IN A COACH[Sidenote:Charles Lamb]
The incidents of our journey were trifling, but you bade me tell them. We had, then, in the coach a rather talkative gentleman, but very civil, all the way, and took up a servant-maid at Stamford, going to a sick mistress…. Theformerengaged me in a discourse for full twenty miles on the probable advantages of Steam Carriages, which, being merely problematical, I bore my part in with some credit, in spite of my totally un-engineer-like faculties. But when, somewhere about Stanstead, he put an unfortunate question tome as to the "probability of its turning out a good turnip season," and when I, who am still less of an agriculturist than a steam-philosopher, not knowing a turnip from a potato-ground, innocently made answer that I believed it depended very much upon boiled legs of mutton, my unlucky reply set Miss Isola a-laughing to a degree that disturbed her tranquillity for the only moment in our journey. I am afraid my credit sank very low with my other fellow-traveller, who had thought he had met with awell-informed passenger, which is an accident so desirable in a stage coach. We were rather less communicative, but still friendly, the rest of the way.
KING DAVID AND THE GARDENER[Sidenote:Anon.]
Vrom readin' Scripture well Oi knowsPzalmist 'e had na rest vrom voes;Vor po-or ole Dave gre-at pits they'd delve,An' then, dam loons, vail in theirselve.This iz ma readin' ov the Book,An' to ma self do mak' me look;Wi' dew respeck, Oi veel loike him,Tho' later born, and deal more slim.
Vor ev'ry day, wi' buzz an' hum,Into ma garden voes do come;The waspies starm ma gabled wallAn' into t' trenches t' grub do crawl.The blackbird, sparrer, tit, an' thrushDo commandeer each curran' bush,While slugs off lettuce take their smack,And maggots turn the celery black.
Wi' greenfly zlimin' roun' ma roses,An' earwigs pokin' be-astly nosesIn dahlias vit vor virst at Show,Oi ha' ma troubles, as yew may know;But Dave did circumwent the Devil,An' wi' ma insecks Oi get level,Lard! wi' what piety Oi tend 'em,An' wi' ma boot rejoicin' end 'em!
Zo, maister gets his dish o' peas,An' mum her roses, if yew please,But, lawks, they little knaw, Oi 'speck,What Oi've laid out in intelleck;But Dave got little praise vrom man,An' as Oi ta-ake ma wat'rin'-can,Oi zays, zays Oi, next world wull showWho wuz tip-tappers here below.
THE CALAIS NIGHT-BOAT[Sidenote:Charles Dickens]
It is an unsettled question with me whether I shall leave Calais something handsome in my will, or whether I shall leave it my malediction. I hate it so much, and yet I am always so very glad to see it, that I am in a state of constant indecision on this subject. When I first made acquaintance with Calais it was as a maundering young wretch in a clammy perspiration and dripping saline particles, who was conscious of no extremities but the one great extremity, sea-sickness—who was a mere bilious torso, with a mislaid headache somewhere in its stomach—who had been put into a horrible swing in Dover Harbour, and had tumbled giddily out of it on the French coast, or the Isle of Man, or anywhere. Times have changed, and now I enter Calais self-reliant and rational. I know where it is beforehand, I keep a look-out for it, I recognise its landmarks when I see any of them, I am acquainted with its ways, and I know—and I can bear—its worst behaviour.
Malignant Calais! Low-lying alligator, evading the eye-sight and discouraging hope! Dodging flat streak, now on this bow, now on that, now anywhere, now everywhere, now nowhere! In vain Cape Grinez, coming frankly forth into the sea, exhorts the failing to be stout of heart and stomach; sneaking Calais, prone behind its bar, invites emetically to despair. Even when it can no longer quite conceal itself in its muddy dock, it has an evil way of falling off, has Calais, which is more hopeless than its invisibility. The pier is all but on the bowsprit and you think you are there—roll, roar, wash!—Calais has retired miles inland, and Dover has burst out to look for it. It has a last dip and slide in its character, has Calais, to be specially commended to the infernal gods. Thrice accursed be that garrison-town, when it dives under the boat's keel, and comes up a league or two to the right, with the packet shivering and spluttering and staring about for it!
Not but what I have my animosities towards Dover. I particularly detest Dover for the self-complacency with which it goes to bed. It always goes to bed (when I am going to Calais) with a more brilliant display of lamp and candle than any other town. Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham, host and hostess of the Lord Warden Hotel, are my much-esteemed friends, but they are too conceited about the comforts of that establishment when the Night Mail is starting. I know it is a good house to stay at, and I don't want the fact insisted upon in all its warm bright windows at such an hour. I know the Warden is a stationary edifice that never rolls or pitches, and I object to its big outline seeming to insist upon that circumstance, and, as it were, to come over me with it, when I am reeling on the deck of the boat. Beshrew the Warden likewise for obstructing that corner, and making the wind so angry as it rushes round. Shall I not know that it blows quite soon enough, without the officious Warden's interference?
As I wait here on board the night-packet, for the South-Eastern train to come down with the mail, Dover appears to me to be illuminated for some intensely aggravating festivity in my personal dishonour. All its noises smack of taunting praises of the land, and dispraises of the gloomy sea, and of me for going on it. The drums upon the heights have gone to bed, or I know they would rattle taunts against me for having my unsteady footing on this slippery deck. The many gas-eyes of the Marine Parade twinkle in an offensive manner, as if with derision. The distant dogs of Dover bark at me in my misshapen wrappers, as if I were Richard the Third.
A screech, a bell, and two red eyes come gliding down the Admiralty Pier with a smoothness of motion rendered more smooth by the heaving of the boat. The sea makes noises against the pier, as if several hippopotami were lapping at it, and were prevented by circumstances over which they have no control from drinking peaceably. We, the boat, become violently agitated—rumble, hum, scream, roar—and establish an immense family washing-day at each paddle-box. Bright patches break out in the train as the doors of the post-office vans are opened, and instantly stooping figures with sacks upon their backs begin to be beheld among the piles, descending as it would seem in ghostly procession to Davy Jones's Locker. The passengers come on board; a few shadowy Frenchmen, with hatboxes shaped like the stoppers of gigantic case-bottles; a few shadowy Germans in immense fur coats and boots; a few shadowy Englishmen prepared for the worst and pretending not to expect it. I cannot disguise from my uncommercial mind the miserable fact that we are a body of outcasts; that the attendants on us are as scant in number as may serve to get rid of us with the least possible delay; that there are no night-loungers interested in us; that the unwilling lamps shiver and shudder at us; that the sole object is to commit us to the deep and abandon us. Lo, the two red eyes glaring in increasing distance, and then the very train itself has gone to bed before we are off! What is the moral support derived by some sea-going amateurs from an umbrella? Why do certain voyagers across the Channel always put up that article, and hold it up with a grim and fierce tenacity? A fellow-creature near me—whom I only know to be a fellow-creature because of his umbrella: without which he might be a dark bit of cliff, pier, or bulkhead—clutches that instrument with a desperate grasp that will not relax until he lands at Calais. Is there an analogy, in certain constitutions, between keeping an umbrella up and keeping the spirits up? A hawser thrown on board with a flop replies, "Stand by!" "Stand by, below!" "Half a turn ahead!" "Half a turn ahead!" "Half speed!" "Half speed!" "Port!" "Port!" "Steady!" "Steady!" "Go on!" "Go on!"
A stout wooden wedge driven in at my right temple and out at my left, a floating deposit of lukewarm oil in my throat, and a compression of the bridge of my nose in a blunt pair of pincers—these are the personal sensations by which I know we are off, and by which I shall continue to know it until I am on the soil of France. My symptoms have scarcely established themselves comfortably, when two or three skating shadows that have been trying to walk or stand, get flung together, and other two or three shadows in tarpaulin slide with them into corners and cover them up. Then the South Foreland lights begin to hiccup at us in a way that bodes no good.
It is at about this period that my detestation of Calais knows no bounds. Inwardly I resolve afresh that I never will forgive that hateful town. I have done so before, many times, but that is past. Let me register a vow. Implacable animosity to Calais everm—that was an awkward sea, and the funnel seems of my opinion, for it gives a complaining roar.
The wind blows stiffly from the nor'-east, the sea runs high, we ship a deal of water, the night is dark and cold, and the shapeless passengers lie about in melancholy bundles, as if they were sorted out for the laundress; but, for my own uncommercial part, I cannot pretend that I am much inconvenienced by any of these things. A general howling, whistling, flopping, gurgling, and scooping, I am aware of, and a general knocking about of Nature; but the impressions I receive are very vague. In a sweet, faint temper, something like the smell of damaged oranges, I think I should feel languidly benevolent if I had time. I have not time, because I am under a curious compulsion to occupy myself with Irish melodies. "Rich and rare were the gems she wore," is the particular melody to which I find myself devoted. I sing it to myself in the most charming manner and with the greatest expression. Now and then I raise my head (I am sitting on the hardest of wet seats, in the most uncomfortable of wet attitudes, but I don't mind it) and notice that I am a whirling shuttle-cock between a fiery battledore of a lighthouse on the French coast and a fiery battledore of a lighthouse on the English coast; but I don't notice it particularly, except to feel envenomed in my hatred of Calais. Then I go on again, "Rich and rare were the ge-ems she-e-e-e wore, And a bright gold ring on her wa-and she bo-ore, But O her beauty was fa-a-a-r beyond"—I am particularly proud of my execution here, when I become aware of another awkward shock from the sea, and another protest from the funnel, and a fellow-creature at the paddle-box more audibly indisposed than I think he need be—"Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand, But O her beauty was fa-a-a-a-a-r beyond"—another awkward one here, and the fellow creature with the umbrella down and picked up—"Her spa-a-arkling ge-ems, or her Port! port! steady! steady! snow-white fellow-creature at the paddle-box very selfishly audible, bump roar wash white wand."
As my execution of the Irish melodies partakes of my imperfect perceptions of what is going on around me, so what is going on around me becomes something else than what it is. The stokers open the furnace-doors below, to feed the fires, and I am again on the box of the old Exeter Telegraph fast coach, and that is the light of the for-ever-extinguished coach-lamps, and the gleam on the hatches and paddle-boxes istheirgleam on cottages and haystacks, and the monotonous noise of the engines is the steady jingle of the splendid team. Anon, the intermittent funnel-roar of protest at every violent roll becomes the regular blast of the high-pressure engine, and I recognise the exceedingly explosive steamer in which I ascended the Mississippi when the American Civil War was not, and when only its causes were. A fragment of mast on which the light of a lantern falls, an end of rope, and a jerking block or so become suggestive of Franconi's Circus in Paris, where I shall be this very night mayhap (for it must be morning now), and they dance to the selfsame time and tune as the trained steed, Black Raven. What may be the speciality of these waves as they come rushing on I cannot desert the pressing demands made upon me by the gems she wore, to inquire, but they are charged with something about Robinson Crusoe, and I think it was in Yarmouth Roads that he first went a-seafaring and near foundering (what a terrific sound that word had for me when I was a boy!) in his first gale of wind. Still, through all this, I must ask her (whowasshe, I wonder!) for the fiftieth time, and without ever stopping, Does she not fear to stray, so lone and lovely through this bleak way, And are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by more fellow-creatures at the paddle-box or gold? Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm, For though they love fellow creatures with umbrella down again and golden store, Sir Knight, they—what a tremendous one!—love honour and virtue more: For though they love stewards with a bull's-eye bright, they'll trouble you for your ticket, sir—rough passage to-night!
I freely admit it to be a miserable piece of human weakness and inconsistency, but I no sooner become conscious of those last words from the steward than I begin to soften towards Calais. Whereas I have been vindictively wishing that those Calais burghers who came out of their town by a short cut into the History of England, with those fatal ropes round their necks by which they have since been towed into so many cartoons, had all been hanged on the spot, I now begin to regard them as highly respectable and virtuous tradesmen. Looking about me, I see the light of Cape Grinez well astern of the boat on the davits to leeward, and the light of Calais Harbour undeniably at its old tricks, but still ahead and shining. Sentiments of forgiveness of Calais, not to say of attachment to Calais, begin to expand my bosom. I have weak notions that I will stay there a day or two on my way back. A faded and recumbent stranger, pausing in a profound reverie over the rim of a basin, asked me what kind of place Calais is? I tell him (Heaven forgive me!) a very agreeable place indeed—rather hilly than otherwise.
So strangely goes the time, and on the whole so quickly—though still I seem to have been on board a week—that I am bumped, rolled, gurgled, washed, and pitched into Calais Harbour before her maiden smile has finally lighted her through the Green Isle. When blest for ever is she who relied On entering Calais at the top of the tide. For we have not to land to-night down among those slimy timbers—covered with green hair as if it were the mermaid's favourite combing-place—where one crawls to the surface of the jetty, like a stranded shrimp; but we go steaming up the harbour to the Railway-station Quay. And, as we go, the sea washes in and out among the piles and planks with dead, heavy beats and in quite a furious manner (whereof we are proud), and the lamps shake in the wind, and the bells of Calais striking One seem to send their vibrations struggling against troubled air, as we have come struggling against troubled water. And now, in the sudden relief and wiping of faces, everybody on board seems to have had a prodigious double-tooth out, and to be this very instant free of the dentist's hands. And now we all know for the first time how wet and cold we are, and how salt we are; and now I love Calais with my heart of hearts!
"Hôtel Dessin!" (but in this one case it is not a vocal cry; it is but a bright lustre in the eyes of the cheery representative of that best of inns). "Hôtel Meurice!" "Hôtel de France!" "Hôtel de Calais!" "The Royal Hotel, sir, Anglaishe 'ouse!" "You going to Parry, sir?" "Your baggage, registair free, sir?" Bless ye, my Touters; bless ye, my commissionaires; bless ye, my hungry-eyed mysteries in caps of military form, who are always here, day or night, fair weather or foul, seeking inscrutable jobs which I never see you get! Bless ye, my Custom-house officers in green and grey; permit me to grasp the welcome hands that descend into my travelling-bag, one on each side, and meet at the bottom to give my change of linen a peculiar shake-up, as if it were a measure of chaff or grain! I have nothing to declare, Monsieur le Douanier, except that, when I cease to breathe, Calais will be found written on my heart. No article liable to local duty have I with me, Monsieur l'Officier de l'Octroi, unless the overflowing of a breast devoted to your charming town should be in that wise chargeable. Ah! see at the gangway by the twinkling lantern my dearest brother and friend, he once of the Passport Office, he who collects the names! May he be for ever changeless in his buttoned black boat-surtout, with his note-book in his hand, and his tall black hat surmounting his round, smiling, patient face! Let us embrace, my dearest brother. I am yoursà tout jamais—for the whole of ever.
Calais up and doing at the railway-station, and Calais down and dreaming in its bed; Calais with something of "an ancient and fish-like smell" about it, and Calais blown and sea-washed pure; Calais represented at the Buffet by savoury roast fowls, hot coffee, cognac, and Bordeaux; and Calais represented everywhere by flitting persons with a monomania for changing money—though I never shall be able to understand, in my present state of existence, how they live by it; but I suppose I should, if I understood the currency question; Calaisen grosand Calaisen détail, forgive one who has deeply wronged you,—I was not fully aware of it on the other side, but I meant Dover.
Ding, ding! To the carriages, gentlemen the travellers. Ascend then, gentlemen the travellers, for Hazebroucke, Lille, Douai, Bruxelles, Arras, Amiens, and Paris! I, humble representative of the uncommercial interest, ascend with the rest. The train is light to-night, and I share my compartment with but two fellow-travellers; one, a compatriot in an obsolete cravat, who thinks it a quite unaccountable thing that they don't keep "London time" on a French railway, and who is made angry by my modestly suggesting the possibility of Paris time being more in their way; the other, a young priest, with a very small bird in a very small cage, who feeds the small bird with a quill, and then puts him up in the network above his head, where he advances twittering to his front wires, and seems to address me in an electioneering manner. The compatriot (who crossed in the boat, and whom I judge to be some person of distinction, as he was shut up, like a stately species of rabbit, in a private hutch on deck) and the young priest (who joined us at Calais) are soon asleep, and then the bird and I have it all to ourselves….
LETTERS[Sidenote:Walter Bagehot]
The complete letter-writer is now an unknown animal. In the last century, when communications were difficult, and epistles rare, there were a great many valuable people who devoted a good deal of time to writing elaborate letters. You wrote letters to a man whom you knew nineteen years and a half ago, and told him what you had for dinner, and what your second cousin said, and how the crops got on. Every detail of life was described and dwelt on, and improved. The art of writing, at least of writing easily, was comparatively rare, which kept the number of such compositions within narrow limits. Sir Walter Scott says he knew a man who remembered that the London post-bag once came to Edinburgh with only one letter in it. One can fancy the solemn, conscientious elaborateness with which a person would write, with the notion that his letter would have a whole coach and a whole bag to itself, and travel two hundred miles alone, the exclusive object of a red guard's care. The only thing like it now—the deferential minuteness with which one public office writes to another, conscious that the letter will travel on her Majesty's service three doors down the passage—sinks by comparison into cursory brevity.
No administrative reform will be able to bring even the official mind of these days into the grave inch-an-hour conscientiousness with which a confidential correspondent of a century ago related the growth of apples, the manufacture of jams, the appearance of flirtations, and other such-like things. All the ordinary incidents of an easy life were made the most of; a party was epistolary capital, a race a mine of wealth. So deeply sentimental was this intercourse that it was much argued whether the affections were created for the sake of ink, or ink for the sake of the affections. Thus it continued for many years, and the fruits thereof are written in the volumes of family papers, which daily appear, are prized as "materials for the historian," and consigned, as the case may be, to posterity or oblivion. All this has now passed away. Mr. Rowland Hill is entitled to the credit, not only of introducing stamps, but also of destroying letters.
THE TRAGEDY[Sidenote:Ingoldsby]
Quæque ipse miserrima vidi.—Virgil
Catherine of Cleves was a Lady of rank,She had lands and fine houses, and cash in the bank;She had jewels and rings, And a thousand smart things;Was lovely and young, With a rather sharp tongue,And she wedded a Noble of high degreeWith the star of the order ofSt. Esprit;But the Duke de Guise Was, by many degrees,Her senior, and not very easy to please;He'd a sneer on his lip, and a scowl with his eye,And a frown on his brow,—and he look'd like a Guy,—So she took to intriguing With Monsieur St. Megrin,A young man of fashion, and figure, and worth,But with no great pretensions to fortune or birth;He would sing, fence, and danceWith the best man in France,And took his rappee with genteelnonchalance;He smiled, and he flattered, and flirted with ease,And was very superior to Monseigneur de Guise.Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to knowIf the lady approved of his passion or no;So without more ado, He put on hissurtout,And went to a man with a beard like a Jew,One Signor Ruggieri, A cunning man near, heCould conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides,Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides,Bring back a stray'd cow, silver ladle, or spoon,And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon.The Sage took his stand With his wand in his hand,Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command,Saying solemnly—"Presto!—Hey, quick!—Cock-a-lorum!"When the Duchess immediately popp'd up before 'em.
Just then a conjunction of Venus and Mars,Or something peculiar above in the stars,Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri,Who "bolted," and left him alone with his deary.—Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees,And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas,When,—fancy the shock,—a loud double-knock,Made the lady cry, "Get up, you fool!—there's De Guise!"—'Twas his Grace, sure enough; So Monsieur, looking bluff,Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff,While, unseen by either, away flew the dameThrough the opposite key-hole, the same way she came;But, alack! and alas! A mishap came to pass,In her hurry she, somehow or other, let fallA new silkbandanashe'd worn as a shawl;She used it for drying Her bright eyes while crying,Ane blowing her nose, as her beau talk'd of dying!
Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her,And he knew the great C with the Crown in the corner,The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss,And said, with some energy, "D—— it! what's this?"He went home in a fume, And bounced into her room,Crying, "So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous!Look here!—here's a proof you run after the fellows!—Now take up that pen,—if it's bad choose a better,—And write, as I dictate, this moment a letterTo Monsieur—you know who!" The lady look'd blue;But replied with much firmness—"Hang me if I do!"De Guise grasped her wrist With his great bony fist,And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist,That his hard gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,—She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching;So she sat down and wrote This polite little note:—
"Dear Mister St. Megrin, The Chiefs of the League inOur house mean to dine This evening at nine;I shall, soon after ten, Slip away from the men,And you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then;Come up the back way, or those impudent thievesOf servants will see you; YoursCATHERINE OF CLEVES."
She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost,And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.St. Megrin had almost jumped out of his skinFor joy that day when the post came in;He read the note through Then began it anew,And thought it almost too good news to be true.—He clapp'd on his hat, And a hood over that,With a cloak to disguise him, and make him look fat;So great his impatience, from half after Four,He was waiting till Ten at De Guise's backdoor.When he heard the great clock of St. Genevieve chime,He ran up the back staircase six steps at a time,He had scarce made his bow, He hardly knew how,When alas! and alack! There was no getting back,For the drawing-room door was bang'd to with a whack;—
In vain he applied To the handle and tried,Somebody or other had locked it outside!And the Duchess in agony mourn'd her mishap:"We are caught like a couple of rats in a trap."
Now the Duchess's page, About twelve years of age,For so little a boy was remarkably sage;And, just in the nick, to their joy and amazement,Popp'd the gas-lighter's ladder close under the casement.But all would not do,—Though St. Megrin got throughThe window,—below stood De Guise and his crew.And though never man was more brave than St. Megrin,Yet fighting a score is extremely fatiguing;He thrustcarteandtierceUncommonly fierce,But not Beelzebub's self could their cuirasses pierce:While his doublet and hose, Being holiday clothes,Were soon cut through and through from his knees to his nose.Still an old crooked sixpence the Conjurer gave him,From pistol and sword was sufficient to save him,But, when beat on his knees, That confounded De GuiseCame behind with the "fogle" that caused all this breeze,Whipp'd it tight round his neck, and, when backward he'd jerk'd him,The rest of the rascals jump'd on him and Burked him.The poor little page, too, himself got no quarter, butWas served the same way, And was found the next dayWith his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt;
Catherine of Cleves Roar'd "Murder!" and "Thieves!"From the window above While they murder'd her love;Till, finding the rogues had accomplish'd his slaughter,She drank Prussic acid without any water,And died like a Duke-and-a-Duchess's daughter!
CHATTER OF A DILETTANTE[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
The people are good-humoured here and easy; and, what makes me pleased with them, they are pleased with me. One loves to find people who care for one, when they can have no view in it.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
As to "Hosier's Ghost," I think it very easy, and consequently pretty; but, from the ease, should never have guessed it Glover's. I delight in your, "the patriots cry it up, and the courtiers cry it down, and the hawkers cry it up and down."
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
There is a little book coming out that will amuse you. It is a new edition of Isaac Walton's "Complete Angler," full of anecdotes and historic notes. It is published by Mr. Hawkins, a very worthy gentleman in my neighbourhood, but who, I could wish, did not think angling so veryinnocentan amusement. We cannot live without destroying animals, but shall we torture them for our sport—sport in their destruction? I met a rough officer at his house t'other day, who said he knew such a person was turning Methodist; for, in the middle of conversation, he rose and opened the window to let out a moth. I told him I did not know that the Methodists had any principle so good, and that I, who am certainly not on the point of becoming one, always did so too. One of the bravest and best men I ever knew, Sir Charles Wager, I have often heard declare he never killed a fly willingly. It is a comfortable reflection to me, that all the victories of last year have been gained since the suppression of the Bear Garden and prize-fighting; as it is plain, and nothing else would have made it so, that our valour did not singly and solely depend upon these two Universities. Adieu!
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
Can we easily leave the remains of such a year as this? It is still all gold. I have not dined or gone to bed by a fire till the day before yesterday. Instead of the glorious and ever-memorable year 1759, as the newspapers call it, I call it this ever-warm and victorious year. We have not had more conquest than fine weather; one would think we had plundered East and West Indies of sunshine. Our bells are worn threadbare with ringing for victories. I believe it will require ten votes of the House of Commons before people will believe it is the Duke of Newcastle that has done this, and not Mr. Pitt. One thing is very fatiguing—all the world is made knights or generals. Adieu! I don't know a word of news less than the conquest of America. Adieu! yours ever.
P.S.—You shall hear from me again if we take Mexico or China beforeChristmas.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
You are so thoughtless about your dress that I cannot help giving you a little warning against your return. Remember, everybody that comes from abroad iscenséto come from France, and whatever they wear at their first reappearance immediately grows the fashion. Now if, as is very likely, you should through inadvertence change hats with a master of a Dutch smack, Offley will be upon the watch, will conclude you took your pattern from M. de Bareil, and in a week's time we shall all be equipped like Dutch skippers. You see I speak very disinterestedly; for, as I never wear a hat myself, it is indifferent to me what sort of hat I don't wear.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
Lord Frederick Cavendish is returned from France. He confirms and adds to the amiable accounts we have received of the Duc d'Aiguillon's behaviour to our prisoners. You yourself, the pattern of attentions and tenderness, could not refine on what he has done both in good-nature and good-breeding: he even forbad any ringing of bells or rejoicings wherever they passed—but how your representative blood will curdle when you hear of the absurdity of one of your countrymen: the night after the massacre at St. Cas, the Duc d'Aiguillon gave a magnificent supper of eighty covers to our prisoners—a Colonel Lambert got up at the bottom of the table, and, asking for a bumper, called out to the Duc, "My Lord Duke, here's the Roy de Franse!" You must put all the English you can crowd into the accent.My Lord Dukewas so confounded at this preposterous compliment, which it was impossible for him to return, that he absolutely sank back into his chair and could not utter a syllable: our own people did not seem to feel more.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
Well! and so you think we are undone!—not at all; if folly and extravagance are symptoms of a nation's being at the height of their glory, as after-observers pretend that they are forerunners of its ruin, we never were in a more flourishing situation. My Lord Rockingham and my nephew Lord Orford have made a match of five hundred pounds, between five turkeys and five geese, to run from Norwich to London. Don't you believe in the transmigration of souls? And are you not convinced that this race is between Marquis Sardanapalus and Earl Heliogabalus? And don't you pity the poor Asiatics and Italians who comforted themselves, on their resurrection, with their being geese and turkeys?
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
Here's another symptom of our glory! The Irish Speaker, Mr. Ponsonby, has beenreposinghimself atNewmarket. George Selwyn, seeing him toss about bank-bills at the hazard-table, said, "How easily the Speaker passes the money-bills!"
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
You would be more diverted with a Mrs. Holman, whose passion is keeping an assembly, and inviting literally everybody to it. She goes to the drawing-room to watch for sneezes; whips out a curtsy, and then sends next morning to know how your cold does, and to desire your company next Thursday.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
For my own part, I comfort myself with the humane reflection of the Irishman in the ship that was on fire—I am but a passenger! If I were not so indolent, I think I should rather put in practice the late Duchess of Bolton's geographical resolution of going to China, when Whiston told her the world would be burnt in three years. Have you any philosophy? Tell me what you think.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
If it was not too long to transcribe, I would send you an entertaining petition of the periwig-makers to the King, in which they complain that men will wear their own hair. Should one almost wonder if carpenters were to remonstrate that since the peace their trade decays, and that there is no demand for wooden legs?Aproposmy Lady Hertford's friend, Lady Harriot Vernon, has quarrelled with me for smiling at the enormous head-gear of her daughter, Lady Grosvenor. She came one night to Northumberland House with such display of friz that it literally spread beyond her shoulders. I happened to say it looked as if her parents had stinted her in hair before marriage, and that she had determined to indulge her fancy now. This, among ten thousand things said by all the world, was reported to Lady Harriot, and has occasioned my disgrace. As she never found fault with anybody herself, I excuse her. You will be less surprised to hear that the Duchess of Queensberry has not yet done dressing herself marvellously: she was at Court on Sunday in a gown and petticoat of red flannel.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
You perceive that I have been presented. The Queen took great notice of me; none of the rest said a syllable. You are let into the King's bedchamber just as he has put on his shirt; he dresses and talks good-humouredly to a few, glares at strangers, goes to mass, to dinner, and a-hunting. The good old Queen, who is like Lady Primrose in the face, is at her dressing-table, attended by two or three old ladies, who are languishing to be in Abraham's bosom, as the only man's bosom to whom they can hope for admittance.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
Old age is no such uncomfortable thing, if one gives oneself up to it with a good grace, and don't drag it about
To midnight dances and the public show.
If one stays quietly in one's own house in the country, and cares for nothing but oneself, scolds one's servants, condemns everything that is new, and recollects how charming a thousand things were formerly that were very disagreeable, one gets over the winters very well, and the summers get over themselves.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
As I was writing this, my servants called me away to see a balloon; I suppose Blanchard's, that was to be let off from Chelsea this morning. I saw it from the common field before the window of my round tower. It appeared about a third of the size of the moon, or less, when setting, something above the tops of the trees on the level horizon. It was then descending; and, after rising and declining a little, it sunk slowly behind the trees, I should think about or beyond Sunbury, at five minutes after one. But you know I am a very inexact guesser at measures and distances, and may be mistaken in many miles; and you know how little I have attended to theseairgonauts: only t'other night I diverted myself with a sort of meditation on futureairgonation, supposing that it will not only be perfected, but will depose navigation. I did not finish it, because I am not skilled, like the gentleman that used to write political ship-news, in that style which I wanted to perfect my essay; but in the prelude I observed how ignorant the ancients were in supposing Icarus melted the wax of his wings by too near access to the sun, whereas he would have been frozen to death before he made the first post on that road. Next, I discovered an alliance between Bishop Wilkin's art of flying and his plan of universal language; the latter of which he no doubt calculated to prevent the want of an interpreter when he should arrive at the moon.
But I chiefly amused myself with ideas of the change that would be made in the world by the substitution of balloons to ships. I supposed our seaports to becomedeserted villages; and Salisbury Plain, Newmarket Heath (another canvass for alteration of ideas), and all downs (buttheDowns) arising into dockyards for aerial vessels. Such a field would be ample in furnishing new speculations. But to come to my ship-news:
"The good balloon Dædalus, Captain Wingate, will fly in a few days forChina; he will stop at the top of the Monument to take in passengers.
"Arrived on Brand-sands, the Vulture, Captain Nabob; the Tortoisesnow, from Lapland; the Pet-en-l'air, from Versailles; the Dreadnought, from Mount Etna, Sir W. Hamilton, commander; the Tympany, Montgolfier; and the Mine-A-in-a-bandbox, from the Cape of Good Hope. Foundered in a hurricane, the Bird of Paradise, from Mount Ararat. The Bubble, Sheldon, took fire, and was burnt to her gallery; and the Phoenix is to be cut down to a second-rate."
In those days Old Sarum will again be a town and have houses in it.There will be fights in the air with wind-guns and bows and arrows; andthere will be prodigious increase of land for tillage, especially inFrance, by breaking up all public roads as useless.
[Sidenote:Horace Walpole]
One of the Duke of Marlborough's generals, dining with the Lord Mayor, an Alderman who sat next to him said, "Sir, yours must be a very laborious profession." "No," replied the general, "we fight about four hours in the morning, and two or three after dinner, and then we have all the rest of the day to ourselves."
HIS MARRIAGE[Sidenote:William Cobbett]
When I first saw my wife she wasthirteen years old.[5] I was within a month oftwenty-one.[6] She was the daughter of a sergeant of artillery, and I was the sergeant-major of a regiment of foot, both stationed in forts near the city of St. John, in the province of New Brunswick. I sat in the same room with her for about an hour, in the company of others, and I made up my mind that she was the very girl for me. That I thought her beautiful is certain, for that, I had always said, should be an indispensable qualification; but I saw in her what I deemed marks of that sobriety ofconduct… which has been by far the greatest blessing of my life. It was now dead of winter, and, of course, the snow several feet deep on the ground, and the weather piercing cold. It was my habit, when I had done my morning's writing, to go out at break of day to take a walk on a hill at the foot of which our barracks lay. In about three mornings after I had first seen her, I had, by an invitation to breakfast with me, got up two young men to join me in my walk; and our road lay by the house of her father and mother. It was hardly light, but she was out on the snow scrubbing out a washing-tub. "That's the girl for me," said I, when we had got out of hearing.
One of these young men came to England soon afterwards; and he, who keeps an inn in Yorkshire, came over to Preston at the time of the election (in 1826) to verify whether I were the same man. When he found that I was he appeared surprised; but what was his surprise when I told him that those tall young men whom he saw around me were thesonsof that pretty little girl that he and I saw scrubbing out the washing-tub on the snow in New Brunswick at day-break in the morning!
From the day that I first spoke to her I never had a thought of her ever being the wife of any other man, more than I had a thought of her being transformed into a chest of drawers; and I formed my resolution at once, to marry her as soon as we could get permission, and to get out of the army as soon as I could. So that this matter was at once settled as firmly as if written in the book of fate. At the end of about six months my regiment, and I along with it, were removed to Fredericton, a distance ofa hundred milesup the river of St. John; and, which was worse, the artillery was expected to go off to England a year or two before our regiment! The artillery went, and she along with them; and now it was that I acted a part becoming a real and sensible lover. I was aware that, when she got to that gay place Woolwich, the house of her father and mother, necessarily visited by numerous people, not the most select, might become unpleasant to her, and I did not like, besides, that she should continue towork hard. I had saveda hundred and fiftyguineas, the earnings of my early hours, in writing for the paymaster, the quartermaster, and others, in addition to the savings of my own pay.I sent her all my moneybefore she sailed, and wrote to her to beg of her, if she found her home uncomfortable, to hire a lodging with respectable people, and, at any rate, not to spare the money by any means, but to buy herself good clothes, and to live without hard work, until I arrived in England; and I, in order to induce her to lay out the money, told her that I should get plenty more before I came home.
As the malignity of the devil would have it, we were kept abroadtwo years longerthan our time, Mr. Pitt (England not being so tame then as she is now[7]) having knocked up a dust with Spain about Nootka Sound. Oh, how I cursed Nootka Sound, and poor bawling Pitt too, I am afraid! At the end offour years, however, home I came, landed at Portsmouth, and got my discharge from the army by the great kindness of poor Lord Edward FitzGerald, who was then the major of my regiment. I found my little girla servant of all work(and hard work it was)at five pounds a year, in the house of a Captain Brisac; and, without hardly saying a word about the matter, she put into my hands the whole of my hundred and fifty guineas unbroken!
LIFE AT BOTLEY[Sidenote:William Cobbett]
But, to do the things I did, you must lovehomeyourself. To rear up children, in this manner, you mustlive with them; you must make them, too,feelby your conduct, that youpreferthis to any other mode of passing your time. All men cannot lead this sort of life, but many may; and all much more than many do. My occupation, to be sure, was chiefly carried onat home; but I had always enough to do. I never spent an idle week, or even day, in my whole life. Yet I found time to talk with them, to walk, or ride, aboutwith them; and, when forced to go from home, always took one or more with me. You must be good-tempered, too, with them; they must likeyourcompany better than any other person's; they must not wish you away, not fear your coming back, not look upon your departure as aholiday….
When I went from home, all followed me to the outer gate, and looked after me, till the carriage, or horse, was out of sight. At the time appointed for my return, all were prepared to meet me; and, if it were late at night, they sat up as long as they were able to keep their eyes open. This love of parents, and this constant pleasureat homemade them not even think of seeking pleasure abroad; and they, thus, were kept from vicious playmates and early corruption.
This is the age, too, to teach children to betrustworthy, and to bemercifulandhumane. We livedin a gardenof about two acres, partly kitchen-garden with walls, partly shrubbery and trees, and partly grass. There were thepeaches, as tempting as any that ever grew, and yet as safe from fingers as if no child were ever in the garden. It was not necessary to forbid. The blackbirds, the thrushes, the white-throats, and even that very shy bird the goldfinch had their nests and bred up their young ones in great abundance, all about this little spot, constantly the play-place of six children; and one of the latter had its nest and brought up its young ones in araspberry-bush, within two yards of a walk, and at the time that we were gathering the ripe raspberries. We give _dogs, _and justly, great credit for sagacity and memory; but the following two most curious instances, which I should not venture to state, if there were not so many witnesses to the facts, in my neighbours at Botley, as well as in my own family, will show, thatbirdsare not, in this respect, inferior to the canine race. All country people know that the skylark is a very shy bird; that its abode is the open fields; that it settles on the ground only; that it seeks safety in the wideness of space; that it avoids enclosures, and is never seen in gardens. A part of our ground was a grass-plot of aboutforty rods,or a quarter of an acre, which, one year, was left to be mowed for hay. A pair of larks, coming out of the fields into the midst of a pretty populous village, chose to make their nest in the middle of this little spot and at not more than aboutthirty-five yardsfrom one of the doors of the house, in which there were about twelve persons living, and six of these children, who had constant access to all parts of the ground. There we saw the cock rising up and singing, then taking his turn upon the eggs; and by and by we observed him cease to sing, and saw them bothconstantly engaged in bringing food to the young ones. No unintelligible hint to fathers and mothers of the human race, who have, before marriage, taken delight inmusic. But the time came formowing the grass!I waited a good many days for the brood to get away, but at last I determined on the day; and if the larks were there still, to leave a patch of grass standing around them. In order not to keep them in dread longer than necessary, I brought three able mowers, who would cut the whole in about an hour; and, as the plat was nearly circular, set them to mowround, beginning at the outside. And now for sagacity indeed! The moment the men began to whet their scythes, the two old larks began to flutter over the nest, and to make a great clamour. When the men began to mow, they flew round and round, stooping so low, when near the men, as almost to touch their bodies, making a great chattering at the same time; but, before the men had got round with the second swath, they flew to the nest, and away they went, young ones and all, across the river, at the foot of the ground, and settled in the long grass in my neighbour's orchard.
The other instance relates to a house-marten. It is well known that these birds build their nests under the eaves of inhabited houses, and sometimes under those of door-porches; but we had one that built its nestin the house, and upon the top of a common door-case, the door of which opened into a room out of the main passage into the house. Perceiving that the marten had begun to build its nest here, we kept the front door open in the day-time, but were obliged to fasten it at night. It went on, had eggs, young ones, and the young ones flew. I used to open the door in the morning early, and then the birds carried on their affairs till night. The nextyearthe marten came again, and hadanother brood in the same place. It found itsold nest; and, having repaired it, and put it in order, went on again in the former way; and it would, I dare say, have continued to come to the end of its life, if we had remained there so long, notwithstanding there were six healthy children in the house making just as much noise as they pleased.
HIS CHILDREN[Sidenote:William Cobbett]
We wanted no stimulants of this sort [he is referring to social dissipation, romances, and playhouses] tokeep up our spirits; our various pleasing pursuits were quite sufficient for that; and thebook-learningcame amongst the rest of the pleasures, to which it was, in some sort, necessary. I remember that, one year, I raised a prodigious crop of finemelons, under hand-glasses; and I learned how to do it from a gardening-book; or, at least, that book was necessary to remind me of the details. Having passed part of an evening in talking to the boys about getting this crop, "Come," said I, "now let usread the book."Then the book came forth, and to work we went, following very strictly the precepts of the book. I read the thing but once, but the eldest boy read it, perhaps, twenty times over; and explained all about the matter to the others. Why, here was amotive! Then he had to tell the garden labourerwhat to doto the melons. Now, I will engage, that more was reallylearnedby this singlelesson, than would have been learned by spending, at this son's age, a year at school; and hehappyanddelightedall the while. When any dispute arose among them about hunting or shooting, or any other of their pursuits, they, by degrees, found out the way of settling it by reference to some book; and, when any difficulty occurred as to the meaning, they referred to me, who, if at home,always instantly attended to themin these matters.
They began writing by taking words out ofprinted books: finding out which letter was which, by asking me, or asking those who knew the letters one from the other; and, by imitating bits of my writing, it is surprising how soon they began to write a hand like mine, very small, very faint-stroked, and nearly plain as print. The first use that any of them made of the pen, was towrite to me, though in the same house with them. They began doing this in merescratches, before they knew how to make any one letter; and, as I was always folding up letters and directing them, so were they; and they weresureto receive aprompt answer, with mostencouragingcompliments. All the meddling and teasing of friends, and, what was more serious, the pressing prayers of their anxious mother, about sending them toschool, I withstood without the slightest effect on my resolutions. As to friends, preferring my own judgment to theirs, I did not care much; but an expression of anxiety, implying a doubt of the soundness of my own judgment, coming, perhaps twenty times a day, from her whose care they were as well as mine, was not a matter to smile at, and very great trouble did it give me. My answer at last was, as to the boys, I want them to belike me; and as to the girls "in whose hands can they be so safe as inyours? Therefore my resolution is taken;go to school they shall not."
Nothing is much more annoying than theintermeddling of friendsin a case like this. The wife appeals tothem, and "good breeding," that is to saynonsense, is sure to put them onher side. Then they, particularly thewomen, when describing thesurprising progressmade by theirown sonsat school, used, if one of mine were present, to turn to him, and ask to what schoolhe went, and whathewaslearning? I leave any one to judge ofhisopinion of her; and whetherhewould like her the better for that! "Bless me, so tall, andnot learnedanythingyet!" "Oh, yes, he has," I used to say; "he has learned to ride, and hunt, and shoot, and fish, and look after cattle and sheep, and to work in the garden, and to feed his dogs, and to go from village to village in the dark." This was the way I used to manage with troublesome customers of this sort. And how glad the children used to be, when they got clear of such criticising people! And how grateful they felt to me for theprotectionwhich they saw that I gave them against that state of restraint, of which other people's boys complained! Go whither they might, they found no place so pleasant as home, and no soul that came near them affording them so many means of gratification as they received from me.
THE CAP THAT FITS[Sidenote:Austin Dobson]
"Qui sème épines n'aille déchaux"
SCENE—A Salon with blue and white panels. Outside, persons pass and repass upon a terrace.
HORTENSE(behind her fan)Not young, I think.
ARMANDE(raising her eye-glass)And faded, too!—Quitefaded! Monsieur, what say you?
M. LOYALNay,—I defer to you. In truth,To me she seems all grace and youth.
HORTENSEGraceful? You think it? What, with handsThat hang like this?(with a gesture).
ARMANDEAnd how she stands!
M. LOYALNay,—I am wrong again. I thoughtHer air delightfully untaught!
HORTENSEBut you amuse me—
M. LOYALStill her dress,—Her dress at least, youmustconfess—
ARMANDEIs odious simply! JacototDid not supply that lace, I know;And where, I ask, has mortal seenA hat unfeathered?
HORTENSEEdged with green!!
M. LOYALThe words remind me. Let me sayA Fable that I heard to-day.Have I permission?
BOTH(with enthusiasm)Monsieur, pray!
M. LOYAL"Myrtilla (lest a scandal riseThe lady's name I thus disguise),Dying of ennui, once decided—Much on resource herself she prided—To choose a hat. Forthwith she fliesOn that momentous enterprise.Whether to Petit or Logros,I know not: only this I know;—Headdresses then, of any fashion,Bore names of quality, or passion.Myrtilla tried them, almost all:'Prudence,' she felt, was somewhat small;'Retirement' seemed the eyes to hide;'Content,' at once, she cast aside.'Simplicity,'—'twas out of place;'Devotion' for an older face;Briefly, selection smaller grew,'Vexatious! odious!'—none would do!Then, on a sudden, she espiedOne that she thought she had not tried:Becoming, rather,—'edged with green,'—Roses in yellow, thorns between.'Quick! Bring me that!' 'Tis brought. 'Complete,Superb, enchanting, tasteful, neat,'In all the tones. 'And this you call—?''"Ill-Nature," Madame. It fits all.'"
A thousand thanks! So naively turned!
So useful too … to those concerned!'Tis yours?
M. LOYALAh no,—some cynic wits;And called (I think)—(Placing his hat upon his breast),"The Cap that Fits."
ENIGMA[Sidenote:Mark Twain]
Not wishing to be outdone in literary enterprise by those magazines which have attractions especially designed for the pleasing of the fancy and the strengthening of the intellect of youth, we have contrived and builded the following enigma, at great expense of time and labour:
I am a word of 13 letters.
My 7, 9, 4, 4 is a village in Europe.
My 7, 14, 5, 7 is a kind of dog.
My 11, 13, 13, 9, 2, 7, 2, 3, 6, 1, 13 is a peculiar kind of stuff.
My 2, 6, 12, 8, 9, 4 is the name of a great general of ancient times (have spelt it to best of ability, though may have missed the bull's-eye on a letter or two, but not enough to signify).
My 3, 11, 1, 9, 15, 2, 2, 6, 2, 9, 13, 2, 6, 15, 4, 11, 2, 3, 5, 1, 10, 4, 8 is the middle name of a Russian philosopher, up whose full cognomen fame is slowly but surely climbing.
My 7, 11, 4, 12, 3, 1, 1, 9 is an obscure but very proper kind of bug.
My whole is—but perhaps a reasonable amount of diligence and ingenuity will reveal that.
We take a just pride in offering the customary gold pen or cheap sewing-machine for correct solutions of the above.
THE HAPPINESS OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE[Sidenote:Religio Medici]
In my solitary and retired imagination (Neque enim cum porticus, aut me lectulus accepit, desum mihi) I remember I am not alone, and therefore forget not to contemplate Him and His Attributes who is ever with me, especially those two mighty ones, His Wisdom and Eternity; with the one I recreate, with the other I confound, my understanding; for who can speak of Eternity without a soloecism, or think thereof without an Extasie? Time we may comprehend; 'tis but five days elder than ourselves, and hath the same Horoscope with the World; but to retire so far back as to apprehend a beginning, to give such an infinite start forwards as to conceive an end in an essence that we affirm hath neither the one nor the other, it puts my Reason toSt. Paul'sSanctuary: my Philosophy dares not say the angels can do it; God hath not made a Creature that can comprehend Him; 'tis a privilege of His own nature….
[Sidenote:Religio Medici]
Art is the perfection of Nature: were the World now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a Chaos: Nature hath made one World, and Art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for Nature is the Art of God.
[Sidenote:Religio Medici]
There is surely a piece of divinity in us, something that was before the Elements, and owes no homage unto the Sun. Nature tells me I am the Image of God, as well as Scripture: he that understands not thus much, hath not his introduction or first lesson, and is yet to begin the Alphabet of man. Let me not injure the felicity of others, if I say I am as happy as any:Ruat coelum, Fiat voluntas tua, salveth all; so that whatsoever happens, it is but what our daily prayers desire. In brief, I am content, and what should providence add more? Surely this is it we call Happiness, and this do I enjoy; with this I am happy in a dream, and as content to enjoy a happiness in a fancy, as others in a more apparent truth and reality. There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights us in our dreams, than in our waked senses; without this I were unhappy: for my awaked judgment discontents me, ever whispering unto me, that I am from my friend; but my friendly dreams in night requite me, and make me think I am within his arms. I thank God for my happy dreams, as I do for my good rest, for there is a satisfaction in them unto reasonable desires, and such as can be content with a fit of happiness. And surely it is not a melancholy conceit to think we are all asleep in this World, and that the conceits of this life are as near dreams to those of the next, as the Phantasms of the night, to the conceits of the day. There is an equal delusion in both, and the one doth but seem to be the emblem or picture of the other; we are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps, and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. It is the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason, and our waking conceptions do not match the Fancies of our sleeps. At my Nativity, my Ascendant was the watery sign ofScorpius; I was born in the Planetary hour ofSaturn, and I think I have a piece of that Leaden Planet in me. I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardize of company; yet in one dream I can compose a whole Comedy, behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at the conceits thereof: were my memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my dreams; and this time also would I chuse for my devotions: but our grosser memories have then so little hold of our abstracted understandings that they forget the story, and can only relate to our awaked souls, a confused and broken tale of that that hath passed.
[Sidenote:Religio Medici]
He is rich, who hath enough to be charitable; and it is hard to be so poor that a noble mind may not find a way to this piece of goodness.He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord;there is more Rhetorick in that one sentence, than in a Library of Sermons; and indeed if those Sentences were understood by the Reader, with the same Emphasis as they are delivered by the Author, we needed not those Volumes of instructions, but might be honest by an Epitome. Upon this motive only I cannot behold a Beggar without relieving his Necessities with my Purse, or his Soul with my Prayers; thosescenicaland accidentaldifferencesbetween us, cannot make me forget that common and untoucht part of us both; there is under theseCantoesand miserable outsides, these mutilate and semi-bodies, a soul of the same alloy with our own, whose Genealogy is God as well as ours, and in as fair a way to Salvation as our selves.
"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE"[Sidenote:Hood]
I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:—Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door:So he call'd upon Lucy—'twas just ten o'clock—Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock.
Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at,Will run like a puss when she hears arat-tat:So Lucy ran up—and in two seconds moreHad questioned the stranger and answered the door.
The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;For the moment will come when such comers must go:So she kissed him, and whispered—poor innocent thing!—"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."
THE HAPPY DEAN[Sidenote:Dean Hole]
My dear Hall,—I don't like the writing of this letter. I feel as I felt in childhood when they were measuring out the castor-oil in a spoon; or when, in boyhood, it was suggested "that kind Mr. Crackjaw shouldjust lookat my teeth."
But the gulp and the "scrawnsh" must come.
My Master, the Archbishop, wishes me to speak at the Annual Meeting of the Church Defence Society in London, on the 9th of July, and as this is his first invitation to duty since I became his Chaplain, I cannot plead pleasure as an excuse.
Regarding the Fete des Roses at Larchwood, as themost joyful holidayof my year, from my first entrance into that pleasant home until you chaperon me to the Omnibus at the gate of the Show-ground, I need not enlarge on my disappointment. The less said the better.
When Dido found Æneas did not come,She mourned in silence, and was Di do dum.
Roses are improving here, but they will be very late. May you add to the victories which your zeal and care have so well deserved. Shall you be at Sheffield? If so, you might return with me and have a quiet day's talk and ramble. With kindest regards and most obnoxious regrets, I remain yours most sincerely,
* * * * *
When the Church Conference was held at Newcastle, Hole told a story of a young curate who was preaching in a strange church from which the rector was away. He preached a very short sermon, and in the vestry afterwards the churchwarden remarked upon its shortness, and the curate told him that a pup at his lodgings got into his room and ate half his sermon, whereupon the churchwarden said: "I should be much obliged if you could get our rector one of the breed." Reading this story, Mr. Boultbee wrote to ask Hole if he could say what happened to the dog after eating the sermon, and the reply was:
Dear Sir,—You will be pleased to hear that when the dog had inwardly digested the sermon which he had torn, he turned over a new leaf. He had been sullen and morose; he became "a very jolly dog." He had been selfish and exclusive in his manger; he generously gave it up to an aged poodle. He had been noisy and vulgar; he became a quiet, gentlemanly dog; he never growled again; and when he was bitten he always requested the cur who had torn his flesh to be so good, as a particular favour, to bite him again. He has established a Reformatory in the Isle of Dogs for perverse puppies, and an Infirmary for Mangy Mastiffs in Houndsditch. He has won twenty-six medals from the Humane Society for rescuing children who have fallen into the canal. He spends six days of the week in conducting his brothers and sisters, who have lost their ways, to the Dog's Home, and it is a most touching sight to see him leading the blind to church from morning to night on Sundays.
[Sidenote:Dean Hole]
My dear Lord Bishop,—I have a strong suspicion that the inundation of the Nave at Rochester was a knavish conspiracy of the Tee-totallers to submerge the Cathedral during the absence of the Dean. The vergers have had Water-on-the-Brain, but Messrs. Bishop and Sons from London have assured Mr. Luard Selby that there is no organic disease.
I have regarded it as my duty, in anticipation of your lordship's visit to North Wales on Wednesday next, to see that all due preparations are made to receive you. I have been to ——, and found that the new chancel is making satisfactory progress. The new altar frontal is beautiful, the tea and bread and butter at the Rectory are excellent, the roses in the garden are making extra efforts, the school-mistress is in good health, the mountains are drawn up in saluting order, the mines are smoking peacefully, there will be cold lamb at the luncheon, weather permitting, and all frivolous persons will be banished to England, including yours ever.
THE ANSWER OF LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE[Sidenote:Henry S. Leigh]
The Lady Clara V. de V.Presents her very best regardsTo that misguided Alfred T.(With one of her enamell'd cards).Though uninclin'd to give offence,The Lady Clara begs to hintThat Master Alfred's common senseDeserts him utterly in print.
The Lady Clara can but say,That always from the very firstShe snubb'd in her decisive wayThe hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd.The fondest words that ever fellFrom Lady Clara, when they met,Were, "How d'ye do? I hope you're well!"Or else, "The weather's very wet."
Her Ladyship needs no adviceHow time and money should be spent,And can't pursue at any priceThe plan that Alfred T. has sent.She does not in the least objectTo let the "foolish yeoman" go,But wishes—let him recollect—That he should move to Jericho.
THE WOODCRAFT OF JONSON[Sidenote:Ben Johnson]
Nothing is a courtesy unless it be meant us; and that friendly and lovingly. We owe no thanks to rivers, that they carry our boats; or winds, that they be favouring and fill our sails; or meats, that they be nourishing; for these are what they are necessarily. Horses carry us, trees shade us, but they know it not. It is true, some men may receive a courtesy and not know it; but never any man received it from him that knew it not. Many men have been cured of diseases by accident; but they were not remedies. I myself have known one helped of an ague by falling into a water; another whipped out of a fever; but no man would ever use these for medicines. It is the mind, and not the event, that distinguisheth the courtesy from wrong. My adversary may offend the judge with his pride and impertinences, and I win my cause; but he meant it not to me as a courtesy. I 'scaped pirates by being ship-wracked; was the wrack a benefit therefore? No; the doing of courtesies aright is the mixing of the respects for his own sake and for mine. He that doeth them merely for his own sake is like one that feeds his cattle to sell them; he hath his horse well dressed for Smithfield.
[Sidenote:Ben Johnson]
Many might go to heaven with half the labour they go to hell, if they would venture their industry the right way; but "The devil take all!" quoth he that was choked i' the mill-dam, with his four last words in his mouth.
[Sidenote:Ben Johnson]
A good man will avoid the spot of any sin. The very aspersion is grievous, which makes him choose his way in his life as he would in his journey. The ill man rides through all confidently; he is coated and booted for it. The oftener he offends, the more openly, and the fouler, the fitter in fashion. His modesty, like a riding-coat, the more it is worn is the less cared for. It is good enough for the dirt still, and the ways he travels in.
[Sidenote:Ben Johnson]
Money never made any man rich, but his mind. He that can order himself to the law of Nature is not only without the sense but the fear of poverty. O, but to strike blind the people with our wealth and pomp is the thing! What a wretchedness is this, to thrust all our riches outward, and be beggars within; to contemplate nothing but the little, vile, and sordid things of the world; not the great, noble, and precious! We serve our avarice, and, not content with the good of the earth that is offered us, we search and dig for the evil that is hidden. God offered us those things, and placed them at hand, and near us, that He knew were profitable for us, but the hurtful He laid deep and hid. Yet do we seek only the things whereby we may perish, and bring them forth, when God and Nature hath buried them. We covet superfluous things, when it were more honour for us if we could contemn necessary. What need hath Nature of silver dishes, multitudes of waiters, delicate pages, perfumed napkins? She requires meat only, and hunger is not ambitious. Can we think no wealth enough but such a state for which a man may be brought into a præmunire, begged, proscribed, or poisoned? O! if a man could restrain the fury of his gullet and groin, and think how many fires, how many kitchens, cooks, pastures, and ploughed lands; what orchards, stews, ponds and parks, coops and garners, he could spare; what velvets, tissues, embroideries, laces, he could lack; and then how short and uncertain his life is; he were in a better way to happiness than to live the emperor of these delights, and be the dictator of fashions. But we make ourselves slaves to our pleasures, and we serve fame and ambition, which is an equal slavery.