The Works of the Right Honourable Joseph Addison, Volume 2 (Google Books)

No. £47. THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13.
Ho.
are told by some ancient authors, that So
crates was instructed in eloquence by a woman,
whose name, if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia.
I have indeed very often looked upon that art as
the most proper for the female sex, and I think the
universities would do well to consider whether they
should not fill their rhetoric chairs with she pro
fessors.
**r84fti SPECTATOR, 49
It Jias been said in praise of some men, that they
could talk whole hours together upon any thing;
but it must be owned, to the honour of the other
sex, that there are many among them who can talk
whole hours together upon nothing. I have known
a woman branch out into a long extempore disser
tation upon the edging of a petticoat, and chide
her servant for breaking a china cup, in all the
figures of rhetoric.
Were women admitted to plead in courts of judi
cature, I am persuaded they would carry the elo
quence of the bar to greater heights than it has yet
arrived at. If any one doubts this, let him but be
present at those debates which frequently arise among
the ladies of the British fishery.
The first kind, therefore, of female orators which
I shall take notice of, are those who are employed
in stirring up the passions, a part of rhetoric in
which Socrates his wife had made a greater profi
ciency than his beforementioned teacher.
The second kind of female orators are those who
deal in invectives, and who are commonly known
by the name of the censorious. The imagination
and elocution of this set of rhetoricians is wonder
ful. With what a fluency of invention, and co
piousness of expression, will they enlarge upon every
little slip in the behaviour of another ! With how
many different circumstances, and with what variety
of phrases, will they tell over the same story! I
have known an old lady make an unhappy marriage
the subject of a month’s conversation. She blamed
the bride in one place, pitied her in another; laughed
at her in a third; wondered at her in a fourth ; was
angry with her in a fifth; and, in short, wore out a
pair of coach-horses in expressing her concern for
her. At length, after having quite exhausted the
subject on this side, she made a visit to the newmarried pair, praised the wife for the prudent choice
the had made, told her the unreasonable reflections
Vol. II. P
£0 SPECTATOR. no. 247.
which some malicious people had cast upon her, and
desired that they might be better acquainted. The
censure and approbation of this kind of women are
therefore only to be considered as helps to discourse.
A third kind of female orators may be compre
hended under the word Gossips. Mrs. Fiddle Facldle
is perfectly accomplished in this sort of eloquence;
she launches out into descriptions of christenings,
runs divisions upon a head-dress, knows every dish
of meat that is served up in her neighbourhood,
and entertains her company a whole afternoon to
gether with the wit of her little boy before he is
able to speak.
The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth
kind of female orator. To give herself the larger
field for discourse, she hates and loves in the same
breath, talks to her lap-dog or parrot, is uneasy in
all kinds of weather, and in every part of the room :
she has false quarrels and feigned obligations to all
the men of her acquaintance ; sighs when she is
not sad, and laughs when she is not merry. The
coquette is, in particular, a great mistress of that
part of oratory which js called action, and indeed
seems to speak for no other purpose, but as it gives
her an opportunity of stirring a limb, or varying a
feature, of glancing her eyes, or playing with her
fan.
As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story
tellers, with other characters of that nature, which
give birth to loquacity, they are as commonly found
among the men as the women ; for which reason I
shall’ pass them over in silence.
I have been often puzzled to assign a cause why
women should have this talent of a ready utterance
in so much greater perfection than men. I have
sometimes fancied that they have not a retentive
power, or the faculty of suppressing their thoughts,
as men have, but that they are necessitated to speak
every thing they think ; and if so, it would perhaps
no. 247. SPECTATOR. 51
furnish a very strong argument to the Cartesians,
for the supporting of their doctrine, that the soul
always thinks. But as several are of opinion that
the fair sex are not altogether strangers to the arts
of dissembling and concealing their thoughts, I
have been forced to relinquish that opinion, and
have therefore endeavoured to seek after some better
reason. In order to it, a friend of mine, who is
an excellent anatomist, has promised me by the first
opportunity to dissect a woman’s tongue, and to ex
amine whether there may not be in it certain juices
which render it so wonderfully voluble or flippant ;
or whether the fibres of it may not be made up of a
finer or more pliant thread ; or whether there are not
in it some particular muscles, which dart it up and
down by such sudden glances and vibrations ; or
whether, in the last place, there may not be certain
undiscovered channels running from the head and
the heart- to this little instrument of loquacity, and
conveying into it a perpetual affluence of animal
spirits. Nor must I omit the reason which Hudibras
has given, why those who can talk on trifles speak
with the greatest fluency ; namely, that the tongue
is like a race-horse, which runs the faster the lesser
weight it carries.
Which of these reasons soever may be looked
upon as the most probable, I think the Irishman’s
thought was very natural, who, after some hours
conversation with a female orator, told her, that he
believed her tongue was very glad when she was
asleep, for that it had not a moment’s rest all the
while she was awake.
That excellent old ballad of the ” Wanton Wife
of Bath” has the following remarkable lines:
I think, quoth Thomas, woraens’ tongues Of aspen leaves are made.
And Ovid, though in the description of a very
barbarous circumstance, tells us, that when the
I D 2
52 SPECTATOR. no. 249.
tongue of a beautiful female was cut out, and
thrown upon the ground, it could not forbear mut
tering even in that posture:
Comprensam foreipc linguam Ab.stulit ease fero. Radix mkat ultima lingua:. Ipsa jacct, terrtcque tremens immurmurat atrx ;
Vtqiie satire solet mutilatai cauda colubra:,
Valpitat.
If a tongue would be talking without a mouth,
what could it have done when it had all its organs
of speech, and accomplices of sound, about it?
I might here mention the story of the pippin-woman,
had not I some reason to look upon it as fabulous.
I must confess I am so wonderfully charmed with
the music of this little instrument, that I would by
no means discourage it. All that I aim at by this
dissertation is, to cure it of several disagreeable
notes, and in particular of those little jarrings and
dissonances which arise from anger, censoriousness,
gossipping, and coquetry. In short, I would have
it always tuned by good-nature, truth, discretion,
and sincerity.

No. 343. THURSDAY, APRILS.
Errat et Mine ,
Hue renit, hinc Mac, et quoslibct occi/pat nrtus Spiritu.1 : iqve Jcris humana in corpora transit, Jnqueferas noster- Pvtiiag. ap. Or.
Will Honeycomb, who loves to shew upon oc
casion, 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 Ricaut (says
he) gives us an account of several well-disposed Ma
hometans, that purchase the freedom of any little
bird they see confined to a cage, and think they
merit as much by it, as we should do here by ran
soming 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 a sister in disguise, and therefore think them
selves 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 humor,
or his fortune, when he was one of us.”
As I was wondering what this profusion of learn
ing 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, monkies, and lap-dogs. Upon going to
pay her a visit one morning, he writ a very pretty
epistle upon this hint. ” Jack (says he) was con
ducted 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
28S SPECTATOR. no. 343.
observing a pen and ink lie by bhu, be writ the fol
lowing 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
earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in somedoubt (says Will) whether it was written by Jack
or the monkey.”
” Madam,
” 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
conveniences of pen, ink, and paper, by me, I
gladly take the occasion 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 brachman, and versed
in all those mysterious secrets which your European
philosopher, called Pythagoras, is said to have
learned from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated
myself, by my great skill in the occult sciences, with
a daemon 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 Mras
not in his power to grant me. I then begged that
into whatever creature I should chance to transmi
grate, I might still retain my memory, and be con
scious that I was the same person who lived in
different animals. This he told me was within his
power, and accordingly promised, on the word of a
da?mon, that he would grant me what I desired.
From that time forth I lived so very unblameably,
that I was made president of a college of brach*
mans, an office which I discharged with great in
tegrity till the day of my death.
no. 343. SPECTATOR.
” I was then shuffled into another human body,
and acted my part so well in it, that I became first
minister 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,
brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the
people to enrich my sovereign ; till at length I be
came so odious, that my master, to recover his credit
with his subjects, shot me through the heart with an
arrow, as 1 was one day addressing myself to him
at the head of his army.
” Upon my next remove I found myself in the
woods under the shape of a jackall, and soon
listed myself in the service of a lion. I used to
yelp near his den about midnight, which was his
time of rousing, and seeking after his prey. lie al
ways followed me in the rear ; and when I had run
down a fat buck, a wild goat, or an hare, after he
had feasted very plentifully upon 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
two legs, and became an Indian tax-gatherer; but
having been guilty of great extravagancies, and
being married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran
so cursedly in debt, that I durst not shew my head.
I could no sooner step out 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
dungeon, 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 >
288 SPECTATOR. no. 343.
a fleet of 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.
” 1 was some years afterwards, to my great sur
prise, 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 myselfdwindled into an emmet. I was heartily
concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did
not know but some time or other, I might be re
duced to a mite, if 1 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 noblest ant in the whole mole
hill. 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 un
dergone in my two last transmigrations, I fell into
the other extreme, and turned drone. As I one day
headed a party to plunder an hive, we were received
so warmly 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 I went through ; how I was a town-rake, and
afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten
years ; as also how I was a taylor, a shrimp, and a
tom-tit. In the last of these my shapes, I was shot
no. 343. SPECTATOR. 289
in the Christinas holidays by a young Jack-a-napes,
who would needs try his new gun upon me.
” But I shall pass over these and several other
stages of my life, to remind you of the young beau
who made love to you about six years since. You may
remember, Madam, how he masked, and danced,
and sung, and played a thousand tricks to gain
you ; and how he was at last carried off, by a cold
that he had got under your window one night in a
serenade. I was that unfortunate young fellow,
whom you were then so cruel to. Not long after
my shifting that unlucky body, I found myself upon
a hill in ./Ethiopia, where I lived in my present
grotesque shape, till I was caught by a servant of
the English factory, and sent over into Great Britain :
I need not inform you how I came into your hand.
You see, Madam, this is not the first time that you
have had me in a chain : I am, 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 dis
covery of my person will not tend to my disadvan
tage, but that you will still continue your ac
customed favours to
” Your most devoted
” Humble servant,
” PuG.'<
P. S. ” I would advise your little shock-dog to
keep out of my way ; for as 1 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
won’t like.”

No. 434. FRIDAY, JULY 18.
Quotes Thrticice cum fiumina Thrrmodoontis 1’uhant, et jtictis bellantur Amazoues armis: Seu circum Hippolyten, seu cum se martin curru Penthesilca refcrt, magiiojuc ululartfe tumultu Faminea exultant lunatis agmina peltis. VlRG.
Having carefully perused the manuscript I men
tioned in my yesterday’s paper, so far as it relates
to the republic of women, I find in it several par
ticulars which may very well deserve the reader’s
attention.
no. 434. SPECTATOR. • 401
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 accom
plishments 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. They were after
wards 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 until she had killed her man.
The ladies of fashion used to play with young lions
instead of lap-dogs ; and when they made any par
ties of diversion, instead of entertaining themselves
at ombre or 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 mem
ber 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 childbearing. They used to boast their republic had
continued four thousand 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
Vol. II. Cc
402 SPECTATOR. no. 454.
king, Avho 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 com
mitted 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 re
quired; but this I can give no manner of credit 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
Drought to bed, or (as others say) miscarried, the
very night before the battle: however it was, this
signal overthrow obliged them to call in the male
republic to their assistance; 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 campaigns 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 se
parate camps ; but afterwards, as they grew more
familiar, they pitched their tents promiscuously.
From this time the armies being chequered 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. The.Ke were as the first rudiments of architecture,
painting, and poetry, among this savage people.
After any advantage over the enemy,, both sexes.
»o. 434. SPECTATOR. 403
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 on these occasions, 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 female 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 look
ing upon them, when they were adorned with such
trappings and gewgaws, set their heads at work to
find out new inventions, and to out-shine one another
in all councils of war, or the like solemn meetings.
On the other hand, the men observing how the
womens’ hearts were set upon finery, begun to em
bellish themselves, and look as agreeable 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 an
other, upon the finishing of the war, which con
cluded 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 com
mon soldiers were matched, after the example of
their leaders. By this means the two republics in
corporated with one another, and became the most
flourishing and polite government in the part of the
world which they inhabited.
Cc 2

Xo. 499- THfURSD’AY, .OCTOBER 2.
,tiK- -•!ii* M|f’ ffr”. ^i’.>- -/ 1 .
, . ,>..,n • :: rpr -—Jfimis ititds , .
Naribiw indulges — . n i !i!ui.v ~ < >T*r:v • i > -* . ‘ ‘ <‘
> •>• i ‘o l>.’f ” – t ;ii !ti’i. . – •’ t’ ” ‘ ; I ” i”. –
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, arid ‘that he would fain have
one’ of his writing in my works,’ This’ morning I
received fr6m him tWe following letter,’ ‘ which, after
having’ rectified some little ortlTograJ>Rical mistakes,
I >shairmake a present of to the public.
u Dear Spec!’
“1 was about two nights ago Iif company with
some very agreeable young people of both sexes,
where talking of some oFyour papers which are written
on conjugal love, there aYose a dispute among us, whe
ther there were not ‘more bad husbands in theVorld
than bad wives. A gentleman, who was’ advocate
for the ladies, took tins’ occasion to tell us the story
of a famous siege in Gefrnariy, which I have since
found related in my Historical Dictionary, after the
fojlowing mariner. ‘ When the Emperor Conrade”
K k 2
516 SPECTATOR. Ho. 499.
the Third had besieged ‘Guelphus, Duke of Bavaria,
in the City of Hensberg, 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 em
peror knowing they could not convey away many of
their effects, granted them their petition ; when the
women, to his great surprize, came out of the place
with every one her husband upon her back. The
emperor was so much 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,
asking us, at the same time, whether in our con
sciences we believed that the men of any town in
Great Britain would, upon the same offer, and at
the same conjuncture, have loaden 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, Tom 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 orHce to 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 di
version of Questions and Commands. I was no
– sooner vested with the regal . authority, than I en
joined .aty the ladies, . under- pain of my displeasure,
– tb tell the company ingenuously, in case they had
been in the siege abovcmentioned, and had the same
offers made them as the good women of that place,
what every one of them would have brought off with
her, and have thought most worth /the., saving?
‘There were several merry answers made to my ques
tion, which entertaiued us tili hed-time. This filled
xoim. SPECTATOR. -517
my mind with such a huddle of ideas, that, upon my
. going to sleep, I fell into the following dream> > > v
” I saw a town of this island, which shall be
nameless, invested on every side, and the inhabi
tants of it so straitned as to «y for quarter. -The
general refused any other terms, than those granted
to the abovementioned town of Hansbepg; i namely,
that the married women might come out with what
they could bring along with them. Immediately the
gate flew open, and a female procession appeared,
multitudes of the sex followed one another in a row,
and staggering under their respective burdens. . 1
took my stand upon an eminence in the enemies
camp, which was appointed for the general rendez
vous 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 opening of it, when I
expected to have seen her husband shoot out of it, I
found it was filled with China-ware. The next ap
peared in a more decent figure, carrying a handsome
young fellow upon her back: I could not forbear
commending the young woman for her conjugal af
fection, when, to my great surprise.T found- that she
had left the good man at home, and. brought away
her gallant; I saw the third at some distance; with
a tittle withered . face peeping- outer her . shoulder,
whom I could not suspect for a»yi but her spotist,
till, upon her setting binrdown, I heard her call, him
Dear Pug, and found him .-taj beVher i favourite
monkey, r A fourth brought a huge bale of cards
along with her ; and the fifth a Bolognia lap-dog ; for
her husband, it .seems, being, a very burly man; she
thought it Would be less trouble fqcjJier. to bring
,away little Cupid. The nexti was .the .wif>«fa rich
.usurer, loaden with a bag of gold; she told us that
her spouse was very old, and bjhthe .course of na
ture couldinot expect to live long and that to shew
-fentender regards for him, she had saved that which
Kk 3
518 SPECTATOR. rrd.499.
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 hus
band 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 per
sons, with their several loads, that appeared to me in
this strange vision. All the place about me was co
vered with packs of ribbands, brocades, embroidery,
and ten thousand other materials, sufficient to have
furnished a whole street of toy-shops. One of the
women, having a husband that 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
over-loaden, that she could not save both of them,
she dropped the good man, and brought away the
bundle. In short, I found but one husband among
this great mountain of baggage, who was a lively
cobbler, that kicked and spurred all the while his
wife was carrying him on, and, as it was said, had
scarce passed a day in his life without giving her the
discipline of the strap.
. ” I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, with
out telling you one very odd whim in this my dreariv.
I saw, methought, a dozen women employed in
bringing off one man ; I could not guess who it
should bV, till, 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, •’ >’ *’ “*’ . 1. – ‘tn,u ••>’>. ‘- / tin •!i.».x i: •i 1-f.rft nii?iii;rtCf”W
.». •, ” Dear Spec, thine, sleeping and waking,
h-r «r v-ii- -> •.” Will. Honeycomb.”

Women’s Dogs (Google Books)

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Pro/cs-sor 0/ Ancienl History in the University 0/ Liverpool A FREQUENT topic of our newspapers in the silly season is the questionable morality of the affection lavished by elderly spinsters upon their lap-dogs. There is nothing new under …
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By withdrawing themselves from the matrimonial market they prevent its being overstocked, thereby conferring an … called an old maid without a score or two of pets, naturally presenting themselves in the shape of monkeys, parrots, lap- dogs, …

Boston Magazine, Volume 3

MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS:

For the Boston Weekly MAGAzine.

Tris PīSSE.Y& ER—No. XXXVII.

IT has been remarked by sages, that the principal difference between rational and irrational creatures, or, in other phrase, between man and brute, may be traced in a comparison of the progressive arts of the former, with the stationary mechanism of the latterA ship ard a bird’s nest have been contrasted, to present in one case, the power of reason, in advancing from small beginnings to extended improvement, and in the other, that unvarying sameness which results from the efforts of instinct alone. The habitation of a beaver is also brought into comparison with the spacious and elegant residence of man; the former displaying only that degree of art with which nature has endowed a certain animal, in constructing its first habitation, wherein it

can never make a single improvement; while the latter

presents the united effects of invention, experiment, comparison, calculation and taste.

A late writer has added another discriminating trait which for its ingenuity deserves to be noticed ; the import of his remark is this, “That man is distinguished from the brute creation, in no case more remarkably than in his command over fire, and its application to the various purposes of life.” ci_on to superior excellence, upon lis dexterity; and to support this claim, he comes forward with evidence, that he can produce more complicated mechanism than a bird’s nest, and furnish himself with a more elegant habitation than a beaver-dam.

A is a subject of admiration,–— so is a honey-comb,-and it is as much out of the power of human art to make ore, as it exceeds that of a hive of bees to form the other; here then they stand on nearly equal terms, and the only distinction in which man may reasonably exult, as having neither rival nor competitor, is that which sets him above all other created beings, in the power of practising and inculcating the moral virtues. Of all the products of his ingenuity and art, or the pursuits of his life, that which is most honorable and useful, is the government of a well ordered family, in which each individual is taught

time-piece

to move with regularity, in his own proper orbit, like ||

the planetary spheres, displaying one uniform and har-
monious system. This is to be expected only when the
heads of a family accord in opinion, and unite practee
with precept.
Such appeared to be the leaders of the family de-
scribed in my last number ; one soul seemed to give im-
pulse to their wishes, which were aimed at making all
happy. To readers of similar taste with the writer, no

representation can be displayed to the contemplative
mind, which shall be more grateful; nor has man an
opportunity of placing himselfin a station more elevated
above the inferior animals.
The due government and instruction of a fa’ily, are
undoubtedly the most difficult arts to be acquired by
human wisdom, and I do not recollect having ever be.
fore met with any thing like system in domestic man-

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Thus man rests his,

scene can be presented more delightful than this ; no!

agement, with which I was so charmed, as with that
pursued in this family. Music is here rendered an in-
strument, act only for leading the young mind to vir-
tue, but for subduing the tubulent passions ; and it
would seem next to an impo solity, that children
should become otherwise than good, who are thus daily
convened together torehearse their duty, and to chaunt

their praises to HIM who gave them being.

-o-o-o-
For the Bosrox Week LY MAGAZINE.

Messrs. GILBERT & DEAN,

BY giving the following answer to Philander’s let-
ter to the “Old woman,” a place in your valuable

Magazine, you will oblige C. O.
SIR,
witH pleasure I consent to the request made in
your letter, complaining of an evil in society, which
drives men of sense from the company of amiablewo-
men. The evil existed when I was young, but it was
in embryo. Every friend was not then considered as a
lover, nor had every girl the vanity to suppose berself
courted, until leave for soliciting her hand was obtain-
ed of her parents and guardians. I have even known
instances of a gettleman and lady’s corresponding in
the most friendly manner, where the pen of taste and
genius contributed to refine and inform the minds of
each. But at the present day a billet cannot pass be-
tween young persons of different sexes, without the
world’s saying “tley are lovers.” Even parents,
whose object should be to erase vanity from the boson
of a child, increase it by untimely smiles and arch
looks, if their little darling receive the most trifling ci-
vility from a gentleman. If parents will do so, if
friends who should direct the youthful mind in paths
of discretion, will thus feed the van ty, natural to every

w

and dignified characters among women I can truly
say I think them almost as rare as the Phoenix of
Arabia. –
Cladly would I spend the residue of my three score
years and ten, in writing advisatory letters to the love-
ly girls, now entering on the theatre of life, could I be-
|lieve it possible to eradicate the evil alluded to from
their minds. Perhaps I may convince one. Even that
would be a rich reward.
To you then, my dear girls, I address the remainder
of this letter. Gentlemen, from the time allowed them
for improvement, and from the manner of their educa-
tion, are blessed with stronger minds, and more en-
larged views than ladies.
and letters of men of education, must be highly im-
proving to every sensible woman. Is it not then to be
regretted, that we lose this improvement by our folly?
Why cannot we enjoy the friendship, and be obliged
by the civilities of a gentleman, without laying claims
to his undivided attentions Such claims certainly o-
riginate in vanity. Could you, young ladies, once be-
lieve this, how much would the state of society be im-
proved. The well educated of both sexes might then
enjoy the blessings of social intercourse, and by a de-
lightful interchange of sentiments, the one sex might

Hoe instructed, the other softened and refined.

daughter of Adam, how can we expect to fi:d rational

Of course, the conversation f

If, my young friends, any or all of you wish to effect this change in society, if you really wish to cease believing that every man of politeness is a lover, do not rest in correcting your own propensity to these vain imaginations, but erase them from the minds of every infant girl, who looks to you for instruction. Teach them to pluck up the weeds of vanity, and plant the ever love. ly flowers of humility ; teach them te know, that the heart of a man of sense is not won by a face, a shape, or a dress ; teach them, above all, to reme ber, that they betray a high degree of vanity and weakness, when they suffer themselves to think, that they are beloved by every one, who shews a friendly disposition to com. municate knowledge and happiness to their sex. THE OLD WOMAN. ——-ON SCOLDING.

IN the course of my reading, I do not recollect to have met with a dissertation or essay on the Art and Science of Scolding ; yet it seems to stand foremost among the ruling passions of the female breast. There is as much harmony to a regular bred scold, in the roaring of her boisterous pipes, as in the soft thrills of a Tenducci or Leoni ; and I have heard some physicians assert, that it is not only constitutional, but an essential benefit in many cases, for clearing the organs, and bringing them to a proper tone.

I am induced to give credit to this opinion, by being an inmate with a lady of fortune, a vestal bordéring upon fifty, who rises every morning by day break, to give vent to those superfluous vocal articulations, which I have some reason to believe would otherwise choak her. She keeps two female domestics, whose vocations are very different; one is employed in the usual household business i the other’s business is the superintendance of the lady’s children, as she calls them, they consist of a monkey, a lap-dog, a parrot, a squirrel, and two cats. To keep these clean, and in proper subordination is a laborious task, indeed. This nursery-maid, or tutoress, or both, is descended from a ref. ugee family, and accordingly talks French p 4ty fluently: this was her chief recommendation, as her mistress was resolved that her parrot should be as well versed in the French as in the English language; but Poll proves a perfect Antigallican, and seems resolved at this time to give no ear to the former. Poor Mation has taken uncommon pains with her, and though she has read Roffigard twice over to her, and explained all the parts of speech, Poll is as ignorant of the language as the day she entered upon her study. This greatly irritates the mistress, who had resolved to make her a bird of politeness, that she might converse with the foreign ministers who frequently visit her ladyship—but to proceed progressively ; as soon as her ladyship rises, in the morning she pays a visit to pocr Bet, who probably is employed in scouring the parlour, or making a fire. All is certainly wrong, the boards are the colour of mahogany, and she has smoaked the whole house, with tnony other faults too numerous to mention, which afford a fine field for expanding her lungs and giving a full score of her cottical observations : she then repairs to the nursery, and Moon is tutored in turn ; Goersac the Great (the name of the monkey) has not been combed since the time of the flood : her lap dog she is certain is devoured by fleas, the squirrel’s nuts are musty, and the cats are starved, though they are as inig as mastiffs, and can scarce waddle for fat. But when she comes towthe parrot, a most tremendous remonstrance ensues, her ladyship can scarce collect words to express herself in, and I have more than once thought, she would have been saloocated with her own ideas: “Poll has made no progress in her learning, and therefore she has no more occasion for Manor’s services,” and dismisses her every. morning, though she has relaained with her I-d silip

upwards of a twelve-month, after being paid her wages
at the end of every week, and ordered to pack up her
clothes and decamp.
This is one species of regular scolding, but there
are many others, though they have not so immediately
fallen under my observation.
I o however they may be divided into the follow-
ing c – * ,-
The constitutional scold, who clears her lungs for
the benefit of her health.
The beautiful scold, who is put out of temper, and
excited to wrath the whole day, because she could not
bring her complexion to its wonted pitch of per-
section.
The authoritative scold, who disembogues her spleen
to support her dignity, and will not submit to the least
infringement upon her prerogative. –
The matrimonial scold, who deals in curtain lec-
tures, for the reformation of her husband’s morals, and
is gener…!!y united with one of the family of the Hen-
pccks.
I speak too feelingly upon this occasion
The patriotic scold, who bellows forth for the good
of her country, and who may probably write a history
to display her great knowledge of the constitution, and
support her party principles.
The dramatic scold, or green room shrew, who jeal-
ous of another’s theatrical fame, or the number of her
conquests endeavours to convince the world, she can
rant off the stage as well as on it.
The inebriate scold is one, who by the fumes of
strong waters, is wrought up to a pitch of phrenzy,
in which she displays the powers of natural and real
spirits.
And last, though not least upon this list, is the Bil
lingsgate scold, who makes a thriving trade of her great
powers of vehement oratory, as may be evinced in the
person of Bet Brazen, she may be styled with proprie-
ty a professional scold, who, upon an average makes
eighteen pence a day of her uncommon talents in this
line. When a vixen of inferior abilities is attacked by
an antagonist, who is superior to her in the science of
clamour. Bet is constantly applied to, and as constant-
ly receives her fee, which is never less than a quarterm
of the best Joininet (taif wet, half dry.) Bei’s fame is
so well essabilico in the mystery of scollation, that
as soon as she enters the list, her opponent immediate-
iy submits, and she remains the heroine of the field. •
There are many soolds of interior classes ; but they
are all branches of these several traces, and may be ea.
sily traced to their sources.
However beneficial scolding may be to some consti.
tutions, and however gratifying to others, I think a tax
might be raised upon scoods of every denomination, and
as scolds, vixens, ternagants, shrews, and viragoes
of the age, are very intomerous, I doubt not but it would
produce a considerakle stom. One peculiar advantage
would attend this tax, which is that in direct opposition
of all others it would greatly accumulate even in the
collection; as it cannot be supposed that any professed
scold would part with her money upon this occasion,
though strictly according to law, without bellowing a
breeze at the collector, and thereby much more than
ay him for his trouble. Toe tax upon swearing would
|. nothing compared to it, for where there is one pro-
fessed swearer, there are at least a thousand whose re-
nown is persectly established as vixens, who would

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…sooner part with their lives than the berty of vocifer

South East Asian Monograph Series – Issues 8-11 – Page 93
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Blackwood’s Magazine, Volume 92 (Google Books)

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I BELIEVE that phrenologists are generally agreed in allotting to the frontal sinus an organ which they call the organ of weight, asserting that where this organ is largely developed, the individual has a special faculty in estimating not only the ponderabilities of sacks of grain and bars of iron, but the probable results of any course of action on which the pressure of circumstance rivets his more immediate attention.

Now, upon the truth of Phrenology I hazard no opinion ; it is one of those vexed questions in which, not being convinced by the arguments of either party, I am contented to observe, with the Silent Gentleman in the ‘Spectator,’ “that there is a great deal to be said upon both sides.”

But putting wholly out of consideration all reJerence to craniological development, and leaving anatomists to dispute whether or

VoL. xcIL—No. nLxv.

not there be any such organ of weight in the frontal sinus, I venture to borrow from the phrenologists their technical term, and designate as the “organ of weight ” that peculiar mental faculty of weighing the relative consequences of things immediately placed before them, which in some men is so saliently developed, in other men so notably deficient.

In fact, I know of no other form of words in which I can so accurately define the quality of mind of which I am about to treat. This organ of weight is distinct from what can properly be called prudence ; for prudence necessitates a degree of foresight extending far beyond the immediate consequences of things immediately present. The prudent man declines to pursue such and such courses because he foresees that they will lead him astray, or that he shall have to

2 N

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528 C’axtom’ana : a Series of Essays on [Nov.

retrace his steps. But this organ of weight is often found most conspicuous in those who have no pretensions of foresight; they weigh only what is close before them. Hence I have noticed that such men are liable to abrupt changes of conduct, and in public life are more exposed than many politicians less conscientious to the charge of deceiving their followers and betraying their cause. They advance, as it were, mechanically along the track of ideas to which they have been accustomed, regarding as impracticable theorists those who extend their survey of the road ,’ and when at last they come to a place where the consequences foretold by others, and disregarded by themselves as too remote to be brought into their scales, become tangibly present, and the question is not, “What shall we do by-and-by’l” but, “What is to be done now?” then they cry, “This is serious ! this has become a practical substance! -—we must weigh it well!” And weighing it well, they often decide, with an abruptness which takes the world by surprise, that what before they had declared was too light to consider, is now too heavy to bear. In short, and without metaphor, they do exactly that, as the only prudent thing to do, which they had assured their confiding friends was the last thing that prudent men should contemplate doing.

If, then, this organ of weight cannot be correctly described by the word Prudence, neither is it to be expressed by the name more commonly assigned to it—-viz., Judgment. It is indeed a part of judgment, but only a part of it: for judgment, in the full sense of that rare and admirable quality, consists in a justness of vision which comprehends a wide survey of many things near and distant, in order to ascertain the proportionate size of each_ thing within its scope, be it near, be it distant. Judgment comprehends measurement as well as weight; and though it does not indeed ab

“a.

solutely need the prevision essential to that prudence which the ancients esteemed the associate and counsellor of the diviner orders of wisdom, according to their famous proverb, that “ No deity is present where Prudence is absent,” still judgment has a logic which links circumstance to circumstance, cause to effect – examines fully the grounds on which it forms its opinions, and observes each new fact which varies the value of evidence it had hitherto received. Hence, the man of judgment par excellence, when he modifies or changes any opinion that he had deliberately formed and openly professed, does so not with startling suddenness, but, gradually connecting link by link the reasons which induce him to reverse his former conclusions, prepares the minds of others for the final announcement

of the change which has been at ‘

work within his own ; so that he does not appear the advocate who betrays the cause of the client whose suit he had undertaken, but the judge impartially summing up, according to the facts which he does not warp, and the laws which he cannot depart from. I think, for instance, this may be said of Mr Pitt, who, whether he relinquished as impracticable what he had previously insisted on as judicious, or whether he denounced what he had before recommended, still so prepared the public mind for such changes in himself, that no man could accuse him of treachery, and only very inaccurate observers of fickleness. In this respect he was more happily constituted than Sir Robert Peel, who resembled him in many illustrious attributes, whether of dignity, personal character, or devotion to what conscientiously appeared to be the interests of the State. In Sir Robert Peel the organ of causality was not proportioned to the organ of weight. Foresight no candid admirer could assign to the man, in whom candour nevertheless finds so much to admire 3 nor can he be

said to have possessed that order of reason which so adjusts and accommodates its whole tenor of action, that what its possessor does to-day grows like a. logical sequence out of what he did yesterday. Hence those startling changes of political conduct, in which, having unhesitatingly led his followers up to a certain point, he seemed, in deserting them, to abandon his former self. For remote contingencies he had no astronomer’s telescope ; for consequences immediately before him he had the mechanician’s eye —he weighed them at a glance.

In men of this character there is generally a very strong sense of responsibility ; and perhaps no public man ever possessed that ennobling sense in a finer degree than Sir Robert Peel. And the consciousness of his own responsibility became necessarily strong in proportion as it was suddenly revealed to him. In opposition, a man is not considered by the public responsible for the results that may follow the adoption of his advice. But both by the spirit of the constitution and the opinion of the public, the moment the same man is transferred from opposition to ofiice, responsibility begins. And in proportion as his influence and position in office are eminent and commanding, the responsibility increases in multifold ratio. A man who had grown into so great an authority with the nation as Sir Robert Peel was responsible to other trustees than those of party : he was responsible to the people, who confided in him even more than party did 3 and the posterity to which his renown appealed would estimate him accordingly as that responsibility was discharged. Thus, in the two most memorable changes which affected his political career, the suddenness of his conversion may be traced to the wholly different aspect which the questions at issue assumed to his eyes when he had to weigh, as urgent and practical, the difiiculties which had before presented themselves to his

mind as remote and speculative, and when the gravity of the responsibility was transferred from others to himself.

None of the censures which Sir Robert Peel not unnaturally provoked appear to me to have been more erroneous than that which ascribed his political inconsistencies to moral timidity. Moral courage he must have possessed beyond most men, in twice deliberately resolving to excite and to brave that which, to one so sensitive, reserved, and proud, must have been the most bitter of all the calamities inflicted by party war—viz., the reproach of his own army for surrendering its standards and its staff to the enemy. What has passed for moral timidity was, in fact, an acute conscientiousness, heightened, it may be, by that strong sense of his own personal individuality which was one of his most remarkable characteristics. It was a familiar observation in Parliament, that no public speaker ever so frequently introduced into his speeches the word “ I.” Egotistical, in the common— that is, in the harsh—sense of the word, he was not. I have no doubt that he had more kindly benevolence of heart than many men more demonstrative. But from his youth upwards he had been singled for eminence above his contemporaries 5 and as he advanced in life and in fame he became more and more an individual power, distinct even from the principles which he represented. Many an honest temperate politician, caring little for Whig or Tory, turned to Sir Robert Peel for accurate information and safe opinion, as some nominal elector of a metropolitan district, too respectable or too apathetic ever to exercise his right of franchise, turns to the ‘ Times ’ newspaper when he wants to ascertain the funds in which a sagacious speculator should invest, or the creed which a practical politician should espouse. Sir Robert Peel was both a City Article and a political Leader. Thus he could 530

not fail to be impressed with a predominant consciousness of his own Ego; and wherever he looked on the surface of the public, that Ego was reflected as in a room lined with glass. The sense of personal responsibility was naturally increased with the consciousness of personal individuality. And when he pondered on duty, he asked himself not, “What is my duty to the party I lead?” but “ What is the duty that ‘I owe to myself—I,‘Sir Robert Peel 1” But with that duty to himself he identified, as I have before observed, the duty that Sir Robert Peel, of all men living, owed to his country—-“ Ego et Patriot mea.” And hence, whatever might be his errors as a political adviser and chief, History will doubtless accord him one of those favoured places in her temple on which the light falls full on the noblest aspect of the image, leaving in shadow whatever outlines would less satisfy admiring

. .\ .M ‘u “1.. viva. w ~14!“ J rr’4’1″.’.!”MM“,INHm

es.

Men who weigh only what the occasion submits to them, always more impress a. practical assembly than men who enter into subtle calculations of prospective contingencies. Before a legislative assembly the question is “Ay or No” —-whether a certain something shall be done that night, and not whether a certain something may come to pass that night ten years! Those debaters, therefore, who weigh the reasons that immediately’press for decision seem the only practical counsellors, the only safe guides for the present, even while they are confessing that they misjudged the past, and proving that they ignore the future.

Those, too, in whom the organ of weight is large generally make good administrators. For administration, in its ordinary routine, is but carrying on the customary operations of a. machinery already at work. The organ of weight is indeed an invaluable faculty in what is called practical life. It is usually

veficient in fervent reformers, eager

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Cawtoniana : a Series of Essays on

PW?

[Nov.

innovators, enthusiasts of every kind, who, looking forward, often with accurate vision, to distant objects, lose sight altogether of the obstacles an inch before their eyes. It is as notably absent in a Garibaldi as it is largely developed in a Cavour. This organ is more generally wanting or inactive in women than in men. We see many women remarkable for discretion, and even for prevision, who nevertheless seem to lose their heads when they have to ponder on what must be immediately done. They are discreet, for they avoid difficulties as much as fate will permit; they are farseeing, for they will predicate correctly, even in passion, what will be the results of a course to which they are urged or allured. But when Fate, despite their discretion, surprises them by a difliculty, or when that which they foresaw at a distance has actually come to pass, their intellect seems paralysed, and they fly intuitively for counsel to the practical mind of a man.

Although, in the course of my own experience and observation, I have seldom found the special faculty of wei hing things immediate combine with the more abstract faculty of foreseeing and cal~ culating on things afar, yet it by no means follows that the two faculties are so antagonistic as not to be combined. Only, where combined we recognise a very grand and consummate intellect,” and intellects very grand and consummate are rare phenomena.

The combination must exist to a felicitous degree in great generals ; in the founders or remodellers of States ,’ in those who master the elements of revolution and establish dynasties. In more familiar life, the organ of weight predominates in men of business and action ,’ the organ of causality in men of speculation and letters. In truth, the act of the statesman comes long after the thought of the Writer, who, recommending such and such measures as theoretically sound, leaves it to the statesman to weigh the practical

0

difiiculties with which he, and not the writer, has to deal : so that, as Burke has shown with his usual subtlety of reasoning, the same man will advocate in writing what he may not deem it wise to execute in action.

This organ of weight appears to me more generally developed in the British than in any other civilised people. And in this, I think, there is perhaps the main difference between them and their American kinsfolk. As a general rule, English men of business look with great intentness and caution to things immediately before them ; and with great indifference, often with distrustful aversion, to things at a distance. Hence their dislike to theory ; hence the emphatic respect they bestow on what they call practical sense; hence too, on the whole, the English are more disinclined to political novelties than any other population endowed with so large a degree of political freedom, so that even when accepting a political novelty, they still desire to accommodate it to the political habits of reasoning to which they are accustomed; and the advocates for innovation in whom they most confide, always endeavour to show that it is not the innovation which it appears at first sight, but is either a return to some elementary principle in the ancient constitution, or the natural and healthful development of that constitution itself. The English are mostly contented with seeking immediate remedies for immediate evils, and thus, from the dislike of foreseeing and preparing for changes that do not forcibly press, when they do concur in a change with sufi‘icient force of numbers to carry it, it is with the same prom-ptitude and haste which characterised the eminent man to whom I have referred, and who was in this, as in other respects, the archetype and representative of the English middle class of mind. Our American kinsfolk, on the other hand, to use

their own phrase, are “ a go-ahead ” population. They look at distant objects with a more sanguine and eager ken than we of the Old World are disposed to do; they do not weigh the pros and cons which ought first to be placed in the balance. And hence, perhaps, of all populations so intelligent, of which the history of the world contains a record, the Americans of the Great Republic have been in theory the boldest democrats, and in practice the most inveterate anti-reformers. There is not an absolute monarchy in Europe which has not been, within the last twenty years, a more practical reformer than the North American Republic ; meaning by the word reformer, the corrector of the evils that grow out of a system of government which it is not intended to revolutionise. How many intelligent North Americans foresaw, long years ago, that the South would take its opportunity to separate from the North; and yet, when the South did separate, there does not seem to have been a North American statesman who could weigh the circumstances he had so long anticipated. And all the while the empire which the Americans already possessed was imperilled from visible causes, and none more visible than these—1st, That its extent was already too vast for unity of interest; and, 2dly, That its government was too weak for unity of purpose,—the American citizens, fondly colonising Futurity, proclaimed, in every crisis of popular excitement, the Monroe doctrine, that the whole continent of AmericaPthe whole fourth-quarter of the globe—was the destined appanage of their Republic One and Indivisible.

Again, how common, within the last twenty years, has been the lament of intelligent Americans, that, by the working of their constitution, the highest order of citizens, whether in character, property, birth, or intellect, was eliminated from the action of public

life. In how many pamphlets, lectures, orations, did not reflective Americans mournfully foresee and solemnly foretell that, whenever the commonwealth should be really subjected to a critical danger, needing all its highest intellect to cope with and conquer, the incapable men would be thrown uppermost ; yet for that evil, so long foreseen, not one practical remedy, even by those who foresaw it, was even suggested. Year after year American thinkers have sent forth oracular warnings of the certain results of the jobbing and corruption which prevailed in all oflicial departments, but never did the legislature enforce a remedy. In the struggle between North and South which wages while I write, all these anticipated evils are glaring, are prominent, in that great section of the people which maintains the principle of the Union—incapable generals, corrupt departments, jobbing everywhere—and not a single practical reform is suggested by a single statesman ! Compare Russia and Austria with North America ; to the two former States the ordeal of war made at once manifest their defects, and those defects they have ever since been labouring to reform. But will North America reform her defects when her war is over’! As yet there is no sign of it. The main defect may be summed up – very briefly —— it is the prevalence of numbers over intellect and character ; and until that balance can be made more even, North America will lack the organ of weight which is the essential faculty of the practical reformer. Monarchies, whether absolute or constitutional ; republics, whether constitutional or democratical, engender the diseases peculiar to their own system, and their duration can only consist in calling forth the noblest conservative principle of each several system to the ubjugation of the principles at ork to destroy it. It is perfectly clear that the noblest conservative principle in any State must be intellect accompanied with

integrity. It is said by a great writer of the last century, that “ honour is the principle of monarchies, virtue of republics ;” and. certainly a monarchy in which honour is efl‘eminately ignored, is, whatever its wealth, as rotten as was the monarchy of Lydia ; and a republic in which virtue is cynically depressed, is, whatever its freedom, as ripe for an ignoble grave as was the democracy of Corcyra.

For myself, I own frankly I have no prejudice against republics. In those countries in which there cannot exist what is commonly called aristocracy, but what I prefer to call a class of gentlemen, who, though they may have no hereditary titles or privileges, still constitute an order in the body politic, with leisure sufficient for high mental cultivation, with property sufficient for independence from mercenary calculations and sordid callings, with a root in the soil suflicient for a passionate resolve to defend its birthright of liberty, whether from foreigner, court, or mob, there must sooner or later be either an absolute rule, with all its military splendours and civil centralism of iron will, or a popular republic, with all its trading energies, and its wear and tear of passionate life. Were I the native of a land that presented to me only the option between these two, I think I should prefer the last. I would rather have been an Athenian even in the time of Demosthenes, than a Macedonian even in the time of Philip. And if I have no prejudice against Republics, certainly I can have none against the Republic of America: Considering that men now living have seen its birth, who of the Old World can wonder at the pride with which its citizens regard it ‘? What other State in history ever rose, within a period measured by the life of a single man, into so great a power amongst the nations? On equal terms it has met the mightiest monarchies ,’ no slow growth of progressive ages, it came into the

F

world like America herself, a discovery which altered our knowledge of the globe, and dated the birth of a new destiny in the chronicle of the human race. Blind indeed the statesman who imagines its future darkened by the calamities it now undergoes. Divide the vast area of the land as fate may decide, be there in republican America as many independent sovereign States as in monarchical Europe, still the future of America, from the date of that disruption, must be as potent on the world as has been the past of Europe, whether disruptured by the fall of Rome or by the death of Charlemagne. Enough of pride for me, as an Englishman, to know that whatever State in that large section of the globe may best represent the dignity and progress of human thought, shall have had its fathers in Englishmen, and shall utter its edicts in the English tongue. I ! a prejudice against Americans as Americans !—enough answer to that charge for me and my countrymen, that fathers have no natural prejudice against their children 1 It is only where Americans have represented some principle or passion utterly antagonistic to the ties of relationship, or where the faults which in them might be pardonable, and in us would be without excuse, have been recommended to our adoption, and, if adopted, would have insured our ruin, that we have formed not a prejudgment to their disfavour, but an after-judgment to our own vindication. But putting all relationship between ourselves and our kinsfolk out of the question, and making ourselves dispassionate observers of all that is going on in America, as it has gone on before in Europe —viz., the political separation of States geographically divided—I consider it a puerile peddling with all the issues at stake in one of the mightiest revolutions this earth has known, to consider that the process of disintegration can terminate with the separate empire of two divisions. As each State grows popu

lar enough, and strong enough, and rich enough, to have interests distinct from other States with which for a time it is amalgamated, such State will split itself asunder, and America will have at least as many sovereignties as Europe. That is but a question of time, and time in America moves faster than it moved in Europe a thousand years ago. The practical question as concerns the future of America is this, Which of these several States,— partly by the accident of geographical situation, and principally by the operation, whether of the forms of government or the influences resulting from the spirit and modes of thought which compose the moral atmosphere of communities,—will obtain the largest share of dignity and power? So far as geography is concerned, the question is easily answered, That which is most central as regards influence over its neighbours, or that which has the widest seaboard as regards commerce with the foreigner—that which geographically most resembles France, or that which geographically most resembles England. So far as the spirit of institutions is concerned, that which gives the fairest play to the union of educated intellect with whatever moral principle—call it honour, patriotism, public virtue—may concentrate the educated intellect upon the disdain of private interest in comparison with the public weal; and create a Public Opinion, which, in the more favourable sense of the word aristocracy, may aristocratise the action of democracy, and demand in those who dominate its affairs the highest types of the na tional probity and culture.

I return from a digression which the interest that the destinies of republican America inspire in political inquirers may sufiice to excuse 5 serving, as it does, to illustrate the propositions out of which it has grown.

As it is always well to secure a confidential adviser in one whose intellectual bias, differing from our own, tends to supply our defects, so, in the affairs of life, he who feels that his tendency of thought is over-much towards the speculative—who, wrapt in prognostics of the future, does not heed the signs of the Moment slipping under his feet—will find hissafety in habitually consulting one whose tendency is towards the practical, and who determines his plans by the weather of the day, rather than by meteorological calculations of the influences that will affect the barometer ten years hence ;—so, on the other hand, he who, clear-sighted for things close before his eye, has a shortness of vision for things afar, should join to himself an adviser who, commanding a wider scope, not only expands, but rectifies his calculations,——not only elevates, but assures his aims.

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The very highest order of common sense necessitates genius ; the very highest order of genius necessitates common sense ; but between the very highest order of either there interpose numerous degrees of genius and of common sense.

How often have I seen a man of genius over-enthusiastic or overrefining, of whom I have said, “What a masterpiece of intellect that creature would be if he were but coupled to a sober, practical, business-like adviser, whose pace his agility indeed might quicken, but whose weight would hold him back from wasting his breath in capers, and bruising his thews in stumbles!”

And, on the other hand, how often have I seen a man singularly practical, whose common sense in all urgent matters, forced suddenly upon him, won ascendancy, for the

moment, over more brilliant competitors, and who yet, from the

,want, whether of that warmth or

that foresight, that ennobling aspiration towards lofty truths, or that cordial sympathy with the hearts and hopes of mankind, which give to genius its force and its charm, disappoints and deceives us in the long-run, incompleting his uses, stinting his wisdom, stopping short of that standard of greatness to which he might otherwise have grown: And again I have said to myself, “ This man could have been the first of his age if he could have been as discerning for the age as he is acute for the moment ; if his strong common sense had associated itself with some vivid comrade of genius, who would have brightened the eye and quickened the pulse of his reason.”

For, after all, the mind of a master of action is consummate in proportion as it comprehends the two requisites in the mind of a master of science—viz, the cautious circumspection which attaches it to the practical, and the active imagination which, out of. the practical, ascends to the theoretical. A theory is an illusion, unless it be founded on the practical. The practical is fruitless unless it culminate in theory. Weight and causality are organs that should be in harmonious development with each other, whether in action or in contemplation : Facts immediately before us, being duly weighed, and traced to their causes in the past through calculations which sufiice to justify those rational speculations on the future that constitute the theories of the philosopher and form the policy of the statesman. .

NO. XVL—THE SYMPATQETIC TEMPERAMENT.

It does not follow, because a man relieves a misfortune, that he sympathises with the sufferer. The stoics, indeed, while they enjoined beneficence, forbade sympathy : according to them, in putting your

hand into your pockets you must take care not to disturb the folds of your heart. Rochefoucauld—who certainly was not a stoic, and may rather be considered the most brilliant of the modern followers of Epicurus—-appears in this respect to be in agreement with Zeno. In the portrait of himself which he has sketched with the clear broad strokes of a master’s hand, he says that “ he is little sensible to pity ; that there is nothing he would not do for a sufferer, even to the show of compassion, for the wretched are such fools, that the very show of compassion does them all the good in the world. But,” adds this polite philosopher, “ I hold that one should be contented to show, and guard one’s self carefully from feeling, pity: it is a passion good for nothing in a well-consti~ tuted mind (an dedans cl’une time bienfaite), which only serves to weaken the heart, and which one ought to leave to the common people, who, doing nothing by reason, have need of passion to induce them to do anything.”

Certainly most of us have known in life persons who are ever ready to perform a charitable action, but from whose lips there never falls the balm of a sympathising word. They do not even, like Rochefoucauld, simulate the pity which they do not feel. Are you ill, and cannot afford a doctor’! they will pay for him,- are you pining for the anodyne of a tender look’? you shrink back more sick at heart than before from the chill of their hard brows.

On the other hand, there are persons whose nervous system is tremulously alive to the aspect of pain; they will give you sigh for sigh, and groan for groan ; they sympathise with you sincerely for the moment: as soon as you are out of sight, they forget that you exist. Put yourself in their way, and rely upon their sympathy; when out of their way, never count upon their aid. Benevolence is not always ‘beneficence. To wish you may be benefited is one thing 3 to benefit you is another. A man who is beneficent without sympathy, though he may not be a plea sant acquaintance, must be a good man. But a man who is sympa

thising without beneficence may be a very bad man. For there is a readiness of sympathy which comes from the impressionability of the physical system—a vibration of the nerves reacting on no chord of duty, and awakening no response in a generous impulse of the heart. And a man may not be the less profoundly wicked because he possesses an excitable nervous temperament. ‘

Alexander Pheraeus, the most ruthless of tyrants, so entered into the sorrows enacted on the stage, that a tragedy moved him to tears. It is to him that Pope alludes in his Prologue to Addison’s ‘ Cato ’—

“ Tyrants no more their savage nature

ePt, And foes to virtue wondered why they wept.”

Unfortunately, Alexander Pheraeus, in spite of his weeping, kept his “ nature,” which was probably not constitutionally “savage.” A man of a temperament readily impressionable, if accompanied, as it generally is, with a lively fancy, brings home to himself the sorrows or the dangers which are represented to his senses, and for the moment realised by his fancy. And thus it may be from fear for himself that a tyrant may weep at the representation of sufi‘erings which, on the stage, depicts the power of Fate over even the crowned head and the sceptred hand. Now the same nervous temperament which is efl’eminately susceptible to this egotistical kind of sympathy, may be very subject to fear; and fear is akin to cruelty. For fear is in the conviction of some weakness in him who feels it, compared with the power from which he apprehends an injury ; and no saying is more true than that aphorism of Seneca,-—“Omnis enim ex infirmitateferitases ’ ‘—“Allcruelty springs from weakness.” I think we have a striking example of these propositions in Nero, when his character is metaphysically analysed. His was the excitable, impulsive, nervous organisation— tremulously alive to the effects of music, poetry, the drama, spectacle –emotionally plastic to whatsoever influence appealed for the moment to his senses. Thus, in early youth, a cultivator of the softest arts, and no cause of suspicion and terror yet maddening his restless imagination, he was doubtless sincere when, the sentence on a criminal being brought to him to sign, he exclaimed, piteously, “ Vcllem nescire literals l”— “ Would to Heaven that I had not learned to write!” But the same susceptibility to immediate influences which, when fresh from the contemplation of serene and harmless images, made him impulsively merciful, subjugated him first to sensual pleasures, rendered monstrous in’ proportion as his imagination, on brooding over them, became itself diseased: and, when the whole character was unmanned by the predominance of the sensual and brutelike over the intellectual and moral elements in man, all that was noblest in manhood, in exciting the internal consciousness of his own infirmity or weakness, excited his fear; for in silently rebuking, they seemed silently to threaten him—and thus the voluptuous trifler was scared into the relentless butcher. Yet, impressionable to immediate circumstance at the last as at the first, all the compassionate softness he had once known for the sentenced criminal, whose doom he had shrunk from signing, returns to settle on himself. When the doom which had shocked his nerves to contemplate for another stands before him as his own, he weeps over his own fate, his hand trembles to inflict it. Just as in his youth sympathy (being nothing more than the vividness with which he could

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bring home to his fancy the pain to be inflicted on another) made him forget the crime that was to be punished in pity for the criminal that was to be slain, so now he whollylost sight of his own crimes in the anguish of contemplating his own death. And when, in forgetfulness of empire abused and remembrance

_of art cultivated, he exclaimed,

“What an artist in me is about to perish l”* he explained the enigma of his own nature. Besides the tastes which his hostile historians accord to him in painting and sculpture, and a talent for poetry, which Suetonius is at some pains to vindicate from the charge of plagiarism, eighteen hundred laurel crowns had Athens bestowed on him as a musician! If his career had been a musician’s and not an emperor’s, he might indeed have been a voluptuary : a musician not unfrequently is ;—-bnt a soft-tempered, vain, praise-seeking infant of art, studying harmony, and nervously shocked by discord ;—as musicians generally are. _ ‘

The great French Revolution abounds with examples more familiar of the strange mixture of sentimental tenderness With remorseless cruelty, which may be found allied in that impressionable nervous temperament as susceptible to the rapport of the present time as a hysterical somnambule is to the will of an electro-biologist.

Many years ago I met with a Frenchman who had been an active, if subordinate, ministrant in the Reign of Terror. In Petitot’s Collection of Papers illustrative of that period, we find him warmly commended to Robespierre as a young patriot, ready to sacrifice on the altar of his country as many heca

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* “ Qualq’s arlzfcm pereol” Artifex means something more than musician, by which word it is rendered m our current translations, and even something more

than artist, by which it is rendered in the text.

Artifem means an artificer, a con

triver; and I suspect that, in using the word, Nero was thinking of the hydraulic musical contrivance which had occupied his mind amidst all the terrors of the conspiracy which destroyed him—a contrirance that really seems to have been a very ingenious application of science to art, which we might not have lost if Nero had

been only an artificer, and not an emperor.

a‘

the moment, over more brilliant competitors, and who yet, from the want, whether of that warmth or that foresight, that ennobling aspiration towards lofty truths, or that cordial sympathy with the hearts and hopes of mankind, which give to genius its force and its charm, disappoints and deceives us in the long run, incompleting his uses, stinting his wisdom, stopping short of that standard of greatness to which he might otherwise have grown : And again I have said to myself, “ This man could have been the first of his age if he could have been as discerning for the age as he is acute for the moment; if his strong common sense had associated itself with some vivid comrade of genius, who would have brightened the eye and quickened the pulse of his reason.”

For, after all, the mind of a master of action is consummate in proportion as it comprehends the two requisites in the mind of a master of science—via, the cautious circumspection which attaches it to the practical, and the active imagination which, out of the practical, ascends to the theoretical. A theory is an illusion, unless it be founded on the practical. The practical is fruitless, unless it culminate in theory. Weight and causality are organs that should be in harmonious development with each other, whether in action or in contemplation: Facts immediately before us, being duly weighed, and traced to their causes in the past through calculations which sufiice to justify those rational speculations on the future that constitute the theories of the philosopher and form the policy of the statesman.

E SSAY XVII.

THE SYMI’ATHETIC TEMPERAMENT.

IT does not follow, because a man relieves a misfortune, that he sympathises with the sufferer. Thestmm while they enjoined beneficence, fgrbade sympathy: according to themfii putting yourhand into your pockets you must take care not to disturb the folds of your heart. Rochefoucauld—who certainly was not a stoic, and may rather be considered the most brilliant of the modern followers of Epicurus—appears in this respect to be in agreement with Zeno. In the portrait of himself which he has sketched with the clear broad strokes of a master’s hand, he says that “ he is little sensible to pity; that there is nothing he would not do for a sufferer, even to the show of compassion, for the wretched are such feels, that the very show of compassion does them all the good in the world. But,” adds this polite philosopher, “I hold that one should be contented to show, and guard one’s self care— fully from feeling, pity : it is a passion good for nothing in a well-constituted mind (au dedans d’unc time bien-fm’te), which only serves to weaken the heart, and which one ought to leave to the common people, who, doing nothing by reason, have need of passion to induce them to do anything.”

Certainly most of us have known in life persons who are ever ready to perform a charitable action, but from whose lips there never falls the balm of a sympathising word. They do not even, like Rochefoucauld, simulate the pity which they do not feel. Are you ill, and cannot afford a doctor? they will pay for him; are you pining for the anodyne of a tender look? you shrink back more sick at heart than before from the chill of their hard brows.

On the other hand, there are persons whose nervous system is tremulously alive to the aspect of pain ; they will give you sigh for sigh, and groan for groan ; they sympathise with you sincerely for the moment: as soon as you are out of sight, they forget that you exist. Put yourself in their way, and rely upon their sympathy; when out of their way, never count upon their aid. Benevolence is not always beneficence. To wish you may be benefited is one thing ; to benefit you is another. A man who is beneficent without sympathy, though he may not be a pleasant acquaintance, must be a good man. But a man who is sympathising without beneficence may be a very bad man. For there is a readiness of sympathy which comes from the impressionability of the physical system—a vibration of the nerves re-acting on no chord of duty, and awakening no response in a generous impulse of the heart. And a. man may not be the less profoundly wicked because he possesses an excitable nervous temperament.

Alexander Pheraeus, the most ruthless of tyrants, so entered into the sorrows enacted on the stage, that a tragedy moved him to tears. It is to him that Pope alludes in his Prologue to Addison’s ‘ Cato ’—

“ Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And. foes to virtue wondered why they wept.”

Unfortunately, Alexander Pheraeus, in spite of his weeping, kept his “ nature,” which was probably not constitutionally’ “ savage.” A man of a temperament readily impressionable, if accompanied, as it generally is, with a lively fancy, brings home to himself the sorrows or the dangers which are represented to his senses, and for the moment realised by his fancy. And thus it may be from fear for himself that a tyrant may weep at the representation of sufferings which, on the stage, depicts the power of Fate over even the crowned head and the sceptred hand. Now the same nervous temperament which is eifeminately susceptible to this egotistical kind of sympathy, may be very subject to fear; and fear is akin to cruelty. For fear is in the conviction of some weakness in him who feels it, compared with the power from which he apprehends an injury ; and no saying is more true than that aphorism of Seneca,—“Omm’s cn’im ex infirmitaie fe’ritas est”—“All cruelty springs from weakness.” I think we have a striking example of these propositions in Nero, when his character is metaphysically analysed. His was the excitable, impulsive nervous organisation tremulously alive to the effects of music, poetry, the drama, spectacle—emotionally plastic to whatsoever influence appealed for the moment to his senses. Thus, in early youth, a cultivator of the softest arts, and no cause of suspicion and terror yet maddening his restless imagination, he was doubtless sincere when, the sentence on a criminal being brought to him to sign, he exclaimed, piteously, “ Vellem ‘nescirc literas ! ”—“ W’ould to Heaven that I had not learned to write!” But the same susceptibility to immediate influences which, when fresh from the contemplation of serene and harmless images, made him impulsively merciful, subjugated him first to sensual pleasures, rendered monstrous in proportion as his imagination, on brooding over them, became itself diseased: and, when the whole character was unmanned’ by the predominance of the sensual and brute-like over the intellectual and moral elements in man, all that was noblest in manhood, in exciting the internal consciousness of his own infirmity or weakness, excited his fear; for in silently rebuking, they seemed silently to threaten him—and thus the voluptuous trifler was Scared into the relentless butcher. Yet, impressionable to immediate circumstance at the last as at the first, all the compassionate softness he had once known for the sentenced criminal, whose doom he had shrunk from signing, returns to settle on himself. When the doom which had shocked his nerves to contemplate for another stands before him as his own, he weeps to behold, and his hand trembles to inflict it. Just as in his youth sympathy (being nothing more than the vividness with which he could bring home to his fancy the pain to be inflicted on another) made him forget the crime that was to be punished in pity for the criminal that was to be slain, so now he wholly lost sight of his own crimes in the anguish of contemplating his own death. And when, in forgetfulness of empire abused and in remembrance of art cultivated, he exclaimed, “ What an artist in me is about to perish ! ” * he explained the enigma of his own nature.

* “ Qualis arti ex perco ! ” Arti 01 means something more than musician, by whic word it is rendered in our current translations, and even something more than artist, by which it is rendered in the text. Artifca: means an artificer, a contriver; and I suspect that, in using the word, Nero was thinking of the hydraulic musical contrivance which had occupied his mind amidst all the terrors of the conspiracy which destroyed him—a aontrivance that really seems to have been a very ingenious application of science to art, which we might not have lost if Nero had been only an artificer, and not an emperor.

Besides the tastes which his hostile historians accord to him in painting and sculpture, and a talent for poetry, which Suetonius is at some pains to vindicate from the charge of plagiarism, eighteen hundred laurel crowns had Athens bestowed on him as a musician! If his career had been a musician’s and not an emperor’s, he might indeed have been a voluptuary: a musician not nnfrequently is ;—-but a soft-tempered, vain, praise-seeking infant of art,‘ studying harmony, and nervously shocked by discord ;—as musicians generally are.

The great French Revolution abounds with examples more familiar of the strange mixture of sentimental tenderness with remorseless cruelty, which may be found allied in that impressionable nervous temperament as susceptible to the rapport of the present time as a hysterical somnambnle is to the will of an clectrobiologist.

Many years ago I met with a Frenchman who had been an active, if subordinate, ministrant in the Reign of Terror. In Petitot’s Collection of Papers illustrative of that period, we find him warmly commended to Robespierre, as a young patriot, ready to sacrifice on the altar of his country as many hecatombs of fellow-countrymen as the Goddess of Reason might require. When I saw this ex-oflicial of the tribunal of blood, which was in a Lendon drawing-room, where his antecedents were not generally known, he was a very polite, grey-haired gentleman of the old school of manners, addicted, like Cardinal Richelieu and Warren Hastings, to the composition of harmless verses. I have seldom met with any one who more instantaneously charmed a social circle by his rapid and instinctive sympathy with the humours of all around him—gay with the gay, serious with the serious,.easy with the young, caressingly respectful to the old. Fascinated by the charm of his address, a fine lady whispered to me, “ This, indeed, is that exquisite French manner of which we have heard so much, and seen so little. Nothing nowadays like the polish of the old re’glz’mc.” ‘

Marvelling at the contrast between the actions for which this amiable gentleman had been commended to Robespierre and the manners by which he might have seduced the Furies, I could not refrain, in the frankness of my

temper at that earlier period of my life, from insinuating the question how a man of so delicate a refinement, and so happy a turn for innocent poems in the style of “ Gentil Bernard,” could ever have been led away into a participation of what I mildly termed “the excesses of the Revolution.”

“ Ah,” quoth this velvet-pawed tiger, “ que voulez-vous ?— I always obey my heart ! I sympathiselvitli‘whatever goes on before me. Am 1 today with people who’WA-Zzas les Wm me nlmz/te la téte ! pa m’échmlfe le sang / * Icry out with them, ‘ A has les aristocrates! ’ Am I tomorrow with people who cry ‘ A has la guillotine! ’—eh bien I my eyes moisten ; I embrace my enemies—I sob out, ‘A bus la guillotine ! ’ MW of my nature. Ah, if you .hadknomMgnsieur RobespierreT”\~”

“ Hem ! ” said I ; “ thatisafiqhonour I should not have coveted if I had lived in his day. But I have hitherto supposed that Monsieur Robespierre was somewhat unsocial, reserved, frigid 3 was he, nevertheless, a man whose sins against his kind are to be imputed to thediveliness of his sym athies? ”

“”‘ 1r, pardon me if I say that you would not have asked that question if you had studied the causes of his ascendancy, or read with due attention his speeches. How can you suppose that a man not eloquent, as compared with his contemporaries, could have mastered his audience, except by Wthising with them? When they were for blood, he sympathised with them ; when they began to desire the reign of blood to cease, he sympathised also. In his desk were found David’s plans of academics for infancy and asylums for age. He was just about to inaugurate the Reign of Love, when the conspiracy against him swept him down the closing abyss of the Reign of Terror. He was only a day too late in expressing his sympathy with the change in the public mind. Can you suppose that he who, though ambitious, threw up his profession rather than subscribe to the punishment of death—he whose favourite author was Jean Jacques, ‘ le plus almant ales hommes ’ 1‘— that he had any inherent propensity__to_qr_u\elty? N0! Cruelty had become thespirit of the time, with which the

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impressionability of his nervous temperament compelled him to sympathise. And if he were a sterner exterminator than others, it was not because he was more cruel than they, but more exposed to danger. And as he identified himself with his country, so self-preservation was in his mind the rigorous duty of a patriot. Wherever you had placed him, Monsieur Robespierre would always have been the man of his day. If he had been an Englishman, sir, he would have been at the head of all the philanthropical societies— come in for a large constituency on philanthropieal principles -—and been the most respectable, as he was always the most incorruptible, of public men. ‘ Ge pauvre llI. Robespierre/ comme il est me’comml’ * If he had but lived a month or two longer, he would have revived the age of gold! ”

Certainly, during that excitable epoch, tenderness of sentiment and atrocity ofucgnduct were not combined’i’n “ ce pmwre M. Robespierre ” allifi‘élw‘l‘he favourite amusement of one of the deadliest of his fellow-murderers was the rearing of doves. He said that the contemplation of their innocence made the charm of his existence, in consoling him for the wickedness of men. Couthon, at the commencement of the Revolution, was looked upon as the mildest creature to be found out of a pastoral. He had a figure d’ange, heavenly with compassionate tenderness. Even when he had attained to the height of his homicidal celebrity, he was carried to the National Assembly or the Jacobite Club (I say carried, for, though young, he had lost the use of his limbs) fondling little lapdogs, which he nestled in his bosom. An anecdote is told of one of his confréres, who was as fatal to men and as loving to dogs as himself, that when a distracted wife, who had pleaded to him in vain for her husband’s life, in retiring from his presence, chanced to tread on his favourite spaniel’s tail, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, madame! have you then no humanity? ”

In these instances of tenderness for brutes we see the operation of that sympathy which, being diverted from men, still must have a vent, and lavishes itself on the inferior races, to whom its sentimental possessor shows all kindness, because from them he apprehends no mischief. We need not, however, resort to the annals of the French

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Revolution for examples of this warped direction of pity or affection. Every day we see venerable spinsters who

, delight in the moral murder of scandal, and guillotine a “reputation between every cup of tea, y‘et’full of’b’eniguant

charities to parrots, or dogs, or cats, or monkeys. Those venerable spinsters were, no doubt, once fond-hearted little girls, and, while in their teens, were as much shocked at the idea of assassinating the character of pretty women, and poisoning the honour of unsuscepting hearths, as they are now at the barbarity of pinching Fidcle’s delicate paw, or singeing Tabitha’s inofiensive whiskers.

There is, thenJ_a_kind of morbid sensibility which is not affectatien—nor_hypocrisym 0 teemed, but is as perfectly genuine’as any other symptom of irri ble nerves, and is wholly distinct from healthful goodness of heart; and this kind of sensibility is often united with a temperament that is impressionable, through the nerves, to the influences immediately and sensuously brought to bear on it, and is so far sympathetic ; but from that very impres_ sionability is easily subjected to morbid or even criminal misdirections; for, as Adam Smith‘has very well argued in his ‘ Theory of Moral Sentiments ’—“ Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same as pity or compassion, is a word that may now Without much impropriety be made use of to denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.” And the reader will have observed that it is in that sense that I employ the word. A person thus nervously impressionable may, from the very intensity of his regard for himself, easily transport his fancy to the situation of others, so long as he can picture himself in those situations, or so long as they appear to affect his comfort or safety. And what with the impressionability, what with the fancy, what with the self-regard, he will be peculiarly susceptible to fear, and fear will render him peculiarly prone to cruelty. Yet, with all that evinces hardness of heart, he may retain to the last a certain softness and sensibility of nerves——weep like the tyrant of Pheraea at the sorrow in a play, fondle lapdogs like Couthon ——in short, while the masculine attributes of humanity seem obliterated, we shall find him human through a morbidity of sentiment which belongs to the humanity of Women.

Still, though this impressionable organisation is not therefore necessarily an index of goodness, it is much more frequent in the good than in the bad. I have hitherto glanced only at its diseased conditions. In its healthful development and action it imparts to virtue that exquisite tenderness which distinguishes the archetype of beautified humanity from that artificial mechanism by which the stoic sought to fashion forth a compassionless, emotionless, ethical machine.

When the beneficent man seems to feel not only for but wgfllmeatnmbenefitgrenters-Mhisheart, s eals awaythepride that might otherwise reject a charity, whispers hope to the grief that might otherwise despair of comfort, makes himself one with his brother man, through sympathy, before soaring aloft from him as the dispenser of favours through a principle of the duty which the prosperous owe to the afliicted—then Virtue indeed seems clad in the alluring beauty which Plato says she would take in the eyes of man, could her image be rendered visible.

Beneficence in itself is godlike 3 but beneficence alone is but a godlike statue—an efiigies embodying a divine idea, but an effigies in marble. Add to beneficence sympathy, and the statue takes bloom and life. Nor in beneficence alone has sympathy its heavenly charm. In the equal commerce of life the benefactor is needed seldom, the sympathiser is longed for always. Be our joy but in a momentary sunbeam, be our sadness but the gloom of a passing cloud, how that sunbeam lights up the whole landscape when refiected in the sympathiser’s smile, and how the cloud, when its shadow falls on the sympathiser’s brow, “turns forth its silver lining on the night! ” Happy, thrice happy he who has secured to his life one who feels as if living in it! And perhaps this is not an uncommon lot, except to uncommon natures. Did Shakespeare and Milton find hearts that understood the mysterious depths mam well enough to sympathise? If so, it does not appear in their scant, Mfor such knowledge perhaps) their sufiicing biographies. But Shakespeares and Miltons are as medals, by which Nature celebrates her most signal triumphs, and of which she coins no duplicates. Doubtless there are millions of excellent Browns and Smiths who may find second selves in other Browns and other Smiths. Goethe, speaking of himself says, with that manly yet somewhat mournful self-dependence which forms one of his most impressive characteristics, “ To desire that_ others should sympathise with usisagreat folly. I never desired any such thing. I always considered man, in his individual 7 capacity, a being to be inquired into and observed in all his peculiarities, but I certainly did not expect any sympathy.” Folly or not the desire of sympathy may be, but perhaps it is the desire strongesf’afi‘dnnost common in youthful Their ideal of love is indeed, for the most part, {shaped and coloured by their craving for that sympathy which they imagine the beloved one alone can give. Yet certainly Goethe, speaking as Goethe, is right. No one has a right to expect sympathy for himself as poet, as author, or artist; for, in that capacity, his life is in a world of his own, with which no other is familiar—into which no other can find a home. In that world there goes on a perpetual movement—a rapid succession of scenes and images, of incidents and events, of which he is as sole a spectator, as if to him alone were vouchsafed the vision of all that inhabit and interest the star which was ascendant at his birth, and influences the structure of his mind and the mysteries of his fate.

But no one is all poethauthor, artist; every demigod of genius has also his side as man. And as man, though not as poet, anthor,rartist, he may reasonably yearn for sympathy. Such a sympathy, so restricted, will probably not be denied to him. It has been said that the wife of Racine had so little participation in the artistic life of her spouse, that she had never even read his plays. But as Racine was tenderly attached to her, and of a nature too sensitive not to have needed some sort of sympathy in those to whom he attached himself, and as, by all accounts, his marriage was a very happy one, so it is fair‘ to presume that the sympathy withheld from his artistic life was maintained in the familiar domestic everyday relationship of his positive existence, and that he did not ask the heart of Madame Racine to beat in unison with his own over the growing beauties of those children whom she was not needed to bring into the world. Why ask her to shed a mother’s tears over the fate of Britannicus, or recoil with a mother’s horror from the guilt of Phédre f—they were no offspring of hers. Men of action have, however, this decided advantage over men of letters and contemplation,

IF-r_

tombs of fellow-countrymen as the Goddess of Reason might require. When I saw this ex-ofiicial of the tribunal of blood, which was in a London drawing-room, where his antecedents were not generally known, he was a very polite, greyhaired gentleman of the old school of manners, addicted, like Cardinal Richelieu and \Varren Hastings, to the composition of harmless verses. I have seldom met with any one who more instantaneously charmed a social circle by his rapid and instinctive sympathy with the humours of all around him—gay with the gay, serious with the serious, easy with the young, caressingly respectful to the old. Fascinated by the charm of his address, a fine lady whispered to me, “ This, indeed, is that exquisite French manner of which we have heard so much, and seen so little. Nothing nowadays like the polish of the old régime.”

Marvelling at the contrast between the actions for which this amiable gentleman had been commended to Robespierre and the manners by which he might have seduced the Furies, I could not refrain, in the frankness of my temper at that earlier period of my life, from insinuating the question how a man of so delicate a refinement, and so happy a turn for innocent poems in the style of “ Gentil Bernard,” could ever have been led away into a participation of what I mildly termed “the excesses of the Revolution.”

“Ah,” quoth this velvet-pawed tiger, “ que voulez-vous ?—I always obey my heart ! I sympathise with whatever goes on before me. Am I to-day with people who cry ‘A bus les aristocrates ! ’ ya me monte le téte / ca m’echaufi’e le sang ./ ‘I cry out with them, ‘A bas les aristocrates I’ Am I to-morrow with people who cry ‘A bus la guillotine ! ‘—eh bizn ! my eyes moisten ; I embrace my enemies—I sob out, ‘A bus la guillotine /’ Sympathy is the law of my nature. Ah, if you had known Monsieur Robespierre !”

“Hem!” said I; “that is an honour I should not have coveted if I had lived in his day. But I have hitherto supposed that Monsieur Robespierre was somewhat unsocial, reserved, frigid; was he, nevertheless, a man whose sins against his kind are to be imputed to the liveliness of his sympathies 1”

“Sir, pardon me if I say that you would not have asked that question if you had studied the causes of his ascendancy, or read with due attention his speeches. How can you suppose that a man not eloquent, as compared with his contemporaries, could have mastered his audience, except by sympathising with them’! When they were for blood, he sympathised with them ; when they began to desire the reign of blood to cease, he sympathised also. In his desk were found David’s plans for academies for infancy and asylnms for age. He was just about to inaugurate the Reign of Love, when the conspiracy against him swept him down the closing abyss of the Reign of Terror. He was only a day too late in expressing his sympathy with the change in the public mind. Can you suppose that he who, though ambitious, threw up his profession rather than subscribe to the punishment of death—he whose favourite author was Jean Jacques, ‘le plus aimant des hommes’—that he had any inherent propensity to cruelty’? No ! Cruelty had become the spirit of the time, with which the impressionability of his nervous temperament compelled him to sympathise. And if he were a sterner exterminator than others, it was not because he was more cruel than they, but more exposed to danger. And as be identified himself with his country, so self-preservation was in his mind the rigorous duty of a patriot. Wherever you had placed him, Monsieur Robespierre would always have been the man of his day. If he had been an Englishman, sir, he would have been at the head of all the philanthropical societies—come in for a large con

[graphic]
stituency on philanthropical principles—and been the most respectable, as he was always the most incorruptible, of public men. ‘ Ce pau-vre M. Robespierre / comme il est méconnu ! ’ If he had but lived a month or two longer, he would have revived the age of gold!”

Certainly, during that excitable epoch, tenderness of sentiment and atrocityvof conduct were not combined in “ ce pauvre .M. Robespierre” alone. The favourite amusement of one of the deadliest of his fellow murderers was the rearing of doves. He said that the contemplation of their innocence made the charm of his existence, in consoling him for the wickedness of men. Couthon, at the commencement of the Revolution, was looked upon as the mildest creature to be found out of a pastoral. He had a figure d’ange, heavenly with compassionate tenderness. Even when he had attained to the height of his homicidal celebrity, he was carried to the National Assembly or the J acobite Club (I say carried, for, though young, he had lost the use of his limbs) fondling little lapdogs, which he nestled in his bosom. An anecdote is told of one of his confrém, who was as fatal to men and as loving to dogs as himself, that when a distracted wife, who had pleaded to him in vain for her husband’s life, in retiring from his presence, chanced to tread on his favourite spaniel’s tail, he exclaimed, “ Good heavens, madame! have you then no humanity ’I”

In these instances of tenderness for brutes we see the operation of that sympathy which, being diverted from men, still must have a vent, and lavishes itself on the inferior races, to whom its sentimental possessor shows all kindness, because from them he apprehends no mischief. We need not, however, resort to the annals of the French Revolution for examples of this warped direction of pity or affection. Every day we see venerable spinsters who delight in the moral murder of scandal, and guillotine a

‘\

reputation between every cup of tea, yet full of benignant charities to parrots, or dogs, or cats, or monkeys. Those venerable spinsters were, no doubt, once fond-hearted little girls, and, while in their teens, were as much shocked, at the idea of assassinating the character of pretty women, and poisoning the honour of unsuspecting hearths, as they are now at the barbarity of pinching Fidele’s delicate paw, or singeing Tabitha’s inoffensive whiskers.

There is, then, a kind of morbid sensibility which is not afi’ectation nor hypocrisy, as it is often esteemed, but is as perfectly genuine as any other symptom of irritable nerves, and is wholly distinct from healthful goodness of heart; and this kind of sensibility is often united with a temperament that is impressionable, through the nerves, to the influences immediately and sensuously brought to bear on it, and is so far sympathetic ; but from that very impressionability is easily subjected to morbid or even criminal misdirections ; for, as Adam Smith has very well argued in his ‘ Theory of Moral Sentiments’— “ Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same as pity or compassion, is a word that may now without much impropriety be made use of to denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.” And the reader will have observed that it is in that sense that I employ the word. A person thus nervously impressionable may, from the very intensity of his regard for himself, easily transport his fancy to the situation of others, so long as he can picture himself in those situations, or so long .as they appear to affect his comfort or safety. And what with the impressionability, what with the fancy, what with the self-regard, he will be peculiarly susceptible to fear, and fear will render him peculiarly prone to cruelty. Yet, with all that evinces hardness of heart, he_ may retain to the last a certain softness and sensibility of nerves weep like the tyrant of Pheraea at the sorrow in a play, fondle lapdogs like Couthon, in short while the masculine attributes of humanity

[blocks in formation]
seem obliterated, we shall find him human through a morbidity of sentiment which belongs to the humanity of women.

Still, though this impressionable organisation is not therefore necessarily an index of goodness, it is much more frequent in the good than in the bad. I have hitherto glanced only at its diseased condii tions. In its healthful development and action it imparts to virtue that exquisite tenderness which distinguishes the archetype of beautified humanity from that artificial mechanism by which the stoic sought to fashion forth a compassionless, emotionless, ethical machine.

When the beneficent man seems to feel not only for but with the fellow-creature he benefits, enters into his heart, steals away the pride

‘ that might otherwise reject a cha

rity, whispers hope to the grief that might otherwise despair of comfort, makes himself one with his brother man, through sympathy, before soaring aloft from him as the dispenser of favours through a principle of the duty which the prosperous owe to the afflicted—then Virtue indeed seems clad in the alluring beauty which Plato says she would take in the eyes of man, could her image be rendered visible. Beneficence in itself is godlike; but beneficence alone is but a godlike statue—an efligies embodying a divine idea, but an ef’figies in marble. Add to beneficence sympathy, and the statue takes bloom and life. Nor in beneficence alone has sympathy its heavenly charm. In the equal commerce of life the benefactor is needed seldom, the sympathiser is longed for always. Be our joy but in a momentary sunbeam, be our sadness but the gloom of a passing cloud, how that sunbeam lights up the whole landscape when reflected in the sympathiser’s smile, and how the cloud, when its shadow falls on the sym

pathiser’s brow, “turns forth its silver lining on the night ! ” Happy, thrice happy he who has secured to his life one who feels asif living in it ! And perhaps this is not an uncommon lot, except to uncommon natures. Did Shakespeare and Milton find hearts that understood the mysterious depths of their own well enough to sympathise’! If so, it does not appear in their scant, yet (for such knowledge per— haps) their sufiicing biographies. But Shakespeares and Miltons are as medals, by which Nature celebrates her most signal triumphs, and of which she coins no duplicates. Doubtless there are millions of excellent Browns and Smiths who may find second selves in other Browns and other Smiths. Goethe, speaking of himself, says, with that manly yet somewhat mournful selfdependence which forms one of his most impressive characteristics, “ To desire that others should sympathise with us is a great folly. I never desired any such thing. I always considered man, in his individual capacity, a being to be inquired into and observed in all his peculiarities, but I certainly did not expect any sympathy.” Folly or not the desire of sympathy may be, but perhaps it is the desire strongest and most common in youthful poets. Their ideal of love is indeed, for the most part, shaped and coloured by their craving for that sympathy which they imagine the beloved one alone can give. Yet certainly Goethe, speaking as Goethe, is right. No one has a right to expect sympathy for himself as poet, as author,‘ or artist; for, in that capacity, his life is in a world of his own, with which no other is familiar—into which no other can find a home. In that world there goes on a perpetual movement—a rapid succession of scenes and images, of incidents and events, of which he is as sole a spectator, as if to him alone were vouchsafed the vision of all that inhabit and interest the star which was ascendant at his birth, and influences the structure of his mind and the mysteries of his fate.

[graphic][graphic][merged small][merged small]
But no one is all poet, author, artist; every demigod of genius has also his side as man. And as man, though not as poet, author, artist, he may reasonably yearn for sympathy. Such a sympathy, so restricted, will probably not be denied to him. It has been said that the wife of Racine had so little participation in the artistic life of her spouse, that she had never even read his plays. But as Racine was tenderly attached to her, and of a nature too sensitive not to have needed some sort of sympathy in those to whom he attached himself, and as, by all accounts, his marriage was a very happy one, so it is fair to presume that the sympathy withheld from his artistic life was maintained in the familiar domestic everyday relationship of his positive existence, and that he did not ask the heart of Madame Racine to beat in unison with his own over the growing beauties of those children whom she was not needed to bring into the world. Why ask her to shed a mother’s tears over the fate of Brittanicus, or recoil with a mother’s horror from the guilt of I’hédre ?-—they were no offspring of hers. Men of action have, however, this decided advantage over men of letters and contemplation, that as their objects cannot be achieved without the association and aid of others, so they secure sympathy to their intellectual no less than to their materialistic being. The sympathy of thousands, of millions, goes with each movement of genius in a great leader of action, be he a captain in war or a counsellor in peace. For action influences the outward and immediate fortunes of men, and where self-interest hangs on another, there egotism itself engenders sympathy. Doubtless there were thousands in England who felt much in common with Cromwell’s secretary, where there was one who felt in common with the» blind schoolmaster composing ‘Paradise Lost.’

\

Therefore, not only for extension of human knowledge, but for interchange of healthful emotion, I have always thought it well for the man whose main pursuit must be carried on through solitary contemplation, to force himself to some active interest in common with ordinary mortals, even though it be but in the culture of a farm. He will be more reconciled to the utter want of sympathy in the process by which the germ of a thought grows up into flower within his own secret mind, if, when he goes into the marketplace, he finds and reciprocates abundant sympathy in the effect of the weather on hay and barley.

And though the poet may not find sympathy from others in all that pertains to himself exclusively as poet, yet he must have sympathy with others in what they think, feel, and do, or in the world of that art which, amidst the cool of its sequestered groves and its choirs of ideal beings, separates him from the crowd, he will never so soar from the earth as to strike the stars. Horace, from whom I have just been stealing the thoughts, as gypsies steal the children of the rich, exchanging their fine garments for humble rags—Horace is himself an illustration of the truth I would enforce. For what deep and lively interest in all that concerns his age, his land— what stores of knowledge gathered from practical commune with mankind animate and enrich the songs conceived amidst the solitudes of Ustica! Genius in the poet, like the nomad of Arabia, ever a wanderer, still ever makes a home where the well or the palm-tree invites it to pitch the tent. Perpetually passing out of himself and his own positive circumstantial condition of being into other hearts and into other conditions, the poet obtains his knowledge of human life by transporting his own life into the lives of others. He who would create a character must, while creating, move and breathe in his own creation—

“1

he who would express a passion must, while expressing, feel his own heart beating in the type of man which the passion individualises and incarnates; thus sympathy is to the poet the indispensable element of his knowledge. Before he has experience of the actual world of men, he establishes his inquisitive impassioned sympathy with Nature ; affected by her varying aspects with vague melancholy or mysterious joy. Thus, all great poets commence with lively and sensuous impressionability to natural objects and phenomena, though the highest order of poets, in proportion as life unfolds itself, ascend from sympathy with groves and streams to sympathy with the noblest image of the Maker—spiritual, immortal Man! and man’s character and man’s passions, man’s place and fate in creation, move and interest their genius in maturer years, as in childhood it was moved by the whisper of winds, the tremor of leaves, the play of the glinting sunbeam, the gloom of the darkening cloud. Schiller, in his exquisite poem ‘ Die Ideale ’ (‘ The Ideals ’), speaks of a time in his grand career “ past away with the suns that gilt the path of his youth.” “ When to me,” he exclaims—-“ when to me lived the tree, the rose; when to me sang the silver fall of the fountain; when from the echo of my life the soulless itself took feeling.” But in ‘the fuller and ampler development of his ever-progressive genius, Schiller passes onward, from the Ideals alone, to sing the ‘ Ideal and Life ’ (‘ Das Ideal und das Leben ’) ; and in this poem, which constitutes the core of his last completest philosophy, the two existences unite in the crowning result of perfected art, life yielding the materials through which the Ideal accomplishes its archetypal form. From life the raw block is laboriously lifted out of the mine that imbedded it, stroke by stroke sculp-~ tured into the shape which may clothe an idea, until the final touch of the chisel leaves the thought

disenga ed from the matter, and the blorir, hewn from Nature, takes from Art both its form and its soul.

In Oratory, which has, in its essence, much that is akin to Poetry, though, as it should never depart from the practical, it differs from poetry in substance as well as in the mode of expression—in oratory, who does not observe how much success depends on the sympathy which the orator must feel in his audience before he can extort it from them’! It was thus once very truthfully and very finely said by Mr Pitt, in answer to the complimentary charge that his eloquence deceived and led away the assembly he addressed, “ Eloquence is in the assembly, not in the speaker” —meaning thereby that the speaker is effective in proportion as he gives utterance to the thought or the feeling which prevails in the assembly.

As the sympathetic temperament lends grace and lovability to virtue, and is the normal constitution of genius; so, in the ordinary social world, it is generally found strongly evinced in those who please universally. But in them, the brilliant playmates of society, seizing and reflecting the interest which occupies the moment,—the gift, unregulated by the genius which extracts permanent uses from fleeting impressions, or undisciplined by the virtue which habitually links sympathetic impulses into the harmony of benignant conduct, may lead those who possess it into frivolities and errors, just as it has led men with nerves irritably weak and fancies morbidly restless into the gravest crimes ;-—sympathy being thus reduced to an over-facile impressionability to the examples and circumstances that immediately affect the sympathiser.

The elegant Alcibiades of the drawing-room, who. can at once make himself at home in every circle, only obtains his social success through the quickness of his constitutional sympathy with the humours of those around him—

The Lady’s Monthly Museum, Volume 5 (Google Books)

THE GOSSIPER, Na XXVII.

TO TBE GOSSIPER.

Mr. Gossiper,

I Sincerely sympathize with yoilr persecuted friend, “Poeticus.” Alas! sir, such are the evils attendant on the possession of talents, and the emanations of genius! I am not blest, or more properly speaking curst, with the inspiration of poesy; but nature gave me a taste for drawing, which has entailed upon me more miseries than it is possible for Poeticus to enumerate. In what may be termed my infancy, I displayed no inconsiderable precocity of talent, a proof of which, at the early age of five, I copied with considerable exactness, the whole series of plates attached to the affecting story of the “The Death of Cock-robin.” Indeed, from one of these graphic illustrations, I succeeded to admiration; so much so, that the village critics declared it to be a master-piece for my years.

At the age of six, the effusions of my pencil decorated the walls of a temple peculiar to counties south of the Tweed, and one or two even found their way into the best parlour of an ale-house that was situated in the village where my father resided. But it was reserved for the age of ten for me to exhibit the proudest memento of my talents; for a neighbouring wheelwright, who occasionally exercised the Irush as well, (for his acquirements equalled the versatility of Caleb Quotem’s) was employed to paint the sign of the pig-and-whistle, when, perhaps, doubting the sufficiency of his own, he had recourse to my known abilities for assistance ;* and if the production of our combined talents attracted less notice than the more celebrated pictures of a Reynolds or a West, it did not not pass without having many an eulogium bestowed upon it hy the thirsty rustics, as they sought the “soul-inspiring god” by the ale-house fire-side.

I was now considered a prodigy, and many prognosticated that I should one day emerge, like the celebrated Opie, from obscurity, and live to fascinate mankind by the magic productions of my pencil. But, alas! sir, flattered by encomiums and encouraged by success, I ventured, in an unfortunate moment, to pourtray some of those familiar objects of local attachment, which constitute the first step of a youthful artist on the highway of nature; when, in a very short time, my pencil was called into action by the whole circle of my acquaintance, who furnished ample subjects for its exercise; for there was not a neighbour in the village but what had a favourite pig, dog, horse, or cow, whilst his wife had a family of uncouth children, a freckled hen, or a spotted sow; an old maid but what had a pug-dog, cat, monkey, or magpie; a young one but what had a lover, or youth but what had a mistress, which equally demanded pictorial honours. But what .proves much worse, is, the natural generosity of my disposition is such, that I seldom go into company without promising the whole party some memorial or other of my abilities. Now, as I am in the habit of visiting a great deal, the number of obligations of this kind are become so numerous, that I begin to despair of ever fulfilling the half of them. In truth, Mr. Gossiper, this (generally termed) amusement is become so irksome, and interferes so much with my other avocations, that I would willingly, very willingly, sacrifice the envied distinction of being ” a natural genius,” could I dispense, at the same time, with the endless and unpleasant trouble attached to it; but, like the curse of Cain, I fear it is entailed upon me for ever—in vain I plead, that “I have given over the pursuit,” nothing will do—it is still “Pray, my dear Mr. P—, just take a sketch of such-and-such an object for me— it will make such a pretty picture.” But the misery of being a painter does not end even here; no, sir, the remarks which every village babbler feels himself called upon to

make upon every performance, is not the least mortification which I am obliged to endure with becoming gravity—” La! Mr. P—,” says one, “what a frightful nose you have made me!” “What an ngly mouth,” says a second, “you have given Dickey!”—” Really I never saw such saucer-eyes,” says a third,—whilst a fourth declares, with a broad grin, “That it is like never a Christian in the- world.” I think you will now own, that I have little less reason to complain of my unfortunate lot than Poeticus has; indeed I think the miseries which await geniuses like us, ought to be more generally known to have our merits more properly appreciated; I will propose to Poeticus that he put his miseries into rhyme, when I will engage to draw his picture (and introduce as much chagrin in it as I can) by way of frontispiece.

I am, Sir,

Your unfortunate friend,

PALLET HALL. PlCTORlBUS.

A RARE EXAMPLE OF CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

Lady Fanshaw, wife of Sir Richard Fanshaw, clerk of the council of Charles the First, and his son, as also ambassador to the court of Spain, wrote the memoirs of her own life, addressed to her son, from whence the following anecdote is taken—” On our voyage from Galway to Malaga, in the spring of 1649, just as we passed the Straits, we saw coming towards us, with full sails, a Turkish galley well manned; and we believed we should be carried away slaves; for the captain, who was a Dutchman, had so laden his ship with goods for Spain, that his guns were useless, though she carried sixty. He called for brandy, and after he had well drunken, and all his men, which were near two hundred, he called for arms, and cleared the deck as well as he could, resolving to fight, rather than lose his ship, which was worth J[30,000. This was sad for us passengers; but my husband bid us to be sure to keep in the cabin, and not appear, which would make the Turks think we were a man of war; but if they saw women, they would take us for merchants, and board us. He went upon deck, and took a gun, a bandeleer, and sword; expecting the arrival of the Turkish man of war. The captain had locked me up in the cabin; I knocked, and called to no purpose, until the cabin-boy came, and opened the door. I, all in tears, desired him to be so good as to give me his thrum-cap and his tarred coat, which he did, and I gave him half-a-crown; and putting them on, and flinging away my night-clothes, I crept softly, and stood upon the deck by my husband’s side, as free from sickness and fear as, I confess, of discretion; but it was the effect of that passion which I could never master. By this time, the two vessels were engaged in parley, and so well satisfied with speech and sight of each other’s force, that the Turkish man of war tacked about, and we continued our course. But when your father saw it retreat, and looked upon me, he blessed himself, and snatched me in his arms, saying, ‘Good God 1 that love can make this change;’ and though he seemingly chid me, he would laugh at it as often as he remembered that voyage.”

The drawing-room sibyl (poetical extracts). (Google Books)

To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run.

To spend, to give, to wait, to be undone. Spenser.

12 Thy fortune leads to traverse realms alone,

And find no spot of all the world thine own. Thackeray.

13 Doom’d to that sorest task you are of man alive,

To make three guineas do the work of five. Burns.

14 May your days

Glide on as glides the stream that never strays;
Bright as whose shingled bed, till life’s decline,
May all your worth and all your virtues shine.

The Miller’s Maid.—Bloomfield.

GENTLEMAN.

15 Through many a clime ’tis thine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all thy solace be to know,
Whate’er betides, thou knowst the worst. Byron.

LADY.

15 To churn the butter, feed the fowls with bran: And, victim to all a housewife’s dullery,

To visit eke the kitchen and the scullery.

Lady Flora Hastings.

16 You’re doom’d to be

The last leaf, which by Heaven’s decree
Shall hang upon a blasted tree.

17 To be wedded to a fool.

18 Thy life shall glide in peace along, Calm as some lonely shepherd’s song

That’s heard at distance in the grove;

Wordsworth.
Tennyson.
No cloud shall ever dim thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,
But all be beauty, peace, and love.

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19 Thou wilt be alone amidst the dark and desert world, Without a heart to echo to thine own. Montgomery.

GENTLEMAN.

20 The great man’s curse, without the gain, endure;

Be envied, wretched, and be flatter’d, poor. Pope.

LADY.

20 Thy fate I fain would trace aright; I read within those eyes which shine With sparkling spirits, power divine,

A future lot most bright. Anon.

21 To be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn. Tennyson.

GENTLEMAN.

22 Thy bark is bound to a distant clime,

Thyself to a foreign shore,
And oft will fall the foot of Time
Ere thine press England more. Miss M. G. Lewis.

LADY.

22 If you would wed,

It shall be one who joins to a bold spirit
A kind and tender heart. One who can love
All gentle things—books, music, nature, art;
But you will never wed. Miss Mitford.

23 A wanderer must you roam,

The sport of every wave;

Far from your childhood’s much loved home,

Par from your father’s grave. Rev. T. Dale.

24 You will have just the life you prefer,

With little to hope or to fear. Cowper.

25 Alas! thy heart is doom’d to prove

The sharpest pang of slighted love. Hogg.

26 A stranger among strange faces,

You must drink the wormwood of dependence.

Martin F. Tapper.

GENTLEMAN.

27 Ill-got riches, hoarded treasures,

Will, indeed, thy coffers fill;
Yet, like earth’s most fleeting pleasures,

Leave thee poor and heartless still. Bernard Barton.

LADY.

27 Old maid as you are, an old maid you must be,

Fond of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,

All so wondrous uncommon and clever. Mrs Henry Tighe.

28 In stranger lands to roam

Thou’rt destined—there thy bed of rest, thy home.

LADY.

29 Thou’rt destined, in singleness of heart,
Life’s lowliest duties to fulfil, and on
Thyself the burden of some wounded soul
To take, and turn this else unfruitful earth
Into an Eden, full of sweetest flowers,

And redolent with beauty and with love. Longford.

GENTLEMAN.

29 Your love when a spouse ‘1l prove a flirting coquette,
Run away with your footman, and run you in debt;
While you fruitlessly sigh as your pocket-book fills
With a multiplication of milliner’s bills.

30 Thou wilt be subject to the strife
True love encounters in this life,—
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain,
The chill that turns his wannest sighs
To earthly vapour, ere they rise,

The doubt he feeds on, and the pain

That in his very sweetness lies. Loves of the Angels.

GENTLEMAN.

31 You’re a bachelor, and you’ll ne’er meet with a mate,
But single anblessedness still be your fate;

Still will care haunt your dwelling, within and without;
You must warm your own flannels, and nurse your own gout.

31 As a damsel, a Miss on the wane, may you claim
The title of ” Mrs,” with no change of name;—
Ere popping the question will all your flirts stop,
And shew you that they have no question to pop.

32 Thy toils shall be

By dangers dignified, yet guiltless; hopes

Thou shalt have of old age, cheerful, and a quiet grave

With cross and garland over its green turf. Manfred

33 To live unblest in torpid ease,
And slumber on in state,
Each tender tie of life defied,
Whence social pleasures spring,

Unmoved with all the world beside,

A solitary thing. Courier.

34 Riches and health, fine taste, all means of pleasure, Success in highest efforts; fame’s best treasure:

All these be thine—o’ertopp’d, and o’erweigh’d the measure.

Household Words.

GENTLEMAN.

35 Thou dreamt not that indulgent fate

Would ever cloud her brow;
And with a peevish woman’s hate

Thy fondest hopes o’erthrow.
But yet, though great in art and arms,

From Love’s blest hope she warns thee;
Not all thy soul’s devotion charms;

Thy chosen loved one scorns thee. Anna Seward.

LADY.

35 A fate from care, regret, and anguish free;

Each night sweet health and peace shall seal thine eyes.

Each morning prove a harbinger of joys.

Thy life, which must pass on, shall glide the while

Mild as thy glance, and cheering as thy smile. Anna Seward.

36 Long may every bliss be thine, Heavenly sunbeams on thee shine, And though cares with years increase,

Nought be thine but joy and peace. Wm. Upton.

37 When you shall

With feeling sorrow understand how wretched
And miserable you have made yourself,—
And, but yourself, have nothing to accuse,
Can you with hope from any beg compassion?
You’re rich, and think to wealth all pleasures else are

Looking Toward Sunset: From Sources Old and New, Original and Selected (Google Books)

The Old Maid’s Prayer to Diana

By Mrs. Tighe, an Irish author, who wrote more than fifty years ago, when single women had not attained to the honorable position which they now occupy.

SINCE thou and the stars, my dear goddess, decree
That, old maid as I am, an old maid I must be,
O, hear the petition I offer to thee!
For to bear it must be my endeavor:
From the grief of my friendships all drooping around,
Till not one whom I loved in my youth can be found;
From the legacy-hunters, that near us abound,
Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the scom of the young, and the flaunts of the gay

From all the trite ridicule rattled away

By the pert ones, who know nothing wiser to say,—

Or a spirit to laugh at them, give her!

From repining at fancied neglected desert;

Or, vain of a civil speech, bridling alert;

From finical niceness, or slatternly dirt;

Diana, thy servant deliver!

From over solicitous guarding of pelf;

From humor unchecked, that most obstinate elf;

From every unsocial attention to self,

Or ridiculous whim whatsoever;

From the vaporish freaks, or methodical airs,

Apt to sprout in a brain that’s exempted from cares;

From impertinent meddling in others’ affairs;

Diana, thy servant deliver!

From the erring attachments of desolate souls;
From the love of spadille, and cf matadore voles; •
Or of lap-dogs, and parrots, and monkeys, and owls,
Be they ne’er so uncommon and clever;
But chief from the love, with all loveliness flown,
Which makes the dim eye condescend to look down
On some ape of a fop, or some owl of a clown;
Diana, thy servant deliver 1

From spleen at beholding the young more caressed;
From pettish asperity, tartly expressed;
From scandal, detraction, and every such pest;
From all, thy true servant deliver!
Nor let satisfaction depart from her cot;
Let her sing, if at ease, and be patient if not;
Be pleased when regarded, content when forgot,
Till the Fates her slight thread shall dissever.

• Terms wed in Ombre, a game at cards.

The history of Sir Charles Grandison; in a series of letters … New edition … (Google Books)

London, Tuesday, Sept. 5.

Cancun-our: us, my dearest Miss Byron, on the arrival of my brother. He came last night. It was late. And he sent to us this morning; and to others of his friends. My lord and I hurried away to breakfast with him. Ah, my dear! we lee too plainly that he has been very much dis~ turbed in mind. He looks more wan. and is thinner, than he was: but he is the same kind brother, friend, and good man.

I expected a little hint or two from him on my Last vivacities; but not a word of that nature.

e felicitaterl my good. man and me; and when he spoke of Lord and Lady L. and hisjoy in their happiness, he put two sisters and their good men together, 1! two of the happiest pairs in England. Politic enough; for as we sat at breakfast, two or three togsome things; were said by my lord, (no ape was ever so fond!) and I could hardly forbear him : but the reputation my brother gave me, was a restraint upon me. I see, one may be flattered, by undeserved compliments, into good behaviour, when we have a regard to the opinion of the complimeuter.

Aunt Nell was all joy and gladness : she was in

[graphic]
ruptures last night, it seems, at her nephew’s first arrival. He rejoiced to see her; and was so thankful to her for letting him find her in town, and at his house, that she resolves she will not leave him till he is married. The good old soul imagines she is of importance to him, in the direction of the Family matters, now I have left him—l, Harriet! there’s self-importance !—But, good creatures, these. old virgins! they do so love to be thought usefiiL—Well, and is not that a good sign, on aunt Nell‘s part? Does it not look as if she would have been a useful creature in the days ol’nightrail and notableness, had she been awife in good time? I always think, when Isee those badgerly virgins fond of a parrot, a squirrel, a monkey, or a lapdog, that their imagination makes out husband and children in the animals—Poor things—But as to her care, I dare say, that will only serve to make hustle and confusion, where else would be order and regularity; for my brother has the best of servants.

I wished her in Yorkshire fifty times, as we sat at breakfast; for when I wanted to ask my bro[her twenty thousand questions, and to set him on talking, we were entertained with her dreams of the night before his arrival, and lttal. night—Seas crossed, rivers forded—Dangers eecaped by the help of angels and sainti, were the reverie! of the former night; and of the lent, the music of the spheres, heaven, and joy, and festivity—Thu: plump creature loves good cheer, Harriet. In short, hardly a word could we say, but what put her upon recollecting a part ot’onc ofher dreams : yet some excuse lies good, for an old soul, whose whole life has been but one dream. a little fal-lal. ishly varied.-—-And, would you thinkit? (yes, I believe you would) my odd creature was once or twice put upon endeavouring to recollect two or three dreams of his own, of the week past; and would have gone on, if I had not silenced him by a flown, as he looked upon me for his cue, as a tender husband ought.

Beaurhamp came in, and I thought would have relieved us: but he put my aunt in mind of an almost forgotten part of her dream; for just such a joyful meeting, just such expressions of gladness, did she dream of, as she now beheld, and heard, between my brother and him feliuitating each other. Deuce take these dreaming souls, to remember their reveries, when realities infinitely more affecting are before them ! But reflection and prognostic are ever inipiritiug parts of the proton sion of people who have lived lo‘nu; dead to_ the present ; the past and the future filling their minds: and why should not they be indulged in the thought that they know something more than those who. are lens abstracted: and who are contented with. looking no further than the preaeut?

Sir Charles inquired utter Sir Harry‘s health. Mr. Beauchamp, with a concern that did hnn credit, lamented his declining way; and he spoke so respectfully of Lady Beam-hump, and of her tendorness to his father, as made my brother’: eye; gliaten with pleasure. _

Lord and Lady L. Dr. Bartlett, and Emily were it Colncbrook: but as they had left orders to be mm for, the moment my brother arrived, (for you need not doubt but his last letter prepared on to. expect him soon) they came time enough to dine with us. There wan a renewal of joy among us

Emily, the dear Emily, fainted away, embracing the knees of her guardian, as she, unaware: to turn, throw lwravll‘ at his feet, with joy that laboured. for expression, but could not obtain it. He was affected. So was Beauchamp. So were we all. She was carried out, just as she was recovering to a shame and confusion of face, for which only her own modesty could reproach her.

There are susceptibilities which will show themselves in outward acts; and there are others which cannot burst out into speech. Lady L.’s joy was of the fortner, tnine of the latter sort. But she is used to tenderness of heart. My emotions are ready to burst my heart, but never can hardly rise to my lips—My eyes, however, are great talkers. .

The pleasure that Sir Charles, Lord L. and Dr. Bartlett, mutually expressed to see each other, was great, tender, and manly. My hustling, nintble lord, enjoyed over again his joy, at that of every other person; and he was ready, good’natnredly, to sing and dance—That’s his way, poor man, to show ltis joy; but he is honest, for all that. Don’t despise him, Harriet ‘. He was brought up as an only son, and to know that he was a lord, or else he would have made a better figure in your eyes. The man wants not sense, I assure yott. You may think me partial; but I believe the most foolish thing he ever did in his life was at church, and that at St. George‘s, Hanover Square. Poor soul! he might have had a wife better suited to his taste, and then his very foibles would have made him shine. But, Harriet, it is not always given to us to know what is best for ourselves. Black nomen, I have heard remarked, like t’air men: fair men, black women ; and tempers suit best with contraries. Were we all to like the same person or thing equally, we should be for ever engaged in broils : as it is, human nature (rile rogue ! as I have heard it called) is quarrelsome enough; so, my lord, being a soft man, fell in lore, it’ it please you, with a saucy woman. He ought to be meek and humble you know. He would not let me be quiet till I was his. We are often to be punished by ottr own choice. But I am very good to him now. I don’t know, Harriet, whether it is best for me to break him of his trifling, or not: unless one were sure, that he could creditably support the alteration. Now can I laugh at him; and if the baby is froppish, can coax him into good humour. A sugar-plum, and a curtsy, will do at any time; and, by setting him into a broad grin, I can laugh away his anger. But should I endeavour to make him wise, as the man has not been used to it, and as his edttcation has not given him a turn to significance, don’t you think he would be awkward; and, what is worse, assuming? Well, I’ll consider of this, before I attempt to new-cast him. Meantime, I rcpeat-‘ Don’t you, In dear, for my sake, think meanly of Lord G.‘— a, ha, ha, nah!— What do I laugh at, do you ask me, Harriet?— Something so highly ridiculous—I have—I have— sent him away from me, so much ashamed of himself-he beats any thing from me new that he knows I am only in play with him, and have so very right a heart—l must lay down my pen— poor souH-Hah, hah, halt, halt! I do love him for his simplicity !

o I I

WELL, I won‘t tell you what I laughed at just now, for fear you should laugh at us both. My brother’s arrival has turned every string of my heart to joy. The holding up ofa straw will throw me into a lt’NeruIiom—I can hardly t’orbear laughing again, to think of the shame the poor soul showed, when he slnnk away from me. After all, be ill

[graphic]
brooks to be laughed at. Does not that look as if he were consciousP-Jhd what. Harriet, (will you ask) mean I, by thus trifling with you, and at this time particularlyP—Why, I would be glad to make you smile, either with me, or at me: I am inditfe~ rent which, so that you do but smile—you do !——I protest you do l—Well! now that I have obtained my wishes, I will be serious.

We congratulated my brother on the happy turn in the healths ofhis Italian ll‘lt‘fltlS, without naming names, or saying a word of the sister we had like to have had. He looked earnestly at each of us; bowed to our congratulations; but was silent. Dr. Bartlett had told us, that he never, in his letters to my brother, mentioned your being not well; because he knew it would disturb him. He had many things to order and do; so that, except at hreaktitst, when aunt Nell invaded us with her dreams, and at dinner, when the servants’ attendance tnade our discourse general, we had hardly any opportunity of talking to him. But in the space between tea-time and supper, he came and told us, that he was devoted to us for the remainder of the day. Persons present were, Lord and lady L.. myself and my good man, Dr. Bartlett, Mr. Beauchamp, and Emily, good girl, quite recovered, and blythe as a bird, attentive to every word that. passed the lips of her guardian—t), but aunt Nell was also present l—Poor soul! I had like to have forgot her !

In the first place, you must take it for granted, that we all owned, we had seen most of what he had written to Dr. Bartlett.

‘ What trouble, what augui~h of mind, what a strange variety ot’contlictghas your heart had to contend with, my dear Sir Charles,’ began Mr. Beanchamp; ‘and, at last, what strange disappoint~ ment from one of the noblest of women !’

‘ Very true, my Beauchamp !‘ He then said great and glorious things of Lady Clementina. We alljoined in admiring her. He seemed to have great pleasure in hearing us praise her—‘ Very true,‘ Harrietl—But you have generosity enough to be pleased with him for that.

Aunt Eleanor (I won’t call lier aunt Nell any more if I can help it) asked him, it’he thought it were possible for the lady to hold her resolution! ‘ Now you have actually left Italy, nephew, and are at such a distance, don’t you think her love will return 3′

Good soul! she has substantial notions still left, I find, of ideal love! Those notions, I fancy, last a long time, with those who have not had the opportunity of gratifying the silly passion! Bc angry, if you will, Harriet, I don’t care.

Well, but, thus gravely, as became the question, answered my brother—‘ The favour which this in~ comparable lady honoured Inc with, was never disowned: on the contrary, it was always avowed, and to the very last. She had, therefore, no uncertainty to contend with: she had no balaneings tn her mind. Her contention, as she supposed, was altogether in favour of her duty to heaven. She is exemplarily pious. While she remains a zealous Roman Catholic, she must persevere: and I dare say she will.‘

‘ I don’t know what to make of these Popists,’ said our old Protestant aunt Nell—(aunt Nell, did I say? Cry merey!)-‘ Thank God you are come home safe and sound and without a papistieol wife! —It is very hard, if England cannot find a wife for you, nephew.’

We all smiled at aunt Nell-the deuce is in

me, I helievel—Aunt Nell again !—But let it

go.

‘ When, Lady G.‘ (asked Lady L.) ‘saw you, or heard you, from the Dowager Countess of DJ’

‘ Is there any other Countess of D. Lady L. P’ said Sir Charles; a line glow taking possession of his cheeks

‘ Your servant, brother,‘ thought I; ‘ I am not sorry for your charming apprehensiveness.’

‘ No, sir,’ replied Lady L.

‘ Would your, brother,’ said boldface, (you know who that is, Harriet) ’ that there should be another Countess of DJ‘

‘ I wish my Lord D. happy, Charlotte. I hear him as well spoken of as any of our young nobility.’

‘ You don’t know what I mean, I warrant, Sir Charles!’ resumed, with an intentional archuess, your saucy friend.

‘ I believe I do, Lady G. I wish Miss Byron to be one of the happiest women in the world, be cause she is one of the best—My dear,’ to Emily, ‘ I hope you have had nothing to disturb or vex you, from your mother’s hnsband—’

‘ Nor from my mother, sir—all is good, and as it should be. You have overcome—‘

‘ That’s well, my dear—would not the Bath waters be good for Sir Harry, my dear Beanchamp ?’

‘ A second remove!’ thought I. ‘ But I’ll catch you, brother, I’ll warrant, (as rnstics sometimes, in their play, do a ball) on the rebound.‘

Now, IIarnet, you will be piqued, I suppose. Your delicacy will be offended, because I urged the question. I see a blush of disdain arising in your lovely cheek, and conscious eye, restoring the roses to the one, and its natural brilliancy to the other. Indeed we all began to be afraid ofa little afl’ectation in my brother. But we needed not. He would not snfi’er us to put him upon the subject again. After a few other general questions and answers, of who and who; and how and how,- and what, and when, and so forth, he turned to Dr. Bartlett.

‘ My dear friend,‘ said he, ‘ you gave me pain a little while ago, when [asked you after the health of Miss B ron and her friends: you evaded my

nes’ion, thought, and your looks alarmed me. I am afraid poor Mrs. Shirley—Miss Byron spoke ofher always as in an infirm state—how, Charlotte, would our dear Miss Byron grieve, were she to lose so good a relation!’ »

‘ I intended not,’ answered the doctor, ‘ that you should see I was concerned: but I think it im

sible, that a father can love a daughter better than I love Miss Byron.’

‘ You would alarm me indeed, my dear friend, if Lady G. had not, by her usual liceliness just now, put me out of all apprehensions for the health of Miss Byron. Ihope Miss Byron is well.’ ‘

‘ Indeed she is not,’ said I, with a gravity becoming the occasion.

‘ God forbid!‘ said he; with an emotion that pleased every body. 1

Not for your sake, Harriet.-—Be not afi’ectedly nice now; but for our own.

His face was in a glow-‘ What, Lady L.-what Charlotte,’ said he,—-‘ ails Miss Byron l’

‘ She is not well, brother,’ replied I; ‘ but the most charming sick woman that ever lived. She is cheerful, that she may give no uneasiness to her friends. She joins‘in all their conversations, diverpions, amusements. She would fain be well 3 and

[graphic]
likes not to be thought ill. Were it not for her faded cheeks, her pale lips, and her changed complexion, we should not know from herself that she ailed any thing. Some people reach perfection sooner than others; and areas swift in their decay. —Poor Miss Byron seems not to be built for duration.’

But should I write these thin s to on m dear? Yet I know that Lady Clemetiitinayand yin are snters in magnanimity.

My brother was quite angry with me-—-‘ Dear Dr. Bartlett,’ said he, ‘ explain this speech of Charlotte. She loves to amnse.-—Miss Byron is blessed with a good constitution : she is hardly yet in the perfection of her bloom. Set my heart at rest. I love not either ofmy,,sisters more than I do Miss Byron.——-Dear Charlotte, I am reallv angry with you.’ _ ‘

My good-natured lord reddcned up to his naked ears, at hearing my brother say he was angry with me.—-‘ Sir Charles,’ said he, ‘ lam sorry you are so soon angry with your sister. It is too true, Miss Byron is ill : she is, I fear, in a declining way.‘

‘ Pardon me, my dear Lord G.-Yet I am ready to be angry with arty body that shall tell me Miss Byron is in a declining way.-Dr. Bartlett— Pray-‘r’

’ Indeed, sir, Miss Byron is not welI.—Lady G. has mingled her fears with her love, in the description. Miss Byron cannot but be lovely: her complexion is still tine. She is cheerful, serene, resigned.’

‘ Resigned, Dr. Bartlett l-M’ns Byron is a saint. She cannot but be resigned, in the solemn sense of the wori—Rcsignation implies hopelessness. If she is so ill, would not you, my dear Dr. Bartlett, have informed me of it—comes it from tenderness -—ynu must be kind in all you do.’

‘ I did not apprehend,’ said Lady L. ‘ that Miss Byron was so very much indisposed.—Did you, my lord ?’ (to Lord L.)—‘ Upon my word, doctorsister—it was unkind, if so, that you made me not acquainted–‘

And then her good-natured eye dropped a tear oflovc for her Harriet.

I was sorry this went so far. My brother was very uneasy. So was Mr. Beauchamp, for him, and for you, my dear.

‘ That she is, and endeavours to be, so cheerful,‘ said Beanchamp, ‘ shows thatnothing hes upon her mind.—My father’s illness can only more atfect me, than Miss Byron’s.’

Emily wept for her Miss Byron. She has always been afraid that her illneas would be attended with ill consequences.

My dear love, my Harriet, you must be. well. See how every body loves you. I told my brother, that Iexpectod a letter from Northamptonshire by the next post ; and -I would inform him truly of the state of your health, from the contents of it.

I would not tor the world have you think, my Harriet, that Imeant to excite my brother’s attention to you, by what I said. Your honour is the honour of the sex. For are you not one of the most delicate minded, as well as frankest, ofit? It is no news to say, that my brother dearly loves you. I did not want to know his solicitnde for your health. Where he once loves, he always loves. Did you not observe, that I supposed it a natural decline? God grant that it may not be so. And thus am I imprudently discouraging you, in mentioning my apprehensions of yonrill health, in order to show my regard for your punctilio: but you shall, you will, be well ; and the wife oil-the best of men.—-God grant it may be soh—But, however that is to be, we have all laid our heads together, and are determined, for your delicacy stake, to let this matter take its course; since, after an opening so undesignedly warm, you might otherwise imagine our solicitude m the atlair capable of being thought too urgent. I tell you, my dear, that, worthy as Sir Charles Grandison is of a princess, he shall not call you by lllS name, but with all his soul.

‘ As my brother laid it out to us this evening, I find we shall lose him for some days. The gamesters whom Mr. Grandisou permitted to ruin him, are at Winchester, dividing, I suppose, and rejoicing over their spoils of the last season. Whether my brother intends to see them or not, I cannot tell. He expects not to do any thing with them. They, no doubt, will show the foolish fellow, that they can keep what he could not: and Sir Charles aims only at practicable and legal, not at romantic redresses. ,

Sir Charles intends to pay his respects to Lord and Lady W. at Windsor; and to the Earl of G. and Lady Gertrude, who are at their Berkshire seat. My honest lord has obtained my leave, at the first asking, to attend him thithcr._-My brother will wait on Sir Harry, and Lady Beauchamp, in his way to Lady Mausfield’s.-—Beauchamp will accompany him thither. Poor Graudisou, as humble as a mouse, though my brother does all he can to raise him, desires to be in his train, as he calls it, all the way ; and never to be from under his wing. My brother intends to make a short visit to Grandison Hall, when he is so near as at Lady Manstield’s: Dr. Bartlett will accom any him thither, as all the way: and hopes he will, approve ot’cvery thing he has done there, and in that neighbourhood, in his absence. The good man has promised to write to me. Emily is sometimes to be with me, sometimes with aunt Eleanor, at the ancient’s request; though Lord and Lady L. mutter at it. My brother’s trusty Saunders is to be left behind, in order to dispatch to his master, by man and horse, any letters that may come from abroad; and l have promised to send him an account of the liealths, and so forth, of our Northamptonshire friends. I think it would be a right thing in him to take a turn to Sclby House. I hope you think so too. Don’t lib, Harriet.

Adieu, my dear. For God’s sake be well, prays your sister, your friend, and the friend of all your friends, ever afiectionute and obliged, ‘

CHARLOTTE c.