FOOTNOTES:

——majora canamus.

FOOTNOTES:[F]I began this unadorned narrative on the 15th of January, 1801: twenty years have therefore elapsed since I lost my benefactor and my friend. In the interval I have wept a thousand times at the recollection of his goodness: I yet cherish his memory with filial respect: and at this distant period, my heart sinks within me at every repetition of his name.[G]Many of these papers were distributed; the terms, which I extract from one of them, were these. "The work shall be printed in quarto (without notes) and be delivered to the subscribers in the month of December next.""The price will be sixteen shillings in boards, half to be paid at the time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery of the book."

[F]I began this unadorned narrative on the 15th of January, 1801: twenty years have therefore elapsed since I lost my benefactor and my friend. In the interval I have wept a thousand times at the recollection of his goodness: I yet cherish his memory with filial respect: and at this distant period, my heart sinks within me at every repetition of his name.

[G]Many of these papers were distributed; the terms, which I extract from one of them, were these. "The work shall be printed in quarto (without notes) and be delivered to the subscribers in the month of December next.""The price will be sixteen shillings in boards, half to be paid at the time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery of the book."

"The price will be sixteen shillings in boards, half to be paid at the time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery of the book."

We have now brought the extraordinary personage who makes the subject of this memoir to that time of life when his character assumes a high rank, and his conduct an importance, which entitle him to a much more serious consideration from the reader. As a strict regard to truth forbids us to deny that, in common with all his fellow creatures, he deserves censure for some part of his conduct in life, so candour, and indeed common integrity, enjoin it upon us to accompany that acknowledgment with all such circumstances, and the reasonings upon them that occur to us, as may serve to extenuate the criminality of those acts, and to show that his misconduct was the natural, or rather the necessary and inevitable result of the circumstances to which he was exposed, and nothing more than the every-day issues of human infirmity. If in discharging the office of a biographer, and canvassing the character of the dead, we are compelled to utter truths that will be unwelcome to many a heart, and to speak lightly of the bad members of a profession for the good ones of which we have a high respect, let it be remembered that we do it perhaps reluctantly, but certainly in obedience to the imperious commands of a duty paramount to all form and ceremony, which dictates that truth must be investigated, no matter what galled jade may feel its withers wrung by it.

The indiscriminating, unjust, and illiberal spirit of persecution, with which actors have been followed up for ages, has not a greater enemy in any bosom upon earth than in ours; and we should not only libel the opinions we have uniformly avowed, but violate our conscientious persuasion, and suppress truth if we neglected to state that a multitude of the ladies and gentlemen of that profession, justly stand as high in moral character, as any of those who,in the other departments of life, are most conspicuous for virtue and nice honour. The time was, indeed, when instances of the kind were so very rare, that they were scarcely credited, and when the general maxim was, that the public had nothing to do with the private lives of performers. But now, when the spotless purity of successive actresses in England has so far diminished the prejudice entertained against the body, that actresses of irreproachable character are received into good company, and many of them even married into high families, a correspondent ambition on their part fills most ladies of the stage with an honourable spirit of emulation in the race of fame; while, on the other hand, the people exercise a very rigid scrutiny upon the stage, hold the actresses amenable for their private conduct, and declare that they will not suffer one who is notoriously vitious to come forward on the stage and make a mockery of discretion by uttering the precepts of virtue.

Still, however, there hang about the stage in every country too many actresses of abandoned character. As may well be supposed, the private attachments of those are as perfectly feigned, as any of the passions or characters they represent in public, and their allurements are employed chiefly, if not solely, for the gratification of their vanity, or the furtherance of their pecuniary interest. Here and there, may perhaps be found an example of the influence of personal love: but in general they make their charms tributary to their purses, and to their standing in the theatre. To prove this it need only be stated as a general rule, to which there are but very few exceptions, that in England the greatest favourites with that class of females, and those for whose preference they most artfully vie with each other, is some ordinary, or perhaps hoary manager, who, if he be so disposed, is sure to carry away those precious prizes from the finest youths or prime men of the theatre, unless to youth and personal elegance the latter should add great professional merit and the power and influence consequent to it.

A moment's consideration will show that, for the purposes of women of this description, there could not possibly be found a more hopeful object than such a young person as Hodgkinson must necessarily have been at this period of his life. Unassisted by early instruction

——No parent's careShielded his infant innocence with prayer;No father's guardian hand his youth maintained;Called forth his virtues or from vice restrained.

Raised by his own talents and industry to great celebrity, and at a time of life, when others have not ventured to cross the threshold of the profession, honoured with the patronage of the first dramatic personage living, it would be a miracle if he had not been rendered giddy by his unexpected height. He had as yet had no experience to make him wise, no sufferings to make him cautious. From his boyish days he was compelled, by the necessity of his situation, to associate with persons of all others the most likely to corrupt his morals, and continually exposed to dangers which he was incapable of suspecting, and therefore could not defeat. On the other hand every circumstance attending his condition had a tendency to intoxicate his brain: the first dawn of manhood broke upon him with the dazzling glare of a full and fervid prosperity, which no modesty could prevent him from knowing to be the fruits of his own extraordinary merit. Along with this, his personal endowments, which were of themselves sufficient in private life to have filled the best regulated young mind with vanity, were the continual subject of public approbation—his face was remarkably handsome, he was tall, well proportioned, and graceful. He had one of the finest voices in England, and played well on several musical instruments. These not only disqualified him for resisting, but increased the amount of the temptations that surrounded him. Thus, while his personal accomplishments fitted him for gaining the affections of the sex, fortune madehim a desirable prey for their cupidity. The breath of flattery blew upon him in every direction, and inflamed his vanity and self-love, while all the wiles and allurements which artful wantonness could practise upon unsuspicious youth, were played off against his heart; and thus his passions, which in all probability were complexionally strong, became ungovernable. Coarse undisguised flattery too often makes its way to the hearts of the wisest and the best—How then could a poor youth like Hodgkinson be expected to refuse it, when administered by beauty, and disguised by elegance and refinement.

Co-ordinate with the rise of his fame and fortune therefore was the growth of the evils which were fated to endanger the one, and to make shipwreck of the other; and his professional success and his gallantries, running parallel to each other like the two wheels of a gig, left their marks on every road he travelled in the north of England, to the great delight of the major part of his profession, who sickened at his superiority, and exulted in every thing that threatened to injure his reputation and degrade him in the eyes of the public. Nor did their malice want subjects to work upon: TheStatirasand theRoxanasby turns got possession of our youngAlexander, and the demon of licentiousness seems to have exercised more than his customary dominion over the ladies, for the ruin of the young man. In whatever company Hodgkinson played, he became the object, too often the victim of their arts, and some unfortunate husband or lover had to deplore the unconcealed infidelity of hiscara sposa. Nay, in one instance, theatrical sovereignty itself found its rights invaded, and had to lament a treason which it could not punish. In plain English, the wife of one of his managers played "All for love, or the world well lost," and ran away with him. It was on this occasion he left the northern line of theatres, and joined the company of Bath and Bristol, whither his great professional fame had preceded him.

Persons are every day to be found, who having enjoyed the advantages of early instruction, imbibed in childhood the principles of religion, and grown up in the practice of virtue under the control of a well regulated restraint, have not only deviated lamentably from the paths of rectitude, but been willing to call in sophistry to disarm conscience, or as doctor Johnson says, to lull their imaginations with ideal opiates. Can it appear surprising then that a hot-brained giddy youth like Hodgkinson should find it easy to compound that affair, immoral as it was, with his conscience, and to let it pass by, without making any beneficial impression upon his morals. That there was something belonging to it, which, aided with his sophistry, served to diminish the guilt of it in his eyes, is pretty certain. Hodgkinson was naturally benevolent and just, and filled with those sentiments and sympathies which engender pity for the injured and regret for doing wrong; yet of the man whom he had thus injured, he many times spoke with bitterness and reproach. One day this writer questioned him upon the subject in the warmth of friendship: "How comes it to pass, Hodgkinson, that you never hear the name of —— mentioned without treating it with an asperity foreign to your usual way of speaking, and indeed contrary to your natural disposition?" "He wronged me, most wickedly wronged me," was the answer—"He endeavoured to crush me in my youth."—"You were even with him, then, with a vengeance," replied this writer. "You have heard that unfortunate affair then," said he. "Yes, I have."—"It was greatly his own fault, sir—very little mine. I was young, hot-headed, foolish, very foolish; but never meditated the affair you allude to. The woman was a wanton—I never suspected that the kindnesses she showed me were to lead to guilt. His jealousy stimulated her, and his injustice and malice fired me to revenge, and supplied me with specious arguments of justification. I am sorry it so happened on many accounts. I forgive him, but I cannot hear him mentioned without giving vent to myopinion of him, which is, that he is a very bad fellow, with a very rancorous heart."

On his arrival at Bath, Hodgkinson became acquainted with some of the most respectable people, and was elected a member of the Noblemen's Catch-Club, which was composed of some of the first men in that part of England for rank and opulence. This was of itself, a very honourable mark of distinction, and a signal testimony of the respect in which his talents were held by those gentlemen. He continued to be a member of it, and conducted himself in a manner which every day increased their respect for him, till he left England.

While he belonged to the Bath and Bristol theatres he received an invitation to play at Brighton during the summer residence of the Prince of Wales there, with which invitation he complied. He had been advantageously mentioned to the prince, and his royal highness was desirous to see him perform. Upon this visit an incident occurred which we should think it unpardonable to omit mentioning, not only on account of its importance as it relates to our subject, but as it serves to throw a ray of light on the character of one of the most illustrious personages lining.

The day after his arrival at Brighton, Hodgkinson took a walk, by himself, down the Stein side, and was studiously employed in conning over the part of Belcour in the West Indian, in which character he was that night to make his debût, when his attention was called off by loud words of men high in quarrel. He cast his eyes towards the place from which the noise issued, and perceived at a little distance a crowd apparently engaged in a tumultuous scuffle, he ran up, under the impulse of curiosity to see what the matter might be. Upon reaching the place, he found a well-dressed young man surrounded by a number of persons who looked like gentlemen and who struck at him together, while he, having got his back to a tree, gallantly defended himself, and returned their blows with much energy and good will. Foul play of that kind is rarely attempted in England, and whenattempted, seldom fails to bring down just chastisement from the standers by. In fact it is a thing never permitted by the people, who make it a universal rule to show fair play in all cases of quarrel, be the parties who they may; so that if a battle takes place between an Englishman, and even a Frenchman, the latter is as secure of justice, and of his second, and of his bottleholder too, if necessary, as if he were a true-born Englishman. "Fair play, fair play! a ring, a ring! d—n my eyes why should not poor frog-eater have as fair play as any other?" The writer has heard thisJohn Bullisheffusion before now, and what was better, seen it generously and justly acted upon.

Hodgkinson was too much a man of that kidney to stand by, a tame spectator of such scandalous foul play, he therefore rushed through the croud, and joining the young man, made the assailants feel the force of his arm, which nature, aided by some skill in the pugilistic art, had in no ordinary degree qualified for that useful purpose. On the present occasion he acted under the impulse of a two-fold duty, first as a generous man bound to sustain the weak and oppressed against injustice and outrage, and secondly, as the person so injuriously attacked, was one who had, on his own private account, a claim to his friendship and assistance. The name of this young man was Fox; he had been a writer for some of the London prints, and having taken to the stage, was stationed with the Brighton company, when Hodgkinson being engaged there for a few nights, was particularly requested by a gentleman who had once been friendly to him, to do any service he could, and to take care of him, as he was very young, wild, and giddy.

The cause of the ungenerous assault upon the young man was this: he had written a very severe philippic on the well known lord Barrymore, and Mr. Barry, the brother of his lordship, having found means to discover it, they both vowed to take personal vengeance for the affront, the first time they could lay hands upon the writer. This day they were incompany with a set of gentlemen, some of whom were well suited to theirrespectabledesigns. Seeing young Fox in the walk on the Stein, Mr. Barry pointed to him and exclaimed, there, my lord, there is the rascal who libelled you! "Knock him down!" said one, "flog the scoundrel," said another, "break the villain's bones," said a third; and (very magnanimously, no doubt) they endeavoured to do it. But Fox, though young, was not so easy a conquest: To a frame, active, hardy, and muscular, nature had blessed him by bestowing on him a bold, intrepid, independent spirit; and his dauntless heart was no more to be intimidated by the blows and menaces of the MOB about him, than his mind was to be bent to respect for their rank and titles, when their conduct was a disgrace to both. He was, therefore, busily employed returning their favours in kind, when he was joined by Hodgkinson, who did not at the time know the person or name of one single being in the crowd, Fox alone excepted.

As soon as Hodgkinson appeared assisting his young friend "Here is another of the rascally players," exclaimed one of those gentlemen, "knock him down!"—"If you be really gentlemen, as you would be thought," said Hodgkinson, "give us fair play; turn out man to man, or even three of you to us two, and we'll fight you." Then finding that several of them continued to strike while the others urged them on, he exclaimed: "So, you cowardly gang of villains you want to murder us—then by Heavens we'll sell our lives dearer than you think of," and, still supported by Fox, laid about him with desperation. Just at that moment he heard a person on the outside of the mob cry out aloud, "D—n the rascal, knock his brains out—knock his brains out with your stick!" Hodgkinson, blind with rage, exclaimed in reply, "D—n you, you cowardly rascal, and all your d—n'd breed." At this time a crowd of people ran up, and fair play becoming necessary, lord Barrymore and his friends thought proper to decline the battle. Among those who came up and dispersed the combatants, was his royal highness the prince of Wales.

Fox and his friend were severely beaten, and bore the marks of it; but what were the reflections of poor Hodgkinson when he learned that the very person to whom he had said "D—n you, you cowardly rascal, and all your d——d breed," was no other than that very duke who has since cut so conspicuous a figure in the annals of gallantry with Mrs.Clark, of meretricious notoriety, or in other words the duke of York himself. By means which shall hereafter be related, the interest of the royal family had been engaged for Hodgkinson, and even the first personage of it had agreed to do him a signal favour, on his first appearance in London. What then must have been his mortification and regret to think that by one rash expression he had not only lost those bright prospects, but incurred the censure and abhorrence of every thinking man in the kingdom; since, however censurable the duke of York might be, it afforded no pretence for a general expression of disrespect to the whole of his family.

In the desperate state of mind which succeeded these reflections, Hodgkinson saw but one measure that was becoming him, or indeed safe for him to take; and he resolved to adopt it without delay—that was, to leave Brighton and live in retirement till the whole of the affair, with his total ignorance of the identity of the person he had insulted, should be universally understood, and his innocence be made apparent. To this end he directly went to the manager of the playhouse, laid the whole affair before him, and pointed out the absolute necessity there was for changing the play and giving him up his bond of engagement. "The prince of Wales," added he, "is omnipotent in Brighton; he is so beloved and admired here, that his will is the law of every one's conduct, the town will of course enter with violence into the resentment which his highness will justly feel, and therefore for me to appear before them after what has happened, will inevitably produce a riot which will probably end in the destruction of the house. It would be considered by the people, and very properly too, as an insult to them, for me to come forward in such circumstances."

Hodgkinson's remonstrances had no effect upon the manager, who peremptorily insisted upon his appearance in the character of Belcour, be the consequences what they might. This, Hodgkinson always considered as the most trying moment of his existence; and it was not until the manager swore that he would have him arrested before he could leave the county if he did not perform his engagement, that he could be prevailed upon to stand his ground, and face the storm that threatened him. The affair had got abroad, and when evening came, the house was uncommonly full, partly owing to the attractive circumstance of a celebrated actor's appearing among them, for the first time, and partly to the curiosity of individuals to see what would be done to the new performer for the part he had played that morning on the Stein.

"Et tragicus dolet plerumque sermone pedestri:Telephus ac Peleus, quum pauper et exul uterqueProjicit ampullas ac sesquipedalia verbaSi curat cor spectantis, tetigisse querela."Hor. Art Poet.

"Et tragicus dolet plerumque sermone pedestri:Telephus ac Peleus, quum pauper et exul uterqueProjicit ampullas ac sesquipedalia verbaSi curat cor spectantis, tetigisse querela."

Hor. Art Poet.

I hope that I shall not appear to degrade the office of criticism by making a ballad the subject of it, especially since that now before me is of so excellent a nature. If it is objected to, I must shelter myself under the authority of Addison, who has written a critique on Chevy-Chace, to which, I venture to affirm, this ballad is infinitely superior. That I may not appear too presumptuous in my assertion, let us proceed to the examination of this justly celebrated poem. I call it a poem—I had almost called it an epic, seeing it has a beginning, middle, and end: the action one, namely the death of the hero Taylor: it is replete with character, but suggested by incidents the most interesting and touching. Let us first examine it verse by verse. The author has no tedious prelude, not even an invocation; but, like Homer, immediately enters into the middle of his subject, and in a few words gives us the name, character, and amour of his hero. Observe the gayety of the opening:—

"Billy Taylor was a brisk young feller,Full on mirth and full on glee."

How admirably, how judiciously is this jocund beginning contrasted with the melancholy sequel! how affecting to the reader's feelings when he reflects how soon Billy's joy will be damped! Unhappy Taylor!—Let us proceed to the next lines:—

"And his mind he did diskiverTo a lady fair and free."

Taylor was a bold youth: he feared not to tell his mind to the lady; he did not stand shilly-shally, like a whimpering lover. But we are here presented with a new character, a lady fair and free. Some commentators have thought that she was a lady of easy virtue, from the epithet free; and indeed the violence of her love and jealousy seems to favour the suspicion: but let us not be too severe; free may signify no more than that she was of a cheerful disposition, and thus of the same temper with her lover:concordes animæ!Thus far all is pleasant and delightful: but the scene is now changed—and sorrow succeeds to joy.

"Four and twenty brisk young fellers,Drest they vas in rich array,They kim and they seized Billy Taylor,Press'd he vas and sent to sea."

Taylor, the brisk, the mirthful Taylor is pressed and sent to sea. I cannot help observing here the art of the poet in letting us into the condition of Taylor: we may guess from his being pressed that he was not free of the city, and was most likely a journeyman cobler, coblers being famous for their glee. I will not positively say he was a cobler: Scaliger thinks he was a lamp-lighter; "adhuc sub judice lis est." But to proceed—Taylor is on board ship: what does his true-love?

"His true-love she followed arter,Under the name of Richard Car;And her hands were all bedaubedWith the nasty pitch and tar."

Many ladies would have comforted themselves with other lovers; not so Billy's mistress, she follows him; she enters the ship under the name of Richard Car. She condescends to daub her lilly-white hands with the pitch and tar. What excessive love, and how ill rewarded! I have two things to remark here. 1. Her disregard for herself in daubing her hands. When I consider a lady in Juvenal who did the same, I am led to think she was Billy's mistress. But thenBilly disregards her; this makes me think again she was his wife. Yet perhaps not; Billy had got another mistress. 2. The second observation is upon the name she assumes, Richard Carr. Commentators are much divided upon this head; why she chose that name in preference to any other. I must confess they talk rather silly on this topic; I conjecture the name was given here because it was a good rhyme to tar; this is no mean or inconsiderable reason, as the poets will all testify. But let the reader decide this at his leisure; let us now proceed:—

"An engagement came on the very next morning:Bold she fit among the rest;The wind aside did blow her Jacket,And diskivered her lily-white breast."

Here was a trial for the lady: but she sustained it; she fought boldly, fought like a man. But mark the sequel; the wind blows aside her jacket; her lily-white breast is exposed to the lawless gaze of the sailors! Here was a sight! no doubt it inspired them with double valour and gained them a victory: for they certainly were victorious, though the poet judiciously passes over the inferior topic, and hastens to his main subject.

The captain gains intelligence of her heroism, or in the musical simplicity of the original, "kims for to know it:" with honest bluntness he exclaims "Vat vind has blown you to me?" The character of the sea captain is well supported: he does not say, "how came you here?" but in the characteristic language of profession, "vat vind has blown you to me?" The classical reader will be pleased also with the similarity this expression bears to a passage in the Æneid; it is in the speech of Andromache to Æneas on a like occasion of surprise:

"Sed tibi qui cursum venti, quæ fata dedere?Aut quisquam ignarum nostris Deus appulit oris?"

It must be confessed, that the Latin is more pompous, perhapsmore elegant; but what it gains in refinement, it loses in simplicity. The chief thing however to be remarked is, that the same language always suggests itself on the same occasion. But let us attend to the lady's answer:

"Kind sir: I be kim for to seek my true-love,Vhom you press'd and sent to sea."

The pathos of this speech is inimitable. Observe with what art, or rather with what nature, it is worked up, so as to interest the feelings of the captain. First let us take a view of the speaker; a woman, and her breast diskivered: she begins with, "Kind sir," which shows the gentleness of her disposition, and that she forgave the captain though he had pressed her true-love: she proceeds, "I be kim for to seek my true-love," who could resist this affecting narration? A lady braving the dangers of the sea, and an engagement, to seek her true-love! The last line has suggested to the commentators that the captain headed the press-gang himself. This is a matter of too much consequence for me to decide. But what effect has the speech on the rugged nerves of the captain? All that could be expected or desired. He breaks out—observe the art of the poet!—no frigid preface of "he said," "he exclaimed," but, like Homer, he gives us the speech at once—

"If you be kim for to seek your true-love,He from the ship is gone away:And you'll find him in London streets, ma'am,Valking vith his lady gay."

The captain's feelings are taken by storm: he makes a full discovery of the retreat of the youth, and the company in which he is to be found. Some have thought it very odd that the captain should be so well informed of Billy's retreat and company; and are of opinion that he connived at it; but the captain might from the knowledge of human nature, and especially of sailors' nature, guess where and in what company Billy would be. Let not then the honest tar be condemned.As the poet has put down none, we may suppose the lady to be too much oppressed to make any answer to a speech so cutting and afflicting. Overwhelmed with anger, jealousy, and desire of revenge, she could not speak. Admirable poet, who so well knew nature! "parvæ curæ loquuntur, ingentes silent," and is not this silence more eloquent, more expressive, nay more awful, than all the angry words that could have been uttered? it is the silence before the tempest: the awful stillness of revenge and death.

"She rose up early in the morning,Long before 'twas break of day."

Mark the impatience of revenge! she will not even wait till day-break; she gets (as we may suppose, though it is not declared) leave of absence, and goes on shore,

"And she found false Billy Taylor,Valking with his lady gay."

Infamous Billy Taylor! while your mistress was braving for you the dangers of the ocean, you were reveling in the arms of another! But your hour is come! The character of Billy is inimitably well supported throughout, or, as Horace says—

"Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constat."

'Tis true, he deserts his mistress; but 'tis for a lady of similar disposition; it is a ladygaywith whom he walks: thus, though he is false, he shows himselffull of mirth: he is still Billy Taylor. Mark the artifice of the poet! Like Virgil who drops the epithet "pious" on a similar occasion, the poet here calls Billy by the appropriate epithet "false." There is an elegance and simplicity perfectly Homeric in the repetition of the line, "Valking with his lady gay."

"Straight she call'd for swords and pistols,Brought they vas at her command."

Let not the sceptical reader sneer, and ask where she got, orwho brought the swords and pistols. Some kind deity, willing to assist the purposes of her just revenge, interposed and brought her arms. Surely Horace would allow that this was "dignus vindice nodus." But to proceed:—

"She fell on shooting Billy TaylorVith his lady in his hand."

Here is an interesting incident! here a melancholy subject! what a scene for a picture! On one side, a lady impelled by jealousy with a discharged pistol in her hand, and a face expressive of the triumph of revenge; on the other Billy Taylor, stretched on the cold ground, with his hand in that of his lady, now we may suppose no longer gay, and perhaps weeping! Observe, Billy died in the situation in which Tibullus wished to die: he held his mistress, "deficiente manu."[H]O! come here all ye young men! ye Billy Taylors for the world is full of you! ye deserters of true-lovers, ye walkers with ladies gay, come here and contemplate! Taylor, who a few days before was gay like you, is now alas "stone dead," or, to use the pathetic and expressive language of Falstaff—who by the by, was, like Billy, a gay deceiver—is now no better than a "shotten herring!

"When the captain kim for to know it;He very much applauded her for what she had done."

From this passage, some have taken occasion to accuse the captain of a connivance with Billy's escape and connexion with a lady gay, that he might enjoy Billy's first mistress. But surely this is unfounded: the captain saw this mistress of Billy's by chance alone: and could not therefore be supposed to have a longing for a lady whom he had never seen till Billy had left the ship. Some have also accused the captain of cruelty, for applauding the lady for killing her lover. Butthese are unfounded and calumnious charges: it was a love of justice which induced the captain to applaud her: not that I positively say, that he might not also be swayed by the lady's beauty. The vehemence of the captain's applause is admirably displayed by the quantity of dactyls in the second line of this stanza. Let us proceed:

"And he made her first lieutenant of the valiant Thunder-bomb."

Many are shocked at the apparent indifference of the lady; and foolishly condemn the poet for inconsistency. Such ignorant critics know nothing of the matter. Our poet, who is the poet of nature, did not mean to draw a perfect character, a "sine labe monstrum," but, like Homer, and Euripides, which latter he greatly resembles in his tenderness of expression, draws men and women such as they are. Still there is another objection started: how could a woman be made a lieutenant? It must be confessed that though such things are not entirely unprecedented, that they are very singular: some have therefore thought this a decent allegory of the poet to express that she was the captain's chief mistress, his sultana; and we must remember that she was a free lady, and, after the murder she had committed, glad of theprotectionof a captain. I hope the ladies will not be offended at this interpretation, and, since a recent inquiry, will pardon me the expression that conveys it.

It remains now to say something concerning the sentiments, characters, incidents, moral, and diction of the poem, and ωρωτων απο πρωτων, let us speak of the sentiments. These, as I observed before, are not, like Lucan's, obtruded upon the reader, but suggested by incidents. For instance, does not the circumstance of the lady's going to sea after her true-love suggest more than the most laboured declamation on the force of love? When the captain is melted by the pathetic address, and lily-white breast of the lady, is it not clearly and expressively intimated how great is the power of weeping beauty pleading in a good cause, over even the boisterousnature of a sailor? Again, when the lady shoots Billy Taylor, what a fine sentiment is to be discovered here of the power of jealousy? and in the death of Billy contrasted with his former gayety, who is there whose soul is of so iron a mould as not to be touched by the implied sentiment of the shortlivedness of human pleasure and enjoyment, when even the gay Taylor is overtaken by fate? This is a most masterly piece of nature; and I venture to pronounce that the man who is uninterested by it must have been born on Caucasus and nursed by she-wolves. I come now to the characters; and here it is that the chief art of the poet is displayed. It is wonderful to observe how many and how different characters are to be found in this short poem. To say nothing of the four and twenty "fellers" who are admirably characterized by the epithet "brisk;" we have the mirthful Taylor and the rugged sea-captain, the lady fair and free, and the lady gay. It may be objected that there is too great a sameness in the female characters: but no; the lady fair and free is brave and revengeful; the lady gay is simply gay, a mere insipid character, and introduced by the poet, no doubt, as a contrast to the turbulent and busy character of the other lady. The boisterous captain is a well-drawn and a well-supported character. He is rugged, honest, blunt, illiterate, and gallant. But it is the character of the hero Taylor which is drawn and sustained with the most art and nature. In the first place he is brave, although some have contradicted this, by saying that he did not go to sea voluntarily but was pressed, and then ran away the night before the engagement. But I will not believe he was a coward: no; let the critics remember that Ulysses did not go voluntarily to the Trojan war, and was always willing to escape when he could; and yet surely he was a hero. Thus have I proved the bravery of Taylor. He had also other requisites for a hero: he was amorous, like Achilles and Æneas, and he deserted his love like the latter. Then he was brisk and gay. I do not remember any hero exactly of this character. To be sure, Achilles laughs once in the Iliad, and Æneas in the Æneid;but it does not appear to have been the general character of either of them, and especially of the latter, who was a whimpering sort of hero. It does not appear that Taylor resembled Æneas in piety; but that is a silly kind of antiquated virtue, of which heroes of modern days would be ashamed, and which our poet has most judiciously omitted in the catalogue of Billy's qualities. Again, he resembles the heroes of antiquity in his untimely end, and in the cause of it—a woman. Thus Achilles was shot in the heel; Ulysses was killed, though not very prematurely, by his son; Æneas was drowned like a dog in a ditch; and Alexander was poisoned. Then as to the cause: Sampson (though to be sure the polite reader will call that fabulous, and think me a fool for quoting such an old wife's tale) owed his death to a woman; Agamemnon was even killed by a woman; Hippolitus lost his life by a woman; so did Bellerophon; and Antony lost the world and his life too by a woman. Upon the whole Billy's is a mixed sort of character, composed of good and bad qualities, in which, according to the established character of heroes, the bad predominate. Thus, in the character of Achilles, it would be difficult to find a single good quality; he is "impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer," and a great deal more of the same sort. Æneas is indeed pious: but then he is a perfidious deserter of an injured lady; he invades a country where he has no right, and kills the man who has the audacity to oppose the usurper of his own throne, and the ravisher of his own wife. And as to Alexander, he was a mere brute: he overthrew cities, as children overthrow houses made of cards, for his mere amusement; and, like the same children, wept when he had no more to knock down; he killed some millions of men, for the same reason that country 'squires shoot swallows, for exercise, and because they have nothing else to do: and, in the time of peace and conviviality, he slew two of his best friends, merely to keep his hand in practice. Compared to these heroes, Billy is a perfect saint: and indeed I have often thought that he is too good for a hero; and that a few rapes, and thefts, andmurders, would have made a very proper and interesting addition to his character. As to the incidents, I shall merely observe that they are numerous, well chosen, interesting and natural. Let me next speak of the moral to be drawn from the poem. Whether the poet, according to Bossu's rule, and Homer's and Æsop's practice, chose the moral first, I cannot pretend to say, though some, who resolve the whole poem into an allegory, favour that opinion. Certain it is, the moral is excellent: the ill effects of inconstancy; and I am sure the fair sex will be obliged to the poet's gallantry. There are also some of what I may call collateral truths to be derived from the poem; such as not to trust too much to prosperity, exemplified in the mirth and downfall of Taylor; and the reward of virtue, in the lady's being made a first lieutenant. I shall conclude with a few remarks on the diction, or, to speak metaphorically, the dress in which the story is clothed. It has all the requisites of a good style; it is concise, perspicuous, simple and occasionally sublime. The poetry is not of that tumid nature which Pindar uses, but of the graceful simplicity of Homer's verse. The poet has diversified the language by the intermixture of the Doric dialect, in imitation of the Greek tragedians; of this kind are the expressions,vat vind,diskivered,I be kim, andfor to know. But what strikes me most is, the solemn, mournful, and pathetic beauty of the chorus,Tol lol de rol de riddle iddle ido. The Αι, αν, and φευ, φευ, of Euripides and Sophocles, the ε ε ε ε and οτο το τοι τοτοι of Æschylus, are comparatively frigid and tasteless. Yes; thisTol lol de rol de riddle iddle idois so exquisitely tender, and so musically melancholy, that I dare affirm, that the mind and ear that are not sensibly affected with it, are barbarous, tasteless, and incapable of relishing beauty or harmony.

The variety of men's tastes is nowhere more remarkable than in the choice of their wives. With many, beauty is the first consideration; to others, fortune is more attractive; by some, excellence in the culinary art is esteemed the most engaging accomplishment; while others deem submission the fittest disposition in a partner for life. Indeed, from a man's character and habits we may make a pretty good guess what sort of wife he will choose. The avaricious man will gratify his passion with his wife's fortune; the vain man with his his wife's beauty; and the epicure with his wife's ragouts.

Gloriosus is sensible and accomplished, but egregiously fond of admiration. To gratify this passion, he paid his addresses to Sempronia, whose beauty and fortune attracted a crowd of suitors, and made her the belle of the town in which she lived. The lady was not insensible of his attentions, and he succeeded in gaining the prize, for which so many had sighed in vain. His vanity was highly gratified with the preference he had obtained, and nothing could exceed his satisfaction during his courtship and the first weeks of his marriage. The men called him a lucky fellow, the women praised Sempronia's discernment, and the handsome couple was the theme of general conversation. But, in a short time after the visits, which are usual on such occasions, had been duly paid and as duly returned, admiration, always fickle, lavished its regards on new objects, and Gloriosus and his wife were forgotten. He now found, that she, whom he had chosen for the companion of his life, was deficient in every qualification that could render such a companion useful or agreeable. She had been told from her earliest youth, that her charms of person were such as always to ensure her admirers, without being at the pains of cultivating the graces of her mind. Her mother thought she could not too early introduce into the world such a beautiful creature; and, from the age of fifteen to the day when she married Gloriosus, hertime was almost wholly taken up in visiting and receiving visits, and her mind was entirely employed in devising some new mode of decorating her person. Such a one was little calculated to sustain with dignity, "the mild majesty of private life." Her ideas were few and trivial; and her conversation was consequently trifling and insipid. Her former habits made her ill qualified for a nurse; and her love of pleasure made home a restraint to her, and the duties of a mother insupportable. The disappointed Gloriosus, disgusted with his home, sought for relief in the circles of pleasure and dissipation. His wife was too much engrossed with her person and her parties to concern herself about him; so that finding themselves mutually disagreeable, they agreed to a final separation.

Apicius married for the sake of having a good housekeeper and cook. He is a Mahometan in his opinion of women, and deems submission to her husband the cardinal virtue in a wife. He has no idea of making a friend and adviser of one whom he looks upon merely as his head-servant. He has the same objection to any sort of learning in women which many people have to the education of the poor: he thinks it must render them averse from the performance of those menial duties of life, for which, he imagines, they were exclusively created. It was his good fortune to meet with a woman exactly suited to his disposition. She understood "the whole art of cookery," the four rules of arithmetic, and could read the New Testament without much difficulty. She had never been taught to think for herself; the duty of obedience, which had been early inculcated upon her by a severe father, had grown easy by habit; and she was glad to save herself the trouble of relying upon her own resources. She is, therefore, the mere echo of her husband's sentiments; she believes him to be "the greatest wight on ground," and would as soon think of contradicting the scriptures, as any thing that he says. This acquiescence gratifies the vanity of her husband; he thinks her an admirablewife, but to every one else, she appears a very insignificant woman.

Imperitus was early a worshipper of the showy attractions of Clelia. She was always a forward girl, and took the command of all the little parties of her own age. This forwardness her parents mistook for mental superiority, and thought they could not bestow too much pains in the cultivation of her extraordinary talents. They accordingly provided her numerous masters, and Clelia attained a smattering in many things. She could draw tolerably, play tolerably, speak French tolerably, and write tolerably pretty verses. Her parents thought her a prodigy of genius; and her brothers and sisters were early taught to pay a proper deference to her superior endowments. Her will was law, and her opinions infallible. Imperitus contemplated her with amazement, and thought he should be completely happy if he could obtain such an accomplished character for his wife. But several long years did he languish in vain for that blessing; and when at last she consented to become his wife, she yielded with that air of condescension, which a high-bred dame assumes when she suffers herself to be handed across the way by a person of inferior condition. From that time, Imperitus became a cypher in his own house; for the poor man was not only obliged to submit to all his wife's proceedings, but she expected him to acquiesce in all her opinions. Nothing under absolute authority could satisfy her high opinion of her own abilities. Imperitus is almost afraid to speak in her company; for, instead of assisting and palliating his natural deficiencies, she is the first to ridicule and expose them. Her passions, having never been checked, have become exceedingly violent. She converses on politics and divinity with all the fury of a partizan and a polemic; she seems impatient of the trammels of her sex; and her conversation frequently goes beyond the bounds of decency and good manners. One cannot help pitying the lot of Imperitus, who has a large share of good-nature, and who(whatever may be his deficiencies) cannot certainly be reproached with a want of constancy and tenderness towards his wife.

Benignus's notions of the married state were of the noblest kind. In his estimation, it was the institution the best calculated for the permanent happiness of a rational being. Fully sensible how much the colour of his future life must depend upon the person whom he should call his wife, he determined to make his choice with circumspection. Surely, said he, if we are solicitous respecting the character and temper of a person who is to make a short excursion with us, it behoves us to be extremely careful respecting one who is to be our companion in the journey of life. He was first introduced to Charlotte at a ball. The dancing had just begun, and she was entering into it with all that gayety which youth and health inspire (for it was a diversion of which she was very fond) when she was informed that her father was suddenly taken ill and would be glad to see her, if she could consent to give up the evening's pleasure. She waited not for consideration; but regardless of place or person, she flew out of the room, and totally forgot, in the desire to relieve her parent, that she should thereby lose a diversion, to which she had looked forward with the greatest delight. Benignus, who had been charmed with her person and conversation, was delighted with this proof of the goodness of her heart, and determined to offer her his hand, if he should find her as amiable at home as she was captivating abroad. He was introduced the next day into her father's house by a friend of his, who was a relation of the old gentleman's. They were shown into the invalid's room. Charlotte, with her arms round her father's waist, was gently helping him to rise in the bed; and her expressive countenance showed how tenderly she sympathized in the pain he felt. As soon as she was gone out of the room, her father, whose heart was warm with gratitude, could not help breaking out into an exclamation of his happiness in possessing such a daughter, whose dutiful and affectionate attention, he said, disarmed sicknessof its sting. Benignus went home, in love with Charlotte, and from that time he became a constant visiter at her father's house. He found her mind as accomplished as her heart was benevolent. He doubted not but that so amiable a daughter would make as amiable a wife. He married her, and has not been disappointed. Blessed in each other's affections, they enjoy as much happiness as this life is capable of affording: theirs is

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