CHAPTER VII.

THE NATION OF LONDON.

It was a most heavenly day in May of the year (1800) when I first

beheld and first entered this mighty wilderness, the city--no, not the

city, but the nation--of London. Often since then, at distances of two

and three hundred miles or more from this colossal emporium of men,

wealth, arts, and intellectual power, have I felt the sublime expression

of her enormous magnitude in one simple form of ordinary occurrence,

viz., in the vast droves of cattle, suppose upon the great north roads,

all with their heads directed to London, and expounding the size of

the attracting body, together with the force of its attractive power,

by the never-ending succession of these droves, and the remoteness

from the capital of the lines upon which they were moving. A suction

so powerful, felt along radii so vast, and a consciousness, at the

same time, that upon other radii still more vast, both by land and by

sea, the same suction is operating, night and day, summer and winter,

and hurrying forever into one centre the infinite means needed for her

infinite purposes, and the endless tributes to the skill or to the

luxury of her endless population, crowds the imagination with a pomp

to which there is nothing corresponding upon this planet, either amongst

the things that have been or the things that are. Or, if any exception

there is, it must be sought in ancient Rome. [1] We, upon this occasion,

were in an open carriage, and, chiefly (as I imagine) to avoid the dust,

we approached London by rural lanes, where any such could be found, or,

at least, along by-roads, quiet and shady, collateral to the main roads.

In that mode of approach we missed some features of the sublimity

belonging to any of the common approaches upon a main road; we missed the

whirl and the uproar, the tumult and the agitation, which continually

thicken and thicken throughout the last dozen miles before you reach the

suburbs. Already at three stages' distance, (say 40 miles from London,)

upon some of the greatest roads, the dim presentment of some vast capital

reaches you obscurely and like a misgiving. This blind sympathy with a

mighty but unseen object, some vast magnetic range of Alps, in your

neighborhood, continues to increase you know not now. Arrived at the last

station for changing horses, Barnet, suppose, on one of the north roads,

or Hounslow on the western, you no longer think (as in all other places)

of naming the next stage; nobody says, on pulling up, "Horses on to

London"--that would sound ludicrous; one mighty idea broods over all

minds, making it impossible to suppose any other destination. Launched

upon this final stage, you soon begin to feel yourself entering the

stream as it were of a Norwegian _maelstrom_; and the stream at length

becomes the rush of a cataract. What is meant by the Latin word

_trepidatio_? Not any thing peculiarly connected with panic; it belongs

as much to the hurrying to and fro of a coming battle as of a coming

flight; to a marriage festival as much as to a massacre; _agitation_ is

the nearest English word. This _trepidation_ increases both audibly and

visibly at every half mile, pretty much as one may suppose the roar of

Niagara and the thrilling of the ground to grow upon the senses in the

last ten miles of approach, with the wind in its favor, until at length

it would absorb and extinguish all other sounds whatsoever. Finally, for

miles before you reach a suburb of London such as Islington, for

instance, a last great sign and augury of the immensity which belongs

to the coming metropolis forces itself upon the dullest observer, in

the growing sense of his own utter insignificance. Every where else

in England, you yourself, horses, carriage, attendants, (if you travel

with any,) are regarded with attention, perhaps even curiosity; at all

events, you are seen. But after passing the final posthouse on every

avenue to London, for the latter ten or twelve miles, you become aware

that you are no longer noticed: nobody sees you; nobody hears you;

nobody regards you; you do not even regard yourself. In fact, how

should you, at the moment of first ascertaining your own total

unimportance in the sum of things?--a poor shivering unit in the

aggregate of human life. Now, for the first time, whatever manner of

man you were, or seemed to be, at starting, squire or "squireen," lord

or lordling, and however related to that city, hamlet, or solitary

house from which yesterday or to-day you slipped your cable, beyond

disguise you find yourself but one wave in a total Atlantic, one plant

(and a parasitical plant besides, needing alien props) in a forest of

America.

These are feelings which do not belong by preference to thoughtful

people--far less to people merely sentimental. No man ever was left

to himself for the first time in the streets, as yet unknown, of London,

but he must have been saddened and mortified, perhaps terrified, by

the sense of desertion and utter loneliness which belong to his

situation. No loneliness can be like that which weighs upon the heart

in the centre of faces never ending, without voice or utterance for

him; eyes innumerable, that have "no speculation" in their orbs which

_he_ can understand; and hurrying figures of men and women weaving to

and fro, with no apparent purposes intelligible to a stranger, seeming

like a mask of maniacs, or, oftentimes, like a pageant of phantoms.

The great length of the streets in many quarters of London; the

continual opening of transient glimpses into other vistas equally far

stretching, going off at right angles to the one which you are

traversing; and the murky atmosphere which, settling upon the remoter

end of every long avenue, wraps its termination in gloom and

uncertainty,--all these are circumstances aiding that sense of vastness

and illimitable proportions which forever brood over the aspect of

London in its interior. Much of the feeling which belongs to the outside

of London, in its approaches for the last few miles, I had lost, in

consequence of the stealthy route of by-roads, lying near Uxbridge and

Watford, through which we crept into the suburbs. But for that reason,

the more abrupt and startling had been the effect of emerging somewhere

into the Edgeware Road, and soon afterwards into the very streets of

London itself; through _what_ streets, or even what quarter of London,

is now totally obliterated from my mind, having perhaps never been

comprehended. All that I remember is one monotonous awe and blind sense

of mysterious grandeur and Babylonian confusion, which seemed to pursue

and to invest the whole equipage of human life, as we moved for nearly

two [2] hours through streets; sometimes brought to anchor for ten

minutes or more by what is technically called a "lock," that is, a line

of carriages of every description inextricably massed, and obstructing

each other, far as the eye could stretch; and then, as if under an

enchanter's rod, the "lock" seemed to thaw; motion spread with the

fluent race of light or sound through the whole ice-bound mass, until

the subtile influence reached _us_ also, who were again absorbed into

the great rush of flying carriages; or, at times, we turned off into

some less tumultuous street, but of the same mile-long character; and,

finally, drawing up about noon, we alighted at some place, which is

as little within my distinct remembrance as the route by which we

reached it.

For what had we come? To see London. And what were the limits within

which we proposed to crowd that little feat? At five o'clock we were

to dine at Porters ----, a seat of Lord Westport's grandfather; and,

from the distance, it was necessary that we should leave London at

half past three; so that a little more than three hours were all we

had for London. Our charioteer, my friend's tutor, was summoned away

from us on business until that hour; and we were left, therefore,

entirely to ourselves and to our own skill in turning the time to the

best account, for contriving (if such a thing were possible) to do

something or other which, by any fiction of courtesy, or constructively,

so as to satisfy a lawyer, or in a sense sufficient to win a wager,

might be taken and received for having "seen London."

What could be done? We sat down, I remember, in a mood of despondency,

to consider. The spectacles were too many by thousands; _inopes nos

copia fecit_; our very wealth made us poor; and the choice was

distracted. But which of them all could be thought general or

representative enough to stand for the universe of London? We could

not traverse the whole circumference of this mighty orb; that was

clear; and, therefore, the next best thing was to place ourselves as

much as possible in some relation to the spectacles of London, which

might answer to the centre. Yet how? That sounded well and metaphysical;

but what did it mean if acted upon? What was the centre of London for

any purpose whatever, latitudinarian or longitudinarian, literary,

social, or mercantile, geographical, astronomical, or (as Mrs. Malaprop

kindly suggests) diabolical? Apparently that we should stay at our

inn; for in that way we seemed best to distribute our presence equally

amongst all, viz., by going to none in particular.

Three times in my life I have had my taste--that is, my sense of

proportions--memorably outraged. Once was by a painting of Cape Horn,

which seemed almost treasonably below its rank and office in this

world, as the terminal abutment of our mightiest continent, and also

the hinge, as it were, of our greatest circumnavigations--of all, in

fact, which can be called _classical_ circumnavigations. To have

"doubled Cape Horn"--at one time, what a sound it had! yet how ashamed

we should be if that cape were ever to be seen from the moon! A party

of Englishmen, I have heard, went up Mount Aetna, during the night, to

be ready for sunrise--a common practice with tourists both in

Switzerland, Wales, Cumberland, &c.; but, as all must see who take the

trouble to reflect, not likely to repay the trouble; seeing that every

thing which offers a _picture_, when viewed from a station nearly

horizontal, becomes a mere _map_ to an eye placed at an elevation of

3000 feet above it; and so thought, in the sequel, the Aetna party. The

sun, indeed, rose visibly, and not more apparelled in clouds than was

desirable; yet so disappointed were they, and so disgusted with the

sun in particular, that they unanimously _hissed_ him; though, of

course, it was useless to cry "Off! off!" Here, however, the fault was

in their own erroneous expectations, and not in the sun, who, doubtless,

did his best. For, generally, a sunrise and a sunset ought to be seen

from the valley, or at most horizontally. [3] But as to Cape Horn, _that_

(by comparison with its position and its functions) was really a disgrace

to the planet; it is not the spectator that is in fault _here_, but the

object itself, the Birmingham cape. For, consider, it is not only the

"specular mount," keeping watch and ward over a sort of trinity of

oceans, and, by all tradition, the circumnavigator's gate of entrance to

the Pacific, but also it is the temple of the god Terminus for all the

Americas. So that, in relation to such dignities, it seemed to me, in the

drawing, a makeshift, put up by a carpenter, until the true Cape Horn

should be ready; or, perhaps, a drop scene from the opera house. This was

one case of disproportion: the others were--the final and ceremonial

valediction of Garrick, on retiring from his profession; and the Pall

Mall inauguration of George IV. on the day of his accession [4] to

the throne. The utter _ir_relation, in both cases, of the audience to

the scene, (_audience_ I say, as say we must, for the sum of the

spectators in the second instance, as well as of the auditors in the

first,) threw upon each a ridicule not to be effaced. It is in any

case impossible for an actor to say words of farewell to those for

whom he really designs his farewell. He cannot bring his true object

before himself. To whom is it that he would offer his last adieus? We

are told by one--who, if he loved Garrick, certainly did not love

Garrick's profession, nor would even, through _him_, have paid it any

undue compliment--that the retirement of this great artist had "eclipsed

the gayety of nations." To nations, then, to his own generation, it

was that he owed his farewell; but, of a generation, what organ is

there which can sue or be sued, that can thank or be thanked? Neither

by fiction nor by delegation can you bring their bodies into court.

A king's audience, on the other hand, _might_ be had as an authorized

representative body. But, when we consider the composition of a casual

and chance auditory, whether in a street or a theatre,--secondly, the

small size of a modern audience, even in Drury Lane, (4500 at the most,)

not by one eightieth part the _complement_ of the Circus Maximus,--most

of all, when we consider the want of symmetry or commensurateness, to any

extended duration of time, in the _acts_ of such an audience, which acts

lie in the vanishing expressions of its vanishing emotions,--acts so

essentially fugitive, even when organized into an art and a tactical

system of _imbrices_ and _bombi_, (as they were at Alexandria, and

afterwards at the Neapolitan and Roman theatres,) that they could not

protect themselves from dying in the very moment of their birth,--laying

together all these considerations, we see the incongruity of any

audience, so constituted, to any purpose less evanescent than their own

tenure of existence.

Just such in disproportion as these cases had severally been, was our

present problem in relation to our time or other means for accomplishing

it. In debating the matter, we lost half an hour; but at length we

reduced the question to a choice between Westminster Abbey and St.

Paul's Cathedral. I know not that we could have chosen better. The

rival edifices, as we understood from the waiter, were about equidistant

from our own station; but, being too remote from each other to allow

of our seeing both, "we tossed up," to settle the question between the

elder lady and the younger. "Heads" came up, which stood for the abbey.

But, as neither of us was quite satisfied with this decision, we agreed

to make another appeal to the wisdom of chance, second thoughts being

best. This time the cathedral turned up; and so it came to pass that,

with us, the having _seen London_ meant having seen St. Paul's.

The first view of St. Paul's, it may be supposed, overwhelmed us with

awe; and I did not at that time imagine that the sense of magnitude

could be more deeply impressed. One thing interrupted our pleasure.

The superb objects of curiosity within the cathedral were shown for

separate fees. There were seven, I think; and any one could be seen

independently of the rest for a few pence. The whole amount was a

trifle; fourteen pence, I think; but we were followed by a sort of

persecution--"Would we not see the bell?" "Would we not see the model?"

"Surely we would not go away without visiting the whispering

gallery?"--solicitations which troubled the silence and sanctity of

the place, and must tease others as it then teased us, who wished to

contemplate in quiet this great monument of the national grandeur,

which was at that very time [5] beginning to take a station also in the

land, as a depository for the dust of her heroes. What struck us most in

the whole _interior_ of the pile was the view taken from the spot

immediately under the dome, being, in fact, the very same which, five

years afterwards, received the remains of Lord Nelson. In one of the

aisles going off from this centre, we saw the flags of France, Spain, and

Holland, the whole trophies of the war, swinging pompously, and expanding

their massy draperies, slowly and heavily, in the upper gloom, as they

were swept at intervals by currents of air. At this moment we were

provoked by the showman at our elbow renewing his vile iteration of

"Twopence, gentlemen; no more than twopence for each;" and so on, until

we left the place. The same complaint has been often made as to

Westminster Abbey. Where the wrong lies, or where it commences, I know

not. Certainly I nor any man can have a right to expect that the poor men

who attended us should give up their time for nothing, or even to be

angry with them for a sort of persecution, on the degree of which

possibly might depend the comfort of their own families. Thoughts of

famishing children at home leave little room for nice regards of

delicacy abroad. The individuals, therefore, might or might not be

blamable. But in any case, the system is palpably wrong. The nation

is entitled to a free enjoyment of its own public monuments; not free

only in the sense of being gratuitous, but free also from the

molestation of _showmen_, with their imperfect knowledge and their

vulgar sentiment.

Yet, after all, what is this system of restriction and annoyance,

compared with that which operates on the use of the national libraries?

or _that_ again, to the system of exclusion from some of these, where

an absolute interdict lies upon any use at all of that which is

confessedly national property? Books and manuscripts, which were

originally collected and formally bequeathed to the public, under the

generous and noble idea of giving to future generations advantages

which the collector had himself not enjoyed, and liberating them from

obstacles in the pursuit of knowledge which experience had bitterly

imprinted upon his own mind, are at this day locked up as absolutely

against me, you, or any body, as collections confessedly private. Nay,

far more so; for most private collectors of eminence, as the late Mr.

Heber, for instance, have been distinguished for liberality in lending

the rarest of their books to those who knew how to use them with effect.

But, in the cases I now contemplate, the whole funds for supporting

the proper offices attached to a library, such as librarians,

sub-librarians, &c., which of themselves (and without the express

verbal evidence of the founder's will) presume a _public_ in the daily

use of the books, else they are superfluous, have been applied to the

creation of lazy sinecures, in behalf of persons expressly charged

with the care of shutting out the public. Therefore, it is true, they

are _not_ sinecures; for that one care, vigilantly to keep out the

public, [6] they do take upon themselves; and why? A man loving books,

like myself, might suppose that their motive was the ungenerous one of

keeping the books to themselves. Far from it. In several instances, they

will as little use the books as suffer them to be used. And thus the

whole plans and cares of the good (weighing his motives, I will say of

the _pious_) founder have terminated in locking up and sequestering a

large collection of books, some being great rarities, in situations where

they are not accessible. Had he bequeathed them to the catacombs of

Paris or of Naples, he could not have better provided for their virtual

extinction. I ask, Does no action at common law lie against the

promoters of such enormous abuses? O thou fervent reformer,--whose

fatal tread he that puts his ear to the ground may hear at a distance

coming onwards upon _every_ road,--if too surely thou wilt work for

me and others irreparable wrong and suffering, work also for us a

little good; this way turn the great hurricanes and levanters of thy

wrath; winnow me this chaff; and let us enter at last the garners of

pure wheat laid up in elder days for our benefit, and which for two

centuries have been closed against our use!

London we left in haste, to keep an engagement of some standing at the

Earl Howe's, my friend's grandfather. This great admiral, who had

filled so large a station in the public eye, being the earliest among

the naval heroes of England in the first war of the revolution, and

the only one of noble birth, I should have been delighted to see; St.

Paul's, and its naval monuments to Captain Riou and Captain ----,

together with its floating pageantries of conquered flags, having

awakened within me, in a form of peculiar solemnity, those patriotic

remembrances of past glories, which all boys feel so much more vividly

than men can do, in whom the sensibility to such impressions is blunted.

Lord Howe, however, I was not destined to see; he had died about a

year before. Another death there had been, and very recently, in the

family, and under circumstances peculiarly startling; and the spirits

of the whole house were painfully depressed by that event at the time

of our visit. One of the daughters, a younger sister of my friend's

mother, had been engaged for some time to a Scottish nobleman, the

Earl of Morton, much esteemed by the royal family. The day was at

length fixed for the marriage; and about a fortnight before that day

arrived, some particular dress or ornament was brought to Porters, in

which it was designed that the bride should appear at the altar. The

fashion as to this point has often varied; but at that time, I believe

the custom was for bridal parties to be in full dress. The lady, when

the dress arrived, was, to all appearance, in good health; but, by one

of those unaccountable misgivings which are on record in so many

well-attested cases, (as that, for example, of Andrew Marveil's father,)

she said, after gazing for a minute or two at the beautiful dress,

firmly and pointedly, "So, then, _that_ is my wedding dress; and it

is expected that I shall wear it on the 17th; but I shall _not_; I

shall never wear it. On Thursday, the 17th, I shall be dressed in a

shroud!" All present were shocked at such a declaration, which the

solemnity of the lady's manner made it impossible to receive as a jest.

The countess, her mother, even reproved her with some severity for the

words, as an expression of distrust in the goodness of God. The bride

elect made no answer but by sighing heavily. Within a fortnight, all

happened, to the letter, as she had predicted. She was taken suddenly

ill; she died about three days before the marriage day, and was finally

dressed in her shroud, according to the natural course of the funeral

arrangements, on the morning that was to have been the wedding festival.

Lord Morton, the nobleman thus suddenly and remarkably bereaved of

his bride, was the only gentleman who appeared at the dinner table.

He took a particular interest in literature; and it was, in fact,

through _his_ kindness that, for the first time in my life, I found

myself somewhat in the situation of a "_lion_." The occasion of Lord

Morton's flattering notice was a particular copy of verses which had

gained for me a public distinction; not, however, I must own, a very

brilliant one; the prize awarded to me being not the first, nor even

the second,--what on the continent is called the _accessit_,--it was

simply the third; and that fact, stated nakedly, might have left it

doubtful whether I were to be considered in the light of one honored

or of one stigmatized. However, the judges in this case, with more

honesty, or more self-distrust, than belongs to most adjudications of

the kind, had printed the first three of the successful essays.

Consequently, it was left open to each of the less successful candidates

to benefit by any difference of taste amongst their several friends;

and _my_ friends in particular, with the single and singular exception

of my mother, who always thought her own children inferior to other

people's, had generally assigned the palm to myself. Lord Morton

protested loudly that the case admitted of no doubt; that gross

injustice had been done me; and, as the ladies of the family were much

influenced by his opinion, I thus came, not only to wear the laurel

in their estimation, but also with the advantageous addition of having

suffered some injustice. I was not only a victor, but a victor in

misfortune.

At this moment, looking back from a distance of fifty years upon those

trifles, it may well be supposed that I do not attach so much importance

to the subject of my fugitive honors as to have any very decided opinion

one way or the other upon my own proportion of merit. I do not even

recollect the major part of the verses: that which I _do_ recollect,

inclines me to think that, in the structure of the metre and in the

choice of the expressions, I had some advantage over my competitors,

though otherwise, perhaps, my verses were less finished; Lord Morton

might, therefore, in a partial sense, have been just, as well as kind.

But, little as that may seem likely, even then, and at the moment of

reaping some advantage from my honors, which gave me a consideration

with the family I was amongst such as I could not else have had, most

unaffectedly I doubted in my own mind whether I were really entitled

to the praises which I received. My own verses had not at all satisfied

myself; and though I felt elated by the notice they had gained me, and

gratified by the generosity of the earl in taking my part so warmly,

I was so more in a spirit of sympathy with the kindness thus manifested

in my behalf, and with the consequent kindness which it procured me

from others, than from any incitement or support which it gave to my

intellectual pride. In fact, whatever estimate I might make of those

intellectual gifts which I believed or which I knew myself to possess,

I was inclined, even in those days, to doubt whether my natural vocation

lay towards poetry. Well, indeed, I knew, and I know that, had I chosen

to enlist amongst the _soi disant_ poets of the day,--amongst those,

I mean, who, by mere force of _talent_ and mimetic skill, contrive to

sustain the part of poet in a scenical sense and with a scenical

effect,--I also could have won such laurels as are won by such merit;

I also could have taken and sustained a place _taliter qualiter_ amongst

the poets of the time. Why _not_ then? Simply because I knew that me,

as them, would await the certain destiny in reversion of resigning

that place in the next generation to some younger candidate having

equal or greater skill in appropriating the vague sentiments and old

traditionary language of passion spread through books, but having

also the advantage of novelty, and of a closer adaptation to the

prevailing taste of the day. Even at that early age, I was keenly

alive, if not so keenly as at this moment, to the fact, that by far

the larger proportion of what is received in every age for poetry, and

for a season usurps that consecrated name, is _not_ the spontaneous

overflow of real unaffected passion, deep, and at the same time

original, and also forced into public manifestation of itself from the

necessity which cleaves to all passion alike of seeking external

sympathy: this it is _not_; but a counterfeit assumption of such

passion, according to the more or less accurate skill of the writer

in distinguishing the key of passion suited to the particular age; and

a concurrent assumption of the language of passion, according to his

more or less skill in separating the spurious from the native and

legitimate diction of genuine emotion. Rarely, indeed, are the reputed

poets of any age men who groan, like prophets, under the burden of a

message which they have to deliver, and _must_ deliver, of a mission

which they _must_ discharge. Generally, nay, with much fewer exceptions,

perhaps, than would be readily believed, they are merely simulators

of the part they sustain; speaking not out of the abundance of their

own hearts, but by skill and artifice assuming or personating emotions

at second hand; and the whole is a business of talent, (sometimes even

of great talent,) but not of original power, of genius, [7] or authentic

inspiration.

From Porters, after a few days' visit, we returned to Eton. Her majesty

about this time gave some splendid _fêtes_ at Frogmore, to one or two

of which she had directed that we should be invited. The invitation

was, of course, on my friend's account; but her majesty had condescended

to direct that I, as his visitor, should be specially included. Lord

Westport, young as he was, had become tolerably indifferent about such

things; but to me such a scene was a novelty; and, on that account,

it was settled we should go as early as was permissible. We _did_ go;

and I was not sorry to have had the gratification of witnessing (if

it were but for once or twice) the splendors of a royal party. But,

after the first edge of expectation was taken off,--after the vague

uncertainties of rustic ignorance had given place to absolute realities,

and the eye had become a little familiar with the flashing of the

jewelry,--I began to suffer under the constraints incident to a young

person in such a situation--the situation, namely, of sedentary

passiveness, where one is acted upon, but does not act. The music, in

fact, was all that continued to delight me; and, but for _that,_ I

believe I should have had some difficulty in avoiding so monstrous an

indecorum as yawning. I revise this faulty expression, however, on the

spot; not the music only it was, but the music combined with the

dancing, that so deeply impressed me. The ball room--a temporary

erection, with something of the character of a pavilion about it--wore

an elegant and festal air; the part allotted to the dancers being

fenced off by a gilded lattice work, and ornamented beautifully from

the upper part with drooping festoons of flowers. But all the luxury

that spoke to the eye merely faded at once by the side of impassioned

dancing, sustained by impassioned music. Of all the scenes which this

world offers, none is to me so profoundly interesting, none (I say it

deliberately) so affecting, as the spectacle of men and women floating

through the mazes of a dance; under these conditions, however, that

the music shall be rich, resonant, and festal, the execution of the

dancers perfect, and the dance itself of a character to admit of free,

fluent, and _continuous_ motion. But this last condition will be sought

vainly in the quadrilles, &c., which have for so many years banished

the truly beautiful _country dances_ native to England. Those whose

taste and sensibility were so defective as to substitute for the

_beautiful_ in dancing the merely _difficult_, were sure, in the end,

to transfer the depravations of this art from the opera house to the

floors of private ball rooms. The tendencies even then were in that

direction; but as yet they had not attained their final stage; and the

English country dance [8] was still in estimation at the courts of

princes. Now, of all dances, this is the only one, as a class, of which

you can truly describe the motion to be _continuous,_ that is, not

interrupted or fitful, but unfolding its fine mazes with the equability

of light in its diffusion through free space. And wherever the music

happens to be not of a light, trivial character, but charged with the

spirit of festal pleasure, and the performers in the dance so far skilful

as to betray no awkwardness verging on the ludicrous, I believe that many

people feel as I feel in such circumstances, viz., derive from the

spectacle the very grandest form of passionate sadness which can belong

to any spectacle whatsoever. _Sadness_ is not the exact word; nor is

there any word in any language (because none in the finest languages)

which exactly expresses the state; since it is not a depressing, but a

most elevating state to which I allude. And, certainly, it is easy to

understand, that many states of pleasure, and in particular the highest,

are the most of all removed from merriment. The day on which a Roman

triumphed was the most gladsome day of his existence; it was the crown

and consummation of his prosperity; yet assuredly it was also to him the

most solemn of his days. Festal music, of a rich and passionate

character, is the most remote of any from vulgar hilarity. Its very

gladness and pomp is impregnated with sadness, but sadness of a grand and

aspiring order. Let, for instance, (since without individual

illustrations there is the greatest risk of being misunderstood,) any

person of musical sensibility listen to the exquisite music composed by

Beethoven, as an opening for Burger's "Lenore," the running idea of which

is the triumphal return of a crusading host, decorated with laurels and

with palms, within the gates of their native city; and then say whether

the presiding feeling, in the midst of this tumultuous festivity, be not,

by infinite degrees, transcendent to any thing so vulgar as hilarity.

In fact, laughter itself is of all things the most equivocal; as the

organ of the ludicrous, laughter is allied to the trivial and the mean;

as the organ of joy, it is allied to the passionate and the noble.

From all which the reader may comprehend, if he should not happen

experimentally to have felt, that a spectacle of young men and women,

_flowing_ through the mazes of an intricate dance under a full volume

of music, taken with all the circumstantial adjuncts of such a scene

in rich men's halls; the blaze of lights and jewels, the life, the

motion, the sea-like undulation of heads, the interweaving of the

figures, the _anachuchlosis_ or self-revolving, both of the

dance and the music, "never ending, still beginning," and the continual

regeneration of order from a system of motions which forever touch the

very brink of confusion; that such a spectacle, with such circumstances,

may happen to be capable of exciting and sustaining the very grandest

emotions of philosophic melancholy to which the human spirit is open.

The reason is, in part, that such a scene presents a sort of mask of

human life, with its whole equipage of pomps and glories, its luxury

of sight and sound, its hours of golden youth, and the interminable

revolution of ages hurrying after ages, and one generation treading

upon the flying footsteps of another; whilst all the while the

overruling music attempers the mind to the spectacle, the subject to

the object, the beholder to the vision. And, although this is known

to be but one phasis of life,--of life culminating and in ascent,--yet

the other (and repulsive) phasis is concealed upon the hidden or averted

side of the golden arras, known but not felt; or is seen but dimly in

the rear, crowding into indistinct proportions. The effect of the music

is, to place the mind in a state of elective attraction for every thing

in harmony with its own prevailing key.

This pleasure, as always on similar occasions, I had at present; but

naturally in a degree corresponding to the circumstances of _royal_

splendor through which the scene revolved; and, if I have spent rather

more words than should reasonably have been requisite in describing

any obvious state of emotion, it is not because, in itself, it is

either vague or doubtful, but because it is difficult, without calling

upon a reader for a little reflection, to convince him that there is

not something paradoxical in the assertion, that joy and festal

pleasure, of the highest kind, are liable to a _natural_ combination

with solemnity, or even with melancholy the most profound. Yet, to

speak in the mere simplicity of truth, so mysterious is human nature,

and so little to be read by him who runs, that almost every weighty

aspect of truth upon that theme will be found at first sight to be

startling, or sometimes paradoxical. And so little need is there for

chasing or courting paradox, that, on the contrary, he who is faithful

to his own experiences will find all his efforts little enough to keep

down the paradoxical air besieging much of what he _knows_ to be the

truth. No man needs to _search_ for paradox in this world of ours. Let

him simply confine himself to the truth, and he will find paradox

growing every where under his hands as rank as weeds. For new truths

of importance are rarely agreeable to any preconceived theories; that

is, cannot be explained by these theories; which are insufficient,

therefore, even where they are true. And universally, it must be borne

in mind, that not that is paradox which, seeming to be true, is upon

examination false, but that which, seeming to be false, may upon

examination be found true. [9]

The pleasure of which I have been speaking belongs to all such scenes;

but on this particular occasion there was also something more. To see

persons in "the body" of whom you have been reading in newspapers from

the very earliest of your reading days,--those, who have hitherto been

great _ideas_ in your childish thoughts, to see and to hear moving and

talking as carnal existences amongst other human beings,--had, for the

first half hour or so, a singular and strange effect. But this naturally

waned rapidly after it had once begun to wane. And when these first

startling impressions of novelty had worn off, it must be confessed

that the peculiar circumstances attaching to a royal ball were not

favorable to its joyousness or genial spirit of enjoyment. I am not

going to repay her majesty's condescension so ill, or so much to abuse

the privileges of a guest, as to draw upon my recollections of what

passed for the materials of a cynical critique. Every thing was done,

I doubt not, which court etiquette permitted, to thaw those ungenial

restraints which gave to the whole too much of a ceremonial and

official character, and to each actor in the scene gave too much of

the air belonging to one who is discharging a duty, and to the youngest

even among the principal personages concerned gave an apparent anxiety

and jealousy of manner--jealousy, I mean, not of others, but a

prudential jealousy of his own possible oversights or trespasses. In

fact, a great personage bearing a state character cannot be regarded,

nor regard himself, with the perfect freedom which belongs to social

intercourse; no, nor ought to be. It is not rank alone which is here

concerned; that, as being his own, he might lay aside for an hour or

two; but he bears a representative character also. He has not his own

rank only, but the rank of others, to protect; he (supposing him the

sovereign or a prince near to the succession) embodies and impersonates

the majesty of a great people; and this character, were you ever so

much encouraged to do so, you, the _idiotaes_, the _lay_ spectator or

"assister," neither could nor ought to dismiss from your thoughts.

Besides all which, it must be acknowledged, that to see brothers dancing

with sisters--as too often occurred in those dances to which the

princesses were parties--disturbed the appropriate interest of the scene,

being irreconcilable with the allusive meaning of dancing in general, and

laid a weight upon its gayety which no condescensions from the highest

quarter could remove. This infelicitous arrangement forced the thoughts

of all present upon the exalted rank of the parties which could dictate

and exact so unusual an assortment. And that rank, again, it presented to

us under one of its least happy aspects; as insulating a blooming young

woman amidst the choir of her coevals, and surrounding her with dreadful

solitude amidst a vast crowd of the young, the brave, the beautiful, and

the accomplished.

Meantime, as respected myself individually, I had reason to be grateful:

every kindness and attention were shown to me. My invitation I was

sensible that I owed entirely to my noble friend. But, _having_ been

invited, I felt assured, from what passed, that it was meant and

provided that I should not, by any possibility, be suffered to think

myself overlooked. Lord Westport and I communicated our thoughts

occasionally by means of a language which we, in those days, found

useful enough at times, and which bore the name of _Ziph_. The language

and the name were both derived (that is, were _immediately_ so derived,

for _remotely_ the Ziph language may ascend to Nineveh) from Winchester.

Dr. Mapleton, a physician in Bath, who attended me in concert with Mr.

Grant, an eminent surgeon, during the nondescript malady of the head,

happened to have had three sons at Winchester; and his reason for

removing them is worth mentioning, as it illustrates the well-known

system of _fagging_. One or more of them showed to the quick medical

eye of Dr. Mapleton symptoms of declining health; and, upon cross

questioning, he found that, being (as juniors) _fags_ (that is, bondsmen

by old prescription) to appointed seniors, they were under the necessity

of going out nightly into the town for the purpose of executing

commissions; but this was not easy, as all the regular outlets were

closed at an early hour. In such a dilemma, any route, that was barely

practicable at whatever risk, must be traversed by the loyal fag; and

it so happened that none of any kind remained open or accessible,

except one; and this one communication happened to have escaped

suspicion, simply because it lay through a succession of temples and

sewers sacred to the goddesses Cloacina and Scavengerina. That of

itself was not so extraordinary a fact: the wonder lay in the number,

viz., seventeen. Such were the actual amount of sacred edifices which,

through all their dust, and garbage, and mephitic morasses, these

miserable vassals had to thread all _but_ every night of the week. Dr.

Mapleton, when he had made this discovery, ceased to wonder at the

medical symptoms; and, as _faggery_ was an abuse too venerable and

sacred to be touched by profane hands, he lodged no idle complaints,

but simply removed his sons to a school where the Serbonian bogs of

the subterraneous goddess might not intersect the nocturnal line of

march so _very_ often. One day, during the worst of my illness, when

the kind-hearted doctor was attempting to amuse me with this anecdote,

and asking me whether I thought Hannibal would have attempted his march

over the Little St. Bernard,--supposing that he and the elephant which

he rode had been summoned to explore a route through seventeen similar

nuisances,--he went on to mention the one sole accomplishment which

his sons had imported from Winchester. This was the _Ziph_ language,

communicated at Winchester to any aspirant for a fixed fee of one half

guinea, but which the doctor then communicated to me--as I do now to

the reader--_gratis_. I make a present of this language without fee,

or price, or entrance money, to my honored reader; and let him

understand that it is undoubtedly a bequest of elder times. Perhaps

it may be coeval with the pyramids. For in the famous "Essay on a

Philosophical Character," (I forget whether _that_ is the exact title,)

a large folio written by the ingenious Dr. Wilkins, Bishop of Chester,

[10] and published early in the reign of Charles II., a folio which I, in

youthful days, not only read but studied, this language is recorded and

accurately described amongst many other modes of cryptical communication,

oral and visual, spoken, written, or symbolic. And, as the bishop does

not speak of it as at all a _recent_ invention, it may probably at that

time have been regarded as an antique device for conducting a

conversation in secrecy amongst bystanders; and this advantage it has,

that it is applicable to all languages alike; nor can it possibly be

penetrated by one not initiated in the mystery. The secret is this--(and

the grandeur of simplicity at any rate it has)--repeat the vowel or

diphthong of every syllable, prefixing to the vowel so repeated the

letter G. Thus, for example: Shall we go away in an hour? Three hours we

have already staid. This in Ziph becomes: _Shagall wege gogo agawagay

igin agan hougour? Threegee hougours wege hagave agalreageadygy stagaid._

[11] It must not be supposed that Ziph proceeds slowly. A very little

practice gives the greatest fluency; so that even now, though certainly I

cannot have practised it for fifty years, my power of speaking the Ziph

remains unimpaired. I forget whether in the Bishop of Chester's account

of this cryptical language the consonant intercalated be G or not.

Evidently any consonant will answer the purpose. F or L would be softer,

and so far better.

In this learned tongue it was that my friend and I communicated our

feelings; and, having staid nearly four hours, a time quite sufficient

to express a proper sense of the honor, we departed; and, on emerging

into the open high road, we threw up our hats and huzzaed, meaning

no sort of disrespect, but from uncontrollable pleasure in recovered

liberty.

Soon after this we left Eton for Ireland. Our first destination being

Dublin, of course we went by Holyhead. The route at that time, from

Southern England to Dublin, did not (as in elder and in later days)

go round by Chester. A few miles after leaving Shrewsbury, somewhere

about Oswestry, it entered North Wales; a stage farther brought us to

the celebrated vale of Llangollen; and, on reaching the approach to

this about sunset on a beautiful evening of June, I first found myself

amongst the mountains--a feature in natural scenery for which, from

my earliest days, it was not extravagant to say that I had hungered

and thirsted. In no one expectation of my life have I been less

disappointed; and I may add, that no one enjoyment has less decayed

or palled upon my continued experience. A mountainous region, with a

slender population, and _that_ of a simple pastoral character; behold

my chief conditions of a pleasant permanent dwelling-place! But, thus

far I have altered, that _now_ I should greatly prefer forest scenery--

such as the New Forest, or the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire. The

mountains of Wales range at about the same elevation as those of Northern

England; three thousand and four to six hundred feet being the extreme

limit which they reach. Generally speaking, their forms are less

picturesque individually, and they are less happily grouped than their

English brethren. I have since also been made sensible by Wordsworth of

one grievous defect in the structure of the Welsh valleys; too generally

they take the _basin_ shape--the level area at their foot does not detach

itself with sufficient precision from the declivities that surround them.

Of this, however, I was not aware at the time of first seeing Wales;

although the striking effect from the _opposite_ form of the Cumberland

and Westmoreland valleys, which almost universally present a flat area at

the base of the surrounding hills, level, to use Wordsworth's expression,

"_as the floor of a temple,"_ would, at any rate, have arrested my eye,

as a circumstance of impressive beauty, even though the want of such a

feature might not, in any case, have affected me as a fault. As

something that had a positive value, this characteristic of the Cambrian

valleys had fixed my attention, but not as any telling point of contrast

against the Cambrian valleys. No faults, however, at that early age

disturbed my pleasure, except that, after one whole day's travelling,

(for so long it cost us between Llangollen and Holyhead,) the want of

water struck me upon review as painfully remarkable. From Conway to

Bangor (seventeen miles) we were often in sight of the sea; but fresh

water we had seen hardly any; no lake, no stream much beyond a brook.

This is certainly a conspicuous defect in North Wales, considered as

a region of fine scenery. The few lakes I have since become acquainted

with, as that near Bala, near Beddkelert, and beyond Machynleth, are

not attractive either in their forms or in their accompaniments; the

Bala Lake being meagre and insipid, the others as it were unfinished,

and unaccompanied with their furniture of wood.

At the _Head_ (to call it by its common colloquial name) we were

detained a few days in those unsteaming times by foul winds. Our time,

however, thanks to the hospitality of a certain Captain Skinner on

that station, did not hang heavy on our hands, though we were

imprisoned, as it were, on a dull rock; for Holyhead itself is a little

island of rock, an insulated dependency of Anglesea; which, again, is

a little insulated dependency of North Wales. The packets on this

station were at that time lucrative commands; and they were given

(perhaps _are_ [12] given?) to post captains in the navy. Captain Skinner

was celebrated for his convivial talents; he did the honors of the place

in a hospitable style; daily asked us to dine with him, and seemed as

inexhaustible in his wit as in his hospitality.

This answered one purpose, at least, of special convenience to our

party at that moment: it kept us from all necessity of meeting each

other during the day, except under circumstances where we escaped the

necessity of any familiar communication. Why that should have become

desirable, arose upon the following mysterious change of relations

between ourselves and the Rev. Mr. Gr----, Lord Westport's tutor. On

the last day of our journey, Mr. G., who had accompanied us thus far,

but now at Holyhead was to leave us, suddenly took offence (or, at

least, then first _showed_ his offence) at something we had said, done,

or omitted, and never spoke one syllable to either of us again. Being

both of us amiably disposed, and incapable of having seriously meditated

either word or deed likely to wound any person's feelings, we were

much hurt at the time, and often retraced the little incidents upon

the road, to discover, if possible, what it was that had laid us open

to misconstruction. But it remained to both of us a lasting mystery.

This tutor was an Irishman, of Trinity College, Dublin, and, I believe,

of considerable pretensions as a scholar; but, being reserved and

haughty, or else presuming in us a knowledge of our offence, which we

really had not, he gave us no opening for any explanation. To the last

moment, however, he manifested a punctilious regard to the duties of

his charge. He accompanied us in our boat, on a dark and gusty night,

to the packet, which lay a little out at sea. He saw us on board;

and then, standing up for one moment, he said, "Is all right on deck?"

"All right, sir," sang out the ship's steward. "Have you, Lord Westport,

got your boat cloak with you?" "Yes, sir." "Then, pull away, boatmen."

We listened for a time to the measured beat of his retreating oars,

marvelling more and more at the atrocious nature of our crime which

could thus avail to intercept even his last adieus. I, for my part,

never saw him again; nor, as I have reason to think, did Lord Westport.

Neither did we ever unravel the mystery.

As if to irritate our curiosity still more, Lord Westport showed me

a torn fragment of paper in his tutor's hand--writing, which, together

with others, had been thrown (as he believed) purposely in his way.

If he was right in that belief, it appeared that he had missed the

particular fragment which was designed to raise the veil upon our

guilt; for the one he produced contained exactly these words: "With

respect to your ladyship's anxiety to know how far the acquaintance

with Mr. De Q. is likely to be of service to your son, I think I may

now venture to say that"--There the sibylline fragment ended; nor

could we torture it into any further revelation. However, both of us

saw the propriety of not ourselves practising any mystery, nor giving

any advantage to Mr. G. by imperfect communications; and accordingly,

on the day after we reached Dublin, we addressed a circumstantial

account of our journey and our little mystery to Lady Altamont in

England; for to her it was clear that the tutor had confided his

mysterious wrongs. Her ladyship answered with kindness; but did not

throw any light on the problem which exercised at once our memories,

our skill in conjectural interpretation, and our sincere regrets. Lord

Westport and I regretted much that there had not been a wider margin

attached to the fragment of Mr. G.'s letter to Lady Altamont; in which

case, as I could readily have mimicked his style of writing, it would

have been easy for me to fill up thus: "With respect to your ladyship's

anxiety, &c., I think I may now venture to say that, if the solar system

were searched, there could not be found a companion more serviceable to

your son than Mr. De Q. He speaks the Ziph most beautifully. He writes

it, I am told, classically. And if there were a Ziph nation as well as a

Ziph language, I am satisfied that he would very soon be at the head of

it; as he already is, beyond all competition, at the head of the Ziph

literature." Lady Altamont, on receiving this, would infallibly have

supposed him mad; she would have written so to all her Irish friends, and

would have commended the poor gentleman to the care of his nearest

kinsmen; and thus we should have had some little indemnification for the

annoyance he had caused us. I mention this trifle, simply because, trifle

as it is, it involved a mystery, and furnishes an occasion for glancing

at that topic. Mysteries as deep, with results a little more important

and foundations a little sounder, have many times crossed me in life;

one, for instance, I recollect at this moment, known pretty extensively

to the neighborhood in which it occurred. It was in the county of S----.

A lady married, and married well, as was thought. About twelve months

afterwards, she returned alone in a post chaise to her father's house;

paid, and herself dismissed, the postilion at the gate; entered the

house; ascended to the room in which she had passed her youth, and known

in the family by her name; took possession of it again; intimated by

signs, and by one short letter at her first arrival, what she would

require; lived for nearly twenty years in this state of _La Trappe_

seclusion and silence; nor ever, to the hour of her death, explained what

circumstances had dissolved the supposed happy connection she had formed,

or what had become of her husband. Her looks and gestures were of a

nature to repress all questions in the spirit of mere curiosity; and the

spirit of affection naturally respected a secret which was guarded so

severely. This might be supposed a Spanish tale; yet it happened in

England, and in a pretty populous neighborhood. The romances which occur

in real life are too often connected with circumstances of criminality in

some one among the parties concerned; on that account, more than any

other, they are often suppressed; else, judging by the number which have

fallen within my own knowledge, they must be of more frequent occurrence

than is usually supposed. Among such romances, those cases, perhaps, form

an unusual proportion in which young, innocent, and high-minded persons

have made a sudden discovery of some great profligacy or deep

unworthiness in the person to whom they had surrendered their entire

affections. That shock, more than any other, is capable of blighting, in

one hour, the whole after existence, and sometimes of at once

overthrowing the balance of life or of reason. Instances I have known of

both; and such afflictions are the less open to any alleviation, that

sometimes they are of a nature so delicate as to preclude all

confidential communication of them to another; and sometimes it would be

even dangerous, in a legal sense, to communicate them.

A sort of adventure occurred, and not of a kind pleasant to recall,

even on this short voyage. The passage to Dublin from the Head is about

sixty miles, I believe; yet, from baffling winds, it cost us upwards

of thirty hours. On the second day, going upon deck, we found that our

only fellow-passenger of note was a woman of rank, celebrated for her

beauty; and not undeservedly, for a lovely creature she was. The body

of her travelling coach had been, as usual, unslung from the "carriage,"

(by which is technically meant the wheels and the perch,) and placed

upon deck. This she used as a place of retreat from the sun during the

day, and as a resting-place at night. For want of more interesting

companions, she invited us, during the day, into her coach; and we

taxed our abilities to make ourselves as entertaining as we could, for

we were greatly fascinated by the lady's beauty. The second night

proved very sultry; and Lord Westport and myself, suffering from the

oppression of the cabin, left our berths, and lay, wrapped up in cloaks,

upon deck. Having talked for some hours, we were both on the point of

falling asleep, when a stealthy tread near our heads awoke us. It was

starlight; and we traced between ourselves and the sky the outline of

a man's figure. Lying upon a mass of tarpaulings, we were ourselves

undistinguishable, and the figure moved in the direction of the coach.

Our first thought was to raise an alarm, scarcely doubting that the

purpose of the man was to rob the unprotected lady of her watch or

purse. But, to our astonishment, we saw the coach door silently swing

open under a touch from _within_. All was as silent as a dream; the

figure entered, the door closed, and we were left to interpret the

case as we might. Strange it was that this lady could permit herself

to calculate upon absolute concealment in such circumstances. We

recollected afterwards to have heard some indistinct rumor buzzed about

the packet on the day preceding, that a gentleman, and some even spoke

of him by name as a Colonel ----, for some unknown purpose, was

concealed in the steerage of the packet. And other appearances indicated

that the affair was not entirely a secret even amongst the lady's

servants. To both of _us_ the story proclaimed a moral already

sufficiently current, viz., that women of the highest and the very

lowest rank are alike thrown too much into situations of danger and

temptation. [13] I might mention some additional circumstances of

criminal aggravation in this lady's case; but, as they would tend to

point out the real person to those acquainted with her history, I shall

forbear. She has since made a noise in the world, and has maintained, I

believe, a tolerably fair reputation. Soon after sunrise the next

morning, a heavenly morning of June, we dropped our anchor in the

famous Bay of Dublin. There was a dead calm; the sea was like a lake;

and, as we were some miles from the Pigeon House, a boat was manned

to put us on shore. The lovely lady, unaware that we were parties to her

guilty secret, went with us, accompanied by her numerous attendants,

and looking as beautiful, and hardly less innocent, than an angel. Long

afterwards, Lord Westport and I met her, hanging upon the arm of her

husband, a manly and good-natured man, of polished manners, to whom

she introduced us; for she voluntarily challenged us as her fellow-

voyagers, and, I suppose, had no suspicion which pointed in our

direction. She even joined her husband in cordially pressing us to

visit them at their magnificent _chateau_. Upon us, meantime, whatever

might be _her_ levity, the secret of which accident had put us in

possession pressed with a weight of awe; we shuddered at our own

discovery; and we both agreed to drop no hint of it in any direction.

[14]

Landing about three miles from Dublin, (according to my present

remembrance at Dunleary,) we were not long in reaching Sackville Street.

FOOTNOTES

[1] "_Ancient Rome_."--Vast, however, as the London is of this day, I

incline to think that it is below the Rome of Trajan. It has long been a

settled opinion amongst scholars, that the computations of Lipsius, on

this point, were prodigiously overcharged; and formerly I shared in that

belief. But closer study of the question, and a laborious _collation_ of

the different data, (for any single record, independently considered, can

here establish nothing,) have satisfied me that Lipsius was nearer the

truth than his critics; and that the Roman population of every class--

slaves, aliens, peoples of the suburbs, included--lay between four and

six millions; in which case the London of 1833, which counts more than a

million and a half, but less than two millions, [_Note_.--Our present

London of 1853 counts two millions, plus as many thousands as there are

days in the year,] may be taken, _chata platos_ as lying between one

fourth and one third of Rome. To discuss this question thoroughly would

require a separate memoir, for which, after all, there are not sufficient

materials: meantime I will make this remark: That the ordinary

computations of a million, or a million and a quarter, derived from the

surviving accounts of the different "regions," apply to Rome _within_ the

Pomaerium, and are, therefore, no more valid for the total Rome of

Trajan's time, stretching so many miles beyond it, than the bills of

mortality for what is technically "London within the walls" can serve at

this day as a base for estimating the population of that total London

which we mean and presume in our daily conversation. _Secondly_, even for

the Rome within these limits the computations are not commensurate, by

not allowing for the prodigious _height_ of the houses in Rome, which

much transcended that of modern cities. On this last point I will

translate a remarkable sentence from the Greek rhetorician Aristides,

[_Note_.--Aelius Aristides, Greek by his birth, who flourished in the

time of the Antonines;] to some readers it will be new and interesting:

"And, as oftentimes we see that a man who greatly excels others in bulk

and strength is not content with any display, however ostentatious, of

his powers, short of that where he is exhibited surmounting himself with a

pyramid of other men, one set standing upon the shoulders of another, so

also this city, stretching forth her foundations over areas so vast, is

yet not satisfied with those superficial dimensions; _that_ contents her

not; but upon one city rearing another of corresponding proportions, and

upon that another, pile resting upon pile, houses overlaying houses, in

aerial succession: so, and by similar steps, she achieves a character of

architecture justifying, as it were, the very promise of her name; and

with reference to that name, and its Grecian meaning, we may say, that

here nothing meets our eyes in any direction but mere _Rome! Rome!_"

[Note.--This word _Romae_, (Romé,) on which the rhetorician plays, is the

common Greek term for _strength_.] "And hence," says Aristides, "I derive

the following conclusion: that if any one, decomposing this series of

strata, were disposed to unshell, as it were, this existing Rome from its

present crowded and towering coacervations, and, thus degrading these

aerial Romes, were to plant them on the ground, side by side, in orderly

succession, according to all appearance, the whole vacant area of Italy

would be filled with these dismantled stories of Rome, and we should be

presented with the spectacle of one continuous city, stretching its

labyrinthine pomp to the shores of the Adriatic." This is so far from

being meant as a piece of rhetoric, that, on the very contrary, the whole

purpose is to substitute for a vague and rhetorical expression of the

Roman grandeur one of a more definite character--viz., by presenting its

dimensions in a new form, and supposing the city to be uncrested, as it

were; its upper tiers to be what the sailors call _unshipped_; and the

dethroned stories to be all drawn up in rank and file upon the ground;

according to which assumption he implies that the city would stretch from

the _mare Superum_ to the _mare Inferum, i.e._, from the sea of Tuscany

to the Adriatic.

The fact is, as Casaubon remarked, upon occasion of a ridiculous blunder

in estimating the largesses of a Roman emperor, that the error on most

questions of Roman policy or institutions tends not, as is usual, in the

direction of excess, but of defect. All things were colossal there; and

the probable, as estimated upon our modern scale, is not unfrequently the

impossible, as regarded Roman habits. Lipsius certainly erred

extravagantly at times, and was a rash speculator on many subjects;

witness his books on the Roman amphitheatres; but not on the magnitude of

Rome, or the amount of its population. I will add, upon this subject,

that the whole political economy of the ancients, if we except Boeckh's

accurate investigation, (_Die Staatshaushaltung der Athener_,) which,

properly speaking, cannot be called political economy, is a mine into

which scarce a single shaft has yet been sunk. But I must also add, that

every thing will depend upon _collation_ of facts, and the bringing of

indirect notices into immediate juxtaposition, so as to throw light on

each other. _Direct_ and positive information there is little on these

topics; and that has been gleaned.

[2] "_Two hours_."--This slow progress must, however, in part be ascribed

to Mr. Gr----'s non-acquaintance with the roads, both town and rural,

along the whole line of our progress from Uxbridge.

[3] Hence it may be said, that nature regulates our position for such

spectacles, without any intermeddling of ours. When, indeed, a mountain

stands, like Snowdon or Great Gavel in Cumberland, at the centre of a

mountainous region, it is not denied that, at some seasons, when the

early beams strike through great vistas in the hills, splendid effects of

light and shade are produced; strange, however, rather than beautiful.

But from an insulated mountain, or one upon the outer ring of the hilly

tract, such as Skiddaw, in Cumberland, the first effect is to translate

the landscape from a _picture_ into a _map_; and the total result, as a

celebrated author once said, is the _infinity of littleness_.

[4] Accession was it, or his proclamation? The case was this: About the

middle of the day, the king came out into the portico of Carlton House;

and addressing himself (addressing his gestures, I mean) to the

assemblage of people in Pall Mall, he bowed repeatedly to the right and

to the left, and then retired. I mean no disrespect to that prince in

recalling those circumstances; no doubt, he acted upon the suggestion of

others, and perhaps, also, under a sincere emotion on witnessing the

enthusiasm of those outside; but _that_ could not cure the original

absurdity of recognizing as a representative audience, clothed with the

national functions of recognizing _himself_, a chance gathering of

passengers through a single street, between whom and any mob from his own

stables and kitchens there could be no essential difference which logic,

or law, or constitutional principle could recognize.

[5] Already monuments had been voted by the House of Commons in this

cathedral, and I am not sure but they were nearly completed, to two

captains who had fallen at the Nile.

[6] This place suggests the mention of another crying abuse connected

with this subject. In the year 1811 or 1810 came under parliamentary

notice and revision the law of copyright. In some excellent pamphlets

drawn forth by the occasion, from Mr. Duppa, for instance, and several

others, the whole subject was well probed, and many aspects, little

noticed by the public, were exposed of that extreme injustice attached to

the law as it then stood. The several monopolies connected with books

were noticed a _little_; and _not_ a little notice was taken of the

oppressive privilege with which certain public libraries (at that time, I

think, eleven) were invested, of exacting, severally, a copy of each new

book published. This downright robbery was palliated by some members of

the House in that day, under the notion of its being a sort of exchange,

or _quid pro quo_ in return for the relief obtained by the statute of

Queen Anne--the first which recognized literary property. "For," argued

they, "previously to that statute, supposing your book pirated, at common

law you could obtain redress only for each copy _proved_ to have been

sold by the pirate; and that might not be a thousandth part of the actual

loss. Now, the statute of Queen Anne granting you a general redress, upon

proof that a piracy had been committed, you, the party relieved, were

bound to express your sense of this relief by a return made to the

public; and the public is here represented by the great endowed libraries

of the seven universities, the British Museum," &c., &c. But _prima

facie_, this was that _selling of justice_ which is expressly renounced

in Magna Charta; and why were proprietors of copyright, more than other

proprietors, to make an "acknowledgment" for their rights? But supposing

_that_ just, why, especially, to the given public bodies? Now, for my

part, I think that this admits of an explanation: nine tenths of the

authors in former days lay amongst the class who had received a college

education; and most of these, in their academic life, had benefited

largely by old endowments. Giving up, therefore, a small tribute from

their copyright, there was some color of justice in supposing that they

were making a slight acknowledgment for past benefits received, and

exactly for those benefits which enabled them to appear with any

advantage as authors. So, I am convinced, the "_servitude_" first arose,

and under this construction; which, even for those days, was often a

fiction, but now is generally such. However, be the origin what it may,

the ground upon which the public mind in 1811 (that small part of it, at

least, which the question attracted) reconciled itself to the abuse was

this--for a trivial wrong, they alleged (but it was then shown that the

wrong was not always trivial) one great good is achieved, viz., that all

over the kingdom are dispersed eleven great depositories, in which all

persons interested may, at all times, be sure of finding one copy of

every book published. That _did_ seem a great advantage, and a balance in

point of utility (if none in point of justice) to the wrong upon which it

grew. But now mark the degree in which this balancing advantage is made

available. 1. The eleven bodies are not equally careful to exact their

copies; that can only be done by retaining an agent in London; and this

agent is careless about books of slight money value. 2. Were it

otherwise, of what final avail would a perfect set of the year's

productions prove to a public not admitted freely to the eleven

libraries? 3. But, finally, if they were admitted, to what purpose (as

regards this particular advantage) under the following custom, which, in

some of these eleven libraries, (possibly in all,) _was_, I well knew,

established: annually the principal librarian _weeded_ the annual crop of

all such books as displeased himself; upon which two questions arise: 1.

Upon what principle? 2. With what result? I answer as to the first, that

in this _lustration_ he went upon no principle at all, but his own

caprice, or what he called his own discretion; and accordingly it is a

fact known to many as well as myself, that a book, which some people (and

certainly not the least meditative of this age) have pronounced the most

original work of modern times, was actually amongst the books thus

degraded; it was one of those, as the phrase is, tossed "into the

basket;" and universally this fate is more likely to befall a work of

_original_ merit, which disturbs the previous way of thinking and

feeling, than one of timid compliance with ordinary models. Secondly,

with what result? For the present, the degraded books, having been

consigned to the basket, were forthwith consigned to a damp cellar.

There, at any rate, they were in no condition to be consulted by the

public, being piled up in close bales, and in a place not publicly

accessible. But there can be no doubt that, sooner or later, their

mouldering condition would be made an argument for selling them. And

such, when we trace the operation of this law to its final stage, is the

ultimate result of an infringement upon private rights almost unexampled

in any other part of our civil economy. That sole beneficial result, for

the sake of which some legislators were willing to sanction a wrong

otherwise admitted to be indefensible, is so little protected and secured

to the public, that it is first of all placed at the mercy of an agent in

London, whose negligence or indifference may defeat the provision

altogether, (I know a publisher of a splendid botanical work, who told me

that, by forbearing to attract notice to it within the statutable time,

he saved his eleven copies;) and placed at the mercy of a librarian, who

(or any one of his successors) may, upon a motive of malice to the author

or an impulse of false taste, after all proscribe any part of the books

thus dishonorably acquired.

[7] The words _genius_ and _talent_ are frequently distinguished from

each other by those who evidently misconstrue the true distinction

entirely, and sometimes so grossly as to use them by way of expressions

for a mere difference in _degree_. Thus, "a man of great talent,

absolutely a _genius_" occurs in a very well-written tale at this moment

before me; as if being a man of genius implied only a greater than

ordinary degree of talent.

_Talent_ and _genius_ are in not one point allied to each other, except

generically--that both express modes of intellectual power. But the kinds

of power are not merely different; they are in polar opposition to each

other. _Talent_ is intellectual power of every kind, which acts and

manifests itself by and through the _will_ and the _active_ forces.

_Genius_, as the verbal origin implies, is that much rarer species of

intellectual power which is derived from the _genial_ nature,--from the

spirit of suffering and enjoying,--from the spirit of pleasure and pain,

as organized more or less perfectly; and this is independent of the will.

It is a function of the _passive_ nature. Talent is conversant with the

adaptation of means to ends. But genius is conversant only with ends.

Talent has no sort of connection, not the most remote or shadowy, with

the _moral_ nature or temperament; genius is steeped and saturated with

this moral nature.

This was written twenty years ago. Now, (1853,) when revising it, I am

tempted to add three brief annotations:--

1st. It scandalizes me that, in the occasional comments upon this

distinction which have reached my eye, no attention should have been paid

to the profound suggestions as to the radix of what is meant by _genius_

latent in the word _genial_. For instance, in an extract made by "The

Leader," a distinguished literary journal, from a recent work entitled

"Poetics," by Mr. Dallas, there is not the slightest notice taken of this

subtile indication and leading towards the truth. Yet surely _that_ is

hardly philosophic. For could Mr. Dallas suppose that the idea involved

in the word _genial_ had no connection, or none but an accidental one,

with the idea involved in the word _genius_? It is clear that from the

Roman conception (whencesoever emanating) of the natal genius, as the

secret and central representative of what is most characteristic and

individual in the nature of every human being, are derived alike the

notion of the _genial_ and our modern notion of _genius_ as

contradistinguished from _talent_.

2d. As another broad character of distinction between _genius_ and

_talent_, I would observe, that _genius_ differentiates a man from all

other men; whereas _talent_ is the same in one man as in another; that

is, where it exists at all, it is the mere echo and reflex of the same

talent, as seen in thousands of other men, differing only by more and

less, but not at all in quality. In genius, on the contrary, no two men

were ever duplicates of each other.

3d. All talent, in whatsoever class, reveals itself as an effort--as a

counteraction to an opposing difficulty or hinderance; whereas genius

universally moves in headlong sympathy and concurrence with spontaneous

power. Talent works universally by intense resistance to an antagonist

force; whereas genius works under a rapture of necessity and spontaneity.

[8] This word, I am well aware, grew out of the French word _contre

danse_; indicating the regular contraposition of male and female partners

in the first arrangement of the dancers. The word _country dance_ was

therefore originally a corruption; but, having once arisen and taken root

in the language, it is far better to retain it in its colloquial form;

better, I mean, on the general, principle concerned in such cases. For it

is, in fact, by such corruptions, by offsets upon an old stock, arising

through ignorance or mispronunciation originally, that every language is

frequently enriched; and new modifications of thought, unfolding

themselves in the progress of society, generate for themselves

concurrently appropriate expressions. Many words in the Latin can be

pointed out as having passed through this process. It must not be allowed

to weigh against the validity of a word once fairly naturalized by use,

that originally it crept in upon an abuse or a corruption. _Prescription_

is as strong a ground of legitimation in a case of this nature as it is

in law. And the old axiom is applicable--_Fieri non debuit, factum

valet_. Were it otherwise, languages would be robbed of much of their

wealth. And, universally, the class of _purists,_ in matters of language,

are liable to grievous suspicion, as almost constantly proceeding on

_half_ knowledge and on insufficient principles. For example, if I have

read one, I have read twenty letters, addressed to newspapers, denouncing

the name of a great quarter in London, _Mary-le-bone,_ as ludicrously

ungrammatical. The writers had learned (or were learning) French; and

they had thus become aware, that neither the article nor the adjective

was right. True, not right for the current age, but perfectly right for

the age in which the name arose; but, for want of elder French, they did

not know that in our Chaucer's time both were right. _Le_ was then the

article feminine as well as masculine, and _bone_ was then the true form

for the adjective.

[9] And therefore it was with strict propriety that Boyle, anxious to fix

public attention upon some truths of hydrostatics, published them

avowedly as _paradoxes._ According to the false popular notion of what it

is that constitutes a paradox, Boyle should be taken to mean that these

hydrostatic theorems were fallacies. But far from it. Boyle solicits

attention to these propositions--not as seeming to be true and turning

out false, but, reversely, as wearing an air of falsehood and turning out

true.

[10] This Dr. Wilkins was related to marriage to Cromwell, and is better

known to the world, perhaps, by his Essay on the possibility of a passage

(or, as the famous author of the "Pursuits of Literature" said, by way of

an episcopal metaphor, the possibility of a _translation_) to the moon.

[11] One omission occurs to me on reviewing this account of the Ziph,

which is--that I should have directed the accent to be placed on the

intercalated syllable: thus _ship_ becomes _shigip_, with the emphasis on

_gip_; _run_ becomes _rugún_, &c.

[12] Written twenty years ago.

[13] But see the note on this point at the end of the volume.

[14] Lord Westport's age at that time was the same as my own; that is, we

both wanted a few months of being fifteen. But I had the advantage,

perhaps, in thoughtfulness and observation of life. Being thoroughly

free, however, from opinionativeness, Lord Westport readily came over to

any views of mine for which I could show sufficient grounds. And on this

occasion I found no difficulty in convincing him that honor and fidelity

did not form sufficient guaranties for the custody of secrets. Presence

of mind so as to revive one's obligations in time, tenacity of

recollection, and vigilance over one's own momentary slips of tongue, so

as to keep watch over indirect disclosures, are also requisite. And at

that time I had an instance within my own remembrance where a secret had

been betrayed, by a person of undoubted honor, but most inadvertently

betrayed, and in pure oblivion of his engagement to silence. Indeed,

unless where the secret is of a nature to affect some person's life, I do

not believe that most people would remember beyond a period of two years

the most solemn obligations to secrecy. After a lapse of time, varying of

course with the person, the substance of the secret will remain upon the

mind; but how he came by the secret, or under what circumstances, he will

very probably have forgotten. It is unsafe to rely upon the most

religious or sacramental obligation to secrecy, unless, together with the

secret, you could transfer also a magic ring that should, by a growing

pressure or puncture, _sting_ a man into timely alarm and warning.