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inconsistencies are as in the original.

HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. VIII.--JANUARY, 1851.--VOL. II.

[Illustration: Robert Southey]

PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND HABITS OF ROBERT SOUTHEY.

BY HIS SON.[1]

Being the youngest of all his children, I had not the privilege of
knowing my father in his best and most joyous years, nor of remembering
Greta Hall when the happiness of its circle was unbroken. Much labor and
anxiety, and many sorrows, had passed over him; and although his natural
buoyancy of spirit had not departed, it was greatly subdued, and I
chiefly remember its gradual diminution from year to year.

In appearance he was certainly a very striking looking person, and in
early days he had by many been considered almost the _beau idéal_ of a
poet. Mr. Cottle describes him at the age of twenty-two as "tall,
dignified, possessing great suavity of manners, an eye piercing, a
countenance full of genius, kindliness, and intelligence;" and he
continues, "I had read so much of poetry, and sympathized so much with
poets in all their eccentricities and vicissitudes, that to see before
me the realization of a character which in the abstract so much absorbed
my regards, gave me a degree of satisfaction which it would be difficult
to express." Eighteen years later Lord Byron calls him a prepossessing
looking person, and, with his usual admixture of satire, says, "To have
his head and shoulders I would almost have written his Sapphics;" and
elsewhere he speaks of his appearance as "Epic," an expression which may
be either a sneer or a compliment.

His forehead was very broad; his height was five feet eleven inches; his
complexion rather dark, the eyebrows large and arched, the eye well
shaped and dark brown, the mouth somewhat prominent, muscular, and very
variously expressive, the chin small in proportion to the upper features
of his face. He always, while in Keswick, wore a cap in his walks, and
partly from habit, partly from the make of his head and shoulders, we
never thought he looked well or like himself in a hat. He was of a very
spare frame, but of great activity, and not showing any appearance of a
weak constitution.

My father's countenance, like his character, seems to have softened down
from a certain wildness of expression to a more sober and thoughtful
cast; and many thought him a handsomer man in age than in youth; his eye
retaining always its brilliancy, and his countenance its play of
expression.

The reader will remember his Republican independency when an
under-graduate at Oxford, in rebelling against the supremacy of the
college barber. Though he did not continue to let his hair hang down on
his shoulders according to the whim of his youthful days, yet he always
wore a greater quantity than is usual; and once, on his arrival in town,
Chantrey's first greetings to him were accompanied with an injunction to
go and get his hair cut. When I first remember it, it was turning from a
rich brown to the steel shade, whence it rapidly became almost snowy
white, losing none of its remarkable thickness, and clustering in
abundant curls over his massive brow.

For the following remarks on his general bearing and habits of
conversation I am indebted to a friend:

"The characteristics of his manner, as of his appearance, were lightness
and strength, an easy and happy composure as the accustomed mood, with
much mobility at the same time, so that he could be readily excited into
any degree of animation in discourse, speaking, if the subject moved him
much, with extraordinary fire and force, though always in light, laconic
sentences. When so moved, the fingers of his right hand often rested
against his mouth, and quivered through nervous susceptibility. But,
excitable as he was in conversation, he was never angry or irritable;
nor can there be any greater mistake concerning him than that into which
some persons have fallen, when they have inferred, from the fiery
vehemence with which he could give utterance to moral anger in verse or
prose, that he was personally ill-tempered or irascible. He was, in
truth, a man whom it was hardly possible to quarrel with or offend
personally and face to face; and in his writings, even on public
subjects in which his feelings were strongly engaged, he will be
observed to have always dealt tenderly with those whom he had once seen
and spoken to, unless, indeed, personally and grossly assailed by them.
He said of himself that he was tolerant of persons, though intolerant of
opinions. But in oral intercourse the toleration of persons was so much
the stronger, that the intolerance of opinions was not to be perceived;
and, indeed, it was only in regard to opinions of a pernicious moral
tendency that it was ever felt.

"He was averse from argumentation, and would commonly quit a subject
when it was passing into that shape, with a quiet and good-humored
indication of the view in which he rested. He talked most and with most
interest about books and about public affairs; less, indeed hardly at
all, about the characters and qualities of men in private life. In the
society of strangers or of acquaintances, he seemed to take more
interest in the subjects spoken of than in the persons present, his
manner being that of natural courtesy and general benevolence without
distinction of individuals. Had there been some tincture of social
vanity in him, perhaps he would have been brought into closer relations
with those whom he met in society; but, though invariably kind and
careful of their feelings, he was indifferent to the manner in which
they regarded him, or (as the phrase is) to his _effect_ in society; and
they might, perhaps, be conscious that the kindness they received was
what flowed naturally and inevitably to all, that they had nothing to
give in return which was of value to him, and that no individual
relations were established.

"In conversation with intimate friends he would sometimes express, half
humorously, a cordial commendation of some production of his own,
knowing that with them he could afford it, and that to those who knew
him well it was well known that there was no vanity in him. But such
commendations, though light and humorous, were perfectly sincere; for he
both possessed and cherished the power of finding enjoyment and
satisfaction wherever it was to be found--in his own books, in the books
of his friends, and in all books whatsoever that were not morally
tainted or absolutely barren."

His course of life was the most regular and simple possible. When it is
said that breakfast was at nine, after a little reading,[2] dinner at
four, tea at six, supper at half-past nine, and the intervals filled up
with reading or writing, except that he regularly walked between two and
four, and took a short sleep before tea, the outline of his day during
those long seasons when he was in full work will have been given. After
supper, when the business of the day seemed to be over, though he
generally took a book, he remained with his family, and was open to
enter into conversation, to amuse and to be amused. It was on such times
that the most pleasant fireside chattings, and the most interesting
stories came forth; and, indeed, it was at such a time (though long
before my day) that The Doctor was originated, as may be seen by the
beginning of that work and the Preface to the new edition.
Notwithstanding that the very mention of "my glass of punch," the one,
temperate, never exceeded glass of punch, may be a stumbling-block to
some of my readers, I am constrained, by the very love of the perfect
picture which the first lines of The Doctor convey of the conclusion of
his evening, to transcribe them in this place. It was written but for a
few, otherwise The Doctor would have been no secret at all; but those
few who knew him in his home will see his very look while they re-peruse
it, and will recall the well-known sound:

"I was in the fourth night of the story of the Doctor and his horse, and
had broken it off, not, like Scheherazade, because it was time to get
up, but because it was time to go to bed. It was at thirty-five minutes
after ten o'clock on the 20th of July, in the year of our Lord 1813. I
finished my glass of punch, tinkled the spoon against its side, as if
making music to my own meditations, and having fixed my eyes upon the
Bhow Begum, who was sitting opposite to me at the head of her own table,
I said, 'It ought to be written in a book.'"

This scene took place at the table of the Bhow Begum,[3] but it may
easily be transferred to his ordinary room, where he sat after supper in
one corner, with the fire on his left hand and a small table on his
right, looking on at his family circle in front of him.

I have said before, as indeed his own letters have abundantly shown,
that he was a most thoroughly domestic man, in that his whole pleasure
and happiness was centred in his home; but yet, from the course of his
pursuits, his family necessarily saw but little of him. He could not,
however he might wish it, join the summer evening walk, or make one of
the circle round the winter hearth, or even spare time for conversation
after the family meals (except during the brief space I have just been
speaking of). Every day, every hour had its allotted employment; always
were there engagements to publishers imperatively requiring punctual
fulfillment; always the current expenses of a large household to take
anxious thoughts for: he had no crops growing while he was idle. "My
ways," he used to say, "are as broad as the king's high road, and my
means lie in an ink-stand."

Yet, notwithstanding the value which every moment of his time thus
necessarily bore, unlike most literary men, he was never ruffled in the
slightest degree by the interruptions of his family, even on the most
trivial occasions; the book or the pen was ever laid down with a smile,
and he was ready to answer any question, or to enter with youthful
readiness into any temporary topic of amusement or interest.

In earlier years he spoke of himself as ill calculated for general
society, from a habit of uttering single significant sentences, which,
from being delivered without any qualifying clauses, bore more meaning
upon their surface than he intended, and through which his real opinions
and feelings were often misunderstood. This habit, as far as my own
observation went, though it was sometimes apparent, he had materially
checked in later life, and in large parties he was usually inclined to
be silent, rarely joining in general conversation. But he was very
different when with only one or two companions; and to those strangers,
who came to him with letters of introduction, he was both extremely
courteous in manner, and frank and pleasant in conversation, and to his
intimates no one could have been more wholly unreserved, more disposed
to give and receive pleasure, or more ready to pour forth his vast
stores of information upon almost every subject.

I might go on here, and enter more at length into details of his
personal character, but the task is too difficult a one, and is perhaps,
after all, better left unattempted. A most intimate and highly-valued
friend of my father's, whom I wished to have supplied me with some
passages on these points, remarks very justly, that "any portraiture of
him, by the pen as by the pencil, will fall so far short both of the
truth and the ideal which the readers of his poetry and his letters will
have formed for themselves, that they would be worse than superfluous."
And, indeed, perhaps I have already said too much. I can not, however,
resist quoting here some lines by the friend above alluded to, which
describe admirably in brief my father's whole character:

                                "Two friends
   Lent me a further light, whose equal hate
   On all unwholesome sentiment attends,
   Nor whom may genius charm where heart infirm attends.

   "In all things else contrarious were these two:
   The one a man upon whose laureled brow
   Gray hairs were growing! glory ever new
   Shall circle him in after years as now;
   For spent detraction may not disavow
   The world of knowledge with the wit combined,
   The elastic force no burden e'er could bow,
   The various talents and the single mind,
   Which give him moral power and mastery o'er mankind.

   "His sixty summers--what are they in truth?
   By Providence peculiarly blest,
   With him the strong hilarity of youth
   Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest,
   His sun has veered a point toward the west,
   But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet--
   That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
   Where truth and manly tenderness are met
   With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set."[4]

What further I will venture to say relates chiefly to the external
circumstances of his life at Keswick.

His greatest relaxation was in a mountain excursion or a pic-nic by the
side of one of the lakes, tarns, or streams; and these parties, of which
he was the life and soul, will long live in the recollections of those
who shared them. An excellent pedestrian (thinking little of a walk of
twenty-five miles when upward of sixty), he usually headed the
"infantry" on these occasions, looking on those gentlemen as idle
mortals who indulged in the luxury of a mountain pony; feeling very
differently in the bracing air of Cumberland to what he did in Spain in
1800, when he delighted in being "gloriously lazy," in "sitting sideways
upon an ass," and having even a boy to "propel" the burro.

Upon first coming down to the Lakes he rather undervalued the pleasures
of an al-fresco repast, preferring chairs and tables to the greensward
of the mountains, or the moss-grown masses of rock by the lake shore;
but these were probably the impressions of a cold, wet summer, and
having soon learned thoroughly to appreciate these pleasures, he had his
various chosen places which he thought it a sort of duty annually to
revisit. Of these I will name a few, as giving them, perhaps, an added
interest to some future tourists. The summit of Skiddaw he regularly
visited, often three or four times in a summer, but the view thence was
not one he greatly admired. Sea-Fell and Helvellyn he ranked much
higher, but on account of their distance did not often reach. Saddleback
and Causey Pike, two mountains rarely ascended by tourists, were great
favorites with him, and were the summits most frequently chosen for a
grand expedition; and the two tarns upon Saddleback, Threlkeld and
Bowscale tarns, were among the spots he thought most remarkable for
grand and lonely beauty. This, too, was ground rendered more than
commonly interesting, by having been the scenes of the childhood and
early life of Clifford the Shepherd Lord. The rocky streams of
Borrowdale, high up beyond Stonethwaite and Seathwaite, were also places
often visited, especially one beautiful spot, where the river makes a
sharp bend at the foot of Eagle Crag. The pass of Honistar Crag, leading
from Buttermere to Borrowdale, furnished a longer excursion, which was
occasionally taken with a sort of rustic pomp in the rough market carts
of the country, before the cars which are now so generally used had
become common, or been permitted by their owners to travel that worst of
all roads. Occasionally there were grand meetings with Mr. Wordsworth,
and his family and friends, at Leatheswater (or Thirlmere), a point
about half way between Keswick and Rydal; and here as many as fifty
persons have sometimes met together from both sides of the country.
These were days of great enjoyment, not to be forgotten.

[Illustration: VALE OF WATENLATH.]

There was also an infinite variety of long walks, of which he could take
advantage when opportunity served, without the preparation and trouble
of a preconcerted expedition: several of these are alluded to in his
Colloquies. The circuit formed by passing behind Barrow and Lodore to
the vale of Watenlath, placed up high among the hills, with its own
little lake and village, and the rugged path leading thence down to
Borrowdale, was one of the walks he most admired. The beautiful vale of
St. Johns, with its "Castle Rock" and picturesquely placed little
church, was another favorite walk; and there were a number of springs of
unusual copiousness situated near what had been apparently a deserted,
and now ruined village, where he used to take luncheon. The rocky bed of
the little stream at the foot of Causey Pike was a spot he loved to rest
at; and the deep pools of the stream that flows down the adjoining
valley of New Lands--

   "Whose pure and chrysolite waters
   Flow o'er a schistose bed,"

formed one of his favorite resorts for bathing.

Yet these excursions, although for a few years he still continued to
enjoy them, began in later life to wear to him something of a melancholy
aspect. So many friends were dead who had formerly shared them, and his
own domestic losses were but too vividly called to mind with the
remembrance of former days of enjoyment, the very grandeur of the
scenery around many of the chosen places, and the unchanging features of
the "everlasting hills," brought back forcibly sad memories, and these
parties became in time so painful that it was with difficulty he could
be prevailed upon to join in them.

He concealed, indeed, as the reader has seen, beneath a reserved manner,
a most acutely sensitive mind, and a warmth and kindliness of feeling
which was only understood by few, indeed, perhaps, not thoroughly by
any. He said, speaking of the death of his uncle, Mr. Hill, that one of
the sources of consolation to him was the thought that perhaps the
departed might then be conscious how truly he had loved and honored him;
and I believe the depth of his affection and the warmth of his
friendship was known to none but himself. On one particular point I
remember his often regretting his constitutional bashfulness and
reserve; and that was, because, added to his retired life and the nature
of his pursuits, it prevented him from knowing any thing of the persons
among whom he lived. Long as he had resided at Keswick, I do not think
there were twenty persons in the lower class whom he knew by sight; and
though this was in some measure owing to a slight degree of
short-sightedness, which, contrary to what is usual, came on in later
life, yet I have heard him often lament it as not being what he thought
right; and after slightly returning the salutation of some passer by, he
would again mechanically lift his cap as he heard some well-known name
in reply to his inquiries, and look back with regret that the greeting
had not been more cordial. With those persons who were occasionally
employed about the house he was most familiarly friendly, and these
regarded him with a degree of affectionate reverence that could not be
surpassed.

It may perhaps be expected by some readers that a more accurate account
of my father's income should be given than has yet appeared; but this is
not an easy matter, from its extreme variableness, and this it was that
constituted a continual source of uneasiness both to others and to
himself, rarely as he acknowledged it. A common error has been to speak
of him as one to whom literature has been a mine of wealth. That his
political opponents should do this is not so strange; but even Charles
Lamb, who, if he had thought a little, would hardly have written so
rashly, says, in a letter to Bernard Barton, recently published, that
"Southey has made a fortune by book drudgery." What sort of a "fortune"
that was which never once permitted him to have one year's income
beforehand, and compelled him almost always to forestall the profit of
his new works, the reader may imagine.

His only certain source of income[5] was his pension, from which he
received £145, and the Laureateship, which was £90: the larger portion
of these two sums, however, went to the payment of his life-insurance,
so that not more than £100 could be calculated upon as available, and
the Quarterly Review was therefore for many years his chief means of
support. He received latterly £100 for an article, and commonly
furnished one for each number. What more was needful had to be made up
by his other works, which as they were always published upon the terms
of the publisher taking the risk and sharing the profits, produced him
but little, considering the length of time they were often in
preparation, and as he was constantly adding new purchases to his
library, but little was to be reckoned upon this account. For the
Peninsular War he received £1000, but the copyright remained the
property of the publisher.

With regard to his mode of life, although it was as simple and
inexpensive as possible, his expenditure was with difficulty kept within
his income, though he had indeed a most faithful helpmate, who combined
with a wise and careful economy a liberality equal to his own in any
case of distress. One reason for this difficulty was, that considerable
sums were, not now and then, but regularly, drawn from him by his less
successful relatives.

The house which for so many years was his residence at Keswick, though
well situated both for convenience and for beauty of prospect, was
unattractive in external appearance, and to most families would have
been an undesirable residence. Having originally been two houses,
afterward thrown together, it consisted of a good many small rooms,
connected by long passages, all of which with great ingenuity he made
available for holding books, with which indeed the house was lined from
top to bottom. His own sitting-room, which was the largest in the house,
was filled with the handsomest of them, arranged with much taste,
according to his own fashion, with due regard to size, color, and
condition; and he used to contemplate these, his carefully accumulated
and much prized treasures, with even more pleasure and pride than the
greatest connoisseur his finest specimens of the old masters: and
justly, for they were both the necessaries and the luxuries of life to
him; both the very instruments whereby he won, hardly enough, his daily
bread, and the source of all his pleasures and recreations--the pride of
his eyes and the joy of his heart.

His Spanish and Portuguese collection, which at one time was one of the
best, if not itself the best to be found in the possession of any
private individual, was the most highly-prized portion of his library.
It had been commenced by his uncle, Mr. Hill, long prior to my father's
first visit to Lisbon; and having originated in the love Mr. Hill
himself had for the literature of those countries, it was carried
forward with more ardor when he found that his nephew's taste and
abilities were likely to turn it to good account. It comprised a
considerable number of manuscripts, some of them copied by Mr. Hill from
rare MSS. in private and convent libraries.

Many of these old books being in vellum or parchment bindings, he had
taken much pains to render them ornamental portions of the furniture of
his shelves. His brother Thomas was skillful in calligraphy; and by his
assistance their backs were painted with some bright color, and upon it
the title placed lengthwise in large gold letters of the old English
type. Any one who had visited his library will remember the
tastefully-arranged pyramids of these curious-looking books.

Another fancy of his was to have all those books of lesser value, which
had become ragged and dirty, covered, or rather bound, in colored cotton
prints, for the sake of making them clean and respectable in their
appearance, it being impossible to afford the cost of having so many put
into better bindings.

Of this task his daughters, aided by any female friends who might be
staying with them, were the performers; and not fewer than from 1200 to
1400 volumes were so bound by them at different times, filling
completely one room, which he designated as the Cottonian library. With
this work he was much interested and amused, as the ladies would often
suit the pattern to the contents, clothing a Quaker work or a book of
sermons in sober drab, poetry in some flowery design, and sometimes
contriving a sly piece of satire at the contents of some well-known
author by their choice of its covering. One considerable convenience
attended this eccentric mode of binding--the book became as well known
by its dress as by its contents, and much more easily found.

With respect to his mode of acquiring and arranging the contents of a
book, it was somewhat peculiar. He was as rapid a reader as could be
conceived, having the power of perceiving by a glance down the page
whether it contained any thing which he was likely to make use of--a
slip of paper lay on his desk, and was used as a marker, and with a
slight penciled S he would note the passage, put a reference on the
paper, with some brief note of the subject, which he could transfer to
his note-book, and in the course of a few hours he had classified and
arranged every thing in the work which it was likely he would ever want.
It was thus, with a remarkable memory (not so much for the facts or
passages themselves, but for their existence and the authors that
contained them), and with this kind of index, both to it and them, that
he had at hand a command of materials for whatever subject he was
employed upon, which has been truly said to be "unequaled."

Many of the choicest passages he would transcribe himself at odds and
ends of times, or employ one of his family to transcribe for him; and
these are the extracts which form his "Commonplace Book," recently
published; but those of less importance he had thus within reach in case
he wished to avail himself of them. The quickness with which this was
done was very remarkable. I have often known him receive a parcel of
books one afternoon, and the next have found his mark throughout perhaps
two or three different volumes; yet, if a work took his attention
particularly, he was not rapid in its perusal; and on some authors, such
as the Old Divines, he "fed," as he expressed it, slowly and carefully,
dwelling on the page and taking in its contents deeply and
deliberately--like an epicure with his "wine searching the subtle
flavor."

His library at his death consisted of about 14,000 volumes; probably the
largest number of books ever collected by a person of such limited
means. Among these he found most of the materials for all he did, and
almost all he wished to do; and though sometimes he lamented that his
collection was not a larger one, it is probable that it was more to his
advantage that it was in some degree limited. As it was, he collected an
infinitely greater quantity of materials for every subject he was
employed upon than ever he made use of, and his published Notes give
some idea, though an inadequate one, of the vast stores he thus
accumulated.

On this subject he writes to his cousin, Herbert Hill, at that time one
of the librarians of the "Bodleian:"--"When I was at the British Museum
the other day, walking through the rooms with Carey, I felt that to have
lived in that library, or in such a one, would have rendered me
perfectly useless, even if it had not made me mad. The sight of such
countless volumes made me feel how impossible it would be to pursue any
subject through all the investigations into which it would lead me, and
that therefore I should either lose myself in the vain pursuit, or give
up in despair, and read for the future with no other object than that of
immediate gratification. This was an additional reason for being
thankful for my own lot, aware as I am that I am always tempted to
pursue a train of inquiry too far."

The reader need not be told that the sorrows and anxieties of the last
few years of my father's life had produced, as might be expected, a very
injurious effect upon his constitution, both as to body and mind.
Acutely sensitive by nature, deep and strong in his affections, and
highly predisposed to nervous disease, he had felt the sad affliction
which had darkened his latter years far more keenly than any ordinary
observer would have supposed, or than even appears in his letters. He
had, indeed, then, as he expressed himself in his letter declining the
Baronetcy, been "shaken at the root;" and while we must not forget the
more than forty years of incessant mental application which he had
passed through, it was this stroke of calamity which most probably
greatly hastened the coming of the evil day, if it was not altogether
the cause of it, and which rapidly brought on that overclouding of the
intellect which soon unequivocally manifested itself.

This, indeed, in its first approaches, had been so gradual as to have
almost escaped notice; and it was not until after the sad truth was
fully ascertained, that indications of failure (some of which I have
already alluded to) which had appeared some time previously, were called
to mind. A loss of memory on certain points, a lessening acuteness of
the perceptive faculties, an occasional irritability (wholly unknown in
him before); a confusion of time, place, and person; the losing his way
in well-known places--all were remembered as having taken place, when
the melancholy fact had become too evident that the powers of his mind
were irreparably weakened.

On his way home in the year 1839, he passed a few days in London, and
then his friends plainly saw, what, from the altered manner of the very
few and brief letters he had latterly written, they had already feared,
that he had so failed as to have lost much of the vigor and activity of
his faculties. The impressions of one of his most intimate friends, as
conveyed at the time by letter, may fitly be quoted here. "I have just
come home from a visit which affected me deeply.... It was to Southey,
who arrived in town to-day from Hampshire with his wife.... He is (I
fear) much altered. The animation and peculiar clearness of his mind
quite gone, except a gleam or two now and then. What he said was much in
the spirit of his former mind as far as the matter and meaning went, but
the tone of strength and elasticity was wanting. The appearance was that
of a placid languor, sometimes approaching to torpor, but not otherwise
than cheerful. He is thin and shrunk in person, and that extraordinary
face of his has no longer the fire and strength it used to have, though
the singular cast of the features, and the habitual expressions, make it
still a most remarkable phenomenon. Upon the whole, I came away with a
troubled heart." ... After a brief account of the great trials of my
father's late years, the writer continues: "He has been living since his
marriage in Hampshire, where he has not had the aid of his old habits
and accustomed books to methodize his mind. All this considered, I think
we may hope that a year or two of quiet living at his own home may
restore him. His easy, cheerful temperament will be greatly in his
favor. You must help me to hope this, for I could not bear to think of
the decay of that great mind and noble nature--at least not of its
premature decay. Pray that this may be averted, as I have this
night."[6]

On the following day the same friend writes: "I think I am a little
relieved about Southey to-day. I have seen him three times in the course
of the day, and on each occasion he was so easy and cheerful that I
should have said his manner and conversation did not differ, in the most
part, from what it would have been in former days, if he had happened to
be very tired. I say for the most part only, though, for there was once
an obvious confusion of ideas. He lost himself for a moment; he was
conscious of it, and an expression passed over his countenance which was
exceedingly touching--an expression of pain and also of resignation. I
am glad to learn from his brother that he is aware of his altered
condition, and speaks of it openly. This gives a better aspect to the
case than if he could believe that nothing was the matter with him.
Another favorable circumstance is, that he will deal with himself wisely
and patiently. The charm of his manner is perhaps even enhanced at
present (at least when one knows the circumstances), by the gentleness
and patience which pervade it. His mind is beautiful even in its
debility."

Much of my father's failure in its early stages was at first ascribed by
those anxiously watching him, to repeated attacks of the influenza--at
that time a prevailing epidemic--from which he had suffered greatly, and
to which he attributed his own feelings of weakness; but alas! the
weakness he felt was as much mental as bodily (though he had certainly
declined much in bodily strength), and after his return home it
gradually increased upon him. The uncertain step--the confused
manner--the eye once so keen and so intelligent, now either wandering
restlessly or fixed as it were in blank contemplation--all showed that
the over-wrought mind was worn out.

One of the plainest signs of this was the cessation of his accustomed
labors; but while doing nothing (with him how plain a proof that nothing
could be done), he would frequently anticipate a coming period of his
usual industry. His mind, while any spark of its reasoning powers
remained, was busy with its old day-dreams--the History of Portugal--the
History of the Monastic Orders--the Doctor--all were soon to be taken in
hand in earnest--all completed, and new works added to these.

For a considerable time after he had ceased to compose, he took pleasure
in reading, and the habit continued after the power of comprehension was
gone. His dearly-prized books, indeed, were a pleasure to him almost to
the end, and he would walk slowly round his library looking at them, and
taking them down mechanically.

In the earlier stages of his disorder (if the term may be fitly applied
to a case which was not a perversion of the faculties, but their decay)
he could still converse at times with much of his old liveliness and
energy. When the mind was, as it were, set going upon some familiar
subject, for a little time you could not perceive much failure; but if
the thread was broken, if it was a conversation in which new topics were
started, or if any argument was commenced, his powers failed him at
once, and a painful sense of this seemed to come over him for the
moment. His recollection first failed as to recent events, and his
thoughts appeared chiefly to dwell upon those long past, and as his mind
grew weaker, these recollections seemed to recede still farther back.
Names he could rarely remember, and more than once, when trying to
recall one which he felt he ought to know, I have seen him press his
hand upon his brow and sadly exclaim, "Memory! memory! where art thou
gone?"

But this failure altogether was so gradual, and at the same time so
complete, that I am inclined to hope and believe there was not on the
whole much painful consciousness of it; and certainly for more than a
year preceding his death, he passed his time as in a dream, with little,
if any knowledge of what went on around him.

One circumstance connected with the latter years of his life deserves to
be noticed as very singular. His hair, which previously was almost snowy
white, grew perceptibly darker, and I think, if any thing, increased in
thickness and a disposition to curl.

But it is time I drew a vail over these latter scenes. They are too
painful to dwell on.

   "A noble mind in sad decay,
   When baffled hope has died away,
   And life becomes one long distress
   In pitiable helplessness.
   Methinks 'tis like a ship on shore,
   That once defied the Atlantic's roar,
   And gallantly through gale and storm
   Hath ventured her majestic form;
   But now in stranded ruin laid,
   By winds and dashing seas decayed,
   Forgetful of her ocean reign,
   Must crumble into earth again."[7]

In some cases of this kind, toward the end, some glimmering of reason
re-appears, but this must be when the mind is obscured or upset, not, as
in this case, apparently worn out. The body gradually grew weaker, and
disorders appeared which the state of the patient rendered it almost
impossible to treat properly; and, after a short attack of fever, the
scene closed on the 21st of March, 1843, and a second time had we cause
to feel deeply thankful, when the change from life to death, or more
truly from death to life, took place.

It was a dark and stormy morning when he was borne to his last
resting-place, at the western end of the beautiful church-yard of
Crosthwaite. There lies his dear son Herbert--there his daughters Emma
and Isabel--there Edith, his faithful helpmate of forty years. But few
besides his own family and immediate neighbors followed his remains. His
only intimate friend within reach, Mr. Wordsworth, crossed the hills
that wild morning to be present.

Soon after my father's death, various steps were taken with a view to
erecting monuments to his memory; and considerable sums were quickly
subscribed for that purpose, the list including the names of many
persons, not only strangers to him personally, but also strongly opposed
to him in political opinion. The result was that three memorials were
erected. The first and principal one, a full length recumbent figure,
was executed by Lough, and placed in Crosthwaite church, and is
certainly an excellent likeness, as well as a most beautiful work of
art. The original intention and agreement was, that it should be in Caen
stone, but the sculptor, with characteristic liberality, executed it in
white marble, at a considerable sacrifice.

[Illustration: SOUTHEY'S TOMB.]

The following lines, by Mr. Wordsworth, are inscribed upon the base:

   "Ye vales and hills, whose beauty hither drew
   The poet's steps, and fixed him here; on you
   His eyes have closed; and ye loved books, no more
   Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
   To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown
   Adding immortal labors of his own--
   Whether he traced historic truth with zeal
   For the state's guidance or the church's weal,
   Or fancy disciplined by curious art
   Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart,
   Or judgments sanctioned in the patriot's mind
   By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
   Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
   Could private feelings meet in holier rest.
   His joys--his griefs--have vanished like a cloud
   From Skiddaw's top; but he to Heaven was vowed
   Through a life long and pure, and steadfast faith
   Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: From an unpublished chapter of the Life and Correspondence
of Robert Southey, now in press by Harper and Brothers.]

[Footnote 2: During the several years that he was partially employed
upon the Life of Dr. Bell, he devoted two hours before breakfast to it
in the summer, and as much time as there was daylight for, during the
winter months, that it might not interfere with the usual occupations of
the day. In all this time, however, he made but little progress in it;
partly from the nature of the materials, partly from the want of
sufficient interest in the subject.]

[Footnote 3: Miss Barker, the Senhora of earlier days, who was living at
that time in a house close to Greta Hall.]

[Footnote 4: Notes to Philip Van Artevelde, by Henry Taylor.]

[Footnote 5: I speak of a period prior to his receiving his last
pension, which was granted in 1835.]

[Footnote 6: August 24, 1839.]

[Footnote 7: Robert Montgomery. The fourth line is altered from the
original.]

[Illustration: MADAME CAMPAN.]

MADAME CAMPAN.[8]

Jane Louisa Henrietta Campan was born at Paris, 1752. She was the
daughter of M. Genet, first clerk in the office of the Minister of
Foreign Affairs. He was fond of literature, and communicated a taste for
it to his daughter, who early displayed considerable talents. She
acquired a knowledge of foreign languages, particularly the Italian and
English, and was distinguished for her skill in reading and recitation.
These acquisitions procured for her the place of reader to the French
princesses, daughters of Louis XV. On the marriage of Marie-Antoinette
to the Dauphin, afterward Louis XVI., Mademoiselle Genet was attached to
her suite, and continued, for twenty years, to occupy a situation about
her person.

Her general intelligence and talent for observation, enabled Madame
Campan, in the course of her service, to collect the materials for her
"Memoirs of the Private Life of the Queen of France," first published in
Paris, and translated and printed in London, 1823, in two volumes. This
work is not only interesting for the information it affords, but is also
very creditable to the literary talents of the authoress. Soon after the
appointment at court, Mademoiselle Genet was married to M. Campan, son
of the Secretary of the queen's closet. When Marie-Antoinette was made a
prisoner, Madame Campan begged to be permitted to accompany her royal
mistress, and share her imprisonment, which was refused. Madame Campan
was with the queen at the storming of the Tuilleries, on the 10th of
August, when she narrowly escaped with her life: and, under the rule of
Robespierre, she came near being sent to the guillotine. After the fall
of that tyrant, she retired to the country, and opened a private
seminary for young ladies, which she conducted with great success.
Josephine Beauharnais sent her daughter, Hortense, to the seminary of
Madame Campan. She had also the sisters of the emperor under her care.
In 1806, Napoleon founded the school of Ecouen, for the daughters and
sisters of the officers of the Legion of Honor, and appointed Madame
Campan to superintend it. This institution was suppressed at the
restoration of the Bourbons, and Madame Campan retired to Nantes, where
she partly prepared her "Memoirs," and other works. She died in 1822,
aged seventy. After her decease, her "Private Journal" was published;
also, "Familiar Letters to her Friends," and a work, which she
considered her most important one, entitled "Thoughts on Education." We
will give extracts from these works.

From the "Private Journal."

MESMER AND HIS MAGNETISM.

At the time when Mesmer made so much noise in Paris with his magnetism,
M. Campan, my husband, was his partisan, like almost every person who
moved in high life. To be magnetized was then a fashion; nay, it was
more, it was absolutely a rage. In the drawing-rooms, nothing was talked
of but the brilliant discovery. There was to be no more dying; people's
heads were turned, and their imaginations heated in the highest degree.
To accomplish this object, it was necessary to bewilder the
understanding; and Mesmer, with his singular language, produced that
effect. To put a stop to the fit of public insanity was the grand
difficulty; and it was proposed to have the secret purchased by the
court. Mesmer fixed his claims at a very extravagant rate. However, he
was offered fifty thousand crowns. By a singular chance, I was one day
led into the midst of the somnambulists. Such was the enthusiasm of the
spectators, that, in most of them, I could observe a wild rolling of the
eye, and a convulsed movement of the countenance. A stranger might have
fancied himself amidst the unfortunate patients of Charenton. Surprised
and shocked at seeing so many people almost in a state of delirium, I
withdrew, full of reflections on the scene which I had just witnessed.

It happened that about this time my husband was attacked with a
pulmonary disorder, and he desired that he might be conveyed to Mesmer's
house. Being introduced into the apartment occupied by M. Campan, I
asked the worker of miracles what treatment he proposed to adopt; he
very coolly replied, that to ensure a speedy and perfect cure, it would
be necessary to lay in the bed of the invalid, at his left side, one of
three things, namely, a young woman of brown complexion; a black hen; or
an empty bottle.

"Sir," said I, "if the choice be a matter of indifference, pray try the
empty bottle."

M. Campan's side grew worse; he experienced a difficulty of breathing
and a pain in his chest. All magnetic remedies that were employed
produced no effect. Perceiving his failure, Mesmer took advantage of the
periods of my absence to bleed and blister the patient. I was not
informed of what had been done until after M. Campan's recovery. Mesmer
was asked for a certificate, to prove that the patient had been cured by
means of magnetism only; and he gave it. Here was a trait of enthusiasm!
Truth was no longer respected. When I next presented myself to the queen
(Marie-Antoinette), their majesties asked what I thought of Mesmer's
discovery. I informed them of what had taken place, earnestly expressing
my indignation at the conduct of the barefaced quack. It was immediately
determined to have nothing more to do with him.

THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER'S VISIT TO MADAME CAMPAN'S SCHOOL.

The emperor inquired into the most minute particulars respecting the
establishment at Ecouen; and I felt great pleasure in answering his
questions. I recollect having dwelt on several points which appeared to
me very important, and which were in their spirit hostile to
aristocratical principles. For example, I informed his majesty that the
daughters of distinguished and wealthy individuals, and those of the
humble and obscure, were indiscriminately mingled together in the
establishment. If, said I, I were to observe the least pretension on
account of the rank or fortune of parents, I should immediately put an
end to it. The most perfect equality is preserved; distinction is
awarded only to merit and industry. The pupils are obliged to cut and
make all their own clothes. They are taught to clean and mend lace; and
two at a time, they by turns, three times a week, cook and distribute
victuals to the poor of the village. The young ladies who have been
brought up in my boarding-school are thoroughly acquainted with every
thing relating to household business; and they are grateful to me for
having made it a part of their education. In my conversations with them,
I have always taught them that _on domestic management depends the
preservation or dissipation of their fortunes_. I impress on their minds
the necessity of regulating with attention the most trifling daily
expenses; but at the same time I recommend them to avoid making domestic
details the subject of conversation in the drawing-room, for that is a
most decided mark of ill-breeding. It is proper that all should know how
to do and to direct; but it is only for ill-educated women to talk about
their carriages, servants, washing, and cooking.

These are the reasons, sire, why my pupils are generally superior to
those brought up in other establishments. All is conducted on the most
simple plan; the young ladies are taught every thing of which they can
possibly stand in need; and they are consequently as much at their ease
in the brilliant circles of fashion, as in the most humble condition of
life. Fortune confers rank, but education teaches how to support it
properly.

From the "Letters," &c.

TO HER ONLY SON.

You are now, my dear Henry, removed from my fond care and instruction;
and young as you are, you have entered upon the vast theatre of the
world. Some years hence, when time shall have matured your ideas, and
enabled you to take a clear, retrospective view of your steps in life,
you will be able to enter into my feelings, and to judge of the anxiety
which at this moment agitates my heart.

When first a beloved child, releasing itself from its nurse's arms,
ventures its little tottering steps on the soft carpet, or the smoothest
grass-plot, the poor mother scarcely breathes; she imagines that these
first efforts of nature are attended with every danger to the object
most dear to her. Fond mother, calm your anxious fears! Your infant son
can, at the worst, only receive a slight hurt, which, under your tender
care, will speedily be healed. Reserve your alarms, your heart-beatings,
your prayers to Providence, for the moment when your son enters upon the
scene of the world to select a character, which, if sustained with
dignity, judgment, and feeling, will render him universally esteemed and
approved; or to degrade himself by filling one of those low,
contemptible parts, fit only for the vilest actors in the drama of life.
Tremble at the moment when your child has to choose between the rugged
road of industry and integrity, leading straight to honor and happiness;
and the smooth and flowery path which descends, through indolence and
pleasure, to the gulf of vice and misery. It is then that the voice of a
parent, or of some faithful friend, must direct the right course....

Surrounded as you doubtless are, by thoughtless and trifling companions,
let your mother be the rallying point of your mind and heart; the
confidant of all your plans....

Learn to know the value of money. This is a most essential point. The
want of economy leads to the decay of powerful empires, as well as
private families. Louis XVI. perished on the scaffold for a deficit of
fifty millions. There would have been no debt, no assemblies of the
people, no revolution, no loss of the sovereign authority, no tragical
death, but for this fatal deficit. States are ruined through the
mismanagement of millions, and private persons become bankrupts and end
their lives in misery through the mismanagement of crowns worth six
livres. It is very important, my dear son, that I lay down to you these
first principles of right conduct, and impress upon your mind the
necessity of adhering to them. Render me an account of the expenditure
of your money, not viewing me in the light of a rigid preceptress, but
as a friend who wishes to accustom you to the habit of accounting to
yourself....

Let me impress upon you the importance of attentive application to
business; for that affords certain consolation, and is a security
against lassitude, and the vices which idleness creates....

Be cautious how you form connections; and hesitate not to break them off
on the first proposition to adopt any course which your affectionate
mother warns you to avoid, as fatal to your real happiness, and to the
attainment of that respect and esteem which it should be your ambition
to enjoy....

Never neglect to appropriate a certain portion of your time to useful
reading; and do not imagine that even half an hour a day, devoted to
that object, will be unprofitable. The best way of arranging and
employing one's time is by calculation; and I have often reflected that
half an hour's reading every day, will be one hundred and eighty hours'
reading in the course of the year. Great fortunes are amassed by little
savings; and poverty as well as ignorance are occasioned by the
extravagant waste of money and time....

My affection for you, my dear Henry, is still as actively alive as when,
in your infancy, I removed, patiently, every little stone from a certain
space in my garden, lest, when you first ran alone, you might fall and
hurt your face on the pebbles. But the snares now spread beneath your
steps are far more dangerous. They are strengthened by seductive
appearances, and the ardor of youth would hurry you forward to the
allurement; but that my watchful care, and the confidence you repose in
me, serve to counteract the influence of this twofold power. Your bark
is gliding near a rapid current; but your mother stands on the shore,
and with her eyes fixed on her dear navigator, anxiously exclaims, in
the moment of danger, "Reef your sails; mind your helm." Oh! may you
never forget, or cease to be guided by these warnings, which come from
my inmost heart.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: From Mrs. Hale's Female Biography, now in the press of
Harper & Brothers.]

PROCRASTINATION.

BY CHARLES MACKAY.

   If fortune with a smiling face
   Strew roses on our way,
   When shall we stoop to pick them up?
       _To-day, my love, to-day._
   But should she frown with face of care,
   And talk of coming sorrow,
   When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?
       _To-morrow, love, to-morrow._

   If those who've wrong'd us own their fault,
   And kindly pity pray,
   When shall we listen, and forgive?
       _To-day, my love, to-day._
   But if stern Justice urge rebuke,
   And warmth from Memory borrow,
   When shall we chide, if chide we dare?
       _To-morrow, love, to-morrow._

   If those to whom we owe a debt
   Are harmed unless we pay,
   When shall we struggle to be just?
       _To-day, my love, to-day._
   But if our debtor fail our hope,
   And plead his ruin thorough,
   When shall we weigh his breach of faith?
       _To-morrow, love, to-morrow._

   If love estranged should once again
   Her genial smile display,
   When shall we kiss her proffered lips?
       _To-day, my love, to-day._
   But if she would indulge regret,
   Or dwell with bygone sorrow,
   When shall we weep, if weep we must?
       _To-morrow, love, to-morrow._

   For virtuous acts and harmless joys
   The minutes will not stay;
   We've always time to welcome them,
       _To-day, my love, to-day._
   But care, resentment, angry words,
   And unavailing sorrow,
   Come far too soon, if they appear
       _To-morrow, love, to-morrow._

[Illustration: BONA LOMBARDI.]

BRUNORO.[9]

Bona Lombardi, was born in 1417, in Sacco, a little village in
Vattellina. Her parents were obscure peasants, of whom we have but
little information. The father, Gabriel Lombardi, a private soldier,
died while she was an infant; and her mother not surviving him long, the
little girl was left to the charge of an aunt, a hard-working
countrywoman, and an uncle, an humble curate.

Bona, in her simple peasant station, exhibited intelligence, decision of
character, and personal beauty, which raised her to a certain
consideration in the estimation of her companions; and the neighborhood
boasted of the beauty of Bona when an incident occurred which was to
raise her to a most unexpected rank. In the war between the Duke of
Milan and the Venetians, the latter had been routed and driven from
Vattellina. Piccinino, the Milanese general, upon departing to follow up
his advantages, left Captain Brunoro, a Parmesan gentleman, to maintain
a camp in Morbegno, as a central position, to maintain the conquered
country. One day, after a hunting party, he stopped to repose himself,
in a grove where many of the peasants were assembled for some rustic
festival; he was greatly struck with the loveliness of a girl of about
fifteen. Upon entering into conversation with her, he was surprised at
the ingenuity and spirited tone of her replies. Speaking of the
adventure on his return home, every body told him that Bona Lombardi had
acknowledged claims to admiration.

Brunoro, remaining through the summer in that district, found many
opportunities of seeing the fair peasant; becoming acquainted with her
worth and character, he at last determined to make her the companion of
his life; their marriage was not declared at first, but, to prevent a
separation, however temporary, Bona was induced to put on the dress of
an officer. Her husband delighted in teaching her horsemanship, together
with all military exercises. She accompanied him in battle, fought by
his side, and, regardless of her own safety, seemed to be merely an
added arm to shield and assist Brunoro. As was usual in those times,
among the condottieri, Brunoro adopted different lords, and fought
sometimes in parties to which, at others, he was opposed. In these
vicissitudes, he incurred the anger of the King of Naples, who, seizing
him by means of an ambuscade, plunged him into a dungeon, where he would
probably have finished his days, but for the untiring and well-planned
efforts of his wife. To effect his release, she spared no means;
supplications, threats, money, all were employed, and, at last, with
good success. She had the happiness of recovering her husband.

Bona was not only gifted with the feminine qualities of domestic
affection and a well-balanced intellect; in the hottest battles, her
bravery and power of managing her troops were quite remarkable; of these
feats there are many instances recorded. We will mention but one. In the
course of the Milanese war, the Venetians had been, on one occasion,
signally discomfited in an attack upon the Castle of Povoze, in Brescia.
Brunoro himself was taken prisoner, and carried into the castle. Bona
arrived with a little band of fresh soldiers; she rallied the routed
forces, inspired them with new courage, led them on herself, took the
castle, and liberated her husband, with the other prisoners. She was,
however, destined to lose her husband without possibility of recovering
him; he died in 1468. When this intrepid heroine, victor in battles,
and, rising above all adversity, was bowed by a sorrow resulting from
affection, she declared she could not survive Brunoro. She caused a tomb
to be made, in which their remains could be united; and, after seeing
the work completed, she gradually sank into a languid state, which
terminated in her death.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: From Mrs. Hale's Female Biography.]

[Illustration: Thomas De Quincey]

A SKETCH OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY THE "ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER."

SEPTEMBER 21, 1850.

To the Editor of Hogg's "Instructor."

My Dear Sir--I am much obliged to you for communicating to us (that is,
to my daughters and myself) the engraved portrait, enlarged from the
daguerreotype original. The engraver, at least, seems to have done his
part ably. As to one of the earlier artists concerned, viz., the sun of
July, I suppose it is not allowable to complain of _him_, else my
daughters are inclined to upbraid him with having made the mouth too
long. But, of old, it was held audacity to suspect the sun's veracity:
"Solem quis dicere falsum audeat!" And I remember that, half a century
ago, the "Sun" newspaper in London, used to fight under sanction of that
motto. But it was at length discovered by the learned, that Sun
_junior_, viz., the newspaper, _did_ sometimes indulge in fibbing. The
ancient prejudice about the solar truth broke down, therefore, in that
instance; and who knows but Sun _senior_ may be detected, now that our
optical glasses are so much improved, in similar practices? in which
case he may have only been "keeping his hand in" when operating upon
that one feature of the mouth. The rest of the portrait, we all agree,
does credit to his talents, showing that he is still wide-awake, and not
at all the superannuated old artist that some speculators in philosophy
had dreamed of his becoming.

As an accompaniment to this portrait, your wish is that I should furnish
a few brief chronological memoranda of my own life. _That_ would be hard
for me to do, and, _when_ done, might not be very interesting for others
to read. Nothing makes such dreary and monotonous reading as the old
hackneyed roll-call, chronologically arrayed, of inevitable facts in a
man's life. One is so certain of the man's having been born, and also of
his having died, that it is dismal to lie under the necessity of reading
it. That the man began by being a boy--that he went to school--and that,
by intense application to his studies, "which he took to be _his_
portion in this life," he rose to distinction as a robber of orchards,
seems so probable, upon the whole, that I am willing to accept it as a
postulate. That he married--that, in fullness of time, he was hanged, or
(being a humble, unambitious man) that he was content with deserving
it--these little circumstances are so naturally to be looked for, as
sown broadcast up and down the great fields of biography, that any one
life becomes, in this respect, but the echo of thousands. Chronologic
successions of events and dates, such as these, which, belonging to the
race, illustrate nothing in the individual, are as wearisome as they are
useless.

A better plan will be--to detach some single chapter from the
experiences of childhood, which is likely to offer, at least, this kind
of value--either that it will record some of the deep impressions under
which my childish sensibilities expanded, and the ideas which at that
time brooded continually over my mind, or else will expose the traits of
character that slumbered in those around me. This plan will have the
advantage of not being liable to the suspicion of vanity or egotism; for
I beg the reader to understand distinctly, that I do not offer this
sketch as deriving any part of what interest it may have from myself, as
the person concerned in it. If the particular experience selected is
really interesting, in virtue of its own circumstances, then it matters
not to _whom_ it happened. Suppose that a man should record a perilous
journey, it will be no fair inference that he records it as a journey
performed by himself. Most sincerely he may be able to say, that he
records it not _for_ that relation to himself, but _in spite of_ that
relation. The incidents, being absolutely independent, in their power to
amuse, of all personal reference, must be equally interesting [he will
say] whether they occurred to A or to B. That is _my_ case. Let the
reader abstract from _me_ as a person that by accident, or in some
partial sense, may have been previously known to himself. Let him read
the sketch as belonging to one who wishes to be profoundly anonymous. I
offer it not as owing any thing to its connection with a particular
individual, but as likely to be amusing separately for itself; and if I
make any mistake in _that_, it is not a mistake of vanity exaggerating
the consequence of what relates to my own childhood, but a simple
mistake of the judgment as to the power of amusement that may attach to
a particular succession of reminiscences.

Excuse the imperfect development which in some places of the sketch may
have been given to my meaning. I suffer from a most afflicting
derangement of the nervous system, which at times makes it difficult for
me to write at all, and always makes me impatient, in a degree not
easily understood, of recasting what may seem insufficiently, or even
incoherently, expressed.--Believe me, ever yours,

THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

A SKETCH FROM CHILDHOOD.

About the close of my sixth year, suddenly the first chapter of my life
came to a violent termination; that chapter which, and which only, in
the hour of death, or even within the gates of recovered Paradise, could
merit a remembrance. "It is finished," was the secret misgiving of my
heart, for the heart even of infancy is as apprehensive as that of
maturest wisdom, in relation to any capital wound inflicted on the
happiness; "it is finished, and life is exhausted." How? Could it be
exhausted so soon? Had I read Milton, had I seen Rome, had I heard
Mozart? No. The "Paradise Lost" was yet unread, the Coliseum and St.
Peter's were unseen, the melodies of Don Giovanni were yet silent for
me. Raptures there might be in arrear. But raptures are modes of
_troubled_ pleasure; the peace, the rest, the lulls, the central
security, which belong to love, that is past all understanding, _those_
could return no more. Such a love, so unfathomable, subsisting between
myself and my eldest sister, under the circumstances of our difference
in age (she being above eight years of age, I under six), and of our
affinities in nature, together with the sudden foundering of all this
blind happiness, I have described elsewhere.[10] I shall not here repeat
any part of the narrative. But one extract from the closing sections of
the paper I shall make; in order to describe the depth to which a
child's heart may be plowed up by one over-mastering storm of grief, and
as a proof that grief, in some of its fluctuations, is not uniformly a
depressing passion--but also by possibility has its own separate
aspirations, and at times is full of cloudy grandeur. The point of time
is during the months that immediately succeeded to my sister's funeral.

"The awful stillness of summer noons, when no winds were abroad--the
appealing silence of gray or misty afternoons--these were to me, in that
state of mind, fascinations, as of witchcraft. Into the woods, or the
desert air, I gazed as if some comfort lay in _them_. I wearied the
heavens with my inquest of beseeching looks. I tormented the blue depths
with obstinate scrutiny, sweeping them with my eyes, and searching them
forever, after one angelic face, that might perhaps have permission to
reveal itself for a moment. The faculty of shaping images in the
distance, out of slight elements, and grouping them after the yearnings
of the heart, grew upon me at this time. And I recall at the present
moment one instance of that sort, which may show how merely shadows, or
a gleam of brightness, or nothing at all, could furnish a sufficient
basis for this creative faculty. On Sunday mornings I was always taken
to church. It was a church on the old and natural model of England,
having aisles, galleries, organ, all things ancient and venerable, and
the proportions majestic. Here, while the congregation knelt through the
long Litany, as often as we came to that passage, so beautiful among the
many that are so, where God is supplicated on behalf of 'all sick
persons and young children,' and that He 'would show His pity upon all
prisoners and captives', I wept in secret; and, raising my streaming
eyes to the windows of the galleries, saw, on days when the sun was
shining, a spectacle as affecting as ever prophet can have beheld. The
margins of the windows were rich in storied glass; through the deep
purples and crimsons streamed the golden light; emblazonries of heavenly
illumination mingling with the earthly emblazonries of what is grandest
in man. _There_ were the apostles that had trampled upon earth, and the
glories of earth, out of celestial love to man. _There_ were the martyrs
that had borne witness to the truth through flames, through torments,
and through armies of fierce, insulting faces. _There_ were the saints
that, under intolerable pangs, had glorified God by meek submission to
his will. And all the time, while this tumult of sublime memorials held
on as the deep chords of some accompaniment in the bass, I saw through
the wide central field of the window, where the glass was _un_colored,
white fleecy clouds sailing over the azure depths of the sky; were it
but a fragment or a hint of such a cloud, immediately, under the flash
of my sorrow-haunted eye, it grew and shaped itself into a vision of
beds with white lawny curtains; and in the beds lay sick children, dying
children, that were tossing in anguish, and weeping clamorously for
death. God, for some mysterious reason, could not suddenly release them
from their pain; but He suffered the beds, as it seemed, to rise slowly
through the clouds; slowly the beds ascended into the chambers of the
air; slowly, also, his arms descended from the heavens, in order that He
and His young children whom in Judea, once and forever, He had blessed,
though they _must_ pass slowly through the dreadful chasm of separation,
might yet meet the sooner. These visions were self-sustained. These
visions needed not that any sound should speak to me, or music mould my
feelings. The hint from the Litany, the fragment from the clouds, the
pictures on the storied windows were sufficient. But not the less the
blare of the tumultuous organ wrought its own separate creations. And
often-times in anthems, when the mighty instrument threw its vast
columns of sound, fierce, yet melodious, over the voices of the
choir--high in arches when it rose, seeming to surmount and over-ride
the strife of the vocal parts, and gathering by strong coercion the
total storm of music into unity--sometimes I also seemed to rise and to
walk triumphantly upon those clouds, which so recently I had looked up
to as mementoes of prostrate sorrow. Yes; sometimes, under the
transfigurations of music, I felt of grief itself, as a fiery chariot
for mounting victoriously above the causes of grief."

The next (which was the _second_) chapter of my childish experience,
formed that sort of fierce and fantastic contradiction to the first,
which might seem to move in obedience to some incarnate principle of
malicious pantomime. A spirit of love, and a spirit of rest, as if
breathing from St. John the Evangelist, had seemed to mould the
harmonies of that earliest stage in my childhood which had just
vanished; but now, on the other hand, some wicked Harlequin
Mephistopheles was apparently commissioned to vex my eyes and plague my
heart, through the next succession of two or three years: a worm was at
the roots of life. Yet, in this, perhaps, there lurked a harsh
beneficence. If, because the great vision of love had vanished, idiocy
and the torpor of despondency were really creeping stealthily over my
faculties, and strangling their energies, what better change for me than
the necessity (else how miserable!) of fighting, wrangling, struggling,
without pause, or promise of pause, from day to day, or even from year
to year? "If," as my good angel might have said to me, "thou art moving
on a line of utter ruin, from mere palsy of one great vital force, and
if that loss is past all restoration, then kindle a new supplementary
life by such means as are now possible--by the agitations, for instance,
of strife and conflict"--yes, possible, on the wide stage of the world,
and for people who should be free agents enough to _make_ enemies, in
case they failed to find them; but for a child, not seven years old, to
whom his medical advisers should prescribe a course of hatred, or
continued hostilities, by way of tonics, in what quarter was _he_ to
look out for such luxuries? Who would condescend to officiate as _enemy_
to a child! And yet, as regarded my own particular case, had I breathed
out any such querulous demand, that same Harlequin Mephistopheles might
have whispered in reply, "Never you trouble yourself about _that_. Do
_you_ furnish the patience that can swallow cheerfully a long course of
kicking, and _I_'ll find those that shall furnish the kicks." In fact,
at this very moment, when all chance of quarrel, or opening for
prolonged enmity, seemed the remotest of chimeras, mischief was already
in the wind; and suddenly there was let loose upon me such a storm of
belligerent fury as might, under good management, have yielded a
life-annuity of feuds.

I had at that time an elder brother, in fact, the eldest of us all, and
at least five years senior to myself. He, by original temperament, was a
boy of fiery nature, ten times more active than I was inert, loving the
element of feuds and stormy conflict more (if that were possible) than I
detested it; and these constitutional tendencies had in him been nursed
by the training of a public school. This accident in his life was indeed
the cause of our now meeting as strangers. Singular, indeed, it seems,
but, in fact, had arisen naturally enough, that both this eldest of my
brothers, and my father, should be absolute strangers to me in my
seventh year; so that, in the case of meeting either, I should not have
known him, nor he me. In my father's case, this arose from the accident
of his having lived abroad for a space that, measured against _my_ life,
was a very long one. First, he lived in Portugal, at Lisbon; and at
Cintra; next in Madeira; then in the West Indies; sometimes in Jamaica,
sometimes in St. Kitts, courting the supposed benefit of hot climates in
his complaint of pulmonary consumption; and at last, when all had proved
unavailing, he was coming home to die among his family, in his
thirty-ninth year. My mother had gone to wait his arrival at the port
(Southampton, probably), to which the West India packet should bring
him; and among the deepest recollections which I connect with that
period, is one derived from the night of his arrival at Greenhay. It was
a summer evening of unusual solemnity. The servants, and four of us
children--six then survived--were gathered for hours, on the lawn before
the house, listening for the sound of wheels. Sunset came--nine, ten,
eleven o'clock, and nearly another hour had passed--without a warning
sound; for Greenhay, being so solitary a house, formed a _terminus ad
quem_, beyond which was nothing but a cluster of cottages, composing the
little hamlet of Greenhill; so that any sound of wheels, heard in the
winding lane which then connected us with the Rusholme road, carried
with it, of necessity, a warning summons to prepare for visitors at
Greenhay. No such summons had yet reached us; it was nearly midnight;
and, for the last time, it was determined that we should move in a body
out of the grounds, on the chance of meeting the traveling party, if, at
so late an hour, it could yet be expected to arrive. In fact, to our
general surprise, we met it almost immediately, but coming at so slow a
pace, that the fall of the horses' feet was not audible until we were
close upon them. I mention the case for the sake of the undying
impressions which connected themselves with the circumstances. The first
notice of the approach was the sudden emerging of horses' heads from the
deep gloom of the shady lane; the next was the mass of white pillows
against which the dying patient was reclining. The hearse-like pace at
which the carriage moved recalled the overwhelming spectacle of the
funeral which had so lately formed part in the most memorable event of
my life. But these elements of awe, that might at any rate have struck
forcibly upon the mind of a child, were for me, in my condition of
morbid nervousness, raised into abiding grandeur by the antecedent
experiences of that particular summer night. The listening for hours to
the sounds from horses' hoofs upon distant roads, rising and falling,
caught and lost, upon the gentle undulation of such light, fitful airs
as might be stirring--the peculiar solemnity of the hours succeeding to
sunset--the gorgeousness of the dying day--the gorgeousness which, by
description, so well I knew of those West Indian islands from which my
father was returning--the knowledge that he returned only to die--the
almighty pomp in which this great idea of Death appareled itself to my
young suffering heart--the corresponding pomp in which the antagonistic
idea, not less mysterious, of life, rose, as if on wings, to the
heavens, amidst tropic glories and floral pageantries, that seemed even
_more_ solemn and more pathetic than, the vapory plumes and trophies of
mortality--all this chorus of restless images, or of suggestive
thoughts, gave to my father's return, which else had been fitted only to
interpose a transitory illumination or red-letter day in the calendar of
a child, the shadowy power of an ineffaceable agency among my dreams.
This, indeed, was the one sole memorial which restores my father's image
to me as a personal reality. Otherwise, he would have been for me a bare
_nominis umbra_. He languished, indeed, for weeks upon a sofa; and,
during that interval, it happened naturally, from my meditative habits
and corresponding repose of manners, that I was a privileged visitor to
him during his waking hours. I was also present at his bed-side in the
closing hour of his life, which exhaled quietly, amidst snatches of
delirious conversation with some imaginary visitors. From this brief
childish experience of his nature and disposition, the chief conclusion
which I drew tended to this--that he was the most _benignant_ person
whom I had met, or was likely to meet, in life. What I have since heard
from others, who knew him well, tallied with my own childish impression.
His life had been too busy to allow him much time for regular study; but
he loved literature with a passionate love; had formed a large and
well-selected library; had himself published a book, which I have read,
and which really is not a bad one; and carried his reverence for
distinguished authors to such a height, that (according to the report,
of several among his friends) had either Dr. Johnson, or Cowper, the
poet--the two contemporary authors whom most he reverenced--happened to
visit Greenhay, he might have been tempted to express his homage through
the Pagan fashion of raising altars and burning incense, or of
sacrificing, if not an ox, yet, at least, a baron of beef. The latter
mode of idolatry Dr. Sam, would have approved, provided always that the
_nidor_ were irreproachable, and that the condiments of mustard,
horse-radish, &c., _more Anglico_, were placed on the altar; but as to
Cowper, who was in the habit of tracing Captain Cooke's death at Owyhee
to the fact that the misjudging captain had once suffered himself to be
worshiped at one of the Society Islands, in all consistency, he must
have fled from such a house with sacred horror. Why I have at all gone
back to this little parenthesis in my childhood is, from the singularity
that I should remember my father at all, only because I had received all
my impressions about him into the very centre of my preconceptions about
certain grand objects--about the Tropics, about summer evenings, and
about some mysterious glory of the grave. It seems metaphysical to say
so, but yet it is true that I knew him, speaking scholastically, through
_à priori_ ideas--I remember him _transcendenter_--and, were it not for
the midsummer night's dream which glorified his return, to me he would
have remained forever that absolute stranger, which, according to the
prosaic interpretation of the case, he really was.

My brother was a stranger from causes quite as little to be foreseen,
but seeming quite as natural after they had really occurred. In an early
stage of his career, he had been found wholly unmanageable. His genius
for mischief amounted to inspiration; it was a divine _afflatus_ which
drove him in that direction; and such was his capacity for riding in
whirlwinds and directing storms, that he made it his trade to create
them, as [Greek: nephelêgerheta Zehys] a cloud-compelling Jove, in order
that he _might_ direct them. For this, and other reasons, he had been
sent to the grammar school of Louth, in Lincolnshire--one of those many
old classic institutions which form the peculiar[11] glory of England.
To box, and to box under the severest restraint of honorable laws, was
in those days a mere necessity of school-boy life at _public_ schools;
and hence the superior manliness, generosity, and self-control, of those
generally who benefited by such discipline--so systematically hostile to
all meanness, pusillanimity, or indirectness. Cowper, in his poem on
that subject, is far from doing justice to our great public schools.
Himself disqualified, by delicacy of temperament, for reaping the
benefits from such a warfare, and having suffered too much in his own
Westminster experience, he could not judge them from an impartial
station; but I, though ill enough adapted to an atmosphere so stormy,
yet, having tried both classes of schools, public and private, am
compelled in mere conscience to give my vote (and, if I had a thousand
votes, to give _all_ my votes) for the former.

Fresh from such a training as this, and at a time when his additional
five or six years availed nearly to make _his_ age the double of mine,
my brother very naturally despised me; and, from his exceeding
frankness, he took no pains to conceal that he did. Why should he? Who
was it that could have a right to feel aggrieved by his contempt? Who,
if not myself? But it happened, on the contrary, that I had a perfect
craze for being despised. I doated on being despised; and considered
contempt the sincerest a sort of luxury, that I was in continual fear of
losing. I lived in a panic, lest I should be suspected of shamming
contemptibility. But I did _not_ sham it. I trusted that I was really
entitled to contempt; and, for this, I had some metaphysical-looking
reasons, which there may be occasion to explain further on. At present,
it is sufficient to give a colorable rationality to my craze, if I say,
that the slightest approach to any favorable construction of my
intellectual pretensions, any, the least, shadow of esteem expressed for
some thought or some logical distinction that I might incautiously have
dropped, alarmed me beyond measure, because it pledged me in a manner
with the hearer to support this first attempt by a second, by a third,
by a fourth--Oh, heavens! there is no saying how far the horrid man
might go in his unreasonable demands upon me. I groaned under the weight
of his expectations; and, if I laid but the first round of such a
staircase, why, then, I saw in vision a vast Jacob's ladder towering
upward to the clouds, mile after mile, league after league; the
consequence of which would be, that I should be expected to run up and
down this ladder, like any fatigue party of Irish hodmen, carrying hods
of mortar and bricks to the top of any Babel which my wretched admirer
might choose to build. But I put a stop to this villainy. I nipped the
abominable system of extortion in the very bud, by refusing to take the
first step. The man could have no pretense, you know, for expecting me
to climb the third or fourth round, when I had seemed quite unequal to
the first. Professing the most absolute bankruptcy from the very
beginning, giving the man no sort of hope that I would pay even one
farthing in the pound, I never could be made miserable, or kept in hot
water, by unknown responsibilities, or by endless anxieties about some
bill being presented, which the monster might pretend for one moment
that I had indorsed, or in some way had sanctioned his expecting that I
would pay.

Still, with all this passion for being despised, which was so essential
to my peace of mind, I found at times an altitude--a starry altitude--in
the station of contempt for me assumed by my brother that nettled me.
Sometimes, indeed, the mere necessities of dispute carried me, before I
was aware of my own imprudence, so far up the stair-case of Babel, that
my brother was shaken for a moment in the infinity of his contempt: and,
before long, when my superiority in some bookish accomplishments
displayed itself, by results that could not be entirely dissembled,
mere foolish human nature forced me on rare occasions into some trifle
of exultation at these retributory triumphs. But more often I was
disposed to grieve over them. They tended to shake that solid foundation
of utter despicableness upon which I relied so much for my freedom from
anxiety; and, therefore, upon the whole, it was satisfactory to my mind
that my brother's opinion of me, after any little transient oscillation,
gravitated determinately back toward that settled contempt which had
been the result of his original inquest. The pillars of Hercules, upon
which rested the vast edifice of his scorn, were these two--1st, my
physics; he denounced me for effeminacy: 2d, he assumed, and even
postulated as a _datum_, which I myself could never have the face to
refuse, my general idiocy. Physically, therefore, and intellectually, he
looked upon me as below notice; but, _morally_, he assured me that he
would give me a written character of the very best description, whenever
I chose to apply for it. "You're honest," he said; "you're willing,
though lazy; you _would_ pull, if you had the strength of a flea; and,
though a monstrous coward, you don't run away." My own demurs to these
harsh judgments were not many. The idiocy I confessed; because, though
positive that I was not uniformly an idiot, I felt inclined to think
that, in a majority of cases, I really _was_; and there were more
reasons for thinking so than the reader is yet aware of. But, as to the
effeminacy, I denied it _in toto_, and with good reason, as will be
seen. Neither did my brother pretend to have any experimental proofs of
it. The ground he went upon was a mere _à priori_ one, viz., that I had
always been tied to the apron-string of women or girls; which amounted
at most to this: that, by training and the natural tendency of
circumstances, I _ought_ to be effeminate--that is, there was reason to
expect beforehand that I _should_ be so; but, then, the more merit in
me, if, in spite of such general presumptions, I really were _not_. In
fact, my brother soon learned better than any body, and by a daily
experience, how entirely he might depend upon me for carrying out the
most audacious of his own warlike plans; such plans, it is true, that I
abominated; but _that_ made no difference in the fidelity with which I
tried to fulfill them.

This eldest brother of mine, to pass from my own character to his, was
in all respects a remarkable boy. Haughty he was, aspiring, immeasurably
active; fertile in resources as Robinson Crusoe; but also full of
quarrel as it is possible to imagine; and, in default of any other
opponent, he would have fastened a quarrel upon his own shadow for
presuming to run before him when going westward in the morning, whereas,
in all reason, a shadow, like a dutiful child, ought to keep
deferentially in the rear of that majestic substance which is the author
of its existence. Books he detested, one and all, excepting only those
which he happened to write himself. And they were not a few. On all
subjects known to man, from the Thirty-nine Articles of our English
Church, down to pyrotechnics, legerdemain, magic, both black and white,
thaumaturgy, and necromancy, he favored the world (which world was the
nursery where I, on his first coming home, lived among my sisters) with
his select opinions. On this last subject especially--of necromancy--he
was very great; witness his profound work, though but a fragment, and,
unfortunately, long since departed to the bosom of Cinderella, entitled,
"How to raise a ghost; and when you've got him down, how to keep him
down." To which work he assured us, that some most learned and enormous
man, whose name was six feet long, had promised him an appendix; which
appendix treated of the Red Sea and Solomon's signet-ring; with forms of
_mittimus_ for ghosts that might be mutinous; and probably a riot act,
for any _émeute_ among ghosts inclined to raise barricades; since he
often thrilled our young hearts by supposing the case (not at all
unlikely, he affirmed), that a federation, a solemn league and
conspiracy, might take place among the infinite generations of ghosts
against the single generation of men at any one time composing the
garrison of earth. The Roman phrase for expressing that a man had died,
viz., "_Abiit ad plures_" (He has gone over to the majority), my brother
explained to us; and we easily comprehended that any one generation of
the living human race, even if combined, and acting in concert, must be
in a frightful minority, by comparison with all the incalculable
generations that had trod this earth before us. The Parliament of living
men, Lords and Commons united, what a miserable array against the Upper
and Lower House composing the Parliament of ghosts. Perhaps the
Pre-Adamites would constitute one wing in such a ghostly army. My
brother, dying in his sixteenth year, was far enough from seeing or
foreseeing Waterloo; else he might have illustrated this dreadful duel
of the living human race with its ghostly predecessors, by the awful
apparition which, at three o'clock in the afternoon, on the 18th of
June, 1815, the mighty contest at Waterloo must have assumed to eyes
that watched over the trembling interests of man. The English army,
about that time in the great agony of its strife, was thrown into
squares; and under that arrangement, which condensed and contracted its
apparent numbers within a few black geometrical diagrams, how
frightfully narrow--how spectral did its slender lines appear at a
distance, to any philosophic spectators that knew the amount of human
interests confided to that army, and the hopes for Christendom that even
then were trembling in the balance! Such a disproportion, it seems,
might exist, in the case of a ghostly war between the harvest of
possible results and the slender band of reapers that were to gather it
in. And there was even a worse peril than any analogous one that has
been _proved_ to exist at Waterloo. A British surgeon, indeed, in a work
of two octavo volumes, has endeavored to show that a conspiracy was
traced at Waterloo, between two or three foreign regiments, for kindling
a panic in the heat of the battle, by flight, and by a sustained
blowing-up of tumbrils, with the miserable purpose of shaking the
British firmness. But the evidences are not clear; whereas my brother
insisted that the presence of sham men, distributed extensively among
the human race, and meditating treason against us all, had been
demonstrated to the satisfaction of all true philosophers. Who were
these shams and make-believe men? They were, in fact, people that had
been dead for centuries, but that, for reasons best known to themselves,
had returned to this upper earth, walked about among us, and were
undistinguishable, except by the most learned of necromancers, from
authentic men of flesh and blood. I mention this for the sake of
illustrating the fact, that the same crazes are everlastingly revolving
upon men. Two years ago, during the carnival of universal anarchy
equally among doers and thinkers, a closely-printed pamphlet was
published with this title: "A New Revelation, or the Communion of the
Incarnate Dead with the Unconscious Living. Important Fact, without
trifling Fiction, by HIM." I have not the pleasure of knowing HIM; but
certainly I must concede to HIM, that he writes like a man of education,
and also like a man of extreme sobriety, upon his extravagant theme. He
is angry with Swedenborg, as might be expected, for his "absurdities;"
but, as to _him_, there is no chance that he should commit any
absurdity, because (p. 6) "he has met with some who have acknowledged
the fact of their having come from the dead"--_habes confitentem reum_.
Few, however, are endowed with so much candor; and, in particular, for
the honor of literature, it grieves me to find, by p. 10, that the
largest number of these shams, and perhaps the most uncandid, are to be
looked for among "publishers and printers," of whom, it seems, "the
great majority" are mere forgeries; a very few speak frankly about the
matter, and say they don't care who knows it, which, to my thinking, is
impudence; but by far the larger section doggedly deny it, and call a
policeman, if you persist in charging them with being shams. Some
differences there are between my brother and HIM, but in the great
outline of their views, they coincide.

This hypothesis, however, like a thousand others, when it happened that
they engaged no durable sympathy from his nursery audience, he did not
pursue. For some time, he turned his thoughts to philosophy, and read
lectures to us every night upon some branch or other of physics. This
undertaking arose upon some one of us envying or admiring flies for
their power of walking upon the ceiling. "Pooh!" he said, "they are
impostors; they pretend to do it, but they can't do it as it ought to be
done. Ah! you should see _me_ standing upright on the ceiling, with my
head downward, for half-an-hour together, and meditating profoundly." My
second sister remarked, that we should all be very glad to see him in
that position. "If that's the case," he replied, "it's very well that
all is ready, except as to one single strap." Being an excellent skater,
he had first imagined that, if held up until he had started, by taking a
bold sweep ahead, he might then keep himself in position through the
continued impetus of skating. But this he found not to answer, because,
as he observed, "the friction was too retarding from the plaster of
Paris, but the ease would be very different if the ceiling were coated
with ice." As it was _not_, he changed his plan. The true secret, he
said, was this: he would consider himself in the light of a humming-top:
he would make an apparatus (and he made it) for having himself launched,
like a top, upon the ceiling, and regularly spun. Then the vertiginous
motion of the human top would overpower the force of gravitation. He
should, of course, spin upon his own axis, and sleep upon his
axis--perhaps he might even dream upon it; and he laughed at "those
scoundrels, the flies," that never improved in their pretended art, nor
made any thing of it. The principle was now discovered; "and, of
course," he said, "if a man can keep it up for five minutes, what's to
hinder him from going on for five months?" "Certainly," my sister
replied, whose skepticism, in fact, had not settled upon the five
months, but altogether upon the five minutes. The apparatus for spinning
him, however, would not work: a fact which was evidently owing to the
stupidity of the gardener. On reconsidering the subject, he announced,
to the disappointment of some among us, that, although the physical
discovery was now complete, he saw a moral difficulty. It was not a
_humming_-top that was required, but a _peg_-top; and this, in order to
keep up the _vertigo_ at full stretch, without which to a certainty,
gravitation would prove too much for him, needed to be whipped
incessantly. Now, that was what a gentleman ought not to tolerate: to be
scourged unintermittingly on the legs by any grub of a gardener, unless
it were Father Adam himself, was a thing that he could not bring his
mind to endure. However, as some compensation, he proposed to improve
the art of flying, which was, as every body must acknowledge, in a
condition quite disgraceful to civilized society. As he had made many a
fire balloon, and had succeeded in some attempts at bringing down cats
by _parachutes_, it was not very difficult to fly downward from moderate
elevations. But, as he was reproached by my sister for never flying back
again, which, how ever, was a far different thing, and not even
attempted by the philosopher in "Rasselas" (for

   Revocare gradum et _superas_ evadere ad auras,
   Hic labor, hoc opus est),

he refused, under such poor encouragement, to try his winged
_parachutes_ any more, either "aloft or alow," till he had thoroughly
studied Bishop Wilkins[12] on the art of translating right reverend
gentlemen to the moon; and, in the mean time, he resumed his general
lectures on physics. From these, however, he was speedily driven, or one
might say shelled out, by a concerted assault of my sister's. He had
been in the habit of lowering the pitch of his lectures with
ostentatious condescension to the presumed level of our poor
understandings. This superciliousness annoyed my sister; and,
accordingly, with the help of two young female visitors, and my next
younger brother--in subsequent times a little middy on board many a ship
of H.M., and the most predestined rebel upon earth against all
assumptions, small or great, of superiority--she arranged a mutiny, that
had the unexpected effect of suddenly extinguishing the lectures
forever. He had happened to say, what was no unusual thing with him,
that he flattered himself he had made the point under discussion
tolerably clear; "clear," he added, bowing round the half-circle of us,
the audience, "to the meanest of capacities;" and then he repeated,
sonorously, "clear to the most excruciatingly mean of capacities." Upon
which a voice, a female one, but whose I had not time to distinguish,
retorted: "No, you haven't; it's as dark as sin;" and then, without a
moment's interval, a second voice exclaimed, "Dark as night;" then came
my young brother's insurrectionary yell, "Dark as midnight;" then
another female voice chimed in melodiously, "Dark as pitch;" and so the
peal continued to come round like a catch, the whole being so well
concerted, and the rolling fire so well sustained, that it was
impossible to make head against it; while the abruptness of the
interruption gave to it the protecting character of an oral "round
robin," it being impossible to challenge any one in particular as the
ring-leader. Burke's phrase of "the swinish multitude," applied to mobs,
was then in every body's mouth; and, accordingly, after my brother had
recovered from his first astonishment at this insurrection, he made us
several sweeping bows that looked very much like tentative rehearsals of
a sweeping _fusillade_, and then addressed us in a very brief speech, of
which we could distinguish the words _pearls_ and _swinish multitude_,
but uttered in a very low key, perhaps out of regard to the two young
strangers. We all laughed in chorus at this parting salute: my brother
himself condescended at last to join us; but there ended the course of
lectures on natural philosophy.

As it was impossible, however, that he should remain quiet, he announced
to us, that for the rest of his life he meant to dedicate himself to the
intense cultivation of the tragic drama. He got to work instantly; and
very soon he had composed the first act of his "Sultan Selim;" but, in
defiance of the metre, he soon changed the title to "Sultan Amurath,"
considering _that_ a much fiercer name, more bewhiskered and beturbaned.
It was no part of his intention that we should sit lolling on chairs
like ladies and gentlemen that had paid opera prices for private boxes.
He expected every one of us, he said, to pull an oar. We were to _act_
the tragedy. But, in fact, we had many oars to pull. There were so many
characters, that each of us took four, at the least, and the future
middy had six. He, this wicked little middy,[13] caused the greatest
affliction to Sultan Amurath, forcing him to order the amputation of his
head six several times (that is, once in every one of his six parts),
during the first act. In reality, the sultan, though a decent man, was
too bloody. What by the bowstring, and what by the scimetar, he had so
thinned the population with which he commenced business, that scarcely
any of the characters remained alive at the end of act the first. Sultan
Amurath found himself in an awkward situation. Large arrears of work
remained, and hardly any body to do it but the sultan himself. In
composing act the second, the author had to proceed like Deucalion and
Pyrrha, and to create an entirely new generation. Apparently, this young
generation, that ought to have been so good, took no warning by what had
happened to their ancestors in act the first; one must conclude that
they were quite as wicked, since the poor sultan had found himself
reduced to order them all for execution in the course of this act the
second. To the brazen age had succeeded an iron age; and the prospects
were becoming sadder and sadder, as the tragedy advanced. But here the
author began to hesitate. He felt it hard to resist the instinct of
carnage. And was it right to do so? Which of the felons, whom he had cut
off prematurely, could pretend that a court of appeal would have
reversed his sentence? But the consequences were dreadful. A new set of
characters in every act, brought with it the necessity of a new plot:
for people could not succeed to the arrears of old actions, or inherit
ancient motives, like a landed estate. Five crops, in fact, must be
taken off the ground in each separate tragedy, amounting, in short, to
five tragedies involved in one.

Such, according to the rapid sketch which at this moment my memory
furnishes, was the brother, who now first laid open to me the gates of
war. The occasion was this, he had resented, with a shower of stones, an
affront offered to us by an individual boy, belonging to a
cotton-factory; for more than two years afterward, this became the
_teterrima causa_ of a skirmish, or a battle, as often as we passed the
factory; and, unfortunately, _that_ was twice a day on every day except
Sunday. Our situation in respect to the enemy was as follows: Greenhay,
a country-house newly built by my father, at that time was a clear mile
from the outskirts of Manchester; but, in after years, Manchester,
throwing out the _tentacula_ of its vast expansions, absolutely
enveloped Greenhay; and, for any thing I know, the grounds and gardens
which then insulated the house, may have long disappeared. Being a
modest mansion, which (including hot walls, offices, and gardener's
house) had cost only six thousand pounds, I do not know how it should
have risen to the distinction of giving name to a region of that great
town; however, it _has_ done so;[14] and, at this time, therefore, after
changes so great, it will be difficult for the _habitué_ of that region
to understand how my brother and myself could have a solitary road to
traverse between Greenhay and Princess-street, then the termination, on
that side of Manchester. But so it was. Oxford-_street_, like its
namesake in London, was then called the Oxford-_road_; and, during the
currency of our acquaintance with it, arose the first three houses in
its neighborhood; of which the third was built for the Rev. S. H., one
of our guardians, for whom his friends had also built the church of St.
Peters's--not a bowshot from the house. At present, however, he resided
in Salford, nearly two miles from Greenhay; and to him we went over
daily, for the benefit of his classical instructions. One sole
cotton-factory had then risen along the line of Oxford-street; and this
was close to a bridge, which also was a new creation; for, previously,
all passengers to Manchester went round by Garrat. This factory became
the _officina gentium_ to us, from which swarmed forth those Goths and
Vandals, that continually threatened our steps; and this bridge became
the eternal arena of combat, we taking good care to be on the right side
of the bridge for retreat, _i.e._, on the town side, or the country
side, according as we were going out in the morning, or returning in the
afternoon. Stones were the implements of warfare; and by continual
practice we became expert in throwing them.

The origin of the feud it is scarcely requisite to rehearse, since the
particular accident which began it was not the true efficient cause of
our long warfare, but (as logicians express it) simply the occasion. The
cause lay in our aristocratic dress: as children of an opulent family,
where all provisions were liberal, and all appointments elegant, we were
uniformly well-dressed, and, in particular, we wore trowsers (at that
time unheard of, except in maritime places) and Hessian boots--a crime
that could not be forgiven in the Lancashire of that day, because it
expressed the double offense of being aristocratic, and being
outlandish. We were aristocrats, and it was in vain to deny it; could we
deny our boots? while our antagonists, if not absolutely _sans
culottes_, were slovenly and forlorn in their dress, often unwashed,
with hair totally neglected, and always covered with flakes of cotton.
Jacobins they were, not by any sympathy with the French Jacobinism, that
then desolated western Europe; for, on the contrary, they detested every
thing French, and answered with brotherly signals to the cry of "Church
and king," or, "King and constitution." But, for all that, as they were
perfectly independent, getting very high wages, and in a mode of
industry that was then taking vast strides ahead, they contrived to
reconcile this patriotic anti-Jacobinism with a personal Jacobinism of
that sort which is native to the heart of man, who is by natural impulse
(and not without a root of nobility) impatient of inequality, and
submits to it only through a sense of its necessity, or a long
experience of its benefits.

It was on an early day of our new _tyrocinium_, or, perhaps, on the very
first, that, as we passed the bridge, a boy happening to issue from the
factory,[15] sang out to us, derisively--"Holloa, bucks!" In this the
reader may fail to perceive any atrocious insult commensurate to the
long war which followed. But the reader is wrong. The word "_dandies_,"
which was what the villain meant, had not then been born, so that he
could not have called us by that name, unless through the spirit of
prophecy. _Buck_ was the nearest word at hand in his Manchester
vocabulary; he gave all he could, and let us dream the rest. But, in the
next moment, he discovered our boots, and he completed his crime by
saluting us as "Boots! boots!" My brother made a dead stop, surveyed him
with intense disdain, and bade him draw near, that he might "give his
flesh to the fowls of the air." The boy declined to accept this liberal
invitation, and conveyed his answer by a most contemptuous and plebeian
gesture, upon which my brother drove him in with a shower of stones.

During this inaugural flourish of hostilities, I, for my part, remained
inactive, and, therefore, apparently neutral. But this was the last time
that I did so: for the moment, I was taken by surprise. To be called a
_buck_ by one that had it in his choice to have called me a coward, a
thief, or a murderer, struck me as a most pardonable offense; and, as to
_boots_, that rested upon a flagrant fact that could not be denied, so
that at first I was green enough to regard the boy as very considerate
and indulgent. But my brother soon rectified my views or, if any doubts
remained, he impressed me, at least, with a sense of my paramount duty
to himself, which was threefold. First, it seems, I owed military
allegiance to _him_, as my commander-in-chief, whenever we "took the
field;" secondly, by the law of nations, I being a cadet of my house,
owed suit and service to him who was its head; and he assured me, that
twice in a year, on _my_ birthday, and on _his_, he had a right,
strictly speaking, to make me lie down, and to set his foot upon my
neck; lastly, by a law not so rigorous, but valid among gentlemen--viz.,
"by the _comity_ of nations," it seems I owed eternal deference to one
so much older than myself, so much wiser, stronger, braver, more
beautiful, and more swift of foot. Something like all this in tendency I
had already believed, though I had not so minutely investigated the
modes and grounds of my duty. As a Pariah, which, by natural temperament
I was, and by awful dedication to despondency, I felt resting upon me
always too deep and gloomy a sense of obscure duties, that I never
_should_ be able to fulfill--a burden which I could not carry, and which
yet I did not know how to throw off. Glad, therefore, I was to find the
whole tremendous weight of obligations--the law and the prophets--all
crowded into this one brief command--"Thou shalt obey thy brother as
God's vicar upon earth." For now, if, by any future stone leveled at him
who had called me "a buck," I should chance to draw blood--perhaps I
might not have committed so serious a trespass on any rights which he
could plead: but, if I _had_ (for, on this subject my convictions were
still cloudy), at any rate, the duty I might have violated in regard to
this general brother, in right of Adam, was canceled when it came into
collision with my paramount duty to this liege brother of my own
individual house.

From this day, therefore, I obeyed all my brother's military commands
with the utmost docility; and happy it made me that every sort of
distraction, or question, or opening for demur, was swallowed up in the
unity of this one papal principle, discovered by my brother, viz., that
all rights of casuistry were transferred from me to himself. _His_ was
the judgment--_his_ was the responsibility; and to me belonged only the
sublime duty of unconditional faith in _him_. That faith I realized. It
is true, that he taxed me at times, in his reports of particular fights,
with "horrible cowardice," and even with "a cowardice that seemed
inexplicable, except on the supposition of treachery." But this was only
a _façon de parler_ with him: the idea of secret perfidy, that was
constantly moving under-ground, gave an interest to the progress of the
war, which else tended to the monotonous. It was a dramatic artifice for
sustaining the interest, where the incidents might be too slightly
diversified. But that he did not believe his own charges was clear,
because he never repeated them in his "General History of the
Campaigns," which was a _resumé_, or digest, of his daily reports.

We fought every day; and, generally speaking, _twice_ every day; and the
result was pretty uniform, viz., that my brother and I terminated the
battle by insisting upon our undoubted right to run away. _Magna
Charta_, I should fancy, secures that great right to every man; else
surely it is sadly defective. But out of this catastrophe to most of our
skirmishes, and to all our pitched battles except one, grew a standing
schism between my brother and me. My unlimited obedience had respect to
action, but not to opinion. Loyalty to my brother did not rest upon
hypocrisy: because I was faithful, it did not follow that I must be
false in relation to his capricious opinions. And these opinions
sometimes took the shape of acts. Twice, at the least, in every week,
but sometimes every night, my brother insisted on singing "Te Deum" for
supposed victories which he had won; and he insisted also on my bearing
a part in these "Te Deums." Now, as I knew of no such victories, but
resolutely asserted the truth--viz., that we ran away--a slight jar was
thus given to the else triumphal effect of these musical ovations. Once
having uttered my protest, however, willingly I gave my aid to the
chanting; for I loved unspeakably the grand and varied system of
chanting in the Romish and English churches. And, looking back at this
day to the ineffable benefits which I derived from the church of my
childhood, I account among the very greatest those which reached me
through the various chants connected with the "O, Jubilate," the
"Magnificat," the "Te Deum," the "Benedicite," &c. Through these chants
it was that the sorrow which laid waste my infancy, and the devotion
which nature had made a necessity of my being, were profoundly
interfused: the sorrow gave reality and depth to the devotion; the
devotion gave grandeur and idealization to the sorrow. Neither was my
love for chanting altogether without knowledge. A son of my reverend
guardian, much older than myself, who possessed a singular faculty of
producing a sort of organ accompaniment with one half of his mouth,
while he sang with the other half, had given me some instructions in the
art of chanting: and, as to my brother, he, the hundred-handed Briareus,
could do all things; of course, therefore, he could chant. He _could_
chant: he had a _right_ to chant: he had a right, perhaps, to chant "Te
Deum." For if he ran away every day of his life, what then? Sometimes
the enemy mustered in over-powering numbers--seventy, or even ninety
strong. Now, if there is a time for every thing in this world, surely
that was the time for running away. But in the mean time I must pause,
reserving what has to follow for another occasion.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 10: Elsewhere, viz., in the introductory part of the
"_Suspiria de Profundis_," published in "Blackwood," during the early
part of the year 1845. The work is yet unfinished as regards the
publication.]

[Footnote 11: "_Peculiar."_ viz., as _endowed_ foundations, to which
those resort who are rich and pay, and those also who, being poor, can
not pay, or can not pay so much. This most honorable distinction among
the services of England from ancient times to the interests of
education--a service absolutely unapproached by any one nation of
Christendom--is among the foremost cases of that remarkable class which
make England, while often the most aristocratic, yet also, for many
noble purposes, the most democratic of lands.]

[Footnote 12: "Bishop Wilkins:" Dr. W., Bishop of Chester, in the reign
of Charles II., notoriously wrote a book on the possibility of a voyage
to the moon, which, in a bishop, would be called a translation to the
moon; and, perhaps, it was _his_ name that suggested the "Adventures of
Peter Wilkins." It is unfair, however, to mention him in connection with
that only one of his works which announces an extravagant purpose. He
was really a scientific man, and already in the time of Cromwell (about
1657), had projected that Royal Society of London, which was afterward
realized and presided over by Isaac Barrow and Isaac Newton. He was also
a learned man, but still with a vein of romance about him, as may be
seen in his most elaborate work--"The Essay toward a Philosophic or
Universal Language."]

[Footnote 13: "Middy:" I call him so, simply to avoid confusion, and by
way of anticipation; else he was too young at this time to serve in the
navy. Afterward, he did so for many years, and saw every variety of
service in every class of ships belonging to our navy. At one time, when
yet a boy, he was captured by pirates, and compelled to sail with them;
and the end of his adventurous career was, that for many a year he has
been lying at the bottom of the Atlantic.]

[Footnote 14: "Green_heys_" with a slight variation in the spelling, is
the name given to that district, of which Greenhay formed the original
nucleus. Probably, it was the solitary situation of the house which
(failing any other grounds of denomination) raised it to this
privilege.]

[Footnote 15: "Factory:" such was the designation technically at that
time. At present, I believe that a building of that class would be
called a "mill."]

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

VISIT TO AN ENGLISH DAIRY.

Let the reader accompany us half-a-dozen miles out of town. We pass
through Camberwell, through Peckham, and Peckham Rye, and we presently
find ourselves in a district that looks uncommonly like "the country,"
considering how short a time it is since we left the "old smoke" behind
us. We alight and walk onward, and certainly, if the sight of green
fields, and cows, and hedges, and farm-yards, denote the country, we are
undoubtedly in some region of the kind.

We pass down a winding road, between high hedges of bush and trees, then
climb over a gate into a field; cross it, and then over another gate
into a field, from which we commence a gradual ascent, field after
field, till finally the green slope leads us to a considerable height.
We are on the top of Friern Hill.

It is a bright sunny morning in September, and we behold to perfection
the most complete panorama that can be found in the suburban vicinities
of London. Step down with us to yonder hedge, a little below the spot
where we have been standing. We approach the hedge--we get over a gate,
and we suddenly find ourselves on the upper part of an enormous green
sloping pasturage, covered all over with cows. The red cow, the white
cow, the brown cow, the brindled cow, the colley cow, the dappled cow,
the streaked cow, the spotted cow, the liver-and-white cow, the
strawberry cow, the mulberry cow, the chestnut cow, the gray speckled
cow, the clouded cow, the black cow,--the short-horned cow, the
long-horned cow, the up-curling horn, the down-curling horn, the
straight-horned cow, and the cow with the crumpled horn--all are
here--between two and three hundred--spread all over the broad, downward
sloping pasture, feeding, ruminating, standing, lying, gazing with mild
earnestness, reclining in characteristic thoughtfulness, sleeping, or
wandering hither and thither. A soft gleam of golden sunshine spreads
over the pasture, and falls upon many of the cows with a lovely,
picturesque effect.

And what cows they are, as we approach and pass among them! Studies for
a Morland, a Gainsborough, a Constable. We had never before thought
there were any such cows out of their pictures. That they were highly
useful, amiable, estimable creatures, who continually, at the best,
appeared to be mumbling grass in a recumbent position, and composing a
sonnet, we never doubted; but that they were ever likely to be admired
for their beauty, especially when beheld, as many as these were, from a
disadvantageous point of view, as to their position, we never for a
moment suspected. Such, however, is the case. We have lived to see
beauty in the form of a cow--a natural, modern, milch cow, and no
descendant from any Ovidian metamorphosis.

We will now descend this broad and populous slope, and pay a visit to
Friern Manor Dairy Farm, to which all these acres--some two hundred and
fifty--belong, together with all these "horned beauties." We find them
all very docile, and undisturbed by our presence, though their looks
evidently denote that they recognize a stranger. But those who are
reclining do not rise, and none of them decline to be caressed by the
hand, or seem indifferent to the compliments addressed to them. In
passing through the cows we were specially presented to the cow queen,
or "master cow," as she is called. This lady has been recognized during
twelve years as the sovereign ruler over all the rest. No one, however
large, disputes her supremacy. She is a short-horned, short-legged cow,
looking at first sight rather small, but on closer examination you will
find that she is sturdily and solidly built, though graceful withal.
"She is very sweet-tempered," observed the head keeper, "but when a
new-comer doubts about who is the master, her eye becomes dreadful.
Don't signify how big the other cow is--she must give in to the master
cow. It's not her size, nor strength, bless you, it's her spirit. As
soon as the question is once settled, she's as mild as a lamb again.
Gives us eighteen quarts of milk a day."

We were surprised to hear of so great a quantity, but this was something
abated by a consideration of the rich, varied, and abundant supply of
food afforded to these cows, besides the air, attendance, and other
favorable circumstances. For their food they have mangold-wurtzel, both
the long red and the orange globe sorts, parsnips, turnips, and
kohl-rabi (Jewish cabbage), a curious kind of green turnip, with cabbage
leaves sprouting out of the top all round, like the feathery arms of the
Prince of Wales. Of this last mentioned vegetable the cows often eat
greedily; and sometimes endeavoring to bolt too large a piece, it sticks
in their throats and threatens strangulation. On these occasions, one of
the watchful keepers rushes to the rescue with a thing called a _pro
bang_ (in fact a cow's throat ramrod), with which he rams down the
obstructive morsel. But, besides these articles of food, there is the
unlimited eating of grass in the pastures, so that the yield of a large
quantity of milk seems only a matter of course, though we were not
prepared to hear of its averaging from twelve to eighteen and twenty
quarts of milk a day, from each of these two or three hundred cows.
Four-and-twenty quarts a day is not an unusual occurrence from some of
the cows; and one of them, we were assured by several of the keepers,
once yielded the enormous quantity of twenty-eight quarts a day during
six or seven weeks. The poor cow, however, suffered for this
munificence, for she was taken very ill with a fever, and her life was
given over by the doctor. Mr. Wright, the proprietor, told us that he
sat up two nights with her himself, he had such a respect for the cow;
and in the morning of the second night after she was given over, when
the butcher came for her, he couldn't find it in his heart to let him
have her. "No, butcher," said he, "she's been a good friend to me, and
I'll let her die a quiet, natural death." She hung her head, and her
horns felt very cold, and so she lay for some time longer; but he nursed
her, and was rewarded, for she recovered; and there she stands--the
strawberry Durham short-horn--and yields him again from sixteen to
eighteen quarts of milk a day.

Reverting to the "master cow," we inquired whether her supremacy in the
case of newcomers was established "mesmerically" by a glance--or how?
The eye, we were assured, had a great deal to do with it. The stranger
cow _read_ it, and trembled. But, sometimes, there was a contest; and a
cow-fight, with such fresh strong creatures as these--all used to their
full liberty, and able to run or leap well, was a serious affair. If no
keeper was at hand to separate them, and the fight got serious, so that
one of them fell wounded, it was a chance but the whole herd would
surround the fallen cow, and kill her. This was not out of wickedness,
but something in the whole affair that put them beside themselves, and
they couldn't bear the horrid sight, and so tried to get rid of their
feelings, as well as the unfortunate object, by this wild violence. The
effect was the same if the herd did not witness the fight, but came
suddenly to the discovery of blood that had been spilled. They would
stare at it, and glare at it, and snuff down at it, and sniff up at it,
and prowl round it--and get more and more excited, till, at last, the
whole herd would begin to rush about the field bellowing and mad, and
make nothing at last of leaping clean over hedges, fences, and
five-barred gates. But, strange to say--if the blood they found had not
been spilt by violence, but only from some cause which the "horned
beauties" understood, such as a sister or aunt having been bled by the
doctor--then no effect of the sort occurred. They took no notice of it.

We found that besides beauty, cows possessed some imagination, and were,
moreover, very susceptible. The above excitement and mad panic sometimes
occurs as the effect of other causes.

Once some boys brought a great kite into the field, with a pantomime
face painted upon it; and directly this began to rise over the field,
and the cows looked up at it, and saw the great glass eyes of the face
looking down at them--then, oh! oh! what a bellowing! and away they
rushed over each other, quite frantic. On another occasion, some
experimental gentlemen of science, brought a fire-balloon near the
pasturage one night after dark. It rose. Up started all the cows in a
panic, and round and round they rushed, till, finally, the whole herd
made a charge at one of the high fences--tore down and overleaped every
thing--burst into the lanes--and made their way into the high-road, and
seemed to intend to leave their owners for some state of existence where
fire-balloons and horrid men of science were alike unknown.

Instead of proceeding directly down the sloping fields toward the Dairy
Farm, we made a detour of about half a mile, and passed through a field
well inclosed, in which were about a dozen cows, attended by one man,
who sat beneath a tree. This was the Quarantine ground. All
newly-purchased cows, however healthy they may appear, are first placed
in this field during four or five weeks, and the man who milks or
attends upon them is not permitted to touch, nor, indeed, to come near,
any of the cows in the great pasture. Such is the susceptibility of a
cow to the least contamination, that if one who had any slight disease
were admitted among the herd, in a very short time the whole of them
would be affected. When the proprietor has been to purchase fresh stock,
and been much among strange cows, especially at Smithfield, he
invariably changes all his clothes, and, generally takes a bath, before
he ventures among his own herd.

From what has already been seen, the reader will not be astonished on
his arrival with us at the Dairy Farm, to find every arrangement in
accordance with the fine condition of the cows, and the enviable (to all
other cows) circumstances in which they live. The cow-sheds are divided
into fifty stalls, each; and the appearance presented reminded one of
the neatness and order of cavalry stables. Each stall is marked with a
number; a corresponding number is marked on one horn of the cow to whom
it belongs; and, in winter time, or any inclement season (for they all
sleep out in fine weather) each cow deliberately finds out, and walks
into her own stall. No. 173 once got into the stall of No. 15; but, in a
few minutes, No. 15 arrived, and "showed her the difference." In winter,
when the cows are kept very much in-doors, they are all regularly
groomed with currycombs. By the side of one of these sheds there is a
cottage where the keepers live--milkers and attendants--each with little
iron bedsteads, all in orderly soldier fashion, the foreman's wife
acting as the housekeeper.

These men lead a comfortable life, but they work hard. The first
"milking" begins at eleven o'clock at night; and the second, at half
past one in the morning. It takes a long time, for each cow insists upon
being milked in her own pail--_i.e._, a pail to herself, containing no
milk of any other cow--or, if she sees it, she is very likely to kick it
over. She will not allow of any mixture. In this there would seem a
strange instinct, accordant with her extreme susceptibility to
contamination.

The milk is all passed through several strainers, and then placed in
great tin cans, barred across the top, and sealed. They are deposited in
a van, which starts from the Farm about three in the morning, and
arrives at the dairy, in Farringdon-street, between three and four. The
seals are then carefully examined, and taken off by a clerk. In come the
carriers, commonly called "milkmen," all wearing the badge of Friern
Farm Dairy; their tin pails are filled, fastened at top, and sealed as
before, and away they go on their early rounds, to be in time for the
early-breakfast people. The late-breakfasts are provided by a second set
of men.

Such are the facts we have ascertained with regard to one of the largest
of the great dairy farms near London.

SAILING IN THE AIR.--HISTORY OF AERONAUTICS.

Aeronautics, or the art of sailing in the air, is of very modern date;
if, indeed, we are warranted to say that the art has yet been acquired,
for we have only got a machine or apparatus capable of sustaining some
hundreds of pounds in the air, the means of guiding and propelling it
having yet to be discovered. The attention and admiration of men would
doubtless be attracted from the beginning to the ease, grace, and
velocity with which the feathered race soar aloft, and wing their way in
the upper regions; but there is no reason to believe that any of the
nations of antiquity--not even Greece and Rome, with all their progress
in science and art--ever made the smallest advances toward a discovery
of a method of flying, or of aerial navigation.

Archytas of Tarentum, a celebrated Pythagorean philosopher, who
flourished about four hundred years before the Christian era, is indeed
said to have constructed a wooden flying pigeon; but, from the imperfect
accounts transmitted to us of its machinery, there is every probability
that its flight was one of the many deceptions of the magic art which
the ancients so well understood and so expertly practiced. The attention
of man was much earlier, as well as more earnestly and successfully
turned to the art of navigating lakes, rivers, and seas. To gratify his
curiosity, or to better his condition, he was prompted to emigrate, or
to pass from one place to another, and thus he would tax his ingenuity
to discover the means by which he might be enabled to accomplish his
journey. To make the atmosphere the medium of transit, would, in the
early stages of society, hardly strike the mind at all, or, if it did,
it would only strike it as a physical impossibility. Nature has not
supplied man with wings, as it has done the fowls of heaven, and to find
a locomotive means of transportation through the air was in the infancy
of all science absolutely hopeless. But advantage would be early taken
of the buoyant property of water, particularly of the sea, which must
have been known to mankind from the creation. The canoe and the raft
would be first constructed, and, in the course of time, experience would
teach men to build vessels of a larger size, to fix the rudder to the
stern, to erect the mast, and unfurl the sails. Thus would the art of