The next curiosity to an author who did not write his own bo

THE COLLECTOR.

THE COLLECTOR

_ESSAYS ON_

BOOKS, NEWSPAPERS, PICTURES, INNS, AUTHORS,

DOCTORS, HOLIDAYS, ACTORS, PREACHERS.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

[Illustration]

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY DR. DORAN,

_Author of "Table Traits," "Monarchs Retired

from Business," "History of Court Fools,"

"Their Majesties' Servants," &c. &c._

LONDON:

JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY.

(_All Rights Reserved._)

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION BY DR. DORAN 1

INNS 29

AUTHORS 65

PICTURES 95

DOCTORS 120

HOLIDAYS 143

LAWYERS 176

SEPULCHRES 203

ACTORS 221

NEWSPAPERS 246

PREACHERS 280

STATUES 308

BRIDGES 325

INTRODUCTION.

It was one of the conclusions arrived at by Adelung, that the same

language would not maintain itself beyond the limit of a hundred and fifty

thousand square miles; but by means of books the limits of the world alone

are the limits within which language and the enjoyment of it can be

confined. Letters waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole, and printed volumes

carry thoughts that breathe and words that burn over the great oceans from

one quarter of the world to another.

Such a volume is the one now in the hand of the reader. It is freighted

with a dozen pleasant papers or essays, the subjects of which are not

confined to America exclusively. They furnish us with text, and afford

opportunity for illustrative comment.

Profiting by this opportunity, let me commence by observing, in reference

to the opening essay, that the inns and taverns of London underwent a

great change after the death of James the First. The rights of honest

topers were suppressed by his son King Charles, who, for the poor fee of

an annual three pounds sterling, granted licences to tavern-keepers to

sell wines at what prices they pleased, in spite of all statutes to the

contrary! You may fancy how flushed the face of a thirsty Cockney might

become, who, on putting down his eightpence for a quart of claret, was

told by Francis, the drawer, that the price was a full quarter noble, or

'one-and-eightpence'!

Lord Goring, who issued these licences, pocketed a respectable amount of

fees in return. By statute, London had authority only for the

establishment of forty taverns. But what did roystering George Goring care

for statute, since the king gave him licence to ride over it? Taverns

multiplied accordingly, not only in the city but in those 'suburbs,' as

they were once called, fragrant Drury Lane and refined 'Convent Garden.'

With competition came lower prices, however, and the throats of the

Londoners were refreshed, while their purses were not so speedily

lightened.

Jolly places they became again; but when they not only increased all over

the town, but took to 'victualling,' as it was termed, as well as

'liquoring,' the authorities began to inquire into the matter. With the

claret that was drunk, a corresponding amount of venison was eaten. At the

same time the king's bucks began to disappear, and suspicion arose that

gentlemen in taverns dined off his sacred majesty's deer! A watch was set

to prevent such felonious fare being carried into London from any of the

royal parks, chases, or forests. Still haunches smoked on the boards of

those naughty victualling taverns, and haughty Cockneys, 'greatly daring,

dined'! The stolen bucks were smuggled in over Bow Bridge; and not till

that passage was occupied by representatives of legal authority did the

venison intended for the court cease to find its way into the city.

The drama at this time lingered about Blackfriars and the Bankside.

Bacchus emigrated westward, before Thespis. In 1633, in 'Convent Garden'

and the 'little lane' adjacent, which had then just begun to be called

Russell Street, there were not less than eight taverns and twenty

alehouses. This was thought to be so much beyond the requirements of the

public thirst, that an order was issued to reduce the number of taverns to

two and the alehouses to four. The suburban public cried out against the

drinking privileges of the city, where claret was tapped in taverns and

ale ran from the spigot from before breakfast till after supper-time. The

Council directed the attention of the Lord Mayor thereto, and in 1633

inquiry was made as to how many taverns had been newly opened since the

year 1612. The reply was, 'sixty and one.' In the return it is pleasant to

read of the 'Boar's Head,' as 'an ancient tavern.' Teetotallers will,

perhaps, entertain due regard for 'Bagsishaw Ward,' as being the only one

in the city described as having 'never a tavern within that ward.' But,

then, Basing Hall, or Bagsishaw Ward, was of such small extent as to be

rather contemptuously spoken of by Stowe himself, who calls it 'a small

thing consisting of one street.'

An inhabitant of this ward had, therefore, only to step into the next

street if he wanted a stoup of Bordeaux or a flagon of ale. If he swore

over his liquor he was liable to the penalty of a shilling; and if he went

on his way home noisily, with more claret under his belt than he well knew

how to carry, he might be mulcted of a crown. These fines were distributed

among the poor, so that the more drinking and profanity abounded, the

better for those poor. To be blasphemous was to be on one of the blessed

paths of charity. City chronicles tell of one Richard Dixon, who, having

more of an eccentric compassion for the distressed than regard for

propriety, swallowed his claret, swore a score of oaths, and deposited

twenty shillings with the town clerk for London paupers.

Sober people in the city, however, complained of the increasing number of

inns and taverns. Orders were issued accordingly, and a Boniface here and

there took down his bush at the beginning of the week, but hung it up

again before Saturday. The temperance party furnished a list of 211

taverns, new and old, in the city, in October, 1633. At that time

Shakspeare's and Washington Irving's 'Boar's Head,' in Eastcheap, was kept

by one William Leedes, 'not by any licence from the king's majesty,' but

'as a freeman.' Will Leedes may well have seen Shakspeare, who had not

then been dead a score of years; and we may fancy mine host's guests

discussing the second edition of the _Folio_, which had then been out of

the press not much above twelve months.

In spite of the law for the suppression of certain taverns, these remained

open, and new inns were built. The fashion and delicacy of Drury Lane were

deeply affected by the threatened building of a tavern in that refined

locality, in addition to eleven already existing there. The master of his

majesty's tents, one Thomas Jones, resided in Drury Lane, and he

petitioned the Council to prohibit the above building, as being to the

great prejudice of the royal tent-master 'and other neighbours, being men

of eminent quality.'

The greatest blow at the old taverns was the prohibition of

'victualling.' Tavern-keepers beset the king for licences to cook and

retail meat, 'it being,' says one petition, 'a thing much desired by

noblemen and gentlemen of the best rank, and others (for the which, if

they please, they may also contract beforehand, as the custom is in other

countries), there being no other place fit for them to eat in the city.'

This was in Cheapside; but there was also Will Mead's house in Bread

Street. It had ever been resorted to by citizens and foreigners, on

account of its famous fish dinners. The company had always been

'well-affected,' of the very best quality, too; gentlefolk, who conformed

themselves to the laws made for eating fish upon days appointed. If Will

Mead be not permitted to vend his Lenten fare, then he is 'deprived of his

best way of subsistence, having applied himself and bred up many servants

only for the dressing of fish.' As licence had been given to two vintners

to 'dress and vent flesh,' Will prays for similar licence to dress and

vend fish also. Will was landlord of that very 'Mermaid' of which Mr.

Tuckerman speaks in his first essay--the 'Mermaid' of Ben Jonson, who had

then just closed his dramatic career with _Love's Welcome_--the 'Mermaid'

which, some thirty years earlier, had been kept by the poet's namesake,

Johnson, and which had been a 'Mermaid,' where men of quality took their

wine, as early at least as the time when the Houses of York and Lancaster

were at bloody strife for the crown of 'this our England.'

But, occasionally, men of quality died as well as drank in a London inn. I

am not sure that it was not in this very 'Mermaid' that Richard de Grey,

the sixth Lord Grey of Ruthyn, died, in 1523, an utterly penniless

gambler. His son Henry, from poverty, never assumed any title of honour;

and it was not until the time of his great-grandson, Reginald, that the

honour and fortune were restored of a family of which the present Baroness

Grey de Ruthyn is the representative.

Those old inns had their tragic as well as their gayer aspects. A man was

as likely to die poisoned as ruined by gaming in some of them. For

example, in 1635 eighteen pipes of white wine, belonging to Peter van

Paine, a foreigner, were seized, and Lord Mayor Parkhurst wrote to the

Council that 'in eight of them were found eight bundles of weeds, in four

some quantities of sulphur, in another a whole piece of match, besides in

every cask a kind of gravel mixture, by which mixtures the wines are

conceived to be very unwholesome, and of the like nature with those which

were formerly destroyed.' Peter van Paine must have dealt in a compound of

the quality of modern Hamburg sherry, a compound that would have been

deeply declined by the poorest of those authors who form the subject of

the second essay.

* * * * *

Poor Authors! Against no class of men have the acutely-pointed shafts of

satire been more frequently darted. Congreve, who had so little cause to

be ashamed of the name, yet persistently rejected the honour of being

supposed to be one of the brotherhood. When Voltaire visited him, the

French writer expressly stated that the compliment was addressed to the

_author_, and not to merely Mr. Congreve. The latter remarked that he was

a 'gentleman,' and not an _author_. Whereupon the polite Frenchman

rejoined that if Congreve had been only a gentleman, he, the French

author, would never have thought of calling upon him at all.

A wicked wit, some hundred and odd years ago, made the early pages of

_Sylvanus Urban_ lively by inventing a census of surviving English

authors. These he set down in round numbers at three thousand, who had

produced in the preceding year, of abortive works, 7,000; born dead,

3,000; and not one that survived the year itself. Three hundred and twenty

perished by sudden death, and a few thousands went to line trunks, make

sky-rocket cases, hold pies, or were consumed by worms. One thousand of

these literary gentlemen are said to have died of lunacy, a rather greater

number were 'starved,' seventeen were hanged, fifteen committed suicide,

five pastoral poets died of fistula, others in various ways; while a

difference was suggested as to the diet, lives, and deaths of aldermen and

authors in a _zero_, indicating the number of writers who died of

'surfeit.'

Perhaps one of the most singular reasons for founding a periodical, and

undertaking much of the authorship and editorship, presents itself in the

case of the celebrated French physician, Théophraste Renaudet. He had a

number of nervous, anxious, restless patients, who required little more

than to have their minds drawn from the unprofitable occupation of

dwelling upon the condition of the body. The great doctor did not wish

that the thoughts of his patients should be allowed to dwell very much

upon anything. Books of science, politics, or polemical theology, were not

at all what he required. The romances of the day were stilted, pompous

things, quite as difficult for invalids to read as any of the inflated

treatises on scientific, political, and theological subjects. Renaudet

may be said to have been a pupil of the philosophical school of Hippias.

That self-reliant teacher of Elis maintained that a portion at least of

manly virtue consisted in being able to dispense with the assistance of

other men. Hippias never allowed any man to help him in any matter wherein

he could help himself. He was accordingly his own tailor, shoemaker,

hairdresser, laundress, and cook! How the philosopher looked when he went

abroad, or how he fared when he dined at home, it is at once awful and

amusing to think of! Renaudet did not go quite so far as the Elian; but in

case of his patients failing to find help in others, he took the matter

into his own hands, and founded the _Gazette de France_. It was better, if

not for himself, at least for his patients, than if he had discovered a

new remedy for prevalent diseases. Those pleasant little paragraphs of

news were as so many pleasant fillips to the lazy intelligences of the

nervous. Those fresh supplies of little scandals were as fresh pinches of

rappee to the arid nostril all athirst for dust. Those brief hints and

innuendoes were as gentle titillations, not strong enough to exhaust, but

just sufficient to exhilarate, refresh, and strengthen. Nervous patients

recovered, many who might otherwise have become so did not fall ill, and

every one was delighted with Renaudet's attempt at authorship except his

fellow-practitioners, the most of whom then lived upon the nerves of the

fashionable public.

Renaudet's authorship had a benevolent and unselfish motive. As an example

of audacity in the same line, I know nothing that can compare with a

circumstance which occurred in the middle of the last century. There was

at that time in Oxford an honest watchmaker, named Greene. He was a great

reader and a great admirer of Milton; but, like the artist who had just

finished a painting on a signboard, and contemplated his performance with

a commiserating thought of Titian, and the complacent cry of '_Poor little

Tit!_' so the Oxford watchmaker tapped his forehead, like poor André

Chenier before execution, and thought he had 'something _there_' beyond

any possession that could be boasted of by mortal sons of song.

Accordingly, Greene published a specimen of a new version of _Paradise

Lost_, in blank verse of the watchmaker's own adaptation, 'by which,' he

modestly remarked, 'that amazing work is brought somewhat nearer the

summit of perfection.' Poor Greene's 'summit of perfection' might lead one

to believe that his ideas of improvement were not directed towards Milton

only, but that he wished to give a new version to the old joke, the point

of which lay in 'the height of acme'!

It is a singular fact that one of the best literal renderings of Milton

into a foreign language is one into French by Jean de Diur. It is lineal,

metaphrastic, and literal; consequently you have, as it were, the words of

the song, but only faint, or rather no echoes of the music. Nevertheless,

the patience and conscientiousness of the translator are to be seen in the

fidelity with which he has interpreted the significance of the terms.

Another original phase of authorship may be here recorded, since it is in

connection with Milton. While the Oxford watchmaker was carrying _Paradise

Lost_ to the summit of perfection by his improvements, Landor was carrying

through the press his Essay on _Milton's Use and Imitation of the

Moderns_. The author described the attempt as one hitherto never made in

prose or rhyme. The method by which he sought to prove his case against

Milton was by naming certain authors whom he supposed the poet to have

consulted, and then giving quotations from them to expose Milton's

plagiarisms. The case startled the world only for a while. Competent

defenders of Milton's authorship arose, and they proved that Milton had

not plagiarised from the sources named by Landor, but that the latter had

forged his quotations in order to traduce Milton! The discovery made every

one eager to avoid Landor as a rogue, and to possess his book as a

curiosity.

A French author flung _his_ poisoned dart also at Milton. Voltaire accused

him of taking his epic from an old Italian mystery, the _Adamo_, by

Andréivi. But Milton has had gallant champions in French authors, too.

Their judgment is, that if Milton created his great epic out of the chaos

of the old mystery, he, in a certain sense, resembled the Creator, who,

out of brute clay, created man in the image of the Creator himself.

Cædmon, in Anglo-Saxon, and St. Avitus, in Latin, likewise treated of the

Creation and the Fall, long before Milton. But, as another French author,

M. Guizot, has remarked, 'It is of little importance to Milton's glory

whether he was acquainted with them or not. He was one of those who

imitate when they please, for they invent when they choose, and they

invent even while imitating.' True authorship could not be more happily

defined than under those words; and they may be applied in reference to

another attempt to question Milton's originality, in the statement that he

founded his epic on the old drama _Adamo Caduto_, by Salandra. Moreover,

there is nothing more in common between Milton and his predecessors than

that he selected a subject which _they_ had sung before him. _Their_

tune is on an oaten reed; but Milton sits down to the organ, and billows

of sound roll forth to awe and enchant the world.

In our own country Milton made but 'slow way,' not merely with the general

but with the educated public. Dryden supposed he wrote _Paradise Lost_ in

blank verse because he was unable to do it in rhyme! Johnson depreciated

him by asserting that if he could cut a colossus out of the rock he could

not carve heads upon cherry-stones; as if Milton's briefer poems and

sonnets were unworthy of the author of the great epic! Hannah More united

with Johnson, not only in thinking these briefer poems bad, but in

critically examining _why_ they were so! But there is no end to the

vagaries of authors when judging of other writers. Dryden, in his Essay on

Dramatic Poetry, makes Shakspeare the Homer and Johnson the Virgil of

dramatic composition; but, in his _Defence of the Epilogue to the Conquest

of Granada_, he informs us that Shakspeare abounds in solecisms and

nonsense, in lameness of plot, meanness of writing, in comedy that cannot

raise mirth, and tragedy that cannot excite sympathy; and, most wonderful

of all, placing Shakspeare on a level with Fletcher, he says: 'Had they

lived now they would doubtless have written more correctly'! If you would

know to what correct level Dryden thought Shakspeare might have been

brought, had he had the good luck to live later, the knowledge is

vouchsafed in the assertion that 'the well placing of words for the

sweetness of pronunciation was not known till Mr. Waller introduced it.'

This is quite as bad as the criticism of Addison, who bracketed Lee and

Shakspeare together, accused them of a spurious sublimity, and gave it as

his opinion that 'in those authors the affectation of greatness often

hurts the perspicuity of style'!

These great literary artists understood Shakspeare so indifferently, that

they were unable to picture him truly to themselves or to represent him

naturally to others. Milton called sweetest Shakspeare 'Fancy's child.'

Dryden says his Fancy limped; and Addison hints that his sublimity

rendered him obscure!

* * * * *

Perhaps some among us may be inclined to smile at Mr. Tuckerman's

allusion, in his chapter on PICTURES, to a portrait of 'an American

matronly belle of the days of Washington, by Stewart, which represents the

type of mingled self-reliance and womanly loveliness that has made the

ladies of our Republican court so memorably attractive.' Of the attraction

of the ladies there can be no doubt, but can a Republic care to pride

itself on such an institution as a 'court'? La Rochefoucauld said very

well of royal courts in Europe that they did not render those that tarried

in them happy, but that they prevented those who _had_ tarried at them

from being happy elsewhere. It may be added that there is only one royal

court on record where every one was equal, and that was the proverbially

celebrated 'Cours du Roi Pétaut.' But the equality there led to

inextricable confusion, because every one wished to command and no one

cared to obey. Now, the court of King Pétaut has very much extended

itself. So wide, indeed, are its limits that it may be said to embrace all

society, which has become a grand court where dissimulation and distrust,

splendour without and anxieties within, abundantly prevail. Some one has

compared that tremendous institution called 'Society,' as well as courts

generally, to those magnificent, ill-regulated, gilt clocks to be seen in

France. The exterior is dazzling with beauty, but inside everything is

going wrong.

Among old court fashions of the last century was one of having a portrait

of the eye. Of course this was only of ladies' eyes--eyes that slew the

peace of mortal man,--and the counterfeit presentiment of one of which was

held to be a solace to the memory and a stimulant to hope. Lovers carried

about with them the figure of one of the (presumed) two eyes of their

respective ladies. There was an affected modesty in this fashion; and, if

I may so speak, the mode most prevailed when modesty, or a decent reserve

which might pass for it, was least in fashion.

It has been a disputed question whether painting or poetry was the earlier

born. It would be as difficult to determine whether Calliope wrote heroic

songs before Clio painted heroic deeds. Probably poetry, which preceded

prose in the early festive ceremonies of the human race (bards sang of

high deeds before less gifted men made long speeches about them), was

earlier than painting. The actions of heroes were first fixed on the

artist's imagination by the songs of the bards and the praise of orators.

But there is a prettier theory touching the origin of portrait-painting,

in the story of the youth who drew the outline of the one face he loved by

tracing with charcoal its shadow on the wall, purposely disposed to enable

him to display this primitive effort of art and of affection.

As we may not take all portraits of our ancestors for _veræ effigies_, so

are the portraits of more modern heroes not to be accepted without due

reserve. There was, for instance, a series of _Lives of the British

Admirals_, with illustrative portraits, and Charles Lamb sat for them

_all_!

Desmahis says, rather saucily, of the ladies (but they must have been

those of his time, and not the general sex), that when they go to have

their portraits taken they wish the artist to be faithless and the

portrait to be a likeness! Steele has similar satire. Clerimont, in the

_Tender Husband_, says that his fancy is utterly exhausted with inventing

faces for his sitters. 'I gave my Lady Scornwell,' he says, 'the choice of

a dozen frowns before she found one to her liking.' I suppose in these

days the fair are not so exacting. In the very ancient days noble sitters

were even more so. It was death to the painter, as well as to his

reputation, if he failed to please a Roman emperor. I shudder when I think

of the artist who received a commission to paint a full-length of Nero. It

was more than life size; it was a hundred and twenty feet high! and there

was possible death in every inch of it.

Michael Angelo had a good idea of the simple dignity of an artist. On

being told of one who painted pictures with his fingers, 'The simpleton,'

said he; 'he had better keep to his pencils.' A picture painted without

pencils is, however, not so curious a fact as publishing a book that never

was written. Mr. Tuckerman's volume reminds me of another set of essays,

which were published in 1844, called _Colloquies Desultory, but chiefly

upon Poetry and Poets_. It is a very agreeable volume of 250 pages, but

not a word of it was really ever written. The clever printer and

publisher, Mr. Lordan of Romsey, set up the types as fast as he mentally

composed the book; and the latter is highly creditable to the author, who,

however, never _wrote_ it! Lord Palmerston respected this ingenious man;

and collectors of singular books keep a good look out for a work that was

published before the author penned a word of it.

* * * * *

The next curiosity to an author who did not write his own book, passing

over the authors who really _did_ write books by other people, is,

perhaps, the physician who scorned to take fees. Mr. Tuckerman has pretty

well exhausted the subject of DOCTORS. Let me notice how few of them

resemble those proto-Christian physicians, Cosmas and Damian, who won the

glorious name of _Anargyri_, or the 'feeless,' because out of their

abundant charity they gave 'advice gratis,' which, it must be said, is a

commodity often worth the price it costs when you get it for nothing.

Those last-named amiable physicians were Arabians by birth, and among

those people some curious ideas still prevail touching the relations

between medical men and patients. When the late Dr. Hogg was travelling

with Lamartine in the East, it was the physician's happiness to cure, of a

very horrible disease, a poor and pious Arab who had been reduced almost

to despair. The cure was slow, but at last it was perfect; and the

gratitude of the Arab to God, the Prophet, and Dr. Hogg was beyond all

bounds. The convalescent waited on his mortal benefactor, and told him

that he was the greatest of the wonders of the world. The _medico_,

fancying the grateful fellow might embarrass himself by overstraining his

means, in order to evince his gratitude, told him that all had been done

for the love of God and the good of a fellow-creature, and that nothing

more was to be said about it. But the Arab had much more to say about it.

'God,' he remarked, 'had conferred upon the Christian doctor a power

beyond that possessed by any other man. The Prophet had permitted him to

find a remedy for the maladies which had beset one of the faithful.

Gratitude, taking the form of cash payment, was therefore indispensable.'

'I need no payment,' said the doctor. 'Just so, Effendi,' replied the

countryman of Cosmas and Damian; 'it is so, I understand it. But the chief

of doctors will not be ungrateful for the power he has been permitted to

exercise. Behold the servant whom he has been allowed to make whole. Let

the Effendi show his thankfulness by bestowing on his servant _bakshish_.'

Between these two extremes of physicians altogether declining fees, and

patients requesting them from physicians as testimonies of gratitude for

cure almost miraculously wrought, modern practice has established itself

on a pretty good basis. But the old theory, yet not the old reality as to

fees, still exists. The _honorarium_ is slipped into the physician's hand

with an air of there being nothing in it, and that unworldly person often

_looks_ like Cosmas and Damian, as if he had taken nothing by it.

A question of health connects itself closely with the subject of the next

essay, on HOLIDAYS. Many a soldier in the noble army of workers owes much

of his health to the keeping of holidays. Mr. Tuckerman regrets that his

country does not take rest and rejoice on some common national holiday at

least once a year. Now, all Christian nations have one that they may

celebrate once a week. But some among us are doing their conscientious

best to turn the joyous festival into a gloomy fast. God granted the

day, but some among us misinterpret the meaning of the grant, obstruct

rest and enjoyment, and only change one sort of labour for another. Let

all the nation go up and praise the Lord; but, for

'Other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,

And disapproves that care, though wise in show,

That with superfluous burden loads the day,

And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.'

The making of a holiday rendered famous for ever a philosopher whose

reputation would not have spread so widely through his philosophy. When

Anaxagoras was dying he was asked if he had any particular desire that

should be fulfilled. 'Ay,' said the Clazomenian, 'on the anniversary of my

death let all the boys have a holiday.' Thence arose the _Anaxagorica_,

festivals in which the boys rejoiced, not that Anaxagoras had died on that

day, but that he had lived during many years of usefulness before it. Mr.

Bright never shook the faith of his own followers so much as when he voted

against the shortening of the hours of labour of women and children in the

cotton mills. The contrast between the ancient and the modern philosopher

is not to the disadvantage of the heathen. But there are some persons who

are averse to much leisure time on working-days, and to any air of

enjoyment on Sundays. A Scotchman, who had gone back to his country after

a long absence, declared after going to kirk that the whole kingdom was on

the road to perdition. 'The people,' he said, 'used to be reserved and

solemn on the Sabbath, but now they look as happy on that day as on any

other.'

* * * * *

With regard to what is asserted in this volume respecting the judicial and

legal excellence of modern times compared with a past period, the

assertion cannot be admitted without a certain reserve. We may look back

at those old Brehon laws which St. Patrick himself could not amend or even

make more clear, when he attempted to be for them what Coke afterwards was

upon Lyttleton. For instance, if a Brehon judge were to utter an

absurdity--were he, for instance, to say that he was inclined to believe

in the folly of a criminal, which folly had led to crime, and were the

judge to inflict a ridiculously light sentence in consequence, the 'truth

of nature,' as the phrase then ran, would have been violated, and a blotch

would fix itself on the face of the judge for ever!

One might reasonably suppose that no Brehon judge ever exposed himself to

be twice so branded. But human nature is as weak as it is perverse. We

read in the ancient laws of Ireland of a certain Sencha Mac Aililla, who,

the more he was 'blotched,' the wickeder he grew. He seemed to defy the

brand, as others have defied public opinion. He did not care what the law

was. When he had to administer it between a member of his own tribe and

one of another clan, he would decide in favour of his own 'country,' as he

called it, irrespective of law and justice. This exemplary Sencha used to

retire from the judgment-seat daily with three additional fiery blotches

to those he bore the day previous. The monster became so ugly that he was

fain at last to withdraw from the public gaze.

It was the same with the lawyers in those felicitous times. If one

ventured upon a 'Scotch insinuation,' such as deliberately accusing a

witness of forgery, and, on the accusation being immediately shown to be

groundless, pleading that the charge was simply an 'insinuation,'

perfectly professional, on the Brehon nose of such an unworthy lawyer a

carbuncle would establish itself, like a light on a disagreeable object to

help you to avoid it. A Brehon lawyer never even played with a lie but a

pimple started on his tongue and checked his speech. If a Brehon judge

were addicted to the wine-cup, it was as much as his nose, or at least the

end of it, was worth to potter about excess, from the bench. If he lived

an unclean life, and then judicially talked solemn sham to the ignorant

and immoral, a burning St. Anthony's fire, or whatever name it was called

before St. Anthony, overspread his face, and never left it. Nay, there is

record of unjust kings and judges laughing at the commission of crime till

their mouths extended from ear to ear, and remained so for ever after.

It must have been _then_ that divine Astræa bandaged her eyes. Were she to

open them now and glance over the world, she would behold bench and bar

unstained by a blush. Nevertheless, a sigh may be permitted for the good

old Brehon times, when wicked lawyers blushed in spite of themselves.

* * * * *

In many respects those old times, or their customs, have not so completely

passed away as might be generally thought. In connection with Mr.

Tuckerman's next subject of SEPULCHRES, I may notice those military

funerals at which the horse of the dead rider follows his master to the

grave. There is now no significance in such a matter; but it was once of

very stern reality, and not a mere form. It is now simply a relic of the

times when the steed was slain at the side of the tomb of his defunct

master, a tomb which the horse was destined to share with the departed

soldier. The faithful horse, like the Indian's dog, was to keep him

company in the fields beyond the waters of oblivion. It was a pagan

ceremony, but it did not finally go out till somewhat late in the

Christian era--in fact, not till towards the close of the last century. On

the 13th of February, 1781, there was a military burial at Treves. A

cavalry general, in the service of the Palatinate, a Teutonic knight, and

commander of Lorraine, named Frederick Kasimir, was then and there buried

according to the rites of the Order of Chivalry, of which he was a member.

As soon as the coffin was lowered into the grave, the general's horse was

led up by the officer who had had it in charge during the funeral

procession. An official then advanced, and, by a skilful sweep of a sharp

hunting-knife across the animal's throat, stretched him dead, after which

the dead horse was thrown into the grave on the top of the coffin. It was

a hideous ceremonial, the origin of which dates from the days when

skeleton knights were supposed to require skeleton chargers. The above was

the last occasion on which such a ceremony was performed. The favourite

horse that followed the Duke of Wellington's funeral car, the caparisoned

steed that was but yesterday led after the bier of the dragoon who used to

mount him, were but formalities, the meaning of which is for the most part

forgotten.

There was a period when a grave and much ceremony were thus afforded to

brutes, but when also the grave 'was begrudgingly allowed,' and all

ceremony denied, to men. I allude to the ACTORS, which pleasant

brotherhood forms the subject of Mr. Tuckerman's next essay. This has been

especially the case in France. Thence some erroneously suppose that actors

were excommunicated by the Roman Catholic Church; whereas the

ecclesiastical authorities at Rome especially protected the Italian

players in Paris from the ban proclaimed by the Gallican bishops against

actors and actresses. In England there has been more liberality of feeling

towards the players. These have had individual clerical enemies, from

Archbishop Grindal down to Dean Close; but they have also had as many

friends, from Archbishop Bancroft down to the present Archbishop of

Dublin, who, amidst groups of actors and a large general public, in

Stratford Church, at the last Shakspeare centenary, gave expression to

wise and loving testimony in behalf of that poor player on whom God

conferred the gifts that made of him the foremost poet of the entire

world.

As between plaintiff and defendant, the opposite cases were succinctly

stated by Dean Close and Mr. Buckstone. The Dean once denounced the

brethren of the drama generally as wicked people. Mr. Buckstone simply

replied that, while there was no crime subject to capital punishment but

that a clergyman had suffered for it, there was no instance of an actor

ever having been hanged for any crime. This is not quite correct, but the

rare exception testifies to the general rule. _One_ actor has been hanged,

and two or three, richly deserved to be; but, speaking generally, they

have been distinguished for the good observance of prudence and the

excellent practice of charity. Lord Southampton described the players at

the 'Blackfriars' as 'married men and of reputation.' Even in Grindal's

days, though there were some among them of equivocal conduct and

character, they were designated as 'those grave and sober actors.'

Burbage's fortune is a proof of their thrift; Alleyn's noble bequests are

so many proofs of his godlike charity. In every path of his life, from St.

Botolph's, Bishopsgate, down to Dulwich College, he has left proofs of a

benevolence which still brings enjoyment to numberless legatees. Alleyn's

letters afford us a glance into the household of a player of the

seventeenth century, and they show that the house was well kept, and that

a spirit of piety sanctified it. So of Betterton; his hand and his heart

were open and liberal. What were Quinn's faults in the light of his

delicate and profuse charity? The same question might be asked in

reference to many other actors. They have not only shown, as the _Tatler_

once said of his dramatic contemporaries, a wonderful benevolence towards

the interests and necessities of each other, but towards those of all who

needed succour. They have played equally well in this respect on and off

the stage, and all that need be added in regard to them may be said in the

quaint words of Sir Thomas Overbury, who remarks: 'I value a worthy actor

by the corruption of some few of the quality, as I would do gold in the

ore; I should not mind the dross, but the purity of the metal.'

Theatrical criticism in early days found no place in our newspapers. Even

as late as the first appearance of Sprangor Barry, in 'Othello' (A.D.

1746), the journalist only recorded the fact, adding, as a sort of

critical notice, that the gentleman got as much applause as could be

expected!

An essay on NEWSPAPERS might extend to a folio volume. They have all been

founded on the insatiable appetite that humanity has to know what has

happened to its fellows. The difference is not so great between the

earliest and the latest samples of newspapers. The 'leading article,'

which so often misleads, is comparatively of modern origin; but the Roman

_Acta Diurna_ may be said to correspond with our reports and general

intelligence, chronicling human errors, heroism, and rascality, pillorying

the names of young fellows who had quaffed too deeply of the Falernian,

and noting how the fine imposed on a felonious butcher who gave short

weight was to be devoted to the building of a chapel in the temple of

Tellus for the propagation of the gospel of that deity, and the

reformation of light weights.

If the subject of newspapers _could_ be exhausted in a single essay, it

has been done by Mr. Tuckerman. Of journalism generally, a very summary

phrase of Southey's renders a rather acrid judgment. He had been alluding

to the fact of Marchmont Needham having published the _Mercurius

Britannicus_ for the Parliament, the _Mercurius Pregmaticus_ in the king's

interest, and the _Mercurius Politicus_ in support of Oliver. His

consequent remark was that 'journalists in that age had about as much

probity as in this.' But these _Mercurii_ were something like the

_Moniteur_, the official paper of the predominant power for the time

being. In the latter, 'His Imperial Majesty Napoleon' of one day was 'the

Corsican usurper' of the next. One man may have written both phrases, but

two governments uttered them. The writer was a part of the pen used by a

couple of superior officials, each of whom employed the pen to express

antagonistic sentiments.

There was once a period when the office now performed by a journalist was

occasionally undertaken by the preacher. We learn from old chroniclers

that scarcely an event which very closely affected the public ever took

place without its being shadowed forth from the pulpit. Rufus was in all

probability _not_ slain by Sir Walter Tyrrel; but that he was

treacherously slain cannot be disputed, if the record be true that God's

vengeance against the wicked in high places was a theme very much dwelt

upon by the popular preachers of the day--men who addressed themselves to

the judgments, impulses, and prejudices of the people. In the reign of the

second Edward, contemporary events were employed for illustrative purposes

from the pulpit. The putting away of the king was discussed there under

similitudes, as a matter in a solemn national crisis might now be weighed

and examined more openly in an eloquent leader. The pulpit at Paul's Cross

alone would furnish a thousand illustrations of how the preacher could

deftly mingle politics with religion. Patriotism was then stimulated, in a

time of approaching war, by the priest reciting the 'bede roll' of the

king's enemies, and solemnly cursing every one of them, amidst the popular

acclamation. Church and State met and shook hands, sometimes with a mask

on the face of each, at the trysting-place of Paul's Cross.

But there may be sermons efficiently delivered from other places besides

pulpits. 'Sermons in stones' formed a poet's phrase, which led to another

rendering of the sentiment included in it by a modern poetess. Mrs.

Browning, in her sonnet on Power's Greek Slave, sees a purpose as well as

a beauty in it, and she exclaims--

'Appeal, fair stone,

From God's pure height of beauty, against man's wrong;

Catch up in thy divine face not alone

East griefs but West, and strike and shame the strong

By thunders of white silence, overthrown.'

The image, indeed, is rather a bold one, reminding us of the soliloquy in

a French tragedy, commencing with the observation--'_Quel silence se fait

entendre_.'

While directing attention to Mr. Tuckerman's pleasant paper on STATUES, it

may be worth while recording that under the Christian era sculpture was

first employed by a woman, under the influence of gratitude for a

manifestation of the divine mercy. The story is, indeed, only traditional,

but it is ancient, and comes down to us through Eusebius. According to

that historian the woman of Paneas, after having been cured of her

disease, as mentioned in the Gospels, returned to her native place and set

up in one of the streets there an image of the Saviour, with the figure of

herself in the act of adoration. This group of statuary (the material,

indeed, is not mentioned, and the word _image_ sometimes implies

_picture_) was the progenitor of all the effigies of God and the saints

that have since been erected in public highways in order to stimulate the

religious fervour of the passers by. If that alleged proto-group did not

exactly effect this, the story of the grateful woman and her statuary led

to the same result. It _may_ be a mere legend; but even then the legend

itself was in such case invented for the purpose of bringing about the

adoption of the fashion of setting up images challenging the reverence of

all who looked on them, and it was afterwards appealed to as authority,

alike for the fashion and the observance.

Nowhere have statues been erected with greater effect than on BRIDGES.

They who remember the bridge at Prague, over the Moldau, with the statues

and groups of saints, St. John Neoponuck towering over all, will confirm

this fact. The fashion has not been followed in our own country, where

there are some relics, however, of bridge architecture said to be as old

as the days of the Britons. Such are rather fondly said to be the small

red stone arches spanning the streams in some of the Cornish valleys. We

may rest more satisfied, however, with the triangular bridge at Croyland,

which was completed in the year after the island was first called England,

namely, A.D. 830. Whether we can, in the days of Queen Victoria, detect in

the structure any of the stones the laying of which was watched by the

curious Lincolnshire folk in the reign of King Egbert, may be reasonably

doubted. The foundations rather than the superstructure of the original

bridge alone remain. This bridge was of great importance to the monastery

of Croyland, but indeed as much may be said of all bridges and their

vicinities. To build them was a holy work. The title of 'Pontifex'

belonged to the highest of the sacred classes of Rome. 'Pontifex Maximus'

is a designation which the pope himself inherits from the Roman emperors,

and 'Pontificum Coenæ' is a phrase by which we learn from Horace that the

sacred successors of those who erected the Sublician bridge were persons

who, with some care for the souls and well-being of the people, had a

special regard for their own bodies.

Perhaps it was because of this connection between holy men and bridges

that in early English times the keeping of our bridges and of the roads

leading to them was intrusted to hermits, who were in fact the original

toll-takers and turnpike-keepers in England. Old London Bridge, which was

commenced in 1176 and finished in 1209, which was the only bridge at

London over the Thames till that of Westminster was opened in 1738, and

which lasted till the new bridge was inaugurated in 1831 by William the

Fourth, was the work of a holy Pontifex, Peter Colechurch, chaplain of

St. Mary's in the Poultry. The architect found fitting burial place in the

crypt of the chapel of St. Thomas, which stood in the centre of the bridge

itself. Thus the London Bridge which Peter built became his sepulchre and

monument when Peter died.

But it is time that I should be at least as silent as Peter himself, since

Mr. Tuckerman is ready and the stage prepared. The first little piece is

played out, and the curtain now rises to a better sustained drama and to a

finished actor--_Plaudite!_

J. DORAN.

INNS.

'Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Whate'er his fortunes may have been,

Must sigh to think how oft he's found

Life's warmest welcome at an inn.'

SHENSTONE.