enter a protest against the trite and lavish praise of the happiness of
our boyish years, which is echoed with so much affectation in the
world. That happiness I have never known, that time I have never
regretted; and were my poor aunt still alive, she would bear testimony
to the early and constant uniformity of my sentiments. It will,
indeed, be replied that _I_ am not a competent judge; that pleasure is
incompatible with pain, that joy is excluded from sickness; and that
the felicity of a school-boy consists in the perpetual motion of
thoughtless and playful agility, in which I was never qualified to
excel. My name, it is most true, could never be enrolled among the
sprightly race, the idle progeny of Eton or Westminster, who delight to
cleave the water with pliant arm, to urge the flying ball, and to chase
the speed of the rolling circle. But I would ask the warmest and most
active hero of the play-field whether he can seriously compare his
childish with his manly enjoyments. . . . A state of happiness arising
only from the want of foresight and reflection shall never provoke my
envy; such degenerate taste would tend to sink us in the scale of
beings from a man to a child, a dog and an oyster, till we had reached
the confines of brute matter, which cannot suffer because it cannot
feel. The poet may gaily describe the short hours of {94} recreation;
but he forgets the daily, tedious labours of the school, which is
approached each morning with anxious and reluctant steps. Degrees of
misery are proportioned to the mind rather than to the object; _parva
leves capiunt animos_; and few men, in the trials of life, have
experienced a more painful sensation than the poor school-boy with an
imperfect task, who trembles on the eve of the black Monday. A school
is the cavern of fear and sorrow; the mobility of the captive youths is
chained to a book and a desk; an inflexible master commands their
attention, which every moment is impatient to escape; they labour like
the soldiers of Persia under the scourge, and their education is nearly
finished before they can apprehend the sense or utility of the harsh
lessons which they are forced to repeat. Such blind and absolute
dependence may be necessary, but can never be delightful: Freedom is
the first wish of our heart; freedom is the first blessing of our
nature; and, unless we bind ourselves with the voluntary chains of
interest or passion, we advance in freedom as we advance in years.
(_Autobiography_.)
JAMES BOSWELL 1740-1795
FIRST SIGHT OF DR JOHNSON
1763. This is to me a memorable year; for in it I had the happiness to
obtain the acquaintance of that extraordinary man whose memoirs I am
now writing; an acquaintance which I shall ever esteem as one of {95}
the most fortunate circumstances in my life. Though then but
two-and-twenty, I had for several years read his works with delight and
instruction, and had the highest reverence for their author, which had
grown up in my fancy into a kind of mysterious veneration, by figuring
to myself a state of solemn abstraction, in which I supposed him to
live in the immense metropolis of London. Mr Gentleman, a native of
Ireland, who passed some years in Scotland as a player, and as an
instructor in the English language, a man whose talents and worth were
depressed by misfortunes, had given me a representation of the figure
and manner of DICTIONARY JOHNSON! as he was then generally called; and
during my first visit to London, which was for three months in 1760, Mr
Derrick the poet, who was Gentleman's friend and countryman, flattered
me with hopes that he would introduce me to Johnson, an honour of which
I was very ambitious. But he never found an opportunity; which made me
doubt that he had promised to do what was not in his power; till
Johnson some years afterwards told me, "Derrick, Sir, might very well
have introduced you. I had a kindness for Derrick, and am sorry he is
dead."
In the summer of 1761 Mr Thomas Sheridan was at Edinburgh, and
delivered lectures upon the English language and Public Speaking to
large and respectable audiences. I was often in his company, and heard
him frequently expatiate upon Johnson's extraordinary knowledge,
talents, and virtues, repeat his pointed sayings, describe his
particularities, and boast of his being his guest sometimes till two or
three in the morning. At {96} his house I hoped to have many
opportunities of seeing the sage, as Mr Sheridan obligingly assured me
I should not be disappointed.
When I returned to London in the end of 1762, to my surprise and regret
I found an irreconcileable difference had taken place between Johnson
and Sheridan. A pension of two hundred pounds a year had been given to
Sheridan. Johnson, who, as has been already mentioned, thought
slightingly of Sheridan's art, upon hearing that he was also pensioned,
exclaimed, "What! have they given _him_ a pension? Then it is time for
me to give up mine." Whether this proceeded from a momentary
indignation, as if it were an affront to his exalted merit that a
player should be rewarded in the same manner with him, or was the
sudden effect of a fit of peevishness, it was unluckily said, and,
indeed, cannot be justified. Mr Sheridan's pension was granted to him
not as a player, but as a sufferer in the cause of government, when he
was manager of the Theatre Royal in Ireland, when parties ran high in
1753. And it must also be allowed that he was a man of literature, and
had considerably improved the arts of reading and speaking with
distinctness and propriety. . . .
This rupture with Sheridan deprived Johnson of one of his most
agreeable resources for amusement in his lonely evenings; for
Sheridan's well-informed, animated, and bustling mind never suffered
conversation to stagnate; and Mrs Sheridan was a most agreeable
companion to an intellectual man. She was sensible, ingenious,
unassuming, yet communicative. I recollect, with satisfaction, many
pleasing hours which I passed with her {97} under the hospitable roof
of her husband, who was to me a very kind friend. Her novel, entitled
_Memoirs of Miss Sydney Biddulph_, contains an excellent moral while it
inculcates a future state of retribution; and what it teaches is
impressed upon the mind by a series of as deep distress as can affect
humanity, in the amiable and pious heroine who goes to her grave
unrelieved, but resigned, and full of hope of heaven's mercy. Johnson
paid her this high compliment upon it: "I know not, Madam, that you
have a right, upon moral principles, to make your readers suffer so
much."
Mr Thomas Davies, the actor, who then kept a bookseller's shop in
Russell Street, Covent Garden, told me that Johnson was very much his
friend, and came frequently to his house, where he more than once
invited me to meet him; but by some unlucky accident or other he was
prevented from coming to us.
Mr Thomas Davies was a man of good understanding and talents, with the
advantage of a liberal education. Though somewhat pompous, he was an
entertaining companion; and his literary performances have no
inconsiderable share of merit. He was a friendly and very hospitable
man. Both he and his wife (who has been celebrated for her beauty),
though upon the stage for many years, maintained an uniform decency of
character; and Johnson esteemed them, and lived in an as easy an
intimacy with them, as with any family which he used to visit. Mr
Davies recollected several of Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was one
of the best of the many imitators of his voice and manner, while
relating them. He increased my impatience more and more to see the
{98} extraordinary man whose works I highly valued, and whose
conversation was reported to be so peculiarly excellent.
At last, on Monday the 16th of May, when I was sitting in Mr Davies's
back-parlour, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs Davies, Johnson
unexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr Davies having perceived him
through the glass door in the room in which we were sitting, advancing
towards us,--he announced his aweful approach to me, somewhat in the
manner of an actor in the part of Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on
the appearance of his father's ghost, "Look, my lord, it comes." I
found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from the
portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had
published his _Dictionary_, in the attitude of sitting in his easy
chair in deep meditation, which was the first picture his friend did
for him, which Sir Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which
an engraving has been made for this work. Mr Davies mentioned my name,
and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated; and
recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard
much, I said to Davies, "Don't tell where I come from."--"From
Scotland," cried Davies, roguishly. "Mr Johnson (said I) I do indeed
come from Scotland, but I cannot help it." I am willing to flatter
myself that I meant this as light pleasantry to soothe and conciliate
him, and not as an humiliating abasement at the expense of my country.
But however that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky; for with
that quickness of wit for which he was so remarkable, he {99} seized
the expression "come from Scotland," which I used in the sense of being
of that country; and, as if I had said that I had come away from it, or
left it, retorted, "That, Sir, I find, is what a very great many of
your countrymen cannot help." This stroke stunned me a good deal; and
when we had sat down, I felt myself not a little embarrassed, and
apprehensive of what might come next. He then addressed himself to
Davies: "What do you think of Garrick? He has refused me an order for
the play for Miss Williams, because he knows the house will be full,
and that an order would be worth three shillings." Eager to take any
opening to get into conversation with him, I ventured to say, "O, Sir,
I cannot think Mr Garrick would grudge such a trifle to you." "Sir,
(said he, with a stern look) I have known David Garrick longer than you
have done; and I know no right you have to talk to me on the subject."
Perhaps I deserved this check; for it was rather presumptuous in me, an
entire stranger, to express any doubt of the justice of his
animadversion upon his old acquaintance and pupil. I now felt myself
much mortified, and began to think that the hope which I had long
indulged of obtaining his acquaintance was blasted. And, in truth, had
not my ardour been uncommonly strong, and my resolution uncommonly
persevering, so rough a reception might have deterred me for ever from
making any further attempts. Fortunately, however, I remained upon the
field not wholly discomfited. . . .
I was highly pleased with the extraordinary vigour of his conversation,
and regretted that I was drawn {100} away from it by an engagement at
another place. I had, for a part of the evening, been left alone with
him, and had ventured to make an observation now and then, which he
received very civilly; so that I was satisfied that though there was a
roughness in his manner, there was no ill-nature in his disposition.
Davies followed me to the door, and when I complained to him a little
of the hard blows which the great man had given me, he kindly took upon
him to console me by saying, "Don't be uneasy. I can see he likes you
very well."
(_Life of Samuel Johnson_.)
SIR WALTER SCOTT 1771-1832
ARRIVAL AT OSBALDISTONE HALL
"There are hopes of you yet," she said. "I was afraid you had been a
very degenerate Osbaldistone. But what on earth brings you to
Cub-Castle?--for so the neighbours have christened this hunting-hall of
ours. You might have staid away, I suppose, if you would?"
I felt I was by this time on a very intimate footing with my beautiful
apparition, and therefore replied in a confidential undertone,--"Indeed,
my dear Miss Vernon, I might have considered it as a sacrifice to be a
temporary resident in Osbaldistone Hall, the inmates being such as you
describe them; but I am convinced there is one exception that will make
amends for all deficiencies."
"O, you mean Rashleigh?" said Miss Vernon.
{101} "Indeed I do not; I was thinking--forgive me--of some person much
nearer me."
"I suppose it would be proper not to understand your civility?--But that
is not my way--I don't make a curtsey for it, because I am sitting on
horseback. But, seriously, I deserve your exception, for I am the only
conversible being about the Hall, except the old priest and Rashleigh."
"And who is Rashleigh, for Heaven's sake?"
"Rashleigh is one who would fain have every one like him for his own
sake.--He is Sir Hildebrand's youngest son--about your own age, but not
so--not well looking, in short. But nature has given him a mouthful of
common sense, and the priest has added a bushelful of learning--he is
what we call a very clever man in this country, where clever men are
scarce. Bred to the church, but in no hurry to take orders."
"To the Catholic Church?"
"The Catholic Church! what Church else?" said the young lady. "But I
forgot, they told me you are a heretic. Is that true, Mr Osbaldistone?"
"I must not deny the charge."
"And yet you have been abroad, and in Catholic countries?"
"For nearly four years."
"You have seen convents?"
"Often; but I have not seen much in them which recommended the Catholic
religion."
"Are not the inhabitants happy?"
"Some are unquestionably so, whom either a profound sense of devotion, or
an experience of the {102} persecution and misfortunes of the world, or a
natural apathy of temper, has led into retirement. Those who have
adopted a life of seclusion from sudden and overstrained enthusiasm, or
in hasty resentment of some disappointment or mortification, are very
miserable. The quickness of sensation soon returns, and, like the wilder
animals in a menagerie, they are restless under confinement, while others
muse or fatten in cells of no larger dimensions than theirs."
"And what," continued Miss Vernon, "becomes of those victims who are
condemned to a convent by the will of others? what do they resemble?
especially, what do they resemble, if they are born to enjoy life, and
feel its blessings?"
"They are like imprisoned singing-birds," replied I, "condemned to wear
out their lives in confinement, which they try to beguile by the exercise
of accomplishments, which would have adorned society, had they been left
at large."
"I shall be," returned Miss Vernon--"that is," said she, correcting
herself,--"I should be rather like the wild hawk, who, barred the free
exercise of his soar through heaven, will dash himself to pieces against
the bars of his cage. But to return to Rashleigh," said she, in a more
lively tone, "you will think him the pleasantest man you ever saw in your
life, Mr Osbaldistone, that is, for a week at least. If he could find
out a blind mistress, never man would be so secure of conquest; but the
eye breaks the spell that enchants the ear. But here we are in the court
of the old hall, which looks as wild and old-fashioned as any of its
inmates. There is {103} no great toilette kept at Osbaldistone Hall, you
must know; but I must take off these things, they are so unpleasantly
warm, and the hat hurts my forehead too," continued the lively girl,
taking it off, and shaking down a profusion of sable ringlets, which,
half laughing, half blushing, she separated with her white slender
fingers, in order to clear them away from her beautiful face and piercing
hazel eyes. If there was any coquetry in the action, it was well
disguised by the careless indifference of her manner. I could not help
saying, "that, judging of the family from what I saw, I should suppose
the toilette a very unnecessary care."
"That's very politely said; though, perhaps, I ought not to understand in
what sense it was meant," replied Miss Vernon; "but you will see a better
apology for a little negligence, when you meet the Orsons you are to live
amongst, whose forms no toilette could improve. But, as I said before,
the old dinner-bell will clang, or rather clank, in a few minutes--it
cracked of its own accord on the day of the landing of King Willie, and
my uncle, respecting its prophetic talent, would never permit it to be
mended. So do you hold my palfrey, like a duteous knight, until I send
some more humble squire to relieve you of the charge."
She threw me the rein as if we had been acquainted from our childhood,
jumped from her saddle, tripped across the court-yard, and entered at a
side-door, leaving me in admiration of her beauty, and astonished with
the overfrankness of her manners, which seemed the more extraordinary, at
a time when the dictates of politeness, flowing from the court of the
Grand Monarque Louis {104} XIV., prescribed to the fair sex an unusual
severity of decorum. I was left awkwardly enough stationed in the centre
of the court of the old hall, mounted on one horse, and holding another
in my hand.
The building afforded little to interest a stranger, had I been disposed
to consider it attentively; the sides of the quadrangle were of various
architecture, and with their stone-shafted latticed windows, projecting
turrets, and massive architraves, resembled the inside of a convent, or
of one of the older and less splendid colleges of Oxford. I called for a
domestic, but was for some time totally unattended to; which was the more
provoking, as I could perceive I was the object of curiosity to several
servants, both male and female, from different parts of the building, who
popped out their heads and withdrew them, like rabbits in a warren,
before I could make a direct appeal to the attention of any individual.
The return of the huntsmen and hounds relieved me from my embarrassment,
and with some difficulty I got one clown to relieve me of the charge of
the horses, and another stupid boor to guide me to the presence of Sir
Hildebrand. This service he performed with much such grace and
good-will, as a peasant who is compelled to act as guide to a hostile
patrol; and in the same manner I was obliged to guard against his
deserting me in the labyrinth of low vaulted passages which conducted to
"Stun Hall," as he called it, where I was to be introduced to the
gracious presence of my uncle.
We did, however, at length reach a long vaulted room, floored with stone,
where a range of oaken tables, of a weight and size too massive ever to
be moved {105} aside, were already covered for dinner. This venerable
apartment, which had witnessed the feasts of several generations of the
Osbaldistone family, bore also evidence of their success in field-sports.
Huge antlers of deer, which might have been trophies of the hunting of
Chevy Chace, were ranged around the walls, interspersed with the stuffed
skins of badgers, otters, martens, and other animals of the chase.
Amidst some remnants of old armour, which had, perhaps, served against
the Scotch, hung the more valued weapons of silvan war, cross-bows, guns
of various device and construction, nets, fishing-rods, otter-spears,
hunting-poles, with many other singular devices and engines for taking or
killing game. A few old pictures, dimmed with smoke, and stained with
March beer, hung on the walls, representing knights and ladies, honoured,
doubtless, and renowned in their day; those frowning fearfully from huge
bushes of wig and of beard; and these looking delightfully with all their
might at the roses which they brandished in their hands.
I had just time to give a glance at these matters, when about twelve
blue-coated servants burst into the hall with much tumult and talk, each
rather employed in directing his comrades than in discharging his own
duty. Some brought blocks and billets to the fire, which roared, blazed,
and ascended, half in smoke, half in flame, up a huge tunnel, with an
opening wide enough to accommodate a stone-seat within its ample vault,
and which was fronted, by way of chimney-piece, with a huge piece of
heavy architecture, where the monsters of heraldry, embodied by the art
of some Northumbrian {106} chisel, grinned and ramped in red free-stone,
now japanned by the smoke of centuries. Others of these old-fashioned
serving-men bore huge smoking dishes, loaded with substantial fare;
others brought in cups, flagons, bottles, yea barrels of liquor. All
tramped, kicked, plunged, shouldered, and jostled, doing as little
service with as much tumult as could well be imagined. At length, while
the dinner was, after various efforts, in the act of being arranged upon
the board, "the clamour much of men and dogs," the cracking of whips,
calculated for the intimidation of the latter, voices loud and high,
steps which, impressed by the heavy-heeled boots of the period, clattered
like those of the statue in the _Festin de pierre_, announced the arrival
of those for whose benefit the preparations were made. The hubbub among
the servants rather increased than diminished as this crisis
approached,--some called to make haste,--others to take time,--some
exhorted to stand out of the way, and make room for Sir Hildebrand and
the young squires,--some to close round the table, and be _in_ the
way,--some bawled to open, some to shut a pair of folding-doors, which
divided the hall from a sort of gallery, as I afterwards learned, or
withdrawing-room, fitted up with black wainscot. Opened the doors were
at length, and in rushed curs and men,--eight dogs, the domestic
chaplain, the village doctor, my six cousins, and my uncle.
(_Rob Roy_.)
{107}
CHARLES LAMB 1775-1834
A VISIT TO COLERIDGE
LONDON, _September_ 24, 1802.
MY DEAR MANNING--Since the date of my last letter I have been a
Traveller. A strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. My
first impulse was to go and see Paris. It was a trivial objection to
my aspiring mind, that I did not understand a word of the language,
since I certainly intend some time of my life to see Paris, and equally
certainly intend never to learn the language; therefore that could be
no objection. However, I am very glad I did not go, because you had
left Paris (I see) before I could have set out. . . . My final resolve
was, a tour to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick, without
giving Coleridge any notice, for my time, being precious, did not admit
of it. He received us with all the hospitality in the world, and gave
up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. He dwells upon
a small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable house, quite
enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains: great floundering bears
and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. We got in in the
evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in the midst of a
gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains into colours,
purple, etc., etc. We thought we had got into fairyland. But that
went off (as it never came {108} again; while we stayed we had no more
fine sunsets), and we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just in the
dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their
heads. . . . Coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study; which is a
large antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never
played upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an
Aeolian harp, and an old sofa, half bed, etc. And all looking out upon
the last fading view of Skiddaw, and his broad-breasted brethren: what
a night! . . . We have clambered up to the top of Skiddaw, and I have
waded up the bed of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied myself that
there is such a thing as that which tourists call _romantic_, which I
very much suspected before: they make such a spluttering about it, and
toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light
as at four o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination.
Mary was excessively tired when she got about half-way up Skiddaw, but
we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold,
running over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of
cold water she surmounted it most manfully. Oh, its fine black head,
and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of mountains all about
and about, making you giddy; and then Scotland afar off, and the border
countries so famous in song and ballad! It was a day that will stand
out, like a mountain, I am sure, in my life. But I am returned (I have
now been come home near three weeks; I was a month out), and you cannot
conceive the degradation I felt at first, from being accustomed to
wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers {109} without
being controlled by any one, to come home and _work_. I felt very
_little_, I had been dreaming I was a very great man. But that is
going off, and I find I shall conform in time to that state of life to
which it has pleased God to call me. Besides, after all, Fleet Street
and the Strand are better places to live in for good and all than
amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those great places where I
wandered about, participating in their greatness. After all, I could
not _live_ in Skiddaw. I could spend a year, two, three years among
them, but I must have a prospect of seeing Fleet Street at the end of
that time, or I should mope and pine away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a
fine creature. . . I fear my head is turned with wandering. I shall
never be the same acquiescent being. Farewell. Write again quickly,
for I shall not like to hazard a letter, not knowing where the fates
have carried you. Farewell, my dear fellow.
C. LAMB.
(_Letters_.)
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 1775-1864
DIOGENES AND PLATO