Chapter XLIII: Book I: , IV. 5 (2)

443. _C—._ George Colman ‘the Elder’ (1732–1794).

444. _Brother Van._ See Swift’s verses on Vanbrugh’s house:—

‘Now, poets from all the quarters ran
To see the house of brother Van.’

_Richards, the scene painter._ See _ante_, p. 414, and note.

‘_The Journey to London._’ The name by which Vanbrugh’s unfinished
comedy, _The Provoked Husband_ (1726), was first known. It was
finished by Colley Cibber.

‘_Lord Foppington._’ In Vanbrugh’s _The Relapse_ (1696).

‘_Devin du Village._’ Rousseau’s successful opera (1753), which
contains the air now known as ‘Rousseau’s Dream.’

_Beattie._ James Beattie, poet and essayist (1735–1803). His
_Essay on Truth_ (1770), which was enormously popular, was an
attack on Hume.

445. _Cibber._ Colley Cibber (1671–1757), actor, dramatist and Poet
Laureate (from 1730).

_The Margravine of Bareuth._ An English translation of the amusing
‘Memoires de Frederique Sophie Wilhelmine de Prusse, Margrave de
Bareith Soeur de Frédéric-le-Grand, écrits de sa Main’ appeared
in 1812. The Duchess of Kendal is attributed to George II. in
_The Atlas_. ‘Conversations as good as Real,’ No. IX., begins
with this sentence in _The Atlas_ for August 9, 1829. And the
following passage after ‘new situation’ may be added:—‘A great
person is said to mimic George II., and make sport of his bad
English (though it can only be from hearsay); he used to call
out when he was provoked at any thing—“God d—mn what I am, God
d—mn what you be.” He laid great stress on the minutest trifles,
and insisted on wearing his shirts in the order in which they
were numbered, and flew into a violent passion if they brought
him the wrong number. “Why am I to wear No. 16, when I have not
had No. 15? Why am I to do nothing that I like? Am I king of
England, or am I not? That is what I want to know.” And then he
would fall to kicking his hat about the room to vent his anger,
and rating any of the ministers that came in in his outlandish
jargon. Once he was going to kick the Duke of ARGYLL, who laid
his hand upon his sword, and withdrew in high dudgeon. Meeting
Sir ROBERT WALPOLE on the staircase, he complained of what had
happened, to which the other replied, “Oh! that’s nothing, he
has treated me so a hundred times.” “Yes, but” (said the Scotch
peer) “there is some difference between JOHN, Duke of ARGYLL,
and ROBERT WALPOLE.”’

447. _Sir Edward Pellew._ See _ante_, p. 429, and note.

448. _The Life of Sir Joshua._ Allan Cunningham’s ‘Lives of the most
Eminent British Painters, Sculptors, and Architects’ appeared in
1829–1833 in six vols. This is No. XII. of _The Atlas_
‘Conversations’ (August 20, 1829)

449. _Old Mr. Tolcher._ See _ante_, note to p. 395.

_The famous Pulteney._ William Pulteney, later Earl of Bath
(1682–1764), Walpole’s bitterest antagonist in the House of
Commons.

_Mr. Lamb ... Hogarth._ See the essay ‘On the Genius and Character
of Hogarth’ in _The Reflector_, No. 3, 1811.

_Dr. Tucker, Dean of Gloucester._ Josiah Tucker (1712–1799), the
recipient of Butler’s remark that nations, as well as
individuals, may go mad. He was a writer on Economics.

450. _Sparing of his wine._ Add, ‘But Sir JOSHUA was fond of the bottle
himself; and no one that is so ever stints others.’

_Dr. Johnson’s speech ... the Miss Cottrells._ See Boswell’s
_Johnson_ 1752.

452. _The newspaper critic._ Conversation No. XII. in _The Atlas_ had
ended with ‘rational account of,’ four lines above, and No.
XIII. began here, entitled ‘The St. Giles’ in Art,’ in the
number for Sept. 13, 1829.

_Sir John Hawkins_ (1719–1789), writer on music and predecessor of
Boswell in a life of Johnson.

_Bright particular star._ _All’s Well that Ends Well_, Act I.
Scene 1.

_Tyke._ John Emery’s (1777–1822) greatest part, a character in
Morton’s comedy, _The School of Reform, or How to Rule a
Husband_ (1805). See Hazlitt’s _Dramatic Essays_.

453. _Dollalolla._ Queen Dollalolla, wife of King Arthur, in Fielding’s
Comic Opera, _Tom Thumb_.

_Capella Bianca._ Bianca Cappello, Grand-duchess of Tuscany, d.
1587; mistress and then wife of Francesco de Medici, both of
whom are supposed to have been poisoned by his brother
Ferdinand.

_Morton._ Thomas Morton (1764?–1838).

453. _Such persons._ Or, more specifically, ‘Mr. Lamb,’ as in _The
Atlas_.

_Fawcett._ Joseph Fawcett (1768–1837).

_Lewis._ William Thomas Lewis (1748?–1811), the ‘gentleman’
comedian.

_Lord and Lady Townly._ In Colley Cibber’s version of Vanbrugh’s
_The Provoked Husband_.

_The History of a Foundling._ The sub-title of _Tom Jones_.

454. _T. M._ Tom Moore.

_Of defects we wish to balance._ Add:—‘I have known a man turn
Tory to prove he was not a bastard. Lord NELSON probably
performed such prodigies because, as he passed along the quay to
take command of his ship, the mob sneered at him, and said, “Is
that poor wisen-faced thing going to fight the French?” Do you
suppose,’ etc.

454. _Lady Sarah Bunbury._ Lady Sarah Lennox (1745–1826), daughter of
the second Duke of Richmond, married, 1762, Thomas Charles
(afterwards Sir Thomas Charles) Bunbury, from whom she was
divorced in 1776. In 1782 she married George Napier (son of the
fifth Lord Napier), by whom she became mother of Sir Charles
James and Sir William Napier. George III. was in love with her
in 1761. Her _Correspondence_ has recently been published in two
vols. by Mr. Murray.

_Gilray._ James Gillray (1757–1815).

_Lord Macartney._ George, Earl Macartney (1737–1806). He was the
head of the first Embassy from England to China (1792–4).

CONVERSATION THE TWENTY-FIRST. This, to ‘briefs pour in’ on p.
459, is ‘Conversation XVII.’ in _The Atlas_ for November 8,
1829.

456. _Abraham Tucker_ (1705–1774). His _Light of Nature Pursued_
Hazlitt abridged and prefaced. See vol. IV. p. 370 _et seq._

_Marquis of Stafford’s gallery._ Stafford House, in St. James’s
Park, and its private collection of paintings.

_Which was the greatest man._ The alternative to Sir Isaac Newton
in _The Atlas_ is ‘Jack Davies, the racquet-player.’

457. _W—’s poetry._ Wordsworth’s.

_Holcroft._ Thomas Holcroft (1745–1809), whose ‘Memoirs’ Hazlitt
completed. See vol. II. of the present Edition.

458. _Joseph Andrews._ Fielding’s novel was published in 1742, not
1748.

—. Possibly Bewick.

459. _The election of the new Pope._ Pius VIII. was elected in 1829.

_Monmouth-Street finery._ Monmouth Street, St. Giles’s, was noted
in the eighteenth century for its second-hand clothes’ shops.
‘On Lord Kelly, a remarkable, red-faced, drunken lord, coming
into a room in a coat much embroidered but somewhat tarnished,
Foote said he was an exact representation of Monmouth Street in
flames.’ Prior’s _Life of Malone_.

460. _What do you think of that portrait._ This begins ‘Conversation
XIII.’ in _The Atlas_ for Oct. 25, 1829.

461. _The mind has still a link ... the beloved object._ For this
sentence substitute from _The Atlas_:—‘It was she who sat and
sang to me as I painted the portrait of her son that died.’ (See
p. 391).

_The Miss B—s._ Mary Berry (1763–1852) and her sister Agnes, who
lived together for nearly eighty-eight years. Horace Walpole
described Mary as ‘an angel both inside and out’ and both as his
‘twin wives.’ Their names are given in full in _The Atlas_.

462. CONVERSATION THE TWENTY-SECOND. ‘The last’ in _The Atlas_ for 15th
November 1829, entitled ‘Mutual Confessions and Explanations.’

_The Country Girl._ Garrick’s comedy, based on Wycherley’s
_Country Wife_, itself an adaptation of Molière’s _L’École des
Maris_, and _L’École des Femmes_.

464. _The milk of human kindness._ _Macbeth_, Act I. Scene 5.

_Shadwell._ Thomas Shadwell (1642?–1692), dramatist and
poet-laureate.

_Dennis._ John Dennis (1657–1734), Pope’s antagonistic critic. See
his _The Advancement and Reformation of Modern Poetry_ (1701)
and _The Ground of Criticism in Poetry_ (1704).

465. _Other things between heaven and earth._ _Hamlet_, Act I. Scene 5.

_Ugolino._ The story of Ugolino, leader of the Guelfs in Pisa, and
of his imprisonment in the ‘Tower of Famine’ will be found in
Chaucer’s _Monk’s Tale_. See also Dante’s _Inferno_, XXXIII.

-----

Footnote 1:

There is a passage in Werter which contains a very pleasing
illustration of this doctrine, and is as follows.

‘About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. It is very
agreeably situated on the side of a hill: from one of the paths which
leads out of the village, you have a view of the whole country; and
there is a good old woman who sells wine, coffee, and tea there: but
better than all this are two lime-trees before the church, which
spread their branches over a little green, surrounded by barns and
cottages. I have seen few places more retired and peaceful. I send for
a chair and table from the old woman’s, and there I drink my coffee
and read Homer. It was by accident that I discovered this place one
fine afternoon: all was perfect stillness; every body was in the
fields, except a little boy about four years old, who was sitting on
the ground, and holding between his knees a child of about six months;
he pressed it to his bosom with his little arms, which made a sort of
great chair for it, and notwithstanding the vivacity which sparkled in
his eyes, he sat perfectly still. Quite delighted with the scene, I
sat down on a plough opposite, and had great pleasure in drawing this
little picture of brotherly tenderness. I added a bit of the hedge,
the barn-door, and some broken cart-wheels, without any order, just as
they happened to lie; and in about an hour I found I had made a
drawing of great expression and very correct design, without having
put in any thing of my own. This confirmed me in the resolution I had
made before, only to copy nature for the future. Nature is
inexhaustible, and alone forms the greatest masters. Say what you will
of rules, they alter the true features, and the natural expression.’
Page 15.

Footnote 2:

It is at present covered with a thick slough of oil and varnish (the
perishable vehicle of the English school) like an envelope of
gold-beaters’ skin, so as to be hardly visible.

Footnote 3:

Men in business, who are answerable with their fortunes for the
consequences of their opinions, and are therefore accustomed to
ascertain pretty accurately the grounds on which they act, before they
commit themselves on the event, are often men of remarkably quick and
sound judgments. Artists in like manner must know tolerably well what
they are about, before they can bring the result of their observations
to the test of ocular demonstration.

Footnote 4:

The famous Schiller used to say, that he found the great happiness of
life, after all, to consist in the discharge of some mechanical duty.

Footnote 5:

The rich _impasting_ of Titian and Giorgione combines something of the
advantages of both these styles, the felicity of the one with the
carefulness of the other, and is perhaps to be preferred to either.

Footnote 6:

Leonardo da Vinci.

Footnote 7:

Titian.

Footnote 8:

Michael Angelo.

Footnote 9:

Correggio.

Footnote 10:

Annibal Caracci.

Footnote 11:

Rubens.

Footnote 12:

Rafaelle.

Footnote 13:

If we take away from _the present_ the moment that is just gone by and
the moment that is next to come, how much of it will be left for this
plain, practical theory to rest upon? Their solid basis of sense and
reality will reduce itself to a pin’s point, a hair-line, on which our
moral balance-masters will have some difficulty to maintain their
footing without falling over on either side.

Footnote 14:

A treatise on the Millennium is dull; but who was ever weary of
reading the fables of the Golden Age? On my once observing I should
like to have been Claude, a person said, ‘they should not, for that
then by this time it would have been all over with them.’ As if it
could possibly signify when we live (save and excepting the present
minute), or as if the value of human life decreased or increased with
successive centuries. At that rate, we had better have our life still
to come at some future period, and so postpone our existence century
after century _ad infinitum_.

Footnote 15:

In like manner, though we know that an event must have taken place at
a distance, long before we can hear the result, yet as long as we
remain in ignorance of it, we irritate ourselves about it, and suffer
all the agonies of suspense, as if it was still to come; but as soon
as our uncertainty is removed, our fretful impatience vanishes, we
resign ourselves to fate, and make up our minds to what has happened
as well as we can.

Footnote 16:

Sentiment has the same source as that here pointed out. Thus the _Ranz
des Vaches_, which has such an effect on the minds of the Swiss
peasantry, when its well-known sound is heard, does not merely recal
to them the idea of their country, but has associated with it a
thousand nameless ideas, numberless touches of private affection, of
early hope, romantic adventure, and national pride, all which rush in
(with mingled currents) to swell the tide of fond remembrance, and
make them languish or die for home. What a fine instrument the human
heart is! Who shall touch it? Who shall fathom it? Who shall ‘sound it
from its lowest note to the top of its compass?’ Who shall put his
hand among the strings, and explain their wayward music? The heart
alone, when touched by sympathy, trembles and responds to their hidden
meaning!

Footnote 17:

I do not here speak of the figurative or fanciful exercise of the
imagination, which consists in finding out some striking object or
image to illustrate another.

Footnote 18:

Mr. Wordsworth himself should not say this, and yet I am not sure he
would not.

Footnote 19:

The only good thing I ever heard come of this man’s singular faculty
of memory was the following. A gentleman was mentioning his having
been sent up to London from the place where he lived to see Garrick
act. When he went back into the country, he was asked what he thought
of the player and the play. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘he did not know: he had
only seen a little man strut about the stage, and repeat 7956 words.’
We all laughed at this, but a person in one corner of the room,
holding one hand to his forehead, and seeming mightily delighted,
called out, ‘Ay, indeed! And pray, was he found to be correct?’ This
was the supererogation of literal matter-of-fact curiosity. Jedediah
Buxton’s counting the number of words was idle enough; but here was a
fellow who wanted some one to count them over again to see if he was
correct.

‘The force of _dulness_ could no farther go!’

Footnote 20:

Sir Joshua Reynolds being asked how long it had taken him to do a
certain picture, made answer, ‘All his life.’

Footnote 21:

The late Lord Thurlow used to say that Cobbett was the only writer
that deserved the name of a political reasoner.

Footnote 22:

Mr. Cobbett speaks almost as well as he writes. The only time I ever
saw him he seemed to me a very pleasant man—easy of access, affable,
clearheaded, simple and mild in his manner, deliberate and unruffled
in his speech, though some of his expressions were not very qualified.
His figure is tall and portly. He has a good sensible face—rather
full, with little grey eyes, a hard, square forehead, a ruddy
complexion, with hair grey or powdered; and had on a scarlet
broad-cloth waistcoat with the flaps of the pockets hanging down, as
was the custom for gentlemen-farmers in the last century, or as we see
it in the pictures of Members of Parliament in the reign of George I.
I certainly did not think less favourably of him for seeing him.

Footnote 23:

Quarto poetry, as well as quarto metaphysics, does not always sell.
Going one day into a shop in Paternoster-row to see for some lines in
Mr. Wordsworth’s Excursion to interlard some prose with, I applied to
the constituted authorities, and asked if I could look at a copy of
the Excursion? The answer was—‘Into which county, Sir?’

Footnote 24:

These fantastic poets are like a foolish ringer at Plymouth that
Northcote tells the story of. He was proud of his ringing, and the
boys who made a jest of his foible used to get him in the belfry, and
ask him, ‘Well now, John, how many good ringers are there in
Plymouth?’ ‘Two,’ he would say, without any hesitation. ‘Ay, indeed!
and who are they?’—‘Why, first, there’s myself, that’s one:
and—and’—‘Well, and who’s the other?’—‘Why there’s, there’s—Ecod, I
can’t think of any other but myself.’ _Talk we of one Master
Launcelot._ The story is of ringers: it will do for any vain, shallow,
self-satisfied egotist of them all.

Footnote 25:

The celebrated Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) first discovered and brought
out the talents of the late Mr. Opie, the painter. He was a poor
Cornish boy, and was out at work in the fields, when the poet went in
search of him. ‘Well, my lad, can you go and bring me your very best
picture?’ The other flew like lightning, and soon came back with what
he considered as his masterpiece. The stranger looked at it, and the
young artist, after waiting for some time without his giving any
opinion, at length exclaimed eagerly, ‘Well, what do you think of
it?’—‘Think of it?’ said Wolcot, ‘why I think you ought to be ashamed
of it—that you who might do so well, do no better!’ The same answer
would have applied to this artist’s latest performances, that had been
suggested by one of his earliest efforts.

Footnote 26:

If two persons play against each other at any game, one of them
necessarily fails.

Footnote 27:

Written at Winterslow Hut, January 18th–19th, 1821.

Footnote 28:

Webster’s Duchess of Malfi.

Footnote 29:

Shenstone and Gray were two men, one of whom pretended to live to
himself, and the other really did so. Gray shrunk from the public gaze
(he did not even like his portrait to be prefixed to his works) into
his own thoughts and indolent musings; Shenstone affected privacy,
that he might be sought out by the world; the one courted retirement
in order to enjoy leisure and repose, as the other coquetted with it,
merely to be interrupted with the importunity of visitors and the
flatteries of absent friends.

Footnote 30:

‘Plut. of Banishment. He compares those who cannot live out of their
own country, to the simple people who fancied the moon of Athens was a
finer moon than that of Corinth.

—_Labentem cœlo quæ ducitis annum._
VIRG. GEORG.’

Footnote 31:

When Buonaparte left the Chamber of Deputies to go and fight his last
fatal battle, he advised them not to be debating the forms of
Constitutions when the enemy was at their gates. Benjamin Constant
thought otherwise. He wanted to play a game at _cat’s-cradle_ between
the Republicans and Royalists, and lost his match. He did not care, so
that he hampered a more efficient man than himself.

Footnote 32:

A thorough fitness for any end implies the means. Where there is a
will, there is a way. A real passion, an entire devotion to any
object, always succeeds. The strong sympathy with what we wish and
imagine, realises it, dissipates all obstacles, and removes all
scruples. The disappointed lover may complain as much as he pleases.
He was himself to blame. He was a half witted, _wishy-washy_ fellow.
His love might be as great as he makes it out: but it was not his
ruling-passion. His fear, his pride, his vanity was greater. Let any
one’s whole soul be steeped in this passion, let him think and care
for nothing else, let nothing divert, cool, or intimidate him, let the
_ideal_ feeling become an actual one and take possession of his whole
faculties, looks, and manner, let the same voluptuous hopes and wishes
govern his actions in the presence of his mistress that haunt his
fancy in her absence, and I will answer for his success. But I will
not answer for the success of a ‘dish of skimmed milk’ in such a case.
I could always get to see a fine collection of pictures myself. The
fact is, I was set upon it. Neither the surliness of porters, nor the
impertinence of footmen could keep me back. I had a portrait of Titian
in my eye, and nothing could put me out in my determination. If that
had not (as it were) been looking on me all the time I was battling my
way, I should have been irritated or disconcerted, and gone away. But
my liking to the end conquered my scruples or aversion to the means. I
never understood the Scotch character but on these occasions. I would
not take ‘No’ for an answer. If I had wanted a place under government,
or a writership to India, I could have got it from the same
importunity, and on the same terms.

Footnote 33:

A poor woman at Plymouth who did not like the formality, or could not
afford the expence, of a will, thought to leave what little property
she had in wearing-apparel and household moveables to her friends and
relations, _vivá voce_, and before Death stopped her breath. She gave
and willed away (of her proper authority) her chair and table to one,
her bed to another, an old cloak to a third, a night-cap and petticoat
to a fourth, and so on. The old crones sat weeping round, and soon
after carried off all they could lay their hands upon, and left their
benefactress to her fate. They were no sooner gone than she
unexpectedly recovered, and sent to have her things back again; but
not one of them could she get, and she was left without a rag to her
back, or a friend to condole with her.

Footnote 34:

The law of primogeniture has its origin in the principle here
stated—the desire of perpetuating some one palpable and prominent
proof of wealth and power.

Footnote 35:

It is as follows:

‘_The Will of a Virtuoso_,

‘I Nicholas Gimcrack, being in sound Health of Mind, but in great
Weakness of Body, do by this my Last Will and Testament bequeath my
worldly Goods and Chattels in Manner following:—

_Imprimis_, To my dear Wife,

One Box of Butterflies,
One Drawer of Shells,
A Female Skeleton,
A dried Cockatrice.

_Item_, To my Daughter _Elizabeth_,

My Receipt for preserving dead Caterpillars.
As also my preparations of Winter May-Dew, and Embrio Pickle.

_Item_, To my little Daughter _Fanny_,

Three Crocodiles’ Eggs.
And upon the Birth of her first Child, if she marries with her
Mother’s Consent,
The Nest of a Humming-Bird.

_Item_, To my eldest Brother, as an Acknowledgment for the Lands he
has vested in my Son Charles, I bequeath

My last Year’s Collection of Grasshoppers.

_Item_, To his Daughter _Susanna_, being his only Child, I bequeath my

_English_ Weeds pasted on Royal Paper,
With my large Folio of
_Indian_ Cabbage.

* * * * *

Having fully provided for my Nephew Isaac, by making over to him some
years since

A Horned _Scarabæus_,
The Skin of a Rattle-Snake, and
The Mummy of an _Egyptian_ King,

I make no further Provision for him in this my Will.

My eldest Son _John_ having spoken disrespectfully of his little
Sister, whom I keep by me in Spirits of Wine, and in many other
Instances behaved himself undutifully towards me, I do disinherit, and
wholly cut off from any Part of this my Personal Estate, by giving him
a single Cockle-Shell.

To my Second Son _Charles_, I give and bequeath all my Flowers,
Plants, Minerals, Mosses, Shells, Pebbles, Fossils, Beetles,
Butterflies, Caterpillars, Grasshoppers, and Vermin, not above
specified: As also all my Monsters, both wet and dry, making the said
_Charles_ whole and sole Executor of this my Last Will and Testament,
he paying or causing to be paid the aforesaid Legacies within the
space of Six Months after my Decease. And I do hereby revoke all other
Wills whatsoever by me formerly made.’—TATLER, Vol. IV. No. 216.

Footnote 36:

Kellerman lately left his heart to be buried in the field of Valmy
where the first great battle was fought in the year 1792, in which the
Allies were repulsed.

Footnote 37:

How careful is Sir Joshua, even in a parenthesis, to insinuate the
obligations of this great genius to others, as if he would have been
nothing without them.

Footnote 38:

If Sir Joshua had had an offer to exchange a Luca Giordano in his
collection for a Claude Lorraine, he would not have hesitated long
about the preference.

Footnote 39:

Written in 1788.

Footnote 40:

Gainsborough.

Footnote 41:

Sir Joshua himself wanted academic skill and patience in the details
of his profession. From these defects he seems to have been
alternately repelled by each theory and style of art, the simply
natural and elaborately scientific, as it came before him; and in his
impatience of each, to have been betrayed into a tissue of
inconsistencies somewhat difficult to unravel.

Footnote 42:

He had been before speaking of Boucher, Director of the French
Academy, who told him that ‘when he was young, studying his art, he
found it necessary to use models, but that he had left them off for
many years.’

Footnote 43:

These are Sir Joshua’s words.

Footnote 44:

I do not know that: but I do not think the two passions could be
expressed by expressing neither or something between both.

Footnote 45:

‘As for politics, I think poets are _tories_ by nature, supposing them
to be by nature poets. The love of an individual person or family that
has worn a crown for many successions, is an inclination greatly
adapted to the fanciful tribe. On the other hand, mathematicians,
abstract reasoners, of no manner of attachment to persons, at least to
the visible part of them, but prodigiously devoted to the ideas of
virtue, liberty, and so forth, are generally _whigs_. It happens
agreeably enough to this maxim, that the whigs are friends to that
wise, plodding, unpoetical people, the Dutch.’—Shenstone’s Letters,
1746, p. 105.

Footnote 46:

To give the modern reader _un petit aperçu_ of the tone of literary
conversation about five or six and twenty years ago, I remember being
present in a large party composed of men, women, and children, in
which two persons of remarkable candour and ingenuity were labouring
(as hard as if they had been paid for it) to prove that all prayer was
a mode of dictating to the Almighty, and an arrogant assumption of
superiority. A gentleman present said, with great simplicity and
_naïveté_, that there was one prayer which did not strike him as
coming exactly under this description, and being asked what that was,
made answer, ‘The Samaritan’s—“Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!”’
This appeal by no means settled the sceptical dogmatism of the two
disputants, and soon after the proposer of the objection went away; on
which one of them observed with great marks of satisfaction and
triumph.—‘I am afraid we have shocked that gentleman’s prejudices.’
This did not appear to me at that time quite the thing, and this
happened in the year 1794. Twice has the iron entered my soul. Twice
have the dastard, vaunting, venal crew gone over it; once as they went
forth, conquering and to conquer, with reason by their side,
glittering like a faulchion, trampling on prejudices and marching
fearlessly on in the work of regeneration; once again, when they
returned with retrograde steps, like Cacus’s oxen dragged backward by
the heels, to the den of Legitimacy, ‘rout on rout, confusion worse
confounded,’ with places and pensions and the Quarterly Review
dangling from their pockets, and shouting ‘Deliverance for mankind,’
for ‘the worst, the second fall of man.’ Yet I have endured all this
marching and countermarching of poets, philosophers, and politicians
over my head as well as I could, like ‘the camomoil that thrives, the
more ’tis trod upon.’ By Heavens, I think, I’ll endure it no longer!

Footnote 47:

Troja fuit.

Footnote 48:

‘If an European, when he has cut off his beard and put false hair on
his head, or bound up his own natural hair in regular hard knots, as
unlike nature as he can possibly make it; and after having rendered
them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has covered the whole
with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost regularity; if when
thus attired he issues forth, and meets a Cherokee Indian, who has
bestowed as much time at his toilet, and laid on with equal care and
attention his yellow and red oker on particular parts of his forehead
or cheeks, as he judges most becoming; whoever of these two despises
the other for this attention to the fashion of his country, whichever
first feels himself provoked to laugh, is the barbarian.’—Sir Joshua
Reynolds’s Discourses, Vol. I. p. 231–2.

Footnote 49:

This name was originally spelt Braughton in the manuscript, and was
altered to Branghton by a mistake of the printer. Branghton, however,
was thought a good name for the occasion, and was suffered to stand.
‘Dip it in the ocean,’ as Sterne’s barber says of the buckle, ‘and it
will stand!’

Footnote 50:

A lady of quality, in allusion to the gallantries of a reigning
Prince, being told, ‘I suppose it will be your turn next!’ said, ‘No:
I hope not; for you know it is impossible to refuse!’

Footnote 51:

‘_Girtred._ For the passion of patience, look if Sir Petronel
approach. That sweet, that fine, that delicate, that — for love’s
sake, tell me if he come. Oh, sister Mill, though my father be a
low-capt tradesman, yet I must be a lady, and I praise God my mother
must call me madam. Does he come? Off with this gown for shame’s sake,
off with this gown! Let not my knight take me in the city cut, in any
hand! Tear’t! Pox on’t (does he come?) tear’t off! _Thus while she
sleeps, I sorrow for her sake._ (Sings.)

_Mildred._ Lord, sister, with what an immodest impatiency and
disgraceful scorn do you put off your city-tire! I am sorry to think
you imagine to right yourself in wronging that which hath made both
you and us.

_Gir._ I tell you, I cannot endure it: I must be a lady: do you wear
your quoiff with a London licket! your stamel petticoat with two
guards! the buffin gown with the tuftafitty cap and the velvet lace! I
must be a lady, and I will be a lady. I like some humours of the city
dames well: to eat cherries only at an angel a pound; good: to dye
rich scarlet black; pretty: to line a grogram gown clean through with
velvet; tolerable: their pure linen, their smocks of three pound a
smock, are to be borne withal; but your mincing niceries, taffity
pipkins, durance petticoats, and silver bodkins—God’s my life! as I
shall be a lady, I cannot endure it.

_Mil._ Well, sister, those that scorn their nest, oft fly with a sick
wing.

_Gir._ Bow-bell! Alas, poor Mill, when I am a lady, I’ll pray for thee
yet i’faith; nay, and I’ll vouchsafe to call thee sister Mill still;
for though thou art not likely to be a lady as I am, yet surely thou
art a creature of God’s making, and may’st peradventure be saved as
soon as I (does he come?) _And ever and anon she doubled in her song._

_Mil._ Now (lady’s my comfort) what a profane ape’s here!

_Enter Sir_ PETRONEL FLASH, _Mr._ TOUCHSTONE, _and Mrs._ TOUCHSTONE.

_Gir._ Is my knight come? O the lord, my band! Sister do my cheeks
look well? Give me a little box o’ the ear that I may seem to blush.
Now, now! so, there, there! here he is! O my dearest delight! Lord,
Lord! and how does my knight?

_Touchstone._ Fie, with more modesty.

_Gir._ Modesty! why, I am no citizen now. Modesty! am I not to be
married? You’re best to keep me modest, now I am to be a lady.

_Sir Petronel._ Boldness is a good fashion, and court-like.

_Gir._ Aye, in a country lady I hope it is, as I shall be. And how
chance ye came no sooner, knight?

_Sir Pet._ Faith, I was so entertained in the progress with one Count
Epernoun, a Welsh knight: we had a match at baloon too with my Lord
Whackum for four crowns.

_Gir._ And when shall’s be married, my knight?

_Sir Pet._ I am come now to consummate: and your father may call a
poor knight son-in-law.

_Mrs. Touchstone._ Yes, that he is a knight: I know where he had money
to pay the gentlemen usher and heralds their fees. Aye, that he is a
knight: and so might you have been too, if you had been aught else but
an ass, as well as some of your neighbours. An I thought you would not
ha’ been knighted, as I am an honest woman, I would ha’ dubbed you
myself. I praise God, I have wherewithal. But as for you, daughter—

_Gir._ Aye, mother, I must be a lady to-morrow; and by your leave,
mother (I speak it not without my duty, but only in the right of my
husband) I must take place of you, mother.

_Mrs. Touch._ That you shall, lady-daughter; and have a coach as well
as I.

_Gir._ Yes, mother; but my coach-horses must take the wall of your
coach-horses.

_Touch._ Come, come, the day grows low; ’tis supper-time: and, sir,
respect my daughter; she has refused for you wealthy and honest
matches, known good men.

_Gir._ Body o’ truth, citizens, citizens! Sweet knight, as soon as
ever we are married, take me to thy mercy, out of this miserable city.
Presently: carry me out of the scent of Newcastle coal and the hearing
of Bow-bell, I beseech thee; down with me for God’s sake.’ Act i.
Scene i.

This dotage on sound and show seemed characteristic of that age (see
_New Way to Pay Old Debts_, &c.)—as if in the grossness of sense, and
the absence of all intellectual and abstract topics of thought and
discourse (the thin, circulating medium of the present day) the mind
was attracted without the power of resistance to the tinkling sound of
its own name with a title added to it, and the image of its own person
tricked out in old-fashioned finery. The effect, no doubt, was also
more marked and striking from the contrast between the ordinary penury
and poverty of the age and the first and more extravagant
demonstrations of luxury and artificial refinement.

Footnote 52:

‘_Girtred._ Good lord, that there are no fairies now-a-days, Syn.

_Syndefy._ Why, madam?

_Gir._ To do miracles, and bring ladies money. Sure, if we lay in a
cleanly house, they would haunt it, Synne? I’ll try. I’ll sweep the
chamber soon at night, and set a dish of water o’ the hearth. A fairy
may come and bring a pearl or a diamond. We do not know, Synne: or
there may be a pot of gold hid in the yard, if we had tools to dig for
‘t. Why may not we two rise early i’ the morning, Synne, afore any
body is up, and find a jewel i’ the streets worth a hundred pounds?
May not some great court-lady, as she comes from revels at midnight,
look out of her coach, as ’tis running, and lose such a jewel, and we
find it? ha!

_Syn._ They are pretty waking dreams, these.

_Gir._ Or may not some old usurer be drunk over-night with a bag of
money, and leave it behind him on a stall? For God’s sake, Syn, lets
rise to-morrow by break of day, and see. I protest, la, if I had as
much money as an alderman, I would scatter some on ‘t i’ the streets,
for poor ladies to find when their knights were laid up. And now I
remember my song of the Golden Shower, why may not I have such a
fortune? I’ll sing it, and try what luck I shall have after it.’ Act
v. Scene i.

Footnote 53:

Every thing tends to show the manner in which a great artist is
formed. If any person could claim an exemption from the careful
imitation of individual objects, it was Nicolas Poussin. He studied
the antique, but he also studied nature. ‘I have often admired,’ says
Vignuel de Marville, who knew him at a late period of his life, ‘the
love he had for his art. Old as he was, I frequently saw him among the
ruins of ancient Rome, out in the Campagna, or along the banks of the
Tyber, sketching a scene that had pleased him; and I often met him
with his handkerchief full of stones, moss, or flowers, which he
carried home, that he might copy them exactly from nature. One day I
asked him how he had attained to such a degree of perfection, as to
have gained so high a rank among the great painters of Italy? He
answered, I HAVE NEGLECTED NOTHING.’—_See his Life lately published._
It appears from this account that he had not fallen into a recent
error, that Nature puts the man of genius out. As a contrast to the
foregoing description, I might mention, that I remember an old
gentleman once asking Mr. West in the British Gallery, if he had ever
been at Athens? To which the President made answer, No; nor did he
feel any great desire to go; for that he thought he had as good an
idea of the place from the Catalogue, as he could get by living there
for any number of years. What would he have said, if any one had told
him, he could get as good an idea of the subject of one of his great
works from reading the Catalogue of it, as from seeing the picture
itself! Yet the answer was characteristic of the genius of the
painter.

Footnote 54:

Poussin has repeated this subject more than once, and appears to have
revelled in its witcheries. I have before alluded to it, and may
again. It is hard that we should not be allowed to dwell as often as
we please on what delights us, when things that are disagreeable recur
so often against our will.

Footnote 55:

It is not very long ago that I saw two Dissenting Ministers (the
_Ultima Thule_ of the sanguine, visionary temperament in politics)
stuffing their pipes with dried currant-leaves, calling it Radical
tobacco, lighting it with a lens in the rays of the sun, and at every
puff fancying that they undermined the Boroughmongers, as Trim blew up
the army opposed to the Allies! They had _deceived the Senate_.
Methinks I see them now, smiling as in scorn of Corruption.

—‘Dream on, blest pair:
Yet happier if you knew your happiness,
And knew to know no more!’

The world of Reform that you dote on, like Berkeley’s material world,
lives only in your own brain, and long may it live there! Those same
Dissenting Ministers throughout the country (I mean the descendants of
the old Puritans) are to this hour a sort of Fifth-monarchy men: very
turbulent fellows, in my opinion altogether incorrigible, and
according to the suggestions of others, should be hanged out of the
way without judge or jury for the safety of church and state. Marry,
hang them! they may be left to die a natural death: the race is nearly
extinct of itself, and can do little more good or harm!

Footnote 56:

William, our waiter, is dressed neatly in black, takes in the TICKLER,
(which many of the gentlemen like to look into) wears, I am told, a
diamond-pin in his shirt-collar, has a music-master to teach him to
play on the flageolet two hours before the maids are up, complains of
confinement and a delicate constitution, and is a complete Master
Stephen in his way.

Footnote 57:

His account of Dr. L— was prodigious—of his occult sagacity, of his
eyes prominent and wild like a hare’s, fugacious of followers, of the
arts by which he had left the City to lure the patients that he wanted
after him to the West-End, of the ounce of tea that he purchased by
stratagem as an unusual treat to his guest, and of the narrow winding
staircase, from the height of which he contemplated in security the
imaginary approach of duns. He was a large, plain, fair-faced Moravian
preacher, turned physician. He was an honest man, but vain of he knew
not what. He was once sitting where Sarratt was playing a game at
chess without seeing the board; and after remaining for some time
absorbed in silent wonder, he turned suddenly to me and said, ‘Do you
know, Mr. H—, that I think there is something I could do?’ ‘Well, what
is that?’ ‘Why perhaps you would not guess, but I think I could dance,
I’m sure I could; ay, I could dance like Vestris!’—Sarratt, who was a
man of various accomplishments, (among others one of the Fancy,)
afterwards bared his arm to convince us of his muscular strength, and
Mrs. L— going out of the room with another lady said, ‘Do you know,
Madam, the Doctor is a great jumper!’ Moliere could not outdo this.
Never shall I forget his pulling off his coat to eat beef-steaks on
equal terms with Martin B—. Life is short, but full of mirth and
pastime, did we not so soon forget what we have laughed at, perhaps
that we may not remember what we have cried at!—Sarratt, the
chess-player, was an extraordinary man. He had the same tenacious,
epileptic faculty in other things that he had at chess, and could no
more get any other ideas out of his mind than he could those of the
figures on the board. He was a great reader, but had not the least
taste. Indeed the violence of his memory tyrannised over and destroyed
all power of selection. He could repeat Ossian by heart, without
knowing the best passage from the worst; and did not perceive he was
tiring you to death by giving an account of the breed, education, and
manners of fighting-dogs for hours together. The sense of reality
quite superseded the distinction between the pleasurable and the
painful. He was altogether a mechanical philosopher.

Footnote 58:

‘Ils ne pouvoient croire qu’un corps de cette beauté fût de quelque
chose au visage de Mademoiselle Churchill.’—MEMOIRES DE GRAMMONT, Vol.
II. p. 254.

Footnote 59:

When I was young, I spent a good deal of my time at Manchester and
Liverpool; and I confess I give the preference to the former. There
you were oppressed only by the aristocracy of wealth; in the latter by
the aristocracy of wealth and letters by turns. You could not help
feeling that some of their great men were authors among merchants and
merchants among authors. Their bread was buttered on both sides, and
they had you at a disadvantage either way. The Manchester
cotton-spinners, on the contrary, set up no pretensions beyond their
looms, were hearty good fellows, and took any information or display
of ingenuity on other subjects in good part. I remember well being
introduced to a distinguished patron of art and rising merit at a
little distance from Liverpool, and was received with every mark of
attention and politeness, till the conversation turning on Italian
literature, our host remarked that there was nothing in the English
language corresponding to the severity of the Italian ode—except
perhaps Dryden’s Alexander’s Feast, and Pope’s St. Cecilia! I could no
longer contain my desire to display my smattering in criticism, and
began to maintain that Pope’s Ode was, as it appeared to me, far from
an example of severity in writing. I soon perceived what I had done,
but here am I writing _Table-talks_ in consequence. Alas! I knew as
little of the world then as I do now. I never could understand any
thing beyond an abstract definition.

Footnote 60:

Lord H— had made a diary (in the manner of Boswell) of the
conversation held at his house, and read it at the end of a week _pro
bono publico_. Sir J— M— made a considerable figure in it, and a
celebrated poet none at all, merely answering Yes and No. With this
result he was by no means satisfied, and talked incessantly from that
day forward. At the end of the week he asked, with some anxiety and
triumph, if his Lordship had continued his diary, expecting himself to
shine in ‘the first row of the rubric.’ To which his Noble Patron
answered in the negative, with an intimation that it had not appeared
to him worth while. Our poet was thus thrown again into the back
ground, and Sir James remained master of the field!

Footnote 61:

A Mr. Rose and the Rev. Dr. Kippis were for many years its principal
support. Mrs. Rose (I have heard my father say) contributed the
Monthly Catalogue. There is sometimes a certain tartness and the
woman’s tongue in it. It is said of Gray’s Elegy—‘This little poem,
however humble its pretensions, is not without elegance or merit.’ The
characters of prophet and critic are not always united.

Footnote 62:

There are some splendid exceptions to this censure. His comparison
between Ovid and Virgil, and his character of Shakespear, are
masterpieces of their kind.

Footnote 63:

We have critics in the present day who cannot tell what to make of the
tragic writers of Queen Elizabeth’s age (except Shakespear, who passes
by prescriptive right,) and are extremely puzzled to reduce the
efforts of their ‘great and irregular’ power to the standard of their
own slight and shewy common-places. The truth is, they had better give
up the attempt to reconcile such contradictions as an artificial taste
and natural genius; and repose on the admiration of verses which
derive their odour from the scent of rose-leaves inserted between the
pages, and their polish from the smoothness of the paper on which they
are printed. They, and such writers as Deckar and Webster, Beaumont
and Fletcher, Ford and Marlowe, move in different orbits of the human
intellect, and need never jostle.

Footnote 64:

The intelligent reader will be pleased to understand, that there is
here a tacit allusion to Squire Western’s significant phrase of
_Hanover Rats_.

Footnote 65:

Of the two the latter alternative is more likely to happen. We abuse
and imitate them. They laugh at but do not imitate us.

Footnote 66:

The title of _Ultra-Crepidarian critics_ has been given to a variety
of this species.

Footnote 67:

This Essay was written in January, 1821.

Footnote 68:

Losing gamesters thus become desperate, because the continued and
violent irritation of the will against a run of ill luck drives it to
extremity, and makes it bid defiance to common sense and every
consideration of prudence or self-interest.

Footnote 69:

Some of the poets in the beginning of the last century would often set
out on a simile by observing—‘So in Arabia have I seen a Phœnix!’ I
confess my illustrations are of a more homely and humble nature.

Footnote 70:

I beg the reader to consider this passage merely as a specimen of the
mock-heroic style, and as having nothing to do with any real facts or
feelings.

Footnote 71:

I have heard of such a thing as an author, who makes it a rule never
to admit a monosyllable into his vapid verse. Yet the charm and
sweetness of Marlow’s lines depended often on their being made up
almost entirely of monosyllables.

Footnote 72:

See Wilkie’s Blind Fiddler.

Footnote 73:

We sometimes see a whole play-house in tears. But the audience at a
theatre, though a public assembly, are not a public body. They are not
incorporated into a frame-work of exclusive, narrow-minded interests
of their own. Each individual looks out of his own insignificance at a
scene, _ideal_ perhaps, and foreign to himself, but true to nature;
friends, strangers, meet on the common ground of humanity, and the
tears that spring from their breasts are those which ‘sacred pity has
engendered.’ They are a mixed multitude melted into sympathy by
remote, imaginary events, not a combination cemented by petty views,
and sordid, selfish prejudices.

Footnote 74:

Mr. Munden and Mr. C— went one Sunday to Windsor, to see the King.
They passed with other spectators once or twice: at last, his late
majesty distinguished Munden in the crowd, and called him to him.
After treating him with much cordial familiarity, the king said, ‘And,
pray, who is that with you?’ Munden, with many congées, and
contortions of face, replied, ‘An please your majesty, it’s Mr. C—, of
the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.’ ‘Oh! yes,’ said the king, ‘I know him
well—a bad actor, a bad actor, a bad actor!’ Why kings should repeat
what they say three times, is odd: their saying it once is quite
enough. I have always liked Mr. C—’s face since I heard this anecdote,
and perhaps the telling it may have the same effect on other people.

Footnote 75:

The trunk-maker, I grant, in the Spectator’s time, sat in the
two-shilling gallery. But that was in the Spectator’s time, and not in
the days of Mr. Smirke and Mr. Wyatt.

Footnote 76:

Jack Cade’s salutation to one who tries to recommend himself by saying
he can write and read.—See HENRY VI. Part Second.

Footnote 77:

It is calculated that West cleared some hundred pounds by the
catalogues that sold of his great picture of Death riding on the pale
Horse.

Footnote 78:

I cannot say how in this respect it might have fared if a Mr. M—, a
fat gentleman, who might not have ‘liked yon lean and hungry Roscius,’
had continued in the theatrical department of Mr. Perry’s paper at the
time of this actor’s first appearance; but I had been put upon this
duty just before, and afterwards Mr. M—’s _spare_ talents were not in
much request. This, I believe, is the reason why he takes pains every
now and then to inform the readers of the Courier that it is
impossible for any one to understand a word that I write.

Footnote 79:

I (not very long ago) had the pleasure of spending an evening with Mr.
Betty, when we had some ‘good talk’ about the good old times of
acting. I wanted to insinuate that I had been a sneaking admirer, but
could not bring it in. As, however, we were putting on our great coats
down stairs, I ventured to break the ice by saying, ‘There is one
actor of that period of whom we have not made honourable mention, I
mean Master Betty.’ ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘I have forgot all that.’ I
replied, that he might, but that I could not forget the pleasure I had
had in seeing him. On which he turned off, and shaking his sides
heartily, and with no measured demand upon his lungs, called out, ‘Oh,
memory! memory!’ in a way that showed he felt the full force of the
allusion. I found afterwards that the subject did not offend, and we
were to have drunk some Burton-ale together the following evening, but
were prevented. I hope he will consider that the engagement still
stands good.

Footnote 80:

Sir Joshua, who was not a vain man, purchased a tawdry sheriff’s
carriage, soon after he took his house in Leicester-fields, and
desired his sister to ride about in it, in order that people might
ask, ‘Whose it was?’ and the answer would be, ‘It belongs to the great
painter!’

Footnote 81:

Sharp became a great favourite of the king on the following occasion.
It was the custom, when the king went through the lobbies of the
palace, for those who preceded him to cry out, ‘Sharp, sharp, look
sharp,’ in order to clear the way. Mr. Sharp, who was waiting in a
room just by (preparing some colours), hearing his name repeated so
urgently, ran out in great haste, and came up with all his force
against the king, who was passing the door at the time. The young
artist was knocked down in the encounter, and the attendants were in
the greatest consternation; but the king laughed heartily at the
adventure, and took great notice of the unfortunate subject of it from
that time forward.

Footnote 82:

‘It is not a year or two shows us a man.’—ÆMILIA, in OTHELLO.

Footnote 83:

The bones of the murdered man were dug up in an old hermitage. On
this, as one instance of the acuteness which he displayed all through
the occasion, Aram remarks, ‘Where would you expect to find the bones
of a man sooner than in a hermit’s cell, except you were to look for
them in a cemetery?’ See NEWGATE CALENDAR for the year 1758 or 9.

Footnote 84:

‘And surely Mandricardo was no baby.’—HARRINGTON’S ARIOSTO.

Footnote 85:

‘All men think all men mortal but themselves.’—YOUNG.

Footnote 86:

I remember once, in particular, having this feeling in reading
Schiller’s Don Carlos, where there is a description of death, in a
degree that almost stifled me.

Footnote 87: