THE COUNTRY CURATE.

“Infido scurræ distabit amicus.”—Horace.

Howvery seldom do we find any one who has a relish for real friendship—who can set a due value upon its approbation, and pay a due regard to its censures! Adulation lives, and pleases; truth dies, and is forgotten. The flattery of the fool is always pungent and delicious; the rebuke of the wise is ever irksome and hateful. Wherefore, then, do we accuse the Fates when they withhold from us the blessings of friendship, if we ourselves have not the capacity for enjoying them?

Schah Sultan Hossein, says an old Persian fable, had two favourites. Mahamood was very designing and smooth-tongued; Selim was very open and plain-spoken. After a space, the intrigues of Mahamood had the upper hand, and Selim was banished from the court. Then Zobeide, the mother of the Sultan’s mother, a wise woman, and one learned in all the learning of the Persians, stood before the throne, and spoke thus:[Pg 177]—

“When I was young I was said to be beautiful. Upon one occasion a greatfêtewas to be given. The handmaids dressed my hair in an inner apartment. ‘Look,’ said one, ‘how bright are her eyes!’ ‘What a complexion,’ said another, ‘is upon her cheeks!’ ‘What sweetness,’ cried a third, ‘in her voice!’ I grew sick of all this adulation. I sent my woman from me, and complained to myself bitterly. ‘Why have I not,’ I cried, ‘some friend on whom I can rely; who will tell me with sincerity when the roses on my cheeks begin to fade and the darkness of my eyebrows to want colouring? But alas! this is impossible.’

“As I spoke, a beneficent Genius rose from the ground before me. ‘I have brought thee,’ he said, ‘what thou didst require: thou shalt no longer have occasion to reproach the Prophet for denying thee that which, if granted, thou wouldst thyself destroy.’ So saying, he held forth to me a small locket, and disappeared.

“I opened it impatiently. It contained a small plate, in shape like a horseman’s shield, but so bright that the brightness of twenty shields would be dim before it: I looked, and beheld every charm upon which I valued myself reflected upon its surface. ‘Delightful monitor!’ I exclaimed, ‘thou shalt ever be my companion; in thee I may safely confide; thou art not mercenary, nor changeable; thou wilt always speak to me the truth—as thou dost now!’ and I kissed its polish exultingly, and hastened to thefête.

“Something happened to ruffle my temper, and I returned to the palace out of humour with myself and the world. I took up my treasure. Heavens! what a change was there! My eyes were red with weeping—my lips distorted with vexation; my beauty was changed into deformity—my dimples were converted into frowns. ‘Liar!’ I cried, in a frenzy of passion, ‘what meanest thou by this insolence? Art thou not in my power, and dost thou provoke me to wrath?’ I dashed my monitor to the earth, and went in search of the consolation of my flatterers!”

Zobeide here ceased. I know not whether the reader will comprehend the application of her narrative. The Sultan did—and Selim was recalled.[Pg 178]

“Tenui censu, sine crimine notum,Et properare loco, et cessare, et quærere, et uti.”—Hor.

Itwas with feelings of the most unmixed delight that on my way to the north I contemplated spending one evening with my old friend Charles Torrens. I call him my friend, although he is six or seven years my senior; because his manners and his habits have always nearly resembled those of a boy, and have seemed more suitable to my age than to his. Some years ago, partly in consequence of his own imprudence, the poor fellow was in very low circumstances; but he has now, by one of those sudden freaks of fortune which nobody knows how to account for, become sleek and fat, and well-to-do in the world; with a noble patron, a pretty wife, and the next presentation to a living of a thousand a year.

I arrived at the village of —— about sunset, and inquired for the house of Mr. Torrens. Of the children to whom I applied no one seemed to understand me at all; at last one of them, a ’cuter lad than his companions, scratched his head for half a minute, and exclaimed, “Oh! why, sure, you mean Master Charles, our curate! Gracious! to think of calling him Mr. Torrens!” I afterwards learned that this hopeful disciple had the office of looking to the curate’s night-lines. However, he led me to the house, giggling all the way at the formality of “Mr. Torrens.” I was prepared by this to find my old acquaintance as warm, and as wild, and as childish as ever.

His residence was a red brick dwelling-house, which you would call a house by right and a cottage by courtesy: it seemed to possess, like the owner, all requisites for hospitality and kindness, and to want, like him, all pretensions to decoration and show. “This is as it should be,” I said to myself; “I shall sleep soundly beneath such a roof as this;” and so I threw up the latch of the garden-gate, and went in. Charles was in the kitchen garden behind the[Pg 179]house, looking at his strawberry beds. I walked round to meet him. I will not describe the pleasure with which we shook hands: my readers well know what it is to meet a dear and cherished friend after a long absence. I know not which was the happier of the two.

“Well,” he said, “here I am, you see, settled in a snug competency, with a dry roof over my head, and a little bit of turf around me. I have had some knowledge of Fortune’s slippery ways, and I thank my stars that I have pretty well got out of her reach. Charles Torrens can never be miserable while there’s good fishing every hour in the day in his lordship’s ponds, and good venison every Sunday in the year in his lordship’s dining-room. Here you see me settled, as it were, in myotium cum dignitate, without a wish beyond the welfare of my wife and the ripening of my melons; and what gives my enjoyments their greatest zest, Peregrine, is, that though the road to them was rather a hilly one, I kept out of the gutters as well as I could. What is it Horace says, Peregrine?

Neque majorem feci ratione malâ rem,Nec sum facturus vitio culpâve minorem;—

that is, I did not grow rich like a rascal, and I sha’n’t grow poor like a fool; though (thanks to my uncle, the Nabob) I can afford to give a young friend a bed and a breakfast, without pinching myself and my servants the next week! But, bless me! how I am letting my tongue run on. I haven’t introduced you to Margaret yet;” and so saying, he took my arm, and hurried me into his drawing-room. His bride was a very pleasing woman—a lover might well call her a beautiful one; she seemed about one-and-twenty, and possessed every requisite to confer happiness upon a husband of my friend’s wandering habits. She had sufficient good-nature to let him wander abroad, but she had, at the same time, sufficient attractions to keep him at home; her forbearance never scolded him for his stay at another’s hearth, but her good sense always took care to make his own agreeable to him. A clever wife would have piqued him, a silly wife would have bored him: Margaret was theaurea mediocritas, and I could see that he was sincerely attached to her.[Pg 180]

The next morning I walked into his library, and was not a little amused by the heterogeneous treasures which it presented. Paley seemed somewhat surprised to find himself on the same shelf with “The Complete Angler,” and Blair, in his decent vestment of calf-skin, was looking with consummate contempt upon the morocco coat of his next neighbour, Colonel Thornton. A fowling-piece, fishing-rod, and powder-horn were the principal decorations of the room.

On the table was a portfolio containing a variety of manuscripts, unfinished sermons, stanzas, complete in all but the rhymes; bills, receipts, and recipes for the diseases of horses. Among them I found a little memorandum-book for 1818: it contained a sketch of his way of life previous to his accession of fortune. I transcribed four days of it, and hope he will thank me for putting them in print.

“Monday, 10 o’clock.—Breakfast.Mem.My clerk tells me admirable coffee may be made with burnt crusts of bread—an ingenious plan and a frugal! Am engaged to eat my mutton with the Vicar of the next parish, so that I have leisure to speculate for to-morrow. 12 o’clock.—Rode over to my Aunt Picquet’s. N.B. A plaguy old woman, but has excellent cherry-brandy, and all the fruits of Alcinous in her garden. Managed to oblige her by conveying home some fine pines in a basket. 5 o’clock.—Dinner. Old Decker, his wife, and young Decker of Brasenose.Mem.Young Decker a great fool, but takes good care of the cellar. On my return sent my pines to the Hall (know Sir Harry’s have failed this year), and received, per bearer, an invitation to join in the eating to-morrow.

“Tuesday.—After breakfast a water-excursion with the Hon. F. Goree. The poor little fellow very ingeniously fell out of the boat. I contrived to catch him by the collar in time to prevent him from spoiling his curls; but he was quite outrageous because I ruined his neckcloth.Eh bien!I lose nothing, for I never compassed a dinner with the Countess yet. 7 o’clock.—Dinner at the Hall. A large party. Began my manœuvres very badly, by correcting a mistake of the old gentleman’s about ‘Hannibal, the Roman[Pg 181]general;’ recovered my ground, unconsciously, by a lucky dispute I had with his opponent in politics. A good dinner. Hinted how much I preferred a saddle of mutton cold. Praised the wine and drank it with equal avidity. In the evening played the flute, joined in a catch, and took a beating at chess from her ladyship with all imaginable complacency. Have certainly made great progress at the Hall. Must dance with the Baronet’s daughter at the ball on Thursday.

“Wednesday.—Wet morning. Nothing to be done. Cold saddle, with compliments, sent over from the Hall. Pocketed the affront and dined on the mutton.

“Thursday.—My mare has sprained her shoulder. How am I to get to the rooms to-night? 1 o’clock.—Walked out. Met young Lawson. Hinted Rosinante’s calamity, and secured a seat in the curricle. 10 o’clock.—The curricle called. L. nearly lodged me in a ditch.Au reste, a pleasant drive.Mem.To dine with him at six to-morrow, and he is to take me in the evening to a quadrille at the Landrishes’. The rooms very full. Certainly intended to dance with the Baronet’s beauty. Made a villanous mistake, and stood up with Caroline Berry. My Roxana avoided me all the rest of the evening. How stupid! Have certainly ruined myself at the Hall!”

This sort of life must have been very annoying to such a man as Charles Torrens; however, he has now freed himself from it. “Good-by,” he said, as we shook hands, and parted; “you’ll come to us again, Perry. I was a harum-scarum dog when you knew me last; but if the river of life is rough, there is nothing like an affectionate wife to steady the boat![Pg 182]”

ESSAY ON THE POEMS OF HOMER, AND THE MANNERS OF THE AGE IN WHICH HE LIVED.

“Philo-Musus” has sent us an essay, of considerable length, upon the merits and beauties of the Art of Poetry. We are persuaded, however, that of such merits and beauties none of our readers need to be informed; and therefore “Philo-Musus” lies at our publisher’s till called for.

We are going, however, to make some observations upon one advantage to be derived from poetry, which our good friend has altogether omitted. We mean the power which it possesses of handing down to posterity an exact picture of the customs and manners of a very distant age. By its aid we can trace through successive years the variations which gradually take place in warfare and in letters, in habits and in costume; we can gaze with reverence upon the superstitions which have become extinct, and smile upon comparing the nascent follies of the age of demigods with the full-blown follies of the age of men. Homer, as he stands pre-eminent among the ancient bards in all other requisites, is equally so in this. Notwithstanding the force of his numbers, the fertility of his invention, the grandeur of his story, and the excellency of the moral precepts which are interspersed throughout it, we are inclined to value him less upon these considerations than upon the faithful representation which he has given us of the manners of his heroes. For these reasons we have put his name at the top of this paper, although in the course of it we shall probably indulge ourselves in more frequent digressions than ever the old gentleman himself made use of. To those who had rather have from us a well-digested essay than a series of straggling remarks, we must say what we have often said before:—“We are boys, and we have not the presumption to suppose ourselves capable of criticising the studies, or regulating the taste, of our schoolfellows.[Pg 183]Our aim has not been, and is not, to instruct, but to amuse.” With this preface, we put our Homer before us, mend our pen, and begin.

The “Odyssey,” which describes the travels and sufferings of an individual, has, of course, more numerous sketches of private life than the “Iliad,” the actors in which seem, as it were, to be upon a public stage, and to stalk in the tragic buskin from one end of the poem to the other. But we cannot help wondering at the manner in which the poet has so frequently interwoven in his most gorgeous descriptions some allusion to the commerce or the arts of his countrymen; his similes, in particular, are perpetually borrowed from the works of the farmer or the mechanic. Some have found fault with Homer upon this head, arguing that the images which he introduces are, in some instances, too mean for the dignity of the epic style. He has been defended from the charge by abler pens than ours; and therefore we shall only observe, at present, that allowing these passages to be blemishes, they are blemishes more valuable to us than the greatest beauties could have been: if his descriptions of rustic manners are faults, Homer, like his own Achilles, would be less interesting were he less faulty.

The first observation which occurs to us (for we intend to write, like sentimental ladies, quite at random) is that the besiegers of Ilium were ignorant of one of the fiercest pests of modern times, coined money.

Ἔνθεν ἄρ’ οἰνίζοντο καρῃκομόωντες Ἀχαιοἰ,Ἄλλοι μὲν χαλκῷ, ἄλλοι δ’ αίθωνι σιδήρῳ,Ἄλλοι δὲ ῥινοῖς, ἄλλοι δ’ αὺτοῖσι βόεσσιν,Ἄλλοι δ’ ἀνδραπόδεσσι·

Each, in exchange, proportioned treasures gave;Some brass, or iron; some an ox, or slave.

Not a word in the bargain of pounds, shillings, and pence. If these noxious ideas had then existed, we should have had the sellers of the wine exclaiming, in the style of one of our old ballad writers:

Noe pence, nor halfpence, by my faye,But a noble in gold so round![Pg 184]

And we should have had the buyers replying, in all the lengthy insolence of Homeric compounds:

I have gold to discharge all that I call!If it be forty pence, I will pay all.

Again, when Agamemnon endeavours to appease the anger of Achilles by the offer of sumptuous presents, he presents him with a magnificent list of the cities in his gift; and, in order to describe the value of them, is obliged to have recourse to the vague epithets of “εὖ ναιομένα”—“ποιήεσσαν”—“βαθύλειμον”—“ἀμπελόεσσαν.” Now, if Ηomer’s heroes had understood anything of coinage, the poet would have avoided all this circumlocution, and presented us at once with a clear statement of the yearly revenues, in the style of the above-quoted songster:

For Plumpton Park I will give thee,With tenements fair beside;’Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,To maintain thy good cow-hide.

This, however, is mere jesting. The next consideration we shall offer will be a more serious one. How happy were the men of that age! They had no such crime as forgery, no discussions about stocks, no apprehensions of a paper currency. There was no liability to imposition; no necessity for pamphlets. At the present crisis, when the increase of forgery and the dread of national bankruptcy occupy so large a portion of public attention, we, in common with other more practised quacks, come humbly forward with our nostrum. Is it not “a consummation devoutly to be wished” that Britain would consent to forego the use of these horrible mischief-workers, these bits of silver, or of silver paper, and return contentedly to the original method of traffic, making her payments in oxen or in sheep? The veriest bungler may forge a shilling, but the veriest adept would find it plaguy difficult to forge an ox.

If it be true that the ancient Greeks were thus ignorant of stamped money (for we are only repeating what has been observed upon the subject before us), it cannot but surprise us that they had made so great a proficiency in other arts, without the use of what appears in modern times absolutely[Pg 185]indispensable to social intercourse. From the descriptions of Homer they should seem to have been, in a great measure, in possession of our arts, our ideas of policy, our customs, our superstitions. Although living at so remote a period they enjoyed many of our luxuries; although corrupted and debased by the grossest of religious codes, they entertained many of our notions of morality: the most skilful artisan, and the most enlightened sage, may, even in our days, find in the poems of Homer always an incitement to curiosity, and frequently a source of instruction.

Many a lady ofton(if ladies oftonwere in the habit of studying Homer) would be astonished at learning that her last new lustres would sink into insignificance by the side of the candelabras of Alcinous:

Χρύσειοι δ’ ἄρα κοῦροι ἐϋδμήτων ἐπὶ βωμῶν,Ἔστασαν, αἰθομένας δαΐδας μετὰ χερσὶν ἔχοντες,Φαίνοντες νύκτας κατὰ δώματα δαιτυμόνεσσιν.

Refulgent pedestals the walls surround,Which boys of gold with flaming torches crowned;The polished ore, reflecting every ray,Blazed on the banquets with a double day.

Nor would she be less amazed, upon turning from these inanimate attendants, and learning the number and duties of the housemaids:

Πεντήκοντα δέ οἱ δμωαὶ κατὰ δῶμα γυναίκες, κ. τ. λ.

Full fifty handmaids form the household train;Some turn the mill, or sift the golden grain;Some ply the loom; their busy fingers moveLike poplar-trees when Zephyr fans the grove.

Indeed, throughout his whole description of the palace and gardens of Alcinous, the poet seems, to have expended all his ideas of luxury and magnificence. The colouring of the picture must of course be supposed to be much heightened by the graces of fiction and ornament; but nevertheless the objects of it must certainly have been sketched from the manners and usages which were before the eyes of the designer. Upon the first of these passages it is to be observed that the Greeks of those days were ignorant of[Pg 186]any contrivance in the way of lamps: they banqueted or deliberated by the light of fires or the blaze of torches—rude even in their refinements and barbarous in their most surpassing splendour. As to the fifty housemaids, we must recollect that it was necessary to retain a great number of female attendants, where the women had the charge of almost every menial employment, and the males seemed to live for little else but pleasure and war.

One example we may derive from the rude manners of that age, which it would be well if the more polished society of this would remember and imitate: we allude to the constant reliance which was placed upon religion in affairs of every kind. No voyage was commenced—no war undertaken—no treaty concluded—without a recurrence of sacrifice and ceremony. Hence the extraordinary sanctity which was always attached to the persons of their priests; hence also the veneration which was paid to their poets; for as the themes of their earliest songs were generally the praise or the actions of some member of their multifarious mythology, the celebrators partook of the honours which were paid to those whom they celebrated; and the verse which flowed in the name of any of their divinities was supposed to proceed from their immediate inspiration. Princes therefore generally retained in their household a bard or sage (for the terms were nearly synonymous), though we are not so wicked as to suppose that the office of fool, among the ancient Saxons, bore any analogy to that of bard among the ancient Greeks. There is an example of this custom in the opening of the “Odyssey” which has always pleased us very much. The poet has been describing the debauchery and insolence of the suitors of Penelope—

A brutal crowd,With insolence, and wine, elate and loud.

And when his readers are disgusted by the extravagance and luxury which revels in the property of another, he introduces, by way of relief to the glaring colouring of the rest of the picture, the person of an old man, who still retains the post which he had held under Ulysses, and is compelled reluctantly to sweep the strings of his lyre by the mandate of the dissolute usurpers:[Pg 187]

Κήρυξ δ’ ὲν χερσὶν κίθαριν περικαλλέα θῆκεΦημίῳ, ὄς ῥ’ ἤειδε παρὰ μνηστῆρσιν ἀνάγκῃ·Ἦτοι ὂ φορμίζων άνεβάλλετο καλὸν ἀείδειν·

To Phemius was consigned the chorded lyre,Whose hand reluctant touched the warbling wire;Phemius, whose voice divine could sweetest singHigh strains, responsive to the vocal string.

This, however, is a custom by no means peculiar to the Greeks. We know that each of the Highland clans retained a bard expressly for the purpose of celebrating the clan and its chief. We imagine we have seen something of the same kind mentioned relative to the American and Indian tribes.

The subject of the “Iliad” of course calls forth long and spirited descriptions of the mode of warfare in use among the ancient Greeks. This appears to us to exhibit plainer marks of barbarism than any other part of their character. They had all the untutored ferocity, the dependence on personal strength or courage, which is characteristic of the earliest ages, without the studied manœuvres and the laboured machines which malicious invention afterwards introduced. The greatest quality inherent in a commander was not skill of head, but strength of limb; few seemed to lay claim to any nobler distinctions than those which were to be found in the space between their shoulders. We know not whether the rude struggling of these uncultivated warriors is not a more interesting spectacle than the cold-blooded massacres of modern days. In the hand-to-hand conflict of two princes there is passion, and fury, and enthusiasm, for which we look in vain to the cold and calculating tactics ofl’art militaire.

The war, indeed, of those times was naturally deficient in everything technical or scientific. It abounded in instances of individual devotion and of desperate enterprise, but had no means of supplying by art the defect of numbers, or of overcoming an obstinate enemy by a regular siege. It rather resembled the foray of a few pillaging tribes, than the contest between two powerful nations.

We shall see nothing to wonder at in this their undisciplined warfare, when we remember that piracy, which it so[Pg 188]nearly resembled, was a mode of life to which they were greatly addicted. They saw in it nothing dishonourable; but on the contrary esteemed it a brave and worthy employment: their greatest heroes exercised it without the smallest scruple. They rather gloried in their robberies, and recounted with a feeling of pride their achievements and their plunder. Here again there is a manifest similarity between their ideas and those of the Highland clans. We do not know indeed if a very close parallel might not be drawn between the greaved Greek and the plaided mountaineer. We shall throw out a hint or two upon the subject, and recommend the plan to Mr. Golightly, if he wishes to be witty in our next Number.

In the first place, the love of rapine which we have just mentioned is inherent in both: the towns which fall beneath the ravages of the Greek are probably little superior in importance to the villages which excite the cupidity of the Scot. Both nations possess the same romantic notions of individual bravery: both value their booty rather from its being the prize of battle, than from the weight of the gold, or the number of the cattle, of which it consists. And to say the truth, when we behold, on the one side, Achilles retiring from his conquests, with his captives, and his treasures, and his beeves; and when we see, on the other, the chieftain of some kilted clan returning to his native fastnesses, and driving the fat of the land before him, we hardly know which of the two cuts the more respectable figure. Why do we attach such splendid ideas to the terror of Troy? His rival is a more picturesque object for the design of the painter, he is as muscular a model for the chisel of the sculptor; but the piracies of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the piracies of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!

Many of the superstitions of the one nation bear a striking resemblance to those of the other. Both of them believe that their sages have the faculty of foreseeing and predicting future events; both of them place great reliance on signs and auguries; both imagine that the soul exists after death, and that it continues to take an interest in the pursuits and the friends whom it left upon earth. Much as[Pg 189]we are attached to the fooleries of our old friends before Troy—to the victims, and the priests, and the oracles, we must confess that, to our taste, the plaided seer, rapt up in his vacant trance of second-sight, is a more interesting and a more poetical object than all the mummeries of Delphos or Dodona. But there is one point in this legendary species of religion, in which the similarity appears to us rather remarkable. We allude to that extraordinary union of the opposite doctrines of free-will and predestination, which so forcibly obtrudes itself upon our notice in examining the traditions of both countries. To discuss this point at any length would require a greater portion of time than we can devote to it; and we shall therefore content ourselves with observing that the fabulous self-devotion of Achilles, who is said to have remained at Troy, although conscious that he was destined to die there, appears to us to have taken its rise from those notions of an unavoidable fate which Homer so frequently expresses. But this trait, which, as has been often observed, adds such an exalted merit to the character of the hero, has many parallels in the conduct of the Scottish clansmen, whose chieftains we frequently find going with alacrity to battle, although feeling a consciousness that they are seeking their death. But look you there again!—the self-devotion of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the self-devotion of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!

Another conspicuous ingredient in the character of both is the pride which both take in ancestry. The Greek and the Highlander take an equal delight in tracing the river of their blood through distant generations, although we fancy that the latter pays rather the most attention to the purity of the stream. When he looks over the tree of his genealogy, and exults in the glorious names which he finds among its foliage, his feelings are not the less honest, nor his happiness the less fervent, because he sees no Jupiter in the root and no Venus perched among the branches. And truly we do not see why the descent of the Greek is of greater moment than the descent of the Scot, except that patronymics inides, andion, andiadeshave certainly a nobler sound than plain, simple, unsophisticated[Pg 190]Mac. But look you there again!—the ancestry of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the ancestry of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!

When any important quarrel calls for a union of the forces under their numerous petty princes, the gathering of the Greek nations is precisely the gathering of the Highland clans. In both the Commander-in-chief is chosen by the vote of the assembled leaders; in both, his authority is cramped and frustrated by the exclusive allegiance which is owed by each separate clan to its respective chieftain. In both, as may be supposed from the ill-concocted materials of which both armies are composed, quarrels and dissensions are perpetually taking place. And why are not the disputes of the tartans as worthy of song as the disputes of the spears and the helmets? They often arise from the same passions; they often spring from equally insignificant causes; they often lead to equally tragical results. But look you there again!—the quarrels of the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like the quarrels of the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!

We might go on to trace the simile, in the same strain, through many other qualities and customs. We might instance their mutual fondness for athletic exercises—the absolute authority exercised by the chiefs over the persons of their followers—the belief prevalent among both nations of the efficacy of music and charms in the cure of wounds—the custom of being constantly attended by large dogs—the union of heart and hand, which in both cases exists between the chief and his foster-brother. But this is idle—thetout-ensembleof the Mountaineer will never be celebrated like thetout-ensembleof the Myrmidon; for, alas! Gaelic will never sound so classical as Greek!

And now that we come to the end of what ought to have been ended a page ago, we recollect that we have been wandering through a great tract of paper; and we hear Mr. Golightly bellowing in our ears a reproof, in which we fear our readers will join him: “Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Swinburne,Quid ad rem?[Pg 191]”

“Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,On thee shall press no ponderous tomb!”Byron.

Bythe side of the Latin Way, amidst many other mementoes of fallen greatness or faded beauty, there arose a small pillar of white marble, bearing neither emblem nor inscription. The singular simplicity of its appearance frequently excited the attention and inquiries of the passers-by, but no one gratified their curiosity. She whom that marble commemorated was known to few; and those who remembered her told not of her virtues, for they shrank from the pain they felt in the recital.

Julia was the daughter of distinguished and wealthy parents, in the reign of Tiberius. She was an only child, and had been educated with the fondest attention. When she attained her eighteenth year she was very beautiful: she was taller than most women; her nose was aquiline, her hair dark and glossy; the smile that played on her lips was provokingly arch, and in her large blue eyes dignity was inexpressibly combined with tenderness. The qualities of her heart were not inferior to those of her person; so that it is not to be wondered at that the hand of Julia was solicited in marriage by the heirs of many of the first families in Rome.

But she had early given away her affections to the son of her father’s brother. Young Cœlius was younger than his cousin, and fortune had given him a lower station in life and a humbler property. He was very handsome, however, very accomplished, and perfectly amiable; so that the parents of Julia made no difficulty of acceding to the match. The preliminary ceremonies had been gone through: the hallowed straw[5]had been broken between the young[Pg 192]couple; the dower had been settled; the augurs had been consulted, and had returned a favourable answer. Finally, Cœlius had presented to his future bride the sacred ring which was to be the pledge of their eternal affection. It was a plain circle of gold, with the inscription “in æternum!” It was customary to put these rings upon the fourth finger of the left hand, because it was imagined that a vein ran immediately from that finger to the heart. It was a foolish superstition, but Cœlius was observed to shudder when Julia placed her ring upon the wrong finger.

One of the rejected suitors of Julia was a favourite with the Emperor. When our tale is of a creature so pure and so unhappy as Julia, we cannot waste our time in describing the characters of the wretches by whom her death was effected. It is enough for our purpose to say that Marcius made use of the influence he possessed in such a manner that the father of Julia trembled for his fortune and his life; he began to retract the engagements by which he was bound to his nephew, and to devise plans for the marriage of his daughter with the court favourite.

Cœlius was an orphan. He had been educated under the same roof with Julia; and his guardians had hitherto been amply repaid for the expense of his maintenance by the reflection that they were instructing the husband of their child. Now, however, they began to be vexed by having him always before their eyes; they saw that the accomplishment of their scheme was impossible while he remained with their daughter, and they prepared to remove him. The union of those affectionate hearts was procrastinated for a long time upon various pretences; at last the young man was sent, in order to complete his education, upon a tour, with permission to return in a year and claim his betrothed bride.

The year passed sadly away. He was forbidden to keep up any correspondence with his cousin until its expiration. At last the happy June arrived which allowed him to return—which permitted him to meet the gaze of those bright eyes, in whose sight only he seemed to live. He flew to Rome on the wings of expectancy!

As he approached the dwelling-place of his hopes, his[Pg 193]thoughts, his happiness, circumstances occurred which filled him with the gloomiest forebodings. Several of his young acquaintance, when they met him, shook their heads, and endeavoured to avoid his address. As he passed by the mansion of his once-contemned rival, he observed a slave clad in unusual finery; and “What!” he said, “is Marcius to feast the Emperor to-day?” “Marcius,” said the slave, “will feast a fairer guest—he will bring home his bride to-night!” Cœlius started as if a viper had crossed his path; but he recovered himself immediately. “It was but a suspicion!” he said, “and I will have done with it!” He said no more, but ran on with desperate impetuosity to the well-known door. He heeded not the malicious rumours, and the compassionate whispers, which were circulated around him: with a fluttering heart and faltering step he hurried to the chamber which had been the scene of their last parting. As he put his hand upon the door, a thousand visions flocked upon his brain. “Then she was good, and affectionate, and beautiful, and true; and she looked upon me so tenderly, and spoke to me so kindly;—and now, will her look be as tender, and her voice as kind? I will be in suspense no longer!” He thrust open the door and stood in her presence.

She was sitting at the window, half-shaded from his view by some beautiful orange-trees. She did not seem to have observed his entrance; for she did not rise from her seat, nor move her head from the delicate white hand which was supporting it. “Julia!” he cried, in a voice of the wildest passion; but she did not stir. “Julia,” he said, coming nearer, and speaking in a calmer tone; still she was motionless. “Julia,” he whispered gently, bending his head over the orange-blossoms. Their lips almost met; she started from him as if from profanation. “Cœlius!” she exclaimed, “this must not be! I have broken the holy cake[6]with another! To-night I shall be the wife of Marcius.”

He lifted his hands to Heaven; a curse rose to his lips. “May the vows you have falsified—may the hopes you have blighted—may the heart you have broken—— But no, Julia,” he continued, as he gazed upon her rayless eye, and[Pg 194]her colourless cheek; “you have suffered much—and I cannot—I cannot reproach you!” He hid his tears with his hands, and rushed into the street.

She had indeed suffered much! Her face had become pale and emaciated, her step melancholy and slow: she no longer took her wonted care in arranging her dress, or setting in order her luxuriant hair; but this was not the alteration which had shocked her unfortunate lover—it was the languor which had succeeded to her natural liveliness, the despondency in her every accent, the absence of soul in her every look!

The evening came, and the ceremony was near at hand. Julia suffered her attendants to adorn her, reckless herself of the pains they took and the decorations they bestowed. They put upon her a long white robe, quite plain; it would have well set off the bloom of her loveliness, but upon the paleness of her sorrow it seemed to sit like a shroud. They made large masses of her hair to flow dishevelled down her neck, and mingled with it locks of wool, to signify that, in her new station, she was to imitate the purity of the vestals, whose peculiar emblem it was. The extremities of her long ringlets were curled and arranged with the steel of a lance; and among her attendants there were many pretty flutterings and drawings-back as they handled so terrible a comb. Then they suffered her to wait in quiet the approach of the bridegroom. He was not long in his coming. They drew over her head the crown of vervain, and concealed her deathlike features beneath the flame-coloured veil. They put on, too, the yellow slippers, which it was the fashion for brides to wear: they were so contrived as to add considerably to the height, but Julia’s was so much diminished by sadness and disease, that even with this assistance she did not seem near her usual stature.

It was night; and she was borne to the house of her husband by the light of flambeaux. Three young persons, whose parents were still living, were her conductors. Two supported her, and Julia indeed stood in need of support; the third walked before her, bearing a torch of pine. A distaff and spindle, a child’s coral, and other emblems of her future duties, were carried behind her. Her friends[Pg 195]and relations also followed, each bearing in his arms some present to the new married couple. Cœlius was among them, but he concealed his face in the folds of his gown, and his smothered sighs attracted no observation.

At last they came to the threshold of the bridegroom: it was tastefully adorned with wreaths of flowers; and woollen fillets, smeared with oil, were hung round to keep out enchantments. The master of the house stood at the door, and the crowd gathered round it to witness the conclusion of the ceremony.

They asked her, according to custom, under what title she came? She had opened her lips to answer, when Cœlius ran forward and threw himself between Marcius and his beloved. “Oh! no, no!” he cried; “I cannot hear it!—do not, do not kill me quite!” “Back, back!” she said, shuddering. “Shall I not obey my father?” The youth heard not—saw not; he was led away, senseless and unresisting; and the ceremony proceeded. Again she was asked under what title she came; and she answered, as was prescribed for her, in a low but distinct tone, “Ubi tu Caius, ego Caia!”[7]They lifted her from the ground, for it was reckoned an evil omen to touch the threshold in her entrance. They lifted her from the ground, and she spoke no word, and made no struggle. But ere they had set down her foot upon her husband’s floor, she trembled with a convulsive quivering, and her head fell back upon the youth who supported her left shoulder. Again they put down their burden, but it was quite motionless! They tore the veil from her head—her look was fixed and quiet—her eye open and dull! She was quite dead![Pg 196]

May it please your Majesty,

Iamyour loyal subject, and an editor. I am induced to address you in print by three considerations. First, I am like yourself, a King; although my claim to the title is not quite so legitimate as your Majesty’s. Secondly, I am an author, and it is much the fashion with authors of the present day to indite letters to the Crown. Thirdly, I am enthusiastically fond of novelty in every shape; and I flatter myself I am going to strike one—a letter to the King, without an ounce of politics in its composition.

I am not going to offer my congratulations upon “glorious accession,” “recent successes,” or “the flourishing state of our manufactures;” neither am I going to present you with memorials relating to “excessive taxation,” “starving weavers,” or “Ilchester Gaol.” I am myself too tired of flattery and abuse to offer such insipid dishes to the palate of a brother monarch. No, Sire! I am about to offer you some observations upon that part of your Majesty’s dominions which falls more immediately under the notice of the King of Clubs—the Royal Foundation of Eton.

May it please your Majesty, I have been long a member of it, and I am sure that (exceptis excipiendis) you have not in any part of your sovereignty five hundred better disposed subjects than are to be met with in its “antique towers.” I shall not therefore be repulsed with harshness if I lay before you a few of the grievances, or the fancied grievances, under which we labour.

I think it was in the year 1814 that I first saw your[Pg 197]Majesty at Frogmore. The Emperor of Russia was there, and the King of Prussia, and Blucher, and Platoff, and sundry other worthies, whom were I to attempt to enumerate the line would reach out “to the crack of doom.” One single individual of that illustrious body could have drawn all London to the Monument, if he had promised to exhibit himself in the gallery; and we, favoured alumni, had the privilege of staring by wholesale. I never shall forget the reception of those illustrious potentates. All voices were loud in hurras, all hats were waving in the air; and there was such a squeezing, and pushing, and shouting, and shaking of hands, and treading on toes, that I have often wondered how I escaped in safety from the perils into which my enthusiasm threw me.

Never shall I forget the soul-enlivening moment when your Majesty, stepping into the midst of our obstreperous group, proclaimed aloud, “A whole holiday for the Emperor of Russia.” (Cheering.) “A whole holiday for the King of Prussia,” (Renewed cheering.) “Now, my boys,” you said, with a good-humoured laugh that set Whiggism and awe at defiance, “I must add my mite”—and there was long, loud, reiterated, unanimous, heartfelt cheering. In that look of yours there were years of intimacy. The distinction which rank had placed between us seemed at once overturned; you raised us up to your own level, or rather you deigned to come down for a moment to ours. One could almost have imagined that you had been yourself an Etonian, that you had shared in our amusements, that you had tasted of our feelings!

It was a proud evening for Eton, but a troublesome one for those who made it so. The warmth of an English welcome is enough to overpower any one but an Englishman. Platoff swore he was more pestered by the Etonians than he had ever been by the French; and the kind old Blucher had his hand so cordially wrung that he was unable to lift his bottle for a week afterwards. To your Majesty the recollection of that evening must have been one of unmingled gratification. You had enjoyed that truly royal pleasure, which springs from the act of bestowing pleasure upon others; you had been applauded by Etonians,[Pg 198]as the patron of Etonians ought to be; you purchased more than three hundred whole hearts at the price of only three whole holidays.

It would be needless, as it would be endless, to enumerate all the instances of Royal favour which since that time have been extended towards our Foundation; I have not room to give an extended narration of the cricketing at Frogmore, nor to describe your Majesty’s visit to our Triennial Montem. One subject, however, there is, the omission of which would be both irksome to myself and ungrateful to your Majesty. I mean the gracious liberality which gave to the school your lamented father had so constantly esteemed the permission to attend at his obsequies, and follow their patron to his grave. That unsolicited attention, and the delicate manner in which the notice of it was conveyed to us, live still in our hearts. They proved to us that you were aware of the loss we had sustained; they proved to us that by your munificence that loss would be alleviated or repaired.

Having thus performed what I conceived to be my duty, by expressing the sense we entertain of your Majesty’s bounty, let me call your attention to the situation in which we are now placed.

Eton is a soil which has been used to the sun of Royal patronage, and, if that invigorating heat is withheld, what can be expected but that the earth should be unproductive, and that its plants should fade? This is a most comfortable doctrine, inasmuch as it enables us to set down to your Majesty’s account all the degeneracy which modern Eton is said to exhibit. The remedy is as obvious as the evil. Pay us a visit! Are our cricketers weak in the arm? Your patronage shall add vigour to their sinews! Are our poets weak in the head? Your encouragement shall give new life to their hippocrene! Are our alumni diminishing in numbers? Beneath your influence recruits shall tumble in like locusts! Are they diminishing in stature? They shall grow like mustard beneath a Royal smile.

This, however, is all theory and speculation. There are many who will attribute our degeneracy to other causes, and many who will deny that there is any degeneracy in the case at all. I am now going to mention a specific grievance, the[Pg 199]existence of which no one can deny, and to which your Majesty alone can apply a remedy. During the life of your father we enjoyed three annual holidays, under the denomination of “King’s visits;” and the enjoyment of them had become so much a thing of course, that few were aware upon how short a tenure we held our blessings. They are gone! We have no “King’s visits,” because your Majesty has never visited Eton.

It seems to be pretty well determined that your Majesty, sooner or later, will visit some place or other. Some recommend a visit to Hanover, some recommend a visit to Ireland—I recommend a visit to Eton. It will be less troublesome, less expensive, and less formal, than either of its rival proposals. It will be soonest begun, and it will be the soonest over. It would be without a hundred inconveniences which would wait upon your two other journeys. At Eton, you would not be bothered by counts and courtiers; you would not be stifled with Phelims and Patricks; you would not he pestered with German addresses, as at Hanover; and you would not have to dine with the Mayor and Corporation, as at Dublin.

The time of your visit I will not presume to point out. If you happen to come on the fourth of this month, you will find certain illicit proceedings going on, which I cannot in this place describe. I can tell you, however, that we shall have a splendid show, and a band that shall play “God save the King,”ad infinitum. If you prefer being present at our public speeches, as your Majesty’s father occasionally was, you will hear much embryo oratory and see much sawing of the air.

To be serious—may it please your Majesty, I think you ought to come to Eton. Let us have due notice of the honour intended us, and you shall be received in a style worthy both of us and of you. Come, and by your coming disperse over the face of Etona her wonted smile: paste another bright leaf into her annals: give a new excitement to her talents, her studies, and her amusements. You need not come in state: you must not depart in a hurry: bring to us as many smiles, and as few lords, as you please: above all, drive away for an hour the formality of dress and[Pg 200]manner which public life enjoins; come to us provided with an English heart, and dressed in the Windsor uniform.

On Windsor Bridge you shall be met by the Fellows with “God save the King,” and, as you step into College, you shall be saluted by my friend the Captain with a Latin address. This shall not detain you longer than three minutes and a half; and Sir Benjamin Bloomfield shall hold the watch. You will then be conducted to all the lions of the College, amongst which you will feel particularly interested in the new library established last month, and you will probably put a small donation into the hands of Mr. Hawkins, the Treasurer. After your peregrinations you will have the option of taking a cold collation with the Provost, or a hot beefsteak with the King of Clubs. If you prefer the former, my duty for the day is over; but if, as I prognosticate, your choice falls upon the latter, the talents of Mr. Rowley shall be forthwith put in requisition. We will give your Majesty a real English dinner, and a hearty welcome. I will not present my book unless your Majesty desires it, and your Majesty shall not be required to knight any of the Club, unless you would condescend to confirm the title of my worthy friend Sir Thomas. We will be very merry, may it please your Majesty, and we will have your Majesty’s favourite punch, if your Majesty will give us the recipe. Mr. Oakley shall be driven from the Club-room, and we will make our furious Whig, Sir Francis, sing loyal staves in honour of the occasion. If this does not bring you to Eton, I don’t know what will—that’s all.

In the evening your Majesty shall return to—bless my soul, I had forgotten the holidays. But your own good-nature will prompt you. I have finished my epistle, and—may it please your Majesty.

(Signed)Peregrine.[Pg 201]

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