon garden green again ;
Pil ay ca’ in by yon town,
And see my bonnie Jean again.

 

—~

WHEN JANUAR’ WIND.
Tune—‘* The lass that made the bed to me.”
Wuen Januar’ wind was blawing cauld,
As to the north I took my way,
The mirksome night did me enfauld,
I knew na where to lodge till day.

By my good luck a maid I met,
Just in the middle o’ my care ;
And kindly she did me invite
To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow’d fw’ low unto this maid,

And thank’d her for her courtesie ;
I bow’d fw’ low unto this maid,

And bade her mak’ a bed to me.

She made the bed baith large and wide,
Wi twa white hands she spread it down 3
She put the cup to her rosy lips,
And drank, “ Young man, now sleep ye soun’.”

She snatch’d the candle in her hand,
And frae the chamber went wi’ speed 5
But I ecall’d her quickly back again,
To lay some mair below my head.

A cod she laid below my head,
And served me wi’ due respect 5
And to salute her wi’ a kiss,
I put my arms about her neck,

“ Haud aff your hands, young man,” she says,
«¢ And dinna sae uncivil be ;
If ye ha’e onie love for me,
O wrang na my virginitie !”
Her hair was like the links 0’ gowd,
Her teeth were like the ivorie ;
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.

Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ;

Her limbs the polish’d marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.

I kiss’d her owre and owre again,
And aye she wist na what to say ;

I laid her ’*tween me and the wa’
The lassie thought na lang till day.

 

Upon the morrow when we rose,
I thank’d her for her courtesie ;

But aye she blush’d and aye she sigh’d,
And said, “ Alas! ye’ve ruin’d me.”

7

clasp’d her waist, and kiss’d her syne,
While the tear stood twinklin’ in her e’e 5

i ~« 1 ee / r « 14 1 € oy
I said, “ My lassie, dinna cry,

'

|
|
}

For ye aye shall mak’ the bed to me.”

She took her mither’s holland sheets,

And made them a’ in sarks to me:

Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me.

| The bonnie lass made the bed to me,

The braw lass made the bed to me 3

| I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die,

|

 

The lass that made the bed to me.

PPA

 

“_—

O WAT YE WHA’S IN YON TOWN.
Tune—‘‘ V’ll gang nae mair to yon town.”

O wat ye wha’s in yon town,
Ye see the e’enin’ sun upon ?
The fairest dame’s in yon town,
That e’enin’ sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree ;
How blest ye flow’rs that round her blaw,

Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year ;

And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love not a’ the charms
O’ Paradise could yield me joy ;

But gi’e me Lucy in my arms, ‘
And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover’s bower,
Tho’ raging winter rent the air ;
And she’s a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinking sun’s gaun down upon ;
A fairer than ’s in yon town,

His setting beams ne’er shone upon.

If angry Fate is sworn my foe,

And suff’ring I am doom’d to bear ;
I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear!

For while life’s dearest blood is warm,

Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart ;
And she—as fairest is her form,

She has the truest, kindest heart.

 

 

TO THEE, LOVED NITH.

Tune——-Unknown.

To thee, lov’d Nith, thy gladsome plains,

Where late wi’ careless thought I ranged,

Tho’ prest wi’ care and sunk in woe,

To thee I bring a heart unchanged.

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,

Tho’ mem’ry there my bosom tear 3.

For there he roved that brake my heart,

Yet to that heart, ah! still how dear!

a ease eames am

as ne eee eee

 

 

|

: — : es : ate Se see —————
See ee eee ee oe eS Sg gas = EDS STO MAY, THY MORN.

O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet
As the mirk night 0’ December ;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will ay remember ;
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will ay remember.

And here’s to them, that like oursel’,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here’s to them that wish us weel,
May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them!

And here’s to them, we darena tell,
The dearest 0’ the quorum ;

And here’s to them, we darena tell,
The dearest 0’ the quorum !

 

est

WAE IS MY HEART.

War is my heart, and the tear ’s in my e’e ;
Lang, lang joy’s been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden T bear,

And the sweet voice o’ pity ne’er sounds in my ear.

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep ha’e I loved ;
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair I ha’e proved:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my
breast,

I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.
O if I were happy, where happy I ha’e been,
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green ;
For there he is wand’ring and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis’s e’e.

PL

 

z GLOOMY DECEMBER.
Tune—** Wandering Willie.”

ANcE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December !
Ance mair I hail thee, wi’ sorrow and care ;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi’ Nancy, oh, ne’er to meet mair !
Fond lovers’ parting is sweet painful pleasure ;

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever,
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure.

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf of the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone ;
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi’ sorrow and care ;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi’ Nancy; oh, ne’er to meet mair!

 

CASSILLIS’ BANKS.
Tune-—Unknown.

Now bank an’ brae are claith’d in green,
An’ scatter’d cowslips sweetly spring ;
By Girvan’s fairy-haunted stream
The birdies flit on wanton wing.
To Cassillis’? banks when e’ening fa’s,
There wi’ my Mary let me flee,
‘There catch her ilka glance of love,
The bonnie blink 0’ Mary’s e’e!

 

BURNS’S SONGS AND

 

 

BALLADS.
Thechield wha boasts 0’ warld’s walth
Is aften laird 0’ meikle eare :
J . 5 . ?
But Mary she is a? my ain—
Ah! fortune canna gi’e me mair.
Then let me range by Cassillis’ banks,
Wv her, the lassie dear to me,
And catch her ilka glance 0’ love,
The bonnie blink of Mary’s e’e !

MY PEGGY’S FACE.

My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
The frost of hermit age might warm 3
My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy’s angel air,

Her face so truly, heavenly fair,

Her native grace so void of art,

But I adore my Peggy’s heart.

 

The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye,

The kindling lustre of an eye ;
Who but owns their magic sway,
Who but knows they all decay !
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look that rage disarms—
These are all immortal charms.

_.

 

aa al

AMANG THE TREES.
Tune—‘* The King of France, he rade a race.”

AmanG the trees where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe wa’ singing, O ;
’Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels,
She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly O,
When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O—

Their capon craws and queer ha ha’s,
They made our lugs grow eerie, O ;

The hungry bike did scrape and pike
Till we were wae and wearie, O ;

But a royal ghaist wha once was cased
A prisoner aughteen year awa’,

He fired a fiddler in the North

That dang them tapsalteerie, O.
* *k * %

PL rrrrwwr*

THE WINSOME WEE THING.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife 0’ mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo’ed a dearer,

And niest my heart I’ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o’ mine.
The warld’s wrack we share o’t,
The warstle and the care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll blithely bear it,
And think my lot diyine.

 

 

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MY LADY’S GOWN, THERE’S GAIRS
URON'T.
Tune—‘‘ Gregg’s Pipes.”
My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden fiowers sae rare upon't ;s
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane ;
By Colin’s cottage lies his game,
If Colin’s Jenny be at hame.

My lady’s white, my lady’s red,

And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude ;
But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid
Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed.

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass,
There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass,

A lily in a wilderness.

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs,
Like music notes o’ lovers’ hymns 3
The diamond dew in her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest,
The flower and fancy o’ the west ;
But the lassie that a man lo’es best,
O that’s the lass to make him blest.
My lady's gown, there’s gairs upon’t,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t ;s
But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t.

 

HIGHLAND MARY.
Tune—‘* Catharine Ogie.”
Yer banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle 0’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never druilie !
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry ;
For there I took the last fareweel
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp’d her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o’er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace,
Our parting was fu’ tender ;

And, pledging aft to mect again,
We tore oursel’s asunder ;

But oh ! fell death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early !—

Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary !

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft ha’e kiss’d sae fondly !

And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly !

And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed me dearly !

But still within my bosom’s core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

104 BURNS’S SONGS

AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

AULD ROB MORRIS.
THERE’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,

He’s the king 0’ guid fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine.

And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May);
She’s sweet as the evening amang the new hay
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,

And my daddie has nought but a cot-houseand yard \)

A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me but delight brings me nane ;

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,

And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my breast.

O, had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might ha’e hoped she wad smiled upon me!

O, how past describing had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express !

meee

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan GRay came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t.
Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

 

Duncan fleech’d, and Duncan pray’d 5
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Dunean sigh’d baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin’ owre a linn ;
Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die ?
She may gae to—France for me !
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg grew sick—as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spak sic things !
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad 0’ grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t,
Maggie’s was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing 0’t.
Dunean could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath ;
Now they’re crouse and canty baith.
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.

\
\

aBURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS. ;

 

 

 

 

 

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA,
Tune—‘‘ Banks of Banna.”

YesTreEEN I had a pint 0’ wine,
A place where body saw na’:

Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine
The gowden locks of Anna.

The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o’er his manna,

Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs tak’ the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah !

Gi’e me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.

There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give and tak’ with Anna !

Awa’, thou flaunting god o’ day,
Awa’, thou pale Diana !

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I’m to meet my Anna.

Come, in thy raven plumage, night !
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a/ ;

And bring an angel pen to write
My transports with my Anna !

wero ee

MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O.
Tune—‘‘ The Lea Rig.”

WueEn o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin’-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow’d field,
Return sae dowf and wearie, O ;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi dew are hanging. clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie, O,

If through that glen, I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.

Although the night were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er sae wearie, O,

I’d meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.

The hunter lo’es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo,
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo 5
Gi’e me the hour o’ gloamin’ gray,
It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.

~—

 

~_s

MARY CAMPBELL.
Tune—‘‘ Ewe-bughts, Marion.”

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia’s shore ?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,

Across th’ Atlantie’s roar 2?

O sweet grow the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine ;

But a’ the charms o’ the Indies
Can never equal thine.

 

I ha’e sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I ha’e sworn by the heavens to be true;

And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand ;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia’s strand.

We ha’e plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,

And ecurst be the cause that shall part us,
The hour, and the moment o’ time !

 

O POORTITH CAULD:
Tune—‘‘ I had a horse.”
O poortitH cauld, and restless love,
| Ye wreck my peace between ye ;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ twere na for my Jeanie.

 

O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bands untwining ?

Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune’s shining ?

This warld’s wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t ;

Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t.

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray
How she repays my passion ;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him 2

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am ?

How blest the humble cotter’s fate !
He woos his simple dearie ;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life’s dearest bunds untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune’s shining ?

mw

 

OH! OPEN THE DOOR TO ME.
With Alterations.

On, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, O!

Though thou hast been false, I’ll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, O!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, O!

The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, O!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me. O!

False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I’ll ne’er trouble them, nor thee, O!

She has open’d the door, she has open’d it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, O!

 

Never to rise again, O !—

 

My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side, |

 

 

 

 

 

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BURNS’S

 

WANDERING WILLIE.

Messrs. Erskine and Thomson having suggested some
changes in the following song, our Poet, with his usual
judgment, adopted some of their alterations, and rejected
others. The last edition is as follows :—

HERE awa’, there awa’, wandering Willie,

Here awa’, there awa’, haud awa’ hame ;

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie,

Tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same.

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting,
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e’e,

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie,
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms !
Wauken ye breezes, row gently ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms.
But oh, if he’s faithless, and minds na his Nannie,
Flow still between us, thou wide roaring main ;
May I never see it, may I never trow it,
But, dying, believe that my Willie’s my ain.

 

SHE SAYS SHE LO’ES ME BEST OF A’.
Tune—** Onagh’s Water-fall.”

Sak flaxen were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o’er-arching

Twa laughing een o’ bonnie blue.
Her smiling, sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ;
What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow !
Such was my Chloris’ bonnie face,

When first her bonnie face I saw ;
And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm,

She says she lo’es me best of a’.
Like harmony her motion ;

Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion,

Wad mak a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form, and gracefu’ air :
Ilk feature—auld Nature

Declared that she could do nae mair.
Hers are the willing chains 0’ love,

By conquering beauty’s sovereign law ;
And aye my Chloris’ dearest charm,

She says she lo’es me best of a’,
Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon ;
Gi’e me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon ;
Fair beaming, and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang ;
While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang :
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o’ truth and love,

And say thou lo’es me best of a’.

 

GALLA-WATER.

THERE’s braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes,
That wander through the blooming heather ;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws,
Can match the lads o’ Galla-water.

SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But there is ane, a secret ane, |
Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better $ |

And Ill be his, and he’ll be mine,
The bonnie lad o’ Galla-water.

Although his daddie was nae laird,
: :

And though I ha’e na meikle tocher ;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Galla-water.

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure 5
The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure !

 

LORD GREGORY.

O mrrk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest’s roar 5

A waefw’ wanderer seeks thy tow’r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father’s ha’,
And a’ for loving thee 5

At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be!

Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove,
By bonnie Irwin side,

Where first I own’d that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied ?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for aye be mine !

And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true,
It ne’er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:

Thou dart of heaven, that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!

 

 

 

Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see ! |

But spare, and pardon my fause love, |
His wrangs to heaven and me ! )

 

MARY MORISON.
Tune—‘*‘ Bide ye yet.”
O mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour !
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun ;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”

 

 

 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faw’t is loving thee ?

If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown !

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.

 

FS is GN MM Fd RE ee aR| a ——

 

|
|
| WHEN WILD WAR’S DEADLY BLAST WAS BLAWN.,
| Air—< The Mill Mill 0.”
|
|  WuHeEn wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
| And gentle peace returning,
| Wi’ monie a sweet babe fatherless,
And monie a widow mourning ;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder :
| And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
| I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Naney,
| I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

 

| At length I reach’d the bonnie glen,

Where early life I sported ;

| J pass’d the mill, and trysting-thorn,

| Where Nancy aft I courted :

_ . Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling !

And turn’d me round to hide the flood

That in my een was swelling.

Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,

O! happy, happy may he be,
That’s dearest to thy bosom !

My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger ;

Dve served my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger,

 

|

| Sae wistfully she gazed on me,

And lovelier was than ever:

| Quo’ she, A sodger ance I lo’ed,

| Forget him shall I never:

| Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

| That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
| Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.

| She gazed—she redden’d like a rose—

| Syne pale like onie lily ;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie 2

By Him who made yon sun and sky—
By whom true love’s regarded,

fam the man ; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded !

 

The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted ;
| Though poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.
Quo’ she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly ;
And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
Thow’rt welcome to it dearly !

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;

| But glory is the sodger’s prize,

| The sodger’s wealth is honour:

| The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,

| Nor count him as a stranger ;

_ Remember he’s his country’s stay
In day and hour of danger.

| URNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS,

 

 

JESSIE.
Tune— Bonny Dundee.”

True-hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow,
And fair are the maids on the banks 0” the Ayr

But by the sweet side 0’ the Nith’s winding river,
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:

i Lo equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ;
: To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ‘

| Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,

| And maidenly modesty fixes his chain.

2

}

O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,

| And sweet is the lily at evening close ;

| But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie,
| Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.

Jove sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ;
Enthroned in her een he delivers his law,
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger,

Her modest demeanour’s the Jewel of a’.

 

| MEG 0’? THE MILL,

Air—<O bonnie lass, will you lie in a Barrack ?”
{

| O KEN ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten,
Aw’ ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten,
She has gotten a coof wi’ a claut 0’ siller,

And broken the heart 0’ the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappin’, the Miller was ruddy ;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ;

The Laird was a widdiefu’, bleerit knurl :

She’s left the guid fellow and ta’en the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving :
The Laird did address her wi’ matter mair movin

 

 

|
|
|
|

 

 

 

A fine pacing horse wi’ a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;

And wae on the love that is fix’d on a mailen !
A tocher’s nae word in a true lover’s parle,
But, gi’e me my love, and a fig for the warl’!

 

FRAGMENT,
IN WITHERSPOON’S COLLECTION OF SCOTS SONGS,
Air—“ Hughie Graham.”

“O Gin my love were yon red rose,

That grows upon the castle wa’,

: 3 3
And I mysel’ a drop o’ dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa’!

“Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night ;
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Till fley’"d awa by Pheebus’ light.”

* O were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi’ purple blossoms te the spring ;
And I, a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfw’ May its bloom renew’d. *

 

— =

* These stanzas were added by Burns,

 

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}

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%BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

 

MISS LESLEY BAILLIE.
Tune—‘‘ Liggeram Cosh.”
BuiTHE ha’e I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me ;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o’er me:
Now nae longer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me ;
Lesley is sae fair and coy,
Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy, is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow’y,
Sighing, dumb, despairing !
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

 

LOGAN WATER.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie’s bride ;
And years sinsyne ha’e o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.

But now thy flow’ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o’ May

Has made our hills and valleys gay 5
The birds rejoice in leafy bow’rs,

The bees hum round the breathing flow’rs:
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,

And ey’ning’s tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,

While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ;
Her faithfu’ mate will share her toil,
Or wi’ his song her cares beguile :

But I, wi’ my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow’d nights and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.

O wae upon you, men o’ state,

That brethren rouse to deadly hate !
As ye make monie a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy

The widow’s tears, the orphan’s ery ?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie, hame to Logan braes !

 

BONNIE JEAN.

THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen,
When a’ the fairest maids were met,

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie :
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest ;
And frost will blight the fairest flow’rs,
And love will break the soundest rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride 0’ a’ the glen ;

And he had owsen, sheep and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst,

He danced wi’ Jeanie on the down ;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o’ the stream,
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e’en 5
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain ;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak’ her weel again.

But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale o’ love,
Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea ?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper’d thus his tale 0’ love :

O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear ;
O canst thou think to fancy me,

Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me ?

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee 5

But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do ?
She had nae will to say him na:

At length she blusn’d a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.
Tune-—** Robin Adair.”

Wuite larks with little wing
Fann’d the pure air,

Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare :

Gay the sun’s golden eye

Peep’d o’er the mountains high ;

Such thy morn! did I ery,
Phillis the fair.

In each bird’s careless song,
Glad did I share ;

While yon wild flow’rs among,
Chance led me there :

Sweet to the opening day,

Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ;

Such thy bloom ! did I say,
Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,

I mark’d the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare :

So kind may Fortune be,

Such make his destiny,

He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

—EEEEEEE—

nt =

 

 

 

HAD I A CAVE, &.

{An unfortunate circumstance which happened to hig
friend Cunningham, suggested this fine pathetic song to
the Poet’s fancy. ]

To the same tune.
Hap I a cave on soine wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves’ dashing roar,
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne’er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare,
All thy fond plighted vows—fleeting as air ?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o’er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there !

 

 

BY ALLAN STREAM.

Tune—‘ Allan Water.”

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,
While Phcebus sank beyond Benledi ;
The winds were whispering thro’ the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready :
I listen’d to a lover’s sang,
And thought on youthfu’ pleasures mony ;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang—
O dearly do I love thee, Annie!

O happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle mak’ it eerie ;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, “I’m thine for ever !’’
While mony a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne’er should sever.

The haunt o’ spring’s the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow ;
How cheery thro’ her shortening day
Is autumn, in her weeds 0’ yellow !
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure !

 

COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.
Tune—‘‘ Cauld Kail.”

Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne’er shall sunder ;
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust,
The warld’s wealth and grandeur :
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her ?
I ask for dearest life alone,
That I may live to love her.

Thus in my arms, wi’ all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure ;

1’ll seek nae mair o’ heaven to share,
Than sic a moment’s pleasure :

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I’m thine for ever !

And on thy lips I seal my vow,

 

And break it shall I never !

 

 

 

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ADOWN WINDING NITI.

ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ;

Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. |
Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties, |
They never wi’ her can compare ; |
Whaever has met wi’? my Phillis, |
Has met wi? the queen o’ the fair.

The daisy amused my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild ;
Thou emblem, said I, o’ my Phillis!

For she is.simplicity’s child.

The rose-bud’s the blush 0’ my charmer, ’
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest :

How fair and how pure is the lily!
But fairer and purer her breast.

 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie:

Her breath is the breath 0’ the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o’ diamond, her eye,

Her voice is the song of the morning,

That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove,
When Pheebus peeps over the mountains

On music, and pleasure, and love.

But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer’s day!
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa’ wi’ your belles and your beauties,

They never wi her can compare ;

Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis,

Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair.

 

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’ ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne ?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne ;
We'll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa ha’e ran about the braes,
And pu’t the gowans fine ; |

But we’ve wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa ha’e paidl’t ’ the burn, |
Frae mornin’ sun till dine :
But seas between us braid ha’e roar’d, |
Sin’ auld lang syne.

And here’s a hand, my trusty fier,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine ; |
And we’ll tak’ a right good-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine ; |
And we'll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, |
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne ;
Well tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne. |
|

 

 

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VN li DAINTY DAVIE.

Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers,
‘ To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ;
b | And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi’ my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wv’ you,
My ain. dear dainty Davie.
ti The crystal waters round us fa’,
i? The merry birds are lovers a’,
The scented breezes round us blaw, >
leigh | A wandering wi’ my Davie.

. When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,

ae Then through the dews I will repair

| | To meet my faithfu’ Davie.

i | When day, expiring in the west,
Wi The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest,
I fiee to his arms I lo’e best,
mig | And that’s my ain dear Davie.

Bd {| Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wv you,

My ain dear dainty Davie.

 

 

|

BEHOLD THE HOUR.
|

| Tune—‘* Oran Gaoil.”

| Brnotp the hour, the boat arrive ;
|| Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!
an || Sever’d from thee can I survive ?
‘ll But fate has will’d, and we must part.
, || Pl often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail ;
7 ||  B’en here I took the last farewell ;
i There latest mark’d her vanish’d sail.’’

yt Along the solitary shore,
While flitting sea-fowl round me ery,
NE Across the rolling, dashing roar,
» ry I'll westward turn my wistful eye :
a Happy, thou Indian grove, I’ll say,
Where now my Naney’s path may be !
While through thy sweets she loves to stray,

 

Bi O tell me, does she muse on me!
Bit
+h \ ie | THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER.
i i} Tune—‘ Fee him, Father.”
t i Tuou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me
Bia | ever ; [ever.
Pp | Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me
oe Ve Aften hast thou vow’d that death only should us
, sever }
in Now thou’st left thy lass for aye—I maun see thee
He) never, Jainie,

ee | I shall see thee never.
}
ay | Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me for-
A saken ; [saken.
Ai | Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me for-
) Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is
breaking.
Soon my weary een I’ll close—never mair to waken,
Never mair to waken. [ Jamie,

|
nt |
: |

 

BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

|

 

 

 

FAIR JENNY.
Tune—* Saw ye my Father?”

Wuere are the joys I have met in the morning,
That danced to the lark’s early song ?

Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring,
At evening the wild woods among ?

No more a-winding the course of yon river,
And marking sweet flow’rets so fair :

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure,
But sorrow and sad sighing care.

Is it that summer ’s forsaken our valleys,
And grim, surly winter is near !

No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses
Proclaim it the pride of the vear.

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known ;
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,

Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nar hope dare a comfort bestow :

Come then, enamour’d and:fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.

 

DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.
Tune—‘* The Collier’s Dochter.”

DELUDED swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure—
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds’ uncertain motion—
They are but types of woman.

O ! art thou not ashamed,
To dote upon a feature 2

If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow ;
Good claret set before thee :
Hold on till thou art mellow,

And then to bed in glory.

 

NANCY.
Tune—*‘ The Quaker’s Wife.”

THinE am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy ;

Ev’ry pulse along my veins,
Ev’ry roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish :
Though despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away these rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure :

Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love ?
Night without a morning :

Love’s the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.

 

 

 

 

 

 —_———————
UEBANNOCKBURN.
Tune—‘* Hey, tuttie, tattie,”

Scots, wha ha’e wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie !

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour ;

See the front 0’ battle lour ;

See approach proud Edward’s power—
Edward ! chains and slaverie !

Wha will be a traitor knave ?

Wha can fill a coward’s grave 2

Wha sae base as be a slave 2
Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee !

Wha for Scotland’s king and law

Freedom’s sword will Strongly draw,

Free-man stand, or free-man fa’,
Caledonian ! on wi’ me!

By oppression’s woes and pains !

By our sons in servile chains !

We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be—siiall be free.

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe !

Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward! let us do, or die!

 

HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR
STRIFE.
Tune—** My jo Janet.”
Huspanp, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idle rave, Sir ;
Though I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, Sir.
“ One of two must still obey
Nancy, Nancy ;
Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy ?”
lf ’tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience ;
Tl desert my sov’reign lord,
And so, good b’ye allegiance !
“Sad will I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy ;
Yet [ll try to make a shift,
My spouse, Nancy.”
My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I’m near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think how you will bear it!
“JT will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse, Nancy.”
Well, Sir, from the silent dead
Still Pll try to daunt you ;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you
“‘ J’ll wed another, like my dear
Nancy, Nancy ;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy.”

SONGS AND BALLADS.

|

 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.
Tune— O’er the Hills,” &e.

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad 2
How ean I the thought forego,
He’s on the seas to meet the foe 2
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love ;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are with him that’s far away.

On the seas and far auay,

On stormy seas and far a WAY :

Nightly dreams and thoughts by day

Are aye with him that’s far away.
When in summer’s noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor’s thund’ring at his gun :
Bullets, spare my only joy !
Bullets, spare my darling boy !
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that’s far away.

At the starless midnight hour,

When winter rules with boundless power ;
As the storms the forest tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,
Listening to the doubling roar,

Surging on the rocky shore,

All I can—I weep and pray,

For his weal that’s far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,

And bid wild war his ravage end,

Man with brother man to meet,

And as a brother kindly greet :

Then may heaven, with prosp’rous gales,
Fill my sailor’s welcome sails,

To my arms their charge convey,

My dear lad that’s far away.

On the seas and far away,

On stormy seas and far away:
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day
Are aye with him that's far away.

 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIER?
Tune—‘‘ The Sutor’s Dochter.”

Witt thou be my dearie ?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee ?

By the treasure of my soul,

That’s the love I bear thee !

I swear and vow that only thou

Shall ever be my dearie 5

Only thou, I swear and vow,

Shall ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo’es me ;

Or if thou wiltna be my ain,
Sayna thou’lt refuse me:

If it winna, canna be,

Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me ;
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me.

 

 

 

 

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BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.

 

CA’. THE YOWES.
Tune—‘*‘ Ca’ the Yowes to the Knowes.”
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Ca’ them whare the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.
Hark, the mavis’ evening sang
Sounding Clouden’s woods amang ;
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.

We’ll gae down by Clouden side,

Through the hazels spreading wide,

O’er the waves, that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.

Yonder Clouden’s silent towers,

Where at moonshine midnight hours,

O’er the dewy bending flowers,
Fairies dance sae cheery.

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ;
Thou’rt to love and heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart *
I can die—but canna part—
My bonnie dearie.
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them whare the heather grows,
Ca’ them whare the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.

 

BUT LATELY SEEN.
Tune—‘ The Winter of Life.”
But lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoice the day,
Through gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay :
But now our joys are fled,
On winter blasts awa’ !
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a’.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age ;

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time’s wintry rage.

Oh, age has weary days,
And nights o’ sleepless pain !

Thou golden time o’ youthfu’ prime,
Why com’st thou not again !

 

 

O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.
O ay my wife she dang me,
Aw aft my wife did bang me ;
Tf ye gv’'e a woman @&@ her will,
Guid faith ! shell soon o’ergang ye.
On peace and rest my mind was bent,
And, fool I was! I married ;
But never honest man’s intent
As cursedly miscarried.

Some sairie comfort still at last,
When a’ thir days are done, man,
My pains o’ hell on earth are past—,
I’m sure 0’ bliss aboon, man.
O ay my wife she dang me,
An’ aft my wife did bang me ;
If ye gvea woman a her will,
Guid faith ! she'll soon o’ergang ye.

 

TO MARY.
Tune—* Could aught of song.”

Coup aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,

The muse should tell, in labour’d strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart,
May teach the lyre to languish ;

But what avails the pride of art,
When wastes the soul with anguish ?

Then let the sudden bursting sigh
The heart-felt pang discover ;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read th’ imploring lover.
For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art’s gay disguising ;
Beyond what fancy e’er refined
The voice of nature prizing.

 

HERE IS THE GLEN.
Tune—‘* Banks of Cree.”

Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade ;

The village-bell has told the hour—
O what can stay my lovely maid ?

?Tis not Maria’s whispering call,
Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mix’d with some warbler’s dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria’s voice I hear !

So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little, faithful mate to cheer,

At ounce ’tis music—and ’tis love.

And art thou come? and art thou true 2
O welcome, dear, to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew

Along the flowery banks of Cree.

 

THE LOVER’S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS

MISTRESS.
Tune—‘‘ Deil tak’ the Wars.”

SieEp’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature? |
3 2

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature
Waters wi’ the tears 0’ joy :
Now thro’ the leafy woods,
And by the reeking floods,
Wild Nature’s tenants freely, gladly stray ;
The lintwhite in his bower
Chants o’er the breathing flower ;
The lav’rock to the sky
Ascends wi’ sangs 0° joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phebus, gilding the brow 0’ morning,
Banishes ilk darksome shade,

Nature gladdening and adorning ;
Such to me my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,
The murky shades 0’ care

With starless gloom o’ercast my sullen sky ;
But when, in beauty’s light,
She meets my ravish’d sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart— -

*Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

 

|
|
|
|
|
|
|———————————————— eS

BURNS’S SONGS

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE,
Tune—‘* The Maid’s Complaint.”

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire,

Altho’ thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awake desire.

Something, in ilka part o’ thee,
To praise, to love, I find ;

But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungen’rous wish I ha’e,
Nor stronger in my breast,

Than if T canna mak’ thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if Heaven shall give
But happiness to thee ;

And as wi’ thee I’d wish to live,
For thee I’d bear to die.

 

wee

LOVELY DAVIES.
Tune—** Miss Muir.”
O How shall I, unskilfu’, try
The poet’s occupation,
The tunefw’ powers, in happy hours,
That whisper inspiration ?
Even they maun dare an effort mair,
Than aught they ever gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms 0’ lovely Davies.

 

 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears,
Like Pheebus in the morning,

When past the shower, and ev’ry flower
The garden is adorning.

As the wretch looks o’er Siberia’s shore,
When winter-bound the wave is :

Sae droops our heart when we maun part
F'rae charming lovely Davies.

Her smile’s a gift, frae ’boon the lift,
That mak’s us mair than princes ;

A scepter’d hand, a king’s command,
Is in her darting glances. |

‘The man in arms, ’gainst female charms,
Even he her willing slave is ;

He hugs his chain, and owns the reign
Of conquering, lovely Davies.

My muse to dream of such a theme,
Her feeble pow’rs surrender ;
The eagle’s gaze alone surveys
The sun’s meridian splendour.
I wad in vain essay the strain,
The deed too daring brave is ;
I’ll drap the lyre, and mute admire
The charms o’ lovely Davies.

 

SAE FAR AWA’.
L'une—** Dalkeith Maiden Bridge.”
QO, sap and heavy should I part,
But for her sake sae far awa’ ;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa’.

Thou that of a’ things Maker art,
That form’d this fair sae far awa’,
Gi’e body strength, then I’ll ne’er start

At this my way sae far awa’,

 

 

 

AND BALLADS. 113

 

 

Tiow true is love to pure desert,
So love to her, sae far awa’:
And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart
While oh! she is sae far awa’.
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but hers, sae far awa? ;
But fairer never touch’d a heart
Than hers, the fair sae far awa’.

~

 

CHLOE.

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG,
Tune—* Dainty Davie.”

It was the charming month of May,
When all the flow’rs were fresh and gay,
One morning by the break of day,

The youthful, charming Chloe
From peaceful slumber she arose,
Girt on her mantle and her hose,
And o’er the flowry mead she goes,

Lhe youthful, charming Chloe.

Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,

Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.

The feather’d people you might see,
Perch’d all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody
They hail the charming Chloe ;
Till, painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall’d by the radiant eyes
Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she by the dawn,
Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe,
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn,
The youthful, charming Chloe.

~

 

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LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.

Tune—** Rothiemurchus’ Rant.”
Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Welt thou wi’ me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie, 02

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,

And a’ is young and sweet like thee ;

O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me,
And say thou’lt be my dearie, O ?

And when the welcome simmer-shower

Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower,

We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my dearie, O?

When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray,

The weary shearer’s hameward way ;

Through yellow waving fields we’ll stray,
And talk 0’ love, my dearie, O.

And when the howling wintry blast

Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest ;

Enclasped to my faithfu’ breast,
I’ll comfort thee, my dearie, O.

Lassie w? the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie, 0?

1

 

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BURNS’S SONGS

 

AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

| LET NOT WOMAN E’ER COMPLAIN.
Tune—‘* Duncan Gray,”

Let not woman e’er complain
| Of inconstancy im love ;
| Let not woman e’er complain
| Fickle man is apt to rove :
| Look abroad through Nature's range,
] Nature’s mighty law is change ;
Ladies, would it not be strange
Man should then a monster prove !
| Mark the winds, and mark the skies ;
| Ocean’s ebb and ocean’s flow :
Sun and moon but set to rise,
Round and round the seasons go.
| Why then ask of silly man
To oppose great Nature’s plan?
We'll be constant while we can—
You can be no more, you know.

 

FAREWELL, THOU STREAM.
Tune—‘* Nancy’s to the Greenwood gane,” &c.

FAREWELL thou stream that winding flows
| Around Eliza’s dwelling !
@ mem’ry ! spare the cruel throes
Within my bosom swelling :
Condemned to drag a hopeless chain,
And yet in secret languish,
| To feel a fire in ev’ry vein,
Nor dare disclose my anguish.

 

 

 

 

Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown,
I fain my griefs would cover:

The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan,
Betray the hapless lover.

I know thou doom’st me to despair,
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me;

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer—
For pity’s sake forgive me !

The music of thy voice I heard,
| Nor wist while it enslaved me ;
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear’d,
| Till fears no more had saved me:
Th’ unwary sailor thus aghast,
The wheeling torrent viewing ;
*Mid circling horrors sinks at last
In overwhelming ruin.

 

 

NIM

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS.
Tune—‘* Roy’s Wife.”

| Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?

| Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?

Well thou know’st'my aching heart,

| And canst thou leave me thus for pity ?

| Is this thy plighted, fond regard,

| Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ?

Is this thy faithful swain’s reward—
An aching, broken heart, my Katy ?

Farewell! and ne’er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ;
Thou may’st find those will love thee dear—
| But not a love like mine, my Katy.

 

 

| Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?

|| Wel thou know’st my aching heart,

‘| And canst thou leave me thus for pity ?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

|
0, PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY |
Tune—‘* The Sow’s Tail.” |
He—O Putty, happy be that day |
When, roving through the gather’d hay, |

My youthfu’ heart was stown away,
And by thy charms, my Philly. |

Where first I own’d my maiden love,
While thou didst pledge the Powers above,

She—O Willy, aye I bless the grove |
To be my ain dear Willy. |

He—aAs songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.
She—As on the brier the budding rose
Still richer breathes, and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom grows
The love I bear my Willy.

He—The milder sun and bluer sky,
That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy,
Were ne’er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o’ Philly.

She—The little swallow’s wanton wing,
Though wafting o’er the flowery spring,
Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring,
As meeting o’ my Willy.

 

He—The bee that through the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compared wi’ my delight is poor,

Upon the lips o’ Philly.

She—The woodbine in the dewy weet,
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is not sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss 0’? Willy.

He—lLet fortune’s wheel at random rin,
And fools may tine, and knaves may win ;
My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane,
And that’s my ain dear Philly.

She--What’s a’ the joys that gowd ean gi’e !
I care nae wealth a single flie ;
The lad I love’s the lad for me, |

And that’s my ain dear Willy. |

 

CONTENTED WI’ LITTLE. |
Tune—‘ Lumps 0’ Pudding.” |
CoNTENTED wi little, and cantie wi’ mair, |
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care, |
I gi’e them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang,
Wi a cog o’ guid swats,and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome Thought ;

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,

And my Freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare
touch.

A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa,

A night 0’ guid fellowship southers it a’ :

When at the blithe end o’ our journey at last,
Wha the de’il ever thinks o’ the road he has past?

Blind Chance, let hersnapper and stoyte on her way,
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae:

Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is, “Welcome, and weleome again !”| SAW YE MY PHELY.
Quasi dicat Phitlis,
Tune—‘* When she cam ben she bobbit.”

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ?
| She’s down i’ the grove, she’s wi’ a new love,
| She winna come hame to her Willy.
|

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ?
| She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for eyer disowns thee, her Willy.

O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely !
O had I ne’er seen thee, my Phely !
| As light as the air, and fause as thou’s fair,
| Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy Willy.

 

TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.
A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.
You’RE welcome to despots, Dumourier,
_ You’re welcome to despots, Dumourier !
How does Dampierre do,
| Aye, and Bournonville too,
Why did not they come along with you, Dumourier ?
f will fight France with you, Dumourier ;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier ;
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you ;
By my soul I’ll have a dance with you, Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ;
| Then let us fight about, Dumourier ;
| Then let us fight about,
| Till freedom’s spark is out,
| Then we'll be damn’d, no doubt, Dumourier !
|
|

 

O WHA IS SHE THAT LO’ES ME.
| Tune—‘‘ Morag.”
O wua is she that lo’es me,
And has my heart a-keeping ?
O sweet is she that lo’es me,
As dews 0’ simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-buds steeping.
| O that’s the lassie 0’ my heart,
| My lassie ever dearer ;
O that’s the queen o? woman-kind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.
If thou shalt meet a lassie
In grace and beauty charming,
That e’en thy chosen lassie,
Erewhile thy breast sae warming,
Had ne’er sic powers alarming ;
If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking
But her by thee is slighted ;
And thou art all delighted ;

If thou hast met this fair one ;
When frae her thou hast parted,
If every other fair one
But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken-hearted ;

O that’s the lassie o’ my heart,
My lassie ever dearer ;

 

 

S AND BALLADS.

 

 

MY NANNIE’S AWA’.
Tune—‘* There'll never be peace,” &e,
as : :
Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arr
And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the
rare he is
While birds warble welcome in ilka green sl]
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But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’

aYS,
braes,
1aw
S awa’.
The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands ador
And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn ;
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa’.

n,

 

Thou lav’rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o’ the gray-breaking dawn,
And thou mellow mayis that hails the night-fa’,
Give over for pity—my Nannie’s awa’.

Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi’ tidings 0’ nature’s decay:
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa’.

oom

 

HERE’S A HEALTH.
Tune— The Bonnets o’ blue.”

HeErez’s a health to them that’s awa’,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa’ :
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa!
It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,
It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa’,

And here’s to them that’s awa’ ;

Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief 0’ the clan,
Although that his band be sma’.

May liberty meet wi’ success !

May prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,

And wander their way to the devil!

Here’s a health to them that’s awa’,

And here’s to them that’s awa’ ;

Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,
That lives at the lug 0’ the law!

Here’s freedom to him that wad read,

Here’s freedom to him that wad write!

There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be

heard,
But they wham the truth wad indite.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa’,

And here’s to them that’s awa’ ;

Here’s Maitland and Wycombe, and wha does na
like ’em,

We'll build in a hole o’ the wa’.

Here’s timmer that’s red at the heart,

Here’s fruit that’s sound at the core!

May he that would turn the buff and blue coat,

Be turn’d to the back o’ the door.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa’,
And here’s to them that’s awa’ ;
lere’s Chieftain M‘Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, |
Though bred amang mountains 0’ snaw !

 

Here’s friends on baith sides o’ the Forth, |
And friends on baith sides o’ the Tweed, |

 

O that’s the queen 0? woman-kind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

 

1 ( prohia

And wha would betray old Albion’s rights,
May they never eat of her bread. |
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BURNS’S SONGS

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O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS.

Tune—‘* Cordwainers’ March.”

O tay thy loof in mine, lass,

In mine, lass, in mine, lass ;

And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.

A slave to Love’s unbounded sway,

He aft has wrought me meikle wae ;

But now he is my deadly fae,
Unless thou be my ain.

There’s mony a lass has broke my rest,

‘That for a blink I ha’e lo’ed best,

But thou art queen within my breast,
For ever to remain.

O lay thy loof in mine, lass,

In mine, lass, in mine, lass,

And swear on thy white hand, lass,
That thou wilt be my ain.

 

CALEDONIA.
Tune—‘* The Caledonian Hunt’s Delight.”

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia’s divine 9)
From Tweed to the Oreades was her domain,
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would:
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign,
And pledged her their godheads to warrantit good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore—
« Whoe’er shall provoke thee, th’ encounter shall
rue !”’
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ;
But chiefly the woods were her favourite resort 5
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reigned ; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria’s strand* :
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken’d the air, and they plunder’d the
land:
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They’d conquer’d and ruin’d a world beside:
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly—
The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the North,
The scourge of the seas and the dread of the
shore *¥ $
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore ;
O’er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail’d,
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail’d,
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell§.

The Cameleon-savage disturb’d her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ;

Provoked beyond bearing at last she arose,
And robb’d him at once of his hopes and his life ||:

 

* The Romans. + The Saxons. + The Danes.
§ The two famous battles in which the Danes or Nor-
Wwegians were defeated.

AND BALLADS.
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,
Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed’s silver

But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, [flood;
He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer’d, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run :
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; |
[’ll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base ;
But brave Caledonia’s the hypothenuse ;

Then ergo she’ll match them, and match them

always*.
PE

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET.

Tune—‘<« Let me in this ae night.”

O assin, art thou sleeping yet ?
Or art thou wakin’, I would wit ?
For love has bound me, hand and fit,
And I would fain be in, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night ;
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.
Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet,

 

Nae star blinks through the driving sleet ;
Tak’ pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.

The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s ;
The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my grief and pain, jo.
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night ;s
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let mein, jo.

 

HER ANSWER.

O TELL na me o’ wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam’ again,
I winna let you in, jo.
IT tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night ;
And ance for w this ae night,
TI winna let you in, jo.
The snellest blast, ‘at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand’rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That ’s trusted faithless man, jo.

he sweetest flower that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed :
Let simple maid the lesson read,

The weird may be her ain, jo.

The bird that charm’d his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler’s prey ;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate’s the same, Jo.
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night ;
And ance for w this ae night,
T winna let you in, jo.

 

* This singular figure of poetry refers to the famous pro-
position of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-
angled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always

 

 

|| The Highlanders of the Isles.

 

 

equal to the squares of the two other sides.IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.
Tune—“ For a’ that, and a’ that.”
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that !
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For:a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that ;
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that !

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a’ that ;
Gi’e fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that !
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, and a’ that ;
The honest man, though e’er sae poor,
Is king 0’ men, for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d—a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that ;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that :
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that !

A king can mak’ a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that ;

But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa that !

For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,

The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher ranks than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—

That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree and a’ that ;

For a’ that, and a’ that,
It’s comin’ yet for a’ that,

That man to man, the world o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.

~_Oo

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.
Tune—‘* Aye wakin’, 0.”
Long, long the night,
Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul’s delight
Is on her bed of sorrow.
Can I cease to care ?
Can I cease to languish,
While my darling fair
Ts on the couch of anguish ?
Every hope is fled,
Every fear is terror ;
Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.
Hear me, Pow’rs divine !
Oh, in pity hear me !
Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me

Long, long the night,

Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul’s delight

Is on her bed of sorrow.

 

 

 

  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
Tune— The hopeless Lover.”
Now spring has clad the groves in green,
And strew’d the lea wi’ flowers :
The furrow’d, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers ;
While ilka thing in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler’s art :

My life was ance that careless stream,
That wanton trout was I ;

But love, wi’ unrelenting beam,
Has scorch’d my fountains dry.

The little flow’ret’s peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet’s flight, I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine ; till love has o’er me past,
And blighted a’ my bloom,

And now beneath the withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.

The waken’d lav’rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,

Winnowing blithe her dewy wings
In morning’s rosy eye ;

As little reck’d I sorrow’s power,
Until the flowery snare

O’ witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o’ care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric’s burning zone,
Wi’ man and nature leagued my foes,
So Peggy ne’er I’d known.
The wretch whase doom is, “hope nae mair !”
What tongue his woes can tell !
Within whase bosom, save despair
Nae kinder spirits dwell.

 

CALEDONIA.
Tune—‘* Humours of Glen.”

THEIR groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands
reckon, [fume,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per-
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan,
Wr the burn stealing under the lang yellow
broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un-
seen :
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave ;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud
palace, [slave !
What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and
The slave’s spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun-
The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain; [tains,
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love’s willing fetters, the chains o’ his Jean.

    
 
  
 
    
  
  
    
    
 
  

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————SS —-

SONGS AND

118 “BURNS'S

 

Nor quit for me the trembling spray ;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
| That I may catch thy melting art ;
For surely that w ad touch her he art,
Wha kills me wi’ disdaining.

Say was thy little mate unkind,

And heard thee as the careless wind ?

Och, nocht but love and sorrow join’d,
Sic notes o’ woe could wauken.

Thou tells o’ never-ending care ;

QO’ speechless grief, and dark despair ;
For pity’s sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! |
Or my poor heart is broken !

 

 

 

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.

|

| ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.
| Tune—** John Anderson, my jo.”
| How cruel are the parents

Who riches only prize,

And to the wealthy booby,

|| « Poor woman sacrifice.

| Meanwhile the hapless daughter
Has but a choice of strife ;

| To shun a tyrant father’s hate,

| Become a wretched wife.

| The ravening hawk pursuing,

The trembling dove thus flies,

To shun impelling ruin,

| A while her pinions tries ;

| Till of escape despairing,

| No shelter or retreat,

| She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.

 

CHLORIS.
Tune—** De’il tak’ the wars.”

|
|
|| Marx yonder pomp of costly fashion,
| Round the wealthy, titled bride :
| But when compared with real passion,
| Poor is all that princely pride.
| What are the showy treasures ?
| What are the noisy pleasures ?
| The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art
The polish’d jewel’s blaze
May draw the wond’ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
| The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart

But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity’s array ;

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.

| O then, the heart alarming,

| And all resistless charming,

In Love’s delightful fetters atc aVaiie the willing
[soul ! 1

Ambition would disown
| The world’s imperial erown,
Even Avarice would deny
| His worshipp’d deity,
| And feel through every vein Love’s

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK.
Tune—** Where’ll bonnie Ann lie?’’or ‘* Loch-Eroch-Side.”
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay !

raptures roll.

|
j

 

 

BALL ADS.

 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

Tune-—** Push about the Jorum.”

April, 1795,

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ?

Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There’s wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,

And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally !

O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided ;

Till slap come in an unco loon
And wi’ a rung decide it.

Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursel’s united ;

For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.

The kettle o’ the kirk and state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in’t ;

But de’il a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t.

Our fathers’ bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it,

By heaven! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,

Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damn’d together !

Who will not sing, “God save the King,”
Shall hang as high’ s the steeple ;

But while we sing, “God save the King,”
We'll ne’er forget the People.

 

THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.
Tune—‘* This is no my ain House,”

O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be ;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.
I see a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place :
It wants, to me, the witchin’ grace,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

She’s bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
7
And lang has had my ‘heart in thrall :
And aye it charms my very saul,
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

A thief,sae pawkie is my Jean
To it stom blink, by a’ unseen ;
But gleg as light are lovers’ een,
When kind love is in the e’e.

It may escape the courtly sparks;

It may escape the learned clerks ;

But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that’s in her e’e.

0 this is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be ;

O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kina love is in her ee.AND BALLADS.

 

 

 

BURNS’S SONGS i /
| |
LAST W |
| Tune—‘* The Lothian Lassie.” ; :
To a Highland Air. |
_ Last May a braw wooer cam’ down the lang glen, | |
| And sair wi’ his love he did deave me ; THE tither morn,
| T said there was naething I hated like men— | Whew ey i
| The deuce gae wim, to believe me, believe me, | pee ae eet | |
The deuce gae wi’m to believe me! oe ay 1
| I'd see my jo, | i
| He spak’ o the darts in my bonnie black een, Beside me, ere the gloaming, I
And vow’d for my love he was dying ; | But he sae trig, 1
I said he might die when he liked, for Jean— | Lap o’er the rig, |
| The Lord forgi’e me for lying, for lying, And dawtingly did cheer me, | i
| The Lord forgi’e me for lying ! | When I, what reck ! | |
A weel-stocked mailen, himsel’ for the laird, Did least expee’ | i"
| And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : | To see my lad so near me. | M
T never loot on that I kenn’d it, or cared, fis. t} | |
| But thought I might ha’e waur offers,waur offers, | ce a Byes
| mM 9 re a a | aye te
| But thought I might ha’e waur offers. | Cock’d sprush whos face Hie clasp’d me ; ie
| But what wad ye think? ina fortnight or less, | And I, I wat, i
The de’il tak’ his taste to gae near her ! Wi?’ fainness grat, if
| He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess— While in his grips he press’d me. te
| Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her, could | De’il tak’ the war ! 1 4
bear her, | I late and air | i
| Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. | Ha’e wish’d since Jock departed ; | :
| But a’ the niest week as I fretted wl’ care, Pa Sora Bee {| i
| I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock, Tne 1 HS
| And wha but my fine fickle lover was there! As short-syne broken-hearted. ! f
| ; glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, Fu’ aft at e’en, . | :
| glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, |

Wi’ dancing keen,
When a’ were blythe and merry,
I cared na by, |
Sae sad was I
In absence o’ my dearie.
But, praise be blest !
My mind’s at rest
a ? |
I’m happy wi’ my Johnny : |
At kirk and fair, |
I’se ay be there,
|
|
|
|
|

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ;

My wooer he ecaper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

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I spier’d for my cousin fw’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin’,

And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl’t feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin’ > &@ Swearin’,
But heavens! how he fell a swearin’.

 

And be as canty’s ony.

may

prec me
a eR I rem

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife,
Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow ;

So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

 

a

COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 1

|
|
| (This is altered from an old favourite song of the same ||
name. |

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Soy eer om ait

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Tune—‘* Coming through the rye.”

»

Seas

Comine through the rye, poor body, ||
Coming through the rye,

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye. |

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body, |
Jenny’s seldom dry ;

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O BONNIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER.

Tune— I wish my love was in a mire.”

Dia Ae a

NS i

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier,
That blooms sae far frae haunt 0? man ;
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear !

It shaded frae the e’enin’ sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew,

How pure amang the leaves sae green ;
But purer was the lover’s vow,

They witness’d in their shade yestreen.

She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body—
Coming through the rye ;

Gin a body kiss a body—
Need a body cry ?

be — ngs TO NF SRI eaten mn

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair!
But love is far a sweeter flower

Amid life’s thorny path o’ care.

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen, |
Gin a body kiss a body— |
Need a’ body ken 2 |
Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body
Jenny’s seldom dry ;
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie, |
Coming through the rye. |

Segre eer seer a er a
- - * mee
AT SE ing Ee : ‘3
ms npc ym meee Ty Te . ar

~

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,
Wi Chloris in my arms, be mine ;

And I the world nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.

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By | 120 BURNS’S SONGS AND BALLADS.
Bi | |

 

I mourn thro’ the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms :

 

TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EEN.

av a i | =m” eine = . pe 3?
b PPR (iy | . Tune—‘‘ Laddie, lie near me, : But welcome the dream o’ sweet slumber,
Beit || "T'was na her bonnie blue een was my ruin ;

a ee. ; é For then I am lock’d in thy arms—Jessy !
ty vi | Fair though she be, that was ne’er my undoing:

| e . .
| ?Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us,

I guess by the dear angel smile,

 

| . . . } Ace r » -Y 7 Ine
, | *Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o’ kind- 2 I guess by the love-rolling e’e ;_
\ | [ness But, why urge the tender confession,
by Ok | Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, ’Gainst fortune’s fell cruel decree !—Jessy !

AM iat: || Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me !

: Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear,
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever

Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, |

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

aie |, Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers
Hee 3 ; : : | And soft as their parting tear—Jessy!- mect
ire Mary, I’m thine wi’ a passion sincerest, | : : : ane |
ae And thou hast plighted me love o’ the dearest a |
3 | 5 ? x
eet era And thou art the angel that never can alter, HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER.
ait oi | Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. Foe Balinaniona Ora”?
Hl , bi | - Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft 0’ beauty’s alarms,
; ! 1 | 1 ] ors YC my ~ oy 77 . T Tr 290 + r * Orncd: |
ee Ui THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. Tbe slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
yd } en since O gi’e me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
ewe 1 N UNFII TCH. Ae : oS ean
hei {| O gi’e me the lass wi’ the weel stockit farms.
| THERE was a bonnie lass, ee ii
4 | . . cs 2 22 . ‘ oO one
iG | And a bonnie, bonnie lass, TY aU Oe es eae
. aR \| : i ae Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher ;
bl | And she lo’ed her bonnie laddie dear ; Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher
1 2 Te : . ee =o
4 j | Till war's loud alarms The nice yellow guineas for me.
a al | Tore her laddie frae her arms,
f | Wi’ mony a sigh and tear. Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows,
Beta vii 0 1 And withers the faster, the faster it grows 5
4 Tr ‘ad ‘ T a a,
B fel | ae aay ne @ u But the rapturous charmo’ the bonny green knowes, |
; | rou conucns nay Soars Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonny white yowes.
etl | He still was a stranger to fear:
oP : : ‘ Se ee ; . 3
yi | And nocht could him quell, | And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
Or his bosom assail, | The brightest o’ beauty may cloy when possest ;
yi | 5 Se eae Mm ?
WHY But the bonnie lass he lo’ed so dear. But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest,
The langer ye ha’e thern—the mair they’re carest.
it iT)
Lal TO CHARLOTTE HAMILTON. Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
B mite | Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher
ie The Poet’s last Song. : ms i ve e ee E : : |
a eae He DE ion Beak Then hey for a lass wi’ a tocher,
Hee cme Hn airest Maid On Devon OANKS, The nice yellow guineas for me. |
ele ay Crystal Devon, winding Devon,
By Wilt thou lay that frown aside, |
it y 4 i And smile as thou wert wont to do ? A FRAGMENT.
4 \ aie it Pui well thou know’st I love thee dear, | Tune—*« John Anderson my jo.”
BA wee i Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! | 0 said ase ad evades
ld hat : i _ | D ¢ ay
a Gah O, did not love exclaim, “ Forbear, es a esnees ann '
eh Nor use a faithful lover so?” | 2 ree Ce 5 oo
Oe | s | i sat me down to ponder,
Reg Rat Then come, thou fairest of the fair, Upon an auld tree root :
aa tt | Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; | Auld Ayr ran by before me,
Bae | And by thy beauteous self I swear, | And bicker’d to the seas ;
kh Beil No love but thine my heart shall know., | A cushat crowded o’er me,
é th ‘ r i Fairest maid on Devon banks, | That echoed through the braes.
Lh an} Crystal Devon, winding Devon, % * * % %
: ; ‘att yet) Wilt thou lay that frown aside,
“shee Gi And smile as thou wert wont to do? |
BE BI | ae s | FRAGMENT.
Ae | ALTHO’ THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. | CHLORIS.
-" i gh ryt 5 ’ ’ : }Ga—e 2 7 ii 2 im’ ad
9 | Tune—‘* Here’s a health to them that's awa, hiney.” Tune—* The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.
Epp + r i rey
ie | ee | Here’s a health to ane I lo’e dear, Way, why tell thy lover, cree
\ | Here's a health to ane I lo’e dear, Bliss he never must enjoy -
ai i | Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers | Why, why undeceive him,
rf i) And soft as their parting tear—Jessy ! [meet, | And give all his hopes the lie ?
ibe Van ’ pk . | :
ah 3 | AutHo’ thou maun never be mine, | O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers,
ae ? 3 dened: : aah
BA fet _ Altho even hope is denied ; Chloris, Chloris all the theme ;
ea ’Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Why, why wouldst thou, cruel!
i } i. | : ss = ie e i
ee Li | Than aught in the world beside—Jessy ! | Wake thy lover from his dream ¢
meen | |
Ph ge :
eR, i i t
ae | END OF THE SONGS AND BALLADS.
a fi \) Hr. iy
f ehh ie ' ||
j Wi bby Ht |
aT NG |
a as a es ee
ie ke
* ; Vip
Rae leet
re
h, i
Bh
PE aT
BI !
=F = = aS pier ae eee aaioe scan = sees = i

GLOSSARY. |

 

[in the present edition the original Glossar
Songs, where the Scotch words vary, in orthography or pronunciation, from E
as an’ for and, ha’e for have, singiv’ for singing, &c.), apostrophes have be

y has been carefully examined, and much augmented. In all the Poems and
nglish ones merely by literal elision (such
en uniformly inserted, to indicate the place
oet will the more readily understand his verses,
glossary ; and those purely Scotch only (or, being

of dropped letters ; by which means the English admirers of our iB
Such words, therefore, have been retrenched altogether from the
English, having Scotch meanings) will be found below.—Epb. ]

 

ee
“<THE ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is commonly spelt ou. The
French uw, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked vo or wi.

except when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute
The Scottish diphthong ae
Scottish di phthong ey sounds like the L

English a in wall.

ABACK, away, aloof
Abeigh, at a shy distance
Aboon, above, up, over
Abread, abroad, in sight
Abreed, in breadth

Adle, caudle; a cordial
Ae, one

Aff, off; aff-loof, off-hand

; ; Brak’, broke, made insol- Calf-ward, small enclosure of Ayrshire
unpremeditated ell, lower; in the bell, in vent for calves Collie, a name for country ||
Afore, before blossom Branks, a kind of wooden | Callan, callant, a boy curs
Aft, oft Belyve, by and by curb for horses Caller, fresh, sound

Aften, often

Agley, awry, wrong

Aiblins, perhaps

Aik, an oak

Ain, own

Air, ear’, early, soon

Airles, earnest-money

Airn, iron

Airt, quarter of the hea-
vens ; to direct

Aith, an oath

Aits, oats

Aiver, an old horse

Aizle, a hot cinder

Ajee, ajar; on oneside

Alake, alas!

Alane, alone

Akwart, awkward

Amaist, ’maist, almost

«nce, once

Ane, one,an

Anent, concerning ; fore-
anent, Over-against

Anither, another

Ase, ashes

Asteer, abroad, stirring

Atween, between

-Aught, possession; as, in a’
my aught, inall my stock

Auld, old; auld-warl’, an-
tediluvian, out-of-date,
absurd ; auld-used, expe-
rienced

Auldfarran, orauldfarrant,
quaint, cunning, prudent;
precocious in mind

Aumis, alms; aumis-dish,
charity plate or box

Ava, at all

Awn, the beard of barley,
oats, &c.; awnie,bearded

Ayont, beyond

BA’, ball

Backets, ash-boards

Backlins, comin’, coming
back, returning

Baa, did bid

Baide, endured, did stay

Baggie, the belly

Bailie, borough magistrate,
alderman

Bairn, a child

Bairn-time, a family of
children, a brood

Baith, both

Ban, to swear, to curse

Band, bonds, bondage

Bane, bone; bany, bony

Bang, to beat, to strive

Bannocks, flat, round, soft
cakes

Bardie, diminutive of bard;
Sir Bardie, our poet

Barefit, barefooted

Barm, yeast

Barmie, yeasty

Batch, a crew, a gang

Batts, botts

Baudrons, a cat

Bauld, bold

Bawbee, a haifpenny

Bawk, a ridge, a bank

 

 

 

Baws’nt, having a white
stripe down the face

Be, to let be, to give over

Bear, big, barley

Beast, full-grown animal

Beastie, dimin. of beast

Beet, to add fuel to fire

Beld, bald

Ben, in; into the room ;
benmoat, inmost

Bethankit,grace after meat

Beuk, a book

Bicker, a kind of wooden
dish; ashort race

Biel, or bield, shelter

Bien, wealthy, plentiful,
comfortable

Big, bigg, to build

Biggin’, building, a house

Biggit, built

Bill, a bull

Billie, a brother; a young
fellow, a companion

Bing, a heap of grain, pota-
toes, &e.

Birk, birch-tree

Birkie, lively young fellow

Birring,noise of partridges,
&c. when they spring

Bit, crisis, nick of time

Bizz, a bustle; to buzz

Bizzie, bus

Blae, blue; livid

Blastie, ashrivelled dwarf,
a term of contempt

Blastit, blasted, degenerate

Blate, bashful, sheepish

Blather or blether, bladder

Blaud, a good piece ofany-
thing; to slap

Blaw, to blow, to boast

Bleerit, bleared

Bleezing, blazing

Blellum, idle talking fellow

Blether,talk idly, nonsense

Bleth’rin, talking idly

Blink, a gleam; a little
while ; asmiling look; to
look kindly ; to shine by
fits

Blinker,a term of contempt

Blinkin’, smirking

Bloom, blossom ; blooming,
blossoming

Blue-gown, an authorised
beggar,such asKdieOchil-
tree: they were generally
invalid soldiers, and their
“badges” conterreddona-
tions and privileges, now
abolished

Bluid, blude, blood

Bluntie, one abashed

Blype, a shred, a strip

Bock, to vomit, to gush in-
termittently

Bocked, gushed, vomited

Bodle, a small copper coin

Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins

Bole, recess or hole in a
wa

Bonnie, or bonny, hand-
some, beautiful

Boord, a board

Boortree, the shrub elder

Boost,behoyed, must needs

Bore,holein a wal, crevice

Botch, an angry tumour

Bousing, drinking

Bow-kail, cabbage

Rowt, bended, crooked

 

Brackens, fern

Brae, a hillock, a declivity

Braid, broad ; braid Seotch
or Scots, plain language

Braindg’t, reeled torward

Braik, a kind of harrow

Brainge, to run rashly

Brash, a sudden illness

Brats, clothes; aprons, &c.

Brattle, a short race, hurry

Braw, fine, handsome

Brawly, or brawlie, very
well, finely, heartily

Braxie, a morbid sheep

Breastie, dimin. of breast

Breastit, did spring forth

Brechan, breckans, fern

Bree, liquor ; barley-bree,
ale, whiskey

Breet, an irresistible spell

Breeks, breeches

Brent, smooth ; brent new,
quite new; brent brow,
high smooth forehead

Brie, brow; e’e-brie, eye-

row

Brig, a bridge

Brisket, the breast

Brither, a brother

Brock, a badger

Brogue, a trick

Broo, broth, liquid, water

Broose, arace at weddings

Brose, stirabout ; water-
brose, oatmeal gruel

Browst,brewing; browster-
wife, tayern landlady

Brugh, burgh, a borough

Bruilzie, a broil

>runstane, brimstone

Brunt, did burn, burnt

Brust, to burst, burst

Buckie, spirited lad

Buff,a blow; buf our beef,
beat one soundly

Bught, a pen

Bughtin’-time, time of col-
lecting ewes to be milked

Buirdly, stout-made

Bum, hum as a bee, exalt

Bum-clock, a humming
beetle

Bumming, humming as of
bees

Bummle, to blunder

Bummler, a blunderer

Bunker, a window-seat

Burdies, dimin. of birds

Bure, did bear; bure the
gree, bore the bell

Burn, water, a brook, a
rivulet

Burnie, diminutive of burn

Busk, to put on dress;
buskit, dressed

Buskie, bushy

Buss, a bush

But, without

But an’ ben, kitchen and
parlour; two rooms

Butching, killing

By himself, lunatic

Bye attour, besides that

Byke, abee-hive,a swarm

Byre, a cow-house

CA’,to call,to name,todrive

Ca’t, or ca’d, called,driven,
calved

Cadger, costermonger

 

Cadie (cadet), younger son,
lackland ; menial

Caff, chaff

Caird, a tinker; gipsy man

Cairn, a heap of stones sery-
ing as arude kind of mon-
ument; also a pinnacle

Callet, camp trull

Canny, or cannie, gentle,
careful ; softly; quietly

Cant, chant, song

Cantie, or canty, cheerful

Cantrip, a charm, a spell

Cap-stane, key-stone

Careerin’, moving cheerily

Carkin’,fretting, gnawing,
corroding

Carl-hemp, male stalk

Carle, an old man

Carline, a stout old woman

Cartes, cards

Caudron, a cauldron

Cauk and keel, chalk and
red or black-lead pencil

Cauld, caul’, cold

Caup, a wooden drinking
vessel; acup

Cavie, a coop;
cevie, hen-roost

Chanter, part of a bagpipe
hap, a man, fellow

Chapmen billies, pedlars,
petty traders(not buyers)

Chaup, astroke, a blow

Cheekit, cheeked

Cheep, chirping, to chirp

Chiel,chield,zyoung fellow

Chimlaor chimlie,chimney
a fire-grate, a fire-place

Chimla-lug, the fire-side

Chittering, chattering,
shivering, trembling

Chow, tochew; cheek-for-
chow, side by side

Chuffie, fat-faced

Clachan, acountrytown, or
village having a church

Claise, or claes, clothes

Claith, cloth

Claithing, clothing

Claivers, clavers, nonsense

Clamb, did climb

Clap, clapper of a mill

Clarkit, kept accompts

Clash, an idle tale, story of
the day ; to scandalize

Clatter, idle stories

Claught, snatched at

Claut,a handful,a quantity;
also to clean, to scrape

Clauted, scraped

Cleed, to clothe

Cleekit,hooked on; having
caught

Clinkin’, jerking,squatting

Clinkumbell, bell-ringer ;
clinkum, beadle «

Clips, wool-shears

Clishmaclaver, idle talk

Clock, to cluck, to hatch;
a beetle

Clockin’, clucking, hatch-
ing ; clockin-time, brood-
ing-time

Cloot, hoof

Clootie, Cloots, the devil

Clour, a bump or swelling
after a blow

Clud, a cloud

Coble, a fishing-boat

chicken-

 

 

The a in genuine Scottish words,
after a single consonant, sounds generally like the broad
2, always, and ea, very often, sound like the French é masculine,
atin e7.”—Burns.

The

Cockernony, lock of hair
tied ona girl’s head; a cap

Cod, a pillow

Coft, bought

Cog, a wooden dish; sieve

Coggie, diminutive of cog

Coila, from Kyle, a district

Collieshangie, adog-fight ;
fierce quarrel

Commaun, command

Convener, principal cratts«
man

Cood, the cud

Coof, a blockhead, dullard

Cooser, a stallion .

Coost, did cast, cast off

Coot, the ancle or foot

Cootie. a wooden kitchen
dish; fowls whose legs
are clad with feathers
are also said to be cootie

Corbies, ravens

Corn, oats; corn’t, oat-fed

Cotter, inhabitant of a cot

Couthie, kind, loving ;
kindly, lovingly

Cove, a cave

Cow, todiminish

Cowe, to terrify, to keep
under, tolop; a fright;
a branch of furze, &c.

Cowp, to barter, to tumble
Over; cowp the cran,com-
pletely overturn; a gang

Cowpit, tumbled

Cowte, a colt

Cozie, snug; cozily, snugly

Crabbit, fretful

Crack, conversation, to
converse

Craft, or croft, a grass field

Craig, crag; throat

Craigie, craggy

Craiks, cries or calls inces-
santly ; landrails

Crambo-clink, or crambo-
jingle, rhymes, doggrel
verses

Crank, the noise of an un-
greased wheel; bad verse

Crankous, fretful, captious

Cranreuch, hoar frost

Crap, a crop, to crop

Craw, crow of a cock; a
crow, a rook

Crazed, worn out

Creel, a large basket; my
head (or senses) is in a
creel—I am stupified, or
under a delusion

Creepie-chair, stoo] of re-
pentance

Creeshie, greasy

Crood, or croud, to coo as
a dove

Croon, a continued moan

Crooning, humming

Crouchie, crook-backed

Crouse, cheertul, cou-
rageous, boastful _

Crowdie, a composition of
oatmeal and boiledwater,
sometimes from the broth
of beef, mutton, &c.

Crowdie-time, breakfast-
time

Crowlin’, crawling

Crump, crisp

Crummock, a
crooked horns

Cuif, coof, a blockhead

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Cummock, a short staff

Curch, a woman’s cap

Curchie, a curtsey

Curler, a player at agame
on the ice, called curling

Curmurring, murmuring,
a slight rumbling noise

Curpin, the crupper

Curple, the rear

Cushat, the stock-dove, or
wood-pigeon

Cutty,short; aspoon; cutty
stool, stool of repentance

Darrin, merriment,foolery
Daez’t, stupified, deprived
of vigour or sensibility
Daft, merry, giddy, foolish
Daimen,rare,now andthen;
daimen-icker, an ear of
corn now and then

Dainty, pleasant, good-
humoured, agreeable

Damies, dames, ladies

Dam (to tine), pass urine

Dandered, wandered

Dang,knocked, vanquished

Danton, to daunt

Darklins, without light

Darg, a day’s labour

Daud, to thrash, to abuse

Daunton, to frighten ;
dauntonly, fearlessly

Daur, to dare

Daut, to caress

Davoc, dimin. of David

Dawd, or daud,alarge piece

Dawtit, or dautit, caressed

Dead (be my), be my death

Dearthfw’, dear, expensive

Deave, to deaten

De’il-ma-care! no matter!

Deleerit, delirious

Den, a dingle

Descrive, to describe

Deuks, ducks

Devel, stunning blow

Din, dun, dark, swarthy

Dight, to wipe; to clean
corn from chaff

Dine, sundown; sunset

Ding, to outdo, exceed ; to
worst, to push

Dink, ladylike

Dinna, do not

Dirl, a stroke or pain;
tremulous concussion

Dizzen, or diz’n, a dozen

Dochter, daughter

Doited, stupid, anile

Dolt, stupitied, crazed

Donsie,unlucky; affectedly
neat: of vicious temper

Dool, sorrow, mourning

Doos, doves, pigeons

Dorty, saucy, nice

Douce, or douse,
wise, prudent

Dought, was or were able

Doup, backside

Doure, stout, durable; sul-
len, stubborn

Dow, am or are able, can

Downa, unable; downa-do,

 

sober,

impotent 5;
Dowff, wanting force
Dowie, pensive, melan-

choly ; worn with grief,
fatigue, &c. ; half asleep
Doytit, stupid; doytin,
loitering, stumbling
Draiglet, bedraggled
Drap, a drop; draps, lead
drops, small shot; to drop
Draunting, drawling
Dree, bear, suffer
Dreep, to ooze, to drip
Dribble, drizzling; slaver
Driddle, awkward motion
Driegh, slow, plodding ; of
steep ascent
Dritt,a drove; heap of snow
Droddum, the breech
Drone, part of a bagpipe
Droop-rumpl’t, thin fankt
Droukit, wet
Drouth, thirst, drought
Drucken, drunk, drunken
Drumly, muddy; turbid
Drummock, meal and wa-
ter mixed raw
Drunt, pet, sour humour
Dub,a small pond; a puddle
Duds, rags, clothes
Duddie, ragged
Dung, overcome; pushed
Dunted, beaten, boxed ;
throbbed, as the pulse
Dush, to push as aram, &c.
Dyke, inclosure wall
Dyvor,bankrupt; infamous

Earn, an eagle
ue
E'e, eye; een(eyen), eyes

 

 

Eebree, or eebrie, eyebrow
E’en, even
Eerie, frighted, dreading
spirits; melancholy
Eild, old age
Elbuck, the elbow
Eldritch, elvish ; ghastly
Enbrugh, Edinburgh
Enery’d, eneryated
Eneuch, or eneugh,enough
Ettle, to try, attempt
Evendown, downright
Hvermair, evermore
Eydent, diligent

Fa, fate
Fa’, fall, lot, to fall ; befal ;
fa’n, fallen
Fa’s, does fall; water-falls
Faddom’t, fathomed
Fae, a foe
Faem, foam
Faiket,forgiven or excused
Fain,glad;fainness,rapture
Fair-strae, chance-medley
Fallow, fellow
Fand, found, did find
Farl, a cake of bread
Fash, trouble, care,
trouble, care for
Fasht, troubled
Fatt’rills, plaits, overlaps
Fastern-e’en, Shrove-
Tuesday
Faught, fight
Fauld, a fold, to fold
Faulding, folding
Faut, fault; fautor, culprit
Fawsont, decent, seemly
Feal, loyal, steadfast
Feavr’t, affrighted
Feat, neat, spruce, clever
Fecht, to fight
Fech’t, strained
Feck, the most ;
plenty
Fecket, waistcoat
Feckfu’, large, stout
Feckless, puny, weak
-Feckly, mostly
\Fee, to hire; penny-fee,
wages
Feg, fig; fegs! faith
Feide, feud, enmity
Feirie, bustling, active
Fell, keen, biting; the
flesh immediately under
the skin; alevel field on
the side or top of a hill
Felly, relentless
Fend,to keep off; to make
shift; to live comfortably
Ferlie, or ferly, to wonder ;
a wonder ; aterm of con-
tempt
Fetch, to pull by fits
Fetch’t, pulled intermit-
tently
Fey, strange ; doomed
Fidge, to fidget; fidgin’
ain, very desirous of;
fidge fw’ fain,to be joyous
Fiel, soft, smooth
Fient, fiend, deuce; a
petty oath
Fier, sound, healthy; a
brother, a friend
Fissle, to make a rustling
noise, to fidget; a bustle
Fit, a foot
Fittie-lan, the nearer horse
of the hindmost pair in
the plough
Fizz, make a hissing noise
Flae, a flea
Flannen, flannel
Fleech, to supplicate in a
flattering manner
Fleechin, fawning
Fleesh, a fleece
Flee, a random blow
Flether, to decoy by fair
words
Flewit, a smart blow
Fley, to scare, to frighten
Flichter,to flutter as young
nestlings, when their
dam approaches
Flie, flee, fly
Flinders, shreds, broken
pieces
Flingin’-tree, a piece of
timber hung by way of
partition between two
horses in a stable; a flail
Flisk, to fret at the yoke
Fliskit, fretted
Flitter, to flutter
Flunkie,a servant in livery
Flyte, to scold
Fog, dry moss; foggage,
stray vegetable materials
used by birds, &c. in con-

to

many ;

 

structing nests

 

Foord, a ford

Forbears, forefathers

Forbye, besides

Forfairn, worn out, jaded

Forfoughten, fatigued

Forgather, to meet with

Forgi’e, to forgive

Forjesket, fatigued

Forrit, forward

Fother, fodder

Fou, drunk

Foughten, troubled, haras-
sed

Foul-thief, arch-fiend

Foumart, weasel

Fouth, plenty, enough, or
more than enough

Fow, a bushel, &c.; also
a pitch-fork

Frae, from

Freath, froth

Fu’, full

Fud, scut of the hare, &c.
uff,to blow intermittently

Fuff’t, did blow

Fur, afurrow

Fur-ahin, plough horse

Furder, further ; succeed

Furm, a form, bench

Fusionless, or fizzenless,
tasteless, feeble, useless

Fyke, fidget, trifling cares;
to piddle, to be ina fuss
about trifles

Fyle, to soil, to dirt

Fyl't, soiled, dirtic

GaAs, the mouth; to speak
boldly, or pertly

Gaberlunzie, a wallet; ga-
berlunzie-man, one who
bears a wallet, a beggar

Gadsman, ploughboy, the
boy that drives the horses
in the plough

Gae, to go; gaed, went;
gane, gone; gaun, going

Gaet, or gate,way,manner,
road

Gairs, showy ornaments ;
gown with gairs, dress
of brocade

Gang, to go, to walk

Gangrel, tramper

Gar, to make, to force to

Gar’t, forced to

Garten, a garter

Gash, wise, sagacious,talk-
ative

Gashin’, conversing

Gat, got

Gaunt, a yawn; gaunted,
yawned

Gawcey,gaucy,jolly,plump

Gawky, half-witted, fool-
ish, romping

Gear, riches of any kind

Geck, to toss the head in
Wwantonness or scorn

Ged, a pike

Gentles, great folks

Genty, slim, elegant

Geordie, a guinea

Get, a child ; brat

Ghaist, a ghost

Gi’e, to give 3 gied, gave;

Giglets, mocking children

Gillie, dimin. of gill

Gilpey, a half-grown, half-
informed, boy or girl, a
romping lad, a hoyden
immer, a ewe from one
to two years old

Gin, if; before; against

Gipsy, a young girl

Girdin’, girthing a horse

Girdle,sriddle; also girder,
or ratter

Girning, grinning; crying
with contortions of visage

Girr, a hoop

Gizz, a periwig

Glaikit, inattentive, foolish

Glaizie, glittering, smooth,
like glass

Glamour, witchery ; also
an enchanted atmosphere
in which objects are seen
in a false light

Glaum’d,grasped,snatched

Gled, a hawk

Gleg, sharp, ready

Gleib, glieb, glebe; portion
of land; ground attached
to a manse or parsonage

Gley, asquint, to squint;
a-gley, off ata side, awry

Glib-gabbet, that speaks
smoothly and readily

Glint,to peep; pass quickly

Gloamin, the twilight ;

gloamin-shot, interval of

evening recreation

Glowr, to stare, to look

Goayvan, walking aimlessly

Gor-cocks, red game

Gowan, the flower of the
wild daisy, dandelion,
hawkweed, &c.

Gowany, flowery ; gowany
glens, daisied vales

Gowd, gold

Gowdie (heels o’er), topsy-
turvy; presto!

Gowdspink, goldfinch

Gowff, the game of golf;
to strike as the .bat does
the ball at golf ;-a fool

Gowff’d, struck

Gowk, the cuckoo ; a term
of contempt

Gowl, to howl

Grane, or grain, a groan,
to groan; grain’d, grin-
ned, groaned

Graip, a pronged instru-
ment for cleaning stables

Graith, accoutrements,fur-
niture, dress, horse gear

Grape, to grepe; grapit,
or graipit, groped

Grat, wept, shed tears

Great, intimate, familiar

Gree, to agree; to bear the
gree, to be the victor

Gree’t, agreed

Greet, to shed teare

Greetin’, crying, weeping

Grewsome, loathsome,grim

Grippet, catched, seized

Groat, to get the whistle
of one’s groat, to playa
losing game

Grozet, groset, gooseberry

Grumph, a grunt, to grunt

Grumphie, a sow

Grun’, ground

Grunstane, a grindstone

Gruntle, the phiz, snout;
grunting noise

Grunzie, mouth like apig’s

Grushie, thick, of thriving
growth

Gude, the Supreme Being

Guid, gude, good

Guidman and Guidwife,
the master and mistress
ot a house ; young guid-
man, man newly married

Gully, or gullie, a large
pocket-knife

Gulravage, joyous mischief

Guidfather, guidmother,
father-in-law, and mo-
ther-in-law

Gumlie, muddy

Gusty, tasteful

Gutcher, grandfather

Ha’, hall

Hae, here! take this

Hwe, to have

Haen, had, the participle

Haet, fient haet, a petty
oath of negation; nothing

Haffet, the temple, the side
of the head

Hafilins,nearly half,partly,
almost; not fully grown

Hag, hagg, ascar, or gulf
in mosses and moors

Haggis, a kind of pudding
boiled in the stomach of
a cow or shee

Hain, to spare, to save

Hairst, harvest

Haith, a petty oath

Haivers, havers, nonsense,
speaking without due
thought

Ha’, hal’, or hald, an abid-
ing place; ha’-bible, fa-
mily bible

Hale,or haill,entire, whole;
tight, healthy

Haly, holy

Hallan, a particular parti-
tion-wall ina cottage, or,
more properly, a seat of
turf at the outside

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve,
the 3lst of October
ame, home

Hamely, homely, affable
Hammered, clattered
Han’, or haun’,hand ; han'-
breed, hand’s-breadth
Hanks,skeins of thread, &c
Hansel’, luck-money, a pre-
sent; hansel’-throne, one
newly arrived at
Handsome, well-shaped in
body—noét pretty in face
Hap, an outer garment,
mantle, plaid, &c.3; to
wrap, to cover, to hap
Happer, a hopper
Happing, hopping

 

 

Hap-step-an’-loup,hop skip
and lea

Harkit, hearkened

Harn, very coarse linen, ,
huckaback |

Hash, a fellow that neither |
knows how to dress nor
act with propriety

Hastit, hastened

Haud, to hold

Hauf, half; hauf-lang,
stunte
Haughs, Jow lying rich |

lands; valleys |

Haurl, or harl, to drag, to |
strip, to peel |

Haurlin, dragging ; peeling

Haverel, a half-witted per
son; halt-witted

Havins, acquirements; de-
corous manners ; good
sense

Hawkie, familiar name for
a cow ; properly one with
a white face

Healsome, or  hailsome,
wholesome, healthful

Heapit, heaped

Hearse, hoarse

Heather, heath

Hech! oh! strange!

Hecht, promised to foretelt
something that is to be
got or given; foretold;
thing foretold; offered

Heckle, flax-dresser’s comb

Heeze, toeleyate ~

Heft, haft, handle
erd, to tend flocks, one
who tends flocks of sheep |
or droves of cattle |

Herry, to plunder; proper- |
ly to plunder birds’ nests

 

Herryment, plundering ;
devastation
Het, hot

Heugh, a crag, or preci:
pice; coal-pit; furnace |
Hilch, a hobble, to halt |
Highland gill, half-a-pint
Hiltie-skiltie, in rapid suc- |
cession
Hind, farmer’s labourer
Hiney, honey |
Hing, to hang
Hirple, to wall crazily or
lonely, to creep |
Histie, dry, chapt, barren
Hitcht (a loop),east a knot
Hizzie, or hizzy, hussy, a
young girl !
Hoast, a cough; hoastin’,
coughing
Hoddin, jolting motion; |
humble ;_hoddin-gray,
coarse woolen stuff
Hoggie, two-year old sheep |
Hog-shouther (to),selfishly |
justling with the should- |
er; tojustle recklessly |
Hool, outer skin or case, |
husk or shell; heart’s.. |
hool, pericardium
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely |
Hoolie! take time |
Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard |

Hoordit, hoarded

Horn, a spoon made of horn

Hornie, the devil |

Hotch, to shake the sides |
with joy or laughter |

Houghmagandie, trivial |
name of fornication
Houp, hope

Housie, dimin. of house
Hove, to heave, to swell
Howdie, a midwife
Howe,hollow adj., a hollow
Howe-back, sunken back
Howf, a house of resort
Howk, to dig; howkit, dug |
Howlet, an owl !
Hoy, to urge ; hoy’t, urged
Hoyse, a pull upwards
Hoyte, to amble crazily
Hughoe, dimin. of Hugh
Humsand hankers,fumbles
Hunkers, the hams, the
hinder part of the thigh |
Hurcheon, a hedgehog |
Hurdies, the loins, the |
crupper
Hushion, a cushion; alsoa

footless stocking .

|

 

Ter-oe, a great-grandchild
Uk, or ilka, each, every
Ill-willie, ill-natured, ma-
licious, niggardly |
ngine, genius, ingenuity
Ingle, fire, fire-place; ingle |
cheek, chimney-corner |
Ise, I shall or will
Ither, other, one another |

IckER, an ear of corn
|
|

 

 

—————————|
|
|

 

 

GLOSSARY.

 

 

Jap, or jaud, jade; aiso a
giddy young girl
ag, a puncture; to prick

Jauk, to dally, to trifle

Jaup, a splash, a jerk of
water; jumlie jaups, dis-
turbed fluids

Jaw, coarse raillery; to
pour out as water

Jee, ajee, ajar; wrong bias

Jillet, a jilt; a giddy girl

Jimp, to jump; slender,
handsome ; scanty

Jink, to dodge, to turn a
corner, a sudden turning

Jinker, that turns quickly;
a sprightly girl; a wag

Jirk, jirt, a jerk

Jocteleg, a clasp-knife

Jo, joe (joy), a lover

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the
head; to conceal

Jow, to jow, the swinging
motion and pealing sound
of a large bell

Jundie, to drive against

Kar, a daw
Kail, kale, colewort; broth
Kail-runt, stem of colewort
Kain, kane, fowls, &c. paid
as rent by a farmer
Kebars, rafters
Kebbuck, a cheese
Keckle, cackle ; laugh
Keek,a peep; to peep; to spy
Kelpies, mischievous spi-
rits, said to haunt fords
and ferries at night
Ken,toknow; ken’t,known
Kennin, a small matter
Kenspeckle, easily known
Ket, fleece
Killy, dim. of Kilmarnock
Kilt, to truss up the clothes
Kimmer, cummer, a girl,
"a gossip ; common woman
Kin, kindred ; kin’, kind
King’s-hood,a certain part
of the entrails of the ox
Kintra, kintrie, country
Kintra-cooser, a stallion
Kirk, church, chapel
Kirn, the harvest supper;
a churn
Kirsen, to christen
Kist, a chest
Kitchen, seasoning, sa-
voury accompaniment
Kith, kindred
Kittle, to tickle, ticklish;
slippery, coquettish
Kitlen, a young cat
Knaggy, knotty, showing
the bones
Knappin’-hammer, a ham-
mer for breaking stones
Knowe, a round hillock
Knurl, dwarf
Knurled, gnarled, knotty
Kuittle, to cuddle
Kurtchie, a curtsey
Kye, cows; buckskin-kye,
buffaloes
Kyle, a districtin Ayrshire
Kyte, the belly
Kythe, to discover, to show
one’s self

Laxsour, thrash, beat ; try

Lade, a load

Laddie, lad, boy

Laggen, the angle between
the side and bottom of a
wooden dish

Laigh, low

Lair (last), burial-place

Laird, landlord ; chieftain,
lord of the manor

Lairing, sinkin snow, &c.

Laith, loath

Laithfu’, bashful, reserved
allans, Lowlands; Scot-
tish dialect

Lambie, dimin. of lamb

Lampit, limpet, a kind of
shell-fish

Lan’, land, estate; lan’-
afore, foremost plough-
horse; lan’-ahin’, the
hindmost one

Lane, lone; my lane, thy
lane, myself, &c. alone

Lanely, lonely

Lang, long, to weary

Lap, did leap

Laye, the rest, remainder

Laverock, the lark; laye-
rock-height, high as the
clouds

Lawin’, reckoning

Lawlan’, lowland

Lay, or ley, lea; pasture

Leal, loyal, true

Lea-rig, grassy ridge

Lear, or lair, learning

Leddy, lady

Lee, a lie

Lee-lang, live-long

Leesome, pleasant
eeze-me, a phrase of en.
dearment, I am happy or
proud of thee

Leister, 3 pronged fish-dart

Leugh, did laugh

Leuk, a look; to look

Libbet, gelded

Lick, a blow ; licket, lick-
ed; beaten

Liein, lyin

Lift, sky, firmament

Lightly, to undervalue ;
sneerinely :

Lilt, ballad, a tune; to sing

Limmer, a kept-mistress, a
strumpet

Link, to trip along; fall to

Linn, a waterfall, precipice

Lint, flax; lint ? the bell,
flax in flower

Lintwhite, linnet; flaxen

Lippened, trusted to

Loan, or loaning, the place
of milking; country lane

Loch, lake; inlet of the sea

Loof, the palm of the hand

Loot, did let; let fly

Looves, plural of loot

Loon, a fellow, a ragamuf-
fin; woman of easy virtue

Loup, jump, leap

Lowe, a flame;
blazing

Lowrie, Lawrence

Lowse, to loose

Lucky, Mother such a one

Lug, the ear, a handle

Lugget, having a handle

Luggie,small hooped wood-
en dish with a handle

Lum, the chimney

Lunardi, a kind of high-
crowned lady’s bonnet,
so termed in honour of
the Italian aeronaut of

lowan,

Lunt, a column of smoke ;
to smoke

Lyart, silvery, light-co-
loured ; grey; sere

Mag, mair, more

Maist, most; "maist,almost

Maistly, mostly

Mailen, farm ; estate

Mallie, Molly, Mary

Mang, among

Manse, the parish minis-
ter’s house

Manteele, a mantle

Mark, marks. (This and
sevyerel other nouns
which in English require
an s, to form the plural,
are in Scotch, like the
words sheep, deer, the
same in both numbers.)

Marled, party-coloured

Mar’s year, the year 1715

Mashlum, mixed corn

Mask, to mash; to infuse

Maskin-pot, a tea-pot

Masons, free-masons

Maukin, a hare

Maun, must; maunna, may
not

Maut,malt ; groanin’maut,
liquor provided for a

 

 

 

ground, unploughed

lying-in or christening
Mavis, the thrush
Maw, mow ; mawn, mown
Meere, amare
Meikle, or Mickle, much
Melancholious, mournful
Melder, corn or grain sent
to be ground
Mell, tc meddle, associate
with; also a mallet
Melvie, to soil with meal
Men’, to mend, amend
Mense, good manners
Menseless, ill-bred, rude
Merle, a blackbird
Messin, a small do
Mess John, a clergyman,
the parish priest
Midden, a dunghill
Midden-creels,dungbaskets
Midden-hole, gutter at the
bottom of a dung-hill
Mim, prim,affectedly meek
Min’, mind, resemblance
Mind’t, mind it, resolved,
intending; remember it.
(To mind, in the Scotch
dialect, generally means,
to recollect.)

Minnie, mother, dam
Mirk, murky, murkinegs ;
dark, darkness
Misca’,to abuse, call names
Mischanter, evil; cross ac-
cident
Mislear’d, mischievous,
unmannerly ; led astray
Miss, a kept-woman
Misteuk, mistook
Mither, mother
Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly
mixed
Moil, labour
Mvistify, to moisten
Mony, or Monie, many
Mool, mould, earth } raked
in the mools, buried
Moop, to nibble asa sheep
Mooflan’, of or belonging
to moors
Morn, next day, to-morrow
Motty, full of dusty par-
ticles
Mou’, the mouth
Moudiewort, a mole
Mousie, dimin. of mouse
Muckle, great, big, much
Muir, a moor
Muses’-stank, Helicon
Musie, dimin. of muse
Muslin-kail, thin and poor
vegetable broth
Mutchkin, liquid measure
of nearly an English pint
Mystic-Enot, conclave of
gossips

Na, no, not, nor; nae, no,
not any; naethinog, nai-
thing, nothing

Naig, a horse, a nag

Nane, none

Nappy, ale

Near-hand, nearly

Neebor, neighbour

Negleckit, neglected

Neuk, nook, corner

Nick, to cut

Nicket, cut off

Niest, or neist, next

Nieve, the fist

Niffer, an exchange

Nines (paint to the), de-
pict to the lite

Nit, a nut

Nocht, nothing

Nowte, black cattle

 

 

 

Ocuirs, name of mountains

O haith! O faith! an oath

Oe, grandchild ; ier-oe,
great-grandchild

Ony, or Onie, an

Or, is often used for ere,
before

Ora, or orra, superfluous;
orra things, stray articles

Oughulins, in least degree
urie, shivering, drooping

Outlers, outliers cattle not

 

house
Out-ower, over, across
Ower, owre, over, upon,too
Owre-hip, a way of tetch-
ing a blow with the ham-
mer over the arm
Owsen, oxen

Pack, intimate, familiar ;
twelve stone of wool

Paidl't, waded, splashed
about; crawling walk

Painch, paunch

Paitrick, a partridge

Pang, to cram

Parle, speech

Parritch, oatmeal pudding

Pat, did put; a pot

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-
scraper

Paughty, proud, haughty

Pawky, pauky, or pawkie,
cunning, sl

Pay t, paid, beat; pay their
skin, beat them

Pech, to fetch the breath
short, as in an asthma

Pechan, the stomach

Pet, a domesticated sheep

Pettle, to cherish

Philibeg, the kilt

Phraise, fair speeches, to
flatter ; phraisin,flattery

Pibroch, Celtic war-song
adapted to the bag-pipe

Pickle, a small quantity

Pigmy-seraper, bad fiddler

Piles, grains, particles

Pin, a wooden skewer

Pine, pain, uneasiness

Pint (Scots), nearly
English quarts

two

 

 

Pit, to put

 

 

 

eee a rr

a

Plack, an old Scottish coin,
of small yalue

Plackless, pennyless

Plaid, plaidie, an outer
loose garment

Platie, dimin, of plate

Plea, quarrel, lawsuit

Plew, or pleugh, a plough

Pliskie, a trick

Pliver, a plover

Plot, offence, trick

Pock, a bag, a small sack

Poind, to seize on cattle,
take goods in execution

Poortith, poverty

Posie, a nosegay,a garland

Pouk, to pluck at

Pousse, pouse, to push, to
penetrate

Poussie, a hare; a cat

Pout, powt, a poult,a chick

Pow, the head, the skull

Pownie, pony, alittle horse

Powther, pouther, powder;
pouthery, powdery

Preen, a pin

Prent, print; printing

Prie, to taste ; prie’t, tasted

Prief, proof

Prig, to cheapen, to dis-
pute; priggin, haggling

Primsie, demure, precise

Propone, to lay down, to
propose

Provoses, provosts, chief
magistrates of boroughs

Pu’, to pull ; pu’t, did pull

Puir, poor

Pund, pound

Pyet, magpie

Pyke, pick

Pyle, a particle; pyle o?

caff, a single grain of chaff

Quak, quake; cry of aduck
uat, to quit; quitted
ney, a cow from one to
two years old

Quo, quoth, said

RAGWEED, herb ragwort

Raible, to rattle nonsense

Rair, toroar; to lament

Raize, to madden, infiame

Ram-feezl’d, overpowered,
fatigued

Ram-stam, headlong, for-
ward, thoughtless

Randy, a scold, a jade;
brutal fellow ; — randie
gangrels,sturdy trampers

Rantin’, ranting; romp-
ing, frolicking

Rape, a rope

Raploch, properly a coarse
cloth, but used as an ad-
noun for coarse

Rase, raise, did rise

Rash, a rush; rash-buss,
a tuft of rushes

Ratton, a rat

Raucle, stout, fearless

Raught, reached

Raw, a row

Rax, to stretch ; puff out

Ream, cream; to cream,
to foam

Reamin, brimful, frothing

Reave, take by force

Reck, to heed

Red, to warn

Red -peats, burning turf

Rede, counsel, to counsel

Red-wat-shod, walking in
blood over the shoe-tops

Red-wud, stark mad

Ree, half drunk, fuddled
eek, smoke; _reekit,
smo

Reestit, stood restive; also
stunted,withered; smoke
dried

Remead, remedy

Rest, to stand restive

Restricked, restricted

Rew, relent, repent

Riddle, a sieve

Rief, reef, plunder ; plenty

Rief randies, sturdy beg-
gars; ruffians

Riekles, shocks of grain

Rig, a ridge; hain’d-rig,
reserved grassy corner

Riggin, roof, rafters

Rigwoodie, long, gaunt

Rin, to run, to melt

Rink, the course of the
stones in curling on ice

Rip, ripp, a handful of un-
threshed corn

Ripple,a blow _ :

Riskit, a wrenching noise

Rive, to tear, pluck

Rock, or roke, distaff

 

 

 

Rockin, spinning on the
distaff; also a friendly
meeting, for work and
pleasure combine

Roose, to praise
oun’, round

Roupet, hoarse from thirst,
or a cold

Routhie, plentiful
owe, row; toroll, to wrap

Rowt, to low, to bellow

Rowth, or routh, plenty

Rozet, rosin

Rung, a cudgel

Runkled, wrinkled

Runt, the stem of colewort
or cabbage

Ruth, sorrow

Ryke, reach

SABBIN, sobbing; also ccom-
mingling
Sae, so
Saft, soft
Sair, ser’e, to serve; a sore;
unlucky; sair-won, hard-
earne
Sairly, or sairlie, sorely
Sair’t, served
Sall, shall
Sark, a shirt or shift; half-
sarkit, poorly clad
Saugh, the willow
Saul, soul
Saumont, salmon
Saunt, a saint
Sant, salt ; Sautit, salted;
saut-basket, salt-box
Saw, tosow; sawin, sowing
Sax, six
Scaith or skaith,to damage,
to 1njure
Scar, to scare; a scar, or
scaur, foot of a precipice
Scaud, to scald
Scauld, to scold
Scaur, apt te be scared
Scawl, or scaul, a scold
Scone, a kind of bread
Sconner, scunner, a loath-
ing ; to loathe
Scraich, skreigh, to scream
as a hen, partridge, &c.
Screed, to tear; a rent; de-
tached portion
Scriechin, shrieking, grat-
ing noise
Scrieve,to glide swiftly on;
scrievin’, going along
briskly
Scrimp, toscant; scrimpet,
scanty ; scrimply, scarcely
Seam, needlewor
ely self =) a body’s sel’,
one’s self alone
Sell’t, did sell
Session, kirk session, petty
spiritual court
Sets, sets off, goes away
Settlin, settling; to get a
settlin, to be frighted
into quietness
Shaird, a shred, a shard
Shackl t, mis-shapen
Shame (think), be ashamed
Shangan, a stick cleft at
cone end for putting the
tail of a dog, &c. into
Shaul, shallow
Shaver, a humorous wag;
a barber
Shavie, a trick
Shaw, to show; a smail
wood in a hollow place
Shearer, a reaper; shear-
ing, reaping corn
Sheen, bright, shining
Sheep-shank, to thinkone’s
self nae sheep-shank, to
be conceited
Sherra-Muir, battle of
Sherriffmuir, fought a.p.
1715 (Mar’s year).
Sheugh, a ditch, a trench,
a sluice
Shiel, a shepherd’s shed
Shill, shrill
Shog, a shock; a push off
at one side
Shool, a shevel
Shoon, shoes
Shore, togrant, deal out;
to offer; to threaten
Shouther, shoulder
Sic, such
Sicker, sure, steady, firin
Sidelins, sidelong, slanting
Silken snood, virgin’s fillet
Siller, silver, money
Silly, weak, frail, helpless
Simmer, summer
Sin, a son
Sin’, since, sinsyne, since
that time

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
  
 
 
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
   
 
   
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
     
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
    
 
   
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  

 

 

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124

GLOSSARY.

 

Skaith, harm, damage

Skellum, a reckless fellow

Skelp, a slap; to strike ;
to walk briskly

Skelpie-limmer, a young
jade ; term of reproach

Skelpin’ on, brisk motion

Skiegh, skeigh,proud,nice,
high-mettled ; skittish

Skinklin, thin, tinselly

Skinking ware,trashy slops

Skirl, shriek, cry shrilly

Skirl’t, shrieked

Sklent, slant; torunaslant,
to deviate from truth

Skreigh, a scream, also to
scream ; to neigh

Skyte, a blast

Slae, sloe

Slade, did slide

Slap,gate,breach in afence

Slaps, slops, dregs, remains

Slaw, slow

Slee, sly ; slee’st, slyest

Sleekit, sleek, sly

Sliddery, slippery

Sloken, to slake thirst, &c.

Slype, to fall over

Sly pet o’er, slipped, fell

Smeddum, powder; mettle;
sense; red smeddum,
precipitate of mercury

Smeek, smoke

Smiddy, a smithy

Smoor, to smother

Smoutie, sooty ; obscene

Smytrie,a numerous collec-
tion of small individuals

Snapper, stumble

Snash, reprimand ; abuse

Snaw, snow ; to suow

Snaw broo, melting snow

Sneck,snick,latch of a door

Sned, to lop, to cut off;
to sned besoms, thraw
saugh woodies, to make
brooms, willow baskets

Sneeshin, snuff

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box

Snell, bitter, biting

Snick-drawing, tricky

Snirtle, sneer

Snool, one whose spirit is
broken with oppressive
slavery ; to submit tame-
ly ; to sneak

Snoove, to go smoothly and
constantly ; to sneak

Sonnet, a song

Snowk, to scent or snuff as
a dog

Sonsie, having sweet engag-
ing looks, comely, plump

Soom, to swim

Sot, a fool

Sooth, truth! a petty oath

Sough, or sugh, a sigh, a
sound dying on the ear

Souk, suck, draught

Souple, flexible, swift

Souter, a cobbler, a shoe-
maker

Southron, English

Sowens, a dish made of the
seeds of oatmeal soured

Sowp, a spoonful, a small
quantity of any thing
liquid

Sowth, to try over a tune
with a low whistle

Sowther, solder; to solder,
to cement

Spae,to prophesy, to divine

Spak’, spoke

Spaul, alimb

Spat, spot

Spairge, to sprinkle, to
asperse, to dash ; to soil

Spaviet, having the spavin

Spean, to wean; to disgust

Speat, or spate, a sweeping
torrent after rain or thaw

Speel, to climb

Spence, inner room of acot

Spier, to ask, to inquire

Spier’t, inquired

Splatter, a splutter; to
splutter

Spleuchan,a tobacco-pouch

Splore, a frolic, noise, riot

Spouts, leaps

Sprachle, to scramble

Spreckled, speckled

Spring, a quick air in
music, a Scotch reel ;
play’d mysel’ a bonny
spring, done myself a
great injury

Sprit, a rush-like plant

Sprush, spruce, smart

Spunk, brimstone match;
fire, mettle, wit

Spunkie,mettlesome, fiery;
will-o’-wisp, ignis fatuus

 

 

Spurtle, a stick used in
making hasty-pudding

Squad, a crew, a party

Squatter, to flutter as a
wild duck, &c.

Squattle, to squat, sprawl

Squeel,a scream, ascreech;
to scream

Stacher, to stagger

Stack,riék of corn,hay,&c.

planeies dimin. of stag

Stalwart, strong, stout

Stan’, to stand ; stan’t, did
stand

Stane, a stone

Stang, sting, stung

Stank, a pool of standing
water; a wet ditch

Stap, stop

Stark, stout, potent

Starns, starnies, stars

Startle, to run as cattle
stung by the gadfly

Staumrel, a_ blockhead ;
nalf-witted creature

Staw, did steal; a surfeit

Stech, to cram the belly

Steek, to shut; a stitch

Steer, to molest; to stir

Steeve, firm, compact

Stell, a still

Sten, torearas a horse

Stents, tribute, dues of
any kind

Stey, steep

Stibble, stubble; stibble-
rig, the reaper who takes
the lead

Stick an stowe, totally, al-
together

Stile, a crutch; to halt,
to lim

Stimpart, the eighth part
of a Winchester bushel

Stipend, clergyman’s pay

Stirk, a cow or bullock a
year old

Stock, a plant or sprout of
colewort, cabbage, &c.

Stoitered, staggered, tot-
tered

Stook, a sheaf; stooked,
made up in shocks as corn

Stoor, sounding hollow,
strong and hoarse

Stound, a numbing blow

Stot, an ox

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of
jug with a handle

Stoure, or stour, dust

Stowlins, by stealth

Stown, stolen

Stoyte, stumbling walk

Strack, did strike

Strae, straw

Straik, stroke ; did strike

Straikit, stroked

Strathspey, lively High-
land tune or dance

Straught, straight

Streek,to stretch; streekit,
stretched

Striddle, straddle :

Stroan, to spout; to urine

Studdie, an anvil

Strunt, spirituous~liquor ;
walk sturdily; be piqued

Sturt, to teOHEN ; unquiet-
ness; sturtin, frighted

Sucker, sugar

Sud, shoul

Sumph,a fool, stupid fellow

Swaird, sward

Swall’d, swelled

Swank, stately, well built

Swankie, or swanker, a
strapping fellow or girl

Swarf, swoon

Swat, did sweat

Swatch, a sample

Swats, drink, ale

Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-
Ssweer, extremely averse

Swoor, swore, did swear

Swinge, to beat, to whip

Swirl, a curve, an eddying
blast or pool;knot inwood

Swirlie, gnarled, knotty

Swith, get away !

Swither, hesitate in choice

Sy bow, thick-necked onion

Syne, since, ago, then, af-
terwards; auld langsyne,
the dear olden time

TAcxkerts,kind of shoe-nails

Tack, a lease

Tae, a toe; three-tae’d,
having three prongs

Thief (the foul), Satan

Tairge, target ; to examine

Tamtallan, an old feudal
castle on the south-east
coast of Seotland

 

Tangle, kind of sea-weed

Tap, the top

Tapetless, heedless, foolish

Tapsalteerie, topsy-turvy

Tarrow, to murmur at
orme’s allowance

Tarrow’t, murmured

Tarry-breeks, a sailor

Tassie (Fr. tasse), drink-
ing-cup, beaker

Tauld, or tald, told

Taupie, a foolish thought-
less young woman

Tauted, tawted, or tautie
hair,&c. matted together

Tawie, that allows itself
peaceably to be handled

Teat, a small quantity ;a
handful

Tedding, spreading after
the mower

Temper-pin, part of aspin-
ning-wheel

Ten-hour’s-bite, early bait

Tent, a field pulpit; heed,
caution ; take heed

Tentie, heedful, cautious

Tentless, regardless, heed-
less

Teugh, tough

Thack, thatch; thack-an’-
rape (figuratively),cloth-
ing and necessaries

Thae, thir, these

Thaim, them

Thairms, fiddle-strings

Theekit, thatched

Thegither, together

Themse)’, themselves

Thick, intimate, familiar

Thieveless, cold, dry; said
of a person’s demeanour

Thirl, to thrill

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated

Thole, to suffer, to endure

Thowe, a thaw; to thaw

Thowless, thewless, slack,
lazy

Thrang, throng, a crowd;
thickly ; much occupied

Thrapple, throat,windpipe

Thraw, to turn, to sprain,
to twist ; to counterwork
obstinatelyor maliciously

Thrawin, twisting, &e.

Thrawn,sprained, twisted;
cross-grained (in temper)

Threap,to maintain by dint
of obstinate assertion

Threshin, thrashing

Threteen, thirteen

Thristle, thistle

Through, to go on with,
to make out

Throuther, thro’ither, pell-
mell, confusedly

Thud, a blow producing a
dull heavy soun

Thumpit, thumped

Tightly, completely ;_ se-
verely

Wie to; tlt, to it

Timmer, timber; also trees

Tine,tyne,to lose ; tint,lost

Tinkler, a tinker

Tint the gate, lost the way

Tip, tuip, toop, a ram

Tippence, two-pence; tip-
penny, country ale

Tirl, tomake aslight noise;
to uncover

Tirlin, uncovering

Tither, the other

Tittie, female cousin

Tittle, to whisper

Tittlin’, whisperin

Tocher, marriage portion

Tod, a fox

Toddle, to totter, like a
child; toddlin’, tottering

Toom, empty ; to empty

Toss, toast

Toun,a hamlet; also afarm-
house

Tout, the blast of a horn
or trumpet, to blow a
horn, &c.

Tow, a rope; wallop ina
tow, dangle ina halter
Towmond, a twelvemonth

Towzie, rough, shaggy

Toy, a very old fashion of
female head-dress

Toyte,to totter like old age

Traced, put in traces

Trams, shafts of a vehicle

Transmogrified, trans-
formed

Trashtrie, trash, rubbish

Trews, trowsers

Trig, spruce, neat

Trimly, excellently

Trowth, truth; by my
truth !

 

 

Tryste, country wake, fair

Trysted, appvinted; to
tryste, to make an ap-
pointment

Try’t, tried

Tug, raw hide, of which,in
old times, plough-traces
were frequently made

Tug or tow, leather or rope

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quar-
rel, to fight

Twa,two; twa-three, afew

?T wad, it would

Twal, twelve; the twalt,
twelfth part; twal- pennie
worth, a small quantity,
one English pennyworth

Twin, to part

Tyke, a dog

Unco, strange, uncouth;
very, very great, prodi-
gious; unco folks, stran-
gers; uncos, uncommon
events ; news

Unfauld, to untold

Unkenn’d, unknown

Unsicker, unsure

Unskaith’d, undamaged

Unweeting, unknowingly

Urchin, a hedgehog

VAPOUR, vap’rin, vapour-
ing, bullying, bragging
Vauntie, vain, proud
Vera, very
irl, a ring round a cane,
column, &c.

Wa’, wall

Wab, web

W abster, a weaver

Wad, would ; to bet, a bot,
a pledge ; to wed

Wadna, would not

Wae, wae, sorrowful; wae
worth ! woe to

Waefu’ woodie, hangman’s
rope

Waesucks! or wae’s me!
alas! O the pity

Waft, woof

Waifn’, waefu’, wailing

Wair, ware, to lay out, to
expend

Wale, choice; to choose

Waled, chose, chosen

Walie,ample,large, plump;
also an exclamation of
distress

Wallop (in a tether) be
hanged

Wame (womb), the belly

Wamefu’, a belly-full

Wanchancie, unlucky

Wanner, wander

Wanrestfu’, restless

Wark, work

Wark-loom
brum virile

Warl’, or warld, world

Warlock, a wizard; war-
lock-brief, a spell

Warlock-knowes, knolls of
haunted repute

Warl’y, worldly, eager in
amassing wealth

Warran’, a warrant; to
warrant

Warst, worst

Warstled, or warsled,
wrestled; rolled over

Was (often stands for) wast

Was, walls

Wastrie, prodigality

Wat, wet; I wat, I wot, I
know; red-wat-shod,over
the shoes in blood

Water-brose, brose made
of oatmeal and water

Wattle, a twig, a wand

Wauble, to swing, toreel;
to waddle

Waught, draught; willie-
waught, hearty pull

Wauk, wake

Wauken, waking, awake

Waukit, thickened as ful-
lers do cloth; callous

Waukrife, wakeful

Waur, worse, to worst

Waur’t, worsted, overcome

Ways (come thy), come
away

Wean, or weanie, a child

Weason, weasand

Weave stockings,knit hose

Wee, little; wee things,
little ones; wee bit, a
small matter

Weel, well; weel-fa’rd,
well-favour’d, handsome

Weelfare, welfare

Weet, rain, wetness

(best), mem-

 

 

Weird, fate

We’se, we shal]

Wha, who

Whaizle, to wheeze

Whalpit, whelped

Whang, a leathern thong;
a piece of cheese, bread,
&c.; give the strappado

Whare, where; whare’er,
wherever

Whase, whose

What-reck, nevertheless

Whaup, the curlew

Wheep, fly nimbly,to jerk ,
penny-wheep, small beer

Whid,the motion ofa hare,
running but not fright-
ed; alie

Whiddin, running as a
hare or coney

Whigmeleeries,
fancies, crotchets

Whingein, crying,
plaining, fretting

Whins, furze bushes

Whirligigums, useless or-
naments

Whisht, silence !

Whisk, to sweep, to lash

Whisking (beard), cat-like

Whitter, whet; a hearty
draught of liquor

Whittle, a knife

Whunstane, a whinstone

Whup, whip

Whyles, whiles, sometimes

Wick, to strike a stone in
an oblique direction; a
termin the winter diver-
sion of curling

Wicker, willow, (i.e. the
smaller sort)

Widdieful, twisted likea
withy; contemptible; one
deserving the gallows

Wiel, asmall whirlpool

Wifie, a dimin. or endear-
ing term for wife

Willy art, bewildered

Wimple, to meander

Win, to win, to get, to earn

Win’, wind; win’s, winds;
also to winnow

Win’t, winded, asa bottom
of yarn; winnin, winding

Winna, will not

Winnock, a window

Winsome, comely, vaunted

Wintle, a staggering mo-
tion; to stagger, to reel

Winze, an oat

Wiss, to wish; to have a
strong desire
it, to know

Withouten, without

Witless, simple, easily im-
posed on

Wizen’d, dried, shrunk

Wonner, an intruder

W ons, dwells

Woo’, wool

Woodie, a rope, properly
one made of withies

W ooer-bab, lover’s rosette;
the garter knotted out-
wardly below the knee

Wordy, worthy

Worset, worsted

Wow, an exclamation of
pleasure or wonder

Wrack, to teaze, to vex

Wraith, wrath; also a spi-
rit, a ghost; an appari-
tion exactly like a living
person, boding his death

Wrang, wrong, to wrong

Wreath, drifted snow

Writers,attorneys, lawyers

Wud, enraged

Wud-mad, distracted

Wummle, a wimble

Wyle, beguile, wheedle

W ylie-coat, a flannel vest

Wyte, blame; to blame

whims,

com-

Yarp, a kitchen garden

Ye; this pronoun is fre-
quently used for theu

Yearlings, yealings, born
in the same year, coevals

Yell, barren, milkless

Yerk, to lash, to jerk

Yerkit, jerked, lashed

Yestreen, yesternight, the ;
night before

Yett, a gate, such asleads
to a farm-yard or field

Yeuking, itching

Yill, ale

Yird, earth

Yokin’, yoking, a bout

Yont, ayont, beyond

Yowe, yowie, a ewe

Yule, Christmas

- el

 

 

 

 

ERRINDEX OF FIRST LINES.

 

 

 

POEMS.
PAGE PAGBR
A Gude New-Year I wish thee, Meuse i . . 6 | Lament in rhyme, lament in prose . : ke
A’ ye wha live by sowps 0’ drink : . 44 | Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg : gl
Admiring Nature, in her wildest grace . . 5 | Let other poets raiseafracas . . . - . dl
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carle : . . 72 | Life ne’er exulted in so richa prize ; : 5 fe
Again the silent wheels of time . : : «OD |
All hail, inexorable lord! . : 5 20 M th 4 1
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods Gee OG eof : ae eee 1 y nage I ae : : ae oF
As I stood by yon roofless tower : : 5 6 ae aay Orne Goer ca : x f a
As Mailie and her lambs thegither ° . oe) ods new your noble ot i i oS
Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner . : ~ 46 My loved, my honour’d, much- ao iend! =
Beauteous rose-bud, youngand gay . : ew G / No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more ! 7 (4
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city. . 62
Now Nature hangs her mantle green - ences
Clarinda, mistress of my soul. - 55 | Now Robin liesin his last lair. . : - 46

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be mleaced fe

a : : O a’ ye pious, godly flocks : ‘ «oto
’ r 2
oe ‘ ee ne eae es thief . : a = O Death! thou tyrant fell and blosdy ! : ~ ~64
ae lice ee ae ae 1 ce ay : 5 oe 61 O Goudie! terror o’ the Whigs : 6 25
SOM Cuapeow Cal : : ; © rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine A sue 43
O Thou dread Pow’r, who reign’st above . ot a2
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! . : : . - 52 | O Thou Great Being! what Thou art . : 23
Expect na, sir,in thisnarration . : 3 - 45 | O thou pale orb, that silent shines . ; ae OO
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . : « 41
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face : : Seed 5 ree Pee eee Ses dw : : a
Fair Empress of the Poet’s soul. ; : > 3G ae ye ee ee a ee ; :

: ; +5 | O Thou, whatever title suit thee : : eo
Fair the face of orient day ‘ : 2 02 Oise aha Be Cane ? 36
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped ‘ : - 00 ye BPE ae Bude eure ; : : ee

: : ? Old Winter with rk frosty beard : o. 7a
For lords or kings Idinna mourn. . : ee G0)

z : 6 Once fondly loved, and still remember’ d dese ec So
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal ; 7 i 5 :

Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care : 39

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Kno on 1d:
Go, Fame, and canter like a filly : . OG
Gude-morning to your Majesty . ; : . 48

: . Revered defender of beauteous Stuart : soe ie
’ fur Joh : 29 i
Suid abeed an! funder, teyoun donnie Right, Sir, your text I'll prove it true 2  B
Ha! wh’are ye gaun, ye crowlin’ ferlie! : 7 46 4 : a
Hail, Poesie! thou nymphresery’d! . : <a 13 Sad thy tale, thou idle page ° : . ° oe iW
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the de’il? . : - or Sensibility, how charming . ° 6 6 HE
Health to the Maxwells’ vet’ran chief! . . 2 731 Si, ee your mandate did Seette e : : - 66 a
Hear, Land o’ Cakes, and brither Scots ; . 66 | Sir, o’er a gill I gat your card . . . sie of Mig |
Here Holy Willie’s sair-worn clay : . 16 | Some books are lies z Ae end toend . » 2 Te
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal hives Se 5 | Sul anzeue to ep urcoo partial favour + os iho EF
How cold is that bosom which folly once fired! . 73 | Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’meikle love . ° - 46 | af
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, andunite . . 62 i
The friend whom wild from wisdom’s way . - 9G Ub
I call no goddess to inspire my strains .. . 72 | The lamp of day, with ill presaging glare . - e ie ;
I gat yourletter, winsome Willie . : . . 28 | The man, in life wherever placed : : 7 a
Tt hold it, Sir, my bounden duty 5 2 ‘ 47 The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough 5 Ne “ E
I’m three times doubly o’er your debtor : 7 te ge | he sur had closed the winter day : : . a tf
I lang ha’e thought, my youthfu’ friend . . . 42 | Thewind blew hollowfraethehills . : wee ZO ‘f f ;
L mind it weel i in early date. s = 56 The wintry west extends his blast ° ° se tk Ps
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle ef worth . . 69 | Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths ee oe eee a i /
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art 62 a we : rae nue - e sout : oe oe f
; im-inspired fool . : i Fo ine be the volumes, Jessy fai . ce iE
ee ee i This day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain - «63 fl ;
This wot ye all whom it concerns : A aa. i %
Ken ye ought 0’ Captain Grose? . ; : . 67 | Those of anindependent mind . : : - 872 a
Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw - . 19 | Thou whom chance may hither lead : «bg ity

~~
~

 

Kind Sir, ’ve read your paper through. . - 63 | Thou, who thy honour as thy Godrever’st . o- G1

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rear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF FIRST LINES.

 

 

When Guildford good our pilot stood

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird

When Nature her great masterpiece designed
While at the stook the shearers cower

While briers and woodbines budding green
While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake .
While virgin Spring, by Eden’s flood

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene 2
Why, ye tenants of the lake?

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie

Ye Scottish lords, ye knights and squires
Your news and review, Sir, I’ve read through and
through, Sir . e : : ° :

 

INDEX

2 . : PAGE
’Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young fair friend 69
*T was in that place o’ Scotland’s isle : ~ 49

*Twas where the birch and sounding thong are
plied : ; 74
Upon a simmer Sunday morn 17
Upon that night, when fairies icht 34
Wee, modest, crimson-tipp’d flow'r . 49
Wee, sleekit, cowerin’, tim’rous beastie 30
What ails ye now, ye lousy b—h : . 48
What needs this din about the town 0’ Lon? on 61
When biting Boreas, fell and doure 8
When chapmen billies leave the street 67
When chill November’s surly blast 24

EPITAPHS,

An honest man here lies at rest 07
As father Adam first was fool’d ib.
Ask why God made the gem so small 78
Below thir stanes lie Jamie’s banes 77
Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness . “ 2 78
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway : : se AD:
Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life 79
Grant me; indulgent Heav’n, that I may live a ulloy
Here lies Johnny Pigeon tdi
Here lies John Bushby, honest man 21D:
Here lie Willie Michie’s banes : . ns Ds
Here Souter Hood in death does sleep : <) Sab:
In politics if thou would’st mix . : do.
Instead of asong, boys, I'll give you a toast <2. LD:
Kemble, thou cur’st my unbelief 78
Know thou, O stranger to the fame . ; fi
Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’ 78
No sculptured marble here, no pompous lay 7

 

EPIGRAMS, &¢

No more of your guests, be they titled or not
No Stewart art thou, Galloway ;

O Death! hadst thou but spared hislife . :
O, had the malt thy strength of mind

O thou, whom poesy abhors : e

O thou, who kindly dost provide

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times . :

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell

Searching old wives’ barrels
Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway
Such a reptile was Wat . : : ° a

That there is falsehood in hislooks :

The devil got notice that Grose was a- dying ‘A

The greybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his trea-
sures :

The King’s most Hampi enn i

The poor man weeps—here Gavin sleeps

We came na here to view your warks

What dost thou in that mansion fair c
When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er : :
Whoe’er he be that sojourns here .

Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering

 

SONGS

A Highland lad my love was born

A rose-bud by my early walk

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu : -
Adown winding NithI did wander . _ ;

_Ae fond kiss, and then we sever

Again rejoicing nature sees . : ‘ ‘
Altho’ my bed were in yon muir . - “
Altho’ thou maun never be mine .

Amang‘the trees where humming bees

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire ; :
AsIgaed down the water side . ;:

AND BALLADS.

10

As I was a-wand’ring ae midsummer e’enin’
Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft 0’ beauty’s alarms .

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows é
Behold the hour, the boat arrive . : : A
Blithe ha’e I been on yon hill . . vs
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing

But lately seen in gladsome green

But warily tent, when ye come to court me .

By Allan stream I chanced to rove
By Oughtertyre grows theaik . es

| By yon castle wa’, at the close of the ‘day

PAGE

55

59
30
26
73
Or

7)

57

i
78
ib.

ib.
ib.

ib.INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

 

PAGE
Can I cease to care : : - 117
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west . 88
Come, let me take thee to my breast . 109
Coming through the rye, poor body - 119
Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair . 114
Could aught of song declare my pains 2 1ie
Deluded swain, the pleasure . - 110
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ; LI
Duncan Gray came here to woo - 104
Farewell thou stream that Winding flows id!

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye
skies ; . :

: : : : 98
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 88
First when Maggie was my care : - 92
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes 100
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near : : 83
From thee, Eliza, I must go : = 80
Full well thou know’st I love thee dear . 120
Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night 9)
Go fetch to mea pint 0’ wine a1
Had I a cave onsome wild, distant shore - 109
Hark, the mayis’ evening sang 112
Her flowing locks the raven’s wing : - 84
Tere awa’, there awa’, wandering Willie . - 106
Here is the glen, and here the bower 112
Here’s a health to them that’s awa’ 115
How can my poor heart be glad 111
How cruel are the parents : » 118
How long and dreary is the night 3 « 99
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon 89
Husband, husband, cease your strife eT
Tam a bard of no regard : : : : 12
Iam a son of Mars, who have been in many wars 9
{am my mammie’s ae bairn : 87
I do confess thou art sae fair : 96
I dream’d I lay where flowers were springing 80
I gaed a waefu’ gate, yestreen 95
I ha’e a wife 0’ my ain . : ‘ 98
T once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when 10
I see a form, I see a face : ; 118
lik care and fear, when thou art near 84
In simmer, when the hay was mawn 99
Is there, for honest poverty 17,
Is this thy plighted, fond regard 114
It isna, Jean; thy bonnie face 113
It was the charming month of May 113
It was upon a Lammas night 82
Jockey’s ta’en the parting kiss 99
John Anderson my jo, John 92
Last May a braw wooer cam’ down the lang glen . 119
Let me ryke up to aight that tear : 11
Let not woman e’er complain 114
Loud blaw the frosty breezes 88
Louis, what reck I by thee 101
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion = 118
Musing on the roaring ocean : : 5 90
My bonnie lass, I work in brass . ; 5 11
My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border 82

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fj
©£AGE
My Chloris, mark how green the groves 97
' My Harry was a gallant gay 90
My heart is sair, I darena tell : « = LOL
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart isnot here 91
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie so 94
My lord a-hunting he is gane . 104
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form - 103
Nae gentle dames, though e’er sae fair 81
No churchman am I for to rail and to write 85
Now bank and brae are claith’d in green - 103
Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays 115
Now Nature cleads the flowery lea 2113
Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers - 110
Now spring has clad the groves in green e117
Now simmer blinks on flow’ry braes 88
Now westlin’ winds, and slaught’ring guns 83
O bonnie was yon rosy brier_ , ‘ 119
O cam’ ye here the fight to shun ? 93
O gin my love were yon red rose 107
O how shall I, unskilfw’, try likes
© how can I be blithe and glad : 95
O ken ye what Meg o’ the Mill has gotten 107
O lassie, art thou sleeping yet . : 116
O iay thy loof in mine, lass ; 116
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles 84
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel . a 97
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide : 5 2 108
O luve will venture in where it daurna weel be Seen 97
O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet LOS
O Mary, at thy window be : ; : - - 106
O meikle thinks my luyve o’ my beauty 95
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour - 106
O, my luyve’s like a red, red rose - 101
O, once I loved a bonnie lass = 80 |
O Philly, happy be that day 4 |
O poortith cauld, and restless love . 105
O raging fortune’s withering blast - ol
O, sad and heavy should I part es
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? eS
O saw ye bonnie Lesley : - 80
O saw ye my dearie, my E:ppie M*‘Nab ? 96
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay 118
O tell na me o’ wind and rain 116
© wat ye wha’s in yon town = 102
; O were Ion Parnassus’ hill 92
O wha is she that lo’es me ; ; 115
O wha my babie-clouts will buy : ; 83
O wilt thou go wi’ me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar 90
O Willie brew’d a pack 0’ maut . 93
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw 91
Oh, open the door, some pity to show 105
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day 90
On Cessnock banks there lives a lass 85
One night as I did wander 120
On peace and rest my mind was bent 1i2
Out over the Forth I look to the north . 101
Powers celestial, whose protection 86
Raving winds around her blowing 89
Sae flaxen were her ringlets . . 106 |
Scots wha ha’e wi’ Wallace bled = Ue
See the smoking bowl before us . : se |
She’s fair and fause that causesmy smart - 100 |
She is a winsome wee thing a : = 103
Should auld acquaintance be forgot . 109 |
Sir Wisdom’s a focl when he’s fou : 10 |
Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature? . 112
Stay,mycharmer,canyouleaveme? . : 88 |

 

 

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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

 

 

 

 

PAGE
Streams that glide in orient plains 90
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood . 94
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco shout ; 100
The Catrine woods were yellow seen . : -1 94
The de’il cam’ fiddling through the town ‘ . LOL
The day returns, my bosom burns . : 91
The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa’s - : . 101
The gloomy night is gath’ring fast : 87
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 91
The lovely lass o’ Inverness. - 101
The small birds rejoice in the preen leaves. re-
turning . : ; - : - 100
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing ; - 100
The Thames flows proudly to the sea : = 7. 605
Thetither morn . : . 119
Their groves 0’ sweet myrtle det foreign lands reckon 117
There was a bonnie lass : : : 120
There was a lad was born at Kyle a 84
There was a lass, and she was fair : . 108
There was once a day, but old Time then was young 116
There were three kings into the east . : Ol
There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen 104
There’s a youth in this city. . 5 . 3 92
There’s braw, braw.lads on Yarrow braes . LOG
There’s nane sall ken, there’s nane sall guess =~ 102
There’s nought but care on ev’ryhan’ . : 84
They snool me sair, and haud me down 98
Thickest night o’erhang my dwelling ; 88
Thine am I, my faithful fair : KD
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thouhast left meeyer 110
Thou lingering star, with less’ning ray 93
Though cruel Fate should bid us part . « 84
THE

 

To thee, loved Nith, thy gladsome plains .
True-hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow
Turn again, thou fair Eliza .

’T was na her bonnie blue cen was my ruin
’Twas even—the dewy fields were green

Wae is my heart, and the tear ’s in my e’e

Wha is that at my bower door ?

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie
When first I came to Stewart Kyle

When Januar’ wind was blawing cauld

When o’er the hill the eastern star

When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn
Where are the joys I have met in the morning
Where, braving angry winter’s storms

Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea.

While larks with little wing .

Why, why tell thy lover : ;
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ; : :

Willie Wastle dwelt on Tweed . . i ;
Wilt thou be my dearie? . ; ‘ :
Ye banks and braes 0’ bonnie Doon . ; A

Ye banks and braes, and streams around .
Ye flowering banks 0’ bonnie Doon .

Ye gallants bright, I rede you right :
Yestreen I had a pint 0’ wine 2 :
Yestreen I met youon the moor . : .
Young Jockey was the blythest lad

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest ieee
You’re welcome to despots, Dumourier .
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide

END,

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TO
WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Eso.

—_—_@____.

November’s sky is chill and drear,
November’s leaf is red and sear:

Late, gazing down the steepy linn

That hems our little garden in,

Low in its dark and narrow glen,

You scarce the rivulet might ken,

So thick the tangled green-wood grew,

So feeble trilled the streamlet through :
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through bush and briar, no longer green,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
Brawls over rock and wild cascade,

And, foaming brown with- double speed,
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

|

 

| __ No longer Autumn’s glowing red
Upon our Forest hills is shed ;
| No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed refiects their purple gleam ;
| Away hath passed the heather-bell,
| That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell ;
Sallow his brow, and russet bare
| Are now the sister-heights of Yair.
| The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
| To sheltered dale and down are driven,
| Where yet some faded herbage pines,
| And yet a watery sun-beam shines:
| In meek despondency they eye
| The withered sward and wintry sky,
| And far beneath their summer hill,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon’s rill :
The shepherd shifts his mantle’s fold,
And wraps him closer from the cold ;
His dogs no merry circles wheel,
But, shivering, follow at his heel ;
A cowering glance they often cast,
_ As deeper moans the gathering blast.

 

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,

As best befits the mountain child,

Feel the sad influence of the hour,

And wail the daisy’s vanished flower ;
‘heir summer gambols tell, and mourn,
And anxious ask,— Will spring return,
And birds and lambs again be gay,

And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ?

MARMION
A Romane. OU ie te

SIR WALTER SCOT.

 

 

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST.

| Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.

 

 

:
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oly Land.

on hills

Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy’s flower
Again shall paint your summer bower ;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
The garlands you delight to tie ;

The lambs upon the lea shall bound,
The wild birds carol to the round,
And while you frolic light as they,
Too short shall seem the summer day.

To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory re-appears.
But oh! my country’s wintry state
What second spring shall renovate ?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike, and the wise ;
The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,
The hand that grasped the victor steel ?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine,
Where Glory weeps o’er Netson’s shrine ;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O Prrt, thy hallowed tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart !
Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave ;
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given ;
Where’er his country’s foes were found,
Was heard the fated thunder’s sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Rolled, blazed, destroyed,—and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perished worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launched that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia*, Trafalgar ;
Who, born to guide such high emprize,
For Britain’s weal was early wise ;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain’s sins, an early grave ;
His worth, who, in his mightiest hour,
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurned at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself !

* Copenhagen.
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MARMION.

 

when the frantic crowd amain
lat subjection’s bursting rein,
sir wild mood full conquest gained,
x._, ride, he would not crush, restrained,
‘owed their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
brought the freeman’s arm to aid the free-
man’s laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripped of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
’ “ad roused the land
were at hand;
son-light,
arse aright ;
an, though alone,
_agth had propped the tottering throne.
is the stately column broke,
beacon-light is quenched in smoke,
1e trumpet’s silver sound is still,
he warder silent on the hill!

Oh, think, how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claimed his prey,
With Palinure’s unaltered mood,
Firm at his dangerous post-he stood ;
Each call for needful rest repelled,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Tull, in his fall, with fateful sway,
The steerage of the realm gave way!
Then, while on Britain’s thousand plains
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around
The bloody toesin’s maddening sound,
But still, upon the hallowed day,
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear,—
He, who preserved them, Pirr, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his Rival slumbers nigh ;
Nor be thy requiescat dumb,
Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employed, and wanted most ;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound ;
And all the reasoning powers divine,
To penetrate, resolve, combine ;
And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow,—
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn’st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppressed,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung ;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
All peace on earth, good-will to men:
If ever from an English heart,
O here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouched to France’s yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian’s purpose brave
Was bartered by a timorous slave,

. Where,—taming thought to human pride !—

 

 

 

 

|

|

Even then dishonour’s peace he spurned, |
The sullied olive-branch returned,
Stood for his country’s glory fast, |
And nailed her colours to the mast. |
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honoured grave ;
And ne’er held marble in its trust |
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
|

With more than mortal powers endowed,
How high they soared above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ;
hike fabled Gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar ;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Looked up the noblest of the land,

Till through the British world were known
The names of Prrr and Fox alone.

Spells of such force no wizard grave |
E’er framed in dark Thessalian eave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,

And force the planets from the sky.

These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.

Genius, and taste, and talent gone,

For ever tombed beneath the stone,

The mighty Chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear,

*T will trickle to his rival’s bier ;

O’er Prrr’s the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox’s shall the notes rebound.

The solemn echo seems to ery,—

“ Here let their discord with them die:
Speak not for those a separate doom,
Whom Fate made brothers in the tomb,
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen ?”’

Rest, ardent Spirits ! till the cries
Of dying Nature bid you rise ;”
Not even your Britain’s groans can pierce
The leaden silence of your hearse:
Then, O how impotent and vain
This grateful tributary strain ! |
Though not unmarked from northern clime, |
Ye heard the Border Minstrel’s rhyme: |
His Gothic harp has o’er you rung ;
The bard you deigned to praise, your deathless

names has sung.

 

Stay yet, illusion, stay a while,
My wildered fancy still beguile!
From this high theme how can I part,
Ere half unloaded is my heart!
For all the tears e’er sorrow drew,
And all the raptures fancy knew, _
And all the keener rush of blood,
That throbs through bard in bard-like mood,
Were here a tribute mean and low,
Though all their mingled streams could. flow—
Woe, wonder, and sensation high,
In one spring-tide of ecstacy.
It will not be—it may not last—
The vision of enchantment’s past :
Like frost-work in the morning ray,

' The fancied fabric melts away ;

Each Gothic arch, memorial stone,
And long, dim, lofty aisle are gone,THE CASTLE.

And, lingering last, deception dear,
The choir’s high sounds die on my ear.
Now slow return the lonely down,

The silent pastures bleak and brown,
The farm begirt with copse-wood wild,
The gambols of each frolic child,
Mixing their shrill cries with the tone
Of Tweed’s dark waters rushing on.

Prompt on unequal tasks to run,
Thus nature disciplines her son:
Meeter, she says, for me to stray,

And waste the solitary day,

In plucking from yon fen the reed,

And watch it floating down the Tweed:
Or idly list the shrilling lay ;
With which the milk-maid cheers her way,
Marking its cadence rise and fail,

As from the field, beneath her pail,

She trips it down the uneven dale:
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn,

The ancient shepherd’s tale to learn,
Though oft he stop in rustic fear,

Lest his old legends tire the ear

Of one, who, in his simple mind,

May boast of book-learned taste refined.

But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell,
(For few have read romance so well)
How still the legendary lay
O’er poet’s bosom holds its sway :
How on the ancient minstrel strain
Time lays his palsied hand in vain ;
And how our hearts at doughty deeds,
By warriors wrought in steely weeds,
Still throb for fear and pity’s sake :

As when the Champion of the Lake

Enters Morgana’s fated house,

Or in the Chapel Perilous,

Despising spells and demons’ force,

Holds converse with the unburied corse :

Or when, Dame Ganore’s grace to move,
Alas! that lawless was their love)

e sought proud Tarquin in his den,
And freed full sixty knights; or when,
A sinful man, and unconfessed,

He took the Sangreal’s holy quest,
And, slumbering, saw the vision high
He might not view with waking eye.

The mightiest chiefs of British song
Scorned not such legends to prolong:
They gleam through Spenser’s elfin dream,
And mix in Milton’s heavenly theme ;
And Dryden, in immortal strain,
Had raised the Table Round again,
But that a ribald King and Court
Bade him toil on, to make them sport ;
Demanding for their niggard pay,
Fit for their souls, a looser lay,
Licentious satire, song, and play ;
The world defrauded of the high design,
Profaned the God-given strength, and marred the

lofty line.

Warmed by such names, well may we then,
Though dwindled sons of little men,
Essay to break a feeble lance
In the fair fields of old romance ;
Or seek the moated castle’s cell,
Where long through talisman and spell,

L
Nets

 

 

Stl
While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, XS i? , oo
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept: ele
There sound the harpings of the North,
Till he awake and sally forth,
On venturous quest to prick again,
In all his arms, with all his train,
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and scart,
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf,
And wizard with his wand of might,
And errant maid on palfres+ (4, "+,
Around the Genius weave he W: micht >
Pure Love, who scaree hidais hand
Mystery, half veiled and holy Land.
And Honour, with his spotles.. 20 hills
Attention, with fixed eye; and Fear,
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ;
And gentle Courtesy ; and Faith,
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death ;
And Valour, lion-mettled lord,
Leaning upon his own good sword.

Well has thy fair achievement shown
A worthy meed may thus be won;
Ytene’s* oaks—beneath whose shade
Their theme the merry minstrels made,
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,

And that Red King*+, who, while of old,
Through Boldrewood the chase he led,
By his loved huntsman’s arrow bled—
Ytene’s oaks have heard again
Renewed such legendary strain ;

For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul,
That Amadis so famed in hall,

For Oriana, foiled in fight

The Necromancer’s felon might ;

And well in modern verse hast wove
Partenopex’s mystic love :

Hear then, attentive to my lay,

A knightly tale of Albion’s elder day.

 

CANTO THE FIRST.

os

Cie Castle.

 

I.
Day set on Norham’s castled steep,
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone:
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,
In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,
Seemed forms of giant height:
Their armour, as it caught the rays,
Flashed back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light.

IT.
St. George’s banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray
Less bright, and less, was flung ;
The evening gale had searce the power
To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung.

 

* The New Forest in Hampshire, anciently so called.
+ William Rufus.(i MRS gs team gone

 

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outs had parted on their search,
c
,astle gates were barred ;

ae ____.se the gloomy portal arch,
Rat, ~,ouning his footsteps to a march,
- it o = ee y 7 re: Ta , a
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ofa m Dumming, as he paced along,
Cg ae ancient Border gathering song.
ae =
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aa ~ A distant” *. und he hears;
ae : weon appears,
i ,ommp* of spears,
Be Bs aray $
dB het 4s from the crowd,
is ~~ulng from a summer cloud,
eG is on his mettled courser proud,
bi pefore the dark array.

fa ye2hneath the sable palisade,
mee take — -hat closed the castle barricade,
Bi bet fay * | His bugle-horn he blew;
The warder hasted from the wall,
And warned the Captain in the hall,
he _ For well the blast he knew;
| And joyfully that Knight did call

To sewer, squire, and seneschal.

Iv.

“« Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,
_ Bring pasties of the doe,
| And quickly make the entrance free,
| And bid my heralds ready be,
| And every minstrel sound his glee,
| And all our trumpets blow ;

| And, from the platform, spare ye not
| To fire a noble salvo-shot:
| Lord Marmion waits below.”
Wee | Then to the Castle’s lower ward
lt) | Sped forty yeomen tall ;
Te: | The iron-studded gates unbarred,

VI.

Well armed was he from head to heel,

In mail and plate of Milan steel ;

But his strong helm, of mighty cost,

Was all with burnish’d gold emboss’d 5
Amid the plumage of the crest,

A faleon hovered on her nest,

With wings outspread, and forward breast.
E’en such a falcon on his shield,

Soared sable in an azure field :

The golden legend bore aright,

“ Uh checks at me, to Wreath ts Vtght.”
Blue was the charger’s broidered rein ;
Blue ribands decked his arching mane ;
The knightly housing’s ample fold

Was velvet blue, and trapp’d with gold.

VIL.

Behind him rode two gallant squires,

Of noble name, and knightly sires ;

‘hey burned the gilded spurs to claim,
For well could each a war-horse tame,
Could draw the bow, the sword could sway,
And lightly bear the ring away ;

Nor less with courteous precepts stored,
Could dance in hall, and carve at board,
And frame love ditties passing rare,

And sing them to a lady fair.

VIII.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
With halberd, bill, and battle-axe :

They bore Lord Marmion’s lance so strong,
And led his sumpter mules along,

And ambling palfrey, when at need

Him listed ease his battle-steed.

The last, and trustiest of the four,

 

WAL Bice) | Raised the portcullis’ ponderous guard, On high his forky Iie tease bores
mh: Shhh The lofty palisade unsparred, Like swallow s tail, in shape and hue,
bay wane | And let the draw-bridge fall. Flutter’d the streamer glossy blue,

fh fii 4 } |

Where, blazoned sable, as before,
= The towering falcon seemed to soar.

 

epee Ph L
he ea ila | : : ast, twenty yeomen, two and two
AH Rill Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 2 9 Pras ?
Be aa iy ae , In hosen black, and jerkins blue,
Bu | Proudly his red-roan charger trod, ; ares
A Pee : J £ With falcons broider’d on each breast,
ae His helm hung at the saddle-bow ; : ;
ee ei eee : Attended on their lord’s behest.
Bah Blt Well, by his visage, you might know
peeeMm ly th ae Each, chosen for an archer good,
ame fens - || He was a stalworth knight and keen, S. :
Be ue F Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ;
age Bit | And had in many a battle been : :
Peat Lee | en Each one a six-foot bow could bend,
aaah yk allt | The scar on his brown cheek revealed
Daan tp eit; é And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ;
ALY Tai, | A token true of Bosworth field !
Pere it Each held a boar-spear tough and strong,
4 a
ie

And at their belts their quivers rung.
Their dusty palfreys, and array,
Showed they had marched a weary way.

lly | Showed spirit proud ,and prompt to ire ;
eth! | Yet lines of thought upon his cheek

Bi, | Did deep design and counsel speak.

{

| Bik | His eye-brow dark, and eye of fire,
f
'
f
t

His forehead, by his casque worn bare, iz

 

 

Hf His thick moustache, and curly hair, gat
Ga Tait Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, Tis meet that I should tell you now,

Bae it Lie | But more through toil than age ; How fairly armed, and ordered how,
Hatt t i 4 _ His square-turned joints, and strength of limb, The soldiers of the guard,

nf , t Ht i | Showed him no carpet knight so trim, With musquet, pike, and morion,

Sey era | _ But, in close fight, a champion grim, To welcome noble Marmion,

Phat ba ti | In camps, a leader sage. ae in the Castle-yard ;
eee i instrels and trumpeters were there,
Bhat * This word properly applies to a flight of water-fowl; | The gunner held his linstock yare,

ib i i ‘| but is applied, by analogy, toa body of horse. For welcome-shot prepared ——

energie ng

There is a Knight of the North Country,
Which leads a lusty plump of spears.

Flodden Field.

Entered the train, and such a clang,
As then through all his turrets rang,
Old Norham never heard.

 

ae,
a He A ne Ta EE
a
aeTHE CASTLE.

 

Ke

The guards their morrice-pikes advanced,
The trumpets flourished brave,

The cannon from the ramparts glanced,
And thundering welcome gaye.

A blithe salute, in martial sort,
The minstrels well might sound,

For as Lord Marmion crossed the court,
He scattered angels round.

Welcome to Norham, Marmion !
Stout heart, and open hand !

Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan,
Thou flower of English land !”

xI.

Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck,

With silver ’scutcheon round their neck,
Stood on the steps of stone

By which you reach the donjon gate,

And there with herald pomp and state,
They hailed Lord Marmion :

They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye,

Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
Of Tamworth tower and town ;

And he, their courtesy to requite,

Gave them a chain of twelve marks weight,
All as he lighted down.

*¢ Now, largesse, largesse,* Lord Marmion,
Knight of the crest of gold !

A blazon’d shield, in battle won,
Ne’er guarded heart so bold.”’

xi. :
They marshall’d him to the castle-hall,
Where the guests stood all aside,
And loudly flourished the trumpet-call,
And the heralds loudly cried,
“ Room, lordings, room for Lord Marmion,
With the crest and helm of gold !
Full well we know the trophies won
In the lists at Cottiswold :
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove
*Gainst Marmion’s force to stand 3;
To him he lost his ladye-love,
And to the king his land.
Ourselves beheld the listed field,
A sight both sad and fair ;
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield,
And saw his saddle bare ;
We saw the victor win the crest
He wears with worthy pride ;
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed,
His foeman’s scutcheon tied.
Place, nobles, for the Faleon-Knight !
Room, room, ye gentles gay,
For him who conquered in the right,
Marmion of Fontenaye !”—

XIII.
Then stepped to meet that noble lord,
Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.

He led Lord Marmion to the deas
Raised o’er the pavement high,
And placed him in the upper place—

They feasted full and high :
The whiles a northern harper rude
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud,

 

* The cry by which the heralds expressed their thanks
for the bounty of the nobles.

ee

 

‘* How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys a ;
Stout Willimondswick, 4
And Hard-riding Dick, eel

And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will 0’ the bev, |
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, |
And taken his life at the Deadman’s shaw.”*} ~*~.

Seantly Lord Marmion’s ear could brook

The harper’s barbarous lay ; H

Yet much he praised the pains he took, “|
And well those pains did nay~.

For lady’s suit, and minstr,* "', ™

2 dor =~.
By knight should ne’er be © ”' wieht ae |
his hand i

xiv. oly Land.

 

*“ Now, good Lord Marmion, av hills /
“ Of your fair courtesy, %

I pray you bide some little space, :
In this poor tower with me. }

Here may you keep your arms from rust,
May breathe your war-horse well ; 4 |

Seldom hath passed a week, but giust |
Or feat of arms befel :

The Scots can rein a mettled steed,
And love to couch a spear ;—

St. George ! a stirring life they lead
That have such neighbours near.

Then stay with us a little space,
Our northern wars to learn ;

I pray you for your lady’s grace.”—
Lord Marmion’s brow grew stern.

XV.

The Captain marked his altered look,
And gave a squire the sign ;

A mighty wassel bowl he took,
And crowned it high with wine.

“‘ Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion :
But first, I pray thee fair,

Where hast thou left that page of thine,

That used to serve thy cup of wine,
Whose beauty was so rare ?

When last in Raby towers we met,
The boy I closely eyed,

And often marked his cheeks were wet
With tears he fain would hide :

His was no rugged horse-boy’s hand, ©

To burnish shield, or sharpen brand,
Or saddle battle-steed ;

But meeter seemed for lady fair,

To fan her cheek, or curl her hair,

Or through embroidery, rich and rare,
The slender silk to lead :

His skin was fair, his ringlets gold,
His bosom—when he sighed,

The russet doublet’s rugged fold
Could searce repel its pride !

Say, hast thou given that lovely youth
To serve in lady’s bower ?

Or was the gentle page, in sooth,
A gentle paramour ?” |

 

XVI.
Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest ;
He rolled his kindling eye,
With pain his rising wrath suppressed,
Yet made a calm reply :
«“ That boy thou thought’st so goodly fair,
He might not brook the northern air.
More of his fate if thou would’st learn,
I left him sick in Lindisfarne :

 

* The rest of this old ballad may be found in the note.

 

 

 

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Hat Enough of him.—But, Heron, say,

ee “1¥" Hoes thy lovely lady gay

WEE vi to grace the hall to-day ?

_-« ras that dame, so fair and sage,

"gone on some pious pilgrimage ?”’—
spoke in covert scorn, for fame

rspered light tales of Heron’s dame.

XVII.

the ll Careless +*>-?’~i¢ht replied,

ibe a al - ors gaily flaunt,

et (ide

{ ‘srated close,

-ment and fosse,

: y a darksome tower 3

; . better loves my. lady bright

rt pit in liberty and light,

hi an fair Queen Margaret’s bower.

‘7e hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove ;

But where shall we find leash or band
For dame that loves to rove 2

Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

XVIII.
| “ Nay if with Royal James’s bride
| The lovely Lady Heron bide,

ee _ Behold me here a messenger
ia | | Your tender greetings prompt to bear 3

bye | For to the Scottish court addressed,

| : .
I journey at our king’s behest,

| And pray you, of your grace, provide
| For me and mine a trusty guide.
I have not ridden in Seotland since

i Hate James backed the cause of that mock prince,
q Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,

f Who on the gibbet paid the cheat:
Bie Then did I march with Surrey’s power,

Bile isa! XIX.

* For such like need, my lord, I trow,
ae Norham can find you guides enow ;
i For here be some have pricked as far
rt On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ;

And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ;
Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,

Nhe “ Were I in warlike-wise to ride,

| A better guard I would not lack
Than your stout forayers at my back :
But, as in form of peace I go,
A friendly messenger, to know,

an Their king is mustering troops for war,
eH The sight of plundering Border spears
Bt th Might justify suspicious fears,

hee And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil,
‘Break out in some unseemly broil :

A herald were my fitting guide ;

Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ;

Or pardoner, or travelling priest,

Or strolling pilgrim at the least.”—

KAD bet Ci XXI.

The Captain mused a little space,
| And passed his hand across his face:

 

 

Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt,

| She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing.”—

Viet | What time we razed old Ayton tower.”—

Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,

2 oes

And given them light to set their hoods.’

XX.
“ Now, in good sooth,” Lord Marmion cried,

ni He Why through all Scotland, near and far,

MARMION.

—‘“Fain would I find the guide you want,
But ill may spare a pursuivant,

The only men that safe can ride

Mine errands on the Scottish side :

And, though a bishop built this fort,

Few holy brethren here resort ;
Even our good chaplain, as I ween,
Since our last siege, we have not seen :
The mass he might not sing or say,
Upon one stinted meal a day ;

So, safe he sate in Durham aisle,

And prayed for our success the while.
Our Norham vicar, woe betide !

Is all too well in case to ride.

The priest of Shoreswood—he could rein
The wildest war-horse in your train ;
But then, no spearman in the hall

Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawh
Friar John of Tillmouth were the man ;
A blithesome brother at the can,

A welcome guest in hall and bower,

He knows each castle, town, and tower,
In which the wine and ale are good,
’Twixt Neweasile and Holyrood.

But that good man, as ill befalls,

Hath seldom left our castle walls,

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede,

In evil hour he erossed the Tweed,

To teach Dame Alison her creed.

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife ;
And John, an enemy to strife,

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life.
The jealous churl hath deeply swore,
That, if again he venture o’er,

He shall shrieve penitent no more.
Little he loves such risques, I know ;
Yet in your guard perchance will go.’’—

XXL.
Young Selby, at the fair hall-board,
Carved to his unele and that lord,
And reverently took up the word.
‘‘ Kind uncle, woe were we each one,
If harm should hap to brother John.
He is a man of mirthful speech,
Can many a game and gambol teach ;
Full well at tables can he play,
And sweep at bowls the stake away.
None can a lustier carol bawl,
The needfullest among us all,
When time hangs heavy in the hall,
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide,
And we can neither hunt, nor ride
A foray on the Scottish side.
The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude
May end in worse than loss of hood.
Let Friar John, in safety, still
In chimney-corner snore his fill,
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill :
Last night, to Norham there came one,
Will better guide Lord Marmion.’’—
“‘ Nephew,”’ quoth Heron, “by my fay,
Well hast thou spoke ; say forth thy say.’’—

XXIII.
“¢ Here is a holy Palmer come,
From Salem first, and last from Rome ;
One, that hath kissed the blessed tomb,
And visited each holy shrine
In Araby and Palestine ;THE CASTLE.

5

On hills of Armenie hath been,
Where Noah’s ark may yet be seen ;
By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod,
Which parted at the prophet’s rod ;
In Sinai’s wilderness he saw
The Mount where Israel heard the law,
’*Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin,
And shadows, mists, and darkness, given.
He shows St. James’s cockle-shell ;
Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell,

And of that Grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,

Saint Rosalie retired to God.

SLY...
“To stout Saint George of Norwich merry,
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury,
Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede,
For his sins’ pardon hath he prayed.
He knows the passes of the North,
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ;
Little he eats, and long will wake,
And drinks but of the stream or lake.
This were a guide o’er moor and dale ;
But, when our John hath quaffed his ale,
As little as the wind that blows,
And warms itself against his nose,
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes.”—

xXXV.
“Gramercy !” quoth Lord Marmion,
“ Full loth were I, that Friar John,
That venerable man, for me,
Were placed in fear or jeopardy.
If this same Palmer will me lead
From hence to Holy-Rood,

Like his good saint I’ll pay his meed,
Instead of cockle-shell or bead,
With angels fair and good.

I love such holy ramblers still ;
They know to charm a weary hill,
With song, romance, or lay :
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
Some lying legend at the least,
They bring to cheer the way.”—

XXVI.
“Ah! noble sir,” young Selby said,
And finger on his lip he laid,
“This man knows much, perchance e’en more
Than he could learn by holy lore.
Still to himself he’s muttering,
And shrinks as at some unseen thing.
Last night we listened at his cell ;
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to tell,
He murmured on till morn, howe’er
No living mortal could be near.
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain,
As other voices spoke again,
I cannot tell—I like it not—
Friar John hath told us it is wrote,
No conscience clear and void of wrong,
Can rest awake, and pray so long.
Himself still sleeps before his beads
Have marked ten aves, and two creeds.”—
XXVII.
—“ Tet pass,” quoth Marmion ; “by my fay,
This man shall guide me on my way,
Although the great arch-fiend and he
Had sworn themselves of company :

j

 

So please you, gentle youth to call
This Palmer to the eastle-hall.”—
The summoned Palmer came in place ;
His sable cowl o’erhung his face ;
In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter’s keys in cloth of red,
On his broad shoulders wrought ;
The scallop-shell his cap did deck ;
The crucifix around his neck
Was from Loretto brought ;
His sandals were with travel ty. ~% oe
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he w. wicht’.
The faded palm-branch in his hand
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land.

av hills
XXVIII.

When as the Palmer came in hall,
Nor lord, nor knight, was there more tall,
Or had a statelier step withal,
Or looked more high and keen ;
For no saluting did he wait,
But strode across the hall of state,
And fronted Marmion where he sate,
As he his peer had been.
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ;
His cheek was sunk, alas, the while!
And when he struggled at a smile,
His eye looked haggard wild :
Poor wretch! the mother that him bare,
If she had been in presence there,
In his wan face, and sun-burned hair,
She had not known her child.
Danger, long travel, want, or woe,
Soon change the form that best we know—
For deadly fear can time outgo,
And blanch at once the hair ;
Hard toil can roughen form and face,
And want can quench the eye’s bright grace,
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace
More deeply than despair.
Happy whom none of these befall,
But this poor Palmer knew them all.

XXIX.
Lord Marmion then his boon did ask 3
The Palmer took on him the task,
So he would march with morning-tide,
To Scottish court to be his guide.
— But I have solemn vows to pay,
And may not linger by the way,

To fair Saint. Andrew’s bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,

Sung to the billows’ sound ;

Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,

And the crazed brain restore :
Saint Mary grant that cave or spring
Could back to peace my bosom bring,

Or bid it throb no more !”—

XXX,

And now the midnight draught of sleep,
Where wine and spices richly steep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,

The page presents on knee.
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest,
The Captain pledged his noble guest,
The cup went through among the rest,

Who drained it merrily ;

 

 

 

 

 

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Alone the Palmer passed it by,
Tbe ~xh Selby pressed him courteously.
» was the sign the feast was o’er 5
_oushed the merry wassel roar,
= The minstrels ceased to sound.
Soon in the castle nought was heard
ut the slow footstep of the guard,
Pacing his sober round.

| : Sock

_. Lord Marmion rose :
the chapel doors unclose :
~~ morning rites were done,
“om Friar John,)
_ugot and squire had broke their fast
rich substantial repast,

os

TO

THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M.A.

——_¢———

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
THE scenes are desert now, and bare,
Where flourished once a forest fair,
When these waste glens with copse were lined,
And peopled with the hart and hind.
Yon Thorn—perchance whose prickly spears
Have fenced him for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers—
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell
The changes of his parent dell,
Since he, so grey and stubborn now,
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ;
Would he could tell how deep the shade
A thousand mingled branches made ;
How broad the shadows of the oak,
How clung the rowan* to the rock,
And through the foliage showed his head,
With narrow leaves, and berries red ;
What pines on every mountain sprung,
O’er every dell what birches hung,
In every breeze what aspens shook,
What alders shaded every brook!

‘“‘ Here, in my shade,’’ methinks he’d say,
“The mighty stag at noontide lay :
The wolf I’ve seen, a fiercer game,
(The neighbouring dingle bears his name,)
With lurching step around me prowl,
And stop against the moon to how];
The mountain boar, on battle set,
His tusks upon my stem would whet ;
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good,
Have bounded by through gay green-wood.
Then oft from Newark’s riven tower,
Sallied a Scottish monarch’s power 5
A thousand vassals mustered round,
With horse and hawk, and horn and hound;
And I might see the youth, intent,
Guard every pass with cross-bow bent 5
And through the brake the rangers stalk,
And fale’ners hold the ready hawk ;
And foresters, in green-wood trim,
Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim,

 

* Mountain Ash,

 

 

 

 

 

Lord Marmion’s bugles blew to horse :
Then came the stirrup-cup in course ;
Between the Baron and his host,
No point of courtesy was lost ;
High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid,
Solemn excuse the Captain made,
Till, filing from the gate, had pass’d
That noble train, their lord the last.
Then loudly rung the trumpet call ;
Thundered the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore ;
Around the castle eddied, slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar ;
Till they rolled forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there,
Which gave again the prospect fair.

—

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

Attentive, as the bratchet’s* bay
From the dark covert drove the prey,
To slip them as he broke away.

The startled quarry bounds amain,

As fast the gallant grey-hounds strain ;
Whistles the arrow from the bough,
Answers the harquebuss below:

While all the rocking hills reply,

To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter’s ery,
And bugles ringing lightsomely.”’—

Of such proud huntings, many tales
Yet linger in our lonely dales,
Up pathless Ettrick, and on Yarrow,
Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow.
But not more blithe that sylvan court,
Than we have been at humbler sport ;
Though small our pomp, and mean our game,
Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same.
Remember’st thou my grey-hounds true?
O’er holt or hill there never flew,
From slip or leash there never sprang
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang.
Nor dull, between each merry chase,
Passed by the intermitted space ;
For we had fair resource in store,
In Classic and in Gothic lore:
We marked each memorable scene,
And held poetic talk between ;
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along,
But had its legend, or its song.
All silent now—for now are still
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill!
No longer from thy mountains dun,
The yeoman hears the well-known gun,
And while his honest heart glows warm,
At thought of his paternal farm,
Round to his mates a brimmer fills,
And drinks, “ The Chieftain of the Hills!’’
No fairy forms, in Yarrow’s bowers,
Trip o’er the walks, or tend the flowers,
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw,
By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh ;
No youthful Baron’s left to grace
The Forest-Sheriff’s lonely chase,
And ape, in manly step and tone,
The majesty of Oberon:

 

* Slow-hound.

 

gecanae eg ber = pIINTRODUCTION TO CANTO SECOND.

 

 

And she is gone, whose lovely face

Is but her least and lowest grace ;
Though if to Sylphid Queen ’twere given,
‘To show our earth the charms of heaven,
She could not glide along the air,

With form more light, or face more fair.
No more the widow’s deafened ear
Grows quick that lady’s step to hear:

At noontide she expects her not,

Nor busies her to trim the cot;

Pensive she turns her humming wheel,
Or pensive cooks her orphans’ meal ;
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread,
The gentle hand by which they’re fed.

From Yair,—which hills so closely bind,
Searce can the Tweed his passage find,
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,
Till all his eddying currents boil,—

Her long-descended Lord is gone,

And left us by the stream alone.

And much I miss those sportive boys,
Companions of my mountain joys,

Just at the age ’twixt boy and youth,
When thought is speech, and speech is truth.
Close to my side, with what delight

They pressed to hear of Wallace wight,
When, pointing to his airy mound,

I called his ramparts holy ground*!
Kindled their brows to hear me speak ;
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek,
Despite the difference of our years,
Return again the glow of theirs.

Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure,
They will not, cannot, long endure ;
Condemned to stem the world’s rude tide,
You may not linger by the side;

For Fate shall thrust you from the shore,
And Passion ply the sail and oar.

Yet cherish the remembrance still,

Of the lone mountain, and the rill ;

For trust, dear boys, the time will come,
When fiercer transport shall be dumb,
And you will think right frequently,

But, well I hope, without a sigh,

On the free hours that we have spent,
Together, on the brown hill’s bent.

When, musing on companions gone,
We doubly feel ourselves alone,
Something, my friend, we yet may gain,
There is a pleasure in this pain:

It soothes the love of lonely rest,

Deep in each gentler heart impressed.
*Tis silent amid worldly toils,

And stifled soon by mental broils:
But, in a bosom thus prepared,

Its still small voice is often heard,
Whispering a mingled sentiment,

*T wixt resignation and content.

Oft in my mind such thoughts awake,
By lone St. Mary’s silent lake ;

Thou know’st it well,—nor fen, nor sedge,
Pollute the pure lake’s crystal edge ;
Abrupt and sheer the mountains sink
At once upon the level brink ;

And just a trace of silver sand

Marks where the water meets the land.

 

* There is, on a high mountainous ridge above the farm
of Ashestiel, a fosse called Wallace’s Trench.

 

Far in the mirror, bright and blue,

Kach hill’s huge outline you may view ;

Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, , om,
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there,

Save where, of land, yon slender line

Bears ’thwart the lake the scattered pine. Ce tes

Yet even this nakedness has power,
And aids the feeling of the hour:

Nor thicket, dell, nor copse, you spy,
Where living thing concealed might lie ;

Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, “+. ee

Where swain, or woodman lone, might J ro

There’s nothing left to fancy’s guess,
You see that all is loneliness ;

And silence aids—though the steep hills
Send to the lake a thousand rills,

In summer tide so soft they weep,

The sound but lulls the ear asleep ;
Your horse’s hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.

Nought living meets the eye or ear,
But well I ween the dead are near;
For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady’s chapel low,

Yet still beneath the hallowed soil
The peasant rests him from his toil,
And, dying, bids his bones be laid
Where erst his simple fathers prayed.

If age had tamed the passions’ strife,
And fate had cut my ties to life,
Here, have I thought, ’twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain’s cell,
Like that same peaceful hermitage,
Where Milton longed to spend his age.
’"Twere sweet to mark the setting day
On Bourhope’s lonely top decay ;
And, as it faint and feeble died,
On the broad lake and mountain’s side,
To say, “ Thus pleasures fade away ;
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay,
And leave us dark, forlorn, and grey ;”
Then gaze on Dryhope’s ruined tower,
And think on Yarrow’s faded Flower:
And when that mountain-sound I heard,
Which bids us be for storm prepared,
The distant rustling of his wings,
As up his force the Tempest brings,
’Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave,
To sit upon the Wizard’s grave ;
That Wizard Priest’s, whose bones are thrust
From company of holy dust 5
On which no sunbeam ever shines—
(So Superstition’s creed divines,)
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar,
Heave her broad billows to the shore 5
And mark the wild swans mount the gale,
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail,
And ever stoop again, to lave
Their bosoms on the surging wave:
Then, when against the driving hail
No longer might my plaid avail,
Back to my lonely home retire,
And light my lamp, and trim my fire ;
There ponder o’er some mystic lay,
Till the wild tale had all its sway,
And, in the bittern’s distant shriek,
I heard unearthly voices speak,
And thought the Wizard Priest was come,
To claim again his ancient home!

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And bade my busy fancy range,
--«*. || To frame him fitting shape and strange,
#1 from the task my brow I cleared,
./ smiled to think that I had feared.

‘y _ But chief, ’twere sweet to think such life,
‘Yhough but escape from fortune’s strife,)
ynething most matchless, good, and wise,
_ + great and grateful sacrifice ;
And deem each hour, to musing given,
| A step upon the road to heaven.

~ «Yer 4, whose heart is ill at ease,
: aceful solitudes displease :
_ves to drown his bosom’s jar
\ mid the elemental war:
¢ nd my black Palmer’s choice had been
.» 4* Some ruder and more savage scene,
Like that which frowns round dark Lochskene.
There eagles scream from isle to shore ;
__; Down all the rocks the torrents roar ;
O’er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven ;
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away its hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow,
Thunders the viewless stream below,
Diving, as if condemned to lave
Some demon’s subterranean cave,
Who, prisoned by enchanter’s spell,
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell.
And well that Palmer’s form and mien
Had suited with the stormy scene,
Just on the edge, straining his ken
To view the bottom of the den,
Where, deep deep down, and far within,
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ;
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave,
And wheeling round the Giant’s Grave,
White as the snowy charger’s tail,
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale.

Marriot, thy harp, on Isis strung,
To many a Border theme has rung:
Then list to me, and thou shalt know
Of this mysterious Man of Woe.

CANTO THE SECOND.

——— -4+ ---

Che Conkent.

 

I.

| THE breeze, which swept away the smoke,

| _ Round Norham Castle rolled,

| When all the loud artillery spoke,

| With lightning-flash, and thunder-stroke,
As Marmion left the Hold.

| It curled nct Tweed alone that breeze,

| For, far upon Northumbrian seas,

It freshly blew, and strong,

| Where, from high Whitby’s cloistered pile,

| Bound to Saint Cuthbert’s Holy Isle,

| It bore a bark along.

Upon the gale she stooped her side,

And bounded o’er the swelling tide,
As she were dancing home;

The merry seamen laughed to see

| Their gallant ship so lustily

||  Furrow the green sea-foam.

 

MARMION,

Much joyed they in their honoured freight ;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,

The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,

With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

20
"Twas sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage,
How timid, and how curious too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage.
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail,
With many a benedicite ;
One at the rippling surge grew pale,
And would for terror pray ;
Then shrieked, because the sea-dog nigh
His round black head, and sparkling eye,
Reared o’er the foaming spray ;
And one would still adjust her veil,
Disordered by the summer gale,
Perchance lest some more worldly eye
Her dedicated charms might spy ;
Perchance, because such action graced
Her fair-turned arm and slender waist.
Light was each simple bosom there,
Save two, who ill might pleasure share,—
The Abbess, and the Novice Clare.

 

III,
The Abbess was of noble blood,
But early took the veil and hood,
Ere upon life she cast a look,
Or knew the world that she forsook.
Fair too she was, and kind had been
As she was fair, but ne’er had seen
For her a timid lover sigh,
Nor knew the influence of her eye.
Love, to her ear, was but a name,
Combined with vanity and shame ;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall:
The deadliest sin her mind could reach
Was of monastic rule the breach ;
And her ambition’s highest aim
To emulate Saint Hilda’s fame.
For this she gave her ample dower
To raise the convent’s eastern tower 3
For this, with carving rare and quaint,
She decked the chapel of the saint,
And gave the relique-shrine of cost,
With ivory and gems embossed.
The poor her convent’s bounty blest,
The pilgrim in its halls found rest.

IV.

Black was her garb, her rigid rule
Reformed on Benedictine school ;

Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ;
Vigils and penitence austere

Had early quenched the light of youth,
But gentle was the dame in sooth.
Though, vain of her religious sway,
She loved to see her maids obey,

Yet nothing stern was she in cell,

And the nuns loved their Abbess well.
Sad was this voyage to the dame;
Summoned to Lindisfarne she came,
There, with Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot old,
And Tynemouth’s Prioress, to holdTHE CONVENT. 13: |

 

 

|
A chapter of Saint Benedict, |W here, boiling through the rocks, they roar |
For inquisition stern and strict, | On Dunstanborough’s cayerned shore ; : |
On two apostates from the faith, | Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there, lee eee
And, if need were, to doom to death. King Ida’s castle, huge and square, sif
3 From its tall rock look grimly down,
re. tit day There af sister Clare And on the swelling ocean frown ; ?
Sale Se) ae ie Then from the coast they bore away ~~
| Save this, that she was young and fair ; And reached the Holy Island’s bay.
| As yet a novice unprofessed, : ‘ |
| Lovely and gentle, but distressed. ie it
| She was betrothed to one now dead, : . : : | \
| Or worse, who had dishonoured fled. The tide did TON its flood-mark pant 3 jas
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand aoe a = the oe % POAgE NUE xe th
To one, who loved her for her land: oe ae the flow and ebb, its style | o
Herself, almost heart-broken now, oy Tron consmient to isle : if fis
Was bent to take the vestal vow, Wee coe oe peace cee day;
And shroud, within Saint Hilda’s gloom, T = p oe 1 y ee a way? vf
Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. Of ae “vas bey Be We ed
staves and sandalled feet the trace. |
VI. As to the port the galley flew, Hees
She sate upon the galley’s prow, Higher and higher rose to view :
And seemed to mark the waves below ; The Castle with its battled walls,
Nay seemed, so fixed her look and eye, The ancient Monastery’s halls,
| To count them as they glided by. A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,
| She saw them not—’twas seeming all— Placed on the margin of the isle.
| Far other scene her thoughts recal,—
x.

A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare,
Nor wave, nor breezes, murmured there ;
There saw she, where some careless hand
O’er a dead corpse had heaped the sand,
To hide it till the jackals come,

To tear it from the scanty tomb.—

See what a woeful look was given,

As she raised up her eyes to heaven!

In Saxon strength that Abbey frowned,

With massive arches broad and round,

That rose alternate, row and row,

On ponderous columns, short and low,
Built ere the art was known,

By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, |

The areades of an alleyed walk |
To emulate in stone.

On the deep walls, the heathen Dane

Had poured his impious rage in vain ; |

And needful was such strength to these,

Exposed to the tempestuous seas,

Scourged by the winds’ eternal sway,

Open to rovers fierce as they,

Which could twelve hundred years withstand

Winds, waves, and northern pirates’ hand.

Not but that portions of the pile,

Rebuilded in a later style,

Showed where the spoiler’s hand had been ;

Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen

Had worn the pillar’s carving quaint,

And mouldered in his niche the saint,

And rounded, with consuming power,

The pointed angles of each tower: |

VI. Yet still entire the Abbey stood,

Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued,

VII.
Lovely, and gentle, and distressed—
These charms might tame the fiercest breast:
Harpers have sung, and poets told,
That he, in fury uncontrolled,
The shaggy monarch of the wood,
Before a virgin, fair and good,
Hath pacified his savage mood.
But passions in the human frame
Oft put the lion’s rage to shame:
And Jealousy, by dark Intrigue,
With sordid Avarice in league,
Had practised, with her bowl and knife,
Against the mourner’s harmless life.
This crime was charged ’gainst those who lay

Prisoned in Cuthbert’s islet grey.

cee

 

 

 

And now the vessel skirts the strand
Of mountainous Northumberland ;

 

 

 

 

The whitening breakers sound so near, They echoed back the hymn.

| Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, en |
_ And eatch the nuns’ delighted eyes. Soon as they neared his turrets strong,
| Monkwearmouth soon behind them lay, The maidens raised Saint Hilda’s song,
| And Tynemouth’s priory and bay ; And with the sea-wayve and the wind,
| They marked, amid her trees, the hall Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined,
| Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; And made harmonious close ;
| They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods Then, answering from the sandy shore,
| Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; Half-drowned amid the breakers’ roar,
| They passed the tower of Widderington, According chorus rose :
| Mother of many a valiant son ; Down to the haven of the Isle,
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell The monks and nuns in order file,
| To the good Saint who owned the cell ; From Cuthbert’s cloisters grim ;
| Then did the Alne attention claim, Banner, and cross, and reliques there,
_ And Warkworth, proud of Perey’s name ; To meet Saint Hilda’s maids, they bare ;
| And next they crossed themselves, to hear And as they caught the sounds on air,Tita j

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14

The islanders, in joyous mood,
Rushed emulously through the flood,
To hail the bark to land ;
“onspicuous by her veil and hood,
-, Signing the cross, the Abbess stood,
aD » And blessed them with her hand.

yp XI.

suppose we now the welcome said,
| Suppose the Convent banquet made :
i) All through the holy dome,
~ “hrop1 cloister, aisle, and gallery,
ever vestal maid might pry,
F«__. aisk to meet unhallowed eye,
The stranger sisters roam 5
Till fell the evening damp with dew,
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew,
For there even summer night is chill.
Then haying strayed and gazed their fil,
They closed around the fire 5
And all, in turn, essayed to paint
The rival merits of their saint,
A theme that ne’er can tire
A holy maid; for be it known
That their saint’s honour is their own.

XIII.

Then Whitby’s nuns exulting told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do ;
While horns blow out a note of shame,
And monks ery, “ Fie upon your name !
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game,
Saint Hilda’s priest ye slew.”—
“This, on Ascension-day, each year,
While labouring on our harbour-pier,
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Perey hear.” —
They told, how in their convent cell
A Saxon princess once did dwell,
The lovely Edelfled ;
And how, of thousand snakes, each one
Was changed into a coil of stone,
When holy Hilda prayed ;
Themselves, within their holy bound,
Their stony folds had often found.
They told how sea-fowls’ pinions fail,
As over Whitby’s towers they sail,
And, sinking down, with flutterings faint,
They do their homage to the saint.

4

EVs

Nor did Saint Cuthbert’s daughters fail

To vie with these in holy tale.

His body’s resting-place, of old,

How oft their patron changed, they told ;

How, when the rude Dane burned their pile,

The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ;

O’er northern mountain, marsh, and moor,

From sea to:sea, from shore to shore,

Seven years Saint Cuthbert’s corpse they bore.

They rested them in fair Melrose ;
But though, alive, he loved it well,

Not there his relics might repose 5
For,—wondrous tale to tell! .

In his stone coffin forth he rides,

(A ponderous bark for river tides,)

Yet light as gossamer it glides,
Downward to Timouth cell.

Nor long was his abiding there,

For southward did the saint repair ;

 

 

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MARMION..

Chester-le-Street, and Rippon, saw
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw

Hailed him with joy and fear ;
And, after many wanderings past,
He chose his lordly seat at last,
Where his cathedral, huge and vast,

Looks down upon the Wear,
There, deep in Durham’s Gothic shade,
His relies are in secret laid;

But none may know the place,
Save of his holiest servants three,
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy,

Who share that wondrous grace.

XV.
Who may his miracles declare!
Even Scotland’s dauntless king, and heir,
(Although with them they led
Galwegians, wild as ocean’s gale,
And Lodon’s knights, all sheathed in mail,
And the bold men of Teviotdale,)
Before his standard fled.
T'was he, to vindicate his reign,
Edged Alfred’s falchion on the Dane,
And turned the Conqueror back again,
When, with his Norman bowyer band,
He came to waste Northumberland.

XVI.

But fain Saint Hilda’s nuns would learn

If, on a rock, by Lindisfarne,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame

The sea-born beads that bear his name:

Such tales had Whitby’s fishers told,

And said they might his shape behoid,

And hear his anvil sound ;

A deadened clang,—a huge dim form,

Seen but, and heard, when gathering storm
And night were closing round.

But this, as tale of idle fame,

The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim.

 

XVII.

While round the fire such legends go,

Far different was the scene of woe,

Where, in a secret aisle beneath,

Council was held of life and death.

It. was more dark and lone that vault,
Than the worst dungeon cell ;

Old Colwulf built it, for his fault
In penitence to dwell,

When he, for cowl and beads, laid down

The Saxon battle-axe and crown.

This den, which, chilling every sense
Of feeling, hearing, sight,

Was called the Vault of Penitence,
Excluding air and light,

Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made

A place of burial for such dead

As, having died in mortal sin,

Might not be laid the church within.

’T was now a place of punishment ;

Whence if so loud a shriek were sent,

As reached the upper air,

The hearers bless themselves, and said,

The spirits of the sinful dead

Bemoaned their torments there.

XVII.

 

But though, in the monastic pile,
Did of this penitential aisle

> as = Foot
TB LSeerrsial EaenaeeTHE CONVENT. 15

 

Some vague tradition go,
Few only, save the Abbot, knew
Where the place lay ; and still more few
Were those who had from him the clew
To that dread vault to go,
Victim and executioner
Were blindfold when transported there.
In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung ;
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o’er,
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor ;
The mildew drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset*, in an iron chain,
Which served to light this drear domain,
With damp and darkness seemed to strive,
As if it searce might keep alive ;
And yet it dimly served to show
The awful conclave met beiow.

XIX.
There, met to doom in secresy,
Were placed the heads of convents three,
All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict
On iron table lay :
In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown,
By the pale cresset’s ray 5
The Abbess of Saint Hilda, there,
Sate for a space with visage bear,
Until, to hide her bosom’s swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,
She closely drew her veil :
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien, and flowing dress,
Is Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress,
And she with awe looks pale:
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
Has long been quenched by age’s night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,
Nor ruth, nor mercy’s trace is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern,—
Saint Cuthbert’s Abbot is his style ;
For sanctity called, through the isle,
The Saint of Lindisfarne.

xX.
Before them stood a guilty pair ;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page’s dress belied ;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
Obseured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down o’er her face she drew ;
And, on her doublet breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion’s falcon crest.
But, at the Prioress’ command,
A Monk undid the silken band
That tied her tresses fair,
And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread,
In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister professed of Fontevraud,
Whom the church numbered with the dead,
For broken vows, and convent fied.

 

* Antique chandelier.

 

 

XXII.

When thus her face was given to view,
(Although so pallid was her hue,

It did a ghastly contrast. bear

To those bright ringlets glistering fair,)
Her look composed, and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy ;

And there she stood, so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted

That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,

You might have thought a form of wax a

4 2 . ;
Wrought to the very life, was there ;

So still she was, so pale, so fair.

XXIT-
Her comrade was a sordid soul,

Such as does murder for a meed ;
Who, but of fear knows no controul,
Because his conscience, seared and foul,

Feels not the import of his deed ;

One, whose brute feeling ne’er aspires
Beyond his own move brute desires.
Such tools the tempter ever needs,

To do the savagest of deeds ;

For them no visioned terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt ;
One fear with them, of all most base,
The fear of death,—alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash ;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.

; XXTIT.
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terrors speak !
For there were seen, in that dark wall,
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ;—
Who enters at such griesly door,
Shall ne’er, I ween, find exit more!
In each a slender meal was laid,
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless ;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Showed the grim entrance of the poreh :
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red. walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were displayed,
And building tools in order laid,

XXIV,

These executioners were chose,
As men who were with mankind foes,
And, with despite and envy fired,
Into the cloister had retired,
Or who, in desperate doubt of grace,
Strove, by deep penance, to efface

Of some foul crime the stain ;
For, as the vassals of her will,
Such men the church selected still,
As either joyed in doing ill,

Or thought more grace to gain,
If, in her cause, they wrestled down
Feelings their nature strove to own.
By strange device were they brought there,
They knew not how, and knew not where.

 

 

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XXY,.
And now that blind old Abbot rose,
To speak the Chapter’s doom,
On those the wall was to inclose,
Alive, within the tomb ;
But stopped, because that woeful Maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essayed.
" ‘wice she essayed, and twice in vain;
fler accents might no utterance gain ;
; ~*~" Sbut imperfect murmurs slip
| «. «cum her convulsed and quivering lip :
|" Dwixt each attempt all was so still,
'™hxop seemed to hear a distant rill—
"Twas ocean’s swells and falls ;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near.
A tempest there you searce could hear,
So massive were the walls.

 

 

OV i.
At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled to her heart,
And light came to her eye,
And colour dawned upon her cheek,
A hectic and a fluttered streak,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak,
By Autumn’s stormy sky ;
And when her silence broke at length,
Still, as she spoke, she gathered strength,
And armed herself to bear ;—
It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,
In form so soft and fair.

XXVII,
“T speak not to implore your grace ;
Well know I, for one minute’s space
Successless might I sue :
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ;
For if a death of lingering pain,
| To cleanse my sins, be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.—
I listened to a traitor’s tale,
|| I left the convent and the veil,
For three long years I bowed my pride,
A horse-boy in his train to ride ;
And well my folly’s meed he gave,
Who forfeited, to be his slave,
All here, and all beyond the grave.—
He saw young Clara’s face more fair,
He knew her of broad lands the heir,
Forgot his yows, his faith forswore,
And Constance was beloved no more.—
"Tis an old tale, and often told ;

But, did my fate and wish agree,
Ne’er had been read, in story old,
Of maiden true betrayed for gold,

That loved, or was avenged, like me !

 

 

XXVIII,
| “The King approved his favourite’s aim ;
| In vain a rival barred his claim,
| _ Whose faith with Clare’s was plight,
For he attaints that rival’s fame
With treason’s charge—and on they came,
In mortal lists to fight.

Their oaths are said,

Their prayers are prayed,

Their lances in the rest are laid,

 

MARMION.

{

  
 
 

| They meet in mortal shock ;

| And hark! the throng, with thundering cry,
| Shout ‘ Marmion, Marmion, to the sky !

| De Wilton to the block !’

| Say ye, who preach Heayen shall decide,

| When in the lists two champions ride,

| _ Say, was Heaven’s justice here,

| When, loyal in his love and faith,

| Wilton found overthrow or death,

| Beneath a traitor’s spear.

| How false the charge, how true he fell,

| This guilty packet best can tell.’’—

Then drew a packet from her breast,
Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest.

XXIX,

“Still was false Marmion’s bridal staid ;
To Whitby’s convent fled the maid,

The hated match to shun.
‘Ho! shifts she thus?’ King Henry cried,
‘Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride,

‘If she were sworn a nun.’
One way remained—the king’s command
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land ;
I lingered here, and rescue plann’d

For Clara and for me:
This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear
He would to Whitby’s shrine repair,
And, by his drugs, my rival fair

A saint in heaven should be.
But ill the dastard kept his oath,
Whose cowardice hath undone us both.

XXX,
“ And now my tongue the secret tells,
Not that remorse my bosom swells,
But to assure my soul that none
Shall ever wed with Marmion.
Had fortune my last hope betrayed,
This packet, to the king conveyed,
Had given him to the headsman’s stroke,
Although my heart that instant broke.—
Now, men of death, work forth your will,
For I can suffer, and be still ;
And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death who comes at last.

XXXI.

“ Yet dread me, from my living tomb,
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome!

If Marmion’s late remorse should wake,
Full soon such vengeance will he take;
That you shall wish the fiery Dane

Had rather been your guest again.
Behind, a darker hour ascends!

The altars quake, the crozier bends,
The ire of a despotic King

Rides forth upon Destruction’s wing ;
Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep,
Burst open to the sea-wind’s sweep ;
Some traveller then shall find my bones,
Whitening amid disjointed stones,

And, ignorant of priests’ cruelty,

Marvel such relics here should be.’?’—

XXXII.
Fixed was her look, and stern her air:
Back from her shoulders stream’d her hair ;

 

The locks that wont her brow to shade,
Stared up erectly from her head ;°

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Her figure seemed to rise more high ; | But, ere they breathed the fresher air,
Her voice despair’s wild energy They heard the shriekings of despair, |
Had given a tone of prophecy. And many a stifled groan:
Appalled the astonished conclave sate ; With speed their upward way they take, |
With stupid eyes the men of fate (Such speed as age and fear can make,) |
Gazed on the light inspired form, And crossed themselves for terror’s sake |
And listened for the avenging storm ; As hurrying, tottering on:
The judges felt the victim’s dread ; Even in the vespers’ heavenly tone,
No hand was moved, no word was said, They seemed to hear a dying groan,
Till thus the Abbot’s doom was given, And bade the passing knell to toll |
Raising his sightless balls to heaven :— For welfare of a parting soul. :
“Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; Slow o’er the midnight wave it swung, ii
Sinful brother, part in peace !’’— Northumbrian rocks in answer run
From that dire dungeon, place of doom,
Of execution too, and tomb,
Paced forth the judges three ;
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell
The butecher-work that there befel,
When they had glided from the cell
Of sin and misery.

S: |
To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled, |
His beads the wakeful hermit told 5 |
The Bamborough peasant raised his head,

But slept ere half a prayer he said . |
So far was heard the mighty knell,
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,
Spread his broad nostril to the wind,
Listed before, aside, behind,
Then couched him down beside the hind,
And quaked among the mountain fern, |
To hear that sound so dull and stern,

XXXII.
An hundred winding steps convey
That conclave to the upper day ;

i

 

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THIRD.

TO
WILLIAM ERSKINE, Esq.

—_~-~@—-—— -

Ashestiel, Eitrick Forest. |

Lixe April morning clouds, that pass,
With varying shadow, o’er the grass,
And imitate, on field and furrow,

Life’s chequered scene of joy and sorrow ;
Like streamlet of the mountain north,
Now in a torrent racing forth,
Now winding slow its silver train,
And almost slumbering on the plain;
Like breezes of the autumn day,

Whose voice inconstant dies away,

And ever swells again as fast,

When the ear deems its murmur past ;
Thus various, my romantic theme

‘lits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream.
et pleased, our eye pursues the trace
Jf Light and Shade’s inconstant race ;
Pleased, views the rivulet afar,
Weaving its maze irregular ;

And pleased, we listen as the breeze
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees.
Then wild as cloud, or stream, or gale,
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale.

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell,
I love the licence all too well,
In sounds now lowly, and now strong,
To raise the desultory song ?—
Oft, when ’mid such capricious chime,
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme
To thy kind judgment seemed excuse
For many an error of the muse,
Oft hast thou said, “ If, still mis-spent,
Thine hours to poetry are lent,
Go, and, to tame thy wandering course,
Quaff from the fountain at the source ;

Approach those masters, o’er whose tomb
Immortal laurels ever bloom:

Instructive of the feebler bard,

Still from the grave their voice is heard ;
From them, and from the paths they show’d,
Choose honoured guide and practised road ;

| Nor ramble on through brake and maze,
With harpers rade of barbarous days.

“ Or, deem’st thou not our later time
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme ?
Hast thou no elegiae verse
For Brunswick’s venerable hearse ;
What! not a line, a tear, a sigh,

When valour bleeds for liberty ?—

Oh, hero of that glorious time,

When, with unrivalled light sublime,—
Though martial Austria, and though all
The might of Russia, and the Gaul,
Though banded Europe stood her foes—
The star of Brandenburgh arose !

Thou could’st not live to see her beam
For ever quenched in Jena’s stream.
Lamented Chief !—it was not given

To thee to change the doom of heaven,
And crush that dragon in its birth,
Predestined scourge of guilty earth.
Lamented Chief !—not thine the power,
To save in that presumptuous hour,
When Prussia hurried to the field,

And snatched the spear, but left the shield!
Valour and skill ’twas thine to try,

And, tried in vain, ’twas thine to die.

Ill had it seemed thy silver hair

The last, the bitterest pang to share,

For princedoms reft, and ’scutcheons riven,
And birthrights to usurpers given ;

Thy land’s, thy children’s wrongs to feel,
And witness woes thou could’st not heal!
On thee relenting Heaven bestows

For honoured life an honoured close ;

 

 

 

 

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And when revolves, in time’s sure change,
‘he hour of Germany’s revenge,

When, breathing fury for her sake,

Some new Arminius shall awake,

Her champion, ere he strike, shall come

|

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|

| To whet his sword on Brunswicx’s tomb.
|

 

 

‘

“Or of the Red-Cross hero teach,

fPauntless in dungeon as on breach:

Alike to him the sea, the shore,

| The brand, the bridle, or the oar ;

» Alike to him the war that calls

| Its votaries to the shattered walls,
Which the grim Turk, besmeared with blood,
Against the Invincible made good ;
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake
The silence of the polar lake,
When stubborn Russ, and metal’d Swede,
On the warped wave their death-game played ;
Or that, where vengeance and affright
Howled round the father of the fight,
Who snatched on Alexandria’s sand
The conqueror’s wreath with dying hand.

“ Or, if to touch such chord be thine,
Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon’s holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years rolled o’er ;
When she, the bold Enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame !
From the pale willow snatched the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon’s swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort’s hate and Basil’s love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemed their own Shakspeare lived again.” —

Thy friendship, thus thy judgment wron
With praises not to me belonging,
In task more meet for mightiest powers,
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours.
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weighed
That secret power by all obeyed,
Which warps not less the passive mind,
Its source concealed or undefined ;
Whether an impulse, that has birth
Soon as the infant wakes on earth,
One with our feelings and our powers,
And rather part of us than ours ;
Or whether fitlier termed the sway
Of habit, formed in early day?
Howe’er derived, its force confessed
Rules with despotic sway the breast,
And drags us on by viewless chain,
While taste and reason plead in vain.
Look east, and ask the Belgian why,
Beneath Batavia’s sultry sky,
He seeks not eager to inhale
The freshness of the mountain gale,
Content to rear his whitened wall
Beside the dank and dull canal?
He’ll say, from youth he loved to see
The white sail gliding by the tree.
Or see yon weather-beaten hind,
Whose sluggish herds before him wind,
Whose tattered plaid and rugged cheek
His northern clime and kindred speak 5
Through England’s laughing meads he goes,
And England’s wealth around him flows;

cine
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MARMION.

 

 

 

Ask, if it would content him well |
At ease in these gay plains to dwell,
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen,
And spires and forests intervene,

And the neat cottage peeps between ?

No! not for these will he exchange

His dark Lochaber’s boundless range,

Nor for fair Devon’s meads forsake
Bennevis grey, and Garry’s lake. |

Thus, while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charmed me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time ;
And feelings, roused in life’s first day, |
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. |
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour.
Though no broad river swept along,
To claim, perchance, heroic song ;
Though sighed no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale ;
Though searce a puny streamlet’s speec :
Claimed homage from a shepherd’s reed ;
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven.
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ;
But ever and anon between
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ;
And well the lonely infant knew i
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honeysuckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruined wall.
I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all his round surveyed ; |
And still I thought that shattered tower
The mightiest work of human power ;
And marvelled, as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,
And, home-returning, filled the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl.—
Methought that still with trump and clang
The gateway’s broken arches rang 5
Methought grim features, seamed with sears,
Glared through the window’s rusty bars.
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, H
Of lovers’ sleights, of ladies’ charms,
Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms ;
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold!
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, fl
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretched at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o’er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid, i
The mimic ranks of war displayed ;
And onward still the Seottish Lion bore, |
And still the scattered Southron fled before.

 

 

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brightened at our evening fire ;
From the thatched mansion’s grey-haired Sire,Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Seotland’s gentler blood ;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Showed what in youth its glance had Peon: :
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unhought ;

To him, the venerable Priest,

Our frequent and familiar guest,

Whose life and manners w an ean paint
Alike the student and the saint ;

Alas ! whose speech too oft I Brore

With gambol rude and timeless joke :

For I was w ayward, bold, and wild,

A self-willed imp, a erandame’ S child ;

But half a plague, and half a jest,

Was still endured, belove ed, caress’d.

3

From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask
The classic poet? s well- Canna task 2
Nay, Erskine, nay—on the wild hill
‘Let the wild heathbell flourish still :
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmed the eglantine :
Nay, my friend, nay—since ‘oft thy praise
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays,
Since ne thy judgment could refine
My flattened thought, or cumbrous line,
Still kind, as 1s thy Ww ont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the Perea.
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow ‘forth, flow unrestrained, my Tale !

?

CANTO: THE "TH ERD.

Ss

Cije Wostel, cr Inn.

I.
Tue livelong day Lord Marmion rode:
The mountain path the Palmer showed ;
By glen and streamlet winded still,
Where stunted birches hid the i
They might not choose the lowland road,
For the Merse forayers were abroad,
Who, fired on hate and thirst of prey,
Had scarcely failed to bar their way.
Oft on ve trampling band, from crown
Of some tall cliff, the deer ‘looked down ;
On ee of jet, from his repose
In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ;
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe,
Nor waited for the bending bow ;
And when the stony path began,
By which the naked peak they wan,
Uj p flew the snowy ptarmigan.
The noon had long been passed before
They gained the height of Lammermoor ;
Thence winding down the northern way,
Before them, at the close of day,
Old Gifford’s towers and hamlet lay.

IT.

No summons calls them to the tower,
To spend the hospitable hour.

To Scotland’s camp the Lord was gone ;
His cautious dame, in bower alone,
Dreaded her castle to unclose,

So late, to unknown friends or foes.

 

Ti THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

 

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| On through the hamlet as they paced,
| Before a porch, whose front was graced
With bush and flagon trimly placed,

Lord Marmion drew his rein :
The village inn seemed large, though rude ;
Its cheerful fire and hea arty food

Might well relieve his train.
Down from their seats the horsemen sprang,
With jingling spurs the court- -yard rang ;__
They bind their horses to the stall,
For forage, food, and firing call,
And various clamber fills the fal :
Weighing the labour with the cost,
Toils everywhere the bustling host.

Il.

| Soon, by the chimney’s merry blaze,
Through the rude hostel might you gaze ;

Might see, where, in dark nook ‘aloof,
The rafters of the sooty roof
| _ Bore wealth of winter cheer ;
| Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store,
| And gammons of the tusky boar,
And savoury hauneh of “deer.
| The chimney arch projected wide ;
| Above, around it, and beside,
| Were tools for housewives’ hand :
| Nor wanted, in that martial day,
The implements of Scottish fray,

The buekler, lance, and brand.

Beneath its shade, the place of state,
On oaken settle Marmion sate,
And viewed, around the blazing hearth,
His followers mix in noisy mirth,
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide,
From ancient vessels ranged aside,
Full actively their host supplied.

IV.
Theirs was the glee of martial breast,
And laughter theirs at little jest ;
And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid
And mingle in the mirth the »y made :
For though, with men of high degree,
The proudest of the proud was he,
Yet, trained in camps, he knew the art
To win the soldiers’ hardy heart,
They love a captain to obey,
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May ;
With open hand, and brow as free,
Lover of wine, and minstrelsy ;
Ever the first to seale a tower,
As venturous in a lady’s bower :
Such buxom chief shall lead his host
From India’s fires to Zembla’s frost.
Ve
Resting upon his pilgrim staff,
Right opposite the Palmer stood ;
His thin dark visage seen but half,
Half hidden by his hood.
Still fixed on Marmion was his look,
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook,
Strove by a frown to quell ;
But not for that, though more than once
Full met their stern encountering glance,
The Palmer’s visage fell.
Vi.
By fits less frequent from the crowd

Was heard the burst of laughter loud ;
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For still, as squire and archer stared

On that dark face and matted beard,
Their glee and game declined.

All gazed at length in silence drear,

Unbroke, s save w rea in comrade’s ear

Some yeoman, w ondering in his fear,
Thus whispered forth ne mind =——

‘ Saint Mary ! saw’st thou e’er such sight ?

How pale his cheek, his eye how bright,

Whene’er the fire-brand’s fickle light
Glances beneath his cowl !

 

 

Full on our Lord he sets his eye $
For his best palfrey, would not I
Endure that sullen scowl.”

Vit.
But Marmion, as to chase the awe
Which thus had quelled their hearts, who saw
The ever- varying fire-light show
That figure stern and face of w oe,

Now called upon a squire |
“ Vitz-Eustace, know’st Le not poe lay,

|

To speed the lingering night away ?
We slumber by the fire.” —

Vul.
“So please you,” thus the youth rejoined,
“ Our choicest minstrel’s left behind.
Ill may we hope to please your ear,
Accustomed Constant’s strains to hear.
The harp full deftly can he strike,
And wake the lover’s lute alike ;
To dear Saint Valentine no thrush
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush ;
No nightingale her love-lorn tune
More sweetly warbles to the moon.
Woe to the cause, whate’er it be,
Detains from us his melody !
Lavished on rocks, and billows stern,
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne.
Now must I venture, as I may,
To sing his favourite rounde lay.’ ae
Z |
A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
The air he chose was wild and sad :
Such have I heard, in Scottish land,
Rise from the busy harvest band,
Whien falls before the mountaineer,
On lowland plains, the ripened ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song :
Oft have I listened, and stood still,
As it came softened up the hill,
And deemed it the lament of men
Who languished for their-native glen ;
And thought how sad would be such sound,
On Susquehanna’s swampy ground,
Kentucky’s wood-encumbered brake,
Or wild Ontario’s boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recalled fair Seotland’s hills again !

x.
Sung.

Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever,

From his true maiden’s breast,
Parted for ever ?

Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,
Under the willow— |

CHORUS.
Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving ;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever, |
Never again to wake,
Never, O never!

Eleu loro, &e.

CHORUS.
Eleu loro, &e. Never, O never !

Sis

Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden’s breast,
Ruin, and leave her ?

In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war’s rattle |
With groans of the dying—

CHORUS.
Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap,
O’er the false-hearted ;
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it,—
Never, O never!

 

CHORUS.
Eleu loro, &e. Never, O never!

XIT.
It ceased, the melancholy sound ;
And silence sunk on all around.
The air was sad; but sadder still
It fell on Marmion’s ear,
And ’plained as if disgrace and ill,
And shameful death, were near.
He drew his mantle past his face,
Between it and the band,
And rested with his head a space
Reclining on his hand.
His thoughts I sean not; but I ween,
That could their import have been seen,
The meanest groom in all the hall,
That e’er tied courser to a stall,
Would scarce have wished to be their prey,
For Lutterward and Fontenaye.

XIII.

High minds, of native pride and force,
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse !
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have,
Thou art the torturer of the brave !
Yet fatal strength they boast, to steel
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel,
Even while they writhe beneath the smart,
Of civil conflict in the heart!
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said,—
“Ts it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seemed in mine ear a death- -peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister’s soul?

Say, what may this portend ?”—
| Then first the Palmer silence broke,
| (The live-long day he had not spoke),

“The death of a dear friend.’XIV.

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye
Ne’er changed in worst extremity ;
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook,
Even from his King, a haughty look ;
W hose accent of command controlled,
In camps, the boldest of the bold—
Thought, look, and utterance, failed him now,
Fallen was his glance, and flushed his brow:

For either in the tone,
Or something in the Palmer’s look,
So full upon his conscience strook,

That answer he found none.
Thus oft it haps, that when within
They shrink at sense of secret sin,

A feather daunts the brave,
A fool’s wild speech confounds the wise,
And proudest princes vail their eyes

Before their meanest slave.

XV.
Well might he falter !—By his aid
Was Constance Beverley betrayed:
Not that he augured of the doom,
Which on the living closed the tomb ;
But, tired to hear the desperate maid
'hreaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ;
And wroth, because, in wild despair,
She practised on the life of Clare;
[ts fugitive the Church he gave,
rhough not a victim, but a slave ;
And deemed restraint in convent strange
W ould hide her wrongs and her revenge.
Himself, proud Henry’s favourite peer,
Held Romish thunders idle fear,
Secure his pardon he might hold
H'or some slight mulct of penance-gold.
hus judging, he gave secret way,
When the stern priests surprised their prey :
His train but deemed the favourite page
Was left behind, to spare his age;
Or other if they deemed, none dared
To mutter what he thought and heard:
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry
Into Lord Marmion’s privacy !

XVI.
His conscience slept—he deemed her well,
And safe secured in distant cell ;
But, wakened by her favourite lay,
And that strange Palmer’s boding say,
hat fell so ominous and drear
ull on the object of his fear,
'o aid remorse’s venomed throes,
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ;
And Constance, late betrayed and scorned,
All lovely on his soul returned ;
uovely as when, at treacherous call,
she left her convent’s peaceful wall,
rimsoned with shame, with terror mute,
Jreading alike escape, pursuit,
fill love, victorious o’er alarms,
did fears and blushes in his arms.

XVII.
‘ Alas!” he thought, “how changed that mien !
dow changed these timid looks have been,
since year's of guilt, and of disguise,
Jave steeled her brow, and armed her eyes ;

 

 

 

THE HOSTEL, OR INN.

 

No more of virgin terror speaks

The blood that mantles in her cheeks ;
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there,
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ;

And I the cause—for whom were given
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven !—
Would,” thought he, as the picture grows,
“I on its stalk had left the rose !

Oh why should man’s suecess remove

The very charms that wake his loye !—
Fler convent’s peaceful solitude

Is now a prison harsh and rude :

And, pent within the narrow cell,

How will her spirit chafe and swell!

How brook the stern monastic laws!

The penance how—and I the cause !—
Vigil and scourge—perchance even worse !”—
And twice he rose to cry, “To horse !’’
And twice his sovereign’s mandate came,
Like damp upon a kindling flame ;

And twice he thought, “ Gave I not charge
She should be safe, though not at large ?
They durst not, for their island, shred

One golden ringlet from her head.’”’—

 

XVIII.

While thus in Marmion’s bosom strove
Repentance and reviving love,
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway
I’ve seen Loch Vennachar obey,
Their Host the Palmer’s speech had heard
And, talkative, took up the word.
“ Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray,
From Scotland’s simple land away,

To visit realms afar,
Full often learn the art to know
Of future weal, or future woe,

By word, or sign, or star ;
Yet might a knight his fortune h oar,
If, knight-like, he despises fear,
Not far from hence ;—if fathers old
Aright our hamlet legend told.”—
These broken words the menials move,
(For marvels still the vulgar love )
And Marmion giving licence cold,
His tale the host thus gladly told.

xX.

Che Wasts Tale,
“ A clerk could tell what years have flown
Since Alexander filled our throne,
(Third monarch of that warlike name, )
And eke the time when here he came
To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord:
A braver never drew a sword;
A wiser never, at the hour
Of midnight, spoke the word of power:
The same whom ancient records call
The founder of the Goblin Hall:
I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay
Gave you that cavern to survey.
Of lofty roof, and ample size,
Beneath the castle deep it lies :
To hew the living rock profound,
The floor to pave, the arch to round,
There never toiled a mortal arm,
It all was wrought by word and charm ;
And I have heard my grandsire say,
That the wild clamour and affray

 

 

 

 

 

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it Ve, Of those dread artisans of hell, When yawning graves, and dying groan,
; Reine. ii | Who laboured under Hugo’s spell, Proclaimed hell’s empire overthrown,—
‘ ine | Sounded as loud as ocean’s war With untaught valour shalt compel
; Hee Among the caverns of Dunbar. Response denied to magic spell.’—
\ Wah | a é Gramercy,’ quoth our Monarch free,
Bee Rocce ‘Place him but front to front with me,
ye erp “The king Lord Gifford’s castle sought, And, by this good and honoured brand,
; aa Deep-labouring with uncertain thought : The gift of Ccoeur-de-Lion’s hand,
hi ad | Even then he mustered all his host, Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide,
i eee he To meet upon the western coast ; The demon shall a buffet bide.’-—
; fae I or Norse and Danish galleys plied His bearing bold the Wizard viewed,

: Wet Their oars within the Firth of Clyde. And thus, well pleased, his speech renewed :—
: a uy “ There floated Haco’s banner trim, ‘There spoke the blood of Malcolm yar:
ate. Above Norweyan warriors grim, Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark,

Bie ign Savage of heart, and large of limb ; The rampart seek, whose circling crown

| Threatening both continent and isle,
_ Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle.
Bia. | Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground,
a dit | Heard Alexander’s bugle sound,
i And tarried not his garb to change,

Crests the ascent of yonder down :

A southern entrance shalt thou find ;
There halt, and there thy bugle wind,
And trust thine elfin foe to see,

In guise of thy worst enemy :

ery Megs

 

 

 

Bi ie: f a ee But, in his wizard habit strange, Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed
He Came forth,—a quaint and fearful sight ! Upon him ! and St. George to speed!
. Tee tee His mantle lmed with fox-skins white ; If he go down, thou soon shalt know

can eit: His high and wrinkled forehead bore Whate’er these airy sprites can show ;—
Seah ate A pointed cap, such as of yore If thy heart fail thee in the strife,
BM ais | Clerks say that Pharaoh’s Magi wore ; I am no warrant for thy life.’
Bae een His shoes were marked with cross and spell,
: et fala ir Upon his breast a pentacle ; XXII.
oa | His zone, of virgin parchment thin, “Soon as the midnight bell did ring,
, wi, Or, as some tell, of dead man’s skin, Alone, and armed, rode forth the King

‘ 4

Bore many a planetary sign,

| Combust, and retrograde, and trine ;
2 o 2 7
| And in his hand he held, prepared,
A naked sword without a guard.

To that old camp’s deserted round :—

Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound,
Left hand the town,—the Pictish race

The trench, long since, in blood did trace ;

) The moor around is brown and bare,
Hii XXII.

wk |e . | The space within is green and fair.
Bat ' © Dire dealings with the fiendish race The spot our village children know,
Be al | Had marked strange lines upon his face, For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ;
Mie wl | Vigil and fast had worn him grim, But woe betide the wandering wight
aaa | His eyesight dazzled seemed, and dim, That treads its circle in the night !
fig "se

a | As one unused to upper day ;
; || Even his own menials with dismay
yd Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire

The breadth across, a bowshot clear,
Gives ample space for full career ;
Opposed to the four points of heaven,

Sea Ge In this unwonted wild attire ; By four deep gaps is entrance given.
( 4 a We Unwonted,—for traditions run, The southernmost our monarch passed,
Pa A Rides | He seldom thus beheld the sun. Halted and blew a gallant blast ;
ee ey | ©I know,’ he said,—his voice was hoarse, And on the north, within the ring,
ye ity | And broken seemed its hollow force,— Appeared the form of England’s king ;
. hs i a i oe I know the cause, although untold, Who then, a thousand leagues afar,
ae eit Why the king seeks his vassal’s hold : In Palestine waged holy war:
Rivage / | Vainly from Meany liege would know Yet arms like England’s did he wield,
wa itan eis: || His kingdom’s future weal or woe ; Alike the leopards in the shield,
Catan | eer! But yet, if strong his arm and heart, Alike his Syrian courser’s frame,
aa Wek at || His courage may do more than art. The rider’s length of limb the same:

ey Long afterwards did Scotland know
sit Sx,

Si
ery yor
os he .
Se.

 

 

 

 

a Fell Edward* was her deadliest foe.
i! i b | ‘ - ee ae enue cue
ate Be ve| | 10 ride upon the racking cloud, XXIV.
Aap aie | Can read in fixed or wandering star “‘ The vision made our Monarch start,
phan ok The issue of events afar ; But soon he manned his noble heart,
me ett | But still their sullen aid withhold, And in the first career they ran,
; if" al } i | Save when by mightier force controlled. The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man ;
Dede _ Such late I summoned to my hall ; Yet did a splinter of his lance
ey ie ein, | And though so potent was the cail, Through Alexander’s visor glance,
ea That scarce the deepest nook of hell And razed the skin—a puny wound.
vist Bad thie. | I deemed a refuge from the spell, ‘he King, light leaping to the ground,
re He Te hi | Yet, obstinate in silence still, With naked blade his phantom foe
eae th ih || The haughty demon mocks my skill. Compelled the future war to show.
Mat wih | But thou,—who little know’st thy might,
Phich | | As born upon that blessed night * Edward I., surnamed Longshanks,
et ; [essere errr es =z seat Se ES EES me = pea eee ee ears ea Sarees = =
aici
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| SeTHE HOSTEL, OR INN.

 

 

 

Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,
Where still gigantic bones remain,
Memorial of the Danish war ;
Himself he saw, amid the field,
On high his brandish’d war-axe wield,
And strike proud Haco from his car,
While, all around the shadowy kings,
Denmark’s grim ravens cowered their wings.
"Tis said, that, in that awful night,
Remoter visions met his sight,
Fore-showing future conquests far,
When our sons’ sons wage Northern war ;
A royal city, tower and spire,
Reddened the midnight sky with fire ;
And shouting crews her navy bore
Triumphant to the victor shore.
Such signs may learned clerks explain,
They pass the wit of simple swain.
KY,
* The joyful King turned home again,
Headed his host and quelled the Dane ;
But yearly, when returned the night
Of his strange combat with the sprite,
His wound must bleed and smart ;
Lord Gifford then would gibing say,
‘ Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay
The penance of your start.’
Long since, beneath Dunfermline’s nave,
King Alexander fills his grave,
Our Lady give him rest !
Yet still the nightly spear and shield
The Elfin Warrior doth wield,
Upon the brown hill’s breast ;
And many a knight hath proved his chance,
In the charmed ring to break a lance,
But all have foully sped ;
Save two, as legends tell, and they
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.—
Gentles, my tale is said.”
XXVI.
The quaighs* were deep, the liquors strong,
And on the tale the yeoman throng
Had made a comment sage and long,
But Marmion gave a sign ;
And, with their lord, the squires retire ;
The rest, around the hostel fire,
Their drowsy limbs recline ;
For pillow, underneath each head,
The quiver and the targe were laid.
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor,
Oppressed with toil and ale, they snore :
The dying flame, in fitful change,
Threw on the group its shadows strange.

XXVII.
Apart, and nestling in the hay
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ;
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen
The foldings of his mantle green:
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream,
Of sport by thicket, or by stream,
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove,
Or, lighter yet, of lady’s love.
A cautious tread his slumber broke,
And, close beside him, when he woke,
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom,
Stood a tall form with nodding plume ;
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew,
His master Marmion’s voice he knew.

 

* A wooden cup, composed of staves hooped together, |

 

 

 

Res pe

XXVIII.
—“ Fitz-Eustace ! rise,—I cannot rest ;
Yon churl’s wild legend haunts my breast,
And graver thoughts have chafed my mood:
The air must cool my feverish blood ;
And fain would I ride forth, to see
The scene of Elfin chivalry.
Arise, and saddle me my steed ;
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves ;
I would not, that the prating knaves
Had cause for saying, o’er their ale,
That I could eredit such a tale.” —
Then softly down the steps they slid,
Eustace the stable door undid,
And, darkling, Marmion’s steed arrayed,
While, whispering, thus the Baron said :—

 

XXIX.
“ Didst never, good my youth, hear tell,
That on the hour when I was born,
St. George, who graced my sire’s chapelle,
Down from his steed of marble fell,
A weary wight forlorn ?
The flattering chaplains all agree,
The champion left his steed to me.
I would, the omen’s truth to show,
That I could meet this Elfin Foe!
Blithe would I battle, for the right
To ask one question at the sprite :—
Vain thought! for elves, if elves there be,
An empty race, by fount or sea,
To dashing waters dance and sing,
Or round the green oak wheel their ring.” ~
Thus speaking he his steed bestrode,
And from the hostel slowly rode.

XX.

Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad,

And marked him pace the village road,
And listened to his horse’s tramp,

Till, by the lessening sound,
He judged that of the Pictish camp
Lord Marmion sought the round.

Wonder it seemed, in the squire’s eyes,

That one, so wary held, and wise,—

Of whom ’twas said, he scarce received

For gospel what the Church believed,—
Should, stirred by idle tale,

Ride forth in silence of the night,

As hoping half to meet a sprite,
Arrayed in plate and mail.

For little did Fitz-Eustace know

That passions, in contending flow,
Unfix the strongest mind ;

Wearied from doubt to doubt to fiee,

We welcome fond credulity,
Guide confident, though blind.

AXXI.

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared,

But, patient, waited till he heard,

At distance, pricked to utmost speed,

The foot-tramp of a flying steed,
Come town-ward rushing on :

First, dead, as if on turf it trod,

Then, clattering on the village road,—

In other pace than forth he yode*
Returned Lord Marmion.

 

 

 

* Used by old poets for went.

 

 

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24

Down hastily he sprung from selle,
And, in his haste, well nigh he fell ;

To the squire’s hand the rein he threw,
And spoke no word as he withdrew ;
But yet the moonlight did betray,

The falcon crest was soiled with clay ;
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see,
By stains upon the charger’s knee,

MARMION.

 

{
| And his left side, that on the moor
| He had not kept his footing sure.
| Long musing on these wondrous signs,
| At length to rest the squire reclines,

| Broken and shorts; for still, between,

| Would dreams of terror intervene:
| Eustace did ne’er so blithely mark
| The first notes of the morning lark.

 

eee

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FOURTH.

TO
JAMES SKENE, Eso.

—_—> —_——_

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest.
AN ancient Minstrel sagely said,
“ Where is the life which late we led ?”,—
That motley clown in Arden Wood
Whom humorous Jaques with envy viewed,
Not even that clown could amplify,
On this trite text, so long as I.
Eleven years we now may tell,
Since we have known each other well ;
Since, riding side by side, our hand
First drew the Voluntary brand ;
And sure, through many a varied scene,
Unkindness never came between.
Away these winged years have flown,
To join the mass of ages gone ;
And though deep marked, like all below,
With chequered shades of joy and woe;
Though thou o’er realms and seas hast ranged,
Marked cities lost, and empires changed,
While here at home, my narrower ken
Somewhat of manners saw, and men:
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears,
Fevered the progress of these years,
Yet now, days, weeks, and months but seem
The recollection of a dream,
Se still we glide down to the sea
Of fathomless eternity.

Even now it scarcely seems a day
Since first I tuned this idle lay ;
A task so often thrown aside,
When leisure graver cares denied,
That now, November’s dreary gale,
Whose voice inspired my opening tale,
That same November gale once more
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow’s shore ;
Their vexed boughs streaming to the sky,
Once more our naked birches sigh,
And Blackhouse Heights, and Ettrick Pen,
Have donned their wintry shrouds again ;
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed.
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mixed with the rack, the snow-mists fly ;
The shepherd, who, in summer sun,
Has something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen,
The features traced of hill and glen ;—
He, who, outstretched the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
Viewed the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumbered o’er his tatter’d book,

| Or idly busied him to guide

| His angle o’er the lessened tide s—
| At midnight now, the snowy plain

| Finds sterner labour for the swain.

| When red hath set the beamless sun

| Through heavy vapours dank and dun;
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,

| Hears, half asleep, the rising storm

Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,

Against the casement’s tinkling pane ;

The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,

T'o shelter in the brake and rocks,

Are warnings which the shepherd ask

To dismal, and to dangerous task.

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,

The blast may sink in mellowing rain ;

Til, dark above, and white below,

Decided drives the flaky snow,

And forth the hardy swain must go.

Long, with dejected look and whine,

To leave the hearth his dogs repine ;

Whistling, and cheering them to aid,

Around his back he wreathes the plaid:

His flock he gathers, and he guides

To open downs and mountain sides,

Where, fiercest though the tempest blow,

Least deeply lies the drift below.

The blast, that whistles o’er the fells,

Stiffens his locks to icicles ;

Oft he looks back, while, streaming far,

His cottage window seems a star,—

Loses its feeble gleam,—and then

 

 

Turns patient to the blast again,

And, facing to the tempest’s sweep,

Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,

Benumbing death is in the gale ;

His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,

Close to the hut, no more his own,

Close to the aid he sought in vain,

The morn may find the stiffened swain :

His widow sees, at dawning pale,

His orphans raise their feeble wail ;

And, close beside him in the snow,

Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,

Couches upon his master’s breast,

And licks his cheek, to break his rest.
Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,

His healthy fare, his rural cot,

His summer couch by greenwood tree,

His rustic kirn’s* loud revelry,

His native hill-notes, tuned on high,

To Marion of the blithesome eye ;

His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,

And all Arcadia’s golden creed ?

* The Scottish Harvest-home.

 

 

 

 

 

eesTHE CAMP.

 

 

Changes not so with us, my Skene,
Of human life the varying scene ?
Our youthful summer oft we see
Dance by on wings of game and glee,
While the dark storm reserves its rage
Against the winter of our age:
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy,
His manhood spent in peace and joy ;
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms,
Called ancient Priam forth to arms.
Then happy those, since each must drain
His share of pleasure, share of pain,—
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven,
To whom the mingled cup is given ;
Whose lenient sorrows find relief,
Whose joys are chastened by their grief.
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine,
When thou of late wert doomed to twine,—
Just when thy bridal hour was by,—
The cypress with the myrtle tie ;
Just on thy bride her sire had smiled,
And blessed the union of his child,
When love must change its joyous cheer,
And wipe affection’s filial tear.
Nor did the actions, next his end,
Speak more the father, than the friend :
Scarce had lamented Forbes paid
The tribute to his Minstrel’s shade ;
The tale of friendship scarce was told,
Ere the narrator’s heart was cold—
Far may we search before we find
A heart so manly and so kind!
But not around his honour’d urn,
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ;
The thousand eyes his care had dried,
Pour at his name a bitter tide;
And frequent falls the grateful dew,
For benefits the world ne’er knew.
If mortal charity dare claim
The Almighty’s attributed name,
Inscribe above his mouldering clay,
‘The widow’s shield, the orphan’s stay.”
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem
My verse intrudes on this sad theme ;
For sacred was the pen that wrote,
«‘ Thy father’s friend, forgot thou not :”
And grateful title may I plead,
For many a kindly word and deed,
To bring my tribute to his grave :—
Tis little—but ’tis all I have.

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recals our summer walks again ;
When, doing nought,—and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do,—
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And, desultory as our way,
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay.
Even when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too ;
Thou gravely labouring to portray
The blighted oak’s fantastic spray ;
I spelling o’er, with much delight,
The legend of that antique knight
Tirante by name, ycleped the White.
At either’s feet a trusty squire,
Pandour and Camp, with eyes of fire,

aa

 

Jealous, each other’s motions viewed,

And scarce suppressed their ancient feud.
The laverock whistled from the cloud ;
The stream was lively, but not loud ;
From the white-thorn the May-flower shed
Its dewy fragrance round our head:

Not Ariel lived more merrily

Under the blossomed bough, than we.

And blithesome nights, too, have been ours,
When winter stripp’d the summer’s bowers ;
Careless we heard, what now I hear,

The wild blast sighing deep and drear,

When fires were bright, and lamps beamed gay,
And ladies tuned the lovely lay ;

And he was held a laggard soul

Who shunned to quaff the sparkling bowl.

Then he, whose absence we deplore,

Who breathes the gales of Devon’s shore,

The longer missed, bewailed the more ;

And thou, and I, and dear loved R
And one whose name I may not say,—

For not mimosa’s tender tree

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,—

In merry chorus well combined,

With laughter drowned the whistling wind.
Mirth was within; and Care, without,

Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.

Not but amid the buxom scene

Some grave discourse might intervene—

Of the good horse that bore him best,

His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest :

For, like mad Tom’s,* our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we’ve had; and though the game
Of manhood be more sober tame,

And though the field-day, or the drill,

Seem less important now—yet still

Such may we hope to share again.

The sprightly thought inspires my strain ;
And mark how, like a horseman true,

Lord Marmion’s march I thus renew.

 

2

CANTO THE FOURTH.

 

Che Camp.

I,

Eustace, I said, did blithely mark
The first notes of the merry lark.
The lark sung shrill, the cock he crew,
And loudly Marmion’s bugles blew,
And, with their light and lively call,
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall.

Whistling they came, and free of heart,

But soon their mood was changed :
Complaint was heard, on every part,
Of something disarranged.

Some clamoured loud for armour lost ;
Some brawled and wrangled with the host.
“‘ By Becket’s bones,” cried one, “ I fear,
That some false Scot has stolen my spear !’’?—
Young Blount, Lord Marmion’s second squire,
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire ;
Although the rated horse-boy sware,
Last night he dressed him sleek and fair.
While chafed the impatient squire like thunder,
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder,—

 

* See King Lear.

 

 

 

 

 

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| 26

* Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all!
Bevis lies dying in his stall:

T’o Marmion who the plight dare tell
Of the good steed he loves so well ?”’—
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw

The charger panting on his straw ;

Till one, who would seem wisest, cried,
“ What else but evil could betide,

With that cursed Palmer for our guide?
Better we had through mire and bush,
Been lanthorn-led by Friar Rush.” *

II.
Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guessed,
Nor wholly understood,
| His comrades’ clamorous plaints suppressed ;
He knew Lord Marmion’s mood.
Him, ere he issued forth, he sought,
And found deep plunged in gloomy thought,
And did his tale display
Simply, as if he knew of nought
To cause such disarray.
Lord Marmion gave attention cold,
Nor marvelled at the wonders told,—
| Passed them as accidents of course,
| And bade his clarions sound to horse.

 

| Il.
_ Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost
| Had reckoned with their Scottish host ;
| And, as the charge he cast and paid,
| © Ill thou deserv’st thy hire,” he said ;
_ © Dost see, thou knave, my horse’s plight?
| Fairies have ridden him all the night,
| And left him in a foam!
| I trust, that soon a conjuring band,
| With English cross and blazing brand,
| Shall drive the devils from this land

To their infernal home :
For in this haunted den, I trow,
All night they trampled to and fro.”—
The laughing host looked on the hire,—
“ Gramercy, gentle southern squire,
And if thou com’st among the rest,
With Scottish broad-sword to be blest,
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow,
And short the pang to undergo.” —
Here stayed their talk,—for Marmion
Gave now the signal to set on.
The Palmer showing forth the way,
_ They journeyed all the morning day.

IV.
The green-sward way was smooth and good,
Through Humbie’s and through Saltoun’s wood ;
A forest glade, which, varying still,
Here gave a view of dale and hill,
There narrower closed, till overhead
A vaulted sereen the branches made.
“A pleasant path,” Fitz-Eustace said ;
“ Such as where errant knights might see
Adventures of high chivalry ;
Might meet some damsel flying fast,
With hair unbound, and looks aghast ;
And smooth and level course were here,
In her defence to break a spear.
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells ;
And oft, in such, the story tells,

 

* Alias Will-o’-the-Wisp.. See Note.

 

——~

MARMION.

The damsel kind, from danger freed,
Did grateful pay her champion’s meed.”—
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion’s mind ;
Perchance to show his lore designed ;

For Eustace much had pored
Upon a huge romantic tome,
In the hall-window of his home,
Imprinted at the antique dome

Of Caxton or De Worde.
Therefore he spoke,—but spoke in vain,
For Marmion answered nought again.

Vv.

Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill,

In notes prolonged by wood and hill,
Were heard to echo far ;

Each ready archer grasped his bow,

But by the flourish soon they know
They breathed no point of war.

Yet cautious, as in foeman’s land,

Lord Marmion’s order speeds the band
Some opener ground to gain ;

And scarce a furlong had they rode,

When thinner trees, receding, showed
A little woodland plain.

Just in that advantageous glade

The halting troop a line had made,

As forth from the opposing shade
Issued a gallant train.

VI.
First came the trumpets, at whose clang
So late the forest echoes rang ;
On prancing steeds they forward pressed,
With scarlet mantle, azure vest ;
Each at his trump a banner wore,
Which Scotland’s royal seutcheon bore ;
Heralds and pursuivants, by name
Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,
In painted tabards, proudly showing
Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing,
Attendant on a King-at-arms,
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,
That feudal strife had often quelled,
When wildest its alarms.

Vil.

He was a man of middle age ;

In aspect manly, grave, and sage,

As on king’s errand come ;

But in the glances of his eye,

A penetrating, keen, and sly

Expression found its home ;

The flash of that satiric rage,

Which, bursting on the early stage,

Branded the vices of the age,

And broke the keys of Rome.

On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ;

His cap of maintenance was graced

With the proud heron-plume.

irom his steed’s shoulder, loin, and breast,
Silk housings swept the ground,

With Scotland’s arms, device, and crest,

Embroidered round and round.

The double tressure might you see,

First by Achaius borne,

The thistle and the fleur de-lis,

And gallant unicorn.

So bright the King’s armorial coat,

 

That scarce the dazzled eye could note,

 

eg. Nea ace ail SOF = omer ar r
= a ee TiTHE CAMP. 27

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In living colours, blazoned brave,

The Lion, which his title gave. ca oe . |

A train which well beseemed his state, Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court |

But all unarmed, around him wait. But pens the lazy steer and sheep, |
Still is thy name in high account, Thy turrets rude, and tottered Keep

And still thy verse has charms, Have been the minstrel s loved resort. |

Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, Oft have I traced, within thy fort, |

Lord Lion King-at-arms ! Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, |

Scutcheons of honour, or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,

 

|

Vill. R . f rud ific |

: emains of rude magnificence, |

Down from his horse did Marmion spring, Nor wholly yet hath time defaced |
Soon as he saw the Lion-King ; Thy lordly gallery fair ;
For well the stately Baron knew Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, |
To him such courtesy was due, Whose twisted knots with roses laced,
Whom royal James himself had crowned, Adorn thy ruined stair. |
And on his temples placed the round Still rises unimpaired, below,
Of Scotland’s ancient diadem ; The court-yard’s graceful portico ; Hl
And wet his brow with hallowed wine, Above its cornice, row and row |
And on his finger given to shine Of fair hewn facets richly show i
The emblematic gem. Their pointed diamond form, i
Their mutual greetings duly made, Though there but houseless cattle go, i
The Lion thus his message said :— To shield them from the storm. |
“Though Scotland’s King hath deeply swore And, shuddering, still may we explore, 1
Ne’er to knit faith with Henry more, Where oft whilom were captives pent, ;
And strictly hath forbid resort The darkness of thy Massy More ;* |
From England to his royal court ; Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, |
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion’s name, May trace, in undulating line, i
And honours much his warlike fame, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. |

My liege hath deemed it shame, and lack |
Of courtesy, to turn him back : |

XII. i
And, by his order, I, your guide, Another aspect Crichtoun showed, |
Must lodging fit and fair provide,

; : As through its portal Marmion rode ;
Till finds King James meet time to see

The flower of English chivalry.”— But yet ‘twasmclancholy, state
au ae Received him at the outer gate ;

For none were in the castle then

 

Ix, But women, boys, or aged men.
e a / 7 T. a] a nt ay 7 oe
Though inly chafed at this delay, With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame,
= . . : To welcome noble Marmion, came ;
Lord Marmion bears it as he may. ee
Tho D . . Dee as Her son, a stripling twelve years old, |
The Palmer, his mysterious guide, - Becca oe: hold
Behold asehie ol ed Proffered the Baron’s rein to hold ;
eholding thus his place supplied, s
1 . For each man that could draw a sword
Sought to take leave in vain: seo. +s ‘ :
Ai coe j ae 1 Had marched that morning with their lord ;
strict was tlre Lion-King’s command, at eee ie wis ded
That none who rode in Marmion’s band agin mere tens Gee vi la
1 . On Flodden by his sovereign’s side.
Should sever from the train : : : ee,
7 : Long may his lady look in vain !
“ Kngland has here enow of spies oe : ‘
den Thad Er Grae ehine anaes? She ne’er shall see his gallant train
7 M y | Hite fee - ie cad Come sweeping back through Crichtoun-Dean.
Gee ae Ae? ’Twas a brave race, before the name
But fair pretext to Marmi 1 oe ?
es ee ee Of hated Bothwell stained their fame
The right-hand path they now decline, : |
And trace against the stream the Tyne. en |

And here two days did Marmion rest,

Z With every rite that honour claims,
At length up that wild dale they wind, Attended as the king’s own guest ;
Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank ; Such the command of Royal James,
For there the Lion’s care assigned Who marshalled then his land’s array,
A lodging meet for Marmion’s rank. Upon the Borough-moor that lay.
That Castle rises on the steep Perchance he would not foeman’s eye
Of the green vale of Tyne ; Upon his gathering host should pry,
And, far beneath, where slow they creep Till full prepared was every band
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, To march against the English land.
Where alders moist, and willows weep, Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay’s wit
You hear her streams repine. Oft cheer the Baron’s moodier fit :
The towers in different ages rose ; And, in his turn, he knew to prize
Their various architecture shows | Lord Marmion’s powerful mind and wise,—
The builders’ various hands ; Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece,
A mighty mass that could oppose, And policies of war and peace.

 

When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands. * The pit or prison-vault, See Note.XIY.
It chanced, as fell the second night,
| That on the battlements they walked,
| And, by the slowly-fading light,
| Of varying topics talked ;
nd, unaware, the Herald-bard
aid, Marmion might his toil have spared,
In travelling so far ;
For that a messenger from heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
| Against the English war :
And, closer questioned, thus he told
| A tale, which chronicles of old

| In Scottish story have enrolled :—

TD b>

>
Str Dahtt Lindesay’s Tale.

|

}

|

| “ Of all the palaces so fair,

| Built for the royal dwelling,

} In Scotland, far beyond compare,

| Linlithgow is excelling ;

|| And in its park, in jovial June,

| How sweet the merry linnet’s tune,

| _ How blithe the blackbird’s lay !

|| The wild buck bells * from ferny brake,

|| The coot dives merry on the lake,

The saddest heart might pleasure take
To see all nature gay.

But June is to our Sovereign dear

| The heaviest month in all the year :

| Too well his cause of grief you know,—
June saw his father’s overthrow.
Woe to the traitors who could bring
The princely boy against his King !
Still in his conscience burns the sting.

_ In offices as strict as Lent,

_ King James’s June is ever spent.

XVI,
“ When last this ruthful month was come,
And in Linlithgow’s holy dome
The King, as wont, was praying ;
While, for his royal father’s soul
The chaunters sung, the bells did toll,
The Bishop mass was saying—
For now the year brought round again
The day the luckless king was slain—
In Katharine’s aisle the monarch knelt,
With sackcloth shirt, and iron belt,
And eyes with sorrow streaming ;
Around him, in their stalls of state,
The Thistle’s Knight-Companions sate,
Their banners o’er them beaming.
I too was there, and, sooth to tell,
Bedeafened with the jangling knell,
Was watching where the sunbeams fell,
Through the stained casement gleaming ;
But while I marked what next befel,
It seemed as I were dreaming.
Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight,
In azure gown, with cincture white ;
His forehead bald, his head was bare,
| Down hung at length his yellow hair.—
| Now, mock me not when, good my Lord,
| I pledge to you my knightly word,
| That, when I saw his placid grace,

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MARMION.

 

So stately gliding on,—

Seemed to me ne’er did limner paint

So just an image of the Saint

Who propped the Virgin in her faint,—
The loved Apostle John.

XVII.

“ He stepped before the Monarch’s chair,

And stood with rustic plainness there,
And little reverence made ;

Nor head, nor body, bowed nor bent,

But on the desk his arm he leant,
And words like these he said,

In a low voice,—but never tone

So thrilled through vein, and nerve, and bone:
‘ My Mother sent me from afar,
Sir King, to warn thee not to war,—

Woe waits on thine array ;

If war thou wilt, of woman fair,

Her witching wiles, and wanton snare,

James Stuart, doubly warned, beware:
God keep thee as he may !’—

The wondering Monarch seemed to seek
For answer, and found none;

And when he raised his head to speak,
The monitor was gone.

The Marshal and myself had cast

To stop him as he outward passed ;

But lighter than the whirlwind’s blast
He vanished from our eyes,

Like sunbeam on the billow cast,
That glances but, and dies.’’

 

XVIII,
While Lindesay told this marvel strange,
The twilight was so pale,
He marked not Marmion’s colour change,
While listening to the tale:
But, after a suspended pause,
The Baron spoke :—“ Of Nature’s laws
So strong I held the force,
That never superhuman cause
Could e’er control their course ;
And, three days since, had judged your aim
Was but to make your guest your game :
But I have seen, since past the Tweed,
What much has changed my sceptic creed,
And made me credit aught.’’—He stayed,
And seemed to wish his words unsaid:
But, by that strong emotion pressed,
Which prompts us to unload our breast,
Even when discovery’s pain,
To Lindesay did at length unfold
The tale his village host had told,
At Gifford, to his train.
Nought of the Palmer says he there,
And nought of Constance, or of Clare:
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he seems
To mention but as feverish dreams.

AIX.
“Jn vain,’’ said he, “to rest I spread
My burning limbs, and couched my head:
Fantastic thoughts returned ;
And, by their wild dominion led,
My heart within me burned.

 

 

oa ee iat a
=o I
Pa aa aa

So sore was the delirious goad,

I took my steed, and forth I rode,

- | And, as the moon shone bright and cold,
Soon reached the camp upon the wold.

His simple majesty of face,
His solemn bearing, and his pace

 

 

* An ancient word for the cry of deer. See Note.

 

 

 

 

Race SadTHE CAMP.

 

 

 

 

The southern entrance I passed through,
And halted, and my bugle blew.
Methought an answer met my ear,—
Yet was the blast so low and drear,

So hollow, and so faintly blown,

It might be echo of my own.

xx.
“ Thus judging, for a little space
I listened, ere [I left the place ;
But scarce could trust my eyes,
Nor yet can think they served me true,
When sudden in the ring I view,
In form distinct of shape and hue,
A mounted champion rise.
I’ve fought, Lord-Lion, many a day,
In single fight, and mixed affray,
And ever, I myself may say,
Have borne me as a knight 5
But when this unexpected foe
Seemed starting from the gulf below,—
I care not though the truth I show,—
I trembled with affright ;
And as I placed in rest my spear,
My hand so shook for very fear,
I scarce could couch it right.
xX.
“Why need my tongue the issue tell ?
We ran our course,—my charger fell ;—
What could he ’gainst the shock of hell ?—
I rolled upon the plain.
High o’er my head, with threatening hand,
The spectre shook his naked brand,—
Yet did the worst remain ;
My dazzled eyes | upward cast,—
Not opening hell itself could blast
Their sight, like what I saw !
Full on his face the moonbeam strook,—
A face could never be mistook !
I knew the stern vindictive look,
And held my breath for awe.
I saw the face of one who, fled
To foreign climes, has long been dead,—
I well believe the last ;
For ne’er, from visor raised, did stare
A human warrior, with a glare
So grimly and so ghast.
Thrice o’er my head he shook the blade:
But when to good Saint George I prayed,
(The first time e’er I asked his aid,)
He plunged it in the sheath ;
And, on his courser mounting light,
He seemed to vanish from my sight:
The moonbeam drooped, and deepest night
Sunk down upon the heath.—
’T'were long to tell what cause I have
To know his face that met me there,
Called by his hatred from the grave,
To cumber upper air ;
Dead, or alive, good cause had he
To be my mortal enemy.” —

XXII.

Marvelled Sir David of the Mount ;
Then, learned in story, ’gan recount
Such chance had happed of old,
When once, near Norham, there did fight
A spectre fell of fiendish might,
In likeness of a Scottish knight,
With Brian Bulmer bold,

 

 

aaa atari

And trained him nigh to disallow
The aid of his baptismal vow.
“ And such a phantom, too, ’tis said,
With Highland broad-sword, targe, and plaid,
And fingers red with gore,
Is seen in Rothiemurchus glade,
Or where the sable pine-trees shade
Dark Tomantoul, and Achnaslaid,
Droumochty, or Glenmore. *
And yet, whate’er such legends say,
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay,
On mountain, moor, or plain,
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold,
True son of chivalry should hold
These midnight terrors vain ;
For seldom have such spirits power
To harm, save in the eyil hour,
When guilt we meditate within,
Or harbour unrepented sin.’’—
Lord Marmion turned him half aside,
And twice to clear his voice he tried,
Then pressed Sir David’s hand,—
But nought, at length, in answer said ;
And here their farther converse stayed,
Each ordering that his band
Should bowne them with the rising day,
To Scotland’s camp to take their way,—
Such was the King’s command.

XXIII.

Early they took Dun-Edin’s road,

And I could trace each step they trode ;
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone,
Lies on the path to me unknown.

Much might it boast of storied lore ;
But, passing such digression 0’er,
Suffice it that their route was laid
Across the furzy hills of Braid.

They passed the glen, and scanty rill,
And climbed the opposing bank, until
They gained the top of Blackford Hill.

XXIV.

Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast,
Among the broom, and thorn, and whin,
A truant-boy, I sought the nest,
Or listed, as I lay at rest,
While rose, on breezes thin,
The murmur of the city crowd,
And from his steeple, jangling loud,
Saint Giles’s mingling din.—
Now from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain!
And o’er the landscape as I look,
Nought do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude clifis and chiming brook :
To me they make a heavy moan
Of early friendships past and gone.

XXKV.

But different far the change has been,
Since Marmion, from the crown

Of Blackford, saw that martial scene
Upon the bent so brown:

Thousand pavilions, white as snow,

Spread all the Borough-moor below,
Upland, and dale, and down ;—

 

* See the traditions concerning Bulmer, and the spectre
called Lhamdearg, or Bloody-hand, in a note on Canto III.wire as = c= 2 = aE
ee ere oo

ag a a See

7 CEs

 

 

 

A thousand did I say? I ween,

Thousands on thousands there were seen,

That chequered all the heath between
The streamlet and the town:

In crossing ranks extending far,

Forming a camp irregular ;

Oft giving way, where still there stood

Some reliques of the old oak wood,

That darkly huge did intervene,

And tamed the glaring white with green:

In these extended lines there lay

A martial kingdom’s vast array.

XXXVI.

For from Hebudes, dark with rain,

To eastern Lodon’s fertile plain,

And from the southern Redswire edge,
| To farthest Rosse’s rocky ledge ;
From west to east, from south to north,
Scotland sent all her warriors forth.
Marmion might hear the mingled hum
Of myriads up the mountain come ;
The horses’ tramp, and tinkling clank,

Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank,
| _ And chargers’ shrilling neigh ;
And see the shifting lines advance,
While frequent flashed, from shield and lance,

The sun’s reflected ray.

}
|
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| XXVIIL.

_ Thin curling in the morning air,

The wreaths of failing smoke declare,

To embers now the brands decayed,

Where the night-watch their fires had made.
| They saw, slow rolling on the plain,

Full many a baggage cart and wain,

And dire artillery’s clumsy ear,

By sluggish oxen tugged to war;

And there were Borthwick’s Sisters Seven *,
And culverins which France had given. +
Ill-omened gift! the guns remain

The conqueror’s spoil on Flodden plain.

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XXVIIT.

Nor marked they less, where in the air

A thousand streamers flaunted fair ;
Various in shape, device, and hue,
Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,

Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,

Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol+, there
O’er the pavilions flew.

Highest and midmost, was descried

The royal banner floating wide ;

The staff, a pine-tree strong and straight,
Pitched deeply in a massive stone,
Which still in memory is shown,

Yet bent beneath the standard’s weight,
Whene’er the western wind unrolled,
With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,

And gave to view the dazzling field,

Where, in proud Scotland’s royal shield,

The ruddy Lion ramped in gold.

XXX.
Lord Marmion viewed the landscape bright,—
He viewed it with a chief’s delight,—
Until within him burned his heart,
And lightning from his eye did part,

 

* Seven culverins so ealled, cast by one Borthwick.
{ Each of these feudal ensigns intimated the different
rank of those entitled to display them.

 

 

30 MARMION.

As on the battle-day ;
Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.
“Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay ;
For, by Saint George, were that host mine,
Not power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimmed their armour’s shine
In glorious battle fray !’’—
Answered the bard, of milder mood :
“ Fair is the sight,—and yet ’twere good,
That kings would think withal,
When peace and wealth their land has blessed,
°*Tis better to sit still at rest,
Than rise, perchance, to fall.’ —

 

XXX.
Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed,
For fairer scene he ne’er surveyed.
When sated with the martial show
That peopled all the plain below,
The wandering eye could o’er it go,
And mark the distant city glow
With gloomy splendour red ;
For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,
That round her sable turrets flow,
The morning beams were shed,
And tinged them with a lustre proud,
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud.
| Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,
Where the huge Castle holds its state,
And all the steep slope down,
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,
Piled deep and massy, close and high,
Mine own romantic town!
But northward far, with purer blaze,
On Ochil mountains fell the rays,
And as each heathy top they kissed,
It gleamed a purple amethyst.
Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ;
Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law ;
And, broad between them rolled,
The gallant Firth the eye might note,
Whose islands on its bosom float,
Like emeralds chased in gold.
Fitz-Eustace’ heart felt closely pent ;
As if to give his rapture vent,
The spur he to his charger lent,
And raised his bridle-hand,
And, making demi-volte in air,
Cried, “ Where’s the coward that would not
dare
To fight for such a land!”’
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see ;
Nor Marmion’s frown repressed his glee.

 

XXXII.

Thus, while they looked, a flourish proud,
Where mingled trump, and clarion loud,
And fife, and kettle-drum,

And sackbut deep, and psaltery,

And war-pipe with discordant ery,

And cymbal clattering to the sky,
Making wild music bold and high,

Did up the mountain come ;

The whilst the bells, with distant chime,
Merrily told the hour of prime,INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH. 31

 

And thus the Lindesay spoke :—
“Thus clamour still the war-notes when
The king to mass his way has ta’en,

Or to St. Katherine’s of Sienne,

Or chapel of Saint Roeque.

To you they speak of martial fame ;
But me remind of peaceful game,

When blither was their cheer,
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air,

In signal none his steed should spare,
But strive which foremost might repair
To the downfal of the deer.

XXXII.

*¢ Nor less,”’ he said,—“ when looking forth,
I view yon Empress of the North
Sit on her hilly throne ;
Her palace’s imperial bowers,
Her castle, proof to hostile powers,
Her stately halls and holy towers—
Nor less,” he said, “ I moan,
To think what woe mischance may bring,
And how these merry bells may ring
The death-dirge of our gallant king ;

 

Or, with their larum, call
The burghers forth to watch and ward,
’Gainst southern sack and fires to guard
Dun-Edin’s leaguered wall.—
But not for my presaging thought,
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought !
Lord Marmion, I say nay :
God is the guider of the field,
He breaks the champion’s spear and shield,—
But thou thyself shalt say,
When joins yon host in deadly stowre,
That England’s dames must weep in bower,
Her monks the death-mass sing ;
For never saw’st thou such a power
Led on by such a King.”—
And now, down-winding to the plain,
The barriers of the camp they gain,
And there they made a stay.—
There stays the minstrel till he fling
His hand o’er every Border string,
And fit his harp the pomp to sing,
Of Scotland’s ancient Court and King,
In the succeeding lay.

 

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIFTH.

TO
GEORGE ELLIS, Eso.
eae ges

WHEN dark December glooms the day,
And takes our autumn joys away ;
When short and scant the sun-beam throws
Upon the weary waste of snows,

A cold and profitless regard,

Like patron on a needy bard ;

When sylvan oecupation’s done,

And o’er the chimney rests the gun,
And hang, in idle trophy, near,

The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear ;
When wiry terrier rough and grim,

And greyhound, with his length of limb,
And pointer, now employed no more,
Cumber our parlour’s narrow floor ;
When in his stall the impatient steed

Is long condemned to rest and feed ;
When from our snow-encireled home,
Searce cares the hardiest step to roam,
Since path is none, save that to bring
The needful water from the spring ;
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conned o’er,
Beguiles the dreary hour no more,

And darkling politician crossed,
Inveighs against the lingering post,

And answering housewife sore complains
Of carriers’ snow-impeded wains :

When such the country cheer, I come,
Well pleased, to seek our city home ;
For converse, and for books, to change
The Forest’s melancholy range,

And welcome, with renewed delight,
The busy day, and social night.

Not here need my desponding rhyme
Lament the ravages of time,
As erst by Newark’s riven towers,
And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers*.

|
Edinburgh. |

 

* See Introduction to Canto IL.

 

True,—Caledonia’s Queen is changed,
Since, on her dusky summit ranged,
Within its steepy limits pent,

By bulwark, line, and battlement,

And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrisoned she stood,
Denying entrance or resort,

Save at each tall embattled port ;

Above whose arch, suspended, hung
Portcullis spiked with iron prong.

That long is gone,—but not so long,
Since, early closed and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate,
Whose task from eve to morning tide

A wicket churlishly supplied.

Stern, then, and steel-girt was thy brow,
Dun-Edin! O, how altered now,

When safe amid thy mountain court
Thou sitt’st, like empress at her sport,
And, liberal, unconfined, and free,
Flinging thy white arms to the sea.

For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower,
That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower,
Thou gleam’st against the western ray
Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

Not she, the championess of old,
In Spenser’s magic tale enrolled,—
She for the charmed spear renowned,
Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,—
Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,
What time she was Malbecco’s guest*,
She gave to flow her maiden vest ;
When, from the corselet’s grasp relieved,
Free to the sight her bosom heaved ;
Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,
Erst hidden by the aventayle ;
And down her shoulders graceful rolled
Her locks profuse of paly gold.
They who whilom, in midnight fight,
Had marvelled at her matchless might,

* See ‘* The Fairy Queen,” Book III. Canto IX.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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| No less her maiden charms approved,
But looking liked, and liking loved*.

| The sight could jealous pangs beguile,
And charm Malbecco’s cares awhile ;

Forgot his Columbella’s claims,

And passion, erst unknown, could gain
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ;
Nor durst light Paridel advance,

| Bold as he was, a looser glance.

Incomparable Britomarte !

So thou, fair City! disarrayed
| Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid,
| As stately seem’st, but lovelier far
Than in that panoply of war.
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne
Strength and security are flown ;
Still, as of yore, Queen of the North!
Still canst thou send thy children forth.
Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,
Than now, in danger, shall be thine,
Thy dauntless Voluntary line ;
For fosse and turret proud to stand,
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.
Thy thousands trained to martial toil,
Full red would stain their native soil,
Ere from thy mural crown there fell
The slightest knosp, or pinnacle.
And if it come,—as come it may,
Dun-Edin ! that eventful day,—
Renowned for hospitable deed,

 

In patriarchal times whose care
Descending angels deigned to share ;
That claim may wrestle blessings down
On those who fight for the Good Town,
Destined in every age to be

Refuge of injured royalty ;

Since first, when conquering York arose,
To Henry meek she gave repose,

Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,
Great Bourbon’s reliques sad she saw.

How gladly I avert mine eyes,

Bodings, or true, or false, to change,
For Fiction’s fair romantic range,

Or for Tradition’s dubious light,

That hovers ’twixt the day and night :
Dazzling alternately and dim,

Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,
Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see,
Creation of my fantasy,

Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,

And make of mists invading men.—
Who loves not more the night of June
Than dull December’s gloomy noon ?
The moonlight than the fog of frost ?
And can we say, which cheats the most ?

But who shall teach my harp to gain

A sound of the romantic strain,

Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
Could win the royal Henry’s ear,

Famed Beauclere called, for that he loved
The minstrel, and his lay approved ?

 

 

 

 

And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,

She charmed, at once, and tamed the heart,

That virtue much with Heaven may plead,

Truce to these thoughts !—for, as they rise,

* For every one her liked, and every one her loved.”

Who shall these lingering notes redeem,
Decaying on Oblivion’s stream ;

Such notes as from the Breton tongue
Marie translated, Blondel sung ?—

O! born Time’s ravage to repair,

And make the dying muse thy care ;
Who, when his scythe her hoary foe
Was poising for the final blow,

The weapon from his hand could wring,
And break his glass, and shear. his wing,
And bid, reviving in his strain,

The gentle poet live again :

Thou, who canst give to lightest lay

An unpedantic moral gay,

Nor less the dullest theme bid flit

On wings of unexpected wit ;

In letters as in life approved,

Example honoured, and beloved,—
Dear Exxis! to the bard impart

A lesson of thy magic art,

To win at once the head and heart,—
At once to charm, instruct, and mend,
My guide, my pattern, and my friend !

Such minstrel lesson to bestow
Be long thy pleasing task,—but, O!
No more by thy example teach
What few can practise, all can preach ;
With even patience to endure
Lingering disease, and painful cure,
And boast affliction’s pangs subdued
By mild and manly fortitude.
Enough, the lesson has been given:
Forbid the repetition, Heaven !

Come listen, then! for thou hast known
And loved the Minstrel’s varying tone,
Who, like his Border sires of old,
Waked a wild measure rude and bold,
Till Windsor’s oaks, and Ascot plain,
With wonder heard the northern strain.
Come, listen !—bold in thy applause,
The Bard shall scorn pedantic laws ;
And, as the ancient art could stain
Achievements on the storied pane,
Irregularly traced and planned,

But yet so glowing and so grand;

So shall he strive, in changeful hue,
Field, feast, and combat, to renew,

And loves, and arms, and harpers’ glee,
And all the pomp of chivalry.

 

CANTO THE FIFTH.

Che Court.

I.

Tue train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground ;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes as they rode through

Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare ;
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes ;

 

SPENSER, as above.

Such length of shafts, such mighty bows,|
|

|

So huge, that many simply thought,

But for a vaunt such weapons wrought ;
And little deemed their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of steel
When, rattling upon Flodden vale,

The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.

>

Lie

Nor less did Marmion’s skilful view

Glance every line and squadron through ;

And much he marvelled one small land

Could marshal forth such various band :
For men-at-arms were here,

Heavily sheathed in mail and plate,

Like iron towers for strength and weight,

On Flemish steeds of bone and height,
With battle-axe and spear.

Young knights and squires, a lighter train,

Practised their chargers on the plain,

By aid of leg, of hand, and rein,
Each warlike feat to show;

To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,

And high curvett, that not in vain

The sword-sway might descend amain
On foeman’s casque below.

He saw the hardy burghers there

March armed, on foot, with faces bare,
For visor they wore none,

Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ;

But burnished were their corslets bright,

Their brigantines, and gorgets light,
Like very silver shone.

Long pikes they had for standing fight,
Two-handed swords they wore,

And many wielded mace of weight,
And bucklers bright they bore.

Itt.

On foot the yeoman too, but dressed
In his steel jack, a swarthy vest,

With iron quilted well;

Each at his back, (a slender sto re, )
His forty days’ provision bore,

As feudal statutes tell.

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear,
A_cross-bow there, a hagbut here,

A dagger-knife, and brand.—
Sober he seemed, and sad of cheer,
As loth to leave his cottage dear,

And march to foreign strand ;

Or musing, who would guide his steer,

To till the fallow land.

Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye
Did aught of dastard terror lie ;

More dreadful far his ire,

Than theirs who, scorning danger’s name,
In eager mood to battle came,
Their valour like light straw on flame,

A fierce but fading fire.

Ivy.
Not so the Borderer :—bred to war,
He knew the battle’s din afar,
And joyed to hear it swell.
His peaceful day was slothful ease ;
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please,
Like the loud slogan yell.
On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-armed pricker plied his trade,—

ra

THE COURT.

 

Yet nobles fight for fame ;
Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers, to guard their townships, bleed,
But war’s the Borderers’ game.
Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,

O’er mountain, moss, and moor

| Joyful to fight they took their way,
Searce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure.
These, as Lord Marmion’s train passed by,
Looked on at first with careless eye,
Nor marvelled aught, well taught to know
The form and force of English bow.
But when they saw the Lord arrayed
| Insplendid arms, and rich brocade,
| Each Borderer to his kinsman said,—

“ Hist, Ringan! seest thou there !
Canst guess which road they’ll homeward ride?
O! could we but on Border side,

By Eusedale glen, or Liddell’s tide,

Beset a prize so fair!

That fangless Lion, too, their guide,

Might chance to lose his glistering hide ;

Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied
Could make a kirtle rare.”—

Vin
Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race,
Of different language, form, and face,
A various race of man;
Just then the chiefs their tribes arrayed,
And wild and garish semblance made,
The chequered trews, and belted plaid,
And varying notes the war-pipes brayed,
To every varying clan,
Wild through their red or sable hair
| Looked out their eyes, with savage stare,
| _ On Marmion as he passed ;
| Their legs above the knee were bare;
| Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare,
And hardened to the blast ;
Of taller race, the chiefs they own
Were by the eagle’s plumage known.
The hunted red-deer’s undressed hide
Their hairy buskins well supplied ;
The graceful bonnet decked their head ;
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid ;
| A broad-sword of unwieldy length,
| A dagger proved for edge and strength,
|
|

 

|
|
|
|

A studded targe they wore,
And quivers, bows, and shafts,—but O!
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow,
To that which England bore.
The Isles-men carried at their backs
The ancient Danish battle-axe,
They raised a wild and wondering cry,
As with his guide rode Marmion by.
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as when
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen,
And, with their cries discordant mixed,
Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt.

VI.
Thus through the Scottish camp they passed,
And reached the City gate at last,
Where all around, a wakeful guard,
Armed burghers kept their watch and ward.
Well had they cause of jealous fear,
When lay encamped in field so near,
The Borderer and the Mountaineer.

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34 MARMION.

 

As through the bustling streets they go,

All was alive with martial show ;

At every turn, with dinning clang,

The armourer’s anvil clashed and rang,

Or toiled the swarthy smith to wheel

The bar that arms the charger’s heel 5

Or axe, or faulchion, to the side

Of jarring grindstone was applied.
Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying pace,
Through street, and lane, and market-place,

Bore lance, or casque, or sword ;
While burghers, with important face,
Deseribed each new-come lord,

Discussed his lineage, told his name,
His following*, and his warlike fame.—

The Lion led to lodging meet,

Which high o’erlooked the crowded street ;
There must the Baron rest,

Till past the hour of vesper tide,

And then to Holy-Rood must ride,—
Such was the King’s behest.

Meanwhile the Lion’s care assigns

A banquet rich, and costly wines,
To Marmion and his train:

And when the appointed hour succeeds,

The Baron dons his peaceful weeds,

And following Lindesay as he leads,
The palace-halls they gain.

VIL.

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily,

That night, with wassel, mirth, and glee ;

King James within her princely bower

Feasted the chiefs of Scotland’s power,

Summoned to spend the parting hour:
For he had charged, that his array
Should southward march by break of day.
Well loved that splendid monarch aye

The banquet and the song,
By day the tourney, and by night
The merry dance, traced fast and light,
The masquers quaint, the pageant bright,
The revel loud and long.
This feast outshone his banquets past ;
It was his blithest,—and his last.

The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay,

Cast on the court a dancing ray ;

Here to the harp did minstrels sing ;

There ladies touched a softer string ;

With long-eared cap, and motley vest,

The licensed fool retailed his jest ;

His magic tricks the juggler plied :

At dice and draughts the gallants vied ;
While some, in close recess apart,
Courted the ladies of their heart,

Nor courted them in vain ;
For often, in the parting hour,
Victorious Love asserts his power
O’er coldness and disdain ;
And flinty is her heart, can view
To battle march a lover true—
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu,
Nor own her share of pain.

VII.

Through this mixed crowd of glee and game,
The King to greet Lord Marmion came,

 

* Following—Feudal retainers.

 

 

 

While, reverent, all made room.
An easy task it was, I trow,
King James’s manly form to know,
Although, his courtesy to show,
He doffed, to Marmion bending low,
His broidered cap and plume.
For royal were his garb and mien,
His cloak of crimson velvet piled,
Trimmed with the fur of martin wild;
His vest of changeful satin sheen,
The dazzled eye beguiled ;
His gorgeous collar hung adown,
Wrought with the badge of Scotland’s crown,
The thistle brave, of old renown ;
His trusty blade, Toledo right,
Descended from a baldric bright 5
White were his buskins, on the heel
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel ;
His bonnet, all of crimson fair,
Was buttoned with a ruby rare:
And Marmion deemed he ne’er had seen
A prince of such a noble mien.

IX.
The Monarch’s form was middle size ;
For feat of strength, or exercise,
Shaped in proportion fair ;
And hazel was his eagle eye,
And auburn of the darkest dye
His short curled beard and hair.
Light was his footstep in the dance,
And firm his stirrup in the lists ;
And, oh! he had that merry glance
That seldom lady’s heart resists.
Lightly from fair to fair he flew,
And loved to plead, lament, and sue ;
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain,
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.

I said he joyed in banquet-bower 5
But, ’mid his mirth, ’twas often strange,
How suddenly his cheer would change,

His look o’ercast and lower,

If, in a sudden turn, he felt

The pressure of his iron belt,

That bound his breast In penance pain,
In memory of his father slain.

Even so ’twas strange how, evermore,

Soon as the passing pang was 0o’er,

Forward he rushed with double glee,

Into the stream of revelry:

Thus, dim-seen object of affright

Startles the courser in his flight,

And half he halts, half springs aside 5

But feels the quickening spur applied,

And, straining on the tightened rein,

Scours doubly swift o’er hill and plain.

x

O’er James’s heart, the courtiers say,
Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway:
To Scotland’s court she came,

To be a hostage for her lord,

Who Cessford’s gallant heart had gored,
And with the King to make accord,
Had sent his lovely dame.

Nor to that lady free alone

Did the gay King allegiance own ;
For the fair Queen of France

Sent him a Turquois ring, and glove,

 

And charged him, as her knight and love,THE COURT. 35

For her to break a lance ;
And strike three strokes with Scottish brand,
And march three miles on Southron land,
And bid the banners of his band
In English breezes dance.
And thus, for France’s Queen, he dress’d
His manly limbs in mailed vest ;
And thus admitted English fair
His inmost counsels still to share :
And thus, for both, he madly planned
The ruin of himself and land:
And yet, the sooth to tell,
Nor England’s fair, nor France’s Queen,
Were worth one pearl-drop bright and sheen
From Margaret’s eyes that fell,—
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow’s bower,
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour.

XI,

The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile,

And weeps the weary day,
The war against her native soil,
Her Monarch’s risk in battle broil ;—
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while,
Dame Heron rises with a smile

Upon the harp to play.
Fair was her rounded arm, as 0’er

The strings her fingers flew ;
And as she touched and tuned them all,
Ever her bosom’s rise and fall

Was plainer given to view;
For all, for heat, was laid aside,
Her wimple, and her hood untied.
And first she pitched her voice to sing,
Then glanced her dark eye on the King,
And then around the silent ring ;
And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay,
She could not, would not, durst not play!
At length, upon the harp, with glee,
Mingled with arch simplicity,
A soft, yet lively air she rung,
While thus the wily lady sung :—

XII.

LOCHINVAR.
Lady Beron’s Song.

O, voune Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And saye his good broad-sword he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinyar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ;
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

“¢O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? ”»—

*‘T long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”—

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
‘* Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That neyer a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, ‘‘’I'were better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinyar.”—

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood
near ;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochin-
var.

There was mounting "mong Greemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they
ran ;

There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

XIII.

The Monarch o’er the syren hung,
And beat the measure as she sung 5
And pressing closer, and more near,
He whispered praises in her ear:
In loud applause the courtiers vied ;
And ladies winked, and spoke aside.

The witching dame to Marmion threw

A glance, where seemed to reign
The pride that claims applauses due,
And of her royal conquest, too,
A real or feigned disdain :

Familiar was the look, and told,

Marmion and she were friends of old.
The King observed their meeting eyes,
With something like displeased surprise ;
For monarchs ill can rivals brook,
Even in a word, or smile, or look.
Straight took he forth the parchment broad,
Which Marmion’s high commission showed :
“ Our Borders sacked by many a raid,
Our peaceful liege-men robbed,’’ he said ;
“ On day of truce our Warden slain,
Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta’en—
Unworthy were we here to reign,
Should these for vengeance ery in vain:
Our full defiance, hate, and scorn,
Our herald has to Henry borne.’’—

XIV.

He paused, and led where Douglas stood,
And with stern eye the pageant viewed :
I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore,

Who coronet of Angus bore,
And, when his blood and heart were high,
Did the third James in camp defy,
And all his minions led to die
On Lauder’s dreary flat:
Princes and favourites long grew tame,
And trembled at the homely name
Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat;
The same who left the dusky vale
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale,
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36 MARMION.

 

 

 

Its dungeons, and its towers,

Where Bothwell’s turrets brave the air,

And Bothwell bank is blooming fair,
To fix his princely bowers.

Though now, in age, he had laid down

His armour for the peaceful gown,
And for a staff his brand ;

Yet often would flash forth the fire,

That could, in youth, a monarch’s ire
And minion’s pride withstand ;

And even that day, at council board,
Unapt to sooth his sovereign’s mood,
Against the war had Angus stood,

And chafed his royal Lord.

XV.
His giant form, like ruined tower,
Though fallen its muscles’ brawny vaunt,
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and gaunt,
Seemed o’er the gaudy scene to lower:
His locks and beard in silver grew ;
His eyebrows kept their sable hue.
Near Douglas when the Monarch stood,
His bitter speech he thus pursued :—
“‘ Lord Marmion, since these letters say,
That in the North you needs must stay,
While slightest hopes of peace remain,
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern,
To say—Return to Lindisfarne,
Until my herald come again.—
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold;
Your host shall be the Douglas bold,—
A chief unlike his sires of old.
He wears their motto on his blade,
Their blazon o’er his towers displayed ;
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose,
More than to face his country’s foes.
And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen,
But e’en this morn to me was given
A prize, the first-fruits of the war,
Ta’en by a galley from Dunbar,
A bevy of the maids of Heaven.
Under your guard these holy maids
Shall safe return to cloister shades,
And, while they at Tantallon stay,
Requiem for Cochran’s soul may say.”—
And, with the slaughtered favourite’s name,
Across the Monarch’s brow there came
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame.

XVI.
In answer nought could Angus speak ;
His proud heart swelled well nigh to break ;
He turned aside, and down his cheek
A burning tear there stole.
His hand the Monarch sudden took,
That sight his kind heart could not brook :
“ Now, by the Bruce’s soul,
Angus, my hasty speech forgive!
For sure as doth his spirit live,
As he said of the Douglas old,
I well may say of you,—
That never King did subject hold,
In speech more free, in war more bold,
More tender, and more true :*
Forgive me, Douglas, once again.” —
And, while the King his hand did strain,
The old man’s tears fell down like rain.

 

* O, Dowglas! Dowglas!
Tendir and trew.—The Houlate.

 

To seize the moment Marmion tried,
And whispered to the King aside :-—
“Oh! let such tears unwonted plead
For respite short from dubious deed !
A child will weep a bramble’s smart,
A maid to see her sparrow part,

A stripling for a woman’s heart:

But woe awaits a country, when

She sees the tears of bearded men.
Then, oh! what omen, dark and high,
When Douglas wets his manly eye !”—

XVITI-
Displeased was James, that stranger viewed
And tampered with his changing mood.
“ Laugh those that can, weep those that may,”
Thus did the fiery Monarch say,
“¢ Southward I march by break of day ;
And if within Tantallon strong,
The good Lord Marmion tarries long,
Perchance our meeting next may fall
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall.”—
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt,
And answered, grave, the royal vaunt :
“ Much honoured were my humble home,
If in its halls King James should come:
But Nottingham has archers good,
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood;
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude.
On Derby hills the paths are steep ;
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ;
And many a banner will be torn,
And many a knight to earth be borne,
And many a sheaf of arrows spent,
Ere Scotland’s King shall cross the Trent :
Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you may.’’—
The Monarch lightly turned away,
And to his nobles loud did eall,—
“ Lords, to the dance,—a hall! a hall !’’*
Himself his cloak and sword flung by,
And led Dame Heron gallantly ;
And minstrels, at the royal order,
Rung out— Blue Bonnets o’er the Border.’

XVITI.
Leave we these revels now, to tell
What to Saint Hilda’s maids befel,
Whose galley, as they sailed again
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta’en.
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide,
Till James should of their fate decide ;
And soon, by his command,
Were gently summoned to prepare
To journey under Marmion’s care,
As escort, honoured, safe, and fair,
Again to English land.
The Abbess told her chaplet o’er,
Nor knew which Saint she should implore ;
For, when she thought of Constance, sore
She feared Lord Marmion’s mood.
And judge what Clara must have felt!
The sword, that hung in Marmion’s belt,
Had drunk De Wilton’s blood.
Unwittingly King James had given,
As guard to Whitby’s shades,
The man most dreaded under heaven
By these defenceless maids ;
Yet what petition could avail,
Or who would listen to the tale

 

* The ancient cry to make room for a dance, or pageant.THE COURT.

Of woman, prisoner and nun,

Mid bustle of a war begun ?

They deemed it hopeless to avoid
The convoy of their dangerous guide.

xIX,
Their lodging, so the King assigned,
To Marmion’s, as their guardian, joined ;
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh,
The Palmer caught the Abbess’ eye,
Who warned him by a scroll,
She had a secret to reveal,
That much concerned the Church’s weal,
And health of sinners’ soul ;
And with deep charge of secresy,
She named a place to meet,
Within an open baleony,
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high,
Above the stately street ;
To which, as common to each home,
At night they might in secret come.
xX.
At night, in secret, there they came,
The Palmer and the holy dame.
The moon among the clouds rode high,
And all the city hum was by.
Upon the street, where late before
Did din of war and warriors roar,
You might have heard a pebble fall,
A beetle hum, and cricket sing,
An owlet flap his boding wing
On Giles’s. steeple tall.
The antique buildings climbing high,
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky,
Were here wrapped deep in shade ;
There on their brows the moen-beam broke
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke,
And on the casements played.
And other light was none to see,
Save torches gliding far,
Before some chieftain of degree,
Who left the royal revelry
To bowne him for the war.
A solemn scene the Abbess chose ;
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose.
XXI.
“O, holy Palmer!” she began,—
“ For sure he must be sainted man,
Whose blessed feet have trod the ground
Where the Redeemer’s tomb is found ;
For his dear Church’s sake, my tale
Attend, nor deem of light avail,
Though I must speak of worldly love!
How vain to these who wed above!
De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed
Clara de Clare, of Gloster’s blood ;
(Idle it were of Whitby’s dame,
To say of that same blood I came ;)
And once, when jealous rage was high,
Lord Marmion said despiteously,
Wilton was traitor in his heart,
‘And had made league with Martin Swart*,
When he came here on Simnel’s part ;
And only cowardice did restrain
His rebel aid on Stokefield’s plain,—
And down he threw his glove :—the thing
Was tried, as wont, before the King ;

12?

 

* A German general who commanded the auxiliaries
sent by the Duchess of Burgundy with Lambert Simnel,
He was defeated and killed at Stokefield.

 

 

Where frankly did De Wilton own,

That Swart in Guelders he had known :
And that between them then there went
Some seroll of courteous compliment.

For this he to his castle sent ;

But when his messenger returned,

Judge how De Wilton’s fury burned!

For in his packet there were laid

Letters that claimed disloyal aid,

And proved King Henry’s cause betrayed.
His fame, thus blighted, in the field ~
He strove to clear, by spear and shield ;—
To clear his fame in vain he strove,

For wondrous are His ways above !
Perchance some form was unobserved ;

Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved ;

Else how could guiltless champion quail,
Or how the blessed ordeal fail ?
XXII.

“ His squire, who now De Wilton saw
As recreant doomed to suffer law,

Repentant, owned in vain,
That, while he had the scrolls in care,
A stranger maiden, passing fair,
Had drenched him with a beverage rare ;

His words no faith could gain.
With Clare alone he credence won,
Who, rather than wed Marmion,
Did to Saint Hilda’s shrine repair,
To give our house her livings fair,
And die a vestal vot’ress there—
The impulse from the earth was given,
But bent her to the paths of Heaven.
A purer heart, a lovelier maid,
Ne’er sheltered her in Whitby’s shade,
No, not since Saxon Edelfled ;

Only one trace of earthly stain,

That for her lover’s loss
She cherishes a sorrow vain,
And murmurs at the cross.—

And then her heritage !—it goes

Along the banks of Tame ;
Deep fields of grain the reaper mows,
In meadows rich the heifer lows,
The falconer, and huntsman, knows

Its woodlands for the game.
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear,
And I, her humble vot’ress here,

Should do a deadly sin,
Her temple spoiled before mine eyes,
If this false Marmion such a prize

By my consent should win ;
Yet hath our boisterous Monarch sworn,
That Clare shall from our house be torn ;
And grievous cause have I to fear,
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear.

XXIII.

“ Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed
To evil power, I claim thine aid,

By every step that thou hast trod
To holy shrine, and grotto dim,
By every martyr’s tortured limb,
By angel, saint, and seraphim,

And by the Church of God!
For mark :—When Wilton was betrayed,
And with his squire forged letters laid,
She was, alas! that sinful maid,

By whom the deed was done,—
O! shame and horror to be said,

She was—a perjured nun!

 

 

 

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No clerk in all the land, like her, A summons to proclaim ;

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a, '| Traced quaint and varying character.
| | Perchance you may a marvel deem,

That Marmion’s paramour,

(For such vile thing she was,) should scheme
Her lover’s nuptial hour;

But o’er him thus she hoped to gain,

As privy to his honour’s stain,

 

Illimitable power :
For this she secretly retained
Each proof that might the plot reveal,
Instructions with his hand and seal ;
And thus Saint Hilda deigned,
Through sinner’s perfidy impure,
Her house’s glory to secure,
And Clare’s immortal weal.

But indistinct the pageant proud,

As faney forms of midnight cloud,

When flings the moon upon her shroud
A wavering tinge of flame ;

It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud,

From midmost of the spectre crowd,
This awful summons came :—

XXXVI.
“ Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer,
Whose names I now shall eall,
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear!
Subjects of him who sent me here,
At his tribunal to appear,
I summon one and all:

i I cite you by each deadly sin,
; Mi Le XXIV. That e’er hath soiled your hearts within ;
. ts Twere long and needless here to tell, I cite you by each brutal lust,
i, How to my hand these papers fell ; That e’er defiled your earthly dust,—
ty With me they must not stay. By wrath, by pride; by fear,
; i Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true! By each o’ermastering passion’s tone,
Who knows what outrage he might do, By the dark grave, and dying groan !
. if While journeying by the Way When forty days are past and gone,
ik! O blessed Saint, if e’er again : I cite you at your Monarch’s throne,
} ie I venturous leave thy calm domain, To answer and appear.”—!
; Cg To travel or by land or main, Then thundered forth a roll of names:
' ye AN Deep penance may I pay !— The first was thine, unhappy James !
; ee ih Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer : Then all thy nobles came ;
Tag I give this packet to thy care, Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle,
‘ For thee to stop they will not dare ; Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle,—
j , And O! with cautious speed,

 

PT

To Wolsey’s hand the papers bring,
That he may show them to the King ;
And, for thy well-earned meed,
Thou holy man, at Whitby’s shrine
A weekly mass shall still be thine,
While priests can sing and read.—-
What ail’st thou ?—Speak !”—For as he took
The charge, a strong emotion shook
His frame ; and, ere reply,
They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone,
Like distant clarion feebly blown,
That on the breeze did die ;
And loud the Abbess shrieked in fear,
*¢ Saint Withold save us !—What is here!
Look at yon City Cross!
See on its battled tower appear
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear,
And blazoned banners toss !”—
KV:
Dun-Edin’s Cross, a pillared stone,
Rose on a turret octagon ;
(But now is razed that monument,
Whence royal edict rang,
And voice of Scotland’s law was sent
In glorious trumpet clang.
O! be his tomb as lead to lead,
Upon its dull destroyer’s head !-—
A minstrel’s malison* is said.—)

‘Then on its battlements they saw

Why should I tell their separate style ?
Each chief of birth and fame,

Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle,

Fore-doomed to Flodden’s carnage-pile,
Was cited there by name ;

And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye,

Of Lutterward and Scrivelbay,

De Wilton, erst of Aberley,

The self-same thundering voice did say.—
But then another spoke:

“‘ Thy fatal summons I deny,

And thine infernal lord defy,

Appealing me to Him on high,
Who burst the sinner’s yoke.””—

At that dread accent, with a scream,

Parted the pageant like a dream,
The summoner was gone.

Prone on her face the Abbess fell,

And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ;

Her nuns came, startled by the yell,
And found her there alone.

She marked not, at the scene aghast,

What time, or how, the Palmer passed.

XXVII.

Shift we the scene.—The camp doth move,
Dun-Edin’s streets are empty now,
Save when, for weal of those they love,

To pray the prayer, and vow the vow,

 

 

 

 

 

 

me eh The tottering child, the anxious fair,

ays * mL LAGE A vision passing Nature’s law, The grey-haired sire, with pious care,

\ 4 Laide Strange, wild, and dimly seen; To chapels and to shrines repair.—

‘ 4 ite Figures that seemed to rise and die, Where is the Palmer now? and where

Wat gael Gibber and sign, advance and fly, The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare !—
-) it ii While nought confirmed could ear or eye Bold Douglas! to Tantallon fair
f 4 tI Discern of sound or mien. They journey in thy charge:

: i Yet darkly did it seem, as there Lord Marmion rode on his right hand,
Ht ' Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, The Palmer still was with the band ;
mh eed With trumpet sound, and blazon fair, Angus, like Lindesay, did command,

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4THE COURT.

But in that Palmer’s altered mien

A wondrous change might now be seen;
Freely he spoke of war,

Of marvels wrought by single hand,

When lifted for a native land;

And still looked high, as if he planned
Some desperate deed afar.

His-courser would he feed and stroke,

And, tucking up his sable frocke,

Would first his mettle bold provoke,
Then soothe, or quell his pride.

Old Hubert said, that never one

He saw, except Lord Marmion,
A steed so fairly ride.

XXVIII.

Some half-hour’s march behind, there came,
By Eustace governed fair,

A troop escorting Hilda’s Dame,
With all her nuns, and Clare.

No audience had Lord Marmion sought ;
Ever he feared to aggravate
Clara de Clare’s suspicious hate ;

And safer ’twas, he thought,
To wait till, from the nuns removed,
The influence of kinsmen loved,
And suit by Henry’s self approved,

Her slow consent had wrought.
His was no flickering flame, that dies
Unless when fanned by looks and sighs,
And lighted oft at lady’s eyes;
He longed to stretch his wide command
O’er luckless Clara’s ample land:
Besides, when Wilton with him vied,
Although the pang of humbled pride
The place of jealousy supplied,
Yet conquest by that meanness won
He almost loathed to think upon,
Led him, at times, to hate the cause
Which made him burst through honour’s laws.
If e’er he loved, ’twas her alone,
Who died within that vault of stone.

XXIX.
And now, when close at hand they saw
North-Berwick’s town, and lofty Law,
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while,
Before a venerable pile,
Whose turrets viewed, afar,

The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, e

The ocean’s peace or war.
At tolling of a bell, forth came
The convent’s venerable Dame,
And prayed Saint Hilda’s Abbess rest,
With her, a loved and honoured guest
Till Douglas should a bark prepare
To waft her back to Whitby fair.
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess,
And thanked the Scottish Prioress:
And tedious were to tell, I ween,
The courteous speech that passed between.
O’erjoyed the nuns their palfreys leave ;
But when fair Clara did intend,
Like them, from horseback to descend,
Fitz-Eustace said,— I grieve,
Fair lady, grieve e’en from my heart,
Such gentle company to part ;—
Think not discourtesy,
But lords’ commands must be obeyed ;
And Marmion and the Douglas said,
That you must wend with me.

 

 

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Lord Marmion hath a letter broad,
Which to the Scottish Earl he showed,
Commanding, that, beneath his care,
Without delay, you shall repair
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.”—
KXX,
The startled Abbess loud exclaimed ;
But she, at whom the blow was aimed,
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead,—
She deemed she heard her death-doom read.
“ Cheer thee, my child!” the Abbess said,
“They dare not tear thee from my hand,
To ride alone with armed band.”—
“ Nay, holy mother, nay,”
Fitz-Eustace said, “the lovely Clare
Will be in Lady Angus’ care,
In Scotland while we stay ;
And, when we move, an easy ride
Will bring us to the English side,
Female attendance to provide
Befitting Gloster’s heir ;
Nor thinks, nor dreams, my noble lord,
By slightest look, or act, or word
To harass Lady Clare.
Her faithful guardian he will be,
Nor sue for slightest courtesy
That e’en to stranger falls,
Till he shall place her, safe and free,
Within her kinsman’s halls.”
He spoke, and blushed with earnest grace ;
His faith was painted on his face,
And Clare’s worst fear relieved.
The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed,
Entreated, threatened, grieved ;
To martyr, saint, and prophet prayed,
Against Lord Marmion inveighed,
And called the Prioress to aid,
To curse with candle, bell, and book.
Her head the grave Cistertian shook :
“The Douglas, and the King,” she said,
“ In their commands will be obeyed ;
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall
The maiden in Tantallon hall.”—
XXXII.
The Abbess, seeing strife was vain,
Assumed her wonted state again,—
For much of state she had,—

9

‘Composed her veil, and raised her head,

And— Bid,” in solemn voice she said,
“¢ Thy master bold and bad,

The records of his house turn o’er,
And, when he shall there written see,
That one of his own ancestry
Drove the Monks forth of Coventry,

Bid him his fate explore !

Prancing in pride of earthly trust,
His charger hurled him to the dust,
And, by a base plebeian thrust,
He died his band before.
God judge ’twixt Marmion and me,
He is a chief of high degree,
And I a poor recluse ;
Yet oft, in holy writ, we see
Eyen such weak minister as me

May the oppressor bruise ;

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay
The mighty in his sin,

And Jael thus, and Deborah,’—
Here hasty Blount broke in :

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40 MARMION.

* Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band ;
St. Anton’ fire thee! wilt thou stand
All day, with bonnet in thy hand,
To hear the Lady preach?
By this good light ! if thus we stay,
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay,
Will sharper sermon teach.
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse ;
The Dame must patience take perforce.”—
XXXII.
“‘ Submit we then to force,”’ said Clare ;
“‘ But let this barbarous lord despair
His purposed aim to win;
Let him take living, land, and life ;
But to be Marmion’s wedded wife
In me were deadly sin:
And if it be the King’s decree,
That I must find no sanctuary,
Where even a homicide might come,
And safely rest his head,
Though at its open portals stood,
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood,
The kinsmen of the dead,—
Yet one asylum is my own
Against the dreaded hour ;
A low, a silent, and a lone,
Where Kings have little power.
One victim is before me there.—
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer
Remember your unhappy Clare !”—

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows
Kind blessings many a one;

Weeping and wailing loud arose

Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes
Of every simple nun.

His eyes the gentle Eustace dried,

And scarce rude Blount the sight could bide.
Then took the squire her rein,

And gently led away her steed,

And, by each courteous word and deed,
To cheer her strove in vain.

XXXII,

But scant three miles the band had rode,
When o’er a height they passed,

And, sudden, close before them showed
His towers, Tantallon vast ;

Broad, massive, high, and stretching far,

And held impregnable in war.

On a projecting rock they rose,

And round three sides the ocean flows ;

The fourth did battled walls inclose,
And double mound and fosse.

By narrow draw-bridge, outworks strong,

Through studded gates an entrance long
To the main court they cross.

 

It was a wide and'stately square:
Around were lodgings fit and fair,
And towers of various form,
Which on the court projected far,
And broke its lines quadrangular.
Here was square keep, there turret high,
Or pinnacle that sought the sky,
Whence oft the warder could descry
The gathering ocean-storm.

XXXIV.

Here did they rest.—The princely care

Of Douglas, why should I declare,

Or say they met reception fair ?

Or why the tidings say,

Which, varying, to Tantallon came,

By hurrying posts, or fleeter fame,
With every varying day ?

And, first, they heard King James had won
Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then,
That Norham castle strong was ta’en.

At that sore marvelled Marmion ;

And Douglas hoped his Monarch’s hand

Would soon subdue Northumberland ;
But whispered news there came,

That, while his host inactive lay,

And melted by degrees away,

King James was dallying off the day
With Heron’s wily dame.—

Such acts to chronicles I yield ;

Go seek them there, and see:

Mine is a tale of Flodden Field,
And not a history.—

At length they heard the Scottish host
On that high ridge had made their post,
Which frowns o’er Millfield Plain ;

And that brave Surrey many a band

Had gathered in the Southern land,

And marched into Northumberland,
And camp at Wooler ta’en.

Marmion, like charger in the stall,

That hears without the trumpet call,
Began to chafe and swear :—

“ A sorry thing to hide my head

In castle, like a fearful maid,

When such a field is near!

Needs must I see this battle-day:

Death to my fame, if such a fray

Were fought, and Marmion away !

The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath ’bated of his courtesy :

No longer in his halls Ill stay.’’—

Then bade his band, they should array

for march against the dawning day.

eee eee

INTRODUCTION

TO
RICHARD HEBER, Esa.

eee eere secs

Mertoun-House, Christmas.

Hear on more wood !—the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer :

HO CANTO SEX TH:

 

Even heathen yet, the savage Dane

At Tol more deep the mead did drain ;
High on the beach his galleys drew,

And feasted all his pirate crew ;

Then, in his low and pine-built hall,
Where shields and axes decked the wall,
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer ;
Caroused in seas of sable beer ;

While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnawed rib, and marrow-bone ;a

————— Se eee

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Or listened all, in grim delight,

While sealds yelled out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,

And, dancing round the blazing pile,

They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recal

The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night:

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung ;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung ;
That only night, in all the year,

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ;
The hall was dressed with holly green ;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,

To gather in the misletoe, :
Then opened wide the Baron’s hall

To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ;

Power laid his rod of rule aside,

And Ceremony doffed his pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes,

That night might village partner choose ;
The lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of « post and pair.”

All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night
That, to the cottage as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide ;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man ;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell ;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by
Pium-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ;
Nor failed old Seotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din ;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.’
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery ;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made $
But O! what masquers; richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light !
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
*T'was Christmas broached the mightiest ale ;
*T'was Christmas told the merriest tale ;

 

 

 

 

INTRODUCTION TO CANTO SIXTH.

41 |

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

|
|
|
Still linger, in our northern clime, |
Some remnants of the good old time ; |
And still, within our valleys here, |
We hold the kindred title dear,
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch’d claim |
To Southron ear sounds empty name ; |
For course of blood, our proverbs deem, |
Is warmer than the mountain stream *. |
And thus, my Christmas still I hold |
Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic alr,
The feast and holy-tide to share,
And mix sobriety with wine,
And honest mirth with thoughts divine :
Small thought was his, in after time,
Ber to be hitched into a rhyme.
The simple sire could only boast,
That he was loyal to his cost ;
The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land,—but kept his beard.

In these dear halls, where welcome kind
Is with fair liberty combined ;
Where cordial friendship gives the hand,
And flies constraint the magic wand
Of the fair dame that rules the land,
Little we heed the tempest drear,
While music, mirth, and social cheer,
Speed on their wings the passing year.
And Mertoun’s halls are fair e’en now,
When not a leaf is on the bough.
Tweed loves them well, and turns again,
As loath to leave the sweet domain,
And holds his mirror to her face,
And clips her with a close embrace :—
Gladly as he, we seek the dome,
And as reluctant turn us home.

 

How just, that at this time of glee,
My thoughts should, Heser, turn to thee !
For many a merry hour we’ve known,
And heard the chimes of midnight’s tone.
Cease, then, my friend! a moment cease,
And leave these classic tomes in peace ! |
Of Roman and of Grecian lore, |
Sure mortal brain can hold no more.
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say,
Were “ pretty fellows in their day ;’>
But time and tide o’er all prevail—
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale—
Of wonder and of war—* Profane !
What ! leave the lofty Latian strain,
Her stately prose, her verse’s charms,
To hear the clash of rusty arms ;
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost,
To jostle conjuror and ghost,
Goblin and witch !”—Nay, Heber dear,
Before you touch my charter, hear ;
Though Leyden aids, alas! no more,
My cause with many-languaged lore,
This may I say :—in realms of death
Ulysses meets Alcides’ wraith ;

 

* “* Blood is warmer than water,”—a proverb meant to
vindicate our family predilections.

t ‘* Hannibal was a pretty fellow, sir—a very pretty
fellow in his day.”—Old Bachelor.

 

 

 

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But why such instances to you,
Who, in an instant, can review
Your treasured hoards of various lore,
And furnish twenty thousand more ?
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest
Like treasures in the Franch’mont chest 5
While gripple owners still refuse
To others what they cannot use—
Give them the priest’s whole century,

All nations have their omens drear, They shall not spell you letters three ;
Their legends wild of woe and fear. Their pleasure in the books the same
To Cambria look—the peasant see, The magpie takes in pilfered gem.

/Eneas, upon Thracia’s shore,
The ghost of murdered Polydore ;
For omens, we in Livy cross,

At every turn, locutus Bos.

As grave and duly speaks that ox,
As if he told the price of stocks ;
Or held, in Rome republican,

The place of Common-councilman.

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Bethink him of Glendowerdy,

And shun “the Spirit’s Blasted Tree.”
The Highlander, whose red claymore
The battle turned on Maida’s shore,
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale,

If asked to tell a fairy tale :

He fears the vengeful Elfin King,
Who leaves that day his grassy ring ;
Invisible to human ken,

He walks among the sons of men.

Didst e’er, dear Heber, pass along
Beneath the towers of Franchémont,
Which, like an eagle’s nest in air,

Hang o’er the stream and hamlet fair !—
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say,

A mighty treasure burigl lay,

Amassed through rapine and through wrong,
By the last lord of Franchémont.

The iron chest is bolted hard,

A huntsman sits its constant guard ;
Around his neck his horn is hung,

His hanger in his belt is slung ;

Before his feet his bloodhounds lie :

An ’twere not for his gloomy eye,

Whose withering glance no heart can brook,
As true a huntsman doth he look,

As bugle e’er in brake did sound,

Or ever hollowed to a hound.

To chase the fiend, and win the prize,

In that same dungeon ever tries

An aged Necromantice Priest 5

It is an hundred years at least,

Since ’twixt them first the strife begun,
And neither yet has lost or won.

And oft the Conjuror’s words will make
The stubborn Demon groan and quake ;
And oft the bands of iron break,

Or bursts one lock, that still amain,

Fast as ’tis opened, shuts again.

That magic strife within the tomb

May last until the day of doom,

Unless the Adept shall learn to tell

The very word that clenched the spell,
When Franch’mont locked the treasure cell.
An hundred years are past and gone,
And scarce three letters has he won.

Such general superstition may
Excuse for old Pitscottie say :
Whose gossip history has given
My song the messenger from heaven,
That warned, in Lithgow, Scotland’s King,
Nor less the infernal summoning ;
May pass the Monk of Durham’s tale,
Whose Demon fought in Gothic mail ;
May pardon plead for Fordun grave,
Who told of Gifford’s Goblin-Cave.

(Oe Bee

 

 

 

 

 

Thy volumes, open as thy heart,

Delight, amusement, science, art,

To every ear and eye impart ;

Yet who, of all who thus employ them,
Can, like the owner’s self, enjoy them ?—
But, hark! I hear the distant drum :
The day of Flodden field is come.—
Adieu, dear Heber ! life and health,

And store of literary wealth.

CANTO THE SIXTH.

—-¢—_—_.

Che WGattle.
I:

WHILE great events were on the gale,
And each hour brought a varying tale,
And the demeanour, changed and cold,
Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold,
And, like the impatient steed of war,
He snuffed the battle from afar ;
And hopes were none, that back again
Herald should come from Terouenne,
Where England’s King in leaguer lay,
Before decisive battle-day ;
While these things were, the mournful Clare
Did in the Dame’s devotions share :
For the good Countess ceaseless prayed
To Heaven and Saints, her sons to aid,
And, with short interval, did pass
From prayer to book, from book to mass,
And all in high baronial pride,—
A life both dull and dignified ;—
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing pressed
Upon her intervals of rest,
Dejected Clara well could bear
The formal state, the lengthened prayer,
Though dearest to her wounded heart
The hours that she might spend apart.

LTS
I said, Tantallon’s dizzy steep
Hung o’er the margin of the deep.
Many a rude tower and rampart there
Repelled the insult of the air,
Which, when the tempest vexed the sky,
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by.
Above the rest, a turret square
Did o’er its Gothic entrance bear,
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ;
The Bloody Heart was in the field,
And in the chief three mullets stood,
The cognizance of Douglas’ blood.
The turret held a narrow stair,
Which, mounted, gave you access where

 

 

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On yon disastrous day !”— |
She raised her eyes in mournful mood,— |
— Witton himself before her stood !

It might have seemed his passing ghost,

For every youthful grace was lost ;

And joy unwonted, and surprise,

Gave their strange wildness to his eyes.—

Expect not, noble dames and lords,

That I can tell such scene in words :

What skilful limner e’er would choose

To paint the rainbow’s varying hues,

Unless to mortal it were given

To dip his brush in dyes of heaven 2
Far less can my weak line declare

Each changing passion’s shade ;

Brightening to rapture from despair,

Sorrow, Surprise, and Pity there,

And Joy, with her angelic air,

And Hope, that paints the future fair,

Their varying hues displayed :
Each o’er its rival’s ground extending,
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending,
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield,

And mighty Love retains the field.
Shortly I tell what then he said,

Her mantle rich, whose borders, round,

A deep and fretted broidery bound,

In golden foldings sought the ground ;

Of holy ornament, alone

Remained a cross with ruby stone ;
And often did she look

On that which in her hand she bore,

With velvet bound, and broidered o’er,
Her breviary book.

In such a place, so lone, so grim,

At dawning pale, or twilight dim,
It fearful would have been,

To meet a form so richly dressed,

With book in hand, and cross on breast,
And such a woeful mien.

Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow,

To practise on the gull and crow,

Saw her, at distance, gliding slow,
And did by Mary swear—

Some love-lorn fay she might have been,

Or, in romance, some spell-bound queen ;

For ne’er, in work-day world, was seen
A form so witching fair.

a=

| THE BATTLE. 43
A parapet’s embattled row Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free,
Did seaward round the castle go. Walks hand in hand with Charity ;
Sometimes im dizzy steps descending, Where oft Devotion’s tranced glow
Sometimes im narrow circuit bending, Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow,
Sometimes in platform broad extending, That the enraptured sisters see >
Its varying circle did combine High vision, and deep mystery ; \ a
Bulwark, and bartisan, and line, The very form of Hilda fair os oe
And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign 5 Hovering upon the sunny air, &
Above the booming ocean leant And-smiling on ‘her votaries’ prayer. Ss
The far-projecting battlement ; O ! wherefore, to my duller eye, i.
The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, Did still the Saint her form deny ! po
Upon the precipice below. Was it, that, seared by sinful scorn, i oS
Where’er Tantallon faced the land, My heart could neither melt nor burn 2 hi ioe
Gate-works, and walls, were strongly manned : Or lie my warm affections low F ae
No need upon the sea-girt side ; With him that taught them first to glow 2 iV Bee
||| The steepy rock, and frantic tide, Yet, gentle Abbess, well I knew 1 i
it Approach of human step denied ; To pay thy kindness grateful due, | a
||| And thus these lines, and ramparts rude, And well could brook the mild command | :
||| Were left in deepest solitude. That ruled thy simple maiden band. | eS
| How different now ! condemned to bide | ; ..
I | 11. My doom from this dark tyrant’s pride.— a.
| And, for they were so lonely, Clare But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 1 :
' Would to these battlements repair, That ee ne and hate of wrong, | ae
And muse upon her sorrows there, Descended to a feeble girl, ; | p
And list the sea-bird’s ery ; From Red De Clare, stout Gloster’s Earl : | ie
_ Or slow, like noon-tide ghost, would glide = such a Se a sapling weak | a
| Along the dark-grey bulwark’s side, e ne’er shall bend, although he break. \E
| And ever on the heaving tide i=
| _ Look down with weary eye. v7. | .&
| Oft did the cliff, and swelling main, : . |  &
| Reeal the thoughts of Whitby’s fane,— But see ! what makes this armour here 2 | i &
| A home she ne’er might see again ; eee 0 her path there lay _ i
For she had laid adown, 2 atees Corel helm sgene viewed them near.— | }
| So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, a a br cant Das pierged en alee I fear, i
| And frontlet of the cloister pale, ree x fence w ert thou ’Zainst foeman’s spear, 1 i
| And Benedictine gown : iat hath made fatal entrance here, 1 ti
| It were unseemly sight, he said, ie these a pigoG Soute ae | Hi
Rete co out fh coteon, he hus Wilton '—Oh! not corslet’s ward, "
Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, cae Comead PS and hard, | i
Again adorned her brow of snow ; ould be thy manly bosom’s guard |
|

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Once walking thus, at evening tide, And modest blush, and bursting sigh,
It chanced a gliding sail she spied, And question kind, and fond reply. |
And, sighing, thought—* The Abbess there, i
Perchance, does to her home repair ; * See Note.

 

 

 

 

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Mae VIII.

De WAilton’s History. “A word of vulgar augury,
- That broke from me, I scarce knew why,
Brought on a village tale ;
Which wrought upon his moody sprite,
And sent him armed forth by night.
I borrowed steed and mail, \|
And weapons, from his sleeping band: |
And, passing from a postern door,
We met, and ’countered hand to hand ;—
He fell on Gifford-moor.
For the death-stroke my brand I drew,
(O then my helmed head he knew,
The Palmer’s cowl was gone,)
Then had three inches of my blade
The heavy debt of vengeance paid,—
My hand the thought of Austin staid ;
I left him there alone.— |
O, good old man! even from the grave,
Thy spirit could thy master save: |
If I had slain my foeman, ne’er |
Had Whitby’s Abbess, in her fear,
Given to my hand this packet dear,
Of power to clear my injured fame,
And vindicate De Wilton’s name.
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell
Of the strange pageantry of Hell,
That broke our secret speech—
It rose from the infernal shade,
Or featly was some juggle played,
A tale of peace to teach.
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best,
When my name came among the rest.

   
   
 
  
 
  

“ Forget we that disastrous day,

When senseless in the lists I lay.

Thence dragged,—but how I cannot know,

For sense and recollection fled,—

I found me on a pallet low,

Within my ancient beadsman’s shed.

Austin,—remember’st thou, my Clare,

How thou didst blush, when the old man,

When first our infant love began,

Said we would make a matchless pair ?—
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled
From the degraded traitor’s bed,—
He only held my burning head,

And tended me for many a day,
While wounds and fever held their sway.
But far more needful was his care,
When sense returned to wake despair ;
For I did tear the closing wound,
And dash me frantic on the ground,
If e’er I heard the name of Clare.

At length, to calmer reason brought,

Much by his kind attendance wrought,
With him I left my native strand,

And, in a palmer’s weeds arrayed,

My hated name and form to shade,

I journeyed many a land ;

No more a lord of rank and birth,

But mingled with the dregs of earth.

Oft Austin for my reason feared,

When I would sit, and deeply brood
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood,

Or wild mad schemes upreared.

My friend at length fell sick, and said,
God would remove him soon ;

And, while upon his dying bed,
He begged of me a boon—

If e’er my deadliest enemy

Beneath my brand should conquered lie,

Even then my mercy should awake,

And spare his life for Austin’s sake.

 

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IX.

“ Now here, within Tantallon Hold,

To Douglas late my tale I told,

To whom my house was known of old.
Won by my proofs, his faulchion bright
This eve anew shall dub me knight.
These were the arms that once did turn
The tide of fight on Otterburne,

And Harry Hotspur forced to yield,
When the Dead Douglas won the field.

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vil These Angus gave—his armourer’s care,
“ Still restless as a second Cain, Ere morn, shall every breach repair ; |
To Scotland next my route was ta’en, For nought, he said, was in his halls,
Full well the paths I knew. But ancient armour on the walls, |
Fame of my fate made various sound, And aged chargers in the stalls, ;
That death in pilgrimage I found, And women, priests, and grey-haired men ;
That I had perished of my wound,— The rest were all in Twisel glen*.
None cared which tale was true: And now I watch my armour here,
And living eye could never guess By law of arms, till midnight’s near 5
De Wilton in his palmer’s dress ; T hen, once again a belted knight,
For, now that sable slough is shed, Seek Surrey’s camp with dawn of light.
And trimmed my shaggy beard and head,
I scarcely know me in the glass. =
A chance most wond’rous did provide, «There soon again we meet, my Clare!
That I should be that Baron’s guide This Baron means to guide thee there:

 

 

 

 

I will not name his name ! Douglas reveres his King’s command,
Vengeance to God alone belongs 5 Else would he take thee from his band.
But, when I think on all my wrongs, And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too,
My blood is liquid flame ! Will give De Wilton justice due.
And ne’er the time shall I forget, Now meeter far for martial broil,
When, in a Scottish hostel set, Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil,
Dark looks we did exchange: Once more’”——“ O Wilton! must we then
5
What were his thoughts I cannot tell ; Risk new-found happiness again,
But in my bosom mustered Hell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Its plans of dark revenge. * Where James encamped before taking post on Flodden.
Ee = ms see coeat ee ors reTHE

 

Trust fate of arms once more?
And is there not a humble glen,
Where we, content and poor,
Might build a cottage in the shade,
A shepherd thou, and I to aid
Thy task on dale and moor ?—
That reddening brow !—too well I know,
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow,
While falsehood stains thy name:
Go then to fight! Clare bids thee go!
Clare can a warrior’s feelings know,
And weep a warrior’s shame ;
Can Red Earl Gilbert’s spirit feel,
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel,
And belt thee with thy brand of steel,
And send thee forth to fame!”

XI.
That night, upon the rocks and bay,
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay,
And poured its silver light, and pure,
Through loop-hole, and through embrazure,
Upon Tantallon tower and hall ;
But chief, where arched windows wide
Illuminate the chapel’s pride,
The sober glances fall.
Much was there need ; though, seamed with scars,
Two veterans of the Douglas’ wars,
Though two grey priests were there,
And each a blazing torch held high,
You could not by their blaze desery
The chapel’s carving fair.
Amid that dim and smoky light,
Chequering the silvery moon-shine bright,
A Bishop by the altar stood,
A noble lord of Douglas’ blood,
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white.
Yet showed his meek and thoughtful eye
But little pride of prelacy :
More pleased that, in a barbarous age,
He gave rude Scotland Virgil’s page,
Than that beneath his rule he held
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld.
Beside him ancient Angus stood,
Doffed his furred gown and sable hood ;
O’er his huge form and visage pale,
He wore a cap and shirt of mail,
And leaned his large and wrinkled hand
Upoa the huge and sweeping brand
Which wont, of yore, in battle-fray,
His foeman’s limbs to shred away,
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray.
He seemed as, from the tombs around
Rising at judgment-day,
Some giant Douglas may be found
In all his old array ;
So pale his face, so huge his limb,
So old his arms, his looks so grim.

XII.

Then at the altar Wilton kneels,
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ;
And think what next he must have felt,
At buckling of the faulchion belt!
And judge how Clara changed her hue,
While fastening to her lover’s side
A friend, which, though in danger tried,
He once had found untrue!
Then Douglas struck him with his blade :—
“Saint Michael and St. Andrew aid,

BATTLE.

 

 

 

 

I dub thee knight.
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton’s heir !
For king, for church, for lady fair,
See that thou fight.”—
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose,
Said,—“ Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes,
Disgrace, and trouble,
For He, who honour best bestows,
May give thee double.”—
De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must—
“ Where’er I meet a Douglas, trust
‘That Douglas is my brother !??—
“ Nay, nay,” old Angus said, “not so;
To Surrey’s camp thou now must go,
Thy wrongs no longer smother.
I have two sons in yonder field ;
And, if thou meet’st them under shield,
Upon them bravely—do thy worst ;
And foul fall him that blenches first !”—
XIII.
Not far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey’s camp to ride ;
He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered, in an under tone,
“ Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.”—
The train from out the castle drew,
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu :—
“Though something I might ’plain,’’ he said,
‘“‘ Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king’s behest,
While in Tantallon’s towers I staid;
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand.”—
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :—
“ My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still
Be open, at my soyvereign’s will,
To each one whom he lists, howe’er
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer.
My castles are my King’s alone,
From turret to foundation-stone
The hand of Douglas is his own ;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp.””—
LV.
Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And—* This to me!’’ he said,—
“ An ’twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared
To cleave the Douglas’ head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He, who does England’s message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus ! be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near,
‘Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou’rt defied !
And if thou said’st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied !”’

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage
|| O’ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth :—“ And dar’st thou then
To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall?
| And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go?—
| No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no !—
| Up drawbridge, grooms—what, warder, ho!
Let the porteullis fall.’’—
Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the arch-way sprung,
The ponderous grate behind him rung :
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.

XV.

| The steed along the drawbridge flies,
| Just as it trembled on the rise;

Not lighter does the swallow skim
| Along the smooth lake’s level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
“ Horse ! horse !” the Douglas cried, “ and chase !”
But soon he reined his fury’s pace ;
« A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name.—
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Bothan! son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne’er could pen a line:
So swore I, and I swear it still
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.—
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne’er cools the Douglas’ blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.

°*Tis pity of him, too,’’ he cried ;
| « Bold can he speak, and fairly ride:
| I warrant him a warrior tried.”—
_ With this his mandate he recals,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.

 

XVI.

The day in Marmion’s journey wore ;
Yet, ere his passion’s gust was o’er,
They crossed the heights of Stanrigg-moor.
His troop more closely there he scanned,
And missed the Palmer from the band.—
“‘ Palmer or not,” young Blount did say,
“ He parted at the peep of day ;

Good sooth it was in strange array.’’—
“In what array?’’ said Marmion, quick.
“¢ My lord, I ill can spell the trick ;

But all night long, with clink and bang,
Close to my couch did hammers clang ;
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang,
And, from a loop-hole while I peep,

Old Bell-the-Cat came from the Keep,
Wrapped in a gown of sables fair,

As fearful of the morning air ;

Beneath, when that was blown aside,

A rusty shirt of mail I spied,

By Archibald won in bloody work,
Against the Saracen and Turk:

Last night it hung not in the hall;

I thought some marvel would befal.

 

 

 

And next I saw them saddled lead

Old Cheviot forth, the Earl’s best steed ;

A matchless horse, though something old,
Prompt to his paces, cool and bold.

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say,

The Earl did much the Master* pray

To use him on the battle-day ;

But he preferred” “ Nay, Henry, cease !
Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy peace.—
Eustace, thou bear’st a brain—I pray,
What did Blount see at break of day?”

 

XVII.
“In brief, my lord, we both descried
(For I then stood by Henry’s side)
The Palmer mount, and outward ride,
Upon the Earl’s own favourite steed ;
All sheathed he was in armour bright,
And much resembled that same knight
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight:
Lord Angus wished him speed.”—
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke,
A sudden light on Marmion broke ;—
*“ Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!”
He muttered ; “T'was nor fay nor ghost,
I met upon the moonlight wold,
But living man of earthly mould.—
O dotage blind and gross!
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust
Had laid De Wilton in the dust,
My path no more to cross.—
How stand we now ?—he told his tale
To Douglas; and with some avail ;
T'was therefore gloomed his rugged brow.—
Will Surrey dare to entertain,
’Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and vain?
Small risk of that I trow.—
Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun ;
Must separate Constance from the Nun—
O what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive !—
A Palmer too !—no wonder why
I felt rebuked beneath his eye:
I might have known there was but one
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion.’’—

XVIII.

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to speed
His troop, and reached, at eve, the Tweed,
Where Lennel’s convent closed their march:
(‘There now is left but one frail arch,
Yet mourn thou not its cells;
Our time a fair exchange has made;
Hard by, in hospitable shade,
A reverend pilgrim dwells,
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood,
That e’er wore sandal, frock, or hood.)
Yet did Saint Bernard’s Abbot there
Give Marmion entertainment fair,
And lodging for his train and Clare.
Next morn the Baron climbed the tower,
To view afar the Scottish power,
Encamped or Flodden edge :
The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow,
Along the dusky ridge.
Long Marmion looked :—at length his eye
Unusual movement might desery,

 

* His eldest son, the Master of Angus.THE

Amid the shifting lines:
The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the hedge of spears

The eastern sun-beam shines.
Their front now deepening, now extending,
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,
Now drawing back, and now descending,
The skilful Marmion well could know,
They watched the motions of some foe,
Who traversed on the plain below.

x1X.

Even so it was ;—from Flodden ridge
The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,
And heedful watched them as they crossed
The Till by Twisel Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile ;
Beneath the caverned cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle’s airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing ;
Troop after troop, their banners rearing,

Upon the eastern bank you see.

Still pouring down the rocky den,

Where flows the sullen Till,

And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,

In slow succession still,

And sweeping o’er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,

To gain the opposing hill.

That morn to many a trumpet-clang,
Twisel! thy rock’s deep echo rang ;
And many a chief of birth and rank,
Saint Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,

Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.

xX.

And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,
And sees, between him and his land,
Between him and Tweed’s southern strand,
His host Lord Surrey lead ?
What vails the vain knight-errant’s brand ?
—O Douglas, for thy leading wand!
Fierce Randolph, for thy speed !
O, for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce to rule the fight,
And cry—“ Saint Andrew and our right !”’
Another sight had seen that morn,
From Fate’s dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannock-bourne !—
The precious hour has passed in vain,
And England’s host has gained the plain ;
Wheeling their march, and circling still,
Around the base of Flodden-hill,

XxXT.

Ere yet the bands met Marmion’s eye,
Pitz-Eustace shouted loud and high,—

 

47

“Hark! hark! my lord, an English drum!
And see ascending Squadrons come
Between Tweed’s river and the hill,
Foot, horse, and cannon: hap what hap,
My basnet to a ’prentice cap,
Lord Surrey’s o’er the Till !—
Yet more! yet more !—how fair arrayed
They file from out the hawthorn shade,
And sweep so gallant by!
With all their banners bravely spread,
And all their armour flashing high,
Saint George might waken from the dead,
To see fair England’s standards fly.”
“Stint in thy prate,” quoth Blount; “thou’dst best !
And listen to our lord’s behest.” ”
With kindling brow, Lord Marmion said,—
“This instant be our band arrayed ;
The river must be quickly crossed,
That we may join Lord Surrey’s host.
If fight King J ames,—as well I trust,
That fight he will, and fight he must,—
The Lady Clare behind our lines
Shall tarry, while the battle joins.”—

 

XXII,
Himself he swift on horseback threw,
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu,

Far less would listen to his prayer,

To leave behind the helpless Clare.
Down to the Tweed his band he drew,
And muttered, as the flood they view,
“The pheasant in the faleon’s claw
He scarce will yield, to please a daw:
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe,

So Clare shall bide with me.”—

Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,

Where to the Tweed Leat’s eddies creep,
He ventured desperately :

And not a moment will he bide,

Till squire, or groom, before him ride :

Headmost of all he stems the tide,

And stems it gallantly.

Eustace held Clare upon her horse,

Old Hubert led her rein,
Stoutly they braved the currents course,
And, though far downward driven perforce,
The southern bank they gain ;
Behind them, straggling, came to shore,
As best they might, the train:
Each o’er his head his yew-bow bore,

A caution not in vain;
Deep need that day that every string,
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring.
A moment then Lord Marmion stayed,
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed,
Then forward moved his band,
Until, Lord Surrey’s rear-guard won,
He halted by a cross of stone
That, on a hillock standing lone,

Did all the field command.

XXIII.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray ;
Their marshalled lines stretched east and west,
And fronted north and south,
And distant salutation passed
From the loud cannon mouth ;
Not in the close successive rattle
That breathes the voice of modern battle,

 

 

 

 

 

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48 MARMION.

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But slow and far between.—
The hillock gained, Lord Marmion staid :—
‘Here, by this Cross,” he gently said,
“ You well may view the scene.
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare:
O! think of Marmion in thy prayer !—
Thou wilt not ?—well,—no less my care
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.—
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard,
With ten picked archers of my train ;
With England if the day go hard,
To Berwick speed amain.—
But, if we conquer, cruel maid!
My spoils shall at your feet be laid,
When here we meet again.’’—
He waited not for answer there,
And would not mark the maid’s despair,
Nor heed the discontented look
From either squire ; but spurred amain,
And, dashing through the battle-plain,
His way to Surrey took.

XXIV.

The good Lord Marmion, by my life!
Welcome to danger’s hour!

Short greeting serves in time of strife :—
Thus have I ranged my power:

Myself will rule this central host,
Stout Stanley fronts their right ;

My sons command the vaward post,
With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight !
Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light,
Shall be in rearward of the fight,

And succour these that need it most.
Now gallant Marmion, well I know,
Would gladly to the vanguard go ;
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there,
With thee their charge will blithely share ;
There fight thine own retainers too,
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true.”—
“Thanks, noble Surrey !’”? Marmion said,
Nor farther greeting there he paid,
But, parting like a thunder-bolt,
First in the vanguard made a halt,

Where such a shout there rose
Of “ Marmion! Marmion!”’ that the ery,
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high,
Startled the Scottish foes.

ce

 

XXV,

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill ;
On which (for far the day was spent)
The western sun-beams now were bent.
The cry they heard, its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades view ;
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say,
“ Unworthy office here to stay !
No hope of gilded spurs to-day.—
But see! look up—on Flodden bent
The Scottish foe has fired his tent.”—

And sudden, as he spoke,
From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke ;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland’s war,

As down the hill they broke ;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,

 

.At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,
Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.—
Searce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they:close.—
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance’s thrust ;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.
O! life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.
Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought desery.

‘ XXXVI.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast ;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears:
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,
And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave ;

But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain ;
Spears shook, and faulchions flashed amain ;
Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain ;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,

Wild and disorderly.
Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight ;

Although against them come
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,

With Huntley and with Home.

XXVITI.
Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,
And with both hands the broad-sword plied :
Twas vain :—But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland’s fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,
The Howard’s lion fell ;
Yet still Lord Marmion’s faleon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.
The Border slogan rent the sky!
A Home! a Gordon! was the cry ;
Loud were the clanging blows ; ;
Advanced,—foreed back,—now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose ;
As bends the bark’s mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered ’mid the foes.
No longer Blount the view could bear :-—
“ By Heaven, and all its saints, I swear,THE BATTLE.

I will not see it lost!
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare
May bid your beads, and patter prayer,—
I gallop to the host.’’—
And to the fray he rode amain,
Followed by all the archer train.
The fiery youth, with desperate charge,
Made, for a space, an opening large,
The rescued banner rose,—
But darkly closed the war around,
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground,
It sunk among the foes.
Then Eustace mounted too ;—yet staid,
‘As loath to leave the helpless maid,
When, fast as shaft can fly,
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread,
The loose rein dangling from his head,
Housing and saddle bloody red,
Lord Marmion’s steed rushed by ;
And Eustace, maddening at the sight,
A look and sign to Clara cast,
To mark he would return in haste,
Then plunged into the fight.

 

XXVIII.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left in that dreadful hour alone:
Perchance her reason stoops or reels ;

Perchanee a courage, not her own,

Braces her mind to desperate tone.—
The scattered van of England wheels ;—

She only said, as loud in air

The tumult roared, “Is Wilton there?””—

They fly, or, maddened by despair,

Fight but to die-—“ Is Wilton there ?”—
With that straight up the hill there rode

Two horsemen drenched with gore,

And in their arms, a helpless load !

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand ;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand ;
Dragged from among the horses’ feet,

With dinted shield, and helmet beat,

The falcon-crest and plumage gone,

Can that be haughty Marmion!....

Young Blount his armour did unlace,

And, gazing on his ghastly face,

Said—* By Saint George, he’s gone!
That spear-wound has our master sped,
And see the deep cut on his head!

Good night to Marmion.””—

“ Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease:
He opes his eyes,” said Eustace; “ peace !’’

XXIX,

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,
Around ’gan Marmion wildly stare :—
“ Where’s Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where?
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare!
Redeem my pennon, charge again!
Cry——* Marmion to the rescue !’—Vain !
Last of my race, on battle plain
That shout shall ne’er be heard again ! —
Yet my last thought is England’s :—fly,
To Dacre bear my signet-ring :
Tell him his squadrons up to bring :—
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ;
Tunstall lies dead upon the field,
His life-blood stains the spotless shield :

a

 

49

Edmund is down :—my life is reft ;—
The Admiral alone is left.
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,—
With Chester charge, and Lancashire,
Full upon Scotland’s central host,
Or victory and England’s lost.—
Must I bid twice ?—hencee, varlets ! fly !
Leave Marmion here alone—to die.”—
They parted, and alone he lay ;
Clare drew her from the sight away,
Tul pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmured,—* Is there none,
Of all my halls have nurst,
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
Of blessed water from the spring,
To slake my dying thirst !”

XXX.
O, woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made,—
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou !—
Scarce were the piteous accents said,
When, with the Baron’s casque, the maid

To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ;
The plaintive voice alone she hears,

Sees but the dying man.

She stooped her by the runnel’s side,

But in abhorrence backward drew ;
For, oozing from the mountain’s side,
Where raged the war, a dark red tide

Was curdling in the streamlet blue.
Where shall she turn ?—behold her mark

A little fountain-cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,
In a stone basin fell.
Above, some half-worn letters say,
“rink . weary. pilgrin . Drink . and. »rap.
Sov. the. kind. soul. of. Sybil. Grey.

GGAfo . butlt. thts. cross . and. tell.”
She filled the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion’s head ;
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,

To shrive the dying, bless the dead.

XXXT.
Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave
And, as she stooped his brow to lave—
“ Is it the hand of Clare,’”’ he said,
“ Or injured Constance, bathes my head?’

I

 

 

Then, as remembrance rose,—
“* Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! |
I must redress her woes. |
Short space, few words are mine, to spare :
Forgive, and listen, gentle Clare !”?—
“ Alas!’’ she said, “ the while,
O think of your immortal weal!
In vain for Constance is your zeal ;
She died at Holy Isle.””—
Lord Marmion started from the ground,
As light as if he felt no wound ; :
Though in the action burst the tide, ~
In torrents, from his wounded side,
“Then it was truth !”— he said—“ I knew

 

 

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IT would the Fiend, to whom belongs
The vengeance due to all her wrongs,
Would spare me but a day!
For wasting fire, and dying groan,
And priests slain on the altar stone,
Might bribe him for delay.
It may not be !—this dizzy trance—
Curse on yon base marauder’s lance,
And doubly cursed my failing brand!
A sinful heart makes feeble hand.’’—
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk,
Supported by the trembling Monk.

XXXII,

With fruitless labour, Clara bound,
And strove to staunch, the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares,
Exhausted all the Church’s prayers.
Ever, he said, that close and near,
A lady’s voice was in his ear,
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung, —
‘¢ In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war’s rattle with groans of the
dying !”
So the notes rung ;—
“ Avoid thee, Fiend !—with cruel hand,
Shake not the dying sinner’s sand !—
O look, my son, upon yon sign
Of the Redeemer’s grace divine ;
O think on faith and bliss !—
By many a death-bed I have been,
And many a sinner’s parting seen,
But never aught like this.”—
The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale,
And—Stan Ley ! was the ery ;—
A light on Marmion’s visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye ;
With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted “ Victory !—
“‘ Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on
Were the last words of Marmion.

19

XXXII.
By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle’s deadly swell,
For still the Scots, around their King,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where’s now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home?—
O, for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Oliver,
And every paladin and peer,
On Roncesvalles died !
Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,
While yet on Flodden-side,
Afar, the Royal Standard flies,
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!
In vain the wish—for, far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil’s Cross the plunderers stray.—
“QO, Lady,” cried the Monk, “ away !”—

50 MARMION.

 

 

And placed her on her steed ;
And led her to the chapel fair,
Of Tilmouth upon Tweed.
There all the night they spent in prayer,
And, at the dawn of morning, there
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare.
XXXIV.
But as they left the darkening heath,
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed ;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
'l'o break the Scottish circle deep,
That fought around their King.
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring ;
The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.
No thought was there of dastard flight !
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well ;
Till utter darkness closed her wing
O’er their thin host and wounded King.
Then skilful Surrey’s sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands ;
And from the charge they drew,
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands,
Sweep back to ocean blue.
Then did their loss his foemen know ;
Their King, their lords, their mightiest, low,
They melted from the field, as snow,
When streams are swoln and south winds blow,
Dissolves in silent dew.
Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,
Disordered through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land ;
To town and tower, to down and dale,
To tell red Flodden’s dismal tale,
And raise the universal wail.
Tradition, legend, tune, and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear,
Of Flodden’s fatal field,
Where shivered was fair Scotland’s spear,
And broken was her shield!

XXXV.
Day dawns upon the mountain’s side :
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride,
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one ;
The sad survivors all are gone.—
View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be 5
Nor to yon Border castle high
Look northward with upbraiding eye ;
Nor cherish hope in vain,
That, journeying far on foreign strand,
The Royal Pilgrim to his land
May yet return again.
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought 5
Reckless of life, he desperate fought,
And fell on Flodden plain:

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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And well in death his trusty brand,
«|| Firm clenched within his manly hand,
Beseemed the Monarch slain,
But, O! how changed since yon blithe night !—
Gladly I turn me from the sight,
Unto my tale again.

XXXVI,

Short is my tale :—Fitz-Eustace’ care
A pierced and mangled body bare

To moated Lichfield’s lofty pile ;
| And there, beneath the southern aisle,

A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair,
| Did long Lord Marmion’s image bear.
| (Now vainly for its site you look ;
| "T'was levelled, when fanatic Brook
| The fair cathedral stormed and took :
| But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint Chad,
A guerdon meet the spoiler had !)
There erst was martial Marmion found,
| His feet upon a couchant hound,
His hands to heaven upraised :
| And all around, on seutcheon rich,
| And tablet carved, and fretted niche,
|
|

 

|

 

 

 

 

His arms and feats were blazed.

And yet, though all was carved so fair,

And priests for Marmion breathed the prayer
The last Lord Marmion lay not there.

| From Ettrick woods, a peasant swain

| Followed his lord to Flodden plain,—

| One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay

| In Scotland mourns as “wede away :77—

| Sore wounded, Sybil’s Cross he spied,

|

|

|

3

And dragged him to its foot and died,
Close by the noble Marmion’s side.

The spoilers stripped and gashed the slain,
| And thus their corpses were mista’en ;

|

And thus, in the proud Baron’s tomb,
The lowly woodsman took the room.

 

XXXVII.
Less easy task it were, to show
Lord Marmion’s nameless grave, and low.
They dug his grave e’en where he lay,
But every mark is gone;
Time’s wasting hand has done away
The simple Cross of Sybil Grey,
And broke her font of stone:
But yet from out the little hill
| Oozes the slender springlet still.
| Oft halts the stranger there,
| For thence may best his curious eye
The memorable field descry ;
And shepherd boys repair
To seek the water-flag and rush,
And rest them by the hazel bush,
And plait their garlands fair ;
Nor dream they sit upon the grave,
That holds the bones of Marmion brave. —
When thou shalt find the little hill,
With thy heart commune, and be still.
If ever, in temptation strong,
Thou left’st the right path for the wrong ;
If every devious step, thus trod,
Still led thee farther from the road ;

 

Soe a BAe, 51 | |

ee

 

| Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom
| On noble Marmion’s lowly tomb ;
| But say, “He died a gallant knight,
| With sword in hand, for England’s right.”
|
|
XXXVI.
I do not rhyme to that dull elie
| Who cannot image to himself,
| That all through Flodden’s dismal night,
| Wilton was foremost-in the fight ;
| That, when brave Surrey’s steed was slain,
| *T'was Wilton mounted him again ;
| T'was Wilton’s brand that deepest hewed,
| Amid the spearmen’s stubborn wood,—
| Unnamed by Hollinshed or Hall,
| He was the living soul of all ;
That, after fight, his faith made plain,
| He won his rank and lands again,
| And charged his old paternal shield
| With bearings won on Flodden field.—
Nor sing I to that simple maid,
To whom it must in terms be said,
That King and kinsmen did agree
To bless fair Clara’s constancy ;
Who cannot, unless I relate,
Paint to her mind the bridal’s state :
That Wolsey’s voice the blessing spoke,
More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke ;
| That bluff King Hal the curtain drew,
| And Katharine’s hand the stocking threw ;

| And afterwards, for many a day,
| That it was held enough to say,
| In blessing to a wedded pair,
“ Love they like Wilton and like Clare!”

 

 

 

 

|
|
|
|
|

|

OO eee

WEnboy.
TO THE READER.
{

|

Wuy then a final note prolong,

| Or lengthen out a closing song,

_ Unless to bid the gentles speed
Who long have listed to my rede ? *

| To Statesman grave, if such may deign
To read the Minstrel’s idle strain,
Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit,
And patriotic heart—as Pirrt !
A garland for the hero’s crest,
And twined by her he loves the best ;
To every lovely lady bright,

| What ean I wish but faithful knight ?

i Po every faithful lover too,
What can I wish but lady true ?

| And knowledge to the studious sage ;

And pillow soft to head of age.

To thee, dear schoolboy, whom my lay

Has cheated of thy hour of play,

Light task, and merry holiday !

To all, to each, a fair good night,

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light !

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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: ere) ck CANTO I | it my life daics, and daily should I have clipped thee, and
_ # a | : | kissed thee, in the despite of Queene Guenever.’ ‘ Yee say
rit ieee j As when the champion of the lake | well;’ said Sir Launcelot, ‘ Jesus preserve me from your

| { t i i ) ", ae a neat 7 5 > | 2 i &
‘ eres: 1 is ; ae gana s Sati d house, | subtill craft!’ And therewith he took his horse, and
’ L , ? IN Ipy
it malice al rm the Chapel Perilous, departed from her.”
i beh i| Despising spells and demon’s foree,
P r ' “a i} | Tolds converse with the unburied corse.—Int, p. a. A sinful MAN, and unconfessed,

: f Ik t | < | é ~~ 7?

‘ i ' ‘ i The romance of the Morte Arthur contains a sort of He took the Sangreal’s holy quest,

: ce || abridgment of the most celebrated adventuresof the Round And, slumbering, saw the vision high

i ||

He might not view with waking eye.—Int. p. 5.

i eget

eal

| Table; and, being written in comparatively modern lan-
|| guage, gives the general reader an excellent idea of what
romances of chivalry actually were. It has also the merit
of being written in pure old English; and many of the wild
adventures it contains, are told with a simplicity bordering
upon the sublime. Several of these are referred to in the
text; and I would have illustrated them by more full ex-
tracts, but as this curious work is about to be republished,
I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel Perilous, and of
the quest of Sir Launcelot after the Sangreall.

‘* Right so Sir Launcelot departed : and when he came
to the Chapel! Perilous, he alighted downe, and tied his
horse to a little gate. And as soon as he was within the
church-yard, he saw, on the front of the chapell, many
faire rich shields turned upside downe, and many of the
shields Sir Launcelot had seene knights have before; with

One day, when Arthur was holding a high feast with his
Knights of the Round Table, the Sangreal, or vessel out of
which the last passover was eaten, a precious relic, which
had long remained concealed from human eyes, because
of the sins of the land, suddenly appeared to him and all
his chivalry. The consequence of this vision was, that all
the Knights took on them a solemn vow to seek the Sang-
real. But, alas! it could only be revealed to a knight at
once accomplished in earthly chivalry, and pure and guilt-
less of evil conversation. All Sir Launcelot’s noble ac-
complishments were therefore rendered vain by his guilty
intrigue with Queen Guenever, or Ganore; and in this holy
quest he encountered only such disgraceful disasters as that
which follows:

‘* But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a

 

 

 

that he saw stande by him thirtie great knights, more, by | wild forest, and held no path, but as wild adventure led
a yard, than any man that ever he had seene, and all those | him; and at the last, he came unto a stone crosse which
grinned and gnashed at Sir Launcelot ; and when he saw | departed two wayes, in wast land; and by the crosse was
4 their countenance, hee dread them sore, and so put his | a stone that was of marble; but it wasso darke, that Sir
al | shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his hand, ready to | Launcelot might not well know what it was. Then Sir
£ doe battaile; and they were all armed in black harneis, | Launcelot looked by him, and saw an old chappell, and
a | ready, with their shields and swords drawen. And when | there he wend to have found people. Andso Sir Launcelot
" _ Sir Launcelot would have gone through them, they scat- | tied his horse to a tree, and there hee put off his shield, and
i, tered on every side of him, and gave him the way; and | hung it upon a tree, and then he went unto the chappell
et! HR ahh therewith he waxed bold, and entered into the chapell, | doore and found it wasted and broken. And within he
He ay He i _ and then he sawe no light but a dimme lampe burning, | found a faire altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk,
bh my ihe r | and then was he ware of a corps covered with a cloath of | and there stood a faire candlesticke, which bears six great
wie Mi if | | silke; then Sir Launcelot stooped downe, and cut a piece | candles, and the candlesticke was of silver. And when
\ a wie hh | of that cloath away, and then it fared under him as the | Sir Launcelot saw this light, hee had a great will for to
Pea. | ) Ihe | earth had quaked a little, whereof hee was afeared, and | enter into the chappell, but hee could find no place where
, A 4 fF HF htt | then he saw their was a faire sword lye by the dead knight, | he might enter. Then was he passing heavie and dismaied.
g 1 ih va | and that he gat in his hand, and hied him out of the chap- | Then he returned, and came againe to his horse, and tooke
ide i@ | pell. As soon as he was in the chappell-yerd, all the | off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture, and
gale Nal s knights spoke to him with a grimly voice, and said, ‘ Knight | unlaced his helme, and ungirded his sword, and laid him

mh Nb E iil be Sir Launcelot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt | downe to sleepe upon his shield before the crosse.
BO dren die.’ ‘ Whether I live or die,’ said Sir Launcelot, ‘ with no ‘* And so hee fell on sleepe, and halfe waking and halfe
ater 3 4 a great words get yee it againe, therefore fight for it and yee | sleeping, he saw come by him two palfryes, both faire and
sf ih \ , Ay | list.” Therewith he passed through them; and, beyond | white, the which bearea litter, therein lying a sicke knight.
Y atith rf UNA the chappell-yerd, there met him a faire damosel, and said, | And when he was nigh the crosse, he there abode still.
ar i, Ik Msi ‘ Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind thee, or thou wilt | All this Sir Launcelot saw and beheld, for hee sleept not
é “4 Ht BU Pe die for it.’ ‘I will not leave it,’ said Sir Launcelot, ‘for no | verily, and he heard him say, ‘ Oh sweete Lord, when shall
4} ant bi threats.’ ‘.No;’ said she, ‘and ye did leave that sword, | this sorrow leave me, and when shall the holy vessel come
1 a ' ( yt Queene Guenever should you never see.’ ‘Then were I | by me, where through I shall be blessed, for I have endured
tt E iilel a foole and I would leave this sword,’ said Sir Launcelot. | thus long, for little trespasse.’ And thus a great while
fs 3 i wae ‘ Now, gentle knight,’ said the damosel, ‘I require thee to | complained the knight, and allwaies Sir Launcelot heard
BvD: § ty : | kiss me once.’ ‘ Nay,’ said Sir Launcelot, ‘that, God for- | it. With that Sir Launcelot saw the candlesticke, with
wey i a bid!’ * Well, Sir,’ said she, ‘and thou hadst kissed me, | the fire tapers, come before the crosse ; but he could see no
: i ! # iit f f thy life dayes had been done; but now, alas!’ said she, ‘I | body that brought it. Also there camea table of silver,
| Wy 5 , Oe | a have lost all my labour; for I ordeined this chappell for | and the holy vessell of the Sangreal, the which Sir Launce-
Mi bey nig thy sake, and for Sir Gawaine: and once hadSir Gawaine | lot had seene before that time in king Petchour’s house.
Be ieat fi hy within it; and at that time he fought with that knight | And therewithall the sicke knight sect him upright, and
mae My } aH which there lieth dead in yond chappell, Sir Gilbert the | held up both his hands, and said, ‘ Faire sweete Lord,
rhe f bi | Bibi! bastard, and at that time hee smote off Sir Gilbert the bas- | which is here within the holy vessell, take heede to mee,
eerie ap ta it tard’s left hand. And so, Sir Launcelot, now I tell thee, | that I may bee hole of this great malady.’ And therewith
eee a ee ay that I have loved thee this seaven yeare; but there may | upon his hands, and upon his knees, he went so nigh, that
‘lb ' * & tit no woman have thy love but Queene Guenever; but sithen | he touched the holy vessell, and kissed it: And anon he
Ca f bi We I may not rejoyce thee to have thy body alive, I had kept | was hole; and then he said, ‘ Lord God, I thank thee, for
eb wie ain no more joy in this world but to have had thy dead body; | I am healed of this malady.’ Soo when the holy vessell had
ee vs h! ; and I would have balmed it and served, and so have keept |! been there a great while, it went into the chappell againe

*.) is yd

 

 

 

es
7S SES oe oo—

 

 

 

with the candlesticke and the light, so that Sir Launcelot
wist not where it became, for he was overtaken with sinne,
that he had no power to arise against the holy vessell,
wherefore afterward many men said of him shame. But
he tooke repentance afterward. Then the sicke knight
dressed him upright, and kissed the cross. Then anon his
squire brought him his armes, and asked his lord how he
did. ‘Certainly,’ said hee, ‘TI thanke God, right heartily,
for through the holy vessell I am healed: But I have right
great mervaile of this sleeping knight, which hath had
neither grace nor power to awake during the time that this
holy vessell hath beene here present.’ ‘I dare itright well
say,’ said the squire, ‘that this same knight is defouled
with some manner of deadly sinne, whereof he was never
confessed.’ ‘By my faith,’ said the knight, ‘ whatsoever
he be, he is unhappie; for, as I deeme, hee is of the fellow-

NOTES.

 

 

well as some of my predecessors, or at least chalked out a
way for others to amend my errors in a like design ; but
being encouraged only with fair words by King Charles II.
my little salary ill paid, and no prospect of a future sub-
sistence, I was then discouraged in the beginning of my
attempt ; and now age has overtaken me, and want, a more
insufferable evil, through the change of the times, has
wholly disabled me.”

Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold,—Int. p. 5.

The “* History of Bevis of Hampton” is abridged by my
friend Mr. George Ellis, with that liveliness which extracts
amusement even out of the most rude and unpromising of
our old tales of chivalry. Ascapart, a most important per-
sonage in the romance, is thus described in an extract:

This geaunt was mighty and strong,

 

 

COE yore

ship of the Round Table, the which is entred into the quest
of the Sancgreall.’ ‘Sir,’ said the squire, ‘here I have
brought you all your armes, save your helme and your
4. sword; and therefore, by mine assent, now may ye take
this knight’s helme and his sword,’ and so he did. And
when he was cleane armed, he tooke Sir Launcelot’s horse,
for he was better than his owne, and so they departed from
the crosse.

**Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and set himself
upright, and he thought him what hee had there seene, and
whether it were dreams or not; right so he heard a voice
that said, ‘Sir Launcelot, more hardy then is the stone,
and more bitter then is the wood, and more naked and
bare then is the liefe of the fig-tree, therefore go thou from
hence, and withdraw thee from this holy place ;’ and when
Sir Launcelot heard this, hee was passing heavy, and wit
not what to doe. And so he departed sore weeping, and
cursed the time that he was borne; for then hee deemed
never to have had more worship; for the words went unto his
heart, till that he knew wherefore that hee was so called.”

And full thirty foot was long.
He was bristled like a sow :
A foot he had between each brow: 1}
His lips were great, and hung aside ;
His eyen were hollow; his mouth was wide :
Lothly he was to look on than, | :
And liker a devil than a man. |
His staff was a young oak, 1}
Hard and heavy was his stroke,
Specimens of Metrical Romances, Vol. u. pels:
Tam happy to say, that the memory of Sir Bevis is still
fragrant in his town of Southampton; the gate of which
is sentinelled by the effigies of that doughty knight-errant,
and his gigantic associate.

° ——
A a METS NBT PS

 

Day set on Norham’s castled steep, | ;
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, §ce.—S, 1. p. 5.
The ruinous castle of Norham, ( anciently called Ubban-
ford,) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about
six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the || 2
boundary between England and Scotland. The extent of
And Dryden, in immortal strain, its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to
| Had raised the Table ound again, have been a place of magnificence as well as strength.
! But that a ribald king and court Edward I. resided there when he was created umpire of
Bade him toil on to make them sport ; the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was
Demanded for their niggard pay, repeatedly taken and retaken during the wars between

Fit for their souls, a looser lay, England and Scotland; and, indeed, scarce any happened,
Licentious satire, song, and play.—Int. p. 5.

ae he ee

on

 

Dryden’s melancholy account of his projected Epic Poem,
blasted by the selfish and sordid parsimony of his patrons,
is contained in an ‘‘ Hssay on Satire,” addressed to the

in which it had not a principal share.
situated on a steep bank, which overhangs the river. The
repeated sieges which the castle had sustained, rendered
frequent repairs necessary. In 1164 it was almost rebuilt

Norham Castle is || |

Earl of Dorset, and prefixed to the Translation of Juvenal. by Hugh Pudsey, bishop of Durham, who added a huge

saae tegen mk

 

After mentioning a plan of supplying machinery from the | keep, or donjon; notwithstanding which, King Henry IL.,
guardian angels of kingdoms, mentioned in the book of | in 1174, took the castle from the bishop, and committed (b
Daniel, he adds: the keeping of it to William de Neville. After this period r
«« Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I could, given your | it seems to have been chiefly garrisoned by the king, and 4
lordship, and by you the world, a rude draught of what I | considered as a royal fortress. The Greys of Chillinghame ia
have been long labouring in my imagination, and what I | Castle were frequently the castellans, or captains of the i
had intended to have put in practice (though far unable | garrison: Yet, as the castle was situated in the patrimony '
for the attempt of such a poem) ; and to have left the stage, of St. Cuthbert, the property was in the see of Durham H

to which my genius never much inclined me, for a work
which would have taken up my life in the performance
of it. This, too, I had intended chiefly for the honour of

till the Reformation. After that period it passed through
various hands. At the union of the crowns, it was in the
possession of Sir Robert Carey, (afterwards Earl of Mon-

= eaerges ae. ng as

 

my native country, to which a poet is particularly obliged.
Of two subjects, both relating to it, I was doubtful whether
Tshould choose that of King Arthur conquering the Saxons,
which, being farther distant in time, gives the greater scope
tomyinvention; or thatof Edward the Black Prince, in sub-
duing Spain, and restoring it to the lawful prince, though a
great tyrant, Don Pedro the Cruel: which, for the com-
pass of time, including only the expedition of one year,
for the greatness of the action, and its answerable event,
for the magnanimity of the English hero, opposed to the
ingratitude of the person whom he restored, and for the
many beautiful episodes which I had interwoyen with the
principal design, together with the characters of the
chiefest English persons, (wherein, after Virgil and Spen-

mouth,) for his own life, and that of two of his sons.
After King James’s accession, Carey sold Norham Castle
to George Home Earl of Dunbar, for 60007.—See his curious
Memoirs, published by Mr. Constable of Edinburgh.
According to Mr. Pinkerton, there is, in the British
Museum, Cal. B. 6, 216, a curious memoir of the Dacres on
the state of Norham Castle in 1522, not long after the battle
of Flodden. The inner ward, or keep, is represented as
impregnable: ‘* The provisions are three great vats of salt
eels, forty-four kine, three hogsheads of salted salmon,
forty quartes of grain, besides many cows, and four hun-
dred sheep, lying under the castle-wall nightly; but a
number of the arrows wanted feathers, and a good fletcher
(i.e. maker of arrows) was required.”—History of Scotland,

hal

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Sr

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casted

oar

een

Vol. 1. p. 201, Note.

The ruins of the castle are at present considerable, as
well as picturesque. They consist of a large shattered
tower, with many vaults, and fragments of other edifices,
inclosed within an outward wali of great circuit.

ser, I would have taken occasion to represent my living
friends and patrons of the noblest families, and also sha-
dowed the events of future ages in the succession of our
imperial line,)—with these helps, and those of the machines
which I have mentioned, I might perhaps have done as

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The donjon keep.—S. 1. p. 5.

It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my readers, that the
donjon, in its proper signification, means the strongest
part of a feudal castle; a high square tower, with walls of
tremendous thickness, situated in the centre of the other
buildings, from which, however, it was usually detached.
Here, in case of the outward defences being gained, the
garrison retreated to make their last stand. The donjon
contained the great hall, and principal rooms of state for
solemn occasions, and also the prison of the fortress ; from
which last circumstance we derive the modern and re-
stricted use of the word dungeon. Ducange (voce DuNso)
conjectures, plausibly, that the name is derived from these
keeps being usually built upon a hill, which in Celtic is
called Dun. Borlase supposes the word came from the
darkness of the apartments in these towers, which were
thence figuratively called Dungeons; thus deriving the
ancient word from the modern application of it.

Well armed was he from head to heel,
In mail and plate of Milan steel.—S. vi. p. 6.

The artists of Milan were famous in the middle ages for
their skill in armoury, as appears from the following pas-
sage, in which Froissart gives an account of the prepara-
tions made by Henry, Earl of Hereford, afterwards Henry
IV., and Thomas Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marischall, for
their proposed combat in the lists at Coventry: ‘‘ These
two lords made ample provision of all things necessary for
the combat; and the Earl of Derby sent off messengers to
Lombardy, to have armour from Sir Galeas, Duke of Milan.
The duke complied with joy, and gave the knight called
Sir Francis, who had brought the message, the choice of
all his armour for the Harlof Derby. When he had selected
what he wished for in plated and mail armour, the lord
of Milan, out of his abundant love for the Earl, ordered
four of the best armourers in Milan to accompany the
knight to England, that the Earl of Derby might be more
completely armed.”—JOHNES’s Froissart, Vol. Iv. p. 597.

The golden legend bore aright,
Cpa checks at me, io Neath ts Vight.—
Se ovie p. 6:

The crest and motto of Marmion are borrowed from the
following story. Sir David de Lindsay, first Earl of Crau-
ford, was, among other gentlemen of quality, attended,
during a visit to London, in 1390, by Sir William Dalzell,
who was, according to my authority, Bower, not only
excelling in wisdom, but also of a lively wit. Chancing
to be at the Court, he there saw Sir Piers Courtenay, an
English knight, famous for skill in tilting, and for the
beauty of his person, parading the palace, arrayed in a
new mantle, bearing for device an embroidered falcon,
with this rhyme,—

I bear a falcon, fairest of flight,
Whoso pinches at her, his death is dight *,
In graith f.

The Scottish knight, being a wag, appeared next day
in a dress exactly similar to that of Courtenay, but bear-
ing a magpie instead of the falcon, with a motto ingeni-
ously contrived to rhyme to the vaunting inscription of
Sir Piers :—

I bear a pie picking at a piece,
Who so picks at her, I shall pick at his nese +,
In faith.

This affront could only be expiated by a just with
sharp lances. In the course, Dalzell left his helmet
unlaced, so that it gave way at the touch of his antagonist’s
lance, and he thus avoided the shock of the encounter.
This happened twice :—in the third encounter, the hand-
some Courtenay lost two of hisfront teeth. As the English-
man complained bitterly of Dalzell’s fraud in not fasten-
ing his helmet, the Scottishman agreed to run six courses
more, each champion staking in the hand of the king two
hundred pounds, to be forfeited, if, on entering the lists,
any unequal advantage should be detected. This being

 

* Prepared. t Armour. $ Nose.

 

agreed to, the wily Scot demanded, that Sir Piers, in
addition to the loss of his teeth, should consent to the
extinction of one of his eyes, he himself having lost an
eye in the fight of Otterburn. As Courtenay demurred
to this equalization of optical powers, Dalzell demanded
the forfeit: which, after much altercation, the king ap-
pointed to be paid to him, saying, he surpassed the
English both in wit and valour. This must appear to the
reader a singular specimen of the humour of that time. I
suspect the Jockey Club would haye given a different
decision from Henry IV.

They hailed Lord Marmion:
They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye,
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye,
Of Tamworth tower and town.—S. XI. p. 7.

Lord Marmion, the principal character of the present
romance, is entirely a fictitious personage. In earlier
times, indeed, the family of Marmion, lords of Fontenay,
in Normandy, was highly distinguished. Robert de Mar-
mion, Lord of Fontenay, a distinguished follower of the
Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle and town of
Tamworth, and also of the manor of Scrivelby, in Lin-
colnsnire. One, or both, of these noble possessions was
held by the honourable service of being the royal cham-
pion, as the ancestors of Marmion had formerly been
to the Dukes of Normandy. But after the castle and
demesne of Tamworth had passed through four successive
barons from Robert, the family became extinct in the
person of Philip de Marmion, who died in 20th Edward L.,
without issue male, He was succeeded in his castle of
Tamworth by Alexander de Freville, who married Mazera,
his grand-daughter. Baldwin de Freville, Alexander's
descendant, in the reign of Richard I., by the supposed
tenure of his Castle of Tamworth, claimed the office of
royal champion, and to do the service appertaining ;
namely, on the day of coronation to ride completely
armed, upon a barbed horse, into Westminster Hall, and
there to challenge the combat against any who would
gainsay the king’s title. But this office was adjudged to
Sir John Dymocke, to whom the manor of Scrivelby had
descended by another of the co-heiresses of Robert de
Marmion ; and it remains in that family, whose represen-
tative is Hereditary Champion of England at the present
day. The family and possessions of Fréville have merged
in the Earls of Ferrars: I have not, therefore, created a
new family, but only revived the titles of an old one in an
imaginary personage.

It was one of the Marmion family, who, in the reign of
Edward II., performed that chivalrous feat before the very
castle of Norham, which Bishop Percy has woven into his
beautiful Ballad, ‘“‘The Hermit of Warkworth.” The
story is thus told by Leland :—

‘“* The Scottes came yn to the marches of England, and
destroyed the Castles of Werk and Herbotel, and overran
much of Northumberland marches.

«¢ At this tyme Thomas Gray and his friendes defended
Norham from the Scottes.

“¢It were a wonderful processe to declare, what mis-
chiefes cam by hungre and asseges by the space of xi yeres
in Northumberland; for the Scottes became so proude
after they had got Berwick, thut they nothing esteemed
the Englishmen.

‘* About this tyme there was a greate feste made yn
Lincolnshir, to which came many gentilmen and ladies ;
and amonge them one lady brought a healme for a man of
were, with a very rich creste of gold, to William Marmion,
knigitt, with a letter of commendement of her lady, that
he should go into the daungerest place in England, and
ther to let the heaulme be seene and known as famous.
So he went to Norham; whither within 4 days of cumming
cam Philip Moubray, guardian cf Berwick, having yn
his bande 40 men of armes, the very flour of men of the
Scottish marches.

‘Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham, seynge this;
brought his garrison afore the barriers of the castel, behind
whom cam William, richly arrayed, as al glittering in
gold, and wearing the heaulme, his lady’s present.NOTES.

‘Then said Thomas Gray to Marmion, Sir knight, ye
be cum hither to fame your helmet: mount up on yowr
horse, and ryd lyke a valiant man to yowr foes even here
at hand, and | forsake God if I rescue not thy body deade
or alyve, or I myself wy] dye for it.’

‘* Whereupon he toke his cursere, and rode among the
throng of ennemyes ; the which layed sore stripes on hym,
and pulled hym at the last out of his sadel to the grounde,

“Then Thomas Gray, with all the hole garrison, lette
prick yn among the Scottes, and so wondid them and their
horses, that they were overthrowan; and Marmion, sore
beten, was horsid agayn, and with Gray, persewed the
Scottes ynchase. There were taken 50 horseof price; and
the women of Norham brought them to the foot men to
follow the chase,”

Largesse, largesse.—S, XI. p. 7.

This was the cry with which heralds and pursuivants
were wont to acknowledge the bounty received from the
knights. Stewart of Lorn distinguishes a ballad, in which
he satirises the narrowness of James V., and his courtiers,
by the ironical burden—

Lerges, lerges, lerges, hay,

Lerges of this new-year day.
First lerges, of the king, my chief,
Who came as quiet as a thief,
And in my hand slid—shillings twae*!
To put his largeness to the prief ft,
For lerges of this new-year day.

The heralds, like the minstrels, were a race allowed to
have great claims upon the liberality of the knights, of
whose feats they kept a record, and proclaimed them
aloud, as in the text, upon suitable occasions.

At Berwick, Norham, and other Border fortresses of
importance, pursuivants usually resided, whose inviolable
character rendered them the only persons that could, with
perfect assurance of safety, be sent on necessary embassies
into Scotland. This is alluded to in Stanza xxu. p. 8.

Sir Hugh the Heron bold,
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford,
And Captain of the Hold.—S. x1. p. 7.

Were accuracy of any consequence in a fictitious nar-
rative, this castellan’s name ought to have been William ;
for William Heron, of Ford, was husband to the famous
Lady Ford, whose syren charms are said to have cost our
James IV. so dear. Moreover, the said William Heron
was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scotland, being
surrendered by Henry VIII., on account of his share in
the slaughter of Sir Robert Ker of Cessford. His wife,
represented in the text as residing at the court of Scot-
land, was, in fact, living in her own castle At Ford.—
See Sir RicHAarD HERON’s curious Genealogy of the Heron
Family.

The whiles a Northern harper rude
Chaunted a rhyme of deadly feud,
“‘ How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys all,” &c.
S: Sil. p07.
This old Northumbrian ballad was taken down from
the recitation of a woman eighty years of age, mother of
one of the miners in Alston-moor, by an agent for the
lead-mines there, who communicated it to my friend and
correspondent, R. Surtees, Esquire, of Mainsforth. She
had not, she said, heard it for many years; but when she
was a girl, it used to be sung at merry-makings, ‘till
the roof rung again.” To preserve this curious, though
rude rhyme, it is here inserted, The ludicrous turn given
to the slaughter, marks that wild and disorderly state of
society, in which a murder was not merely a casual cir-
cumstance, but, in some cases, an exceedingly good jest.
The structure of the ballad resembles the ‘‘ Fray of
Suportt,” having the same irregular stanza and wild
chorus,

 

eIwo: + Proof,
+ See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Vol. 1. p. 250.

Me
Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’,
Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, and Thirwalls, and a’,
Ha’ set upon Albany ! Featherstonhaugh,
And taken his life at the Deadmanshaugh :
There was Willimoteswick,
And Hardriding Dick,
And Hughie of Hawden, and Will of the Wa’,
I canno’ tell a’, I canno’ tell a’,
And mony a mair that the deil may knaw.

IT.
The auld man went down, but Nicol, his son,
Ran away afore the fight was begun :

And he run, and he run,

And afore they were done,
There was many a Featherstone gat sic a stun,
As never was seen since the world begun.

IIT.

I canna’ tell a’, I canna’ tell a’;

Some gat a skelp ? and some gat a claw;

But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw 3,—
Nicol, and Alick, and a’.

Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane;

Some had harness, and some gat sta’en 4.

IV.
Ane gat a twist 0’ the craig 5,
Ane gat a bunch 6, 0’ the wame7;
Symy Haw gat lamed of a leg,
And syne ran wallowing § hame.

Vv.
Hoot, hoot, the auld man’s slain outright !
Lay him now wi’ his face down :—he’s a sorrowful sight.
Janet, thou donot 9,
Tl lay my best bonnet,
Thou gets a new gude-man afore it be night.

VI.
Hoot away, lads, hoot away,
Wi’s a’ be hangid if we stay.
Tak’ up the dead man, and lay him ahint the bigging ;
Here’s the Baily 0’ Haltwhistle 1°,
W? his great bull’s pizzle,
That sup’d up the broo’, and syne —— in the piggin 1.

In explanation of this ancient ditty, Mr. Surtees has
furnished me with the following local memorandum :
Willimoteswick, the chief seat of the ancient family of
Ridley, is situated two miles above the confluence of the
Allon and Tyne. It was a house of strength, as appears
from one oblong tower, still in tolerable preservation *,
It has been long in possession of the Blacket family.—
Hardriding Dick is not an epithet referring to horseman-
ship, but means Richard Ridley, of Hardriding{, the
seat of another family of that name, which, in the time of
Charles I., was sold on account of expenses incurred by
the loyalty of the proprietor, the immediate ancestor of
Sir Matthew Ridley. Will of the Wa’ seemsto be William
Ridley of Walltown, so called from its situation on the
great Roman wall. Thirwall Castle, whence the clan of
Thirwalls derived their name, is situated on the small
river of Tippel, near the western boundary of Northumber-
land. It is near the wall, and takesits name from the

 

1 Pronounced Amwbony.

2 Skelp signifies slap, or rather is the same word which was origi-
ginally spelied schlap, ee

3 Hold their jaw, a vulgar expression still in use,

4 Got stolen, or were plundered; a very likely termination of the
fray.

5 Neck. 6 Punch. 7 Belly. 8 Bellowing.

9 Silly slut. The Border Bard calls her so, because she was weep-
ing for her slain husband ; a loss which he seems to thipk might be
soon repaired.

10 The Bailiff of Haltwhistle seems to have arrived when the fray
was over. This supporter of social order is treated with .character-
istic irreverence by the moss-trooping poet.

11 An iron pot with two ears.

* Willimoteswick was, in prior editions, confounded with Ridley
Hall, situated two miles lower on the same side of the Tyne, the
hereditary seat of William C. Lowes, Esq. :

+ Ridley, the bishop and martyr, was, according to some authori-
ties, born at Hardriding, where a chair was preserved, called the
Bishop’s chair. Others, and particularly his biographer and name-

 

sake, Dr. Glocester Ridley, assign the honour of the martyr’s birth to
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06 MARMION.

rampart having been thirled, i. e. pierced, or breached,
in its vicinity. Featherston Castle lies south of the Tyne,
towards Alston-moor. Albany Featherstonhaugh, the
chief of that ancient family, made a figure in the reign
of Edward VI. A feud did certainly exist between the
Ridleys and Featherstones, productive of such conse-
quences as the ballad narrates. 24 Oct. 22do Henvici 8vi.
Inquisitio capt. apud Hautwhistle, sup. visum corpus Alex-
andri Featherston, Gen. apud Grensilhaugh, felonice inter-
Jecti, 22 Oct. per Nicolaum Ridley de Unthanke, Gen.
Hugon Ridle, Nicolaum Ridle, et alios ejusdem nominis.
Nor were the Featherstones without their revenge: for
36to Henrici 8vi, we have—Utlagatio Nicolai Fetherston,
ac Thome Nyxson, §c. §e. pro homicidio Jill. Ridle de
Morale.

James backed the cause of that mock prince,
Varbeck, that Flemish counterfeit,

Who on the gibbet paid the cheat :

Then did I march with Surrey’s power,

What time we razed old Ayton tower.”—S. xvii. p. 8.

The story of Perkin Warbeck, or Richard, Duke of

York, is well known. In 1496, he was received honour-
ably in Scotland; and James IV., after conferring upon
him in marriage his own relation, the Lady Catharine
Gordon, made war on England in behalf of his pretensions.
To retaliate an invasion of England, Surrey advanced into
Berwickshire at the head of considerable forces, but
retreated after taking the inconsiderable fortress of Ayton.
Ford, in his Dramatic Chronicle of Perkin Warbeck, makes
the most of this inroad :—

Surrey. Are all our braving enemies shrunk back ;
Hid in the fogges of their distempered climate,
Not daring to behold our colours wave
In spight of this infected ayre? Can they
Look on the strength of Cundrestine defac’t ;
The glorie of Heydonhall devasted ; that
Of Edington cast downe; the pile of Fulden
Orethrowne: And this, the strongest of their forts,
Old Ayton Castle, yeelded and demolished,
And yet not peepe abroad? the Scots are bold,
Hardie in battayle, but it seemes the cause
They undertake considered, appeares |
Unjoynted in the frame on’t.

For here be some have pricked as Sar.

On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ;

Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan’s ale,

And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ;

Harried the wives of Greenlaw’s goods,

And given them light to set their hoods.” —S. xix. p. 8.

The garrisons of the English castles of Wark, Norham,
and Berwick, were, as may be easily supposed, very trou-
blesome neighbours to Scotland. Sir Richard Maitland
of Ledington wrote a poem, called ‘‘ The Blind Baron’s
Comfort; ” when his barony of Blythe, in Lauderdale, was
harried by Rowland Foster, the English captain of Wark,
with his company, to the number of 300 men. They
spoiled the poetical knight of 5000 sheep, 200 nolt, 30
horses and mares; the whole furniture of his house of
Blythe, worth 100 pounds Scots, (8. 6s. 8d.) and every
thing else that was portable. ‘* This spoil was committed
the 16th day of May, 1570, (and the said Sir Richard
was threescore and fourteen years of age, and grown
blind,) in time of peace; when none of that country Jip-
pened (expected) such a thing.”—‘‘ The Blind Baron’s
Comfort” consists in a string of puns on the word Blythe,
the name of the lands thus despoiled. Like John Little-
wit, he had “a conceit left him in his misery,—a misera-
ble conceit.”

The last line of the text contains a phrase, by which
the Borderers jocularly intimated the burning a house.
When the Maxwells, in 1685, burned the castle of Loch-
wood, they said they did so to give the Lady Johnstone
<¢ light toset her hood.” Nor was the phrase inapplicable ;
for, in a letter, to which I have mislaid the reference, the
Earl of Northumberland writes to the king and council,

 

that he dressed himself, xt midnight, at Warkworth, by
the blaze of the neighbouring villages, burned by the
Scottish marauders.

The priest of Shoreswood.—S. xxt. p. 8.

This churchman seems to have been a-kin to Welsh,
the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter, a leader among the
Cornish insurgents in 1549. ‘*‘ This man,” says Hollin-
shed, ‘‘had many good things in him, He was of no
great stature, but well set, and mightilie compact: He
was a very good wrestler ; shot well, both in the long-bow,
and also in the cross-bow ; he handled his hand-gun and
peece very well; he wasa very good woodman, and hardie,
and such a one as would not give his head for the polling,
or his beard for the washing. He was a companion in
any exercise of activitie, and of a courteous and gentle
behaviour. He descended of a good honest parentage,
being born at Peneverin, in Cornwall ; and yet, in this
rebellion, an arch-captain, and a principal dooer.’’—Vol.
IV. p. 958, 4to edition. This model of clerical talents
had the misfortune to be hanged upon the steeple of
his own church,

And of that Grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eyes
From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.—S. xxi. p. 9.

‘¢ Santa Rosalia was of Palermo, and born of a very noble
family, and when very young, abhorred so much the vani-
ties of this world, and avoided the converse of mankind,
resolving to dedicate hérself wholly to God Almighty, that
she, by divine inspiration, forsook her father’s house, and
never was more heard of, till her body was found in that
cleft of a rock, on that almost inaccessible mountain,
where now the chappel is built; and they affirm, she was
carried up there by the hands of angels; for that place was
not formerly so accessible (as now it is) in the days of the
Saint; and even now it is a very bad, and steepy, and
break-neck way. In this frightful place, this holy woman
lived a great many years, feeding only on what she found
growing on that barren mountain, and creeping into a
narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, which was always
dropping wet, and was her place of retirement, as well as
prayer ; having worn out even the rock with her knees, in
a certain place, which is now open’d on purpose to show
it to those who come here. This chappel is very richly
adorn’d; and on the spot where the Saint’s dead body was
discover’d, which is just beneath the hole in the rock, which
is open’d on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue
of marble, representing her in a lying posture, railed in
all about with fine iron and brass work ; and the altar, on
which they say mass, is built just over it.”—Voyage to
Sicily and Malta, by Mr.-John Dryden, (son to the poet,)
Del07;

Himself still sleeps, before his beads
Have marked ten aves, and two creeds.—S. xxv. p. 9.
Friar John understood the soporifie virtue of his beads

and breviary, as well as his namesake in Rabelais. ‘But
Gargantua could not sleep by any means, on which side
soever he turned himself. Whereupon the monk said to him,
I never sleep soundly but when I am at sermon or prayers:
Let us therefore begin, you and I, the seven penitential
psalms, to try whether you shall not quickly fall asleep.
The conceit pleased Gargantua very well; and, beginning
the first of these psalms, as soon as they came to Beati
quorum, they fell asleep, both the one and the other,”

The summoned Palmer came in place ;

— — —_— —

In his black mantle was he clad,
With Peter’s keys, in cloth of red,
On his broad shoulders wrought.—S. xxvit. p. 9.

A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one who made it
his sole business to visit different holy shrines; travelling
incessantly, and subsisting by charity: whereas the Pil-
grim retired to his usual home and occupations, when he

—ee

 

|

NOTES.

had paid his devotions at the particular spot, which was
the object of his pilgrimage. The Palmers seem to have
been the Questionarii of the ancient Seottish canons 1242
and i296. There is, in the Bannatyne MS., a burlesque
account of two such persons, entitled, ‘* Simmy and his
Brother.” Their accoutrements are thus ludicrously de-
scribed, (I discard the ancient spelling.)

57 |

and other parts of that country; and also warned all
gentlemen that had good dogs, to bring them, that he
might hunt in the said country, as he pleased: The whilk
the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of Huntley, the Earl of
Athole, and so all the rest of the gentlemen of -the High-
land, did, and brought their hounds with them in like

fries taal

|
= 1 t
ee ce

Mag T
a

Syne shaped them up to loup on leas, °
Two tabards of the tartan;
They counted nought what their clouts were
When sew’d them on, in certain.
Syne clampit up St. Peter’s keys,
Made of an old red gartane ;
St. James’s shells, on t’other side, shews
As pretty as a partane
: Toe,
On Symmye and his brother.

To fair St. Andrew’s bound,
Within the ocean-cave to pray,
Where good St. Rule his holy lay,
From midnight to the dawn of day,
Sung to the billows’ sound.—S. xx1x

: xp. 9:

St. Regulus (Scoiticé, St. Rule) a monk of Patre, in
Achaia, warned by a vision, is said, A.D. 370, to have
sailed westward, until he landed at St. Andrew’s, in Scot-

land, where he founded a chapel and tower. The latter

| is still standing; and, though we may doubt the precise
date of its foundation, is certainly one of the most ancient

| edifices in Scotland.

A cave, nearly fronting the ruinous
castle of the Archbishops of St. Andrew’s, bears the name
of this religious person. It is difficult of access; and the
rock in which it is hewed is washed by the German ocean.
It is nearly round, about ten feet in diameter, and the
same in height. On one side is a sort of stone altar; on
the other an aperture into an inner den, where the
miserable ascetic, who inhabited this dwelling, probably
slept. _At full tide, egress and regress is hardly practi-
cable. As Regulus first colonized the metropolitan see
of Scotland, and converted the inhabitants in the vicinity,
he has some reason to complain, that the ancient name
of Killrule (Cella Reguli) should have been superseded,
even in favour of the tutelar saint of Scotland. The rea-
son of the change was, that St. Rule issaid to have brought

_ to Scotland the reliques of St. Andrew.

Thence to Saint Fillan’s blessed well,
Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,
And the crazed brain restore.—S. xxix. p. 9,
Saint Fillan was a Scottish saint of some reputation.

_ Although Popery is, with us, matter of abomination, yet
_ the common people still retain some of the superstitions

| connected with it.

| sport.

There are, in Perthshire, several
wells and springs dedicated to St. Fillan, which are still

_ places of pilgrimage and offerings, even among the Pro-

testants. They are held powerful in cases of madness;
and, in instances of very late occurrence, lunatics have

‘been left all night bound to the holy stone, in confidence

that the saint would cure and unloose them before
morning.
————

eo

CANTO II.

3 te |

4 re *¢ My good Lord of Mar having put me into that shape, fy |

a Bee 2 pues be tame —Int. p. 10 I rode with him from his house, where I saw the ruins of fa |
gee SOUT Te? oo 2 eee an old castle, called the castle of Kindroghit. It was built we
Ettricke Forest, now a range of mountainous sheep- by King Malcolm Canmore, (for a hunting house,) who th

walks, was anciently reserved for the pleasure of theroyal
chase. Since it was disparked, the wood has been, by
degrees, almost totally destroyed, although, wherever pro-
tected from the sheep, copses soon arise without any
planting. When the king hunted there, he often sum-
moned the array of the country to meet and assist his
Thus, in 1528, James V. ‘‘ made proclamation
to all lords, barons, gentlemen, lamdward-men, and free-

 

 

manner, to hunt with the king, as he pleased.

“‘ The second day of June the king passed out of Edin-
burgh to the hunting, with many of the nobles and gen-
tlemen of Scotland with him, to the number of twelve
thousand men ; and then pass to Meggitland, and hounded
and hawked all the country and bounds: that is to say,
Crammat, Pappertlaw, St. Marylaws, Carlayirick, Chapel,
Ewindoores, and Longhope. I heard say, he slew in these
bounds, eighteen score of harts *.”

These huntings had, of course, a military character,
and attendance upon them was a part of the duty of a
vassal. The act for abolishing ward, or military tenures,
in Scotland, enumerates the services of hunting, hosting,

- watching, and warding, as those which were in future to

be illegal.

Taylor, the water-poet, has given an account of the
mode in which these huntings were conducted in the
Highlands of Scotland, in the seventeenth century, having
been present at Braemar upon such an occasion :

** There did I find the truly noble and right honour-
able lords, John Erskine, Earl of Mar; James Stuart,
Earl of Murray; George Gordon, Earl of Engye, son and
heir to the Marquis of Huntley ; James Erskine, Earl of
Buchan; and John, Lord Erskine, son and heir to the
Earl of Mar, and their Countesses, with my much
honoured, and my last assured and approved friend, Sir
William Murray, knight of Abercarney, and hundred of
others, knights, esquires, and their followers; all and
every man, in general, in one habit, as if Lycurgus had
been there, and made laws of equality: for once in the
year, which is the whole month of August, and sometimes
part of September, many of the nobility and gentry of the
kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into these highland
countries to hunt; where they do conform themselves to
the habit of the highland-men, who, for the most part,
speak nothing but Irish ; and, in former time, were those
people which were called the Red-shanks. Their habit
is—shoes, with but one sole a-piece; stockings, (which
they call short hose,) made of a warm stuff of divers
colours, which they call tartan ; as for breeches, many of
them, nor their forefathers, never wore any, but a jerkin
of the same stuff that their hose is of ; their garters being
bands or wreathes of hay, or straw; with a plaid about
their shoulders, which is a mantle of divers colours, much
finer and lighter stuff than their hose ; with blue flat caps
on their heads; a handkerchief, knit with two knots,
about their necks: and thus are they attired. Now their
Weapons are—long bowes and forked arrows, swords and
targets, harquebusses, muskets, durks, and Lochaber axes.
With these arms I found many of them armed for the
hunting. As for their attire, any man, of what degree
soever, that comes amongst them, must not disdain to
wear it; for if they do, then they will disdain to hunt, or
willingly to bring in their dogs; butifmen be kind unto
them, and be in their habit, then they are conquered with
kindness, and the sport will be plentiful, This was the
reason that I found so many noblemen and gentlemen in
those shapes. But to proceed to the hunting:

reigned in Scotland, when Edward the Confessor, Harold,
and Norman William, reigned in England. I speak of it,
because it was the last. house I saw in those parts; for I
was the space of twelve days after, before I saw either
house, corn-field, or habitation for any creature, but deer,
wild horses, wolves, and such like creatures,— which
made me doubt that I should never have seen a house
again.

 

 

holders, that they should compeéar at Edinburgh, with a «© Thus, the first day, we travelled eight miles, where \

month’s victuals, to pass with the king where he pleased, —— i
to danton the thieves of Teviotdale, Annandale, Liddisdale * Pirscorrig’s History of Scotland, folio edition, p. 143. |
Ray? |

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MARMION.

 

there were small cottages, built on purpose to lodge in,
which they call Lonquhards. I thank my good Lord
Erskine, he commanded that I should always be lodged
in his lodging: the kitchen being always on the side of a
bank; many kettles and pots boiling, and many spits
turning and winding, with great variety of cheer,—as
venison baked; sodden, rost, and stewed beef; mutton,
goats, kid, hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons,
chickens, partridge, muir-coots, heath-cocks, caperkellies,
and termagants; good ale, sacke, white and claret, tent
(or allegant), with most potent aquavite.

** All these, and more than these, we had continually
in superfluous abundance, caught by falconers, fowlers,
fishers, and brought by my lcrd’s tenants and purveyors
to victual our camps, which consisted of fourteen or fif-
teen hundred men and horses. The manner of the hunt-
ing is this: Five or six hundred men do rise early in the
morning, and they do disperse themselves divers ways,
and seven, eight, or ten miles compass, they do bring, or
chase in the deer, in many herds, (two, three, or four
hundred in a herd,) to such or such a place, as the noble-
men shall appoint them; then, when day is come, the
lords and gentlemen of their companies do ride or go to the
said places, sometimes wading up to the middles, through
burns and rivers ; and then, they being come to the place,
do lie down on the ground, till those foresaid scouts,
which are called the Tinkhell, do bring down the deer:
but, as the proverb says of a bad cook, so these tinkhell-
men do lick their own fingers; for, besides their bows
and arrows, which they carry with them, we can hear,
now and then, a harquebuss or a musket go off, which
they do seldom discharge in vain. Then, after we had
staid there three hours, or thereabouts, we might perceive
the deer appear on the hills round about us, (their heads
making a shew like a wood,) which being followed close
by the tinkhell, are chased down into the valley where
we lay; then all the valley, on each side, being way-laid
with a hundred couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they
are all let loose, as occasion serves, upon the herd of
deer, that, with dogs, guns, arrows, durks, and daggers,
in the space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain;
which after are disposed of, some one way, and some
another, twenty and thirty miles, and more than enough
left for us, to make merry withal, at our rendezvous.”

ee Varro:
Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow.—Int. p. 10,

The tale of the outlaw Murray, who held out Newark
Castle and Ettricke Forest against the king, may be found
in the *‘ Border Minstrelsy,” Vol. 1. In the Macfarlane
MS., among other causes of James the Fifth’s charter to
the burgh, is mentioned, that the citizens assisted him to
suppress this dangerous outlaw.

—— lone Saint Mary’s silent lake.—Int. p. 11.

This beautiful sheet of water forms the reservoir from
which the Yarrow takes its source. It is connected with
a smaller lake, called the Loch of the Lowes, and sur-
rounded by mountains. In the winter, it is still fre-
guented by flights of wild swans; hence my friend Mr.
Wordsworth’s lines:

The swans on sweet St. Mary’s lake,
Float double, swan and shadow.

Near the lower extremity of the lake, are the ruins of
Dryhope Tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, daughter
of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and famous by the traditional
name of the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to
Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for his depre-
dations, than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic ap-
pellation was, in later days, with equal justice, con-
ferred on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder
branch of the Harden family. The author well remembers
the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow,
though age had then injured the charms which procured
her the name. The words usually sung to the air of
‘¢ Tweedside,” beginning, ‘‘ What beauties does Flora
disclose,” were composed in her honour.

For though, in feudal strife, a foe
Hath laid Our Lady’s chapel low.—Int. p. 11.

The chapel of Saint Mary of the Lowes (de lacubus)
was situated on the eastern side of the lake to which it
| gives name. It was injured by the clan of Scott, in a
| feud with the Cranstouns: but continued to be a place
of worship during the seventeenth century. The vestiges
of the building can now scarcely. be traced; but the
burial-ground is still used as a cemetery. A funeral, in
a spot so very retired, has an uncommonly striking effect.
The vestiges of the chaplain’s house are yet visible. Being
in a high situation, it commanded a full view of the
lake, with the opposite mountain of Bourhope, belonging,
with the lake itself, to Lord Napier. On the left hand
is the tower of Dryhope, mentioned in the preceding note.

— the Wizard’s grave ;
That Wizard Priest’s, whose bones are thrust
From company of holy dust ;—Int. p. 11.

At one corner of the burial-ground of the demolished
chapel, but without its precincts, is a small mound, called
Binram’s Corse, where tradition deposits the remains of a
necromantic priest, the former tenant of the chaplainry.
His story much resemblesthat of Ambrosio in the ‘*‘ Monk,”
and has been made the theme of a ballad, by my friend
Mr. James Hogg, more poetically designated the Ettricke
Shepherd. To his volume, entitled the ‘*‘ Mountain Bard,”
which contains this, and many other legendary stories
and ballads of great merit, I refer the curious reader.

—— dark Lochskene.—Int. p. 12.

A mountain lake, of considerable size, at the head of
the Moffat-water. The character of the scenery is un-
commonly savage; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has,
for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an islet in the
lake. Lochskene discharges itself into a brook, which,
after a short and precipitate course, falls from a cataract
of immense height, and gloomy grandeur, called, from
its appearance, the ‘‘ Grey Mare’s Tail.” The ‘ Giant’s
Grave,” afterwards mentioned, is a sort of trench, which
bears that name, a little way from the foot of the cata-
ract. It has the appearance of a battery designed to
command the pass. .

Where, from high Whitby’s cloistered pile,
Bound to St. Cuthbert’s Holy Isle.—S. t. p. 12.

The Abbey of Whitby, in the Archdeaconry of Cleave-
land, on the coast of Yorkshire, was founded A.D. 657,
in consequence of a vow of Oswy, King of Northumber-
land. It contained both monks and nuns of the Bene-
dictine order; but, contrary to what was usual in such
establishments, the abbess was superior to the abbot.
The monastery was afterwards ruined by the Danes, and
rebuilded by William Percy, in the reign of the Con-
queror. There were no nuns there in Henry the Highth’s
time, nor long before it. The ruins of Whitby Abbey are
very magnificent.

Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast of Northumberland,
was called Holy Island, from the sanctity of its ancient
monastery, and from its having been the episcopal seat of
the see of Durham during the early ages of British Chris-
tianity. A succession of holy men held that office; but
their merits were swallowed up in the superior fame of
St. Cuthbert, who was sixth bishop of Durham, and who
bestowed the name of his ‘‘ patrimony ” upon the exten-
sive property of the see. The ruins of the monastery
upon Holy Island betoken great antiquity. The arches
are, in general, strictly Saxon; and the pillars which
support them, short, strong, and massy. In some places,
however, there are pointed windows, which indicate that
the building has been repaired at a period long subse-
quent to the original foundation. The exterior orna-
ments of the building being of a light sandy stone, have
been wasted, as described in the text. Lindisfarne is
not properly an island, but rather, as the venerable Bede
has termed it, a semi-isle; for, although surrounded by
the sea at full tide, the ebb leaves the sands dry between
it and the opposite coast of Northumberland, from which

 

it is about three miles distant. :

ee1
)
)

-

) de Bruce, ten stakes, eleven strout stowers, and eleven | sympathies and antipathies, are implanted in many things tH
yethers, to be cut by you, or some of you, with a knife of | by provident nature for the preservation of them, is a if
) one penny price; and you, Ralph de Percy, shall take | thing so evident, that every body grantsit.” Mr. Charlton, is

2
>

 

 

 

 

 

NOTES. 59

 

 

 

Then Whitby’s nuns, exulting, told,
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do.—S. xur. p. 14.

The popular account of this curious service, which
was probably considerably exaggerated, is thus given in
‘* A True Account,” printed and circulated at Whitby:
*« In the fifth year of the reign of Henry II., after the
conquest of England by William, Duke of Normandy,
the lord of Uglebarnby, then called William de Bruce ;
the lord of Smeaton, called Ralph de Percy; with a
gentleman and freeholder called Allatson, did, on the
16th of October, 1159, appoint to meet and hunt the wild
boar, in a certain wood, or desert place, belonging to the
abbot of Whitby: the place’s name was Eskdale-side ; and
the abbot’s name was Sedman. Then, these young gentle-
men being met, with their hounds, and boar-stayes, in the
place before mentioned, and there having found a great
wild boar, the hounds ran him well near about the chapel
and hermitage of Eskdale-side, where was a monk of
Whitby, who was an hermit. The boar being very sorely
pursued, and dead-run, took in at the chapel door, there
laid him down, and presently died. The hermit shut the
hounds out of the chapel, and kept himself within at his
meditations and prayers, the hounds standing at bay
without. The gentlemen, in the thick of the wood, being
just behind their game, followed the cry of their hounds,
and so came to the hermitage, calling on the hermit, who
opened the door, and came forth; and within they found
the boar lying dead: for which, the gentlemen, in a very
great fury, because the hounds were put from their game,

the gentlemen, perceiving and knowing that they were in
peril of death, took sanctuary at Scarborough: But at that
time the abbot being in very great favour with the King,
removed them out of the sanctuary ; whereby they came
in danger of the law, and not to be privileged, but likely
to have the severity of the law, which was death for death.
But the hermit being a holy and devout man, and at the
point of death, sent for the abbot, and desired him to
send for the gentlemen who had wounded him. The abbot
so doing, the gentlemen came, and the hermit being very
sick and weak, said unto them, ‘ I am sure to die of those
wounds you have given me.’ The abbot answered, ‘ They
shall as surely die for the same.’ But the hermit answered,
‘ Not so, for I will freely forgive them my death, if they
will be content to be enjoined the penance I shall lay on
them for the safeguard of their souls.’ The gentlemen
being present, bade him save their lives. Then said the
hermit: ‘ You and yours shall hold your lands of the
abbot of Whitby, and his successors, in this manner:
That, upon Ascension-day, you, or some of you, shall
come to the wood of the Stray-heads, which is in Eskdale-
side, the same day at sun-rising, and there shall the abbot’s
officer blow his horn, to the intent that you may know
where to find him; and he shall deliver unto you, William

did most violently and cruelly run at the hermit with of thousand snakes, each one t
. : 7 ‘ ? ssa. ij
their boar-staves, whereby he soon after died. Thereupon Was changed into a coil of stone

twenty-one of each sort, to be cut in the same manner ;
and you, Allatson, shall take nine of each sort, to be cut

 

you! for this heinous crime. If you, or your successors,
shall refuse this service, so long as it shall not be full sea
at the aforesaid hour, you, or yours, shall forfeit your
lands to the abbot of Whitby, or his successors. This I
entreat, and earnestly beg, that you may have lives and
goods preserved for this service: and I request of you to
promise, by your parts in heaven, that it shall be done by
you, and your successors, as is aforesaid requested ; and
I will confirm it by the faith of an honest man.’ Then‘the
hermit said, ‘ My soul longeth for the Lord: and I do as
freely forgive these men my death, as Christ forgave the
thieves on the cross.’ And, in the presence of the abbot
and the rest, he said moreover these words: ‘ In manus

twos, Domine, commendo spiritum meum, a vinculis enim -

mortis redemisti me, Domine veritatis. Amen.’—So he
yielded up the ghost the eighth day of December, anno
Domini 1159, whose soul God have mercy upon. Amen.

“This service,” it is added, ‘still continues to be
performed with the prescribed ceremonies, though not by
the proprietors in person. Part of the lands charged
therewith are now held by a gentleman of the name of
Herbert.”

The lovely Edelfled.—S. xii. p. 14.

She was the daughter of King Oswy, who, in gratitude
to heaven for the great victory which he won in 655,
against Penda, the pagan king of Mercia, dedicated
Edelfleda, then but a year old, to the service of God
in the monastery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda was then
abbess. She afterwards adorned the place of her educa-
tion with great magnificence.

 

 

When holy Hilda prayed ;
——_——_ how sea-fowls’ pinions fail, i
As over Whitby’s towers they sail.—sS, xii. p. 14.

These two miracles are much insisted upon by all ancient
writers who have occasion to mention, either Whitby,
or St. Hilda, The reliques of the snakes which infested
the precincts of the convent, and were, at the abbess’s
prayer, not only beheaded, but petrified, are still found
about the rocks, and are termed by Protestant fossilists
Ammonite.

The other miracle is thus mentioned by Camden :—< It
is also ascribed to tle power of her sanctity, that these
wild geese, which, in the winter, fly in great flocks to the
lakes and rivers unfrozen in the southern parts, to the
great amazement of every one, fall down suddenly upon
the ground, when they are in their flight over certain
neighbouring fields hereabouts: a relation I should not
have made, if I had not received it from several credible
men. But those who are less inclined to heed super-
stition, attribute it to some occult quality in the ground,
and to somewhat of antipathy between it and the geese,
such as they say is between wolves and scylla-roots: for,
that such hidden tendencies and aversions, as we call

in his History of Whitby, points out the true origin of the
fable, from the number of sea-gulls, that, when flying

 

ort

 

 

 

 

tame tet

se

ary

nes

 

    
    
     

en

t

ara

i

omreiet

at ig Rees ie

eines

Pe

 

3 as aforesaid; and to be taken on your backs, and carried | from a storm, often alight near Whitby; and from the ky
{ to the town of Whitby, and to be there before nine of the | woodcocks, and ‘other birds of passage, who do the same | ve
> clock the same day before mentioned. At the same hour | ypon their arrival on shore, after a long flight. t 3
) of nine of the clock, if it be full sea, your labour and ser- ho
r| vice shall cease; and, if low water, each of you shall set His body’s resting-place of old, i H
, your stakes to the brim, each stake one yard from the How oft their patron changed, they told ;—S. xtv. p. 14. a|
» other, and so yether them on each side with your yethers ; St. Cuthbert was, in the choice of his sepulchre, one of Hi
: and so stake on each side with your strout stowers, that | the most mutable and unreasonable saints in the Calendar. ¥ #
| they may stand three tides, without removing by the force He died A.D. 686, in a hermitage upon the Farne islands, 4 “f
t thereof. Each of you shall do, make, and execute, the having resigned the bishopric of Lindisfarne, or Holy ea!

2 said service, at that very hour, every year, except it be Island, about two years before. His body was brought to i\

+ full sea at that hour; but when it shall so fall out, this | Lindisfarne, where it remained until a descent of the i |

+ service shall cease. You shall faithfully do this, in re- | Danes, about 763, when the monastery was nearly de- ti

¢ membrance that you did most cruelly slay me; and that | stroyed. The monks fled to Scotland, with what they :

- you may the better call to God for mercy, repent un- deemed their chief treasure, the reliques of St. Cuthbert. i

; feignedly of your sins, and do gocd works. The officer of | The saint was, however, a most capricious fellow-traveller ; 4

| Eskdale-side shall blow, Out on you! Out on you! Outon | which was the more intolerable, as, like Sinbad’s Old Man i

Paes:

ica
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ag

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= aecoment rte Peres ppt

TRS IEA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

69 MARMION.

 

 

of the Sea, he journeyed upon the shoulders of companions.
They paraded him through Scotland for several years, and
same as far west as Whithern, in Galloway, whence they
attempted to sail for Ireland, but were driven back by
tempests. He at length made a halt at Norham; from
thence he went to Melrose, where he remained stationary
for a short time, and then caused himself to be launched
upon the Tweed in a stone coffin, which landed him at
Tillmouth, in Northumberland. This boat is finely shaped,
ten feet long, three feet and a half in diameter, and only
four inches thick; so that, with very little assistance, it
might certainly have swam: it still lies, or at least did so
a few years ago, in two pieces, beside the ruined chapel of
Tillmouth. From Tillmouth, Cuthbert wandered into
Yorkshire; and at length made a long stay at Chester-le-
street, to which the bishop’s see was transferred. At
length, the Danes continuing to infest the country, the
monks removed to Rippon for a season; and it was in
return from thence to Chester-le-street, that, passing
through a forest called Dunholme, the Saint and his
carriage became immovable at a place named Wardlaw,
or Wardilaw. Here the Saint chose his place of residence;
and all who have seen Durham must admit, that, if diffi-
cult in his choice, he evinced taste in at length fixing it.
It is said, that the Northumbrian Catholics still keep
secret the precise spot of the Saint’s sepulture, which is
only entrusted to three persons ata time. When one dies,
the survivors associate to them, in his room, a person
judged fit to be the depositary of so valuable a secret.

Even Scotiand’s dauntless king, and heir, &c.
Before his standard fled.—S. xv. p. 14.

Every one has heard, that when David I., with his son
Henry, invaded Northumberland in 1136, the English
host marched against them under the holy banner of St.
Cuthbert; to the efficacy of which was imputed the great
victory which they obtained in the bloody battle of North-
allerton, or Cuton-moor. The conquerers were at least
as much indebted to the jealousy and intractability of
the different tribes who composed David’s army; among
whom, as mentioned in the text, were the Galwegians,
the Britons of Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale and
Lothian, with many Norman and German warriors, who
asserted the cause of the Empress Maud. See CHALMERS’
Caledonia, p. 622; a most laborious, curious, and inter-
esting publication, from which considerable defects of
style and manner ought not to turn aside the Scottish
antiquary.

Twas he, to vindicate his reign,

Edged Alfred’s faulchion on the Dane,

And turned the Conqueror back again.—S. xv. p. 14.

Cuthbert, we have seen, had no great reason to spare

the Danes, when opportunity offered. Accordingly, I find
in Simeon of Durham, that the Saint appeared in a vision
to Alfred, when lurking in the marshes of Glastonbury,
and promised him assistance and victory over his heathen
enemies: a consolation which, as was reasonable, Alfred,
after the victory of Ashendown, rewarded, by a royal
offering at the shrine of the Saint. As to William the
Conqueror, the terror spread before his army, when he
marched to punish the revolt of the Northumbrians, in
1096, had forced the monks to fly once more to Holy Island
with the body of the Saint. It was, however, replaced
before William left the North ; and, to balance accounts,
the Conqueror having intimated an indiscreet curiosity to
view the Saint’s body, he was, while in the act of com-
manding the shrine to be opened, seized with heat and
sickness, accompanied with such a panic terror, that, not-
withstanding there was a sumptuous dinner prepared for
him, he fled without eating a morsel, (which the monkish
historian seems to haye thought no small part both of the
miracle and the penance,) and never drew his bridle till
he got to the river Tees,

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame
The sea-born beads, that bear his name :—S. xvI. p. 14.
Although we do not learn that Cuthbert was, during
his life, such an artificer as Dunstan, his brother in sanc-

 

 

tity, yet, since his death, he has acquired the reputation
of forging those Entrochi which are found among the
rocks of Holy Island, and pass there by the name of St.
Cuthbert’s Beads. While at this task, he is supposed to
sit during the night upon a certain rock, and use another
as his anvil. This story was perhaps credited in former
days; at least the Saint’s legend contains some not more
probable.
Old Colwulf.s, xvm. p. 14.

Coelwolf, or Colwulf, King of Northumberland, flou-
rished in the eighth century. He was a man of some
learning ; for the venerable Bede dedicates to him his
“ Ecclesiastical History.” He abdicated the throne about
738, and retired to Holy Island, where he died in the
odour of sanctity. Saint as Colwulf was, however, I fear
the foundation of the penance-vault does not correspond
with his character; for it is recorded among his memo-
rabilia, that, finding the air of the island raw and cold,
he indulged the monks, whose rule had hitherto confined
them to milk or water, with the comfortable privilege of
using wine or ale. If any rigid antiquary insists on this
objection, he is welcome to suppose the penance-vault
was intended, by the founder, for the more genial purposes
of a cellar.

These penitential-vaults were the Geissel-gewolbe of
German conyents. In the earlier and more rigid times of
monastic discipline, they were sometimes used as a ceme-
tery for the lay benefactors of the convent, whose un-
sanctified corpses were then seldom permitted to pollute
the choir. They also served as places of meeting for the
chapter, when measures of uncommon severity were to
be adopted. But their most frequent use, as implied by
the name, was as places for performing penances, or
undergoing punishment.

Tynemouth’s haughty Prioress.—S. x1x. p. 15.

That there was an ancient priory at Tynemouth is
certain. Its ruins are situated on a high rocky point;
and, doubtless, many a vow was made the shrine by the
distressed mariners, who drove towards the iron-bound
coast of Northumberland in stormy weather. It was
anciently a nunnery; for Virca, abbess of Tynemouth,
presented St. Cuthbert (yet alive) with a rare winding-
sheet, in emulation of a holy lady called Tuda, who had
sent him a coffin: but, as in the case of Whitby, and of
Holy Island, the introduction of nuns at Tynemouth, in
the reign of Henry VIII.,is an anachronism. The nun-
nery at Holy Island is altogether fictitious. Indeed, St.
Cuthbert was unlikely to permit such an establishment ;
for, notwithstanding his accepting the mortuary gifts
above mentioned, and his carrying on a visiting acquaint-
ance with the abbess of Coldingham, he certainly hated
the whole female sex ; and, in reyenge of a slippery trick
played to him by an Irish princess, he, after death, in-
flicted severe penances on such as presumed to approach
within a certain distance of his shrine.

 

On those the wall was to inclose
Alive, within the tomb.—S. xxv. p. 16.

It is well known, that the religious, who broke their
vows of chastity, were subjected to the same penalty as
the Roman vestals in a similar case. A small niche,
sufficient to inclose their bodies, was made in the massive
wall of the convent; a slender pittance of food and water
was deposited in it, and the awful words, VADE In Pacem,
were the signal for immuring the criminal. It is not
likely that, in latter times, this punishment was often
resorted to; but, among the ruins of the abbey of Cold-
ingham, were some years ago discovered the remains of a
female skeleton, which, from the shape of the niche, and
position of the figure, seemed to be that of an immured nun.

a
CANTO Il.
The village inn.—S. u. p. 19.
The accommodations of a Scottish hostelrie, or inn, in

the 16th century, may be collected from Dunbar’s admi-
rable tale of ‘* The Friars of Berwick.” Simon Latder,NOTES. 61

' **the gay ostleir,” seems to have lived very comfortably ;

~_

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Cn me hi

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a Sabrifactas :

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we

Sli lndlin-acardpcinahe tigate DE,

and his wife decorated her person with a scarlet kirtle,
and a belt of silk and silver, and rings upon her fingers ;
and feasted her paramour with rabbits, capons, part-
ridges, and Bordeaux wine. At least, if the Scottish
inns were not good, it was not for want of encouragement
from the legislature ; who, so early as the reign of James
I., not only enacted, that in all boroughs and fairs there
be hostellaries, having stables and chambers, and provi-
sions for man and horse, but, by another statute, ordained,
that no man, travelling on horse or foot, should presume
to lodge any where except in these hostellaries; and that
no person, save innkeepers, should receive such travellers,
under the penalty of forty shillings, for exercising such
hospitality *. But, in spite of these provident enactments,
the Scottish hostels are but indifferent, and strangers con-
tinue to find reception in the houses of individuals.

-€* The death of a dear friend.”—S. xu. p. 20.
Among other omens to which faithful credit is given
among the Scottish peasantry, is what is called the ‘*dead-
bell,” explained, by my friend James Hogg, to be that
tinkling in the ears which the country people regard as
the secret intelligence of some friend’s decease. He tells a
story to the purpose in ‘*‘ The Mountain Bard,” p. 26.

The Goblin Hali.—S. xrx. p. 21.

A yaulted hall under the ancient castle of Gifford, or
Yester, (for it bears either name indifferently,) the con-
struction of which has, from avery remote period, been
ascribed to magic. The Statistical Account of the parish
of Garvald and Baro, gives the following account of the
present state of this castle and apartment: ‘‘Upon a
peninsula, formed by the water of Hopes on the east, and
a large rivulet on the west, stands the ancient castle of
Yester. Sir David Dalrymple, in his Annals, relates, that
‘Hugh Gifford de Yester died in 1267; that in his castle
there was a capacious cavern formed by magical art, and
called in the country Bo-hall, 7.e. Hobgoblin Hall.’ A
stair of twenty-four steps led down to this apartment,
which is a large and spacious hall, with an arched roof;
and though it hath stood for so many centuries, and been
exposed to the external air for a period of fifty or sixty
years, it is still as firm and entire as if it had only stood
afew years. From the floor of this hall, another stair of
thirty-six steps leads down to a pit which hath a commu-
nication with Hopes-water. <A great part of the walls of
this large and ancient castle are still standing. There is
a tradition, that the castle of Yester was the last fortifi-
cation in this country, that surrendered to General Gray,
sent into Scotland by Protector Somerset.” Statistical
Account, Vol. xm.  _I have only to add, that, in 1737, the
Goblin Hall was tenanted by the Marquis of Tweedale’s
falconer, as I learn from a poem by Boyse, entitled
‘‘ Retirement,” written upon visiting Yester. It is now
rendered inaccessible by the fall of the stair.

Sir David Dalrymple’s authority for the anecdote is
Fordun, whose words are,—‘‘ A D. mccitxvu, Hugo Gif
Sard de Yester moritur ; cujus castrum, vel saltem caveam,
ef dongionem, arte demonica antique relationes ferunt
nam ibidem habetur mirabilis specus sub-
terraneus, opere mirifico constructus, magno terrarum
spatio protelatus, qui communiter Bo-hall appellatus
est.” Lib. x. cap. 21.—Sir David conjectures, that Hugh
de Gifford must have been either a very wise man, or a
great oppressor.

There floated Haco’s banner trim,
Above Norweyan warriors grim.—s. XX. p. 22.

In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, came into the Firth of
Clyde with a powerful armament, and made a descent at
Largs, in Ayrshire. Here he was encountered and defeated,
on the 2d October, by Alexander III. Haco retreated to
Orkney, where he died soon after this disgrace to his arms.
There are still existing, near the place of battle, many
barrows, some of which having been opened, were found,
as usual, to contain bones and urns,

 

* James I. Parliament I. cap. 24; Parliament III. cap. 56,

 

 

his wizard habit strange.—S. Xx. p. 22.

** Magicians, as is well known, were very curious in the
choice and form of their vestments. Their caps are oval,
or like pyramids, with lappets on each side, and fur within.
Their gowns are long, and furred with fox-skins, under
which they have a linen garment, reaching to the knee.
Their girdles are three inches broad, and have many caba-
listical names, with crosses, trines, and circles, inscribed
on them. Their shoes should be of new russet leather,
with a cross cut upon them. Their knives are dagger-
fashion ; and their swords have neither guard nor scab-
bard.” See these, and many other particulars, in the
Discourse concerning Devils and Spirits, annexed to REer-
NALD Scort’s Discovery of Witchcraft, edition 1665.

Upon his breast a pentacle;—S. xx. p. 22.

‘¢ A pentacle is a piece of fine linen, folded with five
corners, according to the five senses, and suitably inscribed
with characters. This the magician extends towards the
spirits which he evokes, when they are stubborn and re-
beliious, and refuse to be conformable unto the ceremonies
and rites of magic.” See the Discourse, &c. above men-
tioned, p. 66.

As born upon that blessed night

When yawning graves, and dying groan,

Proclaimed khell’s empire overthrown.—S. xxi. p. 22.

It is a popular article of faith, that those who are born

on Christmas, or Good-Friday, have the power of seeing
spirits, and even of commanding them, The Spaniards
imputed the haggard and down-cast looks of their Philip
II, to the disagreeable visions to which this privilege
subjected him,

“et still the nightly spear and shield,
The Elfin Warrior doth wield,
Upon the brown hill’s breast.—S. xxv. p. 23.

The following extract from the Essay upon the Fairy
superstitions, in ‘‘ The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,”
Vol. 1., will show whence many of the particulars of the
combat between Alexander III. and the Goblin Knight
are derived :

‘‘Gervase of Tilbury (Otia Imperial. ap. Script. rer.
Brunsvic. Vol. 1. p. 797.) relates the following popular
story concerning a fairy knight :—Osbert, a bold and power-
ful baron, visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wandle-
bury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories related
in the social circle of his friends, who, according to custom,
amused each other byrepeating ancient tales and traditions,
he was informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered
an adjacent plain by moon-light, and challenged an adver-
sary to appear, he would be immediately encountered by a
spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert resolved to make
the experiment, and set out, attended by a single squire,
whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain,
which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment, On
repeating the challenge, he was instantly assailed by an
adversary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the
reins of his steed. During this operation, his ghostly
opponent sprung up, and darting his spear, like a javelin,
at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in
triumph with the horse, which he committed to the care
of hisservants. The horse was of a sable colour, as wellas
his whole accoutrements, and apparently of great beauty
and vigour. He remained with his keeper till cock-crow-
ing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the
ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert per-
ceived that he was wounded, and that one of hissteel-boots
was full of blood.” Gervase adds, that, as long as he lived,
the scar of his wound opened afresh on the anniversary of
the eve on which he encountered the spirit.—Less fortunate
was the gallant Bohemian knight, who, travelling by night,
with a single companion, came in sight of a Fairy host,
arrayed under displayed banners, ‘ Despising the remon-
strances of his friend, the knight pricked forward to break
a lance with a champion, who advanced from the ranks,
apparently in defiance. His companion beheld the Bohe-
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and returning to the spot next morning, he found the man-
gled corpses of the knight and steed.”—Hierarchie of
Blessed Angels, p. 554.

Besides the instances of Elfin Chivalry, above quoted,
many others might be alleged in support of employing
Fairy machinery in this manner. The forest of Glenmore,
in the North Highlands, is believed to be haunted by a
spirit called Lham-dearg, in the array of an ancient war-
rior, having a bloody hand, from which he takes hisname.
He insists upon those with whom he meets doing battle
with him; and the clergyman, who makes up an account
of the district, extant in the ‘Macfarlane MS., in the
Advocates’ Library, grayely assures us, that, in his time,
Lham-dearg fought with three brothers whom he met in
his walk, none of whom long survived the ghostly conflict.
Barclay, in his ‘¢ Euphormion,” gives a singular account
of an officer who had ventured, with his servant, rather
to intrude upon a haunted house, in a town in Flanders,
than to put up with worse quarters elsewhere. After

 

Norham posita erant, oblectationis causa exiissit, ac in
ulteriore Tuede ripd predam cum canibus leporariis
insequeretur, forte cum Scoto quodam nobili, sibi antehac
ut videbatur familiariter cognito, congressus est ; ac ut fas
erat inter inimicos, flagrante bello, brevissimd interroga-
tionis mora interpositd, alterutros invicem incitato cursu
infestis animis petiere.

taking the usual precautions of providing fire, lights, and
arms, they watched till midnight, when, behold! the
severed arm of a man dropped from the ceiling; this was
followed by the legs, the other arm, the trunk, and the
head of the body, all separately. The members rolled
together, united themselves in the presence of the aston-
ished soldiers, and formed a gigantic warrior, which defied
them both to combat. Their blows, although they penc-
trated the body, and amputated the limbs of their strange
antagonist, had, as the reader may easily believe, little
effect on an enemy who possessed such powers of self-
union ; nor did his efforts make more effectual impression
upon them, How the combat terminated I do not exactly
remember, and have not the book by me; but I think the
spirit made to the intruders on his mansion the usual pro-
posal, that they should renounce their redemption ; which
being declined, he was obliged to retreat.

The most singular tale of the kind is contained in an
extract communicated to me by my friend Mr. Surtees of
Mainsforth, in the bishopric, who copied it from a MS.
note in acopy of Burthogge ‘‘On the Nature of Spirits,”
8vo, 1694, which had been the property of the late Mr,
Gill, attorney-general to Egerton, Bishop of Durham.
*< It was not,” says my obliging correspondent, ‘‘in Mr,
Gill’s own hand, but probably an hundred years older, and
was said to be E libro Convent. Dunelm. per T. C. extract.,
whom I believe to have been Thomas Cradocke, Esq. bar-
rister, who held several offices under the see of Durham
an hundred yearsago. Mr. Gill was possessed of most of his
manuscripts.” The extract, which, in fact, suggested the
introduction of the tale into the present poem, runs thus:

“Rem miram hujusmodi que nostris temporibus evenit,
teste viro nobili ac fide dignissimo, enarrare haud pigebit.
Radulphus Bulmer, cume castris que tune temporis prope

vetitum tale auxilium pelliceret.

Durham, or at least, has hitherto escaped the researches
of my friendly correspondent.

Lindesay is made to allude to this adventure of Ralph
Bulmer, as a well-known story in the 4th Canto, Stanza
XXII, p. 29.

The Northern champions of old were accustomed pecu-
liarly to search for, and delight in, encounters with such
military spectres. See a whole chapter on the subject in
BARTHOLINUS De Causis Contempte Mortis a Danis, p. 253,

ee ee

CANTO IV.
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain :—Int. p. 24.

I cannot help here mentioning, that, on the night in
which these lines were written, suggested, as they were,
by a sudden fall of snow, beginning after sunset, an unfor-
tunate man perished exactly in the manner here described,
and his body was next morning found close to his own

house. The accident happened within five miles of the
farm of Ashestiel.

Scarce had lamented Forbes paid, §c.—Int. p. 25.

Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet ; unequalled, per-
haps, in the degree of individual affection entertained for
him by his friends, as well as in the general respect and
esteem of Scotland at large. His ‘‘ Life of Beattie,” whom
he befrienaced and patronized in life, as well as celebrated
after his decease, was not long published, before the bene-
volent and affectionate biographer was called to follow the
subject of his narrative. This melancholy event very
shortly succeeded the marriage of the friend, to whom
this introduction is addressed, with one of Sir William’s
daughters.

Friar Rush.—S. 1. p. 26.

This personage is a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who,
once upon a time, got admittance into a monastery asa
scullion, and played the monks many pranks. He was
also a sort of Robin Goodfellow, and Jack o’ Lanthorn,
It is in allusion to this mischieyous demon that Milton’s
clown speaks,—

She was pinched, and pulled, she said,

And he by friar’s lanthorn led.

*“« The History of Friar Rush ” is of extreme rarity, and, for
some time, even the existence of such a book was doubted,
although it is expressly alluded to by Reginald Scot, in
his ‘* Discovery of Witchcraft.” I have perused a copy in
the valuable library of my friend Mr. Heber; and I

 

 

Noster, primo occursu, equo pre

acerrimo hostis impetu labante, in terrum eversus pectore
et capite leso, sanguinem, mortuo similis, evomebat. Quem
ut se egre habentem comiter allocutus est alter, pollici-
tusque modo auxilium non abnegaret, monitisque obtem-
perans abomni rerum sacrarum cogitatione abstineret, nec
Deo, Deipare Virgint, Sanctove ullo, preces aut vota
efferret vel inter sese conciperet, se brevi eum sanum vaili-
dumque restiturum esse. Pre angore oblata conditio
accepta est; ac veterator ille nescio quid obsceni mur-
muris insusurrans, prehensa manu, dicto citius in pedes
sanum ut antea sublevavit. Noster autem, maxima pre
ret inauditd novitate formidine perculsus, Mt Jesu! ex-
clamat, vel quid simile; ac subite respiciens nec hostem
nec ullum alium conspicit, equum solum gravissimo nuper
casu afflictum, per summam pacem in rivo fluvii pascentem.
Ad castra itaque mirabundus revertens, Jidet dubius, rem
primo occultavit, dein confecto bello, Confessori suo totam
asseruit. Delusoria procul dubio res tota, ac mala vetera-

 

 

 

 

observe, from Mr. Beloe’s ‘‘ Anecdotes of Literature,”
that there is one in the excellent collection of the Mar-
quis of Stafford.

Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,
Lord Lion King-at-arms.—S. vit. p. 27.

The late elaborate edition of Sir David Lindesay’s
Works, by Mr. George Chalmers, has probably introduced
him to many of my readers. It is perhaps to be regretted,
that the learned editor had not bestowed more pains in
elucidating his author, even although he should have
omitted, or at least reserved, his disquisitions on the
origin of the language used by the poet *: but, with all

 

* I beg leave to quote a single instance from a very interesting
passage, Sir David, recounting his attention to King James V. in his
infancy, is made, by the learned editor’s punctuation, to say,—

The first sillabis, that thou did mute,

Was pa, da, lyn, upon the lute;

Then playd I twenty springis perqueir,

Quhilk was great plesour for to hear.—Vol. r. p. 7. 257.

Mr. Chalmers does not inform us, by note or glossary, what is

toris illius aperitur fraus, qua hominem Christianum ad
Nomen ateunque itlius
(nobilis alias ac clari) reticendum duco, cum haud dubium
sic quin Diabolus, Deo permittente, formam quam libuerit,
immo angelilucis, sacro oculo Dei teste, posse assumere.”
The MS. chronicle, from which Mr. Cradocke took this
curious extract, cannot now be found in the library ofNOTES.

its faults, his work is an acceptable present to Scottish
antiquaries. Sir David Lindesay was well known for his
early efforts in favour of the Reformed doctrines; and,
indeed, his play, coarse as it now seems, must have had
a powerful effect upon the people of his age. Iam un-
certain if I abuse poetical licence, by introducing Sir
David Lindesay in the character of Lion-Herald, sixteen
years before he obtained that office. At any rate, lam
not the first who has been guilty of the anachronism ; for
the author of ‘‘ Flodden Field” dispatches Dallamount,
which can mean nobody but Sir David de la Mont, to
France, on the message of defiance from James IV. to
Henry VIII. It was often an office imposed on the Lion
King-at-arms, to receive foreign ambassadors; and Linde-
say himself did this honour to Sir Ralph Sadler in 1539-40,
Indeed, the oath of the Lion, in its first article, bears
reference to his frequent employment upon royal messages
and embassies.

The office of heralds, in feudal times, being held of the
utmost importance, the inauguration of the Kings-at-
arms, who presided over their colleges, was proportionally
solemn. In fact it was the mimicry of a royal coronation,
except that the unction was made with wine instead of
oil. In Scotland, a namesake and kinsman of Sir David
Lindesay, inaugurated in 1592, *‘ was crowned by King
James with the ancient crown of Scotland, which was
used before the Scottish kings assumed a close crown ;”
and, on occasion of the same solemnity, dined at the
King’s table, wearing the crown. It is probable that the
eoronation of his predecessor was not less solemn. So
sacred was the herald’s office, that, in 1515, Lord Drum-
mond was by Parliament declared guilty of treason, and
his lands forfeited, because he had struck, with his fist,
the Lion King-at-arms, when he reproved him for his

follies *. Nor was he restored, but at the Lion’s earnest
solicitation.

Crichtoun Castle.—S. x. p. 27.

A large ruinous castle on the banks of the Tyne, about
seven miles from Edinburgh. As indicated in the text,
it was built at different times, and with a very differing
regard to splendour and accommodation. The oldest
part of the building is a narrow keep, or tower, such as
formed the mansion of a lesser Scottish baron; but so
many additions bave been made to it, that there is now
a large court-yard, surrounded by buildings of different
ages. The eastern front of the court is raised above a
portico, and decorated with entablatures, bearing anchors.
All the stones of this front are cut into diamond facets,
the angular projections of which haye an uncommonly
rich appearance. The inside of this part of the building
appears to have contained a gallery of great length, and
uncommon elegance. Access was given to it by a mag-
nificent staircase, now quite destroyed. The soffits are
ornamented with twining cordage and rosettes; and the
whole seems to have been far more splendid than was
usual in Scottish castles. The castle belonged originally
to the Chancellor, Sir William Crichton, and probably
owed to him its first enlargement, as well as its being
taken by the Earl of Douglas, who imputed to Crichton’s
counsels the death of his predecessor Earl William, be-
headed in Edinburgh Castle, with his brother, in 1440. It
is said to have been totally demolished on that occasion:
but the present state of the ruins shows the contrary.
In 1483, it was garrisoned by Lord Crichton, then its pro-
prietor, against King James III., whose displeasure he
had incurred by seducing his sister Margaret, in revenge,
itis said, for the monarch having dishonoured his bed.

 

meant by the King ‘“ muting pa, da, lyn, upon the-lute;” but any
old woman in Scotland wiil bear witness, that pa, da, lyn, are the
first efforts of a child to say, Whare’s Davie Lindesay? and that the
subsequent words begin another sentence,—
ee upon the lute

Then playd I twenty springis perquier, &c.

In another place, ‘‘justing lumis,” 7. e. looms, or implements of
tilting, is facetiously interpreted ‘playful limbs.” Many such
minute errors could be pointed out; but these are only mentioned
incidentally, and not as diminishing the real merit of the edition.

“The record expresses, or rather is said to have expressed, the
cause of forfeiture to be,—‘‘ Eo quod Leonem, armorum Regem pugno
violasset, dum eum de ineptiis suis admonet.”—See Nispet’s Heraldry,
Part iv. chap. 16; and Lesiaz1 Historia ad Annum 1515.

 

 

 

 

63

From the Crichton family the castle passed to that of the
Hepburns, Earls of Bothwell; and when the forfeitures
of Stewart, the last Earl of Bothwell, were divided, the
barony and castle of Crichton fell to the share of the Earl
of Buccleuch. They were afterwards the property of the
Pringles of Clifton, and are now that of Sir John Callander,
Baronet. It were to be wished the proprietor would take
a little pains to preserve these splendid remains of anti-
quity, which are at present used asa fold for sheep, and
wintering cattle; although, perhaps, there are very few
ruins in Scotland which display so well the style and
beauty of ancient castle-architecture. The castle of
Crichton has a dungeon vault, called the Massy More.
The epithet, which is not uncommonly applied to the
prisons of other old castles in Scotland, is of Saracenic
origin. It occurs twice in the « Epistole Itinerarie” of
Tollius: * Carcer subterraneus, sive, ut Mauri appellant,
MAzmorra,” p. 147 ; and again, “ Coguntur omnes Captivi
sub noctem in ergastula subterranea, que Turce Algeze-
rani vocant MAzMorRRAS,” p. 243. The same word applies
to the dungeons of the ancient Moorish castles in Spain,
and serves to show from what nation the Gothic style of
castle-building was originally derived.

Earl Adam Hepburn.—S. xt. p. 27.

He was the second Earl of Bothwell, and fell in the
field of Flodden, where, according to an ancient English
poet, he distinguished himself by a furious attempt to
retrieve the day:

Then on the Scottish part, right proud,
The Earl of Bothwell then out brast,
And stepping forth with stomach good,
Into the enemies throng he thrast:
And Bothwell! Bothwell! cried bold,
To cause his souldiers to ensue,
But there he caught a wellcome cold,
The Englishmen straight down him threw.
Flodden Field.
Adam was grandfather to James Earl of Bothwell, too well
known in the history of Queen Mary,

For that a messenger from Heaven
In vain to James had counsel given
Against the English war.—s. xiv. p. 28.

This story is told by Pitscottie with characteristic sim-
plicity : ‘‘ The king, seeing that France could get no
support of him for that time, made a proclamation, full
hastily, through all the realm of Scotland, both east and
west, south and north, as well in the Isles as in the firm
land, to all manner of man betwixt sixty and sixteen
years, that they should be ready, within twenty days, to
pass with him, with forty days’ victual, and to meet at the
Burrow-muir of Edinburgh, and there to pass forward
where he pleased. His proclamations were hastily obeyed,
contrary the Council of Scotland’s will; but every man
loved his prince so well, that they would, on no ways,
disobey him ; but every man caused make his provision
so hastily, conform to the charge of the King’s proclama-
tion.

‘< The king came to Lithgow, where he happened to be
for the time at the Council, very sad and dolorous, making
his devotion to God, to send him good chance and fortune
in his voyage. In this mean time, there came a man clad in
a blue gown in at the kirk-door, and belted about him in a
roll of linen-cloth ; a pair of brotikings* on his feet, to the
great of his legs ; with all other hose and clothes conformed
thereto; but he had nothing on his head, but syde + red
yellow hair behind, and on his haffets | which wan down
to his shoulders; but his forehead was bald and bare.
He seemed to be a man of two-and-fifty years, with a great
pike-staff in his hand, and came first forward among the
lords, crying and speiring || for the king, saying, he desired
to speak with him. While, at the last, he came where
the king was sitting in the desk at his prayers: but when
he saw the king, he made him little reverence or saluta-
tion, but leaned down grofling on the desk before him,
and said to him in this manner, as after follows: ‘ Sir

* Buskins, + Cheeks. || Asking.

 

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king, my mother hath sent me to you, desiring you not to
pass, at this time, where thou art purposed; for if thou
does, thou wilt not fare well in thy journey, nor none that
passeth with thee. Further, she bade thee mell * with no
woman, nor use their counsel, nor let them touch thy
body, nor thou theirs; for if thou do it, thou wilt be con-
founded and brought to shame.’

** By this man had spoken thir words unto the king’s
grace, the evening song was near done, and the king
paused on thir words, studying to give him an answer;
but, in the mean time, before the king’s eyes, and in the
presence of all the lords that were about him for the time,
this man vanished away, and could no ways be seen or
comprehended, but vanished away as he had been a blink
of the sun, or a whip of the whirlwind, and could no more
be seen. I heard say, Sir David Lindesay, lyon-herauld,
and John Inglis the marshal, who were, at that time,
young men, and special servants to the King’s grace, were
standing presently beside the King, who thought to have
laid hands on this man, that they might have speired
further tidings at him: but all for nought; they could
not touch him; for he vanished away betwixt them, and
was no more seen.”

Buchanan, in more elegant, though not more impressive
language, tells the same story, and quotes the personal
information of our Sir David Lindesay : <* In iis (i. e. qui
propius astiterant) fuit David Lindesius, Montanus, homo
spectate fidei et probitatis, nec a literarum studiis alienus,
et cujus totius vite tenor longissime a mentiendo aberrat ;
a quo nist ego hec uti tradidi, pro certis accepissem, ut
vulgatam vanis rumoribus fabulam, omissurus eram.”
Lib. x1m.— The King’s throne, in St. Catherine’s aisle,
which he had constructed for himself, with twelve stalls
for the Knights Companions of the Order of the Thistle, is
still shown as the place where the apparition was seen.
I know not by what means St. Andrew got.the credit of
having been the celebrated monitor of James IV.; for the
expression in Lindesay’s narrative, ‘‘ My mother has sent
me,” could only be used by St. John, the adopted son of
the Virgin Mary. The whole story is so well attested, that
we have only the choice between a miracle or an impos-
ture. Mr. Pinkerton plausibly argues, from the caution
against incontinence, that the queen was privy to the
scheme of those who had recourse to this expedient, to
deter King James from his impolitice warfare.

The wild buck bells.—S. xv. p. 28.

Tam glad of an opportunity to describe the cry of the
deer by another word than braying, although the latter
has been sanctified by the use of the Scottish metrical
translation of the Psalms. Beli seems to be an abbrevia-
tion of bellow. This sylvan sound conveyed great delight
to our ancestors, chiefly, I suppose, from association. A
gentle knight in the reign of Henry VIII., Sir Thomas
Wortley, built Wantley Lodge in Wancliffe Forest, for
the pleasure (as an ancient inscription testifies) of ‘‘ listen-
ing to the hart’s bell.”

June saw his father’s overthrow.—S. xv. p. 29.

The rebellion against James III. was signalized by the
cruel circumstance of his son’s presence in the hostile army.
When the king saw his own banner displayed against
him, and his son in the faction of his enemies, he lost the
little courage he ever possessed, fled out of the field, fell
from his horse as it started at a woman and water pitcher,
and was slain, it isnot well understood by whom. James
IV., after the battle, passed to Stirling, and hearing the
monks of the chapel-royal deploring the death of his
father, their founder, he was seized with deep remorse,
which manifested itself in severe penances. See a follow-
ing Note on Canto V,’ The battle of Sauchieburn, in which
James III. fell, was fought 18th June, 1488.

Spread ali the Borough-moor below, &c.—S. xxv. p. 29.

The Borough, or Common Moor of Edinburgh, was of
very great extent, reaching from the southern walls of
the city to the bottom of Braid Hil s. It was anciently a

 

* Meddle.

MARMION.

 

 

forest ; and, in that state was so great a nuisance, that the
inhabitants of Edinburgh had permission granted them of
building wooden galleries, projecting over the street, in
order to encourage them to consume the timber; which
they seem to have done very effectually. When James
IV. mustered the array of the kingdom there, in 1513, the
Borough-Moor was, according to Hawthornden, ‘‘a field
spacious, and delightful by the shade of many stately and
aged oaks.” Upon that, and similar occasions, the royal
standard is traditionally said to have been displayed from
the Hare Stane, a high stone, now built into the wall, on
the left hand of the highway leading towards Braid, not
far from the head of Bruntsfield links. The Hare Stone
probably derives its name from the British word Har,
signifying an army.

»

O’er the pavilions flew.—S. xxvul. p. 30.
I do not exactly know the Scottish mode of encampment
in 1513, but Patten gives a curious description of that
which he saw after the battle of Pinkey, in 1547 :—‘* Here
now to say some what of the manner of their camp: As
they had no pavilions, or round houses, of any commend-
able compas, so wear their few other tentes with posts, as
the used maner of making is ; and of these few also, none
of above twenty foot length, but most far under; for the
most part all very sumptuously beset, (after their fashion,)
for the love of France, with fleur-de-lys, some of blue
buckeram, some of black, and some of some other colours.
These white ridges, as I call them, that, as we stood on
Fauxside Bray, did make so great muster toward us,
which I did take then to be anumber of tentes, when we
came, we found it a linen drapery, of the coarser cambryk
in dede, for it was all of canvas sheets, and wear the tenti-
cles, orrather cabayns and couches of their soldiers: the
which (much after the common building of their country
beside) had they framed of four sticks, about an ell long
a piece, whearof two fastened together at one end aloft,
and the two endes beneath stuck in the ground, an ell
asunder, standing in fashion like the bowes of a sowes
yoke ; over two such bowes (one, as it were, at their head,
the other at their feet,) they stretched a sheet down on
both sides, whereby their cabin became roofed like a ridge,
but skant shut at both ends, and not very close beneath
on the sides, unless their sticks were the shorter, or their
wives the more liberal to lend them larger napery ; how-
beit, when they had lined them, and stuff’d them so thick
with straw, with the weather as it was not very cold,
when they were ones couched, they were as warm as they
had been wrapt in horses dung.”—PATTEN's Account of
Somerset’s Exp dition.

 

in proud Scotland’s royal shield
The ruddy Lion ramped in gold.—S. XXvitt. p. 30.

The well-known arms of Scotland. If you will believe
Boethius and Buchanan, the double tressure round the
shield, mentioned st. vil. p. 26, cownter fleur-de-lised, or
lingued and armed azure, was first assumed by Achaius,
King of Scotland, contemporary of Charlemagne, and
founder of the celebrated League with France; but later
antiquaries make poor Kochy or Achy little better than a,
sort of King of Brentford, whom old Grig (who has also
swelled into Gregorius Magnus), associated with himself
in the important,duty of governing some part of the
north-eastern coast of Scotland.
pad ens

CANTO V.

Caledonia’s Queen is changed.—Int. p. 31.

The Old Town of Edinburgh was secured on the north
side by a lake, now drained, and on the south by a wall,
which there was some attempt to make defensible even so
late as 1745. The gates, and the greater part of the wall,
have been pulled down, in the course of the late exten-
sive and beautiful enlargement of the city.. My ingenious
and valued friend, Mr. Thomas Campbell, proposed: to
celebrate Edinburgh under the epithet here borrowed.
But the “* Queen of the North” has not been so fortunate
as to receive from so eminent a pen the proposed dis-
tinction._ Ascham, had a proverb, that every English archer carried

in a tourney, where divers of the prime gallants of France

height of his courbette, and discharging a blow then, his

 

 

 

 

 

Elinging thy white arms to the sea.—Int. pa ol.
Since writing this line, I find I have inadvertently

borrowed it almost verbatim, though with somewhat a
different meaning, from a chorus in «“ Caractacus.”

Britain heard. the descant bold,
She flung her white arms o’er the sea,
‘ Proud in her leafy bosom to enfold
The freight of harmony.

Since first, when conquering York arose,
Lo Henry meek she gave repose.—Int. p- 32.

Henry VI., with his queen, his heir, and the chiefs of
his family, fled to Scotland after the fatal battle of Tow-
ton. In this note a doubt was formerly expressed, whether
Henry VI. came to Edinburgh, though his queen certainly
did; Mr. Pinkerton inclining to believe that he remained
at Kirkcudbright. But my noble friend, Lord Napier,
has pointed out to me a grant by Henry, of an annuity
‘of forty marks to his lordship’s ancestor, John Napier,
subscribed by the King himself, at Edinburgh, the 28th
day of August, in the thirty-ninth year of his reign, which
corresponds to the year of God 1461. This grant, Douglas,
with his usual neglect of accuracy, dates in 1368. But
this error being corrected from the copy in Macfarlane’s
MSS. p. 119, 120, removes all scepticism on the subject of
Henry VI. being really at Edinburgh. John Napier was
son and heir of Sir Alexander Napier, and about this time
was Provost of Edinburgh.

 

the romantic strain,
Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere
Could win the royal Henry’s ear.—Int. p. 32.

Mr. Ellis, in his valuable Introduction to the ‘‘ Speci-
mens of Romance,” has proved, by the concurring testi-
mony of La Ravaillere, Tressan, but especially the Abbé
de la Rue, that the courts of our Anglo-Norman kings,
rather than those of the French monarchs, produced the
birth of romance literature. Marie, soon after mentioned,
compiled from Armorican originals, and translated into
Norman-French, or romance language, the twelve curious
Lays, of which Mr. Ellis has given us a précis in the
Appendix to his Introduction. The story of Blondel,
the famous and faithful minstrel of Richard I., needs no
commentary. —

The cloth-yard arrows fiew like hail.—S. i. p. 33.

This is no poetical exaggeration. In some of the coun-
ties of England, distinguished for archery, shafts of this
extraordinary length were actually used. Thus, at the
Battle of Blackheath, between the troops of Henry VII.
and the Cornish insurgents, in 1496, the Bridge of Dart-
ford was defended by a picked band of archers from the
rebel army, ‘‘ whose arrows,” says Hollinshed, ‘‘ were in
length a full cloth-yard.” The Scottish, according to

under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allusion to his bundle
of unerring shafts.

To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain,

And high curvett, that not in vain

The sword-sway might descend amain
On foeman’s casque below.—S. I. p. 33.

**The most useful air, as the Frenchman term it, is
territerr ; the courbettes, cabrioles, or un pass et un sauit,
being fitter for horses of parade and triumph than for
soldiers; yet I cannot deny but a demivolte with cour-
bettes, so that they be not too high, may be useful in a
fight or mesilee; ‘for, as Labroue hath it, in his Book of
Horsemanship, Monsieur de Montmorency, having a horse
that was excellent in performing the demivolte, did, with
his sword, strike down two adversaries from their horses

did meet; for, taking his time, when the horse was in the
sword fell with such weight and force upon the two

cavaliers, one after another, that he struck them from
their horses to the ground.”—JLord Herbert of Cherbury’s

 

He saw the hardy burghers there
March armed, on Soot, with faces bare.—S. m1. p. 33.
The Scottish burgesses were, like yeomen, appointed

to be armed with bowes and sheaves, sword, buckler,
knife, Spear, or a good axe instead of a bow, if worth
100/.: their armour to be of white or bright harness.
They wore white hats, i. e. bright steel caps, without crest
or visor. By an act of James IV., their weapon-shawings
are appointed to be held four times a-year, under the
aldermen or bailiffs.

On foot the yeoman too.—S. 1m. Dp: ou:

Bows and quivers were in vain recommended to the
peasantry of Scotland, by repeated statutes ; spears and
axes seem universally to have been used instead of them.
Their defensive armour was the plate-jack, hauberk, or
brigantine; and their missile weapons cross-bows and
culverins. All wore swords of excellent temper, accord-
ing to Patten; and a voluminous handkerchief round
their neck, ‘“‘not for cold, but for cutting.” The mace
also was much used in the Scottish army. The old poem
on the battle of Flodden, mentions a band—

Who manfully did meet their foes,
With leaden mauls, and lances long.

When the feudal array of the kingdom was called forth,
each man was obliged to appear with forty days’ provision.
When this was expended, which took place before the
battle of Flodden, the army melted away of course.
Alniost all the Scottish forces, except a few knights, men-
at-arms, and the Border-prickers, who formed excellent
light cavalry, acted upon foot.

A banquet rich, and costly wines.—S. vt. p. 34.

In all transactions of great or petty importance, and
among whomsoever taking place, it would seem, that a
present of wine was a uniform and indispensable preli-
minary. It was not to Sir John Falstaff alone that such
an introductory preface was necessary, however well
judged and acceptable on the part of Mr. Brook ; for Sir
Ralph Sadler, while on embassy to Scotland in 1539-40,
mentions, with complacency, ‘‘ the same night came
Rothesay (the hetald so called) to me again, and brought
me wine from the king, both white and red.”—Clifford’s
Edition, Vol. i. p. 39.

ee SGI) OGL.
That bound his breast in penance-pain,
In memory of his father slain.—S., 1x. p. 34.

Few readers need to be reminded of this belt, to the
weight of which James added certain ounces every year
that he lived. Pitscottie founds his belief that James
was not slain in the battle of Flodden, because the Eng-
lish never had this token of the iron belt to show to any
Scottishman. The person and character of James are
delineated according to our best historians. His romantic
disposition, which led. him highly to relish gaiety, ap-
proaching to licence, was, at the same time, tinged with
enthusiastic devotion. These propensities sometimes
formed a strange contrast. He was wont, during his fits
of devotion, to assume the dress, and conform to the rules,
of the order of Franciscans; and when he had thus done
penance for some time in Stirling, to plunge again into
the tide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no unusual
inconsistency, he sometimes laughed at the superstitious
observances to which he at other times subjected himself.

Sir Hugh the Heron’s wife held sway.—. x. p. 34.

It has been already noticed, that King James’s acquaint-
ance with Lady Heron of Ford did not commence until
he marched into England. Our historians impute to the
king’s infatuated passion the delays which led to the
fatal defeat of Flodden. The author of ‘‘ The Genealogy
of the Heron Family ” endeavours, with laudable anxiety,
to clear the Lady Ford from this scandal: that she came
and went, however, between the armies of James and
Surrey, is certain. See PINKERTON’S History, and the

 

Life, p. 48.

authorities he refers to, Vol. 1. p. 99. Heron pf Ford
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66 MARMION,

 

had been, in 1511, in some sort, accessory to the slaughter
of Sir Robert Ker of Cessford, Warden of the Middle
Marches. It was committed by his brother the bastard,
Lilburn, and Starked, three Borderers. Lilburn and
Heron of Ford were delivered up by Henry to James,
and were imprisoned in the fortress of Fastcastle, where
the former died. Part of the pretence of Lady Ford's
negociations with James was the liberty oi her husband.

For the fair Queen of France
Sent him a Turquois ring, and glove,
And charged him, as her knight and love,
For her to break a lance.—S. X. p. 34.

‘< Also the Queen of France wrote a love-letter to the
King of Scotland, calling him her love, showing him that
she had suffered much rebuke in France for the defending
of his honour. She believed surely that he would recom-
pense her again with some cf his kingly support in her
necessity ; that is to say, that he would raise her an
army, and come three foot of ground on English ground,
for her sake. To that effect she sent him a ring off her
finger, with fourteen thousand French crowns to pay his
expences.” PrirscotTtigz, p. 110.—A turquois ring ;—pro-
bably this fatal gift is, with James’s sword and dagger,
preserved in the College of Heralds, London.

Archibald Bell-the-Cat.—S. xiv. p. 35.

Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man remarkable
for strength of body and mind, acquired the popular name
of Bell-the-Cat, upon the following remarkable occasion :
James the Third, of whom Pitscottie complains, that he
delighted more in music, and “ policies of building,”
than in hunting, hawking, and other noble exercises, was
so ill advised, as to make favourites of his architects and
musicians, whom the same historian irreverentiy terms
masons and fiddlers. His nobility, who did not sympa-
thise in the king’s respect for the fine arts, were extremely
incensed at the honours conferred on these persons, par-
ticularly on Cochrane, a mason, who had been created
Earl of Mar. And seizing the opportunity, when, in
1482, the king had convoked the whole array of the
country to march against the English, they held a mid-
night council in the church of Lauder, for the purpose
of forcibly removing these minions from the king’s per-
son. When all had agreed on the propriety of the measure,
Lord Gray told the assembly the apologue of the Mice;
who had formed a resolution, that it would be highly
advantageous to their community to tie a beil round the
cat’s neck, that they might hear her approach at a
distance ; but which public measure unfortunately mis-
carried, from no mouse being willing to undertake the
task of fastening the bell. ‘‘I understand the moral,”
said Angus, ‘“‘and, that what we propose may not lack
execution, I will bell-the-cat.” The rest of the strange
scene is thus told by Pitscottie :—

‘“< By this was advised and spoken by thir lords fore-
said, Cochran, the Earl of Mar, came from the king to
the council, (which council was holden in the kirk of
Lawder for the time,) who was well accompanied with a
band of men of war, to the number of three hundred light
axes, all clad in white livery, and black bends thereon,
that they might be known for Cochran the Earl of Mar’s
men. Himself was clad in a riding pie of black velvet,
with a great chain of gold about his neck, to the value
of five hundred crowns, and four blowing horns, with
both the ends of gold and silk, set with precious stone,
called a berryl, hanging in the midst. This Cochran had
his heumont horn before him, overgilt with gold ; and so
were all the rest of his horns, and all his pallions were of
fine canvas of silk, and the cords thereof fine twisted silk,
and the chains upon his pallions were double overgilt
with gold.

‘<This Cochran was so proud in his conceit, that he
counted no lords to be marrows to him, therefore he rushed
rudely at the kirk-door. The council enquired who it
was that perturbed them at that time. Sir Robert Dou-
glas, Laird of Lochleven, was keeper of the kirk-door at
that time, who enquired who that was that knocked so

 

 

rudely ? and Cochran answered, ‘‘ This is I, the Earl of

Mar.” The which news pleased well the lords, because
they were ready boun to cause take him, as is afore

rehearsed. Then the Earl of Angus past hastily to the
door, and with him Sir Robert Douglas of Lochleven,
there to receive in the Earl of Mar and so many of his
complices who were there, as they thought good. And
the Earl of Angus met with the Earl of Mar, as he came
in at the door, and pulled the golden chain from his craig,
and said to him, a tow * would set him better. Sir Robert
Douglas syne pulled the blowing-horn from him in like
manner, and said, ‘ He had been the hunter of mischief
over long.’ This Cochran asked, ‘ My lords, is it mows f,
or earnest?’ They answered, and said, it is goodearnest,
and so thou shalt find: for thou and thy complices have
abused our prince this long time; of whom thou shalt
have no more credence, but shall have thy reward accord-
ing to thy good service, as thou hast deserved in times
bypast ; right so the rest of thy followers.

‘* Notwithstanding, the lords held them quiet till they
caused certain armed men to pass into the King’s pallion,
and two or three wise men to pass with them, and give
the King fair pleasant words, till they laid hands on all
the King’s servants, and took and hanged them before his
eyes over the bridge of Lawder. Incontinent they brought
forth Cochran, and his hands bound with a tow, who
desired them to take one of his own pallion-tows, and bind
his hands, for he thought shame to have his hands bound
with such tow of hemp, like a thief. The lords answered,
he was a traitor, he deserved no better ; and, for despight,
they took a hair tether +, and hanged him over the bridge
of Lawder, above the rest of his complices.”—PiITscorriz,
p. 78, folio edit.

Against the war had Angus stood,
And chafed his royal lord.—s. xiv. p. 36.

Angus was an old man when the war against England
was resolved upon. He earnestly spoke against that mea-
sure from its commencement ; and, on the eve of the battle
of Flodden, remonstrated so freely upon the impolicy of
fighting, that the King said to him, with scorn and indigna-
tion, ‘‘if he was afraid, he might go home.” The Earl
burst into tears at this insupportable insult, and retired
accordingly, leaving his sons, George, master of Angus,
and Sir William of Glenbervie, to command his followers.
They were both slain in the battle, with two hundred
gentlemen of the name of Douglas. The aged Earl,
broken-hearted at the calamities of his house and his
country, retired into a religious house, where he died
about a year after the Field of Flodden.

Then rest you in Tantalion Hold.—sS. xv. p. 36.

The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high rock pro-
jecting into the German Ocean, about two miles east of
North Berwick. The building is not seen till a close
approach, as there is rising ground betwixt it and the land.
The circuit is of large extent, fenced upon three sides by
the precipice which overhangs the sea, and on the fourth
by a double ditch and very strong outworks. Tantallon
was a principal castle of the Douglas family, and when
the Earl of Angus was banished, in 1527, it continued
to hold out against James V. The king went in person
against it, and, for its reduction, borrowed from the castle
of Dunbar, then belonging to the Duke of Albany, two
great cannons, whose names, as Pitscottie informs us
with laudable minuteness, were ‘“‘ Thrawn-mouth’d Mow
and her Marrow ;” also, ‘‘ two great botcards, and two
moyan, two double falcons, and four quarter-falcons; ” for
the safe guiding and redelivery of which, three lords were
laid in pawn at Dunbar. Yet, notwithstanding all this
apparatus, James was forced to raise the siege, and only
afterwards obtained possession of Tantallon by treaty with
the governor, Simeon Panango. When the Earl of Angus
returned from banishment, upon the death of James,
he again obtained possession of Tantallon, and it actually
afforded refuge to an English ambassador, under circum-

 

stances similar to those described in the text. This was
3 Rope. + Jest. + Halter.NOTES. 67

 

>

no other than the celebrated Sir Ralph Sadler, who resided
there for some time under Angus’s protection, after the
failure of his negociation, for matching the infant Mary
with Edward VI. He says, that though this place was
poorly furnished, it wasof such strength as might warrant
him against the malice of his enemies, and that he now
thought himself out of danger *,

There is a military tradition, that the old Scottish
March was meant to express the words,

Ding down Tantallon,
Mak a Brig to the Bass.

Tantallon was at length “‘dung down” and ruined by
the Covenanters ; its lord, the Marquis of Douglas, being
a favourer of the royal cause. The castle and barony
were sold in the beginning of the eighteenth century to
President Dalrymple of North Berwick, by the then
Marquis of Douglas.

—_——' their motto on his blade.—S. Ve Pe oo:

A very ancient sword, in possession of Lord Douglas,
bears, among a great deal of flourishing, two hands point-
ing to a heart, which is placed betwixt them, and the
date 1329, being the year in which Bruce charged the
Good Lord Douglas to carry his heart to the Holy Land.
The following lines (the first couplet of which is quoted
by Godscroft as a popular saying in his time) are inscribed
around the emblem :—

So mony guid as of ye Doveglas beinge
Of ane surname was ne’er in Scotland seine.

I will ye charge, efter yat I depart,

To holy grawe, and thair bury my hart;
Let it remane ever BoTHE TYME AND HOWR,
To ye last day I see my Saviour.

I do protest in tyme of all my ringe,
Ye lyk subject had never ony keing.

This curious and valuable relique was nearly lost during
the civil war of 1745-6, being carried away from Douglas-
Castle by some of those in arms for Prince Charles. But
great interest having been made by the Duke of Douglas
among the chief partisans of Stuart, it was at length
restored. It resembles a Highland claymore, of the usual
size, is of an excellent temper, and admirably poised.

Martin Swart.—S,. xxt. p. 37,

The name of this German general is preserved by that
of the field of battle, which is called, after him, Swart-
moor. There were songs about him long current in Eng-
land.—See Dissertation prefixed to Rrrson’s Ancient Songs,
1792, page 1 xi.

Perchance some form was unobserved;

Perchance in point of faith he swerved.—S. xxt. Ds os.

It was early necessary for those who felt themselves
obliged to believe in the divine judgment being enunciated
in the trial by duel, to find salvos for the strange and
obviously precarious chances of the combat. Various
curious evasive shifts, used by those who took up an un-
righteous quarrel, were supposed sufficient to convert it
into a just one. Thus, in the romance of “«« Amys and
Amelion,” the one brother-in-arms, fighting for the other,
disguised in his armour, swears that he did not commit the
crime of which the Steward, his antagonist, truly, though
maliciously, accused him whom he represented. Bran-
tome tells a story of an Italian, who entered the lists upon
an unjust quarrel, but, to make his cause good, fled from
his enemy at the first onset. ‘‘Turn, coward!” exclaimed
his antagonist. ‘‘ Thou liest,” said the Italian, “‘ coward
am I none; and in this quarrel will I fight to the death,
but my first cause of combat was unjust, and I abandon
it.” ‘Je vous laisse a penser,” adds Brantome, * s'il n’y a
pas de Vabus la.” Elsewhere he says, very sensibly, upon
the confidence which those who had a righteous cause enter-
tained of victory; ‘* Un autre abus y avoit-il, que ceux

 

* The very curious State Papers of this able negotiator have been
lately published by Mr. Clifford, with some Notes by tue Author of
Marmion,

 

 

quit avoient un juste subjet de querelle, et qu'on les faiscit
Jurer avant entrer au camp, pensoient estre aussitost vain-
queurs, voire s’en assuroient-t-ils du tout, mesmes que leurs
confesseurs, parrains et confidants leurs en respondoient
tout a-fait, comme si Dieu leur en eustdonné une patente ;
et ne regardant point a Vautres fautes passées, et que Dieu
en garde la punition a ce coup la pour plus grande, despi-
leuse, et exempilaire.”—Discours sur les Duels,

Dun-Edin’s Cross.—S. xxv. p- 38.

The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient and curious
structure. The lower part was an octagonal tower, six-
teen feet in diameter, and about fifteen feet hich. At
each angle there was a pillar, and between them an arch,
of the Grecian shape. Above these was a projecting bat-
tlement, with a turret at each corner, and medallions, of
rude but curious workmanship, between them. Above
this rose the proper Cross, a column of one stone, upwards
of twenty feet high, surmounted with a unicorn. This
pillar is preserved at the House of Drum, near Edinburgh.
The Magistrates of Edinburgh, in )756, with consent of
the Lords of Session, (proh pudor/) destroyed this curious
monument, under a wanton pretext that it encumbered
the street ; while, on the one hand, they left an ugly mass,
called the Luckenbooths, and, on the other, an awkward,
long, and low guard-house, which were fifty times more
encumbrance, than the venerable and inoffensive Cross.

From the tower of the Cross, so long as it remained,
the heralds published the acts of Parliament ; and its site,
marked by radii, diverging from a stone centre, in the High
Street, is still the place where proclamations are made.

This awful summons came.—S. xxv. p. 38.

This supernatural citation is mentioned by all our
Scottish historians. It was probably, like the apparition
at Linlithgow, an attempt, by those averse to the war, to
impose upon the superstitious temper of James IV. The
following account from Pitscottie is characteristically
minute, and furnishes, besides, some curious particulars
of the equipment of the army of James IV. Ineed only
add to it, that Plotcock, or Plutock, is no other than Pluto.
The Christians of the middle ages by no means disbelieved
in the existence of the heathen deities: they only consi-
dered them as devils *; and Plotcock, so far from implying
anything fabulous, was a synonyme of the grand enemy
of mankind. ‘ Yet all their warnings, and uncouth
tidings, nor no good counsel, might stop the King, at
this present, from his vain purpose, and wicked enter-
prise, but hasted him fast to Edinburgh, and there to
make his provision and furnishing, in having forth of his
army against the day appointed, that they should meet in
the Burrow-muir of Edinburgh: That is to say, seven
cannons that he had forth of the Castle of Edinburgh,
which were called the Seven Sisters, casten by Robert
Borthwick, the master-gunner, with other small artillery,
bullet, powder, and all manner of order, as the master-
gunner could devise.

*«In this mean time, when they were taking forth their
artillery, and the king being in the Abbey for the time,
there was a cry heard at the Market-cross of Edinburgh,
at the hour of midnight, proclaiming asit had been a sum-
mons, which was named and called by the proclaimer
thereof, The Summons of Plotcock; which desired all
men to compear, both Earl, and Lord, and Baron, and all
honest gentlemen within the town, (every man specified
by his own name,) to compear, within the space of forty
days, before his master, where it should happen him to
appoint, and be for the time, under the pain of disobe-
dience. But whether this summons was proclaimed by
vain persons, night-walkers, or drunken men, for their
pastime, or if it was a spirit, I cannot tell truly; but it

 

* See, on this curious subject, the Essay on Fairies, in the ‘“‘Border
Minstrelsy,’” Vol. mu. under the fourth head; and Jackson on
Unbelief, p. 175. Chaucercalls Pluto the ‘ King of Faerie;” and
Dunbar names him “ Pluto, that elrich incubus.” If he was not
actually the devil, he must be considered as the “‘ prince of the power
of the air.” The most remarkable instance of these surviving classical
superstitions, isthat of the Germans, concerning the Hill of Venus,
into which she attempts to entice all gallant knights, and detains them
jn a sort of Fools’ Paradise.

 

 

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MARMION.

 

 

 

 

was shewn to me, that an indweller of the town, Mr.
Richard Lawson, being evil-disposed, ganging in his gal-
lery-stair foreanent thecross, hearing this voice proclaim-
ing this summons, thought marvel what it should be,
cried on his servant to bring him his purse; and when
he had brought him it, he took out a crown, and cast over
the stair, saying, I appeal from that summons, judgment,
and sentence thereof, and takes me all whole in the mercy
of God, and Christ Jesus his Son. Verily the author of
this, that caused me write the manner of the summons,
was a landed gentleman, who was at that time twenty
years of age, and was in the town the time of the said sum-
mons; and thereafter, when the field was stricken, he
swore to me, there was no man that escaped that was
called in thissummons, but that one man alone which made
his protestation, and appealed from the said summons;
but all the lave were perished in the field with the King.”

Fitz-Eustace bade them pause a while,
Before a venerable pile.—S. xxix. p. 39.
The convent alluded to is a foundation of Cistertian nuns,
near North Berwick, of which there are still some remains.
It was founded by Duncan, Earl of Fife, in 1216.

That one ofhis own ancestry
Drove the Monks forth of Coventry.—S. xxx. p. 39.
This relates to the catastrophe of a real Robert de
Marmion, in the reign of King Stephen, whom William
of Newbury describes with some attributes of my fictitious
hero: ‘* Homo bellicosus, ferocia, et astucia, fere nuillo
suo tempore impar.” This Baron, having expelled the
monks from the church of Coventry, was not long of expe-
riencing the divine judgment, as the same monks no doubt
termed his disaster. Having waged a feudal war with the
Earl of Chester, Marmion’s horse fell, as he charged in the
van of his troops, against a body of the Earl’s followers:
the rider’s thigh being broken by the fall, his head was
cut off by a common foot-soldier, ere he could receive any
succour. The whole story is told by William of Newbury.

CANTO VI.

 

———— the savage Dane
At Tol more deep the mead did drain.—Int. p. 40.

The Jol of the heathen Danes, (a word still applied to
Christmas in Scotland,) was solemnized with great festi-
vity. The humour of the Danes at table displayed itself
in pelting each other with bones ; and Torfeus tells a long
and curious story in the history of Hrolfe-Kraka, of one
Hottus, an inmate of the court of Denmark, who was so
generally assailed with these missiles, that he constructed,
out of the bones with which he was overwhelmed, a very
respectable entrenchment, against those who continued
the raillery. The dances of the northern warriors round
the great fires of pine-trees are commemorated by Olaus
Magnus, who says, they danced with such fury, holding
each other by the hands, that, if the grasp of any failed,
he was pitched into the fire with the velocity of a sling.
The sufferer, on such occasions, was instantly plucked out,
and cbliged to quaff off a certain measure of ale, as a
penalty for ‘‘ spoiling the king’s fire.”

On Chrisimas eve the mass was sung.—Int. p. 41.

In Roman Catholic countries, mass is never said at
night, except on Christmas eve. Each of the frolics with
which that holiday used to be celebrated, might admit of
a long and curious note; but I shall content myself with
the following description of Christmas, and his attributes,
as personified in one of Ben Jonson’s Masques for the
Court.

‘* Entey CHRISTMAS, with two or three of the Guard. He
is attired in round hose, long stockings, a close doublet, a
high-crowned hat, with a broach, a long thin beard, a
truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, his scarfs and garters
tied cross, and his drum beaten before him.—

‘<The names of his children, with their attires.

-and distant relation, has the original of a poetical invita-

 

** Miss-Rule, in a velvet cap, with a sprig, a short cloak,

great yellow ruff, like a reveller ; his torch-bearer bearing
a rope, a cheese, and a basket.

‘«* Caroll, a long tawny coat, with a red cap, and a flute
at his girdle; his torch-bearer carrying a song-book open.

‘© Minc’d-pie, like a fme cook’s wife, drest neat, her |
man carrying 4 pie, dish, and spoons.

‘© Gamboll, like a tumbler, with a hoop and bells; his
toreh-bearer arm’d with cole-staff, and blinding cloth.

«© Post and Pair, with a pair-royal of aces in his hat,
his garment all done over with pairs and purs; his squire
carrying a box, cards, and counters.

“«¢ New-year’s-gift, in a blue coat, serving-man like, with
an orange, and a sprig of rosemary gilt on his head, his hat
full of broaches, with a collar of gingerbread ; his torch-
bearer carrying a march-pain, with a bottle of wine on
either arm.

“ Mumming, ina masquing pied suit, with a vizor; his
torch-bearer carrying the box, and ringing it.

<¢ Wassail, like a neat sempster and songster ; her page
bearing a brown bowl, drest with ribbands, and rosemary,
before her.

‘* Offering, in a short gown, with a porter’s staff in his
hand; a wyth borne before him, and a bason, by his |
torch-bearer. |

*< Baby Cocke, drest like a boy, in a fine long coat, |
biggin, bib, muckender, and a little dagger; his usher |
bearing a great cake, with a bean and a pease.” |

Who lists, may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery.—Int. p. 41.

It seems certain, that the Mummers of England, who
(in Northumberland at least) used to go about in disguise
to the neighbouring houses, bearing the then useless
ploughshare; and the Guisards of Scotland, not yet in
total disuse, present, in some indistinct degree, a shadow |
of the old mysteries, which were the origin of the English
drama.

Where my great-grandsire came of old,
With amber beard and flaxen hair.—Int. p. 41.
Mr. Scott of Harden, my kind and affectionate friend,

’

tion, addressed from his grandfather to my relative, from
which a few lines in the text are imitated. They are dated,
as the epistle in the text, from Mertoun-house, the seat of
the Harden family.

‘¢ With amber beard, and flaxen hair,
And reverend apostolic air,
Free of anxiety and care,
Come hither, Christmas-day, and dine;
We’ll mix sobriety with wine,
And easy mirth with thoughts divine.
We Christians think it holiday,
On it no sin to feast or play ;
Others, in spite, may fast and pray.
No superstition in the use
Our ancestors made of a goose;
Why may not we, as well as they,
Be innocently blithe that day,
On goose or pye, on wine or ale,
And scorn enthusiastic zeal ?—
Pray come, and welcome, or plague rott
Your friend and landlord, Walter Scott.”
Mr. Walter Scott, Lessudden.

The venerable old gentleman, to whom the lines are
addressed, was the younger brother of William Scott of
Reaburn. Being the cadet of a cadet of the Harden
family, he had very little to lose; yet he contrived to lose
the small property he had, by engaging in the civil wars
and intrigues of the house of Stuart. His veneration for
the exiled family was so great, that he swore he would not
shave his beard till they were restored: a mark of attach-
ment, which, I suppose, had been common during Crom-
well’s usurpation: for, in Cowley’s ‘‘ Cutter of Coleman
Street,” one drunken cavalier upbraids another, that, when
he was not able to afford to pay a barber, he affected to
‘* wear a beard for the king.” I sincerely hope this wasNOTES.

 

 

 

not absolutely the original reason of my ancestor’s beard :
which, as appears from a portrait in the possession of Sir
Henry Hay Macdougal, Bart., and another painted for the
famous Dr. Pitcairn *, was a beard of a most dignified and
yenerabie appearance.

—— ‘‘the Spirit’s Blasted Tree.”—Int. p. 42.

I am permitted to illustrate this passage, by inserting
*« Ceubren yr Ellyll, or the Spirit’s Blasted Tree,” a
legendary tale, by the Reverend George Warrington:

*« 'fhe-event, on which this tale is founded, is preserved
by tradition in the family of the Vaughans of Hengwyrt ;
nor is it entirely lost, even among the common people,
who still point out this oak tothe passenger. The enmity
between the two Welch chieftains, Howel Sele, and Owen
Glendwr, was extreme, and marked by vile treachery in
the one, and ferocious cruelty in the other t+. The story is
somewhat changed and softened, as more fayourable to the
characters of the two chiefs, and as better answering the
purpose of poetry, by admitting the passion of pity, anda
greater degree of sentiment in the description. Some trace
of Howel Sele’s mansion was to be seen a few years ago,
and may perhaps be still visible, in the park of Nannau,
now belonging to Sir Robert Vaughan, Baronet, in the
wild and romantic tracts of Merionethshire. The abbey
mentioned passes under two names, Vener and Cymmer.
The former is retained, as more generally used.

THE SPIRIT’S BLASTED TREE.
Ceubren yr Eliyll.
Through Nannau’s Chace as Howel passed,
A chief esteemed both brave and kind,
Far distant borne, the stag-hound’s ery
Caine murmuring on the hollow wind.
Starting, he bent an eager ear,—
How should the sounds return again ?
His hounds lay wearied from the chace,
And all at home his hunter train.
Then sudden anger flash’d his eye,
And deep revenge he vowed to take,
On that bold man who dared to force
Tlis red deer from the forest brake.

Unhappy chief! would nought avail,

No signs impress thy heart with fear,
Thy lady’s dark mysterious dream,

Thy warning from the hoary seer ?
Three ravens gave the note of death,

As through mid air they winged their way ;
Then o’er his head, in rapid flight,

They croak,—they scent their destined prey.
Ilt-omened bird! as legends say,

Who hast the wondrous power to know,
While health fills high the throbbing veins,

The fated hour when blood must flow.

Blinded by rage alone he passed,
Nor sought his ready vassals’ aid:
But what his fate lay long unknown,
For many an anxious year delayed.
A peasant marked his angry eye,
He saw him reach the lake’s dark bourne,
He saw him near a Blasted Oak,
But never from that hour return.

Three days passed o’er, no tidings came ;—
Where should the chief his steps delay ?
With wild alarm the servants ran,
Yet knew not where to point their way.

His vassals ranged the mountain’s height,
The covert close, and wide-spread plain :
But all in vain their eager search,
They ne’er must see their lord again.

 

“ The old gentleman was an intimate of this celebrated genius. By
the favour of the late Egrl of Kelly, descended on the maternal side
from Dr. Pitcairn, my father became possessed of the portrait in
question. :

t The history of their feud may be found in Pennant’s Tour in
Wales.

 

 

Yet Fancy, in a thousand shapes,

Bore to his home the Chief once more:
Some saw him on high Moel’s top,

Some saw him on the Winding shore.

With wonder fraught the tale went round,
Amazement chained the hearer’s tongue ;
Each peasant felt his own sad loss,
Yet fondly o’er the story hung.
Oft by the moon's pale shadowy light,
His aged nurse, and steward grey,
Would lean to catch the storied sounds,
Or mark the flitting spirit stray.
Pale lights on Cader’s rocks were seen,
And midnight voices heard to moan ;
"Twas even said the Blasted Oak,
Conyulsive, heaved a hollow groan:

And, to this day, the peasant still,

With cautious fear, avoids the ground ;
In each wild branch a spectre sees,

And trembles at each rising sound.

Ten annual suns had held their course,
In summer’s smile, or winter’s storm :
The lady shed the widowed tear,
As oft she traced his manly form.

Yet still to hope her heart would cling,
As o’er the mind illusions play,—

Of travel fond, perhaps her lord
To distant lands had steered his way.

"Twas now November’s cheerless hour,
Which drenching rain and clouds deface ;
Dreary bleak Robell’s tract appeared,
And dull and dank each valley’s space.

Loud o’er the wier the hoarse flood fell,
And dashed the foamy spray on high ;

The west wind bent the forest tops,
And angry frowned the evening sky.

A stranger passed Llanelltid’s bourne,
His dark-grey steed with sweat besprent,
Which, wearied with the lengthened way,
Could scarcely gain the hill’s ascent.

The portal reached,— the iron bell

Loud sounded round the outward wall;
Quick sprang the warder to the gate,

To know what meant the clamorous call.

‘© O! lead me to your lady soon ;
Say,—it is my sad lot to tell,

To clear the fate of that brave knight
She long has proved she loved so well.”

Then, as he crossed the spacious hall,
The menials look surprise and fear :
Still o’er his harp Old Modred hung,
And touched the notes for grief’s worn ear.

The lady sat amidst her train ;
A mellowed sorrow marked her look :
Then, asking what his mission meant,
The graceful stranger sighed and spoke :—
«© O could I spread one ray of hope,
One moment raise thy soul from woe,
Gladly my tongue would tell its tale,
My words at ease unfettered flow !
«« Now, lady, give attention due,
The story claims thy full belief:
E’en in the worst events of life,
Suspense removed is some relief.

«‘ Though worn by care, see Madoc here,
Great Glyndwr’s friend, thy kindred’s foe ;
Ah, let his name no anger raise,
For now that mighty Chief lies low!
«© Ben from the day, when, chained by fate,
By wizard’s dream or potent spell,
Lingering from sad Salopia’s field,
’Reft of his aid the Percy fell ;—

 

 

 

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mh ik wn gid The ful mus ‘eadfu hun 3s of t if the ex ‘stood h d over :
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aa Still its last a rished Soe thec orie have r the
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Ree HRs | hounds ss mou soul to t the pe must i oe
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SY £\ mar the lig h tor ny st dey ey 43
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a ae i s its stem rm all rm y ar.— @ 0 ren ||
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eae Chita all i is proper g in,) ering e one ith s inion
BER And his pr lly sin, Hove “oduce : wh opin
we Rt by ried, h 3 deac y pro Tilda, stant ome |
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NOTES.

occasions, in the abbey of Streanshalh, or Whitby, where
she so long resided. Ata particular time of the year, (viz.
in the summer months) at ten or eleyen in the forenoon,
the sun-beams fall in the inside of the northern part of the
choir: and ’tis then that the spectators, who stand on the
west side of Whitby church-yard, so as just to see the most
northerly part of the abbey past the north end of Whitby
church, imagine they perceive, in one of the highest win-
dows there, the resemblance of a woman, arrayed in a
shroud. Though we are certain this is only a reflection,
caused by the splendour of the sun-beams, yet fame reports
it, and it is constantly believed among the vulgar to be, an
appearance of Lady Hilda in her shroud, or rather in a
glorified state; before which, I makeno doubt, the Papists,
even in these our days, offer up their prayers with as much
zeal and devotion, as before any other image of their most
glorified saint.”—CHARLTON’s History of Whitby, p. 33.

A Bishop by the altar stood.—S. xt. p. 45.

The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld,
son of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, Earl of Angus. He was
author of a Scottish metrical version of the /Eneid, and of
many other poetical pieces of great merit. He had not at
this period attained the mitre.

——_———The huge and sweeping brand

That wont of yore in battle fray

His foeman’s limbs to lop away,

As woodknife shreds the sapling spray.—s. xt. p. 45.

Angus had strength and personal activity correspond-

ing to his courage. Spens of Kilspindie, a favourite of
James IV. having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met
him while hawking, and compelling him to single combat,
at one blow cut asunder his thigh bone, and killed him
on the spot. But ere he could obtain James’s pardon for
this slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his castle of
Hermitage, in exchange for that of Bothwell, which was
some diminution to the family greatness —The sword,
with which he struck so remarkable a blow, was pre-
sented by his descendant, James Earl of Morton, after-
wards regent of Scotland, to Lord Lindesay of the Byres,
when he defied Bothwell to single combat on Carbery-
hill.—See Introduction to the Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border, p. ix.

And hop’st thou hence unscathed to go 2

No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up draw-bridge, grooms—what, Warder, ho!
Let the poricullis fall.—S. xiv. p. 46.

This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl of Angus
is not without its example in the real history of the house
of Douglas, whose chieftains possessed the ferocity, with
the heroic virtues, of a savage state. The most curious
instance occurred in the case of Maclellan, tutor of Bomby,
who, having refused to acknowledge the pre-eminence
claimed by Douglas over the gentlemen and barons of
Galloway, was seized and imprisoned by the Earl, in his
castle of the Thrieve, on the borders of Kirkcudbright-
shire. Sir Patrick Gray, commander of King James the
Second’s guard, was uncle to the tutor of Bomby, and
obtained from the King a ‘‘sweet letter of supplication,”
praying the Earl to deliver his prisoner into Gray’s hand.
When Sir Patrick arrived at the castle, he was received
with all the honour due to a favourite servant of the
King’s household; but while he was at dinner, the Earl,
who suspected his errand, caused his prisoner be led forth
and beheaded. After dinner, Sir Patrick presented the
King’s letter to the Earl, who received it with great affec-
tation of reverence; ‘‘and took him by the hand, and
led him forth to the green, where the gentleman was
lying dead, and shewed him the manner, and said, Sir
-atrick, you are come a little too late; yonder is your
sister’s son lying, but he wants the head: take his body
and do with it what you will. Sir Patrick answered again
with a sore heart; and said, My Lord, if ye have taken
from him his head, dispone upon the body as ye please:
and with that called for his horse, and leaped thereon;
and when he was on horseback, he said to the Earl on this
manner, My Lord, if I live, you shall be rewarded for

 

7]

your labours, that you haye used at this time, according
to your demerits.

‘* At this saying the Earl was highly offended, and
cried for horse. Sir Patrick, seeing the Earl’s fury, spurred
his horse, but he was chased near Edinburgh ere they
left him; and had it not been his lcad horse was so
tried and good, he had been taken.”—Prrscortir’s His-
tony, p- 39:

A letter forged! St. Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed 2—S. xv. p. 46.

Lest the reader should partake of the Earl’s astonish-
ment, and consider the crime as inconsistent with the
manners of the period, I haye to remind him of the
numerous forgeries (partly executed by a female assistant)
devised by Robert of Artois, to forward his suit against
the Countess Matilda; which, being detected, occasioned
his flight into Erfgland, and proved the remote cause of
Edward the Third’s memorable wars in France. John
Harding, also, was expressly hired by Edward LV., to forge
such documents as might appear to establish the claim of
fealty asserted over Scotland by the English monarchs.

Where Lennel’s convent closed their march.
S. xvu. p. 46.
This was a Cistertian house of religion, now almost
entirely demolished.

The Till by Twisel Bridge.—S, xix. p. 47.

On the evening previous to the memorable battle of
Flodden, Surrey’s head quarters were at Barmoor-wood,
and King James held an inaccessible position on the ridge
of Flodden-hills, one of the last and lowest eminences
detached from the ridge of Cheyiot. The Till, a deep, and
slow river, winded between the armies. On the morning
of the $th September, 1513, Surrey marched in a north-
westerly direction, and crossed the Till, with his van and
artillery, at Twisel-bridge, nigh where that river joins
the Tweed, his rear-guard column passing about a mile
higher, by a ford. This movement had the double effect
of placing his army between King James and his supplies
from Scotland, and of striking the Scottish monarch with
surprise, as he seems to haye relied on the depth of the
river in his front. But as the passage, both over the bridge
and: through the ford, was difficult and slow, it seems pos-
sible that the English might have been attacked to great
advantage while struggling with natural obstacles. I
know not if we are to impute James’s forbearance to want
of military skll, or to the romantic de@laration which
Pitscottie puts in his mouth, ‘‘ that he was determined
to have his enemies before him on a plain field,” and
therefore would suffer no interruption to be given, even
by artillery, to their passing the river. .

The ancient bridge of Twisely by which the English
crossed the Till, is still standing beneath Twisel Castle, a
splendid pile of Gothic architecture, as now rebuilt by
Sir Francis Blake, Bart., whose extensive plantations
have so much improved the country around. The glen is
romantic and delightful, with steep banks on each side,
covered with copse, particularly with hawthorn. Beneath
a tall rock, near the bridge, is a plentiful fountain, called
St. Helen’s Well.

Hence might they see the full array
Of either host, for deadly fray.—S., xx. p. 47.

The reader cannot here expect a full account of the
battle of Flodden; but, so far as is necessary to under-
stand the Romance, I beg to remind him, that, when the
English army, by their skilful counter-march, were fairly
placed between King James and his own country, the
Scottish monarch resolved to fight; and, setting fire to
his tents, descended from the ridge of Flodden to secure
the neighbouring eminence of Brankstone, on which that
village is built. Thus the two armies met, almost without
seeing each other, when, according to the old poem of
** Flodden Field,”

The English line stretched east and west,
And southward were their faces set:

The Scottish northward proudly prest,
And manfully their foes they met.

 

 

 

 

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72 | MARMION.

 

The English army advanced in four divisions. On the
right, which first engaged, were the sons of Earl Surrey,
namely, Thomas Howard, the admiral of England, and
Sir Edmund, the knight marshal of the army. Their
divisions were separated from each other; but, at the
request of Sir Edmund, his brother’s battalion was drawn
very near to his own. The centre was commanded by
Surrey in person; the left wing by Sir Edward Stanley,
with the men of Lancashire, and of the palatinate of
Chester. Lord Dacres, with a large body of horse, formed
areserve. When the smoke, which the wind had driven
between the armies, was somewhat dispersed, they per-
ceived the Scots, who had moyed down the hill in a
similar order of battle, and in deep silence x. The Earls
of Huntley and of Home commanded their left wing,
and charged Sir Edmund Howard with such success,
as entifely to defeat his part of the English right wing.
Sir Edmund Howard’s banner was beaten down, and he
himself escaped with difficulty to his brother's division.
The admiral, however, stood firm; and Dacres advanc-
ing to his support with the reserve of cavalry, probably
between the interval of the divisions commanded by
the brothers Howard, appears to have kept the victors
in effectual check. Home’s men, chiefly Borderers, began
to pillage the baggage of both armies: and their leader
is branded, by the Scottish historians, with negligence
or treachery. On the other hand, Huntley, on whom
they bestow many encomiums, is said, by the English
historians, to have left the field after the first charge.
Meanwhile the Admiral, whose flank these chiefs ought
to have attacked, availed himself of their inactivity, and
pushed forward against another large division of the
Scottish army in his front, headed by the Earls of Craw-
ford and Montrose, both of whom were slain, and their
forces routed. On the left, the success of the English was
yet more decisive; for the Scottish right wing, consisting
of undisciplined Highlanders, commanded by Lennox and
Argyle, was unable to sustain the charge of Sir Edward
Stanley, and especially the severe execution of the Lan-
cashire archers. The King and Surrey, who commanded
the respective centres of their armies, were meanwhile
engaged in close and dubious conflict. James, surrounded
by the flower of his kingdom, and impatient of the galling
discharge of arrows, supported also by his reserve under
Bothwell, charged with such fury, that the standard
of Surrey was in danger. At that critical moment,
Stanley, who had routed the left wing of the Scottish,
pursued his caf€er of victory, and arrived on the right
flank, and in the rear of James’s division, which, throw-
ing itself into a circle, disputed the battle till night came
on. Surrey then drew back his forces; for the Scottish
centre not having been broken, and their left wing being
victorious, he yet doubted the event of the field. The
Scottish army, however, felt their loss, and abandoned
the field of battle in disorder, before dawn. They lost,
perhaps, from eight to ten thousand men, but that in-
cluded the very prime of their nobility, gentry, and even
clergy. Scarce a family of eminence but has an ancestor
killed at Flodden; and there is no province in Scotland,
even at this day, where the battle is mentioned without a
sensation of terror and sorrow. The English lost also a
great number of men, perhaps within one-third of the
vanquished, but they were of inferior note.—See the only
distinct detail of the field of Flodden in PINKERTON’S
History, Book x1.; all former. accounts being full of
blunder and inconsistency.

The spot, from which Clara views the battle, must be
supposed to have been on a hillock commanding the rear
of the English right wing, which was defeated, and in
which conflict Marmion is supposed to have fallen.

 

* Lesquelz Escossois descendirent de la montaigne en bonne ordre, en
la maniere que marchent les Allemans, sans parler, ni faire aucun bruit.
Gazette of the battle, PInkerTon’s History, Appendia, Vol. 1. p. 456.

 

 

Brian Tunsiall, stainless knight.—S. xxiv. p. 48.

Sir Brian Tunstall, called, in the romantic language of
the time, Tunstall the Undefiled, was one of the few
Englishmen of rank slain at Flodden.

 

 

View not that corpse mistrustfully,
Defaced and mangled though it be ;
Nor to yon Border castle high
Look northward ‘with upbraiding eye.—S. xxxv. p. 50.
There can be no doubt that King James fell in the battle
of Flodden. He was killed, says the curious French
Gazette, within a lance’s length of the Earl of Surrey;
and the same account adds, that none of his division were
made prisoners, though many were killed ; a circumstance
that testifies the desperation of their resistance. The
Scottish historians record many of the idle reports which
passed among the vulgar of their day. Home was accused,
by the popular voice, not only of failing to support the
king, but even of having carried him out of the field, and
murdered him. And this tale was revived in my remem-
prance, by an unauthenticated story of a skeleton, wrapped
in a bull’s hide, and surrounded with an iron chain, said
to have been found in the well of Home Castle: for which,
on inquiry, I could never find any better authority, than
the sexton of the parish having said, that, if the well were
cleaned out, he would not be surprised at such a discovery.
Home was the chamberlain of the king, and his prime
favourite ; he had much to lose (in fact did lose all) in
consequence of James’s death, and nothing earthly to gain
by that event: but the retreat or inactivity of the left
wing, which he commanded, after defeating Sir Edmund
Howard; and even the circumstance of his returning
unhurt, and loaded with spoil, from so fatal a conflict,
rendered the propagation of any calumny against him easy
and acceptable. Other reports gave a still more romantic
turn to the king’s fate, and averred, that James, weary of
gréatness after the carnage among his nobles, had gone on
a pilgrimage to merit absolution for the death of his father,
and the breach of his oath of amity to Henry. In parti-
cular, it was objected to the English, that they could
never show the token of the iron belt ; which, however, he
was likely enough to have laid aside on the day of battle,
as encumbering his personal exertions. They produce a
better evidence, the monarch’s sword and dagger, which
are still preserved in the Herald’s College in London.
Stowe has recorded a degrading story of the disgrace with
which the remainsof the unfortunate monarch were treated
in his time. An unhewn column marks the spot where
James fell, still called the King’s Stone.

Se SONG EOOK
The fair cathedral stormed and took.—S. xxxvi. p. 51.

 

This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which had been gar-
risoned on the part of the king, took place in the great
civil war. Lord Brook, who, with Sir John Gill, com-
manded the assailants, was shot with a musket-ball through
the visor of his helmet. The royalists remarked, that he
was killed by a shot fired from St. Chad’s Cathedral, and
upon St. Chad’s day, and received his death-wound in the
very eye with which, he had said, he hoped to see the ruin
of all the cathedrals in England. The magnificent church ~
in question suffered cruelly upon this, and other occasions ;
the principal spire being ruined by the fire of the besiegers.

Upon revising the Poem, it seems proper to mention the -
foHowing particulars :—
The lines in page 19,
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought,
have been unconsciously borrowed from a passage in
Dryden’s beautiful epistle to John Driden of Chesterton.
The ballad of Lochinvar, p. 35,is in a very slight degree
founded on a ballad called ‘‘ Katharine Janfarie,” which
may be found in the ‘‘ Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”

‘ THE END.MISCELLANY

POPULAR SCOTTISH PO Ris

CHIEFLY OF A HUMOROUS AND DESCRIPTIVE CHARACTER,

WITH NOTES.

EOIN BURG EH:

PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

1841.te

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EDINBURGH :
W. AND R. CHAMBERS.RR

ADVERTISEMENT.

Tue works of Burns, Fergusson, and Ramsay, having been included in this series of publications, and having
met with a favourable reception, it was judged proper also to adopt into it a selection of kindred productions,
which, though by authors of less celebrity, enjoy a scarcely inferior degree of popularity.

The present Miscellany has accordingly been formed. It comprehends chiefly poems of a comic nature,
or such as are descriptive of rural life, manners, and customs, including the best writings of Macneill,
Alexander Wilson, Mayne, and others of our lesser stars. Most of these compositions have already received
the stamp of public approbation, and have been frequently reprinted ; while a few are, from various causes,
less known. It may perhaps be said with safety of the whole, that, though many verses are rough and

homely, there is in the mass of them much humour, and no small narrative and descriptive power.

The notes to these poems, excepting in the cases of “ Peebles to the Play” and “ The Wife of Auchter-
muchty,” are by the respective authors.

The Editor mentions with pleasure, that, should this volume be favourably received, it may be in his
power to add one containing a selection of the poems of Douglas, Dunbar, Lyndsay, and other Scottish
bards of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

RC:

Edinburgh, May 21, 184.a t
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OF POPULAR SCOTTISH PORWe

   

 

PEEBLES TO THE PLAY.

[This poem was discovered by Dr Percy in a folio manuscript,
preserved in the Pepysian Library at Cambridge, and which had
originally belonged to Sir Richard Maitland, a well-known Scot-
tish poet of the sixteeenth century. It was immediately accepted
as a recovered composition of King James I. of Scotland, as being
supposed to be the work alluded to ina somewhat obscure pas-
sage of Mair’s History respecting the writings of that monarch:
“<< Jucandum artificiosum iltum cantum (composuit) at Beltayn, &e.
quam alii de Dalkeith et Gargeil mutare studuerunt, quia in arce aut
camera clausus servabatur, in qua mulier cum matre habitabat.’’
The copies hitherto published are evidently far from being cor-
rect, and hence many passages of the poem are not intelligible.
The main object is to describe a variety of droll occurrences at a
rural fair or play, the scene of which is the royal burgh of Peebles,
and which takes place at Beltan, or the lst of May. This local
festival was formerly one of considerable note, and, so lately as
the middle of the eighteenth century, continued to be distin-
guished by horse races: it has now shrunk intoa common country
fair, held annually on the first Wednesday of May, and usually

called Beltan Fair. Upon the presumption that King James was
the author of the poem, it is not unworthy of notice that, in 1444,
a few years after his death, a foundation was made for (amongst
other objects) praying for the soul of the deceased monarch in the
parish church of Peebles. ]
At Beltan, when ilk bodie bounes
To Peebles to the play,
To hear the singing and the sounds,
The solace, sooth to say ;
sy firth and forest forth they found,!
They graithit them? full gay ;
God wait what wald they do that stound,?
For it was their feast day,
They said,
Of Peebles to the play.
All the wenches of the west
Were up ere the cocl: erew 5
For reeling there might nae man rest,
For garry and for glew.4
Ane said, “ My curches are not press’d ;”
Then answer’d Meg, full blue,
“'l'o get ane hood, I hald it best
“ By God’s saul, that is true,”
Quoth she,
Of Peebles to the play.

She took the tippet by the end,
To let it hing she leit not.
Quoth he, “ Thy back sall bear ane bend ;”
“In faith,” quoth she, “ we meit not. 296
She was so guckit and so gend,/
That day ane bit she eat not;
Then spak her fallow, that her ken’ d,
“ Be still, my joy, and greet not
Now,”

Of Peebles to the play.

1 Went. 2 Dressed themselves. 3 On that occasion.
4 Talk and glee.
5 Allowed. This verse seems to mean, that the girl was so full

of eager expectation respecting the festival of the day, that she
could not allow her tippet time to dry.

6 The meaning is here obscure; but probably the poet only
quotes some rustic badinage of little importance.

<< Ma alas !” then said she,
‘Am I not clearly tynt?
I ae not come yon mercat to,
Tam so ill sun-brynt.
Amang yon merchands my duds do
Marie I sall anes mynt,1
Stand off far, and keik them to,
As I at hame was wont,”
Quoth she,

Of Peebles to the play.

Hope, Kailyie, and Cardrona,2
Gatherit out thick-fald ;

With hey and how rohumbelow,3
The young folk were full bauld.

The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
Out of the towns untauld:

Lord, sie ane shout was them amang,
When they were ower the wald,t

There west,

Of Peebles to the play.

Ane young man stert into that steid,
As cant® as ony colt,
Ane birken hat upon his head,6
With ane bow and ane bolt;
Said, “ Merry maidens, think not lang,
The weather is fair and smolt ;”
He cleekit up ane hie ruf sang,
“There fure ane man to the holt,’’7
Quoth he,
Of Peebles to the play.

They had not gane half of the gait,8
When the maidens cam upon them ;
lik ane man gave his conceit,

How that they wad dispone them:
Ane said, “ The fairest falls [to] me,

Tak ye the lave and fond’ them ;”
Ane other said, “ Waes me, let be,
On, Tweeddale-side, and on them,

Swith !”?
Of Peebles to the play.

Then he to gae and she to gae,

And never ane bade abide you
Ane winklot fell, and her tail up,

“ Wow !” quoth Malken, “ hide you:
What needs you to maik it sae?9

Yon man will not owerride you;
Are ye ower gude,” quoth she, “I say,

‘l'o let them gang beside you,

Yonder ?”’
Of Peebles to the play.

Ty

1 J shall not attempt to show my clothes among yon merchant
people.
2 Places on the banks of the Tweed, below Peebles.
3 The burden of an early popular song.
4 Wold—moor or forest land. 5 Joyful.
6 When in and cam her ain twa sons,
And their hats made o’ the birk.—Old Scottish Ballad.
7 There went a man to the wood—apparently the first line of
the song.

 

 

7 Foolish and wild.

 

8 Way. 9 To assume such prudish airs.

 

 

euage si

Sha as

BSFbe 6 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

1 ) Then they cam to the town’s end, He held, she drew ; for dust that day
yee Withouten more delay, Might nae man see a styme
ry ta He before and she before, To redd them,
ie t oh | To see wha was maist gay: Of Peebles to the play.}
Rae” i pee a eons He stert[it] to his great grey meir,
ae ea Hen eh fast ah ee BE ys : And off he tumblit the creels ;
Pah at Some said that they were mercat folk, « Alas !? quoth she ; “hald our gudeman !”
ard ome cate, He aceon of ay And on her knees she kneels:
ae eS OO “ Abide,” quoth she; “ Why, nay,” quoth he,
BAP say Of Peebles to the play. In till/his st’rups he lap ;
rend Then they to the tavern-house, The girdin brak, and he fell aff,
EME ie. With mickle oly prance ; And up stert baith his heels
i Ane spak wi’ words wonder crouse,! At anes,
baie Be, “ A done with ane mischance ! Of Peebles to the play.
a om oP ee hydis'tyt),8 His wife cam out, and gave ane shout,
ey ee eee ea And by the foot she gat him ;
ES aint see that our nee be white, [ And] all bedirten ave him out,
Bas Hor we will dine and dance Lord God! right weel that sat him !
oe There out,”* He said, “ Where is yon cullion knave ?”

i Of Peebles to the play. Quoth she, “I rede ye lat him

Gang hame his gates :” “ By God,” quoth he,
“ T sall anes have at him
Yet,’

Of Peebles to the play.

Me Be Aye as the gudewife brought in,
a a Ane scorit upon the wauch ;

Ane bade pay, ane other said, “ Nay,
Bide while we reckon our lauch :” ®

NR ual The gudewife said, “ Have ye nae dread, “ Ye fyl’d me ; fy, for shame!” quoth she ;
1a ty nih Ye sall pay that ye auch 3” “ See as ye have drest me;
ae Ane young man stert upon his feet, Ilow felt ye,? sir, as the girdin brak ?”
Wi uh And he began to laugh, “ What mickle devil may lest me ?3

Bi ih Hh For heyden,/ I wat not weel what it was
shh Of Peebles to the play. My ain grey meir that kest me;
Or gif I was forfoughten-faint,

He gat ane trencher in his hand
© ; And syne laid down to rest me

Bi tthe J eg? unt 5
Beha abet ee foe ee mean eee ;
Bi i dit ie oe has 6 Levene? 2 Of Peebles to the piay.
, pay thus we were wo
‘i Ane other stert upon his feet, By that the bargain was all play’d,
a) And said, “ Thou art ower blunt, The strings stert out of their nocks ;4
sabi ie T'o tak sic office upon hand; Sevensome that the tulyie> made,
lif H By God, thou ’servit ane dunt Lay gruffling in the stocks.
UAE ie Of me,” John Nickson of the Nether ward&
: i f Of Peebles to the play. Had lever have given ane ox
th i 1 “ Ane dunt !”? quoth he, “ what devil is that? OF he a ee

: He sware by Goddisocks
By God, thou dar not do’t :” q y s,

 

 

Pie da And mannis baith
hgh ty Un Bets ; : weg 3
BY co ee oggit oe : Of Peebles to the play.
Ve inchand as he were wood :!
Me Belk ts All that house was in ane reird,]0 With that, Will Swain cam sweitand out,
hase Ane eryit, “ The haly rude !1! Ane mickle miller man ;
Nie i Help us, Lord, upon this yird, 66 Gif I sal] dance, have done, let see,
Wei), ths That there be spilt nae blude Blaw up the bagpipe than :
ee BUH Herein,” The shawmon’s dance I maun begin,
BM Ei a Of Peebles to the play. I trow it sall not pain.’’?/
BP ibe So heavily he hochit about,
ih ih be They thrang out of the door at anes To see him, Lord, as they ran
Piaget ia Withouten ony reddin ; That tide,
PD MILE . > .
PB iba 1 Gilbert in ane gutter glaid, Of Peebles to the play.
7 ee He gat nae better beddin
P 1 i; H s ~
es bi There was not ane of them that day They gatherit out of the town,
Bh Etta Wad do ane other’s biddin ; And nearer till him dreuch ;
He Bild Thereby lay three and thretty some, Ane bade give the dancers room,
i We he Dynan’ in anomie Will Swain makes wonder teuch:
Wb | Of draff, Then all the wenches “ Tehee!” they [eryit];
a Ra Of Peebles to the play. But, Lord, as Will Young leuch ;
Pees > “ Gude gossip, come hyne your gaits,®
Pe Ane cadger on the mercat-gait For we have danced eneuch
Ee PL Heard their bargain begin ; At anes,”
Mak } He gave ane shout, his wife came out, Of Peebles to the play.
Pro ANT: Scantly she might owerhy him :
AM eS So fiercely fire-het was the day,
bie eat 1 Spirited. 2 Vold up the leaves of the table. His face began to freckle ;
bike p bk 3 We hastens to do it. 4 In the open air.
Nt f Wen 5 Stay till we cast up our reckoning, 1 This stanza appears to want two lines.
es hi Bai! 6 Take ye no fear, you shall pay all you owe. “Tn original, ‘* How feil.” 3 Please me.
bhi ii 7 Scorn. 8 A staff with a metal point. * Notches—the notches of the bows. The expression seems
ay \ } 9 Stamping as if he were mad. 10 Uproar. here allegorical.
ave hi 11 The holy cross. This was a locally appropriate exclama- | 5 Squabble. 6 The lower ward of Lanarkshire.
’ Bip ba fi tion, as there was a cross of great sanctity preserved in the 7 Labour, or go slowly.
f Wat Church of the Trinity Friars’ Monastery at Peebles. See it after- ® Come hence your ways—come along on the road you have
| at wards alluded to. tO gO.THE WIFE OF AUCHTERMUCHTY.

  

Then Tibby took him by the hand,

(Was new come frae the heckill) ;
“ Alas !” quoth she, “ what sall I do?

And our door has nae steckle -
And she to gae as her tail brynt,

And all the carles to keckle

At her,
Of Peebles to the play.

The piper said, “ Now I begin
‘To tire for playing to [you];
But yet I have gotten nathing,
Vor all my piping to you:
Three happennies for half a day,
And that will not undo you:
An if ye will gie me right nought,
The mickle devil gang wi? you!”
Quoth he,
Of Peebles to the play.

By that, the dancing was all done,
Their leave took less and mair,
When the winklots and the wooers twin’d,!
To see it was heart-sair :
Wat Atken said to fair Alice,
““ My bird, now will I fare :”
The devil a word that she might speak,
But swoonit that sweet of swair
For kindness,
Of Peebles to the play.

He fipplit like ane featherless fowl,

And [said], “ Be still, my sweet thing ;
By the haly rude of Peebles,

I may not rest for greeting !”
He whistlit and he pipit baith,

To mak her blyth that meeting:
““ My bonny heart, how says the sang?

* There sall be mirth at our meeting,

ay Gis?
Of Peebles to the play.

By that the sun was setting fast,
And near done was the day ;

There men might hear shukin of chafts,
When that they went their way.

Iiad there been mair made of this sang,
Mair sould I to you say,

At Beltan, when ilk bodie bounes
To Peebles to the play.

RADIO

THE WIFE OF AUCHTERMUCHTY.

[This humorous poem appears in the manuscript collection
made by George Bannatyne in 1568, and is supposed to be the
composition of a Sir John Moffat, a priest (one of the Pope’s
knights), who lived early in the sixteenth century, and was the
author of a fine serious poem, beginning, ‘‘ Brother, be wise, I
rede you now,” which has been printed in Lord Hailes’s Collec-
tion. The Wife of Auchtermuchty was first published by Allan
Ramsay in his Evergreen, with some alterations and additions by
the editor; and this version has often been reprinted. The pre-
sent copy is from the Bannatyne Manuscript, modernised only as
respects spelling. Though nothing could be more characteristic
of Scottish rural life than all the circumstances introduced into
the poem, Mr David Laing states that the story is not original,
as a tale strongly resembling it in incident and turn of humour
occurs in ‘‘ Silva Sermonum Jucundissimorum,” Basil, 1568, into
which, in all probability, it was copied from some earlier collec-
tion of fableaux. ]

In Auchtermuchty there dwelt ane man,
Ane husband, as I heard it tauld,

Wha weel could tipple out a can,

And neither lovit hunger nor cauld.
While ance it fell upona day,

He yokit his pleugh upon the plain,

Gif it be true as I heard say,

The day was foul for wind and rain.

1 When the girls and lads parted.

 

He lousit the pleugh at the land’s end
Aud drave his oxen hame at even;
‘When he cam in, he lookit ben,1

And saw the wife baith dry and clean;
Sittand at ane fire, full biek and bauld,
W ith ane fat soup, as I heard say ;
The man beand very wet and cauld

= 3
Between thae twa it was nae play.

Quoth he, “ Where is my horses’ corn?
My ox has neither hay nor strae:
Dame, ye maun to the pleugh the morn,
I sall be hussy,2 gif I may.”

&6< ‘hang?

: Husband, quoth she, “ content am I
To tak the pleugh my day about,

Sae ye will rule baith ealves and kye,
And all the house baith in and out:

But sin’ that ye will hussyskep ken,3
First ye sall sift and syne sall knead ;
And aye as ye gang but and ben,4

Look that the bairns [fyle] not the bed.
Ye’se lay ane soft wisp® to the kiln,
(We have ane dear farm on our head),
And aye as ye gang furth and in,

Keep weel the gaislings frae the gled.” 6

The wife was up richt late at e’en,

(I pray God give her ill to fare!

She kirn’d the kirn, and skimm/’d it clean,
And left the gudeman but bleddoch7 bare.
Then in the morning up she gat,

And on her heart laid her disjune ;8

She put as miekle in her lap,

As micht hae served them baith at noon.

Says Jock, “ Will thou be master of wark?
And thou sall had and I sall call,

I’se promise thee ane gude new sark,
Aither of round claith or of small.”

She lowsit oxen aucht or nine,

And hynt®9 ane gad-staff in her hand ;
And the gudeman raise after-syne,

And saw the wife had done command ;

And ca’d the gaislings furth to feed,
There was but sevensome of them a’ :
And by there comes the greedy gled,
And lickit up five, left him but twa:
Then out he ran in all his mane,10

How soon he heard the gaislings ery $
But than, or he cam in again,

The calves brak lowse and sookit the kye.

The calves and kye, beand met in the loan,U
The man ran with ane rung!2 to redd,]3
Then by there comes ane ill-willy cow,

And brodit his buttock while that it bled.
Then hame he ran to ane rock of tow,

And he sat down to seyl4 the spinning ;

I trow he lootit ower near the low,!5

Quoth he, “ This wark has ane ill beginning.”

Then to the kirn that he did stour,16
And jummilt at it while he swat;
When he had jummilt a full lang hour,
‘he sorrow crap of butter he gat.
Albeit nae butter he could get,
Yet he was cummerit with the kirn,
And syne he het the milk ower het,
And sorrow a spark of it wad yirn.17

' Looked into the inner apartment. 2 Housewife.

3 Housewifeship know. “4 Go from one apartment to another.

5 Handful of straw. § Keep well the goslings from the hawk.

7 Butter-milk. 8 Breakfast. ® Took.

10 Making a great lamentation.

11 The place near a Scottish farm-house where the cows are
usually miiked.

12 Cudgel. 13 Separate. 4 Try.

15 Stooped too near the flame of the fire. 6 Steered.

17 Coagulate.

  

  
 
 
  
  
    
  
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
 
 
    
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
 
  
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
   
 
  
  
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
 
 
 
 
 

OSPR NT ies eda Shoe eke or an eae8 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Then ben there cam ane greedy sow,

I trow he eunn’d her little thank,}

For in she shot her greedy mou’,

And aye she winkit and aye she drank.
He cleikit up ane crookit club,

And thought to hit the sow ane rout,
The twa gaislings the gled had left,
That strake dang baith their harns out.2

He gat his foot upon the spire,

To have gotten the flesh down to the pat ;
He fell backward into the fire,

And brak his head on the kaming stock ;
Yet he gat the mickle pat on the fire,
And gat twa cans and ran to the spout,
Ere he cam in, what thought ye of it ?
The fire burnt a’ the [bottom] out.3

Then he bore kindling to the kiln,

But she stert up all in ane low:

Whatever he heard, whatever he saw,
That day he had nae will to mow.

Then he gaed to tak up the bairns,
Thought to have fund them fair and clean,
The first that he gat in his arms,

Was all bedirten to the een.

The first that he gat in his arms,

It was all dirt up to the een;

“The devil cut aff their hand,” quoth he,

“ That fill’d ye all sae fou yestreen |”

He trail’d the foul sheets down the gait,
Thought to have wash’d them on ane stane ;
The burn was risen great of spate,4

Away frae him the sheets has ta’en.

‘Then up he gat on ane knowe-head,5

On her to ery, on her to shout ;

She heard him, and she heard him not,
But stoutly steer’d the stots about.

She drave the day unto the night,

She lowsit the pleugh, and syne cam hame ;
She fand all wrang that sould been right ;

I trow the man thought right great shame.

Quoth he, “ My office I forsake,

For all the dayis of my life,

For I wald put ane house to wrack,

Had I been twenty days gudewife.”

Quoth she, “ Weel mot ye brook your place,7
For truly I will never accep’ it ;”

Quoth he, “ Fiend fall the liar’s face,

But yet ye may be blythe to get it.”

Then up she gat ane muckle rung,

And the gudeman made to the door:
Quoth he, “ Dame, I sall hald my tongue,
Jor an we fecht, I’ll get the waur.”
Quoth he, “ When I forsook my pleugh,
I trow, I but forsook mysel’ ;

And I will to my pleugh again,

For I and this house will never do well.”

RAR Onn

POLEMO-MIDDINIA
INTER VITARVAM ET NEBERNAM.

[This is almost the sole humorous or familiar composition of the
celebrated William Drummond, whose poetry in general is highly
sentimental, and much of it solemn and sorrowful, but whose
conversation is said to have been fullof wit and drollery, and the
fascination of all who were admitted to it. Drummond was born
in 1585, and died in 1649. The present poem was written solely
for the amusement of his immediate friends. It describes a
quarrel, probably of real occurrence, between two honourable

 

 

1 Gave her small thanks.
2 IXnocked out the brains of both the remaining goslings.

3 This verse, which is manifestly by an inferior and later hand,
does not occur in the original copy.

4 The stream was greatly swelled with rains.
5 The top of a knoll or eminence.
7 Well may you enjoy your place.

6 Oxen.

 

ladies of the county of Fife, Viterva and Neberna; that is to say,
Lady Scott of Scotstarvet, or, by the courtesy of Scotland, Lady
Scotstarvet (the poet’s own sister), and the wife of the Laird of
Newbarns, ordinarily called Lady Newbarns. The composition is
mainly in the Scottish language, but mixed with Latin, and
thrown into the heroic form of hexameters. Though here and
there somewhat coarse, the poem is full of broad characteristic
painting, and, as a whole, displays a humour nowhere surpassed.
It was first published at Oxford, in 1691, by Bishop Gibson, who
prefixed to it a learned dissertation on macaronic poetry. In the
present copy, a few lines are omitted. ]

Nymphee, quee colitis highissima monta Fifea,
Seu vos Pittenwema tenent, seu Crelia crofta,
Sive Anstrea domus, ubi nat haddocus in undis,
Codlineusque ingens, et fleucca et sketta pererrant
Per costam, et scopulis Lobster manifootus in udis
Creepat, et in mediis ludit Whitenius undis:
Et vos Skipperii, soliti qui per mare breddum
Valde procul lanchare foris, iterumque redire.
Linquite skellatas botas, shippasque picatas,
Whistlantesque simul fechtam memorate bloodzeam,
Fechtam terribilem, quam marvellaverat omnis
Banda Detim, quoque Nympharum Cockelshelearum,
Maia ubi sheepifeda, et solgoosifera Bassa
Swellant in pelago, cum Sol bootatus Kdenuwm
Postabat radiis madidis et shouribus atris,

* * %* * %
Quo viso ad fechtze noisam cecidere volucres,
Ad terram, cecidere grues, plish plashque dedere
Solgoose in pelago prope littora Bruntiliana;
Seasutor obstupuit, summique in margine saxi
Seartavit preclustre capa, wingasque flapavit. .

Namque 4 principio storiam tellabimus omnem.
Muckreilium ingentem turbam Vifarva per agros
Neberne marchare fecit, et dixit ad illos:

“ Ite hodie, armati greppis, drivate caballos
Neberne per crofta, atque ipsas ante fenestras.
Quod si forte ipsa Neberna venerit extra
Warrantabo omnes, et vos bene defendebo.”

Hic aderant Geordy Akinhedius, et little Johnus,

Kt Jamy Richeus, et stout Michel flendersonus,

Qui jolly tryppas ante alios dansare solebat,

Et bobbare bene, et lassas kissare bonzeas ;

Duncan Olyphantus valde stalvartus, et ejus

Filius eldestus jolyboyus, atque Oldmoudus,

Qui pleugham lango gaddo drivare solebat ;

Kt Rob Gib wantonus homo, atque Oliver Hutchin,

Et ploucky-faced Waty Strang, atque inkneed Alshender
Atkin,

Kt Willy Dick, heavy-arstus homo, pigerrimus omnium,

Qui tulit in pileo magnum rubrumque favorem,

Valde lethus pugnare, sed hune Corngrevius heros

Nout-headum vocavit, atque illum forcit ad arma.

Insuper hie aderant Tom Taylor, et Henry Watsonus,

Et Tomy Gilchristus, et fool Jocky Robinsonus,

Andrew Alshenderus, et Jamy Thomsonus, et unus

Norland-bornus homo valdé valdé Anticovenanter,

Nomine Gordonus, valdé blackmoudus, et alter

(Deil stick it, ignoro nomen) slavry-beardius homo,

Qui pottas dichtavit, et assas jecerat extra.

Denique pre reliquis Geordeum affatur, et inquit:
“ Geordy mi formanne, inter stoutissimus omnes,
Hue ades, et crooksaddelos, hemmasque, creilesque,
Brechemmesque simul omnes bindato jumentis,
Amblentemque meum naggum, fattumque mariti
Cursorem, et reliquos trottantes sumito averos,

In cartis yokkato omnes, extrahito muckam
Crofta per et riggas, atque ipsas ante fenestras
Neberne”’ * a * * *

Nee mora, formannus cunctos flankavit averos,
Workmannosque ad workam omnes vocavit, et illi
Extemplo cartas bene fillavere gigantes ;
Whistlavere viri, workhorsosque ordine suieros
Drivavere foris, = * *

. z “et sie turba horrida mustrat,
Haud aliter quam si cum multis Spinola troupis
Proydus ad Ostendam marchasset fortiter urbem.
Interea ante alios Dux piper Laius heros

Sort +e a ICs msec}

e

»

\

THE PIPER OF

Preecedens, magnamque gerens cum. burdine pypam
Incipit Har/ai cunctis sonare batellum.

Tune Nederna furens yettam ipsa egressa, vidensque
Muck-cartas transire viam, valdé angria facta
Non tulit affrontam tantam ; vertim, agmine facto,
Convocat extemplo barrowmannos atque ladeos,
Jackmannumque, hiermannos, pleughdrivsters atque

pleughmannos,

Tumlantesque simul reekoso ex kitchine boyos,
Hune qui dirtiferas tersit cum dishclouty dishas,
Hune qui gruelias scivit bene lickere plettas,
Et saltpannifumos, et widebricatos fisheros,
Hellzeosque etiam salteros duxit ab antris,
Coalheughos nigri girnantes more Divelli;*
Lifeguardamque sibi seevas voeat improba lassas ;
Maggeam magis doctam milkare cowzeas,
Et doctam suepare fleuras, et sternere beddas,
Quzeque novit spinnare, et longas ducere threddas;
Nansewam, claves bene que keepaverat omnes,
Yellantemque Hellen, lango-berdamque Anapellam,
Clamantemque simul Gyllam, gleidamque Katwam
Egregié indutam blacko caput suty clouto ;
Mammeamque simul vetulam, quie sciverat apte
Ir,fantum teneras blandé oscularier arsas;
Queeque lanam cardare solet greasy-fingria Betty.

Tum demum hungrzeos ventres Nederna gruelis

'\Farsit, et guttas rawsuinibus implet amaris ;

Postea neubarmee ingentem dedit omnibus haustum.
S‘aggravere omnes, grandesque ad sidera riftas
Earmifumi attollunt, et sic ad preelia marchant.

Nec mora, marchavit foris longo ordine turma,

I) sa prior Neberna suis stout-facta ribaldis,
 usteeum manibus gestans furibunda guleeum.

7 andem muckreilios voeat ad pell-mellia fleidos,

Ite, (ait) ugleei fellows, si quis modo posthac
Muckifer has nostras tentet crossare fenestras,
Juro quod ego ejus longum extrahabo thrapellum,
Et totam rivabo faciem, luggasque gulzeo hoe
Ex capite cuttabo ferox, totumque videbo
Heartbloudum fluere in terram.” Sic verba finivit.

Obstupuit Vitarva diu dirtfleida, sed inde
Couragium accipiens, muckreileis ordine cunctos
Middini in medio faciem turnare coégit.

O qualem primo fieuram gustasses in ipso
Battelli onsetto ! pugnat muckreilius heros
Fortiter, et muckam per posteriora cadentem
In creilibus shoolare ardet. Sic dirta volavit.

O quale hoc hurly-burly fuit! si forte vidisses
Pipantes arsas, et flavo sanguine breikos
Droppantes, hominumque heartas ad preelia faintas.

O qualis fery fairy fuit! namque alteri nemo
Ne vel foot—breddum yarde yeildare volebat ;
Stout erat ambo quidem, valdéque hardhearta caterva.

Tum vero é medio Muckdrivster prosilit unus
Gallantzeus homo, et greppam minatur in ipsam

| Nebernam (quoniam miseré scaldaverat omnes),

Dirtavitque totam petticotam gutture thicko,

Perlineasque ejus skirtas, silkamque gownzeam,

Vasquineamque rubram mucksherda begariavit.

Et tunc ille fuit valdé faintheartus, et ivit

Valdé procul, metuens shottam woundumque profun-
dum.

Sed nec valdé procul fuerat revengia in illum.

Extemplé Gillea ferox invadit, et ejus

In faciam girnavit atrox, et Tigrida facta, _

Boublentemque gripans berdam, sic dixit ad illum:

“ Vade domum, filtheee, nequam te interficiabo.”

Tune cum gerculeo magnum fecit Gi//y whippum,

Ingentemque manu sherdam levavit, et omnem

Gallantzei hominis gashbeardam besmereavit ; _

* Sume tibi hoc,” inquit, sneesing valdé operativum,

« Pro praemio swingere tuo ;” tum denique fleido

Ingentem Gilly Wamphra dedit validamque nevellam,

Ingeminatque iterum, donec bis fecerit ignem

Ambobus fugere ex oculis: sie Gyl/a triumphat |

Obstupuit bombaizdus homo, backumque repente

Turnavit veluti nasus bloodasset ; et “ O God i

Ter quater exclamat, et 6 quam seepe neezavit !

Desjuniumque omne eyomuit valde hungrius homo,

 

KILBARCHAN.

Lausavitque supra, atque infra, mirabile visu,
re luggas necko imponens, sic cucurrit absens,
Non audens gimpare iterum, ne worsa tulisset
Ene Neberna videns yellavit turpia verba,
Et ey ty? exelamat, prope mune victoria lossa est.
* *
Tum verd quakdrunt hostes, flightamque repenté
Sumpserunt ; retrospexit Jackmannus, et ipse
Sheepheadus metuit sonitumque ictumque buleti.
Quod si King Spanius, Philippus nomine septem
Hisce consimiles habuisset forté canones
Batterare Sluissam, Sluissam dingasset in
Aut si tot magnus Ludovicus forte dedisset
Ingentes fartas ad moenia Montalbana,
ae continuo townam dingasset in yerdam.
iG se COME Ree wracco omnia tendere videns,
4 Onsliumque Meum si non accipitis,”’ inquit,
Pulchras scartabo facies, et vos worriabo.”’
Sed nedlo per seustram broddatus, inque privatas
Partes stabbatus, greitans, lookansque grivate
Barlaphumle clamat, et dixit, “O Deus! O God!”
Quid multis? Sie fraya fuit, sic guisa peracta est
Una nec interea spillata est droppa cruoris. :

assam.

AEROn nnn

THE PIPER OF KILBARCHAN.

[This poem, which first appeared in Watson’s Collection of
Scottish Poems, 1706, is believed to have been written by Robert
Sempill, of Beltrees in Renfrewshire, father of a Francis Sempill,
who wrote seyeral clever songs in his native dialect, particularly
that of Maggy Lauder. Robert Sempill flourished about the
middle of the seventeenth century. He here bewails, in mock
verse, the death of the village piper, a public character of some
importance in a former age, and often an oddity as wellas a musi-
cian. Kilbarchan is in Renfrewshire: on the front of the parish
school-house, a bust of this famed piper was erected a few
years ago, testifying to the local sense of the celebrity which the
man and the poem together have acquired for the village. The
poem is in a literary sense curious, as one of the earliest known
examples of a form of verse which Ramsay, Fergusson, and Burns
afterwards largely practised, and which may be considered as
peculiar to the Scottish muse, Wordsworth alone, we believe, of
all English poets, having ever attempted it, and that but once,
when his subject was intensely Scottish, being an address to the
sons of Robert Burns. }

Kailbarchan now may say, Alas!
For she hath lost her game and grace,
Both Trixie and the Maiden trace:1
But what remead ?
For no man can supply his place—
Hab Simson’s dead!
Now who shall play, The day it daws ?
Or, Hunt up? when the cock he craws?
Or who can for our kirk-town cause
Stand us in stead ?
On bagpipes (now) no body blaws,
Sin Habbie’s dead.
Or wha will cause our shearers shear ?
Wha will bend up the brags of weir,
Bring in the bells or good play meir,
In time of need?
Hab Simson could—what needs you speer ?
But (now) he’s dead !
So kindly to his neighbours niest,
At Beltan and Saint Barchan’s feast,
He blew, and then held up his breast
As he were weid ;
But now we need not him arrest,
For Habbie’s dead!
At fairs he play’d before the spearmen,
All gaily graithed in their gear-men :
Steel bonnets, jacks, and swords so clear then,
Like any bead.
Now wha shall play before such weir-men,
Sin Habbie’s dead ?

1 Probably names of tunes played by the piper.
2 The day it daws and Hunt up, are obyiously names of tunes
played by Habbie.et
a I Ee

 

10 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

At Clark-plays, when he wont to come,
His pipe play’d trimly to the drum,
Like bikes of bees he gart it bum,

And tuned his reed.
Now all our pipers may sing dumb

Sin Habbie’s dead!

And at horse races many a day,

Before the black, the brown, the grey,

He gart his pipe, when he did play,
Baith skirl and skreed.

Now all such pastime’s quite away,
Sin Habbie’s dead!

He counted was a waled wight man,

And fiercely at foot-ba’ he ran ;

At every game the gree he wan,
For pith and speed.

The like of Habbie wasna than ;
But now he’s dead!

And then, besides his valiant acis,

At bridals he wan many placks,

He bobbed aye behind folk’s backs,
And shook his head.

Now we want many merry cracks,
Sin Habbie’s dead!

He was convoyer of the bride,

With kittock hinging at his side ;

About the kirk he thought a pride
The ring to lead.

But now we may gae but a guide;

For Habbie’s dead.

Sae weel’s he keeped his decorum,

And all the stots of Whig-meg-morum ;

He slew a man, and waes me for him,
And bare the feid ;

But yet the man wan hame before him,
And was not dead.

Aye whan he play’d, the lasses leugh,

To see him teethless, auld, and teugh.

THe wan his pipes beside Barcleugh,
Withouten dread ;

Which after wan him gear enough:
But now he’s dead!

Aye whan he play’d the gaitlings gather’d,

And whan he spake, the carl blether’d.

On Sabbath days, his cap was feather’d,
A seemly weid.

In the kirk-yard his mare stood tether’d
Whare he lies dead!

Alas! for him my heart is sair,

For of his springs I gat a skair,

At every play, race, feast, and fair,
But guile or greed.

We need not look for piping mair,
Sin Habbie’s dead!

r

LAr

THE FARMER'S HA’.

Thus jocund fleets with them the winter’s night.
THOMSON.

[This poem, written by a gentleman named Dr Charles Keith,
apparently about the year 1774, describes very faithfully the
evening occurrences and gossip of a Scottish farm-house of that
age. The loquacious tailor, the garrulous kind-hearted old good-
wife, the mirthful jeering maidens, the wheedling pedlar, the
overbearing insulting gauger, ‘‘ dressed in a little brief authority,”
the whining beggars, and the sagacious head-hireman, are all
faithfully painted. ]

In winter nights, whae’er has seen

The farmer’s canty ha’ convene,

Finds a’ thing there to please his een,
And heart enamour,

Nor langs to see the town, I ween,
That houff o’? clamour.

 

Whan stately stacks are tightly theekit,

And the wide style is fairly steekit,

Nae birkie, sure, save he war streekit
For his lang hame,

But wad gie mair for ae short week o’t
Than I can name.

The lasses aye the gloamin hail,

For syne the lads come frae the flail,

Or else frae haddin the plough-tail,
That halesome wark ;

Disease about they dinna trail,
Like city spark.

They a drive to the ingle cheek,

Regardless 0’ a flan o’ reek,

And weel their meikle fingers beek,
To gie them tune ;

Syne sutor’s alson nimbly streek,
To mend their shoon.

They pw’ and rax the lingle tails,

Into their brogues they ca’ the nails ;

Wi’ hammers now, instead o’ flails,
They mak great rackets,

And set about their heels wi’ rails
O’ clinkin tackets.

And aye till this misthriven age,

The gudeman here sat like a sage 5

Wi mull in hand, and wise adage,
He spent the mght:

But now he sits in chamber’s cage,
A pridefw’ wight.

The lasses wi’ their unshod heels,

Are sittin at their spinnin-wheels,

And weel ilk blythsome kemper dreels,
And bows like wand ;

The auld gudewife the pirney reels,
W? tenty hand.

The carlin, aye for spinnin’ bent,

Tells them right aft, they’ve fa’en ahent,

And that the day is e’en far spent ;
Reminds ilk hussy,

And cries, * Ye’ll no mak out your stent,
Save ye be busy.”

Tib braks, wi’ haste, her foot-brod latch ;
Meg lights the crusy wi’ a match ;
Auld luckie bids her mak dispateh,
And girdle heat,
For she maun yet put out a batch
O’ bere and ait.

There’s less wark for the girdle now,

Nor was in days of yore, | trow ;

Gude scouder’d bannocks hae nae gow’
To husbandmen ;

For oven wheat-bread dits ilk mow
That stays the ben’.

The young gudewife and bairnies a’

Right seenle now look near the ha’,

For fear their underlins sould shaw
A cauld neglect :

But pride was never kenn’d to draw
Luve or respect.

The tailor lad, lang famed for fleas,
Sits here and maks and mends the claes 5
And vow the swankies like to tease
Him wv their mocks ;
The women cry, “ He’s ill to please,”
And erack their jokes.

But he’s a slee and cunnin loun,

And taunts again ilk jeerin clown ;

For, tho’ no bred in borrows town,
He’s wondrous gabby,

And fouth 0’ wit comes frae his crown,
Tho’ he be shabby.

/ Auld-farrant tales he skreeds awa’,
And ¢a’s their lear but clippings a’,

a * si i ee i
ole ee eS = 3 . asee 3

THE FARMER’S HA’. 11

And bids them gang to Thimlle-ha’,
WY’ needle speed,

And there learn wit without a flaw,
Frae the board head.

Auld luckie says they’re in a creel,

And redds them up, I trow, fu’ weel,

Cries, “ Lasses, occupy your wheel,
And strait the pin ;”

And bids the tailor haste and dreel
Wi? little din.

Quo’ she, “ Ye’ve meikle need to sew:

Oh ! times are sairly alter’d now!

For twopence was the wage, I trow,
To ony Scot ;

But now-a-days ye crook your mou’,
To seek a groat.”

The colly dog lies 7 the nook,
The place whilk auld brown birkie took,
And aft toward the door does look,
With aspect crouse;
For unco’ folk he canna brook
Within the house.

Tiere baudrons sits, and cocks her head,
And smoothes her coat 0’ nature’s weed,
And purrs contentedly indeed,

And looks fw’ lang,
To see gin folk be takin heed

To her braw sang.

The auld gudewife, wha kens her best,
Behalds her wash her face and breast ;
Syne honest luckie does protest
That rain we’ll hae,
Or on-ding o’ some kind at least,
Afore’t be day.
To her remarks lists ilka lass,
And what she says aft comes to pass,
Altho’ she has nae chemic mass
To weigh the air ;
For pussy’s grannum’s weather-glass
I do declare.
Nae sooner has auld luckie done,
Nor Meg cries she’ll wad baith her shoon,
That we sall hae weet very soon,
And weather rough ;
For she saw round about the moon
A miekle brough.

Aft times the canty lilt gaes round,
And ilka face wi mirth is crown’d ;
And whiles they sing in safter sound—
Sic as the swain
Of Yarrow, or some lover drown’d
In ruthless main.

Oh! royal tales gae brawly on,
And feats of folk that’s dead and gone;
‘he windy piper sounds his drone,
As weel he can;
And aft they speak o’ their Mess John,
That haly man.

They banish hence a’ care and dool,
For they were bred at mirthfu’ school ;
They count how lang it is to Yule,

Wi’ pleasure vast ;
And tell wha’ sat the cutty stool

On Sabbath last.

The chapman lad, wi’ gab sae free,
Comes in and mixes 1’ the glee,
fter he’s trampet out the.e’e
O’ mony dub,
And gotten frae the blast to dree
A hearty drub.
He says he did Auld Reekie ca’,
To bring them things to mak them braw,
And got them free o’ crack and flaw,
And patterns rare:

 

ne

The proverb says, “ Fowls far awa’?
Hae feathers fair.”
He tells them he’s weel sorted now
Of a’ thing gude, and cheap, and new;
His sleekit speeches pass for true
With ane and a’;
The pedlars ken fu’ weel the cue
QO’ Farmer’s Ha’.
He hauds his trinkets to the light,
And speirs what they’re to buy the night;
Syne a’ the lasses loup bawk height
~ WY perfect joy,
Cause lads for them coff broach sae bright,
Or shining toy.

ee

wR

They finger at the trantlims lang ; |

3ut whan they’re bargaining right thrang, '

In does the gauger quickly bang,
WY visage awfu’,

In quest o’ some forbidden fang,
Or goods unlawfu’.

He says, his information’s close,

And bids them therefore no be cross,

Or else they’ll find it to their loss,
And skaith na sma’,

For he’ll their doors to flinders toss,
And stand the law.

Ben the gudeman comes wi’ a spang,

And says, “ Ye’re short to be sae lang,

But think nae, billy, ye’re to dwang
Folk wi’ a sham ;

For save ye shaw your warrant, gang
The gate ye cam.”

Wi’ birr he bangs his paper out,

And thinks his point ayont a doubt,

To ilka hirn he taks his route
(For he’s na fey),

And gangs just stavering about
In quest 0’ prey.

After he’s raised a needless reek,

Syne he begins to grow mair meek,

Tor he meets wi’ a great begeek
Frae empty binks,

Sae wi’ his finger in his cheek,
Awa’ he slinks.

The gauger’s scarcely frae the door
Whan beggars they come in gelore,
Wy wallops fiappin in great store,
Raised up in cairns,
And birns baith ahint and ’fore
O’ greetin bairns.
The auld anes raise a whingein tone,
And sigh and sob, and ery Ohon!
Syne blessings come wi’ mony drone,
Frae man and wife,
Wha to their childer seek a scone,
To succour life.

Quo’ they, “ We’re trachled unco sair,
We’ve gane twal mile o’ yerd and mair,
The gait was ill, our feet were bare,
The night is weety ;
And gin ye quarters hae to spare,
Oh, shaw your pity !”

The lasses yamour frae their wheel,

“ 'There’s mony a sturdy gangrel chiel

That might be winnin’ meat fu’ weel,
And claes an’ a’ ;

Ye’re just fit to mak muck o’ meal,
Sae swith awa’.”

Auld luckie eries, “ Ye’re ower ill set,

As ye’d hae measure, ye sould met;

Ye ken na what may be your fate
In after days—

The black cow hasna trampit yet
Upon your taes,ot )

4 4
ay
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‘4h

p
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OE

PP Ee

 

cg PE EY

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POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Gie ower your daft and taunting play,
For you and they are baith ae clay:
Rob, tak them to the barn, I say,
And gie them strae,
There let them rest till it be day,
And syne they’ll gae.”

Whan John, the head ploughman, comes in,
my i = 3 x
They mak a loud and joyfu’ din,
For ilka heart is raised a pin,
And mair, I trow,
And in a trice they round him rin,
To get what’s new.

Oh, wat ye whare the lad has been,
That they’re sae happy ilka ane?
Nae far aff journey, as I ween,
lor ploy sae rare ;
But, reader, ye shall ken bedeen
The hale affair.

As he was working lang and strang,
And fallowin wi’ pith and bang,
The couter o’ the pleugh gaed wrang
(A? thing maun wear) ;
Syne he did to the smithy gang,
To mend the gear.

This is the houff of ane and a’,

And mony ane does even draw,

Altho’ they hae but errand sma’
To tak them there ;

Some gang to hear, and some to shaw
Their rustic lear.

They tell news here of a’ kin’ kind,

In pithy words as e’er were coin’d,

Sic as beseem the untaught mind,
And nature plain—

Sie as the heart will sooner find,
Than speeches vain.

0’ John’s return spak ilka nook,

They aft gaed to the door to look ;

For they were on the tenter-hook,
For smithy chat;

And now, I trow, like printed book,
He gies them that.

He thus begins : “ What’s this ava’ ?

There’s sad wark in America,

For folk there dinna keep the law,
And wad be free,

Nor o’ King George stand ony awe,
Nor taxes gie.

They say we’re listing heaps indeed,

And shipping them awa’ wi’ speed,

And vow I fear there’s mickle need ;
By what I hear,

The rebels hae made unco’ head
Within this year.

The smith thinks they hae play’d a trick,
Sin we o’ time did miss the nick ;
But now, let us our winning lick
(He eried in pet),
And said, Folk sould the iron strike,
Aye whan it’s het.

I wish our folk soon hame again,

And no to dander ’yont the main ;

Because I dread the King o’ Spain,
And wily France,

Will seek the thing that’s no their ain,
And lead’s a dance.

I wat o’ cunning they’re no lame,
And they wad think it a braw scheme,
Whan our men’s far awa’ frae hame,
Lischief to ettle ;
At ither times we’d mak them tame,
And cool their mettle.

But Ill hae done wi’ foreign lands,
And mind the thing that’s nearer hand’s ;

 

On Friday next a bridal stands
At the Kirk-town,

The bridegroom gae me great commands
To bring ye down.”

Quo’ Meg and Kate, * We’ll keep the toun,
We’re laying up to buy a gown.”
“ Hoot, fy! (quo’ Jock, that blythsome loon),
Oh, binna thrawin,
T’or Rob and I sall dossy down
Your dinner-lawin.

As bairns blythe wha get the play,
I trow we'll hae a merry day ;
And I’m to be the Alikay
At Kirk-town ha’:
Mind, sirs, put on your best array,
And let’s be braw.

Oh, lasses! ye’s get favowrs fair,
And sweethearts, maybe, ye’ll get there ;
We’ll hae a day o’ dancing rare,
Just in a trice;
But mind, your soles ye maunna spare,
Nor yet be nice.

Gin ye wad thole to hear a friend,

Tak tent, and no wi’ strunts offend ;

I’ve seen queans dink, and neatly prin’d,
Irae tap to middle,

Looking just like the far aff end
O’ an auld fiddle.”

Wow but they a’ tak wondrous tent,

Till Johnnie’s budget is quite spent,

And syne baith ane and a’ are bent
To tell their minds;

Then comes the various comment
Frae honest hinds.

Nature, unhurt by thrawart man,
And na margullied by chicane,
I trow, fu’ doughtily she can
Shaw reason’s power:
Sure fause philosophy began
In hapless hour.

Now the gudeman comes ben the house,
Whilk o’ their gabbin maks a truce,
The lads and lasses a’ grow douse,
And spare their din;
I’or true’s the tale, “ Weel kens the mouse
When pussie’s in!”
And syne he does his orders gie,
And says, “ Ye’ll busy need to be,
The fallowin yon field, I see,
Taks unco force:
But gae awa’ e’now (quo’ he)
And meat the horse.”

While I descrive this happy spot,

The supper maunna be forgot :

Now lasses round the ingle trot,
To mak the brose,

And swankies they link aff the pot,
To hain their joes.

The dishes set on unspread table,
‘lo answer nature’s wants are able:
"Round caps and plates, the cutties sable
Are flung ding dang,
The lads and lasses to enable
Their wames to pang.

They a’ thrang round the lang board now,
Whare there is meat for ilka mow’ ;
Hiiremen their hats and bonnets pw’

Upo’ their face,
But gentle folks think shame to bow,

Or say a grace.
Oh, here are joys uninterrup’,
Far hence is pleasure’s gangrene CUD;
Clear-blooded health tends ilka sup

O’ simple diet ;ee ee

SHE HAR'ST RIG.

But flees awa’ frae keepin’t up,
And midnight riot.

When supper’s ower, and thanks are gien,
Mirth dances round wi’ canty mien ;
In daffin, and in gabbin keen,
An hour they pass;
And ilka lad, wi’ pawky een,
Looks at his lass.

But Morpheus begins to chap,
And bids them a’ gae tak a nap,
And when they’ve sleepit like a tap,
They rise to wark,
Like Phoebus out 0’ Thetis’ lap,
As blythe’s a lark.

LOW

THE HAR’ST RIG.

WRITTEN IN AUTUMN 1786, BY A FARMER IN THE
VICINITY OF EDINBURGH.

The rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal, unfelt, the sultry hours away.
Seasons.

The har’st time is a time o’ thrang,

For which we hae sma’ cause to lang,

For hard sair wark, wi’ mony a bang,
Does aye attend it;

And weather aft does bruckle gang
As we hae kenn’d it.

But wha has pleasure wanting pain?

What tho’ we hae baith wind and rain ?

Let nane tyne heart, nor hand refrain,
But try their mettle,

For good sunshine may come again,
Aind weather settle.

In month o’ har’st, when corns do fill,

And ripen fast, let nane sit still,

But try their strength, and show their will,
In being handy—

Let Lowland John then match his skill
Wi Highland Sandie.

Let cottar wives hae washings ended,

Their houses clean’d, and claes weel mended,

And a’ their ither wark suspended,
When har’st begins,

For ilka wife maun now attend it
That cards or spins.

For now the farmer views his corn,

To see what’s fittest to be shorn,

For yellow fields do now adorn,
The country side ;

And har’st may e’en begin the morn,
It winna bide.

But a’ the servants downa bear

That har’st should be sae very near;

They ken the wark, and sair they fear,
Tt gars them quake :

And aye they tell, that “a green shear
Is an ill shake.”

But now the master gies nae heed
To their auld sayings, wise indeed,
But answers them wi’ pith and speed—
“The proverb says,
That scaith and danger baith proceed
Aye from delays.”

And straught he bids them a’ turn out,
Baith auld and young, baith frail and stout ;
But ere they hae begun to lout,

In comes a bang
0’ Highlanders, a fendy rout,

Baith yawl and strang.

 

13

O’ these some frae Lochaber come,

Lang thretty miles ayont Tyndrum ;

And some frae Mull; and ither some
Frae wild Locheil,

Whare mountain goats and roebucks roam,
And Camerons dwell,

Frae Keppoch’s and Glengarry’s lands

There comes a power 0’ special hands ;

Or eastward thence, whare Carie stands
By Rannoch Loch,

Comes Struan’s clan, and numerous bands
Frae Badenoch.

Oh ! much behauden the Lowdons are
To this supply 0’ reapers rare,
Without their aid ill wad we fare

In time 0’ need ;
Industrious folk beyond compare

In har’st indeed!

They now speer gin the fam’ly’s weel,

And “ fu gaes a’,” most kind atweel ;

That they shore here, they no conceal,
This time fernyear ;1

Then Duncan brags how meikle meal
She’s eaten here.

They vow they’ll work as weel’s they can,
And tak sic wages as are gaun,
For weel do they loe the gudeman;
For now they tell
That his clan cam frae the same clan
They cam theirsel.

And then they vow they’ll never steer

Sae lang’s he has a cut to shear,

But bide wi’ him till fields are clear ;
But—wait a wee

Till ance some windy days appear,
And then ye’ll see!

And forthwith then they a’ down clank

Upon the green, and rank by rank

Tak what’s to gie ; for which they thank,
And mak nae fyke,

For some 0’ them are e’en right lank,
And hungry-like.

This being done, they straughtway gang

Into the barn, which they’ve kent lang,

And there they sing a Highland sang,
And dance awa’;

The fiddler gies his strings a twang,
Which pleases a’,

Upon the morn the master looks

To see gin a’ his folk hae hooks;

For now sair wark amang the stooks
Is biding them ;

Whae’er he be frae this that jouks,
Is sair to blame.

The hamelan’ servants tak the lead ;
The cottars niest come on wi’ speed ;
And niest to them the Embrugh breed,
A randy race
Of ill-tongued limmers, that exceed
In want 0’ grace.

To spur them on, and haud them gaun,
Behind is placed the Highland clan,
Led on by Malcolm, honest man,
Wha talks his snish,
And cries, when they a-clatterin stan’
Curish, curish! 2

When they hae a’ their places taen,
The master gangs frae ane to ane,

1 The preceding year.

2 A Gaelic phrase, which signifies ‘* Make haste, make haste!”
It is sometimes pronounced like the French word courez, and
has frequently the same import, namely, ‘‘run, run.” It is
spelt above from the ear only, as are other Gaelic phrases
which follow.

4
r
$
§
#
s
bg
a
i
insi gaa ake ae

 

4 14

And redes them to “ shear Jaigh and clean,
For corn is dear,
And fodder’s seant, as will be seen

Bue ae | Throughout the year.”

ea ~

z Lg IE BE

And then he bids them eident be,
And no like drones work sluggardly,
For he nae wages has to gie

To idle folk ;
Which if they be, he’ll let them see
a He disna joke.

te be ae | The ha’-rig rins fu’ fast awa’,

For they’re newfangled, ane and 2’ ;

But Donald thinks, for a’ their blaw,

rhs That he will fend ;

He says, “ Their pride will get a fa’

Ere the week end.”

The next rig redes them to tak care

To cut their fur, and tak their share

Blah oe O’ their nain rig. But ony mair ?
Ge The fient ae stime!

eae ** For folk aye wondrous honest are

In the har’st time.” 1

And now some learner tries to shear,

‘ But comes right little speed, I fear ;

* The corn lies ill,” and aye we hear
“The sickle’s bad :”

The byword says, “ Ill shearer ne’er
A gude hook had.”

O’ gath’rers next, unruly bands,
Do spread themsels athwart the Jands ;2

LR cat And sair they grien to try their hands

Amang the sheaves ;
But that’s against express commands—
Be For they’re great thieves.
vee For which they’re order’d far behind,
y To mak such singles? as they find ;
Piles ttt But gin the master little mind,
They’ll come again,
And plague him sair, till in the end
They pay the kain.
For they hae come sae aften back,
eis And their auld trade begin—to tak ;

We Bui The master now gies them a thwack

Wi’ his lang staff,
And syne they’re order’d a’ to pack
aan Frae the field aff.

4 But now the parritch comes a-field,
ra Which joy to ilka ane does yield ;
CPi eth For now ilk yap and hungry chield
Biel - Fu’ blythe does look,

ew Cit h Wis lass and coggie in the bield

 

O’ some high stook.

For now the bickers weel they cram

tk Wi’ gude steeve brochin, braw an’ warm,

WY which themselves they daily pang ;
Tis halesome cheer,

And halesome wark it is to gang
A-field and shear.

heh The Embrugh wives can hardly brook

met To tak their breakfast ’side a stook,

We But aye at ane anither look,
As they thought shame ;

Quo’ they, “ It wasna thus we took
Our tea at hame.”

ee wes
Ae aN

vn The Highlanders are no sae blate,

Neg But are fu’ blythe at sight o’ meat ;

Bet Rreirt They a’ their weans around them seat,
And gie’m a share, ©

For weel ken they ’twas but o’ late

| They had to spare.

me eg eS

are oe
Se gS RE ES
Fae SE =
—

1 So honest as not to take even a single stalk of corn from their
neighbour’s rig.
' 2 The lands is that portion of a ficld which a band of reapers
( take along with them at one time.
3 A single isa handful of gleanings bound up by itself.

ae ae

   

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Now when the stented time is past
Which they’re allow’d to break their fast,
The master comes, and calls wi’ haste,
** Come, come awa!
Airoch, airoch!! get up fast—
Fhala, fhala!??2
W? spirit bauld they work, I trow,
And mony a strange tale they tell now
Of ilka thing that’s rare or new,
They never fag ;
Auld proverb says, “ When wames are fw’
The tongues maun wag.”

Yet chiefly they their cracks confine

To things that happen’d lang-sin-syne,

In days when they were in their prime ;
Oh, how they’ll blaw!

“ The sun in these days warm did shine,”
Even that’s awa !

Some carle that’s weel kenn’d to rift,
Declares, when in a blasting tift,
In days o’ yore, how he could lift
Twa bows 0’ bere,
And how he was amaist as swift
As ony deer!

Frae this he tells anither blaw:
““ Some rogues were reeving in the ha’,
When he brak in upon them a’
And catch’d a thief :”
But ere he wists, he gets a fa’
Attour a sheaf.

Some flaring wife now tells how she

Did win a kemp most manfully,

By which she nettled twa or three,
And gar’d them gloom:

A flust’ring stroke now she does gie,
And cuts her thumb.

But nane sae mony braw things says

As does the Chelsea-man, whase phrase

Exceeds them a’, and wins the bays ;
He shows them scars

Which he, in George the Second’s days,
Gat in the wars !

For to his colours he was stanch,
In time o’ battle ne’er did flinch,
But bravely fought in field or trench :
At Fontenoy,
He wi’ Duke William fought the French ;
The brave old boy!
Sometimes he’ll speak o’ Minden plain,
Whare siccan heaps 0’ French were slain ;
For he did bravely mak campaign
W? Ferdinan’,
And there saw Granby glory gain,
That gallant man!

Oh, he has seen great battles won,
And mony a fort and town taen in ;
And aft he’ll tell, if he begin,
How Prussia’s king
Did gar the Austrians scud and rin
Like ony thing.

“ But now,” says he, “ sic fightin’s rare,
Your officers themsels can spare,
Your Keppel naething did but flare,
The Howes and a’:3
Wv Wolfe and Hawk they’ll ne’er compare,
Awa, awa!

But yet,” he owns, “ we’ve some that’s brave—
Auld Rodney bauldly did behave ;
He didna loiter like the lave,
But fought outright,
Till a’ his faes were fain to save
Themsels by flight!

1 Rise, rise! 2 Go away, go away!

3 The gallant admiral of that name, as well as his brother, was

 

long no favourite with the populace.ee

THE HAR’ST RIG.

And there,” says he, “is Elliot too,
Wha gar’d the Spaniard sadly rue
That e’er he cam wi? sie ado

To tak his Fort ;
He sent him fire and flames enow—

It bred braw sport !”

Oh, weel sic tales they like to hear!

And lend to him an itching ear;

And whiles about the king they’ll speer,
Or yet the queen ;

“ Gin e’er he saw them, and how near
To them he’s been?

And whether he was e’er amang

The Niggers wild? or e’er got wrang

Frae bloody Turks?’—for sair they lang
To ken ilk ferlie,

And marvel much nae news does gang
*Bout Popish Charlie!

But something else does now attract

The gen’ral notice and the erack :

They reckon now how mony a stack
This year they’ll be ;

For they suspect they’ll be a lack
O’ twa or three.?

Frae this they tell, as how the rent

O’ sic a room was overstent,

The back-gaun tenant fell ahent,
And couldna stand ;

So he to pigs and whistles went,
And left the land.

And how anither man they saw

Did slip a fit and get a fa’,

And after him a third did draw
To the same side ;

But soon tint heart and ran awa,
And wadna bide.

Again it taks anither turn ;
Some drucken wife wi’ drouth does burn,
And sair does mutter and does mourn
For gude sma’ beer ;
The lave advise her to the burn,
That cauler cheer.

To this at last she’s fain to rin,

But louting doun does tumble in,

By which she gets a good wet skin ;
They, jeering, say,

‘She'll no be on sae dry a pin
Again this day !”

Some wife whase rig now lingering stands,
On her gudeman lays her commands
To gie her help: he understands,
But says wi speed,
“ Gif like your tongue were your twa hands,
Nae help you’d need.
And how some feckless man an’s wife
The tither day had a great strife:
Some loon, as sharp set as a knife,
Was lurking by:
The filthy fallow ran for’s life :
“ Hout-out,” they ery.

At lesser matters now they mint ;

They tell how Maggy lately tint _

Her leathern purse and naething in’t ;
But how that she

Pretends there was ; but then they hint,
She tells a lie.

And how the packman, Rabie Grey,
Beguiled a wife the tither day ;
For he did gar her sweetly pay
For crackit gear ;
But aye since syne he’s tint the way
For her to speer.

*%

1d

Frae this to different ither talk

A quick transition they will mak,

O’ clavers they hae never lack :
For tongues are free,

On the har’st rig, to gab and erack,
Whate’er it be.

The Embrugh wives them a’ exceed
For sad mislear’d ill words indeed -
They never stand to say wi’ speed
Some ill-faur’d name,
And ban !—but either fear or dread

3
Oh shame! oh shame !

Sometimes twa havrel wives cast out,

Wi?’ tongues sae gleg might clip a clout

W? which they mak a mighty rout:
But yet—whase wyte ?

They’re wise that wats. But sair they lout
And sair they flyte!

They bitterly cast up whase kin

Maist feckless are. And ilka sin,

They e’er could do, is now brought in,
To the dispute:

The bandsters rede them cease their din,
But they’ll no do’t.

At length, when they hae wreak’d their wrath
Wi? sad ill words, till out 0’ breath,
They stop at last, but still look Jaith
The threep to yield,
Tho’ ilka ane laughs at them baith
Throughout the field.

This wicked flyte being laid at last,
Some rig now strives for to get past
The ithers, and wi’ flaring haste
To show its strength ;
This sets the lave a-working fast—
They kemp at length.

’Gainst this the master is set sair,

And vows bedeen that he will share

His staff amang them, and no spare
Sic daft fule folk.

When a’ be they but kemp the mair—
He does but joke.

A windy tailor leads the van,
A clean-hough’d nimble little man:
And sair this nettles wabster Tam,
And gars him girn ;
He vows he’ll ne’er rest till he can
Wind hima pirn.
The blasty smith does brook it ill
That he maun stand sae study still ;
For sair it is against his will
To lose the strife,
And a’ for fault o’ pith and skill
O’s glaikit wife.
Yet her tongue c/inks thro’ a’ the field :
She sair misca’s the supple chield,
And aye casts up whate’er’s becn steal’d
By Prick-the-louse ;
But yet, for a’ that, he’ll no yield,
But gabs fu’ crouse.

He says, “ Her manners need a patch

(For this her tongue is an ill swatch),

Her borders ne’er with his will match ;”
And then he jeers,

That he could mak as quick dispatch
Wy his auld shears,

Auld Tamie Speals, the Cowan-wright,
Now strives ’gainst him with a’ his might,
But he is dung clean out o’ sight,
“¢ His edge is gane,”
‘he tailor, jeering, bids him hight,
To grinding-stane.

ow

ics apn as

ri i : art, at that time living, but in :
| a epee ee Then he sie measures does display,
scurity.

a > ; oO ? > tye r
The exop of 1786 was remarkable for scarcity of fodder. And skreeds sic blads 0’ corn away,ee

, 16 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

 

inly gain’d the day The Embrugh wives sai . stook ;
eet That he had fairly gai ’ It were nae aut 5 i
ae an a ince Se But Highlanders ne’er mind a douk,
ta, ae Most manfully about does _— é Por they eeuind esa”?
i i wf, | A tough auld wea + Say they, “ What needs we be afraid?
‘ ; ve He strives ae ee Deg oe eae For ’tis a blout will soon be laid,
Hh i oo ee ee And we may hap us in our plaid,
Pea | That now he had him surely past THE DWE aWer
ist Mt eS a fet ’Tis pity for to break our bread
Henk, we The tailor now clips lang ~~ fast— For a sma? shower.”
aay ky | ara | 9: :
it iH ei atone a ‘ d still But now it rains sae very fast,
Wee ee cab’ | Till now, the master does stan L Still, ' They’re a? obliged to rin at last,
Hi Ka And lets them tak o’ wark their will ; Their claes on hastily they east,
He i But now they shear sae very ill, And SEER aeaeNs
ah Ui oe ee oe ip ij. For now it turns an eident blast,
Bie Ms The bandsters, too, hae tint their mill, Ag evedteane endl
eh i i a And a’ gaes w eee THis ese Ee ee |
Brak iu The master downa langer bear 4g (For them there needs to mak nae manes) i
ae To see sae high and rough a shear ; re, The Embrugh tribe scarce crawl their lanes !
ute i But cries with haste, “ Come, lads, forbear, W?’ houghs laigh crookit :
aN F ie This kemp let be ; For wet’s their claes, and cauld’s —o banes :
TB IB f To let you work this way, I fear They’re sadly droukit! . :
va int ee sane ; Quo’ they, “ We’re murder’d clean aff hand
i a The tailor first does tak the hint, (An fn dbo kitchenai6e they stand),
Lei" a For he’s a remnant fa’n ahint ; & Por die a DIRE MEI
Ly aly The sutor now his ends maun stint, And oh !” quo’ they, a
Walsh I Syne dight his cheeks, “ We're sadly skaith’d and sair we’re wrang’¢
her ot, For a’ this foul wark cam by dint This rainy day !”
iat : hh sins aaa They sair bemane some paitlich gown
Rte They’re a’ right glad the kemp i done, (Some yellow tippet stain’d wi? brown),
tai) {is Ha For they’re forfoughten ilka ane: 3 Which they brought claith-like frae the town ;
HAY Ae At which the master maks nae mane, Bit now atest
i A ) But speaks o Rees 6 By the ingle-side, they clank wee down,
pap Sy The bandsters, too, - Siar ’ For they’re ne’er blate.
t | se wa And now it is na very lang
ve For they’ve been right sad poecn ia Till a’ the Trout-shows,? in a bang,
Ht And kept their place wi’ great ado ; Do come, and to the barn they thrang,
Bi Ge Now kempin folk they dinna loe, Por ahare ia ame:
py Es Bh if They work sae stark, Trito the ha’ hey never oan
ee a “ For naething does,” as they eS For they think shame.
: eb ee ee watle But straught into the barn they hie,
| They a’ declare the vittal’s good, Ae And hang their claes to dreep and dry,
AE ‘ As by their hands they’ve understoo fe d Syne sit them doun a sang to try,
MAL Rede It should d/eed weel, and mak prime foo To pass the time ;
Oy era Frae ’neath the flails ; Up aprineathe dines ae we
ing Oe hard ’t’?as brought the blood p spring - Fe pee
UB The strae’s sae lax ene Wi? them to ¢
iY HI f y a fe i ane man Now danees Neil wi’ einen
aa sy Auld William says (tha . he barn) And comely Kate with her na ei ;
ea The same that wont to thr esh the barn), But Donald Dow bens aff the be
Lh Hy fe ** In troth, atweel, they’re sair to blame, W?’ Flora fair;
| rh a ee M In sprightly dancing they excel
Ba But . Nae gudeI e’er kent come o een Beyond compare.
hit ae crude food fos id Thus do they pass ute ae
aCe as tt To shear sae foul is ill to broo oe te Even every night or rainy ay :
Bagteh h i For better corn ne’er cam ower ak 2 Cold shivering blasts do not dismay
bec Hat I’se warrant they’ll be in ilka stoo c : The Celtic race :
why Four pecks and mair. Their native vigour they display
ey 1 h i Syne he does Rothe Rah aa In every place.
My ti 1 ee But now, while as the shower does last,
Hae Then does auld Highland Malcolm eae ‘Tis no thought proper they should fast ;
hia /_ Jhat they should also ee CEOS, The scodgie lass does rin Wh haste
; hi Ne bi To cut him laigh, for he’d be wae, And bring the kale, :
ae eit To waste good fodders, hs On which they dine and mak repast—
Ta Lie For nowts and horse their foods maun hae Or baps and ale.
pi i oe Nae sooner is the dinner ower,
hii ral Rh But raking clouds now gather fast, Than Highland Malcolm gangs to some,
Pie BM Ae And a’ the /ift does soon penees s leat And see the weather, gin the shower
Wea ae Some ane now cries, “ We'll hae a blast, Bo blawi sae. :
é i at } Hi The skies do lower ; Sae soon’s the sky looks nae mair sour,
Ne bi i Anither says, “ It winna last— He telle them a?
Rag 6 Win b, A flyin shower.
2 He tt Mair scouthry like it still does wey 1 And therefore will not mele. oes
a rn At length comes on in mochy rook, * Trout-show signifies, in Gaelic, “ Se. babl aes being
‘ i i Wt : ression, appropriated solely | though absurd appellation for Highlanders, probably
Beam Biiye | 1 Fallen behind—a metaphorical expression, ¢
t Bea pty ~ to this occasion.

in. general the only Erse understood by the Lowlanders.
a

a> eseTHE HAR’ST RIG.

They ask-now gin the master please,
‘to let them gang and shear the pease ;
For they are laith to lose their fees
By breken days ;
They’re glad, when he permission gies,
To gae their ways.
But sair it grieves the Embrugh breed,
That they maun troop wi’ siccan speed ;
They ery, wi’ haste, “ What is the need
To shear ava ?
It will be soon enough, indeed,
This hour or twa.”
The Highlanders ne’er mind their din,
But fast a-field awa’ do rin,
And there they straughtway do begin
To work their wa’s ;
The townsfolk draigle far ahin
By anes and twas.
At length they are a’ gotten out,
And syne they work anither bout ;
But as they ettle for to lout
The pease to shear,
The wives fill weel their laps, nae doubt—
Ye needna speer,
Irae this it isna very lang
Till they do lilt some canty sang,
Sic as Pease Sirae, or Jenny dang
The Weaver, braw,
The Tailor through the bed did gang,
Thumble and a.
The Embrugh lass fu’ loud does ery,
Gin ony will broom besoms buy ?
The Grey Breeks next, and then she’ll try
The Sodger Laddie,
Tis her delight; then, oh! to le
_ In Highland plaidie.
The Highland lasses raise the song,
In music wild, and sweet, and strong:
All join in chorus, as along
The subject strays ;
The hill and dales resounding long
The cheerful lays.
At length the sun does wear doun low,
Which a’ the field fu’ weel does know ;
The Embrugh wives cry, “ Let us go
And quit our wark,
’Tis after six, and mirk does grow—
Twill soon be dark.”
To this the master gies nae heed,
But redes them, “ mind their wark,” indeed:
Quo’ they, “ Wha deil can shear wi’ speed
That hasna light?
Come, light the candles! for there’s need
O’ them this night.”
But yet, for a’ their clamour, still
They are kept sair against their will:
They ever and anon stand still
And yaumer sair :
“ We’re sure we do our day fulfil,
And meille mair.
To keep’s sae late is a great wrang,
When now the day’s sae very lang ;”
But they might as weel sing a sang
With a’ their fykes ;
The master lets his shearers gang
Just when he likes.

But glad are they when he does say,
“ Now, fill your rapes and get away ;
This shall be held nae broken day.”
Tchoukin, tchoukin !1
Gaghé! gaghé !? the clans now ery ;
Sie
O tchoukin brochin !3
1 Come away, come away!
2 Home! home!

3 Come away to supper!—which is always distributed in por-
'idge (brochin) to the shearers immediately on coming home from

he ficld.
B

 

17

The bedding time does now begin,
When ilka ane does wale their kin,
And for their bed awa’ do rin
To get some strae ;
And here there is nae little din
Till it they hae,

This being had, the blankets next
They seek wi’ haste, and share betwixt
Themsels in manner as is fixt,
By usage lang,
Now, though they’re a’ together mixt,
There’s naething wrang,
But still the dorty Embrugh erew,
Declare they’ve got 0’ claes too few,
O’ blankets they hae not enow ;
“ A pair a-piece
They a’ sould hae—’twill hardly do—
For folk’s no beas’s.”

And now on this their just demand,
They are determined for to stand,
And ere they flinch, they will aff-hand
E’en gae their ways; —
For never was there yet a land
But folk got claes!

The master now does carena be,
Though he were rid 0’ twa or three ;
So, unexpectedly, does he
Gie his consent
To let them gang, and wages gie :
But they repent.

Quo’ they, “ The night is now grown dark,
And weel enough we like your wark ;
But, oh! it’s hard that in our sark

We use sie cleadin,
For we’re no used to sicean stark

And naked beddin.”

And syne some sleekit-gabbit wife
Declares, “ She never liket strife ;
For she was aye for a quiet life.
’Tis but ae night ;
We'll e’en stay (maybe get the rife)
Tul ’tis daylight.”
Some wally-dragles pay for a’,
Wha little dreamt o’ this ava’,
Tor they wi’ scorn are set awa?
To their great shame ;
The byword says, “ Ill bairns are a?
Best heard at hame.”

Now when they a’ to bed are gane,
Auld Janet comes in sark alane,
Beseeching for a dram 0’ gin,
Or what you please:
For Duncan has a sair wame taen
WY eating pease.

At length they a’ sleep very sound,
In slumber sweet and eke profound ;
In idle dreams they ne’er abound
That hae sair wark,
Yet ilka morn are cheerfw’ found
As ony lark,

Now when the day breaks through the sky
They’re raised again wi’ hasty ery—
The master calls, “ Why do ye lie ?
The sun does shine!
Come, get up fast, and shearing try,
The weather’s fine.”
Yet they get up but very slow,
For now some lubber eries, “ Oh no!
Let’s e’en lie still, for now to go
I wad be wae ;”
Then doun he slinks, and hides him low
Amang the strae.

Yet they are a’ got up at last,
Although it isna very fast,PE Ee ee

——

> reer

ES

|

mit AE

 

18 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Their claes most leisurely they cast
About their shouthers,

The master calls “ Mak haste, mak haste !
Ye lazy louthers.”

Their sickles now they straughtway tak,
And gae their wa’s to the field back ;
Yet commonly there is some lack—
Some Embrugh quean
Is sickly grown, and downa mak
A-field again.

When a’ the week is past and gane,

It joy affords to ilka ane ;

Weel pleased are they, and are right fain
W? mirth and glee ;

Nor rich nor poor e’er mak a mane
To pouch their fee.

They’re set in orderly array,

And ane by ane now get their pay 5;

And mony a blessing now they say,
For they are glad—

Their very weans around them play
As they were mad.

The Highlanders now count their gain ;
The skillin Sassenach! makes them fain 5
Syne fleetch the master no to hain

(For weel they’ve shorn),
But gie a penny to ilk’ ane—

The skillin khorun2

The Embrugh tribe do aye insist
That they should get their wages first,
For now they ken of ither grist
Into their mill :
Gaun hame there is nae pease-field miss’d
But which they spill.

Frae this the corns do faster fill,
And har’st next week is thranger still ;
The shearers now come not a-will,
But maun be sought,
And now they a’ exert their skill
To be dear bought.

For they relate what wages they

Do gie at Embrugh Port ilk day,

And how there was a great affray ;
Some master-man

Was soundly swinged, and then, they say,
He fled and ran !

Wr that some Embrugh wife does tell,

How a’ the hobble-show befell,

For she was there, and saw’t hersel :
She heard his offer ;

And how the chairmen on him fell,
For his sma’ proffer.

And now anither tells bedeen

{That went into the town yestreen),

How siccan wages ne’er were seen
As gangs this day ;

For masters far and near hae been
At Port, they say,

Says she (and to the master looks),
“ What think ye they were gien for hooks ?4
As sure’s I stand amang the stooks,
A shilling’s gien !”
The master ill the story brooks,
But answers nane.

1 English shilling, in distinction to skillin, a shilling Scots.

2 Skillin khorun, hook penny, which each shearer is in use to
ask and receive weekly over and aboye his pay.

3 The West Port of Edinburgh, or rather the Grassmarket ad-
joining, is the place where reapers are hired every day during
harvest. Abundance of them are to be hired there, particularly
on Mondays, when there are sometimes from two to three thou-
sand assembled.

4 Shearers.

 

Then she does tell how mony came,

And how they a’ did bid the same ;

And weel her story she does frame,
For now she tells,

There were sae mony, some thought shame,
And hid themsels !

Nae sooner does her story end,
Than boist’rous winds mayhap portend
That the ripe corn will hardly fend,
But shaken be ;
Weel may the shearers now pretend
To height their fee !
Now murmurs gang frae side to side :
* For our sma’ wage, oh, wha wad bide—
For scabbit aughtpence, woe betide
That we should shear ?
And then to hae sair wark beside !
We’re ower lang here.”
And now ilk ane some fau’t does find—
The parritch is na to their mind ;
The ale is sour, and ill o’ kind ;
The blankets, too,
Are riven, or ill together join’d :
They’ll naething do!
The stout anes now a’ downa bear
Wi silly feckless anes to shear,
But maun hae their nain-folk, that’s clear ;
And they’ll no part,
Or they will stay nae langer here,
But will depart !
The master hardly can restrain
Their thrawart humour and cross grain,
Which breeds him nae sma’ toil and pain,
And gars him chide ;
He almost wishes for some rain
To lay their pride.
The Highland clans are roused at last,
For stormy growls the howling blast ;
To Dun-Edin! they hie with haste
The next Port-day,
In hopes some better cheer to taste,
And get mair pay.
At length the har’st draws to a close,
The stately stooks stand thick in rows ;
And now the honest farmer knows
What crop he’ll hae ;
When ’tis a’ in, he bounty shows,
And feast does gie.
For now the maiden? has been won,
And winter? is at last brought in ;
And syne they dance and haud the kiri4
In farmer’s ha’,
Where mirth and joy does now begin
To gladden a’.
For there baith man, and wife, and wean,
Are stegh’d while they do stand their lane ;
For a’ the lang board now does grane
WY swacks o’ kale !
And mony a dainty rough fat bane,
And reamin ale !
Auld William sits at the board-head,
And says the grace wi’ grace indeed !
To which they a’ tak special heed,
Till he does close;
Syne to they fa’ wi’ might and speed
Keen to the brose.
Auld John, the stalwart Chelsea-man
(Wha’s now ta’en in to redd the barn),
Sits here and drives about the can
Weel fill’d wi’ stout ;
He drinks, “ The king—him prosper lang !”
Syne toots it out.

1 Edinburgh, pronounced Dun-Aitan by the Highlanders.
2 The last handful of corn that is cut.

3 The last cartful of corn that is brought home.

4 Harvest-home feast.

a a SSE as

—A JUSTICIARY OPERA.

To turn the timmer they’re no sweer,
And mony a tale they’il tell or speer,
Or reckon up what time fernyear
The kirn was held,
And how the mickle ox or steer
That time was fell’d.

Frae this they speak o? har’sts that’s gane

And cast them a’ up ane by ane,

And how they dreed baith skaith and pain
In aughty-twa,

When they could hardly stand their lane
For frost and snaw !

3

Oh that year was a year forlorn !

Lang was the hayr’st and little corn !

And, sad mischance ! the maid was shorn
After sunset ! 1

As rank a witch as e’er was born—
They’ll ne’er forget !

But now they throw aside a’ care,
And on sair wark they think nae mair,
But tak wi’ joy a hearty share

O’ ilka thing,
"Till they as blythe and happy are

As ony king.

DA nwrenewn

A JUSTICIARY OPERA.

[This burlesque of the criminal procedure of Scotland seventy
years ago, is believed to have been, in its original form, the pro-
duction of James Boswell, the biographer of Johnson, assisted by
his friend Colin Maclaurin, afterwards a judge under the desig-
nation of Lord Dreghorn. The songs marked with an asterisk are
additions by the late Sir Alexander Boswell, Bart., who printed
the whole in a private volume, 4to, 1814.]

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

Carrenprosus Maximus, Grand Clerk of the Seales and
Chopping-Knife, and Commander of the Forces.

Hystrix, Clerk of the Rounds.

Bompyx, a very great Officer.

JoHN Brack, the Pannel.

BaMBooZLE,

FLaw-FInpDER,

PEPPERTAIL, the Horse-Couper,

Bizz, the Blacksmith,

Peter Brown, the Exciseman,

MartHew Mourtcuxin,

Wivow Macterriz, J

WAITER.

Judges, Jurymen, Sheriffs, Bailies, Serjeants, Mob, &c.

Orators for the Pannel.

Witnesses.

SCENE.—-An Inn.
CALIENDRosuS Maximus et Hystrrx.

Duet.—Air—Saw ye my father ?

Cal. Saw ye my Trumpeter ?
Or saw ye my Macer ?
Or saw ye my man John ?
flyst. I have not seen your Trumpeter ;

I have not seen your Macer ;
And drunk is your man John !
[Martial Music.

Enter a WAITER.
* Arn—Hey Jenny come down to Jock.

Waiter. The Bailies are waitin, the Provost is come,

[wal permanent Serjeants, a fife and a drum ;
[wa Sherras, wi’ swords (but they’re peaceable men) ;
And some twa-three mair—and the clock’s chappit ten.
[A Grand Procession.

1 This is esteemed exceedingly unlucky, and carefully guarded
gainst.

 

19

SCENE.—4 Hall,

Enter CALIENDROSUS Maximus, Bompyx, Hystrix, Bam-
BOOZLE, F'Law-Finper, Macer, Jurymen, Mos, &e.
* Arn—Fye, let us a’ to the weddine
Hyst. Ge—en—tlemen o’ the Jury,
Ye’ll answer until a? your names,
Walter Balwhid 0’ Pitlurie,
Jurym. Here.

Hyst. Matthew Powloosie o’ Kames.
Jurym. Here.
fTyst. Dunean Macwhey 0’ Todwiddock.
Jurym. Here.
ITyst. Jacob Ba’four 0’ Howbrig.
Jurym. Here.
fyst. John Macindo o? Glenpuddock.
Jurym. Here.
Hyst. Hew Gib in Bog o” Daljig.
Jurym. Here.
flyst. Patrick Macrone 0’ Craig-gubble.
Jurym. Here.
Hyst. George Yellowlees in Cowshaw.
Jurym. Here.
flyst. | Ralph Mucklehose in Blindrubble.
Jurym. Here.
fTyst. Robert Maemurdoch in Raw.
Jurym. Here.
Hyst. Andrew Mackissock in Shalloch.
Jurym. Here.
Hyst. Ingram Maclure in Benbole.
Jurym. Here.
fyst. Gilbert Strathdee in Drummalloch.
Jurym. Here.
fTyst. Gabriel Tam in Dirthole.
Jurym. Here.
Hyst. Lowrie Maewill 0’? Powmuddle.
Jurym. Here.
flyst. | Daniel Losh o’ Benskair.
Jurym. Here.
fyst. John Stoupie, writer, Kirkfuddle.
Jurym. Here,
fTyst. Bailie Bole, shoemaker there.
Jurym. Here.
fTyst. Samuel Maguire in Craig-gullion.

If present, sir, answer your name.
Jurym. Here.
fTyst. Quintin Macecosh in Knockdullion.
Jurym. Here.
ffyst. Gal-lery—si-lence—Ahem !

* Artr—In the Garb of Old Gaul.

Macer. Hem !—Si-lence.
Cal. Officer, bring John Black to the bar.

[The Pannel is brought in guarded, and
petitions for banishment.

AiR—The Lee Rig.

Pannel. Oh send me ower the lang seas,
My ain kind lordie, O ;
Oh send me ower the lang seas,
My ain kind lordie, O.

Oh send me east, or send me wast,
Or send me south or nordie, O ;
But send me ower the lang seas,
My ain kind lordie, O.

* Arn—Lass gin ye lo’e me tell me now.

Cal. Pannel, a halter must be your end,
The fiend at your skirts has now his prong ;
Your days, that are number’d, in penitence spend ;
But [ll lecture you, presently, half an hour long.

Mercy were folly, if lavish’d on him ;

Robbing and thieving, the gallows shall check ;
Our duty is plain, we’ll proceed to condemn—
John you shall presently hang by the neck.h
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20 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

 

Ain—We're gayly yet.
Pannell. We’re no guilty yet,
We're no guilty yet ;
Ithough we’re accused,
Ve’re no guilty yet.

Afore ye condemn,
Ye maun hear us a bit;
For although we’re accused,
We’re no guilty yet.
[Jury are chosen, and the Indictment read.

* AIR—Grimaldi’s Jig in Mother Goose.

ITyst. Whereas by the laws o’ this realm,
And o’ every well-govern’d land,
To seize on anither man’s gear,
(As the tangs ance a Highlandman fand,)

And whether the thief he be caught
In the fact, or be gruppit out-fang,
The law says expressly, and wisely,
That chiel by the thrapple shall hang.

And you, John Black there, the pannel,
Ye robbit, assaulted, and a’ ;

And sae, gang till an assize, sir,

And underlie pains 0’ the law.

* AIR—Miss Macleod’s Reel.
Bombyx. Painful the duty is which I must now per-
form,
Stating a train of guilt uncommon and enorm-
Ous—calling my witnesses to make the fact out plain,
And if your verdict’s guilty, my labour’s not in vain.
Gentlemen, your feelings must with justice never Jar,
The statutes of the land condemn the pris’ner at the
bar ;
The law most clearly indicates the gallows, as reward
For culprits such as him between the soldiers of the
guard.

John Black met Peter Brown upon the king’s high-
way

With foul intent to rob—I fear intent to slay 5

John Black, the pannel, did step up to Peter Brown,

And with his fist, or bludgeon, did knock said Peter
down.

Ferocious, atrocious, felonious also,

Did then and there, with that or this, reiterate the blow ;

Then seized Peter by the throat, to suffocate his cries,

And most outrageously exclaim’d—*“ Your money, d—
your eyes.”

Enter*-Peter Brown.
* Arin—The bonniestlass in w the warid.

eler. The pannel’s a regardless loon,
And brags that he defies man;
And bauldly threepit through the town
He’d do for the exciseman.

I thought ’twas nought but silly clash,
That sneevlin gowks wad tell me;
a 5 i 2
Quo’ I, “ My thumb I winna fash,
It’s no siclike can fell me.”
Four cadgers rade through Ifalk-wood-stack,
I doubted Jean Macleerie ;
T took the road, when up cam Black,
And dang me tapsalteerie.
He rypit, maybe for his knife
d } i 5 3
I thought I saw it glancin;
He took the rue, and saved my life,
Syne, like a deil, gaed dancin.
Enter Prprrertai..
Arn—Braw lads 0’ Gala Water.
Pep. Comin frae the town o’ Straiven,
On my poor mare that had the spavin,
I met the pannel near the Kirk o’ Shotts—
Like ony madman he was ravin.

 

Black his hair, and blue his coat—
Tightly he did the gauger han’le ;

The mair he shook the fallow by the throat,
The steadier still I e’ed the pannel.

Enter Matrnew Murcukn.
* Arn—Calder Fair.
Matt. As I cam hame frae Ruglin fair,
At e’en, when it was dusky,
I had enough—and maybe mair,
A drap ower muckle whisky.

 

I saw twa fallows yoke thegither,
Wha they were, the taen or tither,

I ken nae mair nor Abram’s mither,
I was blind wi’ whisky.

Enter Bizz.
* AriR—PVill ye gang and marry, Katy ?

Bomb. Pray, what is your name, friend? tell us.
Bizz. Tammas Bizz.—l’ve blawn the bellows,
And l’ve clinkit on the studdy,
Sin a wean, knee-heigh and duddy.

And the gauger weel I ken,

Aft he stammers butt and ben,
Snowkin a’ frae end to end—
He’s mislear’d and capernoited.

And I ken Jock Black fu’ weel,

A sturdy hand at our fore-hammer ;
Bess, his wife, flytes at the chiel,
But weel-a-wat I do condemn her,

Wark, ye ken yersels, brings drouth,

Wha can thole a gaizen’d mouth ?

And gif he tak a gill, forsooth,

Queans maun flyte and fools maun clatter !

Jock, I ken’s an honest lad,

Thievish pranks was ne’er his custom ;
Though he be sae sair misca’d,

Wv’ gowd in gowpens ye may trust him.
I hae kent him sin a bairn,

A penny willing aye to earn;

And though he’s coupit ’ the shearn,
Troth I ken nought ill about him.

Enter Wipow MAcLEERIE.

 

* Ain—TI hae a wife o’ my ain.

Widow Mac. I hae a house o’ my ain,
On the road to Hamilton ;
Whisky I sell, to be plain,
Arran Water or Campbelion.

Peter, the gauger, himsel,
Whiles comes pipple-papple in ;
Pusion, frae ony big stell,

He’ll no put his thrapple in.

Widow Macleerie’s my name,
Mine’s a tippeny eatin-house ;
Carriers find a warm hame,
Mine’s neist door to the meetin-house.
As for the pannel, John Black,
I’m wae to see him here awa’,
He never wrang’d me ae plack,
Gude send he won clear awa’ !
[The Orators for the Pannel plead.

Arr—Deil tak the wars.

Bamboozle.
F'ye on the laws that hang a man for stealing!
Sure such penal statutes were savagely framed
By legislators devoid of human feeling,
Before divine religion mankind had tamed.
Gentlemen, ’tis yours, with vigour,
To check the law’s excessive rigour 3

 

-*Yours is the power, to you the choice is given,THE JUSTICIARY GARLAND.

\ father—husband—bends ;

Jn you his fate depends:

Tis yours to take or give,

'o bid him die—or live !

then here that mercy show, you hope from Heaven.

ATR — * * * * *

FPiaw-Finder.
Gentlemen, now ’tis my turn to address you,
And with much speaking I need not oppress you ;
The proof lies before you, in writing down taken,
All I do wish is to save this man’s bacon.

But, as it is usual some few things to mention,
I say, that to steal it was not his intention ;

So be not, I pray, like the lords, in a fury,
But bring this man off, like a sensible jury

(Charge to the Jury.)
* AiR—Merrily Dance the Quaker.
Cal. If ever a case before me came
That I could judge most clearly,

This is a case, V’ll boldly name,
I’ve scrutinised it nearly.

To trace the truth through all its track,
No witch requires, or jugglers ;

The witnesses are all a pack

Of drunkards and of smugglers.

The counsel for the crown, with skill,
Extorted facts most glaring ;

Black, when primed by stoup and gill,
You see, became most daring.

That Black put Brown in mortal fear,

The proof is clear—clarissima ;

And that he robb’d, though not quite clear,
Presumptio est fortissima.

Gentlemen, ’tis my desire
To state the case precisely ;
’*Tis you to judge, so now retire,
And weigh your verdict wisely.
The proof is strong, a verdict bring,
Such honest men becoming ;
I need not say one other thing,
And so I end my summing.
[Jury are enclosed.

Lowrie Macwitt 0’? Powmunptisz, Chancellor.
JOHN StoupPiz, Clerk.

* AtR—Ally Croaker.

Powmuddle.
In this case there’s nae argument,
Nae minor and nae major ;
A chiel had taen a glass, and had
A towzle wi’ a gauger.

That there’s nae proof o’ robbery,
To see, I think, ye canna miss ;
Sae we the pannel maun acquit—
No guilty, sirs—unanimous.

\

Demi chorus by Unanimous, unanimous.

five jurymen.
Double chorus by

ten gurymen.
Grand chorus by
the whole fifteen.
[The verdict is returned.
reads—in G@ passion.

Unanimous, unanimous.

 

Sae we the pannel maun acquit,
No guilty, sirs—unanimous.
Caliendrosus Maximus

 

Air—Up and down Frisky, and fire away Pat.
Caliendrosus.
A plague o’ such juries, they make such a pother,
And thus,-by their folly, let pannels go free ;
And still, on some silly pretext or another,
Nothing is left for your lordships and me.

 

21

Our duty, believe us,

Was not quite so grievous,

While yet we had hopes for to hang ’em up all;
But now they’re acquitted,

Oh, how we’re outwitted,

We’ve sat eighteen hours here for nothing at all.

Chorus by the whole Bench.
Tol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol,
T'ol de rol, lol de rol, lol de rol, tol de rol,
But now they’re acquitted, &e.
[Mob without huzza.

LAAN.

THE JUSTICIARY GARLAND.

[This further burlesque of the procedure in the Circuit Court
of Justiciary, is said to have been the joint composition of Messrs
James Boswell, Colin Maclaurin, Robert Cullen (afterwards Lord
Cullen), and James Sinclair, all of them advocates at the Scottish
bar. The present copy, with the subjoined note, is from a curious
volume, entitled ‘‘ The Court of Session. Gar and,” Thomas
Stevenson, Edinburgh: 1839.]

1. Packing the Jury.*
First pray rise up, Black of Greenmountain,
We ken you are not yet a peer;
Since last you condemn’d the sheep-stealer,
We’re aye glad to see your face here.
Then pray stand up, Deacon John Webster,

The pride and support of the church;
Since last you commenced politician,

You'll no leave your friends in the lurch.

2.-Pleading on the Relevancy.

Though the pannel does not wish the truth to disguise,
Yet he pleads, that he ought not to thole an assize,
For in his indictment there is such a fiaw,

That your lordships from it no conclusion ean draw;
For no relevant charge does the major contain,

Nor the minor the fact which it founds on explain.
Thus the libel appears quite informal in law,

And your lordships from it no conclusion can draw.

3. Answer.

Then who would now go study law, municipal or civil,
m > Try - :
To snuff-shops let the corpus go,and Erskine to the devil ;
No proposition is so plain that Crosbie won’t dispute it,
His argument I so disdain, ’tis lost time to refute it.

The Judge examining a Witness.

Come up to the table, and look in my face,
Remember you are upon oath, sir ;

If you alter one iota, time, person, or place,
1’11 whip and imprison you both, sir.

Chorus by the whole court.—Tal de ral, &$
4. The Pannel’s Defence.

I’m not guilty yet, I’m not guilty yet,
Although I’m accused, I’m not guilty yet ;
Before you condemn, ye maun hear a bit,
Although I’m accused, I’m not guilty yet.

5. Address to the Jury.

Gentlemen, ’tis my turn to address you,

And with much speaking I’ll not oppress you;
The proof lies before you, in writing down taken,
Therefore, I hope, you will spare this man’s bacon.

* It is perhaps hardly necessary to observe, that until Mr
Kennedy’s Act, by which the jurymen were ballotted for, they
were selected by the presiding judge from the list of assize before
him, subjoined to the indictment. It was said, during the time
the judges had the nomination, that those individuals were uni-
formly sworn in who had previously been upon juries that had
returned verdicts for the crown ; hence, in reference to this popu-
lar belief, the authors make the judge compliment Black of Green-
mountain for his conviction of the sheep-stealer, and to assign
this as the reason why his lordship was ‘‘ aye glad to see” his
‘* face” on an assize.

atoS ee
oe

Tiers eee

 

a

22 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

But as it is usual a few things to mention,
To steal, I believe, he had no intention ;
Therefore be not, like the lords, in a fury,
But bring him off like a sensible jury.

6. Petition for Banishment to the Court.

Oh send me ower the wide seas, my ain kind lordies, O,

To Sydney-Cove, or where you please, my ain kind
lordies, O ; P

For gang this trial as it will, my ain kind lordies, O,

In Scotland I can fare but ill, my ain kind lordies, O.

7. Intended last Speech.

Ye now assembled, here attend,
To witness my untimely end,
And ear not unpropitious lend,

Lo an old soldier’s story.
Last war, when every hostile shore,
Did with the British thunder roar,
I in successful battle bore

A share that gain’d me glory.

The French of India, east and west,
Were by our leaders dispossess’d,
And all their admirals confess’d
That they were beaten fairly
But now! the difference sure is great,
We hardly meet the Gallic fleet,
From Yankies our best troops retreat,
And with a Congress parley.

Though by severity misled,
Both king and court would have me dead;
The blood I for my country shed

Will yet be my salvation :
I die in hopes Ill soon be where
Great Wolfe enjoys the starry sphere ;
And looking downwards, sheds a tear

To see the alteration.

Petition to the King.

I am a chief of the M‘Craws,
Knew nothing of your Lowland laws,
Which of my stealing was the cause ;
But [ll not steal again, sir.
Oh let me aff this ae time,
This ae time, this ae time;
Oh let me aff this ae time,
I'll never steal again, sir.

A fencible I’ll guard at home,
Or on the seas a sailor roam,
Even common soldier |’ll become,
Or what else you incline, sir.
Oh let me aff this ae time, &c.

PLANO

WATTY AND MEG, OR THE WIFE
REFORMED.

‘* We dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.”
POPE.

[Alexander Wilson, author of this and the two next succeed-
ing poems, was bornat Paisley in 1766, and reared to the business
of a weaver. Inearly youth, he travelled for three years through-
out Scotland as a pedlar; after which he resumed the loom, and
continued to work in his native town till 1794, when he removed
to the United States. There he applied himself to the compila-
tion of a work on the ornithology of America, which, amidst
privations and difficulties unspeakable, and by the exertion of a
degree of ardour and perseverance far beyond the common mea-
sure, he brought near to completion, when (August 23, 1813) he
was carried off by a dysentery, the result of extreme exposure
and exhaustion.

In his youth, while wandering with his pack of goods, or work-
ing at the loom, he had cultivated an acquaintance with the Doric
Muse of Scotland, and the result was the production of a number
of poems, which may be ranked with the works of the best writers
after Burns. A volume of his pieces was published about 1789, but
attracted little attention. Afterwards (1792) he printed anony-

) In the year 1778.

 

mously his tale of Watty and Meg, which was so much admired
as to be generally ascribed to Burns, who paid it the compliment
of saying that he wished he could have claimed it. It is a Teniers
picture of the most felicitous kind, and may still be perused with
pleasure, notwithstanding that its moral is not exactly what might
be drawn in these days. This and several other pieces by Wilson
have been often reprinted; but there is one of his poems, not in-
ferior in broad humorous painting, which is less generally known,
namely, ‘‘ Verses occasioned by seeing two men sawing timber
in the open fields, in defiance of a furious storm.’”” This poem ap-
peared in The Bee of Dr Anderson, January 18, 1792, with the
following editorial note :—‘‘ Our readers in general, we hope, will
pardon us for indulging a young writer for once, in his attempt to
display his talents in this antiquated, affected language.” We here
afford the reader an opportunity of revising the opinion of the
sage editor.

‘‘ My friends, for gudesake quit your wark!
Nor think to stand a wind sae stark :
Your saw-pit stoops like wands are shakin,
The very planks and dales are quakin ;
Ye’re tempin Providence, I swear,

To raise your graith sae madly here.
Now! now ye’re gone!—Anither blast
Like that, and a’ your sawin’s past.

Come down, ye sinners! grip the saw
Like death, or troth ye’ll be awa’.
Na, na, ye’ll saw, though hail and sleet
Wreath o’er your breast, and freeze your feet.
Hear how it roars, and rings the bells!
The carts are tumlin round themsels;
The tyle, and thack, and turf up whirls;
See yon brick lum! down, down it hurls!
But wha’s yon staggerin ower the brae,
Beneath a lade o’ bottled strae?
Be wha he will, poor luckless b—h!
His strae and him’s baith in the ditch!

The sclates are hurlin down in hun’ers,
The daudin door and winnock thun’ers,
But, ho! my hat, my hat’s awa’!
L—d help’s! the sawpit’s down and a’!
Rax me your haun.—Hech, how he granes!
I fear your legs are broken banes;
I tell’d you this; but deil-mak-matter,
Ye thought it a’ but idle clatter;
Now see, ye misbelievin sinners,
Your bloody shins, your saw in flinn’ers,
And round about your lugs the ruin
That your demented folly drew on.

MORAL.

Experience ne’er sae sicker tells us,
As when she lifts her rung and fells us.”]

Keen the frosty winds were blawin,

Deep the snaw had wreath’d the ploughs,
Watty, wearied a’ day sawin,]

Daunert down to Mungo Blue’s.

Dryster Jock was sitting cracky,
Wi’ Pate Tamson o’ the Hill;
“Come awa’,” quo’ Johnnie, “ Watty—
Haith we’se hae anither gill !”

Watty, glad to see Jock Jabos,
And sae mony neighbours roun’,
Kicket frae his shoon the snaw-ba’s,
Syne ayont the fire sat down.

Ower a board, wi’ bannocks heapit,
Cheese, and stoups, and glasses stood ;
Some were roarin, others sleepit,
Others quietly chew’d their cud.

Jock was selling Pate some tallow,
A’ the rest a racket hel’—

A’ but Watty, wha, puir fallow,
Sat and smoket by himsel.

Mungo fill’d him up a toothfu’,
Drank his health and Meg’s in ane};

Watty, puffin out a mouthfu’,
Pledged him wi’ a dreary grane.

1 Sawing timber.W ACY

“ What’s the matter, Watty, wi’ ye?
‘Troth your chafts are fa’ing in !
Something’s wrang—I’m vex’d to see ye—
Gudesake! but ye’re desp’rate thin !”

“ Ay,” quo’ Watty, “ things are alter’d,
But its past redemption now;

Oh! I wish I had been halter’d,
When I married Maggy Howe !

I’ve been poor, and vex’d, and raggy,
Tried wi’ troubles that’s no sma’ ;

Them I bore—but marrying Maggy
Laid the cape-stane o’ them a’.

Night and day she’s ever yelpin,
Wy’ the weans she ne’er can gree;
When she’s tired wi’ perfect skelpin,
Then she flees like fire on me.

See ye, Mungo! when she’ll clash on
Wr her everlasting clack,

Whiles I’ve had my nieve, in passion,
Lifted up to break her back.”

“Oh! for gudesake keep frae cuffets,”
Mungo shook his head and said,

“ Weel I ken what sort 0’ life it?s—
Ken ye, Watty, how I did?

After Bess and I were kippled,
Soon she grew like ony bear,
Brak my shins, and, when I tippled,
Harl’d out my very hair !
For a wee I quietly knuckled ;
But, when naething would prevail,
Up my claes and cash I buckled—
Bess, for ever fare ye weel!
Then her din grew less and less aye ;
Haith I gar’d her change her tune:
Now a better wife than Bessy
Never stepp’d in leather shoon.

Try this, Watty.— When ye see her
Ragin like a roarin flood,

Swear that moment that ye’ll lea’ her;
That’s the way to keep her gude.”

Laughing, sangs, and lasses’ skirls,
Echoed now out through the roof ;

& Done!’ quo’ Pate, and syne his arls
Nail’d the Dryster’s wauket loof.

I’ the thrang o’ stories tellin,
Shakin hands and jokin queer,
Swith! a chap comes on the hallan—
“ Mungo! is our Watty here?”

Maggy’s weel-kent tongue and hurry
Darted through him like a knife:
Up the door flew—like a fury
In came Watty’s scoldin wife.

“ Nasty, gude-for-naething being!
O ye snuffy drucken sow!

Bringin wife and weans to ruin,
Drinkin here wi’ sic a erew!

Devil nor your legs were broken:
Sie a life nae flesh endures—
Toilin like a slave, to sloken

You, ye dyvor! and your w s!

 

Rise! ye drucken beast o’ Bethel!
Drink’s your night and day’s desire :

Rise, this precious hour! or faith Ill
Fling your whisky i’ the fire !”’

Watty heard her tongue unhallow’d,
Paid his groat wi’ little din,

Left the house, while Maggy fallow’d,
Flyting a’ the road behin’.

Folk frae every door came lampin,
Maggy curst them ane and a’,

Clapped wi’ her hands, and stampin,
Lost her bauchels i’ the snaw.

ernie III OT

AND MEG. ”

Hame, at length, she turn’d the gavel,
Wi? a face as white’s a clout,

Ragin like a very devil,
Kickin stools and chairs about.

“ Ye’ll sit wi? your limmers round you—
Hang you, sir, I’ll be your death!
Little hauds my hands, confound you,
But I cleave you to the teeth !”
Watty, wha, ’midst this oration,
Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak,
Sat, like patient Resignation,
Trembling by the ingle-cheek.

Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
(Maggy’s tongue gaed like a bell),
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin aften to himsel—

“‘ Nane are free frae some vexation,
Iik ane has his ills to dree;

But through a’ the hale ereation
Is nae mortal vex’d like me.”

A’ night lang he row’d and gaunted,
Sleep or rest he couldna tak ;

Maggy, aft wi horror haunted,
Mumlin, started at his back.

Soon as e’er the morning peepit,
Up raise Watty, waefu’ chiel,
Kiss’d his weanies while they sleepit,
Waken’d Meg, and sought fareweel.

“ Fareweel, Meg !—And, oh! may Heaven
Keep you aye within his care;

Watty’s heart ye’ve lang been grievin,
Now he’ll never fash you mair.

Happy could I been beside you—
Happy baith at morn and e’en :

A’ the ills did e’er betide you,
Watty aye turn’d out your frien’.

But ye ever like to see me
Vex’d and sighin, late and air.

—Fareweel, Meg! I’ve sworn to len’ thee,
So thou’ll never see me mair.”

Meg a’ sabbin, sae to lose him,
Sie a change had never wist,
Held his hand close to her bosom,
While her heart was like to burst.

“ Oh, my Watty! will ye lea’ me,
Friendless, helpless, to despair?

Oh ! for this ae time forgie me,
Never will I vex you mair.”

sé Ay, ye’ve aft said that, and broken
A’ your vows ten times a-week.

No, no, Meg !—see, there’s a token
Glitt’ring on my bonnet cheek.

Owre the seas I march this morning,
Listed, tested, sworn and a’,
Forced by your confounded girnin :

Fareweel, Meg! for I’m awa’.”

Then poor Maggy’s tears and clamour
Gush’d afresh, and louder grew,
While the weans wi mournfu’ yammer,
Round their sabbin mither flew.
“ Through the yirth I’ll wander wi’ you—
Stay, oh Watty! stay at hame.
Here, upon my knees, I’ll gie you
Ony vow you like to name.
See your puir young lammies pleadin,
Will ye gang and break our heart ?
No a house to put our head in,
No a friend to tak our part.”
Ilka word came like a bullet ;
Watty’s heart began to shake ;
On a kist he laid his wallet,
Dighted baith his een, and spake.

 

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24

“If ance mair I could by writing,
Lea’ the sodgers and stay still,

Wad ye swear to drap your flyting ?”
“Yes, oh Watty! yes, I will.”

“Then,” quo’ Watty, “ mind, be honest :
Aye to keep your temper strive :

Gin ye break this dreadfw’ promise,
Never mair expect to thrive.

Marg’ret Howe ! this hour ye solemn
Swear by every thing that’s gude,

Ne’er again your spouse to scold him,
While life warms your heart and blude :

That ye’ll ne’er in Mungo’s seek me—
Ne’er put drucken to my name—

Never out at e’ening steek me—
Never gloom when I come hame:

That ye’ll ne’er, like Bessy Miller,
Kick my shins or rug my hair;
Lastly, I’m to keep the siller,
This upon your saul ye swear ?”
“ Oh— !” quo? Meg ;—“ Aweel !” quo’ Watty,
“ Fareweel !—faith T’ll try the seas.”
“Oh stay still,” quo’ Meg, and grat aye ;
** Ony—ony way to please.”

 

Maggy syne, because he press’d her,
Swore to a’ things owre again :

Watty lap, and danced, and kiss’d her :
Wow! but he was wondrous fain.

Down he threw his staff victorious,
Aff gaed bonnet, aff gaed shoon,

And for that day felt mair glorious
Than he’d done in honeymoon.

DANA”

THE LOSS 0’ THE PACK:

A TRUE TALE, WHICH WAS DELIVERED AT THE PANTHEON,
EDINBURGH, IN A DEBATE ON THE QUESTION, °* WHETHER
1S DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE, OR THE LOSS OF FORTUNE,
HARDEST TO BEAR?”

(Recited in the character of a poor pedlar.)
’Boutgates I hate, quo’ girnin Maggy Pringle,
Syne harl’d Watty, greetin, through the ingle!
Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on,
In twa-three words I’ll gie ye my opinion.

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat,

Was ance a packman, worthy mony a groat ;

I’ve carried packs as big’s your meikle table ;

I’ve scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable:

Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen,

And I could bauldly brag ’twas a’ mine ain.

_ Ay! thae were days indeed, that gar’d me hope,

Aiblins, through time, to warsleup a shop ;

And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,

I kenn’d my Kate wad grapple at me than.

Oh, Kate was past compare! sie cheeks! sic een!

Sie smiling looks! were never, never seen.

Dear, dear I lo’ed her, and whene’er we met

Pleaded to have the bridal day but set;

Stapped her pouches fu’ o’ preens and laces,

And thought mysel weel paid wi’ twa-three kisses:

Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,

And aften kindly in my lug would say,

“ Ae half-year langer’s no nae unco stop,

We’il marry then, and syne set up a shop.”

Oh, sir, but lasses’ words are saft and fair ;

They soothe our griefs and banish ilka care:

Wha wadna toil to please the lass he loes?

A lover true minds ¢his in a’ he does.

“Inding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,

And that I couldna get her to relent,

There was nought left but quietly to resign,

To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign ;

And, as the Highlands was the place for meat,

I ventured there, in spite o’ wind and weet.

POPULAR SCOTTISIL POEMS.

Cauld now the winter blew, and deep the snaw

For three hale days incessantly did fa’;

Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,

Where nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road and wander’d mony a mile,

Maist dead wi’ hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil.
Thus wandering, east or west, I kenn’d na where,
My mind o’ercome wi’ gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe, I plunged at ance, forsooth,

Down through a wreath o’ snaw up to my mouth—
Clean ower my head my precious wallet flew,

But whar it gaed, Lord kens—I never knew!

What great misfortunes are pour’d down on some!
I thought my fearfu’ hinder end was come!

WY grief and sorrow was my saul owercast,
lk breath I drew was like to be my last ;
For aye the mair I warsled roun’ and roun’,
I fand mysel aye stick the deeper down ;
Till ance, at length, wi’ a prodigious pull,

I drew my puir cauld carcass frae the hole.

Lang, lang I sought and graped for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wander’d up and down,
Till chance at last convey’d me to a town;

There, wi’ a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a’ my luckless fate,

But bade her aye be kind and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon would gather mair,
W? whilk I hoped, within a towmont’s date,
To be at hame, and share it a’ wi’ Kate.

Fool that I was! how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for fau’t 0’ clink!
The loss o’ fair-won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this—ne’er had power to force a tear.

I trusted time would bring things round again,

And Kate, dear Kate! would then be a” mine ain:
Consoled my mind in hopes o’ better luck—

But, oh! what sad reverse! how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That—Kate was cried, and married on anither!

Though a’ my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance, had drapped cauld dead at my feet ;

Or though I’d heard the last day’s dreadfu’ ca’,
Nae deeper horror ower my heart could fa’:

I cursed mysel, I cursed my luckless fate,

And grat—and sabbing cried, Oh Kate! oh Kate!

Fae that day forth I never mair did weel,

But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil!

My siller vanish’d, far frae hame I pined,

But Kate for ever ran across my mind;

In her were a’ my hopes—these hopes were vain,
And now J’l] never see her like again.

"Twas this, Sir President, that gar’d me start,
Wi’ meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,

To gie my vote, frae sad experience, here,
That disappointed love is waur to bear,
Ten thousand times, than loss o? warld’s gear.

LO" 0s’

RAB AND RINGAN.

[This, like the preceding poem, was recited at the debating
club which met in the Pantheon, Edinburgh. It was designed
to illustrate the question ‘‘ Whether is diffidence or the allure-
ments of pleasure the greatest bar to progress in knowledge ?”’]

INTRODUCTION.

Hech! but it’s awfw’ like to rise up here,
Where sic a sight 0” learn’d folks’ PpOws appear;
Sae mony piercing een a’ fix’d on ane

_Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane ;

But it’s ae mercy, mony thanks to fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.

(Speaking to the president.)

This question, sir, has been right weel disputed,
And meikle, weel-a-wat’s, been said about it:
Chiels, that precisely to the point ean speak,

 

And gallop ower lang blads o” kittle Greek,WILL AND JEAN. |

- Hae sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion,

‘ And peel’d it up as ane wad peel an inganl

, 1 winna plague ye lang wi’ my poor spell,

| But only crave your patience to a tale;

| By which ye’ll ken on whatna side I’m stinnin,
| As I perceive your hindmost minute’s rinnin.

THE TALE.

There lived in Fife an auld, stout, wardly chiel,
' Wha’s stamach kenn’d nae fare but milk and meal;
. A wife he had, I think they ca’d her Bell,
4, And twa big sons, amaist as high’s himsel ;
. Rab was a gleg, smart cock, wi’ pouther’d pash,
. Ringan a slow, fear’d, bashfu’, simple hash.
Baith to the college gaed. At first, spruce Rab
| At Greek and Latin grew a very dab:
| He beat a’ round about him fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien’ ;
Frae house to house they harl’d him to dinner,
But cursed poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talked now in sic a lofty strain,
As though braid Scotland had been a’ his ain—
He ca’d the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And changed his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob.
Where’er ye met him flourishing his rung,
The hale discourse was murder’d wi’ his tongue.
On friends and faes wi’ impudence he set,
And ramm/’d his nose in every thing he met.
The college now to Rab grew douff and dull,
He scorn’d wi’ books to stupify his skull ;
But whirl’d to plays and balls, and sic-like places,
And roar’d awa’ at fairs and kintra races ;
Sent hame for siller frae his mither Bell,
And coft a horse, and rade a race himsel ;
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu’,
Row’d on the floor, and snored like ony sow ;
Lost a’ his siller wi’ some gambling sparks,
And pawn’d for punch his Bible and his sarks ;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame, a’ rags, to haud his father’s pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan play’d anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art ;
Of mony a far-aff place he kenn’d the gate,
Was deep, deep learn’d, but unco, unco blate.
He kenn’d how mony mile ’twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad leave the ocean toom,
Where a’ the swallows gaed in time o’ snaw,
What gars the thunder roar, and tempest blaw,
Where lumps o’ siller grow aneath the grun’,
How a’ this yirth rows round about the sun ;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye couldna speak o’ ought but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning, wi’ sae little pride,
Soon gain’d the love o’ a’ the kintra side ;
And death, at that time, happ’ning to nip aff
The parish minister—a poor dull calf,
Ringan was sought—he couldna say them nay,
And there he’s preaching at this very day.

 

MORAL.

Now, Mr President, I think it’s plain

That youthfu’ diffidence is certain gain.
Instead of blocking up the road to knowledge,
It guides alike, in commerce or at college ;
Struggles the bursts of passion to control,
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul ;

Defies the deep-laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even innocence a sweeter smnile ;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,

And shields our virtue even to the grave.

How vast the difference, then, between the twain!
Since pleasure ever is pursued by pain.
Pleasure’s a syren with inviting arms—

Sweet is her voice, and powerful are her charms ;
Lured by her call, we tread her flowery ground,
Joy wings our steps, and music warbles round ;

1 The question had been spoken to on both sides before this
tule was recited, which was the last opimion given on the debate.

Lull’d in her arms we lose the flying hours,

And lie embosom’d ’midst her blooming bowers,
Till, arm’d with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin,

DAWnrOws—

WILL AND JEAN.

[Hector Macneill, the author of this poem, was born at Roslin
in 1746, and was reared to a mercantile profession. His life was
upon the whole unfortunate, but its evening was gilded by the
reputation of a poet, which he enjoyed chiefly in consequence of
the publication of ‘* Will and Jean” in 1795. His contemporaries
describe him as a social and inoffensive man, of gentlemanly man-
ners and pleasing exterior. He died in Edinburgh in 1818.]

PART I.

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace—
Wha in neighbouring town or farm 2

Beauty’s bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm!

Wha wi? Will could rin or wrastle,
Throw the sledge or toss the bar?

Hap what would, he stood a castle,
Or for safety, or for war.

Warm his heart, and mild as manfu’,
With the bauld he bauld could be;

But to friends wha had their handfv’,
Purse and service aye were free.

When he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi’ Jeanie could compare ?—

Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But were ony half sae fair?

Saft her smile raise like May morning,
Glinting ower Demait’s! brow ;

Sweet ! wi’ opening charms adorning
Strevlin’s? lovely plains below.

Kind and gentle was her nature ;
At ilk place she bore the bell;

Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature—
But her look nae tongue can tell!

Such was Jean when Will first, mawing,
Spied her on a thrawart beast ;
Flew like fire, and, just when fa’ing,
Kepp’d her on his manly breast.
Light he bore her, pale as ashes,
Cross the meadow, fragrant, green ;
Placed her on the new-mawn rashes,
Watching sad her opening een.

Such was Will, when poor Jean fainting
Drapp’d into a lover’s arms ;

Vaken’d to his saft lamenting,
Sigh’d, and blush’d a thousand charms.

Soon they loed, and soon were buckled ;
Nane took time to think and rue:

Youth and worth and beauty coupled—
Love had never less to do.

Three short years flew by fu’ canty
Jean and Will thought them but ane;

I}ka day brought joy and plenty,
Ilka year a dainty wean.

Will wrought sair, but aye wi’ pleasure,
Jean, the hale day, spun and sang—

Will and weans, her constant treasure,
Blest wi’ them, nae day seem’d lang.

Trig her house, and, oh! to busk aye
Ilk sweet bairn was 2’ her pride!

But at this time NEWS AND WHISKY
Sprang na up at ilk road-side.

1 One of the Ochil Hills, near Stirling. Dwun-ma-chit (Gaelic),
the Hill of the Good Prospect. It is pronounced Demyit.
2 The ancient name of Stirling.

 

 

 

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26

Luckless was the hour when Willie,
Hame returning frae the fair,

Owertook Tam, a neighbour billie,
Sax miles frae their hame and mair.

Simmer’s heat had lost its fury,
Calmly smiled the sober e’en ;

Lasses on the bleachfield hurry,
Skelping barefoot ower the green.

Labour rang wi’ laugh and clatter,
Canty har’st was just begun,

And on mountain, tree, and water,
Glinted saft the setting sun.

Will and Tam, wi’ hearts a’ louping,
Mark’d the hale, but couldna bide ;

Far frae hame, nae time for stopping,
Baith wish’d for their ain fireside.

On they travell’d, warm and drouthy,
Cracking ower the news in town;

The mair they crack’d, the mair ilk youthy
Pray’d for drink to wash news down.

Fortune, wha but seldom listens
To poor merit’s modest prayer,

And on fools heaps needless blessings,
Hearken’d to our drouthy pair.

In a howm, whase bonnie burnie
Whimpering row’d its crystal flood,
Near the road, where tray’llers turn aye,

Neat and bield, a cot-house stood.

White the wa’s, wi’ roof new theekit,
Window brods just painted red;

Lowne ’mang trees and braes it reckit,
Haflins seen and haflins hid.

Up the gavel-end, thick spreadin,
Crap the clasping ivy green ;

Back ower, firs the high craigs cleadin,
Raised a’ round a cozie screen.

Down below, a flowery meadow
Join’d the burnie’s rambling line

Here it was Meg Howe, the widow,
This same day set up her sign.

Brattling down the brae, and near its
Bottom, Will first marvelling sees—

* Porter, Ale, and BritisH Spirits,”
Painted bright between twa trees.

“Godsake! Tam, here’s walth for drinking ;
(Wha can this new comer be?’”)

“ Hoot!” quo’ Tam, “ there’s drouth in thinking—
Let’s in, Will, and syne we’ll see.”

Nae mair time they took to speak or
Think of ought but reaming jugs,

Till three times in humming liquor
Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs.

Sloken’d now, refresh’d and talking,
In cam Meg (weel skill’d to please)—
“ Sirs, ye’re surely tired wi’ walking—
Ye maun taste my bread and cheese.”
“Thanks,” quo’ Will, “I canna tarry,
Pick mirk night is setting in ;
Jean, poor thing! ’s her lane, and eerie—
I maun to the road and rin.”

“ Hoot!” quo’ Tam, “ what’s a’ the hurry?
Hame’s now scarce a mile o’ gate—

Come! sit down—Jean winna weary :
Dear me, man, it’s no sae late!”

Will, owercome wi’ Tam’s oration,
Gaith fell to, and ate their fill;
“Tam,” quo’ Will, “in mere discretion,
We maun hae the widow’s gill.”
After ae gill cam anither—

Meg sat cracking ’tween them twa ;
Bang! cam in Mat Smith and’s brither,

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Neibours wha ne’er thought to meet here,
Now sat down wi’ double glee ;

Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter—
Will got hame ’tween twa and three.

Jean, poor thing, had lang been greetin;
Will, next morning, blamed Tam Lowes;
But, ere lang, a weekly meetin
Was set up at Maggy Howe’s.

 

PART II.

Maist things hae a sma’ beginning,
But wha kens how things will end?

Weekly clubs are nae great sinning,
If folk hae enough to spend.

But nae man o’ sober thinking
er will say that things can thrive,
If there’s spent in weekly drinking
What keeps wife and weans alive.

Drink maun aye hae conversation,
Ilka social soul allows;

But in this reforming nation,
Wha can speak without the news?

News, first meant for state physicians,
Deeply skill’d in courtly drugs;
Now, when a’ are politicians,
ust to set folks by the lugs.

Maggie’s club, wha could get nae light
On some things that should be clear,

Found ere lang the fault, and ae night
Clubb’d, and got the Gazetteer.

Twice a-week to Maggie’s cot-house,
Swift by post the papers fled ;

Thoughts spring up, like plants in hot-house,
Every time the news are read.

Ik ane’s wiser than anither—

“Things are no gaun right,” quo’ Tam ;
“ Let us aftener meet thegither—

‘I'wice a-week’s no worth a d—n.”

See them now in grave convention,
To mak a’ things “square and even ;”
Or at least wi’ firm intention
To drink sax nights out 0’ seven.
*Mid this sitting up and drinking,
Gathering a’ the news that fell,
Will, wha wasna yet past thinking,
Had some battles wi’ himsel.

On ae hand, drink’s deadly poison
Bore ilk firm resolve awa’;

On the ither, Jean’s condition
Rave his very heart in twa.

Weel he saw her smother’d sorrow,
Weel he saw her bleaching cheek ;
Mark’d the smile she strave to borrow,

When, puir thing, she couldna speak !

Jean, at first, took little heed 0’
Weekly clubs ’mang three or four ;
Tnought, kind soul! that Will had need o’?
Heartsome hours when wark was ower.

But when now that nightly meetings
Sat and drank frae sax till twa—
When she found that hard-earn’d gettings
Now on drink were thrown awa;

Saw her Will, wha ance sae cheerie
Raise ilk morning wi’ the lark,

Now grown mauchless, dowf, and sweer aye
To look near his farm or wark ;

Saw him tyne his manly spirit,
Healthy bloom, and sprightly ee;

And o’ love and hame grown wearit,
Nightly frae his family flee—

 

Geordie Brown and Sandie Shaw.

 

1 The Edinburgh Gazetteer, a violent Opposition paper, pubs

lished in 1793-4.

RRS SRWILL AND JEAN.

Wha could blame her heart’s complaining ?
Wha condemn her sorrows meek ?

Or the tears that now ilk e’ening
Bleach’d her lately crimson’d cheek?

Will, wha lang had rued and swither’d,
(Aye ashamed 0’ past disgrace),
Mark’d the roses as they wither’d
Fast on Jeanie’s lovely face.
Mark’d—and felt wi’ inward racking,
A’ the wyte lay wi’ himsel ;
Swore next night he’d mak a breaking—
D—d the club and news to hell.

But, alas! when habit’s rooted,
Few hae pith the root to pw ;
Will’s resolves were aye non-suited—
Promised aye, but aye got fou ;
Aye at first at the convening,
Moralised on what was right ;
Yet ower clavers entertaining,
Dozed and drank till braid daylight.

Things at length draw near an ending—
Cash runs out; Jean, quite unhappy,
Sees that Will is now past mending,
Tynes a’ heart, and taks a—drappy !}
Ilka drink deserves a posey—
Port maks men rude, claret civil,
Beer maks Britons stout and rosy,
Wuisky maks ilk wife—a devil.

Jean, wha lately bore affliction
Wi’ sae meek and mild an air,
School’d by whisky, learns new tricks soon,
Flytes, and storms, and rugs Will’s hair.
Jean, sae late the tenderest mither,
Fond of ilk dear dawted wean ;
Now, heart-harden’d a’ thegither,
Skelps them round frae morn till e’en.

Jean, wha vogie, loed to busk aye
In her hame-spun, thrifty wark,

Now sells a? her braws for whisky,
To her last gown, coat, and sark!

Robin Burns, in mony a ditty,
Loudly sings in whisky’s praise 5
Sweet his sang !—the mair’s the pity

E’er on it he wared sic lays.

Of a’ the ills poor Caledonia
E’er yet pree’d, or e’er will taste,
Brew’d in hell’s black Pandemonia,
Whisky’s ill will scaith her maist!

Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace—
Wha in neighbouring town or farm !

Beauty’s bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm!

When he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi’ Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller,

But were ony half sae fair!

See them now—how changed wi’ drinkin!
A’ their youthfu’ beauty gane !—

Daver’d, doited, daized, and blinkin,
Worn to perfect skin and bane!

Jn the cauld month o’ November,
(Claise, and cash, and credit out),
Cow’ring ower a dying ember,
Wi’ ilk face as white’s a clout 5

1 The author cannot refrain from seizing the last opportunity
he may ever have, to caution his female readers against the vice
here intentionally introduced. Women are not sufficiently aware
of the danger annexed to the smailest indulgence in spirituous
liquors. A delicate frame or a susceptible mind experiencing a
temporary relief from a pernicious stimulus, has recourse to it at
a time when the best cordials are fortitude and resignation.
Hence the deplorable habit of dram-drinking—a habit the most
disgusting—the most degrading to the female character.

 

 

Bond and bill, and debts a’ stopped,

Ilka sheaf selt on the bent ;
Cattle, beds, and blankets rouped—

Now to pay the laird his rent,
No another night to lodge here,

No a friend their cause to plead ;
He taen on to be a sodger,

She, wi’ weans, to beg her bread!
O’ a’ the ills poor Caledonia

K’er yet pree’d, or e’er will taste,
Brew’d in hell’s black Pandemonia,

Whisky’s ill will scaith her maist !

 

PART III.

Oh! that folk wad weel consider
What it is to tyne a—name ;
What this warld is a’ thegither,

If bereft o’ honest fame !

Poortith ne’er can bring dishonour,
Hardships ne’er breed sorrow’s smart,
If bright conscience taks upon her
‘’o shed sunshine round the heart.

But wi’ a’ that wealth can borrow,
Guilty shame will aye look down;

What maun then shame, want, and sorrow,
Wandering sad frae town to town!

    

Jeanie Miller, ance sae cheerie,
Ance sae happy, good, and fair,
Left by Will, next morning drearie,
Taks the road o’ black despair!
Cauld the blast—the day was sleeting ;
Pouch and purse without a plack!
In ilk hand a bairnie greeting,
And the third tied on her back.

Wan her face, and lean and haggard,
Ance sae sonsy—ance sae sweet 5
What a change !—unhoused and beggar’d,

Starving, without claise or meat!

Far frae ilk kent spot she wander’d,
Skulking like a guilty thief;

Here and there uncertain dandeyr’d,
Stupified wi’ shame and grief:

But soon shame for bygane errors
Fled ower fast for ee to trace,

When grim death wi’ a’ his terrors
Cam ower ilk sweet bairnie’s face.

Spent wi’ toil, and cauld, and hunger,
Baith down drapt, and down Jean sat ;
Daized and doited now nae langer,
Thought—and felt—and bursting grat.

Gloamin fast wi’ mirky shadow
Crap ower distant hill and plain ;
Darken’d wood, and glen, and meadow,
Adding fearfu’ thoughts to pain.

Round and round, in wild distraction,
Jeanie turn’d her tearfu’ ee ;

Round and round for some protection—
Face nor house she couldna see!

Dark and darker grew the night aye 5
Loud and sair the cauld winds thud:

Jean now spied a sma’ bit lightie
Blinkin through a distant wood :

Up wi’ frantic haste she started ;
Cauld nor fear she felt nae mair ;
Hope for ae bright moment darted
‘hrough the gloom o’ dark despair.
Fast ower fallow’d lea she brattled,
Deep she wade through bog and burn;
Sair wi’ steep and craig she battled,
Till she reach’d the hoped sojourn.*
ao =
aoe an :

etre oe Pie IF. —
Pe cet IOS 2S es

~.
Te

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Proud ’mang scenés 0? simple nature,
Stately auld, a mansion stood

On a bank, whase sylvan feature
Smiled out-ower the roaring flood.

Summer here, in varied beauty,
Late her flowery mantle spread,
Where auld chestnut, aik, and yew tree,
Mingling, lent their friendly shade.
Blasted now wi’ winter’s ravage;
A’ their gaudy livery cast,
Wood and glen, in wailings savage,
Howl and murmur to the blast!

Darkness stalk’d wi? fancy’s terror—
Mountains moved, and castle rock’d !

Jean, half dead wi’ toil and horror,
Reach’d the door, and loudly knock’d.

“ Wha thus rudely wakes the sleeping ?”
Cried a voice wi’ angry grane;

“ Help! oh help !” quo’ Jeanie, weeping—
“ Help my infants, or they’re gane!

Nipp’d wi’ eauld—wi? hunger fainting—
Baith lie speechless on the lea!

Help !” quo’ Jeanie, loud lamenting,
“ Help my lammies or they'll die !”

“Wha thus travels, cauld and hungry,
WY young bairns sae late at een ?
Beggars!” cried the voice mair angry,

“ Beggars! wi’ their brats, I ween,”

“ Beggars now, alas! wha lately
Help’d the beggar and the poor !”
“Fy! gudeman,” cried ane discreetly,
“Taunt nae poortith at our door.

Sic a night and tale thegither
Plead for mair than anger’s din;
Rise, Jock,” cried the pitying mither—
“ Rise, and let the wretched in.”

“ Beggars now, alas! wha lately
Help’d the beggar and the poor !”

“ Enter !”? quo’ the youth, fu’ sweetly,
While up flew the open door.

“ Beggar, or what else, sad mourner!
Enter without fear or dread ;
-e, thank God! there’s ay er
Here, thank God! there’s aye a corner
To defend the houseless head.

For your bairnies cease repining ;
If in life, ye’ll see them soon.”

Aff he flew ; and, brightly shining,
Through the dark clouds brak the moon.

 

PART IV.
Here, for ae night’s kind protection,
Leave we Jean and weans a while ;
Tracing Will in ilk direction,
Var frae Britain’s fostering isle.
Tar frae scenes 0’ saft’ning pleasure,
Love’s delights and beauty’s charms!
Far frae friends and social leisure—
Plunged in murdering war’s alarms!

Is it nature, vice, or folly,
Or ambition’s feverish brain,
That sae aft wi? melancholy
Turns, sweet peace, thy joys to pain?—
Strips thee of thy robes of ermine,
(Emblems of thy spotless li e),
And in war’s grim look alarmin g,
Arms thee with the murderer’s knife ?—

A’ thy gentle mind upharrows—
Hate, revenge, and rage uprears ;

And for hope and joy (twin marrows),
Leaves the mourner drown’d in tears 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

Willie Gairlace, without siller,
Credit, claise, or ought beside,

Leaves his ance-loved Jeanie Miller,
And sweet bairns, to warld wide !__

Leaves his native cozie dwelling,
Shelter’d haughs, and birken braes,
Greenswaird howes, and dainty mailing,

Ance his profit, pride, and praise.

Deck’d wi? scarlet, sword, and musket,
Drunk wi’ dreams as fause as vain ;
Fleech’d and flatter’d, roosed and buskit,
Wow! but Will was wond’rous fain :

Rattling, roaring, swearing, drinking—
How could thought her station keep ?

Drams and drumming (faes to thinking)
Dozed reflection fast asleep.

But in midst o’ toils and dangers,
W?’ the cauld ground for his bed,
Compass’d round wi’ faes and strangers,
Soon Will’s dreams o? fancy fled.

Léd to battlé’s blood-dyed banners
Waving to the widow’s moan,
Will saw glory’s boasted honours
x ; 1TO°%C Ge nyse as
Ind in life’s expii ing groan !
Round Valenciennes’ strong-wa’d city,
Thick ower Dunkirk’s fatal plain,
Will (though dauntless) saw wi? pity
Britain’s valiant sons lie slain.

Fired by freedom’s burning fever,
Gallia struck death’s slaughtering knell ;
Frae the Scheldt to Rhine’s deep river
Britons fought—but Britons fell !

Fell unaided ! though cemented
By the faith 0’ friendship’s laws :

Tell unpitied—unlamented,
Bleeding in a thankless cause !1

In the thrang 0’ comrades deeing,
Fighting foremost o’? them a’,
Swift fate’s winged ball cam fleeing,
And took Willie’s leg awa’:

Thrice frae aff the ground he started,
Thrice to stand he strave in vain ;

Thrice, as fainting strength departed,
Sigh’d—and sank ’mang hundreds slain.

On a cart wi’? comrades bleeding,
Si se
Stiff wi’ gore, and cauld as clay,
Without cover, bed, or bedding,
Tive lang nights Will Gairlace lay.

In a sick-house, damp and narrow,
(Left behind wi’ mony mair),
See Will next, in pain and Sorrow,

Wasting on a bed o’ care.

Wounds, and pain, and burning fever,
Doctors cured wi’ healing art—
Cured, alas! but never, never
Cool’d the fever at his heart,

For when a’ were sound and sleeping,
Still and on, baith ear’ and late,

Will in briny grief lay steeping,
Mourning o’er his hapless fate.

A’ his gowden prospects vanish’d,
A’ his dreams 0’ warlike fame,
A’ his glittering phantoms banish’d,
Will could think 0’ nought but—hame !
Think o? nought but rural quiet,
Rural labour, rural ploys,
Far frae carnage, blood, and riot,
War, and a’ its murdering joys.

1 Alluding to the conduct of the Dutch.WILL AND JEAN. _

| PART V.

Back to Britain’s fertile garden

Will’s return’d (exchanged for faes),
Wi ae leg, and no ae farden,

Friend or credit, meat or claise.
Lang through county, brugh, and city,

Crippling on a wooden leg,
Gathering alms frae melting pity—

See poor Gairlace forced to beg!
Placed, at length, on Chelsea’s bounty,

Now to langer beg thinks shame ;
Dreams ance mair 0’ smiling plenty—

Dreams o’ former joys and hame,
Hame and a’ its fond attractions

Fast to Will’s warm bosom flee ;
While the thoughts o’ dear connexions

Swell his heart and blind his ee.

“ Monster ! wha could leave neglected
Three sma’ infants and a wife,
Naked—starving—unprotected !
Them, too, dearer ance than life. 5
Villain ! wha wi’ graceless folly
Ruin’d her he ought to save,
Changed her joys to melancholy,
Beggary, and—perhaps a grave !”
Starting, wi’ remorse distracted,
Crush’d wi’ grief’s increasing load,
Up he bang’d ; and, sair afflicted
Sad and silent took the read.

 

3

sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin,
Sometimes helpit, Will got forth ;
On a cart, or in a waggon,
Hirplin aye towards the north.
Tired ae e’enin, stepping hooly,
Pondering on his thrawart fate,
In the bonnie month o’ July,
Willie, heedless, tint his gate.
raft the southlan breeze was blawin,
Sweetly sugh’d the green aik wood;
Loud the din o’ streams fast fa’ing,
Strak the ear wi’ thundering thud.

Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleeting,
Linties chirp’d on ilka tree ;

Frae the west, the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin’s towers! sae hie.

Roslin’s towers, and braes sae bonnie
Craigs and water, woods and glen—
Roslin’s banks, unpeer’d by ony,
Save the Muses’ Hawthornden !2
Iika sound and charm delighting,
Will (though hardly fit to gang)
Wander’d on through scenes inviting,
List’ning to the mavis’ sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,

Esk’s sweet stream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapp’d asleep.

“ Soldier, rise—the dews 0’ e’ening
Gathering fa’, wi’ deadly seaith ;

Wounded soldier, if complaining,
Sleep na here and catch your death.

Traveller, waken—night advancing,
Cleads wi grey the neighbouring hill ;

Lambs nae mair on knowes are dancing—
A’ the woods are mute and still.”

“ What hae I,” cried Willie, waking—
“What hae I frae night to dree ?

Morn, through clouds in splendour breaking,
Lights nae bright’ning hope to me.

1 Roslin Castle. on

2 The ancient seat of the celebrated poet, William Drummond,
who flourished in 1595.

 

29

House, nor hame, nor farm, nor steading,
Wife nor bairns hae I to see 5

House, nor hame, nor bed, nor bedding—
What hae I frae night to dree 2”

“Sair, alas! and sad and many
Are the ills poor mortals share ;
Yet, though hame nor bed ye hae na,
Yield na, soldier, to despair.

Whats this life, sae wae and wearie,
If hope’s bright’ning beams should fail ?
See—though night comes dark and eerie,
Yon sma’ cot-light cheers the dale.

There, though wealth and waste ne’er riot,
Humbler joys their comforts shed—

Labour, health, content, and quiet ;
Mourner, there ye’ll find a bed

Wife, ’tis true, wi’ bairnies smiling,

_ There, alas! ye needna seek—

Yet there bairns, ilk wae beguiling,
Paint wi’ smiles a mother’s cheek.

A’ her earthly pride and pleasure
Left to cheer her widow’d lot :
A’ her warldly wealth and treasure

To adorn her lanely cot.

Cheer, then, soldier ! ’midst affliction
Bright’ning joys will aften shine ,

Virtue aye claims Heaven’s protection—
‘Trust to Providence divine!”

 

PARTE Viz

Sweet as Rosebank’s! woods and river,
Cool when summer’s sunbeams dart,

Came ilk word, and cool’d the fever
That lang burn’d at Willie’s heart.

Silent stepp’d he on, puir fallow!
Listening to his guide before,

Ower green knowe and flowery hallow,
NE ; 9 } L
Till they reach’d the cot-house door.

Laigh it was, yet sweet though humble,
Deck’d wi’? honeysuckle round :

Clear below, Esk’s waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.

Melville’s towers,? sae white and stately,

Dim by gloamin glint to view ;
Through Lasswade’s dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red, and lift sae blue.

Entering now, in transport mingle
Mither fond and happy wean,

Smiling round a canty ingle,
Bleazin on a clean hearth-stane,

“Soldier, welcome ! come, be cheerie,
Here ye’se rest and tak your bed;

Faint, waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale’s your cheek sae lately red !”

“ Changed I am,” sigh’d Willie till her ;

“ Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be!
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o’ Willie Gairlace see?’

Hae ye mark’d the dews o’ morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,

Quickly fa’, when, without warning,
Rough blasts cam and shook the spray ?

Hae ye seen the bird, fast fleein,

Drap, when pierced by death mair fleet 2
Then see Jean, wi’ colour deein,

Senseless drap at Wiilie’s feet !

1 Rosebank, near Roslin, the author’s place of nativity.
* Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honourable Henry
Dundas [afterwards Viscount Melyiile].

—After three lang years’ affliction,
(A’ their waes now hush’d to rest),
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast ;

Tells him a’ her sad—sad sufferings !
How she wander’d, starving, poor,
Gleaning pity’s scanty offerings,
Wi three bairns, frae door to door.
How she served, and toil’d, and fever’d,
Lost her health, and syne her bread ;
How that grief, when scarce recover’d,
Took her brain, and turn’d her head.

How she wander’d round the county
Many a live-lang night her lane ;

Tul at last an angel’s bounty
Brought her senses back again :

Gae her meat, and claise, and siller,
Gae her bairnies wark and lear ;
Lastly, gae this cot-house till her,
Wi?’ four sterling pounds a-year.
Willie, hearkening, wiped his een aye ;
“Oh! what sins hae I to rue!
But say, wha’s this angel, Jeanie ?”’
“ Wha,” quo’ Jeanie, “ but Buccleuch !1

Here, supported, cheer’d, and cherish’d,
Nine blest months I’ve lived, and mair ;
5
Seen these infants clad and nourish’d,
Dried my tears, and tint despair :
Sometimes servin, sometimes spinnin,
Light the lanesome hours gae round ;
Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinnin
Brings yon angel’s helping pound.”
“ Kight pounds mair,’’ cried Willie, fondly—
** Hight pounds mair will do nae harm ;
And, oh Jean! gin friends were kindly,
Twall pounds soon might stock a farm.
5

There, ance mair, to thrive by pleughin,
Freed frae a’ that peace destroys—
Idle waste and drucken ruin,

War, and a’ its murdering joys !”
Thrice he kiss’d his lang-lost treasure—
Thrice ilk bairn, but couldna speak :
Tears of love, and hope, and pleasure

Stream’d in silence down his cheek!

DPA OS PO LF OL ISSI IE DOPE

THE SILLER GUN.

[Mr John Mayne, the author of this poem, was a native of
Dumfries. At an early age, he served an apprenticeship in the
printing-office of the Dumfries Journal (newspaper), where he had
for a companion a poetical youth named Salmon, who wasa friend
of Fergusson. He was afterwards in the employment of the cele-
brated Messrs Foulis of Glasgow. While still a stripling, he com-
posed the first draught of the ‘‘ Siller Gun,” in twelve stanzas,
being a description of the festival as it was enacted in 1777. At
various intervals, he expanded this poem, till, in an edition which
he published in 1836, it formed five cantos, and carried behind it
a long string of prose notes. Mr Mayne spent the greater part of
his mature life in the business of conducting the Star (London
newspaper). He was the author of the beautiful song of Logan
Water, from which Burns, in ignorance of his authorship, bor-
rowed a couplet; and he also wrote a poem entitled Glasgow, and
several smaller pieces of considerable merit. After a virtuous and
industrious life, protracted ‘‘ beyond fourscore,”’ he died at Lisson
Grove South, London, on the 14th March 1836. The present ver-
sion of the poem and notes is that published by the author in a
small yolume in 1808. ]

CANTO FIRST
For loyal feats, and trophies won,
Dumfries shall live till time be done !2—

1 The Duchess of Buccleuch, the unwearied patroness and
supporter of the afflicted and the poor. [Elizabeth Montagu,
wife of the third duke. }

2 Dumfries, the scene of this poem, and the birthplace of its

POPULAR SCOTTISH BOEMS.

Ae simmer’s morning, wi’ the sun,
The Seven Trades there

Forgather’d, for their Siller Gun
To shoot ance mair !

To shoot ance mair in grand array,

And celebrate the king’s birth-day,

Crowds, happy in the gentle sway
Of ane sae dear,

Were proud their fealty to display,
And marshal here.

Oh, George! the wale o’ kings and men!

For thee, in daily prayer, we bend ;

With ilka blessing Heaven can send
May’st thou be crown’d ;

And may thy race our rights defend,
The warld around !

For weeks before this féte sae clever,
‘The folk were in a perfect fever,
Scouring gun-barrels i’ the river—
At marks practising—
Marching wi’ drums and fifes for ever—
* A’ sodgerising !

And turning coats and mending breeks,

New-seating where the sark-tail keeks ;

(Nae matter though the clout that eeks
Is black or blue) ;

And darning, with a thousand steeks,
The hose anew.

Between the last and this occasion,
Lang, unco lang, seem’d the vacation,
To him wha woos sweet recreation
In nature’s prime,
And him wha likes a day’s potation
At ony time !

The lift was clear, the morn serene,
The sun just glinting ower the scene,
When James M‘Noe began again
To beat to arms,
Rousing the heart o’ man and wean
Wr wav’s alarms.

whole south of Scotland, and possessing an easy and frequent

merchant councillors, and the conyener and deacons of the cor-
porations—of which there are seven, namely, the hammer-~
men or blacksmiths; the squaremen or carpenters; the tailors;
the weavers; the shoemakers; the skinners; and the fleshers
or butchers ; all of whom are chosen into their respective
offices annually... The town’s charter, granted by Robert III., is
dated at Glasgow, April 1396. The corporations have separate

legible. In September 1399, during the reign of Henry IV., the
Scottish Borderers took and ruined the Castle of Wark, and
ravaged the adjacent country. Henry afterwards nominated
Ralph Neville, Earl of Northumberland, to treat with Scotland;
and, in case that a peace or truce could not be obtained, to offer
an agreement that the towns of Dumfries in Scotland and Pen-
rith in England should be declared free from any hostility. This,
and another commission granted in the end of the year, were alike
ineffectual. In 1415, while Henry V. was occupied with his vic-
torious expedition into France, the Earl of Douglas took and burnt
Penrith ; and, inrevenge, Dumfries met with asimilar fate. The
Scottish houses were then slightly built of wood, and easily re-
paired. Froissart estimates the houses in Edinburgh at 4000; they
were small wooden edifices covered with straw ; for modern Edin-=
burgh, with its houses of ten or twelve storeys, cannot date higher
than Mary’s reign, when all the French customs of Scotland really
commenced.

1 The town-drummer, aman who, in his vocation, was of no
small celebrity. He particularly excelled in that most difficult

 

author, isa handsome county-town [of about 12,000 inhabitants],

of all druim-niusic, the reveid¢d, or morning drum.

 

situated on a gentle declivity along the north-east bank of the |
Nith, about nine miles above its confluence with the Solway Firth. |
Serving as a kind of capital not only to its own shire but to the |

intercourse with London and Edinburgh, it is a place of great |
resort for the nobility and gentry of the neighbouring counties. |,
Its municipal government is vested in a town-council, consisting |
of a provost, three bailies, a dean of guild, a treasurer, twelve |

charters. They are all written in Latin, and are now scarcely

  

Ce pe =

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sateen

: THE SILLER GUN.

Frae far and near the country lads,

(Their joes ahint them on their yads),

Flock’d in to see the show in squads ;
And, what was dafter,

Their pawky mithers and their dads
Cam trotting after.

And mony a beau and belle were there,
Doited wi’ dosing on a chair ;
For, lest they’d, sleeping, spoil their hair,!
Or miss the sight,
The gowks, like bairns before a fair,
Sat up a’ night!

Wi?’ hats as black as ony raven,
Fresh as the rose their beards new shaven,
And a’ their Sunday’s cleedin haying
Sae trim and gay,
Forth cam our Trades, some orra saving
To wair that day.

Fair fa’ ilk canny, cadgy carle,
Weel may he brook his new apparel!
And never dree the bitter snarl
O’ scowling wife!
But, blest in pantry, barn, and barrel,
Be blythe through life.

Hech, sirs ! what crowds were gather’d roun’,

To see them must’ring up and down ;

Lasses and lads, sun-burnt and brown—
Women and weans,

Gentle and semple, mingling, crown

The gladsome scenes !

At first, before ilk deacon’s dwalling,

‘His ain brigade was made to fall in;

And, while the muster-roll was calling,
Mull’d ale and wine

Were dealt about in mony a gallon
And gardevine :

And cheese and bread, and bits o’ ham,
Laid the foundation for a dram
QO’ whisky, gin frae Rotterdam,
Or cherry brandy ;
Whilk after, a’ was fish that cam
To Jock or Sandy.

Oh ! weel ken they wha loe their chappin,
Drink maks the auldest swack and strappin 5
Gars care forget the ills that happen—
The blate look spruce—
And even the thowless cock their tappin,
And craw fu’ croose !

The muster ower, the diff’rent bands

File aff, in parties, to the sands,

Where, ’mid loud laughs and clapping hands,
Gleed Geordy Smith?

Reviews them, and their line expands
Alang the Nith.3

1 At the period to which the poem alludes, the operation of
trimming and adorning the hair was indeed a work of time and
labour. The fashion then, especially among the ladies, resembled
that which is described by Addison in No. 98 of the Spectator :

‘< With curls on curls they build her head before,
And mount it with a formidable tower ;
A giantess she seems; but, look behind,
And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind.”

2 George Smith, one of the town-officers, was originally a ser-
geant in the Highland Watch ; from which circumstance he was
seldom without a beating-order when recruits were wanted for
the king’s service, and always a generalissimo on occasions like the
present. In his capacity of recruiting-officer to different regi-
ments, George is supposed to have enlisted upwards of a thousand
men, many of whom rose to great rank in the army, particularly
in the royal artillery, at the period when the humble matross was
not precluded from the hope of arriving at the general’s staff.

3 The River Nith washes the sands of Dumfries, dividing Niths-
dale, to which it giyes its name, and the whole of Dumfriesshire,
from Galloway.

31

But ne’er, for uniform or air,
Was sic a group review ’d elsewhere—
The short, the fall, fag folk and spare,
f Side coats and dockit ;
Wigs, queus, and clubs, and curly hair ;
Round hats and cockit !
As to their guns—thae fell engines,
Borrow’d or begg’d, were of a’ kinds,
For bloody war, or bad designs,
Or shooting cushies—
Lang fowling-pieces, carabines,
And blunderbusses !
Maist feck, though oil’d to mak them glimmer,
Hadna been shot for mony a simmer;
And Fame, the story-telling kimmer,
Jocosely hints
That some o’ them had bits o’ timmer,
Instead 0’ flints !
Some guns, she threeps, within her ken,
Were spiked to let nae priming ben ;
And, as in twenty there were ten
Worm-eaten stocks,
Sae, here and there, a rozit-end
Held on their locks !
And then, to show what diff’rence stands
*T'ween him that gets and gies commands,
Swords that, unsheathed since Prestonpans,
Neglected lay,1
Were furbish’d up, to grace the hands
O’ chiefs, this day !
Ohon !’” quo’ George, and gae a grane,
‘The age o’ chivalry is gane!”
Syne, having ower and ower again
The hale survey’d,
Their route, and a’ things else, made plain,
He snuff’d, and said :—
*“ Now, gentlemen—now mind the motion,
And dinna, this time, make a botion ;
Shouther your arms!—Oh! haud them tosh on,
And not athraw!
Wheel wi’ your right hands to the ocean,
And march awa’!”
Wi’ that, the dinlin drums rebound,
Fifes, clarionets, and hautboys sound !
Through crowds on crowds, ccllected round,
The Corporations
Trudge aff, while Echo’s self is drown’d
In acclamations !
Their steps to martial airs agreeing,
And a’ the Seven Trades’ colours fleeing,
ent for the Craigs—oh, weel worth seeing !
They hied awa’ ;2
Their bauld convener proud o’ being
The chief ower a’!
Attended by his body-guard,
He stepp’d in gracefu’ness unpair’d ;
Straught as the poplar on the swaird,
And strong as Sampson,
Nae ee could look without regard
On Robin Lamson ! 3

1 The battle of Prestonpans, in which Prince Charles Stuart
defeated the forces of George II., was fought on the 21st of Sep-
tember 1745.

2 The Craigs, generally called the Maiden-bower Craigs (from
a tradition that a young lady, disappointed in love, took up her
residence in an excavation or bower there), are situated about a
mile and a half from Dumfries. They consist of three distinct
rocks, wildly but beautifully variegated, with towering perpen-
dicular precipices to the north-east, yet cultivated to the very
summit on the south-west, and sloping with a gentle declivity to
the River Nith—each rock about two hundred yards distant from
the other. In front of these, and in the plain which intersects
them, the interesting spectacle of shooting at a target for their
Silver Gun, has often been exhibited by the corporations of Dum-
fries ; and no spot in its neighbourhood could be better chosen for
the purposes of individual safety or general merriment.

 

3 Mr Robert Thomson, Conyener of the Blacksmiths, was a

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His craft, the blacksmiths, first ava’,

Led the procession, twa and twa;

The squaremen follow’d i’ the raw,
And syne the weavers,

The tailors, souters, skinners a’,
And marrow-cleavers!

The journeymen were a’ sae gaucy,

Th’ apprentices sae crouse and saucy,

That, as they gaed alang the causey,
Sae tight and braw,

Th’ applauding heart 0’ mony a lassie
Was stown awa’ !

Brisk as a bridegroom gaun to wed,

Iik deacon march’d before his trade :

Foggies the zig-zag followers sped,
But scarce had power

To keep some, fitter for their bed,
Frae stoit’rin ower.

For blythsome Sir John Barleycorn
Had sae allured them i’ the morn,
That, what wi’ drams, and mony a horn
And reamin bicker,
The ferly is, withouten scorn,
They walk’d sae sicker !

As through the town their banners fly,

F'rae windows low, frae windows hig]

A’ that could find a nook to spy,
Were leanin ower ;

The streets, stair-heads, and carts, forbye,
Were a’ uproar.

1

To see his face whom she loed best,
Hab’s wife was there amang the rest ;
And as, wi’ joy, her sides she prest.
Like mony mae,
Her exultation was exprest
In words like thae:—

“Wow ! but it maks ane’s heart loup light
To see auld fowk sae cleanly dight ;
E’en now, our Habby seems as tight
As when, lang syne,
His looks were first the young delight
And pride o’ mine !”
But on the meeker maiden’s part,
Deep sighs alane her love assert ;
Deep sighs, the language o” the heart,
Will aft reveal
A flame whilk a’ the power 0’ art
In vain conceal. e

Frae rank to rank while thousands hustle,
In front, like waving corn, they rustle,
Where, deck’d wi’ ribbons round its muzzle,
The Siller Gun,
A trinket like a penny whustle,
Gleam’d in the sun?

man of a very graceful exterior, to which his silver locks gave an
air of the most venerable dignity. His character, also, was ex-
cellent; and, what endeared him to young people, his files and
forge were always at the service of the boys, who resorted thither
to repair the implements of their pastime—an indulgence which,
in early life, the author of these verses often experienced, and
still gratefully remembers.

1 Though freemen only are permitted to shoot for the Silver Gun,
yet their journeymen and apprentices join in the procession to
and from the scene of action; a separate target is set up for them
to shoot at, and a small premium is always awarded to the best
marksman.

2 The Silver Gun is about ten inches long; has standard marks
stamped on it; and, according to what old people say they heard
from their progenitors, was originally mounted on a carriage,
with wheels, all of silver; but of these no vestige remains. Near
the touch-hole, the letters I-M are engraved on the barrel, sup-
posed to be the initials of the provost of Dumfries at the time
when this ceremony was first instituted. This, however, is mere
conjecture: such records of the corporations as were prior to the

 

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

   

Suspended frae a painted pole,

A glimpse o’t sae. inspired the whole,

That auld and young, wi’ heart and soul,
Their heads were cockin,

Keen as ye’ve seen, at bridals droll,
Maids catch the stockin.!

  
    
      
    
      
  
 
   
 
  
   
 

In honour o’ this gaudy thing,

And eke in honour 0’ the king,

A fouth o’ flowers the gard’ners bring,
And frame sweet poseys

O’ 2’ the relics o’ the spring,
And simmer’s roses.

Amang the flowery forms they weave,

There’s Adam, to the life, and Eve:

She, wi’ the apple in her neive
Enticin Adam ;

While Satan’s laughin in his sleeve
At him and madam.

3

The lily white, the vi’let blue,

The heather-bells of azure hue,

And birken chaplets not a few,
And yellow broom—

Athwart the scented welkin threw
A rich perfume—

reign of Charles II. have suffered so much by decay, that they |
are no longer legible; and, after that period, the only mention}
of the Silver Gun in them, is an occasional memorandum of its
having been shot for ‘* agreeably to the institution.”

The Burgh of Kirkcudbright is also in possession of a silver}
tube, or gun, which, like that of Dumfries, is said to have been}
given to the corporations by King James VI. It is about seyen|
inches long, marked T*M.C*1587. These letters are supposed to}
be the initials of Sir Thomas M‘Clellan, Laird of Bombie, Pro-|
vost of Kirkcudbright in 1587, and ancestor of the lords of that.
name. This gun is lodged with the town-clerk of Kirkcudbright, |
and has only been shot for twice in the memory of any person |
living. The last competition was in the summer of 1781, when}
the corporations applied by petition to haye the gun delivered to}
them, that they might shoot forit at a target. Their petition was )
granted; but no similar application has been made since.

The corporations of Dumfries, however, seem to possess privi- |
leges which are unknown to their brethren of Kirkcudbright. §
The Silver Gun of Dumfries is at all times deposited among the }
archives of the corporations. They have, moreover, a royal |
license, or injunction, to assemble in military array, and shoot |
for it once a-year. Till lately, every convener was allowed, if he }
pleased, to call out the trades for this purpose once during his |
administration, which generally lasts for two years; but a regula-
tion has been made among the trades themselyes, that this cere-
mony shall not take place-so often. When a day is fixed, anda
mandate issued for this purpose, all the freemen of the corpora-
tions are obliged to appear in arms at the time and place appointed
by the convener. If any individual refuse to appear, he is sub-
jected to a fine of £40 Scotch, equal to £3, 6s. 8d. sterling; and,
till payment thereof, is interdicted from voting in any of the }
affairs of the corporations.

Along with the royal license to assemble in military array, the |
corporations were privileged to shoot for the Silver Gun at the
King-holm, which was part of the common land belonging to the |
town, and layed by the dimpled waters of the Nith. The fields |
at the Craigs, however, as often as permission could be obtained, |
for they are private property, were always preferred, being better
adapted for the purpose.

1 When a newly married couple are bedded, as it is called in }
Scotland, their wedding friends, of both sexes, are present at the |
ceremony. The bride’s left stocking is then thrown promiscu- |
ously among them; and the person on whom it falls, or who first }
catches it, is generally considered as the next to be married of }
the company. :

‘** The bride was now laid in her bed,
Her left-leg hoe was flung,
And Geordie Gib was fidging glad
Because it hit Jean Gung.
She was his joe,” &ce.
. Christ's Kirk on the Green.

This ludicrous custom is not peculiar to Scotland only. It pre- ;

vails in the northern counties of England, also in Ireland; and is |

 

alluded to by Father Luke in O’Keefe’s Farce of The Poor Soldier. |Perfume, congenial to the clime,
‘The sweetest in the sweetest time:
_ The merry bells, in jocund chime,
_ Rang through the air,
| And minstrels play’d, in strains sublime,
To charm the fair. .
And fairer than our Nithsdale fair,
Or handsomer, there’s nane elsewhere ;
Pure as the streams that murmur there
| In them ye’ll find
That virtue and the graces rare
e Area’ enshrined.

Lang may the bonnie bairns recline
On plenty’s bosom, saft and kind ;
And, oh! may I, ere life shall dwine
To its last scene,
Return, and a’ my sorrows tine
At hame again!

3

 

CANTO SECOND.
Aff to the Craigs, the hale forenoon,
By a’ the by-gates, round and round,
Crowds after crowds were flocking down,
In nines and tens,
Deserting fast the bonniest town
That Scotia kens.
Oh! happy they wha, up twa storey,
Saw the procession in its glory ;
Alang the roads it left out-ower ye
Sic clouds o’ stour,
Ye coudna see yer thumb before ye
For half an hour.

Where the lang train of armour gleams,

Bright Phoebus shone in glittering beams :

Parch’d up wi’ heat, nae cauler streams
To weet their hauses,

The squadrons green’d for ale that reams

Frae Jenny Gass’s.}

They wha had corns or broken wind,
Began to pegh and limp behind ;
Laith to sit down, and still inclined
To try their pith:
“T hope we'll dance yet, ere we’ve dined,”
i Cries Geordy Smith.
To cheer them wha began to fag,
The minstrels lowsed Apollo’s bag,
And lilted up, though still they lag,
The Reel o’ Bogie,
And Willy was a wanton wag,
Wi’ Katl’rine Ogie.

But Bruce’s March to Bannockburn?

To leave his banes in freedom’s urn,

Or, glorious and triumphant, spurn
Intended thraldom,

Sae raised their hearts, at ilka turn,
That nought could hauld them,

Oh, blessings on King Robert’s name,
On Wallace, and Sir John the Graeme !3

1 Jenny Gass’s was a noted public-house in Dumfries, much
ij frequented by respectable people, and famed for a sort of malt
i) liquor called twopenny, agreeable to the taste, very brisk and
ai Intoxicating.

|| 2 According to tradition, the fine old air of Hey, tuttie taitie! was
iq played to King Robert the Bruce’s army, when they were march-
sa} ing to Bannockburn ; and, from that circumstance, was after-
awards remembered by the name of ‘‘ King Robert the Bruce’s
i March.” It is the oldest air now known, is mentioned by Gavin
I ‘Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld (1488), and has received further cele-
j brity in our own days from Burns, being the melody to which his
}/natriotic words of Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, are adapted.
| 3 Sir William Wallace of Ellerslie, the great hero of Scottish
: ‘story, was endowed with gigantic strength, the enthusiasm which
| no difficulty could extinguish, and the courage which no dangers
} could appal. These qualities, combined with invincible fortitude
uj in bearing cold, hunger, and fatigue, eminently fitted him for
| : CG

THE SILLER GUN.

While freedom dare assert her
ee Or virtue blossom,
Wallace and Bruce will aye infl
The patriot bosom!
Shae i
: pile and mair they seem’d to say,
nd rent the air wi’ thrice huzza!
Out-ower the hills and far awa’,
4 The pipers play’d;
7OFr ?
nd soon they reach’d, fu’ blythe and gay,
Their grand parade
Where louder grew the busy hum
Wee rejoicing as they come;
Y double vir the drummers drum,
The pint-stoups clatter,
And bowls o’ negus, milk and rum,
Flow round like water,
66 NN, J
‘Tak a gude waught—I’m sure ye’re wear
Says Annie Kaillie to her deary :

claim,

ame

y 99
3
John, fain to see his wife sae cheery,
Indulged the fun,
Gat fw’ and dander’d lang and eerie,
And tint his gun—

And miss’d, mairower, th’ endearing charms
(The very thought ilk bosom warms)
Of auld acquaintances in swarms,
Meeting like brithers ;
And wee things giggling in the arms
O’ their fond mithers ;
And bonnie lasses, tight and clean,
Buskit to please their ain lads’ een—
Lasses, whase faces, as the scene
Its tints discloses,
In glowing sweetness intervene,
Like living roses.
Convener Tamson’s troop, the while,
Prepare for action in great style:
The lave their various firelocks pile,
By three and three, _
And, ’tween ilk corps, for half a mile,
Their banners flee.

The drums and fifes a flourish made;

Three loud huzzas the menyie gaed,

And clear’d the stance, that ilka blade
The mark might view,

Far glist’ning, circled white and red,
Wi’ spraings o’ blue!

In mingled prospect, on the plain

That parts the Maiden-Craigs in twain,

Kraims, ginge-bread stands, legerdemain,
And raree-shows,

Tgpticed young sparks to entertain
And treat their joes.

Then there were tents, where, frank and free,
On divot-seats, sae cozily,
Auld birkies, innocently slee,
Wi’ cap and stoup,
Were e’en as blythe as blythe could be—
A’ fit to loup.
Pleased, they recount, wi’ meikle joy,
How aft they’ve been at sic a ploy ;
Describe past scenes—re-act the boy,
And a’ his whims—
Sweet days of youth, without alloy,
Like fairy dreams!

martial achievements; whilst a native generosity of soul, and
conciliating manners, secured to him an absolute, though uncon-
strained, authority over a band of patriotic followers, by whose
aid he long maintained the freedom and independence of his
country. Sir John the Greme, slain at the battle of Falkirk,
July 93, 1299, was the faithful friend and adherent of the immor-
tal Wallace. King Robert the Bruce, accounted the greatest of all
the Scottish monarchs, secured, by his wisdom and valour, the
independence of his country, and raised her to a pitch of glory
unknown to former times. His grateful countrymen almost
idolised him; and, after his death, he was long regarded by the

 

endearing appellation of the Gude King Robert.

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BA POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

And mony a erack, and gallant tale
*Bout bauld forbears, sae stark and hale,
Inspired their breasts with ardent zeal ;
While, circling round,
The reaming cogs 0’ nappy ale
Gaed glibber down.
Yet, now and then, a silent tear,
For friends departed, kindred dear,
Friends, wha were aye the foremost here,
Bedew’d ilk cheek,
Mair eloquent, in grief sincere,
Than tongue can speak!

Mean time, the younkers on the green,

in merry rounds are dancing seen:

Wv rapture sparkling in their een,
They mind, fu’ weel,

The sappy kiss and squeeze between
Ik blythsome reel!

And, as the Highland flings begin,
Their heels grow lighter wi’ the din:
They smack their hands; and, chin to chin,
They cut and caper :
Even the bystanders figure in,
And flounce and vapour !
The minstrels there, were, Sandy Brown,
The piper o? Lochmaben town :1
Though wheezling sair, and cruppen down
Auld Saunders seem’d,
His chanter, for its cheering sound,
Was aye esteem’d,
Jock Willison, a sutor bred,?
Wha for the fiddle left his trade,
Jigg’d it far better than he sped ;
For, oh! poor Jock
Could ne’er gang soberly to bed,
Like ither folk.
To hear John Bruce exert his skill,
Ye’d never grudge anither gill ;
Oh, how he scorn’d th’ Italian trill,
And variations,
And gar’d his thairm-strings speak, at will,
True Scots vibrations!
Nor was it only for a reel
That Johnny was beloved sae weel :
He loed his friend, was aye genteel,
And, what’s far mair,
John to his prince was true and leal,
Even in despair! 3

1 Mr Brown was famous as a player on the hautboy His
head-quarters were chiefly at Lochmaben, about eight mi from
Dumfries; but, on all festive occasions in the neighbourhood, he
was sure to be sent for as one of the chief musicians.

2 John Wilson was, as he is here described, a shoemaker; but
a natural taste for music, and a love of indolence, diverted him
from his sober calling, and reduced him to many difficulties. In
his better days he was accounted a handsome man; of very credit-
able appearance.

3 John Bruce followed the fortunes of the Pretender with un-
shaken fidelity. Actively engaged in the rebellion of 1745, he was
taken prisoner, and for a while confined in Edinburgh Castle,
Numbers of Highland gentlemen, associates in the same unfortu-

 

But wha’s he lilting in the rear,
Sae saft, sae tunefu’, and sae clear?
It’s Dingwall, to the Muses dear,]}
Whase modest merit
Was sae repress’d for want 0’ gear,
Care crush’d his spirit !
Aft, when the waits were playing by,
I’ve mark’d his viol with a sigh,
Soothing lorn lovers, where they lie,
To visions sweet—
Saft as a mither’s lullaby,
When babies greet ! "

Lhe bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,

And Mary Scott of Yarrow, fair;

Tweedside, and Oh I wish I were
Where Helen lies!

He play’d in tones that suit despair,
When beauty dies !

But a’ this time, wi’ mony a dunder,
Auld guns were brattling aff like thunder ;
: Ease ae
Three parts o’ whilk in ilka hunder,
Did sae recoil,
Folk thought their liths and limbs asunder,
In this turmoil !

Wide o’ the mark, as if to scaur us,
The bullets ripp’d the swaird like harrows ;
And, fright’ning a’ the craws and sparrows
About the place,
Ramrods were fleeing thick as arrows
At Chevy Chace!

Yet still as through the tents we steer,
Unmoved the festive groups appear ;
Lads oxter lasses without fear,
Or dance like wud ;
Blythe, when the guns gaed aff sae-queer,
To hear the thud.

Steeking his een, big John M‘Maff

Held out his musket like a staff ;

Turn’d, though the chiel was half-and-half,
His head away,

And, panting, cried, “ Sirs, is she aff ?”
In wild dismay.

Puir gowk ! ne’er used to war’s alarms,

And but ae holiday in arms,

His fears foresaw a thousand harms ;
3ut here the Muse

Propones, for twa-three friends in arms,
A short excuse,

Peace and gude-will had been sae lang
The burden o’ the people’s sang,
Their arms like useless lumber hang,
Till France, amain,
= Rigen ee ge ie
Decreed, wi’ fell invasion’s fang,
Our soil to stain !

| Moffat, the Buxton of Scotland, then and still a place of fashion-

nate cause, were at that time prisoners in the above fortress. <At |
a ball given by some of their friends, the lady of a Highland chief- |

tain called for a particular tune, which the musicians either could
not, or dared not, play. The name of the tune was Cochruin each
nam Fin each an, or The Gathering of the Clans. ‘‘ I know,” said
the lady, ‘‘ one who can pla
liberty,”
brought from his dungeon, and introduced into the ball-room,
where his violin had such a wonderful effect, that the whole party
took a lively interest in his favour. The lady exerted herself to
ameliorate his condition as a prisoner, and to obtain his pardon,
Her endeavours were successful ; and John was restored to liberty

meaning John Bruce. By her solicitation, John was

and the Highlands,

But John Bruce did not remain long obscured in his native
mountains. His celebrity as a player of ball-music soon pro-
cured him an invitation to lead the band at the assemblies of

aalliamindibiaicmeatmememicenes re ee ee

2 ee
ae Pact gaa oe RNY SE eee =

|

y it, and would play it, if he had his |

able resort in the summer season, and always in great repute for
its mineral springs. His visit to Moffat Wells was repeated with
so much advantage for several seasons, that to avoid the fatigue
and expense of trudging once a-year to and from Brae Mar, he}
formed the resolution, from its vicinity to Moffat, of settling in
Dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his days. He is sup-
posed by Burns to have been the composer of the favourite Scots
air of Whistle o’er the lave o’t.
highly questionable ; for, although John Bruce was an admirable

This opinion, however, appears

performer, he was not known as a composer of music. [In his{
last edition Mr Mayne adds, ‘ the air in question was composed}
long before he (Bruce) existed.” ]

1 John Dingwall was of the first order of our border minstrels. }
In the tender and pathetic melodies of Caledonia, he was without}
arivalon the violin. Ball music, however, was what he professed. |
He had a fine taste also for drawing, which, with music, he taught}
ina number of genteel families in Dumfries. But, what is often the|
misfortune of genius, he wanted confidence in his own abilities
It is not to be wondered, therefore, that John Dingwall lived and}
died in yery narrow circumstances.—

THE SILLER

: : 4
nen, ere our king could gie command,
Up raise the genius 0’ the land !
Dumfries, in mony a chosen band,
Enarm’d appears,
Fit, in ae phalanx, to withstand
A host 0’ spears.

Nor was this fervour only here;
It spread, like wild-fire, far and near !
Scotland, to ilka virtue dear,
Though aft enthrall’d—
Scotland was never in the rear
* . When danger eall’d !

At hame, afield, or far awa’,
She bore the brunt in front of a’!
The last to sheathe, the first to draw
Her auld claymore,
For liberty, her king, and law,
And native shore !

Oh, in his king and country’s cause,
How blest is he wha nobly fa’s!
Bright Fame her gowden trumpet blaws,
And deathless story
Devotes his name, wi’ loud huzzas,
To endless glory !

Amid the scenes, depainted here,

O’ love, and war, and social cheer,

Auld sportsmen fired correct and clear ;
And Samuel Clark,

Mild as the spring, when flow’rs appear,
Just miss’d the mark.

When his gun snappit, James M‘Kee,
Charge after charge, charged to the e’e:
At length she bounced out-ower a tree,
In mony a flinner—
‘‘ For gudesake, bairns, keep back !” cries he ;
‘‘ There’s sax shot in her!”
Will Shanklin brought his firelock hither,
And cock’d it in an unco swither ;
Ae drucken sutor jeer’d anither
To come and learn ;
Fuff play’d the primin’—heels ower ither,
They fell in shairn.
Just in the moment o’ disgrace,
Convener Tamson saw their case ;
Oh, how he hid his manly face,
And fleech’d thae fallows,
To think upon the glorious race
O’ godlike Wallace.
William M‘Nish, a tailor siee,
Roused at the theught, charged his fuzee,
Took but ae vizzy wi’ his e’e—
The bullet flies
Clean through the target to a tee,
And wins the prize !

His winsome wife, wha lang had miss’d him, —

Press’d thro’ the crowd, caress’d and kiss’d him ;

Less furthy dames (wha could resist them ?)
The example take ;

And some held up his bairns, and bless’d them,
For daddy’s sake.

In William’s hat, wi’ ribbons bound,

The gunny was wi’ laurel crown’d 33

1 Although the Silver Gun is adjudged as a prize to the best
marksman, and worn by him as a trophy in his hat in returning
home from the competition, it is only nominally his property,
being invariably relinquished at the end of the festivity for some
honorary equivalent ; and, till another jubilee, deposited in the
strong-box of the corporations. In this manner has the Silver Gun
been preserved and handed down to us by our ancestors. At what

GUN. 35

And, while in triumph ower the ground
They bore him tenty,

His health in streams o’ punch gaed round,
“ Lang life and plenty !”

Wy’ loud applause frae man and woman,

His fame spread like a spate wide foamin’ ;

Warse deeds hae gi’en to mony a Roman
Immortal fame ;

But prodigies are grown sae common,
They’ve tint the name.

a

 

CANTO THIRD.
Wi’ dancin, sangs, and weel-timed daffin,
The afternoon grew late wi’ laughin ;
Auld folk seem’d young again wi’ quaffin
Some favourite’s name ;
And love in youthfw’ breasts was flaffin
A mutual flame.

Sic shakin hands and kind inquiries,

"Tween Uncle Johns and Aunty Marys!

Grave dames in a’ their nice feegaries,
And ancient beaux

Whistlin and singin like canaries,
Blythe and jocose.

Crouse as a cock in his ain eavie,
Wha should be there but Hinny Davie ?
The Gee, and Fare ye weel, Killavie,
He sang sae sweet,
His friends, though knuckle-deep in gravie,
Forgat to eat.

Convener Tamson mensed the board,
Where sat ilk deacon like a lord:
John Blackstock raise and waved his sword,
In loyal glee—
God save the king was thrice encored,
Wi three times three.

0’ a’ the toasts that scour their hauses,
The “ Kirk o’ Scotland” foremost passes ;
“ Dumfries and w its bonnie lasses
And gallant lads,’
Were drunk in magnum-bonum glasses
Wy rufis and dads.
“ 7Tere’s to our liege !”? cries Deacon Gibb,
And drain’d the goblet ilka drib ;
The toast gaed round. “ The royal rib,”
“The prince and a’,”
Were drunk sae aft, that tongues, ance glib,
Scarce wage’d ava’.
ee like midges 7 the sun,
“rae tent to tent the wee things run ;
Lasses, to dance wi’ him wha won,
Are forward pressing 5
And meikle, meikle is their fun,
And fond caressing.

Oh, wi’ what glee the Muse stravaigs
Ower a’ the beauties o’ the Craigs ;
Forgetting a’ the ills and plagues
That aft harass us,
She scours the hills and dales, for leagues,
Round this Parnassus.

Sweet spot! how happy hae I been
Seekin birds’ nests with eager een 5
Or pu’in gowans on the green,
Where waving corn,
Blue-bells, and roses, fringe the scene,
And flowering thorn !

Yonder the lads and lasses group,
‘To see the luckless Lover’s-loup :!

period it was presented to them, is not correctly ascertained. All| 1! Thename of the lover's loup, or leap, is frequently, as in the
accounts concur in ascribing the gift to James VI. during one of | present case, given to rocky precipices. It is evidently allusive to
his excursions to the southern borders; but these excursions, and | a custom among the ancient Greeks, some of whom, we are told,
the circumstances which accompanied them, liye now only in oral | resorted to the leap of Leucate, a renee rock projecting into the
tradition. Ionian Sea, as the only effectual remedy for disappointed love.

 

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Se ama ees

36 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Waes me, that disappointed howp,
That cruel blight,

Should drive folk frae this warld to seowp
To endless night !

Beneath yon cliff, high beetling ower,

Is chaste Diana’s Maiden-Bower: 4

There, sacred to the guardian power,
A tablet stands,

Inscribed by a’ wha mak that tour,
In true-love’s bands.

Sae strait and narrow is-the way,
Nane but pure virgins enter may :
And, oh! it’s sometimes droll, they say,
To see Miss Clack
Her wee infirmities betray,
By turning back.
But, hark! again the chanter’s sound
Invites us where the glass gaes round,
Where mirth and jollity abound,
And kindly greeting—
Pleasures that hae, for ages, crown’d
This merry meeting!

Yet wha can paint yon matron’s fears,
Whase daughter in the dance appears ?
Boding nae gude frae young men’s leers,
She, wi’ concern,
Starts at ilk glance, and thinks she hears
Her ruin’d bairn.
She sees, wi’ sorrow, on the plain,
Jock getting fu’, and Jenny fain;
And dreads, ower true, what Sandy’s say’ng
Frae Nelly’s face,
Flush’d, like red roses after rain,
Wi’ modest grace.
Now word was brought to Deacon Greer,?
Intrench’d wi’ friends, pies, bread, and beer,
That, counter to a mandate clear,
Ane o’ the snobs,
Vain as a peacock, strutted here
In crimson robes.

This news, though nought could happen droller,

Bred the hale party meikle dolour :

A tailor, puff’d wi this day’s valour,
Assumed the man,

And, taking Crispin by the collar,
To carp began:

“ Ye gude-for-naething sutor hash,

Though muisted is your carrot pash,

Tell me, I say, thou Captain Flash,
Withouten charter,

What right hae ye to wear this sash,
And star and garter ?”

“ It sets ye weel, indeed, to speer,”
The suitor answer’d with a sneer:
“J represent King Crispin here!
While, fy for shame,
Your lousy craft to manhood ne’er
Could yet lay claim !”
Cut to the quick wi’ this rebuff,
The astonish’d tailor grew mair gruff ;
And, swearing he was better stuff
Than sic a fouter,
Stripp’d, in a.twinkling, to the buff,
And braved the sutor.
* A ring, a ring!”’ the sutors cried ;
“ A ring, a ring!” the snips replied:

1 The Maiden Bower, at the Craigs, is thus brought under the
supposed influence of Diana, in consequence of the difficulties
experienced by females of otherwise than slender proportions in
getting through acertain chasm, by which the bower is accessible.

2 Mr William Greer was deacon of the tailors, and a zealous as-
sertor of their privileges. The journeymen shoemakers having,
contrary to a previous stipulation, presumed to introduce into
the procession the insignia of King Crispin, occasioned much
uneasiness to this worthy individual.

 

 

I ra ee

   
   

 

 

Some egg’d them on; and, while some tried
To stop their flyting,

The crowd fell back, encircling wide
A space for fighting !

In dread for what might happen niest,

Around the ring the clamour ceased:

Sae croose the twa set up their creest,
Before the toolye,

Folk thought in other’s wames, at least,
They’d sheath a gully.

Wi looks that ill conceal’d his fears,
The tailor in the lists appears:
King Crispin, wha in nobler weirs
Had aften bled,
His brawny arm, indignant, rears,
And, dauntless, said:
* Now tak, thou warst 0’ worthless things,
The vengeance due frae slighted kings !”
Wr that, his garments aff he flings,
And, as he strack,
The supple tailor skips and springs—
Aye jouking back.
To see fair play, or help a frien’,
Folk stoiter’d frae a’ airts, bedeen:
Auld wives, to redd them, ran between,
Like Amazons,
And nought was heard, syne, ower the green,
But screighs and groans.

The tailor-lad, forfoughten sair,
Was knockit down, ance, twice, and mair ;
His bafiled comrades, in despair,
Draw quickly near him,
Heeze up his carcass on a chair,
And chafe and cheer him.

Besprent wi’ blude, besprent wi’ glaur,
His een japann’d, his chafts a-jar—
“ Be thankfu’, man, it is nae waur,”’
Says Edom Bryon;1
* A living dog is better far
Than a dead lion !”
’Mid loud huzzas and women’s squeels,
A dawn of hope the tailor feels ;
Feghts like a cock that rins and wheels;
While dunt, dunt, dunting,
Crispin pursues, trips up his heels,
And leaves him grunting !
Vex’d at the upshot o’ this fray,
The tailors bore their friend away :
Crispin remain’d in kingly sway ;
And loud and lang,
Shouts and wild joy, “hurra! hurra !”
Triumphant rang !
Frae Johnny Groats’s to the border,2
Was ne’er sic tumult and disorder :

 

1 Adam Bryon was a master tailor, remarkable for garrulity
and proverbial expressions.

2 Johnny Groats’ was a house so called from the name of a man,
who, fora long time, kept the ferryboat which passed between
Scotland and the Orcades. Frae Johnny Groats’ to the Border,
means from one extremity of Scotland to the other.

The family of the Groats were of Dutch extraction. hree
brothers of that name, Maleolm, Gavin, and John, went from
the south of Scotland to Caithness, carrying with them a recom-
mendatory letter from James IV., and became proprietors of two
considerable estates in that county. This property was afterwards
divided among eight individuals, all descendants of the same
family. At an annual meeting, which these eight chieftains
were in the custom of holding, a violent dispute arose, which

 

 

 

should first take the door, and which should sit at the top of the
table. This dispute would most probably have terminated in
blood, had not John de Groat, who was the proprietor of the ferry,
interposed, and pledged himself to settle the controversy to the
satisfaction of all parties. Before the next anniversary returned,
John built a room in the form of an octagon, with eight doors
and eight windows; he placed also in the middle an oaken table
of the same figure. When the day of meeting arrived, John de-THE SILLER GUN.

Here discord strave new broils to forder ;
There, beagles flew
To haud the sutor-lads in order ;
But nought would do.
Rob Kinnie, Clench, and Jamie Strong,
And twa-three mae, the feght prolong ;
Where’er they cam, aff flew the throng
O’ country billies,
Like cattle prodit with a prong,
Or cleg-stung fillies.
There’s little wisdom in his pow
Wha lights a candle at the lowe:
To bell the cat wi’ sic a scrow,
Some swankies ettled ;
But, oh! they gat a fearfu’ cowe
Ere a’ was settled !
Rushing like droves o’ madden’d nowt,
Rob’s party caused a gen’ral rout:
Foul play or fair—kick, cuff, and clout—
Right side, or wrang—
Friends feghting friends, rampaged about,
A drucken thrang !
In vain Convener Tamson raised
And waved his hand, like ane half crazed ;
In vain his heralds fleech’d and phrased,
Where strife, lang brewing,
Threaten’d, like Ilium when it blazed,
Baith wreck and ruin !
To furnish weapons for th’ affray,
Kraims, tents, and stands were swept away:
Puist folk, unused to cudgel-play,
And douce spectators,
Were a’ involved in this deray,
Like gladiators !
Nor could ye ken, wi’ nicest care,
The victors frae the vanquish’d there:
Like Kelton-Hill, that feghting fair,!
The hubbleshew,
Wi nieves, and staffs, and rugging hair,
Sae awsome grew!
And aft, as ye may weel suppose,
Where women kindly interpose,
Baith parties gat the sairest blows—
Blows that were gien them
While pu’d and haul’d by their ain joes,
Striving to screen them !

sired each to enter at his own door, and sit at the top of the table ;
and when they were all seated, John took possession of the empty
place. Finding thus no room for jealousy or envy, they spent
the day in harmony and mirth, and parted with sentiments of
brotherly affection. The building was afterwards called John
0’ Groats’ House; and though not a vestige of it now remains,
the place where it once stood still retains the same name.
1 Kelton-hill, in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, is well known
among horse and cattle dealers as the scene of a great fair held
there annually at midsummer. It is called Kelton-hill fair, and
has long been one of the most considerable fairs that are held in
that part of Scotland. From England, Ireland, and the most
distant parts of North Britain, horse-dealers, cattle-dealers, sel-
lers of sweetmeats and of spirituous liquors. gipsies, pickpockets,
and smugglers, are accustomed to resort to this fair. Every house
in the adjoining villages is crowded ; and all become, on this oc-
casion, houses of entertainment. The roads are for a day or two
before crowded with visiters to this fair. On the hill or park
where it is held, tents are erected in rows, so as to form a sort of
street, for the accommodation of the multitude. Through the
whole fair day, one busy tumultuous scene is here exhibited of
bustling backwards and forwards, bargaining, wooing, carousing,
quarrelling, amidst horses, carriages, mountebanks, the stalls of
chapmen, and the tents of the sellers of liquors and of cold
victuals. The fair is held on a Tuesday; and for all the remainder
of the week the villagers are accustomed to wander about, and
eat and carouse at each other’s houses, to consume the cold vic-
tuals which remain of what they had provided for sale at the
fair. Nor is this fair frequented only by the peasantry and the
dealers: the busy scene attracts commonly many of the neigh-
bouring gentry to be spectators, for some short time, of the con-
fusion, the tumult, and the rude festivity, which it displays.

oF

CANTO FOURTH.
At length a parley is decreed—
aes shake hands, and are agreed :
heir anxious leaders, blythe indeed
At this concession,
Rally their troops and homeward speed
In grand procession.
The crowd, in token of applause,
Threw up their hats as black as craws ;
And follow’d fast, wi? loud huzzas,
Except a few
Whase hearts, ower zealous in the cause,
Were squeamish now !

Far as the keenest e’e could run,

The waving flags, and mony a gun,

Buskit wi’ flowers, and yellow whun,
Sae sweetly shining,

Stream’d like a rainbow, while the sun
Was just declining !

And, as the troops drew near the town

With a’ the ensigns 0’? renown i

The magistrates paraded down,
And a’ the gentry;

And love and friendship vied to crown
Their joyous entry.

See, see the conqu’ring hero comes !

The band struck up wi’ a’ their drums;

Louder the big bass-fiddle bums,
The cymbals jingle,

And, in ten thousand thousand hums,
Glad voices mingle. :

Close by Convener Tamson’s side,

The victor march’d wi’ stately stride :

The Seven Trades’ flag, unfurl’d sae wide,
Was borne before ;

And the lang train advanced wi’ pride,
By corps and corps.

Amang the crowd was Johnny Gass,
Kenn’d through Dumfries by lad and lass: 1
Revered abune the common class,

Up late and air,
John had seen saxty simmers pass,

A barber there.

The chronicle o’ former years,

At him ilk ane some question speers 3
But when they spak of auld forebears,
Now dead and gane,

John answer’d only wi’ his tears,
Or made a mane.

Oh! wha, amang the Wrights, is he
That seems, for grace, to bear the gree ?
* It’s Roby Kemp: in him you see,

On virtue’s plan,
The traits o’ true nobility—

An honest man!”

And wha’s he on the milk-white steed ?
“ Wae’s me!” quo’ John, and shook his head ;
6c 1 ae. . ’
The gout has marr’d George Johnston’s speed,
Sinee, in our garden,
We ran, when boys, for gingerbread,
Wi’ Johnny Jardine.

1 John Gass, brother of the notable hostess formerly mentioned,
was a barber and wigmaker. His shop was a kind of news-room,
frequented by quidnuncs and gentlemen of the first consideration,
to whom his anecdotes and information were always acceptable.
John was a great pedestrian in his time, and thought very little
of a journey to Edinburgh in one day, a distance of not less than
seventy miles. Cold, hot, wet, or dry, he seldom wore a hat in his
visits to his customers ; and such was the effect of habit, that
being sent for to Moffat upon particular business, he walked
thither, a journey of twenty-four miles, bare-headed. Asked by
a gentleman what had become of his hat—‘*‘ Hat—hat, sir!” said

 

John, “*’pon my word, sir, J have forgot it!”

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See, too, enarm’d wi’ sword and spear,
M‘Ghee, our ain town’s-bairn, draws near 3}
Sirs, when the Highlandmen were here,

In forty-tive,
His father gar’d them flee for fear,

And skulk belyve.”

But wha, amang the lookers-on,
With aspect meek and mild is yon ?
He’s sure the sire 0’ mony a son,
If ane may guess
By them wha seem to watch the tone
He would express.

« That’s Doctor Chapman 2—shaved by me,”
Quo’ John, “thir thretty years and three:
He and his boarders come to see,

Ere a’ be done,
Our ance-in-seven-years’ jubilee,

The Siller Gun.”

A scholar there, wi’ loud acclaim,
Did homage to the good man’s name:
“Led by the lustre o’ his fame,
Frae far and near,
Lords, lairds, and nabobs, quit their hame,
To study here!

Nor is it only classic lair,
Mere Greek and Latin, and nae mair:
Chapman, wi’ fond parental care,
Has lair combined
With a’ the gems and jewels rar
That deck the mind!

Oh! had I follow’d up the plan

His sage instructions first began ;

The race which my school-fellows ran,
Like stars to shine,

And a’ that elevates the man,
Had now been mine!”

“ But what can keep our John sae lang ?”

Cries Maggy Muncy, in the thrang:

1 Mr William M‘Ghee was a painter and glazier in Dumfries.
His father followed the same occupation, and was the happy
though unintentional cause of the precipitate flight here alluded
to. On Saturday the 2ist of December 1745, Prince Charles Ed-
ward, on his retreat from England, halted at Dumfries with a
division amounting to about five hundred of his army, intending
to remain there for some days. In the mean time, the king’s
forees, under the command of the Duke of Cumberland, advanced
towards Carlisle, where Charles had left a garrison of about three
hundred men. A rumour of this event having reached Dumfries
on the Sunday morning, old painter M‘Ghee, as he was familiarly
called, was sent out, being a friend of the rebels, to watch the
movements of the royal army. Wearied with hovering all day on
the road, the painter had just sat down to refresh himself in a
public-house at Annan, a town nearly midway between Carlisle
and Dumfries, when a wag, suspecting the nature of his errand,
told him, with apparent concern, that Carlisle had surrendered to
the Duke of Gumberland; and that, having crossed the River
Esk, he was in full march after the rebels. Big with this news,
M‘Ghee instantly tretted off for Dumfries, where, arriving about
midnight, he carried his important information directly to head-
quarters, at the house of a Mr Lothian. After a short delibera-
tion, the drums beat to arms, and by daybreak on the Monday
the Highlandmen had left the town, having previously lived at
free quarters, and demanded a contribution of £2000 in money, a
thousand pairs of shoes, &c. &c. About £1100 of this demand
had been paid; and Provost Crosbie of the Holm, now called
Goldielee, near Dumfries, and Walter Riddle, Esq. of Glenriddle,
were carried off to Glasgow as hostages for the remainder.

2 This truly excellent man was for many years rector of the
grammar-school in Dumfries. He died in 1806, in the eighty-
third year of hisage. His ‘‘ Treatise on Nducation” every reader
will peruse with pleasure and improvement: its real value can be
ascertained by those only who were acquainted with the man, and
who knew how well the virtues and excellences which that treatise
was intended to form, were exemplified in the conduct of its vene-
rable author.

 

 

 

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

“ T left him happy, hale, and strang,
Wi’ sash and sword on—

Gude grant there may be naething wrang
Wv Johnny Gordon!”

Lang, lang they dander’d to and fro,

Wha miss’d a kinsman or a beau:

The pomp and splendour o’ the show,
To them and theirs,

Brought nought but apprehensive woe,
And fruitless cares.

Back to the Craigs they hie again,

To seek their friends amang the slain:

By the road-sides, and on the plain,
The drucken crew,

Heart-sick, and penitent in vain,
Were unco fu’!

The Muse is sorry to pourtray
The fuddled heroes o’ the day:
Nae camp, when war has reft away
Her brightest sons,
Could sic a ruefu’ scene display
0’ men and guns!

Their firelocks broke, their doublets torn,
And eke King Crispin a’ forlorn !
Here lay, beside the bugle horn,
A cat-gut strummer ;
And there, blythe herald o’ the morn,
The parish drummer !

Even Geordy Smith, though stark and slee,
Was there as fu’ as fu’ could be:
Reviewing still, in fancy’s e’e,
The martial train—
“* Now, gentlemen ! now look”’— eries he,
And snored again !

Carts, syne, wi’ sic as dughtna gae,
Were pang’d till they could haud nae mae :
Rob Kinnie, Clench, and sic as thae,
Now blind and lame,
Sad wights! wi ribs baith black and blae,
Were harl’d hame.

But turn, my Muse, frae scenes debasing,

To windows filled wi’ beauty gazing—

To streets wi’ happy thousands praising
The passing show ;

And bonfires crackling loud, and blazing,
As on they go.

Ding, ding, ding, dang, the bells ring in,
fhe minstrels screw their merriest pin 5
The Magistrates, wi’ loyal din,
Tak aff their cau’kers ;
And boys their annual pranks begin,
Wi’ squibs and crackers.

Wae’s me for Deacon Ronald’s jeezy,
That sat sae orthodox and easy !
For, while he smiled at his ain Leezy,
A squib cam whizzing,
Set a’ its ringlets in a bleezy,
And left them bizzing!

And wae’s me, likewise, for the folly,

That folk half-fu’ should fire a volley !

As through the town they marched sae jolly ;
A feu de joie

Had nearly led.to melancholy,
And great annoy !

Tat, tat, a-rat-tat, clitter, clatter,

Gun after gun play’d blitter, blatter :

A random shot, not levell’d at her,
Hit Nanny Nairm—

Gart bonnie Nanny’s blue een water,
And hurt her arm !

This, when Convener Tamson saw,
Iie grieved, and soon dismiss’d them a’ ;a san = = -
ee — ——

See pb

‘ bash h
THE MILLION OF POTATOES. , 39 :
me, wi’ the ? ; See Kose ‘
Syne, wi bere! tek d awa, Nor is it only here and there— ‘
ae an e1 ylie’s, ; Ae bonnie lassie, and nae mair ; ;
And too oe sea te ce Town’s-Ha’, O’ beauties, gracefw’ as they are
: : © e »
mang the bailies. Throughout the nation,
Arriving in an unco flutter, Dumfries can boast, beyond compare, '
The coffee-cups began to clutter ; A constellation ! ;

~ yp / . 7 yet bd ‘ a ' j

But first, Mass John, grave Doctor Mutter,! For them, assemblies and the play

WY pious care,
And a’ the zeal that grace could utter,
Preferr’d this pray’r :—

Conclude the pleasures 0’ the day : ;

In birthday-dress, sae fine and cay
= es O27
The belle and beau,

“ Oh, Thou! by whose resistless law, In chairs and chariots, stop the way—

Kings, kingdoms, empires, stand or fa? ! A splendid show,

Watch ower this realm; bless great and sma’;
Keep, keep us free !

And fill our hearts wi’ rev’rend awe

es

> Aare ars

A’ ranks in loyal freaks agreeing,
‘he mingled scene was weel worth seeing :
Big bonfires here—there, boys te-heeing—

‘orp tp « my 9
For truth and Thee ! Crowds on the streets—
The Town-clerk next, a fallow fine, Dead cats, and duddy doublets fleeing,
Wha ne’er loed water in his wine, And burning peats !

Gar’d bring the great big gardevine,
And fill the glasses :

WY’ thrice three cheers, in bumpers, syne,
The claret passes !

But Bailie Clark, wha seldom brooks

The pastime that like mischief looks,

Sent for John Doogan frae the Neuks,
And, at his’¢ea’,

“ The King,” and other loyal toasts : John quench’d the fires, and fley’d, like rooks

“ Health, peace, and plenty, round our cousts ;” The bays awa’!

“ Our fleets,’ and “a@ our armed hosts ;”
Were drank aloud ;

And names of whilk the country boasts,
And may be proud.

Foe Cp Bee aE pia

eke So

Lang had the callans, morn and noon,
Look’d forward to the fourth o’ June ;
And sair they grudge, when now, in tune,
The joy-bells chime
: : ae ae ee
Duncan’s, a never-dying name, Their pleasures cropp’d, like flowers ower soon,
And Abercromby’s, dear to fame ; Before their prime.
Wallace, and Bruce, Sir John the Greeme,
And names like theirs,
Heroes and patriots shall proclaim,
To Scotland’s heirs !

ee

Hame, as the gloamin nearer draws,

Convener Tamson slips his wa’s,

Where wife and weans, in a’ their braws,
And best complexion,

Scotland ! my ain dear native land! Crown the last transports of applause
England, her sister, great and grand! Wi’ sweet affection.

Would Ireland join us, heart and hand,

a6 s .
Jocosely, in the gardy chair
Without commotion, y J :

: - He tells the day’s adventures there ; j

Our faes would crumble like the sand Gyre, exchilicsbaliena to Neto :

peor oe, For mercies given, es i

The Provost spoke a speech belyve : His gratefu’ thoughts, in fervent prayer, j

“ Wha can the valiant Seots descrive ? Ascend to Heaven. |

Aye foremost where the bravest strive, Withee oumiciedit = et ee

And aye victorious ; M - Saotlandichae thee ee

Or, hindmost, wi’ the few alive May Scotland, happy, rave, and free, j

: Reece mations p> Aye flourish like the green bay tree— }

See And may Dumfries, f

Of early scenes the singers sung, In a’ her revelry and glee,

In days of yore, when life was young— Blend love and peace! p

When music dwelt on ilka tongue, ;

And a’ the arts i

To peace their gowden harps had strung, wee ;

WY lightsome hearts.

; THE MILLION OF POTATOES. i

The bailies caught the welcome strain, i

And made the ha’ resound again : (This humorous tale, which seems to relate a real incident, is ;

God save the King, and bless his TELM, extracted from a volume entitled ‘* Poems and Songs, chiefly in i

And still watch o’er US, the Scottish Dialect,” by George M‘Indoe, Edinburgh: 1805, ‘

And Rule, Britannia, rule the main, Mr M‘Indoe is a native of Glasgow, where he now resides. | In :
Were sung in chorus. this and some other of his compositions, he shows, in our opinion,

~ considerable talents for droll description ; and we have little doubt :

But vain is a’ the poet’s art that the Million of Potatoes, though somewhat objectionable as 2
To paint this banquet o” the heart— only the commemoration of a piece of rustic cunning, will make

The town’s-folk a’ on the alert, many wonder that the author should be so little known. ] |

i rave, the gay |

Happy ein ae ilieee pare Last Martinmas, saroney a oo sleet,

On sic a day. At Cumbernau dt ie laird to mee 5 “

On his auld spavit beast, ;

And where could love or fealty trace Out-ower the hirst, and cross the bent, x

A mansion like this bonnie place ? To pay the bygane towmont’s rent, |

Where manliness, in a’ its grace, John Dubs cam hotchin east.

Protects the land ; _
Where beauty’s saft enchanting face
Is blythe and bland.

The laird sat knoofin ower his glass ;
Baith rum and brandy, naething less,
Stood sparkling on the aa, i
¢ j ra: ’s a’ at hame 2

1 Dr Thomas Mutter, minister of St Michael's, or the Old ; MR 3 hows A ae
Church of Dumfries, was a man of distinguished talents, of great S valict r Sy ear is aoe ? .
eloquence as a preacher, and very eminent as a theologist. or wark ne .om ee

Sg et Can cae sen A TOT

6 PTI NE ET

What feck 0’ stirks and milk-cows hae ye ?
Your ploughman, Tam, is he still wi’ ye ?
Gude craps 0’ corn and bere ?
Peas, beans, potatoes, wheat, and rye,
Plenty o’ clover for the kye,
I hope ye’ve had this year ?”

“T thank ye, sir,” quo’ John, “ for speerin,
Though weel-a-wat scarce worth the shearin
Was either corn or wheat ;

But saebins this is auld term-day,
The rent nae doubt ye’ll gar us pay
Whether or no we hae’t.”

John chirted out his hairy purse,
Made frae the back o’ some auld horse,
As rough as ony spleuchian ;
“And while he counted ower the cash,
The laird gar’d fill the stoup afresh,
And in his sleeve was laughin.
John paid his rent, though wi’ a grudge ;
The laird let grab, and gied a fidge—
“I hope ye’ll never miss’t ;
Here’s to you, John, I wish ye health ;
May you and yours wi’ wit and wealth
O’ warld’s gear be blest.”

Syne routed up a glass for John,
Wha ne’er the less was thinkin on
A trap he had prepared
Upon the road ; though cauld and wet,
Nought troubled John but how to get
Advantage o’ the laird.

To drive his sinfu’ drift the sooner,

He maun begin wi’ “ Please your honour”’—
(Flattery wha can resist ?)

* Ye hae a hunder bows or twa

O’ London dons, I never saw’
Ony. sae gude amaist.

Your honour, sir” (and claw’d his head),
“1’d like a few for next year’s seed,

If ye would let me hae them.”
“How mony want ye?” quo’ the laird ;
John thought a wee, and fand his beard—

“ ‘Twa bows, an ye could gie them.”

“'l'wa bows, nae doubt, I might could spare,
But a’ the crap was sald fern-year
To honest Walter Bryce,
At half a guinea every bow ;
Now, gin ye like, this year’s to you
I’ll gie at the same price.
But to disperse them a’ in taits,
Through different hands, at different rates,
Although the price were doubled—
Twa bows to this man, three to that,
Four to a third—’deed, John, that’s what
I ne’er could wi’ be troubled.”

* Weel, weel, we’se no insist,” quo’ John,
(Lengthen’d his face and gied a groan),
“Tt maks but little matter ;”
(A saint ye’d think, if ane’s alive,
But faith how many beans mak five

Than John deil ane kens better).

* Your honour’s weel-being I wish,”
(We maunna throw awa’ the dish,
Thinks he, though Crummie fling) ;!
“* Lang may your usefw’ life be spared,
We subjects a’ had better fared
If ye had been the king.

I‘or ne’er did mortal fill a throne,
Siice that wise monarch Solomon,
That could wi’ you compare
I"or wisdom, sense, and honesty ;
Your honour, muckle may ye hae—
That muckle aye grow mair.”

1 A Scottish proverb.

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

 

  

In the laird’s nieve John ramm’d his mill,
The laird ca’d in anither gill ;
“ Things now are looking up,”
Thinks John; “I see he’s taen the bait ; |
The fau’t’s my ain if now I let |
The precious moment slip.” |

Close to the laird John draws his chair,
Wha, unsuspicious, unaware

What a’ this kindness meant—
“ Go, sir,” quo’ John, “ I’m sure ye’ll never
Refuse a tenant this sma’ favour.”

“ What is it, John, ye want?” )
Quo’ John, as he the glass was fillin,
“ Your dons, wer’t but a single million,

I'd be right happy ower them :”

“A million, John! ye’re aye sae funny ;
A million canna be that mony—

What will ye gie me for them?”

“ Your honour, sir (hum ha), I think
(And rang the bell for pen and ink),
They’ll run about ten pecks.”
“ For twal pecks’ price, John, ye shall get them,
They’re counted gude by a’ e’er ate them ;”
(John hirsled on his specks).

* Your honour’s will, a bargain be’t;
We’ll put it upon black and white,
In case it be forgot ;
It’s lang ere I the tatties need,
And time gars things wear out 0’ head’”—
The laird sign’d what John wrote.

Four months elapsed, seed-time drew on,
To lift his bargain east gaes John ;
The laird look’d ower the yett.
“ Good morrow, sir!” “ Weel, John, what now?”
** Ha, sir, your honour fill’d me fou
Amaist, last time we met.

Frithat I mind, when right weel on,
A million o? your dons,” quo’ John,
(His auld grey head he scrunted) ;
“ Ay, that’s as true—ye’re very right ;
Bring yont your Tam to-morrow night,
And we shall hae them counted.”

 

“ Deed, sir (hum ha), ’twill tak some time
To. count a million—I’se gae hame
And bring Tam east to-morrow,
An’t answers you, ’tween three and four ;
Your Jad and him can count them ower—
Frae Janet I shall borrow

A shilling, aiblins aughteen-pence,
To mak you some kind 0’ a mense
For treating me sae weel
At Martinmasain the head inn—
Ingratitude’s a bigger sin
Than traffic wi’ the deil.”

Wi’ what John said the laird was pleased
Sae weel, his very hand he squeezed,

And clapp’d him on the shouther !
“ At your ain time, John ; I'll be glad
To see you here the morn,” and said

He liked him as a brother.

Next day John and his ploughman Tam,
Whase face was like a bacon ham,

Which baith round, brown, and fat is,
Gaed yont; John’s hand the laird he shook it ;
To count, his man and Tam were yoket,

Ten hunder thousand tatties.

Wi’ nieves like grapes they to the guddle ;
The laird maun condescend to fuddle
John’s Janet’s aughteen-pence ;
Hech! but this warld’s ill divided,
No ae drap where it’s far maist needed ;
“ Mind self,’ is right gude sense.a ara ee ee ee — ON a Nagi

EDINBURGH, OR THE ANCIENT ROYALTY

They counted a’ that afternoon,
Five hours’ close wark ; when they were done,
a Says Tam, “ We'll hae them met ;”
hey measured just eight seore 0’ pecks :
This job, I doubt, the laird will vex
But forty thousand yet !”
As day brake butter brake: the laird
And John cam stepping through the yard—
*“* Weel, lads, how come ye on?
*Is this the million lying here 2
And are ye sure ye’ve counted fair 2
Wrang’d neither side 2” quo?’ John.
“The million ! faith, its nae sic thing
There’s forty thousand aff the bing, .
Whilk measures just ten bows !”?1
The laird would neither bind nor haud
Stamp’d and raged like ane stark mad—
John calmly primed his nose.
“ Ye needna be in sic a huff,
, Your rage I dinna care a snuff,
(Coughs) That I dinna care’t ;
I want nae mair than what’s my right :
“ Gae,” says the laird— gae frae my sight ;”
Quo’ John, “ I’m no soon fear’t.”
A plea commenced ; John gain’d the day—
Poor soul, the laird was forced to pay
A hunder pounds and ten
Ere John would yield the grip he had ;
But feelingly the laird he bade
Tak better care again.

DWANAONRRN nw

EDINBURGH, OR THE ANCIENT ROYALTY.

[This curious eclogue, the composition of Sir Alexander Bos-
well, Bart., appeared in 1810, with the fictitious name of Simon
Gray appended to it. It contains many amusing, and, we believe,
faithful traits of the manners of Edinburgh society in the last
age.] -

TOWNSMAN.

Yow’re welcome, farmer, to our ancient town;

Here, take a chair, my friend, and sit you down.

You come in lucky hour; our dinner’s hot,

And you must take a share of what we’ve got.

I say again, you’re welcome to Auld Reekie ;—

Here are fresh herrings, and here’s cockileekie ;

The market’s near, and, as you are our guest,

A good beaf-steak shall soon supply the rest.

FARMER.

I thank you; for I know you are sincere,
-And freely give your hospitable cheer.
Your fare is excellent—far from the sea,
A bit of fish is luxury to me.

TOWNSMAN.
Luxury ! name not that unhallow’d phrase ;?
The very word makes cynic ire to blaze.
Have you not heard how this our hapless city,
Without reserve or common Christian pity,
For very luxury, “God save the mark!”
Is to the devil sent and regions dark ;
Given to the sentence of harsh condemnation,
For the unheard-of crime of imitation ?
Those who have cash, it seems, come here to spend ;
Folks, as their purses fill, their views extend ;

1 Four pecks of potatoes, of an ordinary size, make a thousand.
2 Tn a late anonymous publication, the author, in what he con-
siders satirical verses, attacks the luxurious habits of the present
generation of ‘‘ fashioned youth.” It is fair to confess, that, de-
coyed by the title-page, we skimmed the pages; and though we
nay give credit to the author’s sincerity and good intentions, it
is hardly necessary to say, that we are less inclined to admire
either his taste, genius, or judgment. Instead of frequent pot-
luck enjoyments, it seems folks now-a-days regale their friends
with a feast, which, if as seldom attempted as the author paints,
cannot induce bankruptcy. The dress of the inhabitants is cer-
tainly very much improved; and, excepting now and then some
feppish shopman, there seems no absurd extravagance amongst
the tradespeople of Edinburgh.

 

 

- SE Gia _——

4]

And we, the citizens, in part partaking
Are guilty of the sin of merry-making..
Pee or in passion,
Rea a ee of manners and town fashion,
_ ange, and summons poor Edina

0 mend her ways, with terrible subpoena,
is FARMER.
: was ever so, in each succeeding age 5
to rail at present times is still the rage.
Ihe sour and discontented ever growl,
All former days are fair, all present foul ;
coe never-smiling misanthrope,

pubieters present good, and blasts our hope ;
Prates of corruption’s overwhelming tide
And, by invective, gratifies self-pride.
Monee se ee ae
a inged, s ust change again:
Time was, the wits of Anna’s golden age,}
Whose tyrant genius sway’d the classic page,
With magic melody of powerful song .
Awed into native nothingness the throng ;
Inflated impotence collapsed and shrunk,
Fretted unknown, or in oblivion sunk.
Few rhymsters then would dare the public view:
Wie could write doggrels, but could burn them too.
Now every bungler courts the public eye ;
Hotpress’d he shines, and simple fools will buy 5?
Deck’d in the gaudy trappings of the trade,
With graphie and with typographic aid,
Splendid in margin, cuts, and types, and ink,
In green to flourish, or to blush in pink.

TOWNSMAN.
You talk, my friend, with most surprising skill,
Whose days are pass’d remote, on dale and hill,
And seem even liberal sentiments to feel.
Soon shall we finish this, our good plain meal ;
Well pleased I then shall listen to your tale,
O’er bumpers foaming high of Giles’s ale.
FARMER

I’m but a rustic: far removed from harm,
I watch the culture of an ample farm ;
Our neighbouring markets, and the price of grain,
The choice of stock, the likelihood of rain,
Ploughs, harrows, sheep, and oxen, are my care,
And my red letter day some well-known fair.
To such as me, though wisdom is denied,3
We oft must chat around a warm fireside.

1 The author seems here to be a little infected with the disposi-
tion to cant against the moderns. It is far from our inclination
to decry the exertions of those who contribute to the innocent
amusement of mankind. There is surely, however, too copious
a discharge of sonnets, ballads, and light poetry, at once frivolous
and injurious, in as much as they tend to deprave the public
taste. The answer is obvious. The public is the best judge of
what can please and what deserves to be admired. Beitso. No-
thing is left for the discomfited critic but a shrug of regret.

2 Ts it fit subject for censure, that the typographic art has at-
tained such general perfection? Certainly not. But is it unrea-
sonable to expect that a work should stand the test of public
opinion before so much ornament is lavished upon it? It affords
encouragement to the artist, indeed, who labours often to ilus-
trate works, not easily illustrated otherwise; and volumes may
be preserved and valued for the cuts. Besides, as libraries are
become part of the tasteful decoration of a house, none but hand-
some books are in request. A young man of fashion, who had
become suddenly a book collector—of those only, indeed, clothed
in russia or morocco—was accosted at a sale by a disappointed
scholar, whose purse could not maintain the contest—‘** What,
sir, are you become a collector?” ‘* Yes,” replied the other, ** to
be sure; don’t you know that I have a library sixty feet long cs

3 In proof of the inability of us poor farmers for sapient disqui-
sition, let us listen to the wisdom of the son of Sirach:—‘‘ How
can he get wisdom that holdeth the plough, and that glorieth in
the goad; that driveth oxen, and is occupied in their labours, and
whose talk is of bullocks? He giveth his mind to make furrows,
and is diligent to give the kine fodder.” —Ecclesiasticus, XXxXviii.
25, 26. Intelligence, however, is spreading amongst us, and larger
farms admit of our exerting our minds as well as our bodies.

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42

Old age is garrulous ; I’m somewhat too,

When some old story rushes to my view.

These locks, you see, are grey, and guess, I ween,
That many a bleaching winter I have seen.

I studied for the Kirk,! and you must know,
Dwelt in your city forty years ago.

I love her yet—nor careless, prithee, deem

Your country guest to old Edina’s theme.

I feel long slumbering academic fire

Wake in my veins, and flitting dreams inspire.
Old as I am, I’ll mount on Fancy’s wing,

And, like a dying swan, I’ll try to sing.”

Let me then grasp, though in a feeble hand,

Like some old necromancer, Fancy’s wand.

Thus, while I wave it round, all disappears

That time and art have done in fifty years:
Hence every dome that swells your Adam’s fame !3
Hence every street that bears some royal name !
Fly, as before John Knox each letter’d saint,

Fly every holy rogue from stone and paint !

To non-existence either bridge consign’d,

Leave not on faney’s eye a wreck behind:

Ye formal squares and parallels, begone !

Hailes and Craigleith, resume your mass of stone.

*Tis done, and lo! to gréet the coming year,

See Barefoot’s Parks in vernal pride appear ;
Long broken walls enclose a narrow road,

Which leads by Lady Di’s retired abode ;

The Nor-Loch fills, and odours sweet exhales,
And neighbouring tan-pits scent the passing gales.
Fancy, once more at thy divine command, ~
Within the Ancient Royalty I stand!

How the reviving scene my bosom soothes !

In Creech’s rear behold the Luckenbooths ;
Beneath the churches’ shadow, in the Kraims,
See toys, and gloves, and pattens, for the dames ;
And in mid-street, fit theme for laureate bard,
The proper castle of the City Guard.

Perch’d on its breech, one cannon it could boast,
Which mark’d it for a military post.

Oft have I seen one of the gallant band

Beside that very cannon listless stand,

With arms across, upon its mouth recline,

And watch with care the hour that he might dine 5
While o’er the semi-door his comrade hung,

Who, spite of soft entreaty’s witching tongue,

In durance held some rogue, in that black hole
Which might appal the most courageous soul:
While, reckless of the bright Lochaber axe,

my = S

The sable sootiman would dust his sacks.

Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise,4
Whose summits mingle with the azure skies 5

1 This accounts for the smattering of versification which the
author has retained, and for his skill in alluding to the severe
sentence in the wisdom of the son of Sirach.

2 The song of a dying swan is so seldom heard, that the simili-
tude is not likely to be roughly questioned. If not quite as musi-
eal, the author may render this song correct in another point,
by making it his last.

3 The celebrated architect; but who, in his plans for the city,
has not befriended the glazier quite so much as modern taste re-
quires.

4 The inconvenience of the lofty mansions. of ancient Edinburgh
is severely felt by the inhabitants, who, as they approach the
clouds, are heavily taxed for the transport of the necessaries of
life which are drawn from the lower world. And it is not to be
marvelled at, that lazy menials should have availed themselves
of the facility of an open window, when opposed to the laborious
duty of descending and reascending some hundreds of steps, to
deposit on the pavement those incumbrances which were sure to
reach their destination by the shorter process. Our neighbours
of the south may spare their grins; for this part of the science of
projectiles was once as much practised in famous London town—
a fact upon record. At the same time, it is most deeply to be re-
gretted, that the abominable system of common stairs has been
allowed to contaminate the extended royalty. While the protec-
tion of the ramparts was indispensable, it was pardonable to heap
house upon house to accommodate the increasing population

POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

 

 

There, from the earth the labouring porters bear
The elements of fire and water high in air ;
There, as you scale the steps, with toilsome tread,
The dripping barrel madefies your head ;

Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel,

A rising porter greets you with his creel.

How recollections rush upon my mind,

Of Lady Stairs’s Close and Blackford’s Wynd!
There lived our nobles, and here judges dwelt—
Oh, that my muse in sympathy could melt!
Here, in these chambers, ever dull and dark,

The lady gay received her gayer spark,

Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,
Trembled at opening casements over head ;

But when in safety at her porch he trod,

He seized the ring, and rasp’d the twisted rod.

“ No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,
Link’d six-a-row, six hours in Princes Street ;
But, one by one, they panted up the hill,

And pick’d their steps with most uncommon skill ;
Then, at the cross, each join’d the motley mob—

“ How are ye, Tam?” and, “ How’s a’ wi’ ye, Bob?”
Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,

And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired.
O’er draughts of wine the beau would moan his love ; 2
O’er draughts of wine the cit his bargain drove ;

O’er draughts of wine the writer penn’d the will;

And legal wisdom counsell’d o’er a gill:

White wine and marmalade was then the rage,

It soothed the youngster and regaled the sage.

 

9?

Ye “fashion’d” youths, who while away the noon,
And balance lightly on a silver spoon

The trembling fragments of the amber pile—
Yes! o’er a glass of jelly whilst ye smile,

Blush for your flimsy and degenerate food!

With patriot palates seek your country’s good ;
Oh, call the ancient beverage in aid—

Call virtue back—white wine and marmalade!

Then were the days of comfort and of glee!
When met to drink a social cup of tea :3—

The chequer’d chairs, in seemly circle placed ;
The Indian tray with Indian china graced ;
The red stone teapot with its silver spout ;

The teaspoons number’d,* and the tea jill’d out!
Rich whigs and cookies smoke upon the board,
The best that Keir the baxter can afford.
Hapless the wight, who, with a lavish sup,
Empties too soon the Lilliputian cup!

within their limits; but it is to be hoped that we shall see no more
of these nuisances created in our days.

1 This mode of demanding admittance we believe to be peculiar
to Edinburgh, and exists at this moment on many a door within
the ancient royalty. The boasted tattoo of a London footman is
nothing, when compared with this concentrated series of rapid
and minute pulsations.

2 See Arnot’s History of Edinburgh, where this custom is par-
ticularly mentioned, but is said entirely to have ceased before
the year 1770. The white wine and marmalade appointments had
indeed fallen into disuse, but it was certainly still common to
transact business at a tavern, where a bottle of wine was friend
and arbitrator.

3 This old custom is more to be regretted in its demise, than
perhaps any other that can be mentioned. It was an easy mean
of bringing together many pleasant people, without much previous
preparation, and without formality. When fifty friends lived
within three hundred yards of each other, they were soon invited,
and as easily collected. It was the sole recompense for crowded
population and common stairs. The tea parties were those chiefly
in which the ladies partook. There was, indeed, occasionally a
supper; but that was a matter of no light consideration. The
men flew to the tavern for social intercourse, for luxury, and for
debauchery. Clubs without number were instituted, and most
faithfully attended. Some of them have even survived to this
day. The tea parties, as they then existed, were the resort of all
who wished for elegant and cordial intercourse.

4 This precaution of numbering the spoons, enabled the atten-
tive hostess to return to each guest the cup that had already kissed
the lip—a gratification to sqyueamish fancies which cannot be hoped
for now-a-days, when the slop is conducted behind the curtain.a a = RI ae ao mea —

EDINBURGH, OR THE

Though patience fails, and though with thirst he burns
All, all must wait till the last cup returns.
That cup return’d, now see the hostess ply

The teapot, measuring with equal eye.

To all again, at once, she grants the boon,

Dispensing her gunpowder by platoon.

They chat of dress (as ladies will) and cards

And fifty friends within three hundred yards ;

Or now they listen all, in merry glee, ;

While Nancy Dawson, Sandie o’er the lea,

(Than foreign cadence surely sweeter far),

Ring on the jingling spinet or guitar.

The clogs are ready when the treat is O'ER,

And many a blazing lantern leaves the door.

Then were the days of modesty of mien!
Stays for the fat, and quilting for the lean.!
The ribbon’d stomacher, in many a plait,
Upheld the chest and dignified the gait ;
Some Venus, brightest planet of the train,
Moved in a lutestring halo, propp’d with cane.
Then the Assembly Close received the fair—
Order and elegance presided there;

Each gay Right Honourable had her place
To walk a minuet with becoming grace ;

No racing to the dance, with rival hurry—
Such was thy sway, oh famed Miss Nicky Murray ! 2
Each lady’s fan a chosen Damon bore,

With care selected many a day before ;

For, unprovided with a favourite beau,

The nymph, chagrined, the ball must needs forego ;
But, previous matters to her taste arranged,

Certes the constant couple never changed ;

Through a long night, to watch fair Delia’s will

‘ 3
The same dull swain was at her elbow still.

TOWNSMAN.
But, prithee, paint the parents’ anxious aid,
Which rear’d the honest man and virtuous maid;
The cautious nurture of the youthful mind
By precepts guided, purified, refined.

3

FARMER.
Yes! mark the street, for youth the great resort,3
Its spacious width the theatre of sport!
There the young scavenger and youthful lord
Pour forth infantine smut in sweet accord ;

1 A note upon female dress is a daring attempt. But, in sober
seriousness, does any rational man harbour for a moment the
wish to send back the persons of our lovely women to be tortured,
by laborious and athletic lacing, into an unnatural and preposte-
rous tenuity? We hear much of modern nakedness; but look at
the portraits of the grandmothers of the present generation.
There the exemplary dames have very demurely exhibited, as the
painter’s model, more, I presume, than even the boidest and most
dashing of the present day venture to offer to the transient gaze.
The transition from spacious hoops and quilting, to what are
fancifully termed invisible petticoats, is a violent change indeed.
But which is the most becoming the human form, and which the
most deserving topic for ridicule and admonitory satire? The
snowy garments, which float upon the breeze, are a happy con-
trast to the dark prints on which our thrifty matrons used to
lavish the pleasing encomium, ‘‘ that they kept so long clean.”

2 Of this renowned mistress of the ceremonies, what avails it to
tell the present generation, although their grandmothers cannot
have forgot her; and those among tiger. that were handsome,
doubtless remember with complacency the preference she gave to
a beauty, without forgetting the rules of titled precedence.

3 The author certainly does not mean to slander the paternal
care of your progenitors, but merely endeavours to show that
there was neglect, as there still is neglect, in those who forgot
and who do forget their duty. The company of the idle and pro-
fligate of the lowest class must have proved injurious to those of
a better station; for what constitutes the gentleman but the utter
estrangement from every mean idea? The low-born man who at-
tains that, towers above the grovelling lord who forgets his station
and himself, and is so welcomed in society. That such associa-
tion was permitted, the recollection of numbers must bear testi-

mony. All were not lost, but many sunk. From the present
habits of society, this evil is much amended; and it is no longer
a boast to be a blackguard.

 

Se es Sg =

ANCIENT ROYALTY. 43

To every secret haunt with speed they fly,
Or watch with listening ear the scream Hie spie.
There, ’midst the crowd, the jingling hoop is driven,
Full many a leg is hit and curse is given ;
Hor stooping porters, tott’ring under coals,
In Scoto-Celtie accents, “ tamn their souls.”
There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalk’d,
Defaced, renew’d—delay’d, but never balk’d :
There romping miss the rounded slate may drop,
And kick it out with persevering hop,
Till her associates in the froward game

hie to the filthy cellars whence they came.
There, in the dirty current of the strand,

Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,

And, wading through the puddle with slow pace,
Watch in solicitude the doubtful race ;

And there an active band, with frequent boast,
Vault in succession o’er each wooden post.

Or a bold stripling, noted for his might,

Heads the array and rules the mimie fight :
From hand and sling now fly"the whizzing stones,
Unheeded broken heads and broken bones:

The rival hosts in close engagement mix,

Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks:

The bicker rages,? till some mother’s fears

Ring a sad story in a bailie’s ears.

Her prayer is heard ; the order quick is sped;
And from that corps which hapless Porteous led,
A brave detachment, probably of two,

Rush, like two kites, upon the warlike crew,
Who, struggling like the fabled frogs and mice,
Are pounced upon, and earried in a trice.

But mark that motley group in various garb—
There vice begins to form her rankling barb ;
The germ of gambling sprouts in pitch and toss,
And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.

1 We cannot help remarking the almost instinctive love for the
course, which has ever existed in Scotland, although the excessive

‘decorum of our Reformation, which banished all amusements,

checked even the panting inclination for the sports of the field.
Our neighbours of the south owe the vice of horse-racing, and the
attendant merit of breeding the noblest of the noblest of animals,
to us of Caledonia. Gambling is not an essential in the course,
though men may stake their money on that as they may upon
any other event. There is no doubt, however, that the love of
the course has long been depressed and decried in Scotland, al-
though our poets and preachers avail themselves of the simile
with unabated ardour. The author of a late publication called
‘** Town Fashions,” with our native love for sport, but with that
ignorance which its disuse has brought amongst us, gives the fol-
lowing specimen of his skill in horsemanship :—
‘* Why dwell on fashions ? Who-can stay their course ?

Think you to check them as you would your horse ?

Pull as you will, in spite of curb and whip,

The jades will on, and take their five-bar leap.”

In proof of the antiquity of horse-racing amongst us, I subjoin
two advertisements, taken from the Mercurius Caledonius, a jour-
nal published in Edinburgh in the year 1661 :—

‘* March 8th, 1661.—The famous horse course of Cupar in Fife,
which by the iniquity of the times hath been so long buried, to
the great dissatisfaction of our nobility and gentry, is to be run,
conform to the institution, upon the second Tuesday of April.
There is a considerable number of horses to carry on the work of
the day; among others, a Waywood of Polonia hath a Tartarian
horse. This hoble gentleman was pleased to come to this nation,
to congratulate our happy Restauration ; and it is to be desired
that such curious gallants as comes from foreign nations to see
the course, that they do not, as others formerly did, sleep in the
time of the solemnity.”

‘© March 22d, 1661.—The horse race of Lanark, institute by
King William above 600 years since, but obstructed these 23 years
by the iniquity of the times, is now restored by Sir John Wilkie
cf Fouldon, as being loath so ancient a foundation should perish;
and for that effect he hath given gratis a piece of plate of the
accustomed value, with a silver bell and saddle to the second and
third horse. It is to be run the third Tuesday of May.”

2 Yn this barbarous amusement, in which lives were sometimes
lost, there was much to reprobate, and something to admire. It
was almost Spartan; but every thing Spartan, although it might
form the soldier, stifled every valuable sentiment but proud re-
sistance.

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at

From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass,
And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.
Those polish’d rounds which decorate the coat,
And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,
Offspring of Birmingham’s creative art,

Now from the faithful button-holes depart.

To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,
And enterprise again essays the field.

So, when a few fleet years of his short span
Have ripen’d this dire passion in the man ;
When thousand after thousand takes its flight
In the short circuit of one wretched night ;
Next shall the honours of the forest fall,

And ruin desolate the chieftain’s hall ;

Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain,
Then in a mendicant behold a THane!

The spell dissolves, delusion melts away,

And we awaken to the present day.

The city grows and spreads on every side,

In all the honour of masonic pride.

From narrow lanes, where pestilence was pent,
Now emigrate the squire and thriving gent

To spacious mansions, elegant or neat,

Where sweeping breezes ventilate each street,
And where, expanding, fanciful and free,

The rising city stretches to the sea.

Blest be the change! May each succeeding day
Shine on your labours with propitious ray !

Ye busy craftsmen of my native town,

Oh, that a wish could draw a blessing down ;
Then should my feeble untaught hand aspire
To strike an anthem on an humble lyre!

TOWNSMAN.
Your picture seems so true, excuse me, now,
"Tis pity you were destined to the plough.
Ah! had you linger’d within learnimg’s pale,
And seorn’d, unknown, to follow a plough’s tail,
Some monthly magazine might own your aid,
The reader gratified, the bard well paid.
The moral’s obvious: though ages pass,
Still folly’s visage meets us in the glass ;
Though she may change her with the changing moon,
With all the varied skill of a buffoon,
To every age fate gives its proper measure,
To blind the sage and lead the man of pleasure.
’Tis vain to be fastidious and too nice ;
Folly, while only folly, free from vice,
May vex the puritan’s sepulchral soul,
But still must form a part of one great whole.

(PEP PLE LP PPLE LODO PP PO

SKELDON HAUGHS, OR THE SOW IS
FLITTED.
Fiet enim subito Sus horridus.—Vireit.
[A source of horror soon the Sow shall be.]

[This is another of the many jocular compositions of Sir Alex-
ander Boswell, Bart. It relates to a traditional story respecting
a feud between Crawford of Kerse and Kennedy of Bargany, two
Ayrshire chieftains of the fifteenth century. The notes are from
Mr R. Pitcairn’s curious work, ‘‘ Historical and Genealogical

Account of the Family of Kennedy,” printed for the Bannatyne
Club in 1830.]

Crawford o’ Kerse sat in his ha’—
White were his locks as driftit snaw ;
For stealin change o’ shriv’lin time
Had quench’d the vigour o’ his prime;
And totterin limbs puir service yield,
When rivals struggle in the field!

1 That prudence and successful application should have their
reward, is both reasonable and desirable; but it is marvellous to
see how large a portion of the landed property devolves upon one
class of our citizens. It is said that an old laird thus expressed
himself, in an agony of apprehension and chagrin :—** A’ our auld
neighbours are awa’! If I look east or west, there’s a vriter 3 if I
look north or south, there’s a vriter. Gude faith, I’ll mak our
Jock a vriter; no that the puir silly lad will mak muckle o’t,
but it will aiblins help to haud the lave aff him.”

net ye

 

Sg apg sntpi se psi

POEMS.

His shrunken arm refused its part,
Though warm the throbbins at his heart ;
For through his veins there flow’d the bluid
O’ auld Sir Reginald! the gude !—
That bluid that roused the soul and might
O’ Scotland’s hero, Wallace wight!
In sooth, he was a baron bauld,
For tuilzies tough, in days o’ auld!
A lion in the battle fray—
In deadly feud a deadly fae!
But now, a venerable lord,
He, mirthfu’, cheer’d the festive board
Wi’ merry tale and hamely jest:
Or whiles he rear’d his warlike crest,
As if prepared the brunt to meet!
And then recounted mony a feat
O’ open strife and artfu’ wile.
Thus would he listless hours beguile ;
While a’ around, his sinewy race,
Gazed, dumb wi’ rapture, in his face!
Crack follow’d crack, the cup gaed roun’,
That mony a cankerin thought could droun—
When, sudden, at the yett a guest
Admittance claim’d: quo’ Kerse, “ The best
Our almourie can yield bring ben—
I trow there’s walth, gin he were ten !—
Show in the stranger !”—Fair and free,
In strode young Gilbert Kennedie.
“ Kerse,” quo’ the youth, “ when feuds are sworn,
It matters nought how slight the thorn
That poisonous rankles in our side—
I bring defiance to your pride!
The bauld Bargany bids me say,
When morning breaks, on Lammas-day,
A sow upon your land [’ll tether!
Like midges let the Crawfords gather,
Some teeth in angry fit may chitter—
But deil a man o’ Kyle sall flit her !”
Kerse ee’d him wi’ contemptuous sneer:
“‘ My merry man, and come ye here
To jeer me at my ain fireside ?
Gae hame, for ance, in a haill hide!
Time was, that Kerse would blythe hae ridden
Out-ower yon hills at sic a biddin!
F'u’ little value I, or mine,
Ten score o’ Kennedies—and swine!
Had wither’d Kerse a limb to wag—
But let the bauld Bargany brag!
The Kennedies, wi’ a’ their power,
Frae Cassillis to Ardstinchar Tower,
May rise and flock like secreechin craws,
Frae heighs and hows, frae hames and ha’s,
And hither come wi’ blawin crack—
They’ll bear anither story back!
Kerse is, alas! nae mair the man
That in the onset led the van;
But he has sons to shield his name,
Heirs o’ his valour and his fame!
And if on Lammas-day they fail,
Curse him wha lives to tell the tale !—
Let your proud baron croosely craw
On his ain midden days but twa;
But on the third—by this grey head,
He’ll aiblins thank his geldin’s speed !—
This in defiance (Crawford says)
Gie the chiel room, lads—slip your ways!”

’Twas Lammas-morn; on Skeldon Haughs
The glintin sun had tinged the saughs ;
Frae Girvan banks and Carrick side,?
Down pour’d the Kennedies, in pride:
And frae Kyle-Stewart and King’s-Kyle
The Crawfords march’d in rank and file,
(If our forefathers own’d, of yore,

 

Sic term o’ military lore.)

1 Sir Reginald Craufurd of Loudoun, the heritable Sheriff of
Ayr. He was maternal uncle to Sir William Wallace.

* Districts belonging to the Kennedies, and where their strong-
holds were chiefly situated.

= =: -- i
SIO a
Panne

RmRT Re ania aa R EN ng eae mnt panne

THE TINT

Let them march on!—A rhymer, I
Shall hae nae finger in the pye!
It’s time enough for us to glowr
On battle-fields, when a? is ower!
And draw our sketches o? ilk action,
Safe, amang heaps o’ putrefaction !
But, troth, a’ battles are alike—
Some chiels are stricken, and some strike.
Weapons are sharp, and hides are tender—
,4nd some maun fa’—or else surrender!
Troops charge on troops, and slay and slash,
And soughin bullets smite and smash—
Nae time, I trow, to shilly-shally—
Aff gaes the tae side—then they rally—
And on again in mad delusion,
While heads and legs flee in confusion:
Some turn their backs and skelp awa’,
And they that follow ery huzza!
Half o’ the haill dung aff their feet—
Then is a victory complete!
Crawford o’ Kerse sat in his yett,
Mourning a dowie carle’s fate—
That he, when stalwart bands were gane,
Fourscore, maun hurkle there his lane ;
He gazed as lang as darkling sight
Could trace their march ower ilka height.
* And now,” thought he, “ they’re bye Drumloch,
And bye the Craigans and the Trough,
And bye the knowe and Bright-burn birk,
And down upon Dalrymple kirk ;
And now stark Esplin! rushes on—
Had ever man a braver son ?
Come on, ye Kennedies ! Come now!
Fight on, my sons! The loons sall rue
The day they trode on Kerse’s land.
Now is the pingle, hand to hand ;
Esplin, stand till’t, nor flinch nor bend ;
Forward ! ye Crawfords wi’ a stend ;
The bluidy tuilzie settle soon,
And drive the reivars ower the Doon.”
’T was fancy a’! His aged trunk,
Worn and fatigued, supinely sunk ;
On wayward chance he ponder’d deep,
And sorrow felt, but scorn’d to weep !
Then roused again—again the fight
Flitted before his dazzled sight.
His anxious e’e, but firm and fierce,
Wander’d bewast the Loch o’ Kerse,
Watching some messengers 0’ speed
Tidings to bear in time o’ need—
When lightsome Will 0’ Ashyntree
Cam breathless, pechin ower the lea :
Lang, lang or he could parley hear—
The auld man cried, fu’ loud and clear,
“Is THE SOW FLITTED ?—Tell me, loon,
Is auld Kyle up, and Carrick down ?”
Mingled wi’ sobs, his broken tale
The youth began—* Ah! Kerse, bewail
This luckless day !—Your blythe son John,
Now, waes my heart! lies on the loan,
And he could sing like ony merle.”
“Ts THE SOW FLITTED?” cried the carle—
*‘ Gie me my answer, short and plain,
Is THE SOW FLITTED, yamm/’rin wean ?”
“ The sow, deil tak her, ’s oWer the water,
And at their backs the Crawfords batter—
The Carrick cowts are cow’d and bitted !””
“ My thumb for Jock—zue sow Is FLitrep!””?

1 A favourite name among the Crawfords of Kerse of old.

2{In reference to the subject of this poem, in which Allan
Ramsay’s more humorous style is cleverly revived, Mr Pitcairn,
in his work on the Kennedies, has the following observations :—
<¢ Through the kindness of Mr Rankine of Whitehill, the editor
has ascertained, that two different versions of this story are
traditionally current, among some very aged people, in Carrick.
One of these is that which has been adopted by Sir Alexander
Boswell, in which the Laird of Kerse’s son is said to have been
killed. -The other relates, that three of the Crawfords of Loch-
norris were present at the battle; one of whom returned, heavily

a

QUEY. 45

THE TINT QUEY.

[Richard Gall, the author of the subjoined pieces, was an indi-
vidual resembling Fergusson in prematurity of fate, and, though
inferior to him in genius, one who promised to adda not un-
worthy name to the list of those who have done honour in recent
times to the muse of Scotland. He was born at Linkhouse, near
Dunbar, in 1776, and, after removing to Edinburgh, where he
was trained as a printer in the office of the Evening Courant,
died in 1801, at the age of twenty-five. He had early shown an
ardent devotion to the literature of his native country, and, be-
fore his decease, had acquired no mean reputation as one of its
cultivators. His song ‘*‘ My only jo and dearie, O!’’ and some
others, are yet standing favourites, and he wrote some clever
pieces of considerable length in the Scottish tongue, of which the
two following seem to us to be worthy of a place here. ]

Aft trifles big mishanters bring,

Frae whilk a hunder mae may spring ;

And some, wha thrawart tempers hae,

Aft stand unkent in their ain way:

But aye, to guard against a coup,

Folk should look weel afore they loup.
*T was wearing gayan late at e’en,

When younkers leave the daffin green ;
Puir Sandie, frae his doughty wark,
Came hame a’ jawpit i’ the dark ;

A lang auld timmer stool drew near
The new peat ingle, glancin clear,
Which sent its reek, in columns black,
Out through an opening i’ the thack ;
And gat his wark-looms-a’ in tune,

To ca’ some tackets in his shoon ;
Though wi’ a lang day’s wark sair dung,
He was as stiff’s a reisted rung.

His Meg set by her spinnin-wheel,
(Whilk helps the heavy time to steal
Awa’), and sturdily did hook

The parritch-kettle on the crook,

And frae the willow buist? did seatter
A tate o’ meal upo’ the water,

Nae doubt for fear it should beguile
Her when it minted first to boil.

This done, she clauchtit down wi’ speed
The bowet aff the box-bed head,
And frae a boal ye eith might see
Her tak a spunk to light it wi’ ;
For ye maun ken, that just e’en now
’T was time to gang and milk the cow.

But here, or we gae farer ben,
Aiblins it’s fitting to let ken
To them wha reads, that this same lucky
Was e’en a dour and thrawart bucky,
Which shaw’d she was o’ bool-horn’d breed,
Whene’er she took it in her head.
Aye when he gae advice, but swither,
Ye’re sure that she wad tak anither ;
Na, but a joke, she’s aft been seen
To clap her nieves afore his een,
While he, poor sumph! boud silence keep,
And durst na for his lugs play cheep :
Then wi’ her hands her tongue kept steeks 5
In short, now—Marget wore the breeks.
Compared wi’ her in ony way,
He was as contrair’s night’s frae day ;
An honest-hearted simple chiel,
Wha loed to see ilk body weel.
But hear what I am gaun to tell,
And in th’ affair judge for yoursel.

bemoaning the fall of his two brothers, when his widowed mother
suddenly cut short his lamentation,. by exclaiming, ‘Is the sow
flitted ?’? ‘ Ay isshe,’ replied the youth; ‘and five score of the
Kennedies are drowned in Doon!’

The families of Kerse and Auchinleck were connected by re-
peated intermarriages ; and it is to be supposed that so acute and
learned an individual as Sir Alexander was, would investigate
the matter, and take what appeared to him to be the proper
account of this skirmish.’’]

1 [Quey, a young cow. }

 

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———— ———E

46 POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.

Meg loot but little time expire
Afore she reach’d the theeked byre ;
But, wow! sad cheat! when near she drew,
As white’s her mutch her haffets grew,
And legs did shake, as soon’s she saw
The door wide stannin to the wa’.
Wi’ heart high jumpin to her mou’,
She cried, “ Preserve us! where’s the cow?”
And stood and glowr’d about fu’ keen—
But deil a cow was to be seen:
Then wi’ the bowet hame she ran,
To tell the tidings to her man.
“ Oh, Sandie! haste, fling by your shoon,”
Quo’ she, “ and see what’s to be done;
For some ane’s been sae unco glaiket!
As gang an’ leave the door unsneckit,
And hornie, being left her lane,
’?S win out, nor ken I where she’s gane.”
** Aweel,” quo’ he, “sae ye may crack o’t,
See what a bonny hand ye’ll mak o’t!”
“ T7ll mak o’t !__What the sorrow way?
D’ye think that I can watch her aye?
That is a bonny speech indeed
To come frae your unwordy head.
Ye poor, unthinking, senseless sow,
Get up, and let us seek the cow !”
Quo’ he, right bauld, “ Deil’s 7 the jade!
I dare say ye are gaun clean mad,
To think, at sic an elritch time
O’ night, when we see ne’er a styme,
That we, like gowks, should gang awa’,
And ken na what may us befa’.
What though (no seeing where we’re gaun)
In some wild frightfw’ place we lan’,
Where wily bogles, dancing reels,
May hing us a’ up by the heels;
Or devilish spunkie, watching, lead
Us in some pool out-ower the head:
And, Marget, faith I really doubt,
Although we e’en should find her out,
Gif she wi’ mae be in a park,
Ye winna ken her 7’ the dark.
But gin ye’ll only be sae wise
As just for ance tak my advice,
Bide still till light o’ day appear,
And then we’ll find the road mair clear.”
Whene’er this speech cam frae his pow,
Meg’s passion like a rock took low:
“ Whisht! haud your clack, and speak nae langer,
Ye neer-do-weel, to raise my anger!
A pity, faith, but I wad bow
To tak advice frae sic as you!
Wae worth ye, sir! it sets you ill
To talk to me in sic a style,
Considering what a life I’ve led,
To keep your gaits and you weel clad;
Or seldom wad ye hae a shift
Or dud to keep ye frae the drift.”
“‘ For gudesake, Marget,” cries he, “ cease,
And let us ance again hae peace ;
For when your tongue but breaks its girth,
This house is just a hell on yirth:
But gin ye’ll try to keep it still,
1’]l cheerfu’ do whate’er ye will.”
For now he saw’t vain to contend
And waste his wind to little end;
And therefore bade her just sit down
Till he wad fetch some neighbours roun’,
Wha wad their best assistance gie
In seeking for the bawsand quey.

Wi’ that he did na langer wait,
But set aff, speaking a’ the gate;
And scarce had been awa’ a crack,
Ere he return’d, and at his back
Came marching in young Robin Gool,
Wi’ Habby Greme the haflins fool,
Auld Simon Glaikie, Geordy Grith,
And staumrel Willy Gray the smith,

1 [Glaiket, forgetful or carcless. ]

 

Provided a’ wi’ thumping euds,
In case o’ need, to gie some thuds.

Wi’ ae consent they leave the house,
And rattle ower the craft fu’ crouse ;
Sometimes alang the ditches scouring,
Sometimes out-through the hedges glowring ;
While Marget loud and aft did rair,
“ My lady hornie!” here and there. s
Lang, lang they gaed ’mang hows and braes, :
Through elritch roads and crooked ways, (
And were beginning to despair
0’ seeing hornie ony mair,
When, wearing near an auld windmill,
Just on a sudden Will stood still ;
“ Whisht ! whisht!”’ quo’ he, and did allege
He heard a boo ahint a hedge,
Whilk Meg birsed through wi’ speed, though thorny,
‘T'o see gif it was really hornie ;
And though ’twas mirk, she could espy
The park contain’d some scores 0’ kye ;
On which the men folk a’ gaed in,
‘Y'o see if they could hornie fin’ ;
But lippen’d maist to Marget’s skill,
As first and last she’d ta’en her will;
And she had said, no lang before,
She’d ken her quey ’mang fifty score,
E’en though it was as dark as pit,
When ane ean hardly steer their fit.
As gude’s her word, she cried fu’ fain,
That she had lighted on her ain,
Whilk nae doubt had, by light o’ day,
Within the hedging made its way.
At this blythe news they gae a shout,
W? perfect joy, and brought her out ;
And lest she should again escape,
Out-ower her horns they coost a rape:
Syne Gool fu’ canny, by the same
Road that they gaed, straught led her hame;
And a’ the lave, to crackin gien,
Thought that they had right lueky been ;—
Save luckless Wiil, wha, in his haste,
Splash’d in a ditch up to the waist ;
And when pu’d out by them aboon,
His feet cam up, and left his shoon ;
Which gart him, a’ the weary road,
Gae trudging wi’ his cloots unshod.
And Marget here began to taunt,
And jeer poor Sandie for his want
O’ sense; and maist wi blytheness sang,
Because her deeds proved he was wrang.
But wait a wee: or a’ be done,
Ye’ll aiblins hear her change her tune.

Wi’ great ado, through dubs and mire,
The troop fu’ joyfu’ reach’d the byre,
Where hung ower rungs ilk wearied wight,
Till Marget gaed and fush a light.

Then hunkering down upo’ her knees,
Poor Hornie o’ her milk to ease,

She gae a screigh, wi’ stannin hairs—
‘“‘The Lord keep’s a’ frae witches’ snares !
As clear to me as shining pewther,

They’ve whuppet aff poor hornie’s uther.”
“‘ God’s presence guide’s !”’ ilk chiel did roar,
And a’ made clean®eels to the door.

Lang Habby Greeme, wi’ downright hurry,
Played clyte out-ower an auld wheelbarrow ;
And held it as a sterling fact,

Some bogle rampaged at his back.

Meg, rinning like a flea in blanket,

Her coats upon a lang nail hanket,

That gart her coup the creels, and squeel—
“ Ah, sirs, I’m grippet by a deil!”

And as she cross the threshold lay,

Wae’s me! she near-hand swarf’d away.
Poor Will, the smith, wi’ half-cauld blocd,
But shoon or bannet, roaring stood ;

And some, to get themsels weel hidden,
Were maistly smother’d ’’ the midden.ELEGY ON PUDDING LIZZIE. 47

__ thus matters in confusion reign’d,
vill time near half an hour had gain’d ;
When they again began to gather
A little spunk and creep thegither :
oyne near the haystack, but dissension,
they gaed to haud a stout convention.
But just when Hab began descanting,
Will cried that Simon was awanting,
And ilk ane ferlied nae a wee,
a luckless gate the chiel could be.

en Gool proposed that they should gae
And seek him out without delay :
sae out they bourach’d in a thrang,
But fand they hadna far to gang ;
For frae the byre a tether-length,
The callan tint a’ maughts and strength.
There, to their great surprise and wonder,
They fand him lying flat’s a flounder,
Upon his wame; nor wad he steer,
But lay and panted sair wi’ fear,
Just like a hare that’s lang been hunted
3y bloody hounds and sportsmen mounted.
Will took him rashly by the arm,
And bade him rise, nor fear ought harm ;
But Simon, wha ne’er turn’d to see him,
Now really thought the deil was wi’ him,
And, gasping, roar’d wi’ a’ his might,
* Oh, murder ! oh, I’m fell’d outright !”
Till Sandie took him by the hand,
And then his wide mistake he fand.
Syne a’ again, a wee piece back,
Retired to argue near the stack,
Where the hale tot, for fear o’ skaith,
Were fley’d to speak aboon their breath.
But Sandie, wha right eithly saw
This night’s wark in Meg’s crap wad craw,
Thus to her spake: “ Ye stupid ass,
I tauld ye what wad come to pass ;
But na! ye’re aye sae self-conceited,
A gude advice ye scorn and hate it,
Till ance ye find it is ower late,
And then, forsooth, ye’re glad to hae’t.”
Will Gray, wi faltering voice, spak niest :
“ T think we’d best send for the priest,
Wha’ll gar the witches cower their head,
And, come what will, he’ll no be fley’d.”
Now ilka birkie gied his notion,
And seal’d it wi’ some queer-like motion ;
But a’ agreed, at length and lang,
The byre to enter in a bang ;
And for that purpose, linked steeve,
They held by ane anither’s nieve ;
Then a’ at ance (it is nae jest)
Moved slowly forit in a breast:
But, vow! what was their hale surprise,
When Habby Greeme, astonish’d, cries—
“ My gudesake, sirs, may I be shot
Gif it be ought but a brown—sror!
That frae the grass park we hae brought ;
Sae a’ our wark has gane for nought !”

Aft trifles big mishanters bring,

Frae whilk a hunder mae may spring ;
And some, wha thrawart tempers hae,
Aft stand unkent in their algpway :
But aye, to guard against a coup,
Folk should look weel afore they loup.

DADA”

ELEGY ON PUDDING LIZZIE.

She’s gane ! she’s gane!—ower true the tale!
She’s left us a’ to sab and wail!
Auld Clatterbanes has hit the nail
Upo’ the head ;
Deil o’ his carcass mak a flail,
Sin Lizzie’s dead!

 

Oh Death ! oh Death! thou’rt void o’ feeling !

For wi’ thy deadly whittle stealing

Through gentle hald, or hamely sheiling
W? divet rigging,

Thou send’st the best 0’ bodies, reeling,
To their cauld bigging.

Hadst thou but claughted wi’ thy claw

A lord, a duke, or baith the twa,

The skaith, I trow, had been but sma—
Ane might forgie ye ;

But Lizzie thus to steal awa,
Oh, wae be t’ye!

Auld Reekie’s callants, mourn wi’ me;
Your waes, alake! are sair to dree:
Oh, mourn the days—the days o’ glee,
Now fied awa’!
I see the tear in mony an e’e
Fw’ sadly fa’.
Oh, mony a time, ance on a day,
In cheery bangs we’ve ta’en our way,
Ilk birkie keenly bent on play,
Wy hearts fu’ light,
And for a wee set care astray,
‘ar out o’ sight.

And when we reach’d her little dwalling,
Where tuilzied birds wi’ bluidy talon,}
How kind she met us at the hallan,
Led to the ha’,
“ Gude-e’en! gude-e’en!” aye loudly bawling,
And becking law.

Syne what a fyke, and what a fraising!

“The puddings, bairns, are just in season—

They’re newly made—the kettle’s bizzing—
Sae dinna fret ;

Mair sappy anes ne’er cross’d your wizzen,
Although J say’t.”

Saul! how it sharpen’d ilka ane,
When wi’ them she came todliu ben,
A’ piping like a roasted hen,

(Braw healthy eating !)
Wi’ timmer pins at ilka end,

To haud the meat in.

And then she had the knack sae weel,

To gust the gab o’ ony chiel

Wi’ spiceries brought through danger’s fiel’,
Frae India’s coast,

And ingans, mix’d wi’ gude ait-meal,
Auld Scotia’s boast.

Thus seated round her canty ingle,
Oh, how the knives and forks wad ringle,
And cutty-spoons ’mang puddings mingle,
Hoved up sae wally!
And caps and trenchers in a jingle
A’ searted brawly.

Did ony relish cauler water ?

Na, faith, it wasna in our nature:

We but to hae a wee drap creature,
Gude papish whisky ;?

It beets new life in ilka feature,
And keeps ane brisk aye.

Whan she began to crack her creed,

I’ve seen our chafts maist like to sereed ;

In short, at times a single thread
Might e’en hae tied us ;

And, vow! how crouse she cocked her head,
Whan set beside us!

  
   
  
  
  

1 Lizzie had a sign-board above her door, on which were painted
two cocks fighting, with this inscription—‘‘ The thickest skin
stands langest out.”

2 She sold rum under the name of papish whisky, for the purpose,
it was said, of evading the license.

3 Our hostess was noted for her ready wit, and many satirical
sayings; so much so, that few cared to engage with her, as they
were sure of becoming the jest of the whole company.ae eee
=e
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_ 3 Peet Vy Pa . > —_——— ad — sieeve — —o eee Se ae, Rene eee ss “
Of, . AS r * nN . ;
i: POPULAR SCOTTISH POEMS.
ea
' iy ¢ . y She . : % :
L ayers - Phe mair the pith o’ barley shone, But w! isht! for mair I canna speak—
. i wef ° . 4 . .
Rim i, =/The mair was heard mirth’s social tone : The te ws come rapping down my cheek,
ers \“ And sang, and joke, and toast, gaed roun’, To mark her grave, sae cauld and bleak,
wv ist Bod . * > .
Bik Bore Wi?’ glee imprinted, The green grass growing ;
. Pi fat While busy time still jogged on, Oh! keep her safe frae hornie’s creek,
| ° ie = = es
4 ; ‘i i Unmark’d, untented ; Black, sooty, lowing !
ial Till night. her ] : Then, oh fareweel to feasting rare
Bera | il might, her sable mantle dreeping, » ON Ta A é eee:
hee i Brought Luna o’er St Anthon’s peeping, And serieving cracks that drave aff care!
ay { . . = as. en oe y 7 ; ‘ » 97}
ot And dowie ghaists, frae kirk-yards creeping, ‘areweel to ranting late and alr,
ioe Began to wander, Sae blythe and frisky ! (
(aor ae i}? When we, frae Lizzie’s kindly keeping, And eke, fareweel, for ever mair,
y Wh. Rea ' e yy ee rhicizxy
ee Ue i > Would hamewards dander. Io lowin’ whisky !
Ay} n | 2
i mi
tee ea 1 Isabel Weatherson, the subject of this elegy, kept a little ale-
Oi ya ; Oh, waes my heart! now, when she’s gane, th cee oan 2 eee ee
OR: Hy , ose : house at Jock’s Lodge, in the immediate neighbourhood of Edin:
Pep yk How sad and alter’d is the strain ! x ok ag : sera Pvacs ie Fal a a
ua 1 aa; ¢ 1 fw fai burgh ; and, from her peculiar skill in making Scotch puddings,
i j ye o-te 2 ‘ = z . . ~s
Bee ae it e puede casts, and rants fu fain, had obtained the appropriate name of Pudding Lizzie. Her house
Bi) Mh A Nae mair we’ll pap in: wn Edi
| fee face Pp Pp > was long the favourite resort of the young people in Edinburgh,
Be ee FH Our w ames e’en to our rigging-bane when they were inclined to a frolic with little expense. She died
bik ave) Like skate-fish clapping. in 1796. :
Wit ae ty
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