Chapter XXIII: Part 23

There are three peculiarities in letter-writing that ladies indulge in, viz., crossing, postscripts, and the underlining of words. Disraeli makes Henrietta Temple advise her lover to cross his letters, and states her reasons as follows:--

'I shall never find the slightest difficulty in making it
out, if your letters were crossed a thousand times.
Besides, dear love, to tell the truth, I should rather like
to experience a little difficulty in reading your letters,
for I read them so often, over and over again, till I get
them by heart, and it is such a delight every now and then
to find out some new expression that escaped me in the
first fever of perusal; and then it is sure to be some
darling word fonder than all the rest.'

Few men cross their writing, but many of them indulge in the luxury of a postscript, and some even when they have closed their letters think of a last word, and write it on the envelope. It is said that the underlining of words is a confession of weakness in the writer, because if he had used the best possible word he would not need to give it extra force by the mere mechanical contrivance of underscoring it with a pen.

Letters written in the third person are a constant snare to some people and usually lead to confusion. This form can only be used with safety in very short letters.

Frequently, a short note contains more pith than a longer letter, and Politian's letter to his friend well exemplifies this: 'I was very sorry, and am very glad, because thou wast sick, and that thou art whole. Farewell.' One of the most spirited letters ever written, was that sent by Ann, Countess of Dorset, to Sir Joseph Williamson, Secretary of State in Charles the Second's reign, when he wrote to her to choose a courtier as member for Appleby:--

'I have been bullied by an usurper, I have been ill-treated
by a court, but I won't be dictated to by a subject. Your
man shall not stand.

ANN DORSET,
Pembroke and Montgomery.'

The following note from one Highlander to another is very pointed and witty:--

'MY DEAR GLENGARY,--As soon as you can prove yourself to be
my chief I shall be ready to acknowledge you. In the
meantime,

'I am _yours_, MACDONALD.'

Charles Lamb being tickled by the oddity of Haydon's address, sent him the following reply to an invitation:--

'My Dear Haydon,--I will come with pleasure to 22, Lisson
Grove North, at Rossi's, half-way up, right hand side, if I
can find it.

'Yours, C. LAMB.

'20, Russel Court,
'Covent Garden East,
'Half-way up, next the corner,
'Left hand side.'

Ignorant people when they manage to write a letter are usually very proud of their performance, and this is illustrated by a very good story in the Countess Spencer's 'East and West.' A lady proposed to Mrs. Law, a poor woman in St. Peter's Home, Kilburn, that she should write to Lady E., who had been very kind to her. She had some doubts at first, but they passed away, and she dictated a letter which is given, and the narrator adds:--

'Having finished it to her evident pride, I offered to read
it to her; but I had hardly got down the first page when
she became so deeply affected by her own eloquence, that
she began to cry and rock herself backwards and forwards. I
persevered, and when I had read the last word, paused, not
knowing what to say to this unexpected grief. Mrs. Law put
down her handkerchief, and shaking her head very seriously,
said, "Well, now, that _is_ a lovely letter! It's a great
denial to me that I can't write, or I'd send plenty like
it."'

It is usually supposed that writing comes natural to all, but we are often led to agree with Sheridan, that 'easy writing is cursed hard reading,' and the highest art is often required to be thoroughly natural. The Irish hodman, however, managed to express in a fine confused way his inner feeling, that he himself was little better than a machine:--

'DEAR PAT,--Come over here and earn your money: there is
nothing for you to do but to carry the bricks up a ladder,
for there is a man at the top who takes them from you and
does all the work.'

Excuses of hurry, with expressions of fear lest the post should be lost, and such endings as 'yours in haste,' should seldom be indulged in, as they partake somewhat of the character of a slight to the receiver. The letters of ladies are usually more natural and unconstrained than those of men, and these are great merits, for the real man or woman should be seen in the letter. Locke says:--

'The writing of letters enters so much into all the
occasions of life, that no gentleman can avoid showing
himself in compositions of this kind. Occurrences will
daily force him to make use of his pen, which lays open his
breeding, his sense, and his abilities to a severer
examination than any oral discourse.'

The deficiency of ordinary people in the art has long been felt, and complete letter-writers have been compiled to supply the want. Sir Henry Ellis has pointed out that manuals of epistolary composition, both in French and English, of the early part of the fifteenth century, exist in manuscript. The 'English Secretary,' published in 1599, is perhaps the earliest work on the subject in print. The voluminous author, Jervis Markham, brought out in 1618 a guide, with the following title: 'Conceited Letters: or a most excellent Bundle of New Wit, wherein is knit up together all the perfections of the art of Epistoling.' The booksellers, Rivington and Osborne, applied to Samuel Richardson to write for them a volume of letters in a simple style, on subjects that might serve as models for the use of those who had not the talent of inditing for themselves. While employed in composing some letters for the benefit of girls going out to service, the idea of 'Pamela' came into Richardson's head, and the subsequent success of that novel caused him to continue the mode of telling his stories by letters, which he had there adopted.

In entering upon the consideration of special classes of letters, we will take love letters first. This is a style of literature of which the outer public have few opportunities of judging, and doubtless it is one that is not fitted for rigid examination. Those love-letters that we read in the reports of breach-of-promise cases are usually beneath contempt: they are often unreal, and make us sick with references to Venus and Cupid, goddesses and nymphs, and many other absurdities. There are, however, existing some interesting letters of the reckless Earl of Rochester to his wife, which exhibit him in a new and pleasing character. The following breathes a tender consideration to which few are able to rise:--

'I kiss my deare wife a thousand times, as farr as
imagination and wish will give mee leave. Thinke upon mee
as long as it is pleasant and convenient for you to doe
soe, and afterwards forget me; for though I would fain make
you the author and foundation of my happiness, yet I would
not bee the cause of your constraint or disturbance, for I
love not myself soe much as I doe you, neither doe I value
my owne satisfaction equally as I doe yours.

Farewell, ROCHESTER.'

As Sterne was making love to women throughout his entire life, we suppose he may be considered as an authority on how a love-letter should be written, and here is a specimen of his style:--

'MY DEAR KITTY,--If this billet catches you in bed, you are
a lazy, sleepy slut, and I am a giddy, foolish, unthinking
fellow for keeping you so late up--but this Sabbath is a
day of rest; at the same time that it is a day of sorrow,
for I shall not see my dear creature to-day, unless you
meet me at Taylor's, half-an-hour after twelve; but in this
do as you like. I have ordered Matthew to turn thief and
steal you a quart of honey--what is honey to the sweetness
of thee, who art sweeter than all the flowers it comes
from! I love you to distraction, Kitty, and will love you
on so to eternity. So adieu, and believe, what time will
only prove me, that I am,
Yours.'

Sir Richard Steele had for his second wife a woman who was difficult to please, and the collection of his letters to her give us a curious insight into his domestic life. They are mostly short, but filled with excuses. The following are three of them:--

'DEAREST BEING ON EARTH,--Pardon me if you do not see me
till eleven o'clock; having met a school-fellow from India,
by whom I am to be informed in things this night which
immediately concern your obedient husband.'

'MY DEAR DEAR WIFE,--I write to let you know I do not come
home to dinner, being obliged to attend some business
abroad, of which I shall give you an account (when I see
you in the evening), as becomes your dutiful and obedient
husband.'

'DEAR PRUE,--I have partly succeeded in my business to-day,
and I inclose two guineas as earnest of more. Dear Prue, I
cannot come home to dinner. I languish after your welfare,
and will never be a moment careless more.
'Your faithful husband.'

These are natural and real; but let us look into 'The Enemy of Idleness,' 1621, and see there what the author thought a lover should write to his mistress:--

'A Lover writeth unto his Lady.

'To expresse unto thee (my deere) the inward griefes, the
secret sorrowes, the pinching paines, that my poore
oppressed heart pitifully endureth, my pen is altogether
unable. For even as thy excellent vertue, beautie,
comelines, and curtesie farre surmounteth in my conceipt
that of all other humane creatures, so my pitious passions
both day and night are no whit inferiour, but farre above
all those of any other worldly wight. So excell not thy
giftes, but as much exceede my griefes. Therefore (my
sweete) vouchsafe of thy soveraigne clemencie to graunt
some speedie remedie unto the grievous anguishes of my
heavie heart; detract no time, but wey with thy selfe, the
sicker that the patient is--the more deadly that his
disease is deemed--so much the more speede ought the
physitian to make--so much the sooner ought he to provide
and minister the medicine, least comming too late his
labour be lost. But what painefull patient is hee that
sustaineth so troublesome a state as I, poore soule, doe,
except thou vouchsafe to pittie me? For the partie patient
being discomforted at thy handes can have recourse unto
none, but still languishing must looke for a lothsome
death. Consider, therefore, my deare, the extremitie of my
case, and let not cancred cruelty corrupt so many golden
gifts, but as thy beauty and comelinesse of body is, so set
thy humanity also and clemency of minde. Draw not (as the
proverb saith) a leaden sword out of a golden scabberd. And
thus hoping to have some speedy comfort at thy handes, upon
that hope I repose mee till further opportunity.'

The fair fame of Mrs. Piozzi (Dr. Johnson's Mrs. Thrale) has been injured by an attempt to represent her as in love with a young actor in her old age and some letters of hers to William Augustus Conway were published a few years ago as the 'Love Letters of Mrs. Piozzi.' In 1862 the original correspondence was placed in the hands of the editor of the _Athenæum_, and in an article in that journal her character is vindicated, and the letters are proved to have been garbled in order to infer a sexual love. Mrs. Piozzi formed an intimate friendship with Mrs. Rudd, Conway's mother, and the two ladies passed much of their time together, consulting how to help the young actor. Conway was in love with a young lady who jilted him, and Mrs. Piozzi tried to comfort him. In consideration of all her kindness he calls her 'his more than mother,' and she calls him 'her youngest adopted child.' The following is one of Mrs. Piozzi's letters to Conway:--

'You have been a luckless wight, my admirable friend, but
amends will one day be made to you, even in _this_ world; I
know, I feel it will. Dear Piozzi considered himself as
cruelly treated, and so he was by his own friends, as the
world perversely calls our relations, who shut their door
in _his_ face because his love of music led him to face the
public eye and ear. He was brought up to the Church; but,
'Ah! Gabriel,' said his uncle, 'thou wilt never get nearer
the altar than the organ-loft.' His disinclination to
celibacy, however, kept him from the black gown, and their
ill-humour drove him to Paris and London, where he was the
first tenor singer who had £50 a night for two songs. And
Queen Marie Antoinette gave him a hundred louis-d'or with
her own fair hand for singing a buffo song over and over
again one evening, till she learned it. Her cruel death
half broke his tender heart. You will not wait, as he did,
for fortune and for fame. We were both of us past
thirty-five years old when we first met in _society_ at Dr.
Burney's (grandfather to Mrs. Bourdois and her sisters),
where I coldly confessed his uncommon beauty and talents;
but my heart was not at home. Mr. Thrale's broken health
and complicated affairs demanded and possessed all my
attention, and vainly did my future husband endeavour to
attract my attention. So runs the world away.'

Among the letters quoted in the _Athenæum_ is the following amusing one:--

'While there was so much talk about the town concerning
maladministration, some of the Streatham coterie, in a
quibbling humour, professed themselves weary of
_male_-administration, as they pronounced it emphatically,
and proposing a _fe_male one, called on Dr. Johnson to
arrange it. "Well then," said he "we will have

Carter for Archbishop of Canterbury.
Montague, First Lord of the Treasury.
Hon. Sophia Byron, Head of the Admiralty.
Heralds' Office under care of Miss Owen.
Manager of the House of Commons, Mrs. Crewe.
Mrs. Wedderburne, Lord Chancellor.
Mrs. Wallace, Attorney-General.
Preceptor to the Princes, Mrs. Chapone.
Poet Laureate, Hannah More."

"And no place for _me_, Dr. Johnson?" cried your friend.
"No, no; you will get into Parliament by your little silver
tongue, and then rise by your own merit." "And what shall I
do?" exclaims Fanny Burney. "Oh, we shall send you out for
a _spy_, and perhaps you will get _hanged_. Ha, ha, ha!"
with a loud laugh.'

Having thus noted what may be said about love, let us turn to the opposite feeling, and see what may be written under the influence of hate.

'Ungracious offspring of hellish brood, whome heavens
permit for a plague, and the earth nourisheth as a peculiar
mischiefe, monster of mankinde and devourer of men, what
may I tearme thee? With what illsounding titles maie I
raise myselfe upon thee? Thou scorne of the world, and not
scorne but worldes foule disdaine, and enemie of all
humaine condition, shall thy villanies scape for ever
unpunished? Will the earth yet support thee, the clouds
shadow thee, or the aire breath on thee? What lawes be
these, if at leastwise such may be tearmed lawes, whereout
so vile a wretch hathe so manie evasions? But shalt thou
longer live to become the vexation and griefe of men? No;
for I protest, though the lawes doe faile thee, myselfe
will not overslip thee. I, I am hee that will plague thee;
thou shalt not scape me. I will be revenged of thee. Thinke
not thy injuryes are so easie that they are of all to bee
supported; for no sooner shall that partched, withered
carkasse of thine sende foorth thy hatefull and abhorred
lookes into anie publicke shew, but mine eyes shall watch
thee and I will not leave thee till I have prosequuted that
which I have intended towardes thee, most unworthie as thou
art to breath amongst men, which art hated and become
lothsome even in the verie bowels and thoughtes of men.
Triumph, then, in thy mischiefes, and boast that thou hast
undone mee and a number of others, whom with farre lesse
despight thou hast forced to bende unto thee; and when by
due deserte I shall have payed what I have promised thee,
vaunt then (in God's name) of thy winnings. For my
part--but I will saie no more, let the end trie all. Live
wretchedlie and die villainouslie, as thou hast deserved,
whome heavens hencefoorth doe shunne, and the world denieth
longer to looke upon.'

This is the model that Angel Day, in his 'English Secretary' (1590), thinks suitable for 'a hot enraged spirit' to write to his adversary.

Most persons at some time in their lives are called upon to write letters of condolence, but it is usually found to be a difficult task. However well the writer may succeed, he must feel how inadequate words are to give relief to a troubled spirit, and it is only insomuch as he shows his own heart and sympathy that he is successful in his attempt. When Alexander Lindsay, Earl of Balcarres, died, a few months before the Restoration, Charles II., who was then at Bruxelles, wrote the following kindly letter to the widow, Lady Anna Mackenzie:--

'Madame,--I hope you are so well persuaded of my kindness
to you as to believe that there can no misfortune happen to
you and I not have my share in it. I assure you I am
troubled at the loss you have had; and I hope that God will
be pleased to put me into such a condition before it be
long, as I may let you see the care I intend to have of you
and your children, and that you may depend upon my being
very truly, madame,
'Your affectionate, CHARLES R.'

Letters of thanks are frequently difficult things to write well, as it is a hard matter to appear grateful for the present of something that we do not want. Talleyrand made a practice of instantly acknowledging the receipt of books sent to him; for he could then express the pleasure he expected to enjoy in reading the volume, but if he delayed he thought it would be necessary to give an opinion, and that might sometimes be embarrassing. A celebrated botanist used to return thanks somewhat in the following form:--'I have received your book, and shall lose no time in reading it.' The unfortunate author might put his own construction on this rather ambiguous language. When Southey published his 'Doctor' anonymously, he gave directions to his publishers to send all letters directed for the author to Theodore Hook, and the following letter from Southey himself was found among Hook's papers:--

'SIR,--I have to thank you for a copy of the "Doctor," &c.,
bearing my name imprinted in rubrick letters on the reverse
of the title-page. That I should be gratified by this
flattering and unusual distinction you have rightly
supposed; and that the book itself would amuse me by its
wit, tickle me by its humour, and afford me gratification
of a higher kind in its serious parts, is what you cannot
have doubted. Whether my thanks for this curiosity in
literature will go to the veteran in literature,[59] who of
all living men is the most versed, both in curious and fine
letters; whether they will cross the Alps to an old
incognito,[60] who has the stores of Italian poetry at
command; whether they will find the author in London,[61]
surrounded with treasures of ancient and modern art, in an
abode as elegant as his own volumes; or wheresoever the
roving shaft which is sure to reach its mark may light, the
personage, be he friend, acquaintance or stranger, to whose
hands it comes is assured that his volumes have been
perused with great pleasure by his obliged and obedient
servant,

'ROBERT SOUTHEY.'

One of the most elegant letters of thanks we have met with is now before us. It was written by Lord Lytton soon after the publication of his 'Zanoni.'

'DEAR SIR,--I am extremely pleased and flattered by the
attention with which you have read, and the marks of
approval with which you have honoured, "Zanoni." Allow me
to wish to yourself a similar compliment from some reader
as courteous and as accomplished as yourself, you will then
judge of the gratification you have afforded to your very
truly obliged,
E. B. LYTTON.'

Begging letters are hardly a branch of literature, although great ingenuity is frequently exhibited in their composition; but a sufficient number of them can be seen in the 'Mendicity Society's Reports.' W. F., the author of the 'Enemy of Idlenesse,' 1621, gives the following directions how to ask a favour:--

'As concerning the manner how to demand temporall things,
as a booke, a horse, or such like, the letter must be
divided into foure partes. First, wee must get the goodwill
of him to whome wee write by praising his liberality, and
specially of the power and authority that hee hath to grant
the thing that hee is demanded. Secondly, wee must declare
our demand and request to bee honest and necessary, and
without the which wee cannot atchieve our determinate end
and purpose. Thirdly, that the request is easie to be
granted considering his ability, and that in a most
difficult thing his liberality is ordinarily expressed.
Fourthly, to promise recompence; as thankes, service, &c.'

Some men have very obdurate hearts, and will not be moved by any such language. Jeffrey had a form of refusal which must have been very tantalizing to his correspondents. He managed to bring the sentence 'I have much pleasure in subscribing' to the end of the first page, and then added, on the opposite side, 'myself, yours faithfully, F. Jeffrey.'

Charles Lamb wrote upon books that are not books, or those that 'no gentleman's library should be without.' In the same way there are letters that are not letters, and of such are the political letters of Junius, Pascal's 'Provincial Letters,' Swift's 'Drapier's Letters,' and all essays, disquisitions, and satires which are merely thrown into the epistolary form. Some historical letters are in the same category; because, although the letters of such men as Cromwell, Marlborough, Nelson, Franklin, Washington, and Wellington must always interest us, we read them more for the matter that is in them than for the form in which they are thrown. The following letter from the Princess Mary (afterwards Queen of England) to the wife of the Protector Somerset, is an exception to the above rule, and exhibits its writer in an amiable light, as interceding for two poor servants who were formerly attached to her mother's household, and who had fallen into poverty:--

'To my Lady of Somerset.

'My good Gossip,--After my very hearty commendations to
you, with like desire to hear of the amendment and increase
of your good health, these shall be to put you in
remembrance of mine old suit concerning Richard Wood, who
was my mother's servant when you were one of her Grace's
maids; and as you know by his supplication, hath sustained
great loss, almost to his utter undoing, without any
recompense for the same hitherto; which forced me to
trouble you with this suit before this time, whereof (I
thank you) I had a very good answer; desiring you now to
renew the same matter to my lord your husband, for I
consider that it is in manner impossible for him to
remember all such matters, having such a heap of business
as he hath. Wherefore, I heartily require you to go forward
in this suit till you have brought it to an honest end, for
the poor man is not able to lye long in the city. And thus
my good Nan, I trouble you both with myself and all mine,
thanking you with all my heart for your earnest gentleness
towards me in all my suits hitherto, reckoning myself out
of doubt of the continuance of the same. Wherefore, once
again I must trouble you with my poor George Brickhouse,
who was an officer of my brother's wardrobe of the beds,
from the time of the king my father's coronation; whose
only desire it is to be one of the knights of Windsor if
all the rooms be not filled, and if they be, to have the
next reversion; in the obtaining whereof, in mine opinion
you shall do a charitable deed, as knoweth Almighty God,
who send you good health, and us shortly to meet, to his
pleasure. From St. John's, this Sunday at afternoon, being
the 24th of April.

'Your loving friend during my life,
'MARYE.'[62]

The duchess to whom the above letter was written was very haughty, and held her head higher than the Queen-dowager, who had married the Protector's brother, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, the Lord High Admiral. Lloyd says, 'Very great were the animosities betwixt their wives, the duchess refusing to bear the queen's train, and in effect justled her for precedence, so that between the train of the queen and long gown of the duchess they raised so much dust at court as at last to put out the eyes of both their husbands.'

Men of position and fame must often groan under the affliction of letters and other applications that are constantly besetting them. Sir Walter Scott was frequently victimized in this way, and once he was so unfortunate as to have to pay £5 postage for a large packet from New York, which contained a MS. play, by a young lady, intended for his perusal, and accompanied with a request that he would read and correct it, write a prologue and epilogue for it, procure it a good reception from the manager of Drury Lane, and make Murray or Constable bleed handsomely for the copyright. A fortnight after he received another packet, for which he paid the same amount, which contained a second copy of the 'Cherokee Indians,' with a letter from the authoress stating, that as the winds had been boisterous she feared the first packet had foundered.

The managers of theatres are peculiarly troubled with applications that they are unable to accede to, and authors often think that those who do not rate their productions as highly as they do themselves must be actuated by unworthy motives. The following letter from F. Yates exhibits some of a manager's troubles:--

'MY DEAR SIR,--I this moment have received your letter,
which has given me more pain than I can describe to you. I
do assure you that, from the little I have known of you,
you are the last man in the world whose feelings I would
wound. Your note came to me yesterday at rehearsal; I
answered it, enclosing two orders, stating that I could not
afford more, and explained myself in the following manner
about "Love at Home," viz:--That, as there was no chance of
our being able to produce such a piece for some time, I
thought it better to return it to you, or words to that
effect. This note I put in the person's hands who gave me
yours; who it was I can't recollect. You know what last
rehearsals are to a manager sitting at the prompter's
table. This morning, when I was in bed, the servant came
with your card, and in answer to your note I could only
fancy you wanted your piece, and desired her to wrap it up
and give it the messenger. I confess I should have seen to
its being properly enveloped, but you can make excuse for a
fatigued man, who hears of nothing but manuscripts from
morning to night. I am most anxious that you should acquit
me, and believe me with truth to be yours,
'With much esteem,
'FRED. YATES.'

Managers are not the only persons who are troubled by the application of authors, and the following letter from Liston (dated 1833) shows us how he refused to perform an unpleasant task:--

'SIR,--The repeated annoyances I have been subjected to, by
undertaking to read pieces at the desire of authors and
managers, have determined me to avoid for the future so
unpleasant a task, and I therefore trust you will not take
offence, if, in pursuance of that determination, I feel
myself compelled to decline a compliance with your request.
Mme. Vestris will, I have no doubt, pay every attention to
your production should you feel disposed to entrust it to
her, and in the event of my having a character assigned me
you may be satisfied that I will do my duty, both to you
and to the theatre. I would have answered you earlier, but
I have not had five minutes at my own disposal for the last
three weeks.'

Besides the trouble of reading new plays, managers have to bear with the offended dignity of the actors. The following irate letter of Elliston (Charles Lamb's Elliston) shows what they have occasionally to put up with:--

'SIR,--Your information respecting the "School for
Scandal," which I received last night, is happily imagined
to fill up the measure of disrespect which seems to have
been studiously offered to me since I have been in the new
Drury Lane Theatre. You cannot be ignorant that I have
always played the part of "Charles" with the Drury Lane
company, and Mr. Arnold, when I met him on Kew Bridge
previous to the opening of Drury Lane, and when it was in
contemplation to open the new theatre with Mr. Sheridan's
brilliant play, distinctly told me in answer to a question
I put to him, that I should be expected to play "Charles."
Under these circumstances I cannot but conceive the cool
mode in which I am asked, without request, to be ready for
the eldest brother, to be an insult. To oblige the
committee and to serve the interests of the concern, I
think I have already sufficiently manifested [my desire] by
the acceptance of a very inferior part in the tragedy, and
by my suppression of complaint where complaint was almost
peremptorily called for; but there are bounds beyond which
it would be contemptible for patience to show itself; I
enter, therefore, a decided protest against this your last
proceeding, and expect that for the future it may
constitute a part of yours and Mr. Arnold's management to
show me a little more good manners than your natures have
hitherto permitted.'

Although a great number of letters have been printed, there must be an immense mass of unprinted ones that ought to see the light, and would add much to our information. We should like to see all the known correspondence of the world overhauled, re-arranged, and extracted under heads. By this means we should gain new views of the characters of men, and the high and dry description of action would be supplemented by vivid touches of feeling that would breathe life into the dry bones of history. Some such scheme as this was hinted at by Dr. Maitland, in his work on the 'Dark Ages.'

We must now, however, bring our subject to a close, ere we have exhausted the patience of our readers; but we do so with reluctance, for the number of letters that we should like to quote are numberless. We think that there is a peculiar pleasure in being taken into the confidence of the great ones of the earth, of those who are great by birth, by genius, and by worth; and we can imagine few greater literary treats than to turn over a well-arranged collection of autograph letters, which have been selected for the interest of their contents as well as for the celebrity of the writers. We feel suddenly taken out of ourselves and transplanted into a brilliant society, and we rise with the feeling that our list of acquaintances and friends has been enlarged by some of the best and greatest that have walked the earth. We have only left ourselves room to say a few words on Mr. Seton's book, but those words must be in its praise. The author has succeeded in putting together some very interesting and amusing essays on 'Letters and Letter-writers;' but as the subject is a large one, and the illustrations for it are peculiarly rich, we have preferred to make a selection of our own instead of using those that Mr. Seton has collected.

In conclusion, we cannot but express the pride we feel in the belief that our countrymen and countrywomen have added so many charming chapters to this branch of the great literature of the world: chapters that will bear comparison with those produced by the writers of any other country.

FOOTNOTES:

[58] 'Mark Boyd's Reminiscences of Fifty Years.'

[59] Disraeli.

[60] Mathias.

[61] Rogers.

[62] Tytler's 'England under Edward VI. and Mary,' 1839, vol. i., p. 48.

ART. VI.--_Wesley and Wesleyanism_.

(1.) _The Life and Times of the Rev. John Wesley, M.A., Founder of the Methodists_. By the Rev. L. TYERMAN. 3 vols. Hodder and Stoughton.

(2.) _The Life and Times of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, M.A., Rector of Epworth, and Father of the Rev. John and Charles Wesley_. By the Rev. L. TYERMAN. Simpkin and Marshall.

(3.) _John Wesley and the Evangelical Reaction of the Eighteenth Century_. By JULIA WEDGEWOOD. Macmillan and Co.

(4.) _The Poetical Works of John and Charles Wesley_. Vols. I.--XI. Methodist Book Room.

(5.) _John Wesley's Place in Church History_. Bell and Daldy.

(6.) _Wesley and Methodism_. By ISAAC TAYLOR. Bell and Daldy.

(7.) _John Wesley: His Life and His Work_. By the Rev. M. LELIÈVRE. Translated from the French by the Rev. A. J. FRENCH, B.A. Wesleyan Conference Office.

(8.) _John Wesley; or, the Theology of Conscience_, By the author of the 'Philosophy of Evangelicism.' Bell and Daldy.

Protestantism has never shown any especial pride in its hagiology, it does not treasure very highly the lives of its saints; yet it has an illustrious succession of eminent and noble men--great by endurance and self-denial, by the majesty and multiplicity of their labours, by the fervent enthusiasm of their character, and by their exalted intercourse with divine truths and things. Among the most eminent of these lives, great by its endowments and virtues, transcendent by incessant and immeasurable activity, extraordinary by its protracted period of service, stands that of John Wesley, mild and modest, but conspicuous and renowned, alike in the Old World and the New. Shall we be doing a needless thing if we devote some pages to an attempt at an estimate of the man, his ideas, his work, and his influence? First, the man. Pleasant, it has been said, is the task to trace up to their mountain source the streams which, broadening into great rivers, descend to run among the hills and water the valleys; to drink at the fountain-head, where perhaps all seems bleak and drear, compared with the fertility through which the river wanders below; thus, also, it is pleasant to trace some great benevolent flood of influence and thought back to its obscure fountain, its unlikely, perhaps unsuspected, spring. Thus also it is that in the kitchen of a poorly furnished Lincolnshire parsonage, in its atmosphere of poverty and piety, Methodism really had its origin; the early life of its founder was lightened by its special providences, his sense of wonder was excited by its supernatural voices, his frame was nourished by its hard discipline. Such was the cradle and the early aliment of John Wesley; and the first element in Methodism is the quality and character of the man.

Even at this day, Epworth is a quiet old village town, lying on the windy side of a Lincolnshire upland; no railway has, we believe, disturbed its solitary stillness, and the rest of its inhabitants is unbroken by the shrill whistle of the locomotive. We may figure to ourselves its loneliness a hundred and seventy years since, when in its old parsonage John Wesley's eyes first opened to the light. Samuel Wesley, his father, was the rector of the little village; quite a notable man to us, and by no means an obscure man in his day. Epworth, considering those times, was not a poor living, it was worth £200 a year; it is now worth nearly £1,000; but excellent and admirable man as he appears to have been, the old rector was usually in debts and difficulties. Perhaps even Goldsmith's typical clergyman would not have 'passed rich with £40 a year,' if, in addition to that wealth, he had found his quiver filled by nineteen children; although we know wonderful Robert Walker became a rich man, kept out of debt and danger, and accumulated a fortune in his incumbency of Seathwait on an annual income of £10! Few well-authenticated stories are more romantic than that of Epworth parsonage; among old houses it has a distinguished pre-eminence. Both the pastor and his wife were extraordinary people: on both sides their ancestors were remarkable, and they in turn became parents of an offspring, marvellous not merely in number, but in the singular versatility of their genius. The old rector was one of the stupendous scholars, of whom there were so many in the lone and obscure retreats of village life in that age; one of those men who, patiently trimming the midnight lamp, or kindling it before the earliest glow of the summer's sunbeam, thought or wrote with equal facility in Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, and published their works in huge quartos or folios. Of him probably we should now know nothing, but for the work of his remarkable children. Yet he was himself a huge folio of a man, a poet, too, in virtue of a considerable power of conception, fertility of illustration, and melody of expression; those queer old volumes, the 'Athenian Oracle,' which are a choice amusement and recreation for the bookworm, received large contributions, and on the most curious subjects, from his pen: he possessed a nimble wit, and his posthumous work on Job is said to contain--for it has never fallen in our way--a vast wealth of scholarship. Susannah Wesley, his wife, was at once a saint and a scholar, far more equal to the discussion of many knotty matters in divinity than some of the bishops of that day; and she also had an intense concern for the souls of the parishioners round about her. The household of that parsonage vividly reflects that old twilight time. Twice the rectory was consumed by fire: it was supposed to be the work of incendiaries, for the rector was very unpopular, and the story has often been told in prose and in painting, how, on one of these occasions, the infant John nearly perished in the flames, how he was rescued, and how the brave rector knelt with his children on the village green, exclaiming, 'Come, neighbours, let us kneel down, let us give thanks to God, He has given me all my eight children--I am rich enough.' But in the fire he lost not only his house, but his furniture and his precious library, all his manuscripts, and his sermons, and moreover a work on Hebrew poetry, which, from what we know of his pen, must have been very valuable. Grim shadows often fell over the rectory. One circumstance gives it a most singular notoriety, and was probably not without influence on the mind of John. We allude to its celebrated ghost. Among ghost stories, this of the apparition or _polter-geisterie_ of Epworth--for the hauntings were noisy racketings rather than appearances--has always been held to be one of the most inexplicable. Dr. Southey quite inclines to a belief in the genuineness of the ghostly visitations, and Mr. Tyerman expresses himself as reluctantly driven to the conclusion that the noises and other circumstances were occasioned by the direct and immediate agency of some unseen spirit; Isaac Taylor also seems forced to a similar admission. Thus it was a singular old house and household; much there was calculated in every way to stir the souls of such children and youths as John and Charles Wesley, not to mention the less famous, but scarcely less ingenious, Samuel and Mehetabel, Amelia and Keziah; it is interesting to think of that family in those old Epworth fields and lanes and hedgerows, and to follow them in all their strange, varied, and parti-coloured existence.

In due time, John left home for college; he studied at Christ-church, Oxford, after he had fulfilled his earlier course at the Charter House. It was long before he found his way into the work which has made his name so eminent; nor can it be said that in earlier life he gave much promise of that especial excellence to which he attained. He was a hard and industrious student, an exemplary and pious youth and young man. It is not uninteresting to notice that at this time he had rather a close and not unaffectionate correspondence with Mary Granville, then a young widow, which suggests suspicious possibilities. Talented, beautiful, and accomplished, we know her principally as the old lady, Mrs. Delany, the cherished friend of George III., to whom he paid such courtly and beautiful deference in her old age at Windsor. Mr. Tyerman seems to think, and we think too, that Wesley had a 'fair escape;' that he was not at all uninteresting to the fair widow is certain. What would have become of Methodism had the intimacy been closer? He was elected a fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford; but his ideas of Christian truth appear to have been very crude and confused. In his twenty-fifth year he was ordained a priest of the Church of England, and ministered for some time at a wretched little Lincolnshire village called Wroote; the population was under three hundred, 'and the people,' says Mehetabel Wesley, 'were as dull as asses and impervious as stone.' It is true there was at this time a small cluster of Oxford students who had received the denomination of 'Methodists,' and Wesley was one of them; he was called even the 'Curator of the Holy Club,' and a 'crack-brained enthusiast.' His brother Charles regarded him with reverence, and all looked up to him as the worthy leader of the little band. He appears to have led the life of an ascetic, and his charity to the poor was limited only by his very scanty means. An instance shows us something of the character of the man. On one cold winter day, a young girl, whom these earlier Methodists kept at school, called upon him in a state nearly frozen. The young man said to her, 'You seem half-starved; have you nothing to wear but that linen gown?' She said, 'Sir, it is all I have!' Wesley felt in his pocket, but it was almost empty; the walls of his chamber, however, were hung with pictures, and these now seemed to him to become his accusers. 'It struck me,' says he, 'will thy Master say to thee, "Well done, good and faithful steward, thou hast adorned thy walls with the money which might have screened this poor creature from the cold." O justice! O mercy! are not these pictures the blood of this poor maid?' When he had reached the age of seventy-three, the Commissioners of Excise--in all generations a race of monetary ferrets--addressed to him a circular, expressing that beyond a doubt he had neglected to make a proper entry and return of his silver plate. The letter was very curt and peremptory. Wesley evidently thought the application to him was ridiculous, and he replied in a note still more curt. 'Sir, I have two silver spoons at London and two at Bristol; this is all the plate that I have at present, and I shall not buy any more while so many round me want bread. I am, Sir, your most humble servant, John Wesley.' Thus the reflection of the young student realized itself in the active life of the old man.

For some time, however, John Wesley appears before us as a kind of eighteenth century Puseyite, or rather such an one as Hurrell Froude; his notions were cast in a mould of High Church idealism, not unmixed with a certain morbid pietism; and Oxford Methodism almost anticipates that other mighty reaction, the great religious movement of our age; but the Methodism of Oxford, indeed, although it numbered among its adherents such men as the Wesleys, and Whitefield, and Hervey, and Ingram, soon came to an end, and, but for Wesley's after career, would have been buried in oblivion, for Mr. Tyerman truly characterizes it as 'misty, austere, gloomy, and forbidding, while yet intensely earnest, sincere, and self-denying.'

The friends were soon widely scattered to their different vicarages and curacies, and John Wesley himself--now in his thirty-second year--accepted a mission to the little American State of Georgia. We need not describe his experience in America further than to remark how, on his way thither, he fell in with Moravians, who imparted to him some new light in theology on its experimental side. The vigorous hymns of the Moravians and their vivid representations of Christian life, put before him a new set of ideas, which, when he separated himself entirely from the organization of that sect and returned to England, bore abundant fruit. His life in Georgia was of short continuance, but characterized by singular circumstances; first and foremost, he took into his ministry a very strange, morose, and cheerless type of Christianity; also in connection with this, we have to notice a very important item in his history--he fell in love. It is quite remarkable that all Wesley's transactions with womankind--on his own account--were unfortunate, even exceedingly unhappy. The lady who first drew forth his affections appears to have accepted his proposal of marriage; but by a rapid transition we find her a week or two after, married to a Mr. Williamson; this overwhelmed the poor priest, and introduced him to other troubles. He refused to admit her to the Lord's table; then we find him arrested and brought before the recorder for defaming the lady; then followed a stream of indictments against him, and, in brief, sick and sore, and as a prisoner at large, we find him hurrying away from the colony.

For a life which became so remarkable for the prescience and rigidity of its principles, such a commencement was very singular. A strange undeterminateness appears to rule, or rather to leave him unruled and ungoverned, until his thirty-seventh year. It is singular, for instance, to find an undoubtedly pious, earnest, holy, and self-denying man, such as Wesley was, declaring that until he returned from Georgia he was an unconverted man. He was no doubt in search of that deep faith which is eternal life. It appears that a real change came over him when he heard the preaching of Peter Bohler, the Moravian; in all these earlier years of Wesley's activity he seems to have been greatly indebted to the Moravians. The issue of the influence of Bohler upon his mind, was his confession that before this period he was a servant of God, accepted and safe, but now he knew it, and was happy as well as safe, and in after years and until our own time, the conscious happiness of believers has been a considerable point in Methodist teaching. There is no doubt that Wesley himself attained a cheerful, quiet, restful consciousness he had never known before, and his life hereafter, while constant in its course of self-denial, was lifted above the morose asceticism of his earlier years. But as to the principle itself, it is surely as dangerous as a rule of Christian experience, as it is doubtful in all human philosophy. For some time he was materially influenced by Moravian principles and practices, and, indeed, it is easy to see that God who destined for his distinguished servant a very long life, was teaching him in various schools those principles, which upon an eminently large scale he was to apply. He went to Germany to visit the Moravian settlement of Hernhutt, he came to know that eminent and extraordinary man, Christian David, he heard him preach and received from his own lips his singular story. He professed himself to have received remarkable spiritual intelligence from Moravian teachings; and some of the finest hymns in the Wesleyan Hymn Book are translations made at this time by John Wesley from those of Count Zinzendorf. But it is very remarkable that he signalized the period of his conversion by a quarrel with William Law; he charged him most ungraciously with having deceived him in having given to him a mystical, notional, and intellectual faith; and Law replied to him in language, which assuredly in every way leaves that devout and eminent Christian philosopher in possession of the field. It is, however, the last ground of serious exception we can take to the life of Wesley. At this point, his life seems to collect itself into eminent purpose and consistency. He was soon compelled to disentangle himself from the Moravians, whose notions at that time were beset by the most mystical and mischievous fancies, and ridiculous and even indecent allusions. He was forbidden their pulpit on account of his clearly expressed dissent from their doctrines, and almost immediately, and apparently without any distinctly marked design on his own part, he commenced that course which made him so pre-eminent a father and apostle in the modern church. John Wesley's course is very singular. It has this strong mark of eminent honesty: that the whole of the immense system of usefulness he inaugurated, appears to have been without especial intention or plan. From year to year the institution grew; piece by piece, the mighty structure took proportion and shape. Commencing in a simple design to be useful, to awaken men to a knowledge of sin, and to the determination of salvation from sin, Wesley became an evangelist. He had no idea of separating himself from the Established Church; he always regarded himself as one of its ministers, and was sufficiently filled, even to the close of his life, with all the ideas implied in being an ordained priest in its communion. It is impossible to regard him in relation to England at that time, without feeling that he, in an eminent degree, was raised up and set apart for the salvation of his country.