JOY-MONTH.

Oh, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings!

How he pours the dear pain of his gladness!

What a gush! and from out what golden springs!

What a rage of how sweet madness!

And golden the buttercup blooms by the way,

A song of the joyous ground;

While the melody rained from yonder spray

Is a blossom in fields of sound.

How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves!

How whispers each blade, "I am blest!"

Rosy heaven his lips to flowered earth gives,

With the costliest bliss of his breast.

Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature,

By cups of field and of sky,

By the brimming soul of every creature!--

Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I!

Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!--

Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree,

To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs!

They utter the heart in me.

A TRIP TO CUBA.

[Continued.]

THE HARBOR OF HAVANA.

As we have said, there were some official mysteries connected with the

arrival of our steamer in Nassau; but these did not compare with the

visitations experienced in Havana. As soon as we had dropped anchor, a

swarm of dark creatures came on board, with gloomy brows, mulish noses,

and suspicious eyes. This application of Spanish flies proves irritating

to the good-natured captain, and uncomfortable to all of us. All

possible documents are produced for their satisfaction,--bill of lading,

bill of health, and so on. Still they persevere in tormenting the whole

ship's crew, and regard us, when we pass, with all the hatred of race in

their rayless eyes. "Is it a crime," we are disposed to ask, "to have

a fair Saxon skin, blue eyes, and red blood?" Truly, one would seem to

think so; and the first glance at this historical race makes clear to us

the Inquisition, the Conquest of Granada, and the ancient butcheries of

Alva and Pizarro.

As Havana is an unco uncertain place for accommodations, we do not go on

shore, the first night, but, standing close beside the bulwarks, feel a

benevolent pleasure in seeing our late companions swallowed and carried

off like tidbits by the voracious boatmen below, who squabble first for

them and then with them, and so gradually disappear in the darkness. On

board the "Karnak" harmony reigns serene. The custom-house wretches are

gone, and we are, on the whole, glad we did not murder them. Our little

party enjoys tea and bread-and-butter together for the last time. After

so many mutual experiences of good and evil, the catguts about our tough

old hearts are loosened, and discourse the pleasant music of Friendship.

An hour later, I creep up to the higher deck, to have a look-out

forward, where the sailors are playing leap-frog and dancing

fore-and-afters. I have a genuine love of such common sights, and am

quite absorbed by the good fun before me, when a solemn voice sounds at

my left, and, looking round, I perceive Can Grande, who has come up to

explain to me the philosophy of the sailor's dances, and to unfold his

theory of amusements, as far as the narrow area of one little brain

(mine, not his) will permit. His monologue, and its interruptions, ran

very much as follows:--

_I_.--This is a pleasant sight, isn't it?

_Can Grande_.--It has a certain interest, as exhibiting the inborn ideal

tendency of the human race;--no tribe of people so wretched, so poor, or

so infamous as to dispense with amusement, in some form or other.

_Voice from below_.--Play up, Cook! That's but a slow jig ye're fluting

away at.

_Can Grande_.--I went once to the Five Points of New York, with a

police-officer and two philanthropists;--our object was to investigate

that lowest phase of social existence.----

Bang, whang, go the wrestlers below, with loud shouts and laughter. I

give them one eye and ear,--Can Grande has me by the other.

_Can Grande_.--I went into one of their miserable dance-saloons. I saw

there the vilest of men and the vilest of women, meeting with the worst

intentions; but even for this they had the fiddle, music and dancing.

Without this little crowning of something higher, their degradation

would have been intolerable to themselves and to each other.----

Here the man who gave the back in leap-frog suddenly went down in the

middle of the leap, bringing with him the other, who, rolling on the

deck, caught the traitor by the hair, and pommelled him to his heart's

content. I ventured to laugh, and exclaim, "Did you see that?"

_Can Grande_.--Yes; that is very common.--At that dance of death, every

wretched woman had such poor adornment as her circumstances allowed,--a

collar, a tawdry ribbon, a glaring false jewel, her very rags disposed

with the greater decency of the finer sex,--a little effort at beauty, a

sense of it. The good God puts it there;--He does not allow the poorest,

the lowest of his human children the thoughtless indifference of

brutes.----

And there was the beautiful tropical sky above, starry, soft, and

velvet-deep,--the placid waters all around, and at my side the man who

is to speak no more in public, but whose words in private have still the

old thrill, the old power to shake the heart and bring the good thoughts

uppermost. I put my hand in his, and we descended the companionway

together and left the foolish sailors to their play.

But now, on the after-deck, the captain, much entreated, and in no wise

unwilling, takes down his violin, and with pleasant touch gives us the

dear old airs, "Home, Sweet Home," "Annie Laurie," and so on, and we

accompany him with voices toned down by the quiet of the scene around.

He plays, too, with a musing look, the merry tune to which his little

daughter dances, in the English dancing-school, hundreds of leagues

away. Good-night, at last, and make the most of it. Coolness and quiet

on the water to-night, and heat and mosquitoes, howling of dogs and

chattering of negroes tomorrow night, in Havana.

The next morning allowed us to accomplish our transit to the desired

land of Havana. We pass the custom-house, where an official in a cage,

with eyes of most oily sweetness, and tongue, no doubt, to match,

pockets our gold, and imparts in return a governmental permission to

inhabit the Island of Cuba for the space of one calendar month. We go

trailing through the market, where we buy peeled oranges, and through

the streets, where we eat them, seen and recognized afar as Yankees by

our hats, bonnets, and other features. We stop at the Café Dominica, and

refresh with coffee and buttered rolls, for we have still a drive of

three miles to accomplish before breakfast. All the hotels in Havana are

full, and more than full. Woolcut, of the Cerro, three miles from the

gates, is the only landlord who will take us in; so he seizes us fairly

by the neck, bundles us into an omnibus, swears that his hotel is but

two miles distant, smiles archly when we find the two miles long, brings

us where he wants to have us, the Spaniards in the omnibus puffing and

staring at the ladies all the way. Finally, we arrive at his hotel, glad

to be somewhere, but hot, tired, hungry, and not in raptures with our

first experience of tropical life.

It must be confessed that our long-tried energies fall somewhat flat on

the quiet of Woolcut's. We look round, and behold one long room with

marble floor, with two large doors, not windows, opening in front upon

the piazza and the street, and other openings into a large court behind,

surrounded by small, dark bedrooms. The large room is furnished with two

dilapidated cane sofas, a few chairs, a small table, and three or four

indifferent prints, which we have ample time to study. For company, we

see a stray New York or Philadelphia family, a superannuated Mexican who

smiles and bows to everybody, and some dozen of those undistinguishable

individuals whom we class together as Yankees, and who, taking the map

from Maine to Georgia, might as well come from one place as another, the

Southerner being as like the Northerner as a dried pea is to a green

pea. The ladies begin to hang their heads, and question a little:--"What

are we to do here? and where is the perfectly delightful Havana you told

us of?" Answer:--"There is nothing whatever to do here, at this hour

of the day, but to undress and go to sleep;--the heat will not let you

stir, the glare will not let you write or read. Go to bed; dinner is at

four; and after that, we will make an effort to find the Havana of the

poetical and Gan Eden people, praying Heaven it may not have its only

existence in their brains."

Still, the pretty ones do not brighten; they walk up and down, eyeing

askance the quiet boarders who look so contented over their children and

worsted-work, and wondering in what part of the world they have taken

the precaution to leave their souls. Unpacking is then begun, with

rather a flinging of the things about, interspersed with little peppery

hints as to discomfort and dulness, and dejected stage-sighs, intended

for hearing. But this cannot go on,--the thermometer is at 78 degrees

in the shade,--an intense and contagious stillness reigns through the

house,--some good genius waves a bunch of poppies near those little

fretful faces, for which a frown is rather heavy artillery. The balmy

breath of sleep blows off the lightly-traced furrows, and, after a

dreamy hour or two, all is bright, smooth, and freshly dressed, as a

husband could wish it. The dinner proves not intolerable, and after it

we sit on the piazza. A refreshing breeze springs up, and presently the

tide of the afternoon drive sets in from the city. The _volantes_ dash

by, with silver-studded harnesses, and postilions black and booted;

within sit the pretty Señoritas, in twos and threes. They are attired

mostly in muslins, with bare necks and arms; bonnets they know

not,--their heads are dressed with flowers, or with jewelled pins. Their

faces are whitened, we know, with powder, but in the distance the effect

is pleasing. Their dark eyes are vigilant; they know a lover when they

see him. But there is no twilight in these parts, and the curtain of the

dark falls upon the scene as suddenly as the screen of the theatre upon

the _dénouement_ of the tragedy. Then comes a cup of truly infernal tea,

the mastication of a stale roll, with butter, also stale,--then,

more sitting on the piazza,--then, retirement, and a wild hunt after

mosquitoes,--and so ends the first day at Woolcut's, on the Cerro.

HAVANA. THE HOTELS.

"Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" Yes, truly, if you can get it,

Jack Falstaff; but it is one thing to pay for comfort, and another thing

to have it. You certainly pay for it, in Havana; for the $3 or $3.50

_per diem_, which is your simplest hotel-charge there, should, in any

civilized part of the world, give you a creditable apartment, clean

linen, and all reasonable diet. What it does give, the travelling public

may like to learn.

Can Grande has left Woolcut's. The first dinner did not please him,--the

cup of tea, with only bread, exasperated,--and the second breakfast,

greasy, peppery, and incongruous, finished his disgust; so he asked for

his bill, packed his trunk, called the hotel detestable, and went.

Now he was right enough in this; the house is detestable;--but as all

houses of entertainment throughout the country are about equally so,

it is scarcely fair to complain of one. I shall not fear to be more

inclusive in my statement, and to affirm that in no part of the world

does one get so little comfort for so much money as on the Island of

Cuba. To wit: an early cup of black coffee, oftenest very bad; bread not

to be had without an extra sputtering of Spanish, and darkening of the

countenance;--to wit, a breakfast between nine and ten, invariably

consisting of fish, rice, beefsteak, fried plantains, salt cod with

tomatoes, stewed tripe and onions, indifferent claret, and an after-cup

of coffee or green tea;--to wit, a dinner at three or four, of which

the inventory varieth not,--to wit, a plate of soup, roast beef, tough

turkeys and chickens, tolerable ham, nameless stews, cajota, plantains,

salad, sweet potatoes; and for dessert, a spoonful each of West India

preserve,--invariably the kind you do not like,--oranges, bananas, and

another cup of coffee;--to wit, tea of the sort already described;--to

wit, attendance and non-attendance of negro and half-breed waiters, who

mostly speak no English, and neither know nor care what you want;--to

wit, a room whose windows, reaching from floor to ceiling, inclose no

glass, and are defended from the public by iron rails, and from the

outer air, at desire, by clumsy wooden shutters, which are closed only

when it rains;--to wit, a bed with a mosquito-netting;--to wit, a towel

and a pint of water, for all ablutions. This is the sum of your comforts

as to quantity; but as to their quality, experience alone can enlighten

you.

Taking pity on my exile at the Cerro, Can Grande and his party invite

me to come and spend a day at their hotel, of higher reputation, and

situated in the centre of things. I go;--the breakfast, to my surprise,

is just like Woolcut's; the dinner _idem_, but rather harder to get;

preserves for tea, and two towels daily, instead of one, seem to

constitute the chief advantages of this establishment. Domestic linens,

too, are fairer than elsewhere; but when you have got your ideas of

cleanliness down to the Cuban standard, a shade or two either way makes

no material difference.

Can Grande comes and goes; for stay in the hotel, behind those

prison-gratings, he cannot. He goes to the market and comes back, goes

to the Jesuit College and comes back, goes to the banker's and gets

money. In his encounters with the sun he is like a prize-fighter coming

up to time. Every round finds him weaker and weaker, still his pluck is

first-rate, and he goes at it again. It is not until three, P.M., that

he wrings out his dripping pocket-handkerchief, slouches his hat over

his brows, and gives in as dead-beat.

They of the lovely sex, meanwhile, undergo, with what patience they may,

an Oriental imprisonment. In the public street they must on no account

set foot. The Creole and Spanish women are born and bred to this, and

the hardiest American or English woman will scarcely venture out a

second time without the severe escort of husband or brother. These

relatives are, accordingly, in great demand. In the thrifty North, man

is considered an incumbrance from breakfast to dinner,--and the sooner

he is fed and got out of the way in the morning, the better the work

of the household goes on. If the master of the house return at an

unseasonable hour, he is held to an excuse, and must prove a headache,

or other suitable indisposition. In Havana, on the contrary, the

American woman suddenly becomes very fond of her husband:--"he must not

leave her at home alone; where does he go? she will go with him; when

will he come back? remember, now, she will expect him." The secret of

all this is, that she cannot go out without him. The other angel of

deliverance is the _volante_, with its tireless horses and _calesero_,

who seems fitted and screwed to the saddle, which he never leaves. He

does not even turn his head for orders. His senses are in the back of

his head, or wherever his mistress pleases. "_José, calle de la muralla,

esquina á los oficios_,"--and the black machine moves on, without look,

word, or sign of intelligence. In New York, your Irish coachman grins

approval of your order; and even an English flunkey may touch his hat

and say, "Yes, Mum." But in the Cuban negro of service, dumbness is the

complement of darkness;--you speak, and the patient right hand pulls the

strap that leads the off horse, while the other gathers up the reins of

the nigh, and the horses, their tails tightly braided and deprived of

all movement, seem as mechanical as the driver. Happy are the ladies

at the hotel who have a perpetual _volante_ at their service! for they

dress in their best clothes three times a day, and do not soil them by

contact with the dusty street. They drive before breakfast, and shop

before dinner, and after dinner go to flirt their fans and refresh their

robes on the Paseo, where the fashions drive. At twilight, they stop at

friendly doors and pay visits, or at the entrance of the _café_, where

ices are brought out to them. At eight o'clock they go to the Plaza, and

hear the band play, sitting in the _volante_; and at ten they come home,

without fatigue, having all day taken excellent care of number one,

beyond which their arithmetic does not extend. "I and my _volante_" is

like Cardinal Wolsey's "_Ego et Rex meus_."

As for those who have no _volantes_, modesty becomes them, and quietness

of dress and demeanor. They get a little walk before breakfast, and stay

at home all day, or ride in an omnibus, which is perhaps worse;--they

pay a visit now and then in a hired carriage, the bargain being made

with difficulty;--they look a good deal through the bars of the

windows, and remember the free North, and would, perhaps, envy the

_volante_-commanding women, did not dreadful Moses forbid.

One alleviation of the tedium of hotel-life in the city is the almost

daily visit of the young man from the dry-goods' shop, who brings

samples of lawns, misses' linen dresses, piña handkerchiefs, and fans of

all prices, from two to seventy-five dollars. The ladies cluster like

bees around these flowery goods, and, after some hours of bargaining,

disputing, and purchasing, the vendor pockets the golden honey, and

marches off. As dress-makers in Havana are scarce, dear, and bad, our

fair friends at the hotel make up these dresses mostly themselves, and

astonish their little world every day by appearing in new attire. "How

extravagant!" you say. They reply, "Oh! it cost nothing for the making;

I made it myself." But we remember to have heard somewhere that "Time

is Money." At four in the afternoon, a negress visits in turn

every bedroom, sweeps out the mosquitoes from the curtains with a

feather-brush, and lets down the mosquito-net, which she tucks in around

the bed. After this, do not meddle with your bed until it is time to get

into it; then put the light away, open the net cautiously, enter with a

dexterous swing, and close up immediately, leaving no smallest opening

to help them after. In this mosquito-net you live, move, and have your

being until morning; and should you venture to pull it aside, even for

an hour, you will appall your friends, next morning, with a face which

suggests the early stages of small-pox, or the spotted fever.

The valuable information I have now communicated is the sum of what I

learned in that one day at Mrs. Almy's; and though our party speedily

removed thither, I doubt whether I shall be able to add to it anything

of importance.

HAVANA. YOUR BANKER. OUR CONSUL. THE FRIENDLY CUP OF TEA.

One is apt to arrive in Havana with a heart elated by the prospect of

such kindnesses and hospitalities as are poetically supposed to be

the perquisite of travellers. You count over your letters as so many

treasures; you regard the unknown houses you pass as places of deposit

for the new acquaintances and delightful friendships which await you.

In England, say you, each of these letters would represent a pleasant

family-mansion thrown open to your view,--a social breakfast,--a dinner

of London wits,--a box at the opera,--or the visit of a lord, whose

perfect carriage and livery astonish the quiet street in which you

lodge, and whose good taste and good manners should, one thinks, prove

contagious, at once soothing and shaming the fretful Yankee conceit. But

your Cuban letters, like fairy money, soon turn to withered leaves in

your possession, and, having delivered two or three of them, you employ

the others more advantageously, as shaving-paper, or for the lighting of

cigars, or any other useful purpose.

Your banker, of course, stands first upon the list,--and to him

accordingly, with a beaming countenance, you present yourself. For him

you have a special letter of recommendation, and, however others may

fail, you consider him as sure as the trump of the deal at whist.

But why, alas, should people, who have gone through the necessary

disappointments of life, prepare for themselves others, which may be

avoided? Listen and learn. At the first visit, your banker is tolerably

glad to see you,--he discounts your modest letter of credit, and pockets

his two and a half _per cent._ with the best grace imaginable. If he

wishes to be very civil, he offers you a seat, offers you a cigar, and

mumbles in an indistinct tone that he will be happy to serve you in any

way. You call again and again, keeping yourself before his favorable

remembrance,--always the same seat, the same cigar, the same desire to

serve you, carefully repressed, and prevented from breaking out into any

overt demonstration of good-will. At last, emboldened by the brilliant

accounts of former tourists and the successes of your friends, you

suggest that you would like to see a plantation,--you only ask for

one,--would he give you a letter, etc., etc.? He assumes an abstracted

air, wonders if he knows anybody who has a plantation,--the fact being

that he scarcely knows any one who has not one. Finally, he will

try,--call again, and he will let you know. You call again,--"Next

week," he says. You call after that interval,--"Next week," again, is

all you get. Now, if you are a thoroughbred man, you can afford to

quarrel with your banker; so you say, "Next week,--why not next

year?"--make a very decided snatch at your hat, and wish him a very long

"good-morning." But if you are a snob, and afraid, you take his neglect

quietly enough, and will boast, when you go home, of his polite

attentions to yourself and family, when on the Island of Cuba.

_Our Consul_ is the next post in the weary journey of your hopes, and

to him, with such assurance as you have left, you now betake yourself.

Touching him personally I have nothing to say. I will only remark, in

general, that the traveller who can find, in any part of the world, an

American Consul not disabled from all service by ill-health, want of

means, ignorance of foreign languages, or unpleasant relations with the

representatives of foreign powers,--that traveller, we say, should go in

search of the sea-serpent, and the passage of the North Pole, for he

has proved himself able to find what, to every one but him, is

undiscoverable.

But who, setting these aside, is to show you any attention? Who will

lift you from the wayside, and set you upon his own horse, or in his

own _volante_, pouring oil and wine upon your wounded feelings? Ah! the

breed of the good Samaritan is never allowed to become extinct in this

world, where so much is left for it to do.

A kind and hospitable American family, long resident in Havana, takes us

up at last. They call upon us, and we lift up our heads a little; they

take us out in their carriage, and we step in with a little familiar

flounce, intended to show that we are used to such things; finally, they

invite us to a friendly cup of tea,--all the hotel knows it,--we have

tarried at home in the shade long enough. Now, people have begun to find

us out,--_we are going out to tea!_

How pleasant the tea-table was! how good the tea! how more than good

the bread-and-butter and plum-cake! how quaint the house of Spanish

construction, all open to the air, adorned with flowers like a temple,

fresh and fragrant, and with no weary upholstery to sit heavy on

the sight! how genial and prolonged the talk! how reluctant the

separation!--imagine it, ye who sing the songs of home in a strange

land. And ye who cannot imagine, forego the pleasure, for I shall tell

you no more about it. I will not, I, give names, to make good-natured

people regret the hospitality they have afforded. If they have

entertained unawares angels and correspondents of the press, (I use the

two terms as synonymous,) they shall not be made aware of it by the

sacrifice of their domestic privacy. All celebrated people do this, and

that we do it not answers for our obscurity.

The cup of tea proves the precursor of many kind services and pleasant

hours. Our new friends assist us to a deal of sight-seeing, and

introduce us to cathedral, college, and garden. We walk out with them

at sunrise and at sunset, and sit under the stately trees, and think it

almost strange to be at home with people of our own race and our own way

of thinking, so far from the home-surroundings. For the gardens, they

may chiefly be described as triumphs of Nature over Art,--our New

England horticulture being, on the contrary, the triumph of Art over

Nature, after a hard-fought battle. Here, the avenues of palm and cocoa

are magnificent, and the flowers new to us, and very brilliant. But

pruning and weeding out are hard tasks for Creole natures, with only

negroes to help them. There is for the most part a great overgrowth

and overrunning of the least desirable elements, a general air of

slovenliness and unthrift; in all artificial arrangements decay seems

imminent, and the want of idea in the laying out of grounds is a

striking feature. In Italian villas, the feeling of the Beautiful, which

has produced a race of artists, is everywhere manifest,--everywhere are

beautiful forms and picturesque effects. Even the ruins of Rome seem to

be held together by this fine bond. No stone dares to drop, no arch to

moulder, but with an exquisite and touching grace. And the weeds, oh!

the weeds that hung their little pennon on the Coliseum, how graciously

do they float, as if they said,--"Breathe softly, lest this crumbling

vision of the Past go down before the rude touch of the modern world!"

And so, one treads lightly, and speaks in hushed accents; lest, in the

brilliant Southern noon, one should wake the sleeping heart of Rome to

the agony of her slow extinction.

But what is all this? We are dreaming of Rome,--and this is Cuba, where

the spirit of Art has never been, and where it could not pass without

sweeping out from houses, churches, gardens, and brains, such trash as

has rarely been seen and endured elsewhere. They show us, for example,

some mutilated statues in the ruins of what is called the Bishop's

Garden. Why, the elements did a righteous work, when they effaced the

outlines of these coarse and trivial shapes, unworthy even the poor

marble on which they were imposed. Turning from these, however, we

find lovely things enough to rebuke this savage mood of criticism. The

palm-trees are unapproachable in beauty,--they stand in rows like Ionic

columns, straight, strong, and regular, with their plumed capitals. They

talk solemnly of the Pyramids and the Desert, whose legends have been

whispered to them by the winds that cross the ocean, freighted with the

thoughts of God. Then, these huge white lilies, deep as goblets, which

one drinks fragrance from, and never exhausts,--these thousand unknown

jewels of the tropic. Here is a large tank, whose waters are covered

with the leaves and flowers of beautiful aquatic plants, whose Latin

names are of no possible consequence to anybody. Here, in the very heart

of the garden, is a rustic lodge, curtained with trailing vines. Birds

in cages are hung about it, and a sweet voice, singing within, tells us

that the lodge is the cage of a more costly bird. We stop to listen,

and the branches of the trees seem to droop more closely about us, the

twilight lays its cool, soft touch upon our heated foreheads, and we

whisper,--"Peace to his soul!" as we leave the precincts of the Bishop's

Garden.

SOME INEDITED MEMORIALS OF SMOLLETT.

A hundred years and upwards have elapsed since Fielding and Smollett,

the fathers and chiefs of the modern school of English novel-writing,

fairly established their claims to the dignified eminence they have ever

since continued to enjoy; and the passage of time serves but to confirm

them in their merited honors. Their pictures of life and manners are no

longer, it is true, so familiar as in their own days to the great mass

of readers; but this is an incident that scarce any author can hope to

avert. The changes of habits and customs, and the succession of writers

who in their turn essay to hold the mirror up to Nature, must always

produce such a result. But while the mind of man is capable of enjoying

the most fortunate combinations of genius and fancy, the most faithful

expositions of the springs of action, the most ludicrous and the most

pathetic representations of human conduct, the writings of Fielding and

Smollett will be read and their memories kept green. Undeterred by those

coarsenesses of language and occasional grossnesses of detail (which

were often less their own fault than that of the age) that frequently

disfigure the pages of "Amelia" and "Roderick Random," men will always

be found to yield their whole attention to the story, and to recognize

in every line the touches of the master's hand.

Were any needed, stronger proof of the truth of this proposition could

not be given than is afforded by the zeal with which the greatest

novelists since their day have turned aside to contemplate and to

chronicle the career of this immortal pair, whose names, notwithstanding

the dissimilarity of genius and style, seem destined to be as eternally

coupled together as those of the twin sons of Leda. To the rescue

from oblivion of their personal histories, a host of biographers have

appeared, scattered over the whole period that has elapsed since their

deaths to the present time. The first life that appeared of Tobias

George Smollett came from the hands of his friend and companion, the

celebrated Dr. Moore, himself a novel-writer of no mean fame. To him

succeeded Anderson; who in turn was followed by Sir Walter Scott, the

fruits of whose unrivalled capacity for obtaining information are before

the world in the form of a most delightful memoir. So that when

Roscoe, at a later date, took up the same theme, he found that the

investigations of his predecessors had left him little more to do than

to make selections or abridgments, and to arrange what new matter he

had come into possession of. One would have thought that with all these

labors the public appetite should have been satisfied,--that everything

apt to be heard with interest of and about Smollett had been said. So

far from this being the case, however, it was but a few years ago, that,

as we all recollect, the brilliant pen of Thackeray was brought to bear

on the same subject, and the great humorist of this generation employed

his talents worthily in illustrating the genius of a past age.

"'Humphrey Clinker,'" says he, "is, I do believe, the most laughable

story that has ever been written since the goodly art of novel-writing

began." This is strong praise, though but of a single book; yet it falls

short of the general estimate that Walter Scott formed of the capacity

of our author. "We readily grant to Smollett," he says, "an equal rank

with his great rival, Fielding, while we place both far above any of

their successors in the same line of fictitious composition."

After the testimonies we have cited, it would be useless to seek other

approbation of Smollett's merits.

"From higher judgment-seats make no appeal

To lower."

Yet, with all his imaginative power and humorous perception, it cannot

be gainsaid that there was a great lack of delicacy in the composition

of his mind,--a deficiency which, even in his own days, gave just

offence to readers of the best taste, and which he himself was sometimes

so candid as to acknowledge and to correct. Its existence is too often

a sufficient cause to deter any but minds of a certain masculine vigor

from the perusal of such a work as "Roderick Random"; and yet this work

was an especial favorite with the most refined portion of the public in

the latter half of the last century. Burke delighted in it, and would

no doubt often read from it aloud to the circle of guests of both sexes

that gathered about him at Beaconsfield; and Elia makes his imaginary

aunt refer to the pleasure with which in her younger days she had read

the story of that unfortunate young nobleman whose adventures make such

a figure in "Peregrine Pickle." So great is the change in the habit of

thought and expression in less than half a century, that we believe

there is not in all America a gentleman who would now venture to read

either of these works aloud to a fireside group. Smollett's Muse was

free enough herself; in all conscience;--

"High-kirtled was she,

As she gaed o'er the lea";--

but in "Peregrine Pickle," beside the natural incidents, there are two

long episodes foisted upon the story, neither of which has any lawful

connection with the matter in hand, and one of which, indelicate and

indecent in the extreme, does not appear to have even been of his

own composition. Reference is here made to the "Memoirs of a Lady of

Quality," and to the passages respecting young Annesley; and since

biographers do not seem to have touched especially on the manner of

their introduction into the novel, we will give a word or two to this

point.

John Taylor, in the Records of his Life, states that the memoirs of Lady

Vane, as they appear in "Peregrine Pickle," were actually written by

an Irish gentleman of wealth, a Mr. Denis McKerchier, who at the time

entertained relations with that abandoned, shameless woman; so that, if,

as was probably the case, she paid Smollett a sum of money to procure

their incorporation in his pages, there could have been no other motive

to actuate her conduct than a desire to blazon her own fall or to

mortify the feelings of her husband. The latter is the more likely

alternative, if we are to believe that Lord Vane himself stooped to

employ Dr. Hill to prepare a history of Lady Frail, by way of retorting

the affront he had received. This Mr. McKerchier in season broke with

her Ladyship, and refused her admission to his dying bedside; but, in

the mean time, his Memoirs had gone out to the world, and had greatly

conduced to the popularity and sale of Smollett's novel. He was also the

patron of Annesley, that unfortunate young nobleman whose romantic

life has furnished Godwin and Scott with a foundation for their most

highly-wrought novels; and it was, we may judge, from his own lips that

Smollett received the narrative of his _protégé_'s adventures. Whatever

we may think, however, of the introduction of scenes that were of

sufficient importance to suggest such books as "Cloudesley" and "Guy

Mannering," there can be but one opinion as to the bad taste which

governed Smollett, when he consented to overload "Peregrine Pickle"

with Lady Vane's memoirs; and if lucre were indeed at the bottom of the

business, it assumes a yet graver aspect.

But the business of this article is not to dwell upon matters that are

already in print, and to which the general reader can have easy access.

To such as are desirous of obtaining a full account of the life and

genius of Smollett, prepared with all the aids that are to be derived

from a thorough knowledge of the question, we would suggest the perusal

of an exceedingly well-written article in the London Quarterly Review

for January, 1858; and we will here heartily express a regret that the

unpublished materials which have found a place in this magazine could

not have been in the hands of the author of that paper. It is certain he

would have made a good use of them. As it is, however, they will perhaps

possess an additional interest to the public from the fact that they

have never before seen the light.

It is something, says Washington Irving, to have seen the dust of

Shakspeare. It is assuredly not less true that one can hardly examine

without a peculiar emotion the private letters of such a man as

Smollett. A strange sensation accompanies the unfolding of the faded

sheets, that have hardly been disturbed during the greater part of a

century. And as one at least of the documents in question is of an

almost autobiographical character, its tattered folds at once assume a

value to the literary student far beyond the usual scope of an inedited

autograph.

The first letter to which we shall call attention was written by

Smollett in 1763. It was in reply to one from Richard Smith, Esq., of

Burlington, New Jersey, by whose family it has been carefully preserved,

together with a copy of the letter which called it forth. Mr. Smith was

a highly respectable man, and in later years, when the Revolution broke

out, a delegate from his Province to the first and second Continental

Congress. He had written to Smollett, expressing his hopes that the

King had gratified with a pension the author of "Peregrine Pickle" and

"Roderick Random," and asking under what circumstances these books were

composed, and whether they contained any traces of his correspondent's

real adventures. He adverts to a report that, in the case of "Sir

Launcelot Greaves," Smollett had merely lent his name to "a mercenary

bookseller." "The Voyages which go under your name Mr. Rivington (whom

I consulted on the matter) tells me are only nominally your's, or, at

least, were chiefly collected by understrappers. Mr. Rivington also

gives me such an account of the shortness of time in which you wrote

the History, as is hardly credible." A list of Smollett's genuine

publications is also requested.

The Mr. Rivington referred to in the foregoing extract was probably the

well-known New York bookseller, whose press was so obnoxious to the

Whigs a few years later. To the letter itself Smollett thus replied:--

DR. SMOLLETT TO MR. SMITH.

"Sir,--I am favoured with your's of the 26th of February, and cannot

but be pleased to find myself, as a writer, so high in your esteem. The

curiosity you express, with regard to the particulars of my life and

the variety of situations in which I may have been, cannot be gratified

within the compass of a letter. Besides, there are some particulars of

my life which it would ill become me to relate. The only similitude

between the circumstances of my own fortune and those I have attributed

to Roderick Random consists in my being born of a reputable family in

Scotland, in my being bred a surgeon, and having served as a surgeon's

mate on board a man-of-war during the expedition to Carthagena. The low

situations in which I have exhibited Roderick I never experienced in my

own person. I married very young, a native of Jamaica, a young lady well

known and universally respected under the name of Miss Nancy Lassells,

and by her I enjoy a comfortable, tho' moderate estate in that island. I

practised surgery in London, after having improved myself by travelling

in France and other foreign countries, till the year 1749, when I took

my degree of Doctor in Medicine, and have lived ever since in Chelsea (I

hope) with credit and reputation.

"No man knows better than Mr. Rivington what time I employed in writing

the four first volumes of the History of England; and, indeed, the short

period in which that work was finished appears almost incredible to

myself, when I recollect that I turned over and consulted above three

hundred volumes in the course of my labour. Mr. Rivington likewise

knows that I spent the best part of a year in revising, correcting, and

improving the quarto edition; which is now going to press, and will be

continued in the same size to the late Peace. Whatever reputation I may

have got by this work has been dearly purchased by the loss of health,

which I am of opinion I shall never retrieve. I am now going to the

South of France, in order to try the effects of that climate; and very

probably I shall never return. I am much obliged to you for the hope you

express that I have obtained some provision from his Majesty; but the

truth is, I have neither pension nor place, nor am I of that disposition

which can stoop to solicit either. I have always piqued myself upon my

Independancy, and I trust in God I shall preserve it to my dying day.

"Exclusive of some small detached performances that have been published

occasionally in papers and magazines, the following is a genuine list of

my productions. Roderick Random. The Regicide, a Tragedy. A translation

of Gil Blas. A translation of Don Quixotte. An Essay upon the external

use of water. Peregrine Pickle. Ferdinand Count Fathom. Great part of

the Critical Review. A very small part of a Compendium of Voyages. The

complete History of England, and Continuation. A small part of the

Modern Universal History. Some pieces in the British Magazine,

comprehending the whole of Sir Launcelot Greaves. A small part of the

translation of Voltaire's Works, including all the notes, historical and

critical, to be found in that translation.

"I am much mortified to find it is believed in America that I have lent

my name to Booksellers: that is a species of prostitution of which I am

altogether incapable. I had engaged with Mr. Rivington, and made some

progress in a work exhibiting the present state of the world; which work

I shall finish, if I recover my health. If you should see Mr. Rivington,

please give my kindest compliments to him. Tell him I wish him all

manner of happiness, tho' I have little to expect for my own share;

having lost my only child, a fine girl of fifteen, whose death has

overwhelmed myself and my wife with unutterable sorrow.

"I have now complied with your request, and beg, in my turn, you will

commend me to all my friends in America. I have endeavoured more than

once to do the Colonies some service; and am, Sir, your very humble

servant,

"Ts. SMOLLETT.

"London, May 8, 1763."

* * * * *

The foregoing letter, though by no means confidential, must possess

considerable value to any future biographer of the writer. It very

clearly shows the light in which Smollett was willing to be viewed by

the public. It explains the share he took in more than one literary

enterprise, and establishes his paternity of the translation of "Gil

Blas," which has been questioned by Scott and ignored by other critics.

The travels in France, which, according to the letter, could not have

been posterior to 1749, seem unknown even to the Quarterly Reviewer; but

it is possible that here Smollett's memory may have played him false,

and that he confounded 1749 with the following year, when, as is well

known, he visited that kingdom. The reference to his own share in

furnishing the original for the story of "Roderick Random" is curious;

nevertheless it can no longer be doubted that very many of the persons

and scenes of that work, as well as of "Peregrine Pickle," were drawn,

with more or less exaggeration, from his actual experience of men and

manners. And the despondency with which he contemplates his shattered

health and the prospect of finding a grave in a foreign land explains

completely the governing motives that produced, in the concluding pages

of the history of the reign of George II., so calm and impartial a

testimony to the various worth of his literary compeers that it almost

assumes the tone of the voice of posterity. This is the suggestion of

the article in the "Quarterly Review," and the language of the letter

confirms it. Despairing of ever again returning to his accustomed

avocations, and with a frame shattered by sickness and grief, he passes

from the field of busy life to a distant land, where he thinks to leave

his bones; but ere he bids a last farewell to his own soil, he passes in

review the names of those with whom he has for years been on relations

of amity or of ill-will, in his own profession, and, while he makes

their respective merits, so far as in him lies, a part of the history of

their country, he seems to breathe the parting formula of the gladiator

of old,--_Moriturus vos saluto_.

In the first of the ensuing letters an amusing commentary will be found

on Smollett's assertion, that his independent spirit would not stoop to

solicit either place or pension. The papers of which it forms one appear

to have been selected from the private correspondence of Dr. Smollett,

and are preserved among the MSS. of the Library Company of Philadelphia,

to which they were presented by Dr. Benjamin Rush, one of the signers of

the Declaration of Independence, who may have obtained them in Scotland.

Like the letter to Mr. Smith, we are satisfied that these are authentic

documents, and shall deal with them as such here. Lord Shelburne (better

known by his after-acquired title of Marquis of Lansdowne) was the

identical minister whom Pitt, twenty years later, so highly eulogized

for "that capacity of conferring good offices on those he prefers," and

for "his attention to the claims of merit," of which we could wish to

know that Smollett had reaped some benefit. The place sought for was

probably a consulate on the Mediterranean, which would have enabled our

author to look forward with some assurance of faith to longer and easier

years. The Duchess of Hamilton, to whom his Lordship writes, and by whom

his letter seems to have been transmitted to its object, was apparently

the beautiful Elizabeth Gunning, dowager Duchess of Hamilton, but

married, at the date of the letter, to the Duke of Argyle. Having

an English peerage of Hamilton in her own right, it is probable she

preferred to continue her former title.

LORD SHELBURNE TO THE DUCHESS OF HAMILTON.

"_Holt Street, Tuesday._

"Madam,--I am honour'd with your Grace's letter, inclosing one from

Doctor Smollett. It is above a year since I was applied to by Doctor

Smollett, thro' a person I wish'd extremely to oblige; but there were

and still subsist some applications for the same office, of a nature

which it will be impossible to get over in favour of Mr. Smollett, which

makes it impossible for me to give him the least hopes of it. I could

not immediately recollect what had pass'd upon that subject, else I

should have had the honour to answer your Grace's letter sooner. I am

with great truth and respect your Grace's most obedient and most humble

servant.

"SHELBURNE."

* * * * *

The letter bears no month nor year, but is indorsed, apparently by

Smollett himself, as of 1762,--that is, in the year previous to his

expressed aversion to solicitations for place. Yet if there was a man in

England entitled to ask for and to receive some provision by his country

for his broken health and narrow fortunes, that man was Smollett. It is

perhaps a trifling thing to notice, but it may be observed that Lord

Shelburne's communication does not bear any marks of frequent perusal.

The silver sand with which the fresh lines were besprinkled still clings

to the fading ink, furnishing perhaps the only example remaining of the

use of that article. Rousseau, we remember, mentions such sand as the

proper material to be resorted to by one who would be very particular

in his correspondence,--"_employant pour cela le plus beau papier doré,

séchant l'écriture avec de la poudre d'azur et d'argent_"; and Moore

repeats the precept in the example of M. le Colonel Calicot, according

to the text of Miss Biddy, in the "Fudge Family in Paris":--

"Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure

Then sanded it over with silver and azure."

Among the remaining letters in this collection we find some from John

Gray, "teacher of mathematics in Cupar of Fife,"--some from Dr. John

Armstrong, the author of "The Art of Health,"--and one from George

Colman the elder. In 1761, Gray writes to Smollett, thanking him for

kind notices in the "Critical Review," and asking his influence in

regard to certain theories concerning the longitude, of which Gray was

the inventor. In 1770, Colman thus writes:--

GEORGE COLMAN TO DR. SMOLLETT.

"Dear Sir,--I have some idea that Mr. Hamilton about two years ago told

me he should soon receive a piece from you, which he meant, at your

desire, to put into my hands; but since that time I have neither seen

nor heard of the piece.

"I hope you enjoy your health abroad, and shall be glad of every

opportunity to convince you that I am most heartily and sincerely, dear

Sir, your, &c.,

"G. COLMAN.

"London, 28 Sept. 1770."

* * * * *

The piece referred to here by Colman (who was at this period, we

believe, the manager of the Haymarket Theatre) may possibly have been

a farce that was brought out fifteen years later on the Covent-Garden

stage, with the title of "The Israelites, or the Pampered Nabob." Its

merits and its success are said by Scott to have been but slight, and

the proof of its having been written by Smollett very doubtful; so that

it was never printed, and was soon forgotten.

At this time, (1770,) it must be remembered, Smollett was established at

Leghorn, where a milder climate and sunnier skies tended to promote,

we fancy, a serener condition of mind than he had known for years. In

leaving England, he left behind him some friends, but many enemies. In

his literary career, as he himself had not been over-merciful, so he

was in return not always tenderly handled. As a sample of the invective

which was occasionally poured forth on him, we will quote some lines

from "The Race," a dull imitation of "The Dunciad," ascribed to one

Cuthbert Shaw, and published in 1766. Although reprinted in "Dilly's

Repository," (1790,) it has long ago been very properly forgotten, and

is now utterly worthless save for purposes of illustration. The Hamilton

referred to is the same person to whom Colman makes allusion; he was

indeed Smollett's _fidus Achaies._

"--Next Smollet came. What author dare resist

Historian, critic, bard, and novelist?

'To reach thy temple, honoured Fame,' he cried,

'Where, where's an avenue I have not tried?

But since the glorious present of to-day

Is meant to grace alone the poet's lay,

My claim I wave to every art beside,

And rest my plea upon the Regicide.

* * * * *

But if, to crown the labours of my Muse,

Thou, inauspicious, should'st the wreath refuse,

Whoe'er attempts it in this scribbling age

Shall feel the Scottish pow'rs of Crilic rage.

Thus spurn'd, thus disappointed of my aim,

I'll stand a bugbear in the road to Fame,

Each future author's infant hopes undo,

And blast the budding honours of his brow.'

He said,--and, grown with future vengeance big,

Grimly he shook his scientific wig.

To clinch the cause, and fuel add to fire,

Behind came Hamilton, his trusty squire:

Awhile _he_ paus'd, revolving the disgrace,

And gath'ring all the honours of his face;

Then rais'd his head, and, turning to the crowd,

Burst into bellowing, terrible and loud:--

'Hear my resolve; and first by--I swear,

By Smollet, and his gods, whoe'er shall date

With him this day for glorious fame to vie,

Sous'd in the bottom of the ditch shall lie;

And know, the world no other shall confess,

While I have crab-tree, life, or letter-press.'

Scar'd at the menace, _authors_ fearful grew,

Poor Virtue trembled, and e'en Vice look'd blue."

It is unnecessary to pursue this vapid composition to its most lame and

impotent conclusion; it is sufficient to cite it as a specimen-brick of

the hostility which many literary characters entertained against the

author of "Roderick Random." Despite his own birthplace being north of

the Tweed, many Scots were aggrieved at the incidental ridicule with

which characters from "the land o' cakes" are sometimes treated in that

and other works from the same hand; and the picture of Lismahago in

"Humphrey Clinker" is said to have still more violently inflamed their

ire. It is to this feeling on the part of his countrymen that Charles

Lamb alludes, in his essay upon "Imperfect Sympathies." "Speak of

Smollett as a great genius," he says, "and they [the Scots] will retort

upon Hume's History compared with _his_ continuation of it. What if the

historian had continued 'Humphrey Clinker'?" In fact, there were a good

many North Britons, a century ago, who seem to have felt, on the subject

of English censure or ridicule, pretty much as some of our own people do

to-day. No matter how well-founded the objection may be, or how justly

a local habit may be satirized, our sensitiveness is wounded and our

indignation aroused. That the portrait in Lismahago's case was not

altogether overcharged may be deduced from a passage in one of Walter

Scott's letters, in which he likens the behavior and appearance of one

of his oldest and most approved friends to that of the gallant Obadiah

in a similar critical moment. "The noble Captain Ferguson was married on

Monday last. I was present at the bridal, and I assure you the like

hath not been seen since the days of Lismahago. Like his prototype, the

Captain advanced in a jaunty military step, with a kind of leer on

his face that seemed to quiz the whole matter." That the sketch was a

portrait, though doubtless disguised to such an extent as rendered its

introduction permissible, is very probable; and as it is beyond question

one of the masterpieces of English fiction, a few lines may well be

given to the point. With great justice the Quarterly Reviewer pronounces

the character of Lismahago in no whit inferior to that of Scott's Dugald

Dalgetty; and who would not go out of his way to trace any circumstance

in the history of such a conception as that of the valiant Laird of

Drumthwacket, the service-seeking Rittmaster of Swedish Black Dragoons?

Scott himself tells us that he recollected "a good and gallant officer"

who was said to have been the prototype of Lismahago, though probably

the opinion had its origin in "the striking resemblance which he bore in

externals to the doughty Captain." Sir Walter names no name; but there

is a tradition that a certain Major Robert Stobo was the real original

from which the picture was drawn. Stobo may fairly be said to fulfil the

necessary requisites for this theory. That he was as great an oddity as

ever lived is abundantly testified by his own "Memorial," written about

1760, and printed at Pittsburg in 1854, from a copy of the MS. in the

British Museum. At the breaking out of the Seven-Years' War, he was in

Virginia, seeking his fortune under the patronage of his countryman,

Dinwiddie, and thus obtained a captaincy in the expedition which

Washington, in 1754, led to the Great Meadows. On the fall of Fort

Necessity, he was one of the hostages surrendered by Washington to the

enemy; and thus, and by his subsequent doings at Fort Du Quesne and in

Canada, he has linked his name with some interesting passages of our

national history.[A] That he was known to Smollett in after life appears

by a letter from David Hume to the latter, in which his "strange

adventures" are alluded to; and there is considerable resemblance

between these, as narrated by Stobo himself, and those assigned by

the novelist to Lismahago. And, bearing in mind the ineffable

self-complacency with which Stobo always dwells on himself and his

belongings, the description of his person given in the "Memorial"

coincides very well with that of the figure which the novelist makes to

descend in the yard of the Durham inn. One circumstance further may be

noted. We are told of "the noble and sonorous names" which Miss Tabitha

Bramble so much admired: "that Obadiah was an adventitious appellation,

derived from his great-grandfather, who had been one of the original

Covenanters; but Lismahago was the family surname, taken from a place

in Scotland, so called." Now we are not very well versed in Scottish

topography; but we well recollect, that in Dean Swift's "Memoirs of

Captain John Creichton," who was a noted Cavalier in the reigns of

Charles II., James II., and William III., and had borne an active part

in the persecution of "the puir hill-folk," there is mention made of the

name of Stobo. The Captain dwells with no little satisfaction upon the

manner in which, after he had been so thoroughly outwitted by Mass David

Williamson,--the Covenanting minister, who played Achilles among the

women at my Lady Cherrytree's,--he succeeded in circumventing and taking

prisoner "a notorious rebel, one Adam Stobow, a farmer in Fife near

Culross." And later in the same book occurs a very characteristic

passage:--"_Having drunk hard one night_, I dreamed that I had found

Captain David Steele, a notorious rebel, in one of the five farmers'

houses on a mountain in the shire of Clydesdale and parish of Lismahago,

within eight miles of Hamilton, a place I was well acquainted with."

Lest the marvellous fulfilment of Creichton's dream should induce other

seekers to have resort to a like self-preparation, we will merely add,

that the village of Hamilton is hard by the castle of the Duke of that

name, to whose family we have already seen Smollett was under some

obligations, and that it is described in the same pages with Lismahago.

It is not improbable, therefore, that, being at Hamilton, the novelist's

attention may have been attracted to "Creichton's Memoirs," which treat

of the adjacent districts, and that the mention of Stobo's name therein

may have suggested to his mind its connection with Lismahago. Certainly

there was no antecedent work to "Humphrey Clinker," in which, as we may

believe, either of these names finds a place, save this of Creichton;

and as, throughout the whole series of letters, Smollett does not

profess to avoid the introduction of actual persons and events, often

even with no pretence of disguise, we need not hesitate to think that

he would make no difficulty of turning the eccentricities of a half-pay

officer to some useful account.

[Footnote A: Some amusing particulars concerning Stobo may be found also

in the _Journal of Lieut. Simon Stevens:_ Boston 1760.--EDS. ATLANTIC.]

But we have wandered too far away from the business of his

correspondence. The next letter that we shall examine is one from John

Gray, dated at Florence, Nov. 15th, 1770, to Smollett, at Leghorn. It

abounds in details of the writer's attempts at the translation of a

French play for the English stage, on which he desires a judgment; and

cites verses from several of the songs it contains,--one of them being

that so familiar to American ears thirty years since, when Lafayette was

making his last tour through this country:--

"Où peut on être mieux

Qu'au sein de sa famille?"

Gray had been at Leghorn, on his way to Rome; and now amuses his

correspondent with the inconveniences of his journey under the auspices

of a tippling companion, with his notions about Pisa and Italy in

general, and with particulars of public intelligence from home, some

of which relate to Smollett's old antagonist, Admiral Knowles.--"I

despaired of executing Mrs. Smollett's commission," he says, "for there

was no ultramarine to be found in the shops; but I at length procured a

little from Mr. Patch, which I have sent along with the patterns in

Mrs. Varrien's letter, hoping that the word _Mostre_ on the back of the

letter will serve for a passport to all. The ultramarine costs nothing;

therefore, if it arrives safe, the commission is finished."

We next have a couple of letters from Dr. Armstrong; which, on account

of his ancient and enduring friendship for Smollett, and of the

similarity in their careers, may be given at large. Armstrong was a

wrongheaded, righthearted man,--a surgeon in the army, we believe,--and

a worshipper of Apollo, as well in his proper person as in that of

Esculapius. In these, and in the varied uses to which he turned his pen,

the reader will see a similarity to the story of his brother Scot. That

he was occasionally splenetic in his disposition is very manifest.

His quarrel with Wilkes, with whom he had been on terms of intimate

friendship, finds a parallel in Smollett's own history. The first

letter is without date; but the reference to the publication of his

"Miscellanies" fixes it as of 1770, and at London.

DR. ARMSTRONG TO DR. SMOLLETT.

"My dear Doctor,--I reproach myself;--but it is as insignificant as

embarrassing to explain some things;--so much for that. As to my

confidence in your stamina, I can see no reason to flinch from it; but I

wish you would avoid all unwholesome accidents as much as possible.

"I am quite serious about my visit to you next autumn. My scheme is now

to pass my June or July at Paris; from thence to set out for Italy,

either over the Alps or by sea from Marseilles. I don't expect the

company of my widow lumber, or any other that may be too fat and

indolent for such an excursion; and hope to pick up some agreeable

companion without being at the expense of advertising.

"You feel exactly as I do on the subject of State Politicks. But from

some late glimpses it is still to be hoped that some _Patriots_ may be

disappointed in their favourite views of involving their country in

confusion and destruction. As to the K. Bench patriot, it is hard to say

from what motive he published a letter of your's asking some trifling

favour of him on behalf of somebody for whom _the Cham of Literature_,

Mr. Johnson, had interested himself. I have within this month published

what I call my Miscellanies. Tho' I admitted my operator to an equal

share of profit and loss, the publication has been managed in such

a manner as if there had been a combination to suppress it:

notwithstanding which, it makes its way very tolerably at least. But I

have heard to-day that somebody is to give me a good trimming very soon.

"All friends remember you very kindly, and our little club at the Q.

Arms never fail to devote a bumper to you, except when they are in the

humour of drinking none but scoundrels. I send my best compliments to

Mrs. Smollett and two other ladies, and beg you'll write me as soon

as suits you: and with black ink. I am always, my dear Doctor, most

affectionately yours,--

"JOHN ARMSTRONG."

* * * * *

The letter to Wilkes had been written many years before, to obtain his

assistance in procuring the release of Johnson's black servant, who had

been impressed. It was couched in free terms respecting Dr. Johnson, and

was probably now given by Wilkes to the press in the hope that it might

do its author harm with the _Cham_, or at least cause the latter some

annoyance.

Armstrong's next letter finds him arrived in Italy, and on the eve of

repairing to his friend at Leghorn.

DR. ARMSTRONG TO DR. SMOLLETT.

"_Rome, 2nd June_, 1770.

"Dear Doctor,--I arrived here last Thursday night, and since that have

already seen all the most celebrated wonders of Rome. But I am most

generally disappointed in these matters; partly, I suppose, from my

expectations being too high. But what I have seen has been in such a

hurry as to make it a fatigue: besides, I have strolled about amongst

them neither in very good humour nor very good health.

"I have delayed writing till I could lay before you the plan of my

future operations for a few weeks. I propose to post it to Naples about

the middle of next week, along with a Colonel of our Country, who seems

to be a very good-natured man. After remaining a week or ten days there,

I shall return hither, and, after having visited Tivoli and Frascati,

set out for Leghorn, if possible, in some vessel from Civita Vecchia;

for I hate the lodgings upon the road in this country. I don't expect to

be happy till I see Leghorn; and if I find my Friend in such health as I

wish him, or even hope for him, I shall not be disappointed in the chief

pleasure I proposed to myself in my visit to Italy. As you talked of a

ramble somewhere towards the South of France, I shall be extremely happy

to attend you.

"I wrote to my brother from Genoa, and desired him to direct his answer

to your care at Pisa. If it comes, please direct it, with your own

letter, for which I shall long violently look, care of Mr. Francis

Barazzi at Rome. I am, with my best compliments to Mrs. Smollett and the

rest of the ladies, &c.,

"JOHN ARMSTRONG."

* * * * *

There is no reason to suppose that Armstrong found anything in the

condition of his friend to fulfil the anxious wishes of his letter. In

the following year, Smollett died, leaving to his widow little beyond

the empty consolations of his great fame. From her very narrow purse she

supplied the means of erecting the stone that marks the spot where he

lies; and the pen of his companion, whose letter we have just given,

furnished an appropriate inscription. The niggardly hands of government

remained as firmly closed against the relief of Mrs. Smollett as they

had been in answer to her husband's own application for himself; an

application which must have cost a severe struggle to his proud spirit,

and of which his most intimate literary friends were probably never

aware. He sought favors for others, says Dr. Moore; but "for himself

he never made an application to any great man in his life!" He was not

intemperate, nor yet was he extravagant, but by nature hospitable and of

a cheerful temperament; his housekeeping was never niggardly, so long as

he could employ his pen. Thus his genius was too often degraded to the

hackney-tasks of booksellers; while a small portion of those pensions

which were so lavishly bestowed upon ministerial dependants and placemen

would have enabled him to turn his mind to its congenial pursuits, and

probably to still further elevate the literary civilization of his

country. But if there be satisfaction in the thought that a neglect

similar to that which befell so bright a genius as his could no longer

occur in England, there is food likewise for reflection in the change

that has come over the position in which men of letters lived in those

days towards the public, and even towards each other. Let any one read

the account of the ten or a dozen authors whom Smollett describes

himself, in "Humphrey Clinker," as entertaining at dinner on

Sundays,--that being the only day upon which they could pass through the

streets without being seized by bailiffs for debt. Each character is

drawn with a distinctive minuteness that leaves us no room to doubt its

possessing a living original; yet how disgusting to suppose that such

a crew were really to be seen at the board of a brother writer! and in

what bad taste does their host describe and ridicule their squalor! That

such things were in those times cannot be doubted. Even in this century,

in the golden days of book-making, we are told how Constable and

how Ballantyne, the great publisher and the great printer of

Edinburgh,--"His Czarish Majesty," and "the Dey of All-jeers," as Scott

would call them,--delighted at their Sunday dinners to practise the

same exercises as those which Smollett relates,--how they would bring

together for their diversion Constable's "poor authors," and start

his literary drudges on an after-dinner foot-race for a new pair of

breeches, and the like! While it cannot justify the indifference with

which Shelburne treated his request, we cannot but perceive that

Smollett's contemptuous ridicule of his unfortunate or incapable

Grub-Street friends must rob him of much of the sympathy which would

otherwise accompany the ministerial neglect with which the claims of

literature were visited in his person.

* * * * *

BLOODROOT

"Hast thou loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?"

Beech-trees, stretching their arms, rugged, yet beautiful,

Here shade meadow and brook; here the gay bobolink,

High poised over his mate, pours out his melody.

Here, too, under the hill, blooms the wild violet;

Damp nooks hide, near the brook, bellworts that modestly,

Pale-faced, hanging their heads, droop there in silence; while

South winds, noiseless and soft, bring us the odor of

Birch twigs mingled with fresh buds of the hickory.

Hard by, clinging to rocks, nods the red columbine;

Close hid, under the leaves, nestle anemones,--

White-robed, airy and frail, tender and delicate.

Ye who, wandering here, seeking the beautiful,

Stoop down, thinking to pluck one of these favorites,

Take heed! Nymphs may avenge. List to a prodigy;--

One moon scarcely has waned since I here witnessed it.

One moon scarcely has waned, since, on a holiday,

I came, careless and gay, into this paradise,--

Found here, wrapped in their cloaks made of a leaf, little

White flowers, pure as the snow, modest and innocent,--

Stooped down, eagerly plucked one of the fairest, when

Forth rushed, fresh from the stem broken thus wickedly,

Blood!--tears, red, as of blood!--shed through my selfishness!

THE DIFFERENTIAL AND INTEGRAL CALCULUS.

[Greek: Polla ta deina, konden

anthropon deinoteron pelei ...

periphradaes anaer!]

SOPH. _Ant_. 822 [322] et seq.

"Many things are wonderful," says the Greek poet, "but nought more

wonderful than man, all-inventive man!" And surely, among many wonders

wrought out by human endeavor, there are few of higher interest than

that splendid system of mathematical science, the growth of so many

slow-revolving ages and toiling hands, still incomplete, destined to

remain so forever perhaps, but to-day embracing within its wide circuit

many marvellous trophies wrung from Nature in closest contest. There

are strange depths, doubtless, in the human soul,--recesses where the

universal sunlight of reason fails us altogether; into which if we

would enter, it must be humbly and trustfully, laying our right hands

reverentially in God's, that he may lead us. There are faculties

reaching farther than all reason, and utterances of higher import than

hers, problems, too, in the solution of which we shall derive very

little aid from any mere mathematical considerations. Those who think

differently should read once more, and more attentively, the sad history

of frantic folly and limitless license, written down forever under the

date, September, 1792, boastfully proclaimed to the world as the New

Era, the year 1 of the Age of Reason. Perhaps the number of those

who would to-day follow Momoro's pretty wife with loud adulation and

Bacchanalian rejoicings to the insulted Church of Nôtre Dame, thus

publicly disowning the God of the Universe and discarding the sweetest

of all hopes, the hope of immortality and eternal youth after the

weariness of age, would be found to be very small. This was indeed a new

version of the old story of Godiva, wherein implacable, inhuman hate

sadly enough took the place of the sweet Christian charity of that dear

lady. Let us recognize its deep significance, and acknowledge that many

things of very great importance lie beyond the utmost limits of human

reason.

But let us not forget, meanwhile, that within its own sphere this same

Human Reason is an apt conjuror, marshalling and deftly controlling the

powers of the earth and air to a degree wonderful and full of interest.

And nowhere have all its possibilities so fully found expression in vast

attainment as in those studies preëminently called the mathematics, as

embracing all [Greek: mathaesis], all sound learning. Casting about for

some sure anchorage, drifting hither and thither over changeful seas

of phenomena, a large body of men, deep, clear thinkers withal, some

twenty-four centuries since, fancied that they had found _all_ truth

in the fixed, eternal relations of number and quantity. Hence that

wide-spread Pythagorean philosophy, with its spheral harmonics and

esoteric mysteries, uniting in one brotherhood for many years men of

thought and action,--dare we say, our inferiors? Why allude to the old

fable of the dwarf upon the giant's shoulders? Let us have a tender

care for the sensitive nature of this ultimate Nineteenth Century, and

refrain. They were not so far wrong either, those old philosophers; they

saw clearly a part of the boundless expanse of Truth,--and somewhat

prematurely, as we believe, pronounced it the true Land's End, stoutly

asserting that beyond lay only barren seas of uncertain conjecture.

But mark what followed! Presently, under their hands, fair and clear of

outline as a Grecian temple, grew up the science of Geometry. Perfect

for all time, and as incapable of change or improvement as the

Parthenon, appear the Elements of Euclid, whose voice comes floating

down through the ages, in that one significant rejoinder,--"_Non est

regia ad mathematicam via_." It is the reply of the mathematician,

quiet-eyed and thoughtful, to the first Ptolemy, inquiring if there were

not some less difficult path to the mysteries. But the Greek Geometry

was in no wise confined to the elements. Before Euclid, Plato is said to

have written over the entrance to his garden,--"Let no one enter, who is

unacquainted with geometry,"--and had himself unveiled the geometrical

analysis, exhibiting the whole strength and weakness of the instrument,

and applying it successfully in the discussion of the properties of

the Conic Sections. Various were the discoveries, and various the

discoverers also, all now at rest, like Archimedes, the greatest of them

all, in his Sicilian tomb, overgrown with brambles and forgotten, found

only by careful research of that liberal-minded Cicero, and recognized

only by the sphere and circumscribed cylinder thereon engraved by the

dead mathematician's direction.

Meanwhile, let us turn elsewhere, to that singular people whose name

alone is suggestive of all the passion, all the deep repose of the

East. Very unlike the Greeks we shall find these Arabs, a nation

intellectually, as physically, characterized by adroitness rather than

endurance, by free, careless grace rather than perfect, well-ordered

symmetry. Called forth from centuries of proud repose, not unadorned by

noble studies and by poesy, they swept like wildfire, under Mohammed and

his successors, over Palestine, Syria, Persia, Egypt, and before the

expiration of the Seventh Century occupied Sicily and the North of

Africa. Spain soon fell into their hands;--only that seven-days' battle

of Tours, resplendent with many brilliant feats of arms, resonant with

shoutings, and weightier with fate than those dusty combatants knew,

saved France. Then until the last year of the Eleventh Century,

almost four hundred years, the Caliphs ruled the Spanish Peninsula.

Architecture, music, astrology, chemistry, medicine,--all these arts,

were theirs; the grace of the Alhambra endures; deep and permanent are

the traces left by these Saracens upon European civilization. During

all this time they were never idle. Continually they seized upon the

thoughts of others, gathering them in from every quarter, translating

the Greek mathematical works, borrowing the Indian arithmetic and system

of notation, which we in turn call Arabic, filling the world with wild

astrological fantasies. Nay, the "good Haroun Al Raschid," familiar to

us all as the genial-hearted sovereign of the World of Faëry, is said to

have sent from Bagdad, in the year 807 or thereabout, a royal present

to Charlemagne, a very singular clock, which marked the hours by the

sonorous fall of heavy balls into an iron vase. At noon, appeared

simultaneously, at twelve open doors, twelve knights in armor, retiring

one after another, as the hour struck. The time-piece then had

superseded the sun-dial and hour-glass: the mechanical arts had

attained no slight degree of perfection. But passing over all ingenious

mechanism, making no mention here of astronomical discoveries, some of

them surprising enough, it is especially for the Algebraic analysis that

we must thank the Moors. A strange fascination, doubtless, these crafty

men found in the cabalistic characters and hidden processes of reasoning

peculiar to this science. So they established it on a firm basis,

solving equations of no inconsiderable difficulty, (of the fourth

degree, it is said,) and enriched our arithmetic with various rules

derived from this source, Single and Double Position among others.

Trigonometry became a distinct branch of study with them; and then, as

suddenly as they had appeared, they passed away. The Moorish cavalier

had no longer a place in the history of the coming days; the sage had

done his duty and departed, leaving among his mysterious manuscripts,

bristling with uncouth and, as the many believed, unholy signs, the

elements of truth mingled with much error,--error which in the advancing

centuries fell off as easily as the husk from ripe corn. Whether the

present civilization of Spain is an advance upon that of the Moors might

in many respects become a matter of much doubt.

Long lethargy and intellectual inanition brooded over Christian Europe.

The darkness of the Middle Ages reached its midnight, and slowly the

dawn arose,--musical with the chirping of innumerable trouvères and

minnesingers. As early as the Tenth Century, Gerbert, afterwards Pope

Sylvester II., had passed into Spain and brought thence arithmetic,

astronomy, and geometry; and five hundred years after, led by the old

tradition of Moorish skill, Camille Leonard of Pisa sailed away over the

sea into the distant East, and brought back the forgotten algebra and

trigonometry,--a rich lading, better than gold-dust or many negroes.

Then, in that Fifteenth Century, and in the Sixteenth, followed much

that is of interest, not to be mentioned here. Copernicus, Galileo,

Kepler,--we must pass on, only indicating these names of men whose lives

have something of romance in them, so much are they tinged with the

characteristics of an age just passing away forever, played out and

ended. The invention of printing, the restoration of classical learning,

the discovery of America, the Reformation, followed each other in

splendid succession, and the Seventeenth Century dawned upon the world.

The Seventeenth Century!--forever remarkable alike for intellectual and

physical activity, the age of Louis XIV. in France, the revolutionary

period of English history, say, rather, the Cromwellian period,

indelibly written down in German remembrance by that Thirty-Years'

War,--these are only the external manifestations of that prodigious

activity which prevailed in every direction. Meanwhile the two sciences

of algebra and geometry, thus far single, each depending on its own

resources, neither in consequence fully developed, as nothing of human

or divine origin can be alone, were united, in the very beginning of

this epoch, by Descartes. This philosopher first applied the algebraic

analysis to the solution of geometrical problems; and in this brilliant

discovery lay the germ of a sudden growth of interest in the pure

mathematics. The breadth and facility of these solutions added a new

charm to the investigation of curves; and passing lightly by the Conic

Sections, the mathematicians of that day busied themselves in finding

the areas, solids of revolution, tangents, etc., of all imaginable

curves,--some of them remarkable enough. Such is the cycloid, first

conceived by Galileo, and a stumbling-block and cause of contention

among geometers long after he had left it, together with his system

of the universe, undetermined. Descartes, Roberval, Pascal, became

successively challengers or challenged respecting some new property of

this curve. Thereupon followed the epicycloids, curves which--as the

cycloid is generated by a point upon the circumference of a circle

rolled along a straight line--are generated by a similar point when the

path of the circle becomes any curve whatever. Caustic curves, spirals

without number, succeeded, of which but one shall claim our notice,--the

logarithmic spiral, first fully discussed by James Bernouilli. This

curve possesses the property of reproducing itself in a variety of

curious and interesting ways; for which reason Bernouilli wished it

inscribed upon his tomb, with the motto,--_Eadem mutata resurgo_. Shall

we wisely shake our heads at all this, as unavailing? Can we not see the

hand of Providence, all through history, leading men wiselier than

they knew? If not, may it not be possible that we have read the wrong

book,--the Universal Gazetteer, perhaps, instead of the true History?

When Plato and Plato's followers wrought out the theory of those Conic

Sections, do we imagine that they saw the great truth, now evident, that

every whirling planet in the silent spaces, yes, and every falling body

on this earth, describes one of these same curves which furnished to

those Athenian philosophers what you, my practical friend, stigmatize as

idle amusement? Comfort yourself, my friend: there was many a Callicles

then who believed that he could better bestow his time upon the politics

of the state, neglecting these vain speculations, which to-day are found

to be not quite unprofitable, after all, you perceive.

And so in the instance which suggested these reflections, all this eager

study of unmeaning curves (if there be anything in the starry universe

quite unmeaning) was leading gradually, but directly, to the discovery

of the most wonderful of all mathematical instruments, the Calculus

preëminently. In the quadrature of curves, the method of exhaustions was

most ancient,--whereby similar circumscribed and inscribed polygons, by

continually increasing the number of their sides, were made to approach

the curve until the space contained between them was _exhausted_, or

reduced to an inappreciable quantity. The sides of the polygons, it was

evident, must then be infinitely small. Yet the polygons and curves

were always regarded as distinct lines, differing inappreciably, but

different. The careful study of the period to which we refer led to

a new discovery, that every curve may be considered as composed of

infinitely small straight lines. For, by the definition which assigns to

a point position _without_ extension, there can be no tangency of points

without coincidence. In the circumference of the circle, then, no two

of the points equidistant from the centre can touch each other; and the

circumference must be made up of infinite all rectilineal sides joining

these points.

A clear conception of this fact led almost immediately to the Method of

Tangents of Fermat and Barrow; and this again is the stepping-stone to

the Differential Calculus,--itself a particular application of that

instrument. Dr. Barrow regarded the tangent as merely the prolongation

of any one of these infinitely small sides, and demonstrated the

relations of these sides to the curve and its ordinates. His work,

entitled "Lectiones Geometricae," appeared in 1669. To his high

abilities was united a simplicity of character almost sublime. "_Tu,

autem, Domine, quantus es geometra_!" was written on the title-page of

his Apollonius; and in the last hour he expressed his joy, that now, in

the bosom of God, he should arrive at the solution of many problems of

the highest interest, without pain or weariness. The comment of the

French historian conveys a sly sarcasm on the Encyclopedists:--"_On voit

au reste, par-là, que Barrow étoit un pauvre philosophe; car il croiroit

en l'immortalité de l'âme, et une Divinité, autre que la nature

universelle_."[A]

[Footnote A: MONTUCLA. _Hist. des Math_. Part iv. liv. 1.]

The Italian Cavalleri had, before this, published his "Geometry of

Indivisibles," and fully established his theory in the "Exercitationes

Mathematicae," which appeared in 1647. Led to these considerations by

various problems of unusual difficulty proposed by the great Kepler,

who appears to have introduced infinitely great and infinitely small

quantities into mathematical calculations for the first time, in a tract

on the measure of solids, Cavalleri enounced the principle, that all

lines are composed of an infinite number of points, all surfaces of

an infinite number of lines, and all solids of an infinite number of

surfaces. What this statement lacks in strict accuracy is abundantly

made up in its conciseness; and when some discussion arose thereupon,

it appeared that the absurdity was only seeming, and that the author

himself clearly enough understood by these apparently harsh terms,

infinitely small sides, areas, and sections. Establishing the relation

between these elements and their primitives, the way lay open to the

Integral Calculus. The greatest geometers of the day, Pascal, Roberval,

and others, unhesitatingly adopted this method, and employed it in the

abstruse researches which engaged their attention.

And now, when but the magic touch of genius was wanting to unite and

harmonize these scattered elements, came Newton. Early recognized by Dr.

Barrow, that truly great and good man resigned the Mathematical Chair at

Cambridge in his favor. Twenty-seven years of age, he entered upon his

duties, having been in possession of the Calculus of Fluxions since

1666, three years previously. Why speak of all his other discoveries,

known to the whole world? _Animi vi propè divinâ, planetarum motus,

figuras, cometarum semitas, Oceanique aestus, suâ Mathesi lucem

praeferente, primus demonstravit. Radiorum lucis dissimilitudines,

colorumque inde nascentium proprietates, quas nemo suspicatus est,

pervestigavit_. So stands the record in Westminster Abbey; and in many

a dusty alcove stands the "Principia," a prouder monument perhaps, more

enduring than brass or crumbling stone. And yet, with rare modesty, such

as might be considered again and again with singular advantage by many

another, this great man hesitated to publish to the world his rich

discoveries, wishing rather to wait for maturity and perfection. The

solicitation of Dr. Barrow, however, prevailed upon him to send forth,

about this time, the "Analysis of Equations containing an Infinite

Number of Terms,"--a work which proves, incontestably, that he was in

possession of the Calculus, though nowhere explaining its principles.

This delay occasioned the bitter quarrel between Newton and Leibnitz,--a

quarrel exaggerated by narrow-minded partisans, and in truth not very

creditable, in all its ramifications, to either party. Newton, in the

course of a scientific correspondence with Leibnitz, published in 1712,

by the Royal Society, under the title, "Commercium Epistolicum

de Analysi promotâ," not only communicated very many remarkable

discoveries, but added, that he was in possession of the inverse problem

of the tangents, and that he employed two methods which he did

not choose to make public, for which reason he concealed them by

anagrammatical transposition, so effectual as completely to

extinguish the faint glimmer of light which shone through his scanty

explanation.[B] The reference is obviously to what was afterwards known

as the Method of Fluxions and Fluents. This method he derived from the

consideration of the laws of motion uniformly varied, like the motion of

the extreme point of the ordinate of any curve whatever. The name which

he gave to his method is derived from the idea of motion connected with

its origin.

[Footnote B: This logograph Newton afterwards rendered as follows: "Una

methodus consistit in extractione fluentis quantitatis ex aequatione

simul involvente; altera tantùm in assumptione seriei pro quantitate

incognitâ ex quâ ceterae commodè derivari possunt, et in collatione

terminonim homologorum aequationis resultantis ad eruendos terminos

seriei assumptae."]

Leibnitz, reflecting upon these statements on the part of Newton,

arrived by a somewhat different path at the Differential and Integral

Calculus, reasoning, however, concerning infinitely great and infinitely

small quantities in general, viewing the problem algebraically instead

of geometrically,--and immediately imparted the result of his studies to

the English mathematician. In the Preface to the _first_ edition of

the "Principia," Newton says, "It is ten years since, being in

correspondence with M. Leibnitz, and having instructed him that I was

in possession of a method of determining tangents and solving questions

involving _maxima_ and _minima_, a method which included irrational

expressions, and having concealed it by transposing the letters,

he replied to me that he had discovered a similar method, which he

communicated, differing from mine only in the terms and signs, as

well as in the generation of the quantities." This would seem to be

sufficient to set at rest any conceivable controversy, establishing an

equal claim to originality, conceding priority of discovery to Newton.

Thus far all had been open and honorable. The petty complaint, that,

while Leibnitz freely imparted his discoveries to Newton, the latter

churlishly concealed his own, would deserve to be considered, if it were

obligatory upon every man of genius to unfold immediately to the world

the results of his labor. As there may be many reasons for a different

course, which we can never know, perhaps could never hope to appreciate,

if we did know them, let us pass on, merely recalling the example of

Galileo. When the first faint glimpses of the rings of Saturn floated

hazily in the field of his imperfect telescope, he was misled into the

belief that three large bodies composed the then most distant light of

the system,--a conclusion which, in 1610, he communicated to Kepler in

the following logograph:--

SMAISMRMILMEPOETALEVMIBVNENGTTAVIRAVS.

It is not strange that the riddle was unread. The old problem, Given the

Greek alphabet, to find an Iliad, differs from this rather in degree

than in kind. The sentence disentangled runs thus:--

ALTISSIMVM PLANETAM TERGEMINVM OBSERVAVI.

And yet we have never heard that Kepler, or, in fact, Leibnitz himself,

felt aggrieved by such a course.

But Leibnitz made his discovery public, neglecting to give Newton _any_

credit whatever; and so it happened that various patriotic Englishmen

raised the cry of plagiarism. Keil, in the "Philosophical Transactions"

for 1708, declared that he had published the Method of Fluxions, only

changing the name and notation. Much debate and angry discussion

followed; and, alas for human weakness! Newton himself, in a later

edition of the "Principia," struck out the generous recognition of

genius recorded above, and joined in terming Leibnitz an impostor,

--while the latter maintained that Newton had not fathomed the more

abstruse depths of the new Calculus. The "Commercium Epistolicum" was

published, giving rise to new contentions; and only death, which ends

all things, ended the dispute. Leibnitz died in 1716.

The Calculus at first found its chief supporters on the Continent. James

and John Bernouilli, Varignon, author of the "Theory of Variations," and

the Marquis de l'Hôpital, were the first to appreciate it; but soon it

attracted the attention of the scientific world to such a degree that

the frivolous populace of Paris had even a well-known song with the

burden, "_Des infiniment petits_." Neither were opponents wanting.

Wrong-headed men and thick-headed men are unfortunately too numerous

in all times and places. One Nieuwentiit, a dweller in intellectual

fogbanks, who had distinguished himself by proving the existence of

the Deity in one of his works, made about this time what he doubtless

considered a second discovery. He found a flaw in the reasoning of

Leibnitz, namely, that _he_ (Nieuwentiit) could not conceive of

quantities infinitely small! A certain Chever also performed sundry

singular mathematical feats, such as squaring the circle, a problem

which he reduced to the single question, _Construere mundum divinae

menti analogum_, and showing that the parabola, the only conic section

squared by ancient or modern geometers, could never be quadrated, to the

eternal discomfiture and discredit of the shade of Archimedes. Leibnitz

used every means in his power to engage these worthy adversaries in

a contest concerning his Calculus, but unfortunately failed. Bishop

Berkeley, too, author of the "Essay on Tar-Water," devout disbeliever in

the material universe, could not resist the Quixotic inclination to run

a tilt against a science which promised so much aid in unveiling those

starry splendors which he with strenuous asseveration denied. He

published, in 1754, "The Minute Philosopher," and soon after, "The

Analyst, or the Discourse of a Mathematician," showing that the

Mathematics are opposed to religion, and cultivate an incredulous

spirit,--such as would never for a moment listen, let us hope, to any

theory which proclaims this green earth and all the universe "such stuff

as dreams are made of," even though the doctrine be ecclesiastically

sustained and backed with abundant wealth of learning. Numerous were the

defenders, called out rather by the acknowledged metaphysical ability of

Bishop Berkeley than by any transcendent merit in these two tracts; and

among others came Maclaurin.

Taylor's Theorem, based upon that first published by Maclaurin, is the

foundation of the Calculus by La Grange, differing from the methods of

Leibnitz and Newton in the manner of deriving the auxiliaries employed,

proceeding upon analytical considerations throughout. Of his "Théorie

des Fonctions," and that noblest achievement of the pure reason, the

"Mécanique Analytique," we do not propose to speak, nor of the later

developments of the Calculus, so largely due to his genius and labors.

These are mysteries, known only to the initiated, yet capable of raising

their thoughts in as sublime emotion as arose from the view of the

elder, forgotten mysteries, which Cicero deemed the very source and

beginning of true life.

We have seen how, and through whose toil, this mightiest instrument of

human thought has reached its present perfection. Now, its vast powers

fully recognized, it has become interwoven with all Natural Philosophy.

On its sure basis rests that majestic structure, the "Mécanique Céleste"

of La Place. Its demonstration supports with undoubted proof many

doctrines of the great Newton. Discovery has succeeded discovery; but

its powers have never yet been fully tested. "It is that field of

mathematical investigation," says Davies, "where genius may exert its

highest powers and find its surest rewards." Looking back through the

long course of events leading to such a magnificent result, looking up

to that choral dance of wandering planets, all whose courses and seasons

are marked down for us in the yearly almanac, can we not find in these

manifestations something on the whole quite wonderful, worthy of very

deep thankfulness, heartfelt humility withal, and far-reaching hope?

In an age of many-colored absurdity, when extremes meet and

contradictions harmonize,--when men of gross, material aims give

implicit confidence to the wildest ravings of the supernatural, and

pure-minded men embrace French theories of social organization,--when

crowds of dullards all aflame with unexpected imagination assemble in

ascension-robes to await the apocalyptic trump, and Asiatic polygamy

spreads unmolested along our Western rivers,--when the prediction is

accomplished, "Old men dream dreams and young men see visions," and the

most practical of the ages bids fair to glide ghostly into history as

the most superstitious,--it is well, it can but be well, to contemplate

reverently that Reason, which Coleridge, after Leighton, calls "an

influence from the Glory of the Almighty." In the contemplation of the

spirit of man (not your _animula_, by any means!) there is earnest of

immortality which needs not that one rise from the dead to confirm it.

In view of the Foresight which guides men, we may trust that all this

tumultuous sense of inadequacy in present institutions, this blind

notion of wrong, far enough from intelligent correction, is, after all,

better than sluggish inaction.

BULLS AND BEARS.

[Concluded.]