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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes,
+Volume 4, by Charles Lamb, et al
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4
+
+Author: Charles Lamb
+
+Release Date: November 23, 2004  [eBook #14129]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB IN FOUR
+VOLUMES, VOLUME 4***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Leonard Johnson, and
+the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB
+
+In Four Volumes
+
+VOL. IV.
+
+A New Edition
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC.
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY
+
+ESSAYS:--
+
+  RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL
+
+  ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR
+  FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION
+
+  CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE
+
+  SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN
+
+  ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH; WITH SOME REMARKS ON A
+  PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. BARRY
+
+  ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER
+
+LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR":--
+
+  THE LONDONER
+
+  ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER
+
+  ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY; WITH A
+  HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR
+  APPREHENDING OFFENDERS
+
+  ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED
+
+  ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS
+
+  HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE
+  PALATE
+
+  EDAX ON APPETITE
+
+CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE BOOK WHICH BELONGED
+TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
+
+MR. H----, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+POEMS.
+
+[_Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's Sister._]
+
+HESTER
+
+TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
+
+THE THREE FRIENDS
+
+TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED
+
+THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
+
+*HELEN
+
+A VISION OF REPENTANCE
+
+*DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD
+
+QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM
+
+A BALLAD, NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A
+RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE
+
+HYPOCHONDRIACUS
+
+A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO
+
+_TO T. L. H., A CHILD_
+
+BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN
+
+*DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM
+
+*SALOME
+
+*LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES, BY LIONARDO DA VINCI
+
+*LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT
+OF A LADY BY TITIAN
+
+*LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE
+VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS
+
+*ON THE SAME
+
+SONNETS:--
+
+   I. TO MISS KELLY
+
+  II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
+
+ III.
+
+  IV.
+
+   V.
+
+  VI. THE FAMILY NAME
+
+ VII.
+
+VIII.
+
+  IX. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE
+
+   X.
+
+  XI.
+
+BLANK VERSE:--
+
+  CHILDHOOD
+
+  THE GRANDAME
+
+  THE SABBATH BELLS
+
+  FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS
+
+  COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT
+
+JOHN WOODVIL; A TRAGEDY
+
+THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OP THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----
+
+TO DORA W----, ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MISS----
+
+IN MY OWN ALBUM
+
+MISCELLANEOUS:--
+
+  ANGEL HELP
+
+  ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN
+
+  THE CHRISTENING
+
+  THE YOUNG CATECHIST
+
+  TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
+
+  SHE IS GOING
+
+SONNETS:--
+
+  HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS
+
+  WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE
+
+  TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"
+
+  WORK
+
+  LEISURE
+
+  TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
+
+  THE GYPSY'S MALISON
+
+COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.:--
+
+  TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS
+
+  TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL
+
+  TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"
+
+  TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR.
+  ROGERS
+
+  TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE
+
+  "O LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND"
+
+  THE SELF-ENCHANTED
+
+  TO LOUISA M----, WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"
+
+TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE:--
+
+  THE BALLAD-SINGERS
+
+  TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER,
+  WATCHMAN
+
+  ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING
+
+  EPITAPH ON A DOG
+
+  THE RIVAL BELLS
+
+  NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA
+
+  THE HOUSEKEEPER
+
+  ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST
+
+  THE FEMALE ORATORS
+
+PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL
+
+GOING OR GONE
+
+FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS
+
+THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A DRAMATIC POEM
+
+
+
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS,
+
+ETC.
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.
+
+  Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late
+  And hasty products of a critic pen,
+  Thyself no common judge of books and men,
+  In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.
+  My _verse_ was offered to an older friend;
+  The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share:
+  Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,
+  What spoken in thy presence must offend--
+  That, set aside some few caprices wild,
+  Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,
+  In all my threadings of this worldly maze,
+  (And I have watched thee almost from a child),
+  Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,
+  I have not found a whiter soul than thine.
+
+
+
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat
+spinning in a little arbor at the door of her cottage. She was blind;
+and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had
+just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.
+
+"Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was a
+passage she could not let pass without a _comment_. The moral she
+drew from it was not very _new_, to be sure. The girl had heard it a
+hundred times before--and a hundred times more she could have heard
+it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her
+grandmother.
+
+The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing.
+Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only _her_
+left in the world. They two lived together.
+
+They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents,
+their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time.
+Our tale hath grief enough in it.
+
+It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold
+off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father--just
+after the mother had died of a broken heart; for her husband had fled
+his country to hide his shame in a foreign land. At that period the
+old lady retired to a small cottage in the village of Widford in
+Hertfordshire.
+
+Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without fortune
+or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had
+served her faithfully and lovingly.
+
+Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes,
+and could see. The neighbors said, they had been dimmed by weeping:
+be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. "God is very
+good to us, child; I can _feel_ you yet." This she would sometimes
+say; and we need not wonder to hear, that Rosamund clave unto her
+grandmother.
+
+Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a
+principle _within_, which it seemed as if no outward circumstances
+could reach. It was a _religious_ principle, and she had taught it to
+Rosamund; for the girl had mostly resided with her grandmother from
+her earliest years. Indeed she had taught her all that she knew
+herself; and the old lady's knowledge did not extend a vast way.
+
+Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long
+experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a little
+_positive:_ but Rosamund never argued with her grandmother.
+
+Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with notes
+and expositions by various learned expositors, from Bishop Jewell
+downwards.
+
+This might never be suffered to lie about like other books, but was
+kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, with
+gold tassels--the only relic of departed grandeur they had brought
+with them to the cottage--everything else of value had been sold off
+for the purpose above mentioned.
+
+This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without
+permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom. Margaret
+had parted with none of her _authority_; indeed it was never exerted
+with much harshness; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown,
+when she could obtain leave to read her Bible. It was a treasure too
+valuable for an indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to
+her grand-daughter _where to read._
+
+Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's
+Recreation," with cuts--"Pilgrim's Progress," the first part--a
+Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck
+here and there between the leaves, (I suppose to point to some of the
+old lady's most favorite receipts,) and there was "Wither's Emblems,"
+an old book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book
+were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her
+contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.
+
+Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they had
+been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as old
+friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the peculiar
+cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture she had
+received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, from John Bunyan and
+her Bible.
+
+Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what passes
+usually for _clever_ or _acute_. From a child she was remarkably shy
+and thoughtful--this was taken for stupidity and want of feeling; and
+the child has been sometimes whipt for being a _stubborn thing_, when
+her little heart was almost bursting with affection.
+
+Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her
+too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about good-humor
+and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying herself, to
+the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared her the more
+to Rosamund.
+
+Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are
+only remembering your poor dear father and mother;--I would have you
+think about them sometimes--it would be strange if you did not; but I
+fear, Rosamund--I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about
+your own situation and poor prospects in life. When you do so, you do
+wrong--remember the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any
+good thoughts about God, and his religion: and that might have been
+your case."
+
+Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in the
+habit of _arguing_ with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on
+these occasions--or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she
+had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best
+friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind. But she had
+never been used to make excuses, when the old lady said she was doing
+wrong.
+
+The neighbors were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics never
+passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat--some show of
+courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate--with a "Good-morrow,
+madam," or "young madam," as it might happen.
+
+Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to express
+contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet felt respect
+for its declining lustre.
+
+The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all
+promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die.
+Margaret trusted in God and believed them.
+
+She used to say, "I have lived many years in the world, and have
+never known people, _good people_, to be left without some friend; a
+relation, a benefactor, a _something_. God knows our wants--that it
+is not good for man or woman to be alone; and he always sends us a
+helpmate, a leaning place, a _somewhat_." Upon this sure ground of
+experience, did Margaret build her trust in Providence.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to
+relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral, (which
+said application she was old enough to have made herself, but her
+grandmother still continued to treat her, in many respects, as a
+child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim to the title of
+womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his appearance and
+interrupted them.
+
+It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and
+some roses for Rosamund.
+
+He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbor; and in a
+respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent,
+inquired of Margaret "how she did."
+
+The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions--answered his
+inquiries by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome a-nights,
+but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but
+she did not like to tease young people with an account of her
+infirmities."
+
+A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a
+tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took
+leave of them with saying, "I shall bring _Elinor_ to see you in the
+evening."
+
+When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.
+
+"That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I _do_ love him dearly, I
+must say it--there is such a modesty in all he says or does--he
+should not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to
+help it; there is so much goodness in him, I can't find it in my
+heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand;
+when you grow older, Mr. Clare must be no companion for _you_: while
+you were both so young it was all very well--but the time is coming,
+when folks will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr.
+Clare, comes so often to our poor cottage.--Dost hear, girl? Why
+don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt
+you--speak to me, Rosamund--nay, I must not have you be sullen--I
+don't love people that are sullen."
+
+And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and
+unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not
+be _within hearing_.
+
+And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first mention of
+Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned, which was not till
+a few minutes after Margaret had made an end of her fine harangue, it
+is certain her cheeks _did_ look very _rosy_. That might have been
+from the heat of the day or from exercise, for she had been walking
+in the garden.
+
+Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for
+Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely
+surmises.
+
+I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it
+likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking
+her grandmother's leave--the thing itself is not to be conceived.
+
+To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little
+anecdote of Rosamund.
+
+A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest
+prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was
+dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree
+spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they
+partly concealed.
+
+To this fatal place Rosamund came one day--female curiosity, we know,
+is older than the flood--let us not think hardly of the girl, if she
+partook of the sexual failing.
+
+Rosamund ventured further and further--climbed along one of the
+branches--approached the forbidden chasm--her foot slipped--she was
+not killed--but it was by a mercy she escaped--other branches
+intercepted her fall--and with a palpitating heart she made her way
+back to the cottage.
+
+It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best
+humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing
+it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in
+conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day
+reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother."
+
+This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience
+came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from
+Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession
+of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her.
+
+Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.
+
+Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of
+it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which
+would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, to deceive
+her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and
+blind, and easy to be imposed upon.
+
+Another virtuous _trait_ I recollect of Rosamund, and now I am in the
+vein will tell it.
+
+Some, I know, will think these things trifles--and they are so--but
+if these _minutić_ make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I
+am content to abide the imputation.
+
+These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a _sweet
+nature_, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any
+of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous
+Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to
+place in the bosom of her old blind friend.
+
+Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ
+her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.
+
+On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she
+had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great
+pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For
+_whose_ particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to
+conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's.
+
+One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the
+table. When she returned, she found it _gone_.
+
+Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue.
+At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had
+laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for
+some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this
+elaborate composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper!
+
+Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
+grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor
+soul would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret
+was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her
+pretty long.
+
+So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size
+and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the
+mischief she had unconsciously done.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes ever
+beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it--a gentleness--a
+modesty--a timidity--a certain charm--a grace without a name.
+
+There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the
+thoughtless levity of a girl--it was not the restrained simper of
+premature womanhood--it was something which the poet Young might have
+remembered, when he composed that perfect line,
+
+  "Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair."
+
+She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare,
+when but a boy, sighed for her.
+
+Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like
+
+        "Those hanging locks
+  Of young Apollo."
+
+Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence pleaded
+for her whenever she spake--and, if she said but little, that little
+found its way to the heart.
+
+Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking none;
+affectionate as a smiling infant--playful, yet inobtrusive, as a
+weaned lamb--everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy,
+sighed for her.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, that
+I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her.
+
+See how she glideth, in maiden honor, through the clouds, who divide
+on either side to do her homage.
+
+Beautiful vision!--as I contemplate thee, an internal harmony is
+communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of
+mental purity; a calm like _that_ we ascribe in fancy to the favored
+inhabitants of thy fairy regions, "argent fields."
+
+I marvel not, O moon, that heathen people, in the "olden times," did
+worship thy deity--Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian Europe invokes
+thee not by these names now--her idolatry is of a blacker stain:
+Belial is her God--she worships Mammon.
+
+False things are told concerning thee, fair planet--for I will ne'er
+believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in distorting the
+brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck! Calumny invented,
+and folly took up, these names. I would hope better things from thy
+mild aspect and benign influences.
+
+Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to the
+virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior
+lover lies.
+
+Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only _peace_ to the lonely
+sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath thy gentle
+light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed friends, or
+unhappy loves.
+
+Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from thee
+into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and her
+Clare!
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy of
+fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her--it was soon after
+she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.
+
+He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which
+she had been filling from a neighboring well--the pitcher was heavy,
+and she seemed to be bending with its weight.
+
+Allan insisted on carrying it for her--for he thought it a sin that a
+delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand
+idle by.
+
+Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody--but
+at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled--his young
+mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that
+time forth awakened. His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent
+at the cottage.
+
+He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with
+him. He would make her admire the scenes he admired--fancy the wild
+flowers he fancied--watch the clouds he was watching--and not
+unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love
+it.
+
+On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but
+children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her
+currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more
+welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.
+
+The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of
+each other--more fond than either of them suspected.
+
+         "They would sit, and sigh,
+  And look upon each other, and conceive
+  Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
+  And yet were well--and yet they were not well;
+  And what was their disease, they could not tell."
+
+And thus,
+
+  "In this first garden of their simpleness
+  They spent their childhood."
+
+A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the
+nature of their attachment.
+
+Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubignč"--a book
+which young Clare had lent her.
+
+Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round
+her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's
+third letter.
+
+"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted
+to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the
+distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him
+through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our
+children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had
+taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was
+reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the
+luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
+happiness."
+
+The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of
+confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not
+lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing
+what she read.
+
+Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his
+color came and went--his feelings became impetuous--and flinging both
+arms round her neck, he kissed his young favorite.
+
+Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a
+moment--a fit of tears came to her relief.
+
+Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had
+thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and
+reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behavior in
+Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather
+shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.
+
+Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though
+not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a
+throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if
+he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of
+delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared,
+he loved.
+
+There is a _mysterious character_, heightened, indeed, by fancy and
+passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which
+true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This
+character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan--something _angelic,
+perfect, exceeding nature._
+
+Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his parents,
+who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to the care of a
+sister some ten years older than himself.
+
+Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady--discreet, intelligent, and
+affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as
+his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart
+to her--but there was _one_, which he had hitherto unaccountably
+concealed from her--namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.
+
+Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the
+persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several times met
+them, when she had been walking with her brother--a civility usually
+passed on either side--but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with
+any unseasonable questions.
+
+Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister
+_all_--but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to
+inquire) had hitherto kept him back;--still the secret, unrevealed,
+hung upon his conscience like a crime--for his temper had a sweet and
+noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.
+
+There was a fine openness in his countenance--the character of it
+somewhat resembled Rosamund's--except that more fire and enthusiasm
+were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a darker blue than
+Rosamund's--his hair was of a chestnut color--his cheeks ruddy, and
+tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile,
+the like to which I never saw in any other face.
+
+Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to Rosamund.
+Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she
+could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities
+which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.
+
+The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her
+brother's favorite more intimately--an opportunity offered of
+breaking the matter to Allan.
+
+The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and
+flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually
+busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common
+to him.
+
+She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired,
+with a questioning smile--"What are you doing, Allan? and who are
+those peaches designed for?"
+
+"For Rosamund Gray"--he replied--and his heart seemed relieved of a
+burden which had long oppressed it.
+
+"I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend--will
+you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like to go and see her this
+afternoon."
+
+"Do go, do go, Elinor--you don't know what a good creature she is;
+and old blind Margaret, you will like _her_ very much."
+
+His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted.
+Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to
+fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient
+to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left for
+him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young friend, who
+had just quitted a public school in London, and was come to pass one
+night in his father's house at Widford, previous to his departure the
+next morning for Edinburgh University.
+
+It was Allan's bosom friend--they had not met for some months--and it
+was probable a much longer time must intervene before they should
+meet again.
+
+Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first heard
+of the invitation. This was to have been an important evening. But
+Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her readiness to go
+alone to the cottage.
+
+"I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may
+determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be
+disappointed."
+
+"Will you, will you, Elinor?"
+
+Elinor promised to go--and I believe, Allan, on a second thought, was
+not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of introducing two
+persons to each other, both so dear to him, but either of whom might
+happen not much to fancy the other.
+
+At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor _must_ love Rosamund,
+and Rosamund _must_ love Elinor; but there were also times in which
+he felt misgivings--it was an event he could scarce hope for very
+joy!
+
+Allan's _real presence_ that evening was more at the cottage than at
+the house, where his _bodily semblance_ was visiting--his friend
+could not help complaining of a certain absence of mind, a _coldness_
+he called it.
+
+It might have been expected, and in the course of things predicted,
+that Allan would have asked his friend some questions of what had
+happened since their last meeting, what his feelings were on leaving
+school, the probable time when they should meet again, and a, hundred
+natural questions which friendship is most lavish of at such times;
+but nothing of all this ever occurred to Allan--they did not even
+settle the method of their future correspondence.
+
+The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend
+thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to
+compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."--I do not find
+that he ever finished it--indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing
+him to break off in the middle.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to
+mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have
+supplied the omission--old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless
+them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow-chair,
+as their prayer-book--I love them for it.
+
+Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding
+red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was
+their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for
+the day.
+
+The way they managed was this: they took verse by verse--Rosamund
+_read_ her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from
+memory--for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good
+part of the Bible besides. She would not unfrequently put the girl
+right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to
+giddiness--a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable
+for--but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike
+discriminative.
+
+They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived
+at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and
+fourth--Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the
+works of creation.
+
+There had been _thunder_ in the course of the day--an occasion of
+instruction which the old lady never let pass--she began--
+
+"Thunder has a very awful sound--some say God Almighty is angry
+whenever it thunders--that it is the voice of God speaking to us; for
+my part, I am not afraid of it"----
+
+And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as
+usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of
+vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her
+discourse.
+
+Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness--and, taking her
+grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness,--"Miss Clare is
+come to see you, grandmother."
+
+"I beg pardon, lady--I cannot _see_ you--but you are heartily
+welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss Clare?--I don't hear him."
+
+"He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me."
+
+"You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare--but pray do us the honor
+to take some refreshment--Rosamund"----
+
+And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her
+currant wine--when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to take a cup
+of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony."
+
+"After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your
+grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother.
+
+"Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any
+pleasure--I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be with _me_
+always--and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very
+well by myself till you return--it will not be the first time, you
+know, that I have been left here alone--some of the neighbors will be
+dropping in bye and bye--or, if _not_, I shall take no harm."
+
+Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her
+grandmother, and looked happy.
+
+All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a
+panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young
+friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave--but there
+was a cordial sunshine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds
+of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away.
+
+"Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?"
+
+Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying--"My dear young lady,
+I am an old woman, and very infirm--Rosamund takes me a few paces
+beyond the door sometimes--but I walk very badly--I love best to sit
+in our little arbor when the sun shines--I can yet feel it warm and
+cheerful--and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very
+happy if you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer
+evening."
+
+"I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if we
+like one another. I had hoped to have seen _you_, madam, at our
+house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come
+and live with us--what say you to it? Allan would be proud to tend
+you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice company."
+
+Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept--Margaret had a
+great spirit--yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a
+worthy person--there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner--she could
+have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the
+offer--at length the old lady spake from a full heart.
+
+"Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress--it gave
+us shelter when we had _no home_--we have praised God in it--and,
+while life remains, I think I shall never part from it--Rosamund does
+everything for me"--
+
+"And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"--and then Rosamund
+fell a-crying.
+
+"You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends when I
+am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I
+live--but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for your kind
+offer."
+
+Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade
+Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet;
+and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature.
+
+They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they rambled
+over all Rosamund's favorite haunts--through many a sunny field--by
+secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with
+her beloved Clare.
+
+Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak
+with great tenderness of his sister--she was now rambling, arm in
+arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her
+beloved Clare.
+
+Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but
+revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps,
+or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now
+opening before her--she was got into a fairy land of uncertain
+existence.
+
+Rosamund was too happy to talk much--but Elinor was delighted with
+her when she _did_ talk:--the girl's remarks were suggested most of
+them by the passing scene--and they betrayed, all of them, the
+liveliness of present impulse;--her conversation did not consist in a
+comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment lip-deep--it
+had all the freshness of young sensation in it.
+
+Sometimes they talked of Allan.
+
+"Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good _indeed_ to my
+grandmother--he will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to
+her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is
+not tired. She talks him to death!"
+
+"Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady _does_ tire _you_
+sometimes?"
+
+"Oh no, I did not mean _that_--it's very different--I am used to all
+her ways, and I can humor her, and please her, and I ought to do it,
+for she is the only friend I ever had in the world."
+
+The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and
+Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been
+all this time alone.
+
+On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been
+somewhat impatient--old ladies, _good old ladies_, will be so at
+times--age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is.
+
+Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good
+hours--indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other
+particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than
+might well beseem a creature of this.
+
+So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made Margaret
+promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she
+told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how
+delighted she had been with his handsome friend.
+
+Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, whether
+joy be not a more troublesome bedfellow than grief--hope keeps a body
+very wakeful, I know.
+
+Elinor Clare was the best good creature--the least selfish human
+being I ever knew--always at work for other people's good, planning
+other people's happiness--continually forgetful to consult for her
+own personal gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare of
+another; while her parents lived, the most attentive of
+daughters--since they died, the kindest of sisters--I never knew but
+_one_ like her. It happens that I have some of this young lady's
+_letters_ in my possession--I shall present my reader with one of
+them. It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and
+addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on the
+point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had
+invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe it with
+minute fidelity.
+
+
+ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE.
+
+Widford, July the --, 17--.
+
+Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bride-maids, my sweet
+cousin. I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have I to
+do in the house of feasting?
+
+Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear with me
+a little--I have recovered already a share of my former spirits.
+
+I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents,
+within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy _hangs_
+about me from morning till night. He is perpetually forcing a smile
+into his poor pale cheeks--you know the sweetness of his smile,
+Maria.
+
+To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, he
+burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me the
+reason--afterwards he told me--"he had been used to drink Mamma's
+health after dinner, and _that_ came into his head and made him cry."
+I feel the claims the boy has upon me--I perceive that I am living to
+_some end_--and the thought supports me.
+
+Already I have attained to a state of complacent feelings--my
+mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her Elinor.
+
+In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my
+bedside--a light, as of noonday, shone upon the room--she opened my
+curtains--she smiled upon me with the same placid smile as in her
+lifetime. I felt no fear. "Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care
+of young Allan,"--and I awoke with calm feelings.
+
+Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, he
+something like this?--I think, I could even now behold my mother
+without dread--I would ask pardon of her for all my past omissions of
+duty, for all the little asperities in my temper, which have so often
+grieved her gentle spirit when living. Maria! I think she would not
+turn away from me.
+
+Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before me--I
+see her sit in her old elbow-chair--her arms folded upon her lap--a
+tear upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her unkind daughter for
+some inattention--I wipe it away and kiss her honored lips.
+
+Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, with
+his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy
+the vision in a moment.
+
+I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of the
+heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of these
+things but you?--you have been my counsellor in times past, my
+companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a little--I mourn
+the "cherishers of my infancy."
+
+I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the
+_survivor_. You know something of his story. You know there was a
+foul tale current--it was the busy malice of that bad man, S----,
+which helped to spread it abroad--you will recollect the active
+good-nature of our friends W---- and T----; what pains they took to
+undeceive people--with the better sort their kind labors prevailed;
+but there was still a party who shut their ears. You know the issue
+of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it for some time--my
+father never was a _bad_ man--but that spirit was broken at the
+last--and the greatly-injured man was forced to leave his old
+paternal dwelling in Staffordshire--for the neighbors had begun to
+point at him. Maria! I have _seen_ them _point_ at him, and have been
+ready to drop.
+
+In this part of the country, where the slander had not reached, he
+sought a retreat--and he found a still more grateful asylum in the
+daily solicitudes of the best of wives.
+
+"An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say--and at such times my
+mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, and
+long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; would heal
+all his wounds with so gentle a touch;--I have seen the old man weep
+like a child.
+
+The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into
+skepticism--he has doubted if there be a Providence! I have heard him
+say, "God has built a brave world, but methinks he has left his
+creatures to bustle in it _how they may_."
+
+At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a
+religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done--you confound, you
+perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for one day at least
+unfit me for the business of life."
+
+I have seen her look at him--O GOD, Maria! such a _look_! it plainly
+spake that she was willing to have shared her precious hope with the
+partner of her earthly cares--but she found a repulse--
+
+Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have
+endured his existence? or what consolation would his wretched
+daughter have had to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears?
+
+My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious--and I am so--but it does
+me good to talk these matters over. And do not you be alarmed for
+me--my sorrows are subsiding into a deep and sweet resignation. I
+shall soon be sufficiently composed, I know it, to participate in my
+friend's happiness.
+
+Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks, I
+shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont! it
+hath a strange sound with it--I shall never be reconciled to this
+name--but do not you fear--Maria Leslie shall plead with me for Maria
+Beaumont.
+
+             And now, my sweet Friend,
+                God love you, and your
+                    ELINOR CLARE.
+
+
+I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the date
+of the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont.--I am
+tempted to make some short extracts from these--my tale will suffer
+interruption by them--but I was willing to preserve whatever
+memorials I could of Elinor Clare.
+
+
+FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT.
+
+(AN EXTRACT.)
+
+"----I have been strolling out for half an hour in the fields; and my
+mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has a right to
+participate. I have been bringing my _mother_ to my recollection. My
+heart ached with the remembrance of infirmities, that made her
+closing years of life so sore a trial to her.
+
+"I was concerned to think that our family differences have been one
+source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that _this last_ we are apt
+to exaggerate after a person's death--and surely, in the main, there
+was considerable harmony among the members of our little
+family--still I was concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle
+spirit disquiet.
+
+"I thought on years back--on all my parents' friends--the H----s, the
+F----s, on D---- S----, and on many a merry evening, in the fireside
+circle, in that comfortable back parlor--it is never used now.--
+
+"O ye _Matravises_[1] of the age, ye know not what ye lose in
+despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance, associated
+circumstances of past times;--ye know not the throbbings of the
+heart, tender yet affectionately familiar, which accompany the dear
+and honored names of _father_ or of _mother_.
+
+[Footnote 1: This name will be explained presently.]
+
+"Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the review
+of them--it yet aches, while I write this--but I am never so
+satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run upon these
+subjects--the tears they draw from us, meliorate and soften the
+heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of dear friends dead,
+which alone can fit us for a readmission to their society hereafter."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----I had a bad dream this morning--that Allan was dead--and who, of
+all persons in the world do you think, put on mourning for him?
+Why--_Matravis_. This alone might cure me of superstitious thoughts,
+if I were inclined to them; for why should Matravis _mourn_ for us,
+or our family?--Still it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a
+dream.--Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream shall
+the Resurrection from the Dead be.--Materially different from our
+accustomed scenes, and ways of life, the _World to come_ may possibly
+not be--still it is represented to us under the notion of a _Rest_, a
+_Sabbath_, a state of bliss."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Methinks, you and I should have been born under the same roof,
+sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book, thumbed the same
+Testament, together:--for we have been more than sisters, Maria!
+
+"Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day be
+inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in all
+the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind words,
+attentions in sickness and in health,--conversation, sometimes
+innocently trivial, and at others profitably serious;--books read and
+commented on, together; meals ate, and walks taken, together,--and
+conferences, how we may best do good to this poor person or that, and
+wean our spirits from the world's _cares_, without divesting
+ourselves of its _charities_. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and
+none of all these things may ever come to pass."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts,
+resolutions, and proper views of things, pass through the mind in the
+course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper.
+Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show
+themselves and are gone,--and make a grateful present of the precious
+fugitives to your friend.
+
+"To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy,--shall the
+good housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her
+worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces--and is
+there not much _spiritual housewifery_ in treasuring up our mind's
+best fruits--our heart's meditations in its most favored moments?
+
+"This sad simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralizers, such
+as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither
+were with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. But they
+sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the
+fancy.
+
+"Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarized to our
+conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all
+the discourses of our LORD--conveyed in parable, or similitude, what
+easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the
+delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in
+simile, drawn from earth, from objects _common_, _accustomed_.
+
+"Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our
+correspondence affords, how pleasant it is!--why can we not paint on
+the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?"
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----I had meant to have left off at this place; but looking back, I
+am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page--a
+representation of life false and unthankful. Life is _not_ all vanity
+and disappointment--it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to
+those who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, _temporary_ comfort,
+much--much that endears us to it, and dignifies it--many true and
+good feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed--hours of
+tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and my
+spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error.
+
+"Is it no blessing that we two love one another so dearly--that Allan
+is left me--that you are settled in life--that worldly affairs go
+smooth with us both--above all that our lot hath fallen to us in a
+Christian country? Maria! these things are not little. I will
+consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Allan has written to me--you know, he is on a visit at his old
+tutor's in Gloucestershire--he is to return home on Thursday--Allan
+is a dear boy--he concludes his letter, which is very affectionate
+throughout, in this manner--
+
+"'Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by heart--
+
+  "'The monarch may forget his crown,
+    That on his head an hour hath been;
+  The bridegroom may forget his bride
+    Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
+
+  "'The mother may forget her child,
+    That smiles so sweetly on her knee:
+  But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
+    And all that thou hast done for me."
+
+"'The lines are in Burns--you know, we read him for the first time
+together at Margate--and I have been used to refer them to you, and
+to call you, in my mind, _Glencairn_,--for you were always very good
+to me. I had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of
+them all. I am going to drink your health.'"
+
+I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+They had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest
+room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet adjoining,
+where she could be within hearing, if her grandmother should call her
+in the night.
+
+The girl was often disturbed in that manner--two or three times in a
+night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her
+grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for her--but she
+knew that Margaret's ailings were _real_ and pressing, and Rosamund
+never complained--never suspected, that her grandmother's
+requisitions had anything unreasonable in them.
+
+The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed,
+as usual--and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling
+by the old lady's bedside, kissed her grandmother, and wished her a
+good-night--Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed
+directly. It was her customary injunction, and Rosamund had never
+dreamed of disobeying.
+
+So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and clear--the
+moon very bright--her window commanded a view of _scenes_ she had
+been tracing in the daytime with Miss Clare.
+
+All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk arose
+in her mind. She fancied she should like to retrace those scenes--but
+it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the village.
+
+Still she fancied it would be very charming--and then her
+grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her recollection--she
+sighed, and turned from the window-and walked up and down her little
+room.
+
+Ever, when she looked at the window, the wish returned. It was not so
+_very late_. The neighbors were yet about, passing under the window
+to their homes--she thought, and thought again, till her sensations
+became vivid, even to painfulness--her bosom was aching to give them
+vent.
+
+The village-clock struck ten!--the neighbors ceased to pass under the
+window. Rosamund, stealing downstairs, fastened the latch behind her,
+and left the cottage.
+
+One, that knew her, met her, and observed her with some surprise.
+Another recollects having wished her a good-night. Rosamund never
+returned to the cottage.
+
+An old man, that lay sick in a small house adjoining to Margaret's,
+testified the next morning, that he had plainly heard the old
+creature calling for her granddaughter. All the night long she made
+her moan, and ceased not to call upon the name of Rosamund. But no
+Rosamund was there--the voice died away, but not till near daybreak.
+
+When the neighbors came to search in the morning, Margaret was
+missing! She had _straggled_ out of bed, and made her way into
+Rosamund's room--worn out with fatigue and fright, when she found the
+girl not there, she had laid herself down to die--and, it is thought,
+she died _praying_--for she was discovered in a kneeling posture, her
+arms and face extended on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the
+night before--a smile was on her face in death.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that night--but I
+cannot--grief, and burning shame, forbid me to be silent--black deeds
+are about to be made public, which reflect a stain upon our common
+nature.
+
+Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a
+distance from her guardian doors--through lonely glens, and
+wood-walks, where she had rambled many a _day_ in safety--till she
+arrived at a shady copse, out of the hearing of any human habitation.
+
+_Matravis_ met her.---"Flown with insolence and wine," returning home
+late at night, he passed that way!
+
+Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow-complexioned! and if hearts can
+wear that color, his heart was sallow-complexioned also.
+
+A young man with _gray_ deliberation! cold and systematic in all his
+plans; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was systematic.
+
+He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of time
+that, it might have been expected, some solitary check of conscience
+must have intervened to save him from commission. But that _Light
+from Heaven_ was extinct in his dark bosom.
+
+Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this
+unhappy man. He feared, he envied, he suspected; but he never loved.
+The sublime and beautiful in nature, the excellent and becoming in
+morals, were things placed beyond the capacity of his sensations. He
+loved not poetry--nor ever took a lonely walk to meditate--never
+beheld virtue, which he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty
+and innocence, which he did not lust to contaminate.
+
+A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice _grinning_ at his
+heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the least
+remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained him the reputation of a
+wit--other _traits_ got him the reputation of a villain.
+
+And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!--with what
+success I leave my readers to determine. It was not in Elinor's
+nature to despise any living thing--but in the estimation of this
+man, to be rejected was to be _despised_--and Matravis _never
+forgave_.
+
+He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the
+bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe
+lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and
+Matravis had a twofold motive for accomplishing this young maid's
+ruin.
+
+Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her ever
+cold and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying far from
+her own home, in the fear of meeting him--but she had never told her
+fears to Allan.
+
+Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the
+limits of the law--but, on the present occasion, hot fumes of wine,
+cooperating with his deep desire of revenge, and the insolence of an
+unhoped-for meeting, overcame his customary prudence, and Matravis
+rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious mischief.
+
+Late at night he met her, a lonely, unprotected virgin--no friend at
+hand--no place near of refuge.
+
+Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee--I loathe to
+tell the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and silence were
+the only witnesses of this young maid's disgrace--Matravis fled.
+
+Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, an abandoned thing, about
+the fields and meadows till daybreak. Not caring to return to the
+cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss Clare's
+house--in a stupor of grief.
+
+Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her chamber,
+when she perceived her desolate young friend. She ran to embrace
+her--she brought her into the house--she took her to her bosom--she
+kissed her--she spake to her; but Rosamund could not speak.
+
+Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event which
+could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet maid heard
+of it, she languished, and fell sick--she never held up her head
+after that time.
+
+If Rosamund had been a _sister_, she could not have been kindlier
+treated than by her two friends.
+
+Allan had prospects in life--might, in time, have married into any of
+the first families in Hertfordshire--but Rosamund Gray, humbled
+though she was, and put to shame, had yet a charm for _him_--and he
+would have been content to share his fortunes with her yet, if
+Rosamund would have lived to be his companion.
+
+But this was not to be--and the girl soon after died. She expired in
+the arms of Elinor--quiet, gentle, as she lived--thankful that she
+died not among strangers--and expressing, by signs rather than words,
+a gratitude for the most trifling services, the common offices of
+humanity. She died uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught
+Rosamund, might have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in
+death.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village
+remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind
+Margaret.
+
+I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out for
+Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly known--I
+heard not of them--and it was four months before I received a letter
+from Allan.
+
+"His heart," he told me, "was gone from him--for his sister had died
+of a frenzy fever!"--not a word of Rosamund in the letter--I was left
+to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained.
+
+I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and
+returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could
+gain no information, whether he were dead or living.
+
+I passed the _cottage_. I did not dare to look that way, or to
+inquire _who_ lived there. A little dog, that had been Rosamund's,
+was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had
+suddenly gone from him--I stared vacantly around me, like one
+alienated from common perceptions.
+
+But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually
+weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now _ten years_
+since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as
+unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me--but there are times when
+Allan and his sister, Margaret and her grand-daughter, appear like
+personages of a dream--an idle dream.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+Strange things have happened unto me--I seem scarce awake--but I will
+recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has
+befallen me in the few last weeks.
+
+Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in
+practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left
+Widford.
+
+A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the above
+narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my
+mind to dwell upon _facts_, which had begun to fade from it--the
+memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid--I felt a strong
+desire to revisit the scenes of my native village--of the young loves
+of Rosamund and her Clare.
+
+A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now,
+till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk--I
+reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon--after a slight
+breakfast at my inn--where I was mortified to perceive the old
+landlord did not know me again--(old Thomas Billet--he has often made
+angle-rods for me when a child)--I rambled over all my accustomed
+haunts.
+
+Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into
+the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot
+where my little bed had stood--I felt like a child--I prayed like
+one--it seemed as though old times were to return again--I looked
+round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew--but all was
+naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window,
+through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine
+summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of
+common glass.
+
+I visited, by turns, every chamber--they were all desolate and
+unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord,
+probably to be sold--I touched the keys--I played some old Scottish
+tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived
+with the music--blended with a sense of _unreality_, which at last
+became too powerful--I rushed out of the room to give vent to my
+feelings.
+
+I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at
+the back of the house--we called it the _Wilderness_. A well-known
+_form_ was missing, that used to meet me in this place--it was
+thine--Ben Moxam--the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings,
+yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest
+creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a
+soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there
+is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam--that
+thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to
+lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees--I remember them
+sweeping to the ground.
+
+I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place--its
+glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind,
+nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which
+has accompanied me to maturer years.
+
+In this _Wilderness_ I found myself, after a ten years' absence. Its
+stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company
+of underwood--the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of
+the wood-pigeon--all was as I had left it--my heart softened at the
+sight--it seemed as though my character had been suffering a _change_
+since I forsook these shades.
+
+My parents were both dead--I had no counsellor left, no experience of
+age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away
+my _friends_, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round
+the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be
+restored to that _state of innocence_, in which I had wandered in
+those shades.
+
+Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of
+manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity
+and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into
+a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was
+enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father--and,
+extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet--for the place where I
+stood I thought, was holy ground.
+
+This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid
+feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner--green peas and a
+sweetbread--it had been a favorite dish with me in my childhood--I
+was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it
+come upon table--but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful--my
+tears choked me. I called for wine--I drank a pint and a half of red
+wine--and not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where
+my parents were interred.
+
+The _cottage_ lay in my way--Margaret had chosen it for that very
+reason, to be near the church--for the old lady was regular in her
+attendance on public worship--I passed on--and in a moment found
+myself among the tombs.
+
+I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again--my
+mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending--a plain
+stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon
+it--for they both occupied one grave.
+
+I prostrated myself before the spot--I kissed the earth that covered
+them--I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should
+mingle my dust with theirs--and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on
+the gravestone, in a kind of mental prayer--for I could not speak.
+
+Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and
+felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects.--Still I continued in
+the church-yard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralizing on
+them with that kind of levity, which will not unfrequently spring up
+in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy.
+
+I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful
+children. I said jestingly, where be all the _bad_ people buried? Bad
+parents, bad husbands, bad children--what cemeteries are appointed
+for these?--do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a
+pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus
+tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their lifetime,
+discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings,
+with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. _Man wars
+not with the dead._ It is a _trait_ of human nature, for which I love
+it.
+
+I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other
+end of the church-yard; it was a company of children, who were
+gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a
+gravestone.
+
+He seemed to be asking them questions--probably, about their
+learning--and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up
+his knees to kiss him. The children had been eating black
+cherries--for some of the stones were scattered about, and their
+mouths were smeared with them.
+
+As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild
+benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before--I gazed
+at him more attentively.
+
+It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister.
+
+I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan"--he turned his
+eyes upon me--he knew me--we both wept aloud--it seemed as though the
+interval since we parted had been as nothing--I cried out, "Come, and
+tell me about these things."
+
+I drew him away from his little friends--he parted with a show of
+reluctance from the church-yard--Margaret and her grand-daughter lay
+buried there, as well as his sister--I took him to my inn--secured a
+room, where we might be private--ordered fresh wine--scarce knowing
+what I did, I danced for joy.
+
+Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, "This
+repays me for all."
+
+It was a proud day for me--I had found the friend I thought
+dead--earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained
+_him_; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to
+be his comforter.
+
+I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and
+grief had left few traces of that fine _enthusiasm_, which once
+burned in his countenance--his eyes had lost their original fire, but
+they retained an uncommon sweetness, and whenever they were turned
+upon me, their smile pierced to my heart.
+
+"Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" He replied not, and I could
+not press him further. I could not call the dead to life again.
+
+So we drank and told old stories--and repeated old poetry--and sang
+old songs--as if nothing had happened. We sate till very late. I
+forgot that I had purposed returning to town that evening--to Allan
+all places were alike--I grew noisy, he grew cheerful--Allan's old
+manners, old enthusiasm, were returning upon him--we laughed, we
+wept, we mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly.
+
+Allan was my chamber-fellow that night--and lay awake planning
+schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar
+pursuits,--and praising GOD, that we had met.
+
+I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan proposed
+to accompany me. "Since the death of his sister," he told me, "he had
+been a wanderer."
+
+In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without reserve--told
+me many particulars of his way of life for the last nine or ten
+years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to divulge.
+
+Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over
+thoughtful, he replied to me in these words:
+
+"Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I am
+never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my countenance,
+men judge me most miserable.
+
+"My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them are
+of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with the
+recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften and
+tranquillize my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of human
+pursuits.
+
+"The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself drawn
+heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects.
+
+"I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because I
+expect a renewal of them in the _World of Spirits_.
+
+"I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made no
+new friendships, that can compensate me for the loss of the old--and
+the more I know mankind, the more does it become necessary for me to
+supply their loss by little images, recollections, and circumstances
+of past pleasures.
+
+"I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy
+people, plain-hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they have hitherto
+eluded my pursuit, and will continue to bless the little circle of
+their families and friends, while I must remain a stranger to them.
+
+"Kept at a distance by mankind, I have not ceased to love them--and
+could I find the cruel persecutor, the malignant instrument of GOD'S
+judgments on me and mine, I think I would forgive, and try to love
+him too.
+
+"I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my calamities it
+was given to me, not to see the hand of man in them. I perceived a
+mighty arm, which none but myself could see, extended over me. I gave
+my heart to the Purifier, and my will to the Sovereign Will of the
+Universe. The irresistible wheels of destiny passed on in their
+everlasting rotation,--and I suffered myself to be carried along
+with them without complaining."
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+Allan told me that for some years past, feeling himself disengaged
+from every personal tie, but not alienated from human sympathies, it
+had been his taste, his _humor_ he called it, to spend a great
+portion of his time in _hospitals_ and _lazar-houses_.
+
+He had found a _wayward pleasure_, he refused to name it a virtue, in
+tending a description of people, who had long ceased to expect
+kindness or friendliness from mankind, but were content to accept the
+reluctant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling instruments and
+servants of these well-meant institutions deal out to the poor sick
+people under their care.
+
+It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up at a
+stated hour with all the hard formalities of a prison--it is not the
+scanty dole of a bed to die on--which dying man requires from his
+species.
+
+Looks, attentions, consolations,--in a word, _sympathies_, are what a
+man most needs in this awful close of mortal sufferings. A kind look,
+a smile, a drop of cold water to the parched lip--for these things a
+man shall bless you in death.
+
+And these better things than cordials did Allan love to
+administer--to stay by a bedside the whole day, when something
+disgusting in a patient's distemper has kept the very nurses at a
+distance--to sit by, while the poor wretch got a little sleep--and be
+there to smile upon him when he awoke--to slip a guinea, now and
+then, into the hands of a nurse or attendant--these things have been
+to Allan as _privileges_, for which he was content to live; choice
+marks, and circumstances, of his Maker's goodness to him.
+
+And I do not know whether occupations of this kind be not a spring of
+purer and nobler delight (certainly instances of a more disinterested
+virtue) than arises from what are called Friendships of Sentiment.
+
+Between two persons of liberal education, like opinions, and common
+feelings, oftentimes subsists a Variety of Sentiment, which disposes
+each to look upon the other as the only being in the universe worthy
+of friendship, or capable of understanding it,--themselves they
+consider as the solitary receptacles of all that is delicate in
+feeling, or stable in attachment: when the odds are, that under every
+green hill, and in every crowded street, people of equal worth are to
+be found, who do more good in their generation, and make less noise
+in the doing of it.
+
+It was in consequence of these benevolent propensities, I have been
+describing, that Allan oftentimes discovered considerable
+inclinations in favor of my way of life, which I have before
+mentioned as being that of a surgeon. He would frequently attend me
+on my visits to patients; and I began to think that he had serious
+intentions of making my profession his study.
+
+He was present with me at a scene--a, _death-bed scene_--I shudder
+when I do but think of it.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+I was sent for the other morning to the assistance of a gentleman,
+who had been wounded in a duel,--and his wounds by unskilful
+treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis.
+
+The uncommonness of the name, which was _Matravis_, suggested to me,
+that this might possibly be no other than Allan's old enemy. Under
+this apprehension, I did what I could to dissuade Allan from
+accompanying me--but he seemed bent upon going, and even pleased
+himself with the notion, that it might lie within his ability to do
+the unhappy man some service. So he went with me.
+
+When we came to the house, which was in Soho-square, we discovered
+that it was indeed the man--the identical Matravis, who had done all
+that mischief in times past--but not in a condition to excite any
+other sensation than pity in a heart more hard than Allan's.
+
+Intense pain had brought on a delirium--we perceived this on first
+entering the room--for the wretched man was raving to
+himself--talking idly in mad unconnected sentences--that yet seemed,
+at times, to have reference to _past facts_.
+
+One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great
+heath, to which there seemed no end--it was cold, cold, cold,--and
+dark, very dark--an old woman in leading-strings, _blind_, was
+groping about for a guide"--and then he frightened me,--for he seemed
+disposed to be _jocular_, and sang a song about "an old woman clothed
+in gray," and said "he did not believe in a devil."
+
+Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare."--Allan was hanging over
+him at that very moment, sobbing.--I could not resist the impulse,
+but cried out, "_This_ is Allan Clare--Allan Clare is come to see
+you, my dear Sir."--The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for
+he turned his head away, and began talking of _charnel-houses_, and
+_dead men_, and "whether they knew anything that passed in their
+coffins."
+
+Matravis died that night.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ESSAYS.
+
+RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.
+
+
+To comfort the desponding parent with the thought that, without
+diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to furnish the
+more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed of one
+or more perhaps out of a numerous offspring, under the shelter of a
+care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not only their
+bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental _pabulum_ is also
+dispensed, which HE hath declared to be no less necessary to our
+sustenance, who said, that, "not by bread alone man can live": for
+this Christ's Hospital unfolds her bounty. Here neither, on the one
+hand, are the youth lifted up above their family, which we must
+suppose liberal, though reduced; nor on the other hand, are they
+liable to be depressed below its level by the mean habits and
+sentiments which a common charity-school generates. It is, in a word,
+an Institution to keep those who have yet held up their heads in the
+world, from sinking; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household,
+when poverty was in danger of crushing it; to assist those who are
+the most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves;
+to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to render
+him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more congenial to it,
+than he could even have attained by remaining at home in the bosom of
+it. It is a preserving and renovating principle, an antidote for the
+_res angusta domi_, when it presses, as it always does, most heavily
+upon the most ingenuous natures.
+
+This is Christ's Hospital; and whether its character would be
+improved by confining its advantages to the very lowest of the
+people, let those judge who have witnessed the looks, the gestures,
+the behavior, the manner of their play with one another, their
+deportment towards strangers, the whole aspect and physiognomy of
+that vast assemblage of boys on the London foundation, who freshen
+and make alive again with their sports the else mouldering cloisters
+of the old Grey Friars--which strangers who have never witnessed, if
+they pass through Newgate Street, or by Smithfield, would do well to
+go a little out of their way to see.
+
+For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy; he
+feels it in the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which he
+belongs; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the
+treatment he is accustomed to out of its bounds; in the respect and
+even kindness, which his well-known garb never fails to procure him
+in the streets of the metropolis; he feels it in his education, in
+that measure of classical attainments, which every individual at that
+school, though not destined to a learned profession, has it in his
+power to procure, attainments which it would be worse than folly to
+put it in the reach of the laboring classes to acquire: he feels it
+in the numberless comforts, and even magnificences, which surround
+him; in his old and awful cloisters, with their traditions; in his
+spacious school-rooms, and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms
+where he sleeps; in his stately dining-hall, hung round with
+pictures, by Verrio, Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in size
+and grandeur almost any other in the kingdom;[1] above all, in the
+very extent and magnitude of the body to which he belongs, and the
+consequent spirit, the intelligence, and public conscience, which is
+the result of so many various yet wonderfully combining members.
+Compared with this last-named advantage, what is the stock of
+information (I do not here speak of book-learning, but of that
+knowledge which boy receives from boy), the mass of collected
+opinions, the intelligence in common, among the few and narrow
+members of an ordinary boarding-school?
+
+[Footnote 1: By Verrio, representing James the Second on his throne,
+surrounded by his courtiers,(all curious portraits,) receiving the
+mathematical pupils at their annual presentation: a custom still kept
+up on New-year's-day at Court.]
+
+The Christ's Hospital or Blue-coat boy, has a distinctive character
+of his own, as far removed from the abject qualities of a common
+charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forwardness of a lad brought
+up at some other of the public schools. There is _pride_ in it,
+accumulated from the circumstances which I have described, as
+differencing him from the former; and there is _a restraining
+modesty_ from a sense of obligation and dependence, which must ever
+keep his deportment from assimilating to that of the latter. His very
+garb, as it is antique and venerable, feeds his self-respect; as it
+is a badge of dependence, it restrains the natural petulance of that
+age from breaking out into overt acts of insolence. This produces
+silence and a reserve before strangers, yet not that cowardly shyness
+which boys mewed up at home will feel; he will speak up when spoken
+to, but the stranger must begin the conversation with him. Within his
+bounds he is all fire and play; but in the streets he steals along
+with all the self-concentration of a young monk. He is never known to
+mix with other boys; they are a sort of laity to him. All this
+proceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual consciousness which he
+carries about him, of the difference of his dress from that of the
+rest of the world; with a modest jealousy over himself, lest, by
+overhastily mixing with common and secular playfellows, he should
+commit the dignity of his cloth. Nor let any one laugh at this; for,
+considering the propensity of the multitude, and especially of the
+small multitude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress--above all,
+where such peculiarity may be construed by malice into a mark of
+disparagement--this reserve will appear to be nothing more than a
+wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. That it is neither pride nor
+rusticity, at least that it has none of the offensive qualities of
+either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself, by putting a question to
+any of these boys: he may be sure of an answer couched in terms of
+plain civility, neither loquacious nor embarrassed. Let him put the
+same question to a parish-boy, or to one of the trencher-caps in the
+---- cloisters, and the impudent reply of the one shall not fail to
+exasperate any more than the certain servility, and mercenary eye to
+reward, which he will meet with in the other, can fail to depress and
+sadden him.
+
+The Christ's Hospital boy is a religions character. His school is
+eminently a religious foundation; it has its peculiar prayers, its
+services at set times, its graces, hymns, and anthems, following each
+other in an almost monastic closeness of succession. This religious
+character in him is not always untinged with superstition. That is
+not wonderful, when we consider the thousand tales and traditions
+which must circulate, with undisturbed credulity, amongst so many
+boys, that have so few checks to their belief from any intercourse
+with the world at large; upon whom their equals in age must work so
+much, their elders so little. With this leaning towards an
+over-belief in matters of religion, which will soon correct itself
+when he comes out into society, may be classed a turn for romance
+above most other boys. This is to be traced in the same manner to
+their excess of society with each other, and defect of mingling with
+the world. Hence the peculiar avidity with which such books as the
+"Arabian Nights' Entertainments," and others of a still wilder cast,
+are, or at least were in my time, sought for by the boys. I remember
+when some half-dozen of them set off from school, without map, card,
+or compass, on a serious expedition to find out _Philip Quarll's
+Island_.
+
+The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong is peculiarly
+tender and apprehensive. It is even apt to run out into ceremonial
+observances, and to impose a yoke upon itself beyond the strict
+obligations of the moral law. Those who were contemporaries with me
+at that school thirty years ago, will remember with what more than
+Judaic rigor the eating of the fat of certain boiled meats[1] was
+interdicted. A boy would have blushed as at the exposure of some
+heinous immorality, to have been detected eating that forbidden
+portion of his allowance of animal food, the whole of which, while he
+was in health, was little more than sufficient to allay his hunger.
+The same, or even greater, refinement was shown in the rejection of
+certain kinds of sweet-cake. What gave rise to these supererogatory
+penances, these self-denying ordinances, I could never learn;[2] they
+certainly argue no defect of the conscientious principle. A little
+excess in that article is not undesirable in youth, to make allowance
+for the inevitable waste which comes in maturer years. But in the
+less ambiguous line of duty, in those directions of the moral
+feelings which cannot be mistaken or depreciated, I will relate what
+took place in the year 1785, when Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I
+must be pardoned for taking my instances from my own times. Indeed,
+the vividness of my recollections, while I am upon this subject,
+almost bring back those times; they are present to me still. But I
+believe that in the years which have elapsed since the period which I
+speak of, the character of the Christ's Hospital boy is very little
+changed. Their situation in point of many comforts is improved; but
+that which I ventured before to term the _public conscience_ of the
+school, the pervading moral sense, of which every mind partakes and
+to which so many individual minds contribute, remains, I believe,
+pretty much the same as when I left it. I have seen, within this
+twelvemonth almost, the change which has been produced upon a boy of
+eight or nine years of age, upon being admitted into that school;
+how, from a pert young coxcomb, who thought that all knowledge was
+comprehended within his shallow brains, because a smattering of two
+or three languages and one or two sciences were stuffed into him by
+injudicious treatment at home, by a mixture with the wholesome
+society of so many school-fellows, in less time than I have spoken
+of, he has sunk to his own level, and is contented to be carried on
+in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge in which the common mass
+of that unpresumptuous assemblage of boys seem to move: from being a
+little unfeeling mortal, he has got to feel and reflect. Nor would it
+be a difficult matter to show how, at a school like this, where the
+boy is neither entirely separated from home, nor yet exclusively
+under its influence, the best feelings, the filial for instance, are
+brought to a maturity which they could not have attained under a
+completely domestic education; how the relation of a parent is
+rendered less tender by unremitted association, and the very
+awfulness of age is best apprehended by some sojourning amidst the
+comparative levity of youth; how absence, not drawn out by too great
+extension into alienation or forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the
+relish of occasional intercourse, and the boy is made the better
+_child_ by that which keeps the force of that relation from being
+felt as perpetually pressing on him; how the substituted paternity,
+into the care of which he is adopted, while in everything substantial
+it makes up for the natural, in the necessary omission of individual
+fondnesses and partialities, directs the mind only the more strongly
+to appreciate that natural and first tie, in which such weaknesses
+are the bond of strength, and the appetite which craves after them
+betrays no perverse palate. But these speculations rather belong to
+the question of the comparative advantages of a public over a private
+education in general. I must get back to my favorite school; and to
+that which took place when our old and good steward died.
+
+[Footnote 1: Under the denomination of _gage_.]
+
+[Footnote 2: I am told that the late steward [Mr. Hathaway], who
+evinced on many occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety to promote the
+comfort of the boys, had occasion for all his address and
+perseverance to eradicate the first of these unfortunate prejudices,
+in which he at length happily succeeded, and thereby restored to one
+half of the animal nutrition of the school those honors which painful
+superstition and blind zeal had so long conspired to withhold from
+it.]
+
+And I will say that when I think of the frequent instances which I
+have met with in children, of a hard-heartedness, a callousness, and
+insensibility to the loss of relations, even of those who have begot
+and nourished them, I cannot but consider it as a proof of something
+in the peculiar conformation of that school, favorable to the
+expansion of the best feelings of our nature, that at the period
+which I am noticing, out of five hundred boys there was not a dry eye
+to be found among them, nor a heart that did not beat with genuine
+emotion. Every impulse to play, until the funeral day was past,
+seemed suspended throughout the school; and the boys, lately so
+mirthful and sprightly, were seen pacing their cloisters alone, or in
+sad groups standing about, few of them without some token, such as
+their slender means could provide, a black riband or something, to
+denote respect and a sense of their loss. The time itself was a time
+of anarchy, a time in which all authority (out of school hours) was
+abandoned. The ordinary restraints were for those days superseded;
+and the gates, which at other times kept us in, were left without
+watchers. Yet, with the exception of one or two graceless boys at
+most, who took advantage of that suspension of authorities to _skulk
+out_, as it was called, the whole body of that great school kept
+rigorously within their bounds, by a voluntary self-imprisonment; and
+they who broke bounds, though they escaped punishment from any
+master, fell into a general disrepute among us, and, for that which
+at any other time would have been applauded and admired as a mark of
+spirit, were consigned to infamy and reprobation; so much _natural
+government_ have gratitude and the principles of reverence and love,
+and so much did a respect to their dead friend prevail with these
+Christ's Hospital boys, above any fear which his presence among them
+when living could ever produce. And if the impressions which were
+made on my mind so long ago are to be trusted, very richly did their
+steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure to me even now to call
+to mind his portly form, the regal awe which he always contrived to
+inspire, in spite of a tenderness and even weakness of nature that
+would have enfeebled the reins of discipline in any other master; a
+yearning of tenderness towards those under his protection, which
+could make five hundred boys at once feel towards him each as to
+their individual father. He had faults, with which we had nothing to
+do; but, with all his faults, indeed, Mr. Perry was a most
+extraordinary creature. Contemporary with him and still living,
+though he has long since resigned his occupation, will it be
+impertinent to mention the name of our excellent upper
+grammar-master, the Rev. James Boyer? He was a disciplinarian,
+indeed, of a different stamp from him whom I have just described;
+but, now the terrors of the rod, and of a temper a little too hasty
+to leave the more nervous of us quite at our ease to do justice to
+his merits in those days, are long since over, ungrateful were we if
+we should refuse our testimony to that unwearied assiduity with which
+he attended to the particular improvement of each of us. Had we been
+the offspring of the first gentry in the land, he could not have been
+instigated by the strongest views of recompense and reward to have
+made himself a greater slave to the most laborious of all occupations
+than he did for us sons of charity, from whom, or from our parents,
+he could expect nothing. He has had his reward in the satisfaction of
+having discharged his duty, in the pleasurable consciousness of
+having advanced the respectability of that institution to which, both
+man and boy, he was attached; in the honors to which so many of his
+pupils have successfully aspired at both our Universities; and in the
+staff with which the Governors of the Hospital, at the close of his
+hard labors, with the highest expressions of the obligations the
+school lay under to him, unanimously voted to present him.
+
+I have often considered it among the felicities of the constitution
+of this school, that the offices of steward and school-master are
+kept distinct; the strict business of education alone devolving upon
+the latter, while the former has the charge of all things out of
+school, the control of the provisions, the regulation of meals, of
+dress, of play, and the ordinary intercourse of the boys. By this
+division of management, a superior respectability must attach to the
+teacher, while his office is unmixed with any of these lower
+concerns. A still greater advantage over the construction of common
+boarding-schools is to be found in the settled salaries of the
+masters, rendering them totally free of obligation to any individual
+pupil, or his parents. This never fails to have its effect at schools
+where each boy can reckon up to a hair what profit the master derives
+from him, where he views him every day in the light of a caterer, a
+provider for the family, who is to get so much by him in each of his
+meals. Boys will see and consider these things; and how much must the
+sacred character of preceptor suffer in their minds by these
+degrading associations! The very bill which the pupil carries home
+with him at Christmas, eked out, perhaps, with elaborate though
+necessary minuteness, instructs him that his teachers have other ends
+than the mere love to learning, in the lessons which they give him;
+and though they put into his hands the fine sayings of Seneca or
+Epictetus, yet they themselves are none of those disinterested
+pedagogues to teach philosophy _gratis_. The master, too, is sensible
+that he is seen in this light; and how much this must lessen that
+affectionate regard to the learners which alone can sweeten the
+bitter labor of instruction, and convert the whole business into
+unwelcome and uninteresting task-work, many preceptors that I have
+conversed with on the subject are ready, with a sad heart, to
+acknowledge. From this inconvenience the settled salaries of the
+masters of this school in great measure exempt them; while the happy
+custom of choosing masters (indeed every officer of the
+establishment) from those who have received their education there,
+gives them an interest in advancing the character of the school, and
+binds them to observe a tenderness and a respect to the children, in
+which a stranger, feeling that independence which I have spoken of,
+might well be expected to fail.
+
+In affectionate recollections of the place where he was bred up, in
+hearty recognitions of old school-fellows met with again after the
+lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the Christ's Hospital boy
+yields to none; I might almost say, he goes beyond most other boys.
+The very compass and magnitude of the school, its thousand bearings,
+the space it takes up in the imagination beyond the ordinary schools,
+impresses a remembrance, accompanied with an elevation of mind, that
+attends him through life. It is too big, too affecting an object, to
+pass away quickly from his mind. The Christ's Hospital boy's friends
+at school are commonly his intimates through life. For me, I do not
+know whether a constitutional imbecility does not incline me too
+obstinately to cling to the remembrances of childhood; in an inverted
+ratio to the usual sentiments of mankind, nothing that I have been
+engaged in since seems of any value or importance compared to the
+colors which imagination gave to everything then. I belong to no
+_body corporate_ such as I then made a part of.--And here, before I
+close, taking leave of the general reader, and addressing myself
+solely to my old school-fellows, that were contemporaries with me
+from the year 1782 to 1789, let me have leave to remember some of
+those circumstances of our school, which they will not be unwilling
+to have brought back to their minds.
+
+And first, let us remember, as first in importance in our childish
+eyes, the young men (as they almost were) who, under the denomination
+of _Grecians_, were waiting the expiration of the period when they
+should be sent, at the charges of the Hospital, to one or other of
+our universities, but more frequently to Cambridge. These youths,
+from their superior acquirements, their superior age and stature, and
+the fewness of their numbers (for seldom above two or three at a time
+were inaugurated into that high order), drew the eyes of all, and
+especially of the younger boys, into a reverent observance and
+admiration. How tall they used to seem to us! how stately would they
+pace along the cloisters! while the play of the lesser boys was
+absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness at least allayed, at
+their presence! Not that they ever beat or struck the boys--that
+would have been to have demeaned themselves--the dignity of their
+persons alone insured them all respect. The task of blows, of
+corporal chastisement, they left to the common monitors, or heads of
+wards, who, it must be confessed, in our time had rather too much
+license allowed them to oppress and misuse their inferiors; and the
+interference of the Grecian, who may be considered as the spiritual
+power, was not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its mediation
+the heavy unrelenting arm of this temporal power, or monitor. In
+fine, the Grecians were the solemn Muftis of the school. Eras were
+computed from their time;--it used to be said, such or such a thing
+was done when S---- or T---- was Grecian.
+
+As I ventured to call the Grecians, the Muftis of the school, the
+King's boys,[1] as their character then was, may well pass for the
+Janissaries. They were the terror of all the other boys; bred up
+under that hardy sailor, as well as excellent mathematician and
+conavigator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All his systems were
+adapted to fit them for the rough element which they were destined to
+encounter. Frequent and severe punishments which were expected to be
+borne with more than Spartan fortitude, came to be considered less as
+inflictions of disgrace than as trials of obstinate endurance. To
+make his boys hardy, and to give them early sailor-habits, seemed to
+be his only aim; to this everything was subordinate. Moral
+obliquities, indeed, were sure of receiving their full recompense,
+for no occasion of laying on the lash was ever let slip; but the
+effects expected to be produced from it were something very different
+from contrition or mortification. There was in William Wales a
+perpetual fund of humor, a constant glee about him, which, heightened
+by an inveterate provincialism of north-country dialect, absolutely
+took away the sting from his severities. His punishments were a game
+at patience, in which the master was not always worst contented when
+he found himself at times overcome by his pupil. What success this
+discipline had, or how the effects of it operated upon the
+after-lives of these King's boys, I cannot say: but I am sure that,
+for the time, they were absolute nuisances to the rest of the school.
+Hardy, brutal, and often wicked, they were the most graceless lump in
+the whole mass; older and bigger than the other boys, (for, by the
+system of their education they were kept longer at school by two or
+three years than any of the rest, except the Grecians,) they were a
+constant terror to the younger part of the school; and some who may
+read this, I doubt not, will remember the consternation into which
+the juvenile fry of us were thrown, when the cry was raised in the
+cloisters, that _the First Order was coming_--for so they termed the
+first form or class of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered some
+good purposes, in the school. They were the military class among the
+boys, foremost in athletic exercises, who extended the fame of the
+prowess of the school far and near; and the apprentices in the
+vicinage, and sometimes the butchers' boys in the neighboring market,
+had sad occasion to attest their valor.
+
+[Footnote 1: The mathematical pupils, bred up to the sea, on the
+foundation of Charles the Second.]
+
+The time would fail me if I were to attempt to enumerate all those
+circumstances, some pleasant, some attended with some pain, which,
+seen through the mist of distance, come sweetly softened to the
+memory. But I must crave leave to remember our transcending
+superiority in those invigorating sports, leap-frog, and basting the
+bear; our delightful excursions in the summer holidays to the New
+River, near Newington, where, like otters, we would live the long day
+in the water, never caring for dressing ourselves, when we had once
+stripped; our savory meals afterwards, when we came home almost
+famished with staying out all day without our dinners; our visits at
+other times to the Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we had free
+access to all the curiosities; our solemn procession through the City
+at Easter, with the Lord Mayor's largess of buns, wine, and a
+shilling, with the festive questions and civic pleasantries of the
+dispensing Aldermen, which were more to us than all the rest of the
+banquet; our stately suppings in public, where the well-lighted hall
+and the confluence of well-dressed company who came to see us, made
+the whole look more like a concert or assembly, than a scene of a
+plain bread and cheese collation; the annual orations upon St.
+Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, before he had done,
+seldom failed to reckon up, among those who had done honor to our
+school by being educated in it, the names of those accomplished
+critics and Greek scholars, Joshua Barnes and Jeremiah Markland (I
+marvel they left out Camden while they were about it). Let me have
+leave to remember our hymns and anthems, and well-toned organ; the
+doleful tune of the burial anthem chanted in the solemn cloisters,
+upon the seldom-occurring funeral of some school-fellow; the
+festivities at Christmas, when the richest of us would club our stock
+to have a gaudy day, sitting round the fire, replenished to the
+height with logs, and the penniless, and he that could contribute
+nothing, partook in all the mirth, and in some of the
+substantialities of the feasting; the carol sung by night at that
+time of the year, which, when a young boy, I have so often lain awake
+to hear from seven (the hour of going to bed) till ten, when it was
+sung by the older boys and monitors, and have listened to it, in
+their rude chanting, till I have been transported in fancy to the
+fields of Bethlehem, and the song which was sung at that season, by
+angels' voices to the shepherds.
+
+Nor would I willingly forget any of those things which administered
+to our vanity. The hem-stitched bands and town-made shirts, which
+some of the most fashionable among us wore; the town-girdles, with
+buckles of silver, or shining stone; the badges of the sea-boys; the
+cots, or superior shoestrings, of the monitors; the medals of the
+markers; (those who were appointed to hear the Bible read in the
+wards on Sunday morning and evening,) which bore on their obverse in
+silver, as certain parts of our garments carried, in meaner metal,
+the countenance of our Founder, that godly and royal child, King
+Edward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudor name--the young flower that
+was untimely cropt, as it began to fill our land with its early
+odors--the boy-patron of boys--the serious and holy child who walked
+with Cranmer and Bidley--fit associate, in those tender years, for
+the bishops, and future martyrs of our Church, to receive, or, (as
+occasion sometimes proved,) to give instruction.
+
+  "But, ah! what means the silent tear?
+    Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave?
+  Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear!
+    Lo! now I linger o'er your grave.
+
+  "--Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue,
+    And bear away the bloom of years!
+  And quick succeed, ye sickly crew
+    Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears!
+
+  "Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan,
+  Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital,
+in the "Poetics," of Mr. George Dyer.]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE.
+
+CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION.
+
+Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was struck with the
+affected attitude of a figure, which I do not remember to have seen
+before, and which upon examination proved to be a whole-length of the
+celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not go so far with some good
+Catholics abroad as to shut players altogether out of consecrated
+ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalized at the introduction
+of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to remind us
+of the saddest realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this
+harlequin figure the following lines:--
+
+  "To paint fair Nature, by divine command
+  Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
+  A Shakspeare rose; then, to expand his fame
+  Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came.
+  Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew,
+  The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew;
+  Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay,
+  Immortal Garrick called them back to day:
+  And till Eternity with power sublime
+  Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time,
+  Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine,
+  And earth irradiate with a beam divine."
+
+It would be an insult to my readers' understandings to attempt
+anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and
+nonsense. But the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder,
+how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it should
+have been the fashion to compliment every performer in his turn, that
+has had the luck to please the Town in any of the great characters of
+Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a _mind congenial with the
+poet's_; how people should come thus unaccountably to confound the
+power of originating poetical images and conceptions with the faculty
+of being able to read or recite the same when put into words;[1]or
+what connection that absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man,
+which a great dramatic poet possesses, has with those low tricks upon
+the eye and ear, which a player, by observing a few general effects,
+which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c., usually has upon the
+gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know the internal
+workings and movements of a great mind, of an Othello or a Hamlet for
+instance, the _when_ and the _why_ and the _how far_ they should be
+moved; to what pitch a passion is becoming; to give the reins and to
+pull in the curb exactly at the moment when the drawing in or the
+slackening is most graceful; seems to demand a reach of intellect of
+a vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare
+imitation of the signs of these passions in the countenance or
+gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively and
+emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after all
+but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, or grief,
+generally; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein it
+differs from the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of these the
+actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture than the eye
+(without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter intelligible
+sounds. But such is the instantaneous nature of the impressions which
+we take in at the eye and ear at a playhouse, compared with the slow
+apprehension oftentimes of the understanding in reading, that we are
+apt not only to sink the playwriter in the consideration which we pay
+to the actor, but even to identify in our minds, in a perverse
+manner, the actor with the character which he represents. It is
+difficult for a frequent play-goer to disembarrass the idea of Hamlet
+from the person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady Macbeth, while
+we are in reality thinking of Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion
+incidental alone to unlettered persons, who, not possessing the
+advantage of reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player
+for all the pleasure which they can receive from the drama, and to
+whom the very idea of _what an author is_ cannot be made
+comprehensible without some pain and perplexity of mind: the error is
+one from which persons otherwise not meanly lettered, find it almost
+impossible to extricate themselves.
+
+[Footnote 1: It is observable that we fall into this confusion only
+in dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gentleman who reads
+Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore a great poet
+and philosopher; nor do we find that Tom Davis, the bookseller, who
+is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost better than any man in
+England in his day (though I cannot help thinking there must be some
+mistake in this tradition), was therefore, by his intimate friends,
+set upon a level with Milton.]
+
+Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree of
+satisfaction which I received some years back from seeing for the
+first time a tragedy of Shakespeare performed, in which those two
+great performers sustained the principal parts. It seemed to embody
+and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no distinct shape.
+But dearly do we pay all our life after for this juvenile pleasure,
+this sense of distinctness. When the novelty is past, we find to our
+cost that instead of realizing an idea, we have only materialized and
+brought down a fine vision to the standard of flesh and blood. We
+have let go a dream, in quest of an unattainable substance.
+
+How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have its free conceptions
+thus cramped and pressed down to the measure of a strait-lacing
+actuality, may be judged from that delightful sensation of freshness,
+with which we turn to those plays of Shakspeare which have escaped
+being performed, and to those passages in the acting plays of the
+same writer which have happily been left out in the performance. How
+far the very custom of hearing anything _spouted_, withers and blows
+upon a fine passage, may be seen in those speeches from Henry the
+Fifth, &c., which are current in the mouths of school-boys, from
+their being to be found in _Enfield's Speaker_, and such kind of
+books! I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that celebrated
+soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning "To be or not to be," or to tell
+whether it be good, bad or indifferent, it has been so handled and
+pawed about by declamatory boys and men, and torn so inhumanly from
+its living place and principle of continuity in the play, till it is
+become to me a perfect dead member.
+
+It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that the
+plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for performance on a stage,
+than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their
+distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so. There
+is so much in them, which comes not under the province of acting,
+with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to do.
+
+The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, and the turns of
+passion; and the more coarse and palpable the passion is, the more
+hold upon the eyes and ears of the spectators the performer obviously
+possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes, scenes where two persons
+talk themselves into a fit of fury, and then in a surprising manner
+talk themselves out of it again, have always been the most popular
+upon our stage. And the reason is plain, because the spectators are
+here most palpably appealed to, they are the proper judges in this
+war of words, they are the legitimate ring that should be formed
+round such "intellectual prize-fighters." Talking is the direct
+object of the imitation here. But in all the best dramas, and in
+Shakspeare above all, how obvious it is, that the form of _speaking_,
+whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and often a
+highly artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into
+possession of that knowledge of the inner structure and workings of
+mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have arrived at
+_in that form of composition_ by any gift short of intuition. We do
+here as we do with novels written in the _epistolary form_. How many
+improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do we put up with
+in Clarissa and other books, for the sake of the delight which that
+form upon the whole gives us!
+
+But the practice of stage-representation reduces everything to a
+controversy of elocution. Every character, from the boisterous
+blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of womanhood, must
+play the orator. The love dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, those
+silver-sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night! the more intimate
+and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an Othello or a
+Posthumus with their married wives, all those delicacies which are so
+delightful in the reading, as when we read of those youthful
+dalliances in Paradise--
+
+                                "As beseem'd
+  Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league,
+  Alone;"
+
+by the inherent fault of stage-representation, how are these things
+sullied and turned from their very nature by being exposed to a large
+assembly; when such speeches as Imogen addresses to her lord, come
+drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress, whose courtship, though
+nominally addressed to the personated Posthumus, is manifestly aimed
+at the spectators, who are to judge of her endearments and her
+returns of love!
+
+The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by which, since the days of
+Betterton, a succession of popular performers have had the greatest
+ambition to distinguish themselves. The length of the part may be one
+of their reasons. But for the character itself, we find it in a play,
+and therefore we judge it a fit subject of dramatic representation.
+The play itself abounds in maxims and reflections beyond any other,
+and therefore we consider it as a proper vehicle for conveying moral
+instruction. But Hamlet himself--what does he suffer meanwhile by
+being dragged forth as the public schoolmaster, to give lectures to
+the crowd! Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are
+transactions between himself and his moral sense; they are the
+effusions of his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and
+corners and the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth;
+or rather, they are the silent meditations with which his bosom is
+bursting, reduced to _words_ for the sake of the reader, who must
+else remain ignorant of what is passing there. These profound
+sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations, which the
+tongue scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how can they be
+represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes and mouths them out
+before an audience, making four hundred people his confidants at
+once! I say not that it is the fault of the actor so to do; he must
+pronounce them _ore rotundo_; he must accompany them with his eye; he
+must insinuate them into his auditory by some trick of eye, tone or
+gesture, or he fails. _He must be thinking all the while of his
+appearance, because he knows that all the while the spectators are
+judging of it_. And this is the way to represent the shy, negligent,
+retiring Hamlet!
+
+It is true that there is no other mode of conveying a vast quantity
+of thought and feeling to a great portion of the audience, who
+otherwise would never earn it for themselves by reading, and the
+intellectual acquisition gained this way may, for aught I know, be
+inestimable; but I am not arguing that Hamlet should not be acted,
+but how much Hamlet is made another thing by being acted. I have
+heard much of the wonders which Garrick performed in this part; but
+as I never saw him, I must have leave to doubt whether the
+representation of such a character came within the province of his
+art. Those who tell me of him, speak of his eye, of the magic of his
+eye, and of his commanding voice: physical properties, vastly
+desirable in an actor, and without which he can never insinuate
+meaning into an auditory,--but what have they to do with Hamlet; what
+have they to do with intellect? In fact, the things aimed at in
+theatrical representation, are to arrest the spectator's eye upon the
+form and the gesture, and so to gain a more favorable hearing to what
+is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how he looks; not
+what he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason to think that if
+the play of Hamlet were written over again by some such writer as
+Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the story, but totally
+omitting all the poetry of it, all the divine features of Shakspeare,
+his stupendous intellect; and only taking care to give us enough of
+passionate dialogue, which Banks or Lillo were never at a loss to
+furnish; I see not how the effect could be much different upon an
+audience, nor how the actor has it in his power to represent
+Shakspeare to us differently from his representation of Banks or
+Lillo. Hamlet would still be a youthful accomplished prince, and must
+be gracefully personated; he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering
+in his conduct, seemingly cruel to Ophelia; he might see a ghost, and
+start at it, and address it kindly when he found it to be his father;
+all this in the poorest and most homely language of the servilest
+creeper after nature that ever consulted the palate of an audience;
+without troubling Shakspeare for the matter: and I see not but there
+would be room for all the power which an actor has, to display
+itself. All the passions and changes of passion might remain: for
+those are much less difficult to write or act than is thought; it is
+a trick easy to be attained, it is but rising or falling a note or
+two in the voice, a whisper with a significant foreboding look to
+announce its approach, and so contagious the counterfeit appearance
+of any emotion is, that let the words be what they will, the look and
+tone shall carry it off, and make it pass for deep skill in the
+passions.
+
+It is common for people to talk of Shakspeare's plays being _so
+natural_; that everybody can understand him. They are natural indeed,
+they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth of them lies
+out of the reach of most of us. You shall hear the same persons say
+that George Barnwell is very natural, and Othello is very natural,
+that they are both very deep; and to them they are the same kind of
+thing. At the one they sit and shed tears, because a good sort of
+young man is tempted by a naughty woman to commit a _trifling
+peccadillo_, the murder of an uncle or so[1] that is all, and so
+comes to an untimely end, which is _so moving_; and at the other,
+because a blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white
+wife; and the odds are that ninety-nine out of a hundred would
+willingly behold the same catastrophe happen to both the heroes, and
+have thought the rope more due to Othello than to Barnwell. For of
+the texture of Othello's mind, the inward construction marvellously
+laid open with all its strengths and weaknesses, its heroic
+confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies of hate springing
+from the depths of love, they see no more than the spectators at a
+cheaper rate, who pay their pennies apiece to look through the man's
+telescope in Leicester-fields, see into the inward plot and
+topography of the moon. Some dim thing or other they see; they see an
+actor personating a passion, of grief, or anger, for instance, and
+they recognize it as a copy of the usual external effects of such
+passions; or at least as being true to _that symbol of the emotion
+which passes current at the theatre for it_, for it is often no more
+than that: but of the grounds of the passion, its correspondence to a
+great or heroic nature, which is the only worthy object of
+tragedy,--that common auditors know anything of this, or can have any
+such notions dinned into them by the mere strength of an actor's
+lungs,--that apprehensions foreign to them should be thus infused
+into them by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand how it can
+be possible.
+
+[Footnote 1: If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the
+Managers, I would entreat and beg of them, in the name of both the
+Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of the common people of
+London should cease to be eternally repeated in the holiday weeks.
+Why are the 'Prentices of this famous and well-governed city, instead
+of an amusement, to be treated over and over again with a nauseous
+sermon of George Barnwell? Why _at the end of their vistas_ are we to
+place the _gallows_?  Were I an uncle, I should not much like a
+nephew of mine to have such an example placed before his eyes. It is
+really making uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon
+such slight motives;--it is attributing too much to such characters
+as Millwood:--it is putting things into the heads of good young men,
+which they would never otherwise have dreamed of. Uncles that think
+anything of their lives, should fairly petition the Chamberlain
+against it.]
+
+We talk of Shakspeare's admirable observations of life, when we
+should feel, that not from a petty inquisition into those cheap and
+every-day characters which surrounded him, as they surround us, but
+from his own mind, which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben Jonson's, the
+very "sphere of humanity," he fetched those images of virtue and of
+knowledge, of which every one of us recognizing a part, think we
+comprehend in our natures the whole; and oftentimes mistake the
+powers which he positively creates in us, for nothing more than
+indigenous faculties of our own minds, which only waited the
+application of corresponding virtues in him to return a full and
+clear echo of the same.
+
+To return to Hamlet.--Among the distinguishing features of that
+wonderful character, one of the most interesting (yet painful) is
+that soreness of mind which makes him treat the intrusions of
+Polonius with harshness, and that asperity which he puts on in his
+interviews with Ophelia. These tokens of an unhinged mind (if they be
+not mixed in the latter case with a profound artifice of love, to
+alienate Ophelia by affected discourtesies, so to prepare her mind
+for the breaking off of that loving intercourse, which can no longer
+find a place amidst business so serious as that which he has to do)
+are parts of his character, which to reconcile with our admiration of
+Hamlet, the most patient consideration of his situation is no more
+than necessary; they are what we _forgive afterwards_, and explain by
+the whole of his character, but _at the time_ they are harsh and
+unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity of giving strong blows
+to the audience, that I have never seen a player in this character,
+who did not exaggerate and strain to the utmost these ambiguous
+features,--these temporary deformities in the character. They make
+him express a vulgar scorn at Polonius which utterly degrades his
+gentility, and which no explanation can render palatable; they make
+him show contempt, and curl up the nose at Ophelia's
+father,--contempt in its very grossest and most hateful form; but
+they get applause by it: it is natural, people say; that is, the
+words are scornful, and the actor expresses scorn, and that they can
+judge of: but why so much scorn, and of that sort, they never think
+of asking.
+
+So to Ophelia.--All the Hamlets that I have ever seen, rant and rave
+at her as if she had committed some great crime, and the audience are
+highly pleased, because the words of the part are satirical, and they
+are enforced by the strongest expression of satirical indignation of
+which the face and voice are capable. But then, whether Hamlet is
+likely to have put on such brutal appearances to a lady whom he loved
+so dearly, is never thought on. The truth is, that in all such deep
+affections as had subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is a
+stock of _supererogatory love_, (if I may venture to use the
+expression,) which in any great grief of heart, especially where that
+which preys upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers a kind of
+indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even to its
+heart's dearest object, in the language of a temporary alienation;
+but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and so it
+always makes itself to be felt by that object: it is not anger, but
+grief assuming the appearance of anger,--love awkwardly
+counterfeiting hate, as sweet countenances when they try to frown:
+but such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made to show, is
+no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute aversion,--of
+irreconcilable alienation. It may be said he puts on the madman; but
+then he should only so far put on this counterfeit lunacy as his own
+real distraction will give him leave; that is, incompletely,
+imperfectly; not in that confirmed, practised way, like a master of
+his art, or as Dame Quickly would say, "like one of those harlotry
+players."
+
+I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which
+Shakspeare's plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to
+differ from that which the audience receive from those of other
+writers; and, _they being in themselves essentially so different from
+all others_, I must conclude that there is something in the nature of
+acting which levels all distinctions. And, in fact, who does not
+speak indifferently of the Gamester and of Macbeth as fine
+stage-performances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley in the same way as
+the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S.? Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella,
+and Euphrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or
+than Desdemona? Are they not spoken of and remembered in the same
+way? Is not the female performer as great (as they call it) in one as
+in the other? Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of
+shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day
+produced,--the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys, and the
+Browns,--and shall he have that honor to dwell in our minds forever
+as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare? A kindred mind! O who
+can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare which alludes to his
+profession as a player:--
+
+  "Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
+  The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,
+  That did not better for my life provide
+  Than public means which public custom breeds--
+  Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
+  And almost thence my nature is subdued
+  To what it works in, like the dyer's hand."--
+
+Or that other confession:--
+
+  "Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
+  And made myself a motley to thy view,
+  Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear--"
+
+Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our
+sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him and one
+that, by every tradition of him, appears to have been as mere a
+player as ever existed; to have had his mind tainted with the lowest
+players' vices,--envy and jealousy, and miserable cravings after
+applause; one who in the exercise of his profession was jealous even
+of the women-performers that stood in his way; a manager full of
+managerial tricks and stratagems and finesse; that any resemblance
+should be dreamed of between him and Shakspeare,--Shakspeare, who, in
+the plenitude and consciousness of his own powers, could with that
+noble modesty, which we can neither imitate nor appreciate, express
+himself thus of his own sense of his own defects:--
+
+  "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+  Featured like him, like him with friends possest;
+  Desiring _this man's art, and that man's scope_."
+
+I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the merit of being an admirer
+of Shakspeare? A true lover of his excellences he certainly was not;
+for would any true lover of them have admitted into his matchless
+scenes such ribald trash as Tate and Cibber, and the rest of them,
+that
+
+  "With their darkness durst affront his light,"
+
+have foisted into the acting plays of Shakspeare? I believe it
+impossible that he could have had a proper reverence for Shakspeare,
+and have condescended to go through that interpolated scene in
+Richard the Third, in which Richard tries to break his wife's heart
+by telling her he loves another woman, and says, "if she survives
+this she is immortal." Yet I doubt not he delivered this vulgar stuff
+with as much anxiety of emphasis as any of the genuine parts: and for
+acting, it is as well calculated as any. But we have seen the part of
+Richard lately produce great fame to an actor by his manner of
+playing it; and it lets us into the secret of acting, and of popular
+judgments of Shakspeare derived from acting. Not one of the
+spectators who have witnessed Mr. C.'s exertions in that part, but
+has come away with a proper conviction that Richard is a very wicked
+man, and kills little children in their beds, with something like the
+pleasure which the giants and ogres in children's books are
+represented to have taken in that practice; moreover, that he is very
+close and shrewd, and devilish cunning, for you could see that by his
+eye.
+
+But is, in fact, this the impression we have in reading the Richard
+of Shakspeare? Do we feel anything like disgust, as we do at that
+butcherlike representation of him that passes for him on the stage? A
+horror at his crimes blends with the effect which we feel, but how is
+it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich intellect which he
+displays, his resources, his wit, his buoyant spirits, his vast
+knowledge and insight into characters, the poetry of his part,--not
+an atom of all which is made perceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting
+it. Nothing but his crimes, his actions, is visible; they are
+prominent and staring; the murderer stands out, but where is the
+lofty genius, the man of vast capacity,--the profound, the witty,
+accomplished Richard?
+
+The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare are so much the objects of
+meditation rather than of interest or curiosity as to their actions,
+that while we are reading any of his great criminal
+characters,--Macbeth, Richard, even Iago,--we think not so much of
+the crimes which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring
+spirit, the intellectual activity, which prompts them to overleap
+these moral fences. Barnwell is a wretched murderer; there is a
+certain fitness between his neck and the rope; he is the legitimate
+heir to the gallows; nobody who thinks at all can think of any
+alleviating circumstances in his case to make him a fit object of
+mercy. Or to take an instance from the higher tragedy, what else but
+a mere assassin is Glenalvon? Do we think of anything but of the
+crime which he commits, and the rack which he deserves? That is all
+which we really think about him. Whereas in corresponding characters
+in Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect us, that
+while the impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted greatness,
+solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, the crime is
+comparatively nothing. But when we see these things represented, the
+acts which they do are comparatively everything, their impulses
+nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which we are elevated by
+those images of night and horror which Macbeth is made to utter, that
+solemn prelude with which he entertains the time till the bell shall
+strike which is to call him to murder Duncan,--when we no longer read
+it in a book, when we have given up that vantage ground of
+abstraction which reading possesses over seeing, and come to see a
+man in his bodily shape before our eyes actually preparing to commit
+a murder, if the acting be true and impressive, as I have witnessed
+it in Mr. K.'s performance of that part, the painful anxiety about
+the act, the natural longing to prevent it while it yet seems
+unperpetrated, the too close pressing semblance of reality, give a
+pain and an uneasiness which totally destroy all the delight which
+the words in the book convey, where the deed doing never presses upon
+us with the painful sense of presence; it rather seems to belong to
+history,--to something past and inevitable, if it has anything to do
+with time at all. The sublime images, the poetry alone, is that which
+is present to our minds in the reading.
+
+So to see Lear acted,--to see an old man tottering about the stage
+with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy
+night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. We want
+to take him into shelter and relieve him. That is all the feeling
+which the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But the Lear of
+Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery by which they
+mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to
+represent the horrors of the real elements, than any actor can be to
+represent Lear; they might more easily propose to personate the Satan
+of Milton upon a stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures.
+The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in
+intellectual: the explosions of his passion are terrible as a
+volcano; they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that
+sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid
+bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be
+thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see
+nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage;
+while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear,--we are in his
+mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of
+daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a
+mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary
+purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it
+listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What
+have looks, or tones, to do with that sublime identification of his
+age with that of the _heavens themselves_, when, in his reproaches to
+them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them
+that "they themselves are old?" What gesture shall we appropriate to
+this? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things? But the
+play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show; it is too
+hard and stony; it must have love-scenes, and a happy ending. It is
+not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover
+too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for
+Garrick and his followers, the showmen of the scene, to draw the
+mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending!--as if the living
+martyrdom that Lear had gone through,--the flaying of his feelings
+alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only
+decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he
+could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and
+preparation,--why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? As
+if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again
+could tempt him to act over again his misused station,--as if, at his
+years and with his experience, anything was left but to die.
+
+Lear is essentially impossible to be represented on a stage. But how
+many dramatic personages are there in Shakspeare, which though more
+tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than Lear, yet from some
+circumstance, some adjunct to their character, are improper to be
+shown to our bodily eye! Othello, for instance. Nothing can be more
+soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts of our natures, than to
+read of a young Venetian lady of the highest extraction, through the
+force of love and from a sense of merit in him whom she loved, laying
+aside every consideration of kindred, and country, and color, and
+wedding with a _coal-black Moor_--(for such he is represented, in the
+imperfect state of knowledge respecting foreign countries in those
+days, compared with our own, or in compliance with popular notions,
+though the Moors are now well enough known to be by many shades less
+unworthy of a white woman's fancy)--it is the perfect triumph of
+virtue over accidents, of the imagination over the senses. She sees
+Othello's color in his mind. But upon the stage, when the imagination
+is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor
+unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that has seen Othello
+played, whether he did not, on the contrary, sink Othello's mind in
+his color; whether he did not find something extremely revolting in
+the courtship and wedded caresses of Othello and Desdemona; and
+whether the actual sight of the thing did not overweigh all that
+beautiful compromise which we make in reading;--and the reason it
+should do so is obvious, because there is just so much reality
+presented to our senses as to give a perception of disagreement, with
+not enough of belief in the internal motives,--all that which is
+unseen,--to overpower and reconcile the first and obvious
+prejudices.[1] What we see upon a stage is body and bodily action;
+what we are conscious of in reading is almost exclusively the mind,
+and its movements; and this I think may sufficiently account for the
+very different sort of delight with which the same play so often
+affects us in the reading and the seeing.
+
+[Footnote 1: The error of supposing that because Othello's color does
+not offend us in the reading, it should also not offend us in the
+seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an Adam and Eve in a
+picture shall affect us just as they do in the poem. But in the poem
+we for a while have Paradisiacal senses given us, which vanish when
+we see a man and his wife without clothes in the picture. The
+painters themselves feel this, as is apparent by the awkward shifts
+they have recourse to, to make them look not quite naked; by a sort
+of prophetic anachronism, antedating the invention of fig-leaves. So
+in the reading of the play, we see with Desdemona's eyes: in the
+seeing of it, we are forced to look with our own.]
+
+It requires little reflection to perceive, that if those characters
+in Shakspeare which are within the precincts of nature, have yet
+something in them which appeals too exclusively to the imagination,
+to admit of their being made objects to the senses without suffering
+a change and a diminution,--that still stronger the objection must
+lie against representing another line of characters, which Shakspeare
+has introduced to give a wildness and a supernatural elevation to his
+scenes, as if to remove them still farther from that assimilation to
+common life in which their excellence is vulgarly supposed to
+consist. When we read the incantations of those terrible beings the
+Witches in Macbeth, though some of the ingredients of their hellish
+composition savor of the grotesque, yet is the effect upon us other
+than the most serious and appalling that can be imagined? Do we not
+feel spellbound as Macbeth was? Can any mirth accompany a sense of
+their presence? We might as well laugh under a consciousness of the
+principle of Evil himself being truly and really present with us. But
+attempt to bring these things on to a stage, and you turn them
+instantly into so many old women, that men and children are to laugh
+at. Contrary to the old saying, that "seeing is believing," the sight
+actually destroys the faith; and the mirth in which we indulge at
+their expense, when we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be
+a sort of indemnification which we make to ourselves for the terror
+which they put us in when reading made them an object of
+belief,--when we surrendered up our reason to the poet, as children
+to their nurses and their elders; and we laugh at our fears, as
+children, who thought they saw something in the dark, triumph when
+the bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of their fears. For
+this exposure of supernatural agents upon a stage is truly bringing
+in a candle to expose their own delusiveness. It is the solitary
+taper and the book that generates a faith in these terrors: a ghost
+by chandelier light, and in good company, deceives no spectators,--a
+ghost that can be measured by the eye, and his human dimensions made
+out at leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and a well-dressed
+audience, shall arm the most nervous child against any apprehensions:
+as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of Achilles with his
+impenetrable armor over it, "Bully Dawson would have fought the devil
+with such advantages."
+
+Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile
+mixture which Dryden has thrown into the Tempest: doubtless, without
+some such vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age would never have
+sat out to hear so much innocence of love as is contained in the
+sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. But is the tempest of
+Shakspeare at all a subject for stage-representation? It is one thing
+to read of an enchanter, and to believe the wondrous tale while we
+are reading it; but to have a conjurer brought before us in his
+conjuring gown, with his spirits about him, which none but himself
+and some hundred of favored spectators before the curtain are
+supposed to see, involves such a quantity of the _hateful
+incredible_, that all our reverence for the author cannot hinder us
+from perceiving such gross attempts upon the senses to be in the
+highest degree childish and inefficient. Spirits and fairies cannot
+be represented, they cannot even be painted,--they can only be
+believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision of scenery, which
+the luxury of the age demands, in these cases works a quite contrary
+effect to what is intended. That which in comedy, or plays of
+familiar life, adds so much to the life of the imitation, in plays
+which appeal to the higher faculties positively destroys the illusion
+which it is introduced to aid. A parlor or a drawing-room,--a library
+opening into a garden--a garden with an alcove in it,--a street, or
+the piazza of Covent Garden, does well enough in a scene; we are
+content to give as much credit to it as it demands; or rather, we
+think little about it,--it is little more than reading at the top of
+a page, "Scene, a garden;" we do not imagine ourselves there, but we
+readily admit the imitation of familiar objects. But to think by the
+help of painted trees and caverns, which we know to be painted, to
+transport our minds to Prospero, and his island and his lonely
+cell;[1] or by the aid of a fiddle dexterously thrown in, in an
+interval of speaking, to make us believe that we hear those
+supernatural noises of which the isle was full: the Orrery Lecturer
+at the Haymarket might as well hope, by his musical glasses cleverly
+stationed out of sight behind his apparatus, to make us believe that
+we do indeed hear the crystal spheres ring out that chime, which if
+it were to enwrap our fancy long, Milton thinks,
+
+  "Time would run back and fetch the age of gold,
+  And speckled Vanity
+  Would sicken soon and die,
+  And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould;
+  Yea, Hell itself would pass away,
+  And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day."
+
+[Footnote 1: It will be said these things are done in pictures. But
+pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is a world of
+itself; but in scene-painting there is the attempt to deceive; and
+there is the discordancy never to be got over, between painted scenes
+and real people.]
+
+The garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, is not more
+impossible to be shown on a stage, than the Enchanted isle, with its
+no less interesting and innocent first settlers.
+
+The subject of Scenery is closely connected with that of the Dresses,
+which are so anxiously attended to on our stage. I remember the last
+time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I felt at the changes of
+garment which he varied, the shiftings and reshiftings, like a Romish
+priest at mass. The luxury of stage-improvements, and the importunity
+of the public eye, require this. The coronation robe of the Scottish
+monarch was fairly a counterpart to that which our King wears when he
+goes to the Parliament house, just so full and cumbersome, and set
+out with ermine and pearls. And if things must be represented, I see
+not what to find fault with in this. But in reading, what robe are we
+conscious of? Some dim images of royalty--a crown and sceptre may
+float before our eyes, but who shall describe the fashion of it? Do
+we see in our mind's eye what Webb or any other robe-maker could
+pattern? This is the inevitable consequence of imitating everything,
+to make all things natural. Whereas the reading of a tragedy is a
+fine abstraction. It presents to the fancy just so much of external
+appearances as to make us feel that we are among flesh and blood,
+while by far the greater and better part of our imagination is
+employed upon the thoughts and internal machinery of the character.
+But in acting, scenery, dress, the most contemptible things, call
+upon us to judge of their naturalness.
+
+Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken the pleasure which we
+take in seeing one of these fine plays acted, compared with that
+quiet delight which we find in the reading of it, to the different
+feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is not a reviewer,
+reads a fine poem. The accursed critical habit--the being called upon
+to judge and pronounce, must make it quite a different thing to the
+former. In seeing these plays acted, we are affected just as judges.
+When Hamlet compares the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second
+husband, who wants to see the pictures? But in the acting, a
+miniature must be lugged out; which we know not to be the picture,
+but only to show how finely a miniature may be represented. This
+showing of everything levels all things: it makes tricks, bows, and
+curtseys, of importance. Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything than
+by the manner in which she dismisses the guests in the banquet-scene
+in Macbeth: it is as much remembered as any of her thrilling tones or
+impressive looks. But does such a trifle as this enter into the
+imaginations of the readers of that wild and wonderful scene? Does
+not the mind dismiss the feasters as rapidly as it can? Does it care
+about the gracefulness of the doing it? But by acting, and judging of
+acting, all these non-essentials are raised into an importance,
+injurious to the main interest of the play.
+
+I have confined my observations to the tragic parts of Shakspeare. It
+would be no very difficult task to extend the inquiry to his
+comedies; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir Hugh Evans, and the
+rest, are equally incompatible with stage-representation. The length
+to which this Essay has run will make it, I am afraid, sufficiently
+distasteful to the Amateurs of the Theatre, without going any deeper
+into the subject at present.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS,
+CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEAKE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When I selected for publication, in 1808, "Specimens of English
+Dramatic Poets" who lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind of
+extracts which I was anxious to give were not so much passages of wit
+and humor, though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of
+passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting situations,
+serious descriptions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than
+to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. The plays which I
+made choice of were, with few exceptions, such as treat of human life
+and manners, rather than masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their
+train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate
+mortals--Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading
+design was to illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our
+ancestors. To show in what manner they felt when they placed
+themselves by the power of imagination in trying circumstances, in
+the conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending
+duties; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were; how their griefs
+were tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated: how much of
+Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how far in
+his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all mankind. I was
+also desirous to bring together some of the most admired scenes of
+Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of the world the only
+dramatic poets of that age entitled to be considered after
+Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same volume with the more
+impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford,
+and others, to show what we had slighted, while beyond all proportion
+we had been crying up one or two favorite names. From the desultory
+criticisms which accompanied that publication, I have selected a few
+which I thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least
+immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were
+suggested.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
+
+_Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen_.--This tragedy is in King
+Cambyses' vein; rape, and murder, and superlatives; "huffing braggart
+puft lines," such as the play-writers anterior to Shakspeare are full
+of, and Pistol but coldly imitates.
+
+_Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepherd_.--The lunes of
+Tamburlaine are perfect midsummer madness. Nebuchadnezzar's are mere
+modest pretensions compared with the thundering vaunts of this
+Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by conquered kings, and
+reproaches these _pampered jades of Asia_ that they can _draw but
+twenty miles a day_. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I
+never believed that it was anything more than a pleasant burlesque of
+mine Ancient's. But I can assure my readers that it is soberly set
+down in a play, which their ancestors took to be serious.
+
+_Edward the Second_.--In a very different style from mighty
+Tamburlaine is the Tragedy of Edward the Second. The reluctant pangs
+of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, which Shakspeare
+scarcely improved in his Richard the Second; and the death-scene of
+Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene ancient or
+modern with which I am acquainted.
+
+_The Rich Jew of Malta_.--Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to
+Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does to Richard the Second.
+Barabas is a mere monster brought in with a large painted nose to
+please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries,
+invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century
+or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners "by the
+royal command," when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews
+had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see
+a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious
+ancestors contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now
+revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails,
+and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it;
+it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronizes the arts, and
+is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in Christendom.
+
+_Doctor Faustus_.--The growing horrors of Faustus's last scene are
+awfully marked by the hours and half hours as they expire, and bring
+him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his dire compact. It is
+indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation. Marlowe is said to have
+been tainted with atheistical positions, to have denied God and the
+Trinity. To such a genius the history of Faustus must have been
+delectable food: to wander in fields where curiosity is forbidden to
+go, to approach the dark gulf, near enough to look in, to be busied
+in speculations which are the rottenest part of the core of the fruit
+that fell from the tree of knowledge.[1] Barabas the Jew, and Faustus
+the conjurer, are offsprings of a mind which at least delighted to
+dally with interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a
+believer would have been tender of putting into the mouth of a
+character though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have sometimes
+not thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of
+another, to bring Vice upon the stage speaking her own dialect; and,
+themselves being armed with an unction of self-confident impunity,
+have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly which would be
+death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan, has started
+speculations hardier than any which the feeble armory of the atheist
+ever furnished; and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has
+strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, with entangling
+sophistries and abstruse pleas against her adversary Virtue, which
+Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted depth of libertinism enough to
+have invented.
+
+[Footnote 1: Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor
+Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of knowledge itself,
+and from the rotten kernels of that fatal apple.--_Howell's
+Letters_.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS DECKER.
+
+_Old Fortunatus_.--The humor of a frantic lover in the scene where
+Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion with which
+himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court, is enamored to
+frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to the life. Orleans
+is as passionate an inamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. He
+is just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the
+world are with him,
+
+                  "A swarm of fools
+  Crowding together to be counted wise."
+
+He talks "pure Biron and Romeo;" he is almost as poetical as they,
+quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's
+sectaries are a reason unto themselves. We have gone retrograde to
+the noble heresy, since the days when Sidney proselyted our nation to
+this mixed health and disease: the kindliest symptom, yet the most
+alarming crisis, in the ticklish state of youth; the nourisher and
+the destroyer of hopeful wits; the mother of twin births, wisdom and
+folly, valor and weakness; the servitude above freedom; the gentle
+mind's religion; the liberal superstition.
+
+_The Honest Whore_.--There is in the second part of this play, where
+Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her
+profession, a simple picture of honor and shame, contrasted without
+violence, and expressed without immodesty; which is worth all the
+_strong lines_ against the harlot's profession, with which both parts
+of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be
+suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and
+minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective
+fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective,
+that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer
+against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his
+unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new
+province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the
+enormity of those appetites in other men. When Cervantes, with such
+proficiency of fondness dwells upon the Don's library, who sees not
+that he has been a great reader of books of knight-errantry--perhaps
+was at some time of his life in danger of falling into those very
+extravagances which he ridiculed so happily in his hero!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN MARSTON.
+
+_Antonio and Mellida_.--The situation of Andrugio and Lucio, in the
+first part of this tragedy,--where Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished
+his country, with the loss of a son supposed drowned, is cast upon
+the territory of his mortal enemy the Duke of Venice, with no
+attendants but Lucio, an old nobleman, and a page--resembles that of
+Lear and Kent, in that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear,
+manifests a king-like impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected
+resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, "Despair
+and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the forces which he
+brings to vanquish them, "cornets of horse," &c., are in the boldest
+style of allegory. They are such a "race of mourners" as the
+"infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect might beget on some
+"pregnant cloud" in the imagination. The prologue to the second part,
+for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of
+preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old
+tales of Thebes or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly
+commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his day, of
+"intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in
+without discretion corruptly to gratify the people." It is as solemn
+a preparative as the "warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse
+heard cry."
+
+_What You Will_.--_O I shall ne'er forget how he went cloath'd_. Act
+1. Scene 1.--To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we
+must advert to the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a
+phenomenon habited like the merchant here described would have
+excited among the flat round caps, and cloth stockings upon 'Change,
+when those "original arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were
+in fashion, not more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction
+and grace." The blank uniformity to which all professional
+distinctions in apparel have been long hastening is one instance of
+the decay of symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or
+not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less
+imaginative people. Shakespeare knew the force of signs: a "malignant
+and turbaned Turk." This "meal-cap miller," says the author of God's
+Revenge against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious
+outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair
+Marieta.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+AUTHOR UNKNOWN.
+
+_The Merry Devil of Edmonton_.--The scene in this delightful comedy,
+in which Jerningham, "with the true feeling of a zealous friend,"
+touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems written to make the reader
+happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to
+this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only
+in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler,
+than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How
+delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that
+Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds
+him! I wish it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for
+believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It
+would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my
+native Earth; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion, with the
+fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left
+a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stepped over, without honorable
+mention; and has animated hills and streams with life and passion
+beyond the dreams of old mythology.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS HEYWOOD.
+
+_A Woman Killed with Kindness_.--Heywood is a sort of _prose_
+Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But
+we miss _the poet_, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and
+above the surface of _the nature_. Heywood's characters, in this
+play, for instance, his country gentlemen, &c., are exactly what we
+see, but of the best kind of what we see in life. Shakspeare makes us
+believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are
+nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem
+old; but we awake, and sigh for the difference.
+
+_The English Traveller_.--Heywood's preface to this play is
+interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about the opinion of
+posterity, which some of these great writers seem to have felt. There
+is a magnanimity in authorship, as in everything else. His ambition
+seems to have been confined to the pleasure of hearing the players
+speak his lines while he lived. It does not appear that he ever
+contemplated the possibility of being read by after-ages. What a
+slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of
+such plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and
+the Woman Killed with Kindness! Posterity is bound to take care that
+a writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_A Fair Quarrel_.--The insipid levelling morality to which the modern
+stage is tied down, would not admit of such admirable passions as
+these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment,
+a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the
+vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which
+the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could
+discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of men, a
+beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the everlastingly
+inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is
+hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation-scene, be the occasion never
+so absurd, never fails of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre
+to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the
+amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful sympathy of
+disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic
+morality, out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble
+of copying it from originals within his own breast. To know the
+boundaries of honor, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance
+which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to
+esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to
+be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when
+that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering,
+to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which
+the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen
+an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done, in a feigned
+story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater
+delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to
+the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of
+honor as opposed to the laws of the land, or a commonplace against
+duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now-a-days in far
+better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious honor; and he
+would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old
+Rowley or Middleton, if they were living.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_A New Wonder; a Woman never Vext_.--The old play-writers are
+distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition,--they show
+everything without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune is to be
+exhibited, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the
+alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman; he may be
+known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our
+delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of distress at all. It is
+never shown in its essential properties; it appears but as the
+adjunct of some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from
+the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a
+certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the
+real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral
+duties; whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the
+relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral
+philosophy lose the name of a science.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS MIDDLETON.
+
+_The Witch_.--Though some resemblance may be traced between the
+charms in Macbeth and the incantations in this play, which is
+supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much
+from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are distinguished
+from the witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are
+creatures to whom man or woman, plotting some dire mischief, might
+resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood,
+and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first
+meet with Macbeth's, he is spellbound. That meeting sways his
+destiny. He can never break the fascination. These witches can hurt
+the body; those have power over the soul. Hecate in Middleton has a
+son, a low buffoon: the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of
+their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul
+anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether
+they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so
+they seem to be without human relations. They come with thunder and
+lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them.
+Except Hecate, they have no _names_; which heightens their
+mysteriousness. The names, and some of the properties which the other
+author has given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weďrd Sisters are
+serious things. Their presence cannot coexist with mirth. But in a
+lesser degree, the witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their
+power, too, is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars,
+jealousies, strifes, "like a thick scurf" over life.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WILLIAM ROWLEY,--THOMAS DECKER,--JOHN FORD, ETC.
+
+_The Witch of Edmonton_.--Mother Sawyer, in this wild play, differs
+from the hags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She is the plain,
+traditional old woman witch of our ancestors; poor, deformed, and
+ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That
+should he a hardy sheriff, with the power of the county at his heels,
+that would lay hands on the Weďrd Sisters. They are of another
+jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion, the author
+(or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something
+frightfully earnest in her invocations to the Familiar.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CYRIL TOURNEUR.
+
+_The Revenger's Tragedy_.--The reality and life of the dialogue, in
+which Vindici and Hippolito first tempt their mother, and then
+threaten her with death for consenting to the dishonor of their
+sister, passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but
+my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush overspread my cheeks, as if I
+were presently about to proclaim such malefactions of myself, as the
+brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent, in words more keen
+and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such
+power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to strike
+guilty creatures unto the soul, but to "appall" even those that are
+"free."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN WEBSTER.
+
+_The Duchess of Malfy_.--All the several parts of the dreadful
+apparatus with which the death of the Duchess is ushered in, the
+waxen images which counterfeit death, the wild masque of madmen, the
+tomb-maker, the bellman, the living person's dirge, the mortification
+by degrees,--are not more remote from the conceptions of ordinary
+vengeance, than the strange character of suffering which they seem to
+bring upon their victim is out of the imagination of ordinary poets.
+As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems
+not of this world. She has lived among horrors till she is become
+"native and endowed unto that element." She speaks the dialect of
+despair; her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale.
+To move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon
+fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it is
+ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its
+last forfeit: this only a Webster can do. Inferior geniuses may "upon
+horror's head horrors accumulate," but they cannot do this. They
+mistake quantity for quality; they "terrify babes with painted
+devils;" but they know not how a soul is to be moved. Their terrors
+want dignity, their affrightments are without decorum.
+
+_The White Devil_, _or Vittoria Corombona_.--This White Devil of
+Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and pleads with such an
+innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem to see that matchless
+beauty of her face which inspires such gay confidence into her, and
+are ready to expect, when she has done her pleadings, that her very
+judges, her accusers, the grave ambassadors who sit as spectators,
+and all the court, will rise and make proffer to defend her, in spite
+of the utmost conviction of her guilt; as the Shepherds in Don
+Quixote make proffer to follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela,
+"without making any profit of her manifest resolution made there in
+their hearing."
+
+  "So sweet and lovely does she make the shame,
+  Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
+  Does spot the beauty of her budding name!"
+
+I never saw anything like the funeral dirge in this play for the
+death of Marcello, except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his
+drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so
+this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling,
+which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.
+
+In a note on the Spanish Tragedy in the Specimens, I have said that
+there is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would
+authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the additions to
+Hieronymo. I suspected the agency of some more potent spirit. I
+thought that Webster might have furnished them. They seemed full of
+that wild, solemn, preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in
+the Duchess of Malfy. On second consideration, I think this a hasty
+criticism. They are more like the overflowing griefs and talking
+distraction of Titus Andronicus. The sorrows of the Duchess set
+inward; if she talks, it is little more than soliloquy imitating
+conversation in a kind of bravery.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN FORD.
+
+_The Broken Heart_.--I do not know where to find, in any play, a
+catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising, as in this. This
+is indeed, according to Milton, to describe high passions and high
+actions. The fortitude of the Spartan boy, who let a beast gnaw out
+his bowels till he died, without expressing a groan, is a faint
+bodily image of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exenteration of
+the inmost mind, which Calantha, with a holy violence against her
+nature, keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a wife and a
+queen are fulfilled. Stories of martyrdom are but of chains and the
+stake; a little bodily suffering. These torments
+
+  "On the purest spirits prey,
+  As on entrails, joints, and limbs,
+  With answerable pains, but more intense."
+
+What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths and in its
+weaknesses! Who would be less weak than Calantha? Who can be so
+strong? The expression of this transcendent scene almost bears us in
+imagination to Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to perceive some
+analogy between the scenical suffering which we are here
+contemplating and the real agonies of that final completion to which
+we dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the first order of
+poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in metaphors or
+visible images, but directly where she has her full residence, in the
+heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds.
+There is a grandeur of the soul, above mountains, seas, and the
+elements. Even in the poor perverted reason of Giovanni and
+Annabella, in the play[1] which stands at the head of the modern
+collection of the works of this author, we discern traces of that
+fiery particle, which, in the irregular starting from out the road of
+beaten action, discovers something of a right line even in obliquity,
+and shows hints of an improvable greatness in the lowest descents and
+degradations of our nature.
+
+[Footnote: "'Tis Pity she's a Whore."]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.
+
+_Alaham, Mustapha_.--The two tragedies of Lord Brooke, printed among
+his poems, might with more propriety have been termed political
+treatises than plays. Their author has strangely contrived to make
+passion, character, and interest, of the highest order, subservient
+to the expression of state dogmas and mysteries. He is in nine parts
+Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part Sophocles or Seneca. In this
+writer's estimate of the powers of the mind, the understanding must
+have held a most tyrannical preeminence. Whether we look into his
+plays or his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and
+made rigid with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart,
+the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially
+comprised in the actions and speeches of Cćlica and Camena.
+Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in contemplating
+womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images of female
+excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to love, has not
+raised the ideal of the female character higher than Lord Brooke, in
+these two women, has done. But it requires a study equivalent to the
+learning of a new language to understand their meaning when they
+speak. It is indeed hard to hit:
+
+  "Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day
+  Or seven though one should musing sit."
+
+It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to express
+the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all knowledge,
+but sympathetic expressions would be wanting.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BEN JONSON.
+
+_The Case is Altered_.--The passion for wealth has worn out much of
+its grossness in tract of time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of
+money as able to confer a distinct gratification in itself, not
+considered simply as a symbol of wealth. The old poets, when they
+introduce a miser, make him address his gold as his mistress; as
+something to be seen, felt, and hugged; as capable of satisfying two
+of the senses at least. The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying
+medium in the place of the good old tangible metal, has made avarice
+quite a Platonic affection in comparison with the seeing, touching,
+and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank-note can no
+more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than
+Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the Cave
+of Mammon in Spenser; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, in the
+Rich Jew of Malta; Luke's raptures in the City Madam; the idolatry
+and absolute gold-worship of the miser Jaques in this early comic
+production of Ben Jonson's. Above all, hear Guzman, in that excellent
+old translation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate on the "ruddy cheeks
+of your golden ruddocks, your Spanish pistolets, your plump and
+full-faced Portuguese, and your clear-skinned pieces-of-eight of
+Castile," which he and his fellows the beggars kept secret to
+themselves, and did privately enjoy in a plentiful manner. "For to
+have them to pay them away is not to enjoy them; to enjoy them is to
+have them lying by us; having no other need of them than to use them
+for the clearing of the eyesight, and the comforting of our senses.
+These we did carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our
+doublets near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could
+handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative."
+
+_Poetaster_.--This Roman play seems written to confute those enemies
+of Ben in his own days and ours, who have said that he made a
+pedantical use of his learning. He has here revived the whole Court
+of Augustus, by a learned spell. We are admitted to the society of
+the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Tibullus, converse in our
+own tongue more finely and poetically than they were used to express
+themselves in their native Latin. Nothing can be imagined more
+elegant, refined, and court-like, than the scenes between this Louis
+the Fourteenth of antiquity and his literati. The whole essence and
+secret of that kind of intercourse is contained therein. The
+economical liberality by which greatness, seeming to waive some part
+of its prerogative, takes care to lose none of the essentials; the
+prudential liberties of an inferior, which flatter by commanded
+boldness and soothe with complimentary sincerity;--these, and a
+thousand beautiful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's Revels,
+and from those numerous court-masques and entertainments, which he
+was in the daily habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show the
+poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old bard.
+
+_Alchemist_.--The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of
+images, words, and book-knowledge, with which Epicure Mammon (Act
+ii., Scene 2) confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come
+pouring out like the successive falls of Nilus. They "doubly redouble
+strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to
+believe effects before we have testimony for their causes. If there
+is no one image which attains the height of the sublime, yet the
+confluence and assemblage of them all produces a result equal to the
+grandest poetry. The huge Xerxean army countervails against single
+Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of its
+author. It has the whole "matter and copy of the father--eye, nose,
+lip, the trick of his frown." It is just such a swaggerer as
+contemporaries have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the
+Host of the New Inn, have all his image and superscription. But
+Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love
+for Love, is such another lying, overbearing character, but he does
+not come up to Epicure Mammon. What a "towering bravery" there is in
+his sensuality! he affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if
+"Egypt with Assyria strove in luxury."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GEORGE CHAPMAN.
+
+_Bussy D'Ambois_, _Byron's Conspiracy_, _Byron's Tragedy_, &c.
+&c.--Webster has happily characterized the "full and heightened
+style" of Chapman, who, of all the English play-writers, perhaps
+approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in
+passages which are less purely dramatic. He could not go out of
+himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate
+other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul
+to embrace all forms and modes of being. He would have made a great
+epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to be one;
+for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the stories of
+Achilles and Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and passion which he
+has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a
+reader of mere modern translations. His almost Greek zeal for the
+glory of his heroes can only be paralleled by that fierce spirit of
+Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the
+zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sat down to paint the
+acts of Samson against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle to
+Chapman's translations being read, is their unconquerable quaintness.
+He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural, and the
+most violent and crude expressions. He seems to grasp at whatever
+words come first to hand while the enthusiasm is upon him, as if all
+other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all
+in all in poetry) is everywhere present, raising the low, dignifying
+the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers
+glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved by
+words, or in spite of them, be disgusted, and overcome their disgust.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FRANCIS BEAUMONT.--JOHN FLETCHER.
+
+_Maid's Tragedy_.--One characteristic of the excellent old poets is,
+their being able to bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not
+seem susceptible of any. I will mention two instances. Zelmane in the
+Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of
+Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising, at first sight, than the
+idea of a young man disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing
+himself off for a woman among women; and that for a long space of
+time? Yet Sir Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, that
+neither does Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of
+Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished
+when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly-constituted mind
+of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought or unhandsome
+meditation could find a harbor. He turned all that he touched into
+images of honor and virtue. Helena in Shakspeare is a young woman
+seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary rules of courtship are
+reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. Yet with such exquisite
+address this dangerous subject is handled, that Helena's forwardness
+loses her no honor; delicacy dispenses with its laws in her favor,
+and nature, in her single case, seems content to suffer a sweet
+violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's Tragedy, is a character equally
+difficult with Helena, of being managed with grace. She too is a
+slighted woman, refused by the man who had once engaged to marry her.
+Yet it is artfully contrived, that while we pity we respect her, and
+she descends without degradation. Such wonders true poetry and
+passion can do, to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem
+capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with
+Helena; she does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but
+she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the
+female character, which Helena never does. Her character has many
+degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy; but it has weakness, which,
+if we do not despise, we are sorry for. After all, Beaumont and
+Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys.
+
+_Philaster_.--The character of Bellario must have been extremely
+popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's
+first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without one
+of these women-pages in it, following in the train of some
+pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his
+mistress), whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving
+rise to many pretty _equivoques_ by the way on the confusion of sex,
+and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or
+dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Donne
+has a copy of verses to his mistress, dissuading her from a
+resolution, which she seems to have taken up from some of these
+scenical representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so
+earnest, so weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos,
+that it deserves to be read as a solemn close in future to all such
+sickly fancies as he there deprecates.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN FLETCHER.
+
+_Thierry and Theodoret_.--The scene where Ordella offers her life a
+sacrifice, that the king of France may not be childless, I have
+always considered as the finest in all Fletcher, and Ordella to be
+the most perfect notion of the female heroic character, next to
+Calantha in the Broken Heart. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet,
+noble as the whole passage is, it must be confessed that the manner
+of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is faint and
+languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line revolves
+on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one
+another like a running-hand. Fletcher's ideas moved slow; his
+versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn; he
+lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to
+image so deliberately, that we see their junctures. Shakspeare
+mingles everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and
+metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched
+and clamorous for disclosure. Another striking difference between
+Fletcher and Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for unnatural
+and violent situations. He seems to have thought that nothing great
+could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in some of
+his most admired tragedies show this.[1] Shakspeare had nothing of
+this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after violent
+situations, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I
+think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. The wit of
+Fletcher is excellent,[2] like his serious scenes, but there is
+something strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustful of
+Nature, he always goes a little on one side of her.--Shakspeare chose
+her without a reserve: and had riches, power, understanding, and
+length of days, with her for a dowry.
+
+[Footnote 1: Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage, &c.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Wit without Money, and his comedies generally.]
+
+_Faithful Shepherdess_.--If all the parts of this delightful pastoral
+had been in unison with its many innocent scenes and sweet lyric
+intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to vie with Comus or the
+Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of boys and virgins, to have
+made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia and Lysander.
+But a spot is on the face of this Diana. Nothing short of infatuation
+could have driven Fletcher upon mixing with this "blessedness" such
+an ugly deformity as Chloe, the wanton shepherdess! If Chloe was
+meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that
+such weeds by juxtaposition do not set off, but kill sweet flowers.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PHILIP MASSINGER.--THOMAS DECKER.
+
+_The Virgin Martyr_.--This play has some beauties of so very high an
+order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had
+poetical enthusiasm capable of rising up to them. His associate
+Decker who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The
+very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of
+this play, like Satan among the Sons of Heaven, have a strength of
+contrast, a raciness, and a glow, in them, which are beyond
+Massinger. They are to the religion of the rest what Caliban is to
+Miranda.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PHILIP MASSINGER.--THOMAS MIDDLETON.--WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_Old Law_.--There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making
+one's eyes to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness
+in the circumstances of this sweet tragicomedy, which are unlike
+anything in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of
+a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in it, had both of
+them finer geniuses than their associate.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JAMES SHIRLEY
+
+Claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much for
+any transcendent talent in himself, as that he was the last of a
+great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set
+of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a
+new turn of tragic and comic interest, came in with the Restoration.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER,
+
+THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.
+
+
+The writings of Fuller are usually designated by the title of quaint,
+and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias to
+conceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it would have been
+going out of his way to have expressed himself out of them. But his
+wit is not always a _lumen siccum_, a dry faculty of surprising; on
+the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human
+feeling and passion. Above all, his way of telling a story, for its
+eager liveliness, and the perpetual running commentary of the
+narrator happily blended with the narration, is perhaps unequalled.
+
+As his works are now scarcely perused but by antiquaries, I thought
+it might not be unacceptable to my readers to present them with some
+specimens of his manner, in single thoughts and phrases; and in some
+few passages of greater length, chiefly of a narrative description. I
+shall arrange them as I casually find them in my book of extracts,
+without being solicitous to specify the particular work from which
+they are taken.
+
+_Pyramids_.--"The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have
+forgotten the names of their founders."
+
+_Virtue in a Short Person_.--"His soul had but a short diocese to
+visit, and therefore might the better attend the effectual informing
+thereof."
+
+_Intellect in a very Tall One_.--"Ofttimes such who are built four
+stories high, are observed to have little in their cockloft."
+
+_Naturals_.--"Their heads sometimes so little, that there is no room
+for wit; sometimes so long, that there is no wit for so much room."
+
+_Negroes_.--"The image of God cut in ebony."
+
+_School-Divinity_.--"At the first it will be as welcome to thee as a
+prison, and their very solutions will seem knots unto thee."
+
+_Mr. Perkins the Divine_.--"He had a capacious head, with angles
+winding and roomy enough to lodge all controversial intricacies."
+
+_The same_.--"He would pronounce the word _Damn_ with such an
+emphasis as left a doleful echo in his auditors' ears a good while
+after."
+
+_Judges in Capital Cases_.--"O let him take heed how he strikes that
+hath a dead hand."
+
+_Memory_.--"Philosophers place it in the rear of the head, and it
+seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig
+for it, scratching it when they are at a loss."
+
+_Fancy_.--"It is the most boundless and restless faculty of the soul;
+for while the Understanding and the Will are kept, as it were, _in
+libera custodia_ to their objects of _verum et bonum_, the Fancy is
+free from all engagements: it digs without spade, sails without ship,
+flies without wings, builds without charges, fights without
+bloodshed; in a moment striding from the centre to the circumference
+of the world; by a kind of omnipotency creating and annihilating
+things in an instant; and things divorced in Nature are married in
+Fancy as in a lawless place."
+
+_Infants_.--"Some, admiring what motives to mirth infants meet with
+in their silent and solitary smiles, have resolved, how truly I know
+not, that then they converse with angels; as indeed such cannot among
+mortals find any fitter companions."
+
+_Music_.--"Such is the sociableness of music, it conforms itself to
+all companies both in mirth and mourning; complying to improve that
+passion with which it finds the auditors most affected. In a word, it
+is an invention which might have beseemed a son of Seth to have been
+the father thereof: though better it was that Cain's great-grandchild
+should have the credit first to find it, than the world the
+unhappiness longer to have wanted it."
+
+_St. Monica_.--"Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts
+as harbingers to heaven, and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness
+through the chinks of her sickness-broken body."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
+  Lets in new lights through chinks which time has made."
+                                                 WALLER.]
+
+_Mortality_.--"To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the
+body, no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul."
+
+_Virgin_.--"No lordling husband shall at the same time command her
+presence and distance; to be always near in constant attendance, and
+always to stand aloof in awful observance."
+
+_Elder Brother_.--"Is one who made haste to come into the world to
+bring his parents the first news of male posterity, and is well
+rewarded for his tidings."
+
+_Bishop Fletcher_.--"His pride was rather on him than in him, as only
+gait and gesture deep, not sinking to his heart, though causelessly
+condemned for a proud man, as who was a _good hypocrite_, and far
+more humble than he appeared."
+
+_Masters of Colleges_.--"A little allay of dulness in a Master of a
+College makes him fitter to manage secular affairs."
+
+_The Good Yeoman_.--"Is a gentleman in ore, whom the next age may see
+refined."
+
+_Good Parent_.--"For his love, therein like a well-drawn picture, he
+eyes all his children alike."
+
+_Deformity in Children_.--"This partiality is tyranny, when parents
+despise those that are deformed; _enough to break those whom God had
+bowed before_."
+
+_Good Master_.--"In correcting his servant he becomes not a slave to
+his own passion. Not cruelly making new _indentures_ of the flesh of
+his apprentice. He is tender of his servant in sickness and age. If
+crippled in his service, his house is his hospital. Yet how many
+throw away those dry bones, out of the which themselves have sucked
+the marrow!"
+
+_Good Widow_.--"If she can speak but little good of him [her dead
+husband] she speaks but little of him. So handsomely folding up her
+discourse, that his virtues are shown outwards, and his vices wrapt
+up in silence; as counting it barbarism to throw dirt on his memory,
+who hath mould cast on his body."
+
+_Horses_.--"These are men's wings, wherewith they make such speed. A
+generous creature a horse is, sensible in some sort of honor; and
+made most handsome by that which deforms men most--pride."
+
+_Martyrdom_.--"Heart of oak hath sometimes warped a little in the
+scorching heat of persecution. Their want of true courage herein
+cannot be excused. Yet many censure them for surrendering up their
+forts after a long siege, who would have yielded up their own at the
+first summons.--Oh! there is more required to make one valiant, than
+to call Cranmer or Jewel coward; as if the fire in Smithfield had
+been no hotter than what is painted in the Book of Martyrs."
+
+_Text of St. Paul_.--"St. Paul saith, Let not the sun go down on your
+wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another world of thy
+revengeful nature. Yet let us take the Apostle's meaning rather than
+his words, with all possible speed to depose our passion; not
+understanding him so literally, that we may take leave to be angry
+till sunset: then might our wrath lengthen with the days; and men in
+Greenland, where the day lasts above a quarter of a year, have
+plentiful scope for revenge."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one
+would have thought of deducing,--setting up an absurdum on purpose to
+hunt it down,--placing guards as it were at the very outposts of
+possibility,--gravely giving out laws to insanity and prescribing
+moral fences to distempered intellects, could never have entered into
+a head less entertainingly constructed than that of Fuller or Sir
+Thomas Browne, the very air of whose style the conclusion of this
+passage most aptly imitates.]
+
+_Bishop Brownrig_.--"He carried learning enough _in numerato_ about
+him in his pockets for any discourse, and had much more at home in
+his chests for any serious dispute."
+
+_Modest Want_.--"Those that with diligence fight against poverty,
+though neither conquer till death makes it a drawn battle, expect not
+but prevent their craving of thee: for God forbid the heavens should
+never rain, till the earth first opens her mouth; seeing _some
+grounds will sooner burn than chap_."
+
+_Death-bed Temptations_.--"The devil is most busy on the last day of
+his term; and a tenant to be ousted cares not what mischief he doth."
+
+_Conversation_.--"Seeing we are civilized Englishmen, let us not be
+naked savages in our talk."
+
+_Wounded Soldier_.--"Halting is the stateliest march of a soldier;
+and 'tis a brave sight to see the flesh of an ancient as torn as his
+colors."
+
+_Wat Tyler_.--"A _misogrammatist_; if a good Greek word may be given
+to so barbarous a rebel."
+
+_Heralds_.--"Heralds new mould men's names--taking from them, adding
+to them, melting out all the liquid letters, torturing mutes to make
+them speak, and making vowels dumb,--to bring it to a fallacious
+_homonomy_ at the last, that their names may be the same with those
+noble houses they pretend to."
+
+_Antiquarian Diligence_.--"It is most worthy observation, with what
+diligence he [Camden] inquired after ancient places, making hue and
+cry after many a city which was run away, and by certain marks and
+tokens pursuing to find it; as by the situation on the Roman
+highways, by just distance from other ancient cities, by some
+affinity of name, by tradition of the inhabitants, by Roman coins
+digged up, and by some appearance of ruins. A broken urn is a whole
+evidence; or an old gate still surviving, out of which the city is
+run out. Besides, commonly some new spruce town not far off is grown
+out of the ashes thereof, which yet hath so much natural affection as
+dutifully to own those reverend ruins for her mother."
+
+_Henry de Essex_.--"He is too well known in our English Chronicles,
+being Baron of Raleigh, in Essex, and Hereditary Standard Bearer of
+England. It happened in the reign of this king [Henry II.] there was
+a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, at Coleshall, between the
+English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex _animum et signum
+simul abjecit_, betwixt traitor and coward, cast away both his
+courage and banner together, occasioning a great overthrow of
+English. But he that had the baseness to do, had the boldness to deny
+the doing of so foul a fact; until he was challenged in combat by
+Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him overcome
+in a duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was confiscated to the
+king, and he himself, _partly thrust, partly going into a convent,
+hid his head in a cowl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctity, he
+blushed out the remainder of his life_."[1]--_Worthies_, article
+_Bedfordshire_.
+
+[Footnote 1: The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might have
+been pronounced impossible. It has given an interest, and a holy
+character to coward infamy. Nothing can be more beautiful than the
+concluding account of the last days, and expiatory retirement, of
+poor Henry de Essex. The address with which the whole of this little
+story is told is most consummate; the charm of it seems to consist in
+a perpetual balance of antithesis not too violently opposed, and the
+consequent activity of mind in which the reader is kept:--"Betwixt
+traitor and coward"--"baseness to do, boldness to deny"--"partly
+thrust, partly going, into a convent"--"betwixt shame and sanctity."
+The reader by this artifice is taken into a kind of partnership with
+the writer,--his judgment is exercised in settling the
+preponderance,--he feels as if he were consulted as to the issue. But
+the modern historian flings at once the dead weight of his own
+judgment into the scale, and settles the matter.]
+
+_Sir Edward Harwood, Knt._--"I have read of a bird, which hath a face
+like, and yet will prey upon, a man: who coming to the water to
+drink, and finding there by reflection, that he had killed one like
+himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth
+itself.[1] Such is in some sort the condition of Sir Edward. This
+accident, that he had killed one in a private quarrel, put a period
+to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to his eyes all the days of
+his life. No possible provocations could afterwards tempt him to a
+duel; and no wonder that one's conscience loathed that whereof he had
+surfeited. He refused all challenges with more honor than others
+accepted them; it being well known that he would set his foot as far
+in the face of his enemy as any man alive."--_Worthies_, article
+_Lincolnshire_.
+
+[Footnote 1: I do not know where Fuller read of this bird; but a more
+awful and affecting story, and moralizing of a story, in Natural
+History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural History where poets and
+mythologists found the Phoenix and the Unicorn and "other strange
+fowl," is nowhere extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas Browne, if
+he had heard of it, would have exploded among his Vulgar Errors; but
+the delight which he would have taken in the discussing of its
+probabilities, would have shown that the _truth of the fact_, though
+the avowed object of his search was not so much the motive which put
+him upon the investigation, as those hidden affinities and poetical
+analogies,--those _essential verities_ in the application of strange
+fable, which made him linger with such reluctant delay among the last
+fading lights of popular tradition; and not seldom to conjure up a
+superstition, that had been long extinct, from its dusty grave, to
+inter it himself with greater ceremonies and solemnities of burial.]
+
+_Decayed Gentry_.--"It happened in the reign of King James, when
+Henry Earl of Huntingdon was Lieutenant of Leicestershire, that a
+laborer's son in that country was pressed into the wars; as I take
+it, to go over with Count Mansfield. The old man at Leicester
+requested his son might be discharged, as being the only staff of his
+age, who by his industry maintained him and his mother. The Earl
+demanded his name, which the man for a long time was loath to tell
+(as suspecting it a fault for so poor a man to confess the truth); at
+last he told his name was Hastings. 'Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl,
+'we cannot all be top branches of the tree, though we all spring from
+the same root; your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So good
+was the meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honorable
+person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to believe,
+that some who justly own the surnames and blood of Bohuns, Mortimers,
+and Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own extractions), are hid
+in the heap of common people, where they find that under a thatched
+cottage which some of their ancestors could not enjoy in a leaded
+castle--contentment, with quiet and security."--_Worthies_, article
+_Of Shire-Reeves or Shiriffes_.
+
+_Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman_.--"Thomas Curson, born in
+Allhallows, Lombard Street, armorer, dwelt without Bishopsgate. It
+happened that a stage-player borrowed a rusty musket, which had lain
+long leger in his shop: now though his part were comical, he
+therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, killing one of the
+standers-by, the gun casually going off on the stage, which he
+suspected not to be charged. O the difference of divers men in the
+tenderness of their consciences! some are scarce touched with a
+wound, whilst others are wounded with a touch therein. This poor
+armorer was highly afflicted therewith, though done against his will,
+yea, without his knowledge, in his absence, by another, out of mere
+chance. Hereupon he resolved to give all his estate to pious uses: no
+sooner had he gotten a round sum, but presently he posted with it in
+his apron to the Court of Aldermen, and was in pain till by their
+direction he had settled it for the relief of poor in his own and
+other parishes, and disposed of some hundreds of pounds accordingly,
+as I am credibly informed by the then churchwardens of the said
+parish. Thus, as he conceived himself casually (though at a great
+distance) to have occasioned the death of one, he was the immediate
+and direct cause of giving a comfortable living to many."
+
+_Burning of Wickliffe's Body by Order of the Council of
+Constance_.--"Hitherto [A.D. 1428] the corpse of John Wickliffe had
+quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years after his death,
+till his body was reduced to bones, and his bones almost to dust. For
+though the earth in the chancel of Lutterworth, in Leicestershire,
+where he was interred, hath not so quick a digestion with the earth
+of Aceldama, to consume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet such the
+appetite thereof, and all other English graves, to leave small
+reversions of a body after so many years. But now such the spleen of
+the Council of Constance, as they not only cursed his memory as dying
+an obstinate heretic, but ordered that his bones (with this
+charitable caution,--if it may be discerned from the bodies of other
+faithful people) be taken out of the ground, and thrown far off from
+any Christian burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard Fleming, Bishop
+of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his officers (vultures with
+a quick sight, scent, at a dead carcass) to ungrave him. Accordingly
+to Lutterworth they come, Sumner, Commissary, Official, Chancellor,
+Proctors, Doctors, and their servants, (so that the remnant of the
+body would not hold out a bone amongst so many hands,) take what was
+left out of the grave, and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into
+Swift, a neighboring brook, running hard by. _Thus this brook has
+conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the
+narrow seas, they into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of
+Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all
+the world over._"[1]--Church History.
+
+[Footnote 1: The concluding period of this most lively narrative I
+will not call a conceit: it is one of the grandest conceptions I ever
+met with. One feels the ashes of Wickliffe gliding away out of the
+reach of the Sumners, Commissaries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors, and
+all the puddering rout of executioners of the impotent rage of the
+baffled Council: from Swift into Avon, from Avon into Severn, from
+Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas into the main
+ocean, where they become the emblem of his doctrine, "dispersed all
+the world over." Hamlet's tracing the body of Cćsar to the clay that
+stops a beer-barrel is a no less curious pursuit of "ruined
+mortality;" but it is in an inverse ratio to this: it degrades and
+saddens us, for one part of our nature at least; but this expands the
+whole of our nature, and gives to the body a sort of ubiquity,--a
+diffusion as far as the actions of its partner can have reach or
+influence.
+
+I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a quaint conceit
+of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit to those who read it in a
+temper different from that in which the writer composed it? The most
+pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers seem and are nonsense, as
+divinity was to the Greeks foolishness. When Richard II., meditating
+on his own utter annihilation as to royalty, cries out,
+
+  "O that I were a mockery king of snow,
+  To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke,"
+
+if we had been going on pace for pace with the passion before, this
+sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor into something to be
+actually realized in nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh! that my head
+were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears," is strictly and
+strikingly natural; but come unprepared upon it, and it is a conceit:
+and so is a "head" turned into "waters."]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+
+GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH;
+
+WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE
+LATE MR. BARRY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the earliest and noblest enjoyments I had when a boy, was in
+the contemplation of those capital prints by Hogarth, the _Harlot's_
+and _Rake's Progresses_, which, along with some others, hung upon the
+walls of a great hall in an old-fashioned house in ----shire, and
+seemed the solitary tenants (with myself) of that antiquated and
+life-deserted apartment.
+
+Recollection of the manner in which those prints used to affect me
+has often made me wonder, when I have heard Hogarth described as a
+mere comic painter, as one of those whose chief ambition was to
+_raise a laugh_. To deny that there are throughout the prints which I
+have mentioned circumstances introduced of a laughable tendency,
+would be to run counter to the common notions of mankind; but to
+suppose that in their _ruling character_ they appeal chiefly to the
+risible faculty, and not first and foremost to the very heart of man,
+its best and most serious feelings, would be to mistake no less
+grossly their aim and purpose. A set of severer Satires (for they are
+not so much Comedies, which they have been likened to, as they are
+strong and masculine Satires) less mingled with anything of mere fun,
+were never written upon paper, or graven upon copper. They resemble
+Juvenal, or the satiric touches in Timon of Athens.
+
+I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who being asked which
+book he esteemed most in his library, answered,--"Shakspeare:" being
+asked which he esteemed next best, replied, "Hogarth." His graphic
+representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful,
+suggestive meaning of _words_. Other pictures we look at,--his prints
+we read.
+
+In pursuance of this parallel, I have sometimes entertained myself
+with comparing the _Timon of Athens_ of Shakespeare (which I have
+just mentioned) and Hogarth's _Rake's Progress_ together. The story,
+the moral, in both is nearly the same. The wild course of riot and
+extravagance, ending in the one with driving the Prodigal from the
+society of men into the solitude of the deserts, and in the other
+with conducting the Rake through his several stages of dissipation
+into the still more complete desolations of the mad-house, in the
+play and in the picture, are described with almost equal force and
+nature. The levee of the Rake, which forms the subject of the second
+plate in the series, is almost a transcript of Timon's levee in the
+opening scene of that play. We find a dedicating poet, and other
+similar characters, in both.
+
+The concluding scene in the _Rake's Progress_ is perhaps superior to
+the last scenes of _Timon_. If we seek for something of kindred
+excellence in poetry, it must be in the scenes of Lear's beginning
+madness, where the King and the Fool and the Tom-o'-Bedlam conspire
+to produce such a medley of mirth checked by misery, and misery
+rebuked by mirth; where the society of those "strange bedfellows"
+which misfortunes have brought Lear acquainted with, so finely sets
+forth the destitute state of the monarch; while the lunatic bans of
+the one, and the disjointed sayings and wild but pregnant allusions
+of the other, so wonderfully sympathize with that confusion, which
+they seem to assist in the production of, in the senses of that
+"child-changed father."
+
+In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates the _Rake's Progress_, we
+find the same assortment of the ludicrous with the terrible. Here is
+desperate madness, the overturning of originally strong thinking
+faculties, at which we shudder, as we contemplate the duration and
+pressure of affliction which it must have asked to destroy such a
+building;--and here is the gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of
+faculties, which at their best of times never having been strong, we
+look upon the consummation of their decay with no more of pity than
+is consistent with a smile. The mad tailor, the poor driveller that
+has gone out of his wits (and truly he appears to have had no great
+journey to go to get past their confines) for the love of _Charming
+Betty Careless_,--. these half-laughable, scarce-pitiable objects,
+take off from the horror which the principal figure would of itself
+raise, at the same time that they assist the feeling of the scene by
+contributing to the general notion of its subject:--
+
+  "Madness, thou chaos of the brain,
+  What art, that pleasure giv'st and pain?
+  Tyranny of Fancy's reign!
+  Mechanic Fancy, that can build
+  Vast labyrinths and mazes wild,
+  With rule disjointed, shapeless measure,
+  Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure!
+  Shapes of horror, that would even
+  Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven;
+  Shapes of pleasure, that but seen,
+  Would split the shaking sides of Spleen."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Lines inscribed under the plate]
+
+Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to excess to remark, that in
+the poor kneeling weeping female who accompanies her seducer in his
+sad decay, there is something analogous to Kent, or Caius, as he
+delights rather to be called, in _Lear_,--the noblest pattern of
+virtue which even Shakspeare has conceived,--who follows his royal
+master in banishment, that had pronounced _his_ banishment, and
+forgetful at once of his wrongs and dignities, taking on himself the
+disguise of a menial, retains his fidelity to the figure, his loyalty
+to the carcass, the shadow, the shell, and empty husk of Lear?
+
+In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, much of the impression
+which we receive depends upon the habit of mind which we bring with
+us to such perusal. The same circumstance may make one person laugh,
+which shall render another very serious; or in the same person the
+first impression may be corrected by after-thought. The misemployed
+incongruous characters at the _Harlot's Funeral_, on a superficial
+inspection, provoke to laughter; but when we have sacrificed the
+first emotion to levity, a very different frame of mind succeeds, or
+the painter has lost half his purpose. I never look at that wonderful
+assemblage of depraved beings, who, without a grain of reverence or
+pity in their perverted minds, are performing the sacred exteriors of
+duty to the relics of their departed partner in folly, but I am as
+much moved to sympathy from the very want of it in them, as I should
+be by the finest representation of a virtuous death-bed surrounded by
+real mourners, pious children, weeping friends,--perhaps more by the
+very contrast. What reflections does it not awake, of the dreadful
+heartless state in which the creature (a female too) must have lived,
+who in death wants the accompaniment of one genuine tear. That wretch
+who is removing the lid of the coffin to gaze upon the corpse with a
+face which indicates a perfect negation of all goodness or
+womanhood--the hypocrite parson and his demure partner--all the
+fiendish group--to a thoughtful mind present a moral emblem more
+affecting than if the poor friendless carcass had been depicted as
+thrown out to the woods, where wolves had assisted at its obsequies,
+itself furnishing forth its own funeral banquet.
+
+It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as are met together in this
+picture,--incongruous objects being of the very essence of
+laughter,--but surely the laugh is far different in its kind from
+that thoughtless species to which we are moved by mere farce and
+grotesque. We laugh when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the first sight
+of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his heart yearn with filial
+fondness towards the land of his progenitors, which he is coming to
+fleece and plunder,--we smile at the exquisite irony of the
+passage,--but if we are not led on by such passages to some more
+salutary feeling than laughter, we are very negligent perusers of
+them in book or picture.
+
+It is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical School
+in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds is placed,
+to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of an inferior and
+vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to confound the painting of
+subjects in common or vulgar life with the being a vulgar artist. The
+quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would
+alone _unvulgarize_ every subject which he might choose. Let us take
+the lowest of his subjects, the print called _Gin Lane_. Here is
+plenty of poverty, and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view;
+and accordingly a cold spectator feels himself immediately disgusted
+and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it, not being able to
+bear it. The same persons would perhaps have looked with great
+complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture of the _Plague at
+Athens_[1] Disease and Death and bewildering Terror, in _Athenian
+garments_, are endurable, and come, as the delicate critics express
+it, within the "limits of pleasurable sensation." But the scenes of
+their own St. Giles's, delineated by their own countryman, are too
+shocking to think of. Yet if we could abstract our minds from the
+fascinating colors of the picture, and forget the coarse execution
+(in some respects) of the print, intended as it was to be a cheap
+plate, accessible to the poorer sort of people, for whose instruction
+it was done, I think we could have no hesitation in conferring the
+palm of superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with
+Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it--that power
+which draws all things to one,--which makes things animate and
+inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects, and their
+accessories, take one color and serve to one effect. Everything in
+the print, to use a vulgar expression, _tells_. Every part is full of
+"strange images of death." It is perfectly amazing and astounding to
+look at. Not only the two prominent figures, the woman and the
+half-dead man, which are as terrible as anything which Michael Angelo
+ever drew, but everything else in the print, contributes to bewilder
+and stupefy,--the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine express
+it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem drunk--seem
+absolutely reeling from the effect of that diabolical spirit of
+frenzy which goes forth over the whole composition. To show the
+poetical and almost prophetical conception in the artist, one little
+circumstance may serve. Not content with the dying and dead figures,
+which he has strewed in profusion over the proper scene of the
+action, he shows you what (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it.
+Close by the shell, in which, by direction of the parish beadle, a
+man is depositing his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the
+universal decay around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in
+this wall are seen three figures, which appear to make a part in some
+funeral procession which is passing by on the other side of the wall,
+out of the sphere of the composition. This extending of the interest
+beyond the bounds of the subject could only have been conceived by a
+great genius. Shakspeare, in his description of the painting of the
+Trojan War, in his _Tarquin and Lucrece_, has introduced a similar
+device, where the painter made a part stand for the whole:--
+
+  "For much imaginary work was there,
+  Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
+  That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
+  Grip'd in an armed hand; himself behind
+  Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
+  A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
+  Stood for the whole to be imagined."
+
+[Footnote 1: At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish Square]
+
+This he well calls _imaginary work_, where the spectator must meet
+the artist in his conceptions half way; and it is peculiar to the
+confidence of high genius alone to trust so much to spectators or
+readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct and full, as they
+require an object to be made out to themselves before they can
+comprehend it.
+
+When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate to
+say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of system
+alone, and of that rage for classification, by which, in matters of
+taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing, instead of arranging,
+our ideas, that would make us concede to the work of Poussin above
+mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name of a grand serious
+composition.
+
+We are forever deceiving ourselves with names and theories. We call
+one man a great historical painter, because he has taken for his
+subjects kings or great men, or transactions over which time has
+thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of common life, and
+set him down in our minds for an artist of an inferior class, without
+reflecting whether the quantity of thought shown by the latter may
+not much more than level the distinction which their mere choice of
+subjects may seem to place between them; or whether, in fact, from
+that very common life a great artist may not extract as deep an
+interest as another man from that which we are pleased to call
+history.
+
+I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of
+Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow and
+stifle the merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to mere names
+and classifications we should be content to sacrifice one of the
+greatest ornaments of England.
+
+I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether in the
+countenances of his _Staring_ and _Grinning Despair_, which he has
+given us for the faces of Ugolino and dying Beaufort, there be
+anything comparable to the expression which Hogarth has put into the
+face of his broken-down rake in the last plate but one of the _Rake's
+Progress_,[1] where a letter from the manager is brought to him to
+say that his play "will not do?" Here all is easy, natural,
+undistorted, but withal what a mass of woe is here accumulated!--the
+long history of a misspent life is compressed into the countenance as
+plainly as the series of plates before had told it; here is no
+attempt at Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze the beholder--no
+grinning at the antique bedposts--no face-making, or consciousness of
+the presence of spectators in or out of the picture, but grief kept
+to a man's self, a face retiring from notice with the shame which
+great anguish sometimes brings with it,--a final leave taken of
+hope,--the coming on of vacancy and stupefaction,--a beginning
+alienation of mind looking like tranquillity. Here is matter for the
+mind of the beholder to feed on for the hour together,--matter to
+feed and fertilize the mind. It is too real to admit one thought
+about the power of the artist who did it. When we compare the
+expression in subjects which so fairly admit of comparison, and find
+the superiority so clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the mere
+contemptible difference of the scene of it being laid, in the one
+case, in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and, in the other, in the
+State Prison of Pisa, or the bedroom of a cardinal,--or that the
+subject of the one has never been authenticated, and the other is
+matter of history,--so weigh down the real points, of the comparison,
+as to induce us to rank the artist who has chosen the one scene or
+subject (though confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the
+soul of his art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius
+(who has happened to make choice of the other) with something like
+disgrace?[2]
+
+[Footnote 1: The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious
+expression.  That which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded
+morning countenance of the debauchee in the second plate of the
+_Marriage Alamode_, which lectures on the vanity of pleasure as
+audibly as anything in Ecclesiastes.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his Lectures, speaks
+of the _presumption_ of Hogarth in attempting the grand style in
+painting, by which he means his choice of certain Scripture subjects.
+Hogarth's excursions into Holy Land were not very numerous, but what
+he has left us in this kind have at least this merit, that they have
+expression of _some sort or other_ in them,--the _Child Moses before
+Pharaoh's Daughter_, for instance: which is more than can be said of
+Sir Joshua Reynolds's _Repose in Egypt_, painted for Macklin's Bible,
+where for a Madonna he has substituted a sleepy, insensible,
+unmotherly girl, one so little worthy to have been selected as the
+Mother of the Saviour, that she seems to have neither heart nor
+feeling to entitle her to become a mother at all. But indeed the race
+of Virgin Mary painters seems to have been cut up, root and branch,
+at the Reformation. Our artists are too good Protestants to give life
+to that admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with reverential
+awe and wonder approaching to worship, with which the Virgin Mothers
+of L. da Vinci and Raphael (themselves by their divine countenances
+inviting men to worship) contemplate the union of the two natures in
+the person of their Heaven-born Infant.]
+
+_The Boys under Demoniacal Possession_ of Raphael and Domenichino, by
+what law of classification are we bound to assign them to belong to
+the great style in painting, and to degrade into an inferior class
+the Rake of Hogarth when he is the Madman in the Bedlam scene? I am
+sure he is far more impressive than either. It is a face which no one
+that has seen can easily forget. There is the stretch of human
+suffering to the utmost endurance, severe bodily pain brought on by
+strong mental agony, the frightful, obstinate laugh of madness,--yet
+all so unforced and natural, that those who never were witness to
+madness in real life, think they see nothing but what is familiar to
+them in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, nothing but the
+natural face of agony. This is high tragic painting, and we might as
+well deny to Shakspeare the honors of a great tragedian, because he
+has interwoven scenes of mirth with the serious business of his
+plays, as refuse to Hogarth the same praise for the two concluding
+scenes of the _Rake's Progress_, because of the Comic Lunatics[1]
+which he has thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he has
+introduced in the other, who is paddling in the coals of his furnace,
+keeping alive the flames of vain hope within the very walls of the
+prison to which the vanity has conducted him, which have taught the
+darker lesson of extinguished hope to the desponding figure who is
+the principal person of the scene.
+
+[Footnote 1:
+  "There are of madmen, as there are of tame,
+  All humor'd not alike. We have here some
+  So apish and fantastic, play with a feather;
+  And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image
+  So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act
+  Such antick and such pretty lunacies,
+  That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile.
+  Others again we have, like angry lions,
+  Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies."
+                                  _Honest Whore_.]
+
+It is the force of these kindly admixtures which assimilates the
+scenes of Hogarth and of Shakspeare to the drama of real life, where
+no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found; but merriment and
+infelicity, ponderous crime and feather-light vanity, like twiformed
+births, disagreeing complexions of one intertexture, perpetually
+unite to show forth motley spectacles to the world. Then it is that
+the poet or painter shows his art, when in the selection of these
+comic adjuncts he chooses such circumstances as shall relieve,
+contrast with, or fall into, without forming a violent opposition to
+his principal object. Who sees not that the Grave-digger in _Hamlet_,
+the Fool in _Lear_, have a kind of correspondency to, and fall in
+with, the subjects which they seem to interrupt: while the comic
+stuff in _Venice Preserved_, and the doggerel nonsense of the Cook
+and his poisoning associates in the _Rollo_ of Beaumont and Fletcher,
+are pure, irrelevant, impertinent discords,--as bad as the
+quarrelling dog and cat under the table of the _Lord and the
+Disciples at Emmaus_ of Titian?
+
+Not to tire the reader with perpetual reference to prints which he
+may not be fortunate enough to possess, it may be sufficient to
+remark, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident, blended
+in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy, characterizes his
+other great work, the _Marriage Alamode_, as well as those less
+elaborate exertions of his genius, the prints called _Industry_ and
+_Idleness_, _the Distrest Poet_, &c., forming, with the _Harlot's_
+and _Rake's Progresses_, the most considerable, if not the largest
+class of his productions,--enough surely to rescue Hogarth from the
+imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose general aim was only
+to _shake the sides_.
+
+There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the object
+of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in all of
+them will be found something to distinguish them from the droll
+productions of Bunbury and others. They have this difference, that we
+do not merely laugh at, we are led into long trains of reflection by
+them. In this respect they resemble the characters of Chaucer's
+_Pilgrims_, which have strokes of humor in them enough to designate
+them for the most part as comic, but our strongest feeling still is
+wonder at the comprehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet
+and painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet
+cooperating materials.
+
+The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in
+caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes
+catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their whimsicality,
+wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them down; and forget them
+again as rapidly,--but they are permanent abiding ideas. Not the
+sports of nature, but her necessary eternal classes. We feel that we
+cannot part with any of them, lest a link should be broken.
+
+It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or
+insignificant countenance.[1] Hogarth's mind was eminently
+reflective; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that he
+has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of his
+drama (they are all more or less _poets_) Hogarth has impressed a
+_thinking character_ upon the persons of his canvas. This remark must
+not be taken universally. The exquisite idiotism of the little
+gentleman in the bag and sword beating his drum in the print of the
+_Enraged Musician_, would of itself rise up against so sweeping an
+assertion. But I think it will be found to be true of the generality
+of his countenances. The knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the
+plate just mentioned, may serve as instances instead of a thousand.
+They have intense thinking faces, though the purpose to which they
+are subservient by no means required it; but indeed it seems as if it
+was painful to Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or insignificance.
+
+[Footnote 1: If there are any of that description, they are in his
+_Strolling Players_, a print which has been cried up by Lord Orford
+as the richest of his productions, and it may be, for what I know, in
+the mere lumber, the properties, and dead furniture of the scene, but
+in living character and expression it is (for Hogarth) lamentably
+poor and wanting; it is perhaps the only one of his performances at
+which we have a right to feel disgusted.]
+
+This reflection of the artist's own intellect from the faces of his
+characters, is one reason why the works of Hogarth, so much more than
+those of any other artist, are objects of meditation. Our
+intellectual natures love the mirror which gives them back their own
+likenesses. The mental eye will not bend long with delight upon
+vacancy.
+
+Another line of eternal separation between Hogarth and the common
+painters of droll or burlesque subjects, with whom he is often
+confounded, is the sense of beauty, which in the most unpromising
+subjects seems never wholly to have deserted him. "Hogarth himself,"
+says Mr. Coleridge,[1] from whom I have borrowed this observation,
+speaking of a scene which took place at Ratzeburg, "never drew a more
+ludicrous distortion, both of attitude and physiognomy, than this
+effect occasioned: nor was there wanting beside it one of those
+beautiful female faces which the same Hogarth, _in whom the satirist
+never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a
+poet_, so often and so gladly introduces as the central figure in a
+crowd of humorous deformities, which figure (such is the power of
+true genius) neither acts nor is meant to act as a contrast; but
+diffuses through all and over each of the group a spirit of
+reconciliation and human kindness; and even when the attention is no
+longer consciously directed to the cause of this feeling, still
+blends its tenderness with our laughter: and _thus prevents the
+instructive merriment at the whims of nature, or the foibles or
+humors of our fellow-men, from degenerating into the heart-poison of
+contempt or hatred_." To the beautiful females in Hogarth, which Mr.
+C. has pointed out, might be added, the frequent introduction of
+children (which Hogarth seems to have taken a particular delight in)
+into his pieces. They have a singular effect in giving tranquillity
+and a portion of their own innocence to the subject. The baby riding
+in its mother's lap in the _March to Finchley_, (its careless
+innocent face placed directly behind the intriguing time-furrowed
+countenance of the treason-plotting French priest,) perfectly sobers
+the whole of that tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding up his
+top with so much unpretending insensibility in the plate of the
+_Harlot's Funeral_, (the only thing in that assembly that is not a
+hypocrite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has been disturbed at the
+sight of so much depraved man and woman kind.
+
+[Footnote 1: _The Friend_, No. XVI.]
+
+I had written thus far, when I met with a passage in the writings of
+the late Mr. Barry, which, as it falls in with the _vulgar notion_
+respecting Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed in combating,
+I shall take the liberty to transcribe, with such remarks as may
+suggest themselves to me in the transcription; referring the reader
+for a full answer to that which has gone before.
+
+
+    "Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undoubtedly entitle him
+    to an honorable place among the artists, and that his little
+    compositions, considered as so many dramatic representations,
+    abounding with humor, character, and extensive observations on
+    the various incidents of low, faulty, and vicious life, are
+    very ingeniously brought together, and frequently tell their
+    own story with more facility than is often found in many of
+    the elevated and more noble inventions of Raphael and other
+    great men; yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is
+    called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly
+    observed, that Hogarth is often so raw and unformed, as hardly
+    to deserve the name of an artist. But this capital defect is
+    not often perceivable, as examples of the naked and of
+    elevated nature but rarely occur in his subjects, which are
+    for the most part filled with characters that in their nature
+    tend to deformity; besides his figures are small, and the
+    jonctures, and other difficulties of drawing that might occur
+    in their limbs, are artfully concealed with their clothes,
+    rags, &c. But what would atone for all his defects, even if
+    they were twice told, is his admirable fund of invention, ever
+    inexhaustible in its resources; and his satire, which is
+    always sharp and pertinent, and often highly moral, was
+    (except in a few instances, where he weakly and meanly
+    suffered his integrity to give way to his envy) seldom or
+    never employed in a dishonest or unmanly way. Hogarth has been
+    often imitated in his satirical vein, sometimes in his
+    humorous: but very few have attempted to rival him in his
+    moral walk. The line of art pursued by my very ingenious
+    predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny, is quite
+    distinct from that of Hogarth, and is of a much more delicate
+    and superior relish; he attempts the heart, and reaches it,
+    whilst Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the sides; in
+    other respects no comparison can be thought of, as Mr. Penny
+    has all that knowledge of the figure and academical skill
+    which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had so happily
+    succeeded in the vein of humor and caricatura, he has for some
+    time past altogether relinquished it, for the more amiable
+    pursuit of beautiful nature: this, indeed, is not to be
+    wondered at, when we recollect that he has, in Mrs. Bunbury,
+    so admirable an exemplar of the most finished grace and beauty
+    continually at his elbow. But (to say all that occurs to me on
+    this subject) perhaps it may be reasonably doubted, whether
+    the being much conversant with Hogarth's method of exposing
+    meanness, deformity, and vice, in many of his works, is not
+    rather a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit; which,
+    if it does not find a false relish and a love of and search
+    after satire and buffoonery in the spectator, is at least not
+    unlikely to give him one. Life is short; and the little
+    leisure of it is much better laid out upon that species of art
+    which is employed about the amiable and the admirable, as it
+    is more likely to be attended with better and nobler
+    consequences to ourselves. These two pursuits in art may be
+    compared with two sets of people with whom we might associate;
+    if we give ourselves up to the Footes, the Kenricks, &c. we
+    shall be continually busied and paddling in whatever is
+    ridiculous, faulty, and vicious in life; whereas there are
+    those to be found with whom we should be in the constant
+    pursuit and study of all that gives a value and a dignity to
+    human nature." [Account of a Series of Pictures in the Great
+    Boom of the Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at
+    the Adelphi, by James Barry, R.A., Professor of Painting to
+    the Royal Academy, reprinted in the last quarto edition of his
+    works.]
+
+    "----It must be honestly confessed, that in what is called
+    knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed," &c.
+
+
+It is a secret well known to the professors of the art and mystery of
+criticism, to insist upon what they do not find in a man's works, and
+to pass over in silence what they do. That Hogarth did not draw the
+naked figure so well as Michael Angelo might be allowed, especially
+as "examples of the naked," as Mr. Barry acknowledges, "rarely (he
+might almost have said never) occur in his subjects;" and that his
+figures under their draperies do not discover all the fine graces of
+an Antinoüs or an Apollo, may be conceded likewise; perhaps it was
+more suitable to his purpose to represent the average forms of
+mankind in the mediocrity (as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in
+which he lived: but that his figures in general, and in his best
+subjects, are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare
+trust my own eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And there is
+one part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled,
+which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps
+calculating from its proportion to the whole (a seventh or an eighth,
+I forget which,) deemed it of trifling importance; I mean the human
+face; a small part, reckoning by geographical inches, in the map of
+man's body, but here it is that the painter of expression must
+condense the wonders of his skill, even at the expense of neglecting
+the "jonctures and other difficulties of drawing in the limbs," which
+it must be a cold eye that, in the interest so strongly demanded by
+Hogarth's countenances, has leisure to survey and censure.
+
+"The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and brother
+Academician, Mr. Penny."
+
+The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an
+eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser of
+Hogarth in the "delicacy of his relish," and the "line which he
+pursued," where is he, what are his works, what has he to show? In
+vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the question to a
+friend who is more conversant in the works of the illustrious obscure
+than myself, I learnt that he was the painter of a _Death of Wolfe_
+which missed the prize the year that the celebrated picture of West
+on the same subject obtained it; that he also made a picture of the
+_Marquis of Granby relieving a Sick Soldier_; moreover, that he was
+the inventor of two pictures of _Suspended and Restored Animation_,
+which I now remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since,
+and the prints from which are still extant in good men's houses.
+This, then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was
+so much superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of that opinion. The
+relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young man to
+his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane Society,
+are doubtless very amiable subjects, pretty things to teach the first
+rudiments of humanity; they amount to about as much instruction as
+the stories of good boys that give away their custards to poor
+beggar-boys in children's books. But, good God! is this _milk for
+babes_ to be set up in opposition to Hogarth's moral scenes, his
+_strong meat for men_? As well might we prefer the fulsome verses
+upon their own goodness to which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund
+annually sit still with such shameless patience to listen, to the
+satires of Juvenal and Persius; because the former are full of tender
+images of Worth relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her
+hand to rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's
+crimes and follies with their black consequences--forgetful meanwhile
+of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime heart-touches, which
+these poets (in _them_ chiefly showing themselves poets) are
+perpetually darting across the otherwise appalling gloom of their
+subject--consolatory remembrancers, when their pictures of guilty
+mankind have made us even to despair for our species, that there is
+such a thing as virtue and moral dignity in the world, that her
+unquenchable spark is not utterly out--refreshing admonitions, to
+which we turn for shelter from the too great heat and asperity of the
+general satire.
+
+And is there nothing analogous to this in Hogarth? nothing which
+"attempts and reaches the heart?"--no aim beyond that of "shaking the
+sides?"--If the kneeling ministering female in the last scene of the
+_Rake's Progress_, the Bedlam scene, of which I have spoken before,
+and have dared almost to parallel it with the most absolute idea of
+Virtue which Shakspeare has left us, be not enough to disprove the
+assertion; if the sad endings of the Harlot and the Rake, the
+passionate heart-bleeding entreaties for forgiveness which the
+adulterous wife is pouring forth to her assassinated and dying lord
+in the last scene but one of the _Marriage Alamode_,--if these be not
+things to touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a meditative
+tenderness: is there nothing sweetly conciliatory in the mild patient
+face and gesture with which the wife seems to allay and ventilate the
+feverish irritated feelings of her poor poverty-distracted mate (the
+true copy of the _genus irritabile_), in the print of the _Distrest
+Poet_? or if an image of maternal love be required, where shall we
+find a sublimer view of it than in that aged woman in _Industry and
+Idleness_ (plate V.) who is clinging with the fondness of hope not
+quite extinguished to her brutal vice-hardened child, whom she is
+accompanying to the ship which is to bear him away from his native
+soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy: in whose shocking face
+every trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, and a brute
+beast's to be left instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her who
+watched over it in its cradle before it was so sadly altered, and
+feels it must belong to her while a pulse by the vindictive laws of
+his country shall be suffered to continue to beat in it. Compared
+with such things, what is Mr. Penny's "knowledge of the figure and
+academical skill which Hogarth wanted?"
+
+With respect to what follows concerning another gentleman, with the
+congratulations to him on his escape out of the regions of "humor and
+caricatura," in which it appears he was in danger of travelling side
+by side with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my country, that Mrs.
+Hogarth knew _her_ province better than, by disturbing her husband at
+his palette, to divert him from that universality of subject, which
+has stamped him perhaps, next to Shakspeare, the most inventive
+genius which this island has produced, into the "amiable pursuit of
+beautiful nature," _i.e._, copying ad infinitum the individual charms
+and graces of Mrs. H. "Hogarth's method of exposing meanness,
+deformity, and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and
+vicious."
+
+A person unacquainted with the works thus stigmatized would be apt to
+imagine that in Hogarth there was nothing else to be found but
+subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive nature. That his
+imagination was naturally unsweet, and that he delighted in raking
+into every species of moral filth. That he preyed upon sore places
+only, and took a pleasure in exposing the unsound and rotten parts of
+human nature:--whereas, with the exception of some of the plates of
+the _Harlot's Progress_, which are harder in their character than any
+of the rest of his productions (the _Stages of Cruelty_ I omit as
+mere worthless caricatures, foreign to his general habits, the
+offspring of his fancy in some wayward humor), there is scarce one of
+his pieces where vice is most strongly satirized, in which some
+figure is not introduced upon which the moral eye may rest satisfied;
+a face that indicates goodness, or perhaps mere good-humoredness and
+carelessness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough to give a
+relaxation to the frowning brow of satire, and keep the general air
+from tainting. Take the mild, supplicating posture of patient Poverty
+in the poor woman that is persuading the pawnbroker to accept her
+clothes in pledge, in the plate of _Gin Lane_, for an instance. A
+little does it, a little of the _good_ nature overpowers a world of
+_bad_. One cordial honest laugh of a Tom Jones absolutely clears the
+atmosphere that was reeking with the black putrefying breathings of a
+hypocrite Blifil. One homely expostulating shrug from Strap warms the
+whole air which the suggestions of a gentlemanly ingratitude from his
+friend Random had begun to freeze. One "Lord bless us!" of Parson
+Adams upon the wickedness of the times, exorcises and purges off the
+mass of iniquity which the world-knowledge of even a Fielding could
+cull out and rake together. But of the severer class of Hogarth's
+performances, enough, I trust, has been said to show that they do not
+merely shock and repulse; that there is in them the "scorn of vice"
+and the "pity" too; something to touch the heart, and keep alive the
+sense of moral beauty; the "lacrymć rerum," and the sorrowing by
+which the heart is made better. If they be bad things, then is satire
+and tragedy a bad thing; let us proclaim at once an age of gold, and
+sink the existence of vice and misery in our speculations: let us
+
+  "----wink, and shut our apprehensions up
+  From common sense of what men were and are:"
+
+let us _make believe_ with the children, that everybody is good and
+happy; and, with Dr. Swift, write panegyrics upon the world.
+
+But that larger half of Hogarth's works, which were painted more for
+entertainment than instruction (though such was the suggestiveness of
+his mind that there is always something to be learnt from them), his
+humorous scenes,--are they such as merely to disgust and set us
+against our species?
+
+The confident assertions of such a man as I consider the late Mr.
+Barry to have been, have that weight of authority in them which
+staggers at first hearing, even a long preconceived opinion. When I
+read his pathetic admonition concerning the shortness of life, and
+how much better the little leisure of it were laid out upon "that
+species of art which is employed about the amiable and the
+admirable;" and Hogarth's "method," proscribed as a "dangerous or
+worthless pursuit," I began to think there was something in it; that
+I might have been indulging all my life a passion for the works of
+this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste and moral sense; but
+my first convictions gradually returned, a world of good-natured
+English faces came up one by one to my recollection, and a glance at
+the matchless _Election Entertainment_, which I have the happiness to
+have hanging up in my parlor, subverted Mr. Barry's whole theory in
+an instant.
+
+In that inimitable print (which in my judgment as far exceeds the
+more known and celebrated _March to Finchley_, as the best comedy
+exceeds the best farce that ever was written), let a person look till
+he be saturated, and when he has done wondering at the inventiveness
+of genius which could bring so many characters (more than thirty
+distinct classes of face) into a room and set them down at table
+together, or otherwise dispose them about, in so natural a manner,
+engage them in so many easy sets and occupations, yet all partaking
+of the spirit of the occasion which brought them together, so that we
+feel that nothing but an election time could have assembled them;
+having no central figure or principal group, (for the hero of the
+piece, the Candidate, is properly set aside in the levelling
+indistinction of the day, one must look for him to find him,) nothing
+to detain the eye from passing from part to part, where every part is
+alike instinct with life,--for here are no furniture-faces, no
+figures brought in to fill up the scene like stage choruses, but all
+dramatis personć; when he shall have done wondering at all these
+faces so strongly charactered, yet finished with the accuracy of the
+finest miniature; when he shall have done admiring the numberless
+appendages of the scene, those gratuitous doles which rich genius
+flings into the heap when it has already done enough, the
+over-measure which it delights in giving, as if it felt its stores
+were exhaustless; the dumb rhetoric of the scenery,--for tables, and
+chairs, and joint-stools in Hogarth are living and significant
+things; the witticisms that are expressed by words (all artists but
+Hogarth have failed when they have endeavored to combine two mediums
+of expression, and have introduced words into their pictures), and
+the unwritten numberless little allusive pleasantries that are
+scattered about; the work that is going on in the scene, and beyond
+it, as is made visible to the "eye of mind," by the mob which chokes
+up the doorway, and the sword that has forced an entrance before its
+master; when he shall have sufficiently admired this wealth of
+genius, let him fairly say what is the _result_ left on his mind. Is
+it an impression of the vileness and worthlessness of his species? or
+is it not the general feeling which remains, after the individual
+faces have ceased to act sensibly on his mind, a _kindly one in favor
+of his species?_ was not the general air of the scene wholesome? did
+it do the heart hurt to be among it? Something of a riotous spirit to
+be sure is there, some worldly-mindedness in some of the faces, a
+Doddingtonian smoothness which does not promise any superfluous
+degree of sincerity in the fine gentleman who has been the occasion
+of calling so much good company together; but is not the general cast
+of expression in the faces of the good sort? do they not seem cut out
+of the _good old rock_, substantial English honesty? would one fear
+treachery among characters of their expression? or shall we call
+their honest mirth and seldom-returning relaxation by the hard names
+of vice and profligacy? That poor country fellow, that is grasping
+his staff (which, from that difficulty of feeling themselves at home
+which poor men experience at a feast, he has never parted with since
+he came into the room), and is enjoying with a relish that seems to
+fit all the capacities of his soul the slender joke, which that
+facetious wag his neighbor is practising upon the gouty gentleman,
+whose eyes the effort to suppress pain has made as round as
+rings--does it shock the "dignity of human nature" to look at that
+man, and to sympathize with him in the seldom-heard joke which has
+unbent his careworn, hard-working visage, and drawn iron smiles from
+it? or with that full-hearted cobbler, who is honoring with the grasp
+of an honest fist the unused palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the
+license of the time has seated next him?
+
+I can see nothing "dangerous" in the contemplation of such scenes as
+this, or the _Enraged Musician_, or the _Southwark Fair_, or twenty
+other pleasant prints which come crowding in upon my recollection, in
+which the restless activities, the diversified bents and humors, the
+blameless peculiarities of men, as they deserve to be called, rather
+than their "vices and follies," are held up in a laughable point of
+view. All laughter is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening tendency.
+There is the petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes and kills
+Love, and there is the cordial laughter of a man which implies and
+cherishes it. What heart was ever made the worse by joining in a
+hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh Evans or Parson Adams,
+where a sense of the ridiculous mutually kindles and is kindled by a
+perception of the amiable? That tumultuous harmony of singers that
+are roaring out the words, "The world shall bow to the Assyrian
+throne," from the opera of _Judith_, in the third plate of the series
+called the _Four Groups of Heads_; which the quick eye of Hogarth
+must have struck off in the very infancy of the rage for sacred
+oratorios in this country, while "Music yet was young;" when we have
+done smiling at the deafening distortions, which these tearers of
+devotion to rags and tatters, these takers of heaven by storm, in
+their boisterous mimicry of the occupation of angels, are
+making,--what unkindly impression is left behind, or what more of
+harsh or contemptuous feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby
+and Mr. Shandy riding their hobby-horses about the room? The
+conceited, long-backed Sign-painter, that with all the self-applause
+of a Raphael or Correggio, (the twist of body which his conceit has
+thrown him into has something of the Correggiesque in it,) is
+contemplating the picture of a bottle, which he is drawing from an
+actual bottle that hangs beside him, in the print of _Beer
+Street_,--while we smile at the enormity of the self-delusion, can we
+help loving the good-humor and self-complacency of the fellow? would
+we willingly wake him from his dream?
+
+I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have,
+necessarily, something in them to make us like them; some are
+indifferent to us, some in their natures repulsive, and only made
+interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the
+painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling
+of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and
+disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides,
+that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,--they
+give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which
+escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the countenances of
+the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life, that
+_tćdium quotidianarum formarum_, which an unrestricted passion for
+ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in
+many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett
+or Fielding.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER
+
+
+The poems of G. Wither are distinguished by a hearty homeliness of
+manner, and a plain moral speaking. He seems to have passed his life
+in one continued act of an innocent self-pleasing. That which he
+calls his _Motto_ is a continued self-eulogy of two thousand lines,
+yet we read it to the end without any feeling of distaste, almost
+without a consciousness that we have been listening all the while to
+a man praising himself. There are none of the cold particles in it,
+the hardness and self-ends, which render vanity and egotism hateful.
+He seems to be praising another person, under the mask of self: or
+rather, we feel that it was indifferent to him where he found the
+virtue which he celebrates; whether another's bosom or his own were
+its chosen receptacle. His poems are full, and this in particular is
+one downright confession, of a generous self-seeking. But by self he
+sometimes means a great deal,--his friends, his principles, his
+country, the human race.
+
+Whoever expects to find in the satirical pieces of this writer any of
+those peculiarities which pleased him in the satires of Dryden or
+Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here are no high-finished
+characters, no nice traits of individual nature, few or no
+personalities. The game run down is coarse general vice, or folly as
+it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, a coxcomb, is _stript and
+whipt;_ no Shaftesbury, no Villiers, or Wharton, is curiously
+anatomized, and read upon. But to a well-natured mind there is a
+charm of moral sensibility running through them, which amply
+compensates the want of those luxuries. Wither seems everywhere
+bursting with a love of goodness, and a hatred of all low and base
+actions. At this day it is hard to discover what parts of the poem
+here particularly alluded to, _Abuses Stript and Whipt_, could have
+occasioned the imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in High Places
+more suspicious than now? had she more power; or more leisure to
+listen after ill reports? That a man should be convicted of a libel
+when he named no names but Hate, and Envy, and Lust, and Avarice, is
+like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's Progress, where Faithful
+is arraigned for having "railed on our noble Prince Beelzebub, and
+spoken contemptibly of his honorable friends, the Lord Old Man, the
+Lord Carnal Delight, and the Lord Luxurious." What unlucky jealousy
+could have tempted the great men of those days to appropriate such
+innocent abstractions to themselves?
+
+Wither seems to have contemplated to a degree of idolatry his own
+possible virtue. He is forever anticipating persecution and
+martyrdom; fingering, as it were, the flames, to try how he can bear
+them. Perhaps his premature defiance sometimes made him obnoxious to
+censures which he would otherwise have slipped by.
+
+The homely versification of these Satires is not likely to attract in
+the present day. It is certainly not such as we should expect from a
+poet "soaring in the high region of his fancies, with his garland and
+his singing robes about him;"[1] nor is it such as
+he has shown in his _Philarete_, and in some parts of his _Shepherds
+Hunting_. He seems to have adopted this dress with voluntary
+humility, as fittest for a moral teacher, as our divines choose sober
+gray or black; but in their humility consists their sweetness. The
+deepest tone of moral feeling in them (though all throughout is
+weighty, earnest, and passionate) is in those pathetic injunctions
+against shedding of blood in quarrels, in the chapter entitled
+_Revenge_. The story of his own forbearance, which follows, is highly
+interesting. While the Christian sings his own victory over Anger,
+the Man of Courage cannot help peeping out to let you know, that it
+was some higher principle than _fear_ which counselled this
+forbearance.
+
+[Footnote 1: Milton.]
+
+Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never seems to have
+abated a jot of that free spirit which sets its mark upon his
+writings, as much as a predominant feature of independence impresses
+every page of our late glorious Burns; but the elder poet wraps his
+proof-armor closer about him, the other wears his too much outwards;
+he is thinking too much of annoying the foe to be quite easy within;
+the spiritual defences of Wither are a perpetual source of inward
+sunshine, the magnanimity of the modern is not without its alloy of
+soreness, and a sense of injustice, which seems perpetually to gall
+and irritate. Wither was better skilled in the "sweet uses of
+adversity;" he knew how to extract the "precious jewel" from the head
+of the "toad," without drawing any of the "ugly venom" along with it.
+The prison-notes of Wither are finer than the wood-notes of most of
+his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of his
+_Shepherds Hunting_ (which was composed during his imprisonment in
+the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to extract pleasure from
+common objects, has been oftener quoted, and is more known, than any
+part of his writings. Indeed, the whole Eclogue is in a strain so
+much above not only what himself, but almost what any other poet has
+written, that he himself could not help noticing it; he remarks that
+his spirits had been raised higher than they were wont, "through the
+love of poesy." The praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient
+and in modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of
+influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over
+fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but, before Wither, no one
+ever celebrated its power _at home_, the wealth and the strength
+which this divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too
+after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves
+from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that
+poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and
+that the Muse had promise of both lives,--of this, and of that which
+was to come.
+
+The _Mistress of Philarete_ is in substance a panegyric protracted
+through several thousand lines in the mouth of a single speaker, but
+diversified, so as to produce an almost dramatic effect, by the
+artful introduction of some ladies, who are rather auditors than
+interlocutors in the scene; and of a boy, whose singing furnishes
+pretence for an occasional change of metre: though the seven-syllable
+line, in which the main part of it is written, is that in which
+Wither has shown himself so great a master, that I do not know that I
+am always thankful to him for the exchange.
+
+Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady whom he commends the name
+of Arete, or Virtue; and, assuming to himself the character of
+Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a sort of propriety in that
+heaped measure of perfections which he attributes to this partly
+real, partly allegorical personage. Drayton before him had shadowed
+his mistress under the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern, and some of
+the old Italian love-strains are couched in such religious terms as
+to make it doubtful whether it be a mistress, or Divine Grace, which
+the poet is addressing.
+
+In this poem (full of beauties) there are two passages of preeminent
+merit. The first is where the lover, after a flight of rapturous
+commendation, expresses his wonder why all men that are about his
+mistress, even to her very servants, do not view her with the same
+eyes that he does.
+
+     "Sometime I do admire
+  All men burn not with desire:
+  Nay, I muse her servants are not
+  Pleading love; but 0! they dare not.
+  And I therefore wonder, why
+  They do not grow sick and die.
+  Sure they would do so, but that,
+  By the ordinance of fate,
+  There is some concealed thing,
+  So each gazer limiting,
+  He can see no more of merit,
+  Than beseems his worth and spirit.
+  For in her a grace there shines,
+  That o'er-daring thoughts confines,
+  Making worthless men despair
+  To be loved of one so fair.
+  Yea, the destinies agree,
+  Some _good judgments_ blind should be,
+  And not gain the power of knowing
+  Those rare beauties in her growing.
+  Reason doth as much imply:
+  For, if every judging eye,
+  Which beholdeth her, should there
+  Find what excellences are,
+  All, o'ercome by those perfections,
+  Would be captive to affections.
+  So, in happiness unblest,
+  She for lovers should not rest."
+
+The other is, where he has been comparing her beauties to gold, and
+stars, and the most excellent things in nature; and, fearing to be
+accused of hyperbole, the common charge against poets, vindicates
+himself by boldly taking upon him, that these comparisons are no
+hyperboles; but that the best things in nature do, in a lover's eye,
+fall short of those excellences which he adores in her.
+
+  "What pearls, what rubies can
+  Seem so lovely fair to man,
+  As her lips whom he doth love,
+  When in sweet discourse they move,
+  Or her lovelier teeth, the while
+  She doth bless him with a smile?
+  Stars indeed fair creatures be;
+  Yet amongst us where is he
+  Joys not more the whilst he lies
+  Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
+  Than in all the glimmering light
+  Of a starry winter's night?
+  Note the beauty of an eye--
+  And if aught you praise it by
+  Leave such passion in your mind,
+  Let my reason's eye be blind.
+  Mark if ever red or white
+  Any where gave such delight,
+  As when they have taken place
+  In a worthy woman's face.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "I must praise her as I may,
+  Which I do mine own rude way,
+  Sometimes setting forth her glories
+  By unheard of allegories "--&c.
+
+To the measure in which these lines are written the wits of Queen
+Anne's days contemptuously gave the name of Namby-Pamby, in ridicule
+of Ambrose Philips, who has used it in some instances, as in the
+lines on Cuzzoni, to my feeling at least, very deliciously; but
+Wither, whose darling measure it seems to have been, may show, that
+in skilful hands it is capable of expressing the subtilest movements
+of passion. So true it is, which Drayton seems to have felt, that it
+is the poet who modifies the metre, not the metre the poet; in his
+own words, that
+
+    "It's possible to climb;
+  To kindle, or to stake;
+    Altho' in Skelton's rhime."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the
+_Shepherds Hunting_  take the following--
+
+  "If thy verse doth bravely tower,
+  _As she makes wing, she gets power;_
+  Yet the higher she doth soar,
+  She's affronted still the more,
+  'Till she to the high'st hath past,
+  Then she rests with fame at last."
+
+What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of this! what
+Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing or expresses _labor slowly
+but strongly surmounting difficulty_ with the life with which it is
+done in the second of these lines? or what metre could go beyond
+these from _Philarete_--
+
+  "Her true beauty leaves behind
+  Apprehensions in my mind
+  Of more sweetness, than all art
+  Or inventions can impart.
+  _Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
+  And too strong to be suppressed._"]
+
+
+
+
+LETTERS,
+
+UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE
+REFLECTOR."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LONDONER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Mr. Reflector,--I was born under the shadow of St. Dunstan's steeple,
+just where the conflux of the eastern and western inhabitants of this
+twofold city meet and justle in friendly opposition at Temple-bar.
+The same day which gave me to the world, saw London happy in the
+celebration of her great annual feast. This I cannot help looking
+upon as a lively omen of the future great good-will which I was
+destined to bear toward the city, resembling in kind that solicitude
+which every Chief Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever
+concerns her interests and well-being. Indeed I consider myself in
+some sort a speculative Lord Mayor of London: for though
+circumstances unhappily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at
+the dignity of a gold chain and Spital Sermon, yet thus much will I
+say of myself in truth, that Whittington with his cat (just emblem of
+vigilance and a furred gown) never went beyond me in affection which
+I bear to the citizens.
+
+I was born, as you have heard, in a crowd. This has begot in me an
+entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost
+insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. This aversion
+was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few years in the
+younger part of my life, during a period in which I had set my
+affections upon a charming young woman. Every man, while the passion
+is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to groves and meadows
+and purling streams. During this short period of my existence, I
+contracted just familiarity enough with rural objects to understand
+tolerably well ever after the _poets_, when they declaim in such
+passionate terms in favor of a country-life.
+
+For my own part, now the fit is past, I have no hesitation in
+declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit-door of
+Drury Lane Theatre, just at the hour of six, gives me ten thousand
+sincerer pleasures, than I could ever receive from all the flocks of
+silly sheep that ever whitened the plains of Arcadia or Epsom Downs.
+
+This passion for crowds is nowhere feasted so full as in London. The
+man must have a rare _recipe_ for melancholy who can be dull in Fleet
+Street. I am naturally inclined to hypochondria, but in London it
+vanishes, like all other ills. Often, when I have felt a weariness or
+distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed
+my humor, till tears have wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies
+with the multitudinous moving picture, which she never fails to
+present at all hours, like the scenes of a shifting pantomime.
+
+The very deformities of London, which give distaste to others, from
+habit do not displease me. The endless succession of shops where
+_Fancy miscalled Folly_ is supplied with perpetual gauds and toys,
+excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly behold every appetite
+supplied with its proper food. The obliging customer, and the obliged
+tradesman--things which live by bowing, and things which exist but
+for homage--do not affect me with disgust; from habit I perceive
+nothing but urbanity, where other men, more refined, discover
+meanness: I love the very smoke of London, because it has been the
+medium most familiar to my vision. I see grand principles of honor at
+work in the dirty ring which encompasses two combatants with fists,
+and principles of no less eternal justice in the detection of a
+pickpocket. The salutary astonishment with which an execution is
+surveyed, convinces me more forcibly than a hundred volumes of
+abstract polity, that the universal instinct of man in all ages has
+leaned to order and good government.
+
+Thus an art of extracting morality from the commonest incidents of a
+town life is attained by the same well-natured alchemy with which the
+Foresters of Arden, in a beautiful country,
+
+  "Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
+  Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
+
+Where has spleen her food but in London! Humor, Interest, Curiosity,
+suck at her measureless breasts without a possibility of being
+satiated. Nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what
+have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with
+usury to such scenes!
+
+I am, Sir, your faithful servant,
+
+A LONDONER.
+
+
+
+
+ON BURIAL SOCIETIES;
+
+AND
+
+THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Mr. Reflector,--I was amused the other day with having the following
+notice thrust into my hand by a man who gives out bills at the corner
+of Fleet Market. Whether he saw any prognostics about me, that made
+him judge such notice seasonable, I cannot say; I might perhaps carry
+in a countenance (naturally not very florid) traces of a fever which
+had not long left me. Those fellows have a good instinctive way of
+guessing at the sort of people that are likeliest to pay attention to
+their papers.
+
+
+"BURIAL SOCIETY.
+
+"A favorable opportunity now offers to any person, of either sex, who
+would wish to be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one shilling
+entrance, and twopence per week for the benefit of the stock. Members
+to be free in six months. The money to be paid at Mr. Middleton's, at
+the sign of the _First_ and the _Last_, Stonecutter's Street, Fleet
+Market. The deceased to be furnished as follows:--A strong elm
+coffin, covered with superfine black, and furnished with two rows,
+all round, close drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with
+ornamental drops, a handsome plate of inscription, Angel above, and
+Flower beneath, and four pair of handsome handles, with wrought
+gripes; the coffin to be well pitched, lined, and ruffled with fine
+crape; a handsome crape shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome
+velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three crape hat-bands, three
+hoods and scarfs, and six pair of gloves; two porters equipped to
+attend the funeral, a man to attend the same with band and gloves;
+also, the burial-fees paid, if not exceeding one guinea."
+
+"Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, "is a noble animal, splendid in ashes,
+and pompous in the grave." Whoever drew up this little advertisement
+certainly understood this appetite in the species, and has made
+abundant provision for it. It really almost induces a _tćdium vitć_
+upon one to read it. Methinks I could be willing to die, in death to
+be so attended. The two rows all round close-drove best black
+japanned nails,--how feelingly do they invite, and almost
+irresistibly persuade us to come and be fastened down! what aching
+head can resist the temptation to repose, which the crape shroud, the
+cap, and the pillow present; what sting is there in death, which the
+handles with wrought gripes are not calculated to pluck away? what
+victory in the grave which the drops and the velvet pall do not
+render at least extremely disputable? but, above all, the pretty
+emblematic plate, with the Angel above and the Flower beneath, takes
+me mightily.
+
+The notice goes on to inform us, that though the society has been
+established but a very few years, upwards of eleven hundred persons
+have put down their names. It is really an affecting consideration to
+think of so many poor people, of the industrious and hard-working
+class (for none but such would be possessed of such a generous
+forethought) clubbing their two-pences to save the reproach of a
+parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I dare swear, has that Angel and
+Flower kept from the _Angel_ and _Punchbowl_, while, to provide
+himself a bier, he has curtailed himself of _beer_. Many a savory
+morsel has the living body been deprived of, that the lifeless one
+might be served up in a richer state to the worms. And sure, if the
+body could understand the actions of the soul, and entertain generous
+notions of things, it would thank its provident partner, that she had
+been more solicitous to defend it from dishonors at its dissolution,
+than careful to pamper it with good things in the time of its union.
+If Cćsar were chiefly anxious at his death how he might die most
+decently, every Burial Society may be considered as a club of Cćsars.
+
+Nothing tends to keep up, in the imaginations of the poorer sort of
+people, a generous horror of the work-house more than the manner in
+which pauper funerals are conducted in this metropolis. The coffin
+nothing but a few naked planks coarsely put together,--the want of a
+pall (that decent and well-imagined veil, which, hiding the coffin
+that hides the body, keeps that which would shock us at two removes
+from us), the colored coats of the men that are hired, at cheap
+rates, to carry the body,--altogether give the notion of the deceased
+having been some person of an ill life and conversation, some one who
+may not claim the entire rites of Christian burial,--one by whom some
+parts of the sacred ceremony would be desecrated if they should be
+bestowed upon him. I meet these meagre processions sometimes in the
+street. They are sure to make me out of humor and melancholy all the
+day after. They have a harsh and ominous aspect.
+
+If there is anything in the prospectus issued from Mr. Middleton's,
+Stonecutter's Street, which pleases me less than the rest, it is to
+find that the six pair of gloves are to be returned, that they are
+only lent, or, as the bill expresses it, for use on the occasion. The
+hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may properly enough be given up after
+the solemnity; the cloaks no gentlemen would think of keeping; but a
+pair of gloves, once fitted on, ought not in courtesy to be
+redemanded. The wearer should certainly have the fee-simple of them.
+The cost would be but trifling, and they would be a proper memorial
+of the day. This part of the Proposal wants reconsidering. It is not
+conceived in the same liberal way of thinking as the rest. I am also
+a little doubtful whether the limit, within which the burial-fee is
+made payable, should not be extended to thirty shillings.
+
+Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be made in favor of those
+well-intentioned persons and well-wishers to the fund, who, having
+all along paid their subscriptions regularly, are so unfortunate as
+to die before the six months, which would entitle them to their
+freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly imagine a more
+distressing case than that of a poor fellow lingering on in a
+consumption till the period of his freedom is almost in sight, and
+then finding himself going with a velocity which makes it doubtful
+whether he shall be entitled to his funeral honors: his quota to
+which he nevertheless squeezes out, to the diminution of the comforts
+which sickness demands. I think, in such cases, some of the
+contribution money ought to revert. With some such modifications,
+which might easily be introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of
+Mr. Middleton which is not strictly fair and genteel; and heartily
+recommend them to all persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, who
+are willing that this perishable part of them should quit the scene
+of its mortal activities with as handsome circumstances as possible.
+
+Before I quit the subject, I must guard my readers against a scandal,
+which they may be apt to take at the place whence these Proposals
+purport to be issued. From the sign of the _First_ and the _Last_,
+they may conclude that Mr. Middleton is some publican, who, in
+assembling a club of this description at his house, may have a
+sinister end of his own, altogether foreign to the solemn purpose for
+which the club is pretended to be instituted. I must set them right
+by informing them that the issuer of these Proposals is no publican,
+though he hangs out a sign, but an honest superintendent of funerals,
+who, by the device of a Cradle and a Coffin, connecting both ends of
+human existence together, has most ingeniously contrived to
+insinuate, that the framers of these _first_ and _last_ receptacles
+of mankind divide this our life betwixt them, and that all that
+passes from the midwife to the undertaker may, in strict propriety,
+_go for nothing_: an awful and instructive lesson to human vanity.
+
+Looking over some papers lately that fell into my hands by chance,
+and appear to have been written about the beginning of the last
+century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the following short Essay,
+which the writer calls, "_The Character of an Undertaker_." It is
+written with some stiffness and peculiarities of style, but some
+parts of it, I think, not unaptly characterize the profession to
+which Mr. Middleton has the honor to belong. The writer doubtless had
+in his mind the entertaining character of _Sable_, in Steele's
+excellent comedy of _The Funeral_.
+
+
+CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+
+"He is master of the ceremonies at burials and mourning assemblies,
+grand marshal at funeral processions, the only true yeoman of the
+body, over which he exercises a dictatorial authority from the moment
+that the breath has taken leave to that of its final commitment to
+the earth. His ministry begins where the physician's, the lawyer's,
+and the divine's end. Or if some part of the functions of the latter
+run parallel with his, it is only _in ordine ad spiritualia_. His
+temporalities remain unquestioned. He is arbitrator of all questions
+of honor which may concern the defunct; and upon slight inspection
+will pronounce how long he may remain in this upper world with credit
+to himself, and when it will be prudent for his reputation that he
+should retire. His determination in these points is peremptory and
+without appeal. Yet, with a modesty peculiar to his profession, he
+meddles not out of his own sphere. With the good or bad actions of
+the deceased in his lifetime he has nothing to do. He leaves the
+friends of the dead man to form their own conjectures as to the place
+to which the departed spirit is gone. His care is only about the
+exuvić. He concerns not himself even about the body, as it is a
+structure of parts internal, and a wonderful microcosm. He leaves
+such curious speculations to the anatomy professor. Or, if anything,
+he is averse to such wanton inquiries, as delighting rather that the
+parts which he has care of should be returned to their kindred dust
+in as handsome and unmutilated condition as possible; that the grave
+should have its full and unimpaired tribute,--a complete and just
+carcass. Nor is he only careful to provide for the body's entireness,
+but for its accommodation and ornament. He orders the fashion of its
+clothes, and designs the symmetry of its dwelling. Its vanity has an
+innocent survival in him. He is bedmaker to the dead. The pillows
+which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the theatre in
+which he displays the mysteries of his art. It is hard to describe
+what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that day: for, being
+neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all in turns; a
+transcendant, running through all those relations. His office is to
+supply the place of self-agency in the family, who are presumed
+incapable of it through grief. He is eyes, and ears, and hands, to
+the whole household. A draught of wine cannot go round to the
+mourners, but he must minister it. A chair may hardly be restored to
+its place by a less solemn hand than his. He takes upon himself all
+functions, and is a sort of ephemeral major-domo! He distributes his
+attentions among the company assembled according to the degree of
+affliction, which he calculates from the degree of kin to the
+deceased; and marshals them accordingly in the procession. He himself
+is of a sad and tristful countenance; yet such as (if well examined)
+is not without some show of patience and resignation at bottom;
+prefiguring, as it were, to the friends of the deceased, what their
+grief shall be when the hand of Time shall have softened and taken
+down the bitterness of their first anguish; so handsomely can he
+fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time. Lastly, with his wand, as
+with another divining rod, he calculates the depth of earth at which
+the bones of the dead man may rest, which he ordinarily contrives may
+be at such a distance from the surface of this earth, as may
+frustrate the profane attempts of such as would violate his repose,
+yet sufficiently on this side the centre to give his friends hopes of
+an easy and practicable resurrection. And here we leave him, casting
+in dust to dust, which is the last friendly office that he
+_undertakes_ to do."
+
+Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and
+worms, and epitaphs," I am, Sir,
+
+Your humble servant,
+
+MORITURUS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL
+DEFORMITY.
+
+WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF
+ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--There is no science in their pretensions to which
+mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in the
+supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. I quarrel not with the
+principles of this science, as they are laid down by learned
+professors; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny its
+existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be depended
+upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an art to "read the mind's
+construction in the face." But, then, in every species of _reading_,
+so much depends upon the eyes of the reader; if they are blear, or
+apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or strained with too much attention,
+the optic power will infallibly bring home false reports of what it
+reads. How often do we say, upon a cursory glance at a stranger,
+"What a fine open countenance he has!" who, upon second inspection,
+proves to have the exact features of a knave? Nay, in much more
+intimate acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue
+for months, years, and then break up all at once.
+
+Ask the married man, who has been so but for a short space of time,
+if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious courtship,
+truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be written in characters which
+could not be misunderstood--ask him if the characters which they now
+convey be exactly the same?--if for truth he does not _read_ a dull
+virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not, only because it
+wants the judgment to make a preference?--if for sweetness he does
+not _read_ a stupid habit of looking pleased at everything?--if for
+serenity he does not _read_ animal tranquillity, the dead pool of the
+heart, which no breeze of passion can stir into health? Alas! what is
+this book of the countenance good for, which when we have read so
+long, and thought that we understood its contents, there comes a
+countless list of heart-breaking errata at the end!
+
+But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is subject. I
+have inadvertently wandered from my purpose, which was to expose
+quite an opposite blunder, into which we are no less apt to fall,
+through hate. How ugly a person looks upon whose reputation some
+awkward aspersion hangs, and how suddenly his countenance clears up
+with his character! I remember being persuaded of a man whom I had
+conceived an ill opinion of, that he had a very bad set of teeth;
+which, since I have had better opportunities of being acquainted with
+his face and facts, I find to have been the very reverse of the
+truth. _That crooked old woman_, I once said, speaking of an ancient
+gentlewoman, whose actions did not square altogether with my notions
+of the rule of right. The unanimous surprise of the company before
+whom I uttered these words soon convinced me that I had confounded
+mental with bodily obliquity, and that there was nothing tortuous
+about the old lady but her deeds.
+
+This humor of mankind to deny personal comeliness to those with whose
+moral attributes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly shown in
+those advertisements which stare us in the face from the walls of
+every street, and, with the tempting bait which they hang forth,
+stimulate at once cupidity and an abstract love of justice in the
+breast of every passing peruser: I mean, the advertisements offering
+rewards for the apprehension of absconded culprits, strayed
+apprentices, bankrupts who have conveyed away their effects, debtors
+that have run away from their bail. I observe, that in exact
+proportion to the indignity with which the prosecutor, who is
+commonly the framer of the advertisement, conceives he has been
+treated, the personal pretensions of the fugitive are denied, and his
+defects exaggerated.
+
+A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed against the public in
+general, and in whose delinquency no individual shall feel himself
+particularly interested, generally meets with fair usage. A coiner or
+a smuggler shall get off tolerably well. His beauty, if he has any,
+is not much underrated, his deformities are not much magnified. A
+runaway apprentice, who excites perhaps the next least degree of
+spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes with a pair of bandy
+legs; if he has taken anything with him in his flight, a hitch in his
+gait is generally superadded. A bankrupt, who has been guilty of
+withdrawing his effects, if his case be not very atrocious, commonly
+meets with mild usage. But a debtor, who has left his bail in
+jeopardy, is sure to be described in characters of unmingled
+deformity. Here the personal feelings of the bail, which may be
+allowed to be somewhat poignant, are admitted to interfere; and, as
+wrath and revenge commonly strike in the dark, the colors are laid on
+with a grossness which I am convinced must often defeat its own
+purpose. The fish that casts an inky cloud about him that his enemies
+may not find him, cannot more obscure himself by that device than the
+blackening representations of these angry advertisers must inevitably
+serve to cloak and screen the persons of those who have injured them
+from detection. I have before me at this moment one of these bills,
+which runs thus:--
+
+"FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.
+
+"Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, formerly resident in Princes
+Street, Soho, but lately of Clerkenwell. Whoever shall apprehend, or
+cause to be apprehended and lodged in one of his Majesty's jails, the
+said John Tomkins, shall receive the above reward. He is a thick-set,
+sturdy man, about five foot six inches high, halts in his left leg,
+with a stoop in his gait, with coarse red hair, nose short and cocked
+up, with little gray eyes, (one of them bears the effect of a blow
+which he has lately received,) with a pot-belly; speaks with a thick
+and disagreeable voice; goes shabbily drest; had on when he went away
+a greasy shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons."
+
+Now, although it is not out of the compass of possibility that John
+Tomkins aforesaid may comprehend in his agreeable person all the
+above-mentioned aggregate of charms, yet, from my observation of the
+manner in which these advertisements are usually drawn up, though I
+have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, yet would I lay a
+wager, that an advertisement to the following effect would have a
+much better chance of apprehending and laying by the heels this John
+Tomkins than the above description, although penned by one who, from
+the good services which he appears to have done for him, has not
+improbably been blessed with some years of previous intercourse with
+the said John. Taking, then, the above advertisement to be true, or
+nearly so, down to the words "left leg" inclusive, (though I have
+some doubt if the blemish there implied amount to a positive
+lameness, or be perceivable by any but the nearest friends of John,)
+I would proceed thus:--
+
+--"Leans a little forward in his walk; his hair thick and inclining
+to auburn; his nose of the middle size, a little turned up at the
+end; lively hazel eyes (the contusion, as its effects are probably
+gone off by this time, I judge better omitted); inclines to be
+corpulent; his voice thick, but pleasing, especially when he sings;
+had on a decent shag great-coat with yellow buttons."
+
+Now I would stake a considerable wager (though by no means a positive
+man) that some such mitigated description would lead the beagles of
+the law into a much surer track for finding this ungracious varlet,
+than to set them upon a false scent after fictitious ugliness and
+fictitious shabbiness; though, to do those gentlemen justice, I have
+no doubt their experience has taught them in all such cases to abate
+a great deal of the deformity which they are instructed to expect,
+and has discovered to them that the Devil's agents upon this earth,
+like their master, are far less ugly in reality than they are
+painted.
+
+I am afraid, Mr. Reflector, that I shall be thought to have gone wide
+of my subject, which was to detect the practical errors of
+physiognomy, properly so called; whereas I have introduced physical
+defects, such as lameness, the effects of accidents upon a man's
+person, his wearing apparel, &c., as circumstances on which the eye
+of dislike, looking askance, may report erroneous conclusions to the
+understanding. But if we are liable, through a kind or an unkind
+passion, to mistake so grossly concerning things so exterior and
+palpable, how much more are we likely to err respecting those nicer
+and less perceptible hints of character in a face whose detection
+constitutes the triumph of the physiognomist!
+
+To revert to those bestowers of unmerited deformity, the framers of
+advertisements for the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere desire
+of promoting the end of public justice induces me to address a word
+to them on the best means of attaining those ends. I will endeavor to
+lay down a few practical, or rather negative, rules for their use,
+for my ambition extends no further than to arm them with cautions
+against the self-defeating of their own purposes:--
+
+1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser! If the culprit whom you are
+willing to recover be one to whom in times past you have shown
+kindness, and been disposed to think kindly of him yourself, but he
+has deceived your trust, and has run away, and left you with a load
+of debt to answer for him,--sit down calmly and endeavor to behold
+him through the spectacles of memory rather than of present conceit.
+Image to yourself, before you pen a tittle of his description, the
+same plausible, good-looking man who took you in, and try to put away
+from your mind every intrusion of that deceitful spectre which
+perpetually obtrudes itself in the room of your former friend's known
+visage. It will do you more credit to have been deceived by such a
+one; and depend upon it, the traitor will convey to the eyes of the
+world in general much more of that first idea which you formed
+(perhaps in part erroneous) of his physiognomy, than of that
+frightful substitute which you have suffered to creep in upon your
+mind and usurp upon it; a creature which has no archetype except in
+your own brain.
+
+2. If you be a master that have to advertise a runaway apprentice,
+though the young dog's faults are known only to you, and no doubt his
+conduct has been aggravating enough, do not presently set him down as
+having crooked ankles. He may have a good pair of legs, and run away
+notwithstanding. Indeed, the latter does rather seem to imply the
+former.
+
+3. If the unhappy person against whom your laudable vengeance is
+directed be a thief, think that a thief may have a good nose, good
+eyes, good ears. It is indispensable to his profession that he be
+possessed of sagacity, foresight, vigilance; it is more than
+probable, then, that he is endued with the bodily types or
+instruments of these qualities to some tolerable degree of
+perfectness.
+
+4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort you, do not confound
+meanness of crime with diminutiveness of stature. These things have
+no connection. I have known a tall man stoop to the basest action, a
+short man aspire to the height of crime, a fair man be guilty of the
+foulest actions, &c.
+
+5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of some atrocious and
+aggravated murder. Here is the most difficult case of all. It is
+above all requisite that such a daring violator of the peace and
+safety of society should meet with his reward, a violent and
+ignominious death. But how shall we get at him? Who is there among us
+that has known him before he committed the offence, that shall take
+upon him to say he can sit down coolly and pen a dispassionate
+description of a murderer? The tales of our nursery,--the reading of
+our youth,--the ill-looking man that was hired by the Uncle to
+despatch the Children in the Wood,--the grim ruffians who smothered
+the babes in the Tower,--the black and beetle-browed assassin of Mrs.
+Ratcliffe,--the shag-haired villain of Mr. Monk Lewis,--the Tarquin
+tread, and mill-stone dropping eyes, of Murder in Shakspeare,--the
+exaggerations of picture and of poetry,--what we have read and what
+we have dreamed of,--rise up and crowd in upon us such eye-scaring
+portraits of the man of blood, that our pen is absolutely
+forestalled; we commence poets when we should play the part of
+strictest historians, and the very blackness of horror which the deed
+calls up, serves as a cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is
+blameless, it is accordant with those wise prejudices with which
+nature has guarded our innocence, as with impassable barriers,
+against the commission of such appalling crimes; but, meantime, the
+criminal escapes; or if,--owing to that wise abatement in their
+expectation of deformity, which, as I hinted at before, the officers
+of pursuit never fail to make, and no doubt in cases of this sort
+they make a more than ordinary allowance,--if, owing to this or any
+accident, the offender is caught and brought to his trial, who that
+has been led out of curiosity to witness such a scene has not with
+astonishment reflected on the difference between a real committer of
+a murder, and the idea of one which he has been collecting and
+heightening all his life out of books, dreams, &c.? The fellow,
+perhaps, is a sleek, smug-looking man, with light hair and
+eyebrows,--the latter by no means jutting out or like a crag,--and
+with none of those marks which our fancy had pre-bestowed upon him.
+
+I find I am getting unawares too serious; the best way on such
+occasions is to leave off, which I shall do by generally recommending
+to all prosecuting advertisers not to confound crimes with ugliness;
+or rather, to distinguish between that physiognomical deformity,
+which I am willing to grant always accompanies crime, and mere
+_physical ugliness_,--which signifies nothing, is the opponent of
+nothing, and may exist in a good or bad person indifferently.
+
+CRITO.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM
+BEING HANGED.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Sir,--I am one of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes, it seems,
+do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All that is bestowed
+upon me of that kindest alleviator of human miseries comes dashed
+with a double portion of contempt. My griefs have nothing in them
+that is felt as sacred by the bystanders. Yet is my affliction, in
+truth, of the deepest grain--the heaviest task that was ever given to
+mortal patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows,
+can never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw as
+long at that fatal mark----
+
+Why was I ever born? Why was innocence in my person suffered to be
+branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest guilt?
+What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine should
+involve a whole posterity in infamy? I am almost tempted to believe,
+that, in some preëxistent state, crimes to which this sublunary life
+of mine hath been as much a stranger as the babe that is newly born
+into it, have drawn down upon me this vengeance, so disproportionate
+to my actions on this globe.
+
+My brain sickens, and my bosom labors to be delivered of the weight
+that presses upon it, yet my conscious pen shrinks from the avowal.
+But out it must----
+
+O, Mr. Reflector! guess at the wretch's misery who now writes this to
+you, when, with tears and burning blushes, he is obliged to confess
+that he has been--HANGED----
+
+Methinks I hear an involuntary exclamation burst from you, as your
+imagination presents to you fearful images of your correspondent
+unknown--_hanged!_
+
+Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit has the honor of
+addressing you. I am flesh and blood, an unfortunate system of bones,
+muscles, sinews, arteries, like yourself.
+
+_Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant.--That expression of yours,
+Mr. Correspondent, must be taken somehow in a metaphorical sense----_
+
+In the plainest sense, without trope or figure--Yes, Mr. Editor! this
+neck of mine has felt the fatal noose,--these hands have tremblingly
+held up the corroborative prayer-book,--these lips have sucked the
+moisture of the last consolatory orange,--this tongue has chanted the
+doleful cantata which no performer was ever called upon to
+repeat,--this face has had the veiling nightcap drawn over it----
+
+But for no crime of mine.--Far be it from me to arraign the justice
+of my country, which, though tardy, did at length recognize my
+innocence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge or jury, now that
+eleven years have elapsed since the erroneous sentence was
+pronounced. Men will always be fallible, and perhaps circumstances
+did appear at the time a little strong----
+
+Suffice it to say, that after hanging four minutes (as the spectators
+were pleased to compute it,--a man that is being strangled, I know
+from experience, has altogether a different measure of time from his
+friends who are breathing leisurely about him,--I suppose the minutes
+lengthen as time approaches eternity, in the same manner as the miles
+get longer as you travel northward),--after hanging four minutes,
+according to the best calculation of the bystanders, a reprieve came,
+and I was CUT DOWN--
+
+Really I am ashamed of deforming your pages with these technical
+phrases--if I knew how to express my meaning shorter--
+
+But to proceed.--My first care after I had been brought to myself by
+the usual methods (those methods that are so interesting to the
+operator and his assistants, who are pretty numerous on such
+occasions,--but which no patient was ever desirous of undergoing a
+second time for the benefit of science), my first care was to provide
+myself with an enormous stock or cravat to hide the place--you
+understand me; my next care was to procure a residence as distant as
+possible from that part of the country where I had suffered. For that
+reason I chose the metropolis, as the place where wounded honor (I
+had been told) could lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry,
+and stigmatized innocence had the best chance of hiding her disgrace
+in a crowd. I sought out a new circle of acquaintance, and my
+circumstances happily enabling me to pursue my fancy in that respect,
+I endeavored, by mingling in all the pleasures which the town
+affords, to efface the memory of what I had undergone.
+
+But, alas! such is the portentous and all-pervading chain of
+connection which links together the head and members of this great
+community, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated almost at the
+outset. A countryman of mine, whom a foolish lawsuit had brought to
+town, by chance met me, and the secret was soon blazoned about.
+
+In a short time I found myself deserted by most of those who had been
+my intimate friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to attach to my
+character. My officious countryman, to do him justice, had been
+candid enough to explain my perfect innocence.
+
+But, somehow or other, there is a want of strong virtue in mankind.
+We have plenty of the softer instincts, but the heroic character is
+gone. How else can I account for it, that of all my numerous
+acquaintance, among whom I had the honor of ranking sundry persons of
+education, talents, and worth, scarcely here and there one or two
+could be found who had the courage to associate with a man that had
+been hanged.
+
+Those few who did not desert me altogether were persons of strong but
+coarse minds; and from the absence of all delicacy in them I suffered
+almost as much as from the superabundance of a false species of it in
+the others. Those who stuck by me were the jokers, who thought
+themselves entitled by the fidelity which they had shown towards me
+to use me with what familiarity they pleased. Many and unfeeling are
+the jests that I have suffered from these rude (because faithful)
+Achateses. As they passed me in the streets, one would nod
+significantly to his companion and say, pointing to me, Smoke his
+cravat, and ask me if I had got a wen, that I was so solicitous to
+cover my neck. Another would inquire, What news from * * * Assizes?
+(which you may guess, Mr. Editor, was the scene of my shame,) and
+whether the sessions was like to prove a maiden one? A third would
+offer to insure me from drowning. A fourth would tease me with
+inquiries how I felt when I was swinging, whether I had not something
+like a blue flame dancing before my eyes? A fifth took a fancy never
+to call me anything but _Lazarus_. And an eminent bookseller and
+publisher,--who, in his zeal to present the public with new facts,
+had he lived in those days, I am confident, would not have scrupled
+waiting upon the person himself last mentioned, at the most critical
+period of his existence, to solicit a _few facts relative to
+resuscitation_,--had the modesty to offer me--guineas per sheet, if I
+would write, in his magazine, a physiological account of my feelings
+upon coming to myself.
+
+But these were evils which a moderate fortitude might have enabled me
+to struggle with. Alas! Mr. Editor, the women,--whose good graces I
+had always most assiduously cultivated, from whose softer minds I had
+hoped a more delicate and generous sympathy than I found in the
+men,--the women began to shun me--this was the unkindest blow of all.
+
+But is it to be wondered at? How couldst thou imagine, wretchedest of
+beings, that that tender creature Seraphina would fling her pretty
+arms about that neck which previous circumstances had rendered
+infamous? That she would put up with the refuse of the rope, the
+leavings of the cord? Or that any analogy could subsist between the
+knot which binds true lovers, and the knot which ties malefactors?
+
+I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, when I complimented
+her one day on the execution which her eyes had done, replied, that,
+to be sure, Mr. * * * was a judge of those things. But from thy more
+exalted mind, Celestina, I expected a more unprejudiced decision. The
+person whose true name I conceal under this appellation, of all the
+women that I was ever acquainted with had the most manly turn of
+mind, which she had improved by reading and the best conversation.
+Her understanding was not more masculine than her manners and whole
+disposition were delicately and truly feminine. She was the daughter
+of an officer who had fallen in the service of his country, leaving
+his widow, and Celestina, an only child, with a fortune sufficient to
+set them above want, but not to enable them to live in splendor. I
+had the mother's permission to pay my addresses to the young lady,
+and Celestina seemed to approve of my suit.
+
+Often and often have I poured out my overcharged soul in the presence
+of Celestina, complaining of the hard and unfeeling prejudices of the
+world; and the sweet maid has again and again declared, that no
+irrational prejudice should hinder her from esteeming every man
+according to his intrinsic worth. Often has she repeated the
+consolatory assurance, that she could never consider as essentially
+ignominious an _accident_, which was indeed to be deprecated, but
+which might have happened to the most innocent of mankind. Then would
+she set forth some illustrious example, which her reading easily
+furnished, of a Phocion or a Socrates unjustly condemned; of a
+Raleigh or a Sir Thomas More, to whom late posterity had done
+justice; and by soothing my fancy with some such agreeable parallel,
+she would make me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and convert my
+shame into glory.
+
+In such entertaining and instructive conversations the time passed
+on, till I importunately urged the mistress of my affections to name
+the day for our union. To this she obligingly consented, and I
+thought myself the happiest of mankind. But how was I surprised one
+morning on the receipt of the following billet from my charmer:--
+
+SIR,--You must not impute it to levity, or to a worse failing,
+ingratitude, if, with anguish of heart, I feel myself compelled by
+irresistible arguments to recall a vow which I fear I made with too
+little consideration. I never can be yours. The reasons of my
+decision, which is final, are in my own breast, and you must
+everlastingly remain a stranger to them. Assure yourself that I can
+never cease to esteem you as I ought.
+
+
+CELESTINA.
+
+At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic haste to Celestina's
+lodgings, where I learned, to my infinite mortification, that the
+mother and daughter were set off on a journey to a distant part of
+the country, to visit a relation, and were not expected to return in
+less than four months.
+
+Stunned by this blow, which left me without the courage to solicit an
+explanation by letter, even if I had known where they were, (for the
+particular address was industriously concealed from me,) I waited
+with impatience the termination of the period, in the vain hope that
+I might be permitted to have a chance of softening the harsh decision
+by a personal interview with Celestina after her return. But before
+three months were at an end, I learned from the newspapers that my
+beloved had----given her hand to another.
+
+Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a loss to account for the
+strange step which she had taken; and it was not till some years
+after that I learned the true reason from a female relation of hers,
+to whom it seems Celestina had confessed in confidence, that it was
+no demerit of mine that had caused her to break off the match so
+abruptly, nor any preference which she might feel for any other
+person, for she preferred me (she was pleased to say) to all mankind;
+but when she came to lay the matter closer to her heart, she found
+that she never should be able to bear the sight--(I give you her very
+words as they were detailed to me by her relation)--the sight of a
+man in a nightcap who had appeared on a public platform--it would
+lead to such a disagreeable association of ideas! And to this
+punctilio I was sacrificed.
+
+To pass over an infinite series of minor mortifications, to which
+this last and heaviest might well render me callous, behold me here,
+Mr. Editor! in the thirty-seventh year of my existence, (the twelfth,
+reckoning from my reanimation,) cut off from all respectable
+connections: rejected by the fairer half of the community,--who in my
+case alone seem to have laid aside the characteristic pity of their
+sex; punished because I was once punished unjustly: suffering for no
+other reason than because I once had the misfortune to suffer without
+any cause at all. In no other country, I think, but this, could a man
+have been subject to such a life-long persecution, when once his
+innocence had been clearly established.
+
+Had I crawled forth a rescued victim from the rack in the horrible
+dungeons of the Inquisition,--had I heaved myself up from a half
+bastinado in China, or been torn from the just-entering, ghastly
+impaling stake in Barbary,--had I dropt alive from the knout in
+Russia, or come off with a gashed neck from the half-mortal,
+scarce-in-time-retracted cimeter of an executioneering slave in
+Turkey,--I might have borne about the remnant of this frame (the
+mangled trophy of reprieved innocence) with credit to myself in any
+of those barbarous countries. No scorn, at least, would have mingled
+with the pity (small as it might be) with which what was left of me
+would have been surveyed.
+
+The singularity of my case has often led me to inquire into the
+reasons of the general levity with which the subject of hanging is
+treated as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic: for let the
+very persons who speak so lightly of the thing at a distance be
+brought to view the real scene,--let the platform be bona fide
+exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought forth,--the case is
+changed; but as a topic of conversation, I appeal to the vulgar jokes
+which pass current in every street. But why mention them, when the
+politest authors have agreed in making use of this subject as a
+source of the ridiculous? Swift, and Pope, and Prior, are fond of
+recurring to it. Gay has built an entire drama upon this single
+foundation. The whole interest of the _Beggar's Opera_ may be said to
+hang upon it. To such writers as Fielding and Smollett it is a
+perfect _bonne-bouche_.--Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his
+_Comical View of London and Westminster_, describe the _Order of the
+Show at one of the Tyburn Executions_ in his time:--"Mr. Ordinary
+visits his melancholy flock in Newgate by eight. Doleful procession
+up Holborn Hill about eleven. Men handsome and proper that were never
+thought so before, which is some comfort however. Arrive at the fatal
+place by twelve. Burnt brandy, women, and sabbath-breaking, repented
+of. Some few penitential drops fall under the gallows. Sheriffs' men,
+parson, pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The last concluding
+peremptory psalm struck up. Show over by one."--In this sportive
+strain does this misguided wit think proper to play with a subject so
+serious, which yet he would hardly have done if he had not known that
+there existed a predisposition in the habits of his unaccountable
+countrymen to consider the subject as a jest. But what shall we say
+to Shakspeare, who, (not to mention the solution which the
+_Gravedigger_ in _Hamlet_ gives of his fellow-workman's problem,) in
+that scene in _Measure for Measure_, where the _Clown_ calls upon
+_Master Barnardine_ to get up and be hanged, which he declines on the
+score of being sleepy, has actually gone out of his way to gratify
+this amiable propensity in his countrymen; for it is plain, from the
+use that was to be made of his head, and from _Abhorson's_ asking,
+"Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?" that beheading, and not hanging,
+was the punishment to which _Barnardine_ was destined. But Shakspeare
+knew that the axe and block were pregnant with no ludicrous images,
+and therefore falsified the historic truth of his own drama (if I may
+so speak), rather than he would leave out such excellent matter for a
+jest as the suspending of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been ever
+esteemed to be by Englishmen.
+
+One reason why the ludicrous never fails to intrude itself into our
+contemplations upon this mode of death, I suppose to be, the absurd
+posture into which a man is thrown who is condemned to dance, as the
+vulgar delight to express it, upon nothing. To see him whisking and
+wavering in the air,
+
+  "As the wind you know will wave a man;"[1]
+
+to behold the vacant carcass, from which the life is newly dislodged,
+shifting between earth and heaven, the sport of every gust; like a
+weathercock, serving to show from which point the wind blows; like a
+maukin, fit only to scare away birds; like a nest left to swing upon
+a bough when the bird is flown: these are uses to which we cannot
+without a mixture of spleen and contempt behold the human carcass
+reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, bats, moles, weasels. Man surely
+deserves a steadier death.
+
+[Footnote 1: Hieronimo in the Spanish Tragedy.]
+
+Another reason why the ludicrous associates more forcibly with this
+than with any other mode of punishment, I cannot help thinking to be,
+the senseless costume with which old prescription has thought fit to
+clothe the exit of malefactors in this country. Let a man do what he
+will to abstract from his imagination all idea of the whimsical,
+something of it will come across him when he contemplates the figure
+of a fellow-creature in the daytime (in however distressing a
+situation) in a nightcap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addition
+has something discordant with daylight, or that it is the dress which
+we are seen in at those times when we are "seen," as the Angel in
+Milton expresses it, "least wise,"--this, I am afraid, will always be
+the case; unless, indeed, as in my instance, some strong personal
+feeling overpower the ludicrous altogether. To me, when I reflect
+upon the train of misfortunes which have pursued men through life,
+owing to that accursed drapery, the cap presents as purely frightful
+an object as the sleeveless yellow coat and devil-painted mitre of
+the San Benitos.--An ancestor of mine, who suffered for his loyalty
+in the time of the civil wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I
+am here advancing, that on the morning of execution, no entreaties
+could prevail upon him to submit to the odious dishabille, as he
+called it, but he insisted upon wearing, and actually suffered in,
+the identical, flowing periwig which he is painted in, in the gallery
+belonging to my uncle's seat in ----shire.
+
+Suffer me, Mr. Editor, before I quit the subject, to say a word or
+two respecting the minister of justice in this country; in plain
+words, I mean the hangman. It has always appeared to me that, in the
+mode of inflicting capital punishments with us, there is too much of
+the ministry of the human hand. The guillotine, as performing its
+functions more of itself and sparing human agency, though a cruel and
+disgusting exhibition, in my mind has many ways the advantage over
+_our way_. In beheading, indeed, as it was formerly practised in
+England, and in whipping to death, as is sometimes practised now, the
+hand of man is no doubt sufficiently busy; but there is something
+less repugnant in these downright blows than in the officious
+barber-like ministerings of _the other_. To have a fellow with his
+hangman's hands fumbling about your collar, adjusting the thing as
+your valet would regulate your cravat, valuing himself on his menial
+dexterity----
+
+I never shall forget meeting my rascal,--I mean the fellow who
+officiated for me,--in London last winter. I think I see him now,--in
+a waistcoat that had been mine,--smirking along as if he knew me----
+
+In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared
+infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They have
+hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in the same manner as they had
+hereditary other great officers of state; and the hangmen's families
+of two adjoining parishes intermarried with each other, to keep the
+breed entire. I wish something of the same kind were established in
+England.
+
+But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable
+images----
+
+Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor,
+
+Your unfortunate friend,
+
+PENSILIS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS.
+
+          "Sedet, asternumque sedebit,
+   Infelix Theseus."  VIRGIL.
+
+
+That there is a professional melancholy, if I may so express myself,
+incident to the occupation of a tailor, is a fact which I think very
+few will venture to dispute. I may safely appeal to my readers,
+whether they ever knew one of that faculty that was not of a
+temperament, to say the least, far removed from mercurial or jovial.
+
+Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not more
+tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than a
+gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same infallible
+testimonies of his occupation. "Walk, that I may know thee."
+
+Do you ever see him go whistling along the footpath like a carman, or
+brush through a crowd like a baker, or go smiling to himself like a
+lover? Is he forward to thrust into mobs, or to make one at the
+ballad-singer's audiences? Does he not rather slink by assemblies and
+meetings of the people, as one that wisely declines popular
+observation?
+
+How extremely rare is a noisy tailor! a mirthful and obstreperous
+tailor!
+
+"At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, "my ascendant was the
+earthly sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn,
+and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me." One would
+think that he were anatomizing a tailor! save that to the latter's
+occupation, methinks, a woollen planet would seem more consonant, and
+that he should be born when the sun was in Aries.--He goes on; "I am
+no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of
+company." How true a type of the whole trade! Eminently economical of
+his words, you shall seldom hear a jest come from one of them. He
+sometimes furnishes subject for a repartee, but rarely (I think)
+contributes one _ore proprio_.
+
+Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or at least to call out of
+him any of the external indications of vanity. I cannot say that it
+never causes his pride to swell, but it never breaks out. I am even
+fearful that it may swell and rankle to an alarming degree inwardly.
+For pride is near of kin to melancholy!--a hurtful obstruction from
+the ordinary outlets of vanity being shut. It is this stoppage which
+engenders proud humors. Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he
+is never vain. The display of his gaudy patterns, in that book of his
+which emulates the rainbow, never raises any inflations of that
+emotion in him, corresponding to what the wig-maker (for instance)
+evinces, when he expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair. He spreads
+them forth with a sullen incapacity for pleasure, a real or affected
+indifference to grandeur. Cloth of gold neither seems to elate, nor
+cloth of frieze to depress him--according to the beautiful motto
+which formed the modest imprese of the shield worn by Charles Brandon
+at his marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I doubt whether he would
+discover any vainglorious complacence in his colors, though "Iris"
+herself "dipt the woof."
+
+In further corroboration of this argument--who ever saw the wedding
+of a tailor announced in the newspapers, or the birth of his eldest
+son?
+
+When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good
+dancer, or to perform exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine in
+any such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play on the violin?
+
+Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of
+bells, firing of cannons, &c.?
+
+Valiant I know they can be; but I appeal to those who were witnesses
+to the exploits of Eliot's famous troop, whether in their fiercest
+charges they betrayed anything of that thoughtless oblivion of death
+with which a Frenchman jigs into battle, or whether they did not show
+more of the melancholy valor of the Spaniard, upon whom they charged;
+that deliberate courage which contemplation and sedentary habits
+breathe?
+
+Are they often great newsmongers?--I have known some few among them
+arrive at the dignity of speculative politicians; but that light and
+cheerful every-day interest in the affairs and goings-on of the
+world, which makes the barber[1] such delightful company, I think is
+rarely observable in them.
+
+[Footnote 1: Having incidentally mentioned the barber in a comparison
+of professional temperaments, I hope no other trade will take
+offence, or look upon it as an incivility done to them if I say, that
+in courtesy, humanity, and all the conversational and social graces
+which "gladden life," I esteem no profession comparable to his.
+Indeed, so great is the goodwill which I bear to this useful and
+agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of Court
+(where the best specimens of them are to be found, except perhaps at
+the universities), there are seven of them to whom I am personally
+known, and who never pass me without the compliment of the hat on
+either side. My truly polite and urbane friend Mr. A----m, of
+Flower-de-luce Court, in Fleet Street, will forgive my mention of him
+in particular. I can truly say that I never spent a quarter of an
+hour under his hands without deriving some profit from the agreeable
+discussions which are always going on there.]
+
+This characteristic pensiveness in them being so notorious, I wonder
+none of those writers, who have expressly treated of melancholy,
+should have mentioned it. Burton, whose book is an excellent abstract
+of all the authors in that kind who preceded him, and who treats of
+every species of this malady, from the _hypochondriacal_ or _windy_
+to the _heroical_ or _love-melancholy_, has strangely omitted it.
+Shakspeare himself has overlooked it. "I have neither the scholar's
+melancholy (saith Jaques), which is emulation; nor the courtier's,
+which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is politic; nor the lover's,
+which is all these:" and then, when you might expect him to have
+brought in, "nor the tailor's, which is," so and so, he comes to an
+end of his enumeration, and falls to a defining of his own
+melancholy.
+
+Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had so fair an opportunity
+of bringing it in, in his _Penseroso_.
+
+But the partial omissions of historians proving nothing against the
+existence of any well-attested fact, I shall proceed and endeavor to
+ascertain the causes why this pensive turn should be so predominant
+in people of this profession above all others.
+
+And first, may it not be, that the custom of wearing apparel being
+derived to us from the fall, and one of the most mortifying products
+of that unhappy event, a certain _seriousness_ (to say no more of it)
+may in the order of things have been intended to be impressed upon
+the minds of that race of men to whom in all ages the care of
+contriving the human apparel has been intrusted, to keep up the
+memory of the first institution of clothes, and serve as a standing
+remonstrance against those vanities which the absurd conversion of a
+memorial of our shame into an ornament of our persons was destined to
+produce? Correspondent in some sort to this, it may be remarked, that
+the tailor sitting over a cave or hollow place, in the caballistic
+language of his order is said to have _certain melancholy_ regions
+always open under his feet.--But waiving further inquiry into final
+causes, where the best of us can only wander in the dark, let us try
+to discover the efficient causes of this melancholy.
+
+I think, then, that they may be reduced to two, omitting some
+subordinate ones, viz.:
+
+    The sedentary habits of the tailor.--
+    Something peculiar in his diet.--
+
+First, his _sedentary habits_.--In Dr. Norris's famous narrative of
+the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, the patient, being questioned as to
+the occasion of the swelling in his legs, replies that it came "by
+criticism;" to which the learned doctor seeming to demur, as to a
+distemper which he had never read of, Dennis (who appears not to have
+been mad upon all subjects) rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no
+distemper, but a noble art; that he had sat fourteen hours a day at
+it; and that the other was a pretty doctor not to know that there was
+a communication between the brain and the legs.
+
+When we consider that this sitting for fourteen hours continuously,
+which the critic probably practised only while he was writing his
+"remarks," is no more than what the tailor, in the ordinary pursuance
+of his art, submits to daily (Sundays excepted) throughout the year,
+shall we wonder to find the brain affected, and in a manner
+overclouded, from that indissoluble sympathy between the noble and
+less noble parts of the body which Dennis hints at? The unnatural and
+painful manner of his sitting must also greatly aggravate the evil,
+insomuch that I have sometimes ventured to liken tailors at their
+boards to so many envious Junos, _sitting cross-legged to hinder the
+birth of their own felicity_. The legs transversed thus
+[Illustration: X lying on its side] crosswise, or decussated, was
+among the ancients the posture of malediction. The Turks, who
+practise it at this day, are noted to be a melancholy people.
+
+Secondly, his _diet_.--To which purpose I find a most remarkable
+passage in Burton, in his chapter entitled "Bad diet a cause of
+melancholy." "Amongst herbs to be eaten (he says) I find gourds,
+cucumbers, melons, disallowed; but especially CABBAGE. It causeth
+troublesome dreams, and sends up black vapors to the brain. Galen,
+_Loc. Affect_, lib. iii. cap. 6, of all herbs condemns CABBAGE. And
+Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1, _animć gravitatem facit_, it brings
+heaviness to the soul." I could not omit so flattering a testimony
+from an author who, having no theory of his own to serve, has so
+unconsciously contributed to the confirmation of mine. It is well
+known that this last-named vegetable has, from the earliest periods
+which we can discover, constituted almost the sole food of this
+extraordinary race of people.
+
+BURTON, _Junior_.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+HOSPITA
+
+ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES
+OF THE PALATE.
+
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--My husband and I are fond of company, and being in
+easy circumstances, we are seldom without a party to dinner two or
+three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has hitherto prevailed at
+our meetings; but there is a young gentleman, a near relation of my
+husband's, that has lately come among us, whose preposterous behavior
+bids fair, if not timely checked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is
+too great a favorite with my husband in other respects, for me to
+remonstrate with him in any other than this distant way. A letter
+printed in your publication may catch his eye; for he is a great
+reader, and makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out.
+Indeed, he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says
+that he has a good deal of wit; but for my part I cannot say I am any
+judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth except for
+purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, sir, this young
+gentleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence of his palate. The
+first time he dined with us, he thought it necessary to extenuate the
+length of time he kept the dinner on the table, by declaring that he
+had taken a very long walk in the morning, and came in fasting; but
+as that excuse could not serve above once or twice at most, he has
+latterly dropped the mask altogether, and chosen to appear in his own
+proper colors, without reserve or apology.
+
+You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way of
+staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has absolutely
+something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man of
+fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I am
+positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking they have
+consciousness, and will be put out of countenance, he treats them so
+like what they are not.
+
+Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the
+table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has what he
+calls _done with it_. Now how awkward this looks, where there are
+ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector,--how it disturbs the order and
+comfort of a meal. And yet I always make a point of helping him
+first, contrary to all good manners,--before any of my female friends
+are helped, that he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat
+before he comes out.
+
+What makes his proceedings more particularly offensive at our house
+is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is obliged to
+set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet himself and his
+whole family (myself included) feed entirely on vegetables. We have a
+theory, that animal food is neither wholesome nor natural to man; and
+even vegetables we refuse to eat until they have undergone the
+operation of fire, in consideration of those numberless little living
+creatures which the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the
+plant or root before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our
+water, which is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table.
+Our children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to
+see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs,
+raisins, and _milk_, which is the only approach to animal food which
+is allowed. They have no notion how the substance of a creature that
+ever had life can become food for another creature. A beefsteak is an
+absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in terms; a cutlet, a
+word absolutely without any meaning; a butcher is nonsense, except so
+far as it is taken for a man who delights in blood, or a hero. In
+this happy state of innocence we have kept their minds, not allowing
+them to go into the kitchen, or to hear of any preparations for the
+dressing of animal food, or even to know that such things are
+practised. But as a state of ignorance is incompatible with a certain
+age, and as my eldest girl, who is ten years old next Midsummer, must
+shortly be introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where
+she will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I
+have been endeavoring by little and little to break her mind, and
+prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced upon
+it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see her
+recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a tale of
+Anthropophagism; but she has gradually grown more reconciled to it,
+in some measure, from my telling her that it was the custom of the
+world,--to which, however senseless, we must submit, so far as we
+could do it with innocence, not to give offence; and she has shown so
+much strength of mind on other occasions, which I have no doubt is
+owing to the calmness and serenity superinduced by her diet, that I
+am in good hopes when the proper season for her _début_ arrives, she
+may be brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken, or a dish of
+sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the
+nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into the
+economy of it,--what resolutions and turnings of things upside down,
+the example of such a feeder as Mr. ---- is calculated to produce.
+
+I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every kind
+of food is so painfully acknowledged, that _shame_ has no effect upon
+him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's Thoughts on the Ratio of Food to
+Population? Can he think it reasonable that one man should consume
+the sustenance of many?
+
+The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are not
+unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his fortune
+is not over-large; and what prudent young woman would think of
+embarking hers with a man who would bring three or four mouths (or
+what is equivalent to them) into a family? She might as reasonably
+choose a widower in the same circumstances, with three or four
+children.
+
+I cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by all
+accounts, were very moderate eaters; only I have heard that the
+latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a tedious
+custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes after both.
+
+I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and give
+us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and, particularly,
+of animal food.
+
+HOSPITA.
+
+
+
+
+EDAX ON APPETITE.
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--I am going to lay before you a case of the most
+iniquitous persecution that ever poor devil suffered.
+
+You must know, then, that I have been visited with a calamity ever
+since my birth. How shall I mention it without offending delicacy?
+Yet out it must. My sufferings, then, have all arisen from a most
+inordinate appetite----
+
+Not for wealth, not for vast possessions,--then might I have hoped to
+find a cure in some of those precepts of philosophers or
+poets,--those verba et voces which Horace speaks of:--
+
+   "quibus hunc lenire dolorem
+    Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem;"
+
+not for glory, not for fame, not for applause,--for against this
+disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as Pope has
+chosen to render it,
+
+  "Rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied,
+   Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride;"
+
+nor yet for pleasure, properly so called: the strict and virtuous
+lessons which I received in early life from the best of parents,--a
+pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no more,--I trust have
+rendered me sufficiently secure on that side:----
+
+No, Sir, for none of these things; but an appetite, in its coarsest
+and least metaphorical sense,--an appetite for _food_.
+
+The exorbitances of my arrowroot and pappish days I cannot go back
+far enough to remember; only I have been told that my mother's
+constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home, the woman who
+had the care of me for that purpose used to make most extravagant
+demands for my pretended excesses in that kind; which my parents,
+rather than believe anything unpleasant of me, chose to impute to the
+known covetousness and mercenary disposition of that sort of people.
+This blindness continued on their part after I was sent for home, up
+to the period when it was thought proper, on account of my advanced
+age, that I should mix with other boys more unreservedly than I had
+hitherto done. I was accordingly sent to boarding-school.
+
+Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised. The
+prying republic of which a great school consists soon found me out:
+there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other people's
+shoulders,--no good-natured maid to take upon herself the enormities
+of which I stood accused in the article of bread and butter, besides
+the crying sin of stolen ends of puddings, and cold pies strangely
+missing. The truth was but too manifest in my looks,--in the evident
+signs of inanition which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in
+spite of the double allowance which my master was privately
+instructed by my kind parents to give me. The sense of the
+ridiculous, which is but too much alive in grown persons, is tenfold
+more active and alert in boys. Once detected, I was the constant butt
+of their arrows,--the mark against which every puny leveller directed
+his little shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and Thesauruses were
+raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants. Ventri
+natus--Ventri deditus,--Vesana gula,--Escarum gurges,--Dapibus
+indulgens,--Non dans frćna gulć,-Sectans lautć fercula mensć,
+resounded wheresoever I passed. I led a weary life, suffering the
+penalties of guilt for that which was no crime, but only following
+the blameless dictates of nature. The remembrance of those childish
+reproaches haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams. My school-days come
+again, and the horror I used to feel, when in some silent corner,
+retired from the notice of my unfeeling playfellows, I have sat to
+mumble the solitary slice of gingerbread allotted me by the bounty of
+considerate friends, and have ached at heart because I could not
+spare a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some favorite boy;
+for if I know my own heart, I was never selfish,--never possessed a
+luxury which I did not hasten to communicate to others; but my food,
+alas! was none; it was an indispensable necessary; I could as soon
+have spared the blood in my veins, as have parted that with my
+companions.
+
+Well, no one stage of suffering lasts forever: we should grow
+reconciled to it at length, I suppose, if it did. The miseries of my
+school-days had their end; I was once more restored to the paternal
+dwelling. The affectionate solicitude of my parents was directed to
+the good-natured purpose of concealing, even from myself, the
+infirmity which haunted me. I was continually told that I was
+growing, and the appetite I displayed was humanely represented as
+being nothing more than a symptom and an effect of that. I used even
+to be complimented upon it. But this temporary fiction could not
+endure above a year or two. I ceased to grow, but, alas! I did not
+cease my demands for alimentary sustenance.
+
+Those times are long since past, and with them have ceased to exist
+the fond concealment--the indulgent blindness--the delicate
+overlooking--the compassionate fiction. I and my infirmity are left
+exposed and bare to the broad, unwinking eye of the world, which
+nothing can elude. My meals are scanned, my mouthfuls weighed in a
+balance; that which appetite demands is set down to the account of
+gluttony--a sin which my whole soul abhors--nay, which Nature herself
+has put it out of my power to commit. I am constitutionally
+disenabled from that vice; for how can he be guilty of excess who
+never can get enough? Let them cease, then, to watch my plate; and
+leave off their ungracious comparisons of it to the seven baskets of
+fragments, and the supernaturally replenished cup of old Baucis: and
+be thankful that their more phlegmatic stomachs, not their virtue,
+have saved them from the like reproaches. I do not see that any of
+them desist from eating till the holy rage of hunger, as some one
+calls it, is supplied. Alas! I am doomed to stop short of that
+continence.
+
+What am I to do? I am by disposition inclined to conviviality and the
+social meal. I am no gourmand: I require no dainties: I should
+despise the board of Heliogabalus, except for its long sitting. Those
+vivacious, long-continued meals of the latter Romans, indeed, I
+justly envy; but the kind of fare which the Curii and Dentati put up
+with, I could be content with. Dentatus I have been called, among
+other unsavory jests. Doublemeal is another name which my
+acquaintance have palmed upon me, for an innocent piece of policy
+which I put in practice for some time without being found out; which
+was--going the round of my friends, beginning with the most primitive
+feeders among them, who take their dinner about one o'clock, and so
+successively dropping in upon the next and the next, till by the time
+I got among my more fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or
+seven, I have nearly made up the body of a just and complete meal (as
+I reckon it), without taking more than one dinner (as they account of
+dinners) at one person's house. Since I have been found out, I
+endeavor to make up by a damper, as I call it, at home, before I go
+out. But, alas! with me, increase of appetite truly grows by what it
+feeds on. What is peculiarly offensive to me at those dinner-parties
+is, the senseless custom of cheese, and the dessert afterwards. I
+have a rational antipathy to the former; and for fruit, and those
+other vain vegetable substitutes for meat (meat, the only legitimate
+aliment for human creatures since the Flood, as I take it to be
+deduced from that permission, or ordinance rather, given to Noah and
+his descendants), I hold them in perfect contempt. Hay for horses. I
+remember a pretty apologue, which Mandeville tells, very much to this
+purpose, in his Fable of the Bees:--He brings in a Lion arguing with
+a Merchant, who had ventured to expostulate with this king of beasts
+upon his violent methods of feeding. The Lion thus retorts:--"Savage
+I am, but no creature can be called cruel but what either by malice
+or insensibility extinguishes his natural pity. The Lion was born
+without compassion: we follow the instinct of our nature; the gods
+have appointed us to live upon the waste and spoil of other animals,
+and as long as we can meet with dead ones, we never hunt after the
+living; 'tis only man, mischievous man, that can make death a sport.
+Nature taught your stomach to crave nothing but vegetables.--(Under
+favor of the Lion, if he meant to assert this universally of mankind,
+it is not true. However, what he says presently is very
+sensible.)--Your violent fondness to change, and greater eagerness
+after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction of animals
+without justice or necessity. The Lion has a ferment within him, that
+consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as well as the flesh of
+all animals without exception. Your squeamish stomach, in which the
+digestive heat is weak and inconsiderable, won't so much as admit of
+the most tender parts of them, unless above half the concoction has
+been performed by artificial fire beforehand; and yet what animal
+have you spared, to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite?
+Languid, I say; for what is man's hunger if compared with the Lion's?
+Yours, when it is at the worst, makes you faint; mine makes me mad:
+oft have I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it,
+but in vain: nothing but large quantities of flesh can any ways
+appease it."--Allowing for the Lion not having a prophetic instinct
+to take in every lusus naturć that, was possible of the human
+appetite, he was, generally speaking, in the right; and the Merchant
+was so impressed with his argument that, we are told, he replied not,
+but fainted away. O, Mr. Reflector, that I were not obliged to add,
+that the creature who thus argues was but a type of me! Miserable
+man! _I am that Lion!_ "Oft have I tried with roots and herbs to
+allay that violence, but in vain; nothing but----."
+
+Those tales which are renewed as often as the editors of papers want
+to fill up a space in their unfeeling columns, of great
+eaters,--people that devour whole geese and legs of mutton _for
+wagers_,--are sometimes attempted to be drawn to a parallel with my
+case. This wilful confounding of motives and circumstances, which
+make all the difference of moral or immoral in actions, just suits
+the sort of talent which some of my acquaintance pride themselves
+upon. _Wagers_!--I thank Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could
+consent to prostitute a gift (though but a left-handed one) of
+nature, to the enlarging of my worldly substance; prudent as the
+necessities, which that fatal gift have involved me in, might have
+made such a prostitution to appear in the eyes of an indelicate
+world.
+
+Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction of that talent which was
+given me, I have been content to sacrifice no common expectations;
+for such I had from an old lady, a near relation of our family, in
+whose good graces I had the fortune to stand, till one fatal
+evening----. You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if you have ever passed
+your time much in country towns, the kind of suppers which elderly
+ladies in those places have lying _in petto_ in an adjoining parlor,
+next to that where they are entertaining their periodically invited
+coevals with cards and muffins. The cloth is usually spread some
+half-hour before the final rubber is decided, whence they adjourn to
+sup upon what may emphatically be called _nothing_ ;--a sliver of
+ham, purposely contrived to be transparent to show the china-dish
+through it, neighboring a slip of invisible brawn, which abuts upon
+something they call a tartlet, as that is bravely supported by an
+atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a grain of potted beef,
+with a power of such dishlings, _minims of hospitality_, spread in
+defiance of human nature, or rather with an utter ignorance of what
+it demands. Being engaged at one of these card-parties, I was obliged
+to go a little before _supper-time_ (as they facetiously called the
+point of time in which they are taking these shadowy refections), and
+the old lady, with a sort of fear shining through the smile of
+courteous hospitality that beamed in her countenance, begged me to
+step into the next room and take something before I went out in the
+cold,--a proposal which lay not in my nature to deny. Indignant at
+the airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in a trice
+dispatched the whole meal intended for eleven persons,--fish, flesh,
+fowl, pastry,--to the sprigs of garnishing parsley, and the last
+fearful custard that quaked upon the board. I need not describe the
+consternation, when in due time the dowagers adjourned from their
+cards. Where was the supper?--and the servants' answer, Mr. ---- had
+eat it all.--That freak, however, jested me out of a good three
+hundred pounds a year, which I afterwards was informed for a
+certainty the old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not in
+illustration of the unhappy faculty which I am possessed of; for any
+unlucky wag of a school-boy, with a tolerable appetite, could have
+done as much without feeling any hurt after it,--only that you may
+judge whether I am a man likely to set my talent to sale, or to
+require the pitiful stimulus of a wager.
+
+I have read in Pliny, or in some author of that stamp, of a reptile
+in Africa, whose venom is of that hot, destructive quality, that
+wheresoever it fastens its tooth, the whole substance of the animal
+that has been bitten in a few seconds is reduced to dust, crumbles
+away, and absolutely disappears: it is called, from this quality, the
+Annihilator. Why am I forced to seek, in all the most prodigious and
+portentous facts of Natural History, for creatures typical of myself?
+_I am that snake, that Annihilator:_ "wherever I fasten, in a few
+seconds----."
+
+O happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very
+thing, the excess of which is my torment! O fortunate, too fortunate,
+if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not give to
+exchange this fierce concoctive and digestive heat,--this rabid fury
+which vexes me, which tears and torments me,--for your quiet,
+mortified, hermit-like, subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool,
+chastened inclinations and coy desires for food!
+
+To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this
+unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the physicians
+to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have doubtless their
+eye upon me; and as I have been cut up alive by the sarcasms of my
+friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the probability that this
+animal frame, when its restless appetites shall have ceased their
+importunity, may be cut up also (horrible suggestion!) to determine
+in what system of solids or fluids this original sin of my
+constitution lay lurking. What work will they make with their acids
+and alkalines, their serums and coagulums, effervescences, viscous
+matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious juices, to explain that cause
+which Nature, who willed the effect to punish me for my sins, may no
+less have determined to keep in the dark from them, to punish them
+for their presumption!
+
+You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you; what
+can you do for me? Alas! I know too well that my case is out of the
+reach of advice,--out of the reach of consolation. But it is some
+relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of misery; and some of
+my acquaintance, who may read my case in your pages under a borrowed
+name, may be induced to give it a more humane consideration than I
+could ever yet obtain from them under my own. Make them, if possible,
+to _reflect_, that an original peculiarity of constitution is no
+crime; that not that which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but
+that which comes out of it,--such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and
+taunts, and ill-natured observations; and let them consider, if there
+be such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery,
+Innocent Adultery, &c., whether there may not be also such a thing as
+Innocent Gluttony.
+
+I shall only subscribe myself,
+
+Your afflicted servant,
+
+EDAX.
+
+
+
+
+CURIOUS FRAGMENTS,
+
+EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE-BOOK,
+
+WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE
+ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+EXTRACT I.
+
+I, Democritus Junior, have put my finishing pen to a tractate _De
+Melancholia_, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I blesse the
+Trinity, which hath given me health to prosecute my worthlesse
+studies thus far, and make supplication, with a _Laus Deo_, if in any
+case these my poor labours may be found instrumental to weede out
+black melancholy, carking cares, harte-grief, from the mind of man.
+_Sed hoc magis volo quam expecto._
+
+I turn now to my book, _i nunc liber, goe forth, my brave Anatomy,
+child of my brain-sweat_, and yee, _candidi lectores_, lo! here I
+give him up to you, even do with him what you please, my masters.
+Some, I suppose, will applaud, commend, cry him up (these are my
+friends), hee is a _flos rarus_, forsooth, a nonesuch, a Phoenix
+(concerning whom see _Plinius_ and _Mandeuille_, though _Fienus de
+Monstris_ doubteth at large of such a bird, whom _Montaltus_
+confuting argueth to have been a man _malć scrupulositatis_, of a
+weak and cowardlie faith: _Christopherus a Vega_ is with him in
+this). Others again will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry
+down altogether my collections, for crude, inept, putid, _post coenam
+scripta, Coryate could write better upon a full meal_, verbose,
+inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities, _dogmata_,
+sentences of learneder writers which have been before me, when as
+that first-named sort clean otherwise judge of my labours to bee
+nothing else but a _messe of opinions_, a vortex attracting
+indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, straw, wood, excrement, an
+exchange, tavern, marte, for foreigners to congregate, Danes, Swedes,
+Hollanders, Lombards, so many strange faces, dresses, salutations,
+languages, all which _Wolfius_ behelde with great content upon the
+Venetian Rialto, as he describes diffusedly in his book the World's
+Epitome, which _Sannazar_ so bepraiseth, _e contra_ our Polydore can
+see nothing in it; they call me singular, a pedant, fantastic, words
+of reproach in this age, which is all too neoterick and light for my
+humour.
+
+One cometh to me sighing, complaining. He expected universal remedies
+in my Anatomy; so many cures as there are distemperatures among men.
+I have not put his affection in my cases. Hear you his case. My fine
+Sir is a lover, an _inamorata_, a Pyramus, a Romeo; he walks seven
+years disconsolate, moping, because he cannot enjoy his miss,
+_insanus amor_ is his melancholy, the man is mad; _delirat_, he
+dotes; all this while his Glycera is rude, spiteful, not to be
+entreated, churlish, spits at him, yet exceeding fair, gentle eyes
+(which is a beauty), hair lustrous and _smiling_, the trope is none
+of mine, _Ćneas Sylvius_ hath _crines ridentes_--in conclusion she is
+wedded to his rival, a boore, a _Corydon_, a rustic, _omnino ignarus,
+he can scarce construe Corderius_, yet haughty, fantastic,
+_opiniâtre_. The lover travels, goes into foreign parts,
+peregrinates, _amoris ergo_, sees manners, customs, not English,
+converses with pilgrims, lying travellers, monks, hermits, those
+cattle, pedlars, travelling gentry, _Egyptians_, natural wonders,
+unicorns (though _Aldobrandus_ will have them to be figments),
+satyrs, semi-viri, apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial,
+_pyramides_, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, which are nothing
+but ivory as _Melancthon_ judges, though _Cornutus_ leaneth to think
+them bones of dogs, cats, (why not men?) which subtill priests vouch
+to have been saints, martyrs, _heu Pietas!_ By that time he has ended
+his course, _fugit hora_, seven other years are expired, gone by,
+time is he should return, he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired
+of his friends, _favebant venti, Neptune is curteis_, after some
+weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to town, greets his family,
+kinsmen, _compotores, those jokers his friends that were wont to
+tipple with him at alehouses_; these wonder now to see the change,
+_quantum mutatus, the man is quite another thing_, he is
+disenthralled, manumitted, he wonders what so bewitched him, he can
+now both see, hear, smell, handle, converse with his mistress, single
+by reason of the death of his rival, a widow having children, grown
+willing, prompt, amorous, showing no such great dislike to second
+nuptials, he might have her for asking, no such thing, his mind is
+changed, he loathes his former meat, had liever eat ratsbane,
+aconite, his humour is to die a bachelour; marke the conclusion. In
+this humour of celibate seven other years are consumed in idleness,
+sloth, world's pleasures, which fatigate, satiate, induce wearinesse,
+vapours, _tćdium vitć:_ When upon a day, behold a wonder, _redit
+Amor_, the man is as sick as ever, he is commenced lover upon the old
+stock, walks with his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence, moping
+he leans his head, face yellow, beard flowing and incomposite, eyes
+sunken, _anhelus, breath wheezy and asthmatical, by reason of
+over-much sighing:_ society he abhors, solitude is but a hell, what
+shall he doe? all this while his mistresse is forward, coming,
+_amantissima, ready to jump at once into his mouth_, her he hateth,
+feels disgust when she is but mentioned, thinks her ugly, old, a
+painted Jesabeel, Alecto, Megara, and Tisiphone all at once, a
+Corinthian Lais, a strumpet, only not handsome; that which he
+affecteth so much, that which drives him mad, distracted, phrenetic,
+beside himself, is no beauty which lives, nothing _in rerum naturâ_
+(so he might entertain a hope of a cure), but something _which is
+not_, can never be, a certain _fantastic opinion_ or _notional image_
+of his mistresse, _that which she was_, and that which hee thought
+her to be, in former times, how beautiful! torments him, frets him,
+follows him, makes him that he wishes to die.
+
+This Caprichio, _Sir Humourous_, hee cometh to me to be cured. I
+counsel marriage with his mistresse, according to Hippocrates his
+method, together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes, and wild parsley, good
+in such cases, though Avicenna preferreth some sorts of wild fowl,
+teals, widgeons, beccaficos, which men in Sussex eat. He flies out in
+a passion, ho! ho; and falls to calling me names, dizzard, ass,
+lunatic, moper, Bedlamite, Pseudo-Democritus. I smile in his face,
+bidding him be patient, tranquil, to no purpose, he still rages: I
+think this man must fetch his remedies from Utopia, Fairy Land,
+Islands in the Moone, &c.
+
+
+EXTRACT II.
+
+* * * * * Much disputacyons of fierce wits amongst themselves, in
+logomachies, subtile controversies, many dry blows given on either
+side, contentions of learned men, or such as would be so thought, as
+_Bodinus de Periodis_ saith of such an one, _arrident amici ridet
+mundus_, in English, this man his cronies they cocker him up, they
+flatter him, he would fayne appear somebody, meanwhile the world
+thinks him no better than a dizzard, a ninny, a sophist. * *
+
+* * * Philosophy running mad, madness philosophizing, much
+idle-learned inquiries, what truth is? and no issue, fruit, of all
+these noises, only huge books are written, and who is the wiser? * *
+* * * Men sitting in the Doctor's chair, we marvel how they got there
+being _homines intellectűs pulverulenti_ as _Trincauellius_ notes;
+they care not so they may raise a dust to smother the eyes of their
+oppugners; _homines parvulissimi_, as _Lemnius_, whom _Alcuin_ herein
+taxeth of a crude Latinism; dwarfs, minims, the least little men,
+these spend their time, and it is odds but they lose their time and
+wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble and retiring Truth: Her
+they prosecute, her still they worship, _libant_, they make
+libations, spilling the wine as those old Romans in their
+sacrificials, _Cerealia, May games:_ Truth is the game all these hunt
+after, to the extreme perturbacyon and drying up of the moistures
+_humidum radicale exsiccant_, as _Galen_, in his counsel to one of
+these wear-wits, brain-moppers, spunges saith. * * * and for all this
+_nunquam metam attingunt_, and how should they? they bowle awry,
+shooting beside the marke; whereas it should appear, that _Truth
+absolute_ on this planet of ours is scarcely to be found, but in her
+stede _Queene Opinion_ predominates, governs, whose shifting and ever
+mutable _Lampas_, me seemeth, is man's destinie to follow, she
+prćcurseth, she guideth him, before his uncapable eyes she frisketh
+her tender lights, which entertayne the child-man, untill what time
+his sight be strong to endure the vision of _Very Truth_, which is in
+the heavens, the vision beatifical, as _Anianus_ expounds in his
+argument against certain mad wits which helde God to be corporeous;
+these were dizzards, fools, _gothamites_. * * * * but and if _Very
+Truth_ be extant indeede on earth, as some hold she it is which
+actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye may in vaine look for her in the
+learned universities, halls, colleges. Truth is no Doctoresse, she
+takes no degrees at Paris or Oxford, amongst great clerks,
+disputants, subtile Aristotles, men _nodosi ingenii, able to take
+Lully by the chin_, but oftentimes to such an one as myself, an
+_Idiota_ or common person, _no great things_, melancholizing in woods
+where waters are, quiet places by rivers, fountains, whereas the
+silly man expecting no such matter, thinketh only how best to
+delectate and refresh his mynde continually with _Natura_ her
+pleasaunt scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie gardens,
+parks, terraces, _Belvideres_, on a sudden the goddesse herself
+_Truth_ has appeared, with a shyning lyghte, and a sparklyng
+countenance, so as yee may not be able lightly to resist her. * * * *
+
+
+EXTRACT III.
+
+This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs and
+cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, according to
+_Villanovus_ his prescription, who disallows the use of meat in a
+morning as gross, fat, hebetant, _feral_, altogether fitter for wild
+beasts than men, _e contra_ commendeth this herb-diete for gentle,
+humane, active, conducing to contemplation in most men, I betook
+myselfe to the nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in
+the _suburbes_, as airiest, quietest, _loci musis propriores_, free
+from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick and base workes,
+workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles of outlandish birds,
+fishes, crocodiles, _Indians_, mermaids; adde quarrels, fightings,
+wranglings of the common sort, _plebs_, the rabble, duelloes with
+fists, proper to this island, at which the stiletto'd and secrete
+_Italian_ laughs.) Withdrawing myselfe from these buzzing and
+illiterate vanities, with a _bezo las manos_ to the city, I begin to
+inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses _dilatis naribus_ snort the
+fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly there
+crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull,
+melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a
+clearer atmosphere than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a
+citty can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on men's
+shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of hearse,
+mourners, plumes, _mutć personć, those personate actors that will
+weep if yee shew them a piece of silver;_ none of those customed
+civilities of children, kinsfolk, _dependants_, following the coffin;
+he died a poore man, his friends _accessores opum_, _those cronies of
+his that stuck by him so long as he had a penny_, now leave him,
+forsake him, shun him, desert him; they think it much to follow his
+putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he had
+any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his son dies
+before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base, dejected, miserable,
+&c., or if he have any which survive him, _sua negotia agunt_, they
+mind their own business, forsooth, cannot, will not, find time,
+leisure, _inclination, extremum munus perficere_, to follow to the
+pit their old indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them,
+caressed them, cockering them up, _quantum potuit_, as farre as his
+means extended, while they were babes, chits, _minims_, hee may rot
+in his grave, lie stinking in the sun _for them_, have no buriall at
+all, they care not. _O nefas!_ Chiefly I noted the coffin to have
+been _without a pall_, nothing but a few planks, of cheapest wood
+that could be had, _naked_, having none of the ordinary _symptomata_
+of a funerall, those _locularii_ which bare the body having on
+diversely coloured coats, _and none black:_ (one of these reported
+the deceased to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper,
+harboured and fed in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to
+whose proper burying-ground he was now going for interment.) All
+which when I behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and
+incontinently I fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, a
+_Croesus_, a _Crassus_, _or as rich as Whittington_, what pompe,
+charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall,
+_ceremoniall-obsequies_, _obsequious ceremonies_, had been thought
+too good for such an one; what store of panegyricks, elogies, funeral
+orations, &c., some beggarly poetaster, worthy to be beaten for his
+ill rimes, crying him up, hee was rich, generous, bountiful, polite,
+learned, a _Mćcenas_, while as in very deede he was nothing lesse:
+what weeping, sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kinsmen,
+friends, relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for
+the deceased; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts
+(they care not if he had died a year ago); so many clients,
+dependants, flatterers, _parasites, cunning Gnathoes_, tramping on
+foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall stand fairest
+with the successour; he mean time (like enough) spurns them from him,
+spits at them, treads them under his foot, will have nought to do
+with any such cattle. I think him in the right: _Hoec sunt majora
+gravitate Heracliti. These follies are enough to give crying
+Heraclitus a fit of the spleene._"
+
+
+
+
+MR. H----.
+
+A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+
+AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE,
+DECEMBER, 1806.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Mr. H----, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the
+play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled
+with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see
+Mr. H----, and answering that they would certainly; but before night
+the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was
+eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply
+mightst have lived. Bet thou didst come to an untimely end for thy
+tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off--" _Theatrical
+Examiner_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+Mr. H----            _Mr. Elliston_.
+BELVIL               _Mr. Bartley_.
+LANDLORD PRY         _Mr. Wewitzer_.
+MELESINDA            _Miss Mellon_.
+MAID TO MELESINDA    _Mrs. Harlowe_.
+Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.
+
+_Scene_--BATH.
+
+
+PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON.
+
+  If we have sinn'd in paring down a name,
+  All civil, well-bred authors do the same.
+  Survey the columns of our daily writers--
+  You'll find that some Initials are great fighters.
+  How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
+  When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.
+  With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard,
+  Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard!
+  Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms,
+  Till half the Alphabet is up in arms.
+  Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,
+  To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.
+  Where the dispensers of the public lash
+  Soft penance give; a letter and a dash--
+  Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,
+  And loses half her grossness by curtailing.
+  Faux pas are told in such a modest way,--
+  "The affair of Colonel B---- with Mrs. A----"
+  You must forgive them--for what is there, say,
+  Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant
+  To such a very pressing Consonant?
+  Or who poetic justice dares dispute,
+  When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,
+  The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute?
+  Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
+  The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
+  Initials I am told have taken place
+  Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race;
+  And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea,
+  Replies, "I'll come--but it don't rest with me--
+  I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
+  O should this mincing fashion ever spread
+  From names of living heroes to the dead,
+  How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head,
+  As each loved syllable should melt away--
+  Her Alexander turn'd into great A----
+  A single C. her Cćsar to express--
+  Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S----
+  And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech,
+  Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H----.
+
+
+MR. H----,
+
+A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT I.
+
+SCENE.--_A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c._
+
+               _Enter_ MR. H.
+
+_Mr. H._ Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?
+
+_Landlord_. Yes, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ You have paid him?
+
+_Landlord_. There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled up, no
+name, only blank--"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best
+hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who
+he shall say "Dr."
+
+_Mr. H._ Why, Mr. H. to be sure.
+
+_Landlord_. So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it.
+He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.
+
+_Mr. H._ Rot his impertinence! Bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not
+trouble me with his scruples.
+
+_Landlord_. I shall, Sir.                                [_Exit_.
+
+            _Enter a Waiter._
+
+_Waiter_. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace
+of pheasants for Mr. H.
+
+_Mr. H._ Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best
+respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me out, with
+any name or no name.
+
+           _Enter 2d Waiter._
+
+_2d Waiter._ Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door.
+
+_Mr. H._ Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows come for.
+
+_2d Waiter._ He has sent up to know by what name your Honor will
+please to be inserted.
+
+_Mr. H._ Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my
+name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of
+going anonymous.
+
+                                               [_Exit 2d Waiter._
+
+           _Enter 3d Waiter._
+
+_3d Waiter._ Two letters for Mr. H.                 [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ From ladies (_opens them_). This from Melesinda, to remind
+me of the morning-call I promised; the pretty creature positively
+languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her
+(_affectedly_). This from her cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I
+suppose (_opening it_),--Oh, "this evening"--"Tea and
+cards"--(_surveying himself with complacency_). Dear H., thou art
+certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favorite
+among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of
+thy unfortunate----pshaw!
+
+          _Enter 4th Waiter._
+
+_4th Waiter._ Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription.
+Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down.
+
+_4th Waiter_. What name shall I tell him, Sir?
+
+_Mr. H._ Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.
+
+                                              [_Exit 4th Waiter._
+
+          _Enter 5th Waiter._
+
+_5th Waiter_. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private
+donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his
+benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head? Now I shall
+be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I
+am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away.
+
+_5th Waiter_. I would have done so, Sir; but the object of his call
+now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to.
+
+_Mr. H._ Why, me.
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ Me, me, me; who else, to be sure?
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name of his
+benefactor.
+
+_Mr. H._ Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot be obliged
+to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he must know the
+name, birth, parentage, and education of his benefactor! I warrant
+you, next he will require a certificate of one's good behavior, and a
+magistrate's license in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so
+to--give an alms. Anything more?
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county
+petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent
+to remind you of your promise to bail him.
+
+_Mr. H._ Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. Here is
+more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither
+serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man had better be
+without a nose, than without a name. I will not live long in this
+mutilated, dismembered state; I will to Melesinda this instant, and
+try to forget these vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name;
+but then, hang it! there is none in mine to answer to
+it.                                                        [Exit.
+
+(_While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been observing
+him curiously_.)
+
+1_st Gent._ Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?
+
+2_d Gent._ Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H.
+
+1_st Gent._ Has he no more name?
+
+2_d Gent._ None that has yet transpired. No more! why, that single
+letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies
+in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is already received
+into all the first families.
+
+1_st Gent._ Wonderful! yet, nobody know who he is, or where he comes
+from!
+
+2_d Gent._ He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity;
+dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers are all dying
+for fear the daughters should get him; and for the daughters, he may
+command them as absolutely as----. Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis
+thought, will carry him.
+
+1_st Gent._ And is it possible that a mere anonymous--
+
+2_d Gent._ Phoo! that is the charm.--Who is he? and what is he? and
+what is his name?----The man with the great nose on his face never
+excited more of the gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of
+Strasburg, than this new-comer, with the single letter to his name,
+has lighted up among the wives and maids of Bath; his simply having
+lodgings here, draws more visitors to the house than an election.
+Come with me to the Parade, and I will show you more of him.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+SCENE _in the Street. Mr. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him._
+
+_Belvil._ My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen for so
+many years? it must--it can be no other than Jack _(going up to
+him)._ My dear Ho----
+
+_Mr. H. (Stopping his mouth)._ Ho----! the devil. Hush.
+
+_Belvil._ Why, sure it is----
+
+_Mr. H._ It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless.
+
+_Belvil._ My dear Ho----
+
+_Mr. H. (Stopping him)._ Don't name it.
+
+_Belvil._ Name what?
+
+_Mr. H._ My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for
+a time.
+
+_Belvil._ I understand you--Creditors, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H._ No, I assure you.
+
+_Belvil._ Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at
+your heels?
+
+_Mr. H._ I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.
+
+_Belvil._ You ha'n't taken a purse?
+
+_Mr. H._ To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjecture, you
+must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name.
+
+_Belvil_ Ridiculous! 'tis true yours is none of the most romantic;
+but what can that signify in a man?
+
+_Mr. H._ You must understand that I am in some credit with the
+ladies.
+
+_Belvil._ With the ladies!
+
+_Mr. H._ And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune--
+
+_Belvil._ Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.
+
+_Mr. H._ My figure--
+
+_Belvil._ Airy, gay, and imposing.
+
+_Mr. H._ My parts--
+
+_Belvil._ Bright.
+
+_Mr. H._ My conversation--
+
+_Belvil._ Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.
+
+_Mr. H._ But then my name--damn my name!
+
+_Belvil._ Childish!
+
+_Mr. H._ Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blessed with one which sighing
+virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the paternal.
+But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) would
+endure to be called Mrs.----?
+
+_Belvil._ Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge,
+the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and
+Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack
+Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a
+Clutterbuck.
+
+_Mr. H._ Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is
+bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho----
+
+_Belvil._ Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are really
+ashamed of the family-name?
+
+_Mr. H._ Ay, and of my father that begot me, and my father's father,
+and all their forefathers that have borne it since the Conquest.
+
+_Belvil_. But how do you know the women are so squeamish?
+
+_Mr. H_. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of
+sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I
+have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two
+old maids.
+
+_Belvil_. That was hard indeed, Jack.
+
+_Mr. H_. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they
+averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered their
+consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name; and rivals
+have declined my challenges, because they pretended it was an
+ungentlemanly name.
+
+_Belvil_. Ha, ha, ha! but what course do you mean to pursue?
+
+_Mr. H_. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be
+content to take me as Mr. H.
+
+_Belvil_. Mr. H.?
+
+_Mr. H_. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one likes to be
+as near the truth as possible.
+
+_Belvil_. Certainly. But what then? to get her to consent--
+
+_Mr. H_. To accompany me to the altar without a name--in short, to
+suspend her curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest shall
+pronounce the irrevocable charm, which makes two names one.
+
+_Belvil_. And that name--and then she must be pleased, ha, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H_. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with;
+hark'e (_whispers_)--(_musing_). Yet, hang it! 'tis cruel to betray
+her confidence.
+
+_Belvil_. But the family-name, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H_. As you say, the family-name must be perpetuated.
+
+_Belvil._ Though it be but a homely one.
+
+_Mr. H._ True; but come, I will show you the house where dwells this
+credulous melting fair.
+
+_Belvil._ Ha, ha! my old friend dwindled down to one letter.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt._
+
+
+SCENE._-An Apartment in_ MELESINDA'S _House._
+MELESINDA _sola, as if musing._
+
+_Melesinda._ H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by its being
+concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio,
+that is no surname: what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet--pretty,
+and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No,'tis none of these; 'tis
+Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard,
+high-born Howard, that would do; maybe it is Harley, methinks my H.
+resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him! and from his
+own lips I will once forever be resolved.
+
+               _Enter Mr. H._
+
+_Mr. H._ My dear Melesinda.
+
+_Melesinda._ My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear
+allegiance to,--to be enamored of inarticulate sounds, and call with
+sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.
+
+_Mr. H._ My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of
+that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it
+whim, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have sworn an oath, never,
+till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity
+which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in
+me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know it this very night.
+
+_Mr. H_. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one
+proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not
+have a secret to withhold.
+
+_Melesinda_. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and
+die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I
+call you till we are married?
+
+_Mr. H_. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay Love: Love
+will do very well.
+
+_Melesinda_. How many syllables is it, Love?
+
+_Mr. H_. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a
+vengeance! One, two, three, four,--what does it signify how many
+syllables?
+
+_Melesinda_. How many syllables, Love?
+
+_Mr. H_. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this
+childish curiosity.
+
+_Melesinda_. How many letters are there in it?
+
+[_Exit_ MR. H. _followed by_ MELESINDA _repeating the
+          question_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing_.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you.
+
+_1st Waiter_. The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.
+
+_2d Waiter_. The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.
+
+_1st Waiter_. The Hammonds.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin, with an H?
+
+_1st Waiter_. So does Hammond for that matter.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it, I did not think
+of that. I begin to be of your opinion: he is certainly a Hammond.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Here comes Susan Chambermaid: maybe she can tell.
+
+             _Enter_ SUSAN.
+
+_Both_. Well, Susan, have you heard anything who the strange
+gentleman is?
+
+_Susan_. Haven't you heard? it's all come out! Mrs. Guesswell, the
+parson's widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in
+confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says they were
+holding a sort of a _cummitty_ about it.
+
+_Both_. What? What?
+
+_Susan_. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from his
+_figger_ and the appearance he cuts, and his _sumpshous_ way of
+living, and above all from the remarkable circumstance that his
+surname should begin with an H., that he must be--
+
+_Both_. Well, well--
+
+_Susan_. Neither more nor less than the Prince.
+
+_Both_. Prince!
+
+_Susan_. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise.
+
+_Both_. Very likely, very likely.
+
+_Susan_. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she
+knows it.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy
+what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.
+
+_Susan_. Fiddle of the newspapers; who else can it be?
+
+_Both_. That is very true (_gravely_).
+
+              _Enter_ LANDLORD.
+
+_Landlord_. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London
+coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has
+been bawling for somebody to help him off with his boots.
+
+                        [_The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out_.
+
+(_Solus_.) The house is turned upside down since the strange
+gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and
+speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into
+corners and speculating; hostlers and stable-boys speculating in the
+yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too,
+for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat,
+and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no; and after
+all what does it signify? I hate such curious--odso, I must take this
+box up into his bedroom--he charged me to see to it myself;--I hate
+such inquisitive--I wonder what is in it--it feels heavy; (_reads_)
+"Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy his
+curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and
+wills. But I wouldn't--no I wouldn't--it is a pretty box
+too--prettily dovetailed--I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd
+cut my fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty--what have I to
+do--curse the keys, how they rattle!--rattle in one's pockets--the
+keys and the half-pence (_takes out a bunch and plays with them_). I
+wonder if any of these would fit; one might just try them, but I
+wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should I be the
+richer for knowing? (_All this time he tries the keys one by one._)
+What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate
+people that are always prying, poking and prying into
+things,--thrusting their finger into one place--a mighty little hole
+this--and their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but
+what is that to me? I wouldn't go to--no, no--but it is odd little
+rusty should just happen--(_While he is turning up the lid of the
+box, _Mr. H. _enters behind him unperceived._)
+
+_Mr. H._ What are you about, you dog?
+
+_Landlord._ Oh Lord, Sir I pardon; no thief, as I hope to be saved.
+Little Pry was always honest.
+
+_Mr. H._ What else could move you to open that box?
+
+_Landlord._ Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth.
+This box happened to be lying--that is, I happened to be carrying
+this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and so--little rusty
+happened to fit--
+
+_Mr. H._ So little rusty happened to fit!--and would not a rope fit
+that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been moved: all is safe,
+but it was as well to frighten him a little (_aside_). Come,
+Landlord, as I think you honest, and suspect you only intended to
+gratify a little foolish curiosity--
+
+_Landlord_. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.
+
+_Mr. H._ For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I
+think?
+
+_Landlord_. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.
+
+_Mr. H._ An apt name: you have a prying temper--I mean some little
+curiosity--a sort of inquisitiveness about you.
+
+_Landlord_. A natural thirst after knowledge you may call it, Sir.
+When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up the lids of
+some of my schoolfellows' boxes,--not to steal anything, upon my
+honor, Sir,--only to see what was in them; have had pens stuck in my
+eyes for peeping through keyholes after knowledge; could never see a
+cold pie with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for
+lifting up the crust,--just to try if it were pigeon or
+partridge,--for no other reason in the world. Surely I think my
+passion for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking the shell to
+get at something concealed, more than to any delight I took in eating
+the kernel. In short, Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth.
+
+_Mr. H._ You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some
+bureau or other just to see what is in it.
+
+_Landlord._ That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for
+peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside out,--just for
+curiosity. The blankets I have been made to dance in for searching
+parish registers for old ladies' ages,--just for curiosity! Once I
+was dragged through a horsepond, only for peeping into a closet that
+had glass-doors to it, while my Lady Bluegarters was
+undressing,--just for curiosity!
+
+_Mr. H._ A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, Mr. Pry,
+first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the
+favor to carry your curiosity so far, as to inquire if my servants
+are within.
+
+_Landlord._ I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,--I think I hear them
+coming,--shall make bold to leave you,
+Sir.                                                     [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going
+anonymous!
+
+           _Enter Two Footmen._
+
+_1st Footman._ You speak first.
+
+_2d Footman._ You had better speak.
+
+_1st Footman._ You promised to begin.
+
+_Mr. H._ They have something to say to me. The rascals want their
+wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favor to be asked when
+they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain
+at the best. I think I must not be close with them. Well,
+David--well, Jonathan.
+
+_1st Footman._ We have served your honor faithfully--
+
+_2d Footman._ Hope your honor won't take offence--
+
+_Mr. H._ The old story, I suppose--wages?
+
+_1st Footman._ That's not it, your honor.
+
+_2d Footman._ You speak.
+
+_1st Footman._ But if your honor would just be pleased to--
+
+_2d Footman._ Only be pleased to--
+
+_Mr. H._ Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste.
+
+_1st Footman._ Just to--
+
+_2d Footman._ Let us know who it is--
+
+_1st Footman._ Who it is we have the honor to serve.
+
+_Mr. H._ Why me, me, me; you serve me.
+
+_2d Footman._ Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.
+
+_Mr. H._ Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, a gay
+master, an indulgent master?
+
+_1st Footman._ Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor
+servants, the principal mortification.
+
+_2d Footman._ When we get over a pot at the publichouse, or in a
+gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their
+pleasures--when the question goes round, who is your master? and who
+do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am
+Squire Such-a-one's footman--
+
+_1st Footman_. We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr.
+H.
+
+_2d Footman_. Or Squire H.
+
+_Mr. H_. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable
+personages! but I hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if,
+upon a dispassionate review of all that you have said, I think fit
+not to tell you any more of my name, than I have chosen for especial
+purposes to communicate to the rest of the world.
+
+_1st Footman_. Why, then, Sir, you may suit yourself.
+
+_2d Footman_. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.
+
+_1st Footman_. We don't choose to serve Mr. H.
+
+_2d Footman_. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet--
+
+_1st Footman_. That lives in Chris-cross Row.
+
+_Mr. H_. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless
+rascals! Go; hang, starve, or drown!--Rogues, to speak thus
+irreverently of the alphabet--I shall live to see you glad to serve
+old Q--to curl the wig of great S--adjust the dot of little i--stand
+behind the chair of X, Y, Z--wear the livery of Etcćtera--and ride
+behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and!
+                                                [_Exit in a rage_.
+
+
+
+
+ACT II.
+
+SCENE.--_A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.--A large
+party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them MELESINDA._
+
+_1st Lady_. I wonder when the charming man will be here.
+
+_2d Lady_. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish--
+
+_3d Lady_. Such an air in all that he does or says--
+
+_4th Lady_. Yet gifted with a strong understanding--
+
+_5th Lady_. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true
+name is?
+
+_1st Lady_. They say, his very servants do not know it. His French
+valet, that has lived with him these two years--
+
+_2d Lady_. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right; my
+coachman--
+
+_1st Lady_. I have it from the very best authority; my footma--
+
+_2d Lady_. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on--
+
+_1st Lady_. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of
+coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that
+consequence.
+
+_2d Lady_. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head
+with nobody's business but my own.
+
+_Melesinda_. But then, she takes care to make everybody's business
+her own, and so to justify herself that way--
+                                                       (_Aside_.)
+
+_1st Lady_. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.
+
+_Melesinda_. Nothing.
+
+_2d Lady_. Give it a name.
+
+_Melesinda_. Perhaps it is nameless.
+
+_1st Lady_. As the object--Come, never blush, nor deny it, child.
+Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?
+
+_Melesinda_. This? It is a cross: how do you like it?
+
+_2d Lady_. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a
+great staring H. _(Here a general laugh.)_
+
+_Melesinda_. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and
+nothing but a cross.
+
+_1st Lady_. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.
+
+_Melesinda_. Intolerable spite!
+
+_(MR. H. is announced.)_
+
+          _Enter MR. H._
+
+_1st Lady_. O, Mr. H., we are so glad--
+
+_2d Lady_. We have been so dull--
+
+_3rd Lady_. So perfectly lifeless--You owe it to us to be more than
+commonly entertaining.
+
+_Mr. H_. Ladies, this is so obliging--
+
+_4th Lady_. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty
+things, they have got up--
+
+_5th Lady_. I have worked that sprig you commended--I want you to
+come--
+
+_Mr. H_.  Ladies--
+
+_6th Lady_. I have sent for that piece of music from London.
+
+_Mr. H_. The Mozart _(seeing MELESINDA)_--Melesinda!
+
+_Several Ladies at once_. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you shan't
+engross him all to yourself.
+
+[_While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen show
+signs of displeasure_.
+
+_1st Gent_. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is
+come.
+
+_2d Gent_. Damn him, I will affront him.
+
+_1st Gent_. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of
+these ladies.
+
+_2d Gent_. If we could be heard--
+
+                     [_The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H_.
+
+_Mr. H_. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. _(Hums an air.)_
+I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be
+agreeable to these--Did you speak?
+
+_1st Gent_. And affects absence of mind--Puppy!
+
+_Mr. H_. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How do you do,
+Lady Wearwell--how do? I did not see your ladyship before--what was I
+about to say--O--absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that
+way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things--the most
+mal-ŕ-propos--without meaning to give the least offence, upon my
+honor--sheer absence of mind--things I would have given the world not
+to have said.
+
+_1st Gent_. Do you hear the coxcomb?
+
+_1st Lady_. Great wits, they say--
+
+_2d Lady_. Your fine geniuses are most given--
+
+_3d Lady_. Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious--
+
+_Mr. H_. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great
+Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly
+suspected of--being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows
+my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does
+where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a _lapsus_, to take
+care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to
+presents--you understand me? I set out double charged with my
+fellow's consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved
+with tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or so,--till at
+last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of
+raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression
+of the poet, which calls them "fair defects."
+
+_1st Lady_. It is Pope, I believe, who says it.
+
+_Mr. H_.  No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects." This
+gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the
+phrase--that led to an enumeration of all the various words which
+might have been used instead of "defect," as want, absence, poverty,
+deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the
+progress of the argument (as the denouement will show) starting
+suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connection
+of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it
+into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and
+in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the
+question to him, Pray, sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of
+rupees? You may guess the confusion which followed.
+
+_1st Lady_. What a distressing circumstance!
+
+_2d Lady_. To a delicate mind----
+
+_3d Lady_. How embarrassing----
+
+_4th Lady_. I declare, I quite pity you.
+
+_1st Gent_. Puppy!
+
+_Mr. H_. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elbow;
+and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a grace peculiar
+to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to
+myself, and--covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies--I
+withdrew.
+
+_1st Lady_. How charmingly he tells a story.
+
+_2nd Lady_. But how distressing!
+
+_Mr. H_. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, was
+pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall
+never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion--speaking of
+absence of mind, my foible--says he, my dear Hogs--
+
+_Several Ladies_. Hogs--what--ha--
+
+_Mr. H_. My dear Hogsflesh--my name--(_here a universal scream_)--O my
+cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I mean--where was I?
+
+_1st Lady_. Filthy--abominable!
+
+_2nd Lady_. Unutterable!
+
+_3rd Lady_. Hogs--foh!
+
+_4th Lady_. Disgusting!
+
+_5th Lady_. Vile!
+
+_6th Lady_. Shocking!
+
+_1st Lady_. Odious!
+
+_2nd Lady_. Hogs--pah!
+
+_3rd Lady_. A smelling-bottle--look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing! it
+is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and
+not be pressing about her in her circumstances.
+
+_1st Gent_. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh.
+
+_2nd Gent_. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.
+
+_Mr.H_. This is too much--flesh and blood cannot endure it.
+
+_1st Gent_. What flesh?--hog's-flesh?
+
+_2nd Gent_. How he sets up his bristles!
+
+_Mr. H_. Bristles!
+
+1_st Gent_. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor.
+
+_Mr. H_. A hog!--Madam!--(_here he severally accosts the Ladies, who
+by turns repel him_.)
+
+1_st Lady_. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't
+want a partner.
+
+2_d Lady_. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe I shall
+remain single.
+
+3_d Lady_. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no
+thoughts of altering my condition.
+
+4_th Lady_. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must
+not look for anything further.
+
+5_th Lady_. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but
+have no thoughts of changing my name.
+
+6_th Lady_. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your insinuations, you
+think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does
+he think any lady would go to pig with him?
+
+_Old Lady_. Must beg you to be less particular in your addresses to
+me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats?
+
+_Mr. H_. I shall go mad!--to be refused by old Mother Damnable--she
+that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever manned or no, but
+passes for a maid by courtesy; her juvenile exploits being beyond the
+farthest stretch of tradition!--Old Mother Damnable!
+
+           [_Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him._
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Street_.
+
+BELVIL _and another Gentleman_.
+
+_Belvil_. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you
+give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would
+be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his
+amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant
+desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant
+share of good-nature, and is a man of honor. Notwithstanding all that
+has happened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the
+women resent it so deeply as you say?
+
+_Gent._ O intolerably--they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once
+blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to have
+marks of the plague, and as fast; when before they had been ready to
+devour the foolishest thing he could say.
+
+_Belvil_ Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's
+favorites commonly hold their envied preëminence. Well, I must go
+find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn.
+
+_Gent._ Either there or at Melesinda's--Adieu!   [_Exeunt._
+
+
+SCENE.--Mr. H----'s _Apartment._
+
+_Mr. H. (solus.)_ Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by
+old Mother Damnable!--with such parts and address,--and the little
+squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.--Oh my cursed
+name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive,
+that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or
+spit it out--for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.
+
+My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an
+Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.--Mynheer Van
+Hogsflesh,--or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,--or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,--but
+downright blunt------. If it had been any other name in the world, I
+could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull,
+Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard,
+Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or
+the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black,
+Gray, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month,
+as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the
+name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as
+Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover;
+or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as
+Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom,
+Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or
+Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot,
+Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had
+been something, but Ho---. (_Walks about in great
+agitation--recovering his calmness a little, sits down._)
+
+Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling
+ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the
+wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous
+blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring
+drum.--No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No
+nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at
+me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of
+caudle.--(_Sings in a melancholy tone._) Lullaby,
+Lullaby,--hush-a-by-baby--how like its papa it is!--(_Makes motions
+as if he was nursing._) And then, when grown up, "Is this your son,
+Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me, a sad young dog,--just what his
+father was at his age,--I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!
+
+             _Enter_ LANDLORD.
+
+_Mr. H._ Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all my things
+got ready.
+
+_Landlord._ Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue
+Boar,--sorry anything has happened.
+
+_Mr. H._ He has heard it all.
+
+_Landlord._ Your Honor has had some mortification to be sure, as a
+man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine market.
+
+_Mr. H._ Pigs!
+
+_Landlord._ What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind it.
+Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose he don't
+mean to affront me.
+
+_Landlord._ What is done can't be undone; you can't make a silken
+purse out of a sow's ear.
+
+_Mr. H._ As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment
+it.
+
+_Landlord._ Does but _hogment_ it, indeed, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H. Hogment_ it! damn it, I said augment it.
+
+_Landlord._ Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of fine
+phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse--
+
+_Mr. H._ Lard!
+
+_Landlord._ Suppose they do smoke you--
+
+_Mr. H._ Smoke me!
+
+_Landlord._ One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my meaning
+is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one
+way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same; it is all
+pork.
+
+_Mr. H._ That's another of your phrases, I presume.
+
+                      [_Bell rings, and the Landlord called for._
+
+_Landlord._ Anon, anon.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, I wish I were anonymous.
+
+                                          [_Exeunt several ways._
+
+
+SCENE.--_Melesinda's Apartment._
+
+MELESINDA _and Maid._
+
+_Maid._ Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a
+foolish--what signifies a name? Hogs--Hogs--what is it--is just as
+good as any other, for what I see.
+
+_Melesinda._ Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in the
+absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few
+pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly
+edge the----
+
+_Maid._ Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by
+nature, that don't follow--his name don't make him anything, does
+it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he
+likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do; you never
+see him go to the trough----
+
+_Melesinda._ Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her intentions----
+
+_Maid._ For instance, Madam, my name is Finch--Betty Finch. I don't
+whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get
+good wholesome mutton--no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt on
+my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after
+me, they said courted me--his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor;
+but though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to
+eat me.
+
+_Melesinda._ How fortunate that the discovery has been made before it
+was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious
+man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an inextricable
+engagement before----
+
+_Maid._ No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a
+poke--and what then? Oh, here he comes creeping----
+
+       _Enter_ MR. H. _abject._
+
+Go to her, Mr. Hogs--Hogs--Hogsbristles, what's your name? Don't be
+afraid, man--don't give it up--she's not crying--only _summat_ has
+made her eyes red--she has got a sty in her eye, I believe----
+_(going.)_
+
+_Melesinda._ You are not going, Betty?
+
+_Maid._ O, Madam, never mind me--I shall be back in the twinkling of
+a pig's whisker, as they say.
+
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have
+betrayed your confidence--but it was love that prompted him; who
+would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into a
+participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed
+to attach to a name--but with it you would have shared a fortune not
+contemptible, and a heart--but 'tis over now. That name he is content
+to bear alone--to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more
+heard, or excite no meaning--some spot where his native tongue has
+never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant
+their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill
+manners--where no Englishmen--(Here_ MELESINDA, _who has been
+pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh.)_ Some yet
+undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall
+innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not
+inharmonious.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh!
+
+_Mr. H._ Who knows but among the female natives might be found----
+
+_Melesinda._ Sir! (_raising her head._)
+
+_Mr. H._ One who would be more kind than--some Oberea--Queen Oberea.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh!
+
+_Mr. H._ Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem
+among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa?
+
+             _Enter Servant._
+
+_Servant._ Mr. Belvil.                             [_Exit._
+
+             _Enter_ BELVIL.
+
+_Mr. H._ Monomotopa (_musing._)
+
+_Belvil._ Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? nothing has
+happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg pardon, Madam, but
+understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking
+him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can
+adjust--not a word. Will you, Madam, as this gentleman's friend,
+suffer me to be the arbitrator--strange--hark'ee, Jack, nothing has
+come out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it
+is--somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it yourself,
+have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my heart--Jack, what would you
+give me if I should relieve you?
+
+_Mr. H._ No power of man can relieve me (_sighs_); but it must lie at
+the root, gnawing at the root--here it will lie.
+
+_Belvil._ No power of man? not a common man, I grant you: for
+instance, a subject--it's out of the power of any subject.
+
+_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--there it will lie.
+
+_Belvil._ Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed; but
+not by a subject--(_shows a Gazette_).
+
+_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--(_suddenly snatches the paper out of_
+BELVIL'S _hand_)--ha! pish! nonsense! give it me--what! (_reads_)
+promotions, bankrupts--a great many bankrupts this week--there it
+will lie. (_Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads._) "The King
+has been graciously pleased"--gnawing at the root--"graciously
+pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh,"--the devil--"Hogsflesh, Esq.,
+of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal license and
+authority"--O Lord! O Lord!--"that he and his issue"--me and my
+issue--"may take and use the surname and arms of Bacon"--Bacon, the
+surname and arms of Bacon--"in pursuance of an injunction contained
+in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late
+uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:"--grateful
+respect! poor old soul-----here's more--"and that such arms may be
+first duly exemplified "--they shall, I will take care of
+that--"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's
+Office."
+
+_Belvil._ Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation
+upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only
+obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of your union is removed,
+you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to
+have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favor,
+by the name of Mr. Bacon. (_Takes their hands and joins them, which_
+MELESINDA _seems to give consent to with a smile._)
+
+_Mr. H._ Generous Melesinda! my dear friend--"he and his issue," me
+and my issue!--O Lord!--
+
+_Belvil._ I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.
+
+_Mr. H._ Bacon, Bacon, Bacon--how odd it sounds! I could never be
+tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have
+some of the Verulam blood in me already.--Methinks I could look
+through Nature--there was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,--I feel as if I
+could conjure too----
+
+           _Enter a Servant._
+
+_Servant._ Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door,
+inquiring if you see company, Madam.
+
+_Mr. H._ "Surname and arms"--
+
+_Melesinda._ Show them up.--My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy.
+
+_Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly._
+
+_1st Lady._ My dear Melesinda, how do you do?
+
+_2nd Lady._ How do you do? We have been so concerned for you----
+
+_Old Lady._ We have been so concerned--(_seeing him_)--Mr.
+Hogsflesh----
+
+_Mr. H._ There's no such person--nor there never was--nor 'tis not
+fit there should be--"surname and arms"--
+
+_Belvil._ It is true what my friend would express; we have been all
+in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gentleman was what
+you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the
+long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my
+friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative.
+
+_Mr. H._ "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"--
+
+_1st Lady._ I am sure we all join in hearty
+congratulation--_(sighs)._
+
+_2nd Lady._ And wish you joy with all our hearts--_(heigh ho!)_
+
+_Old Lady._ And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many
+years--_(cries)._
+
+_Belvil._ Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.
+
+_1st Lady._ Hope you intend to stay--
+
+_2nd Lady._ With us some time--
+
+_Old Lady._ In these parts--
+
+_Mr. H._ Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for the favors
+you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's _(turning
+to the old Lady)_ good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future
+favors--_(accosts them severally in the order in which he was refused
+by them at the assembly)_--Madam, shall always acknowledge your
+politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner.
+Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for
+anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your
+addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and
+you
+
+  Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
+  Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve;
+  See, while you kindly mean to mortify
+  Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
+  And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
+  Your shafts have miss'd their aim--Hogsflesh has
+  saved his Bacon.
+
+
+
+
+POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818.]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
+
+My Dear Coleridge,
+
+You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by
+the title of _Works;_ but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have
+kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their
+judgment could be no appeal.
+
+It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a
+volume containing the _early pieces,_ which were first published
+among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My
+friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a
+sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this
+association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to
+me, came to be broken,--who snapped the threefold cord,--whether
+yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your
+former companions,--or whether (which is by much the more probable)
+some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,--I cannot
+tell;--but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for
+myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits;
+the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and
+extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume,
+dwindled into prose and _criticism._
+
+Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years
+come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life
+itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we
+read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim,
+we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels,
+nor Ancient Mariners, now.
+
+Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the
+general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I
+should be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory
+
+  "Of summer days and of delightful years--"
+
+even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ... Inn,--when
+life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me,
+if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and
+kindliness.--
+
+         "What words have I heard
+          Spoke at the Mermaid!"
+
+The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time,
+but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the _same_
+who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago--his hair a little
+confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious
+brain,--his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
+
+One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original
+form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of
+the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of
+the objection, without rewriting it entirely, I would make some
+sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself
+any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly
+initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists: Beaumont and
+Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a _first love_; and from what I
+was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language
+imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time which I had chosen for my
+story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to
+require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an
+older cast than that of the precise year in which it happened to be
+written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate
+than the language.
+
+I remain,
+
+My dear Coleridge,
+
+Yours,
+
+With unabated esteem,
+
+C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HESTER.
+
+  When maidens such as Hester die,
+  Their place ye may not well supply,
+  Though ye among a thousand try,
+    With vain endeavor.
+
+  A month or more hath she been dead,
+  Yet cannot I by force be led
+  To think upon the wormy bed,
+    And her together.
+
+  A springy motion in her gait,
+  A rising step, did indicate
+  Of pride and joy no common rate,
+    That flush'd her spirit.
+
+  I know not by what name beside
+  I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,
+  It was a joy to that allied,
+    She did inherit.
+
+  Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+  Which doth the human feeling cool,
+  But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+    Nature had blest her.
+
+  A waking eye, a prying mind,
+  A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
+  A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+      Ye could not Hester.
+
+  My sprightly neighbor! gone before
+  To that unknown and silent shore,
+  Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
+      Some summer morning,
+
+  When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+  Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+  A bliss that would not go away,
+      A sweet fore-warning?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO CHARLES LLOYD.
+
+AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
+
+  Alone, obscure, without a friend,
+    A cheerless, solitary thing,
+  Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?
+    What offering can the stranger bring
+
+  Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
+    That him in aught compensate may
+  For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
+    For loves and friendships far away?
+
+  In brief oblivion to forego
+    Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
+  And be awhile with me content
+    To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:
+
+  For this a gleam of random joy
+    Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;
+  And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,
+    I feel the thanks I cannot speak.
+
+  Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
+    And sweet the charm of matin bird;
+  'Twas long since these estrangčd ears
+    The sweeter voice of friend had heard.
+
+  The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds
+    In memory's ear in after-time
+  Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
+    And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.
+
+  For, when the transient charm is fled,
+    And when the little week is o'er,
+  To cheerless, friendless, solitude
+    When I return, as heretofore;
+
+  Long, long, within my aching heart
+    The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
+  I'll think less meanly of myself,
+    That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE THREE FRIENDS.
+
+  Three young maids in friendship met;
+  Mary, Martha, Margaret.
+  Margaret was tall and fair,
+  Martha shorter by a hair;
+  If the first excell'd in feature,
+  Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
+  Mary, though to rival loth,
+  In their best gifts equall'd both.
+  They a due proportion kept;
+  Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
+  Margaret joy'd when any good
+  She of Martha understood;
+  And in sympathy for either
+  Mary was outdone by neither.
+  Thus far, for a happy space,
+  All three ran an equal race,
+  A most constant friendship proving,
+  Equally beloved and loving;
+  All their wishes, joys, the same;
+  Sisters only not in name.
+
+    Fortune upon each one smiled,
+  As upon a fav'rite child;
+  Well to do and well to see
+  Were the parents of all three;
+  Till on Martha's father crosses
+  Brought a flood of worldly losses,
+  And his fortunes rich and great
+  Changed at once to low estate:
+  Under which o'erwhelming blow
+  Martha's mother was laid low;
+  She a hapless orphan left,
+  Of maternal care bereft,
+  Trouble following trouble fast,
+  Lay in a sick-bed at last.
+
+    In the depth of her affliction
+  Martha now receiv'd conviction,
+  That a true and faithful friend
+  Can the surest comfort lend.
+  Night and day, with friendship tried,
+  Ever constant by her side
+  Was her gentle Mary found,
+  With a love that knew no bound;
+  And the solace she imparted
+  Saved her dying broken-hearted.
+
+    In this scene of earthly things
+  Not one good unmixčd springs.
+  That which had to Martha proved
+  A sweet consolation, moved
+  Different feelings of regret
+  In the mind of Margaret.
+  She, whose love was not less dear,
+  Nor affection less sincere
+  To her friend, was, by occasion
+  Of more distant habitation,
+  Fewer visits forced to pay her;
+  When no other cause did stay her;
+  And her Mary living nearer,
+  Margaret began to fear her,
+  Lest her visits day by day
+  Martha's heart should steal away.
+  That whole heart she ill could spare her,
+  Where till now she'd been a sharer.
+  From this cause with grief she pined,
+  Till at length her health declined.
+  All her cheerful spirits flew,
+  Fast as Martha's gather'd new;
+  And her sickness waxčd sore,
+  Just when Martha felt no more.
+
+  Mary, who had quick suspicion
+  Of her alter'd friend's condition,
+  Seeing Martha's convalescence
+  Less demanded now her presence,
+  With a goodness, built on reason,
+  Changed her measures with the season;
+  Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
+  Went where she was wanted more;
+  All her care and thoughts were set
+  Now to tend on Margaret.
+  Mary living 'twixt the two,
+  From her home could oft'ner go,
+  Either of her friends to see,
+  Than they could together be.
+
+    Truth explain'd is to suspicion
+  Evermore the best physician.
+  Soon her visits had the effect;
+  All that Margaret did suspect,
+  From her fancy vanish'd clean;
+  She was soon what she had been,
+  And the color she did lack
+  To her faded cheek came back.
+  Wounds which love had made her feel,
+  Love alone had power to heal.
+
+    Martha, who the frequent visit
+  Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
+  With impatience waxčd cross,
+  Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
+  All that Mary did confer
+  On her friend, thought due to her.
+  In her girlish bosom rise
+  Little foolish jealousies,
+  Which into such rancor wrought,
+  She one day for Margaret sought;
+  Finding her by chance alone,
+  She began, with reasons shown,
+  To insinuate a fear
+  Whether Mary was sincere;
+  Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
+  Whence her actions did proceed.
+  For herself, she'd long been minded
+  Not with outsides to be blinded;
+  All that pity and compassion,
+  She believed was affectation;
+  In her heart she doubted whether
+  Mary cared a pin for either.
+  She could keep whole weeks at distance,
+  And not know of their existence,
+  While all things remain'd the same;
+  But, when some misfortune came,
+  Then she made a great parade
+  Of her sympathy and aid,--
+  Not that she did really grieve,
+  It was only _make-believe_,
+  And she cared for nothing, so
+  She might her fine feelings show,
+  And get credit, on her part,
+  For a soft and tender heart.
+
+    With such speeches, smoothly made,
+  She found methods to persuade
+  Margaret (who being sore
+  From the doubts she'd felt before,
+  Was preparčd for mistrust)
+  To believe her reasons just;
+  Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
+  Which in Mary late she had;
+  Made her, in experience' spite,
+  Think her friend a hypocrite,
+  And resolve, with cruel scoff,
+  To renounce and cast her off.
+
+    See how good turns are rewarded!
+  She of both is now discarded,
+  Who to both had been so late
+  Their support in low estate,
+  All their comfort, and their stay--
+  Now of both is cast away.
+  But the league her presence cherish'd,
+  Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
+  She, that was a link to either,
+  To keep them and it together,
+  Being gone, the two (no wonder)
+  That were left, soon fell asunder;--
+  Some civilities were kept,
+  But the heart of friendship slept;
+  Love with hollow forms was fed,
+  But the life of love lay dead:--
+  A cold intercourse they held,
+  After Mary was expell'd.
+
+    Two long years did intervene
+  Since they'd either of them seen,
+  Or, by letter, any word
+  Of their old companion heard,--
+  When, upon a day once walking,
+  Of indifferent matters talking,
+  They a female figure met;
+  Martha said to Margaret,
+  "That young maid in face does carry
+  A resemblance strong of Mary."
+  Margaret, at nearer sight,
+  Own'd her observation right;
+  But they did not far proceed
+  Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
+  She--but, ah I how changed they view her
+  From that person which they knew her!
+  Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
+  And its matchless beauty marr'd:--
+  But enough was left to trace
+  Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.
+  When her eye did first behold them,
+  How they blush'd!--but, when she told them,
+  How on a sick-bed she lay
+  Months, while they had kept away,
+  And had no inquiries made
+  If she were alive or dead;--
+  How, for want of a true friend,
+  She was brought near to her end,
+  And was like so to have died,
+  With no friend at her bedside;--
+  How the constant irritation,
+  Caused by fruitless expectation
+  Of their coming, had extended
+  The illness, when she might have mended,--
+  Then, O then, how did reflection
+  Come on them with recollection!
+  All that she had done for them,
+  How it did their fault condemn!
+
+    But sweet Mary, still the same,
+  Kindly eased them of their shame;
+  Spoke to them with accents bland,
+  Took them friendly by the hand;
+  Bound them both with promise fast.
+  Not to speak of troubles past;
+  Made them on the spot declare
+  A new league of friendship there;
+  Which, without a word of strife,
+  Lasted thenceforth long as life.
+  Martha now and Margaret
+  Strove who most should pay the debt
+  Which they owed her, nor did vary
+  Ever after from their Mary.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.
+
+  Smiling river, smiling river,
+    On thy bosom sunbeams play;
+  Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
+    Thou hast more deceit than they.
+
+  In thy channel, in thy channel,
+    Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,
+  Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
+    Lies young Edward's corse: his bones
+
+  Ever whitening, ever whitening,
+    As thy waves against them dash;
+  What thy torrent, in the current,
+    Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
+
+  As if senseless, as if senseless
+    Things had feeling in this case;
+  What so blindly, and unkindly,
+    It destroy'd, it now does grace.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
+
+  I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+  In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+  Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I loved a love once, fairest among women;
+  Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
+  Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+  Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+  Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
+  Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+  Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+  Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+  Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+  So might we talk of the old familiar faces,--
+
+  How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+  And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HELEN.
+
+  High-born Helen, round your dwelling
+    These twenty years I've paced in vain:
+  Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
+    Hath been to glory in his pain.
+
+  High-born Helen, proudly telling
+    Stories of thy cold disdain;
+  I starve, I die, now you comply,
+    And I no longer can complain.
+
+  These twenty years I've lived on tears,
+    Dwelling forever on a frown;
+  On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
+    I perish now you kind are grown.
+
+  Can I, who loved my beloved
+    But for the scorn "was in her eye,"
+  Can I be moved for my beloved,
+    When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"
+
+  In stately pride, by my bedside,
+    High-born Helen's portrait's hung;
+  Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
+    Are nightly to the portrait sung.
+
+  To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
+    Complaining all night long to her--
+  _Helen, grown old, no longer cold,_
+    _Said,_ "You to all men I prefer."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A VISION OF REPENTANCE.
+
+  I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
+    Where shady pathways to a valley led;
+  A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
+    And all around the fountain brink were spread
+  Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,
+    Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad.
+
+  The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,
+    Disrobčd was of every earthly thought,
+  And straight became as one that knew not sin,
+    Or to the world's first innocence was brought;
+  Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,
+  In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.
+
+  A most strange calm stole o'er my soothčd sprite;
+    Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,
+  When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,
+    Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,
+  Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR
+  Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.
+
+  And eke with painful fingers she inwove
+    Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn--
+  "The willow garland, _that_ was for her love,
+    And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn."
+  With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,
+  As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.
+
+  To whom when I addrest myself to speak,
+    She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;
+  The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,
+    And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled
+  To the dark covert of that woody shade,
+    And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.
+
+  Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
+    And why that lovely lady plainčd so;
+  Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,
+    And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
+  I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
+  When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive
+    sound.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+      "Psyche am I, who love to dwell
+      In these brown shades, this woody dell,
+      Where never busy mortal came,
+      Till now, to pry upon my shame.
+
+      "At thy feet what dost thou see
+      The waters of repentance be,
+      Which, night and day, I must augment
+      With tears, like a true penitent,
+
+      "If haply so my day of grace
+      Be not yet past; and this lone place,
+      O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence
+      All thoughts but grief and penitence."
+
+      _"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!
+      And wherefore in this barren shade
+      Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?
+      Can thing so fair repentance need?"_
+
+      "O! I have done a deed of shame,
+      And tainted is my virgin fame,
+      And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
+      In which my bridal robes were dight."
+
+      _"And who the promised spouse? declare:
+      And what those bridal garments were."_
+
+      "Severe and saintly righteousness
+      Composed the clear white bridal dress;
+      JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,
+      Bought with his blood the marriage ring.
+
+      "A wretched sinful creature, I
+      Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,
+      Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
+      And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
+      Soon to these murky shades I came,
+      To hide from the sun's light my shame.
+      And still I haunt this woody dell,
+      And bathe me in that healing well,
+      Whose waters clear have influence
+      From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
+      And, night and day, I them augment,
+      With tears, like a true penitent,
+      Until, due expiation made,
+      And fit atonement fully paid,
+      The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
+      Where in sweet strains of high consent,
+      God's throne before, the Seraphim
+      Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."
+
+      "Now Christ restore thee soon"--I said,
+      And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.
+
+  CHILD
+  O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.
+  No longer may you glory in your pride.
+
+  MOTHER
+  Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
+  Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
+  This day I am to be a bride, you know,
+  Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?
+
+  CHILD
+  O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
+  For you may never be another's bride.
+  That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.
+
+  MOTHER
+  I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
+  Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,
+  For thou shalt be a second father's joy.
+
+  CHILD.
+  One father fondled me upon his knee.
+  One father is enough, alone, for me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.
+
+  On a bank with roses shaded,
+  Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
+  Violets whose breath alone
+  Yields but feeble smell or none,
+  (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
+  When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
+  While o'erhead six slaves did hold
+  Canopy of cloth o' gold,
+  And two more did music keep,
+  Which might Juno lull to sleep,
+  Oriana, who was queen
+  To the mighty Tamerlane,
+  That was lord of all the land
+  Between Thrace and Samarchand,
+  While the noontide fervor beam'd,
+  Mused himself to sleep, and _dream'd_.
+
+    Thus far, in magnific strain,
+  A young poet soothed his vein,
+  But he had nor prose nor numbers,
+  To express a princess' slumbers.--
+  Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
+  Was deep versed in old romances,
+  And could talk whole hours upon
+  The Great Cham and Prester John,--
+  Tell the field in which the Sophi
+  From the Tartar won a trophy--
+  What he read with such delight of,
+  Thought he could as eas'ly write of--
+  But his over-young invention
+  Kept not pace with brave intention.
+  Twenty suns did rise and set,
+  And he could no further get;
+  But, unable to proceed,
+  Made a virtue out of need,
+  And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,
+  Did omit _what the queen dream'd of_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A BALLAD.
+
+NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF
+A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.
+
+_To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."_
+
+  In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
+  There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
+  Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
+
+  In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
+  They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
+  With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
+  Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth is still carest
+  By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
+  In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
+  Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.
+
+  In a costly palace if the child with a pin
+  Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
+  In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
+  For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
+  Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,
+  Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
+  With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
+  With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
+
+  In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
+  To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
+  That none to do them injury may have pretence;
+  Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HYPOCHONDRIACUS.
+
+  By myself walking,
+  To myself talking,
+  When as I ruminate
+  On my untoward fate,
+  Scarcely seem I
+  Alone sufficiently,
+  Black thoughts continually
+  Crowding my privacy;
+  They come unbidden,
+  Like foes at a wedding,
+  Thrusting their faces
+  In better guests' places,
+  Peevish and malecontent,
+  Clownish, impertinent,
+  Dashing the merriment:
+  So in like fashions
+  Dim cogitations
+  Follow and haunt me,
+  Striving to daunt me,
+  In my heart festering,
+  In my ears whispering,
+  "Thy friends are treacherous,
+  Thy foes are dangerous,
+  Thy dreams ominous."
+
+    Fierce Anthropophagi,
+  Spectra, Diaboli,
+  What scared St. Anthony,
+  Hobgoblins, Lemures,
+  Dreams of Antipodes,
+  Night-riding Incubi,
+  Troubling the fantasy,
+  All dire illusions
+  Causing confusions;
+  Figments heretical,
+  Scruples fantastical,
+  Doubts diabolical;
+  Abaddon vexeth me,
+  Mahu perplexeth me,
+  Lucifer teareth me----
+
+_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
+
+  May the Babylonish curse
+  Straight confound my stammering verse,
+  If I can a passage see
+  In this word-perplexity,
+  Or a fit expression find,
+  Or a language to my mind,
+  (Still the phrase is wide or scant)
+  To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
+  Or in any terms relate
+  Half my love, or half my hate:
+  For I hate, yet love, thee so,
+  That, whichever thing I show,
+  The plain truth will seem to be
+  A constrain'd hyperbole,
+  And the passion to proceed
+  More from a mistress than a weed.
+
+    Sooty retainer to the vine,
+  Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
+  Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
+  Thy begrimed complexion,
+  And, for thy pernicious sake,
+  More and greater oaths to break
+  Than reclaimčd lovers take
+  'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
+  Much too in the female way,
+  While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
+  Faster than kisses or than death.
+
+    Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
+  That our worst foes cannot find us,
+  And ill-fortune, that would thwart us.
+  Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
+  While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
+  Does like a smoking Etna seem,
+  And all about us does express
+  (Fancy and wit in richest dress)
+  A Sicilian fruitfulness.
+
+    Thou through such a mist dost show us,
+  That our best friends do not know us,
+  And, for those allowčd features,
+  Due to reasonable creatures,
+  Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
+  Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
+  Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
+  Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
+
+    Bacchus we know, and we allow
+  His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
+  That but by reflex canst show
+  What his deity can do,
+  As the false Egyptian spell
+  Aped the true Hebrew miracle
+  Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
+  The weak brain may serve to amaze,
+  But to the reins and nobler heart
+  Canst nor life nor heat impart.
+
+    Brother of Bacchus, later born,
+  The old world was sure forlorn
+  Wanting thee, that aidest more
+  The god's victories than before
+  All his panthers, and the brawls
+  Of his piping Bacchanals.
+  These, as stale, we disallow,
+  Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou
+  His true Indian conquest art;
+  And, for ivy round his dart,
+  The reformčd god now weaves
+  A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
+
+    Scent to match thy rich perfume
+  Chemic art did ne'er presume
+  Through her quaint alembic strain,
+  None so sov'reign to the brain.
+  Nature, that did in thee excel,
+  Framed again no second smell.
+  Roses, violets, but toys
+  For the smaller sort of boys,
+  Or for greener damsels meant;
+  Thou art the only manly scent.
+
+    Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
+  Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
+  Africa, that brags her foison,
+  Breeds no such prodigious poison,
+  Henbane, nightshade, both together,
+  Hemlock, aconite----
+
+                            Nay, rather,
+  Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
+  Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
+  'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee:
+  None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
+  Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
+  Such as perplex'd lovers use,
+  At a need, when, in despair
+  To paint forth their fairest fair,
+  Or in part but to express
+  That exceeding comeliness
+  Which their fancies doth so strike,
+  They borrow language of dislike;
+  And, instead of Dearest Miss,
+  Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
+  And those forms of old admiring,
+  Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
+  Basilisk, and all that's evil,
+  Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
+  Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
+  Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
+  Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,--
+  Not that she is truly so,
+  But no other way they know
+  A contentment to express,
+  Borders so upon excess,
+  That they do not rightly wot
+  Whether it be pain or not.
+
+    Or, as men, constrain'd to part
+  With what's nearest to their heart,
+  While their sorrow's at the height,
+  Lose discrimination quite,
+  And their hasty wrath let fall,
+  To appease their frantic gall,
+  On the darling thing whatever,
+  Whence they feel it death to sever,
+  Though it be, as they, perforce,
+  Guiltless of the sad divorce.
+
+    For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
+  Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
+  For thy sake, TOBACCO, I
+  Would do anything but die,
+  And but seek to extend my days
+  Long enough to sing thy praise.
+  But, as she, who once hath been
+  A king's consort, is a queen
+  Ever after, nor will bate
+  Any tittle of her state,
+  Though a widow, or divorced,
+  So I, from thy converse forced,
+  The old name and style retain,
+  A right Katherine of Spain;
+  And a seat, too,'mongst the joys
+  Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
+  Where, though I, by sour physician,
+  Am debarr'd the full fruition
+  Of thy favors, I may catch
+  Some collateral sweets, and snatch
+  Sidelong odors, that give life
+  Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
+  And still live in the by-places
+  And the suburbs of thy graces;
+  And in thy borders take delight,
+  An unconquer'd Canaanite.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO T. L. H.
+
+A CHILD.
+
+  Model of thy parent dear,
+  Serious infant worth a fear:
+  In thy unfaltering visage well
+  Picturing forth the son of TELL,
+  When on his forehead, firm and good,
+  Motionless mark, the apple stood;
+  Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
+  Convict unconscious, culprit child!
+  Gates that close with iron roar
+  Have been to thee thy nursery door;
+  Chains that chink in cheerless cells
+  Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
+  Walls contrived for giant sin
+  Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
+  Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
+  Her discordant house hath built,
+  And fill'd it with her monstrous brood--
+  Sights, by thee not understood--
+  Sights of fear, and of distress,
+  That pass a harmless infant's guess
+
+    But the clouds, that overcast
+  Thy young morning, may not last;
+  Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour
+  That yields thee up to Nature's power:
+  Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
+  Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
+  She shall recompense with cost
+  For every lesson thou hast lost.
+  Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1]
+  Thou shalt take thy airy fill
+  Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing
+  For thy delight each May morning._
+  'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,
+  Hardly less a lamb than they.
+  Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
+  Shall be the horizon skirting round:
+  And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
+  To make amends for wintry hours,
+  The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
+  Shall from thy tender brow efface
+  Each vestige of untimely care,
+  That sour restraint had graven there;
+  And on thy every look impress
+  A more excelling childishness.
+
+  So shall be thy days beguiled,
+  THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.
+
+[Footnote 1: Hampstead.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BALLAD.
+
+FROM THE GERMAN.
+
+  The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
+    And ever the forest maketh a moan:
+  Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting,
+    Thus by herself she singeth alone,
+      Weeping right plenteously.
+
+  "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
+    In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
+  To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
+    I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,
+      Living right lovingly."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.
+
+  David and his three captains bold
+  Kept ambush once within a hold.
+  It was in Adullam's cave,
+  Nigh which no water they could have,
+  Nor spring, nor running brook was near
+  To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
+  Then David, king of Israël,
+  Straight bethought him of a well,
+  Which stood beside the city gate,
+  At Bethlem; where, before his state
+  Of kingly dignity, he had
+  Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
+  But now his fierce Philistine foe
+  Encamp'd before it he does know.
+  Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
+  Those three bold captains he addrest;
+  And wish'd that one to him would bring
+  Some water from his native spring.
+  His valiant captains instantly
+  To execute his will did fly.
+  The mighty Three the ranks broke through
+  Of armed foes, and water drew
+  For David, their beloved king,
+  At his own sweet native spring.
+  Back through their arm'd foes they haste,
+  With the hard-earn'd treasure graced.
+  But when the good king David found
+  What they had done, he on the ground
+  The water pour'd ... "Because," said he,
+  "That it was at the jeopardy
+  Of your three lives this thing ye did,
+  That I should drink it, God forbid."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SALOME.
+
+  Once on a charger there was laid,
+  And brought before a royal maid,
+  As price of attitude and grace,
+  A guiltless head, a holy face.
+
+    It was on Herod's natal day,
+  Who o'er Judea's land held sway.
+  He married his own brother's wife,
+  Wicked Herodias. She the life
+  Of John the Baptist long had sought,
+  Because he openly had taught
+  That she a life unlawful led,
+  Having her husband's brother wed.
+
+    This was he, that saintly John,
+  Who in the wilderness alone
+  Abiding, did for clothing wear
+  A garment made of camel's hair;
+  Honey and locusts were his food,
+  And he was most severely good.
+  He preachčd penitence and tears,
+  And waking first the sinner's fears,
+  Prepared a path, made smooth a way,
+  For his diviner Master's day.
+
+    Herod kept in princely state
+  His birthday. On his throne he sate,
+  After the feast, beholding her
+  Who danced with grace peculiar;
+  Fair Salome, who did excel
+  All in that land for dancing well.
+  The feastful monarch's heart was fired,
+  And whatsoe'er thing she desired,
+  Though half his kingdom it should be,
+  He in his pleasure swore that he
+  Would give the graceful Salome.
+  The damsel was Herodias' daughter:
+  She to the queen hastes, and besought her
+  To teach her what great gift to name.
+  Instructed by Herodias, came
+  The damsel back: to Herod said,
+  "Give me John the Baptist's head;
+  And in a charger let it be
+  Hither straightway brought to me."
+  Herod her suit would fain deny,
+  But for his oath's sake must comply.
+
+    When painters would by art express
+  Beauty in unloveliness,
+  Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,
+  They fittest subject take to be.
+  They give thy form and features grace;
+  But ever in thy beauteous face
+  They show a steadfast cruel gaze,
+  An eye unpitying; and amaze
+  In all beholders deep they mark,
+  That thou betrayest not one spark
+  Of feeling for the ruthless deed,
+  That did thy praiseful dance succeed.
+  For on the head they make you look,
+  As if a sullen joy you took,
+  A cruel triumph, wicked pride,
+  That for your sport a saint had died.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.
+
+  The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears,
+  To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears,
+  "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."
+  Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed.
+  She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought
+  On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught.
+  "I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,
+  All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.
+  Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
+  My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.
+  But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head,
+  And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,
+  This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,
+  It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A
+LADY BY TITIAN.
+
+  Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
+  Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
+  Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
+  Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be.
+  Thou pretty art and fair,
+  But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.
+  No need for Blanch her history to tell;
+  Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.
+  But when I look on thee, I only know
+  There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF
+THE ROCKS.
+
+  While young John runs to greet
+  The greater Infant's feet,
+  The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
+  Of devout admiration,
+  Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;
+  Nor knows as yet the full event
+  Of those so low beginnings,
+  From whence we date our winnings,
+  But wonders at the intent
+  Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.
+  But at her side
+  An angel doth abide,
+  With such a perfect joy
+  As no dim doubts alloy,
+  An intuition,
+  A glory, an amenity,
+  Passing the dark condition
+  Of blind humanity,
+  As if he surely knew
+  All the blest wonder should ensue,
+  Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
+  And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON THE SAME.
+
+  Maternal lady with the virgin grace,
+  Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
+  And thou a virgin pure.
+  Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
+  Men look upon, they wish to be
+  A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+I.
+
+TO MISS KELLY.
+
+  You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
+  That stoop their pride and female honor down
+  To please that many-headed beast _the town_,
+  And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
+  By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
+  You keep your native dignity of thought;
+  The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
+  As tributes due unto your natural vein.
+  Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
+  Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
+  Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
+  That vanish and return we know not how--
+  And please the better from a pensive face,
+  A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
+
+
+II.
+
+ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
+
+  Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest,
+  And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
+  And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
+  Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
+  Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
+  Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
+  Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
+  Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able
+  To tread the land or waters with security.
+  Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
+  In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
+  Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
+  Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
+  The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
+
+
+III.
+
+  Was it some sweet device of Faëry
+  That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,
+  And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?
+  Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
+  Impregning with delights the charmčd air,
+  Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
+  In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
+  Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
+  To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
+  His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
+  Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
+  Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
+  While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
+  And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined
+  Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
+  Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
+  Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
+  Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!
+  Beloved! I were well content to play
+  With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
+  Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
+  Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
+  Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
+  A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
+  And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
+  In gentle sort, on those who practise not
+  Or love or pity, though of woman born.
+
+
+V.
+
+  When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
+  Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
+  Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,
+  Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
+  No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
+  Her image only in these pleasant ways
+  Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
+  I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
+  I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,
+  The cottage which did once my all contain;
+  It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
+  Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.
+  "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,
+  And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.
+
+
+VI.
+
+THE FAMILY NAME.
+
+  What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
+  Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,
+  Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;
+  And I, a childless man, may end the same.
+  Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,
+  In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,
+  Received thee first amid the merry mocks
+  And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
+  Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd,
+  With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd
+  Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
+  Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd,
+  Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,
+  No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
+
+
+VII.
+
+  If from my lips some angry accents fell,
+  Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
+  'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
+  And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
+  And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
+  Let this my verse the poor atonement be--
+  My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
+  Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
+  No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
+  Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
+  An ear to the desponding lovesick lay,
+  Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
+  But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
+  Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
+
+
+VIII.
+
+  A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
+  As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
+  Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
+  That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
+  The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
+  Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
+  Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
+  And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
+  A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
+  Of changčd friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
+  Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
+  Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
+  Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet
+  Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
+
+
+IX.
+
+TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
+
+  John, you were figuring in the gay career
+  Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,
+  When I was yet a little peevish boy--
+  Though time has made the difference disappear
+  Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seem'd so great--
+  And still by rightful custom you retain
+  Much of the old authoritative strain,
+  And keep the elder brother up in state.
+  O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed
+  To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
+  And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
+  In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
+  Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
+  Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
+
+
+X.
+
+  O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,
+  That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,
+  Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
+  Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
+  On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy,
+  And her rude visions give severe delight.
+  O wingčd bark! how swift along the night
+  Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by
+  Lightly of that drear hour the memory,
+  When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
+  Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood,
+  Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,--
+  To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,
+  Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
+
+
+XI.
+
+  We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
+  The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
+  And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,
+  We two did love each other's company:
+  Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
+  But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
+  I left the garb and manners of a child,
+  And my first love for man's society,
+  Defiling with the world my virgin heart--
+  My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,
+  And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
+  Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art--
+  In what delicious Eden to be found--
+  That I may seek thee the wide world around?
+
+
+
+
+BLANK VERSE
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHILDHOOD.
+
+  In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
+  Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
+  Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
+  To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
+  Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
+  Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
+  (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
+  Would throw away, and straight take up again,
+  Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
+  Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
+  That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE GRANDAME.
+
+                          On the green hill-top,
+  Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,
+  And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn,
+  Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,
+  The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
+  The name and date to the chance passenger.
+  For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
+  Well-earn'd, the bread of service:--hers was else
+  A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd
+  Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,
+  Or aught unseemly. I remember well
+  Her reverend image; I remember, too,
+  With what a zeal she served her master's house;
+  And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
+  Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
+  Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
+  And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,
+  And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
+  Of births, of titles, and alliances;
+  Of marriages, and intermarriages;
+  Relationship remote, or near of kin;
+  Of friends offended, family disgraced--
+  Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
+  Parental strict injunction, and regardless
+  Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
+  Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
+  But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
+  Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly
+  Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,
+  How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
+  She served her _heavenly Master_. I have seen
+  That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
+  And rankling malady. Yet not for this
+  Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
+  Her trust in Him, her faith, an humble hope--
+  So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross--
+  For she had studied patience in the school
+  Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived,
+  And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SABBATH BELLS.
+
+  The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
+  Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
+  Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
+  Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
+  Their piercing tones fall _sudden_ on the ear
+  Of the contemplant, solitary man,
+  Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
+  Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
+  And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
+  And baffles his pursuit--thought-sick and tired
+  Of controversy, where no end appears,
+  No clue to his research, the lonely man
+  Half wishes for society again.
+  Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
+  _Sudden!_ his heart awakes, his ears drink in
+  The cheering music; his relenting soul
+  Yearns after all the joys of social life,
+  And softens with the love of human kind.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.
+
+  The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
+  A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
+  In the bright visions of empyreal light,
+  By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
+  Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
+  By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
+  Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
+  Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
+  Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
+  From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
+  On mortal life, from sin and death forever.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.
+
+  From broken visions of perturbčd rest
+  I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.
+  How total a privation of all sounds,
+  Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
+  Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
+  'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
+  Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
+  Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
+  Those are the meanings of the dying man,
+  Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
+  And interrupted only by a cough
+  Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
+  So in the bitterness of death he lies,
+  And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
+  What can that do for him, or what restore?
+  Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices.
+  And little images of pleasures past,
+  Of health, and active life--health not yet slain,
+  Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
+  For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
+  He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
+  And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
+  "When night comes I shall get a little rest."
+  Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
+  'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;
+  Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,
+  And Fancy, most licentious on such themes
+  Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,
+  Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down
+  By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
+  Discredit on the gospel's serious truths
+  And salutary fears. The man of parts,
+  Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
+  Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
+  A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,
+  Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels
+  With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars
+  Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed
+  From damnčd spirits, and the torturing cries
+  Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth,
+  As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,
+  Belike his kindred or companions once--
+  Through everlasting ages now divorced,
+  In chains and savage torments to repent
+  Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard
+  In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
+  For those thus sentenced--pity might disturb
+  The delicate sense and most divine repose
+  Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
+  The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
+  By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
+  No such inordinate difference and vast
+  Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
+  Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,
+  No man on earth is holy call'd: they best
+  Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet
+  Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield
+  To him of his own works the praise, his due.
+
+
+
+
+A TRAGEDY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
+  JOHN,   }
+  SIMON,  }_his sons_.
+
+  LOVELL, }
+  GRAY,   }_Pretended friends of John_.
+
+SANDFORD. _Sir Walter's old steward_.
+MARGARET. _Orphan Ward of_ Sir Walter.
+FOUR GENTLEMEN. _John's riotous companions_.
+SERVANTS.
+
+SCENE--_for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in_ DEVONSHIRE; _at
+other times in the Forest of_ SHERWOOD.
+
+TIME--_soon after the_ RESTORATION.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT THE FIRST.
+
+SCENE--_A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants drinking--_
+
+TIME, _the Morning_.
+
+_A Song, by_ DANIEL.
+
+"When the King enjoys his own again."
+
+_Peter_. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?
+
+_Dan_. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics--at
+our master's table.--Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor
+accomplishments?
+
+_Mar_. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his
+politics! excellent!
+
+_Fran_. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
+
+_Peter_. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied
+the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad
+serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their
+conscience.
+
+_Mar_. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel
+what Daniel hath got to say in reply.
+
+_Dan_. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the purpose, thou
+shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher
+than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers.
+When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
+
+_Mar_. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
+
+_Fran_. See--if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes
+with the saltness of his rebuke.
+
+_Dan_. No offence, brother Martin--I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven
+gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon
+me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee,
+Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
+
+_Mar_. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.
+
+_Fran_. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could
+endure bawdry.
+
+_Dan_. _Quot homines tot sententić._
+
+_Mar_. And what is that?
+
+_Dan_. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
+
+_Mar_. I hope there is none between us.
+
+_Dan_. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Mar_. And to thee, Daniel. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Fran_. And to thee, Peter. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Peter_. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Mar_. I shall be fuddled anon.
+
+_Dan_. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
+
+_All_. O! a shocking vice. (_They drink round_.)
+
+_Peter_. In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
+
+_Dan_. And makes the eyes red.
+
+_Peter_. And the tongue to stammer.
+
+_Dan_. And to blab out secrets.
+
+             [_During this conversation they continue drinking_.
+
+_Peter_. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are
+drunk.
+
+_Dan_. Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
+
+_Mar_. Now I know I am going to be drunk.
+
+_Dan_. How canst tell, dry-bones?
+
+_Mar_. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.
+
+_Fran_. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.
+                                          [MARTIN _drops asleep_.
+
+_Peter_. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon
+himself the government of this household.
+
+_All_. Greatly altered.
+
+_Fran_. I think everything be altered for the better since His
+Majesty's blessed restoration.
+
+_Peter_. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to
+good housekeeping.
+
+_All_. None.
+
+_Dan_. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in
+the afternoon.
+
+_Peter_. Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast--his quart!
+
+_All_. A quart!!                             [_In derision._
+
+_Dan_. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
+
+_Peter_. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than
+what we were--discreet and reasonable serving-men.
+
+_All_. Like beasts.
+
+_Mar_. (_Opening his eyes_.) Like beasts.
+
+_Dan_. To sleep, wagtail!
+
+_Fran_. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found
+means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the
+day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being
+favored by the court, should not have interest to procure his
+father's pardon?
+
+_Dan_. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old knight, that will
+not be beholden to the court for his safety.
+
+_Mar_. Now that is wilful.
+
+_Fran_. But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
+
+_Peter_. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
+
+_Dan_. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend
+him.
+
+_Fran_. Well, I have my suspicions.
+
+_Peter_. And so have I.
+
+_Mar_. And I can keep a secret.
+
+_Fran_. (_to PETER_.) Warwickshire, you mean.  [_Aside._
+
+_Peter_. Perhaps not.
+
+_Fran_. Nearer, perhaps.
+
+_Peter_. I say nothing.
+
+_Dan_. I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to
+betray him.
+
+_All_. O Lord, surely not.
+
+                     [_They drink to_ SIR WALTER'S _safety_.
+
+_Fran_. I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by
+name in the late Act of Oblivion.
+
+_Dan_. Shall I tell the reason?
+
+_All_. Ay, do.
+
+_Dan_. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy
+establishment.
+
+_All_. O! monstrous!
+
+_Peter_. Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.--Do we, or do we not,
+come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being
+privy to this man's concealment?
+
+_All_. Truly a sad consideration.
+
+                    [_To them enters_ SANDFORD _suddenly_.
+
+_Sand_. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
+Maintain'd for state, not use;
+You lazy feasters at another's cost,
+That eat like maggots into an estate,
+And do as little work.
+Being indeed but foul excrescences,
+And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
+You base and rascal imitators,
+Who act up to the height your master's vices,
+But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
+Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
+Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?
+
+_Mar_. Whom does he call thin-face?
+
+_Sand_. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
+That I may brain the villain with my staff,
+That seeks Sir Walter's life!
+You miserable men,
+With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
+Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
+Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
+Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,
+And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,
+Where your best wages was the world's repute,
+That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live.
+Have you forgot, too,
+How often in old times
+Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,
+Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?--
+Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
+Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
+This learn from me,
+Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
+Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
+Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff
+Shall teach you better manners else.
+
+_All_. Well, we are going.
+
+_Sand_. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
+Young Mistress Margaret coming this way.
+
+                                       [_Exeunt all but_ SANDFORD
+
+_Enter_ MARGARET, _as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who,
+seeing_ SANDFORD, _retires muttering a curse_.
+
+_Sand_. Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance
+I saw you, lady, so intent was I
+On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
+Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
+Without debauch and mistimed riotings.
+This house hath been a scene of nothing else
+But atheist riot and profane excess,
+Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
+
+_Marg_. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn
+Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests
+And free discourses of the dissolute men
+That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
+
+_Sand_. Does my young master know of these affronts?
+
+_Marg_. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
+Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
+I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
+All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend,
+(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)
+These things are best forgotten; but I knew
+A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
+That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,
+And fought it out to the extremity,
+E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
+On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
+That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.
+Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.
+
+_Sand_. 'Twere best he should be _told_ of these affronts.
+
+_Marg_. I am the daughter of his father's friend,
+Sir Walter's orphan ward.
+I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait
+The opportunity of a gracious hearing.
+Enquire the times and seasons when to put
+My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
+And sue to him for slow redress, who was
+Himself a suitor late to Margaret.
+I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
+I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy,
+And joyful mistress of his youth.
+None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
+His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,
+His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,
+And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
+As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died;
+His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
+Being fashion'd to her liking.
+His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
+His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
+The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
+His heart, who won all hearts;
+And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
+
+_Sand_. He doth affect the courtier's life too much,
+Whose art is to forget,
+And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
+That was by nature noble.
+'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
+Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
+With images of state, preferment, place,
+Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
+
+_Marg_. I know not how it is;
+A cold protector is John grown to me.
+The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
+Can never stoop so low to supplicate
+A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
+Which he was bound first to prevent;
+But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather,
+Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
+And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,
+His love, which long has been upon the wane.
+For me, I am determined what to do:
+To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
+And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
+
+_Sand_. O lady, have a care
+Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
+You know not half the dangers that attend
+Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,
+Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
+To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,
+Portray without its terrors, painting _lies_
+And representments of fallacious liberty;--
+You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
+
+_Marg_. I have thought on every possible event,
+The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
+Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them,
+And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents;
+Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
+Of practicable schemes.
+
+_Sand_. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.
+
+_Marg_. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford.
+And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.
+
+_Sand_. But what course have you thought on?
+
+_Marg_. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
+I have letters from young Simon,
+Acquainting me with all the circumstances
+Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
+And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
+Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
+In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
+Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.--
+All which I have perused with so attent
+And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
+Two sounds now seem like one,
+One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.
+And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
+'Tis you that must provide now
+The means of my departure, which for safety
+Must be in boy's apparel.
+
+_Sand_. Since you will have it so
+(My careful age trembles at all may happen),
+I will engage to furnish you.
+I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you
+With garments to your size.
+I know a suit
+Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you
+In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.
+Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived.
+I have the keys of all this house and passages,
+And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth.
+What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;
+And will provide a horse and trusty guide,
+To bear you on your way to Nottingham.
+
+_Marg_. That once this day and night were fairly past!
+For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
+Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
+For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
+Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.--
+
+                                           [_Exeunt divers ways._
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE SECOND.
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall._
+
+JOHN WOODVIL--_alone_. (_Reading parts of a letter_).
+
+"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem,
+it is no marvel if the world begin to account _that_ dependence,
+which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have
+taken, (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed
+to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times
+past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and
+not-to-be-endured tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled
+reluctance of affection.
+                                                    "MARGARET."
+
+Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
+And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
+And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
+And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!"
+In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?"
+Or tells of joyful victories at sea,
+Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle
+His organs to emit a leaden sound,
+To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"
+Which they in Heaven not use?--
+So peevish, Margaret?
+But 'tis the common error of your sex
+When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
+(As who of woman born can keep his faculty
+Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
+Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
+Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
+As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!--) this being the case,
+They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
+Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,
+Which into maxims pass, and apothegms
+To be retail'd in ballads.--
+                             I know them all.
+They are jealous when our larger hearts receive
+More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart
+Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here
+For more disturbers of my sleep than one.
+Love shall have part, but love shall not have all.
+Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,
+Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;
+Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench,
+I could have loved her twenty years to come,
+And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,
+Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try
+To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake.
+I shall not grudge so much----
+
+          _To him enters_ LOVEL.
+
+_Lovel_. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I
+thought you had been weeping.
+
+_Wood_. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced some water
+into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
+
+_Lovel_. I cannot conceive you.
+
+_Wood_. Margaret is flown.
+
+_Lovel_. Upon what pretence?
+
+_Wood_. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to
+discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
+
+_Lovel_. Then, you confess the charge?
+
+_Wood_. To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopped short
+on this side idolatry.
+
+_Lovel_. As all good Christians' should, I think.
+
+_Wood_. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of
+warrantable love.
+
+_Lovel_. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
+
+_Wood_. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
+
+_Lovel_. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a
+sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
+
+_Wood_. While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge,
+that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their
+grace by the repetition.
+
+_Lovel_. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For,
+take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you
+without a lure.
+
+_Wood_. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess
+it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit,
+and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate
+an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.
+
+_Lovel_. What made you neglect her, then?
+
+_Wood_. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to
+young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted
+her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John
+will yet go to his grave a bachelor.
+
+                    [_A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing._
+
+_Lovel_. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.
+
+              _Enter one drunk._
+
+_Drunken Man_. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your
+humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you
+to-morrow.
+
+_Wood_. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
+
+_Drunken Man_. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly
+question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days in
+the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to
+be born. (_Sings._) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come
+but once a year."
+
+_Lovel_. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
+
+_Drunken Man_. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?
+
+_Wood_. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day,
+methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
+
+_Drunken Man_. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender
+nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage
+it. (_Sings._) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."--At noon I drink
+for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher
+in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of
+liquor. (_Sings._) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon
+in tall men."--But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from
+serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.
+
+_Wood_. Who are they?
+
+_Drunken Man_. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and
+Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me.
+
+                                                 [_Exit singing._
+
+_Wood._ This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange
+companions.
+
+  _Enter, at another door, Three calling for_ HARRY FREEMAN.
+
+Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.
+He is not here. Let us go look for him.
+Where is Freeman?
+Where is Harry?
+
+                        [_Exeunt the Three, calling for_ FREEMAN.
+
+_Wood._ Did you ever see such gentry? (_laughing._) These are they
+that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at
+noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers
+after supper to prove their loyalty.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
+
+_Wood_. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will show
+you the _Vandyke_ I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of
+his children."
+
+_Lovel_. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.
+
+                                                   [_Exit_ LOVEL.
+
+_John Wood_. (_alone._) Now universal England getteth drunk
+For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
+And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
+The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
+And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
+With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
+The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
+The commonwealthsman, and state machinist.
+The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
+Who heareth of these visionaries now?
+They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
+Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
+Who live by observation, note these changes
+Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
+Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
+But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
+I to myself am chief.----I know,
+Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
+With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
+And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
+Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
+In place of worship at the royal masques,
+Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
+For none of these,
+Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
+Do I affect the favors of the court.
+I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_,
+And that's the fruit I reach at.--
+Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
+With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
+That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
+To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
+Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
+Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
+A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
+A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
+A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+
+            SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest._
+
+SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (_Disguised as Frenchmen._)
+
+_Sir W_. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
+My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
+Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
+I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.
+Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false?
+It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
+Grown proud upon the favors of the court;
+Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
+And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
+Harbors a company of riotous men,
+All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
+Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
+And these have eat into my old estates,
+And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;
+But these so common faults of youth not named,
+(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
+I know no quality that stains his honor.
+My life upon his faith and noble mind,
+Son John could never play thy father false.
+
+_Simon_. I never thought but nobly of my brother,
+Touching his honor and fidelity.
+Still I could wish him charier of his person,
+And of his time more frugal, than to spend
+In riotous living, graceless society,
+And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd
+(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
+In fervent pleadings for a father's life.
+
+_Sir W_. I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
+Whose shallow policy I know it is,
+On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
+(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
+In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
+And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
+On these to build a spurious popularity.
+Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
+They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
+For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
+By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
+Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee,
+To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
+
+_Simon_. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,
+True to the letter of his paternal charge.
+
+_Sir W_. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
+Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
+Men die but once, and the opportunity
+Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
+It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
+
+_Simon_. I would not wrong my brother by surmise;
+I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,
+Incapable of base compliances,
+No prodigal in his nature, but affecting
+This show of bravery for ambitious ends.
+He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court,
+And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
+And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.
+
+_Sir W_. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.
+Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest,
+As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:
+Who seem the aborigines of this place,
+Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.
+
+_Simon_. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
+Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
+With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
+Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe
+The antique tale?
+
+_Sir W_.               There is much likelihood,
+Such bandits did in England erst abound,
+When polity was young. I have read of the pranks
+Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
+On travellers, whatever their degree,
+Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,
+Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre
+For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said,
+He robb'd the king himself.
+
+_Simon_.                        A perilous man (_smiling_).
+
+_Sir W_. How quietly we live here,
+Unread in the world's business,
+And take no note of all its slippery changes.
+'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
+A little world,
+Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
+We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
+And kings and subjects both in one.
+
+_Simon_. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
+Which make the business of that greater world,
+Must have no place in ours:
+As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
+Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises,
+Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
+Humors particular,
+Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
+Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
+Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
+And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.
+
+    MARGARET _enters in boy's apparel_.
+
+_Sir W_. What pretty boy have we here?
+
+_Marg_. _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces,
+
+I should have ta'en ye else for other two,
+I came to seek in the forest.
+
+_Sir W_.                 Who are they?
+
+_Marg_. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs,
+That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
+More than the manner of their countrymen.
+
+_Simon_. We have here a wonder.
+The face is Margaret's face.
+
+_Sir W_. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same
+My Stephen sometime wore.                          [_To_ Margaret.
+Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
+Or know you what you seek?
+
+_Marg_. A worthy pair of exiles,
+Two whom the politics of state revenge,
+In final issue of long civil broils,
+Have houseless driven from your native France,
+To wander idle in these English woods,
+Where now ye live; most part
+Thinking on home and all the joys of France,
+Where grows the purple vine.
+
+_Sir W_. These woods, young stranger,
+And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
+Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
+Where grows the purple vine?
+
+_Marg_.                 I cannot tell.
+To an indifferent eye both show alike.
+'Tis not the scene,
+But all familiar objects in the scene,
+Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
+Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
+Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
+Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,
+I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
+And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
+Our English earth less than your land of France,
+Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow
+Old custom has made pleasant.
+
+_Sir W_.                 You, that are read
+So deeply in our story, what are you?
+
+_Marg_. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,
+That put strange garments on, and came thus far
+To seek an ancient friend:
+And having spent her stock of idle words,
+And feeling some tears coming,
+Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,
+And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.
+
+                                                     [_Kneeling_.
+
+_Sir W_. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.
+
+_Marg_. Yes, till her suit is answered.
+
+_Sir W_. Name it.
+
+_Marg_. A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
+She fears to ask it.
+
+_Sir W_.         Some riddle, Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. No riddle, but a plain request.
+
+_Sir W_. Name it.
+
+_Marg_.            Free liberty of Sherwood,
+And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
+
+_Sir W_. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it,
+Seal'd with an old man's tears.--
+Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
+
+                                         [_Addressing them both_.
+
+                                O you most worthy,
+You constant followers of a man proscribed,
+Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
+Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty,
+Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
+Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
+Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,
+Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
+Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;--
+What shall I say?
+Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,
+Than death and life in disproportion meet.--
+Go, seek your fortunes, children.--
+
+_Simon_. Why, whither should we go?
+
+_Sir W_. _You_ to the court, where now your brother John
+ Commits a rape on Fortune.
+
+_Simon_.              Luck to John!
+A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.
+
+_Sir W_. _You_ to the sweet society of your equals,
+Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
+
+_Marg_. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty.
+There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,
+There sweet humility withers.
+
+_Simon_.                  Mistress Margaret,
+How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?
+
+_Marg_. John was well, sir.
+
+_Simon_.                    'Tis now nine months almost,
+Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?
+Or keeps he his first love?--I did suspect
+Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,
+John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps.
+It is a scurvy brother.
+
+_Sir W_.           Fie upon it.
+All men are false, I think. The date of love
+Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale,
+O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
+Of Hero and Leander.
+
+_Simon_. I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for
+the narrow passion. I am in some sort a _general_ lover.
+
+_Marg_. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with
+the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it _you_ love?
+
+_Simon_. Simply, all things that live,
+From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,
+And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,
+That makes short holiday in the sunbeam,
+And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird
+With little wings, yet greatly venturous
+In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,
+That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?
+Yon tall and elegant stag,
+Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns
+In the water, where he drinks.
+
+_Marg_. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a
+difference:--for example, some animals better than others, some men
+rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift
+and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humor
+goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the
+forest?--
+
+_Simon_. Not many; some few, as thus:--
+To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
+Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes,
+Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,
+With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
+Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,
+Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
+And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
+Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.
+Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
+Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
+To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
+Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,
+When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
+Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;
+And how the woods berries and worms provide
+Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
+To answer their small wants.
+To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
+Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
+Like bashful younkers in society.
+To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
+And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.
+
+_Marg_. (_smiling_.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile.
+
+_Sir W_. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please
+you, we have some poor viands within.
+
+_Marg_. Indeed I stand in need of them.
+
+_Sir W_. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,
+Upon the grass, no better carpeting,
+We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done,
+One of us shall repair to Nottingham,
+To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,
+Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,
+By day, in the forest, expecting better times,
+And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.
+
+_Simon_. _Allons_, young Frenchman----
+
+_Marg_. _Allons_, Sir Englishman. The time has been
+
+I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,
+And been enamor'd of rare poesy:
+Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,
+Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;
+For Margaret has got new name and language new.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+     *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT THE THIRD.
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall_.
+
+_Cavaliers drinking_.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, _and four more_.
+
+_John_. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen--Mr. Gray, you are not
+merry.--
+
+_Gray_. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we
+have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is
+the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine.
+(_Fills_.)
+
+_1st Gent_. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in
+our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit
+the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to
+feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.
+
+_2nd Gent_. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order,
+and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion
+have her legitimate work.
+
+_Lovel_. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should
+possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect
+to see such virtues in cold water.
+
+_Gray_. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!
+
+_John_. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than
+lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth,
+unpressed in mortal wine-presses.
+
+3_rd Gent_. What may be the name of this wine?
+
+_John_. It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated
+indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most
+royal and comprehensive name is _fancy_.
+
+3_rd Gent_. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?
+
+_John_. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth
+intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from
+the quality and neighborhood of their noble relative, the brain,
+refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.
+
+3_rd Gent_. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this liquor?
+
+_John_. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is
+the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a
+man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with
+canaries.
+
+4_th Gent_. I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come
+on, the sweet wicked catches?
+
+_John_. They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight.
+Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well
+roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.
+
+_Lovel_. Gentlemen, the Duke. (_Fills_.)
+
+_All_. The Duke. (_They drink_.)
+
+_Gray_. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist--
+
+_John_. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this
+his Majesty's birthday?
+
+_Gray_. What follows?
+
+_John_. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no
+questions.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Damn politics, they spoil drinking.
+
+3_rd Gent_. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy.
+
+2_nd Gent_. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been
+when swearing was out of fashion.
+
+3_rd Gent_. And drinking.
+
+1_st Gent_. And wenching.
+
+_Gray_. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered,
+when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but straight the air
+was thought to be infected.
+
+_Lovel_. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan
+_Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech_ used, when his spouse chid him with
+an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to
+be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse
+the devil's breath, as he termed it.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_Gray_. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint
+_Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman_ was overtaken
+in the act, to plead an illusio visűs, and maintain his sanctity upon
+a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of
+things.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_John_. Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he
+can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.
+
+_Gray_. Shall we hang a puritan?
+
+_John_. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Or fire a conventicle?
+
+_John_. That is stale too.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Or burn the Assembly's catechism?
+
+4_th Gent_. Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his
+head naked?
+
+_John (to Lovel)_. We have here some pleasant madness.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to
+the king upon our knees?
+
+_Lovel_. Why on our knees, Cavalier?
+
+_John_ (_smiling_). For more devotion, to be sure. (_To a servant_.)
+Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.
+
+  [_The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health, kneeling.
+        A shout of general approbation following the first appearance
+        of the goblets._
+
+_John_. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the
+vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an
+element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these
+casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon
+the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as
+we.
+
+_Gray_ (_aside to Lovel_). Observe how he is ravished.
+
+_Lovel_. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender
+madness.
+
+[_While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk_, JOHN _advances
+         to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes_.
+
+_John_. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.
+My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition.
+These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,
+Have no allayings of mortality in them.
+I am too hot now, and o'ercapable,
+For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,
+Of human acts, and enterprises of a man.
+I want some seasonings of adversity,
+Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,
+To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.
+
+1_st Gent_. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Where is Woodvil?
+
+_Gray_. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His
+abstractions must not taint the good mirth.
+
+_John_ (_continuing to soliloquize_). O for some friend, now,
+To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.
+How fine and noble a thing is confidence,
+How reasonable, too, and almost godlike!
+Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,
+Old natural go-between in the world's business,
+Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,
+Would presently rush back
+Into the pristine state of singularity,
+And each man stand alone.
+
+              (_A servant enters_.)
+
+_Servant_. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready.
+
+1_st Gent_. What be they?
+
+_Lovel_. The work of London artists, which our host has provided in
+honor of this day.
+
+2_nd Gent_. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?
+
+_Lovel_. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains
+to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it.
+It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and
+thirsting to his liquor.
+
+_3rd Gent_. There's reason in what he says.
+
+_2d Gent_. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.
+
+  [_They go out, singing. Only_ LOVEL _remains, who observes_ WOODVIL.
+
+_John_ (_still talking to himself_).
+This Lovel here's of a tough honesty,
+Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort
+Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,
+And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,
+Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off
+Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,
+Whose sober morning actions
+Shame not his o'ernight's promises;
+Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;
+Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate
+Might trust her counsels of predestination with,
+And the world be no loser.
+Why should I fear this man?                     [_Seeing_ LOVEL.
+Where is the company gone?
+
+_Lovel_. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to follow.
+But I perceive you are better engaged.
+
+_John_. I have been meditating this half hour,
+On all the properties of a brave friendship,
+The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,
+Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.
+_Exempli gratiâ_, how far a man
+May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;
+What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,
+He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf!
+What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,
+Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,
+He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.
+
+_Lovel_. I think many men would die for their friends.
+
+_John_. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,
+To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor,
+When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare,
+Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,
+To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.
+A friend, sir, must do more.
+
+_Lovel_. Can he do more than die?
+
+_John_. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me.
+Having a law within (great spirits feel one)
+He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any
+Positive laws or ord'nances extern,
+But may reject all these: by the law of friendship
+He may do so much, be they, indifferently,
+Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,
+As public fame, civil compliances,
+Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets,
+All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion,
+(Binding our morning knowledge to approve
+What last night's ignorance spake;)
+The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.
+Sir, these weak terrors
+Must never shake me. I know what belongs
+To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.
+
+_Lovel_. I hope you think me worthy.
+
+_John_. You will smile to hear now--
+Sir Walter never has been out of the island.
+
+_Lovel_. You amaze me.
+
+_John_. That same report of his escape to France
+Was a fine tale, forged by myself--
+Ha! ha!
+I knew it would stagger him.
+
+_Lovel_.                 Pray, give me leave.
+Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd?
+Sure I may ask so much.
+
+_John_. From place to place, dwelling in no place long,
+My brother Simon still hath borne him company,
+('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues).
+Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,
+Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin
+Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham,
+Where no soul knows them.
+
+_Lovel_. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir Walter's
+known prudence should expose his person so lightly?
+
+_John_. I believe, a certain fondness,
+A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth,
+Chains him like fate.
+
+_Lovel_.          I have known some exiles thus
+To linger out the term of the law's indulgence,
+To the hazard of being known.
+
+_John_. You may suppose sometimes
+They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport,
+Their exercise and freer recreation.--
+I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.
+
+_Lovel_. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.
+
+_John_. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep,
+And tell fine tales that way.
+
+_Lovel_. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep
+alone.
+
+_John_. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?
+Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.
+
+_Lovel_. Why do you question me, who know my habits?
+
+_John_. I think you are no sot
+No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;
+But all men drink sometimes,
+And veriest saints at festivals relax,
+The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday.
+
+_Lovel_. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink?
+                                                     [_Smiling_.
+
+_John_. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable;
+I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
+
+_Lovel_. I shall observe it;
+On holidays two quarts.
+
+_John_. Or, stay; you keep no wench?
+
+_Lovel_. Ha!
+
+_John_. No painted mistress for your private hours?
+You keep no whore, sir?
+
+_Lovel_.             What does he mean?
+
+_John_. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,
+And amorous praising of your worship's breath,
+In rosy junction of four melting lips,
+Can kiss out secrets from you?
+
+_Lovel_. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you
+Sure, you think me some weak one.
+
+_John_. Pray pardon me some fears.
+You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.
+I am a son--would fain be thought a loving one;
+You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,
+If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,
+And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you,
+Touch not Sir Walter's life.                          [_Kneels._
+You see these tears. My father's an old man.
+Pray let him live.
+
+_Lovel_. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms
+Show most unhandsome in you.
+
+_John_ (_rising_).     Ha! do you say so?
+Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!
+Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.
+No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor--
+But I'll not give you leave.                           [_Draws._
+
+_Lovel_. What does this madman mean?
+
+_John_. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge;
+You must kill me, or I kill you.
+
+_Lovel_ (_drawing_). Then self-defence plead my excuse.
+Have at you, sir.                                 [_They fight._
+
+_John_.          Stay, sir.
+I hope you have made your will.
+If not,'tis no great matter.
+A broken cavalier has seldom much
+He can bequeath; an old worn peruke,
+A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert,
+A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,
+Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place;
+And if he's very rich,
+A cheap edition of the _Icon Basilike_,
+Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.
+You say few prayers, I fancy;--
+
+So to it again.   [_They fight again._ LOVEL _is disarmed._
+
+_Lovel_. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.
+
+_John_ (_musing_). No:--Men will say I fear'd him,
+if I kill'd him.
+Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,
+But never act thy thought, being a coward.
+That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for,
+And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,
+Still have the will without the power to execute.
+So now I leave you,
+Feeling a sweet security. No doubt
+My secret shall remain a virgin for you!
+                                   [_Goes out, smiling in scorn_.
+
+_Lovel_ (_rising_). For once you are mistaken in your man.
+The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done,
+A bird let loose, a secret out of hand,
+Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy
+To menace him who hath it in his keeping.
+I will go look for Gray;
+Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play
+Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,
+Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE FOURTH.
+
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall_.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL. (_Alone_.)
+
+A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,
+The unconcocted follies of last night.
+Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,
+Children of wine, go off like dreams.
+This sick vertigo here
+Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.
+These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,
+That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me?
+Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk;
+Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;
+And some, the most resolved fools of all,
+Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Forest_.
+
+SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.
+
+_Lovel_. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.
+
+_Gray_. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor
+disguise.
+
+_Lovel_. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.
+
+_Gray_. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I
+attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.
+
+_Lovel_. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late
+lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.
+
+_Simon_. John has betrayed us, father.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, sir.
+
+_Simon_. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I
+have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers,
+trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A
+sort of bed and board worms--locusts that infest our house; a leprosy
+that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching
+to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.
+
+_Gray_. We are his friends.
+
+_Simon_. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall
+I whip off their heads, father?
+
+                                                               [_Draws_.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son,
+yet the law must have its course.
+
+_Simon_. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot
+ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend
+a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?--Will you, Mr. Constable
+self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by
+hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?
+
+_Gray_. 'Tis a brave youth--I cannot strike at him.
+
+_Simon_. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do
+you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O
+villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water; quickly, ye
+knaves; will ye have your throats cut?
+
+                                                 [_They both slink off_.
+
+How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are gone.
+He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath
+touched him even to the death. O most distuned and distempered world,
+where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and
+diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow _talking_ world,
+where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and
+still for the worse; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity,
+chaotic vanity.--Brother, adieu!
+
+There lies the parent stock which gave us life,
+Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.
+Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,
+Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.
+
+                                                   [_Bears in the body_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Another Part of the Forest_.
+
+_Marg_. (_alone_.) It was an error merely, and no crime,
+An unsuspecting openness in youth,
+That from his lips the fatal secret drew,
+Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries,
+Unveil'd by any man.
+Well, he is dead!
+And what should Margaret do in the forest?
+O ill-starr'd John!
+O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair!
+Take thy farewell of peace.
+O never look again to see good days,
+Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,
+Or ever think a happy thought again,
+If what I have heard be true.--
+Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,
+If he did tell these men.
+No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man
+Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;
+Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live
+In amity with thee, must for thy sake
+Abide the world's reproach. What then?
+Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world
+Against her friend? O undiscerning world,
+That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,
+No, not in thought! O never, never, John.
+Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend
+_For better or for worse_, thy Margaret comes,
+To pour into thy wounds a healing love,
+And wake the memory of an ancient friendship.
+And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,
+Who, in compassion to the wretched living,
+Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Woodvil Hall._
+
+SANDFORD. MARGARET. (_As from a Journey_.)
+
+_Sand_. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him,
+who by nature is allied to nothing _less_ than a self-debasing humor
+of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and
+spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the
+partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to
+their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps
+ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem
+to possess and govern in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of
+most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.
+
+_Marg_. How bears he up against the common rumor?
+
+_Sand_. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives not into
+the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate.
+Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and yet a virtuous
+predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may
+discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living
+opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried
+with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.
+
+_Marg_. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the
+admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and
+bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with
+him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without
+deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and
+holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?
+
+_Sand_. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his
+fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness
+of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest
+remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of
+a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of
+us.
+
+_Marg_. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received
+farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to
+estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and
+to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign
+places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him
+kindly and not painful ruminations.
+
+_Sand_. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents
+seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of
+grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many
+tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be
+touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their
+sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned
+to his former inwardness of suffering.
+
+_Marg_. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would
+have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already
+oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these intricate and
+widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep.
+How goes the night?--
+
+_Sand_. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your limbs
+(tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake
+your no less wearied mind to repose.
+
+_Marg_. A good rest to us all.
+
+_Sand._ Thanks, lady.
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE FIFTH.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL. (_dressing_).
+
+_John_. How beautiful (_handling his mourning_)
+And comely do these mourning garments show!
+Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,
+To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly
+By outward types the serious man within.--
+Alas! what part or portion can I claim
+In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
+Which other mourners use? as namely,
+This black attire, abstraction from society,
+Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,
+A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
+All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
+(That steal away the sense of loss almost,)
+Men's pity and good offices
+Which enemies themselves do for us then,
+Putting their hostile disposition off,
+As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.
+
+                           [_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.
+
+These pictures must be taken down:
+The portraitures of our most ancient family
+For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd,
+To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
+Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
+And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
+Repeat by course their worthy histories,
+(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
+And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John:
+Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
+But that was in old times.
+Now, no more
+Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
+I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
+Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
+Razed out the memory of an ancient family,
+And quite reversed the honors of our house.
+Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?
+The secret history of his own times,
+And fashions of the world when he was young:
+How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
+While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king:
+The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
+Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
+And Beauties of the court of James the First.
+
+           MARGARET _enters_.
+
+_John_. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?
+O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,
+And diminution of my honor's brightness.
+You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
+That should be now forgotten.
+
+_Marg_. Old times should never be forgotten, John.
+I came to talk about them with my friend.
+
+_John_. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.
+
+_Marg_. If John rejected Margaret in his pride,
+(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse
+Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone,
+The offence no longer lives.
+O Woodvil, those were happy days,
+When we two first began to love. When first,
+Under pretence of visiting my father,
+(Being then a stripling night upon my age,)
+You came a-wooing to his daughter, John.
+Do you remember,
+With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
+(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
+I kept the honors of my maiden pride?
+I was your favorite then.
+
+_John_. O Margaret, Margaret!
+These your submissions to my low estate,
+And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
+Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
+Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
+Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
+Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
+And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
+Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
+Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
+Could not so separate, but now in this
+My day of shame, when all the world forsake me,
+You only visit me, love, and forgive me.
+
+_Marg_. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John,
+In the south gardens of my father's house,
+Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
+Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
+And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
+And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
+There dwell
+
+  "Like hermit poor
+  In pensive place obscure."
+
+And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
+(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;
+And make confession seven times a day
+Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret;
+And I your saint the penance should appoint--
+Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
+Aside, like an old fashion.
+
+_John._ O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
+My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
+I have no part in any good man's love,
+In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
+I fade and wither in my own esteem,
+This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
+I was not always thus.                                  [_Weeps_.
+
+_Marg_. Thou noble nature,
+Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
+Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
+My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John!
+Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
+Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.
+
+_John_. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. That John would think more nobly of himself,
+More worthily of high Heaven;
+And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
+No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
+The less offence, with image of the greater,
+Thereby to work the soul's humility,
+(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
+O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,
+Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come--
+John yet has many happy days to live;
+To live and make atonement.
+
+_John_.                Excellent lady,
+Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
+Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
+Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. (_rising_). Go whither, John?
+
+_John_.                                    Go in with me
+And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
+
+_Marg_. That I will, John.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.
+
+JOHN _is discovered kneeling_.--MARGARET _standing over him_.
+
+_John_ (_rises_). I cannot bear
+To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
+('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
+In tending such a broken wretch as I am.
+
+_Marg_. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
+O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
+And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
+Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
+(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
+And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.
+
+_John_. They are gone.--
+Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
+I can smile too, and I almost begin
+To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
+
+_Marg_. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.
+
+_John_. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,
+(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)
+That were a sad indecency, you know.
+
+_Marg_. Nay, never fear.
+I will be mistress of your humors,
+And you shall frown or smile by the book.
+And herein I shall be most peremptory,
+Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;
+This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
+But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."
+
+_John_. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!
+
+_Marg_. To give you in your stead a better self!
+Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
+You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
+Sir Rowland my father's gift,
+And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
+I was a young thing then, being newly come
+Home from my convent education, where
+Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
+Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
+Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
+Did John salute his love, being newly seen!
+Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
+And praised it in a youth.
+
+_John_. Now Margaret weeps herself.
+
+         (_A noise of bells heard_.)
+
+_Marg_. Hark the bells, John.
+
+_John_. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery.
+
+_Marg_. I know it.
+
+_John_. St. Mary Ottery, my native village
+In the sweet shire of Devon.
+Those are the bells.
+
+_Marg._           Wilt go to church, John?
+
+_John._ I have been there already.
+
+_Marg._ How canst say thou hast been there already?
+The bells are only now ringing for morning service,
+And hast thou been at church already?
+
+_John._ I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
+And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)
+From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
+And the first object I discern'd
+Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
+
+_Marg._ Well, John.
+
+_John._ Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day.
+Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
+To go to church and pray with Christian people.
+And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
+"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
+(Not having been at church in all that time,)
+And is it fit, that now for the first time
+Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people
+With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
+Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,
+And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,
+With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
+And then I at my own presumption smiled;
+And then I wept that I should smile at all,
+Having such cause of grief! I wept outright:
+Tears like a river flooded all my face,
+And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
+And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
+"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."
+So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
+Or was about to act unlawful business
+At that dead time of dawn,
+I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.
+(Whether by negligence I knew not,
+Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
+For all things felt like mystery.)
+
+_Marg_. Yes.
+
+_John_. So entering in, not without fear,
+I passed into the family pew,
+And covering up my eyes for shame,
+And deep perception of unworthiness,
+Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
+Where I so oft had kneel'd,
+A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
+And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
+More poignant than the first;
+But afterwards was greatly comforted.
+It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me
+Even in the act and agony of tears,
+And all my sins forgiven.
+
+
+
+
+THE WITCH;
+
+A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+OLD SERVANT _in the Family of_ SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Servant_. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,
+Was pacing to and fro in the avenue
+That westward fronts our house,
+Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted
+Three hundred years ago,
+By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
+Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not
+The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
+And begg'd an alms.
+Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
+With angry chiding; but I can never think
+(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
+That he could use a woman, an old woman,
+With such discourtesy; but he refused her--
+And better had he met a lion in his path
+Than that old woman that night;
+For she was one who practised the black arts,
+And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.
+She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him,
+And with a frightful noise,
+('Twas partly like a woman's voice,
+And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
+She nothing said but this
+(Sir Francis told the words):--
+
+    A mischief, mischief, mischief,
+   And a nine-times killing curse,
+  By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
+   Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
+    And shuts up the womb of his purse.
+And still she cried--
+
+         A mischief,
+   And a ninefold withering curse:
+  For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
+    Both all that thou fearest and worse.
+
+So saying, she departed,
+Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
+Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
+So he described it.
+
+_Stranger_. A terrible curse! What follow'd?
+
+_Servant_. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
+Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
+And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay,
+And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
+And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin
+As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing.
+And sure I think
+He bore his death-wound like a little child;
+With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
+He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
+Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
+Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
+And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid
+His hand upon his heart to show the place,
+Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
+And prick'd him with a pin.--
+And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
+The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
+And begg'd an alms.
+
+_Stranger_. But did the witch confess?
+
+_Servant_. All this and more at her death.
+
+_Stranger_. I do not love to credit tales of magic.
+Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung,
+And this brave world
+(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
+Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.
+
+
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES,
+
+WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE PUBLISHER.
+
+DEAR MOXON,
+
+
+I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly
+due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were
+desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the _manner_ in which
+Publications, intrusted to your future care, would appear. With more
+propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own
+simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose.
+But I forget--you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my
+hands sundry Copies of Verses written for _Albums_--
+
+  Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show
+  Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know--
+
+or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in
+this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication.
+They are simply--_Advertisement Verses_.
+
+It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our
+honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. May
+that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his
+patronage justified? I venture to predict that your habits of
+industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.
+
+I am, Dear Moxon,
+
+Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,
+
+CHARLES LAMB.
+
+ENFIELD, _1st June_, 1839.
+
+
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES
+
+WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Had I a power, Lady, to my will,
+  You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
+  Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names
+  Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
+  Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand
+  The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band--
+  Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
+  Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
+  These should moot cases in your book, and vie
+  To show their reading and their Sergeantry.
+  But I have none of these; nor can I send
+  The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd
+  In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
+  Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
+  The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
+  And want the courage to subscribe my own.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO DORA W----.
+
+ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.
+
+  An Album is a Banquet: from the store,
+  In his intelligential Orchard growing,
+  Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing:
+  One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more
+  To set a Salad forth, more rich than that
+  Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied:
+  Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
+  Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat.
+  But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,
+  Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
+  From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts;
+  Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.
+  Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,
+  A zealous, meek, _contributory_             LAMB.
+
+[Footnote 1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.
+
+  An Album is a Garden, not for show
+  Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.
+  A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
+  No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
+  A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
+  Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.
+  A List of living friends; a holier Room
+  For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,
+  Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
+  And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
+  Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
+  And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----.
+
+  In Christian world MARY the garland wears!
+  REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
+  Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;
+  And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears.
+  Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines!
+  What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!
+  How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound!
+  Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
+  Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
+  Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can
+  You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?
+  And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
+  Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
+  These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----.
+
+  A passing glance was all I caught of thee,
+  In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.
+  Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
+  Time short: and salutations cursory,
+  Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name
+  Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
+  Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be,
+  Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
+  A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
+  Advancing still in stature, and in grace,
+  Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface,
+  And his paternal cares with usury pay.
+  I still retain the phantom, as I can;
+  And call the gentle image--Quillinan.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.
+
+  CANADIA! boast no more the toils
+  Of hunters for the furry spoils;
+  Your whitest ermines are but foils
+    To brighter Catherine Orkney.
+
+  That such a flower should ever burst
+  From climes with rigorous winter curst!--
+  We bless you, that so kindly nurst
+    This flower, this Catherine Orkney.
+
+  We envy not your proud display
+  Of lake--wood--vast Niagara;
+  Your greatest pride we've borne away.
+    How spared you Catherine Orkney?
+
+  That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
+  To your reproach no more we tell:
+  Canadia, you repaid us well
+    With rearing Catherine Orkney.
+
+  O Britain, guard with tenderest care
+  The charge allotted to your share:
+  You've scarce a native maid so fair,
+    So good, as Catherine Orkney.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
+
+  Little Book, surnamed of _white_,
+  Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
+  Keep thy attribution right.
+
+  Never disproportion'd scrawl;
+  Ugly blot, that's worse than all;
+  On thy maiden clearness fall!
+
+  In each letter, here design'd,
+  Let the reader emblem'd find
+  Neatness of the owner's mind.
+
+  Gilded margins count a sin,
+  Let thy leaves attraction win
+  By the golden rules within;
+
+  Sayings fetch'd from sages old;
+  Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
+  Worthy to be graved in gold:
+
+  Lighter fancies not excluding:
+  Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
+  Sometimes mildly interluding
+
+  Amid strains of graver measure:
+  Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
+  In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
+
+  Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
+  Darker meanings of offence;
+  What but _shades_--be banish'd hence.
+
+  Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
+  Candid meanings, best express
+  Mind of quiet Quakeress.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.
+
+  Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown
+  The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
+  How shall I find fit matter? with what face
+  Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?
+  Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
+  Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.
+  I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!
+  But at that name my cold muse waxes hot,
+  And swears that thou art such a one as he,
+  Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,
+  Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
+  From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be
+  The pure reverse of this, and I mistake--
+  Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ----.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Such goodness in your face doth shine,
+  With modest look without design,
+  That I despair, poor pen of mine
+    Can e'er express it.
+  To give it words I feebly try;
+  My spirits fail me to supply
+  Befitting language for't, and I
+    Can only bless it!
+
+
+II.
+
+  But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
+  A bashful Maiden's ear with news
+  Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
+    Praise sung so loudly.
+  Of that same goodness you admire,
+  The best part is, she don't aspire
+  To praise--nor of herself desire
+    To think too proudly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN MY OWN ALBUM.
+
+  Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,
+  A young probationer of light,
+  Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
+
+  A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
+  And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
+  Have "written strange defeatures" there;
+
+  And Time with heaviest hand of all,
+  Like that fierce writing on the wall,
+  Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recall;
+
+  And error gilding worst designs--
+  Like speckled snake that strays and shines--
+  Betrays his path by crooked lines;
+
+  And vice hath left his ugly blot;
+  And good resolves, a moment hot,
+  Fairly began--but finish'd not;
+
+  And fruitless, late remorse doth trace--
+  Like Hebrew lore a backward pace--
+  Her irrecoverable race.
+
+  Disjointed numbers; sense unknit
+  Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
+  Compose the mingled mass of it.
+
+  My scalded eyes no longer brook
+  Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look--
+  Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
+
+
+
+
+MISCELLANEOUS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ANGEL HELP[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles
+Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female
+Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother,
+has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In
+another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem
+of purity.]
+
+  This rare tablet doth include
+  Poverty with sanctitude.
+  Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
+  And yet the work is not half done,
+  Which must supply from earnings scant
+  A feeble bedrid parent's want.
+  Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
+  And Holy hands take up the task;
+  Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
+  And do her earthly drudgery.
+  Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on;
+  And, waking, find thy labors done.
+  Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
+  Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
+  Angelic presence testifying,
+  That round her everywhere are flying;
+  Ostents from which she may presume,
+  That much of heaven is in the room.
+  Skirting her own bright hair they run,
+  And to the sunny add more sun:
+  Now on that aged face they fix,
+  Streaming from the Crucifix;
+  The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
+  Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
+  Prelibations, foretastes high,
+  And equal thoughts to live or die.
+  Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
+  Tend with care that lily flower;
+  To its leaves and root infuse
+  Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
+  'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,
+  Of a crowning privilege.
+  Careful as that lily flower,
+  This maid must keep her precious dower;
+  Live a sainted maid, or die
+  Martyr to virginity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
+
+  I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+  A curious frame of Nature's work.
+  A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
+  A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+  Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+  Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+  So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb
+  For darker closets of the tomb!
+  She did but ope an eye, and put
+  A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+  For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+  Through glasses of mortality.
+  Riddle of destiny, who can show
+  What thy short visit meant, or know
+  What thy errand here below?
+  Shall we say, that Nature blind
+  Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
+  Just when she had exactly wrought
+  A finish'd pattern without fault?
+  Could she flag, or could she tire,
+  Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+  (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+  That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+  Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+  Life of health and days mature:
+  Woman's self in miniature!
+  Limbs so fair, they might supply
+  (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+  The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+  Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
+  That babe or mother, one must die;
+  So in mercy left the stock,
+  And cut the branch; to save the shock
+  Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
+  When Single State comes back again
+  To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
+  Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
+  The economy of Heaven is dark;
+  And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
+  Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
+  More brief than fly ephemeral,
+  That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+  Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+  And crabbed use the conscience sears
+  In sinners of an hundred years.
+  Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+  Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
+  Rites, which custom does impose,
+  Silver bells and baby clothes;
+  Coral redder than those lips,
+  Which pale death did late eclipse;
+  Music framed for infants' glee,
+  Whistle never tuned for thee;
+  Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+  Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+  Let not one be missing; nurse,
+  See them laid upon the hearse
+  Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+  Why should kings and nobles have
+  Pictured trophies to their grave;
+  And we, churls, to thee deny
+  Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
+  A more harmless vanity?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE CHRISTENING.
+
+  Array'd--a half-angelic sight--
+  In vests of pure Baptismal white,
+  The mother to the Font doth bring
+  The little helpless nameless thing,
+  With hushes soft and mild caressing,
+  At once to get--a name and blessing.
+  Close by the babe the Priest doth stand,
+  The Cleansing Water at his hand,
+  Which must assoil the soul within
+  From every stain of Adam's sin.
+  The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
+  Nor knows what all this wonder means;
+  And now he smiles, as if to say
+  "I am a Christian made this day;"
+  Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,
+  Shrinking from the water cold,
+  Whose virtues, rightly understood,
+  Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.
+  Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil--
+  Poor Babe, what can it know of evil?
+  But we must silently adore
+  Mysterious truths, and not explore.
+  Enough for him, in after-times,
+  When he shall read these artless rhymes,
+  If, looking back upon this day
+  With quiet conscience, he can say--
+  "I have in part redeem'd the pledge
+  Of my Baptismal privilege;
+  And more and more will strive to flee
+  All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]
+
+  While this tawny Ethiop prayeth,
+  Painter, who is she that stayeth
+  By, with skin of whitest lustre,
+  Sunny locks, a shining cluster,
+  Saint-like seeming to direct him
+  To the Power that must protect him?
+  Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
+  Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity;
+  Or some Cherub?--
+
+  They you mention
+  Far transcend my weak invention.
+  'Tis a simple Christian child,
+  Missionary young and mild,
+  From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
+  Bible-taught without a college,
+  Which by reading she could gather
+  Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
+  To the common Parent, who
+  Color not respects, nor hue.
+  White and black in Him have part,
+  Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
+
+ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
+
+  Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
+  A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
+  Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown
+  To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
+  Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
+  My fancy to believe the almanac,
+  That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still
+  Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will
+  Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
+  Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
+  Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,
+  Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment:
+  After some thirty years, spent in such bliss
+  As this earth can afford, where still we miss
+  Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old
+  As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
+  O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,
+  Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
+  "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare,
+  With her respected Grandsire may compare."
+  Grandchild of that respected Isola,
+  Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day
+  Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
+  Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
+  But they have died, and left thee, to advance
+  Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance
+  The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find,
+  Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
+  To thee and thy deservings. That last strain
+  Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again
+  Another cheerful goblet, while I say
+  "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SHE IS GOING.
+
+  For their elder Sister's hair
+  Martha does a wreath prepare
+  Of bridal rose, ornate and gay;
+  To-morrow is the wedding-day.
+                     She is going.
+
+  Mary, youngest of the three,
+  Laughing idler, full of glee,
+  Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
+  Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her--
+                         But she's going.
+
+  Vex not, maidens, nor regret
+  Thus to part with Margaret.
+  Charms like yours can never stay
+  Long within doors; and one day
+                         You'll be going.
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS.
+
+  By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill,
+  Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk:
+  The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;
+  And Emma brown, exuberant in talk.
+  With soft and Lady speech the first applies
+  The mild correctives that to grace belong
+  To her redundant friend, who her defies
+  With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song.
+  O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing,
+  What music from your happy discord rises,
+  While your companion hearing each, and seeing,
+  Nor this nor that, but both together, prizes;
+  This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike,
+  That harmonies may be in things unlike!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.
+
+  I was not train'd in Academic bowers,
+  And to those learned streams I nothing owe
+  Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow;
+  Mine have been anything but studious hours.
+  Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers,
+  Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap;
+  My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap,
+  And I walk _gowned_; feel unusual powers.
+  Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech,
+  Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;
+  And my skull teems with notions infinite.
+  Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach
+  Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein,
+  And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN
+"THE BLIND BOY."
+
+  Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none,
+  Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
+  And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart,
+  Unaided by the eye, expression's throne!
+  While each blind sense, intelligential grown
+  Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight:
+  Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,.
+  All motionless and silent seem to moan
+  The unseemly negligence of nature's hand,
+  That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine,
+  O mistress of the passions; artist fine!
+  Who dost our souls against our sense command,
+  Plucking the horror from a sightless face,
+  Lending to blank deformity a grace.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WORK.
+
+  Who first invented work, and bound the free
+  And holiday-rejoicing spirit down
+  To the ever-haunting importunity
+  Of business in the green fields, and the town--
+  To plough, loom, anvil, spade--and oh! most sad
+  To that dry drudgery at the--desk's dead wood?
+  Who but the Being unblest, alien from good,
+  Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad
+  Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings,
+  That round and round incalculably reel--
+  For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel--
+  In that red realm from which are no returnings:
+  Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye
+  He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LEISURE.
+
+  They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke,
+  That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press,
+  Which only works and business can redress:
+  Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,
+  Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.
+  But might I, fed with silent meditation,
+  Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation--
+  _Improbus Labor_, which my spirits hath broke--
+  I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit:
+  Fling in more days than went to make the gem
+  That crown'd the white top of Methusalem:
+  Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,
+  Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,
+  The heaven-sweet burden of eternity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DEUS NOBIS HĆC OTIA FECIT.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
+
+  Rogers, of all the men that I have known
+  But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss
+  Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across
+  My mind an image of the cordial tone
+  Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest
+  I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,
+  That of that threefold cord one precious link
+  By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest.
+  Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem--
+  A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer
+  He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,
+  And not for every trifle harass them,
+  As some, divine and laic, too oft do.
+  This man's a private loss, and public too.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE GYPSY'S MALISON.
+
+  "Suck, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving;
+  Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting;
+  Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living
+  Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
+
+  "Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses;
+  Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
+  Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
+  Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
+
+  "Hang, baby, hang! mother's love loves such forces,
+  Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
+  Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
+  Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
+
+  So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,
+  And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.
+
+
+
+
+COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ.
+ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.
+
+  Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then
+  Esteemed you a perfect specimen
+  Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,
+  To teach us colder English how a friend's
+  Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,
+  Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain;
+  But nothing further had the gift to espy.
+  Sudden you reappear. With wonder I
+  Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene
+  Only to _his_ inferior in the clean
+  Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art--
+  Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.
+  Almost without the aid language affords,
+  Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, _words_,
+  (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway
+  Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play
+  We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws
+  Our tears on credit: and we find the cause
+  Some two hours after, spelling o'er again
+  Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.
+  Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,
+  Still snatch some new old story from the urns
+  Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before
+  Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,
+
+PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL.
+
+  Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask
+  Under the vizor of a borrow'd name;
+  Let things eschew the light deserving blame:
+  No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.
+  "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book;
+  And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass;
+  Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass,
+  On the great world's antique glories we may look.
+  No longer then, as "lowly substitute,
+  Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains,"
+  Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;
+  Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,
+  Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,
+  And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK."
+
+  I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!
+    In whose capacious all-embracing leaves
+  The very marrow of tradition's shown;
+    And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.
+
+  By every sort of taste your work is graced.
+    Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,
+  With good old story quaintly interlaced--
+    The theme as various as the reader's mind.
+
+  Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint--
+    Yet kindly,--that the half-turn'd Catholic
+  Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,
+    And cannot curse the candid heretic.
+
+  Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
+    Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold,
+  And, proudly conscious of a purer age,
+    Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.
+
+  Verse-honoring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_,
+    Must needs bestow on you both good and many,
+  Who, building trophies of his Children's praise,
+    Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.
+
+  Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone--
+    The title only errs, he bids me say:
+  For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown,
+    He swears,'tis not a work of _every day_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.
+ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS.
+
+  Consummate Artist, whose undying name
+  With classic Rogers shall go down to fame,
+  Be this thy crowning work! In my young days
+  How often have I, with a child's fond gaze,
+  Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done:
+  Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison!
+  All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view;
+  I saw, and I believed the phantoms true.
+  But, above all, that most romantic tale[2]
+  Did o'er my raw credulity prevail,
+  Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,
+  That serve at once for jackets and for wings.
+  Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,
+  But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.
+  In several ways distinct you make us feel--
+  _Graceful_ as Raphael, as Watteau _genteel_.
+  Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;
+  And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.
+
+[Footnote 1: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Peter Wilkins.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.
+
+  What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate
+  Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate?
+  Good sense--good humor;--these are trivial things,
+  Dear M----, that each trite encomiast sings.
+  But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt
+  From every low-bred passion, where contempt,
+  Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found
+  A harbor yet; an understanding sound;
+  Just views of right and wrong; perception full
+  Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful,
+  In life and manners; wit above her sex,
+  Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;
+  Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth,
+  To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;
+  A noble nature, conqueror in the strife
+  Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,
+  Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power
+  Of those whose days have been one silken hour,
+  Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense
+  Alike of benefit, and of offence,
+  With reconcilement quick, that instant springs
+  From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;
+  While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd
+  By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind.
+  If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer
+  Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;
+  And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,
+  Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints, written
+in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas,
+Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John
+Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street,
+Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower,
+seemingly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time,
+discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very
+humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless
+the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it
+assisted.]
+
+  O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower,
+  That shrines beneath her modest canopy
+  Memorials dear to Romish piety;
+  Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour
+  The work perchance of some meek devotee,
+  Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth
+  The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth,
+  In this imperfect tracery might see
+  Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.
+  Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told
+  Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold,
+  That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.
+  True love shows costliest, where the means are scant;
+  And, in their reckoning, they _abound_, who _want_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SELF-ENCHANTED.
+
+  I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare,
+  Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there,
+  Stooping, like some enchanted theme,
+  Over the marge of that crystal stream,
+  Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind,
+  With Self-love fond, had to waters pined,
+  Ages had waked, and ages slept,
+  And that bending posture still she kept:
+  For her eyes she may not turn away,
+  'Till a fairer object shall pass that way--
+  'Till an image more beauteous this world can show,
+  Than her own which she sees in the mirror below.
+  Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore,
+  Nor dream to be disenchanted more:
+  For vain is expectance, and wish in vain,
+  'Till a new Narcissus can come again.
+
+TO LOUISA M----,
+WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY."
+
+  Louisa, serious grown and mild,
+  I knew you once a romping child,
+  Obstreperous much and very wild.
+  Then you would clamber up my knees,
+  And strive with every art to tease,
+  When every art of yours could please.
+  Those things would scarce be proper now,
+  But they are gone, I know not how,
+  And woman's written on your brow.
+  Time draws his finger o'er the scene;
+  But I cannot forget between
+  The Thing to me you once have been;
+  Each sportive sally, wild escape,--
+  The scoff, the banter, and the jape,--
+  And antics of my gamesome Ape.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSLATIONS.
+
+FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I.
+
+THE BALLAD SINGERS.
+
+  Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw,
+  Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;
+  Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,
+  And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:
+  With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red,
+  But long with dust and dirt discolored
+  Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,
+  From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.
+  One a small infant at the breast does bear;
+  And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,
+  Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,
+  When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,
+  Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,
+  Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt
+  To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons
+  Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns,
+  Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells;
+  And, working single in their low-rooft cells,
+  Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night
+  With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.--
+  Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid,
+  Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid
+  To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.
+  Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout
+  Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by,
+  Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply
+  With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees
+  The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,
+  But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.
+  So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong
+  Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings,
+  The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings,
+  And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.
+  Hither and thither from the sevenfold road
+  Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides
+  The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides
+  To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,
+  They reunite, so these unite as fast.
+  The older Songstress hitherto hath spent
+  Her elocution in the argument
+  Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes
+  Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes--
+  Ah! "_Wandering He!_"--which now in loftier _verse_
+  Pathetic they alternately rehearse.
+  All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes
+  His right ear to the strain. The other hopes
+  To catch it better with his left. Long trade
+  It were to tell, how the deluded maid
+  A victim fell. And now right greedily
+  All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,
+  That are so tragical; which She, and She,
+  Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be
+  A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back
+  His contribution from the gentle rack
+  Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,
+  The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf
+  Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest,
+  And boldly claims his ballad with the best.
+  An old Dame only lingers. To her purse
+  The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse,
+  "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,
+  While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall
+  Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way;
+  How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."
+
+[Footnote 1: Seven Dials]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+II.
+
+TO DAVID COOK,
+
+OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.
+
+  For much good-natured verse received from thee,
+  A loving verse take in return from me.
+  "Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry;
+  And to our David "twice as good," say I.
+  Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer,
+  Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,
+  Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night
+  Fills half the world with shadows of affright,
+  You with your lantern, partner of your round,
+  Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.
+  The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,
+  The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,
+  Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall;
+  Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.
+  But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,
+  Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,
+  The gentle salesman you with candor greet,
+  And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.
+  Announcing your approach by formal bell,
+  Of nightly weather you the changes tell;
+  Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep
+  In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep
+  In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet
+  Of winter; and in alley, or in street,
+  Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.
+  What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse
+  On your didactic strain--indulgent Night
+  With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite,
+  And critics sleep while you in staves do sound
+  The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound
+  In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim:
+  Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name?
+  Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,
+  And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!
+  To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;
+  Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;
+  Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice:
+  How death at last all ranks doth equalize;
+  And, in conclusion, pray good years befall,
+  With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all."
+  For this and other tokens of good will
+  On boxing-day may store of shillings fill
+  Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,
+  When at each door your blameless suit you press:
+  And what you wish to us (it is but reason)
+  Receive in turn--the compliments o' th' season!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+III.
+
+ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT
+SLEEPING.
+
+  Beautiful Infant, who dost keep
+  Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,
+  May the repose unbroken be,
+  Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
+  While thou enjoy'st along with it
+  That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
+  Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
+  The heaven-infusčd sleep of Innocence!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IV.
+
+EPITAPH ON A DOG.
+  Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
+  That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
+  His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
+  Had he occasion for that staff, with which
+  He now goes picking out his path in fear
+  Over the highways and crossings, but would plant,
+  Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
+  A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd
+  His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
+  Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:
+  To whom with loud and passionate laments
+  From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.
+  Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,
+  The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
+  I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
+  Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
+  Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive
+  At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
+  And common portion in his feast of scraps;
+  Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent
+  With our long day and tedious beggary.
+  These were my manners, this my way of life,
+  Till age and slow disease me overtook,
+  And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
+  But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
+  Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
+  This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
+  Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
+  And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
+  In long and lasting union to attest,
+  The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+V.
+
+THE RIVAL BELLS.
+
+  A tuneful challenge rings from either side
+  Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride,
+  Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
+  The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
+  Such harmony from the contention flows,
+  That the divided ear no preference knows:
+  Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,
+  While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+VI.
+
+NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.
+
+  Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
+  Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet;
+  But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,
+  Discover'd properties to her unknown;
+  Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use,
+  Known Quantities from unknown to educe;
+  And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise--
+  The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.
+  Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,
+  Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!
+
+       *       *       *      *       *
+
+VII.
+
+THE HOUSEKEEPER.
+
+  The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,
+  Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;
+  Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain,
+  Retreats to his small domicile amain.
+  Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well--
+  He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
+  He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
+  Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
+  Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,
+  And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
+  He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
+  Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
+  And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam--
+  Knock when you will--he's sure to be at home.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+VIII.
+
+ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Benjamin Ferrers--Died A. D. 1732.]
+
+  And hath thy blameless life become
+  A prey to the devouring tomb?
+  A more mute silence hast thou known,
+  A deafness deeper than thine own,
+  While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
+  That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
+  Repair with quickening verse the breach.
+  And write thee into light and speech?
+  The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd
+  Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;
+  Who made the Hearing, without wrong
+  Did rescue thine from Siren's song.
+  He let thee _see_ the ways of men,
+  Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
+  Careful Beholder, down didst note,
+  And all their motley actions quote,
+  Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
+  Or gesture reading, more than _book_,
+  In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
+  Contented with the Silent Art,
+  Thyself as silent. Might I be
+  As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IX.
+
+THE FEMALE ORATORS.
+
+  Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed
+  Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
+  So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs
+  A name, allusive strictly to _two Tongues_[1]
+  Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,
+  And _gratis_ deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.
+  With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
+  Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
+  One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
+  And one in literalities abounds;
+  In mood and figure these keep up the din:
+  Words multiply, and every word tells in.
+  Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;
+  And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins
+  In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,
+  And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.
+  Right in the midst great Atč keeps her stand,
+  And from her sovereign station taints the land.
+  Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;
+  Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.
+
+[Footnote 1: _Bilinguis_ in the Latin.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,
+  That sang the Pillory,
+  In loftier strains to show
+  A more sublime Machine
+  Than that, where thou wert seen,
+  With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry,
+  Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below--
+  A most unseemly show!
+
+
+II.
+
+  In such a place
+  Who could expose thy face,
+  Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!
+  That paint'st the strife
+  And all the naked ills of savage life,
+  Far above Rousseau?
+  Rather myself had stood
+  In that ignoble wood,
+  Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day.
+  If nought else could atone
+  For waggish libel,
+  I swear on bible,
+  I would have spared him for thy sake alone,
+  Man Friday!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Our ancestors' were sour days,
+  Great Master of Romance!
+  A milder doom had fallen to thy chance
+  In our days:
+  Thy sole assignment
+  Some solitary confinement,
+  (Not worth thy care a carrot,)
+  Where in world-hidden cell
+  Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,
+  Only without the parrot;
+  By sure experience taught to know,
+  Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.
+
+
+IV.
+
+  But stay! methinks in statelier measure--
+  A more companionable pleasure--
+  I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,
+  (The subject of my song,
+  Delay'd however long,)
+  And some of thine own race,
+  To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.
+  There with thee go,
+  Link'd in like sentence,
+  With regulated pace and footing slow,
+  Each old acquaintance,
+  Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages;
+  Through many a labor'd tome,
+  Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.
+  Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!
+  Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,
+  From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.
+  Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;
+  Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,
+  There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,
+  The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.
+
+
+V.
+
+  Incompetent my song to raise,
+  To its just height thy praise,
+  Great Mill!
+  That by thy motion proper
+  (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill),
+  Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,
+  Turn'st out men's consciences,
+  That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
+  As flour from purest wheat,
+  Into thy hopper.
+  All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,
+  Or human, or divine.
+
+
+VI.
+
+  Compared with thee,
+  What are the labors of that Jumping Sect,
+  Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?
+  Thou dost not bump,
+  Or jump,
+  But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime
+  And slow repentance giving breathing time,
+  And leisure to be good;
+  Instructing with discretion demi-reps
+  How to direct their steps.
+
+
+VII.
+
+  Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!
+  Not that which framed the tub,
+  Where sat the Cynic cub,
+  With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;
+  But from those groves derived, I deem,
+  Where Plato nursed his dream
+  Of immortality;
+  Seeing that clearly
+  Thy system all is merely
+  Peripatetic.
+  Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give
+  Of how to live
+  With temperance, sobriety, morality,
+  (A new art,)
+  That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,
+  Each Tyro now proceeds
+  A "Walking Stewart!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GOING OR GONE.
+
+I.
+
+  Fine merry franions,
+  Wanton companions,
+  My days are ev'n banyans
+    With thinking upon ye!
+  How Death, that last stinger,
+  Finis-writer, end-bringer,
+  Has laid his chill finger,
+    Or is laying on ye.
+
+
+II.
+
+  There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
+  With footing it featly
+  That took me completely,
+    She sleeps in the Kirk House;
+  And poor Polly Perkin,
+  Whose Dad was still firking
+  The jolly ale firkin,
+    She's gone to the Work-house;
+
+
+III.
+
+  Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter
+  (In ten counties no smarter)
+  Has ta'en his departure
+    For Proserpine's orchards:
+  And Lily, postilion,
+  With cheeks of vermilion,
+  Is one of a million
+    That fill up the church-yards;
+
+
+IV.
+
+  And, lusty as Dido,
+  Fat Clemitson's widow
+  Flits now a small shadow
+    By Stygian hid ford;
+  And good Master Clapton
+  Has thirty years napt on,
+  The ground he last hapt on,
+    Entomb'd by fair Widford;
+
+
+V.
+
+  And gallant Tom Dockwra,
+  Of Nature's finest crockery,
+  Now but thin air and mockery,
+    Lurks by Avernus,
+  Whose honest grasp of hand
+  Still, while his life did stand,
+  At friend's or foe's command,
+    Almost did burn us.
+
+
+VI.
+
+  Roger de Coverley
+  Not more good man than he;
+  Yet has he equally
+    Push'd for Cocytus,
+  With drivelling Worral,
+  And wicked old Dorrell,
+  'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
+    Whose end might affright us!--
+
+
+VII.
+
+  Kindly hearts have I known;
+  Kindly hearts, they are flown;
+  Here and there if but one
+    Linger yet uneffaced,
+  Imbecile tottering elves,
+  Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
+  These scarce are half themselves,
+    With age and care crazed.
+
+
+VIII.
+
+  But this day Fanny Hutton
+  Her last dress has put on;
+  Her fine lessons forgotten,
+    She died, as the dunce died;
+  And prim Betsey Chambers,
+  Decay'd in her members,
+  No longer remembers
+    Things, as she once did;
+
+
+IX.
+
+  And prudent Miss Wither
+  Not in jest now doth _wither_,
+  And soon must go--whither
+    Nor I well, nor you know;
+  And flaunting Miss Waller,
+  _That_ soon must befall her,
+  Whence none can recall her,
+    Though proud once as Juno!
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT
+COMPOSERS.
+
+  Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
+  Just as the whim bites; for my part,
+  I do not care a farthing candle
+  For either of them, or for Handel.--
+  Cannot a man live free and easy,
+  Without admiring Pergolesi?
+  Or through the world with comfort go,
+  That never heard of Doctor Blow?
+  So help me heaven, I hardly have;
+  And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
+  Like other people, if you watch it,
+  And know no more of stave or crotchet,
+  Than did the primitive Peruvians;
+  Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
+  That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
+  Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
+  By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
+  Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
+  I care no more for Cimarosa,
+  Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
+  Being no painter; and bad luck
+  Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!
+  Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
+  Had something in them; but who's Purcel?
+  The devil, with his foot so cloven,
+  For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
+  And, if the bargain does not suit,
+  I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
+  There's not the splitting of a splinter
+  To choose twixt him last named, and Winter.
+  Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
+  Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
+  I would not go four miles to visit
+  Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
+  No more I would for Bononcini.
+  As for Novello, or Rossini,
+  I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
+  Because they're living; so I leave 'em.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE'S TRIAL;
+
+OR,
+
+THE INTRUDING WIDOW.
+
+A Dramatic poem.
+
+FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+MR. SELBY, _A Wiltshire Gentleman._
+KATHERINE, _Wife to Selby_.
+LUCY, _Sister to Selby_.
+MRS. FRAMPTON, _A Widow_.
+
+SERVANTS.
+
+SCENE--_At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds adjacent_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE--_A Library_.
+
+MR. SELBY. KATHERINE.
+
+_Selby_. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;
+I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,
+And those too with allowance. I have not
+Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
+Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
+With any strain of harshness on a string
+Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
+Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
+That to the lame performance of some vows,
+And common courtesies of man to wife,
+Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
+To esteem as favors, what in that blest union
+Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,
+As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
+Gently to reprehend.
+
+_Kath._         In friendship's barter
+The riches we exchange should hold some level,
+And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys
+Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir,
+To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
+An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
+Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
+Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.
+
+_Selby._ But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
+I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
+Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
+Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
+Haply did think their company too long;
+And over-company, we know by proof,
+Is worse than no attendance.
+
+_Kath._                I must guess,
+You speak this of the Widow--
+
+_Selby._                'Twas a bolt
+At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
+I am most sorry to have wounded you
+Through a friend's side.  I know not how we have swerved
+From our first talk. I was to caution you
+Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
+Which, for some girlish obligations past,
+In that relenting season of the heart,
+When slightest favors pass for benefits
+Of endless binding, would entail upon you
+An iron slavery of obsequious duty
+To the proud will of an imperious woman.
+
+_Kath_. The favors are not slight to her I owe.
+
+_Selby_. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts
+Cancels all dues--                            [_A voice within_.
+                  even now I hear her call you
+In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses
+Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate.
+Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
+Say you are busy. Use her by degrees
+To some less hard exactions.
+
+_Kath_.                 I conjure you,
+Detain me not. I will return--
+
+_Selby_.                 Sweet wife,
+Use thy own pleasure--                        [_Exit_ KATHERINE.
+                       but it troubles me.
+A visit of three days, as was pretended,
+Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given
+When she will go! I would this buxom Widow
+Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try
+My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love
+In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils,
+That she, not I, should be the first to warn
+The insidious guest depart.
+
+                _Reënter_ KATHERINE.
+
+So soon return'd!
+What was our Widow's will?
+
+_Kath_.                    A trifle, sir.
+
+_Selby_. Some toilet service--to adjust her head,
+Or help to stick a pin in the right place--
+
+_Kath_. Indeed 'twas none of these.
+
+_Selby._                         Or new vamp up
+The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her
+Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
+Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
+And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave!
+And yet my dearest Kate!--This day at least
+(It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom,
+And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach--
+Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
+An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
+To the blest cottage on the green hill-side,
+Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
+If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue
+For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be,
+It will not show less lovely than the tinge
+Of this faint red, contending with the pale,
+Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek
+An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,
+That bears my Katherine's name.--
+                                Our carriage, Philip.
+
+           _Enter a Servant._
+
+Now, Robin, what make you here?
+
+_Servant._                May it please you,
+The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.
+
+_Selby._ He had no orders--
+
+_Servant._ None, sir, that I know of,
+But from the lady, who expects some letter
+At the next Post Town.
+
+_Selby._              Go, Robin.          [_Exit Servant._
+                                      How is this?
+
+_Kath._ I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger--
+
+_Selby._ It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton,
+This forward Widow.  But a ride's poor loss
+Imports not much. In to your chamber, love,
+Where you with music may beguile the hour,
+While I am tossing over dusty tomes,
+Till our most reasonable friend returns.
+
+_Kath_. I am all obedience.               [_Exit_ KATHERINE.
+
+_Selby_.                    Too obedient, Kate,
+And to too many masters. I can hardly
+On such a day as this refrain to speak
+My sense of this injurious friend, this pest,
+This household evil, this close-clinging fiend,
+In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants
+Controll'd above me! orders countermanded!
+What next?              [_Servant enters and announces the Sister._
+
+              _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+Sister! I know you are come to welcome
+This day's return. 'Twas well done.
+
+_Lucy_.                       You seem ruffled.
+In years gone by this day was used to be
+The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd
+So soon to gall?
+
+_Selby_.        Gall'd am I, and with cause,
+And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,
+Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.
+
+_Lucy_. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.
+
+_Selby_. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
+Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
+Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
+The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
+Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,
+Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it
+In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;
+Who owes her some strange service, of what nature
+I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek
+And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,
+As spell-bound by some witch.
+
+_Lucy_.              Some mystery hangs on it.
+How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?
+
+_Selby_. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares
+For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
+A secret glance would tell me she could love,
+If I but gave encouragement. Before me
+She keeps some moderation; but is never
+Closeted with my wife, but in the end
+I find my Katherine in briny tears.
+From the small chamber, where she first was lodged,
+The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts
+Has now ensconced herself in the best part
+Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own;
+Commands my servants, equipage.--I hear
+Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?
+
+              _Enter_ MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Mrs. F._ O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,
+With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip
+Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
+And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,
+Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,
+My errand unperform'd at Andover.
+
+_Lucy_. And I shall love the knave forever after.
+                                                    [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F._ A friend with you!
+
+_Selby_.                    My eldest sister, Lucy,
+Come to congratulate this returning morn.--
+Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.
+
+_Mrs. F._                                Pray,
+Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome.
+I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion
+With the good couple, to whose hospitality
+I stand so far indebted.  But your coming
+Makes it a feast.
+
+_Lucy._            She does the honors naturally--
+                                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ As if she were the mistress of the house.--
+                                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I love to be at home with loving friends.
+To stand on ceremony with obligations,
+Is to restrain the obliger.  That old coach, though,
+Of yours jumbles one strangely.
+
+_Selby._                  I shall order
+An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam--
+
+_Lucy._ To drive her and her pride to Lucifer,
+I hope he means.                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I must go trim myself; this humbled garb
+Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave
+For a short absence?--and your Katherine--
+
+_Selby._ You'll find her in her closet--
+
+_Mrs. F._                          Fare you well, then.
+                                                     [_Exit._
+
+_Selby._ How like you her assurance?
+
+_Lucy._                              Even so well,
+That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
+She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
+My merry groom should in a trice convey her
+To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
+To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
+She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.
+O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
+That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
+Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
+Secrets of any worth, especially
+Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught,
+My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story
+Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
+Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,
+Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.
+
+_Selby_. I think it is no more; and will dismiss
+My further fears, if ever I have had such.
+
+_Lucy_. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother;
+And how the new trees thrive, I recommended.
+Your Katherine is engaged now--
+
+_Selby_.                    I'll attend you.
+
+                                                   [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Servants' Hall_.
+
+HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, _and others, laughing_.
+
+_Housekeeper_. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled,
+And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip,
+I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks
+Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.
+
+_Philip_. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper,
+And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
+We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger,
+And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries.
+We are wild things.
+
+_Butler_.      Good Philip, tell us all.
+
+_All_. Ay, as you live, tell, tell--
+
+_Philip_. Mad fellows, you shall have it.
+The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud--
+
+_Butler_. I think that no one can mistake her ringing.
+
+_Waiting-maid_. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it,
+More of entreaty hath it than command.
+
+_Philip_. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus.
+The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice
+More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!"
+
+I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office,
+"Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town,
+Where I have hope of letters." I made haste:
+Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd,
+And drove her--
+
+_Waiting-maid_. By the straight high-road to Andover,
+I guess--
+
+_Philip_. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge,
+Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
+And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.
+
+_Butler_. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt him.
+
+_Philip_. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor beasts,
+Meeting such droves of cattle and of people,
+May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled,
+Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd,
+And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest,
+By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions
+We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
+In policy, to save the few joints left her,
+Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_Butler_. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.
+
+_Waiting-maid_. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out
+With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes them--
+
+_Butler_. And I with helping her to mum for claret,
+But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.
+
+_Housekeeper_. Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress,
+And so should be respected. Though, I think,
+Our master cares not for her company,
+He would ill brook we should express so much
+By rude discourtesies, and short attendance,
+Being but servants. (_A Bell rings furiously._)
+                    'Tis her bell speaks now;
+Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted?
+
+_Butler_. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE.--_Mrs. Selby's Chamber_.
+
+MRS. FRAMPTON, KATHERINE, _working_.
+
+_Mrs. F._ I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates
+Have traced our lots through life.--Another needle,
+This works untowardly.--An heiress born
+To splendid prospects, at our common school
+I was as one above you all, not of you;
+Had my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms,
+Denied to you. Pray, listen--
+
+_Kath_.                 I must hear,
+What you are pleased to speak--how my heart sinks here! [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F_. My chamber to myself, my separate maid,
+My coach, and so forth.--Not that needle, simple one,
+With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops!
+Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs,
+But I could make a shift to thread a smaller.
+A cable or a camel might go through this,
+And never strain for the passage.
+
+_Kath_.                      I will fit you----
+Intolerable tyranny!                                    [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F_.        Quick, quick;
+You were not once so slack.--As I was saying,
+Not a young thing among ye, but observed me
+Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to
+In all your dangers, all your little difficulties,
+Your girlish scrapes? I was the scape-goat still,
+To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some,
+Perhaps, since then--
+
+_Kath_.           No more of that, for mercy,
+If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet,
+Cleave the cold earth for comfort.                     [_Kneels_.
+
+_Mrs. F._                     This to me?
+This posture to your friend had better suited
+The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days
+To the _then_ rich heiress, than the wife of Selby,
+Of wealthy Mr. Selby,
+To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is.
+Come, come,
+'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said;
+I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bedfellow!
+You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you.
+I'll make him give you up a night or so;
+In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk
+Old tricks of school-days over.
+
+_Kath._                     Hear me, madam--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Not by that name. Your friend--
+
+_Kath._                          My truest friend,
+And savior of my honor!
+
+_Mrs. F._           This sounds better;
+You still shall find me such.
+
+_Kath._                  That you have graced
+Our poor house with your presence hitherto,
+Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace
+Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate.
+You have been pleased
+To accept some trivial hospitalities,
+In part of payment of a long arrear
+I owe to you, no less than for my life.
+
+_Mrs. F._ You speak my services too large.
+
+_Kath._                                   Nay, less;
+For what an abject thing were life to me
+Without your silence on my dreadful secret!
+And I would wish the league we have renew'd
+Might be perpetual--
+
+_Mrs. F._        Have a care, fine madam!          [_Aside._
+
+_Kath._ That one house still might hold us. But my husband
+Has shown himself of late--
+
+_Mrs. F._                How, Mistress Selby?
+
+_Kath._ Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him.
+He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love
+The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods,
+In which--
+
+_Mrs. F._ I understand you;--in which husbands,
+And wives that love, may wish to be alone,
+To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance,
+After a five years' wedlock.
+
+_Kath._                      Was that well,
+Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks
+Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form
+Seem a fit theatre for Levity
+To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies,
+As even in Affection's first bland Moon
+Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks?
+I was about to say, that there are times,
+When the most frank and sociable man
+May surfeit on most loved society,
+Preferring loneness rather--
+
+_Mrs. F._                  To my company--
+
+_Kath._ Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take
+Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness
+Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so.
+For solitude, I have heard my Selby say,
+Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions;
+And he would call it oft, the _day's soft sleep._
+
+_Mrs. F._ What is your drift? and whereto tends this speech,
+Rhetorically labor'd?
+
+_Kath._                 That you would
+Abstain but from our house a month, a week;
+I make request but for a single day.
+
+_Mrs. F._ A month, a week, a day! A single hour
+Is every week, and month, and the long year,
+And all the years to come! My footing here,
+Slipt once, recovers never. From the state
+Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries,
+Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides,
+To the bare cottage on the withering moor,
+Where I myself am servant to myself,
+Or only waited on by blackest thoughts--
+I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit.
+
+_Kath_. Then I am lost forever!
+
+                             [_Sinks at her feet--curtain drops._
+
+
+SCENE--_An Apartment contiguous to the last._
+
+SELBY, _as if listening_.
+
+_Selby_. The sounds have died away. What am I changed to?
+What do I here, list'ning like to an abject,
+Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good,
+If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband."
+It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery,
+And the solution with a vengeance comes.
+What can my wife have left untold to me,
+That must be told by proxy? I begin
+To call in doubt the course of her life past
+Under my very eyes. She hath not been good,
+Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun
+My wishes still with prompt and meek observance.
+Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes
+Not like the dove's; all this as well may be,
+As that she should entreasure up a secret
+In the peculiar closet of her breast,
+And grudge it to my ear. It is my right
+To claim the halves in any truth she owns,
+As much as in the babe I have by her;
+Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look,
+Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow
+Some strange shame written.
+
+           _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+               Sister, an anxious word with you.
+From out the chamber, where my wife but now
+Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard
+(Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance)
+A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone
+Of replication, such as the meek dove
+Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow
+Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard
+One threat pronounced--"Your husband shall know all."
+I am no listener, sister; and I hold
+A secret, got by such unmanly shift,
+The pitiful'st of thefts; but what mine ear,
+I not intending it, receives perforce,
+I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning
+Lurks in this fiend's behavior; which, by force,
+Or fraud I must make mine.
+
+_Lucy_.               The gentlest means
+Are still the wisest. What, if you should press
+Your wife to a disclosure?
+
+_Selby_.              I have tried
+All gentler means; thrown out low hints, which, though
+Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd
+To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist,
+Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal.
+
+_Lucy_. Your own description gave that Widow out
+As one not much precise, nor over-coy,
+And nice to listen to a suit of love.
+What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on,
+(To work the secret from her easy faith,)
+For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming?
+
+_Selby_. I see your drift, and partly meet your counsel.
+But must it not in me appear prodigious,
+To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious,
+To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn,
+And undissembled looks of blank aversion?
+
+_Lucy_. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms,
+And easily credits the resistless power,
+That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down
+The slight-built fortress of a casual hate.
+
+_Selby_. I am resolved--
+
+_Lucy_.                  Success attend your wooing!
+
+_Selby_. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Library_.
+
+MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Selby_. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton.
+My purpose was, if you could spare so much
+From your sweet leisure, a few words in private.
+
+_Mrs. F._ What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me,
+Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness?
+Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it,
+And meet him in all fashions.                           [_Aside_.
+                               All my leisure,
+Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here,
+Would not express a tithe of the obligements
+I every hour incur.
+
+_Selby_.       No more of that.
+I know not why, my wife hath lost of late
+Much of her cheerful spirits.
+
+_Mrs. F._                It was my topic
+To-day; and every day, and all day long,
+I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said,
+And said it pretty roundly--it may be
+I was too peremptory--we elder school-fellows,
+Presuming on the advantage of a year
+Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much,
+In after years, much like to elder sisters,
+Are prone to keep the authoritative style,
+When time has made the difference most ridiculous--
+
+_Selby_. The observation's shrewd.
+
+_Mrs. F._             "Child," I was saying,
+"If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours,"
+And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit
+In corners moping, like to sullen moppets,
+That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look
+Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps
+I said, their Selbys, "with proportion'd looks
+Of honest joy."
+
+_Selby_.     You do suspect no jealousy?
+
+_Mrs. F._ What is his import? Whereto tends his Speech?
+                                                        [_Aside_.
+Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir?
+
+_Selby_. I do not know, but women have their fancies;
+And underneath a cold indifference,
+Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd
+A growing fondness for a female friend,
+Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see,
+Before the friend had wit to find it out.
+You do not quit us soon?
+
+_Mrs. F._          'Tis as I find;
+Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.--
+Means this man honest? Is there no deceit?              [_Aside._
+
+_Selby_. She cannot choose.--Well, well, I have been thinking,
+And if the matter were to do again--
+
+_Mrs. F._ What matter, sir?
+
+_Selby._                   This idle bond of wedlock;
+These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk;
+I might have made, I do not say a better,
+But a more fit choice in a wife.
+
+_Mrs. F._                  The parch'd ground,
+In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers
+More greedily than I his words!                         [_Aside_.
+
+_Selby_.                   My humor
+Is to be frank and jovial; and that man
+Affects me best, who most reflects me in
+My most free temper.
+
+_Mrs. F._        Were you free to choose,
+As jestingly I'll put the supposition,
+Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine,
+What sort of Woman would you make your choice?
+
+_Selby_. I like your humor and will meet your jest.
+She should be one about my Katherine's age;
+But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity,
+One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it:
+No muling, pining moppet, as you said,
+Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching
+The freedoms of a wife all her life after:
+But one that, having worn the chain before,
+(And worn it lightly, as report gave out,)
+Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death,
+Took it not so to heart that I need dread
+To die myself, for fear a second time
+To wet a widow's eye.
+
+_Mrs. F._        Some widows, sir,
+Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt
+To put strange misconstruction on your words,
+As aiming at a Turkish liberty,
+Where the free husband hath his several mates,
+His Penseroso, his Allegro wife,
+To suit his sober or his frolic fit.
+
+_Selby_. How judge you of that latitude?
+
+_Mrs. F._                                As one,
+In European customs bred, must judge. Had I
+Been born a native of the liberal East,
+I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew
+A married man that took a second wife,
+And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd,
+With all their bearings) the considerate world
+Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed.
+
+_Selby_. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed.
+
+_Mrs. F._ An eye of wanton liking he had placed
+Upon a Widow, who liked him again,
+But stood on terms of honorable love,
+And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife--
+When to their ears a lucky rumor ran,
+That this demure and saintly-seeming wife
+Had a first husband living; with the which
+Being question'd, she but faintly could deny.
+"A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd,
+But scarce amounting to a marriage rite.
+Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead;
+And, seven years parted, both were free to choose."
+
+_Selby_. What did the indignant husband? Did he not
+With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek
+Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd
+Shame on their innocent babe?
+
+_Mrs. F._                He neither tore
+His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing
+His own offence with hers in equal poise,
+And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man,
+Came to a calm and witty compromise.
+He coolly took his gay-faced widow home,
+Made her his second wife; and still the first
+Lost few or none of her prerogatives.
+The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept
+The keys, and had the total ordering
+Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted,
+Was all a moderate wife would wish to be.
+
+_Selby_. A tale full of dramatic incident!--
+And if a man should put it in a play,
+How should he name the parties?
+
+_Mrs. F._                  The man's name
+Through time I have forgot--the widow's too;--
+But his first wife's first name, her maiden one,
+Was--not unlike to _that_ your Katherine bore,
+Before she took the honor'd style of Selby.
+
+_Selby_. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks.
+One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange
+And most mysterious drama ends. The name
+Of that first husband--
+
+                 _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+_Mrs. F._           Sir, your pardon--
+The allegory fits your private ear.
+Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk,
+We shall have leisure.                                  [_Exit_.
+
+_Selby_.          Sister, whence come you?
+
+_Lucy_. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops
+In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps,
+And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks
+As she would pour her secret in my bosom--
+Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention
+Of some immodest act. At her request,
+I left her on her knees.
+
+_Selby_.            The fittest posture;
+For great has been her fault to Heaven and me.
+She married me with a first husband living,
+Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment
+Of any but indifferent honesty,
+Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow,
+Caught by my art, under a riddling veil
+Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all.
+Your coming in broke off the conference,
+When she was ripe to tell the fatal _name_
+That seals my wedded doom.
+
+_Lucy_.               Was she so forward
+To pour her hateful meanings in your ear
+At the first hint?
+
+_Selby_.      Her newly flatter'd hopes
+Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt;
+And with a female caution she stood off
+Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit,
+Which with such honest seeming I enforced,
+That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now
+She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife,
+To seize the place of her betrayčd friend--
+My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine.
+
+_Lucy_. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes
+My simple project has conducted you--
+Were but my wit as skilful to invent
+A clue to lead you forth!--I call to mind
+A letter, which your wife received from the Cape,
+Soon after you were married, with some circumstances
+Of mystery too.
+
+_Selby_.   I well remember it.
+That letter did confirm the truth (she said)
+Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true,
+But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise
+She gave him out--a hot adventurous spirit--
+That had set sail in quest of golden dreams,
+And cities in the heart of Central Afric;
+But named no names, nor did I care to press
+My question further, in the passionate grief
+She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he?
+
+_Lucy_. Tears were not all. When that first shower was past,
+With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n,
+As if in thankfulness for some escape,
+Or strange deliverance, in the news implied,
+Which sweeten'd that sad news.
+
+_Selby_.                 Something of that
+I noted also--
+
+_Lucy_.   In her closet once,
+Seeking some other trifle, I espied
+A ring, in mournful characters deciphering
+The death of "Robert Halford, aged two
+And twenty." Brother, I am not given
+To the confident use of wagers, which I hold
+Unseemly in a woman's argument;
+But I am strangely tempted now to risk
+A thousand pounds out of my patrimony,
+(And let my future husband look to it,
+If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow
+Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.
+
+_Selby_. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed--
+Rich in my rescued Kate--rich in my honor,
+Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept
+Your merry wager, with an aching heart
+For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour
+That I should meet my Widow in the walk,
+The south side of the garden. On some pretence
+Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness
+Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight,
+Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give,
+(A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,)
+You'll know your wager won--then break upon us,
+As if by chance.
+
+_Lucy_.     I apprehend your meaning--
+
+_Selby_. And may you prove a true Cassandra here,
+Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE.--_Mrs. Selby's chamber._
+
+MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Did I express myself in terms so strong?
+
+_Kath._ As nothing could have more affrighted me.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution
+Of a suspected cooling hospitality.
+And, for my staying here, or going hence,
+(Now I remember something of our argument,)
+Selby and I can settle that between us.
+You look amazed. What if your husband, child,
+Himself has courted me to stay?
+
+_Kath._                    You move
+My wonder and my pleasure equally.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Yes, courted me to stay, waived all objections,
+Made it a favor to yourselves; not me,
+His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child,
+When I recall his flattering welcome, I
+Begin to think the burden of my presence
+Was--
+
+_Kath_. What, for Heaven--
+
+_Mrs. F._                  A little, little spice
+Of jealousy--that's all--an honest pretext,
+No wife need blush for. Say that you should see,
+(As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms,
+Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest
+Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal
+A kiss, while you were by,--not else, for virtue's sake.
+
+_Kath._ I could endure all this, thinking my husband
+Meant it in sport--
+
+_Mrs. F._      But if in downright earnest
+(Putting myself out of the question here)
+Your Selby, as I partly do suspect,
+Own'd a divided heart--
+
+_Kath._            My own would break--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Why, what a blind and witless fool it is,
+That will not see its gains, its infinite gains--
+
+_Kath._ Gain in a loss.
+                            Or mirth in utter desolation!
+
+_Mrs. F._ He doating on a face--suppose it mine,
+Or any other's tolerably fair--
+What need you care about a senseless secret?
+
+_Kath._ Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part
+Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke
+The worse than iron band, fretting the soul,
+By which you held me captive. Whether my husband
+_Is_ what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy
+But dreams he is so, either way I am free.
+
+_Mrs. F._ It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame;
+A very heroine while on its knees;
+Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista?
+
+_Kath._ Not to thy wretched self these tears are falling;
+But to my husband, and offended Heaven,
+Some drops are due--and then I sleep in peace,
+Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I have gone too far. Who knows but in this mood
+She may forestall my story, win on Selby
+By a frank confession?--and the time draws on
+For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate,
+For which I play. A moment's difference
+May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him.             [_Exit._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE.--_A garden._
+
+MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Selby._ I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton,
+Not to conjecture, that some passages
+In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted,
+Glanced at my bosom's peace;
+                             You knew my wife?
+
+_Mrs. F._ Even from her earliest school-days--What of that?
+Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles,
+Framed for the hour's amusement!
+
+_Selby_.                     By my _hopes_
+Of my new interest conceived in you,
+And by the honest passion of my heart,
+Which not obliquely I to you did hint;
+Come from the clouds of misty allegory,
+And in plain language let me hear the worst.
+Stand I disgraced, or no?
+
+_Mrs. F._            Then, by _my_ hopes
+Of my new interest conceived in you,
+And by the kindling passion in _my_ breast,
+Which through my riddles you had almost read,
+Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all.
+In her school years, then bordering on fifteen,
+Or haply not much past, she loved a youth--
+
+_Selby._ My most ingenuous Widow--
+
+_Mrs. F._                          Met him oft
+By stealth, where I still of the party was--
+
+_Selby._ Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant,
+And general go-between--                                [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._            One morn he came
+In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail,
+Or in few hours would be, that must convey
+Him and his destinies to barbarous shores,
+Where, should he perish by inglorious hands,
+It would be consolation in his death
+To have call'd his Katherine _his_."
+
+_Selby._                          Thus far the story
+Tallies with what I hoped.                              [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._             Wavering between
+The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him;
+And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged,
+Whom he had flatter'd with the bridemaid's part;--
+
+_Selby._ I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this.
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony
+Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring
+Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted--
+He to his ship; and we to school got back,
+Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring.
+
+_Selby._ And from that hour--
+
+_Mrs. F._                     Nor sight, nor news of him,
+For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd.
+
+_Selby._ Like to a man that hovers in suspense
+Over a letter just received, on which
+The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token,
+Whether to open it or no, so I
+Suspended stand, whether to press my fate
+Further, or check ill curiosity,
+That tempts me to more loss.--The name, the name
+Of this fine youth?
+
+_Mrs. F._ What boots it, if 'twere told?
+
+_Selby._                           Now, by our loves,
+And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day
+To be accomplish'd, give me his name!
+
+_Mrs. F._ 'Tis no such serious matter. It was--Huntingdon.
+
+_Selby._ How have three little syllables pluck'd from me
+A world of countless hopes!--                           [_Aside._
+                              Evasive Widow.
+
+_Mrs. F._ How, sir!--I like not this.                   [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._                            No, no, I meant
+Nothing but good to thee. That other woman,
+How shall I call her but evasive, false,
+And treacherous?--by the trust I place in thee,
+Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name
+As you pronounced it?
+
+_Mrs. F._            Huntingdon--the name,
+Which his paternal grandfather assumed,
+Together with the estates of a remote
+Kinsman: but our high-spirited youth--
+
+_Selby._                          Yes--
+
+_Mrs. F._                             Disdaining
+For sordid pelf to truck the family honors,
+At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style,
+And answer'd only to the name of--
+
+_Selby._                      What--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Of Halford--
+
+_Selby._ A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon!
+Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells,
+As well as bad, and can by a backward charm
+Unruffle the foul storm she has just been raising.
+                                   [_Aside. He makes the signal._
+
+My frank, fair-spoken Widow! let this kiss,
+Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks,
+Till I can think on greater.
+
+          _Enter_ LUCY _and_ KATHERINE.
+
+_Mrs. F._                 Interrupted!
+
+_Selby._ My sister here! and see, where with her comes
+My serpent gliding in an angel's form,
+To taint the new-born Eden of our joys.
+Why should we fear them? We'll not stir a foot,
+Nor coy it for their pleasures.           [_He courts the Widow._
+
+_Lucy (to Katherine)._      This your free,
+And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me
+Forever to you; and it shall go hard,
+But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart,
+That now seems blindly straying; or, at worst,
+In me you have still a sister.--Some wives, brother,
+Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus
+Alone with a trim widow; but your Katherine
+Is arm'd, I think, with patience.
+
+_Kath._                      I am fortified
+With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs,
+If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me;
+Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest,
+As now I think he does it but in seeming,
+To that ill woman.
+
+_Selby._       Good words, gentle Kate,
+And not a thought irreverent of our Widow.
+Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time,
+But most uncourteous on our wedding-day,
+When we should show most hospitable.--Some wine!
+                                              [_Wine is brought._
+
+I am for sports. And now I do remember,
+The old Egyptians at their banquets placed
+A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them,
+With images of cold mortality,
+To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant.
+I like the custom well: and ere we crown
+With freer mirth the day, I shall propose,
+In calmest recollection of our spirits,
+We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Or the supposed dead--
+                                                 [_Aside to him._
+
+_Selby._                   Pledge me, good, wife--
+                                                    [_She fills._
+Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er,
+
+_Kath._ I catch the awful import of your words;
+And, though I could accuse you of unkindness,
+Yet as your lawful and obedient wife,
+While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading,
+Nor I much longer may have leave to use it)
+I calmly take the office you impose;
+And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness,
+Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended,
+Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness,
+I pledge you, sir--the Memory of the Dead!
+                                          [_She drinks kneeling._
+
+_Selby._ 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like
+My former loving Kate.
+
+_Mrs. F._         Does he relent?                      [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ That ceremony past, we give the day
+To unabated sport. And, in requital
+Of certain stories and quaint allegories,
+Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me
+To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend
+Her patient hearing, I will here recite
+A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste,
+The scene is laid in the East.
+
+_Mrs. F._                 I long to hear it.
+Some tale, to fit his wife.                             [_Aside._
+
+_Kath._                Now, comes my TRIAL.
+
+_Lucy._ The hour of your deliverance is at hand,
+If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister.
+
+_Selby._ "The Sultan Haroun"--Stay--O now I have it--
+"The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had
+A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits,
+That he reserved them for his proper gust;
+And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd
+To any one that should purloin the same."
+
+_Mrs. F._ A heavy penance for so light a fault--
+
+_Selby._ Pray you, be silent, else you put me out.
+"A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd,
+Detected in the act a brother page,
+Of his own years, that was his bosom friend;
+And thenceforth he became that other's lord,
+And like a tyrant he demean'd himself,
+Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse;
+And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head
+Threats of impending death in hideous forms;
+Till the small culprit on his nightly couch
+Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe
+In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake."
+
+_Mrs. F._ I like not this beginning--
+
+_Selby._                             Pray you, attend.
+"The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps,
+And took the youthful pleasures from his days,
+And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow,
+That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned
+To a pale skeleton of what he was;
+And would have died, but for one lucky chance."
+
+_Kath._ Oh!
+
+_Mrs. F._ Your wife--she faints--some cordial--smell to this.
+
+_Selby._ Stand off. My sister best will do that office.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Are all his tempting speeches come to this?
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ What ail'd my wife?
+
+_Kath._                       A warning faintness, sir,
+Seized on my spirits, when you came to where
+You said "a lucky chance." I am better now:
+Please you go on.
+
+_Selby._        The sequel shall be brief.
+
+_Kath._ But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it.
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid,
+Close by an arbor where the two boys talk'd,
+(As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns
+Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth.
+Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,)
+O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough
+To judge aright the cause, and know his cue.
+The following day a Cadi was despatch'd
+To summon both before the judgment-seat;
+The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear,
+And the informing friend, who readily,
+Fired with fair promises of large reward,
+And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed."
+
+_Mrs. F._ What did the Caliph to the offending boy,
+That had so grossly err'd?
+
+_Selby._              His sceptred hand
+He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd,
+And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts,
+And he became once more his favorite page.
+
+_Mrs. F._ But for that other--
+
+_Selby._                      He dismissed him straight,
+From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love,
+To the bare cottage on the withering moor.
+Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants,
+And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear
+Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth;
+And told him not that Robin Halford died
+Some moons before _his_ marriage-bells were rung.
+Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife,
+And on a dangerous cast our fates were set;
+But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest,
+Hath interposed to save it gracious too.
+Your penance is--to dress your cheek in smiles,
+And to be once again my merry Kate.--
+Sister, your hand.
+Your wager won makes me a happy man,
+Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds.
+The sky clears up after a dubious day.
+Widow, your hand. I read a penitence
+In this dejected brow; and in this shame
+Your fault is buried. You shall in with us,
+And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare:
+For, till this moment, I can joyful say,
+Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB IN FOUR
+VOLUMES, VOLUME 4***
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+<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes,
+Volume 4, by Charles Lamb, et al</h1>
+<pre class="pg">
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre>
+<p>Title: The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4</p>
+<p>Author: Charles Lamb</p>
+<p>Release Date: November 23, 2004  [eBook #14129]</p>
+<p>Language: English</p>
+<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p>
+<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB IN FOUR VOLUMES, VOLUME 4***</p>
+<br /><br /><h4>E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Leonard Johnson,<br />
+                and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team</h4><br /><br />
+  <hr class="full" />
+    <h4>
+      THE
+    </h4>
+    <h1>
+      WORKS
+    </h1>
+    <h5>
+      OF
+    </h5>
+    <h1>
+      CHARLES LAMB.
+    </h1>
+    <h4>
+      IN FOUR VOLUMES.
+      <br />
+      VOL. IV.
+    </h4>
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <h5>
+      A NEW EDITION.
+    </h5>
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <h4>
+      BOSTON
+    </h4>
+    <h6>
+      Crosby, Nichols, Lee and Company.
+      <br />
+      117 Washington Street.</h6>
+
+      <h4>1860</h4>
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <h6>
+      Riverside, Cambridge:<br />
+      Stereotyped and Printed by<br />
+      H. O. Houghton.
+    </h6>
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <hr />
+
+    <br />
+    <br />
+    <h2>
+      CONTENTS.
+    </h2>
+    <h4>
+      <a href="#rgray">ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC.</a>
+    </h4>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#rgray1">ROSAMUND GRAY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#essay">ESSAYS:&mdash;</a>
+        <ul>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#chosp">RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL</a>
+          </li>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#tshak">ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED
+            WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR
+            STAGE-REPRESENTATION</a>
+          </li>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#dwrit">CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS,
+            CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE</a>
+          </li>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#fullr">SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE
+            CHURCH HISTORIAN</a>
+          </li>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#hogar">ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH;
+            WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE
+            MR. BARRY</a>
+          </li>
+          <li>
+            <a href="#wither">ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE
+            WITHER</a>
+          </li>
+        </ul>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#ltrs">LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN
+        "THE REFLECTOR":&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#lond">THE LONDONER</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#bury">ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN
+        UNDERTAKER</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#deform">ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH
+        PERSONAL DEFORMITY; WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING
+        OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#hang">ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING
+        HANGED</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#tail">ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#palat">HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE
+        PLEASURES OF THE PALATE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#edax">EDAX ON APPETITE</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#frag">CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE
+        BOOK WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE
+        ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#farce">MR. H&mdash;&mdash;, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a href="#poems">POEMS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      [<i>Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's
+      Sister.</i>]
+    </h5>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#hestr">HESTER</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#lloyd">TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#frend">THE THREE FRIENDS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#drown">TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#faces">THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#helen">*HELEN</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#vision">A VISION OF REPENTANCE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#dial">*DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#orian">QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#ballad">A BALLAD, NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND
+        POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR
+        WORKHOUSE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#hypo">HYPOCHONDRIACUS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#tobac">A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#child"><i>TO T. L. H., A CHILD</i></a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#german">BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#adull">*DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#salom">*SALOME</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#vinci">*LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES,
+        BY LIONARDO DA VINCI</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#titian">*LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO
+        MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#virgin">*LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO
+        DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#same">*ON THE SAME</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#sonnet">SONNETS:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s1">I. TO MISS KELLY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s2">II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON
+        GARDEN.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s3">III.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s4">IV.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s5">V.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s6">VI. THE FAMILY NAME</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s7">VII.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s8">VIII.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s9">IX. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE
+        SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s10">X.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#s11">XI.</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#blank">BLANK VERSE:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#hood">CHILDHOOD</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#grand">THE GRANDAME</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#sabba">THE SABBATH BELLS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#fancy">FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#midni">COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#woodv">JOHN WOODVIL; A TRAGEDY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#witch">THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OP THE
+        SEVENTEENTH CENTURY</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a href="#album">ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#sgt">IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT
+        W&mdash;&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#dora">TO DORA W&mdash;&mdash;, ON BEING ASKED BY HER
+        FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#lady">IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#edith">IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S&mdash;&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#rotha">IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q&mdash;&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#orkney">IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#barton">IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#towers">IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#miss">IN THE ALBUM OF MISS&mdash;&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#ownal">IN MY OWN ALBUM</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#misc">MISCELLANEOUS:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#angel">ANGEL HELP</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#infant">ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#christ">THE CHRISTENING</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#catec">THE YOUNG CATECHIST</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#birth">TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST
+        BIRTHDAY</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#going">SHE IS GOING</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#sonns">SONNETS:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#harm">HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#camb">WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#blind">TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND
+        BOY"</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#work">WORK</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#leisr">LEISURE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#esq">TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#gypsy">THE GYPSY'S MALISON</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#commend">COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#knowl">TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF
+        VIRGINlUS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#cornw">TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE
+        NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#every">TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#rogers">TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF
+        THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#marry">TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#hand">"O LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND"</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#self">THE SELF-ENCHANTED</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#monk">TO LOUISA M&mdash;&mdash;, WHOM I USED TO CALL
+        "MONKEY"</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#bourn">TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT
+        BOURNE:&mdash;</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#sing">THE BALLAD-SINGERS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#parish">TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST.
+        MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#statu">ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT
+        SLEEPING</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#dog">EPITAPH ON A DOG</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#bell">THE RIVAL BELLS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#newtn">NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#house">THE HOUSEKEEPER</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#art">ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#orate">THE FEMALE ORATORS</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <ul class="noindent">
+      <li>
+        <a href="#pindar">PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#gone">GOING OR GONE</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#free">FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS</a>
+      </li>
+      <li>
+        <a href="#wife">THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A
+        DRAMATIC POEM</a>
+      </li>
+    </ul>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h1>
+      <a name="rgray" id="rgray">ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS,</a>
+    </h1>
+    <h3>
+      ETC.
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h4>
+      TO
+    </h4>
+    <h2 class="title">
+      MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.
+    </h2>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And hasty products of a critic pen,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thyself no common judge of books and men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My <i>verse</i> was offered to an older friend;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The humbler <i>prose</i> has fallen to thy share:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What spoken in thy presence must offend&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That, set aside some few caprices wild,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In all my threadings of this worldly maze,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (And I have watched thee almost from a child),
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have not found a whiter soul than thine.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="rgray1" id="rgray1">ROSAMUND GRAY.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER I.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat
+      spinning in a little arbor at the door of her cottage. She was
+      blind; and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The
+      old lady had just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was
+      a passage she could not let pass without a <i>comment</i>. The
+      moral she drew from it was not very <i>new</i>, to be sure. The
+      girl had heard it a hundred times before&mdash;and a hundred
+      times more she could have heard it, without suspecting it to be
+      tedious. Rosamund loved her grandmother.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing.
+      Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only
+      <i>her</i> left in the world. They two lived together.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents,
+      their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another
+      time. Our tale hath grief enough in it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had
+      sold off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's
+      father&mdash;just after the mother had died of a broken heart;
+      for her husband had fled his country to hide his shame in a
+      foreign land. At that period the old lady retired to a small
+      cottage in the village of Widford in Hertfordshire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without
+      fortune or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this
+      time she had served her faithfully and lovingly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had
+      eyes, and could see. The neighbors said, they had been dimmed by
+      weeping: be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind.
+      "God is very good to us, child; I can <i>feel</i> you yet." This
+      she would sometimes say; and we need not wonder to hear, that
+      Rosamund clave unto her grandmother.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a
+      principle <i>within</i>, which it seemed as if no outward
+      circumstances could reach. It was a <i>religious</i> principle,
+      and she had taught it to Rosamund; for the girl had mostly
+      resided with her grandmother from her earliest years. Indeed she
+      had taught her all that she knew herself; and the old lady's
+      knowledge did not extend a vast way.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long
+      experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a
+      little <i>positive:</i> but Rosamund never argued with her
+      grandmother.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with
+      notes and expositions by various learned expositors, from Bishop
+      Jewell downwards.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This might never be suffered to lie about like other books, but
+      was kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet,
+      with gold tassels&mdash;the only relic of departed grandeur they
+      had brought with them to the cottage&mdash;everything else of
+      value had been sold off for the purpose above mentioned.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open
+      without permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the
+      custom. Margaret had parted with none of her <i>authority</i>;
+      indeed it was never exerted with much harshness; and happy was
+      Rosamund, though a girl grown, when she could obtain leave to
+      read her Bible. It was a treasure too valuable for an
+      indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to her
+      grand-daughter <i>where to read.</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative
+      Man's Recreation," with cuts&mdash;"Pilgrim's Progress," the
+      first part&mdash;a Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of
+      rosemary and lavender stuck here and there between the leaves, (I
+      suppose to point to some of the old lady's most favorite
+      receipts,) and there was "Wither's Emblems," an old book, and
+      quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book were among
+      the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her
+      contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they
+      had been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as
+      old friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the
+      peculiar cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a
+      tincture she had received, early in life, from Walton and Wither,
+      from John Bunyan and her Bible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what
+      passes usually for <i>clever</i> or <i>acute</i>. From a child
+      she was remarkably shy and thoughtful&mdash;this was taken for
+      stupidity and want of feeling; and the child has been sometimes
+      whipt for being a <i>stubborn thing</i>, when her little heart
+      was almost bursting with affection.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found
+      her too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about
+      good-humor and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying
+      herself, to the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears
+      endeared her the more to Rosamund.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you
+      are only remembering your poor dear father and mother;&mdash;I
+      would have you think about them sometimes&mdash;it would be
+      strange if you did not; but I fear, Rosamund&mdash;I fear, girl,
+      you sometimes think too deeply about your own situation and poor
+      prospects in life. When you do so, you do wrong&mdash;remember
+      the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any good
+      thoughts about God, and his religion: and that might have been
+      your case."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in
+      the habit of <i>arguing</i> with her grandmother; so she was
+      quite silent on these occasions&mdash;or else the girl knew well
+      enough herself, that she had only been sad to think of the
+      desolate condition of her best friend, to see her, in her old
+      age, so infirm and blind. But she had never been used to make
+      excuses, when the old lady said she was doing wrong.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The neighbors were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics
+      never passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the
+      hat&mdash;some show of courtesy, awkward indeed, but
+      affectionate&mdash;with a "Good-morrow, madam," or "young madam,"
+      as it might happen.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to
+      express contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet
+      felt respect for its declining lustre.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all
+      promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die.
+      Margaret trusted in God and believed them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She used to say, "I have lived many years in the world, and have
+      never known people, <i>good people</i>, to be left without some
+      friend; a relation, a benefactor, a <i>something</i>. God knows
+      our wants&mdash;that it is not good for man or woman to be alone;
+      and he always sends us a helpmate, a leaning place, a
+      <i>somewhat</i>." Upon this sure ground of experience, did
+      Margaret build her trust in Providence.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER II.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to
+      relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral,
+      (which said application she was old enough to have made herself,
+      but her grandmother still continued to treat her, in many
+      respects, as a child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim
+      to the title of womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his
+      appearance and interrupted them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches,
+      and some roses for Rosamund.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbor; and in a
+      respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent,
+      inquired of Margaret "how she did."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions&mdash;answered
+      his inquiries by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome
+      a-nights, but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she
+      never might; but she did not like to tease young people with an
+      account of her infirmities."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare,
+      glancing a tender look at the girl, who had all this time been
+      silent, took leave of them with saying, "I shall bring
+      <i>Elinor</i> to see you in the evening."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I <i>do</i> love him
+      dearly, I must say it&mdash;there is such a modesty in all he
+      says or does&mdash;he should not come here so often, to be sure,
+      but I don't know how to help it; there is so much goodness in
+      him, I can't find it in my heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund,
+      girl, I must tell you beforehand; when you grow older, Mr. Clare
+      must be no companion for <i>you</i>: while you were both so young
+      it was all very well&mdash;but the time is coming, when folks
+      will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare,
+      comes so often to our poor cottage.&mdash;Dost hear, girl? Why
+      don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt
+      you&mdash;speak to me, Rosamund&mdash;nay, I must not have you be
+      sullen&mdash;I don't love people that are sullen."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and
+      unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might
+      not be <i>within hearing</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first
+      mention of Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned,
+      which was not till a few minutes after Margaret had made an end
+      of her fine harangue, it is certain her cheeks <i>did</i> look
+      very <i>rosy</i>. That might have been from the heat of the day
+      or from exercise, for she had been walking in the garden.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for
+      Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not
+      unlikely surmises.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it
+      likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without
+      asking her grandmother's leave&mdash;the thing itself is not to
+      be conceived.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little
+      anecdote of Rosamund.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the
+      strictest prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain
+      spot, which was dangerous from the circumstance of a huge
+      overgrown oak-tree spreading its prodigious arms across a deep
+      chalk-pit, which they partly concealed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To this fatal place Rosamund came one day&mdash;female curiosity,
+      we know, is older than the flood&mdash;let us not think hardly of
+      the girl, if she partook of the sexual failing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund ventured further and further&mdash;climbed along one of
+      the branches&mdash;approached the forbidden chasm&mdash;her foot
+      slipped&mdash;she was not killed&mdash;but it was by a mercy she
+      escaped&mdash;other branches intercepted her fall&mdash;and with
+      a palpitating heart she made her way back to the cottage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her
+      best humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a
+      blessing it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage,
+      and in conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God
+      would one day reward her for her kindness to her old blind
+      grandmother."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's
+      disobedience came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not
+      deserve all this from Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of
+      crying, and made confession of her fault. The old gentlewoman
+      kissed and forgave her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told
+      of it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense,
+      which would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother,
+      to deceive her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was
+      old, and blind, and easy to be imposed upon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Another virtuous <i>trait</i> I recollect of Rosamund, and now I
+      am in the vein will tell it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Some, I know, will think these things trifles&mdash;and they are
+      so&mdash;but if these <i>minutić</i> make my reader better
+      acquainted with Rosamund, I am content to abide the imputation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a
+      <i>sweet nature</i>, are to me more dear, and choice in the
+      selection, than any of those pretty wild flowers, which this
+      young maid, this virtuous Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine
+      May morning, to make a posy to place in the bosom of her old
+      blind friend.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often
+      employ her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted,
+      she had now been working for three or four months. She had taken
+      great pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly
+      finished. For <i>whose</i> particular inspection it was designed,
+      I will not venture to conjecture. We know it could not have been
+      for her grandmother's.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on
+      the table. When she returned, she found it <i>gone</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her
+      tongue. At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her
+      absence, had laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was,
+      but taking it for some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with
+      one half of this elaborate composition had twisted herself
+      up&mdash;a thread-paper!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
+      grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the
+      poor soul would only fret, if she told her of it,&mdash;and when
+      once Margaret was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes,
+      the fit held her pretty long.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same
+      size and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed
+      of the mischief she had unconsciously done.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER III
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes
+      ever beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it&mdash;a
+      gentleness&mdash;a modesty&mdash;a timidity&mdash;a certain
+      charm&mdash;a grace without a name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not
+      the thoughtless levity of a girl&mdash;it was not the restrained
+      simper of premature womanhood&mdash;it was something which the
+      poet Young might have remembered, when he composed that perfect
+      line,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan
+      Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i2">
+        "Those hanging locks
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of young Apollo."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence
+      pleaded for her whenever she spake&mdash;and, if she said but
+      little, that little found its way to the heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking
+      none; affectionate as a smiling infant&mdash;playful, yet
+      inobtrusive, as a weaned lamb&mdash;everybody loved her. Young
+      Allan Clare, when but a boy, sighed for her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write,
+      that I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to
+      gaze at her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      See how she glideth, in maiden honor, through the clouds, who
+      divide on either side to do her homage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Beautiful vision!&mdash;as I contemplate thee, an internal
+      harmony is communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit
+      analogy of mental purity; a calm like <i>that</i> we ascribe in
+      fancy to the favored inhabitants of thy fairy regions, "argent
+      fields."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I marvel not, O moon, that heathen people, in the "olden times,"
+      did worship thy deity&mdash;Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian
+      Europe invokes thee not by these names now&mdash;her idolatry is
+      of a blacker stain: Belial is her God&mdash;she worships Mammon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      False things are told concerning thee, fair planet&mdash;for I
+      will ne'er believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in
+      distorting the brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck!
+      Calumny invented, and folly took up, these names. I would hope
+      better things from thy mild aspect and benign influences.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to
+      the virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her
+      warrior lover lies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only <i>peace</i> to the
+      lonely sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath
+      thy gentle light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed
+      friends, or unhappy loves.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from
+      thee into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund
+      and her Clare!
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER IV.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy
+      of fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her&mdash;it
+      was soon after she had come to reside with her grandmother at
+      Widford.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand,
+      which she had been filling from a neighboring well&mdash;the
+      pitcher was heavy, and she seemed to be bending with its weight.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan insisted on carrying it for her&mdash;for he thought it a
+      sin that a delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed,
+      and he stand idle by.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for
+      everybody&mdash;but at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire
+      was kindled&mdash;his young mind seemed to have found an object,
+      and his enthusiasm was from that time forth awakened. His visits,
+      from that day, were pretty frequent at the cottage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out
+      with him. He would make her admire the scenes he
+      admired&mdash;fancy the wild flowers he fancied&mdash;watch the
+      clouds he was watching&mdash;and not unfrequently repeat to her
+      poetry which he loved, and make her love it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but
+      children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her
+      currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was
+      more welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's
+      court.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of
+      each other&mdash;more fond than either of them suspected.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i2">
+        "They would sit, and sigh,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And look upon each other, and conceive
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And yet were well&mdash;and yet they were not well;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And what was their disease, they could not tell."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      And thus,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "In this first garden of their simpleness
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They spent their childhood."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered
+      the nature of their attachment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de
+      Roubignč"&mdash;a book which young Clare had lent her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown
+      round her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage
+      in Julia's third letter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes
+      painted to myself a <i>husband</i>&mdash;no matter
+      whom&mdash;comforting me amidst the distresses which fortune had
+      laid upon us. I have smiled upon him through my tears; tears, not
+      of anguish, but of tenderness!&mdash;our children were playing
+      around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had taught them to be
+      humble, and to be happy; our little shed was reserved to us, and
+      their smiles to cheer it.&mdash;I have imagined the luxury of
+      such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
+      happiness."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl blushed as she read, and trembled&mdash;she had a sort
+      of confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her&mdash;yet she
+      durst not lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading,
+      scarce knowing what she read.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled
+      too&mdash;his color came and went&mdash;his feelings became
+      impetuous&mdash;and flinging both arms round her neck, he kissed
+      his young favorite.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a
+      moment&mdash;a fit of tears came to her relief.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund
+      had thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew
+      timid and reserved&mdash;distant in her manner, and careful of
+      her behavior in Allan's presence&mdash;not seeking his society as
+      before, but rather shunning it&mdash;delighting more to feed upon
+      his idea in absence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became,
+      though not less tender, yet more respectful and
+      diffident&mdash;his bosom felt a throb it had till now not known,
+      in the society of Rosamund&mdash;and, if he was less familiar
+      with her than in former times, that charm of delicacy had
+      superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared, he loved.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There is a <i>mysterious character</i>, heightened, indeed, by
+      fancy and passion, but not without foundation in reality and
+      observation, which true lovers have ever imputed to the object of
+      their affections. This character Rosamund had now acquired with
+      Allan&mdash;something <i>angelic, perfect, exceeding nature.</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his
+      parents, who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to
+      the care of a sister some ten years older than himself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady&mdash;discreet,
+      intelligent, and affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent,
+      while he loved her as his own familiar friend. He told all the
+      little secrets of his heart to her&mdash;but there was
+      <i>one</i>, which he had hitherto unaccountably concealed from
+      her&mdash;namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to
+      the persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several
+      times met them, when she had been walking with her
+      brother&mdash;a civility usually passed on either side&mdash;but
+      Elinor avoided troubling her brother with any unseasonable
+      questions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his
+      sister <i>all</i>&mdash;but something like shame (false or true,
+      I shall not stay to inquire) had hitherto kept him
+      back;&mdash;still the secret, unrevealed, hung upon his
+      conscience like a crime&mdash;for his temper had a sweet and
+      noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the
+      world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There was a fine openness in his countenance&mdash;the character
+      of it somewhat resembled Rosamund's&mdash;except that more fire
+      and enthusiasm were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a
+      darker blue than Rosamund's&mdash;his hair was of a chestnut
+      color&mdash;his cheeks ruddy, and tinged with brown. There was a
+      cordial sweetness in Allan's smile, the like to which I never saw
+      in any other face.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to
+      Rosamund. Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist,
+      and thought she could trace in the countenance and manner of
+      Rosamund, qualities which no brother of hers need be ashamed to
+      love.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her
+      brother's favorite more intimately&mdash; an opportunity offered
+      of breaking the matter to Allan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit
+      and flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than
+      usually busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice
+      not common to him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm,
+      inquired, with a questioning smile&mdash; "What are you doing,
+      Allan? and who are those peaches designed for?"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "For Rosamund Gray"&mdash;he replied&mdash;and his heart seemed
+      relieved of a burden which had long oppressed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome
+      friend&mdash;will you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like
+      to go and see her this afternoon."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Do go, do go, Elinor&mdash;you don't know what a good creature
+      she is; and old blind Margaret, you will like <i>her</i> very
+      much."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they
+      parted. Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a
+      few roses to fling into his basket, went away with it
+      half-filled, being impatient to announce to Rosamund the coming
+      of her promised visitor.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER V.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left
+      for him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young
+      friend, who had just quitted a public school in London, and was
+      come to pass one night in his father's house at Widford, previous
+      to his departure the next morning for Edinburgh University.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was Allan's bosom friend&mdash;they had not met for some
+      months&mdash;and it was probable a much longer time must
+      intervene before they should meet again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first
+      heard of the invitation. This was to have been an important
+      evening. But Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her
+      readiness to go alone to the cottage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may
+      determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be
+      disappointed."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Will you, will you, Elinor?"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor promised to go&mdash;and I believe, Allan, on a second
+      thought, was not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of
+      introducing two persons to each other, both so dear to him, but
+      either of whom might happen not much to fancy the other.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor <i>must</i> love
+      Rosamund, and Rosamund <i>must</i> love Elinor; but there were
+      also times in which he felt misgivings&mdash;it was an event he
+      could scarce hope for very joy!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan's <i>real presence</i> that evening was more at the cottage
+      than at the house, where his <i>bodily semblance</i> was
+      visiting&mdash;his friend could not help complaining of a certain
+      absence of mind, a <i>coldness</i> he called it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It might have been expected, and in the course of things
+      predicted, that Allan would have asked his friend some questions
+      of what had happened since their last meeting, what his feelings
+      were on leaving school, the probable time when they should meet
+      again, and a, hundred natural questions which friendship is most
+      lavish of at such times; but nothing of all this ever occurred to
+      Allan&mdash;they did not even settle the method of their future
+      correspondence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend
+      thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to
+      compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."&mdash;I do
+      not find that he ever finished it&mdash;indignation, or a dearth
+      of rhymes, causing him to break off in the middle.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER VI.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to
+      mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily
+      have supplied the omission&mdash;old ladies of Margaret's stamp
+      (God bless them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or
+      their elbow-chair, as their prayer-book&mdash;I love them for it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the
+      binding red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this
+      book it was their custom every afternoon to read the proper
+      psalms appointed for the day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The way they managed was this: they took verse by
+      verse&mdash;Rosamund <i>read</i> her little portion, and Margaret
+      repeated hers in turn, from memory&mdash;for Margaret could say
+      all the Psalter by heart, and a good part of the Bible besides.
+      She would not unfrequently put the girl right when she stumbled
+      or skipped. This Margaret imputed to giddiness&mdash;a quality
+      which Rosamund was by no means remarkable for&mdash;but old
+      ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike
+      discriminative.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare
+      arrived at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the
+      hundred and fourth&mdash;Margaret was naturally led by it into a
+      discussion of the works of creation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There had been <i>thunder</i> in the course of the day&mdash; an
+      occasion of instruction which the old lady never let
+      pass&mdash;she began&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Thunder has a very awful sound&mdash;some say God Almighty is
+      angry whenever it thunders&mdash;that it is the voice of God
+      speaking to us; for my part, I am not afraid of it"&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as
+      usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of
+      vermin, &amp;c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to
+      her discourse.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness&mdash; and,
+      taking her grandmother by the hand, said, with great
+      sweetness,&mdash;"Miss Clare is come to see you, grandmother."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I beg pardon, lady&mdash;I cannot <i>see</i> you&mdash;but you
+      are heartily welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss
+      Clare?&mdash;I don't hear him."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare&mdash;but pray do us
+      the honor to take some refreshment&mdash;Rosamund"&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her
+      currant wine&mdash;when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to
+      take a cup of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your
+      grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from
+      any pleasure&mdash;I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be
+      with <i>me</i> always&mdash;and if Miss Clare will take you out,
+      child, I shall do very well by myself till you return&mdash;it
+      will not be the first time, you know, that I have been left here
+      alone&mdash;some of the neighbors will be dropping in bye and
+      bye&mdash;or, if <i>not</i>, I shall take no harm."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her
+      grandmother, and looked happy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a
+      panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her
+      young friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look
+      grave&mdash;but there was a cordial sunshine in the face of
+      Elinor, before which any clouds of reserve that had been
+      gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying&mdash;"My dear
+      young lady, I am an old woman, and very infirm&mdash;Rosamund
+      takes me a few paces beyond the door sometimes&mdash;but I walk
+      very badly&mdash;I love best to sit in our little arbor when the
+      sun shines&mdash;I can yet feel it warm and cheerful&mdash;and,
+      if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very happy if
+      you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer evening."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if
+      we like one another. I had hoped to have seen <i>you</i>, madam,
+      at our house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you
+      to come and live with us&mdash;what say you to it? Allan would be
+      proud to tend you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice
+      company."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and
+      wept&mdash;Margaret had a great spirit&mdash;yet she was not
+      above accepting an obligation from a worthy person&mdash;there
+      was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner&mdash;she could have no
+      interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the
+      offer&mdash;at length the old lady spake from a full heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our
+      distress&mdash;it gave us shelter when we had <i>no
+      home</i>&mdash;we have praised God in it&mdash;and, while life
+      remains, I think I shall never part from it&mdash;Rosamund does
+      everything for me"&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"&mdash;and then
+      Rosamund fell a-crying.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends
+      when I am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation
+      while I live&mdash;but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for
+      your kind offer."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade
+      Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk
+      bonnet; and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they
+      rambled over all Rosamund's favorite haunts&mdash;through many a
+      sunny field&mdash;by secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl
+      had wandered so often with her beloved Clare.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak
+      with great tenderness of his sister&mdash;she was now rambling,
+      arm in arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her
+      friend, her beloved Clare.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but
+      revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation
+      perhaps, or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of
+      things, were now opening before her&mdash;she was got into a
+      fairy land of uncertain existence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund was too happy to talk much&mdash;but Elinor was
+      delighted with her when she <i>did</i> talk:&mdash;the girl's
+      remarks were suggested most of them by the passing
+      scene&mdash;and they betrayed, all of them, the liveliness of
+      present impulse;&mdash;her conversation did not consist in a
+      comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment
+      lip-deep&mdash;it had all the freshness of young sensation in it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Sometimes they talked of Allan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good <i>indeed</i> to
+      my grandmother&mdash;he will sit with her, and hear her stories,
+      and read to her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder
+      sometimes he is not tired. She talks him to death!"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady <i>does</i> tire
+      <i>you</i> sometimes?"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Oh no, I did not mean <i>that</i>&mdash;it's very
+      different&mdash;I am used to all her ways, and I can humor her,
+      and please her, and I ought to do it, for she is the only friend
+      I ever had in the world."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and
+      Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had
+      been all this time alone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been
+      somewhat impatient&mdash;old ladies, <i>good old ladies</i>, will
+      be so at times&mdash;age is timorous and suspicious of danger,
+      where no danger is.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good
+      hours&mdash;indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry
+      other particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world,
+      more than might well beseem a creature of this.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made
+      Margaret promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the
+      next day.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER VII.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she
+      told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how
+      delighted she had been with his handsome friend.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not,
+      whether joy be not a more troublesome bedfellow than
+      grief&mdash;hope keeps a body very wakeful, I know.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor Clare was the best good creature&mdash;the least selfish
+      human being I ever knew&mdash;always at work for other people's
+      good, planning other people's happiness&mdash;continually
+      forgetful to consult for her own personal gratifications, except
+      indirectly, in the welfare of another; while her parents lived,
+      the most attentive of daughters&mdash;since they died, the
+      kindest of sisters&mdash;I never knew but <i>one</i> like her. It
+      happens that I have some of this young lady's <i>letters</i> in
+      my possession&mdash;I shall present my reader with one of them.
+      It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and
+      addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on
+      the point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and
+      had invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe
+      it with minute fidelity.
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="rt">
+      Widford, July the &mdash;, 17&mdash;.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bride-maids, my sweet
+      cousin. I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have
+      I to do in the house of feasting?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear
+      with me a little&mdash;I have recovered already a share of my
+      former spirits.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents,
+      within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy
+      <i>hangs</i> about me from morning till night. He is perpetually
+      forcing a smile into his poor pale cheeks&mdash;you know the
+      sweetness of his smile, Maria.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand,
+      he burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me
+      the reason&mdash;afterwards he told me&mdash;"he had been used to
+      drink Mamma's health after dinner, and <i>that</i> came into his
+      head and made him cry." I feel the claims the boy has upon
+      me&mdash;I perceive that I am living to <i>some end</i>&mdash;and
+      the thought supports me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Already I have attained to a state of complacent
+      feelings&mdash;my mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her
+      Elinor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my
+      bedside&mdash;a light, as of noonday, shone upon the
+      room&mdash;she opened my curtains&mdash;she smiled upon me with
+      the same placid smile as in her lifetime. I felt no fear.
+      "Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care of young
+      Allan,"&mdash;and I awoke with calm feelings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, he
+      something like this?&mdash;I think, I could even now behold my
+      mother without dread&mdash;I would ask pardon of her for all my
+      past omissions of duty, for all the little asperities in my
+      temper, which have so often grieved her gentle spirit when
+      living. Maria! I think she would not turn away from me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before
+      me&mdash;I see her sit in her old elbow-chair&mdash;her arms
+      folded upon her lap&mdash;a tear upon her cheek, that seems to
+      upbraid her unkind daughter for some inattention&mdash;I wipe it
+      away and kiss her honored lips.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in,
+      with his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand,
+      destroy the vision in a moment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of
+      the heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of
+      these things but you?&mdash;you have been my counsellor in times
+      past, my companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a
+      little&mdash;I mourn the "cherishers of my infancy."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the
+      <i>survivor</i>. You know something of his story. You know there
+      was a foul tale current&mdash;it was the busy malice of that bad
+      man, S&mdash;&mdash;, which helped to spread it abroad&mdash;you
+      will recollect the active good-nature of our friends
+      W&mdash;&mdash; and T&mdash;&mdash;; what pains they took to
+      undeceive people&mdash;with the better sort their kind labors
+      prevailed; but there was still a party who shut their ears. You
+      know the issue of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it
+      for some time&mdash;my father never was a <i>bad</i>
+      man&mdash;but that spirit was broken at the last&mdash;and the
+      greatly-injured man was forced to leave his old paternal dwelling
+      in Staffordshire&mdash;for the neighbors had begun to point at
+      him. Maria! I have <i>seen</i> them <i>point</i> at him, and have
+      been ready to drop.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In this part of the country, where the slander had not reached,
+      he sought a retreat&mdash;and he found a still more grateful
+      asylum in the daily solicitudes of the best of wives.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say&mdash;and at such
+      times my mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness,
+      and long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience;
+      would heal all his wounds with so gentle a touch;&mdash;I have
+      seen the old man weep like a child.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into
+      skepticism&mdash;he has doubted if there be a Providence! I have
+      heard him say, "God has built a brave world, but methinks he has
+      left his creatures to bustle in it <i>how they may</i>."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a
+      religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done&mdash;you
+      confound, you perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for
+      one day at least unfit me for the business of life."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have seen her look at him&mdash;O GOD, Maria! such a
+      <i>look</i>! it plainly spake that she was willing to have shared
+      her precious hope with the partner of her earthly cares&mdash;but
+      she found a repulse&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have
+      endured his existence? or what consolation would his wretched
+      daughter have had to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious&mdash;and I am
+      so&mdash;but it does me good to talk these matters over. And do
+      not you be alarmed for me&mdash;my sorrows are subsiding into a
+      deep and sweet resignation. I shall soon be sufficiently
+      composed, I know it, to participate in my friend's happiness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks,
+      I shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont!
+      it hath a strange sound with it&mdash;I shall never be reconciled
+      to this name&mdash;but do not you fear&mdash;Maria Leslie shall
+      plead with me for Maria Beaumont.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i6">
+        And now, my sweet Friend,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i8">
+        God love you, and your
+      </p>
+      <p class="i10">
+        ELINOR CLARE.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the
+      date of the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria
+      Beaumont.&mdash;I am tempted to make some short extracts from
+      these&mdash;my tale will suffer interruption by them&mdash;but I
+      was willing to preserve whatever memorials I could of Elinor
+      Clare.
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      (AN EXTRACT.)
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;I have been strolling out for half an hour in the
+      fields; and my mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has
+      a right to participate. I have been bringing my <i>mother</i> to
+      my recollection. My heart ached with the remembrance of
+      infirmities, that made her closing years of life so sore a trial
+      to her.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I was concerned to think that our family differences have been
+      one source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that <i>this
+      last</i> we are apt to exaggerate after a person's
+      death&mdash;and surely, in the main, there was considerable
+      harmony among the members of our little family&mdash;still I was
+      concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle spirit disquiet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I thought on years back&mdash;on all my parents'
+      friends&mdash;the H&mdash;&mdash;s, the F&mdash;&mdash;s, on
+      D&mdash;&mdash; S&mdash;&mdash;, and on many a merry evening, in
+      the fireside circle, in that comfortable back parlor&mdash;it is
+      never used now.&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "O ye <i>Matravises</i>[1] of the age, ye know not what ye lose
+      in despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance,
+      associated circumstances of past times;&mdash;ye know not the
+      throbbings of the heart, tender yet affectionately familiar,
+      which accompany the dear and honored names of <i>father</i> or of
+      <i>mother</i>.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: This name will be explained presently.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      "Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the
+      review of them&mdash;it yet aches, while I write this&mdash;but I
+      am never so satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run
+      upon these subjects&mdash;the tears they draw from us, meliorate
+      and soften the heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of
+      dear friends dead, which alone can fit us for a readmission to
+      their society hereafter."
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;I had a bad dream this morning&mdash;that Allan
+      was dead&mdash;and who, of all persons in the world do you think,
+      put on mourning for him? Why&mdash;<i>Matravis</i>. This alone
+      might cure me of superstitious thoughts, if I were inclined to
+      them; for why should Matravis <i>mourn</i> for us, or our
+      family?&mdash;Still it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a
+      dream.&mdash;Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream
+      shall the Resurrection from the Dead be.&mdash;Materially
+      different from our accustomed scenes, and ways of life, the
+      <i>World to come</i> may possibly not be&mdash;still it is
+      represented to us under the notion of a <i>Rest</i>, a
+      <i>Sabbath</i>, a state of bliss."
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;Methinks, you and I should have been born under
+      the same roof, sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book,
+      thumbed the same Testament, together:&mdash;for we have been more
+      than sisters, Maria!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day
+      be inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her
+      in all the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind
+      words, attentions in sickness and in health,&mdash;conversation,
+      sometimes innocently trivial, and at others profitably
+      serious;&mdash;books read and commented on, together; meals ate,
+      and walks taken, together,&mdash;and conferences, how we may best
+      do good to this poor person or that, and wean our spirits from
+      the world's <i>cares</i>, without divesting ourselves of its
+      <i>charities</i>. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and none of
+      all these things may ever come to pass."
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many
+      good thoughts, resolutions, and proper views of things, pass
+      through the mind in the course of the day, but are lost for want
+      of committing them to paper. Seize them, Maria, as they pass,
+      these Birds of Paradise, that show themselves and are
+      gone,&mdash;and make a grateful present of the precious fugitives
+      to your friend.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "To use a homely illustration, just rising in my
+      fancy,&mdash;shall the good housewife take such pains in pickling
+      and preserving her worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots,
+      and quinces&mdash;and is there not much <i>spiritual
+      housewifery</i> in treasuring up our mind's best fruits&mdash;our
+      heart's meditations in its most favored moments?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "This sad simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralizers,
+      such as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles
+      and Wither were with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems.
+      But they sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile
+      rests in the fancy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarized to
+      our conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions,
+      are all the discourses of our LORD&mdash;conveyed in parable, or
+      similitude, what easy access do they win to the heart, through
+      the medium of the delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly
+      things in fable, or in simile, drawn from earth, from objects
+      <i>common</i>, <i>accustomed</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our
+      correspondence affords, how pleasant it is!&mdash;why can we not
+      paint on the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they
+      rise up?"
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;I had meant to have left off at this place; but
+      looking back, I am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my
+      last page&mdash;a representation of life false and unthankful.
+      Life is <i>not</i> all vanity and disappointment&mdash;it hath
+      much of evil in it, no doubt; but to those who do not misuse it,
+      it affords comfort, <i>temporary</i> comfort, much&mdash;much
+      that endears us to it, and dignifies it&mdash;many true and good
+      feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed&mdash;hours of
+      tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and
+      my spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Is it no blessing that we two love one another so
+      dearly&mdash;that Allan is left me&mdash;that you are settled in
+      life&mdash;that worldly affairs go smooth with us
+      both&mdash;above all that our lot hath fallen to us in a
+      Christian country? Maria! these things are not little. I will
+      consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace."
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      "&mdash;&mdash;Allan has written to me&mdash;you know, he is on a
+      visit at his old tutor's in Gloucestershire&mdash;he is to return
+      home on Thursday&mdash;Allan is a dear boy&mdash;he concludes his
+      letter, which is very affectionate throughout, in this
+      manner&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "'Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by
+      heart&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "'The monarch may forget his crown,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        That on his head an hour hath been;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The bridegroom may forget his bride
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "'The mother may forget her child,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        That smiles so sweetly on her knee:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        And all that thou hast done for me."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      "'The lines are in Burns&mdash;you know, we read him for the
+      first time together at Margate&mdash;and I have been used to
+      refer them to you, and to call you, in my mind,
+      <i>Glencairn</i>,&mdash;for you were always very good to me. I
+      had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of them
+      all. I am going to drink your health.'"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER VIII.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      They had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the
+      biggest room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of
+      closet adjoining, where she could be within hearing, if her
+      grandmother should call her in the night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The girl was often disturbed in that manner&mdash;two or three
+      times in a night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch
+      her grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for
+      her&mdash;but she knew that Margaret's ailings were <i>real</i>
+      and pressing, and Rosamund never complained&mdash;never
+      suspected, that her grandmother's requisitions had anything
+      unreasonable in them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to
+      bed, as usual&mdash;and, after saying her prayers, as the custom
+      was, kneeling by the old lady's bedside, kissed her grandmother,
+      and wished her a good-night&mdash;Margaret blessed her, and
+      charged her to go to bed directly. It was her customary
+      injunction, and Rosamund had never dreamed of disobeying.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and
+      clear&mdash;the moon very bright&mdash;her window commanded a
+      view of <i>scenes</i> she had been tracing in the daytime with
+      Miss Clare.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk
+      arose in her mind. She fancied she should like to retrace those
+      scenes&mdash;but it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the
+      village.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Still she fancied it would be very charming&mdash;and then her
+      grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her
+      recollection&mdash;she sighed, and turned from the window-and
+      walked up and down her little room.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ever, when she looked at the window, the wish returned. It was
+      not so <i>very late</i>. The neighbors were yet about, passing
+      under the window to their homes&mdash;she thought, and thought
+      again, till her sensations became vivid, even to
+      painfulness&mdash;her bosom was aching to give them vent.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The village-clock struck ten!&mdash;the neighbors ceased to pass
+      under the window. Rosamund, stealing downstairs, fastened the
+      latch behind her, and left the cottage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One, that knew her, met her, and observed her with some surprise.
+      Another recollects having wished her a good-night. Rosamund never
+      returned to the cottage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      An old man, that lay sick in a small house adjoining to
+      Margaret's, testified the next morning, that he had plainly heard
+      the old creature calling for her granddaughter. All the night
+      long she made her moan, and ceased not to call upon the name of
+      Rosamund. But no Rosamund was there&mdash;the voice died away,
+      but not till near daybreak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When the neighbors came to search in the morning, Margaret was
+      missing! She had <i>straggled</i> out of bed, and made her way
+      into Rosamund's room&mdash;worn out with fatigue and fright, when
+      she found the girl not there, she had laid herself down to
+      die&mdash;and, it is thought, she died <i>praying</i>&mdash;for
+      she was discovered in a kneeling posture, her arms and face
+      extended on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the night
+      before&mdash;a smile was on her face in death.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER IX.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that
+      night&mdash;but I cannot&mdash;grief, and burning shame, forbid
+      me to be silent&mdash;black deeds are about to be made public,
+      which reflect a stain upon our common nature.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a
+      distance from her guardian doors&mdash;through lonely glens, and
+      wood-walks, where she had rambled many a <i>day</i> in
+      safety&mdash;till she arrived at a shady copse, out of the
+      hearing of any human habitation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Matravis</i> met her.&mdash;-"Flown with insolence and wine,"
+      returning home late at night, he passed that way!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow-complexioned! and if hearts
+      can wear that color, his heart was sallow-complexioned also.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A young man with <i>gray</i> deliberation! cold and systematic in
+      all his plans; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was
+      systematic.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of
+      time that, it might have been expected, some solitary check of
+      conscience must have intervened to save him from commission. But
+      that <i>Light from Heaven</i> was extinct in his dark bosom.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this
+      unhappy man. He feared, he envied, he suspected; but he never
+      loved. The sublime and beautiful in nature, the excellent and
+      becoming in morals, were things placed beyond the capacity of his
+      sensations. He loved not poetry&mdash;nor ever took a lonely walk
+      to meditate&mdash;never beheld virtue, which he did not try to
+      disbelieve, or female beauty and innocence, which he did not lust
+      to contaminate.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice <i>grinning</i>
+      at his heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the
+      least remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained him the
+      reputation of a wit&mdash;other <i>traits</i> got him the
+      reputation of a villain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!&mdash;with
+      what success I leave my readers to determine. It was not in
+      Elinor's nature to despise any living thing&mdash;but in the
+      estimation of this man, to be rejected was to be
+      <i>despised</i>&mdash;and Matravis <i>never forgave</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the
+      bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little
+      ewe lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and
+      Matravis had a twofold motive for accomplishing this young maid's
+      ruin.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her
+      ever cold and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying
+      far from her own home, in the fear of meeting him&mdash;but she
+      had never told her fears to Allan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the
+      limits of the law&mdash;but, on the present occasion, hot fumes
+      of wine, cooperating with his deep desire of revenge, and the
+      insolence of an unhoped-for meeting, overcame his customary
+      prudence, and Matravis rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious
+      mischief.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Late at night he met her, a lonely, unprotected virgin&mdash;no
+      friend at hand&mdash;no place near of refuge.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee&mdash;I
+      loathe to tell the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and
+      silence were the only witnesses of this young maid's
+      disgrace&mdash;Matravis fled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, an abandoned thing,
+      about the fields and meadows till daybreak. Not caring to return
+      to the cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss
+      Clare's house&mdash;in a stupor of grief.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her
+      chamber, when she perceived her desolate young friend. She ran to
+      embrace her&mdash;she brought her into the house&mdash;she took
+      her to her bosom&mdash;she kissed her&mdash;she spake to her; but
+      Rosamund could not speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event
+      which could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet
+      maid heard of it, she languished, and fell sick&mdash;she never
+      held up her head after that time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If Rosamund had been a <i>sister</i>, she could not have been
+      kindlier treated than by her two friends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan had prospects in life&mdash;might, in time, have married
+      into any of the first families in Hertfordshire&mdash;but
+      Rosamund Gray, humbled though she was, and put to shame, had yet
+      a charm for <i>him</i>&mdash;and he would have been content to
+      share his fortunes with her yet, if Rosamund would have lived to
+      be his companion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But this was not to be&mdash;and the girl soon after died. She
+      expired in the arms of Elinor&mdash;quiet, gentle, as she
+      lived&mdash;thankful that she died not among strangers&mdash;and
+      expressing, by signs rather than words, a gratitude for the most
+      trifling services, the common offices of humanity. She died
+      uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might
+      have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER X.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village
+      remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind
+      Margaret.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out
+      for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly
+      known&mdash;I heard not of them&mdash;and it was four months
+      before I received a letter from Allan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "His heart," he told me, "was gone from him&mdash;for his sister
+      had died of a frenzy fever!"&mdash;not a word of Rosamund in the
+      letter&mdash;I was left to collect her story from sources which
+      may one day be explained.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and
+      returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I
+      could gain no information, whether he were dead or living.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I passed the <i>cottage</i>. I did not dare to look that way, or
+      to inquire <i>who</i> lived there. A little dog, that had been
+      Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad,
+      whose mind had suddenly gone from him&mdash;I stared vacantly
+      around me, like one alienated from common perceptions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually
+      weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now <i>ten
+      years</i> since these events took place, and I sometimes think of
+      them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me&mdash;but
+      there are times when Allan and his sister, Margaret and her
+      grand-daughter, appear like personages of a dream&mdash;an idle
+      dream.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XI.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Strange things have happened unto me&mdash;I seem scarce
+      awake&mdash;but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an
+      account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am
+      in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we
+      left Widford.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the
+      above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had
+      forced my mind to dwell upon <i>facts</i>, which had begun to
+      fade from it&mdash;the memory of old times became vivid, and more
+      vivid&mdash;I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my
+      native village&mdash;of the young loves of Rosamund and her
+      Clare.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless
+      now, till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to
+      walk&mdash;I reached Widford about eleven in the
+      forenoon&mdash;after a slight breakfast at my inn&mdash;where I
+      was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me
+      again&mdash;(old Thomas Billet&mdash;he has often made angle-rods
+      for me when a child)&mdash;I rambled over all my accustomed
+      haunts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested,
+      into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the
+      spot where my little bed had stood&mdash;I felt like a
+      child&mdash;I prayed like one&mdash;it seemed as though old times
+      were to return again&mdash;I looked round involuntarily,
+      expecting to see some face I knew&mdash;but all was naked and
+      mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through
+      which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's
+      morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common
+      glass.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I visited, by turns, every chamber&mdash;they were all desolate
+      and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a
+      harpsichord, probably to be sold&mdash;I touched the keys&mdash;I
+      played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a
+      child. Past associations revived with the music&mdash;blended
+      with a sense of <i>unreality</i>, which at last became too
+      powerful&mdash;I rushed out of the room to give vent to my
+      feelings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands
+      at the back of the house&mdash;we called it the
+      <i>Wilderness</i>. A well-known <i>form</i> was missing, that
+      used to meet me in this place&mdash;it was thine&mdash;Ben
+      Moxam&mdash;the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet
+      was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest
+      creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles,
+      without a soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured
+      face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee,
+      Ben Moxam&mdash;that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of
+      mine in a cruel plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old
+      fir-trees&mdash;I remember them sweeping to the ground.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this
+      place&mdash;its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm
+      for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and
+      lonely thinking, which has accompanied me to maturer years.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In this <i>Wilderness</i> I found myself, after a ten years'
+      absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their
+      luxuriant company of underwood&mdash;the squirrel was there, and
+      the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon&mdash;all was as I had
+      left it&mdash;my heart softened at the sight&mdash;it seemed as
+      though my character had been suffering a <i>change</i> since I
+      forsook these shades.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My parents were both dead&mdash;I had no counsellor left, no
+      experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The
+      Lord had taken away my <i>friends</i>, and I knew not where he
+      had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter.
+      I prayed that I might be restored to that <i>state of
+      innocence</i>, in which I had wandered in those shades.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the
+      stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into
+      the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have
+      been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance.
+      I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my
+      heavenly Father&mdash;and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from
+      my feet&mdash;for the place where I stood I thought, was holy
+      ground.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with
+      languid feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner&mdash;green peas
+      and a sweetbread&mdash;it had been a favorite dish with me in my
+      childhood&mdash;I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was
+      impatient to see it come upon table&mdash;but, when it came, I
+      could scarce eat a mouthful&mdash;my tears choked me. I called
+      for wine&mdash;I drank a pint and a half of red wine&mdash;and
+      not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where my
+      parents were interred.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The <i>cottage</i> lay in my way&mdash;Margaret had chosen it for
+      that very reason, to be near the church&mdash;for the old lady
+      was regular in her attendance on public worship&mdash;I passed
+      on&mdash;and in a moment found myself among the tombs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot
+      again&mdash;my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from
+      attending&mdash;a plain stone was placed over the grave, with
+      their initials carved upon it&mdash;for they both occupied one
+      grave.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I prostrated myself before the spot&mdash;I kissed the earth that
+      covered them&mdash;I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time
+      when I should mingle my dust with theirs&mdash;and kneeled, with
+      my arms incumbent on the gravestone, in a kind of mental
+      prayer&mdash;for I could not speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and
+      felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects.&mdash;Still I
+      continued in the church-yard, reading the various inscriptions,
+      and moralizing on them with that kind of levity, which will not
+      unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep
+      melancholy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and
+      dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the <i>bad</i>
+      people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children&mdash;what
+      cemeteries are appointed for these?&mdash;do they not sleep in
+      consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous
+      oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs
+      when dead, who, in their lifetime, discharged the offices of
+      life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings, with their reproaches,
+      now sleep with them in the grave. <i>Man wars not with the
+      dead.</i> It is a <i>trait</i> of human nature, for which I love
+      it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the
+      other end of the church-yard; it was a company of children, who
+      were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a
+      gravestone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He seemed to be asking them questions&mdash;probably, about their
+      learning&mdash;and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was
+      clambering up his knees to kiss him. The children had been eating
+      black cherries&mdash;for some of the stones were scattered about,
+      and their mouths were smeared with them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild
+      benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen
+      before&mdash;I gazed at him more attentively.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan"&mdash;he
+      turned his eyes upon me&mdash;he knew me&mdash;we both wept
+      aloud&mdash;it seemed as though the interval since we parted had
+      been as nothing&mdash;I cried out, "Come, and tell me about these
+      things."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I drew him away from his little friends&mdash;he parted with a
+      show of reluctance from the church-yard&mdash;Margaret and her
+      grand-daughter lay buried there, as well as his sister&mdash;I
+      took him to my inn&mdash;secured a room, where we might be
+      private&mdash;ordered fresh wine&mdash;scarce knowing what I did,
+      I danced for joy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said,
+      "This repays me for all."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was a proud day for me&mdash;I had found the friend I thought
+      dead&mdash;earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it
+      contained <i>him</i>; and existence a blessing no longer than
+      while I should live to be his comforter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and
+      grief had left few traces of that fine <i>enthusiasm</i>, which
+      once burned in his countenance&mdash;his eyes had lost their
+      original fire, but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and
+      whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my
+      heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" He replied not, and I
+      could not press him further. I could not call the dead to life
+      again.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So we drank and told old stories&mdash;and repeated old
+      poetry&mdash;and sang old songs&mdash;as if nothing had happened.
+      We sate till very late. I forgot that I had purposed returning to
+      town that evening&mdash;to Allan all places were alike&mdash;I
+      grew noisy, he grew cheerful&mdash;Allan's old manners, old
+      enthusiasm, were returning upon him&mdash;we laughed, we wept, we
+      mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Allan was my chamber-fellow that night&mdash;and lay awake
+      planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering
+      upon similar pursuits,&mdash;and praising GOD, that we had met.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan
+      proposed to accompany me. "Since the death of his sister," he
+      told me, "he had been a wanderer."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without
+      reserve&mdash;told me many particulars of his way of life for the
+      last nine or ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to
+      divulge.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over
+      thoughtful, he replied to me in these words:
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I
+      am never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my
+      countenance, men judge me most miserable.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them
+      are of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with
+      the recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften
+      and tranquillize my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of
+      human pursuits.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself
+      drawn heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because
+      I expect a renewal of them in the <i>World of Spirits</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made
+      no new friendships, that can compensate me for the loss of the
+      old&mdash;and the more I know mankind, the more does it become
+      necessary for me to supply their loss by little images,
+      recollections, and circumstances of past pleasures.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy
+      people, plain-hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they have
+      hitherto eluded my pursuit, and will continue to bless the little
+      circle of their families and friends, while I must remain a
+      stranger to them.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Kept at a distance by mankind, I have not ceased to love
+      them&mdash;and could I find the cruel persecutor, the malignant
+      instrument of GOD'S judgments on me and mine, I think I would
+      forgive, and try to love him too.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my
+      calamities it was given to me, not to see the hand of man in
+      them. I perceived a mighty arm, which none but myself could see,
+      extended over me. I gave my heart to the Purifier, and my will to
+      the Sovereign Will of the Universe. The irresistible wheels of
+      destiny passed on in their everlasting rotation,&mdash;and I
+      suffered myself to be carried along with them without
+      complaining."
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XII.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      Allan told me that for some years past, feeling himself
+      disengaged from every personal tie, but not alienated from human
+      sympathies, it had been his taste, his <i>humor</i> he called it,
+      to spend a great portion of his time in <i>hospitals</i> and
+      <i>lazar-houses</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had found a <i>wayward pleasure</i>, he refused to name it a
+      virtue, in tending a description of people, who had long ceased
+      to expect kindness or friendliness from mankind, but were content
+      to accept the reluctant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling
+      instruments and servants of these well-meant institutions deal
+      out to the poor sick people under their care.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up
+      at a stated hour with all the hard formalities of a
+      prison&mdash;it is not the scanty dole of a bed to die
+      on&mdash;which dying man requires from his species.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Looks, attentions, consolations,&mdash;in a word,
+      <i>sympathies</i>, are what a man most needs in this awful close
+      of mortal sufferings. A kind look, a smile, a drop of cold water
+      to the parched lip&mdash;for these things a man shall bless you
+      in death.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And these better things than cordials did Allan love to
+      administer&mdash;to stay by a bedside the whole day, when
+      something disgusting in a patient's distemper has kept the very
+      nurses at a distance&mdash;to sit by, while the poor wretch got a
+      little sleep&mdash;and be there to smile upon him when he
+      awoke&mdash;to slip a guinea, now and then, into the hands of a
+      nurse or attendant&mdash;these things have been to Allan as
+      <i>privileges</i>, for which he was content to live; choice
+      marks, and circumstances, of his Maker's goodness to him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And I do not know whether occupations of this kind be not a
+      spring of purer and nobler delight (certainly instances of a more
+      disinterested virtue) than arises from what are called
+      Friendships of Sentiment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Between two persons of liberal education, like opinions, and
+      common feelings, oftentimes subsists a Variety of Sentiment,
+      which disposes each to look upon the other as the only being in
+      the universe worthy of friendship, or capable of understanding
+      it,&mdash;themselves they consider as the solitary receptacles of
+      all that is delicate in feeling, or stable in attachment: when
+      the odds are, that under every green hill, and in every crowded
+      street, people of equal worth are to be found, who do more good
+      in their generation, and make less noise in the doing of it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was in consequence of these benevolent propensities, I have
+      been describing, that Allan oftentimes discovered considerable
+      inclinations in favor of my way of life, which I have before
+      mentioned as being that of a surgeon. He would frequently attend
+      me on my visits to patients; and I began to think that he had
+      serious intentions of making my profession his study.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was present with me at a scene&mdash;a, <i>death-bed
+      scene</i>&mdash;I shudder when I do but think of it.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h2>
+      CHAPTER XIII.
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      I was sent for the other morning to the assistance of a
+      gentleman, who had been wounded in a duel,&mdash;and his wounds
+      by unskilful treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The uncommonness of the name, which was <i>Matravis</i>,
+      suggested to me, that this might possibly be no other than
+      Allan's old enemy. Under this apprehension, I did what I could to
+      dissuade Allan from accompanying me&mdash;but he seemed bent upon
+      going, and even pleased himself with the notion, that it might
+      lie within his ability to do the unhappy man some service. So he
+      went with me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When we came to the house, which was in Soho-square, we
+      discovered that it was indeed the man&mdash;the identical
+      Matravis, who had done all that mischief in times past&mdash;but
+      not in a condition to excite any other sensation than pity in a
+      heart more hard than Allan's.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Intense pain had brought on a delirium&mdash;we perceived this on
+      first entering the room&mdash;for the wretched man was raving to
+      himself&mdash;talking idly in mad unconnected
+      sentences&mdash;that yet seemed, at times, to have reference to
+      <i>past facts</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great
+      heath, to which there seemed no end&mdash;it was cold, cold,
+      cold,&mdash;and dark, very dark&mdash;an old woman in
+      leading-strings, <i>blind</i>, was groping about for a
+      guide"&mdash;and then he frightened me,&mdash;for he seemed
+      disposed to be <i>jocular</i>, and sang a song about "an old
+      woman clothed in gray," and said "he did not believe in a devil."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare."&mdash;Allan was
+      hanging over him at that very moment, sobbing.&mdash;I could not
+      resist the impulse, but cried out, "<i>This</i> is Allan
+      Clare&mdash;Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear
+      Sir."&mdash;The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he
+      turned his head away, and began talking of <i>charnel-houses</i>,
+      and <i>dead men</i>, and "whether they knew anything that passed
+      in their coffins."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Matravis died that night.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="essay" id="essay">ESSAYS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="chosp" id="chosp">RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S
+      HOSPITAL.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      To comfort the desponding parent with the thought that, without
+      diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to furnish
+      the more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed
+      of one or more perhaps out of a numerous offspring, under the
+      shelter of a care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not
+      only their bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental
+      <i>pabulum</i> is also dispensed, which HE hath declared to be no
+      less necessary to our sustenance, who said, that, "not by bread
+      alone man can live": for this Christ's Hospital unfolds her
+      bounty. Here neither, on the one hand, are the youth lifted up
+      above their family, which we must suppose liberal, though
+      reduced; nor on the other hand, are they liable to be depressed
+      below its level by the mean habits and sentiments which a common
+      charity-school generates. It is, in a word, an Institution to
+      keep those who have yet held up their heads in the world, from
+      sinking; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household, when
+      poverty was in danger of crushing it; to assist those who are the
+      most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves;
+      to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to
+      render him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more
+      congenial to it, than he could even have attained by remaining at
+      home in the bosom of it. It is a preserving and renovating
+      principle, an antidote for the <i>res angusta domi</i>, when it
+      presses, as it always does, most heavily upon the most ingenuous
+      natures.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This is Christ's Hospital; and whether its character would be
+      improved by confining its advantages to the very lowest of the
+      people, let those judge who have witnessed the looks, the
+      gestures, the behavior, the manner of their play with one
+      another, their deportment towards strangers, the whole aspect and
+      physiognomy of that vast assemblage of boys on the London
+      foundation, who freshen and make alive again with their sports
+      the else mouldering cloisters of the old Grey Friars&mdash;which
+      strangers who have never witnessed, if they pass through Newgate
+      Street, or by Smithfield, would do well to go a little out of
+      their way to see.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy; he
+      feels it in the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which
+      he belongs; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the
+      treatment he is accustomed to out of its bounds; in the respect
+      and even kindness, which his well-known garb never fails to
+      procure him in the streets of the metropolis; he feels it in his
+      education, in that measure of classical attainments, which every
+      individual at that school, though not destined to a learned
+      profession, has it in his power to procure, attainments which it
+      would be worse than folly to put it in the reach of the laboring
+      classes to acquire: he feels it in the numberless comforts, and
+      even magnificences, which surround him; in his old and awful
+      cloisters, with their traditions; in his spacious school-rooms,
+      and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms where he sleeps;
+      in his stately dining-hall, hung round with pictures, by Verrio,
+      Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in size and grandeur
+      almost any other in the kingdom;[1] above all, in the very extent
+      and magnitude of the body to which he belongs, and the consequent
+      spirit, the intelligence, and public conscience, which is the
+      result of so many various yet wonderfully combining members.
+      Compared with this last-named advantage, what is the stock of
+      information (I do not here speak of book-learning, but of that
+      knowledge which boy receives from boy), the mass of collected
+      opinions, the intelligence in common, among the few and narrow
+      members of an ordinary boarding-school?
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: By Verrio, representing James the Second on his throne,
+      surrounded by his courtiers,(all curious portraits,) receiving
+      the mathematical pupils at their annual presentation: a custom
+      still kept up on New-year's-day at Court.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      The Christ's Hospital or Blue-coat boy, has a distinctive
+      character of his own, as far removed from the abject qualities of
+      a common charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forwardness of
+      a lad brought up at some other of the public schools. There is
+      <i>pride</i> in it, accumulated from the circumstances which I
+      have described, as differencing him from the former; and there is
+      <i>a restraining modesty</i> from a sense of obligation and
+      dependence, which must ever keep his deportment from assimilating
+      to that of the latter. His very garb, as it is antique and
+      venerable, feeds his self-respect; as it is a badge of
+      dependence, it restrains the natural petulance of that age from
+      breaking out into overt acts of insolence. This produces silence
+      and a reserve before strangers, yet not that cowardly shyness
+      which boys mewed up at home will feel; he will speak up when
+      spoken to, but the stranger must begin the conversation with him.
+      Within his bounds he is all fire and play; but in the streets he
+      steals along with all the self-concentration of a young monk. He
+      is never known to mix with other boys; they are a sort of laity
+      to him. All this proceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual
+      consciousness which he carries about him, of the difference of
+      his dress from that of the rest of the world; with a modest
+      jealousy over himself, lest, by overhastily mixing with common
+      and secular playfellows, he should commit the dignity of his
+      cloth. Nor let any one laugh at this; for, considering the
+      propensity of the multitude, and especially of the small
+      multitude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress&mdash;above all,
+      where such peculiarity may be construed by malice into a mark of
+      disparagement&mdash;this reserve will appear to be nothing more
+      than a wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. That it is neither
+      pride nor rusticity, at least that it has none of the offensive
+      qualities of either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself, by
+      putting a question to any of these boys: he may be sure of an
+      answer couched in terms of plain civility, neither loquacious nor
+      embarrassed. Let him put the same question to a parish-boy, or to
+      one of the trencher-caps in the &mdash;&mdash; cloisters, and the
+      impudent reply of the one shall not fail to exasperate any more
+      than the certain servility, and mercenary eye to reward, which he
+      will meet with in the other, can fail to depress and sadden him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Christ's Hospital boy is a religions character. His school is
+      eminently a religious foundation; it has its peculiar prayers,
+      its services at set times, its graces, hymns, and anthems,
+      following each other in an almost monastic closeness of
+      succession. This religious character in him is not always
+      untinged with superstition. That is not wonderful, when we
+      consider the thousand tales and traditions which must circulate,
+      with undisturbed credulity, amongst so many boys, that have so
+      few checks to their belief from any intercourse with the world at
+      large; upon whom their equals in age must work so much, their
+      elders so little. With this leaning towards an over-belief in
+      matters of religion, which will soon correct itself when he comes
+      out into society, may be classed a turn for romance above most
+      other boys. This is to be traced in the same manner to their
+      excess of society with each other, and defect of mingling with
+      the world. Hence the peculiar avidity with which such books as
+      the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments," and others of a still
+      wilder cast, are, or at least were in my time, sought for by the
+      boys. I remember when some half-dozen of them set off from
+      school, without map, card, or compass, on a serious expedition to
+      find out <i>Philip Quarll's Island</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong is
+      peculiarly tender and apprehensive. It is even apt to run out
+      into ceremonial observances, and to impose a yoke upon itself
+      beyond the strict obligations of the moral law. Those who were
+      contemporaries with me at that school thirty years ago, will
+      remember with what more than Judaic rigor the eating of the fat
+      of certain boiled meats[1] was interdicted. A boy would have
+      blushed as at the exposure of some heinous immorality, to have
+      been detected eating that forbidden portion of his allowance of
+      animal food, the whole of which, while he was in health, was
+      little more than sufficient to allay his hunger. The same, or
+      even greater, refinement was shown in the rejection of certain
+      kinds of sweet-cake. What gave rise to these supererogatory
+      penances, these self-denying ordinances, I could never learn;[2]
+      they certainly argue no defect of the conscientious principle. A
+      little excess in that article is not undesirable in youth, to
+      make allowance for the inevitable waste which comes in maturer
+      years. But in the less ambiguous line of duty, in those
+      directions of the moral feelings which cannot be mistaken or
+      depreciated, I will relate what took place in the year 1785, when
+      Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I must be pardoned for taking my
+      instances from my own times. Indeed, the vividness of my
+      recollections, while I am upon this subject, almost bring back
+      those times; they are present to me still. But I believe that in
+      the years which have elapsed since the period which I speak of,
+      the character of the Christ's Hospital boy is very little
+      changed. Their situation in point of many comforts is improved;
+      but that which I ventured before to term the <i>public
+      conscience</i> of the school, the pervading moral sense, of which
+      every mind partakes and to which so many individual minds
+      contribute, remains, I believe, pretty much the same as when I
+      left it. I have seen, within this twelvemonth almost, the change
+      which has been produced upon a boy of eight or nine years of age,
+      upon being admitted into that school; how, from a pert young
+      coxcomb, who thought that all knowledge was comprehended within
+      his shallow brains, because a smattering of two or three
+      languages and one or two sciences were stuffed into him by
+      injudicious treatment at home, by a mixture with the wholesome
+      society of so many school-fellows, in less time than I have
+      spoken of, he has sunk to his own level, and is contented to be
+      carried on in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge in which
+      the common mass of that unpresumptuous assemblage of boys seem to
+      move: from being a little unfeeling mortal, he has got to feel
+      and reflect. Nor would it be a difficult matter to show how, at a
+      school like this, where the boy is neither entirely separated
+      from home, nor yet exclusively under its influence, the best
+      feelings, the filial for instance, are brought to a maturity
+      which they could not have attained under a completely domestic
+      education; how the relation of a parent is rendered less tender
+      by unremitted association, and the very awfulness of age is best
+      apprehended by some sojourning amidst the comparative levity of
+      youth; how absence, not drawn out by too great extension into
+      alienation or forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the relish of
+      occasional intercourse, and the boy is made the better
+      <i>child</i> by that which keeps the force of that relation from
+      being felt as perpetually pressing on him; how the substituted
+      paternity, into the care of which he is adopted, while in
+      everything substantial it makes up for the natural, in the
+      necessary omission of individual fondnesses and partialities,
+      directs the mind only the more strongly to appreciate that
+      natural and first tie, in which such weaknesses are the bond of
+      strength, and the appetite which craves after them betrays no
+      perverse palate. But these speculations rather belong to the
+      question of the comparative advantages of a public over a private
+      education in general. I must get back to my favorite school; and
+      to that which took place when our old and good steward died.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Under the denomination of <i>gage</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      2: I am told that the late steward [Mr. Hathaway], who evinced on
+      many occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety to promote the comfort
+      of the boys, had occasion for all his address and perseverance to
+      eradicate the first of these unfortunate prejudices, in which he
+      at length happily succeeded, and thereby restored to one half of
+      the animal nutrition of the school those honors which painful
+      superstition and blind zeal had so long conspired to withhold
+      from it.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      And I will say that when I think of the frequent instances which
+      I have met with in children, of a hard-heartedness, a
+      callousness, and insensibility to the loss of relations, even of
+      those who have begot and nourished them, I cannot but consider it
+      as a proof of something in the peculiar conformation of that
+      school, favorable to the expansion of the best feelings of our
+      nature, that at the period which I am noticing, out of five
+      hundred boys there was not a dry eye to be found among them, nor
+      a heart that did not beat with genuine emotion. Every impulse to
+      play, until the funeral day was past, seemed suspended throughout
+      the school; and the boys, lately so mirthful and sprightly, were
+      seen pacing their cloisters alone, or in sad groups standing
+      about, few of them without some token, such as their slender
+      means could provide, a black riband or something, to denote
+      respect and a sense of their loss. The time itself was a time of
+      anarchy, a time in which all authority (out of school hours) was
+      abandoned. The ordinary restraints were for those days
+      superseded; and the gates, which at other times kept us in, were
+      left without watchers. Yet, with the exception of one or two
+      graceless boys at most, who took advantage of that suspension of
+      authorities to <i>skulk out</i>, as it was called, the whole body
+      of that great school kept rigorously within their bounds, by a
+      voluntary self-imprisonment; and they who broke bounds, though
+      they escaped punishment from any master, fell into a general
+      disrepute among us, and, for that which at any other time would
+      have been applauded and admired as a mark of spirit, were
+      consigned to infamy and reprobation; so much <i>natural
+      government</i> have gratitude and the principles of reverence and
+      love, and so much did a respect to their dead friend prevail with
+      these Christ's Hospital boys, above any fear which his presence
+      among them when living could ever produce. And if the impressions
+      which were made on my mind so long ago are to be trusted, very
+      richly did their steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure
+      to me even now to call to mind his portly form, the regal awe
+      which he always contrived to inspire, in spite of a tenderness
+      and even weakness of nature that would have enfeebled the reins
+      of discipline in any other master; a yearning of tenderness
+      towards those under his protection, which could make five hundred
+      boys at once feel towards him each as to their individual father.
+      He had faults, with which we had nothing to do; but, with all his
+      faults, indeed, Mr. Perry was a most extraordinary creature.
+      Contemporary with him and still living, though he has long since
+      resigned his occupation, will it be impertinent to mention the
+      name of our excellent upper grammar-master, the Rev. James Boyer?
+      He was a disciplinarian, indeed, of a different stamp from him
+      whom I have just described; but, now the terrors of the rod, and
+      of a temper a little too hasty to leave the more nervous of us
+      quite at our ease to do justice to his merits in those days, are
+      long since over, ungrateful were we if we should refuse our
+      testimony to that unwearied assiduity with which he attended to
+      the particular improvement of each of us. Had we been the
+      offspring of the first gentry in the land, he could not have been
+      instigated by the strongest views of recompense and reward to
+      have made himself a greater slave to the most laborious of all
+      occupations than he did for us sons of charity, from whom, or
+      from our parents, he could expect nothing. He has had his reward
+      in the satisfaction of having discharged his duty, in the
+      pleasurable consciousness of having advanced the respectability
+      of that institution to which, both man and boy, he was attached;
+      in the honors to which so many of his pupils have successfully
+      aspired at both our Universities; and in the staff with which the
+      Governors of the Hospital, at the close of his hard labors, with
+      the highest expressions of the obligations the school lay under
+      to him, unanimously voted to present him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have often considered it among the felicities of the
+      constitution of this school, that the offices of steward and
+      school-master are kept distinct; the strict business of education
+      alone devolving upon the latter, while the former has the charge
+      of all things out of school, the control of the provisions, the
+      regulation of meals, of dress, of play, and the ordinary
+      intercourse of the boys. By this division of management, a
+      superior respectability must attach to the teacher, while his
+      office is unmixed with any of these lower concerns. A still
+      greater advantage over the construction of common
+      boarding-schools is to be found in the settled salaries of the
+      masters, rendering them totally free of obligation to any
+      individual pupil, or his parents. This never fails to have its
+      effect at schools where each boy can reckon up to a hair what
+      profit the master derives from him, where he views him every day
+      in the light of a caterer, a provider for the family, who is to
+      get so much by him in each of his meals. Boys will see and
+      consider these things; and how much must the sacred character of
+      preceptor suffer in their minds by these degrading associations!
+      The very bill which the pupil carries home with him at Christmas,
+      eked out, perhaps, with elaborate though necessary minuteness,
+      instructs him that his teachers have other ends than the mere
+      love to learning, in the lessons which they give him; and though
+      they put into his hands the fine sayings of Seneca or Epictetus,
+      yet they themselves are none of those disinterested pedagogues to
+      teach philosophy <i>gratis</i>. The master, too, is sensible that
+      he is seen in this light; and how much this must lessen that
+      affectionate regard to the learners which alone can sweeten the
+      bitter labor of instruction, and convert the whole business into
+      unwelcome and uninteresting task-work, many preceptors that I
+      have conversed with on the subject are ready, with a sad heart,
+      to acknowledge. From this inconvenience the settled salaries of
+      the masters of this school in great measure exempt them; while
+      the happy custom of choosing masters (indeed every officer of the
+      establishment) from those who have received their education
+      there, gives them an interest in advancing the character of the
+      school, and binds them to observe a tenderness and a respect to
+      the children, in which a stranger, feeling that independence
+      which I have spoken of, might well be expected to fail.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In affectionate recollections of the place where he was bred up,
+      in hearty recognitions of old school-fellows met with again after
+      the lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the Christ's
+      Hospital boy yields to none; I might almost say, he goes beyond
+      most other boys. The very compass and magnitude of the school,
+      its thousand bearings, the space it takes up in the imagination
+      beyond the ordinary schools, impresses a remembrance, accompanied
+      with an elevation of mind, that attends him through life. It is
+      too big, too affecting an object, to pass away quickly from his
+      mind. The Christ's Hospital boy's friends at school are commonly
+      his intimates through life. For me, I do not know whether a
+      constitutional imbecility does not incline me too obstinately to
+      cling to the remembrances of childhood; in an inverted ratio to
+      the usual sentiments of mankind, nothing that I have been engaged
+      in since seems of any value or importance compared to the colors
+      which imagination gave to everything then. I belong to no <i>body
+      corporate</i> such as I then made a part of.&mdash;And here,
+      before I close, taking leave of the general reader, and
+      addressing myself solely to my old school-fellows, that were
+      contemporaries with me from the year 1782 to 1789, let me have
+      leave to remember some of those circumstances of our school,
+      which they will not be unwilling to have brought back to their
+      minds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And first, let us remember, as first in importance in our
+      childish eyes, the young men (as they almost were) who, under the
+      denomination of <i>Grecians</i>, were waiting the expiration of
+      the period when they should be sent, at the charges of the
+      Hospital, to one or other of our universities, but more
+      frequently to Cambridge. These youths, from their superior
+      acquirements, their superior age and stature, and the fewness of
+      their numbers (for seldom above two or three at a time were
+      inaugurated into that high order), drew the eyes of all, and
+      especially of the younger boys, into a reverent observance and
+      admiration. How tall they used to seem to us! how stately would
+      they pace along the cloisters! while the play of the lesser boys
+      was absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness at least allayed,
+      at their presence! Not that they ever beat or struck the
+      boys&mdash;that would have been to have demeaned
+      themselves&mdash;the dignity of their persons alone insured them
+      all respect. The task of blows, of corporal chastisement, they
+      left to the common monitors, or heads of wards, who, it must be
+      confessed, in our time had rather too much license allowed them
+      to oppress and misuse their inferiors; and the interference of
+      the Grecian, who may be considered as the spiritual power, was
+      not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its mediation the
+      heavy unrelenting arm of this temporal power, or monitor. In
+      fine, the Grecians were the solemn Muftis of the school. Eras
+      were computed from their time;&mdash;it used to be said, such or
+      such a thing was done when S&mdash;&mdash; or T&mdash;&mdash; was
+      Grecian.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As I ventured to call the Grecians, the Muftis of the school, the
+      King's boys,[1] as their character then was, may well pass for
+      the Janissaries. They were the terror of all the other boys; bred
+      up under that hardy sailor, as well as excellent mathematician
+      and conavigator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All his systems
+      were adapted to fit them for the rough element which they were
+      destined to encounter. Frequent and severe punishments which were
+      expected to be borne with more than Spartan fortitude, came to be
+      considered less as inflictions of disgrace than as trials of
+      obstinate endurance. To make his boys hardy, and to give them
+      early sailor-habits, seemed to be his only aim; to this
+      everything was subordinate. Moral obliquities, indeed, were sure
+      of receiving their full recompense, for no occasion of laying on
+      the lash was ever let slip; but the effects expected to be
+      produced from it were something very different from contrition or
+      mortification. There was in William Wales a perpetual fund of
+      humor, a constant glee about him, which, heightened by an
+      inveterate provincialism of north-country dialect, absolutely
+      took away the sting from his severities. His punishments were a
+      game at patience, in which the master was not always worst
+      contented when he found himself at times overcome by his pupil.
+      What success this discipline had, or how the effects of it
+      operated upon the after-lives of these King's boys, I cannot say:
+      but I am sure that, for the time, they were absolute nuisances to
+      the rest of the school. Hardy, brutal, and often wicked, they
+      were the most graceless lump in the whole mass; older and bigger
+      than the other boys, (for, by the system of their education they
+      were kept longer at school by two or three years than any of the
+      rest, except the Grecians,) they were a constant terror to the
+      younger part of the school; and some who may read this, I doubt
+      not, will remember the consternation into which the juvenile fry
+      of us were thrown, when the cry was raised in the cloisters, that
+      <i>the First Order was coming</i>&mdash;for so they termed the
+      first form or class of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered
+      some good purposes, in the school. They were the military class
+      among the boys, foremost in athletic exercises, who extended the
+      fame of the prowess of the school far and near; and the
+      apprentices in the vicinage, and sometimes the butchers' boys in
+      the neighboring market, had sad occasion to attest their valor.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: The mathematical pupils, bred up to the sea, on the foundation
+      of Charles the Second.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      The time would fail me if I were to attempt to enumerate all
+      those circumstances, some pleasant, some attended with some pain,
+      which, seen through the mist of distance, come sweetly softened
+      to the memory. But I must crave leave to remember our
+      transcending superiority in those invigorating sports, leap-frog,
+      and basting the bear; our delightful excursions in the summer
+      holidays to the New River, near Newington, where, like otters, we
+      would live the long day in the water, never caring for dressing
+      ourselves, when we had once stripped; our savory meals
+      afterwards, when we came home almost famished with staying out
+      all day without our dinners; our visits at other times to the
+      Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we had free access to all the
+      curiosities; our solemn procession through the City at Easter,
+      with the Lord Mayor's largess of buns, wine, and a shilling, with
+      the festive questions and civic pleasantries of the dispensing
+      Aldermen, which were more to us than all the rest of the banquet;
+      our stately suppings in public, where the well-lighted hall and
+      the confluence of well-dressed company who came to see us, made
+      the whole look more like a concert or assembly, than a scene of a
+      plain bread and cheese collation; the annual orations upon St.
+      Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, before he had done,
+      seldom failed to reckon up, among those who had done honor to our
+      school by being educated in it, the names of those accomplished
+      critics and Greek scholars, Joshua Barnes and Jeremiah Markland
+      (I marvel they left out Camden while they were about it). Let me
+      have leave to remember our hymns and anthems, and well-toned
+      organ; the doleful tune of the burial anthem chanted in the
+      solemn cloisters, upon the seldom-occurring funeral of some
+      school-fellow; the festivities at Christmas, when the richest of
+      us would club our stock to have a gaudy day, sitting round the
+      fire, replenished to the height with logs, and the penniless, and
+      he that could contribute nothing, partook in all the mirth, and
+      in some of the substantialities of the feasting; the carol sung
+      by night at that time of the year, which, when a young boy, I
+      have so often lain awake to hear from seven (the hour of going to
+      bed) till ten, when it was sung by the older boys and monitors,
+      and have listened to it, in their rude chanting, till I have been
+      transported in fancy to the fields of Bethlehem, and the song
+      which was sung at that season, by angels' voices to the
+      shepherds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nor would I willingly forget any of those things which
+      administered to our vanity. The hem-stitched bands and town-made
+      shirts, which some of the most fashionable among us wore; the
+      town-girdles, with buckles of silver, or shining stone; the
+      badges of the sea-boys; the cots, or superior shoestrings, of the
+      monitors; the medals of the markers; (those who were appointed to
+      hear the Bible read in the wards on Sunday morning and evening,)
+      which bore on their obverse in silver, as certain parts of our
+      garments carried, in meaner metal, the countenance of our
+      Founder, that godly and royal child, King Edward the Sixth, the
+      flower of the Tudor name&mdash;the young flower that was untimely
+      cropt, as it began to fill our land with its early
+      odors&mdash;the boy-patron of boys&mdash;the serious and holy
+      child who walked with Cranmer and Bidley&mdash;fit associate, in
+      those tender years, for the bishops, and future martyrs of our
+      Church, to receive, or, (as occasion sometimes proved,) to give
+      instruction.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "But, ah! what means the silent tear?
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear!
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Lo! now I linger o'er your grave.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "&mdash;Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        And bear away the bloom of years!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And quick succeed, ye sickly crew
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man."[1]
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital, in the
+      "Poetics," of Mr. George Dyer.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="tshak" id="tshak">ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR
+      STAGE-REPRESENTATION.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was struck with the
+      affected attitude of a figure, which I do not remember to have
+      seen before, and which upon examination proved to be a
+      whole-length of the celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not go
+      so far with some good Catholics abroad as to shut players
+      altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a
+      little scandalized at the introduction of theatrical airs and
+      gestures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest
+      realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this harlequin
+      figure the following lines:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "To paint fair Nature, by divine command
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A Shakspeare rose; then, to expand his fame
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Immortal Garrick called them back to day:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And till Eternity with power sublime
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And earth irradiate with a beam divine."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      It would be an insult to my readers' understandings to attempt
+      anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and
+      nonsense. But the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder,
+      how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it
+      should have been the fashion to compliment every performer in his
+      turn, that has had the luck to please the Town in any of the
+      great characters of Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a
+      <i>mind congenial with the poet's</i>; how people should come
+      thus unaccountably to confound the power of originating poetical
+      images and conceptions with the faculty of being able to read or
+      recite the same when put into words;[1]or what connection that
+      absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man, which a great
+      dramatic poet possesses, has with those low tricks upon the eye
+      and ear, which a player, by observing a few general effects,
+      which some common passion, as grief, anger, &amp;c., usually has
+      upon the gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know
+      the internal workings and movements of a great mind, of an
+      Othello or a Hamlet for instance, the <i>when</i> and the
+      <i>why</i> and the <i>how far</i> they should be moved; to what
+      pitch a passion is becoming; to give the reins and to pull in the
+      curb exactly at the moment when the drawing in or the slackening
+      is most graceful; seems to demand a reach of intellect of a
+      vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare
+      imitation of the signs of these passions in the countenance or
+      gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively and
+      emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after
+      all but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, or grief,
+      generally; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein
+      it differs from the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of
+      these the actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture than
+      the eye (without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter
+      intelligible sounds. But such is the instantaneous nature of the
+      impressions which we take in at the eye and ear at a playhouse,
+      compared with the slow apprehension oftentimes of the
+      understanding in reading, that we are apt not only to sink the
+      playwriter in the consideration which we pay to the actor, but
+      even to identify in our minds, in a perverse manner, the actor
+      with the character which he represents. It is difficult for a
+      frequent play-goer to disembarrass the idea of Hamlet from the
+      person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady Macbeth, while we are
+      in reality thinking of Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion incidental
+      alone to unlettered persons, who, not possessing the advantage of
+      reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player for all
+      the pleasure which they can receive from the drama, and to whom
+      the very idea of <i>what an author is</i> cannot be made
+      comprehensible without some pain and perplexity of mind: the
+      error is one from which persons otherwise not meanly lettered,
+      find it almost impossible to extricate themselves.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in
+      dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gentleman who reads
+      Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore a great
+      poet and philosopher; nor do we find that Tom Davis, the
+      bookseller, who is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost
+      better than any man in England in his day (though I cannot help
+      thinking there must be some mistake in this tradition), was
+      therefore, by his intimate friends, set upon a level with Milton.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree
+      of satisfaction which I received some years back from seeing for
+      the first time a tragedy of Shakespeare performed, in which those
+      two great performers sustained the principal parts. It seemed to
+      embody and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no
+      distinct shape. But dearly do we pay all our life after for this
+      juvenile pleasure, this sense of distinctness. When the novelty
+      is past, we find to our cost that instead of realizing an idea,
+      we have only materialized and brought down a fine vision to the
+      standard of flesh and blood. We have let go a dream, in quest of
+      an unattainable substance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have its free
+      conceptions thus cramped and pressed down to the measure of a
+      strait-lacing actuality, may be judged from that delightful
+      sensation of freshness, with which we turn to those plays of
+      Shakspeare which have escaped being performed, and to those
+      passages in the acting plays of the same writer which have
+      happily been left out in the performance. How far the very custom
+      of hearing anything <i>spouted</i>, withers and blows upon a fine
+      passage, may be seen in those speeches from Henry the Fifth,
+      &amp;c., which are current in the mouths of school-boys, from
+      their being to be found in <i>Enfield's Speaker</i>, and such
+      kind of books! I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that
+      celebrated soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning "To be or not to be,"
+      or to tell whether it be good, bad or indifferent, it has been so
+      handled and pawed about by declamatory boys and men, and torn so
+      inhumanly from its living place and principle of continuity in
+      the play, till it is become to me a perfect dead member.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that
+      the plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for performance on a
+      stage, than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their
+      distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so.
+      There is so much in them, which comes not under the province of
+      acting, with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to
+      do.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, and the
+      turns of passion; and the more coarse and palpable the passion
+      is, the more hold upon the eyes and ears of the spectators the
+      performer obviously possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes,
+      scenes where two persons talk themselves into a fit of fury, and
+      then in a surprising manner talk themselves out of it again, have
+      always been the most popular upon our stage. And the reason is
+      plain, because the spectators are here most palpably appealed to,
+      they are the proper judges in this war of words, they are the
+      legitimate ring that should be formed round such "intellectual
+      prize-fighters." Talking is the direct object of the imitation
+      here. But in all the best dramas, and in Shakspeare above all,
+      how obvious it is, that the form of <i>speaking</i>, whether it
+      be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and often a highly
+      artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into
+      possession of that knowledge of the inner structure and workings
+      of mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have
+      arrived at <i>in that form of composition</i> by any gift short
+      of intuition. We do here as we do with novels written in the
+      <i>epistolary form</i>. How many improprieties, perfect solecisms
+      in letter-writing, do we put up with in Clarissa and other books,
+      for the sake of the delight which that form upon the whole gives
+      us! But the practice of stage-representation reduces everything
+      to a controversy of elocution. Every character, from the
+      boisterous blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of
+      womanhood, must play the orator. The love dialogues of Romeo and
+      Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night!
+      the more intimate and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy
+      between an Othello or a Posthumus with their married wives, all
+      those delicacies which are so delightful in the reading, as when
+      we read of those youthful dalliances in Paradise&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i10">
+        "As beseem'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Alone;"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      by the inherent fault of stage-representation, how are these
+      things sullied and turned from their very nature by being exposed
+      to a large assembly; when such speeches as Imogen addresses to
+      her lord, come drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress,
+      whose courtship, though nominally addressed to the personated
+      Posthumus, is manifestly aimed at the spectators, who are to
+      judge of her endearments and her returns of love!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by which, since the days
+      of Betterton, a succession of popular performers have had the
+      greatest ambition to distinguish themselves. The length of the
+      part may be one of their reasons. But for the character itself,
+      we find it in a play, and therefore we judge it a fit subject of
+      dramatic representation. The play itself abounds in maxims and
+      reflections beyond any other, and therefore we consider it as a
+      proper vehicle for conveying moral instruction. But Hamlet
+      himself&mdash;what does he suffer meanwhile by being dragged
+      forth as the public schoolmaster, to give lectures to the crowd!
+      Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are transactions
+      between himself and his moral sense; they are the effusions of
+      his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and corners and
+      the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth; or
+      rather, they are the silent meditations with which his bosom is
+      bursting, reduced to <i>words</i> for the sake of the reader, who
+      must else remain ignorant of what is passing there. These
+      profound sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations,
+      which the tongue scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers,
+      how can they be represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes
+      and mouths them out before an audience, making four hundred
+      people his confidants at once! I say not that it is the fault of
+      the actor so to do; he must pronounce them <i>ore rotundo</i>; he
+      must accompany them with his eye; he must insinuate them into his
+      auditory by some trick of eye, tone or gesture, or he fails.
+      <i>He must be thinking all the while of his appearance, because
+      he knows that all the while the spectators are judging of it</i>.
+      And this is the way to represent the shy, negligent, retiring
+      Hamlet!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is true that there is no other mode of conveying a vast
+      quantity of thought and feeling to a great portion of the
+      audience, who otherwise would never earn it for themselves by
+      reading, and the intellectual acquisition gained this way may,
+      for aught I know, be inestimable; but I am not arguing that
+      Hamlet should not be acted, but how much Hamlet is made another
+      thing by being acted. I have heard much of the wonders which
+      Garrick performed in this part; but as I never saw him, I must
+      have leave to doubt whether the representation of such a
+      character came within the province of his art. Those who tell me
+      of him, speak of his eye, of the magic of his eye, and of his
+      commanding voice: physical properties, vastly desirable in an
+      actor, and without which he can never insinuate meaning into an
+      auditory,&mdash;but what have they to do with Hamlet; what have
+      they to do with intellect? In fact, the things aimed at in
+      theatrical representation, are to arrest the spectator's eye upon
+      the form and the gesture, and so to gain a more favorable hearing
+      to what is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how he
+      looks; not what he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason to
+      think that if the play of Hamlet were written over again by some
+      such writer as Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the
+      story, but totally omitting all the poetry of it, all the divine
+      features of Shakspeare, his stupendous intellect; and only taking
+      care to give us enough of passionate dialogue, which Banks or
+      Lillo were never at a loss to furnish; I see not how the effect
+      could be much different upon an audience, nor how the actor has
+      it in his power to represent Shakspeare to us differently from
+      his representation of Banks or Lillo. Hamlet would still be a
+      youthful accomplished prince, and must be gracefully personated;
+      he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering in his conduct,
+      seemingly cruel to Ophelia; he might see a ghost, and start at
+      it, and address it kindly when he found it to be his father; all
+      this in the poorest and most homely language of the servilest
+      creeper after nature that ever consulted the palate of an
+      audience; without troubling Shakspeare for the matter: and I see
+      not but there would be room for all the power which an actor has,
+      to display itself. All the passions and changes of passion might
+      remain: for those are much less difficult to write or act than is
+      thought; it is a trick easy to be attained, it is but rising or
+      falling a note or two in the voice, a whisper with a significant
+      foreboding look to announce its approach, and so contagious the
+      counterfeit appearance of any emotion is, that let the words be
+      what they will, the look and tone shall carry it off, and make it
+      pass for deep skill in the passions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is common for people to talk of Shakspeare's plays being <i>so
+      natural</i>; that everybody can understand him. They are natural
+      indeed, they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth
+      of them lies out of the reach of most of us. You shall hear the
+      same persons say that George Barnwell is very natural, and
+      Othello is very natural, that they are both very deep; and to
+      them they are the same kind of thing. At the one they sit and
+      shed tears, because a good sort of young man is tempted by a
+      naughty woman to commit a <i>trifling peccadillo</i>, the murder
+      of an uncle or so[1] that is all, and so comes to an untimely
+      end, which is <i>so moving</i>; and at the other, because a
+      blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white wife;
+      and the odds are that ninety-nine out of a hundred would
+      willingly behold the same catastrophe happen to both the heroes,
+      and have thought the rope more due to Othello than to Barnwell.
+      For of the texture of Othello's mind, the inward construction
+      marvellously laid open with all its strengths and weaknesses, its
+      heroic confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies of hate
+      springing from the depths of love, they see no more than the
+      spectators at a cheaper rate, who pay their pennies apiece to
+      look through the man's telescope in Leicester-fields, see into
+      the inward plot and topography of the moon. Some dim thing or
+      other they see; they see an actor personating a passion, of
+      grief, or anger, for instance, and they recognize it as a copy of
+      the usual external effects of such passions; or at least as being
+      true to <i>that symbol of the emotion which passes current at the
+      theatre for it</i>, for it is often no more than that: but of the
+      grounds of the passion, its correspondence to a great or heroic
+      nature, which is the only worthy object of tragedy,&mdash;that
+      common auditors know anything of this, or can have any such
+      notions dinned into them by the mere strength of an actor's
+      lungs,&mdash;that apprehensions foreign to them should be thus
+      infused into them by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand
+      how it can be possible.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the
+      Managers, I would entreat and beg of them, in the name of both
+      the Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of the common
+      people of London should cease to be eternally repeated in the
+      holiday weeks. Why are the 'Prentices of this famous and
+      well-governed city, instead of an amusement, to be treated over
+      and over again with a nauseous sermon of George Barnwell? Why
+      <i>at the end of their vistas</i> are we to place the
+      <i>gallows</i>? Were I an uncle, I should not much like a nephew
+      of mine to have such an example placed before his eyes. It is
+      really making uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon
+      such slight motives;&mdash;it is attributing too much to such
+      characters as Millwood:&mdash;it is putting things into the heads
+      of good young men, which they would never otherwise have dreamed
+      of. Uncles that think anything of their lives, should fairly
+      petition the Chamberlain against it.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      We talk of Shakspeare's admirable observations of life, when we
+      should feel, that not from a petty inquisition into those cheap
+      and every-day characters which surrounded him, as they surround
+      us, but from his own mind, which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben
+      Jonson's, the very "sphere of humanity," he fetched those images
+      of virtue and of knowledge, of which every one of us recognizing
+      a part, think we comprehend in our natures the whole; and
+      oftentimes mistake the powers which he positively creates in us,
+      for nothing more than indigenous faculties of our own minds,
+      which only waited the application of corresponding virtues in him
+      to return a full and clear echo of the same.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To return to Hamlet.&mdash;Among the distinguishing features of
+      that wonderful character, one of the most interesting (yet
+      painful) is that soreness of mind which makes him treat the
+      intrusions of Polonius with harshness, and that asperity which he
+      puts on in his interviews with Ophelia. These tokens of an
+      unhinged mind (if they be not mixed in the latter case with a
+      profound artifice of love, to alienate Ophelia by affected
+      discourtesies, so to prepare her mind for the breaking off of
+      that loving intercourse, which can no longer find a place amidst
+      business so serious as that which he has to do) are parts of his
+      character, which to reconcile with our admiration of Hamlet, the
+      most patient consideration of his situation is no more than
+      necessary; they are what we <i>forgive afterwards</i>, and
+      explain by the whole of his character, but <i>at the time</i>
+      they are harsh and unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity
+      of giving strong blows to the audience, that I have never seen a
+      player in this character, who did not exaggerate and strain to
+      the utmost these ambiguous features,&mdash;these temporary
+      deformities in the character. They make him express a vulgar
+      scorn at Polonius which utterly degrades his gentility, and which
+      no explanation can render palatable; they make him show contempt,
+      and curl up the nose at Ophelia's father,&mdash;contempt in its
+      very grossest and most hateful form; but they get applause by it:
+      it is natural, people say; that is, the words are scornful, and
+      the actor expresses scorn, and that they can judge of: but why so
+      much scorn, and of that sort, they never think of asking.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So to Ophelia.&mdash;All the Hamlets that I have ever seen, rant
+      and rave at her as if she had committed some great crime, and the
+      audience are highly pleased, because the words of the part are
+      satirical, and they are enforced by the strongest expression of
+      satirical indignation of which the face and voice are capable.
+      But then, whether Hamlet is likely to have put on such brutal
+      appearances to a lady whom he loved so dearly, is never thought
+      on. The truth is, that in all such deep affections as had
+      subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is a stock of
+      <i>supererogatory love</i>, (if I may venture to use the
+      expression,) which in any great grief of heart, especially where
+      that which preys upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers a
+      kind of indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even
+      to its heart's dearest object, in the language of a temporary
+      alienation; but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely,
+      and so it always makes itself to be felt by that object: it is
+      not anger, but grief assuming the appearance of anger,&mdash;love
+      awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as sweet countenances when they
+      try to frown: but such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is
+      made to show, is no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute
+      aversion,&mdash;of irreconcilable alienation. It may be said he
+      puts on the madman; but then he should only so far put on this
+      counterfeit lunacy as his own real distraction will give him
+      leave; that is, incompletely, imperfectly; not in that confirmed,
+      practised way, like a master of his art, or as Dame Quickly would
+      say, "like one of those harlotry players."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which
+      Shakspeare's plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to
+      differ from that which the audience receive from those of other
+      writers; and, <i>they being in themselves essentially so
+      different from all others</i>, I must conclude that there is
+      something in the nature of acting which levels all distinctions.
+      And, in fact, who does not speak indifferently of the Gamester
+      and of Macbeth as fine stage-performances, and praise the Mrs.
+      Beverley in the same way as the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S.?
+      Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, and Euphrasia, are they
+      less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or than Desdemona? Are
+      they not spoken of and remembered in the same way? Is not the
+      female performer as great (as they call it) in one as in the
+      other? Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of
+      shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day
+      produced,&mdash;the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys,
+      and the Browns,&mdash;and shall he have that honor to dwell in
+      our minds forever as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare?
+      A kindred mind! O who can read that affecting sonnet of
+      Shakspeare which alludes to his profession as a player:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That did not better for my life provide
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than public means which public custom breeds&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And almost thence my nature is subdued
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To what it works in, like the dyer's hand."&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Or that other confession:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And made myself a motley to thy view,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear&mdash;"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our
+      sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him and
+      one that, by every tradition of him, appears to have been as mere
+      a player as ever existed; to have had his mind tainted with the
+      lowest players' vices,&mdash;envy and jealousy, and miserable
+      cravings after applause; one who in the exercise of his
+      profession was jealous even of the women-performers that stood in
+      his way; a manager full of managerial tricks and stratagems and
+      finesse; that any resemblance should be dreamed of between him
+      and Shakspeare,&mdash;Shakspeare, who, in the plenitude and
+      consciousness of his own powers, could with that noble modesty,
+      which we can neither imitate nor appreciate, express himself thus
+      of his own sense of his own defects:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Featured like him, like him with friends possest;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Desiring <i>this man's art, and that man's scope</i>."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the merit of being an
+      admirer of Shakspeare? A true lover of his excellences he
+      certainly was not; for would any true lover of them have admitted
+      into his matchless scenes such ribald trash as Tate and Cibber,
+      and the rest of them, that
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "With their darkness durst affront his light,"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      have foisted into the acting plays of Shakspeare? I believe it
+      impossible that he could have had a proper reverence for
+      Shakspeare, and have condescended to go through that interpolated
+      scene in Richard the Third, in which Richard tries to break his
+      wife's heart by telling her he loves another woman, and says, "if
+      she survives this she is immortal." Yet I doubt not he delivered
+      this vulgar stuff with as much anxiety of emphasis as any of the
+      genuine parts: and for acting, it is as well calculated as any.
+      But we have seen the part of Richard lately produce great fame to
+      an actor by his manner of playing it; and it lets us into the
+      secret of acting, and of popular judgments of Shakspeare derived
+      from acting. Not one of the spectators who have witnessed Mr.
+      C.'s exertions in that part, but has come away with a proper
+      conviction that Richard is a very wicked man, and kills little
+      children in their beds, with something like the pleasure which
+      the giants and ogres in children's books are represented to have
+      taken in that practice; moreover, that he is very close and
+      shrewd, and devilish cunning, for you could see that by his eye.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But is, in fact, this the impression we have in reading the
+      Richard of Shakspeare? Do we feel anything like disgust, as we do
+      at that butcherlike representation of him that passes for him on
+      the stage? A horror at his crimes blends with the effect which we
+      feel, but how is it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich
+      intellect which he displays, his resources, his wit, his buoyant
+      spirits, his vast knowledge and insight into characters, the
+      poetry of his part,&mdash;not an atom of all which is made
+      perceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting it. Nothing but his crimes,
+      his actions, is visible; they are prominent and staring; the
+      murderer stands out, but where is the lofty genius, the man of
+      vast capacity,&mdash;the profound, the witty, accomplished
+      Richard?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare are so much the
+      objects of meditation rather than of interest or curiosity as to
+      their actions, that while we are reading any of his great
+      criminal characters,&mdash;Macbeth, Richard, even Iago,&mdash;we
+      think not so much of the crimes which they commit, as of the
+      ambition, the aspiring spirit, the intellectual activity, which
+      prompts them to overleap these moral fences. Barnwell is a
+      wretched murderer; there is a certain fitness between his neck
+      and the rope; he is the legitimate heir to the gallows; nobody
+      who thinks at all can think of any alleviating circumstances in
+      his case to make him a fit object of mercy. Or to take an
+      instance from the higher tragedy, what else but a mere assassin
+      is Glenalvon? Do we think of anything but of the crime which he
+      commits, and the rack which he deserves? That is all which we
+      really think about him. Whereas in corresponding characters in
+      Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect us,
+      that while the impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted
+      greatness, solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, the
+      crime is comparatively nothing. But when we see these things
+      represented, the acts which they do are comparatively everything,
+      their impulses nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which
+      we are elevated by those images of night and horror which Macbeth
+      is made to utter, that solemn prelude with which he entertains
+      the time till the bell shall strike which is to call him to
+      murder Duncan,&mdash;when we no longer read it in a book, when we
+      have given up that vantage ground of abstraction which reading
+      possesses over seeing, and come to see a man in his bodily shape
+      before our eyes actually preparing to commit a murder, if the
+      acting be true and impressive, as I have witnessed it in Mr. K.'s
+      performance of that part, the painful anxiety about the act, the
+      natural longing to prevent it while it yet seems unperpetrated,
+      the too close pressing semblance of reality, give a pain and an
+      uneasiness which totally destroy all the delight which the words
+      in the book convey, where the deed doing never presses upon us
+      with the painful sense of presence; it rather seems to belong to
+      history,&mdash;to something past and inevitable, if it has
+      anything to do with time at all. The sublime images, the poetry
+      alone, is that which is present to our minds in the reading.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      So to see Lear acted,&mdash;to see an old man tottering about the
+      stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters
+      in a rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful and
+      disgusting. We want to take him into shelter and relieve him.
+      That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear ever produced in
+      me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible
+      machinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is
+      not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real
+      elements, than any actor can be to represent Lear; they might
+      more easily propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon a
+      stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness
+      of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual: the
+      explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano; they are
+      storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his
+      mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid
+      bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be
+      thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see
+      nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of
+      rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are
+      Lear,&mdash;we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur
+      which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the
+      aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power
+      of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary purposes of life,
+      but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at
+      will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks,
+      or tones, to do with that sublime identification of his age with
+      that of the <i>heavens themselves</i>, when, in his reproaches to
+      them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds
+      them that "they themselves are old?" What gesture shall we
+      appropriate to this? What has the voice or the eye to do with
+      such things? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings
+      with it show; it is too hard and stony; it must have love-scenes,
+      and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter,
+      she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the
+      nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the
+      showmen of the scene, to draw the mighty beast about more easily.
+      A happy ending!&mdash;as if the living martyrdom that Lear had
+      gone through,&mdash;the flaying of his feelings alive, did not
+      make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous
+      thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he could
+      sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and
+      preparation,&mdash;why torment us with all this unnecessary
+      sympathy? As if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes
+      and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused
+      station,&mdash;as if, at his years and with his experience,
+      anything was left but to die.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Lear is essentially impossible to be represented on a stage. But
+      how many dramatic personages are there in Shakspeare, which
+      though more tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than Lear,
+      yet from some circumstance, some adjunct to their character, are
+      improper to be shown to our bodily eye! Othello, for instance.
+      Nothing can be more soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts
+      of our natures, than to read of a young Venetian lady of the
+      highest extraction, through the force of love and from a sense of
+      merit in him whom she loved, laying aside every consideration of
+      kindred, and country, and color, and wedding with a <i>coal-black
+      Moor</i>&mdash;(for such he is represented, in the imperfect
+      state of knowledge respecting foreign countries in those days,
+      compared with our own, or in compliance with popular notions,
+      though the Moors are now well enough known to be by many shades
+      less unworthy of a white woman's fancy)&mdash;it is the perfect
+      triumph of virtue over accidents, of the imagination over the
+      senses. She sees Othello's color in his mind. But upon the stage,
+      when the imagination is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are
+      left to our poor unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that
+      has seen Othello played, whether he did not, on the contrary,
+      sink Othello's mind in his color; whether he did not find
+      something extremely revolting in the courtship and wedded
+      caresses of Othello and Desdemona; and whether the actual sight
+      of the thing did not overweigh all that beautiful compromise
+      which we make in reading;&mdash;and the reason it should do so is
+      obvious, because there is just so much reality presented to our
+      senses as to give a perception of disagreement, with not enough
+      of belief in the internal motives,&mdash;all that which is
+      unseen,&mdash;to overpower and reconcile the first and obvious
+      prejudices.[1] What we see upon a stage is body and bodily
+      action; what we are conscious of in reading is almost exclusively
+      the mind, and its movements; and this I think may sufficiently
+      account for the very different sort of delight with which the
+      same play so often affects us in the reading and the seeing.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: The error of supposing that because Othello's color does not
+      offend us in the reading, it should also not offend us in the
+      seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an Adam and Eve
+      in a picture shall affect us just as they do in the poem. But in
+      the poem we for a while have Paradisiacal senses given us, which
+      vanish when we see a man and his wife without clothes in the
+      picture. The painters themselves feel this, as is apparent by the
+      awkward shifts they have recourse to, to make them look not quite
+      naked; by a sort of prophetic anachronism, antedating the
+      invention of fig-leaves. So in the reading of the play, we see
+      with Desdemona's eyes: in the seeing of it, we are forced to look
+      with our own.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      It requires little reflection to perceive, that if those
+      characters in Shakspeare which are within the precincts of
+      nature, have yet something in them which appeals too exclusively
+      to the imagination, to admit of their being made objects to the
+      senses without suffering a change and a diminution,&mdash;that
+      still stronger the objection must lie against representing
+      another line of characters, which Shakspeare has introduced to
+      give a wildness and a supernatural elevation to his scenes, as if
+      to remove them still farther from that assimilation to common
+      life in which their excellence is vulgarly supposed to consist.
+      When we read the incantations of those terrible beings the
+      Witches in Macbeth, though some of the ingredients of their
+      hellish composition savor of the grotesque, yet is the effect
+      upon us other than the most serious and appalling that can be
+      imagined? Do we not feel spellbound as Macbeth was? Can any mirth
+      accompany a sense of their presence? We might as well laugh under
+      a consciousness of the principle of Evil himself being truly and
+      really present with us. But attempt to bring these things on to a
+      stage, and you turn them instantly into so many old women, that
+      men and children are to laugh at. Contrary to the old saying,
+      that "seeing is believing," the sight actually destroys the
+      faith; and the mirth in which we indulge at their expense, when
+      we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be a sort of
+      indemnification which we make to ourselves for the terror which
+      they put us in when reading made them an object of
+      belief,&mdash;when we surrendered up our reason to the poet, as
+      children to their nurses and their elders; and we laugh at our
+      fears, as children, who thought they saw something in the dark,
+      triumph when the bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of
+      their fears. For this exposure of supernatural agents upon a
+      stage is truly bringing in a candle to expose their own
+      delusiveness. It is the solitary taper and the book that
+      generates a faith in these terrors: a ghost by chandelier light,
+      and in good company, deceives no spectators,&mdash;a ghost that
+      can be measured by the eye, and his human dimensions made out at
+      leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and a well-dressed
+      audience, shall arm the most nervous child against any
+      apprehensions: as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of
+      Achilles with his impenetrable armor over it, "Bully Dawson would
+      have fought the devil with such advantages."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile
+      mixture which Dryden has thrown into the Tempest: doubtless,
+      without some such vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age
+      would never have sat out to hear so much innocence of love as is
+      contained in the sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. But is
+      the tempest of Shakspeare at all a subject for
+      stage-representation? It is one thing to read of an enchanter,
+      and to believe the wondrous tale while we are reading it; but to
+      have a conjurer brought before us in his conjuring gown, with his
+      spirits about him, which none but himself and some hundred of
+      favored spectators before the curtain are supposed to see,
+      involves such a quantity of the <i>hateful incredible</i>, that
+      all our reverence for the author cannot hinder us from perceiving
+      such gross attempts upon the senses to be in the highest degree
+      childish and inefficient. Spirits and fairies cannot be
+      represented, they cannot even be painted,&mdash;they can only be
+      believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision of scenery,
+      which the luxury of the age demands, in these cases works a quite
+      contrary effect to what is intended. That which in comedy, or
+      plays of familiar life, adds so much to the life of the
+      imitation, in plays which appeal to the higher faculties
+      positively destroys the illusion which it is introduced to aid. A
+      parlor or a drawing-room,&mdash;a library opening into a
+      garden&mdash;a garden with an alcove in it,&mdash;a street, or
+      the piazza of Covent Garden, does well enough in a scene; we are
+      content to give as much credit to it as it demands; or rather, we
+      think little about it,&mdash;it is little more than reading at
+      the top of a page, "Scene, a garden;" we do not imagine ourselves
+      there, but we readily admit the imitation of familiar objects.
+      But to think by the help of painted trees and caverns, which we
+      know to be painted, to transport our minds to Prospero, and his
+      island and his lonely cell;[1] or by the aid of a fiddle
+      dexterously thrown in, in an interval of speaking, to make us
+      believe that we hear those supernatural noises of which the isle
+      was full: the Orrery Lecturer at the Haymarket might as well
+      hope, by his musical glasses cleverly stationed out of sight
+      behind his apparatus, to make us believe that we do indeed hear
+      the crystal spheres ring out that chime, which if it were to
+      enwrap our fancy long, Milton thinks,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Time would run back and fetch the age of gold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And speckled Vanity
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would sicken soon and die,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yea, Hell itself would pass away,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: It will be said these things are done in pictures. But
+      pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is a
+      world of itself; but in scene-painting there is the attempt to
+      deceive; and there is the discordancy never to be got over,
+      between painted scenes and real people.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      The garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, is not more
+      impossible to be shown on a stage, than the Enchanted isle, with
+      its no less interesting and innocent first settlers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The subject of Scenery is closely connected with that of the
+      Dresses, which are so anxiously attended to on our stage. I
+      remember the last time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I
+      felt at the changes of garment which he varied, the shiftings and
+      reshiftings, like a Romish priest at mass. The luxury of
+      stage-improvements, and the importunity of the public eye,
+      require this. The coronation robe of the Scottish monarch was
+      fairly a counterpart to that which our King wears when he goes to
+      the Parliament house, just so full and cumbersome, and set out
+      with ermine and pearls. And if things must be represented, I see
+      not what to find fault with in this. But in reading, what robe
+      are we conscious of? Some dim images of royalty&mdash;a crown and
+      sceptre may float before our eyes, but who shall describe the
+      fashion of it? Do we see in our mind's eye what Webb or any other
+      robe-maker could pattern? This is the inevitable consequence of
+      imitating everything, to make all things natural. Whereas the
+      reading of a tragedy is a fine abstraction. It presents to the
+      fancy just so much of external appearances as to make us feel
+      that we are among flesh and blood, while by far the greater and
+      better part of our imagination is employed upon the thoughts and
+      internal machinery of the character. But in acting, scenery,
+      dress, the most contemptible things, call upon us to judge of
+      their naturalness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken the pleasure
+      which we take in seeing one of these fine plays acted, compared
+      with that quiet delight which we find in the reading of it, to
+      the different feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is
+      not a reviewer, reads a fine poem. The accursed critical
+      habit&mdash;the being called upon to judge and pronounce, must
+      make it quite a different thing to the former. In seeing these
+      plays acted, we are affected just as judges. When Hamlet compares
+      the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second husband, who
+      wants to see the pictures? But in the acting, a miniature must be
+      lugged out; which we know not to be the picture, but only to show
+      how finely a miniature may be represented. This showing of
+      everything levels all things: it makes tricks, bows, and
+      curtseys, of importance. Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything
+      than by the manner in which she dismisses the guests in the
+      banquet-scene in Macbeth: it is as much remembered as any of her
+      thrilling tones or impressive looks. But does such a trifle as
+      this enter into the imaginations of the readers of that wild and
+      wonderful scene? Does not the mind dismiss the feasters as
+      rapidly as it can? Does it care about the gracefulness of the
+      doing it? But by acting, and judging of acting, all these
+      non-essentials are raised into an importance, injurious to the
+      main interest of the play.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have confined my observations to the tragic parts of
+      Shakspeare. It would be no very difficult task to extend the
+      inquiry to his comedies; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir
+      Hugh Evans, and the rest, are equally incompatible with
+      stage-representation. The length to which this Essay has run will
+      make it, I am afraid, sufficiently distasteful to the Amateurs of
+      the Theatre, without going any deeper into the subject at
+      present.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="dwrit" id="dwrit">CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS,</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEAKE.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      When I selected for publication, in 1808, "Specimens of English
+      Dramatic Poets" who lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind
+      of extracts which I was anxious to give were not so much passages
+      of wit and humor, though the old plays are rich in such, as
+      scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting
+      situations, serious descriptions, that which is more nearly
+      allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic
+      poetry. The plays which I made choice of were, with few
+      exceptions, such as treat of human life and manners, rather than
+      masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of abstractions,
+      unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals&mdash;Claius, and
+      Medorus, and Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading design was to
+      illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors.
+      To show in what manner they felt when they placed themselves by
+      the power of imagination in trying circumstances, in the
+      conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending
+      duties; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were; how their
+      griefs were tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated: how much
+      of Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how
+      far in his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all
+      mankind. I was also desirous to bring together some of the most
+      admired scenes of Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of
+      the world the only dramatic poets of that age entitled to be
+      considered after Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same
+      volume with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood,
+      Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others, to show what we had
+      slighted, while beyond all proportion we had been crying up one
+      or two favorite names. From the desultory criticisms which
+      accompanied that publication, I have selected a few which I
+      thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least
+      immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were
+      suggested.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen</i>.&mdash;This
+      tragedy is in King Cambyses' vein; rape, and murder, and
+      superlatives; "huffing braggart puft lines," such as the
+      play-writers anterior to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol but
+      coldly imitates.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepherd</i>.&mdash;The
+      lunes of Tamburlaine are perfect midsummer madness.
+      Nebuchadnezzar's are mere modest pretensions compared with the
+      thundering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by
+      conquered kings, and reproaches these <i>pampered jades of
+      Asia</i> that they can <i>draw but twenty miles a day</i>. Till I
+      saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was
+      anything more than a pleasant burlesque of mine Ancient's. But I
+      can assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a play,
+      which their ancestors took to be serious.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Edward the Second</i>.&mdash;In a very different style from
+      mighty Tamburlaine is the Tragedy of Edward the Second. The
+      reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints,
+      which Shakspeare scarcely improved in his Richard the Second; and
+      the death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond
+      any scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Rich Jew of Malta</i>.&mdash;Marlowe's Jew does not
+      approach so near to Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does
+      to Richard the Second. Barabas is a mere monster brought in with
+      a large painted nose to please the rabble. He kills in sport,
+      poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just
+      such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been
+      played before the Londoners "by the royal command," when a
+      general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously
+      resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition
+      wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious ancestors
+      contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now
+      revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its
+      nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to
+      flatter it; it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronizes
+      the arts, and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in
+      Christendom.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Doctor Faustus</i>.&mdash;The growing horrors of Faustus's
+      last scene are awfully marked by the hours and half hours as they
+      expire, and bring him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his
+      dire compact. It is indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation.
+      Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheistical positions,
+      to have denied God and the Trinity. To such a genius the history
+      of Faustus must have been delectable food: to wander in fields
+      where curiosity is forbidden to go, to approach the dark gulf,
+      near enough to look in, to be busied in speculations which are
+      the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell from the
+      tree of knowledge.[1] Barabas the Jew, and Faustus the conjurer,
+      are offsprings of a mind which at least delighted to dally with
+      interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a believer
+      would have been tender of putting into the mouth of a character
+      though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have sometimes not
+      thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of
+      another, to bring Vice upon the stage speaking her own dialect;
+      and, themselves being armed with an unction of self-confident
+      impunity, have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly
+      which would be death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan,
+      has started speculations hardier than any which the feeble armory
+      of the atheist ever furnished; and the precise, strait-laced
+      Richardson has strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace,
+      with entangling sophistries and abstruse pleas against her
+      adversary Virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted
+      depth of libertinism enough to have invented.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor
+      Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of knowledge
+      itself, and from the rotten kernels of that fatal
+      apple.&mdash;<i>Howell's Letters</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h4>
+      THOMAS DECKER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Fortunatus</i>.&mdash;The humor of a frantic lover in the
+      scene where Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion
+      with which himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court,
+      is enamored to frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to
+      the life. Orleans is as passionate an inamorato as any which
+      Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such another adept in Love's
+      reasons. The sober people of the world are with him,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i6">
+        "A swarm of fools
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Crowding together to be counted wise."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      He talks "pure Biron and Romeo;" he is almost as poetical as
+      they, quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all,
+      Love's sectaries are a reason unto themselves. We have gone
+      retrograde to the noble heresy, since the days when Sidney
+      proselyted our nation to this mixed health and disease: the
+      kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis, in the ticklish
+      state of youth; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits;
+      the mother of twin births, wisdom and folly, valor and weakness;
+      the servitude above freedom; the gentle mind's religion; the
+      liberal superstition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Honest Whore</i>.&mdash;There is in the second part of
+      this play, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of
+      the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honor and
+      shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without
+      immodesty; which is worth all the <i>strong lines</i> against the
+      harlot's profession, with which both parts of this play are
+      offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who,
+      to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest
+      circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness.
+      But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a
+      worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer
+      against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his
+      unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his
+      new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to
+      expose the enormity of those appetites in other men. When
+      Cervantes, with such proficiency of fondness dwells upon the
+      Don's library, who sees not that he has been a great reader of
+      books of knight-errantry&mdash;perhaps was at some time of his
+      life in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he
+      ridiculed so happily in his hero!
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      JOHN MARSTON.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Antonio and Mellida</i>.&mdash;The situation of Andrugio and
+      Lucio, in the first part of this tragedy,&mdash;where Andrugio,
+      Duke of Genoa, banished his country, with the loss of a son
+      supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy
+      the Duke of Venice, with no attendants but Lucio, an old
+      nobleman, and a page&mdash;resembles that of Lear and Kent, in
+      that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a
+      king-like impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected
+      resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat,
+      "Despair and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the forces
+      which he brings to vanquish them, "cornets of horse," &amp;c.,
+      are in the boldest style of allegory. They are such a "race of
+      mourners" as the "infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect
+      might beget on some "pregnant cloud" in the imagination. The
+      prologue to the second part, for its passionate earnestness, and
+      for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have
+      preceded one of those old tales of Thebes or Pelops' line, which
+      Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of
+      the poets in his day, of "intermixing comic stuff with tragic
+      sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to
+      gratify the people." It is as solemn a preparative as the
+      "warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse heard cry."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>What You Will</i>.&mdash;<i>O I shall ne'er forget how he went
+      cloath'd</i>. Act 1. Scene 1.&mdash;To judge of the liberality of
+      these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham,
+      and the consternation which a phenomenon habited like the
+      merchant here described would have excited among the flat round
+      caps, and cloth stockings upon 'Change, when those "original
+      arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were in fashion, not
+      more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction and grace."
+      The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in
+      apparel have been long hastening is one instance of the decay of
+      symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or not to
+      make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less
+      imaginative people. Shakespeare knew the force of signs: a
+      "malignant and turbaned Turk." This "meal-cap miller," says the
+      author of God's Revenge against Murder, to express his
+      indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by the miller
+      Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      AUTHOR UNKNOWN.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Merry Devil of Edmonton</i>.&mdash;The scene in this
+      delightful comedy, in which Jerningham, "with the true feeling of
+      a zealous friend," touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems
+      written to make the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or
+      novelists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us
+      abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be
+      finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler, than the conversation and
+      compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond
+      Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a
+      "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds him! I wish
+      it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for
+      believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It
+      would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of
+      my native Earth; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion,
+      with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who
+      has not left a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stepped over,
+      without honorable mention; and has animated hills and streams
+      with life and passion beyond the dreams of old mythology.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      THOMAS HEYWOOD.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>A Woman Killed with Kindness</i>.&mdash;Heywood is a sort of
+      <i>prose</i> Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural
+      and affecting. But we miss <i>the poet</i>, that which in
+      Shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of <i>the
+      nature</i>. Heywood's characters, in this play, for instance, his
+      country gentlemen, &amp;c., are exactly what we see, but of the
+      best kind of what we see in life. Shakspeare makes us believe,
+      while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing
+      but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old;
+      but we awake, and sigh for the difference.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The English Traveller</i>.&mdash;Heywood's preface to this
+      play is interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about
+      the opinion of posterity, which some of these great writers seem
+      to have felt. There is a magnanimity in authorship, as in
+      everything else. His ambition seems to have been confined to the
+      pleasure of hearing the players speak his lines while he lived.
+      It does not appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of
+      being read by after-ages. What a slender pittance of fame was
+      motive sufficient to the production of such plays as the English
+      Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the Woman Killed with
+      Kindness! Posterity is bound to take care that a writer loses
+      nothing by such a noble modesty.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>A Fair Quarrel</i>.&mdash;The insipid levelling morality to
+      which the modern stage is tied down, would not admit of such
+      admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical
+      obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping
+      among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in
+      flesh and blood, with which the old dramatists present us. Those
+      noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the
+      quarrels, the animosities of men, a beauty and truth of moral
+      feeling, no less than in the everlastingly inculcated duties of
+      forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is hypocritical meekness.
+      A reconciliation-scene, be the occasion never so absurd, never
+      fails of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre to be
+      complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the
+      amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful sympathy of
+      disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic
+      morality, out of which a writer may be supplied without the
+      trouble of copying it from originals within his own breast. To
+      know the boundaries of honor, to be judiciously valiant, to have
+      a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry
+      swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred
+      reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and
+      tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest
+      confidence is found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true
+      blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the imaginary
+      strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen an edge
+      upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done, in a feigned
+      story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater
+      delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes
+      to the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws
+      of honor as opposed to the laws of the land, or a commonplace
+      against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now-a-days
+      in far better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious
+      honor; and he would be considered as a far better teacher of
+      morality than old Rowley or Middleton, if they were living.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>A New Wonder; a Woman never Vext</i>.&mdash;The old
+      play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of
+      exhibition,&mdash;they show everything without being ashamed. If
+      a reverse in fortune is to be exhibited, they fairly bring us to
+      the prison-grate and the alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is
+      always a gentleman; he may be known by a peculiar neatness of
+      apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy, in fact, forbids the
+      dramatizing of distress at all. It is never shown in its
+      essential properties; it appears but as the adjunct of some
+      virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the
+      approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a
+      certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from
+      the real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows,
+      moral duties; whereas, if the truth of things were fairly
+      represented, the relative duties might be safely trusted to
+      themselves, and moral philosophy lose the name of a science.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      THOMAS MIDDLETON.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Witch</i>.&mdash;Though some resemblance may be traced
+      between the charms in Macbeth and the incantations in this play,
+      which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not
+      detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are
+      distinguished from the witches of Middleton by essential
+      differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman, plotting
+      some dire mischief, might resort for occasional consultation.
+      Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to men.
+      From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is
+      spellbound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break
+      the fascination. These witches can hurt the body; those have
+      power over the soul. Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low
+      buffoon: the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own,
+      nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul
+      anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor
+      whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human
+      passions, so they seem to be without human relations. They come
+      with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all
+      we know of them. Except Hecate, they have no <i>names</i>; which
+      heightens their mysteriousness. The names, and some of the
+      properties which the other author has given to his hags, excite
+      smiles. The Weďrd Sisters are serious things. Their presence
+      cannot coexist with mirth. But in a lesser degree, the witches of
+      Middleton are fine creations. Their power, too, is, in some
+      measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes,
+      "like a thick scurf" over life.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      WILLIAM ROWLEY,&mdash;THOMAS DECKER,&mdash;JOHN FORD, ETC.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Witch of Edmonton</i>.&mdash;Mother Sawyer, in this wild
+      play, differs from the hags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She
+      is the plain, traditional old woman witch of our ancestors; poor,
+      deformed, and ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable
+      to a justice. That should he a hardy sheriff, with the power of
+      the county at his heels, that would lay hands on the Weďrd
+      Sisters. They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common
+      and received opinion, the author (or authors) have engrafted
+      strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her
+      invocations to the Familiar.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      CYRIL TOURNEUR.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Revenger's Tragedy</i>.&mdash;The reality and life of the
+      dialogue, in which Vindici and Hippolito first tempt their
+      mother, and then threaten her with death for consenting to the
+      dishonor of their sister, passes any scenical illusion I ever
+      felt. I never read it but my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush
+      overspread my cheeks, as if I were presently about to proclaim
+      such malefactions of myself, as the brothers here rebuke in their
+      unnatural parent, in words more keen and dagger-like than those
+      which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such power has the passion of
+      shame truly personated, not only to strike guilty creatures unto
+      the soul, but to "appall" even those that are "free."
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      JOHN WEBSTER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Duchess of Malfy</i>.&mdash;All the several parts of the
+      dreadful apparatus with which the death of the Duchess is ushered
+      in, the waxen images which counterfeit death, the wild masque of
+      madmen, the tomb-maker, the bellman, the living person's dirge,
+      the mortification by degrees,&mdash;are not more remote from the
+      conceptions of ordinary vengeance, than the strange character of
+      suffering which they seem to bring upon their victim is out of
+      the imagination of ordinary poets. As they are not like
+      inflictions of this life, so her language seems not of this
+      world. She has lived among horrors till she is become "native and
+      endowed unto that element." She speaks the dialect of despair;
+      her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale. To
+      move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay
+      upon fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till
+      it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to
+      take its last forfeit: this only a Webster can do. Inferior
+      geniuses may "upon horror's head horrors accumulate," but they
+      cannot do this. They mistake quantity for quality; they "terrify
+      babes with painted devils;" but they know not how a soul is to be
+      moved. Their terrors want dignity, their affrightments are
+      without decorum.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The White Devil</i>, <i>or Vittoria Corombona</i>.&mdash;This
+      White Devil of Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and
+      pleads with such an innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem
+      to see that matchless beauty of her face which inspires such gay
+      confidence into her, and are ready to expect, when she has done
+      her pleadings, that her very judges, her accusers, the grave
+      ambassadors who sit as spectators, and all the court, will rise
+      and make proffer to defend her, in spite of the utmost conviction
+      of her guilt; as the Shepherds in Don Quixote make proffer to
+      follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela, "without making any
+      profit of her manifest resolution made there in their hearing."
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "So sweet and lovely does she make the shame,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Does spot the beauty of her budding name!"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      I never saw anything like the funeral dirge in this play for the
+      death of Marcello, except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of
+      his drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water,
+      watery; so this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that
+      intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve itself into the
+      element which it contemplates.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In a note on the Spanish Tragedy in the Specimens, I have said
+      that there is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which
+      would authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the
+      additions to Hieronymo. I suspected the agency of some more
+      potent spirit. I thought that Webster might have furnished them.
+      They seemed full of that wild, solemn, preternatural cast of
+      grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy. On second
+      consideration, I think this a hasty criticism. They are more like
+      the overflowing griefs and talking distraction of Titus
+      Andronicus. The sorrows of the Duchess set inward; if she talks,
+      it is little more than soliloquy imitating conversation in a kind
+      of bravery.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      JOHN FORD.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Broken Heart</i>.&mdash;I do not know where to find, in
+      any play, a catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising,
+      as in this. This is indeed, according to Milton, to describe high
+      passions and high actions. The fortitude of the Spartan boy, who
+      let a beast gnaw out his bowels till he died, without expressing
+      a groan, is a faint bodily image of this dilaceration of the
+      spirit, and exenteration of the inmost mind, which Calantha, with
+      a holy violence against her nature, keeps closely covered, till
+      the last duties of a wife and a queen are fulfilled. Stories of
+      martyrdom are but of chains and the stake; a little bodily
+      suffering. These torments
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "On the purest spirits prey,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As on entrails, joints, and limbs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With answerable pains, but more intense."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths and in its
+      weaknesses! Who would be less weak than Calantha? Who can be so
+      strong? The expression of this transcendent scene almost bears us
+      in imagination to Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to perceive
+      some analogy between the scenical suffering which we are here
+      contemplating and the real agonies of that final completion to
+      which we dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the
+      first order of poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in
+      metaphors or visible images, but directly where she has her full
+      residence, in the heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of
+      the greatest minds. There is a grandeur of the soul, above
+      mountains, seas, and the elements. Even in the poor perverted
+      reason of Giovanni and Annabella, in the play[1] which stands at
+      the head of the modern collection of the works of this author, we
+      discern traces of that fiery particle, which, in the irregular
+      starting from out the road of beaten action, discovers something
+      of a right line even in obliquity, and shows hints of an
+      improvable greatness in the lowest descents and degradations of
+      our nature.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1 "'Tis Pity she's a Whore."
+    </div>
+    <h4>
+      FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Alaham, Mustapha</i>.&mdash;The two tragedies of Lord Brooke,
+      printed among his poems, might with more propriety have been
+      termed political treatises than plays. Their author has strangely
+      contrived to make passion, character, and interest, of the
+      highest order, subservient to the expression of state dogmas and
+      mysteries. He is in nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for one
+      part Sophocles or Seneca. In this writer's estimate of the powers
+      of the mind, the understanding must have held a most tyrannical
+      preeminence. Whether we look into his plays or his most
+      passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid
+      with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, the
+      utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially
+      comprised in the actions and speeches of Cćlica and Camena.
+      Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in
+      contemplating womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images
+      of female excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to
+      love, has not raised the ideal of the female character higher
+      than Lord Brooke, in these two women, has done. But it requires a
+      study equivalent to the learning of a new language to understand
+      their meaning when they speak. It is indeed hard to hit:
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or seven though one should musing sit."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to
+      express the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all
+      knowledge, but sympathetic expressions would be wanting.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      BEN JONSON.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Case is Altered</i>.&mdash;The passion for wealth has worn
+      out much of its grossness in tract of time. Our ancestors
+      certainly conceived of money as able to confer a distinct
+      gratification in itself, not considered simply as a symbol of
+      wealth. The old poets, when they introduce a miser, make him
+      address his gold as his mistress; as something to be seen, felt,
+      and hugged; as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least.
+      The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying medium in the place of
+      the good old tangible metal, has made avarice quite a Platonic
+      affection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and handling
+      pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank-note can no more
+      satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than
+      Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the
+      Cave of Mammon in Spenser; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth,
+      in the Rich Jew of Malta; Luke's raptures in the City Madam; the
+      idolatry and absolute gold-worship of the miser Jaques in this
+      early comic production of Ben Jonson's. Above all, hear Guzman,
+      in that excellent old translation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate
+      on the "ruddy cheeks of your golden ruddocks, your Spanish
+      pistolets, your plump and full-faced Portuguese, and your
+      clear-skinned pieces-of-eight of Castile," which he and his
+      fellows the beggars kept secret to themselves, and did privately
+      enjoy in a plentiful manner. "For to have them to pay them away
+      is not to enjoy them; to enjoy them is to have them lying by us;
+      having no other need of them than to use them for the clearing of
+      the eyesight, and the comforting of our senses. These we did
+      carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets
+      near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could
+      handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Poetaster</i>.&mdash;This Roman play seems written to confute
+      those enemies of Ben in his own days and ours, who have said that
+      he made a pedantical use of his learning. He has here revived the
+      whole Court of Augustus, by a learned spell. We are admitted to
+      the society of the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid,
+      Tibullus, converse in our own tongue more finely and poetically
+      than they were used to express themselves in their native Latin.
+      Nothing can be imagined more elegant, refined, and court-like,
+      than the scenes between this Louis the Fourteenth of antiquity
+      and his literati. The whole essence and secret of that kind of
+      intercourse is contained therein. The economical liberality by
+      which greatness, seeming to waive some part of its prerogative,
+      takes care to lose none of the essentials; the prudential
+      liberties of an inferior, which flatter by commanded boldness and
+      soothe with complimentary sincerity;&mdash;these, and a thousand
+      beautiful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's Revels, and
+      from those numerous court-masques and entertainments, which he
+      was in the daily habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show
+      the poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged
+      old bard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Alchemist</i>.&mdash;The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by
+      the torrent of images, words, and book-knowledge, with which
+      Epicure Mammon (Act ii., Scene 2) confounds and stuns his
+      incredulous hearer. They come pouring out like the successive
+      falls of Nilus. They "doubly redouble strokes upon the foe."
+      Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe effects
+      before we have testimony for their causes. If there is no one
+      image which attains the height of the sublime, yet the confluence
+      and assemblage of them all produces a result equal to the
+      grandest poetry. The huge Xerxean army countervails against
+      single Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring
+      of its author. It has the whole "matter and copy of the
+      father&mdash;eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown." It is just
+      such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described old Ben to be.
+      Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the New Inn, have all his image
+      and superscription. But Mammon is arrogant pretension
+      personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another
+      lying, overbearing character, but he does not come up to Epicure
+      Mammon. What a "towering bravery" there is in his sensuality! he
+      affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if "Egypt with
+      Assyria strove in luxury."
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      GEORGE CHAPMAN.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Bussy D'Ambois</i>, <i>Byron's Conspiracy</i>, <i>Byron's
+      Tragedy</i>, &amp;c. &amp;c.&mdash;Webster has happily
+      characterized the "full and heightened style" of Chapman, who, of
+      all the English play-writers, perhaps approaches nearest to
+      Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in passages which are
+      less purely dramatic. He could not go out of himself, as
+      Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate other
+      existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul
+      to embrace all forms and modes of being. He would have made a
+      great epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to
+      be one; for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the
+      stories of Achilles and Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and
+      passion which he has put into every part of these poems would be
+      incredible to a reader of mere modern translations. His almost
+      Greek zeal for the glory of his heroes can only be paralleled by
+      that fierce spirit of Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if
+      personating one of the zealots of the old law, clothed himself
+      when he sat down to paint the acts of Samson against the
+      uncircumcised. The great obstacle to Chapman's translations being
+      read, is their unconquerable quaintness. He pours out in the same
+      breath the most just and natural, and the most violent and crude
+      expressions. He seems to grasp at whatever words come first to
+      hand while the enthusiasm is upon him, as if all other must be
+      inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all in all in
+      poetry) is everywhere present, raising the low, dignifying the
+      mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers
+      glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be
+      moved by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted, and overcome
+      their disgust.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      FRANCIS BEAUMONT.&mdash;JOHN FLETCHER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid's Tragedy</i>.&mdash;One characteristic of the excellent
+      old poets is, their being able to bestow grace upon subjects
+      which naturally do not seem susceptible of any. I will mention
+      two instances. Zelmane in the Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in
+      the All's Well that Ends Well of Shakspeare. What can be more
+      unpromising, at first sight, than the idea of a young man
+      disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing himself off for
+      a woman among women; and that for a long space of time? Yet Sir
+      Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, that neither does
+      Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of Zelmane,
+      nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished when
+      the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly-constituted mind
+      of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought or
+      unhandsome meditation could find a harbor. He turned all that he
+      touched into images of honor and virtue. Helena in Shakspeare is
+      a young woman seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary rules of
+      courtship are reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. Yet
+      with such exquisite address this dangerous subject is handled,
+      that Helena's forwardness loses her no honor; delicacy dispenses
+      with its laws in her favor, and nature, in her single case, seems
+      content to suffer a sweet violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's
+      Tragedy, is a character equally difficult with Helena, of being
+      managed with grace. She too is a slighted woman, refused by the
+      man who had once engaged to marry her. Yet it is artfully
+      contrived, that while we pity we respect her, and she descends
+      without degradation. Such wonders true poetry and passion can do,
+      to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem capable of it.
+      But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with Helena; she
+      does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but she
+      suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the
+      female character, which Helena never does. Her character has many
+      degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy; but it has weakness,
+      which, if we do not despise, we are sorry for. After all,
+      Beaumont and Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares
+      and Sidneys.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Philaster</i>.&mdash;The character of Bellario must have been
+      extremely popular in its day. For many years after the date of
+      Philaster's first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be
+      found without one of these women-pages in it, following in the
+      train of some pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her
+      happy rival (his mistress), whom no doubt she secretly curses in
+      her heart, giving rise to many pretty <i>equivoques</i> by the
+      way on the confusion of sex, and either made happy at last by
+      some surprising turn of fate, or dismissed with the joint pity of
+      the lovers and the audience. Donne has a copy of verses to his
+      mistress, dissuading her from a resolution, which she seems to
+      have taken up from some of these scenical representations, of
+      following him abroad as a page. It is so earnest, so weighty, so
+      rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos, that it deserves to
+      be read as a solemn close in future to all such sickly fancies as
+      he there deprecates.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      JOHN FLETCHER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Thierry and Theodoret</i>.&mdash;The scene where Ordella
+      offers her life a sacrifice, that the king of France may not be
+      childless, I have always considered as the finest in all
+      Fletcher, and Ordella to be the most perfect notion of the female
+      heroic character, next to Calantha in the Broken Heart. She is a
+      piece of sainted nature. Yet, noble as the whole passage is, it
+      must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with
+      Shakspeare's finest scenes, is faint and languid. Its motion is
+      circular, not progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort
+      of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a
+      running-hand. Fletcher's ideas moved slow; his versification,
+      though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn; he lays line
+      upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to image
+      so deliberately, that we see their junctures. Shakspeare mingles
+      everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and
+      metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is
+      hatched and clamorous for disclosure. Another striking difference
+      between Fletcher and Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for
+      unnatural and violent situations. He seems to have thought that
+      nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief
+      incidents in some of his most admired tragedies show this.[1]
+      Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of
+      that craving after violent situations, and flights of strained
+      and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect
+      moral sensibility. The wit of Fletcher is excellent,[2] like his
+      serious scenes, but there is something strained and far-fetched
+      in both. He is too mistrustful of Nature, he always goes a little
+      on one side of her.&mdash;Shakspeare chose her without a reserve:
+      and had riches, power, understanding, and length of days, with
+      her for a dowry.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage, &amp;c.
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      2: Wit without Money, and his comedies generally.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Faithful Shepherdess</i>.&mdash;If all the parts of this
+      delightful pastoral had been in unison with its many innocent
+      scenes and sweet lyric intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to
+      vie with Comus or the Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of
+      boys and virgins, to have made matter for young dreams, like the
+      loves of Hermia and Lysander. But a spot is on the face of this
+      Diana. Nothing short of infatuation could have driven Fletcher
+      upon mixing with this "blessedness" such an ugly deformity as
+      Chloe, the wanton shepherdess! If Chloe was meant to set off
+      Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that such weeds by
+      juxtaposition do not set off, but kill sweet flowers.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      PHILIP MASSINGER.&mdash;THOMAS DECKER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Virgin Martyr</i>.&mdash;This play has some beauties of so
+      very high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I do
+      not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of rising up to
+      them. His associate Decker who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry
+      enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves
+      among the sweet pieties of this play, like Satan among the Sons
+      of Heaven, have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow,
+      in them, which are beyond Massinger. They are to the religion of
+      the rest what Caliban is to Miranda.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      PHILIP MASSINGER.&mdash;THOMAS MIDDLETON.&mdash;WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Law</i>.&mdash;There is an exquisiteness of moral
+      sensibility, making one's eyes to gush out tears of delight, and
+      a poetical strangeness in the circumstances of this sweet
+      tragicomedy, which are unlike anything in the dramas which
+      Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton
+      and Rowley, who assisted in it, had both of them finer geniuses
+      than their associate.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      JAMES SHIRLEY
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      Claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much
+      for any transcendent talent in himself, as that he was the last
+      of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and
+      had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new
+      language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, came
+      in with the Restoration.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="fullr" id="fullr">SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF
+      FULLER,</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      The writings of Fuller are usually designated by the title of
+      quaint, and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias
+      to conceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it would have
+      been going out of his way to have expressed himself out of them.
+      But his wit is not always a <i>lumen siccum</i>, a dry faculty of
+      surprising; on the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply
+      steeped in human feeling and passion. Above all, his way of
+      telling a story, for its eager liveliness, and the perpetual
+      running commentary of the narrator happily blended with the
+      narration, is perhaps unequalled.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      As his works are now scarcely perused but by antiquaries, I
+      thought it might not be unacceptable to my readers to present
+      them with some specimens of his manner, in single thoughts and
+      phrases; and in some few passages of greater length, chiefly of a
+      narrative description. I shall arrange them as I casually find
+      them in my book of extracts, without being solicitous to specify
+      the particular work from which they are taken.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Pyramids</i>.&mdash;"The Pyramids themselves, doting with age,
+      have forgotten the names of their founders."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Virtue in a Short Person</i>.&mdash;"His soul had but a short
+      diocese to visit, and therefore might the better attend the
+      effectual informing thereof."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Intellect in a very Tall One</i>.&mdash;"Ofttimes such who are
+      built four stories high, are observed to have little in their
+      cockloft."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Naturals</i>.&mdash;"Their heads sometimes so little, that
+      there is no room for wit; sometimes so long, that there is no wit
+      for so much room."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Negroes</i>.&mdash;"The image of God cut in ebony."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>School-Divinity</i>.&mdash;"At the first it will be as welcome
+      to thee as a prison, and their very solutions will seem knots
+      unto thee."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. Perkins the Divine</i>.&mdash;"He had a capacious head,
+      with angles winding and roomy enough to lodge all controversial
+      intricacies."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The same</i>.&mdash;"He would pronounce the word <i>Damn</i>
+      with such an emphasis as left a doleful echo in his auditors'
+      ears a good while after."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Judges in Capital Cases</i>.&mdash;"O let him take heed how he
+      strikes that hath a dead hand."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Memory</i>.&mdash;"Philosophers place it in the rear of the
+      head, and it seems the mine of memory lies there, because there
+      men naturally dig for it, scratching it when they are at a loss."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fancy</i>.&mdash;"It is the most boundless and restless
+      faculty of the soul; for while the Understanding and the Will are
+      kept, as it were, <i>in libera custodia</i> to their objects of
+      <i>verum et bonum</i>, the Fancy is free from all engagements: it
+      digs without spade, sails without ship, flies without wings,
+      builds without charges, fights without bloodshed; in a moment
+      striding from the centre to the circumference of the world; by a
+      kind of omnipotency creating and annihilating things in an
+      instant; and things divorced in Nature are married in Fancy as in
+      a lawless place."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Infants</i>.&mdash;"Some, admiring what motives to mirth
+      infants meet with in their silent and solitary smiles, have
+      resolved, how truly I know not, that then they converse with
+      angels; as indeed such cannot among mortals find any fitter
+      companions."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Music</i>.&mdash;"Such is the sociableness of music, it
+      conforms itself to all companies both in mirth and mourning;
+      complying to improve that passion with which it finds the
+      auditors most affected. In a word, it is an invention which might
+      have beseemed a son of Seth to have been the father thereof:
+      though better it was that Cain's great-grandchild should have the
+      credit first to find it, than the world the unhappiness longer to
+      have wanted it."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>St. Monica</i>.&mdash;"Drawing near her death, she sent most
+      pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven, and her soul saw a
+      glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sickness-broken
+      body."[1]
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      <div class="poem">
+        1:
+        <p>
+          "The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lets in new lights through chinks which time has made."
+        </p>
+        <p class="i16">
+          WALLER.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mortality</i>.&mdash;"To smell to a turf of fresh earth is
+      wholesome for the body, no less are thoughts of mortality cordial
+      to the soul."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Virgin</i>.&mdash;"No lordling husband shall at the same time
+      command her presence and distance; to be always near in constant
+      attendance, and always to stand aloof in awful observance."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Elder Brother</i>.&mdash;"Is one who made haste to come into
+      the world to bring his parents the first news of male posterity,
+      and is well rewarded for his tidings."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Bishop Fletcher</i>.&mdash;"His pride was rather on him than
+      in him, as only gait and gesture deep, not sinking to his heart,
+      though causelessly condemned for a proud man, as who was a
+      <i>good hypocrite</i>, and far more humble than he appeared."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Masters of Colleges</i>.&mdash;"A little allay of dulness in a
+      Master of a College makes him fitter to manage secular affairs."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Good Yeoman</i>.&mdash;"Is a gentleman in ore, whom the
+      next age may see refined."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Good Parent</i>.&mdash;"For his love, therein like a
+      well-drawn picture, he eyes all his children alike."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Deformity in Children</i>.&mdash;"This partiality is tyranny,
+      when parents despise those that are deformed; <i>enough to break
+      those whom God had bowed before</i>."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Good Master</i>.&mdash;"In correcting his servant he becomes
+      not a slave to his own passion. Not cruelly making new
+      <i>indentures</i> of the flesh of his apprentice. He is tender of
+      his servant in sickness and age. If crippled in his service, his
+      house is his hospital. Yet how many throw away those dry bones,
+      out of the which themselves have sucked the marrow!"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Good Widow</i>.&mdash;"If she can speak but little good of him
+      [her dead husband] she speaks but little of him. So handsomely
+      folding up her discourse, that his virtues are shown outwards,
+      and his vices wrapt up in silence; as counting it barbarism to
+      throw dirt on his memory, who hath mould cast on his body."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Horses</i>.&mdash;"These are men's wings, wherewith they make
+      such speed. A generous creature a horse is, sensible in some sort
+      of honor; and made most handsome by that which deforms men
+      most&mdash;pride."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Martyrdom</i>.&mdash;"Heart of oak hath sometimes warped a
+      little in the scorching heat of persecution. Their want of true
+      courage herein cannot be excused. Yet many censure them for
+      surrendering up their forts after a long siege, who would have
+      yielded up their own at the first summons.&mdash;Oh! there is
+      more required to make one valiant, than to call Cranmer or Jewel
+      coward; as if the fire in Smithfield had been no hotter than what
+      is painted in the Book of Martyrs."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Text of St. Paul</i>.&mdash;"St. Paul saith, Let not the sun
+      go down on your wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another
+      world of thy revengeful nature. Yet let us take the Apostle's
+      meaning rather than his words, with all possible speed to depose
+      our passion; not understanding him so literally, that we may take
+      leave to be angry till sunset: then might our wrath lengthen with
+      the days; and men in Greenland, where the day lasts above a
+      quarter of a year, have plentiful scope for revenge."[1]
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one would
+      have thought of deducing,&mdash;setting up an absurdum on purpose
+      to hunt it down,&mdash;placing guards as it were at the very
+      outposts of possibility,&mdash;gravely giving out laws to
+      insanity and prescribing moral fences to distempered intellects,
+      could never have entered into a head less entertainingly
+      constructed than that of Fuller or Sir Thomas Browne, the very
+      air of whose style the conclusion of this passage most aptly
+      imitates.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Bishop Brownrig</i>.&mdash;"He carried learning enough <i>in
+      numerato</i> about him in his pockets for any discourse, and had
+      much more at home in his chests for any serious dispute."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Modest Want</i>.&mdash;"Those that with diligence fight
+      against poverty, though neither conquer till death makes it a
+      drawn battle, expect not but prevent their craving of thee: for
+      God forbid the heavens should never rain, till the earth first
+      opens her mouth; seeing <i>some grounds will sooner burn than
+      chap</i>."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Death-bed Temptations</i>.&mdash;"The devil is most busy on
+      the last day of his term; and a tenant to be ousted cares not
+      what mischief he doth."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Conversation</i>.&mdash;"Seeing we are civilized Englishmen,
+      let us not be naked savages in our talk."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wounded Soldier</i>.&mdash;"Halting is the stateliest march of
+      a soldier; and 'tis a brave sight to see the flesh of an ancient
+      as torn as his colors."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wat Tyler</i>.&mdash;"A <i>misogrammatist</i>; if a good Greek
+      word may be given to so barbarous a rebel."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Heralds</i>.&mdash;"Heralds new mould men's names&mdash;taking
+      from them, adding to them, melting out all the liquid letters,
+      torturing mutes to make them speak, and making vowels
+      dumb,&mdash;to bring it to a fallacious <i>homonomy</i> at the
+      last, that their names may be the same with those noble houses
+      they pretend to."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Antiquarian Diligence</i>.&mdash;"It is most worthy
+      observation, with what diligence he [Camden] inquired after
+      ancient places, making hue and cry after many a city which was
+      run away, and by certain marks and tokens pursuing to find it; as
+      by the situation on the Roman highways, by just distance from
+      other ancient cities, by some affinity of name, by tradition of
+      the inhabitants, by Roman coins digged up, and by some appearance
+      of ruins. A broken urn is a whole evidence; or an old gate still
+      surviving, out of which the city is run out. Besides, commonly
+      some new spruce town not far off is grown out of the ashes
+      thereof, which yet hath so much natural affection as dutifully to
+      own those reverend ruins for her mother."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Henry de Essex</i>.&mdash;"He is too well known in our English
+      Chronicles, being Baron of Raleigh, in Essex, and Hereditary
+      Standard Bearer of England. It happened in the reign of this king
+      [Henry II.] there was a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, at
+      Coleshall, between the English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de
+      Essex <i>animum et signum simul abjecit</i>, betwixt traitor and
+      coward, cast away both his courage and banner together,
+      occasioning a great overthrow of English. But he that had the
+      baseness to do, had the boldness to deny the doing of so foul a
+      fact; until he was challenged in combat by Robert de Momford, a
+      knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him overcome in a duel.
+      Whereupon his large inheritance was confiscated to the king, and
+      he himself, <i>partly thrust, partly going into a convent, hid
+      his head in a cowl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctity, he
+      blushed out the remainder of his
+      life</i>."[1]&mdash;<i>Worthies</i>, article <i>Bedfordshire</i>.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might have been
+      pronounced impossible. It has given an interest, and a holy
+      character to coward infamy. Nothing can be more beautiful than
+      the concluding account of the last days, and expiatory
+      retirement, of poor Henry de Essex. The address with which the
+      whole of this little story is told is most consummate; the charm
+      of it seems to consist in a perpetual balance of antithesis not
+      too violently opposed, and the consequent activity of mind in
+      which the reader is kept:&mdash;"Betwixt traitor and
+      coward"&mdash;"baseness to do, boldness to deny"&mdash;"partly
+      thrust, partly going, into a convent"&mdash;"betwixt shame and
+      sanctity." The reader by this artifice is taken into a kind of
+      partnership with the writer,&mdash;his judgment is exercised in
+      settling the preponderance,&mdash;he feels as if he were
+      consulted as to the issue. But the modern historian flings at
+      once the dead weight of his own judgment into the scale, and
+      settles the matter.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir Edward Harwood, Knt.</i>&mdash;"I have read of a bird,
+      which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man: who coming
+      to the water to drink, and finding there by reflection, that he
+      had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never
+      afterwards enjoyeth itself.[1] Such is in some sort the condition
+      of Sir Edward. This accident, that he had killed one in a private
+      quarrel, put a period to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to
+      his eyes all the days of his life. No possible provocations could
+      afterwards tempt him to a duel; and no wonder that one's
+      conscience loathed that whereof he had surfeited. He refused all
+      challenges with more honor than others accepted them; it being
+      well known that he would set his foot as far in the face of his
+      enemy as any man alive."&mdash;<i>Worthies</i>, article
+      <i>Lincolnshire</i>.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: I do not know where Fuller read of this bird; but a more awful
+      and affecting story, and moralizing of a story, in Natural
+      History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural History where poets
+      and mythologists found the Phoenix and the Unicorn and "other
+      strange fowl," is nowhere extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas
+      Browne, if he had heard of it, would have exploded among his
+      Vulgar Errors; but the delight which he would have taken in the
+      discussing of its probabilities, would have shown that the
+      <i>truth of the fact</i>, though the avowed object of his search
+      was not so much the motive which put him upon the investigation,
+      as those hidden affinities and poetical analogies,&mdash;those
+      <i>essential verities</i> in the application of strange fable,
+      which made him linger with such reluctant delay among the last
+      fading lights of popular tradition; and not seldom to conjure up
+      a superstition, that had been long extinct, from its dusty grave,
+      to inter it himself with greater ceremonies and solemnities of
+      burial.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Decayed Gentry</i>.&mdash;"It happened in the reign of King
+      James, when Henry Earl of Huntingdon was Lieutenant of
+      Leicestershire, that a laborer's son in that country was pressed
+      into the wars; as I take it, to go over with Count Mansfield. The
+      old man at Leicester requested his son might be discharged, as
+      being the only staff of his age, who by his industry maintained
+      him and his mother. The Earl demanded his name, which the man for
+      a long time was loath to tell (as suspecting it a fault for so
+      poor a man to confess the truth); at last he told his name was
+      Hastings. 'Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl, 'we cannot all be top
+      branches of the tree, though we all spring from the same root;
+      your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So good was the
+      meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honorable
+      person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to
+      believe, that some who justly own the surnames and blood of
+      Bohuns, Mortimers, and Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own
+      extractions), are hid in the heap of common people, where they
+      find that under a thatched cottage which some of their ancestors
+      could not enjoy in a leaded castle&mdash;contentment, with quiet
+      and security."&mdash;<i>Worthies</i>, article <i>Of Shire-Reeves
+      or Shiriffes</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman</i>.&mdash;"Thomas
+      Curson, born in Allhallows, Lombard Street, armorer, dwelt
+      without Bishopsgate. It happened that a stage-player borrowed a
+      rusty musket, which had lain long leger in his shop: now though
+      his part were comical, he therewith acted an unexpected tragedy,
+      killing one of the standers-by, the gun casually going off on the
+      stage, which he suspected not to be charged. O the difference of
+      divers men in the tenderness of their consciences! some are
+      scarce touched with a wound, whilst others are wounded with a
+      touch therein. This poor armorer was highly afflicted therewith,
+      though done against his will, yea, without his knowledge, in his
+      absence, by another, out of mere chance. Hereupon he resolved to
+      give all his estate to pious uses: no sooner had he gotten a
+      round sum, but presently he posted with it in his apron to the
+      Court of Aldermen, and was in pain till by their direction he had
+      settled it for the relief of poor in his own and other parishes,
+      and disposed of some hundreds of pounds accordingly, as I am
+      credibly informed by the then churchwardens of the said parish.
+      Thus, as he conceived himself casually (though at a great
+      distance) to have occasioned the death of one, he was the
+      immediate and direct cause of giving a comfortable living to
+      many."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Burning of Wickliffe's Body by Order of the Council of
+      Constance</i>.&mdash;"Hitherto [A.D. 1428] the corpse of John
+      Wickliffe had quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years
+      after his death, till his body was reduced to bones, and his
+      bones almost to dust. For though the earth in the chancel of
+      Lutterworth, in Leicestershire, where he was interred, hath not
+      so quick a digestion with the earth of Aceldama, to consume flesh
+      in twenty-four hours, yet such the appetite thereof, and all
+      other English graves, to leave small reversions of a body after
+      so many years. But now such the spleen of the Council of
+      Constance, as they not only cursed his memory as dying an
+      obstinate heretic, but ordered that his bones (with this
+      charitable caution,&mdash;if it may be discerned from the bodies
+      of other faithful people) be taken out of the ground, and thrown
+      far off from any Christian burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard
+      Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his
+      officers (vultures with a quick sight, scent, at a dead carcass)
+      to ungrave him. Accordingly to Lutterworth they come, Sumner,
+      Commissary, Official, Chancellor, Proctors, Doctors, and their
+      servants, (so that the remnant of the body would not hold out a
+      bone amongst so many hands,) take what was left out of the grave,
+      and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into Swift, a neighboring
+      brook, running hard by. <i>Thus this brook has conveyed his ashes
+      into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow seas, they
+      into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of Wickliffe are the
+      emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world
+      over.</i>"[1]&mdash;Church History.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: The concluding period of this most lively narrative I will not
+      call a conceit: it is one of the grandest conceptions I ever met
+      with. One feels the ashes of Wickliffe gliding away out of the
+      reach of the Sumners, Commissaries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors,
+      and all the puddering rout of executioners of the impotent rage
+      of the baffled Council: from Swift into Avon, from Avon into
+      Severn, from Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas
+      into the main ocean, where they become the emblem of his
+      doctrine, "dispersed all the world over." Hamlet's tracing the
+      body of Cćsar to the clay that stops a beer-barrel is a no less
+      curious pursuit of "ruined mortality;" but it is in an inverse
+      ratio to this: it degrades and saddens us, for one part of our
+      nature at least; but this expands the whole of our nature, and
+      gives to the body a sort of ubiquity,&mdash;a diffusion as far as
+      the actions of its partner can have reach or influence.
+      <p>
+        I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a quaint
+        conceit of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit to those who
+        read it in a temper different from that in which the writer
+        composed it? The most pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers
+        seem and are nonsense, as divinity was to the Greeks
+        foolishness. When Richard II., meditating on his own utter
+        annihilation as to royalty, cries out,
+      </p>
+      <div class="poem">
+        <p>
+          "O that I were a mockery king of snow,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke,"
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        if we had been going on pace for pace with the passion before,
+        this sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor into something
+        to be actually realized in nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh!
+        that my head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears,"
+        is strictly and strikingly natural; but come unprepared upon
+        it, and it is a conceit: and so is a "head" turned into
+        "waters."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      ON THE
+    </h4>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="hogar" id="hogar">GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH;</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR.
+      BARRY.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      One of the earliest and noblest enjoyments I had when a boy, was
+      in the contemplation of those capital prints by Hogarth, the
+      <i>Harlot's</i> and <i>Rake's Progresses</i>, which, along with
+      some others, hung upon the walls of a great hall in an
+      old-fashioned house in &mdash;&mdash;shire, and seemed the
+      solitary tenants (with myself) of that antiquated and
+      life-deserted apartment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Recollection of the manner in which those prints used to affect
+      me has often made me wonder, when I have heard Hogarth described
+      as a mere comic painter, as one of those whose chief ambition was
+      to <i>raise a laugh</i>. To deny that there are throughout the
+      prints which I have mentioned circumstances introduced of a
+      laughable tendency, would be to run counter to the common notions
+      of mankind; but to suppose that in their <i>ruling character</i>
+      they appeal chiefly to the risible faculty, and not first and
+      foremost to the very heart of man, its best and most serious
+      feelings, would be to mistake no less grossly their aim and
+      purpose. A set of severer Satires (for they are not so much
+      Comedies, which they have been likened to, as they are strong and
+      masculine Satires) less mingled with anything of mere fun, were
+      never written upon paper, or graven upon copper. They resemble
+      Juvenal, or the satiric touches in Timon of Athens.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who being asked
+      which book he esteemed most in his library,
+      answered,&mdash;"Shakspeare:" being asked which he esteemed next
+      best, replied, "Hogarth." His graphic representations are indeed
+      books: they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of
+      <i>words</i>. Other pictures we look at,&mdash;his prints we
+      read.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In pursuance of this parallel, I have sometimes entertained
+      myself with comparing the <i>Timon of Athens</i> of Shakespeare
+      (which I have just mentioned) and Hogarth's <i>Rake's
+      Progress</i> together. The story, the moral, in both is nearly
+      the same. The wild course of riot and extravagance, ending in the
+      one with driving the Prodigal from the society of men into the
+      solitude of the deserts, and in the other with conducting the
+      Rake through his several stages of dissipation into the still
+      more complete desolations of the mad-house, in the play and in
+      the picture, are described with almost equal force and nature.
+      The levee of the Rake, which forms the subject of the second
+      plate in the series, is almost a transcript of Timon's levee in
+      the opening scene of that play. We find a dedicating poet, and
+      other similar characters, in both.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The concluding scene in the <i>Rake's Progress</i> is perhaps
+      superior to the last scenes of <i>Timon</i>. If we seek for
+      something of kindred excellence in poetry, it must be in the
+      scenes of Lear's beginning madness, where the King and the Fool
+      and the Tom-o'-Bedlam conspire to produce such a medley of mirth
+      checked by misery, and misery rebuked by mirth; where the society
+      of those "strange bedfellows" which misfortunes have brought Lear
+      acquainted with, so finely sets forth the destitute state of the
+      monarch; while the lunatic bans of the one, and the disjointed
+      sayings and wild but pregnant allusions of the other, so
+      wonderfully sympathize with that confusion, which they seem to
+      assist in the production of, in the senses of that "child-changed
+      father."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates the <i>Rake's
+      Progress</i>, we find the same assortment of the ludicrous with
+      the terrible. Here is desperate madness, the overturning of
+      originally strong thinking faculties, at which we shudder, as we
+      contemplate the duration and pressure of affliction which it must
+      have asked to destroy such a building;&mdash;and here is the
+      gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of faculties, which at their
+      best of times never having been strong, we look upon the
+      consummation of their decay with no more of pity than is
+      consistent with a smile. The mad tailor, the poor driveller that
+      has gone out of his wits (and truly he appears to have had no
+      great journey to go to get past their confines) for the love of
+      <i>Charming Betty Careless</i>,&mdash;. these half-laughable,
+      scarce-pitiable objects, take off from the horror which the
+      principal figure would of itself raise, at the same time that
+      they assist the feeling of the scene by contributing to the
+      general notion of its subject:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Madness, thou chaos of the brain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What art, that pleasure giv'st and pain?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Tyranny of Fancy's reign!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mechanic Fancy, that can build
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Vast labyrinths and mazes wild,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With rule disjointed, shapeless measure,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shapes of horror, that would even
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shapes of pleasure, that but seen,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would split the shaking sides of Spleen."[1]
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Lines inscribed under the plate
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to excess to remark, that
+      in the poor kneeling weeping female who accompanies her seducer
+      in his sad decay, there is something analogous to Kent, or Caius,
+      as he delights rather to be called, in <i>Lear</i>,&mdash;the
+      noblest pattern of virtue which even Shakspeare has
+      conceived,&mdash;who follows his royal master in banishment, that
+      had pronounced <i>his</i> banishment, and forgetful at once of
+      his wrongs and dignities, taking on himself the disguise of a
+      menial, retains his fidelity to the figure, his loyalty to the
+      carcass, the shadow, the shell, and empty husk of Lear?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, much of the impression
+      which we receive depends upon the habit of mind which we bring
+      with us to such perusal. The same circumstance may make one
+      person laugh, which shall render another very serious; or in the
+      same person the first impression may be corrected by
+      after-thought. The misemployed incongruous characters at the
+      <i>Harlot's Funeral</i>, on a superficial inspection, provoke to
+      laughter; but when we have sacrificed the first emotion to
+      levity, a very different frame of mind succeeds, or the painter
+      has lost half his purpose. I never look at that wonderful
+      assemblage of depraved beings, who, without a grain of reverence
+      or pity in their perverted minds, are performing the sacred
+      exteriors of duty to the relics of their departed partner in
+      folly, but I am as much moved to sympathy from the very want of
+      it in them, as I should be by the finest representation of a
+      virtuous death-bed surrounded by real mourners, pious children,
+      weeping friends,&mdash;perhaps more by the very contrast. What
+      reflections does it not awake, of the dreadful heartless state in
+      which the creature (a female too) must have lived, who in death
+      wants the accompaniment of one genuine tear. That wretch who is
+      removing the lid of the coffin to gaze upon the corpse with a
+      face which indicates a perfect negation of all goodness or
+      womanhood&mdash;the hypocrite parson and his demure
+      partner&mdash;all the fiendish group&mdash;to a thoughtful mind
+      present a moral emblem more affecting than if the poor friendless
+      carcass had been depicted as thrown out to the woods, where
+      wolves had assisted at its obsequies, itself furnishing forth its
+      own funeral banquet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as are met together in
+      this picture,&mdash;incongruous objects being of the very essence
+      of laughter,&mdash;but surely the laugh is far different in its
+      kind from that thoughtless species to which we are moved by mere
+      farce and grotesque. We laugh when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the
+      first sight of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his heart yearn
+      with filial fondness towards the land of his progenitors, which
+      he is coming to fleece and plunder,&mdash;we smile at the
+      exquisite irony of the passage,&mdash;but if we are not led on by
+      such passages to some more salutary feeling than laughter, we are
+      very negligent perusers of them in book or picture.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical
+      School in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds
+      is placed, to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of
+      an inferior and vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to
+      confound the painting of subjects in common or vulgar life with
+      the being a vulgar artist. The quantity of thought which Hogarth
+      crowds into every picture would alone <i>unvulgarize</i> every
+      subject which he might choose. Let us take the lowest of his
+      subjects, the print called <i>Gin Lane</i>. Here is plenty of
+      poverty, and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view; and
+      accordingly a cold spectator feels himself immediately disgusted
+      and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it, not being able
+      to bear it. The same persons would perhaps have looked with great
+      complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture of the <i>Plague at
+      Athens</i>[1] Disease and Death and bewildering Terror, in
+      <i>Athenian garments</i>, are endurable, and come, as the
+      delicate critics express it, within the "limits of pleasurable
+      sensation." But the scenes of their own St. Giles's, delineated
+      by their own countryman, are too shocking to think of. Yet if we
+      could abstract our minds from the fascinating colors of the
+      picture, and forget the coarse execution (in some respects) of
+      the print, intended as it was to be a cheap plate, accessible to
+      the poorer sort of people, for whose instruction it was done, I
+      think we could have no hesitation in conferring the palm of
+      superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with
+      Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it&mdash;that
+      power which draws all things to one,&mdash;which makes things
+      animate and inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects,
+      and their accessories, take one color and serve to one effect.
+      Everything in the print, to use a vulgar expression,
+      <i>tells</i>. Every part is full of "strange images of death." It
+      is perfectly amazing and astounding to look at. Not only the two
+      prominent figures, the woman and the half-dead man, which are as
+      terrible as anything which Michael Angelo ever drew, but
+      everything else in the print, contributes to bewilder and
+      stupefy,&mdash;the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine
+      express it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem
+      drunk&mdash;seem absolutely reeling from the effect of that
+      diabolical spirit of frenzy which goes forth over the whole
+      composition. To show the poetical and almost prophetical
+      conception in the artist, one little circumstance may serve. Not
+      content with the dying and dead figures, which he has strewed in
+      profusion over the proper scene of the action, he shows you what
+      (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it. Close by the shell,
+      in which, by direction of the parish beadle, a man is depositing
+      his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the universal decay
+      around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in this wall are
+      seen three figures, which appear to make a part in some funeral
+      procession which is passing by on the other side of the wall, out
+      of the sphere of the composition. This extending of the interest
+      beyond the bounds of the subject could only have been conceived
+      by a great genius. Shakspeare, in his description of the painting
+      of the Trojan War, in his <i>Tarquin and Lucrece</i>, has
+      introduced a similar device, where the painter made a part stand
+      for the whole:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "For much imaginary work was there,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Grip'd in an armed hand; himself behind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stood for the whole to be imagined."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish Square
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      This he well calls <i>imaginary work</i>, where the spectator
+      must meet the artist in his conceptions half way; and it is
+      peculiar to the confidence of high genius alone to trust so much
+      to spectators or readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct
+      and full, as they require an object to be made out to themselves
+      before they can comprehend it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate
+      to say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of
+      system alone, and of that rage for classification, by which, in
+      matters of taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing, instead
+      of arranging, our ideas, that would make us concede to the work
+      of Poussin above mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name
+      of a grand serious composition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      We are forever deceiving ourselves with names and theories. We
+      call one man a great historical painter, because he has taken for
+      his subjects kings or great men, or transactions over which time
+      has thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of common
+      life, and set him down in our minds for an artist of an inferior
+      class, without reflecting whether the quantity of thought shown
+      by the latter may not much more than level the distinction which
+      their mere choice of subjects may seem to place between them; or
+      whether, in fact, from that very common life a great artist may
+      not extract as deep an interest as another man from that which we
+      are pleased to call history.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of
+      Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow
+      and stifle the merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to mere
+      names and classifications we should be content to sacrifice one
+      of the greatest ornaments of England.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether in
+      the countenances of his <i>Staring</i> and <i>Grinning
+      Despair</i>, which he has given us for the faces of Ugolino and
+      dying Beaufort, there be anything comparable to the expression
+      which Hogarth has put into the face of his broken-down rake in
+      the last plate but one of the <i>Rake's Progress</i>,[1] where a
+      letter from the manager is brought to him to say that his play
+      "will not do?" Here all is easy, natural, undistorted, but withal
+      what a mass of woe is here accumulated!&mdash;the long history of
+      a misspent life is compressed into the countenance as plainly as
+      the series of plates before had told it; here is no attempt at
+      Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze the beholder&mdash;no
+      grinning at the antique bedposts&mdash;no face-making, or
+      consciousness of the presence of spectators in or out of the
+      picture, but grief kept to a man's self, a face retiring from
+      notice with the shame which great anguish sometimes brings with
+      it,&mdash;a final leave taken of hope,&mdash;the coming on of
+      vacancy and stupefaction,&mdash;a beginning alienation of mind
+      looking like tranquillity. Here is matter for the mind of the
+      beholder to feed on for the hour together,&mdash;matter to feed
+      and fertilize the mind. It is too real to admit one thought about
+      the power of the artist who did it. When we compare the
+      expression in subjects which so fairly admit of comparison, and
+      find the superiority so clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the
+      mere contemptible difference of the scene of it being laid, in
+      the one case, in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and, in the
+      other, in the State Prison of Pisa, or the bedroom of a
+      cardinal,&mdash;or that the subject of the one has never been
+      authenticated, and the other is matter of history,&mdash;so weigh
+      down the real points, of the comparison, as to induce us to rank
+      the artist who has chosen the one scene or subject (though
+      confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the soul of his
+      art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius (who has
+      happened to make choice of the other) with something like
+      disgrace?[2]
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious expression. That
+      which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded morning countenance
+      of the debauchee in the second plate of the <i>Marriage
+      Alamode</i>, which lectures on the vanity of pleasure as audibly
+      as anything in Ecclesiastes.
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      2: Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his Lectures, speaks of the
+      <i>presumption</i> of Hogarth in attempting the grand style in
+      painting, by which he means his choice of certain Scripture
+      subjects. Hogarth's excursions into Holy Land were not very
+      numerous, but what he has left us in this kind have at least this
+      merit, that they have expression of <i>some sort or other</i> in
+      them,&mdash;the <i>Child Moses before Pharaoh's Daughter</i>, for
+      instance: which is more than can be said of Sir Joshua Reynolds's
+      <i>Repose in Egypt</i>, painted for Macklin's Bible, where for a
+      Madonna he has substituted a sleepy, insensible, unmotherly girl,
+      one so little worthy to have been selected as the Mother of the
+      Saviour, that she seems to have neither heart nor feeling to
+      entitle her to become a mother at all. But indeed the race of
+      Virgin Mary painters seems to have been cut up, root and branch,
+      at the Reformation. Our artists are too good Protestants to give
+      life to that admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with
+      reverential awe and wonder approaching to worship, with which the
+      Virgin Mothers of L. da Vinci and Raphael (themselves by their
+      divine countenances inviting men to worship) contemplate the
+      union of the two natures in the person of their Heaven-born
+      Infant.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>The Boys under Demoniacal Possession</i> of Raphael and
+      Domenichino, by what law of classification are we bound to assign
+      them to belong to the great style in painting, and to degrade
+      into an inferior class the Rake of Hogarth when he is the Madman
+      in the Bedlam scene? I am sure he is far more impressive than
+      either. It is a face which no one that has seen can easily
+      forget. There is the stretch of human suffering to the utmost
+      endurance, severe bodily pain brought on by strong mental agony,
+      the frightful, obstinate laugh of madness,&mdash;yet all so
+      unforced and natural, that those who never were witness to
+      madness in real life, think they see nothing but what is familiar
+      to them in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, nothing
+      but the natural face of agony. This is high tragic painting, and
+      we might as well deny to Shakspeare the honors of a great
+      tragedian, because he has interwoven scenes of mirth with the
+      serious business of his plays, as refuse to Hogarth the same
+      praise for the two concluding scenes of the <i>Rake's
+      Progress</i>, because of the Comic Lunatics[1] which he has
+      thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he has introduced in
+      the other, who is paddling in the coals of his furnace, keeping
+      alive the flames of vain hope within the very walls of the prison
+      to which the vanity has conducted him, which have taught the
+      darker lesson of extinguished hope to the desponding figure who
+      is the principal person of the scene.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1:
+      <div class="poem">
+        <p>
+          "There are of madmen, as there are of tame,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All humor'd not alike. We have here some
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So apish and fantastic, play with a feather;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Such antick and such pretty lunacies,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Others again we have, like angry lions,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies."
+        </p>
+        <p class="i10">
+          <i>Honest Whore</i>.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      It is the force of these kindly admixtures which assimilates the
+      scenes of Hogarth and of Shakspeare to the drama of real life,
+      where no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found; but merriment
+      and infelicity, ponderous crime and feather-light vanity, like
+      twiformed births, disagreeing complexions of one intertexture,
+      perpetually unite to show forth motley spectacles to the world.
+      Then it is that the poet or painter shows his art, when in the
+      selection of these comic adjuncts he chooses such circumstances
+      as shall relieve, contrast with, or fall into, without forming a
+      violent opposition to his principal object. Who sees not that the
+      Grave-digger in <i>Hamlet</i>, the Fool in <i>Lear</i>, have a
+      kind of correspondency to, and fall in with, the subjects which
+      they seem to interrupt: while the comic stuff in <i>Venice
+      Preserved</i>, and the doggerel nonsense of the Cook and his
+      poisoning associates in the <i>Rollo</i> of Beaumont and
+      Fletcher, are pure, irrelevant, impertinent discords,&mdash;as
+      bad as the quarrelling dog and cat under the table of the <i>Lord
+      and the Disciples at Emmaus</i> of Titian?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Not to tire the reader with perpetual reference to prints which
+      he may not be fortunate enough to possess, it may be sufficient
+      to remark, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident,
+      blended in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy,
+      characterizes his other great work, the <i>Marriage Alamode</i>,
+      as well as those less elaborate exertions of his genius, the
+      prints called <i>Industry</i> and <i>Idleness</i>, <i>the
+      Distrest Poet</i>, &amp;c., forming, with the <i>Harlot's</i> and
+      <i>Rake's Progresses</i>, the most considerable, if not the
+      largest class of his productions,&mdash;enough surely to rescue
+      Hogarth from the imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose
+      general aim was only to <i>shake the sides</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the
+      object of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in
+      all of them will be found something to distinguish them from the
+      droll productions of Bunbury and others. They have this
+      difference, that we do not merely laugh at, we are led into long
+      trains of reflection by them. In this respect they resemble the
+      characters of Chaucer's <i>Pilgrims</i>, which have strokes of
+      humor in them enough to designate them for the most part as
+      comic, but our strongest feeling still is wonder at the
+      comprehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet and
+      painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet
+      cooperating materials.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in
+      caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes
+      catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their
+      whimsicality, wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them
+      down; and forget them again as rapidly,&mdash;but they are
+      permanent abiding ideas. Not the sports of nature, but her
+      necessary eternal classes. We feel that we cannot part with any
+      of them, lest a link should be broken.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or
+      insignificant countenance.[1] Hogarth's mind was eminently
+      reflective; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that
+      he has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of
+      his drama (they are all more or less <i>poets</i>) Hogarth has
+      impressed a <i>thinking character</i> upon the persons of his
+      canvas. This remark must not be taken universally. The exquisite
+      idiotism of the little gentleman in the bag and sword beating his
+      drum in the print of the <i>Enraged Musician</i>, would of itself
+      rise up against so sweeping an assertion. But I think it will be
+      found to be true of the generality of his countenances. The
+      knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the plate just mentioned,
+      may serve as instances instead of a thousand. They have intense
+      thinking faces, though the purpose to which they are subservient
+      by no means required it; but indeed it seems as if it was painful
+      to Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or insignificance.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: If there are any of that description, they are in his
+      <i>Strolling Players</i>, a print which has been cried up by Lord
+      Orford as the richest of his productions, and it may be, for what
+      I know, in the mere lumber, the properties, and dead furniture of
+      the scene, but in living character and expression it is (for
+      Hogarth) lamentably poor and wanting; it is perhaps the only one
+      of his performances at which we have a right to feel disgusted.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      This reflection of the artist's own intellect from the faces of
+      his characters, is one reason why the works of Hogarth, so much
+      more than those of any other artist, are objects of meditation.
+      Our intellectual natures love the mirror which gives them back
+      their own likenesses. The mental eye will not bend long with
+      delight upon vacancy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Another line of eternal separation between Hogarth and the common
+      painters of droll or burlesque subjects, with whom he is often
+      confounded, is the sense of beauty, which in the most unpromising
+      subjects seems never wholly to have deserted him. "Hogarth
+      himself," says Mr. Coleridge,[1] from whom I have borrowed this
+      observation, speaking of a scene which took place at Ratzeburg,
+      "never drew a more ludicrous distortion, both of attitude and
+      physiognomy, than this effect occasioned: nor was there wanting
+      beside it one of those beautiful female faces which the same
+      Hogarth, <i>in whom the satirist never extinguished that love of
+      beauty which belonged to him as a poet</i>, so often and so
+      gladly introduces as the central figure in a crowd of humorous
+      deformities, which figure (such is the power of true genius)
+      neither acts nor is meant to act as a contrast; but diffuses
+      through all and over each of the group a spirit of reconciliation
+      and human kindness; and even when the attention is no longer
+      consciously directed to the cause of this feeling, still blends
+      its tenderness with our laughter: and <i>thus prevents the
+      instructive merriment at the whims of nature, or the foibles or
+      humors of our fellow-men, from degenerating into the heart-poison
+      of contempt or hatred</i>." To the beautiful females in Hogarth,
+      which Mr. C. has pointed out, might be added, the frequent
+      introduction of children (which Hogarth seems to have taken a
+      particular delight in) into his pieces. They have a singular
+      effect in giving tranquillity and a portion of their own
+      innocence to the subject. The baby riding in its mother's lap in
+      the <i>March to Finchley</i>, (its careless innocent face placed
+      directly behind the intriguing time-furrowed countenance of the
+      treason-plotting French priest,) perfectly sobers the whole of
+      that tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding up his top with so
+      much unpretending insensibility in the plate of the <i>Harlot's
+      Funeral</i>, (the only thing in that assembly that is not a
+      hypocrite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has been disturbed at
+      the sight of so much depraved man and woman kind.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: <i>The Friend</i>, No. XVI.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      I had written thus far, when I met with a passage in the writings
+      of the late Mr. Barry, which, as it falls in with the <i>vulgar
+      notion</i> respecting Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed
+      in combating, I shall take the liberty to transcribe, with such
+      remarks as may suggest themselves to me in the transcription;
+      referring the reader for a full answer to that which has gone
+      before.
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p>
+        "Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undoubtedly entitle him
+        to an honorable place among the artists, and that his little
+        compositions, considered as so many dramatic representations,
+        abounding with humor, character, and extensive observations on
+        the various incidents of low, faulty, and vicious life, are
+        very ingeniously brought together, and frequently tell their
+        own story with more facility than is often found in many of the
+        elevated and more noble inventions of Raphael and other great
+        men; yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is called
+        knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed, that
+        Hogarth is often so raw and unformed, as hardly to deserve the
+        name of an artist. But this capital defect is not often
+        perceivable, as examples of the naked and of elevated nature
+        but rarely occur in his subjects, which are for the most part
+        filled with characters that in their nature tend to deformity;
+        besides his figures are small, and the jonctures, and other
+        difficulties of drawing that might occur in their limbs, are
+        artfully concealed with their clothes, rags, &amp;c. But what
+        would atone for all his defects, even if they were twice told,
+        is his admirable fund of invention, ever inexhaustible in its
+        resources; and his satire, which is always sharp and pertinent,
+        and often highly moral, was (except in a few instances, where
+        he weakly and meanly suffered his integrity to give way to his
+        envy) seldom or never employed in a dishonest or unmanly way.
+        Hogarth has been often imitated in his satirical vein,
+        sometimes in his humorous: but very few have attempted to rival
+        him in his moral walk. The line of art pursued by my very
+        ingenious predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny, is
+        quite distinct from that of Hogarth, and is of a much more
+        delicate and superior relish; he attempts the heart, and
+        reaches it, whilst Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the
+        sides; in other respects no comparison can be thought of, as
+        Mr. Penny has all that knowledge of the figure and academical
+        skill which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had so
+        happily succeeded in the vein of humor and caricatura, he has
+        for some time past altogether relinquished it, for the more
+        amiable pursuit of beautiful nature: this, indeed, is not to be
+        wondered at, when we recollect that he has, in Mrs. Bunbury, so
+        admirable an exemplar of the most finished grace and beauty
+        continually at his elbow. But (to say all that occurs to me on
+        this subject) perhaps it may be reasonably doubted, whether the
+        being much conversant with Hogarth's method of exposing
+        meanness, deformity, and vice, in many of his works, is not
+        rather a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit; which,
+        if it does not find a false relish and a love of and search
+        after satire and buffoonery in the spectator, is at least not
+        unlikely to give him one. Life is short; and the little leisure
+        of it is much better laid out upon that species of art which is
+        employed about the amiable and the admirable, as it is more
+        likely to be attended with better and nobler consequences to
+        ourselves. These two pursuits in art may be compared with two
+        sets of people with whom we might associate; if we give
+        ourselves up to the Footes, the Kenricks, &amp;c. we shall be
+        continually busied and paddling in whatever is ridiculous,
+        faulty, and vicious in life; whereas there are those to be
+        found with whom we should be in the constant pursuit and study
+        of all that gives a value and a dignity to human nature."
+        [Account of a Series of Pictures in the Great Boom of the
+        Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at the Adelphi, by
+        James Barry, R.A., Professor of Painting to the Royal Academy,
+        reprinted in the last quarto edition of his works.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "&mdash;&mdash;It must be honestly confessed, that in what is
+        called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly
+        observed," &amp;c.
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      It is a secret well known to the professors of the art and
+      mystery of criticism, to insist upon what they do not find in a
+      man's works, and to pass over in silence what they do. That
+      Hogarth did not draw the naked figure so well as Michael Angelo
+      might be allowed, especially as "examples of the naked," as Mr.
+      Barry acknowledges, "rarely (he might almost have said never)
+      occur in his subjects;" and that his figures under their
+      draperies do not discover all the fine graces of an Antinoüs or
+      an Apollo, may be conceded likewise; perhaps it was more suitable
+      to his purpose to represent the average forms of mankind in the
+      mediocrity (as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in which he
+      lived: but that his figures in general, and in his best subjects,
+      are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare trust my
+      own eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And there is one
+      part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled,
+      which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps
+      calculating from its proportion to the whole (a seventh or an
+      eighth, I forget which,) deemed it of trifling importance; I mean
+      the human face; a small part, reckoning by geographical inches,
+      in the map of man's body, but here it is that the painter of
+      expression must condense the wonders of his skill, even at the
+      expense of neglecting the "jonctures and other difficulties of
+      drawing in the limbs," which it must be a cold eye that, in the
+      interest so strongly demanded by Hogarth's countenances, has
+      leisure to survey and censure.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and
+      brother Academician, Mr. Penny."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an
+      eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser
+      of Hogarth in the "delicacy of his relish," and the "line which
+      he pursued," where is he, what are his works, what has he to
+      show? In vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the
+      question to a friend who is more conversant in the works of the
+      illustrious obscure than myself, I learnt that he was the painter
+      of a <i>Death of Wolfe</i> which missed the prize the year that
+      the celebrated picture of West on the same subject obtained it;
+      that he also made a picture of the <i>Marquis of Granby relieving
+      a Sick Soldier</i>; moreover, that he was the inventor of two
+      pictures of <i>Suspended and Restored Animation</i>, which I now
+      remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since, and the
+      prints from which are still extant in good men's houses. This,
+      then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was
+      so much superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of that opinion.
+      The relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young
+      man to his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane
+      Society, are doubtless very amiable subjects, pretty things to
+      teach the first rudiments of humanity; they amount to about as
+      much instruction as the stories of good boys that give away their
+      custards to poor beggar-boys in children's books. But, good God!
+      is this <i>milk for babes</i> to be set up in opposition to
+      Hogarth's moral scenes, his <i>strong meat for men</i>? As well
+      might we prefer the fulsome verses upon their own goodness to
+      which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund annually sit still with
+      such shameless patience to listen, to the satires of Juvenal and
+      Persius; because the former are full of tender images of Worth
+      relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her hand to
+      rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's
+      crimes and follies with their black consequences&mdash;forgetful
+      meanwhile of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime
+      heart-touches, which these poets (in <i>them</i> chiefly showing
+      themselves poets) are perpetually darting across the otherwise
+      appalling gloom of their subject&mdash;consolatory remembrancers,
+      when their pictures of guilty mankind have made us even to
+      despair for our species, that there is such a thing as virtue and
+      moral dignity in the world, that her unquenchable spark is not
+      utterly out&mdash;refreshing admonitions, to which we turn for
+      shelter from the too great heat and asperity of the general
+      satire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And is there nothing analogous to this in Hogarth? nothing which
+      "attempts and reaches the heart?"&mdash;no aim beyond that of
+      "shaking the sides?"&mdash;If the kneeling ministering female in
+      the last scene of the <i>Rake's Progress</i>, the Bedlam scene,
+      of which I have spoken before, and have dared almost to parallel
+      it with the most absolute idea of Virtue which Shakspeare has
+      left us, be not enough to disprove the assertion; if the sad
+      endings of the Harlot and the Rake, the passionate heart-bleeding
+      entreaties for forgiveness which the adulterous wife is pouring
+      forth to her assassinated and dying lord in the last scene but
+      one of the <i>Marriage Alamode</i>,&mdash;if these be not things
+      to touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a meditative
+      tenderness: is there nothing sweetly conciliatory in the mild
+      patient face and gesture with which the wife seems to allay and
+      ventilate the feverish irritated feelings of her poor
+      poverty-distracted mate (the true copy of the <i>genus
+      irritabile</i>), in the print of the <i>Distrest Poet</i>? or if
+      an image of maternal love be required, where shall we find a
+      sublimer view of it than in that aged woman in <i>Industry and
+      Idleness</i> (plate V.) who is clinging with the fondness of hope
+      not quite extinguished to her brutal vice-hardened child, whom
+      she is accompanying to the ship which is to bear him away from
+      his native soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy: in whose
+      shocking face every trace of the human countenance seems
+      obliterated, and a brute beast's to be left instead, shocking and
+      repulsive to all but her who watched over it in its cradle before
+      it was so sadly altered, and feels it must belong to her while a
+      pulse by the vindictive laws of his country shall be suffered to
+      continue to beat in it. Compared with such things, what is Mr.
+      Penny's "knowledge of the figure and academical skill which
+      Hogarth wanted?"
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      With respect to what follows concerning another gentleman, with
+      the congratulations to him on his escape out of the regions of
+      "humor and caricatura," in which it appears he was in danger of
+      travelling side by side with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my
+      country, that Mrs. Hogarth knew <i>her</i> province better than,
+      by disturbing her husband at his palette, to divert him from that
+      universality of subject, which has stamped him perhaps, next to
+      Shakspeare, the most inventive genius which this island has
+      produced, into the "amiable pursuit of beautiful nature,"
+      <i>i.e.</i>, copying ad infinitum the individual charms and
+      graces of Mrs. H. "Hogarth's method of exposing meanness,
+      deformity, and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty,
+      and vicious."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A person unacquainted with the works thus stigmatized would be
+      apt to imagine that in Hogarth there was nothing else to be found
+      but subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive nature. That his
+      imagination was naturally unsweet, and that he delighted in
+      raking into every species of moral filth. That he preyed upon
+      sore places only, and took a pleasure in exposing the unsound and
+      rotten parts of human nature:&mdash;whereas, with the exception
+      of some of the plates of the <i>Harlot's Progress</i>, which are
+      harder in their character than any of the rest of his productions
+      (the <i>Stages of Cruelty</i> I omit as mere worthless
+      caricatures, foreign to his general habits, the offspring of his
+      fancy in some wayward humor), there is scarce one of his pieces
+      where vice is most strongly satirized, in which some figure is
+      not introduced upon which the moral eye may rest satisfied; a
+      face that indicates goodness, or perhaps mere good-humoredness
+      and carelessness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough to
+      give a relaxation to the frowning brow of satire, and keep the
+      general air from tainting. Take the mild, supplicating posture of
+      patient Poverty in the poor woman that is persuading the
+      pawnbroker to accept her clothes in pledge, in the plate of
+      <i>Gin Lane</i>, for an instance. A little does it, a little of
+      the <i>good</i> nature overpowers a world of <i>bad</i>. One
+      cordial honest laugh of a Tom Jones absolutely clears the
+      atmosphere that was reeking with the black putrefying breathings
+      of a hypocrite Blifil. One homely expostulating shrug from Strap
+      warms the whole air which the suggestions of a gentlemanly
+      ingratitude from his friend Random had begun to freeze. One "Lord
+      bless us!" of Parson Adams upon the wickedness of the times,
+      exorcises and purges off the mass of iniquity which the
+      world-knowledge of even a Fielding could cull out and rake
+      together. But of the severer class of Hogarth's performances,
+      enough, I trust, has been said to show that they do not merely
+      shock and repulse; that there is in them the "scorn of vice" and
+      the "pity" too; something to touch the heart, and keep alive the
+      sense of moral beauty; the "lacrymć rerum," and the sorrowing by
+      which the heart is made better. If they be bad things, then is
+      satire and tragedy a bad thing; let us proclaim at once an age of
+      gold, and sink the existence of vice and misery in our
+      speculations: let us
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "&mdash;&mdash;wink, and shut our apprehensions up
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From common sense of what men were and are:"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      let us <i>make believe</i> with the children, that everybody is
+      good and happy; and, with Dr. Swift, write panegyrics upon the
+      world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But that larger half of Hogarth's works, which were painted more
+      for entertainment than instruction (though such was the
+      suggestiveness of his mind that there is always something to be
+      learnt from them), his humorous scenes,&mdash;are they such as
+      merely to disgust and set us against our species?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The confident assertions of such a man as I consider the late Mr.
+      Barry to have been, have that weight of authority in them which
+      staggers at first hearing, even a long preconceived opinion. When
+      I read his pathetic admonition concerning the shortness of life,
+      and how much better the little leisure of it were laid out upon
+      "that species of art which is employed about the amiable and the
+      admirable;" and Hogarth's "method," proscribed as a "dangerous or
+      worthless pursuit," I began to think there was something in it;
+      that I might have been indulging all my life a passion for the
+      works of this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste and
+      moral sense; but my first convictions gradually returned, a world
+      of good-natured English faces came up one by one to my
+      recollection, and a glance at the matchless <i>Election
+      Entertainment</i>, which I have the happiness to have hanging up
+      in my parlor, subverted Mr. Barry's whole theory in an instant.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In that inimitable print (which in my judgment as far exceeds the
+      more known and celebrated <i>March to Finchley</i>, as the best
+      comedy exceeds the best farce that ever was written), let a
+      person look till he be saturated, and when he has done wondering
+      at the inventiveness of genius which could bring so many
+      characters (more than thirty distinct classes of face) into a
+      room and set them down at table together, or otherwise dispose
+      them about, in so natural a manner, engage them in so many easy
+      sets and occupations, yet all partaking of the spirit of the
+      occasion which brought them together, so that we feel that
+      nothing but an election time could have assembled them; having no
+      central figure or principal group, (for the hero of the piece,
+      the Candidate, is properly set aside in the levelling
+      indistinction of the day, one must look for him to find him,)
+      nothing to detain the eye from passing from part to part, where
+      every part is alike instinct with life,&mdash;for here are no
+      furniture-faces, no figures brought in to fill up the scene like
+      stage choruses, but all dramatis personć; when he shall have done
+      wondering at all these faces so strongly charactered, yet
+      finished with the accuracy of the finest miniature; when he shall
+      have done admiring the numberless appendages of the scene, those
+      gratuitous doles which rich genius flings into the heap when it
+      has already done enough, the over-measure which it delights in
+      giving, as if it felt its stores were exhaustless; the dumb
+      rhetoric of the scenery,&mdash;for tables, and chairs, and
+      joint-stools in Hogarth are living and significant things; the
+      witticisms that are expressed by words (all artists but Hogarth
+      have failed when they have endeavored to combine two mediums of
+      expression, and have introduced words into their pictures), and
+      the unwritten numberless little allusive pleasantries that are
+      scattered about; the work that is going on in the scene, and
+      beyond it, as is made visible to the "eye of mind," by the mob
+      which chokes up the doorway, and the sword that has forced an
+      entrance before its master; when he shall have sufficiently
+      admired this wealth of genius, let him fairly say what is the
+      <i>result</i> left on his mind. Is it an impression of the
+      vileness and worthlessness of his species? or is it not the
+      general feeling which remains, after the individual faces have
+      ceased to act sensibly on his mind, a <i>kindly one in favor of
+      his species?</i> was not the general air of the scene wholesome?
+      did it do the heart hurt to be among it? Something of a riotous
+      spirit to be sure is there, some worldly-mindedness in some of
+      the faces, a Doddingtonian smoothness which does not promise any
+      superfluous degree of sincerity in the fine gentleman who has
+      been the occasion of calling so much good company together; but
+      is not the general cast of expression in the faces of the good
+      sort? do they not seem cut out of the <i>good old rock</i>,
+      substantial English honesty? would one fear treachery among
+      characters of their expression? or shall we call their honest
+      mirth and seldom-returning relaxation by the hard names of vice
+      and profligacy? That poor country fellow, that is grasping his
+      staff (which, from that difficulty of feeling themselves at home
+      which poor men experience at a feast, he has never parted with
+      since he came into the room), and is enjoying with a relish that
+      seems to fit all the capacities of his soul the slender joke,
+      which that facetious wag his neighbor is practising upon the
+      gouty gentleman, whose eyes the effort to suppress pain has made
+      as round as rings&mdash;does it shock the "dignity of human
+      nature" to look at that man, and to sympathize with him in the
+      seldom-heard joke which has unbent his careworn, hard-working
+      visage, and drawn iron smiles from it? or with that full-hearted
+      cobbler, who is honoring with the grasp of an honest fist the
+      unused palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the license of the
+      time has seated next him?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I can see nothing "dangerous" in the contemplation of such scenes
+      as this, or the <i>Enraged Musician</i>, or the <i>Southwark
+      Fair</i>, or twenty other pleasant prints which come crowding in
+      upon my recollection, in which the restless activities, the
+      diversified bents and humors, the blameless peculiarities of men,
+      as they deserve to be called, rather than their "vices and
+      follies," are held up in a laughable point of view. All laughter
+      is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening tendency. There is the
+      petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes and kills Love, and
+      there is the cordial laughter of a man which implies and
+      cherishes it. What heart was ever made the worse by joining in a
+      hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh Evans or Parson
+      Adams, where a sense of the ridiculous mutually kindles and is
+      kindled by a perception of the amiable? That tumultuous harmony
+      of singers that are roaring out the words, "The world shall bow
+      to the Assyrian throne," from the opera of <i>Judith</i>, in the
+      third plate of the series called the <i>Four Groups of Heads</i>;
+      which the quick eye of Hogarth must have struck off in the very
+      infancy of the rage for sacred oratorios in this country, while
+      "Music yet was young;" when we have done smiling at the deafening
+      distortions, which these tearers of devotion to rags and tatters,
+      these takers of heaven by storm, in their boisterous mimicry of
+      the occupation of angels, are making,&mdash;what unkindly
+      impression is left behind, or what more of harsh or contemptuous
+      feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby and Mr. Shandy
+      riding their hobby-horses about the room? The conceited,
+      long-backed Sign-painter, that with all the self-applause of a
+      Raphael or Correggio, (the twist of body which his conceit has
+      thrown him into has something of the Correggiesque in it,) is
+      contemplating the picture of a bottle, which he is drawing from
+      an actual bottle that hangs beside him, in the print of <i>Beer
+      Street</i>,&mdash;while we smile at the enormity of the
+      self-delusion, can we help loving the good-humor and
+      self-complacency of the fellow? would we willingly wake him from
+      his dream?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have,
+      necessarily, something in them to make us like them; some are
+      indifferent to us, some in their natures repulsive, and only made
+      interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the
+      painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that
+      sprinkling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases
+      away and disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in
+      them, besides, that they bring us acquainted with the every-day
+      human face,&mdash;they give us skill to detect those gradations
+      of sense and virtue (which escape the careless or fastidious
+      observer) in the countenances of the world about us; and prevent
+      that disgust at common life, that <i>tćdium quotidianarum
+      formarum</i>, which an unrestricted passion for ideal forms and
+      beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in many other
+      things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett or
+      Fielding.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      <a name="wither" id="wither">ON THE</a>
+    </h4>
+    <h3>
+      POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      The poems of G. Wither are distinguished by a hearty homeliness
+      of manner, and a plain moral speaking. He seems to have passed
+      his life in one continued act of an innocent self-pleasing. That
+      which he calls his <i>Motto</i> is a continued self-eulogy of two
+      thousand lines, yet we read it to the end without any feeling of
+      distaste, almost without a consciousness that we have been
+      listening all the while to a man praising himself. There are none
+      of the cold particles in it, the hardness and self-ends, which
+      render vanity and egotism hateful. He seems to be praising
+      another person, under the mask of self: or rather, we feel that
+      it was indifferent to him where he found the virtue which he
+      celebrates; whether another's bosom or his own were its chosen
+      receptacle. His poems are full, and this in particular is one
+      downright confession, of a generous self-seeking. But by self he
+      sometimes means a great deal,&mdash;his friends, his principles,
+      his country, the human race.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Whoever expects to find in the satirical pieces of this writer
+      any of those peculiarities which pleased him in the satires of
+      Dryden or Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here are no
+      high-finished characters, no nice traits of individual nature,
+      few or no personalities. The game run down is coarse general
+      vice, or folly as it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, a
+      coxcomb, is <i>stript and whipt;</i> no Shaftesbury, no Villiers,
+      or Wharton, is curiously anatomized, and read upon. But to a
+      well-natured mind there is a charm of moral sensibility running
+      through them, which amply compensates the want of those luxuries.
+      Wither seems everywhere bursting with a love of goodness, and a
+      hatred of all low and base actions. At this day it is hard to
+      discover what parts of the poem here particularly alluded to,
+      <i>Abuses Stript and Whipt</i>, could have occasioned the
+      imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in High Places more
+      suspicious than now? had she more power; or more leisure to
+      listen after ill reports? That a man should be convicted of a
+      libel when he named no names but Hate, and Envy, and Lust, and
+      Avarice, is like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's
+      Progress, where Faithful is arraigned for having "railed on our
+      noble Prince Beelzebub, and spoken contemptibly of his honorable
+      friends, the Lord Old Man, the Lord Carnal Delight, and the Lord
+      Luxurious." What unlucky jealousy could have tempted the great
+      men of those days to appropriate such innocent abstractions to
+      themselves?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Wither seems to have contemplated to a degree of idolatry his own
+      possible virtue. He is forever anticipating persecution and
+      martyrdom; fingering, as it were, the flames, to try how he can
+      bear them. Perhaps his premature defiance sometimes made him
+      obnoxious to censures which he would otherwise have slipped by.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The homely versification of these Satires is not likely to
+      attract in the present day. It is certainly not such as we should
+      expect from a poet "soaring in the high region of his fancies,
+      with his garland and his singing robes about him;"[1] nor is it
+      such as he has shown in his <i>Philarete</i>, and in some parts
+      of his <i>Shepherds Hunting</i>. He seems to have adopted this
+      dress with voluntary humility, as fittest for a moral teacher, as
+      our divines choose sober gray or black; but in their humility
+      consists their sweetness. The deepest tone of moral feeling in
+      them (though all throughout is weighty, earnest, and passionate)
+      is in those pathetic injunctions against shedding of blood in
+      quarrels, in the chapter entitled <i>Revenge</i>. The story of
+      his own forbearance, which follows, is highly interesting. While
+      the Christian sings his own victory over Anger, the Man of
+      Courage cannot help peeping out to let you know, that it was some
+      higher principle than <i>fear</i> which counselled this
+      forbearance.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Milton.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never seems to
+      have abated a jot of that free spirit which sets its mark upon
+      his writings, as much as a predominant feature of independence
+      impresses every page of our late glorious Burns; but the elder
+      poet wraps his proof-armor closer about him, the other wears his
+      too much outwards; he is thinking too much of annoying the foe to
+      be quite easy within; the spiritual defences of Wither are a
+      perpetual source of inward sunshine, the magnanimity of the
+      modern is not without its alloy of soreness, and a sense of
+      injustice, which seems perpetually to gall and irritate. Wither
+      was better skilled in the "sweet uses of adversity;" he knew how
+      to extract the "precious jewel" from the head of the "toad,"
+      without drawing any of the "ugly venom" along with it. The
+      prison-notes of Wither are finer than the wood-notes of most of
+      his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of
+      his <i>Shepherds Hunting</i> (which was composed during his
+      imprisonment in the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to
+      extract pleasure from common objects, has been oftener quoted,
+      and is more known, than any part of his writings. Indeed, the
+      whole Eclogue is in a strain so much above not only what himself,
+      but almost what any other poet has written, that he himself could
+      not help noticing it; he remarks that his spirits had been raised
+      higher than they were wont, "through the love of poesy." The
+      praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient and in modern
+      times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over
+      animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds
+      has been acknowledged; but, before Wither, no one ever celebrated
+      its power <i>at home</i>, the wealth and the strength which this
+      divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too after
+      death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves
+      from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover
+      that poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich
+      reversion, and that the Muse had promise of both lives,&mdash;of
+      this, and of that which was to come.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The <i>Mistress of Philarete</i> is in substance a panegyric
+      protracted through several thousand lines in the mouth of a
+      single speaker, but diversified, so as to produce an almost
+      dramatic effect, by the artful introduction of some ladies, who
+      are rather auditors than interlocutors in the scene; and of a
+      boy, whose singing furnishes pretence for an occasional change of
+      metre: though the seven-syllable line, in which the main part of
+      it is written, is that in which Wither has shown himself so great
+      a master, that I do not know that I am always thankful to him for
+      the exchange.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady whom he commends the
+      name of Arete, or Virtue; and, assuming to himself the character
+      of Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a sort of propriety in
+      that heaped measure of perfections which he attributes to this
+      partly real, partly allegorical personage. Drayton before him had
+      shadowed his mistress under the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern,
+      and some of the old Italian love-strains are couched in such
+      religious terms as to make it doubtful whether it be a mistress,
+      or Divine Grace, which the poet is addressing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In this poem (full of beauties) there are two passages of
+      preeminent merit. The first is where the lover, after a flight of
+      rapturous commendation, expresses his wonder why all men that are
+      about his mistress, even to her very servants, do not view her
+      with the same eyes that he does.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i2">
+        "Sometime I do admire
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All men burn not with desire:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nay, I muse her servants are not
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pleading love; but 0! they dare not.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I therefore wonder, why
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They do not grow sick and die.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sure they would do so, but that,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By the ordinance of fate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There is some concealed thing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So each gazer limiting,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He can see no more of merit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than beseems his worth and spirit.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For in her a grace there shines,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That o'er-daring thoughts confines,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Making worthless men despair
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To be loved of one so fair.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yea, the destinies agree,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some <i>good judgments</i> blind should be,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And not gain the power of knowing
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those rare beauties in her growing.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Reason doth as much imply:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For, if every judging eye,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which beholdeth her, should there
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Find what excellences are,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All, o'ercome by those perfections,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would be captive to affections.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So, in happiness unblest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She for lovers should not rest."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      The other is, where he has been comparing her beauties to gold,
+      and stars, and the most excellent things in nature; and, fearing
+      to be accused of hyperbole, the common charge against poets,
+      vindicates himself by boldly taking upon him, that these
+      comparisons are no hyperboles; but that the best things in nature
+      do, in a lover's eye, fall short of those excellences which he
+      adores in her.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "What pearls, what rubies can
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Seem so lovely fair to man,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As her lips whom he doth love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When in sweet discourse they move,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or her lovelier teeth, the while
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She doth bless him with a smile?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stars indeed fair creatures be;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet amongst us where is he
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Joys not more the whilst he lies
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than in all the glimmering light
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of a starry winter's night?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Note the beauty of an eye&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And if aught you praise it by
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Leave such passion in your mind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Let my reason's eye be blind.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mark if ever red or white
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Any where gave such delight,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As when they have taken place
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In a worthy woman's face.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "I must praise her as I may,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which I do mine own rude way,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sometimes setting forth her glories
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By unheard of allegories "&mdash;&amp;c.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      To the measure in which these lines are written the wits of Queen
+      Anne's days contemptuously gave the name of Namby-Pamby, in
+      ridicule of Ambrose Philips, who has used it in some instances,
+      as in the lines on Cuzzoni, to my feeling at least, very
+      deliciously; but Wither, whose darling measure it seems to have
+      been, may show, that in skilful hands it is capable of expressing
+      the subtilest movements of passion. So true it is, which Drayton
+      seems to have felt, that it is the poet who modifies the metre,
+      not the metre the poet; in his own words, that
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i2">
+        "It's possible to climb;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To kindle, or to stake;
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Altho' in Skelton's rhime."[1]
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      <p>
+        1: A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the
+        <i>Shepherds Hunting</i> take the following&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="poem">
+        <p>
+          "If thy verse doth bravely tower,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>As she makes wing, she gets power;</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet the higher she doth soar,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She's affronted still the more,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Till she to the high'st hath past,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then she rests with fame at last."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of this! what
+        Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing or expresses
+        <i>labor slowly but strongly surmounting difficulty</i> with
+        the life with which it is done in the second of these lines? or
+        what metre could go beyond these from <i>Philarete</i>&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="poem">
+        <p>
+          "Her true beauty leaves behind
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Apprehensions in my mind
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of more sweetness, than all art
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or inventions can impart.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>Thoughts too deep to be expressed,</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>And too strong to be suppressed.</i>"
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="ltrs" id="ltrs">LETTERS,</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h4>
+      UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h4>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="lond" id="lond">THE LONDONER.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      Mr. Reflector,&mdash;I was born under the shadow of St. Dunstan's
+      steeple, just where the conflux of the eastern and western
+      inhabitants of this twofold city meet and justle in friendly
+      opposition at Temple-bar. The same day which gave me to the
+      world, saw London happy in the celebration of her great annual
+      feast. This I cannot help looking upon as a lively omen of the
+      future great good-will which I was destined to bear toward the
+      city, resembling in kind that solicitude which every Chief
+      Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever concerns her
+      interests and well-being. Indeed I consider myself in some sort a
+      speculative Lord Mayor of London: for though circumstances
+      unhappily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at the
+      dignity of a gold chain and Spital Sermon, yet thus much will I
+      say of myself in truth, that Whittington with his cat (just
+      emblem of vigilance and a furred gown) never went beyond me in
+      affection which I bear to the citizens.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I was born, as you have heard, in a crowd. This has begot in me
+      an entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost
+      insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. This
+      aversion was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few
+      years in the younger part of my life, during a period in which I
+      had set my affections upon a charming young woman. Every man,
+      while the passion is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to
+      groves and meadows and purling streams. During this short period
+      of my existence, I contracted just familiarity enough with rural
+      objects to understand tolerably well ever after the <i>poets</i>,
+      when they declaim in such passionate terms in favor of a
+      country-life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      For my own part, now the fit is past, I have no hesitation in
+      declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit-door
+      of Drury Lane Theatre, just at the hour of six, gives me ten
+      thousand sincerer pleasures, than I could ever receive from all
+      the flocks of silly sheep that ever whitened the plains of
+      Arcadia or Epsom Downs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This passion for crowds is nowhere feasted so full as in London.
+      The man must have a rare <i>recipe</i> for melancholy who can be
+      dull in Fleet Street. I am naturally inclined to hypochondria,
+      but in London it vanishes, like all other ills. Often, when I
+      have felt a weariness or distaste at home, have I rushed out into
+      her crowded Strand, and fed my humor, till tears have wetted my
+      cheek for unutterable sympathies with the multitudinous moving
+      picture, which she never fails to present at all hours, like the
+      scenes of a shifting pantomime.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The very deformities of London, which give distaste to others,
+      from habit do not displease me. The endless succession of shops
+      where <i>Fancy miscalled Folly</i> is supplied with perpetual
+      gauds and toys, excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly
+      behold every appetite supplied with its proper food. The obliging
+      customer, and the obliged tradesman&mdash;things which live by
+      bowing, and things which exist but for homage&mdash;do not affect
+      me with disgust; from habit I perceive nothing but urbanity,
+      where other men, more refined, discover meanness: I love the very
+      smoke of London, because it has been the medium most familiar to
+      my vision. I see grand principles of honor at work in the dirty
+      ring which encompasses two combatants with fists, and principles
+      of no less eternal justice in the detection of a pickpocket. The
+      salutary astonishment with which an execution is surveyed,
+      convinces me more forcibly than a hundred volumes of abstract
+      polity, that the universal instinct of man in all ages has leaned
+      to order and good government.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus an art of extracting morality from the commonest incidents
+      of a town life is attained by the same well-natured alchemy with
+      which the Foresters of Arden, in a beautiful country,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      "Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in
+      stones, and good in everything."
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Where has spleen her food but in London! Humor, Interest,
+      Curiosity, suck at her measureless breasts without a possibility
+      of being satiated. Nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved
+      smoke, what have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out
+      my heart with usury to such scenes!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I am, Sir, your faithful servant,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A LONDONER.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="bury" id="bury">ON BURIAL SOCIETIES;</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      AND
+    </h4>
+    <h4>
+      THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      Mr. Reflector,&mdash;I was amused the other day with having the
+      following notice thrust into my hand by a man who gives out bills
+      at the corner of Fleet Market. Whether he saw any prognostics
+      about me, that made him judge such notice seasonable, I cannot
+      say; I might perhaps carry in a countenance (naturally not very
+      florid) traces of a fever which had not long left me. Those
+      fellows have a good instinctive way of guessing at the sort of
+      people that are likeliest to pay attention to their papers.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      "BURIAL SOCIETY.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      "A favorable opportunity now offers to any person, of either sex,
+      who would wish to be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one
+      shilling entrance, and twopence per week for the benefit of the
+      stock. Members to be free in six months. The money to be paid at
+      Mr. Middleton's, at the sign of the <i>First</i> and the
+      <i>Last</i>, Stonecutter's Street, Fleet Market. The deceased to
+      be furnished as follows:&mdash;A strong elm coffin, covered with
+      superfine black, and furnished with two rows, all round, close
+      drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with ornamental drops, a
+      handsome plate of inscription, Angel above, and Flower beneath,
+      and four pair of handsome handles, with wrought gripes; the
+      coffin to be well pitched, lined, and ruffled with fine crape; a
+      handsome crape shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome
+      velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three crape hat-bands,
+      three hoods and scarfs, and six pair of gloves; two porters
+      equipped to attend the funeral, a man to attend the same with
+      band and gloves; also, the burial-fees paid, if not exceeding one
+      guinea."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, "is a noble animal, splendid in
+      ashes, and pompous in the grave." Whoever drew up this little
+      advertisement certainly understood this appetite in the species,
+      and has made abundant provision for it. It really almost induces
+      a <i>tćdium vitć</i> upon one to read it. Methinks I could be
+      willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all
+      round close-drove best black japanned nails,&mdash;how feelingly
+      do they invite, and almost irresistibly persuade us to come and
+      be fastened down! what aching head can resist the temptation to
+      repose, which the crape shroud, the cap, and the pillow present;
+      what sting is there in death, which the handles with wrought
+      gripes are not calculated to pluck away? what victory in the
+      grave which the drops and the velvet pall do not render at least
+      extremely disputable? but, above all, the pretty emblematic
+      plate, with the Angel above and the Flower beneath, takes me
+      mightily.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The notice goes on to inform us, that though the society has been
+      established but a very few years, upwards of eleven hundred
+      persons have put down their names. It is really an affecting
+      consideration to think of so many poor people, of the industrious
+      and hard-working class (for none but such would be possessed of
+      such a generous forethought) clubbing their two-pences to save
+      the reproach of a parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I dare
+      swear, has that Angel and Flower kept from the <i>Angel</i> and
+      <i>Punchbowl</i>, while, to provide himself a bier, he has
+      curtailed himself of <i>beer</i>. Many a savory morsel has the
+      living body been deprived of, that the lifeless one might be
+      served up in a richer state to the worms. And sure, if the body
+      could understand the actions of the soul, and entertain generous
+      notions of things, it would thank its provident partner, that she
+      had been more solicitous to defend it from dishonors at its
+      dissolution, than careful to pamper it with good things in the
+      time of its union. If Cćsar were chiefly anxious at his death how
+      he might die most decently, every Burial Society may be
+      considered as a club of Cćsars.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Nothing tends to keep up, in the imaginations of the poorer sort
+      of people, a generous horror of the work-house more than the
+      manner in which pauper funerals are conducted in this metropolis.
+      The coffin nothing but a few naked planks coarsely put
+      together,&mdash;the want of a pall (that decent and well-imagined
+      veil, which, hiding the coffin that hides the body, keeps that
+      which would shock us at two removes from us), the colored coats
+      of the men that are hired, at cheap rates, to carry the
+      body,&mdash;altogether give the notion of the deceased having
+      been some person of an ill life and conversation, some one who
+      may not claim the entire rites of Christian burial,&mdash;one by
+      whom some parts of the sacred ceremony would be desecrated if
+      they should be bestowed upon him. I meet these meagre processions
+      sometimes in the street. They are sure to make me out of humor
+      and melancholy all the day after. They have a harsh and ominous
+      aspect.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      If there is anything in the prospectus issued from Mr.
+      Middleton's, Stonecutter's Street, which pleases me less than the
+      rest, it is to find that the six pair of gloves are to be
+      returned, that they are only lent, or, as the bill expresses it,
+      for use on the occasion. The hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may
+      properly enough be given up after the solemnity; the cloaks no
+      gentlemen would think of keeping; but a pair of gloves, once
+      fitted on, ought not in courtesy to be redemanded. The wearer
+      should certainly have the fee-simple of them. The cost would be
+      but trifling, and they would be a proper memorial of the day.
+      This part of the Proposal wants reconsidering. It is not
+      conceived in the same liberal way of thinking as the rest. I am
+      also a little doubtful whether the limit, within which the
+      burial-fee is made payable, should not be extended to thirty
+      shillings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be made in favor of those
+      well-intentioned persons and well-wishers to the fund, who,
+      having all along paid their subscriptions regularly, are so
+      unfortunate as to die before the six months, which would entitle
+      them to their freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly
+      imagine a more distressing case than that of a poor fellow
+      lingering on in a consumption till the period of his freedom is
+      almost in sight, and then finding himself going with a velocity
+      which makes it doubtful whether he shall be entitled to his
+      funeral honors: his quota to which he nevertheless squeezes out,
+      to the diminution of the comforts which sickness demands. I
+      think, in such cases, some of the contribution money ought to
+      revert. With some such modifications, which might easily be
+      introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of Mr. Middleton
+      which is not strictly fair and genteel; and heartily recommend
+      them to all persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, who are
+      willing that this perishable part of them should quit the scene
+      of its mortal activities with as handsome circumstances as
+      possible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Before I quit the subject, I must guard my readers against a
+      scandal, which they may be apt to take at the place whence these
+      Proposals purport to be issued. From the sign of the <i>First</i>
+      and the <i>Last</i>, they may conclude that Mr. Middleton is some
+      publican, who, in assembling a club of this description at his
+      house, may have a sinister end of his own, altogether foreign to
+      the solemn purpose for which the club is pretended to be
+      instituted. I must set them right by informing them that the
+      issuer of these Proposals is no publican, though he hangs out a
+      sign, but an honest superintendent of funerals, who, by the
+      device of a Cradle and a Coffin, connecting both ends of human
+      existence together, has most ingeniously contrived to insinuate,
+      that the framers of these <i>first</i> and <i>last</i>
+      receptacles of mankind divide this our life betwixt them, and
+      that all that passes from the midwife to the undertaker may, in
+      strict propriety, <i>go for nothing</i>: an awful and instructive
+      lesson to human vanity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Looking over some papers lately that fell into my hands by
+      chance, and appear to have been written about the beginning of
+      the last century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the following
+      short Essay, which the writer calls, "<i>The Character of an
+      Undertaker</i>." It is written with some stiffness and
+      peculiarities of style, but some parts of it, I think, not
+      unaptly characterize the profession to which Mr. Middleton has
+      the honor to belong. The writer doubtless had in his mind the
+      entertaining character of <i>Sable</i>, in Steele's excellent
+      comedy of <i>The Funeral</i>.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      "He is master of the ceremonies at burials and mourning
+      assemblies, grand marshal at funeral processions, the only true
+      yeoman of the body, over which he exercises a dictatorial
+      authority from the moment that the breath has taken leave to that
+      of its final commitment to the earth. His ministry begins where
+      the physician's, the lawyer's, and the divine's end. Or if some
+      part of the functions of the latter run parallel with his, it is
+      only <i>in ordine ad spiritualia</i>. His temporalities remain
+      unquestioned. He is arbitrator of all questions of honor which
+      may concern the defunct; and upon slight inspection will
+      pronounce how long he may remain in this upper world with credit
+      to himself, and when it will be prudent for his reputation that
+      he should retire. His determination in these points is peremptory
+      and without appeal. Yet, with a modesty peculiar to his
+      profession, he meddles not out of his own sphere. With the good
+      or bad actions of the deceased in his lifetime he has nothing to
+      do. He leaves the friends of the dead man to form their own
+      conjectures as to the place to which the departed spirit is gone.
+      His care is only about the exuvić. He concerns not himself even
+      about the body, as it is a structure of parts internal, and a
+      wonderful microcosm. He leaves such curious speculations to the
+      anatomy professor. Or, if anything, he is averse to such wanton
+      inquiries, as delighting rather that the parts which he has care
+      of should be returned to their kindred dust in as handsome and
+      unmutilated condition as possible; that the grave should have its
+      full and unimpaired tribute,&mdash;a complete and just carcass.
+      Nor is he only careful to provide for the body's entireness, but
+      for its accommodation and ornament. He orders the fashion of its
+      clothes, and designs the symmetry of its dwelling. Its vanity has
+      an innocent survival in him. He is bedmaker to the dead. The
+      pillows which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the
+      theatre in which he displays the mysteries of his art. It is hard
+      to describe what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that
+      day: for, being neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all
+      in turns; a transcendant, running through all those relations.
+      His office is to supply the place of self-agency in the family,
+      who are presumed incapable of it through grief. He is eyes, and
+      ears, and hands, to the whole household. A draught of wine cannot
+      go round to the mourners, but he must minister it. A chair may
+      hardly be restored to its place by a less solemn hand than his.
+      He takes upon himself all functions, and is a sort of ephemeral
+      major-domo! He distributes his attentions among the company
+      assembled according to the degree of affliction, which he
+      calculates from the degree of kin to the deceased; and marshals
+      them accordingly in the procession. He himself is of a sad and
+      tristful countenance; yet such as (if well examined) is not
+      without some show of patience and resignation at bottom;
+      prefiguring, as it were, to the friends of the deceased, what
+      their grief shall be when the hand of Time shall have softened
+      and taken down the bitterness of their first anguish; so
+      handsomely can he fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time.
+      Lastly, with his wand, as with another divining rod, he
+      calculates the depth of earth at which the bones of the dead man
+      may rest, which he ordinarily contrives may be at such a distance
+      from the surface of this earth, as may frustrate the profane
+      attempts of such as would violate his repose, yet sufficiently on
+      this side the centre to give his friends hopes of an easy and
+      practicable resurrection. And here we leave him, casting in dust
+      to dust, which is the last friendly office that he
+      <i>undertakes</i> to do."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and
+      worms, and epitaphs," I am, Sir,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Your humble servant,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      MORITURUS.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h5>
+      ON THE
+    </h5>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="deform" id="deform">DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH
+      PERSONAL DEFORMITY.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR
+      APPREHENDING OFFENDERS.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      MR. REFLECTOR,&mdash;There is no science in their pretensions to
+      which mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in
+      the supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. I quarrel not with
+      the principles of this science, as they are laid down by learned
+      professors; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny
+      its existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be
+      depended upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an art to
+      "read the mind's construction in the face." But, then, in every
+      species of <i>reading</i>, so much depends upon the eyes of the
+      reader; if they are blear, or apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or
+      strained with too much attention, the optic power will infallibly
+      bring home false reports of what it reads. How often do we say,
+      upon a cursory glance at a stranger, "What a fine open
+      countenance he has!" who, upon second inspection, proves to have
+      the exact features of a knave? Nay, in much more intimate
+      acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue for
+      months, years, and then break up all at once.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Ask the married man, who has been so but for a short space of
+      time, if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious
+      courtship, truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be written in
+      characters which could not be misunderstood&mdash;ask him if the
+      characters which they now convey be exactly the same?&mdash;if
+      for truth he does not <i>read</i> a dull virtue (the mimic of
+      constancy) which changes not, only because it wants the judgment
+      to make a preference?&mdash;if for sweetness he does not
+      <i>read</i> a stupid habit of looking pleased at
+      everything?&mdash;if for serenity he does not <i>read</i> animal
+      tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze of
+      passion can stir into health? Alas! what is this book of the
+      countenance good for, which when we have read so long, and
+      thought that we understood its contents, there comes a countless
+      list of heart-breaking errata at the end!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is
+      subject. I have inadvertently wandered from my purpose, which was
+      to expose quite an opposite blunder, into which we are no less
+      apt to fall, through hate. How ugly a person looks upon whose
+      reputation some awkward aspersion hangs, and how suddenly his
+      countenance clears up with his character! I remember being
+      persuaded of a man whom I had conceived an ill opinion of, that
+      he had a very bad set of teeth; which, since I have had better
+      opportunities of being acquainted with his face and facts, I find
+      to have been the very reverse of the truth. <i>That crooked old
+      woman</i>, I once said, speaking of an ancient gentlewoman, whose
+      actions did not square altogether with my notions of the rule of
+      right. The unanimous surprise of the company before whom I
+      uttered these words soon convinced me that I had confounded
+      mental with bodily obliquity, and that there was nothing tortuous
+      about the old lady but her deeds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This humor of mankind to deny personal comeliness to those with
+      whose moral attributes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly
+      shown in those advertisements which stare us in the face from the
+      walls of every street, and, with the tempting bait which they
+      hang forth, stimulate at once cupidity and an abstract love of
+      justice in the breast of every passing peruser: I mean, the
+      advertisements offering rewards for the apprehension of absconded
+      culprits, strayed apprentices, bankrupts who have conveyed away
+      their effects, debtors that have run away from their bail. I
+      observe, that in exact proportion to the indignity with which the
+      prosecutor, who is commonly the framer of the advertisement,
+      conceives he has been treated, the personal pretensions of the
+      fugitive are denied, and his defects exaggerated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed against the public in
+      general, and in whose delinquency no individual shall feel
+      himself particularly interested, generally meets with fair usage.
+      A coiner or a smuggler shall get off tolerably well. His beauty,
+      if he has any, is not much underrated, his deformities are not
+      much magnified. A runaway apprentice, who excites perhaps the
+      next least degree of spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes
+      with a pair of bandy legs; if he has taken anything with him in
+      his flight, a hitch in his gait is generally superadded. A
+      bankrupt, who has been guilty of withdrawing his effects, if his
+      case be not very atrocious, commonly meets with mild usage. But a
+      debtor, who has left his bail in jeopardy, is sure to be
+      described in characters of unmingled deformity. Here the personal
+      feelings of the bail, which may be allowed to be somewhat
+      poignant, are admitted to interfere; and, as wrath and revenge
+      commonly strike in the dark, the colors are laid on with a
+      grossness which I am convinced must often defeat its own purpose.
+      The fish that casts an inky cloud about him that his enemies may
+      not find him, cannot more obscure himself by that device than the
+      blackening representations of these angry advertisers must
+      inevitably serve to cloak and screen the persons of those who
+      have injured them from detection. I have before me at this moment
+      one of these bills, which runs thus:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      "FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      "Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, formerly resident in
+      Princes Street, Soho, but lately of Clerkenwell. Whoever shall
+      apprehend, or cause to be apprehended and lodged in one of his
+      Majesty's jails, the said John Tomkins, shall receive the above
+      reward. He is a thick-set, sturdy man, about five foot six inches
+      high, halts in his left leg, with a stoop in his gait, with
+      coarse red hair, nose short and cocked up, with little gray eyes,
+      (one of them bears the effect of a blow which he has lately
+      received,) with a pot-belly; speaks with a thick and disagreeable
+      voice; goes shabbily drest; had on when he went away a greasy
+      shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now, although it is not out of the compass of possibility that
+      John Tomkins aforesaid may comprehend in his agreeable person all
+      the above-mentioned aggregate of charms, yet, from my observation
+      of the manner in which these advertisements are usually drawn up,
+      though I have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, yet
+      would I lay a wager, that an advertisement to the following
+      effect would have a much better chance of apprehending and laying
+      by the heels this John Tomkins than the above description,
+      although penned by one who, from the good services which he
+      appears to have done for him, has not improbably been blessed
+      with some years of previous intercourse with the said John.
+      Taking, then, the above advertisement to be true, or nearly so,
+      down to the words "left leg" inclusive, (though I have some doubt
+      if the blemish there implied amount to a positive lameness, or be
+      perceivable by any but the nearest friends of John,) I would
+      proceed thus:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      &mdash;"Leans a little forward in his walk; his hair thick and
+      inclining to auburn; his nose of the middle size, a little turned
+      up at the end; lively hazel eyes (the contusion, as its effects
+      are probably gone off by this time, I judge better omitted);
+      inclines to be corpulent; his voice thick, but pleasing,
+      especially when he sings; had on a decent shag great-coat with
+      yellow buttons."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Now I would stake a considerable wager (though by no means a
+      positive man) that some such mitigated description would lead the
+      beagles of the law into a much surer track for finding this
+      ungracious varlet, than to set them upon a false scent after
+      fictitious ugliness and fictitious shabbiness; though, to do
+      those gentlemen justice, I have no doubt their experience has
+      taught them in all such cases to abate a great deal of the
+      deformity which they are instructed to expect, and has discovered
+      to them that the Devil's agents upon this earth, like their
+      master, are far less ugly in reality than they are painted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I am afraid, Mr. Reflector, that I shall be thought to have gone
+      wide of my subject, which was to detect the practical errors of
+      physiognomy, properly so called; whereas I have introduced
+      physical defects, such as lameness, the effects of accidents upon
+      a man's person, his wearing apparel, &amp;c., as circumstances on
+      which the eye of dislike, looking askance, may report erroneous
+      conclusions to the understanding. But if we are liable, through a
+      kind or an unkind passion, to mistake so grossly concerning
+      things so exterior and palpable, how much more are we likely to
+      err respecting those nicer and less perceptible hints of
+      character in a face whose detection constitutes the triumph of
+      the physiognomist!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To revert to those bestowers of unmerited deformity, the framers
+      of advertisements for the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere
+      desire of promoting the end of public justice induces me to
+      address a word to them on the best means of attaining those ends.
+      I will endeavor to lay down a few practical, or rather negative,
+      rules for their use, for my ambition extends no further than to
+      arm them with cautions against the self-defeating of their own
+      purposes:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser! If the culprit whom you are
+      willing to recover be one to whom in times past you have shown
+      kindness, and been disposed to think kindly of him yourself, but
+      he has deceived your trust, and has run away, and left you with a
+      load of debt to answer for him,&mdash;sit down calmly and
+      endeavor to behold him through the spectacles of memory rather
+      than of present conceit. Image to yourself, before you pen a
+      tittle of his description, the same plausible, good-looking man
+      who took you in, and try to put away from your mind every
+      intrusion of that deceitful spectre which perpetually obtrudes
+      itself in the room of your former friend's known visage. It will
+      do you more credit to have been deceived by such a one; and
+      depend upon it, the traitor will convey to the eyes of the world
+      in general much more of that first idea which you formed (perhaps
+      in part erroneous) of his physiognomy, than of that frightful
+      substitute which you have suffered to creep in upon your mind and
+      usurp upon it; a creature which has no archetype except in your
+      own brain.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2. If you be a master that have to advertise a runaway
+      apprentice, though the young dog's faults are known only to you,
+      and no doubt his conduct has been aggravating enough, do not
+      presently set him down as having crooked ankles. He may have a
+      good pair of legs, and run away notwithstanding. Indeed, the
+      latter does rather seem to imply the former.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3. If the unhappy person against whom your laudable vengeance is
+      directed be a thief, think that a thief may have a good nose,
+      good eyes, good ears. It is indispensable to his profession that
+      he be possessed of sagacity, foresight, vigilance; it is more
+      than probable, then, that he is endued with the bodily types or
+      instruments of these qualities to some tolerable degree of
+      perfectness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort you, do not confound
+      meanness of crime with diminutiveness of stature. These things
+      have no connection. I have known a tall man stoop to the basest
+      action, a short man aspire to the height of crime, a fair man be
+      guilty of the foulest actions, &amp;c.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of some atrocious and
+      aggravated murder. Here is the most difficult case of all. It is
+      above all requisite that such a daring violator of the peace and
+      safety of society should meet with his reward, a violent and
+      ignominious death. But how shall we get at him? Who is there
+      among us that has known him before he committed the offence, that
+      shall take upon him to say he can sit down coolly and pen a
+      dispassionate description of a murderer? The tales of our
+      nursery,&mdash;the reading of our youth,&mdash;the ill-looking
+      man that was hired by the Uncle to despatch the Children in the
+      Wood,&mdash;the grim ruffians who smothered the babes in the
+      Tower,&mdash;the black and beetle-browed assassin of Mrs.
+      Ratcliffe,&mdash;the shag-haired villain of Mr. Monk
+      Lewis,&mdash;the Tarquin tread, and mill-stone dropping eyes, of
+      Murder in Shakspeare,&mdash;the exaggerations of picture and of
+      poetry,&mdash;what we have read and what we have dreamed
+      of,&mdash;rise up and crowd in upon us such eye-scaring portraits
+      of the man of blood, that our pen is absolutely forestalled; we
+      commence poets when we should play the part of strictest
+      historians, and the very blackness of horror which the deed calls
+      up, serves as a cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is
+      blameless, it is accordant with those wise prejudices with which
+      nature has guarded our innocence, as with impassable barriers,
+      against the commission of such appalling crimes; but, meantime,
+      the criminal escapes; or if,&mdash;owing to that wise abatement
+      in their expectation of deformity, which, as I hinted at before,
+      the officers of pursuit never fail to make, and no doubt in cases
+      of this sort they make a more than ordinary allowance,&mdash;if,
+      owing to this or any accident, the offender is caught and brought
+      to his trial, who that has been led out of curiosity to witness
+      such a scene has not with astonishment reflected on the
+      difference between a real committer of a murder, and the idea of
+      one which he has been collecting and heightening all his life out
+      of books, dreams, &amp;c.? The fellow, perhaps, is a sleek,
+      smug-looking man, with light hair and eyebrows,&mdash;the latter
+      by no means jutting out or like a crag,&mdash;and with none of
+      those marks which our fancy had pre-bestowed upon him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I find I am getting unawares too serious; the best way on such
+      occasions is to leave off, which I shall do by generally
+      recommending to all prosecuting advertisers not to confound
+      crimes with ugliness; or rather, to distinguish between that
+      physiognomical deformity, which I am willing to grant always
+      accompanies crime, and mere <i>physical ugliness</i>,&mdash;which
+      signifies nothing, is the opponent of nothing, and may exist in a
+      good or bad person indifferently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      CRITO.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="hang" id="hang">ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM
+      BEING HANGED.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      Sir,&mdash;I am one of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes,
+      it seems, do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All
+      that is bestowed upon me of that kindest alleviator of human
+      miseries comes dashed with a double portion of contempt. My
+      griefs have nothing in them that is felt as sacred by the
+      bystanders. Yet is my affliction, in truth, of the deepest
+      grain&mdash;the heaviest task that was ever given to mortal
+      patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows, can
+      never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw as
+      long at that fatal mark&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Why was I ever born? Why was innocence in my person suffered to
+      be branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest
+      guilt? What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine
+      should involve a whole posterity in infamy? I am almost tempted
+      to believe, that, in some preëxistent state, crimes to which this
+      sublunary life of mine hath been as much a stranger as the babe
+      that is newly born into it, have drawn down upon me this
+      vengeance, so disproportionate to my actions on this globe.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My brain sickens, and my bosom labors to be delivered of the
+      weight that presses upon it, yet my conscious pen shrinks from
+      the avowal. But out it must&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      O, Mr. Reflector! guess at the wretch's misery who now writes
+      this to you, when, with tears and burning blushes, he is obliged
+      to confess that he has been&mdash;HANGED&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Methinks I hear an involuntary exclamation burst from you, as
+      your imagination presents to you fearful images of your
+      correspondent unknown&mdash;<i>hanged!</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit has the honor of
+      addressing you. I am flesh and blood, an unfortunate system of
+      bones, muscles, sinews, arteries, like yourself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant.&mdash;That
+      expression of yours, Mr. Correspondent, must be taken somehow in
+      a metaphorical sense&mdash;&mdash;</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In the plainest sense, without trope or figure&mdash;Yes, Mr.
+      Editor! this neck of mine has felt the fatal noose,&mdash;these
+      hands have tremblingly held up the corroborative
+      prayer-book,&mdash;these lips have sucked the moisture of the
+      last consolatory orange,&mdash;this tongue has chanted the
+      doleful cantata which no performer was ever called upon to
+      repeat,&mdash;this face has had the veiling nightcap drawn over
+      it&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But for no crime of mine.&mdash;Far be it from me to arraign the
+      justice of my country, which, though tardy, did at length
+      recognize my innocence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge or
+      jury, now that eleven years have elapsed since the erroneous
+      sentence was pronounced. Men will always be fallible, and perhaps
+      circumstances did appear at the time a little
+      strong&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suffice it to say, that after hanging four minutes (as the
+      spectators were pleased to compute it,&mdash;a man that is being
+      strangled, I know from experience, has altogether a different
+      measure of time from his friends who are breathing leisurely
+      about him,&mdash;I suppose the minutes lengthen as time
+      approaches eternity, in the same manner as the miles get longer
+      as you travel northward),&mdash;after hanging four minutes,
+      according to the best calculation of the bystanders, a reprieve
+      came, and I was CUT DOWN&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Really I am ashamed of deforming your pages with these technical
+      phrases&mdash;if I knew how to express my meaning shorter&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But to proceed.&mdash;My first care after I had been brought to
+      myself by the usual methods (those methods that are so
+      interesting to the operator and his assistants, who are pretty
+      numerous on such occasions,&mdash;but which no patient was ever
+      desirous of undergoing a second time for the benefit of science),
+      my first care was to provide myself with an enormous stock or
+      cravat to hide the place&mdash;you understand me; my next care
+      was to procure a residence as distant as possible from that part
+      of the country where I had suffered. For that reason I chose the
+      metropolis, as the place where wounded honor (I had been told)
+      could lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry, and
+      stigmatized innocence had the best chance of hiding her disgrace
+      in a crowd. I sought out a new circle of acquaintance, and my
+      circumstances happily enabling me to pursue my fancy in that
+      respect, I endeavored, by mingling in all the pleasures which the
+      town affords, to efface the memory of what I had undergone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, alas! such is the portentous and all-pervading chain of
+      connection which links together the head and members of this
+      great community, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated almost at
+      the outset. A countryman of mine, whom a foolish lawsuit had
+      brought to town, by chance met me, and the secret was soon
+      blazoned about.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In a short time I found myself deserted by most of those who had
+      been my intimate friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to
+      attach to my character. My officious countryman, to do him
+      justice, had been candid enough to explain my perfect innocence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But, somehow or other, there is a want of strong virtue in
+      mankind. We have plenty of the softer instincts, but the heroic
+      character is gone. How else can I account for it, that of all my
+      numerous acquaintance, among whom I had the honor of ranking
+      sundry persons of education, talents, and worth, scarcely here
+      and there one or two could be found who had the courage to
+      associate with a man that had been hanged.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Those few who did not desert me altogether were persons of strong
+      but coarse minds; and from the absence of all delicacy in them I
+      suffered almost as much as from the superabundance of a false
+      species of it in the others. Those who stuck by me were the
+      jokers, who thought themselves entitled by the fidelity which
+      they had shown towards me to use me with what familiarity they
+      pleased. Many and unfeeling are the jests that I have suffered
+      from these rude (because faithful) Achateses. As they passed me
+      in the streets, one would nod significantly to his companion and
+      say, pointing to me, Smoke his cravat, and ask me if I had got a
+      wen, that I was so solicitous to cover my neck. Another would
+      inquire, What news from * * * Assizes? (which you may guess, Mr.
+      Editor, was the scene of my shame,) and whether the sessions was
+      like to prove a maiden one? A third would offer to insure me from
+      drowning. A fourth would tease me with inquiries how I felt when
+      I was swinging, whether I had not something like a blue flame
+      dancing before my eyes? A fifth took a fancy never to call me
+      anything but <i>Lazarus</i>. And an eminent bookseller and
+      publisher,&mdash;who, in his zeal to present the public with new
+      facts, had he lived in those days, I am confident, would not have
+      scrupled waiting upon the person himself last mentioned, at the
+      most critical period of his existence, to solicit a <i>few facts
+      relative to resuscitation</i>,&mdash;had the modesty to offer
+      me&mdash;guineas per sheet, if I would write, in his magazine, a
+      physiological account of my feelings upon coming to myself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But these were evils which a moderate fortitude might have
+      enabled me to struggle with. Alas! Mr. Editor, the
+      women,&mdash;whose good graces I had always most assiduously
+      cultivated, from whose softer minds I had hoped a more delicate
+      and generous sympathy than I found in the men,&mdash;the women
+      began to shun me&mdash;this was the unkindest blow of all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But is it to be wondered at? How couldst thou imagine,
+      wretchedest of beings, that that tender creature Seraphina would
+      fling her pretty arms about that neck which previous
+      circumstances had rendered infamous? That she would put up with
+      the refuse of the rope, the leavings of the cord? Or that any
+      analogy could subsist between the knot which binds true lovers,
+      and the knot which ties malefactors?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, when I
+      complimented her one day on the execution which her eyes had
+      done, replied, that, to be sure, Mr. * * * was a judge of those
+      things. But from thy more exalted mind, Celestina, I expected a
+      more unprejudiced decision. The person whose true name I conceal
+      under this appellation, of all the women that I was ever
+      acquainted with had the most manly turn of mind, which she had
+      improved by reading and the best conversation. Her understanding
+      was not more masculine than her manners and whole disposition
+      were delicately and truly feminine. She was the daughter of an
+      officer who had fallen in the service of his country, leaving his
+      widow, and Celestina, an only child, with a fortune sufficient to
+      set them above want, but not to enable them to live in splendor.
+      I had the mother's permission to pay my addresses to the young
+      lady, and Celestina seemed to approve of my suit.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Often and often have I poured out my overcharged soul in the
+      presence of Celestina, complaining of the hard and unfeeling
+      prejudices of the world; and the sweet maid has again and again
+      declared, that no irrational prejudice should hinder her from
+      esteeming every man according to his intrinsic worth. Often has
+      she repeated the consolatory assurance, that she could never
+      consider as essentially ignominious an <i>accident</i>, which was
+      indeed to be deprecated, but which might have happened to the
+      most innocent of mankind. Then would she set forth some
+      illustrious example, which her reading easily furnished, of a
+      Phocion or a Socrates unjustly condemned; of a Raleigh or a Sir
+      Thomas More, to whom late posterity had done justice; and by
+      soothing my fancy with some such agreeable parallel, she would
+      make me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and convert my shame
+      into glory.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In such entertaining and instructive conversations the time
+      passed on, till I importunately urged the mistress of my
+      affections to name the day for our union. To this she obligingly
+      consented, and I thought myself the happiest of mankind. But how
+      was I surprised one morning on the receipt of the following
+      billet from my charmer:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      SIR,&mdash;You must not impute it to levity, or to a worse
+      failing, ingratitude, if, with anguish of heart, I feel myself
+      compelled by irresistible arguments to recall a vow which I fear
+      I made with too little consideration. I never can be yours. The
+      reasons of my decision, which is final, are in my own breast, and
+      you must everlastingly remain a stranger to them. Assure yourself
+      that I can never cease to esteem you as I ought.
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      CELESTINA.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic haste to Celestina's
+      lodgings, where I learned, to my infinite mortification, that the
+      mother and daughter were set off on a journey to a distant part
+      of the country, to visit a relation, and were not expected to
+      return in less than four months.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Stunned by this blow, which left me without the courage to
+      solicit an explanation by letter, even if I had known where they
+      were, (for the particular address was industriously concealed
+      from me,) I waited with impatience the termination of the period,
+      in the vain hope that I might be permitted to have a chance of
+      softening the harsh decision by a personal interview with
+      Celestina after her return. But before three months were at an
+      end, I learned from the newspapers that my beloved
+      had&mdash;&mdash;given her hand to another.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a loss to account for the
+      strange step which she had taken; and it was not till some years
+      after that I learned the true reason from a female relation of
+      hers, to whom it seems Celestina had confessed in confidence,
+      that it was no demerit of mine that had caused her to break off
+      the match so abruptly, nor any preference which she might feel
+      for any other person, for she preferred me (she was pleased to
+      say) to all mankind; but when she came to lay the matter closer
+      to her heart, she found that she never should be able to bear the
+      sight&mdash;(I give you her very words as they were detailed to
+      me by her relation)&mdash;the sight of a man in a nightcap who
+      had appeared on a public platform&mdash;it would lead to such a
+      disagreeable association of ideas! And to this punctilio I was
+      sacrificed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To pass over an infinite series of minor mortifications, to which
+      this last and heaviest might well render me callous, behold me
+      here, Mr. Editor! in the thirty-seventh year of my existence,
+      (the twelfth, reckoning from my reanimation,) cut off from all
+      respectable connections: rejected by the fairer half of the
+      community,&mdash;who in my case alone seem to have laid aside the
+      characteristic pity of their sex; punished because I was once
+      punished unjustly: suffering for no other reason than because I
+      once had the misfortune to suffer without any cause at all. In no
+      other country, I think, but this, could a man have been subject
+      to such a life-long persecution, when once his innocence had been
+      clearly established.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Had I crawled forth a rescued victim from the rack in the
+      horrible dungeons of the Inquisition,&mdash;had I heaved myself
+      up from a half bastinado in China, or been torn from the
+      just-entering, ghastly impaling stake in Barbary,&mdash;had I
+      dropt alive from the knout in Russia, or come off with a gashed
+      neck from the half-mortal, scarce-in-time-retracted cimeter of an
+      executioneering slave in Turkey,&mdash;I might have borne about
+      the remnant of this frame (the mangled trophy of reprieved
+      innocence) with credit to myself in any of those barbarous
+      countries. No scorn, at least, would have mingled with the pity
+      (small as it might be) with which what was left of me would have
+      been surveyed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The singularity of my case has often led me to inquire into the
+      reasons of the general levity with which the subject of hanging
+      is treated as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic: for let
+      the very persons who speak so lightly of the thing at a distance
+      be brought to view the real scene,&mdash;let the platform be bona
+      fide exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought
+      forth,&mdash;the case is changed; but as a topic of conversation,
+      I appeal to the vulgar jokes which pass current in every street.
+      But why mention them, when the politest authors have agreed in
+      making use of this subject as a source of the ridiculous? Swift,
+      and Pope, and Prior, are fond of recurring to it. Gay has built
+      an entire drama upon this single foundation. The whole interest
+      of the <i>Beggar's Opera</i> may be said to hang upon it. To such
+      writers as Fielding and Smollett it is a perfect
+      <i>bonne-bouche</i>.&mdash;Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his
+      <i>Comical View of London and Westminster</i>, describe the
+      <i>Order of the Show at one of the Tyburn Executions</i> in his
+      time:&mdash;"Mr. Ordinary visits his melancholy flock in Newgate
+      by eight. Doleful procession up Holborn Hill about eleven. Men
+      handsome and proper that were never thought so before, which is
+      some comfort however. Arrive at the fatal place by twelve. Burnt
+      brandy, women, and sabbath-breaking, repented of. Some few
+      penitential drops fall under the gallows. Sheriffs' men, parson,
+      pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The last concluding
+      peremptory psalm struck up. Show over by one."&mdash;In this
+      sportive strain does this misguided wit think proper to play with
+      a subject so serious, which yet he would hardly have done if he
+      had not known that there existed a predisposition in the habits
+      of his unaccountable countrymen to consider the subject as a
+      jest. But what shall we say to Shakspeare, who, (not to mention
+      the solution which the <i>Gravedigger</i> in <i>Hamlet</i> gives
+      of his fellow-workman's problem,) in that scene in <i>Measure for
+      Measure</i>, where the <i>Clown</i> calls upon <i>Master
+      Barnardine</i> to get up and be hanged, which he declines on the
+      score of being sleepy, has actually gone out of his way to
+      gratify this amiable propensity in his countrymen; for it is
+      plain, from the use that was to be made of his head, and from
+      <i>Abhorson's</i> asking, "Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?"
+      that beheading, and not hanging, was the punishment to which
+      <i>Barnardine</i> was destined. But Shakspeare knew that the axe
+      and block were pregnant with no ludicrous images, and therefore
+      falsified the historic truth of his own drama (if I may so
+      speak), rather than he would leave out such excellent matter for
+      a jest as the suspending of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been
+      ever esteemed to be by Englishmen.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One reason why the ludicrous never fails to intrude itself into
+      our contemplations upon this mode of death, I suppose to be, the
+      absurd posture into which a man is thrown who is condemned to
+      dance, as the vulgar delight to express it, upon nothing. To see
+      him whisking and wavering in the air,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "As the wind you know will wave a man;"[1]
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      to behold the vacant carcass, from which the life is newly
+      dislodged, shifting between earth and heaven, the sport of every
+      gust; like a weathercock, serving to show from which point the
+      wind blows; like a maukin, fit only to scare away birds; like a
+      nest left to swing upon a bough when the bird is flown: these are
+      uses to which we cannot without a mixture of spleen and contempt
+      behold the human carcass reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, bats,
+      moles, weasels. Man surely deserves a steadier death.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Hieronimo in the Spanish Tragedy.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      Another reason why the ludicrous associates more forcibly with
+      this than with any other mode of punishment, I cannot help
+      thinking to be, the senseless costume with which old prescription
+      has thought fit to clothe the exit of malefactors in this
+      country. Let a man do what he will to abstract from his
+      imagination all idea of the whimsical, something of it will come
+      across him when he contemplates the figure of a fellow-creature
+      in the daytime (in however distressing a situation) in a
+      nightcap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addition has
+      something discordant with daylight, or that it is the dress which
+      we are seen in at those times when we are "seen," as the Angel in
+      Milton expresses it, "least wise,"&mdash;this, I am afraid, will
+      always be the case; unless, indeed, as in my instance, some
+      strong personal feeling overpower the ludicrous altogether. To
+      me, when I reflect upon the train of misfortunes which have
+      pursued men through life, owing to that accursed drapery, the cap
+      presents as purely frightful an object as the sleeveless yellow
+      coat and devil-painted mitre of the San Benitos.&mdash;An
+      ancestor of mine, who suffered for his loyalty in the time of the
+      civil wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I am here
+      advancing, that on the morning of execution, no entreaties could
+      prevail upon him to submit to the odious dishabille, as he called
+      it, but he insisted upon wearing, and actually suffered in, the
+      identical, flowing periwig which he is painted in, in the gallery
+      belonging to my uncle's seat in &mdash;&mdash;shire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Suffer me, Mr. Editor, before I quit the subject, to say a word
+      or two respecting the minister of justice in this country; in
+      plain words, I mean the hangman. It has always appeared to me
+      that, in the mode of inflicting capital punishments with us,
+      there is too much of the ministry of the human hand. The
+      guillotine, as performing its functions more of itself and
+      sparing human agency, though a cruel and disgusting exhibition,
+      in my mind has many ways the advantage over <i>our way</i>. In
+      beheading, indeed, as it was formerly practised in England, and
+      in whipping to death, as is sometimes practised now, the hand of
+      man is no doubt sufficiently busy; but there is something less
+      repugnant in these downright blows than in the officious
+      barber-like ministerings of <i>the other</i>. To have a fellow
+      with his hangman's hands fumbling about your collar, adjusting
+      the thing as your valet would regulate your cravat, valuing
+      himself on his menial dexterity&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I never shall forget meeting my rascal,&mdash;I mean the fellow
+      who officiated for me,&mdash;in London last winter. I think I see
+      him now,&mdash;in a waistcoat that had been mine,&mdash;smirking
+      along as if he knew me&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared
+      infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They
+      have hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in the same manner as
+      they had hereditary other great officers of state; and the
+      hangmen's families of two adjoining parishes intermarried with
+      each other, to keep the breed entire. I wish something of the
+      same kind were established in England.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable
+      images&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Your unfortunate friend,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      PENSILIS.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="tail" id="tail">ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i4">
+        "Sedet, asternumque sedebit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Infelix Theseus." VIRGIL.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      That there is a professional melancholy, if I may so express
+      myself, incident to the occupation of a tailor, is a fact which I
+      think very few will venture to dispute. I may safely appeal to my
+      readers, whether they ever knew one of that faculty that was not
+      of a temperament, to say the least, far removed from mercurial or
+      jovial.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not
+      more tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than
+      a gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same
+      infallible testimonies of his occupation. "Walk, that I may know
+      thee."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Do you ever see him go whistling along the footpath like a
+      carman, or brush through a crowd like a baker, or go smiling to
+      himself like a lover? Is he forward to thrust into mobs, or to
+      make one at the ballad-singer's audiences? Does he not rather
+      slink by assemblies and meetings of the people, as one that
+      wisely declines popular observation?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      How extremely rare is a noisy tailor! a mirthful and obstreperous
+      tailor!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, "my ascendant was the
+      earthly sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of
+      Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me."
+      One would think that he were anatomizing a tailor! save that to
+      the latter's occupation, methinks, a woollen planet would seem
+      more consonant, and that he should be born when the sun was in
+      Aries.&mdash;He goes on; "I am no way facetious, nor disposed for
+      the mirth and galliardise of company." How true a type of the
+      whole trade! Eminently economical of his words, you shall seldom
+      hear a jest come from one of them. He sometimes furnishes subject
+      for a repartee, but rarely (I think) contributes one <i>ore
+      proprio</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or at least to call
+      out of him any of the external indications of vanity. I cannot
+      say that it never causes his pride to swell, but it never breaks
+      out. I am even fearful that it may swell and rankle to an
+      alarming degree inwardly. For pride is near of kin to
+      melancholy!&mdash;a hurtful obstruction from the ordinary outlets
+      of vanity being shut. It is this stoppage which engenders proud
+      humors. Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he is never
+      vain. The display of his gaudy patterns, in that book of his
+      which emulates the rainbow, never raises any inflations of that
+      emotion in him, corresponding to what the wig-maker (for
+      instance) evinces, when he expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair.
+      He spreads them forth with a sullen incapacity for pleasure, a
+      real or affected indifference to grandeur. Cloth of gold neither
+      seems to elate, nor cloth of frieze to depress
+      him&mdash;according to the beautiful motto which formed the
+      modest imprese of the shield worn by Charles Brandon at his
+      marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I doubt whether he would
+      discover any vainglorious complacence in his colors, though
+      "Iris" herself "dipt the woof."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In further corroboration of this argument&mdash;who ever saw the
+      wedding of a tailor announced in the newspapers, or the birth of
+      his eldest son?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good
+      dancer, or to perform exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine
+      in any such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play on the
+      violin?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of
+      bells, firing of cannons, &amp;c.?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Valiant I know they can be; but I appeal to those who were
+      witnesses to the exploits of Eliot's famous troop, whether in
+      their fiercest charges they betrayed anything of that thoughtless
+      oblivion of death with which a Frenchman jigs into battle, or
+      whether they did not show more of the melancholy valor of the
+      Spaniard, upon whom they charged; that deliberate courage which
+      contemplation and sedentary habits breathe?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Are they often great newsmongers?&mdash;I have known some few
+      among them arrive at the dignity of speculative politicians; but
+      that light and cheerful every-day interest in the affairs and
+      goings-on of the world, which makes the barber[1] such delightful
+      company, I think is rarely observable in them.
+    </p>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Having incidentally mentioned the barber in a comparison of
+      professional temperaments, I hope no other trade will take
+      offence, or look upon it as an incivility done to them if I say,
+      that in courtesy, humanity, and all the conversational and social
+      graces which "gladden life," I esteem no profession comparable to
+      his. Indeed, so great is the goodwill which I bear to this useful
+      and agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of
+      Court (where the best specimens of them are to be found, except
+      perhaps at the universities), there are seven of them to whom I
+      am personally known, and who never pass me without the compliment
+      of the hat on either side. My truly polite and urbane friend Mr.
+      A&mdash;&mdash;m, of Flower-de-luce Court, in Fleet Street, will
+      forgive my mention of him in particular. I can truly say that I
+      never spent a quarter of an hour under his hands without deriving
+      some profit from the agreeable discussions which are always going
+      on there.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      This characteristic pensiveness in them being so notorious, I
+      wonder none of those writers, who have expressly treated of
+      melancholy, should have mentioned it. Burton, whose book is an
+      excellent abstract of all the authors in that kind who preceded
+      him, and who treats of every species of this malady, from the
+      <i>hypochondriacal</i> or <i>windy</i> to the <i>heroical</i> or
+      <i>love-melancholy</i>, has strangely omitted it. Shakspeare
+      himself has overlooked it. "I have neither the scholar's
+      melancholy (saith Jaques), which is emulation; nor the
+      courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is politic;
+      nor the lover's, which is all these:" and then, when you might
+      expect him to have brought in, "nor the tailor's, which is," so
+      and so, he comes to an end of his enumeration, and falls to a
+      defining of his own melancholy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had so fair an
+      opportunity of bringing it in, in his <i>Penseroso</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But the partial omissions of historians proving nothing against
+      the existence of any well-attested fact, I shall proceed and
+      endeavor to ascertain the causes why this pensive turn should be
+      so predominant in people of this profession above all others.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And first, may it not be, that the custom of wearing apparel
+      being derived to us from the fall, and one of the most mortifying
+      products of that unhappy event, a certain <i>seriousness</i> (to
+      say no more of it) may in the order of things have been intended
+      to be impressed upon the minds of that race of men to whom in all
+      ages the care of contriving the human apparel has been intrusted,
+      to keep up the memory of the first institution of clothes, and
+      serve as a standing remonstrance against those vanities which the
+      absurd conversion of a memorial of our shame into an ornament of
+      our persons was destined to produce? Correspondent in some sort
+      to this, it may be remarked, that the tailor sitting over a cave
+      or hollow place, in the caballistic language of his order is said
+      to have <i>certain melancholy</i> regions always open under his
+      feet.&mdash;But waiving further inquiry into final causes, where
+      the best of us can only wander in the dark, let us try to
+      discover the efficient causes of this melancholy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I think, then, that they may be reduced to two, omitting some
+      subordinate ones, viz.:
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        The sedentary habits of the tailor.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Something peculiar in his diet.&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      First, his <i>sedentary habits</i>.&mdash;In Dr. Norris's famous
+      narrative of the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, the patient, being
+      questioned as to the occasion of the swelling in his legs,
+      replies that it came "by criticism;" to which the learned doctor
+      seeming to demur, as to a distemper which he had never read of,
+      Dennis (who appears not to have been mad upon all subjects)
+      rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no distemper, but a noble
+      art; that he had sat fourteen hours a day at it; and that the
+      other was a pretty doctor not to know that there was a
+      communication between the brain and the legs.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      When we consider that this sitting for fourteen hours
+      continuously, which the critic probably practised only while he
+      was writing his "remarks," is no more than what the tailor, in
+      the ordinary pursuance of his art, submits to daily (Sundays
+      excepted) throughout the year, shall we wonder to find the brain
+      affected, and in a manner overclouded, from that indissoluble
+      sympathy between the noble and less noble parts of the body which
+      Dennis hints at? The unnatural and painful manner of his sitting
+      must also greatly aggravate the evil, insomuch that I have
+      sometimes ventured to liken tailors at their boards to so many
+      envious Junos, <i>sitting cross-legged to hinder the birth of
+      their own felicity</i>. The legs transversed thus [Illustration:
+      X lying on its side] crosswise, or decussated, was among the
+      ancients the posture of malediction. The Turks, who practise it
+      at this day, are noted to be a melancholy people.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Secondly, his <i>diet</i>.&mdash;To which purpose I find a most
+      remarkable passage in Burton, in his chapter entitled "Bad diet a
+      cause of melancholy." "Amongst herbs to be eaten (he says) I find
+      gourds, cucumbers, melons, disallowed; but especially CABBAGE. It
+      causeth troublesome dreams, and sends up black vapors to the
+      brain. Galen, <i>Loc. Affect</i>, lib. iii. cap. 6, of all herbs
+      condemns CABBAGE. And Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1, <i>animć
+      gravitatem facit</i>, it brings heaviness to the soul." I could
+      not omit so flattering a testimony from an author who, having no
+      theory of his own to serve, has so unconsciously contributed to
+      the confirmation of mine. It is well known that this last-named
+      vegetable has, from the earliest periods which we can discover,
+      constituted almost the sole food of this extraordinary race of
+      people.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      BURTON, <i>Junior</i>.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      HOSPITA
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      <a name="palat" id="palat">ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE
+      PLEASURES OF THE PALATE.</a>
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      MR. REFLECTOR,&mdash;My husband and I are fond of company, and
+      being in easy circumstances, we are seldom without a party to
+      dinner two or three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has
+      hitherto prevailed at our meetings; but there is a young
+      gentleman, a near relation of my husband's, that has lately come
+      among us, whose preposterous behavior bids fair, if not timely
+      checked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is too great a favorite
+      with my husband in other respects, for me to remonstrate with him
+      in any other than this distant way. A letter printed in your
+      publication may catch his eye; for he is a great reader, and
+      makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out. Indeed,
+      he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says
+      that he has a good deal of wit; but for my part I cannot say I am
+      any judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth
+      except for purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, sir,
+      this young gentleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence of
+      his palate. The first time he dined with us, he thought it
+      necessary to extenuate the length of time he kept the dinner on
+      the table, by declaring that he had taken a very long walk in the
+      morning, and came in fasting; but as that excuse could not serve
+      above once or twice at most, he has latterly dropped the mask
+      altogether, and chosen to appear in his own proper colors,
+      without reserve or apology.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way
+      of staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has absolutely
+      something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man
+      of fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I
+      am positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking
+      they have consciousness, and will be put out of countenance, he
+      treats them so like what they are not.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the
+      table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has
+      what he calls <i>done with it</i>. Now how awkward this looks,
+      where there are ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector,&mdash;how
+      it disturbs the order and comfort of a meal. And yet I always
+      make a point of helping him first, contrary to all good
+      manners,&mdash;before any of my female friends are helped, that
+      he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat before he comes
+      out.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      What makes his proceedings more particularly offensive at our
+      house is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is
+      obliged to set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet
+      himself and his whole family (myself included) feed entirely on
+      vegetables. We have a theory, that animal food is neither
+      wholesome nor natural to man; and even vegetables we refuse to
+      eat until they have undergone the operation of fire, in
+      consideration of those numberless little living creatures which
+      the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the plant or root
+      before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our water, which
+      is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table. Our
+      children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to
+      see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs,
+      raisins, and <i>milk</i>, which is the only approach to animal
+      food which is allowed. They have no notion how the substance of a
+      creature that ever had life can become food for another creature.
+      A beefsteak is an absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in
+      terms; a cutlet, a word absolutely without any meaning; a butcher
+      is nonsense, except so far as it is taken for a man who delights
+      in blood, or a hero. In this happy state of innocence we have
+      kept their minds, not allowing them to go into the kitchen, or to
+      hear of any preparations for the dressing of animal food, or even
+      to know that such things are practised. But as a state of
+      ignorance is incompatible with a certain age, and as my eldest
+      girl, who is ten years old next Midsummer, must shortly be
+      introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where she
+      will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I
+      have been endeavoring by little and little to break her mind, and
+      prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced
+      upon it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see
+      her recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a
+      tale of Anthropophagism; but she has gradually grown more
+      reconciled to it, in some measure, from my telling her that it
+      was the custom of the world,&mdash;to which, however senseless,
+      we must submit, so far as we could do it with innocence, not to
+      give offence; and she has shown so much strength of mind on other
+      occasions, which I have no doubt is owing to the calmness and
+      serenity superinduced by her diet, that I am in good hopes when
+      the proper season for her <i>début</i> arrives, she may be
+      brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken, or a dish of
+      sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the
+      nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into
+      the economy of it,&mdash;what resolutions and turnings of things
+      upside down, the example of such a feeder as Mr.&mdash;&mdash;-
+      is calculated to produce.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every
+      kind of food is so painfully acknowledged, that <i>shame</i> has
+      no effect upon him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's Thoughts on
+      the Ratio of Food to Population? Can he think it reasonable that
+      one man should consume the sustenance of many?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are
+      not unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his
+      fortune is not over-large; and what prudent young woman would
+      think of embarking hers with a man who would bring three or four
+      mouths (or what is equivalent to them) into a family? She might
+      as reasonably choose a widower in the same circumstances, with
+      three or four children.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by all
+      accounts, were very moderate eaters; only I have heard that the
+      latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a
+      tedious custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes
+      after both.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and
+      give us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and,
+      particularly, of animal food.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      HOSPITA.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="edax" id="edax">EDAX ON APPETITE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h5>
+      TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      MR. REFLECTOR,&mdash;I am going to lay before you a case of the
+      most iniquitous persecution that ever poor devil suffered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You must know, then, that I have been visited with a calamity
+      ever since my birth. How shall I mention it without offending
+      delicacy? Yet out it must. My sufferings, then, have all arisen
+      from a most inordinate appetite&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Not for wealth, not for vast possessions,&mdash;then might I have
+      hoped to find a cure in some of those precepts of philosophers or
+      poets,&mdash;those verba et voces which Horace speaks of:&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      "quibus hunc lenire dolorem Possis, et magnam morbi deponere
+      partem;"
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      not for glory, not for fame, not for applause,&mdash;for against
+      this disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as
+      Pope has chosen to render it,
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      "Rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied, Will cure the arrant'st
+      puppy of his pride;"
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      nor yet for pleasure, properly so called: the strict and virtuous
+      lessons which I received in early life from the best of
+      parents,&mdash;a pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no
+      more,&mdash;I trust have rendered me sufficiently secure on that
+      side:&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No, Sir, for none of these things; but an appetite, in its
+      coarsest and least metaphorical sense,&mdash;an appetite for
+      <i>food</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The exorbitances of my arrowroot and pappish days I cannot go
+      back far enough to remember; only I have been told that my
+      mother's constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home,
+      the woman who had the care of me for that purpose used to make
+      most extravagant demands for my pretended excesses in that kind;
+      which my parents, rather than believe anything unpleasant of me,
+      chose to impute to the known covetousness and mercenary
+      disposition of that sort of people. This blindness continued on
+      their part after I was sent for home, up to the period when it
+      was thought proper, on account of my advanced age, that I should
+      mix with other boys more unreservedly than I had hitherto done. I
+      was accordingly sent to boarding-school.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised.
+      The prying republic of which a great school consists soon found
+      me out: there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other
+      people's shoulders,&mdash;no good-natured maid to take upon
+      herself the enormities of which I stood accused in the article of
+      bread and butter, besides the crying sin of stolen ends of
+      puddings, and cold pies strangely missing. The truth was but too
+      manifest in my looks,&mdash;in the evident signs of inanition
+      which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in spite of the double
+      allowance which my master was privately instructed by my kind
+      parents to give me. The sense of the ridiculous, which is but too
+      much alive in grown persons, is tenfold more active and alert in
+      boys. Once detected, I was the constant butt of their
+      arrows,&mdash;the mark against which every puny leveller directed
+      his little shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and Thesauruses were
+      raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants. Ventri
+      natus&mdash;Ventri deditus,&mdash;Vesana gula,&mdash;Escarum
+      gurges,&mdash;Dapibus indulgens,&mdash;Non dans frćna
+      gulć,-Sectans lautć fercula mensć, resounded wheresoever I
+      passed. I led a weary life, suffering the penalties of guilt for
+      that which was no crime, but only following the blameless
+      dictates of nature. The remembrance of those childish reproaches
+      haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams. My school-days come again,
+      and the horror I used to feel, when in some silent corner,
+      retired from the notice of my unfeeling playfellows, I have sat
+      to mumble the solitary slice of gingerbread allotted me by the
+      bounty of considerate friends, and have ached at heart because I
+      could not spare a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some
+      favorite boy; for if I know my own heart, I was never
+      selfish,&mdash;never possessed a luxury which I did not hasten to
+      communicate to others; but my food, alas! was none; it was an
+      indispensable necessary; I could as soon have spared the blood in
+      my veins, as have parted that with my companions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Well, no one stage of suffering lasts forever: we should grow
+      reconciled to it at length, I suppose, if it did. The miseries of
+      my school-days had their end; I was once more restored to the
+      paternal dwelling. The affectionate solicitude of my parents was
+      directed to the good-natured purpose of concealing, even from
+      myself, the infirmity which haunted me. I was continually told
+      that I was growing, and the appetite I displayed was humanely
+      represented as being nothing more than a symptom and an effect of
+      that. I used even to be complimented upon it. But this temporary
+      fiction could not endure above a year or two. I ceased to grow,
+      but, alas! I did not cease my demands for alimentary sustenance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Those times are long since past, and with them have ceased to
+      exist the fond concealment&mdash;the indulgent
+      blindness&mdash;the delicate overlooking&mdash;the compassionate
+      fiction. I and my infirmity are left exposed and bare to the
+      broad, unwinking eye of the world, which nothing can elude. My
+      meals are scanned, my mouthfuls weighed in a balance; that which
+      appetite demands is set down to the account of gluttony&mdash;a
+      sin which my whole soul abhors&mdash;nay, which Nature herself
+      has put it out of my power to commit. I am constitutionally
+      disenabled from that vice; for how can he be guilty of excess who
+      never can get enough? Let them cease, then, to watch my plate;
+      and leave off their ungracious comparisons of it to the seven
+      baskets of fragments, and the supernaturally replenished cup of
+      old Baucis: and be thankful that their more phlegmatic stomachs,
+      not their virtue, have saved them from the like reproaches. I do
+      not see that any of them desist from eating till the holy rage of
+      hunger, as some one calls it, is supplied. Alas! I am doomed to
+      stop short of that continence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      What am I to do? I am by disposition inclined to conviviality and
+      the social meal. I am no gourmand: I require no dainties: I
+      should despise the board of Heliogabalus, except for its long
+      sitting. Those vivacious, long-continued meals of the latter
+      Romans, indeed, I justly envy; but the kind of fare which the
+      Curii and Dentati put up with, I could be content with. Dentatus
+      I have been called, among other unsavory jests. Doublemeal is
+      another name which my acquaintance have palmed upon me, for an
+      innocent piece of policy which I put in practice for some time
+      without being found out; which was&mdash;going the round of my
+      friends, beginning with the most primitive feeders among them,
+      who take their dinner about one o'clock, and so successively
+      dropping in upon the next and the next, till by the time I got
+      among my more fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or seven,
+      I have nearly made up the body of a just and complete meal (as I
+      reckon it), without taking more than one dinner (as they account
+      of dinners) at one person's house. Since I have been found out, I
+      endeavor to make up by a damper, as I call it, at home, before I
+      go out. But, alas! with me, increase of appetite truly grows by
+      what it feeds on. What is peculiarly offensive to me at those
+      dinner-parties is, the senseless custom of cheese, and the
+      dessert afterwards. I have a rational antipathy to the former;
+      and for fruit, and those other vain vegetable substitutes for
+      meat (meat, the only legitimate aliment for human creatures since
+      the Flood, as I take it to be deduced from that permission, or
+      ordinance rather, given to Noah and his descendants), I hold them
+      in perfect contempt. Hay for horses. I remember a pretty
+      apologue, which Mandeville tells, very much to this purpose, in
+      his Fable of the Bees:&mdash;He brings in a Lion arguing with a
+      Merchant, who had ventured to expostulate with this king of
+      beasts upon his violent methods of feeding. The Lion thus
+      retorts:&mdash;"Savage I am, but no creature can be called cruel
+      but what either by malice or insensibility extinguishes his
+      natural pity. The Lion was born without compassion: we follow the
+      instinct of our nature; the gods have appointed us to live upon
+      the waste and spoil of other animals, and as long as we can meet
+      with dead ones, we never hunt after the living; 'tis only man,
+      mischievous man, that can make death a sport. Nature taught your
+      stomach to crave nothing but vegetables.&mdash;(Under favor of
+      the Lion, if he meant to assert this universally of mankind, it
+      is not true. However, what he says presently is very
+      sensible.)&mdash;Your violent fondness to change, and greater
+      eagerness after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction
+      of animals without justice or necessity. The Lion has a ferment
+      within him, that consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as
+      well as the flesh of all animals without exception. Your
+      squeamish stomach, in which the digestive heat is weak and
+      inconsiderable, won't so much as admit of the most tender parts
+      of them, unless above half the concoction has been performed by
+      artificial fire beforehand; and yet what animal have you spared,
+      to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite? Languid, I say;
+      for what is man's hunger if compared with the Lion's? Yours, when
+      it is at the worst, makes you faint; mine makes me mad: oft have
+      I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it, but in
+      vain: nothing but large quantities of flesh can any ways appease
+      it."&mdash;Allowing for the Lion not having a prophetic instinct
+      to take in every lusus naturć that, was possible of the human
+      appetite, he was, generally speaking, in the right; and the
+      Merchant was so impressed with his argument that, we are told, he
+      replied not, but fainted away. O, Mr. Reflector, that I were not
+      obliged to add, that the creature who thus argues was but a type
+      of me! Miserable man! <i>I am that Lion!</i> "Oft have I tried
+      with roots and herbs to allay that violence, but in vain; nothing
+      but&mdash;&mdash;."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Those tales which are renewed as often as the editors of papers
+      want to fill up a space in their unfeeling columns, of great
+      eaters,&mdash;people that devour whole geese and legs of mutton
+      <i>for wagers</i>,&mdash;are sometimes attempted to be drawn to a
+      parallel with my case. This wilful confounding of motives and
+      circumstances, which make all the difference of moral or immoral
+      in actions, just suits the sort of talent which some of my
+      acquaintance pride themselves upon. <i>Wagers</i>!&mdash;I thank
+      Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could consent to prostitute a
+      gift (though but a left-handed one) of nature, to the enlarging
+      of my worldly substance; prudent as the necessities, which that
+      fatal gift have involved me in, might have made such a
+      prostitution to appear in the eyes of an indelicate world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction of that talent which
+      was given me, I have been content to sacrifice no common
+      expectations; for such I had from an old lady, a near relation of
+      our family, in whose good graces I had the fortune to stand, till
+      one fatal evening&mdash;&mdash;. You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if
+      you have ever passed your time much in country towns, the kind of
+      suppers which elderly ladies in those places have lying <i>in
+      petto</i> in an adjoining parlor, next to that where they are
+      entertaining their periodically invited coevals with cards and
+      muffins. The cloth is usually spread some half-hour before the
+      final rubber is decided, whence they adjourn to sup upon what may
+      emphatically be called <i>nothing</i> ;&mdash;a sliver of ham,
+      purposely contrived to be transparent to show the china-dish
+      through it, neighboring a slip of invisible brawn, which abuts
+      upon something they call a tartlet, as that is bravely supported
+      by an atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a grain of potted
+      beef, with a power of such dishlings, <i>minims of
+      hospitality</i>, spread in defiance of human nature, or rather
+      with an utter ignorance of what it demands. Being engaged at one
+      of these card-parties, I was obliged to go a little before
+      <i>supper-time</i> (as they facetiously called the point of time
+      in which they are taking these shadowy refections), and the old
+      lady, with a sort of fear shining through the smile of courteous
+      hospitality that beamed in her countenance, begged me to step
+      into the next room and take something before I went out in the
+      cold,&mdash;a proposal which lay not in my nature to deny.
+      Indignant at the airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in
+      a trice dispatched the whole meal intended for eleven
+      persons,&mdash;fish, flesh, fowl, pastry,&mdash;to the sprigs of
+      garnishing parsley, and the last fearful custard that quaked upon
+      the board. I need not describe the consternation, when in due
+      time the dowagers adjourned from their cards. Where was the
+      supper?&mdash;and the servants' answer, Mr. &mdash;&mdash; had
+      eat it all.&mdash;That freak, however, jested me out of a good
+      three hundred pounds a year, which I afterwards was informed for
+      a certainty the old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not in
+      illustration of the unhappy faculty which I am possessed of; for
+      any unlucky wag of a school-boy, with a tolerable appetite, could
+      have done as much without feeling any hurt after it,&mdash;only
+      that you may judge whether I am a man likely to set my talent to
+      sale, or to require the pitiful stimulus of a wager.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I have read in Pliny, or in some author of that stamp, of a
+      reptile in Africa, whose venom is of that hot, destructive
+      quality, that wheresoever it fastens its tooth, the whole
+      substance of the animal that has been bitten in a few seconds is
+      reduced to dust, crumbles away, and absolutely disappears: it is
+      called, from this quality, the Annihilator. Why am I forced to
+      seek, in all the most prodigious and portentous facts of Natural
+      History, for creatures typical of myself? <i>I am that snake,
+      that Annihilator:</i> "wherever I fasten, in a few
+      seconds&mdash;&mdash;."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      O happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very
+      thing, the excess of which is my torment! O fortunate, too
+      fortunate, if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not
+      give to exchange this fierce concoctive and digestive
+      heat,&mdash;this rabid fury which vexes me, which tears and
+      torments me,&mdash;for your quiet, mortified, hermit-like,
+      subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool, chastened
+      inclinations and coy desires for food!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this
+      unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the
+      physicians to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have
+      doubtless their eye upon me; and as I have been cut up alive by
+      the sarcasms of my friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the
+      probability that this animal frame, when its restless appetites
+      shall have ceased their importunity, may be cut up also (horrible
+      suggestion!) to determine in what system of solids or fluids this
+      original sin of my constitution lay lurking. What work will they
+      make with their acids and alkalines, their serums and coagulums,
+      effervescences, viscous matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious
+      juices, to explain that cause which Nature, who willed the effect
+      to punish me for my sins, may no less have determined to keep in
+      the dark from them, to punish them for their presumption!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you;
+      what can you do for me? Alas! I know too well that my case is out
+      of the reach of advice,&mdash;out of the reach of consolation.
+      But it is some relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of
+      misery; and some of my acquaintance, who may read my case in your
+      pages under a borrowed name, may be induced to give it a more
+      humane consideration than I could ever yet obtain from them under
+      my own. Make them, if possible, to <i>reflect</i>, that an
+      original peculiarity of constitution is no crime; that not that
+      which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but that which comes
+      out of it,&mdash;such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and taunts,
+      and ill-natured observations; and let them consider, if there be
+      such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery,
+      Innocent Adultery, &amp;c., whether there may not be also such a
+      thing as Innocent Gluttony.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I shall only subscribe myself,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Your afflicted servant,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      EDAX.
+    </p>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="frag" id="frag">CURIOUS FRAGMENTS,</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h4>
+      EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE-BOOK,
+    </h4>
+    <h5>
+      WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY
+      OF MELANCHOLY.
+    </h5>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h3>
+      EXTRACT I.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      I, Democritus Junior, have put my finishing pen to a tractate
+      <i>De Melancholia</i>, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I
+      blesse the Trinity, which hath given me health to prosecute my
+      worthlesse studies thus far, and make supplication, with a
+      <i>Laus Deo</i>, if in any case these my poor labours may be
+      found instrumental to weede out black melancholy, carking cares,
+      harte-grief, from the mind of man. <i>Sed hoc magis volo quam
+      expecto.</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I turn now to my book, <i>i nunc liber, goe forth, my brave
+      Anatomy, child of my brain-sweat</i>, and yee, <i>candidi
+      lectores</i>, lo! here I give him up to you, even do with him
+      what you please, my masters. Some, I suppose, will applaud,
+      commend, cry him up (these are my friends), hee is a <i>flos
+      rarus</i>, forsooth, a nonesuch, a Phoenix (concerning whom see
+      <i>Plinius</i> and <i>Mandeuille</i>, though <i>Fienus de
+      Monstris</i> doubteth at large of such a bird, whom
+      <i>Montaltus</i> confuting argueth to have been a man <i>malć
+      scrupulositatis</i>, of a weak and cowardlie faith:
+      <i>Christopherus a Vega</i> is with him in this). Others again
+      will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry down altogether
+      my collections, for crude, inept, putid, <i>post coenam scripta,
+      Coryate could write better upon a full meal</i>, verbose,
+      inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities,
+      <i>dogmata</i>, sentences of learneder writers which have been
+      before me, when as that first-named sort clean otherwise judge of
+      my labours to bee nothing else but a <i>messe of opinions</i>, a
+      vortex attracting indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, straw, wood,
+      excrement, an exchange, tavern, marte, for foreigners to
+      congregate, Danes, Swedes, Hollanders, Lombards, so many strange
+      faces, dresses, salutations, languages, all which <i>Wolfius</i>
+      behelde with great content upon the Venetian Rialto, as he
+      describes diffusedly in his book the World's Epitome, which
+      <i>Sannazar</i> so bepraiseth, <i>e contra</i> our Polydore can
+      see nothing in it; they call me singular, a pedant, fantastic,
+      words of reproach in this age, which is all too neoterick and
+      light for my humour.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One cometh to me sighing, complaining. He expected universal
+      remedies in my Anatomy; so many cures as there are
+      distemperatures among men. I have not put his affection in my
+      cases. Hear you his case. My fine Sir is a lover, an
+      <i>inamorata</i>, a Pyramus, a Romeo; he walks seven years
+      disconsolate, moping, because he cannot enjoy his miss,
+      <i>insanus amor</i> is his melancholy, the man is mad;
+      <i>delirat</i>, he dotes; all this while his Glycera is rude,
+      spiteful, not to be entreated, churlish, spits at him, yet
+      exceeding fair, gentle eyes (which is a beauty), hair lustrous
+      and <i>smiling</i>, the trope is none of mine, <i>Ćneas
+      Sylvius</i> hath <i>crines ridentes</i>&mdash;in conclusion she
+      is wedded to his rival, a boore, a <i>Corydon</i>, a rustic,
+      <i>omnino ignarus, he can scarce construe Corderius</i>, yet
+      haughty, fantastic, <i>opiniâtre</i>. The lover travels, goes
+      into foreign parts, peregrinates, <i>amoris ergo</i>, sees
+      manners, customs, not English, converses with pilgrims, lying
+      travellers, monks, hermits, those cattle, pedlars, travelling
+      gentry, <i>Egyptians</i>, natural wonders, unicorns (though
+      <i>Aldobrandus</i> will have them to be figments), satyrs,
+      semi-viri, apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial,
+      <i>pyramides</i>, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, which are
+      nothing but ivory as <i>Melancthon</i> judges, though
+      <i>Cornutus</i> leaneth to think them bones of dogs, cats, (why
+      not men?) which subtill priests vouch to have been saints,
+      martyrs, <i>heu Pietas!</i> By that time he has ended his course,
+      <i>fugit hora</i>, seven other years are expired, gone by, time
+      is he should return, he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired of
+      his friends, <i>favebant venti, Neptune is curteis</i>, after
+      some weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to town, greets his
+      family, kinsmen, <i>compotores, those jokers his friends that
+      were wont to tipple with him at alehouses</i>; these wonder now
+      to see the change, <i>quantum mutatus, the man is quite another
+      thing</i>, he is disenthralled, manumitted, he wonders what so
+      bewitched him, he can now both see, hear, smell, handle, converse
+      with his mistress, single by reason of the death of his rival, a
+      widow having children, grown willing, prompt, amorous, showing no
+      such great dislike to second nuptials, he might have her for
+      asking, no such thing, his mind is changed, he loathes his former
+      meat, had liever eat ratsbane, aconite, his humour is to die a
+      bachelour; marke the conclusion. In this humour of celibate seven
+      other years are consumed in idleness, sloth, world's pleasures,
+      which fatigate, satiate, induce wearinesse, vapours, <i>tćdium
+      vitć:</i> When upon a day, behold a wonder, <i>redit Amor</i>,
+      the man is as sick as ever, he is commenced lover upon the old
+      stock, walks with his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence,
+      moping he leans his head, face yellow, beard flowing and
+      incomposite, eyes sunken, <i>anhelus, breath wheezy and
+      asthmatical, by reason of over-much sighing:</i> society he
+      abhors, solitude is but a hell, what shall he doe? all this while
+      his mistresse is forward, coming, <i>amantissima, ready to jump
+      at once into his mouth</i>, her he hateth, feels disgust when she
+      is but mentioned, thinks her ugly, old, a painted Jesabeel,
+      Alecto, Megara, and Tisiphone all at once, a Corinthian Lais, a
+      strumpet, only not handsome; that which he affecteth so much,
+      that which drives him mad, distracted, phrenetic, beside himself,
+      is no beauty which lives, nothing <i>in rerum naturâ</i> (so he
+      might entertain a hope of a cure), but something <i>which is
+      not</i>, can never be, a certain <i>fantastic opinion</i> or
+      <i>notional image</i> of his mistresse, <i>that which she
+      was</i>, and that which hee thought her to be, in former times,
+      how beautiful! torments him, frets him, follows him, makes him
+      that he wishes to die.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      This Caprichio, <i>Sir Humourous</i>, hee cometh to me to be
+      cured. I counsel marriage with his mistresse, according to
+      Hippocrates his method, together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes,
+      and wild parsley, good in such cases, though Avicenna preferreth
+      some sorts of wild fowl, teals, widgeons, beccaficos, which men
+      in Sussex eat. He flies out in a passion, ho! ho; and falls to
+      calling me names, dizzard, ass, lunatic, moper, Bedlamite,
+      Pseudo-Democritus. I smile in his face, bidding him be patient,
+      tranquil, to no purpose, he still rages: I think this man must
+      fetch his remedies from Utopia, Fairy Land, Islands in the Moone,
+      &amp;c.
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      EXTRACT II.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      * * * * * Much disputacyons of fierce wits amongst themselves, in
+      logomachies, subtile controversies, many dry blows given on
+      either side, contentions of learned men, or such as would be so
+      thought, as <i>Bodinus de Periodis</i> saith of such an one,
+      <i>arrident amici ridet mundus</i>, in English, this man his
+      cronies they cocker him up, they flatter him, he would fayne
+      appear somebody, meanwhile the world thinks him no better than a
+      dizzard, a ninny, a sophist. * *
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      * * * Philosophy running mad, madness philosophizing, much
+      idle-learned inquiries, what truth is? and no issue, fruit, of
+      all these noises, only huge books are written, and who is the
+      wiser? * * * * * Men sitting in the Doctor's chair, we marvel how
+      they got there being <i>homines intellectűs pulverulenti</i> as
+      <i>Trincauellius</i> notes; they care not so they may raise a
+      dust to smother the eyes of their oppugners; <i>homines
+      parvulissimi</i>, as <i>Lemnius</i>, whom <i>Alcuin</i> herein
+      taxeth of a crude Latinism; dwarfs, minims, the least little men,
+      these spend their time, and it is odds but they lose their time
+      and wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble and retiring
+      Truth: Her they prosecute, her still they worship, <i>libant</i>,
+      they make libations, spilling the wine as those old Romans in
+      their sacrificials, <i>Cerealia, May games:</i> Truth is the game
+      all these hunt after, to the extreme perturbacyon and drying up
+      of the moistures <i>humidum radicale exsiccant</i>, as
+      <i>Galen</i>, in his counsel to one of these wear-wits,
+      brain-moppers, spunges saith. * * * and for all this <i>nunquam
+      metam attingunt</i>, and how should they? they bowle awry,
+      shooting beside the marke; whereas it should appear, that
+      <i>Truth absolute</i> on this planet of ours is scarcely to be
+      found, but in her stede <i>Queene Opinion</i> predominates,
+      governs, whose shifting and ever mutable <i>Lampas</i>, me
+      seemeth, is man's destinie to follow, she prćcurseth, she guideth
+      him, before his uncapable eyes she frisketh her tender lights,
+      which entertayne the child-man, untill what time his sight be
+      strong to endure the vision of <i>Very Truth</i>, which is in the
+      heavens, the vision beatifical, as <i>Anianus</i> expounds in his
+      argument against certain mad wits which helde God to be
+      corporeous; these were dizzards, fools, <i>gothamites</i>. * * *
+      * but and if <i>Very Truth</i> be extant indeede on earth, as
+      some hold she it is which actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye may
+      in vaine look for her in the learned universities, halls,
+      colleges. Truth is no Doctoresse, she takes no degrees at Paris
+      or Oxford, amongst great clerks, disputants, subtile Aristotles,
+      men <i>nodosi ingenii, able to take Lully by the chin</i>, but
+      oftentimes to such an one as myself, an <i>Idiota</i> or common
+      person, <i>no great things</i>, melancholizing in woods where
+      waters are, quiet places by rivers, fountains, whereas the silly
+      man expecting no such matter, thinketh only how best to delectate
+      and refresh his mynde continually with <i>Natura</i> her
+      pleasaunt scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie
+      gardens, parks, terraces, <i>Belvideres</i>, on a sudden the
+      goddesse herself <i>Truth</i> has appeared, with a shyning
+      lyghte, and a sparklyng countenance, so as yee may not be able
+      lightly to resist her. * * * * *
+    </p>
+    <h3>
+      EXTRACT III.
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs
+      and cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes,
+      according to <i>Villanovus</i> his prescription, who disallows
+      the use of meat in a morning as gross, fat, hebetant,
+      <i>feral</i>, altogether fitter for wild beasts than men, <i>e
+      contra</i> commendeth this herb-diete for gentle, humane, active,
+      conducing to contemplation in most men, I betook myselfe to the
+      nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in the
+      <i>suburbes</i>, as airiest, quietest, <i>loci musis
+      propriores</i>, free from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick
+      and base workes, workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles
+      of outlandish birds, fishes, crocodiles, <i>Indians</i>,
+      mermaids; adde quarrels, fightings, wranglings of the common
+      sort, <i>plebs</i>, the rabble, duelloes with fists, proper to
+      this island, at which the stiletto'd and secrete <i>Italian</i>
+      laughs.) Withdrawing myselfe from these buzzing and illiterate
+      vanities, with a <i>bezo las manos</i> to the city, I begin to
+      inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses <i>dilatis naribus</i> snort
+      the fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly
+      there crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull,
+      melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a
+      clearer atmosphere than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a
+      citty can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on
+      men's shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of
+      hearse, mourners, plumes, <i>mutć personć, those personate actors
+      that will weep if yee shew them a piece of silver;</i> none of
+      those customed civilities of children, kinsfolk,
+      <i>dependants</i>, following the coffin; he died a poore man, his
+      friends <i>accessores opum</i>, <i>those cronies of his that
+      stuck by him so long as he had a penny</i>, now leave him,
+      forsake him, shun him, desert him; they think it much to follow
+      his putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he
+      had any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his
+      son dies before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base,
+      dejected, miserable, &amp;c., or if he have any which survive
+      him, <i>sua negotia agunt</i>, they mind their own business,
+      forsooth, cannot, will not, find time, leisure, <i>inclination,
+      extremum munus perficere</i>, to follow to the pit their old
+      indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them, caressed them,
+      cockering them up, <i>quantum potuit</i>, as farre as his means
+      extended, while they were babes, chits, <i>minims</i>, hee may
+      rot in his grave, lie stinking in the sun <i>for them</i>, have
+      no buriall at all, they care not. <i>O nefas!</i> Chiefly I noted
+      the coffin to have been <i>without a pall</i>, nothing but a few
+      planks, of cheapest wood that could be had, <i>naked</i>, having
+      none of the ordinary <i>symptomata</i> of a funerall, those
+      <i>locularii</i> which bare the body having on diversely coloured
+      coats, <i>and none black:</i> (one of these reported the deceased
+      to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper, harboured and fed
+      in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to whose proper
+      burying-ground he was now going for interment.) All which when I
+      behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and incontinently I
+      fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, a <i>Croesus</i>, a
+      <i>Crassus</i>, <i>or as rich as Whittington</i>, what pompe,
+      charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall,
+      <i>ceremoniall-obsequies</i>, <i>obsequious ceremonies</i>, had
+      been thought too good for such an one; what store of panegyricks,
+      elogies, funeral orations, &amp;c., some beggarly poetaster,
+      worthy to be beaten for his ill rimes, crying him up, hee was
+      rich, generous, bountiful, polite, learned, a <i>Mćcenas</i>,
+      while as in very deede he was nothing lesse: what weeping,
+      sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kinsmen, friends,
+      relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for the
+      deceased; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts
+      (they care not if he had died a year ago); so many clients,
+      dependants, flatterers, <i>parasites, cunning Gnathoes</i>,
+      tramping on foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall
+      stand fairest with the successour; he mean time (like enough)
+      spurns them from him, spits at them, treads them under his foot,
+      will have nought to do with any such cattle. I think him in the
+      right: <i>Hoec sunt majora gravitate Heracliti. These follies are
+      enough to give crying Heraclitus a fit of the spleene.</i>"
+    </p>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="farce" id="farce">MR. H&mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE,
+      <br />
+      DECEMBER, 1806.
+    </h4>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      "Mr. H&mdash;&mdash;, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning
+      on the play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets
+      were filled with the buzz of persons asking one another if they
+      would go to see Mr. H&mdash;&mdash;, and answering that they
+      would certainly; but before night the gaiety, not of the author,
+      but of his friends and the town, was eclipsed, for thou wert
+      DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply mightst have lived.
+      Bet thou didst come to an untimely end for thy tricks, and for
+      want of a better name to pass them off&mdash;" <i>Theatrical
+      Examiner</i>.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      CHARACTERS.
+    </h4>
+    <pre>
+Mr. H&mdash;&mdash;              <i>Mr. Elliston</i>.
+BELVIL               <i>Mr. Bartley</i>.
+LANDLORD PRY         <i>Mr. Wewitzer</i>.
+MELESINDA            <i>Miss Mellon</i>.
+MAID TO MELESINDA    <i>Mrs. Harlowe</i>.
+Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &amp;c.
+</pre>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Scene</i>&mdash;BATH.
+    </h5>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        If we have sinn'd in paring down a name,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All civil, well-bred authors do the same.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Survey the columns of our daily writers&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You'll find that some Initials are great fighters.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Till half the Alphabet is up in arms.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where the dispensers of the public lash
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Soft penance give; a letter and a dash&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And loses half her grossness by curtailing.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Faux pas are told in such a modest way,&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "The affair of Colonel B&mdash;&mdash; with Mrs.
+        A&mdash;&mdash;"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You must forgive them&mdash;for what is there, say,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To such a very pressing Consonant?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or who poetic justice dares dispute,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Initials I am told have taken place
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Replies, "I'll come&mdash;but it don't rest with me&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O should this mincing fashion ever spread
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From names of living heroes to the dead,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As each loved syllable should melt away&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her Alexander turn'd into great A&mdash;&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A single C. her Cćsar to express&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S&mdash;&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H&mdash;&mdash;.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h2>
+      MR. H&mdash;&mdash;.
+    </h2>
+    <h4>
+      A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+    </h4>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h3>
+      ACT I.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters,
+      Gentlemen, &amp;c.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> MR. H.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. Yes, Sir.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> You have paid him?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled
+      up, no name, only blank&mdash;"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for
+      one pair of best hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name
+      he shall put in, who he shall say "Dr."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Why, Mr. H. to be sure.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms
+      about it. He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good
+      in law.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Rot his impertinence! Bid him put in
+      Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me with his scruples.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. I shall, Sir.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter a Waiter.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Waiter</i>. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and
+      a brace of pheasants for Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my
+      best respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me
+      out, with any name or no name.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter 2d Waiter.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter.</i> Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at
+      the door.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows
+      come for.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter.</i> He has sent up to know by what name your Honor
+      will please to be inserted.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving
+      out my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy
+      comforts of going anonymous.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit 2d Waiter.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter 3d Waiter.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>3d Waiter.</i> Two letters for Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> From ladies (<i>opens them</i>). This from
+      Melesinda, to remind me of the morning-call I promised; the
+      pretty creature positively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I
+      believe I must indulge her (<i>affectedly</i>). This from her
+      cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (<i>opening
+      it</i>),&mdash;Oh, "this evening"&mdash;"Tea and
+      cards"&mdash;(<i>surveying himself with complacency</i>). Dear
+      H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee
+      such a favorite among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to
+      the concealment of thy unfortunate&mdash;&mdash;pshaw!
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter 4th Waiter.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Waiter.</i> Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by
+      subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Waiter</i>. What name shall I tell him, Sir?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit 4th Waiter.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter 5th Waiter.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Waiter</i>. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a
+      private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered
+      his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head?
+      Now I shall be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known.
+      Well, tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and
+      send him away.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Waiter</i>. I would have done so, Sir; but the object of
+      his call now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Why, me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Me, me, me; who else, to be sure?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name
+      of his benefactor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot
+      be obliged to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he
+      must know the name, birth, parentage, and education of his
+      benefactor! I warrant you, next he will require a certificate of
+      one's good behavior, and a magistrate's license in one's pocket,
+      lawfully empowering so and so to&mdash;give an alms. Anything
+      more?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Waiter</i>. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the
+      county petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much
+      money, has sent to remind you of your promise to bail him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Neither of which I can do, while I have no name.
+      Here is more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one
+      can neither serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man
+      had better be without a nose, than without a name. I will not
+      live long in this mutilated, dismembered state; I will to
+      Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these vexations.
+      Melesinda! there is music in the name; but then, hang it! there
+      is none in mine to answer to it.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [Exit.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      (<i>While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been
+      observing him curiously</i>.)
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent.</i> Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>d Gent.</i> Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent.</i> Has he no more name?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>d Gent.</i> None that has yet transpired. No more! why, that
+      single letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all
+      the ladies in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is
+      already received into all the first families.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent.</i> Wonderful! yet, nobody know who he is, or where
+      he comes from!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>d Gent.</i> He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had
+      infinity; dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers
+      are all dying for fear the daughters should get him; and for the
+      daughters, he may command them as absolutely as&mdash;&mdash;.
+      Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent.</i> And is it possible that a mere anonymous&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>d Gent.</i> Phoo! that is the charm.&mdash;Who is he? and
+      what is he? and what is his name?&mdash;&mdash;The man with the
+      great nose on his face never excited more of the gaping passion
+      of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg, than this new-comer,
+      with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the
+      wives and maids of Bath; his simply having lodgings here, draws
+      more visitors to the house than an election. Come with me to the
+      Parade, and I will show you more of him.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE <i>in the Street. Mr. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen
+      for so many years? it must&mdash;it can be no other than Jack
+      <i>(going up to him).</i> My dear Ho&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H. (Stopping his mouth).</i> Ho&mdash;&mdash;! the devil.
+      Hush.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Why, sure it is&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be
+      nameless.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> My dear Ho&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H. (Stopping him).</i> Don't name it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Name what?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to
+      conceal it for a time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> I understand you&mdash;Creditors, Jack?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> No, I assure you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole
+      Chancery at your heels?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> You ha'n't taken a purse?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> To relieve you at once from all disgraceful
+      conjecture, you must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i> Ridiculous! 'tis true yours is none of the most
+      romantic; but what can that signify in a man?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> You must understand that I am in some credit with
+      the ladies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> With the ladies!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> And truly I think not without some pretensions. My
+      fortune&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your
+      appearance.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My figure&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Airy, gay, and imposing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My parts&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Bright.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My conversation&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> But then my name&mdash;damn my name!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Childish!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blessed with one which
+      sighing virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the
+      paternal. But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in
+      a wife) would endure to be called Mrs.&mdash;&mdash;?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina
+      Falconbridge, the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy
+      Potts? and Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous
+      appellative to Jack Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins,
+      and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is
+      bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are
+      really ashamed of the family-name?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Ay, and of my father that begot me, and my father's
+      father, and all their forefathers that have borne it since the
+      Conquest.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. But how do you know the women are so squeamish?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither
+      maiden of sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their
+      noses at it. I have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine
+      relicts, and two old maids.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. That was hard indeed, Jack.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because
+      they averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered
+      their consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name;
+      and rivals have declined my challenges, because they pretended it
+      was an ungentlemanly name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. Ha, ha, ha! but what course do you mean to pursue?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who
+      will be content to take me as Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. Mr. H.?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one
+      likes to be as near the truth as possible.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. Certainly. But what then? to get her to
+      consent&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. To accompany me to the altar without a
+      name&mdash;in short, to suspend her curiosity (that is all) till
+      the moment the priest shall pronounce the irrevocable charm,
+      which makes two names one.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. And that name&mdash;and then she must be pleased,
+      ha, Jack?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet
+      with; hark'e (<i>whispers</i>)&mdash;(<i>musing</i>). Yet, hang
+      it! 'tis cruel to betray her confidence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. But the family-name, Jack?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. As you say, the family-name must be perpetuated.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Though it be but a homely one.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> True; but come, I will show you the house where
+      dwells this credulous melting fair.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Ha, ha! my old friend dwindled down to one letter.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>An Apartment in</i> MELESINDA'S <i>House.</i>
+      MELESINDA <i>sola, as if musing.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by
+      its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name;
+      nor Horatio, that is no surname: what if it be Hamlet? the Lord
+      Hamlet&mdash;pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No,'tis
+      none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding
+      name, or Howard, high-born Howard, that would do; maybe it is
+      Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But
+      I hear him! and from his own lips I will once forever be
+      resolved.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter Mr. H.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My dear Melesinda.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> My dear H. that is all you give me power to
+      swear allegiance to,&mdash;to be enamored of inarticulate sounds,
+      and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the
+      disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be
+      revealed. Call it whim, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have
+      sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over,
+      to disclose my true name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless
+      curiosity which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it
+      whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know
+      it this very night.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this
+      one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H.
+      shall not have a secret to withhold.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine
+      away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but
+      what shall I call you till we are married?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay
+      Love: Love will do very well.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. How many syllables is it, Love?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a
+      vengeance! One, two, three, four,&mdash;what does it signify how
+      many syllables?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. How many syllables, Love?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to
+      this childish curiosity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. How many letters are there in it?
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit</i> MR. H. <i>followed by</i> MELESINDA <i>repeating the
+      question</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter</i>. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter</i>. The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. The Hammonds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter</i>. Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin, with
+      an H?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. So does Hammond for that matter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter</i>. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it, I did
+      not think of that. I begin to be of your opinion: he is certainly
+      a Hammond.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. Here comes Susan Chambermaid: maybe she can
+      tell.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> SUSAN.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. Well, Susan, have you heard anything who the strange
+      gentleman is?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. Haven't you heard? it's all come out! Mrs.
+      Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been here about it. I
+      overheard her talking in confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs.
+      Pointer, and she says they were holding a sort of a
+      <i>cummitty</i> about it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. What? What?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from
+      his <i>figger</i> and the appearance he cuts, and his
+      <i>sumpshous</i> way of living, and above all from the remarkable
+      circumstance that his surname should begin with an H., that he
+      must be&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. Well, well&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. Neither more nor less than the Prince.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. Prince!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. Very likely, very likely.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell
+      says she knows it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Waiter</i>. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of
+      Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Waiter</i>. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Susan</i>. Fiddle of the newspapers; who else can it be?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Both</i>. That is very true (<i>gravely</i>).
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> LANDLORD.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all?
+      The London coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat
+      passenger, has been bawling for somebody to help him off with his
+      boots.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      (<i>Solus</i>.) The house is turned upside down since the strange
+      gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and
+      speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into
+      corners and speculating; hostlers and stable-boys speculating in
+      the yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating
+      too, for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them
+      to eat, and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no;
+      and after all what does it signify? I hate such
+      curious&mdash;odso, I must take this box up into his
+      bedroom&mdash;he charged me to see to it myself;&mdash;I hate
+      such inquisitive&mdash;I wonder what is in it&mdash;it feels
+      heavy; (<i>reads</i>) "Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here now a
+      man might satisfy his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to
+      them, so must leases and wills. But I wouldn't&mdash;no I
+      wouldn't&mdash;it is a pretty box too&mdash;prettily
+      dovetailed&mdash;I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd cut my
+      fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty&mdash;what have I to
+      do&mdash;curse the keys, how they rattle!&mdash;rattle in one's
+      pockets&mdash;the keys and the half-pence (<i>takes out a bunch
+      and plays with them</i>). I wonder if any of these would fit; one
+      might just try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did.
+      Oh no, what should I be the richer for knowing? (<i>All this time
+      he tries the keys one by one.</i>) What's his name to me? a
+      thousand names begin with an H. I hate people that are always
+      prying, poking and prying into things,&mdash;thrusting their
+      finger into one place&mdash;a mighty little hole this&mdash;and
+      their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but what
+      is that to me? I wouldn't go to&mdash;no, no&mdash;but it is odd
+      little rusty should just happen&mdash;(<i>While he is turning up
+      the lid of the box,</i> Mr. H. <i>enters behind him
+      unperceived.</i>)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> What are you about, you dog?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Oh Lord, Sir I pardon; no thief, as I hope to be
+      saved. Little Pry was always honest.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> What else could move you to open that box?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole
+      truth. This box happened to be lying&mdash;that is, I happened to
+      be carrying this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and
+      so&mdash;little rusty happened to fit&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> So little rusty happened to fit!&mdash;and would
+      not a rope fit that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been
+      moved: all is safe, but it was as well to frighten him a little
+      (<i>aside</i>). Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, and
+      suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish
+      curiosity&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> For this time I will pass it over. Your name is
+      Pry, I think?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> An apt name: you have a prying temper&mdash;I mean
+      some little curiosity&mdash;a sort of inquisitiveness about you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord</i>. A natural thirst after knowledge you may call
+      it, Sir. When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up
+      the lids of some of my schoolfellows' boxes,&mdash;not to steal
+      anything, upon my honor, Sir,&mdash;only to see what was in them;
+      have had pens stuck in my eyes for peeping through keyholes after
+      knowledge; could never see a cold pie with the legs dangling out
+      at top, but my fingers were for lifting up the crust,&mdash;just
+      to try if it were pigeon or partridge,&mdash;for no other reason
+      in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the
+      pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed,
+      more than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short,
+      Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping
+      into some bureau or other just to see what is in it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I
+      have had for peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside
+      out,&mdash;just for curiosity. The blankets I have been made to
+      dance in for searching parish registers for old ladies'
+      ages,&mdash;just for curiosity! Once I was dragged through a
+      horsepond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass-doors to
+      it, while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing,&mdash;just for
+      curiosity!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now,
+      Mr. Pry, first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and
+      then do me the favor to carry your curiosity so far, as to
+      inquire if my servants are within.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,&mdash;I
+      think I hear them coming,&mdash;shall make bold to leave you,
+      Sir.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going
+      anonymous!
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter Two Footmen.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> You speak first.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> You had better speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> You promised to begin.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> They have something to say to me. The rascals want
+      their wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favor to be
+      asked when they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a
+      hard bargain at the best. I think I must not be close with them.
+      Well, David&mdash;well, Jonathan.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> We have served your honor faithfully&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> Hope your honor won't take offence&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> The old story, I suppose&mdash;wages?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> That's not it, your honor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> You speak.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> But if your honor would just be pleased
+      to&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> Only be pleased to&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in
+      haste.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> Just to&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> Let us know who it is&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> Who it is we have the honor to serve.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Why me, me, me; you serve me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master,
+      a gay master, an indulgent master?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman.</i> Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your
+      poor servants, the principal mortification.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman.</i> When we get over a pot at the publichouse, or
+      in a gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must
+      have their pleasures&mdash;when the question goes round, who is
+      your master? and who do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord
+      So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman</i>. We have nothing to say for it, but that we
+      serve Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman</i>. Or Squire H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Really you are a couple of pretty modest,
+      reasonable personages! but I hope you will take it as no offence,
+      gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate review of all that you have
+      said, I think fit not to tell you any more of my name, than I
+      have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to the rest of
+      the world.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman</i>. Why, then, Sir, you may suit yourself.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman</i>. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman</i>. We don't choose to serve Mr. H.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Footman</i>. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Footman</i>. That lives in Chris-cross Row.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive,
+      senseless rascals! Go; hang, starve, or drown!&mdash;Rogues, to
+      speak thus irreverently of the alphabet&mdash;I shall live to see
+      you glad to serve old Q&mdash;to curl the wig of great
+      S&mdash;adjust the dot of little i&mdash;stand behind the chair
+      of X, Y, Z&mdash;wear the livery of Etcćtera&mdash;and ride
+      behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and!
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit in a rage</i>.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      ACT II.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards,
+      &amp;c.&mdash;A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them
+      MELESINDA.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. I wonder when the charming man will be here.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3d Lady</i>. Such an air in all that he does or says&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Lady</i>. Yet gifted with a strong understanding&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Lady</i>. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what
+      his true name is?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. They say, his very servants do not know it. His
+      French valet, that has lived with him these two years&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right;
+      my coachman&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. I have it from the very best authority; my
+      footma&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean
+      ways of coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret
+      of that consequence.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling
+      my head with nobody's business but my own.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. But then, she takes care to make everybody's
+      business her own, and so to justify herself that way&mdash;
+      (<i>Aside</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. Nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. Give it a name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. Perhaps it is nameless.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. As the object&mdash;Come, never blush, nor deny
+      it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles
+      at your bosom?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. This? It is a cross: how do you like it?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world
+      like a great staring H.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      <i>(Here a general laugh.)</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross,
+      and nothing but a cross.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda</i>. Intolerable spite!
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      <i>(MR. H. is announced.)</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter MR. H.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. O, Mr. H., we are so glad&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. We have been so dull&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3rd Lady</i>. So perfectly lifeless&mdash;You owe it to us to
+      be more than commonly entertaining.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Ladies, this is so obliging&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Lady</i>. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying,
+      pretty things, they have got up&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Lady</i>. I have worked that sprig you commended&mdash;I
+      want you to come&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Ladies&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>6th Lady</i>. I have sent for that piece of music from London.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. The Mozart <i>(seeing
+      MELESINDA)</i>&mdash;Melesinda!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Several Ladies at once</i>. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you
+      shan't engross him all to yourself.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen
+      show signs of displeasure</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this
+      coxcomb is come.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Gent</i>. Damn him, I will affront him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to
+      one of these ladies.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Gent</i>. If we could be heard&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. <i>(Hums
+      an air.)</i> I am not my own master: positively I exist and
+      breathe but to be agreeable to these&mdash;Did you speak?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. And affects absence of mind&mdash;Puppy!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How
+      do you do, Lady Wearwell&mdash;how do? I did not see your
+      ladyship before&mdash;what was I about to
+      say&mdash;O&mdash;absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in
+      that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things&mdash;the most
+      mal-ŕ-propos&mdash;without meaning to give the least offence,
+      upon my honor&mdash;sheer absence of mind&mdash;things I would
+      have given the world not to have said.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. Do you hear the coxcomb?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. Great wits, they say&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. Your fine geniuses are most given&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3d Lady</i>. Men of bright parts are commonly too
+      vivacious&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at
+      a great Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is
+      strongly suspected of&mdash;being very rich, that's all. John, my
+      valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing
+      me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my
+      committing a <i>lapsus</i>, to take care in my conversation how I
+      made any allusion direct or indirect to presents&mdash;you
+      understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's
+      consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved with
+      tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or
+      so,&mdash;till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging
+      a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled
+      upon that expression of the poet, which calls them "fair
+      defects."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. It is Pope, I believe, who says it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects."
+      This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion
+      on the phrase&mdash;that led to an enumeration of all the various
+      words which might have been used instead of "defect," as want,
+      absence, poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not
+      been attending to the progress of the argument (as the denouement
+      will show) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by
+      some unfortunate connection of ideas, which the last fatal word
+      had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the
+      Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as
+      it seemed to the company) to put the question to him, Pray, sir,
+      what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees? You may guess
+      the confusion which followed.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. What a distressing circumstance!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Lady</i>. To a delicate mind&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3d Lady</i>. How embarrassing&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Lady</i>. I declare, I quite pity you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. Puppy!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged
+      my elbow; and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a
+      grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this
+      brought me to myself, and&mdash;covered with blushes, and pitied
+      by all the ladies&mdash;I withdrew.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. How charmingly he tells a story.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady</i>. But how distressing!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr.H</i>. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend,
+      was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I
+      shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the
+      occasion&mdash;speaking of absence of mind, my foible&mdash;says
+      he, my dear Hogs&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Several Ladies</i>. Hogs&mdash;what&mdash;ha&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr.H</i>. My dear Hogsflesh&mdash;my name&mdash;(<i>here a
+      universal scream</i>)&mdash;O my cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I
+      mean&mdash;where was I?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. Filthy&mdash;abominable!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady</i>. Unutterable!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3rd Lady</i>. Hogs&mdash;foh!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>4th Lady</i>. Disgusting!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>5th Lady</i>. Vile!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>6th Lady</i>. Shocking!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady</i>. Odious!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady</i>. Hogs&mdash;pah!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3rd Lady</i>. A smelling-bottle&mdash;look to Miss Melesinda.
+      Poor thing! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her,
+      Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her
+      circumstances.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Gent</i>. The compliments of the season to you, Mr.
+      Hogsflesh.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr.H</i>. This is too much&mdash;flesh and blood cannot endure
+      it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. What flesh?&mdash;hog's-flesh?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Gent</i>. How he sets up his bristles!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. Bristles!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent</i>. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. A hog!&mdash;Madam!&mdash;(<i>here he severally
+      accosts the Ladies, who by turns repel him</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Lady</i>. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions;
+      but don't want a partner.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>d Lady</i>. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe
+      I shall remain single.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>d Lady</i>. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but
+      have no thoughts of altering my condition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      4<i>th Lady</i>. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but
+      you must not look for anything further.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      5<i>th Lady</i>. No doubt of your ability to make any woman
+      happy; but have no thoughts of changing my name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      6<i>th Lady</i>. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your
+      insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the
+      wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with
+      him?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Lady</i>. Must beg you to be less particular in your
+      addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after
+      forbidden meats?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H</i>. I shall go mad!&mdash;to be refused by old Mother
+      Damnable&mdash;she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was
+      ever manned or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy; her
+      juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of
+      tradition!&mdash;Old Mother Damnable!
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>The Street</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      BELVIL <i>and another Gentleman</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i>. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account
+      which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the
+      assembly, would be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to
+      hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not
+      the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair
+      sex, he has an abundant share of good-nature, and is a man of
+      honor. Notwithstanding all that has happened, Melesinda may do
+      worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as
+      you say?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gent.</i> O intolerably&mdash;they fled him as fearfully when
+      'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly
+      discovered to have marks of the plague, and as fast; when before
+      they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil</i> Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these
+      women's favorites commonly hold their envied preëminence. Well, I
+      must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him
+      at the inn.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gent.</i> Either there or at Melesinda's&mdash;Adieu!
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;Mr. H&mdash;&mdash;'s <i>Apartment.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H. (solus.)</i> Was ever anything so mortifying? to be
+      refused by old Mother Damnable!&mdash;with such parts and
+      address,&mdash;and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for
+      a name, a sound.&mdash;Oh my cursed name! that it was something I
+      could be revenged on! if it were alive, that I might tread upon
+      it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it
+      out&mdash;for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or
+      an Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.&mdash;Mynheer
+      Van Hogsflesh,&mdash;or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,&mdash;or Sir Phelim
+      O'Hogsflesh,&mdash;but downright blunt&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;. If
+      it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it.
+      If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb,
+      Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch,
+      Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or the name
+      of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black, Gray,
+      White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month, as
+      March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the
+      name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession,
+      as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler,
+      Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a
+      personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom,
+      Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as
+      Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib,
+      Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or
+      Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had been something, but Ho&mdash;-.
+      (<i>Walks about in great agitation&mdash;recovering his calmness
+      a little, sits down.</i>)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the
+      finger-circling ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining
+      bridemaids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell
+      the ambiguous blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the
+      morning-stirring drum.&mdash;No son of mine shall exist, to bear
+      my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a
+      boy. No midwife, leering at me from under the lids of
+      professional gravity. I dreamed of caudle.&mdash;(<i>Sings in a
+      melancholy tone.</i>) Lullaby,
+      Lullaby,&mdash;hush-a-by-baby&mdash;how like its papa it
+      is!&mdash;(<i>Makes motions as if he was nursing.</i>) And then,
+      when grown up, "Is this your son, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of
+      me, a sad young dog,&mdash;just what his father was at his
+      age,&mdash;I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> LANDLORD.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all
+      my things got ready.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue
+      Boar,&mdash;sorry anything has happened.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> He has heard it all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Your Honor has had some mortification to be
+      sure, as a man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine
+      market.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Pigs!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind
+      it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose
+      he don't mean to affront me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> What is done can't be undone; you can't make a
+      silken purse out of a sow's ear.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but
+      augment it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Does but <i>hogment</i> it, indeed, Sir.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H. Hogment</i> it! damn it, I said augment it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of
+      fine phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Lard!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Suppose they do smoke you&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Smoke me!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my
+      meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express
+      yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the
+      same; it is all pork.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> That's another of your phrases, I presume.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Bell rings, and the Landlord called for.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Landlord.</i> Anon, anon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Oh, I wish I were anonymous.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt several ways.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>Melesinda's Apartment.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      MELESINDA <i>and Maid.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid.</i> Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a
+      foolish&mdash;what signifies a name? Hogs&mdash;Hogs&mdash;what
+      is it&mdash;is just as good as any other, for what I see.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in
+      the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the
+      few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy,
+      doubly edge the&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid.</i> Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's
+      not hog by nature, that don't follow&mdash;his name don't make
+      him anything, does it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor
+      squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate,
+      as other Christians do; you never see him go to the
+      trough&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her
+      intentions&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid.</i> For instance, Madam, my name is Finch&mdash;Betty
+      Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after
+      canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton&mdash;no, nor
+      you can't catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you come to
+      that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said
+      courted me&mdash;his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor; but
+      though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to
+      eat me.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> How fortunate that the discovery has been made
+      before it was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as
+      the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself
+      into an inextricable engagement before&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid.</i> No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a
+      pig in a poke&mdash;and what then? Oh, here he comes
+      creeping&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> MR. H. <i>abject.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      Go to her, Mr. Hogs&mdash;Hogs&mdash;Hogsbristles, what's your
+      name? Don't be afraid, man&mdash;don't give it up&mdash;she's not
+      crying&mdash;only <i>summat</i> has made her eyes red&mdash;she
+      has got a sty in her eye, I believe&mdash;&mdash; <i>(going.)</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> You are not going, Betty?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Maid.</i> O, Madam, never mind me&mdash;I shall be back in the
+      twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would
+      have betrayed your confidence&mdash;but it was love that prompted
+      him; who would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into
+      a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has
+      agreed to attach to a name&mdash;but with it you would have
+      shared a fortune not contemptible, and a heart&mdash;but 'tis
+      over now. That name he is content to bear alone&mdash;to go where
+      the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no
+      meaning&mdash;some spot where his native tongue has never
+      penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their
+      unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill
+      manners&mdash;where no Englishmen&mdash;<i>(Here</i> MELESINDA,
+      <i>who has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep
+      sigh.)</i> Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless,
+      unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated
+      sounds, and think them not inharmonious.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Who knows but among the female natives might be
+      found&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Sir! (<i>raising her head.</i>)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> One who would be more kind than&mdash;some
+      Oberea&mdash;Queen Oberea.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Oh!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal
+      esteem among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa?
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter Servant.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Servant.</i> Mr. Belvil.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> BELVIL.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Monomotopa (<i>musing.</i>)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face?
+      nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg
+      pardon, Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took
+      the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly
+      which a third person can adjust&mdash;not a word. Will you,
+      Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the
+      arbitrator&mdash;strange&mdash;hark'ee, Jack, nothing has come
+      out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it
+      is&mdash;somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it
+      yourself, have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my
+      heart&mdash;Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> No power of man can relieve me (<i>sighs</i>); but
+      it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root&mdash;here it will
+      lie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> No power of man? not a common man, I grant you:
+      for instance, a subject&mdash;it's out of the power of any
+      subject.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Gnawing at the root&mdash;there it will lie.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Such a thing has been known as a name to be
+      changed; but not by a subject&mdash;(<i>shows a Gazette</i>).
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Gnawing at the root&mdash;(<i>suddenly snatches the
+      paper out of</i> BELVIL'S <i>hand</i>)&mdash;ha! pish! nonsense!
+      give it me&mdash;what! (<i>reads</i>) promotions,
+      bankrupts&mdash;a great many bankrupts this week&mdash;there it
+      will lie. (<i>Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads.</i>)
+      "The King has been graciously pleased"&mdash;gnawing at the
+      root&mdash;"graciously pleased to grant unto John
+      Hogsflesh,"&mdash;the devil&mdash;"Hogsflesh, Esq., of Sty Hall,
+      in the county of Hants, his royal license and authority"&mdash;O
+      Lord! O Lord!&mdash;"that he and his issue"&mdash;me and my
+      issue&mdash;"may take and use the surname and arms of
+      Bacon"&mdash;Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon&mdash;"in
+      pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and
+      testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late uncle, as well as out
+      of grateful respect to his memory:"&mdash;grateful respect! poor
+      old soul&mdash;&mdash;-here's more&mdash;"and that such arms may
+      be first duly exemplified "&mdash;they shall, I will take care of
+      that&mdash;"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the
+      Herald's Office."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own
+      interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend,
+      that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of
+      your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the
+      happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing
+      him with a new claim to your favor, by the name of Mr. Bacon.
+      (<i>Takes their hands and joins them, which</i> MELESINDA
+      <i>seems to give consent to with a smile.</i>)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Generous Melesinda! my dear friend&mdash;"he and
+      his issue," me and my issue!&mdash;O Lord!&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Bacon, Bacon, Bacon&mdash;how odd it sounds! I
+      could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor
+      Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me
+      already.&mdash;Methinks I could look through Nature&mdash;there
+      was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,&mdash;I feel as if I could conjure
+      too&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter a Servant.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Servant.</i> Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door,
+      inquiring if you see company, Madam.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> "Surname and arms"&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Melesinda.</i> Show them up.&mdash;My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate
+      your joy.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the
+      Assembly.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady.</i> My dear Melesinda, how do you do?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady.</i> How do you do? We have been so concerned for
+      you&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Lady.</i> We have been so concerned&mdash;(<i>seeing
+      him</i>)&mdash;Mr. Hogsflesh&mdash;&mdash;-
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> There's no such person&mdash;nor there never
+      was&mdash;nor 'tis not fit there should be&mdash;"surname and
+      arms"&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> It is true what my friend would express; we have
+      been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this
+      gentleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The
+      succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length
+      decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his
+      deceased relative.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady.</i> I am sure we all join in hearty
+      congratulation&mdash;<i>(sighs).</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady.</i> And wish you joy with all our hearts&mdash;
+      <i>(heigh ho!)</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Lady.</i> And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many
+      years&mdash;<i>(cries).</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Belvil.</i> Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Lady.</i> Hope you intend to stay&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Lady.</i> With us some time&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Old Lady.</i> In these parts&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mr. H.</i> Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for
+      the favors you have lavished on me, and in particular for this
+      lady's <i>(turning to the old Lady)</i> good opinion, I rest your
+      debtor. As to any future favors&mdash;<i>(accosts them severally
+      in the order in which he was refused by them at the
+      assembly)</i>&mdash;Madam, shall always acknowledge your
+      politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner.
+      Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look
+      for anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in
+      your addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of
+      Bath and you
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        See, while you kindly mean to mortify
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your shafts have miss'd their aim&mdash;Hogsflesh has
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        saved his Bacon.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="poems" id="poems">POEMS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      DEDICATION[1]
+    </h3>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818.
+    </div>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h4>
+      TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      My Dear Coleridge,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend
+      designated by the title of <i>Works;</i> but such was the wish of
+      the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of
+      collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself
+      a volume containing the <i>early pieces,</i> which were first
+      published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you
+      and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle
+      (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater
+      Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and
+      proud recollection to me, came to be broken,&mdash;who snapped
+      the threefold cord,&mdash;whether yourself (but I know that was
+      not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,&mdash;or
+      whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious
+      bookseller was author of the separation,&mdash;I cannot
+      tell;&mdash;but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I
+      speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or
+      no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner,
+      dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in
+      his second volume, dwindled into prose and <i>criticism.</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years
+      come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life
+      itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we
+      read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow
+      dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no
+      Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the
+      general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I
+      should be sorry should be ever totally extinct&mdash;the memory
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Of summer days and of delightful years&mdash;"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ......
+      Inn,&mdash;when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,&mdash;and
+      you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of
+      poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "What words have I heard
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spoke at the Mermaid!"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that
+      time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is
+      the <i>same</i> who stood before me three-and-twenty years
+      ago&mdash;his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but
+      still shrouding the same capacious brain,&mdash;his heart not
+      altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original
+      form, though I have heard you complain of a certain
+      over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any
+      way of getting rid of the objection, without rewriting it
+      entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John
+      Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from
+      common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our
+      elder dramatists: Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then
+      a <i>first love</i>; and from what I was so freshly conversant
+      in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The
+      very time which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately
+      followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play,
+      that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of
+      the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it
+      had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the
+      language.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        I remain,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        My dear Coleridge,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i8">
+        Yours,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i4">
+        With unabated esteem,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i10">
+        C. LAMB.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h2>
+      POEMS
+    </h2>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="hestr" id="hestr">HESTER.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          When maidens such as Hester die,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Their place ye may not well supply,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though ye among a thousand try,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          With vain endeavor.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          A month or more hath she been dead,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet cannot I by force be led
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To think upon the wormy bed,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And her together.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          A springy motion in her gait,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A rising step, did indicate
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of pride and joy no common rate,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          That flush'd her spirit.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I know not by what name beside
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I shall it call:&mdash;if 'twas not pride,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          It was a joy to that allied,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          She did inherit.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which doth the human feeling cool,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Nature had blest her.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          A waking eye, a prying mind,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Ye could not Hester.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          My sprightly neighbor! gone before
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To that unknown and silent shore,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Some summer morning,
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A bliss that would not go away,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          A sweet fore-warning?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="lloyd" id="lloyd">TO CHARLES LLOYD.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Alone, obscure, without a friend,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          A cheerless, solitary thing,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          What offering can the stranger bring
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          That him in aught compensate may
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          For loves and friendships far away?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In brief oblivion to forego
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And be awhile with me content
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          For this a gleam of random joy
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          I feel the thanks I cannot speak.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And sweet the charm of matin bird;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Twas long since these estrangčd ears
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          The sweeter voice of friend had heard.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          In memory's ear in after-time
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          For, when the transient charm is fled,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And when the little week is o'er,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To cheerless, friendless, solitude
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          When I return, as heretofore;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Long, long, within my aching heart
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I'll think less meanly of myself,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="frend" id="frend">THE THREE FRIENDS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Three young maids in friendship met;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary, Martha, Margaret.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Margaret was tall and fair,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha shorter by a hair;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If the first excell'd in feature,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary, though to rival loth,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In their best gifts equall'd both.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They a due proportion kept;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Margaret joy'd when any good
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She of Martha understood;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And in sympathy for either
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary was outdone by neither.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thus far, for a happy space,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All three ran an equal race,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A most constant friendship proving,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Equally beloved and loving;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All their wishes, joys, the same;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sisters only not in name.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Fortune upon each one smiled,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As upon a fav'rite child;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Well to do and well to see
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Were the parents of all three;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Till on Martha's father crosses
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Brought a flood of worldly losses,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And his fortunes rich and great
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Changed at once to low estate:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Under which o'erwhelming blow
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha's mother was laid low;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She a hapless orphan left,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of maternal care bereft,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Trouble following trouble fast,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lay in a sick-bed at last.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          In the depth of her affliction
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha now receiv'd conviction,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That a true and faithful friend
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Can the surest comfort lend.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Night and day, with friendship tried,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ever constant by her side
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was her gentle Mary found,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With a love that knew no bound;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And the solace she imparted
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Saved her dying broken-hearted.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          In this scene of earthly things
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not one good unmixčd springs.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That which had to Martha proved
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A sweet consolation, moved
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Different feelings of regret
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In the mind of Margaret.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She, whose love was not less dear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor affection less sincere
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To her friend, was, by occasion
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of more distant habitation,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fewer visits forced to pay her;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When no other cause did stay her;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And her Mary living nearer,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Margaret began to fear her,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lest her visits day by day
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha's heart should steal away.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That whole heart she ill could spare her,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where till now she'd been a sharer.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From this cause with grief she pined,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Till at length her health declined.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All her cheerful spirits flew,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fast as Martha's gather'd new;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And her sickness waxčd sore,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Just when Martha felt no more.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Mary, who had quick suspicion
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of her alter'd friend's condition,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Seeing Martha's convalescence
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Less demanded now her presence,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With a goodness, built on reason,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Changed her measures with the season;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Went where she was wanted more;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All her care and thoughts were set
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Now to tend on Margaret.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary living 'twixt the two,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From her home could oft'ner go,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Either of her friends to see,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Than they could together be.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Truth explain'd is to suspicion
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Evermore the best physician.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Soon her visits had the effect;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All that Margaret did suspect,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From her fancy vanish'd clean;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She was soon what she had been,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And the color she did lack
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To her faded cheek came back.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wounds which love had made her feel,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Love alone had power to heal.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Martha, who the frequent visit
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With impatience waxčd cross,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All that Mary did confer
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          On her friend, thought due to her.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In her girlish bosom rise
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Little foolish jealousies,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which into such rancor wrought,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She one day for Margaret sought;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Finding her by chance alone,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She began, with reasons shown,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To insinuate a fear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whether Mary was sincere;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whence her actions did proceed.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For herself, she'd long been minded
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not with outsides to be blinded;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All that pity and compassion,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She believed was affectation;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In her heart she doubted whether
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary cared a pin for either.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She could keep whole weeks at distance,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And not know of their existence,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While all things remain'd the same;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But, when some misfortune came,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then she made a great parade
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of her sympathy and aid,&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not that she did really grieve,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          It was only <i>make-believe</i>,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And she cared for nothing, so
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She might her fine feelings show,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And get credit, on her part,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For a soft and tender heart.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          With such speeches, smoothly made,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She found methods to persuade
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Margaret (who being sore
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From the doubts she'd felt before,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was preparčd for mistrust)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To believe her reasons just;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which in Mary late she had;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Made her, in experience' spite,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Think her friend a hypocrite,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And resolve, with cruel scoff,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To renounce and cast her off.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          See how good turns are rewarded!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She of both is now discarded,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who to both had been so late
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Their support in low estate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All their comfort, and their stay&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Now of both is cast away.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But the league her presence cherish'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She, that was a link to either,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To keep them and it together,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Being gone, the two (no wonder)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That were left, soon fell asunder;&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some civilities were kept,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But the heart of friendship slept;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Love with hollow forms was fed,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But the life of love lay dead:&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A cold intercourse they held,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          After Mary was expell'd.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Two long years did intervene
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Since they'd either of them seen,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or, by letter, any word
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of their old companion heard,&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When, upon a day once walking,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of indifferent matters talking,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They a female figure met;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha said to Margaret,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "That young maid in face does carry
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A resemblance strong of Mary."
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Margaret, at nearer sight,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Own'd her observation right;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But they did not far proceed
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She&mdash;but, ah I how changed they view her
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From that person which they knew her!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And its matchless beauty marr'd:&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But enough was left to trace
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mary's sweetness&mdash;Mary's grace.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When her eye did first behold them,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How they blush'd!&mdash;but, when she told them,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How on a sick-bed she lay
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Months, while they had kept away,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And had no inquiries made
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If she were alive or dead;&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How, for want of a true friend,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She was brought near to her end,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And was like so to have died,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With no friend at her bedside;&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How the constant irritation,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Caused by fruitless expectation
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of their coming, had extended
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The illness, when she might have mended,&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then, O then, how did reflection
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Come on them with recollection!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All that she had done for them,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How it did their fault condemn!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          But sweet Mary, still the same,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Kindly eased them of their shame;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Spoke to them with accents bland,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Took them friendly by the hand;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Bound them both with promise fast.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not to speak of troubles past;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Made them on the spot declare
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A new league of friendship there;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which, without a word of strife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lasted thenceforth long as life.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha now and Margaret
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Strove who most should pay the debt
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which they owed her, nor did vary
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ever after from their Mary.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="drown" id="drown">TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS
+      DROWNED.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Smiling river, smiling river,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          On thy bosom sunbeams play;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Thou hast more deceit than they.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In thy channel, in thy channel,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Lies young Edward's corse: his bones
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Ever whitening, ever whitening,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          As thy waves against them dash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What thy torrent, in the current,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          As if senseless, as if senseless
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Things had feeling in this case;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What so blindly, and unkindly,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          It destroy'd, it now does grace.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="faces" id="faces">THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I loved a love once, fairest among women;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So might we talk of the old familiar faces,&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="helen" id="helen">HELEN.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          High-born Helen, round your dwelling
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          These twenty years I've paced in vain:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Hath been to glory in his pain.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          High-born Helen, proudly telling
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Stories of thy cold disdain;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I starve, I die, now you comply,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And I no longer can complain.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          These twenty years I've lived on tears,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Dwelling forever on a frown;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          I perish now you kind are grown.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Can I, who loved my beloved
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          But for the scorn "was in her eye,"
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Can I be moved for my beloved,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In stately pride, by my bedside,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          High-born Helen's portrait's hung;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Are nightly to the portrait sung.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Complaining all night long to her&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>Helen, grown old, no longer cold,</i>
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          <i>Said,</i> "You to all men I prefer."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="vision" id="vision">A VISION OF REPENTANCE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Where shady pathways to a valley led;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And all around the fountain brink were spread
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Forming a doubtful twilight&mdash;desolate and sad.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Disrobčd was of every earthly thought,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And straight became as one that knew not sin,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Or to the world's first innocence was brought;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          A most strange calm stole o'er my soothčd sprite;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          And eke with painful fingers she inwove
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "The willow garland, <i>that</i> was for her love,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And <i>these</i> her bleeding temples would adorn."
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          To whom when I addrest myself to speak,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the dark covert of that woody shade,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And why that lovely lady plainčd so;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive sound.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <hr />
+      <div class="poem">
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "Psyche am I, who love to dwell
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            In these brown shades, this woody dell,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Where never busy mortal came,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Till now, to pry upon my shame.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "At thy feet what dost thou see
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The waters of repentance be,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Which, night and day, I must augment
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            With tears, like a true penitent,
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "If haply so my day of grace
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Be not yet past; and this lone place,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            All thoughts but grief and penitence."
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!</i>
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            <i>And wherefore in this barren shade</i>
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            <i>Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?</i>
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            <i>Can thing so fair repentance need?"</i>
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "O! I have done a deed of shame,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And tainted is my virgin fame,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            In which my bridal robes were dight."
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>"And who the promised spouse? declare:</i>
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            <i>And what those bridal garments were."</i>
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "Severe and saintly righteousness
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Composed the clear white bridal dress;
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Bought with his blood the marriage ring.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "A wretched sinful creature, I
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Soon to these murky shades I came,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To hide from the sun's light my shame.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And still I haunt this woody dell,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And bathe me in that healing well,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Whose waters clear have influence
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And, night and day, I them augment,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            With tears, like a true penitent,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Until, due expiation made,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And fit atonement fully paid,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Where in sweet strains of high consent,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            God's throne before, the Seraphim
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            "Now Christ restore thee soon"&mdash;I said,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="dial" id="dial">DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          CHILD
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          No longer may you glory in your pride.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          MOTHER
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          This day I am to be a bride, you know,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          CHILD
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For you may never be another's bride.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          MOTHER
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For thou shalt be a second father's joy.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          CHILD.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          One father fondled me upon his knee.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          One father is enough, alone, for me.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="orian" id="orian">QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          On a bank with roses shaded,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Violets whose breath alone
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yields but feeble smell or none,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While o'erhead six slaves did hold
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Canopy of cloth o' gold,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And two more did music keep,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which might Juno lull to sleep,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Oriana, who was queen
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the mighty Tamerlane,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That was lord of all the land
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Between Thrace and Samarchand,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While the noontide fervor beam'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mused himself to sleep, and <i>dream'd</i>.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Thus far, in magnific strain,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A young poet soothed his vein,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But he had nor prose nor numbers,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To express a princess' slumbers.&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was deep versed in old romances,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And could talk whole hours upon
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The Great Cham and Prester John,&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Tell the field in which the Sophi
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From the Tartar won a trophy&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What he read with such delight of,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thought he could as eas'ly write of&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But his over-young invention
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Kept not pace with brave intention.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Twenty suns did rise and set,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And he could no further get;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But, unable to proceed,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Made a virtue out of need,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Did omit <i>what the queen dream'd of</i>.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="ballad" id="ballad">A BALLAD.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH
+      NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <i>To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."</i>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace Youth is still carest
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Does Age begin to prattle?&mdash;no man heark'neth to his
+          tales.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace if the child with a pin
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is
+          called in;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For want of proper cordials, which their old age might
+          cherish.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That none to do them injury may have pretence;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="hypo" id="hypo">HYPOCHONDRIACUS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          By myself walking,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To myself talking,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When as I ruminate
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          On my untoward fate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Scarcely seem I
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Alone sufficiently,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Black thoughts continually
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Crowding my privacy;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They come unbidden,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like foes at a wedding,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thrusting their faces
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In better guests' places,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Peevish and malecontent,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Clownish, impertinent,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Dashing the merriment:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So in like fashions
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Dim cogitations
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Follow and haunt me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Striving to daunt me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In my heart festering,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In my ears whispering,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "Thy friends are treacherous,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thy foes are dangerous,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thy dreams ominous."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Fierce Anthropophagi,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Spectra, Diaboli,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What scared St. Anthony,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hobgoblins, Lemures,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Dreams of Antipodes,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Night-riding Incubi,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Troubling the fantasy,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All dire illusions
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Causing confusions;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Figments heretical,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Scruples fantastical,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Doubts diabolical;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Abaddon vexeth me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mahu perplexeth me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lucifer teareth me&mdash;&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus
+          Inimici.</i>
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="tobac" id="tobac">A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          May the Babylonish curse
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Straight confound my stammering verse,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If I can a passage see
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In this word-perplexity,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or a fit expression find,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or a language to my mind,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (Still the phrase is wide or scant)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or in any terms relate
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Half my love, or half my hate:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For I hate, yet love, thee so,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That, whichever thing I show,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The plain truth will seem to be
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A constrain'd hyperbole,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And the passion to proceed
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          More from a mistress than a weed.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Sooty retainer to the vine,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thy begrimed complexion,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, for thy pernicious sake,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          More and greater oaths to break
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Than reclaimčd lovers take
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Much too in the female way,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Faster than kisses or than death.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That our worst foes cannot find us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And ill-fortune, that would thwart us.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Does like a smoking Etna seem,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And all about us does express
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (Fancy and wit in richest dress)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A Sicilian fruitfulness.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Thou through such a mist dost show us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That our best friends do not know us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, for those allowčd features,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Due to reasonable creatures,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Bacchus we know, and we allow
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That but by reflex canst show
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What his deity can do,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As the false Egyptian spell
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Aped the true Hebrew miracle
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The weak brain may serve to amaze,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But to the reins and nobler heart
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Canst nor life nor heat impart.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Brother of Bacchus, later born,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The old world was sure forlorn
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wanting thee, that aidest more
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The god's victories than before
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All his panthers, and the brawls
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of his piping Bacchanals.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          These, as stale, we disallow,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or judge of <i>thee</i> meant; only thou
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His true Indian conquest art;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, for ivy round his dart,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The reformčd god now weaves
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Scent to match thy rich perfume
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Chemic art did ne'er presume
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Through her quaint alembic strain,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          None so sov'reign to the brain.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nature, that did in thee excel,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Framed again no second smell.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Roses, violets, but toys
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For the smaller sort of boys,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or for greener damsels meant;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thou art the only manly scent.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Africa, that brags her foison,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Breeds no such prodigious poison,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Henbane, nightshade, both together,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hemlock, aconite&mdash;&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i10">
+          Nay, rather,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Such as perplex'd lovers use,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          At a need, when, in despair
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To paint forth their fairest fair,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or in part but to express
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That exceeding comeliness
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which their fancies doth so strike,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They borrow language of dislike;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, instead of Dearest Miss,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And those forms of old admiring,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Basilisk, and all that's evil,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not that she is truly so,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But no other way they know
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A contentment to express,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Borders so upon excess,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That they do not rightly wot
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whether it be pain or not.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Or, as men, constrain'd to part
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With what's nearest to their heart,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While their sorrow's at the height,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lose discrimination quite,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And their hasty wrath let fall,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To appease their frantic gall,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          On the darling thing whatever,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whence they feel it death to sever,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though it be, as they, perforce,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Guiltless of the sad divorce.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For thy sake, TOBACCO, I
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would do anything but die,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And but seek to extend my days
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Long enough to sing thy praise.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But, as she, who once hath been
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A king's consort, is a queen
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ever after, nor will bate
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Any tittle of her state,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though a widow, or divorced,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So I, from thy converse forced,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The old name and style retain,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A right Katherine of Spain;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And a seat, too,'mongst the joys
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where, though I, by sour physician,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Am debarr'd the full fruition
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of thy favors, I may catch
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some collateral sweets, and snatch
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sidelong odors, that give life
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And still live in the by-places
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And the suburbs of thy graces;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And in thy borders take delight,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          An unconquer'd Canaanite.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="child" id="child">TO T. L. H.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      A CHILD.
+    </h4>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Model of thy parent dear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Serious infant worth a fear:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In thy unfaltering visage well
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Picturing forth the son of TELL,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When on his forehead, firm and good,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Motionless mark, the apple stood;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Convict unconscious, culprit child!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Gates that close with iron roar
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have been to thee thy nursery door;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Chains that chink in cheerless cells
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Walls contrived for giant sin
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Her discordant house hath built,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And fill'd it with her monstrous brood&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sights, by thee not understood&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sights of fear, and of distress,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That pass a harmless infant's guess
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          But the clouds, that overcast
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thy young morning, may not last;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That yields thee up to Nature's power:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She shall recompense with cost
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For every lesson thou hast lost.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1]
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thou shalt take thy airy fill
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of health and pastime. <i>Birds shall sing</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>For thy delight each May morning.</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hardly less a lamb than they.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall be the horizon skirting round:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To make amends for wintry hours,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall from thy tender brow efface
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Each vestige of untimely care,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That sour restraint had graven there;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And on thy every look impress
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A more excelling childishness.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          So shall be thy days beguiled,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Hampstead.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      BALLAD.
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      <a name="german" id="german">FROM THE GERMAN.</a>
+    </h4>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And ever the forest maketh a moan:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Thus by herself she singeth alone,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i4">
+          Weeping right plenteously.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i4">
+          Living right lovingly."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="adull" id="adull">DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          David and his three captains bold
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Kept ambush once within a hold.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          It was in Adullam's cave,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nigh which no water they could have,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor spring, nor running brook was near
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then David, king of Israël,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Straight bethought him of a well,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which stood beside the city gate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          At Bethlem; where, before his state
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of kingly dignity, he had
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But now his fierce Philistine foe
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Encamp'd before it he does know.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Those three bold captains he addrest;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And wish'd that one to him would bring
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some water from his native spring.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His valiant captains instantly
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To execute his will did fly.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The mighty Three the ranks broke through
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of armed foes, and water drew
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For David, their beloved king,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          At his own sweet native spring.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Back through their arm'd foes they haste,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With the hard-earn'd treasure graced.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But when the good king David found
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What they had done, he on the ground
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The water pour'd ... "Because," said he,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "That it was at the jeopardy
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of your three lives this thing ye did,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That I should drink it, God forbid."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="salom" id="salom">SALOME.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Once on a charger there was laid,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And brought before a royal maid,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As price of attitude and grace,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A guiltless head, a holy face.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          It was on Herod's natal day,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who o'er Judea's land held sway.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He married his own brother's wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Wicked Herodias. She the life
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of John the Baptist long had sought,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Because he openly had taught
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That she a life unlawful led,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Having her husband's brother wed.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          This was he, that saintly John,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who in the wilderness alone
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Abiding, did for clothing wear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A garment made of camel's hair;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Honey and locusts were his food,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And he was most severely good.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He preachčd penitence and tears,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And waking first the sinner's fears,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Prepared a path, made smooth a way,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For his diviner Master's day.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          Herod kept in princely state
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His birthday. On his throne he sate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          After the feast, beholding her
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who danced with grace peculiar;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fair Salome, who did excel
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          All in that land for dancing well.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The feastful monarch's heart was fired,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And whatsoe'er thing she desired,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though half his kingdom it should be,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He in his pleasure swore that he
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would give the graceful Salome.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The damsel was Herodias' daughter:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She to the queen hastes, and besought her
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To teach her what great gift to name.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Instructed by Herodias, came
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The damsel back: to Herod said,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "Give me John the Baptist's head;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And in a charger let it be
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hither straightway brought to me."
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Herod her suit would fain deny,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But for his oath's sake must comply.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p class="i2">
+          When painters would by art express
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Beauty in unloveliness,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They fittest subject take to be.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They give thy form and features grace;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But ever in thy beauteous face
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          They show a steadfast cruel gaze,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          An eye unpitying; and amaze
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In all beholders deep they mark,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That thou betrayest not one spark
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of feeling for the ruthless deed,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That did thy praiseful dance succeed.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For on the head they make you look,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As if a sullen joy you took,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A cruel triumph, wicked pride,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That for your sport a saint had died.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="vinci" id="vinci">LINES</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.
+    </h4>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      LINES
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      <a name="titian" id="titian">ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO
+      MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN.</a>
+    </h4>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou pretty art and fair,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No need for Blanch her history to tell;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But when I look on thee, I only know
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="virgin" id="virgin">LINES</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h4>
+      ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN
+      OF THE ROCKS.
+    </h4>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        While young John runs to greet
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The greater Infant's feet,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of devout admiration,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor knows as yet the full event
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of those so low beginnings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From whence we date our winnings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But wonders at the intent
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But at her side
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An angel doth abide,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With such a perfect joy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As no dim doubts alloy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An intuition,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A glory, an amenity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Passing the dark condition
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of blind humanity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As if he surely knew
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All the blest wonder should ensue,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="same" id="same">ON THE SAME.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Maternal lady with the virgin grace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And thou a virgin pure.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Men look upon, they wish to be
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="sonnet" id="sonnet">SONNETS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <p>
+      I.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s1" id="s1">TO MISS KELLY.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That stoop their pride and female honor down
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To please that many-headed beast <i>the town</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You keep your native dignity of thought;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As tributes due unto your natural vein.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That vanish and return we know not how&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And please the better from a pensive face,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      II.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s2" id="s2">ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON
+      GARDEN.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To tread the land or waters with security.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s3" id="s3">III.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Was it some sweet device of Faëry
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Impregning with delights the charmčd air,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s4" id="s4">IV.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beloved! I were well content to play
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In gentle sort, on those who practise not
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or love or pity, though of woman born.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s5" id="s5">V.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her image only in these pleasant ways
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The cottage which did once my all contain;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s6" id="s6">VI.</a>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      THE FAMILY NAME.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I, a childless man, may end the same.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Received thee first amid the merry mocks
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s7" id="s7">VII.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        If from my lips some angry accents fell,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Let this my verse the poor atonement be&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An ear to the desponding lovesick lay,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s8" id="s8">VIII.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of changčd friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s9" id="s9">IX.</a>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        John, you were figuring in the gay career
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When I was yet a little peevish boy&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though time has made the difference disappear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Betwixt our ages, which <i>then</i> seem'd so great&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And still by rightful custom you retain
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Much of the old authoritative strain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And keep the elder brother up in state.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s10" id="s10">X.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And her rude visions give severe delight.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O wingčd bark! how swift along the night
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lightly of that drear hour the memory,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <a name="s11" id="s11">XI.</a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        We two did love each other's company:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I left the garb and manners of a child,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And my first love for man's society,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Defiling with the world my virgin heart&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In what delicious Eden to be found&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That I may seek thee the wide world around?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      <a name="blank" id="blank">BLANK VERSE</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="hood" id="hood">CHILDHOOD.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would throw away, and straight take up again,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="grand" id="grand">THE GRANDAME.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        On the green hill-top,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The name and date to the chance passenger.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Well-earn'd, the bread of service:&mdash;hers was else
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or aught unseemly. I remember well
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her reverend image; I remember, too,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With what a zeal she served her master's house;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of births, of titles, and alliances;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of marriages, and intermarriages;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Relationship remote, or near of kin;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of friends offended, family disgraced&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Parental strict injunction, and regardless
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She served her <i>heavenly Master</i>. I have seen
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And rankling malady. Yet not for this
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her trust in Him, her faith, an humble hope&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For she had studied patience in the school
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="sabba" id="sabba">THE SABBATH BELLS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their piercing tones fall <i>sudden</i> on the ear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of the contemplant, solitary man,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And baffles his pursuit&mdash;thought-sick and tired
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of controversy, where no end appears,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No clue to his research, the lonely man
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Half wishes for society again.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>Sudden!</i> his heart awakes, his ears drink in
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The cheering music; his relenting soul
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yearns after all the joys of social life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And softens with the love of human kind.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="fancy" id="fancy">FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the bright visions of empyreal light,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On mortal life, from sin and death forever.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="midni" id="midni">COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        From broken visions of perturbčd rest
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How total a privation of all sounds,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those are the meanings of the dying man,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And interrupted only by a cough
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So in the bitterness of death he lies,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What can that do for him, or what restore?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And little images of pleasures past,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of health, and active life&mdash;health not yet slain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "When night comes I shall get a little rest."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Fancy, most licentious on such themes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Discredit on the gospel's serious truths
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And salutary fears. The man of parts,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From damnčd spirits, and the torturing cries
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Belike his kindred or companions once&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Through everlasting ages now divorced,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In chains and savage torments to repent
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For those thus sentenced&mdash;pity might disturb
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The delicate sense and most divine repose
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No such inordinate difference and vast
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No man on earth is holy call'd: they best
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To him of his own works the praise, his due.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="woodv" id="woodv">JOHN WOODVIL;</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      A TRAGEDY.
+    </h3>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      CHARACTERS.
+    </h4>
+    <pre>
+SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
+  JOHN,   }
+  SIMON,  }<i>his sons</i>.
+
+  LOVELL, }
+  GRAY,   }<i>Pretended friends of John</i>.
+
+SANDFORD. <i>Sir Walter's old steward</i>.
+MARGARET. <i>Orphan Ward of</i> Sir Walter.
+FOUR GENTLEMEN. <i>John's riotous companions</i>.
+SERVANTS.
+</pre>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE&mdash;<i>for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in</i>
+      DEVONSHIRE; <i>at other times in the Forest of</i> SHERWOOD.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      TIME&mdash;<i>soon after the</i> RESTORATION.
+    </h5>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      ACT THE FIRST.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE&mdash;<i>A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants
+      drinking&mdash;</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      TIME, <i>the Morning</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      <i>A Song, by</i> DANIEL.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      "When the King enjoys his own again."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy
+      politics&mdash;at our master's table.&mdash;Where else should a
+      serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his
+      politics! excellent!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. That came to him by inheritance. His family have
+      supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves
+      and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world
+      without their conscience.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better.
+      I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the
+      purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries
+      thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests
+      of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own
+      particular jest among us?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of
+      me!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. See&mdash;if he hath not brought tears into the poor
+      fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. No offence, brother Martin&mdash;I meant none. 'Tis
+      true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased
+      to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a
+      jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to
+      understand my meaning.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but
+      never could endure bawdry.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. <i>Quot homines tot sententić.</i>
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. And what is that?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. I hope there is none between us.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (<i>Drinks</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. And to thee, Daniel. (<i>Drinks</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. And to thee, Peter. (<i>Drinks</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee.
+      (<i>Drinks</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. I shall be fuddled anon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. O! a shocking vice. (<i>They drink round</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. And makes the eyes red.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. And the tongue to stammer.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. And to blab out secrets.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>During this conversation they continue drinking</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when
+      they are drunk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Now I know I am going to be drunk.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. How canst tell, dry-bones?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a
+      sign.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [MARTIN <i>drops asleep</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Times are greatly altered, since young master took
+      upon himself the government of this household.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Greatly altered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. I think everything be altered for the better since
+      His Majesty's blessed restoration.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement
+      given to good housekeeping.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. None.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before
+      two in the afternoon.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Every man his allowance of ale at
+      breakfast&mdash;his quart!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. A quart!!
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>In derision.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like
+      beasts than what we were&mdash;discreet and reasonable
+      serving-men.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Like beasts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. (<i>Opening his eyes</i>.) Like beasts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. To sleep, wagtail!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has
+      found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him
+      since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young
+      master, being favored by the court, should not have interest to
+      procure his father's pardon?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old knight,
+      that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Now that is wilful.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall
+      apprehend him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. Well, I have my suspicions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. And so have I.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. And I can keep a secret.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. (<i>to PETER</i>.) Warwickshire, you mean.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Aside.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Perhaps not.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. Nearer, perhaps.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. I say nothing.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. I hope there is none in this company would be mean
+      enough to betray him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. O Lord, surely not.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>They drink to</i> SIR WALTER'S <i>safety</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Fran</i>. I have often wondered how our master came to be
+      excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. Shall I tell the reason?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Ay, do.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Dan</i>. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present
+      happy establishment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. O! monstrous!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Peter</i>. Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.&mdash;Do we,
+      or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by
+      reason of our being privy to this man's concealment?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Truly a sad consideration.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>To them enters</i> SANDFORD <i>suddenly</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Maintain'd for state, not use;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You lazy feasters at another's cost,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That eat like maggots into an estate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And do as little work.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Being indeed but foul excrescences,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You base and rascal imitators,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who act up to the height your master's vices,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Mar</i>. Whom does he call thin-face?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That I may brain the villain with my staff,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That seeks Sir Walter's life!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You miserable men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where your best wages was the world's repute,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have you forgot, too,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How often in old times
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This learn from me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall teach you better manners else.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Well, we are going.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Young Mistress Margaret coming this way.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt all but</i> SANDFORD
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> MARGARET, <i>as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman,
+      who, seeing</i> SANDFORD, <i>retires muttering a curse</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I saw you, lady, so intent was I
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Without debauch and mistimed riotings.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This house hath been a scene of nothing else
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But atheist riot and profane excess,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And free discourses of the dissolute men
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. Does my young master know of these affronts?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These things are best forgotten; but I knew
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And fought it out to the extremity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. 'Twere best he should be <i>told</i> of these
+      affronts.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I am the daughter of his father's friend,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sir Walter's orphan ward.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The opportunity of a gracious hearing.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Enquire the times and seasons when to put
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And sue to him for slow redress, who was
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Himself a suitor late to Margaret.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And joyful mistress of his youth.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Being fashion'd to her liking.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His heart, who won all hearts;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. He doth affect the courtier's life too much,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose art is to forget,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That was by nature noble.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With images of state, preferment, place,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I know not how it is;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A cold protector is John grown to me.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Can never stoop so low to supplicate
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which he was bound first to prevent;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His love, which long has been upon the wane.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For me, I am determined what to do:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. O lady, have a care
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You know not half the dangers that attend
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Portray without its terrors, painting <i>lies</i>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And representments of fallacious liberty;&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I have thought on every possible event,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of practicable schemes.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. But what course have you thought on?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have letters from young Simon,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Acquainting me with all the circumstances
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All which I have perused with so attent
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Two sounds now seem like one,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Tis you that must provide now
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The means of my departure, which for safety
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Must be in boy's apparel.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sand</i>. Since you will have it so
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (My careful age trembles at all may happen),
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I will engage to furnish you.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With garments to your size.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know a suit
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have the keys of all this house and passages,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And will provide a horse and trusty guide,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To bear you on your way to Nottingham.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. That once this day and night were fairly past!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt divers ways.</i>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      ACT THE SECOND.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      JOHN WOODVIL&mdash;<i>alone</i>. (<i>Reading parts of a
+      letter</i>).
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      "When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old
+      Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account <i>that</i>
+      dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter.
+      The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, not easily
+      wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all
+      releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of
+      me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of forced
+      love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      "MARGARET."
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or tells of joyful victories at sea,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His organs to emit a leaden sound,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which they in Heaven not use?&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So peevish, Margaret?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But 'tis the common error of your sex
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (As who of woman born can keep his faculty
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!&mdash;) this being the case,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which into maxims pass, and apothegms
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To be retail'd in ballads.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p class="i10">
+        I know them all.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They are jealous when our larger hearts receive
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For more disturbers of my sleep than one.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Love shall have part, but love shall not have all.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I could have loved her twenty years to come,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I shall not grudge so much&mdash;&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>To him enters</i> LOVEL.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest,
+      man, I thought you had been weeping.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced
+      some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I cannot conceive you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Margaret is flown.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Upon what pretence?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the
+      wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Then, you confess the charge?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. To say the truth, my love for her has of late
+      stopped short on this side idolatry.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. As all good Christians' should, I think.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the
+      limits of warrantable love.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd
+      about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. While each should feel, what neither cared to
+      acknowledge, that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose
+      some of their grace by the repetition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Which both of you may yet live long enough to
+      discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will
+      come back to you without a lure.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears
+      I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an
+      unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions;
+      not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just
+      provocation was given.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. What made you neglect her, then?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady
+      incident to young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else.
+      He that slighted her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy
+      sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these
+      humors.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter one drunk.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Drunken Man</i>. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I
+      am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk
+      with you to-morrow.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Drunken Man</i>. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly
+      question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days
+      in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously
+      pleased to be born. (<i>Sings.</i>) "Great pity 'tis such days as
+      those should come but once a year."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Drunken Man</i>. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell,
+      bully?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the
+      day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Drunken Man</i>. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and
+      tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup
+      to encourage it. (<i>Sings.</i>) "Ale that will make Grimalkin
+      prate."&mdash;At noon I drink for thirst, at night for
+      fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful
+      morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor.
+      (<i>Sings.</i>) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon
+      in tall men."&mdash;But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that
+      gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me
+      in the cellar.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. Who are they?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Drunken Man</i>. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland,
+      Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous
+      for me.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit singing.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood.</i> This keeping of open house acquaints a man with
+      strange companions.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter, at another door, Three calling for</i> HARRY FREEMAN.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He is not here. Let us go look for him.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where is Freeman?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where is Harry?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt the Three, calling for</i> FREEMAN.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood.</i> Did you ever see such gentry? (<i>laughing.</i>)
+      These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink
+      burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude
+      with quart bumpers after supper to prove their loyalty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Wood</i>. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I
+      will show you the <i>Vandyke</i> I have purchased. "The late King
+      taking leave of his children."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit</i> LOVEL.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John Wood</i>. (<i>alone.</i>) Now universal England getteth
+        drunk
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With which she jingling goes through all her towns and
+        villages.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The commonwealthsman, and state machinist.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who heareth of these visionaries now?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who live by observation, note these changes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I to myself am chief.&mdash;&mdash;I know,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In place of worship at the royal masques,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For none of these,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Do I affect the favors of the court.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I would be great, for greatness hath great <i>power</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And that's the fruit I reach at.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit.</i>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>Sherwood Forest.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (<i>Disguised as
+      Frenchmen.</i>)
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Grown proud upon the favors of the court;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Harbors a company of riotous men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And these have eat into my old estates,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But these so common faults of youth not named,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know no quality that stains his honor.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My life upon his faith and noble mind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Son John could never play thy father false.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. I never thought but nobly of my brother,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Touching his honor and fidelity.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still I could wish him charier of his person,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And of his time more frugal, than to spend
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In riotous living, graceless society,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In fervent pleadings for a father's life.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose shallow policy I know it is,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On these to build a spurious popularity.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        True to the letter of his paternal charge.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Men die but once, and the opportunity
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. I would not wrong my brother by surmise;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Incapable of base compliances,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No prodigal in his nature, but affecting
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This show of bravery for ambitious ends.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who seem the aborigines of this place,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The antique tale?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. There is much likelihood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Such bandits did in England erst abound,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When polity was young. I have read of the pranks
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On travellers, whatever their degree,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He robb'd the king himself.
+      </p>
+    </div><i>Simon</i>. A perilous man (<i>smiling</i>).
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. How quietly we live here,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unread in the world's business,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And take no note of all its slippery changes.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A little world,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And kings and subjects both in one.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which make the business of that greater world,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Must have no place in ours:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Humors particular,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      MARGARET <i>enters in boy's apparel</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. What pretty boy have we here?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. <i>Bon jour, messieurs</i>. Ye have handsome English
+      faces,
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        I should have ta'en ye else for other two,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I came to seek in the forest.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. Who are they?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        More than the manner of their countrymen.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. We have here a wonder.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The face is Margaret's face.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My Stephen sometime wore.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>To</i> Margaret.
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or know you what you seek?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. A worthy pair of exiles,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Two whom the politics of state revenge,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In final issue of long civil broils,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have houseless driven from your native France,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To wander idle in these English woods,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where now ye live; most part
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thinking on home and all the joys of France,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where grows the purple vine.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. These woods, young stranger,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where grows the purple vine?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. I cannot tell.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To an indifferent eye both show alike.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Tis not the scene,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But all familiar objects in the scene,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Our English earth less than your land of France,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old custom has made pleasant.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>.You, that are read
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So deeply in our story, what are you?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That put strange garments on, and came thus far
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To seek an ancient friend:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And having spent her stock of idle words,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And feeling some tears coming,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Kneeling</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. Yes, till her suit is answered.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. Name it.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She fears to ask it.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>.Some riddle, Margaret?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. No riddle, but a plain request.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. Name it.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Free liberty of Sherwood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Seal'd with an old man's tears.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Addressing them both</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p class="i12">
+        O you most worthy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You constant followers of a man proscribed,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What shall I say?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than death and life in disproportion meet.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Go, seek your fortunes, children.&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. Why, whither should we go?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. <i>You</i> to the court, where now your brother
+        John
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Commits a rape on Fortune.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. Luck to John!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. <i>You</i> to the sweet society of your equals,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids'
+        beauty.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There sweet humility withers.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. Mistress Margaret,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?
+      </p>
+    </div><i>Marg</i>. John was well, sir.
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. 'Tis now nine months almost,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or keeps he his first love?&mdash;I did suspect
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It is a scurvy brother.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. Fie upon it.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All men are false, I think. The date of love
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Hero and Leander.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. I have known some men that are too
+      general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a
+      <i>general</i> lover.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman
+      blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it
+      <i>you</i> love?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. Simply, all things that live,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That makes short holiday in the sunbeam,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With little wings, yet greatly venturous
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yon tall and elegant stag,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the water, where he drinks.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a
+      difference:&mdash;for example, some animals better than others,
+      some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the
+      cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and
+      asinine mule. Your humor goes to confound all qualities. What
+      sports do you use in the forest?&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Simon</i>. Not many; some few, as thus:&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And how the woods berries and worms provide
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To answer their small wants.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like bashful younkers in society.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. (<i>smiling</i>.) And, afterwards, them paint in
+      simile.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sir W</i>. Mistress Margaret will have need of some
+      refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. Indeed I stand in need of them.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Sir W</i>. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Upon the grass, no better carpeting,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        One of us shall repair to Nottingham,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By day, in the forest, expecting better times,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. <i>Allons</i>, young Frenchman&mdash;&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. <i>Allons</i>, Sir Englishman. The time has been
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And been enamor'd of rare poesy:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For Margaret has got new name and language new.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      THE THIRD.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Cavaliers drinking</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, <i>and four more</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen&mdash;Mr. Gray,
+      you are not merry.&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course.
+      What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for.
+      Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More
+      wine. (<i>Fills</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>1st Gent</i>. I entreat you, let there be some order, some
+      method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes
+      open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and
+      deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering
+      here, like clouds.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2nd Gent</i>. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn
+      order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let
+      confusion have her legitimate work.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks,
+      should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies,
+      should affect to see such virtues in cold water.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer
+      than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth,
+      unpressed in mortal wine-presses.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. What may be the name of this wine?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. It hath as many names as qualities. It is
+      denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration,
+      but its most royal and comprehensive name is <i>fancy</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet
+      deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching
+      a pride from the quality and neighborhood of their noble
+      relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and
+      fermentations of earth.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this
+      liquor?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper
+      element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite?
+      henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility,
+      content my mind with canaries.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      4<i>th Gent</i>. I am for a song or a catch. When will the
+      catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. They cannot be introduced with propriety before
+      midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are
+      not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Gentlemen, the Duke. (<i>Fills</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. The Duke. (<i>They drink</i>.)
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is
+      not this his Majesty's birthday?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. What follows?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask
+      no questions.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>nd Gent</i>. Damn politics, they spoil drinking.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>nd Gent</i>. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times
+      have been when swearing was out of fashion.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. And drinking.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent</i>. And wenching.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard
+      uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but
+      straight the air was thought to be infected.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that
+      trim puritan <i>Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech</i> used, when his
+      spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his
+      servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt
+      brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as
+      he termed it.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint
+      <i>Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman</i> was
+      overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visűs, and maintain his
+      sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit
+      the shapes of things.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha!
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Another round, and then let every man devise what
+      trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty
+      this day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Shall we hang a puritan?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>nd Gent</i>. Or fire a conventicle?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. That is stale too.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. Or burn the Assembly's catechism?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      4<i>th Gent</i>. Or drink the king's health, every man standing
+      upon his head naked?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John (to Lovel)</i>. We have here some pleasant madness.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      3<i>rd Gent</i>. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we
+      drink to the king upon our knees?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Why on our knees, Cavalier?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i> (<i>smiling</i>). For more devotion, to be sure.
+      (<i>To a servant</i>.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health,
+      kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first
+      appearance of the goblets.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How
+      the vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such
+      an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon
+      these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should
+      depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows
+      pluck at as well as we.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i> (<i>aside to Lovel</i>). Observe how he is ravished.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and
+      engender madness.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk</i>, JOHN
+      <i>advances to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have no allayings of mortality in them.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I am too hot now, and o'ercapable,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of human acts, and enterprises of a man.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I want some seasonings of adversity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent</i>. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>nd Gent</i>. Where is Woodvil?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes
+      before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i> (<i>continuing to soliloquize</i>). O for some
+        friend, now,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How fine and noble a thing is confidence,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How reasonable, too, and almost godlike!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old natural go-between in the world's business,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would presently rush back
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Into the pristine state of singularity,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And each man stand alone.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      (<i>A servant enters</i>.)
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Servant</i>. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      1<i>st Gent</i>. What be they?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. The work of London artists, which our host has
+      provided in honor of this day.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      2<i>nd Gent</i>. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a
+      rocket?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at
+      the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be
+      present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may
+      return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>3rd Gent</i>. There's reason in what he says.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>2d Gent</i>. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry
+      in that.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>They go out, singing. Only</i> LOVEL <i>remains, who
+      observes</i> WOODVIL.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i> (<i>still talking to himself</i>).
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This Lovel here's of a tough honesty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose sober morning actions
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shame not his o'ernight's promises;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Might trust her counsels of predestination with,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And the world be no loser.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why should I fear this man?
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Seeing</i> LOVEL.
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        Where is the company gone?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to
+      follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. I have been meditating this half hour,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On all the properties of a brave friendship,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>Exempli gratiâ</i>, how far a man
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his
+        cause.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I think many men would die for their friends.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A friend, sir, must do more.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Can he do more than die?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Having a law within (great spirits feel one)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Positive laws or ord'nances extern,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But may reject all these: by the law of friendship
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He may do so much, be they, indifferently,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As public fame, civil compliances,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Binding our morning knowledge to approve
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What last night's ignorance spake;)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sir, these weak terrors
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Must never shake me. I know what belongs
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I hope you think me worthy.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. You will smile to hear now&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sir Walter never has been out of the island.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. You amaze me.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. That same report of his escape to France
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was a fine tale, forged by myself&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ha! ha!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I knew it would stagger him.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i>. Pray, give me leave.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sure I may ask so much.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. From place to place, dwelling in no place long,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My brother Simon still hath borne him company,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues).
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where no soul knows them.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir
+      Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. I believe, a certain fondness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Chains him like fate.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i>. I have known some exiles thus
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To linger out the term of the law's indulgence,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the hazard of being known.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. You may suppose sometimes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their exercise and freer recreation.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. But some men have been known to talk in their
+        sleep,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And tell fine tales that way.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly
+      sleep alone.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Why do you question me, who know my habits?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. I think you are no sot
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But all men drink sometimes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And veriest saints at festivals relax,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink?
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Smiling</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i>. I shall observe it;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On holidays two quarts.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Or, stay; you keep no wench?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Ha!
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. No painted mistress for your private hours?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You keep no whore, sir?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. What does he mean?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And amorous praising of your worship's breath,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In rosy junction of four melting lips,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Can kiss out secrets from you?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i>. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sure, you think me some weak one.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Pray pardon me some fears.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I am a son&mdash;would fain be thought a loving one;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Touch not Sir Walter's life.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Kneels.</i>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        You see these tears. My father's an old man.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pray let him live.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i>. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Show most unhandsome in you.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i> (<i>rising</i>). Ha! do you say so?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But I'll not give you leave.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Draws.</i>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. What does this madman mean?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You must kill me, or I kill you.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i> (<i>drawing</i>). Then self-defence plead my
+        excuse.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have at you, sir.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>They fight.</i>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Stay, sir.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I hope you have made your will.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If not,'tis no great matter.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A broken cavalier has seldom much
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He can bequeath; an old worn peruke,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And if he's very rich,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A cheap edition of the <i>Icon Basilike</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You say few prayers, I fancy;&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      So to it again.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>They fight again.</i> LOVEL <i>is disarmed.</i>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i> (<i>musing</i>). No:&mdash;Men will say I fear'd
+        him, if I kill'd him.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But never act thy thought, being a coward.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still have the will without the power to execute.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So now I leave you,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Feeling a sweet security. No doubt
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My secret shall remain a virgin for you!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Goes out, smiling in scorn</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lovel</i> (<i>rising</i>). For once you are mistaken in your
+        man.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A bird let loose, a secret out of hand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To menace him who hath it in his keeping.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I will go look for Gray;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      ACT THE FOURTH.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>An Apartment in Woodvil Hall</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      JOHN WOODVIL. (<i>Alone</i>.)
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The unconcocted follies of last night.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Children of wine, go off like dreams.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This sick vertigo here
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And some, the most resolved fools of all,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>The Forest</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French
+      salutation.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than
+      as a poor disguise.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous
+      words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the
+      King's name.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against
+      our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. John has betrayed us, father.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know
+      you, sir.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than
+      trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly
+      retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his
+      footmen. A sort of bed and board worms&mdash;locusts that infest
+      our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and
+      princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my
+      brother's once noble heart.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. We are his friends.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will
+      triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father?
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Draws</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lovel</i>. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being
+      his son, yet the law must have its course.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course,
+      cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these
+      apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?&mdash;Will
+      you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your
+      nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Gray</i>. 'Tis a brave youth&mdash;I cannot strike at him.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Simon</i>. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands?
+      Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is
+      burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some
+      water; quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut?
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>They both slink off</i>.
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are
+      gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his
+      son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned and
+      distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their
+      graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and
+      hollow <i>talking</i> world, where good men decay, states turn
+      round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse; nothing
+      is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic
+      vanity.&mdash;Brother, adieu!
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        There lies the parent stock which gave us life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Bears in the body</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>Another Part of the Forest</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. (<i>alone</i>.) It was an error merely, and no
+        crime,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An unsuspecting openness in youth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That from his lips the fatal secret drew,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unveil'd by any man.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Well, he is dead!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And what should Margaret do in the forest?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O ill-starr'd John!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Take thy farewell of peace.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O never look again to see good days,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or ever think a happy thought again,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If what I have heard be true.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If he did tell these men.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In amity with thee, must for thy sake
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Abide the world's reproach. What then?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Against her friend? O undiscerning world,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No, not in thought! O never, never, John.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>For better or for worse</i>, thy Margaret comes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To pour into thy wounds a healing love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And wake the memory of an ancient friendship.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who, in compassion to the wretched living,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>Woodvil Hall.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      SANDFORD. MARGARET. (<i>As from a Journey</i>.)
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought
+      in him, who by nature is allied to nothing <i>less</i> than a
+      self-debasing humor of dejection, that I have never seen anything
+      more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory
+      resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours,
+      denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings,
+      and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief
+      (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern
+      in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of most manifest
+      affection, entertained and cherished.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. How bears he up against the common rumor?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives
+      not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate
+      and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and
+      yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost,
+      that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with
+      conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his
+      deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his
+      indiscretion made so.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to
+      which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the
+      declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him,
+      fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is
+      violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of
+      the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would
+      bear my presence?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness
+      of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night.
+      The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and
+      the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the
+      happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to
+      him, to you, and all of us.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this
+      received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a
+      resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country,
+      friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts
+      in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern
+      to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The
+      contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively
+      passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept
+      with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and
+      appeared to be touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but
+      the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring,
+      he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour
+      would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his
+      already oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these
+      intricate and widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon
+      me, as of sleep. How goes the night?&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand</i>. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your
+      limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and
+      then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. A good rest to us all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Sand.</i> Thanks, lady.
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      ACT THE FIFTH.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      JOHN WOODVIL. (<i>dressing</i>).
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. How beautiful (<i>handling his mourning</i>)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And comely do these mourning garments show!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By outward types the serious man within.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Alas! what part or portion can I claim
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which other mourners use? as namely,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This black attire, abstraction from society,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (That steal away the sense of loss almost,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Men's pity and good offices
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which enemies themselves do for us then,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Putting their hostile disposition off,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Pauses, and observes the pictures</i>.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        These pictures must be taken down:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The portraitures of our most ancient family
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Repeat by course their worthy histories,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But that was in old times.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now, no more
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Razed out the memory of an ancient family,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And quite reversed the honors of our house.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The secret history of his own times,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And fashions of the world when he was young:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Beauties of the court of James the First.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      MARGARET <i>enters</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And diminution of my honor's brightness.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That should be now forgotten.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Old times should never be forgotten, John.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I came to talk about them with my friend.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. If John rejected Margaret in his pride,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The offence no longer lives.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O Woodvil, those were happy days,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When we two first began to love. When first,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Under pretence of visiting my father,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Being then a stripling night upon my age,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You came a-wooing to his daughter, John.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Do you remember,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I kept the honors of my maiden pride?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I was your favorite then.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. O Margaret, Margaret!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These your submissions to my low estate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Could not so separate, but now in this
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My day of shame, when all the world forsake me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You only visit me, love, and forgive me.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the south gardens of my father's house,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There dwell
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        "Like hermit poor
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In pensive place obscure."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And make confession seven times a day
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I your saint the penance should appoint&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Aside, like an old fashion.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John.</i> O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I have no part in any good man's love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I fade and wither in my own esteem,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I was not always thus.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Weeps</i>.
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Thou noble nature,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. That John would think more nobly of himself,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        More worthily of high Heaven;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The less offence, with image of the greater,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thereby to work the soul's humility,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        John yet has many happy days to live;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To live and make atonement.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Excellent lady,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. (<i>rising</i>). Go whither, John?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Go in with me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. That I will, John.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>An inner Apartment</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <h5>
+      JOHN <i>is discovered kneeling</i>.&mdash;MARGARET <i>standing
+      over him</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i> (<i>rises</i>). I cannot bear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In tending such a broken wretch as I am.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. They are gone.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I can smile too, and I almost begin
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That were a sad indecency, you know.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. Nay, never fear.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I will be mistress of your humors,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And you shall frown or smile by the book.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And herein I shall be most peremptory,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg</i>. To give you in your stead a better self!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sir Rowland my father's gift,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I was a young thing then, being newly come
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Home from my convent education, where
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Did John salute his love, being newly seen!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And praised it in a youth.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Now Margaret weeps herself.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      (<i>A noise of bells heard</i>.)
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. Hark the bells, John.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John</i>. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. I know it.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. St. Mary Ottery, my native village
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In the sweet shire of Devon.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those are the bells.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg.</i> Wilt go to church, John?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>John.</i> I have been there already.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Marg.</i> How canst say thou hast been there already?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The bells are only now ringing for morning service,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And hast thou been at church already?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John.</i> I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And the first object I discern'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg.</i> Well, John.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John.</i> Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To go to church and pray with Christian people.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Not having been at church in all that time,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And is it fit, that now for the first time
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And then I at my own presumption smiled;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And then I wept that I should smile at all,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Having such cause of grief! I wept outright:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Tears like a river flooded all my face,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or was about to act unlawful business
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At that dead time of dawn,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Whether by negligence I knew not,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For all things felt like mystery.)
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Marg</i>. Yes.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>John</i>. So entering in, not without fear,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I passed into the family pew,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And covering up my eyes for shame,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And deep perception of unworthiness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where I so oft had kneel'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        More poignant than the first;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But afterwards was greatly comforted.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Even in the act and agony of tears,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all my sins forgiven.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="witch" id="witch">THE WITCH;</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
+    </h3>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      CHARACTERS.
+    </h4>
+    <h5>
+      OLD SERVANT <i>in the Family of</i> SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD.
+      STRANGER.
+    </h5>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Servant</i>. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was pacing to and fro in the avenue
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That westward fronts our house,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Three hundred years ago,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And begg'd an alms.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With angry chiding; but I can never think
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That he could use a woman, an old woman,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With such discourtesy; but he refused her&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And better had he met a lion in his path
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than that old woman that night;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For she was one who practised the black arts,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And with a frightful noise,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        ('Twas partly like a woman's voice,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She nothing said but this
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Sir Francis told the words):&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i4">
+        A mischief, mischief, mischief,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        And a nine-times killing curse,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i4">
+        And shuts up the womb of his purse.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      And still she cried&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i4">
+        A mischief,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        And a ninefold withering curse:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Both all that thou fearest and worse.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        So saying, she departed,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So he described it.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Stranger</i>. A terrible curse! What follow'd?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Servant</i>. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And sure I think
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He bore his death-wound like a little child;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His hand upon his heart to show the place,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And prick'd him with a pin.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And begg'd an alms.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Stranger</i>. But did the witch confess?
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <i>Servant</i>. All this and more at her death.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Stranger</i>. I do not love to credit tales of magic.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And this brave world
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (The mystery of God) unbeautified,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="album" id="album">ALBUM VERSES,</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+    </h3>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      DEDICATION.
+    </h3>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      TO THE PUBLISHER.
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      DEAR MOXON,
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more
+      properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of
+      them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the
+      <i>manner</i> in which Publications, intrusted to your future
+      care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the
+      "Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending
+      Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I
+      forget&mdash;you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my
+      hands sundry Copies of Verses written for <i>Albums</i>&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen
+      in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their
+      publication. They are simply&mdash;<i>Advertisement Verses</i>.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of
+      our honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a
+      Publisher. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long
+      enough to see his patronage justified? I venture to predict that
+      your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you
+      through the world.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p class="i10">
+        I am, Dear Moxon,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i12">
+        Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i14">
+        CHARLES LAMB.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        ENFIELD, <i>1st June</i>, 1839.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      ALBUM VERSES
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+    </h3>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="sgt" id="sgt">IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT
+      W&mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Had I a power, Lady, to my will,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your leaves with Autographs&mdash;resplendent names
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The hands of famous Lawyers&mdash;a grave band&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These should moot cases in your book, and vie
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To show their reading and their Sergeantry.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But I have none of these; nor can I send
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And want the courage to subscribe my own.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="dora" id="dora">TO DORA W&mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        An Album is a Banquet: from the store,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In his intelligential Orchard growing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        One shaking of the Tree&mdash;'twould ask no more
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To set a Salad forth, more rich than that
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A zealous, meek, <i>contributory</i> LAMB.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="lady" id="lady">IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        An Album is a Garden, not for show
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A List of living friends; a holier Room
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="edith" id="edith">IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH
+      S&mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        In Christian world MARY the garland wears!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="rotha" id="rotha">IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA
+      Q&mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        A passing glance was all I caught of thee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Time short: and salutations cursory,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thoughts&mdash;what the daughter of that Man should be,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Advancing still in stature, and in grace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And his paternal cares with usury pay.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I still retain the phantom, as I can;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And call the gentle image&mdash;Quillinan.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="orkney" id="orkney">IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE
+      ORKNEY.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          CANADIA! boast no more the toils
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of hunters for the furry spoils;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your whitest ermines are but foils
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          To brighter Catherine Orkney.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          That such a flower should ever burst
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From climes with rigorous winter curst!&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          We bless you, that so kindly nurst
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          This flower, this Catherine Orkney.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          We envy not your proud display
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of lake&mdash;wood&mdash;vast Niagara;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your greatest pride we've borne away.
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          How spared you Catherine Orkney?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To your reproach no more we tell:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Canadia, you repaid us well
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          With rearing Catherine Orkney.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          O Britain, guard with tenderest care
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The charge allotted to your share:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You've scarce a native maid so fair,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          So good, as Catherine Orkney.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="barton" id="barton">IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Little Book, surnamed of <i>white</i>,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Keep thy attribution right.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Never disproportion'd scrawl;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Ugly blot, that's worse than all;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          On thy maiden clearness fall!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          In each letter, here design'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Let the reader emblem'd find
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Neatness of the owner's mind.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Gilded margins count a sin,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Let thy leaves attraction win
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By the golden rules within;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Sayings fetch'd from sages old;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Worthy to be graved in gold:
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Lighter fancies not excluding:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sometimes mildly interluding
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Amid strains of graver measure:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Darker meanings of offence;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What but <i>shades</i>&mdash;be banish'd hence.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Candid meanings, best express
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mind of quiet Quakeress.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="towers" id="towers">IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE
+      TOWERS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How shall I find fit matter? with what face
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But at that name my cold muse waxes hot,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And swears that thou art such a one as he,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The pure reverse of this, and I mistake&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="miss" id="miss">IN THE ALBUM OF MISS &mdash;&mdash;.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      I.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Such goodness in your face doth shine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With modest look without design,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That I despair, poor pen of mine
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Can e'er express it.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To give it words I feebly try;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My spirits fail me to supply
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Befitting language for't, and I
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Can only bless it!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      II.
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A bashful Maiden's ear with news
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Praise sung so loudly.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of that same goodness you admire,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The best part is, she don't aspire
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To praise&mdash;nor of herself desire
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        To think too proudly.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="ownal" id="ownal">IN MY OWN ALBUM.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A young probationer of light,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have "written strange defeatures" there;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          And Time with heaviest hand of all,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like that fierce writing on the wall,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hath stamp'd sad dates&mdash;he can't recall;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          And error gilding worst designs&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like speckled snake that strays and shines&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Betrays his path by crooked lines;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          And vice hath left his ugly blot;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And good resolves, a moment hot,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fairly began&mdash;but finish'd not;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          And fruitless, late remorse doth trace&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Like Hebrew lore a backward pace&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Her irrecoverable race.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Disjointed numbers; sense unknit
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Compose the mingled mass of it.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          My scalded eyes no longer brook
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="misc" id="misc">MISCELLANEOUS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="angel" id="angel">ANGEL HELP[1]</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders,
+      Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female Saint;
+      who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother, has
+      fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In
+      another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the
+      emblem of purity.
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        This rare tablet doth include
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Poverty with sanctitude.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And yet the work is not half done,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which must supply from earnings scant
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A feeble bedrid parent's want.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Holy hands take up the task;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And do her earthly drudgery.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, waking, find thy labors done.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Angelic presence testifying,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That round her everywhere are flying;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ostents from which she may presume,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That much of heaven is in the room.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Skirting her own bright hair they run,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And to the sunny add more sun:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now on that aged face they fix,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Streaming from the Crucifix;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Prelibations, foretastes high,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And equal thoughts to live or die.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Tend with care that lily flower;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To its leaves and root infuse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of a crowning privilege.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Careful as that lily flower,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This maid must keep her precious dower;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Live a sainted maid, or die
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Martyr to virginity.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="infant" id="infant">ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS
+      BORN.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A curious frame of Nature's work.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For darker closets of the tomb!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She did but ope an eye, and put
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Through glasses of mortality.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Riddle of destiny, who can show
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What thy short visit meant, or know
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What thy errand here below?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shall we say, that Nature blind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Just when she had exactly wrought
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A finish'd pattern without fault?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Could she flag, or could she tire,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Life of health and days mature:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Woman's self in miniature!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Limbs so fair, they might supply
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That babe or mother, one must die;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So in mercy left the stock,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And cut the branch; to save the shock
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When Single State comes back again
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The economy of Heaven is dark;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        More brief than fly ephemeral,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And crabbed use the conscience sears
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In sinners of an hundred years.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Rites, which custom does impose,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Silver bells and baby clothes;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Coral redder than those lips,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which pale death did late eclipse;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Music framed for infants' glee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whistle never tuned for thee;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Let not one be missing; nurse,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        See them laid upon the hearse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why should kings and nobles have
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pictured trophies to their grave;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And we, churls, to thee deny
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A more harmless vanity?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="christ" id="christ">THE CHRISTENING.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Array'd&mdash;a half-angelic sight&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In vests of pure Baptismal white,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The mother to the Font doth bring
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The little helpless nameless thing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With hushes soft and mild caressing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At once to get&mdash;a name and blessing.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Close by the babe the Priest doth stand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Cleansing Water at his hand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which must assoil the soul within
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From every stain of Adam's sin.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor knows what all this wonder means;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And now he smiles, as if to say
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "I am a Christian made this day;"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Shrinking from the water cold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose virtues, rightly understood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strange words&mdash;The World, The Flesh, The Devil&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Poor Babe, what can it know of evil?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But we must silently adore
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mysterious truths, and not explore.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Enough for him, in after-times,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When he shall read these artless rhymes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If, looking back upon this day
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With quiet conscience, he can say&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "I have in part redeem'd the pledge
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of my Baptismal privilege;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And more and more will strive to flee
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="catec" id="catec">THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1]</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          While this tawny Ethiop prayeth,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Painter, who is she that stayeth
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By, with skin of whitest lustre,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sunny locks, a shining cluster,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Saint-like seeming to direct him
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the Power that must protect him?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or some Cherub?&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          They you mention
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Far transcend my weak invention.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Tis a simple Christian child,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Missionary young and mild,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Bible-taught without a college,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which by reading she could gather
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the common Parent, who
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Color not respects, nor hue.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          White and black in Him have part,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="birth" id="birth">TO A YOUNG FRIEND,</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My fancy to believe the almanac,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hastening to leave thy friends!&mdash;for which intent,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        After some thirty years, spent in such bliss
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As this earth can afford, where still we miss
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With her respected Grandsire may compare."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Grandchild of that respected Isola,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But they have died, and left thee, to advance
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To thee and thy deservings. That last strain
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Another cheerful goblet, while I say
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="going" id="going">SHE IS GOING.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          For their elder Sister's hair
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Martha does a wreath prepare
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of bridal rose, ornate and gay;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To-morrow is the wedding-day.
+        </p>
+        <p class="i8">
+          She is going.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Mary, youngest of the three,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Laughing idler, full of glee,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i10">
+          But she's going.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Vex not, maidens, nor regret
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Thus to part with Margaret.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Charms like yours can never stay
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Long within doors; and one day
+        </p>
+        <p class="i10">
+          You'll be going.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="sonns" id="sonns">SONNETS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="harm" id="harm">HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Emma brown, exuberant in talk.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With soft and Lady speech the first applies
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The mild correctives that to grace belong
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To her redundant friend, who her defies
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What music from your happy discord rises,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While your companion hearing each, and seeing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor this nor that, but both together, prizes;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That harmonies may be in things unlike!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="camb" id="camb">WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        I was not train'd in Academic bowers,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And to those learned streams I nothing owe
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Mine have been anything but studious hours.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And I walk <i>gowned</i>; feel unusual powers.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And my skull teems with notions infinite.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="blind" id="blind">TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN
+      <br />
+      "THE BLIND BOY."</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Unaided by the eye, expression's throne!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While each blind sense, intelligential grown
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All motionless and silent seem to moan
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The unseemly negligence of nature's hand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        O mistress of the passions; artist fine!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who dost our souls against our sense command,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Plucking the horror from a sightless face,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lending to blank deformity a grace.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="work" id="work">WORK.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Who first invented work, and bound the free
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And holiday-rejoicing spirit down
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the ever-haunting importunity
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of business in the green fields, and the town&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To plough, loom, anvil, spade&mdash;and oh! most sad
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To that dry drudgery at the&mdash;desk's dead wood?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who but the Being unblest, alien from good,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That round and round incalculably reel&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In that red realm from which are no returnings:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="leisr" id="leisr">LEISURE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which only works and business can redress:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But might I, fed with silent meditation,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>Improbus Labor</i>, which my spirits hath broke&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fling in more days than went to make the gem
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That crown'd the white top of Methusalem:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The heaven-sweet burden of eternity.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="short" />
+    <h4>
+      DEUS NOBIS HĆC OTIA FECIT.
+    </h4>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="esq" id="esq">TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Rogers, of all the men that I have known
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My mind an image of the cordial tone
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That of that threefold cord one precious link
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And not for every trifle harass them,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As some, divine and laic, too oft do.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This man's a private loss, and public too.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="gypsy" id="gypsy">THE GYPSY'S MALISON.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          "Suck, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          "Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          "Hang, baby, hang! mother's love loves such forces,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="commend" id="commend">COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="knowl" id="knowl">TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ.
+      <br />
+      ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Esteemed you a perfect specimen
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To teach us colder English how a friend's
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But nothing further had the gift to espy.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sudden you reappear. With wonder I
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Only to <i>his</i> inferior in the clean
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Almost without the aid language affords,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, <i>words</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Our tears on credit: and we find the cause
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some two hours after, spelling o'er again
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still snatch some new old story from the urns
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="cornw" id="cornw">TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,</a>
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Under the vizor of a borrow'd name;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Let things eschew the light deserving blame:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On the great world's antique glories we may look.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No longer then, as "lowly substitute,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains,"
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="every" id="every">TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY
+      BOOK."</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          In whose capacious all-embracing leaves
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The very marrow of tradition's shown;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And all that history&mdash;much that fiction&mdash;weaves.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          By every sort of taste your work is graced.
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With good old story quaintly interlaced&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          The theme as various as the reader's mind.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Yet kindly,&mdash;that the half-turn'd Catholic
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          And cannot curse the candid heretic.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, proudly conscious of a purer age,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Verse-honoring Phoebus, Father of bright <i>Days</i>,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Must needs bestow on you both good and many,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Who, building trophies of his Children's praise,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Dan Phoebus loves your book&mdash;trust me, friend
+          Hone&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          The title only errs, he bids me say:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown,
+        </p>
+        <p class="i2">
+          He swears,'tis not a work of <i>every day</i>.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="rogers" id="rogers">TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.
+      <br />
+      ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Consummate Artist, whose undying name
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With classic Rogers shall go down to fame,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Be this thy crowning work! In my young days
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How often have I, with a child's fond gaze,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I saw, and I believed the phantoms true.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But, above all, that most romantic tale[2]
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Did o'er my raw credulity prevail,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That serve at once for jackets and for wings.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In several ways distinct you make us feel&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>Graceful</i> as Raphael, as Watteau <i>genteel</i>.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Illustrations of the British Novelists.
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      2: Peter Wilkins.
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="marry" id="marry">TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Good sense&mdash;good humor;&mdash;these are trivial things,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Dear M&mdash;&mdash;, that each trite encomiast sings.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From every low-bred passion, where contempt,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A harbor yet; an understanding sound;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Just views of right and wrong; perception full
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In life and manners; wit above her sex,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A noble nature, conqueror in the strife
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of those whose days have been one silken hour,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Alike of benefit, and of offence,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With reconcilement quick, that instant springs
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      [In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints,
+      written in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso
+      Villegas, Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set forth in
+      English by John Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic
+      book-shop in Duke Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found,
+      carefully inserted, a painted flower, seemingly coeval with the
+      book itself; and did not, for some time, discover that it opened
+      in the middle, and was the cover to a very humble draught of a
+      St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless the performance of
+      some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it assisted.]
+    </p>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        <a name="hand" id="hand">O lift with reverent hand that
+        tarnish'd flower,</a>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That shrines beneath her modest canopy
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Memorials dear to Romish piety;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The work perchance of some meek devotee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In this imperfect tracery might see
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        True love shows costliest, where the means are scant;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, in their reckoning, they <i>abound</i>, who <i>want</i>.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="self" id="self">THE SELF-ENCHANTED.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stooping, like some enchanted theme,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Over the marge of that crystal stream,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With Self-love fond, had to waters pined,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ages had waked, and ages slept,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And that bending posture still she kept:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For her eyes she may not turn away,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Till a fairer object shall pass that way&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Till an image more beauteous this world can show,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than her own which she sees in the mirror below.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor dream to be disenchanted more:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For vain is expectance, and wish in vain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Till a new Narcissus can come again.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      <a name="monk" id="monk">TO LOUISA M&mdash;&mdash;,
+      <br />
+      WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY."</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Louisa, serious grown and mild,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I knew you once a romping child,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Obstreperous much and very wild.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Then you would clamber up my knees,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And strive with every art to tease,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When every art of yours could please.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Those things would scarce be proper now,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But they are gone, I know not how,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And woman's written on your brow.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Time draws his finger o'er the scene;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But I cannot forget between
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Thing to me you once have been;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Each sportive sally, wild escape,&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The scoff, the banter, and the jape,&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And antics of my gamesome Ape.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="bourn" id="bourn">TRANSLATIONS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h2>
+      FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE.
+    </h2>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      I.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="sing" id="sing">THE BALLAD SINGERS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But long with dust and dirt discolored
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        One a small infant at the breast does bear;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cherish'd the gift of <i>Song</i>, which sorrow quells;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, working single in their low-rooft cells,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. <i>He</i> stands by,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hither and thither from the sevenfold road
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        They reunite, so these unite as fast.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The older Songstress hitherto hath spent
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her elocution in the argument
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of their great Song in <i>prose</i>; to wit, the woes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Ah! "<i>Wandering He!</i>"&mdash;which now in loftier
+        <i>verse</i>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pathetic they alternately rehearse.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His right ear to the strain. The other hopes
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To catch it better with his left. Long trade
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It were to tell, how the deluded maid
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A victim fell. And now right greedily
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That are so tragical; which She, and She,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Deals out, and <i>sings the while</i>; nor can there be
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His contribution from the gentle rack
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And boldly claims his ballad with the best.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An old Dame only lingers. To her purse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Seven Dials
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      II.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="parish" id="parish">TO DAVID COOK,
+      <br />
+      OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        For much good-natured verse received from thee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A loving verse take in return from me.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        "Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And to our David "twice as good," say I.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fills half the world with shadows of affright,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You with your lantern, partner of your round,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The gentle salesman you with candor greet,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Announcing your approach by formal bell,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of nightly weather you the changes tell;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of winter; and in alley, or in street,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On your didactic strain&mdash;indulgent Night
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And critics sleep while you in staves do sound
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How death at last all ranks doth equalize;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, in conclusion, pray good years befall,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all."
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For this and other tokens of good will
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On boxing-day may store of shillings fill
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When at each door your blameless suit you press:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And what you wish to us (it is but reason)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Receive in turn&mdash;the compliments o' th' season!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      III.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="statu" id="statu">ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT
+      SLEEPING.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Beautiful Infant, who dost keep
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        May the repose unbroken be,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While thou enjoy'st along with it
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The heaven-infusčd sleep of Innocence!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      IV.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="dog" id="dog">EPITAPH ON A DOG.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Had he occasion for that staff, with which
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He now goes picking out his path in fear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Over the highways and crossings, but would plant,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To whom with loud and passionate laments
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And common portion in his feast of scraps;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With our long day and tedious beggary.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These were my manners, this my way of life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Till age and slow disease me overtook,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In long and lasting union to attest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      V.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="bell" id="bell">THE RIVAL BELLS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        A tuneful challenge rings from either side
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Such harmony from the contention flows,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That the divided ear no preference knows:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      VI.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="newtn" id="newtn">NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Discover'd properties to her unknown;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of A <i>plus</i> B, or <i>minus</i>, learn'd the use,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Known Quantities from unknown to educe;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And made&mdash;no doubt to that old dame's surprise&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      VII.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="house" id="house">THE HOUSEKEEPER.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Peeps out&mdash;and if there comes a shower of rain,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Retreats to his small domicile amain.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Touch but a tip of him, a horn&mdash;'tis well&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Knock when you will&mdash;he's sure to be at home.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      VIII.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="art" id="art">ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: Benjamin Ferrers&mdash;Died A. D. 1732.
+    </div>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        And hath thy blameless life become
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A prey to the devouring tomb?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A more mute silence hast thou known,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A deafness deeper than thine own,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Repair with quickening verse the breach.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And write thee into light and speech?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who made the Hearing, without wrong
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Did rescue thine from Siren's song.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        He let thee <i>see</i> the ways of men,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Careful Beholder, down didst note,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all their motley actions quote,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or gesture reading, more than <i>book</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Contented with the Silent Art,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thyself as silent. Might I be
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h3>
+      IX.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      <a name="orate" id="orate">THE FEMALE ORATORS.</a>
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A name, allusive strictly to <i>two Tongues</i>[1]
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And <i>gratis</i> deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And one in literalities abounds;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In mood and figure these keep up the din:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Words multiply, and every word tells in.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Right in the midst great Atč keeps her stand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And from her sovereign station taints the land.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="footnote">
+      1: <i>Bilinguis</i> in the Latin.
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="pindar" id="pindar">PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      I.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That sang the Pillory,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In loftier strains to show
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A more sublime Machine
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than that, where thou wert seen,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A most unseemly show!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      II.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        In such a place
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who could expose thy face,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That paint'st the strife
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And all the naked ills of savage life,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Far above Rousseau?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Rather myself had stood
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In that ignoble wood,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If nought else could atone
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For waggish libel,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I swear on bible,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I would have spared him for thy sake alone,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Man Friday!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      III.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Our ancestors' were sour days,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Great Master of Romance!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A milder doom had fallen to thy chance
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In our days:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy sole assignment
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Some solitary confinement,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (Not worth thy care a carrot,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where in world-hidden cell
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Only without the parrot;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By sure experience taught to know,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      IV.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        But stay! methinks in statelier measure&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A more companionable pleasure&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (The subject of my song,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Delay'd however long,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And some of thine own race,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There with thee go,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Link'd in like sentence,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With regulated pace and footing slow,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Each old acquaintance,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Rogue&mdash;harlot&mdash;thief&mdash;that live to future ages;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Through many a labor'd tome,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      V.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Incompetent my song to raise,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To its just height thy praise,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Great Mill!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That by thy motion proper
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill),
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Turn'st out men's consciences,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As flour from purest wheat,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Into thy hopper.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or human, or divine.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      VI.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Compared with thee,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What are the labors of that Jumping Sect,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou dost not bump,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or jump,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But <i>walk</i> men into virtue; betwixt crime
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And slow repentance giving breathing time,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And leisure to be good;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Instructing with discretion demi-reps
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How to direct their steps.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      VII.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not that which framed the tub,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where sat the Cynic cub,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But from those groves derived, I deem,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where Plato nursed his dream
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of immortality;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Seeing that clearly
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thy system all is merely
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Peripatetic.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of how to live
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With temperance, sobriety, morality,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (A new art,)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Each Tyro now proceeds
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A "Walking Stewart!"
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="gone" id="gone">GOING OR GONE.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      I.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Fine merry franions,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Wanton companions,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My days are ev'n banyans
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        With thinking upon ye!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How Death, that last stinger,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Finis-writer, end-bringer,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Has laid his chill finger,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Or is laying on ye.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      II.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With footing it featly
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That took me completely,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        She sleeps in the Kirk House;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And poor Polly Perkin,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose Dad was still firking
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The jolly ale firkin,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        She's gone to the Work-house;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      III.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (In ten counties no smarter)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Has ta'en his departure
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        For Proserpine's orchards:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And Lily, postilion,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With cheeks of vermilion,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Is one of a million
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        That fill up the church-yards;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      IV.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        And, lusty as Dido,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Fat Clemitson's widow
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Flits now a small shadow
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        By Stygian hid ford;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And good Master Clapton
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Has thirty years napt on,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The ground he last hapt on,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Entomb'd by fair Widford;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      V.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        And gallant Tom Dockwra,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Nature's finest crockery,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Now but thin air and mockery,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Lurks by Avernus,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whose honest grasp of hand
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Still, while his life did stand,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At friend's or foe's command,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Almost did burn us.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      VI.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Roger de Coverley
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not more good man than he;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Yet has he equally
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Push'd for Cocytus,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With drivelling Worral,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And wicked old Dorrell,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Whose end might affright us!&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      VII.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Kindly hearts have I known;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Kindly hearts, they are flown;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Here and there if but one
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Linger yet uneffaced,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Imbecile tottering elves,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        These scarce are half themselves,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        With age and care crazed.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      VIII.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        But this day Fanny Hutton
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her last dress has put on;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her fine lessons forgotten,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        She died, as the dunce died;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And prim Betsey Chambers,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Decay'd in her members,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No longer remembers
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Things, as she once did;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h3>
+      IX.
+    </h3>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        And prudent Miss Wither
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Not in jest now doth <i>wither</i>,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And soon must go&mdash;whither
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Nor I well, nor you know;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And flaunting Miss Waller,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>That</i> soon must befall her,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Whence none can recall her,
+      </p>
+      <p class="i2">
+        Though proud once as Juno!
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="free" id="free">FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT
+      COMPOSERS.</a>
+    </h2>
+    <div class="poem">
+      <p>
+        Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Just as the whim bites; for my part,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I do not care a farthing candle
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For either of them, or for Handel.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cannot a man live free and easy,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Without admiring Pergolesi?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or through the world with comfort go,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That never heard of Doctor Blow?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So help me heaven, I hardly have;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Like other people, if you watch it,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And know no more of stave or crotchet,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than did the primitive Peruvians;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I care no more for Cimarosa,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Being no painter; and bad luck
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Had something in them; but who's Purcel?
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The devil, with his foot so cloven,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And, if the bargain does not suit,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        There's not the splitting of a splinter
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To choose twixt him last named, and Winter.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I would not go four miles to visit
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        No more I would for Bononcini.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As for Novello, or Rossini,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Because they're living; so I leave 'em.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <hr class="full" />
+    <h2>
+      <a name="wife" id="wife">THE WIFE'S TRIAL;</a>
+    </h2>
+    <h5>
+      OR,
+    </h5>
+    <h3>
+      THE INTRUDING WIDOW.
+    </h3>
+    <h3>
+      A Dramatic poem.
+    </h3>
+    <h5>
+      FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT."
+    </h5>
+    <hr />
+    <h4>
+      CHARACTERS.
+    </h4>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        MR. SELBY, <i>A Wiltshire Gentleman.</i>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        KATHERINE, <i>Wife to Selby</i>.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        LUCY, <i>Sister to Selby</i>.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        MRS. FRAMPTON, <i>A Widow</i>.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      SERVANTS.
+    </p>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE&mdash;<i>At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds
+      adjacent</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <hr />
+    <h5>
+      SCENE&mdash;<i>A Library</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      MR. SELBY. KATHERINE.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And those too with allowance. I have not
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        With any strain of harshness on a string
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That to the lame performance of some vows,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And common courtesies of man to wife,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To esteem as favors, what in that blest union
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Gently to reprehend.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Kath.</i> In friendship's barter
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The riches we exchange should hold some level,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Haply did think their company too long;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And over-company, we know by proof,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Is worse than no attendance.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Kath.</i> I must guess,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        You speak this of the Widow&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> 'Twas a bolt
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I am most sorry to have wounded you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Through a friend's side. I know not how we have swerved
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From our first talk. I was to caution you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Which, for some girlish obligations past,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In that relenting season of the heart,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When slightest favors pass for benefits
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of endless binding, would entail upon you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An iron slavery of obsequious duty
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the proud will of an imperious woman.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Kath</i>. The favors are not slight to her I owe.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Cancels all dues&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>A voice within</i>.
+      </div>
+      <p class="i8">
+        even now I hear her call you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Say you are busy. Use her by degrees
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To some less hard exactions.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Kath</i>. I conjure you,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Detain me not. I will return&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i> Sweet wife,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Use thy own pleasure&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exit</i> KATHERINE.
+      </div>
+      <p class="i10">
+        but it troubles me.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A visit of three days, as was pretended,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        When she will go! I would this buxom Widow
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That she, not I, should be the first to warn
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The insidious guest depart.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Reënter</i> KATHERINE.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        So soon return'd!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What was our Widow's will?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Kath</i>.A trifle, sir.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. Some toilet service&mdash;to adjust her head,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Or help to stick a pin in the right place&mdash;
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Kath</i>. Indeed 'twas none of these.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> Or new vamp up
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And yet my dearest Kate!&mdash;This day at least
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        (It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        To the blest cottage on the green hill-side,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        It will not show less lovely than the tinge
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of this faint red, contending with the pale,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        That bears my Katherine's name.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p class="i14">
+        Our carriage, Philip.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter a Servant.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      Now, Robin, what make you here?
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Servant.</i> May it please you,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Selby.</i> He had no orders&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Servant.</i> None, sir, that I know of,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        But from the lady, who expects some letter
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        At the next Post Town.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> Go, Robin.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exit Servant.</i>
+      </div>
+      <p class="i16">
+        How is this?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Kath.</i> I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This forward Widow. But a ride's poor loss
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Imports not much. In to your chamber, love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Where you with music may beguile the hour,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        While I am tossing over dusty tomes,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Till our most reasonable friend returns.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Kath</i>. I am all obedience.
+    </p>
+    <div class="rt">
+      [<i>Exit</i> KATHERINE.
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i> Too obedient, Kate,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And to too many masters. I can hardly
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        On such a day as this refrain to speak
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        My sense of this injurious friend, this pest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This household evil, this close-clinging fiend,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Controll'd above me! orders countermanded!
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        What next?
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Servant enters and announces the Sister.</i>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> LUCY.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        Sister! I know you are come to welcome
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        This day's return. 'Twas well done.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lucy</i>. You seem ruffled.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In years gone by this day was used to be
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        So soon to gall?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. Gall'd am I, and with cause,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <i>Lucy</i>. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.
+    </p>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Who owes her some strange service, of what nature
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        As spell-bound by some witch.
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Lucy</i>. Some mystery hangs on it.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?
+      </p>
+    </div>
+    <div class="play">
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        A secret glance would tell me she could love,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        If I but gave encouragement. Before me
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        She keeps some moderation; but is never
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Closeted with my wife, but in the end
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        I find my Katherine in briny tears.
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        From the small chamber, where she first was lodged,
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Has now ensconced herself in the best part
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Commands my servants, equipage.&mdash;I hear
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?
+      </p>
+      <h5>
+        <i>Enter</i> MRS. FRAMPTON.
+      </h5>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My errand unperform'd at Andover.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Lucy</i>. And I shall love the knave forever after.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Aside</i>.
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Mrs. F.</i> A friend with you!
+      </p>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. My eldest sister, Lucy,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Come to congratulate this returning morn.&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Pray,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With the good couple, to whose hospitality
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I stand so far indebted. But your coming
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Makes it a feast.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Lucy.</i> She does the honors naturally&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Aside.</i>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> As if she were the mistress of the house.&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Aside.</i>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I love to be at home with loving friends.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To stand on ceremony with obligations,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of yours jumbles one strangely.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> I shall order
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy.</i> To drive her and her pride to Lucifer,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I hope he means.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I must go trim myself; this humbled garb
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For a short absence?&mdash;and your Katherine&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> You'll find her in her closet&mdash;
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <i>Mrs. F.</i> Fare you well, then.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exit.</i>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby.</i> How like you her assurance?
+      </p>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy.</i> Even so well,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My merry groom should in a trice convey her
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Secrets of any worth, especially
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. I think it is no more; and will dismiss
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My further fears, if ever I have had such.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="play">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And how the new trees thrive, I recommended.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your Katherine is engaged now&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <p>
+        <i>Selby</i>. I'll attend you.
+      </p>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+      </div>
+      <h5>
+        SCENE.&mdash;<i>Servants' Hall</i>.
+      </h5>
+      <div class="play">
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            Housekeeper, Philip, <i>and others, laughing</i>.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Housekeeper</i>. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride,
+            seems ruffled,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Philip</i>. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            We are wild things.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. Good Philip, tell us all.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>All</i>. Ay, as you live, tell, tell&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Philip</i>. Mad fellows, you shall have it.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. I think that no one can mistake her ringing.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Waiting-maid</i>. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to
+            it,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            More of entreaty hath it than command.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Philip</i>. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!"
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            "Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Where I have hope of letters." I made haste:
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And drove her&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Waiting-maid</i>. By the straight high-road to Andover,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            I guess&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Philip</i>. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt
+            him.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Philip</i>. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor
+            beasts,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Meeting such droves of cattle and of people,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            In policy, to save the few joints left her,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>All</i>. Ha! ha! ha!
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Waiting-maid</i>. I think she is a witch; I have tired
+            myself out
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes
+            them&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. And I with helping her to mum for claret,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Housekeeper</i>. Well, well, she is the guest of our
+            good Mistress,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And so should be respected. Though, I think,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Our master cares not for her company,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            He would ill brook we should express so much
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            By rude discourtesies, and short attendance,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Being but servants. (<i>A Bell rings furiously.</i>)
+          </p>
+          <p class="i8">
+            'Tis her bell speaks now;
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted?
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Butler</i>. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+      </div>
+      <hr />
+      <h5>
+        SCENE.&mdash;<i>Mrs. Selby's Chamber</i>.
+      </h5>
+      <div class="play"></div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Mrs. Franpton, Katherine, <i>working</i>.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have traced our lots through life.&mdash;Another needle,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          This works untowardly.&mdash;An heiress born
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To splendid prospects, at our common school
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I was as one above you all, not of you;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Had my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Denied to you. Pray, listen&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath</i>. I must hear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What you are pleased to speak&mdash;how my heart sinks here!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside</i>.
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F</i>. My chamber to myself, my separate maid,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My coach, and so forth.&mdash;Not that needle, simple one,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But I could make a shift to thread a smaller.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A cable or a camel might go through this,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And never strain for the passage.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath</i>. I will fit you&mdash;&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Intolerable tyranny!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside</i>.
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F</i>. Quick, quick;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You were not once so slack.&mdash;As I was saying,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not a young thing among ye, but observed me
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In all your dangers, all your little difficulties,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your girlish scrapes? I was the scape-goat still,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Perhaps, since then&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath</i>. No more of that, for mercy,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Cleave the cold earth for comfort.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Kneels</i>.
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> This to me?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          This posture to your friend had better suited
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the <i>then</i> rich heiress, than the wife of Selby,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of wealthy Mr. Selby,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Come, come,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bedfellow!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I'll make him give you up a night or so;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Old tricks of school-days over.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Hear me, madam&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Not by that name. Your friend&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> My truest friend,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And savior of my honor!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> This sounds better;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You still shall find me such.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> That you have graced
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Our poor house with your presence hitherto,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You have been pleased
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To accept some trivial hospitalities,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In part of payment of a long arrear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I owe to you, no less than for my life.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> You speak my services too large.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Nay, less;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For what an abject thing were life to me
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Without your silence on my dreadful secret!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And I would wish the league we have renew'd
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Might be perpetual&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Have a care, fine madam!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> That one house still might hold us. But my
+          husband
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Has shown himself of late&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> How, Mistress Selby?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In which&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I understand you;&mdash;in which husbands,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And wives that love, may wish to be alone,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          After a five years' wedlock.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Was that well,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Seem a fit theatre for Levity
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As even in Affection's first bland Moon
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I was about to say, that there are times,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When the most frank and sociable man
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          May surfeit on most loved society,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Preferring loneness rather&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> To my company&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For solitude, I have heard my Selby say,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And he would call it oft, the <i>day's soft sleep.</i>
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What is your drift? and whereto tends this
+          speech,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Rhetorically labor'd?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> That you would
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Abstain but from our house a month, a week;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I make request but for a single day.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> A month, a week, a day! A single hour
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is every week, and month, and the long year,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And all the years to come! My footing here,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Slipt once, recovers never. From the state
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the bare cottage on the withering moor,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where I myself am servant to myself,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or only waited on by blackest thoughts&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath</i>. Then I am lost forever!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Sinks at her feet&mdash;curtain drops.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <h5>
+        SCENE&mdash;<i>An Apartment contiguous to the last.</i>
+      </h5>
+      <div class="play">
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            Selby, <i>as if listening</i>.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Selby</i>. The sounds have died away. What am I changed
+            to?
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            What do I here, list'ning like to an abject,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband."
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And the solution with a vengeance comes.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            What can my wife have left untold to me,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            That must be told by proxy? I begin
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To call in doubt the course of her life past
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Under my very eyes. She hath not been good,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            My wishes still with prompt and meek observance.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Not like the dove's; all this as well may be,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            As that she should entreasure up a secret
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            In the peculiar closet of her breast,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And grudge it to my ear. It is my right
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To claim the halves in any truth she owns,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            As much as in the babe I have by her;
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Some strange shame written.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <h5>
+        <i>Enter</i> LUCY.
+      </h5>
+      <div class="play">
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p class="i6">
+            Sister, an anxious word with you.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            From out the chamber, where my wife but now
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            (Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance)
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Of replication, such as the meek dove
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            One threat pronounced&mdash;"Your husband shall know all."
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            I am no listener, sister; and I hold
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            A secret, got by such unmanly shift,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The pitiful'st of thefts; but what mine ear,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            I not intending it, receives perforce,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Lurks in this fiend's behavior; which, by force,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Or fraud I must make mine.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Lucy</i>. The gentlest means
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Are still the wisest. What, if you should press
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Your wife to a disclosure?
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Selby</i>. I have tried
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            All gentler means; thrown out low hints, which, though
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Lucy</i>. Your own description gave that Widow out
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            As one not much precise, nor over-coy,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And nice to listen to a suit of love.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            (To work the secret from her easy faith,)
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming?
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Selby</i>. I see your drift, and partly meet your
+            counsel.
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            But must it not in me appear prodigious,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And undissembled looks of blank aversion?
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Lucy</i>. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            And easily credits the resistless power,
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down
+          </p>
+          <p>
+            The slight-built fortress of a casual hate.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Selby</i>. I am resolved&mdash;
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Lucy</i>. Success attend your wooing!
+          </p>
+        </div>
+        <div class="stanza">
+          <p>
+            <i>Selby</i>. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister.
+          </p>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="rt">
+        [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>The Library</i>.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          Mr. Selby. Mrs. Frampton.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My purpose was, if you could spare so much
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From your sweet leisure, a few words in private.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to
+          me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And meet him in all fashions.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside</i>.
+        </div>
+        <p class="i12">
+          All my leisure,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would not express a tithe of the obligements
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I every hour incur.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. No more of that.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I know not why, my wife hath lost of late
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Much of her cheerful spirits.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> It was my topic
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To-day; and every day, and all day long,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And said it pretty roundly&mdash;it may be
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I was too peremptory&mdash;we elder school-fellows,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Presuming on the advantage of a year
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In after years, much like to elder sisters,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Are prone to keep the authoritative style,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When time has made the difference most ridiculous&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. The observation's shrewd.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> "Child," I was saying,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours,"
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In corners moping, like to sullen moppets,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I said, their Selbys, "with proportion'd looks
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of honest joy."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. You do suspect no jealousy?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What is his import? Whereto tends his Speech?
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside</i>.
+        </div>
+        <p>
+          Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. I do not know, but women have their fancies;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And underneath a cold indifference,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A growing fondness for a female friend,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Before the friend had wit to find it out.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You do not quit us soon?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> 'Tis as I find;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Means this man honest? Is there no deceit?
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. She cannot choose.&mdash;Well, well, I have
+          been thinking,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And if the matter were to do again&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What matter, sir?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> This idle bond of wedlock;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I might have made, I do not say a better,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But a more fit choice in a wife.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> The parch'd ground,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          More greedily than I his words!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside</i>.
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. My humor
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is to be frank and jovial; and that man
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Affects me best, who most reflects me in
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My most free temper.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Were you free to choose,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As jestingly I'll put the supposition,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What sort of Woman would you make your choice?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. I like your humor and will meet your jest.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She should be one about my Katherine's age;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          No muling, pining moppet, as you said,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The freedoms of a wife all her life after:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But one that, having worn the chain before,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (And worn it lightly, as report gave out,)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Took it not so to heart that I need dread
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To die myself, for fear a second time
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To wet a widow's eye.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Some widows, sir,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To put strange misconstruction on your words,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As aiming at a Turkish liberty,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where the free husband hath his several mates,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His Penseroso, his Allegro wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To suit his sober or his frolic fit.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. How judge you of that latitude?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> As one,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In European customs bred, must judge. Had I
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Been born a native of the liberal East,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A married man that took a second wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With all their bearings) the considerate world
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> An eye of wanton liking he had placed
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Upon a Widow, who liked him again,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But stood on terms of honorable love,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When to their ears a lucky rumor ran,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That this demure and saintly-seeming wife
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Had a first husband living; with the which
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Being question'd, she but faintly could deny.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But scarce amounting to a marriage rite.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, seven years parted, both were free to choose."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. What did the indignant husband? Did he not
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shame on their innocent babe?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> He neither tore
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His own offence with hers in equal poise,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Came to a calm and witty compromise.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He coolly took his gay-faced widow home,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Made her his second wife; and still the first
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lost few or none of her prerogatives.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The keys, and had the total ordering
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was all a moderate wife would wish to be.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. A tale full of dramatic incident!&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And if a man should put it in a play,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How should he name the parties?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> The man's name
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Through time I have forgot&mdash;the widow's too;&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But his first wife's first name, her maiden one,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was&mdash;not unlike to <i>that</i> your Katherine bore,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Before she took the honor'd style of Selby.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And most mysterious drama ends. The name
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of that first husband&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <h5>
+          <i>Enter</i> LUCY.
+        </h5>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Sir, your pardon&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The allegory fits your private ear.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          We shall have leisure.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Exit</i>.
+        </div>
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. Sister, whence come you?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she
+          droops
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As she would pour her secret in my bosom&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of some immodest act. At her request,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I left her on her knees.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. The fittest posture;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For great has been her fault to Heaven and me.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She married me with a first husband living,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of any but indifferent honesty,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Caught by my art, under a riddling veil
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your coming in broke off the conference,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When she was ripe to tell the fatal <i>name</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That seals my wedded doom.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. Was she so forward
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To pour her hateful meanings in your ear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          At the first hint?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. Her newly flatter'd hopes
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And with a female caution she stood off
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which with such honest seeming I enforced,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To seize the place of her betrayčd friend&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My simple project has conducted you&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Were but my wit as skilful to invent
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A clue to lead you forth!&mdash;I call to mind
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A letter, which your wife received from the Cape,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Soon after you were married, with some circumstances
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of mystery too.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. I well remember it.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That letter did confirm the truth (she said)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She gave him out&mdash;a hot adventurous spirit&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That had set sail in quest of golden dreams,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And cities in the heart of Central Afric;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But named no names, nor did I care to press
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My question further, in the passionate grief
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. Tears were not all. When that first shower was
+          past,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As if in thankfulness for some escape,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or strange deliverance, in the news implied,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which sweeten'd that sad news.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. Something of that
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I noted also&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. In her closet once,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Seeking some other trifle, I espied
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A ring, in mournful characters deciphering
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The death of "Robert Halford, aged two
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And twenty." Brother, I am not given
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the confident use of wagers, which I hold
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Unseemly in a woman's argument;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But I am strangely tempted now to risk
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A thousand pounds out of my patrimony,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (And let my future husband look to it,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Rich in my rescued Kate&mdash;rich in my honor,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your merry wager, with an aching heart
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That I should meet my Widow in the walk,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The south side of the garden. On some pretence
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You'll know your wager won&mdash;then break upon us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As if by chance.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy</i>. I apprehend your meaning&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. And may you prove a true Cassandra here,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Exeunt</i>.
+        </div>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>Mrs. Selby's chamber.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Did I express myself in terms so strong?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> As nothing could have more affrighted me.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of a suspected cooling hospitality.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, for my staying here, or going hence,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (Now I remember something of our argument,)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Selby and I can settle that between us.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You look amazed. What if your husband, child,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Himself has courted me to stay?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> You move
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My wonder and my pleasure equally.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Yes, courted me to stay, waived all
+          objections,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Made it a favor to yourselves; not me,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When I recall his flattering welcome, I
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Begin to think the burden of my presence
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath</i>. What, for Heaven&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> A little, little spice
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of jealousy&mdash;that's all&mdash;an honest pretext,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          No wife need blush for. Say that you should see,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A kiss, while you were by,&mdash;not else, for virtue's sake.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> I could endure all this, thinking my husband
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Meant it in sport&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> But if in downright earnest
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (Putting myself out of the question here)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your Selby, as I partly do suspect,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Own'd a divided heart&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> My own would break&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Why, what a blind and witless fool it is,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That will not see its gains, its infinite gains&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Gain in a loss.
+        </p>
+        <p class="i12">
+          Or mirth in utter desolation!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> He doating on a face&mdash;suppose it mine,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or any other's tolerably fair&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          What need you care about a senseless secret?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The worse than iron band, fretting the soul,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By which you held me captive. Whether my husband
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          <i>Is</i> what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But dreams he is so, either way I am free.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A very heroine while on its knees;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Not to thy wretched self these tears are
+          falling;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But to my husband, and offended Heaven,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some drops are due&mdash;and then I sleep in peace,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Exit.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I have gone too far. Who knows but in this
+          mood
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          She may forestall my story, win on Selby
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By a frank confession?&mdash;and the time draws on
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For which I play. A moment's difference
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Exit.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <hr />
+    <h5>
+      SCENE.&mdash;<i>A garden.</i>
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Not to conjecture, that some passages
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Glanced at my bosom's peace;
+        </p>
+        <p class="i12">
+          You knew my wife?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Even from her earliest school-days&mdash;What
+          of that?
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Framed for the hour's amusement!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby</i>. By my <i>hopes</i>
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of my new interest conceived in you,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And by the honest passion of my heart,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which not obliquely I to you did hint;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Come from the clouds of misty allegory,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And in plain language let me hear the worst.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Stand I disgraced, or no?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Then, by <i>my</i> hopes
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of my new interest conceived in you,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And by the kindling passion in <i>my</i> breast,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which through my riddles you had almost read,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In her school years, then bordering on fifteen,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or haply not much past, she loved a youth&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> My most ingenuous Widow&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Met him oft
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          By stealth, where I still of the party was&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And general go-between&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> One morn he came
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Or in few hours would be, that must convey
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Him and his destinies to barbarous shores,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where, should he perish by inglorious hands,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          It would be consolation in his death
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To have call'd his Katherine <i>his</i>."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Thus far the story
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Tallies with what I hoped.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Wavering between
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whom he had flatter'd with the bridemaid's part;&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He to his ship; and we to school got back,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> And from that hour&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Nor sight, nor news of him,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Like to a man that hovers in suspense
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Over a letter just received, on which
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whether to open it or no, so I
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Suspended stand, whether to press my fate
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Further, or check ill curiosity,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That tempts me to more loss.&mdash;The name, the name
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of this fine youth?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What boots it, if 'twere told?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Now, by our loves,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To be accomplish'd, give me his name!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> 'Tis no such serious matter. It
+          was&mdash;Huntingdon.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> How have three little syllables pluck'd from me
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A world of countless hopes!&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+        <p class="i16">
+          Evasive Widow.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> How, sir!&mdash;I like not this.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> No, no, I meant
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nothing but good to thee. That other woman,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          How shall I call her but evasive, false,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And treacherous?&mdash;by the trust I place in thee,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As you pronounced it?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Huntingdon&mdash;the name,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which his paternal grandfather assumed,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Together with the estates of a remote
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Kinsman: but our high-spirited youth&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Yes&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Disdaining
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For sordid pelf to truck the family honors,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And answer'd only to the name of&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> What&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Of Halford&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon!
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As well as bad, and can by a backward charm
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Unruffle the foul storm she has just been raising.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside. He makes the signal.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          My frank, fair-spoken Widow! let this kiss,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Till I can think on greater.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <h5>
+      <i>Enter</i> LUCY <i>and</i> KATHERINE.
+    </h5>
+    <div class="play">
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Interrupted!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> My sister here! and see, where with her comes
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My serpent gliding in an angel's form,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To taint the new-born Eden of our joys.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why should we fear them? We'll not stir a foot,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor coy it for their pleasures.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>He courts the Widow.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy (to Katherine).</i> This your free,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Forever to you; and it shall go hard,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That now seems blindly straying; or, at worst,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In me you have still a sister.&mdash;Some wives, brother,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Alone with a trim widow; but your Katherine
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Is arm'd, I think, with patience.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> I am fortified
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          As now I think he does it but in seeming,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To that ill woman.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Good words, gentle Kate,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And not a thought irreverent of our Widow.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But most uncourteous on our wedding-day,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          When we should show most hospitable.&mdash;Some wine!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Wine is brought.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          I am for sports. And now I do remember,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The old Egyptians at their banquets placed
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With images of cold mortality,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I like the custom well: and ere we crown
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          With freer mirth the day, I shall propose,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In calmest recollection of our spirits,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Or the supposed dead&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside to him.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Pledge me, good, wife&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>She fills.</i>
+        </div>
+        <p>
+          Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er,
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> I catch the awful import of your words;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, though I could accuse you of unkindness,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Yet as your lawful and obedient wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Nor I much longer may have leave to use it)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I calmly take the office you impose;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          I pledge you, sir&mdash;the Memory of the Dead!
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>She drinks kneeling.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          My former loving Kate.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Does he relent?
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> That ceremony past, we give the day
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To unabated sport. And, in requital
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of certain stories and quaint allegories,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Her patient hearing, I will here recite
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The scene is laid in the East.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I long to hear it.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some tale, to fit his wife.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Now, comes my TRIAL.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Lucy.</i> The hour of your deliverance is at hand,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> "The Sultan Haroun"&mdash;Stay&mdash;O now I
+          have it&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That he reserved them for his proper gust;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To any one that should purloin the same."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> A heavy penance for so light a fault&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Pray you, be silent, else you put me out.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Detected in the act a brother page,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Of his own years, that was his bosom friend;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And thenceforth he became that other's lord,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And like a tyrant he demean'd himself,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Threats of impending death in hideous forms;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Till the small culprit on his nightly couch
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> I like not this beginning&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Pray you, attend.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          "The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And took the youthful pleasures from his days,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To a pale skeleton of what he was;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And would have died, but for one lucky chance."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> Oh!
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Your wife&mdash;she faints&mdash;some
+          cordial&mdash;smell to this.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> Stand off. My sister best will do that office.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> Are all his tempting speeches come to this?
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> What ail'd my wife?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> A warning faintness, sir,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Seized on my spirits, when you came to where
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          You said "a lucky chance." I am better now:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Please you go on.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> The sequel shall be brief.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Kath.</i> But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it.
+        </p>
+        <div class="rt">
+          [<i>Aside.</i>
+        </div>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Close by an arbor where the two boys talk'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          (As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,)
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To judge aright the cause, and know his cue.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The following day a Cadi was despatch'd
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To summon both before the judgment-seat;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And the informing friend, who readily,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Fired with fair promises of large reward,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed."
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> What did the Caliph to the offending boy,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          That had so grossly err'd?
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> His sceptred hand
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And he became once more his favorite page.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Mrs. F.</i> But for that other&mdash;
+        </p>
+      </div>
+      <div class="stanza">
+        <p>
+          <i>Selby.</i> He dismissed him straight,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          To the bare cottage on the withering moor.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And told him not that Robin Halford died
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Some moons before <i>his</i> marriage-bells were rung.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And on a dangerous cast our fates were set;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Hath interposed to save it gracious too.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your penance is&mdash;to dress your cheek in smiles,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And to be once again my merry Kate.&mdash;
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Sister, your hand.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your wager won makes me a happy man,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          The sky clears up after a dubious day.
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Widow, your hand. I read a penitence
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          In this dejected brow; and in this shame
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Your fault is buried. You shall in with us,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare:
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          For, till this moment, I can joyful say,
+        </p>
+        <p>
+          Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day.
+        </p>
+      </div>
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      &nbsp;
+    </p>
+<hr class="full" />
+<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB IN FOUR VOLUMES, VOLUME 4***</p>
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes,
+Volume 4, by Charles Lamb, et al
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4
+
+Author: Charles Lamb
+
+Release Date: November 23, 2004  [eBook #14129]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB IN FOUR
+VOLUMES, VOLUME 4***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Leonard Johnson, and
+the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB
+
+In Four Volumes
+
+VOL. IV.
+
+A New Edition
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC.
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY
+
+ESSAYS:--
+
+  RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL
+
+  ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR
+  FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION
+
+  CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE
+
+  SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN
+
+  ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH; WITH SOME REMARKS ON A
+  PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. BARRY
+
+  ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER
+
+LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR":--
+
+  THE LONDONER
+
+  ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER
+
+  ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY; WITH A
+  HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR
+  APPREHENDING OFFENDERS
+
+  ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED
+
+  ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS
+
+  HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE
+  PALATE
+
+  EDAX ON APPETITE
+
+CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE BOOK WHICH BELONGED
+TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY
+
+MR. H----, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+POEMS.
+
+[_Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's Sister._]
+
+HESTER
+
+TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
+
+THE THREE FRIENDS
+
+TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED
+
+THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES
+
+*HELEN
+
+A VISION OF REPENTANCE
+
+*DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD
+
+QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM
+
+A BALLAD, NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A
+RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE
+
+HYPOCHONDRIACUS
+
+A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO
+
+_TO T. L. H., A CHILD_
+
+BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN
+
+*DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM
+
+*SALOME
+
+*LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES, BY LIONARDO DA VINCI
+
+*LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT
+OF A LADY BY TITIAN
+
+*LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE
+VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS
+
+*ON THE SAME
+
+SONNETS:--
+
+   I. TO MISS KELLY
+
+  II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
+
+ III.
+
+  IV.
+
+   V.
+
+  VI. THE FAMILY NAME
+
+ VII.
+
+VIII.
+
+  IX. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE
+
+   X.
+
+  XI.
+
+BLANK VERSE:--
+
+  CHILDHOOD
+
+  THE GRANDAME
+
+  THE SABBATH BELLS
+
+  FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS
+
+  COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT
+
+JOHN WOODVIL; A TRAGEDY
+
+THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OP THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----
+
+TO DORA W----, ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MISS----
+
+IN MY OWN ALBUM
+
+MISCELLANEOUS:--
+
+  ANGEL HELP
+
+  ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN
+
+  THE CHRISTENING
+
+  THE YOUNG CATECHIST
+
+  TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY
+
+  SHE IS GOING
+
+SONNETS:--
+
+  HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS
+
+  WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE
+
+  TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"
+
+  WORK
+
+  LEISURE
+
+  TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
+
+  THE GYPSY'S MALISON
+
+COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.:--
+
+  TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS
+
+  TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL
+
+  TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"
+
+  TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR.
+  ROGERS
+
+  TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE
+
+  "O LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND"
+
+  THE SELF-ENCHANTED
+
+  TO LOUISA M----, WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"
+
+TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE:--
+
+  THE BALLAD-SINGERS
+
+  TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER,
+  WATCHMAN
+
+  ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING
+
+  EPITAPH ON A DOG
+
+  THE RIVAL BELLS
+
+  NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA
+
+  THE HOUSEKEEPER
+
+  ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST
+
+  THE FEMALE ORATORS
+
+PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL
+
+GOING OR GONE
+
+FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS
+
+THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A DRAMATIC POEM
+
+
+
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS,
+
+ETC.
+
+
+
+
+TO
+
+MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.
+
+  Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late
+  And hasty products of a critic pen,
+  Thyself no common judge of books and men,
+  In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.
+  My _verse_ was offered to an older friend;
+  The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share:
+  Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,
+  What spoken in thy presence must offend--
+  That, set aside some few caprices wild,
+  Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,
+  In all my threadings of this worldly maze,
+  (And I have watched thee almost from a child),
+  Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,
+  I have not found a whiter soul than thine.
+
+
+
+
+ROSAMUND GRAY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat
+spinning in a little arbor at the door of her cottage. She was blind;
+and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had
+just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.
+
+"Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was a
+passage she could not let pass without a _comment_. The moral she
+drew from it was not very _new_, to be sure. The girl had heard it a
+hundred times before--and a hundred times more she could have heard
+it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her
+grandmother.
+
+The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing.
+Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only _her_
+left in the world. They two lived together.
+
+They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents,
+their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time.
+Our tale hath grief enough in it.
+
+It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold
+off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father--just
+after the mother had died of a broken heart; for her husband had fled
+his country to hide his shame in a foreign land. At that period the
+old lady retired to a small cottage in the village of Widford in
+Hertfordshire.
+
+Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without fortune
+or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had
+served her faithfully and lovingly.
+
+Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes,
+and could see. The neighbors said, they had been dimmed by weeping:
+be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. "God is very
+good to us, child; I can _feel_ you yet." This she would sometimes
+say; and we need not wonder to hear, that Rosamund clave unto her
+grandmother.
+
+Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a
+principle _within_, which it seemed as if no outward circumstances
+could reach. It was a _religious_ principle, and she had taught it to
+Rosamund; for the girl had mostly resided with her grandmother from
+her earliest years. Indeed she had taught her all that she knew
+herself; and the old lady's knowledge did not extend a vast way.
+
+Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long
+experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a little
+_positive:_ but Rosamund never argued with her grandmother.
+
+Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with notes
+and expositions by various learned expositors, from Bishop Jewell
+downwards.
+
+This might never be suffered to lie about like other books, but was
+kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, with
+gold tassels--the only relic of departed grandeur they had brought
+with them to the cottage--everything else of value had been sold off
+for the purpose above mentioned.
+
+This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without
+permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom. Margaret
+had parted with none of her _authority_; indeed it was never exerted
+with much harshness; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown,
+when she could obtain leave to read her Bible. It was a treasure too
+valuable for an indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to
+her grand-daughter _where to read._
+
+Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's
+Recreation," with cuts--"Pilgrim's Progress," the first part--a
+Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck
+here and there between the leaves, (I suppose to point to some of the
+old lady's most favorite receipts,) and there was "Wither's Emblems,"
+an old book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book
+were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her
+contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.
+
+Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they had
+been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as old
+friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the peculiar
+cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture she had
+received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, from John Bunyan and
+her Bible.
+
+Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what passes
+usually for _clever_ or _acute_. From a child she was remarkably shy
+and thoughtful--this was taken for stupidity and want of feeling; and
+the child has been sometimes whipt for being a _stubborn thing_, when
+her little heart was almost bursting with affection.
+
+Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her
+too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about good-humor
+and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying herself, to
+the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared her the more
+to Rosamund.
+
+Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are
+only remembering your poor dear father and mother;--I would have you
+think about them sometimes--it would be strange if you did not; but I
+fear, Rosamund--I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about
+your own situation and poor prospects in life. When you do so, you do
+wrong--remember the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any
+good thoughts about God, and his religion: and that might have been
+your case."
+
+Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in the
+habit of _arguing_ with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on
+these occasions--or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she
+had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best
+friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind. But she had
+never been used to make excuses, when the old lady said she was doing
+wrong.
+
+The neighbors were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics never
+passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat--some show of
+courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate--with a "Good-morrow,
+madam," or "young madam," as it might happen.
+
+Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to express
+contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet felt respect
+for its declining lustre.
+
+The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all
+promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die.
+Margaret trusted in God and believed them.
+
+She used to say, "I have lived many years in the world, and have
+never known people, _good people_, to be left without some friend; a
+relation, a benefactor, a _something_. God knows our wants--that it
+is not good for man or woman to be alone; and he always sends us a
+helpmate, a leaning place, a _somewhat_." Upon this sure ground of
+experience, did Margaret build her trust in Providence.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to
+relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral, (which
+said application she was old enough to have made herself, but her
+grandmother still continued to treat her, in many respects, as a
+child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim to the title of
+womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his appearance and
+interrupted them.
+
+It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and
+some roses for Rosamund.
+
+He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbor; and in a
+respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent,
+inquired of Margaret "how she did."
+
+The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions--answered his
+inquiries by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome a-nights,
+but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but
+she did not like to tease young people with an account of her
+infirmities."
+
+A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a
+tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took
+leave of them with saying, "I shall bring _Elinor_ to see you in the
+evening."
+
+When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.
+
+"That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I _do_ love him dearly, I
+must say it--there is such a modesty in all he says or does--he
+should not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to
+help it; there is so much goodness in him, I can't find it in my
+heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand;
+when you grow older, Mr. Clare must be no companion for _you_: while
+you were both so young it was all very well--but the time is coming,
+when folks will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr.
+Clare, comes so often to our poor cottage.--Dost hear, girl? Why
+don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt
+you--speak to me, Rosamund--nay, I must not have you be sullen--I
+don't love people that are sullen."
+
+And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and
+unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not
+be _within hearing_.
+
+And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first mention of
+Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned, which was not till
+a few minutes after Margaret had made an end of her fine harangue, it
+is certain her cheeks _did_ look very _rosy_. That might have been
+from the heat of the day or from exercise, for she had been walking
+in the garden.
+
+Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for
+Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely
+surmises.
+
+I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it
+likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking
+her grandmother's leave--the thing itself is not to be conceived.
+
+To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little
+anecdote of Rosamund.
+
+A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest
+prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was
+dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree
+spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they
+partly concealed.
+
+To this fatal place Rosamund came one day--female curiosity, we know,
+is older than the flood--let us not think hardly of the girl, if she
+partook of the sexual failing.
+
+Rosamund ventured further and further--climbed along one of the
+branches--approached the forbidden chasm--her foot slipped--she was
+not killed--but it was by a mercy she escaped--other branches
+intercepted her fall--and with a palpitating heart she made her way
+back to the cottage.
+
+It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best
+humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing
+it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in
+conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day
+reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother."
+
+This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience
+came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from
+Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession
+of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her.
+
+Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.
+
+Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of
+it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which
+would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, to deceive
+her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and
+blind, and easy to be imposed upon.
+
+Another virtuous _trait_ I recollect of Rosamund, and now I am in the
+vein will tell it.
+
+Some, I know, will think these things trifles--and they are so--but
+if these _minutiae_ make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I
+am content to abide the imputation.
+
+These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a _sweet
+nature_, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any
+of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous
+Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to
+place in the bosom of her old blind friend.
+
+Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ
+her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.
+
+On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she
+had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great
+pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For
+_whose_ particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to
+conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's.
+
+One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the
+table. When she returned, she found it _gone_.
+
+Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue.
+At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had
+laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for
+some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this
+elaborate composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper!
+
+Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
+grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor
+soul would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret
+was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her
+pretty long.
+
+So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size
+and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the
+mischief she had unconsciously done.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes ever
+beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it--a gentleness--a
+modesty--a timidity--a certain charm--a grace without a name.
+
+There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the
+thoughtless levity of a girl--it was not the restrained simper of
+premature womanhood--it was something which the poet Young might have
+remembered, when he composed that perfect line,
+
+  "Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair."
+
+She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare,
+when but a boy, sighed for her.
+
+Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like
+
+        "Those hanging locks
+  Of young Apollo."
+
+Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence pleaded
+for her whenever she spake--and, if she said but little, that little
+found its way to the heart.
+
+Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking none;
+affectionate as a smiling infant--playful, yet inobtrusive, as a
+weaned lamb--everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy,
+sighed for her.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, that
+I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her.
+
+See how she glideth, in maiden honor, through the clouds, who divide
+on either side to do her homage.
+
+Beautiful vision!--as I contemplate thee, an internal harmony is
+communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of
+mental purity; a calm like _that_ we ascribe in fancy to the favored
+inhabitants of thy fairy regions, "argent fields."
+
+I marvel not, O moon, that heathen people, in the "olden times," did
+worship thy deity--Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian Europe invokes
+thee not by these names now--her idolatry is of a blacker stain:
+Belial is her God--she worships Mammon.
+
+False things are told concerning thee, fair planet--for I will ne'er
+believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in distorting the
+brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck! Calumny invented,
+and folly took up, these names. I would hope better things from thy
+mild aspect and benign influences.
+
+Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to the
+virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior
+lover lies.
+
+Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only _peace_ to the lonely
+sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath thy gentle
+light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed friends, or
+unhappy loves.
+
+Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from thee
+into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and her
+Clare!
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy of
+fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her--it was soon after
+she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.
+
+He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which
+she had been filling from a neighboring well--the pitcher was heavy,
+and she seemed to be bending with its weight.
+
+Allan insisted on carrying it for her--for he thought it a sin that a
+delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand
+idle by.
+
+Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody--but
+at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled--his young
+mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that
+time forth awakened. His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent
+at the cottage.
+
+He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with
+him. He would make her admire the scenes he admired--fancy the wild
+flowers he fancied--watch the clouds he was watching--and not
+unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love
+it.
+
+On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but
+children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her
+currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more
+welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.
+
+The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of
+each other--more fond than either of them suspected.
+
+         "They would sit, and sigh,
+  And look upon each other, and conceive
+  Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
+  And yet were well--and yet they were not well;
+  And what was their disease, they could not tell."
+
+And thus,
+
+  "In this first garden of their simpleness
+  They spent their childhood."
+
+A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the
+nature of their attachment.
+
+Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubigne"--a book
+which young Clare had lent her.
+
+Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round
+her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's
+third letter.
+
+"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted
+to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the
+distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him
+through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our
+children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had
+taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was
+reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the
+luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
+happiness."
+
+The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of
+confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not
+lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing
+what she read.
+
+Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his
+color came and went--his feelings became impetuous--and flinging both
+arms round her neck, he kissed his young favorite.
+
+Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a
+moment--a fit of tears came to her relief.
+
+Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had
+thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and
+reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behavior in
+Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather
+shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.
+
+Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though
+not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a
+throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if
+he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of
+delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared,
+he loved.
+
+There is a _mysterious character_, heightened, indeed, by fancy and
+passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which
+true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This
+character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan--something _angelic,
+perfect, exceeding nature._
+
+Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his parents,
+who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to the care of a
+sister some ten years older than himself.
+
+Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady--discreet, intelligent, and
+affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as
+his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart
+to her--but there was _one_, which he had hitherto unaccountably
+concealed from her--namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.
+
+Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the
+persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several times met
+them, when she had been walking with her brother--a civility usually
+passed on either side--but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with
+any unseasonable questions.
+
+Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister
+_all_--but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to
+inquire) had hitherto kept him back;--still the secret, unrevealed,
+hung upon his conscience like a crime--for his temper had a sweet and
+noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.
+
+There was a fine openness in his countenance--the character of it
+somewhat resembled Rosamund's--except that more fire and enthusiasm
+were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a darker blue than
+Rosamund's--his hair was of a chestnut color--his cheeks ruddy, and
+tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile,
+the like to which I never saw in any other face.
+
+Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to Rosamund.
+Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she
+could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities
+which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.
+
+The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her
+brother's favorite more intimately--an opportunity offered of
+breaking the matter to Allan.
+
+The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and
+flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually
+busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common
+to him.
+
+She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired,
+with a questioning smile--"What are you doing, Allan? and who are
+those peaches designed for?"
+
+"For Rosamund Gray"--he replied--and his heart seemed relieved of a
+burden which had long oppressed it.
+
+"I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend--will
+you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like to go and see her this
+afternoon."
+
+"Do go, do go, Elinor--you don't know what a good creature she is;
+and old blind Margaret, you will like _her_ very much."
+
+His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted.
+Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to
+fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient
+to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+When Allan returned home, he found an invitation had been left for
+him, in his absence, to spend that evening with a young friend, who
+had just quitted a public school in London, and was come to pass one
+night in his father's house at Widford, previous to his departure the
+next morning for Edinburgh University.
+
+It was Allan's bosom friend--they had not met for some months--and it
+was probable a much longer time must intervene before they should
+meet again.
+
+Yet Allan could not help looking a little blank when he first heard
+of the invitation. This was to have been an important evening. But
+Elinor soon relieved her brother by expressing her readiness to go
+alone to the cottage.
+
+"I will not lose the pleasure I promised myself, whatever you may
+determine upon, Allan; I will go by myself rather than be
+disappointed."
+
+"Will you, will you, Elinor?"
+
+Elinor promised to go--and I believe, Allan, on a second thought, was
+not very sorry to be spared the awkwardness of introducing two
+persons to each other, both so dear to him, but either of whom might
+happen not much to fancy the other.
+
+At times, indeed, he was confident that Elinor _must_ love Rosamund,
+and Rosamund _must_ love Elinor; but there were also times in which
+he felt misgivings--it was an event he could scarce hope for very
+joy!
+
+Allan's _real presence_ that evening was more at the cottage than at
+the house, where his _bodily semblance_ was visiting--his friend
+could not help complaining of a certain absence of mind, a _coldness_
+he called it.
+
+It might have been expected, and in the course of things predicted,
+that Allan would have asked his friend some questions of what had
+happened since their last meeting, what his feelings were on leaving
+school, the probable time when they should meet again, and a, hundred
+natural questions which friendship is most lavish of at such times;
+but nothing of all this ever occurred to Allan--they did not even
+settle the method of their future correspondence.
+
+The consequence was, as might have been expected, Allan's friend
+thought him much altered, and, after his departure, sat down to
+compose a doleful sonnet about a "faithless friend."--I do not find
+that he ever finished it--indignation, or a dearth of rhymes, causing
+him to break off in the middle.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to
+mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have
+supplied the omission--old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless
+them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow-chair,
+as their prayer-book--I love them for it.
+
+Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding
+red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was
+their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for
+the day.
+
+The way they managed was this: they took verse by verse--Rosamund
+_read_ her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from
+memory--for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good
+part of the Bible besides. She would not unfrequently put the girl
+right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to
+giddiness--a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable
+for--but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike
+discriminative.
+
+They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived
+at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and
+fourth--Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the
+works of creation.
+
+There had been _thunder_ in the course of the day--an occasion of
+instruction which the old lady never let pass--she began--
+
+"Thunder has a very awful sound--some say God Almighty is angry
+whenever it thunders--that it is the voice of God speaking to us; for
+my part, I am not afraid of it"----
+
+And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as
+usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of
+vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her
+discourse.
+
+Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness--and, taking her
+grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness,--"Miss Clare is
+come to see you, grandmother."
+
+"I beg pardon, lady--I cannot _see_ you--but you are heartily
+welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss Clare?--I don't hear him."
+
+"He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me."
+
+"You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare--but pray do us the honor
+to take some refreshment--Rosamund"----
+
+And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her
+currant wine--when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to take a cup
+of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony."
+
+"After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your
+grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother.
+
+"Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any
+pleasure--I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be with _me_
+always--and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very
+well by myself till you return--it will not be the first time, you
+know, that I have been left here alone--some of the neighbors will be
+dropping in bye and bye--or, if _not_, I shall take no harm."
+
+Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her
+grandmother, and looked happy.
+
+All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a
+panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young
+friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave--but there
+was a cordial sunshine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds
+of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away.
+
+"Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?"
+
+Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying--"My dear young lady,
+I am an old woman, and very infirm--Rosamund takes me a few paces
+beyond the door sometimes--but I walk very badly--I love best to sit
+in our little arbor when the sun shines--I can yet feel it warm and
+cheerful--and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very
+happy if you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer
+evening."
+
+"I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if we
+like one another. I had hoped to have seen _you_, madam, at our
+house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come
+and live with us--what say you to it? Allan would be proud to tend
+you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice company."
+
+Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept--Margaret had a
+great spirit--yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a
+worthy person--there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner--she could
+have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the
+offer--at length the old lady spake from a full heart.
+
+"Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress--it gave
+us shelter when we had _no home_--we have praised God in it--and,
+while life remains, I think I shall never part from it--Rosamund does
+everything for me"--
+
+"And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"--and then Rosamund
+fell a-crying.
+
+"You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends when I
+am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I
+live--but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for your kind
+offer."
+
+Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade
+Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet;
+and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature.
+
+They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they rambled
+over all Rosamund's favorite haunts--through many a sunny field--by
+secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with
+her beloved Clare.
+
+Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak
+with great tenderness of his sister--she was now rambling, arm in
+arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her
+beloved Clare.
+
+Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but
+revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps,
+or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now
+opening before her--she was got into a fairy land of uncertain
+existence.
+
+Rosamund was too happy to talk much--but Elinor was delighted with
+her when she _did_ talk:--the girl's remarks were suggested most of
+them by the passing scene--and they betrayed, all of them, the
+liveliness of present impulse;--her conversation did not consist in a
+comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment lip-deep--it
+had all the freshness of young sensation in it.
+
+Sometimes they talked of Allan.
+
+"Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good _indeed_ to my
+grandmother--he will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to
+her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is
+not tired. She talks him to death!"
+
+"Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady _does_ tire _you_
+sometimes?"
+
+"Oh no, I did not mean _that_--it's very different--I am used to all
+her ways, and I can humor her, and please her, and I ought to do it,
+for she is the only friend I ever had in the world."
+
+The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and
+Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been
+all this time alone.
+
+On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been
+somewhat impatient--old ladies, _good old ladies_, will be so at
+times--age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is.
+
+Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good
+hours--indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other
+particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than
+might well beseem a creature of this.
+
+So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made Margaret
+promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+Miss Clare, we may be sure, made her brother very happy, when she
+told him of the engagement she had made for the morrow, and how
+delighted she had been with his handsome friend.
+
+Allan, I believe, got little sleep that night. I know not, whether
+joy be not a more troublesome bedfellow than grief--hope keeps a body
+very wakeful, I know.
+
+Elinor Clare was the best good creature--the least selfish human
+being I ever knew--always at work for other people's good, planning
+other people's happiness--continually forgetful to consult for her
+own personal gratifications, except indirectly, in the welfare of
+another; while her parents lived, the most attentive of
+daughters--since they died, the kindest of sisters--I never knew but
+_one_ like her. It happens that I have some of this young lady's
+_letters_ in my possession--I shall present my reader with one of
+them. It was written a short time after the death of her mother, and
+addressed to a cousin, a dear friend of Elinor's, who was then on the
+point of being married to Mr. Beaumont, of Staffordshire, and had
+invited Elinor to assist at her nuptials. I will transcribe it with
+minute fidelity.
+
+
+ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA LESLIE.
+
+Widford, July the --, 17--.
+
+Health, Innocence, and Beauty, shall be thy bride-maids, my sweet
+cousin. I have no heart to undertake the office. Alas! what have I to
+do in the house of feasting?
+
+Maria! I fear lest my griefs should prove obtrusive. Yet bear with me
+a little--I have recovered already a share of my former spirits.
+
+I fear more for Allan than myself. The loss of two such parents,
+within so short an interval, bears very heavy on him. The boy _hangs_
+about me from morning till night. He is perpetually forcing a smile
+into his poor pale cheeks--you know the sweetness of his smile,
+Maria.
+
+To-day, after dinner, when he took his glass of wine in his hand, he
+burst into tears, and would not, or could not then, tell me the
+reason--afterwards he told me--"he had been used to drink Mamma's
+health after dinner, and _that_ came into his head and made him cry."
+I feel the claims the boy has upon me--I perceive that I am living to
+_some end_--and the thought supports me.
+
+Already I have attained to a state of complacent feelings--my
+mother's lessons were not thrown away upon her Elinor.
+
+In the visions of last night her spirit seemed to stand at my
+bedside--a light, as of noonday, shone upon the room--she opened my
+curtains--she smiled upon me with the same placid smile as in her
+lifetime. I felt no fear. "Elinor," she said, "for my sake take care
+of young Allan,"--and I awoke with calm feelings.
+
+Maria! shall not the meeting of blessed spirits, think you, he
+something like this?--I think, I could even now behold my mother
+without dread--I would ask pardon of her for all my past omissions of
+duty, for all the little asperities in my temper, which have so often
+grieved her gentle spirit when living. Maria! I think she would not
+turn away from me.
+
+Oftentimes a feeling, more vivid than memory, brings her before me--I
+see her sit in her old elbow-chair--her arms folded upon her lap--a
+tear upon her cheek, that seems to upbraid her unkind daughter for
+some inattention--I wipe it away and kiss her honored lips.
+
+Maria! when I have been fancying all this, Allan will come in, with
+his poor eyes red with weeping, and taking me by the hand, destroy
+the vision in a moment.
+
+I am prating to you, my sweet cousin, but it is the prattle of the
+heart, which Maria loves. Besides, whom have I to talk to of these
+things but you?--you have been my counsellor in times past, my
+companion, and sweet familiar friend. Bear with me a little--I mourn
+the "cherishers of my infancy."
+
+I sometimes count it a blessing that my father did not prove the
+_survivor_. You know something of his story. You know there was a
+foul tale current--it was the busy malice of that bad man, S----,
+which helped to spread it abroad--you will recollect the active
+good-nature of our friends W---- and T----; what pains they took to
+undeceive people--with the better sort their kind labors prevailed;
+but there was still a party who shut their ears. You know the issue
+of it. My father's great spirit bore up against it for some time--my
+father never was a _bad_ man--but that spirit was broken at the
+last--and the greatly-injured man was forced to leave his old
+paternal dwelling in Staffordshire--for the neighbors had begun to
+point at him. Maria! I have _seen_ them _point_ at him, and have been
+ready to drop.
+
+In this part of the country, where the slander had not reached, he
+sought a retreat--and he found a still more grateful asylum in the
+daily solicitudes of the best of wives.
+
+"An enemy hath done this," I have heard him say--and at such times my
+mother would speak to him so soothingly of forgiveness, and
+long-suffering, and the bearing of injuries with patience; would heal
+all his wounds with so gentle a touch;--I have seen the old man weep
+like a child.
+
+The gloom that beset his mind, at times betrayed him into
+skepticism--he has doubted if there be a Providence! I have heard him
+say, "God has built a brave world, but methinks he has left his
+creatures to bustle in it _how they may_."
+
+At such times he could not endure to hear my mother talk in a
+religious strain. He would say, "Woman, have done--you confound, you
+perplex me, when you talk of these matters, and for one day at least
+unfit me for the business of life."
+
+I have seen her look at him--O GOD, Maria! such a _look_! it plainly
+spake that she was willing to have shared her precious hope with the
+partner of her earthly cares--but she found a repulse--
+
+Deprived of such a wife, think you, the old man could long have
+endured his existence? or what consolation would his wretched
+daughter have had to offer him, but silent and imbecile tears?
+
+My sweet cousin, you will think me tedious--and I am so--but it does
+me good to talk these matters over. And do not you be alarmed for
+me--my sorrows are subsiding into a deep and sweet resignation. I
+shall soon be sufficiently composed, I know it, to participate in my
+friend's happiness.
+
+Let me call her, while yet I may, my own Maria Leslie! Methinks, I
+shall not like you by any other name. Beaumont! Maria Beaumont! it
+hath a strange sound with it--I shall never be reconciled to this
+name--but do not you fear--Maria Leslie shall plead with me for Maria
+Beaumont.
+
+             And now, my sweet Friend,
+                God love you, and your
+                    ELINOR CLARE.
+
+
+I find in my collection several letters, written soon after the date
+of the preceding, and addressed all of them to Maria Beaumont.--I am
+tempted to make some short extracts from these--my tale will suffer
+interruption by them--but I was willing to preserve whatever
+memorials I could of Elinor Clare.
+
+
+FROM ELINOR CLARE TO MARIA BEAUMONT.
+
+(AN EXTRACT.)
+
+"----I have been strolling out for half an hour in the fields; and my
+mind has been occupied by thoughts which Maria has a right to
+participate. I have been bringing my _mother_ to my recollection. My
+heart ached with the remembrance of infirmities, that made her
+closing years of life so sore a trial to her.
+
+"I was concerned to think that our family differences have been one
+source of disquiet to her. I am sensible that _this last_ we are apt
+to exaggerate after a person's death--and surely, in the main, there
+was considerable harmony among the members of our little
+family--still I was concerned to think that we ever gave her gentle
+spirit disquiet.
+
+"I thought on years back--on all my parents' friends--the H----s, the
+F----s, on D---- S----, and on many a merry evening, in the fireside
+circle, in that comfortable back parlor--it is never used now.--
+
+"O ye _Matravises_[1] of the age, ye know not what ye lose in
+despising these petty topics of endeared remembrance, associated
+circumstances of past times;--ye know not the throbbings of the
+heart, tender yet affectionately familiar, which accompany the dear
+and honored names of _father_ or of _mother_.
+
+[Footnote 1: This name will be explained presently.]
+
+"Maria! I thought on all these things; my heart ached at the review
+of them--it yet aches, while I write this--but I am never so
+satisfied with my train of thoughts, as when they run upon these
+subjects--the tears they draw from us, meliorate and soften the
+heart, and keep fresh within us that memory of dear friends dead,
+which alone can fit us for a readmission to their society hereafter."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----I had a bad dream this morning--that Allan was dead--and who, of
+all persons in the world do you think, put on mourning for him?
+Why--_Matravis_. This alone might cure me of superstitious thoughts,
+if I were inclined to them; for why should Matravis _mourn_ for us,
+or our family?--Still it was pleasant to awake, and find it but a
+dream.--Methinks something like an awaking from an ill dream shall
+the Resurrection from the Dead be.--Materially different from our
+accustomed scenes, and ways of life, the _World to come_ may possibly
+not be--still it is represented to us under the notion of a _Rest_, a
+_Sabbath_, a state of bliss."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Methinks, you and I should have been born under the same roof,
+sucked the same milk, conned the same horn-book, thumbed the same
+Testament, together:--for we have been more than sisters, Maria!
+
+"Something will still be whispering to me, that I shall one day be
+inmate of the same dwelling with my cousin, partaker with her in all
+the delights which spring from mutual good offices, kind words,
+attentions in sickness and in health,--conversation, sometimes
+innocently trivial, and at others profitably serious;--books read and
+commented on, together; meals ate, and walks taken, together,--and
+conferences, how we may best do good to this poor person or that, and
+wean our spirits from the world's _cares_, without divesting
+ourselves of its _charities_. What a picture I have drawn, Maria! and
+none of all these things may ever come to pass."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Continue to write to me, my sweet cousin. Many good thoughts,
+resolutions, and proper views of things, pass through the mind in the
+course of the day, but are lost for want of committing them to paper.
+Seize them, Maria, as they pass, these Birds of Paradise, that show
+themselves and are gone,--and make a grateful present of the precious
+fugitives to your friend.
+
+"To use a homely illustration, just rising in my fancy,--shall the
+good housewife take such pains in pickling and preserving her
+worthless fruits, her walnuts, her apricots, and quinces--and is
+there not much _spiritual housewifery_ in treasuring up our mind's
+best fruits--our heart's meditations in its most favored moments?
+
+"This sad simile is much in the fashion of the old Moralizers, such
+as I conceive honest Baxter to have been, such as Quarles and Wither
+were with their curious, serio-comic, quaint emblems. But they
+sometimes reach the heart, when a more elegant simile rests in the
+fancy.
+
+"Not low and mean, like these, but beautifully familiarized to our
+conceptions, and condescending to human thoughts and notions, are all
+the discourses of our LORD--conveyed in parable, or similitude, what
+easy access do they win to the heart, through the medium of the
+delighted imagination! speaking of heavenly things in fable, or in
+simile, drawn from earth, from objects _common_, _accustomed_.
+
+"Life's business, with such delicious little interruptions as our
+correspondence affords, how pleasant it is!--why can we not paint on
+the dull paper our whole feelings, exquisite as they rise up?"
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----I had meant to have left off at this place; but looking back, I
+am sorry to find too gloomy a cast tincturing my last page--a
+representation of life false and unthankful. Life is _not_ all vanity
+and disappointment--it hath much of evil in it, no doubt; but to
+those who do not misuse it, it affords comfort, _temporary_ comfort,
+much--much that endears us to it, and dignifies it--many true and
+good feelings, I trust, of which we need not be ashamed--hours of
+tranquillity and hope. But the morning was dull and overcast, and my
+spirits were under a cloud. I feel my error.
+
+"Is it no blessing that we two love one another so dearly--that Allan
+is left me--that you are settled in life--that worldly affairs go
+smooth with us both--above all that our lot hath fallen to us in a
+Christian country? Maria! these things are not little. I will
+consider life as a long feast, and not forget to say grace."
+
+
+FROM ANOTHER LETTER.
+
+"----Allan has written to me--you know, he is on a visit at his old
+tutor's in Gloucestershire--he is to return home on Thursday--Allan
+is a dear boy--he concludes his letter, which is very affectionate
+throughout, in this manner--
+
+"'Elinor, I charge you to learn the following stanza by heart--
+
+  "'The monarch may forget his crown,
+    That on his head an hour hath been;
+  The bridegroom may forget his bride
+    Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
+
+  "'The mother may forget her child,
+    That smiles so sweetly on her knee:
+  But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
+    And all that thou hast done for me."
+
+"'The lines are in Burns--you know, we read him for the first time
+together at Margate--and I have been used to refer them to you, and
+to call you, in my mind, _Glencairn_,--for you were always very good
+to me. I had a thousand failings, but you would love me in spite of
+them all. I am going to drink your health.'"
+
+I shall detain my reader no longer from the narrative.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+They had but four rooms in the cottage. Margaret slept in the biggest
+room up-stairs, and her grand-daughter in a kind of closet adjoining,
+where she could be within hearing, if her grandmother should call her
+in the night.
+
+The girl was often disturbed in that manner--two or three times in a
+night she has been forced to leave her bed, to fetch her
+grandmother's cordials, or do some little service for her--but she
+knew that Margaret's ailings were _real_ and pressing, and Rosamund
+never complained--never suspected, that her grandmother's
+requisitions had anything unreasonable in them.
+
+The night she parted with Miss Clare, she had helped Margaret to bed,
+as usual--and, after saying her prayers, as the custom was, kneeling
+by the old lady's bedside, kissed her grandmother, and wished her a
+good-night--Margaret blessed her, and charged her to go to bed
+directly. It was her customary injunction, and Rosamund had never
+dreamed of disobeying.
+
+So she retired to her little room. The night was warm and clear--the
+moon very bright--her window commanded a view of _scenes_ she had
+been tracing in the daytime with Miss Clare.
+
+All the events of the day past, the occurrences of their walk arose
+in her mind. She fancied she should like to retrace those scenes--but
+it was now nine o'clock, a late hour in the village.
+
+Still she fancied it would be very charming--and then her
+grandmother's injunction came powerfully to her recollection--she
+sighed, and turned from the window-and walked up and down her little
+room.
+
+Ever, when she looked at the window, the wish returned. It was not so
+_very late_. The neighbors were yet about, passing under the window
+to their homes--she thought, and thought again, till her sensations
+became vivid, even to painfulness--her bosom was aching to give them
+vent.
+
+The village-clock struck ten!--the neighbors ceased to pass under the
+window. Rosamund, stealing downstairs, fastened the latch behind her,
+and left the cottage.
+
+One, that knew her, met her, and observed her with some surprise.
+Another recollects having wished her a good-night. Rosamund never
+returned to the cottage.
+
+An old man, that lay sick in a small house adjoining to Margaret's,
+testified the next morning, that he had plainly heard the old
+creature calling for her granddaughter. All the night long she made
+her moan, and ceased not to call upon the name of Rosamund. But no
+Rosamund was there--the voice died away, but not till near daybreak.
+
+When the neighbors came to search in the morning, Margaret was
+missing! She had _straggled_ out of bed, and made her way into
+Rosamund's room--worn out with fatigue and fright, when she found the
+girl not there, she had laid herself down to die--and, it is thought,
+she died _praying_--for she was discovered in a kneeling posture, her
+arms and face extended on the pillow, where Rosamund had slept the
+night before--a smile was on her face in death.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that night--but I
+cannot--grief, and burning shame, forbid me to be silent--black deeds
+are about to be made public, which reflect a stain upon our common
+nature.
+
+Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a
+distance from her guardian doors--through lonely glens, and
+wood-walks, where she had rambled many a _day_ in safety--till she
+arrived at a shady copse, out of the hearing of any human habitation.
+
+_Matravis_ met her.---"Flown with insolence and wine," returning home
+late at night, he passed that way!
+
+Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow-complexioned! and if hearts can
+wear that color, his heart was sallow-complexioned also.
+
+A young man with _gray_ deliberation! cold and systematic in all his
+plans; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was systematic.
+
+He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of time
+that, it might have been expected, some solitary check of conscience
+must have intervened to save him from commission. But that _Light
+from Heaven_ was extinct in his dark bosom.
+
+Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this
+unhappy man. He feared, he envied, he suspected; but he never loved.
+The sublime and beautiful in nature, the excellent and becoming in
+morals, were things placed beyond the capacity of his sensations. He
+loved not poetry--nor ever took a lonely walk to meditate--never
+beheld virtue, which he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty
+and innocence, which he did not lust to contaminate.
+
+A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice _grinning_ at his
+heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the least
+remorse, of any man I ever knew. This gained him the reputation of a
+wit--other _traits_ got him the reputation of a villain.
+
+And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!--with what
+success I leave my readers to determine. It was not in Elinor's
+nature to despise any living thing--but in the estimation of this
+man, to be rejected was to be _despised_--and Matravis _never
+forgave_.
+
+He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the
+bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe
+lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and
+Matravis had a twofold motive for accomplishing this young maid's
+ruin.
+
+Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her ever
+cold and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying far from
+her own home, in the fear of meeting him--but she had never told her
+fears to Allan.
+
+Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the
+limits of the law--but, on the present occasion, hot fumes of wine,
+cooperating with his deep desire of revenge, and the insolence of an
+unhoped-for meeting, overcame his customary prudence, and Matravis
+rose, at once, to an audacity of glorious mischief.
+
+Late at night he met her, a lonely, unprotected virgin--no friend at
+hand--no place near of refuge.
+
+Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee--I loathe to
+tell the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and silence were
+the only witnesses of this young maid's disgrace--Matravis fled.
+
+Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, an abandoned thing, about
+the fields and meadows till daybreak. Not caring to return to the
+cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss Clare's
+house--in a stupor of grief.
+
+Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her chamber,
+when she perceived her desolate young friend. She ran to embrace
+her--she brought her into the house--she took her to her bosom--she
+kissed her--she spake to her; but Rosamund could not speak.
+
+Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event which
+could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet maid heard
+of it, she languished, and fell sick--she never held up her head
+after that time.
+
+If Rosamund had been a _sister_, she could not have been kindlier
+treated than by her two friends.
+
+Allan had prospects in life--might, in time, have married into any of
+the first families in Hertfordshire--but Rosamund Gray, humbled
+though she was, and put to shame, had yet a charm for _him_--and he
+would have been content to share his fortunes with her yet, if
+Rosamund would have lived to be his companion.
+
+But this was not to be--and the girl soon after died. She expired in
+the arms of Elinor--quiet, gentle, as she lived--thankful that she
+died not among strangers--and expressing, by signs rather than words,
+a gratitude for the most trifling services, the common offices of
+humanity. She died uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught
+Rosamund, might have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in
+death.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village
+remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray, and old blind
+Margaret.
+
+I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out for
+Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly known--I
+heard not of them--and it was four months before I received a letter
+from Allan.
+
+"His heart," he told me, "was gone from him--for his sister had died
+of a frenzy fever!"--not a word of Rosamund in the letter--I was left
+to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained.
+
+I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and
+returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could
+gain no information, whether he were dead or living.
+
+I passed the _cottage_. I did not dare to look that way, or to
+inquire _who_ lived there. A little dog, that had been Rosamund's,
+was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had
+suddenly gone from him--I stared vacantly around me, like one
+alienated from common perceptions.
+
+But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually
+weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now _ten years_
+since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as
+unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me--but there are times when
+Allan and his sister, Margaret and her grand-daughter, appear like
+personages of a dream--an idle dream.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+Strange things have happened unto me--I seem scarce awake--but I will
+recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has
+befallen me in the few last weeks.
+
+Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in
+practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left
+Widford.
+
+A month or two ago, I had been busying myself in drawing up the above
+narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my
+mind to dwell upon _facts_, which had begun to fade from it--the
+memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid--I felt a strong
+desire to revisit the scenes of my native village--of the young loves
+of Rosamund and her Clare.
+
+A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now,
+till I had accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk--I
+reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon--after a slight
+breakfast at my inn--where I was mortified to perceive the old
+landlord did not know me again--(old Thomas Billet--he has often made
+angle-rods for me when a child)--I rambled over all my accustomed
+haunts.
+
+Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into
+the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot
+where my little bed had stood--I felt like a child--I prayed like
+one--it seemed as though old times were to return again--I looked
+round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew--but all was
+naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window,
+through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine
+summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of
+common glass.
+
+I visited, by turns, every chamber--they were all desolate and
+unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord,
+probably to be sold--I touched the keys--I played some old Scottish
+tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived
+with the music--blended with a sense of _unreality_, which at last
+became too powerful--I rushed out of the room to give vent to my
+feelings.
+
+I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at
+the back of the house--we called it the _Wilderness_. A well-known
+_form_ was missing, that used to meet me in this place--it was
+thine--Ben Moxam--the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings,
+yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest
+creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a
+soft speech, and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there
+is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam--that
+thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot, to
+lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees--I remember them
+sweeping to the ground.
+
+I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place--its
+glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind,
+nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which
+has accompanied me to maturer years.
+
+In this _Wilderness_ I found myself, after a ten years' absence. Its
+stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company
+of underwood--the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of
+the wood-pigeon--all was as I had left it--my heart softened at the
+sight--it seemed as though my character had been suffering a _change_
+since I forsook these shades.
+
+My parents were both dead--I had no counsellor left, no experience of
+age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away
+my _friends_, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round
+the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be
+restored to that _state of innocence_, in which I had wandered in
+those shades.
+
+Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of
+manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity
+and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into
+a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was
+enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father--and,
+extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet--for the place where I
+stood I thought, was holy ground.
+
+This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid
+feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner--green peas and a
+sweetbread--it had been a favorite dish with me in my childhood--I
+was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it
+come upon table--but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful--my
+tears choked me. I called for wine--I drank a pint and a half of red
+wine--and not till then had I dared to visit the church-yard, where
+my parents were interred.
+
+The _cottage_ lay in my way--Margaret had chosen it for that very
+reason, to be near the church--for the old lady was regular in her
+attendance on public worship--I passed on--and in a moment found
+myself among the tombs.
+
+I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again--my
+mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending--a plain
+stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon
+it--for they both occupied one grave.
+
+I prostrated myself before the spot--I kissed the earth that covered
+them--I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should
+mingle my dust with theirs--and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on
+the gravestone, in a kind of mental prayer--for I could not speak.
+
+Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and
+felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects.--Still I continued in
+the church-yard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralizing on
+them with that kind of levity, which will not unfrequently spring up
+in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy.
+
+I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful
+children. I said jestingly, where be all the _bad_ people buried? Bad
+parents, bad husbands, bad children--what cemeteries are appointed
+for these?--do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a
+pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus
+tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their lifetime,
+discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings,
+with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. _Man wars
+not with the dead._ It is a _trait_ of human nature, for which I love
+it.
+
+I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other
+end of the church-yard; it was a company of children, who were
+gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a
+gravestone.
+
+He seemed to be asking them questions--probably, about their
+learning--and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up
+his knees to kiss him. The children had been eating black
+cherries--for some of the stones were scattered about, and their
+mouths were smeared with them.
+
+As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild
+benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before--I gazed
+at him more attentively.
+
+It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister.
+
+I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan"--he turned his
+eyes upon me--he knew me--we both wept aloud--it seemed as though the
+interval since we parted had been as nothing--I cried out, "Come, and
+tell me about these things."
+
+I drew him away from his little friends--he parted with a show of
+reluctance from the church-yard--Margaret and her grand-daughter lay
+buried there, as well as his sister--I took him to my inn--secured a
+room, where we might be private--ordered fresh wine--scarce knowing
+what I did, I danced for joy.
+
+Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, "This
+repays me for all."
+
+It was a proud day for me--I had found the friend I thought
+dead--earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained
+_him_; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to
+be his comforter.
+
+I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and
+grief had left few traces of that fine _enthusiasm_, which once
+burned in his countenance--his eyes had lost their original fire, but
+they retained an uncommon sweetness, and whenever they were turned
+upon me, their smile pierced to my heart.
+
+"Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" He replied not, and I could
+not press him further. I could not call the dead to life again.
+
+So we drank and told old stories--and repeated old poetry--and sang
+old songs--as if nothing had happened. We sate till very late. I
+forgot that I had purposed returning to town that evening--to Allan
+all places were alike--I grew noisy, he grew cheerful--Allan's old
+manners, old enthusiasm, were returning upon him--we laughed, we
+wept, we mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly.
+
+Allan was my chamber-fellow that night--and lay awake planning
+schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar
+pursuits,--and praising GOD, that we had met.
+
+I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan proposed
+to accompany me. "Since the death of his sister," he told me, "he had
+been a wanderer."
+
+In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without reserve--told
+me many particulars of his way of life for the last nine or ten
+years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to divulge.
+
+Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over
+thoughtful, he replied to me in these words:
+
+"Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I am
+never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my countenance,
+men judge me most miserable.
+
+"My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them are
+of no recent date. The melancholy which comes over me with the
+recollection of them is not hurtful, but only tends to soften and
+tranquillize my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of human
+pursuits.
+
+"The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself drawn
+heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects.
+
+"I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because I
+expect a renewal of them in the _World of Spirits_.
+
+"I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made no
+new friendships, that can compensate me for the loss of the old--and
+the more I know mankind, the more does it become necessary for me to
+supply their loss by little images, recollections, and circumstances
+of past pleasures.
+
+"I am sensible that I am surrounded by a multitude of very worthy
+people, plain-hearted souls, sincere and kind. But they have hitherto
+eluded my pursuit, and will continue to bless the little circle of
+their families and friends, while I must remain a stranger to them.
+
+"Kept at a distance by mankind, I have not ceased to love them--and
+could I find the cruel persecutor, the malignant instrument of GOD'S
+judgments on me and mine, I think I would forgive, and try to love
+him too.
+
+"I have been a quiet sufferer. From the beginning of my calamities it
+was given to me, not to see the hand of man in them. I perceived a
+mighty arm, which none but myself could see, extended over me. I gave
+my heart to the Purifier, and my will to the Sovereign Will of the
+Universe. The irresistible wheels of destiny passed on in their
+everlasting rotation,--and I suffered myself to be carried along
+with them without complaining."
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+Allan told me that for some years past, feeling himself disengaged
+from every personal tie, but not alienated from human sympathies, it
+had been his taste, his _humor_ he called it, to spend a great
+portion of his time in _hospitals_ and _lazar-houses_.
+
+He had found a _wayward pleasure_, he refused to name it a virtue, in
+tending a description of people, who had long ceased to expect
+kindness or friendliness from mankind, but were content to accept the
+reluctant services, which the oftentimes unfeeling instruments and
+servants of these well-meant institutions deal out to the poor sick
+people under their care.
+
+It is not medicine, it is not broths and coarse meats, served up at a
+stated hour with all the hard formalities of a prison--it is not the
+scanty dole of a bed to die on--which dying man requires from his
+species.
+
+Looks, attentions, consolations,--in a word, _sympathies_, are what a
+man most needs in this awful close of mortal sufferings. A kind look,
+a smile, a drop of cold water to the parched lip--for these things a
+man shall bless you in death.
+
+And these better things than cordials did Allan love to
+administer--to stay by a bedside the whole day, when something
+disgusting in a patient's distemper has kept the very nurses at a
+distance--to sit by, while the poor wretch got a little sleep--and be
+there to smile upon him when he awoke--to slip a guinea, now and
+then, into the hands of a nurse or attendant--these things have been
+to Allan as _privileges_, for which he was content to live; choice
+marks, and circumstances, of his Maker's goodness to him.
+
+And I do not know whether occupations of this kind be not a spring of
+purer and nobler delight (certainly instances of a more disinterested
+virtue) than arises from what are called Friendships of Sentiment.
+
+Between two persons of liberal education, like opinions, and common
+feelings, oftentimes subsists a Variety of Sentiment, which disposes
+each to look upon the other as the only being in the universe worthy
+of friendship, or capable of understanding it,--themselves they
+consider as the solitary receptacles of all that is delicate in
+feeling, or stable in attachment: when the odds are, that under every
+green hill, and in every crowded street, people of equal worth are to
+be found, who do more good in their generation, and make less noise
+in the doing of it.
+
+It was in consequence of these benevolent propensities, I have been
+describing, that Allan oftentimes discovered considerable
+inclinations in favor of my way of life, which I have before
+mentioned as being that of a surgeon. He would frequently attend me
+on my visits to patients; and I began to think that he had serious
+intentions of making my profession his study.
+
+He was present with me at a scene--a, _death-bed scene_--I shudder
+when I do but think of it.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+I was sent for the other morning to the assistance of a gentleman,
+who had been wounded in a duel,--and his wounds by unskilful
+treatment had been brought to a dangerous crisis.
+
+The uncommonness of the name, which was _Matravis_, suggested to me,
+that this might possibly be no other than Allan's old enemy. Under
+this apprehension, I did what I could to dissuade Allan from
+accompanying me--but he seemed bent upon going, and even pleased
+himself with the notion, that it might lie within his ability to do
+the unhappy man some service. So he went with me.
+
+When we came to the house, which was in Soho-square, we discovered
+that it was indeed the man--the identical Matravis, who had done all
+that mischief in times past--but not in a condition to excite any
+other sensation than pity in a heart more hard than Allan's.
+
+Intense pain had brought on a delirium--we perceived this on first
+entering the room--for the wretched man was raving to
+himself--talking idly in mad unconnected sentences--that yet seemed,
+at times, to have reference to _past facts_.
+
+One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great
+heath, to which there seemed no end--it was cold, cold, cold,--and
+dark, very dark--an old woman in leading-strings, _blind_, was
+groping about for a guide"--and then he frightened me,--for he seemed
+disposed to be _jocular_, and sang a song about "an old woman clothed
+in gray," and said "he did not believe in a devil."
+
+Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare."--Allan was hanging over
+him at that very moment, sobbing.--I could not resist the impulse,
+but cried out, "_This_ is Allan Clare--Allan Clare is come to see
+you, my dear Sir."--The wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for
+he turned his head away, and began talking of _charnel-houses_, and
+_dead men_, and "whether they knew anything that passed in their
+coffins."
+
+Matravis died that night.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ESSAYS.
+
+RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL.
+
+
+To comfort the desponding parent with the thought that, without
+diminishing the stock which is imperiously demanded to furnish the
+more pressing and homely wants of our nature, he has disposed of one
+or more perhaps out of a numerous offspring, under the shelter of a
+care scarce less tender than the paternal, where not only their
+bodily cravings shall be supplied, but that mental _pabulum_ is also
+dispensed, which HE hath declared to be no less necessary to our
+sustenance, who said, that, "not by bread alone man can live": for
+this Christ's Hospital unfolds her bounty. Here neither, on the one
+hand, are the youth lifted up above their family, which we must
+suppose liberal, though reduced; nor on the other hand, are they
+liable to be depressed below its level by the mean habits and
+sentiments which a common charity-school generates. It is, in a word,
+an Institution to keep those who have yet held up their heads in the
+world, from sinking; to keep alive the spirit of a decent household,
+when poverty was in danger of crushing it; to assist those who are
+the most willing, but not always the most able, to assist themselves;
+to separate a child from his family for a season, in order to render
+him back hereafter, with feelings and habits more congenial to it,
+than he could even have attained by remaining at home in the bosom of
+it. It is a preserving and renovating principle, an antidote for the
+_res angusta domi_, when it presses, as it always does, most heavily
+upon the most ingenuous natures.
+
+This is Christ's Hospital; and whether its character would be
+improved by confining its advantages to the very lowest of the
+people, let those judge who have witnessed the looks, the gestures,
+the behavior, the manner of their play with one another, their
+deportment towards strangers, the whole aspect and physiognomy of
+that vast assemblage of boys on the London foundation, who freshen
+and make alive again with their sports the else mouldering cloisters
+of the old Grey Friars--which strangers who have never witnessed, if
+they pass through Newgate Street, or by Smithfield, would do well to
+go a little out of their way to see.
+
+For the Christ's Hospital boy feels that he is no charity-boy; he
+feels it in the antiquity and regality of the foundation to which he
+belongs; in the usage which he meets with at school, and the
+treatment he is accustomed to out of its bounds; in the respect and
+even kindness, which his well-known garb never fails to procure him
+in the streets of the metropolis; he feels it in his education, in
+that measure of classical attainments, which every individual at that
+school, though not destined to a learned profession, has it in his
+power to procure, attainments which it would be worse than folly to
+put it in the reach of the laboring classes to acquire: he feels it
+in the numberless comforts, and even magnificences, which surround
+him; in his old and awful cloisters, with their traditions; in his
+spacious school-rooms, and in the well-ordered, airy, and lofty rooms
+where he sleeps; in his stately dining-hall, hung round with
+pictures, by Verrio, Lely, and others, one of them surpassing in size
+and grandeur almost any other in the kingdom;[1] above all, in the
+very extent and magnitude of the body to which he belongs, and the
+consequent spirit, the intelligence, and public conscience, which is
+the result of so many various yet wonderfully combining members.
+Compared with this last-named advantage, what is the stock of
+information (I do not here speak of book-learning, but of that
+knowledge which boy receives from boy), the mass of collected
+opinions, the intelligence in common, among the few and narrow
+members of an ordinary boarding-school?
+
+[Footnote 1: By Verrio, representing James the Second on his throne,
+surrounded by his courtiers,(all curious portraits,) receiving the
+mathematical pupils at their annual presentation: a custom still kept
+up on New-year's-day at Court.]
+
+The Christ's Hospital or Blue-coat boy, has a distinctive character
+of his own, as far removed from the abject qualities of a common
+charity-boy as it is from the disgusting forwardness of a lad brought
+up at some other of the public schools. There is _pride_ in it,
+accumulated from the circumstances which I have described, as
+differencing him from the former; and there is _a restraining
+modesty_ from a sense of obligation and dependence, which must ever
+keep his deportment from assimilating to that of the latter. His very
+garb, as it is antique and venerable, feeds his self-respect; as it
+is a badge of dependence, it restrains the natural petulance of that
+age from breaking out into overt acts of insolence. This produces
+silence and a reserve before strangers, yet not that cowardly shyness
+which boys mewed up at home will feel; he will speak up when spoken
+to, but the stranger must begin the conversation with him. Within his
+bounds he is all fire and play; but in the streets he steals along
+with all the self-concentration of a young monk. He is never known to
+mix with other boys; they are a sort of laity to him. All this
+proceeds, I have no doubt, from the continual consciousness which he
+carries about him, of the difference of his dress from that of the
+rest of the world; with a modest jealousy over himself, lest, by
+overhastily mixing with common and secular playfellows, he should
+commit the dignity of his cloth. Nor let any one laugh at this; for,
+considering the propensity of the multitude, and especially of the
+small multitude, to ridicule anything unusual in dress--above all,
+where such peculiarity may be construed by malice into a mark of
+disparagement--this reserve will appear to be nothing more than a
+wise instinct in the Blue-coat boy. That it is neither pride nor
+rusticity, at least that it has none of the offensive qualities of
+either, a stranger may soon satisfy himself, by putting a question to
+any of these boys: he may be sure of an answer couched in terms of
+plain civility, neither loquacious nor embarrassed. Let him put the
+same question to a parish-boy, or to one of the trencher-caps in the
+---- cloisters, and the impudent reply of the one shall not fail to
+exasperate any more than the certain servility, and mercenary eye to
+reward, which he will meet with in the other, can fail to depress and
+sadden him.
+
+The Christ's Hospital boy is a religions character. His school is
+eminently a religious foundation; it has its peculiar prayers, its
+services at set times, its graces, hymns, and anthems, following each
+other in an almost monastic closeness of succession. This religious
+character in him is not always untinged with superstition. That is
+not wonderful, when we consider the thousand tales and traditions
+which must circulate, with undisturbed credulity, amongst so many
+boys, that have so few checks to their belief from any intercourse
+with the world at large; upon whom their equals in age must work so
+much, their elders so little. With this leaning towards an
+over-belief in matters of religion, which will soon correct itself
+when he comes out into society, may be classed a turn for romance
+above most other boys. This is to be traced in the same manner to
+their excess of society with each other, and defect of mingling with
+the world. Hence the peculiar avidity with which such books as the
+"Arabian Nights' Entertainments," and others of a still wilder cast,
+are, or at least were in my time, sought for by the boys. I remember
+when some half-dozen of them set off from school, without map, card,
+or compass, on a serious expedition to find out _Philip Quarll's
+Island_.
+
+The Christ's Hospital boy's sense of right and wrong is peculiarly
+tender and apprehensive. It is even apt to run out into ceremonial
+observances, and to impose a yoke upon itself beyond the strict
+obligations of the moral law. Those who were contemporaries with me
+at that school thirty years ago, will remember with what more than
+Judaic rigor the eating of the fat of certain boiled meats[1] was
+interdicted. A boy would have blushed as at the exposure of some
+heinous immorality, to have been detected eating that forbidden
+portion of his allowance of animal food, the whole of which, while he
+was in health, was little more than sufficient to allay his hunger.
+The same, or even greater, refinement was shown in the rejection of
+certain kinds of sweet-cake. What gave rise to these supererogatory
+penances, these self-denying ordinances, I could never learn;[2] they
+certainly argue no defect of the conscientious principle. A little
+excess in that article is not undesirable in youth, to make allowance
+for the inevitable waste which comes in maturer years. But in the
+less ambiguous line of duty, in those directions of the moral
+feelings which cannot be mistaken or depreciated, I will relate what
+took place in the year 1785, when Mr. Perry, the steward, died. I
+must be pardoned for taking my instances from my own times. Indeed,
+the vividness of my recollections, while I am upon this subject,
+almost bring back those times; they are present to me still. But I
+believe that in the years which have elapsed since the period which I
+speak of, the character of the Christ's Hospital boy is very little
+changed. Their situation in point of many comforts is improved; but
+that which I ventured before to term the _public conscience_ of the
+school, the pervading moral sense, of which every mind partakes and
+to which so many individual minds contribute, remains, I believe,
+pretty much the same as when I left it. I have seen, within this
+twelvemonth almost, the change which has been produced upon a boy of
+eight or nine years of age, upon being admitted into that school;
+how, from a pert young coxcomb, who thought that all knowledge was
+comprehended within his shallow brains, because a smattering of two
+or three languages and one or two sciences were stuffed into him by
+injudicious treatment at home, by a mixture with the wholesome
+society of so many school-fellows, in less time than I have spoken
+of, he has sunk to his own level, and is contented to be carried on
+in the quiet orbit of modest self-knowledge in which the common mass
+of that unpresumptuous assemblage of boys seem to move: from being a
+little unfeeling mortal, he has got to feel and reflect. Nor would it
+be a difficult matter to show how, at a school like this, where the
+boy is neither entirely separated from home, nor yet exclusively
+under its influence, the best feelings, the filial for instance, are
+brought to a maturity which they could not have attained under a
+completely domestic education; how the relation of a parent is
+rendered less tender by unremitted association, and the very
+awfulness of age is best apprehended by some sojourning amidst the
+comparative levity of youth; how absence, not drawn out by too great
+extension into alienation or forgetfulness, puts an edge upon the
+relish of occasional intercourse, and the boy is made the better
+_child_ by that which keeps the force of that relation from being
+felt as perpetually pressing on him; how the substituted paternity,
+into the care of which he is adopted, while in everything substantial
+it makes up for the natural, in the necessary omission of individual
+fondnesses and partialities, directs the mind only the more strongly
+to appreciate that natural and first tie, in which such weaknesses
+are the bond of strength, and the appetite which craves after them
+betrays no perverse palate. But these speculations rather belong to
+the question of the comparative advantages of a public over a private
+education in general. I must get back to my favorite school; and to
+that which took place when our old and good steward died.
+
+[Footnote 1: Under the denomination of _gage_.]
+
+[Footnote 2: I am told that the late steward [Mr. Hathaway], who
+evinced on many occasions a most praiseworthy anxiety to promote the
+comfort of the boys, had occasion for all his address and
+perseverance to eradicate the first of these unfortunate prejudices,
+in which he at length happily succeeded, and thereby restored to one
+half of the animal nutrition of the school those honors which painful
+superstition and blind zeal had so long conspired to withhold from
+it.]
+
+And I will say that when I think of the frequent instances which I
+have met with in children, of a hard-heartedness, a callousness, and
+insensibility to the loss of relations, even of those who have begot
+and nourished them, I cannot but consider it as a proof of something
+in the peculiar conformation of that school, favorable to the
+expansion of the best feelings of our nature, that at the period
+which I am noticing, out of five hundred boys there was not a dry eye
+to be found among them, nor a heart that did not beat with genuine
+emotion. Every impulse to play, until the funeral day was past,
+seemed suspended throughout the school; and the boys, lately so
+mirthful and sprightly, were seen pacing their cloisters alone, or in
+sad groups standing about, few of them without some token, such as
+their slender means could provide, a black riband or something, to
+denote respect and a sense of their loss. The time itself was a time
+of anarchy, a time in which all authority (out of school hours) was
+abandoned. The ordinary restraints were for those days superseded;
+and the gates, which at other times kept us in, were left without
+watchers. Yet, with the exception of one or two graceless boys at
+most, who took advantage of that suspension of authorities to _skulk
+out_, as it was called, the whole body of that great school kept
+rigorously within their bounds, by a voluntary self-imprisonment; and
+they who broke bounds, though they escaped punishment from any
+master, fell into a general disrepute among us, and, for that which
+at any other time would have been applauded and admired as a mark of
+spirit, were consigned to infamy and reprobation; so much _natural
+government_ have gratitude and the principles of reverence and love,
+and so much did a respect to their dead friend prevail with these
+Christ's Hospital boys, above any fear which his presence among them
+when living could ever produce. And if the impressions which were
+made on my mind so long ago are to be trusted, very richly did their
+steward deserve this tribute. It is a pleasure to me even now to call
+to mind his portly form, the regal awe which he always contrived to
+inspire, in spite of a tenderness and even weakness of nature that
+would have enfeebled the reins of discipline in any other master; a
+yearning of tenderness towards those under his protection, which
+could make five hundred boys at once feel towards him each as to
+their individual father. He had faults, with which we had nothing to
+do; but, with all his faults, indeed, Mr. Perry was a most
+extraordinary creature. Contemporary with him and still living,
+though he has long since resigned his occupation, will it be
+impertinent to mention the name of our excellent upper
+grammar-master, the Rev. James Boyer? He was a disciplinarian,
+indeed, of a different stamp from him whom I have just described;
+but, now the terrors of the rod, and of a temper a little too hasty
+to leave the more nervous of us quite at our ease to do justice to
+his merits in those days, are long since over, ungrateful were we if
+we should refuse our testimony to that unwearied assiduity with which
+he attended to the particular improvement of each of us. Had we been
+the offspring of the first gentry in the land, he could not have been
+instigated by the strongest views of recompense and reward to have
+made himself a greater slave to the most laborious of all occupations
+than he did for us sons of charity, from whom, or from our parents,
+he could expect nothing. He has had his reward in the satisfaction of
+having discharged his duty, in the pleasurable consciousness of
+having advanced the respectability of that institution to which, both
+man and boy, he was attached; in the honors to which so many of his
+pupils have successfully aspired at both our Universities; and in the
+staff with which the Governors of the Hospital, at the close of his
+hard labors, with the highest expressions of the obligations the
+school lay under to him, unanimously voted to present him.
+
+I have often considered it among the felicities of the constitution
+of this school, that the offices of steward and school-master are
+kept distinct; the strict business of education alone devolving upon
+the latter, while the former has the charge of all things out of
+school, the control of the provisions, the regulation of meals, of
+dress, of play, and the ordinary intercourse of the boys. By this
+division of management, a superior respectability must attach to the
+teacher, while his office is unmixed with any of these lower
+concerns. A still greater advantage over the construction of common
+boarding-schools is to be found in the settled salaries of the
+masters, rendering them totally free of obligation to any individual
+pupil, or his parents. This never fails to have its effect at schools
+where each boy can reckon up to a hair what profit the master derives
+from him, where he views him every day in the light of a caterer, a
+provider for the family, who is to get so much by him in each of his
+meals. Boys will see and consider these things; and how much must the
+sacred character of preceptor suffer in their minds by these
+degrading associations! The very bill which the pupil carries home
+with him at Christmas, eked out, perhaps, with elaborate though
+necessary minuteness, instructs him that his teachers have other ends
+than the mere love to learning, in the lessons which they give him;
+and though they put into his hands the fine sayings of Seneca or
+Epictetus, yet they themselves are none of those disinterested
+pedagogues to teach philosophy _gratis_. The master, too, is sensible
+that he is seen in this light; and how much this must lessen that
+affectionate regard to the learners which alone can sweeten the
+bitter labor of instruction, and convert the whole business into
+unwelcome and uninteresting task-work, many preceptors that I have
+conversed with on the subject are ready, with a sad heart, to
+acknowledge. From this inconvenience the settled salaries of the
+masters of this school in great measure exempt them; while the happy
+custom of choosing masters (indeed every officer of the
+establishment) from those who have received their education there,
+gives them an interest in advancing the character of the school, and
+binds them to observe a tenderness and a respect to the children, in
+which a stranger, feeling that independence which I have spoken of,
+might well be expected to fail.
+
+In affectionate recollections of the place where he was bred up, in
+hearty recognitions of old school-fellows met with again after the
+lapse of years, or in foreign countries, the Christ's Hospital boy
+yields to none; I might almost say, he goes beyond most other boys.
+The very compass and magnitude of the school, its thousand bearings,
+the space it takes up in the imagination beyond the ordinary schools,
+impresses a remembrance, accompanied with an elevation of mind, that
+attends him through life. It is too big, too affecting an object, to
+pass away quickly from his mind. The Christ's Hospital boy's friends
+at school are commonly his intimates through life. For me, I do not
+know whether a constitutional imbecility does not incline me too
+obstinately to cling to the remembrances of childhood; in an inverted
+ratio to the usual sentiments of mankind, nothing that I have been
+engaged in since seems of any value or importance compared to the
+colors which imagination gave to everything then. I belong to no
+_body corporate_ such as I then made a part of.--And here, before I
+close, taking leave of the general reader, and addressing myself
+solely to my old school-fellows, that were contemporaries with me
+from the year 1782 to 1789, let me have leave to remember some of
+those circumstances of our school, which they will not be unwilling
+to have brought back to their minds.
+
+And first, let us remember, as first in importance in our childish
+eyes, the young men (as they almost were) who, under the denomination
+of _Grecians_, were waiting the expiration of the period when they
+should be sent, at the charges of the Hospital, to one or other of
+our universities, but more frequently to Cambridge. These youths,
+from their superior acquirements, their superior age and stature, and
+the fewness of their numbers (for seldom above two or three at a time
+were inaugurated into that high order), drew the eyes of all, and
+especially of the younger boys, into a reverent observance and
+admiration. How tall they used to seem to us! how stately would they
+pace along the cloisters! while the play of the lesser boys was
+absolutely suspended, or its boisterousness at least allayed, at
+their presence! Not that they ever beat or struck the boys--that
+would have been to have demeaned themselves--the dignity of their
+persons alone insured them all respect. The task of blows, of
+corporal chastisement, they left to the common monitors, or heads of
+wards, who, it must be confessed, in our time had rather too much
+license allowed them to oppress and misuse their inferiors; and the
+interference of the Grecian, who may be considered as the spiritual
+power, was not unfrequently called for, to mitigate by its mediation
+the heavy unrelenting arm of this temporal power, or monitor. In
+fine, the Grecians were the solemn Muftis of the school. Eras were
+computed from their time;--it used to be said, such or such a thing
+was done when S---- or T---- was Grecian.
+
+As I ventured to call the Grecians, the Muftis of the school, the
+King's boys,[1] as their character then was, may well pass for the
+Janissaries. They were the terror of all the other boys; bred up
+under that hardy sailor, as well as excellent mathematician and
+conavigator with Captain Cook, William Wales. All his systems were
+adapted to fit them for the rough element which they were destined to
+encounter. Frequent and severe punishments which were expected to be
+borne with more than Spartan fortitude, came to be considered less as
+inflictions of disgrace than as trials of obstinate endurance. To
+make his boys hardy, and to give them early sailor-habits, seemed to
+be his only aim; to this everything was subordinate. Moral
+obliquities, indeed, were sure of receiving their full recompense,
+for no occasion of laying on the lash was ever let slip; but the
+effects expected to be produced from it were something very different
+from contrition or mortification. There was in William Wales a
+perpetual fund of humor, a constant glee about him, which, heightened
+by an inveterate provincialism of north-country dialect, absolutely
+took away the sting from his severities. His punishments were a game
+at patience, in which the master was not always worst contented when
+he found himself at times overcome by his pupil. What success this
+discipline had, or how the effects of it operated upon the
+after-lives of these King's boys, I cannot say: but I am sure that,
+for the time, they were absolute nuisances to the rest of the school.
+Hardy, brutal, and often wicked, they were the most graceless lump in
+the whole mass; older and bigger than the other boys, (for, by the
+system of their education they were kept longer at school by two or
+three years than any of the rest, except the Grecians,) they were a
+constant terror to the younger part of the school; and some who may
+read this, I doubt not, will remember the consternation into which
+the juvenile fry of us were thrown, when the cry was raised in the
+cloisters, that _the First Order was coming_--for so they termed the
+first form or class of those boys. Still these sea-boys answered some
+good purposes, in the school. They were the military class among the
+boys, foremost in athletic exercises, who extended the fame of the
+prowess of the school far and near; and the apprentices in the
+vicinage, and sometimes the butchers' boys in the neighboring market,
+had sad occasion to attest their valor.
+
+[Footnote 1: The mathematical pupils, bred up to the sea, on the
+foundation of Charles the Second.]
+
+The time would fail me if I were to attempt to enumerate all those
+circumstances, some pleasant, some attended with some pain, which,
+seen through the mist of distance, come sweetly softened to the
+memory. But I must crave leave to remember our transcending
+superiority in those invigorating sports, leap-frog, and basting the
+bear; our delightful excursions in the summer holidays to the New
+River, near Newington, where, like otters, we would live the long day
+in the water, never caring for dressing ourselves, when we had once
+stripped; our savory meals afterwards, when we came home almost
+famished with staying out all day without our dinners; our visits at
+other times to the Tower, where, by ancient privilege, we had free
+access to all the curiosities; our solemn procession through the City
+at Easter, with the Lord Mayor's largess of buns, wine, and a
+shilling, with the festive questions and civic pleasantries of the
+dispensing Aldermen, which were more to us than all the rest of the
+banquet; our stately suppings in public, where the well-lighted hall
+and the confluence of well-dressed company who came to see us, made
+the whole look more like a concert or assembly, than a scene of a
+plain bread and cheese collation; the annual orations upon St.
+Matthew's day, in which the senior scholar, before he had done,
+seldom failed to reckon up, among those who had done honor to our
+school by being educated in it, the names of those accomplished
+critics and Greek scholars, Joshua Barnes and Jeremiah Markland (I
+marvel they left out Camden while they were about it). Let me have
+leave to remember our hymns and anthems, and well-toned organ; the
+doleful tune of the burial anthem chanted in the solemn cloisters,
+upon the seldom-occurring funeral of some school-fellow; the
+festivities at Christmas, when the richest of us would club our stock
+to have a gaudy day, sitting round the fire, replenished to the
+height with logs, and the penniless, and he that could contribute
+nothing, partook in all the mirth, and in some of the
+substantialities of the feasting; the carol sung by night at that
+time of the year, which, when a young boy, I have so often lain awake
+to hear from seven (the hour of going to bed) till ten, when it was
+sung by the older boys and monitors, and have listened to it, in
+their rude chanting, till I have been transported in fancy to the
+fields of Bethlehem, and the song which was sung at that season, by
+angels' voices to the shepherds.
+
+Nor would I willingly forget any of those things which administered
+to our vanity. The hem-stitched bands and town-made shirts, which
+some of the most fashionable among us wore; the town-girdles, with
+buckles of silver, or shining stone; the badges of the sea-boys; the
+cots, or superior shoestrings, of the monitors; the medals of the
+markers; (those who were appointed to hear the Bible read in the
+wards on Sunday morning and evening,) which bore on their obverse in
+silver, as certain parts of our garments carried, in meaner metal,
+the countenance of our Founder, that godly and royal child, King
+Edward the Sixth, the flower of the Tudor name--the young flower that
+was untimely cropt, as it began to fill our land with its early
+odors--the boy-patron of boys--the serious and holy child who walked
+with Cranmer and Bidley--fit associate, in those tender years, for
+the bishops, and future martyrs of our Church, to receive, or, (as
+occasion sometimes proved,) to give instruction.
+
+  "But, ah! what means the silent tear?
+    Why, e'en 'mid joy, my bosom heave?
+  Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear!
+    Lo! now I linger o'er your grave.
+
+  "--Fly, then, ye hours of rosy hue,
+    And bear away the bloom of years!
+  And quick succeed, ye sickly crew
+    Of doubts and sorrows, pains and fears!
+
+  "Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan,
+  Nor, tracing back the child, forget that I am man."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Lines meditated in the cloisters of Christ's Hospital,
+in the "Poetics," of Mr. George Dyer.]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE.
+
+CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION.
+
+Taking a turn the other day in the Abbey, I was struck with the
+affected attitude of a figure, which I do not remember to have seen
+before, and which upon examination proved to be a whole-length of the
+celebrated Mr. Garrick. Though I would not go so far with some good
+Catholics abroad as to shut players altogether out of consecrated
+ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalized at the introduction
+of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to remind us
+of the saddest realities. Going nearer, I found inscribed under this
+harlequin figure the following lines:--
+
+  "To paint fair Nature, by divine command
+  Her magic pencil in his glowing hand,
+  A Shakspeare rose; then, to expand his fame
+  Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came.
+  Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew,
+  The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew;
+  Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay,
+  Immortal Garrick called them back to day:
+  And till Eternity with power sublime
+  Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time,
+  Shakspeare and Garrick like twin-stars shall shine,
+  And earth irradiate with a beam divine."
+
+It would be an insult to my readers' understandings to attempt
+anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and
+nonsense. But the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder,
+how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it should
+have been the fashion to compliment every performer in his turn, that
+has had the luck to please the Town in any of the great characters of
+Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a _mind congenial with the
+poet's_; how people should come thus unaccountably to confound the
+power of originating poetical images and conceptions with the faculty
+of being able to read or recite the same when put into words;[1]or
+what connection that absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man,
+which a great dramatic poet possesses, has with those low tricks upon
+the eye and ear, which a player, by observing a few general effects,
+which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c., usually has upon the
+gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know the internal
+workings and movements of a great mind, of an Othello or a Hamlet for
+instance, the _when_ and the _why_ and the _how far_ they should be
+moved; to what pitch a passion is becoming; to give the reins and to
+pull in the curb exactly at the moment when the drawing in or the
+slackening is most graceful; seems to demand a reach of intellect of
+a vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare
+imitation of the signs of these passions in the countenance or
+gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively and
+emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can after all
+but indicate some passion, as I said before, anger, or grief,
+generally; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein it
+differs from the same passion in low and vulgar natures, of these the
+actor can give no more idea by his face or gesture than the eye
+(without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter intelligible
+sounds. But such is the instantaneous nature of the impressions which
+we take in at the eye and ear at a playhouse, compared with the slow
+apprehension oftentimes of the understanding in reading, that we are
+apt not only to sink the playwriter in the consideration which we pay
+to the actor, but even to identify in our minds, in a perverse
+manner, the actor with the character which he represents. It is
+difficult for a frequent play-goer to disembarrass the idea of Hamlet
+from the person and voice of Mr. K. We speak of Lady Macbeth, while
+we are in reality thinking of Mrs. S. Nor is this confusion
+incidental alone to unlettered persons, who, not possessing the
+advantage of reading, are necessarily dependent upon the stage-player
+for all the pleasure which they can receive from the drama, and to
+whom the very idea of _what an author is_ cannot be made
+comprehensible without some pain and perplexity of mind: the error is
+one from which persons otherwise not meanly lettered, find it almost
+impossible to extricate themselves.
+
+[Footnote 1: It is observable that we fall into this confusion only
+in dramatic recitations. We never dream that the gentleman who reads
+Lucretius in public with great applause, is therefore a great poet
+and philosopher; nor do we find that Tom Davis, the bookseller, who
+is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost better than any man in
+England in his day (though I cannot help thinking there must be some
+mistake in this tradition), was therefore, by his intimate friends,
+set upon a level with Milton.]
+
+Never let me be so ungrateful as to forget the very high degree of
+satisfaction which I received some years back from seeing for the
+first time a tragedy of Shakespeare performed, in which those two
+great performers sustained the principal parts. It seemed to embody
+and realize conceptions which had hitherto assumed no distinct shape.
+But dearly do we pay all our life after for this juvenile pleasure,
+this sense of distinctness. When the novelty is past, we find to our
+cost that instead of realizing an idea, we have only materialized and
+brought down a fine vision to the standard of flesh and blood. We
+have let go a dream, in quest of an unattainable substance.
+
+How cruelly this operates upon the mind, to have its free conceptions
+thus cramped and pressed down to the measure of a strait-lacing
+actuality, may be judged from that delightful sensation of freshness,
+with which we turn to those plays of Shakspeare which have escaped
+being performed, and to those passages in the acting plays of the
+same writer which have happily been left out in the performance. How
+far the very custom of hearing anything _spouted_, withers and blows
+upon a fine passage, may be seen in those speeches from Henry the
+Fifth, &c., which are current in the mouths of school-boys, from
+their being to be found in _Enfield's Speaker_, and such kind of
+books! I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that celebrated
+soliloquy in Hamlet, beginning "To be or not to be," or to tell
+whether it be good, bad or indifferent, it has been so handled and
+pawed about by declamatory boys and men, and torn so inhumanly from
+its living place and principle of continuity in the play, till it is
+become to me a perfect dead member.
+
+It may seem a paradox, but I cannot help being of opinion that the
+plays of Shakspeare are less calculated for performance on a stage,
+than those of almost any other dramatist whatever. Their
+distinguishing excellence is a reason that they should be so. There
+is so much in them, which comes not under the province of acting,
+with which eye, and tone, and gesture, have nothing to do.
+
+The glory of the scenic art is to personate passion, and the turns of
+passion; and the more coarse and palpable the passion is, the more
+hold upon the eyes and ears of the spectators the performer obviously
+possesses. For this reason, scolding scenes, scenes where two persons
+talk themselves into a fit of fury, and then in a surprising manner
+talk themselves out of it again, have always been the most popular
+upon our stage. And the reason is plain, because the spectators are
+here most palpably appealed to, they are the proper judges in this
+war of words, they are the legitimate ring that should be formed
+round such "intellectual prize-fighters." Talking is the direct
+object of the imitation here. But in all the best dramas, and in
+Shakspeare above all, how obvious it is, that the form of _speaking_,
+whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is only a medium, and often a
+highly artificial one, for putting the reader or spectator into
+possession of that knowledge of the inner structure and workings of
+mind in a character, which he could otherwise never have arrived at
+_in that form of composition_ by any gift short of intuition. We do
+here as we do with novels written in the _epistolary form_. How many
+improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do we put up with
+in Clarissa and other books, for the sake of the delight which that
+form upon the whole gives us!
+
+But the practice of stage-representation reduces everything to a
+controversy of elocution. Every character, from the boisterous
+blasphemings of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of womanhood, must
+play the orator. The love dialogues of Romeo and Juliet, those
+silver-sweet sounds of lovers' tongues by night! the more intimate
+and sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an Othello or a
+Posthumus with their married wives, all those delicacies which are so
+delightful in the reading, as when we read of those youthful
+dalliances in Paradise--
+
+                                "As beseem'd
+  Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league,
+  Alone;"
+
+by the inherent fault of stage-representation, how are these things
+sullied and turned from their very nature by being exposed to a large
+assembly; when such speeches as Imogen addresses to her lord, come
+drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress, whose courtship, though
+nominally addressed to the personated Posthumus, is manifestly aimed
+at the spectators, who are to judge of her endearments and her
+returns of love!
+
+The character of Hamlet is perhaps that by which, since the days of
+Betterton, a succession of popular performers have had the greatest
+ambition to distinguish themselves. The length of the part may be one
+of their reasons. But for the character itself, we find it in a play,
+and therefore we judge it a fit subject of dramatic representation.
+The play itself abounds in maxims and reflections beyond any other,
+and therefore we consider it as a proper vehicle for conveying moral
+instruction. But Hamlet himself--what does he suffer meanwhile by
+being dragged forth as the public schoolmaster, to give lectures to
+the crowd! Why, nine parts in ten of what Hamlet does, are
+transactions between himself and his moral sense; they are the
+effusions of his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and
+corners and the most sequestered parts of the palace to pour forth;
+or rather, they are the silent meditations with which his bosom is
+bursting, reduced to _words_ for the sake of the reader, who must
+else remain ignorant of what is passing there. These profound
+sorrows, these light-and-noise-abhorring ruminations, which the
+tongue scarce dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how can they be
+represented by a gesticulating actor, who comes and mouths them out
+before an audience, making four hundred people his confidants at
+once! I say not that it is the fault of the actor so to do; he must
+pronounce them _ore rotundo_; he must accompany them with his eye; he
+must insinuate them into his auditory by some trick of eye, tone or
+gesture, or he fails. _He must be thinking all the while of his
+appearance, because he knows that all the while the spectators are
+judging of it_. And this is the way to represent the shy, negligent,
+retiring Hamlet!
+
+It is true that there is no other mode of conveying a vast quantity
+of thought and feeling to a great portion of the audience, who
+otherwise would never earn it for themselves by reading, and the
+intellectual acquisition gained this way may, for aught I know, be
+inestimable; but I am not arguing that Hamlet should not be acted,
+but how much Hamlet is made another thing by being acted. I have
+heard much of the wonders which Garrick performed in this part; but
+as I never saw him, I must have leave to doubt whether the
+representation of such a character came within the province of his
+art. Those who tell me of him, speak of his eye, of the magic of his
+eye, and of his commanding voice: physical properties, vastly
+desirable in an actor, and without which he can never insinuate
+meaning into an auditory,--but what have they to do with Hamlet; what
+have they to do with intellect? In fact, the things aimed at in
+theatrical representation, are to arrest the spectator's eye upon the
+form and the gesture, and so to gain a more favorable hearing to what
+is spoken: it is not what the character is, but how he looks; not
+what he says, but how he speaks it. I see no reason to think that if
+the play of Hamlet were written over again by some such writer as
+Banks or Lillo, retaining the process of the story, but totally
+omitting all the poetry of it, all the divine features of Shakspeare,
+his stupendous intellect; and only taking care to give us enough of
+passionate dialogue, which Banks or Lillo were never at a loss to
+furnish; I see not how the effect could be much different upon an
+audience, nor how the actor has it in his power to represent
+Shakspeare to us differently from his representation of Banks or
+Lillo. Hamlet would still be a youthful accomplished prince, and must
+be gracefully personated; he might be puzzled in his mind, wavering
+in his conduct, seemingly cruel to Ophelia; he might see a ghost, and
+start at it, and address it kindly when he found it to be his father;
+all this in the poorest and most homely language of the servilest
+creeper after nature that ever consulted the palate of an audience;
+without troubling Shakspeare for the matter: and I see not but there
+would be room for all the power which an actor has, to display
+itself. All the passions and changes of passion might remain: for
+those are much less difficult to write or act than is thought; it is
+a trick easy to be attained, it is but rising or falling a note or
+two in the voice, a whisper with a significant foreboding look to
+announce its approach, and so contagious the counterfeit appearance
+of any emotion is, that let the words be what they will, the look and
+tone shall carry it off, and make it pass for deep skill in the
+passions.
+
+It is common for people to talk of Shakspeare's plays being _so
+natural_; that everybody can understand him. They are natural indeed,
+they are grounded deep in nature, so deep that the depth of them lies
+out of the reach of most of us. You shall hear the same persons say
+that George Barnwell is very natural, and Othello is very natural,
+that they are both very deep; and to them they are the same kind of
+thing. At the one they sit and shed tears, because a good sort of
+young man is tempted by a naughty woman to commit a _trifling
+peccadillo_, the murder of an uncle or so[1] that is all, and so
+comes to an untimely end, which is _so moving_; and at the other,
+because a blackamoor in a fit of jealousy kills his innocent white
+wife; and the odds are that ninety-nine out of a hundred would
+willingly behold the same catastrophe happen to both the heroes, and
+have thought the rope more due to Othello than to Barnwell. For of
+the texture of Othello's mind, the inward construction marvellously
+laid open with all its strengths and weaknesses, its heroic
+confidences and its human misgivings, its agonies of hate springing
+from the depths of love, they see no more than the spectators at a
+cheaper rate, who pay their pennies apiece to look through the man's
+telescope in Leicester-fields, see into the inward plot and
+topography of the moon. Some dim thing or other they see; they see an
+actor personating a passion, of grief, or anger, for instance, and
+they recognize it as a copy of the usual external effects of such
+passions; or at least as being true to _that symbol of the emotion
+which passes current at the theatre for it_, for it is often no more
+than that: but of the grounds of the passion, its correspondence to a
+great or heroic nature, which is the only worthy object of
+tragedy,--that common auditors know anything of this, or can have any
+such notions dinned into them by the mere strength of an actor's
+lungs,--that apprehensions foreign to them should be thus infused
+into them by storm, I can neither believe, nor understand how it can
+be possible.
+
+[Footnote 1: If this note could hope to meet the eye of any of the
+Managers, I would entreat and beg of them, in the name of both the
+Galleries, that this insult upon the morality of the common people of
+London should cease to be eternally repeated in the holiday weeks.
+Why are the 'Prentices of this famous and well-governed city, instead
+of an amusement, to be treated over and over again with a nauseous
+sermon of George Barnwell? Why _at the end of their vistas_ are we to
+place the _gallows_?  Were I an uncle, I should not much like a
+nephew of mine to have such an example placed before his eyes. It is
+really making uncle-murder too trivial to exhibit it as done upon
+such slight motives;--it is attributing too much to such characters
+as Millwood:--it is putting things into the heads of good young men,
+which they would never otherwise have dreamed of. Uncles that think
+anything of their lives, should fairly petition the Chamberlain
+against it.]
+
+We talk of Shakspeare's admirable observations of life, when we
+should feel, that not from a petty inquisition into those cheap and
+every-day characters which surrounded him, as they surround us, but
+from his own mind, which was, to borrow a phrase of Ben Jonson's, the
+very "sphere of humanity," he fetched those images of virtue and of
+knowledge, of which every one of us recognizing a part, think we
+comprehend in our natures the whole; and oftentimes mistake the
+powers which he positively creates in us, for nothing more than
+indigenous faculties of our own minds, which only waited the
+application of corresponding virtues in him to return a full and
+clear echo of the same.
+
+To return to Hamlet.--Among the distinguishing features of that
+wonderful character, one of the most interesting (yet painful) is
+that soreness of mind which makes him treat the intrusions of
+Polonius with harshness, and that asperity which he puts on in his
+interviews with Ophelia. These tokens of an unhinged mind (if they be
+not mixed in the latter case with a profound artifice of love, to
+alienate Ophelia by affected discourtesies, so to prepare her mind
+for the breaking off of that loving intercourse, which can no longer
+find a place amidst business so serious as that which he has to do)
+are parts of his character, which to reconcile with our admiration of
+Hamlet, the most patient consideration of his situation is no more
+than necessary; they are what we _forgive afterwards_, and explain by
+the whole of his character, but _at the time_ they are harsh and
+unpleasant. Yet such is the actor's necessity of giving strong blows
+to the audience, that I have never seen a player in this character,
+who did not exaggerate and strain to the utmost these ambiguous
+features,--these temporary deformities in the character. They make
+him express a vulgar scorn at Polonius which utterly degrades his
+gentility, and which no explanation can render palatable; they make
+him show contempt, and curl up the nose at Ophelia's
+father,--contempt in its very grossest and most hateful form; but
+they get applause by it: it is natural, people say; that is, the
+words are scornful, and the actor expresses scorn, and that they can
+judge of: but why so much scorn, and of that sort, they never think
+of asking.
+
+So to Ophelia.--All the Hamlets that I have ever seen, rant and rave
+at her as if she had committed some great crime, and the audience are
+highly pleased, because the words of the part are satirical, and they
+are enforced by the strongest expression of satirical indignation of
+which the face and voice are capable. But then, whether Hamlet is
+likely to have put on such brutal appearances to a lady whom he loved
+so dearly, is never thought on. The truth is, that in all such deep
+affections as had subsisted between Hamlet and Ophelia, there is a
+stock of _supererogatory love_, (if I may venture to use the
+expression,) which in any great grief of heart, especially where that
+which preys upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers a kind of
+indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even to its
+heart's dearest object, in the language of a temporary alienation;
+but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and so it
+always makes itself to be felt by that object: it is not anger, but
+grief assuming the appearance of anger,--love awkwardly
+counterfeiting hate, as sweet countenances when they try to frown:
+but such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made to show, is
+no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute aversion,--of
+irreconcilable alienation. It may be said he puts on the madman; but
+then he should only so far put on this counterfeit lunacy as his own
+real distraction will give him leave; that is, incompletely,
+imperfectly; not in that confirmed, practised way, like a master of
+his art, or as Dame Quickly would say, "like one of those harlotry
+players."
+
+I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which
+Shakspeare's plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to
+differ from that which the audience receive from those of other
+writers; and, _they being in themselves essentially so different from
+all others_, I must conclude that there is something in the nature of
+acting which levels all distinctions. And, in fact, who does not
+speak indifferently of the Gamester and of Macbeth as fine
+stage-performances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley in the same way as
+the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S.? Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella,
+and Euphrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or
+than Desdemona? Are they not spoken of and remembered in the same
+way? Is not the female performer as great (as they call it) in one as
+in the other? Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of
+shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day
+produced,--the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys, and the
+Browns,--and shall he have that honor to dwell in our minds forever
+as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare? A kindred mind! O who
+can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare which alludes to his
+profession as a player:--
+
+  "Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
+  The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,
+  That did not better for my life provide
+  Than public means which public custom breeds--
+  Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
+  And almost thence my nature is subdued
+  To what it works in, like the dyer's hand."--
+
+Or that other confession:--
+
+  "Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
+  And made myself a motley to thy view,
+  Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear--"
+
+Who can read these instances of jealous self-watchfulness in our
+sweet Shakspeare, and dream of any congeniality between him and one
+that, by every tradition of him, appears to have been as mere a
+player as ever existed; to have had his mind tainted with the lowest
+players' vices,--envy and jealousy, and miserable cravings after
+applause; one who in the exercise of his profession was jealous even
+of the women-performers that stood in his way; a manager full of
+managerial tricks and stratagems and finesse; that any resemblance
+should be dreamed of between him and Shakspeare,--Shakspeare, who, in
+the plenitude and consciousness of his own powers, could with that
+noble modesty, which we can neither imitate nor appreciate, express
+himself thus of his own sense of his own defects:--
+
+  "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+  Featured like him, like him with friends possest;
+  Desiring _this man's art, and that man's scope_."
+
+I am almost disposed to deny to Garrick the merit of being an admirer
+of Shakspeare? A true lover of his excellences he certainly was not;
+for would any true lover of them have admitted into his matchless
+scenes such ribald trash as Tate and Cibber, and the rest of them,
+that
+
+  "With their darkness durst affront his light,"
+
+have foisted into the acting plays of Shakspeare? I believe it
+impossible that he could have had a proper reverence for Shakspeare,
+and have condescended to go through that interpolated scene in
+Richard the Third, in which Richard tries to break his wife's heart
+by telling her he loves another woman, and says, "if she survives
+this she is immortal." Yet I doubt not he delivered this vulgar stuff
+with as much anxiety of emphasis as any of the genuine parts: and for
+acting, it is as well calculated as any. But we have seen the part of
+Richard lately produce great fame to an actor by his manner of
+playing it; and it lets us into the secret of acting, and of popular
+judgments of Shakspeare derived from acting. Not one of the
+spectators who have witnessed Mr. C.'s exertions in that part, but
+has come away with a proper conviction that Richard is a very wicked
+man, and kills little children in their beds, with something like the
+pleasure which the giants and ogres in children's books are
+represented to have taken in that practice; moreover, that he is very
+close and shrewd, and devilish cunning, for you could see that by his
+eye.
+
+But is, in fact, this the impression we have in reading the Richard
+of Shakspeare? Do we feel anything like disgust, as we do at that
+butcherlike representation of him that passes for him on the stage? A
+horror at his crimes blends with the effect which we feel, but how is
+it qualified, how is it carried off, by the rich intellect which he
+displays, his resources, his wit, his buoyant spirits, his vast
+knowledge and insight into characters, the poetry of his part,--not
+an atom of all which is made perceivable in Mr. C.'s way of acting
+it. Nothing but his crimes, his actions, is visible; they are
+prominent and staring; the murderer stands out, but where is the
+lofty genius, the man of vast capacity,--the profound, the witty,
+accomplished Richard?
+
+The truth is, the characters of Shakspeare are so much the objects of
+meditation rather than of interest or curiosity as to their actions,
+that while we are reading any of his great criminal
+characters,--Macbeth, Richard, even Iago,--we think not so much of
+the crimes which they commit, as of the ambition, the aspiring
+spirit, the intellectual activity, which prompts them to overleap
+these moral fences. Barnwell is a wretched murderer; there is a
+certain fitness between his neck and the rope; he is the legitimate
+heir to the gallows; nobody who thinks at all can think of any
+alleviating circumstances in his case to make him a fit object of
+mercy. Or to take an instance from the higher tragedy, what else but
+a mere assassin is Glenalvon? Do we think of anything but of the
+crime which he commits, and the rack which he deserves? That is all
+which we really think about him. Whereas in corresponding characters
+in Shakspeare, so little do the actions comparatively affect us, that
+while the impulses, the inner mind in all its perverted greatness,
+solely seems real and is exclusively attended to, the crime is
+comparatively nothing. But when we see these things represented, the
+acts which they do are comparatively everything, their impulses
+nothing. The state of sublime emotion into which we are elevated by
+those images of night and horror which Macbeth is made to utter, that
+solemn prelude with which he entertains the time till the bell shall
+strike which is to call him to murder Duncan,--when we no longer read
+it in a book, when we have given up that vantage ground of
+abstraction which reading possesses over seeing, and come to see a
+man in his bodily shape before our eyes actually preparing to commit
+a murder, if the acting be true and impressive, as I have witnessed
+it in Mr. K.'s performance of that part, the painful anxiety about
+the act, the natural longing to prevent it while it yet seems
+unperpetrated, the too close pressing semblance of reality, give a
+pain and an uneasiness which totally destroy all the delight which
+the words in the book convey, where the deed doing never presses upon
+us with the painful sense of presence; it rather seems to belong to
+history,--to something past and inevitable, if it has anything to do
+with time at all. The sublime images, the poetry alone, is that which
+is present to our minds in the reading.
+
+So to see Lear acted,--to see an old man tottering about the stage
+with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by his daughters in a rainy
+night, has nothing in it but what is painful and disgusting. We want
+to take him into shelter and relieve him. That is all the feeling
+which the acting of Lear ever produced in me. But the Lear of
+Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery by which they
+mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to
+represent the horrors of the real elements, than any actor can be to
+represent Lear; they might more easily propose to personate the Satan
+of Milton upon a stage, or one of Michael Angelo's terrible figures.
+The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in
+intellectual: the explosions of his passion are terrible as a
+volcano; they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that
+sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid
+bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be
+thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see
+nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage;
+while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear,--we are in his
+mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of
+daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a
+mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodized from the ordinary
+purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it
+listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What
+have looks, or tones, to do with that sublime identification of his
+age with that of the _heavens themselves_, when, in his reproaches to
+them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them
+that "they themselves are old?" What gesture shall we appropriate to
+this? What has the voice or the eye to do with such things? But the
+play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show; it is too
+hard and stony; it must have love-scenes, and a happy ending. It is
+not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover
+too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for
+Garrick and his followers, the showmen of the scene, to draw the
+mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending!--as if the living
+martyrdom that Lear had gone through,--the flaying of his feelings
+alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage of life the only
+decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if he
+could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and
+preparation,--why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? As
+if the childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again
+could tempt him to act over again his misused station,--as if, at his
+years and with his experience, anything was left but to die.
+
+Lear is essentially impossible to be represented on a stage. But how
+many dramatic personages are there in Shakspeare, which though more
+tractable and feasible (if I may so speak) than Lear, yet from some
+circumstance, some adjunct to their character, are improper to be
+shown to our bodily eye! Othello, for instance. Nothing can be more
+soothing, more flattering to the nobler parts of our natures, than to
+read of a young Venetian lady of the highest extraction, through the
+force of love and from a sense of merit in him whom she loved, laying
+aside every consideration of kindred, and country, and color, and
+wedding with a _coal-black Moor_--(for such he is represented, in the
+imperfect state of knowledge respecting foreign countries in those
+days, compared with our own, or in compliance with popular notions,
+though the Moors are now well enough known to be by many shades less
+unworthy of a white woman's fancy)--it is the perfect triumph of
+virtue over accidents, of the imagination over the senses. She sees
+Othello's color in his mind. But upon the stage, when the imagination
+is no longer the ruling faculty, but we are left to our poor
+unassisted senses, I appeal to every one that has seen Othello
+played, whether he did not, on the contrary, sink Othello's mind in
+his color; whether he did not find something extremely revolting in
+the courtship and wedded caresses of Othello and Desdemona; and
+whether the actual sight of the thing did not overweigh all that
+beautiful compromise which we make in reading;--and the reason it
+should do so is obvious, because there is just so much reality
+presented to our senses as to give a perception of disagreement, with
+not enough of belief in the internal motives,--all that which is
+unseen,--to overpower and reconcile the first and obvious
+prejudices.[1] What we see upon a stage is body and bodily action;
+what we are conscious of in reading is almost exclusively the mind,
+and its movements; and this I think may sufficiently account for the
+very different sort of delight with which the same play so often
+affects us in the reading and the seeing.
+
+[Footnote 1: The error of supposing that because Othello's color does
+not offend us in the reading, it should also not offend us in the
+seeing, is just such a fallacy as supposing that an Adam and Eve in a
+picture shall affect us just as they do in the poem. But in the poem
+we for a while have Paradisiacal senses given us, which vanish when
+we see a man and his wife without clothes in the picture. The
+painters themselves feel this, as is apparent by the awkward shifts
+they have recourse to, to make them look not quite naked; by a sort
+of prophetic anachronism, antedating the invention of fig-leaves. So
+in the reading of the play, we see with Desdemona's eyes: in the
+seeing of it, we are forced to look with our own.]
+
+It requires little reflection to perceive, that if those characters
+in Shakspeare which are within the precincts of nature, have yet
+something in them which appeals too exclusively to the imagination,
+to admit of their being made objects to the senses without suffering
+a change and a diminution,--that still stronger the objection must
+lie against representing another line of characters, which Shakspeare
+has introduced to give a wildness and a supernatural elevation to his
+scenes, as if to remove them still farther from that assimilation to
+common life in which their excellence is vulgarly supposed to
+consist. When we read the incantations of those terrible beings the
+Witches in Macbeth, though some of the ingredients of their hellish
+composition savor of the grotesque, yet is the effect upon us other
+than the most serious and appalling that can be imagined? Do we not
+feel spellbound as Macbeth was? Can any mirth accompany a sense of
+their presence? We might as well laugh under a consciousness of the
+principle of Evil himself being truly and really present with us. But
+attempt to bring these things on to a stage, and you turn them
+instantly into so many old women, that men and children are to laugh
+at. Contrary to the old saying, that "seeing is believing," the sight
+actually destroys the faith; and the mirth in which we indulge at
+their expense, when we see these creatures upon a stage, seems to be
+a sort of indemnification which we make to ourselves for the terror
+which they put us in when reading made them an object of
+belief,--when we surrendered up our reason to the poet, as children
+to their nurses and their elders; and we laugh at our fears, as
+children, who thought they saw something in the dark, triumph when
+the bringing in of a candle discovers the vanity of their fears. For
+this exposure of supernatural agents upon a stage is truly bringing
+in a candle to expose their own delusiveness. It is the solitary
+taper and the book that generates a faith in these terrors: a ghost
+by chandelier light, and in good company, deceives no spectators,--a
+ghost that can be measured by the eye, and his human dimensions made
+out at leisure. The sight of a well-lighted house, and a well-dressed
+audience, shall arm the most nervous child against any apprehensions:
+as Tom Brown says of the impenetrable skin of Achilles with his
+impenetrable armor over it, "Bully Dawson would have fought the devil
+with such advantages."
+
+Much has been said, and deservedly, in reprobation of the vile
+mixture which Dryden has thrown into the Tempest: doubtless, without
+some such vicious alloy, the impure ears of that age would never have
+sat out to hear so much innocence of love as is contained in the
+sweet courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda. But is the tempest of
+Shakspeare at all a subject for stage-representation? It is one thing
+to read of an enchanter, and to believe the wondrous tale while we
+are reading it; but to have a conjurer brought before us in his
+conjuring gown, with his spirits about him, which none but himself
+and some hundred of favored spectators before the curtain are
+supposed to see, involves such a quantity of the _hateful
+incredible_, that all our reverence for the author cannot hinder us
+from perceiving such gross attempts upon the senses to be in the
+highest degree childish and inefficient. Spirits and fairies cannot
+be represented, they cannot even be painted,--they can only be
+believed. But the elaborate and anxious provision of scenery, which
+the luxury of the age demands, in these cases works a quite contrary
+effect to what is intended. That which in comedy, or plays of
+familiar life, adds so much to the life of the imitation, in plays
+which appeal to the higher faculties positively destroys the illusion
+which it is introduced to aid. A parlor or a drawing-room,--a library
+opening into a garden--a garden with an alcove in it,--a street, or
+the piazza of Covent Garden, does well enough in a scene; we are
+content to give as much credit to it as it demands; or rather, we
+think little about it,--it is little more than reading at the top of
+a page, "Scene, a garden;" we do not imagine ourselves there, but we
+readily admit the imitation of familiar objects. But to think by the
+help of painted trees and caverns, which we know to be painted, to
+transport our minds to Prospero, and his island and his lonely
+cell;[1] or by the aid of a fiddle dexterously thrown in, in an
+interval of speaking, to make us believe that we hear those
+supernatural noises of which the isle was full: the Orrery Lecturer
+at the Haymarket might as well hope, by his musical glasses cleverly
+stationed out of sight behind his apparatus, to make us believe that
+we do indeed hear the crystal spheres ring out that chime, which if
+it were to enwrap our fancy long, Milton thinks,
+
+  "Time would run back and fetch the age of gold,
+  And speckled Vanity
+  Would sicken soon and die,
+  And leprous Sin would melt from earthly mould;
+  Yea, Hell itself would pass away,
+  And leave its dolorous mansions to the peering day."
+
+[Footnote 1: It will be said these things are done in pictures. But
+pictures and scenes are very different things. Painting is a world of
+itself; but in scene-painting there is the attempt to deceive; and
+there is the discordancy never to be got over, between painted scenes
+and real people.]
+
+The garden of Eden, with our first parents in it, is not more
+impossible to be shown on a stage, than the Enchanted isle, with its
+no less interesting and innocent first settlers.
+
+The subject of Scenery is closely connected with that of the Dresses,
+which are so anxiously attended to on our stage. I remember the last
+time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I felt at the changes of
+garment which he varied, the shiftings and reshiftings, like a Romish
+priest at mass. The luxury of stage-improvements, and the importunity
+of the public eye, require this. The coronation robe of the Scottish
+monarch was fairly a counterpart to that which our King wears when he
+goes to the Parliament house, just so full and cumbersome, and set
+out with ermine and pearls. And if things must be represented, I see
+not what to find fault with in this. But in reading, what robe are we
+conscious of? Some dim images of royalty--a crown and sceptre may
+float before our eyes, but who shall describe the fashion of it? Do
+we see in our mind's eye what Webb or any other robe-maker could
+pattern? This is the inevitable consequence of imitating everything,
+to make all things natural. Whereas the reading of a tragedy is a
+fine abstraction. It presents to the fancy just so much of external
+appearances as to make us feel that we are among flesh and blood,
+while by far the greater and better part of our imagination is
+employed upon the thoughts and internal machinery of the character.
+But in acting, scenery, dress, the most contemptible things, call
+upon us to judge of their naturalness.
+
+Perhaps it would be no bad similitude, to liken the pleasure which we
+take in seeing one of these fine plays acted, compared with that
+quiet delight which we find in the reading of it, to the different
+feelings with which a reviewer, and a man that is not a reviewer,
+reads a fine poem. The accursed critical habit--the being called upon
+to judge and pronounce, must make it quite a different thing to the
+former. In seeing these plays acted, we are affected just as judges.
+When Hamlet compares the two pictures of Gertrude's first and second
+husband, who wants to see the pictures? But in the acting, a
+miniature must be lugged out; which we know not to be the picture,
+but only to show how finely a miniature may be represented. This
+showing of everything levels all things: it makes tricks, bows, and
+curtseys, of importance. Mrs. S. never got more fame by anything than
+by the manner in which she dismisses the guests in the banquet-scene
+in Macbeth: it is as much remembered as any of her thrilling tones or
+impressive looks. But does such a trifle as this enter into the
+imaginations of the readers of that wild and wonderful scene? Does
+not the mind dismiss the feasters as rapidly as it can? Does it care
+about the gracefulness of the doing it? But by acting, and judging of
+acting, all these non-essentials are raised into an importance,
+injurious to the main interest of the play.
+
+I have confined my observations to the tragic parts of Shakspeare. It
+would be no very difficult task to extend the inquiry to his
+comedies; and to show why Falstaff, Shallow, Sir Hugh Evans, and the
+rest, are equally incompatible with stage-representation. The length
+to which this Essay has run will make it, I am afraid, sufficiently
+distasteful to the Amateurs of the Theatre, without going any deeper
+into the subject at present.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS,
+CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEAKE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+When I selected for publication, in 1808, "Specimens of English
+Dramatic Poets" who lived about the time of Shakspeare, the kind of
+extracts which I was anxious to give were not so much passages of wit
+and humor, though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of
+passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting situations,
+serious descriptions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than
+to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. The plays which I
+made choice of were, with few exceptions, such as treat of human life
+and manners, rather than masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their
+train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate
+mortals--Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading
+design was to illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our
+ancestors. To show in what manner they felt when they placed
+themselves by the power of imagination in trying circumstances, in
+the conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending
+duties; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were; how their griefs
+were tempered, and their full-swoln joys abated: how much of
+Shakspeare shines in the great men his contemporaries, and how far in
+his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and all mankind. I was
+also desirous to bring together some of the most admired scenes of
+Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of the world the only
+dramatic poets of that age entitled to be considered after
+Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same volume with the more
+impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford,
+and others, to show what we had slighted, while beyond all proportion
+we had been crying up one or two favorite names. From the desultory
+criticisms which accompanied that publication, I have selected a few
+which I thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least
+immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were
+suggested.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
+
+_Lust's Dominion, or the Lascivious Queen_.--This tragedy is in King
+Cambyses' vein; rape, and murder, and superlatives; "huffing braggart
+puft lines," such as the play-writers anterior to Shakspeare are full
+of, and Pistol but coldly imitates.
+
+_Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepherd_.--The lunes of
+Tamburlaine are perfect midsummer madness. Nebuchadnezzar's are mere
+modest pretensions compared with the thundering vaunts of this
+Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by conquered kings, and
+reproaches these _pampered jades of Asia_ that they can _draw but
+twenty miles a day_. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I
+never believed that it was anything more than a pleasant burlesque of
+mine Ancient's. But I can assure my readers that it is soberly set
+down in a play, which their ancestors took to be serious.
+
+_Edward the Second_.--In a very different style from mighty
+Tamburlaine is the Tragedy of Edward the Second. The reluctant pangs
+of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, which Shakspeare
+scarcely improved in his Richard the Second; and the death-scene of
+Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene ancient or
+modern with which I am acquainted.
+
+_The Rich Jew of Malta_.--Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to
+Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does to Richard the Second.
+Barabas is a mere monster brought in with a large painted nose to
+please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries,
+invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century
+or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners "by the
+royal command," when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews
+had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see
+a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious
+ancestors contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now
+revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails,
+and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it;
+it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronizes the arts, and
+is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in Christendom.
+
+_Doctor Faustus_.--The growing horrors of Faustus's last scene are
+awfully marked by the hours and half hours as they expire, and bring
+him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his dire compact. It is
+indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation. Marlowe is said to have
+been tainted with atheistical positions, to have denied God and the
+Trinity. To such a genius the history of Faustus must have been
+delectable food: to wander in fields where curiosity is forbidden to
+go, to approach the dark gulf, near enough to look in, to be busied
+in speculations which are the rottenest part of the core of the fruit
+that fell from the tree of knowledge.[1] Barabas the Jew, and Faustus
+the conjurer, are offsprings of a mind which at least delighted to
+dally with interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a
+believer would have been tender of putting into the mouth of a
+character though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have sometimes
+not thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of
+another, to bring Vice upon the stage speaking her own dialect; and,
+themselves being armed with an unction of self-confident impunity,
+have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly which would be
+death to others. Milton, in the person of Satan, has started
+speculations hardier than any which the feeble armory of the atheist
+ever furnished; and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has
+strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, with entangling
+sophistries and abstruse pleas against her adversary Virtue, which
+Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted depth of libertinism enough to
+have invented.
+
+[Footnote 1: Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor
+Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of knowledge itself,
+and from the rotten kernels of that fatal apple.--_Howell's
+Letters_.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS DECKER.
+
+_Old Fortunatus_.--The humor of a frantic lover in the scene where
+Orleans to his friend Galloway defends the passion with which
+himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court, is enamored to
+frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to the life. Orleans
+is as passionate an inamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. He
+is just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the
+world are with him,
+
+                  "A swarm of fools
+  Crowding together to be counted wise."
+
+He talks "pure Biron and Romeo;" he is almost as poetical as they,
+quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's
+sectaries are a reason unto themselves. We have gone retrograde to
+the noble heresy, since the days when Sidney proselyted our nation to
+this mixed health and disease: the kindliest symptom, yet the most
+alarming crisis, in the ticklish state of youth; the nourisher and
+the destroyer of hopeful wits; the mother of twin births, wisdom and
+folly, valor and weakness; the servitude above freedom; the gentle
+mind's religion; the liberal superstition.
+
+_The Honest Whore_.--There is in the second part of this play, where
+Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her
+profession, a simple picture of honor and shame, contrasted without
+violence, and expressed without immodesty; which is worth all the
+_strong lines_ against the harlot's profession, with which both parts
+of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be
+suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and
+minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective
+fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective,
+that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer
+against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his
+unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new
+province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the
+enormity of those appetites in other men. When Cervantes, with such
+proficiency of fondness dwells upon the Don's library, who sees not
+that he has been a great reader of books of knight-errantry--perhaps
+was at some time of his life in danger of falling into those very
+extravagances which he ridiculed so happily in his hero!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN MARSTON.
+
+_Antonio and Mellida_.--The situation of Andrugio and Lucio, in the
+first part of this tragedy,--where Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished
+his country, with the loss of a son supposed drowned, is cast upon
+the territory of his mortal enemy the Duke of Venice, with no
+attendants but Lucio, an old nobleman, and a page--resembles that of
+Lear and Kent, in that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear,
+manifests a king-like impatience, a turbulent greatness, an affected
+resignation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, "Despair
+and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience," and the forces which he
+brings to vanquish them, "cornets of horse," &c., are in the boldest
+style of allegory. They are such a "race of mourners" as the
+"infection of sorrows loud" in the intellect might beget on some
+"pregnant cloud" in the imagination. The prologue to the second part,
+for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of
+preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old
+tales of Thebes or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly
+commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his day, of
+"intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in
+without discretion corruptly to gratify the people." It is as solemn
+a preparative as the "warning voice which he who saw the Apocalypse
+heard cry."
+
+_What You Will_.--_O I shall ne'er forget how he went cloath'd_. Act
+1. Scene 1.--To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we
+must advert to the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a
+phenomenon habited like the merchant here described would have
+excited among the flat round caps, and cloth stockings upon 'Change,
+when those "original arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were
+in fashion, not more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction
+and grace." The blank uniformity to which all professional
+distinctions in apparel have been long hastening is one instance of
+the decay of symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or
+not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a less
+imaginative people. Shakespeare knew the force of signs: a "malignant
+and turbaned Turk." This "meal-cap miller," says the author of God's
+Revenge against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious
+outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair
+Marieta.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+AUTHOR UNKNOWN.
+
+_The Merry Devil of Edmonton_.--The scene in this delightful comedy,
+in which Jerningham, "with the true feeling of a zealous friend,"
+touches the griefs of Mounchensey, seems written to make the reader
+happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended enough to
+this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only
+in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentlemanlike, and nobler,
+than the conversation and compliments of these young men. How
+delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's forgetting, in his fears, that
+Jerningham has a "Saint in Essex;" and how sweetly his friend reminds
+him! I wish it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for
+believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It
+would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my
+native Earth; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion, with the
+fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son; who has not left
+a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stepped over, without honorable
+mention; and has animated hills and streams with life and passion
+beyond the dreams of old mythology.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS HEYWOOD.
+
+_A Woman Killed with Kindness_.--Heywood is a sort of _prose_
+Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But
+we miss _the poet_, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and
+above the surface of _the nature_. Heywood's characters, in this
+play, for instance, his country gentlemen, &c., are exactly what we
+see, but of the best kind of what we see in life. Shakspeare makes us
+believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are
+nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem
+old; but we awake, and sigh for the difference.
+
+_The English Traveller_.--Heywood's preface to this play is
+interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference about the opinion of
+posterity, which some of these great writers seem to have felt. There
+is a magnanimity in authorship, as in everything else. His ambition
+seems to have been confined to the pleasure of hearing the players
+speak his lines while he lived. It does not appear that he ever
+contemplated the possibility of being read by after-ages. What a
+slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of
+such plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and
+the Woman Killed with Kindness! Posterity is bound to take care that
+a writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_A Fair Quarrel_.--The insipid levelling morality to which the modern
+stage is tied down, would not admit of such admirable passions as
+these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment,
+a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the
+vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which
+the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could
+discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of men, a
+beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the everlastingly
+inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is
+hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation-scene, be the occasion never
+so absurd, never fails of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre
+to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the
+amiable characters in the play, and find a wonderful sympathy of
+disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic
+morality, out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble
+of copying it from originals within his own breast. To know the
+boundaries of honor, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance
+which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to
+esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to
+be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when
+that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering,
+to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which
+the imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had put so keen
+an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done, in a feigned
+story, asks something more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater
+delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to
+the writing of two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of
+honor as opposed to the laws of the land, or a commonplace against
+duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now-a-days in far
+better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious honor; and he
+would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old
+Rowley or Middleton, if they were living.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_A New Wonder; a Woman never Vext_.--The old play-writers are
+distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition,--they show
+everything without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune is to be
+exhibited, they fairly bring us to the prison-grate and the
+alms-basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman; he may be
+known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our
+delicacy, in fact, forbids the dramatizing of distress at all. It is
+never shown in its essential properties; it appears but as the
+adjunct of some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from
+the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a
+certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We turn away from the
+real essences of things to hunt after their relative shadows, moral
+duties; whereas, if the truth of things were fairly represented, the
+relative duties might be safely trusted to themselves, and moral
+philosophy lose the name of a science.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THOMAS MIDDLETON.
+
+_The Witch_.--Though some resemblance may be traced between the
+charms in Macbeth and the incantations in this play, which is
+supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much
+from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are distinguished
+from the witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are
+creatures to whom man or woman, plotting some dire mischief, might
+resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood,
+and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first
+meet with Macbeth's, he is spellbound. That meeting sways his
+destiny. He can never break the fascination. These witches can hurt
+the body; those have power over the soul. Hecate in Middleton has a
+son, a low buffoon: the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of
+their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul
+anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether
+they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so
+they seem to be without human relations. They come with thunder and
+lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them.
+Except Hecate, they have no _names_; which heightens their
+mysteriousness. The names, and some of the properties which the other
+author has given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are
+serious things. Their presence cannot coexist with mirth. But in a
+lesser degree, the witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their
+power, too, is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars,
+jealousies, strifes, "like a thick scurf" over life.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WILLIAM ROWLEY,--THOMAS DECKER,--JOHN FORD, ETC.
+
+_The Witch of Edmonton_.--Mother Sawyer, in this wild play, differs
+from the hags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She is the plain,
+traditional old woman witch of our ancestors; poor, deformed, and
+ignorant; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That
+should he a hardy sheriff, with the power of the county at his heels,
+that would lay hands on the Weird Sisters. They are of another
+jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion, the author
+(or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something
+frightfully earnest in her invocations to the Familiar.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CYRIL TOURNEUR.
+
+_The Revenger's Tragedy_.--The reality and life of the dialogue, in
+which Vindici and Hippolito first tempt their mother, and then
+threaten her with death for consenting to the dishonor of their
+sister, passes any scenical illusion I ever felt. I never read it but
+my ears tingle, and I feel a hot blush overspread my cheeks, as if I
+were presently about to proclaim such malefactions of myself, as the
+brothers here rebuke in their unnatural parent, in words more keen
+and dagger-like than those which Hamlet speaks to his mother. Such
+power has the passion of shame truly personated, not only to strike
+guilty creatures unto the soul, but to "appall" even those that are
+"free."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN WEBSTER.
+
+_The Duchess of Malfy_.--All the several parts of the dreadful
+apparatus with which the death of the Duchess is ushered in, the
+waxen images which counterfeit death, the wild masque of madmen, the
+tomb-maker, the bellman, the living person's dirge, the mortification
+by degrees,--are not more remote from the conceptions of ordinary
+vengeance, than the strange character of suffering which they seem to
+bring upon their victim is out of the imagination of ordinary poets.
+As they are not like inflictions of this life, so her language seems
+not of this world. She has lived among horrors till she is become
+"native and endowed unto that element." She speaks the dialect of
+despair; her tongue has a smatch of Tartarus and the souls in bale.
+To move a horror skilfully, to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon
+fear as much as it can bear, to wean and weary a life till it is
+ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its
+last forfeit: this only a Webster can do. Inferior geniuses may "upon
+horror's head horrors accumulate," but they cannot do this. They
+mistake quantity for quality; they "terrify babes with painted
+devils;" but they know not how a soul is to be moved. Their terrors
+want dignity, their affrightments are without decorum.
+
+_The White Devil_, _or Vittoria Corombona_.--This White Devil of
+Italy sets off a bad cause so speciously, and pleads with such an
+innocence-resembling boldness, that we seem to see that matchless
+beauty of her face which inspires such gay confidence into her, and
+are ready to expect, when she has done her pleadings, that her very
+judges, her accusers, the grave ambassadors who sit as spectators,
+and all the court, will rise and make proffer to defend her, in spite
+of the utmost conviction of her guilt; as the Shepherds in Don
+Quixote make proffer to follow the beautiful Shepherdess Marcela,
+"without making any profit of her manifest resolution made there in
+their hearing."
+
+  "So sweet and lovely does she make the shame,
+  Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
+  Does spot the beauty of her budding name!"
+
+I never saw anything like the funeral dirge in this play for the
+death of Marcello, except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his
+drowned father in the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so
+this is of the earth, earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling,
+which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.
+
+In a note on the Spanish Tragedy in the Specimens, I have said that
+there is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would
+authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the additions to
+Hieronymo. I suspected the agency of some more potent spirit. I
+thought that Webster might have furnished them. They seemed full of
+that wild, solemn, preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in
+the Duchess of Malfy. On second consideration, I think this a hasty
+criticism. They are more like the overflowing griefs and talking
+distraction of Titus Andronicus. The sorrows of the Duchess set
+inward; if she talks, it is little more than soliloquy imitating
+conversation in a kind of bravery.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN FORD.
+
+_The Broken Heart_.--I do not know where to find, in any play, a
+catastrophe so grand, so solemn, and so surprising, as in this. This
+is indeed, according to Milton, to describe high passions and high
+actions. The fortitude of the Spartan boy, who let a beast gnaw out
+his bowels till he died, without expressing a groan, is a faint
+bodily image of this dilaceration of the spirit, and exenteration of
+the inmost mind, which Calantha, with a holy violence against her
+nature, keeps closely covered, till the last duties of a wife and a
+queen are fulfilled. Stories of martyrdom are but of chains and the
+stake; a little bodily suffering. These torments
+
+  "On the purest spirits prey,
+  As on entrails, joints, and limbs,
+  With answerable pains, but more intense."
+
+What a noble thing is the soul, in its strengths and in its
+weaknesses! Who would be less weak than Calantha? Who can be so
+strong? The expression of this transcendent scene almost bears us in
+imagination to Calvary and the Cross; and we seem to perceive some
+analogy between the scenical suffering which we are here
+contemplating and the real agonies of that final completion to which
+we dare no more than hint a reference. Ford was of the first order of
+poets. He sought for sublimity, not by parcels, in metaphors or
+visible images, but directly where she has her full residence, in the
+heart of man; in the actions and sufferings of the greatest minds.
+There is a grandeur of the soul, above mountains, seas, and the
+elements. Even in the poor perverted reason of Giovanni and
+Annabella, in the play[1] which stands at the head of the modern
+collection of the works of this author, we discern traces of that
+fiery particle, which, in the irregular starting from out the road of
+beaten action, discovers something of a right line even in obliquity,
+and shows hints of an improvable greatness in the lowest descents and
+degradations of our nature.
+
+[Footnote: "'Tis Pity she's a Whore."]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE.
+
+_Alaham, Mustapha_.--The two tragedies of Lord Brooke, printed among
+his poems, might with more propriety have been termed political
+treatises than plays. Their author has strangely contrived to make
+passion, character, and interest, of the highest order, subservient
+to the expression of state dogmas and mysteries. He is in nine parts
+Machiavel and Tacitus, for one part Sophocles or Seneca. In this
+writer's estimate of the powers of the mind, the understanding must
+have held a most tyrannical preeminence. Whether we look into his
+plays or his most passionate love-poems, we shall find all frozen and
+made rigid with intellect. The finest movements of the human heart,
+the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are essentially
+comprised in the actions and speeches of Caelica and Camena.
+Shakspeare, who seems to have had a peculiar delight in contemplating
+womanly perfection, whom for his many sweet images of female
+excellence all women are in an especial manner bound to love, has not
+raised the ideal of the female character higher than Lord Brooke, in
+these two women, has done. But it requires a study equivalent to the
+learning of a new language to understand their meaning when they
+speak. It is indeed hard to hit:
+
+  "Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day
+  Or seven though one should musing sit."
+
+It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him to express
+the emotions of our sensitive natures. There would be all knowledge,
+but sympathetic expressions would be wanting.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BEN JONSON.
+
+_The Case is Altered_.--The passion for wealth has worn out much of
+its grossness in tract of time. Our ancestors certainly conceived of
+money as able to confer a distinct gratification in itself, not
+considered simply as a symbol of wealth. The old poets, when they
+introduce a miser, make him address his gold as his mistress; as
+something to be seen, felt, and hugged; as capable of satisfying two
+of the senses at least. The substitution of a thin, unsatisfying
+medium in the place of the good old tangible metal, has made avarice
+quite a Platonic affection in comparison with the seeing, touching,
+and handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank-note can no
+more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist in this passion, than
+Creusa could return her husband's embrace in the shades. See the Cave
+of Mammon in Spenser; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, in the
+Rich Jew of Malta; Luke's raptures in the City Madam; the idolatry
+and absolute gold-worship of the miser Jaques in this early comic
+production of Ben Jonson's. Above all, hear Guzman, in that excellent
+old translation of the Spanish Rogue, expatiate on the "ruddy cheeks
+of your golden ruddocks, your Spanish pistolets, your plump and
+full-faced Portuguese, and your clear-skinned pieces-of-eight of
+Castile," which he and his fellows the beggars kept secret to
+themselves, and did privately enjoy in a plentiful manner. "For to
+have them to pay them away is not to enjoy them; to enjoy them is to
+have them lying by us; having no other need of them than to use them
+for the clearing of the eyesight, and the comforting of our senses.
+These we did carry about with us, sewing them in some patches of our
+doublets near unto the heart, and as close to the skin as we could
+handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restorative."
+
+_Poetaster_.--This Roman play seems written to confute those enemies
+of Ben in his own days and ours, who have said that he made a
+pedantical use of his learning. He has here revived the whole Court
+of Augustus, by a learned spell. We are admitted to the society of
+the illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Tibullus, converse in our
+own tongue more finely and poetically than they were used to express
+themselves in their native Latin. Nothing can be imagined more
+elegant, refined, and court-like, than the scenes between this Louis
+the Fourteenth of antiquity and his literati. The whole essence and
+secret of that kind of intercourse is contained therein. The
+economical liberality by which greatness, seeming to waive some part
+of its prerogative, takes care to lose none of the essentials; the
+prudential liberties of an inferior, which flatter by commanded
+boldness and soothe with complimentary sincerity;--these, and a
+thousand beautiful passages from his New Inn, his Cynthia's Revels,
+and from those numerous court-masques and entertainments, which he
+was in the daily habit of furnishing, might be adduced to show the
+poetical fancy and elegance of mind of the supposed rugged old bard.
+
+_Alchemist_.--The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the torrent of
+images, words, and book-knowledge, with which Epicure Mammon (Act
+ii., Scene 2) confounds and stuns his incredulous hearer. They come
+pouring out like the successive falls of Nilus. They "doubly redouble
+strokes upon the foe." Description outstrides proof. We are made to
+believe effects before we have testimony for their causes. If there
+is no one image which attains the height of the sublime, yet the
+confluence and assemblage of them all produces a result equal to the
+grandest poetry. The huge Xerxean army countervails against single
+Achilles. Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of its
+author. It has the whole "matter and copy of the father--eye, nose,
+lip, the trick of his frown." It is just such a swaggerer as
+contemporaries have described old Ben to be. Meercraft, Bobadil, the
+Host of the New Inn, have all his image and superscription. But
+Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir Samson Legend, in Love
+for Love, is such another lying, overbearing character, but he does
+not come up to Epicure Mammon. What a "towering bravery" there is in
+his sensuality! he affects no pleasure under a Sultan. It is as if
+"Egypt with Assyria strove in luxury."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GEORGE CHAPMAN.
+
+_Bussy D'Ambois_, _Byron's Conspiracy_, _Byron's Tragedy_, &c.
+&c.--Webster has happily characterized the "full and heightened
+style" of Chapman, who, of all the English play-writers, perhaps
+approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive and didactic, in
+passages which are less purely dramatic. He could not go out of
+himself, as Shakspeare could shift at pleasure, to inform and animate
+other existences, but in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul
+to embrace all forms and modes of being. He would have made a great
+epic poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to be one;
+for his Homer is not so properly a translation as the stories of
+Achilles and Ulysses rewritten. The earnestness and passion which he
+has put into every part of these poems would be incredible to a
+reader of mere modern translations. His almost Greek zeal for the
+glory of his heroes can only be paralleled by that fierce spirit of
+Hebrew bigotry, with which Milton, as if personating one of the
+zealots of the old law, clothed himself when he sat down to paint the
+acts of Samson against the uncircumcised. The great obstacle to
+Chapman's translations being read, is their unconquerable quaintness.
+He pours out in the same breath the most just and natural, and the
+most violent and crude expressions. He seems to grasp at whatever
+words come first to hand while the enthusiasm is upon him, as if all
+other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But passion (the all
+in all in poetry) is everywhere present, raising the low, dignifying
+the mean, and putting sense into the absurd. He makes his readers
+glow, weep, tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved by
+words, or in spite of them, be disgusted, and overcome their disgust.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FRANCIS BEAUMONT.--JOHN FLETCHER.
+
+_Maid's Tragedy_.--One characteristic of the excellent old poets is,
+their being able to bestow grace upon subjects which naturally do not
+seem susceptible of any. I will mention two instances. Zelmane in the
+Arcadia of Sidney, and Helena in the All's Well that Ends Well of
+Shakspeare. What can be more unpromising, at first sight, than the
+idea of a young man disguising himself in woman's attire, and passing
+himself off for a woman among women; and that for a long space of
+time? Yet Sir Philip has preserved so matchless a decorum, that
+neither does Pyrocles' manhood suffer any stain for the effeminacy of
+Zelmane, nor is the respect due to the princesses at all diminished
+when the deception comes to be known. In the sweetly-constituted mind
+of Sir Philip Sidney, it seems as if no ugly thought or unhandsome
+meditation could find a harbor. He turned all that he touched into
+images of honor and virtue. Helena in Shakspeare is a young woman
+seeking a man in marriage. The ordinary rules of courtship are
+reversed, the habitual feelings are crossed. Yet with such exquisite
+address this dangerous subject is handled, that Helena's forwardness
+loses her no honor; delicacy dispenses with its laws in her favor,
+and nature, in her single case, seems content to suffer a sweet
+violation. Aspatia, in the Maid's Tragedy, is a character equally
+difficult with Helena, of being managed with grace. She too is a
+slighted woman, refused by the man who had once engaged to marry her.
+Yet it is artfully contrived, that while we pity we respect her, and
+she descends without degradation. Such wonders true poetry and
+passion can do, to confer dignity upon subjects which do not seem
+capable of it. But Aspatia must not be compared at all points with
+Helena; she does not so absolutely predominate over her situation but
+she suffers some diminution, some abatement of the full lustre of the
+female character, which Helena never does. Her character has many
+degrees of sweetness, some of delicacy; but it has weakness, which,
+if we do not despise, we are sorry for. After all, Beaumont and
+Fletcher were but an inferior sort of Shakspeares and Sidneys.
+
+_Philaster_.--The character of Bellario must have been extremely
+popular in its day. For many years after the date of Philaster's
+first exhibition on the stage, scarce a play can be found without one
+of these women-pages in it, following in the train of some
+pre-engaged lover, calling on the gods to bless her happy rival (his
+mistress), whom no doubt she secretly curses in her heart, giving
+rise to many pretty _equivoques_ by the way on the confusion of sex,
+and either made happy at last by some surprising turn of fate, or
+dismissed with the joint pity of the lovers and the audience. Donne
+has a copy of verses to his mistress, dissuading her from a
+resolution, which she seems to have taken up from some of these
+scenical representations, of following him abroad as a page. It is so
+earnest, so weighty, so rich in poetry, in sense, in wit, and pathos,
+that it deserves to be read as a solemn close in future to all such
+sickly fancies as he there deprecates.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JOHN FLETCHER.
+
+_Thierry and Theodoret_.--The scene where Ordella offers her life a
+sacrifice, that the king of France may not be childless, I have
+always considered as the finest in all Fletcher, and Ordella to be
+the most perfect notion of the female heroic character, next to
+Calantha in the Broken Heart. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet,
+noble as the whole passage is, it must be confessed that the manner
+of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is faint and
+languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line revolves
+on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one
+another like a running-hand. Fletcher's ideas moved slow; his
+versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn; he
+lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to
+image so deliberately, that we see their junctures. Shakspeare
+mingles everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and
+metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched
+and clamorous for disclosure. Another striking difference between
+Fletcher and Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for unnatural
+and violent situations. He seems to have thought that nothing great
+could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in some of
+his most admired tragedies show this.[1] Shakspeare had nothing of
+this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after violent
+situations, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I
+think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. The wit of
+Fletcher is excellent,[2] like his serious scenes, but there is
+something strained and far-fetched in both. He is too mistrustful of
+Nature, he always goes a little on one side of her.--Shakspeare chose
+her without a reserve: and had riches, power, understanding, and
+length of days, with her for a dowry.
+
+[Footnote 1: Wife for a Month, Cupid's Revenge, Double Marriage, &c.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Wit without Money, and his comedies generally.]
+
+_Faithful Shepherdess_.--If all the parts of this delightful pastoral
+had been in unison with its many innocent scenes and sweet lyric
+intermixtures, it had been a poem fit to vie with Comus or the
+Arcadia, to have been put into the hands of boys and virgins, to have
+made matter for young dreams, like the loves of Hermia and Lysander.
+But a spot is on the face of this Diana. Nothing short of infatuation
+could have driven Fletcher upon mixing with this "blessedness" such
+an ugly deformity as Chloe, the wanton shepherdess! If Chloe was
+meant to set off Clorin by contrast, Fletcher should have known that
+such weeds by juxtaposition do not set off, but kill sweet flowers.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PHILIP MASSINGER.--THOMAS DECKER.
+
+_The Virgin Martyr_.--This play has some beauties of so very high an
+order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had
+poetical enthusiasm capable of rising up to them. His associate
+Decker who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The
+very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of
+this play, like Satan among the Sons of Heaven, have a strength of
+contrast, a raciness, and a glow, in them, which are beyond
+Massinger. They are to the religion of the rest what Caliban is to
+Miranda.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PHILIP MASSINGER.--THOMAS MIDDLETON.--WILLIAM ROWLEY.
+
+_Old Law_.--There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making
+one's eyes to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness
+in the circumstances of this sweet tragicomedy, which are unlike
+anything in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of
+a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in it, had both of
+them finer geniuses than their associate.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+JAMES SHIRLEY
+
+Claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much for
+any transcendent talent in himself, as that he was the last of a
+great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set
+of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a
+new turn of tragic and comic interest, came in with the Restoration.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER,
+
+THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.
+
+
+The writings of Fuller are usually designated by the title of quaint,
+and with sufficient reason; for such was his natural bias to
+conceits, that I doubt not upon most occasions it would have been
+going out of his way to have expressed himself out of them. But his
+wit is not always a _lumen siccum_, a dry faculty of surprising; on
+the contrary, his conceits are oftentimes deeply steeped in human
+feeling and passion. Above all, his way of telling a story, for its
+eager liveliness, and the perpetual running commentary of the
+narrator happily blended with the narration, is perhaps unequalled.
+
+As his works are now scarcely perused but by antiquaries, I thought
+it might not be unacceptable to my readers to present them with some
+specimens of his manner, in single thoughts and phrases; and in some
+few passages of greater length, chiefly of a narrative description. I
+shall arrange them as I casually find them in my book of extracts,
+without being solicitous to specify the particular work from which
+they are taken.
+
+_Pyramids_.--"The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have
+forgotten the names of their founders."
+
+_Virtue in a Short Person_.--"His soul had but a short diocese to
+visit, and therefore might the better attend the effectual informing
+thereof."
+
+_Intellect in a very Tall One_.--"Ofttimes such who are built four
+stories high, are observed to have little in their cockloft."
+
+_Naturals_.--"Their heads sometimes so little, that there is no room
+for wit; sometimes so long, that there is no wit for so much room."
+
+_Negroes_.--"The image of God cut in ebony."
+
+_School-Divinity_.--"At the first it will be as welcome to thee as a
+prison, and their very solutions will seem knots unto thee."
+
+_Mr. Perkins the Divine_.--"He had a capacious head, with angles
+winding and roomy enough to lodge all controversial intricacies."
+
+_The same_.--"He would pronounce the word _Damn_ with such an
+emphasis as left a doleful echo in his auditors' ears a good while
+after."
+
+_Judges in Capital Cases_.--"O let him take heed how he strikes that
+hath a dead hand."
+
+_Memory_.--"Philosophers place it in the rear of the head, and it
+seems the mine of memory lies there, because there men naturally dig
+for it, scratching it when they are at a loss."
+
+_Fancy_.--"It is the most boundless and restless faculty of the soul;
+for while the Understanding and the Will are kept, as it were, _in
+libera custodia_ to their objects of _verum et bonum_, the Fancy is
+free from all engagements: it digs without spade, sails without ship,
+flies without wings, builds without charges, fights without
+bloodshed; in a moment striding from the centre to the circumference
+of the world; by a kind of omnipotency creating and annihilating
+things in an instant; and things divorced in Nature are married in
+Fancy as in a lawless place."
+
+_Infants_.--"Some, admiring what motives to mirth infants meet with
+in their silent and solitary smiles, have resolved, how truly I know
+not, that then they converse with angels; as indeed such cannot among
+mortals find any fitter companions."
+
+_Music_.--"Such is the sociableness of music, it conforms itself to
+all companies both in mirth and mourning; complying to improve that
+passion with which it finds the auditors most affected. In a word, it
+is an invention which might have beseemed a son of Seth to have been
+the father thereof: though better it was that Cain's great-grandchild
+should have the credit first to find it, than the world the
+unhappiness longer to have wanted it."
+
+_St. Monica_.--"Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts
+as harbingers to heaven, and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness
+through the chinks of her sickness-broken body."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1:
+
+  "The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
+  Lets in new lights through chinks which time has made."
+                                                 WALLER.]
+
+_Mortality_.--"To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the
+body, no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul."
+
+_Virgin_.--"No lordling husband shall at the same time command her
+presence and distance; to be always near in constant attendance, and
+always to stand aloof in awful observance."
+
+_Elder Brother_.--"Is one who made haste to come into the world to
+bring his parents the first news of male posterity, and is well
+rewarded for his tidings."
+
+_Bishop Fletcher_.--"His pride was rather on him than in him, as only
+gait and gesture deep, not sinking to his heart, though causelessly
+condemned for a proud man, as who was a _good hypocrite_, and far
+more humble than he appeared."
+
+_Masters of Colleges_.--"A little allay of dulness in a Master of a
+College makes him fitter to manage secular affairs."
+
+_The Good Yeoman_.--"Is a gentleman in ore, whom the next age may see
+refined."
+
+_Good Parent_.--"For his love, therein like a well-drawn picture, he
+eyes all his children alike."
+
+_Deformity in Children_.--"This partiality is tyranny, when parents
+despise those that are deformed; _enough to break those whom God had
+bowed before_."
+
+_Good Master_.--"In correcting his servant he becomes not a slave to
+his own passion. Not cruelly making new _indentures_ of the flesh of
+his apprentice. He is tender of his servant in sickness and age. If
+crippled in his service, his house is his hospital. Yet how many
+throw away those dry bones, out of the which themselves have sucked
+the marrow!"
+
+_Good Widow_.--"If she can speak but little good of him [her dead
+husband] she speaks but little of him. So handsomely folding up her
+discourse, that his virtues are shown outwards, and his vices wrapt
+up in silence; as counting it barbarism to throw dirt on his memory,
+who hath mould cast on his body."
+
+_Horses_.--"These are men's wings, wherewith they make such speed. A
+generous creature a horse is, sensible in some sort of honor; and
+made most handsome by that which deforms men most--pride."
+
+_Martyrdom_.--"Heart of oak hath sometimes warped a little in the
+scorching heat of persecution. Their want of true courage herein
+cannot be excused. Yet many censure them for surrendering up their
+forts after a long siege, who would have yielded up their own at the
+first summons.--Oh! there is more required to make one valiant, than
+to call Cranmer or Jewel coward; as if the fire in Smithfield had
+been no hotter than what is painted in the Book of Martyrs."
+
+_Text of St. Paul_.--"St. Paul saith, Let not the sun go down on your
+wrath, to carry news to the antipodes in another world of thy
+revengeful nature. Yet let us take the Apostle's meaning rather than
+his words, with all possible speed to depose our passion; not
+understanding him so literally, that we may take leave to be angry
+till sunset: then might our wrath lengthen with the days; and men in
+Greenland, where the day lasts above a quarter of a year, have
+plentiful scope for revenge."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: This whimsical prevention of a consequence which no one
+would have thought of deducing,--setting up an absurdum on purpose to
+hunt it down,--placing guards as it were at the very outposts of
+possibility,--gravely giving out laws to insanity and prescribing
+moral fences to distempered intellects, could never have entered into
+a head less entertainingly constructed than that of Fuller or Sir
+Thomas Browne, the very air of whose style the conclusion of this
+passage most aptly imitates.]
+
+_Bishop Brownrig_.--"He carried learning enough _in numerato_ about
+him in his pockets for any discourse, and had much more at home in
+his chests for any serious dispute."
+
+_Modest Want_.--"Those that with diligence fight against poverty,
+though neither conquer till death makes it a drawn battle, expect not
+but prevent their craving of thee: for God forbid the heavens should
+never rain, till the earth first opens her mouth; seeing _some
+grounds will sooner burn than chap_."
+
+_Death-bed Temptations_.--"The devil is most busy on the last day of
+his term; and a tenant to be ousted cares not what mischief he doth."
+
+_Conversation_.--"Seeing we are civilized Englishmen, let us not be
+naked savages in our talk."
+
+_Wounded Soldier_.--"Halting is the stateliest march of a soldier;
+and 'tis a brave sight to see the flesh of an ancient as torn as his
+colors."
+
+_Wat Tyler_.--"A _misogrammatist_; if a good Greek word may be given
+to so barbarous a rebel."
+
+_Heralds_.--"Heralds new mould men's names--taking from them, adding
+to them, melting out all the liquid letters, torturing mutes to make
+them speak, and making vowels dumb,--to bring it to a fallacious
+_homonomy_ at the last, that their names may be the same with those
+noble houses they pretend to."
+
+_Antiquarian Diligence_.--"It is most worthy observation, with what
+diligence he [Camden] inquired after ancient places, making hue and
+cry after many a city which was run away, and by certain marks and
+tokens pursuing to find it; as by the situation on the Roman
+highways, by just distance from other ancient cities, by some
+affinity of name, by tradition of the inhabitants, by Roman coins
+digged up, and by some appearance of ruins. A broken urn is a whole
+evidence; or an old gate still surviving, out of which the city is
+run out. Besides, commonly some new spruce town not far off is grown
+out of the ashes thereof, which yet hath so much natural affection as
+dutifully to own those reverend ruins for her mother."
+
+_Henry de Essex_.--"He is too well known in our English Chronicles,
+being Baron of Raleigh, in Essex, and Hereditary Standard Bearer of
+England. It happened in the reign of this king [Henry II.] there was
+a fierce battle fought in Flintshire, at Coleshall, between the
+English and Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex _animum et signum
+simul abjecit_, betwixt traitor and coward, cast away both his
+courage and banner together, occasioning a great overthrow of
+English. But he that had the baseness to do, had the boldness to deny
+the doing of so foul a fact; until he was challenged in combat by
+Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by him overcome
+in a duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was confiscated to the
+king, and he himself, _partly thrust, partly going into a convent,
+hid his head in a cowl, under which, betwixt shame and sanctity, he
+blushed out the remainder of his life_."[1]--_Worthies_, article
+_Bedfordshire_.
+
+[Footnote 1: The fine imagination of Fuller has done what might have
+been pronounced impossible. It has given an interest, and a holy
+character to coward infamy. Nothing can be more beautiful than the
+concluding account of the last days, and expiatory retirement, of
+poor Henry de Essex. The address with which the whole of this little
+story is told is most consummate; the charm of it seems to consist in
+a perpetual balance of antithesis not too violently opposed, and the
+consequent activity of mind in which the reader is kept:--"Betwixt
+traitor and coward"--"baseness to do, boldness to deny"--"partly
+thrust, partly going, into a convent"--"betwixt shame and sanctity."
+The reader by this artifice is taken into a kind of partnership with
+the writer,--his judgment is exercised in settling the
+preponderance,--he feels as if he were consulted as to the issue. But
+the modern historian flings at once the dead weight of his own
+judgment into the scale, and settles the matter.]
+
+_Sir Edward Harwood, Knt._--"I have read of a bird, which hath a face
+like, and yet will prey upon, a man: who coming to the water to
+drink, and finding there by reflection, that he had killed one like
+himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth
+itself.[1] Such is in some sort the condition of Sir Edward. This
+accident, that he had killed one in a private quarrel, put a period
+to his carnal mirth, and was a covering to his eyes all the days of
+his life. No possible provocations could afterwards tempt him to a
+duel; and no wonder that one's conscience loathed that whereof he had
+surfeited. He refused all challenges with more honor than others
+accepted them; it being well known that he would set his foot as far
+in the face of his enemy as any man alive."--_Worthies_, article
+_Lincolnshire_.
+
+[Footnote 1: I do not know where Fuller read of this bird; but a more
+awful and affecting story, and moralizing of a story, in Natural
+History, or rather in that Fabulous Natural History where poets and
+mythologists found the Phoenix and the Unicorn and "other strange
+fowl," is nowhere extant. It is a fable which Sir Thomas Browne, if
+he had heard of it, would have exploded among his Vulgar Errors; but
+the delight which he would have taken in the discussing of its
+probabilities, would have shown that the _truth of the fact_, though
+the avowed object of his search was not so much the motive which put
+him upon the investigation, as those hidden affinities and poetical
+analogies,--those _essential verities_ in the application of strange
+fable, which made him linger with such reluctant delay among the last
+fading lights of popular tradition; and not seldom to conjure up a
+superstition, that had been long extinct, from its dusty grave, to
+inter it himself with greater ceremonies and solemnities of burial.]
+
+_Decayed Gentry_.--"It happened in the reign of King James, when
+Henry Earl of Huntingdon was Lieutenant of Leicestershire, that a
+laborer's son in that country was pressed into the wars; as I take
+it, to go over with Count Mansfield. The old man at Leicester
+requested his son might be discharged, as being the only staff of his
+age, who by his industry maintained him and his mother. The Earl
+demanded his name, which the man for a long time was loath to tell
+(as suspecting it a fault for so poor a man to confess the truth); at
+last he told his name was Hastings. 'Cousin Hastings,' said the Earl,
+'we cannot all be top branches of the tree, though we all spring from
+the same root; your son, my kinsman, shall not be pressed.' So good
+was the meeting of modesty in a poor, with courtesy in an honorable
+person, and gentry I believe in both. And I have reason to believe,
+that some who justly own the surnames and blood of Bohuns, Mortimers,
+and Plantagenets (though ignorant of their own extractions), are hid
+in the heap of common people, where they find that under a thatched
+cottage which some of their ancestors could not enjoy in a leaded
+castle--contentment, with quiet and security."--_Worthies_, article
+_Of Shire-Reeves or Shiriffes_.
+
+_Tenderness of Conscience in a Tradesman_.--"Thomas Curson, born in
+Allhallows, Lombard Street, armorer, dwelt without Bishopsgate. It
+happened that a stage-player borrowed a rusty musket, which had lain
+long leger in his shop: now though his part were comical, he
+therewith acted an unexpected tragedy, killing one of the
+standers-by, the gun casually going off on the stage, which he
+suspected not to be charged. O the difference of divers men in the
+tenderness of their consciences! some are scarce touched with a
+wound, whilst others are wounded with a touch therein. This poor
+armorer was highly afflicted therewith, though done against his will,
+yea, without his knowledge, in his absence, by another, out of mere
+chance. Hereupon he resolved to give all his estate to pious uses: no
+sooner had he gotten a round sum, but presently he posted with it in
+his apron to the Court of Aldermen, and was in pain till by their
+direction he had settled it for the relief of poor in his own and
+other parishes, and disposed of some hundreds of pounds accordingly,
+as I am credibly informed by the then churchwardens of the said
+parish. Thus, as he conceived himself casually (though at a great
+distance) to have occasioned the death of one, he was the immediate
+and direct cause of giving a comfortable living to many."
+
+_Burning of Wickliffe's Body by Order of the Council of
+Constance_.--"Hitherto [A.D. 1428] the corpse of John Wickliffe had
+quietly slept in his grave about forty-one years after his death,
+till his body was reduced to bones, and his bones almost to dust. For
+though the earth in the chancel of Lutterworth, in Leicestershire,
+where he was interred, hath not so quick a digestion with the earth
+of Aceldama, to consume flesh in twenty-four hours, yet such the
+appetite thereof, and all other English graves, to leave small
+reversions of a body after so many years. But now such the spleen of
+the Council of Constance, as they not only cursed his memory as dying
+an obstinate heretic, but ordered that his bones (with this
+charitable caution,--if it may be discerned from the bodies of other
+faithful people) be taken out of the ground, and thrown far off from
+any Christian burial. In obedience hereunto, Richard Fleming, Bishop
+of Lincoln, Diocesan of Lutterworth, sent his officers (vultures with
+a quick sight, scent, at a dead carcass) to ungrave him. Accordingly
+to Lutterworth they come, Sumner, Commissary, Official, Chancellor,
+Proctors, Doctors, and their servants, (so that the remnant of the
+body would not hold out a bone amongst so many hands,) take what was
+left out of the grave, and burnt them to ashes, and cast them into
+Swift, a neighboring brook, running hard by. _Thus this brook has
+conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the
+narrow seas, they into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of
+Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all
+the world over._"[1]--Church History.
+
+[Footnote 1: The concluding period of this most lively narrative I
+will not call a conceit: it is one of the grandest conceptions I ever
+met with. One feels the ashes of Wickliffe gliding away out of the
+reach of the Sumners, Commissaries, Officials, Proctors, Doctors, and
+all the puddering rout of executioners of the impotent rage of the
+baffled Council: from Swift into Avon, from Avon into Severn, from
+Severn into the narrow seas, from the narrow seas into the main
+ocean, where they become the emblem of his doctrine, "dispersed all
+the world over." Hamlet's tracing the body of Caesar to the clay that
+stops a beer-barrel is a no less curious pursuit of "ruined
+mortality;" but it is in an inverse ratio to this: it degrades and
+saddens us, for one part of our nature at least; but this expands the
+whole of our nature, and gives to the body a sort of ubiquity,--a
+diffusion as far as the actions of its partner can have reach or
+influence.
+
+I have seen this passage smiled at, and set down as a quaint conceit
+of old Fuller. But what is not a conceit to those who read it in a
+temper different from that in which the writer composed it? The most
+pathetic parts of poetry to cold tempers seem and are nonsense, as
+divinity was to the Greeks foolishness. When Richard II., meditating
+on his own utter annihilation as to royalty, cries out,
+
+  "O that I were a mockery king of snow,
+  To melt before the sun of Bolingbroke,"
+
+if we had been going on pace for pace with the passion before, this
+sudden conversion of a strong-felt metaphor into something to be
+actually realized in nature, like that of Jeremiah, "Oh! that my head
+were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears," is strictly and
+strikingly natural; but come unprepared upon it, and it is a conceit:
+and so is a "head" turned into "waters."]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+
+GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH;
+
+WITH SOME REMARKS ON A PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE
+LATE MR. BARRY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One of the earliest and noblest enjoyments I had when a boy, was in
+the contemplation of those capital prints by Hogarth, the _Harlot's_
+and _Rake's Progresses_, which, along with some others, hung upon the
+walls of a great hall in an old-fashioned house in ----shire, and
+seemed the solitary tenants (with myself) of that antiquated and
+life-deserted apartment.
+
+Recollection of the manner in which those prints used to affect me
+has often made me wonder, when I have heard Hogarth described as a
+mere comic painter, as one of those whose chief ambition was to
+_raise a laugh_. To deny that there are throughout the prints which I
+have mentioned circumstances introduced of a laughable tendency,
+would be to run counter to the common notions of mankind; but to
+suppose that in their _ruling character_ they appeal chiefly to the
+risible faculty, and not first and foremost to the very heart of man,
+its best and most serious feelings, would be to mistake no less
+grossly their aim and purpose. A set of severer Satires (for they are
+not so much Comedies, which they have been likened to, as they are
+strong and masculine Satires) less mingled with anything of mere fun,
+were never written upon paper, or graven upon copper. They resemble
+Juvenal, or the satiric touches in Timon of Athens.
+
+I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who being asked which
+book he esteemed most in his library, answered,--"Shakspeare:" being
+asked which he esteemed next best, replied, "Hogarth." His graphic
+representations are indeed books: they have the teeming, fruitful,
+suggestive meaning of _words_. Other pictures we look at,--his prints
+we read.
+
+In pursuance of this parallel, I have sometimes entertained myself
+with comparing the _Timon of Athens_ of Shakespeare (which I have
+just mentioned) and Hogarth's _Rake's Progress_ together. The story,
+the moral, in both is nearly the same. The wild course of riot and
+extravagance, ending in the one with driving the Prodigal from the
+society of men into the solitude of the deserts, and in the other
+with conducting the Rake through his several stages of dissipation
+into the still more complete desolations of the mad-house, in the
+play and in the picture, are described with almost equal force and
+nature. The levee of the Rake, which forms the subject of the second
+plate in the series, is almost a transcript of Timon's levee in the
+opening scene of that play. We find a dedicating poet, and other
+similar characters, in both.
+
+The concluding scene in the _Rake's Progress_ is perhaps superior to
+the last scenes of _Timon_. If we seek for something of kindred
+excellence in poetry, it must be in the scenes of Lear's beginning
+madness, where the King and the Fool and the Tom-o'-Bedlam conspire
+to produce such a medley of mirth checked by misery, and misery
+rebuked by mirth; where the society of those "strange bedfellows"
+which misfortunes have brought Lear acquainted with, so finely sets
+forth the destitute state of the monarch; while the lunatic bans of
+the one, and the disjointed sayings and wild but pregnant allusions
+of the other, so wonderfully sympathize with that confusion, which
+they seem to assist in the production of, in the senses of that
+"child-changed father."
+
+In the scene in Bedlam, which terminates the _Rake's Progress_, we
+find the same assortment of the ludicrous with the terrible. Here is
+desperate madness, the overturning of originally strong thinking
+faculties, at which we shudder, as we contemplate the duration and
+pressure of affliction which it must have asked to destroy such a
+building;--and here is the gradual hurtless lapse into idiocy, of
+faculties, which at their best of times never having been strong, we
+look upon the consummation of their decay with no more of pity than
+is consistent with a smile. The mad tailor, the poor driveller that
+has gone out of his wits (and truly he appears to have had no great
+journey to go to get past their confines) for the love of _Charming
+Betty Careless_,--. these half-laughable, scarce-pitiable objects,
+take off from the horror which the principal figure would of itself
+raise, at the same time that they assist the feeling of the scene by
+contributing to the general notion of its subject:--
+
+  "Madness, thou chaos of the brain,
+  What art, that pleasure giv'st and pain?
+  Tyranny of Fancy's reign!
+  Mechanic Fancy, that can build
+  Vast labyrinths and mazes wild,
+  With rule disjointed, shapeless measure,
+  Fill'd with horror, fill'd with pleasure!
+  Shapes of horror, that would even
+  Cast doubts of mercy upon heaven;
+  Shapes of pleasure, that but seen,
+  Would split the shaking sides of Spleen."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Lines inscribed under the plate]
+
+Is it carrying the spirit of comparison to excess to remark, that in
+the poor kneeling weeping female who accompanies her seducer in his
+sad decay, there is something analogous to Kent, or Caius, as he
+delights rather to be called, in _Lear_,--the noblest pattern of
+virtue which even Shakspeare has conceived,--who follows his royal
+master in banishment, that had pronounced _his_ banishment, and
+forgetful at once of his wrongs and dignities, taking on himself the
+disguise of a menial, retains his fidelity to the figure, his loyalty
+to the carcass, the shadow, the shell, and empty husk of Lear?
+
+In the perusal of a book, or of a picture, much of the impression
+which we receive depends upon the habit of mind which we bring with
+us to such perusal. The same circumstance may make one person laugh,
+which shall render another very serious; or in the same person the
+first impression may be corrected by after-thought. The misemployed
+incongruous characters at the _Harlot's Funeral_, on a superficial
+inspection, provoke to laughter; but when we have sacrificed the
+first emotion to levity, a very different frame of mind succeeds, or
+the painter has lost half his purpose. I never look at that wonderful
+assemblage of depraved beings, who, without a grain of reverence or
+pity in their perverted minds, are performing the sacred exteriors of
+duty to the relics of their departed partner in folly, but I am as
+much moved to sympathy from the very want of it in them, as I should
+be by the finest representation of a virtuous death-bed surrounded by
+real mourners, pious children, weeping friends,--perhaps more by the
+very contrast. What reflections does it not awake, of the dreadful
+heartless state in which the creature (a female too) must have lived,
+who in death wants the accompaniment of one genuine tear. That wretch
+who is removing the lid of the coffin to gaze upon the corpse with a
+face which indicates a perfect negation of all goodness or
+womanhood--the hypocrite parson and his demure partner--all the
+fiendish group--to a thoughtful mind present a moral emblem more
+affecting than if the poor friendless carcass had been depicted as
+thrown out to the woods, where wolves had assisted at its obsequies,
+itself furnishing forth its own funeral banquet.
+
+It is easy to laugh at such incongruities as are met together in this
+picture,--incongruous objects being of the very essence of
+laughter,--but surely the laugh is far different in its kind from
+that thoughtless species to which we are moved by mere farce and
+grotesque. We laugh when Ferdinand Count Fathom, at the first sight
+of the white cliffs of Britain, feels his heart yearn with filial
+fondness towards the land of his progenitors, which he is coming to
+fleece and plunder,--we smile at the exquisite irony of the
+passage,--but if we are not led on by such passages to some more
+salutary feeling than laughter, we are very negligent perusers of
+them in book or picture.
+
+It is the fashion with those who cry up the great Historical School
+in this country, at the head of which Sir Joshua Reynolds is placed,
+to exclude Hogarth from that school, as an artist of an inferior and
+vulgar class. Those persons seem to me to confound the painting of
+subjects in common or vulgar life with the being a vulgar artist. The
+quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would
+alone _unvulgarize_ every subject which he might choose. Let us take
+the lowest of his subjects, the print called _Gin Lane_. Here is
+plenty of poverty, and low stuff to disgust upon a superficial view;
+and accordingly a cold spectator feels himself immediately disgusted
+and repelled. I have seen many turn away from it, not being able to
+bear it. The same persons would perhaps have looked with great
+complacency upon Poussin's celebrated picture of the _Plague at
+Athens_[1] Disease and Death and bewildering Terror, in _Athenian
+garments_, are endurable, and come, as the delicate critics express
+it, within the "limits of pleasurable sensation." But the scenes of
+their own St. Giles's, delineated by their own countryman, are too
+shocking to think of. Yet if we could abstract our minds from the
+fascinating colors of the picture, and forget the coarse execution
+(in some respects) of the print, intended as it was to be a cheap
+plate, accessible to the poorer sort of people, for whose instruction
+it was done, I think we could have no hesitation in conferring the
+palm of superior genius upon Hogarth, comparing this work of his with
+Poussin's picture. There is more of imagination in it--that power
+which draws all things to one,--which makes things animate and
+inanimate, beings with their attributes, subjects, and their
+accessories, take one color and serve to one effect. Everything in
+the print, to use a vulgar expression, _tells_. Every part is full of
+"strange images of death." It is perfectly amazing and astounding to
+look at. Not only the two prominent figures, the woman and the
+half-dead man, which are as terrible as anything which Michael Angelo
+ever drew, but everything else in the print, contributes to bewilder
+and stupefy,--the very houses, as I heard a friend of mine express
+it, tumbling all about in various directions, seem drunk--seem
+absolutely reeling from the effect of that diabolical spirit of
+frenzy which goes forth over the whole composition. To show the
+poetical and almost prophetical conception in the artist, one little
+circumstance may serve. Not content with the dying and dead figures,
+which he has strewed in profusion over the proper scene of the
+action, he shows you what (of a kindred nature) is passing beyond it.
+Close by the shell, in which, by direction of the parish beadle, a
+man is depositing his wife, is an old wall, which, partaking of the
+universal decay around it, is tumbling to pieces. Through a gap in
+this wall are seen three figures, which appear to make a part in some
+funeral procession which is passing by on the other side of the wall,
+out of the sphere of the composition. This extending of the interest
+beyond the bounds of the subject could only have been conceived by a
+great genius. Shakspeare, in his description of the painting of the
+Trojan War, in his _Tarquin and Lucrece_, has introduced a similar
+device, where the painter made a part stand for the whole:--
+
+  "For much imaginary work was there,
+  Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
+  That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
+  Grip'd in an armed hand; himself behind
+  Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind:
+  A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
+  Stood for the whole to be imagined."
+
+[Footnote 1: At the late Mr. Hope's, in Cavendish Square]
+
+This he well calls _imaginary work_, where the spectator must meet
+the artist in his conceptions half way; and it is peculiar to the
+confidence of high genius alone to trust so much to spectators or
+readers. Lesser artists show everything distinct and full, as they
+require an object to be made out to themselves before they can
+comprehend it.
+
+When I think of the power displayed in this (I will not hesitate to
+say) sublime print, it seems to me the extreme narrowness of system
+alone, and of that rage for classification, by which, in matters of
+taste at least, we are perpetually perplexing, instead of arranging,
+our ideas, that would make us concede to the work of Poussin above
+mentioned, and deny to this of Hogarth, the name of a grand serious
+composition.
+
+We are forever deceiving ourselves with names and theories. We call
+one man a great historical painter, because he has taken for his
+subjects kings or great men, or transactions over which time has
+thrown a grandeur. We term another the painter of common life, and
+set him down in our minds for an artist of an inferior class, without
+reflecting whether the quantity of thought shown by the latter may
+not much more than level the distinction which their mere choice of
+subjects may seem to place between them; or whether, in fact, from
+that very common life a great artist may not extract as deep an
+interest as another man from that which we are pleased to call
+history.
+
+I entertain the highest respect for the talents and virtues of
+Reynolds, but I do not like that his reputation should overshadow and
+stifle the merits of such a man as Hogarth, nor that to mere names
+and classifications we should be content to sacrifice one of the
+greatest ornaments of England.
+
+I would ask the most enthusiastic admirer of Reynolds, whether in the
+countenances of his _Staring_ and _Grinning Despair_, which he has
+given us for the faces of Ugolino and dying Beaufort, there be
+anything comparable to the expression which Hogarth has put into the
+face of his broken-down rake in the last plate but one of the _Rake's
+Progress_,[1] where a letter from the manager is brought to him to
+say that his play "will not do?" Here all is easy, natural,
+undistorted, but withal what a mass of woe is here accumulated!--the
+long history of a misspent life is compressed into the countenance as
+plainly as the series of plates before had told it; here is no
+attempt at Gorgonian looks, which are to freeze the beholder--no
+grinning at the antique bedposts--no face-making, or consciousness of
+the presence of spectators in or out of the picture, but grief kept
+to a man's self, a face retiring from notice with the shame which
+great anguish sometimes brings with it,--a final leave taken of
+hope,--the coming on of vacancy and stupefaction,--a beginning
+alienation of mind looking like tranquillity. Here is matter for the
+mind of the beholder to feed on for the hour together,--matter to
+feed and fertilize the mind. It is too real to admit one thought
+about the power of the artist who did it. When we compare the
+expression in subjects which so fairly admit of comparison, and find
+the superiority so clearly to remain with Hogarth, shall the mere
+contemptible difference of the scene of it being laid, in the one
+case, in our Fleet or King's Bench Prison, and, in the other, in the
+State Prison of Pisa, or the bedroom of a cardinal,--or that the
+subject of the one has never been authenticated, and the other is
+matter of history,--so weigh down the real points, of the comparison,
+as to induce us to rank the artist who has chosen the one scene or
+subject (though confessedly inferior in that which constitutes the
+soul of his art) in a class from which we exclude the better genius
+(who has happened to make choice of the other) with something like
+disgrace?[2]
+
+[Footnote 1: The first perhaps in all Hogarth for serious
+expression.  That which comes next to it, I think, is the jaded
+morning countenance of the debauchee in the second plate of the
+_Marriage Alamode_, which lectures on the vanity of pleasure as
+audibly as anything in Ecclesiastes.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Sir Joshua Reynolds, somewhere in his Lectures, speaks
+of the _presumption_ of Hogarth in attempting the grand style in
+painting, by which he means his choice of certain Scripture subjects.
+Hogarth's excursions into Holy Land were not very numerous, but what
+he has left us in this kind have at least this merit, that they have
+expression of _some sort or other_ in them,--the _Child Moses before
+Pharaoh's Daughter_, for instance: which is more than can be said of
+Sir Joshua Reynolds's _Repose in Egypt_, painted for Macklin's Bible,
+where for a Madonna he has substituted a sleepy, insensible,
+unmotherly girl, one so little worthy to have been selected as the
+Mother of the Saviour, that she seems to have neither heart nor
+feeling to entitle her to become a mother at all. But indeed the race
+of Virgin Mary painters seems to have been cut up, root and branch,
+at the Reformation. Our artists are too good Protestants to give life
+to that admirable commixture of maternal tenderness with reverential
+awe and wonder approaching to worship, with which the Virgin Mothers
+of L. da Vinci and Raphael (themselves by their divine countenances
+inviting men to worship) contemplate the union of the two natures in
+the person of their Heaven-born Infant.]
+
+_The Boys under Demoniacal Possession_ of Raphael and Domenichino, by
+what law of classification are we bound to assign them to belong to
+the great style in painting, and to degrade into an inferior class
+the Rake of Hogarth when he is the Madman in the Bedlam scene? I am
+sure he is far more impressive than either. It is a face which no one
+that has seen can easily forget. There is the stretch of human
+suffering to the utmost endurance, severe bodily pain brought on by
+strong mental agony, the frightful, obstinate laugh of madness,--yet
+all so unforced and natural, that those who never were witness to
+madness in real life, think they see nothing but what is familiar to
+them in this face. Here are no tricks of distortion, nothing but the
+natural face of agony. This is high tragic painting, and we might as
+well deny to Shakspeare the honors of a great tragedian, because he
+has interwoven scenes of mirth with the serious business of his
+plays, as refuse to Hogarth the same praise for the two concluding
+scenes of the _Rake's Progress_, because of the Comic Lunatics[1]
+which he has thrown into the one, or the Alchymist that he has
+introduced in the other, who is paddling in the coals of his furnace,
+keeping alive the flames of vain hope within the very walls of the
+prison to which the vanity has conducted him, which have taught the
+darker lesson of extinguished hope to the desponding figure who is
+the principal person of the scene.
+
+[Footnote 1:
+  "There are of madmen, as there are of tame,
+  All humor'd not alike. We have here some
+  So apish and fantastic, play with a feather;
+  And though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image
+  So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act
+  Such antick and such pretty lunacies,
+  That, spite of sorrow, they will make you smile.
+  Others again we have, like angry lions,
+  Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies."
+                                  _Honest Whore_.]
+
+It is the force of these kindly admixtures which assimilates the
+scenes of Hogarth and of Shakspeare to the drama of real life, where
+no such thing as pure tragedy is to be found; but merriment and
+infelicity, ponderous crime and feather-light vanity, like twiformed
+births, disagreeing complexions of one intertexture, perpetually
+unite to show forth motley spectacles to the world. Then it is that
+the poet or painter shows his art, when in the selection of these
+comic adjuncts he chooses such circumstances as shall relieve,
+contrast with, or fall into, without forming a violent opposition to
+his principal object. Who sees not that the Grave-digger in _Hamlet_,
+the Fool in _Lear_, have a kind of correspondency to, and fall in
+with, the subjects which they seem to interrupt: while the comic
+stuff in _Venice Preserved_, and the doggerel nonsense of the Cook
+and his poisoning associates in the _Rollo_ of Beaumont and Fletcher,
+are pure, irrelevant, impertinent discords,--as bad as the
+quarrelling dog and cat under the table of the _Lord and the
+Disciples at Emmaus_ of Titian?
+
+Not to tire the reader with perpetual reference to prints which he
+may not be fortunate enough to possess, it may be sufficient to
+remark, that the same tragic cast of expression and incident, blended
+in some instances with a greater alloy of comedy, characterizes his
+other great work, the _Marriage Alamode_, as well as those less
+elaborate exertions of his genius, the prints called _Industry_ and
+_Idleness_, _the Distrest Poet_, &c., forming, with the _Harlot's_
+and _Rake's Progresses_, the most considerable, if not the largest
+class of his productions,--enough surely to rescue Hogarth from the
+imputation of being a mere buffoon, or one whose general aim was only
+to _shake the sides_.
+
+There remains a very numerous class of his performances, the object
+of which must be confessed to be principally comic. But in all of
+them will be found something to distinguish them from the droll
+productions of Bunbury and others. They have this difference, that we
+do not merely laugh at, we are led into long trains of reflection by
+them. In this respect they resemble the characters of Chaucer's
+_Pilgrims_, which have strokes of humor in them enough to designate
+them for the most part as comic, but our strongest feeling still is
+wonder at the comprehensiveness of genius which could crowd, as poet
+and painter have done, into one small canvas so many diverse yet
+cooperating materials.
+
+The faces of Hogarth have not a mere momentary interest, as in
+caricatures, or those grotesque physiognomies which we sometimes
+catch a glance of in the street, and, struck with their whimsicality,
+wish for a pencil and the power to sketch them down; and forget them
+again as rapidly,--but they are permanent abiding ideas. Not the
+sports of nature, but her necessary eternal classes. We feel that we
+cannot part with any of them, lest a link should be broken.
+
+It is worthy of observation, that he has seldom drawn a mean or
+insignificant countenance.[1] Hogarth's mind was eminently
+reflective; and, as it has been well observed of Shakspeare, that he
+has transfused his own poetical character into the persons of his
+drama (they are all more or less _poets_) Hogarth has impressed a
+_thinking character_ upon the persons of his canvas. This remark must
+not be taken universally. The exquisite idiotism of the little
+gentleman in the bag and sword beating his drum in the print of the
+_Enraged Musician_, would of itself rise up against so sweeping an
+assertion. But I think it will be found to be true of the generality
+of his countenances. The knife-grinder and Jew flute-player in the
+plate just mentioned, may serve as instances instead of a thousand.
+They have intense thinking faces, though the purpose to which they
+are subservient by no means required it; but indeed it seems as if it
+was painful to Hogarth to contemplate mere vacancy or insignificance.
+
+[Footnote 1: If there are any of that description, they are in his
+_Strolling Players_, a print which has been cried up by Lord Orford
+as the richest of his productions, and it may be, for what I know, in
+the mere lumber, the properties, and dead furniture of the scene, but
+in living character and expression it is (for Hogarth) lamentably
+poor and wanting; it is perhaps the only one of his performances at
+which we have a right to feel disgusted.]
+
+This reflection of the artist's own intellect from the faces of his
+characters, is one reason why the works of Hogarth, so much more than
+those of any other artist, are objects of meditation. Our
+intellectual natures love the mirror which gives them back their own
+likenesses. The mental eye will not bend long with delight upon
+vacancy.
+
+Another line of eternal separation between Hogarth and the common
+painters of droll or burlesque subjects, with whom he is often
+confounded, is the sense of beauty, which in the most unpromising
+subjects seems never wholly to have deserted him. "Hogarth himself,"
+says Mr. Coleridge,[1] from whom I have borrowed this observation,
+speaking of a scene which took place at Ratzeburg, "never drew a more
+ludicrous distortion, both of attitude and physiognomy, than this
+effect occasioned: nor was there wanting beside it one of those
+beautiful female faces which the same Hogarth, _in whom the satirist
+never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a
+poet_, so often and so gladly introduces as the central figure in a
+crowd of humorous deformities, which figure (such is the power of
+true genius) neither acts nor is meant to act as a contrast; but
+diffuses through all and over each of the group a spirit of
+reconciliation and human kindness; and even when the attention is no
+longer consciously directed to the cause of this feeling, still
+blends its tenderness with our laughter: and _thus prevents the
+instructive merriment at the whims of nature, or the foibles or
+humors of our fellow-men, from degenerating into the heart-poison of
+contempt or hatred_." To the beautiful females in Hogarth, which Mr.
+C. has pointed out, might be added, the frequent introduction of
+children (which Hogarth seems to have taken a particular delight in)
+into his pieces. They have a singular effect in giving tranquillity
+and a portion of their own innocence to the subject. The baby riding
+in its mother's lap in the _March to Finchley_, (its careless
+innocent face placed directly behind the intriguing time-furrowed
+countenance of the treason-plotting French priest,) perfectly sobers
+the whole of that tumultuous scene. The boy mourner winding up his
+top with so much unpretending insensibility in the plate of the
+_Harlot's Funeral_, (the only thing in that assembly that is not a
+hypocrite,) quiets and soothes the mind that has been disturbed at the
+sight of so much depraved man and woman kind.
+
+[Footnote 1: _The Friend_, No. XVI.]
+
+I had written thus far, when I met with a passage in the writings of
+the late Mr. Barry, which, as it falls in with the _vulgar notion_
+respecting Hogarth, which this Essay has been employed in combating,
+I shall take the liberty to transcribe, with such remarks as may
+suggest themselves to me in the transcription; referring the reader
+for a full answer to that which has gone before.
+
+
+    "Notwithstanding Hogarth's merit does undoubtedly entitle him
+    to an honorable place among the artists, and that his little
+    compositions, considered as so many dramatic representations,
+    abounding with humor, character, and extensive observations on
+    the various incidents of low, faulty, and vicious life, are
+    very ingeniously brought together, and frequently tell their
+    own story with more facility than is often found in many of
+    the elevated and more noble inventions of Raphael and other
+    great men; yet it must be honestly confessed, that in what is
+    called knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly
+    observed, that Hogarth is often so raw and unformed, as hardly
+    to deserve the name of an artist. But this capital defect is
+    not often perceivable, as examples of the naked and of
+    elevated nature but rarely occur in his subjects, which are
+    for the most part filled with characters that in their nature
+    tend to deformity; besides his figures are small, and the
+    jonctures, and other difficulties of drawing that might occur
+    in their limbs, are artfully concealed with their clothes,
+    rags, &c. But what would atone for all his defects, even if
+    they were twice told, is his admirable fund of invention, ever
+    inexhaustible in its resources; and his satire, which is
+    always sharp and pertinent, and often highly moral, was
+    (except in a few instances, where he weakly and meanly
+    suffered his integrity to give way to his envy) seldom or
+    never employed in a dishonest or unmanly way. Hogarth has been
+    often imitated in his satirical vein, sometimes in his
+    humorous: but very few have attempted to rival him in his
+    moral walk. The line of art pursued by my very ingenious
+    predecessor and brother Academician, Mr. Penny, is quite
+    distinct from that of Hogarth, and is of a much more delicate
+    and superior relish; he attempts the heart, and reaches it,
+    whilst Hogarth's general aim is only to shake the sides; in
+    other respects no comparison can be thought of, as Mr. Penny
+    has all that knowledge of the figure and academical skill
+    which the other wanted. As to Mr. Bunbury, who had so happily
+    succeeded in the vein of humor and caricatura, he has for some
+    time past altogether relinquished it, for the more amiable
+    pursuit of beautiful nature: this, indeed, is not to be
+    wondered at, when we recollect that he has, in Mrs. Bunbury,
+    so admirable an exemplar of the most finished grace and beauty
+    continually at his elbow. But (to say all that occurs to me on
+    this subject) perhaps it may be reasonably doubted, whether
+    the being much conversant with Hogarth's method of exposing
+    meanness, deformity, and vice, in many of his works, is not
+    rather a dangerous, or, at least, a worthless pursuit; which,
+    if it does not find a false relish and a love of and search
+    after satire and buffoonery in the spectator, is at least not
+    unlikely to give him one. Life is short; and the little
+    leisure of it is much better laid out upon that species of art
+    which is employed about the amiable and the admirable, as it
+    is more likely to be attended with better and nobler
+    consequences to ourselves. These two pursuits in art may be
+    compared with two sets of people with whom we might associate;
+    if we give ourselves up to the Footes, the Kenricks, &c. we
+    shall be continually busied and paddling in whatever is
+    ridiculous, faulty, and vicious in life; whereas there are
+    those to be found with whom we should be in the constant
+    pursuit and study of all that gives a value and a dignity to
+    human nature." [Account of a Series of Pictures in the Great
+    Boom of the Society of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, at
+    the Adelphi, by James Barry, R.A., Professor of Painting to
+    the Royal Academy, reprinted in the last quarto edition of his
+    works.]
+
+    "----It must be honestly confessed, that in what is called
+    knowledge of the figure, foreigners have justly observed," &c.
+
+
+It is a secret well known to the professors of the art and mystery of
+criticism, to insist upon what they do not find in a man's works, and
+to pass over in silence what they do. That Hogarth did not draw the
+naked figure so well as Michael Angelo might be allowed, especially
+as "examples of the naked," as Mr. Barry acknowledges, "rarely (he
+might almost have said never) occur in his subjects;" and that his
+figures under their draperies do not discover all the fine graces of
+an Antinoues or an Apollo, may be conceded likewise; perhaps it was
+more suitable to his purpose to represent the average forms of
+mankind in the mediocrity (as Mr. Burke expresses it) of the age in
+which he lived: but that his figures in general, and in his best
+subjects, are so glaringly incorrect as is here insinuated, I dare
+trust my own eye so far as positively to deny the fact. And there is
+one part of the figure in which Hogarth is allowed to have excelled,
+which these foreigners seem to have overlooked, or perhaps
+calculating from its proportion to the whole (a seventh or an eighth,
+I forget which,) deemed it of trifling importance; I mean the human
+face; a small part, reckoning by geographical inches, in the map of
+man's body, but here it is that the painter of expression must
+condense the wonders of his skill, even at the expense of neglecting
+the "jonctures and other difficulties of drawing in the limbs," which
+it must be a cold eye that, in the interest so strongly demanded by
+Hogarth's countenances, has leisure to survey and censure.
+
+"The line of art pursued by my very ingenious predecessor and brother
+Academician, Mr. Penny."
+
+The first impression caused in me by reading this passage was an
+eager desire to know who this Mr. Penny was. This great surpasser of
+Hogarth in the "delicacy of his relish," and the "line which he
+pursued," where is he, what are his works, what has he to show? In
+vain I tried to recollect, till by happily putting the question to a
+friend who is more conversant in the works of the illustrious obscure
+than myself, I learnt that he was the painter of a _Death of Wolfe_
+which missed the prize the year that the celebrated picture of West
+on the same subject obtained it; that he also made a picture of the
+_Marquis of Granby relieving a Sick Soldier_; moreover, that he was
+the inventor of two pictures of _Suspended and Restored Animation_,
+which I now remember to have seen in the Exhibition some years since,
+and the prints from which are still extant in good men's houses.
+This, then, I suppose, is the line of subjects in which Mr. Penny was
+so much superior to Hogarth. I confess I am not of that opinion. The
+relieving of poverty by the purse, and the restoring a young man to
+his parents by using the methods prescribed by the Humane Society,
+are doubtless very amiable subjects, pretty things to teach the first
+rudiments of humanity; they amount to about as much instruction as
+the stories of good boys that give away their custards to poor
+beggar-boys in children's books. But, good God! is this _milk for
+babes_ to be set up in opposition to Hogarth's moral scenes, his
+_strong meat for men_? As well might we prefer the fulsome verses
+upon their own goodness to which the gentlemen of the Literary Fund
+annually sit still with such shameless patience to listen, to the
+satires of Juvenal and Persius; because the former are full of tender
+images of Worth relieved by Charity, and Charity stretching out her
+hand to rescue sinking Genius, and the theme of the latter is men's
+crimes and follies with their black consequences--forgetful meanwhile
+of those strains of moral pathos, those sublime heart-touches, which
+these poets (in _them_ chiefly showing themselves poets) are
+perpetually darting across the otherwise appalling gloom of their
+subject--consolatory remembrancers, when their pictures of guilty
+mankind have made us even to despair for our species, that there is
+such a thing as virtue and moral dignity in the world, that her
+unquenchable spark is not utterly out--refreshing admonitions, to
+which we turn for shelter from the too great heat and asperity of the
+general satire.
+
+And is there nothing analogous to this in Hogarth? nothing which
+"attempts and reaches the heart?"--no aim beyond that of "shaking the
+sides?"--If the kneeling ministering female in the last scene of the
+_Rake's Progress_, the Bedlam scene, of which I have spoken before,
+and have dared almost to parallel it with the most absolute idea of
+Virtue which Shakspeare has left us, be not enough to disprove the
+assertion; if the sad endings of the Harlot and the Rake, the
+passionate heart-bleeding entreaties for forgiveness which the
+adulterous wife is pouring forth to her assassinated and dying lord
+in the last scene but one of the _Marriage Alamode_,--if these be not
+things to touch the heart, and dispose the mind to a meditative
+tenderness: is there nothing sweetly conciliatory in the mild patient
+face and gesture with which the wife seems to allay and ventilate the
+feverish irritated feelings of her poor poverty-distracted mate (the
+true copy of the _genus irritabile_), in the print of the _Distrest
+Poet_? or if an image of maternal love be required, where shall we
+find a sublimer view of it than in that aged woman in _Industry and
+Idleness_ (plate V.) who is clinging with the fondness of hope not
+quite extinguished to her brutal vice-hardened child, whom she is
+accompanying to the ship which is to bear him away from his native
+soil, of which he has been adjudged unworthy: in whose shocking face
+every trace of the human countenance seems obliterated, and a brute
+beast's to be left instead, shocking and repulsive to all but her who
+watched over it in its cradle before it was so sadly altered, and
+feels it must belong to her while a pulse by the vindictive laws of
+his country shall be suffered to continue to beat in it. Compared
+with such things, what is Mr. Penny's "knowledge of the figure and
+academical skill which Hogarth wanted?"
+
+With respect to what follows concerning another gentleman, with the
+congratulations to him on his escape out of the regions of "humor and
+caricatura," in which it appears he was in danger of travelling side
+by side with Hogarth, I can only congratulate my country, that Mrs.
+Hogarth knew _her_ province better than, by disturbing her husband at
+his palette, to divert him from that universality of subject, which
+has stamped him perhaps, next to Shakspeare, the most inventive
+genius which this island has produced, into the "amiable pursuit of
+beautiful nature," _i.e._, copying ad infinitum the individual charms
+and graces of Mrs. H. "Hogarth's method of exposing meanness,
+deformity, and vice, paddling in whatever is ridiculous, faulty, and
+vicious."
+
+A person unacquainted with the works thus stigmatized would be apt to
+imagine that in Hogarth there was nothing else to be found but
+subjects of the coarsest and most repulsive nature. That his
+imagination was naturally unsweet, and that he delighted in raking
+into every species of moral filth. That he preyed upon sore places
+only, and took a pleasure in exposing the unsound and rotten parts of
+human nature:--whereas, with the exception of some of the plates of
+the _Harlot's Progress_, which are harder in their character than any
+of the rest of his productions (the _Stages of Cruelty_ I omit as
+mere worthless caricatures, foreign to his general habits, the
+offspring of his fancy in some wayward humor), there is scarce one of
+his pieces where vice is most strongly satirized, in which some
+figure is not introduced upon which the moral eye may rest satisfied;
+a face that indicates goodness, or perhaps mere good-humoredness and
+carelessness of mind (negation of evil) only, yet enough to give a
+relaxation to the frowning brow of satire, and keep the general air
+from tainting. Take the mild, supplicating posture of patient Poverty
+in the poor woman that is persuading the pawnbroker to accept her
+clothes in pledge, in the plate of _Gin Lane_, for an instance. A
+little does it, a little of the _good_ nature overpowers a world of
+_bad_. One cordial honest laugh of a Tom Jones absolutely clears the
+atmosphere that was reeking with the black putrefying breathings of a
+hypocrite Blifil. One homely expostulating shrug from Strap warms the
+whole air which the suggestions of a gentlemanly ingratitude from his
+friend Random had begun to freeze. One "Lord bless us!" of Parson
+Adams upon the wickedness of the times, exorcises and purges off the
+mass of iniquity which the world-knowledge of even a Fielding could
+cull out and rake together. But of the severer class of Hogarth's
+performances, enough, I trust, has been said to show that they do not
+merely shock and repulse; that there is in them the "scorn of vice"
+and the "pity" too; something to touch the heart, and keep alive the
+sense of moral beauty; the "lacrymae rerum," and the sorrowing by
+which the heart is made better. If they be bad things, then is satire
+and tragedy a bad thing; let us proclaim at once an age of gold, and
+sink the existence of vice and misery in our speculations: let us
+
+  "----wink, and shut our apprehensions up
+  From common sense of what men were and are:"
+
+let us _make believe_ with the children, that everybody is good and
+happy; and, with Dr. Swift, write panegyrics upon the world.
+
+But that larger half of Hogarth's works, which were painted more for
+entertainment than instruction (though such was the suggestiveness of
+his mind that there is always something to be learnt from them), his
+humorous scenes,--are they such as merely to disgust and set us
+against our species?
+
+The confident assertions of such a man as I consider the late Mr.
+Barry to have been, have that weight of authority in them which
+staggers at first hearing, even a long preconceived opinion. When I
+read his pathetic admonition concerning the shortness of life, and
+how much better the little leisure of it were laid out upon "that
+species of art which is employed about the amiable and the
+admirable;" and Hogarth's "method," proscribed as a "dangerous or
+worthless pursuit," I began to think there was something in it; that
+I might have been indulging all my life a passion for the works of
+this artist, to the utter prejudice of my taste and moral sense; but
+my first convictions gradually returned, a world of good-natured
+English faces came up one by one to my recollection, and a glance at
+the matchless _Election Entertainment_, which I have the happiness to
+have hanging up in my parlor, subverted Mr. Barry's whole theory in
+an instant.
+
+In that inimitable print (which in my judgment as far exceeds the
+more known and celebrated _March to Finchley_, as the best comedy
+exceeds the best farce that ever was written), let a person look till
+he be saturated, and when he has done wondering at the inventiveness
+of genius which could bring so many characters (more than thirty
+distinct classes of face) into a room and set them down at table
+together, or otherwise dispose them about, in so natural a manner,
+engage them in so many easy sets and occupations, yet all partaking
+of the spirit of the occasion which brought them together, so that we
+feel that nothing but an election time could have assembled them;
+having no central figure or principal group, (for the hero of the
+piece, the Candidate, is properly set aside in the levelling
+indistinction of the day, one must look for him to find him,) nothing
+to detain the eye from passing from part to part, where every part is
+alike instinct with life,--for here are no furniture-faces, no
+figures brought in to fill up the scene like stage choruses, but all
+dramatis personae; when he shall have done wondering at all these
+faces so strongly charactered, yet finished with the accuracy of the
+finest miniature; when he shall have done admiring the numberless
+appendages of the scene, those gratuitous doles which rich genius
+flings into the heap when it has already done enough, the
+over-measure which it delights in giving, as if it felt its stores
+were exhaustless; the dumb rhetoric of the scenery,--for tables, and
+chairs, and joint-stools in Hogarth are living and significant
+things; the witticisms that are expressed by words (all artists but
+Hogarth have failed when they have endeavored to combine two mediums
+of expression, and have introduced words into their pictures), and
+the unwritten numberless little allusive pleasantries that are
+scattered about; the work that is going on in the scene, and beyond
+it, as is made visible to the "eye of mind," by the mob which chokes
+up the doorway, and the sword that has forced an entrance before its
+master; when he shall have sufficiently admired this wealth of
+genius, let him fairly say what is the _result_ left on his mind. Is
+it an impression of the vileness and worthlessness of his species? or
+is it not the general feeling which remains, after the individual
+faces have ceased to act sensibly on his mind, a _kindly one in favor
+of his species?_ was not the general air of the scene wholesome? did
+it do the heart hurt to be among it? Something of a riotous spirit to
+be sure is there, some worldly-mindedness in some of the faces, a
+Doddingtonian smoothness which does not promise any superfluous
+degree of sincerity in the fine gentleman who has been the occasion
+of calling so much good company together; but is not the general cast
+of expression in the faces of the good sort? do they not seem cut out
+of the _good old rock_, substantial English honesty? would one fear
+treachery among characters of their expression? or shall we call
+their honest mirth and seldom-returning relaxation by the hard names
+of vice and profligacy? That poor country fellow, that is grasping
+his staff (which, from that difficulty of feeling themselves at home
+which poor men experience at a feast, he has never parted with since
+he came into the room), and is enjoying with a relish that seems to
+fit all the capacities of his soul the slender joke, which that
+facetious wag his neighbor is practising upon the gouty gentleman,
+whose eyes the effort to suppress pain has made as round as
+rings--does it shock the "dignity of human nature" to look at that
+man, and to sympathize with him in the seldom-heard joke which has
+unbent his careworn, hard-working visage, and drawn iron smiles from
+it? or with that full-hearted cobbler, who is honoring with the grasp
+of an honest fist the unused palm of that annoyed patrician, whom the
+license of the time has seated next him?
+
+I can see nothing "dangerous" in the contemplation of such scenes as
+this, or the _Enraged Musician_, or the _Southwark Fair_, or twenty
+other pleasant prints which come crowding in upon my recollection, in
+which the restless activities, the diversified bents and humors, the
+blameless peculiarities of men, as they deserve to be called, rather
+than their "vices and follies," are held up in a laughable point of
+view. All laughter is not of a dangerous or soul-hardening tendency.
+There is the petrifying sneer of a demon which excludes and kills
+Love, and there is the cordial laughter of a man which implies and
+cherishes it. What heart was ever made the worse by joining in a
+hearty laugh at the simplicities of Sir Hugh Evans or Parson Adams,
+where a sense of the ridiculous mutually kindles and is kindled by a
+perception of the amiable? That tumultuous harmony of singers that
+are roaring out the words, "The world shall bow to the Assyrian
+throne," from the opera of _Judith_, in the third plate of the series
+called the _Four Groups of Heads_; which the quick eye of Hogarth
+must have struck off in the very infancy of the rage for sacred
+oratorios in this country, while "Music yet was young;" when we have
+done smiling at the deafening distortions, which these tearers of
+devotion to rags and tatters, these takers of heaven by storm, in
+their boisterous mimicry of the occupation of angels, are
+making,--what unkindly impression is left behind, or what more of
+harsh or contemptuous feeling, than when we quietly leave Uncle Toby
+and Mr. Shandy riding their hobby-horses about the room? The
+conceited, long-backed Sign-painter, that with all the self-applause
+of a Raphael or Correggio, (the twist of body which his conceit has
+thrown him into has something of the Correggiesque in it,) is
+contemplating the picture of a bottle, which he is drawing from an
+actual bottle that hangs beside him, in the print of _Beer
+Street_,--while we smile at the enormity of the self-delusion, can we
+help loving the good-humor and self-complacency of the fellow? would
+we willingly wake him from his dream?
+
+I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have,
+necessarily, something in them to make us like them; some are
+indifferent to us, some in their natures repulsive, and only made
+interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the
+painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling
+of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and
+disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides,
+that they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,--they
+give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which
+escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the countenances of
+the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life, that
+_taedium quotidianarum formarum_, which an unrestricted passion for
+ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in
+many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of Smollett
+or Fielding.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER
+
+
+The poems of G. Wither are distinguished by a hearty homeliness of
+manner, and a plain moral speaking. He seems to have passed his life
+in one continued act of an innocent self-pleasing. That which he
+calls his _Motto_ is a continued self-eulogy of two thousand lines,
+yet we read it to the end without any feeling of distaste, almost
+without a consciousness that we have been listening all the while to
+a man praising himself. There are none of the cold particles in it,
+the hardness and self-ends, which render vanity and egotism hateful.
+He seems to be praising another person, under the mask of self: or
+rather, we feel that it was indifferent to him where he found the
+virtue which he celebrates; whether another's bosom or his own were
+its chosen receptacle. His poems are full, and this in particular is
+one downright confession, of a generous self-seeking. But by self he
+sometimes means a great deal,--his friends, his principles, his
+country, the human race.
+
+Whoever expects to find in the satirical pieces of this writer any of
+those peculiarities which pleased him in the satires of Dryden or
+Pope, will be grievously disappointed. Here are no high-finished
+characters, no nice traits of individual nature, few or no
+personalities. The game run down is coarse general vice, or folly as
+it appears in classes. A liar, a drunkard, a coxcomb, is _stript and
+whipt;_ no Shaftesbury, no Villiers, or Wharton, is curiously
+anatomized, and read upon. But to a well-natured mind there is a
+charm of moral sensibility running through them, which amply
+compensates the want of those luxuries. Wither seems everywhere
+bursting with a love of goodness, and a hatred of all low and base
+actions. At this day it is hard to discover what parts of the poem
+here particularly alluded to, _Abuses Stript and Whipt_, could have
+occasioned the imprisonment of the author. Was Vice in High Places
+more suspicious than now? had she more power; or more leisure to
+listen after ill reports? That a man should be convicted of a libel
+when he named no names but Hate, and Envy, and Lust, and Avarice, is
+like one of the indictments in the Pilgrim's Progress, where Faithful
+is arraigned for having "railed on our noble Prince Beelzebub, and
+spoken contemptibly of his honorable friends, the Lord Old Man, the
+Lord Carnal Delight, and the Lord Luxurious." What unlucky jealousy
+could have tempted the great men of those days to appropriate such
+innocent abstractions to themselves?
+
+Wither seems to have contemplated to a degree of idolatry his own
+possible virtue. He is forever anticipating persecution and
+martyrdom; fingering, as it were, the flames, to try how he can bear
+them. Perhaps his premature defiance sometimes made him obnoxious to
+censures which he would otherwise have slipped by.
+
+The homely versification of these Satires is not likely to attract in
+the present day. It is certainly not such as we should expect from a
+poet "soaring in the high region of his fancies, with his garland and
+his singing robes about him;"[1] nor is it such as
+he has shown in his _Philarete_, and in some parts of his _Shepherds
+Hunting_. He seems to have adopted this dress with voluntary
+humility, as fittest for a moral teacher, as our divines choose sober
+gray or black; but in their humility consists their sweetness. The
+deepest tone of moral feeling in them (though all throughout is
+weighty, earnest, and passionate) is in those pathetic injunctions
+against shedding of blood in quarrels, in the chapter entitled
+_Revenge_. The story of his own forbearance, which follows, is highly
+interesting. While the Christian sings his own victory over Anger,
+the Man of Courage cannot help peeping out to let you know, that it
+was some higher principle than _fear_ which counselled this
+forbearance.
+
+[Footnote 1: Milton.]
+
+Whether encaged, or roaming at liberty, Wither never seems to have
+abated a jot of that free spirit which sets its mark upon his
+writings, as much as a predominant feature of independence impresses
+every page of our late glorious Burns; but the elder poet wraps his
+proof-armor closer about him, the other wears his too much outwards;
+he is thinking too much of annoying the foe to be quite easy within;
+the spiritual defences of Wither are a perpetual source of inward
+sunshine, the magnanimity of the modern is not without its alloy of
+soreness, and a sense of injustice, which seems perpetually to gall
+and irritate. Wither was better skilled in the "sweet uses of
+adversity;" he knew how to extract the "precious jewel" from the head
+of the "toad," without drawing any of the "ugly venom" along with it.
+The prison-notes of Wither are finer than the wood-notes of most of
+his poetical brethren. The description in the Fourth Eclogue of his
+_Shepherds Hunting_ (which was composed during his imprisonment in
+the Marshalsea) of the power of the Muse to extract pleasure from
+common objects, has been oftener quoted, and is more known, than any
+part of his writings. Indeed, the whole Eclogue is in a strain so
+much above not only what himself, but almost what any other poet has
+written, that he himself could not help noticing it; he remarks that
+his spirits had been raised higher than they were wont, "through the
+love of poesy." The praises of Poetry have been often sung in ancient
+and in modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of
+influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over
+fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but, before Wither, no one
+ever celebrated its power _at home_, the wealth and the strength
+which this divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too
+after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves
+from their art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that
+poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and
+that the Muse had promise of both lives,--of this, and of that which
+was to come.
+
+The _Mistress of Philarete_ is in substance a panegyric protracted
+through several thousand lines in the mouth of a single speaker, but
+diversified, so as to produce an almost dramatic effect, by the
+artful introduction of some ladies, who are rather auditors than
+interlocutors in the scene; and of a boy, whose singing furnishes
+pretence for an occasional change of metre: though the seven-syllable
+line, in which the main part of it is written, is that in which
+Wither has shown himself so great a master, that I do not know that I
+am always thankful to him for the exchange.
+
+Wither has chosen to bestow upon the lady whom he commends the name
+of Arete, or Virtue; and, assuming to himself the character of
+Philarete, or Lover of Virtue, there is a sort of propriety in that
+heaped measure of perfections which he attributes to this partly
+real, partly allegorical personage. Drayton before him had shadowed
+his mistress under the name of Idea, or Perfect Pattern, and some of
+the old Italian love-strains are couched in such religious terms as
+to make it doubtful whether it be a mistress, or Divine Grace, which
+the poet is addressing.
+
+In this poem (full of beauties) there are two passages of preeminent
+merit. The first is where the lover, after a flight of rapturous
+commendation, expresses his wonder why all men that are about his
+mistress, even to her very servants, do not view her with the same
+eyes that he does.
+
+     "Sometime I do admire
+  All men burn not with desire:
+  Nay, I muse her servants are not
+  Pleading love; but 0! they dare not.
+  And I therefore wonder, why
+  They do not grow sick and die.
+  Sure they would do so, but that,
+  By the ordinance of fate,
+  There is some concealed thing,
+  So each gazer limiting,
+  He can see no more of merit,
+  Than beseems his worth and spirit.
+  For in her a grace there shines,
+  That o'er-daring thoughts confines,
+  Making worthless men despair
+  To be loved of one so fair.
+  Yea, the destinies agree,
+  Some _good judgments_ blind should be,
+  And not gain the power of knowing
+  Those rare beauties in her growing.
+  Reason doth as much imply:
+  For, if every judging eye,
+  Which beholdeth her, should there
+  Find what excellences are,
+  All, o'ercome by those perfections,
+  Would be captive to affections.
+  So, in happiness unblest,
+  She for lovers should not rest."
+
+The other is, where he has been comparing her beauties to gold, and
+stars, and the most excellent things in nature; and, fearing to be
+accused of hyperbole, the common charge against poets, vindicates
+himself by boldly taking upon him, that these comparisons are no
+hyperboles; but that the best things in nature do, in a lover's eye,
+fall short of those excellences which he adores in her.
+
+  "What pearls, what rubies can
+  Seem so lovely fair to man,
+  As her lips whom he doth love,
+  When in sweet discourse they move,
+  Or her lovelier teeth, the while
+  She doth bless him with a smile?
+  Stars indeed fair creatures be;
+  Yet amongst us where is he
+  Joys not more the whilst he lies
+  Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
+  Than in all the glimmering light
+  Of a starry winter's night?
+  Note the beauty of an eye--
+  And if aught you praise it by
+  Leave such passion in your mind,
+  Let my reason's eye be blind.
+  Mark if ever red or white
+  Any where gave such delight,
+  As when they have taken place
+  In a worthy woman's face.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  "I must praise her as I may,
+  Which I do mine own rude way,
+  Sometimes setting forth her glories
+  By unheard of allegories "--&c.
+
+To the measure in which these lines are written the wits of Queen
+Anne's days contemptuously gave the name of Namby-Pamby, in ridicule
+of Ambrose Philips, who has used it in some instances, as in the
+lines on Cuzzoni, to my feeling at least, very deliciously; but
+Wither, whose darling measure it seems to have been, may show, that
+in skilful hands it is capable of expressing the subtilest movements
+of passion. So true it is, which Drayton seems to have felt, that it
+is the poet who modifies the metre, not the metre the poet; in his
+own words, that
+
+    "It's possible to climb;
+  To kindle, or to stake;
+    Altho' in Skelton's rhime."[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: A long line is a line we are long repeating. In the
+_Shepherds Hunting_  take the following--
+
+  "If thy verse doth bravely tower,
+  _As she makes wing, she gets power;_
+  Yet the higher she doth soar,
+  She's affronted still the more,
+  'Till she to the high'st hath past,
+  Then she rests with fame at last."
+
+What longer measure can go beyond the majesty of this! what
+Alexandrine is half so long in pronouncing or expresses _labor slowly
+but strongly surmounting difficulty_ with the life with which it is
+done in the second of these lines? or what metre could go beyond
+these from _Philarete_--
+
+  "Her true beauty leaves behind
+  Apprehensions in my mind
+  Of more sweetness, than all art
+  Or inventions can impart.
+  _Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
+  And too strong to be suppressed._"]
+
+
+
+
+LETTERS,
+
+UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE
+REFLECTOR."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE LONDONER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Mr. Reflector,--I was born under the shadow of St. Dunstan's steeple,
+just where the conflux of the eastern and western inhabitants of this
+twofold city meet and justle in friendly opposition at Temple-bar.
+The same day which gave me to the world, saw London happy in the
+celebration of her great annual feast. This I cannot help looking
+upon as a lively omen of the future great good-will which I was
+destined to bear toward the city, resembling in kind that solicitude
+which every Chief Magistrate is supposed to feel for whatever
+concerns her interests and well-being. Indeed I consider myself in
+some sort a speculative Lord Mayor of London: for though
+circumstances unhappily preclude me from the hope of ever arriving at
+the dignity of a gold chain and Spital Sermon, yet thus much will I
+say of myself in truth, that Whittington with his cat (just emblem of
+vigilance and a furred gown) never went beyond me in affection which
+I bear to the citizens.
+
+I was born, as you have heard, in a crowd. This has begot in me an
+entire affection for that way of life, amounting to an almost
+insurmountable aversion from solitude and rural scenes. This aversion
+was never interrupted or suspended, except for a few years in the
+younger part of my life, during a period in which I had set my
+affections upon a charming young woman. Every man, while the passion
+is upon him, is for a time at least addicted to groves and meadows
+and purling streams. During this short period of my existence, I
+contracted just familiarity enough with rural objects to understand
+tolerably well ever after the _poets_, when they declaim in such
+passionate terms in favor of a country-life.
+
+For my own part, now the fit is past, I have no hesitation in
+declaring, that a mob of happy faces crowding up at the pit-door of
+Drury Lane Theatre, just at the hour of six, gives me ten thousand
+sincerer pleasures, than I could ever receive from all the flocks of
+silly sheep that ever whitened the plains of Arcadia or Epsom Downs.
+
+This passion for crowds is nowhere feasted so full as in London. The
+man must have a rare _recipe_ for melancholy who can be dull in Fleet
+Street. I am naturally inclined to hypochondria, but in London it
+vanishes, like all other ills. Often, when I have felt a weariness or
+distaste at home, have I rushed out into her crowded Strand, and fed
+my humor, till tears have wetted my cheek for unutterable sympathies
+with the multitudinous moving picture, which she never fails to
+present at all hours, like the scenes of a shifting pantomime.
+
+The very deformities of London, which give distaste to others, from
+habit do not displease me. The endless succession of shops where
+_Fancy miscalled Folly_ is supplied with perpetual gauds and toys,
+excite in me no puritanical aversion. I gladly behold every appetite
+supplied with its proper food. The obliging customer, and the obliged
+tradesman--things which live by bowing, and things which exist but
+for homage--do not affect me with disgust; from habit I perceive
+nothing but urbanity, where other men, more refined, discover
+meanness: I love the very smoke of London, because it has been the
+medium most familiar to my vision. I see grand principles of honor at
+work in the dirty ring which encompasses two combatants with fists,
+and principles of no less eternal justice in the detection of a
+pickpocket. The salutary astonishment with which an execution is
+surveyed, convinces me more forcibly than a hundred volumes of
+abstract polity, that the universal instinct of man in all ages has
+leaned to order and good government.
+
+Thus an art of extracting morality from the commonest incidents of a
+town life is attained by the same well-natured alchemy with which the
+Foresters of Arden, in a beautiful country,
+
+  "Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
+  Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
+
+Where has spleen her food but in London! Humor, Interest, Curiosity,
+suck at her measureless breasts without a possibility of being
+satiated. Nursed amid her noise, her crowds, her beloved smoke, what
+have I been doing all my life, if I have not lent out my heart with
+usury to such scenes!
+
+I am, Sir, your faithful servant,
+
+A LONDONER.
+
+
+
+
+ON BURIAL SOCIETIES;
+
+AND
+
+THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Mr. Reflector,--I was amused the other day with having the following
+notice thrust into my hand by a man who gives out bills at the corner
+of Fleet Market. Whether he saw any prognostics about me, that made
+him judge such notice seasonable, I cannot say; I might perhaps carry
+in a countenance (naturally not very florid) traces of a fever which
+had not long left me. Those fellows have a good instinctive way of
+guessing at the sort of people that are likeliest to pay attention to
+their papers.
+
+
+"BURIAL SOCIETY.
+
+"A favorable opportunity now offers to any person, of either sex, who
+would wish to be buried in a genteel manner, by paying one shilling
+entrance, and twopence per week for the benefit of the stock. Members
+to be free in six months. The money to be paid at Mr. Middleton's, at
+the sign of the _First_ and the _Last_, Stonecutter's Street, Fleet
+Market. The deceased to be furnished as follows:--A strong elm
+coffin, covered with superfine black, and furnished with two rows,
+all round, close drove, best japanned nails, and adorned with
+ornamental drops, a handsome plate of inscription, Angel above, and
+Flower beneath, and four pair of handsome handles, with wrought
+gripes; the coffin to be well pitched, lined, and ruffled with fine
+crape; a handsome crape shroud, cap, and pillow. For use, a handsome
+velvet pall, three gentlemen's cloaks, three crape hat-bands, three
+hoods and scarfs, and six pair of gloves; two porters equipped to
+attend the funeral, a man to attend the same with band and gloves;
+also, the burial-fees paid, if not exceeding one guinea."
+
+"Man," says Sir Thomas Browne, "is a noble animal, splendid in ashes,
+and pompous in the grave." Whoever drew up this little advertisement
+certainly understood this appetite in the species, and has made
+abundant provision for it. It really almost induces a _taedium vitae_
+upon one to read it. Methinks I could be willing to die, in death to
+be so attended. The two rows all round close-drove best black
+japanned nails,--how feelingly do they invite, and almost
+irresistibly persuade us to come and be fastened down! what aching
+head can resist the temptation to repose, which the crape shroud, the
+cap, and the pillow present; what sting is there in death, which the
+handles with wrought gripes are not calculated to pluck away? what
+victory in the grave which the drops and the velvet pall do not
+render at least extremely disputable? but, above all, the pretty
+emblematic plate, with the Angel above and the Flower beneath, takes
+me mightily.
+
+The notice goes on to inform us, that though the society has been
+established but a very few years, upwards of eleven hundred persons
+have put down their names. It is really an affecting consideration to
+think of so many poor people, of the industrious and hard-working
+class (for none but such would be possessed of such a generous
+forethought) clubbing their two-pences to save the reproach of a
+parish funeral. Many a poor fellow, I dare swear, has that Angel and
+Flower kept from the _Angel_ and _Punchbowl_, while, to provide
+himself a bier, he has curtailed himself of _beer_. Many a savory
+morsel has the living body been deprived of, that the lifeless one
+might be served up in a richer state to the worms. And sure, if the
+body could understand the actions of the soul, and entertain generous
+notions of things, it would thank its provident partner, that she had
+been more solicitous to defend it from dishonors at its dissolution,
+than careful to pamper it with good things in the time of its union.
+If Caesar were chiefly anxious at his death how he might die most
+decently, every Burial Society may be considered as a club of Caesars.
+
+Nothing tends to keep up, in the imaginations of the poorer sort of
+people, a generous horror of the work-house more than the manner in
+which pauper funerals are conducted in this metropolis. The coffin
+nothing but a few naked planks coarsely put together,--the want of a
+pall (that decent and well-imagined veil, which, hiding the coffin
+that hides the body, keeps that which would shock us at two removes
+from us), the colored coats of the men that are hired, at cheap
+rates, to carry the body,--altogether give the notion of the deceased
+having been some person of an ill life and conversation, some one who
+may not claim the entire rites of Christian burial,--one by whom some
+parts of the sacred ceremony would be desecrated if they should be
+bestowed upon him. I meet these meagre processions sometimes in the
+street. They are sure to make me out of humor and melancholy all the
+day after. They have a harsh and ominous aspect.
+
+If there is anything in the prospectus issued from Mr. Middleton's,
+Stonecutter's Street, which pleases me less than the rest, it is to
+find that the six pair of gloves are to be returned, that they are
+only lent, or, as the bill expresses it, for use on the occasion. The
+hood, scarfs, and hat-bands, may properly enough be given up after
+the solemnity; the cloaks no gentlemen would think of keeping; but a
+pair of gloves, once fitted on, ought not in courtesy to be
+redemanded. The wearer should certainly have the fee-simple of them.
+The cost would be but trifling, and they would be a proper memorial
+of the day. This part of the Proposal wants reconsidering. It is not
+conceived in the same liberal way of thinking as the rest. I am also
+a little doubtful whether the limit, within which the burial-fee is
+made payable, should not be extended to thirty shillings.
+
+Some provision too ought undoubtedly to be made in favor of those
+well-intentioned persons and well-wishers to the fund, who, having
+all along paid their subscriptions regularly, are so unfortunate as
+to die before the six months, which would entitle them to their
+freedom, are quite completed. One can hardly imagine a more
+distressing case than that of a poor fellow lingering on in a
+consumption till the period of his freedom is almost in sight, and
+then finding himself going with a velocity which makes it doubtful
+whether he shall be entitled to his funeral honors: his quota to
+which he nevertheless squeezes out, to the diminution of the comforts
+which sickness demands. I think, in such cases, some of the
+contribution money ought to revert. With some such modifications,
+which might easily be introduced, I see nothing in these Proposals of
+Mr. Middleton which is not strictly fair and genteel; and heartily
+recommend them to all persons of moderate incomes, in either sex, who
+are willing that this perishable part of them should quit the scene
+of its mortal activities with as handsome circumstances as possible.
+
+Before I quit the subject, I must guard my readers against a scandal,
+which they may be apt to take at the place whence these Proposals
+purport to be issued. From the sign of the _First_ and the _Last_,
+they may conclude that Mr. Middleton is some publican, who, in
+assembling a club of this description at his house, may have a
+sinister end of his own, altogether foreign to the solemn purpose for
+which the club is pretended to be instituted. I must set them right
+by informing them that the issuer of these Proposals is no publican,
+though he hangs out a sign, but an honest superintendent of funerals,
+who, by the device of a Cradle and a Coffin, connecting both ends of
+human existence together, has most ingeniously contrived to
+insinuate, that the framers of these _first_ and _last_ receptacles
+of mankind divide this our life betwixt them, and that all that
+passes from the midwife to the undertaker may, in strict propriety,
+_go for nothing_: an awful and instructive lesson to human vanity.
+
+Looking over some papers lately that fell into my hands by chance,
+and appear to have been written about the beginning of the last
+century, I stumbled, among the rest, upon the following short Essay,
+which the writer calls, "_The Character of an Undertaker_." It is
+written with some stiffness and peculiarities of style, but some
+parts of it, I think, not unaptly characterize the profession to
+which Mr. Middleton has the honor to belong. The writer doubtless had
+in his mind the entertaining character of _Sable_, in Steele's
+excellent comedy of _The Funeral_.
+
+
+CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER.
+
+"He is master of the ceremonies at burials and mourning assemblies,
+grand marshal at funeral processions, the only true yeoman of the
+body, over which he exercises a dictatorial authority from the moment
+that the breath has taken leave to that of its final commitment to
+the earth. His ministry begins where the physician's, the lawyer's,
+and the divine's end. Or if some part of the functions of the latter
+run parallel with his, it is only _in ordine ad spiritualia_. His
+temporalities remain unquestioned. He is arbitrator of all questions
+of honor which may concern the defunct; and upon slight inspection
+will pronounce how long he may remain in this upper world with credit
+to himself, and when it will be prudent for his reputation that he
+should retire. His determination in these points is peremptory and
+without appeal. Yet, with a modesty peculiar to his profession, he
+meddles not out of his own sphere. With the good or bad actions of
+the deceased in his lifetime he has nothing to do. He leaves the
+friends of the dead man to form their own conjectures as to the place
+to which the departed spirit is gone. His care is only about the
+exuviae. He concerns not himself even about the body, as it is a
+structure of parts internal, and a wonderful microcosm. He leaves
+such curious speculations to the anatomy professor. Or, if anything,
+he is averse to such wanton inquiries, as delighting rather that the
+parts which he has care of should be returned to their kindred dust
+in as handsome and unmutilated condition as possible; that the grave
+should have its full and unimpaired tribute,--a complete and just
+carcass. Nor is he only careful to provide for the body's entireness,
+but for its accommodation and ornament. He orders the fashion of its
+clothes, and designs the symmetry of its dwelling. Its vanity has an
+innocent survival in him. He is bedmaker to the dead. The pillows
+which he lays never rumple. The day of interment is the theatre in
+which he displays the mysteries of his art. It is hard to describe
+what he is, or rather to tell what he is not, on that day: for, being
+neither kinsman, servant, nor friend, he is all in turns; a
+transcendant, running through all those relations. His office is to
+supply the place of self-agency in the family, who are presumed
+incapable of it through grief. He is eyes, and ears, and hands, to
+the whole household. A draught of wine cannot go round to the
+mourners, but he must minister it. A chair may hardly be restored to
+its place by a less solemn hand than his. He takes upon himself all
+functions, and is a sort of ephemeral major-domo! He distributes his
+attentions among the company assembled according to the degree of
+affliction, which he calculates from the degree of kin to the
+deceased; and marshals them accordingly in the procession. He himself
+is of a sad and tristful countenance; yet such as (if well examined)
+is not without some show of patience and resignation at bottom;
+prefiguring, as it were, to the friends of the deceased, what their
+grief shall be when the hand of Time shall have softened and taken
+down the bitterness of their first anguish; so handsomely can he
+fore-shape and anticipate the work of Time. Lastly, with his wand, as
+with another divining rod, he calculates the depth of earth at which
+the bones of the dead man may rest, which he ordinarily contrives may
+be at such a distance from the surface of this earth, as may
+frustrate the profane attempts of such as would violate his repose,
+yet sufficiently on this side the centre to give his friends hopes of
+an easy and practicable resurrection. And here we leave him, casting
+in dust to dust, which is the last friendly office that he
+_undertakes_ to do."
+
+Begging your pardon for detaining you so long among "graves, and
+worms, and epitaphs," I am, Sir,
+
+Your humble servant,
+
+MORITURUS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE
+DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL
+DEFORMITY.
+
+WITH A HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF
+ADVERTISEMENTS FOR APPREHENDING OFFENDERS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--There is no science in their pretensions to which
+mankind are more apt to commit grievous mistakes, than in the
+supposed very obvious one of physiognomy. I quarrel not with the
+principles of this science, as they are laid down by learned
+professors; much less am I disposed, with some people, to deny its
+existence altogether as any inlet of knowledge that can be depended
+upon. I believe that there is, or may be, an art to "read the mind's
+construction in the face." But, then, in every species of _reading_,
+so much depends upon the eyes of the reader; if they are blear, or
+apt to dazzle, or inattentive, or strained with too much attention,
+the optic power will infallibly bring home false reports of what it
+reads. How often do we say, upon a cursory glance at a stranger,
+"What a fine open countenance he has!" who, upon second inspection,
+proves to have the exact features of a knave? Nay, in much more
+intimate acquaintances, how a delusion of this kind shall continue
+for months, years, and then break up all at once.
+
+Ask the married man, who has been so but for a short space of time,
+if those blue eyes where, during so many years of anxious courtship,
+truth, sweetness, serenity, seemed to be written in characters which
+could not be misunderstood--ask him if the characters which they now
+convey be exactly the same?--if for truth he does not _read_ a dull
+virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not, only because it
+wants the judgment to make a preference?--if for sweetness he does
+not _read_ a stupid habit of looking pleased at everything?--if for
+serenity he does not _read_ animal tranquillity, the dead pool of the
+heart, which no breeze of passion can stir into health? Alas! what is
+this book of the countenance good for, which when we have read so
+long, and thought that we understood its contents, there comes a
+countless list of heart-breaking errata at the end!
+
+But these are the pitiable mistakes to which love alone is subject. I
+have inadvertently wandered from my purpose, which was to expose
+quite an opposite blunder, into which we are no less apt to fall,
+through hate. How ugly a person looks upon whose reputation some
+awkward aspersion hangs, and how suddenly his countenance clears up
+with his character! I remember being persuaded of a man whom I had
+conceived an ill opinion of, that he had a very bad set of teeth;
+which, since I have had better opportunities of being acquainted with
+his face and facts, I find to have been the very reverse of the
+truth. _That crooked old woman_, I once said, speaking of an ancient
+gentlewoman, whose actions did not square altogether with my notions
+of the rule of right. The unanimous surprise of the company before
+whom I uttered these words soon convinced me that I had confounded
+mental with bodily obliquity, and that there was nothing tortuous
+about the old lady but her deeds.
+
+This humor of mankind to deny personal comeliness to those with whose
+moral attributes they are dissatisfied, is very strongly shown in
+those advertisements which stare us in the face from the walls of
+every street, and, with the tempting bait which they hang forth,
+stimulate at once cupidity and an abstract love of justice in the
+breast of every passing peruser: I mean, the advertisements offering
+rewards for the apprehension of absconded culprits, strayed
+apprentices, bankrupts who have conveyed away their effects, debtors
+that have run away from their bail. I observe, that in exact
+proportion to the indignity with which the prosecutor, who is
+commonly the framer of the advertisement, conceives he has been
+treated, the personal pretensions of the fugitive are denied, and his
+defects exaggerated.
+
+A fellow whose misdeeds have been directed against the public in
+general, and in whose delinquency no individual shall feel himself
+particularly interested, generally meets with fair usage. A coiner or
+a smuggler shall get off tolerably well. His beauty, if he has any,
+is not much underrated, his deformities are not much magnified. A
+runaway apprentice, who excites perhaps the next least degree of
+spleen in his prosecutor, generally escapes with a pair of bandy
+legs; if he has taken anything with him in his flight, a hitch in his
+gait is generally superadded. A bankrupt, who has been guilty of
+withdrawing his effects, if his case be not very atrocious, commonly
+meets with mild usage. But a debtor, who has left his bail in
+jeopardy, is sure to be described in characters of unmingled
+deformity. Here the personal feelings of the bail, which may be
+allowed to be somewhat poignant, are admitted to interfere; and, as
+wrath and revenge commonly strike in the dark, the colors are laid on
+with a grossness which I am convinced must often defeat its own
+purpose. The fish that casts an inky cloud about him that his enemies
+may not find him, cannot more obscure himself by that device than the
+blackening representations of these angry advertisers must inevitably
+serve to cloak and screen the persons of those who have injured them
+from detection. I have before me at this moment one of these bills,
+which runs thus:--
+
+"FIFTY POUNDS REWARD.
+
+"Run away from his bail, John Tomkins, formerly resident in Princes
+Street, Soho, but lately of Clerkenwell. Whoever shall apprehend, or
+cause to be apprehended and lodged in one of his Majesty's jails, the
+said John Tomkins, shall receive the above reward. He is a thick-set,
+sturdy man, about five foot six inches high, halts in his left leg,
+with a stoop in his gait, with coarse red hair, nose short and cocked
+up, with little gray eyes, (one of them bears the effect of a blow
+which he has lately received,) with a pot-belly; speaks with a thick
+and disagreeable voice; goes shabbily drest; had on when he went away
+a greasy shag great-coat with rusty yellow buttons."
+
+Now, although it is not out of the compass of possibility that John
+Tomkins aforesaid may comprehend in his agreeable person all the
+above-mentioned aggregate of charms, yet, from my observation of the
+manner in which these advertisements are usually drawn up, though I
+have not the pleasure of knowing the gentleman, yet would I lay a
+wager, that an advertisement to the following effect would have a
+much better chance of apprehending and laying by the heels this John
+Tomkins than the above description, although penned by one who, from
+the good services which he appears to have done for him, has not
+improbably been blessed with some years of previous intercourse with
+the said John. Taking, then, the above advertisement to be true, or
+nearly so, down to the words "left leg" inclusive, (though I have
+some doubt if the blemish there implied amount to a positive
+lameness, or be perceivable by any but the nearest friends of John,)
+I would proceed thus:--
+
+--"Leans a little forward in his walk; his hair thick and inclining
+to auburn; his nose of the middle size, a little turned up at the
+end; lively hazel eyes (the contusion, as its effects are probably
+gone off by this time, I judge better omitted); inclines to be
+corpulent; his voice thick, but pleasing, especially when he sings;
+had on a decent shag great-coat with yellow buttons."
+
+Now I would stake a considerable wager (though by no means a positive
+man) that some such mitigated description would lead the beagles of
+the law into a much surer track for finding this ungracious varlet,
+than to set them upon a false scent after fictitious ugliness and
+fictitious shabbiness; though, to do those gentlemen justice, I have
+no doubt their experience has taught them in all such cases to abate
+a great deal of the deformity which they are instructed to expect,
+and has discovered to them that the Devil's agents upon this earth,
+like their master, are far less ugly in reality than they are
+painted.
+
+I am afraid, Mr. Reflector, that I shall be thought to have gone wide
+of my subject, which was to detect the practical errors of
+physiognomy, properly so called; whereas I have introduced physical
+defects, such as lameness, the effects of accidents upon a man's
+person, his wearing apparel, &c., as circumstances on which the eye
+of dislike, looking askance, may report erroneous conclusions to the
+understanding. But if we are liable, through a kind or an unkind
+passion, to mistake so grossly concerning things so exterior and
+palpable, how much more are we likely to err respecting those nicer
+and less perceptible hints of character in a face whose detection
+constitutes the triumph of the physiognomist!
+
+To revert to those bestowers of unmerited deformity, the framers of
+advertisements for the apprehension of delinquents, a sincere desire
+of promoting the end of public justice induces me to address a word
+to them on the best means of attaining those ends. I will endeavor to
+lay down a few practical, or rather negative, rules for their use,
+for my ambition extends no further than to arm them with cautions
+against the self-defeating of their own purposes:--
+
+1. Imprimis, then, Mr. Advertiser! If the culprit whom you are
+willing to recover be one to whom in times past you have shown
+kindness, and been disposed to think kindly of him yourself, but he
+has deceived your trust, and has run away, and left you with a load
+of debt to answer for him,--sit down calmly and endeavor to behold
+him through the spectacles of memory rather than of present conceit.
+Image to yourself, before you pen a tittle of his description, the
+same plausible, good-looking man who took you in, and try to put away
+from your mind every intrusion of that deceitful spectre which
+perpetually obtrudes itself in the room of your former friend's known
+visage. It will do you more credit to have been deceived by such a
+one; and depend upon it, the traitor will convey to the eyes of the
+world in general much more of that first idea which you formed
+(perhaps in part erroneous) of his physiognomy, than of that
+frightful substitute which you have suffered to creep in upon your
+mind and usurp upon it; a creature which has no archetype except in
+your own brain.
+
+2. If you be a master that have to advertise a runaway apprentice,
+though the young dog's faults are known only to you, and no doubt his
+conduct has been aggravating enough, do not presently set him down as
+having crooked ankles. He may have a good pair of legs, and run away
+notwithstanding. Indeed, the latter does rather seem to imply the
+former.
+
+3. If the unhappy person against whom your laudable vengeance is
+directed be a thief, think that a thief may have a good nose, good
+eyes, good ears. It is indispensable to his profession that he be
+possessed of sagacity, foresight, vigilance; it is more than
+probable, then, that he is endued with the bodily types or
+instruments of these qualities to some tolerable degree of
+perfectness.
+
+4. If petty larceny be his offence, I exhort you, do not confound
+meanness of crime with diminutiveness of stature. These things have
+no connection. I have known a tall man stoop to the basest action, a
+short man aspire to the height of crime, a fair man be guilty of the
+foulest actions, &c.
+
+5. Perhaps the offender has been guilty of some atrocious and
+aggravated murder. Here is the most difficult case of all. It is
+above all requisite that such a daring violator of the peace and
+safety of society should meet with his reward, a violent and
+ignominious death. But how shall we get at him? Who is there among us
+that has known him before he committed the offence, that shall take
+upon him to say he can sit down coolly and pen a dispassionate
+description of a murderer? The tales of our nursery,--the reading of
+our youth,--the ill-looking man that was hired by the Uncle to
+despatch the Children in the Wood,--the grim ruffians who smothered
+the babes in the Tower,--the black and beetle-browed assassin of Mrs.
+Ratcliffe,--the shag-haired villain of Mr. Monk Lewis,--the Tarquin
+tread, and mill-stone dropping eyes, of Murder in Shakspeare,--the
+exaggerations of picture and of poetry,--what we have read and what
+we have dreamed of,--rise up and crowd in upon us such eye-scaring
+portraits of the man of blood, that our pen is absolutely
+forestalled; we commence poets when we should play the part of
+strictest historians, and the very blackness of horror which the deed
+calls up, serves as a cloud to screen the doer. The fiction is
+blameless, it is accordant with those wise prejudices with which
+nature has guarded our innocence, as with impassable barriers,
+against the commission of such appalling crimes; but, meantime, the
+criminal escapes; or if,--owing to that wise abatement in their
+expectation of deformity, which, as I hinted at before, the officers
+of pursuit never fail to make, and no doubt in cases of this sort
+they make a more than ordinary allowance,--if, owing to this or any
+accident, the offender is caught and brought to his trial, who that
+has been led out of curiosity to witness such a scene has not with
+astonishment reflected on the difference between a real committer of
+a murder, and the idea of one which he has been collecting and
+heightening all his life out of books, dreams, &c.? The fellow,
+perhaps, is a sleek, smug-looking man, with light hair and
+eyebrows,--the latter by no means jutting out or like a crag,--and
+with none of those marks which our fancy had pre-bestowed upon him.
+
+I find I am getting unawares too serious; the best way on such
+occasions is to leave off, which I shall do by generally recommending
+to all prosecuting advertisers not to confound crimes with ugliness;
+or rather, to distinguish between that physiognomical deformity,
+which I am willing to grant always accompanies crime, and mere
+_physical ugliness_,--which signifies nothing, is the opponent of
+nothing, and may exist in a good or bad person indifferently.
+
+CRITO.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM
+BEING HANGED.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+Sir,--I am one of those unhappy persons whose misfortunes, it seems,
+do not entitle them to the benefit of pure pity. All that is bestowed
+upon me of that kindest alleviator of human miseries comes dashed
+with a double portion of contempt. My griefs have nothing in them
+that is felt as sacred by the bystanders. Yet is my affliction, in
+truth, of the deepest grain--the heaviest task that was ever given to
+mortal patience to sustain. Time, that wears out all other sorrows,
+can never modify or soften mine. Here they must continue to gnaw as
+long at that fatal mark----
+
+Why was I ever born? Why was innocence in my person suffered to be
+branded with a stain which was appointed only for the blackest guilt?
+What had I done, or my parents, that a disgrace of mine should
+involve a whole posterity in infamy? I am almost tempted to believe,
+that, in some preexistent state, crimes to which this sublunary life
+of mine hath been as much a stranger as the babe that is newly born
+into it, have drawn down upon me this vengeance, so disproportionate
+to my actions on this globe.
+
+My brain sickens, and my bosom labors to be delivered of the weight
+that presses upon it, yet my conscious pen shrinks from the avowal.
+But out it must----
+
+O, Mr. Reflector! guess at the wretch's misery who now writes this to
+you, when, with tears and burning blushes, he is obliged to confess
+that he has been--HANGED----
+
+Methinks I hear an involuntary exclamation burst from you, as your
+imagination presents to you fearful images of your correspondent
+unknown--_hanged!_
+
+Fear not, Mr. Editor. No disembodied spirit has the honor of
+addressing you. I am flesh and blood, an unfortunate system of bones,
+muscles, sinews, arteries, like yourself.
+
+_Then, I presume, you mean to be pleasant.--That expression of yours,
+Mr. Correspondent, must be taken somehow in a metaphorical sense----_
+
+In the plainest sense, without trope or figure--Yes, Mr. Editor! this
+neck of mine has felt the fatal noose,--these hands have tremblingly
+held up the corroborative prayer-book,--these lips have sucked the
+moisture of the last consolatory orange,--this tongue has chanted the
+doleful cantata which no performer was ever called upon to
+repeat,--this face has had the veiling nightcap drawn over it----
+
+But for no crime of mine.--Far be it from me to arraign the justice
+of my country, which, though tardy, did at length recognize my
+innocence. It is not for me to reflect upon judge or jury, now that
+eleven years have elapsed since the erroneous sentence was
+pronounced. Men will always be fallible, and perhaps circumstances
+did appear at the time a little strong----
+
+Suffice it to say, that after hanging four minutes (as the spectators
+were pleased to compute it,--a man that is being strangled, I know
+from experience, has altogether a different measure of time from his
+friends who are breathing leisurely about him,--I suppose the minutes
+lengthen as time approaches eternity, in the same manner as the miles
+get longer as you travel northward),--after hanging four minutes,
+according to the best calculation of the bystanders, a reprieve came,
+and I was CUT DOWN--
+
+Really I am ashamed of deforming your pages with these technical
+phrases--if I knew how to express my meaning shorter--
+
+But to proceed.--My first care after I had been brought to myself by
+the usual methods (those methods that are so interesting to the
+operator and his assistants, who are pretty numerous on such
+occasions,--but which no patient was ever desirous of undergoing a
+second time for the benefit of science), my first care was to provide
+myself with an enormous stock or cravat to hide the place--you
+understand me; my next care was to procure a residence as distant as
+possible from that part of the country where I had suffered. For that
+reason I chose the metropolis, as the place where wounded honor (I
+had been told) could lurk with the least danger of exciting inquiry,
+and stigmatized innocence had the best chance of hiding her disgrace
+in a crowd. I sought out a new circle of acquaintance, and my
+circumstances happily enabling me to pursue my fancy in that respect,
+I endeavored, by mingling in all the pleasures which the town
+affords, to efface the memory of what I had undergone.
+
+But, alas! such is the portentous and all-pervading chain of
+connection which links together the head and members of this great
+community, my scheme of lying perdu was defeated almost at the
+outset. A countryman of mine, whom a foolish lawsuit had brought to
+town, by chance met me, and the secret was soon blazoned about.
+
+In a short time I found myself deserted by most of those who had been
+my intimate friends. Not that any guilt was supposed to attach to my
+character. My officious countryman, to do him justice, had been
+candid enough to explain my perfect innocence.
+
+But, somehow or other, there is a want of strong virtue in mankind.
+We have plenty of the softer instincts, but the heroic character is
+gone. How else can I account for it, that of all my numerous
+acquaintance, among whom I had the honor of ranking sundry persons of
+education, talents, and worth, scarcely here and there one or two
+could be found who had the courage to associate with a man that had
+been hanged.
+
+Those few who did not desert me altogether were persons of strong but
+coarse minds; and from the absence of all delicacy in them I suffered
+almost as much as from the superabundance of a false species of it in
+the others. Those who stuck by me were the jokers, who thought
+themselves entitled by the fidelity which they had shown towards me
+to use me with what familiarity they pleased. Many and unfeeling are
+the jests that I have suffered from these rude (because faithful)
+Achateses. As they passed me in the streets, one would nod
+significantly to his companion and say, pointing to me, Smoke his
+cravat, and ask me if I had got a wen, that I was so solicitous to
+cover my neck. Another would inquire, What news from * * * Assizes?
+(which you may guess, Mr. Editor, was the scene of my shame,) and
+whether the sessions was like to prove a maiden one? A third would
+offer to insure me from drowning. A fourth would tease me with
+inquiries how I felt when I was swinging, whether I had not something
+like a blue flame dancing before my eyes? A fifth took a fancy never
+to call me anything but _Lazarus_. And an eminent bookseller and
+publisher,--who, in his zeal to present the public with new facts,
+had he lived in those days, I am confident, would not have scrupled
+waiting upon the person himself last mentioned, at the most critical
+period of his existence, to solicit a _few facts relative to
+resuscitation_,--had the modesty to offer me--guineas per sheet, if I
+would write, in his magazine, a physiological account of my feelings
+upon coming to myself.
+
+But these were evils which a moderate fortitude might have enabled me
+to struggle with. Alas! Mr. Editor, the women,--whose good graces I
+had always most assiduously cultivated, from whose softer minds I had
+hoped a more delicate and generous sympathy than I found in the
+men,--the women began to shun me--this was the unkindest blow of all.
+
+But is it to be wondered at? How couldst thou imagine, wretchedest of
+beings, that that tender creature Seraphina would fling her pretty
+arms about that neck which previous circumstances had rendered
+infamous? That she would put up with the refuse of the rope, the
+leavings of the cord? Or that any analogy could subsist between the
+knot which binds true lovers, and the knot which ties malefactors?
+
+I can forgive that pert baggage Flirtilla, who, when I complimented
+her one day on the execution which her eyes had done, replied, that,
+to be sure, Mr. * * * was a judge of those things. But from thy more
+exalted mind, Celestina, I expected a more unprejudiced decision. The
+person whose true name I conceal under this appellation, of all the
+women that I was ever acquainted with had the most manly turn of
+mind, which she had improved by reading and the best conversation.
+Her understanding was not more masculine than her manners and whole
+disposition were delicately and truly feminine. She was the daughter
+of an officer who had fallen in the service of his country, leaving
+his widow, and Celestina, an only child, with a fortune sufficient to
+set them above want, but not to enable them to live in splendor. I
+had the mother's permission to pay my addresses to the young lady,
+and Celestina seemed to approve of my suit.
+
+Often and often have I poured out my overcharged soul in the presence
+of Celestina, complaining of the hard and unfeeling prejudices of the
+world; and the sweet maid has again and again declared, that no
+irrational prejudice should hinder her from esteeming every man
+according to his intrinsic worth. Often has she repeated the
+consolatory assurance, that she could never consider as essentially
+ignominious an _accident_, which was indeed to be deprecated, but
+which might have happened to the most innocent of mankind. Then would
+she set forth some illustrious example, which her reading easily
+furnished, of a Phocion or a Socrates unjustly condemned; of a
+Raleigh or a Sir Thomas More, to whom late posterity had done
+justice; and by soothing my fancy with some such agreeable parallel,
+she would make me almost to triumph in my disgrace, and convert my
+shame into glory.
+
+In such entertaining and instructive conversations the time passed
+on, till I importunately urged the mistress of my affections to name
+the day for our union. To this she obligingly consented, and I
+thought myself the happiest of mankind. But how was I surprised one
+morning on the receipt of the following billet from my charmer:--
+
+SIR,--You must not impute it to levity, or to a worse failing,
+ingratitude, if, with anguish of heart, I feel myself compelled by
+irresistible arguments to recall a vow which I fear I made with too
+little consideration. I never can be yours. The reasons of my
+decision, which is final, are in my own breast, and you must
+everlastingly remain a stranger to them. Assure yourself that I can
+never cease to esteem you as I ought.
+
+
+CELESTINA.
+
+At the sight of this paper, I ran in frantic haste to Celestina's
+lodgings, where I learned, to my infinite mortification, that the
+mother and daughter were set off on a journey to a distant part of
+the country, to visit a relation, and were not expected to return in
+less than four months.
+
+Stunned by this blow, which left me without the courage to solicit an
+explanation by letter, even if I had known where they were, (for the
+particular address was industriously concealed from me,) I waited
+with impatience the termination of the period, in the vain hope that
+I might be permitted to have a chance of softening the harsh decision
+by a personal interview with Celestina after her return. But before
+three months were at an end, I learned from the newspapers that my
+beloved had----given her hand to another.
+
+Heart-broken as I was, I was totally at a loss to account for the
+strange step which she had taken; and it was not till some years
+after that I learned the true reason from a female relation of hers,
+to whom it seems Celestina had confessed in confidence, that it was
+no demerit of mine that had caused her to break off the match so
+abruptly, nor any preference which she might feel for any other
+person, for she preferred me (she was pleased to say) to all mankind;
+but when she came to lay the matter closer to her heart, she found
+that she never should be able to bear the sight--(I give you her very
+words as they were detailed to me by her relation)--the sight of a
+man in a nightcap who had appeared on a public platform--it would
+lead to such a disagreeable association of ideas! And to this
+punctilio I was sacrificed.
+
+To pass over an infinite series of minor mortifications, to which
+this last and heaviest might well render me callous, behold me here,
+Mr. Editor! in the thirty-seventh year of my existence, (the twelfth,
+reckoning from my reanimation,) cut off from all respectable
+connections: rejected by the fairer half of the community,--who in my
+case alone seem to have laid aside the characteristic pity of their
+sex; punished because I was once punished unjustly: suffering for no
+other reason than because I once had the misfortune to suffer without
+any cause at all. In no other country, I think, but this, could a man
+have been subject to such a life-long persecution, when once his
+innocence had been clearly established.
+
+Had I crawled forth a rescued victim from the rack in the horrible
+dungeons of the Inquisition,--had I heaved myself up from a half
+bastinado in China, or been torn from the just-entering, ghastly
+impaling stake in Barbary,--had I dropt alive from the knout in
+Russia, or come off with a gashed neck from the half-mortal,
+scarce-in-time-retracted cimeter of an executioneering slave in
+Turkey,--I might have borne about the remnant of this frame (the
+mangled trophy of reprieved innocence) with credit to myself in any
+of those barbarous countries. No scorn, at least, would have mingled
+with the pity (small as it might be) with which what was left of me
+would have been surveyed.
+
+The singularity of my case has often led me to inquire into the
+reasons of the general levity with which the subject of hanging is
+treated as a topic in this country. I say, as a topic: for let the
+very persons who speak so lightly of the thing at a distance be
+brought to view the real scene,--let the platform be bona fide
+exhibited, and the trembling culprit brought forth,--the case is
+changed; but as a topic of conversation, I appeal to the vulgar jokes
+which pass current in every street. But why mention them, when the
+politest authors have agreed in making use of this subject as a
+source of the ridiculous? Swift, and Pope, and Prior, are fond of
+recurring to it. Gay has built an entire drama upon this single
+foundation. The whole interest of the _Beggar's Opera_ may be said to
+hang upon it. To such writers as Fielding and Smollett it is a
+perfect _bonne-bouche_.--Hear the facetious Tom Brown, in his
+_Comical View of London and Westminster_, describe the _Order of the
+Show at one of the Tyburn Executions_ in his time:--"Mr. Ordinary
+visits his melancholy flock in Newgate by eight. Doleful procession
+up Holborn Hill about eleven. Men handsome and proper that were never
+thought so before, which is some comfort however. Arrive at the fatal
+place by twelve. Burnt brandy, women, and sabbath-breaking, repented
+of. Some few penitential drops fall under the gallows. Sheriffs' men,
+parson, pickpockets, criminals, all very busy. The last concluding
+peremptory psalm struck up. Show over by one."--In this sportive
+strain does this misguided wit think proper to play with a subject so
+serious, which yet he would hardly have done if he had not known that
+there existed a predisposition in the habits of his unaccountable
+countrymen to consider the subject as a jest. But what shall we say
+to Shakspeare, who, (not to mention the solution which the
+_Gravedigger_ in _Hamlet_ gives of his fellow-workman's problem,) in
+that scene in _Measure for Measure_, where the _Clown_ calls upon
+_Master Barnardine_ to get up and be hanged, which he declines on the
+score of being sleepy, has actually gone out of his way to gratify
+this amiable propensity in his countrymen; for it is plain, from the
+use that was to be made of his head, and from _Abhorson's_ asking,
+"Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?" that beheading, and not hanging,
+was the punishment to which _Barnardine_ was destined. But Shakspeare
+knew that the axe and block were pregnant with no ludicrous images,
+and therefore falsified the historic truth of his own drama (if I may
+so speak), rather than he would leave out such excellent matter for a
+jest as the suspending of a fellow-creature in mid-air has been ever
+esteemed to be by Englishmen.
+
+One reason why the ludicrous never fails to intrude itself into our
+contemplations upon this mode of death, I suppose to be, the absurd
+posture into which a man is thrown who is condemned to dance, as the
+vulgar delight to express it, upon nothing. To see him whisking and
+wavering in the air,
+
+  "As the wind you know will wave a man;"[1]
+
+to behold the vacant carcass, from which the life is newly dislodged,
+shifting between earth and heaven, the sport of every gust; like a
+weathercock, serving to show from which point the wind blows; like a
+maukin, fit only to scare away birds; like a nest left to swing upon
+a bough when the bird is flown: these are uses to which we cannot
+without a mixture of spleen and contempt behold the human carcass
+reduced. We string up dogs, foxes, bats, moles, weasels. Man surely
+deserves a steadier death.
+
+[Footnote 1: Hieronimo in the Spanish Tragedy.]
+
+Another reason why the ludicrous associates more forcibly with this
+than with any other mode of punishment, I cannot help thinking to be,
+the senseless costume with which old prescription has thought fit to
+clothe the exit of malefactors in this country. Let a man do what he
+will to abstract from his imagination all idea of the whimsical,
+something of it will come across him when he contemplates the figure
+of a fellow-creature in the daytime (in however distressing a
+situation) in a nightcap. Whether it be that this nocturnal addition
+has something discordant with daylight, or that it is the dress which
+we are seen in at those times when we are "seen," as the Angel in
+Milton expresses it, "least wise,"--this, I am afraid, will always be
+the case; unless, indeed, as in my instance, some strong personal
+feeling overpower the ludicrous altogether. To me, when I reflect
+upon the train of misfortunes which have pursued men through life,
+owing to that accursed drapery, the cap presents as purely frightful
+an object as the sleeveless yellow coat and devil-painted mitre of
+the San Benitos.--An ancestor of mine, who suffered for his loyalty
+in the time of the civil wars, was so sensible of the truth of what I
+am here advancing, that on the morning of execution, no entreaties
+could prevail upon him to submit to the odious dishabille, as he
+called it, but he insisted upon wearing, and actually suffered in,
+the identical, flowing periwig which he is painted in, in the gallery
+belonging to my uncle's seat in ----shire.
+
+Suffer me, Mr. Editor, before I quit the subject, to say a word or
+two respecting the minister of justice in this country; in plain
+words, I mean the hangman. It has always appeared to me that, in the
+mode of inflicting capital punishments with us, there is too much of
+the ministry of the human hand. The guillotine, as performing its
+functions more of itself and sparing human agency, though a cruel and
+disgusting exhibition, in my mind has many ways the advantage over
+_our way_. In beheading, indeed, as it was formerly practised in
+England, and in whipping to death, as is sometimes practised now, the
+hand of man is no doubt sufficiently busy; but there is something
+less repugnant in these downright blows than in the officious
+barber-like ministerings of _the other_. To have a fellow with his
+hangman's hands fumbling about your collar, adjusting the thing as
+your valet would regulate your cravat, valuing himself on his menial
+dexterity----
+
+I never shall forget meeting my rascal,--I mean the fellow who
+officiated for me,--in London last winter. I think I see him now,--in
+a waistcoat that had been mine,--smirking along as if he knew me----
+
+In some parts of Germany, that fellow's office is by law declared
+infamous, and his posterity incapable of being ennobled. They have
+hereditary hangmen, or had at least, in the same manner as they had
+hereditary other great officers of state; and the hangmen's families
+of two adjoining parishes intermarried with each other, to keep the
+breed entire. I wish something of the same kind were established in
+England.
+
+But it is time to quit a subject which teems with disagreeable
+images----
+
+Permit me to subscribe myself, Mr. Editor,
+
+Your unfortunate friend,
+
+PENSILIS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS.
+
+          "Sedet, asternumque sedebit,
+   Infelix Theseus."  VIRGIL.
+
+
+That there is a professional melancholy, if I may so express myself,
+incident to the occupation of a tailor, is a fact which I think very
+few will venture to dispute. I may safely appeal to my readers,
+whether they ever knew one of that faculty that was not of a
+temperament, to say the least, far removed from mercurial or jovial.
+
+Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not more
+tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than a
+gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same infallible
+testimonies of his occupation. "Walk, that I may know thee."
+
+Do you ever see him go whistling along the footpath like a carman, or
+brush through a crowd like a baker, or go smiling to himself like a
+lover? Is he forward to thrust into mobs, or to make one at the
+ballad-singer's audiences? Does he not rather slink by assemblies and
+meetings of the people, as one that wisely declines popular
+observation?
+
+How extremely rare is a noisy tailor! a mirthful and obstreperous
+tailor!
+
+"At my nativity," says Sir Thomas Browne, "my ascendant was the
+earthly sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn,
+and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me." One would
+think that he were anatomizing a tailor! save that to the latter's
+occupation, methinks, a woollen planet would seem more consonant, and
+that he should be born when the sun was in Aries.--He goes on; "I am
+no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of
+company." How true a type of the whole trade! Eminently economical of
+his words, you shall seldom hear a jest come from one of them. He
+sometimes furnishes subject for a repartee, but rarely (I think)
+contributes one _ore proprio_.
+
+Drink itself does not seem to elevate him, or at least to call out of
+him any of the external indications of vanity. I cannot say that it
+never causes his pride to swell, but it never breaks out. I am even
+fearful that it may swell and rankle to an alarming degree inwardly.
+For pride is near of kin to melancholy!--a hurtful obstruction from
+the ordinary outlets of vanity being shut. It is this stoppage which
+engenders proud humors. Therefore a tailor may be proud. I think he
+is never vain. The display of his gaudy patterns, in that book of his
+which emulates the rainbow, never raises any inflations of that
+emotion in him, corresponding to what the wig-maker (for instance)
+evinces, when he expatiates on a curl or a bit of hair. He spreads
+them forth with a sullen incapacity for pleasure, a real or affected
+indifference to grandeur. Cloth of gold neither seems to elate, nor
+cloth of frieze to depress him--according to the beautiful motto
+which formed the modest imprese of the shield worn by Charles Brandon
+at his marriage with the king's sister. Nay, I doubt whether he would
+discover any vainglorious complacence in his colors, though "Iris"
+herself "dipt the woof."
+
+In further corroboration of this argument--who ever saw the wedding
+of a tailor announced in the newspapers, or the birth of his eldest
+son?
+
+When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good
+dancer, or to perform exquisitely on the tight-rope, or to shine in
+any such light and airy pastimes? to sing, or play on the violin?
+
+Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of
+bells, firing of cannons, &c.?
+
+Valiant I know they can be; but I appeal to those who were witnesses
+to the exploits of Eliot's famous troop, whether in their fiercest
+charges they betrayed anything of that thoughtless oblivion of death
+with which a Frenchman jigs into battle, or whether they did not show
+more of the melancholy valor of the Spaniard, upon whom they charged;
+that deliberate courage which contemplation and sedentary habits
+breathe?
+
+Are they often great newsmongers?--I have known some few among them
+arrive at the dignity of speculative politicians; but that light and
+cheerful every-day interest in the affairs and goings-on of the
+world, which makes the barber[1] such delightful company, I think is
+rarely observable in them.
+
+[Footnote 1: Having incidentally mentioned the barber in a comparison
+of professional temperaments, I hope no other trade will take
+offence, or look upon it as an incivility done to them if I say, that
+in courtesy, humanity, and all the conversational and social graces
+which "gladden life," I esteem no profession comparable to his.
+Indeed, so great is the goodwill which I bear to this useful and
+agreeable body of men, that, residing in one of the Inns of Court
+(where the best specimens of them are to be found, except perhaps at
+the universities), there are seven of them to whom I am personally
+known, and who never pass me without the compliment of the hat on
+either side. My truly polite and urbane friend Mr. A----m, of
+Flower-de-luce Court, in Fleet Street, will forgive my mention of him
+in particular. I can truly say that I never spent a quarter of an
+hour under his hands without deriving some profit from the agreeable
+discussions which are always going on there.]
+
+This characteristic pensiveness in them being so notorious, I wonder
+none of those writers, who have expressly treated of melancholy,
+should have mentioned it. Burton, whose book is an excellent abstract
+of all the authors in that kind who preceded him, and who treats of
+every species of this malady, from the _hypochondriacal_ or _windy_
+to the _heroical_ or _love-melancholy_, has strangely omitted it.
+Shakspeare himself has overlooked it. "I have neither the scholar's
+melancholy (saith Jaques), which is emulation; nor the courtier's,
+which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is politic; nor the lover's,
+which is all these:" and then, when you might expect him to have
+brought in, "nor the tailor's, which is," so and so, he comes to an
+end of his enumeration, and falls to a defining of his own
+melancholy.
+
+Milton likewise has omitted it, where he had so fair an opportunity
+of bringing it in, in his _Penseroso_.
+
+But the partial omissions of historians proving nothing against the
+existence of any well-attested fact, I shall proceed and endeavor to
+ascertain the causes why this pensive turn should be so predominant
+in people of this profession above all others.
+
+And first, may it not be, that the custom of wearing apparel being
+derived to us from the fall, and one of the most mortifying products
+of that unhappy event, a certain _seriousness_ (to say no more of it)
+may in the order of things have been intended to be impressed upon
+the minds of that race of men to whom in all ages the care of
+contriving the human apparel has been intrusted, to keep up the
+memory of the first institution of clothes, and serve as a standing
+remonstrance against those vanities which the absurd conversion of a
+memorial of our shame into an ornament of our persons was destined to
+produce? Correspondent in some sort to this, it may be remarked, that
+the tailor sitting over a cave or hollow place, in the caballistic
+language of his order is said to have _certain melancholy_ regions
+always open under his feet.--But waiving further inquiry into final
+causes, where the best of us can only wander in the dark, let us try
+to discover the efficient causes of this melancholy.
+
+I think, then, that they may be reduced to two, omitting some
+subordinate ones, viz.:
+
+    The sedentary habits of the tailor.--
+    Something peculiar in his diet.--
+
+First, his _sedentary habits_.--In Dr. Norris's famous narrative of
+the frenzy of Mr. John Dennis, the patient, being questioned as to
+the occasion of the swelling in his legs, replies that it came "by
+criticism;" to which the learned doctor seeming to demur, as to a
+distemper which he had never read of, Dennis (who appears not to have
+been mad upon all subjects) rejoins, with some warmth, that it was no
+distemper, but a noble art; that he had sat fourteen hours a day at
+it; and that the other was a pretty doctor not to know that there was
+a communication between the brain and the legs.
+
+When we consider that this sitting for fourteen hours continuously,
+which the critic probably practised only while he was writing his
+"remarks," is no more than what the tailor, in the ordinary pursuance
+of his art, submits to daily (Sundays excepted) throughout the year,
+shall we wonder to find the brain affected, and in a manner
+overclouded, from that indissoluble sympathy between the noble and
+less noble parts of the body which Dennis hints at? The unnatural and
+painful manner of his sitting must also greatly aggravate the evil,
+insomuch that I have sometimes ventured to liken tailors at their
+boards to so many envious Junos, _sitting cross-legged to hinder the
+birth of their own felicity_. The legs transversed thus
+[Illustration: X lying on its side] crosswise, or decussated, was
+among the ancients the posture of malediction. The Turks, who
+practise it at this day, are noted to be a melancholy people.
+
+Secondly, his _diet_.--To which purpose I find a most remarkable
+passage in Burton, in his chapter entitled "Bad diet a cause of
+melancholy." "Amongst herbs to be eaten (he says) I find gourds,
+cucumbers, melons, disallowed; but especially CABBAGE. It causeth
+troublesome dreams, and sends up black vapors to the brain. Galen,
+_Loc. Affect_, lib. iii. cap. 6, of all herbs condemns CABBAGE. And
+Isaack, lib. ii. cap. 1, _animae gravitatem facit_, it brings
+heaviness to the soul." I could not omit so flattering a testimony
+from an author who, having no theory of his own to serve, has so
+unconsciously contributed to the confirmation of mine. It is well
+known that this last-named vegetable has, from the earliest periods
+which we can discover, constituted almost the sole food of this
+extraordinary race of people.
+
+BURTON, _Junior_.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+HOSPITA
+
+ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES
+OF THE PALATE.
+
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--My husband and I are fond of company, and being in
+easy circumstances, we are seldom without a party to dinner two or
+three days in a week. The utmost cordiality has hitherto prevailed at
+our meetings; but there is a young gentleman, a near relation of my
+husband's, that has lately come among us, whose preposterous behavior
+bids fair, if not timely checked, to disturb our tranquillity. He is
+too great a favorite with my husband in other respects, for me to
+remonstrate with him in any other than this distant way. A letter
+printed in your publication may catch his eye; for he is a great
+reader, and makes a point of seeing all the new things that come out.
+Indeed, he is by no means deficient in understanding. My husband says
+that he has a good deal of wit; but for my part I cannot say I am any
+judge of that, having seldom observed him open his mouth except for
+purposes very foreign to conversation. In short, sir, this young
+gentleman's failing is, an immoderate indulgence of his palate. The
+first time he dined with us, he thought it necessary to extenuate the
+length of time he kept the dinner on the table, by declaring that he
+had taken a very long walk in the morning, and came in fasting; but
+as that excuse could not serve above once or twice at most, he has
+latterly dropped the mask altogether, and chosen to appear in his own
+proper colors, without reserve or apology.
+
+You cannot imagine how unpleasant his conduct has become. His way of
+staring at the dishes as they are brought in, has absolutely
+something immodest in it: it is like the stare of an impudent man of
+fashion at a fine woman, when she first comes into a room. I am
+positively in pain for the dishes, and cannot help thinking they have
+consciousness, and will be put out of countenance, he treats them so
+like what they are not.
+
+Then again he makes no scruple of keeping a joint of meat on the
+table, after the cheese and fruit are brought in, till he has what he
+calls _done with it_. Now how awkward this looks, where there are
+ladies, you may judge, Mr. Reflector,--how it disturbs the order and
+comfort of a meal. And yet I always make a point of helping him
+first, contrary to all good manners,--before any of my female friends
+are helped, that he may avoid this very error. I wish he would eat
+before he comes out.
+
+What makes his proceedings more particularly offensive at our house
+is, that my husband, though out of common politeness he is obliged to
+set dishes of animal food before his visitors, yet himself and his
+whole family (myself included) feed entirely on vegetables. We have a
+theory, that animal food is neither wholesome nor natural to man; and
+even vegetables we refuse to eat until they have undergone the
+operation of fire, in consideration of those numberless little living
+creatures which the glass helps us to detect in every fibre of the
+plant or root before it be dressed. On the same theory we boil our
+water, which is our only drink, before we suffer it to come to table.
+Our children are perfect little Pythagoreans: it would do you good to
+see them in their nursery, stuffing their dried fruits, figs,
+raisins, and _milk_, which is the only approach to animal food which
+is allowed. They have no notion how the substance of a creature that
+ever had life can become food for another creature. A beefsteak is an
+absurdity to them; a mutton-chop, a solecism in terms; a cutlet, a
+word absolutely without any meaning; a butcher is nonsense, except so
+far as it is taken for a man who delights in blood, or a hero. In
+this happy state of innocence we have kept their minds, not allowing
+them to go into the kitchen, or to hear of any preparations for the
+dressing of animal food, or even to know that such things are
+practised. But as a state of ignorance is incompatible with a certain
+age, and as my eldest girl, who is ten years old next Midsummer, must
+shortly be introduced into the world and sit at table with us, where
+she will see some things which will shock all her received notions, I
+have been endeavoring by little and little to break her mind, and
+prepare it for the disagreeable impressions which must be forced upon
+it. The first hint I gave her upon the subject, I could see her
+recoil from it with the same horror with which we listen to a tale of
+Anthropophagism; but she has gradually grown more reconciled to it,
+in some measure, from my telling her that it was the custom of the
+world,--to which, however senseless, we must submit, so far as we
+could do it with innocence, not to give offence; and she has shown so
+much strength of mind on other occasions, which I have no doubt is
+owing to the calmness and serenity superinduced by her diet, that I
+am in good hopes when the proper season for her _debut_ arrives, she
+may be brought to endure the sight of a roasted chicken, or a dish of
+sweet-breads for the first time without fainting. Such being the
+nature of our little household, you may guess what inroads into the
+economy of it,--what resolutions and turnings of things upside down,
+the example of such a feeder as Mr. ---- is calculated to produce.
+
+I wonder, at a time like the present, when the scarcity of every kind
+of food is so painfully acknowledged, that _shame_ has no effect upon
+him. Can he have read Mr. Malthus's Thoughts on the Ratio of Food to
+Population? Can he think it reasonable that one man should consume
+the sustenance of many?
+
+The young gentleman has an agreeable air and person, such as are not
+unlikely to recommend him on the score of matrimony. But his fortune
+is not over-large; and what prudent young woman would think of
+embarking hers with a man who would bring three or four mouths (or
+what is equivalent to them) into a family? She might as reasonably
+choose a widower in the same circumstances, with three or four
+children.
+
+I cannot think who he takes after. His father and mother, by all
+accounts, were very moderate eaters; only I have heard that the
+latter swallowed her victuals very fast, and the former had a tedious
+custom of sitting long at his meals. Perhaps he takes after both.
+
+I wish you would turn this in your thoughts, Mr. Reflector, and give
+us your ideas on the subject of excessive eating, and, particularly,
+of animal food.
+
+HOSPITA.
+
+
+
+
+EDAX ON APPETITE.
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF "THE REFLECTOR."
+
+
+MR. REFLECTOR,--I am going to lay before you a case of the most
+iniquitous persecution that ever poor devil suffered.
+
+You must know, then, that I have been visited with a calamity ever
+since my birth. How shall I mention it without offending delicacy?
+Yet out it must. My sufferings, then, have all arisen from a most
+inordinate appetite----
+
+Not for wealth, not for vast possessions,--then might I have hoped to
+find a cure in some of those precepts of philosophers or
+poets,--those verba et voces which Horace speaks of:--
+
+   "quibus hunc lenire dolorem
+    Possis, et magnam morbi deponere partem;"
+
+not for glory, not for fame, not for applause,--for against this
+disease, too, he tells us there are certain piacula, or, as Pope has
+chosen to render it,
+
+  "Rhymes, which fresh and fresh applied,
+   Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride;"
+
+nor yet for pleasure, properly so called: the strict and virtuous
+lessons which I received in early life from the best of parents,--a
+pious clergyman of the Church of England, now no more,--I trust have
+rendered me sufficiently secure on that side:----
+
+No, Sir, for none of these things; but an appetite, in its coarsest
+and least metaphorical sense,--an appetite for _food_.
+
+The exorbitances of my arrowroot and pappish days I cannot go back
+far enough to remember; only I have been told that my mother's
+constitution not admitting of my being nursed at home, the woman who
+had the care of me for that purpose used to make most extravagant
+demands for my pretended excesses in that kind; which my parents,
+rather than believe anything unpleasant of me, chose to impute to the
+known covetousness and mercenary disposition of that sort of people.
+This blindness continued on their part after I was sent for home, up
+to the period when it was thought proper, on account of my advanced
+age, that I should mix with other boys more unreservedly than I had
+hitherto done. I was accordingly sent to boarding-school.
+
+Here the melancholy truth became too apparent to be disguised. The
+prying republic of which a great school consists soon found me out:
+there was no shifting the blame any longer upon other people's
+shoulders,--no good-natured maid to take upon herself the enormities
+of which I stood accused in the article of bread and butter, besides
+the crying sin of stolen ends of puddings, and cold pies strangely
+missing. The truth was but too manifest in my looks,--in the evident
+signs of inanition which I exhibited after the fullest meals, in
+spite of the double allowance which my master was privately
+instructed by my kind parents to give me. The sense of the
+ridiculous, which is but too much alive in grown persons, is tenfold
+more active and alert in boys. Once detected, I was the constant butt
+of their arrows,--the mark against which every puny leveller directed
+his little shaft of scorn. The very Graduses and Thesauruses were
+raked for phrases to pelt me with by the tiny pedants. Ventri
+natus--Ventri deditus,--Vesana gula,--Escarum gurges,--Dapibus
+indulgens,--Non dans fraena gulae,-Sectans lautae fercula mensae,
+resounded wheresoever I passed. I led a weary life, suffering the
+penalties of guilt for that which was no crime, but only following
+the blameless dictates of nature. The remembrance of those childish
+reproaches haunts me yet oftentimes in my dreams. My school-days come
+again, and the horror I used to feel, when in some silent corner,
+retired from the notice of my unfeeling playfellows, I have sat to
+mumble the solitary slice of gingerbread allotted me by the bounty of
+considerate friends, and have ached at heart because I could not
+spare a portion of it, as I saw other boys do, to some favorite boy;
+for if I know my own heart, I was never selfish,--never possessed a
+luxury which I did not hasten to communicate to others; but my food,
+alas! was none; it was an indispensable necessary; I could as soon
+have spared the blood in my veins, as have parted that with my
+companions.
+
+Well, no one stage of suffering lasts forever: we should grow
+reconciled to it at length, I suppose, if it did. The miseries of my
+school-days had their end; I was once more restored to the paternal
+dwelling. The affectionate solicitude of my parents was directed to
+the good-natured purpose of concealing, even from myself, the
+infirmity which haunted me. I was continually told that I was
+growing, and the appetite I displayed was humanely represented as
+being nothing more than a symptom and an effect of that. I used even
+to be complimented upon it. But this temporary fiction could not
+endure above a year or two. I ceased to grow, but, alas! I did not
+cease my demands for alimentary sustenance.
+
+Those times are long since past, and with them have ceased to exist
+the fond concealment--the indulgent blindness--the delicate
+overlooking--the compassionate fiction. I and my infirmity are left
+exposed and bare to the broad, unwinking eye of the world, which
+nothing can elude. My meals are scanned, my mouthfuls weighed in a
+balance; that which appetite demands is set down to the account of
+gluttony--a sin which my whole soul abhors--nay, which Nature herself
+has put it out of my power to commit. I am constitutionally
+disenabled from that vice; for how can he be guilty of excess who
+never can get enough? Let them cease, then, to watch my plate; and
+leave off their ungracious comparisons of it to the seven baskets of
+fragments, and the supernaturally replenished cup of old Baucis: and
+be thankful that their more phlegmatic stomachs, not their virtue,
+have saved them from the like reproaches. I do not see that any of
+them desist from eating till the holy rage of hunger, as some one
+calls it, is supplied. Alas! I am doomed to stop short of that
+continence.
+
+What am I to do? I am by disposition inclined to conviviality and the
+social meal. I am no gourmand: I require no dainties: I should
+despise the board of Heliogabalus, except for its long sitting. Those
+vivacious, long-continued meals of the latter Romans, indeed, I
+justly envy; but the kind of fare which the Curii and Dentati put up
+with, I could be content with. Dentatus I have been called, among
+other unsavory jests. Doublemeal is another name which my
+acquaintance have palmed upon me, for an innocent piece of policy
+which I put in practice for some time without being found out; which
+was--going the round of my friends, beginning with the most primitive
+feeders among them, who take their dinner about one o'clock, and so
+successively dropping in upon the next and the next, till by the time
+I got among my more fashionable intimates, whose hour was six or
+seven, I have nearly made up the body of a just and complete meal (as
+I reckon it), without taking more than one dinner (as they account of
+dinners) at one person's house. Since I have been found out, I
+endeavor to make up by a damper, as I call it, at home, before I go
+out. But, alas! with me, increase of appetite truly grows by what it
+feeds on. What is peculiarly offensive to me at those dinner-parties
+is, the senseless custom of cheese, and the dessert afterwards. I
+have a rational antipathy to the former; and for fruit, and those
+other vain vegetable substitutes for meat (meat, the only legitimate
+aliment for human creatures since the Flood, as I take it to be
+deduced from that permission, or ordinance rather, given to Noah and
+his descendants), I hold them in perfect contempt. Hay for horses. I
+remember a pretty apologue, which Mandeville tells, very much to this
+purpose, in his Fable of the Bees:--He brings in a Lion arguing with
+a Merchant, who had ventured to expostulate with this king of beasts
+upon his violent methods of feeding. The Lion thus retorts:--"Savage
+I am, but no creature can be called cruel but what either by malice
+or insensibility extinguishes his natural pity. The Lion was born
+without compassion: we follow the instinct of our nature; the gods
+have appointed us to live upon the waste and spoil of other animals,
+and as long as we can meet with dead ones, we never hunt after the
+living; 'tis only man, mischievous man, that can make death a sport.
+Nature taught your stomach to crave nothing but vegetables.--(Under
+favor of the Lion, if he meant to assert this universally of mankind,
+it is not true. However, what he says presently is very
+sensible.)--Your violent fondness to change, and greater eagerness
+after novelties, have prompted you to the destruction of animals
+without justice or necessity. The Lion has a ferment within him, that
+consumes the toughest skin and hardest bones, as well as the flesh of
+all animals without exception. Your squeamish stomach, in which the
+digestive heat is weak and inconsiderable, won't so much as admit of
+the most tender parts of them, unless above half the concoction has
+been performed by artificial fire beforehand; and yet what animal
+have you spared, to satisfy the caprices of a languid appetite?
+Languid, I say; for what is man's hunger if compared with the Lion's?
+Yours, when it is at the worst, makes you faint; mine makes me mad:
+oft have I tried with roots and herbs to allay the violence of it,
+but in vain: nothing but large quantities of flesh can any ways
+appease it."--Allowing for the Lion not having a prophetic instinct
+to take in every lusus naturae that, was possible of the human
+appetite, he was, generally speaking, in the right; and the Merchant
+was so impressed with his argument that, we are told, he replied not,
+but fainted away. O, Mr. Reflector, that I were not obliged to add,
+that the creature who thus argues was but a type of me! Miserable
+man! _I am that Lion!_ "Oft have I tried with roots and herbs to
+allay that violence, but in vain; nothing but----."
+
+Those tales which are renewed as often as the editors of papers want
+to fill up a space in their unfeeling columns, of great
+eaters,--people that devour whole geese and legs of mutton _for
+wagers_,--are sometimes attempted to be drawn to a parallel with my
+case. This wilful confounding of motives and circumstances, which
+make all the difference of moral or immoral in actions, just suits
+the sort of talent which some of my acquaintance pride themselves
+upon. _Wagers_!--I thank Heaven, I was never mercenary, nor could
+consent to prostitute a gift (though but a left-handed one) of
+nature, to the enlarging of my worldly substance; prudent as the
+necessities, which that fatal gift have involved me in, might have
+made such a prostitution to appear in the eyes of an indelicate
+world.
+
+Rather let me say, that to the satisfaction of that talent which was
+given me, I have been content to sacrifice no common expectations;
+for such I had from an old lady, a near relation of our family, in
+whose good graces I had the fortune to stand, till one fatal
+evening----. You have seen, Mr. Reflector, if you have ever passed
+your time much in country towns, the kind of suppers which elderly
+ladies in those places have lying _in petto_ in an adjoining parlor,
+next to that where they are entertaining their periodically invited
+coevals with cards and muffins. The cloth is usually spread some
+half-hour before the final rubber is decided, whence they adjourn to
+sup upon what may emphatically be called _nothing_ ;--a sliver of
+ham, purposely contrived to be transparent to show the china-dish
+through it, neighboring a slip of invisible brawn, which abuts upon
+something they call a tartlet, as that is bravely supported by an
+atom of marmalade, flanked in its turn by a grain of potted beef,
+with a power of such dishlings, _minims of hospitality_, spread in
+defiance of human nature, or rather with an utter ignorance of what
+it demands. Being engaged at one of these card-parties, I was obliged
+to go a little before _supper-time_ (as they facetiously called the
+point of time in which they are taking these shadowy refections), and
+the old lady, with a sort of fear shining through the smile of
+courteous hospitality that beamed in her countenance, begged me to
+step into the next room and take something before I went out in the
+cold,--a proposal which lay not in my nature to deny. Indignant at
+the airy prospect I saw before me, I set to, and in a trice
+dispatched the whole meal intended for eleven persons,--fish, flesh,
+fowl, pastry,--to the sprigs of garnishing parsley, and the last
+fearful custard that quaked upon the board. I need not describe the
+consternation, when in due time the dowagers adjourned from their
+cards. Where was the supper?--and the servants' answer, Mr. ---- had
+eat it all.--That freak, however, jested me out of a good three
+hundred pounds a year, which I afterwards was informed for a
+certainty the old lady meant to leave me. I mention it not in
+illustration of the unhappy faculty which I am possessed of; for any
+unlucky wag of a school-boy, with a tolerable appetite, could have
+done as much without feeling any hurt after it,--only that you may
+judge whether I am a man likely to set my talent to sale, or to
+require the pitiful stimulus of a wager.
+
+I have read in Pliny, or in some author of that stamp, of a reptile
+in Africa, whose venom is of that hot, destructive quality, that
+wheresoever it fastens its tooth, the whole substance of the animal
+that has been bitten in a few seconds is reduced to dust, crumbles
+away, and absolutely disappears: it is called, from this quality, the
+Annihilator. Why am I forced to seek, in all the most prodigious and
+portentous facts of Natural History, for creatures typical of myself?
+_I am that snake, that Annihilator:_ "wherever I fasten, in a few
+seconds----."
+
+O happy sick men, that are groaning under the want of that very
+thing, the excess of which is my torment! O fortunate, too fortunate,
+if you knew your happiness, invalids! What would I not give to
+exchange this fierce concoctive and digestive heat,--this rabid fury
+which vexes me, which tears and torments me,--for your quiet,
+mortified, hermit-like, subdued, and sanctified stomachs, your cool,
+chastened inclinations and coy desires for food!
+
+To what unhappy figuration of the parts intestine I owe this
+unnatural craving, I must leave to the anatomists and the physicians
+to determine: they, like the rest of the world, have doubtless their
+eye upon me; and as I have been cut up alive by the sarcasms of my
+friends, so I shudder when I contemplate the probability that this
+animal frame, when its restless appetites shall have ceased their
+importunity, may be cut up also (horrible suggestion!) to determine
+in what system of solids or fluids this original sin of my
+constitution lay lurking. What work will they make with their acids
+and alkalines, their serums and coagulums, effervescences, viscous
+matter, bile, chyle, and acrimonious juices, to explain that cause
+which Nature, who willed the effect to punish me for my sins, may no
+less have determined to keep in the dark from them, to punish them
+for their presumption!
+
+You may ask, Mr. Reflector, to what purpose is my appeal to you; what
+can you do for me? Alas! I know too well that my case is out of the
+reach of advice,--out of the reach of consolation. But it is some
+relief to the wounded heart to impart its tale of misery; and some of
+my acquaintance, who may read my case in your pages under a borrowed
+name, may be induced to give it a more humane consideration than I
+could ever yet obtain from them under my own. Make them, if possible,
+to _reflect_, that an original peculiarity of constitution is no
+crime; that not that which goes into the mouth desecrates a man, but
+that which comes out of it,--such as sarcasm, bitter jests, mocks and
+taunts, and ill-natured observations; and let them consider, if there
+be such things (which we have all heard of) as Pious Treachery,
+Innocent Adultery, &c., whether there may not be also such a thing as
+Innocent Gluttony.
+
+I shall only subscribe myself,
+
+Your afflicted servant,
+
+EDAX.
+
+
+
+
+CURIOUS FRAGMENTS,
+
+EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE-BOOK,
+
+WHICH BELONGED TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE
+ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+EXTRACT I.
+
+I, Democritus Junior, have put my finishing pen to a tractate _De
+Melancholia_, this day, December 5, 1620. First, I blesse the
+Trinity, which hath given me health to prosecute my worthlesse
+studies thus far, and make supplication, with a _Laus Deo_, if in any
+case these my poor labours may be found instrumental to weede out
+black melancholy, carking cares, harte-grief, from the mind of man.
+_Sed hoc magis volo quam expecto._
+
+I turn now to my book, _i nunc liber, goe forth, my brave Anatomy,
+child of my brain-sweat_, and yee, _candidi lectores_, lo! here I
+give him up to you, even do with him what you please, my masters.
+Some, I suppose, will applaud, commend, cry him up (these are my
+friends), hee is a _flos rarus_, forsooth, a nonesuch, a Phoenix
+(concerning whom see _Plinius_ and _Mandeuille_, though _Fienus de
+Monstris_ doubteth at large of such a bird, whom _Montaltus_
+confuting argueth to have been a man _malae scrupulositatis_, of a
+weak and cowardlie faith: _Christopherus a Vega_ is with him in
+this). Others again will blame, hiss, reprehende in many things, cry
+down altogether my collections, for crude, inept, putid, _post coenam
+scripta, Coryate could write better upon a full meal_, verbose,
+inerudite, and not sufficiently abounding in authorities, _dogmata_,
+sentences of learneder writers which have been before me, when as
+that first-named sort clean otherwise judge of my labours to bee
+nothing else but a _messe of opinions_, a vortex attracting
+indiscriminate, gold, pearls, hay, straw, wood, excrement, an
+exchange, tavern, marte, for foreigners to congregate, Danes, Swedes,
+Hollanders, Lombards, so many strange faces, dresses, salutations,
+languages, all which _Wolfius_ behelde with great content upon the
+Venetian Rialto, as he describes diffusedly in his book the World's
+Epitome, which _Sannazar_ so bepraiseth, _e contra_ our Polydore can
+see nothing in it; they call me singular, a pedant, fantastic, words
+of reproach in this age, which is all too neoterick and light for my
+humour.
+
+One cometh to me sighing, complaining. He expected universal remedies
+in my Anatomy; so many cures as there are distemperatures among men.
+I have not put his affection in my cases. Hear you his case. My fine
+Sir is a lover, an _inamorata_, a Pyramus, a Romeo; he walks seven
+years disconsolate, moping, because he cannot enjoy his miss,
+_insanus amor_ is his melancholy, the man is mad; _delirat_, he
+dotes; all this while his Glycera is rude, spiteful, not to be
+entreated, churlish, spits at him, yet exceeding fair, gentle eyes
+(which is a beauty), hair lustrous and _smiling_, the trope is none
+of mine, _AEneas Sylvius_ hath _crines ridentes_--in conclusion she is
+wedded to his rival, a boore, a _Corydon_, a rustic, _omnino ignarus,
+he can scarce construe Corderius_, yet haughty, fantastic,
+_opiniatre_. The lover travels, goes into foreign parts,
+peregrinates, _amoris ergo_, sees manners, customs, not English,
+converses with pilgrims, lying travellers, monks, hermits, those
+cattle, pedlars, travelling gentry, _Egyptians_, natural wonders,
+unicorns (though _Aldobrandus_ will have them to be figments),
+satyrs, semi-viri, apes, monkeys, baboons, curiosities artificial,
+_pyramides_, Virgilius his tombe, relicks, bones, which are nothing
+but ivory as _Melancthon_ judges, though _Cornutus_ leaneth to think
+them bones of dogs, cats, (why not men?) which subtill priests vouch
+to have been saints, martyrs, _heu Pietas!_ By that time he has ended
+his course, _fugit hora_, seven other years are expired, gone by,
+time is he should return, he taketh ship for Britaine, much desired
+of his friends, _favebant venti, Neptune is curteis_, after some
+weekes at sea he landeth, rides post to town, greets his family,
+kinsmen, _compotores, those jokers his friends that were wont to
+tipple with him at alehouses_; these wonder now to see the change,
+_quantum mutatus, the man is quite another thing_, he is
+disenthralled, manumitted, he wonders what so bewitched him, he can
+now both see, hear, smell, handle, converse with his mistress, single
+by reason of the death of his rival, a widow having children, grown
+willing, prompt, amorous, showing no such great dislike to second
+nuptials, he might have her for asking, no such thing, his mind is
+changed, he loathes his former meat, had liever eat ratsbane,
+aconite, his humour is to die a bachelour; marke the conclusion. In
+this humour of celibate seven other years are consumed in idleness,
+sloth, world's pleasures, which fatigate, satiate, induce wearinesse,
+vapours, _taedium vitae:_ When upon a day, behold a wonder, _redit
+Amor_, the man is as sick as ever, he is commenced lover upon the old
+stock, walks with his hand thrust in his bosom for negligence, moping
+he leans his head, face yellow, beard flowing and incomposite, eyes
+sunken, _anhelus, breath wheezy and asthmatical, by reason of
+over-much sighing:_ society he abhors, solitude is but a hell, what
+shall he doe? all this while his mistresse is forward, coming,
+_amantissima, ready to jump at once into his mouth_, her he hateth,
+feels disgust when she is but mentioned, thinks her ugly, old, a
+painted Jesabeel, Alecto, Megara, and Tisiphone all at once, a
+Corinthian Lais, a strumpet, only not handsome; that which he
+affecteth so much, that which drives him mad, distracted, phrenetic,
+beside himself, is no beauty which lives, nothing _in rerum natura_
+(so he might entertain a hope of a cure), but something _which is
+not_, can never be, a certain _fantastic opinion_ or _notional image_
+of his mistresse, _that which she was_, and that which hee thought
+her to be, in former times, how beautiful! torments him, frets him,
+follows him, makes him that he wishes to die.
+
+This Caprichio, _Sir Humourous_, hee cometh to me to be cured. I
+counsel marriage with his mistresse, according to Hippocrates his
+method, together with milk-diet, herbs, aloes, and wild parsley, good
+in such cases, though Avicenna preferreth some sorts of wild fowl,
+teals, widgeons, beccaficos, which men in Sussex eat. He flies out in
+a passion, ho! ho; and falls to calling me names, dizzard, ass,
+lunatic, moper, Bedlamite, Pseudo-Democritus. I smile in his face,
+bidding him be patient, tranquil, to no purpose, he still rages: I
+think this man must fetch his remedies from Utopia, Fairy Land,
+Islands in the Moone, &c.
+
+
+EXTRACT II.
+
+* * * * * Much disputacyons of fierce wits amongst themselves, in
+logomachies, subtile controversies, many dry blows given on either
+side, contentions of learned men, or such as would be so thought, as
+_Bodinus de Periodis_ saith of such an one, _arrident amici ridet
+mundus_, in English, this man his cronies they cocker him up, they
+flatter him, he would fayne appear somebody, meanwhile the world
+thinks him no better than a dizzard, a ninny, a sophist. * *
+
+* * * Philosophy running mad, madness philosophizing, much
+idle-learned inquiries, what truth is? and no issue, fruit, of all
+these noises, only huge books are written, and who is the wiser? * *
+* * * Men sitting in the Doctor's chair, we marvel how they got there
+being _homines intellectus pulverulenti_ as _Trincauellius_ notes;
+they care not so they may raise a dust to smother the eyes of their
+oppugners; _homines parvulissimi_, as _Lemnius_, whom _Alcuin_ herein
+taxeth of a crude Latinism; dwarfs, minims, the least little men,
+these spend their time, and it is odds but they lose their time and
+wits too into the bargain, chasing of nimble and retiring Truth: Her
+they prosecute, her still they worship, _libant_, they make
+libations, spilling the wine as those old Romans in their
+sacrificials, _Cerealia, May games:_ Truth is the game all these hunt
+after, to the extreme perturbacyon and drying up of the moistures
+_humidum radicale exsiccant_, as _Galen_, in his counsel to one of
+these wear-wits, brain-moppers, spunges saith. * * * and for all this
+_nunquam metam attingunt_, and how should they? they bowle awry,
+shooting beside the marke; whereas it should appear, that _Truth
+absolute_ on this planet of ours is scarcely to be found, but in her
+stede _Queene Opinion_ predominates, governs, whose shifting and ever
+mutable _Lampas_, me seemeth, is man's destinie to follow, she
+praecurseth, she guideth him, before his uncapable eyes she frisketh
+her tender lights, which entertayne the child-man, untill what time
+his sight be strong to endure the vision of _Very Truth_, which is in
+the heavens, the vision beatifical, as _Anianus_ expounds in his
+argument against certain mad wits which helde God to be corporeous;
+these were dizzards, fools, _gothamites_. * * * * but and if _Very
+Truth_ be extant indeede on earth, as some hold she it is which
+actuates men's deeds, purposes, ye may in vaine look for her in the
+learned universities, halls, colleges. Truth is no Doctoresse, she
+takes no degrees at Paris or Oxford, amongst great clerks,
+disputants, subtile Aristotles, men _nodosi ingenii, able to take
+Lully by the chin_, but oftentimes to such an one as myself, an
+_Idiota_ or common person, _no great things_, melancholizing in woods
+where waters are, quiet places by rivers, fountains, whereas the
+silly man expecting no such matter, thinketh only how best to
+delectate and refresh his mynde continually with _Natura_ her
+pleasaunt scenes, woods, water-falls, or Art her statelie gardens,
+parks, terraces, _Belvideres_, on a sudden the goddesse herself
+_Truth_ has appeared, with a shyning lyghte, and a sparklyng
+countenance, so as yee may not be able lightly to resist her. * * * *
+
+
+EXTRACT III.
+
+This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs and
+cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, according to
+_Villanovus_ his prescription, who disallows the use of meat in a
+morning as gross, fat, hebetant, _feral_, altogether fitter for wild
+beasts than men, _e contra_ commendeth this herb-diete for gentle,
+humane, active, conducing to contemplation in most men, I betook
+myselfe to the nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in
+the _suburbes_, as airiest, quietest, _loci musis propriores_, free
+from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick and base workes,
+workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles of outlandish birds,
+fishes, crocodiles, _Indians_, mermaids; adde quarrels, fightings,
+wranglings of the common sort, _plebs_, the rabble, duelloes with
+fists, proper to this island, at which the stiletto'd and secrete
+_Italian_ laughs.) Withdrawing myselfe from these buzzing and
+illiterate vanities, with a _bezo las manos_ to the city, I begin to
+inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses _dilatis naribus_ snort the
+fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly there
+crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull,
+melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a
+clearer atmosphere than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a
+citty can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on men's
+shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of hearse,
+mourners, plumes, _mutae personae, those personate actors that will
+weep if yee shew them a piece of silver;_ none of those customed
+civilities of children, kinsfolk, _dependants_, following the coffin;
+he died a poore man, his friends _accessores opum_, _those cronies of
+his that stuck by him so long as he had a penny_, now leave him,
+forsake him, shun him, desert him; they think it much to follow his
+putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he had
+any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his son dies
+before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base, dejected, miserable,
+&c., or if he have any which survive him, _sua negotia agunt_, they
+mind their own business, forsooth, cannot, will not, find time,
+leisure, _inclination, extremum munus perficere_, to follow to the
+pit their old indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them,
+caressed them, cockering them up, _quantum potuit_, as farre as his
+means extended, while they were babes, chits, _minims_, hee may rot
+in his grave, lie stinking in the sun _for them_, have no buriall at
+all, they care not. _O nefas!_ Chiefly I noted the coffin to have
+been _without a pall_, nothing but a few planks, of cheapest wood
+that could be had, _naked_, having none of the ordinary _symptomata_
+of a funerall, those _locularii_ which bare the body having on
+diversely coloured coats, _and none black:_ (one of these reported
+the deceased to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper,
+harboured and fed in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to
+whose proper burying-ground he was now going for interment.) All
+which when I behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and
+incontinently I fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, a
+_Croesus_, a _Crassus_, _or as rich as Whittington_, what pompe,
+charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall,
+_ceremoniall-obsequies_, _obsequious ceremonies_, had been thought
+too good for such an one; what store of panegyricks, elogies, funeral
+orations, &c., some beggarly poetaster, worthy to be beaten for his
+ill rimes, crying him up, hee was rich, generous, bountiful, polite,
+learned, a _Maecenas_, while as in very deede he was nothing lesse:
+what weeping, sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kinsmen,
+friends, relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for
+the deceased; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts
+(they care not if he had died a year ago); so many clients,
+dependants, flatterers, _parasites, cunning Gnathoes_, tramping on
+foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall stand fairest
+with the successour; he mean time (like enough) spurns them from him,
+spits at them, treads them under his foot, will have nought to do
+with any such cattle. I think him in the right: _Hoec sunt majora
+gravitate Heracliti. These follies are enough to give crying
+Heraclitus a fit of the spleene._"
+
+
+
+
+MR. H----.
+
+A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+
+AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE,
+DECEMBER, 1806.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Mr. H----, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the
+play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled
+with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see
+Mr. H----, and answering that they would certainly; but before night
+the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was
+eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply
+mightst have lived. Bet thou didst come to an untimely end for thy
+tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off--" _Theatrical
+Examiner_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+Mr. H----            _Mr. Elliston_.
+BELVIL               _Mr. Bartley_.
+LANDLORD PRY         _Mr. Wewitzer_.
+MELESINDA            _Miss Mellon_.
+MAID TO MELESINDA    _Mrs. Harlowe_.
+Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.
+
+_Scene_--BATH.
+
+
+PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON.
+
+  If we have sinn'd in paring down a name,
+  All civil, well-bred authors do the same.
+  Survey the columns of our daily writers--
+  You'll find that some Initials are great fighters.
+  How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
+  When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.
+  With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard,
+  Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard!
+  Letter to Letter spreads the dire alarms,
+  Till half the Alphabet is up in arms.
+  Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,
+  To grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.
+  Where the dispensers of the public lash
+  Soft penance give; a letter and a dash--
+  Where Vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,
+  And loses half her grossness by curtailing.
+  Faux pas are told in such a modest way,--
+  "The affair of Colonel B---- with Mrs. A----"
+  You must forgive them--for what is there, say,
+  Which such a pliant Vowel must not grant
+  To such a very pressing Consonant?
+  Or who poetic justice dares dispute,
+  When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,
+  The wife's a Liquid, her good man a Mute?
+  Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
+  The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
+  Initials I am told have taken place
+  Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race;
+  And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea,
+  Replies, "I'll come--but it don't rest with me--
+  I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
+  O should this mincing fashion ever spread
+  From names of living heroes to the dead,
+  How would Ambition sigh, and hang the head,
+  As each loved syllable should melt away--
+  Her Alexander turn'd into great A----
+  A single C. her Caesar to express--
+  Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S----
+  And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech,
+  Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H----.
+
+
+MR. H----,
+
+A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT I.
+
+SCENE.--_A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c._
+
+               _Enter_ MR. H.
+
+_Mr. H._ Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?
+
+_Landlord_. Yes, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ You have paid him?
+
+_Landlord_. There is the receipt, Sir, only not quite filled up, no
+name, only blank--"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best
+hessians." Now, Sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who
+he shall say "Dr."
+
+_Mr. H._ Why, Mr. H. to be sure.
+
+_Landlord_. So I told him, Sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it.
+He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.
+
+_Mr. H._ Rot his impertinence! Bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not
+trouble me with his scruples.
+
+_Landlord_. I shall, Sir.                                [_Exit_.
+
+            _Enter a Waiter._
+
+_Waiter_. Sir, Squire Level's man is below, with a hare and a brace
+of pheasants for Mr. H.
+
+_Mr. H._ Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best
+respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me out, with
+any name or no name.
+
+           _Enter 2d Waiter._
+
+_2d Waiter._ Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door.
+
+_Mr. H._ Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows come for.
+
+_2d Waiter._ He has sent up to know by what name your Honor will
+please to be inserted.
+
+_Mr. H._ Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my
+name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of
+going anonymous.
+
+                                               [_Exit 2d Waiter._
+
+           _Enter 3d Waiter._
+
+_3d Waiter._ Two letters for Mr. H.                 [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ From ladies (_opens them_). This from Melesinda, to remind
+me of the morning-call I promised; the pretty creature positively
+languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her
+(_affectedly_). This from her cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I
+suppose (_opening it_),--Oh, "this evening"--"Tea and
+cards"--(_surveying himself with complacency_). Dear H., thou art
+certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favorite
+among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of
+thy unfortunate----pshaw!
+
+          _Enter 4th Waiter._
+
+_4th Waiter._ Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, I remember, the poet; he is publishing by subscription.
+Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down.
+
+_4th Waiter_. What name shall I tell him, Sir?
+
+_Mr. H._ Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.
+
+                                              [_Exit 4th Waiter._
+
+          _Enter 5th Waiter._
+
+_5th Waiter_. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private
+donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his
+benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, poor fellow, who could put it into his head? Now I shall
+be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I
+am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away.
+
+_5th Waiter_. I would have done so, Sir; but the object of his call
+now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to.
+
+_Mr. H._ Why, me.
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ Me, me, me; who else, to be sure?
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir; but he is anxious to know the name of his
+benefactor.
+
+_Mr. H._ Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot be obliged
+to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he must know the
+name, birth, parentage, and education of his benefactor! I warrant
+you, next he will require a certificate of one's good behavior, and a
+magistrate's license in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so
+to--give an alms. Anything more?
+
+_5th Waiter_. Yes, Sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county
+petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent
+to remind you of your promise to bail him.
+
+_Mr. H._ Neither of which I can do, while I have no name. Here is
+more of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither
+serve one's friend nor one's country. Damn it, a man had better be
+without a nose, than without a name. I will not live long in this
+mutilated, dismembered state; I will to Melesinda this instant, and
+try to forget these vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name;
+but then, hang it! there is none in mine to answer to
+it.                                                        [Exit.
+
+(_While Mr. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been observing
+him curiously_.)
+
+1_st Gent._ Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?
+
+2_d Gent._ Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H.
+
+1_st Gent._ Has he no more name?
+
+2_d Gent._ None that has yet transpired. No more! why, that single
+letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies
+in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is already received
+into all the first families.
+
+1_st Gent._ Wonderful! yet, nobody know who he is, or where he comes
+from!
+
+2_d Gent._ He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity;
+dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers are all dying
+for fear the daughters should get him; and for the daughters, he may
+command them as absolutely as----. Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis
+thought, will carry him.
+
+1_st Gent._ And is it possible that a mere anonymous--
+
+2_d Gent._ Phoo! that is the charm.--Who is he? and what is he? and
+what is his name?----The man with the great nose on his face never
+excited more of the gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of
+Strasburg, than this new-comer, with the single letter to his name,
+has lighted up among the wives and maids of Bath; his simply having
+lodgings here, draws more visitors to the house than an election.
+Come with me to the Parade, and I will show you more of him.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+SCENE _in the Street. Mr. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him._
+
+_Belvil._ My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen for so
+many years? it must--it can be no other than Jack _(going up to
+him)._ My dear Ho----
+
+_Mr. H. (Stopping his mouth)._ Ho----! the devil. Hush.
+
+_Belvil._ Why, sure it is----
+
+_Mr. H._ It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless.
+
+_Belvil._ My dear Ho----
+
+_Mr. H. (Stopping him)._ Don't name it.
+
+_Belvil._ Name what?
+
+_Mr. H._ My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for
+a time.
+
+_Belvil._ I understand you--Creditors, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H._ No, I assure you.
+
+_Belvil._ Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at
+your heels?
+
+_Mr. H._ I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.
+
+_Belvil._ You ha'n't taken a purse?
+
+_Mr. H._ To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjecture, you
+must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name.
+
+_Belvil_ Ridiculous! 'tis true yours is none of the most romantic;
+but what can that signify in a man?
+
+_Mr. H._ You must understand that I am in some credit with the
+ladies.
+
+_Belvil._ With the ladies!
+
+_Mr. H._ And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune--
+
+_Belvil._ Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.
+
+_Mr. H._ My figure--
+
+_Belvil._ Airy, gay, and imposing.
+
+_Mr. H._ My parts--
+
+_Belvil._ Bright.
+
+_Mr. H._ My conversation--
+
+_Belvil._ Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.
+
+_Mr. H._ But then my name--damn my name!
+
+_Belvil._ Childish!
+
+_Mr. H._ Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blessed with one which sighing
+virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the paternal.
+But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) would
+endure to be called Mrs.----?
+
+_Belvil._ Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge,
+the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and
+Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack
+Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a
+Clutterbuck.
+
+_Mr. H._ Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is
+bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho----
+
+_Belvil._ Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are really
+ashamed of the family-name?
+
+_Mr. H._ Ay, and of my father that begot me, and my father's father,
+and all their forefathers that have borne it since the Conquest.
+
+_Belvil_. But how do you know the women are so squeamish?
+
+_Mr. H_. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of
+sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I
+have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two
+old maids.
+
+_Belvil_. That was hard indeed, Jack.
+
+_Mr. H_. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they
+averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered their
+consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name; and rivals
+have declined my challenges, because they pretended it was an
+ungentlemanly name.
+
+_Belvil_. Ha, ha, ha! but what course do you mean to pursue?
+
+_Mr. H_. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be
+content to take me as Mr. H.
+
+_Belvil_. Mr. H.?
+
+_Mr. H_. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one likes to be
+as near the truth as possible.
+
+_Belvil_. Certainly. But what then? to get her to consent--
+
+_Mr. H_. To accompany me to the altar without a name--in short, to
+suspend her curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest shall
+pronounce the irrevocable charm, which makes two names one.
+
+_Belvil_. And that name--and then she must be pleased, ha, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H_. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with;
+hark'e (_whispers_)--(_musing_). Yet, hang it! 'tis cruel to betray
+her confidence.
+
+_Belvil_. But the family-name, Jack?
+
+_Mr. H_. As you say, the family-name must be perpetuated.
+
+_Belvil._ Though it be but a homely one.
+
+_Mr. H._ True; but come, I will show you the house where dwells this
+credulous melting fair.
+
+_Belvil._ Ha, ha! my old friend dwindled down to one letter.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt._
+
+
+SCENE._-An Apartment in_ MELESINDA'S _House._
+MELESINDA _sola, as if musing._
+
+_Melesinda._ H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by its being
+concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio,
+that is no surname: what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet--pretty,
+and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No,'tis none of these; 'tis
+Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard,
+high-born Howard, that would do; maybe it is Harley, methinks my H.
+resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him! and from his
+own lips I will once forever be resolved.
+
+               _Enter Mr. H._
+
+_Mr. H._ My dear Melesinda.
+
+_Melesinda._ My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear
+allegiance to,--to be enamored of inarticulate sounds, and call with
+sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.
+
+_Mr. H._ My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of
+that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it
+whim, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have sworn an oath, never,
+till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity
+which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in
+me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know it this very night.
+
+_Mr. H_. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one
+proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not
+have a secret to withhold.
+
+_Melesinda_. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and
+die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I
+call you till we are married?
+
+_Mr. H_. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay Love: Love
+will do very well.
+
+_Melesinda_. How many syllables is it, Love?
+
+_Mr. H_. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a
+vengeance! One, two, three, four,--what does it signify how many
+syllables?
+
+_Melesinda_. How many syllables, Love?
+
+_Mr. H_. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this
+childish curiosity.
+
+_Melesinda_. How many letters are there in it?
+
+[_Exit_ MR. H. _followed by_ MELESINDA _repeating the
+          question_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing_.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you.
+
+_1st Waiter_. The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.
+
+_2d Waiter_. The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.
+
+_1st Waiter_. The Hammonds.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin, with an H?
+
+_1st Waiter_. So does Hammond for that matter.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it, I did not think
+of that. I begin to be of your opinion: he is certainly a Hammond.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Here comes Susan Chambermaid: maybe she can tell.
+
+             _Enter_ SUSAN.
+
+_Both_. Well, Susan, have you heard anything who the strange
+gentleman is?
+
+_Susan_. Haven't you heard? it's all come out! Mrs. Guesswell, the
+parson's widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in
+confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says they were
+holding a sort of a _cummitty_ about it.
+
+_Both_. What? What?
+
+_Susan_. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from his
+_figger_ and the appearance he cuts, and his _sumpshous_ way of
+living, and above all from the remarkable circumstance that his
+surname should begin with an H., that he must be--
+
+_Both_. Well, well--
+
+_Susan_. Neither more nor less than the Prince.
+
+_Both_. Prince!
+
+_Susan_. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise.
+
+_Both_. Very likely, very likely.
+
+_Susan_. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she
+knows it.
+
+_1st Waiter_. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy
+what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels.
+
+_2d Waiter_. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.
+
+_Susan_. Fiddle of the newspapers; who else can it be?
+
+_Both_. That is very true (_gravely_).
+
+              _Enter_ LANDLORD.
+
+_Landlord_. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London
+coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has
+been bawling for somebody to help him off with his boots.
+
+                        [_The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out_.
+
+(_Solus_.) The house is turned upside down since the strange
+gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and
+speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into
+corners and speculating; hostlers and stable-boys speculating in the
+yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too,
+for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat,
+and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no; and after
+all what does it signify? I hate such curious--odso, I must take this
+box up into his bedroom--he charged me to see to it myself;--I hate
+such inquisitive--I wonder what is in it--it feels heavy; (_reads_)
+"Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy his
+curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and
+wills. But I wouldn't--no I wouldn't--it is a pretty box
+too--prettily dovetailed--I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd
+cut my fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty--what have I to
+do--curse the keys, how they rattle!--rattle in one's pockets--the
+keys and the half-pence (_takes out a bunch and plays with them_). I
+wonder if any of these would fit; one might just try them, but I
+wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should I be the
+richer for knowing? (_All this time he tries the keys one by one._)
+What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate
+people that are always prying, poking and prying into
+things,--thrusting their finger into one place--a mighty little hole
+this--and their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but
+what is that to me? I wouldn't go to--no, no--but it is odd little
+rusty should just happen--(_While he is turning up the lid of the
+box, _Mr. H. _enters behind him unperceived._)
+
+_Mr. H._ What are you about, you dog?
+
+_Landlord._ Oh Lord, Sir I pardon; no thief, as I hope to be saved.
+Little Pry was always honest.
+
+_Mr. H._ What else could move you to open that box?
+
+_Landlord._ Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth.
+This box happened to be lying--that is, I happened to be carrying
+this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and so--little rusty
+happened to fit--
+
+_Mr. H._ So little rusty happened to fit!--and would not a rope fit
+that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been moved: all is safe,
+but it was as well to frighten him a little (_aside_). Come,
+Landlord, as I think you honest, and suspect you only intended to
+gratify a little foolish curiosity--
+
+_Landlord_. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.
+
+_Mr. H._ For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I
+think?
+
+_Landlord_. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.
+
+_Mr. H._ An apt name: you have a prying temper--I mean some little
+curiosity--a sort of inquisitiveness about you.
+
+_Landlord_. A natural thirst after knowledge you may call it, Sir.
+When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up the lids of
+some of my schoolfellows' boxes,--not to steal anything, upon my
+honor, Sir,--only to see what was in them; have had pens stuck in my
+eyes for peeping through keyholes after knowledge; could never see a
+cold pie with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for
+lifting up the crust,--just to try if it were pigeon or
+partridge,--for no other reason in the world. Surely I think my
+passion for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking the shell to
+get at something concealed, more than to any delight I took in eating
+the kernel. In short, Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth.
+
+_Mr. H._ You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some
+bureau or other just to see what is in it.
+
+_Landlord._ That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for
+peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside out,--just for
+curiosity. The blankets I have been made to dance in for searching
+parish registers for old ladies' ages,--just for curiosity! Once I
+was dragged through a horsepond, only for peeping into a closet that
+had glass-doors to it, while my Lady Bluegarters was
+undressing,--just for curiosity!
+
+_Mr. H._ A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, Mr. Pry,
+first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the
+favor to carry your curiosity so far, as to inquire if my servants
+are within.
+
+_Landlord._ I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,--I think I hear them
+coming,--shall make bold to leave you,
+Sir.                                                     [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going
+anonymous!
+
+           _Enter Two Footmen._
+
+_1st Footman._ You speak first.
+
+_2d Footman._ You had better speak.
+
+_1st Footman._ You promised to begin.
+
+_Mr. H._ They have something to say to me. The rascals want their
+wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favor to be asked when
+they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain
+at the best. I think I must not be close with them. Well,
+David--well, Jonathan.
+
+_1st Footman._ We have served your honor faithfully--
+
+_2d Footman._ Hope your honor won't take offence--
+
+_Mr. H._ The old story, I suppose--wages?
+
+_1st Footman._ That's not it, your honor.
+
+_2d Footman._ You speak.
+
+_1st Footman._ But if your honor would just be pleased to--
+
+_2d Footman._ Only be pleased to--
+
+_Mr. H._ Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste.
+
+_1st Footman._ Just to--
+
+_2d Footman._ Let us know who it is--
+
+_1st Footman._ Who it is we have the honor to serve.
+
+_Mr. H._ Why me, me, me; you serve me.
+
+_2d Footman._ Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.
+
+_Mr. H._ Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, a gay
+master, an indulgent master?
+
+_1st Footman._ Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor
+servants, the principal mortification.
+
+_2d Footman._ When we get over a pot at the publichouse, or in a
+gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their
+pleasures--when the question goes round, who is your master? and who
+do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am
+Squire Such-a-one's footman--
+
+_1st Footman_. We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr.
+H.
+
+_2d Footman_. Or Squire H.
+
+_Mr. H_. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable
+personages! but I hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if,
+upon a dispassionate review of all that you have said, I think fit
+not to tell you any more of my name, than I have chosen for especial
+purposes to communicate to the rest of the world.
+
+_1st Footman_. Why, then, Sir, you may suit yourself.
+
+_2d Footman_. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.
+
+_1st Footman_. We don't choose to serve Mr. H.
+
+_2d Footman_. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet--
+
+_1st Footman_. That lives in Chris-cross Row.
+
+_Mr. H_. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless
+rascals! Go; hang, starve, or drown!--Rogues, to speak thus
+irreverently of the alphabet--I shall live to see you glad to serve
+old Q--to curl the wig of great S--adjust the dot of little i--stand
+behind the chair of X, Y, Z--wear the livery of Etcaetera--and ride
+behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and!
+                                                [_Exit in a rage_.
+
+
+
+
+ACT II.
+
+SCENE.--_A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.--A large
+party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them MELESINDA._
+
+_1st Lady_. I wonder when the charming man will be here.
+
+_2d Lady_. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish--
+
+_3d Lady_. Such an air in all that he does or says--
+
+_4th Lady_. Yet gifted with a strong understanding--
+
+_5th Lady_. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true
+name is?
+
+_1st Lady_. They say, his very servants do not know it. His French
+valet, that has lived with him these two years--
+
+_2d Lady_. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right; my
+coachman--
+
+_1st Lady_. I have it from the very best authority; my footma--
+
+_2d Lady_. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on--
+
+_1st Lady_. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of
+coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that
+consequence.
+
+_2d Lady_. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head
+with nobody's business but my own.
+
+_Melesinda_. But then, she takes care to make everybody's business
+her own, and so to justify herself that way--
+                                                       (_Aside_.)
+
+_1st Lady_. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.
+
+_Melesinda_. Nothing.
+
+_2d Lady_. Give it a name.
+
+_Melesinda_. Perhaps it is nameless.
+
+_1st Lady_. As the object--Come, never blush, nor deny it, child.
+Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?
+
+_Melesinda_. This? It is a cross: how do you like it?
+
+_2d Lady_. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a
+great staring H. _(Here a general laugh.)_
+
+_Melesinda_. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and
+nothing but a cross.
+
+_1st Lady_. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.
+
+_Melesinda_. Intolerable spite!
+
+_(MR. H. is announced.)_
+
+          _Enter MR. H._
+
+_1st Lady_. O, Mr. H., we are so glad--
+
+_2d Lady_. We have been so dull--
+
+_3rd Lady_. So perfectly lifeless--You owe it to us to be more than
+commonly entertaining.
+
+_Mr. H_. Ladies, this is so obliging--
+
+_4th Lady_. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty
+things, they have got up--
+
+_5th Lady_. I have worked that sprig you commended--I want you to
+come--
+
+_Mr. H_.  Ladies--
+
+_6th Lady_. I have sent for that piece of music from London.
+
+_Mr. H_. The Mozart _(seeing MELESINDA)_--Melesinda!
+
+_Several Ladies at once_. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you shan't
+engross him all to yourself.
+
+[_While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen show
+signs of displeasure_.
+
+_1st Gent_. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is
+come.
+
+_2d Gent_. Damn him, I will affront him.
+
+_1st Gent_. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of
+these ladies.
+
+_2d Gent_. If we could be heard--
+
+                     [_The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H_.
+
+_Mr. H_. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. _(Hums an air.)_
+I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be
+agreeable to these--Did you speak?
+
+_1st Gent_. And affects absence of mind--Puppy!
+
+_Mr. H_. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How do you do,
+Lady Wearwell--how do? I did not see your ladyship before--what was I
+about to say--O--absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that
+way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things--the most
+mal-a-propos--without meaning to give the least offence, upon my
+honor--sheer absence of mind--things I would have given the world not
+to have said.
+
+_1st Gent_. Do you hear the coxcomb?
+
+_1st Lady_. Great wits, they say--
+
+_2d Lady_. Your fine geniuses are most given--
+
+_3d Lady_. Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious--
+
+_Mr. H_. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great
+Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly
+suspected of--being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows
+my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does
+where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a _lapsus_, to take
+care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to
+presents--you understand me? I set out double charged with my
+fellow's consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved
+with tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or so,--till at
+last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of
+raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression
+of the poet, which calls them "fair defects."
+
+_1st Lady_. It is Pope, I believe, who says it.
+
+_Mr. H_.  No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects." This
+gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the
+phrase--that led to an enumeration of all the various words which
+might have been used instead of "defect," as want, absence, poverty,
+deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the
+progress of the argument (as the denouement will show) starting
+suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connection
+of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it
+into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and
+in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the
+question to him, Pray, sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of
+rupees? You may guess the confusion which followed.
+
+_1st Lady_. What a distressing circumstance!
+
+_2d Lady_. To a delicate mind----
+
+_3d Lady_. How embarrassing----
+
+_4th Lady_. I declare, I quite pity you.
+
+_1st Gent_. Puppy!
+
+_Mr. H_. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elbow;
+and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a grace peculiar
+to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to
+myself, and--covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies--I
+withdrew.
+
+_1st Lady_. How charmingly he tells a story.
+
+_2nd Lady_. But how distressing!
+
+_Mr. H_. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, was
+pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall
+never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion--speaking of
+absence of mind, my foible--says he, my dear Hogs--
+
+_Several Ladies_. Hogs--what--ha--
+
+_Mr. H_. My dear Hogsflesh--my name--(_here a universal scream_)--O my
+cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I mean--where was I?
+
+_1st Lady_. Filthy--abominable!
+
+_2nd Lady_. Unutterable!
+
+_3rd Lady_. Hogs--foh!
+
+_4th Lady_. Disgusting!
+
+_5th Lady_. Vile!
+
+_6th Lady_. Shocking!
+
+_1st Lady_. Odious!
+
+_2nd Lady_. Hogs--pah!
+
+_3rd Lady_. A smelling-bottle--look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing! it
+is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and
+not be pressing about her in her circumstances.
+
+_1st Gent_. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh.
+
+_2nd Gent_. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.
+
+_Mr.H_. This is too much--flesh and blood cannot endure it.
+
+_1st Gent_. What flesh?--hog's-flesh?
+
+_2nd Gent_. How he sets up his bristles!
+
+_Mr. H_. Bristles!
+
+1_st Gent_. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor.
+
+_Mr. H_. A hog!--Madam!--(_here he severally accosts the Ladies, who
+by turns repel him_.)
+
+1_st Lady_. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't
+want a partner.
+
+2_d Lady_. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe I shall
+remain single.
+
+3_d Lady_. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no
+thoughts of altering my condition.
+
+4_th Lady_. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must
+not look for anything further.
+
+5_th Lady_. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but
+have no thoughts of changing my name.
+
+6_th Lady_. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your insinuations, you
+think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does
+he think any lady would go to pig with him?
+
+_Old Lady_. Must beg you to be less particular in your addresses to
+me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats?
+
+_Mr. H_. I shall go mad!--to be refused by old Mother Damnable--she
+that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever manned or no, but
+passes for a maid by courtesy; her juvenile exploits being beyond the
+farthest stretch of tradition!--Old Mother Damnable!
+
+           [_Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him._
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Street_.
+
+BELVIL _and another Gentleman_.
+
+_Belvil_. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you
+give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would
+be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his
+amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant
+desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant
+share of good-nature, and is a man of honor. Notwithstanding all that
+has happened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the
+women resent it so deeply as you say?
+
+_Gent._ O intolerably--they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once
+blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to have
+marks of the plague, and as fast; when before they had been ready to
+devour the foolishest thing he could say.
+
+_Belvil_ Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's
+favorites commonly hold their envied preeminence. Well, I must go
+find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn.
+
+_Gent._ Either there or at Melesinda's--Adieu!   [_Exeunt._
+
+
+SCENE.--Mr. H----'s _Apartment._
+
+_Mr. H. (solus.)_ Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by
+old Mother Damnable!--with such parts and address,--and the little
+squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.--Oh my cursed
+name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive,
+that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or
+spit it out--for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.
+
+My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an
+Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.--Mynheer Van
+Hogsflesh,--or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,--or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,--but
+downright blunt------. If it had been any other name in the world, I
+could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull,
+Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard,
+Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or
+the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black,
+Gray, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month,
+as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the
+name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as
+Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover;
+or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as
+Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom,
+Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or
+Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot,
+Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had
+been something, but Ho---. (_Walks about in great
+agitation--recovering his calmness a little, sits down._)
+
+Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling
+ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the
+wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous
+blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring
+drum.--No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No
+nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at
+me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of
+caudle.--(_Sings in a melancholy tone._) Lullaby,
+Lullaby,--hush-a-by-baby--how like its papa it is!--(_Makes motions
+as if he was nursing._) And then, when grown up, "Is this your son,
+Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me, a sad young dog,--just what his
+father was at his age,--I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!
+
+             _Enter_ LANDLORD.
+
+_Mr. H._ Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all my things
+got ready.
+
+_Landlord._ Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue
+Boar,--sorry anything has happened.
+
+_Mr. H._ He has heard it all.
+
+_Landlord._ Your Honor has had some mortification to be sure, as a
+man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine market.
+
+_Mr. H._ Pigs!
+
+_Landlord._ What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind it.
+Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H._ Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose he don't
+mean to affront me.
+
+_Landlord._ What is done can't be undone; you can't make a silken
+purse out of a sow's ear.
+
+_Mr. H._ As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment
+it.
+
+_Landlord._ Does but _hogment_ it, indeed, Sir.
+
+_Mr. H. Hogment_ it! damn it, I said augment it.
+
+_Landlord._ Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of fine
+phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse--
+
+_Mr. H._ Lard!
+
+_Landlord._ Suppose they do smoke you--
+
+_Mr. H._ Smoke me!
+
+_Landlord._ One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my meaning
+is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one
+way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same; it is all
+pork.
+
+_Mr. H._ That's another of your phrases, I presume.
+
+                      [_Bell rings, and the Landlord called for._
+
+_Landlord._ Anon, anon.
+
+_Mr. H._ Oh, I wish I were anonymous.
+
+                                          [_Exeunt several ways._
+
+
+SCENE.--_Melesinda's Apartment._
+
+MELESINDA _and Maid._
+
+_Maid._ Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a
+foolish--what signifies a name? Hogs--Hogs--what is it--is just as
+good as any other, for what I see.
+
+_Melesinda._ Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in the
+absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few
+pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly
+edge the----
+
+_Maid._ Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by
+nature, that don't follow--his name don't make him anything, does
+it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he
+likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do; you never
+see him go to the trough----
+
+_Melesinda._ Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her intentions----
+
+_Maid._ For instance, Madam, my name is Finch--Betty Finch. I don't
+whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get
+good wholesome mutton--no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt on
+my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after
+me, they said courted me--his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor;
+but though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to
+eat me.
+
+_Melesinda._ How fortunate that the discovery has been made before it
+was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious
+man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an inextricable
+engagement before----
+
+_Maid._ No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a
+poke--and what then? Oh, here he comes creeping----
+
+       _Enter_ MR. H. _abject._
+
+Go to her, Mr. Hogs--Hogs--Hogsbristles, what's your name? Don't be
+afraid, man--don't give it up--she's not crying--only _summat_ has
+made her eyes red--she has got a sty in her eye, I believe----
+_(going.)_
+
+_Melesinda._ You are not going, Betty?
+
+_Maid._ O, Madam, never mind me--I shall be back in the twinkling of
+a pig's whisker, as they say.
+
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+_Mr. H._ Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have
+betrayed your confidence--but it was love that prompted him; who
+would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into a
+participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed
+to attach to a name--but with it you would have shared a fortune not
+contemptible, and a heart--but 'tis over now. That name he is content
+to bear alone--to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more
+heard, or excite no meaning--some spot where his native tongue has
+never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant
+their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill
+manners--where no Englishmen--(Here_ MELESINDA, _who has been
+pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh.)_ Some yet
+undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall
+innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not
+inharmonious.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh!
+
+_Mr. H._ Who knows but among the female natives might be found----
+
+_Melesinda._ Sir! (_raising her head._)
+
+_Mr. H._ One who would be more kind than--some Oberea--Queen Oberea.
+
+_Melesinda._ Oh!
+
+_Mr. H._ Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem
+among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa?
+
+             _Enter Servant._
+
+_Servant._ Mr. Belvil.                             [_Exit._
+
+             _Enter_ BELVIL.
+
+_Mr. H._ Monomotopa (_musing._)
+
+_Belvil._ Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? nothing has
+happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg pardon, Madam, but
+understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking
+him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can
+adjust--not a word. Will you, Madam, as this gentleman's friend,
+suffer me to be the arbitrator--strange--hark'ee, Jack, nothing has
+come out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it
+is--somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it yourself,
+have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my heart--Jack, what would you
+give me if I should relieve you?
+
+_Mr. H._ No power of man can relieve me (_sighs_); but it must lie at
+the root, gnawing at the root--here it will lie.
+
+_Belvil._ No power of man? not a common man, I grant you: for
+instance, a subject--it's out of the power of any subject.
+
+_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--there it will lie.
+
+_Belvil._ Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed; but
+not by a subject--(_shows a Gazette_).
+
+_Mr. H._ Gnawing at the root--(_suddenly snatches the paper out of_
+BELVIL'S _hand_)--ha! pish! nonsense! give it me--what! (_reads_)
+promotions, bankrupts--a great many bankrupts this week--there it
+will lie. (_Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads._) "The King
+has been graciously pleased"--gnawing at the root--"graciously
+pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh,"--the devil--"Hogsflesh, Esq.,
+of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal license and
+authority"--O Lord! O Lord!--"that he and his issue"--me and my
+issue--"may take and use the surname and arms of Bacon"--Bacon, the
+surname and arms of Bacon--"in pursuance of an injunction contained
+in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late
+uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:"--grateful
+respect! poor old soul-----here's more--"and that such arms may be
+first duly exemplified "--they shall, I will take care of
+that--"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's
+Office."
+
+_Belvil._ Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation
+upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only
+obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of your union is removed,
+you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to
+have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favor,
+by the name of Mr. Bacon. (_Takes their hands and joins them, which_
+MELESINDA _seems to give consent to with a smile._)
+
+_Mr. H._ Generous Melesinda! my dear friend--"he and his issue," me
+and my issue!--O Lord!--
+
+_Belvil._ I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.
+
+_Mr. H._ Bacon, Bacon, Bacon--how odd it sounds! I could never be
+tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have
+some of the Verulam blood in me already.--Methinks I could look
+through Nature--there was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,--I feel as if I
+could conjure too----
+
+           _Enter a Servant._
+
+_Servant._ Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door,
+inquiring if you see company, Madam.
+
+_Mr. H._ "Surname and arms"--
+
+_Melesinda._ Show them up.--My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy.
+
+_Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly._
+
+_1st Lady._ My dear Melesinda, how do you do?
+
+_2nd Lady._ How do you do? We have been so concerned for you----
+
+_Old Lady._ We have been so concerned--(_seeing him_)--Mr.
+Hogsflesh----
+
+_Mr. H._ There's no such person--nor there never was--nor 'tis not
+fit there should be--"surname and arms"--
+
+_Belvil._ It is true what my friend would express; we have been all
+in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gentleman was what
+you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the
+long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my
+friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative.
+
+_Mr. H._ "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"--
+
+_1st Lady._ I am sure we all join in hearty
+congratulation--_(sighs)._
+
+_2nd Lady._ And wish you joy with all our hearts--_(heigh ho!)_
+
+_Old Lady._ And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many
+years--_(cries)._
+
+_Belvil._ Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.
+
+_1st Lady._ Hope you intend to stay--
+
+_2nd Lady._ With us some time--
+
+_Old Lady._ In these parts--
+
+_Mr. H._ Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for the favors
+you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's _(turning
+to the old Lady)_ good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future
+favors--_(accosts them severally in the order in which he was refused
+by them at the assembly)_--Madam, shall always acknowledge your
+politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner.
+Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for
+anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your
+addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and
+you
+
+  Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
+  Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve;
+  See, while you kindly mean to mortify
+  Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
+  And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
+  Your shafts have miss'd their aim--Hogsflesh has
+  saved his Bacon.
+
+
+
+
+POEMS.
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818.]
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
+
+My Dear Coleridge,
+
+You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by
+the title of _Works;_ but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have
+kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their
+judgment could be no appeal.
+
+It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a
+volume containing the _early pieces,_ which were first published
+among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My
+friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a
+sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this
+association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to
+me, came to be broken,--who snapped the threefold cord,--whether
+yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your
+former companions,--or whether (which is by much the more probable)
+some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,--I cannot
+tell;--but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for
+myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits;
+the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and
+extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume,
+dwindled into prose and _criticism._
+
+Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years
+come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life
+itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we
+read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim,
+we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels,
+nor Ancient Mariners, now.
+
+Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the
+general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I
+should be sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory
+
+  "Of summer days and of delightful years--"
+
+even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ... Inn,--when
+life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me,
+if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and
+kindliness.--
+
+         "What words have I heard
+          Spoke at the Mermaid!"
+
+The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time,
+but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the _same_
+who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago--his hair a little
+confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious
+brain,--his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
+
+One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original
+form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of
+the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of
+the objection, without rewriting it entirely, I would make some
+sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself
+any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly
+initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists: Beaumont and
+Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a _first love_; and from what I
+was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language
+imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time which I had chosen for my
+story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to
+require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an
+older cast than that of the precise year in which it happened to be
+written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate
+than the language.
+
+I remain,
+
+My dear Coleridge,
+
+Yours,
+
+With unabated esteem,
+
+C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HESTER.
+
+  When maidens such as Hester die,
+  Their place ye may not well supply,
+  Though ye among a thousand try,
+    With vain endeavor.
+
+  A month or more hath she been dead,
+  Yet cannot I by force be led
+  To think upon the wormy bed,
+    And her together.
+
+  A springy motion in her gait,
+  A rising step, did indicate
+  Of pride and joy no common rate,
+    That flush'd her spirit.
+
+  I know not by what name beside
+  I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,
+  It was a joy to that allied,
+    She did inherit.
+
+  Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+  Which doth the human feeling cool,
+  But she was train'd in Nature's school,
+    Nature had blest her.
+
+  A waking eye, a prying mind,
+  A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
+  A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+      Ye could not Hester.
+
+  My sprightly neighbor! gone before
+  To that unknown and silent shore,
+  Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
+      Some summer morning,
+
+  When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+  Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+  A bliss that would not go away,
+      A sweet fore-warning?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO CHARLES LLOYD.
+
+AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.
+
+  Alone, obscure, without a friend,
+    A cheerless, solitary thing,
+  Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?
+    What offering can the stranger bring
+
+  Of social scenes, home-bred delights,
+    That him in aught compensate may
+  For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,
+    For loves and friendships far away?
+
+  In brief oblivion to forego
+    Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,
+  And be awhile with me content
+    To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:
+
+  For this a gleam of random joy
+    Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;
+  And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,
+    I feel the thanks I cannot speak.
+
+  Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,
+    And sweet the charm of matin bird;
+  'Twas long since these estranged ears
+    The sweeter voice of friend had heard.
+
+  The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds
+    In memory's ear in after-time
+  Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,
+    And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.
+
+  For, when the transient charm is fled,
+    And when the little week is o'er,
+  To cheerless, friendless, solitude
+    When I return, as heretofore;
+
+  Long, long, within my aching heart
+    The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;
+  I'll think less meanly of myself,
+    That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE THREE FRIENDS.
+
+  Three young maids in friendship met;
+  Mary, Martha, Margaret.
+  Margaret was tall and fair,
+  Martha shorter by a hair;
+  If the first excell'd in feature,
+  Th' other's grace and ease were greater;
+  Mary, though to rival loth,
+  In their best gifts equall'd both.
+  They a due proportion kept;
+  Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;
+  Margaret joy'd when any good
+  She of Martha understood;
+  And in sympathy for either
+  Mary was outdone by neither.
+  Thus far, for a happy space,
+  All three ran an equal race,
+  A most constant friendship proving,
+  Equally beloved and loving;
+  All their wishes, joys, the same;
+  Sisters only not in name.
+
+    Fortune upon each one smiled,
+  As upon a fav'rite child;
+  Well to do and well to see
+  Were the parents of all three;
+  Till on Martha's father crosses
+  Brought a flood of worldly losses,
+  And his fortunes rich and great
+  Changed at once to low estate:
+  Under which o'erwhelming blow
+  Martha's mother was laid low;
+  She a hapless orphan left,
+  Of maternal care bereft,
+  Trouble following trouble fast,
+  Lay in a sick-bed at last.
+
+    In the depth of her affliction
+  Martha now receiv'd conviction,
+  That a true and faithful friend
+  Can the surest comfort lend.
+  Night and day, with friendship tried,
+  Ever constant by her side
+  Was her gentle Mary found,
+  With a love that knew no bound;
+  And the solace she imparted
+  Saved her dying broken-hearted.
+
+    In this scene of earthly things
+  Not one good unmixed springs.
+  That which had to Martha proved
+  A sweet consolation, moved
+  Different feelings of regret
+  In the mind of Margaret.
+  She, whose love was not less dear,
+  Nor affection less sincere
+  To her friend, was, by occasion
+  Of more distant habitation,
+  Fewer visits forced to pay her;
+  When no other cause did stay her;
+  And her Mary living nearer,
+  Margaret began to fear her,
+  Lest her visits day by day
+  Martha's heart should steal away.
+  That whole heart she ill could spare her,
+  Where till now she'd been a sharer.
+  From this cause with grief she pined,
+  Till at length her health declined.
+  All her cheerful spirits flew,
+  Fast as Martha's gather'd new;
+  And her sickness waxed sore,
+  Just when Martha felt no more.
+
+  Mary, who had quick suspicion
+  Of her alter'd friend's condition,
+  Seeing Martha's convalescence
+  Less demanded now her presence,
+  With a goodness, built on reason,
+  Changed her measures with the season;
+  Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,
+  Went where she was wanted more;
+  All her care and thoughts were set
+  Now to tend on Margaret.
+  Mary living 'twixt the two,
+  From her home could oft'ner go,
+  Either of her friends to see,
+  Than they could together be.
+
+    Truth explain'd is to suspicion
+  Evermore the best physician.
+  Soon her visits had the effect;
+  All that Margaret did suspect,
+  From her fancy vanish'd clean;
+  She was soon what she had been,
+  And the color she did lack
+  To her faded cheek came back.
+  Wounds which love had made her feel,
+  Love alone had power to heal.
+
+    Martha, who the frequent visit
+  Now had lost, and sore did miss it,
+  With impatience waxed cross,
+  Counted Margaret's gain her loss:
+  All that Mary did confer
+  On her friend, thought due to her.
+  In her girlish bosom rise
+  Little foolish jealousies,
+  Which into such rancor wrought,
+  She one day for Margaret sought;
+  Finding her by chance alone,
+  She began, with reasons shown,
+  To insinuate a fear
+  Whether Mary was sincere;
+  Wish'd that Margaret would take heed
+  Whence her actions did proceed.
+  For herself, she'd long been minded
+  Not with outsides to be blinded;
+  All that pity and compassion,
+  She believed was affectation;
+  In her heart she doubted whether
+  Mary cared a pin for either.
+  She could keep whole weeks at distance,
+  And not know of their existence,
+  While all things remain'd the same;
+  But, when some misfortune came,
+  Then she made a great parade
+  Of her sympathy and aid,--
+  Not that she did really grieve,
+  It was only _make-believe_,
+  And she cared for nothing, so
+  She might her fine feelings show,
+  And get credit, on her part,
+  For a soft and tender heart.
+
+    With such speeches, smoothly made,
+  She found methods to persuade
+  Margaret (who being sore
+  From the doubts she'd felt before,
+  Was prepared for mistrust)
+  To believe her reasons just;
+  Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,
+  Which in Mary late she had;
+  Made her, in experience' spite,
+  Think her friend a hypocrite,
+  And resolve, with cruel scoff,
+  To renounce and cast her off.
+
+    See how good turns are rewarded!
+  She of both is now discarded,
+  Who to both had been so late
+  Their support in low estate,
+  All their comfort, and their stay--
+  Now of both is cast away.
+  But the league her presence cherish'd,
+  Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;
+  She, that was a link to either,
+  To keep them and it together,
+  Being gone, the two (no wonder)
+  That were left, soon fell asunder;--
+  Some civilities were kept,
+  But the heart of friendship slept;
+  Love with hollow forms was fed,
+  But the life of love lay dead:--
+  A cold intercourse they held,
+  After Mary was expell'd.
+
+    Two long years did intervene
+  Since they'd either of them seen,
+  Or, by letter, any word
+  Of their old companion heard,--
+  When, upon a day once walking,
+  Of indifferent matters talking,
+  They a female figure met;
+  Martha said to Margaret,
+  "That young maid in face does carry
+  A resemblance strong of Mary."
+  Margaret, at nearer sight,
+  Own'd her observation right;
+  But they did not far proceed
+  Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.
+  She--but, ah I how changed they view her
+  From that person which they knew her!
+  Her fine face disease had scarr'd,
+  And its matchless beauty marr'd:--
+  But enough was left to trace
+  Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.
+  When her eye did first behold them,
+  How they blush'd!--but, when she told them,
+  How on a sick-bed she lay
+  Months, while they had kept away,
+  And had no inquiries made
+  If she were alive or dead;--
+  How, for want of a true friend,
+  She was brought near to her end,
+  And was like so to have died,
+  With no friend at her bedside;--
+  How the constant irritation,
+  Caused by fruitless expectation
+  Of their coming, had extended
+  The illness, when she might have mended,--
+  Then, O then, how did reflection
+  Come on them with recollection!
+  All that she had done for them,
+  How it did their fault condemn!
+
+    But sweet Mary, still the same,
+  Kindly eased them of their shame;
+  Spoke to them with accents bland,
+  Took them friendly by the hand;
+  Bound them both with promise fast.
+  Not to speak of troubles past;
+  Made them on the spot declare
+  A new league of friendship there;
+  Which, without a word of strife,
+  Lasted thenceforth long as life.
+  Martha now and Margaret
+  Strove who most should pay the debt
+  Which they owed her, nor did vary
+  Ever after from their Mary.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.
+
+  Smiling river, smiling river,
+    On thy bosom sunbeams play;
+  Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
+    Thou hast more deceit than they.
+
+  In thy channel, in thy channel,
+    Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,
+  Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
+    Lies young Edward's corse: his bones
+
+  Ever whitening, ever whitening,
+    As thy waves against them dash;
+  What thy torrent, in the current,
+    Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
+
+  As if senseless, as if senseless
+    Things had feeling in this case;
+  What so blindly, and unkindly,
+    It destroy'd, it now does grace.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
+
+  I have had playmates, I have had companions,
+  In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+  Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I loved a love once, fairest among women;
+  Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+  I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
+  Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+  Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+  Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.
+  Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+  Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+  Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+  Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+  So might we talk of the old familiar faces,--
+
+  How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+  And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+  All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HELEN.
+
+  High-born Helen, round your dwelling
+    These twenty years I've paced in vain:
+  Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty
+    Hath been to glory in his pain.
+
+  High-born Helen, proudly telling
+    Stories of thy cold disdain;
+  I starve, I die, now you comply,
+    And I no longer can complain.
+
+  These twenty years I've lived on tears,
+    Dwelling forever on a frown;
+  On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;
+    I perish now you kind are grown.
+
+  Can I, who loved my beloved
+    But for the scorn "was in her eye,"
+  Can I be moved for my beloved,
+    When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"
+
+  In stately pride, by my bedside,
+    High-born Helen's portrait's hung;
+  Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays
+    Are nightly to the portrait sung.
+
+  To that I weep, nor ever sleep,
+    Complaining all night long to her--
+  _Helen, grown old, no longer cold,_
+    _Said,_ "You to all men I prefer."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A VISION OF REPENTANCE.
+
+  I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,
+    Where shady pathways to a valley led;
+  A weeping willow lay upon that stream,
+    And all around the fountain brink were spread
+  Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,
+    Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad.
+
+  The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,
+    Disrobed was of every earthly thought,
+  And straight became as one that knew not sin,
+    Or to the world's first innocence was brought;
+  Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,
+  In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.
+
+  A most strange calm stole o'er my soothed sprite;
+    Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,
+  When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,
+    Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,
+  Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR
+  Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.
+
+  And eke with painful fingers she inwove
+    Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn--
+  "The willow garland, _that_ was for her love,
+    And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn."
+  With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,
+  As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.
+
+  To whom when I addrest myself to speak,
+    She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;
+  The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,
+    And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled
+  To the dark covert of that woody shade,
+    And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.
+
+  Revolving in my mind what this should mean,
+    And why that lovely lady plained so;
+  Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,
+    And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,
+  I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,
+  When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive
+    sound.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+      "Psyche am I, who love to dwell
+      In these brown shades, this woody dell,
+      Where never busy mortal came,
+      Till now, to pry upon my shame.
+
+      "At thy feet what dost thou see
+      The waters of repentance be,
+      Which, night and day, I must augment
+      With tears, like a true penitent,
+
+      "If haply so my day of grace
+      Be not yet past; and this lone place,
+      O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence
+      All thoughts but grief and penitence."
+
+      _"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!
+      And wherefore in this barren shade
+      Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?
+      Can thing so fair repentance need?"_
+
+      "O! I have done a deed of shame,
+      And tainted is my virgin fame,
+      And stain'd the beauteous maiden white
+      In which my bridal robes were dight."
+
+      _"And who the promised spouse? declare:
+      And what those bridal garments were."_
+
+      "Severe and saintly righteousness
+      Composed the clear white bridal dress;
+      JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,
+      Bought with his blood the marriage ring.
+
+      "A wretched sinful creature, I
+      Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,
+      Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,
+      And play'd the foolish wanton's part.
+      Soon to these murky shades I came,
+      To hide from the sun's light my shame.
+      And still I haunt this woody dell,
+      And bathe me in that healing well,
+      Whose waters clear have influence
+      From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;
+      And, night and day, I them augment,
+      With tears, like a true penitent,
+      Until, due expiation made,
+      And fit atonement fully paid,
+      The Lord and Bridegroom me present,
+      Where in sweet strains of high consent,
+      God's throne before, the Seraphim
+      Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."
+
+      "Now Christ restore thee soon"--I said,
+      And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.
+
+  CHILD
+  O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.
+  No longer may you glory in your pride.
+
+  MOTHER
+  Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
+  Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?
+  This day I am to be a bride, you know,
+  Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?
+
+  CHILD
+  O mother, lay your costly robes aside,
+  For you may never be another's bride.
+  That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.
+
+  MOTHER
+  I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,
+  Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,
+  For thou shalt be a second father's joy.
+
+  CHILD.
+  One father fondled me upon his knee.
+  One father is enough, alone, for me.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.
+
+  On a bank with roses shaded,
+  Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
+  Violets whose breath alone
+  Yields but feeble smell or none,
+  (Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on
+  When his eyes Olympus closed on,)
+  While o'erhead six slaves did hold
+  Canopy of cloth o' gold,
+  And two more did music keep,
+  Which might Juno lull to sleep,
+  Oriana, who was queen
+  To the mighty Tamerlane,
+  That was lord of all the land
+  Between Thrace and Samarchand,
+  While the noontide fervor beam'd,
+  Mused himself to sleep, and _dream'd_.
+
+    Thus far, in magnific strain,
+  A young poet soothed his vein,
+  But he had nor prose nor numbers,
+  To express a princess' slumbers.--
+  Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
+  Was deep versed in old romances,
+  And could talk whole hours upon
+  The Great Cham and Prester John,--
+  Tell the field in which the Sophi
+  From the Tartar won a trophy--
+  What he read with such delight of,
+  Thought he could as eas'ly write of--
+  But his over-young invention
+  Kept not pace with brave intention.
+  Twenty suns did rise and set,
+  And he could no further get;
+  But, unable to proceed,
+  Made a virtue out of need,
+  And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,
+  Did omit _what the queen dream'd of_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A BALLAD.
+
+NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF
+A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.
+
+_To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."_
+
+  In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
+  There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
+  Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
+
+  In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
+  They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
+  With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
+  Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth is still carest
+  By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;
+  In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:
+  Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.
+
+  In a costly palace if the child with a pin
+  Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;
+  In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish
+  For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
+  Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,
+  Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
+
+  In a costly palace Youth his temples hides
+  With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
+  In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
+  With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
+
+  In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,
+  To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
+  That none to do them injury may have pretence;
+  Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HYPOCHONDRIACUS.
+
+  By myself walking,
+  To myself talking,
+  When as I ruminate
+  On my untoward fate,
+  Scarcely seem I
+  Alone sufficiently,
+  Black thoughts continually
+  Crowding my privacy;
+  They come unbidden,
+  Like foes at a wedding,
+  Thrusting their faces
+  In better guests' places,
+  Peevish and malecontent,
+  Clownish, impertinent,
+  Dashing the merriment:
+  So in like fashions
+  Dim cogitations
+  Follow and haunt me,
+  Striving to daunt me,
+  In my heart festering,
+  In my ears whispering,
+  "Thy friends are treacherous,
+  Thy foes are dangerous,
+  Thy dreams ominous."
+
+    Fierce Anthropophagi,
+  Spectra, Diaboli,
+  What scared St. Anthony,
+  Hobgoblins, Lemures,
+  Dreams of Antipodes,
+  Night-riding Incubi,
+  Troubling the fantasy,
+  All dire illusions
+  Causing confusions;
+  Figments heretical,
+  Scruples fantastical,
+  Doubts diabolical;
+  Abaddon vexeth me,
+  Mahu perplexeth me,
+  Lucifer teareth me----
+
+_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.
+
+  May the Babylonish curse
+  Straight confound my stammering verse,
+  If I can a passage see
+  In this word-perplexity,
+  Or a fit expression find,
+  Or a language to my mind,
+  (Still the phrase is wide or scant)
+  To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!
+  Or in any terms relate
+  Half my love, or half my hate:
+  For I hate, yet love, thee so,
+  That, whichever thing I show,
+  The plain truth will seem to be
+  A constrain'd hyperbole,
+  And the passion to proceed
+  More from a mistress than a weed.
+
+    Sooty retainer to the vine,
+  Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
+  Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon
+  Thy begrimed complexion,
+  And, for thy pernicious sake,
+  More and greater oaths to break
+  Than reclaimed lovers take
+  'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
+  Much too in the female way,
+  While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
+  Faster than kisses or than death.
+
+    Thou in such a cloud dost bind us,
+  That our worst foes cannot find us,
+  And ill-fortune, that would thwart us.
+  Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
+  While each man, through thy height'ning steam,
+  Does like a smoking Etna seem,
+  And all about us does express
+  (Fancy and wit in richest dress)
+  A Sicilian fruitfulness.
+
+    Thou through such a mist dost show us,
+  That our best friends do not know us,
+  And, for those allowed features,
+  Due to reasonable creatures,
+  Liken'st us to fell Chimeras,
+  Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
+  Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
+  Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.
+
+    Bacchus we know, and we allow
+  His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
+  That but by reflex canst show
+  What his deity can do,
+  As the false Egyptian spell
+  Aped the true Hebrew miracle
+  Some few vapors thou may'st raise,
+  The weak brain may serve to amaze,
+  But to the reins and nobler heart
+  Canst nor life nor heat impart.
+
+    Brother of Bacchus, later born,
+  The old world was sure forlorn
+  Wanting thee, that aidest more
+  The god's victories than before
+  All his panthers, and the brawls
+  Of his piping Bacchanals.
+  These, as stale, we disallow,
+  Or judge of _thee_ meant; only thou
+  His true Indian conquest art;
+  And, for ivy round his dart,
+  The reformed god now weaves
+  A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
+
+    Scent to match thy rich perfume
+  Chemic art did ne'er presume
+  Through her quaint alembic strain,
+  None so sov'reign to the brain.
+  Nature, that did in thee excel,
+  Framed again no second smell.
+  Roses, violets, but toys
+  For the smaller sort of boys,
+  Or for greener damsels meant;
+  Thou art the only manly scent.
+
+    Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
+  Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,
+  Africa, that brags her foison,
+  Breeds no such prodigious poison,
+  Henbane, nightshade, both together,
+  Hemlock, aconite----
+
+                            Nay, rather,
+  Plant divine, of rarest virtue;
+  Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
+  'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee:
+  None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
+  Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
+  Such as perplex'd lovers use,
+  At a need, when, in despair
+  To paint forth their fairest fair,
+  Or in part but to express
+  That exceeding comeliness
+  Which their fancies doth so strike,
+  They borrow language of dislike;
+  And, instead of Dearest Miss,
+  Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,
+  And those forms of old admiring,
+  Call her Cockatrice and Siren,
+  Basilisk, and all that's evil,
+  Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil,
+  Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,
+  Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;
+  Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,--
+  Not that she is truly so,
+  But no other way they know
+  A contentment to express,
+  Borders so upon excess,
+  That they do not rightly wot
+  Whether it be pain or not.
+
+    Or, as men, constrain'd to part
+  With what's nearest to their heart,
+  While their sorrow's at the height,
+  Lose discrimination quite,
+  And their hasty wrath let fall,
+  To appease their frantic gall,
+  On the darling thing whatever,
+  Whence they feel it death to sever,
+  Though it be, as they, perforce,
+  Guiltless of the sad divorce.
+
+    For I must (nor let it grieve thee,
+  Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.
+  For thy sake, TOBACCO, I
+  Would do anything but die,
+  And but seek to extend my days
+  Long enough to sing thy praise.
+  But, as she, who once hath been
+  A king's consort, is a queen
+  Ever after, nor will bate
+  Any tittle of her state,
+  Though a widow, or divorced,
+  So I, from thy converse forced,
+  The old name and style retain,
+  A right Katherine of Spain;
+  And a seat, too,'mongst the joys
+  Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
+  Where, though I, by sour physician,
+  Am debarr'd the full fruition
+  Of thy favors, I may catch
+  Some collateral sweets, and snatch
+  Sidelong odors, that give life
+  Like glances from a neighbor's wife;
+  And still live in the by-places
+  And the suburbs of thy graces;
+  And in thy borders take delight,
+  An unconquer'd Canaanite.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO T. L. H.
+
+A CHILD.
+
+  Model of thy parent dear,
+  Serious infant worth a fear:
+  In thy unfaltering visage well
+  Picturing forth the son of TELL,
+  When on his forehead, firm and good,
+  Motionless mark, the apple stood;
+  Guileless traitor, rebel mild,
+  Convict unconscious, culprit child!
+  Gates that close with iron roar
+  Have been to thee thy nursery door;
+  Chains that chink in cheerless cells
+  Have been thy rattles and thy bells;
+  Walls contrived for giant sin
+  Have hemm'd thy faultless weakness in;
+  Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
+  Her discordant house hath built,
+  And fill'd it with her monstrous brood--
+  Sights, by thee not understood--
+  Sights of fear, and of distress,
+  That pass a harmless infant's guess
+
+    But the clouds, that overcast
+  Thy young morning, may not last;
+  Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour
+  That yields thee up to Nature's power:
+  Nature, that so late doth greet thee,
+  Shall in o'erflowing measure meet thee.
+  She shall recompense with cost
+  For every lesson thou hast lost.
+  Then wandering up thy sire's loved hill,[1]
+  Thou shalt take thy airy fill
+  Of health and pastime. _Birds shall sing
+  For thy delight each May morning._
+  'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play,
+  Hardly less a lamb than they.
+  Then thy prison's lengthen'd bound
+  Shall be the horizon skirting round:
+  And, while thou fillest thy lap with flowers,
+  To make amends for wintry hours,
+  The breeze, the sunshine, and the place,
+  Shall from thy tender brow efface
+  Each vestige of untimely care,
+  That sour restraint had graven there;
+  And on thy every look impress
+  A more excelling childishness.
+
+  So shall be thy days beguiled,
+  THORNTON HUNT, my favorite child.
+
+[Footnote 1: Hampstead.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+BALLAD.
+
+FROM THE GERMAN.
+
+  The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
+    And ever the forest maketh a moan:
+  Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart acting,
+    Thus by herself she singeth alone,
+      Weeping right plenteously.
+
+  "The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
+    In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
+  To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
+    I have had earnest of all earth's bliss,
+      Living right lovingly."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM.
+
+  David and his three captains bold
+  Kept ambush once within a hold.
+  It was in Adullam's cave,
+  Nigh which no water they could have,
+  Nor spring, nor running brook was near
+  To quench the thirst that parch'd them there.
+  Then David, king of Israel,
+  Straight bethought him of a well,
+  Which stood beside the city gate,
+  At Bethlem; where, before his state
+  Of kingly dignity, he had
+  Oft drunk his fill, a shepherd lad;
+  But now his fierce Philistine foe
+  Encamp'd before it he does know.
+  Yet ne'er the less, with heat opprest,
+  Those three bold captains he addrest;
+  And wish'd that one to him would bring
+  Some water from his native spring.
+  His valiant captains instantly
+  To execute his will did fly.
+  The mighty Three the ranks broke through
+  Of armed foes, and water drew
+  For David, their beloved king,
+  At his own sweet native spring.
+  Back through their arm'd foes they haste,
+  With the hard-earn'd treasure graced.
+  But when the good king David found
+  What they had done, he on the ground
+  The water pour'd ... "Because," said he,
+  "That it was at the jeopardy
+  Of your three lives this thing ye did,
+  That I should drink it, God forbid."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SALOME.
+
+  Once on a charger there was laid,
+  And brought before a royal maid,
+  As price of attitude and grace,
+  A guiltless head, a holy face.
+
+    It was on Herod's natal day,
+  Who o'er Judea's land held sway.
+  He married his own brother's wife,
+  Wicked Herodias. She the life
+  Of John the Baptist long had sought,
+  Because he openly had taught
+  That she a life unlawful led,
+  Having her husband's brother wed.
+
+    This was he, that saintly John,
+  Who in the wilderness alone
+  Abiding, did for clothing wear
+  A garment made of camel's hair;
+  Honey and locusts were his food,
+  And he was most severely good.
+  He preached penitence and tears,
+  And waking first the sinner's fears,
+  Prepared a path, made smooth a way,
+  For his diviner Master's day.
+
+    Herod kept in princely state
+  His birthday. On his throne he sate,
+  After the feast, beholding her
+  Who danced with grace peculiar;
+  Fair Salome, who did excel
+  All in that land for dancing well.
+  The feastful monarch's heart was fired,
+  And whatsoe'er thing she desired,
+  Though half his kingdom it should be,
+  He in his pleasure swore that he
+  Would give the graceful Salome.
+  The damsel was Herodias' daughter:
+  She to the queen hastes, and besought her
+  To teach her what great gift to name.
+  Instructed by Herodias, came
+  The damsel back: to Herod said,
+  "Give me John the Baptist's head;
+  And in a charger let it be
+  Hither straightway brought to me."
+  Herod her suit would fain deny,
+  But for his oath's sake must comply.
+
+    When painters would by art express
+  Beauty in unloveliness,
+  Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee,
+  They fittest subject take to be.
+  They give thy form and features grace;
+  But ever in thy beauteous face
+  They show a steadfast cruel gaze,
+  An eye unpitying; and amaze
+  In all beholders deep they mark,
+  That thou betrayest not one spark
+  Of feeling for the ruthless deed,
+  That did thy praiseful dance succeed.
+  For on the head they make you look,
+  As if a sullen joy you took,
+  A cruel triumph, wicked pride,
+  That for your sport a saint had died.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.
+
+  The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears,
+  To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears,
+  "O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life ye lead."
+  Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to heed.
+  She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought
+  On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun had taught.
+  "I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines my fame,
+  All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.
+  Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
+  My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.
+  But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er my head,
+  And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,
+  This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,
+  It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd here."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A
+LADY BY TITIAN.
+
+  Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
+  Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?
+  Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
+  Who, in thy lifetime, thou might'st be.
+  Thou pretty art and fair,
+  But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare.
+  No need for Blanch her history to tell;
+  Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well.
+  But when I look on thee, I only know
+  There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LINES
+
+ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF
+THE ROCKS.
+
+  While young John runs to greet
+  The greater Infant's feet,
+  The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
+  Of devout admiration,
+  Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;
+  Nor knows as yet the full event
+  Of those so low beginnings,
+  From whence we date our winnings,
+  But wonders at the intent
+  Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant.
+  But at her side
+  An angel doth abide,
+  With such a perfect joy
+  As no dim doubts alloy,
+  An intuition,
+  A glory, an amenity,
+  Passing the dark condition
+  Of blind humanity,
+  As if he surely knew
+  All the blest wonder should ensue,
+  Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
+  And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON THE SAME.
+
+  Maternal lady with the virgin grace,
+  Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
+  And thou a virgin pure.
+  Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
+  Men look upon, they wish to be
+  A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+I.
+
+TO MISS KELLY.
+
+  You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
+  That stoop their pride and female honor down
+  To please that many-headed beast _the town_,
+  And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
+  By fortune thrown amid the actors' train,
+  You keep your native dignity of thought;
+  The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
+  As tributes due unto your natural vein.
+  Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
+  Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
+  Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
+  That vanish and return we know not how--
+  And please the better from a pensive face,
+  A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
+
+
+II.
+
+ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
+
+  Queen-bird that sittest on thy shining-nest,
+  And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest,
+  And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest
+  Lest the white mother wandering feet molest:
+  Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle,
+  Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst
+  Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first
+  Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able
+  To tread the land or waters with security.
+  Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin,
+  In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in
+  Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
+  Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
+  The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
+
+
+III.
+
+  Was it some sweet device of Faery
+  That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade,
+  And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid?
+  Have these things been? or what rare witchery,
+  Impregning with delights the charmed air,
+  Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
+  In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
+  Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair
+  To drop the murdering knife, and let go by
+  His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade
+  Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid?
+  Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh?
+  While I forlorn do wander reckless where,
+  And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
+
+
+IV.
+
+  Methinks how dainty sweet it were, reclined
+  Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high
+  Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie,
+  Nor of the busier scenes we left behind
+  Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid!
+  Beloved! I were well content to play
+  With thy free tresses all a summer's day,
+  Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade.
+  Or we might sit and tell some tender tale
+  Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn,
+  A tale of true love, or of friend forgot;
+  And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail
+  In gentle sort, on those who practise not
+  Or love or pity, though of woman born.
+
+
+V.
+
+  When last I roved these winding wood-walks green,
+  Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet,
+  Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene,
+  Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat.
+  No more I hear her footsteps in the shade:
+  Her image only in these pleasant ways
+  Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days
+  I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid.
+  I pass'd the little cottage which she loved,
+  The cottage which did once my all contain;
+  It spake of days which ne'er must come again,
+  Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved.
+  "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" said I,
+  And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.
+
+
+VI.
+
+THE FAMILY NAME.
+
+  What reason first imposed thee, gentle name,
+  Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire,
+  Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;
+  And I, a childless man, may end the same.
+  Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains,
+  In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks,
+  Received thee first amid the merry mocks
+  And arch allusions of his fellow swains.
+  Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd,
+  With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd
+  Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord
+  Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd,
+  Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came,
+  No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
+
+
+VII.
+
+  If from my lips some angry accents fell,
+  Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
+  'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
+  And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
+  And waters clear, of Reason; and for me
+  Let this my verse the poor atonement be--
+  My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined
+  Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
+  No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show
+  Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend
+  An ear to the desponding lovesick lay,
+  Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
+  But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
+  Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
+
+
+VIII.
+
+  A timid grace sits trembling in her eye,
+  As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight,
+  Yet shedding a delicious lunar light,
+  That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy
+  The care-crazed mind, like some still melody:
+  Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess
+  Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
+  And innocent loves, and maiden purity:
+  A look whereof might heal the cruel smart
+  Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind;
+  Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart
+  Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
+  Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet
+  Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
+
+
+IX.
+
+TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
+
+  John, you were figuring in the gay career
+  Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy,
+  When I was yet a little peevish boy--
+  Though time has made the difference disappear
+  Betwixt our ages, which _then_ seem'd so great--
+  And still by rightful custom you retain
+  Much of the old authoritative strain,
+  And keep the elder brother up in state.
+  O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed
+  To let the "things that have been" run to waste,
+  And in the unmeaning present sink the past:
+  In whose dim glass even now I faintly read
+  Old buried forms, and faces long ago,
+  Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
+
+
+X.
+
+  O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind,
+  That, rushing on its way with careless sweep,
+  Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep
+  Like to a child. For now to my raised mind
+  On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Fantasy,
+  And her rude visions give severe delight.
+  O winged bark! how swift along the night
+  Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by
+  Lightly of that drear hour the memory,
+  When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood,
+  Unbonneted, and gazed upon the flood,
+  Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,--
+  To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave,
+  Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
+
+
+XI.
+
+  We were two pretty babes, the youngest she,
+  The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween,
+  And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been,
+  We two did love each other's company:
+  Time was, we two had wept to have been apart.
+  But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
+  I left the garb and manners of a child,
+  And my first love for man's society,
+  Defiling with the world my virgin heart--
+  My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled,
+  And hid in deepest shades her awful head.
+  Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art--
+  In what delicious Eden to be found--
+  That I may seek thee the wide world around?
+
+
+
+
+BLANK VERSE
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHILDHOOD.
+
+  In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
+  Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
+  Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
+  To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
+  Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,
+  Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
+  (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,)
+  Would throw away, and straight take up again,
+  Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
+  Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
+  That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE GRANDAME.
+
+                          On the green hill-top,
+  Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof,
+  And not distinguish'd from its neighbor-barn,
+  Save by a slender-tapering length of spire,
+  The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells
+  The name and date to the chance passenger.
+  For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
+  Well-earn'd, the bread of service:--hers was else
+  A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd
+  Scorn of base action, deed dishonorable,
+  Or aught unseemly. I remember well
+  Her reverend image; I remember, too,
+  With what a zeal she served her master's house;
+  And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age
+  Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
+  Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was,
+  And wondrous skill'd in genealogies,
+  And could in apt and voluble terms discourse
+  Of births, of titles, and alliances;
+  Of marriages, and intermarriages;
+  Relationship remote, or near of kin;
+  Of friends offended, family disgraced--
+  Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying
+  Parental strict injunction, and regardless
+  Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote,
+  Stooping to wed with one of low degree.
+  But these are not thy praises; and I wrong
+  Thy honor'd memory, recording chiefly
+  Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell,
+  How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love,
+  She served her _heavenly Master_. I have seen
+  That reverend form bent down with age and pain,
+  And rankling malady. Yet not for this
+  Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew
+  Her trust in Him, her faith, an humble hope--
+  So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross--
+  For she had studied patience in the school
+  Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived,
+  And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SABBATH BELLS.
+
+  The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
+  Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
+  Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
+  Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
+  Their piercing tones fall _sudden_ on the ear
+  Of the contemplant, solitary man,
+  Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
+  Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
+  And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
+  And baffles his pursuit--thought-sick and tired
+  Of controversy, where no end appears,
+  No clue to his research, the lonely man
+  Half wishes for society again.
+  Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
+  _Sudden!_ his heart awakes, his ears drink in
+  The cheering music; his relenting soul
+  Yearns after all the joys of social life,
+  And softens with the love of human kind.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.
+
+  The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
+  A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk
+  In the bright visions of empyreal light,
+  By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads,
+  Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow;
+  By crystal streams, and by the living waters,
+  Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree
+  Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath
+  Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found
+  From pain and want, and all the ills that wait
+  On mortal life, from sin and death forever.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.
+
+  From broken visions of perturbed rest
+  I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.
+  How total a privation of all sounds,
+  Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast,
+  Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
+  'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry
+  Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise
+  Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
+  Those are the meanings of the dying man,
+  Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans,
+  And interrupted only by a cough
+  Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
+  So in the bitterness of death he lies,
+  And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
+  What can that do for him, or what restore?
+  Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices.
+  And little images of pleasures past,
+  Of health, and active life--health not yet slain,
+  Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold
+  For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed
+  He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
+  And finds no comfort in the sun, but says
+  "When night comes I shall get a little rest."
+  Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
+  'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond;
+  Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope,
+  And Fancy, most licentious on such themes
+  Where decent reverence well had kept her mute,
+  Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down
+  By her enormous fablings and mad lies,
+  Discredit on the gospel's serious truths
+  And salutary fears. The man of parts,
+  Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch
+  Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
+  A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he,
+  Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels
+  With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars
+  Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed
+  From damned spirits, and the torturing cries
+  Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth,
+  As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread,
+  Belike his kindred or companions once--
+  Through everlasting ages now divorced,
+  In chains and savage torments to repent
+  Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard
+  In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care,
+  For those thus sentenced--pity might disturb
+  The delicate sense and most divine repose
+  Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God,
+  The measure of his judgments is not fix'd
+  By man's erroneous standard. He discerns
+  No such inordinate difference and vast
+  Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom
+  Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him,
+  No man on earth is holy call'd: they best
+  Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet
+  Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield
+  To him of his own works the praise, his due.
+
+
+
+
+A TRAGEDY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+SIR WALTER WOODVIL.
+  JOHN,   }
+  SIMON,  }_his sons_.
+
+  LOVELL, }
+  GRAY,   }_Pretended friends of John_.
+
+SANDFORD. _Sir Walter's old steward_.
+MARGARET. _Orphan Ward of_ Sir Walter.
+FOUR GENTLEMEN. _John's riotous companions_.
+SERVANTS.
+
+SCENE--_for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in_ DEVONSHIRE; _at
+other times in the Forest of_ SHERWOOD.
+
+TIME--_soon after the_ RESTORATION.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT THE FIRST.
+
+SCENE--_A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants drinking--_
+
+TIME, _the Morning_.
+
+_A Song, by_ DANIEL.
+
+"When the King enjoys his own again."
+
+_Peter_. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?
+
+_Dan_. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics--at
+our master's table.--Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor
+accomplishments?
+
+_Mar_. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his
+politics! excellent!
+
+_Fran_. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
+
+_Peter_. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied
+the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad
+serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their
+conscience.
+
+_Mar_. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel
+what Daniel hath got to say in reply.
+
+_Dan_. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the purpose, thou
+shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher
+than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers.
+When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
+
+_Mar_. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
+
+_Fran_. See--if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes
+with the saltness of his rebuke.
+
+_Dan_. No offence, brother Martin--I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven
+gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon
+me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee,
+Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
+
+_Mar_. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.
+
+_Fran_. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could
+endure bawdry.
+
+_Dan_. _Quot homines tot sententiae._
+
+_Mar_. And what is that?
+
+_Dan_. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.
+
+_Mar_. I hope there is none between us.
+
+_Dan_. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Mar_. And to thee, Daniel. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Fran_. And to thee, Peter. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Peter_. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (_Drinks_.)
+
+_Mar_. I shall be fuddled anon.
+
+_Dan_. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.
+
+_All_. O! a shocking vice. (_They drink round_.)
+
+_Peter_. In as much as it taketh away the understanding.
+
+_Dan_. And makes the eyes red.
+
+_Peter_. And the tongue to stammer.
+
+_Dan_. And to blab out secrets.
+
+             [_During this conversation they continue drinking_.
+
+_Peter_. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are
+drunk.
+
+_Dan_. Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.
+
+_Mar_. Now I know I am going to be drunk.
+
+_Dan_. How canst tell, dry-bones?
+
+_Mar_. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.
+
+_Fran_. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.
+                                          [MARTIN _drops asleep_.
+
+_Peter_. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon
+himself the government of this household.
+
+_All_. Greatly altered.
+
+_Fran_. I think everything be altered for the better since His
+Majesty's blessed restoration.
+
+_Peter_. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to
+good housekeeping.
+
+_All_. None.
+
+_Dan_. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in
+the afternoon.
+
+_Peter_. Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast--his quart!
+
+_All_. A quart!!                             [_In derision._
+
+_Dan_. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.
+
+_Peter_. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than
+what we were--discreet and reasonable serving-men.
+
+_All_. Like beasts.
+
+_Mar_. (_Opening his eyes_.) Like beasts.
+
+_Dan_. To sleep, wagtail!
+
+_Fran_. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found
+means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the
+day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being
+favored by the court, should not have interest to procure his
+father's pardon?
+
+_Dan_. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old knight, that will
+not be beholden to the court for his safety.
+
+_Mar_. Now that is wilful.
+
+_Fran_. But can any tell me the place of his concealment?
+
+_Peter_. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.
+
+_Dan_. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend
+him.
+
+_Fran_. Well, I have my suspicions.
+
+_Peter_. And so have I.
+
+_Mar_. And I can keep a secret.
+
+_Fran_. (_to PETER_.) Warwickshire, you mean.  [_Aside._
+
+_Peter_. Perhaps not.
+
+_Fran_. Nearer, perhaps.
+
+_Peter_. I say nothing.
+
+_Dan_. I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to
+betray him.
+
+_All_. O Lord, surely not.
+
+                     [_They drink to_ SIR WALTER'S _safety_.
+
+_Fran_. I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by
+name in the late Act of Oblivion.
+
+_Dan_. Shall I tell the reason?
+
+_All_. Ay, do.
+
+_Dan_. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy
+establishment.
+
+_All_. O! monstrous!
+
+_Peter_. Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.--Do we, or do we not,
+come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being
+privy to this man's concealment?
+
+_All_. Truly a sad consideration.
+
+                    [_To them enters_ SANDFORD _suddenly_.
+
+_Sand_. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,
+Maintain'd for state, not use;
+You lazy feasters at another's cost,
+That eat like maggots into an estate,
+And do as little work.
+Being indeed but foul excrescences,
+And no just parts in a well-order'd family;
+You base and rascal imitators,
+Who act up to the height your master's vices,
+But cannot read his virtues in your bond:
+Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?
+Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?
+
+_Mar_. Whom does he call thin-face?
+
+_Sand_. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,
+That I may brain the villain with my staff,
+That seeks Sir Walter's life!
+You miserable men,
+With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,
+Have you that noble bounty so forgot,
+Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,
+Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,
+And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,
+Where your best wages was the world's repute,
+That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live.
+Have you forgot, too,
+How often in old times
+Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,
+Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?--
+Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies
+Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.
+This learn from me,
+Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,
+Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.
+Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff
+Shall teach you better manners else.
+
+_All_. Well, we are going.
+
+_Sand_. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see
+Young Mistress Margaret coming this way.
+
+                                       [_Exeunt all but_ SANDFORD
+
+_Enter_ MARGARET, _as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who,
+seeing_ SANDFORD, _retires muttering a curse_.
+
+_Sand_. Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance
+I saw you, lady, so intent was I
+On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
+Who cannot break their fast at morning meals
+Without debauch and mistimed riotings.
+This house hath been a scene of nothing else
+But atheist riot and profane excess,
+Since my old master quitted all his rights here.
+
+_Marg_. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn
+Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests
+And free discourses of the dissolute men
+That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.
+
+_Sand_. Does my young master know of these affronts?
+
+_Marg_. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.
+Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.
+I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.
+All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend,
+(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)
+These things are best forgotten; but I knew
+A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
+That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,
+And fought it out to the extremity,
+E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
+On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
+That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.
+Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.
+
+_Sand_. 'Twere best he should be _told_ of these affronts.
+
+_Marg_. I am the daughter of his father's friend,
+Sir Walter's orphan ward.
+I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait
+The opportunity of a gracious hearing.
+Enquire the times and seasons when to put
+My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
+And sue to him for slow redress, who was
+Himself a suitor late to Margaret.
+I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
+I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy,
+And joyful mistress of his youth.
+None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.
+His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,
+His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,
+And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
+As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died;
+His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
+Being fashion'd to her liking.
+His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
+His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
+The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
+His heart, who won all hearts;
+And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.
+
+_Sand_. He doth affect the courtier's life too much,
+Whose art is to forget,
+And that has wrought this seeming change in him,
+That was by nature noble.
+'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
+Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
+With images of state, preferment, place,
+Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.
+
+_Marg_. I know not how it is;
+A cold protector is John grown to me.
+The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
+Can never stoop so low to supplicate
+A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
+Which he was bound first to prevent;
+But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather,
+Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,
+And strangeness fastening bitter on his love,
+His love, which long has been upon the wane.
+For me, I am determined what to do:
+To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
+And trust for food to the earth and Providence.
+
+_Sand_. O lady, have a care
+Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
+You know not half the dangers that attend
+Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,
+Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
+To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,
+Portray without its terrors, painting _lies_
+And representments of fallacious liberty;--
+You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.
+
+_Marg_. I have thought on every possible event,
+The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
+Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them,
+And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents;
+Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
+Of practicable schemes.
+
+_Sand_. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.
+
+_Marg_. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford.
+And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.
+
+_Sand_. But what course have you thought on?
+
+_Marg_. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
+I have letters from young Simon,
+Acquainting me with all the circumstances
+Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
+And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
+Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
+In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,
+Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.--
+All which I have perused with so attent
+And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
+Two sounds now seem like one,
+One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.
+And, gentle Mr. Sandford,
+'Tis you that must provide now
+The means of my departure, which for safety
+Must be in boy's apparel.
+
+_Sand_. Since you will have it so
+(My careful age trembles at all may happen),
+I will engage to furnish you.
+I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you
+With garments to your size.
+I know a suit
+Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you
+In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.
+Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived.
+I have the keys of all this house and passages,
+And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth.
+What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;
+And will provide a horse and trusty guide,
+To bear you on your way to Nottingham.
+
+_Marg_. That once this day and night were fairly past!
+For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;
+Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;
+For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.
+Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.--
+
+                                           [_Exeunt divers ways._
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE SECOND.
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall._
+
+JOHN WOODVIL--_alone_. (_Reading parts of a letter_).
+
+"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem,
+it is no marvel if the world begin to account _that_ dependence,
+which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have
+taken, (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed
+to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times
+past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and
+not-to-be-endured tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled
+reluctance of affection.
+                                                    "MARGARET."
+
+Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
+And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
+And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
+And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!"
+In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?"
+Or tells of joyful victories at sea,
+Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle
+His organs to emit a leaden sound,
+To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"
+Which they in Heaven not use?--
+So peevish, Margaret?
+But 'tis the common error of your sex
+When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
+(As who of woman born can keep his faculty
+Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
+Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
+Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
+As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!--) this being the case,
+They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
+Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,
+Which into maxims pass, and apothegms
+To be retail'd in ballads.--
+                             I know them all.
+They are jealous when our larger hearts receive
+More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart
+Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here
+For more disturbers of my sleep than one.
+Love shall have part, but love shall not have all.
+Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,
+Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;
+Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench,
+I could have loved her twenty years to come,
+And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so,
+Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try
+To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake.
+I shall not grudge so much----
+
+          _To him enters_ LOVEL.
+
+_Lovel_. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I
+thought you had been weeping.
+
+_Wood_. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced some water
+into my eyes, which will quickly disband.
+
+_Lovel_. I cannot conceive you.
+
+_Wood_. Margaret is flown.
+
+_Lovel_. Upon what pretence?
+
+_Wood_. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to
+discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.
+
+_Lovel_. Then, you confess the charge?
+
+_Wood_. To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopped short
+on this side idolatry.
+
+_Lovel_. As all good Christians' should, I think.
+
+_Wood_. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of
+warrantable love.
+
+_Lovel_. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.
+
+_Wood_. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.
+
+_Lovel_. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a
+sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.
+
+_Wood_. While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge,
+that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their
+grace by the repetition.
+
+_Lovel_. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For,
+take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you
+without a lure.
+
+_Wood_. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess
+it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit,
+and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate
+an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.
+
+_Lovel_. What made you neglect her, then?
+
+_Wood_. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to
+young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted
+her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John
+will yet go to his grave a bachelor.
+
+                    [_A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing._
+
+_Lovel_. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.
+
+              _Enter one drunk._
+
+_Drunken Man_. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your
+humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you
+to-morrow.
+
+_Wood_. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?
+
+_Drunken Man_. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly
+question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days in
+the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to
+be born. (_Sings._) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come
+but once a year."
+
+_Lovel_. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!
+
+_Drunken Man_. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?
+
+_Wood_. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day,
+methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.
+
+_Drunken Man_. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender
+nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage
+it. (_Sings._) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."--At noon I drink
+for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher
+in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of
+liquor. (_Sings._) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon
+in tall men."--But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from
+serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.
+
+_Wood_. Who are they?
+
+_Drunken Man_. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and
+Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me.
+
+                                                 [_Exit singing._
+
+_Wood._ This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange
+companions.
+
+  _Enter, at another door, Three calling for_ HARRY FREEMAN.
+
+Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman.
+He is not here. Let us go look for him.
+Where is Freeman?
+Where is Harry?
+
+                        [_Exeunt the Three, calling for_ FREEMAN.
+
+_Wood._ Did you ever see such gentry? (_laughing._) These are they
+that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at
+noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers
+after supper to prove their loyalty.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?
+
+_Wood_. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will show
+you the _Vandyke_ I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of
+his children."
+
+_Lovel_. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.
+
+                                                   [_Exit_ LOVEL.
+
+_John Wood_. (_alone._) Now universal England getteth drunk
+For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored:
+And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask,
+The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck,
+And weareth now a suit of morris bells,
+With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages.
+The baffled factions in their houses skulk;
+The commonwealthsman, and state machinist.
+The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man,
+Who heareth of these visionaries now?
+They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing,
+Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits,
+Who live by observation, note these changes
+Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends.
+Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver,
+But as my own advancement hangs on one of them?
+I to myself am chief.----I know,
+Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit
+With the gauds and show of state, the point of place,
+And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods
+Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit
+In place of worship at the royal masques,
+Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings,
+For none of these,
+Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one,
+Do I affect the favors of the court.
+I would be great, for greatness hath great _power_,
+And that's the fruit I reach at.--
+Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit,
+With these prophetic swellings in my breast,
+That prick and goad me on, and never cease,
+To the fortunes something tells me I was born to?
+Who, with such monitors within to stir him,
+Would sit him down, with lazy arms across,
+A unit, a thing without a name in the state,
+A something to be govern'd, not to govern,
+A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman?
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+
+            SCENE.--_Sherwood Forest._
+
+SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (_Disguised as Frenchmen._)
+
+_Sir W_. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born,
+My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me?
+Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart:
+I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late.
+Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false?
+It is a mad and thriftless prodigal,
+Grown proud upon the favors of the court;
+Court manners, and court fashions, he affects,
+And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth,
+Harbors a company of riotous men,
+All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself,
+Most skilful to devour a patrimony;
+And these have eat into my old estates,
+And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry;
+But these so common faults of youth not named,
+(Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,)
+I know no quality that stains his honor.
+My life upon his faith and noble mind,
+Son John could never play thy father false.
+
+_Simon_. I never thought but nobly of my brother,
+Touching his honor and fidelity.
+Still I could wish him charier of his person,
+And of his time more frugal, than to spend
+In riotous living, graceless society,
+And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd
+(With those persuasive graces nature lent him)
+In fervent pleadings for a father's life.
+
+_Sir W_. I would not owe my life to a jealous court,
+Whose shallow policy I know it is,
+On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy,
+(Not voluntary, but extorted by the times,
+In the first tremblings of new-fixed power,
+And recollection smarting from old wounds,)
+On these to build a spurious popularity.
+Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean,
+They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon.
+For this cause have I oft forbid my son,
+By letters, overtures, open solicitings,
+Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee,
+To beg or bargain with the court for my life.
+
+_Simon_. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word,
+True to the letter of his paternal charge.
+
+_Sir W_. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy,
+Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false.
+Men die but once, and the opportunity
+Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune:
+It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.
+
+_Simon_. I would not wrong my brother by surmise;
+I know him generous, full of gentle qualities,
+Incapable of base compliances,
+No prodigal in his nature, but affecting
+This show of bravery for ambitious ends.
+He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court,
+And drink may one day wrest the secret from him,
+And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.
+
+_Sir W_. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his.
+Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest,
+As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason:
+Who seem the aborigines of this place,
+Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.
+
+_Simon_. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon,
+Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold,
+With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt,
+Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe
+The antique tale?
+
+_Sir W_.               There is much likelihood,
+Such bandits did in England erst abound,
+When polity was young. I have read of the pranks
+Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied
+On travellers, whatever their degree,
+Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods,
+Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre
+For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said,
+He robb'd the king himself.
+
+_Simon_.                        A perilous man (_smiling_).
+
+_Sir W_. How quietly we live here,
+Unread in the world's business,
+And take no note of all its slippery changes.
+'Twere best we make a world among ourselves,
+A little world,
+Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater;
+We two being all the inhabitants of ours,
+And kings and subjects both in one.
+
+_Simon_. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits,
+Which make the business of that greater world,
+Must have no place in ours:
+As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy,
+Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises,
+Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national,
+Humors particular,
+Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good,
+Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships,
+Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies,
+And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.
+
+    MARGARET _enters in boy's apparel_.
+
+_Sir W_. What pretty boy have we here?
+
+_Marg_. _Bon jour, messieurs_. Ye have handsome English faces,
+
+I should have ta'en ye else for other two,
+I came to seek in the forest.
+
+_Sir W_.                 Who are they?
+
+_Marg_. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs,
+That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy,
+More than the manner of their countrymen.
+
+_Simon_. We have here a wonder.
+The face is Margaret's face.
+
+_Sir W_. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same
+My Stephen sometime wore.                          [_To_ Margaret.
+Suppose us them; whom do men say we are?
+Or know you what you seek?
+
+_Marg_. A worthy pair of exiles,
+Two whom the politics of state revenge,
+In final issue of long civil broils,
+Have houseless driven from your native France,
+To wander idle in these English woods,
+Where now ye live; most part
+Thinking on home and all the joys of France,
+Where grows the purple vine.
+
+_Sir W_. These woods, young stranger,
+And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves,
+Are they less beauteous than the land of France,
+Where grows the purple vine?
+
+_Marg_.                 I cannot tell.
+To an indifferent eye both show alike.
+'Tis not the scene,
+But all familiar objects in the scene,
+Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference.
+Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now;
+Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing;
+Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you,
+I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily;
+And there is reason, exiles, ye should love
+Our English earth less than your land of France,
+Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow
+Old custom has made pleasant.
+
+_Sir W_.                 You, that are read
+So deeply in our story, what are you?
+
+_Marg_. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman,
+That put strange garments on, and came thus far
+To seek an ancient friend:
+And having spent her stock of idle words,
+And feeling some tears coming,
+Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees,
+And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.
+
+                                                     [_Kneeling_.
+
+_Sir W_. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.
+
+_Marg_. Yes, till her suit is answered.
+
+_Sir W_. Name it.
+
+_Marg_. A little boon, and yet so great a grace,
+She fears to ask it.
+
+_Sir W_.         Some riddle, Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. No riddle, but a plain request.
+
+_Sir W_. Name it.
+
+_Marg_.            Free liberty of Sherwood,
+And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.
+
+_Sir W_. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it,
+Seal'd with an old man's tears.--
+Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.
+
+                                         [_Addressing them both_.
+
+                                O you most worthy,
+You constant followers of a man proscribed,
+Following poor misery in the throat of danger;
+Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty,
+Serving poor poverty without hope of gain;
+Kind children of a sire unfortunate;
+Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd,
+Which needs must bring on you timeless decay;
+Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;--
+What shall I say?
+Better the dead were gather'd to the dead,
+Than death and life in disproportion meet.--
+Go, seek your fortunes, children.--
+
+_Simon_. Why, whither should we go?
+
+_Sir W_. _You_ to the court, where now your brother John
+ Commits a rape on Fortune.
+
+_Simon_.              Luck to John!
+A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.
+
+_Sir W_. _You_ to the sweet society of your equals,
+Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.
+
+_Marg_. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty.
+There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty,
+There sweet humility withers.
+
+_Simon_.                  Mistress Margaret,
+How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?
+
+_Marg_. John was well, sir.
+
+_Simon_.                    'Tis now nine months almost,
+Since I saw home. What new friends has John made?
+Or keeps he his first love?--I did suspect
+Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know,
+John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps.
+It is a scurvy brother.
+
+_Sir W_.           Fie upon it.
+All men are false, I think. The date of love
+Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale,
+O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale
+Of Hero and Leander.
+
+_Simon_. I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for
+the narrow passion. I am in some sort a _general_ lover.
+
+_Marg_. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with
+the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it _you_ love?
+
+_Simon_. Simply, all things that live,
+From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form,
+And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly,
+That makes short holiday in the sunbeam,
+And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird
+With little wings, yet greatly venturous
+In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element,
+That knows no touch of eloquence. What else?
+Yon tall and elegant stag,
+Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns
+In the water, where he drinks.
+
+_Marg_. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a
+difference:--for example, some animals better than others, some men
+rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift
+and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humor
+goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the
+forest?--
+
+_Simon_. Not many; some few, as thus:--
+To see the sun to bed, and to arise,
+Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes,
+Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him,
+With all his fires and travelling glories round him.
+Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest,
+Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast,
+And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep
+Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep.
+Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness,
+Nought doing, saying little, thinking less,
+To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air,
+Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare,
+When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn,
+Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn;
+And how the woods berries and worms provide
+Without their pains, when earth has nought beside
+To answer their small wants.
+To view the graceful deer come tripping by,
+Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why,
+Like bashful younkers in society.
+To mark the structure of a plant or tree,
+And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.
+
+_Marg_. (_smiling_.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile.
+
+_Sir W_. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please
+you, we have some poor viands within.
+
+_Marg_. Indeed I stand in need of them.
+
+_Sir W_. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree,
+Upon the grass, no better carpeting,
+We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done,
+One of us shall repair to Nottingham,
+To seek some safe night-lodging in the town,
+Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell,
+By day, in the forest, expecting better times,
+And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.
+
+_Simon_. _Allons_, young Frenchman----
+
+_Marg_. _Allons_, Sir Englishman. The time has been
+
+I've studied love-lays in the English tongue,
+And been enamor'd of rare poesy:
+Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth,
+Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu;
+For Margaret has got new name and language new.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+     *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+ACT THE THIRD.
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall_.
+
+_Cavaliers drinking_.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, _and four more_.
+
+_John_. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen--Mr. Gray, you are not
+merry.--
+
+_Gray_. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we
+have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is
+the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine.
+(_Fills_.)
+
+_1st Gent_. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in
+our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit
+the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to
+feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.
+
+_2nd Gent_. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order,
+and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion
+have her legitimate work.
+
+_Lovel_. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should
+possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect
+to see such virtues in cold water.
+
+_Gray_. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!
+
+_John_. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than
+lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth,
+unpressed in mortal wine-presses.
+
+3_rd Gent_. What may be the name of this wine?
+
+_John_. It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated
+indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most
+royal and comprehensive name is _fancy_.
+
+3_rd Gent_. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?
+
+_John_. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth
+intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from
+the quality and neighborhood of their noble relative, the brain,
+refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.
+
+3_rd Gent_. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this liquor?
+
+_John_. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is
+the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a
+man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with
+canaries.
+
+4_th Gent_. I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come
+on, the sweet wicked catches?
+
+_John_. They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight.
+Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well
+roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.
+
+_Lovel_. Gentlemen, the Duke. (_Fills_.)
+
+_All_. The Duke. (_They drink_.)
+
+_Gray_. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist--
+
+_John_. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this
+his Majesty's birthday?
+
+_Gray_. What follows?
+
+_John_. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no
+questions.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Damn politics, they spoil drinking.
+
+3_rd Gent_. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy.
+
+2_nd Gent_. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been
+when swearing was out of fashion.
+
+3_rd Gent_. And drinking.
+
+1_st Gent_. And wenching.
+
+_Gray_. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered,
+when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but straight the air
+was thought to be infected.
+
+_Lovel_. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan
+_Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech_ used, when his spouse chid him with
+an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to
+be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse
+the devil's breath, as he termed it.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_Gray_. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint
+_Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman_ was overtaken
+in the act, to plead an illusio visus, and maintain his sanctity upon
+a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of
+things.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_John_. Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he
+can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.
+
+_Gray_. Shall we hang a puritan?
+
+_John_. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Or fire a conventicle?
+
+_John_. That is stale too.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Or burn the Assembly's catechism?
+
+4_th Gent_. Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his
+head naked?
+
+_John (to Lovel)_. We have here some pleasant madness.
+
+3_rd Gent_. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to
+the king upon our knees?
+
+_Lovel_. Why on our knees, Cavalier?
+
+_John_ (_smiling_). For more devotion, to be sure. (_To a servant_.)
+Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.
+
+  [_The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health, kneeling.
+        A shout of general approbation following the first appearance
+        of the goblets._
+
+_John_. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the
+vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an
+element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these
+casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon
+the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as
+we.
+
+_Gray_ (_aside to Lovel_). Observe how he is ravished.
+
+_Lovel_. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender
+madness.
+
+[_While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk_, JOHN _advances
+         to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes_.
+
+_John_. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast.
+My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition.
+These high and gusty relishes of life, sure,
+Have no allayings of mortality in them.
+I am too hot now, and o'ercapable,
+For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom,
+Of human acts, and enterprises of a man.
+I want some seasonings of adversity,
+Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity,
+To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.
+
+1_st Gent_. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.
+
+2_nd Gent_. Where is Woodvil?
+
+_Gray_. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His
+abstractions must not taint the good mirth.
+
+_John_ (_continuing to soliloquize_). O for some friend, now,
+To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets.
+How fine and noble a thing is confidence,
+How reasonable, too, and almost godlike!
+Fast cement of fast friends, band of society,
+Old natural go-between in the world's business,
+Where civil life and order, wanting this cement,
+Would presently rush back
+Into the pristine state of singularity,
+And each man stand alone.
+
+              (_A servant enters_.)
+
+_Servant_. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready.
+
+1_st Gent_. What be they?
+
+_Lovel_. The work of London artists, which our host has provided in
+honor of this day.
+
+2_nd Gent_. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?
+
+_Lovel_. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains
+to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it.
+It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and
+thirsting to his liquor.
+
+_3rd Gent_. There's reason in what he says.
+
+_2d Gent_. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.
+
+  [_They go out, singing. Only_ LOVEL _remains, who observes_ WOODVIL.
+
+_John_ (_still talking to himself_).
+This Lovel here's of a tough honesty,
+Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort
+Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors,
+And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine,
+Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off
+Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one,
+Whose sober morning actions
+Shame not his o'ernight's promises;
+Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises;
+Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate
+Might trust her counsels of predestination with,
+And the world be no loser.
+Why should I fear this man?                     [_Seeing_ LOVEL.
+Where is the company gone?
+
+_Lovel_. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to follow.
+But I perceive you are better engaged.
+
+_John_. I have been meditating this half hour,
+On all the properties of a brave friendship,
+The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses,
+Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries.
+_Exempli gratia_, how far a man
+May lawfully forswear himself for his friend;
+What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones,
+He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf!
+What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels,
+Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning,
+He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.
+
+_Lovel_. I think many men would die for their friends.
+
+_John_. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport,
+To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor,
+When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare,
+Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it,
+To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy.
+A friend, sir, must do more.
+
+_Lovel_. Can he do more than die?
+
+_John_. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me.
+Having a law within (great spirits feel one)
+He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any
+Positive laws or ord'nances extern,
+But may reject all these: by the law of friendship
+He may do so much, be they, indifferently,
+Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages,
+As public fame, civil compliances,
+Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets,
+All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion,
+(Binding our morning knowledge to approve
+What last night's ignorance spake;)
+The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin.
+Sir, these weak terrors
+Must never shake me. I know what belongs
+To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.
+
+_Lovel_. I hope you think me worthy.
+
+_John_. You will smile to hear now--
+Sir Walter never has been out of the island.
+
+_Lovel_. You amaze me.
+
+_John_. That same report of his escape to France
+Was a fine tale, forged by myself--
+Ha! ha!
+I knew it would stagger him.
+
+_Lovel_.                 Pray, give me leave.
+Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd?
+Sure I may ask so much.
+
+_John_. From place to place, dwelling in no place long,
+My brother Simon still hath borne him company,
+('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues).
+Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen,
+Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin
+Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham,
+Where no soul knows them.
+
+_Lovel_. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir Walter's
+known prudence should expose his person so lightly?
+
+_John_. I believe, a certain fondness,
+A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth,
+Chains him like fate.
+
+_Lovel_.          I have known some exiles thus
+To linger out the term of the law's indulgence,
+To the hazard of being known.
+
+_John_. You may suppose sometimes
+They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport,
+Their exercise and freer recreation.--
+I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.
+
+_Lovel_. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.
+
+_John_. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep,
+And tell fine tales that way.
+
+_Lovel_. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep
+alone.
+
+_John_. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely?
+Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.
+
+_Lovel_. Why do you question me, who know my habits?
+
+_John_. I think you are no sot
+No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape;
+But all men drink sometimes,
+And veriest saints at festivals relax,
+The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday.
+
+_Lovel_. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink?
+                                                     [_Smiling_.
+
+_John_. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable;
+I care not if you never exceed that quantity.
+
+_Lovel_. I shall observe it;
+On holidays two quarts.
+
+_John_. Or, stay; you keep no wench?
+
+_Lovel_. Ha!
+
+_John_. No painted mistress for your private hours?
+You keep no whore, sir?
+
+_Lovel_.             What does he mean?
+
+_John_. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin,
+And amorous praising of your worship's breath,
+In rosy junction of four melting lips,
+Can kiss out secrets from you?
+
+_Lovel_. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you
+Sure, you think me some weak one.
+
+_John_. Pray pardon me some fears.
+You have now the pledge of a dear father's life.
+I am a son--would fain be thought a loving one;
+You may allow me some fears: do not despise me,
+If, in a posture foreign to my spirit,
+And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you,
+Touch not Sir Walter's life.                          [_Kneels._
+You see these tears. My father's an old man.
+Pray let him live.
+
+_Lovel_. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms
+Show most unhandsome in you.
+
+_John_ (_rising_).     Ha! do you say so?
+Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret!
+Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling.
+No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor--
+But I'll not give you leave.                           [_Draws._
+
+_Lovel_. What does this madman mean?
+
+_John_. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge;
+You must kill me, or I kill you.
+
+_Lovel_ (_drawing_). Then self-defence plead my excuse.
+Have at you, sir.                                 [_They fight._
+
+_John_.          Stay, sir.
+I hope you have made your will.
+If not,'tis no great matter.
+A broken cavalier has seldom much
+He can bequeath; an old worn peruke,
+A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert,
+A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby,
+Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place;
+And if he's very rich,
+A cheap edition of the _Icon Basilike_,
+Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of.
+You say few prayers, I fancy;--
+
+So to it again.   [_They fight again._ LOVEL _is disarmed._
+
+_Lovel_. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.
+
+_John_ (_musing_). No:--Men will say I fear'd him,
+if I kill'd him.
+Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish,
+But never act thy thought, being a coward.
+That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for,
+And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for,
+Still have the will without the power to execute.
+So now I leave you,
+Feeling a sweet security. No doubt
+My secret shall remain a virgin for you!
+                                   [_Goes out, smiling in scorn_.
+
+_Lovel_ (_rising_). For once you are mistaken in your man.
+The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done,
+A bird let loose, a secret out of hand,
+Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy
+To menace him who hath it in his keeping.
+I will go look for Gray;
+Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play
+Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood,
+Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE FOURTH.
+
+
+SCENE.--_An Apartment in Woodvil Hall_.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL. (_Alone_.)
+
+A weight of wine lies heavy on my head,
+The unconcocted follies of last night.
+Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes,
+Children of wine, go off like dreams.
+This sick vertigo here
+Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better.
+These black thoughts, and dull melancholy,
+That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me?
+Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk;
+Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves;
+And some, the most resolved fools of all,
+Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Forest_.
+
+SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.
+
+_Lovel_. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.
+
+_Gray_. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor
+disguise.
+
+_Lovel_. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.
+
+_Gray_. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I
+attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.
+
+_Lovel_. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late
+lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.
+
+_Simon_. John has betrayed us, father.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, sir.
+
+_Simon_. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I
+have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers,
+trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A
+sort of bed and board worms--locusts that infest our house; a leprosy
+that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching
+to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.
+
+_Gray_. We are his friends.
+
+_Simon_. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall
+I whip off their heads, father?
+
+                                                               [_Draws_.
+
+_Lovel_. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son,
+yet the law must have its course.
+
+_Simon_. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot
+ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend
+a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?--Will you, Mr. Constable
+self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by
+hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?
+
+_Gray_. 'Tis a brave youth--I cannot strike at him.
+
+_Simon_. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do
+you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O
+villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water; quickly, ye
+knaves; will ye have your throats cut?
+
+                                                 [_They both slink off_.
+
+How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are gone.
+He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath
+touched him even to the death. O most distuned and distempered world,
+where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and
+diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow _talking_ world,
+where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and
+still for the worse; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity,
+chaotic vanity.--Brother, adieu!
+
+There lies the parent stock which gave us life,
+Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth.
+Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me,
+Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.
+
+                                                   [_Bears in the body_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Another Part of the Forest_.
+
+_Marg_. (_alone_.) It was an error merely, and no crime,
+An unsuspecting openness in youth,
+That from his lips the fatal secret drew,
+Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries,
+Unveil'd by any man.
+Well, he is dead!
+And what should Margaret do in the forest?
+O ill-starr'd John!
+O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair!
+Take thy farewell of peace.
+O never look again to see good days,
+Or close thy lids in comfortable nights,
+Or ever think a happy thought again,
+If what I have heard be true.--
+Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live,
+If he did tell these men.
+No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man
+Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning;
+Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live
+In amity with thee, must for thy sake
+Abide the world's reproach. What then?
+Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world
+Against her friend? O undiscerning world,
+That cannot from misfortune separate guilt,
+No, not in thought! O never, never, John.
+Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend
+_For better or for worse_, thy Margaret comes,
+To pour into thy wounds a healing love,
+And wake the memory of an ancient friendship.
+And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter,
+Who, in compassion to the wretched living,
+Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Woodvil Hall._
+
+SANDFORD. MARGARET. (_As from a Journey_.)
+
+_Sand_. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him,
+who by nature is allied to nothing _less_ than a self-debasing humor
+of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and
+spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the
+partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to
+their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps
+ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem
+to possess and govern in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of
+most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.
+
+_Marg_. How bears he up against the common rumor?
+
+_Sand_. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives not into
+the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate.
+Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and yet a virtuous
+predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may
+discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living
+opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried
+with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.
+
+_Marg_. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the
+admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and
+bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with
+him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without
+deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and
+holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?
+
+_Sand_. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his
+fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness
+of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest
+remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of
+a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of
+us.
+
+_Marg_. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received
+farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to
+estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and
+to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign
+places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him
+kindly and not painful ruminations.
+
+_Sand_. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents
+seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of
+grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many
+tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be
+touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their
+sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned
+to his former inwardness of suffering.
+
+_Marg_. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would
+have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already
+oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these intricate and
+widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep.
+How goes the night?--
+
+_Sand_. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your limbs
+(tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake
+your no less wearied mind to repose.
+
+_Marg_. A good rest to us all.
+
+_Sand._ Thanks, lady.
+
+
+
+
+ACT THE FIFTH.
+
+JOHN WOODVIL. (_dressing_).
+
+_John_. How beautiful (_handling his mourning_)
+And comely do these mourning garments show!
+Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here,
+To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly
+By outward types the serious man within.--
+Alas! what part or portion can I claim
+In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow,
+Which other mourners use? as namely,
+This black attire, abstraction from society,
+Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles,
+A cleaving sadness native to the brow,
+All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends,
+(That steal away the sense of loss almost,)
+Men's pity and good offices
+Which enemies themselves do for us then,
+Putting their hostile disposition off,
+As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.
+
+                           [_Pauses, and observes the pictures_.
+
+These pictures must be taken down:
+The portraitures of our most ancient family
+For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd,
+To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride,
+Holding me in his arms, a prating boy,
+And pointing to the pictures where they hung,
+Repeat by course their worthy histories,
+(As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name,
+And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John:
+Telling me, I must be his famous John.)
+But that was in old times.
+Now, no more
+Must I grow proud upon our house's pride.
+I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes,
+Have backward tainted all their noble blood,
+Razed out the memory of an ancient family,
+And quite reversed the honors of our house.
+Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes?
+The secret history of his own times,
+And fashions of the world when he was young:
+How England slept out three-and-twenty years,
+While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king:
+The costly fancies of the pedant's reign,
+Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory,
+And Beauties of the court of James the First.
+
+           MARGARET _enters_.
+
+_John_. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace?
+O, lady, I have suffer'd loss,
+And diminution of my honor's brightness.
+You bring some images of old times, Margaret,
+That should be now forgotten.
+
+_Marg_. Old times should never be forgotten, John.
+I came to talk about them with my friend.
+
+_John_. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.
+
+_Marg_. If John rejected Margaret in his pride,
+(As who does not, being splenetic, refuse
+Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone,
+The offence no longer lives.
+O Woodvil, those were happy days,
+When we two first began to love. When first,
+Under pretence of visiting my father,
+(Being then a stripling night upon my age,)
+You came a-wooing to his daughter, John.
+Do you remember,
+With what a coy reserve and seldom speech,
+(Young maidens must be chary of their speech,)
+I kept the honors of my maiden pride?
+I was your favorite then.
+
+_John_. O Margaret, Margaret!
+These your submissions to my low estate,
+And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil,
+Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness.
+Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex,
+Whom miseries of mine could never alienate,
+Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries,
+And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved
+Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn,
+Then when you left in virtuous pride this house,
+Could not so separate, but now in this
+My day of shame, when all the world forsake me,
+You only visit me, love, and forgive me.
+
+_Marg_. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John,
+In the south gardens of my father's house,
+Where we have seen the summer sun go down,
+Exchanging true love's vows without restraint?
+And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness,
+And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it,
+There dwell
+
+  "Like hermit poor
+  In pensive place obscure."
+
+And tell your Ave Maries by the curls
+(Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair;
+And make confession seven times a day
+Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret;
+And I your saint the penance should appoint--
+Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid
+Aside, like an old fashion.
+
+_John._ O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts;
+My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds,
+I have no part in any good man's love,
+In all earth's pleasures portion have I none,
+I fade and wither in my own esteem,
+This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am.
+I was not always thus.                                  [_Weeps_.
+
+_Marg_. Thou noble nature,
+Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures,
+Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality,
+My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John!
+Upon her knees (regard her poor request)
+Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.
+
+_John_. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. That John would think more nobly of himself,
+More worthily of high Heaven;
+And not for one misfortune, child of chance,
+No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish
+The less offence, with image of the greater,
+Thereby to work the soul's humility,
+(Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,)
+O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy,
+Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come--
+John yet has many happy days to live;
+To live and make atonement.
+
+_John_.                Excellent lady,
+Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes,
+Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends,
+Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?
+
+_Marg_. (_rising_). Go whither, John?
+
+_John_.                                    Go in with me
+And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?
+
+_Marg_. That I will, John.
+
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_An inner Apartment_.
+
+JOHN _is discovered kneeling_.--MARGARET _standing over him_.
+
+_John_ (_rises_). I cannot bear
+To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty,
+('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,)
+In tending such a broken wretch as I am.
+
+_Marg_. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.
+O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy,
+And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold
+Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient,
+(You know you gave me leave to call you so,)
+And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.
+
+_John_. They are gone.--
+Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!
+I can smile too, and I almost begin
+To understand what kind of creature Hope is.
+
+_Marg_. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.
+
+_John_. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth,
+(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.)
+That were a sad indecency, you know.
+
+_Marg_. Nay, never fear.
+I will be mistress of your humors,
+And you shall frown or smile by the book.
+And herein I shall be most peremptory,
+Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity;
+This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it,
+But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."
+
+_John_. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!
+
+_Marg_. To give you in your stead a better self!
+Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld
+You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery,
+Sir Rowland my father's gift,
+And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.
+I was a young thing then, being newly come
+Home from my convent education, where
+Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France:
+Returning home true protestant, you call'd me
+Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful
+Did John salute his love, being newly seen!
+Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty,
+And praised it in a youth.
+
+_John_. Now Margaret weeps herself.
+
+         (_A noise of bells heard_.)
+
+_Marg_. Hark the bells, John.
+
+_John_. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery.
+
+_Marg_. I know it.
+
+_John_. St. Mary Ottery, my native village
+In the sweet shire of Devon.
+Those are the bells.
+
+_Marg._           Wilt go to church, John?
+
+_John._ I have been there already.
+
+_Marg._ How canst say thou hast been there already?
+The bells are only now ringing for morning service,
+And hast thou been at church already?
+
+_John._ I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep,
+And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is)
+From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise;
+And the first object I discern'd
+Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.
+
+_Marg._ Well, John.
+
+_John._ Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day.
+Immediately a wish arose in my mind,
+To go to church and pray with Christian people.
+And then I check'd myself, and said to myself,
+"Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past,
+(Not having been at church in all that time,)
+And is it fit, that now for the first time
+Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people
+With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?
+Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts,
+And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray,
+With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?"
+And then I at my own presumption smiled;
+And then I wept that I should smile at all,
+Having such cause of grief! I wept outright:
+Tears like a river flooded all my face,
+And I began to pray, and found I could pray;
+And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.
+"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."
+So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection,
+Or was about to act unlawful business
+At that dead time of dawn,
+I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open.
+(Whether by negligence I knew not,
+Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed,
+For all things felt like mystery.)
+
+_Marg_. Yes.
+
+_John_. So entering in, not without fear,
+I passed into the family pew,
+And covering up my eyes for shame,
+And deep perception of unworthiness,
+Upon the little hassock knelt me down,
+Where I so oft had kneel'd,
+A docile infant by Sir Walter's side;
+And, thinking so, I wept a second flood
+More poignant than the first;
+But afterwards was greatly comforted.
+It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me
+Even in the act and agony of tears,
+And all my sins forgiven.
+
+
+
+
+THE WITCH;
+
+A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+OLD SERVANT _in the Family of_ SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+_Servant_. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced,
+Was pacing to and fro in the avenue
+That westward fronts our house,
+Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted
+Three hundred years ago,
+By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.
+Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not
+The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate,
+And begg'd an alms.
+Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate
+With angry chiding; but I can never think
+(Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it)
+That he could use a woman, an old woman,
+With such discourtesy; but he refused her--
+And better had he met a lion in his path
+Than that old woman that night;
+For she was one who practised the black arts,
+And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.
+She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him,
+And with a frightful noise,
+('Twas partly like a woman's voice,
+And partly like the hissing of a snake,)
+She nothing said but this
+(Sir Francis told the words):--
+
+    A mischief, mischief, mischief,
+   And a nine-times killing curse,
+  By day and by night, to the caitiff wight,
+   Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door,
+    And shuts up the womb of his purse.
+And still she cried--
+
+         A mischief,
+   And a ninefold withering curse:
+  For that shall come to thee that will undo thee,
+    Both all that thou fearest and worse.
+
+So saying, she departed,
+Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath
+Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling;
+So he described it.
+
+_Stranger_. A terrible curse! What follow'd?
+
+_Servant_. Nothing immediate, but some two months after,
+Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick,
+And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay,
+And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off,
+And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin
+As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing.
+And sure I think
+He bore his death-wound like a little child;
+With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy
+He strove to clothe his agony in smiles,
+Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks,
+Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there;
+And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid
+His hand upon his heart to show the place,
+Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said,
+And prick'd him with a pin.--
+And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind
+The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway
+And begg'd an alms.
+
+_Stranger_. But did the witch confess?
+
+_Servant_. All this and more at her death.
+
+_Stranger_. I do not love to credit tales of magic.
+Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung,
+And this brave world
+(The mystery of God) unbeautified,
+Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.
+
+
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES,
+
+WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE PUBLISHER.
+
+DEAR MOXON,
+
+
+I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly
+due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were
+desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the _manner_ in which
+Publications, intrusted to your future care, would appear. With more
+propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own
+simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose.
+But I forget--you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my
+hands sundry Copies of Verses written for _Albums_--
+
+  Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show
+  Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know--
+
+or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in
+this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication.
+They are simply--_Advertisement Verses_.
+
+It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our
+honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. May
+that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his
+patronage justified? I venture to predict that your habits of
+industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.
+
+I am, Dear Moxon,
+
+Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,
+
+CHARLES LAMB.
+
+ENFIELD, _1st June_, 1839.
+
+
+
+
+ALBUM VERSES
+
+WITH A FEW OTHERS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+  Had I a power, Lady, to my will,
+  You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill
+  Your leaves with Autographs--resplendent names
+  Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames,
+  Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand
+  The hands of famous Lawyers--a grave band--
+  Who in their Courts of Law or Equity
+  Have best upheld Freedom and Property.
+  These should moot cases in your book, and vie
+  To show their reading and their Sergeantry.
+  But I have none of these; nor can I send
+  The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd
+  In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours
+  Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers.
+  The lack of curious Signatures I moan,
+  And want the courage to subscribe my own.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO DORA W----.
+
+ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.
+
+  An Album is a Banquet: from the store,
+  In his intelligential Orchard growing,
+  Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing:
+  One shaking of the Tree--'twould ask no more
+  To set a Salad forth, more rich than that
+  Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied:
+  Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced,
+  Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat.
+  But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast,
+  Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax,
+  From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts;
+  Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast.
+  Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am,
+  A zealous, meek, _contributory_             LAMB.
+
+[Footnote 1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.
+
+  An Album is a Garden, not for show
+  Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.
+  A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where
+  No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare.
+  A Chapel, where mere ornamental things
+  Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings.
+  A List of living friends; a holier Room
+  For names of some since mouldering in the tomb,
+  Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive;
+  And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live.
+  Such, and so tender, should an Album be;
+  And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----.
+
+  In Christian world MARY the garland wears!
+  REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear;
+  Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear;
+  And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears.
+  Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines!
+  What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round!
+  How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound!
+  Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines
+  Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff
+  Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can
+  You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN?
+  And is not CLARE for love excuse enough?
+  Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess,
+  These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----.
+
+  A passing glance was all I caught of thee,
+  In my own Enfield haunts at random roving.
+  Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving;
+  Time short: and salutations cursory,
+  Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name
+  Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me
+  Thoughts--what the daughter of that Man should be,
+  Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame
+  A growing Maiden, who, from day to day
+  Advancing still in stature, and in grace,
+  Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface,
+  And his paternal cares with usury pay.
+  I still retain the phantom, as I can;
+  And call the gentle image--Quillinan.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.
+
+  CANADIA! boast no more the toils
+  Of hunters for the furry spoils;
+  Your whitest ermines are but foils
+    To brighter Catherine Orkney.
+
+  That such a flower should ever burst
+  From climes with rigorous winter curst!--
+  We bless you, that so kindly nurst
+    This flower, this Catherine Orkney.
+
+  We envy not your proud display
+  Of lake--wood--vast Niagara;
+  Your greatest pride we've borne away.
+    How spared you Catherine Orkney?
+
+  That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
+  To your reproach no more we tell:
+  Canadia, you repaid us well
+    With rearing Catherine Orkney.
+
+  O Britain, guard with tenderest care
+  The charge allotted to your share:
+  You've scarce a native maid so fair,
+    So good, as Catherine Orkney.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.
+
+  Little Book, surnamed of _white_,
+  Clean as yet, and fair to sight,
+  Keep thy attribution right.
+
+  Never disproportion'd scrawl;
+  Ugly blot, that's worse than all;
+  On thy maiden clearness fall!
+
+  In each letter, here design'd,
+  Let the reader emblem'd find
+  Neatness of the owner's mind.
+
+  Gilded margins count a sin,
+  Let thy leaves attraction win
+  By the golden rules within;
+
+  Sayings fetch'd from sages old;
+  Laws which Holy Writ unfold,
+  Worthy to be graved in gold:
+
+  Lighter fancies not excluding:
+  Blameless wit, with nothing rude in,
+  Sometimes mildly interluding
+
+  Amid strains of graver measure:
+  Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure
+  In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.
+
+  Riddles dark, perplexing sense;
+  Darker meanings of offence;
+  What but _shades_--be banish'd hence.
+
+  Whitest thoughts in whitest dress,
+  Candid meanings, best express
+  Mind of quiet Quakeress.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.
+
+  Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown
+  The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace,
+  How shall I find fit matter? with what face
+  Address a face that ne'er to me was shown?
+  Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not,
+  Conjecturing, I wander in the dark.
+  I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke!
+  But at that name my cold muse waxes hot,
+  And swears that thou art such a one as he,
+  Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness,
+  Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness
+  From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be
+  The pure reverse of this, and I mistake--
+  Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ----.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Such goodness in your face doth shine,
+  With modest look without design,
+  That I despair, poor pen of mine
+    Can e'er express it.
+  To give it words I feebly try;
+  My spirits fail me to supply
+  Befitting language for't, and I
+    Can only bless it!
+
+
+II.
+
+  But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse
+  A bashful Maiden's ear with news
+  Of her own virtues. She'll refuse
+    Praise sung so loudly.
+  Of that same goodness you admire,
+  The best part is, she don't aspire
+  To praise--nor of herself desire
+    To think too proudly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IN MY OWN ALBUM.
+
+  Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,
+  A young probationer of light,
+  Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,
+
+  A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
+  And friend and foe, in foul or fair,
+  Have "written strange defeatures" there;
+
+  And Time with heaviest hand of all,
+  Like that fierce writing on the wall,
+  Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recall;
+
+  And error gilding worst designs--
+  Like speckled snake that strays and shines--
+  Betrays his path by crooked lines;
+
+  And vice hath left his ugly blot;
+  And good resolves, a moment hot,
+  Fairly began--but finish'd not;
+
+  And fruitless, late remorse doth trace--
+  Like Hebrew lore a backward pace--
+  Her irrecoverable race.
+
+  Disjointed numbers; sense unknit
+  Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit;
+  Compose the mingled mass of it.
+
+  My scalded eyes no longer brook
+  Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look--
+  Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
+
+
+
+
+MISCELLANEOUS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ANGEL HELP[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles
+Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female
+Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother,
+has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In
+another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem
+of purity.]
+
+  This rare tablet doth include
+  Poverty with sanctitude.
+  Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
+  And yet the work is not half done,
+  Which must supply from earnings scant
+  A feeble bedrid parent's want.
+  Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
+  And Holy hands take up the task;
+  Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
+  And do her earthly drudgery.
+  Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on;
+  And, waking, find thy labors done.
+  Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
+  Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
+  Angelic presence testifying,
+  That round her everywhere are flying;
+  Ostents from which she may presume,
+  That much of heaven is in the room.
+  Skirting her own bright hair they run,
+  And to the sunny add more sun:
+  Now on that aged face they fix,
+  Streaming from the Crucifix;
+  The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
+  Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
+  Prelibations, foretastes high,
+  And equal thoughts to live or die.
+  Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
+  Tend with care that lily flower;
+  To its leaves and root infuse
+  Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.
+  'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge,
+  Of a crowning privilege.
+  Careful as that lily flower,
+  This maid must keep her precious dower;
+  Live a sainted maid, or die
+  Martyr to virginity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
+
+  I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+  A curious frame of Nature's work.
+  A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
+  A nameless piece of Babyhood,
+  Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+  Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+  So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb
+  For darker closets of the tomb!
+  She did but ope an eye, and put
+  A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+  For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+  Through glasses of mortality.
+  Riddle of destiny, who can show
+  What thy short visit meant, or know
+  What thy errand here below?
+  Shall we say, that Nature blind
+  Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
+  Just when she had exactly wrought
+  A finish'd pattern without fault?
+  Could she flag, or could she tire,
+  Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+  (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+  That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+  Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+  Life of health and days mature:
+  Woman's self in miniature!
+  Limbs so fair, they might supply
+  (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+  The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+  Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
+  That babe or mother, one must die;
+  So in mercy left the stock,
+  And cut the branch; to save the shock
+  Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
+  When Single State comes back again
+  To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
+  Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
+  The economy of Heaven is dark;
+  And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
+  Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
+  More brief than fly ephemeral,
+  That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+  Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+  And crabbed use the conscience sears
+  In sinners of an hundred years.
+  Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+  Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
+  Rites, which custom does impose,
+  Silver bells and baby clothes;
+  Coral redder than those lips,
+  Which pale death did late eclipse;
+  Music framed for infants' glee,
+  Whistle never tuned for thee;
+  Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+  Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+  Let not one be missing; nurse,
+  See them laid upon the hearse
+  Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+  Why should kings and nobles have
+  Pictured trophies to their grave;
+  And we, churls, to thee deny
+  Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
+  A more harmless vanity?
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE CHRISTENING.
+
+  Array'd--a half-angelic sight--
+  In vests of pure Baptismal white,
+  The mother to the Font doth bring
+  The little helpless nameless thing,
+  With hushes soft and mild caressing,
+  At once to get--a name and blessing.
+  Close by the babe the Priest doth stand,
+  The Cleansing Water at his hand,
+  Which must assoil the soul within
+  From every stain of Adam's sin.
+  The Infant eyes the mystic scenes,
+  Nor knows what all this wonder means;
+  And now he smiles, as if to say
+  "I am a Christian made this day;"
+  Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold,
+  Shrinking from the water cold,
+  Whose virtues, rightly understood,
+  Are, as Bethesda's waters, good.
+  Strange words--The World, The Flesh, The Devil--
+  Poor Babe, what can it know of evil?
+  But we must silently adore
+  Mysterious truths, and not explore.
+  Enough for him, in after-times,
+  When he shall read these artless rhymes,
+  If, looking back upon this day
+  With quiet conscience, he can say--
+  "I have in part redeem'd the pledge
+  Of my Baptismal privilege;
+  And more and more will strive to flee
+  All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]
+
+  While this tawny Ethiop prayeth,
+  Painter, who is she that stayeth
+  By, with skin of whitest lustre,
+  Sunny locks, a shining cluster,
+  Saint-like seeming to direct him
+  To the Power that must protect him?
+  Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
+  Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity;
+  Or some Cherub?--
+
+  They you mention
+  Far transcend my weak invention.
+  'Tis a simple Christian child,
+  Missionary young and mild,
+  From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
+  Bible-taught without a college,
+  Which by reading she could gather
+  Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
+  To the common Parent, who
+  Color not respects, nor hue.
+  White and black in Him have part,
+  Who looks not to the skin, but heart.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
+
+ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
+
+  Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
+  A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
+  Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown
+  To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
+  Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
+  My fancy to believe the almanac,
+  That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still
+  Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will
+  Gambol'd about our house, as in times past.
+  Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
+  Hastening to leave thy friends!--for which intent,
+  Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment:
+  After some thirty years, spent in such bliss
+  As this earth can afford, where still we miss
+  Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old
+  As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold.
+  O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,
+  Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
+  "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare,
+  With her respected Grandsire may compare."
+  Grandchild of that respected Isola,
+  Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day
+  Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
+  Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate.
+  But they have died, and left thee, to advance
+  Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance
+  The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find,
+  Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
+  To thee and thy deservings. That last strain
+  Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again
+  Another cheerful goblet, while I say
+  "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SHE IS GOING.
+
+  For their elder Sister's hair
+  Martha does a wreath prepare
+  Of bridal rose, ornate and gay;
+  To-morrow is the wedding-day.
+                     She is going.
+
+  Mary, youngest of the three,
+  Laughing idler, full of glee,
+  Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
+  Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her--
+                         But she's going.
+
+  Vex not, maidens, nor regret
+  Thus to part with Margaret.
+  Charms like yours can never stay
+  Long within doors; and one day
+                         You'll be going.
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS.
+
+  By Enfield lanes, and Winchmore's verdant hill,
+  Two lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk:
+  The fair Maria, as a vestal, still;
+  And Emma brown, exuberant in talk.
+  With soft and Lady speech the first applies
+  The mild correctives that to grace belong
+  To her redundant friend, who her defies
+  With jest, and mad discourse, and bursts of song.
+  O differing Pair, yet sweetly thus agreeing,
+  What music from your happy discord rises,
+  While your companion hearing each, and seeing,
+  Nor this nor that, but both together, prizes;
+  This lesson teaching, which our souls may strike,
+  That harmonies may be in things unlike!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE.
+
+  I was not train'd in Academic bowers,
+  And to those learned streams I nothing owe
+  Which copious from those twin fair founts do flow;
+  Mine have been anything but studious hours.
+  Yet can I fancy, wandering 'mid thy towers,
+  Myself a nursling, Granta, of thy lap;
+  My brow seems tightening with the Doctor's cap,
+  And I walk _gowned_; feel unusual powers.
+  Strange forms of logic clothe my admiring speech,
+  Old Ramus' ghost is busy at my brain;
+  And my skull teems with notions infinite.
+  Be still, ye reeds of Camus, while I teach
+  Truths, which transcend the searching Schoolmen's vein,
+  And half had stagger'd that stout Stagirite.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN
+"THE BLIND BOY."
+
+  Rare artist! who with half thy tools, or none,
+  Canst execute with ease thy curious art,
+  And press thy powerful'st meanings on the heart,
+  Unaided by the eye, expression's throne!
+  While each blind sense, intelligential grown
+  Beyond its sphere, performs the effect of sight:
+  Those orbs alone, wanting their proper might,.
+  All motionless and silent seem to moan
+  The unseemly negligence of nature's hand,
+  That left them so forlorn. What praise is thine,
+  O mistress of the passions; artist fine!
+  Who dost our souls against our sense command,
+  Plucking the horror from a sightless face,
+  Lending to blank deformity a grace.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+WORK.
+
+  Who first invented work, and bound the free
+  And holiday-rejoicing spirit down
+  To the ever-haunting importunity
+  Of business in the green fields, and the town--
+  To plough, loom, anvil, spade--and oh! most sad
+  To that dry drudgery at the--desk's dead wood?
+  Who but the Being unblest, alien from good,
+  Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad
+  Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings,
+  That round and round incalculably reel--
+  For wrath divine hath made him like a wheel--
+  In that red realm from which are no returnings:
+  Where toiling, and turmoiling, ever and aye
+  He, and his thoughts, keep pensive working-day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+LEISURE.
+
+  They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke,
+  That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press,
+  Which only works and business can redress:
+  Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,
+  Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.
+  But might I, fed with silent meditation,
+  Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation--
+  _Improbus Labor_, which my spirits hath broke--
+  I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit:
+  Fling in more days than went to make the gem
+  That crown'd the white top of Methusalem:
+  Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,
+  Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,
+  The heaven-sweet burden of eternity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
+
+  Rogers, of all the men that I have known
+  But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss
+  Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across
+  My mind an image of the cordial tone
+  Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest
+  I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,
+  That of that threefold cord one precious link
+  By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest.
+  Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem--
+  A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer
+  He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,
+  And not for every trifle harass them,
+  As some, divine and laic, too oft do.
+  This man's a private loss, and public too.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE GYPSY'S MALISON.
+
+  "Suck, baby, suck! mother's love grows by giving;
+  Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting;
+  Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living
+  Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
+
+  "Kiss, baby, kiss! mother's lips shine by kisses;
+  Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
+  Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
+  Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
+
+  "Hang, baby, hang! mother's love loves such forces,
+  Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
+  Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
+  Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
+
+  So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,
+  And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.
+
+
+
+
+COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ.
+ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS.
+
+  Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then
+  Esteemed you a perfect specimen
+  Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,
+  To teach us colder English how a friend's
+  Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,
+  Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain;
+  But nothing further had the gift to espy.
+  Sudden you reappear. With wonder I
+  Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene
+  Only to _his_ inferior in the clean
+  Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art--
+  Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.
+  Almost without the aid language affords,
+  Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, _words_,
+  (Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway
+  Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play
+  We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws
+  Our tears on credit: and we find the cause
+  Some two hours after, spelling o'er again
+  Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.
+  Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,
+  Still snatch some new old story from the urns
+  Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before
+  Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,
+
+PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL.
+
+  Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask
+  Under the vizor of a borrow'd name;
+  Let things eschew the light deserving blame:
+  No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.
+  "Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book;
+  And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass;
+  Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass,
+  On the great world's antique glories we may look.
+  No longer then, as "lowly substitute,
+  Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains,"
+  Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;
+  Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,
+  Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,
+  And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK."
+
+  I like you, and your book, ingenuous Hone!
+    In whose capacious all-embracing leaves
+  The very marrow of tradition's shown;
+    And all that history--much that fiction--weaves.
+
+  By every sort of taste your work is graced.
+    Vast stores of modern anecdote we find,
+  With good old story quaintly interlaced--
+    The theme as various as the reader's mind.
+
+  Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint--
+    Yet kindly,--that the half-turn'd Catholic
+  Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint,
+    And cannot curse the candid heretic.
+
+  Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your page;
+    Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold,
+  And, proudly conscious of a purer age,
+    Forgive some fopperies in the times of old.
+
+  Verse-honoring Phoebus, Father of bright _Days_,
+    Must needs bestow on you both good and many,
+  Who, building trophies of his Children's praise,
+    Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any.
+
+  Dan Phoebus loves your book--trust me, friend Hone--
+    The title only errs, he bids me say:
+  For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown,
+    He swears,'tis not a work of _every day_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ.
+ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS.
+
+  Consummate Artist, whose undying name
+  With classic Rogers shall go down to fame,
+  Be this thy crowning work! In my young days
+  How often have I, with a child's fond gaze,
+  Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done:
+  Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison!
+  All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view;
+  I saw, and I believed the phantoms true.
+  But, above all, that most romantic tale[2]
+  Did o'er my raw credulity prevail,
+  Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,
+  That serve at once for jackets and for wings.
+  Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,
+  But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.
+  In several ways distinct you make us feel--
+  _Graceful_ as Raphael, as Watteau _genteel_.
+  Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;
+  And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.
+
+[Footnote 1: Illustrations of the British Novelists.]
+
+[Footnote 2: Peter Wilkins.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.
+
+  What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate
+  Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate?
+  Good sense--good humor;--these are trivial things,
+  Dear M----, that each trite encomiast sings.
+  But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt
+  From every low-bred passion, where contempt,
+  Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found
+  A harbor yet; an understanding sound;
+  Just views of right and wrong; perception full
+  Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful,
+  In life and manners; wit above her sex,
+  Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;
+  Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth,
+  To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;
+  A noble nature, conqueror in the strife
+  Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,
+  Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power
+  Of those whose days have been one silken hour,
+  Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense
+  Alike of benefit, and of offence,
+  With reconcilement quick, that instant springs
+  From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;
+  While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd
+  By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind.
+  If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer
+  Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;
+  And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,
+  Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+[In a leaf of a quarto edition of the "Lives of the Saints, written
+in Spanish by the learned and reverend father, Alfonso Villegas,
+Divine, of the Order of St. Dominick, set forth in English by John
+Heigham, Anno 1630," bought at a Catholic book-shop in Duke Street,
+Lincoln's Inn Fields, I found, carefully inserted, a painted flower,
+seemingly coeval with the book itself; and did not, for some time,
+discover that it opened in the middle, and was the cover to a very
+humble draught of a St. Anne, with the Virgin and Child; doubtless
+the performance of some poor but pious Catholic, whose meditations it
+assisted.]
+
+  O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower,
+  That shrines beneath her modest canopy
+  Memorials dear to Romish piety;
+  Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour
+  The work perchance of some meek devotee,
+  Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth
+  The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth,
+  In this imperfect tracery might see
+  Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.
+  Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told
+  Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold,
+  That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.
+  True love shows costliest, where the means are scant;
+  And, in their reckoning, they _abound_, who _want_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+THE SELF-ENCHANTED.
+
+  I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare,
+  Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there,
+  Stooping, like some enchanted theme,
+  Over the marge of that crystal stream,
+  Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind,
+  With Self-love fond, had to waters pined,
+  Ages had waked, and ages slept,
+  And that bending posture still she kept:
+  For her eyes she may not turn away,
+  'Till a fairer object shall pass that way--
+  'Till an image more beauteous this world can show,
+  Than her own which she sees in the mirror below.
+  Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore,
+  Nor dream to be disenchanted more:
+  For vain is expectance, and wish in vain,
+  'Till a new Narcissus can come again.
+
+TO LOUISA M----,
+WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY."
+
+  Louisa, serious grown and mild,
+  I knew you once a romping child,
+  Obstreperous much and very wild.
+  Then you would clamber up my knees,
+  And strive with every art to tease,
+  When every art of yours could please.
+  Those things would scarce be proper now,
+  But they are gone, I know not how,
+  And woman's written on your brow.
+  Time draws his finger o'er the scene;
+  But I cannot forget between
+  The Thing to me you once have been;
+  Each sportive sally, wild escape,--
+  The scoff, the banter, and the jape,--
+  And antics of my gamesome Ape.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSLATIONS.
+
+FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I.
+
+THE BALLAD SINGERS.
+
+  Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw,
+  Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;
+  Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,
+  And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:
+  With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red,
+  But long with dust and dirt discolored
+  Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,
+  From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.
+  One a small infant at the breast does bear;
+  And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,
+  Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,
+  When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,
+  Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,
+  Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt
+  To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons
+  Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns,
+  Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells;
+  And, working single in their low-rooft cells,
+  Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night
+  With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.--
+  Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid,
+  Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid
+  To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.
+  Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout
+  Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by,
+  Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply
+  With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees
+  The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,
+  But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.
+  So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong
+  Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings,
+  The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings,
+  And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.
+  Hither and thither from the sevenfold road
+  Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides
+  The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides
+  To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,
+  They reunite, so these unite as fast.
+  The older Songstress hitherto hath spent
+  Her elocution in the argument
+  Of their great Song in _prose_; to wit, the woes
+  Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes--
+  Ah! "_Wandering He!_"--which now in loftier _verse_
+  Pathetic they alternately rehearse.
+  All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes
+  His right ear to the strain. The other hopes
+  To catch it better with his left. Long trade
+  It were to tell, how the deluded maid
+  A victim fell. And now right greedily
+  All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,
+  That are so tragical; which She, and She,
+  Deals out, and _sings the while_; nor can there be
+  A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back
+  His contribution from the gentle rack
+  Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,
+  The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf
+  Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest,
+  And boldly claims his ballad with the best.
+  An old Dame only lingers. To her purse
+  The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse,
+  "Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,
+  While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall
+  Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way;
+  How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."
+
+[Footnote 1: Seven Dials]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+II.
+
+TO DAVID COOK,
+
+OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.
+
+  For much good-natured verse received from thee,
+  A loving verse take in return from me.
+  "Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry;
+  And to our David "twice as good," say I.
+  Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer,
+  Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,
+  Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night
+  Fills half the world with shadows of affright,
+  You with your lantern, partner of your round,
+  Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.
+  The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,
+  The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,
+  Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall;
+  Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.
+  But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,
+  Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,
+  The gentle salesman you with candor greet,
+  And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.
+  Announcing your approach by formal bell,
+  Of nightly weather you the changes tell;
+  Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep
+  In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep
+  In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet
+  Of winter; and in alley, or in street,
+  Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.
+  What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse
+  On your didactic strain--indulgent Night
+  With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite,
+  And critics sleep while you in staves do sound
+  The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound
+  In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim:
+  Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name?
+  Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,
+  And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!
+  To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;
+  Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;
+  Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice:
+  How death at last all ranks doth equalize;
+  And, in conclusion, pray good years befall,
+  With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all."
+  For this and other tokens of good will
+  On boxing-day may store of shillings fill
+  Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,
+  When at each door your blameless suit you press:
+  And what you wish to us (it is but reason)
+  Receive in turn--the compliments o' th' season!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+III.
+
+ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT
+SLEEPING.
+
+  Beautiful Infant, who dost keep
+  Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,
+  May the repose unbroken be,
+  Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
+  While thou enjoy'st along with it
+  That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
+  Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
+  The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IV.
+
+EPITAPH ON A DOG.
+  Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
+  That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
+  His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
+  Had he occasion for that staff, with which
+  He now goes picking out his path in fear
+  Over the highways and crossings, but would plant,
+  Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
+  A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd
+  His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
+  Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:
+  To whom with loud and passionate laments
+  From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.
+  Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,
+  The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
+  I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
+  Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
+  Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive
+  At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
+  And common portion in his feast of scraps;
+  Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent
+  With our long day and tedious beggary.
+  These were my manners, this my way of life,
+  Till age and slow disease me overtook,
+  And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
+  But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
+  Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
+  This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,
+  Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
+  And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
+  In long and lasting union to attest,
+  The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+V.
+
+THE RIVAL BELLS.
+
+  A tuneful challenge rings from either side
+  Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride,
+  Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
+  The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
+  Such harmony from the contention flows,
+  That the divided ear no preference knows:
+  Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,
+  While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+VI.
+
+NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.
+
+  Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
+  Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet;
+  But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,
+  Discover'd properties to her unknown;
+  Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use,
+  Known Quantities from unknown to educe;
+  And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise--
+  The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.
+  Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,
+  Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!
+
+       *       *       *      *       *
+
+VII.
+
+THE HOUSEKEEPER.
+
+  The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,
+  Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;
+  Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain,
+  Retreats to his small domicile amain.
+  Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well--
+  He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
+  He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
+  Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
+  Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,
+  And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
+  He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
+  Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
+  And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam--
+  Knock when you will--he's sure to be at home.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+VIII.
+
+ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST.[1]
+
+[Footnote 1: Benjamin Ferrers--Died A. D. 1732.]
+
+  And hath thy blameless life become
+  A prey to the devouring tomb?
+  A more mute silence hast thou known,
+  A deafness deeper than thine own,
+  While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
+  That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
+  Repair with quickening verse the breach.
+  And write thee into light and speech?
+  The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd
+  Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;
+  Who made the Hearing, without wrong
+  Did rescue thine from Siren's song.
+  He let thee _see_ the ways of men,
+  Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
+  Careful Beholder, down didst note,
+  And all their motley actions quote,
+  Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
+  Or gesture reading, more than _book_,
+  In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
+  Contented with the Silent Art,
+  Thyself as silent. Might I be
+  As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+IX.
+
+THE FEMALE ORATORS.
+
+  Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed
+  Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
+  So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs
+  A name, allusive strictly to _two Tongues_[1]
+  Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,
+  And _gratis_ deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.
+  With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
+  Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
+  One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
+  And one in literalities abounds;
+  In mood and figure these keep up the din:
+  Words multiply, and every word tells in.
+  Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;
+  And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins
+  In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,
+  And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.
+  Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand,
+  And from her sovereign station taints the land.
+  Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;
+  Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.
+
+[Footnote 1: _Bilinguis_ in the Latin.]
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.
+
+
+I.
+
+  Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,
+  That sang the Pillory,
+  In loftier strains to show
+  A more sublime Machine
+  Than that, where thou wert seen,
+  With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry,
+  Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below--
+  A most unseemly show!
+
+
+II.
+
+  In such a place
+  Who could expose thy face,
+  Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!
+  That paint'st the strife
+  And all the naked ills of savage life,
+  Far above Rousseau?
+  Rather myself had stood
+  In that ignoble wood,
+  Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day.
+  If nought else could atone
+  For waggish libel,
+  I swear on bible,
+  I would have spared him for thy sake alone,
+  Man Friday!
+
+
+III.
+
+  Our ancestors' were sour days,
+  Great Master of Romance!
+  A milder doom had fallen to thy chance
+  In our days:
+  Thy sole assignment
+  Some solitary confinement,
+  (Not worth thy care a carrot,)
+  Where in world-hidden cell
+  Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,
+  Only without the parrot;
+  By sure experience taught to know,
+  Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.
+
+
+IV.
+
+  But stay! methinks in statelier measure--
+  A more companionable pleasure--
+  I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,
+  (The subject of my song,
+  Delay'd however long,)
+  And some of thine own race,
+  To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.
+  There with thee go,
+  Link'd in like sentence,
+  With regulated pace and footing slow,
+  Each old acquaintance,
+  Rogue--harlot--thief--that live to future ages;
+  Through many a labor'd tome,
+  Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.
+  Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!
+  Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,
+  From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.
+  Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;
+  Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,
+  There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,
+  The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.
+
+
+V.
+
+  Incompetent my song to raise,
+  To its just height thy praise,
+  Great Mill!
+  That by thy motion proper
+  (No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill),
+  Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,
+  Turn'st out men's consciences,
+  That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
+  As flour from purest wheat,
+  Into thy hopper.
+  All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,
+  Or human, or divine.
+
+
+VI.
+
+  Compared with thee,
+  What are the labors of that Jumping Sect,
+  Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?
+  Thou dost not bump,
+  Or jump,
+  But _walk_ men into virtue; betwixt crime
+  And slow repentance giving breathing time,
+  And leisure to be good;
+  Instructing with discretion demi-reps
+  How to direct their steps.
+
+
+VII.
+
+  Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!
+  Not that which framed the tub,
+  Where sat the Cynic cub,
+  With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;
+  But from those groves derived, I deem,
+  Where Plato nursed his dream
+  Of immortality;
+  Seeing that clearly
+  Thy system all is merely
+  Peripatetic.
+  Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give
+  Of how to live
+  With temperance, sobriety, morality,
+  (A new art,)
+  That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,
+  Each Tyro now proceeds
+  A "Walking Stewart!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+GOING OR GONE.
+
+I.
+
+  Fine merry franions,
+  Wanton companions,
+  My days are ev'n banyans
+    With thinking upon ye!
+  How Death, that last stinger,
+  Finis-writer, end-bringer,
+  Has laid his chill finger,
+    Or is laying on ye.
+
+
+II.
+
+  There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
+  With footing it featly
+  That took me completely,
+    She sleeps in the Kirk House;
+  And poor Polly Perkin,
+  Whose Dad was still firking
+  The jolly ale firkin,
+    She's gone to the Work-house;
+
+
+III.
+
+  Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter
+  (In ten counties no smarter)
+  Has ta'en his departure
+    For Proserpine's orchards:
+  And Lily, postilion,
+  With cheeks of vermilion,
+  Is one of a million
+    That fill up the church-yards;
+
+
+IV.
+
+  And, lusty as Dido,
+  Fat Clemitson's widow
+  Flits now a small shadow
+    By Stygian hid ford;
+  And good Master Clapton
+  Has thirty years napt on,
+  The ground he last hapt on,
+    Entomb'd by fair Widford;
+
+
+V.
+
+  And gallant Tom Dockwra,
+  Of Nature's finest crockery,
+  Now but thin air and mockery,
+    Lurks by Avernus,
+  Whose honest grasp of hand
+  Still, while his life did stand,
+  At friend's or foe's command,
+    Almost did burn us.
+
+
+VI.
+
+  Roger de Coverley
+  Not more good man than he;
+  Yet has he equally
+    Push'd for Cocytus,
+  With drivelling Worral,
+  And wicked old Dorrell,
+  'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
+    Whose end might affright us!--
+
+
+VII.
+
+  Kindly hearts have I known;
+  Kindly hearts, they are flown;
+  Here and there if but one
+    Linger yet uneffaced,
+  Imbecile tottering elves,
+  Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
+  These scarce are half themselves,
+    With age and care crazed.
+
+
+VIII.
+
+  But this day Fanny Hutton
+  Her last dress has put on;
+  Her fine lessons forgotten,
+    She died, as the dunce died;
+  And prim Betsey Chambers,
+  Decay'd in her members,
+  No longer remembers
+    Things, as she once did;
+
+
+IX.
+
+  And prudent Miss Wither
+  Not in jest now doth _wither_,
+  And soon must go--whither
+    Nor I well, nor you know;
+  And flaunting Miss Waller,
+  _That_ soon must befall her,
+  Whence none can recall her,
+    Though proud once as Juno!
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+
+FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT
+COMPOSERS.
+
+  Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
+  Just as the whim bites; for my part,
+  I do not care a farthing candle
+  For either of them, or for Handel.--
+  Cannot a man live free and easy,
+  Without admiring Pergolesi?
+  Or through the world with comfort go,
+  That never heard of Doctor Blow?
+  So help me heaven, I hardly have;
+  And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
+  Like other people, if you watch it,
+  And know no more of stave or crotchet,
+  Than did the primitive Peruvians;
+  Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
+  That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
+  Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
+  By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
+  Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
+  I care no more for Cimarosa,
+  Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
+  Being no painter; and bad luck
+  Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!
+  Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
+  Had something in them; but who's Purcel?
+  The devil, with his foot so cloven,
+  For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
+  And, if the bargain does not suit,
+  I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
+  There's not the splitting of a splinter
+  To choose twixt him last named, and Winter.
+  Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
+  Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
+  I would not go four miles to visit
+  Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
+  No more I would for Bononcini.
+  As for Novello, or Rossini,
+  I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
+  Because they're living; so I leave 'em.
+
+
+
+
+THE WIFE'S TRIAL;
+
+OR,
+
+THE INTRUDING WIDOW.
+
+A Dramatic poem.
+
+FOUNDED ON MR. CRABBE'S TALE OF "THE CONFIDANT."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+CHARACTERS.
+
+MR. SELBY, _A Wiltshire Gentleman._
+KATHERINE, _Wife to Selby_.
+LUCY, _Sister to Selby_.
+MRS. FRAMPTON, _A Widow_.
+
+SERVANTS.
+
+SCENE--_At Mr. Selby's House, or in the grounds adjacent_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE--_A Library_.
+
+MR. SELBY. KATHERINE.
+
+_Selby_. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;
+I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,
+And those too with allowance. I have not
+Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
+Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
+With any strain of harshness on a string
+Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
+Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
+That to the lame performance of some vows,
+And common courtesies of man to wife,
+Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
+To esteem as favors, what in that blest union
+Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,
+As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
+Gently to reprehend.
+
+_Kath._         In friendship's barter
+The riches we exchange should hold some level,
+And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys
+Demand some thanks thrown in. You look me, sir,
+To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
+An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
+Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
+Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.
+
+_Selby._ But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
+I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
+Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
+Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
+Haply did think their company too long;
+And over-company, we know by proof,
+Is worse than no attendance.
+
+_Kath._                I must guess,
+You speak this of the Widow--
+
+_Selby._                'Twas a bolt
+At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
+I am most sorry to have wounded you
+Through a friend's side.  I know not how we have swerved
+From our first talk. I was to caution you
+Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
+Which, for some girlish obligations past,
+In that relenting season of the heart,
+When slightest favors pass for benefits
+Of endless binding, would entail upon you
+An iron slavery of obsequious duty
+To the proud will of an imperious woman.
+
+_Kath_. The favors are not slight to her I owe.
+
+_Selby_. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts
+Cancels all dues--                            [_A voice within_.
+                  even now I hear her call you
+In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses
+Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate.
+Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
+Say you are busy. Use her by degrees
+To some less hard exactions.
+
+_Kath_.                 I conjure you,
+Detain me not. I will return--
+
+_Selby_.                 Sweet wife,
+Use thy own pleasure--                        [_Exit_ KATHERINE.
+                       but it troubles me.
+A visit of three days, as was pretended,
+Spun to ten tedious weeks, and no hint given
+When she will go! I would this buxom Widow
+Were a thought handsomer! I'd fairly try
+My Katherine's constancy; make desperate love
+In seeming earnest; and raise up such broils,
+That she, not I, should be the first to warn
+The insidious guest depart.
+
+                _Reenter_ KATHERINE.
+
+So soon return'd!
+What was our Widow's will?
+
+_Kath_.                    A trifle, sir.
+
+_Selby_. Some toilet service--to adjust her head,
+Or help to stick a pin in the right place--
+
+_Kath_. Indeed 'twas none of these.
+
+_Selby._                         Or new vamp up
+The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her
+Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
+Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
+And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond slave!
+And yet my dearest Kate!--This day at least
+(It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom,
+And will forget our Widow. Philip, our coach--
+Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
+An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
+To the blest cottage on the green hill-side,
+Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
+If the crimson parlor hath exchanged its hue
+For colors not so welcome. Faded though it be,
+It will not show less lovely than the tinge
+Of this faint red, contending with the pale,
+Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek
+An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,
+That bears my Katherine's name.--
+                                Our carriage, Philip.
+
+           _Enter a Servant._
+
+Now, Robin, what make you here?
+
+_Servant._                May it please you,
+The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.
+
+_Selby._ He had no orders--
+
+_Servant._ None, sir, that I know of,
+But from the lady, who expects some letter
+At the next Post Town.
+
+_Selby._              Go, Robin.          [_Exit Servant._
+                                      How is this?
+
+_Kath._ I came to tell you so, but fear'd your anger--
+
+_Selby._ It was ill done though of this Mistress Frampton,
+This forward Widow.  But a ride's poor loss
+Imports not much. In to your chamber, love,
+Where you with music may beguile the hour,
+While I am tossing over dusty tomes,
+Till our most reasonable friend returns.
+
+_Kath_. I am all obedience.               [_Exit_ KATHERINE.
+
+_Selby_.                    Too obedient, Kate,
+And to too many masters. I can hardly
+On such a day as this refrain to speak
+My sense of this injurious friend, this pest,
+This household evil, this close-clinging fiend,
+In rough terms to my wife. 'Death, my own servants
+Controll'd above me! orders countermanded!
+What next?              [_Servant enters and announces the Sister._
+
+              _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+Sister! I know you are come to welcome
+This day's return. 'Twas well done.
+
+_Lucy_.                       You seem ruffled.
+In years gone by this day was used to be
+The smoothest of the year. Your honey turn'd
+So soon to gall?
+
+_Selby_.        Gall'd am I, and with cause,
+And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,
+Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.
+
+_Lucy_. Something you wrote me of a Mistress Frampton.
+
+_Selby_. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
+Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
+Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
+The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
+Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,
+Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she flaunts it
+In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;
+Who owes her some strange service, of what nature
+I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek
+And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,
+As spell-bound by some witch.
+
+_Lucy_.              Some mystery hangs on it.
+How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?
+
+_Selby_. As one who fears, and yet not greatly cares
+For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
+A secret glance would tell me she could love,
+If I but gave encouragement. Before me
+She keeps some moderation; but is never
+Closeted with my wife, but in the end
+I find my Katherine in briny tears.
+From the small chamber, where she first was lodged,
+The gradual fiend by spacious wriggling arts
+Has now ensconced herself in the best part
+Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own;
+Commands my servants, equipage.--I hear
+Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?
+
+              _Enter_ MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Mrs. F._ O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,
+With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Philip
+Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
+And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,
+Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,
+My errand unperform'd at Andover.
+
+_Lucy_. And I shall love the knave forever after.
+                                                    [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F._ A friend with you!
+
+_Selby_.                    My eldest sister, Lucy,
+Come to congratulate this returning morn.--
+Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.
+
+_Mrs. F._                                Pray,
+Be seated; for your brother's sake, you are welcome.
+I had thought this day to have spent in homely fashion
+With the good couple, to whose hospitality
+I stand so far indebted.  But your coming
+Makes it a feast.
+
+_Lucy._            She does the honors naturally--
+                                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ As if she were the mistress of the house.--
+                                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I love to be at home with loving friends.
+To stand on ceremony with obligations,
+Is to restrain the obliger.  That old coach, though,
+Of yours jumbles one strangely.
+
+_Selby._                  I shall order
+An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam--
+
+_Lucy._ To drive her and her pride to Lucifer,
+I hope he means.                                     [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I must go trim myself; this humbled garb
+Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave
+For a short absence?--and your Katherine--
+
+_Selby._ You'll find her in her closet--
+
+_Mrs. F._                          Fare you well, then.
+                                                     [_Exit._
+
+_Selby._ How like you her assurance?
+
+_Lucy._                              Even so well,
+That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
+She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
+My merry groom should in a trice convey her
+To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
+To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
+She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.
+O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
+That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
+Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
+Secrets of any worth, especially
+Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught,
+My life upon't,'tis but some girlish story
+Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
+Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,
+Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.
+
+_Selby_. I think it is no more; and will dismiss
+My further fears, if ever I have had such.
+
+_Lucy_. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens, brother;
+And how the new trees thrive, I recommended.
+Your Katherine is engaged now--
+
+_Selby_.                    I'll attend you.
+
+                                                   [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_Servants' Hall_.
+
+HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, _and others, laughing_.
+
+_Housekeeper_. Our Lady's guest, since her short ride, seems ruffled,
+And somewhat in disorder. Philip, Philip,
+I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks
+Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.
+
+_Philip_. Good Mistress Jane, our serious housekeeper,
+And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
+We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger,
+And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries.
+We are wild things.
+
+_Butler_.      Good Philip, tell us all.
+
+_All_. Ay, as you live, tell, tell--
+
+_Philip_. Mad fellows, you shall have it.
+The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud--
+
+_Butler_. I think that no one can mistake her ringing.
+
+_Waiting-maid_. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it,
+More of entreaty hath it than command.
+
+_Philip_. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus.
+The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice
+More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman Philip!"
+
+I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office,
+"Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market-town,
+Where I have hope of letters." I made haste:
+Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd,
+And drove her--
+
+_Waiting-maid_. By the straight high-road to Andover,
+I guess--
+
+_Philip_. Pray, warrant things within your knowledge,
+Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
+And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.
+
+_Butler_. He'll have his humor; best not interrupt him.
+
+_Philip_. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor beasts,
+Meeting such droves of cattle and of people,
+May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled,
+Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd,
+And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest,
+By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions
+We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
+In policy, to save the few joints left her,
+Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.
+
+_All_. Ha! ha! ha!
+
+_Butler_. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.
+
+_Waiting-maid_. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out
+With sticking pins in her pillow; still she scapes them--
+
+_Butler_. And I with helping her to mum for claret,
+But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.
+
+_Housekeeper_. Well, well, she is the guest of our good Mistress,
+And so should be respected. Though, I think,
+Our master cares not for her company,
+He would ill brook we should express so much
+By rude discourtesies, and short attendance,
+Being but servants. (_A Bell rings furiously._)
+                    'Tis her bell speaks now;
+Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's wanted?
+
+_Butler_. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip coachman.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+SCENE.--_Mrs. Selby's Chamber_.
+
+MRS. FRAMPTON, KATHERINE, _working_.
+
+_Mrs. F._ I am thinking, child, how contrary our fates
+Have traced our lots through life.--Another needle,
+This works untowardly.--An heiress born
+To splendid prospects, at our common school
+I was as one above you all, not of you;
+Had my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms,
+Denied to you. Pray, listen--
+
+_Kath_.                 I must hear,
+What you are pleased to speak--how my heart sinks here! [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F_. My chamber to myself, my separate maid,
+My coach, and so forth.--Not that needle, simple one,
+With the great staring eye fit for a Cyclops!
+Mine own are not so blinded with their griefs,
+But I could make a shift to thread a smaller.
+A cable or a camel might go through this,
+And never strain for the passage.
+
+_Kath_.                      I will fit you----
+Intolerable tyranny!                                    [_Aside_.
+
+_Mrs. F_.        Quick, quick;
+You were not once so slack.--As I was saying,
+Not a young thing among ye, but observed me
+Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to
+In all your dangers, all your little difficulties,
+Your girlish scrapes? I was the scape-goat still,
+To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some,
+Perhaps, since then--
+
+_Kath_.           No more of that, for mercy,
+If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet,
+Cleave the cold earth for comfort.                     [_Kneels_.
+
+_Mrs. F._                     This to me?
+This posture to your friend had better suited
+The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days
+To the _then_ rich heiress, than the wife of Selby,
+Of wealthy Mr. Selby,
+To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is.
+Come, come,
+'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said;
+I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bedfellow!
+You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you.
+I'll make him give you up a night or so;
+In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk
+Old tricks of school-days over.
+
+_Kath._                     Hear me, madam--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Not by that name. Your friend--
+
+_Kath._                          My truest friend,
+And savior of my honor!
+
+_Mrs. F._           This sounds better;
+You still shall find me such.
+
+_Kath._                  That you have graced
+Our poor house with your presence hitherto,
+Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace
+Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate.
+You have been pleased
+To accept some trivial hospitalities,
+In part of payment of a long arrear
+I owe to you, no less than for my life.
+
+_Mrs. F._ You speak my services too large.
+
+_Kath._                                   Nay, less;
+For what an abject thing were life to me
+Without your silence on my dreadful secret!
+And I would wish the league we have renew'd
+Might be perpetual--
+
+_Mrs. F._        Have a care, fine madam!          [_Aside._
+
+_Kath._ That one house still might hold us. But my husband
+Has shown himself of late--
+
+_Mrs. F._                How, Mistress Selby?
+
+_Kath._ Not, not impatient. You misconstrue him.
+He honors, and he loves, nay, he must love
+The friend of his wife's youth. But there are moods,
+In which--
+
+_Mrs. F._ I understand you;--in which husbands,
+And wives that love, may wish to be alone,
+To nurse the tender fits of new-born dalliance,
+After a five years' wedlock.
+
+_Kath._                      Was that well,
+Or charitably put? do these pale cheeks
+Proclaim a wanton blood? This wasting form
+Seem a fit theatre for Levity
+To play his love-tricks on; and act such follies,
+As even in Affection's first bland Moon
+Have less of grace than pardon in best wedlocks?
+I was about to say, that there are times,
+When the most frank and sociable man
+May surfeit on most loved society,
+Preferring loneness rather--
+
+_Mrs. F._                  To my company--
+
+_Kath._ Ay, yours, or mine, or any one's. Nay, take
+Not this unto yourself. Even in the newness
+Of our first married loves 'twas sometimes so.
+For solitude, I have heard my Selby say,
+Is to the mind as rest to the corporal functions;
+And he would call it oft, the _day's soft sleep._
+
+_Mrs. F._ What is your drift? and whereto tends this speech,
+Rhetorically labor'd?
+
+_Kath._                 That you would
+Abstain but from our house a month, a week;
+I make request but for a single day.
+
+_Mrs. F._ A month, a week, a day! A single hour
+Is every week, and month, and the long year,
+And all the years to come! My footing here,
+Slipt once, recovers never. From the state
+Of gilded roofs, attendance, luxuries,
+Parks, gardens, sauntering walks, or wholesome rides,
+To the bare cottage on the withering moor,
+Where I myself am servant to myself,
+Or only waited on by blackest thoughts--
+I sink, if this be so. No; here I sit.
+
+_Kath_. Then I am lost forever!
+
+                             [_Sinks at her feet--curtain drops._
+
+
+SCENE--_An Apartment contiguous to the last._
+
+SELBY, _as if listening_.
+
+_Selby_. The sounds have died away. What am I changed to?
+What do I here, list'ning like to an abject,
+Or heartless wittol, that must hear no good,
+If he hear aught? "This shall to the ear of your husband."
+It was the Widow's word. I guess'd some mystery,
+And the solution with a vengeance comes.
+What can my wife have left untold to me,
+That must be told by proxy? I begin
+To call in doubt the course of her life past
+Under my very eyes. She hath not been good,
+Not virtuous, not discreet; she hath not outrun
+My wishes still with prompt and meek observance.
+Perhaps she is not fair, sweet-voiced; her eyes
+Not like the dove's; all this as well may be,
+As that she should entreasure up a secret
+In the peculiar closet of her breast,
+And grudge it to my ear. It is my right
+To claim the halves in any truth she owns,
+As much as in the babe I have by her;
+Upon whose face henceforth I fear to look,
+Lest I should fancy in its innocent brow
+Some strange shame written.
+
+           _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+               Sister, an anxious word with you.
+From out the chamber, where my wife but now
+Held talk with her encroaching friend, I heard
+(Not of set purpose heark'ning, but by chance)
+A voice of chiding, answer'd by a tone
+Of replication, such as the meek dove
+Makes, when the kite has clutch'd her. The high Widow
+Was loud and stormy. I distinctly heard
+One threat pronounced--"Your husband shall know all."
+I am no listener, sister; and I hold
+A secret, got by such unmanly shift,
+The pitiful'st of thefts; but what mine ear,
+I not intending it, receives perforce,
+I count my lawful prize. Some subtle meaning
+Lurks in this fiend's behavior; which, by force,
+Or fraud I must make mine.
+
+_Lucy_.               The gentlest means
+Are still the wisest. What, if you should press
+Your wife to a disclosure?
+
+_Selby_.              I have tried
+All gentler means; thrown out low hints, which, though
+Merely suggestions still, have never fail'd
+To blanch her cheek with fears. Roughlier to insist,
+Would be to kill, where I but meant to heal.
+
+_Lucy_. Your own description gave that Widow out
+As one not much precise, nor over-coy,
+And nice to listen to a suit of love.
+What if you feign'd a courtship, putting on,
+(To work the secret from her easy faith,)
+For honest ends, a most dishonest seeming?
+
+_Selby_. I see your drift, and partly meet your counsel.
+But must it not in me appear prodigious,
+To say the least, unnatural, and suspicious,
+To move hot love, where I have shown cool scorn,
+And undissembled looks of blank aversion?
+
+_Lucy_. Vain woman is the dupe of her own charms,
+And easily credits the resistless power,
+That in besieging beauty lies, to cast down
+The slight-built fortress of a casual hate.
+
+_Selby_. I am resolved--
+
+_Lucy_.                  Success attend your wooing!
+
+_Selby_. And I'll about it roundly, my wise sister.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+
+SCENE.--_The Library_.
+
+MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Selby_. A fortunate encounter, Mistress Frampton.
+My purpose was, if you could spare so much
+From your sweet leisure, a few words in private.
+
+_Mrs. F._ What mean his alter'd tones? These looks to me,
+Whose glances yet he has repell'd with coolness?
+Is the wind changed? I'll veer about with it,
+And meet him in all fashions.                           [_Aside_.
+                               All my leisure,
+Feebly bestow'd upon my kind friends here,
+Would not express a tithe of the obligements
+I every hour incur.
+
+_Selby_.       No more of that.
+I know not why, my wife hath lost of late
+Much of her cheerful spirits.
+
+_Mrs. F._                It was my topic
+To-day; and every day, and all day long,
+I still am chiding with her. "Child," I said,
+And said it pretty roundly--it may be
+I was too peremptory--we elder school-fellows,
+Presuming on the advantage of a year
+Or two, which, in that tender time, seem'd much,
+In after years, much like to elder sisters,
+Are prone to keep the authoritative style,
+When time has made the difference most ridiculous--
+
+_Selby_. The observation's shrewd.
+
+_Mrs. F._             "Child," I was saying,
+"If some wives had obtain'd a lot like yours,"
+And then perhaps I sigh'd, "they would not sit
+In corners moping, like to sullen moppets,
+That want their will, but dry their eyes, and look
+Their cheerful husbands in the face," perhaps
+I said, their Selbys, "with proportion'd looks
+Of honest joy."
+
+_Selby_.     You do suspect no jealousy?
+
+_Mrs. F._ What is his import? Whereto tends his Speech?
+                                                        [_Aside_.
+Of whom, or what, should she be jealous, sir?
+
+_Selby_. I do not know, but women have their fancies;
+And underneath a cold indifference,
+Or show of some distaste, husbands have mask'd
+A growing fondness for a female friend,
+Which the wife's eye was sharp enough to see,
+Before the friend had wit to find it out.
+You do not quit us soon?
+
+_Mrs. F._          'Tis as I find;
+Your Katherine profits by my lessons, sir.--
+Means this man honest? Is there no deceit?              [_Aside._
+
+_Selby_. She cannot choose.--Well, well, I have been thinking,
+And if the matter were to do again--
+
+_Mrs. F._ What matter, sir?
+
+_Selby._                   This idle bond of wedlock;
+These sour-sweet briars, fetters of harsh silk;
+I might have made, I do not say a better,
+But a more fit choice in a wife.
+
+_Mrs. F._                  The parch'd ground,
+In hottest Julys, drinks not in the showers
+More greedily than I his words!                         [_Aside_.
+
+_Selby_.                   My humor
+Is to be frank and jovial; and that man
+Affects me best, who most reflects me in
+My most free temper.
+
+_Mrs. F._        Were you free to choose,
+As jestingly I'll put the supposition,
+Without a thought reflecting on your Katherine,
+What sort of Woman would you make your choice?
+
+_Selby_. I like your humor and will meet your jest.
+She should be one about my Katherine's age;
+But not so old, by some ten years, in gravity,
+One that would meet my mirth, sometimes outrun it:
+No muling, pining moppet, as you said,
+Nor moping maid that I must still be teaching
+The freedoms of a wife all her life after:
+But one that, having worn the chain before,
+(And worn it lightly, as report gave out,)
+Enfranchised from it by her poor fool's death,
+Took it not so to heart that I need dread
+To die myself, for fear a second time
+To wet a widow's eye.
+
+_Mrs. F._        Some widows, sir,
+Hearing you talk so wildly, would be apt
+To put strange misconstruction on your words,
+As aiming at a Turkish liberty,
+Where the free husband hath his several mates,
+His Penseroso, his Allegro wife,
+To suit his sober or his frolic fit.
+
+_Selby_. How judge you of that latitude?
+
+_Mrs. F._                                As one,
+In European customs bred, must judge. Had I
+Been born a native of the liberal East,
+I might have thought as they do. Yet I knew
+A married man that took a second wife,
+And (the man's circumstances duly weigh'd,
+With all their bearings) the considerate world
+Nor much approved, nor much condemn'd the deed.
+
+_Selby_. You move my wonder strangely. Pray, proceed.
+
+_Mrs. F._ An eye of wanton liking he had placed
+Upon a Widow, who liked him again,
+But stood on terms of honorable love,
+And scrupled wronging his most virtuous wife--
+When to their ears a lucky rumor ran,
+That this demure and saintly-seeming wife
+Had a first husband living; with the which
+Being question'd, she but faintly could deny.
+"A priest indeed there was; some words had pass'd,
+But scarce amounting to a marriage rite.
+Her friend was absent; she supposed him dead;
+And, seven years parted, both were free to choose."
+
+_Selby_. What did the indignant husband? Did he not
+With violent handlings stigmatize the cheek
+Of the deceiving wife, who had entail'd
+Shame on their innocent babe?
+
+_Mrs. F._                He neither tore
+His wife's locks nor his own; but wisely weighing
+His own offence with hers in equal poise,
+And woman's weakness 'gainst the strength of man,
+Came to a calm and witty compromise.
+He coolly took his gay-faced widow home,
+Made her his second wife; and still the first
+Lost few or none of her prerogatives.
+The servants call'd her mistress still; she kept
+The keys, and had the total ordering
+Of the house affairs; and, some slight toys excepted,
+Was all a moderate wife would wish to be.
+
+_Selby_. A tale full of dramatic incident!--
+And if a man should put it in a play,
+How should he name the parties?
+
+_Mrs. F._                  The man's name
+Through time I have forgot--the widow's too;--
+But his first wife's first name, her maiden one,
+Was--not unlike to _that_ your Katherine bore,
+Before she took the honor'd style of Selby.
+
+_Selby_. A dangerous meaning in your riddle lurks.
+One knot is yet unsolved; that told, this strange
+And most mysterious drama ends. The name
+Of that first husband--
+
+                 _Enter_ LUCY.
+
+_Mrs. F._           Sir, your pardon--
+The allegory fits your private ear.
+Some half hour hence, in the garden's secret walk,
+We shall have leisure.                                  [_Exit_.
+
+_Selby_.          Sister, whence come you?
+
+_Lucy_. From your poor Katherine's chamber, where she droops
+In sad presageful thoughts, and sighs, and weeps,
+And seems to pray by turns. At times she looks
+As she would pour her secret in my bosom--
+Then starts, as I have seen her, at the mention
+Of some immodest act. At her request,
+I left her on her knees.
+
+_Selby_.            The fittest posture;
+For great has been her fault to Heaven and me.
+She married me with a first husband living,
+Or not known not to be so, which, in the judgment
+Of any but indifferent honesty,
+Must be esteem'd the same. The shallow Widow,
+Caught by my art, under a riddling veil
+Too thin to hide her meaning, hath confess'd all.
+Your coming in broke off the conference,
+When she was ripe to tell the fatal _name_
+That seals my wedded doom.
+
+_Lucy_.               Was she so forward
+To pour her hateful meanings in your ear
+At the first hint?
+
+_Selby_.      Her newly flatter'd hopes
+Array'd themselves at first in forms of doubt;
+And with a female caution she stood off
+Awhile, to read the meaning of my suit,
+Which with such honest seeming I enforced,
+That her cold scruples soon gave way; and now
+She rests prepared, as mistress, or as wife,
+To seize the place of her betrayed friend--
+My much offending, but more suffering, Katherine.
+
+_Lucy_. Into what labyrinth of fearful shapes
+My simple project has conducted you--
+Were but my wit as skilful to invent
+A clue to lead you forth!--I call to mind
+A letter, which your wife received from the Cape,
+Soon after you were married, with some circumstances
+Of mystery too.
+
+_Selby_.   I well remember it.
+That letter did confirm the truth (she said)
+Of a friend's death, which she had long fear'd true,
+But knew not for a fact. A youth of promise
+She gave him out--a hot adventurous spirit--
+That had set sail in quest of golden dreams,
+And cities in the heart of Central Afric;
+But named no names, nor did I care to press
+My question further, in the passionate grief
+She show'd at the receipt. Might this be he?
+
+_Lucy_. Tears were not all. When that first shower was past,
+With clasp'd hands she raised her eyes to Heav'n,
+As if in thankfulness for some escape,
+Or strange deliverance, in the news implied,
+Which sweeten'd that sad news.
+
+_Selby_.                 Something of that
+I noted also--
+
+_Lucy_.   In her closet once,
+Seeking some other trifle, I espied
+A ring, in mournful characters deciphering
+The death of "Robert Halford, aged two
+And twenty." Brother, I am not given
+To the confident use of wagers, which I hold
+Unseemly in a woman's argument;
+But I am strangely tempted now to risk
+A thousand pounds out of my patrimony,
+(And let my future husband look to it,
+If it be lost,) that this immodest Widow
+Shall name the name that tallies with that ring.
+
+_Selby_. That wager lost, I should be rich indeed--
+Rich in my rescued Kate--rich in my honor,
+Which now was bankrupt. Sister, I accept
+Your merry wager, with an aching heart
+For very fear of winning. 'Tis the hour
+That I should meet my Widow in the walk,
+The south side of the garden. On some pretence
+Lure forth my Wife that way, that she may witness
+Our seeming courtship. Keep us still in sight,
+Yourselves unseen; and by some sign I'll give,
+(A finger held up, or a kerchief waved,)
+You'll know your wager won--then break upon us,
+As if by chance.
+
+_Lucy_.     I apprehend your meaning--
+
+_Selby_. And may you prove a true Cassandra here,
+Though my poor acres smart for't, wagering sister.
+                                                       [_Exeunt_.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE.--_Mrs. Selby's chamber._
+
+MRS. FRAMPTON. KATHERINE.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Did I express myself in terms so strong?
+
+_Kath._ As nothing could have more affrighted me.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Think it a hurt friend's jest, in retribution
+Of a suspected cooling hospitality.
+And, for my staying here, or going hence,
+(Now I remember something of our argument,)
+Selby and I can settle that between us.
+You look amazed. What if your husband, child,
+Himself has courted me to stay?
+
+_Kath._                    You move
+My wonder and my pleasure equally.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Yes, courted me to stay, waived all objections,
+Made it a favor to yourselves; not me,
+His troublesome guest, as you surmised. Child, child,
+When I recall his flattering welcome, I
+Begin to think the burden of my presence
+Was--
+
+_Kath_. What, for Heaven--
+
+_Mrs. F._                  A little, little spice
+Of jealousy--that's all--an honest pretext,
+No wife need blush for. Say that you should see,
+(As oftentimes we widows take such freedoms,
+Yet still on this side virtue,) in a jest
+Your husband pat me on the cheek, or steal
+A kiss, while you were by,--not else, for virtue's sake.
+
+_Kath._ I could endure all this, thinking my husband
+Meant it in sport--
+
+_Mrs. F._      But if in downright earnest
+(Putting myself out of the question here)
+Your Selby, as I partly do suspect,
+Own'd a divided heart--
+
+_Kath._            My own would break--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Why, what a blind and witless fool it is,
+That will not see its gains, its infinite gains--
+
+_Kath._ Gain in a loss.
+                            Or mirth in utter desolation!
+
+_Mrs. F._ He doating on a face--suppose it mine,
+Or any other's tolerably fair--
+What need you care about a senseless secret?
+
+_Kath._ Perplex'd and fearful woman! I in part
+Fathom your dangerous meaning. You have broke
+The worse than iron band, fretting the soul,
+By which you held me captive. Whether my husband
+_Is_ what you gave him out, or your fool'd fancy
+But dreams he is so, either way I am free.
+
+_Mrs. F._ It talks it bravely, blazons out its shame;
+A very heroine while on its knees;
+Rowe's Penitent, an absolute Calista?
+
+_Kath._ Not to thy wretched self these tears are falling;
+But to my husband, and offended Heaven,
+Some drops are due--and then I sleep in peace,
+Relieved from frightful dreams, my dreams though sad
+                                                         [_Exit._
+
+_Mrs. F._ I have gone too far. Who knows but in this mood
+She may forestall my story, win on Selby
+By a frank confession?--and the time draws on
+For our appointed meeting. The game's desperate,
+For which I play. A moment's difference
+May make it hers or mine. I fly to meet him.             [_Exit._
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+SCENE.--_A garden._
+
+MR. SELBY. MRS. FRAMPTON.
+
+_Selby._ I am not so ill a guesser, Mrs. Frampton,
+Not to conjecture, that some passages
+In your unfinish'd story, rightly interpreted,
+Glanced at my bosom's peace;
+                             You knew my wife?
+
+_Mrs. F._ Even from her earliest school-days--What of that?
+Or how is she concern'd in my fine riddles,
+Framed for the hour's amusement!
+
+_Selby_.                     By my _hopes_
+Of my new interest conceived in you,
+And by the honest passion of my heart,
+Which not obliquely I to you did hint;
+Come from the clouds of misty allegory,
+And in plain language let me hear the worst.
+Stand I disgraced, or no?
+
+_Mrs. F._            Then, by _my_ hopes
+Of my new interest conceived in you,
+And by the kindling passion in _my_ breast,
+Which through my riddles you had almost read,
+Adjured so strongly, I will tell you all.
+In her school years, then bordering on fifteen,
+Or haply not much past, she loved a youth--
+
+_Selby._ My most ingenuous Widow--
+
+_Mrs. F._                          Met him oft
+By stealth, where I still of the party was--
+
+_Selby._ Prime confidant to all the school, I warrant,
+And general go-between--                                [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._            One morn he came
+In breathless haste. "The ship was under sail,
+Or in few hours would be, that must convey
+Him and his destinies to barbarous shores,
+Where, should he perish by inglorious hands,
+It would be consolation in his death
+To have call'd his Katherine _his_."
+
+_Selby._                          Thus far the story
+Tallies with what I hoped.                              [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._             Wavering between
+The doubt of doing wrong, and losing him;
+And my dissuasions not o'er hotly urged,
+Whom he had flatter'd with the bridemaid's part;--
+
+_Selby._ I owe my subtle Widow, then, for this.
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Mrs. F._ Briefly, we went to church. The ceremony
+Scarcely was huddled over, and the ring
+Yet cold upon her finger, when they parted--
+He to his ship; and we to school got back,
+Scarce miss'd, before the dinner-bell could ring.
+
+_Selby._ And from that hour--
+
+_Mrs. F._                     Nor sight, nor news of him,
+For aught that I could hear, she e'er obtain'd.
+
+_Selby._ Like to a man that hovers in suspense
+Over a letter just received, on which
+The black seal hath impress'd its ominous token,
+Whether to open it or no, so I
+Suspended stand, whether to press my fate
+Further, or check ill curiosity,
+That tempts me to more loss.--The name, the name
+Of this fine youth?
+
+_Mrs. F._ What boots it, if 'twere told?
+
+_Selby._                           Now, by our loves,
+And by my hopes of happier wedlocks, some day
+To be accomplish'd, give me his name!
+
+_Mrs. F._ 'Tis no such serious matter. It was--Huntingdon.
+
+_Selby._ How have three little syllables pluck'd from me
+A world of countless hopes!--                           [_Aside._
+                              Evasive Widow.
+
+_Mrs. F._ How, sir!--I like not this.                   [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._                            No, no, I meant
+Nothing but good to thee. That other woman,
+How shall I call her but evasive, false,
+And treacherous?--by the trust I place in thee,
+Tell me, and tell me truly, was the name
+As you pronounced it?
+
+_Mrs. F._            Huntingdon--the name,
+Which his paternal grandfather assumed,
+Together with the estates of a remote
+Kinsman: but our high-spirited youth--
+
+_Selby._                          Yes--
+
+_Mrs. F._                             Disdaining
+For sordid pelf to truck the family honors,
+At risk of the lost estates, resumed the old style,
+And answer'd only to the name of--
+
+_Selby._                      What--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Of Halford--
+
+_Selby._ A Huntingdon to Halford changed so soon!
+Why, then I see, a witch hath her good spells,
+As well as bad, and can by a backward charm
+Unruffle the foul storm she has just been raising.
+                                   [_Aside. He makes the signal._
+
+My frank, fair-spoken Widow! let this kiss,
+Which yet aspires no higher, speak my thanks,
+Till I can think on greater.
+
+          _Enter_ LUCY _and_ KATHERINE.
+
+_Mrs. F._                 Interrupted!
+
+_Selby._ My sister here! and see, where with her comes
+My serpent gliding in an angel's form,
+To taint the new-born Eden of our joys.
+Why should we fear them? We'll not stir a foot,
+Nor coy it for their pleasures.           [_He courts the Widow._
+
+_Lucy (to Katherine)._      This your free,
+And sweet ingenuous confession, binds me
+Forever to you; and it shall go hard,
+But it shall fetch you back your husband's heart,
+That now seems blindly straying; or, at worst,
+In me you have still a sister.--Some wives, brother,
+Would think it strange to catch their husbands thus
+Alone with a trim widow; but your Katherine
+Is arm'd, I think, with patience.
+
+_Kath._                      I am fortified
+With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs,
+If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me;
+Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest,
+As now I think he does it but in seeming,
+To that ill woman.
+
+_Selby._       Good words, gentle Kate,
+And not a thought irreverent of our Widow.
+Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time,
+But most uncourteous on our wedding-day,
+When we should show most hospitable.--Some wine!
+                                              [_Wine is brought._
+
+I am for sports. And now I do remember,
+The old Egyptians at their banquets placed
+A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them,
+With images of cold mortality,
+To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant.
+I like the custom well: and ere we crown
+With freer mirth the day, I shall propose,
+In calmest recollection of our spirits,
+We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"--
+
+_Mrs. F._ Or the supposed dead--
+                                                 [_Aside to him._
+
+_Selby._                   Pledge me, good, wife--
+                                                    [_She fills._
+Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er,
+
+_Kath._ I catch the awful import of your words;
+And, though I could accuse you of unkindness,
+Yet as your lawful and obedient wife,
+While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading,
+Nor I much longer may have leave to use it)
+I calmly take the office you impose;
+And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness,
+Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended,
+Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness,
+I pledge you, sir--the Memory of the Dead!
+                                          [_She drinks kneeling._
+
+_Selby._ 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like
+My former loving Kate.
+
+_Mrs. F._         Does he relent?                      [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ That ceremony past, we give the day
+To unabated sport. And, in requital
+Of certain stories and quaint allegories,
+Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me
+To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend
+Her patient hearing, I will here recite
+A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste,
+The scene is laid in the East.
+
+_Mrs. F._                 I long to hear it.
+Some tale, to fit his wife.                             [_Aside._
+
+_Kath._                Now, comes my TRIAL.
+
+_Lucy._ The hour of your deliverance is at hand,
+If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister.
+
+_Selby._ "The Sultan Haroun"--Stay--O now I have it--
+"The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had
+A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits,
+That he reserved them for his proper gust;
+And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd
+To any one that should purloin the same."
+
+_Mrs. F._ A heavy penance for so light a fault--
+
+_Selby._ Pray you, be silent, else you put me out.
+"A crafty page, that for advantage watch'd,
+Detected in the act a brother page,
+Of his own years, that was his bosom friend;
+And thenceforth he became that other's lord,
+And like a tyrant he demean'd himself,
+Laid forced exactions on his fellow's purse;
+And when that poor means fail'd, held o'er his head
+Threats of impending death in hideous forms;
+Till the small culprit on his nightly couch
+Dream'd of strange pains, and felt his body writhe
+In tortuous pangs around the impaling stake."
+
+_Mrs. F._ I like not this beginning--
+
+_Selby._                             Pray you, attend.
+"The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps,
+And took the youthful pleasures from his days,
+And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow,
+That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned
+To a pale skeleton of what he was;
+And would have died, but for one lucky chance."
+
+_Kath._ Oh!
+
+_Mrs. F._ Your wife--she faints--some cordial--smell to this.
+
+_Selby._ Stand off. My sister best will do that office.
+
+_Mrs. F._ Are all his tempting speeches come to this?
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ What ail'd my wife?
+
+_Kath._                       A warning faintness, sir,
+Seized on my spirits, when you came to where
+You said "a lucky chance." I am better now:
+Please you go on.
+
+_Selby._        The sequel shall be brief.
+
+_Kath._ But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it.
+                                                        [_Aside._
+
+_Selby._ "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid,
+Close by an arbor where the two boys talk'd,
+(As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns
+Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth.
+Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,)
+O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough
+To judge aright the cause, and know his cue.
+The following day a Cadi was despatch'd
+To summon both before the judgment-seat;
+The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear,
+And the informing friend, who readily,
+Fired with fair promises of large reward,
+And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed."
+
+_Mrs. F._ What did the Caliph to the offending boy,
+That had so grossly err'd?
+
+_Selby._              His sceptred hand
+He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd,
+And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts,
+And he became once more his favorite page.
+
+_Mrs. F._ But for that other--
+
+_Selby._                      He dismissed him straight,
+From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love,
+To the bare cottage on the withering moor.
+Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants,
+And widows, hide, who in a husband's ear
+Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth;
+And told him not that Robin Halford died
+Some moons before _his_ marriage-bells were rung.
+Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife,
+And on a dangerous cast our fates were set;
+But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest,
+Hath interposed to save it gracious too.
+Your penance is--to dress your cheek in smiles,
+And to be once again my merry Kate.--
+Sister, your hand.
+Your wager won makes me a happy man,
+Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds.
+The sky clears up after a dubious day.
+Widow, your hand. I read a penitence
+In this dejected brow; and in this shame
+Your fault is buried. You shall in with us,
+And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare:
+For, till this moment, I can joyful say,
+Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day.
+
+
+
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